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The Koel

Writer's picture: Russell IrvingRussell Irving

Updated: Feb 2





Dear Subscribers,

my humble apologies for the long absence of news and updates; I’ve been preoccupied with writing two novel manuscripts. 


With the second manuscript sitting with my editor for review, I’ve turned my attention to short stories and micro-fiction and thought I should start sharing them with you. 


I’ve already posted a couple on my Writing website page. However, his seems to contravene some of the online publishing and prize submission guidelines I've submitted for, hence posting as a blog to interested subscribers.


I hope you enjoy this short, 1,000-word piece, ‘The Koel,' below. Preparing for a move from Grafton to Newcastle was the motivation to write about a dear neighbour finally—one of the joys of writing fiction, imagining a life.

More to follow for those who subscribe.


Regards, Russell



The Koel.

 

I lay in bed, listening.

The Eastern Koel, the male, always the male, is perched high in the Camphor Laurel. It calls at the start of each day.

Coo-we, Coo-we, Coo-we.

It’s first thought; often, it’s last, late in the evening, it asks the question.

Is there anybody out there?

Coo-we, Coo-we, Coo-we.

Eternally, in threes. The Holy Trinity; Macbeth’s Witches and the Rule of Three: Sun, Moon, Earth; mind, body, spirit; past, present, future; beginning, middle and the end.

We’re born, we live, we die.

Coo-we, Coo-we, Coo-we.

A Koel’s call to action, announcing himself. But only in Spring, two months—maybe three, I’ll have to check—when others are looking, maximizing the odds, staying up late on a Saturday night on those dating apps my brother mentions.

I lay, listening. What stamina, what self-belief: a narcissist, egotist, extravert, a social misfit at the least, dominating the socially-minded magpie warble, butcherbird sonata, the sparrows’ incessant chirping, the commuters scurrying, the trifling, trite good mornings.

Not scared to ask the questions that haunt, taunt, and hold us back. The questions that drive us to our graves, exhausted.

Does she like me?

Am I worthy?

 

***

 

At seven o’clock, no more, no less, my alarm sounds. I rise, turn on the radio, shave, dress, boil an egg, eat the egg and wash up, check the moisture reading in each potted plant, water the needy, close the doors and windows to trap the evening cool before leaving, check the lock, check it again, and check the letterbox by the front gate even though the postman comes at midday. I close the front gate and tap my hip pocket—wallet? Check. Umbrella? The sky’s a clear blue, but you never can tell. It was a fierce storm last night. Some things you can rely on.

I grip the shopping bag, head down, and set off.

I walk the hundred metres to the corner and turn. Mrs Smith, Helen, she says to call her Helen, is three doors down, watering her geraniums. We had ten inches of rain overnight.

She smiles and waves.

I pretend I didn’t see her, stop, bend, and re-tie my shoelaces. There are only two.

She waits, feigning, pulling a few weeds.

“Morning, Nev.”

“Morning, Helen.”

“Fierce storm last night.”

“It certainly was. The Koels didn’t seem to mind.”

“Noisy as heck. I’ll be glad to see them gone. Care for a cuppa?’

“Another day, perhaps. Better get going. Get the shopping done. It might rain. You never can tell.”

“Tomorrow? Perhaps?’

“Perhaps. Mangoes are ripe. I’ll toss a few over the fence.”

“I’d be grateful. Bye, Nev.”

“Bye, Helen.”

I walk on, head down, determined. The soles of my sneakers leak the pools of water, drenching my socks— I really should buy that new pair I’d promised myself. Maybe a treat this Christmas. My brother is always at me. ‘Spoil yourself, Nev, no one else will.’

No.

One.

Else.

I tried.

Twice.

The last time at my first job out of school, in the railways, I was a conductor. She was the office receptionist, Jill. It was a brief courtship—an even briefer engagement. My boss pulled me aside the day after we announced it. ‘Neville, you’re a good man, a kind man, too kind. I hate to see you heartbroken. Has she told you she has a child? The father’s in prison for fraud—my predecessor, she threw him under the bus, Nev, lay all the blame on him. But she was the brains, mark my words.’

I finish shopping and walk home around the other side of the block, in case. I enter and lock the door, place the shopping on the kitchen bench, turn on the radio and put the shopping away—a loaf of bread, white, full cream milk, instant coffee, the paper, the form guide, to be precise, and a cinnamon bun for later that afternoon when I win the trifecta. Two local horses are running. I might even walk to the track to catch one or two races. Who said I didn’t spoil myself?

I turn on the kettle. While it heats, I walk out the back door to the mango tree. I pick a few choice ones and toss them over Helen’s back, my side fence—the same mango tree I climbed to scale that very fence all those years ago. Catherine egged me on, the tree, then the fence, and finally the drainpipe to her second-floor window when her parents were asleep. I’m sure the Koel was watching.

We fumbled a bit, not even under the covers.

Two days later, she kisses Kevin Bloody Brown after school. On the lips! A proper Koel, if ever there was one. Mother had warned me, ‘You’ve got no chance, Neville. Stick with me; they’ll break your heart.’ Every so often, I spot her, Catherine, walking her dog. She’s single, with five kids and twelve grandkids to worry about—serves her right.

I sit on the front verandah and study the form guide. I miss the shade and scent of the two camphor laurels out front. They died years ago, replaced by young Jacaranda trees, purple in blossom but devoid of scent. It’s funny how the scent lingers: mother’s, her front room of lavender and dead scaly skin, the smell of home, as it was. Is.

The questions linger. Did she love me or need me? Was I worthy? I dared not ask—the wound, primal. The Trinity is rarely holy.

That damn Koel perches on the camphor across the road now. God damn pesky bird. It’ll fly back to its home soon, but not before tossing the eggs of lovers who scorned it out of their nest and replacing them with his. For them to care for his bastard child, to spite those rejections.

That clever Koel.

 

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