Published: 25 Oct 2021

Travis had been at the Royal for a good half hour. The usual Saturday night crowd was in, being tobacco farmers and cattlemen down from the Gulf quickly spending their hard earned money. Then there was the town’s mob all keeping to their own section of the bar as they maintained an uneasy truce, brought on by their individual need for male company and alcohol, to dull that day’s mental and physical aches.

Travis, as was his habit, sat at one of the corner tables close to the recently installed cigarette machine being the hotel’s pride, as, although not new to the world, no other establishment on the Tableland had such a machine. The marvels of modernity, place a few shillings into a slot, listen to them roll and hay-presto a number of clicks and the chosen product fell down a chute. Or if it failed to produce, it would receive a number of thumps and kicks until someone came to open the machine to retrieve your choice.

Among the group of cattlemen Travis spied the stockman from the train in deep conversation and on a drinking continuum. Travis strained to listen to his conversation and smiled on once again hearing the man’s rendition why the train was delayed, which became more exaggerated with further consumption of alcohol. As he listened he felt a presence, then a rough hand on his shoulder.

“G’day mate,”

It was Greg and by the slur in his voice had been at the bar most of the afternoon. “If I hadn’t gone for a piss I wouldn’t have known you were here,” Greg admitted then joined Travis at the table.

“So how’s the horseman?” Greg asks.

“How’s the carpenter?” Travis replied, noting a measure of arrogance in his friends tone. “Refill?” Travis offered believing it was more than his turn to shout his friend a drink.

“Is the Pope Catholic?”

At the bar Dennis Higgins warned Travis not to supply more alcohol to Greg as he had been drinking for most of the afternoon. “Last one then,” Travis promised and returned to their table.

“What was that all about?” Greg examines Travis’ on returning with the drinks.

“He said you have had enough,” Travis truthfully answered.

“He’s probably right but I bloody well don’t need him to tell me,” Greg growled, flashing an angered glare across at the barman, while straining to take the matter further.

“Leave it Greg,” Travis protested.

Greg settled back into his chair, his concentration fixed on the barman.

“Has Roy pinned a tail on ya’ yet?”

“Roy isn’t like that Greg.”

“If you say so; have you still got that silly idea of going bush?” he asks.

“I seem to remember originally it was your idea,” Travis answered while feeling somewhat hurt by Greg’s dismissal of his dream.

“Maybe it was but you must admit it was a silly one.”

“And I still have it,” Travis declared abruptly.

“Don’t mind me for asking,” Greg downed the last of his beer and pushed the glass aside.

“I believe you’ve been hanging around with Evan Williams?” Travis asks.

“What makes you say that?” Greg snapped as the anger returned to his voice as if he had been accused of some misconduct.

“Settle mate, I saw Evan yesterday and he mentioned he had seen you around – that’s all.”

“Yea I’ve seen him about but I tell you who I did see,” Greg released a pleasing smile.

“Warwick Ross,”

“How do you know that?”

“I call in to see him yesterday.”

“Shit you’re brave; his old lady is a right bitch.”

“I made certain she wasn’t home, he said he loved the ride.”

Greg broke from his angry gaze towards the barman. “Amongst other things,” he says.

“Like what?”

“No matter, it won’t be happening again, I heard his old man has threatened the cops if I turn up.”

Greg glanced up at the bar clock noticing it was near closing, “Suppose I should be going, have work tomorrow. You couldn’t get me another beer before Higgins closes the bar.”

“Dennis wouldn’t give you one. I hope you’re not riding your bike in your condition,” Travis urges becoming concerned for his friend’s obvious condition.

“Shit no my Uncle is picking me up, besides I’ve smashed the bike, well more to point biffed it up a little.”

“When did that happen?”

“A couple of months back. Had a little too much to drink and didn’t take the bend across the rail tracks on the Atherton road.” There was pride in Greg’s answer, as if a badge of heroics was awarded for the one who survived the most stupid drunken accident.

“Were you hurt?” Travis questions showing concern for his friend, thinking it as well no one was riding with him.

“Na, I came off in the soft dirt but the bike went on and over an embankment. Bent the front forks and holed the petrol tank,” Greg paused and laughed, “ripped off the fucken’ seat as well, lucky I wasn’t still sitting there or I may have lost my balls. It is over at Clem Hull’s shed he’s fixing it up for me.”

“Shit Greg you should be more careful,” Travis warned.

“You’re starting to sound like my mother; or more to point your mother, she’s always on about the bike,” Greg stood, “I better be gone – when will you be in town next?”

“Don’t rightly know; I’ll keep in contact,” but Travis knew he would not. It appeared they had reached a junction on the path of their friendship and Greg had taken the bumpy way, it was a certainty Greg’s future would not be smooth or extended if he continued with his devil may care attitude.

With Greg gone, Travis began to evaluate their friendship. He no longer felt the closeness he once had, or an urge to be with him also the physical attraction had gone, all he now saw was a bitter young man without the shine of youth. Greg’s character now scared Travis believing he was like that proverbial out of control train and ahead there weren’t any tracks.

“Hey Brownie,” The voice came from the crowd at the bar and belonged to Sam Hinds. Travis had not seen Sam or anyone else from Greg’s gang, except for Evan, since his last school holiday and in the most had no wish to be reassociated with them, especially Sam.

Sam approached and joined Travis at the table.

“What have you been up to?” Travis enquired his tone flat and disinterested. “Not a lot, no one want’s to hire me.”

‘No wonder,’ – Travis thought while noting Sam’s appearance, thinking scruffy was a most appropriate adjective. “What happened to that notion you had working for your old man and running the Cairns branch?”

“Didn’t happen, the old bugger reckons he couldn’t trust me to turn up, besides I failed year twelve and he said if I wanted the job I had to repeat the year.”

“If I recollect you did alright in the exams.”

“In the most but the old man said I had to get an A. in mathematics before he would consider me. I got forty-seven percent and only scraped through in English.”

“Have you seen Turner about?” Travis asks.

“Didn’t you hear?”

“How could I I’ve been out of town for ages,”

“Wedding bells,”

“Who to?”

“Sally Blank,”

“Not Blankety-Blanks, she’ll eat him,” Travis laughed remembering a large girl with a hefty appetite for food and boys.

“She’s lost a lot of weight. Brian’s working for her old man at the ice-works – I saw you talking to Greg.”

Travis nodded but didn’t respond.

Sam grabbed Travis’ arm, “you should talk to Greg about his drinking,”

“You’re more a friend besides as I said, I’m out of town these days,” Travis quickly responded.

“He won’t listen to me. Hey I saw Raelene Simmons the other day and she’s having a kid.” Sam stated allowing his thoughts to return to that night at the river and as he recalled the event he once again visioned his only sexual experience and proudly shared rendition of that memory.

“Yes Evan told me, who is the father?”

“Could be anyone she ended up the town bike; It’s rumoured he was a married joker from Dimbulah way.”

“Evan also suggested that.”

“Shit man she was a good root, I’d give her another.”

“You’re disgusting,” Travis complained and meant it, even if he disguised his reprimand with a measure of wit.

“You were there as well,” Sam insinuated.

“Yes but I didn’t join in and what you don’t know I later offered her an apology for your treatment.”

“Oh well it was fun while it lasted, besides what I remember she was hot for it.” Sam paused; “yea she was panting for my big thick dick.”

“Self appraisal isn’t of much value Sam,”

“What about you Brownie, got a chick yet?”

“There isn’t much offering around Bullock Creek but I’m looking,” Travis admitted. He was within a whisker of telling Sam to bugger off. Taking in a breath to speak, he released it without word.

“Greg reckons you’re a poof,” Sam exclaimed without consideration.

“Is that so: what do you think Sam?”

Fortunately for Travis, Sam had limited attention and seeing an acquaintance arriving he departed company, “see ya’ next time Brownie,”

“Sure thing,” Travis falsely agreed.

‘Some mate Greg turned out to be,’ Travis thought.

As for Sam Hinds he was never high on Travis list of favourites and after repeating Greg’s reflection on his character, Sam drifted ever lower.

For a moment Travis watched Sam in conversation then both Sam and the other turned towards him and as quickly away to further their discussion.

‘Who is that with Sam?’ Travis thought as he sifted through his memory, ‘That’s Gilbert Denting,’

‘He has changed; it is surprising what a few months will do to a bloke’s body.’

‘He’s fat,’

‘And looks at least thirty,’

Travis gave a gratifying smile, as during his final year it was Denting who was the most athletic, the most handsome and sought-after by the girls. Travis may have beaten him into third place in the one hundred yard dash, with Greg second but it was Denton who won most of the long distance events, and it was Denton who excelled on the rugby field and in the pool. Both Hinds and Denton turned once again, Travis offered a friendly nod and smile but neither appeared interested.

A deep sigh and close scrutiny to his empty glass, “now there is another I don’t wish to remain in contact with.”

‘Do I want another drink?’ Travis gave mental question.

‘Not in the mood.’

‘Something is changing in me and I don’t know what. Getting old I suppose,’

Travis smiled at the thought, ‘just turned twenty and thinking like an old man.’

Back home Travis once again ran the gauntlet of questions from his mother. She meant well but would do anything to convince him to return to Mareeba and take up, as she described, a proper job, if not with the family business then with Johnson, or apprenticeship as a grease monkey but all her pleading managed to do was fortify her son’s determination and heighten his tension, making him wish he was on the train to Bullock Creek. Then once Margaret had finished, Travis had his father to contend with but at a higher level.

Jim Brown would dearly love his son to come into business with him, to stock shelves and serve little old ladies with grocery products and be privy to banal conversation about the weather and who was marrying. As for the business Travis wanted none of it, while paining to see his father subservient to the town’s women, listening to their gossip, growing fat and bald, ruddy of face from the scotch he drank while sitting quietly into the night lost in memory of how things were before his accident and what they could have been without his fall.

“Have you still got that air-brained idea of going bush?” Jim demands after realising he could not convince Travis to work in the business with him.

“Yes but I haven’t decided when as yet,” Travis truthfully answered while regretting his honesty.

“What does Roy think of it?” Jim’s question was loaded and Travis knew so. If he admitted Roy agreed it could further alienate the brothers, while to declare Roy did not agree would be untrue and strengthen his father’s wishes, yet the question needed answering.

“To be truthful dad, Roy doesn’t agree or condemn it and had commented on many an occasion that I would have to discuss it with you and mum, that I did and you said it was alright,” Travis answered finding his voice rising through his emotion.

“No Travis I agreed for you to work at Bullock Creek for Roy until you came to your senses, not take off into the bush like some jackrabbit.” Jim was becoming agitated with his son’s persistence.

“Dad, I dearly love you and mum but I am twenty now and will soon be twenty-one, I think I’m old enough to make my own decisions. Besides you were managing a property in your twenties and Roy took to the bush at an earlier age.”

“That was different Travis, I didn’t have any choice – you have.” Jim’s anger lifted higher with Travis’ refusal to follow his wishes but realising he wasn’t influencing his son he went to bed, leaving Margaret to smooth over the altercation.

“Your father is only trying to do what’s best for you Travis,” she says on hearing the bedroom door slam shut.

“Sorry mum.”

“There is no way we are going to convince you. Is there?”

“No,”

“Well enough of it for now,”

“It won’t change my mind, besides I mostly want to again visit Cumberland Downs. It would only be for a short while, I promise you that.

By the time Travis came to Breakfast his father had already left for work and his mother avoided conversation on his travelling, or Roy. Yet until the time of his departure there remained an uneasy peace in the Brown’s residence and Travis knew he had not heard the last of it and the return trip could not come quickly enough.

Sunday afternoon again found Travis passing the Tip-Top Café and for old times he entered and instead of the milkshake of youth he ordered a coffee as Mario made the real stuff and not the usual instant granules from a bottle or Bushells coffee and chicory essence.

“You’re back in town kid,” the proprietor offered with the coffee.

“No Mario, only for the weekend.”

“I don’t see many of your mates these days and the next lot are more interested in hanging around the bar door,” Mario complained, leaving a young girl towards the end of his counter impatiently waiting for a serving of the man’s famous burgers.

“I guess the world is changing,” Travis offered remembering Roy’s prediction for the future.

“You know the top picture theatre has closed,” Mario flipped the burger meat and added an overdose of salt and a dash of sauce and something from an unmarked bottle that was expected of being claret. He finished the burger, “Two Shillings,”

The girl opened a small purse and shuffled around the contents.

“I hadn’t heard, when?”

The girl with the hamburger chirped in, “last week, The Art of Love was showing,” she paid for her burger and sat at one of the booths fiddling with the music selector.

Travis gave her a smile but could not recollect who she could be, ‘new to town I guess,’ he thought.

“I blame television.” Mario complained.

“I didn’t think there was a station this far north as yet.”

“No but there is one planned for Cairns in the New Year and you can pick up Townsville for a couple of minutes on a good night.”

“That’s a far cry for blame Mario,”

“Also you young fellas’ have far too much money, buying cars and all, I was thirty before I could even think of buying a car. Even then it was third hand and I saw young Mick Billings only yesterday driving a new Holden, musta’ cost five hundred quid.”

“I believe it belongs to his old man,” Travis contradicted.

Mario cleaned the top of the fryer with a metal spatula, “and lazy,”

“You could be right Mario but I don’t see much of this extra cash you are talking about.”

Travis sipped his coffee and drifted away from Mario’s conversation.

“Your mate Greg came past last weekend,” Mario offered while scraping the last of the burnt gunk from his hotplate.

“Yes I saw him last night.”

“He almost had himself killed out on the Atherton road a month or so back, almost killed young Evan as well.”

“Evan – how?” Although Evan had admitted he had been in contact with Greg, he hadn’t include himself in the sharing of Greg’s accident, nor did Greg and that was surprising as in the past the two didn’t march to the same tune.

“He was on the motor with Greg but was thrown clear into the soft dirt, received a few bruises for his larking.”

“Oh he didn’t say.”

“Such a nice boy, it’s a shame he should get mixed up with the likes of Greg Stanley.”

“Greg’s not a bad bloke Mario, a little headstrong maybe but he would do anything for you if you asked.”

“Motorbikes,” Mario huffed.

“You are sounding like my mother,”

“Fine woman Margaret, you would do well listening to her.”

“Greg’s reckons he’s almost got the motor back on the road,” Travis’ remained concentrating on Greg and his love of motors.

“There is only one end for the likes of him,” Mario predicted, “and light-fingered as well.”

“In what way would that be?” Travis questioned.

It was obvious Mario was itching to dump more fuel onto his disdain for Greg Stanley and related a long past incident when Greg collected bottles around the town and sold them back for pocket money.

“I also collected them for pocket money,” Travis admitted.

“Yes but young Stanley would climb my rear fence, fill up his bag and come around the front and sell them back to me for a second time. I only realised it after seeing the same bottle on a number of occasions.”

“Enterprising,” Travis laughed.

“Not what I would call it.”

“He was only a kid Mario, he isn’t like that now.”

“I soon fixed his little trick,”

“How so Mario?”

“I borrowed Frank Davis’ Alsatian bitch and let it loose in the yard, a right vicious mongrel that was.”

Travis heard his defence of Greg but did he agree with it. Truthfully Greg was totally hedonistic, Travis knew that and in the past it was only unfulfilled adolescence attraction that drew him like a moth to flame towards Greg. Now he saw his friend differently and could only hope, like himself, Greg Stanley would eventually mellow.

While lost in his wishes for Greg and his coffee, Travis was interrupted by the urgency of a kid hurrying through the café door. He turned towards the distraction.

“It’s still there Sean; I’ve been keeping an eye on it for you.” Mario gave a sharp nod towards an old and grubby cloth hat resting on the end booth table.

“Thanks Mario,” the kid answered seizing the hat with much relief and once again heading out with the same measure of urgency he arrived with.

“I blame the French bomb out in the Pacific,” Mario seriously declared.

“Why would that be Mario?” Travis asks. It was a common occurrence to do so, as it was believed the wind brought clouds of radioactive particles from nuclear testing across the ocean to Queensland, causing all kinds of imaginary ailments from throat cancer to warts.

“It’s interfering with the hormones, kids today are quite loopy, sex mad the lot of them and can’t concentrate for a minute,” Mario paused, “and that music on the wireless, you call that music, it’s just noise, now Mario Lanza he knew how to hold a note.”

Travis ignored the man’s intolerance; his thought was on the kid’s old cloth hat. It had no design or obvious value. True it could keep the crown of one’s head free of sunburn but little else.

‘Where have I seen that hat?’ Travis thought as he stirred another teaspoon of sugar into the bitterness of his second coffee, with Mario’s complaining about modern teenagers but background to his reminiscing.

‘Rodney Harrison,’ Travis released a smile.

‘Yes now I remember Rodney Harrison had one the same.’

For that moment Travis was back in Herberton and its hostel. The end of year exams were done and dusted with plans for Christmas holidays well advanced. It was Travis’ eighth grade scholarship year as it was then known while Rodney, Rod as he preferred was a grade above. Rod was born in New Guinea to English parents and seeing there was limited education in that part of the world, was like many others sent south to Queensland to further his education.

The kid’s hat was so similar it may have been the same. On Rod it appeared strange, a shabby, dirty patch of white perched upon a mop of ginger but Rod loved that hat and wore it as a badge of identity, something quite ordinary on someone most handsome. Ying and Yang it could be described.

Another memory; it had been a hot beginning to summer, even for Herberton perched high in the dividing range, almost the highest town Queensland. Ravenshoe took that prize by a meagre twelve yards but Herberton took the biscuit for cold winters.

The hostel management decided, being Sunday afternoon and hot, the boys would be taken for a swim. The town didn’t have a regular pool and used the source of its water supply on the Wild River, being a short distance out of town on the Atherton road. The pool was quite shallow, held back behind a low concrete wall and if one stood at centre the deepest part would only be neck deep, a little more during the wet.

Rod was a picture of adolescence sexual bliss in his brightly coloured togs. Travis had been quick to note that once wet the woollen fabric sagged, displaying everything that hid beneath, almost as if the wearer was naked, that was the way of woollen swimming wear. Oddly they had showered together in the communal facilities many times but now the form of Rod’s developing manhood clearly visible beneath brightly coloured and sagging woollen cloth became more captivating than total nakedness. Travis followed his hero during the swimming session as if he was his shadow, although Rod was more interested in showing off to a captured audience.

As the afternoon’s entertainment drew to a close, Rod expressed a measure of interest in Travis and with a nod invited him to walk back to the hostel in his company. Travis quickly fell in behind Rod and instead of taking the road they followed the creek.

The creek, or Wild River as it was correctly titled, meandered through the town, passed the tin ore crushing battery and it’s holding dam of grey murky water of questionable quality, to pass behind the Hostel at the southern end of town, making the homeward trip at least twice the distance to that by the road.

At the battery Rod delayed their return and sat on an old rusting forty-four gallon drum. For a time Rod said nothing then his conversation became pointless.

“Holidays,” Rod eventually says.

“Yep,”

“I suppose your going back to stay with the Kingsleys in Mareeba?”

“No I’m going to Cumberland Downs for the most of it. I suppose you are off to Wewack in New Guinea.”

“Not this year my parents are coming down to Cairns.”

The conversation dried as Rod fixed his sight across the river. He obviously had something on his mind but was having difficulty putting it to words.

“So Travis;” Rod eventually spoke.

Travis remained silent while anticipating the meaning of Rod’s expression.

“What do you think?”

“About what?” Travis asks.

“About you know,”

“I don’t,”

“We could -,” Rod cut short his sentence.

“Could?” Travis answered while remaining confused where the conversation was leading.

“Come on we better get going or we’ll be in for it,” Rod concluded with a sigh as he jumped away from the drum and headed back to the hostel in renewed haste.

On returning to the hostel Rod realised he had left that dumb cloth hat on the drum back at the battery. He quickly requested permission to return for the hat. Travis interjected with knowledge of the hat’s whereabouts and permission was giving for both to retrieve the cloth monstrosity.

Back at the battery the hat was soon discovered but Rod appeared to be in no rush to return to the hostel, instead he made notice he needed to use the toilet and the closest to their position was the battery’s long drop at the rear of the main building. It was an ancient facility that hardly kept one’s privacy with its many gaps and by its appearance hadn’t been cleaned or used for quite some time.

Rod entered while Travis waited patiently outside, enjoying conversation through the rudimentary slats of the door. The conversation, as often with teenage boys turned to sex. Then Rod fell quiet, bringing Travis to query how long he would be and drawn towards peeping through a crack in the slats of the door. Rod appeared most intent as he sat on the rough wooden box above the drop, his pants at ankles, while looking back through the very crack, his hand obviously encouraging his member to attention.

“Come in here,” Rod hoarsely demanded and as if in a dream, a most confused dream, Travis obeyed.

That afternoon was the commencement of many exciting sessions, leading into the following year on their return to the hostel and quickly Travis’ admiration for his ginger-headed friend became stronger. Rod was his first love although he was totally unaware of his emotions, then during the following year towards the end of first school term over some unquantified controversy, Rod was expelled but remained boarding in town, ending their adolescence trysts.

‘It was the same hat.’ Travis realised as he surfaced from the dregs in his coffee cup to the sound of Mario’s complaining.

“Hey, are you going to sit there all afternoon or buy another?”

“I was thinking,” Travis smiled.

“I’m surprised at that,” Mario chirped.

“It was that kid’s hat; a mate at the hostel had one just like it.”

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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