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Here’s a short extract from my story:

Obsolescence

Knut disposes of the guilty in the city of rain. On Friday, his shadow was thrown across Mrs Brysken’s umbrellas. She heard the clang of the door, felt the rush of ice and cocked her head up from the cache of new stock—white umbrellas with wee black owls. The man was gristly like a troll, rune tattoos over his forearms, visible where the white shirt rolled back. He didn’t seem to feel the Bergen winter. He had on a black leather vest and looked down, his eyes opening her like an item of her stock.

‘I know why you have come,’ she said, swallowed, dropped the owled umbrellas and trembled back from the counter.

Knut had been surprised to find, when he started this business, that the guilty came easily. Each was willing to confess and be punished, their conscience having burdened them too long. So now, without a word, he slipped his forearm through the small, fat lady’s and led her out into the rain. Her hands shook too much to pick up an umbrella.

Knut’s cabin was on the face of Fløyen, one of De syv fjell—the Seven Mountains—that surrounded Bergen. Beside the mountain was a steep fjord which collected day and night the city’s detritus, swept in by the eternal rain. On the rare sunny days, Knut could not conduct his business. He could travel only under the cover of grey.

His cabin was stone, with a grey sky-coloured roof; far from the red, yellow, and blue fishermen’s houses. Unlike them, he would never be long enough away to forget where it was he lived. The woman shivered in her seat by the empty fireplace, the flowers on her dress bumping and grinding, too bright for the room.

‘I ate the whole cake, every day,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to. I… felt hungry still.’

After Mrs Brysken’s body had rolled like a barrel down the mountain, a familiar sensitivity crept up on Knut. He had been sent here, to do this, to remove the quivering, false members of this city. But there was always a snag these days, just after the deed was done, somewhere near the front of his shirt. He rubbed the ræið on his chest and decided to focus on tomorrow.

In the heart of the city, facing Byfjorden, Knut is invisible to all but the guilty. But there are so many of them now. The city has its garbled faces, but some are white-round beacons of misdemeanor, depending on how closely they tie themselves to their crimes. He has also noticed, in the years since 1702, when seven-eighths of the city burned and he survived by hiding in the bay, that the nature of their guilt has changed. Once, there were thieves, murderers, rapists, pedophiles, adulterers and the incestuous. Now shone such crimes as gluttony, greed, sloth, and dishonesty. And guilt was even smeared on children’s faces, like Freia Melkesjokolade chocolate. It was on the elderly, for the care their sons and daughters disposed. It glared at him from the doors of Lagunen Storsenter, where shoppers exited with more than they had intended to buy.

He had on his list to watch: a fishmonger, an attendant at the Christmas shop, an artist and the antique dealer. The rain was abundant but the market still busy when Knut approached Wilfred’s table. The man whistled as he sliced and bagged the salmon. Knut could see the guilt weighing upon each shoulder, making the slicing slow. Wilfred looked up, and raised the knife at Knut.

‘I need you to come with me,’ Knut growled. Wilfred’s shoulders lifted a little. He set down the knife, and was led.

Read the rest by buying the world it’s contained in.

N.B. ræið is the name of a rune, old-Norse for ‘ride, journey’.

When I was first offered this book to review I thought: Well, Ms Meyer, it seems that not only are you literary-minded but you’re also literally minded, because what you have given me here is a book about a Brisbane girl returning home to her family. Which, Angela—as you very well know—is the very same situation I was in when you flung this book at me. However, when I started reading I realised that maybe not everything in this world is about me after all, and once I got over the shock of that I was able to appreciate that Linda Neil’s story is very much her own, and a beautifully rendered one at that.

Learning How to Breathe is a memoir, the debut of musician-radio producer, Neil. It traces her relationship with her ailing mother, whom she is suddenly called home to take care of after years of being away. Using interviews with family members, stories from other relatives and friends, and of course, her own memories, Neil recounts what happens over the next decade as she witnesses her mother’s deteriorating health and records their experiences in various caring facilities. A shared love of music is the bond that helps mother and daughter reconnect during this difficult time, and Neil’s examination of their changing relationship is thoughtful and tender.

The childhood home is described with detailed affection. Neil’s mother, Joan, was a singing teacher and taught students out of her house in St Lucia, Brisbane, so the five children grew up surrounded by music. One of the nice touches about the book is Joan’s singing advice (which was published in various industry newsletters over the years) scattered throughout the story, helping us hear her voice in harmony with the voice of her daughter.

Neil plumbs her family history to understand where she has come from. Her self-characterisation as a bohemian-wild-child, who spent her youth playing electric violin on the streets of Sydney and living in the hills of Byron Bay before coming home as the prodigal daughter, seemed to me a little heavy-handed to begin with. But as the story and her relationship with her mum grows stronger, Neil seems to become clearer about her own development, and the writing grows too. By the end, I was overawed by the magnificent moments that fill the final half of the book—moments illustrating a family’s love.

What came across most beautifully for me in Neil’s writing is the way that she and her four siblings seemed to share and balance the role of caring for their mother over the many years of her illness. She skillfully depicts the ways each child is able to contribute their very different strengths. I adored these moments. The final few chapters are completely breathtaking, and as a reader you feel much rewarded at that point.

This book is about love, and the multifarious ways it can be expressed. It’s a book for anyone who has had to decide between caring for a loved one or institutionalising them. It’s a book for those who enjoy truthful stories, stories about discovering the light within the darkness, stories about music, and stories about Brisbane girls returning home to their family.

Lorelei Vashti is a writer and book editor with no fixed address, but that doesn’t mean she’s homeless. She swans around here in her dressing gown and here in her more professional attire. God knows what she wears here but it can’t be pretty.