“I would say much too large for you lad,” Womersley reckons, “I have a pair out the back just made for your feet.”

“My boots are fine Mr. Womersley but I will have these; have you any bacon?”

“I have just this morning received fresh from the Mareeba bacon factory and at a fair price as well.”

Tate moves on from the boots towards a pile of second hand working clothes. He laughs, “that is your answer for all your prices Mr. Womersley but fair could be considered abstract.”

“That is a big word for such a slight lad,” the shopkeeper says as he brings out a portion of bacon, “will a half pound do?”

“Make it a pound I’ll also need tea, sugar and a couple of bottles of beer and a sack to carry it all.”

“Where are you travelling to this trip?” Womersley questions as he weighs the bacon.

“Nowhere in particular; I thought I’d try for work at Mareeba, or maybe one of the new farms further up the tablelands. In most I’m travelling to lessen the strain on my sister running the home.”

“How is Elsie, is she spoken for yet?”

“I would think she is too busy looking after us boys than even find time to be stepping out.”

“It is a crying shame lad such a good looking woman shouldn’t be left on the shelf like some fairground ornament.”

“Winnie has started dating but nothing serious.”

“Another good-looker your parents must have been blessed,” Womersley then laughs, “it’s a shame the same can’t be said of the Edwards boys.”

Tate accepts the humour but doesn’t respond.

Womersley wraps the bacon in the print referring to Ben Morgan; eyes remain on Ben’s description as it disappears about the bacon, “are you staying in Koah at the moment?”

“No I’m camped further down the river at the edge of the Kuranda forest,” Tate answers.

“Then you take care as that killer is on the run and by all accounts he is dangerous.”

“I always do Mr. Womersley. I do have a question do you remember that native boy I often travelled with?”

“Tolga wasn’t it?”

“That’s him, have you seen him about of late?”

“Not for a while, I believe Len Pearce out Biboohra way set his dogs on him for raiding his fruit trees. There was also a young black lad shot sometime back but I don’t know who, besides they have been sending most of them down to the Yarrabah mission, he may be there.”

Tate gives a cheeky smile, “sending you say?”

“You know what I mean and in my opinion jolly good job the blacks are nothing but layabouts and thieves. You could speak with Joyce Hedgelong, I hear your little black mate has a sweet tooth and hangs around her house for handouts,” Womersley suggests as he talleys up on a scrap of paper.

“I’ll round that down to four shillings,” he says, “and you can have the sack for nothing, as for beer, you will need to get that from the pub.”

Tate hesitates the amount is most of what coin he has but he must honour what is due, “where will I find Joyce Hedgelong?”

“That is if Joyce is at home as she delivers meals to the gangers, you will find her at the first house past the hotel with the low hedge and wire gate,” Womersley pauses with a grin, “watch her dog it has a nasty bite.”

The Hedgelong house is easy to find as once past the hotel there is only one dwelling along that part of the road. Remembering the shopkeepers warning Tate pauses at the gate, his eyes about for the animal with the nasty bite, expecting at least a Sheppard or Bullmastiff.

Nothing appears to be about.

“Right here we go.”

With disregard Tate opens the gate releasing a loud squeaking sound.

Immediately the dog arrives from behind a hedge all teeth and yap ready for business.

It is the smallest ugliest animal Tate had ever encountered.

“Dangerous?” Tate huffs then continues with a confident smile and friendly greeting, moments later the miniature guard dog is upon him, it teeth holding tightly to the cuff of his trousers while shaking his leg s if it was a chicken.

Tate attempts to shake the animal away but it holds tightly.

He is about to curse when he hears a woman’s voice.

“Brutus, get in here!” is loudly broadcasted from an open window as the gaunt features of Joyce Hedgelong juts almost a foot from the window frame, her grey unkempt hair tied loosely behind her head with rogue strands falling over her eyes, she pulls them aside to access the identity of the intruder.

Brutus reluctantly disengages although the growling persists.

Moments later the woman is looming at the open door, her expression lacking the slights sign or humour or welcome.

“I’m busy what do you want?”

“Mrs. Hedgelong?”

“Depends who you are and what you want.”

The woman is holding a straw broom as if ready to strike any opponent who may chance their luck, her gnarled knuckles white from her grip on the weapon.

The excuse for a dog quietened and goes to the woman’s side although obviously ready to continue if given the command.

“My name is Tate Edwards and Mr. Womersley at the general store suggested you may be able to assist me.”

“If it’s work you’re wanting I aint’ got’ none’, you could try the road works they are always looking for gangers.”

“No, not work Mrs. Hedgelong, I hear you know a black lad who goes by the name of Tolga.”

For the first time since their encounter the woman smiles.

“That cheeky little bugger; yes I know him and have to keep an eye on every move he makes, he is quick with his hands when it comes to cake and biscuits or anything shiny – he’s like a bower bird.”

“I am a friend of Tolga and we’ve been mates since little tackers but have lost contact for some time.”

The woman’s hold on the broom handle lessens.

“I aint’ seen em’ in an age, maybe he went down to the coast with the others, if not he sometimes hangs about in the forest up near the Kuranda ganging camp.”

“I have just come up from that way.”

The dog is chaffing at the bit for a second go at the intruder.

“Sit! The woman growls, her tone deeper than the dog could ever reach.

Brutus moves away to into the shadows of a small bush but remains attentive.

“Then lad, I can’t help you and I have meals to prepare from the road workers, so I’ll bid you good day.”

The woman returns inside and closes the door, leaving the dog with the mad eyes in command of the yard. As soon as the door closes the dog returns to business, quickly heading towards Tate displaying two rows of snapping teeth, lips drawn tightly back to better display the animal’s weaponry, “not this time you don’t,” Tate quickly responds as he closes the gate against the animal. He momentary pauses at the gate in thought before heading back to the store to collect his supplies, as for finding information on his friend Tolga it would remain a mystery along with his dreaming of his friend’s presence and sighting along the river.

By the time Tate is ready to start his return journey the day is fading and there is promise of rain. Instead of travelling in darkness he makes a request of Frank Womersley for permission to bed down in his shed and set out at first light.

“I’ll have none of that your man, with the remaining light and a little work on the wood pile you can bunk in the spare room, our Sam is away with the Colonial Brigade fighting the Boers in South Africa.”

“The shed would be pleasing enough.” Tate insists.

“I’ll be hearing no more, once you have done with the chopping come inside and Ruth will give you a feed.”

With the fading light there is little time for chopping so as quickly as possible Tate swings the axe and soon has a couple of day’s firewood stacked under cover.

First morning light finds Tate up at Sparrow’s Fart, a description he gleaned from his brother Wilson. With his bag of supplies shouldered he attempts to sneak covertly away not to wake the house but he only gets as far as the kitchen doorway before being spied by Ruth, as she fusses over a pan of eggs and bacon.

“Where do you think you are going young man?” she quietly demands without turning from the sizzle of the large blackened pan.

“I thought it best to be away quietly not to wake you.”

“You won’t be going anywhere without breakfast.”

Tate’s belly is grumbling and thankful for the offer, “you have been more than kind already and I don’t wish to put you to any more trouble.”

“No trouble lad, I am dong for Frank, so call him in from the shop and breakfast will be on the table.”

Breakfast is a fine affair for the lad, reminding him of the days when he sat with his siblings and his parents were living. His mother, with Elsie would fuss over the stove while they all sat about chatting, their father quietly supervising from his seat at one end of the table, his face beaming with pride over his so acclaimed grove of sprouting saplings.

There would be freshly baked bread; plates of bacon, fried eggs and sausages made by Maddox the butcher who had his shop at the top end of Mulgrave Street next to the undertaker, also something much loved by his father called black pudding but most turned their noses at the thought of it.

All the more for me Joseph would joyously proclaim.

Once seated Joseph would attend to grace and being hardly religious his words would be short, in most a simple gratitude for providence and nature providing for them. Providence being until then health had been kind and nature was their extensive kitchen garden and the hunting skills of the older boys. Sometimes there mother would advise Joseph he neglected to mention god in his abridged version of grace; the answer; woman god had nothing to do with it, he would then laugh while Lora tutted her displeasure, her eyes towards heaven waiting for the strike of retribution.

The breakfast with Ruth was almost as grand, leaving Tate feeling guilty for not cutting more wood the previous night, “before I go I’ll swing the axe a while,” he offers as Ruth commences to clear the table.

“No need lad, with Sam away with England’s war it was pleasing to have company,” Frank says.

“No Frank, I’m in no hurry and after such a wonderful breakfast I will need to work it off.”

So it was to the wood pile and the axe.

Tate had been chopping for a good half hour when his thoughts returned to Ben. It would be simple for Tate to continue with his original travel plan and leave Ben to unknown elements but he was blessed with integrity, although by now his newly made friend may believe Tate had gone as it had been his intention to return during the afternoon, now being midmorning he would not arrive before dusk.

‘Ben,’ he thinks and affords a smile.