Published: 6 Aug 2020

It was late Monday night before Stan Wilson arrived back with his son. Lewis heard the vehicle return but it wasn’t until later the following morning he chanced to meet Donald, who didn’t appear until almost lunch and even then it was a quick introduction from Stan’s front verandah, as Lewis returned home to change after slopping his trousers with the pig swill.

Donald was quite tall and topped with a beetle cut mop of dark brown hair which at the fringe covered his eyes, causing a continuous brushing or shaking away to clear his line of vision. It could not be said the lad he was handsome, more the studious kind, as one would expect leading his class and found in the library during lunch breaks and on sport’s day. If he could smile it was doubtful as he appeared to have a permanent scowl etched across his face, while its only transformation was to answer a question with a simple yes or no, or a guttural grunt of displeasure.

Donald’s attire lacked self interest, while his long poorly fitting trousers were the remains of his last year at school, being obvious he not only grew into them but also out of them. It was his shirt that drew most attention, buttoned to the neck with almost no lapels to speak of thus making the lad appear neckless and somewhat stiff in character.

Stan wanted Donald to become a stockman, mainly to avoid continual educational fees, while his mother, although she sent him bush because she was travelling, had designs for their son to go to university and extend his interests in the newly developing computer age, of which most people had no understanding. Donald just wanted to be difficult and cause as much heartache as possible for both parents with as little fuss as possible for himself.

“Morning,” Lewis called across as he returned from his duties. Stan answered but Donald remained at distance from his father and silent. He did lift his head to note who was talking but made no response.

“Lewis this is my son Donny,” Stan introduced.

“Good morning Donny what do you think of Gilbert Downs?” Lewis asked attempting to show politeness.

“It’s Donald – hi,” the lad answered somewhat sarcastically, while Stan shook his head incredulously towards his greeting.

“One of these day’s boy,” Stan muttered to his son.

“Do you like horse riding?” Lewis asked in another attempt to create conversation.

“Can ride but don’t like horses much, they stink.” Donald answered.

“What do you like doing?” Lewis asked.

“He doesn’t like anything,” Stan answered for his son.

“I like reading.” Donald cut across his father, then without adding further to the conversation returned inside.

“When is Jack due back?” Lewis asked of Stan.

“He didn’t exactly say but you will have to pick up Ivy’s boy from Forsayth.”

“It’s going to be a little crowded with Jack’s kids, Donald and Wayne,” Lewis commented.

“We’ll give you the job as kindergarten teacher Lewis.” Stan called back being sure his voice carried inside to his son. Lewis didn’t answer and Donald remained absent.

A number of days had passed before Donald again surfaced. Stan knowing well his son’s character had obtained a second hand kerosene refrigerator while collecting Donald and as there was a wood stove installed in house, he and Donald had their meals separately from the others.

During the day Stan would spend his time at work in his office at the store, while Donald seldom crossed the flat to investigate the station’s amenities, except to use the shower, which he did when no one was about. It had been suggested he could have his meals with the men but he quickly announced his displeasure towards the proposal without rendering his logic. Stan announced it was his son’s usual arrogance he inherited from his mother.

It was at dusk and Lewis was taking his usual stroll around the lagoon while watching a number of kangaroos as they came for water, which spooked and took flight. Turning quickly Lewis discovered Donald coming towards him, seemingly idly lost in his own thoughts. Lewis waited until the lad caught up and almost passed by without speaking.

“Evening Donald,” Lewis greeted.

“Hi,” Donald answered and paused, his eyes cast shyly downwards.

“Did you see the mob of kangaroos?” Lewis asked in another attempt to start conversation.

“No,” Donald replied.

“They come down to the lagoon every night at dusk to drink.”

“Oh,” Donald responded weakly.

“Ivy, the housekeeper’s son will be arriving soon, that will give you someone to talk to.” Lewis offered but didn’t receive an answer, “What do you like reading?” Again Lewis attempted to drag conversation from Donald.

“Scientific stuff mostly.” Donald answered and in a rare instant continued; “mostly on computers.”

“They would be a bit hefty for you to carry around I should think? I believe they are so big they take up an entire room.” Lewis added.

“So you’ve heard of computers?” Donald asked somewhat surprised.

“A little but only read about them in magazines, an article about the first being built in Manchester England in forty-eight.”

Donald commenced to brighten now the conversation was at his level. It seemed all that was missing was a catalyst, or someone to show interest. As for Stan, either he had none, or lacked desire to find anything to advance bonding between father and son, besides too much bitterness had passed between father, mother and son to correct the impasse.

“One day computers will rule the world and as I told dad he will be out of a job, a computer will do all his silly bookwork at the press of a button.” There was retribution in his tone as a slight smile came across his face without cracking the mould his scowl came in. He could smile, albeit weak and leaning towards a sneer.

“I should think there would still be a need for someone to press those buttons.”

Another light smile, “I guess so but dad wouldn’t know how.” Donald answered.

“Could be a few years yet I should think?” Lewis added dousing Donald’s dreaming with a measure of realism.

“Maybe but the Jap’s will hurry things along, they make everything smaller and one day you will be able to carry a computer around with you, even in a wristwatch like Dick Tracy,” Donald exclaimed excitedly.

“Those cleaver Jap’s.” Lewis answered flippantly and almost lost Donald’s interests, “but I suppose you are correct,” he added to correct the conversational balance.

“What do you do Lewis?” Donald asked.

Lewis explained the workings of a cattle station and the position of station’s cowboy as simply and in as few words as possible but could clearly see Donald was failing interest.

“I mean other than work,” Donald added.

Lewis thought for a moment then realised that in the opinion of a town’s lad he didn’t do much at all. He could mention riding or walking around the lagoon watching nature go about its business. He could tell of conversation he had with Ivy or Joyce or Bob, or his visits to Georgetown, the race meetings or the pub but had to admit entertainment was rather docile at Gilbert Downs, while at the same time he didn’t seem to have enough spare time to worry about what to do with it.

“Not a lot I suppose.” Lewis admitted.

“That’s what I mean. I was brought up in town where there is lots to do. I would never fit in out here and dad wants me to be a ringer,” Donald declared while showing signs of distress.

“Have you told him what you want?”

“All the bloody time but he won’t listen. I have to live my life not his. Mum is the same she wants me to go to university.”

“I thought you wanted to go to university?”

“Yes and no, computers aren’t for learning from text books, there isn’t any yet, they are for inventing. People like me, creating hardware and software to run them and you can’t get that from a text book, it is up to us to write the manuals first, not university dons with piles of ancient manuscripts and interpretations.

“You’re getting a little beyond my understanding but I am interested.” Lewis admitted.

For the first time Donald opened his mind to an adult and a stranger at that. He sat rigidly beside the lagoon, took a deep breath and sighed. “So there you go, that is my life in a nutshell. I don’t mind going to university but I don’t want to become an accountant, some overpaid bookkeeper as mother wants, or a stockman like dad wishes.” Another sigh as he collected a few stones and attempted to skip them across the lagoon but each immediately sank, “I guess that’s my life sinking,” he ironically commented as the last stone sunk into the red water.

“How did you go at school?” Lewis asked.

“A’s after flaming A, too smart for my own good.”

“Well you’ve finished school now so you can make up your own mind,” Lewis offered. He also collected a stone and fired it across the top of the water, one, two, three four skips and plop.

“How do you do that?” Donald asked.

“A bit like life mate you have to hold it correctly for it to work, look I’ll show you.

It was some days before Jack Thompson returned with his family. During that time Lewis had met Donald on a number of occasions while taking his twilight walk around the lagoon. Each time Donald opened a little more until by week’s end they appeared to be conversing like old acquaintances, even going as far as arranging to go riding but then being downgraded by Donald to maybe, then upgrading once more when Lewis promised to show him some aboriginal sites that weren’t within walking distance.

The Thompson’s kids arrived with a fanfare of noise and a barrel of mischief. Susan at nine was a screaming bundle of annoyance, while Ronald was a cheeky six year old, or almost seven as he insisted, with more attitude than one would think possible in a child.

On arrival their first must was to charge headlong into the kitchen to rejuvenate their acquaintance with cook, as they always addressed Joyce and after five minutes of their screaming and tearing around the kitchen Joyce was at an end of her nerves and patience. Then after a quick visit to Ivy they hurried to the night horse paddock to check on their horses, Candy and Whipstick, while the noisy approach set the horses to panic and in flight to the far end of the paddock bringing Bob Kelly from the saddlery to investigate.

“Hey,” he called to the two. They halted and came up to him.

“Bob we’re home,” both shrieked and hugged his legs.

“Not so much noise you’ll scare the horses.” Bob advised as he ruffled both heads of hair.

“Go find Lewis,” he suggested in an attempt to get rid of them and they immediately diverted to the store but only found Stan Wilson and their father.

“Would you two quieten down,” Jack growled as they ran along the store’s verandah, bringing them to an instant walk.

“Hello Mr. Wilson.” Ronald greeted as the two entered the office.

“Hello Mr. Wilson.” Susan followed.

“Where’s Lewis?” Ronald enquired while playing with a stack of papers on the end of the bookkeepers desk, which he sent tumbling to the floor.

“Behave or I’ll send you straight back to your grandparents and there wont be any horse riding.” Jack growled and stooped to retrieve the correspondence only to be beaten by Stan.

“Lewis is down at the cattle yards but don’t go bothering him for now.” Jack advised and sent them back to the big house and their mother.

The second day found the kids somewhat quieter. Bob saddled the horses for them and they went for a ride around the lagoon, where they encountered Donald, who gave them curtesy but as quickly stole away from their company.

Sunday morning with not much happening, Lewis approached Donald with the suggestion he saddle the horses and take him across the Gilbert to show him his cairn and the aboriginal art found close by. At the time there were few mounts ready for use other than Flea-bitten and the Thompson children’s two Candy and Whipstick, the other stock horses were considered too frisky for someone with little experience in riding. With permission as the children weren’t riding that day but going with their father to visit the Frazers, Lewis saddled Whipstick for Donald and around mid afternoon set out. Surprisingly Donald was quite an accomplished rider, not riding school in style but had good balance and moved in unison with his mount, while appearing to lack feer.

Once across the river Donald commented that Lewis appeared to be searching for something as at intervals Lewis would dismount and check the undergrowth and the path along the scrubby bank. “You appear to be looking for something?” Donald suggested.

“Yes for signs of an old friend who often comes this way,” Lewis answered.

“What a cow?”

“No a black man,” Lewis once more checked the path and surrounding undergrowth but found nothing.

“How would you know if this black man had been around?” Donald asked.

“If you know the signs you can tell, besides this is usually his favourite spot. His name is Jimmy and he can read the bush like you do one of your books,” Lewis commented and remounted.

“You can read these signs?” Donald sounded somewhat impressed but a little disbelieving.

“Some, but you would need to live in the bush for two lifetimes to know all that Jimmy knows.”

“Why are you looking for this fellow?”

Lewis explained Jimmy’s eccentricities and that Jimmy had said he would be dead by Christmas, and his wellbeing was sought after on stations from Forsayth to Croydon but to date no one had seen any sign of him.

“Is he dangerous?” Donald asked.

“What a funny question, why do you ask?”

“I’ve read about the natives out west spearing settlers.”

“That was fifty years back, besides if you read the right books you would have discovered many natives were shot for one white death and many more as sport.”

“I was just asking, where’s this site of yours?”

“Just ahead,” Lewis pointed through the trees to the cairn.

“All I can see are trees and a pile of rocks,” Donald divulged with a measure of disappointment.

“Those boulders are what I was telling you about and there has been native usage for hundreds of years. Possibly for thousands, some believe tens of thousands.”

“How do you know, did your blackfellow tell you?”

Lewis smiled and trotted ahead, “science,” he called back, “there has been experts in sacred native sites crawling all over the Gulf for years. Now there is a study for you, archaeology.”

“I don’t think so my time is for the future, the past has gone and knowing that Macquarie was the first governor of Australia won’t help me a great deal.”

“I must correct you there Arthur Phillip was the first governor of New South Wales. Lachlan Macquarie the fifth and military not naval as was Phillip and Sir Isaac Isaacs was the first governor general of Australia once federated. Yet it is interesting, you must at least admit that.”

“You know a lot for a bushie?” Donald showed surprise with Lewis’ knowledge of such a range of subjects.

“I wasn’t always a bushie mate.”

“Where are you from?” Donald asked.

“Everywhere Donald – everywhere.”

The two tethered their horses and climbed through the cairn to the flat surface at its top. Looking out to the west one could see the meandering bend in the river bed, while to the north smoke from the homestead kitchen and east above the trees more river and the crossover to Freshwater substation.

“You know I can understand why the abos’ chose this spot, it’s almost a fort and does give a supernatural feeling.” Donald exclaimed with a shudder, “I don’t think I like it up here that much,” he concluded as a light breeze reached them from the climb through.

“Don’t be worry it is harmless enough, although Jimmy sees ghosts here all the time and they tell him things,” Lewis paused and smiled, “at least that is what he believes.”

“What sort of things.” Donald asked while his gaze followed the direction of the lazy zephyr as it gathered dust and leaves and whispered through the branches. Lewis didn’t answer but with the breeze he thought he heard a voice. Searching the surrounding trees and the clearing towards the overflow for any signs of Jimmy he found nothing, only the leaves the breeze had dropped close by and the distant plaintive cry of crows. ‘It must have been the crows,’ he thought.

“There is certainly a lot of undeveloped land out this way.” Donald suggested and waved an arm across the vast expanse.

“So what do you call developed?”

“You know, farms, houses roads places to go things to do.”

“It is cattle country and that is its development, most of the steaks you town folk have for dinner come from out this way.” Lewis explained.

“I don’t much like meat,” Donald turned up his nose.

“Not at all?”

“I like chicken and I guess if cow is served to me I’ll eat it and long as it’s well done and not bleeding over the plate.”

“Cow?” Lewis laughed.

“Well steak, you know what I mean.”

“Well there are a lot of steak eaters. You ask Walter, he would have steak for breakfast, lunch and dinner if it were his choice.”

“Yea but he’s a bushie,”

“He wasn’t always a bushie Donald; Walt originally came from Brisbane and a clever fellow if you only listen, while there isn’t a better horseman west of Mareeba.”

Donald began to drift. “What’s that pile of stones over there?” he asked and pointed to Lewis’ shrine to Will, which still held the now withered bush flowers Jimmy had offered on their last encounter.

“That was just Jimmy,” Lewis lied as he imagined he heard Will’s voice on the breeze but could not interpret the words. It was a soft and friendly voice without malice or menace, bringing a choke to his emotions. Lewis controlled the emotion, considering he should not have brought Donald to the Cairn, as it was somewhat disrespectful to the aboriginal keepers.

“Come on time we left, I’ll show you some carvings on the flat rocks near the overflow,” Lewis directed and started back down from the cairn. It was then he made a decision not to revisit the cairn or his shrine again, maybe Jimmy was correct and it wasn’t a place for a white man.

“What were these ghosts your friend Jimmy saw?” Donald asked once away from the cairn and its influence, looking back the lad shuddered but couldn’t define his feelings. Was it because the site was once sacred or the words Lewis spoke and Jimmy’s ghosts? As for the carvings on the flat basalt at the overflow, to Donald they were but indentations of no significance. He expected to see well formed kangaroos bounding gracefully across the flat surface with stick men throwing spears and in-decipherable writing, waiting for a clever person to explain the mysteries to an ever eager audience.

“I think the ghosts are in Jimmy’s head.” Lewis answered.

“Is he crazy?”

“I reckon not, maybe a little eccentric; see those hollows.” Lewis pointed to a number of weather warn indentations on the rocks surface. Donald admitted he could.

“They were made by hundreds of years of crushing their paint pigments.”

“Noway they are only weather worn holes.”

“Again you have to have the eye and Jimmy did, besides experts from the Sydney Museum have authenticated them to be so.”

“Umm not what I expected,” Donald sounded disappointed.

“There’s more a short distance along the river but maybe another time.”

“I still don’t see you as a bushy.” Donald shook his head as they recrossed sandy stretch of the river, where Lewis again became the tourist guide.

Jumping down from Flea-bitten Lewis retrieved something that was glistening amongst the pebbles and sand. He handed it to Donald.

“What is it?” Donald asked while admiring the red and orange stone.

“Agate.”

“What is agate?”

“A semi precious gemstone, keep it.”

“What’s it worth?”

“Probable ten dollars a tonne, if you’re lucky but it looks pretty, give it to your girl.”

Donald placed the shiny stone into his pocket and followed Lewis out of the river bed.

“Have you seen the Tully?” Donald asked.

“Yes I’ve been to Tully,” Lewis answered somewhat confused by Donald’s question.

“No not the town but the river, you call this a river, where’s the water?”

“You should have seen it a couple of months back, it was then half a mile wide and yes I have seen the Tully River.”

“I suppose,” Donald replied in a breathy whisper, “and I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“One day,”

“Maybe,”

“Don’t you like girls?” With the question Lewis gave a gentle smile, remembering Bob’s question to him and how he had carefully created his answer. Donald avoided answering altogether.

“Well what do you think of the station now?” Lewis asked as they returned to the home paddock. Donald thought for a moment before dryly responding. “With you around, I don’t mind it at all but don’t dare tell dad that.”

“Agreed, there are other things you may be interested in; but another day okay.”

“Sure as long as they aren’t scratches on rocks.”

‘Cheeky bugger,’ Lewis thought but forgave the lad for his disinterest. “There is also a grave a short distance along the Croydon road.” Lewis suggested.

“Who?”

“A bloke from way back, I’ll show you on our next ride, if you are interested.”

“Did you hear the picture show man is calling by tonight on his way to Croydon?” Ivy asked Lewis while he was cleaning out one of the two stoves. She gave a gentle laugh at his sooted face.

“I thought they were pre-war and a thing of the past.” Lewis sounded surprised as he imagined viewing ancient releases on portable screens that were quickly thrown up in town halls or between trees in the dark of night. Once outback Australia supported many such travelling shows but with the arrival of theatres in the smallest town they disappeared but now even the theatres were closing with the arrival of Television, although reception had not yet reached the gulf country.

Georgetown retained a relic if it could be truly called a theatre. It was open to the air with a small projection box at the back and a number of rows of canvas seats, all surrounded by a cyclone wire fence covered in black plastic to prevent free viewing but on the rare night a film was shown there would be a number of native kids lined along the rear fence gazing through pinholes in the plastic. The holes increasing in size as the film became more interesting. The plastic would often need replacing but the proprietor never objected to the lads doing so, nor did he invite them in for a free viewing, his reason being, let them in once and it would become custom and a man has to earn a living and with a pack of noisy freeloading kids the paying customers would stay away.

There would be an interval even during a single film during a reel change, while doing so the patrons, mostly ringers, would evacuate to the hotel for a quick beer or two, or three before the second half. When it was considered they had long enough to quench their thirst the projectionist would ring a bell, indicating recommencement. On their return they were usually tanked and became quite rowdy with their comments and if it was a western, there would be whoops, ride em cowboy and other imported one-liners.

Before the arrival of the theatres the picture show men travelled with horse drawn caravans, like those the gipsy used in the old country and challenged each other for the best towns to visit, often becoming violent, given their pending audience more entertainment than did their moving celluloid.

“Have they visited here before?” Lewis enquired.

“Not since I’ve been here but Mrs. Thompson knows them well.

“What do they show?” Lewis asked.

“Don’t know.”

“Maybe they will have South Pacific or Spartacus?” Lewis suggested.

“Possibly but more likely it will be news reals of the war, or old comedy and cartoons for the children.”

Terry and Noelene Swanson were retired business people who built a business importing cheap Japanese trinkets and sold out as the bottom fell out of the trinket market. Terry Swanson with his infectious laugh and handle bar moustache was wartime English and flew Spitfires, surviving a bailout over the channel and rescued after drifting for more than a day close to an occupied French coast, while Noelene, his wife, was once a social icon in Brisbane, being invited too many high society gathering, often found shining at society balls and luncheons at Government House.

The Swanson’s were personal friends of the Thompson’s and called in for a meal and conversation while providing a viewing for the children whenever they were passing. It was also a chance to have a proper shower and launder clothes. As for their picture show, they mostly travelled around the aboriginal reserves and smaller towns giving free entertainment to anyone who cared to turn up. They also visited schools with educational movies, such as travelogues and bush tucker films and how to survive if lost in the wilderness, not that in person had they travelled far past the soft edges of an unsurfaced bush track or corrugated country road.

It was past four in the afternoon when the Swanson’s Toyota four wheel drive arrived, towing a caravan that appeared bigger than some people’s house. Elizabeth Thompson was waiting at the road when Noelene descended from the vehicle, her tall thin weather beaten frame covered by a long sky blue dress to the ankles and topped with a large white picture hat, with a massing of flame red dyed hair falling around its brim. She was the epitome of outdated elegance but carried it as if she was royalty.

“Hello love,” Noelene declared in a high pitched gin fractured voice and gave Elizabeth a peck on the cheek. Terry, wearing a Hawaiian style rayon shirt and Bombay shorts just covering his knobbly knees, mopped his mostly bald, sun spotted forehead with a large blue spotted handkerchief before accepted Jack offered hand, while dodging the milling Thompson kids.

“Uncle Terry, Uncle Terry they both shrieked loudly and hugged his legs.

“Come on children,” Elizabeth smiled, parting the children from Terry’s knobbly knees.

“They’re alright Elizabeth,” Terry said smiling and patting them both on their head. “Who want’s to see some movies tonight?” he asked kneeling down on his haunches to talk to the two at their level.

“Yes please Uncle Terry, yes.” Both children agreed in a shriek as Elizabeth sent them off to play.

As darkness drew its drapes, the Swanson’s set up their travelling theatre in the tennis court to the side of the house yard and windmill. The court was utilised for a number of uses except tennis. There was a net that lay to one side in a rotting state while the asphalt surface had a litany of cracks where grass grew profusely. The court had long lost the atmosphere of bygone times when entertainment was simple and ladies in Edwardian flair played to entertain neighbours and their menfolk, while enjoying cold drinks and fancy sandwiches on the lawn. Since those carefree days, the lawn had shrunk away and such entertainment was all but forgotten, except for the occasional fading sepia photograph drawn from some old shoe box to surprise during spring cleaning. Possibly memories of the war and the loss of so many outback men had stolen the simple life and hard work and mundane had replaced entertainment.

Sometimes the court acted as a stock holding pen and the Thompson children placed low hurdles to practice horse jumping, while the station dogs used the court and the stock fence running along its side to herd wallabies. Once within the tennis court they would tear the poor animals to shreds and many a fine morning became disturbed by the discovery of a savaged carcass.

For this night it would become the stations picture theatre and with a gathering of chairs from around the house and other buildings they soon had them set in rows to seat the small but enthusiastic audience. Everyone was there, even Roo and Elsie Frazer and their youngest two, all that was except for Donald who would rather read than appear common enough to enjoy old silent films and cartoons.

As the day passed through dusk Terry Swanson retrieved a small petrol driven generator from a holdall beneath the caravan, while Noelene set up the monstrosity they called a projector. The screen was swung on ropes between the high wire sides of the tennis court and moved in an out in the light breeze like a giant lung. Then with night’s shade down and all seated Terry placed a spool of film onto the frame and wound the flim through the projector’s heads.

“Everyone ready?” he asked without receiving a reply.

“Everyone ready?” he repeated louder than before.

“Yes.” Susan and Ronald answered in unison.

“I can’t hear you!” Terry declared.

“Yes, Yes, Yes!” the children shouted then Terry flicked a switch sending a selection of circles and numbers to dance on the white screen while moments later the Loony-Tunes logo in cinemascope colour appeared and the sound track for Tom and Jerry filled the tennis court to the pleasure of the gathered children.

“There goes your South Pacific,” Lewis whispered to Ivy.

“And your Spartacus,” she answered with equal humour.

There were three more cartoons before Noelene came forth from the caravan supporting a large silver tray with two bottles of champagne and a collection of glasses.

“Champagne everyone?” Noelene offered in a high enthusiastic register as she passed around the sparkling wine. It was cheap and bitter but accepted as if it was France’s finest, followed by iced vovo biscuits as well as homemade fruit cake, with lemonade for the children, all chilled to perfection in the caravan’s refrigerator.

After the short interval the main attraction arrived in the guise of a series of black and white silent movies, staring Laurel and Hardy, Charlie Chaplin and the Three Stooges all well appreciated by the children and Walter Drysdale, who throughout his life had little exposure to entertainment of any kind. Still everyone was pleased for a chance to break the monotony and singularity of station life.

The entertainment concluded around ten with the Swansons and Fraizers invited to the big house for further socialising, while Ivy decided to join Lewis in a walk down to the lagoon. A light breeze cooled as it crossed the water, while on the far side they encountered kangaroos grazing on the grass that grew close to the waterline, their outline silhouetted against the dark sky.

“They are magnificent animals,” Ivy admitted as the small group pricked their ears at the sound and moved further along the lagoon.

“True, I almost had one as a pet once,” Lewis recollected.

“Almost?”

“I was all of ten and when riding I startled a jill roo that had for some reason discarded her joey. I collected the little fellow and took it home.

“What happened?”

“It was much too young and without proper milk, come the following morning I found it dead and covered with ants.”

“Quite sad,”

“Yes for me it was. I was warned it wouldn’t survive but I knew better and expected to nurture it. I was disappointed but like most in the bush, death is always close at hand. I got over it but there were tears.”

Ivy hadn’t spoken for sometime and appeared to be troubled by something. She sat picking at the corns on her big toe, which during the Melbourne winters turned to bunions, now they remained as rises of thick drying skin.

“Wayne will coming up in a matter of days,” Ivy finally spoke; her voice uplifted with the thought of once again being united with her son.

“I know Mr. Thompson has asked me to pick him up from Forsayth.” Lewis answered.

“Do you mind?” Ivy asked.

“No it would be my pleasure.”

“You know Lewis you are the salt of the earth,” she said meaningfully.

“I wouldn’t go that far Ivy.”

“You are and always reliable, even Mr. Thompson has said that.”

Lewis felt proud with the appreciation but didn’t respond.

“How is Wayne going at school?” Lewis asked avoiding any more conversation on his worth.

“I don’t think all that well, he passes his exams but just and every letter tells how he hates the hostel.”

“I did as well and my letters home also stated my dislike for the place but in retrospect it wasn’t that bad.”

“Yes you were at the hostel?” Ivy recollected previous conversation.

“Also for a number of years,”

“You never speak of it,”

“A lot has happened since, I think what little I know of Wayne, he will be fine and time is a great healer of one’s troubles.”

“I wish I could have him with me all the time but it isn’t possible.” Ivy sighed and slowly shook her head. “Oh well I can only do my best and at least I will have him with me over Christmas.” They returned to the house and as Lewis bid Ivy goodnight she asked for another favour.

“I won’t be able to get anything for Wayne for Christmas, could you find something he may like when you’re in town?”

“Sure, what would he like?”

“A ticket back to Melbourne,” Ivy gave a sobering huff, “but that’s somewhat impossible, if still interested he will have to arrange that when he grows up.”

Lewis laughed.

“That is similar to what I always wished for. Yes I reckon I can find him something, does he like reading?”

“Comics,”

“Possibly I could get him a pile of comics.”

Lewis paused on reaching the stairs, “it was a pleasant night.”

“At least a distraction,” Ivy said.

“I always liked the cartoons,” Lewis admitted.

“I haven’t been to a proper picture theatre since leaving Melbourne.” Ivy admitted.

“We would go now and then at the hostel and when on holidays in Mareeba I lived at the Civic theatre. I preferred the dress circle,” Lewis deliberated.

“That would cost more,” Ivy said.

“True four shillings, twice as much as the canvas seats in the stalls and it depended who was working the ticket office if kids were allowed to sit upstairs, so once the film started and if it wasn’t crowded we would sneak up.”

“The Melbourne theatres didn’t have canvas seats,” Ivy admitted, “I do miss the pictures, I always liked Clark Gable, he always looked so dashing with his moustache but I guess it was before your time and not active enough for a young lad’s entertainment.”

“I did like the Roman movies and anything about kings and queens,” Lewis admitted.

“It is a changing world – good night Lewis.”

“Goodnight Ivy and I’ll think of something for young Wayne.”

“Call by when you are leaving and I’ll give you the money.”

“Don’t worry as you can fix it up when I return.”

Ivy paused, “one more favour,”

“Sure,”

“You will have to call by for the money; could you get me a small bottle of gin?”

Lewis laughed.

“What?” Ivy questioned Lewis’ comic relief.

“A woman’s ruin, that and bex powders.” Lewis said.

“They say so but the bex helps and most doctors prescribe them, besides the gin is a Christmas present for Joyce.”

“Yes I know, a cup of tea a bex and a good lay down, or that is how my mother described the fix.”

“Yes something like that, also if you don’t mind half a dozen packets of cigarettes, Rothmans if they have them, if not Craven-A; but not cork tips.”

“Again no worries, I’ll call by when I’m leaving as Mrs. Marshal may also have an order.”

Gary’s stories are all about what life in Australia was like for a homosexual man (mostly, before we used the term, “gay”). Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net

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