5. Bumper Stickers … a story that introduces Doug and Meg and shows how bumper stickers can make a positive difference.

Doug knows about road rage.

He has spent the best part of the last ten years driving, a time that changed him both physically and emotionally. For the first five years he drove buses and taxis, then he got his truck license and shifted from driving people to driving chickens. It was during the chicken years that his body reinvented itself (something he thought only happened to famous people). Up until this time he was the shape of an average Joe Blow and then in the space of six months, he blew out! He blamed it on stress, the long hours sitting and driving. Then, what with the extra weight he was carrying and some hot spells, he sweated so much through his scalp, he developed and itchy rash and Meg had to shave off his hair and paint his head with soothing calamine lotion.

Driving a truck loaded with poultry through Melbourne every day, in a body that had reinvented itself, was the trigger that released his repressed anger. And once released, he quickly habituated to the aggression. What really got up his nose, like a fork, were those people who insisted on taking the right of way when doing a right hand turn. His response to this road rudeness was ruthless intimidation. It was a terrifying sight for the thoughtless turner – looking in their rear view mirror they saw a massive poultry truck driving up their exhaust and a fat, bald noggin, painted pink sticking out of the window yelling stuff about left and right. But what mesmerised people, was the sign propped against the windscreen for all to read. It said ‘CHOOK’ in bold capitals. But of course people read it in their mirrors, backwards. It was amazing how many who experienced Doug’s rage, reported to the police that the offender had an ethnic name that they couldn’t pronounce.

Things came to a head around Christmas. It was hot and the traffic was free-associating, as it does in the festive season. Doug had been driving longer hours than usual (what with the Christmas rush for poultry), when it happened – in Footscray. He’d finally made it through the city when a woman in an agapanthus blue Hyundai Excel, turned in front of him. He lost it in a big way – he was out of control – he was going to give her a piece of his mind – he was so close, he could see the demister strips on the rear window. And then he saw it. A bumper sticker. He couldn’t help but read it because once you are literate, you have no choice. It said, PRACTISE RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS AND SENSELESS BEAUTY.

That night, while Meg was painting his head with calamine, Doug was lost in thought. Meg was thinking too. She’d inherited some money and for a while she’d wanted to invest in retail but she’d been waiting for the right moment to introduce the idea because with Doug, rejection is usually final, so timing is critical.

Her hand gently squeezing his shoulder roused him; she spoke softly in his ear. ‘What say you quit driving and we use Auntie Mi Mi’s money to set ourselves up in business? What say … we open a shop?’

They went into it with eyes wide open. They did a correspondence course in small business management and graduated with a detailed business plan and a lot of optimism. Meg said, ‘I want to sell the sorts of thing that I like to buy.’ So they brainstormed the things Meg liked to buy. She liked flowers, holographic wrapping paper, pithy sayings you can stick on the wall or the bumper, like: REALITY LIES IN THE WAY YOU SEE THINGS and THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS THE INEVITABLE AS LONG AS THERE IS A WILLINGNESS TO THINK. And she like fairy tooth keepers. After the brainstorm, Doug got Meg to lie on the couch and close her eyes. Then he asked in a serious and low voice, ‘What do you want to achieve through your business?’ Meg answered, ‘I want to make a positive difference in people’s lives.’

Having workshopped the ideas in this way, they then set about getting themselves seriously organised. Meg found a vacant shop in Brunswick Street and signed the lease.

Three weeks later and the place is transformed. It’s a terrific time of year for flowers. June: purple and yellow time: daffodils, jonquils, violets and Dutch iris.

Doug’s body has changed again. Its slimmed down; he appears taller and he has hair on his head. And he has been charged with the task of searching for bumper stickers with profound and pithy sayings.

Meanwhile, in another part of Melbourne, Ooshmo is living out her story and has struck a difficult patch. Try, as she does, she hasn’t been able to nail the problem and then it comes to her in a flash. She’s had a sense of unease for some time and then passing her son’s bedroom, she sees him lying on his back with his legs bent over his head, trying to light a fart. She stands in the doorway watching, frozen. A blue flame shoots from his trousers. She feels gutted, cleaned out like a fish. Then it comes to her: her life lacks beauty.

Ooshmo has tried so hard in so many ways to fill her life with beauty. She’s changed her name from Geraldine Clutterbuck, she fills the house with fresh flowers, she has music playing softly, she’s painted the walls in lavender and lemon, had a home birth, breast fed the baby and sent him to the Steiner school.

But it has been in vain. She’s sensed the tide turning against her for some time. It’s the little things she can’t control, they’ve been mounting: the MacDonald’s parties, the skateboard with the melting skulls in iridescent green, Oz kick … Then one day her son came home and announced, ‘I hate circle dance, I hate myth and I want to go to an ordinary school.’ He then stomped off to his bedroom and in a final burst yelled, ‘and I HATE my name.’

Efil is life spelled backwards. Ooshmo gave birth at 43. She felt this baby was an unexpected gift and she decided, from the start, that her baby would be called Efil.

He was conceived eleven years ago at a conference in Freemantle – Ear Infections in Early Childhood: Causes and Prevention. Ooscmo, who was Geraldine Clutterbuck back then, was giving a paper, Naturopathy: the Healthy Choice. It was at the conference, she met Ralph, a cranial osteopath from Darwin. Efil was conceived in room 208 of the Ozone Hotel to the sounds of ambient music.

Ooshmo never saw Ralph again; she never told him that he’d become a father. She wanted to do it alone; she’s always been a loner. As her he body swelled, she grew in power and felt more beautiful than she’d ever felt in her life. She changed her name, found a midwife and asked Beth to support her during the birth and be the baby’s ‘spirit mother’. It all went to plan and Efil came into the world smiling. Ooshmo felt strong, in control – creative, like a goddess. She grew back the hair she’d cropped, believing at the time that long hair tied her to an archaic and patriarchal view of femininity. She bagged up her jeans and sensible shoes and took them to the brotherhood. She rejoiced in the feel of long, soft, loose dresses. And Efil thrived. Every night he slept beside her: her breasts full of milk, her great body protective and warm.

But time has passed; that was all years ago. Ooshmo no longer feels beautiful, nor does she feel powerful and she rarely feels in control. Sometimes she feels like an anachronism in her own house!

She needs to get away. She needs time to think. She’s sliding. She has to get a grip. She feels that the light inside her is slowly being extinguished.

She arranges for Efil to spend a few days with the neighbours, throws some things into the Hyundai and sets out for Daylesford to stay with Beth. Beth had said, ‘You are not alone Oosh, It’s the winter solstice. Come and stay with me and we will acknowledge what we wish to lose in the dark. We will light fires and invoke the coming light, feast and share stories.’

Doug is also on the Daylesford road; he’s off to meet a bloke called Simon. He was wearing himself ragged trying to find quality bumper stickers. On the point of despair, he just happened to be talking to a mate who has a mate who has just landed a job putting a tent together for the Road Safety Council of Victoria at the Royal Agricultural Show in September. ‘You want bumper stickers Dougie? Simmo’s got boxes of the bloody things.’

Simon certainly does have stickers: SPEED KILLS, WEARY DRIVERS DIE, IDIOTS DRINK AND DRIVE. ‘You don’t have anything a bit witty do you Simon?’ Doug asks, thinking that the trip has been a waste of time.

Simon rips open another box and pulls out MUM’S TAXI and BABY ON BOARD. He can tell by the look on Doug’s face that he’s disappointed. ‘Look mate, I’ve got a couple of boxes you can have, no charge.

The box is open and Doug glimpses, LAND RIGHTS FOR GAY WHALES. They’re yellow with age.

He loads the boxes into the back of the van. The two men exchange hearty masculine handshakes. Doug remembers he has some fairy tooth keepers in the glove box. He slips one into Simon’s hand and signals that like the stickers, it’s a freebie.

By the time he’s driven out of Daylesford, its dark and raining. It isn’t that it’s so late but it’s the shortest day of the year and bloody freezing. The van rattles and whistles; it’s like driving a tin can. He has a growing awareness that the temperature in the van is dropping; it must be close to freezing and there’s too much fresh air circulating. The back is open. Mustn’t have shut it properly. He glances over his shoulder to the back and sees that there are only two boxes where there had been three. He pulls over to the side and with a hefty slam, mutters, ‘Good’. He was wondering how he was going to dispose of the gay whales. You’re not supposed to put things like that in the recycle bin.

And he drives off thinking how good it will be to walk through the front door into a warm house smelling of food.

Ooshmo is navigating a dark wet road. She has a crystal fixed on her dash – ten centimetres tall. She has secured it with a lump of blue tac. As car lights come towards her, it splits the beams and rainbows dance inside her car.

Suddenly, out of the black, she sees a shape; an animal, she thinks - stepping onto the road. She slams on the brakes and the car takes on a life of its own. It swerves and dances, it does a 360 and then comes to rest as if nothing has happened. She sits, eyes unblinking, in a state of calm. Her breath is steady and her heart beat regular. She feels a sticky wetness, a trickle down the side of her nose and mouth. It’s blood. The crystal and lump of blue tac are gone. The sudden force when she slammed on the brake has sent it hurtling through space where it’s caught her neatly between the eyes.

Leaving the engine running and the light on, Ooshmo slides out of her seat and crosses in front of the car. She stands, caught in the lights and for just a moment, she sees herself as if she were looking from outside of herself. She sees a tall, handsome middle-aged woman, her dress blowing against her breasts and her belly, long hair swirling about a strong face that is divided by a line of blood – like a Picasso woman. And in that moment, she feels the power of her maternal nature. She walks slowly, silently towards the animal huddled by the verge and slowly, slowly, reaches out a hand.

It’s a cardboard box. A gust of wind gives it a nudge and the lid flips open. Peering inside she sees bundles of bumper stickers. She picks one up, holds it in the light and reads, THE GODDESS IS ALIVE.

6. MIDDLE CLASS LIFE … in which it is revealed to Liz that her life is very boring and the question is left hanging – ‘who is B-P?'

Liz is depressed. It’s Friday night and it’s been a long week.

She’s lying on the couch in the dark watching TV. A writer is speaking about his latest book. The interviewer asks what drew him to write about destitute people living in the underground tunnels of New York. The remote is close by. She’s managing with her left hand as her right arm is encased in plaster.

She also has both feet in plaster. The previous Friday she had her bunions done. The surgeon said, ‘It’s a painful procedure. I would advise you to have them done one at a time.’ But Liz thought, if it’s that painful, it’d be better to get it over and done with in one go. But the surgeon was right. It’s been excruciating. It’s been seven days and still, she can do nothing but lie on the couch and swallow painkillers.

How her arm ended up in plaster, is another story.

Liz is a small person with a large presence. She’s comfortable giving orders. Her strength creates an illusion about her size. Charles thinks of her as a big woman but this week, carrying her about in his arms, he’s been reminded of her true dimensions. Less like a lioness, more like a sparrow, he has felt protective.

Charles has been in charge of the domestic realm – chief cook and bottle washer. An unkind person might say, ‘He’s off the leash.’ He said to Olivia, ‘This week, I’m the captain and you are my first mate.’

He’d made arrangements to work at home so he could be nurse. He’s his own boss, so it was no big deal. Charles designs instructional DVDs. He’s working on one called The Installation and Maintenance of Home Sprinkler Systems. The client approved the script a while ago and he’d always planned to shoot it in the back garden - so things had worked out well. He reassured Liz that the filming would not disturb her. ‘We’ll be quiet as mice. I’ve got our lunches planned and the crew can take care of themselves.’

Monday. Mid morning, a van arrived with boxes of sprinkler equipment. Charles popped his head around the lounge room door, ‘It’s the Art Department. I’ll just get him sorted and then I’ll get lunch on the go.’

Liz could hear him giving instructions.

‘I want a pan of the basic fittings from camera left to right. We’ll start with a close up of the poly tube, then the four-way flow. You can arrange the joiners, elbows etc how you choose but I want the 300 millimetre risers last and we’ll do a dissolve.’

She wasn’t used to hearing him talk like this.

Leaving the Art Department to get on with the job, he slipped into the kitchen, tucked a tea towel into his belt and began preparing lunch. Not normally welcome in the kitchen, he was excited by the novelty. ‘I’m not useless.’ he was occasionally heard to say. ‘I was a scout leader you know.’ It was the old scouting recipes he planned to use this week. He cut a thick slice of bread and made a hole in it with a biscuit cutter. He then melted two large tablespoons of butter in a pan and slapped it in, then cracked an egg into the hole and cooked it till the white set. He slid it onto a plate and arranged it on a small tray with a knife and fork, paper serviette and a glass of water. He placed it carefully on Liz’s lap. ‘There you go. Enjoy. A one-eyed Egyptian – B-P’s favourite.’

He hardly had time to make himself some lunch when another van pulled into the drive – it was the crew. He popped his head around the door again, ‘It’s the crew.’ Liz wanted to ask who B-P was but he’d gone. She heard him giving instructions again.

‘For the opening shot I want a bird’s eye view of the garden then a zoom to the poly tube. Then we’ll pick up with the pan. Tod, you’ll have to go on the roof for this one. We’ll put you in a safety harness and anchor you to the chimney. I want these shots finished today because tomorrow we’re working with the Talent.’ Charles was looking forward to tomorrow. Normally he stood in front of the camera and delivered the information himself but this time he’d convinced the client to pay for an actor. ‘An actor will give the whole thing an edge. Make it a bit of fun for the DIY man.’ Sean is the only actor Charles knows so he engaged him for the job. ‘But I’m not really and actor. I’m a puppeteer.’ said Sean. Charles thought that was splitting hairs.

Liz must have dozed off for a few hours. The painkillers were good. She was woken by Charles calling to the crew, ‘OK. THAT’S A WRAP FOR TODAY.’

Back to home duties. Within an hour of the crew leaving, he and Olivia had a load in the washing machine, a load in the dryer (‘I can’t use the line this week, the Art Department would have a fit!’), the dishwasher was hard at work and dinner was in the oven.

Around six he served up three large aluminium balls on three plates. He took one into Liz. ‘What’s this?’

‘A spud egg. Do you want sauce?’

No reply.

He watched as she unwrapped the potato, sliced into it and found an egg cooked inside. ‘Yes. I think sauce would be appropriate, thankyou.’

He and Olivia took their plates out into the garden, lit a mosquito coil and ate their spud eggs with HP sauce.

Tuesday. After Liz had struggled to dress, Charles carried her to the lounge and made her comfortable. ‘I’ll run Ollie to school, pick up some DVD’S and be back before the crew arrives.’

He was as good as his word. The vans were pulling into the driveway as he returned. Charles knows what Liz likes – musicals and dance movies. ‘I’ve got Carmen the opera and Carmen the ballet, what would you like first?’

She really didn’t fancy either at 9.00 am. The thought of watching women on point made her scalp creep. But it wasn’t a real question. He’d loaded the ballet into the player and was heading out the room. ‘Lunch at 12.00,’ he called over his shoulder. Sing out if you need anything.’ Then she heard him giving instructions.

‘The Talent will be here this afternoon. Meanwhile I want a montage of the jets, misters and drippers …What’s this nozzle doing here?’ he held up a nozzle so everyone could see what he was talking about. The Art Department looked uncomfortable. ‘Look at this everyone. This is a nozzle for hand hosing. What is this DVD about?’

Silence.

The Art Department muttered, ‘Sprinkler systems.’

‘Exactly. Hosing equipment should not be on the set. I hope I’ve made myself clear. Strike all hosing paraphernalia immediately.’

Charles left the crew to decontaminate the set and went to the kitchen to begin preparations for Liz’s lunch. He didn’t want to get caught up filming and not have something for her at midday. No pills on an empty stomach. Who said men can’t multi task?

When Sean arrived Charles introduced his friend to the crew as ‘the Talent’. He said, ‘I want the camera on the dolly and tracks, we’ll do a midshot of the Talent walking and talking from the clothes line to the shrubs.’

Then the oven timer went off and he excused himself. While the crew prepared the shot, another aluminium ball was placed in the centre of a plate, arranged on a tray with a glass of water and a bottle of sauce. He placed it on Liz’s lap and hung about to enjoy her gratitude and surprise. Peeling back the foil she found a baked onion! Slicing the onion, she discovered the egg. ‘It’s an onion egg. B-P loved onions. I’ll bring the desert now so I don’t have to interrupt the shoot.’ He was back in a flash with a steaming can of sweetened condensed milk, wrapped in the oven mitt so as not to burn his hands. ‘Boil this stuff for two hours and it turns into caramel. You didn’t know that did you?’

Liz picked at the onion and listened to Charles’s voice. He was directing Sean. ‘Starting at the clothes line, I want you to walk over here as you say, “For ferneries and flowers, grass, greenhouses and even pot plants, the key to a successful watering system is planning.” Tod will be on the dolly and track with you as you walk.’ Then to the entire neighbourhood, he called out, ‘QUIET ON THE SET. THIS IS A REHEARSAL ONLY. AAAND ACTION!’

Then the oven timer went off - again (a reminder that he had to give Liz her pain killers), the phone rang (the Guide Dog Association wanting a donation) and then the doorbell chimed. It was George from next door, wanting to know if his chicken had come over the fence.

When Charles returned to the set, Sean was waiting for him, agitated. ‘I can’t do this. I’m not comfortable. I’m not Bert Newton. I’m a puppeteer. I speak through my puppets.’

Charles breathed deep and sucked in his cheeks while he thought. He prided himself on his ability to deal with what life threw at him. ‘OK. We use a puppet. It’s brave. It’s novel. I think it could work. TAKE FIVE EVERYONE.’

Sean fetched a large case from the boot of his car. It was full of puppets. Charles felt a little out of his depth. “Which one do you think could talk convincingly about sprinkler systems?’

Sean pulled on a glove puppet, a scruffy dog and immediately went into character. ‘W w well Sniffy ii is very p p popular.’

‘Nup. We can’t have a presenter with a stutter.’

Next came out a marionette with a blue and white striped shirt and a beret. ‘Bonjour ladies. I ‘ave a little pop up spreenkler erf my own.’

‘Nup. The accent is too distracting. Men will be the main users of this DVD. Do you have anything with a bit of masculine appeal?’

He pulled out a little tractor. He untangled the strings. ‘Broom broom. My name is Philbert. I am small but what I lack in size, I make up with brains and courage.’

‘Excellent. I think we’re onto something. Let’s see how Philbert looks on camera. POSITIONS EVERYONE. REHEARSAL ONLY.’

Sean resumed his position by the clothesline and on action he manipulated Philbert’s bonnet so it looked like he was talking. ‘Broom, broom … For ferneries and flowers, grass, greenhouses …’

‘CUT. Philbert is looking great. Only one problem Sean, we can see you.’

‘No you can’t’

‘Yes I can.’

‘You can’t.’

‘Why can’t I see you?’

‘Sean spoke slowly and clearly as if Charles was a bit thick. ‘In puppetry, it is the convention that when the puppeteer is in black, he is invisible.’

‘Well it is the convention, in the medium in which I work, that what is in front of the camera is visible. And I am telling you – I can see you!’

Charles took the Art Department to one side. ‘I’m going inside to make my wife a cup of tea. While I’m gone could you please make the Talent invisible.’

The Art Department went to work. He was enjoying the challenge. He decided to camouflage Sean. Greenery was the obvious solution. As filming had already commenced, he couldn’t alter the back garden, that would upset continuity so he took his small saw to the front garden. Although he has a keen aesthetic sense he knows bugger all about plants. This is in contrast to Liz who does and she prides herself on her collection of exotics that includes magnolias, camellias and azaleas.

On Charles’s return to the set, the Art Department was tying the last branch to Sean’s leg. ‘Excellent! We should have time for one more shot before it’s a wrap. We’re losing light fast.’

Philbert was word perfect. He filled the screen with personality and wit and Sean felt comfortably invisible.

Charles was exhausted. He looked in on Liz and said, ‘I’m off to get Ollie from after school care. Do you mind if we pick up some take away?’

‘Japanese would be lovely,’ she called out as he slammed the front door.

‘I honestly wish I hadn’t heard that,’ thought Charles.

Wednesday. He was carrying Liz into the lounge. He misjudged the corner between the bedroom and the hall and knocked one of her feet. The crew and Talent arrived on the dot but just as they were ready for the first shot, the rubbish truck came rumbling along, followed by a street sweeper, followed by the postie on his motorbike with squeaky brakes. At last there was silence. Charles called ‘ACTION’ and the oven timer went off reminding him to give Liz her painkillers. As he tipped them into his hand, he though how tempting they looked.

Lunchtime. Charles was back in the kitchen. He buttered some bread rolls and smeared them thickly with vegemite. Then he chopped an onion into course rings and sprinkled them on top. He squeezed the rolls together again and arranged them on a plate. Handing them to Liz, he thought she looked pale. ‘Here you go. Lunch will take your mind off yourself. B-P called these Flame Throwers – eat up and breathe out.’ And he was gone.

‘The talent is wilting. Can that be fixed please? While that’s happening can someone dig a hole in the lawn and we’ll lower the camera into it. I want a pop up sprinkler’s point of view as it pops up.’

While the crew was busy Charles took time to check his shot list. It was apparent they were behind schedule but a good director is flexible. With a few swipes of the pen and a change in the script, he deleted the entire section on misting sprays and had Philbert say, ‘Broom broom. You may refer to the booklet that accompanies this DVD if you would like further information.’ No one could accuse Charles of not being able to think on his feet.

The pop up’s point of view looked terrific.

Liz had fallen asleep during a program on the top ten living landscape artists over sixty-five when she was startled by a loud and desperate squawking.

‘CUT. WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?’

‘IT’S OUT THE FRONT,’ she shouted from the lounge.

The crew dropped everything and followed Charles down the drive. Sean rustled behind careful not to tangle Philbert’s strings.

Something flew out of the bushes, passed them and ran into the back garden. It was a Rhode Island Red. The men followed in pursuit but it was fast. However the chicken was foiled by an obstacle course of cables, cords and poly tube and this gave them a chance to surround it. The poor thing was in a dreadful state. Its head was stuck in an empty sweet corn tin.

They were just closing in when George stuck his head over the fence. ‘What you doing with my chicken? Yesterday you say you no see chicken now you put can on head! I report you.’

Lying like a stranded whale on the couch was too much for Liz. The shouting and squawking drew her to her feet. She looked about for something to use as a walking stick. She could just reach the didgeridoo leaning in the corner, and with that as a support she hobbled painfully to the back door and called out, ‘WHAT’S GOING ON?’

The men lost focus; the chicken sensed the lapse in concentration. In a split second it was airborne and heading for Liz. It was a bull’s eye. THWACK. Straight into the solar plexus. Winded, she lost her balance and in an attempt to brake her fall, she broke her arm on the step. There she lay, speechless with pain.

The client kindly extended the deadline

So that’s why, on Friday night, Liz is lying on the couch with two feet and one arm in plaster watching an Arts program on the ABC. So what drew the writer to the subject of destitute people living in the underground tunnels of New York? The young man leans back, stretches out his skinny legs and takes a leisurely sip of water. ‘I’m a middle class person. I live a middle class life with a middle class wife and kid. My own life doesn’t interest me so I don’t see how it could be of interest to others. Middleness doesn’t make a good story.’

‘You’re not wrong!’ Liz stabs the remote and the TV goes to black.

B-P or Lord Baden-Powell, was a lieutenant-general in the British Army, writer, and founder of the Scout Movement.

7. Man’s Best friend.

People envy Doug and Meg’s relationship. Sean envies them, that’s for sure and Charles gets tired of Liz dissecting it. She likes to dissect peoples relationships, comes from teaching English Literature.

From the outside looking in, they’re a team, good mates, buddies. Meg laughs at Doug’s jokes. Doug laughs at Meg’s impression of a Swiss Army Knife. But lately people have noticed cracks where once the surface was smooth.

Until they bought the shop, they’d never worked together. At first it was wonderful, a novelty. They each had their own jobs to get the business off the ground – their mobiles rang, there were the emails, the website, the blog, facebook …

But now, several months down the track and with the shop proving moderately successful, routine has taken over where excitement left off. Doug and Meg are spending long uninterrupted hours in each other’s company. Their nerves are stretched. Meg has a habit (Doug never noticed it before) of wanting to be reminded of the most inane things. ‘Can you remind me not to cut my fingernails so short? Can you remind me not to wear these sandals with this skirt?’ And Doug refuses to wear a watch and constantly asks her the time, sometimes twice in an hour. ‘Meggsie, any idea of the time?’

Things have come to a head. It was the souvlaki.

They both agreed that eating in front of customers is out of the question and will go to great pains to hide food under the counter away from sight. Then Doug discovered the souvlaki place in Smith Street. At first Meg was restrained in her comments. ‘Darling the garlic is really strong and it clashes with the essential oils.’ Not to be put off he continued to bring souvlaki into the shop but cracked open a packet of incense and lit a few sticks to disguise the smell – a couple along the counter in amongst the fairy tooth keepers, a few into the top of the carousel displaying the Larsen cards, he stuck one into an amethyst crystal and one into the polystyrene tray of mood rings. But Meg is not fooled.

Stepping over the threshold, she freezes and sniffs the air. Doug stuffs his lunch under the counter. She says, ‘Have you been eating souvlaki?’

‘Do I look like I’ve been eating souvlaki?’ He uses a counter attack, a question to answer a question but he speaks not realizing he has mayonnaise on his chin and lettuce in his teeth.

‘Yes you do.’ Meg marches past to the back of the shop.

He hates being in the wrong. While Meg is out of sight he bundles up the souvlaki, smuggles it out the door and throws it in the bin in the street. He resolves not to speak to her for the rest of the afternoon or until she apologizes. He sits silent behind the counter, arms folded across his Jimmy Barnes T-shirt, his jaw tight and his eyes gazing into infinity. A passerby glances in the door and asks if he sells bongs. ‘Do I look like I sell bongs?’

‘Yes,’ says the passerby startled by Doug’s aggression.

And so the afternoon wears on …

Finally it’s Meg who breaks the stand off. ‘What’s your problem Doug?’ Her tone is more impatient than compassionate.

‘If you don’t know, I’m not telling you,’ he says, trying to give the impression he’s engrossed in an article in the Big Issue. Its 4.30 and he’s starving. Meg thinks he looks big and awkward behind the counter. He belongs in the fresh air - in a man’s world where he can spit, fart, sweat, eat souvlaki and belch. She feels warm observing the father of her children, her lover of twenty years. She slips out to the back of the shop where there is a small kitchen and makes him a cuppa in his favourite mug. He bought it over the phone from the Guide Dog Association; it has a picture of a Labrador on it. Last year he bought the tea towel and the year before, the pen. Doug is a dog owner without a dog. She butters him a couple of slices of bread and slides the food and drink along the counter under his nose.

‘I think we need to talk.’ He looks up into her face. She does an impression of a Swiss Army Knife. ‘But you could you get that lettuce out from between your teeth.’

They talk for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. By bedtime, a decision has been made. The shop is up and running and they don’t both have to be there every day. There’s still some money left over from Aunty Mi Mi and the back of the house needs some work. So it’s agreed. Doug will work in the shop when required but otherwise will stay at home, demolish the back verandah and build a family room. Christmas is on its way and if he works hard, the room will be finished in time for the big family get-together. Content with their problem solving, they curl up under the blankets. Doug gives her a squeeze and decides to push the intimate moment a little further. ‘Since I’ll be home working on the house, what say we get a dog?’ Meg is drifting off and hears, ‘Plinth pill knee foam and skip, pot nay out of the fog?’ And she agrees.

In no time at all, the new plan is visibly under way. Meg leaves home for the shop every morning and there’s a rubbish skip out the front of the house that Doug is filling up with the junk that’s been stored on the back verandah for years. A design has been drawn up for the new room and the application for the permit lodged with Council. Doug decides that now is the time to go dog shopping.

It’s a good day for it. The sun is shining, there’s not a breath of wind – early spring – definitely the right sort of day to fetch a new member into the family. The dishes are done, the beds made. There’s no reason not to get into the car and drive to the North Melbourne Lost Dog’s Home. His heart beats a little faster with anticipation. He struggles to control the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Inside the Lost Dog’s Home, a woman with two grey ponytails and a Cocker Spaniel face greets him. She’s wearing a purple shirt buttoned all the way to her throat and dark blue Yakka work overalls. And when she breathes, her nose whistles. Doug explains the purpose of his visit and she asks if he has a fancy for a particular kind of dog.

‘No. I’ve come with an open mind. I feel I’ll recognize the dog for me when I see it.’

‘I’ll have someone show you through the kennels,’ she says, pressing a buzzer on the counter.

Another woman appears. She too has a Cocker Spaniel face, grey pony tails and wears a purple shirt and Yakka overalls. Her nose whistles too.

Doug is taken aback and thinks, Hmm. Probably from the same litter.

He’s led down a corridor and across a yard to the concrete pens; he smells a strong mixture of dog and disinfectant. The woman says, ‘Take your time and if one takes your fancy, I can let it out so you can become acquainted.’

Doug has every intention of taking all the time in the world if need be – this is an important decision.

He walks slowly along the pens, peers into each space, looking to make eye contact with his soul mate. Trembling balls of fluff whimper and puppies with bald spotty tummies roll on their backs and piddle on themselves. A Setter (possibly with Attention Deficit Disorder) peers between bars and a Jack Russell skates in circles on its bottom. Then he comes to a Heeler. This dog is lying on its stomach looking at the world through slits. Doug bends down to look closer and one brow twitches on the broad canine forehead. ‘Hey boy. What’s your story?’ He speaks in a low croon. The dog widens his eyes and locks them onto Doug’s.

The woman with the Cocker Spaniel face does not miss the moment; she’s sensitive to such things. Without a word she leans over and unlatches the cage door. The dog rises to its feet and limps towards Doug. His right hind leg is missing; Doug feels a moment of disappointment. Still their gazes are locked. Then the dog reaches out with his nose and pushes it into Doug’s crotch, takes a deep breath, sighs. Content.

The dog sits in the front seat beside Doug as they weave through the city towards home. They lean into each other as they go around the corners. Shoulder to shoulder breathing in each other’s smells, warmth flows between them. Already Doug loves the feel of the tight steaky, muscular body against his. It’s been years since he had a dog; not since he was a kid. In this moment, he’s a profoundly happy man.

When Meg pulls the van into the drive around 6.00pm, she’s surprised to find a dog blocking the way. She beeps the horn and it moves reluctantly on to the front porch, struggling a little with the step. She picks her way cautiously passed it and once inside the house runs to the kitchen. Meg is wary of dogs. She’s often said to Doug, ‘Dogs and I don’t speak the some language.’

Doug is at the sink. He turns and beams at her. ‘I got the dog today.’

‘The what?’

‘The dog. I went to the Lost Dog’s Home and picked out a dog.’

‘Why?’

‘You said it was OK.’

‘No I didn’t.’

‘Yes you did.’

‘I wouldn’t’

‘You did. Don’t say you didn’t cos you did and I’ve got him now. I chose him from all the others and I want him. He’s a beautiful dog.’

Meg looked deep into Doug’s face and said, ‘Umm .. He’s got three legs.’

And that’s how Boofda joined the family.

8. A Dog Story

The kids call him Boof because of the noise his head makes when he rams it into the screen door to let himself out. Doug calls him Boofdog because he just loves the word ‘dog’ and visualising its relationship to himself. The name has contracted to ‘Boofda’. Meg has doubts about the name. When she hears Doug booming down the street, ‘BOOFDA. GET YOUR ARSE BACK HERE!’ she says it doesn’t sound very nice. But it goes over Doug’s head and his reply is always the same, authoritative. ‘Meg, a dog has to know who is boss or he isn’t happy.’

In fact a lot of issues surrounding Boofda seem to float over the top of Doug’s head. The fact that he isn’t registered, will not remain in the confines of the back yard but chooses instead to take himself for long walks around the neighbourhood, the fact that he howls at sirens, and that he defecates daily under Liz’s magnolias, two houses down. Dogs like Boofda have a way of polarizing opinion; there are those in the street who save bones for him and those who leave their sheds open and a packet of rat sac on the bench. He’s just as likely to come home smelling of perfume or aching from a kick in the ribs.

Doug’ affection grows, daily.

The back room is under way at last. Progress is slow. Doug and Boofda have developed a routine. They wait till everyone has left the house then Doug straps on his nail pouch, slings his hammer into his belt and turns his cap around backwards. They might take a trip to the timber yard or the hardware store. If the weather is good, Boof likes to ride in the tray of the ute. Doug gives him a leg-up, and he braces himself in the rear driver-side corner because he couldn’t balance otherwise. Jowls flapping, FM radio blaring, they’re a happy couple rockin’ and rollin’ their way through the day.

However Doug’s refusal to see anything but rays of sunshine emanating for Boofda’s rear was to lead to trouble.

Work stops at midday. Doug makes himself lunch while Boofda trots down the street to drop his load under Liz’s magnolias. Regular as clockwork. On the way he passes George’s place. George is the street’s oldest resident. He’s a widower, a wiry fellow with a lot to say but difficult to understand. He’s cultivated his block – part market garden, part vineyard, part orchard, part poultry farm. On day one of his arrival, Boofda caught the scent of chicken on the breeze and made a mental note of it. George rarely goes anywhere but on this particular morning Boofda watches as the old fellow climbs into a taxi and is driven away. It’s now or never.

He sticks with the ritual; drops his load at Charles and Liz’s but instead of returning home, limps down their driveway. Couldn’t be better. George has built the coop against the fence. With minimal digging, Boofda makes a gap under the panel and wriggles through into the harem. Feathers fly but it’s only seconds before he has a Rhode Island Red, a pullet, firmly in his jaws. Back under the fence, down the drive and out onto the street, cool as a cucumber, he returns home. His head is turned towards the fence to mask the catch. Once on home turf, he relaxes and galumphs joyfully into the back yard to share his prize with Doug.

His joy is short lived. When Doug looks over his mug of tea and sees the chicken he turns thunderous. “SHIT MATE! What have you DONE?’ Instead of praising Boof, he picks up the dead bird by its feet and hits the dog over the head with it. As he whacks the heavy canine skull, Doug says firmly, ‘NO BOOFDA! NO! NO! NO!’ Boofda sits straight and takes his punishment without flinching. He is recalcitrant. Doug sees he will have to try another tac - aversion therapy. He wraps the carcass around Boof’s neck and secures the feet through his collar. The scaly toes dangle by his ears like a pair of pendant earrings. Doug marches him to the clothes-line and ties him on a very short rope, ‘STAY,” he growls, unnecessarily. Then he turns his back on his dog and returns to work.

Boofda remains tied to the clothesline for most of the afternoon. Whenever Doug walks past him to fetch a level or plug in the drill, he drops to his belly and sighs a guttural sigh.

After several hours of this, when Doug feels Boofda has been punished enough, he moves to untie him and begin the process of reconciliation. But the rope lies frayed and slack on the grass, the chicken stiff beside. Boofda is gone.

Doug is panic-stricken. Did he go too far? Has Boofda left home? It’s a cruel world out there. He could get stolen, run over, killed and skinned for his pelt, used for illegal dog fighting, injected with bacteria at the serum laboratory, forced to stand at stud …why did I have to make such a big deal of it? Maybe he killed in self-defense. The chicken is Boof’s. He would find him, give it back; make amends.

Picking up the stiff bird he runs out of the yard and onto the road. Swinging it in the air, to spread the scent, he calls, ‘BOOFDAAA!’

And that’s how Meg finds him when she turns the corner into their street - striding down the middle of the road, swinging the pullet in great circles. He’s taken his T-shirt off and tucked it into the back of his jeans and it sways behind him like a tail. When he sees Meg, he stops and rattles the passenger door. ‘Open it. Open it,’ he pleads.

‘What’s going on?’ she reaches over and lifts the lock.

‘Just drive,’ he says. Plonking in the seat, he hugs the chook, ‘Boofda’s left home. Just drive.’

Around and around they go and while they drive Doug pours out the story.

It’s hopeless; he’s nowhere to be seen. But at last, they turn one more corner and there, up ahead, is a divvy van and a three-legged dog being hoisted into the back. The policeman slams the door, climbs in behind the wheel and indicates he’s pulling into the traffic. ‘Pull over. Pull over.’ Doug grabs the steering wheel off Meg. He leaps out of the car, runs to the van and thumps on the roof.

‘What’s your problem mate?’ A pair of mirror sunglasses looks up at him.

‘Me dog. You’ve got me dog.’

‘What isn’t a dead chook enough for you? You want a dog as well?’

Doug hides the chicken behind his back.

The sunglasses stare for a moment. The officer’s face is impossible to read. Then he speaks, ‘Well I’m sorry to be the one to break the news to you, this close to Christmas, but Tripod here is unregistered. He fits the description of a felon, about whom we have a list of complaints and you are about to be served a Two Hundred Dollar fine and if unable to pay, will be required to give of your time to the community.’

After signing some papers, Meg and Doug are allowed to take Boofda home. It’s so good to have him back. Doug is wrung out after all the drama and Meg and the kids fuss over him. But after dinner it’s time for a family conference.

What is it to be, a Two Hundred Dollar fine or community service? Money is tight, no buts about it. ‘But is that the point?’ Meg raises the question.

Darryn-the-eldest says, ‘Mr. Trimboli breeds Rhode Island Reds. The chook belongs to him.’

Lily-the-youngest says, ‘We all knew Boof wasn’t registered.’

Meg says, ‘We’re all in this together Doug. You don’t have to deal with it on your own.’

And so decisions are made. Darren and Lily will take the chook back to George and apologise. Lily lines a box with pelargonium flowers and arranges the corpse respectfully. It’s agreed that Boofda must accompany Darren and Lily and face the victim’s family. Meg and Doug are to find out what’s involved in community service. It will be inconvenient to say the least. With a month to go before Christmas, the back is off the house and they step out of the kitchen and onto a large concrete slab. But there is a debt and it must be paid.

It’s a week before Doug receives his community service order. He is to contact Acacia Lodge, a hostel for the elderly. He is to speak to a Mrs. Margaret Slight, the manager, and arrange to do three weeks voluntary work in the kitchen.

He turns up bright and early on Monday morning and he and Margaret hit it off immediately. They’re going to get on like a house on fire. He is to start with the preparation of lunch vegetables. But such is his efficiency, he’s soon monitoring the corn beef, whizzing up a smooth white sauce and then it’s off to the dinning room to straighten the chairs and set the tables. With half an hour to kill, he takes himself for a walk along the corridors and into the communal lounge. Without ceremony he is immersed in conversation with Arthur and Iris who spent many years in South Australia collecting twisted wood for use in fresh water aquariums. Arthur has a piece in the Sydney Aquarium at Circular Key. Fancy that!

Doug waits on tables and when lunch has been cleared away, he joins Margaret out the back by the bins for a coffee and a smoko. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he says taking Margaret up on her offer of a Benson and Hedges. ‘Just don’t tell the wife, she thinks I’ve given up. But the odd one doesn’t hurt, eh?’

Later, he’s loading tea towels into the washing machine and Clarrie wanders into the laundry for a yarn. He grew up in Gippsland cattle country, back of Bairnsdale. Remembers the 1939 bushfires. ‘Only time I ever knew horses to lose their way.’

At the end of day one, Doug is hooked and committed to aged care. By the middle of the week, word is out that he’s handy. On Friday he brings in his tools to do a bit of work around the place: a derailed sliding door, dripping tap, broken toilet seat, that sort of thing. During a break and enjoying a B&H with Margaret, he says, ‘Margaret, have you ever thought of having a dog visit the residents? I’ve heard said that a dog is a good thing for people in aged care. If you like I could bring mine in.’

‘Good idea Doug. One of our aides used to bring in her Maltese. Miffie was very popular.’

Margaret is a little taken aback when she sees Boofda limping in behind Doug, a piece of tinsel threaded through his flea collar but she refrains from comment.

Boofda has an instinct for who needs attention and who needs an avoidance relationship. He spots Clarrie on the far side of the lounge, alone and staring into nothingness. Clarrie senses someone watching him and turns; their eyes lock. Boofda limps across the room, and without hesitation, pushes his nose into the old man’s crotch and breathes deep. Clarrie rests a gnarled hand on that broad head. He looks up at Doug, his eyes moist, and whispers, ‘You got yourself a cattle dog mate,’

‘Too right, I got meself a dog,’ says Doug.

Margaret smiles, picks up the B&H and lighter, raises an eyebrow at Doug and heads out to the bins.

And every Monday morning, until Old George Trimboli dies in his sleep, Meg finds half a dozen eggs in a plastic bag hanging over the back fence.

9. Meg’s shop and a career move for Sean … in which after some set backs and differences of opinion, Meg makes magic happen.

Now it’s Meg’s shop.

She’s free at last to make the place how she wants it, no more compromises. Doug feels better too. He was like a bull in a china shop. He and Meg just weren’t on the same wavelength when it came to retail. At the shop he’d had to take smaller steps than was comfortable, speak in a quieter voice than felt natural and smile at people he thought were ‘arseholes’. He would watch Meg dealing so effortlessly with customers; it came naturally to her.

Towards the end of his days on Brunswick Street, Meg had begun to think of him as ‘negative space’. He insisted on wearing black T-shirts to work and sitting solemnly behind the counter, he seemed to suck in any positive energy that the day had managed to generate.

But now he’s gone and Meg can get on with things in her own way.

The first thing she does, is move all The Phantom paraphernalia to the rear of the shop. There are mugs, boxer shorts and ties, all with the same purple picture of The Phantom. Doug had predicted, ‘They’ll walk out the door’. The display has remained pretty well intact since the day they opened. And the dead gnomes? Well she puts them under the counter out of sight; she sees no future in them at all. Doug had painstakingly painted Hawthorn jerseys on twelve of the gruesome cement figures then lined them up in front of the window display. Several had chainsaws sticking out of the backs of their heads, some had daggers in their hearts and there was the one he called ‘Harold’. Harold had an arrow sticking out of his eye. When he unlocked the shop in the morning, Doug would chuckle and say, ‘Hawthorn! What a pack of losers!’

The rearranging continues for a couple of days and the shop seems to grow more spacious, brighter, even the air feels fresher. Now wind chimes hang in the door and plastic beaded curtains, like strings of coloured crystals, cascade down the walls hiding some ugly cracks. She’s shifted the scented soaps, beeswax candles and range of natural shampoos and conditioners nearer to the cash register. The carousel of Larsen cards, fridge magnets and bumper stickers has been moved from pride of place and now there is a lockable glass cabinet with fragile and expensive bits and pieces: amethyst crystals, rose quartz, tumbled tiger’s-eye, silver drop earrings with turquoise and a collection of porcelain mermaids curled inside tiny clam shells.

A woman comes into the shop with a little girl in tow. The child is five or six and dressed like a fairy – a lilac fairy. She wears a satin leotard and tights and over the top, a tulle skirt. A pair of wings, made from panty hose and stretched over a wire coat hanger frame, stick out from behind her shoulders. She looks up at Meg, who sits importantly behind the counter, and says, in a clear strong voice, ‘Does your shop do fairy parties?’

There’s a beat while Meg thinks. Then she says, ‘Yes.’

The mother and the fairy leave the shop having made a time and a date for the party. Meg stares into space until her vision blurs. She has a week to work out how this is going to happen.

At the rear of the shop is a door leading to a small kitchen and beyond that is another door and a toilet. She paces the kitchen and thinks out loud. ‘If I clear out the table and chairs, put a mat over the lino, beaded curtain on the wall, a string of lights, pot plants and some cushions – there would be one, two, three, four metres by one, two, three – that’s enough space for ten children. And a Storyteller’s Chair in the corner.’ The Storyteller! A fairy party needs a Storyteller! And she knows what they cost – only too well. More than is worth her while.

That night Meg rings her old school friend Jill. Jill is a member of the Storytelling Guild of Australia (Vic Branch) and she has a big pink fairy dress hanging in her wardrobe. Meg’s voice is an octave higher than usual. She begins the conversation with flattery and lists all the reasons Jill’s not going to want to do what she is about to ask. ‘I know you’re always busy and as a professional you must hate people asking favours and I can really understand that because … I mean where do you draw the line? And I understand that your weekends are precious but look, I’ve painted myself into a corner and I’m desperately in need of help. I’m having a fairy party in my shop and I’ve got my first booking in a week. Umm. Can you come as Fairy Twinkle and help me out?’

‘No,’ Jill speaks without hesitation. ‘I can’t and I’m not going to apologise and explain my reasons. I’m working on a new style of personal projection and this conversation could, if I’m not careful, lead me down my old path of self deprecating anecdotes and tasteless personal disclosures. Suffice to say, I have decided never to appear in public as Fairy Twinkle again. Haven’t you a friend who does balloon sculpture, or is it puppets? Why not ask him?’

‘Puppets. He does puppets.’

Meg couldn’t possibly ask Sean to help her out. He’s in a dreadful state and it’s all her fault. She really should learn when to keep her mouth shut. It happened like this…

Sean has been a puppeteer since he quit a psychology degree sometime in the 80s. From as far back as he can remember – he’s loved puppets. He has a collection of vintage glove, sock and marionette puppets that include Sooty, Lamb Chop and a Jerry Gee. He grew up glued to Sesame Street and Mr Squiggle and has followed the careers of Jim Hensen and Norman Hetherington. He’s loved by children all around Victoria, and makes a point of taking on a couple of regional tours every year. His work until recently has always been live, then his friend and neighbour persuaded him to appear in the instructional DVD – The Installation and Maintenance of Home Sprinkler Systems. Who would have thought it! The DIY DVD has been a huge hit, was sold to Bunnings Hardware and plays on an endless loops in their garden centres all around Australia and New Zealand. To cut a long story short, a talent scout spotted the DVD and suggested Sean for a role in an episode of a television police drama series.

The series is called FORCE and revolves around the life, loves and crime solving adventures of a fictional inner city police station. Even before Sean was approached by casting, this particular episode had proved to be controversial, The synopsis read something like this …Tamsin becomes suspicious when Pedro the puppet man arrives in Angle Vale and begins performing in local schools. His presence in town coincides with a wave of truanting and vandalism. Johno reminds her that suspicion and intuition are not facts but then he experiences the surfacing of a repressed memory of abuse when he smells the musty odour of Pedro’s puppets. The Boss pulls them both off the case because they become too emotionally involved and sends Elaine in under cover as a young mother. Pedro is exposed as a paedophile, Johno is offered counselling and concedes that intuition does play a part in police work.

There wasn’t an actor in Melbourne or Sydney who would take on the part of Pedro, then Sean’s name was suggested. He jumped at the chance to further his experience in front of the camera. With the exception of Meg, everyone said, ‘Don’t do it! Blind Freddie could tell you that playing the part of a paedophile in a national television series is a bad career choice for a children’s entertainer.’ But Meg said, ‘I think you should do it. I think it’s important to keep the community talking about ugly issues. FORCE handles tough topics intelligently and you could get Gary Sweet’s autograph for my mother-in-law. Those actors who’ve turned down the job lack courage and are distrustful of the general public’s ability to discern the difference between documentary and drama.’

Sean found Meg’s argument convincing so he agreed to do the job. For a week or so he talked in a slow and serious voice about the performing arts and the role of the artist in raising and keeping important issues in the forefront of public consciousness.

Then … there was the full-page article in TV Week. The headline read, Popular Puppet Man Plays Paedophile in Police Drama and there was a picture of Sean in a pair of handcuffs. It was then that he collapsed in on himself, regretted his decision and wished to curl up and die.

For two days, Meg has left long messages on his phone. These include supportive statements in regard to FORCE and, (she knows she shouldn’t be asking at a time like this), the request to help her out with the fairy party. On the third day he picks up and says, ‘I can’t help you Meg. I’m really sorry. They were right. It was a mistake. I should never have done FORCE. It goes to air next Wednesday and I’m going to ground. I feel sick every time I think of it and I’ve been a fool.’ And he hung up.

There’s nothing Meg can do to change his mind. That evening she says to the family, ‘Next Wednesday Sean’s episode is on and he needs support. I’m going to ask him over for dinner and we can all watch it together. I don’t think he should be on his own.’

‘I’ll do a fish curry,’ volunteers Brian.

Brian! Meg looks at him sitting at the end of the table. He’s down from Magnetic Island for a month, ‘seeing to a few running repairs’ as he poetically expresses it: an ingrown toenail, suspicious looking mole and prostrate check. Normally he would stay with Liz and Charles but he’s had a falling out with Liz and is temporarily not welcome.

Meg eats quietly and observes him. Her kids adore him; he can entertain them for hours with tales of his adventures. He’s been with them for a week and the television has gone cold and is gathering dust. At night, after the table has been cleared, he decamps to the concrete slab, that is to become the sunroom, lights a few mozzie coils and a candle and with a beer he lays back on a deck chair, scratches his testicles and gazes up at the sky. One by one the family drifts out to join him. Boofda is always the first, then Lily and Darren. They’ve dragged an old mattress out of the shed and like to stretch out and gaze up at the urban stars, something they’ve never done before.

Brian tells stories from all over. He’s crossed the Tanami in a car with no brakes, he’s pulled a dead body out of Port Phillip Bay, he was at the zoo when the capybaras escaped and caused havoc at Jazz at Twilight.

Dinner is almost over and Meg is about to offer dessert. She’s made up her mind. ‘Brian, you couldn’t help me out of a tight spot this weekend could you?’

And he says, ‘Yes.’

The fairy party day arrives and Brian is nervous. He’s never thought of himself as a storyteller but Meg has said to him, ‘Brian you have reawakened in our family a love for the spoken word. You are a true raconteur, you have gifts in you custody and you can have my Dylan collection.’ (Meg still has her old vinyls and she knows Brian collects old vinyls.) This acknowledgement of his gifts has not been good for him. Normally his tales just flow but now with all this attention, he feels like he’s gone dry. And Meg has insisted he dress up! He had flirted with the idea of a pirate but Meg said it wasn’t right for a fairy party. Then she produced an old caftan and suggested he could be a wizard – Wizard Brian. Problem solved.

He drags on a cigarette and paces about the little yard at the back of the shop while Meg arranges plastic cups for the lemonade and a plate of jam tarts. He tosses his butt on the ground, drops a few tic tacs into his mouth and takes his place in the little space she has so carefully decorated. Meg looks at him with affection. ‘You really look the part, like a kind of Merlin. I can’t thank you enough for this and you can have my Simon and Garfunkel as well.’

The children arrive in a clump. Even as he sits waiting for them to burst through the beaded curtain, he’s turning over in his mind what to do. He can hear Meg OOHING and AHHING at their dress-ups and he can hear their shy voices. It’s the sound of their voices that helps him make up his mind.

The first faces peer through the curtain and then one by one they make their way into Wizard Brian’s room. Meg has scattered cushions and there is one for every child. She is right – he really does look the part. His caftan is deep green with embroidery around the sleeves. His long grey hair, growing from a well receeded hairline is brushed and his bald dome shines smooth. His eyebrows hang thick over deep-set pale blue eyes that sparkle with a hint of mischief.

And the story begins.

And it’s good.

It’s Wednesday and the family sit around the television balancing large bowls of fish curry on their laps and watching FORCE. Sean sits in the middle of the couch wedged between Darren and Lily. The smell of the curry is making him nauseous but he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself so he picks at it silently. After the first commercial break, he’s still not appeared. Meg tactfully removes the bowl from his hands. Then after an ad for copy paper, his face comes on and fills the screen. His throat closes and he imagines his pounding heart is rocking the couch. Another commercial break and another. No one says anything in the breaks.

An hour later and it’s over. Sean looks like he’s run a marathon. Meg turns off the TV and for a moment there is silence. Then she speaks truthfully and for them all when she says, ‘Sean, that was the most moving and thought provoking piece of television drama I have seen in a long time. And you were good.’