Published: 11 Sept 2017

The old Ford truck arrived outside the Post Office half an hour past the elected time, sounding more like a second world war army tank than the pre-war tray truck it professed to be. The duel sided bonnet had sprung all its locking mechanism and was roped closed to the mudguards and rattled like stones in an old jam tin. Behind, if one could see through the smoke, the tray was loaded with a multitude of tools and rolls of fencing wire, all galvanised, some sheep proof, some cattle while others barbed, also tents, cooking stove, bedding and ample food but no grog. It would be a dry argument for the next few days.

Rattling to a stop McDonald jumped down from the cabin and took control of Awen’s carry bag. “In ya get.” He demanded and roughly threw the bag to the back. “You’re in the middle with the gear stick up your arse.” He gave Awen a shove in the rear to hurry him along. “Watch the old man; he’s vicious with his gear changes.”

“How far is this property?” Awen asked as he took an uncomfortable seat with a leg each side of the lengthy gear leaver.

“Around twenty miles but in this heap it will seem more like a hundred.”

“Good morning young Awen.” Clint McDonald greeted as he forced life into the aging motor.

“Sorry about the accommodation, I’m retiring the old girl in the New Year, I saw a beautiful Fifty-eight F100 for sale down at Turner’s, real beauty and only Seven Hundred quid.” Clint McDonald was all but drooling at the thought of sitting behind the wheel of such a vehicle.

“Bic don’t take any notice of him, he’s been threatening to get rid of the heap of shit for years.”

“No really Awen, you mark my words, come January she’ll be sitting in my back yard.”

“What will you do with this one?” Awen asked.

“Would you like it?” Clint humorously offered.

“I don’t think so, I was wondering what you would get if you sold or traded it.”

“Twenty quid I guess, if lucky and on a trade maybe a little more but it would go straight to the wreckers. No young fellow, I’ll retire her gracefully on blocks in the shed, she’s been good to me and the donk has just under three hundred thou’ on the clock and still considered just run in.”

“Right-o dad we’ve had enough of the advertising spiel.” McDonald complained.

Passing across the bridge out of town Clint noticed Sergeant Pratt parked some distance ahead resting against the open patrol car door, while rolling a cigarette. Clint pulled up beside the police car and spoke. “Morning Ted, nice day for it.”

“Morning Clint.” The sergeant finished rolling his smoke and licked the paper. “Do you reckon that heap of metal is still roadworthy?” Twisting the end of his smoke he lit up.

“I reckon so Ted, would you like to take it for a test drive?” Clint boldly offered.

“I value my life too much; who’s that in the cabin with you.” The police man pocked his head through the open window.

“Awen Pen Mr. Pratt.” Awen acknowledged.

“Is that rightly so.” The Sergeant’s smoke failed to light, reaching for his box of matches he continued. “I heard about the episode with Elyan and young Barry Fields.”

“It wasn’t anything Mr. Pratt, I was there and so was Rol Bishop. He got a scare that’s all.”

The Sergent succeeded in keeping his smoke alight as he spat out some rogue strands of tobacco. “Only a scare eh, there wasn’t any firearm?”

“No only a baseball bat but it wasn’t used.”

“Maybe Elyan did the town a favour – yes maybe a favour but he better not take the law into his own hands in the future.” Pratt paused, “Yep favour or not, I’ll have to have him.” Pratt nodded to Clint and once again the aging truck clattered on its way.

“Good bloke Ted.” Clint granted as the patrol car became a speck amongst the dust in the rear vision mirror.

“You’re only saying that because he’s your drinking mate.”

“No really son, Ted’s a bloody good bloke and fair. You remember that Awen, you ask your old man he’ll tell ya.” Moments later Clint took a sharp left turn down an unmade road, throwing Awen hard against Rod and springing the passenger door, almost spilling them both into the scrub and bulldust beside the track.

“Sorry about that, almost missed the turn.” Clint apologised as Rod held the door closed.

“Dad you really need to do something about this heap of shit!” Rod McDonald hollered over the roar of the motor.

“Very soon son; I promise.”

“Also watch out, I notice a vehicle ahead of the next bend.” Rod warned.

“I saw it.” Clint pulled off the track as the vehicle approached. It stopped by his door. “Trevor.” Clint acknowledged as a middle aged man wearing an oversize hat and William’s boots alighted from the utility.

“Morning Clint, I have to go into town but you know where everything is.” The farmer rested his right boot onto the truck’s running board and peered into the cabin. “I notice young Rod there but who’s your new bloke?” Trevor Jones look every bit a Ringer, a station hand and not one who grew vegetables while running the occasional head of cattle.

“That’s Awen Pen, you know his old man has the mill.” Clint introduced. Awen smiled and gave a slight nod. The farmer took a deep breath and removed his boot, “the younger Pen boy eh; tell your father I’ll be in soon for a load of timber.” Again Awen nodded his acknowledgement. “Suppose I should be heading off, I’ve a cranky bank manager who needs satisfying.” The farmer removed his hat, scratched at his balding sun blotched head, once again nodded before returning to his vehicle. “The misses is home, she’ll make you some lunch.”

Clint parked the truck and instructed his son to load a number of star pickets from a nearby shed while he visited the house to announce their arrival. A good half an hour later he returned. “Rod you take the truck down by the creek and start setting up camp. I’ll be along shortly, Pam want’s a hand with her clothes line. She’s doing washing and the prop post has broken.”

Rod parked the truck and jumped down to the grassy verge beside a shallow creek, inviting Awen to join him with the unloading.

“This will do.” Rod declared pointing to a flat area not far from the water’s edge. “Usually dad and I share the same tent but this time we have our own. He snores like a chain saw.” Rod Explained as he dragged a large canvas package from the truck’s tray. “You know how to set up a two man tent; I’ll set up the old man’s.”

“Where would you like it?” Awen asked.

“As far away as possible, over near that tree stump on the flat will be fine.”

By the time the camp was ready Clint arrived carrying a basket, placing it besides the big tent he checked the ropes. “Good job.” He complemented. “Pam’s supplied lunch, well eat and get to work, I want this job finished by Monday.”

“What would you like me to do?” Awen asked while Clint passed round sandwiches.

“Can you cook?”

“Well I guess I can boil water and make spaghetti.”

“Fancy stuff eh, I think Rod can do the cooking.”

“Rod cooks? He never did when we went camping out on Bradshaw.” Awen responded somewhat surprised with his friend’s suggested culinary ability.

“If you have a willing dog, why bark yourself?” Was Rod’s whimsical response.

“Actually, although he wouldn’t admit it, he’s a good cook.” Clint credited, “back home he takes over the kitchen.”

“Hey dad I wouldn’t go that far, what are you trying to do ruin my reputation.”

“I’m only telling as I see it.” Clint teased.

“I don’t do dishes.” Rod quickly interrupted.

“So I suppose it will be up to you to wash up.” Clint directed to Awen.

“Sounds like home Ely tosses me a tea towel and bolts for the door, with Sam two steps behind.”

It took most of the first afternoon to set up the work area. Although they had found the star pickets they had to wait until Trevor returned from town to locate the posts. Then it was tea time and all three were invited up to the house for roast lamb. Clint did accept a social glass of beer but didn’t allow the offer to extend to either of the boys.

Early the following morning the farmer came down to the camp asking if anything was needed and to let Clint know he and Pam would be away until late Sunday. Trevor offered the house for cooking and showering while they were away but Clint was more than happy to use creek water and his portable stove. Besides after twenty years of making do, he was set in his ways.

As Trevor’s utility disappeared in a cloud of dust, with tyres thumping over the cattle grid Awen declared he wouldn’t mind a hot shower but was hooted down by both Rod and Clint, threatening to throw him into the creek, clothes and all.

With breakfast over the fencing commenced, Clint and Rod did the heavy digging, while Awen became the gofer, the general dogs-body in charge of spacing star pickets, boiling the billy and making sandwiches, while during the down time he explored the chook house, the newly born calves and Trevor’s bay mare but what intrigued him most of all was discovering two peacocks strutting their tails in colourful perfusion, as they pecked for insects and tasty morsels around the house yard.

Awen had never seen or heard a peacock before and the previous night woke in a start believing he had head some distressed woman screaming for help. Rod found amusement with his friend’s bush ignorance and only after Awen had pulled on his strides and with haste left the tent, did he explaine what his friend had heard, also that many kept them as watchdogs as they whooped it up something chronic at the first sign of trouble, from snakes to unwanted guests.

During lunch on the Sunday Rod McDonald took a dip in the creek to cool off. At their camp site the water was only waist deep and slow flowing with a sandy underfoot. Stripping down to his underwear he shallow dived into the cooling stream, not surfacing again until he reached the far bank. “Come in.” He called and beckoned for Awen to join him, while Clint sat by reminiscing his youthful days when his now aching back allowed him to contort into every position possible to the human frame.

“Come in.” Rod repeated before once again disappearing to resurface close to the slope of the bank where Awen was seated.

“Go on cool off, we only have those last four post holes to dig and thread a couple of hundred yards of wire, we’ll do that in the morning, besides I promised to replace Pam’s clothes line wire before she returned.”

With Clint gone Awen stood hand’s on hips watching McDonald as he released his child side. Vanished was his reserved caution, his can’t say that, can’t do that or other’s would conceive him to be less than masculine. Replaced with such attitude Awen remember in his school yard friend, before teenage hormones bit into his innocence.

Now at nineteen years of age, almost twenty, McDonald stood waist deep in water, his chiselled chest, lightly dusted with curly blond hair and fuzzed chin asserting his masculinity, while his playful eyes, his cheeky grin remained youthful.

“Is it cold?” Awen asked. Why he did so he could not say. Possibly to stand a little longer on the bank to admire the muscular frame of his friend as McDonald splashed handfuls of water in his direction.

“You woos!” McDonald accused loudly, his expression loosing its levity.

“Alright.” Awen agreed and within seconds stripped to his shorts and joined his friend in the shallow water.

“Where’s the old man gone?” McDonald asked as they tired of ducking and splashing.

“He said he had to fix a clothes line and we could have the afternoon off and finish up tomorrow.”

“Want to go for a walk?” McDonald suggested.

“Where to?”

“I don’t know, just around the place, I’ll show you something, if it’s still there.”

“I thought you hadn’t been here before.” Awen assumed.

“Once, a year back but only for a day when the old man delivered some gear to Trevor.”

The creek wound its way in a serpentine behind the house where the scrub was thickest and the going more difficult, before joining the main river on its way to an irrigation dam. Along its bank there was a rudimentary track honed out by the continuous march of cattle on their way to water, where the trees drew a canapé above their heads, blocking out the heat of the afternoon sum. Some distance ahead the track diverted from the creek and headed into the scrub only to open out once again at the edge of a ploughed field.

Reaching the end of a ploughed field a large red kangaroo took fright and bound away to hide within the tall grass of the neighbour’s cow paddock, while crows silently circled above a stand of tall eucalyptus trees, plaintively calling to one another as they spotted a meal in the adjacent paddock.

“I can smell something dead.” Awen exclaimed as he sniffed at the still air.

“Probably a roo, that’s the smell of the country. Death, dust and heat.” McDonald bragged of his ability to read the bush, even if he had hardly left the town limits except to go to Bradshaw Island until a few months previous.

“And gum trees.” Awen added.

“Yea and gum trees.”

“Where is this thing you want to show me?”

“Not far now, over near that scrubby hill.” McDonald pointed across the short distance to some struggling bushes. “Follow me but be quiet.”

What did Awen expect to find? He had no idea, maybe some dumb plant or would it be the sauce of the stink, if so why should he be quiet.

“Shh,” McDonald demanded while parting some undergrowth. “Oh well no one’s home but have a geek at that.”

There appeared nothing to observe; “so what am I looking at?” Awen asked somewhat disappointedly.

“It’s a bowerbird but he’s not home and that’s its bower.” McDonald pointed to what appeared to be a large scruffy bird’s nest resting on its side surrounded by a number of blue pegs, blue glass and an assortment of broken plastic all in varying shades of indigo.

“It’s a funny nest.” Awen admitted freely without apology for his disinterest or ignorance.

“It’s not a nest dum-dum it’s the bower of a Satin Bowerbird, the male builds and decorates it to attract a female.

“I didn’t know you were interested in birds; well those with feathers anyway.” Awen promoted.

“There’s probably a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Like what?”

“Well for a start I love to sit alone in the bush and listen to the silence.”

“You can’t hear silence.” Awen decreed.

“That my friend is where you are wrong. Silence has a sound of its own, it doesn’t come from nature but from inside you head.” McDonald released his hold on the undergrowth. “Anyway I suppose we should be getting back to camp, the old man will think we’ve drowned.”

Once the camp was set in order and Awen washed the few pots and enamel dishes and mugs in the stream, there wasn’t much more that could be done except retire for the night. Clint McDonald was weary, as the advancing years and heat quickly sapped his energy but Rod was as usual full of vigour and if he couldn’t exercise his muscles, he would his mind which, on this night, was well connected to his tongue.

“Hey Bic what’s the time.” He whispered from his side of the tent.

“I don’t know, can’t read my watch in the dark.”

“Isn’t it luminous?”

“It is but doesn’t work well but I reckon it must be nine by now, it was eight when we doused the fire and we sat talking on the bank for at least three quarters of an hour.” Awen calculated.

“Must be eh, I could kill for a beer right now.” McDonald admitted.

“Why doesn’t you dad let you drink after work?”

“Don’t rightly know but he never has on the job.” McDonald lifted himself onto his elbows to view the carpet of stars through the tent flap.

“You know you can’t see most of them in town, too much light pollution they say.”

“See what?”

“The stars,”

“I’ve often thought that but on a good night you can see plenty if you sit on the beach.” Awen admitted.

“You like the beach don’t you Bic?”

“I do and I like going out to Bradshaw and fishing.”

“I used to but I’d rather the bush now.” McDonald confessed.

“So you’re tired of fishing?”

“Not fishing but I guess I don’t get the chance now that I’m working.” McDonald freely admitted.

“Just before he left, Billings suggested we should take another trip out to Bradshaw but dad’s skiff is buggered.”

“Maybe one day the three of us could pool our money and buy a boat.” McDonald suggested showing a deal of enthusiasm. “Not some dumb skiff like your old man’s but a super fast speed boat, we could be down to the city in no time at all and across to Bradshaw before your dad’s skiff could be launched.

“Maybe but I would rather sail than go terrorising around, scaring all the fish.”

“Anyway what’s wrong with you old man’s skiff?”

“Rotten woodwork, he gave up on it years back and would not have been used at all if we didn’t take it to Bradshaw.” Awen explained.

“Is it fixable?”

“Sure but when I suggested doing so, dad just ignored me. I guess he’s too old for having fun.”

“Shame, possibly you could talk him into giving it to you and the three of us could work on it.”

“Maybe,”

“What about Sam, is he any good fixing things?” McDonald asked.

“Fishing nets I guess, you were good at woodwork at school.” Awen recollected.

“School’s out; besides back then they were only shadow boxes and matchbox holders. I’ve never tried fixing a boat.”

“I reckon you could.” Awen praised.

“Maybe.”

“Do you remember our woodwork teacher?” Awen asked.

“Yea Walter fucking Bowen, I remember the cunt.” McDonald growled.

“Do you remember saying it would be hard to make a bucket?” Awen asked.

“It was more like fuck it and he heard well.”

“He died last month when you were away.” Awen said without attempting any reverence towards the man’s passing.

“Get out of it, what happened?”

“He fell out of a tree in his back yard, while trimming some branches, called them widow makers and said they were dangerous,” Awen gave a light chuckle, “it seems they were.”

“The poofter wasn’t married, was he?” McDonald presumed.

“Actually he was but she left him before he came to our school.”

“I never liked him, he had it in for me all through the final year,” McDonald paused, “anyway what the fuck is a widow maker?”

“I thought you were the bush expert?” Awen suggested.

“Sound’s like some crap you made up.”

“Na not me but it’s a dead branch awaiting to come down on someone’s head, usually out of the quiet of a day and for no real reason.”

“Still it’s a funny name.”

“I guess it’s so called as people like Bowen are stupid enough to climb up and try to cut it down without asking the experts.”

“Well I guess he won’t be doing it again.”

After a number of silent minutes the sound of Clint’s snoring drifted across the camp site to their tent. McDonald laughed. “I told you he snores that’s why I put his tent as far away as possible; for all the good that did.”

“Ely is almost as loud.”

“Is Ely still rooting that hairdresser bird?”

“He is and it must be a record for him, it’s been over six months now.”

“Hey Bic what’s the go with Bishop?” McDonald asked.

“In what way?”

“Dunno but you never used to kick around with him.”

“He’s alright I guess.”

“Huh you say that about everybody.”

“With you and Billings away I suppose he was next best.” Awen answered, fearful of what his friend would ask next.

“Has he ever said anything about me?” McDonald’s tone appeared guarded.

“No why should he?” Now Awen was fishing.

“No reason. I don’t like him much; his ex reckons he’s a bit girly.”

“I don’t think so; does he seem like that to you?” Awen asked.

“Not really but girls can sort of work you out better than your mates can. Still I don’t like him, never did even back at school.”

“I can’t say.”

“Billings doesn’t think much of him either.” McDonald added.

“Billings just agrees with you to make you happy.”

“You don’t – do you?” McDonald asked.

“Sometimes I do when you’re in that kind of mood.” Awen honestly answered.

“No shit, am I that bad?”

“No you’re alright.”

For a time McDonald remained silent, both lay listening to Clint’s snoring and the bush sounds. On previous nights Awen had fallen to sleep quickly and except for his hysterics from the peacocks hadn’t heard much at all but this night he was hearing twigs snap, birds hoot, hissing, leaves rustling and something splashing in the creek. “Crocs!” He said in a loud whisper, thinking only that afternoon they may have been swimming in crocodile infested water and oblivious to the fact, as the inland rivers were notorious for crocodiles.

McDonald laughed. “No crocks in there mate, too high up and too far from the coast, now and then you may find a freshwater croc but they’re basically harmless.” He assured.

“I suppose it depends on what you reckon is basically harmless.” Awen gave a shudder.

“I guess if you cornered one it may give you a nasty bite, other than that you could swim in the creek full of them and wouldn’t even know they were there. Besides the creek’s too shallow, maybe down stream in the dam.”

“Suppose I’ll have to take your word for that.”

“Have you ever rooted a bird?” McDonald asked. Clint’s snoring had subsided to almost inaudible.

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know, only Billings commented on it last week he’s never seen you with a bird, well not since leaving school.”

“I haven’t really had the chance, only Heather what ever her name was back in grade seven and that was only between her thighs and I didn’t blow.”

“Heather tits Wilson.” McDonald laughed.

“That’s her, you remember her?”

“Remember her, I’m telling you I got a little higher than her thighs.” McDonald bragged.

“What’s happening with you and that bird you told me about on your last job?” Awen asked.

“Not a lot, two letters saying how much she missed me and the next was a ‘Dear John,’ letter telling me she found this fellow on the next farm and for me to fuck off.”

“Fuck off?” Awen questioned the letter’s language.

“Well she was a little more discrete but it all meant the same.”

“Bad business.” Awen sympathised.

“No matter I got my end in, I suppose a man can be at least thankful for that and I reckon I was the first.”

“How could you tell?” Again Awen’s inexperience was on display.

“A man knows these things kid.”

Awen flinched at his friend’s answer. Firstly he was older than McDonald, even if only by some months and in most things more mature and he hated being called kid. Both Elyan and Sam used the idiom against him when they wished to belittle him.

“I could do with a good root right now.” McDonald sighed and rolled onto his back. Awen refrained from supplying an answer.

“I’m as horny as a hornbill.” McDonald laughed. “I can still see Heather Wilson’s tits- watermelons they were,” he sighed, “ruddy great watermelons and nipples like saucers.”

“Why don’t you have a wank?” Awen laughed.

“I could couldn’t I, would that worry you?” McDonald asked.

“Nope but do it quietly; good night.”

For some time Awen lay awake listening for any sound that may arise from his friend’s suggestion. He thought he could hear gentle slapping of skin on skin, quickening breath and a cough and sigh of relief but could not be sure. If he were brave enough he would have suggested mutual masturbation, he could have watched his friend bring himself to climax, fed his sexual desire on the sight and the ambience but if he did so, what would the morning bring? With the sunlight possibly condemnation and the loss of a friend? He couldn’t be sure but if they had been drinking there would have been a valid excuse. ‘Last night?’ I don’t remember anything. The memory of Bishop’s encounter with McDonald came to mind and what did that bring other than years of recrimination and guilt.

With the morning Awen awoke to the sensation of feeling something heavy on his legs above his sleeping bag. “Get of me McDonald you heavy.” He cried and kicked out with force.

“I’m out here, no where near you.” McDonald answered from somewhere outside their tent. Awen sat up as the tail end of a very large snake disappeared through the tent flap.

“Christ I’ve been sleeping with a fucking snake!” Awen shouted pulling his extremities away from the tent opening.

“It’s only a scrub python.” McDonald laughed and called Clint. The two stood over the twelve feet or more of shiny slithering reptile as it made haste for the scrub. Awen still in his sleeping bag joined them.

“Well kill the fucking thing!” He demanded his voice almost hysterical.

“It’s a carpet snake, you don’t kill pythons.” Clint explained.

“Wait until Billings hears this.” McDonald whimsically threatened.

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