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Short Story Competition Announced
​Congratulations Tom Hunter

 Somewhere, Elsewhere Doc
 
Every couple of years, Margaret, my wife, bludgeons me into a complete physical at the village surgery. This visit is conducted under sufferance and is preceded by a week or two of rigidly enforced abstinence from coffee and muffins. That’s not the worst of it though. The digital examination is enough to put you off your breakfast for a couple of years. Anyway, I’ve been studiously avoiding having my right knee looked at in case it involves further invasions of my ancient body.
 
However, a few days ago, Margaret found the empty pain killer packets in the rubbish. I know this because ever since she’s been looking at me covertly over the top of her glasses. I know she’s dying to ask what’s wrong. She doesn’t ask because she’s afraid she may not like the answer. We’ve both become a little paranoid about creeping lurgies in our old age. Anyway, I’ve got to put us both out of our misery.
 
I loaded up my golf clubs at lunchtime, pretending to be off to play a few holes today. Actually it’s destination medical centre. Aside from Margaret’s fears, my big seven ‘O’ is looming and I’m afraid I might leave fixing whatever it is too late. For the last month all I have been able to think about was a kid at school that died of knee cancer – at least that’s what we heard at the time. I am mindful though that anything medical science couldn’t explain to us back then became the big ‘C’. The cause of this agony has been elusive so the possibilities have become that much more sinister.  

At the surgery I endured five minutes of growling about arriving without an appointment. Trying to be ultra friendly after the telling off, the gatekeeper finished with, “alright James, if you take a seat we will hope for a cancellation this afternoon.” Without protest I meekly sought the sanctuary of the chairs and magazines and settled in for a long wait.
 
When I was a kid it was always Jimmy but somewhere around fifty, people who didn’t know me started to call me James. Perhaps they felt that Jim, my real name, lacked the appropriate dignity for an older person. Doc Padgett always called me Jimmy. Back in those days his surgery consisted of a few chairs, a nurse that popped in and out of the inner sanctum and no magazines that I can recall. The pervasive smell of antiseptic though has stayed with me for years. And, another thing, there certainly didn’t seem to be anything explaining patient’s rights. Back then you could be the only one waiting to see the doctor with plenty of time to reflect on the need to be there at all. Those were the days of Mercurochrome and plaster casts. I can’t remember a day at school back then where somebody didn’t proudly display a limb covered in graffiti. I never did have one.

This fondly recalled nostalgia was interrupted by the unexpected, “James – doctor will see you now.” The chances of seeing the same doctor twice in a row were pretty slim but that’s what happened.
 
"Say Jimmy, long time no see. What brings you here today?"
 
"My knee."
 
"Right. So what about your knee?"
 
"Well, it creaks and groans and feels like it needs new bearings."
 
"We've looked at this before, haven't we? The fish oil and the glucosamine not working anymore, eh?"
 
"Nope, never worked and now I'm into pain killers too much for my liking.”
 
If truth were told I’d forgotten all about those pills. Considering they were the size of small nuclear warheads that was probably why I conveniently forgot to renew the prescription.
 
"OK, let's get a few notes. You know, I'll have to send you for an X-Ray and then, depending on what we see, to a specialist?
 
I nodded.
 
“ So, Jimmy, I might have asked this before but have you any idea how this happened in the first place?"
 
Bingo! That’s when I realised I did know how it had happened. Old Doc Padgett called me Jimmy and asked exactly the same question. I always wondered why it was, ‘in the first place,' as if there was a ‘second place’. Funny the way these little things stick in your mind, but perhaps this story had been lurking in my mind for a while now.
 
It was a hot early Sixties summer afternoon. My mate Dennis and I had just finished a marathon Monopoly game. We agreed it was time for a swim at the creek so we grabbed our bikes and rode a
 
block to collect Jingles and Curly; Jingles after the fat cowboy and Curly - no explanation needed. The twins lived in a ramshackle house with no TV, so we were pretty sure they would be up for it.
 
The creek was at the back of Finnemore's orchard. It was a bit spooky there so we always went together. We held our breath and pedalled furiously through the vacant lot at the back of the subdivision where there was supposed to be a dead body. Yeah, well, there might have been. We left a cloud of dust behind as we hit the dirt track through the bottom of the orchard. Half way along, and this was another ritual, we always stood on the pedals and screamed like banshees down to the creek.
 
Old man Finnemore didn't mind us using the swimming hole but all the same he sat on his veranda most of the time where he could see anyone snaffling apples. Tubby Barrett said that Finnemore took a shot at him once when he was snaffling. We didn't believe him but we didn't want to take chances either. The noise we figured would let old man Finnemore know we weren’t stopping for his precious apples. But, the fact was, it was mostly about frightening off any spookies lurking at the swimming hole - a flawless theory that worked all that summer.
 
As we neared the bank, Jingles on his clapped out old Schwinn, pedal clanking against the chain guard, clanked himself into the lead. At the riverbank he took off into the air and skidded into the water up to the pedals. He hung there for a minute and then keeled over. It was a challenge to see who could get out the furthest so I doubled back to get a better run at it. As I went over the bank my front wheel snagged a tree root. I went flying and landed in a heap; one knee whacked a rock and the other skidded on the gravel. I tried to scramble up but I kept slipping. In the end I just sat in the water and stared at my legs. My right knee looked funny with the kneecap facing the wrong way. The other knee was bleeding like crazy. 
 
Curly went green and staggered away muttering some new expletive he’d just learned. Jingles, oblivious to the real drama and being a budding mechanic, shouted from the top of the bank that it was just a busted spoke and he could fix it. Dennis, never really practical when it came to most things had a brilliant moment. He grabbed my kneecap and pushed it sideways. It made a squishy noise and snapped back like it was on an elastic band. I don't recall it actually hurting at the time because of the blood pouring from the other knee.
 
Somehow they got old man Finnemore and his rusted old F100 pickup to get me to Doc Padgett’s surgery. The first thing the Doc said was "Well, Jimmy, how did this happen in the first place?"
 
Anyway, that day, it took a couple of stitches and a good painting of Mercurochrome to fix the left leg. I remember it looked impressive. Doc felt the wobbly kneecap on the other leg, which by now had swollen to the size of a football. He said the swelling was a good sign but how he figured that out was a mystery. Anyway, all he did was wind one of those elastic bandages around and around it. I was mortified – no plaster cast. I remember my mum seemed pleased about that which seemed totally unfair to me at the time.
 
Doc Padgett got my attention back as he held me by the shoulders and looked me in the eye, "Well, Jimmy, you might get a bit of gyp from that knee in your old age but it's OK for now." 
 
At the time “gyp” was a concept beyond my comprehension.
 
"Earth to Mr Jones, are you with me?"
 
I felt my kneecap being pushed back and forth.
 
"Oh, yes, sorry doc. What was the question? I was somewhere else."
 
"Somewhere?’
 
“Elsewhere.”
 
“Oh. I see. So, Jimmy. Any idea how this happened? Any ideas at all?"
 
"Nope. Old age I guess."

Literary Festival News

Announcing: The 2019 VOLUME MAPUA LITERARY FESTIVAL
 
A boutique literary festival featuring some of New Zealand’s best writers will be held in Mapua on the weekend of 20-22 September.
Organised by VOLUME, the 2018 Bookshop of the Year, the festival will continue the series of literary festivals held in Mapua to benefit the Mapua Community Library.
“The VOLUME Mapua Literary Festival will emphasise the same qualities that we emphasise in our bookshop,” says Thomas Koed, co-owner of VOLUME with Stella Chrysostomou. “The festival will be small but of a very high quality. The speakers will be so interesting that we imagine attendees will be want to attend all sessions. They will hear from authors whose books they have enjoyed and discover authors whose books they will go on to enjoy. The intimate scale of the festival will also enable readers to meet and talk with authors and other literary enthusiasts.”
Writers attending the festival this year will include LLOYD JONES, who was short-listed for the 2007 Booker Prize for Mr Pip, and whose novel The Cage is a finalist for the Acorn Foundation Fiction Prize in the 2019 Ockham New Zealand Book Awards. ASHLEIGH YOUNG, whose essay collection Can You Tolerate This? won the prestigious 2017 Windham–Campbell Prize, will be appearing, along with CARL SHUKER, whose new novel, A Mistake, explores the impact of a medical misadventure on the life of a Wellington surgeon. Novelist and essayist PAULA MORRIS will return from her stint as the Katherine Mansfield fellow in Menton in time to attend the festival, and ANNETTE LEES will speak about her book Swim, which records her year of daily wild swimming as well as being a history of New Zealand outdoor swimming. Renowned poet and art writer GREGORY O'BRIEN will be attending, along with poet JENNY BORNHOLDT, and THOMASIN SLEIGH will speak about her novel Women in the Field, One and Two, which looks at the Modernist moment in the establishment of the New Zealand National Art Gallery from a feminist perspective. LYNN JENNER will discuss the relationship between words and land, and EIRLYS HUNTER, whose adventure novel The Mapmaker’s Race has delighted many children, will hold a session, as well as participating in one of the community events organised around the festival by the Mapua Community Library.
​ “The Mapua Community Library is delighted to be hosting Mapua’s fifth Literary Festival, this year in tandem with VOLUME,” says Carolyn Hughes of the Community Library committee. “The events start on Friday afternoon with storytelling, writing and illustrating workshops for local school children, followed by a ‘literary’ Quiz Night fundraiser for the library and supper in the evening.” The authors’ sessions will take place on the Saturday and Sunday.
“The programme we are delivering this year takes the Mapua Literary Festival to a new level,” says Koed. “People from Mapua, Nelson and beyond will find much to excite them - and the community library benefits, too.”
The full programme will be released in May. In the meantime, the public is being invited to ‘Save the Date’: 20-22 September 2019.
Winning Short Stories 2017
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Bridget and Jackie
Adult Short Story Winners Announced

Announcing the winners of our adult short story competition in association with our Literary Festival:

Congratulations to our winner - Jackie Cook and Runner Up - Carole Pring.
Jackie and Carol's stories will loaded to this page shortly along with the judge's summary.
​
Thanks to all those who entered and special thanks to Bridget Auchmuty, our wonderful judge.
Below is a live feed from our Facebook page.

Contact Us

Phone : 03 540 2545
Email : mapualibrary@xtra.co.nz
PO Box 49, Mapua 7048
Corner Toru Street & Aranui Road, Mapua.