Hope Shines Read online

  After a bit, the man finished his drink, thanked Barbara and went back out to the porch, and the autumn sun. The girl in the wheelchair watched him walk down the steps and back to his bicycle. And he would have got on too – he would have ridden away and called that that and this this. But the river, its slothfulness was near hypnotic in that moment. The boats sat, their day’s work done and their crews lounging silently on deck, drinking beer and watching the sky.

  And at that second, Alistair drove past in his Ute, which held a piano in need of fixing. And to a local, this was common as day – but to a wandering man, to an unanchored gent like Isaac, a piano’s a bit of a magic thing to see driven down the street. And then you add to that the trio of magpie dipping overhead, and the sound of Ivy Keene’s harp wafting out of her attic room, and Rhoda balancing there on the back wheels of her chair like it was nothing at all, and the temperature that’s just right for wiping the hair off your neck, and the bridge to the right, and the memory of that beer just had, the name of which was unknown, and a day moon visible above, and a kid under a tree laughing somewhere near, having just heard the rudest name there is, and the red leaves falling, and a cat sat on a windowsill.

  And whatever your rationale may be, some moments have distance to them, enough that they make a man with only a bike and some baskets to his name suddenly think of a thing, a thing he wasn’t expecting, a thing that might get thought about only in dreams. That’s all that can be said really – that it was one of those moments.

  And it’s true to say it was felt by every single person in town. Because they all came out onto their porches, or stood up on their decks, or stepped out of their wheelchairs. And as one, they tipped their hats.

  The hinges could be heard swinging, and Nella wiped her hands on a dishcloth and placed the needle down on a record that had warped a little, the summer having burned sharp as it did. Then she stood and waited for the screen door to open, hands on hips and eyes drawn to that warp as it went round and round, the needle a bicycle rolling up and down the pitch black hills.

  The way he entered was calamitous and strange. He wiped his feet on the mat, then opened the screen door so it hit against his toes – as though his boots and that door’s arc being in the same location was a fact unknown to him. He stepped back then, but now found himself too far removed to reach the handle. He laughed – to himself, to the door – then stepped aside, opened the screen, and smiled, triumphant. And Nella liked this, this notion of a man who would think the opening of a door something worth celebrating. He seemed like one who counted days by their small successes, rather than by tragedies. What a thing that was.

  The man impressed her then a second time, by knocking. And when she walked to the door, he smiled. And when he smiled, so did she.

  This unnerved her, and she shifted her feet embarrassed, upending a money jar and sending many bronzed coins rolling off and dropping through the cracks between the floorboards. Both watched this dance of disappearing wealth, a thousand pennies falling down to earth. And both watched also the other one not scrambling, watched them each agree it not worth lying on one’s belly for, casting off one’s dignity for. Besides, both had long ago farewelled their dignities in other, simpler ways, so both let the coins escape – a second of inaction that made promise of a lifetime.

  And when, a moment later, she asked what he was there for, and he replied that he was taken by the steady pulse of this town, and had gone searching for its heart, and had been pointed to her door, this seemed answer enough for both of them.

  Nella only watched Isaac then, and invited him to go where he may – to sit in her chair, or walk in her garden, lie on her bed – so she might glean the workings of this particular clock. And he said sure, and went to the kettle and lit a flame. He went to the record player and turned it over. He walked in the garden and passed his hand across the leaves. He sat at the table and tapped a dulcet tune with his fingers on the seasoned wood, holding her gaze throughout. Finally, he went to her bed and lay upon it, shifting slightly.

  ‘It’s strange . . .’ offered Nella. ‘I can find no problem.’

  ‘Well I can,’ said Isaac, and rose quickly and made for her shed, and rummaged a little, and returned with an oil can, and applied what was necessary, and tested the springs, and heard nothing, and smiled triumphant – another addition to the day’s catalogue.

  And then he rose once more, though slower now, and passed the lady Nella Sands as she stood beautiful in the small hallway, his arm brushing by the curve of a shoulder, of a breast, of a belly that was made for children and always had been.

  He felt himself blushing and made haste out of the doorway, and made for the street. And Nella watched his form departing – and understood.

  She remembered the orbit of the earth then, and day and night, and the fact that life is only repetitions, and that we cannot expect the patterns of our yesterdays to unravel suddenly and be knit anew. To ponder otherwise is trouble.

  She watched as another retreating man reached her gate, again. As another man opened it, again . . .

  And as he paused. And leaned. And oiled. And then turned, and – sporting the grin of a child – swung the metal, its silence deafening.

  ‘See,’ he called happily. ‘It was just the hinges. Nothing more than that.’

  And Nella Sands watched him from the doorway, and nodded, as she knew it now, of course she did. Then the woman heard the kettle whistle, and was gone – propping the screen door open with an empty jar, refilling the kettle to a higher point, and boiling it anew.

  About the author

  Finegan has had eighty-eight plays performed on six continents and in eight languages. Commonly writing for young and older alike, he seeks to create human-sized stories for child-sized protagonists, acknowledging young people as astute audience members outside the plays, and worthy subjects within. He has spoken at conferences in ten countries, with papers published and works studied at international universities. Several awards have been received, including the 2017 Mickey Miners Lifetime Achievement Award for services to international Theatre for Young Audiences, 2015 David Williamson Prize for Excellence in Australian Playwrighting, an inaugural Sidney Myer Fellowship – and now, very excitingly, the 2018 Hope Prize.

  This year Finegan has started (tentatively, and quite nervously) taking pockets of time away from playwrighting, and instead trying his hand at short stories and the beginnings of a novel. Imbued with a very daunting, very enjoyable sense of stepping into the unknown, and buoyed by the generous support of various bookish friends, it’s a surreal pleasure to receive this prize, and he extends sincere thanks to the BSL and the trio of amazing judges who chose as they did.

  Finegan lives in beautiful Hobart, Tasmania, with Essie, Moe, five chickens and a cat named Catty.

  The Girl Who Wanted to Paint the Moon

  Tess Rowley

  Second Prize

  I remember my birth: the struggle in the womb, strong crests of water pushing me to the shore of my people’s land. I hold tight in the safe, warm space. My mother’s groans call me but I don’t want to leave. Suddenly, a crashing wave and I am expelled into the bright light, lifted high, held by strong hands. I bellow and the women laugh.

  I was born in 1952, the last child of Nellie and Jo. Pa named me Biddy. I had a big sister, brothers and lots of cousins. We all lived at the native camp outside town. Ma cooked our food on an open fire in a big, round cooking pot that held enough tucker for the whole mob when times were good. Pa and the Uncles came home with eels and fish from the creek, sometimes meat from the killing yards. Us girls cooked with our mothers; the boys collected wood for the fire and carried water from the creek.

  Our humpy had tin walls, roof, and an earth floor which I swept, swirling the dusty surface around, making circles like the patterned carpets I’d seen in the town shops. I loved my home, and the smell of the earth.

  ‘Aaay, Biddy-girl, doncha be playing liftin’ dust everwhere. Get me a bitta sug
ar.’

  Pa was holding a steaming billycan as he looked in. His trousers were old and saggy, showing the round shape of his knees. His bare chest shone in the morning sun.

  I skipped to the table, grabbed a big spoon and dipped it into the blue paper bag. Slowly I carried it towards him.

  ‘Aaay girl, ya losin’ more than ya caught!’ Pa took the spoon carefully from my curled fingers and tipped it into the can. ‘Ya getting big,’ he smiled.

  ‘I’m gonna be five soon.’

  ‘Aaay, you soon gonna be as old as me!’

  On my first day of school I wore a dress Ma had hand-sewn. It was cut down from one of hers and had pink flowers. I felt so grown up walking to school with my brothers and sister, spinning around on my bare feet, watching the skirt swirl, pretending I was a dancer.

  ‘Stop showing off,’ my sister said. ‘I can see yer bum.’

  My face burned and I looked at the ground. I was ‘shamed’ the children at school might see under my dress.

  The school was a wooden building set in the middle of a small piece of ground. Around the back, children were running on the sparse grass, throwing balls, skipping ropes, laughing and pushing.

  My sister left me with a group of new kids, some clinging to their Ma’s, crying. A bell rang. The bigger students formed lines.

  ‘Hello, children. My name is Miss Lord and I’m your teacher.’

  She led us into our classroom. My eyes nearly popped out with excitement when I saw the desks and little chairs in rows.

  Miss Lord walked to the front. She looked serious, but her lips blinked a grin. ‘Come sit down, I’m going to read you a story.’

  I chose a desk near the teacher, feeling like a big schoolgirl.

  After the story, a bell rang and we followed Miss Lord outside where a lady was giving out bottles of milk – one each. I watched the others drinking. The little bottle was all for me!

  I walked home alone after my first day at school. The Grade Ones finished earlier than the other classes, but I didn’t know and thought my brothers and sister had raced ahead of me.

  Ma saw me coming along the track. She was lifting washing off the rope line which hung between two trees as I ran towards her.

  ‘Howdya go, bubba?’

  ‘Ma, can I have bloomers like the other girls in my class?’

  She looked puzzled. ‘You bin doin’ handstands?’

  I shook my head fiercely.

  That night, after we’d eaten, she made me bloomers out of a flour sack. I watched her cut the fabric. The big shears were huge in her hands, but she hacked away until the shape was complete. Squatting on a stool outside by the light of a dwindling fire, she stitched the pieces together, breaking each cotton thread from the spool with her teeth. I sat by her side, spinning the cotton spool round and round.

  ‘Ya mongrel!’ she barked, when the cotton knotted and broke. The light from the fire was dimming. Her hooded eyes squinted to see the small opening of the needle to thread.

  Finally, the garment was finished. ‘Stand up and try these on.’ Her voice was raspy.

  Leaning on Ma, I stepped into them. She pulled the draw-string tight till they stayed fixed around my skinny waist. I ran off doing cartwheels on the dusty ground.

  ‘Hey, settle down, you have to get to sleep now,’ Ma growled.

  I didn’t want to take them off.

  ‘Mama, you sew good.’

  Ma’s face glowed. Her wiry arms stretched out and I leapt into them, nearly knocking her over. Her face was hot from the fire and she smelled of wood smoke. We sat together in the dark looking up at the night sky. The stars told us stories of our past, about ancestors who guided us. ‘Look at the moon, Mama.’ I pointed at the moon. It was showing off, full blown in its silvery splendour.

  ‘That’s an old moon,’ Ma whispered. ‘A new moon is a skinny thing like you.’

  ‘I’m going to paint the moon when I grow up. I’m going to paint our totem and make it pretty.’

  ‘Hey, look out,’ she said as she laughed. ‘You have to be very big to paint the moon.’

  I pressed my lips together, ‘I AM going to paint the moon.’

  ‘If you want something real bad, you just have to reach a bit harder until you get it.’

  I saw her eyes glisten, like the moon had dropped some silver into them.

  She pushed herself up wearily, leading me inside to the darkness, stepping over my sleeping brothers and sister. I belly-flopped onto my bedding.

  ‘Shush,’ Ma hissed and reached down, pulling the sacking over me.

  ‘When I was your age, no one made me bloomers.’ She sighed.

  School was hard some days, sitting still and listening. The lesson I enjoyed most was painting. On Friday afternoons, Miss Lord set paint pots, brushes and sheets of white paper on a big table. The first time I painted I swirled the brush, making circles, then filled the shapes with colours. We were allowed to take our artwork home. Holding mine in both hands so it wouldn’t crease, I proudly showed my painting to everyone I saw along the road.

  I lived for Fridays.

  ‘Aaah, whydya give me a fat belly ’n’ stick legs?’ Ma asked when she saw one of my drawings.

  Grabbing it off her, my face felt hot. I didn’t like her laughing at my picture.

  The other lessons made my head hurt, trying to remember spelling words and numbers. The rules were hard to understand.

  Once, we were given a list of words to take home and people had to give money for us to learn and remember the spelling.

  One big girl was met each day by an old man at the school gate. She called out, ‘Grandad, I have to bring some money to school for a spelling bee. You have to pay me for spelling words.’

  He smiled. ‘Well, Janet, you’ll have to spell good if you want a sixpence.’

  Closing her eyes, Janet spoke slowly, ‘G-o-o-d.’

  He clapped loudly, kissing the top of Janet’s head.

  I wished I could spell like her.

  When I got back to camp, Uncle Billy was crouched by the fence, fixing a rusty bike. He had the tyre off and was pushing it into a bucket of water.

  ‘Uncle, I have to spell “b” and you have to give me money to take to school.’

  He looked up and rubbed his eyes with the back of his fist. I could see the dust sitting on his eyebrows and in his hair.

  ‘Watcha saying, bub? I ain’t got nuthin to send to them smart folks at school. They all rich, ya know.’

  I showed him the list with all the words on. He didn’t look at it.

  ‘Nup, I ain’t signing nuthin. ’Sides, bees don’t need to spell, they already know their name.’ He wheezed, laughing at his joke, and pulled a cigarette stub from behind his ear.

  I tried to show Ma the paper, but she got angry. She was sitting on the stool punching the clothes up and down in a big tin tub, a square of yellow soap by her foot.

  ‘Dontcha be bringing me fancy stuff. I’ve enough to do feeding and scrubbing ya clean.’

  I folded the sheet and pushed it under my bedding. Later, I played with the paper, pretending it was a fan, wafting my face. My sister grabbed it and ran outside.

  ‘Give it back,’ I yelled, but I couldn’t catch her.

  When the kids brought the spelling lists back to school with money, I didn’t have anything to give. Miss Lord walked past my desk, shaking her head. I felt like a bad girl.

  One day she asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.

  ‘A painter,’ I firmly replied.

  ‘You need money for that.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to be a painter. No one can stop me.’

  My new school friends gave me a glimpse of a different world.

  They brought presents for the teachers at Christmas – things I’d never seen before. Writing paper and envelopes in a box, a tin of talcum powder and bath cubes.

  I looked at the cubes, frowning. ‘Bath cubes? Whatcha do with them?’

  ‘Put them in ya bath, stupid.’
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  Carol was my friend, but I still didn’t understand how bath cubes worked.

  At playtime, some girls let me join their group.

  ‘Whatcha got?’ I asked Jean, who was swinging a cloth bag that clanked like pebbles.

  ‘Marbles. Wanna see?’

  She showed me the game and shared the glass coloured balls with me. That day, I won a marble of my own.

  ‘Wannit back?’ I asked.

  ‘Na, ya can keep it. Ya didn’t win the tiger eye! We’ll play again tomorra.’

  Carol showed me how to make a snake with a cotton reel, nails and some wool. It wasn’t mine to keep, but I knew which part of the snake I’d made as it dangled from its wooden moorings.

  As I grew, art classes were always the times I shone. Sometimes, my work was stuck on the classroom wall. My picture of the landscape around our camp, detailing the sunlit mountains in the distance, hung in the school foyer.

  I was nearly thirteen when I finished primary school. The high school didn’t accept Aboriginal children. I still wanted to paint, but didn’t know where to get all the stuff from, especially the big sheets of clean paper.

  I did jobs around the camp and walked into town each day looking for work.

  My first job was with a white family in town, minding the children and doing house work.

  ‘Keep the noise down!’ Mrs Loftus yelled. Her hair was like fizzy orange, her face peppered with freckles. She had a new baby, who cried all the time, and two girls, Linda and Jane. They had lots of toys, which they constantly fought over, pulling each other’s hair. Then they’d start bawling.