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Cover of A Promise of Peaches

A Promise of Peaches

2011

Valerie's second published book.

It was an act of simple kindness for an Australian couple to take two Czech refugees from post World War II Europe into their working-class home. They could never have foreseen the 
tensions these sophisticated Europeans would create, or the life-changing impact they would have on their teenage daughter. A Promise of Peaches explores sympathetically the culture clashes of the 1950s immigration, not unlike those of today, and shows with sensitivity the unfolding of adolescent sexuality.

Cover Comments

A Promise of Peaches is a thoughtful and deeply compassionate examination in verse of female adolescence and cultural tensions in Melbourne in the early 1950s. Valerie Volk has the reader 
sympathising almost equally with all her main protagonists, despite the steadily mounting conflicts between them. Mutual incomprehension between and within the ‘old’ Australians and the ‘new’ is dramatically portrayed and its climactic resolution persuasively drawn.

— - Geoff Page

‘I read this manuscript in one sitting, without pause, a testimony to its readability and its inherent interest... A verse novel has proved ideal for the task: the work is compressed and the form suits the intensity of the subject... The climax, when the adolescent Claire begins her sexual awakening in response to Viktor, is handled with tact and expertly delineates the responses of the two. The triumph of the novel is this respect for all the main characters – even Irena, who could be a standard “femme fatale”.’

— - Thomas Shapcott (Professor Emeritus of Creative Writing, University of Adelaide)

Poetry

Claire - February, 1951

I lie in bed that night and wonder.
Just what would it be like?
To have to leave your home, your friends,
even your books and toys behind,
and find another place to live,
another country?
What if you couldn’t speak the language?
How would people understand you?

The shadows on my bedroom wall
are flickering with passing cars
along the rain-slicked street outside.
The sound is comforting, but still
I shiver, and reach up to pull the blind
that final inch, enclosing
in the room my world secure.

Joe - Sunday, April 8, 1951

Working in
the vegie garden.
I was digging
spuds. Doss in
the next bed,
weeding carrots.
I stopped a minute
for a breather.
Looked at her,
face reddened
as she stooped
and gathered up
the box of weeds.
Felt something
warm inside me.
Thought of
Viktor, on his own
“What say we stop, love,
have a cup of tea?”

Viktor - Sunday night, April 15, 1951

Irena.
Nights are worst. Nights when I feel
again the silken ripple of your skin
moving underneath my seeking hands.
Your body quiver at my touch. Your breathing
shallow, quickening as your passion mounts.
The way you lie, eyes closed, demure,
until with calculated practised ease,
you part your legs when you are ready for me.
The nights when you are willing …


Irena - Wednesday, April 25, 1951

Three days. I shall be mad. I walk the room.
I hear her at this door.
“A cup of tea?’
“I drink it not.”
“Coffee then, love?”
She call me ‘love’!!
I stay in room. I will not sit with her. I cry.

Doss - Friday, April 27, 1951

Lizzie, I tell you I can’t make this work.
You know me; I’m not one to shirk
my duty, but I just don’t know
how I can ever make a go
of this arrangement. She won’t talk
and when I asked her if she’d like to walk
down to the shops with me, you should have seen
the look she gave me, like a queen
staring at a peasant. Made me feel so small –
I don’t think this is going to work at all.
I tell you straight; if not for you next door
I don’t think I’d put up with any more!

Claire - Tuesday, June 5, 1951

Can’t wait to get to school today, and tell them all
I’m going to the gallery. It’s so nice
of Viktor and Irena. Last night I dreamed
about them. Well, actually it was Viktor
that I dreamed about, and we were walking down
a tunnel filled with pictures. Right at the other end
there was a door. Not sure why, but almost felt
it could be scary. Don’t know why. Viktor told me
not to worry – in my dream, this is.
I didn’t get to open it. But I wonder
what would have been behind the door.

Claire - Friday, August 24, 1951

I don’t think I can get to sleep tonight. I only want
to think about that walk home. Dad set the pace –
he always walks real fast on Friday nights – and
Viktor, Paul and I trailed after. We were talking,
mainly about movies, this and that. I guess
I wasn’t watching properly where I stepped,
because I almost fell into a gutter. Viktor reached out
just to steady me, and took my hand.
“But so so cold,” he said. “Where is your glove?”
and then he held my hand the whole way home.

I didn’t tell him it was in my pocket.

Claire - 2009

I saw him only once after the day they left.
It was a long time after. I walked, not really
looking where I went, down Collins Street.
A rainy afternoon, and scurrying crowds.
Pavements wet and slippery, umbrellas
flapping in a gusty wind. And in the gutters
grimy scraps caught sodden in the scum.
The detritus of living. I’d come out from
warmth and golden light – another small café –
not memorable; I’d said my last goodbyes to one
more failed entanglement, and moved
dispiritedly out into the cold. I brushed
against a small dark man, and knew at once
it was the figure from my dreams. But yet
not so. Diminished. Beaten. Shoulders hunched,
and not against the cold. He raised his hat,
yes even now, still hat, still courteous,
but did not look at me. “Pardon!” he said,
and hurried on.

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