Hard Rubbish by Peter Lingard, a glass of champagne

Ramona meant to walk through the court, across the vacant plot and into the park.  However, piles of hard rubbish awaiting collection caught her eye.  There was an old peddle car showing rust undoubtedly accumulated in a garden shed.  She felt for the mother who must have resisted ejection for as long as was practically possible.  Had the boy left home and his parents had a clean-out of his no-longer treasured childhood possessions?  What was that expression?  Something to do with becoming a man and putting aside childish things.  Perhaps. 

She moved on and saw an old, heavy computer and its equally heavy monitor.  She remembered when monitors had been called a visual display units.  Who thinks these things up?  There was a bedside table.  Didn’t they come in pairs?  Where was the other one?  Had somebody come by, taken one and rejected the other?  Why?  Maybe there wasn’t enough room in the car?  Are they going return for this second, matching piece?  Was that a pogo-stick?  How long’s it been since she saw one of those?  Do kids have pogo-sticks today?  She hadn’t seen one in a long while.

            On the next nature strip stood a brown leather settee.  Are they still called settees?  Couch, sofa, lounger?  The colour had changed.  Colours. She saw many different colours, some light, some dark - several shades of dark.  The arms were the darkest, well, the tops of the backrest were dark too.  How many people had rested their heads against it?  It was a lot like the one she and Juan had had at the start.  They’d picked it up from the street.  They’d been starting out and couldn’t afford much furniture.  They’d planned to replace it once they had the money, but they’d never got round to it. They had made love on it that first night.  She felt a tinge of excitement in recalling the event.  She had found the raised edges of the seat cushions too uncomfortable and had thrown them onto the floor. 

            Afterwards, she’d been convinced that they’d conceived a child and had told Juan.  He’d laughed and asked how she could possibly know that.  They’d picked up the cushions and had been about to replace them when they found a penny lying on the settee’s seat.  Juan had said it must be an omen and if they had a baby girl as a result of that night’s loving, they’d call her Penny.

            They hadn’t got rid of the settee until Penny moved to Adelaide with her husband and Juan had helped pack the settee into the U-Haul along with the newlywed’s meagre possessions.

            She circled the nature strip, inspecting the piece, irrationally wondering if there might be some remembered mark.  But her settee was in Adelaide wasn’t it?  She smiled at her foolishness as she headed to the park.

About the author

 

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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