Published: 01 May 2017

It was late-summer and the long days were hot and sticky. Awen stripped to the waist found the fine dust from milling logs stuck to his back and arms, while the sap within the flakes itched at his skin but the slight discomfort was outweighed by the sensation of warm sun on bare skin, taking him back to the Bradshaw and fishing with McDonald and Billings. It was time he once again arranged another camping expedition and would do so at his earliest convenience.

Lifting a selection of milled weatherboards with a fellow stacker, Bob Fenton, he had hardly taken a dozen steps when he heard Elyan call from across the stacking yard. “Hey kid put your shirt on!” Placing the planks down Awen turned defiantly towards his brother.

“I said put your shirt on, haven’t you heard of O.H. and S? I don’t want the old man on my back!” Elyan approached as only that moment he had come from such a meeting with his father and other foremen on that very subject, with Reg believing they had become somewhat lax on requirements and castigating Elyan for having the least attention to detail.

“As if a thin covering of flannel would be much good against a falling log or a saw.” Awen explained, making mockery of his brother’s demand.

“If you want to continue working here, you will do what you’re told.”

“Yes boss.” Awen laughed and shook his head but didn’t replace his shirt, instead wrapped its sleaves even tighter around his waist.

With Elyan once again at distance Bob Fenton spoke. “It appears your brother’s got it in for you.”

“Na he’s trying to prove he’s got balls.”

“I wouldn’t put up with it.”

“Doesn’t concern me Bob, he can’t do much anyway, only bellow like some yearling bull.”

“Still if my brother spoke to me like Ely does with you, I’d knock his flaming block off.” Fenton assured as they once again lifter their load, placing the planks high on the stack.

“He’s bigger than me.” Awen quietly grinned.

As Awen spoke the mill’s siren sounded. “Knock off time Bob, what’s on for the weekend?”

“You’re not married eh young fellow?” Bob growled as they approached the site office. Elyan stood at the door watching his brother’s every move, like an animal of prey on its victim.

“Give me a go Bob I’ve not long turned nineteen.”

“Have you finished the stacking?” Elyan, with folded arms demanded of his brother, ignoring the presence of Bob Fenton.

“Knock off time boss, didn’t you hear the siren?” Awen smiled sarcastically.

“I hope you haven’t left that last lot on the ground where vehicles can run over them.”

“You will have to go and have a look.”

“Don’t worry I will.”

Fenton collected his work bag before accompanying Awen towards the gate while continuing his earlier conversation on marriage. “Well when you do get hitched you will find you never know what’s on during a weekend until it arrives. As if you haven’t worked enough during the week, she will save the flaming lot up for you and nag you until you give in.”

“How long have you been married Bob?” Awen asked.

“Too bloody long.”

“You’re no longer playing cricket?”

“That’s another pleasure she’s taken away.”

Bob Fenton excused himself. Reaching his car, he called back. “See ya Monday and remember what I said about marriage.”

“I’ll try to Bob.”

Awen stood silently watching Fenton as he drove towards town. Perhaps Fenton was hen pecked, yet he wasn’t heading in the direction of home but towards the main street and the pub. Was it for Dutch courage before facing the good woman, or male bonding and a few laughs with mates at their partner’s expense?

“Marriage huh,” Awen sounded in a low impassive tone, meant for no other ears, “who would have me? I haven’t had a girlfriend since my second last school year.” Another huh and a forced smile, “and if it comes to it, I don’t rightly know if I would want one.” Taking a step from the Mill gate he heard his name called. Once again it was Elyan. He turned to face his brother.

“Hey log-head are you heading home?”

“I was going to meet McDonald at the pub, why?”

“Mum telephoned and said she wants you to go home first. It sounded urgent.”

“Did she say why?”

“If she had I would have said so.”

On his homeward journey Awen lacked concern. Urgent to his mother could be she forgot to buy milk, or wished for something to be delivered to one of the Woman’s Association members. He was more taken with Bob Fenton’s decree on marriage and memory of Lorna Miles his once and only girlfriend, still one of his closest friends.

Lorna was now firmly attached to Chris Hope, another school mate and it appeared their relationship had become quite serious, or at least Lorna believed it to be so, while keeping herself, in her words nice, until that small band of gold was tightly encircling her finger. As for Chris, if Lorna had the inclination to go further she would have to jump him, he wasn’t the quickest at kinesics; even then he was so dense she would most probably have to explain the fundamentals of intercourse.

On a number of occasions Awen had challenged his sentiment on their union, questioning if he were jealous, concluding he was not, if anything relieved. Lorna was a clingy girl, her nature embraced like a strait jacket, so tight he felt he couldn’t breathe. Chris Hope was more her style. He was the kind of lad who had to touch and stood much too close during conversation and appeared a little backward. Some said his slowness was caused by not enough oxygen at birth but most of the Hope family were a little on the slow side, or to be kind methodical.

As for Lorna she was pretty; petite with long dark brown hair and a small freckle on the tip of her nose, a little off centre to the left. She declared it was her beauty spot like Elizabeth Taylor but most doubted it. Besides Elizabeth Taylor had a mole on her right cheek but like Taylor Lorna did have captivating violet eyes.

On entering into the house Awen found his mother nursing a gin and tonic with a slice of lemon. Margaret did appear somewhat distressed and by her eyes, had been crying.

“What’s up?” Awen gently asked coming to sit by his mother. He reached for her hand but Margaret kept it from him.

“Earlier on I had a visit from John Ashe, he was to do some work for Alice this morning and found her dead in her chair.”

“Dead?” Awen repeated displaying a measure of disbelief.

“Yes dead and had been so for a couple of days.”

“Did Ashe call an ambulance?”

“Ambulance – Awen she was dead not suffering from a migraine!” Margaret snapped at her son. She once again released a tear, dried her eyes and took a deep breath. “I suppose I better get your father’s dinner on.” Margaret lifted from her chair took a second breath before continuing about her preparation as if nothing had happened.

“Are you alright mum?” Awen asked surprised with his mother’s apparent lack of empathy towards Alice’s demise.

“Doctor Edwards has been to see her and said it was her heart. She was ninety-four, what do you expect.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Awen offered.

“Not a lot, she has been removed to the funeral parlour and they said they would contact with the details later tonight.”

“What will happen to her things?” Awen asked, remembering his promise to care for Alice’s ancient trunk.

“I haven’t thought about it, suppose most will go to the opportunity shop. Why do you ask?” As Margaret spoke the telephone rang. “Answer that will you love.” Awen obliged.

“It’s dad; he won’t be in for tea.” Awen called back from the hall stand.

“Tell him I’ve already started.” Margaret answered as she violently slammed a packet of rump steak onto the bench top. The packet split and one rogue steak fell to the floor. Margaret unceremoniously binned it.

“Too late, he’s already rung off.” Awen quietly replaced the receiver. “I won’t be in for tea either.” He coyly apologised. “I’ll be going now I won’t be late.”

“You boys, why don’t you tell me earlier, I’m not running a hotel you know.”

“Sorry mum but I did tell you this morning. Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?”

“I guess not.”

“Ely said you needed to see me.” Awen extended.

“Only to let you know about Alice.”

On hearing the front door close as Awen departed, nervous tension gripped at Margaret’s chest, travelling outwards to her extremities and with one violent twist of her wrist she grabbed at the remaining meat and slung it towards the floor skidding it across the vivid white tiles, before coming to rest against the equally white skirting of the kitchen wall. “Shit!” The woman frustratingly shouted into the void that was her home. “Shit – shit!” She followed even louder while leaving the kitchen to fix a second double gin and as she poured, becoming a triple without tonic or lemon. Then calming she burst into tears.

Margaret’s wretchedness wasn’t for the demise of Alice, that was expected and well overdue but for the widening gap between herself and her family. She had a controlling nature and when her children were young it was fine. Like a well-trained sheep dog she rounded her flock and they ran with her command. Now they were individuals without need for guidance and there was nothing she could do to reverse her situation.

Sitting quietly in the dark, Margaret began to brood on her husband’s surmised infidelity. She lacked proof but the signs were all about. At home he was introverted, yet in public he was his usual gregarious self. He no longer appeared interested in his children, his home or her and if Margaret attempted to express her thoughts, Reg would snap and become even more detached. Margaret didn’t mind the rejection but could not abide the thought that folk were laughing at her expense, believing all in town knew of her plight except her.

Adding to Margaret’s self-inflicted shame was her daughter’s pregnancy. Donna had taken her brother’s advice and with Awen lending silent support faced her mother’s disappointment. The visit became an inquisition with Donna refusing to explain more that she found necessary, ending in hurtful words and Donna storming out, threatening never to return but both mother and daughter knew they were only words, as their bond ran deep enough to mend even the broadest rift. Time is all that was needed and enough distance to prevent further bickering between mother and daughter but father would not forgive his daughter’s indiscretion and had all but disowned his princess.

“Hey Arseling!” The call came from within the dark shadowed lane between the Tip-Top café and Menzies drapery. Awen turned as Barry Fields menacingly stepped into the weak jaunties light.

“What did you call me?” Awen demanded, his hands resting defiantly on his hips while anticipating Field’s habitual barrage of insulting conduct.

“That’s your name isn’t it?”

“What do you want Barry?” Awen enquired indifferently, while holding his ground on the far side of the street. One on one Awen believed he could hold his own against Barry if push came to shove but it was well known Barry didn’t operate in that way, he was a behind the scene operator of silent revenge.

“Where’s your brother?” Field’s called but approached no further than the sanctuary of the shop awning.

“How would I know, I’m not his keeper.” Awen answered, expecting his adversary to further approach. Fields held back.

“You tell him I’m gunna have him.” Field’s face distorted as he spoke, consuming his usually masculine and ironically handsome features, to more resemble a gargoyle from some ancient cathedral.

“You are, are you?” Awen gave doubtful comment as Elyan could force Barry into defeat with one arm tied behind his back.

“Yea you tell him.” Barry reiterated.

The issue between Awen and Barry went for many years, even into their first school days. Fields was a bully and Awen, with his blasé and passive nature, had been an easy target but his brother Elyan had the wood on Fields and kept the aggression to a minimum and on a number of occasions took Field’s behind the school’s bike shed to sort him out. Such action did little to contain Barry’s harassing behaviour, instead turning it into silent retribution, his preference being the slashing of bicycle tyres or to set fire to property, or anything that would not lead to him being discovered as the proprietor of retaliation. Also it wasn’t necessary to reap revenge on those who gave him grief, it would be equally satisfying to poison the dog or put sugar in the petrol tank of an innocent friend’s vehicle or other family member. Bullying behaviour has a twin brother, in the guise of cowardice and true to form Barry was inflicted with the nature of both.

In his early school years Barry Fields had a macabre wit; one could be standing in conversation with another when the sensation of warmth would envelope the legs running down into to shoes. On scrutiny it would be Fields smirking and like some mongrel dog pissing down your leg, or giving what were known as Chinese Burns, leaving bruising to the arm that remained for days. Now as an adult the wit had become insurrection against authority and society, or anyone who chanced to inflame his touchy temperament.

Barry’s father Harry was also quick to use his fists, as had been the grandfather who was known to have possessed a shady past, meeting his demise in a pub brawl. The grandfather Jock Fields had also been a vicious bigot who solved most interactions with violence, being at the fore of any unpleasantries that arose and if one wished to study further into the Fields’ family tree, they would find even more violence, with accusation of leading a vigilante melee causing death.

Awen watched Fields turn to swagger away towards the Railway Hotel. Throwing his head back and releasing a loud disgusted huh, Awen recollected but one more habit of Fields. In his early high school years, Barry cut the bottom from a pocket in his shorts and becoming sexually aroused shove his substantial member through the hole to rest within the lining of the pocket. Then he would ask, his arms being incapacitated and loaded with books, some unexpected student, boy or girl he wasn’t choosy, to retrieve something from his pocket, only to discover some warm pulsating uncircumcised smelly part of his anatomy. The girls would shriek in feigned disgust while his mates simply called him a dirty bugger and moved on.

It wasn’t Fields private parts that nailed Awen but his voice, coming from somewhere deep down inside his chest it reverberated through the vocal cords to arrive low and sexy having a southing reassuring effect on Awen, even while Barry Fields was displaying, which was most of the time, his mean streak.

Fields was somewhat a chameleon and on first encounter he appeared quite normal, when in the mood he had a quick wit and a good memory. Without trying he could real away the winning rugby teams and their scores since the state league was inaugurated, as well as every monarch of England, the length of their reign and who they married. This in the lad was most contradictory as he hated anything to do with authority, believing all foreigners, including English, Scottish or Irish should be deported and anyone with a slightly darker skin tone than his own should be shot or poisoned.

What Fields didn’t realise, or neglected to relate was deep in the darkness of the Field’s family tree was Ulysses Fields, one of the first white settlers to the area, who poisoned many of the local natives and shot others indiscriminately. Ulysses kept a native woman for his pleasure bearing him a child, becoming a most distant, so distant the colour in descending generations bleed out, ancestor of our very own Barry and if one was to look closely into the face of Barry, it showed in the shape of his nose and darkness of his eyes.

Occupied with Fields departure back into the shadows and memories of past encounters Awen hadn’t notice he was being approached from behind until he felt a gentle touch to his shoulder. He turned.

“Vivienne,”

“Where are you off to?” The young woman asked.

“Nowhere really just taking a walk down to the beach.” Awen answered displaying a measure of surprise.

“Was that Barry Fields you were talking to?”

“It was and he hasn’t improved any.”

“I could tell you a few stories about him.”

“I guess we all could.” Awen agreed.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Vivienne asked.

“By all means; when did you arrive home?”

“Yesterday.”

“So you didn’t like the city?”

“It was alright.”

Vivienne Couch had been Awen’s closest friend throughout their High School years. They sat side by side through English lessons, attempted French together and failed Math-B with humour rather than shame. She was always a restless girl, a rebel in plats and teeth braces, preferring to climb trees and spat with boys rather than dress in ribbons and wear make-up. Now she stood before Awen a grown woman with city designs and feminie attributes.

“What brought you back?” Awen asked as they reached the sand.

“This.” Vivienne smiled, gently patting her pregnant belly.

“No not you as well?” Awen gasped in disbelief.

“What do you mean as well?”

“Donna is also expecting.”

“I know, that is one reason why I came back, I thought she may like support from someone in the same condition,” Vivienne paused, “and knowing your family she will need all the support she can muster.”

Awen laughed, “I was always under the impression you didn’t like boys in that way.”

“I was always interested in you but you were too dumb to realise it.”

“Go on with you.” Awen showed surprise. They reached the beach and seated on the dry sand away from the incoming tide.

“True, eventually I gave up and chased after Lenny Harvey.”

“Len Harvey!”

“Yes you know with the head full of Californian Poppy hair oil, every time you touched him you got a hand full of grease and it used to drip from his head down his neck.” Vivienne laughed at the memory.

“I’ll be damned, Lenny Harvey; I wonder if he still wears a bottle of oil every time he goes out.”

“He died you know?” Vivienne enlightened somewhat nonchalantly.

“No when?” Awen was most surprised. He was aware the lad had left the district to try his luck cane cutting but hadn’t heard anything of him since his departure.

“Up Innisfail way, he was apprentice to a cane cutting gang and was caught in a burn off, he ran straight into the flames instead of keeping to the side. Some say it was on purpose.”

“I’m not surprised; he was always a clumsy kind of bloke and had no sense of direction.” Awen surmised.

“It was a year back now, I only found out because a girlfriend of mine is engaged to his Cousin Walter Harvey.”

“Not Walter Harvey from over at Winton Bay?”

“That’s him but he lives in the city now.”

“Not a nice way to go.” Awen gave a shudder.

“Is there a nice way?”

“I guess not.”

“I came to the conclusion you didn’t like girls.” Vivienne gave a rye smile.

“Of course I do.” Awen protested, “Are you getting married?” He continued feeling it was a pertinent question at that point in time, also a valid way of avoiding Vivienne’s conclusion.

“You don’t have to be married to have a kid.” Vivienne proudly announced the obvious.

“That is what Donna said.”

Vivienne sighed. “You know birds of a feather. No with mum’s support I’m going to keep it. I know it will be difficult but back in the city it’s easy to melt into the crowd and no one cares if you’re alive or dead.”

“So you will be going back to the city?” Awen asked.

“As soon as he’s born and old enough to travel.”

“How do you know it will be a boy?”

“I don’t but going by most of the family the first is always a boy.”

“What will you call the little tacker?” Awen asked inquisitively.

“Definitely not Awen that’s for sure. Those Welsh names are too difficult to pronounce. No maybe Jack or Peter, maybe Stephen, something that can’t be corrupted and turned into schoolyard torment.”

“A boy named Sue.” Awen laughed.

“Exactly, most probably Jack, as both Donna and I thought of using the same name if she has a boy.” Vivienne released a light chuckle, “or a girl named Jack eh.”

“It could be Jackie.” Awen suggested.

“That is a good point.”

For some time the two sat quietly watching as the moon in full regalia tracked across the cloudless northern sky. Occasionally there would be a question and a simple answer but it was habitual for both to enjoy company without need for excessive conversation.

The ocean between the shore and Bradshaw Island was millpond flat and twinkled with splashes of silver. There was a light on the island and appeared to be moving around and then it went out.

“It appears someone’s camping out on Bradshaw.” Awen announced, thinking he would like to be there on such a calm warm night and he had heard the mackerel were running.

“Once you almost lived out there, do you still visit it?” Vivienne asked.

“Not as much but the fishing is good and one can think without having a mob of people pushing about and asking a mass of dumb questions.”

There was a slight sting in Awen’s answer which didn’t go unnoticed. “I hope you don’t think I’m asking dumb questions?” Vivienne asked.

“Of course not but you know my family and it’s only a small town.”

“Do you love your family?”

Awen thought for a moment before replying. “I have never considered it,” he answered while attempting to classify his feelings, finding he couldn’t distinguish between the emotions of love, like or need. “They are family everyone has them but I can’t say I understand what love is.”

“I suppose simply imagine what life would be like if any one of them died.” Vivienne suggested.

It was quite some time before Awen delivered his answer. He thought of his father and how he treated his mother, of past times when both parents were full of life and laughter. He considered the good times and the bad before transferring his attention to his brother and sister. Of them all it was Sam he would miss the most and without saying his mother. At last he spoke. “I suppose I would miss mum the most and of course Sam.”

“I guessed you would include Sam.” Vivienne released a knowing grin.

“Why?”

“Everybody likes Sam.”

“You do realise Sam is my uncle and not my brother, he is mum’s brother.”Awen appended incidentally.

“I knew that, Donna told me yonks ago.”

“But I think of him as more a brother than an uncle.” Awen added.

Again the conversation drained from the night. A chorus of crickets serenaded the stillness, as the light on Bradshaw once again came into view. Someone had a torch and was flashing it on and off, its beam directed towards town as if sending Morse code. Awen believed he heard faint laughter drift across the narrow channel as a camp fire flared up into the darkness only to die back to embers.

“Did you know my Aunt Alice?”

“Do you mean Alice Thomas the old lady who has that cute cottage in Asling Street?”

“Yes, she died last month.” Awen attempted sadness but could not find the emotion. True he liked Alice and enjoyed his visits, listening to her stories of buggies and bush dancing but could not comprehend her as family.

“She was very old.” Vivienne acknowledged sympathetically.

“She was but strangely I don’t feel remorse. I guess I should but where sadness should be there isn’t anything at all.” His lack of empathy was troubling Awen and it showed.

“I wouldn’t concern about it.” Vivienne comforted.

“I should feel something, after all Alice was family.”

“Do you remember my Uncle Rob?”

“I knew of him but hadn’t met him.” Awen admitted.

“He died when I was away in the city. Although I often visited him while I was home, I didn’t even go to his funeral.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means my friend you can’t feel for everyone, even if in some way they are related.” Vivienne assured.

“I wouldn’t like living in the city.” Awen declared with a positive sigh, as once again the bonfire flared brightly on the Bradshaw. Standing he walked to the water allowing the shallow waves to wash over his bare feet. The water felt cool and the light froth tickled at his ankles. Vivienne joined him, standing at distance not to wet her city shoes.

“It’s not that bad and there’s plenty to do.” Vivienne stated with much promise. “Do you like live music and going to pictures and the theatre?”

“Music is alright on a recording, I like western films but I don’t think much of live theatre, I saw Julius Caesar at the town hall back in school and didn’t understand a word of it.”

“Well there are plenty of other things to do.” Vivienne assured.

“No Bradshaw, no fishing and too many people.”

“All true but I like it, besides where would I get work here and when the kid is born who in this town would hire me? In the city no one is interested in your background or your morality, only if you can do the job and don’t steal from the till.”

“What sort of work did you do?” Awen asked.

“Mostly bar work.”

“Like Donna,” Awen laughed, “but dad reckons she’s no better than a prostitute doing bar work.”

“Do you believe that?” Vivienne seriously projected.

“Of course not, even Alice was once a barmaid.”

Vivienne reached into her bag retrieving her cigarettes, she lit up. “Do you smoke?” She offered.

“No thanks.” Awen answered somewhat boyishly. Realising his tone he repeated his refusal with a gentle smile.

“Good for you, it’s a dirty habit anyway.” Vivienne admitted as she inhaled deeply of the smoke without the slightest aversion towards her habit.

“Is the father aware of your condition?” Awen asked.

“Condition, I’m expecting a baby, it isn’t some disease.”

“Sorry, you know what I mean.”

“No I haven’t told him, besides he’s gone interstate.” Vivienne appeared indifferent towards his whereabouts.

“So I guess you know who the father of Donna’s kid is?” Awen asked.

“I do but I won’t be saying.”

“Both Elyan and McDonald reckon it was Trevor Davis.” Awen was fishing for an answer.

“Is Rod McDonald still in town, I thought he was going to University?” Vivienne asked somewhat surprised as he was dux in their final year.

“No he decided he would rather do manual work and stay in town. What about Donna’s kid?”

“All I will say, it wasn’t Trevor Davis.” Vivienne assured.

“Suppose it isn’t any on my business.”

“I should be going, how about we go for a pub meal some night; maybe Saturday?”

“I would like that.”

“Then it’s a date.”

Vivienne placed her hand on Awen’s shoulder gently rocking him. “It’s been great meeting up with you again. Like old times eh? Both of us down the creek looking for terrapin tortoises and setting fire to the gully.”

Awen turned and laughed. “You remember the fire, shit we really got into trouble over that.”

“Trouble wasn’t the word, I wasn’t allowed out for a whole month and my father threatened to send me to some reform school for wayward girls.” Vivienne butted her cigarette with the point of her shoe in the moist sand.

“I got a thrashing; it was the only time dad took to me with a strap. He said if I tried anything like that again he’d leave me in the lockup.” Awen shuddered.

“What you were actually in the cells at the police station?”

“Yea for half the night, it was done to scare me into behaving. Boy it sure did and I was left in the dark with a drunk in the adjoining cell who was cursing like a trooper and singing dirty ditties. Awen gave a huff of memory, “I can laugh at it all now but back then I thought I was going to goal for keeps.” He paused, “and I can still remember most of the words to the ditties.”

“Happy days eh, see you Saturday ok?”

“Sure thing Viv.”

If you are following this story, let Gary know what you think of it:Gary Conder

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