Mary Brooks a Matter of Time

By Claire Rye

“Take my words, accept what you will, reject what you must but promise me you will do something which I could not. Decide your fate.”
Mary Brooks

April 3rd, 2015, Australia:
Deep beneath the rubble of a demolished building, a well-worn time capsule is discovered. What little it holds is both strangely poetic and undeniably curious.
Yet it is the missing contents that could be considered an archaeological masterpiece.
For the believers humanity’s future will hold no mystery and for sceptics, their doubts will lead them down a path never followed.
The writings of an old woman. Should we choose to accept it at face value, hoping it may hold the key to our future, or should we ignore the ominous warnings which may lead to our untimely demise?
The decision is yours. How will you proceed?
The story of Mary Brooks is a genre-bending historical memoir meets sci-fi time travel adventure that will open your collective consciousness and force you to think about the small choices we make in our everyday lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Claire Rye
• Release date: Jun 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370474110

Claire Rye

Claire Rye’s self-assessment as an "old-school head banging, vegetarian, nature loving, history fan and sci-fi geek" captures the eclectic nature of her interests and influences.Understandably, her self-published novels are diverse in genres. Ranging from fantasy, science fiction, mystery to erotica.Claire’s non-conformist writing style means each book is unpredictable. However, regardless of the category of story, the quirky yet relatable characters and surprising revelations make for a rewarding journey.Claire Rye started to explore the world of writing in 2015 when her flair for the written word was discovered accidentally. She kept an informal blog while travelling through the United States and Europe. Claire found that her love of the unconventional helped her to look beyond the superficial. She discovered the ability to see ‘the story behind the story’ of the people and places she encountered.An overwhelmingly positive and excited response to her travel blog triggered a curiosity that lead to an expansion of her story telling.Claire Rye was born in Sydney Australia and currently lives on the Gold Coast. She continues to travel and develop her writing skills. You can find out more about Claire Rye and her works at www.clairerye.net

Book preview

Foreword

On April 3rd, 2015 in a small settlement in Northern New South Wales, Australia, the demolition of a derelict dwelling unveiled information so compelling it initiated a worldwide investigation into the authenticity of its contents.

The Settler's cottage had stood on a large allotment on the outskirts of town for over seventy years. For the last fifteen of those years it had been uninhabited and in the proprietorship of the State trustee after the owner had passed away with no next of kin.

The contractors unearthed what was thought to be remnants of an old septic tank. During further excavation of the site, it was determined to be a homemade time capsule.

The local council ceased working on the site until the removal of the capsule could be arranged.

On June 2nd, 2015 the local history buffs gathered for the opening of the capsule.

The small group of residents and town officials witnessed the opening of the two by one metre receptacle. Enclosed they discovered a canvas satchel that held a large leather-bound diary and what appeared to be the manuscript of a fictional story. The origins of this manuscript are now in question.

In addition, and contrary to information stating otherwise, nothing else was found inside the coffin shaped container.

Until now, the contents of that diary have not been made available to the public and the manuscript remained unpublished. However, once the authenticity of the diary’s age had been established and the information within was mostly verified, it was decided that the writings would be released.

It is hoped that opening Mary Brooks’ story to debate will help solve the ongoing mystery of whether her words are in fact fictional.

Following is an unedited transcript of the autobiography of Mary Florence Brooks; we have inserted the story manuscript for continuity. It is hoped that in combining both the diary and the story, you will be given a complete understanding of her life.

In publishing her words, we hope to bring recognition to her work as a pioneer for woman in the field of archaeology.

We want to bring acknowledgement to her life, one that seemed to have been lived in relatively obscurity and self-imposed exile.

But above all, in sharing her story, we endeavour to open the collective consciousness to the possibilities of what our future may hold and to tempt you to accept Mary’s final challenge:

Take my words, accept what you will, reject what you must, but promise me you will do something which I have not. Decide your fate.

MARY BROOKS

1900 The beginning

This is a story about me, but it is not my story.

My name is Mary Florence Brooks, born in England, and raised in Australia with a career in Italy.

I would like to say I am a citizen of the world, but my heart belongs to this beautiful and dangerous land that surrounds me as I write this memoir. I am Australian.

Forty-five years ago, I returned home, content to live out my life with a simple, peaceful existence. But it seems that she had a different plan.

Unbeknownst to me, my whole life has been a test, for what I am still unsure. Every choice, every decision, and all actions I have made have been answers to an unknown question. I have decided to put together details of my life in the hope that others will be able to make sense of it.

Along with this journal I will include clippings, letters and diary pages that help to tell the story.

The story of my past, the story of a mystery woman and who knows, maybe the story of your own future.

I am putting pen to paper to reveal these stories. Is this the right decision? I do not know, but I am leaving the discovery of the information and what is done with it to chance.

Chance, listen to me, like there is such a thing. Why do I still believe? Two years ago, I found out my whole life had been orchestrated by one woman and yet I still cling to the naive belief that we are masters of our own destiny.

I wish I had never known, I wish I had not been chosen.

Maybe this last act of defiance is my way to rebel against the control. Maybe handing my story over to fate is an attempt to prove her wrong. Maybe I am too scared to make the choice. Maybe I need the control that I have so adamantly rejected.

Maybe, always maybe. Guess what, I am done with maybe. Take my words, accept what you will, reject what you must, but promise me you will do something which I have not. Decide your future!

I am not sure where I should start, in fact I am not sure when I should start. So, it may be a little cliché, but I think I will simply start at the beginning.

Now when I say, the beginning, I do not mean the true beginning nor will it be her beginning. This is my beginning and even though it is somewhat self-indulgent, I want you to know.

Like most, I do not remember my actual birth, but mother tells me the day was unusually cold and the labour interminably long. It was Friday the 24th of August 1900. I know it to be a Friday as the story of my mother attending church on the Sunday after my birth was legend amongst the town’s people. She was like that, stoic and uncomplicated, a product of her time and a woman shaped by the stoic and uncomplicated town she lived in.

That town, my hometown, was a blink and you’d miss it village in Norwich, Great Britain called Mirstone. Mirstone is and was a typical country village. A narrow horseshoe shaped street circling a large Norman church. Seven generations of the Brooks family had lived in that area and the church has seen my ancestors at almost every christening, wedding and funeral for over five hundred years. I remember that church so clearly, it was the centre of our community, a gathering place for celebration and for grief.

The church was a building that meant different things to different generations. In my time the adults found solace and the children found entertainment. I remember playing hide and seek amongst the headstones.

My older self can see how inappropriate that was, but back then it was not frowned upon, the graveyard was simply an extension of the boundless playground we had. Curiosity led us out the door at dawn and hunger returned us at dusk.

I was never alone. We moved in a pack. My group looked after the smallest children, picked on those younger and fought with those older. A healthy powerplay that built the foundations of a strong and protective clan.

Looking back, I felt like I grew up in large family, but in reality, I did not. I am an only child. My parents refused to speak of why they chose not to have any more. When I was younger I thought it to be a selfish act, but their ongoing silence made me suspect it was not their choice and some events in my own life have cemented that suspicion, but more about that later.

Growing up in the country was a simple happy life with very little highlights. Looking back, I have very few distinctive memories. My childhood was a blur of delight with maybe the odd scrapped knees and disciplinary action as the only hurtful moments.

When I was seven years old I returned home late. The twilight of an almost setting sun had just disappeared replacing the orange sky with darkness. I remember running into the kitchen to a dinner that was just being served. I arrived after sunset which meant I was in trouble, but arrived before dinner which meant I was not officially late?

I searched my parent’s faces for the answer. Was I in trouble? They were both silent. It was a quiet that I was not familiar with. My mother had a look of defeated anger, I cannot explain it any other way. She was reserved to unwanted fate and not happy about it.

My father was harder to read he looked determined but disappointed. Neither of them seemed to even notice I had arrived, let alone late. I sat at my place at the table and noticed a flyer on the floor. The blue and red mini poster was covered in stars and looked like something from the circus.

The Southern Cross shines on the land of opportunity. I had no idea what I was reading, I understood the words, but the meaning was lost on me.

Men for the land.

Woman for the home.

Employment guaranteed.

Plenty of opportunities.

I thought that maybe the Southern Cross was a new thing our church was building, to replace the old one? My age had afforded me the bliss of ignorance and I remember thinking that the flyer, mother's anger and father's strange mood was of no concern to me.

It was not until a few years later that I realised the Southern Cross was the star formation in the skies above Australia and father was planning to move our family to the other side of the world. Without our knowledge he had applied to the Director of Migration and settlement in Australia and had been accepted under the Victorian skilled migration program. Carpenters were sought after and father’s trade meant immediate acceptance.

The trip to Australia felt never-ending at the time. Actually, it felt exactly like what is was, a journey to the opposite side of the planet. The days ran into weeks that ran into months with very little fun or variety.

We left home on a Wednesday, an overcast day that reflected the mood aboard our old horse drawn carriage. The three-day journey to the port of Southampton was uneventful, but even without drama I still felt like my bones were rattled clean from body.

At Southampton we boarded a ship called The Orient. I remember asking father if it was the correct ship. I did not want to end up in Asia and was genuinely concerned. He let out a big hearty laugh and stroked my hair. It was the last laughter we would have for months.

Our sea journey took forty-seven days and was outstandingly boring. I had wrongly assumed that we would see beautiful shorelines and glorious sunrises, but the reality was weeks of water. As far as the eye could see, water.

Sunrise happened while I was under sea level in my bunk. The windowless damp tomb that stopped me from knowing the time of day. It goes without saying that I spent as little time as possible there. To this day the smell of vinegar makes my skin crawl.

You see, the sleeping berths were disinfected as often as possible, using a mixture of vinegar and chloride of lime. The chloride would burn my nasal cavities and the rawness would hold the smell of vinegar for hours and hours.

The very few joys of being on board came from the people we met. My favourite person on board was a woman called Miss Smith. She boarded the ship at Southampton with no luggage and had a private berth in first class. I lost her at immigration in Victoria, but her impact on me will never be forgotten.

She was obviously from a different class and age group than me and at first, I thought maybe I was a substitute daughter to fill her single childless life, but it soon became apparent that was not the case. The babysitting gave way to a friendship during our long conversations.

We spent many days sunning ourselves on the deck and she would talk about all the things that women could achieve. Unbelievable stories of women of medicine and of law. How women could be global adventurers and were not defined by their marital status.

She was passionate and certain. The stories were wonderful and these fantasies, although completely unachievable, did inspire me to seek better in my own life. Suddenly my future was not set. I felt like I could accomplish anything.

We arrived in summer. It was hot and humid and mother spent every single day lathered in sweat, cleaning and making a home for us. She was always a hard worker, but in Australia her busy productive spark was replaced by an uptight and frantic determination. Almost like if she stopped, even for a second, she would realise how far away from home she was.

Father mistook her constant work for enthusiasm, which added to the disgruntlement. She was never really the same after we emigrated. Whether it was from missing her homeland or the disappointment in her husband; it was clear to me that her heart was broken.

Thinking back to my early childhood in Melbourne I realise that I never once felt bored. We did not have a television nor a home phone and we could not afford board games or books, but I seemed to be constantly entertained.

School was an occasional distraction from the adventure of the city. The rundown workers' cottages and hazardous industrial buildings posed no threat to our safety. We were expert navigators, familiar with every laneway and backstreet. The public parks were a Jungle safari and the newly tarred streets our World Series cricket pitches.

We moved into a narrow street in North Melbourne. Today they are called terraced houses, but back then they were just homes. Our door was never locked and people would come and go as they pleased.

An Italian couple on our street was the most popular of the neighbours. They had two children but seemed to cook enough food to feed a small nation. I, along with most of the children of the street, would find myself there gorging on pasta. The family spoke Italian most of the time and my ears loved the fast paced harmony of the language they would sing.

I soon acclimatised to the hotter temperatures and my toasted skin felt immune to the sun's stinging rays. I was growing strong, impenetrable to harsh conditions. While mother struggled under the blanket of humidity, exhausted by its weight, I sucked it deep into my lungs. Almost like I was fuelled by the thickness.

Father never commented on the weather. I guess he learnt it was a source of unhappiness for his wife and such things were never talked about.

As far back as I can remember I have been what people would call a morning person. Maybe we are born that way or maybe we are shaped by our upbringing. The farm life in Britain was my earliest influence and the love of early mornings continued in Melbourne. The city rewards those who are up before dawn. The stillness of that hour brings a quiet realm that made me feel like I had the whole world to myself.

I did share the mornings with Frank and Lucy. The clinking symphony of dozens of glass milk bottles dancing in their wooden crates announced their arrival.

Lucy was a light brown Clydesdale. She was an expert at her job of pulling the milk chart. She remembered the route precisely and the reins would hang loose around her neck, needing no guidance at all. She would walk just slow enough that Frank could keep up with his deliveries without stopping. Occasionally he would fall behind and a sharp whistle was all it took for her to stop for a minute.

They were a fantastic team. Some morning Frank would let me ride in the cart and others I would help with the deliveries. I say help, but I do not think I was much of that. Frank was an experienced milko. He could carry a bottle between each finger and sometimes one or two under his arm.

I at best managed one in each hand and even then, I would need Frank to help get them there. Despite my obvious failure as a milko, I was paid with half a pint of cream and a handshake that would almost lift me from my shoes.

I guess that Lucy was eventually replaced with a truck and Frank was later replaced by the refrigerator. Replacing is progress, or so they say.

It was not until much later in my life that I heard that Melbourne in the early 1900s was referred to as Smellbourne. Understandable I imagine considering the rubbish dumps on the outer fringes of the city. Tanneries to the north and slaughter yards to the west, but this was not my recollection. The smells from my childhood were freshly baked bread, soap washed sheets and ripe citrus.

Once a week mother and I would make the twenty-minute walk to the Queen Victoria markets to buy fruit and vegetables. I pushed the pram to our favourite stalls and mother would push it home, full of produce unknown to the supermarkets of today’s world.

The pram was a staple form of transport in my neighbourhood. The giant wheels with cushioned suspension meant even the heaviest of cargo had a smooth ride and the balanced design of the carriage made it easy for the smallest of children to push. Our weekly ritual was a reliable source of joy for us both.

The markets were the centre point of the community. A busy transaction hub where gossip and money were exchanged at a frantic pace. I loved to go there. Mother was a different person in that world, she was calm. The hustle of the markets seem to absorb her negative energy.

Maybe the harvests gave her a connection to the land, transporting her back to the English countryside or maybe the simple pleasure of sniffing ripening fruit made her forget her city surroundings. Whatever it was I would watch her move methodically from stall to stall and lift the fruit to her nose drawing in its sweet scent. She would close her eyes and her whole body would relax under its aroma. Her soft smile made me think of Mirstone and the disappearing memories of my English home.

Four years after we arrived in Australia, on a perfect spring day in September, the pram full of the best the markets had to offer, Mother stopped and asked me to push it the rest of the way home.

You are old enough now, she said out of breath, struggling to fill her lungs as she stepped aside.

I did not question her giving up the pram and pushed on trying to prove my worth.

I thought this was the moment I would finally get extra responsibility, the beginning of me being old enough to become one of the women of the household.

I was correct about that moment’s significance and I indeed got the extra responsibility I craved.

It was cancer that had taken her breath away that day and she died four months later.

The folks today, with the qualifications, would recommend keeping a journal to deal with grief. In my day it was not talked about, but I instinctively felt the need to write not long after mother was gone. I will share my writings with you, not every page of course, but I do believe my story is best told in the words from that moment.

At first, I suspect keeping a journal was an activity simply to fill the void she had left, anything to take my mind off the fact she was not there. Later it turned into a more cathartic experience and I could write down what was not allowed to be said. My anger at the disease, my fear of the future, my sadness at my loss and my regret of a life never truly lived.

Father made a point of never discussing her. He probably did not want to remind me of the pain. Did he imagine I could ever forget? But in his attempt to protect me I felt that he was disrespecting her memory and in order to keep her close, I pushed him away. I think that was a relief to him.

Monday February 6th, 1912.

It is raining. I love the rain. It cleans the streets and waters the gardens.

Mother did not like the rain. She was always disagreeable when it rained. It stopped her from getting the washing dry and made her shoes smell.

I hope it does not rain in Heaven and she will always have dry shoes and she will always be happy.

I think of her every day, but when it rains, I think of her more.

Thursday February 9th, 1912.

I wish I had a brother. I could tell him what I remember about mother and he could tell me what he remembered about mother and we would never forget anything about her.

He could carry the water jugs and beat up the boys down the street. I would be happy if I had a brother.

Saturday February 11th, 1912.

I wear mother’s apron when I cook, but it does not work the same. I wipe the flour from my hands onto the front and when I move it falls all over the floor. Mother never had flour on the floor. She could wipe her hands and continue baking and she never had flour on the floor. I wish she was here so I could ask her how to bake and not get flour on the floor.

Monday February 13th, 1912.

Wash day today and it is very hot. I washed the blankets as I knew the warm wind would dry them so quickly. When they are wet they are very heavy and I barely managed to lift them