Published: 3 Jan 2022

It was almost sundown of the third day when Travis reached Lyndbrook Siding and once again came into contact with the Forsayth railway line. Here he remembered Bradley’s advice on the dogleg and not to take the road west through Fossilbrook although shown to be the shortest but to follow the railway service track onward towards Byrimine.

Without effort Travis found the track but decided not to travel during the night as it was no more than a scratch through the scrub, sometimes disappearing altogether. Lyndbrook Siding was placed before the crossover of the Lynd River, which was similar to many rivers in the area being seasonal and during the dry nothing but a gouge through the landscape dotted with long stretches of water holes, the largest of which was visible to the west of the siding. Seeing there was a good covering of fresh grass and water along the lagoon Travis thought it best to bed down for the night and travel on to Byrimine the following morning, while believing his new employer would understand him being a day late.

Travis rose with the sun and headed out as soon as there was enough light to illuminate the service track. The going was somewhat difficult as the track had become overgrown through lack of use but by keeping the railway in sight at all times he managed to hold to his direction.

Within three hours he came across tin shed beside the tracks with the words Byrimine Siding painted in fading black letters on a slab of red-gum, here he rested for a while contemplating what his new employer would be like and what would be expected of him.

On a raised area beside the tracks which could be considered the platform, stood the only signs of civilization he had encountered since leaving Bullock Creek, being a number of boxes of what appeared to be machine parts, marked ‘Rusden Springs ,’ the name of a nearby property. On a hook on the tin shed hung the property’s mail bag, containing a number of packages and letters. Such was the trust in this sparsely populated country but more important to Travis was how to find his way to his new employment.

Travis searched about the siding for some indication of direction when in comical relief he discovered a signpost, with pointers in many directions as if it were beside a major highway near some sizeable town.

Mt. Surprise seven miles, pointed directly ahead and following the railway track. Rusden Springs eight miles, pointed east. Springfield three miles, directed east by south east, while west along an obscured track was a sign declaring his destination. C. Morris, two miles. Yet it was the last sign that brought a measure of humour to his day, it declared ‘Perth- a bloody long way,’ written in red paint on a broken board from a packing case and roughly nailed beneath the other signs. Adding to humour was the fact if one was to follow the direction suggested, they would end up in the Pacific Ocean, as the sign pointed due east and not west.

“Looks like were almost there girl,” Travis shared with Titch while giving an affectionate pat on her neck and guiding her into the direction suggested by the signage.

Eventually the dusty trees gave way to a well grassed valley of land watered by a small creek of permanent water. All about this selection ran a rise of hills that, although lacking in height, had the correct direction and slope to capture rain thus feeding the many springs and creeks, keeping the valley green even during the driest year.

Along the creeks the Callistemon grew tall and strong and red with flower, while a multitude of parrots screeched excessively as they fed on the blossom. Here the air was sweat with nectar and Travis breathed deeply from it, giving him the feeling of calm and hope.

The track firstly passed a gate with signage declaring the properties name Jackson, or more to the point that of its owner, before leading further into this rare pasture. Some distance onwards was another gateway and cattle-grid and yet another indication of ownership. Written in black paint in what appeared to be a most uneducated hand was ‘C. Morris,’ inscribed upon an old and rusting sheet of galvanised iron. Beside the grid was a small wire-strand gate. Travis opened and entered, ensuring he securely closed it as in the outback the general rule was to leave all gates as they were found.

Once beyond the gate Travis discovered a number of decaying car hulks, which appeared to have been dumped many years previously. Now they stood as mute sentry against any unwanted entry. Travis hesitated as a strange sensation of foreboding came over him, feeling those decaying guards gave warning, their rusting panels filled him with caution, until the cheerless calls from crows far above his head diluted his alarm and returned him to the serenity of the valley.

In the distance through a small stand of trees Travis could see the red metal roof of a structure appearing to be more a shed that a house. As the building became apparent he discovered by its design it was a dwelling but extremely rundown while its southern wall had a slight lean, propped to avoid falling into the dirt by a number of long sturdy poles. To the front of the house ran a white picket fence, once proud but now its paint dull and missing more palings than what remained, while failing to protect an ample vegetable garden from bandicoots and other night raiders that chance to pass.

Travis’ approached towards the fence set two healer cattle dogs chained under the house into a frenzy of displeasure. The dog had a lead wire and could reach the fence, while the bitch appeared to be heavily pregnant and was restrained to a limited section with a scattering of hessian bags as bedding. Titch shied as the dog reaching the end of its lead hitting the fence with so much force it dislodged another of the failing pickets, sending it across the ground close to where Travis was mounted. Titch settled with a soft word and a pat from Travis, while he moved her further from the fence and influence of the snarling animal.

“Down you fucken’ mongrels,” A bull like voice boomed from the shadows of one of the out-buildings. Both dogs calmed and returned to their position near the house but as soon the male recommenced its growling.

Travis dismounted to be met by a large man who more loomed rather than approached. His black to grey hair crowned a sunburnt unshaven face and his small dark eyes gave no expression of joy. His down turned lips quivered with anger towards his dogs as he hurled a stick he was carrying at the male, hitting it across the rump releasing a hurtful yelp.

“Travis Brown?” The large man questioned turning his attention now away from his dogs but holding onto his anger.

“Yes, Mr. Morris?” Travis answered and offered his hand. The big man didn’t accept the offer.

“You were supposed to be here yesterday.”

“My apology but I misjudged the time it would take to ride from Bullock Creek and I didn’t think it wise to arrive late at night,” Travis answered as he retrieved his unaccepted hand.

“Very well, I’ll show you to your bunkhouse and where you can stable your horse.” Morris turned and walked towards a group of out-buildings off to the right of the house. As Travis followed he caught a flicker of movement behind the curtains of one of the windows. Two faces were secretly watching him and yet a third from what appeared to be the kitchen window. Morris glanced towards the house and the faces disappeared.

“Don’t suppose you’ve had breakfast?” Morris asks while showing Travis his bunkhouse room.

“No Mr. Morris,” Travis answered.

“You can come up to the house as soon as you have settled and my wife will make you something.”

The room was filthy and in Travis’ opinion not fit to kennel the dogs, or more to the point had been employed for that purpose. It contained a single wire bed and mattress which appeared to be clean and serviceable but no other furnishing. One corner displayed a stacking of empty drums, topped with a box of magazines and paper back novels, while in another corner was a selection of gardening equipment. Outside what could only be considered a prison cell, with its small window and broken door, stood a row of terracotta pots containing the withered remains of a number of plants, being some failed attempt at gardening.

“The last bloke was a messy bugger,” Morris declared.

Travis didn’t answer.

“You should be able to clean it up and make it presentable,” Morris added waving his hand at the confusion without offering help, or direction on how it could be accomplished. “You can get clean bedding from the wife when you go up for a meal and dump all the junk into one of the other rooms,” he continued, his gaze was fixated upon Travis and appeared to be travelling deep into him, as if searching for his substance.

Travis kept to his silence but was quickly developing worry towards his new employer.

“A few more points lad, firstly stay away from my wife. Also my boys, I have enough trouble keeping control without some stranger influencing them.”

Travis agreed with a nod while a feeling of dread began to rise from deep down within, thinking it may have been wise to have taken both Roy’s and Bradley’s advise. Still he would attempt to fit into Charles Morris’ ways even if it were only for a short period.

“Another thing lad, the shower block is around the back of the bunkhouse but the boiler is broken, so there isn’t any hot water until I get around to fixing it and you will be served meals in the men’s dining room at the house.”

The first day concluded with most of Travis’ time settling into the bunkhouse. By afternoon he had at least made the room respectable and had clean bedding but still it was basic and hot with the door and small window the only advantage to allow airflow, while the corrugated metal walls held the heat during the hot periods and refused to do so in the chill of night. He had moved the drums and gardening equipment to a second room and with the use of a wooden crate created a bedside table and seeing he had travelled light, found that a cardboard box sufficed for his clothes. “Good enough for now,’ he sighed from the doorway, his hands firmly on his hips while admiring his work. ‘Now to fix the door hinge and remove those bloody dead plants.’

Once settled Morris returned to inspect Travis’ work and being satisfied he commenced to dictate what duties he would have to perform. It appeared the Morris property was a little shy of twelve hundred acres, with good grass and water, holding around a hundred head of beef cattle, mostly for fattening before on-selling. He also had a number of horses which he breed for the rodeo circuit, that way there wasn’t any added expense in breaking the animals for riding. As for employees by the size of the bunkhouse and the men’s dining room the property had once been much larger, supporting a substantial workforce and according to the little information Morris was prepared to divulge, had been divided into smaller holdings some years before his father had purchased the property.

“Firstly you will bring in the wood and set the kitchen fire each morning. Then feed the chooks and collect the eggs, also carry water for the vegetable garden. Then when necessary you will help muster the cattle.” Morris paused and passed Travis a sheet of paper containing a list of chores and when each should be executed. “Here, I’ve written down what’s expected of you – don’t lose it.” Morris grunted and left Travis to peruse the hand written, badly spelt list of duties leading onto the reverse of the page; some of the chores bordering on being absurd.

Travis had met Morris’ wife on the first day believing her a pitiful woman of little humour or character and introduced as Mrs. Morris while obviously expected to be address as such. The two boys whose faces appeared through curtained windows on his arrival didn’t become apparent for three more days. When they did they stood at distance and watched every move Travis made while he watered the garden or fed the chickens. By appearance the boys could be considered twins although it was obvious there was at least a years different in their age. Both lads had black hair like their father and were in their mid teenage years, while their frames were slender and bent and had long expressionless faces, ghostly white through lack of sunlight.

Travis waved to the boys but remembering the father’s warning, did not speak while neither responded. Instead they whispered then quickly turned and disappeared back into the house. Moments later they again appeared at a window.

“Strange lot,” Travis thought and continued watering the vegetable garden carrying buckets from the close by creek.

“Why hire anyone when you have two sons to do the work,” he silently assumed as the frame of Morris loomed over his shoulder.

“You can do that later, I have another job for you.”

Morris’ voice was deep and menacing, laced with determination and anger. Had he seen him wave to the boys and did he consider the gesture to be interference? Travis waited for the old man’s tirade but it didn’t eventuate. Once again Morris demanded Travis to come with him. He obeyed and followed to the fowl house.

“Can you milk a cow?” Morris asks as they entered the pen, leaving Travis to question what milking had to do with fowls.

“Not really, I have done so when I was a kid but not successfully,” Travis answered.

“We don’t have a milker at the moment but when we do you will have to learn as it will be your job,” Morris paused and scanned around the pen. His eyes fixed on a plump bird.

“Have you ever killed a chook?” Morris asks while handing Travis an axe.

“No but I’ve seen it done many times,” Travis admitted remembering his earlier days at Creek Run and later on Cumberland Downs.

“Then it’s about time you learnt,” Morris says and after catching the chosen bird he handed the squawking animal to Travis, while directing him to a blood stained block of wood obviously suited for the bird’s dispatch.

“Put its neck on the block and chop the head off with the axe but hold on tightly.” Morris once again took control of the fowl and displayed the necessary action then passed the bird back to Travis who held it by the legs, while it gave him a worried glance from a shiny black eye. He placed its neck across the block. The bird protested loudly. It had obviously seen many of its mates carried to the block and nature gave it enough instinct to become concerned.

Travis lifted the axe and held it high without making the strike. With the axe hovering and the bird protesting he felt he could not but must.

“Come on I haven’t all day, what are you some sort of girl,” Morris barked as Travis closed his eyes and brought the axe down heavily across the bird’s neck, shooting its head across the yard, its eye still staring and beak quivering as the blood spurted uncontrolled and across his trousers. As soon as the head was removed the bird’s body took to involuntary flapping its wings, which caught Travis unaware, he released his hold and the headless fowl jumped from one side of the block to the other, performing summersaults as it went.

“You idiot, quickly grab it or you’ll bruise the meat!” Morris shouted as Travis once again took hold of the decapitated animal. It calmed but Travis didn’t, feeling his stomach knot and heave, while the fear of Morris’ reaction was all that kept his food down, as the chicken was taken from his hold for plucking.

“Have you ever plucked a chook?” Morris asks.

“No.”

“Then follow me and I’ll show you how it is done.”

Without further comment, Morris strolled back towards the house with the washing copper already boiled and ready for the dispatched animal. Travis followed silently behind. His face white and stomach in knots.

“Right,” Morris growled and dipped the bird into the boiling water.

Travis stood aside.

“The hot water loosens the feathers.”

Travis kept to his silence.

“Did you understand what I said?” Morris demanded.

“Yes Mr. Morris,”

“Then why not answer.”

“Sorry, yes I do realise why you did so,”

Morris passed the soggy bird to Travis, “there you go and I expect it clean of feathers.”

The man stood aside as Travis dipped the bird into the water and commenced to pluck away the feathers.

“Your blood splattered trousers,” Morris spoke.

Travis paused from the plucking.

“Take them off and I’ll take them up to Mrs. Morris for washing.”

Travis faltered as he wasn’t wearing underclothing.”

“Well!”

“I’ll do so later Mr. Morris,”

“Suit yourself but don’t think you will claim damage if the stain won’t come out.”

The man released a grunt and left Travis to his work.

‘Strange man,’ Travis thought as he watched Morris walk towards the house then as if annoyed by a wasp Morris commenced to wave some imaginary insect from his face with a most animated action. At the stairs to the kitchen he took hold of the hand rail and placed a foot on the bottom step, he turned glanced back towards Travis, lifted a finger and spoke pointing the finger as if enforcing some opinion before changing direction towards the stockyard.

‘What have I got myself into here?’ Travis thought but was prepared to give his new employment a chance.

Mrs. Morris was a thin woman with long brunette hair streaked with grey, while her sunken eyes were clouded with sadness. She being the opposite of her husband had little to say and seldom seen outside the house, except to attend to her vegetable garden, or hang the washing but even then never turning her eyes towards Travis. At meal times she would approached in almost silence, her words only to do with his meal but if her husband was gone for a time, she may mention the weather in simple sentences not requiring an answer, it is hot, looks like rain, would be the most of it. If Travis agreed she would go no further, if Travis added body to her words she remained unproductive.

As for the boys James and Rodney, they were always at distance, always watching and whispering. If Travis glanced, their heads would turn away. If Travis waved they would be gone within an instance. All this made Travis uncomfortable but he didn’t dare speak to them unless he was accused of corrupting, or cause trouble for them as he would frequently hear rased voices coming from the house and the sound of crying. Even so he had never seen maltreatment upon their person.

Travis had been in the Morris employment for a month and had not yet done anything he considered to be constructive. He had become the property’s cowboy, or as known to some the rouseabout and not the cattle hand he was lead to believe he would be hired for, while chopping firewood, gardening and feeding chooks was honourable enough work, they were not his life’s intentions. Besides Morris not only constantly watched over his work but criticised everything he did and the man’s temper was acute and always threatening. He could become as a raging bull from a start of almost serenity and although he had never lifted his hand towards him, Travis felt the old man could if angered enough, so whenever Morris became enraged he would subtly keep his distance.

As for downtime there was little and although Travis had been offered one Saturday each month, there wasn’t anywhere to go, except for a night of drinking at the Mt. Surprise hotel or the twice yearly Georgetown race meeting. Morris seldom went anywhere, except to collect supplies from Byrimine Siding; while it was doubtful his ancient Ford truck would be capable of travelling much further. Therefore if Travis took advantage of his night out he would have too walk into Mt. Surprise or journey by horse and be back early the following morning to set the breakfast fire.

There was one Saturday he did take advantage of his free day and riding into Mt. Surprise he obtained permission to leave Titch in the hotel yard while he enjoyed a few cold beers, which turned into a few more than common sense would describe and a hangover with the morning.

Oddly on his arrival at the hotel he became the toast of the bar as no one had ridden to the pub in so many years it was a novelty. It was then he met Luke Miles, a lad of his own age, who now working on Christmas Creek Station had once worked for Charles Morris but had left after being accused of becoming too friendly with Morris’ wife and other reasons Luke didn’t appear comfortable in disclosing. None of which were true but he was more than happy to leave at a moment’s notice without collecting his wages.

“Watch him; he’s a real mean bastard,” Luke warned.

“And those brats of his – as mad as they come,” he freely added.

Luke also suggested he could collect Travis for a night out at the pub but if he were to do so, Travis would have to be ready at the property line at an arranged time, as he wouldn’t go near the house. All of which seemed a good idea but Travis had no way of contacting Luke as Morris didn’t have a telephone service.

Luke was staying at the hotel overnight to collect supplies from the following days train service, which being a monthly occurrence gave him the opportunity to socialise with the local crowd and acquaintances from outlying properties. This factor became Travis’ reason for his hangover as he stayed on until closing, enjoying relaxed conversation with Luke and didn’t time his drinking.

With closing Travis bid Luke farewell both suggesting they should meet again soon, while Travis’ return journey gave thanks that Titch wasn’t a motor vehicle and had better homing ability than he.

On reaching the Morris farm he noticed a late night light burning in the kitchen and after dismounting and leading Titch past the house he spied Morris standing at the door, his huge frame even larger with the dull kitchen light behind. Travis thought twice of speaking but believed a greeting was wise. “Good evening Mr. Morris,” he softly called.

“Morning more to the point,” Morris answered.

“That it is, I got talking to -,” Travis almost mentioned Luke’s name but thought better of doing so but lacked chance to say more as Morris silently turned and closed the door.

The kitchen light went out.

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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