Published: 05 Jun 2017

As Awen passed by the town hall the strains of a band practicing waltz music wafted through the open doors, to mix with the almost liquid sultry atmosphere of the early evening. It was the third Saturday of the month and there would be a dance night. Already the older folk commenced to arrive, ladies of the Country Woman’s Association with their plates of cakes, sausage roles and sandwiches, their menfolk carrying electric tea urns, others with crates of beer and soft drinks and even more carrying trestle tables. It was a hive of industry and so well rehearsed, if one could wind the clock back twenty years, the same town’s folk, mind you much younger, would be carrying the same trays, loaded with the same delights, placing them in the same order.

All that was missing from the night was Alice with her biscuits and cakes and even into her twilight years she would be among the first of the association women to arrive and the last to leave, all the while tapping her arthritic foot to the sound of the band music. Her eyes darting every witch way as she made comment on how lovely some girl appeared, or handsome a figure some boy cut, all the while wishing her ankles would once again allow her to Foxtrot, or Waltz or perform her favourite Pride of Erin.

Pausing, Awen gazed through the double doors, spying the polished dance floor and faded red, blue and white bunting across the front of the band stand. The band became quiet as Arthur Climpson, its leader, issued displeasure with Bob Canning the youngest band member, although only sixteen, Canning with his oversized spectacles, greased hair and geometrically designed cardigan perfectly suited the group. The only betrayal of youth was an over abundant array of pimples and the smell of hydrogen peroxide and some sulphur compound used alternatively to unsuccessfully treat his condition.

Once Climpson had scalded his young offender he again waved instruction for the band to play and oom-pah, oom-pah, oom-pah while brass and base filled the air.

“Excuse me Awen.” An old woman in a flowing floral low cut dress and lacquered hair, appearing much too stylish for her advancing years, begged as she staggered under the weight of pies and sausage rolls.

“Oh I’m sorry Mrs. Arnold.” Awen stepped aside to allow passage.

“I should think you will be tripping the light fantastic with the best of them tonight.” The woman suggested and eased past.

“I don’t think so Mrs Arnold, I can’t dance.”

“Didn’t they teach you anything at school?” the woman tutted in disbelief.

“Not dancing Mrs. Arnold.”

It was true he couldn’t dance. He could do the stomp but anyone could stomp. It was a matter or raising one foot and with much force bringing it down upon the dance floor, before following up with the second foot and wobbling your arse around, while attempting to keep up with the music. He could also Rock and Roll, or to be accurate perform steps similar to that he has seen in American films. As for Waltzing or the Pride of Erin or other fancy steps, they may have been a foreign language.

Dancing had been taught in his final school year in a final attempt to ready the students for their approaching maturity but many of the boys thought ballroom dancing sissy and when partnered with girls, treated their partners disrespectfully. Most of the boys didn’t bother turning up at all and when they did they made such a dog’s breakfast out of the experience, the classes had to be cancelled.

“You must follow the music.” Miss. Molly Goodyear their dancing and French language teacher, shrieked across the assembly hall above the clunking sound of the schools out of tune piano, while her long, thin sun spotted arms attempted to wave rhythm into the stifling air of the hall. “Listen to the beat and become part of the rhythm.”

It was no use; Awen like most of his contemporaries had no conception of rhythm nor wished to have. The musical beet went one way their legs another, while they laughed and jest with their partners, refusing to hold their hands, instead collecting small sticks or other implements so not to touch the hand of a girl – catch as they protested, girl germs . Now most of his generation couldn’t wait to hold their hand or any other part of a girl’s anatomy that was on offer.

Standing close by the door Awen discovered a new face around town. A young lad he had seen before but could not say from where. The lad appeared to be interested in the music while standing quite some distance from the entrance as if not wishing to be noticed. His brown hair cut in such a way it was respectable without being stylish, while his shorts and khaki shirt gave the appearance he had only recently stepped out of the school yard. ‘I know that skinny kid.’ Awen thought, ‘from where?’The kid caught Awen’s eye and smiled. Awen approached.

“Aren’t you the kid I saw in Jack Murland’s delivery truck the other day?” Awen asked.

“I am. I’m Stephen; Ivy is my mother.” The lad shyly answered his eyes cast downwards to his scruffy black leather shoes, where one sock was proud towards the knee, the other neglected at the shoe.

‘Such hairy legs for such a young lad, yet he doesn’t appear old enough to have gone through puberty and definitely doesn’t shave his face.’ Awen thought as his attention was drawn to the lad’s one up one down socks.

“Is Jack your dad?” Awen asked noticing the lad’s skin to be milk white, while that of Jack was copper and his Asian background most obvious.

“No he’s a friend of my mother; I’m down from school for the holidays I go to boarding school or really it’s a Hostel and I go to the state school.” The kid answered in one long unpunctuated sentence.

“Do you like boarding school?”

“Not much but once there I suppose it’s alright.” The lad answered, his nose distorting with the thought of having to return for the next school term.

“Are you going to the dance?” Awen asked, feeling he was running out of relevant questions.

“I don’t think so, I can’t dance.” By his stance it was obvious the lad wished to continue with their conversation but Awen needed to be on his way.

“Well there you go; I can’t stop talking I’m running late.” He paused, “maybe another time.”

“See ya,” Stephen called after Awen as he departed.

The town hall clock struck seven as Awen moved away from the hall doorway. He had agreed to be at Ashe’s by seven and from the hall it would be at least a brisk ten minute walk. He lengthened his step.

Awen’s attention returned to the lad, what did he say was his name? Stephen? It mattered not but he shuddered with the aspect of boarding school. He thought of a neighbour’s lad, what was his name? Tony, yes it was Tony Broadford and only six years old when he was sent away. Earlier times they had been constant play mates but Tony only returned during holidays and when his schooling concluded he went to live in the city.

During school holidays there were questions but few answers, such as what was it like to sleep in a room with twenty or more other boys and if the teachers were similar to those at the State School and the food? Such questions the young Tony answered freely but when it came to friends, he was more guarded.

His young friend had spoken of initiations performed on new boys but didn’t elaborate what they were and he had developed an intense hatred for those who ran the school, describing the use of a strap across the bare buttocks in the shape of a paint brush with long tails. This apparatus was known as the cat and it was often used for the most minor of misdemeanours but worse of all was what was expected by the older boys. When asked he shrugged his shoulders and said it didn’t matter.

The last conversation Awen had with Tony Broadford was after he returned home at the end of what appeared like a life goal sentence, related to his leaving town altogether, declaring he could no longer bear small town life. After living with a hundred boys he needed constant activity and entertainment, saying if he remained in town he would go insane through boredom. In those early years Awen also remembered Margaret’s threatening if he didn’t behave he would be sent to join with Tony but fortunately it never eventuated.

From some distance Ashe’s bungalow stood as a silhouette against the dark black blue sky and the even darker mangrove. Hanging from a verandah beam a lamp glowed brightly and a dimmer light, maybe that from a candle was barely visible through the side window. It was obvious Ashe was at home as long shadows flicked from wall to wall as he moved about, then the candle went out only to reappear moments later, followed by a second.

The setting had a comforting ambience, a mixture of old world and new, a joining of the two without contradiction, while Ashe appeared to have ability to move freely between. This aspect of the man brought respect from Awen, believing Ashe could have comfortably known Bert, they could have drank together, rode horses along main street while discussing the changing weather or the market price of cattle and sugar cane but would Bert have taken to or understood surfing.

In Bert’s day only fishermen turned their attention towards the sea. Others were panicked by the ocean and its secrets, its vastness, endless dept and nameless creatures. To lie almost naked baking on the hot sand for half a day would seem frivolous; to ride the waves on a plank of wood an extravagant waste of time. As for fishermen they seldom learned to swim, being a general conception that knowing so would only delay the inevitable if one’s vessel came upon a mishap and if by some misfortune one went overboard, it was better to drown quickly than to linger in panic.

Awen approached the front door and knocked. “Hello, you in there John?” Shortly the door opened. “Sorry I’m a little late, sorta lost track of time.”

“No worries; come in, would you like a beer or something stronger, maybe a glass of wine?”

“A beer would be fine; I’ve brought some with me.” Passing his supply of beer to Ashe he entered, adjusting his eyes to the dim light.

“I hope you like fish? I caught it myself around at the bluff this afternoon.”

“Fish would be great.” A grin of irony remembering his mother’s menu for that night.

“I have a fine bottle of white wine to go with it.”

“Sorry mate I don’t like wine, it tastes like vinegar to me.” Awen admitted.

“Okay I guess beer goes with fish as well. It’s ready, come in and take the weight off your feet.”

“Oh while on the subject of fish, mum said thanks.”

“I had a good day, it not often I catch more than I can use but I guess you get sick of seafood with Sam on the boats.”

“Not really, Sam seldom brings any home, oddly being a fisherman he doesn’t much like fish.” As Awen spoke his thought of Bert being compatible with Ashe returned. He asked “can you ride a horse?”

“Why are you thinking of getting one?”

“No, it was only a thought I had while approaching along the beach.”

“I have but would rather go surfing, what about yourself?” Ashe admitted.

“Never, I was thinking with your bungalow and the way you live, you could fit nicely into Bert’s time, I can see the two of you riding together.”

“I don’t know about that, they didn’t surf back then, well not in this country anyway.” Ashe paused and with serious intent continued “you appear to be somewhat obsessed with Bert, do you think it is healthy to dwell in the past?”

“I wouldn’t say obsessed, only interested and more so why mum appears reluctant talking about the family.”

“You should respect her silence, maybe she has reason.”

“Possibly you are correct but don’t you think it’s a child’s right to know of past family?” Awen became serious.

“I guess that is true but as you argue, it would also be the parent’s right not to acknowledge.” Ashe brought the baked fish to the table, “what do you think of that?” he asked.

The meal was fine and the fish baked to perfection, even grander than that Awen’s mother cooked. He congratulated his host and once again when dessert arrived.

“You should take up cooking.” Awen suggested.

“No thank you, too many critics too many fussy people, besides I’m basically only good with fish and opening a can, although when the mood’s right I do a fine roast.” Ashe admitted and commenced to clear the table.

“We’ve got dad’s sister staying at the moment.” Awen said as the conversation dried.

“Which one would that be, Elizabeth?”

“No it’s his older sister Doris.”

“Oh;”

“Oh what – do you know her?” Awen asked.

“I’ve met her but I would rather her stay with you than me.” Ashe strongly stated.

“I agree she asks too many personal questions.”

“And young fellow, do you have personal answers to give?” Ashe laughed.

“Not a lot but you know how it is.”

“Why not put her up at the cottage?” Ashe suggested and removed the last of the dishes.

“I don’t think so, Ely has moved out for a couple of days, dad is staying at work and Sam’s at sea. That leaves mum and me to entertain her.”

“Anyway how’s it all going at the cottage, have you thought of moving in?” Ashe called back from the small alcove that was his kitchen.

“I don’t stay there often, suppose I’m use to mum running about doing everything for me.”

“That is a pleasure I’ve never had.”

“What happened to you mother?” Awen asked.

“I never got the chance to know her; she died giving birth to me.” A slight expression of remorse came over Ashe but as quickly it dissipated.

“Oh I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have been so thoughtless.” Awen apologised.

“Don’t worry, you don’t really miss that what you never knew.”

“Still I know how I would feel if I lost my mother.”

“Do you miss Alice?” Ashe appended on returning to the table.

“You’re not drinking.” Awen observed.

“I’ve had two, that’s my daily quoter but don’t let me stop you.”

Awen immediately remembered McDonald’s suggestion that Ashe would probably get him drunk and pounce. “Na this will be my last, about staying at the cottage, when I stay over I get the feeling I’m being watched and I have the most strange and vivid dreams. As for missing Alice, truthfully I hardly knew her and that I do regret.”

Ashe laughed. “What sort of dreams – the hag-ridden type?”

“I suppose most dreams are strange but the last night I stayed over I dreamt I was fighting someone, we both were armed with sticks of sorts and we were thumping the shit out of each other, although nothing appeared to hurt; no blood – nothing. It soon became obvious I could never win and my opponent said as much.” Awen paused.

“Who were you fighting?” Ashe questioned.

“That I don’t know, all I can say it was some bloke but he didn’t appear to have a face only a blurred shape on top of a naked body.

“He was naked?” Ashe laughed.

Awen continued. “We both were but now I think about it, I’m not so sure. One moment we were naked, the next wearing some indescribable long shirt sorta thing that kept tripping me around the ankles and at first it was blue than red or sorta brown.”

“So it was a technicolour dream?”

“Not really, I more presumed the colour than dreamt it.”

“That all sound’s Freudian, I wonder what a shrink would think of it all.”

“I told you it was strange.”

“Then what happened?” Ashe demanded showing a measure of interest.

“I again thumped the shit out of him and he kept laughing, repeating I could never win. It was then I said I knew how to win – I’ll simply wake up.”

“And,” Ashe asked as Awen paused.

“That’s what I did, I woke up.”

“I guess dreams are like that.”

“Do you think dreams have meaning?”Awen asked.

“Na, I read somewhere, dreams are the way your brain clears out the trash.”

“If that’s the case my brain must be full of crap.”

Ashe changed the subject. “Do you remember I asked you if you would like to learn how to surf?”

“Yes but I’m not good in sea water only in a pool, I know what’s below my feet there.”

“Would you like to learn?”

“Dunno, maybe some day. At present I’m more interested in learning about what happened to Alice’s brother Bert.”

“Maybe you could check with the local newspaper, they keep records dating back to around Eighteen Seventy.” Ashe suggested.

“I did consider that. Hey what is it with you and McDonald, he seems to have it in for you?” Awen asked bringing a broad grin to Ashe’s face. It was then Awen realise how perfect and white his teeth were and blue were his eyes.

“If I told you that, I’d have to shoot you.” Ashe disclosed.

“Come on it can’t be that bad.” Awen immediately thought Ashe must have tried it on with McDonald in the past, turning his friend’s head to hate.

“It was nothing really, I suppose I can tell you but I wouldn’t say anything to McDonald, I don’t thing he would wish to be reminded.”

“You can trust me.” Awen assured becoming more interested by the second.

“It was years ago, McDonald would have been ten at the time, maybe eleven but no older and as I was going down to the jetty to do some fishing I heard a noise coming from the scrub. At first I thought it may have been a dog or some other animal, so I went to investigate. What I found was your mate McDonald and Roland Bishop both stark naked, seeing who could stretch their dicks the longest.”

“Then what happened?” Awen asked.

“Not a lot, I guess it was all horse play, I don’t think they even realised what they were doing but McDonald spied me and has never forgotten or forgiven. Guilt does strange things to a person, even to a kid of ten.”

“Roland Bishop, he’s girl crazy.” Awen gasped in astonishment.

“As I said they were only kids exploring but something like that can make one act more masculine to compensate.”

“Well I’ll be buggered.” Awen’s grin widened as he slowly shook his head in disbelief.

“Buggered or not, I don’t want you repeating it.” Ashe deeply frowned, now wishing he had not mentioned the ordeal.

“Of course I won’t, besides if I did he would know it came from you and McDonald would probably place me on his list of dislikes.” Awen checked the time, “suppose I should be going.”

“Sure, I’ll walk with you along the beach to the jetty; I think I heard the Sea Wind’s siren.” Ashe offered. At the path the two parted.

Travelling the path back to town Awen’s thoughts returned to Ashe discovering Bishop and McDonald naked in the tea tree. He smiled in disbelief, knowing McDonald he could never imagine his friend capable of touching any part of another male’s body. He didn’t even appreciate hand shaking or being seated too close, while his personal space was perfectly British, being at least the length of a man’s outstretched arm. Possibly his evasion came from such and encounter, creating a measure of homophobia but was it because of memory or fear he was so inclined.

All through the following week the incident remained with Awen and on the Friday night, spying Roland Bishop, Rol as he was known to most, alone in the hotel bar brought a smile as he sat listning to McDonalds adventures with fence posts. Since joining the work force Rol had found himself a position as trainee bank teller and had progressed from a most scruffy kid to a well dressed young man of fashion about town.

Usually Bishop arrived with Sharon Trent affixed to his arm like some unmoveable object. This night he was alone and appeared somewhat down in the mouth, like a man who had lost a pound and found a penny, as he sat staring into his half finished drink and had been doing so for quite some time. On the occasion he would lift his head and glance around, twice catching Awen’s eye bring both to instantly break contact.

At first Awen believed Bishop was consciously looking towards him but quickly decided it must be McDonald holding his curiosity.

“What’s got you interested?” McDonald questioned abruptly.

“Nothing – why?”

“You haven’t said a word in ten minutes; usually we can’t shut you up.”

“Anyway with you prattling on about fencing, a man can’t get a word in edgeways.” As Awen spoke he once again caught Bishop’s glance, which didn’t go unnoticed by McDonald.

“What you looking at?” McDonald asked inquisitively following Awen’s line of sight.

“I was wondering where Sharon was, Bishop’s sitting alone and looks down in the mouth?”

“She dumped him; she said he was like going out with one of her girl friends, why?”

“No reason, I was thinking he was in our year and I hardly knew him. He was the smart kid who sat up the back and had all the answers.” Awen reminisced. “He used to kick around with you at one time.”

Immediately Awen regretted issuing that additional memory and backed away but it was too late and it hung over the conversation like a storm cloud waiting to break. Awen had promised Ashe not to mention McDonald’s and Bishop’s secret encounter and intended not to do so but once known, it could not be unknown and every attempt to ignore the incident only brought it further to the surface, making McDonald suspicious.

“What do you mean by that?” McDonald demanded loudly.

“Nothing, I’m going for a leak, want another beer?” Awen didn’t need to pee, nor did he want another beer but found it necessary to break what was becoming an impasse between himself and McDonald.

“Na I’ll sit one this one.” Billings answered from the background of McDonald’s irritation and stretching his arms high asked for the time.

“Never mind the time, it’s early yet,” McDonald asserted, “I’ll have another,” McDonald agreed calmly as Awen moved away.

“Hey before you go – a thought.” Billings offered while Awen was still close by.

“What would that be?”

“While you’re at the urinal, your tackle out and enjoying the relief, just think you may be in bed and it’s all a dream.” Billings concluded with a grin, while Awen continued without comment towards the toilets.

Standing alone at the urinal Awen felt a wave of guilt overcome him. He had almost broken his promise to Ashe and wished he had never been intrusted with the knowledge but knowing McDonald, his irritation would as quickly pass and would once again be talking of fence posts and the jugs on the relieving barmaid.

Being somewhat involved in guilt and most aware he was standing idly at the urinal, tackle exposed without the need to urinate, he fixed his eyes on a large black spider lurking in a distant corner as it struggled with a moth more than twice its size. Eventually the moth won out by pure size and weight, sending the disappointed spider back into the darkness of an air vent, with most of its webbing in tatters.

While eroding the necessary measure of time the action of emptying a full bladder would take, he failed to notice someone had quietly entered and was standing close by his side. It was the sound of splashing in the urinal trough that turned his head.

“Bishop,” Awen announced nervously. Bishop smiled weakly and nodded.

“Sorry to hear about you and Sharon.” Awen sympathised. Glancing across he noticed Bishop stood hands on his hips, exposing all as he urinated. Quickly Awen turned away.

‘Shit that’s big,’ he thought.

‘Why is he standing like that, does he want me to look?’

‘I won’t look back.’

‘I better piss or leave, can’t stand here doing nothing all night.’

‘Shit I’m getting hard.’ Quickly Awen zipped his fly, nodded once more and left. With each step he felt his equilibrium deteriorate, his cheeks felt hot and flushed as his hands began to quiver, while his only thought was to be away from discovery.

Arriving back in the bar he was accosted by Billings, “You took your time.”

“Too much grog,” Awen confessed.

Billings stood, “My turn to piss and it’s your shout but don’t get me another.”On the way to the toilet Billings and Bishop past each other, they gave a customary nod but didn’t speak and as Bishop passed Awen’s table he gave another nervous nod of the head but Awen ignored the gesture while a flush of fear overcome him.

“My shout, do you want another?” Awen offered in an attempt to break his thoughts and McDonald again agreed. Awen returned with a single beer.

“Aren’t you drinking?” McDonald asked.

“Na I’ve had enough.”

“Are you alright mate, your face is white?” McDonald concerned as Awen took his seat.

“Sure – there’s nothing wrong.” Awen abruptly answered but he knew there was. What it could be he couldn’t explain, meeting Bishop at the urinal played on his mind and gnawed into his emotions. Awen felt a curious attraction towards Bishop, as if for the first time his eyes were opened to his deepest thoughts, his greatest fear and now that part of him he had kept secret for so long, even from himself, was rising like sap in a robust tree – but why Bishop? Since their school years their paths had seldom crossed and no more than a handful of words had passed between them.

Confused, Awen wished to quickly depart, return to the safety of home, to the solitude of his room where he could hide away from discovery. Obviously McDonald had seen the effects of his emotion without knowing his thoughts, now possibly it would take one small step, one unguarded glance or a single misplaced word to further give him away.

Billings arrived back from the toilet, “I don’t know about you two but I’m calling it a night.”

“Yea I should be going as well, dad wants an early start tomorrow.” Awen quickly concurred.

“I was under the impression it was your rostered Saturday off?” McDonald induced.

“With dad there’s no such thing.”

“I supposed there’s no fun in drinking alone.” McDonald swallowed the dregs in his glass and burped, “that tasted good; even better on the way out,” he burped once more and Billings shamed disgust only to receive a jovial finger of contempt.

Departing company from his friends Awen found it necessary to force signs of normality. He was confused and it showed. “Are you sure you’re alright?” McDonald once again asked as they stepped from the bar.

“I said I’m alright why do you keep asking?”

“You do look as if you’re going to chuck.” Billings agreed.

“I said I’m alright.” Awen snapped at his friend as Rol Bishop chanced to pass. Awen caught his eye and once again felt a wave of fear flush in his cheeks. Quickly he lowered his head, relieved Bishop continued on without comment.

“Righto I’ll see ya later.” Awen forced a smile. He had only taken a few steps when Billings called after him. “Don’t forget next Saturday.”

“What about Saturday?”

“Shit Bic you must be sick, you’re going to borrow your old man’s skiff and were going fishing out at Bradshaw.” Billing’s reminded somewhat forcefully.

“Oh that, of course I haven’t, see ya.”

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

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