The motorbike started first kick. She was indeed the find of the century. Cheap as chips, sturdy, and now, thanks to some tightening and cleaning, somewhat reliable. Paul walked out the front door and growled over the din.

Ok, OK! I concede. It is a tad noisy.

That's safety, that.

Pedestrians won't accidentally set foot on the roadway in front of me, will they.

"Where in the blazers are you taking that monstrosity"

"Decided to go back to the colonies. Oops hang on, forgot my swimming googles for the underwater bits!"

After last night's late night in getting to bed, and then the waking again in the wee hours, I was actually quite lively.

None of this to bed at sunset business around these parts. Nope, no generators running at high revs for the lighting here. I swear to god if I hear the sound of a generator farting, spitting and spluttering to die, from lack of diesel whilst reading the last chapter of a brilliant novel, ever again, I will definitely, sure as eggs, barf.

Always, always! Right at the climax, the bloody gennie dies. Colony backwater issues don't exist here. Flick and the light is on, flick and its off again. Amazing! "Hand me me satchel please"

"Where are you going. Straight up now"

"Straight up. Ok, I'll bite. Are you changing the locks sometime while I'm out? That's not very gentlemanly of you our kid"

"Don't call me that"

"What?"

"Our kid"

"Alright Sparkie"

"Arghhhh! Where are you going, you horrid digeridoo playing fly blown maggot"

"Oh, if you had only asked in that particular tone prior" I buttoned up my three-quarter length moleskin (very fancy) light tan jacket. Reaching in the pocket, I tugged out a slightly, only slightly mind you, crumpled stick of gum. Smelling the spearmint half wrapped, half covered in mould.... Nah only kidding, no moulds were harmed in the making of this scene. OK, straight up... It was really only covered in a tiny bit of hair of some descript. Which, may I highlight, I extracted from the sides prior to depositing in my mouth.

I set about chewing.

"Ok brother dearest" Insert eye roll here by Sparkles "If you must know, I'm off to a snotty nosed solicitor just back from his swish Southern France holiday" I stuck a finger up and rubbed my nose, I still managed to sneeze "A-choo! Bless me Paul!"

"Bless you and the rest of the United Kingdom whilst you reside amongst us"

Paul was good. Very good he was at being a grumpy bum. I revved the bike engine and a vast chimney smelter of smoke clouded the front yard. Oh lord he would be so utterly adorable if his face, right now, would alter direction and morph into a ginormous grin, but no, not today.

Nope, no grin whatsoever.

"Sorry, I messed up. He went to Spain"

"What?"

"The legal eagle fellow handling my getting back the property from those government dogs in the colonies went to Spain not France"

"Oh"

"Is that far?"

Casting eyes to the skies overhead I scowled rather annoyed at the weather. The rain clouds were lowering, the heaviness and grey looming over the whole of city of London no doubt. A-gain.

"What?"

"Spain and or France. Oooooh la la and all that. Naughty high kicking dancers almost starkers. Bloody disgusting that is. Throwing their tits all around" Paul somehow ignored my tits bit. I suppose he gets a fair wack of lady flesh so tits don't bother his ears when they're mentioned in daily conversation.

"It's not far. Went with John once...." Paul stared at the wet drive at his feet, hands shoved in pockets, he toed a small pebble about. "Was a laugh the whole time. Ahhhh, to be able to do all that again"

"You don't get much respite from those lot do you" I nod my head toward the gate. A dozen sets of beady eyes looking at us. Well looking at him to tell the whole one hundred percent truth.. I was usually ogled in a totally different way.

Currently, they all stood like cattle waiting for a feed of yummo molasse's covered hay.

They all pressed and peered through the crack in the timber panel near the gate latch. Periodically baying, mooing, whining... yeah whatever.

"Not now, no. We craved it and then got it, then don't want it" Finally he speaks and relaxes in my presence.

I should be turning the bike about for my appointment.

Walking the 'cycle to the gate, unlatching the thing, telling all and sundry to let me pass, and shutting it tight again. High tailing it to the centre of London for my very important appointment...

But Pauls talking to me.

And it's better than anything a legal honcho could ever tell me. Perhaps not better than giving up the rights to the property but better than eating for three days (I'd get peckish by the fourth for sure). Better than adopting a kitten, well better than adopting a cat. I'd definitely adopt a defenceless kitten, who wouldn't.

The motorbike spluttered a tad and I revved the dumb thing ever so slightly to stop the engine stalling. That was it; That was all it took for Paul to step one measly pace backward and retreat. Damnit.

"You better watch be-" He ceased his sentence midway. I believe, for all intents and purposes, he was going to say something about road safety. That he was thinking of my person whilst traversing the rain slick streets into town.

I'll never know now. He erected a wall of indifference in a blink of a cane toad's eye.

"Go on then, stop littering my yard"

Mike has a really good jaw line. Handsome, cut like the blazers, but today... Today Paul hardened his and would definitely have given Michael a right proper run for his money in the jaw clenching stakes.

"Righto, see ya round like a rissole then, brother dearest"

I had been perched on the bike as if to ride. Legs either side, bum comfortable on the cracked leather of the seat. Now I stepped back off and pushed said mechanical monstrosity (Pauls words not mine) over to the gate and 'wallah' the gate magically opened all by itself. No, it didn't you silly reader, this isn't a fantasy world you know!

The fairy gate openers were the 'BeatlePaul, fanatically swooning, lover girls' of course.

Magical opening gates. Geez come on you lot, I'm not Aladdin with a rusty magic lamp swinging from my handle bars, you know.

Have you lot been drinking!?

Anyway, where was I?

Oh yes...

All the 'Beatle Paul, fanatically swooning, lover girls', began waving crazily and yelling their adoration, and a couple, their dirty fantasies, for the entire street, and Paul's ears, to hear. He, as any good centurion would, was positioned upon the front step making sure I removed myself from his property. The girls shifted said gate wider, glancing hastily at me then back (of course) at him.

I kick started my mechanical masterpiece first go (of course). Settling my satchel of info across my back, I adjusted the strap tight then roared off down the road.

****

The secretary sitting at the reception desk glanced up then her mouth dropped open in obvious shock, and equal amounts of delight, at seeing a fellow female person walking through the door.

There were:

Four men in three-piece fancy-pantsy suits seated...

Two other gentle-blokes hovering by an office door...

and yet another fella was learning over the shelia's shoulder as she gape mouthed me.

Blokes everywhere and all over sixty, not a day younger.

Not too much entertainment for me in here, now is there. She was a young thing; I felt a sense of comradery with her instantly. The poor darling must get her entertainment elsewhere too.

"May I help you sir?"

Damnit!

"Arrrr Theresa Molin, certifiably certified by the Australian government as one hundred percent female, to see the bloke just back from holi-days" I whipped out my page of info and scanned it right quick "Reggie Blakenhous... Yeah see here. Reginald"

"Sir Blakenhous... Oh, the Australian" The secretary pushed her weird looking glasses, that splayed out at the sides like cat's eyes, up her nose. Casting a very strict eye over me as she said that last bit.

Ohhhh, and the way she said it!

The Aussstrayliannn.

Now I know youse are all jealous of Australia. Of all the land and space and pretty kangaroos and dumb as cow poo koalas and shit but you don't go being condescending alright! Alright!?!

"That would be I. Would Sir Reg be free please?" I poshed it up a bit. Maybe I need to posh it up a tad for Paul. Go all the Queen of England on him, bring home a corgi and a little fat as mud Shetland pony... Oh to go for a horseback ride *sigh*

"Theresa?"

"Yep"

"Come in, come in"

And so, thereafter, quick as a cut snake, I entered the dungeon of Sir Reggie Blakensomething -hous! Blakenhous!

Nah it was a very comfy office, plenty of good trees had been milled to cover the walls, desk, the frames around naked woman in artistic renaissance poses and of course his six sharp lead pencils covered in more wood which perched prettily in his silver pencil holder. Very schmick.

"Oh, this is nice" I proceeded henceforth to the edge of the desk and crouched down and began to have a good old gander at the legs on that beauty. Gorgeous, carved to perfection, etched like a work of art. "These are some good carvings alright. Look at that lions' head, oh there's a giraffe! It's like the plains of Africa took off and crawled off up the legs of your timber desk!"

"Where?"

"Here and here.... Is it on your side too! That's so bonza" Old Reg, and he was old, got down on his hands and knees and joined me in my animalia safari along the edge of his desk and down the wide fully carved legs.

"Alligator!" Reggie bellowed in delight.

"You have got to be pulling my leg. Where!?"

"Here, right here" We were both now at the back of his delightful escritoire (Thanks mum for the dictionary lessons), bums on the floor following the procession of animals up and along and back down the other side. Bloody lovely.

"Wow, got yourself a fine piece of artwork here Reg"

"That I do! Shall we conduct business under the table or shall we take a seat in the wingbacks Theresa?!" He was so nice, like a grand-dad but a Sir grand-dad. His smile of wonderment at discovering something that was right under his nose was endearing.

"Terri, all me mates call me Terri. I better take a seat. Don't want to be needing a flashlight to read any tall missives do we now"

"No indeed we do not need that inconvenience" Reg stood up and scratched his chin, pushed up his glasses and jiggled both legs "Pins and needles"

"Aren't they the damn-dest thing. I sat on the dunny once reading the fine cartoon magazine Tom and Jerry, forgetting the time completely, not a redback spider in sight. Anyways, after reading the tome cover to cover, I stood up and feel flat on my face"

Reggie started having fits of laughter. It wasn't that funny but maybe the old codgers outside were boring. I'm not one to stop a man having a good time laughing. He recovered minutes later wiping is eyes with a swish monogrammed handkerchief pulled from his breast pocket. RB in pretty cursive in the corner.

"Come now. Let's have a good look at you, young lady" He grinned- I scoffed and he grinned some more "Now now, don't be so harsh on yourself. Even the best cattlewoman can still retain some lady"

"I think a few cattlemen would have the same idea of retaining a lady. Though they'd want a bed warmer type lady"

"Oh dear! Phil wrote you were a wild one"

"My dad?"

"Yes dear"

"But..."

"I was a party to your adoption young lady, all those years ago"

"Oh, my goodness. Really?! Tell me why and how... and did you meet Mary and was my mother there too. In this room? Sat out in the waiting room? Were they happy? Sad? Worried? Did Jim get teary? Did dad wear a suit? Did-"

"Slow down Terri, slow down dear" Reg sank down into his chair and stared at me in a calming manner, his features relaxed and he smiled in thought. He ran a hand along the timber desk, then glanced up at me with nostalgia in his eyes "You were but a wee little thing, a load of dark hair on your head and those eyes. I knew then and there your eyes would grow so big and be-"

"I look like a flaming deer. Like flipping Bambi, staring all googly eyed everywhere. Attracts the fellas though, bit of an eyelash flutter and they drop like crows in the middle of drought"

Reg chuckled and nodded with a happy smirk at my tale but he was doing his best to keep me in the gentle moment of remembering the history that was me, in me. That built me into this displaced person today "Eyes the same colour as your mothers' if my memory serves me correctly"

"Yeah?"

Reg adamantly nodded, and that gave me some food for thought. I never really said I looked like anybody. I couldn't say to meself 'you have your mothers' nose' or 'your fathers chin' because they weren't around... Although daddy did always shake his head wistfully if I happened to gaze up at him from a task with a certain expression on my dial...

"Mary was very proud and wonderfully sated when she finally handed you to your parents. She positively glowed, Jim boy said the same to me many times after the event. Although it was rough for him, he trusted Marys heart and followed her inexorably. She loved you, and she loved them, trusted Phil and Lorraine would bring you up in a happy loving home. I trust they did so?"

"Oh yes sir the best, most wonderful place on earth. Home and parents were...They were the most loving mum and dad I could ever wish for" I was handed a fresh handkerchief and dropped my weepy gaze to my knees.

"Good, good... I was very pained to hear the news of the-"

The secretary, that thought I was a flipping boy, knocked and entered the room without hesitation. I sat with fisted hands on my thighs, eyes downcast, in distress of reliving the recent past all over again.

Here, In front of a stranger.

She set out tea and small cakes and fled the room.

"Crash" I whispered and pushed the word out of my mouth, with anger flaring inside "Car crash"

I glanced up into calm, sad eyes.

"I was driving. I, I..."

Warm fingers suddenly found mine across the desktop and I choked out a callous self-righteous sob. "I-"

"Accident -Theresa. That's it. Full stop. Nobody blames you. Here, have some tea my dear"

"That's just it. I blame me..."

A crowd of suited bankers and other posh types stood around the dumb motorbike as I kicked it over and over... And over again. Five or six, or was it seventeen hundred and fifty thousand times again, an hour later.

Balance on one side, jump onto the kickstart both feet, and bang- down. Over and over...And over again. Looked like a flaming kangaroo going nowhere.

Just what I needed.

A crowd and a faulty engine.

Reg got me through the tears and crap and then sat beside me and talked over the properties red tape bullshit. Deep, deep bull shit, a bit of wombat droppings too and maybe a few piles of horse dung. Yep, that deep. More caveats and clauses. Signed in state parliament documents and more orders to rectify this and that in regard to the property boundary line.

More bullshit than I could ever have imagined had been waiting for me. All in folders. All with pre written letters of reply at my disposal for me to say:

'Yes Reg, do send those objections back on my behalf'.

All typed missives of counter claims and actions and holds and disputed assets all ready for my mollydooker signature to send back to Australia in defence of myself, of my home... Of my life. And now the damn blasted heap of flipping cow dung motorbike was spluttering and farting like someone who loved curry. A lot.

The bike spluttered to life and I gunned the engine. Revved that sucker so damn hard the crowd took off. Well I think they did, the chimney plume of smoke sort of displaced everything around me.

I shouldn't traverse roads anymore, ever. And I definitely shouldn't ride on city roads in a foul, terribly upset mood. But what's a girl to do. She went to Fleet Street on a motor-cycle and she will return to her current accommodations on said motorcycle.

I will not cry.

I will not cry.

I will not-

Blasted stupid dumb tears. I kept riding though. Stubborn cow that I am.

Closer and closer, to what, I don't really know.

Family? Warmth? Hugs?

If I was smart I'd buy a Gregory's map and navigate my way to Wizzel-Wirral and have a good ole chin wag with Jim but I'm not very smart so I chug, chug, over rev, chug, chug, and clunk along... and finally, finally, at the intersection of Cavendish and Wellington Place, the damn blasted piece of rusted dumb metal shitty wombat fart motor conks out and I push the bastard up to the gates of His Maj's and clear my throat as a bunch of sheilas all gather round me for a gander.

"Pardon. Excuse arrr Me." The bike is pretty heavy and I'm ok with these things usually but with tears clogging major openings and threatening escape. And my voice thick and tired.... I just want sanctuary. Any sanctuary at all "Coming arrr through"

"Are you alrigh' luv? You look like a right mess, you do" One of the girls is holding her hand over mine on the unhelpful throttle and gazing intently into my snivelling, only slightly, tear streaked (they just came out while riding into the wind... ok!) and ugly swollen face, others watch like vultures waiting for a feed, even more turn back to the task at hand.

Paul watch.

I choked on the small sympathetic words she utters and slapped a hand over my eyes pinching the dew, willing the stuff to stop already. The girl with her hand on mine, which, by the way, is doing my head in, nudges another girl closer to the latch of the gate.

"Eh Laura, let the bird through yeah. Go on, you go have a nice cup of tea luv" She rubbed my hand gently "Put a nip of scotch in it my girl, do you the world..."

Magically (you know how really) the gate opened and I couldn't silently thank that girl enough. We squeezed hands in a kinship of some kind and I took note of her face to maybe go cut a big lump of Pauls hair off to gift to her. Underneath- at the back, of course.

Dumping said bike to the right of the front door, near a bicycle leaning against the high wall, I proceed to give the dumb monkeys shrivelled scrotum of a bike... no- not motorbike!

Ohhh no, no, no, there is no motor so it's just a bike currently...

...a good few solid kicks in the seat, tyres, warm thing, that looks like, but isn't, an engine and headlamp as it lay sprawled and leaking fuel from the fuel line. Darnit! Another problem. Typical!

I kick it for the spluttering.

I kick it for the conking out.

I kick it for home.

I kick it for here.

I kick it for my causing the 'accident' which I sarcastically use inverted commas around each and every time some silly well do-er says:

'Don't blame yourself luv it was an accident'

I kick and kick and kick that piece of pelican poop til my foot aches and I've broken a toe for sure but who bloody cares. Who bloody-

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Great. He's home to witness me losing my lolly. Wonderful. Quick sand where are you when I need you.

"Go back inside Paul"

"Not when you're killing an inanimate object in my front yard I'm not" He's frowning and worried looking and I suppose he may think I need the looney bin pronto "Stop causing a scene will you" He forces the order from the side of his mouth as he waves, with a jaunty Beatley smile attached, hello to the gate girls. They all scream in a pitch that would turn toes... except mine. Its already turned sideways and possibly blue.

The girl that opened the gate covers her mouth and squirms and squiggles like she has ants in her pants.

And the other girl, the nice one, gazes at me, just watching. She's quite sane in fact. That reminds me- sharp scissors.

I kick the bike once more for me hitting a stupid fat dumb water buffalo, and then, before I can boot the headlamp into next week, he's tackling me into the front entry hall of his fancy house.

The door slams and I'm being manhandled to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. Pity rises in his eyes and that's all I need right now. Pity.

Be angry. Be friendly. Just don't pity the poor orphan charlatan looney girl from the colonies. Just don't.

"You've been crying"

No shit sherlock"

"Don't take that tone" I struggle in his grasp, certainly not keen for this sort of scene with him. I want gentle brother sister hugs not hurry up and get the straight jacket for someone hugs. I wiggle yet again.

"Don't take that tone" I mimic back sarcastically. Throwing up the insult in anger and grief and, yes, pity. Yes alright, I'm one big pitiful pitier of pitiful me! I admit it!

The moleskin jacket is half off one arm and hanging on the timber floor and the satchel is in my hand full of copies and copies of the biggest mess in my entire life-me and I shouldn't take a tone. "Leave me be Paul. Right. Just let me go"

"You'll stop misbehaving?"

"I'm not flipping three!" My body fights with every fibre again. Snaking and squirming and twisting as much as I can to be free.

"Could have fooled me you little-"

Voices raise when one person won't retreat and has the other person clamped in a surprising strong neck hold. His chest to my back. He does however wear a delightful aftershave that I should not like right at this moment. The hold gets even tighter as I squirm valiantly to be rid of him and find the bed he allows me to sleep in.

Grabbing his arm, I crank it down and round to the back, he is now turned with an arm paining. I can't stand this fighting with him anymore. Physically too now. I guess it's more restraining than actual fight but it is enough to make me crumble, throw the satchel into the living room in undisguisable disgust, I release him and storm up the stairs and into the only room that will offer sanctuary.

He yells something but I can't reply.

My whole life seems to be some sort of nightmare.

Paul, the property woes... my parent's demise.

An unbelievable wail like none I've heard before leaves the depth of my gut and escapes my lips. Blankets, that were at the bottom of the bed, cover me to muffle any more sounds that the weak person that lays here, makes. Perhaps I should scream and rant some more at Paul. Perhaps I should chop more firewood or paint the gate like I had planned. Anything other than wailing and sobbing about poor me.

Poor poor, pitiful me.

Tissues pile in visual mockery.

The nose that can smell roast chicken from three k's away, red raw.

Eyes bleed.

Heart taken to with an imagined axe.

Time moves on, my old man's pocket watch tells me I have been feeling far too sorry for myself for far too long.

The dusk is here. The light of day weakens its hold on the sky and the first star shines through. A few tuffs of marshmallow cloud float along the meandering river of sky as I clutch the window sill and breath in the remnants of the day. Off to the west the last of the kaleidoscope sunset warms my heart a little tiny bit.

The fire and brimstone of life may haunt me but nature, life and sunsets sustain me.

Opening the bedroom door, I high tail it into the washroom and the teary salt stains are rinsed away. The nose stays good and ruby red, much to my shame.

I descend the stairs as slow as a wombat.

Paul's gone of course. He's more social than a butterfly that one.

His car keys are missing so that means~ this bird has flown.

When it's Beatle related stuff Mal usually pops round. He is a lovely man a lot like Merv back home but with less callouses, sun and muscles. Oh, Mal's no slouch but farming tends to burly a man up, forming muscles on muscles from the constant heavy lifting... I have let myself go and should find some sort of employment because it's all well and good thinking the farm is coming back to me but it could, as old Reg broke to me this very day...

It could be yeaarrrss.

Years.

FarrrrrkkkkkK.

My satchel is unpacked, two piles a mile-high sit on the kitchen table with a pair of jam jars as paperweights. Paul has been snooping. Oh well let him snoop, let him see all the things I'm trying to do to get away from here. Let him see the mountains of words that sit between me and my home...

And suddenly I see a little of Paul's side of this business. Me being the business in this circumstance.

I'm a fly by night person at the moment. Ready to pack my gear and lug it twenty-six thousand miles away. Could Paul see that and think 'why bother', why open up and risk being hurt by this annoying Aussie (His words not mine)...

Could his massive wall be erected because I state repeatedly exactly that?

That I won't be here, in his world, overly long.

My head and eyes ache from crying so much, and now, as I sit perched overlooking the missives, I may have stumbled upon the key to Paul's mind. My heart breaks in two. One side wanting a family and one side wanting to scurry back under the rock from which I came. Both home in different ways. Both filled with lovely things, people, and both filled with adventure. Both filled with family, although my parents will be dust soon...

Reg stared me down and I could see he was trying to say it, without saying it. Trying to hint at what my bleeding heart knew. Home is but a dream. Miles and miles of beautiful rugged countryside is perhaps no longer within my young, female reach.

That every letter I sign and send, every word that is composed in a legal person's prose is an uphill battle. Every step filled with quick-sand, every corner turned -opening up more issues. I am not rich. I am land or asset rich as they say, but we were not rich.

We were comfortable. I had a bed, hearty meals, enough clothes for a country girl but we were not filthy rich like those Politician's, or the mayor with his family money. No, we were rich in rivers and gullies and flat mulga for miles but we were not rich in monetary terms.

Paul has set the two piles of correspondence under jam jars on the kitchen table and I wonder if he gets a little smidge of me now;

As I think, I may do... of him.

Glossary:

Gennie- Generator. A machine for converting mechanical energy into electricity that runs on fuel usually diesel.

Dunny- Toilet.

Bull shit- exactly that, complete lies and made up shit.

Mollydooker- left hander, left-handed.