The Story-teller

My story-teller left town.

He left sometime when our relationship went from bad to really bad to downright scary. I would have left too but apparently I had to stay and sort things out with myself. I moved into my aunts house, back to my bedroom of childhood school holidays.

Occaisionally a postcard arrives, you know the type…
“I am here.”
…and that’s about it, with a glossy photo reflecting holiday light into my darkened soul. He knows my love of postcards. I mean, emails are okay but they could just be from anywhere, couldn’t they? Mexico, Copenhagen, a space shuttle, who knows?
“Having a lovely time in …”
Yeah whatever, show me the evidence!

One Friday night in winter when I returned home, exhausted and dis-spirited only to find a letter from him. He had fallen in love with a horse, a bay gelding with one sock and a white star that had taken a wrong turn on the way to the knackery. Or as far as a horse would be concerned, that would definitely be a right turn. So he finally had a horse, not the dashing black Zorro stallion or the shimmering Palomino he had always dreamt of but a standard bay, old, reliable, rescued.
As winter turned into spring the postcards were replaced by letters. The first letter contained a photo of this horse. Who knows the name of a horse on death row? Who cares? He had christened the poor creature “Prince Henry” and there stood this rejected piece of royalty –more bovine than equine in shape, hips stuck out in competition with its ribs. Had my friend gone completely mad? Hooves over-grown, bottom lip stuck out and a mane that any hippy would be proud of. A horse so worn out it looked as though it was expending every last drop of energy to just stand up for its photo to be taken.
I was mortified. I mean, why bother? Surely there would have been far better steeds heading for the knackers that were slightly further from death-by-natural-causes than this thing? I shoved the letter (such as it was…”Meet Prince Henry I! xx”) and photo away in the shoebox with the rest of his correspondence.
But the letters kept arriving, one a week throughout spring. They arrived while, like ladies dropping their lacy ‘kerchiefs, the magnolias dropped their flowers. The week that the jasmine flowered outside of my bedroom window brought a letter pregnant with photos of Prince Henry.


Which brings me to the final correspondence. I’d swum my way to work through the too-warm bath water that the air has become - days of heat and waiting for the swelling electrical storms to burst has put paid to us all. The air-conditioning broke down at work, bad enough on the 16th floor but worse when you add the call-centre non-delight of dealing with a new, rude idiot every three minutes. I’d snatched out his letter on my way to work, saving it for my lunch break when I was allowed to be myself for 30 precious minutes.
“We’re arriving in two days. Staying with you. Xx”



We? Who’s we? I couldn’t be him and Prince Henry. You don’t bring horses to visit and stay in the city.
Do you?
I tucked in my chin, pulled some Jack Nicholson eyebrows and pondered this. No, he must mean he’s bringing a friend; a human friend. I sighed, dismissed the matter and finished my sandwich.

At 5a.m. I was woken by my phone; that old familiar number illuminated on the screen.
“We’re here! We’re at the back door! Come and let us in!”
I mean, what to do with that? Say no? Go back to bed. So I stumbled down the hallway in the dark, tugging about at my nightgown, stepping into my thongs. Snap on the porch light and…

…and there’s a horse. It’s 5 a.m and standing at the front door is the “We”.
In my aunt’s suburban backyard in Melbourne in the dark at 5.15 is one horse and one man. The horse snorts, the man grins and we all look at each other, waiting for someone to make the first move. The horse does – raising his tail he proceeds to shit all over the paving; runny from nerves it splatters me.

“Shovel’s in the shed” I turn, snap off the porch light and retreat back up the hallway.