mother?’
‘Ah yes, young Sarah. Pretty little thing. Bit odd, though. Involved with all that New Age stuff, she was, bit of a hippy. People were surprised when she married John.’
Just then the door opened and Sullivan himself came in. He hesitated when he saw me, but then came over to our table, his hat twisting in his hand.
‘Good evening, Regan. Didn’t expect to find you here.’
‘Just having a drink,’ I said, which sounded really stupid.
‘Gidday, Trevor, how’s the family?’
‘Yeah, good as gold.’
‘Good. Well, I’ll go and er…and…’ He backed away to the bar while I turned back to Trevor.
‘You were saying about Jason’s mother.’
‘Ah, no. Can’t tell you any more.’ He darted a sideways glance towards to the bar. I turned to see that Sullivan had joined Connors and, although they had struck up a conversation, Connors was still looking steadily at me. I was the one who turned away.
‘Oh, come on Mr Benson, there must be more to the story. You said the place was bad for women. What about Jason’s mother? What happened to her?’
‘No, I’ve said too much already. History’s one thing, tales for dark nights and campfires. But it’s that bloke’s mother you’re talking about,’ he jerked his head in the direction of Sullivan, ‘and his wife. I’m not gossiping, especially with him standing behind my back. He’s a good bloke and this is a tight little community round here.’
‘I thought you said he keeps himself to himself?’
‘And so he does. But he’s never harmed anyone. The Sullivans are a rum lot, but they’re good people. Never crossed on a deal or underpaid what land or stock was worth. And a Sullivan’s always the first to put his hand in his pocket when a man’s in trouble. They don’t mix, that’s all. Makes folks suspicious and that’s why the stories grew.’
He downed the remains of his beer and got up from the table. ‘You’ll have to excuse me now, have to be getting on home.’
Trevor Benson dusted his trousers down with his hat, then waved it towards the bar in a goodnight greeting to Sullivan.
‘Look young lady, people were always dying in those days. The mystery to me was how they survived at all. You just be careful, OK?’ And with that he turned and walked to the door.
I was conscious of being on my own again and of Connors still watching me, although I was determined not to look again. It was getting to be uncomfortable so I returned my glass to the other end of the bar. Maggie was still serving a steady stream of new arrivals and I waved to her as I headed for the door.
‘Hey, Regan,’ she called after me, ‘come back when I’m not so pushed. We’ll have a proper visit.’
Of course I dreamed that night.
My dreams were becoming as vivid as my waking life was becoming nebulous. It’s not real, we say, only a dream. But I can’t see how a dream is anything but real, or at least the subjective experience is. If you think about it, everything that ever happens to you happens inside your head. Sights, sounds, smells, they are all just scraps of information collected by our senses. It’s our brain that unscrambles the signals and translates them into a picture. Hopefully this has some resemblance to what’s going on outside in the physical world, because if it doesn’t they call you insane.
Dreams happen inside your head too, only they come from somewhere else. Sure, they come from your imagination mostly, or from your subconscious or whatever. But not always. In any case, wherever the images come from, they’re all events that you experience. Dreams and thoughts and feelings, they’re all real, but they relate to different levels of reality. So, is your experience of them any less valid because it isn’t happening in the physical world? The way I’d begun to dream seemed to be related to some kind of happening that wasn’t of my making. Dreams have different textures. Mostly it’s just stuff that’s going on
‘Ah yes, young Sarah. Pretty little thing. Bit odd, though. Involved with all that New Age stuff, she was, bit of a hippy. People were surprised when she married John.’
Just then the door opened and Sullivan himself came in. He hesitated when he saw me, but then came over to our table, his hat twisting in his hand.
‘Good evening, Regan. Didn’t expect to find you here.’
‘Just having a drink,’ I said, which sounded really stupid.
‘Gidday, Trevor, how’s the family?’
‘Yeah, good as gold.’
‘Good. Well, I’ll go and er…and…’ He backed away to the bar while I turned back to Trevor.
‘You were saying about Jason’s mother.’
‘Ah, no. Can’t tell you any more.’ He darted a sideways glance towards to the bar. I turned to see that Sullivan had joined Connors and, although they had struck up a conversation, Connors was still looking steadily at me. I was the one who turned away.
‘Oh, come on Mr Benson, there must be more to the story. You said the place was bad for women. What about Jason’s mother? What happened to her?’
‘No, I’ve said too much already. History’s one thing, tales for dark nights and campfires. But it’s that bloke’s mother you’re talking about,’ he jerked his head in the direction of Sullivan, ‘and his wife. I’m not gossiping, especially with him standing behind my back. He’s a good bloke and this is a tight little community round here.’
‘I thought you said he keeps himself to himself?’
‘And so he does. But he’s never harmed anyone. The Sullivans are a rum lot, but they’re good people. Never crossed on a deal or underpaid what land or stock was worth. And a Sullivan’s always the first to put his hand in his pocket when a man’s in trouble. They don’t mix, that’s all. Makes folks suspicious and that’s why the stories grew.’
He downed the remains of his beer and got up from the table. ‘You’ll have to excuse me now, have to be getting on home.’
Trevor Benson dusted his trousers down with his hat, then waved it towards the bar in a goodnight greeting to Sullivan.
‘Look young lady, people were always dying in those days. The mystery to me was how they survived at all. You just be careful, OK?’ And with that he turned and walked to the door.
I was conscious of being on my own again and of Connors still watching me, although I was determined not to look again. It was getting to be uncomfortable so I returned my glass to the other end of the bar. Maggie was still serving a steady stream of new arrivals and I waved to her as I headed for the door.
‘Hey, Regan,’ she called after me, ‘come back when I’m not so pushed. We’ll have a proper visit.’
Of course I dreamed that night.
My dreams were becoming as vivid as my waking life was becoming nebulous. It’s not real, we say, only a dream. But I can’t see how a dream is anything but real, or at least the subjective experience is. If you think about it, everything that ever happens to you happens inside your head. Sights, sounds, smells, they are all just scraps of information collected by our senses. It’s our brain that unscrambles the signals and translates them into a picture. Hopefully this has some resemblance to what’s going on outside in the physical world, because if it doesn’t they call you insane.
Dreams happen inside your head too, only they come from somewhere else. Sure, they come from your imagination mostly, or from your subconscious or whatever. But not always. In any case, wherever the images come from, they’re all events that you experience. Dreams and thoughts and feelings, they’re all real, but they relate to different levels of reality. So, is your experience of them any less valid because it isn’t happening in the physical world? The way I’d begun to dream seemed to be related to some kind of happening that wasn’t of my making. Dreams have different textures. Mostly it’s just stuff that’s going on
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