Published: 6 Sep 2021

Roy Brown owned a small cottage on the east bank of the Barron River a short distance out of town. It was an old farmhouse, quite sound but badly in need of attention and the only dwelling down a long winding unsurfaced road, lined by many ancient fig trees lending rustic charm to an otherwise dull part of town. To the back of the property the river ran shallow over a rocky area after the hospital bend but on Roy’s side the channel was deep enough for swimming and often used by the town boys for that purpose. For privacy Roy had erected a paling fence along the river boundary but in reality there wasn’t need to do so as most kept away. It was said the original owner of the property was a Chinese market gardener who had been murdered in his field during the towns early days and the assailant’s identity was never discovered, although believed to have been a xenophobic neighbour with a violent nature. Some time after the incident the neighbour left the district and was never again heard of. Because of the gardener’s misfortune and violent demise many children believed the property but not the house to he haunted, therefore they kept well away.

Roy had purchased the property for its isolation and its many sheds. Being cynical towards haunting and the only bidder, as they property had been empty for some years, Roy’s fortunate streak continued, as with the purchase came a little more than five acres with planning to subdivide but he decided not to do so until a further date, after he had decided where he would finally settle down.

Roy suggested he collect Travis from home but not wishing to be confronting towards his parents, Travis thought it better to make his own way. Come for tea, Roy offered but was politely declined as to Travis his uncle remained an unknown quantity. It was easy enough to apply simple conversation in a bar, surrounded by its hubbub and energy but how to behave sharing a meal with an almost stranger frightened the lad and his Uncle Roy was almost that stranger. That along with Roy’s unknown reputation within the family and Greg’s account on molesting uncles added to Travis’ uneasy state.

As Travis approached the front door he heard laughter coming from inside. He knocked and the laughter died away, followed by heavy footsteps echoing along a dimly lit passage. Moments later the door opened by his still laughing uncle.’

“That’s what you think,” Roy called back along the passage.

“Travis!” Roy loudly greeted.

“Come in,” he offered, stepping aside to allow progress.

“I’m a little early,” Travis admitted.

“For my favourite nephew any time is the right time. Did you walk over?”

“I did, it only takes half an hour and the evening is cooling. I came along the back way, across the log crossover at the shallows and through the rear paddock.”

“You’re brave,” Roy admits.

“Why is that?”

“Didn’t old Vang get ya’?”

“Who is Vang?”

“He’s the resident ghost of a long ago murdered Chinese market gardener, who haunts the paddock close to the river.”

“That’s a new one?” Travis admits.

“He was hacked to pieces back in the twenties and roams about the paddock looking for revenge.”

Travis gave a nervous laugh admitting he wasn’t prone to believe in ghosts.

“You and I alike but that’s the story and it keeps the kids away – come in.”

A young man was seated at the kitchen table, a cigarette in one hand and a stubby bottle of beer in the other. He drew deeply from his smoke, followed by a long gulp of beer. The kitchen was small but comfortable enough as a bachelor’s pad, while the aroma of cooking filled the air as pots bubbled merrily on the old wood-range.

Roy introduced the stranger as Trevor Bailey a friend from Cairns and Travis offered his hand only to receive a silent nod from the young blond lad.

“Travis,” Trevor finally greeted in a voice almost as deep as the blue of his eyes, while his strong masculine jaw bristled with a smudge of blond stubble. He remained seated, his eyes fixed on the form of Travis as one would examining the worth of an animal offered for auction.

Travis quickly turned from his gaze.

“Trevor is up visiting for a few days,” was the only explanation given as Roy signalled his friend to leave the room with a slight flick of his head. Trevor collected his packet of cigarettes and fancy inscribed gold plated Ronson lighter as he departed. Roy turned a chair and sat with its backrest before him. He beckoned to Travis to be seated.

“Have you eaten? I’ve made a stew with spuds and beans, it’s my specialty and about ready,” Roy offered glancing towards the pots on the stove.

“No thank you Roy, I’ve had tea.”

Want a beer?” Without waiting for an answer, Roy collected two beers from the refrigerator and handed one to Travis.

Travis thanked his uncle and placed it on the table.

“Hey Trevor, you want a refill?” Roy called along the short passage his voice appeared to bounce along its darkness.

“Got one,” Trevor’s deep voice returned from the shadows.

“So your parents have agreed; how did you arrange that?” Roy asks displaying a measure of surprise. Travis smiled, admitting his father preferred it rather than his suggestion about going bush on his own, while his mother refrained from being affirmative or negative on the matter with a simple, it’s up to your father.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Roy questioned as he pushed Trevor’s ashtray aside then as a non-smoker removed it altogether to the far side of the room. “Do you smoke?” he asks while diverting from Travis’ future travel plans.

“No,”

“Good we may grow the stuff around town but that doesn’t mean we have to use it, although I did do stringing for pocket money when I was a kid. Have you done stringing Travis?”

“Last season but only for a couple of weeks before the Dutchman’s curing barn caught fire and burned to the ground.”

“Was it a Jewish fire-sale?”

“By the anguish from Mr. Molen I wouldn’t think so.”

“Dirk Molen, I know him and he’s a fine honest farmer. So you didn’t try another farm?”

“No I was offered part time work with Jack Johnson soon after.”

“Yea at twopence a stick you will never become rich stringing tobacco. I soon found that out,” Roy admitted.

“It’s gone up to threepence these days,” Travis corrected.

“Even so, it’s a mug’s game but I guess fine for kid’s pocket money. Now what are your travelling plans?”

“It’s something I’ve been dreaming about for years.”

“What working on a station or with horses?”

“To be honest Roy, what I really want is to go bush and just drift for a while, get a feeling the outback, without roads and houses and people telling me what to do at every turn.”

“In time young fellow you will find the last of that’s but impossible, you just have to accept good advice and go with your gut and weed out the bad.”

“I do realise that Roy,”

“Okay you can give Bullock Creek a go and see how you like it.”

“Anything Roy,”

“I wouldn’t be too hasty with anything. It’s quite primitive out there, with basically only a rail service.”

“I’m used to primitive.”

“Even more so than Cumberland Downs I assure you and no electricity.”

“I would still like to give it a go,”

“Alright then when you’re there I’ll have Bradley cut out one of the horses; have you any cash?” Roy enquired.

“A little but as I said, I want to try living rough for a while, just myself and the horse and the road ahead.”

As Travis spoke Roy commenced to laugh, “You know young fellow that was me ten or so years back.”

“How did it go?”

“It didn’t I hated the solitude but out the other side of Georgetown I found a creek full of gold.” Roy paused his exaggeration, “well enough to get me started; haven’t looked back since and don’t miss the wandering either.” Checking his cooking he continued; “well kid I can’t blame you from trying. Mum – your Grandmother gave me hell over the idea but I still went.” Roy stirred the pot and once again offered a meal to Travis. “We’ll have to eat soon,” he says tasting the stew, “salt,” he declared and added a good measure to the pot, “you will have to get used to stew, it is about all young Bradley can cook.”

“I’ll go and come back another time,” Travis suggested.

“Nope, I’m sure you’ve seen people eat before,” Roy again stirred the stew and tapped the large wooden spoon against the rim of the pot, “I think I’ve spoken to you about Bradley Cooper?”

“Yes,”

“I have to take him supplies on the weekend, would you be ready by Saturday?”

“Sure.”

“Early mind you, I hear you like your bed,”

“I can do early,”

“Alright then, I’ll pick you up around eight thirty or so.”

“I’ll meet you over here,” Travis suggested, once again not wishing to bring his uncle into controversy with his parents.

It was agreed and as Roy piled his stew onto two large dinner plates he again offered some to Travis and called Trevor back to the kitchen.

Trevor took his place at the table, “where’s the bread?” he questioned.

“Who did the shopping?”

“I guess I did,”

“Then you know where the bread is.”

“Ops forgot, tomorrow,” Trevor gave a cheeky smile.

“I’ll make up a list for Bradley as well, have the store put it on my account and deliver it here.”

“That should be easy enough,” Before starting his meal Trevor turned to Travis, “so you reckon you’re a horseman Travis?”

“I know a little about them, what about yourself?”

“Nope I can think of better things to do.”

After a quick meal Trevor slipped from the table, “I’m off then,” he says as if to give Roy and Travis a little privacy.

“Where to the Royal?” Roy asks.

“Dunlop, I have to meet up with some mates up from Cairns.”

“Do you want to take the rover?”

“I’ll walk, I won’t be late.”

Once alone Travis felt brave enough to speak freely, “I have a question,” he says.

“Go on,”

“What the go between you and the family?”

“How do you mean?”

“That’s it, I don’t know but whenever your name is mention there is avoidance.”

Roy laughed, “lifestyle – just lifestyle kid, they have the impression I think I’m too good for them but the truth is I just like nice things.”

“I’m looking forward to Bullock Creek,” Travis admitted believing it sapient not to push further into Roy’s private life.

“Would you like another beer?” Roy offers.

“Best not, I should be off.”

“Right-o Saturday and early as it’s a rough road and will take most of the day.”

“Yes Saturday and early,” Travis agrees.

“I wouldn’t go back through the paddock and across the creek,” Roy suggests.

Travis laughs; “why so do you think your Mr. Vang will get me?”

“More to point there isn’t any lighting and you may fall in the river.”

“Point taken,”

Travis was hoping to arrive home and find his parents already retired for the night but Jim was reading in the lounge with Margaret close by mending one of Travis’ shirts.

“I’m back,” Travis calls from the hall and heads directly towards his room.

“Travis,” Jim calls.

“I’m off to bed,”

“Come in here I wish to talk with you.”

Travis enters and spies his mother at her mending, “don’t do that!” he strongly demands.

“Do what love?”

“The shirt, don’t mend it.”

“You can’t wear it with two buttons missing and a tare across the shoulder. It should be put in the rag-bag.”

“It’s my favourite.”

Too late the rent was stitched and new buttons applied with one a different design than the others.

Travis gave a sigh and let it be.

“What did Roy have to say?” Jim asks.

“Not a lot, he is to take me to Bullock Creek next Saturday.”

“Did you discuss wages?”

“Nope,”

Jim throws his head back with a huff.

“I won’t need much as there is no where to go at Bullock Creek.”

“That isn’t the point,” Jim stresses.

“It will be okay dad; Roy will do right by me.”

“You do realise this is only on trial?” Jim was obviously attempting to find some way to renege on his agreement.

“Yes dad,” Travis agreed knowing well once he was at Bullock Creek he was one step towards independence.

Margaret finished with the shirt and passed it to Travis. I don’t know what you young fellows do to get your clothes in such a state.

Travis thanked his mother, “I’m off to bed.”

“Good night son,” Jim greeted but obviously remained negative towards the enterprise.

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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