Learning to tell a story 2
Chapter 2 is here
Author’s Note: Part of ‘learning to tell a story’ is about developing positive writing habits and continuing to focus on writing and finishing it. Am excited to have finished Chapter 2. Click here to read Chapter 1 first. If you subscribe, you will get Chapter 3 earlier than everyone else, and you will also get emails when new notes and posts come out. If you like it, please share it with others you think might like it too. It has been encouraging that Chapter 1 is my most viewed blog post so far.
Chapter 2: “Voices from the Past”
The next morning, Emily arrived at the orchard at a time of day she typically did not acknowledge existed. The exact moment she drove through the gates, the sun started yawning and stretching its arms over the horizon. The light of the morning was cutting through the rows of fruit trees, with a majestic precision that only nature can effortlessly manage. The air was optimistically crisp and filled with the overwhelming sweet scent of ripening fruit. This was despite the presence of agricultural chemicals, farm machinery, and a half asleep congregation of fruit pickers, vaping and smoking cigarettes as they waited to be split into teams.
Emily parked her car before timidly slinking over towards the group of pickers. She had prepared herself on the drive to be ready to say the standard “hi” and “good morning”, and to make any required small talk. As she arrived at the group, one of the experienced farm hands pointed at her and said “you, go with them”. Just like that, she was allocated to the crew she would be working with for the entire summer holidays.
Since driving into town, Emily had felt distracted and inundated by floods of overwhelming thoughts. It had started with a feeling she had when telling her friends at University that she was heading “home” for the “holidays”. While Emily hadn’t felt like she belonged anywhere since leaving her hometown, each time Emily had gone back for a visit, it was no longer her home. Emily was acutely aware that she was not considered a local by any of the people who considered themselves to be locals. She also knew that days spent picking fruit are long. So while it was over the break known as “Uni holidays”, the days would be far removed from any standard definitions of a “holiday”.
The thoughts Emily had been having were often kindled by her remembering enjoyable moments from life. From times of childhood joy, laughter, feeling safe and being group hugged by sunshine, belonging and family. These thoughts were followed by her knowledge that her parents had moved Greg into a Nursing Home when he felt like he could still live independently in his own home. Emily knew Greg felt that if he had family around, he could have easily managed to be in his own home longer. Greg had felt slightly betrayed when his children supported the assessments that he shouldn’t continue to live independently at home.
Every parent wants to raise children who grow up and “leave the nest”, to go off and become their best, independent, fully realised selves. Parents also equally want their children to stay connected with them, sharing and spending lives positively and comfortably entwined; enjoying years contentedly surrounded by the people you deeply love. After the passing of his wife, he continued as best he could to remain cheerful and engaged with the local community. He kept attending his clubs and social events, going bushwalking and staying involved in the restoration of local huts and trails projects. When these groups and projects started, Greg had initiated them, and been one of the original leaders. Greg had also tried to remain himself for his children, but just like when he saw his own reflection, when they saw him, it was a reminder of the loss of their Mum and who he was to them when she was alive. Not that anyone had ever said it. People raised well wouldn’t know how to say something so destructive to a soul. Greg had thought and felt it himself. When his children visited, such things lingered behind their eyes, like it caused them to pause momentarily as they quickly tried to sweep it into the corner of their minds, before returning to the current time with a slightly forced smile.
By the time the doctors and family made the decisions on Greg’s behalf, he had felt disempowered and forced into the local retirement village. This retirement village was connected to the nursing home, which was connected to the hospice and palliative care units. Greg, like all residents, was acutely aware of the differentiations between these parts of the facility. When his wife had passed, in his grief there were thoughts of gratitude that she lived and died without spending any time at Golden Meadows. During different phases of his own life he hoped that he would never find himself as a resident. Emily was certain Greg still hadn’t forgiven her parents. Firstly for deciding to move away from town, and then for moving him out of his house before he wanted to leave. There was a part of Emily that might not have forgiven them either.These weren’t the only stream of thoughts running in her mind.
By the end of her University year she’d started going to see a counsellor, because she was worried that she had started to not like herself in unhealthy ways. She struggled with accepting how she was thinking, behaving, looking and feeling with an increasing frequency. She knew people liked her because she was quirky, funny and always smiling. People often commented directly that they appreciated how she was “always so happy and positive”. Some of that had started to feel a lot like hard work or a superficial cover. What was once an effortless expression of her spirit, had transformed into an exhausting performance, a coping mask and facade for the mosaic of her tiredness and disconnected doubts.
It was the accumulation of these feelings that made Emily determined to come and spend time with her Grandpa. Emily wanted to try and reconnect with him, and have some chats with someone who she felt might still know the “old Emily” to help her remember who she “really” was. Among the dandelion dialogue and freeform banter, Emily also wondered if she might create some space in these exchanges with Greg to have some of the deeper, long overdue conversations that her parents and Greg weren’t having about things that had happened since her Grandma had died.
That might be a bridge too far; but her similarities to Greg had been called out so often, Emily wondered if Greg shared some of the same thoughts, feelings and struggles in his own life. He might have some advice for her on how he had figured out ways to overcome them. He had resilience, perseverance and radiated joy that others were warmed by for as long as she had known him. He had managed to curate a well chronicled positive existence, so maybe she could learn some more lessons from her Grandpa who’d already taught her so many. To make this possible, Emily decided that she would work on an orchard over the summer University break. Both her grandparents had done it for supplemental income at different times in their lives. Sometimes they did it just to be good local citizens in seasons when the farmers were struggling to get enough transient workers to pick the fruit. Both of Emily’s parents had done it during their school and University holidays as a way to save money for the next batch of textbooks. It was how her Dad had saved for his first car too. It felt like a family tradition, a well trodden rite of passage. At different times, it might have even been a routine they had all used as a way to reconnect with themselves. Emily did wonder though if this might be over-romanticising the need to work hard to get ahead in life.
Until your body got used to it, fruit picking certainly felt a lot like hard work. Emily clumsily climbed onto the trailer attached to the back of a tractor that was sitting in the start of the row of trees. While she was distracted by her thoughts, half awake and adjusting to her surroundings, it didn’t take long before the others in the small crew - a mix of older and younger locals started to recognise her. As they started climbing onto the tractor and moving around through the trees below the platform on the trailer, Emily also began to recognise them. Not by name, but by what family they were from, or a vague remembrance of a connection they had to people her family knew.
“You’re not Emily Wilson are you?” came the first question, with a dubiousness that made her doubt if she was herself for a moment. Before she answered, another member of the crew called out over the rows of trees with over-excited exuberance:
“Oi! Hodgie! Headmaster Wilson’s grand-kid is over here!”
“No way!” came the surprised, laconic response.
The tractor engine started, and the pickers’ arms started to hunt through the foliage to find the fruit. Emily was out of practice as a picker, the speed of the team she was working with meant she had to focus closely on what she was doing. This was a good distraction from her own mental maelstrom and also meant she didn’t really notice the murmuring and conversations between the picking crews as a result of her presence in the orchard.
As the day progressed though, groups of pickers were finding their own specific made up reasons to pass by. Some would be staring and pointing at her like a slightly bored tour group at a zoo. At first Emily didn’t really know what to say, but then quickly established the specific pattern to the banter. As the day went on, she began smiling and saying hello. That was usually enough for them to tell her about how her grandfather was their “favourite”. This would quickly move into a story about something that had happened to them when her grandpa, “Mr Wilson” was their teacher or Principal. Sometimes it would progress into them asking Emily how her parents were going. If the conversation got to this point, they would then confidently ask Emily why they had ever left the town, before asking her directly why she had come back.
As Emily shook off the morning tiredness, she was genuinely enjoying hearing the anecdotes about her Grandpa. She was buoyed by these interactions, and found a thoughtless rhythm to the conversations. She started to greet each of the inquisitive gawkers more energetically because she noticed how their eyes lit up when they saw her. Not because it was her, but because she reminded them of Greg. Emily was getting some sense of just how much the Principal of a local primary school can have an enormous impact on people. The orchard was a dialled up microcosm demonstrating Greg’s impact on the town. It was also not lost on Emily that everyone seemed to know that Greg was still alive and that he was now living in the Nursing Home.
“You’re Greg’s granddaughter, are you?” an older man with a weathered face and kind eyes asked, interrupting her inner monologue. “Good man, your grandfather.” he added before she had even answered. An older woman, with silver hair tied back in a neat bun, chimed in. “I remember your parents too. They moved away just before you started high school, didn’t they?” Emily nodded. “You were just a little thing back then.”
Emily nodded again, and smiled, she answered feeling both a pang of nostalgia mixed with a sense of displacement. “Yes, we moved when I was twelve.”
The conversations and pace of work had made the day go faster. The tractors were driving off, full of fruit towards the packing shed as another headed down to replace it. As the day progressed, there was something about the conversations that did little to alleviate her sense of not quite belonging. They were friendly, but for every Greg story, there was either a direct reminder, or a tone and undercurrent to the conversations that more than implied Greg was bonafide, but Emily definitely was no longer a local herself. The motions of picking and sorting fruit, forced her mind to flood with memories of her childhood summers spent in the town. Emily remembered sitting in the shade, hoping for a cool breeze and eating the juiciest peaches and sweetest nectarines. No piece of fruit she would pick these holidays or eat in her remaining lifetime would ever compare to those she remembered.
By the end of the day she was exhausted. The fatigue she felt in her arms and legs was the kind where you can barely feel your limbs at all. She knew this would turn into a deep, aching throb that would begin to radiate through her shoulders, joints and muscle fibres a few hours from now. By the morning, Emily knew she would wake up to the sound of her alarm with limbs made of concrete. They would be heavy and resistant to the brain’s intent to get out of bed, appendages ready to protest against any reasonable requests to move. Bending down to tie up her shoes would cause her to make wincing noises not out of place at her Grandpa’s Nursing Home. Her muscles would be tightly wound cords, ready to snap off her bones at the slightest provocation. She would need to coax them into softening and ease them into the morning, until they forgave her for not preparing them well enough for what she had done to them the previous day. By the time she got out of her car tomorrow, she hoped the intensity would have settled into a more dull, persistent reminder of the effort exerted on her first day.
Emily thought back to the first summer she had picked fruit. She had spent much of the first week moving her arms like she was trying to drag herself through thick, sticky tar. Often walking on the flat ground as one would climbing a steep hill with ankle weights. She had to also nervously remind herself that she had been younger then. She knew the muscle soreness, joint stiffness and difficulty in moving at her age were all things she needed to keep to herself. No resident at Greg’s home would let her even start to complain before interjecting. They had much worse, deeper felt pain that they endured daily - and they would make it clear that it was not from hard work; it was just from existing.
After the day’s work, Emily decided to visit the local library on her way to see Greg. The library had been a place of refuge for her growing up. Greg and Emily would spend hours, not only lost in the pages of books, but lost in the rows of books, and lost in the precarious anticipation of trying to decide what to read next. The library’s entrance, foyer and check out desk were recently modernised. This had introduced new touch screens that announced in a bold font that they were now in a library. For those visiting the library who wanted to avoid the unfriendly, lavender scented, old librarians, they could now experience an unfriendly and unhelpful digital interface. They also offered people new ways to find the books they were looking for without needing to know anything about the Dewey decimal system. The local council had spent too much money buying, and too much time deciding on the colours. This waste was compounded because most of the locals just walked past them, unaware it was a touchscreen kiosk. It was arguably only slightly more effective than a sandwich board. Emily moved with purpose past the front desk, towards the familiar rows of bookshelves. The quiet, musty smell of the old books and remaining old carpet transported her back in time. Once she was through the foyer, it felt and smelt like the same old library she remembered.
Emily looked over towards the back of the library, and noticed a small group of people gathered for a meeting. They seemed to be mostly in their sixties, and were listening to a young man, who looked slightly familiar. He was telling them something in an excited whisper that made her curious. While she kept looking for books, she decided to wander closer to see if she could figure out who any of the people were and why they all looked so intrigued and excited.
As she got closer, holding a copy of the collected works of Arthur Conan Doyle, the young man approached her with an inquisitive expression. “Hi, are you here for the historical society meeting?” he asked. Emily shook her head and responded: “No, I’m just here to find a book for my grandfather. What does a historical society do?”
The young man, slightly excited to be asked the question, quietly explained the purpose of the group like he was reading it from a brochure, “At the historical society, we focus on genealogy and preserving local stories, especially those linked to the old mines, farms, and timber industry. We also work closely with local Indigenous elders to help them document local First Nations stories.”
Emily’s curiosity was slightly piqued. She thought that the town she had left was a bit racist and backwards, so was pleased to hear they were now working more closely with the local Indigenous communities. Rather than say that, she went with what she thought was a safer follow up. “Did you go to school here? You look familiar.”
The young man nodded. “Yeah, my name is Daniel, I think I was a couple of years ahead of you at school. I don’t really remember you that much, sorry, but I know who you are. We’ve interviewed your grandfather a lot. He knows so much about the area and its history. We actually spoke to Mr Wilson recently about one of the huts on the Pioneer’s Trail he restored.”
Emily responded, “He’s got a lot of stories. He used to take me bushwalking and would talk most of the way, just pointing at things along the tracks and telling me all sorts of stories. Halfway up the trail I would be out of breath, and at the same time be wondering if he’d ever stop to take one.”
Daniel smiled with amusement, Emily then looked down at the books she was holding, “I’m actually here to find a book for us to read together.”
“What are you leaning towards?” he asked politely.
“This Sherlock Holmes Collection. Grandpa and I read Hound of the Baskervilles together, but there are some other stories in this book I hadn’t read. I thought it might be fun.”
“If you haven’t read the Valley of Fear, it’s a good one,” he responded confidently. “And a bit of trivia: it has a character in it called John Douglas,” he added exuberantly, “and John Douglas happens to be the name of my favourite criminal profiler.”
Emily was surprised that she had not heard anything about the book. She was also slightly surprised that Daniel, like her, had favourite criminal profilers. She was a big fan of Ressler, Hazelwood, Burgess and Douglas. Mostly what they’d achieved while working together as a team, establishing the Behavioural Analysis Unit and producing the Crime Classification Manual. Personally she was more of a fan of Roy Hazelwood and Dr Ann Burgess. Emily had still read all of John Douglas’ books and wondered if he had mentioned in one of those that he shared names with an Arthur Conan Doyle character. Dr Ann Burgess’ book “A Killer by Design” was almost her all-time favourite book, true crime or otherwise. Your favourite profiler being John Douglas, felt to Emily like when people say John Lennon is their favourite Beatle. It’s justifiable and fine, but an obvious choice. While Dr Burgess wasn’t a profiler as such, her being your favourite member of the Behavioural Analysis Unit was more like having George Harrison as your favourite Beatle. It also was true that George was her favourite Beatle. Emily had recently learned that her parents had danced to “Something” at their wedding. She took this as proof of her long held belief that she felt deeply connected with George. She realised Daniel was still talking about John Douglas and criminal profiling while she was having all these other random thoughts.
She interjected: “I think you’ve made my mind up for me,” putting the other books down on the nearby clearly marked book reshelving trolley.
“I won’t spoil the story, but I think you and Mr Wilson will really enjoy it.” he added with the assured confidence of a big John Douglas fan, or Douglas himself.
“Thanks! I will let you know,” she said, with automated politeness, unsure if she would actually see Daniel again. Moving toward the loans desk to borrow the book, she could feel her muscles were beginning to set like concrete from her day’s exertion and hard work.
When she arrived at the Nursing Home, Emily found Greg sitting in a familiar spot by the window, the afternoon light casting a warm glow around him. She handed him the book before he had time to see her, stand up and welcome her with a cuddle. She definitely wanted the hug, but didn’t want Greg to have to go through the effort to stand up to do so, he looked so comfortable and relaxed.
“I thought there was probably at least one of these that we haven’t read yet, or might want to re-read” she said, trying to sound cheerful despite her tiredness from the day’s work.
Greg’s face lit up with a smile as he examined the spine and cover of the book. “Ah, Sherlock Holmes. A classic! Perfect choice, Emily.”
“I’m so glad you think so!” she added with a genuinely excited intonation that was beyond her actual energy levels.
Greg held the book, seemingly lost in the cover for a moment, before turning towards Emily and saying, “Since you left yesterday, there have been a lot of conversations about John Solomon. It seems everyone remembers different things about John and what was happening around the time he went missing.”
Emily listened intently as Greg recounted the fragmented memories of the residents. “Some people still thought he met with foul play, some hadn’t even heard that he’d just moved away.” he said with disbelief. “We needed Sherlock Holmes here to make sense of it!” he said with a cheeky tone and smile. “Still, it got everyone stirred up so much - they might need to increase some people’s medication,” he let out a small chuckle.
Greg suggested to Emily that they make some tea and move down into the reading room, because “that’s what it’s for.” They sat next to each other on the couch, drinking tea and sitting in the comfort of their time together. As the afternoon turned to early evening, they read the first few chapters of The Valley of Fear. Emily’s early thoughts on the book were that it wasn’t the best or worst of the Sherlock Holmes stories, but sitting with her Grandpa, taking turns reading aloud, it helped her relax, and reminded her what a great reading voice her Grandpa had. Greg spent the time overjoyed while also trying his best not to fall asleep as Emily read to him. Her reading soothed him and he didn’t want her to know that if Emily wasn’t here, he would probably be napping. He hoped that she was also feeling soothed and maybe even a little sleepy when it was his turn to read to her. As the clock neared 5:30 p.m., which is close to the start of dinner service in a Nursing Home, Greg creased the corner of the page like he owned it. Then placed the book on the table before standing earnestly to say goodbye. They hugged and moved into the hallway. Emily heading slowly towards the exit, Greg shuffling down towards the dining room, both ensuring they demonstrated the appropriate amount of polite reluctance that the visit was ending.
Surrounded by family photos and memorabilia, Emily sat in her Grandpa’s lounge chair later that night. She was unable to settle into a channel as she searched the television for a suitable distraction. Emily looked over at her laptop, reaching for it, she decided to open a browser to a search tab and typed in the name of “John Solomon”. It brought up millions of hits, a journalist, a comedian, a Canadian politician - none of which were for the half remembered human from her hometown. Emily tried adding some more details and variations to the search criteria. Even when she added keywords like “disappearance”, “missing” and “murder” nothing seemed relevant.
While Google hadn’t been that helpful, she decided to try and find out some more about it. If for no other reason, it would give her and her Grandpa something else to discuss during her visits. The residents at the nursing home might have mixed memories of his disappearance, but she was sure that some would have to know more about John Solomon. Sitting at her computer, she also searched for the local historical society and saw they had a weekly meeting at the town library. There was a photo of Daniel on the website, he was smiling proudly in the photo, the title “Membership Coordinator” displayed underneath. Maybe the members would know more about it as well, and be able to point her in the right direction to find what she was looking for.
Emily closed the computer and moved into bed. She could have slept in any room, but had chosen the spare bedroom. It was where she had slept many times before. As she lay in bed, she reflected on the familiar rhythms of the day’s conversations at the orchard. These thoughts, along with the comforting presence of her grandfather’s reading voice mingled in her mind as she drifted off to sleep. She felt the pull of sleep, then an urgent thought lit up her mind suddenly. She reached for her phone and remembered to set her morning wake up alarms. She collapsed back into the soft bedding, catching a few final glimpses of the ceiling fan rotating hypnotically overhead before her physical fatigue and floating thoughts dissolved into the peaceful fog of sleep.
