HAPPY EASTER HOLIDAYS EVERYONE! Even though it’s the strangest and most isolated Easter we’ll ever have (hopefully) I hope you’re still getting time to connect with loved ones, rest and renew.

Here’s my little Easter gift to you – a couple of stories, free to read 🙂

Recently I had a flash fiction story published online at Flash Fiction Magazine.

I called it “Possum Magic“. It’s about those long dark hours of wakefulness in the middle of the night and the special connection we sometimes have with animals, from the point of view of a heavily pregnant woman. I hope you like it. You can read it here.

This next story was published last year by Four Way REVIEW in New York (yes super exciting!) Thinking of New York and all of America as they endure some very dark days. Sending love and hope with this story of a little girl on a cane farm finding a magical way through grief.  Read, or listen to me reading, “Something No One Else Can See” here.

You can submit your own stories to both sites as well.


And you thought Santa was scary! That Easter Bunny scares the pants off me!!

I hope you enjoy the stories. Let me know what you think.

Take care and keep smiling.

Lots of love

Edwina xx


5 FREE Presents to Give Yourself this Christmas!

Merry Xmas

Happy Christmas to you all! Yes tis the season to be merry and give thanks for the craziness this year has been. Amid all the frenzied buying and giving that accompanies the festive season, I thought it would be a good idea to treat ourselves to some things all writers really need.

So here you are – 5 Gifts to give yourself – all of them you can get for FREE!


1. A BOOK! – Writers love to read and it’s important that we all support each other by buying and borrowing books to help keep the publishing and bookselling industry alive and thriving. Besides what’s better to do than to laze a day away tucked up with a good read? My favourite books by Australian authors this year have been Melissa Lucashenko‘s Too Much Lip, Trent Dalton‘s Boy Swallows Universe, Favel Parrett’s There is Still Love, Amanda O’ Callaghan’s This Taste for Silence and I’m very keen to get my hands on Amanda Neihaus‘s The Breeding Season. I also really learnt a lot from Joanna Penn‘s book Business for Authors. How to Be an Author Entrepreneur.  Joanna has a number of practical guides on building a writing career worth checking out. Always good to invest in books about the craft and business of writing as well as feeding our creative side with quality works of fiction. And some just for fun too. Oh, and of course if you’re into social history – Bjelke Blues is a cracking good read 🙂  Need it to be free – LIBRARY! Best place I know to walk in feeling poor and come out feeling very rich indeed with armfuls of books, movies and other treasures.


2. AN EXPERIENCE – Any experience that makes your heart sing will do the trick. Dance with a friend and twirl your skirts. Sing some Xmas carols along with Bing. Go for a swim somewhere beautiful in nature, or a long walk in a snowy forest if you’re somewhere cold. Roll on the floor. Move your body. Visit the city and stare at all the lights till your eyes go funny. Laugh – catch up with old friends and have a giggle. Watch a funny movie and let yourself go. Sit by a river or with your back against a tree. Lie in the sun and feel the earth moving beneath you. Go outside at night somewhere away from city lights and look up at the stars – the very best Xmas decorations. Treat yourself to your favourite food – it’s Xmas – if we can’t feast a little then, when can we? Let go, have fun. Be silly!


3. TIME TO WRITE – Escape the festive madness, find somewhere quiet and write something just for fun, because it’s what we love to do. Play around with words. Stake a claim on a period of time each day which is just yours for whatever creative play you’d like to do. Remember we write because it gives us pleasure. Take the pressure off and just muck around on the page. Remember why you started this crazy writing adventure in the first place. It’s not all about publication (though of course that’s very nice) but about the fun of entering that creative zone and losing time because we’re so wrapped up in the story we’re creating.

Day dreaming

Dorothea Lange: Dyanna lying on her back in the grass circa 1961

4. PERMISSION TO DO NOTHING! – Yes, I mean it. Absolutely nothing. Stare into space. Stay in bed. Forget the housework. Forget the deadlines. Send the children, partner etc elsewhere at least for a few hours – then do NOTHING! This is trickier than it sounds. But staying still, watching clouds, listening to the sounds around you, you’ll start to really slow down. And don’t we all need that? Soon enough we’ll be running around like headless chickens again, but if at all possible make this Doing of Nothing a part of every week. Remember Sunday? It used to be a day when all work stopped. Everyone, all at the same time, slowed down and did very little. I miss it. This doing of nothing is something I’m really trying to embrace for the year ahead. It’s where dreams and story ideas come from.


5. LOVE – or at least some Sincere Affection! Be your own best friend, your own affectionate partner. Treat yourself with loving kindness. Speak to yourself gently and with encouragement. This writing gig is hard. You need a healthy sense of self-worth to cope with the inevitable rejections we face on the road to success. When you catch yourself speaking harshly to yourself, just ask, “Would I talk to my best friend like that? What would I say instead?” and tell yourself that. Loving yourself doesn’t mean you’re “up yourself” as we say here in Australia, it just means you want yourself to be happy and free from fear and harm. From that start we can learn to love the world!

I hope you found something on the list that feels possible and made you smile.

Here’s a little Xmas gift from me to you, also for free – my Xmas short story  “Mrs Sunshine”. It was first published in Best Australian Short Stories 2014 (Black Inc). I hope you enjoy it.

And if you’d really like to treat yourself this Christmas then book into my next Relax and Write Retreat – March 27 – 29 2020 among the big trees and birds north of Toowoomba.


Happy Christmas from my backyard to yours. Have a wonderful holiday season. I hope it’s filled with joy and love.

Lots of love

Edwina xx


Very excited to announce that two of my stories have recently been published in international journals. YAY!!!!

“Something No One Else Can See” is available to read for free HERE

It’s set in the cane fields of far north QLD where I spent a lot of time as a child.

sugar cane

And my story “Against the Roaring of the Fire” has been published by Third Flatiron in its Hidden Histories anthology. This story was inspired by my recent trip to Scotland and its dark history of witch hunts.


YAY! Two stories out in one day!! Won’t mention the pile of rejections that accompanied these two. But it’s all worth it for the ones that make it and get read.

Let me know what you think!

Lots of love

Edwina xx





BUSTED in the bad old days!

As the deadline for Bjelke Blues – the anthology I’m editing for AndAlso Books  –approaches,  here’s a story of mine about that time, “Busted”. It was first published in Griffith REVIEW 21 Hidden QLD and has recently been published online on the Artist Run Initiatives REMIX website


“Busted” is a story about the bad old days in QLD when election boundaries were rigged, corruption was rife, marches were banned, and police had way too much power.


And if you have a story about being on the wrong side of the political fence during the Bjelke Petersen regime I’d love to hear from you.

Deadline is February 25 so you’ll have to hurry.

Let me know what you think of my story 🙂

Hope you enjoy it.

Lots of love,

Edwina xx





Greetings from the fabulous KSP Writers Centre in the Perth Hills Western Australia. I’m here as a Writer in Residence for a few weeks and getting lots done.

This story has been on my mind recently. It was first published in the Asia Literary Review in December 2008.

Hope you like it 🙂



“Chamar! Chamar!”

Spit lands on my neck from behind me in the high-school classroom. My tormentors do not bother to whisper or hide their faces, but shout the worst insult, as if it were my name. I thought it would be different here, away from my village. But it is the same. Always the same.

“Dirty cow-corpse-handling untouchable. What are you doing sitting in the front? Know your place. Get back to your village and clean leather,” says the son a spice merchant.
I do not even glance at him. I know better than that. I am here to learn, to get grades good enough to take me to university on a scholarship, far from people like him, from anyone who knows the curse of my family’s past.

I am Dalit, one of the “broken people”, untouchable. When I was born my mother gave me a name but no one uses it. They call me Chamar. I cannot enter the temple or drink from the well. I must use a clay cup that is destroyed afterwards so that others will not be tainted. I do not have a disease. I am not stupid or ill-looking or even very poor. I am not broken. But because I am Ravidas, because my father’s fathers made hides into leather and sold shoes, I am less than a man. Less than the cows that roam the streets, traffic giving way on either side. Even the cows have names.

Even though my father works in the south now, building the road that will one day bring Bihar into the 21st century with the rest of India, it was my family that were forced to clear the corpse of a beast that had died near the well. Only our hands were already soiled enough to touch the carcass. Pride stuck in my throat, blood thumping behind my eyes, as my mother and younger sisters and I struggled to drag the stinking cow to the edge of town near the railway tracks. The rest of the village watched from a distance, holding scarves to their noses. With wood from our own winter fire we burnt the corpse and as the flames rose and danced, I promised myself that I would escape. Somehow, I would find a way to escape the past.


Finally the teacher turns from his endless lines of algebra on the board, takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the chalk from his hands.
“That is enough,” he says. “The scheduled classes have a place here.”
“But Sir,” moans the merchant’s son. “Must he sit at the front? I am being polluted”
“Me too.”
“Also me.”
Calls of, “me too,” echo through the room.
He continues. “Every evening I am forced to go to temple for cleansing. It takes hours. How can I study?”
“Yes, yes,” his chorus joins in.

I am quiet, studying the teacher’s face. I know he will give in, that he too believes that the laws that force him to teach me should be repealed. I know, even though I am the best student in the class, with scores almost always one hundred percent, he will give my seat to a Brahmin and force me to the back row with the other Dalits and the stupid.
He tilts his head towards me. “If you wouldn’t mind?”
It is not a question.

“Sir.” I nod but I make no secret of my anger, thumping my books into a pile and scraping the bench angrily on the floorboards when I rise. I keep my eyes to the ground as I walk to the back and find my new place. When I am seated the teacher continues his lesson, waving chalk in the air, explaining the same mathematical principle as yesterday for those high castes who were too lazy to listen the first time.

I sigh and flick through my textbook moving onto the next chapter’s exercises. When I look up, I see Babai glancing at me sideways under the cover of her hair. A small smile of comfort on her lips.

Those lips. Soft and rose coloured. Plump.
I love her.
And she?
She loves me too.

Babai is the only other Dalit from our village who qualified for a scholarship. Though Dalit, her family are from a higher Jati than mine. They are clothes washers. Her mother takes in washing from the neighbours and her blind father works in Patna in a laundry.
Babai is strong like me. I’ve known that since we were children and I saw her standing up to her mother, refusing to tend her brothers whims when she had homework to do. I heard the screaming and the blows that fell but she did not give in. She’s even managed to convince her father to allow her to continue studying, not marry as others from the street have done; barely thirteen, sent to service the filthy rooms and wrinkled organs of men old enough to be their grandfathers.

Everyone knows about her family. About her father. When he was young he joined a gang of dacoit, robbers who live in the woods. They were caught and punished by the policemen in Bodh Gaya, blinded with bicycle spokes and acid. He is an angry man. But he loves his daughter. And when he comes home he beats his wife for the bruises on his favourite’s face and tells Babai to study hard.

I have watched her a long time. Felt pride when she did well in examinations and smiled when she refused to clean the shirt of a boy who tried to put her in her place. She does not answer to Dalit, as even I do, but only to her name.
I decided long ago that she would be my wife.

She flicks her eyes towards me again but I send her a quick warning in return. We cannot risk being discovered or our long walks home will end.

Since we started school here, five miles from home, those of high caste ride the bus. My father, filled with pride, managed to save enough to buy me a second-hand bike. He’s paid well working on the road, richer now than many in our village.
My mother is proud too, but she keeps her pride behind closed doors.

“We will show them,” she whispers over dinner. “How many of them sit down to so many dishes every night? How many of those Brahmin witches’ sons score one hundred percent and win scholarships.”

It was my mother who bought the portrait of Ambedkar, the untouchable who became a politician and made such scholarships possible. She hung it on the wall beside Ganesh, the elephant god, remover of obstacles, and told me to pray to them both.

Every morning I ride my bicycle to school, bumping over the dusty roads, feeling free and light, as if everything is possible. My legs pump hard as the wheels spin, moving me forward, wind cooling my face, my heart singing.

I saw Babai walking as I rode past on the first day of school. In the afternoon we left together but so did the rest of our class, and they were watching, so I leapt onto the saddle and peddled away. But in the cover of trees only a mile distance I waited for her.
She started when she saw me, but her lowered eyes and the slight upward lilt of her lips gave me courage. Occasional traffic rattled past but the school bus was long gone so I dismounted and walked my bike along behind her. Keeping my distance.

I would’ve liked to offer her a ride, to have her sit on the crossbar as I did with my sisters. To ride us both home, the breeze blowing her long hair. But I am Ravidas, Chamar. And even washerwomen are polluted by my presence. Her father would kill us both if he saw her on my bike.

So I walked behind, watching the gentle rise and fall of her footsteps, the sweat of the long walk clinging the cloth of her sari to her hips.
“Nice bike.”
I couldn’t trust my ears.
“Is it new?”
This time there was no mistaking it. She was talking to me.
I coughed and stuttered, my voice squeaking. “A present from my father.”
“I’d love to ride. It looks like fun.”
“It’s great!” Encouraged, I rambled on and on, delight in my new toy making me forget my shyness, till I realised that I had crept dangerously close behind her and there was traffic approaching. “Sorry,” I whispered, dropping back.
“Don’t be,” she said, turning her head with a swing of her hair and a smile, a movement so graceful and full of promise I felt like riding to the moon.

“Maybe tomorrow I could give you a ride? I mean… not here, not on the road. We could… could… go down one of the forest paths. Just a little.” I stopped in my tracks. I’d gone too far. If she repeated what I said to anyone, I would be chased from the village with sticks. I held my breath as she strode forward and away.
“I’d like that.”

That night I could hardly sleep for visions of her loveliness and the additions of my imagination. I saw her sitting in front of me on the bike, my arms around her waist, my forearms brushing against the exposed skin between her sari and blouse. I dreamt of her face leaning towards me, of her lips coming closer, their softness.

In the morning I had to wash my blanket and hang it on the line before my mother woke.
I looked for Babai in the woods on the way to school, waited too long so that I was late for class, only to find her already there. But in the afternoon she walked. And I rode after her.

Once the school bus had departed and we were in the cover of the forest she turned and smiled as I followed slowly behind her.
“My mother gave me bus money this morning.”
“Oh.” I didn’t tell her that all day I’d felt as if bears had torn the heart from my chest. “Would you like a ride?”

We lingered by a sidetrack and when there was no one in sight we rushed down it, till we could no longer see the passing carts and bicycles. And there in the forest I taught her to ride. Her skirt hitched over the crossbar, she squealed as I raced along behind her holding the seat until she found her balance, her cheeks flushed red like plums. We laughed like children together and when she was tired of riding we sat with our backs resting on a tree trunk, talking of life and ambition and family. Just as she had in my dream she turned her face to mine. Leant closer.

But her father was coming home and she couldn’t be late.

Before we left the shelter of the track I reached out and touched her hand. The thrill of electricity that raced between us me made me jump.
She did too. “What was that?”
“That is us,” I said as if I were a holy man who understood everything. I didn’t though. I only knew that the two of us together made some kind of magic and I never wanted the long walk home, watching the sway of her hips, to end.

Most days she was there but others I waited and she did not come. The days she walked made every disappointment bearable. We were not able to sneak down the track often. The road to our village is not a big one but India has many people in it. All coming and going somewhere.

The times we ran down the track into the forest will forever be carved on my heart. Just as our names are on the tree we’ve come to call our own. The day we scratched our names together into the bark of the old fig was the day we kissed. I’d wanted to as many times as there are stars in the heavens, but it wasn’t me who did it first. It was Babai.

Sitting side by side under our freshly cut names, she brought the warmth of her hand to my cheek, ran her finger along my top lip.
“You have a moustache.”
I nodded, afraid to speak. Wanting her to keep touching me. My body quivering.
“You are a man now.”
I kept my hands cupped at the front of my trousers, trying to hide the effect her touch was having.
“So handsome,” she whispered close to my ear, the heat and scent of her neck making my head swim.
Then she kissed me and it was better than in all my dreams. Her lips on mine. Sweet and soft. Her mouth. Her whole mouth.
I had to break away.
“We must go back.”
“It is late. We must remember…” I rose quickly before I could forget where we were and who I was and lose myself in her mouth, melt into her forever.
Angry, she stomped before me muttering. Before we reached the road I reached for her. “I will marry you. I don’t know how, but I will.”

That night I stayed awake writing by candlelight till the roosters crowed. I wrote a letter telling Babai everything I planned for us. University, good jobs, money, a wedding larger than any our village has ever seen. A wedding so large and a dowry so rich that my Jati would be forgotten. I wrote of my love as Shiva would to Shakti. My lingam, her yoni. Together. The children we would have. The life I would give her, away from our past and the curse of being born “broken”. Made promises. The last page I filled with, “I love you. I love you. I love you.” More than one hundred times.

That was two weeks ago. She keeps the letter down the front of her blouse, near her heart. When I walk close behind her I hear it rustling.

Now, when I see her looking at me as the rest of the class jeers, I see the face of my wife and the promise of our life together and nothing can hurt me.
Her brothers are waiting at the school gates to take her home. As I peddle out, not even glancing in her direction I hear them saying that their father has returned early. He has lost his job.

Around nine I am in bed, my hands pretending they are Babai’s, when I hear cries from down the street. I sit up in a panic ready to flee or run to Babai’s rescue. Her blind father is yelling, ranting. Her brothers shouting. Her mother screaming. And then, suddenly, it is quiet.

My mother heard the fighting too, and in the morning she tries to stop me leaving.
“Do not go to school today. Wait. See what has happened. Her father…”

But I have to go. I have to see Babai and make sure she is alright. My mother makes me pray before Ganesh and Ambedkar, and blesses me three times herself before she lets me out the front door.She stands watching as I throw my leg over my bike and ride down the street. It is empty. Quiet. There is nothing to worry about. It was just another family argument. Nothing about me.

Just before I hit the ground I see a glint of wire strung across the road.

The bike careens on at high speed without me as I thump onto the dirt, clutching my chest where I was struck. Before I have a chance to draw breath, Babai’s brothers are upon me. Her father barks orders from the side of the road, waving sheets of paper.
“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

I twist and turn but the two of them hold me fast, ripping my clothes, squeezing my throat. My mother runs onto the street and they kick her down.

“Chamar! Chamar! Filthy Chamar. Messing with my daughter.” The blind man froths at the mouth as he comes towards me wielding a razor. My stomach heaves.
“Hold him. I want to do this myself,” he yells.

My mother screams for mercy, for the intervention of the gods. I screw my eyes shut as the razor glints in the sun in the blind man’s hand.

As the brothers pin me to the ground a crowd gathers making way for the father.
He sits across my chest and brings the razor to my face, his wash reddened fingers grappling at my cheeks.

“Where is Babai?” I ask. My last thought is for her.

He answers with the razor, scraping it across my skull, tearing hair from its roots. The brothers hold my head for their father to finish. I hear Babai cry, “No!” and see her fighting through the circle of onlookers, her face swollen and blue.

Distracted my captors loosen their grip. I lift my knees and kick the old man away, roll from between his legs, kick one brother in the crotch and scrabble in the dirt through the crowd away from the other.

Stumbling to my feet I break into a run. The brothers belt after me, the father roaring. I look back and see the whole village following, chanting, “Chamar! Chamar!’ If I fall I am dead.

I run. I run to the end of the houses, through the yellowing fields and across the railway tracks. I run as fast as I can, tears streaming. I will run all the way to the monks at Bodh Gaya if I have to. Fast and far I will run. As far as I need to.

I will not be broken any longer. I am not Dalit. Not Chamar.
I am not broken.
I am a man.
My name is Gopal Gite.


HARRY – a short story

Back by popular request – an oldie but a goodie.

Dear Harry — more truth than fiction in this one, I’m afraid. Still miss the bugger.

Harry story


by Edwina Shaw

I keep looking for Harry, expecting to see him loping along some West End street, his long arms swinging, keeping time with his giant strides. He’s always found me before, whenever I’ve returned, a sign of being home. But not this time and I’ve been back for years. The priest told me he’d gone, but I didn’t want to believe him. I was sure he was wrong and that one day I’d be driving along Vulture St. and there he’d be, calling out my name in his deep brown voice; come running and give me a hug.

The first time I met Harry was in the English Student’s common room in the early eighties when we were both studying at the University of Queensland. He was swilling red wine in the middle of the day, and entertaining his cronies with stories of his lustful adventures.

“So there I was at this brothel in the Valley – you know the one – and this prostitute, I’m telling ya mate, she really stunk! I mean it. Like she was rotting on the inside – odour of fermenting uterus. Disgusting! And I just couldn’t do it, you know, the smell was really off-putting. I’d had her before but what can I say, must’ve been a busy day. So I go down to the office to complain and get a better one and what do they do, the bastards? Throw me out! Don’t laugh, I mean it. A couple of the big meatheads they have there come running and chuck me down the stairs. Tell ya, I’m lucky I was so pissed or I might’ve hurt myself.

Anyway I drag myself home, walked all the way to West End, my wallet had disappeared, nothing in it anyway; knocked on my girlfriend’s door and what’d she do but chuck all my stuff at me through the window. So I just rolled up on it and slept right there on her steps. She didn’t let me in, nup, not even the next day when I had the worst killer hangover and could feel the bruises from the bouncers. What a bitch hey?”

And the cronies all laughed and agreed. All women were bitches and couldn’t be trusted.

That was Harry.
I sat with my back to them, my shoulders hunched to my ears in silent fury.
The next weekend he was in my bed.

One drunken lunch hour, over a cask of wine, the force that had so violently repelled me swung a hundred and eighty degrees to attraction. Drowned in alcohol soaked lust, I ended the afternoon by leaping into his arms and wrapping my legs around his waist. We sank into cheap wine and cigarette kisses under the sandstone arches.

I brought him home to my flat. He had the money, the alcohol, and the pot, I had the accommodation. He stayed for weeks, brought his suitcase full of stories and poems and let me read them as we lay together in bed smoking joints. I loved his long lean body next to my soft, small round one. I came up to his breastbone.

Harry’s father had only one limb, an arm. The other three were blown off in the Vietnam war when Harry was only a baby. It must have been hard growing up with a father with only one limb, scarred inside as well no doubt. Generational scars Harry carried with him.

But he had scars of his own, ropey, raw-meat burn scars all up one leg, a firebug’s legacy. He was a convicted arsonist, a sometime inmate of mental institutions, an alcoholic, a prize-winning playwright, and a poet. His words were hard and deep, beautiful in their brutality and bloody imagery. Their power could silence even the drunkest rabble at the Story Bridge Hotel poetry nights. When he read his dark eyes blazed and I imagined he was Dylan Thomas and I was his lover. Not his wife. Never his wife.

One day I came home from university and Harry had made an altar to me in the study. A sculpture of pure white tissues, a red ink stain in one corner, with a photo of a seven year old me in my communion dress in the middle. Even then, when I knew that he had seen inside me, the truth of who I was, I didn’t stop using him.

He loved me, I think, but I wasn’t even sure I liked him. I liked having him around. I liked the comfort of his body and the haze of his pot. I envied and admired his talent. I didn’t ever trust him. I didn’t ever really know him.

All I knew was that his suffering ran too close under his skin and I was afraid that if I didn’t protect myself his pain would rub off onto me. His suffering was raw. Mine was carefully bound up and tucked away. Safe.

I didn’t ever love him, or didn’t think I did. Not until now when I miss him and realise that his presence in my life was no accident, find myself still waiting to find him again.

Harry brought out the worst in people. I was cold and hard with him and drank and smoked even more than usual. His best friend, Phil, a pale, vapid fellow with glasses, did whatever Harry told him to.

One night, Harry dragged Phil along to the house of a girl he’d met in the psych ward and Phil tried to have his way with her on the lino. She called the police and had him up on rape charges. Harry came home and told me all about it as if it was the biggest joke ever. We made a shrine to Phil, the white rabbit, and laughed. Phil went right downhill after that. He talked about lying his legs across the railway tracks in front of a train because he didn’t think they’d put a cripple in jail. Harry thought it was funny.

After my student allowance finally came through after many penniless months, I went to Sydney to celebrate with friends for a couple of weeks. When I returned I discovered that Harry had been sleeping with another girl in my bed. By way of an apology he told me he’d read my diary and knew I didn’t love him so thought it couldn’t hurt me. It didn’t really. I hadn’t expected anything different.

I threw him out. I didn’t need his money anymore, anyway.

Harry kept trying to come back to me. One late night he arrived straight from a brawl at the pub, battered and bruised and incoherent, but with a huge bag of pot. So I let him in. I bathed his wounds and smoked his dope then closed my bedroom door and made him sleep on the carpet in the lounge room. He even wanted to stay there. I said he could. Till the pot ran out.

I didn’t want to let that bleeding soul under my skin. I wasn’t taking that risk, especially not with Harry.

Not long after that I escaped Brisbane for good, or so I thought, escaped to Sydney, joining the mass exodus of the eighties and the Joh years. Away from Brisbane, I never thought of Harry, or only the occasional passing thought as to whether he’d ended up in the gutter yet. That’s the future I’d always predicted for him with a hard laugh.

Five years later I returned, and there he was loping down Vulture Street looking exactly the same.

“Hey Harry!” I called, and he came running. I took him home, drank his wine, smoked his dope, tore off his clothes and used him up. Just as I had always done. But this time in the morning when I looked back at him still lying in bed as I got ready for work he looked sad; like he finally understood what I’d done and for the first time I felt guilty. I turned my back and left him. Without a word.

It was another three years till I saw him again. I was back from living and working overseas, back home in West End, a baby girl in my arms and a wedding ring on my finger. I was at a rally in Musgrave Park campaigning for some cause or other as Harry and I had always done.

He’d been justly infamous for his protest rally antics in the Joh anti-march era. He would don a tie, bluster through the front line ferals and International Socialists, get into the government building without a second look from the police, and wreak havoc with paint bombs.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, that of all the thousands of people at the rally, I found myself standing next to Harry.

He looked worse; grey and jaded, and I could feel the sadness running close to the surface of his cheerful greeting. It felt good to see him and with the glow of my new motherhood I was kind to him; I think. Though I couldn’t resist flashing my wedding ring in his face and flaunting the beautiful baby at my breast.

“Can I have some of that?” he asked.
And I realised that that was all Harry had ever wanted, some soft mother love. And all I’d ever given him was hard, bitchy Mummy; putting him in the corner. I touched his hand to say goodbye and felt the tie that bound us, but I was wary and didn’t offer my number. I didn’t want him turning up on my doorstep late one night. I knew he was using. I didn’t want any of that near me, not anymore. He was wearing his track-marks like a badge of honour.

Then, a year later, I was taking my toddler to the local park, and well known beat, when I ran into a mutual friend, a priest we’d met in our uni days. He told me Harry was dead. That he’d overdosed a few months earlier. That he was gone.

I accepted it at first, but then I wasn’t so sure. Can you believe a priest? Can you believe a priest visiting a beat in broad daylight?

So I hope. Hope that one day I’ll be driving down Vulture Street or Boundary Street and spot those slow loping strides from a distance.

“Harry!” I’ll call. “Harry, come running.”