Who will fill the fisherman’s shoes?

Pope John Paul II has left a large void behind him. One of the most media friendly popes ever, his became the most universally recognised face in the world over the past decades of his reign. Never before has a pope travelled as widely and commented as much about worldly issues. I spoke to some of the Religious at the largest Catholic Seminary in South Africa, St Joseph’s Theological Institute (SJTI) at Cedara, about their thoughts on the old pope and their hopes for the new one.
Father Emmanuel Mosoeu (PhD) of the Missionary Oblates of Mary Immaculate (OMI) reflects that, “there is no doubt that Pope John Paul II magically touched the modern world in a unique way with his constant message of respecting human life all the way. He touched the hearts of many of us around the globe and the youth of the world occupied a special place in his heart.” But there is a caveat, he says. “Pope John Paul II is also perceived as a man of profound contradictions. While he claimed to value life all the way, somehow he failed to grasp the urgency today of the exclusion of women in the church. While he claimed to be open to meaningful ecumenism, he failed to grasp anew the traditional true meaning of the bishop of Rome as ‘The first among equals.’ This attitude impoverished the chances of the Roman Catholic Church of achieving a meaningful dialogue with the Eastern Orthodox Church,” says Mosoeu. “Again, while he longed for the lasting meaningful dialogue with Christians of Protestant tradition, his papacy ushered the unfortunate Document, Dominus Iesus (Our Lord Jesus) which dampened the spirit of dialogue with this great Christian tradition of ours in the West. While he is one of the champions who courageously confronted totalitarianism of Communism in Poland and beyond, he failed to see the same urgency in Latin America. While he appeared to be open to some kind of African enculturation, he made sure that Archbishop Milingo of Zambia is kept in Rome forever for his innovative Africanisation programme.”
Pope John Paul II definitely had a few critics. Sister Susan Rakoczy (PhD), of the order of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, IHM, of SJTI hopes for a new pope who “is open to dialogue on the contentious issues of the church that have not been allowed to be discussed during the pontificate of John Paul II. These include the ordination of women, a married diocesan clergy, the status of divorced persons in the church, the development of sexual ethics which includes the voices of married people.” She does however state that the pope has done much good in terms of social justice, peace, ecumenical and inter-religious dialogue but adds that the new pope “should be open to listening to the views of others even if he disagrees with them.”
Father Daniel Coryn, of the Missionary Oblates of Mary Immaculate (OMI), and President of SJTI, hopes that, above all, the new pope will be a holy man and a man of deep prayer. Coryn, who spent twelve years in the Vatican as a member of the general administration of the OMI’s, states that it may very well be an Italian who is chosen this time. “Archbishop Dionigi Tettamanzi of Milan is quite a possibility,” says Coryn. “He’s quite middle of the road and a good Moral Theologian. But the other two Italians, Archbishop Angelo Skola and Archbishop Re are also contenders. Skola is quite robust and assertive and Re has been in charge of the nomination of Bishops in Rome for a long time. He knows the daily workings of the Vatican well.”
Coryn does think that a few outsiders do stand a chance though. “Perhaps an outsider from South America will be chosen,” he says, “and this could be a surprise. The Archbishop of Sao Paulo, Claudio Hummes, stands a reasonable chance, and so does Oscar Andres Rodriguez, Archbishop of Tegucigalap. The Cardinal from Brussels, Godfried Danneels, would be a choice if the Church decides to focus on the de-Christianization of Europe. But if the Church wants to address the challenges in the relationship between Christianity and Islam, they would choose Francis Arinze of Nigeria. He has been in Rome for a long time in the administration. He is also in charge of the Council for Inter-Religious Dialogue. He is quite conservative, but he could have an outside chance.”
When Cardinal Arinze became the first black man ever to sit on the throne of St Peter’s in Rome when he stood in for the pope in a mass during the African Synod in 1994, Father Luke Mlilo, of the Congregation of the Missionaries of Mariannhill, (CMM) and Dean of SJTI, was part of the congregation. He has never forgotten the moment.
“It was beautiful to see Cardinal Arinze in the pope’s seat and to hear the African drums and the women ululating,” Mlilo says. “It was a wonderfully enculturated liturgy, and it was Africa making a statement. It was a really warm celebration, from the heart.”
But Mlilo says that it isn’t so important where the next pope comes from, as long as he is really in touch with the real issues “such as poverty, the divide between the North and the South, and the whole issue of family. It is important that the next pope rethinks the issue of returning divorced people to the sacraments for example,” Mlilo says. “It is a very concrete reality of life and it needs to be addressed from a more pastoral and caring approach. It is important that there should be more openness in dealing with people on a case to case basis, and particular cases should be considered on their particular merits. We don’t want a whole sector of the Catholic community denied their sacraments. I would hope that the new pope would be less hard-line and more pastoral. As regards the issue of Contraception, the subject should be open to debate. I am not saying that we should have it, but I do think it should be discussed.”
Mlilo also believes the Ordination of Women has to be brought into the frame. “As we move into the 21st Century, we have to rethink our entrenched position,” he says. “But my biggest hope is that the pope comes from one of the so-called Third World countries as this is a very different reality to that of Europe. While Catholicism is dying in Europe, the so-called Third World Churches are very much alive.”
Susan Rakoczy believes that the Vatican needs a huge shake up. Talking to Jeremy Maggs on SAFM recently, she stated that the previous pope put the Catholic Church back in many ways. “I was quoting Nicholas Lash, a lay theologian in Britain, who wrote a couple of years ago that at the end of Vatican II in 1965 no one could have foreseen that in less than 40 years we would have the most centralized and autocratic form of church government that we haven’t seen in a 1000 years,” Rakoczy says. “The cultural ethos of John Paul II’s Polish identity informed the way he ran the church. I grew up in a Polish-American parish in the United States and the parish priests ran the parish as their own personal fiefdom. This was writ large by John Paul II, who (as a BBC special on him over the weekend pointed out, never had a personal experience of democracy). At the Synod of Bishops there is no room and space for open debate; bishops speak one after another with no comment, no discussion except in small groups by language. Each continent and parts of continents have conferences of bishops but under John Paul II they had very, very little latitude for decision-making. Everything had to be approved by Rome. From what I have read, bishops around the world have resented being treated as if their decisions must always be approved by Rome. There was tension between unity and diversity and John Paul focused on unity - actually uniformity - at all costs. Yet the church is very different on each continent and the bishops should be trusted to make decisions in light of the needs of their people.”
I asked Rakoczy what the biggest challenges are to the new pope. “The challenges are to continue the appreciable heritage of John Paul II in areas of social justice, peace and ecumenical and inter-religious dialogue and also give attention to issues of the church’s life as I said before. But there are also other areas. I read a NewYork Times article yesterday which stated that John Paul II focused on Judaism but did not engage Islam. Islam is a growing presence in Europe and North America and is part of the religious reality in Africa. There are issues of biotechnology, for example cloning, which need serious discussion. It is facilely said that Europe is no longer Christian and has yielded totally to Secularization. So how can the Gospel be preached in Western Europe? I hope and pray that the next pope will feel free in himself for the good of the Church to establish study commissions on women’s ordination, clerical celibacy and other controversial issues within the next few years. I hope that this will lead to Vatican III. Archbishop Denis Hurley suggested that an Ecumenical council be held every 25 years and that is an excellent idea. As a woman, I hope that the next pope would be free enough in himself to meet with women who have been ordained, such as Trish Fresen, a South African now in Europe and others who were ordained in Europe in the last few years and with women who have left the Catholic Church to be ordained in other Christian churches. Women need to have their stories of vocation listened to and taken seriously. This is the only way a real discernment process about women’s ordination can begin.”
Regarding the term of office of the pope, everyone I spoke to said that the new pope should not be young, as this meant he would be entrenched in office for a long time. Rakoczy suggests a term of office and a rotation system.
“The cardinals who will elect the pope in the next two weeks or so will have to confront the dilemma of age. They probably do not want to have another 25-30 year pontificate so they will elect someone over 65 or 70,” she says. “But older people get chronic diseases. Pope John Paul II had Parkinson’s disease and mercifully he and the church were spared the dementia which happens to some Parkinson’s sufferers. If the pope had a fixed term, for example 10-15 years, a younger cardinal could be elected. Or a retirement age for the pope could be fixed, such as 75 as all other bishops have.There has been much talk about a pope from Africa. Another possibility - which I think is totally remote - is to rotate the office amongst the continents so that Africa would take its turn.”
Finally though, all this is wishful thinking. John Paul II elected all the cardinals who are voting and being voted for, so there is not that much chance that things will change radically in the Vatican. Rakoczy feels this more than most.
“I was in Benoni at the Carmelite Retreat Centre for Holy Thursday,” she says. “Only men’s feet were washed at the liturgy. I learned that the priests understand that liturgy as a re-enactment of the Last Supper, which it isn’t. This is a small example of how in large and small ways women are marginalised.”
But Rakoczy hasn’t given up hope for change. “As a woman I am praying to the great women saints such as Catherine of Siena, who stood up to popes and civil authorities and called for reform in the Church, Teresa of Avila,; Therese of Lisieux, who wanted to be a priest, and also to Blessed John XXIII, Archbishop Denis Hurley and Archbishop Oscar Romero to be with us in this crucial time. I have also been asking my friends and colleagues from other Christian churches to pray about the next pope since his leadership affects everyone.”

You want me to take off my underwear?

“You want me to take off my underwear?” I look at the young man in surprise, as I stand next to the bed. He is waiting for me to lie down. He nods politely as he prepares to take my gown. “But…” I splutter. Does he really mean I must strip down to bare flesh without even the lubricant of dinner and a movie? Can’t I even have a glass of wine first? His smile continues patiently. “We do have disposable underwear for you to put on during the treatment,” he says reassuringly as he reaches into a drawer. He removes a frippery of light paper which has a thong attached to a central landing strip the size of an Elastoplast. I am not ready for this, I think nervously. But there is no escape. I am left to remove my reassuringly black and prevent-all-comers underwear to arrange the minimalist scrap of disposable lingerie in the most discreet way possible. It’s not easy, I sigh to myself as I lie down on the bed and try to cover myself with the towels provided.

My young man returns, still patient, still smiling. Efficiently, calmly he begins to scrub my whole body with a mixture of coarse salt and something else which smells delicious. I talk rapidly, trying to ignore the unusual situation for me. I mean, I do not usually share my cellulite with just anyone. Matthew – that’s his name - continues, professional and efficient, answering my slightly hysterical stream of questions. I should get out more often I think as he begins to wash the salt off with many nozzles of the Vichy shower placed above the bed. I now regret the bikini wax I tried to do in five minutes this morning before I rushed out to do an interview before I was due to arrive at this spa. I had a premonition that I might be required to wear a swimming costume. I never envisaged this post modern thong thing. In my extreme haste to wax and go, I had burnt myself rather badly. The bikini area was now mostly fuzz free, but had the alarmed and reddened look of a freshly plucked chicken. Oh, how I wished those nozzles would wash more quickly over certain areas.

My young therapist does not seem fazed. He continues with round two. He makes a solution of milk and honey and begins to wash it into my skin. How decadent, I think for a moment. But how smooth! No wonder this treatment is called Cleopatra’s Secret. A great lover of creams and softening agents – I have never been able to bear dry skin – I am amazed by the glorious richness of the mixture. I am then wrapped in the plastic on which I had been lying all the time but hadn’t noticed due to my crippling self-consciousness. I babble on blithely until Matthew moves to a seat above my head. While my skin is absorbing the mixture, he begins to massage my forehead. One waft of his fingers over my brow and I am rendered speechless. Bliss. So this is what it’s all about. Not another word squeaks out of my mouth as I finally get the point of all this therapy. I stumble out of the spa a few hours later – refelexologied, massaged and facial-ed out of all thought. I am so relaxed I can barely find the door. And this is just the first day of treatments. There are more tomorrow. I really should get out more often, I think again as I stumble back to my peaceful room.

I was at the blissful and extremely delicious Fordoun Spa in Nottingham Road to do a story for Longevity. The unsurpassable Spa Manager, Trish Holdengarde, had arranged these two days of indulgence for me. The spa is highly recommended for a day’s treatment or longer if you can manage it. Trish will arrange a series of treatments for you according to your requirements. And, as a renowned Reiki Master, she has amazing insight into your needs. The whole experience is serious blissful. But be warned. Coming back to the real world is quite a shock after being royally pampered for two days. Sigh. I will just have to keep dreaming of being Cleopatra whenever I get the chance. I wonder if anyone will notice if the milk disappears more quickly than usual.

Log on to http://www.fordoun.com/about_us.html for more info.

The Red Shoes

The clicking of the bright high heels on the pavement seemed to spark the street lights into action. Each one flickered on as she walked down the dusty grey street. The debris of the long, hot day drifted listlessly along the gutters: ragged plastic bags, bits of gnawed bone, broken bottles, yesterday’s newspapers fluttering like sad white flags, signaling surrender. Trying to keep focused, she lifted her eyes up to the sky – a smog-smudged patch of orange glimmering weakly between the buildings at the end of the street. Perhaps she should concentrate on the click of her heels instead. Left, right, left, right. Keep walking and it will be alright. That’s what her mother always used to say. Focus on the bright spots, she’d say. Like the shoes.

She remembered the day her mother had brought the red shoes home. All four children were scrunched around the paraffin heater in the shack when their mother arrived at first light. Her arrival after yet another long night out working was always filled with promises – just like the dawn, which was making a tentative stab at the day.

Smiling her smile which always filled them with the warmth of being home, no matter where they were, her mother held out the shiny new shoe box for their inspection. They forgot the loneliness of the night, they forgot their hunger and they huddled together in anticipation of a surprise which they knew they would love. She lifted the lid with a flourish to rival that of a show girl, and there, nestled on a soft bed of tissue paper, was the finest pair of red patent leather sling backs they’d ever seen. They gasped with pleasure. They knew how much their mother loved beautiful things. And she would look so lovely in the red shoes with her best dress when she went out again tonight. Their mother smiled at the children. These shoes, she said, were the start of better times. Things were going to be alright when she next walked down the street wearing these beauties on her feet. Finally things would work out for them. Soon they’d be in the pound seats. They’d see. They’d all see.

Nothemba thought of her mother now as the heels clicked under her plump feet. The red shoes were still a little too big for her. One strap slipped down her heel and she leaned over in mid stride to hitch the strap back up. Near the end, the shoes became too big for her mother too. Near the end, even her feet had shrunk into pale, bony ghosts.

A car slowed alongside her as she walked. She could see the man in the driver’s seat, even through his tinted windows. Self-consciously her foot twisted a little on a break in the pavement. Straightening herself, she tried to look as if she hadn’t even noticed the stumble. He mustn’t know that this was her first time. Keep walking, she thought. Left, right. It will be alright.

The car eased to a crawl. The driver rolled down his window and leaned out to look at her more closely. She steeled herself as she turned her head to smile at him. She smiled her mother’s smile, the one that made you feel as if you were home. She smiled as she thought of her two sisters and her brother in the shack waiting for her to bring home food. She smiled as she thought of her mother’s weak, gaunt face as she lay dying on the grass mat in the shack.

The car stopped. Nothemba did too. Taking a deep breath, she turned towards the car window. She smiled brightly.

The red shoes felt cold under her small, plump feet.

623 words.

Nothemba is an African name which means “Trust.”

An excellent day.

It’s started off so well. The day, I mean. My daughter had to be at basketball practice at 7 am. Can do this, I think. No problem. Just have to be organized very early. Off we go. Just a few minutes late. But all sorted. Come home. See her lunchbox still on the table. Alrighty then. Just another quick trip back to the school, stopping to buy a cooldrink on the way. She’ll be really thirsty after basketball and then there’s choir in the afternoon. Drop it off. No problem. Younger son is taken to school by dad. Excellent. Hours of time to self stretch ahead. Should easily get those two articles written today.

But first a quick bath. Hair fully soaked, and there’s a heavy beeping at the gate. A giant truck is awaiting instructions. Oh goody! It’s the potash due a week ago, arriving right now. Okay. No problem. Throw clothes over thoroughly wet self. Ask truck not to take gate off hinges as it reverses towards mud-pit laughingly known as the car port. But this is good. Gardener is here today. Wonderful. Gardener and potash on same day. Couldn’t get better. Gardener stands underneath truck as truck begins to tip backwards. Gardener removes a few errant stones from under truck as truck threatens to download ten tonnes of potash on him. I shout. Just a little hysterically. Gardener moves away just in time. Okay. All sorted. Still a good day. Gardener alive. Potash delivered. Gardener raking potash into shape. Excellent.

Second son wakes up. Needs to go to friend for urgent cricket playing. Having just finished school he is making huge effort to do nothing for a living. Will just run him to friend. No problem. Then will come back in time to write two brilliant articles before I go to pick up other two. On way to son’s friend, I remember I have to book son’s learner’s license. Alrighty. Can do this. Friend lives near license place. Easy. Drop off son two. Go to licence place. See suspiciously large queue wending its way around the building. Am not put off. Make way inside. Find green form. Stand in queue. Long one. This is good. I can think about articles while I wait. This is a good thing. Get to end of long queue. Am told I can’t book learner’s license unless son is with me to test his eyes first. For a booking? Yes. Okay. Alright. No problem. I can do this. Decide to leave this mission for today. Will go home and start those articles instead.

Cell phone rings while driving. University calls to say that son’s late application for BSc has been approved. Must go in immediately to fetch forms. Alright. Can do this. This is a good day. Caller caught me in my car on the way past university. Things are working out well. Get to university. Don’t stand in arbitrary queue. Ask first. Am learning! Find woman who phoned. Get form. But now have to go to bank to do immediate deposit. And then come back again with form and deposit slip. Alrighty. Can do this. This is a good thing. Things are working out well. This means I can go to the ID card place and clear my university card for this year. Have had two letters written by the faculty, paid my fees and have been trying to update card for two months. All should finally be sorted now. Right. Arrive at the window prepared for swift successful interaction. Am told it can’t be done. Something snaps in head. It’s not okay. It’s not alright. It’s not a good day. Loose it completely. Shout about how it’s so hard to get a card updated that it makes getting the degree look like a picnic! Perform. Throw toys out of cot. The woman behind the window performs back. And then I just stop. It’s not going to help. It can’t be done. And that’s when it happens. The tears. They start rolling and nothing will stop them. Have lost this battle today. The bureaucratic world has won. The woman behind the counter softens. She tries all avenues but her hands are tied by red tape. I apologise for shouting. Say it has been an awful day. Leave quietly.

Just as I go I see a sky blue egg shell under the nearby tree. I’ll rescue that I think. It’ll make everything worthwhile. Such a beautiful blue. Carry vacated shell home in my car. Place it on my desk as a reminder of beauty in the midst of crises. Older son comes home and crushes it with one twist of his fingers. I thought it was a marshmallow, he says. Try not to think about metaphors.

798 words.

A Matter of Time: Sc 31

INT. NIGHT. VAN SCHALKWYK’S LOUNGE. PRESENT.

SARAH:So back to the game, people! Now, you have to swear that you will do whatever is asked of you as a consequence.

FRANS:I’m ready for anything. But maybe some more brandy first ... to get into the SPIRIT of the game, hey?

LEONARD:I think I’ll just watch.

SARAH:No watchers allowed.

FRANS:I’ve heard Leonard likes to watch, isn’t that right boet?

MARTINUS:Come on Leonard. It’ll be fun.

LEONARD:Okay. But I still think it’s stupid.

KOBUS:I like games.

SARAH:Oh goody!

CADDIE:(To Sarah)I’m not sure I trust you tonight.

SARAH:What do they say: ‘Trust no one but yourself.’

CADDIE:(Jokingly).And even then, think twice!

MARTINUS:So how do we start?

SARAH:Who wants to go first?

MARTINUS:You start. Then we can see how the game’s played.

SARAH:An excellent idea.

FRANS:Oh hel, nou gaan ons kak!

SARAH:Okay then. Let me see. Oh I love this delicious sense of power! Right then. Let’s start with ... I don’t know ... Kobus!

KOBUS:Me?

CADDIE:Is that fair, Sarah?

SARAH:Hey, all’s fair in love and war, honey.

KOBUS:(Very keen)Okay, what do I have to do?

SARAH:Just answer the question - as truthfully as possible. Now, what shall I ask dear old Kobus ...?

KOBUS:Ask me anything!

SARAH:(Thinks for a moment)I know. Would you like to kiss my friend Caddie over here?

CADDIE:(Shocked, but quite amused).Sarah!

SARAH:No-one’s allowed to play the Pope, please. Just answer the question, Kobus. Would you like to kiss Caddie?

FRANS:(Excited at the prospect)Hell, who wouldn’t?

KOBUS:(Very embarrassed)I don’t know.

SARAH:You have to answer.

KOBUS:(Very quietly)Maybe.

SARAH:(Pouncing on his answer)What was that?

KOBUS:(Defensively now)No. Not really.

SARAH:And is that your final answer?Kobus refuses to say anymore.

FRANS:Come on Kobusie. You can tell us.

LEONARD:Ja, Kobus. Now we learn the truth, hey?

KOBUS:Shut up.

LEONARD:Oooohhh!

SARAH:Now do we believe Kobus’ answer?

SARAH, LEONARD AN FRANS TOGETHER: NO!!!

MARTINUS:Hell, man, give the poor chap a break.

SARAH:This is just the way the game works, Martinus. Get used to it. Now you have to pay the consequence for not telling the truth, Kobus. Ummm. What shall I make you do? And remember, you HAVE to do it.

CADDIE:Come on Sarah. I agree with Martinus. Cut Kobus some slack.

SARAH:(Relentless and mocking Caddie’s attitude)‘Oooh. I agree with Martinus.’ Well, sorry for you. Now then, let’s see. Well because you lied, Kobus, you have to ... have to ... I know: kiss Caddie!Frans and Leonard laugh delightedly.

KOBUS:No man. I can’t do that.

SARAH:Oh but you have to, my friend. Come on.(Subtly wicked)You know you want to.

Nightmare Before Christmas

There’s a funny thing about Christmas. Unless you are a child, have a child, or approach Christmas like a child, Christmas isn’t really going to do much to fill your heart with the jingle bells of joy. I thought of this when reading Gail Cornhill’s article in the Weekend Witness recently. She has such a gleeful approach to the holiday that she just has to enfuse everyone around her with her own delight.

Young children usually feel the same enthusiasm about Christmas. I only have to think back to my earliest memories of Christmas to remember that barely tolerable excitement that the mere thought of the day itself engendered. When my brothers and I were small, my parents used to let us stay up late on Christmas Eve. When midnight struck, we were finally allowed to open our presents. The giddy joy we felt on these special nights is captured in numerous photographs where we are posing with grins as wide as Santa’s sleigh in front of the annual Christmas tree.

One year in particular stands out more than any other. My father had come home with a wonderful set of candles and holders which were meant to be attached to the Christmas tree. As was the fashion of the time, the tree was one hundred percent synthetic and a brilliant unnatural green. We couldn’t wait to light the candles on Christmas Eve. The electric lights were switched off. We held our breath, and my father moved forward to perform the magical ceremony. He took out his trusty cigarette lighter and lit the first one. Unfortunately, the lighter had delusions of grandeur and it did a fairly good job as a flame-thrower that night. Its flames leapt up about three branches high, searing a path of brilliant red flame as it went. It took just a moment for the whole tree, lovingly collected ornaments and all, to disappear in a singe of flames. A sadly blackened wire skeleton took its place, and a mournful swirl of smoke lingered around the ceiling. My father’s face was a picture. For a moment, we weren’t sure whether to feel delighted by the tree’s dramatic moment of glory or whether to mourn its sudden demise. My mother soon made her feelings clear. My father was in the dog box, make no mistake. He had to redeem himself. And quickly. He disappeared in his car, only to return a few hours later. He had a box with him and a large smile on his face. Things were looking up. Out of the box he withdrew a snow white tree, as artificial as its predecessor. He’d managed to find one late night café open with a white tree on display. After bartering with the owner for who knows how long, he was able to return, in triumph. We were thrilled. No one we knew had ever had a white tree before. And in a brief moment, Christmas became Christmas once again.

I think that is the thing about Christmas. It’s the way we approach it that makes it what it is. If we see it as just another huge responsibility and chore – which I must confess I have done for the past few years – it loses its sparkle completely. But if we can put a spin on it, and change a holiday from the singed black burnt out skeleton of consumerism and chores into a feather light white froth of inconsequential joys, then perhaps we can recreate our child-like approach to Christmas once again. And maybe, just maybe, we can enjoy the moment like we used to.

608 words.

No Going Back scs 23 - 25

23. EXT. ROAD LEADING UP TO FARMHOUSE. DAY.

The blinding midday sun is beating down relentlessly as the couple drive their car towards the farm house. The low suspension of the car isn’t particularly suited to the rutted road.Caddie looks less pleased than she did before.

CADDIE:It looks a bit barren round here, doesn’t it?

FRANK:Virgin country, darling. Virgin country.

Caddie isn’t too sure about it.

24. EXT. OUTSIDE FARMHOUSE. DAY.

Caddie stands by the car, staring at the farmhouse. Frank looks at her anxiously. She imagines the printout with the luscious green fields and the pretty, homely building and can’t quite reconcile this barren wreck with her preconception. A name on a sign near the gate is obliterated by age and neglect. Only the first few letters of the name can be made out: “Goei...”Caddie walks slowly, silently, towards the farmhouse. Frank follows her, trying to reassure.

FRANK:Remember we said we wanted to start from scratch?

Caddie says nothing.

FRANK:Think of this as a blank canvas.

Still she says nothing.

FRANK:It just needs a little TLC, that’s all.

Caddie still keeps quiet. She is not convinced.

25. INT. FARMHOUSE KITCHEN. DAY.

The kitchen is a wreck. The sink stands leaning against the wall on one side of the room. A bare bulb hangs from the ceiling. The wooden floors are grey with age and neglect, splinters flaring up all over them. The room is dark and gloomy. Light barely manages to get through the tiny window because of the wrap around verandah which encircles the house. Frank tries to switch on a light. It doesn’t work.

FRANK:We’ll get them to connect us tomorrow.

CADDIE:(Baldly)It’s a wreck Frank.

FRANK:It needs some work, I did tell you.

CADDIE:(Gesturing around the room)But not this...

FRANK:Give me a few weeks, Cads. You won’t recognize the place.

Caddie turns the tap which is in the wall above the space where the sink used to be. She turns it. A brown trickle seeps out slowly.

FRANK:(Trying to make the best of things)At least it has running water.

Caddie shoots him a dark look.She turns to walk into the next room. It is a huge living room which has large (broken) windows and grey, cracked wooden floors. Everything is in a terrible state of disrepair. In one corner is a large old mattress. There are blackish stains in the middle of it. A heap of rubbish huddles in a corner nearby, feeling sorry for itself.Caddie shivers.

CADDIE:I don’t like this room...

FRANK:Don’t be silly, Caddie. Come on, you have to use your imagination here. We’ll get the rubbish out, sand the floors, paint the walls and it will be the largest and most inviting room we’ve ever owned!

Caddie isn’t sure at all.

CADDIE:I don’t know...

FRANK:(Holding her gently by the shoulders)We have to be positive. Remember? The clinic is the easy part this time. Now we just have to put a little effort into this place and in no time at all we’ll be right as rain.

CADDIE:Looks like it hasn’t rained around here for centuries.

FRANK:I know! Isn’t it great?

She looks at him blankly.