Published: 17 Apr 2017

Awen had been with Aunt Alice for more than an hour without discovering her need as the woman was easily distracted. There had been two cups of tea, pumpkin scones and home made fruit cake, cut into thin slithers and served on Crown Derby plates decorated with swirls of roses in various degrees of red and pink; and conversation, when with Alice there was always conversation. Mostly about by-gone day’s and horse drawn buggies, the coming of the railway and how proud she was to take her first ride in a motor car. Perched high on its luxuriously padded leather seat enveloped in dust and petrol fumes, waving gaily to those she passed, while Doctor Benson laughed loudly as he continuously sounded the Claxton, scaring horses to almost bolt as they progressed.

There were other stories, some sad with entire families being lost when the river flooded, taking away the lower and poorer section of the town. Others of houses and stock devoured by bush fire and the time back in the nineties, a period the lad could not even envisage, when the barque Shuttle was lost to a storm close to town, drowning many travellers. She remembered the rescue attempt and the listless bodies of children washed upon the shore beneath One Tree Hill.

There had been few survivors from the Shuttle, yet the captain did survive, even in his drunken state he had managed to cling to a hold cover and was found washed upon the beach, his hand affixed tightly to a whisky bottle, now filled with salt water while he sang shanties. He was tried and found wanting but it was the storm to blame. Within the year he was once again captaining a ship along the coast, only to be lost when he ran his charge upon a northern reef. This time his Irish luck had eluded him.

Alice had even met a real bushranger, in truth there were two in the guise of the Kenniff brothers, Patrick and James, who roamed the western cattle country duffing cattle and stealing horses, they even added robbery of a general store to their list of achievements.

It was only by chance she met the brothers while the two were on the run from the police and stayed overnight at a farm belonging to her uncle not far from a small community called Yuleba. Alice was only a girl at the time and was visiting over the Christmas period. She was most impressed as they cut a handsome couple, Patrick with his full black beard, James wearing a twirled moustache and both gentlemen to a fault.

After full bellies and a good night’s sleep in the feed shed, they chopped enough fire wood to last a month and as the sun passed into the afternoon, bade farewell and were gone. Not until the following day was realised who they were, when a mounted policeman and local landholder lead by a black tracker arrived. Some days later the two were discovered, they had run out of places to hide and horses to steal.

That same week news came back. There had been a shoot-out and the constable and grazier murdered by the two; their burnt bodies discovered close by and most definitely the gruesome work the Kenniff’s.

Some time later Patrick Kenniff was hanged for his crime while his brother was fortunate in receiving a lengthy goal sentence but to Alice they had been nothing but gentlemen, although she declared Patrick had shifty eyes.

What interested Awen most were stories about his family but they were few and never elaborated upon, mostly relating to humorous events, such as Uncle Cedric falling asleep and snoring loudly during Barbara’s wedding and the time Lenny fell from the roof and everyone laughed at breaking his arm and pour Herb Sudfeld, a distant cousin unknown to all except Alice herself and his problem with flatulence.

Most of Alice’s stories were about unknown members of distant family branches Awen had never heard of but when he happened to ask about Margaret and her mother, his grandmother, there was little revealed other than what he had already heard from his mother, or had gleaned from aunts and uncles at family functions.

Alice’s home was relatively small, crammed to capacity with the comforts from another age and even with the abundance of light from the many windows, appeared dark. Mysteries lurked in every cluttered corner, telling stories reaching back into her mother’s life and her mother’s mother. Alice would bring an object to hand and proudly relate where it came from. “This belonged to my mother,” she would announce, “and this to her Grandmother, who brought it from England in a sailing ship that lost a mast in a storm during the crossing from the Cape.” Others she proudly disclosed were purchased for almost nothing, from deceased estates or jumble sales, while others donated by friends who had no use and knew of her love of anything old but Alice did and found enough love for them all.

Brown furnishings of oak and silky oak were abundant; some came from the old country with Alice’s great, great grandparents, lovingly passed down through the generations to become antiques of little value but still most functional. Others purchased by Alice as electricity became common place, their comforts and time saving appreciated but now often outdated and sometime quite dangerous, with poorly fitting and broken plugs, frayed cords or simply so old they had to be forced into the wall sockets of the modern house.

Alice’s cottage was most unlike the Pen house which was large and modern. Glossy polished floors ran from room to room, scooting under chrome and laminex chairs and tables, past others with sprayed shining metal legs and tight colourful padding, to meet the tiles of the bathrooms and kitchen where only the necessities of life hid in designer cupboards, where fastidiously cleaned surfaces reflected one’s reflection as if in a mirror, where dust was not permitted to gather longer than a day, or even less.

To Awen, home was the light of day and Alice’s house was night but he loved the night. There were mysteries in the night and places where a child’s imagination could become lost. The Pen house was so sterile, imagination would need to travel beyond its walls, pass the manicured garden, beyond the well equipped sheds and garage holding Reg’s polished Holden Special EH, with its powder blue chassis and vivid white roof, to the scrub and council land to find the wonderland of make-believe.

Eventually Awen spoke of the purpose for his visit.

“Mum said you have some furniture to be shifted.”

“In good time dear, I don’t get many visitors these days; another cup of tea Awen?” Alice held the huge china tea pot high in anticipation, her thin arms straining under its weight as her voice failed into a whisper.

“No thank you Alice, I’ll float out of here if I have more.” Awen laughed while scanning the living room in search of his task, anticipating effort and if one pair of hands would suffice.

“I’m not long for this world.” Alice’s avowal was most direct and delivered without quaver with the strength of one half her years, so much so it concerned the lad. It wasn’t uncommon for the old lady to predict such an event but usually done so with a measure of humour, this time there was purpose in her tone.

“Come now Alice; you’re but a lass.” Awen answered nervously.

“Don’t try to humour me Awen, it’s not becoming of you.” For an instant Alice became irritated but as quickly she returned to her usual cheerful self.

“Sorry Alice but I didn’t know what else to say.” Awen apologised.

“Well enough.” The old woman replied and appeared to drift away from their afternoon tea table. She smiled but it became lost amongst the wrinkles and sagging corners of her mouth. Her weak grey eyes, now almost concealed by drooping eyelids, seemed distant as she stood from the table and commenced to clear away the dishes. Then from her muse she returned.

“I envy your generation dear.” She spoke strongly, allowing a measure of regret to coat her words.

“Why would that be?”

Alice thought for a moment and carefully choosing her words continued. “Your generation is what I call the go-between.”

“I don’t understand.” Awen answered.

“Well, with the war over and a new world, you generation is between the old world and the new and it is up to all of you with your newly found freedom and fresh ideas to do something proud with it.” Alice drifted for a moment then returned. “Yes the old world, the world of your parents and my parents has gone forever and now everything is new and shiny. You with the devil may care attitude, have thrown your hats into the river, your etiquette and your caution to the wind.” Another moment of reflection as reality of human nature became apparent, “but alas I suppose you won’t change anything, no one ever does,” she sighed. “I guess you don’t remember your Uncle Alex?” Awen admitted he did not, “Yes Alex, he wasn’t a real uncle but a friend of my father, he had grand ideas – he stood for parliament you know.”

“Did he win?” Awen asked.

“No dear, he had ideas and people don’t like a man with ideas. Nothing kills one’s chance more than a fresh initiative.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m disrespectful Alice.” Awen apologised for his generation and its brashness.

“Not at all my dear, I only wish I could have done so when I was young.”

“I’m afraid I don’t see this new world you speak of.”

“Maybe you will in time, I guess you need to have lived through the old days to understand. You know Awen you have always reminded me of someone.” Alice paused, pointing towards the heavy tea pot; “you can carry that monstrosity to the kitchen for me.” Awen obliged and followed her to the kitchen. She paused for breath at the door but soon continued on.

“Who do I remind you off?” Awen teasingly questioned while carefully placing the pot on the narrow bench beside the kitchen sink.

“In good time my boy, firstly I wish to show you something.” Alice reached into the pocket of her apron and produced a crumpled handkerchief and a number of keys on a large metal ring. She beckoned Awen to follow. “Did you know I once had a younger brother?” The old lady paused as sadness took away her smile. She continued in more sombre vein “but he was taken from us when he was your age?”

“No, mum doesn’t speak much about her family only that you are her aunt.”

“I’m not her aunt dear but her great aunt, my sister Mary was her grand mother, your great grand mother. That makes me your great-great aunt.”

“I suppose it does.” Awen agreed but found calculating the years and lineage a most daunting task.

At the end of a short passage Alice unlocked a door. It doggedly allowed passage squealing loudly on its hinges as if resisting their entry. Once the inside the dimly lit room, Alice stooped over a large traveller’s trunk and with keys in hand she hesitated, as if afraid to open the old and battered trunk, if by doing so may allow long past memories to escape. Instead she offered the keys to Awen.

“I want you to promise me something.” Alice harshly demanded, forcing the keys into the lad’s hand. “When I’m gone I want you to look after this trunk, I don’t want it ending up on the tip.” Without waiting for his response she continued. “Take the large key with the fancy bow and keep it with you.”

Awen confusingly obliged. Removing the ancient key from the ring he handed the remaining keys to his aunt, who quickly returned them to her apron pocket.

“Of course I will,” Awen responded, “but what’s in it.”

“It belonged to Bert.” She answered.

“Who was Bert?” Awen placed the key into his pants pocket, tapping the outer layer of material above the key’s form to prove its safety.

“He was my younger brother.” There was a tear in Alice’s eye as she spoke. Retrieving the handkerchief from her apron she gently wiped it away but another formed behind its departure.

“Is it Bert who I remind you of?”

“I have a photo somewhere.” Alice answered and hurried Awen from the room, consciously locking the door behind.

“What happened to Bert?” Awen asked on returning to the kitchen. Alice remained resistant to his question while impatiently searching through a drawer, finding pages of hand written recipes, letters, and screws, pencils with broken points, pens without ink and parts for long discarded utensils as well as a host of useless nick-nacks but not one photograph. “I know it’s here somewhere.” Becoming bothered by her failure to find the photograph she discontinued her search. “Never mind, some other time. Bert was nineteen and a lovely boy; such a shame, such a waste of a beautiful young life.”

It was obvious Alice wasn’t ready to divulge more as she guided Awen back to the living room away from the drawer and its memories, distancing herself from the pain of reflection. Once there she became faint and in need to rest. Awen helped her to a chair. “Are you alright Alice, should I call a doctor?”

“No dear, there’s nothing a doctor can do for me.” A short rest and once again Alice appeared as normal as a nonagenarian could be. Her voice returned. “See that table over against the wall.” She pointed a long bony finger towards a small oak gate-leg table, its sides down and surface covered with finely crocheted doilies and small porcelain figurines. Awen acknowledged as the woman continued with a smile. “As a girl my needlework was the finest at the show.” Realising her digression, she continued. “I promised the table to Barbara Kemp and she is sending her son Clem over to collect it after his work,” she paused, “Clem works at the abattoir you know?”

“Yes I do know Clem.” Awen answered

The table wasn’t large and quite manageable by a single pair of hands. Even Awen’s hands and knowing Clem Kemp’s statute, he assumed the man could lift the table to his shoulders and carry it with ease.

“What do you want me to do with it?” Awen asked.

“I want you to clear away the Staffordshire and carry the table out to the verandah.”

“Couldn’t Clem do that?” Awen was confused why such a small table would need double handling.

“He could but he’s such a clumsy lump, he would have everything smashed onto the floor and who knows what damage he would do by the time he reached the verandah.” Alice strengthened with the thought of Clem bumping his way through her precious collectables.

“What would you like me to do with the statues?” Awen asked.

“They are Staffordshire and quite valuable.” Alice snapped at the lad’s obvious lack of knowledge.

“What would you like me to do with the Staffordshire?” Awen corrected.

“You can place them in that cardboard box I saved from the grocery delivery.”

Slowly and over emphasizing his caution Awen placed each item into the box using the doilies as padding. Once finished he turned to his aunt. “Right all boxed and unbroken, where would you like the statues stored?”

Alice forgave his nescience. “I offered them to your mother.”

“Huh,” Awen chuckled and placed the box safely to one side.

“That is exactly how Margaret answered.”

“Sorry Alice but I know mum all too well.” Awen returned to the small gate-leg table lifting it to gauge its weight.

“Yes but your mother’s response was somewhat more abrupt.”

“Surfaces Alice, mum has a phobia about clean and uncluttered surfaces, if it’s not useful then it’s of no use.” Awen lifted the table and advanced towards the verandah. “Even my room gets the minimalist treatment, if I leave anything around she shoves it under my bed, or worse throws it out but she never goes into Ely’s room.”

“I haven’t seen Elyan for quite some time.” Alice admitted.

“He’s hardly home these days Alice.”

Returning from the verandah Awen continued. “To be truthful there isn’t a suitable surface in the house for any of your statues.”

“Even as a little girl Margaret was like that.” Alice admitted, once again forgiving his description of her precious Staffordshire.

“What was mum like?” Awen’s curiosity enquired. His parents showed little interest in the past or family, the house lacked even the ubiquitous wedding or baby photographs most families proudly displayed. A trend that became obvious to Awen while visiting the homes of his friends, where a multitude of framed photographs adorned walls and sideboards. Young Kevin Billings innocently smiling through milk teeth, Rod McDonald grinning through the loss of front incisors, Barry Fields from a face covered in acne, his boyish expression disguising the fact that Barry was a bastard, all presented in buffed mock wooden frames or chromed plastic and lovingly arranged in nests amongst those of other siblings.

“Your mother was a right little miss bossy.”

“She still is” Awen exclaimed loudly without malice. “What was Grandma Ferguson like?” He followed, believing Alice would be obliging to his request.

“I think you should ask you mother.” She cautiously answered. Casting her eyes across the room to the hall she smiled and nodded. “Bert,” she whispered weakly. The gesture noted but disregarded by Awen as the workings of an aging mind.

“I have asked mum many times but other than she had to look after Sam as a baby, she refuses to talk about grandma.” Awen answered displaying a measure of frustration towards his mother’s tendency towards secrecy.

“All I will say is she was different.” Alice obliged obviously not wishing to discuss the matter further. “Would you like another cup of tea, it would only take a minute to boil the kettle?” Alice offered.

“No thank you Alice.”

“How about some cake, would you like to take some home with you for Margaret?”

“No thank, besides mum isn’t one for fruit cake.” He declined and stood to depart, “I suppose I should be going is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No but don’t lose that key, I don’t have a spare; Bert lost the other.”

Awen hesitated, he wished to learn more about Bert and what was stored within the mysterious trunk and how her brother met his demise but Alice was obviously not in the mood to elaborate further so he would have to leave off until another time.

“Don’t get up Alice, I’ll show myself out.” Awen suggested but Alice struggled from her chair and followed him to the door, heavily wheezing as she travelled.

“How is Donna?” She asked while fumbling with the door latch. After some difficulty she managed it open.

“She’s alright I guess but has moved out of home.”

“Doing bar work I believed.” Alice asked.

“Yes and dads not happy about it, said it makes him look bad in the community.”

“Tiff tiff, I was a barmaid once. There’s nothing wrong with good honest hotel work.” Alice differed.

Awen stepped through the door into the afternoon sunlight. He shaded his eyes from the glare. “That’s what I say but you know dad, everyone has to project the right image.”

“I believe that is what Margaret saw in Reg.” Alice let slip but obviously wasn’t prepared to continue; “now don’t you loose that key.” She repeated as she closed the door.

Awen momentarily faltered, believing Alice was still conversing with him through the closed door. He clearly heard her mention Bert and there was a measure of irritation in her tone, before lowering into conversation he could not discern. Departing he believed she was but thinking aloud as she had the tendency to do and thought nothing more of it. Once again he felt the outline of the key in his pocket and wondered what interesting objects it kept safe is such an old and battered trunk.

The smell of steak and onions frying met Awen long before he entered through his front door. There was something about frying onions that made one’s juices flow, even if hunger wasn’t apparent. Margaret called from the kitchen as he entered.

“Is that you Ely?”

“No it’s Awen.” Awen joined his mother in the kitchen as in usual fashion she hurried from one bubbling pot to another.

“Dinner won’t be long; how did it go with Alice?”

“She only wanted that small table with all the statues shifted to the verandah.” Awen lifted the lid to a steaming pot; Cabbage. He didn’t much like cabbage and displayed so with a twist of the nose but would accept it on his plate without complaint.

Noticing her son’s silent protest Margaret responded. “Your father likes cabbage, something to do with the depression. I hope you didn’t break any of her Staffordshire.”

“She told me she offered them to you.”

“She did but they are only dust collectors.”

“So she said.” Awen lifted the lid from a second pot. “Potatoes,” He casually declared and returned the lid.

“They should be ready; you can mash them for me if you like.”

“Alice said she hadn’t long to live.”

“I wouldn’t take notice as Alice has been saying so for years.” Margaret answered fussing over gravy. It became lumpy, adding more water she vigorously stirred the lumps away.

“I don’t know, she almost fainted and I offered to call the doctor but she wouldn’t let me.”

“There you go.” Margaret dismissed.

“Mum who was Bert?” Awen incidentally asked while straining the potatoes, steam lifted from the pour of water, causing him to close his eyes. Margaret refrained from answering.

“Alice mentioned having a brother Bert, I’ve never heard of him before.”

“You will have to ask Alice. You better call your father dinners almost ready; I think he is in the study.” Margaret quickened her pace, “did you see Ely when you were down the street?”

“I’ll set the table; no I didn’t come home that way.” Awen collect cutlery from a drawer.

“Set another place, your sister is coming for dinner and as usual, she’s late.” As Margaret spoke the front door slammed shut. “That will be Ely, call your father.”

Awen returned to his mashed potatoes and gave them a second mashing while adding a large knob of butter.

“I’m home mum.” Elyan called from the door. He entered into the kitchen, dumping his carry bag onto the kitchen bench close to where his brother was standing without acknowledging Awen’s presence.

“Remove your bag Elyan, this is a kitchen not your bedroom.” Margaret remonstrated.

“That smells good, I’m famished.” Observing Awen mashing the potatoes he gave a grunt. “Make sure they are properly mashed this time kid, last time there were great chunks.”

“You can take over if you wish.” Awen offered, offering the pot up to his brother.

“No your girl enough to do the job.”

“Elyan!” Margaret strongly warned.

“Well he shouldn’t act like one,” turning back towards his brother he continued, “how was smelly old Alice?”

“Elyan behave yourself, if you can’t say anything nice about people, keep it to yourself!”

“Sorry mum but she does smell and she’s loopy, away with the pixies.”

“Your sisters late we’ll have to start without her.” Margaret observed as her husband silently approached.

Reg Pen came to the kitchen door individually examined his sons, gave a weak nod to Margaret and took his place at the table. He was a disappointed man as none of his children approached his expectations. Firstly, there was Elyan with his abrasive, rebellious lackadaisical nature, next Awen who he considered as soft as butter but worse of all Donna, his princess and his hope. It was his wish she would marry into a good respectable family but at twenty-two, marriage was not on the horizon, nor was respectability, believing her work as a barmaid was below his standing in the community.

“Where is that girl?” Margaret expressed disappointment as she took her place at the table, receiving silence except for a disgruntled huff from Elyan.

“What is it with you these days?” Margaret snapped at her son.

“She won’t be coming.” Elyan smugly assured while devouring his meal as if it were his first for many days.

“Slow down Elyan you’ll give yourself indigestion; why do you say Donna won’t be coming?”

“I guess she’s too scared to face you.”

“Again why would that be?” Margaret drew irritation from her son’s game, almost to the urge to clip his ear and if he were younger she would have done so, instead she issued her predictable icy cold stare, remaining silent while anticipating her son’s habitual offensive response.

“She’s preggers.” Elyan cruelly sniggered and shovelled the last of mashed potato through his extending conceited grin.

Margaret’s expression turned to gape, she cast her eyes to Reg for support but there was none, only the disillusioned expression of a man who had surrendered his expectations to a changing society he no longer wished to be part of. “What do you mean pregnant?” She demanded her voice lowering into incense.

“I thought you knew.” Elyan feigned surprise.

“Donna’s pregnant!” Margaret gasped as she once again turned to her husband for support. Instead Reg pushed his unfinished meal to one side and without speaking left the table. Margaret turned to Awen, “Did you know this?” She demanded.

“I sort of guess it by what I heard at the pub.” Awen answered cautiously.

“Why are your father and I the last to hear about what’s going on in our own family!”

“You should get out more mum,” Elyan suggested, “I’m off I’ve a hot date,” he quickly added as he stood from the table. “You’re turn to do the dishes eh kid.”

“Are you wearing perfume?” Awen asked as Elyan past close by his chair.

“It’s called old spice I nicked it from dad’s shaving cabinet.”

“You smell like a girl.”

“It gets the sheilas going and that I must – see ya.”

With Elyan gone mother and son finished what was left of their meal in silence. Twice Margaret attempted to comment. Her opened mouth suggesting conversation, her breath ready to force out disbelief and disapproval but instead refrained from any utterance other than a light huffing of air. What would be the use? If what she had heard were true, words would not make her daughter less pregnant, or make her husband proud and there was Awen her favourite, who had kept Donna’s condition from her. Also the Woman’s Show Committee to consider and Historical Society, surely they knew and were judging her family’s morality. That hurt most of all.

“I’ll clear the table mum.” Awen offered.

“Aren’t you going out yourself?” Margaret asked from her dream-like state.

“No hurry,”

“No leave them, I’ll do the dishes; besides I would like a few moments alone. I’m disappointed with you Awen, how long have you known about Donna?”

“I didn’t really know mum, only what Rex Gordon said during a conversation with one of his mates.”

“How would Rex know?” Margaret asked.

“He’s the pub’s handyman, I guess he sees and hears most things that happen around the pub.”

“I’m still not pleased, you should have said something.” Margaret’s voice lowered.

“I’m sorry mum but as I said I only heard in passing and only yesterday, besides most of what you hear isn’t true. Maybe it’s nothing but a rumour.”

“For your father’s sake I hope so.”

“Where’s dad gone I wanted to ask him something?” Awen asked.

“Most probably to his office at work, this family is becoming most disappointing for him.”

Margaret had entered into a cloud of depression which in solitude would be medicated from the gin bottle. She felt as if she was a lone island in a stormy sea and the rising tide of reality was about to overcome her. She had lied to Awen as her husband would not be at his office, he would be elsewhere. She had suspected his infidelity for some time, yet as long as he returned home at night and treated her well, Margaret accepted her situation. The love had gone from their marriage for quite some time but of late there were nights he did not return, admitting to bunking down in his office. When he did return he was indifferent towards her, preferring to cuddle up to the scotch bottle and arrive to their bed well into the morning, avoiding any physical contact.

“Where are you off to?” Margaret enquired as Awen again commenced to clear the table.

“To the pub, I’m meeting up with Rod McDonald, he’s back in town.”

“Don’t you come home drunk like your brother,” Margaret held Awen’s arm as he collected a number of dishes, “I said I would do that.” She demanded.

“Alright but I’ll take this lot to the kitchen before I go.”

“If you see Donna, tell her I’m not happy with her.” Margaret called after Awen as he departed.

The Railway hotel bar was quiet as Awen entered, most of the fishing boats were at sea and his mates, McDonald and Kevin Billings, had not yet arrived. It was usual for mill workers to drink at the Northern Star Hotel as there was a measure of bad blood between the fishing crew and a number of the mill workers but seeing the Railway Hotel was McDonald’s favourite Awen followed his friend’s desire. Besides With Sam a fisherman and he and Elyan at the mill, Awen believed he had a right to place a foot in either camp.

Approaching the bar Awen spied John Ashe, one of the town’s personalities drinking alone at a corner table, quickly he guided himself away from the man’s attention. Ashe, although only in his early thirties, was known as a Beachcomber or Beach-bum depending on one’s interpretation and lived alone in a beach shack towards the northern end of town. When the surf was down Ashe made a living doing odd jobs and mowing lawns, while keeping mostly to his own company. The man’s unmarried status brought attention to his persona and rumours were abundant, so much so that most of the young men of the town gave him a wide berth.

Ashe noticed Awen and beckoned to him. Awen simply nodded as he approached the bar where his sister was busy polishing glasses. “Have you seen McDonald tonight?” He asked, taking care to notice his sister’s belly but could not realise her condition.

“Oh I didn’t see you there; he hasn’t been in yet but Ely was in a few minutes ago but didn’t stay.”

“What did he want? He’s usually down at the Star.”

“Only to rub it in that mum’s pissed off with me, not being there for tea.” Donna put down her polishing cloth, “get you a beer?”

“Why not and why weren’t you at tea tonight?” Awen inquisitively asked.

“Busy,”

“You couldn’t be that busy. Doing what?”

“You know – this and that.”

“Hey Donna what about some service down this end?” The call came from one of the crew of the Sea Gypsy that had only arrived back to port the late afternoon, celebrating a good catch.

“Ted Glover, I’m attending to someone so wait your turn.” Donna answered.

“Young Awen doesn’t flaming well count, come on girl a bloke could die of thirst waiting.”

Awen caught hold of his sister’s arm as she moved away, “it’s not because you’re expecting and can’t face mum?” He suggested with a knowing smile.

“Hang on I better attend to Ted.

Donna attended to the needs of the Sea Gypsy’s crew and returned to Awen.

“Oh so you’ve heard then?”

“I reckon everyone in town has and Ely told mum tonight.”

“That brother of yours has a big mouth!”

“He’s your brother as well and you know him, anything to make life difficult.”

Donna drew in a deep and worrying breath. “What did mum say?”

“Not a lot and dad quickly left without a word. You will have to face them eventually.”

Donna retrieved her cloth and returned to her polishing. Glancing across towards Ashe she spoke. “It appears your mate wants a word with you.”

“He’s not my mate.” Awen refused to turn and acknowledge the lone drinker.

“What do you think mum will say?” Donna asked, holding a glass up to the light; she spied a smear, wiping it away she continued. “Or dad.”

“I think dad’s given up on us. I guess he’s adopted Sam as number one son now.”

“I don’t think I could face mum for the moment.”

“Tell you what, you come around tomorrow night after tea, I know dad will be out and I’ll be there for support.” Awen offered.

“What about Ely?”

“He’s out every night.”

“Ashe is still trying to get your attention.” Donna suggested nodding towards the man. Awen turned and gave a reluctant wave.

“He’s coming over,”

“Anyway who’s the proud father?” Awen asked.

“I’m not saying.”

“Does that mean you don’t know?”

“No, it means what I said – I don’t wish to say.”

“You better think of someone by tomorrow night, you know that will be mum’s first question.”

Ashe crossed the floor towards Awen as McDonald and Billings entered the bar, on approach he noticed the new arrivals and faltered before continuing on towards the toilets without speaking.

“Hey you two, you’re late.” Awen complained as McDonald approached the bar.

“Two beers Donna, better late than dead.” McDonald laughed. The three collected their drinks and retired to a corner table. While doing so Ashe returned to his table. “You know he’s an old poof.” McDonald sneered, nodding towards Ashe, his lip upturned in disapproval.

“He’s harmless, just a piss pot.” Awen suggested.

“Not really, he hardly drinks but it only takes a couple to put him on his ear.” Billings corrected.

“Then this must be a night he had three, he looks pissed to me.” Awen assumed.

“How do you know that?” McDonald’s question to Billings was laced with suspicion.

“Come on, I only know it because my old man told me so.”

“How does your old man know?” McDonald put forth suggestively.

“He mows our lawn; shit McDonald you see faggots in everyone!”

“Hey Bic, don’t turn now but Ashe is looking at you.” McDonald declared. Awen did turn but Ashe’s gaze was vacantly directed towards the bar.

“Maybe he was looking at you McDonald, maybe he fancies you.” Billings said and gave his mate a shove to the shoulder.

Soon the lads forgot about Ashe as McDonald gave rendition of his working trip to the country. His father had a fencing contract with a large cattle property up river and seeing his usual offsider had decided to try his luck further north cutting cane, offered the position to his son until he decided what he wished to do with his future. It was his father’s wish Rod would attend University; he had the grades but lacked ambition, preferring open spaces and not the constraint of four office walls.

“I saw Ely down the street with Stella Parks.” Billings declared becoming somewhat bored with McDonald’s drawn out stories of post holes, tight wire and brown snakes in every bush.

“He better watch it.” McDonald growled his eyes trained on Donna as she glided from one end of the bar to the other. ‘Not a bad bit of skirt,’ he thought, ‘I would give her one if she wasn’t Pen’s sister.’

“Why is that?” Awen asked.

“Stella is supposed to be going out with Barry Fields.” McDonald answered. “Don’t you know anything Pen?”

“Isn’t Stella’s a bit old for Barry?” Awen suggested.

“You tell Barry Fields that, Stella has already told him to bugger off but he won’t take no for an answer.” McDonald explained.

“Is Ely giving her one?” Billings asked.

“You know my brother, by his reckoning he’s giving everyone one, or at least that’s what he says.”

“Has your brother got a big dick?” McDonald enquired grinning at the thought of giving Stella a length of his own.

“How would I know?” Awen protested.

“He better have, Stella’s partial to a big dick.”

“What gives you that idea McDonald, have you been there?” Billing’s demanded.

“You hear things but I would be in like a rat up a drain pipe if given half the chance.” McDonald paused, his gaze still directed across the bar towards Donna, “gee she’s got great tits I’ll say that about her.”

“Who has –Stella Parks?” Awen interjected, knowing the girl to be somewhat flat-chested.

“No Pen you dum-dum, Donna.” McDonald corrected.

“I wouldn’t know; she’s my sister.”

“Yea that’s the pity, if she wasn’t I would.” McDonald sighed and retracted his gaze away from Donna.

“Don’t let me stop you.” Awen answered indigently.

“Na it would be like rooting you.”

During a quiet moment Awen’s thoughts returned to McDonalds question on the size of Elyan’s appendage. He did know the answer and released a smile in recollection. How old was he then? Elyan would have been sixteen possible seventeen so that would have made Awen around thirteen. Yes it was the same year he and Sam lost the skiff out on Bradshaw, in accuracy the very month.

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon while their parents were visiting Grandma Ferguson, only weeks before the woman passed away and at Elyan’s request they became involved in show and tell, or at least Elyan did. Awen had been playing in the rain soaked back yard with the family dog, a big black mongrel with feet the size of dinner plates and more power than the lad could manage. After the animal knocked him down into a puddle of mud he took a shower.

While standing under the fall of water, feeling the pressure massage his back and thinking he would like to stand under the flow for the rest of the day, Elyan entered into the bathroom.

“I haven’t finished yet.” Awen had complained but Elyan ignored his brother’s protest, instead stripped and joined with him under the shower. Awen embarrassingly turned away from his brother to face the wall.

“Turn around I want a look.” Elyan demanded forcefully turning Awen to face him. To Awen’s surprise his brother was aroused but could hardly manage more than the length Awen was when flaccid.

Almost immediately and without further comment Elyan evacuated the shower and left the room. If it were from embarrassment or guilt was unclear but never again did Elyan undress or appear naked in proximity to his brother or speak of the incident.

“Hey Bic who potted Donna?” McDonald asked and raising his glass in salutation towards her he released an all knowing smirk but Donna refused to acknowledge his gesture.

“So you’ve heard.”

“The whole town’s heard, so who gave her one?”

“I don’t know, she wouldn’t say.” Awen answered honestly.

McDonald’s eyes lit with realisation. “It would have to be that motor head she’s been hanging around with.”

“You reckon it was Trevor Davis? Get out of it; he wouldn’t know where to put it.” Billings protested.

“He’s a mechanic, they’re always playing with nuts and bolts; he’d know where to put his bolt, as for screwing I guess that comes naturally.” McDonald sniped.

“Maybe, I don’t know.”

“Come on Bic you must have an idea, she’s your sister.” McDonald declared. Awen shrugged and sighed without answering.

“Do your parent’s know about Donna?” Billings asked.

“They do now Ely let it out at dinner tonight.”

McDonald gave a grin, “knowing you’re old man, I reckon that didn’t go down too well.”

“No, he left the house soon after hearing about it.”

“What about your mother, what’s she think?” Billings asked, knowing Margaret was associated with most of the town’s committees.

“That’s a different story; she couldn’t be more upset but more for dad.”

“I still reckon it had to be Davis.” McDonald reiterated while Billings shook his head and went for more beer.

“McDonald why don’t you march up to the bar and ask her, I’m sure she would tell you.” Awen coolly suggested.

“I may just do that.”

“Go on off you go.”

McDonald faltered. “Na I’m not that interested.”

“Speaking of being up the duff, do you remember Barbara West?” Billings interjected on his return with the drinks. Both agreed they did and that she was in her last year of high school. “She’s also got a bun in the oven.” Billings spilt one of the beers. “That’s yours McDonald.”

“Like hell it is,” McDonald differed, pushing the spilt glass across to Awen, “it’s your’s Bic, you can lick the rest up from the table.”

“Thanks a lot,”

“What a good catholic girl like her?” McDonald was most amused.

“Don’t you think catholic girls root?” Awen put forth.

“Not so much that, we all thought she was frigid. McDonald corrected.

“She was always on about religious stuff.” Billings added.

“I thought she was a lesbo.” McDonald delivered through a disgusting grin.

“Who don’t you think is either a poof or a lesbian?

“There’s nothing wrong with lesbians, I reckon I could turn their heads, besides it would be fun getting on with two sheilas at the one time.” McDonald suggested. His eyes appeared to glaze as he imagined the outcome of such a union of naked flesh.

“One – lesbian or not, would be enough.” Billings complained, realising his lack of opportunity but not wishing to share his inexperience with his mates.

“What about you Bic how would you like to slide in between two naked lesbians? Look at Billings he’s drooling over the thought.”

“You’re disgusting McDonald.”

“I’m not the one drooling.” McDonald protested.

“I was thinking of Barbara’s parents, I know her mother, she’s a really nice lady. Billings exacted.

“Isn’t she a primary school teacher?” Awen asked.

“She is; I guess Bargara’s condition will make life most difficult for her, probably have to transfer.” Billings sympathised.

“To change the subject, when are you going bush again?” Awen asked of McDonald, who still appeared to be lost in the mental image of his naked lesbians.

“Soon,”

“What’s it like working for the old man?” Billings asked.

“Great dad is more like an older brother than a parent.” McDonald explained.

“Reg is like a dad and a surely old bugger at that,” Awen related, “but at work he’s fair, it’s Ely who’s the problem, he thinks he owns the mill.”

“I dunno your old man’s not a bad bloke.” McDonald suggested.

“I didn’t say he wasn’t, just he’s a little surely and these days he doesn’t talk much.”

McDonald appeared to drift. Returning with a broad smile, “I remember it was Reg who introduced me to fishing.”

“Yea and back then we couldn’t shut you up. Dad said you talked so much you scared the fish.” Awen laughed.

“No I gave them a false sense of security and they lined up to get onto my hook.” McDonald bragged.

“I suppose you’ll inherit the mill one day.” Billings suggested.

“Na I would think it would go to Ely, or maybe Sam, dad seems to favour Sam and I don’t think Ely has the attitude to run a business.” Awen envisaged.

“What about Donna?” Billings forwarded.

“More like Donna’s brat.” McDonald added as the conversation died from the group and Awen went for more beer.

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

23,784 views