The Ballad of Amy Hill

By Geoff Morgan

“Amy Hill, sounds more like a place doesn’t it, than a person’s name.”

“Hah, yeah! What will I put in for your address?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Where do you get your mail?”

“I don’t get mail.”

Homeless and living on the streets of Fremantle, Amy has no purpose in life. Until, by strange circumstances, she becomes the custodian of a boisterous Dalmatian, Domino. Just as she is learning to cope with a dog, Gerald, a former nodding acquaintance and now recently released from the psychiatric institution of Edgewater, enters to further complicate her life.

In an attempt to help Gerald with his artistic endeavours – he having taken a short course in sketching and painting at Edgewater – Amy finds herself gaining unexpected and unwanted attention as an artist herself.

This is the story of the ups and downs in the life of Amy Hill. The Ballad, in fact, of Amy Hill.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398402652

Geoff Morgan

Geoff Morgan was born and raised in Western Australia, where he still lives with his wife, Margaret, and two neurotic cats in the city of Fremantle. His children, Rebecca and Dylan, have long since flown the coop! TheBallad of Amy Hill is his second full-length publication. His first novel The House at Plum Bay was successfully published by Austin Macauley in 2019. He has also long been in a song-writing partnership with Margaret.

Book preview

About the Author

Geoff Morgan was born and raised in Western Australia, where he still lives with his wife, Margaret, and two neurotic cats in the city of Fremantle. His children, Rebecca and Dylan, have long since flown the coop! The Ballad of Amy Hill is his second full-length publication. His first novel The House at Plum Bay was successfully published by Austin Macauley in 2019. He has also long been in a song-writing partnership with Margaret.

Dedication

As always, for Margaret

Copyright Information ©

Geoff Morgan 2023

The right of Geoff Morgan to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398402645 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398402652 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

As always, Margaret Morgan has been a colossal support and proofreader extraordinaire.

And thanks also to Cuz Anne Robinson who proofread the manuscript and offered many helpful suggestions.

I may have been a little stereotypical and unfair with the Fremantle Men’s Shed. Rob Chapman assures me the days and attitudes portrayed in the book have long gone.

Prologue

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less travelled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

from The Road Less Travelled

Something was drastically wrong. The street did not look as it should have. Nothing was recognisable.

Gerald came through his gate and turned left to walk into the town as he had done dozens of times previously. As he’d done for two years since someone stole the push-bike that he had painstakingly put together from bits and pieces scavenged from the street verges during the annual ‘bring out your dead’.

Gerald had been proud of that bike, but now he was reduced to walking everywhere again. He’d thought that his walking days were over once he built that bike. He was wrong. But he wouldn’t build another one; he couldn’t bring himself to, in case it got stolen again. Somehow he absolutely knew that it would be too much for him to handle, and he was as familiar a sight walking, as he had been riding. Many people recognised him, but very few knew his name. It was lucky the single room he rented was close to the centre of town. He often ended up at the beach by the old power house where that weird Amy spent her days. Weird? She wasn’t really weird, just a bit odd. Half the time she would sit there and wouldn’t even hear when you spoke to her. Alone, she would stare out to sea. Gerald wondered what she was seeing. Something I don’t notice he thought. Gerald would not class Amy as a friend. Indeed, there was no one at all that he classed as a friend, but he had known her to say hello to for more years than he cared to remember.

However, today something was definitely wrong. The streets did not look as they should. Buildings were different and Gerald did not recognise any of the side streets he had crossed – those side streets he had haunted, looking through others’ cast offs. Every year collecting bits for the ill-fated bicycle, collecting pieces of rejected furniture that he had recycled for his room.

There was that word again – cycle. He really must stop dwelling on the stolen bicycle! It had been over two years now. Two years and six pairs of sneakers! Actually, five pairs of sneakers and one pair of desert boots. The desert boots had been a great find – absolutely new and just $2.50 from the Anglicare Op Shop in High Street.

Walking, every day walking – into town, then either along the river towards the city or down to the beach. He had picked some good things up from the beach. Small things like wrist watches and cigarette lighters – cigarette lighters before the horrible little disposable lighters that people use these days. No good to anyone. There was one time years ago when he found a wallet with $250 cash in the back section. That didn’t happen very often. These days, people didn’t take valuables to the beach. The pickings were slim. Never mind these days… What about this day…

Something was definitely very wrong. Where was the road to the river? Where was the road to the beach? The beach where years ago he had found that wallet. And now, all you find are those useless disposable lighters.

Gerald decided to turn back. If he could get back to his front gate and start again, perhaps the road this time would be familiar? But which way was back? Nothing was as it should be. Nothing was where it should be. And why were all the people staring. Which way was home? Which way to the beach?

* * * *

This was more than absurd. It was worrying, and the confusion was making him tired. The crowds he had attracted were not just standing back staring anymore; they were following him. Closing in on him. He tried to ask the nearest person for directions, but the words escaping his mouth were gobbledegook. He knew what he wanted to say. The words were perfectly formed until he tried to get them out of his mouth, then they became twisted. This was no fun. And more people were crowding around him. Crowding in on him. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but he could see their lips moving. Why couldn’t they leave him be? Or better still point him towards…point him towards what? He couldn’t remember…

This was all too much. Perhaps if he sat and rested for a while… He found himself walking through a built-up area. Shops and offices they seemed to be, but definitely no houses. And a church set back from the road with a paved area out the front. He needed to rest. Just sit down here in front of the church. Shut his eyes for a minute. He felt the crowd receding. He felt a strange feeling of wellbeing. He felt…he felt…nothing…

* * * *

Gerald didn’t know whether it was the light from the sun shining into his eyes, or the heat from the sun shining onto his body that woke him. Either way he was awake and bathed in warm sunlight, and he knew exactly where he was. Edgewater. He was back in Edgewater, bloody Edgewater.

* * * *

Now would begin the long difficult task to get back out into the real world. Moreover, the longer you spent at Edgewater the more the real world seemed to recede into a medicated cloud. He knew he was in for a real battle. They would probably, no definitely, make him start taking the pills again.

Book 1

The people along the sand

All turn and look one way.

They turn their back on the land.

They look at the sea all day.

They cannot look out far.

They cannot look in deep.

But when was that ever a bar

To any watch they keep?

Robert Frost

from Neither out Too Far, Nor in Too Deep

Chapter 1

What a glorious day! The sun was bathing Amy in gentle warmth that spread slowly through her body, to the very heart of her soul. And the beach was just as she liked it. Deserted, except for two young children playing with a coloured ball in the middle distance. It was the sort of warm balmy day when you could easily imagine how you could run down the sandy slope towards the water. If you spread your arms like wings, the light wind would lift you up and you would fly.

You would soar out across the water, above the reefs, to the Island and back. Amy liked to fantasise and she had been given that particular fantasy at one of the classes she was made to attend at Edgewater. She was comfortable in her fantasy world. No one could cause her any harm or hurt. She could just coddle herself, like the fragile sea bird egg collection at the Maritime Museum, wrapped in cotton wool. Amy felt comfortable in the museum as well, moving among the displays of boats, old maps, pieces of driftwood and of course the collection of sea bird eggs. Amy was often able to gain free access to the Maritime Museum, able to slip in past the security guard. She would sneak unseen into the building while the huge Maori guard was chatting up the bubbly young ticket seller, leaving the entrance unguarded.

Amy was protected from the world’s bitter blows when she was locked away in her fantasy world. It was reality with which she wasn’t comfortable, the harsh realities of day to day living. The reality of deciding what to wear each day, although that usually boiled down to the same thing, baggy shorts and an oversized T-shirt scrounged from the St Pat’s Op Shop. Having to choose what to do each day was also an intrusion, although that also usually boiled down to the same thing as well, a trip to the beach. Just because she wore and did the same thing most days it didn’t make the decisions any easier. It had been simpler in the days staying at Edgewater: three meals a day, activities that were planned. Activities like pottery and woodturning. Amy had loved the woodturning classes.

She liked the feel of the spinning wood, of being able to dig the chisel into the wood to make a shape, any shape. She never made anything practical. Actually, she never made anything at all. She often just worked at the wood until it became too thin and finally broke into pieces. Sometimes she would stop using the gouges and chisels before the wood broke. Then she would hold the various sandpapers around the spinning wood and work at it until it was as smooth as velvet. She would apply wax with fine steel wool. She could still summon up the smell of that wax; still imagine its smell embedded in her skin and under her fingernails. She loved the feel of turned wood.

Then they wouldn’t let her do woodturning any more. They said it was too dangerous to let her use the sharp instruments. What did they think she was going to do, harm herself? Bloody stupid people, there was no way she would harm herself. Others maybe, but certainly not herself.

They put her into the art classes then: watercolours, oils and pastels, even charcoal drawings. She wouldn’t be in danger there, they said. Art was all right, the teachers said she had a natural ability, but it wasn’t as satisfying as working with wood on the lathe.

Occasionally you would find a piece of driftwood along the beach that had been polished by the sea. That wood had the same feel as the wood from the lathe. The same feel, but not the same shape. Driftwood consisted of gnarled pieces of wood from goodness knows where: Africa, South America, China, or perhaps from just a few miles up the coast. It didn’t really matter, if the wood had a good feel. Amy would rub it with her hands, and a faraway look would come into her eyes. She would be back at Edgewater where nothing could hurt her. Nice safe Edgewater, but those days were over, and Edgewater was years ago. The doctor had told her she was better, and able to look after herself, just keep taking the medication. She had been safe there, and felt in no hurry to return.

Amy wondered how the doctor would know what was in her head anyway. She had never really opened up to him, even when he took her out for that long drive in the hills, and asked all those stupid questions about her childhood. How did she get on with her brother? What was her dog’s name? Did she remember Sunday mornings climbing into her mum and dad’s bed?

Thousands of questions, but still she didn’t open up fully to him. Of course she remembered her dog’s name. What a stupid question. Even all these years later, she remembered the dog’s name. It was… Of course she remembered. It was… This is silly. Of course she remembered her bloody dog’s name. It was… It was… Well, today was a bad day!

Too many distractions. Children all over the beach were taking up too much room with their stupid ball game; just who did they think they were anyway, taking over the beach, her beach?

It had been hers, just hers, ever since that Gerald had stopped coming. Once he used to turn up regularly, wander along towards the point, or just sit alone, thinking. Then he simply stopped coming. One day he just wasn’t there, and she hadn’t seen him since. Amy wondered what had happened to him. Even though she didn’t know him well, in a funny way she missed him.

But she must not lose the day. Too many days had already been lost. Something good must come out of the day. In recent times she had tried to make each day better in some way. Some days, like today, were simply harder than others, but some positive thing must be made to happen, some small thing.

* * * *

The dog bounded down the beach from the sand hills and stopped with a flurry of sand that all but covered Amy. It was a Dalmatian, a beautiful liver spot Dalmatian. Amy shook the sand off her and looked around for the owner, but there was no one following the dog.

Hello boy. Where are you from then? There was no mistaking, it was definitely a male!

The dog settled on the sand, and seemed completely at home. He cocked his head to one side and looked Amy in the eye as if to say what’s it matter, I’m here now. It was almost dark when Amy got up to leave the beach, and the dog trotted along next to her. She walked along the shore back towards town. It was a bit early to begin her ritual search for food and somewhere to sleep. She carried a bulky bag over her shoulder that contained her most precious possessions, but had another hoard hidden away in