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Sounds, smells, a flashing smile beneath a Santa hat, fragments of dialogue that trigger memories from nowhere. Well they must come from somewhere. Anywhere. Wherever all these bits of history cache themselves.

Arthur watches the dancers, one saucy little vixen in particular, it's another Bangkok Christmas. He watches but his mind is on an English summer evening long, long ago. A girl in the rec, a walk across fields to a railway bridge and a quiet place on an embankment where they lay down. The girl's name was Alice. After a bit of adolescent groping her knickers came off surprisingly fast.

Alice got pregnant with Cynthia and a marriage was arranged. Arthur still can't remember how or by whom. Arthur's parents probably. They died soon after the wedding when their Standard 8 rolled off a cliff at Dover. Alice helped Arthur run the tobacconists, which he inherited. They were not unhappy. Life was measured in newspaper sales, bars of Cadbury's chocolate, Woodbines, Senior Service, cups of tea. Much TV was watched in the 2-room flat (plus kitchen and bathroom) above the shop. There were occasional picnics to Woburn Abbey and Chessington Zoo. Cynthia grew up, left school, worked in a bank for 6 months then emigrated to Australia on the ten pound scheme.

Then one day Alice died. Some kind of stroke they thought. Arthur sat staring at cardboard boxes for a month then he sold the shop to a family from Bangladesh. Now, with nothing much to do he decides to go and visit Cynthia in Australia.

Cynthia lives with her husband Ron in a suburb of Melbourne. Ron, is a jolly swagman. All Ron's mates are jolly swagmen too. At Christmas they camp out by the swimming pools drinking beer and eating meat. Sometimes they sing drunken songs. Arthur tries hard but he can't get into the swing of things. Sensing his discomfort Cynthia suggests a trip to the outback.

McCafferty's take him on a bus to a town in the middle of nowhere. Arthur thanks them and wanders out of the bus station into a shopping mall. He buys an ice cream, sits down on a bench and tries to remember who he is supposed to be. All around him Australians in shorts are wandering in and out of shops. Except for some black ones who are sitting on patches of grass. Those must be aboriginal people thinks Arthur. A strange sort of cultural collision is going on here.

Arthur walks through the town until the buildings stop. There is nothing but red desert and scrub, a hazy distant mountain range. Arthur keeps walking. He doesn't know why. It just seems like the thing to do. It is very hot. The sun is blinding.
Arthur wanders in circles until he comes to an area of broken glass and old beer cans. There are abandoned vehicles everywhere. Flies by the swarm. Scraps of cloth hanging limply in no breeze. By this point Arthur is delirious. Then he spots what looks like a small oasis, blue gums round a billabong, a Toyota minivan with no wheels. Arthur collapses on the ground in front of a fridge with no door. Hard to say how long he's out of it. When he eventually recovers the first thing he sees is a fat, black unkempt woman with matted frizzy hair. A vision of loveliness.

'G'day.' Says Arthur (he picked up a bit of Strine in Melbourne).

'Merry Christmas,' says the vision. She is wearing half a tracksuit and a large bra. 'Going walkabout?'

'Yes I suppose I am.' Says Arthur.

'I'm Alice. Fancy a beer?'

Alice? That's odd. His head is still spinning and the warm beer doesn't help much. Alice has a broad flat nose and a lovely smile. She seems like a kindly soul thinks Arthur.

'There's no ice.' Says Alice.

'That's alright.' Says Arthur.

'And no TV neither. The power's off.'

'Really it's OK,' says Arthur, 'don't worry about it. I'll be fine. Just need to sit down for a bit.'

'Take your time luv.' Says Alice.

'Will you marry me Alice?'

'Alright.'

This is madness thinks Arthur. I must get a grip. I'm not even in Australia for god's sake. I'm sitting in a go-go bar trying to decide whether to barfine a little tart from Buriram. Sounds, smells, a flashing smile beneath a Santa hat, fragments of dialogue that trigger memories from nowhere. Well they must come from somewhere. Anywhere. Wherever all these bits of history cache themselves.




© C. Woww. All rights reserved by the author.

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If you enjoyed this short story of C. Woww's his book 'Losing the Plot' can easily be purchased here at DCO Books online:
http://www.dcothai.com/product_info.php?cPath=21&products_id=106

It can also be found in many local bookshops in Thailand, especially, we have seen, in the many Bookazine Bookshops in Bangkok and Pattaya.