A box of gold

Pearl removed the brown wrapping paper with care. Paper was precious and she was astonished that this had survived in such pristine condition. It spoke of care and determination. She was deeply impressed; Pearl couldn’t abide waste and sloppiness. Under the paper was a brown cardboard box, clearly used (James Bennett was printed in blue ink on the sides), yet still sturdy and intact. At some point someone had written “kitchen” on the top in Texta. It wasn’t sealed.

Averting her face (just in case, still not trusting), Pearl opened the flaps wide.

Gold spilled from the box, tumbling to the kitchen table. Brilliant oranges and yellows, pure sunshine. Entranced, Pearl picked one of the flowers up and held it to her nose, and instantly the spell was broken. The beauty of the flowers were in their colour alone - they reeked of…of compost and wet hay. Vowing to never do that again, she carefully removed each flower from the box, wondering, hoping, there was something else below. The flowers would dry nicely and add some much needed colour to her house, but…there must be more.

She looked out the window - still nothing to see. Some movement in the tops of the lemon gum, but apart from that…

The flowers now lay on the table, neatly arranged with the stems in the same direction. Below them in the box were two long black tins, T2 embossed on the side. T2? She picked up one and shook it - the contents rustled. T2 tickled a memory. She said the words out loud. Tee two? Tea too! She pried the tightly sealed lid off and buried her nose in the black leaves. Tea! Precious tea! Who was this person, that they knew (or guessed, accurately) her innermost desires!? She looked out again. Who?

Below the tins was a black spiral bound book, it’s pages blank, the paper thick and lightly textured. So much treasure, as if the gift giver had deliberately chosen all things that would be impossible to find in this world of rain and moisture and mould and mildew. Pearl’s house was dry because Pearl kept the fire going all year round, and she had a large shed to store the wood in. Pearl knew how to keep nice things safe. Next to the book, pencils. Tucked in snugly at the bottom of the box lay several brightly coloured novels, all set in dry, hot places, as different as this world as they were from each other. “A town like Alice”, Neville Shute. “Dune”, “ Sand”, by Hugh Howey and, “The gunslinger”. Odd. She laid the goodies out on the table, carefully stowing the box below.

She had to think.

This person meant business. They wanted something. Her? Her house? Food? If they wanted any of those things, they could have just taken them: she was alone and, while not entirely defenceless, she could have easily been surprised and overwhelmed.

She was overwhelmed.

She sat and thought. For ages, she sat and thought, moving only to put more wood on the fire and to boil the kettle. She was about to make tea, then thought some more, the water cooling in the pot. Eventually she smoothed out the neatly folded brown paper and flicked an old chuck of charcoal from the edge of the fireplace onto the hearth. She wrote on the paper and held it up to the window, writing-side out.

Zach inhaled. He’d been standing in the steady drizzle for what felt like an eternity, as it does when cold water is dripping down your neck. He read the sign with relief: are you good? Moving slowly, he walked to the door and hesitated, nervous now. As he raised his hand to knock, he heard the sound of a rusty lock click back and the door creaked open. Pearl’s face appeared in the crack.

“Yes?”

He might have been a Jehovah’s or travelling salesman, for all the warmth in her voice.

He shuffled, looked at his feet, looked for at the two pygmy possums who were supposed to be in the tree, but were now at his ankles. He muttered something.

“What?”

“I said”, he said, too loudly now, “I’m lonely”.

Pearl stared at him, evaluating him, sizing him up.

“Yeah, me too.” She pulled the door open and stood back, simultaneously inviting and allowing entry.

“Where did you get them?”

“Get what?”

“Them…flowers”.

“Oh”. Zach considered how much to tell her, how long he’d been planning this. “I grew them, in a greenhouse. They’re pretty easy to grow…”.

“Always grow something as useless as marigolds, do you? I’d have thought veggies or herbs would be more important”.

Busted.

“No, I…I grow them too, but…sometimes it’s nice to have something pretty, you know? And the other ones, they didn’t germinate.”

Pearl looked him over again, the evaluation metre swinging to and fro.

“Cuppa? I’ll put the kettle on.”