Until the River Runs Still

By Shannon Bolithoe

Racism, radio and the legacy of war. 

Beginning with a family historian’s search for a lost relative, Until the Rivers Run Still recounts a tragic love story set in the world of radio in Sydney of the 1950’s.

Growing up in Australia during the mid-twentieth century, Lucy King is a Chinese orphan who knows what it is like to be rejected because of her difference. Throughout her life, she has tried to fit in and overcome the narrow prejudices of the time. Disappointed in love and still unmarried in her late 20’s, she starts a new job in a radio station and decides to move out of her parent’s home into a boarding house where she meets an unusual group of characters presided over by the boarding house owner Mrs. Carstairs.

She meets and falls deeply in love with Jo Smith, a radio broadcaster, and fellow boarder. Jo is a shy older man who leads a solitary life, with only his books for company. Lucy tries to break through his reserve and, despite his efforts to rebuff her, they become good friends. But friendship will never be enough for her.

Jo is touched by Lucy’s beauty and the gentle understanding she shows towards him, despite his outwardly unfriendly disposition. However, he is haunted by memories of his service on the Western Front in WWI, and his mental and physical injuries, and the secret he has learnt to hide from the world. Jo believes he has nothing to offer a woman and fights against his growing love for Lucy. She yearns for the chance to love him, if only he will let her. Jo has an accident and they are brought closer together when she witnesses the accident and cares for him during his convalescence.

Their feelings for each other are revealed during a house break-in when Lucy runs to Jo for protection. She discovers his secret but refuses to allow it to separate them. 

Can she convince him to love and trust her? Can she make him believe that despite his past experiences, they can be happy together?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shannon Bolithoe
• Release date: Jul 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533751881

Shannon Bolithoe

I am a librarian, author, editor, presenter, history buff and animal lover. I have been addicted to reading since I was 12 when I picked up a copy of “Jane Eyre” at my aunty’s place. This led me to “Wuthering Heights” and “Pride and Prejudice” and then I discovered Georgette Heyer’s books and I was hooked. I haven’t stopped reading ever since. My passion for books led directly to my career choice. I thought that since I already spent so much time in the library, I might as well make a living there. It’s a choice I have never regretted. My job allows me to help people and I’m always learning new things: a perfect fit for me. I also love to write, both fiction and non-fiction, and I will be making these works available on this website. I also enjoy presenting papers at conferences and have had some articles published in professional journals.

Book preview

It struck me how much the past - not just the past but history and family - was like the ocean tide. It was always the same ocean, but the waves made it fresh and new each time.  Aimee Friedman, Sea Change.

Prologue – The Present

‘What a pretty cemetery,’ Bruce commented as they parked the car. ‘Did you notice the Monumental Mason just outside the gates?’

‘No, why?’ asked Johanna, looking around vaguely.

‘The sign says they do kitchen benches. How handy is that? When you collect the insurance money after I die, you can order a new kitchen bench and a tombstone from the same place.’

‘Ha ha, Mr Chuckles,’ Johanna smiled fondly at him as he easily jumped out of the car. Her smile turned into a grimace as she climbed out of the car. The manoeuvre was never a simple one for her as Henry, Bruce’s beloved Land rover Defender, was too high off the ground for someone as vertically challenged as she was. She leant against the car and flexed her arthritic knee, trying to get it lubricated and ready for walking. The doctors told her exercise was good for arthritis, but making her knee bend after sitting in the car felt like opening a gate with rusty hinges; it needed some oil first.

She looked up and saw Bruce wandering down the nearest row, reading the headstones as he went. ‘At least it’s not a big cemetery,’ he called out. ‘I was exhausted after the last trip to Rookwood. The history tour was great, though.’

‘Mm,’ murmured Johanna as she followed him, puffing slightly as she caught up with him. She pulled a notebook out of her pocket and checked the details she had copied from the Internet.

‘Look at this one,’ Bruce said, pointing at the closest headstone. ‘How awful for them; they lost five children, all less than three years old.’

‘It must have been terrible in those days.’ Johanna looked up and read the headstone, shaking her head sadly. ‘Trying to push Marcus out would have killed us both if he’d been born back then. Thank God for caesareans, I say.’

‘It was lucky for me as well.’ Bruce smiled affectionately and putting his arm around her shoulders gave her a quick squeeze. ‘I would have been left alone to bring up the twins by myself.’

‘I don’t know who I would have pitied more: you or them.’ She grinned up at him fondly. ‘Childbirth must have been awful in those days, with no drugs and possibly death at the end of it.’ She pointed at another headstone. ‘Look at this one. I think this girl and her baby must have died in childbirth since they died on the same day. She was only twenty, poor thing,’ she sighed.

Bruce looked around, shading his eyes and surveying the cemetery. ‘How do you want to attack this? Do you know what religion they were? If you do, we can start looking in that section.’

Johanna dragged her attention back to their intended mission.

‘The family was Church of England. I think they converted from Lutheranism when they moved to Australia.’

‘Why don’t we go to the main road and look for the C of E signs?’ Bruce suggested

‘Sounds good.’ As they strolled along the road, they passed row after row of white standard roses, bordered with lavender bushes. Johanna pointed at the bush bordering the far side of the cemetery.

‘Listen. I’m sure that’s a bellbird over there. I love their song. I didn’t realise there were any around here.’

‘There are some lorikeets too and a flock of swallows.’ Bruce stopped and looked up, watching as the screeching group flew across the sky. ‘It's a beautiful place to be buried in.’

As they neared the far end of the cemetery, Bruce pointed towards a battered sign. ‘Here it is. What about if I start at the furthest row, you start at the closest one, and we can work our way towards each other.’

They wandered up and down the rows, reading the headstones and occasionally calling out to each other the details of any particularly interesting ones: large families, old ages, or early deaths. Bruce always enjoyed it when the men in the graves outlived their wives and made sure to mention any of these when he found them. Although they walked at different speeds, she was able to keep up with his progress since she was a faster reader.

‘I think I’ve found him.’ Johanna exclaimed, after ten minutes’ steady progress. ‘I’m sure it’s him.’ She studied her notes again, matching the details to those on the headstone. Bruce hurried over to her.

‘This is strange.’ Johanna frowned as she studied the headstone. ‘There’s someone else in the grave with him; someone called Lucy Smith. Who on earth is she?’

Bruce looked at the details on the headstone. ‘Was he married? Or could it be his daughter? They have the same last name, but he’s old enough to be her father.’

‘I’ve never heard of any marriage or children, but that doesn’t mean anything since I don’t think my Great-Grandfather saw much of his brother after they were grown up,’ Johanna replied. ‘From what Mum told me Johann disappeared from the family after the war – the First World War, that is. I know he changed his name to Smith, probably because German names weren’t popular back then, but anyone with a name like J. Smith isn’t easy to find in the records. It was lucky they put his full name on the tombstone and the death records, or I doubt I would have been able to find him. It has to be him – the dates are right, and the place is right. Point Clare Cemetery, Johann Smith, 1898-1952.’

‘This is interesting.’ Bruce commented as he read the details on the headstone. ‘Whoever she was, they died on the same day. See, it’s March 25th in 1951 for both of them. I wonder what happened. I wish they’d put more details on the headstones. I prefer the ones we saw in England. Do you remember that one in the cathedral? It gave the woman’s whole life: who her parents, husband, and children were, with a blow-by-blow description of her last illness and where she slept at each stage of it. That’s my kind of gravestone. It doesn’t leave you guessing, like these accidently killed ones or, even worse, the ones like this that don’t tell you anything. Poor thing, she wasn’t even 30 when she died.’ Bruce said, changing the subject again. ‘It’s a strange epigram too.’ He read it aloud: To love is nothing. To be loved is something. But to be loved by the one you love is everything. I’ve never seen that one before. There’s another note at the bottom as well: God closed their eyes and broke our hearts.’

’I think they must have been married. I don’t believe it’s the sort of wording you would use for a father and daughter. I love the flowers on the grave. I wouldn’t mind something like that on my grave.’ She smiled at the profusion of white and purple daisies covering the mound. ‘It’s much nicer than most of the other graves, with their dull concrete boxes.’

Johanna started snapping photos of the grave and its surroundings with her iPhone. ‘I wonder what happened to them, and who she was?’ she murmured thoughtfully.

Bruce looked around at the other nearby graves to see if there were any others with the same surname. Behind their grave, he noticed a massive oleander. It was his least favourite plant and he grimaced in disgust.

‘You better not plant one of those bloody poisonous trees near me when I die,’ he grumbled.

‘What?’ asked Johanna, looking up from her iPhone.

‘An oleander. Look at the disgusting thing. Why would they spoil a perfectly good graveyard with that horrible plant?’

‘Because they’re pretty. Not everyone is as prejudiced against them as you are.’

‘Rubbish.’ Bruce grinned back at her. ‘Just remember; I want a mass planting of daffodils and garlic on my grave.’

‘I suppose it’ll look lovely, even if it won’t smell very nice.’

‘Ho, ho, ho, aren’t you the funny one.’

‘These daisies are much better. Look how pretty they are. They remind me of that song. You know I’ll give you a daisy a day dear...’ She hummed the rest of the song.

Bruce didn’t answer. He was already heading off towards another section. Johanna thought it might be the baby’s part since the graves were much smaller than the others she'd seen.

He probably didn’t hear me. He’s getting as deaf as a post.

She followed him, browsing the small headstones sadly until she stopped in front of a double grave, with an old plastic teddy dressed in a sailor suit sitting on it.

‘Bruce, come and have a look at this one.’

He walked back towards her and looked down at the small grave.

‘This is weird. Both of the babies have the same last name, and it says they both died at 18 days old, but one died on the 3rd November 1936, and the other one died on the 9th November 1936. How does that work? Were they twins, cousins?’ She frowned at the anomaly.

‘Cemeteries are full of mysteries, my love. Come on; we’d better head home. You have your own mystery to solve.’ Holding hands, they headed back to the car.

‘You’re right. We could be here all day finding family stories. I need to hit the computer and start researching. I think there might be an interesting story here.’ Johanna could feel the excitement of the hunt rising within her. She loved a challenge when it came to finding family history information. As they walked, she began planning, determined to discover the story behind the lonely grave. Who was the woman in the grave?  Why was her Great-Great-Uncle buried up here on the Central Coast, so far from the rest of the family?  What had happened to him and the young woman? Why did they die on the same day? There were so many questions to answer about her mysterious two-greats-Uncle Johann.

PART 1

The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there. L.P. Hartley, The Go-Between.

Chapter 1 – May 1950

‘Next,’ he called wearily.

Pulling at his tie to loosen it, he rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve the tension in them. It had been a long, hard day. He'd been dreading this day ever since his secretary Blanche announced her engagement. She hadn't handed in her resignation right away, but he’d known it was inevitable.

‘That’s the trouble when you employ young girls,’ he had complained to his wife at the time. ‘Just as you get them worn in, they go and get married.’ He didn't like the older Misses either. They were less decorative in the office, and too set in their ways. He reserved the right to be the crotchety one. He was the station manager, after all, and deserved to be the difficult one.

There’d been so many applicants. Every silly young woman who thinks she can type must have applied for the job.

That was the problem with running a radio station. Too many young things applied for jobs just for the chance to see, up close, their favourite radio stars. Maybe they thought they might catch the eye of one of the young and handsome men working there. Alternatively, at a pinch, even an old one would do, as long as he was wealthy and successful. He smiled, ruefully remembering the offers even he'd had. He was too scared of his wife Dot to take them up, though. He wasn’t totally crazy.

He heard the door open and quick steps approaching him. He looked up with a fake smile, trying to suppress a sigh, expecting another pretty, simpering young face.

His face froze. He stared at the young woman who stood in the doorway smiling slightly, her white-gloved hands clutching a tiny black handbag. She was neatly dressed in a navy dress with a white Peter Pan collar and a navy hat on her neat shoulder-length black hair. Nothing unusual there, but it was her face that transfixed him. She reminded him of a little doll; a little Chinese doll. He'd never seen anyone like her before; at least not in real life.

He was surprised by her appearance, but relieved that at least she wasn’t another very young girl. Too many of the applicants had been barely out of their teens. This girl looked more mature than the others did. He thought she was probably in her late 20s; immaculate, well presented and tiny.

‘Please come in.’ He stood up as she entered the room, and smiled stiffly, trying not to let his astonishment show.

‘Good afternoon. Should I sit down here?’ she asked, indicating the chair in front of his desk.

Another surprise. She spoke in an ordinary Australian accent, not the Chinese one he was expecting.

‘Yes Miss, Mrs ...?’ he let the question hang in the air.

‘Miss King.’ She sat down; her hands held neatly together on her lap. ‘I'm here to apply for the secretarial position.’

‘Yes, well Miss King. My name is Mr James Martin, and I’m the manager of the radio station.’ He cleared his throat as he sat down. He shuffled through his papers, looking for her application. ‘Ah yes, here it is. Miss Lucy King.’ He scanned the application quickly, to remind himself of its contents. ‘I can see you’ve had lots of experience and I’ve noted here your references are excellent. Why do you want to work here?’ he asked, beginning the interview.

***

In contrast to the previous applicants, and despite his initial negative reaction to her appearance, as the interview progressed Mr Martin found himself warming to her. Her replies to his questions were very straightforward and pleasant. She conveyed a simple confidence in her abilities, without appearing conceited. Despite their short acquaintance, he quickly realised that he felt comfortable with her. After the formal interview questions had been asked and answered, they sat chatting for a while.

‘Where do you come from Miss King, and how did you end up in Sydney?’

‘Hornsby,’ she replied promptly. With an undertone of humour in her voice, she added ‘Did you mean where was I born? China, of course. I came here with my parents when I was a baby. They were missionaries there in the ‘20’s. I was an orphan, and they had no children, so they decided to adopt me. When they came back to Australia, they brought me with them. I hope this,’ she gestured towards her face with an expressive movement of her hand ‘isn't going to be a problem for you?’

‘No, why would it?’ he blushed self-consciously. It had been a problem at first, but he wasn't going to admit it. He had already decided to hire her and didn't want them to get off on the wrong foot. He stood up and came around the table towards her, his hand extended.

‘When can you start?’

‘As soon as you want.’ She stood up and smiled delightedly as she shook his hand. ‘My previous boss retired last month, so I'm ready to start whenever you need me.’ They discussed her starting date, and she left his office with a jaunty step.

***

On Lucy’s first day at work, Mr Martin took her on a tour of the radio station, introducing her to the real people behind the voices on the radio. He met her at the entrance on the ground floor and, after a quick hello, launched into his spiel.

‘You mightn’t realise it because they usually keep out of the headlines, but the lesser-known announcers have more listeners than the top-liners do, in particular among the housewives.’ Mr Martin looked at her expectantly.

She guessed he was hoping for a reaction, so she obliged him with a murmured ‘Really?’

‘That’s right, with radio’s big names, like Jack Davey, Roy Rene, and Bob Dyer the listeners change the dial from one station to the other just to listen to their particular favourite’s time slot. It’s like that with the disc jockeys too. Their listeners are only interested in the type of music they play. They don’t stick with any particular radio station. However, even though they get the top headlines and top the bills, the showmen, and the disc jockeys are only a small part of the radio’s on air programs. The ordinary commercial announcers take up much more time, and their listeners are very loyal. They are a radio station’s bread and butter, so to speak. There are about a hundred or so regular commercial broadcasters in Sydney. They do the breakfast sessions, the early morning wake-ups, and the long stints during the dead daytime hours.’

Lucy listened attentively, as they strolled along the narrow, brown-carpeted corridors. She guessed it wasn’t the first time Mr Martin had conducted this tour since he fired off the facts and figures with such practiced ease.

‘They’re the workhorses that make commercial radio possible and profitable. Day in, day out they plug cosy corsets and dandy disinfectants. They sell sewing machines and dancing instruction, permanent waves and margarine. They tell their lady listeners what phone number to ring if they want to bury their husband or find a five-pound loan. They talk directly to the housewives all day because they know who controls the family’s purse strings, and that’s when they’re most receptive – or at least that’s what we hope,’ he added with a smile, ‘since that’s how we make our money.'

‘That fruit bowl you knocked off the sideboard, they might say, you can get a new one. Pure cut crystal with silver feet for nine and nine pence at Big Bill Barney’s Bargain Basement, at 123 Tom, Bill or Harry Street in the City. Do it now, do it tomorrow, do it when the old man brings in the pay envelope. Everybody knows Big Bill Barney opposite the Bowser. Fruit bowls. Nine and nine pence. Don’t say I didn’t tell you ... Here’s Charlie Walker with Succulent and Soothing" and don’t forget to dust that dresser, dearie.’’

‘You sound like one of the announcers.’

‘Thanks. That’s how I started out, as an announcer that is, before I was sucked into this management lark. Sometimes I wish I’d stayed in the booth. I might have more hair.’ He chuckled as he rubbed his hand over his balding dome.

‘Of course, the announcers have to play music as well as talk, but it can’t be too highbrow or too lowbrow. What they need is personality. After all, they’re in their listener’s houses all day, and they don’t want to upset anybody. They don’t even need to be consciously listened to; they just try to be a regular part of the day’s work. For many housewives it would be almost impossible to wash up, make the beds, or hang out the baby’s nappies without them. Whenever an announcer sits down in front of his microphone, he knows he’s in thousands of homes. He shouldn’t change or be too smart; he just wants to be the housewives’ friend.’

As they worked their way through the various floors, Mr Martin introduced her to the other staff. Lucy followed along beside him, nodding and saying hello to the stream of faces. She knew she’d never remember their names and their faces became a blur. She noticed how they all studied her face, intent and apparently curious. She never knew how strangers would react to her appearance when they met her for the first time. Unfortunately, some of them stared at her unsmilingly or turned away from Mr Martin’s introduction, but she was used to that reaction. Much to her relief, though, most were very friendly.

The tour ended on the top floor, at the central recording booth. They stopped outside the booth and watched a small grey-haired man speaking animatedly into the microphone.

‘Johnny Miles here is an excellent example of the kind of announcer I was telling you about,’ Mr Martin said, indicating the man inside the booth. ‘He’s probably the oldest friend to anybody who listens to a wireless in Australia. Miles is one of the best. He’s been here since 1929 and men like him made the station what it is. He roams the housewives’ homes with them and helps them polish the floor. He plays them music, enlists their sympathy for an unfortunate, tells them where to buy bootlaces or calls a cheerio to their aged, bed-ridden great aunt. While he sits there at his desk, he’s keeping them company through the day.’

Lucy peered into the recording booth where Mr. Miles sat, with a gramophone turntable at his right hand, another at his left, and a microphone on the desk in front of him. Beside him was a set of shelves, with a few records that he could reach without getting up. There was a telephone on the wall beside him, and in front of him, there were about half a dozen switches. A sheaf of typewritten papers littered the desk.

‘Are they scripts?’ Lucy asked, indicating the papers.

‘No, they’re for the advertisements, but he rarely bothers to look at them. He’s such a pro; he usually ad-libs them all. He knows all the commercials and what he wants to say by heart, without even thinking about it. While he’s playing the records, he answers the telephone or yarns with visitors in the booth. Then in the same voice, and often in the same breath, he clicks a switch and tells the listeners which tomato sauce is best. It’s funny watching when he has people in the booth. They always look nervous so, never sure whether the on air switch is on or off.’

‘That’s incredible.’ Lucy watched the announcer work, amazed at his skill. ‘What time does he broadcast? I never listen to the radio during the day, so I haven’t heard him.’

‘Nine to eleven, and three to five on weekdays and for a long spin on Sunday afternoons. But for all the time he’s on air, he hardly gets any fan mail. It’s the showmen and disc jockeys that get the fan mail.’

‘That doesn’t seem fair,’ Lucy interjected indignantly.

‘I agree. You’d never know it, but he and his kind are the biggest force in commercial radio.’

Lucy found this fascinating. She had never thought about the men and women who worked the airwaves day in, day out, constantly talking to keep their audience company. The recording booth was their last stop before they headed towards Mr. Martin’s office, which was also on the top floor.

‘Do the broadcasters usually stay for a long time, like Mr. Miles has?’ Lucy asked.

‘Some do. We’ve been pretty lucky with our staff at this station, especially the old timers like Johnny Miles and Jo Smith. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there’s been a lot of industrial action this year at many of the other stations. Even 2KY, which is owned by the NSW Trades and Labor Council, had a strike by their technicians in January, and the technicians are just as vital to keeping the station running as the announcers. Lucky for me our men kept working. I think the worst union I have to deal with is Actors Equity.’ He grimaced with apparent distaste.

‘What about? I didn’t know that they were a union.’

‘They’re definitely a union. They’re either complaining to me about announcers working free for charity events – can you imagine it – or trying to get higher wages or better conditions for their members.’

‘Why would they have a problem with people appearing at charity events?’ asked Lucy. ‘I thought it would be free publicity for the actor and their station.’

‘Goodness knows. I suppose Equity thinks if one announcer works for free, they’ll all be expected to work for free.’

‘I guess so, but if it’s for charity you’d think it would be different.’

‘I agree. You know, I think I spend more time discussing union and staffing issues than I do making programming decisions,’ he grumbled. ‘And I’m the one who has to find the money when they get a pay rise. For example, the FCC recently gave in to Equity’s claim for higher wages for the announcers. They want 20 pounds a week for A Grade announcers, 17 pounds for B Grade and 15 pounds for C Grade. It’s unbelievable. They also get penalty pay for holiday work and sick pay. What else do they want, my blood? None of the station owners are happy about it, but what can I do? I still haven’t worked out how I’m going to pay for the raises yet,’ he added, with an anxious frown as he opened the door to his office suite. 

Mr. Martin showed Lucy to her office desk and chair, which guarded the door to his inner office. She sat down at the desk, and Mr. Martin perched his bulk on the edge of it, evidently wanting to continue the conversation. He had a captive and interested audience, and he seemed to enjoy being able to unload all his problems on her.

‘There’s also a drought of radio actors at the moment, especially the male ones. It can be tough making up the cast for the radio plays. And I have to referee fights between the old timers and the new up-and-comers trying to break into radio.’

‘Where have all the radio actors gone?’ asked Lucy pleased he felt comfortable enough to confide in her.

‘In the last year, there’s been an absolute exodus of big name radio stars overseas. It’s all very well for John Cazabon. He’s reaping the benefit of being one of the few actors left who can play a range of roles. But for the rest of us, it makes life difficult finding male voices for the radio serials and plays.’

‘Who, and why have they gone overseas? Why doesn’t John Cazabon go too?’ Lucy asked.

‘Well, there’s Peter Finch, Redmond Phillips, Edward Howell, John Sykes.’ He ticked them off on his fingers. ‘Not to mention John Bushelle, John McCallum, Ron Randell and John Mallory. They’re trying their luck in England and the States, on stage and in films. Don’t get me wrong, I wish them well, of course, but isn’t Australia good enough for them? As for John Cazabon, he says he’d go too if he could save enough money, but personally, I think he’s enjoying all the attention and the money of course.’

‘But aren’t there any new actors and announcers coming through?’ she asked.

‘There would be, but that’s another problem with Actors Equity,’ he sighed. ‘They insist on a flat rate of pay for everyone, whether they’re experienced or not. The established actors don’t think it’s fair the amateurs, as they call them, are getting paid the same money. Take Gladys Mowell, for example. Do you know what she said to me the other day? In my opinion, the theatrical profession is overcrowded by people who perhaps shouldn’t be in radio at all because they have inadequate experience.’ Lucy laughed at his perfect mimicry of Mrs. Mowell’s high pitched, upper-class voice.

‘I think it would be better to pay the new ones at a lower rate; like an apprenticeship system, but Actors Equity won’t agree to it, and the youngsters don’t help themselves. They want to be stars overnight and aren’t willing to work their way through the ranks. That’s where you come in.’ He rubbed his hands together, finally getting down to business.

‘Although I hired you as my secretary I’ll need your assistance with screening new job applicants. People pester me all the time, wanting to be on the radio. They brandish their resumes at me, assuming that because they’ve worked in some amateur repertory theatre, they’re bound to be the next big name in radio. I’ll teach you what I want you to look for, and I want you to be the superior young lady in the outer office to protect me. Some of them are so pushy. The women especially can be absolute harridans.’

‘Of course, Mr. Martin, I’ll do my best,’ promised Lucy. ‘I’ll have to practice my inscrutable Asian look I think. Will Miss Ming the Merciless do?’ she asked with a grin.

‘That’s the ticket.’ He laughed back at her.

***

Lucy and Mr. Martin soon established a comfortable working relationship. She was quick, efficient and cheerful and was soon running his life in the office as efficiently as his wife Dot did at home. He liked being surrounded by capable women since it made his life so much easier. Another advantage for him was that Dot never felt threatened by Lucy, as she sometimes was by other young women at the station.

‘She's a charming girl, for a slope