Category: MIL-OSI

Barbara turns the radio on. It’s square and brown and has four perfectly round knobs along the bottom.

The voice from the wooden box says it’s 9am, so Barbara’s just in time for the news, and, once that’s done, the holiday programme. Not that she can hear anything over Joan’s laughter. It’s not fair. Barbara had always wanted a little sister to play with, but not one like Joan – she’s always getting into mischief, uses Barbara’s favourite pencils without asking, and only speaks at one volume: loud. And, when Mum said they must all finish the chores before listening to story time, all Joan had to do was dust the mantle. She didn’t have to press the linen, or beat the rugs, or mind the younger ones. Which is why Joan is playing blocks with Colin, rather than making herself useful.

‘Bang!’ Joan yells, knocking over a stack of blocks. ‘Crash!’

Colin claps his chubby hands in delight. ‘Boom!’

Barbara folds the last freshly-pressed table cloth, and rushes back to the radio in the corner. The voice on the radio is still talking about the men who climbed Mount Everest, so story time hasn’t started yet. Phew. During school holidays, story time on the National Broadcasting Service was the highlight of Barbara’s days. Yesterday’s tale was terribly exciting, and Barbara had wondered ever since: what would happen to the children who had been shipwrecked and were about to run out of food? Would they be rescued in time?

‘Look, Colin! It’s a bomb!’ Joan shouts as she throws a block against the wall. ‘Bang!’

‘Bomb!’ says Colin, laughing. ‘Bang!’

Storytime starts, but Barbara can’thear a word. ‘Please, Joan. Shhh.’

‘It’s not me, it’s Colin.’

‘It’s both of you.’

‘Bomb!’ Colin yells. ‘Bang!’

Joan picks up another block, grins at Colin, and throws it against the wall. ‘Bang!’

‘Please, Joan.’ Barbara knows she’s whining, but can’t help it. ‘Please be quiet. I want to listen to the story about the children.’

‘It’s not me.’ Joan shrugs. ‘It’s the bomb.’

Suddenly the air is cold and heavy. Uh-oh. Father stands in the doorway, arms crossed across his chest. ‘What’s this racket?’

Barbara feels ill. Mum said they mustn’t wake Father, not under any circumstances, for he was having a bad week. Joan and Colin stare – now they’re silent.

‘Barbara! What’s the meaning of this?’

Barbara slumps her shoulders. ‘Sorry, Father.’

‘You need to better control the children, especially when your mother is out running errands. This is not good enough.’

‘I … I’m sorry.’

Father glares at her. ‘Bombs are no laughing matter, believe you me.’

‘I said sorry.’

Father takes a deep breath, and says, ‘get outside, all of you. And keep your sister in line. She’s your responsibility.’

Barbara steals a glance at the radio. ‘But –’

‘Are you talking back to me, girl?’

‘N … no.’

‘Then get outside. Now!’ Father glares at Barbara once more, swivels around, and limps away. As soon as he disappears from sight, Joan scowls, and says to Barbara, ‘I wasn’t being loud.’

‘Yes you were! Why must you always be so …’

But Joan isn’t listening: she’s already out the door, Colin toddling behind her.

The voice on the radio is still talking, his voice animated: the children on the island have seen a ship! Could this mean they might be rescued? Or is it … pirates? But Barbara doesn’t dare listen further – Father might come back, and then what? She reaches out, twists one of the knobs to turn the sound off, and follows her brother and sister outside.

Barbara sits at the Formica table and sips her tea. The voice on the black transistor radio says its 9am, but Barbara can hardly hear, for her phone has begun to ring. Barbara sighs: such bad timing. She’s been waiting for the 9am news for over 15 minutes. Barbara wants to hear what’s happening with the tour – but mostly wants to know the weather forecast. How else will she decide whether to hang her brown corduroy skirt on the line in the garden, or inside the garage? Everyone knows clothes dry better outside, and she needs to look her best for the movies tonight: Goodbye Pork Pie, with the nice clerk from the bank. But it’s cloudy outside, and she doesn’t know if rain is coming.

Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

Maybe she ought to ignore it. If she waits until the 10am bulletin, her skirt might not dry in time for the movie, or get musty. But, no. She can’t. It might be someone important, or – dare she hope – the nice clerk, calling to chat. Barabara puts down her tea, and rushes into the hallway. She picks up the phone from its cradle, and holds the heavy green plastic to her ear. ‘Hello?’

‘Hi. It’s me.’

Me. Only Joan would be so self-centered to assume Barbara would recognise her voice after three words. Which, of course, Barbara does, but that’s beside the point.

‘I’m busy, Joan. I’m in the middle of … something important.’

‘I need your help.’ Joan’s voice is unsteady. ‘I really, really need your help, and now Mum and Dad are gone, I don’t know who else to call – ’

‘What happened?’

‘I was at the protest at Parliament, and the police turned up with batons.’ Joan’s words tumble over each other as she speaks. ‘And then I was pushed over! It wasn’t my fault my hand flew into a man’s face, and then he started to bleed …’

Barbara concentrates on her breathing: in and out, in and out. When she finally speaks, her voice is pinched. ‘Why can’t you ask Colin to help?’

‘You know he’s pro-tour, and thinks politics should stay out of sport. He won’t help me.’

Of course, Barbara thinks. Joan’s right – Colin won’t help at all. Barbara remembers her father’s words: your sister is your responsibility. ‘Joan, calm down. Tell me what you need.’

From the other room floats the last of the news, and some of the weather report. Not that it matters. She won’t be wearing her brown corduroy skirt anywhere tonight, let alone the movies. Eventually, Barbara puts down the phone, trudges into the other room, and turns off the transistor radio. She picks up her car keys, and steps outside.

It’s almost 9am. Barbara puts down the woman’s magazine, and turns to her new stereo system: a black stack of different ways to play music, her 55th birthday present to herself. It seems such an extravagance for a household of one, but look at how smart it is, sitting on the crisp white tablecloth in the middle of the sideboard. Barbara admires it once more: the LP player at the top, the double cassette player at the bottom. And, in between, the radio. Speaking of which. She pushes a button, just in time to hear the RNZ announcer welcome her to the 9am news.

Beside the stereo is a large bouquet of flowers, carefully arranged inside her second-best vase. Happy birthday, Barbara, reads the card, in Colin’s wife’s handwriting. Love Colin and family. At least they remembered. At least someone remembered. Barbara leans toward the stereo and listens: the broadcaster is talking about Princess Diana’s death the day before – what a shock that was. When Barbara first heard about it on the radio the previous afternoon, she’d been so alarmed, she’d dropped her best vase. And here she was: sitting beside a pile of broken porcelain that she still hadn’t cleaned up, because it hurt her knees, and her birthday wasn’t the time to remind herself of all her body could no longer do. Happy birthday to me, she thinks. At least I have my new stereo. And she’ll listen to the news, followed by a deep-dive story about Diana’s life – that will be interesting. After that, she’ll go out to get her hair done, and, at some point, clean up the remnants of the vase.

Bang bang bang!

There’s a loud knock, but whoever it is doesn’t wait for Barbara to respond – the door opens, and heavy footsteps clomp down the hallway. Barbara scowls. Only one person who would take such liberties. Joan.

Her sister bursts into the room: a mess of layered clothing and red lipstick and perfume. ‘Happy Birthday to youuuuuu!’ Joan dances on the spot, although her platform shoes are so high, Barbara wonders how she can walk, let alone dance. ‘Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear – ’

Joan steps on a shard of broken vase and tumbles, right into the rest of the shattered porcelain. From the floor, Joan looks at the blood covering her hand, and wails. ‘My hand! I think I’ve severed an artery!’ Joan waves her hand in the air, and reaches toward the sideboard. ‘This might be fatal! I need to clean this up! I’m too young to die – there’s so much more to do, like see more of the country – ’

‘No! Don’t– ’

But it’s too late. Joan grips the crisp white tablecloth in her hand, and pulls. The second-best vase falls first, crashing on the floor in a pile of glass and leaves and stalks. And next comes the stereo, landing with a sickening thud. The 9am broadcast falls silent. All Barbara can hear is ringing in her own ears, and, above that, her sister’s sobs. Then comes her father’s voice: your sister is your responsibility. Followed by another voice, that taunts her: happy birthday, Barbara. Happy birthday to you.

It’s almost 9am, and Barbara is ready for her day. She’s had her breakfast, and brushed her teeth. And now she’ll listen to the news, before a morning of pottering about to Nine to Noon. She pushes the button of the hot-pink device that Colin’s son gave her for Christmas, then presses the red RNZ symbol on her phone. Barbara still doesn’t understand how this works – something to do with teeth? Not that it matters, as long as it works, and here’s the birdsong now, followed by the beeps. The 9am news on RNZ: always different, yet still comforting in its sameness, especially after all these years.

Joan had better not interrupt her solitude. Her sister had been calling all week, even contacting her through the chat function on FarmTown, which was particularly irritating. ‘Come on a trip with me,’ Joan said, over and over. Joan and Colin’s widow had recently gone halves on a motorhome, but the other woman was busy this week. ‘I don’t want to travel alone, Barbara. Let’s go on an adventure and see the country.’

‘No, I can’t.’ Barbara had said. ‘I’m busy.’

‘You can bring your tablet with you, you know. You can play FarmTown, andwon’t lose your Wordle streak.’

‘I can’t come – I have other plans.’ And she did: Wednesday was her day for volunteering at the charity shop, Thursday was supermarket day, and she didn’t want to miss aqua jogging – her knees weren’t getting any better, and being in the water helped. Plans that seemed perfectly fine earlier, but now felt dull because they didn’t involve sleeping in cow paddocks or by the sea or God only knew where else. ‘I won’t join you. But have fun.’

‘Oh, I will,’ Joan said loudly – must she always be so loud? And, with that, she was gone.

The news report has started. A woman speaks from the hot pink device about Trump, about taxes, and about something a government minister has said. And then, ‘we report that two campervans have had a fatal collision on State Highway One ….’

Barbara gasps. Joan? But, no, she need not worry. Of course her sister wouldn’t be involved in a crash. Of course not.

The report continues: more political stories,then sport.

Joan will surely call soon, and interrupt Barbara, just like she always does. Her sister will have a long complicated story about some calamity that was of her own making, and speak so loudly that Barbara’s ears will hurt.

It’s now the weather, and the traffic report. From the echoes of time, Barbara hears her father’s voice: your sister is your responsibility.

Still nothing.

Joan? She thinks. Please call me. You can even message me through FarmTown, I promise I won’t mind.

Still nothing. And now the 9am report is over – she has listened to it, all the way through, without interruptions.

Barbara takes a deep breath, and reaches for her phone.

She turns the radio off.

Lauren Keenan (Te Āti Awa ki Taranaki) is an award-winning writer of historical fiction for both children and adults, as well as historical non-fiction.