Published: 25 Sep 17

There was a gentle south easterly as Sam brought Fowler’s skiff from its moorings in the river. It was a joy to sail as everything was well maintained and tight, not like Reg’s skiff that had never been maintained. ‘It is like sailing a wet dishcloth,’ was Sam’s usual complaint with the family skiff, Fowler’s was as tight as a drum and obedient to the simplest command.

The morning sun was warm on his face. A perfect day for pleasure sailing, not so for what they were about to perform, that weighted heavily on his sensibility and the closer he came to the jetty the stronger became his regret. Yet what harm could it do? John Ashe had strengthened Awen’s reasoning and morally it was sound but Sam believed it was not the right way to do so. Sam believed it should be done with the good will of the town and not secretly but Awen’s argument was if done officially, Bert would most likely be interred in the colonial cemetery and not on the hill with Martin’s ashes. Besides was the town ready to accept Bert back into its proud and lengthy history of homophobia and denial. Possibly Awen was correct, if Bert’s removal was suggested, it may be decided best to leave him where he lay.

To strengthen his rationale Awen quoted the case of the gay bushranger Andrew Scott, known as Captain Moonlight, who after a shoot-out with police was found cradling his dead young friend. At his hanging, Scott requested to be buried with Nesbitt but his request was refused. Awen’s bushranger story helped to convince Sam but more than being convinced he was sure that after such a long time they wouldn’t find anything to bring back, therefore the exercise would be just that, a day out, a good idea but ending in failure, a failure Sam would be satisfied with.

Drawing close to the jetty Sam discovered the two waiting. Awen seated on a large wooden crate, Bishop his hands deep in his pockets by his side and by appearances uninterested in the impending procedure. Sam tossed Bishop the mooring rope which he clumsily attached to a bollard.

“So you still wish to go ahead with this dumb idea of yours?” Sam asked and corrected Bishop’s lackadaisical anchorage, his eyes directed towards the roughly made box beneath his nephew’s posterior.

“I do.”

“Where did you get the box?”

“It was from the timber yard, dad was going to throw it onto the endings pile and have it burnt.” Awen lifted the lid to expose a number of old hessian bags. “What do you think, will it be big enough?”

“It’s big enough to hold Bert when he was alive.” Sam answered, setting his mind to perform the task at hand.

“It is all I could find.”

“It’s been more than sixty years what do you expect to be left of Bert?” Sam asked. The burial sight was on the weather side of Bradshaw, receiving the full force of the South East Trades and more often than not, the east of the island was bog for much of the wet season.

“That I don’t know but even if I have to fill the box with grave dirt, at least it must hold some of Bert’s remains.”

“What do you think Roland?” Sam asked.

“Suppose it’s a nice gesture.”

“Right then get you’re box on board and we should be off, I need to be back before sunset but I’m still not happy doing this.” Sam slowly shook his head as he readied the skiff, while Awen stowed his box.

At Sam’s direction Bishop awkwardly placed his not so sure body into the skiff but faulted, almost to the point of falling overboard.

“Are you alright Roland?” Sam asked.

“I haven’t been to sea before?” Bishop admitted, holding tightly to whatever he could reach.

“It’s hardly sea Rol, the island’s form cuts down most of the surf.” Awen assured.

“I haven’t even sat in a boat before.” Bishop continued, finding even the gentle rocking besides the jetty was giving him vertigo.

“If you’re going to chuck, please over the side, I don’t want to mess up Fowler’s varnished timberwork.” Sam demanded as he turned the bow away from the jetty towards Bradshaw.

“I’ll be alright.” Bishop bravely answered but was already turning a not so pleasant shade of green.

“Remember over the side.” Sam repeated as Bishop sat, his eyes tightly shut, his head lowered while his breathing quickened.

“We haven’t hit the water yet Rol.” Awen laughed.

“Slow your breathing Rol, you’re hyperventilating that will only make it worse.” Sam determined as he set the sail to the light breeze.

“I’ll be alright.” Bishop repeated heeding Sam’s advice.

“The breeze is from the south-east, we may have to tack.” Awen suggested, attempting to influence his prowess on Bishop but his friend was past caring about sailing skills or the direction of the wind.

“It should be a calm crossing and will only take about half an hour.” Sam assured then released a callous grin, “but the weather’s due to pick up this afternoon so I wouldn’t have any lunch,” he turned to Awen, “You did bring some lunch?”

“I did, it’s in my back pack.”

“Pick up?” Bishop questioned Sam’s weather forecast, believing it already had done so.

Bishop made the island without becoming sick but by his expression he had been counting every minute of the journey. As they reached the sand Awen spied something red in the surf some distance towards the point. Quickening his pace to the spot he found what was left of McDonald’s fishing rod. The expensive reel, McDonald’s pride and joy, had gone as had a good length from the end of the rod and the rubber hand grip had become quite damaged by constant contact with sand and rocks. Awen held up the relic. “Look what I’ve found?” He cried back to the others.

“What is it?” Sam answered; making sure the skiff was well moored.

“It’s McDonald’s fishing rod, or what’s left of it. The one the shark took.” Returning he tossed the remains of the rod into the skiff. “I can’t wait until I give it back to him. I may even gift wrap it.”

“Come on get your box and the shovels and let’s get cracking.” Sam demanded and collected a mattock from their selection of tools.

At the head of the beach Awen paused and silently pointed to a dip in the sand between two palms.

“What?” Sam questioned.

“It was there.”

“What was?”

“It was while seated there when you suggested you could be gay.” Awen laughed.

“Christ Awen, don’t you ever let up.”

“You know back then you scared the shit out of me.” Awen admitted as they past by the dip and between the palms.

“What scared you?” Bishop asked bringing up the rear.

“Did you think I was going to jump you?” Sam laughed.

“No Sam, I sort of wanted you to do so but was scared I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“It was in the back of my mind to do so but then I remembered all those stories about uncles molesting kids.” As Sam spoke the three reached the islands eastern side.

“You were only a kid yourself.” Awen replied.

“A kid maybe but old enough to know right from wrong and I still believe I made the correct choice, if I had made a move on you maybe we wouldn’t be here talking about it today.”

On previous visits to the cairn its volume appeared less but once it came to actually removing the large rocks the task was soon realised and one that Sam mostly supervised. It was Awen’s idea so he and Bishop could do the lifting. Some time later the sandy loam beneath the cairn was clear and the digging began.

“How deep do you think we will have to go?” Awen asked.

“Graves are usually six feet.” Sam suggested and commenced to work at the soft ground with the mattock, surprisingly the area wasn’t the bog he anticipated he would find.

“I sure hope not.” Bishop evoked despondently, as his bank teller’s hands weren’t any match for manual labouring.

“I would think, seeing they were in no way respectful towards Bert, he won’t be too deep.” Awen assumed and was correct, as within less than two feet of surprisingly dry soil they discovered a length of decaying rope.

“That’s lasted well for the time it’s been in the ground,” Sam admitted as he handled the frayed end. Moments later the shovel blade lightly clipped what appeared to be the bleached white crown of a human skull, where they found the length of rope came to an end in what appeared to be a rudimentary noose. All three gave a shiver and for some time stood silent peering into the hole.

Eventually Sam spoke as the product of past intolerance and homophobia became apparent. “Well there’s Bert, last chance we could cover it in and replace the rocks.” He hopefully suggested as he stood his distance from the procedure.

“Nope I have to go through with this no matter what.” Awen reached into the hole clearing the soil from around the skull. After loosening it from the earth he gently wrapped the skull with one of his hessian bags, before reverently placing it in the box. “Now for the rest.” He exclaimed as both Sam and Bishop stood by leaning on their tools.

“I think it proper that you remove the rest.” Sam proposed, not wishing to handle Bert’s bones.

“I agree,” Bishop concurred.

“Yes maybe it should be my responsibility to do so.” Awen agreed.

The removal of the Bert’s remains took more than an hour, being careful not to miss even the smallest toe or finger bone but once done, how could he be sure he had everything. Awen wasn’t skilled in the human skeleton, nor were his companions and had never before seen one at close proximity, only in school anatomy books. Even then lack of curiosity allowed only a fleeting glimpse, displaying more interested with the androgynous drawings of the male and female form, missing what they considered to be the interesting bits.

“What do you think?” Awen asked as the last of Bert’s bones was placed in the box.

“I think you’re crazy.” Sam implied.

“No do you think we have all of Bert?”

“I would say so, besides we should be going soon, I have to work tonight.”

“What about lunch?” Bishop asked realising it was almost three in the afternoon. His stomach had well settled from their crossing to the island and was growling from lack of attention.

“You can have it with your dinner, come on let’s replace the stones and get out of here.” Sam demanded.

The return journey was as Sam predicted. The weather had changed to chop, as the waves caused the skiff to bob around on the tide as if it were a cork. Bishop held his stomach until within site of the jetty, puckering he attempted to keep it down but eventually failed.

“Over the side I said!” Sam bellowed as he steered the skiff towards the jetty. Bishop made the side and remained heaving until the Skiff was moored. “You coming or are you going to sit there chucking all afternoon?” Sam asked while helping Awen to lift his box onto the jetty. Bishop nodded and gingerly followed, not feeling much improved even on dry land.

“You look terrible,” Awen perceived, attempting to help his friend onto firm ground. Bishop shook off his friend’s help, believing it to be more a hindrance, almost toppling him into the water.

“I feel terrible and that’s the last time you’re gunna get me into a boat.”

“I was going to invite you to go fishing with McDonald.” Awen smirked.

“Bullshit.” Bishop sat himself on the closest bollard, his head slumped as a final wave of biliousness took controlled, fortunately he had nothing left in his stomach to loose.

“Sam I thought you’d have enough of fishing with work.” The voice came from the deck of the Sea Wind.

“Just giving young Awen a hand.”

Mick Avery came down from the deck of the Sea Wind and joined the three on the jetty. He appeared to be interested in Awen’s box.

“What you got there.” His curiosity was always high and more so with the box.

“Not a lot Mick, you know McDonald and I do a lot of fishing out on the island.” Awen answered.

“Yea he’s still winging about that rod of his.”

“I found it.” Awen collected the relic and showed it to Avery.

“I don’t think he’ll be using it again.” Mick answered but obviously still interested in the box.

“Well I don’t think we’ll be doing much fishing out there in the future, I believe the council is making it off limits because of vandalism, so I thought I should go out and bring back what we left out there.”

The part of Awen’s yarn about the island becoming a nature reserve was true but not the contents of the box. Avery appeared satisfied, he turned to Sam, “As well you’re here mate, we couldn’t find you earlier and thought we would have to leave without you.”

“Why’s that Mick?” Sam asked.

“You know the skipper, if he hears the fish are running somewhere he off and the mullet are supposed to be running up the coast at the moment.”

“When does he wish to push off?”

“He reckons round dusk but has gone into town, so could be a little later.”

“That should give me enough time to return the skiff and get a few things I left down at Ashe’s.” Sam turned to Awen, “best you stowe that at John’s for the moment.” As the skiff moved away from the jetty Sam called back. “Awen do me a favour and get my bag from John’s and bring it here; that should save me some time.”

Awen agreed as he and Bishop headed off down the beach towards Ashe’s bungalow.

John Ashe was more supportive of Awen’s plan than Awen had envisaged, even offering to help rebury Bet’s remains atop of the hill.

“Best you leave Bert to rest here and wait for a perfect time.” Ashe suggested as he lifted the lid. “There isn’t much to show for one’s stint on earth, one ends up being nothing but an interesting relic, something for our descendents to geek at in wonder.” Ashe closed the lid as Bishop took himself to sit on the sand allowing the gentle breeze to medicate his still woozy stomach.

“So what did Bert think of your little plan.”

Awen was taken back by Ashe’s question, believing he would be like Sam and humour his vision of Bert. “You believe I saw Bert?” Awen said.

“Well I believe you believe and that is enough. Add that to Alice’s belief I suppose it amounts to something.”

“I haven’t told him.”

“So how do you know he wants to rest up on the hill?”

“That is where Martin’s ashes are so I thought.” Awen cut short his assumption as Bishop returned.

“I should be off, when do you want to take Bert up the hill?” Bishop asked.

It was Ashe who spoke, “I think you should do it on a wet night when most will be indoors, you do realise One Tree is actually parkland and what you intend to do isn’t exactly legal.” All agreed.

Two weeks had passed since Bert’s remains arrived at Ashe’s bungalow. Ashe’s perfect conditions appeared to be elusive, although on a number of nights light rain had been promised but didn’t eventuate and as Awen disclosed, Bert had waited more than sixty years to be reunited with Martin, a few more days wouldn’t be of concern. As for Awen’s reconnection with the spirit of Bert, he hadn’t even past Alice’s gate since bringing the remains back from the island and was much to nervous of the outcome to once again put the reburial to Bert.

He was now having second thoughts, what if he had been wrong in believing Bert would wish to rest on the hill? The question stuck in his head while brooding around the Pen house waiting for the right conditions but determination prevailed and he would go through with the reunion no matter what the consequences may be, besides didn’t Ashe recently say Alice had wished for Bert to rest on the hill.

Light rain was forecasted for the Friday night and to be ready Awen had contacted Bishop and Ashe, as for Sam, he wanted nothing more to do with the intrigue, besides he chanced to be away fishing. There was also a travelling carnival visiting town, so those not forced to stay indoors due to inclement weather conditions would most likely visit the carnival, lending to a perfect set of conditions to execute their intentions.

It was an unusual night. Reg Pen remained home and after his meal, locking himself away in his study, while Margaret flittered about tidying what she had already tidied during the day, brooding over her developing situation. Donna had been home for dinner with Jack and once Margaret finished with her dusting she took charge of the young fellow, leaving Awen in company with his brother.

“I hope you didn’t damage Fowler’s skiff.” Elyan spoke as Awen commenced clearing the dinner table.

“Of course not, give me a hand with the dishes.”

“Women’s work kid, what was so important you had to go out to the island anyway?” Elyan displayed a rare measure of interest.

“As you know it’s to be made parkland, so I need to bring back some gear we left out there.”

“I will say one thing, if you damaged Fowler’s precious boat, you will soon hear about it.”

“Don’t worry we didn’t.”

“Have you heard?” Elyan asked as quiet fell about the house.

“Heard what?”

“Dad is divorcing mum.”

The news came as a shock to Awen, believing their mother would have confided in him with something as important as a separation. “When did you hear this?” He gasped while looking about lest someone was in earshot.

“I heard Dad talking to one of his Reps.”

“What’s mum going to do?”

“I only heard it today, who knows what comes next.” Elyan as usual was most unconcerned.

“I’m not surprised; it’s been coming for some time.” Awen answered with a disappointed sigh as Donna entered the room.

“What are you two on about?” She asked, hearing only the last few words of her brothers’ conversation.

“Ely was saying mum and dad are divorcing.” Awen answered.

“I know mum told me.”

“When did she tell you?” Awen was feeling somewhat left out.

“Last night but don’t worry, I think she’s quite alright with it.” Donna checked her hair in the hall mirror. She had sprayed too much lacquer to one side, causing a lopsided appearance; she roughly teased it back to equal both side. “Mum has suggested that Jack and I live with her.”

“What here?” Awen asked.

“I don’t know, maybe here, maybe the house over in Beatrice Street, or maybe we will go down the coast and stay with Aunt Bernice. Uncle Bob runs a pub and has offered me bar work.”

“Where’s Jack?” Awen asked.

“I have to work, mum’s looking after him.” Donna collected her bag, “smokes,” she said and turned to her brother, “Ely got any smokes?”

“Nope,”

“Never mind I’ll get a packet at the pub.”

“That skirt of yours is a little short.” Awen commented somewhat prudishly.

“It’s a mini-skirt; it’s supposed to be short.” Donna checked the straightness of her stocking seam.

“Not that short.” Awen called after his sister as she closed the door, “and you a mother and all.” He added but Donna had gone.

“That’s how she became a mother.” Elyan gruffly suggested.

“Well she should think about the kid.”

“Do you know how to tell if a mini-skirt is too short?” Elyan asked.

“I haven’t a clue but I guess you are about to tell me.” Awen was still brooding over the news of his parent’s separation and wasn’t in the mood for his brother’s frivolity.

“Easy – you paint a B on one cheek and an X on the other and if she bends over and it spells box, then it’s too short.” Elyan as was usual laughed at his own cleverness but didn’t obtain the desired response from his brother. “Trouble with you kid, you don’t have a sense of humour.”

“I’ve a few things on my mind at the moment.” Awen checked the time. “I have to be going.” He stood to leave.

“Where are you going?” Elyan asked.

“Over to see Rol Bishop,” Awen gave the short answer to his adventure.

“Couldn’t lend me a couple of quid eh little brother?” Elyan softly asked.

“I don’t think so, it’s just gone payday and you get more than I do.” Awen answered negatively.

“It goes kid, women are expensive to keep.”

“How much do you want?” Awen commenced to feel sorry for his brother.

“A couple of quid would tie me over.”

As usual Awen was obliging.

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