Tirra Lirra by the River

***NOTE : Actual written piece is to be found below the Critical Appendix, I challenge you to scroll down if Critical Appendix don't exactly 'light your fire'***
Critical Appendix
In reading the novel I encountered many sections which I considered to be moments of particular clarity on Nora Porteous' behalf. moments in which we were given a glimpse into a most personal and emotive realm. The description of the globe, the examination of the final wall-hanging and the final paragraphs of the entire novel stood out. Beyond narrative that simply set the scene or gave background information, these are moments in which Nora ncounters a truth within herself. I decided to use one that I saw as particularly relavent and expand it, filling in details I 'read into' the narration. The section in which Betty Cust delivers the final wall-hanging.
I wanted to explore three things.
First, Nora's tendency for powerful imagery, specifically the globe. Apparently she gives ethereal and intangible elements of her life some form when trying to understand how they fit and what purpose they have. It also gives her some control over the situation. She says that she has control over the globe (of memory) for instance. So I wanted her to envision forms and images for my second area of exploration.
Secondly, Nora is regarding her own life - she is making a retrospect. Surely this couldn't be accomplished without some imagery on her behalf. The wall-hangings are the catalyst for this. They are an external image that captures an inner drama. A hidden side of her personality and a chance she left behind. how does she feel upon seeing the final, most perfect representation of this?
Last of all, I wanted to focus on what I saw as the rather crafty 'plotting' that went on 'behind the scenes' on Betty Custs behalf. She was deliberately showing Nora these hangings for a special reason, not merely a topic for discussion or a friendly gesture. Was she trying to show Nora where she went wrong? What she could have been? Was she trying to encourage some serious introspection on Nora's behalf? I believe so. Betty is far more crafty in my mind than the text may suggest, and I tried to reflect this mysterious, devious side of her in my portrayal.
Other elements may have come into play here and their but these are the focus of my writing. I will apologise for something that grates on me however, and could not be avoided, and thats the amount of material lifted directly from the text. The frequent 'chatting' that forms a great deal of the narration when these two are together could not be ignored without abusing the source. But I am sorry if this becomes a cause for concern on the readers behalf.
Overall, I believe my intention of exploring Nora's thoughts and feelings to a greater depth has been furfilled. The whole thing was considerably shorter in the book, and I wanted to do it a greater justice. I wanted to take what was written between the lines as if in invisible ink and present it for all to see.

Tirra Lirra by the River
"She approaches. If she finds me so inert she will surely call for Dr. Rainbow, of this I am certain. And so, for her and my own sake I roll over and sit up to wait for her. She comes halfway in the door and regards me without smiling for the briefest second. She is staring at me in a peculiar manner. I would have had cause for some angst if the expression had lasted more than the heartbeat it did. Some fear even. She smiles and walks in.
'Still not hungry, Nora?'
'I want nothing.' Do I speak of more than food here? I have no time to respond to my own thought when she holds up another embroidery. Something in the back of my mind awakens from its position on the borders of the globe, yet I fancy it is dark. I adjust my position roughly and recoil from it as she spreads it on my lap. And look into space.
At first I regard it somewhat solemnly. But then I find myself raising my left hand to my lips briefly as if to stifle a cry, and for the briefest moment my expression buckles to one of grief. But only for a moment, for Mrs. Cust is present. I drop my hand and clasp both of them before me. But my mind is almost screamingMore than leaving for London I had taken a journey away from myself, a journey that I know is irreversible and permanent. Here before me, trapped within each fibre of this work exists both the memory of the long hours of devotion I had endured for the sake of the finished product, and the part of me from whence these images had sprung, injected into every color, every stitch. A girl rolls in grass under a moonlit sky here. A river flows here. I river which I have never truly seen, a river near a castle I had believed decayed. Fallen. I had turned away from myself. I hear Betty shift uneasily and I realise that I have been staring at the embroidery for some length of time. I feel she requires some judgment, some comment from me. I can almost envision her stomach tying itself in knots. My tone does no justice to how I feel as I say flatly, 'It is very good'. I avoid eye contact with her now, perhaps to avoid seeing her disappointment at this response, but more likely because I cannot tear my eyes from the artwork.
'Isn't it! Though the maggies still my favourite.'
I look at her then, quite suddenly in fact, and try to gauge whether this response is truly genuine. It strikes me that she is deliberately speaking a lie in order to bait me, but there is no quizzical or impertinent mark on her smiling face. I do not feel she is ignorant of how this particular hanging has effected me, indeed, from the start, since she first brought the works into discussion I had a nagging impression she had some hidden agenda. This was further enflamed when I realised that she was presenting them chronologically. She was showing me a passage of time. I look back at the wall-hanging and feel my lips go white. Perhaps I'm being paranoid. This is all so disturbing to me. I grasp the masterpiece by the corners and hold it up before me, like a screen. Betty Cust's form is in shadow between the stitches. I feel like the pious church-goer staring with curiosity at the shadow which is my companion in the confessional box. I must confess my sin, for I wish to be absolved. for I am certain that it has already steered me on a course for Hell. It is time for me to pronounce my sin.
'I wonder what would have happened if I had never left this place.'
Betty Cust's shadowy form does not move, but I fancy I heard her sigh. Exhale.
'Haven't you ever wondered before?'
The burn of salt in one's eye at such a time is both appropriate and unwanted at once. I suddenly find myself angry. Frustrated. And yet it is not directed at Betty Cust.
'Never. Never once. I always believed it was imperative. But this shows I had begun to do something here after all. I have never done anything of this quality since. Who knows what else I may have drawn...'
No, stop. The globe within my mind has been flicked. I find myself emerged within the dark side of memory. Dear God. What am I holding? It cannot be a mere wall hanging to effect me so. I am holding a relic, an ancient key. A key to myself I tried to run from. This work represents a life of secrecy that was trying to break free. A sparrow that fluttered and crawled about below the windowsill, its wings broken. I had flown at glass with wings of hollow bone expecting to explore a far greater domain. An unexplored territory of myself. And yet that part of me then struck something unforeseen, broke its wings and died. I simply sat and watched it from a new, cheerless vantage point.
I regard the lighter side of the globe again, I need to. But the memory lies to close to the dark side, almost forming the border. I remember again my beloved book, and another section of the dear poem :

"But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
'I am half sick of shadows,' said
The Lady of Shalott."

I am indeed sick of shadows, and I drop the workonto my lap again. Sometimes I wish to dash my globe upon the floor, and now, as old as I am becoming, perhaps it will be taken from me. All my fears, hates and darker moments would disappear with one swift action. Suddenly I receive a rather vivid image of Dorothy Rainbow poised above me on the bed, her bloody axe raised, tears streaming down her face.
Betty thankfully breaks my grusome reverie. 'No, you can never tell about these things, can you? You know, Grace always said you would come back.'
'She was right, I did.' My eyes fall again to the stars, suns and moons. The boundless heavens. 'But very very late...', I regard Mrs. Cust again, '...And like anything else I have ever done, against my intentions. I never intended to return here. Although I did once intend to return to Sydney.'
'I know. She was so disappointed when you changed your mind.'
'Disappointed? I thought she was annoyed. She had a way of being annoyed with me.' Suddenly, Betty gives me exactly the same look that I saw ever so briefly upon her appearance in the room. this time pronounced and with her head tilted first to one side, then the other. I am suddenly possessed with the urge to lift the covers up over my face...to hide as if I were a child. 'Sometimes, when you talk about Grace, I feel I'm eavesdropping.'
I want to roll over again and fall into a deep sleep. I never want to awaken, never want to converse with this woman again. Merely dream and dream. Of castles and rivers and knights. I want to sleep forever. I have always thought myself more intelligent than this woman, but I suddenly find myself as a child listening intently to an adult spinning a tale. A story about me.
'Well,' I say, 'she practically stopped writing to me. Though perhaps that was because she just couldn't be bothered with anything much any more. Dorothy and she had been friends all their lives. I can well imagine how that horrible event must have made Grace sick and disgusted with everything.'
Again that look. But now she pauses for much to long, and then her eyes drift to the floor and her smile disappears from my mind, a foreign image in comparison to her now. 'Nora, I'll bring some water and glucose and put it by your bed. And I've left some fish soup in the fridge, in case you're hungry later.' She looks at me again and the smile returns. 'Do try to eat it.'
She stands and takes the embroidery from my lap. Holding it up at arms length as I did. her head and shoulders become a black silhouette as the work hangs between us. Penance.
'I think after all it is the best.'
I become frustrated. She is playing games with me. 'There is no doubt about it,' I say snappishly. And then my face again decomes a mask of dispair as I realise her game. I am so sick of shadows."

"Oh, the magnificent tapestry of life that is The Musings of Dan"
or
"Where to Miss. Daisy?", "Take me to The Lair of Dan, right away", "Yes, Miss. Daisy"