Learning Fear

It's 11.10pm on a random Wednesday night and I'm slowly calming down.

We had our first evening function in the shed tonight and I had been cooking like a mad thing for a couple of days, folding filo, chopping things of crunch and colour; roasting, basting, arranging all spanky-like.

I was a little nervous; a little scared. It was the sandwiches. I can't make even little triangles. Mine are misshapen, scalene, isosceles; with extra hangnails of crust. I go to functions and see other people's rows of angular perfection. How? I have sandwich envy. I know it, but I have to make them anyway. I try very hard. I manage it. Apparently the trick is in the type of platter and a little soft lighting. It's all about the lighting.

I stay late to clean, sort out the rubbish, do all the things you have to do when you run a cafe. There are mountains of dishes covering the benches and tables. Nothing for it but to turn on the stereo and dive in. I live by the theory that the louder the music is, the less dishes seem like actual work (Yes, I wash the dishes by hand. I'm so old school). I'm getting my suds on.

I'm zoning out when a bang breaks my reverie. Then a really loud rattling.

It sounds exactly like the noise the front door makes when my frankenfather, not having grasped the fact that the door is, in fact, locked, tries to open it with a complex mix of pushing, pulling and jiggling the door handle.
Said frankenfather is currently in Darwin at the very top of Australia, while I am a 30 minute drive from the most southern point of the Australian mainland. I'm thinking it's not him.

I press pause on the stereo, because frankly I'm not ready to commit to giving up one of my favourite songs. The rattling continues for a couple of second then stops. So do I.
There's only a tiny smidge of fear, lurking in the back like that niggling feeling of leaving the iron on (Not that I iron. It's not pertinent - I'm just saying).

I crank up the tune and go back to doing the dishes, because, well, it's just so much darn fun.

Another rattle.

I'm pretty sure it's just the aluminum in the shed expanding and contracting.
The fire is really hot. The air outside is really cold. It's what my very logical brother would tell me - if he were here, as opposed to being 30 minutes down the road, and a third of the way to his destination.
So I tell myself, because I am logical and sensible and not at all scared or paranoid.
I wrap that thought around me like a big snuggly blanket, stop the music and try to make a little headway on my dishpan hands.

A couple of minutes pass.

The lights go off in the kitchen and in the cellar door. Four switches in total. Simultaneously.
The dog is going crazy outside.
And I'm pretty sure the back door's unlocked.
I edge along the wall, get to the door, turn the handle and do a quick lock twist.
Nothing can get in - but by the same virtue - nothing can get out.
I don't actually feel safer.

I realize that I have no phone numbers at the shed. I still haven't gotten around to getting a mobile phone, and even if I had one, there is no mobile coverage here.

Insert appropriate expletive.

No.
Must. Enhance. Calm.

The other 'animal' part of the shed is fully lit. I can see the light on the stereo and on the drinks fridge. The lights that went off would have all been on one fuse. Logic prevails. No, it bloody doesn't. The emergency lights should have come on, but they didn't. I pull the plug on the dishes idea and the dishes themselves.

I have to turn the rest of the lights off before I can make a mad dash for the newly-locked door and the 4WD behind it.

I grab a knife. It's sharp and lives on a magnetized wall rack. When you take it off the wall it makes the sound you hear in Japanese films when a Samourai sword is unsheathed. It's a sexy, I'm-about-to-fight-you-and-maybe-I'll-do-it-without-subtitles noise. It's comforting. It's not on the wall. It's in the almost empty sink, slick with dying bubbles. I practice holding it.

When do we learn fear?

I'm about five and staying with my nana, sleeping with her in her big bed. I'm not asleep. There's a noise on the outside stairs and then on the front verandah. Nan sits up. She obviously wasn't sleeping either. "Charlie, get the gun," she says, loud enough to be heard outside (We're farm folk. We have guns).
Charlie is nana's husband. He died when my dad was 16. He won't be getting the gun.
We both lay in the bed, silent, listening; until we drift off.
She's dead now - and I'm still sleeping in her bed.

Fight or flight...

I have a recurring nightmare. I'm young, maybe six. I'm lying on my stomach in front of the television. My eyes are glued to the screen. I'm so close that I can see the little dots of colour in the screen, the blue-red-yellow trio that makes all the other colours come out to play. The Rocky theme starts to play. Fight? The colours swell in and out like pulsating polka dots, like boxing glove rainbows. I can't move. Flight? I can't look away. I know there is something behind me, but I am glued to the carpet, a threadbare cream concoction that cannot hope to offer any protection. I can not move.
And I still can't listen to that song.

Or fright.

I'm sure there's nobody out there. I'm sure I will be able to get to the car and get home. I'm sure it's all just a little universe tomfoolery designed to freak me out, make me think, stop me doing the dishes. I'm sure.

But I still take the knife.
And I hold it very, very tightly.