Published: 4 Oct 2021

Over the following days Travis and Titch became good friends employing many hours in each other’s company, while at the same time the acquaintance between Travis and Bradley developed into a comfortable working arrangement and as expected by Roy, Bradley was becoming more social. Yet he still disappeared for hours at a time without giving reason, while Travis, although curious, refrained from question.

“Why don’t we go riding together sometime?” Travis suggested of Bradley while seated on the front verandah, watching a storm developing across the trees towards the distant mountains of the Tableland. The storm had been threatening all day and with the blanket of darkness it electric power became most entertaining as its distance lessened by the minute. Soon it was almost overhead and raising the humidity to capacity.

“Don’t like riding much,” Bradley admitted, offering Travis a beer.

“I’ve seen you riding.”

“I break them and ride them to keep up their interests but that’s the most of it.”

“Strange,” Travis commented as a thick rope of lightning brought daylight to the night’s sky and a thunder clap made them both jump.

“What is?”

“That you work with horses and don’t like riding.”

“I like working with them and respect them but riding for no reason just doesn’t buzz me,” Bradley answered and moved to the top step of the verandah. He finished his beer and started a second, “where’s all this going anyway?” Bradley asks suspiciously.

“Nowhere, I just thought it would be fun for us both to go riding,” Travis did have an alternative motive behind his question. He was skirting ways to ask where his friend disappeared to during most mornings but didn’t have the courage to ask outright.

“If you want to do something, I’ll go to the pub with you Saturday night,” Bradley suggested feeling he must at least attempt to socialise with his fellow workmate.

Travis accepted the offer and changed the subject, “I was talking to old Jack Arnold this morning and he was looking for you, but I couldn’t find you around the yards,” Travis says as he finished the last of his beer.

“What did he want?” Bradley growled.

Jack was a man in his sixties and had lived around horses and Bullock Creek for most of his life with a penchant for gossip that would make any woman proud. He would often call by for a free beer or cup of tea or if offered a meal, then glean what information he could about Roy and his business, which, if successful or not, would become topic at the pub by that night.

“Don’t know, he asked for you and when I said that you were not around he left.”

“Did he get a free feed?” Bradley asks without volunteering his whereabouts at the time of Jack’s visit.

“I didn’t offer,” Travis answered and seeing Bradley wasn’t divulging his whereabouts for most of that morning he gave up on fishing for an answer.

“As well you said nothing about Roy’s business,”

“I wouldn’t. He seems a friendly type.”

“A little too friendly and has a mouth like a diesel motor, so don’t tell him anything.”

“I as thinking of spending a weekend back in Mareeba,” Travis advised while feeling the effects of his third beer and considering weather a fourth would be wise but when Bradley offered accepted anyway.

“Roy won’t be up until the end of the month,” Bradley advises as he passed the beer.

“I thought I’d go by train, it would be quicker; want to come?”

“Who’s going to look after the horses?” Bradley growled and belched loudly.

“We could get Jack to look in for a couple of days,” Travis suggested.

“Shit no, couldn’t trust the old bugger; he would be nosing around looking into every draw and cupboard.”

“He would be disappointed in what he found,”

“That’s not the point,”

“It was but a thought, maybe I could look after the horses sometime and you could take a weekend in town yourself,” Travis suggested while pushing past Bradley down the stairs to empty his bladder against a struggling pomegranate tree in the front yard.

“I don’t like towns much.”

“Don’t you have family or friends in Mareeba?’

“Not any more,” Bradley admitted as he joined Travis at the pomegranate tree. They both laughed as their piss crossed and became a watery sword fight.

Bradley returned to his step and started another beer, “want one?”

“Na, I’m feeling pissed as it is.”

“Can’t hold your drink Travis?” Bradley teased; “why would you want to go to Mareeba anyway?” he asks while picking at the bottle’s label. The Gold Top logo became old top under his picking. He smiled at the name change and finished the contents.

“No reason but I had a letter from mum and she’s becoming concerned, so I thought I’d give her a visit to calm her down.” Travis answered while collecting the empty bottles and pushing past Bradley placed them in a cardboard box under the verandah steps.

“I don’t have any problem with you going.”

“Do you think Roy would mind?’

“I guess not, besides there’s nothing for you to do here and your cooking isn’t improving.”

Travis shuffled his feet in the gravel at the base of the steps, “you said you liked my stew.”

“Stew’s alright but your omelettes are like beer mats.”

“I guess I’ll improve in time,” Travis freely admitted then returned to his seat one step below Bradley; “besides you’re not much better.”

“It’s a competition is it?” Bradley laughed.

“Na you’d win hands down.”

“So don’t you forget it.”

Travis drew a deep breath and stood.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing it’s flaming hot that’s all.”

“What about your parents, you said they were crapped off with you coming out here,” Bradley asks.

“It’s mum really, she doesn’t like Roy.”

“What about your old man?”

“He has to, Roy is his brother.”

“Brother’s don’t have to like each other,” Bradley admitted.

“Do you have brothers?”

“One,”

“You never said,”

“You never asked. I haven’t met him or to point don’t remember him, he would be a good ten years older than me and -,” Silence fell over Bradley like one who had given away more information than wished.

“And,” Travis asks.

“And it doesn’t concern. It’s the past and best left there.”

The rain arrived, firstly in heavy drops sending dust up as it hit the parched ground then became a solid downpour.

They both moved onto the verandah.

“Have you any brothers or sisters Travis?” Bradley asks.

“No, after me mum couldn’t have any more, some woman’s problem I believe.”

“You asked about my brother,” Bradley appeared to be lost in past memories.

“I was only making conversation, it doesn’t matter.”

“His name is Jake, or Jack I don’t really remember.”

A long pause as the rain eased into steady.

“My mother had an accident and died when I was a kid and it was said dad may have done her in. Then my brother bolted after being thrashed by dad.”

Travis quietly listened.

“Shit Travis you don’t want to hear all this,” Bradley growled.

“I don’t know what to say,” Travis answered being somewhat unaccustomed to family violence.

“I’ll only continue further to make you appreciate Roy a little more than you do.”

“I do appreciate Roy,” Travis protested.

“I think not. It was my tenth birthday and Roy came around home on some business and caught my father giving me a thrashing. Roy took control and almost knocked his flaming head off.”

“What next?”

“The following day dad killed himself, a bullet to the head.”

“Sorry,”

“Don’t be, it was the best outcome that could happen. It was then Roy took me in and here I am, so the motto of it all is for you to give Roy the respect he deserves.”

Travis stood and leant against the railing. The rain was cool on his face taking away the shock of Bradley’s telling while wishing he hadn’t pushed so deeply into his friend’s privacy.

It was Bradley who first spoke, coming away from his tribulation as if it had never been related. “There’s a leak in your room, if you wish you can move into one of the other rooms but I’ll have to shift the junk first,” Bradley offered.

“Suppose a bucket will fix it, besides the storm is passing over.”

“Suit yourself, I better check on the horses.”

“Would you like me to come along?”

“Nope, if you want something to do there’s the dishes.”

Travis left Bradley to his privacy.

A good ten minutes passed before Bradley returned soaking wet, stripping down to his underwear he grabbed a towel from the washing on the kitchen table.

“That was my towel; I’ll get you a clean one,” Travis offered.

“You ain’t got some catching disease have you?” Finish with his drying Bradley dumped the towel and his wet clothes back onto the kitchen table, “who’s turn to do the washing?” he asks.

“I guess it’s mine but they don’t clean well by hand and the copper takes all day to heat, why don’t you get a machine?”

“There no power is there.”

“Oh I forgot about that.”

“Dumb kid,” Bradley concluded but with a genuine smile, as he was warming towards Travis.

It was midweek, hot and Bradley was once again missing. Travis wished to talk to him about their supplies but after searching the sheds and adjacent yards could not locate him. It was towards midday when Travis noticed the form of Bradley in the main paddock, coming from the direction of the creek and thick scrub that ran along its banks.

“I’ve been looking for you, where have you been?” Travis asks trying not to appear too inquisitive.

“What’s the problem?”

“We are running low on supplies,” Travis divulged as Bradley passed by without comment on his wandering.

Back in the house Bradley checked their supplies then the refrigerator.

“Nearly out of beer,”

“Also kerosene for the refrigerator,”

“Plenty in the shed,”

“Bacon, eggs and sugar,” Travis added to Bradley’s importance for beer.

“Never mind, Roy will be up on the weekend,” Bradley slammed the refrigerator door shut then checked their pantry. There wasn’t any beer there either. “There is always the pub I suppose,” Bradley suggested, “how would you like to go over for a couple after lunch?” he offered.

“Yep that would be a good idea,”

The Bullock Creek Hotel could hardly be considered one’s normal impression of a hotel. It was a single story stone building with an ancient rusting corrugated iron roof and where roofing nails had been dislodged by high wind it was anchored down with large riverbed stones of some magnitude.

There was accommodation, three rooms in total and nothing but rudimentary shelters leaning against the rear of the structure. Although basic they were passable, keeping out most of the weather but on hot days were bake houses, while during the colder nights quickly lost heat with the setting sun becoming refrigerators.

The rooms were furnished with iron bedsteads and rough colonial fixtures, with corrugated metal walls leaving a gap at the skirting, letting in the occasional snake and other creatures while searching for a dry dark hideaway. On the chance someone whished to stay overnight, it was the duty of the publican to check the room for unwanted tenants. The story of a king brown curled up in the bedding was a favourite of the regulars and with each telling its length and ferocity increased.

As for the bar, it had character, which brought patrons from near and far. Its cool stone walls held the photographic history of the district, one of which was a large black and white photograph of Bullock Creek, with shops and houses and people in the streets in yesteryear’s attire. There were buggies and horses tethered to hitching rails in front on a handsome hotel with an upper floor and room to spare. Now like the gold, all gone to greener pastures, along with the characters and memories and that proud hotel of yesteryear had succumb to the fires of thirty-nine.

At one end of the bar was a notice board covering most of the wall, on which passing patrons pinned items of interest from poorly penned bawdy bush poems, photographs and other objects of humorous disposition, while in one secluded corner of the display, the smallest pair of woman’s knickers anyone had ever seen; faded blush pink with tiny red hearts and a hole placed strategically at the crotch. The nickers had been left in the shower room years previously and with great humour pinned to the board awaiting collection by their owner with a note attached reading, would Edna Fitsperfect of Upper Cumburra West please retrieved her property, or said garment will be auctioned to the highest bidder. Both Edna and town were fictions but did give light entertainment to patrons and it would not be rare to see some local stockman staring wishfully at the garment while imagining its wearer.

On any night there would be anywhere between six and ten patrons, mostly from the scattering of properties in the area, being able to drink and drive as the night roads were all but empty and police surveillance non existent. If on the occasion someone over celebrated and was incapable of driving, he would be dumped in a side storeroom, where a bunk was kept especially for that purpose. No charge was issued for the night’s stay but come the morning he would be expected to at least chop wood for his breakfast before returning to his work.

Stan Larson, the publican, was a big man with a mop of grey hair and white whiskers radiating in every direction from the surface of his alcohol reddened face, appearing as if he had inserted a finger into an electric socket and received a nasty shock.

Larson inherited the establishment from his father and his father’s father and had married his wife Bunny late in life, beyond her time for children. Bunny, whose name was Meredith but had been Bunny since a girl, had found her niche as the hotel’s barmaid and cherished her position, while her husband ensconced himself at one end of the long highly polished bar and held court, being the town’s unofficial mayor, policeman and postman rolled into one gregarious character.

Stan was also the keeper of local history and what he didn’t know he created with flair. Many of his adages had been passed down from father to son, as the grandfathers of both Stan and Jack Arnold were the first white men into the Barwidgi homelands and by all accounts were not always honourable towards the traditional owners.

In a dark corner leaning against the wall between two small windows stood what was suggested to be the original hotel’s door, designed from slabs of ironbark, still holding its leather hinges. With pride Stan would display a number of deep notches in its surface and by Stan’s Grandfather’s report were from an attack by natives on the hotel in the early years after federation. True or not Stan proudly garnished the story with how a number of the natives were hunted down and shot but failed to acknowledge that the killing was enforced on a camp of innocent women and children while their men were away hunting.

When in the mood Stan would play his ukulele and sing Hawaiian songs, or in the style of. Stan had a reasonable voice but often his singing and the ukulele’s tuning parted company but to the entertainment starved locals was at least distraction. Sometimes a stockman from a local station would bring his guitar and join Stan in a night’s frivolity.

Bunny was a slight woman of challenged height with the energy of a wolverine and an unequalled ability to retain gossip while capable in spreading it with equal vigour. Her chipped over painted vermilion fingernails would click on the bar’s surface as her intent to listen intensified, punctuating conversation with really, or you don’t say or some other chosen word or words that lubricated the extraction of further information.

Bradley and Travis arrived at the hotel late in the afternoon spying Jack Arnold in conversation with Stan and two fettlers from Mareeba, with Bunny busy rearranging already arranged beer glasses stacked behind the bar in a most precarious pyramid. Usually the railway men would book rooms at the hotel while working away but this time management requested they bunk in one of the empty houses to avoid excessive accommodation costs in attempt to make the Mareeba to Forsayth line profitable.

As Travis and Bradley entered Jack broke from his conversation with Stan and the fettlers calling to gain Bradley’s attention.

Jack sidled up to Bradley.

“What’s on your mind Jack,” Bradley asks.

“Hey young fella’, I need a word with you,” Jack declared as Bradley reached the bar.

“Sure Jack you have my attention,” Bradley answered and ordered two beers.

“When is Roy back this way?” Jack asks making a hand gesture for a free drink.

Bradley begrudgingly obliged.

“What’s the problem Jack?” Bradley asks.

“You know Sid Fisher over at Einasleigh Station?” Jack questions while rolling a thin and meagre cigarette in the style often referred to as a racehorse, done so to preserve his supply of tobacco. Often when out of shop tobacco Jack would us a local weed commonly called wild tobacco or tobacco bush, a South American plant believed to be related to tobacco but most invasive and bad for stock. Smoking the wild weed in any quantity not only made one sick but could kill if ingested for too long a period. Jack’s use of the plant stained his skin worse than tobacco, with the tips of his fingers as black as burnt wood, while causing a strange odour about his person.

As for knowing Sid Fisher Bradley admitted he did so.

“Sid reckons he is after a number of stock horses and wondered if Roy has any to sell.”

“He has but you would have to speak to Roy about sales, he’ll be down on the weekend, so I’ll pass it on but Roy visited Sid recently and said nothing about sales. Are you certain you heard correctly Jack?”

“That’s what he said,”

“When were you speaking with Sid?” Bradley asks.

“But two days back, he came through on his way to Dimbulah.

“I’ll pass the message on to Roy when he comes down.”

Jack lit his smoke then inhaled and coughing profusely continued, “I suppose there will be a spotter’s fee?” he suggested between bouts of coughing. Bradley backed away from the old man’s spray of spittle.

“What do you mean Jack?” Bradley asks.

“A fee for finding the sale,” Jack explained.

“Can’t say Jack, I don’t manage the finances, you will also have to talk to Roy about that.”

“I suppose you young fellows will be going to the dance over at Almaden on Saturday?” Bunny asks her eyes penetrating Bradley’s partly open checked shirt, almost stripping it from his youthful and muscular body.

“Na Bunny I have better things to do with my time but possibly young Travis here may be interested, he is the one with nimble feet.”

Travis releases a disapproving huff towards the remark.

“Hey Bunny how about a little service down here, a man could die of thirst while waiting,” came from the far end of the bar.

“Don Skinner can’t you see a girl is run off her feet without you hollering at her every five minutes.”

Bunny attended to Don and after a few lines of banter returned to her conversation with Bradley, while Jack downed his drink and obviously beckoned for another.

“You better give Jack a refill if only to hold the peace,” Bradley offered more out of necessity to keep him at a distance than out of kindness, “spotter’s fee, huh, what will he come up with next?” Bradley growled.

Bunny poured Jack’s beer; “I knew a Travis once a long time ago out west but he was but a young lad.” Bunny’s memory was interrupted by more banter from Don Skinner and by the time she returned to conversation with the boys her recollection on a previous time had been lost.

“So what is your connection with Roy? Bunny questioned Travis.

“He’s Roy’s nephew.” Bradley offered.

“There is a resemblance,” Bunny suggested.

“Yea same ugly dial,” Bradley laughed.

“Are you interested in dancing,” Bunny asks.

“Don’t listen to Bradley I’m not much of a dancer.”

“From what I’ve heard he’s into the old dancing, you know waltzing and that sort of thing,” Bradley issued with a teasing grin.

“Foxtrot, I was good on my feet once, should have seen me jitterbug,” Bunny drifted back through the years to the war and the many American soldiers stationed on the Tablelands, “I tell you boys there are plenty of stories to be told there.”

“You and Stan will have to give us a demonstration,” Bradley suggested.

“Stan, huh, he has two left feet and bad knees. No I think my dancing days are well and truly over.”

Stan heard the slant, lifting his head he smiled in agreement.

There was truth in Travis’ denial of ability as except for a number of school socials while in Herberton and a couple of dance events in Mareeba he had little opportunity to shuffle the feet, while displaying little co-ordination between his body and the music.

“It will be a good night, you both should go; Stan will be playing,” Bunny added, mopping a spillage from the bar.

“Heard enough of Stan’s bloody Hawaiian music here, don’t have to travel to hear more,” Bradley comically complained, bringing Stan’s head to turn once again but remain without comment.

“You could play your guitar,” Bunny proposed.

“There’s a fact, I’ve never seen you play,” Travis cut across the conversation. He remembered seeing the instrument in Bradley’s room but had never heard him play.

“Badly – and in private,” Bradley admitted.

“Anyway it should be a good night,” Bunny added as two ringers from a local station arrived declaring their thirst. They approached the bar, nodded to the boys then ordered two beers and tell Bunny to keep them flowing, then before the newcomers had time to settle Jack moved in on their conversation and a chance for a free refill, while Bunny took in an eyeful of their youthful ruggedness.

“Hey Bradley,” the taller of the latecomers called and leaving his mate in conversation with Jack he approached.

“Ted,” Bradley simply greeted.

“Who is your mate?”

“Travis, he is Roy’s nephew,” Bradley introduced.

“Are you as good a horseman as your uncle?”

“Afraid not Ted but Bradley here is giving me a few pointers.”

“He needs more than a few pointers Ted.” Bradley admits.

Travis accepted the dig in good humour.

“Hows the horse trade,” Ted asks.

“Coming along just dandy, eight new foals this season and a couple more on the way.”

“We’ve had a bit of bad luck as some of our best stock horses were caught in that bushfire over at Emu Creek a couple of months back.”

“I heard about it, bad business and I hear deliberately lit.”

“The boss was thinking of putting some work your way if you have the time.”

“And what would that be Ted?”

“Breaking as the usual joker had a nasty fall and has given it away.”

“Don’t think so Ted, I only break the buggers out of necessity.”

“Fair enough but if you change your mind there’s a job going.

Gary’s stories are about life in Australia as a gay man. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net

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