Published: 10 Apr 2017

The tree that gave its name to the hill had disappeared more than two generations previously. Its genus was never known, only as a large and robust green thing growing on the naked crown of an otherwise flat and most uninteresting rocky summit, beside the wide swing of a perfect bay to protect from all but the worse of storms.

Old folk declared the tree was the last of its kind but none at the time, were wise or interested enough to collect its seed to attempt further cultivation. Those were days of abundance, leading to the opinion that the earth could and would give sustainability to an ever growing population, until someone’s god wished to gather his or her brethren into its bosom.

Since then there had been a skirmish against the Boers in South Africa, the Boxer uprising in China and two world wars, the second almost twenty years previous, ending in a large number of casualties for such a small nation to bear but life was improving, work was abundant and the baby-boomer generation was coming of age, believing the good days of milk and honey, full employment and improving wages would last forever. It was to be their time, their turn to make change, to take control and to hell with it all. It was time to place the foot flat to the floor and travel headlong into the future disregarding anything in their way. It was the birth of the devouring generation, guzzling oil, food and fertile land to housing estates as if the supplies were endless. It was also the commencement of the entertainment generation and the more they got the more they wanted, becoming impossible to satisfy.

The passing generation had doubts, finding their offspring had discarded all the old ways and galloped headlong into loud music, fast cars, free sex and defiance but that was the sixties and a brave new world. Love power would stop wars and marijuana would take away inhibitions.

The districts indigenous population decreed the tree to be sacred and before white settlers came to the area, corroborees were performed under its shady spreading branches, while bunya nuts were gathered from the nearby mountains to be consumed in large quantities, along with leather back turtles and dugongs from the bay and barramundi from the mangrove infested river.

Unfortunately, nature doesn’t respect the ritual or beliefs of mere mortals and during a violent electrical storm a flash of lightning lit the tree like a Roman candle and with the morning nothing remained except ashes and a black and smouldering stump.

Soon after, believing the incident to be a bad omen, the last of the indigenous people left the district, while townsfolk simply planted a row of cypress as a wind break. These trees grew twisted and gnarled in the constant sea breeze, becoming a perfect playground for the imagination of children and shade for the occasional picnic day.

Generally, the hill was considered nothing more than a landmark indicating the position of the town. From the West and the dividing range of mountains it was most prominent, while to the East and the expanse of the Pacific Ocean, considered vital for fishing boats to find their way home. In reality the hill was no more than a grassy back-drop supporting the drama of small town routine, the Elephant in the room but to Awen Pen it was real and from an early age important for his existence.

Another inspiration for the young Awen was a small island within swimming distance for any Olympic champion from shore and in the shape of a tear drop. During the mid summer there would be a swimming carnival and race from town to the island, often having to be performed inside shark cages towed behind boats, to protect the competitors from the many sharks that frequented those fish rich waters. There was also a prize of ten pounds for the winner and contenders came from near and far to compete.

As for the island, one could walk the length of Bradshaw in five minutes, across it in two and climb its tallest mound in a handful of seconds but as a lad Awen believed it to be his private wonderland, his kingdom and his domain but like most children Awen grew away from dreaming and the secret kingdom became convenience, a place for good fishing and an escape from family and authority.

At nineteen, almost twenty Awen was neither a youth nor an adult but lost between those two worlds in his own private no man’s land, inhabited by the multitude of fears and thoughts from being young, also others so secret he could not share, even with his closest companion.

Growing up in those post war years gave the young more freedom than their parents or grandparents could imagine and the approaching generation frightened the old folk. Gone was the rigid, children should be seen and not heard, sit up straight and address all adults as Mr, or Mrs, when friends of one’s parents became aunts and uncles, to be replaced with familiarity that made the passing generation cringe. Dad became the old man, mum the old woman, while Aunty Jill and Uncle Harry, just plain Jill and Harry, even the new influx of school teachers were declaring, ‘call me Bob.’

Outwardly Awen held to the old traditions but often small town boredom encouraged him to stray from his parent’s archaic interpretation of political correctness. Yet in most circumstances he was and had been the perfect son, obedient to a fault and always ready to please.

It wasn’t that Reginald and Margaret Pen were overbearing with their three children, in general they had been a happy loquacious couple but as in most if not all relationships, the shine dulled and the silences increased and as the children found their independence, the rift between husband and wife widened until Reg, as he was mostly known, spent much of his free time at his golf club, while Margaret sunk deeper into her many committees and home chores becoming a impulsive cleaner. Gone were the carefree days of picnics on One Tree Hill, fishing for Saratoga and Sooty Grunter along the mangrove covered river, or at Bradshaw Island when the Mackerel were running, replaced with clipped sentences and simple answers of yes or no, or none at all.

In time Margaret settled into her new roll of provider of meals and little more, as her family found their own interests away from home. Besides she had her position of secretary of the local Country Woman’s Association, to occupy the many long empty hours of her day, a position she filled with pride and enthusiasm, while forming groups of lonely frustrated housewives into working bee’s to polish the church’s silver, clean out the town hall after functions and run the numerous fetes and functions throughout the year.

Reg Pen owned the town’s logging and sawing mill and nepotism being rife, found positions for both Awen and his eldest son Elyan, even offering secretarial work to his daughter Donna but she rebelliously refused, instead found work as barmaid at one of the town’s three hotels.

This act of insurrection had Reg all but disown his daughter, declaring she had put his standing, his good name in the community to shame, by taking what he considered to be a position no better than prostitution but Margaret doused the overheated debate and an uneasy peace developed between father and daughter, with Donna moving out of home to live in the hotel’s staff quarters.

Both Awen and Elyan were still living at home but Ely as most called the older boy came and went depending on which of the districts available young women was agreeable in having him sleepover. Also the boys’ uncle lived at the Pen house for extended periods when the fishing was bad, or storms kept the boats in port.

It had been a quiet week and storms had kept the half dozen trawlers in port, so Sam Ferguson, Margaret’s younger brother and the boys’ uncle was at home and seated across the meal table from Awen, his eyes fixed pensively on the lad as he conversed freely with his sister.

Sam had during the previous week turned twenty-three, celebrating his special day without fuss while trawling along their favourite fishing ground some distance down the coast. Usually the catch was adequate but with the changeable weather they hardly caught enough to run the boat without paying wages.

Margaret had prepared a belated celebrative dinner for Sam and with the meal finished her husband excused himself, returning to the mill to attend to some mechanical problem, while Elyan quickly departed on a promise from his latest conquest, leaving Sam and Awen home.

“Did the jacket fit?” Margaret asked Sam as she cleared the table.

“Don’t do that mum, I’ll do it.” Awen offered taking control of a tray of dishes she had already collected. Margaret allowed her son to take charge, studying him kindly as he left the room.

He was a fine lad with a gentle nature, nothing like his brother in physique or temperament. Elyan could be moody with the tendency to attack before thinking through his action. Awen would simply smile and allow most disagreement to wash over him like gentle waves upon a sandy beach.

“Yes Margaret it was a perfect fit and should keep out the weather.” Sam answered appreciatively, his gaze unconsciously following Awen’s departure to the kitchen.

“I had to get it sent up from the city.” Margaret explained.

“You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”

Awen returned for the remaining dishes and noticed his uncle’s stare firmly fixed on his being. “What?” he demanded inquisitively, his tone laced with curious irritation. Sam declined answering, instead spoke to his sister.

“I hope the jacket wasn’t expensive.”

“Not at all; anything for my favourite brother, besides you’re old one has more holes than a colander.”

Sam was in the habit of watching Awen as if he had unfinished business with the lad but could not put his plight into language. There would be accusing glances, half spoken sentences, eyes that gave warning without explaining reason. In general Sam was the brother Elyan should have been and from an early age the two were inseparable but as the years passed and Awen progressed through his late teenage years there was a drifting of personalities.

“Suppose I should be off, have to see Bert Jenkins about our next trip.” Sam forced his sight from Awen, released a deep sigh and stood from the table. “Thanks for the jacket sis; I’ll probably meet the crew down at the pub for a couple.”

“Have you got your key?” Margaret asked. Sam nodded and turned towards his nephew.

“What about you young Awen, want to come for a few beers; get some grog into you and put some meat on those narrow bones of yours.” Sam’s offer was more taunting than invitation and dug deeply into Awen, bringing about riposte.

“I’m not that skinny.” Awen bit back. It truth he was of average build but compared with his brother Elyan, a minnow.

“Don’t encourage him Sam.” Margaret protested.

“He’s nineteen now almost twenty, should get out more and see the world.” Sam mockingly laughed.

“I see enough.” Awen responded indifferently as Sam departed.

“What is it with you two?” Margaret asked once they were alone.

“Nothing, I guess your brother doesn’t much like me, suppose you can’t like everyone.” Awen gently shrugged away his mother’s request. “Besides we get along just fine.”

“It’s more than that.”

“Whatever it is, its Sam’s problem mum so don’t you worry about it; I don’t.”

“I don’t worry but I wish you boys would get along and there’s you and Ely always bickering.”

“It’s nothing really, only Ely trying to prove he’s the eldest.”

Margaret drew a deep breath, slowly releasing it as she replaced a heavily embroidered cloth across the highly polished table, being assured it lay flat and crease free. Sometimes she believed she had three sons, as it had been left to her to bring up Sam from an early age. Her father, unable to cope with his wife’s late pregnancy and the birth of Sam, deserted the family when Margaret was seventeen. His abandonment sent his wife quite loopy, becoming introverted and agoraphobic, developing a hatred for the infant, believing Sam to be the catalyst for her desertion.

Not long after Margaret married it became necessary to put her mother into care and Sam became Margaret’s responsibility, then within months she had her infant brother and her own son Elyan to raise closely followed by the birth of Donna and later Awen. It had been a difficult time for the young mother but unlike her parents Margaret was resilient and won through.

From her chair Margaret could hear Awen in the kitchen and the gentle clink of dish upon dish. It was always Awen who lost out when it came to washing up. Sam quickly departed from the room and Elyan would verbosely refuse, pushing his brother to the front while tossing him the tea towel, “you’re turn brother,” he would declare. It was always Awen’s turn and he would simply do his brother’s bidding without uttering a single word of objection.

While seated quietly with her reading Margaret concerned for her youngest son. Had she inflicted him with too much empathy? A man needs a degree of ruff to survive. She believed all three boys had been treated equally. Possibly Awen had created his own compassion, yet he wasn’t irresolute, being most capable of enforcing displeasure when he deemed it to be necessary. There was another facet of her son’s character she could not quite define. Behind those carefree eyes there appeared to be a secret he refused to share.

Margaret’s thoughts were broken as Awen re-entered into the room. “I’ve finished the dishes but I left that pot you burnt to soak.” Awen released a teasing chuckle as Margaret was prone to burning pots. Usually when doing so she would simply discard the pot and purchase a replacement, or hide the evidence in the shed.

“Thanks love, I’ll attend to it later.”

“I’ll be off then.”

“Oh before you do, are you doing anything on Saturday?” Margaret put down her book and stretched the lethargy from her arms. She checked the time, it was growing late. She was about to ask her son where he was going but thought better of doing so.

“Not really why?”

“Aunt Alice would like someone to shift some furniture.”

“Suppose I could give her a hand.” Awen answered apathetically.

“Don’t be late; remember you have an early start tomorrow.” Margaret reminded.

Alice was Margaret’s great aunt and in habit of firing personal questions like bullets from a Gatling gun without waiting to hear the answer. Her cracked voice resembled breaking crockery, as she shared memories that many in the family wished to remain in the past but she had a kind heart and a soft spot for Awen, finding unnecessary chores for him to perform only to enjoy his company, while tempting him with copious cups of tea and home made cakes. As for Alice’s memories, the lad found the more embarrassing they transpired to be, the more interested he became. Especially anything that could or would embarrass his family.

“What sort of furniture?” Awen asked as he hated shifting beds, mattresses were cumbersome and his lack of height made it difficult manoeuvring Alice’s large queen size bed from one side of the room to the other, or as she was inclined, one room to another.

“I didn’t ask but you know Alice she’s never satisfied and be careful not to break anything; her house is like an opportunity shop.” Margaret paused and with a satisfying titter she continued; “no it’s like a museum.”

“Did she say when?”

“No only some time on Saturday.”

“I was going fishing with McDonald on Saturday. Awen recollected.

“Then give Alice a call and let her know.”

“I guess we can go fishing on Sunday.”

It was while passing Brown’s Newsagency when the thought came to Awen. Reflecting on his mother’s issue why he didn’t appear to be compatible with Sam, he drifted back to a late summer’s day so many years previously. He was twelve, almost thirteen at the time and Sam would have been sixteen, maybe seventeen. They had taken his father’s skiff to sea without permission and headed for Bradshaw Island.

Sam had done some sailing but only within the river and had no idea how to manage a sail when in open water. Their intention was to visit Bradshaw Island but on landing they forgot to moor the boat sufficiently and it drifted away to be caught within a rocky pool at the point of the island but too far for either boy to swim for it. Besides the water around Bradshaw was notorious for sharks and neither lad was brave enough to chance his luck.

At first Awen made light of their situation but soon became concerned until Sam calmed his alarm. Reg, Awen’s father often visited his skiff after work and with it and the lads missing surely someone would connect the two and commence a search, besides although the Bradshaw was out of yelling range from shore, fishing boats used the deep channel between the island and the mainland on their return from fishing expeditions. Certainly the skiff bobbing about in the waters around the island’s point would be noticed.

“We could build a fire and load it with green leaves, like the Indians do in western movies.” Awen buoyantly suggested.

“You have a problem there kid,” Sam envisaged.

“And what would that be?”

“Got any matches?”

“Na,”

“Well there’s the answer to your problem.”

“You smoke, haven’t you got matches?”

Sam laughed. It was true he did have the occasional cigarette but hid the packet and his matches in the shed, never carrying them on his person less Margaret would discover his habit. “I didn’t bring them with me.” He answered. “Anyway how did you know I smoke?”

“I’ve seen ya and you hide them in the shed.” Awen expressed as his concern for their safety, via his grumbling stomach, grew more intense.

“You won’t tell Margaret.” Sam drew anger from Awen’s disclosure.

“I may.” Awen teased.

“If you do I’ll flaming well knock your bloody block off!” Sam barked crossly.

“Of course I wouldn’t but how are we going to get home and I’m hungry.”

“Bert Jenkins should be passing by later this afternoon.” Sam assured. He knew so, as only that week he had approached the skipper of the Sea Wind for a position the man had advertised but was told he would have to wait until he turned eighteen, as Jenkins wasn’t interested in some callow kid getting under his feet, or fouling his nets.

“What should we do?” Awen asked while standing on the narrow shoreline. His hands on hips, eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of the town shimmering in the mid afternoon sun. Maybe if he shouted and waved someone would notice. Common sense told him the distance was too great but at least is was worth a try. He commenced to jump about cooeeing and shouting like one possessed.

“Sit down you goose, no one will see you.” Sam demanded laughing loudly at his nephew’s folly.

“You never know.”

“I know be patient the Sea Wind will pass soon.”

Despondently Awen relinquished his quest, coming to sit close to where Sam was resting, his mind still devising ways to attract attention.

“You know we may never be found and one day someone will come over here and find two skeletons sitting on the sand.” Awen proposed.

“They wouldn’t be sitting.” Sam corrected.

“And why not?”

“For a start once the flesh has rotted from your bones, they fall apart, besides the crows would scatter your bones.”

“There aren’t any crows out here.”

“Well sea gulls then.” Sam impatiently disclosed.

“So there would be two heaps of sun bleached bones on the sand.”

“Don’t fret the Sea Wind will be along soon.” Sam assured.

“How do you know that?” Awen asked.

“I just do.”

“I dunno,” Awen appeared to become more perplexed.

“Did you know in the old days they buried executed murderers on this island?” Sam calmly issued in an attempt to settle Awen’s nervous disposition by relating a more worrying thought.

“Shit no!” Awen jumped from his seat, his eyes everywhere expecting to see the ghosts of axe murderers and rapists with crazed tortured expressions advancing revengefully towards him with evil intent.

“I was only kidding you goose.”

“Stop calling me a goose!” Awen demanded hurtfully as he regained his seat.

“Then stop acting like one.”

After a short silence Sam once again spoke on the subject of graves. “There is a grave on the other side of the island.” He conveyed somewhat soberly, nodding in the direction of the scrub that covered most of the island.

“I’ve never seen any grave and I’ve been all over this island a hundred times.”

“A hundred times?” Sam questioned doubtfully.

“Well a few but I’ve never seen a grave.”

“I guess you wouldn’t recognise it as a grave. There isn’t a head stone or anything like that, only a pile of rocks.”

“Who’s buried there?” Awen asked.

“I wouldn’t have a clue but I’ve heard folk talk about it.”

“I’m gunna take a gawk.” Awen lifted from the sand, dusted his shorts and headed for the scrub.

“Don’t be too long, I reckon the Sea Wind will be by soon.”

Awen arrived back most disappointed. Sam’s description was correct, it was a simple pile of rocks and nothing more but as he stood by the cairn attempting to establish compassion with the long departed, he felt an eerie infinity with the marker, as if he were being drawn into its very core. Immediately he shrugged it away as wishful thinking.

“It’s only a pile of rocks.” He commented once again seating himself close by Sam’s side, his sight alternating from the shimmer of town to the empty sea to the south, impatiently expecting a speck on the horizon depicting their salvation.

“I told you so.”

“What do you think?” Awen asked,

“I think it’s getting late.” Sam answered.

“No who do you think is buried there?”

“I wouldn’t have a clue.”

“It could be an axe murderer.” Awen suggested, allowing a chill of excitement to wave over his imagination.

“I very much doubt it, probably some sailor from one of the ship wrecks along the coast.”

Awen shaded his eyes, fixing his gaze on the skiff as it bobbed about in elliptical circles within an eddy at the rocky point. Sometime the small craft came close enough to reach by swimming. “I reckon I could swim out and get it.” He suggested enthusiastically, his limbs preparing to spring into action at the slightest agreement from Sam.

“You do, do you?” Sam answered and pointed towards the water.

“It’s not far and from the point even closer.”

“See that dark patch in the water out there?” Sam pointed a finger close to where the skiff was caught.

“I see something; it looks like a rock.”

“Do rocks move about?”

“Not a lot,” Awen answered sarcastically uncertain of Sam’s reasoning.

“It’s a bloody shark’s fin; do you still want to swim for it?” Sam shook his head “You goose.” He laughed.

“I don’t like sharks.” Awen softly answered with a fearful shudder and fell silent while playing with his bare toes.

“Why do you smoke durries?” Awen asked out of the length of silence.

“I don’t know.” Sam growled. In truth he didn’t know, doing so made him feel part of his group as they met behind the school shelter shed during recess. The lad with a full packet of cigarettes became the hero of the day, even a supply of matches increased one’s standing.

“Mum said people only smoke to show off.”

“I don’t think so.” Sam objected.

“What do you get from it?”

“I don’t know; why don’t you try for yourself?” Sam was becoming irritated with Awen’s continued questioning.

Awen laughed, “I did, Barry Fields gave me a drag on his and it made me cough.”

“So you’re not doing it correctly, you have to draw in the smoke, right in and fill your lungs until you feel dizzy.” Sam gave example by sucking the warm afternoon salt laden air into his lungs before once again exhaling with some force.

“I tried that and it only made me cough even more, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I guess you’re the expert.” Sam concluded.

“Ely doesn’t smoke.” Awen added as support for his abstinence.

“Donna does and I’ve seen Ely smoke when he thinks no one is around.” Sam submitted as valid argument.

“Did you know Ely has a girl friend?” Awen asked.

“Has he now, what do you know about girlfriends, have you got one?” Sam laughed.

“I know enough, have you a girlfriend?” Awen asked.

“That would be telling wouldn’t it?” Sam roughly answered.

“I was only asking.” Awen mumbled somewhat subdued by Sam’s obvious put down.

For some time, Sam sat watching Awen playing with his toes apparently oblivious towards his examination. Even at such a youthful age Awen was developing into a fine young man. He may have been lithe and average in his height but he was most handsome. His lips curled into permanent smile, his dark eyes always happy even when in pensive or despondent mood. Eventually Sam found it necessary to speak.

“You know you’re not a bad looking kid.” Sam suggested. His blue eyes fixed relentlessly upon the confused face of Awen. The lad refrained from answering as Sam wasn’t one for offering complements. Usually it was a slur against his build, his black hair was too long, or about his yet unbroken voice appearing girly.

Nervously Awen broke from his uncle’s intense stare, once again concentrating on his toes as he pushed them deeply into the sand and watched as they rose like sand crabs appearing from their dark and moist burrows.

“Do you know what gay is?” Sam asked in a low and controlled tone.

“Of course I do, I’m not dumb.” Awen snapped back and stood away from the conversation, “why are you!” He demanded anxiously unable to face his uncle.

“I could be; would that worry you?” Sam declared quizzically. Now it was Sam’s turn to feel uneasy, wishing he had held his peace.

Awen stood hands upon his slender hips, gazing nervously across the narrow stretch of water towards the town. How he desired to be there, away from his uncle’s statement, away from Sam’s surmised following question, his heart thumped while searching for an answer. Any answer. There wasn’t any, only Sam’s daring statement hanging over him while demanding an answer he could not, would not give.

Deep down Awen had feelings for Sam that could not be quantified. He had those same urges while with his school mates; Barry Fields with his deep voice, Kevin Billing’s smile and Rod McDonald’s green eyes but knew he would not act upon his desire and lacked notion how to do so.

Reprieve came quickly for Awen with the sounding of the Sea Wind’s siren, two short blasts, one long as it came slowly into view from the south. Bert Jenkins had discovered the skiff from some distance, immediately recognised it to be that belonging to Reg Pen, while appearing to be in some trouble. Moments later he spied Awen standing on at the shore line.

Once again sounding his siren Jenkins brought his vessel to stand motionless in shouting distance from shore.

“Hey kid is everything alright?” Jenkins called. Sam rose to his feet to stand beside Awen. He answered.

“The skiff got away from us.”

“Hold there son and I’ll get it for you.”

In no time the boys were on board the Sea Wind with the skiff in tow.

“Does Reg know you’re out with his skiff?” Jenkins quietly demanded; his lined and salt tanned expression stony as, he slowly shook his head in disbelief.

“No,” Sam nervously answered, unable to face the captain of the Sea Wind.

“What would make you do such a foolish thing?” Jenkins asked grimacing at the thought of what may have transpired, while Awen remained silent allowing his uncle to shoulder the responsibility.

“I suppose I’ve wrecked my chance to work for you.” Sam answered.

“As I said young fellow, when you’re eighteen I’ll consider it but you will have to show a little more responsibility than you have today.” Jenkins paused and turned towards Awen, “that goes for you as well and I think your dad will have more to say on the matter.”

On the return from their misadventure nothing more was spoken relating to Sam’s assertion of his sexuality, nor was it discussed over the passing years but now while standing at the doorway to the Railway hotel and spying Sam deep in conversation with Elyan and the crew of the Sea Wind, the incident came to mind. Awen smiled, ‘Ah maybe that is why Sam is so aloof. Is he afraid I will divulge his secret?’ He thought, yet Sam should have known better of his nephew, as he also had secrets and knew how he would feel if they were disclosed.

It was tempting for Awen to enter the bar and join in with the camaraderie but the magnetic force drawing him towards the group, had an even stronger opposing force preventing him from doing so. He caught his brother’s glance. It lacked welcome, as if looking into the dead eyes of one of Jenkins’ mackerel. Awen acknowledged with a weak smile as Elyan without response turned away to rejoin the conversation.

At best the love between the brothers was brittle. At home Elyan appeared almost civil, at work abrupt and in public dismissive. Their father had made Elyan foreman at the mill, his charge being the timber yard and its three stackers, one of whom happened to be Awen. If there was difficult or dirty work to be done, Elyan always offered it to his brother and if there was the slightest glimpse of failure he verbosely brought his discontent down upon the lad and always within hearing of others.

‘So sack me,’ was Awen’s usual response, knowing well their father had not empowered Elyan with that responsibility.

As Awen departed from the doorway he spied Barry Fields seated at the far end of the bar with the crew of the Fair Prospect. Fields appeared isolated from his mates’ jubilant banter and by the intensity of his flinty gaze, had unresolved issue with Jenkins’ lot and would only take a flicker of response for him to cross the floor and create disorder.

“He always was a mean bugger,” Awen consciously mumbled before continuing on his way, his thoughts returning to Sam and their jaunt to Bradshaw Island. Pensively he shook his head in wonder, had Sam offered his true quality on that late summer’s day, or had he seen through Awen’s nature and was testing him? Awen gave doubt to the latter, as at such a youthful age he had not formulated personality, even now that part of him was only a spark and one he believed would be easily smothered with the love of the right girl. Even so, the lad had difficulty convincing himself this to be true.

Awen was most awkward around girls, having to force interest and when he did his conversation was wooden and clumsy. Unlike Elyan who attracted the fairer sex like flies to sticky flypaper, convincing them without question his intentions were noble, until at last after losing more than their honour they saw through his sham, then without concern he would simply apply his charm elsewhere.

“Hey Bic,” The call came loudly from behind, turning he spied Kevin Billings standing at the bar doorway. Few called Awen Bic, deriving from his family name being Pen; Pen being a biro and a brand being Bic, so from his early school years, like it or not, the name stuck and like with most things he became used to it. “Come in and have a couple,” Billings beckoned from the bar entrance.

“Not tonight mate.”

“Come on McDonald’s back in town, he wants a word with you.”

“Another night maybe, I have to be somewhere.”

“What’s more important than having a drink with your mates?” Billings strongly forwarded.

“What does McDonald want?”

“Dunno, come on just have one – you wowser.”

“Love to but another night, see ya.”

Awen paused as Billing’s form melted back into the smoke haze of the bar but the mood wasn’t right for drinking, not even with his mates. Besides he had seen Constable Willis doing his early rounds of the town and technically it wasn’t legal to drink in a hotel bar until the age of twenty-one. The local police mostly turned a blind eye to under age drinking, as long as it was not spirits and there wasn’t any trouble but Neil Willis was different, a stickler for authority although he had his favourites, he would send most under aged drinkers packing, taking much pleasure in reporting them to their parents, even on the occasion dragging the offender back to their home. As for Reg Pen, he had no qualms about drinking and as long as it was beer, allowed his boys to partake of the amber fluid. Besides he believed if a lad was old enough to hold down a job and die for his country, he was old enough to drink with his mates.

As the smoke haze and his friend’s invitation faded from memory, Awen’s thoughts returned to Sam and that long ago occurrence on Bradshaw. He wished to believe Sam had feelings akin to his own but could not do so. Sam was the man about town. He may not brag about his conquests as Elyan was accustomed to do but they were hinted and he didn’t spend all his shore nights at home, yet unlike Elyan there was never a suggested name. With Elyan it was Sue this or Helen that and in private, vivid description of his sexual adventures but with Sam, only implication that someone existed. Strangely Elyan appeared to accept Sam’s lack of information. Possibly, although Sam was no older that Elyan, he was his uncle and being so belonged to Reg and Margaret’s generation, therefore old by birth and not from his age.

Another observation of Sam, he seldom swore or cursed and never around the fairer sex, unlike Elyan who would drop as many four letter words as possible into his conversation, even while in the company of women. Then again most women he associated with could match or better his profanity. It was called equality of the sexes but the equality only reached as far as language and little more. This didn’t connote Sam to be prudish. In a whisper Sam could relate the most foul of yarn but in such a way it would appear comical and not crude.

So McDonald was back in town. Awen soon forgot his analysis of his uncle, transferring his thought to his school friend and his recent stint working with his father and how McDonald had forgone the opportunity to go to university, instead lending his hand at something as mundane as fencing and general maintenance.

McDonald had cleaver hands and a steady eye, able to visualise a structure without written design and build it to perfection. ‘Measure twice and cut once,’ he would advise but no matter how many times Awen measured, his inaccuracy would prevail. Even during school woodwork classes McDonald was the envy of his mates and his sample work held in pride of place representing quality.

As for Awen, his dovetails were gouged, his angles wrong and his tin work finished in shapes that could never be considered square or rectangular, while his trade drawings regardless how he attempted, were smudged and miscalculated. Thank heavens for the invention of the cheese rubber but often even its use could not mask his errors, ending in scrub marks across his work, down through the very fabric of the vivid white trade paper to almost through to the opposing side; still it was fun trying, besides he had no intention in becoming an architect or tradie. In truth he lacked intention. He had drifted through his nineteen years, almost twenty, as he would often refer to others, without decision or inkling towards his future, so why not throw chance to the wind and allow fate decide. Beside he enjoyed his work at the mill and it payed more than enough to finance his simple existence.

Stick to what you’re good at, was his father’s suggestion when Awen offered to help with the design and erection of a small shed to house a new milling plant, while adding his son was a good gofer, so he could go for nails and screws when called for and leave the structural design to the experts.

Awen smile with the memory of McDonald and his fastidious immaculacy and an occasion when he gouged a dove tail. It was the slightest of gouging and at first; possibly a second glance it would not be noticed but being McDonald he was most annoyed. “Fuck it!” He growled loudly.

“What did you say McDonald.” Walter Bowen their trade teacher demanded and was quickly at McDonald’s work bench. His stony glare and unrelenting sever nature displaying his intent, being to bring civility to the lad.

“I said it would be hard to make a bucket sir.” McDonald quickly related but disbelief prevailed and a well aimed clip to the ear followed by a scruff of hair escorted the lad from the room.

“You can remain there until you learn to be more civil.” Bowen hissed as he stood McDonald beyond the trade room’s door.

If the punishment was designed to lessen the lad’s use of foul language it miserably failed, if anything it only expanded his usage and as for being difficult making a bucket, some weeks later he excelled in doing so. It may have been a sample miniature bucket but was executed to perfection and on completion Bowen released a rare example of humour.

“You see McDonald, it wasn’t that difficult.” The teacher declared while examining McDonald’s work.

“What would that be sir?” McDonald had asked somewhat confused.

“Making a bucket;”

Gary has brought us another story. Please let him know what you think of it:Gary Conder

23,771 views