First fox

by Leanne Radojkovich, Rachel J Fenton (Other)

Overview

The stories in First fox offer an everyday world tinged with the dreamlike qualities of fairy tales. Auckland writer Leanne Radojkovich explores the complex dynamics of families with a blend of dry wit and startling imagery. Disappointments and consolations meet with fantastical moments, winding their way into the realm of possibility.

With black-and-white illustrations by award-winning New Zealand illustrator Rachel F Fenton.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781910139707
Publisher:	Emma Press
Publication date:	05/16/2017
Series:	The Emma Press Prose Pamphlets , #12
Pages:	64
Product dimensions:	5.06(w) x 7.81(h) x 0.13(d)

About the Author

Leanne Radojkovich lives in Auckland, New Zealand, where she works as a librarian. In 2016 one of her stories was translated into Chinese for the 14th International Conference on the Short Story in English, held in Shanghai, where she also read. Her flash fiction street art has popped up around the globe from USA to Sweden to Tanzania.

Rachel J Fenton is an award-winning graphic poet and writer. She was awarded a Creative New Zealand Arts Grant to research and write a graphic biography, which she is documenting on Instagram @redhousemary. Under the name 'Rae Joyce', she co-edited Three Words: An Anthology of Aotearoa/NZ Women's Comics (Beatnik, 2016), and her work is featured in Island to Island (Dala/Upstart Press, 2016). She lives in Auckland.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

The back of beyond

Gran was a tough little cockatiel. She lived in a two-storey, paint-peeling cottage overlooking a beach. There were no other houses around, just vast limestone outcrops in the paddocks out back and free-range sheep who kept the grass down. Sometimes she rode a rickety lady's bicycle to the shop in the nearest township.

At first, the girl and Gran got along well enough. The girl liked climbing down the cliff to the beach, a rocky strip where stones rattled about as the tide moved in or out. She also liked pottering in the garden: weeding, staking, and talking to the plants, since there was only Gran to talk to otherwise. Sometimes Aunty Deb rang from Brisbane to see how they were. Sometimes her father rang to see if he could visit; she'd hang up. He'd remarried a month after her mum died. The girl had just turned seventeen. She'd quit school and moved to Gran's.

The girl lost all sense of time – partly she was adjusting to being uprooted, and partly it was the strangeness of living in the back of beyond. It seemed only yesterday that she'd started kindy in a purple fairy dress, and a lifetime since she began tending Gran's garden.

One day, Gran was upstairs perched in her comfy chair, smoking, when she had a stroke. After a stay in hospital she came home and spent more time upstairs, with the best view of the sea. She smoked more, drank more sherry, and at some point never went down the stairs again. 'My legs are filled with sand,' she'd say to the girl. 'If you chucked me in the water, I'd drown.' When Aunty Deb rang, Gran laughed her hard smoker's laugh and told her, 'I've been out dancing.'

'Are you there?' she'd call for the girl, day and night. 'Are you there?'

'Coming, Gran.'

The girl brought her cups of tea and eggs on toast, and emptied the chamber pot. She had to bike to the store in-between taking orders. The garden went to seed. The girl began talking to the kettle.

This went on for a long time, or a short time; the girl couldn't tell.

'Are you there?'

'Coming, Gran.'

'Are you there?'

The girl went up the stairs. Gran was in her comfy chair wrapped in a cloud of smoke, stacks of Sudoku books on the table and her pink hibiscus ashtray filled with stubs.

'Gran?'

The cloud didn't move.

The girl took a new pack of menthols from her pocket and bent down to put them on the table.

Gran hacked out a cough. The vibrations cut through the girl like a cicada's saw.

'Do you want a cup of tea?'

'Heat the pot first!'

When the girl returned, Gran had slumped a little to one side, a fresh-lit cigarette in her hand.

'Gran?'

Gran's mouth opened and closed like a fish hauled from the sea. Her face twisted. She grunted two, three times and was gone. The girl caught the cigarette as it fell from her hand, put it to her lips and breathed deep. The venetians clacked. She shut the window and squatted in the corner, hugging her knees, looking at the back of Gran's chair. She saw half her head with its wire-wool hair and one arm dangling.

She grabbed the bottle of sherry and went downstairs. The garden was overgrown with honeysuckle and flowers flared in the last sun. Sheep walked along the fence line; she watched the tips of their white ears float above the unmown lawn.

The girl rang Aunty Deb, who arranged to have Gran boxed up and taken away.

Time passed in a haze of menthols and sherry.

The girl was leaning on the porch having a smoke one day when her father walked up.

'Hey, Mel.'

'Piss off!'

'Oh, darling,' he said.

She went inside and locked the door, then drank sherry until she sank into a heap on the floor, the sea shh-shh-ing down below.

In the morning, she went outside and waded through the grass to the garden. Bees crawled inside the honeysuckle flowers.

'Hey.'

She turned – he'd slept on the porch.

He stepped down and came towards her.

They stared at each other for a long or a short time, until one after another they reached down and began pulling weeds.

CHAPTER 2

First fox

I went to London, once. I'd never seen snow before and on the first night it came spinning through the light of the streetlamps.

I'd fallen for a guy who ran a bar in Brighton. We'd gone to stay with his mum. The house was hot and had a potpourri stink. We had wine after wine. I tried to sit politely, but I couldn't help dashing to the window to watch snow thickening on the bushes outside.

I didn't know where to put my elbows at dinner. I knocked over my glass and pinot noir bounced off the table, splashing his mum's pale silk blouse. 'Oh, don't worry, my dear,' she said, dabbing it with her napkin. Drunk as I was, when she looked at me then I felt the same oily shiver as when I'd glimpsed eels sliding across paddocks back home.

I wasn't allowed to sleep in Connor's room so he snuck down three flights of stairs to mine. I woke with him lying on top of me. Snow glinted past the window above his head. Then he crept back to his room.

In the morning, I opened the front door. The air was sharp as champagne. The sun cleared the clouds and the white garden burst into crystals.

I rushed out and made snow angels. I threw snowballs at a tree, screaming beneath as ice lumps broke on my head. The snow tasted delicious, metallic and pure, and crunchier than a slushie.

'Bounds about like a dog,' I overheard his mum grumble as I went back up the steps.

'You're letting out the heat,' she said.

I turned to close the door and saw a red shape blaze across the snow.

We caught the next train back to Brighton.

He never called again.

CHAPTER 3

Mila and the cat

Once upon a time, not so long ago, Mother, Mila and the cat arrived in the new country. They lived in a dingy attic and ate only cabbage and potatoes. Mother said they'd have meat and honey-cakes as soon as she got a job. She went out every day looking for work, while Mila and the cat waited in the bedsit playing checkers with counters Mila made from scraps of cloth. She was a tidy sewer and did a fine job mending their shabby clothes.

One morning, just after Mother had left, there was a sharp rap-rap on the door.

Mila and the cat made no sound – Mother had told them never to open the door.

'Hellooo,' oozed an oily voice. 'Are you hungry, little ones? Would you like crusty white bread? Roast pork? Some cream cake?'

Their mouths watered.

The man slid something under the door – a packet of cured ham – and laughed a laugh that froze Mila's heart.

As soon as his footsteps faded, the cat danced around the ham singing, 'I want it! I want it!'

'Don't – touch – it,' Mila shivered.

The cat slowed to a standstill. 'Ice just trickled along my back,' he mewled.

'Mine, too.'

They spent the rest of the afternoon playing checkers, trying not to look at the succulent meat on the floor.

Mother came home smiling her usual big smile. When she saw the ham her face shrank. 'My darlings.' She wrapped her arms around Mila and the cat. 'How clever you were not to open the door.'

Mila and the cat gazed hopefully at the ham. Mother felt guilty about only giving them cabbage and potatoes to eat, but no one would give her a job. 'Alright,' she sighed, slicing open the packet with her hairpin.

The following week, when Mother was out, there was another sharp raprap. Mila and the cat stared at each other.

'Hellooo, little ones. Are you hungry? I've made a special treat.'

The man slipped a slice of honeycake under the door.

'Make sure you share it with your mother,' he laughed.

His footsteps faded.

'He's bad news,' the cat prickled. 'Ice trickled along my back as soon as I heard his voice.'

Nevertheless, they both gazed at the glistening slice on the floor, mouths watering.

'I don't want Mother's face shrinking again,' Mila said finally. She poked the honeycake back under the door with a wooden spoon.

* * *

Mother still couldn't get a job. In the old country, she'd grown the crispiest, shiniest peppers and the juiciest, sweetest tomatoes that fetched top price at market; but in the new country she needed to be clever with computers or drive taxis.

'The landlord will throw us out on the street if I don't pay the rent,' she said. 'I have no choice, I must ask our relative for help.'

'We have a relative?' asked Mila.

'Distant relative.' Mother slowly laced up her boots. 'Remember, my darlings, don't open the door. I'll be back soon to cook our cabbage and potatoes.'

Mila and the cat waited, watching for her out the window until night came and they fell asleep with their chins on the sill.

The following morning, the landlord barged into the room. 'Where's your mother?' 'We don't know,' Mila cried. 'She went to get money and hasn't come back.'

The landlord called the police, who arrived, shook their heads, pursed their lips and filed a missing person's report.

'I'm very sorry, Mila,' the policewoman said. 'Mothers sometimes disappear for a while. In the meantime, you'll stay in a special home with other children who have lost their mummies.'

'And our cat?'

'He'll go to the SPCA.' The policewoman opened a cage.

'No, no, no,' Mila moaned, cradling the cat.

'Don't give up hope,' he said, licking her ear. 'I'm off to find Mother.' He twisted from her arms and bolted out the window.

The policewoman drove Mila to an orphanage, where a boy with a warty nose chased her into the laundry and tried to kiss her; she escaped down the laundry chute and became a missing person too. She slept in alleys and hunted in rubbish bins for food. When she ached for Mother and the cat, she took her sewing needle out of her bag and scratched tattoos on her arms. This hurt so much it made her feel better.

One day, Mila found a perfectly good piece of cheese and a packet of stale buns in a supermarket bin. She was hiding behind some bushes to eat it when the cat appeared.

Mila threw her arms around him and their heartbeats melted into one. 'Cat, cat,' she murmured. Her tattoos tingled in his fur.

'I've found Mother,' he said.

'Where?'

'She's with the ham-and-honeycake man – the man she said was your relative. She's in terrible danger. He sucks the life out of young wives then leaves them to die.'

'We must save her!'

'We have to kill him first.'

'How?'

'There's a tiny hole in the top of his head. You must stab that hole with your needle.'

'I have excellent hand-eye coordination,' said Mila, 'but how will I reach the top of his head?'

'I'll leap on his face and tear it to pieces. Stab him when he falls down screaming.'

* * *

It was mid-afternoon when they reached the man's mansion. Three storeys high, turretted and terraced, it glittered in the sun as if carved from snow.

'I'm afraid,' Mila trembled.

The cat unsheathed his claws. 'We must be brave. Together we will rescue Mother.'

They kissed each other on both cheeks for good luck.

Mila breathed deep then knocked on the door.

The door opened. 'Hellooo,' said the man, looming over them.

Mila gulped – he was seven foot tall.

'Hello, s-s-sir.' Her hand curled even more tightly around her sewing needle. 'We've been w-w-walking all day in the hot s-s-sun. I wonder if we might trouble you for some w-w-water?'

'Dooo come in.'

She stepped over the threshold and he slammed the door in the cat's face, flinging a bolt across. 'Cats give me hives,' he laughed. She shrank against the door.

The man grabbed her plaits, tugging her sideways into a room where a scrawny old woman lay chained to a bed. 'Look at her!' he roared. 'Look at your mother!'

Mila was too stunned to breathe: Mother's face was wrinkled up like a dead flower. The chains had bitten into her ankles. Blood dripped onto the carpet.

'She wouldn't marry me in the village. She ran away to the other side of the world – and I found her. Oh yes,' he said, rattling the chains that tied Mother's wrists to the bedpost. 'She came begging to me! Now you –' He slammed Mila against the wall. He pinned her there with his fist. 'You will be my bride.'

'Sir, I'm only t-t-twelve years old.'

'The perfect age!'

'Please, s-s-sir, may I have a glass of water first?'

He hauled her into the kitchen and threw her against the bench. 'Get it yourself.'

Mila saw the cat crouched on the window ledge, his whiskers twitching.

'What's taking you so long?' snapped the man.

'I can't find a glass.'

'Under the bench,' he thundered.

'Whereabouts under the bench ... sir?'

His face flushed with rage. 'Stupid girl.' He bent down. Mila thrust the needle into the top of his head. There was a crack, and he began spinning and shrinking, faster and faster, whipping up a swirling whispery wind until a rat sat where the man had been. It rose on its hind legs, screeching.

The cat streaked through the window, ripped off its head, chomp-chomp-chomped then spat out its tail.

'Mila,' croaked Mother.

They tore into the bedroom.

'Cry on her!' the cat bawled.

Mila's tears fell on Mother all the way from her wizened face to her bony feet – even the cat managed to produce some eye-water. Ever so slowly, Mother's face filled out.

'My darlings.' She held them close.

* * *

Later, as the man's only relatives, they inherited his mansion. Mother sold it for a farm and grew marvellous organic fruit and vegetables. She learned to speak a little of the new language and made lots of friends and money, and they all lived happily ever after, eating ham and honeycakes whenever they wanted.

CHAPTER 4

The unexpected likeness of beings

The verandah was surrounded by paw paw trees, banana plants, frangipani – a creamy flower dropped to the ground and its perfume floated in the humid air. Thirty degrees. It created a languor that I never felt at home, where it was winter and even a warm day would only reach nine degrees.

Rooster caws drifted out over the rice paddies. A crane crossed the sky like a white bride.

I looked down and turned the page. After a meal of grilled sardines and tossed Italian greens, I sat in the shade with my book about Kafka's early years.

That's funny, I thought. I'd just eaten lunch – cabbage salad – and was reading a book. Then I heard crunch, crunch, pause, crunch. A yellow grasshopper as long as my hand was eating a banana leaf. The leaf, fluorescing lime-green in the sunlight, shrank by the second. In two minutes the grasshopper had eaten a third of it. Then it stopped, perhaps digesting too. The creature gazed at me with unblinking eyes, insolent – like a goat. I stared back. It crept inside the curve of the leaf until only its front claws showed, gripping the edge.

I picked an apple from the fruit bowl. I crunched into it, crunched, paused, crunched.

As I swallowed, I heard another crunch. The grasshopper had started eating the other side of the leaf; a crescent of air grew between its claws.

I crunched: it crunched. A sort of chopsticks duet.

I balanced the apple core on the table: the grasshopper rested on the leaf's exposed midrib.

Core and midrib browned in the heat.

Suddenly the grasshopper catapulted into the air where more cranes passed overhead.

Tomorrow I would fly off, leaving behind my white dress folded neatly as an origami bird.

CHAPTER 5

Once upon a time in suburbia

A mother and daughter sit facing each other on the bus.

The daughter's chestnut hair is pulled into a ponytail. She resembles a fawn: her almond eyes are wide-set and enlarged with false lashes. Her lips glow, and a red beaded choker is fastened high on her neck. She is eerily enchanting, with the poise of a mature woman – yet she's no more than twelve, slim and narrow, with skin as smooth as an apple's.

Across from her, the mother has damp, roughly-cut hair and a cold-porridge complexion. She too has almond eyes, but no makeup. Her only jewellery is a silver charm bracelet with a miniature horseshoe, a pair of dice and a heart-shaped clasp. She has an elbow crutch pinned between her knees.

The mother talks to the daughter, and as she talks she reinserts strands of hair fallen from the daughter's ponytail. Her hand lingers on the daughter's cheek and her expression softens, making her look younger. The daughter watches the mother closely, but who knows what she's thinking? Perhaps she's checking her reflection in the mother's eyes?

The bus stops. The daughter leads the way to the exit with all the grace of a model on a catwalk. The mother flinches when she grasps her crutch. She moves down the aisle with a jerky tripod gait. The bus kneels, and she carefully lowers herself to the footpath.

The daughter reaches up and plucks lint off the mother's faded sweatshirt. The mother leans in, a smile slowly spreading as though she recognises a face from long, long ago.

CHAPTER 6

The bookkeeper's tale

There once was a daughter who lived with her father until he died. The day after the funeral, she heard him creeping around the house, so she put dinner on the table as usual. Neither of them ate. The waste!

All January, not one drop of rain. February, the same. Tarseal stuck to her shoes when she walked home in the afternoon. A dog three doors down lay flopped against an iron gate, one miserable bronze eye swivelling to watch her pass. When night fell, cicadas creaked as if they were broken. She lay in bed listening to the rustle of her father's papers and the click of pieces crossing the chess board. She could not relax.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "First Fox"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Leanne Radojkovich.
Excerpted by permission of The Emma Press Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

The back of beyond 1

First fox 7

Mila and the cat 9

The unexpected likeness of beings 19

Once upon a time in suburbia 23

The bookkeeper’s tale 25

The travelator 31

Wisdom tooth 33

The very old mother 35

New light 39

The onion 45

Acknowledgements 49

About the author 50

About the illustrator 51

About the Emma Press 52