Published: 12 Jun 2017

Instead of returning home Awen headed for the beach where he sat on the cool sand for some time, gazing pensively at the dark outline of Bradshaw Island. Self analyzation it was called and at that moment Awen was attempting to place meaning to the emotion he felt earlier that night but there wasn’t anything coming, or to be accurate not the kind of reasoning he wished for.

Firstly his deep pit of the stomach feelings for Sam was weighed against that for McDonald and now he had to add Bishop to that expanding list. He exchanged Sam’s name and image for that of Vivienne and other girls of his group, even Lorna Miles his girlfriend from school but they were all left wanting, leaving him unable to feel the same desire for girls. Would he have sex with a girl? He knew he could but it wouldn’t be his first choice or his preference, it would be for the sake of experience, or necessary to prove he was masculine, to protect his image but if he did so would it be his partner or Sam or some other lad from his group he would be thinking of and their face that drove his desire? Awen gave a shudder of realisation.

The cold hard truth was commencing to take root and that was sexually he preferred men, he was in McDonald’s word a poofter, gay or whatever deemed to be necessary to label his infliction and the reality was, he had always know it to be so. Only now he was commencing to admit the cold facts of the life of Awen Pen. Coming to such a conclusion wasn’t his greatest concern, he was mentally adapted to deal with the truth; it was the fear of being discovered, labelled a shirt-lifter that sent a quiver through his thoughts.

Awen brought to mind a lad from some years previous James Davis, Jim as most called him, Jumbo others but was more suited to James; a quiet lad, most studious with an excellent future. Davis was most handsome, tall, lean and well spoken but cursed with the suggestion he was a shirt lifter.

It came to pass, it was his shirt that was being lifted and by Bruce Notting a trainee Maths teacher on work experience at his school. At the time there was less than three years difference in their age but Notting being considered a responsible adult, should have shown restraint, even if Davis had instigated their relationship and admitted so, while attempting to assure his adversaries the relationship had not advanced further than a close friendship.

Once the relationship between Davis and Notting had been discovered, or to be more accurate inferred as no actual physical contact was proven, Notting was transferred to another town by the education department, while Davis become ostracised. His family disowned him as did most of his friends, driving him into depression until totally dejected he took a length of rope and hanged himself from a tree outside his parent’s window while they were sleeping.

Awen gave a shudder. He would never take his own life, he valued it much too greatly to do so, besides like Vivienne he could go to the city. She did say it was a good place to hide one’s indecisions but it would never come to that. His secrete would remain so, besides he could not be condemned for thoughts alone and he knew he would never act upon them.

Across to his right the jetty was alive with activity and Sam’s voice came clear, then laughter. Sam had a happy laugh and was prone to do so at anything, it was said of his uncle even a punch in the mouth would create levity. Awen smiled remembering so, as the call of good night followed by a volley of farewell gestures lifted from the jetty. Moments later Sam was close by on his way along the beach.

Reaching where Awen was seated Sam paused. “Awen?” He spoke quizzically, surprised to see his nephew seated alone on the beach.

“How was the fishing Sam?” Awen asked as Sam joined him.

“Not too good, what are you doing sitting here all alone in the dark; is everything alright?” Sam asked, half expecting to hear of some calamity.

“Just thinking, where are you off to?” Awen enquired knowing home was in the opposite direction.

“The Bradshaw looks fine against the dark sky.” Sam spoke without divulging his destination.

“I often sit here at night watching its mood.” Awen admitted.

“Do you remember the time when we took Reg’s skiff across to the Bradshaw and you almost lost it?” Sam laughed.

“I do quite vividly but it was your place to anchor it.”

“Not too vividly I hope.” Sam admitted without accepting responsibility for its drifting. Once again rising to his feet he dusted the damp sand from his trousers. Firstly he cast his eyes back towards the jetty, then along the beach and the darkness towards the mangrove.

“What do you mean by not too vividly?” Awen asked.

“Never mind, I should be going, if Margaret is still up when you return, let her know I won’t be in tonight.”

“Sure,” Awen agreed.

Awen watched after Sam as he slowly walked along the beach until at the creek he became only a darken smudge against the scrub and the night sky.

“Where could he be going?”

“Who does he know at the north end of town?”

Awen spoke rhetorically. Standing he followed in Sam’s direction but once across the creek and beyond the turning could no longer see his uncle, only the weak light from Ashes bungalow at the far end of the beach. “He must have taken the track back into town but where would he be heading?” From his position Awen could see for some distance along the track and with a measure of glare from street lighting at the track’s end, he should have been able to see Sam but like the beach ahead the path was empty, except for a large dog trotting along and well into the distance. His uncle had vanished into the darkness.

“Bloody Les Herbert’s mad mongrel,” he commented about the dog.

“It turns up everywhere,”

“What do you think of that Awen?” He spoke loudly about the disappearance of Sam.

“Nothing and I suppose it’s none of my business.” He answered rhetorically and headed for home.

Margaret was still out of bed reading with the radio tuned to late night classical with the volume a whisker above inaudible. “I thought you were staying over at Alices?” She asked as Awen entered.

“I was but I have a couple of things to do here in the morning: Where’s Aunt Doris?”

“She’s in her room. Is everything alright?”

“Of course it is why?”

“You seem a little peaked.” Margaret placed her book aside and started for the kitchen.

“Must be from the sea air, I’ve just come from the beach.”

“Would you like some coffee?” She offered.

“That would be nice.”

“You must be sick, you don’t usually drink coffee.”

“Don’t go on mum, I’ve had enough of people asking after my mood tonight. As I said before I’m fine.” Awen growled and fell into the leather Chesterfield.

“I’m only asking. Did I hear the Sea Wind’s siren?” Margaret requested as the aroma of coffee drifted into the living room. She returned carrying two mugs.

“Yes it was.” Awen accepted the coffee and took a sip, ‘still tastes like mud,’ he thought. “It’s a little strong and did you add sugar?” He complained.

“Sorry love but I like it that way, strong coffee weak tea; you can add some water and more sugar if you wish.”

“No it doesn’t matter.”

“Did you see Sam?”

“I did but he headed into town.” With Awen’s answer Doris returned to the room.

“I thought I smelt coffee, do you mind if I make myself one?” She asked while holding a flowing pink dressing gown closed at her full wrinkled breast, her sagging jowls appeared to ebb and flow like waves with each movement of her mouth and her ample structure. She was a sight to behold with her dishevelled, greying blue rinsed hair, her pink fluffy slippers and eye glasses so large the extended well beyond her floppy earlobes.

“Sure Doris I’ll make you one.” Margaret offered but instead turned her gaze towards Awen.

“I’ll do it,” Awen offered.

“No I’m sure I can manage.” Doris interjected before Awen could rise from his seat. “Where have you been tonight Awen?” Doris asked on her way to the kitchen, her tone somewhat accusing.

“Visiting some friends,” Awen simply answered, not wishing to give his aunt information she could turn into debate on his life style.

“I suppose the pub.” The woman called back from the kitchen. Awen refrained from answering as Doris returned with her coffee. She repeated her question.

“No Doris it wasn’t the pub.” Awen lied.

“You do appear somewhat peaked,” Doris criticised, “a little like your father when he was your age and sneaked out to the pub.”

“That is what I told him Doris.” Margaret agreed.

“Dad never admitted to that.” Awen became most animated.

“Yes Reginald was quite a little terror when it suited him.” Doris recollected, “are you sure you’re felling alright?”

“The two of you do go on.” Awen protested sighing from a deep and meaningful breath.

“Well good night Margaret, I’m an early riser so I’ll start breakfast, I remember Reginald likes a hearty breakfast and young Awen here looks like he could do with a good feed,” she paused, “Margaret you should get the lad onto porridge, he’s thinner than he was during my last visit.”

“I don’t like porridge,” Awen forcefully interjected.

“You ask your father, when we were children we lived on porridge and were thankful for it.” Doris huffed and departed company, still espousing the value of soggy lumpy porridge.

“Don’t mind Doris love, she means well.” Margaret unconvincingly assured once alone with her son.

“When is she leaving?” Awen asked indignantly.

“Did you say you saw Sam?” Margaret again asked without supplying Doris’ departure date.

“I did and he said to tell you he won’t be in tonight.”

Margaret returned to her reading but did wonder where her brother spent his nights away from home. Even as a child Sam was somewhat secretive, often slipping away for most of the day, returning as if he had never been away at all and when questioned would simply say, visiting. Then Margaret out of concern for his wellbeing, would demand a proper answer, now she accepted his independence and like Elyan, supposed he was spreading his affections around town, while unlike Elyan didn’t brag about his conquests.

The sound of flushing of the lower floor toilet reached the room, bringing Awen to sarcastically comment. “There she goes again; she’s up most of the night with the toilet.”

“Be nice Awen, you realise Doris isn’t a young woman.” Margaret commented as Doris once again poked her head into the room.

“Good night, I’ll be off then.” She informed, her voice somewhat croaked.

“You’ve already said that.” Awen mumbled as the tail of Doris’ dressing gown disappeared into the passage.

“Doris can’t help it; that is why she is visiting the hospital.” Margaret apologised for her Sister-in-Law.

“So she shouldn’t be drinking your strong coffee before bed.” Awen recommended. He paused, “I guess I’m being a little harsh – sorry.”

Margaret gave a huff as her thoughts turned to Elyan, how did he come by his abrasive and blunt attitude? It didn’t show in Awen’s character, or in Donna’s. Elyan appeared to enjoy shocking people and damn the consequences. Reg’s grandfather, Gareth Pen has a similar attitude, which most agreed was uncommon in a Welshman, especially one fresh from the old country, then again Gareth did live for many years in London, where he worked on the docks, Margaret smiled, ‘a Welshman with a Cockney accent but he did have an excellent singing voice.’ Margaret’s thoughts turned towards her husband, remembering how jolly he was when they first married, how he fussed over their first born and gladly accepted Sam as one of their own. Then there was Donna who at a week old he took to the pub to show her off. Where did she go wrong?

“Is dad in?” Awen enquired, realising he had forgotten to ask if he could borrow the skiff for their fishing expedition on the following weekend.

“He is in the study but don’t disturb him, he is doing the books.”

“More like cooking the books.” Awen laughed.

“Whatever he’s up to, don’t disturb him.”

“I’ll only take a second, I’m sure he won’t mind.”

Before Margaret could again caution, Awen lifted from the couch and on his way to the study collected a can of beer from the refrigerator as a peace offering. Collecting a second for himself he decided against and replaced it.

Knocking on the study door he opened without invitation.

“Dad could you spare me a minute?” Awen asked, his head protruding through a narrow opening.

“Sure come in.” Reg placed his spectacles on the desk and rubbed the tiredness from his eyes, he yawned. “Is Doris still up?

“No she went to bed a few minutes ago.” Awen answered.

“What’s the problem?”

“No problem dad but I was wondering if it is possible to borrow the skiff for a little fishing out at the Bradshaw next weekend.”

“I should think so, whose going, Sam?”

“No Rod McDonald, Kevin Billings and myself.”

“How’s young Rod enjoying working with Clint?” Reg asked. Tidying his paper work he decided he had done enough for the night and seeing his sister had gone to bed it was once again safe to surface.

Awen offered his father the can of beer. “He appears to like it, want a beer?”

“No thanks son, I’m just about to have a scotch. I thought McDonald was going to University?” Reg asked as he withdrew a fifth bottle of scotch from his desk drawer and poured an oversized draught.

“Na he said he wasn’t interested, he likes working with his hands.”

“There are plenty of well paid jobs where a man can use his skills, like engineering or land science,” Reg laughed, “a tree surgeon, a country vet.”

“Suppose so, I only know what he told me.”

“What about yourself, didn’t you want to go to Uni? Your mother wished it so.”

“I wasn’t smart enough and I guess I’m too lazy to study.” Awen honestly admitted.

His son’s candid admission annoyed Reg Pen, finding it most difficult to admit any son of his wasn’t smart enough, or more to the point was lazy. Lethargy didn’t run in the Pen family, they were all hard working, union affiliated, labour voting men and women. Reg’s father through hard work had built up an empire of property and business. Clancy Pen, Reg’s father, had purchased his first house before he was old enough to vote or hold property in his own name, as well as two fine rental shops in the main street, all held in trust by his father until he was twenty-one. At twenty-five Reg inherited the mill from his father and a dozen more properties, before buying the districts stock feeding lot and a small trucking business. Now it was most difficult to know what he didn’t own or have some interest in, or what influence he controlled.

“You profess being lazy Awen?” Reg growled and shook his head. “Christ son in my time no Pen could be accused of laziness.” If it wasn’t for the hard work from your grandfather you wouldn’t be able to enjoy the comforts you have.”

“I didn’t mean it like that; I just didn’t like studying. Besides I still don’t know what I really want for the future.” Awen protested.

“It is obvious you take after your mother’s side, both you and that recalcitrant brother of yours.” Reg’s blood rose before once again falling silent.

“Sorry dad but can I borrow the skiff?”

“Yea but be careful it is getting old and needs some work and don’t forget to moor it correctly this time.”

Awen thanked his father and quickly departed before Reg could change his mind or inflict more of his growing disappointment.

“What is your father’s mood?” Margaret asked as Awen returned the can of beer to the refrigerator.

“It was fine when I entered but now I’m not so sure.” Awen gave a measure of humour.

“What have you done this time?” Margaret sighed loudly and shook her head in disappointment. It would be her son who planted the seed of displeasure and she would sooner or later reap the harvest of discontent.

“Not a lot, it doesn’t take a great deal these days.”

“Don’t be like that.” Margaret wished to agree but knew she must not. Someone must hold the family together, must remain civilised no matter how it hurt. “What did you say?”

“Absolutely nothing, dad asked me why I didn’t go to university and I said probably because I’m too lazy to study.”

“You should not have answered.”

“Yes I thought of that while dad was giving me a lecture on how hard working the Pen family is.”

“So why didn’t you go to university, we always had plans for both you and Elyan.”

Awen was firm with his answer. “The truth is I enjoy working at the mill and belong here in town, I don’t want to travel five hundred miles to the capital and study for years and end up in some desk job that doesn’t interest me in a city I hate.”

“Still love, it is a disappointment for your father. Many of his associates have sons at university. There’s Neil Higgins, he has two sons at university and one is to be a doctor.”

“That’s the truth of it eh? It’s not what I want but what gives the old man bragging rights.”

“Don’t be like that; your father really wants what’s best for you. In the future there won’t be any good jobs for anyone without a degree.”

“Oh well, it’s my way mum, I’m off to bed.”

“Don’t forget you have an early start in the morning and if Elyan is still awake also remind him.”

Passing his brother’s door, Awen notice light showing through the gap beneath, wisely he knocked. “Ely, mum said to remind of an early start tomorrow,” he advised loudly through the woodwork. Hearing a scuffle of bed clothing but not receiving an answer, he once again knocked.

“Fuck off.” Elyan demanded as he doused the light.

“Don’t blame me I’m only the messenger – and leave it alone you’ll go blind.” Awen laughed and for good measure gave the door an extra rap of his knuckles.

“You heard me fuck off you little cunt!” Elyan growled as Awen quickly moved away before his brother could take physical retribution.

Sunday afternoon found Awen on his way to advise Kevin Billings they had the use of the skiff for the following weekend’s fishing. Passing by the cemetery he noticed a figure working around a number of fallen grave stones. It appeared vandals had decided to have fun by toppling some of tall markers close by the fence line, one had broken in two.

As the workman stood to full hight Awen recognised him to be Tom Williamson the caretaker. Believing it to be his chance to enquire on the burial site of Bert, he approached, “Mr. Williamson,” he called.

“Well if it isn’t young Awen. I heard about Alice; a sad sate of affair but she did have a good innings.”

“Thank you Mr. Williamson but it is her brother Bert I am interested in and was wondering if you could let me know where he is buried.

Tom Williamson removed his working gloves and placed them between the pickets of the fence, “hot work this,” he spoke, “vandals you know they haven’t any respect, even for the dead. I didn’t know Alice had a brother, mind you she was a grown woman when I first met her and working as barmaid at the Railway Hotel.”

“Mum said she had two brothers.”

“She was a fine woman – was Alice and handsome, and in her day capable of turning any man’s head.”

The man’s thoughts commenced to drift. He remembered Alice well and once, although Alice was much his senior, he stepped out with her, even asking to marry but she was obsessed with Derrick Fowlers, a no good layabout who couldn’t hold down a job or a relationship. It all ended in tears with Tom comforting her, maybe a little too professionally and they became dancing partners and friends instead of lovers. He remembered how light she was at foot and how proud she was with her new patent leather shoes with silver butterfly buckles, the night of the Lady Mayoress’ ball.

As for Fowlers he had to marry Mary Crossing who was all the while carrying his child. A shotgun wedding it had been and truthfully so, as her father Jack Crossing threatened to geld Derrick if he didn’t do the correct thing for his daughter and knowing the old man, he would have willingly performed the nutting himself, along with his newly born piglets. Within a few months of the wedding and after the birth of a boy, Fowlers skipped town and was never seen or heard of again.

“I believe he died around the end of last century.” Awen explained bringing the caretaker back from his memories.

“Alright come in and well have a look, what was his name?”

“Bert, Albert Thomas.”

The caretaker showed Awen to the pavilion where the map of burial sites was displayed, opening the door he spoke. “Thomas you say.”

“Yes Albert Thomas the same family name as Alice – Alice Thomas.”

“There are many Thomas’ mostly in the colonial section. There is a Fred a Stanley and I remember an Izzy but I believe he was Jewish. Your Bert wasn’t Jewish was he?”

“I wouldn’t think so; his lot came from somewhere in England and Alice was Church of England.”

“I thought I knew most everyone in both grave yards but never a Bert or Albert Thomas but lets have a gander anyway.”

After an extended time Williamson search was negative. “Are you positive it was Bert or Albert?” He asked. “I do remember a Harry but he is buried in Willow Creek.” He recollected.

“Yes I’m sure and Harry was another brother to Alice.”

“And Bert was buried here in town?”

“That I don’t know, all I am certain of is he died here in town, so one would expect he was buried here.”

“Well as you can see for yourself, he isn’t mentioned in the lists.”

“Thank you anyway Mr Williamson, I can see that but he must be buried somewhere.”

“Maybe he was buried over at Holsworthy, they have a small cemetery, or why don’t you enquire with the historical society they may know, or even the local news paper?” The caretaker locked the pavilion and returned to his toppled stones. “While you’re here lad, could you give me a hand re-erecting the large stone; it’s a little heavy on my own and I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“Sure and again thank you for looking.”

Standing over the broken stone the caretaker shook his head in disbelief, you know young fellow that stone had been standing for more years than I’ve been alive, truthfully longer than both of us, and some mindless larrikin has destroyed it in an instant.

“Whose marker is it Mr. Williamson?” Awen asked.

“You know Mabel Corniche over in Evens Street? The old man asked as he replaced his gloves.

“Not really, I’ve seen her about and mum delivers meals there for the council’s meals on wheals.” Awen admitted.

“It was her grandmother, died way back before the first war,” the old man paused, “by the date around about the time of federation.”

“I don’t remember back that far.” Awen humorously put forth.

“Nor I lad, fortunately Mabel doesn’t get about too good these days, so she won’t see what has happened.”

“Couldn’t you glue it back together?” Awen asked.

“I’ll tell you what young fellow you would need a flaming lot of glue.”

“I meant cement like.” Awen corrected.

“It wouldn’t work; I’ll place the two parts across the grave.”

Awen offered a hand and soon the two halves of the stone were neatly placed across the burial plot. “There you go Mr Williamson; you can hardly see the join.”

“If you want to know about this Bert of yours, go and have a natter with old Mabel but to be sure take a packet of biscuits, she loves anything with chocolate.”

“I may just do that Mr. Williamson and again thank you for looking.”

Once more Awen’s search for information on Bert had come to an impasse. He still had the district news office and historical society to approach and possibly the caretaker’s suggestion of Mabel but was loosing confidence in discovering more. It appeared that Bert’s antagonists had not only covered their tracks but done a good job in wiping any trace of the man from the face of the earth and possibly the only knowledge of Bert had gone to the grave with Alice.

Arriving at the Billings residence he found his friend mowing the front lawn with an ancient hand mower.

“That will build the muscles.” Awen call from distance bringing his friend to pause, while giving him reason to finish for the day.

“Usually dad has Ashe do the mowing.” Billings admitted and pushed the mower into the space beneath the stairs.

“Why are you using that piece of shit then?” Awen asked.

“Don’t know really, I saw it under the stairs and wanted to see if it still worked.”

“Does it?”

“Not really, mostly pulls the flaming grass out of the ground by the roots. Do you want to come in and have a beer or something?” Billings offered.

“Na I’ll give it a miss, I only came around to let you know I’ve got the skiff for next weekend.”

“Great, come in anyway and we’ll give McDonald a call.”

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