Published: 12 Dec 2016

Fred Jones was a large man and the town’s butcher; his booming voice seemed to bounce of the glass counter towards Luke as he collected the family meat supply. His ginger handle-bars moustache twitched as he laughed while his small piggy eyes were as bright as two glass beads.

“So your dad’s going down the coast?” Jones asked as he wrapped the half dozen chops, three rump steaks and a number of sausages in a double covering of white paper. Luke smiled but didn’t answer.

“What about yourself, are you changing schools?” Jones asked.

“No Mr. Jones, I’m going to stay with mum’s sister Violet until the end of the year.” Luke answered politely.

“Good woman Violet Hunter” Jones declared displaying a look that said more than it should about the virtue of the woman. As he spoke Esca chanced to pass by the shop window on his way to the supermarket and was spotted by Jones. “There’s that bloody Brody kid, his bloody father blew his head off before paying what he owed!” He paused until Esca passed out of sight. “Nothing but trouble that family, he should be run out of town!”

“He’s a mate of mine.” Luke declared without hesitation.

“Then young Luke you should be more careful who you choose as friends.” Jones strongly advised. Passing the package of meat to Luke he continued. “Tell Margaret she can fix up the account later.” He offered but Luke paid the man, bid him good morning and left, feeling a little less respectful towards Fred Jones.

“Hey Luke.” The call came from a neighbour of Luke’s, Susan Cunningham, who had been shopping for her mother and happened to pass as Luke left Jones’ shop.

“Susan, are you going home, I’ll walk with you.”

“You’re not leaving with your parents?” Susan asked.

“No I will be staying with my aunt Violet in Wilson Street until after the exams.” Luke explained as they walked towards home.

“I’ve seen you over at the Brody house.” The girl declared in an almost accusing manner. “No one likes him.” She added. Luke refrained from commenting. “Your mum and mine are trying to match us.” She added with a giggle.

“That I know.” Luke answered, somewhat embarrassed by his mother’s persistence.

“What do you think of it?” Susan asked.

“What do you think?” Luke, not wishing to sound negative on the matter, reversed her question.

“I don’t much like boys.” She admitted freely, “and I think you don’t like girls.” She continued giving her words a slight twist of irony. Again Luke remained silent as they approached the Cunningham’s front gate.

“Don’t worry Luke, I won’t tell anyone.” She declared and entered through the open gateway.

“There isn’t anything to tell.” Luke protested.

“See you at school Luke.” Susan giggled and disappeared through her front door leaving Luke somewhat confused. How could she know his secret? And would he tell Esca about their conversation.

It was a fine day. Not too hot with the air as still as it possibly could be. Esca had done his shopping early. On the way to the shops he had passed the butcher and noticed Luke inside. He also noticed the scowl on Fred Jones’ face. “That’s why I buy my meat at the supermarket.” Esca commented, smiling through the glass towards Jones. Not that he received better treatment at the supermarket but at least there he could choose his product without having to ask for it.

Seeing Luke in the butcher shop filled Esca with regret for his decision not to become further intimate before the lad’s eighteenth birthday. Besides he had already been so. Why not continue? He had already committed the crime, adding to it wouldn’t make much difference. It was the principle of it all. He was a law abiding citizen, even if the majority of the town thought different. His only crime was being his father’s son and enjoying company with Luke. If that was crime then he would shout his guilt from high on Butcher’s Hill.

Feeling somewhat dejected Esca climbed the hill. He found the solitude high above the town helped solve his problems. Looking down they would become as tiny as those walking the streets.

“Afternoon young Esca,” came from over his left shoulder. Turning he recognised Henry Davidson, carrying his shotgun, the barrels broken and chambers empty, while the old man wheezed his way up the back of the hill from the direction of the cemetery.

“Rabbiting Mr. Davidson?”

“Cheap meat, not like the muck Fred Jones sells but I haven’t seen any today.” Davidson grumbled.

“Fred doesn’t think much of me, says dad owed him money and I should pay his debt.”

“I must say, at one time or other your father owed most folk in town money.” Davidson answered resting himself on the surface of a large flat stone.

“I’m afraid I can’t help, I don’t have any money to repay his debts.” Esca apologised.

“Don’t worry yourself lad, most people lent him money realising there was a good possibility they would not get it back. It was only the likes of Jones and his cronies who held your father to his debt.”

Finally Davidson caught his breath before rolling himself a smoke. Thin, ever thinner he rolled the weed until it was so slim it would hardly stay alight. It mattered not as in his words it was more the pleasure of rolling the damn thing rather than smoking it.

Esca lay back feeling the warm sun on his face. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply from the intoxicating air. He was interrupted by Davidson.

“You always were a good kid so don’t let the town get the better of you. Eventually they will come around.”

“What if they don’t?”

“Then that’s their loss.” Davidson rolled a second cigarette, placing it gently behind his right ear. “Afters,” He declared.

“You know son, I think I’m growing too old for this world.” Pausing he fiddled with the shotgun cartridges rolling loose in his pocket, they made a jingling sound under his touch. He continued. “I miss the old days. People made do back then and didn’t need their world all new, with everything clean and polished. If it took you two days to get to town, so be it, time didn’t matter.” With more jingling of the cartridges the old man continued. “Peoples yards contained old car bodies, long grass and what ever else they discarded, no one seemed to mind. Do so these days and you soon receive notification from the Council and you didn’t need to mow your lawn so low it almost non-existed. But most of all I miss spontaneity, today everything is calculated and planned. No one does anything on the spur of the moment anymore.” Davidson once again paused watching an approaching storm way off to the north east. From their Butcher’s Hill advantage the distant sky was ink black with a curtain of heavy rain quite visible across the distant horizon.

“Do you play cards Esca?” He asked.

“Not really – poker maybe but I’m not very good at it, they say my face gives me away.”

“Before you and Jack were born your father and mother loved playing cards. Most Saturday evenings a group of us would get together over at your house. There we would play bridge or euchre over a few beers well into Sunday morning and still be fresh enough for Sunday’s church. Your house didn’t have electricity in those days, so we played to the glare and hiss of carbide light, but we made do and felt nothing of the discomfort.” The old man paused releasing a light chuckle, “and no refrigeration so the beer was warm but we didn’t mind; we even felt it to be somewhat romantic.” Another pause before the old man returned to his memories. “Your mother’s laugh I can still hear it and she could cheat like the best of them. Yes they were wonderful days. ”

Davidson sadly shook his head as two rabbits broke cover half way down the hill.

“Rabbits!” Esca exclaimed loudly pointing in the direction of the rodents.

“Too close to town for the gun.” Davidson did think of using it but as quickly returned the cartridges to his pocket. “Let them live another day,” he signed. “Sorry son it’s one of those days and the anniversary of my poor Mary’s passing. Won’t be long now and I’ll be joining her.”

Henry Davidson said no more. Rising to his feet he nodded to Esca and solemnly descended the hill towards the town. A week later he was found dead in his bed, beside him on his bedclothes and close to his outstretched hand, a photograph of his departed wife. There were few in attendance at his funeral. Esca was there to give reverence to one of the few friends he had found since returning home.

Esca remained seated on Butcher’s Hill long after Henry Davidson had descended back into town and the storm they had been watching arrived. Before he could leave the hill the rain poured down, heavy and loud. Lightning flashed all around. The air was alive, prickling on his skin, making the minute hairs on his arms stand proud. Soon it was dark, becoming more so from the heavy layer of ink black cloud, stretching from horizon to horizon and hanging low above his head. Then as if someone had flicked a switch, the town fell into blackness. A lightning bolt, followed by a clap of thunder as if some cannon had discharged close by his ear, took out the town’s electric sub station, throwing chaos into the evening meals.

Esca remained atop Butcher’s Hill mesmerised by the natural beauty of the storm. Each flash of lightning illuminated the buildings below his advantage resembling ghosts appearing from the blackness then as quickly they were gone. Occasionally the lights of some vehicle would challenge the darkness of the night but soon even the brave remained indoors, with the only evidence of life coming from the highway near the cross road with the passing of heavy transports, their existence denoted by the weak beam of their lights through the rain.

Eventually Esca could take no more, his clothes were saturated. The trickle down his back had long since entered under his belt making his underwear cling cold to his body and while descending from Butcher’s Hill his feet squelched in his runners. ‘Most unpleasant,’ he thought, laughing at the ridiculous sound coming from the squelching shoes.

Returning home Esca stripped, throwing the wet clothing into the bath tub. Once dry he found the night air to be quite pleasant. Remaining naked he fumbled through draws in search of candles. He found some but realised he lacked matches, “Should have taken up smoking.” Esca growled throwing the candles back into their drawer.

“There’s a kero lamp in the kitchen.” He remembered and headed for the kitchen cupboard. Entering into the kitchen he laughed. “Lamp, candles you still need matches – goose.”

A spark of intelligence prevailed, “the stove.” Again he laughed it was electric. Esca had intended to light a scrap of paper from one of the rings before once again realising there wasn’t any electricity to power the stove. He would have to fumble about in the dark until the power once more returned.

Outside the rain became heavier, sounding as if a freight train was passing across his metal roof. The head of the storm had long passed to the south, leaving behind the unrelenting rain and a thick inky covering of cloud from horizon to horizon and total darkness. Esca peered out of the bedroom window towards the school and park. He could see nothing past the opposite side of the street. Back in the kitchen he fumbled for something to eat. Opening the refrigerator door he felt the coolness of a beer bottle. ‘That will do.”

There was a loaf of sliced bread on the kitchen table as well as the bottle opener. It was somewhere on that obscured surface. Fumbling he found the bottle opener and the bread. “Almost gaol food,” he laughed, taking a slice from the packet, “Almost and as stale as,” he added. “Butter, jam,” he thought aloud but not wishing to once again fumble through the darkness of the refrigerator or cupboard, consumed three slices of dry bread. It wasn’t until the light of the new day did realisation come about the bread. It was not only stale but somewhat mouldy. Still in the darkness of night it tasted fine and he was still living.

In bed Esca listened to the rain. It was still heavy but the freight train had gone from the metal roof, leaving behind a steady lulling sound. He thought of Henry Davidson, of his kind words as well as the old man’s remorse for his Mary. Then of Luke, his silken skin cuddled into his back, realising they had never spent a night together, only stolen moments in a distant town. Hugging his pillow he attempted to remove the lad from his thoughts but could not. Rolling onto his back he manually removed his frustration allowing sleep to prevail.

The sound of rain falling on the roof may have been pleasant during the night but with the approaching dawn the reality of the storm was more than obvious. The Brody house was high enough but from its front the land sloped into what was once a creek, or more to point a hollow that led from the main creek through a natural depression then some distance beyond the town re-entered into the same creek. The terrain flattened out within the park and the school’s playground, before once again sloping towards the lower street and its buildings on the far side, while within the town proper there was a deeper gully with mowed grass on gently sloping banks of a good twenty feet in hight, with a concrete drain at its base.

Along the lip of this slope some houses and shops had been built, their frontage level to the main street with their rears high on metal pylons leading into the grassy gully. This design had been quite successful over past years, with ample drainage along the length of the old gully bed but there hadn’t been a heavy downpour for some time allowing debris to build, adding to that fact, within the main creek a short distance outside town, logs from the now debunked timber mill had floated down building a natural dam and sending the overflow back into town.

Adding to the problem of the log dam, during the previous day two cars had been parked in the depression behind the shops, high enough from the drain itself but still within the depression proper. During the night the torrent lifted both vehicles, taking them along like corks to become lodged within the pylons and trestles of the railway bridge, causing even more grief for the buildings along the main street, creating a second dam and overspilling onto the street, flooding a number of shops.

Some time before sunrise Esca awoke to such a commotion he had never encountered in town before. There were trucks everywhere, flashing lights with a cacophony of voices calling for sandbags and help. They had already managed to sandbag the shops in the main street avoiding excessive damage but beyond the school the water was flooding, knee deep, across the lower street into the buildings below.

On the corner of that street was the Country Emporium store with its country gear and clothing. Before anything could be done, it became flooded with water and flotsam building inside against the Emporium’s rear wall, carrying with it anything that had been stored below knee height. Eventually the force of the water burst through the back doors of the business into the well appointed garden. All attempts to prevent the flood were taken by the volunteers but it was a Sisyphean Task and most of the shop’s stock was ruined, gone through the back doors, through the garden to congregate in a soggy mass against the cyclone wire fence at the end of the property.

Dressing, Esca quickly hurried to the lower street to help with the sandbagging of the not yet flooded establishments further along the street. Beside the Emporium were two houses, already flooded, then there was a drive-way and Graham and Richards’s antique shop, beyond that more shops and houses. Fortunately, with clever positioning of a number of sandbags, most of the flow went down the drive-way beside the antique shop but by the minute the water was building towards the brother’s front door. Esca quickly joined the sandbag line, receiving and passing bags from the same folk that only the previous day would not speak to him. Now they treated him as equal but one he believed would not be remembered once the crises had passed.

As he worked Esca’s thoughts drifted to a flooded river he had encountered as a child, while travelling with his father. On a tree trunk carried by the tide was a large brown snake and a young rabbit; resting close and obviously without fear of each other. “Necessity creates some strange friendships,” his father had commented. Now that same necessity had once more brought him into the bosom of his hometown and he felt good. His heart beat with the call from Bill Fraser to plug a leak and Kenny ordering more sand bags and for the first time since returning he felt he was home.

Gary would appreciate your thoughts on his story. Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net

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