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    An Apple for the Teacher
    An Apple for the Teacher
    An Apple for the Teacher
    Ebook77 pages1 hour

    An Apple for the Teacher

    By Joan Curry

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    About this ebook

    Nine short stories about people who find themselves in situations that nudge them into facing facts, taking risks, taking action or taking umbrage, and one fable. The settings include beaches, suburbia, small towns, a party, a school, a committee room and a hearth, where wise advice falls on deaf ears - as it usually does.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJoan Curry
    Release dateSep 27, 2011
    ISBN9780473198213
    An Apple for the Teacher
    Author

    Joan Curry

    Joan Curry is a New Zealander. She has worked in bookshops and book trade organisations, and has been writing for nearly forty years. She has written mostly non-fiction (feature articles, essays and opinion pieces, book reviews, notes for book discussion groups) and some short fiction and poetry. She has researched and written two volumes of family history and an autobiography. The manual “Writing - a practical Guide” is based on teaching notes developed over two decades teaching creative writing to adult students.

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      Book preview

      An Apple for the Teacher - Joan Curry

      AN APPLE FOR THE TEACHER

      and other stories

      Joan Curry

      copyright 2011 Joan Curry

      Blog: http://joancurry.blogspot.com/

      ISBN: 978-0-473-19821-3

      Smashwords Edition

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      The White Cortina

      The Edge of the Surf

      Mildred

      Best Mates

      An Apple for the Teacher

      Matters Arising

      A Little Bit of Rita's All I Need

      No Going Back

      Still Life

      The Critic on the Hearth

      THE WHITE CORTINA

      (This story was first published in Takahe magazine #39 in April 2000)

      Dean thought he was dead unlucky not to get the job in the garage. His dad, impatient, made him try for it, told him to take his nose stud out and for heaven's sake get his hair cut. Well, tie it back then, he said, it looks like a bamboo curtain in a Shanghai cathouse and you'll only get it caught in a fan belt or something. Dean thought, how would he know about Shanghai brothels anyway?

      His mother made him have a shower the night before the interview. Don't forget to wash behind your ears, she said, just like she did when he was a kid. Who looks behind people's ears anyway? When did anybody last look behind someone's ears to see if they'd washed? But he did it. He took the loofah-thing that hung under the plastic gizmo in the corner of the shower-box with the soap and shampoo and nail-brush and the blue Bic throw-away razor that his mother used to shave her legs with, and he soaped himself all over, and he squeezed part of the loofah into a hard edge so he could squirm around his ears with it.

      The boss at the garage seemed okay. Asked him a few questions, like what subjects he'd done at school and why did he want to work in a garage and did he have a car of his own. Fat chance of that, Dean thought, although he and Skin were thinking - seriously thinking - of looking out for a set of wheels they could use as an off-roader. They'd even answered a few ads for as is where is vehicles but never quite had the nerve, or the money, to front up and take a look.

      No, said Dean, he didn't have a car of his own but he sometimes drove his dad's Honda. He didn't say that his dad only let him drive the Honda up and down the road outside the house, or round the block, or, very occasionally, round to the supermarket or some such stupid place. He wasn't supposed to take it out with his mates or anything. Not that there was anywhere much to go in this wop-wop place, but there was Palmerston North a few kay up the road and Palmy was better than this hole. At least there was a McDonald's and a couple of movie houses and spacey joints to hang out in. He and Skin often went up to Palmy.

      Clean licence I hope? asked the garage boss. That was a hopeful sign and Dean nodded, eager. He also thanked his lucky stars. He could have been caught that time he and Skin took Skin's dad's white Cortina up the motorway and took turns standing on the brakes at a hundred and twenty kay to see how long it took to stop. They scraped a lot of rubber off onto the road that night though Skin's dad, who didn't seem to care much anyway, never noticed.

      And that time he and Skin and a couple of others - they'd planned it for weeks - raced the Cortina in front of the 7.20 goods train at the level crossing by the saleyards, lights and bells but no barrier arm, screamed round to the next crossing near the council offices, lights, bells and barrier arms, zooming across just before the arms came down, and then roared up the main drag, hung a left into the industrial area with the Cortina lurching like a drunk and Skin, who was of course driving, screaming his head off with excitement by then. They had to make it to the third crossing - no lights or bells or barriers - and get across before the train. That was the challenge: three crossings, same train, same night.

      Dean was sitting in the back of the Cortina that night. They could hear the long mournful blast of the train's hooter as it approached the first crossing, before they heard the rumble of the engine or the clatter of the wheels on the track. The lights and bells at the crossing were going. Skin was ready, his hands quivering on the wheel, one foot on the clutch and the other on the gas pedal just giving it little bursts, his head turned to the right as he watched for the headlamps of the train to sweep round the bend in the track.

      He timed it perfectly. Go! they all screamed and he sent the Cortina rocketing across the tracks under the nose of the train. Awe-some! yelled Dean. You shoulda seen the driver's face, he had his mouth open so wide you could of parked a Boeing in it.

      Skin said nothing, he just sort of howled, he was too busy negotiating the next stretch of road. The train was running parallel and it had slowed down considerably so Skin was able to boot the Cortina and out-run the still honking train to the next

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