Results 2024 Ernestine Hill Short Story Competition 

WINNER:
Long Shadows, Keren Heenan

SHORT LISTED:
Into the Dust, Andie Casey
Rounders, M. E. Glascott
Elbers Knoll, Linda Aitkins
Well Past Milking Hour, Patrick Eades

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Winning Story

Long Shadows
by Keren Heenan

If it wasn’t for the honey he wouldn’t even be out of bed
this morning. He’s not sure whether to be thankful for
that or burdened by it. In front of him now the
wheelbarrow is bouncing along, gentle enough so as not to
clink the glass jars together and shatter them. Every day he
pushes the wheelbarrow with the jars of honey out to the
roadside. Sits a while if the weather invites him, then
leaves the honesty tin in the barrow and heads back to the
house for tea and toast.

This morning the weather doesn’t invite him; cold
nips at his ankles, the wind blows what’s left of his hair
into his eyes and he’s forgotten his hat. This morning
the old vinyl chair is harder and colder than usual
through his trousers. Everything feels wrong. He knows
it’s because he’s had the dream again. It sits in the back
of his mind like a shadow over the morning – don’t
forget I am here, and if you forget, I am still here –
making everything he does feel heavy and stagnant.
Perhaps it’s the wind too. He’s never liked the wind.
Matilda had been one for walking in the wind, no hat, no
scarf, just the wind in her face, the roaring in her ears.
But not Albert. He’d always preferred the stillness of a
warm room if the wind was raging outside.

It had been windy that day too. He knows that’s why
he’s had the dream; the wind blowing up last night
before he’d managed to block it out with pillows and
grab some stuttering sleep. The dream exhausted him.
Running over vast fields in bare feet, dry yellow stalks
underfoot, sharp as skewers. He stamps his feet to drive
away the memory of the needle-sharp stalks.
This morning when Albert woke, every joint ached,
making him want to stay in bed, covers pulled high.
Forget the honey, the long sit in the sun. Forget
breakfast, the tea, radio, crossword. He puts his hands
on his knees, braces himself to rise. Movement across
the road, through the trees, catches his attention. He
blinks a few times to clear his vision, adjusts his glasses
and leans forward but can’t see anything. Pushes
himself to his feet, takes another look and thinks he
sees a flash of blue, maybe a bird. He turns away. Walks
back down the track with a hitch in his right hip until the
continued movement straightens it out.

A sudden gust of wind catches him off guard, out in
the unprotected area near the culvert. He teeters
precariously, almost slipping into the drain, hands
reaching out for the post as his foot skids on the gravel.
For a moment he’s back there, down on his knees, wind
pushing his hair over his face, frantic, calling into the
mine-shaft. ‘Edward, Eddie. E-ddie!’ Not certain but
knowing all the same. Thoughts whirling so fast he
couldn’t see them, but could hear the roar of them like a
shout – forever, for ever.

He grips the post, looking down into the drain,
glasses slipping to the end of his nose. Despite the
coolness he’s sweating and his breath comes in ragged
bursts. A tear squeezes from one eye and rolls down the
side of his nose. ‘E-ddie,’ a choked whisper, and he
braces one hand on the post , pushing his glasses up
along his nose. Both palms on the post again, he heaves
himself up and onto the track as the sun bursts from
behind a cloud. In front of him his shadow, long and thin
and solitary on the red gravel. The house is in view now,
behind the grove of wattles, promising warmth, tea,
calm out of the wind. Perhaps he’ll even get back into
bed – hope not to sleep. He should inspect the hive but
it’s too windy, too cool now despite the sun. He’ll wait,
there’s blue behind the gathering cumulus.

He doesn’t go back to bed. It’s enough just to be
inside out of the wind, warm roundness of the teapot in
front of him, newspaper open, crossword puzzle, and
butter disappearing into the toast.

In the garden shed, later, when the wind has died
down, he dons his white coveralls, bee veil and gloves.
He pushes the paper strips into the bee-smoker, pumps
the bellows and gets it going to a nice even smoke, adds
some pine needles, works the bellows again, puffing
audibly as he moves about. He lifts the top and sends a
puff of smoke over the hive to drive the bees down. Lifts
the first frame and knows from the weight of it that it’s
heavily capped. The buzzing warms his ears, their busy
activity comforts him, filling the hollows in his chest, in
his day. He goes through the frames carefully, cleans up
some spilled honey and rests his hands on the lid. The
surge of activity and warmth beneath his fingers make
the day light and new again.

Later when he walks down the track to retrieve the
wheel-barrow, he sees one jar is gone, but there’s no
money in the tin. He stands for a moment, lid in his
hand, head nodding slowly. It doesn’t happen often, but
it’s a risk he takes. A trust he gives. He puts the lid back
on the empty tin, wheels the barrow back across the
cattle grate and down the track. The morning’s wind has
died down, clouds shaken up and strung out like rags
across the sky. The jars of honey clunk together softly.
He likes this time of evening – birds flying home calling
to each other, muted colours falling into soft shadows,
distant cars passing on the highway. It doesn’t matter to
him to be alone at dusk. It’s the glare of the morning
that shouts at him – you are alone and will always be,
now.

Two years since Matilda’s death and he can’t get used
to the silence. Corrects himself. Absence. It’s her
absence he can’t get used to. She’d always been a quiet
woman. But after that day – after the wind and the
running, the calling and shouting into the dark cavern of
the mine-shaft – she rarely spoke. Not to Albert anyway.
He was never able to make her see. That one moment’s
pursuit of a strange looking tree fungus was all it took
for a small boy to move out of sight. She’d shifted into
Eddie’s room, continued to cook meals, wash his
clothes, breathe, speak occasionally, and once he heard
her singing. In Edward’s room, behind the closed door,
an old Welsh lullaby. He heard the rustle and slide of
fabric and a soft thud as if she’d been leaning on the
door and slid quietly to the floor. He held his breath,
fingers on the door handle. Wanted to go to her, take
her in his arms and say; it was only for a moment, one
very small moment, I looked away. But he knew, she
would not have looked away. She’d have kept that small
hand in hers, tight.

During the night the wind blows up again, banging
shutters and lifting the corner of iron off the old shed.
Albert dreams. Something there by the trees, behind the
stagnant pond. Something black and treacherous,
skulking heavily but it won’t show itself. And then he’s
running, shadows on all sides keeping pace, over cut
cane fields, over broken glass, shifting sands and hills so
high his lungs are bursting, but he can’t get to him – that
small figure on the horizon, always on the horizon no
matter how far or fast he’s run.

In the morning, he thinks he may not take the barrow
to the roadside. Lies in bed that little bit longer, staring
up at the ceiling, cracks spreading like parched earth.
But he thinks of the hive, their busy industry, all pitching
in. He can’t let them down.

He pushes the barrow down the track, over the grate
and parks it near the chair. Today there is sun, and he
leans back, closes his eyes, watches the shadows
drifting across his eyelids. A rustle and crunch brings his
eyes open – a small animal? footstep? Flicker of
movement across the road again. This time he sees,
someone has ducked in behind a tree. Someone short. A
child perhaps. He closes his eyes again, opening them
just a slit, looking through the feather of his lashes. A
head emerges around the side of the tree, then a blue
tee-shirt, then the whole figure. A boy, maybe ten or
twelve, maybe younger, he’s no good at guessing
children’s ages.

‘I can see ya lookin’.

Albert opens his eyes. ‘Can you now? Why were you
hiding?’

The boy shrugs, rubs the back of one hand across his
nose, sniffs. He looks down, shuffles his feet in the dirt.
He’s wearing runners, laces undone and trailing, socks
all bunched up and loose above the runners. ‘Took some
honey yesterday,’ he says, still looking at the ground.

‘Ah, it was you then.’

One shoe scrapes the dirt. ‘Me mum said I had ta, you
know, come and tell ya.’ He looks up. ‘But … we haven’t
got no money to give ya. Not till next week.’ And he
looks at Albert long and hard. ‘I woulda bought it back
but, I ate some. Like, a big bit.’ Looks away then back to
Albert. ‘So …’ shrugs his shoulders.

Albert nods. ‘Well, thanks for coming back.’ He looks
up as a car slows around the bend. Pushes himself off
the chair as the car stops.

The driver leans over and speaks out the passenger
window. ‘This your own honey?’

‘Yep, it’s mine.’ He takes a jar from the barrow and
passes it to the driver.

The man turns the jar around in his hands. ‘Good
colour,’ he says, as if he’s swirling red wine in a glass.
Albert nods. The man takes a note from his wallet,
gives Albert a thumbs up and drives off. Albert puts the
money in the tin, glances across the road, the boy’s still
there, leaning against a tree, poking a stick into the
ground.

‘What if someone takes the money?’ he asks, without
looking up.

‘I don’t think many people around here would do
that.’ Albert puts the tin back in the barrow.
The boy flicks the stick back and forwards, picks up a
leaf on the end of it, studies the leaf. ‘I could look after it
for ya. Cost ya though,’ he glances across at Albert.

‘Won’t your mum be expecting you home?’

‘Nuh. She’s gone ta work.’

‘Why aren’t you at school today?’

‘School holidays.’

‘Ah,’ Albert nods, doesn’t know whether the boy is
telling the truth or not. Can’t remember the dates, not
even the months. Doesn’t know today’s date anyway.
‘Better ask your mum first, eh?’

The boy shrugs, pushing his bottom lip out. ‘Okay,’
throws the stick and turns to leave.

‘What’s your name? Mine’s Albert.’

‘Will,’ and the boy spins on one foot and races off
through the trees.

Albert watches him go. Thinks he’s probably a little
younger than ten, and wonders what sort of mother
leaves a young boy at home while she goes off to work.
Remembers. The sort of mother who makes him return
and admit to stealing honey. He presses his lips
together, leans back in the sun again. Out of nowhere a
memory: he’s crouched beneath the table watching his
mother’s stockinged feet moving from bench to table,
and beyond that his father in his suit. Back from work,
seated in the big chair, shaking out the newspaper, his
eyes small and tight behind his round wire frames. A
feeling of longing and long-ago loss swells in Albert’s
chest. Some moments are full of possibility, if only
something were not so.

He wonders if the boy will return, thinks maybe he
won’t. Or possibly he will, just to take the money he
knows is in the tin. He looks back to the barrow, then
turns away, walks back down the track to the house.
Later that day when he returns to bring in the
barrow, he stops himself from checking the money first.
The wheels creak and the old barrow bounces along in
front of him. There’s another jar missing as well as the
one he’d sold this morning. A sense of hope swells
through him. That he will open the tin and two notes
will be inside. Doesn’t check yet. Keeps the hope alive.
Back at the shed he pauses before looking in the tin.
Inside, two notes curl against each other. He closes his
eyes, smiles.

In the kitchen, he checks on the roast lamb. Turns the
vegetables and spoons some of the roasting juices over
them. He’s not one for big dinners usually, but the leg of
lamb had been in the freezer, waiting for an occasion.
An occasion hadn’t exactly presented itself but the
warmth of the afternoon, the healthy hives, and the
brief chatter with the boy, the customer early on, made
the day feel lighter, brighter somehow. His mouth fills
with saliva as he smells the lamb, the pumpkin and
potatoes all softening in their fragrant bath. He’d
rubbed honey and garlic onto the meat, thrown in sprigs
of rosemary and thyme from the garden. He thinks he
ought to do this more often. Cook. Thinks he might be
pretty good at it. He’d learnt a lot from watching his
mother but when he tried to watch Matilda cooking
she’d shoo him out of the way with a flap of the tea-
towel. Edward would follow her around in the kitchen;
climbing up onto the stool to lick the bowl, handing her
a plate or spoon, squatting down waiting for current
buns or fruit loaves to rise.

They’d moved to the country for fresh air and wide
spaces. A young child should be outside, not stuck
indoors. So Albert had taken Edward mushroom
hunting. The last thing Matilda said to him as they
walked out the door with their baskets: ‘Do be careful,
Albert. Remember, he’s only four. He only has little legs,
so don’t go rushing ahead.’ Albert hadn’t rushed ahead.
Instead, he’d lagged behind. Saw an unusual orange and
white fluted fungus on the trunk of a wattle tree. And
when he turned back, Edward was not there.

Albert takes a wine glass, fills it from the opened
bottle of Shiraz and stands looking out the window.
There are times when he thinks he could just take a
breath and Eddie would be beside him again, grinning
up at him, sandy hair combed back from his forehead,
scatter of freckles over his nose. Then he remembers,
Edward would be forty-nine now. Would likely have a
wife and children of his own. Would have been here to
bury his mother, and later would inherit the house, the
hive and everything else once he’d buried his father as
well. That is the way the world should work.

He sips the wine, turns on the radio and listens to the
announcer’s smooth voice swell and break like a wave,
as the roast in the oven spits and crackles.

The boy is there again in the morning. He’s sitting on
the vinyl chair, legs swinging, stick in his hand. ‘Heard ya
comin’,’ he says.

‘It’s a noisy old thing. Couldn’t creep up on you, could I
now.’ Albert turns his face to the sun. ‘Lovely morning,’
he says.

The boy, Will, looks up, shrugs, bottom lip pushed
out. Nods in a half-hearted way. Albert looks down at
the skinny little legs dangling from the chair, barely
touching the ground. And the image he’s tried hard to
forget, flashes through his mind. The limp body of
Edward carried from the mineshaft – the way his left
arm and his legs hung, like sand in a sock, like a lifeless
doll; how it had reminded him of those same little legs,
so full of life and possibilities, when they’d hung from
the knees down as Edward sat on a stool in the kitchen.
Albert looks at the ground. A lorikeet shrieks from a
nearby gum and he glances up though he knows he
won’t be able to see it.

‘You got bees?’ Will asks, looking up, one eye closed
against the sun. ‘Here’s ya seat,’ he adds standing up.
‘Thanks. Yes, I do have bees.’

‘My mum said you would. C’n I come ‘n look at ‘em?’

‘Did your mother say it was alright for you to come
here?’

‘Yeah,’ he nods. Repeats, ‘Yeah, she did, true,’ his eyes
widening with emphasis.

‘Okay. Well, we could take a look at them then. In a
little while. I like to just sit here in the sun for a bit.’ He
closes his eyes, hears the gravel beside him scuffed
about and pictures the boy, head down, toe raking the
ground. ‘How old are you, Will?’

‘Nine next week.’

‘Next week eh, happy birthday then.’ He glances at
the boy who’s still scraping at the gravel, dark lock of
hair over his face. When he thinks of Eddie he sees him
in a golden glow, smiling up at him. Small and clean.
Since Matilda’s death, the memories are more frequent,
more vivid. Aloneness can do that to a man, he thinks.
Make him remember all sorts of things.

Beside him now, Will is scruffy haired, dark marks on
his backside where he’s wiped his hands, dried snot
rimming one nostril and a smudge of dirt on his cheek.

‘Mum said she’d come ‘n see ya.’

‘Oh, did she now.’

‘Yeah, today, after work. She finishes before lunch
time.’

Albert nods. ‘Righto then. Would she like to see the
bees too?’

‘Nah. She dun’ like bees.’ He looks up at Albert and
adds, ‘She likes honey though. D’ya sell much honey?’
‘Mainly on the weekends. We get a lot of city visitors
then. I have my regulars too.’

‘D’ya reckon we could go and look at your bees now?’

Albert is happy sitting in the sun. Doesn’t really want
his plans changed. He looks across at the boy waiting
beside him, his face all naked expectation. He doesn’t
want the boy to go away just yet either. ‘Alright then,
let’s go.’ Albert stands a while stretching his back, then
leads the way over the grate and down the track to the
house. Will skips ahead now and then, turning and
waiting for Albert after squatting and exploring the
ground for beetles, ants or something small and unseen
to Albert’s eyes.

‘You wear one o’ those white spaceman suits when ya
look at the bees?’ Will asks.

Albert laughs. ‘Yes, we all do that.’

‘Why’s it always white? Why not blue, or red or
somethin’?’

‘Well, that’s because bees have this long and very old
memory about black bears. They’re hive robbers, see.
And you don’t want the bees to think you’re robbing
their hive. So you have to wear white and move around
the bees sort of slow and careful so as not to upset
them.’

Will’s brows are drawn together, his mouth open like
he’s not sure whether Albert is telling the truth or a
fanciful story. He closes his mouth suddenly and raises
his eyebrows. As if he’s weighed up the odds and
believes Albert’s words after all.

When they go through the gate and into the back
yard, Will points to the hive. ‘There they are!’ he says, as
if he’s the one showing Albert the bees. He runs, taking
a jump at the bench near the rose garden, clipping his
toe and crashing down onto the wood. He crumples to
the ground, hands over his shin, eyes squeezed shut and
teeth gritted.

Albert rushes over as quickly as old bones allow, and
he sees the blood trickling out between Will’s fingers.
Matilda’s words – ‘What have you done!’ – are etched in
his mind, and he thinks of the boy’s mother. What will
she think now of this silly old man her son’s been talking
about? Letting a small boy take a tumble like that. ‘Wait,
keep your hands pressed there and I’ll get something.’
He goes to the shed for a clean rag, some raw honey.

Comes back and presses the cloth into Will’s hands.
‘Hold it there.’ He opens the jar and scoops up fingers
full. Takes Will’s hands away and gently presses the
honey to the gouged skin, smoothing it over the
bloodied area. An image of the back of his mother’s
head, the whorl of hair at the crown, as she bent over
his leg, a knee or a foot, dabbing Mercurochrome or
some sticky yellow ointment on the wound. Always
gently, slow and careful, then she’d send him on his way
again with a pat on the head. She always understood
that he needed to run, to climb and fall and hurt, to cut
and scrape his skin. Even break a limb, though he never
did. She understood that he needed to do this and not
be indoors playing chess with his father, doing his
homework, safe and scrape-less.

Beside him Will isn’t crying but his face is tight and
red and his lip is twitching. Albert tears the cleanest part
of the cloth into strips and fastens them around Will’s
leg. The boy’s face starts to relax and he opens his eyes.

‘Was that honey?’

Albert nods. ‘From the hive. I always keep some on
hand for bad cuts and grazes. Can you stand up?’ Will
lurches to his feet and leans forward to check out the
bandage, honey and blood seeping out.

‘Do you know how many bees it takes to make one of
these jars of honey?’

The boy straightens and squints up at him, his eyes
darting around as if following some internal logic to the
problem. Then he looks at Albert, ‘Nuh.’

‘About 1,150 bees visiting about 4 and a half million
flowers between them.’

Will pulls an exaggerated face, mouth agape. ‘No shit!
I mean … like, just for that jar?’

Albert nods. ‘They’re clever little fellows. Very busy.’
His stomach rumbles, reminding him he hasn’t eaten
yet. ‘Do you want some toast, or fruit or something?’
‘Nuh, I’m okay.’

‘I’m just going to make some toast. Straighten that leg
out up here,’ he pats the bench. ‘Back soon.’

Inside he rushes the toast, settling for warmed bread,
no spread. Tries to check on the boy through the kitchen
window but he’s out of range. He takes the plate
outside and Will is just as he’d left him; arms wrapped
around one bent leg, the sore one stretched out
straight. They sit together on the bench, lorikeets
chattering noisily above them. Albert’s hearing is finely
tuned to the bees, and what he knows is their steady
hum from the hive. He wonders if Will’s still keen to see
the bees today.

A car motor slows, thuds over the cattle grate then
hits the gravel. They both swing around, but the line of
wattles temporarily obscures vision of the vehicle. ‘This
your mother?’ Albert asks, when a small blue car pulls
into view.

‘Yeah.’

‘Good heavens, what’s she going to think?’ Albert
looks at the boy’s wound seeping a sticky mess of blood
and honey through the bandage.

Will shrugs. ‘Not your fault.’

Albert pats Will’s head. ‘Stay here, I’ll go and get your
mum.’ Will leans back, sore leg stretched out, both arms
braced behind him on the wood.

Albert moves away. He turns as he nears the gate,
sees Will sitting with both legs dangling in front of him
now, feet almost to the ground, head down eyeing off
his wrapped shin. The boy glances up at Albert and for a
moment, in the sun, his dark hair is rendered pale,
illuminated in a halo of light, and Albert’s heart breaks
gently for a moment and mends all at once.