Published: 5 Jan 2026

Autumn-time

Small town syndrome with school out and employment satisfied as best that can be expected with the limited opportunity available. For boys it is the local garages, one at either end of the long and shady main street, the bacon factory, outlying farms or the timber mill, some may find employment with the shire attending to parks or road maintenance. Those with good grades from their final year of high school may leave town, travelling twelve hundred miles to the state capital to attend university, or remain locally training as bank clerks and accountants. If there is salt running through the arteries possibly prawn fishing in the Gulf of Carpentaria, or become deck hands on the man coastal trading vessels supplying the many small towns to the north, as far as Thursday Island at the tip of Cape York or Port Moresby in Papua New Guinea. The less fortunate may find work on the many cattle stations, or tobacco farms during picking season.

Girls became shop assistants or secretaries, some may train as nurses, seamstresses or home help while quickly searching for a young fellow to entice into marriage to avoid the daily workplace grudge, instead replacing paid work with home duties and bringing up baby with endless days of boredom, waiting to hear those immortal words, I’m home dear, what’s for dinner? Mind you pregnancies outside of marriage is always a fear, especially in a society lacking education in family planning, using the let’s hope it’s not that time of month method, as the infamous pill is banned from the chemist’s shelves and from advertising in the pages of fashion magazines, or the many other magazines you may find in the waiting room of the local doctor’s surgery.

One mile that way, one and half mile to the south and a little more to the north and you are beyond the town limits. The nearest town is twenty miles as the crow flies, with the closest city of any significance in size found on the tropical coast and seventy miles over the craggy mountain range to the east. The nation’s capital is two state and eighteen hundred miles by road to the south.

At the last count the population of this sleepy town was four thousand five hundred and twenty one, as advertised on the welcome to town hoarding a short distance beyond the town limits but that had been erected more than a decade earlier, since then and if anyone cared to tally, or check the latest national census statistics would discover the population had almost doubled with a good ten percent more males than females.

Entertainment is mostly what you make of it; there are two picture theatres and a drive-in theatre showing a double feature on a Saturday night exampling The Creature of the Black Lagoon and The Creature Takes Revenge with Julia Adams screaming her horror to all sundry. One mustn’t neglect the occasional dance night at the town hall, or some local production by the town’s theatrical society, usually based on archaic plays by Oscar Wild or some other obscure playwright from a forgotten time between two world wars – unknown that is to anyone considered to be a modern teenager and since the returning of troops from a world war creating a baby-boom young folk are in abundance.

Sometime Shakespeare would get a leg-in at the town hall, performed by a few interested high school students studying the classics in their final year being supported by the women of the Country Women’s Association.

As for the Scrots, a derogative title derived from the male scrotum being often used to describe prepubescent lads, they would gather in the town’s three cafés drinking milk shakes while devouring copious amounts of potato chips and potato scallops, a northern name for the infamous potato cake, as they with wishful thoughts ogled giggling girls in miniskirts wearing badly applied makeup, who constantly whispered behind raised hands while discussing in groups which of the spotty faced lads they would allow to take their cherry. Mind you to give the girls some credit their cherries were seldom plucked.

Sports day is always an event, mostly school swimming carnivals or track and field when the best from the surrounding countryside will congregate for ribbons and pride of name on the school’s shield of achievement. Also if more energetic there are the cricket and rugby teams, sometimes travelling to play downstate leagues, or if one displayed enough flair seconded to the state or national side. To be scouted for further glory was rare for such a remote part of the country but there was always dreaming and hope.

Friendships were often developed from the cradle to the grave and with little external influences they were seldom broken or extended. Some cliques were formed from classmates, others on the sporting field, or from Friday night’s drinks at the town’s four hotels. If a stranger arrived in town he would soon find the word outsider was prevalent, taking years of trial and tribulation to break through – if ever. Also once gone from town and chanced to return you may be judged with suspicion or called a bolter, even possibly a traitor to your roots.

Dowie Street.

Simply another street in the many that make up a town;

Number thirty-one Dowie with its wire hoop wire fence to the front entwined with morning glory vine, a low well trimmed hedge of hibiscus dividing one side of the property from number thirty-three, a vacant block at the rear displaying unmown grass known to be a haven for snakes and late night dumping of household trash, while along the remaining side of thirty-one is a trellis of Monstera-deliciosa that fruited abundantly all year around.

Few bothered to sample the fruit, although the large fleshy leaves gave ample shade during the heat of summer and a perfect hiding place for everything from redback spiders to its resident green tree snake called Sammy.

Facing Dowie Street, eleven stairs rise to meet a wide and shady verandah that skirts three sides of the house, being partly closed in on two sides to provide extra bedrooms at a time when the family had been much larger, now used as storage and junk rooms, as the five bedrooms were suffice for the Dowie family.

The Dowie garden is what chanced to survive without too much attention, although with ample rainfall anything that established a foothold was considered pleasant enough, unless the family’s two kelpie dogs decide to do a little excavation. It is said of the dogs they didn’t dig holes but trenches. Lastly but not least and at pride of place in the front yard is David Dowie’s prize lemon tree and with much love from David it always produced an ample crop of lemons that in summer soon became cordial.

Climbing the eleven steps to reach the veranda’s trellis doors you will discover a brass plate reading the name Dowie, being the same name as the street and the first house to be built in that section of town. The name being from one of the founding families, down through three generations to David and Karen Dowie, their three children Grady the eldest, Lewis and Robyn the youngest, not admitting two kelpie dogs Marshie the dog and Jenny the bitch. David Dowie is an elected councillor with the Shire, also proprietor of the Stock and Feed Emporium on Short Street while his wife Karen is often described, when out of earshot to be sure, a social butterfly with a measure of attitude and a dash of importance in the local Country Women’s Association while chairing many of the town’s charity functions. Even so Karen has a soft heart and a sharp wit and is well respected.

The Dowie’s eldest lad Grady works as an apprentice motor mechanic with Byrne Motors at the river end of town, commencing his apprenticeship soon after leaving school. Grady has been described as an intelligent young fellow who thinks before uttering while considered more than competent with a rugby ball, although a little weak with his cricket batting skills. At nineteen and a number of months Grady had finished his last year of high school the previous year with honours although processing little interest in furthering his education other than getting grease under his fingernails. From an early age Grady became interested in the mechanics of anything from the family car to the toaster, often taking appliances apart to see how they worked then forgetting to reassemble.

Grady’s mate and closest confident is Brian Bastian known to all as Biff and inseparable since birth sharing trials, tribulation and secrets, even a few tears but of late they had drifted somewhat as Biff was beginning to find the company of girls more interesting than hairy-arse blokes from the football club. Even so Biff is the town champion at most from swimming to track and field, having true ability without the need for training and when carnival comes to town with its boxing troop, it is Biff who is first to take the challenge for the purse to go three rounds with the troop’s champion. Mind you he never won the money and often came away with blooded nose or blackened eyes.

Biff is quite unlike Grady who is often referred to as Greedy because of his devotion to fried potato chips, Biff could be considered smouldering, often suggested somewhere deep down there was a raging inferno that one day may set the countryside ablaze, although in truth Biff was well in control of his temperament. Brian’s sobriquet Biff came about when in sixth grade he broke a lad’s nose, it was decided to have been accidental but Grady knew the true story and since that day it had not again been mentioned. Biff was what most would consider nuggetty, perfectly stacked for the game of rugby. Often on the field he would simply bowl right through the opposition sending them sprawling in all directions as he made yet another touchdown. In contrast to Grady’s lean and boyish looks with his dark brown hair and green eyes, Biff was as blond as could be conceived possible, his eyes so blue one could be forgiven in believing they were washed by the deepest oceans. His smile could melt the coldest iceberg.

As for football, or Rugby League if one must be accurate when referring to the local game although the country played four world codes and one home grown code known as Aussie Rules, and at a pinch six codes were enjoyed if the few who played Irish Football could be considered.

The local rugby team had at one time been strong in the northern tableland league and three seasons previously won the pennant when the entire team, including Grady and Biff, although only seventeen and under legal age to do so, got drunk and had the team’s mascot, the Magpie bird, tattooed on their right buttock. Some have suggested the tattooing may have been somewhat presumptuous as since winning the pennant the team found difficulty in lifting from wooden spoon contention, yet by the slimmest margin the team remain in the Tableland first division.

Regarding the tattoos it seemed to have been agreed to in haste and regretted in leisure, then again as it is around the back one is inclined to forget it is there.

That was one little secret Grady didn’t share with his parents.

As for the town it serviced many inland mining settlements from tin to gold, while founded as a gateway for the cattle country to the west, sugar cane plantations along the coast and the farming lands of the high tablelands, being situated on the Barron River and rich red volcanic soil and the cooling uplands of the high mountains.

It is late Friday afternoon; hot as usual and with the demise of the sunny hours the heat appears to intensify. Dust gently dances within the rays of sunlight streaking through the building’s skylight as it slowly inches across the oil stained floor of Byrne’s motor mechanic garage.

It is time to end the working day, besides only one job remains outstanding and that would need to wait until a replacement clutch plate for Lucas Fraser the newsagent’s Ford sedan arrived by rail from down state.

“Righto’,” Jack Byrne calls from his office door as he gazes about to access the value of the day’s work. Jack had inherited the business from his father, beginning as a wheelwright and coach builder at the beginning of the century then with the coming of motor vehicles he soon turned to mechanics. That was many years previous, now in his late sixties with a grown family moved to greener pasture Jack is preparing his mindset for a quieter life somewhere near a good fishing spot but for the present he would mend cars and dream of that river somewhere.

“Righto’ boss,” Alfred Deed the head mechanic apes, even so it is obvious work had already ceased for the day, with Grady packing away tools, being careful he cleans everything to Jack’s specifications.

A man’s livelihood are his tools, treat them with respect and they will last a lifetime, was Jack’s favourite quote whenever he found a spanner on the ground, or a vacant space in the toolbox where one should be.

“Who’s for a beer?” Jack calls and closes his office door.

His eyes fall on Grady who immediately knows the ritual.

Extracting two cans from the garage’s old Kelvinator, Grady shares them about.

“Not drinking Greedy?” Alfred Deed the head mechanic quizzically questions while placing his aging backside on an upturned oil drum, disregarding the dampness of the drum’s surface.

“I’ve got footy’ training tonight Mr Deed, I better not, or I’ll upset coach.”

“Come on one won’t hurt; be sociable,” Deed encourages as the dampness soaks through his coveralls but it is cool and the day is hot so no real bother.

“Let the kid be Alf, we’ve got a big game coming up.”

“More like another big loss,” Alf grumbles.

Grady hopefully answers; “not this time Alf.”

Alf gives a disbelieving grin;

A voice hails from the garage doorway;

“Anyone about?”

Moments later a stranger comes in from the brilliant sunlight while adjusting his eyes from the glare. He is an older man in shorts to the knees, long white socks covering dark hairy legs and armpit sweat stains on his short sleeve white open neck business shirt; obviously he is not a local as no northerner would embarrass himself with those socks unless of course he happened to be a bank-johnny or possibly a school teacher.

“What’s the prob’ mate?” Jack challenges placing his beer aside without making any suggestion of approach.

“I’ve broken down near the corner, when I turn the key, I get a clicking sound. I think it’s the starter motor, probably the bendix spring,” the stranger relates.

“Are you a mechanic?” Jack asks believing if the stranger is so cluey about the workings of the combustion engine he could do his own mechanics and not need his assistance.

“No, I’m a travelling salesman in shoes.”

“Shoes eh’,” Alf quietly mocks from behind a cheeky smile, showing a row of chipped and rotting teeth.

“The finest Italian imports in the country,” the salesman proudly announces.

Jack appears humoured;

“Italian you say?”

Now Grady joins in with the tease.

There is pleading in the salesman’s tone;

“Is there any chance someone could have a look at it?

“We have finished up for the day,” Jack says.

“Please, I have appointments down the coast tomorrow and I am already running behind schedule.”

Jack’s eyes are on Grady and it is obvious what is to follow.

“I have to be at training in half; I’ve barely time to get to the ground and you know how touchy Coach Tuddenham can be,” Grady protests even before Jack speaks.

“It will only take you a sec’ to have a look, besides it is probably only sticking and a quick bash with a spanner should fix it.”

Early evening and Grady is home sweaty from football training also feeling a little tender from a heavy tackle he received during the session from his mate Biff.

As for the late work with the travelling sales man’s starter motor, his boss had been correct, all that was required was a few wacks with a large shifter but obvious the starter motor would need replacing at the first opportunity.

Grady pats his pocket and smiles being given a five spot for his troubles.

Inside the hall Grady dumps his sport’s bag down with a thud.

“Is that you Grady?” Karen calls from the kitchen where she is tidying and preparing for the following morning’s breakfast.

“It is.”

“How was training?”

“Okay, except I took a heavy tackle from Biff and feel a little tender.”

“Boys and their games,” Karen tuts, “Your dinner, or what’s left of it, is in the oven.”

Entering into the kitchen Grady approaches the refrigerator extracting a bottle of milk; he takes a long swig from the bottle.

“Ah! I needed that.”

Karen is not happy;

“Grady, how many times must I tell you?”

“Mum, I was thirsty.”

“You wouldn’t have died of thirst in the time it takes to fill a glass.”

“It wasn’t worth dirtying a glass.”

Karen gives Grady a disparaging glance.

“Next time; promise.”

“Before you start on your dinner, move your bag from the hall and give me your football gear, I’m about to put on another load of washing.”

Grady collects his sport’s gear from his kit;

“I’ll shower first; as I was running late I didn’t shower at the ground, some galah forgot to turn on the boiler for hot water.”

“It is your choice as your dinner is already spoiled.”

Grady takes a quick shower to wash away training grime and sweat, the water soothes Biff’s overzealous tackle that has left a red welt and the beginning of a bruise.

‘War wounds,’ he smiles as his body lowers into comfortable from the warm flow.

‘I’ll get him back next session.’

Ten minutes and he is back in the kitchen.

“Where is everyone?” Grady asks as Karen returns from the laundry, carrying a basket of ironing.

“Your father has returned to work with a late delivery and your brother is out with his mates.”

Grady smiles.

“What is entertaining you Grady?”

“You have relented; I thought Lewis was grounded for the rest of the week?”

“He was but your father thought we were being a little unfair, Robyn is in her room.”

Grady starts his meal;

“Mum the chips are soggy.”

“If you were here at mealtimes they wouldn’t be soggy.”

“They’ll do.”

Karen releases a deep sigh;

“You know it would be nice to be appreciated once in a while.”

“We do appreciate you – only.”

“Leave it there young man; I don’t wish to hear your excuses.”

“I was going to say you are the glue that keeps this family together.”

Karen gives a slight smile of appreciation, even if she believes Grady is simply greasing-up.

“Then it would be appreciated once you have finished eating you could give me a hand with the dishes.”

“Mum, you sit down and rest your feet, I’ll do the dishes.”

Soft music drifts from the living room as Karen enjoys some quiet time before bed.

Grady is close by reading a car magazine as the front door opens and slams shut with a loud thud.

“That will be your brother,” Karen suggests.

Karen is obviously annoyed as she waits for her second son to come into the room.

“What time of night do you call this?”

“Sorry mum, I got talking and lost track of the time.”

Karen decides to leave well enough alone as she doesn’t wish to end the evening in an argument with a sixteen year old lad who lacks respect for anything, besides her husband will be home soon and there is no knowing what his mood would be, especially if the late delivery didn’t live up to expectation.

It is Grady who has questions for his brother;

“Who were you with Lewis?”

“Just a couple of school mates, you wouldn’t know them.”

“Try me?”

“It don’t matter – have you heard the news?”

“What news?”

“Bruce Menzies is back in town.”

Karen ignores Lewis’ news, “what are you hiding in your shirt?” she asks.

Lewis blushes;

“Nothing.”

Lewis pushes the suspect object further into cover.

“Come on show me.”

“It is only a car magazine I borrowed from Tug – I’m off to bed – goodnight.”

“Have you done your homework?”

“I didn’t have any,” Lewis lies.

“Then sit with us for a while, we hardly see you anymore and when we do it seems you are simply passing though. If you didn’t need to eat or change your clothing we would never see you at all.”

“Not if I have to listen to that music – once again goodnight mum.”

Karen softly shakes her head and tuts as Lewis departs company;

“Your brother is becoming difficult.”

“He is only sixteen; give him time and he’ll grow out of it.”

“You were never a problem Grady.”

Grady gives a disregarding grin towards his mother’s complement.

“It’s true you never gave us the bother Lewis does, also he has skipped two school days over the past couple of weeks, both were on a Monday.”

“Does dad know?”

“I thought it better not to tell him.”

Grady continues grinning;

“As for skipping school, I was clever enough not to be caught out.”

“Who is Lewis’ friend called Tug?”

“Dennis Skinner, he lives over on Walsh Street; his old man works at the cordial factory and his mother occasionally helps out at Jebbs’ drapery.”

“I don’t know the family,” Karen admits.

“They were farmers over at Emerald Creek and have four boys and a girl, Dennis is the youngest, I believe they gave the farm over to their oldest son for an easier life in town.”

“Was it a tobacco farm?”

“I believe they grew watermelons and stuff.”

“Why is Dennis called Tug?”

Grady is laughing;

“Well come on out with it.”

“Believe me mum, you don’t want to know.”

The conversation is interrupted by the opening of the front door.

Unlike when Lewis returned the door closes with a gentler clink.

“Your dad is home.”

Karen appears despondent as she turns down the music.

A further thought and she turns the music off.

“I’m off to bed,” Grady says, “I have an early start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday; you don’t usually work on a Saturday when there is a game.”

“The boss wants me to give him a hand doing the rings on his Vanguard and I have the game in the afternoon. Unlike Biff I need my beauty sleep.”

“I haven’t seen Brian in quite a while I hope you haven’t had a falling out?”

“Na’, it’s because he and dad don’t get along.”

“Your dad will be away next weekend, why don’t you ask Brian to dinner on that Sunday.”

“We’ll see – good night.”

As Grady retires David enters into the living room.

Without acknowledging Karen he collects his scotch bottle and a glass from the drinks cabinet.

David pauses for a moment;

“Do you want a drink?”

Karen lifts her glass;

“I’ve already got a gin and tonic.”

“Huh!”

“Is there a problem at work?”

“You may say that – goodnight.”

David goes to the spare room as they had taken to sleeping separately.

“Goodnight,” Karen answers thankful there wasn’t the usual bickering.

As for Grady, there had been an undeclared war between father and son since Grady first advanced to high school and nothing Grady did satisfied David. Firstly it is the length of his hair and the clothes he wore, also his choice of music and his mates, especially Grady’s association with Brian Bastian. Finally it is Grady’s apprenticeship with Jack Byrne, as David and Jack had a falling out when they served time together on the shire council. Sometimes Grady believed his father to be jealous of Biff as Biff is everything David isn’t. Biff is handsome, athletic, outgoing and confident while David is none of these. David is almost bald, overweight and most definitely unfit, at best David could be described as lacking in confidence and at worse vindictive and belligerent.

On his way to his room Grady passes his brother’s door, he lightly taps and enters without invitation.

Inside there is anxious disturbance as Lewis lifts the covers to his chin in attempt to hide his magazine.

“So I caught my little brother having a wank.”

Lewis’ voice is horse;

“I wasn’t!”

Grady laughs, he can see a corner of the magazine peeping out from under the sheet.

“What is the magazine little brother?”

“Fuck off!”

As quick as a bird on a beetle Grady has the magazine.

“Give it back!”

“Man magazine,” Grady says as he turns the pages.

He stops at centrefold and a well stacked redhead with a page staple through her navel. The photograph had been snapped slightly turned to one side to obscure her moisten parts but her nipples, the size of cup saucers, are enough to get a seventeen year old teenager hot and horny.

“Who does the magazine belong to?”

“I borrowed from Tug; it’s his old man’s.”

“And Tug’s dad lets him read dirty magazines?”

“Only if he can pinch them, besides his old man has a pile of magazines he keeps in the outside toilet and would never miss an old issue or two.”

“Then don’t glue the pages with your juice and don’t leave it about where mum or your sister can find it.”

Grady closes the magazine;

“Which one of these well stacked ladies were you wanking to?”

“I wasn’t, I was reading the stories.”

“Bullshit brother; maybe you should be called Tug and not your mate Dennis Skinner.”

“Give it back!”

Grady tosses the magazine onto the bed;

“It’s a bit tame,” Grady suggests, “If you want pics’ of real woman you should try the stack dad has hidden behind the oil drums in the shed.”

“What magazines?”

“Never mind I shouldn’t have mentioned them.”

“You won’t tell mum?”

“That I caught you pulling your dick?”

Lewis blushes as he hides the magazine under his mattress, “no dumb-dumb, about the magazine.”

“You know me better that that brother but someday I’ll hold you to a favour and I do have a question. You said earlier you had seen Bruce Menzies?”

“I didn’t see him; it was Tug’s brother Jim who saw Menzies drinking in the Royal Bar.”

“You were only a little tacker when Bruce Menzies lived in town; I’m surprised you can remember him.”

“I don’t remember him but you hear stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Just stories; didn’t you know Menzies?”

“He was in a lower grade and at one time followed us about like a puppy looking for a master.”

“Jim told Tug he was a mate of yours.”

“I think Michael Brown knew him. Other than that he is only an almost forgotten name to me.”

“Even so you must have kicked about with him after school?”

“Maybe a little when he attempted to hang around with the gang, it’s all too long ago and I can’t even recall what he looks like.”

“As you say.”

“Goodnight brother.”

“Goodnight.”

“And leave your dick alone, or you will go blind.”

“Fuck off!”

Grady closes the door behind.

He lingers for a moment.

‘So Bruce is back,’ he thinks. As for the stories Lewis’ mentioned Grady knew very little, all he could recall was some controversy occurred and Bruce Menzies’ family left town soon after.

‘I wonder what it was all about.’

‘Oh well.’

As Grady leaves his brother to his magazine he hears raised voices coming from the living room, obviously after a couple of drinks David has decided to return and take his frustration out on Karen.

‘They are at it again.’

Karen’s voice comes clearly;

“David, how many times must I tell you it isn’t true?”

David’s voice is low and inaudible;

“Then all I can say is you believe what you want.”

“I will and do,” David loudly retorts.

The argument stops as David departs.

Grady goes to his room and closes the door against the late night disturbance.

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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