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Fiction Short Story

by Maureen Green

Clean as a Whistle

"J-i-m-my, the dunny's overflowing!" Aunt Nell shrilled.

Eleven of us, flounder-spears poised as we waded in the low tide at the mouth of the estuary, looked to one another and raised our eyebrows. The recipient on many occasions of that tone of voice, I knew Aunt Nell had lost her cool.

"Trouble!" I shouted. "Come on!"

My cousins and I cast our spears aside, grabbed the toddler's hands and charged towards the cliff face.

My feet working like pistons and toes curled to gain purchase I scrambled up the bank towards the bach perched on a headland separating the Pacific Ocean from the tidal estuary. Eyes glowing with anticipation I flattened onto the bank, nestled my head on my hands and watched.

Arms akimbo, Aunt Nell tilted her head skyward and yelled, "J-i-m-m-yyyy! Where are you?"

Moments later, his trilby perched on his bald head and his pipe drooping from his lips, Uncle Jim sauntered around the corner of the bach. He was a short wiry man in his late fifties, placid and good humoured. His trousers, secured around his waist with a piece of rope, hung on him like a sack. His bush shirt, unbuttoned and tail out, hung to his knees. Aunt gasped and her eyes stood out on stalks. "G-o-d," she blurted stepping back several paces, "J-i-m-m-m-yyy! You look like a ... a bum!"

Ignoring her insult Uncle cocked his head to one side and raised his brow in questioning pose. "You called?"

Pointing at the wooden shed housing the long-drop, the only one in the entire area, Aunt’s nose wrinkled as if in disgust. Her voice rose higher and higher up the chromatic scale and louder and louder as she emphasising each word she announced, "Full to the brim.”

"That so," replied Uncle, tilting his sweat stained hat back on his head and scratching his bald pate.

"Well, Jimmy, what ya gonna do?"

Uncle stroked around his chin and mouth in a circular motion with the palm of his hand for some moments before speaking. "Long-drops aren't supposed to fill. The stuff's supposed to decompose," he said in an unhurried, unflustered manner which I admired.

Aunt just glared at him. After moments of silence Uncle Jim hefted an old beer crate onto his shoulders. He opened the shed door—swung it wide to let in the light—entered the toilet, stood on the box and looked down into the hole.

"Mostly paper," he commented as he emerged from the shed.

"I told you we wouldn't cope with this crowd," Aunt Nell said, her voice filled with truculence and waving her arms in the direction of the tents huddled around the bach. The McKinlay bach around which the families in the remote seaside resort had gathered to celebrate Great-Gran's hundredth, boasted the only long-drop in the area.

"Worry wart," Uncle chortled as he tampered tobacco into his pipe and fished an antique match-holder from his pocket. Selecting a redhead, he scratched it along the sole of his boot, cradled the pipe bowl in his cupped hands, placed the flame to the tobacco and sucked and sucked until it glowed.

I sucked in and out with him and counted how many drawn in breaths it took for the tobacco to glow. ... Seven, eight, nine ... bingo! I said half-out loud.

"J-i-m-my, what you gonna do about that?" Aunt railed as she pointed a finger in the direction of the long-drop.

"Shush woman, I'm thinking," Uncle drawled between puffs as he up-ended the crate lying on the ground, planted his behind on it and sat smoking his pipe.

Aunt Nell stood with her hands on her hips and tapped her foot on the cobblestones. She glowered and towered over Uncle. "Haven't got all day; something has to be done before the others arrive," she snarled.

Uncle Jim sucked hard on his old pipe, blew smoke rings into the air, winked in my direction and watched the smoke float until it dissipated. "No need to fuss, woman; clear it in no time," he said, his eyes twinkling.

"How?" Aunt demanded.

"Leave it to me, woman," Uncle Jim responded.

Aunt turned and stamped off. "Can't hang about all day waiting for you; I've work to do," she flung over her shoulder.

What's he going to do? I thought. Whananaki is accessible only by driving along the beach at low tide. There is no night-cart collection and pump-trucks can't reach the southern headland.

Uncle straightened. He lit a match and watched it burn down to his fingers. Then, he lit another and smiled.

"You decided yet?" Aunt Nell called from the porch of the bach—the adult's haven from all the kids.

"Burn the stuff," Uncle replied as he fashioned a taper. "I read that the Italians incinerate their waste."

"Oh God! ... No!" Little Jim, my older cousin, of fourteen, gasped.

"What?" I asked.

"Methane!”

"What about methane?"

"It's a flammable gas." Little Jim always used posh words.

"Yeah?" I said, thinking, methane's the smell in the toilet like compost and a cow's belch from front and back. "So?"

"Boom!" he said biting his knuckles. "The bloody stuff ignites around flame."

He heaved himself over the lip of the bank and started forward. I sucked in hard. Eyes bugging in my head, I watched as Uncle knocked the ash from his pipe-bowl, and, lighted taper in hand, entered the toilet.

"No! Dad! Stop!" Little Jim shouted as he raced towards the building.

Suddenly a mighty explosion rent the air. The ground rippled under my body and I was showered with sand. The little ones whimpered and began to cry. My eyes widened in horror as Little Jim catapulted into the air—flew like a bird—over the bank and landed with a mighty thud on the sandy beach below. Then a gurgling whoosh drew my attention back to the toilet. A geyser of liquid surged through the roof balancing the tin atop as it gushed skyward. The walls folded out in slow motion and flattened on the ground.

Oh God! I thought as I bit back a cry that turned to a chortle at the sight before me.

Uncle, his hat rammed down to his ears, the crown, popped open like a tin-can lid stood all but naked. Only his underpants remained on his body. A brownish liquid formed little rivulet's as it trickled down his body to pool at his feet. Uncle just stood there, a grin plastered from ear to ear on his face.

"Are you alright, Uncle?" I shouted from the safety of the bank.

"Yeah," he drawled, his eyes glowing from his blackened face.

He bent, splayed his hands on the still intact wooden bench and stared down the long-drop hole. "Marvellous—clean as a whistle," he called triumphantly. "Those Italians know something—burning works like a charm!"


About the Author
Maureen Green lives in Auckland, New Zealand's largest city, but commutes regularly to the far North where she was born. Several of her short stories have been published in America and England. She is currently working on an anthology of works a teen novel based on an Arthurian legend. Consequences, her first novel is about to be launched on the literary road site.