Published: 20 Feb 2023

Chapter 12

Vehicle lights shone through farm gates illuminating the door to the house, drawing Alf Parker out onto the verandah in wonder who could be visiting as such a late hour. He knew the lights of most who would visit by their setting but these were closer, depicting those of a jeep.

“Who is it?” May calls from preparing the kitchen for the following morning.

“Don’t rightly know but it could be someone from the airfield, it looks like a jeep.”

“OH,” May sounds.

‘Bad news,’ she thinks and hopes not but with Owen’s return well overdue she could only think the worst. Immediately she continues her regret in allowing Owen on what could be a dangerous mission, ‘I should have been stronger,’ she thinks while attempting to dislodge her building negativity. ‘I should have been stronger with Jim away, I should have said no,’ she silently blames herself and is physically trembling while joining Alf in the dullness of the verandah, both peering uneasily into the night.

“Someone is walking from the gate,” Alf says as the vehicle reverses back onto the road and returns in the direction of town and the base.

“It can’t be bad news as they would have driven in,” Alf assumes.

May’s fears commenced to lift, “I know that walk,” she sighs in relief and takes hold of Alf’s arm as they wait.

“Mum,” Owen calls while remaining at distance and seeing his parents on the verandah.

“Owen!” May answers and disregarding wearing her house slippers quickens along to path to meet her son, “Your father was worried sick, we expected you back two days ago – why didn’t you call?”

“Settle mother,” Alf called after May but for two pins would have joined his wife as she wrapped shaking arms around the lad’s shoulders.

“Megan-may at least let me inside before you smother me,” Owen laughs.

As Owen reached the door Gavin arrived and all three follow him into the house with questions coming so quickly that Owen couldn’t formulate answers before the next.

“What’s that you are carrying?” Gavin asks.

“It’s a native war mask, Chip gave it to me.”

“You stink worse than Sookie when she rolls in cow shit,” Gavin exclaims.

“Gavin, mind your language,” May sternly admonishes but under the circumstance is inclined to agree.

“Well mum he does.”

“We don’t have time to bathe in the air force,” Owen laughs and sniffs at his armpits.

“A dog can’t smell itself,” Gavin suggests.

“You must be hungry,” May says, “I have some nice fresh bread and a little roast chicken leftover from yesterday.”

“No I’m fine, I had something on the plane and American rations are quite extensive.”

“Don’t you ever do such a silly thing again,” May warns.

“It was fun and I was never in any danger. I do have some news for you but firstly it is issued with a warning not to worry.”

“By saying that you have me worried,” May answers.

“It is about Jim.”

“No, he isn’t -,”

“As I said don’t worry; he has been wounded and came back on the plane with us. They have taken him to the military hospital at Rocky Creek,”

It was obvious May’s anxiety had gone into overdrive and if possible she would have Alf start the truck and go to visit Jim at that very instant.

“He has a shoulder wound and will be fine, he said the bullet went right through without hitting anything of importance.”

“Everything is important or it wouldn’t be there.”

“Well mum that is what Jim said and he told me to tell you not to worry.”

Eventually both Alf and May allowed Owen to settle from their questions, giving him opportunity to reacquaint with Gavin, who had many of his own to ask.

“Gavin have you finished your homework?” Alf asks as Gavin appears eager to hear all.

“I’ve the whole weekend to do it.”

“Then let Owen have a few moments to settle, he’ll still be here in the morning.”

“He’s alright dad, I don’t mind,”

“Ten minutes then off to bed,” Alf warns.

“What was it like?” Gavin asks once alone with his brother.

“Fun and I was in an air raid, the Japs bombed the airfield and blew up two planes and a number of buildings.”

“Wow! Were you scared?”

“Shit-scared I’m telling you.”

“I wish I had been there. What about Jim, is he really home and alright?”

“He is and by what the medic said, he should be home here in a couple of weeks.”

“Will you take me over to see him?”

“Mum should visits first; there will be plenty of time for us later on.”

Gavin picks up the mask souvenir, “what is it used for?”

“Chip said it is similar to those used by headhunters in the Dutch West Indian jungle when they are warring but this one was made for tourists.”

“What cannibals?”

“Possibly but those who made this one are sort of friendly.”

“It doesn’t look friendly.”

“I’m going to hang it on my bedroom wall.”

Being home gave Owen much to think about and with Jim wounded, surely the army would have no further use of him. Therefore once Jim was well enough he could return to the farm and become their father’s right hand, leaving Owen to consider his future and much more. For now his mind remained racing from the excitement of his adventure and it was a number of days before he came down and rejoined the mundane of farm living.

While alone during a warm night on the verandah enjoying a beer, Chip again came to mind and that night in Moresby. Owen could still feel Chip’s touch to his thigh, could feel the warmth radiating from Chip’s hand through his own. He remembered how it excited him and if they were alone he would have allowed the passion to expand but now away from it all what were his thoughts on the matter. There was Chip’s wish to speak with him, as if in private and away from family and the base, also Chip’s somewhat cool attitude on arriving back in Mareeba, did he harbor regret for allowing Owen to travel, or was there misgivings for being bold during their sleeping arrangements on the plane.

Owen wound back the years of memory to that summer when they built the dam. He recalled his secret hideaways with his friend Ian Douglas and how he felt when Ian came no more. Now those almost forgotten emotions were returning but belonged to another and one not of his country or its history.

Last of all there was the war, eventually it would end and Chip would return home to his mid west country town and farm, so regardless of any projected emotion it would be best to stop it all before it had chance to develop into something he could not control. What was it that he must control, what was the emotion stirring within? What did he feel for his foreign airman? Was it love, or simply infatuation?

A deep breath and a gentle head shake.

“Love,” Owen whispers.

‘Is it love I am feeling?’ a deeper breath and Owen moves on without conclusion.

A noise behind from the squeaking of the wire door as Gavin arrives, taking away any need to concern further on what the future may bring.

“What’s doing?” Gavin asks and seats without invitation.

“I am having a beer and a quiet thought.”

“Can I have a beer?”

“Are you twenty-one yet?”

“You’re not twenty-one either,” Gavin protests.

“Don’t tell dad,” Owen fills half a glass and passes it to his brother.

“I saw Jim today,” Gavin says.

“How is he?”

“He said he will be home next weekend but will have to return to light duties and finish his obligation to the army.”

“I guess you are leading up to the end of year’s exams?” Owen says.

“Yes soon.’

“How is it all going?”

“Alright I suppose. I saw a mate of yours in town on Monday afternoon.”

“Who would that have been?”

“Ian Douglas, he asked after you and said you promised to visit him sometime.”

“No I said maybe I would visit him,” Owen was quickly backing away from ownership of his friendship with Douglas.

“He’s a strange kinda’ coot,” Gavin issues with a light chuckle.

“Why?”

“He says things.”

“Don’t we all?”

“What I mean, he says things that have no relationship to the conversation.”

“Yes I’ve noticed but that’s his way, he’s all mouth and no trousers. It’s best to simply ignore or tell him to button-it, besides he is thick-skinned and almost impossible to insult.”

“I remember the year the dam was built and he almost lived here on the farm.”

“We were at school together, so I suppose we did kick about.”

“He was just as weird back then.”

“That I couldn’t say as I hardly remember his visits and I don’t really know him anymore. Anyway where is this conversation leading Gavin?”

“Doesn’t matter, what were you like at maths-B?” Gavin asks as he downs the last of his beer and passes the glass for a refill. “Please,” he softly requests.

“You’ve had enough – do you mean algebra and logarithms?”

“That’s them.”

“It wasn’t my favourite subject, why do you ask?”

“Five-X plus three is equal to seven-X plus one; sorta’ thing,” Gavin says.

“That’s about the strength of it.”

“Then if X is a number or product, why not say so and not some dumb letter.”

“It is more involved than that Gavin.”

“I dunno’ I can’t seem to understand what old Filby is on about.”

“You have Walter Filby, I thought he retired.”

“Nope, I think they brought him back simply to annoy me and we have a building disassociation with each other.”

“Put it this way kid, I must agree with you and can’t see how algebra can help grow spuds. How are you with the rest?”

“I’m getting there but no way will I pass Latin.”

“I should think it helps in knowing what solanum tuberosum’s are.”

“And what are they?”

“Spuds.”

A week had passed and Owen hadn’t heard from Chip, although that wasn’t uncommon, as the air force, or the war wasn’t programmed to any schedule, also Chip had mentioned while they were in Moresby the possibility he could be flying active missions on his return. Doing so was another reason why Owen shouldn’t develop too deep a friendship, otherwise disappointment was sure to follow.

Owen had a way of preventing disappointment from becoming foremost and had done so since he was a boy. He would mentally repeat, it doesn’t matter – it doesn’t matter over and over. At first he had little success but as time progressed he found by either mentally or rhetorically repeating his adage his persona actually accepted the situation and it didn’t matter but as he worked along the rows of beans in the cool of the morning he was having difficulty in convincing Chip didn’t matter.

A call from Alf temporary removed the problem as he approached where Owen is working.

“You can leave that for now as I have a little job for you.”

Owen was happy for the distraction, so collecting his water bag and with hoe shouldered he approached his father.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Winnie is coming home for the weekend and you can go in and pick her up.”

“This early in the day?”

“No after she finishes her work, she will be leaving early around two but firstly there is that part in I ordered for the tractor, it should be in by now, also Jim will be home for the weekend.”

“Should I also collect Jim?”

“No the army will deliver him but before you leave, see your mother as she has a little list for you to fill at Pollards.”

Owen releases a teasing chortle, “little,” he says knowing his mother’s lists could take the length of one’s arm but in such times, fulfillment would be far from possible.

“Also take a small box of tomatoes and a couple of dozen eggs with you.”

“Why so?”

“It may loosen Pollard’s grip on supplies.”

“I thought you were dead-set against anything to do with black marketing,”

“Not when I have your mother breathing down my neck.”

“Old man Pollard is cagey and it may take more than tomatoes and eggs to persuade him.”

Alf simply gives a head chuckle without further response.

Firstly it was to Farm and Feed Agency for the tractor part and the disappointment that often came when ordering by telephone.

Shorty Bevin comes from his storeroom with the part, “I had a bugger of a time getting this for your old man,” he says and places it on the bench top, “I should charge him a premium for my time.”

“That’s a pity,” Owen says.

“Why so?” Shorty questions while favouring his leg injured during a tractor rollover when he was but a boy. He bends his leg to lessen the pain.

“It isn’t the correct part.”

“It is what Alf described over the telephone.”

“I’m telling you Mr. Bevin it isn’t the correct part, I should know as in most, I’m the tractor driver and its mechanic.”

Bevin appears somewhat taken back, “I went to a lot of trouble to get it for your old man.”

He dumps the part aside and commences to disengage from further discussion.

“I’ll show you on one of the tractors you have in the yard.” Owen offers.

Shorty follows Owen to the first tractor and stands impatiently by while waiting for explanation.

Owen points to the tractor’s shiny green painted engine, “that’s the part you got in – correct.”

“Correct.”

Owen points further along the motor; “that’s the part that is buggered.”

“Then why didn’t Alf bloody-well say so?”

“I couldn’t say Mr. Bevin, can you get it in?”

“I can but what of the part I got for Alf?”

“You will have to take that up with dad.”

Once inside Pollard’s store, Owen had a further wait as Edna Jamieson from the top end of Gilbert Street, a well known octogenarian and procrastinator, was jabbering on to Pollard’s displeasure about the neighbour’s noisy dog, as she took her time gathering together the money to pay for her purchase. Eventually she departed and it was Owens turn to offer up his mother’s extensive shopping list.

“Sometimes I wonder why I bother,” Pollard says.

“I must admit she was little slow.”

“Old women are all dithers. She had two purses and a note wallet. She took almost ten minutes to find seven and sixpence out of her silver purse, three pennies from her copper purse and still had to rummage through her handbag for a lose halfpenny, saying she was trying to save my change, even after I had suggested to forego the halfpenny.

“You must admit she was trying to be helpful.”

“Helpful? She will be back again on Thursday, purchase the same things while again complaining about her neighbour’s noisy dog.”

“Mine will be easy Mr. Pollard, no money as it will be on account.”

“That is another point of contention, my account book is full of non-payers – anyway enough of that, now what can I do for you young fellow?”

Owen offers up his mother’s list and patiently waited as Pollard dramatically removed his pencil from behind his ear and commences to strike a number of items from the list.

He appeared to be enjoying his delisting.

“Can’t get that,” he says.

“Nor that.”

“Again nope’.”

“I haven’t had that since before the war.” Again the pencil swipes across the list.

“That is rationed and needs coupons.” He lifts his eyes from the list.”

“Mum didn’t give me coupons as she has run out until the next issue.”

“You should know better young lad.”

“She hoped a couple of dozen eggs may help the lack of coupons.”

“She did – did she?”

“And dad has thrown in a box of tomatoes.”

Pollard gives a knowing chortle and goes behind for the few items he could supply. On returning he places them on the counter and speaks, “eggs you say?”

“Yes the girls have been busy of late.”

“How many did you say?”

“Two dozen.”

“Tomatoes,” Pollard follows on from the eggs.

“A small box.”

“Are they anything like the last lot?”

“Even better, the weather has been good for tomatoes this season.”

“That could be considered felonious and you should be well aware how the authorities treat those dabbling in the black-market.”

“Mum said it was more like old fashion bartering.”

“Bartering,” the old man laughs and departs to his storeroom. Moments later he returns with a five pound bag of flour and a small container of butter.

“Eggs,” the shopkeeper repeats.

“Yes I have them in the truck.”

“And tomatoes?”

“Yes also tomatoes.”

Pollard gives a chuckle as Owen goes for the eggs and tomatoes and when he returns the five pound bag of flour and butter remain on the counter next to May’s order with a number of other hard to obtain items although Harry Pollard is not to be seen. Owen places down the boxes and calls, “Mr. Pollard!” No answer was forthcoming. He quickly understands the transaction and collects the flour and the few items that could be supplied. As he heads for the door Pollard returns.

“Tell Alf I’ve put them on account.”

“Also the flour?” Owen asks.

“What flour?”

“And the butter?”

“What butter?”

Winnie had been waiting for Owen for some time and was in a mood. “You were supposed to be here half an hour ago and it’s hot and humid,” she complains while making comment on his lateness.

“I couldn’t help it, I had to go to Farm and Feed for dad and Pollards for mum.”

“Anyway,” Winnie says in a huff.

“Anyway what?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Jim is coming home for the weekend,” Owen says which takes away the most of Winnie’s mood and with a quick farewell to Pam, then a short conversation with a customer about the difficulty in obtaining anything that could be considered fashionable, she is ready to depart.

As they pass the airfield on their return journey, Winnie appears interested in who is about the field, “are you looking for someone?” Owen asks.

“No, why should I be?”

“Your neck couldn’t be further out the window if you tried.”

Close to the entry to the base Owen is stopped as a convoy of trucks is given right of way and he has a clear view of the hangers with sight of Chip’s Dakota. Eventually he is waved on.

“How is your mate?” Winnie asked.

“Who would that be?”

“Chip Miller.”

“I thought you fancied Chip?” Owen suggests.

“Not likely.”

“Why not as it was your idea to have him around in the first instance.”

“No it was mother’s idea.”

“So why have you gone off him.

“I have my reasons – besides.”

“Besides what?”

“Besides mind your own business.”

Once home Owen pauses at the farm gate waiting for his sister to do the honors with the opening but she appeared to be reluctant, “the gate won’t open itself you know,” Owen sarcastically imposes.

“The ground is wet and muddy.”

“What has that to do with opening the gate?”

“In these shoes? I think not.”

Owen grumbles and goes for the gate.

Once open, Winnie slides across to the driver’s seat and drives through leaving Owen behind. “I’ll get you for that girl!” he shouts. As he commenced to close the gate a jeep arrives from the opposing direction. It is Jim coming home for the weekend. The driver entered through the gate and waits, “hop in mate and I’ll drive you to the door,” the driver suggests.

“Home at last Jim,” Owen offer’s his brother his hand which was silently accepted with a forced smile.

“Only for the weekend,” the driver says, “nice farm, it reminds me of ours back home.”

“Where is home?”

“Country west of Gympie,” the driver skids to stop close to the verandah, “We are here Private Parker.”

“Thank you lieutenant.”

“Monday then and around midday, is that to your liking?” The lieutenant’s words may have appeared to be a suggestion but was his way of issuing an order.

“I guess so sir.”

“I’ll have Corporal Hargreaves collect you, so don’t keep him waiting.”

For a time Jim stood watching the jeep until it rejoined the main road and turned east towards Rocky Creek.

“Are you going to stand there all day?” Owen asks.

“I was just thinking,” Jim says but remains reluctant to disengage from the departing vehicle until it is but dust on the gravel road.

“Are you alright Jim?” Owen asks while noting a change in his brother’s character, as he now appeared to be withdrawn from company, even lacking his usual acerbic humour.

Jim remained rigid his gaze across the planted fields to the creek and back to the horse paddock.

“Where’s Ruby,” Jim asks.

“She’s in her paddock, probably down the dip towards the creek as she likes to hang around with the Joliffe’s kids pony. I think they neck with each other over the fence.”

“Have you been riding her?”

“Mostly Gavin has.”

“Teaching her bad habits I should think.”

“She has put on a lot of condition, so I think you should start riding as soon as possible.”

Jim takes a deep breath but remained reluctant to progress towards the house.

“Are you sure you are alright Jim?” Owen repeats. His tone is low and curious towards his brother’s wellbeing.

“I said I am – didn’t I?”

“You better buck-up, or you will have mum worried.”

“Buck-up you say,” Jim repeats with a huff.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes brother, I suppose I do.”

Jim slowly diverts his gaze and without furthering conversation enters into the house.

Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Conder 333 at Hotmail dot Com

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