Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anaïs Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

Wiped Out

Copyright © David Vernon 2020

I stare balefully at the empty brown cardboard roll sitting on its silver spindle and contemplate my next move. “Steph!” I bellow, as I know she’s out in the garden, “I’ve run out of loo paper. Can you get me some please?” My cry for help is met with silence. “Bugger,” I mutter, standing and looking helplessly around, wondering what to do next. The paper is stored in the laundry, but the bloody thing is downstairs and accessible only by the outside steps.

If I were camping, I’d not hesitate to grab the nearest leaf and do my duty, but I just can’t bring myself to molest Steph’s aspidistra. It had only grown its seventh leaf last November and she’s so proud of it. She’d immediately miss the leaf (or leaves – who knows how many are necessary?) and I didn’t fancy giving an explanation. If I did, I could see myself sleeping out on the verandah for the next week.

Our white face cloths, draped over the side of the bath, look promising. But they are just... just... so pristinely white. I make a mental note to purchase green surgical ones next time I’m at Ikea. If surgeons’ scrubs don’t show blood then...

There is no other choice; I don’t have time for a shower. I pull up my undies and shorts nearly to comfort level, being careful not to commit skin-to-cotton, and shuffle out of the bathroom and head for the steps. I open the front door and stumble in my loose garb onto the verandah. It’s then I can see why Steph doesn’t answer me. She’s speaking to some bloke down on the front footpath. I see she is doing the right thing and keeping the required one point five metres from him. I make a quick dash down the steps, just as both she and he turn towards the house.

“Brian,” she calls. “I’m pleased you’ve come out. I want you to meet Justin.” She smiles at me as she reaches the bottom of the steps. Justin, a grin plastered over his face, says, “G’day.”

“Erm, we’re supposed to be self-isolating,” I say. “No visitors, that sort of thing.”

“Justin’s Tim’s son.”

“Tim?”

“Tim, my cousin,” explains Steph. “Uncle Dave’s fourth son. The one that...”

“...ran away from home at fifteen,” finished Justin still grinning. “That’s how all the family knows me. The one that ran away.”

“Yeah,” I say. Although for the life of me I can’t remember who’s who in Steph’s family. Her Dad was one of eight kids and they all got married and bred like the devout Catholics that they are. Last count there were thirty-five cousins. The number of second cousins requires a spreadsheet to keep track of them all.

“You’ve met Justin before,” says Steph helpfully. She hates to see me embarrassed about people’s names. She’s a people person. I think of myself more a book person. I can recall every book I’ve read, but look gormless whenever I encounter anyone I haven’t met five times before, as I can rarely remember their name or face. “You met Justin at Christie’s daughter’s confirmation.”

“Of course.” I nod trying to look as if I know what Steph is talking about. “I think we discussed Scotty from Marketing’s election,” I say looking knowledgeable.

“Perhaps not,” says Steph patting my hand, “Justin would have been about three. The Confirmation was twenty years ago.” “Right,” I say brightly. “Different Justin. But the family resemblance is amazing.”

Steph’s pitying look is lost on both Justin and me. I decide to go on the offensive. “So, what brings you to our neck of the woods in the midst of the plague?”

“I’m heading up to Bundy and I thought you might be able to put me up for the night.”

“Travelling? But you’re not allowed; unless it’s essential travel.” I find myself parroting the official rules easily.

“My housemate threw me out,” says Justin.

Seeing his fluffy, bearded visage, his thongs and handsewn shoulder bag, I immediately think of drugs.

“Oh?” I encourage.

“We had a disagreement, and as she’s the leaseholder, I had to go.” “

Hmm?”

“It’s a bit embarrassing, really,” says Justin.

“It’s funny,” says Steph.

“I guess it could be seen that way. She tossed me out as I used the last of the loo paper.”

I stare at him and shift uneasily on my feet, recalling my original mission.

“I was desperate,” he says looking at us wildly. “We’d been short of money so for a week we had been eating dahl curry for dinner. It caught up with us. Both of us. But I got there first.”

“Jesus...” I mutter.

“It wasn’t pleasant.”

“I can imagine.”

“So, in short, having not paid the rent for several months she told me to get out unless I could forage a 48 pack of Emporia Skin Sense for her. What a ridiculous quest that would be! I saw a roll being offered on Gumtree for $80 but I can’t afford that. Auntie Sarah has offered to take me in so I’m on my way to Bundy. Anyway, it’s not that I’m going empty handed. Look!”

Steph and I gasp. He holds out an unopened roll of Quilton shea butter-enriched 4-ply to show us and then quickly hides it back in his bag.

“Where did you get that?” Steph says in amazement.

“I went into St Joseph’s to see Jacob, you remember him, Albert’s son? Anyway, on the way out I said I had to go for a slash and so he let me into the presbytery. There was an entire stack of them on the windowsill. I reckoned he wouldn’t miss a roll.”

“That’s stealing,” said Steph, firmly.

“Nah. I’ve put enough in the collection plate over the years. I was just reclaiming what was mine. Anyway, I remember in primary school we were only ever given those crappy-thin, glass-like, single-sheet, poo-tickets. I couldn’t see why priests need Quilton shea butter-enriched 4-ply.”

“Fair comment,” I say.

“I figure it’s enough to pay Auntie Sarah for a month’s board,” says Justin patting his bag and giving a grin.

Given my current state I’d give a lot for just a roll of two-ply with, or without, shea butter, but I stay mum.

I look at Steph and she gives a little shrug. It’s the kind of shrug that says, ‘He’s family, what can we do?’

“So how are you getting there?” I ask, not willing to yet concede the bottom step to the interloper. I feel a bit like a knight on drawbridge. This is my castle and I’m not sure I want a Covid-ridden, toilet-paper-thieving-hippy in my house — even if he is family. I’m also acutely aware of our limited loo paper supply in the laundry, which is apparently now worth six months of rent and board, if not more. Actually, I could probably buy Virgin Australia with the proceeds. I briefly contemplate putting a padlock on the laundry door.

“Hitch-hiking mainly. Most of the buses have stopped.”

“And you get picked up?”

“I’ve got this far,” he grins. I have to admit that his constant grinning could be taken either as the sign of mania or of someone quite engaging. His openness makes me lean towards the latter explanation, and so I move awkwardly aside to let them both up onto the verandah.

Steph leads the way and I notice her nose is twitching and it looks as though she has smelt something slightly unpleasant. I back up, keeping my distance, noting that I was unfortunately upwind of both of them. Steph looks at me. “You don’t have to practise social distancing with me, Darling!”

I mumble about having to get something from the laundry. I push past them and with a gait that would look good on John Wayne, I waddle into the laundry and slam the door. There’s no lock on the door and I think that I need to rectify that as I look with some pleasure upon the seven rolls of Ultrasoft Plush Lux sitting snuggly on the shelf above the old concrete wash tub. I pick one off the shelf and cradle it in my hands. Slowly I unwrap it, savouring the experience, like unwrapping one of those little gold-foiled Ferrero Rocher chocolates. The plump roll sits in my hands and I bring it to my nose to inhale its fresh soft bouquet. Like a bottle of wine with its overtones of citrus and vanilla, this roll has a gentle, enticing scent of French Linen, although that might be because it is stored next to the washing powder box.

My reverie is broken when the door bangs open and Steph is silhouetted against the bright light outside. My butt cheeks automatically clench and I grimace briefly at the thought of what that had wrought.

“What are you doing?” she asks, a hint of suspicion in her voice.

“Just getting a new bog roll. We’ve run out upstairs.”

Steph looks at me, raises an eyebrow and then twitches her nose, distracted I think, by a less pleasant scent than French Linen. “Smells like a dead mouse in here,” she mutters, then she suddenly looks at me conspiratorially. “Seeing you clutching that roll reminds me that we have a potential loo paper thief upstairs. Should we hide our stash?”

We both look at our valuable collection sitting so boldly on the shelf above the wash tub. Suddenly, we hear a heavy footfall coming down the outside steps. Steph slams the door shut and leans hard against it, while I look wildly around for a place to hide the paper. There!... on the very top shelf above the sink. I grab the footstool and clambering up I seize each roll and pop it onto the highest shelf and push it right to the back. Steph nods and whispers, “You can hardly see them in the dark. That’s good.”

There is a bold knock on the door and Steph opens it to reveal the grinning Justin. “I’ve poured the tea and found a few Tim Tams and put them out on a plate. It’s on the balcony. Gawd, what is that stench?”

It’s apparent he isn’t talking about French Linen either. “Dead mouse,” I say and try to shepherd Steph and Justin out of the room while keeping a good social distance from them both, a task that is nigh impossible – like pushing a bicycle with a rope.

I hold the precious roll behind my back as the two of them meander up the stairs and then sit down in the well-spaced deck chairs. “I’ll be mother,” volunteers Steph.

“I’m just going to the loo,” I say.

“Oh, just water the plants like you normally do,” says Steph, helpfully. She turns to Justin and says, “We like to save water and as our neighbours are hidden behind that hedge, feel free to go against a tree.”

Justin nods but Steph feels she has to expound further. “Don’t be shy about it. I do it too, even though I don’t have a picnic tool.”

I feel embarrassed at the need to explain. “Number two,” I try to say matter-of-factly and scuttle away.

***

Mission accomplished – at last – and feeling much happier I return to the tête-à-tête with the bog paper thief on the verandah. Steph and Justin are deep in conversation.

“Justin’s just telling me about the rest of the family,” says Steph brightly.

“Ah yes,” I reply. “Perhaps I should leave you to it and I’ll go and hang out the laundry.” The last thing I want to know is how Cynthia’s daughter’s cousin’s husband had lost his job at the bakery, or that Albert’s son, Jacob, a priest with the Order of St Paul the First Hermit, has just been moved from his parish, by the local Bishop, for no apparent reason.

“Speaking of laundry,” says Justin with a smile, “I have a few odds and sods that I’d love to wash before I head on up the road. Would that be okay?”

“Sure, but can it wait a couple of days when we have full load to put through the machine?... Still saving water,” Steph explains.

“Look, it’s only a couple of bits and pieces. I’ll hand wash them in the tub and hang them out.”

“No probs,” I say, mentally checking that there was no way that Justin would spy our precious assemblage of rolls on the top shelf.

“There’s soap powder on the first shelf, or a bar of soap next to the sink, if that’s what you would prefer,” adds Steph. “Maybe you should do your washing now to get the full sun. BOM has suggested it might, just might, rain tomorrow.”

“Righto,” says Justin with a grin. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

***

We kick back and feel the sun on our faces while listening to the dulcet sounds of Justin splashing water around in the old concrete tub.

“You reckon our secret stash is safe?” whispers Steph, leaning forwards with a look of grave concern etched on her face.

“I pushed them right to the back of the very top shelf. You said yourself that you couldn’t see them,” I breathe back.

“I know, I know. But, if he were willing to pinch a roll from a Church…”

“They’re supposed to give to the poor and given the state of Justin’s clothes I reckon that Jesus wouldn’t begrudge him a simple bog roll.”

“I don’t call Quilton shea butter-enriched 4-ply a simple bog roll,” says Steph. “Who comes up with these ideas?”

“Isn’t that why people get marketing degrees?” I ask. “To come up with new ideas for old products? I guess the Quilton Dencorub-enriched 4-ply didn’t do so well.”

Steph raises her hand to give me a play-slap when we hear a crash and a cry from the laundry.

“What the?...” exclaims Steph.

I’m on my feet in a split second and dash down the stairs. I wrench open the laundry door.

“Oh no!” cries Steph looking over my shoulder.

I’m not so concerned about Justin, who is lying partly submerged in the concrete tub, blood trickling from a small cut above his eye, but rather the sight of six rolls of Ultrasoft Plush Lux slowly sinking into the soapy bubbles along with Justin’s dirty underwear.

Justin glances up. “It’s not what it looks like,” he says, without his trademark grin.

“I think it is,” I say, noting that the stool is lying on its side on the wet floor and the upper shelves have snapped under the weight of Justin’s flailing hands.

“I thought I’d found that dead mouse...”

“Get out!” screams Steph.

***

The final roll of Ultrasoft Plush Lux is half gone. With a sigh I contemplate a dismal future, but then my eyes settle on Steph’s aspidistra. It’s going to be okay.