Published: 21 Nov 2016

From somewhere off in the distance came the mournful sound of a steam train’s whistle, bringing many happy smiling faces to take notice. Trains in general weren’t rare there was a passenger train every second day and good’s daily but they were powered by diesel. It was always the primeval power of steam that brought about enthusiasm, bending imagination back to a time when life moved at a slower pace and folk were happy to take an entire day, or more, to travel between destinations. The discomfort, basic service and sooty carriages only added to the charm. Diesel rain like a time table, precise and to the point, flick a switch and it was primed. Steam built its power, slow and methodically, you could feel its intensity in the air and through the ground and the furnace heat as it increased in strength; Wheels within wheels all straining to break free.

The town’s station was decorated with long lines of bunting, party streamers of many colours and trestle tables, all covered with white cloth, displaying an array of foods and County Women’s Association made objects. Mostly of no more use than to catch ones eye on passing, not forgetting the obligatory bottles of jam, pickles and chutney, with their pinking cut gingham cloth covers and fancy hand made labels, created in kitchens defying over zealous health regulations.

Along the platform lined in their interpretation of Colonial costume was most of the town’s society. Fat women, thin women, children running and screaming, darting between fashionable legs and trestle tables, also a scattering of men, browbeaten into costume by dominating partners, standing sentinel waiting for the ordeal to be over so they could enjoy Saturday afternoon at the pub, watching the football match of the day, or even something as mundane as to mow the lawn, or washing the dog.

All eyes were to the right as the huge black engine powered its way into sight, its steam whistle sounding with lengthy delight, lifting a wall of cheering from those waiting at the station. To be equalled by a host of day trippers, hanging from every advantage of the four ancient carriages. The engine came to a hissing, steamy stop, allowing the two crowds to mingle upon the platform. What was missed in the excitement was a tall thin old man returning home by that last rail service, who slowly and painfully walked away from the station.

Absent from the day’s activity was the purpose for the pageantry. The line was closing, to be replaced by a twice weekly bus service and road transport to carry goods. Also gone would be the jobs supporting the rail service, placing one more nail into the lid of that well know box. One more step towards the town’s extinction. Even now the row of railway houses stretching along the line from the station, with their fettlers, engine drivers and platform hands, were empty as the positions became redundant or transferred to other towns, while many of the railway houses had been lifted from their trim gardens, placed onto trailers and transported away.

As the excitement dulled and those happy travellers once more boarded the train, the sky opened up in torrential downpour, drenching everyone gathered on the platform. Among shrieks of displeasure and spoilt costumes the crowd rushed for what little cover there was but could not prevent the ruin of their carnival.

That night, for the first time in many months, the lights came on in the dwelling two along from the Brody house. A thin old man silently moped about his kitchen. His movement restricted, his mood depleted by months of hospital treatment, until at last he was told to go home as there was nothing more they could do for him.

Arthur Dexter was dying. He had caught the last rail service home and stepping down onto the platform had been among many who had known him most of his life, yet in the excitement and his deteriorated state, not one recognised him. Once he was a proud bank manager who helped many to buy their homes, or car or a loan for a child’s education. Now he was a shadow among friends, standing in his own kitchen with nothing to eat in his refrigerator or in his pantry. Sad and desperate Arthur Dexter now had to resort to something that was totally against his principle and that was to beg for food.

Esca was about to dish out his meal when he heard a faint knocking at his front door. It came without conviction, sounding almost as an apology.

Esca opened the door to find a gaunt faced old man, his grey hair somewhat unkempt. His clothes clean but scruffy and his eyes, pale, weak almost despairing.

“It’s Mr. Dexter, isn’t it?” Esca asked, hardly recognising the once proud man.

“Esca, is your mother in?” The old man asked weakly.

“No she has gone to live with her sister.”

“Oh.” Was all the old man could say, he commenced to leave.

“What’s the problem Mr. Dexter; maybe I can help you.”

“I’ve been in hospital and returned on today’s train too late to go to the shops.” The old man explained.

“Come in I’m about to dish up tea.” Esca offered.

“I couldn’t.”

“Come on I’ve plenty.” Esca repeated his offer, almost having to lead the man to his table. Arthur weakly seated himself. “Would you like a beer?” Esca asked.

“No thank you Esca but I could murder a cup of tea.”

Esca placed his own meal on the table for Arthur, making excuse he had something that needed his attention while leaving the old man to eat in private. He could find himself something else once Mr. Dexter had returned home.

“How long has your mother been gone?” Arthur enquired after finishing his meal.

“Quite some months now – almost a year, she decided that with dad gone there wasn’t anything in town to hold her here.”

“I knew your father well.” Arthur divulged. Esca didn’t answer, leaving the old man to tell his story. “A complicated man, some days he would be as bright as a pin. Other times becoming solemn.” Arthur paused forcing a sympathetic smile. “The black dog you know, your father suffered badly from depression.”

“Do you remember my brother Jack?” Esca asked.

“A lovely boy, he used to help us around the house, you know I had a letter from him a year or two back. He was working somewhere up north; I don’t recollect where.” Arthur attempted to remember the name of the town, he could not but promised to find the letter for Esca. All he could remember was a town somewhere in Queensland. He had a mind it was Hughenden, then he thought it may have been Herberton, or something beginning with the letter H, or was it Winton. The man became so confused it may have been anywhere and maybe not even Queensland.

Over the following weeks Esca saw much of Arthur Dexter, helping with his house work and shopping. Each day Arthur grew a little more tied, a little weaker, until one Tuesday morning the Ambulance arrived at Arthur’s house, pulling away some time later at a slower pace. Arthur had passed away in the night, his demise discovered by the Home Help Esca had arranged for him.

Arthur never did find his letter from Jack.

As a child there was nothing Esca liked more than going to the pictures. Usually it was Saturday’s Matinee. Sometimes he would be allowed to attend Friday nights showing, when he would sacrifice his lolly money and pay the extra to be seated in the balcony among the more expensive seats, away from the canvas rows to the front. Where children kicked from behind and chewing gum hung like stalactites from the seats canvas base.

The town once had two picture theatres, losing its first to fire when Esca was a boy. At the time it was rumoured it had been a Jewish Fire Sale, brought on by failing patronage. The second held on even with the coming of Television, mainly by programming ancient films enjoyed by the older generation, along with the occasional block busting giants of present times. Now it was threatened by increasing council rates, ever increasing insurance and the passing years of its owner, Stephen Walsh, who had more kept the theatre open as a hobby than as a business.

Stephen Walsh was a short rotund man, well past middle aged, whose life was an enactment of the classics. His voice belonged in Gone with the Wind and his dress sense, divided between Carnival and Roaring-Twenties. On film nights he kept busy running the ticket office, the projector and drinks and sandwiches after the programme, also conversation which never strayed far from the Film Industry. ‘He’s just theatrical,’ was the general excuse whenever one chanced to question his characteristics and with that description he was almost accepted within his own community.

It was Friday night the theatre’s last night open for showing. The closure had been well advertised and Esca thought he could risk being in public, so decided to join the crowd giving the theatre a good send off. He chose to arrive moments before the start, not wishing to stand in line with unfriendly neighbours.

On arriving at the aging theatre he discovered the programme to be a double western night, also being the last performance, entry was free, decreed by a large ornately painted sign displayed in front of the ticket office’s window.

Once inside Esca’s eyes soon accustomed to the dull lighting. The public announcements had already commenced. From the speakers in gay abandon came the town’s advertising, declaring how friendly the Newsagency and Supermarket’s service were. “Oh yea,” Esca snarled while choosing his seat. Looking around he noticed there were not more than twenty people in the audience, mostly elderly and seated towards the rear. Esca choose to seat himself down stairs towards the front, as the dress-circle had long since been deemed unsafe.

No sooner had he done so and the credits for the first film lit up the screen, he felt the presence of someone beside him. Turning Esca discovered the late arrival to be Luke Campbell; his handsome youthful face ever smiling as he sunk deeply into the canvas seat.

“I haven’t seen you up on Butcher’s Hill lately.” Luke declared in a low voice, as the first gun shots rang out across the theatre, felling a host of hostile noisy Indians to left of screen.

“I’ve been giving Arthur Dexter some help.” Esca whispered his level below the thunder of horse’s hooves and the war whooping of Indians and gunfire.

“You weren’t at the funeral.”

“How do you know?” Esca asked showing a measure of surprise.

“I was there.”

“Did you know Mr. Dexter?” Esca asked.

“Not really but you know what I’m like, I have to know everything about everyone.” Luke folded his arms across his broad developing chest.

“You know Luke in some people’s mind that would seem sick.” Esca chortled out of one side of his mouth, his gaze remaining on the screen.

“What do you think?” Luke whispered.

“Doesn’t worry me besides I think you’re cute.” Esca answered allowing the word cute to slip uncensored into his delivery.

“So you do want to root me?” Luke quickly answered.

“Steady on Luke, I’ve already said you’re too young and keep your voice down.”

Halfway through the first film Luke’s hand gently brushed past Esca’s left knee then once again this time resting close to his side. Esca felt the transfer of touch travel to his crotch. He reluctantly moved away.

“Luke, cut it out, we’re in public.” Esca whispered sternly.

Towards interval a number of the town’s youth arrived, noisily taking seats a short distance from where Esca and Luke were seated. Their presence concerned Esca who explained that seeing they were school mates of Luke it would not be wise to be discovered sitting together, also having seen the film at least three times before, Esca excused himself from Luke and left the theatre in time to miss the interval and arrival of Walsh, dressed in costume and selling ice-cream and lollies from a tray strapped around his neck. All that was lacking from his ancient enactment were the packets of cigarettes, boxes of matches and from the theatre the haze of smoke. Esca’s departure went unnoticed as the audience was much engrossed in the film that most had probably seen many times before.

“What am I going to do with the boy?” He asked himself.

Once home Esca opened a bottle of beer and sat at the kitchen table. “I must get a television.” He uttered softly as the pour formed a perfect head of froth. “I should have been a barman.” He congratulated him effort.

With the first sip his thoughts returned to Luke. Esca was growing fond of the lad and his strange ways. It was also true Luke did stir in him the want to take him to his bed; even more. Yet he could not do so, if they were discovered there was no telling what would happen.

“How old is Luke anyway?” Esca loudly asked of himself within a deep sigh. He had been back in town close to a year and Luke was sixteen then, or in the lad’s own words ‘almost seventeen. “He must be heading for eighteen? Almost legal but in this town I don’t think any age would be legal.” Esca concluded pushing the almost full beer bottle to one side, he retired to his bed with the image of Luke firmly imprinted on his mind.

“Where is it?” Esca loudly exclaimed from the multitude of boxes and junk at the back of the shed. It had to be there as he knew it hadn’t been loaded onto the truck when his mother left. He paused and stood, smiling while the memory of Luke’s cheeky disposition from the previous night during the pictures returned. “Where does he come up with such ideas? It must be bloody George that’s who.” Esca moved more boxes, “where is that old television?” He repeated louder than before. He found more school books, even toys that went back to his and Jack’s childhood, bringing even more fond memories, but no television. He was about to give up his search when startled by a voice from the shed’s open door.

“What are you looking for?” It was Luke. Esca turned towards the intrusion.

“A television,”

“How could you lose a television?” Luke asked.

“I haven’t lost it, I was following a hunch that it may be amongst all this rubbish.” Esca scratched at his head, thinking he should do something about clearing out the accumulated junk but knew he would not.

“It’s at the very back under a pile of old curtains.” Luke declared.

“How do you know that?”

“I told you this shed is easy to break into.”

“I don’t see how?”

“Easy that back window doesn’t lock.”

Luke was correct, after removing the curtains Esca discovered the television.

“Alright smarty you can give me a hand carrying it into the house.”

The television worked. Esca flicked through the channels. Somewhat fuzzy but all there except for the Government Channel, that didn’t matter it only transmitted art and politics, besides everything it broadcast had been shown at least twice before, bringing him to call it the repeater channel. He jiggled the areal connection receiving a somewhat clearer picture and the ABC. “That will do me.” He exclaimed proudly.

“Not much of a picture.” Luke proclaimed.

“It will do me, come on help me lift it onto the fridge.”

“You do realise its Analogue?” Luke asked.

“So?”

“Next year they are closing down the signal and you will have to get yourself a Digital television, or a set-top box.”

“I don’t think so, I’ll go without.”

“Dad just bought a new set; it’s almost as big as the room.” Luke announced.

“I don’t think I’ll be doing that, besides I don’t have the money.”

“That’s your bedroom through there.” Luke declared gesturing towards the room’s closed door.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve also been in there when you were at the shops.” Luke replied without hesitation.

“I bolted the doors, how did you get in?”

“You didn’t close the bathroom window.”

“Luke now you are beginning to really scare me. All this spying on people isn’t healthy.” There was nervous hesitation in Esca’s tone, placing a barrier between himself and the lad. It soon passed with his friend’s answer.

“I don’t mean anything bad. I guess I’m bored with small town life.” Luke answered and for a moment lost his permanent smile.

“Do you want to live in the city?” Esca asked reminiscing on his own failed experience.

“I wouldn’t go as far as that but I would like to travel.”

“Problem is your strange little ways could carry on into later life and get you into a whole heap of trouble. At your age it may be considered cute and adolescent but an adult could be put away over that sort of behaviour.” Esca advised as the smile returned to Luke but the lad remained silent. Esca continued.

“I don’t know what to do about you Luke.” Esca switched off the television, his voice calculated, attempting to convince his friend to change his ways. Again Luke refrained from answering. Esca folded his arms, tilted his head to one side, finding it difficult to be angry with the lad. He fixed his gaze into the blueness of Luke’s eyes, they twinkled with mischief.

“You could take me into your bedroom.” Luke eventually suggested.

“For your information Luke I am beginning to more than like you and in your own words, I would like to root you but as I keep telling you, it isn’t possible.” Esca sighed, leading Luke out of the house to tidy the mess he had created in the shed. It was some time before either spoke as they attempted to place order into the junk, eventually the sight of the bicycles brought conversation from Luke.

“I’ve a bike. I often ride it out to the Two Mile.” He declared, taking control of the machine that once belonged to Jack. Sitting on its tattered seat he commented on its flat tyres and buckled rear wheel. “It’s a bit rusty.” He added noticing the missing paint and rust on its frame.

“That one belonged to my brother.” Esca commented.

“So the little one is yours?” Luke nodded cheekily towards the second bicycle.

“Was – I haven’t been on a bike since primary school.” Esca admitted.

“Want to ride out to the Two Mile for a swim?”

“On that heap of junk?”

“You could pump up the tyres.”

“What about the buckled wheel?” Esca protested.

“Oh well, I suppose I could dink you on mine.” Luke laughed.

It was Saturday and hot. Luke’s suggestion weakened Esca’s resolve and he agreed.

“Tell you what Luke, come back here around two and I’ll take the Ute.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Get going or I’ll change my mind.”

For Luke the afternoon couldn’t arrive quickly enough. For Esca the closer to the hour the more he regretted agreeing to their excursion. Five minutes before two Luke arrived from the scrub behind the Brody property. Stepping over the low wire fence he was soon calling at the rear door.

“Did anyone see you arrive?” Esca asked cautiously.

“I doubt it I came through the scrub behind. I did see John Rush but I don’t think he’ll tell anyone.” Luke entered the house without invitation. “I’m ready.” He was and wearing board-shorts and tight fitting tee-shirt. No footwear. Blond hair curled along his upper legs, disappearing under the fabric of the tropical pattern of his shorts to meet somewhere at a well developed bulge. It took Esca much willpower to tear away his gaze or not to take the lad in his arms and then to his bed.

“Right then were off, I have a blanket in the Ute; I want you to hide under it until we are well clear of town.”

As an added precaution Esca took the back streets, all to the humour of Luke whose voice declaring “spooky” lifted from beneath the blanket. Once out of town and past the cross roads Esca gave the all clear for Luke to surface.

Constable Russell Cummins had been patrolling the western highway from the cross roads since midday and was parked at the roadside, taking a break from driving up and down without success. He had a quota, not reaching it made him bad tempered and determined. Cummins chanced to be leaning forward retrieving his cigarettes from the dash board as Esca passed by. Righting himself he noted the Ute and was in mind to chase after Esca for no other reason than to harass him. He faltered. Did he see someone in the passenger seat, if so who could it be? Minutes later he did follow but by the time he reached the Two Mile turn, Esca was long gone, as had the Ute’s wheel dust from the dry track. Some distance past the turnoff Cummins turned for home, deciding he wasn’t worth the trouble. It was then he had a thought on where he had seen Esca before.

“Now I remember the little bugger.” Cummins hissed through his teeth, flicking the butt of his cigarette out of the patrol car’s window. It bounced, sparked, to fall into the dust at the side of the road, missing the dry grass by a cigarette’s length.

“Could it be?” He added becoming uncertain.

“I’ll check my note books tonight.” Esca’s face was familiar but not his name. “Esca Brody – Brody.” He attempted to familiarise himself with the name. Cummins had a good head for names but the name Brody didn’t mean anything. Yet he knew that face.

At the Two Mile it was agreed that Luke would hide in the scrub for a time, to be sure Cummins hadn’t followed them. Esca thought it somewhat clandestine but a measure of caution was wise when it came to the Constable. Like a dog with a bone if discovered together, Cummins wouldn’t let go until he had made something of their association. Luke who enjoyed the charade, quickly ducked behind a row of prickle bushes, all the while his tropical board-shorts standing out through the gaps in the bushes like dog’s balls, while making dramatic sounds as if creating the sound track for a Hitchcock movie, bringing Esca to realise the ridiculousness of his charade.

The Two Mile water hole consisted of a waterfall, dropping twenty feet, into a deep clear pool in a creek leading into the Wuruma River. The creek was dry most of the year but the large pool below the waterfall, usually had an excellent supply of water even during the driest year. Around the pool was a good coverage of callistemon and wattle trees, shading the water and preventing vision from the access road.

No sooner had the two reached a flat rocky surface than Luke dived into the refreshing water. Surfacing, he pushed his dreadlocks back from his eyes. “Coming in?” He asked while treading water.

“Nope, someone may turn up.” Esca asserted.

“No one comes here any more, come on.”

“I didn’t bring my togs.” Esca answered.

“Why not?”

“I told you someone may see us.” Esca sighed loudly becoming somewhat annoyed with Luke’s persistence. Luke left the pool to stand astride of Esca, dripping water across his face and shirt.

“You know Esca for someone who’s not much older than I am, you are a real worrier. Even your uncle has more fun than you do.”

“You don’t have half the town down on you and I said I don’t have togs.” Esca protested.

“Skinny-dip then.” Without hesitation Luke removed his shorts, dumping them beside Esca, “come on.”

“Sure thing you would love that eh, besides seeing you naked is having an effect on me.” Esca blushed, turning his face from his friend’s nakedness.

“Just being naked does it to me.” Luke answered as Esca raised his head to view the quickly rising appendage of his friend.

Esca relented. Luke was right he did concern too much on how others perceived him but that was his nature and had always been so.

“Oh well here goes nothing.” Esca quickly stripped before diving into the pool, followed close behind by Luke.

After much splashing and shoving, the two grew weary, retiring to stand neck deep in the shallows, their conversation simple, mostly memories of past years and prospects of those to follow. Do you remember this person or that, or the time when. Then silence.

The afternoon sun had dipped below the line of wattle trees. A slight cool breeze sprung up along the creek. Esca released a shiver.

“Suppose we should be heading back.” He suggested. As he spoke he felt Luke’s hand wrap around his member, immediately it reacted.

“Stop that.” Esca protested but allowed his friend’s progress. Luke laughed while continuing his play. Moments later he took Esca’s hand guiding it to his own crotch. This time Esca didn’t object. Within seconds they were both spent and laughing as they watched their ejaculations rise to the surface before drifting away with the lazy current.

On returning to his room at the boarding house, Cummins retrieved a well travelled cardboard box from under his bed, containing a multitude of note books and objects confiscated from suspects. The fruit of four years policing, their pages filled with lies and false accusations and dirt collected on members of the public that may be used against them at a later date. On a number of occasions these very books saved him from reprimand. If it were noted then it must be fact, no matter how dishonest his entries may be. Now he was in search of a name.

Finding the required book Cummins opened to that incident with its long list of names, remembering it to be the very event that stripped him of his city living. He scanned his list but failed to find Esca Brody amongst the entries. “I am sure it’s him.” Cummins declared his voice snarled with resentment. Once again he scanned his list, slowly running a finger down the page. He paused. “Lewis Smith, that’s the little bugger, he gave a false name.” So did most give false names but that was expected, besides the raid was more too frighten than to arrest. He closed the book. “Got ya.” He declared loudly and vindictively.

The following morning while alone with Barnes, Cummings related his discovery.

“Are you sure?” Barnes questioned, from behind his desk scattered with uncompleted reports, stained coffee mugs and dog eared Western novels.

“As sure as I’m standing here, Esca Brody is a fag.”

“Well I’ll be buggered” Barnes exclaimed and laughed “and he probably was.” He cynically followed.

“Brody was one of the poofs we questioned during a raid on a fag bar, he gave a false name but I never forget a face.” Cummins declared revengefully.

“Then we better keep an eye on him; we don’t want him corrupting any of the town’s kids do we?” Barnes added, collecting a recently received communication from amongst the rubble on his desk. “Where’s Payne?” The Sergeant asked after his second Constable.

“Doing his shop round, why?”

“I asked him to complete a report on the damage at the Show Grounds, have you seen it?”

“The lazy bugger’s probably forgotten to do it.” Cummins suggested.

“Na I saw him with it.” Barnes spoke rhetorically while opening the official envelope, his eyes about his desk looking for Payne’s report but Cummins was only interested in Esca, as like a ferret down a rabbit hole he had found muck on Brody and didn’t wish to let it go.

“Another thing, yesterday when Brody passed me on the road, I’m sure he had someone in his vehicle with him.” Cummins proudly offered without interest in his fellow officer. To Cummins Warren Payne was much too bland and unswayable from his duty. Also Payne was not a drinker and Cummins never trusted a man who wouldn’t join in with a good night’s drinking. Payne would have his beer and sometimes one for the road but found little interest in becoming tanked and spending the night in banal conversation about imaginary female conquests and lack of promotional chances.

Barnes didn’t appear to be interested in his Constable’s declaration. Reading the communication the Sergeant became most unsettled and Brody being a poof was far down his list of priorities.

“I’ve an inspection on the Twenty-seventh.” Barnes divulged, dropping the letter unceremoniously to the desk top, then remembering a previous memo he retrieved it from the chaos. Standing, his mind still on his audit, he turned to his office window and the only living thing he gave any measure of care, in the form of a large squat potted cactus which sat alone on the window ledge. Even then it was only visual care as the office cleaner had to water the pot. ‘Echinocactus Grusonii,’ by its label but it was the species common name that drew the policeman to it, Mother-in-law’s cushion. He may not have had a Mother in law but its appearance did project his imagination towards many of the town’s matriarchs; Fat and prickly. He turned the pot in the sunlight and once again became seated. He offered the correspondence to his constable.

“You’ve been transferred.” He announced indifferently.

“Where to?” Cummins growled snatching the document from his Sergeant’s grasp.

“Further west, it appears someone up top doesn’t like you.” Barnes declared making humour of the situation. Cummins scrutinised the transfer.

“It’s at the end of this week; that only gives me four day’s to catch the little poof at it – When did the transfer arrive?” Cummins searched for the transfer’s posting date. It was almost two weeks previous.

“Last week, I didn’t get around telling you. Don’t worry about Brody I’ll be keeping an eye on him.” Barnes answered.

“And you left it until now to let me know.” Cummins voice rose in anger then remembering rank settled.

“I have more important things to do except worrying about your transfer Constable.” Barnes answered autocratically.

Dismissing his Constable, Barnes watched as Cummins closed his office door. He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. ‘Pity,’ he thought. He was beginning to like Cummins. Unlike Constable Payne, he was a man who could be moulded into his style of small town corruption without concern his little ways would be reported or divulged.

Barnes placed the thought aside, there had been other fresh faced Constables through his door whom he was either able to corrupt or hide from. Why should a new recruit be any different? As for the inspection, in the past a bottle of best scotch in the right direction removed most blemishes. That was how he received his promotion in the first place, few wanting the position and ‘jobs for the boys’ along with a case of top shelf scotch soon gave him a home town advantage. Besides he wasn’t the only one in the force open to a little bribery. It had worked before so why not work once more, so how could he obtain a few bottles of top shelf scotch at his price?

Barnes grunted and returned to his novel, placing the transfer and information on Brody out of his thoughts – For now.

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

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