A Slow Catastrophe

I always like a book to look good on the inside as well as the outside.
This is the beginnings of my new work, and it's looking good.

Everyone said it was going to be a hot summer and it seemed just saying the words made it real. People wilted as the grass grew crisp and the cicadas thrummed in ecstasy. The river shrank from the banks as if the scorched earth would suck it dry and the hawks wheeled in the thermal in effortless wonder. The air had the promise of long dusty days when the clock stopped ticking and the sun dictated the hour. Everybody said, ‘before it got too hot’, ‘it is too hot now’ and ‘after it cools down’. For me, it was a summer made of memories.

A Slow Catastrophe. New WIP.

 On a stinking hot day in the summer of 1909 a little girl goes missing from Murray Bridge, South Australia. This one event can bring a fledgling community together, or rip them apart. 

As truth and lies interweave, Henrietta, at 11 years old, is left to piece together the mystery of her best friend,  Georgette's disappearance.

 

Murray Bridge Rife Club.

Most of the things

we remember

are the things

we want to forget.

A slow catastrophe

My new work in  progress. 

When a best friend goes missing she leaves behind more than a grieving family. 

 In 1909  a small  town on the Murray River slowly unwinds as a tragedy builds. The mystery is the catalyst for jealousy, treachery, and the need to lay blame. Only a bush fire can bring a new beginning and an end to a shattered past.

"Father Michael?" George broke the moment. He faltered as if caught doing something he shouldn't then nodded

"Are angels on earth?" GG asked.

I watched as Father Michael visibly stiffened and took a step back and for a fleeting moment I saw real doubt. A doubt so deep and fundamental that with all his faith he couldn't hide from the truth.

"Now is not the time Miss Grady." He always called George Miss Grady and I wondered if he was frightened of getting too close to temptation. He seemed to me a man who was always tottering on the edge.

We waited and he looked to the tea urn for rescue.

"Father?" Georgette, for all her popularity knew how to work it to her advantage when necessary. I came along for the ride.

"No Miss Grady. There are no angels on earth." The answer was hurried, harangued from him and its ring of truth was missing.

"Are you sure?" GG threw down the accusation and I knew the Father was a beaten man.

"We believe George is an angel." I said and slipped my hand into George's as a show of solidarity.

"We are all God's creatures," Father Michael said and fled to the ladies serving tea.

"He doesn't know." George said with conviction.

We knew. Georgette Florence Grady was living proof.