Diamonds in the Mud and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

Wally.’
    â€˜Yep, I know ya will, son,’ he yelled back, and I left him as I’d found him, picking at his front tooth with a screwdriver.
    Me hands on the steering wheel burned like the fires of hell all the way back to the city, but it was a satisfying sort of pain. I’d pick-and-shovelled, pulled me weight all night beside old Fred, and I think maybe I was feeling a sort of lopsided pride in that pain.
    Well, come Thursday and I’m withdrawing me dole, replacing the fifty bucks insurance into the zip section of me wallet when the bloody note baulks, refuses to go in. It sort of sits up and snarls ‘bludger’ at me – with old Fred’s voice. So I bought one of those pre-stamped envelopes at the post office next door. I addressed it to ‘Wally, The Mechanic’, and shoved in a twenty for me petrol. As I’m about to do the big lick and stick, I get this urge – or something. I cut a five dollar note in half and scribble on one side, Give this to old Fred. Tell him I’ll be back one day with some sticky tape .
    There was something uncanny about posting that envelope, like me fingers were fighting to change their minds and hang on to me money, but old Fred was in the postbox, tugging on it. I let go, heard it hit the pile of other mail inside but stood on, sort of staring down that slot while smoothing the other half of that five dollar note, like maybe I was seeing something deep down in there that was . . . that was maybe something better.
    â€˜You’re an interfering old bastard, Fred,’ I said, tucking the half-five into the insurance section of me wallet. It slipped in real easy, and I zipped it in – safe.

One Small Potato
    Like a pink prehistoric slug convulsing over a tasty morsel, Malcolm Fletcher oozed over his table, savouring, praising its offerings, devouring them with small, near-sighted eyes.
    Six eggs, poached in milk and garnished with tasty cheese, sat on two chunky slices of toast, each crust removed neatly, methodically. Four rashers of bacon, barely crisped, lay in perfect symmetry around the central pile of eggs. It was an artistic triumph. With a wheezing gasp and a shudder of anticipation that shook the man mountain from his sagging jowls to his ballooning belly, he picked up his knife and fork, his wet, baby lips pursed in concentration as the point of his knife delicately halved one golden yolk, and his fork carried it dripping to his mouth.
    Carnal things he had long forgotten, eyes that once feasted in libraries now strained to see fine print, but his tastebuds compensated. Age had not wearied them. A naked, bloated, boneless thing, perspiration trickling in rivulets through the crevices of his fat, he quivered there until the task was done.
    Then he stood. It was an earth shattering eruption, legs trembling, feet spread wide in an attempt to find a nominal balance so early in the day, his unlined baby face contorting with the effort while his eyes peered closely at a watch worn low on his wrist.
    â€˜Eight thirty,’ he grunted, forcing one foot away from the empty plate, loathing it now, panting with the exertion of placing distance between himself and a fresh crusty loaf still sitting temptingly on the tabletop. ‘Eight thirty,’ he snarled, and waddled down the hall to his bathroom.
    A simple equation of mass versus container, combined with an embarrassing experience two years ago, had convinced him that bathing was a pleasure he must forgo, thus he used only the southern end of the bath to stand beneath the shower for his usual five minutes.
    The water in the mains was warm. Cold was a forgotten word in this land where heat and dust and flies ruled his life. He’d sailed with his family from England, seeking peace and plenty after the privation of the war. He’d found hell, and for ten years now had been stuck there, trapped in a termite infested two-room school by disinterest and obesity, and his