Cracking Neighbours

Cracking Neighbours.

There is a crack, a crack in everything.

That's how the light gets in.

Leonard Cohen

Paul is helping young Simon with his maths homework, explaining, although not too convincingly, why the internal angles of any triangle always add up to 180 degrees. Seeing Simon isn’t convinced, Paul thinks about using that two-word phrase that he dislikes anyone using. A phrase Socrates would surely have abhorred. That lazy cop out. But Paul has somewhere to go, the golf course awaits and it’s nearly 10am.

‘Trust me,’ he says.

That's when they hear Joanne calling out from the front of the house.

‘Oh my God, what’s happening!’

It’s a cry of utter anguish wrapped in hysteria, so intense that almost in unison, Paul and Simon both spin around in their seats and leap to their feet, Simon a shade quicker than Paul. Simon is halfway across the room, metres ahead of Paul, when both are brought to a stop - as if by an unseen force. They look down at their feet, with Simon involuntarily raising his arms, as if to steady himself. Paul, unsteady himself, reaches back to hold on to the back of his chair.

‘What's happening dad?’ says Simon to Paul, anxiously.

‘It’s a tremor. It could be a…’ says Paul before being interrupted by Joanne screaming again from the other room.

Paul! Quickly! Help me. Help me… please.’

Simon suddenly looks sharply sideways towards the sliding doors that lead to the back garden, astounded to see a crack opening and snaking across the tiled floor towards them, snapping floor tiles into jagged shapes, moving slowly, serpent-like across the room twisting between Paul and Simon, branching out as to make a pattern like a pruned rose bush in winter, with the main trunk some ten centimetres wide, wide enough to make one’s hair stand on end.

Paul! where are you?’ Joanne calls again, more softly now, defeated, pleading.

Seeing the cracking has abated, the floor steady again, Paul moves. He steps quickly across the divide in the floor, seizes Simon's hand and they rush out of the room, down the corridor towards the front door and turn into the front living room, hearts pounding. Oh God, what awaits them?

At the doorway, they are brought to a halt by an astonishing sight – a gaping crack in the wooden floor making a crazy pattern from one side of the room to the other, buckling and twisting the flooring boards, dislodging two armchairs and upending the antique coffee table, leaving magazines scattered. And there, in the far corner of the room they see Joanne, backed into a corner, huddled, hands to her face, whimpering, her eyes bright with fear, her mouth quivering, her body tightly clutching itself to itself.

‘Mum!’ shouts Simon, moving towards her.

‘No wait,’ says Paul, grabbing Simon’s arm. ‘You wait here. I’ll get mum. No, not here, go outside. In the open. It’s safest out there. Go!’

Paul pauses a moment to make sure Simon is safely out the front door, before stepping quickly and carefully over the cracks towards Joanne. He hugs her tightly, letting her fold herself into his embrace, stroking her hair.

‘We have to get out,’ he says quietly, ‘I think it’s an earthquake.’

‘Here?’ whispers Joanne, ‘But there’s never been…’

‘I know,’ says Paul, ‘But we got to get out in the open. It’s not safe here. We can figure things out there.’

As he turns to shepherd her out, he looks up, noticing for the first time, the ceiling. Joanne follows his gaze, sees the ceiling is covered in cracks, badly buckled, plaster board snapped, wool insulation poking out, the ornate ceiling light twisted and half out of it’s fitting,

Outside they see Simon standing on the footpath at the end of short driveway, hands on hips, looking down the street. Hearing his parents, Simon calls out to Paul.

‘Dad,’ he says, ‘the road… it’s cracked right down the middle. All the way down. Come see.’

Paul and Joanne move quickly to Simon.

‘Oh no,’ says Joanne, her eyes moving from the crack in the road to the houses, the thirty or so houses that line the street, ‘how can this… and where is everyone?’

The crack in the road is half a metre wide, splitting the tarmac, haphazardly meandering from one edge to the other and back again, as it snakes all the way down a hundred and fifty odd metres.

‘How come we heard no noise?’ says Paul, ‘how can all this happen without us hearing anything at all? We heard nothing from in the house!’

‘Paul! Joanne!’, a man’s voice calls out. From three doors down on, on the same side of the street, is Ramesh, a neighbour, who is at the end of his driveway, now moving towards them.

“It’s a bloody earthquake!’, he calls out. ‘Our house is wrecked, most every room. I’ve been trying to ring Amila. She’s not answering. How are you people going?’

‘Same, house badly damaged,’ says Paul, ‘I haven’t looked upstairs yet, but we got out okay.’

‘God, I hope Amila is alright,’ says Ramesh closing in, ‘She went to the city real early to the fish market. Have you seen the news?’

‘No,’ replies Paul.

‘It’s everywhere. It’s a bloody disaster. The whole state, the whole country.’

‘The whole country?’ asks an incredulous Simon. ‘It can’t be. Australia is huge!’

‘It sure is buddy,’ says Ramesh, ‘but the strange thing is, from the reports coming in, that it’s just road cracks. Buildings, bridges and stuff are mostly ok apparently, fairly minor stuff. Just these blood great cracks in the roads. The freaking experts are all baffled.’

‘Something to do with the tarmac?’, asks Paul.

‘Nah, country roads, dirt roads, all of it.’ replies Ramesh.

Now there are more people in the street, men, women, children. The children up close to their mothers and many crying. Neighbours talking, the braver ones edging towards the crack in the road, nervously feeling the ground, one step carefully placed in front of the other, with that in-built ancient belief that tranquillity always follows disaster, as surely as day follows night. The tremor has left its mark and passed on.

Suddenly, the hush of shared whispers and muted conversations is shattered by the blaring of a car horn from some streets away, followed by another, then a third, making an exasperating tonal discord.

‘That’s all we need,’ mutters Paul irritably, ‘Damn Hoons. What is this, a joke?”

Then almost as if woken by the juvenile cacophony the sleeping giant wakes, A new crack appears this time at the T junction in front of Ramesh's house. The mini-roundabout cracks open soundlessly, swallowing concrete and circular edging before making its way out along the T-road, snaking out, away from the assembled groups of people watching. All transfixed by this phenomenon, the branching, the pattern of cracking, it’s dreamlike beauty as if nature is speaking to human arrogance, its insatiable greed, its need to create an ever-sprawling domain well beyond human needs. Nature saying to man; your boxy creations, all verticals and horizontals is not natural, nature abhors straight lines.

When the crack reaches the end of the T-road, there is a communal holding of breath. Then the voice of a child.

‘Has it stopped mama?’

Murmurs, conversation, movement once again stirs life in the two streets. Someone shouts out, holding his phone in the air. A tall sunburnt man with straggly grey hair.

‘News report,” he calls out, ‘it’s happening all over. America, Europe, South America, Asia. And worst in China. The UN has declared it as a world-wide disaster, the worst in history. Some cracks are hundreds of metres deep.’

‘Which channel is reporting this?’ calls out an older woman.

‘The BBC,’ the man shouts back.

‘On CNN also,’ cries out another man, ‘experts are predicting from the extent of the damage, could take forty, fifty years to repair. And in the third world, it may be impossible to ever fix.’

Most people in the street, neighbours in the old sense of the word, have little idea of who their neighbours are. Some barely know lives next door to them. Now all are outside and gathering in community, around the self-appointed newscasters.

Paul and Joanne move closer. Simon breaks away, moves cautiously towards the new crack, closer and closer to the edge. The summer sun is high in the sky so he can see right into the crevice. He surveys it, looking to his left, to his right, marvelling at this miniature Grand Canyon in his own neighbourhood. After a minute or so of enthralment, he walks back to his parents.

‘That guy is right,’ says Simon, ‘I reckon our crack is twenty, maybe thirty metres deep.’

‘Gee,’ says Paul. ‘that’s a lot of landfill. A lot of earth and rocks they’re gonna need. And how are they gonna drive big earthmovers around on roads that look like this?’

‘It’s world’s end,’ says Joanne, leaning her head against Paul’s shoulder.

‘Good we got those chooks and started growing fruit and veggies then’ replies Paul, bringing a smile to Joanne’s face.

‘We could all ride bikes, scooters and skateboards,’ says Simon, grinning, ‘I can teach you.’

The two newscasters are whispering to each other, glancing at phones and nodding in agreement.

‘No, you go,’ says the self-appointed CNN Rep to the self-appointed BBC Rep, who then lifts his phone in the air, waves it around, which silences the crowd.

‘Okay folks,‘ announces the self-appointed BBC Rep, ‘The latest news from the US. President Alexandria Ocasio Cortez has declared the entire US as a red-alert disaster zone. The highest possible rating. She expects similar announcements from Europe and Asia. She hopes Russia and China will follow suit, as satellite images show they have not escaped this disaster. She used the words ‘a dystopian future awaits us’, which drew an audible gasp at her press conference. President AOC, as she is fondly referred to, is not one to mince words. Our own prime minister Penny Wong will be holding a press conference shortly.’

A woman in her forties, wearing a yellow dress and a light green coat moves up to Joanne.

‘Hello,’ she says. ‘my name is Emma. We live at number 23, eight homes down from your place. I’ve seen you in your beautiful front garden. You have a lovely eye for colour and arrangements. I hate to admit it, but we’ve been here nearly three years and hardly know anyone in the street.’

‘Us too,’ replies Joanne, ‘we keep meaning too, but yeah... And thank you for your kind words. Emma, this is my husband Paul and our son Simon.’

‘Hi.’ says Paul, offering his hand then shaking hands with Emma. Simon follows suit.

‘Lovely to meet you, Simon,’ says Emma. ‘Hey, it’s all crazy right now, but lots for you and your friends to explore, Stay safe okay.’

‘Sure thing,’ replies Simon.

‘Ok, so,’ says Emma, looking to Joanne and Paul, ‘I was wondering if, after we’ve made sure some part of our house is safe to be in, or maybe out in the garden, whether you’d all like to come over for tea? My husband Akim makes the best scones and also blueberry muffins with a secret mix of Ethiopian spices. To die for.’

‘Sounds wonderful,’ replies Joanne, turning to Paul who smiles and nods yes, ‘Paul spent seven months in Ethiopia - before we met.’

‘Perfect!’ says Emma to Paul, ‘Akim and you will have so much to talk about,’

‘We surely will.’ says Paul. Then he and Emma turn to see something Joanne is doing. Joanne is reaching into the top of her shirt to bring out a heart-shaped locket on a necklace around her neck. She shows it to Emma.

‘Paul bought this in Ethiopia,’ Joanna says, smiling, ‘to one day give to the love of his life. Four years, three months and eleven days later, he met me.”

1998 words