Stale Biscuits

Charmaine Reader

29/03/2026

It was his fifth such meeting in as many weeks. The same hard chairs, same generic assortment of stale biscuits next to a leaky urn, and the same old, tired faces. This was his last shot though. The wife was now looking smug.

It was unacceptable; he’d been good at his job. Now here he was, six months into forced retirement and facing the last volunteer group in the area. Friends of the bush: Sylvia Falls.

‘I’d like to welcome Maurice to the group. He’s the husband of one of my dearest friends,’ Jillian, the president, said. This was the sole reason Maurice had come tonight: the wife’s Ultimatum. The bush didn’t need friends.

‘Tell us all a little about yourself, Maurice,’ Jillian said.

‘Well, I was in finance in Melbourne for forty plus years, worked my way up to manager of the Oakleigh branch. During the merger with Westpac, efficiency was up by 5%, and the share price at transfer was the highest in four quarters.’

Silence.

‘I’ve got fourteen granddaughters, fourteen! Not a single grandson!’ said a short man with an ugly hand-knitted hat.

‘I have frogs in my pond!’ from an elderly, bespectacled lady.

‘OOOOH, how nice!’

‘Do you know what species?’

Maurice had nothing in common with these people. If not for The Ultimatum, he’d be out of here before they dunked their biscuits.

*

He stood ankle deep in something that oozed and smelled of mould. What a mess: brush uncleared and branches obscuring signage amid the ceaseless racket of insects and bird calls. His eyes itched; something was triggering his allergies. Maurice rubbed his face with the industrial-strength gloves he’d brought.

‘Hi Maurice, how’s it going?’ said Jillian. ‘I admire your confidence to just get into the work rather than asking for help, but perhaps I could show you a different technique for branch trimming. Those might poke an eye out!’ Jillian said, smiling.

Maurice looked down.

‘Who the bloody hell would be stupid enough to put their faces that low!’

‘Children, Maurice. Did you ever bring your kids here? It’s a popular trail for young families with the picnic settings and only a short walk to the Falls.’

‘Er, no.’ He rubbed his eyes again.

Jillian looked at him. ‘What are those gloves made of, Maurice? You might have a latex allergy.’

*

At the next meeting, Maurice presented a talk on time management. He’d watched people amble about for five hours, trimming bushes here, cutting up fallen branches there; they could be done in three! He had prepared graphs and spreadsheets, but unfortunately, the meeting room had only a whiteboard. He had to hand-draw things. His graphs were unacceptably wonky, and the pen squeaked.

Polite clapping.

Silence.

‘Thank you so much, Maurice. I’ll have a look over your ideas and see what we can use,’ said Jillian. ‘Next on the agenda is, er, biscuits. Again, Wei Han?’

The short guy with the odd hat shot to his feet.

‘So, the current biscuit selection is unpopular; no one eats the Delta Creams. I propose we trial the High Tea Assortment.’

The group then had a heated discussion on the merits of Orange Slice over Scotch Finger.

‘Why did we spend thirty minutes discussing biscuits rather than my improvements? These people are wasting their lives!’ Maurice said to Jillian at the end of the meeting.

‘We’re discussing what’s important to people. We’re all retirees; it’s time out in the bush with friends. What would you do with those extra hours at home?’

‘Well, I’d…’ he stopped. The wife was usually out, at chair yoga or her book club or the craft workshops she did with the local schools. He’d be alone.

*

That’s it, Maurice thought, that’s bloody it. Ultimatum or no, he was quitting this afternoon. Useful only because he was tall. Maurice leant against a tree, arms outstretched, holding a cable that absolutely could not touch the ground for some unfathomable reason. He’d had enough. The wife would just have to deal with it.

He felt a tickle on his hand, and then another, and then a bite. Ants! A black tide of them, running down his arm, heading for his shirt sleeve. Maurice wailed, a sound like the tearing of his soul. His whole body shook, and tears streamed down his face, but still he gripped the cable.

‘Quick, Wei Han, give me that rake!’ said Jillian as everyone rushed over.

Once Jillian positioned the rake under the cable, Maurice started slapping his arm furiously. Wei Han helped, using his hat to flick ants away.

‘I’ve got some ointment for bites,’ said Rosie.

Maurice sank to the ground, shuddering, gripping his welt-covered arm.

‘I, um, thanks, guys,’ Maurice said.

The bushes next to him rustled. Maurice froze.

A wombat waddled out, only metres from where he sat, and nosed briefly in the dirt before ambling off. Maurice felt a swelling in his chest, like he was connected to something bigger and more wondrous than just himself – helped by the kindness of others. He’d last felt like this during the hectic time when the twins were born.

He looked up at Jillian, her smile as wide as his own.

Rosie returned with her ointment, and by the time she’d finished, it looked like he’d dipped his arm in a vat of whipped cream, but it felt better.

After the cable was fixed in place, they sat around the picnic table, drinking lukewarm tea and trialling the new biscuit selection. He’d never enjoyed afternoon tea more.

*

They tromped the trail, hand in hand, savouring the eucalyptus tang mixed with the earthiness of recent rain. The faint roar of Sylvia Falls in the distance was punctuated by the buzzing of insects and the warble of a maggie.

‘Here it is!’ Maurice said. ‘Ant tree!’

His wife laughed.

‘Jillian says you’ve been a great help over the last six months, and they’ve even taken on some of your time-saving suggestions. And I guess this means you successfully won The Ultimatum. You have total control of the TV remote until November. Well done.’

Yeah, The Ultimatum. Maurice had forgotten about it. He was more looking forward to showing the grandkids the trail when they visited at Christmas.

‘Let’s go check out the Falls.’

***

Honourable mention: Charmaine Reader

Charmaine is an emerging writer living in South Gippsland. She gravitates towards writing stories of kindness and connection through humour. Besides writing she enjoys reading, spending time with her partner and their spoilt cats, and being part of the local Community House.