WRITING FOR ADULTS

Edel Wignell's articles, short stories and poetry have been published in more than 100 journals, newspapers and collections. Some have won awards. NEW!

NEW! Read Edel's feature, Close Shaves and Coincidence, which won a Certificate of Merit and was published in The Weekend Australian Review.

NEW! Read Edel's short story The Double Launch, first published in Luna Magazine.

NEW! Read two poems: Equality, and The Cycling Shearers' Race which was commended in the Ballarat Begonia Festival Literary Competition.

CLOSE SHAVES AND COINCIDENCE
THIS (LUCKY) LIFE

This feature won a Certificate of Merit in a CAA/CAE Non-fiction Writing Competition, and was first published in The Weekend Australian Review in the 'Real Life' series.
Edel Wignell ©

Edel Wignell comments on the fact that close shaves and coincidence are a remarkable aspect of a lucky life.

I'm power-walking early on a wind-grieved Saturday morning. It's dark, and I walk on the roadway facing the non-existent traffic.

I hear a long-drawn creak and rattle behind, and turn sharply. Nothing. I dismiss the sound - probably it's a strip of bark rolling, skittering under a car. Windy mornings are full of tumult in the trees and on the roads in a leafy suburb.

Two seconds later, the sound comes again, and I turn swiftly. A great branch breaks painfully from the trunk of a eucalypt and falls diagonally to the road. I see it in slow-motion, for the branch is still semi-attached, the jagged end snared. I walk back twenty metres, and marvel that it has just missed me and a parked car. The fragrance of gum exudes from the wound.

It was a close shave. The branch is huge; it juts half way across the street. I rejoice in being alive.

I remember that swaggies of an earlier Australia were wary about falling boughs. Experienced swagmen knew which trees shed branches regularly, and wouldn't sleep under them. They considered the coolibah safe.

Our lives are full of close shaves, but we only speak about the ones we notice. 'I was standing right there where the truck mounted the kerb,' we say. 'Ten seconds earlier... I'm so lucky!'

Most of the near-disasters I remember are related to a year of travelling in a Kombi-van far from home. Being in a foreign place complicates by heightening the speculation afterwards. What if?

In early spring, we camp in Wordsworth country in northern England - sun, stillness and serenity. A day later, safely away, radio news tells of torrential rain, rising waters, camp sites washed away overnight.

Next month, we camp on a cliff-top in Greece - views over the Aegean and splendid sunsets. A day later, safely away, we hear reports of an earthquake and chaos.

On the outskirts of Salzburg in Austria, we catch a red light at an intersection. Waiting, we see a huge timber truck, indicators flashing. Can it make a right turn in such a confined space? By how much will it miss us?

The lights change and it takes off slowly. As it turns, a chain breaks and release the load. Several great logs fall, one by one, bounce on the road and roll towards us. The driver sees what's happening. He brakes and jumps out of the cabin, but he's powerless.

The logs roll and roll, and stop a metre away.

Most of the close shaves of our lives go unnoticed. We don't know how many there have been. We don't know what happened seconds before or after we were in a particular place.

As a child I was sheltered, living on a farm. The newspaper, delivered twice a week, was my window on the world, stirring my curiosity. I read about catastrophes and natural disasters, and wondered why people suffered so much tragedy. If God is loving and merciful, why did he send that earthquake killing 200 people?

Growing up in a fundamentalist Christian family, I knew there would be a satisfactory explanation. 'God is speaking to the world,' I was told. 'He wants people to repent of their sins and be born again.'

I knew this from a very early age. I knew that this life is a preparation for the afterlife. God's people must live with eternity in view. The choices that one makes every day matter, and must be profitable from an eternal standpoint. Most people live for the present, and God wants to jolt them from their complacency so that they will seek and find Him.

The death of a member of our faith was a reminder about the transience of life and the importance of being ready to meet one's Maker.

I can't remember asking about close shaves, but they would, no doubt, have been explained as individual reminders.

Eventually we all reach the age when we can make our own decisions and believe what is meaningful for us. If there is no eternity, then close shaves multiply the joy of now.

Close shaves and coincidences are similar - both remarkable. Our lives are rich with them. Often close shaves are the negatives and coincidences are the positives.

In a small town, we browse in a foundry and I choose an elegant pedestal bird bath. 'It's my wife's birthday today,' my husband says as he pays. 'It's my birthday, too,' says the salesman. This kind of coincidence happens regularly.

After working at a teaching job for seven years, I leave. Anne, one of the librarians, leaves the same day. We aren't close friends and don't keep in touch. Three years later, researching a topic, I go to a specialist library in the city. Anne's there. She turns white, then greets me effusively, leads me into her office and points to her date block. 'Phone Edel Wignell.' She explains that she plans to travel overseas, and guesses that I will have the address of a former co-member of staff who has moved to Paris.

Another day, after viewing an exhibition at the Gallery, I leave a new pair of leather gloves beside a hand basin. Five minutes later, I return but they have gone. I ask at Lost Property and they haven't been handed in.. While washing my hands I had talked to Helen, one of the Volunteers whom I see regularly there. Certain that she would have seen the gloves and handed them in, I decide to check the next day.

I go to the city, planning to shop before returning to the Gallery. In Little Bourke Street I unexpectedly see Helen. She opens her bag, takes out my gloves and explains. On her way to Lost Property, she had met a long-lost friend and had forgotten the gloves. 'I've just finished shopping,' she says. 'I was on my way to the Gallery to hand them in.'

In plotting, fiction writers have to be wary of both close shaves and coincidences, or we will be accused of contrivance. It's a pity! They can be life-affirming and meaningful, confirming the joy of now.

THE DOUBLE LAUNCH
A short story first published in Luna Magazine
Edel Wignell ©

On a morning in mid-February the phone rang and I picked up the receiver - numb, blank, still holding the letter from Browning Press.

'St Anne's Hospital here. Sister Grey speaking. Is that Elizabeth Winter?'

I was with-it immediately. 'Yes! The baby's arrived?'

'Yes Ms Winter. Penny East asked me to say, "Can you come in straight away?".'

'Yes, I'll come straight away. Boy or girl?'

'Boy, but...'

'Tell Penny I'll be there in twenty minutes.'

I hung up the receiver and stood for a few moments, the awful truth shrouding.

Penny and I had shared a flat for five years - long enough to know each other's thoughts, for our body rhythms to cycle together. The only other person who was... close... was Allan, the father of Penny's baby.

Penny planned to marry Allan; Allan planned to marry Penny; neither of them planned the baby. Six months ago, when Penny knew she was pregnant, she couldn't go through with the finality of marriage. So I shared Penny's pregnancy - though Allan often called in, had a meal and spent evenings with us several times a week.

Penny's a fashion designer with her own fashion house, so she's free to come and go as she pleases. She never really stopped working - just worked at home more and more in the last month to avoid the exhaustion of travelling.

I've been freelancing at home for the last couple of years, and it's been odd having Penny around lately. But we've got a workable arrangement. We both like to concentrate in long bursts of creativity, then stop to eat and talk.

The baby - its progress and birth mid-April - has been our main topic lately. I was sure it was a girl - like swinging Penny, full of energy and enthusiasm. Penny insisted it was a boy - an athletic baby like its father. She named it Jaxon, and designed a unisex wardrobe. I couldn't understand why she hadn't wanted to know its gender when tests were done.

I had started writing my first novel three years ago when I was a journalist on a newspaper. Working nights and weekends, I thought it would never be finished. Penny and I discussed it endlessly. There's a lot of Penny in it: dialogue, ideas, insights...

Browning Press accepted it in October nearly eighteen months ago, with publication to be in October last year. Then, in September, they said, 'Sorry, another six months. Financial difficulties - limited cash flow.' Other writers said, 'Never mind. It always takes longer than they say.' 'Always add six months to the release date they give you.'

The only person who understood my frustration was Penny. Like me, she'd agonized over The Icing on the Cake, and argued about characterization, motivation, satiric edge...But she was pleased about the delay. 'Mid-April! That's marvellous! Jaxon's due at the same time. We'll have a Double Launch - book and baby.'

The Double Launch became a goal for us and our friends. But soon the baby was so interesting, everyone forgot the book. Penny read about pregnancy and birth and bringing up a child. We discussed our own upbringings, and Penny determined that it would all happen differently for Jaxon.

Allan joined in, encouraged by Penny. Jaxon would know his father. Allan wanted to play a patriarchal role, but that wasn't what Penny wanted. 'Until he understands, I won't marry him.'

Her mother despaired. 'Such a nice, upstanding, responsible man, good-looking, steady job, interesting conversation, beautiful manners.'

'Just the sort of man Mum wanted to marry, but didn't,' said Penny, who appreciated her father.

When Allan came to dinner, he brought flowers for Penny, or chocolates (until the doctor said, 'No sweets!') and treated her like a delicate flower.

In the last year, medical research had advanced enormously in the field of diet and lifestyle for pregnant women - or so it seemed. Penny discovered that coffee and peanuts would harm the baby, so she gave them up. She cut out fats and soft drinks. The doctor put her on a strict diet to keep her weight down, and Penny made her own rules, too, according to the alarms of each month.

I went along with her. Whatever she cut out, I cut out. I'm fairly health-minded, and I figured that if something wasn't good for a pregnant woman, it probably wasn't good for me. Wine and cigarettes were banished early.

'No cigarettes, Penny,' said Allan, lighting up the day after the pregnancy was confirmed. 'Constricts the baby's blood flow, leads to an accumulation of toxic wastes.'

'It's a passive smoker already,' said Penny, fanning the air and opening a window. She had given up cigarettes twelve hours before, and already her temper was short.

As usual, Allan had brought wine. He poured.

'Drink by yourself,' said Penny. 'The baby's not allowed to have wine.'

'You'll have some with me, Elizabeth?' said Allan.

Penny answered quickly. 'No! She's given it up, too.' I remembered the soup, and hurried into the kitchen. Allan drank alone.

I learnt Penny's exercises and special breathing patterns in preparation for the birth. It was interesting and fun. I'd always done some kind of exercise, and cursed myself when I was lazy. Sitting at a desk all day, I knew I had to make an effort to be fit. Now there was an extra goal for fitness.

Penny taunted Allan. If she'd married him, the pregnancy would have been hers - the special diet, the abstinence, the exercise, the breathing: 'all alone, prettily pregnant up on a pedestal'.

I wondered why Allan still couldn't comprehend Penny's unwillingness to marry him.

'He'll never change,' said Penny. 'He's dense.'

'You could teach him,' I said. 'He adores you. He'd be willing to learn.'

'He should know.'

It was easy for me to be generous to Allan. Penny and I were enjoying our pregnancy.

Allan was resentful. 'If you're so good at this parenting business,' he taunted, 'why don't you have a baby? A woman isn't really fulfilled without one, you know.'

'I'm a late maturer,' I said - stock answer to anyone who wondered about my singleness - untruthful, but it got me off the hook.

My writing is my child - always will be.

I laughed, keeping my options open.

'Your book, my baby,' I said to Penny.

'Your baby, my book,' Penny agreed.

Our private joke.

Then, after several false alarms, she was hospitalized three days ago, two months early.

I had been going to phone Penny when the letter arrived from Browning Press. I read it, then Sister Grey phoned. I put the letter into my bag and roared off, driving too fast, mind in turmoil.

At the desk, the team was different from last night's. 'She wants to tell you herself.'

'Of course.'

Meaningful looks are exchanged from behind the desk. Two women. I ignore, and rush down the corridor.

Ward 9 - one occupant: Penny - white, eyes glazed.

'Elizabeth!' - reaching out, enfolding.

'Jaxon was dead. They call it "spontaneous abortion".' Tears flow so fast for several minutes, there's no room for words.

My tears.

Oh my baby! My baby, my baby, my baby!

'Oh, my baby!' cries Penny. 'My darling little Jaxon. Why was he dead?'

My grief is so great, I can't speak.

I've waited so long. It can't be true.

'Seven months,' sobs Penny. 'He was perfect...' Her tears soak through my T-shirt and burn my shoulder.

I hold her tightly, overwhelmed by my own grief - the morning's numbness gone - feeling the pain, tasting despair.

'Elizabeth what would I do without you?'

She thinks my tears are for her, but most of them are for me - dammed back when I read the letter.

No one will cry for me. No one will understand or care. They'll mouth a few words, 'Bad luck,' 'Try again,' and dismiss me. But they'll empathise with Penny for a few weeks with words of comfort and love.

A tray appears with two pots of tea, accompanied by a voice, firm and sympathetic, 'Come on girls - tea! Milk and sugar?'

'I'll pour, thanks!' I dry my eyes and pour - a dismissal.

We sip.

'They're testing. They'll tell me why he died.'

The letter's in my bag. They've told me why it died.

Then Allan is at the door with roses - love and concern on his handsome face.

Allan! How did he know?

'I let Allan know, too.'

Penny - pink face (matching nightie) and welcoming arms - a flower in sudden sunshine. 'Allan!'

I slip away, sit on a seat in the garden and stare into a black pool where waterlilies float - a grave.

You could teach him. He adores you. He'd be willing to learn. I've said it so many times.

Suddenly I know it's the end. Penny will go to his flat and they will marry and follow friends' advice to 'try again'. ('We didn't try the first time!')

I open the letter and read:

Dear Ms Winter,
It is with deepest regret that I write to inform you that the publishing project which included your novel, "The Icing on the Cake", has been abandoned.

Financial difficulties have forced us to sell Browning Press to Overwhelm Books, and they are not interested in the novels that we contracted to publish.

You can keep your advance on royalties, of course, and we are returning the ms and page proofs with our best wishes for your success in placing the novel with another publisher.

Pain flows in waves. Thee years - lost. Grief for a dead child. There's no one to tell - not even Penny.

'Well, after all... It's only a book.' The words echo in my head.

The sun rises higher, drying the wet patch. Penny - quick to tears of laughter, regret, pain; her tears have evaporated now.

I'm alone. The pain and rage ease a little. I lift my face to the sun, composed: a waterlily - roots reaching into the black depths.

In a daze I drive to the Post Office and buy a padded post bag and return postage. At home, I prepare the ms for a new publisher, then go out and post it.

Returning, I realize I'm starving. I open the fridge and stand uncertainly. Salad? Salad for lunch, always. No, I crave cake. Laughter comes - a sob catching.

The cake specially made by Penny for the Double Launch - double fruit, double nuts, double cherries, double sherry - maturing for two months now - rich!

The Double Launch will be forgotten, the book mentioned casually, perhaps - an afterthought.

'Did The Icing on the Cake come on time?'

'More financial problems. Tried another publisher.' Taking my cue - casual.

'Good on you!'

I remember our plans for decorations as I lift the cake out of the container. Taking the largest knife, I cut it across the centre - diagonally - hearing Penny's voice, 'Diagonals are dramatic!' A parallel cut yields an enormous slice.

The cake will never be iced. With this craving, I won't be able to make it last more than a week. And then I'll crave something else. Pate? Avocadoes? Oysters? Feeding creativity - abstinence, exercise, balanced diet forgotten.

I take a huge bite, sit at my pc and type the title of my new novel - a sequel - watching the words appear on the screen.

You can eat it, too.

EQUALITY
Edel Wignell ©

Life is a game of chess
  With kings, queens and knights,
Bishops, rooks and pawns
  Standing in their places.

It's a play for ultimate power
  With tactics, manoeuvres and schemes.
There's winning and losing, rules
  Observed, removal, completion.

At the end of the game, however,
  The players - from the king to the pawns -
Are tossed, powerless at last,
  Into a box - equal.

THE CYCLING SHEARERS' RACE
A ballad based on an anecdote in W. Michael Ryan, White Man, Black Man, (1969, Jacaranda, Milton)
Edel Wignell ©

The following ballad was commended in the Ballarat Begonia Festival Literary Competition - Open Poetry Section, and first published in Stringybark and Greenhide Magazine.

Edel's interest in the old time swagmen of the 19th century in Australia resulted in much pleasurable research and the publication of A Bluey of Swaggies (Edward Arnold Australia).

Many swagmen were shearers, and the bicycle became popular in outback Australia sometime in the 1890s. It was much easier to care for than a horse. After a few weeks of sheep shearing, most shearers were fit, and could ride up to sixty miles (96 kilometres) in a day. If the track surface was good, they might travel 100 miles (160 kilometres) in a day. By cutting down on their travelling time, they could earn more money.

When a shearing job was finished, many shearer swagmen travelled to the nearest shanty (bush pub) and 'knocked down' their cheques. Shearers were known as heavy drinkers, and many spent their cheques on liquor. This was called 'lambing down'.

Some publicans took advantage of them. When thirsty shearers arrived, these publicans said that they hadn't enough money to give change for the swagmen's cheques. If four swagmen came in, the publican would use one cheque and put the other three in his safe. Then he invited the men to order drinks, and told them that he would keep an account of the money spent. He promised that, as soon as he had enough cash, he would give change. A heavy drinking session would begin, usually lasting until midnight. The drinking might go on for days, until all the shearing wages had been spent.

However, on one occasion a group of cycling swaggies got the best of a publican at a hotel in New South Wales. They kept their cheques and conducted a race after drinking their fill. They tricked the publican - a rare occurrence indeed.

THE CYCLING SHEARERS' RACE

'Lambing down', a custom crude,
  Was often seen out west,
When shearers hurried to the pub
  Chequed up, their thirst suppressed.
The publican swift took their cheques -
  'No change, not one razoo!'
He said, and rotgut liquor plied
  To the shearer swaggie crew.

The shearers drank and quenched their thirst
  That day and every morrow,
And soon had paid for pub and grog,
  And drowned themselves in sorrow.
The publican defrauded all,
  Their will he could subdue,
Until he met his match one day
  In a cycling swaggie crew.

'I cannot cash your cheques, my lads,
  But stay a day or three
And drink until there's change enough,
  You've earned a little spree!'
'Twas Thursday then; when Sunday came,
  They planned a rendezvous.
'The publican will ne'er forget
  Our cycling swaggie crew!'

'Let's have a race,' the shearers said,
  'We'll cycle up the track
With swags and bags, weight-for-age,
  Up five miles and back.'
The publican then shouted, 'Go!'
  The shearers called, 'Adieu!'
(All cheques secreted safely on
  The cycling swaggie crew.)

The shearers rode into the west,
  The publican still waits
To judge the winner of the race
  Between those laughing mates.
In outback lore it's often told,
  A story rare and true,
And shearers drink to the victory
  Of the cycling swaggie crew.