Published: 13 Aug 2020

That week the monsoon commenced to build in strength but being early in the season it dissipated without event. This build would continue for the next month before releasing its fury while bringing with it extra humidity, making one sweat with the simple act of walking, soaking shirts and attracting even more swarms of sweat flies. Also it was the week the Aborigines returned to the lagoon and set up home under a scattering of rusting lengths of corrugated iron and tree bark.

It was tradition to allow them free access at any time and as long as they weren’t attacking the stock or thieving nothing was said by Jack. A number of station owners and managers weren’t as accommodating, not allowing them to even cross from one side to the other without harassment, even with the departments demand they be give any access warranted, except those areas relating to homestead gardens and out buildings.

The morning after the arrival of the natives, Jack Thompson delivered a supply of flour, sugar, potatoes and onions along with a couple of packets of tobacco to them, a deed he often performed whenever they were around. Jack declared it good horse sense to keep in with the blacks, making them more agreeable when extra stock hands were necessary and made them less likely to pilfer anything that wasn’t nailed down.

“Would you do me a favour Lewis?” Jack asked after the night’s meal as Lewis was heading back to the lagoon.

“Sure Mr. Thompson.”

Jack handed Lewis a brown paper bag.

“It’s a supply of tobacco for old Charlie One-eye; at least it’s better for him than the muck he is smoking at present.”

Charlie One-eye, whose name wasn’t so, obtained the title because no one could pronounce his Aboriginal name and the rest was because a horse once kicked a piece of tangled wire into his face taking out one of his eyes and a part of his cheek. The local doctor stitched the wound giving a permanent lopsided smile and an empty eye socket. Still Charlie One-eye was one of the best horsemen in the Gulf Country and held much respect among his fellow wanderers.

Lewis followed the lagoon around to the west end where he found the group gathered around a camp fire roasting a wallaby they had shot and sharing questionable beverage contained in a flagon bottle. There were five, all of Charlie age except for young Bruce Jones, who was in his late teens and had tagged along with Charlie since he turned twelve. Bruce Jones was dark skinned, almost purple with black curly hair, which when allowed to run to length became afro.

Bruce had been an orphan who was dumped at Curlew Station near Normanton and seeing the infant came without a name tag the owner of Curlew gave him his own family name. Bruce Jones Senior attempted to raise the kid as his own but without a wife to give the finer touches to the lad’s tutoring he left the young Bruce in the charge of his native housekeeper, who took an immediate and jealous dislike to the child. The housekeeper’s attitude turned young Bruce’s head away from the white way of life, so as soon as he was a teenager the lad went bush, eventually coming under the influence of Charlie.

As Lewis approached Bruce gave him a smile and a nod. Lewis nodded back, “evening Bruce,” he greeted while holding back the urge to laugh. Who could possibly call a black man Bruce; it was almost as bad as a boy named Sue. Lewis managed to keep his decorum.

“Whatya’ upta’ ‘Ewis?” Bruce asked screwing his face while speaking, as the flagon passed him by.

“Not a lot Bruce what about you, old Charlie gotya’ busy eh?”

“Na’ – ‘Ewis old Charlie too old for horses.” Bruce spoke bringing immediate response from the old black man. Bruce laughed and fell silent.

“What are you drinking?” Lewis asked with concern, knowing they sometimes drank methylated spirits mixed with orange soft drink.

“Dunno eh ‘Ewis, Charlie won’t let me ave’ any.”

“Ya’ bloody too young for grog;” Charlie declared.

“Hello Lewis whatya’ doing down here eh?” Charlie asked.

“Mr. Thompson asked me to give you this.” Lewis handed Charlie the package and Charlie peered into the bag with his good eye.

“You tell Mr. Thompson, Charlie said thank you eh Lewis.” He took one of three packets of log cabin tobacco from the bag and smelt it, then checked the bag of cigarette papers, finding a good supply.

“That Mr. Thompson he’s a good fella’ Lewis.” Charlie praised and offered Lewis a drink.

“What is it?” Lewis asked once again.

“Red grog Lewis; You white fella’ call it claret,” Charlie advised.

“No thank you Charlie, I’m a beer man; that stuff is like vinegar.”

“Wanna’ sit down for a while and join us?” Charlie offered. Lewis agreed, pulling up a tree stump that had been gathered for their fire.

“Hey Lewis I was telling the young fella’ where you’re from.” Charlie said, “I tell him you came from a big city a long long way away, even bigger than Cairns or Mareeba, where it’s always cold and raining.”

“Melbourne, Charlie and it isn’t always cold,” Lewis protested.

“Where’s it?” Sid a half cast of an undefinable age but declared he was thirty questioned, “down near Townsville eh?” He had never been further east than Forsayth or west than Croydon but had heard of Townsville.

“No you have to go even further south to Brisbane, then to Sydney and then Melbourne right at the bottom of Australia Sid.”

“Long walk then Lewis.” Sid suggested.

“Too long to walk, a car would take you three days, maybe more and by aeroplane a good five hours.”

Sid had no idea, Croydon was a long way and Forsayth far enough, the rest was incomprehensible as was the feeling of being cold during a sunshine day.

“Are there any blackfella’ down there?” Sid asked.

“Your mob is everywhere Sid but not as many as up here. You can go half a year without meeting any.”

“Plenty of cousins eh Lewis;” Sid surmised.

“You and your cousins,” Lewis answered.

“They musta’ all come up here to get some sun.” Sid reckoned.

“Possibly but I think the outcome was more sinister than that.”

Sid didn’t understand what sinister meant and left of continuing.

“Want some tucker eh Lewis?” Charlie asked while turning the wallaby carcass, the air becoming thick with burning hair.

“Just had tucker Charlie but thank you anyway,” he stood to leave then remembered what he wanted to ask of them.

“Hey Charlie, any of you seen Jimmy around?” Lewis asked with hope, while looking around the gathering for response.

“Na’ I saw him up near Robin Hood long, long time back eh.”

“How long ago was that?” Lewis enquired.

“Dunno Lewis, big rain back eh? He said his ghosts told him he was to die.”

“Those bloody ghosts of his.” Lewis bit angrily.

“He was heading for the Gregory’s eh Lewis?” Sid added.

“Why does he like the Gregory Ranges?” Lewis enquired.

“His father’s people come from out that way.” Sid declared.

“Oh well if you hear anything you’ll let me know.”

“Okay Lewis.”

The Mareeba, Forsayth train was running late, it was scheduled to arrive at sundown but the engine had blown a boiler around Einasleigh, or reported as such but in truth every time there was a delay it was described as blown a boiler. With no spare engine towards Forsayth they had to send a replacement from Mareeba with the projected arrival being sunup the following day, while any passengers would need to night it at the Einasleigh hotel.

The service was basically goods with a single carriage at the rear for passengers, no guard’s van no refreshment service. If one needed a meal it would be sandwiches at the Mount Surprise or Einasleigh hotels or bring your own. If in need of water it was advisable to be self-sufficient. There was a carafe on the carriage wall, always empty with mineral staining on the inside that had been there almost forever. There were a number of stops along the way and always within a short stroll to the hotel; so many a stockman arrived at Forsayth somewhat under the weather to the displeasure of their intended boss and had to dry out before commencing their work.

There was a time when Lewis’ mother Winnie was the housemaid at Gilbert Downs, the year she took on cooking and left soon after. Winnie had been in Mareeba collecting Lewis for the school holidays which he was to spend on the station and they were returning by the same service as Wayne had joined.

Lewis feeling cleaver brought with him a thermos flask of water and at the Mount Surprise hotel he had the barmaid refill it with cold water and ice. He rejoined the carriage with his chilled water. Mount Surprise was a stop for water for the engine so they were parked in the heat for a good half hour while if the mood was right, and it always was, the engine driver and fireman would call at the bar for lunch and a couple of rounds to remove the grit and coal dust, thus it could be up to an hour before they were once again on the move.

Winnie hated the delay at Mount Surprise because it was a place infested with marsh flies and they seemed to search for her. Every trip it would be the same, she would end the journey with red bite welts over her legs and arms and itching until she was able to dab them with methylated spirits. It was the same with mosquitos and even in a room filled with people they would search her out and dive in for a feed.

As the driver was returning to recommence the service a local drunk left the hotel and came to the carriage, mumbling and arguing with no one in particular as he travelled. Not being at a siding he attempted to clamber into the carriage. Winnie was most displeased as they would have to endure his company for a good three to four hours including siding stops and deliveries. Also it was more than obvious he hadn’t changed his clothing for quite some time, while the stench of alcohol, sweat and what could be described as lack of toiletry hygiene was most noticeable.

Lewis had helped the man and once inside the carriage he stumbled through knocking over the flask breaking the fragile container allowing the contents to spill across the carriage floor, then for reason known only to the stranger, he staggered out the other side of the carriage and was gone, as was the refreshing cold water. Why the man had taken to crossing the line via the carriage was a mystery that would remain as such but was always a good story for card nights.

At the Forsayth pub Lewis had Gladys the barmaid contact Gilbert Downs to let them know he and Wayne would not arrive until late the following evening, as by the time he had collected the lad and attended to his extended shopping list in Georgetown, most of the day would be lost. Once the call was made he booked a room for the night.

“Hey is your name Lewis Smith?” Gladys asked after making the telephone call. He admitted so.

“Some bloke was looking for you some time back,” she said while searching the notice board.

“Who was that?” Lewis asked his interests rising.

“Don’t know, I wasn’t on at the time, Rose Stanley was and she sort of gave me the message in case either of us ran into you.” Gladys remained searching the message board.

“Did she say what he looked like?” Lewis asked while becoming most interested, as this wasn’t the first time someone had tried to find him.

“Nope sorry I can’t find it.” Gladys eventually gave up her searching. She returned to the bar, “Sorry mate there was a card up there with his name and a contact address but it’s gone.” She pulled Lewis a beer. “Sorry.” She repeated.

“No worries if it’s important he’ll eventually catch up?” Lewis answered as his mind went into overdrive, wondering who this stranger could be and if they would eventually meet.

“Is Rose around?” Lewis thought he would ask her if she remembered more about the caller.

“Sorry Lewis, she married that ringer of hers from Clancy and went bush.” Gladys could see disappointment in Lewis. “Sorry pet,” she once again apologised.

“Not George Barns was it?” Lewis asked, remembering the trip to town in George’s old vehicle on dance night.

Gladys laughed, “George is never off the grog long enough to meet a girl, no Sam Watson, pleasant young fellow and a couple of years younger than Rose but somewhat quiet, has a hooked nose.”

“I know of Sam the boss said he’s a good horseman.”

“Hey Smithy, how’s things over at the Gilbert any work offering?” A voice called from across the smoky bar. Lewis picked up his drink and joined company.

“Teddy Bates, what are you up to?” Teddy was around Lewis’ age but years of weather had drained the youth from his face, while bad food and neglected dental hygiene had taken away his teeth and kept him unnaturally thin. His long scraggy black hair fell like rats tails from under his sweat stained hat and he appeared not to have seen soapy water since birth.

“Looking for work.” Teddy answered gazing into the empty depth of his beer glass.

“Do you want a refill?” Lewis offered.

“Sure could do with one.”

Lewis ordered a refill and sat with Teddy at the bar.

“Sorry mate nothing going at Gilbert Downs, where else have you tried?”

“Robin Hood, Clancy and Tom Thumb, even as far down in sheep country around Hughenden, wrong end of the season.”

“My uncle is a shearer and I once lived on a sheep station down Hughenden way. Do you know sheep?” Lewis asked.

“I eat mutton,” Teddy admitted somewhat seriously.

“Sorry mate but I will put in a word for you with the boss but I wouldn’t get your hope up,” Lewis sympathised.

“You know ringing is coming to an end, the big properties out west are now using motorbikes and flaming helicopters.” Teddy sighed deeply and downed the beer. “I sure could go another,” he said beggingly without looking up from his quickly emptied glass. Lewis order a refill, then giving Teddy five dollars bid him good night.

“I’ll pay ya back as soon as I get work,” Teddy promised.

“Don’t worry, you can buy me a drink sometime Teddy. Take care.” Lewis left for his room knowing well the next time they chanced to meet he would be once again buying the drinks. He didn’t mind but realised when it came to generosity, Teddy was a bottomless pit one could feed with as much charity and sympathy possible but would always be near empty. Teddy had that tragic characteristic often found lingering around hotel bars, espousing hope while cadging for their next drink and no matter how it pulled at the heartstrings he would always be there, loitering, waiting with his out of luck stories of misfortune and mischance.

The train arrived just before sunup while Lewis was still sleeping. Its shrilled whistle in the crisp morning air brought him into the day with a start and dressed within minutes. On reaching the rail yard he found Wayne waiting patently seated on the broken bench beside the goods shed.

Wayne immediately recognised Lewis from his previous visit and with a smile of relief he collected his case and crossed the street.

“You’re late,” Lewis made light.

“It was the train, it broke down.”

“Yes I heard, so where did you sleep the night?”

“On the train, I didn’t have money for a hotel room.”

“I guess you haven’t had breakfast.”

“No dinner last night either but the driver brought me a sandwich from the hotel.”

“Then we better get some tucker into you, is there anything you would prefer?”

“Anything,”

“So you’re here for another holiday,”

“Eight weeks,” Wayne shared with an exaggerated measure of excitement.

Lewis admitted the lad had grown somewhat since his last visit but still appeared young for his age, while his hair had lost its side part and wave to take on a Beatle cut, covering his two inherited forehead bumps above the eyebrows.

“I guess you thought no one was to collect you?” Lewis took charge of the batted case and guided the lad back towards the hotel’s dining room. Again it felt light on and missing the buckle strap Lewis had made for him on his last visit.

“Mum said that of all the people she had met you are the most reliable,” Wayne complemented.

“Your mother’s a good woman Wayne so don’t you forget that. Hey what happened to the strap I made for you last time you were up here?”

“One of the kids at the hostel cut it in half.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Dunno, ‘cos he could I suppose.” Wayne answered as they took seats for breakfast.

Lewis gave a displeasing grunt remembering his Gladstone bag. It had been his school bag in Melbourne when he returned there between his two internments at the hostel. He had brought the bag back to Queensland and again used it as a school bag while at Mareeba State for the final term of that year where he had been given the nickname of Doc, it being considered a doctor’s bag. The name didn’t stick as it was his aboriginal friends in Mareeba that called him so; white lads didn’t appear to understand the connection. The following year he was back to Herberton.

Once returned to the hostel he found the bag somewhat cumbersome with the extra books for high school therefore it remained in his locker. When he eventually came for his bag, he found a large rectangle patch had been cut from its side. Someone had used it for a stone pouch for making a ging slingshot. Lewis remembered his ranting but never discovered the culprit, so it was therefore with regret fed to the rubbish collection.

With breakfast over and Wayne’s case loaded they soon headed out of town. “Hows your memory, do you recognise the country around as yet?” Lewis asked.

“Not as yet as on both occasions I came by car and the road doesn’t come through Forsayth.”

“True, only a short way to Georgetown now but I will have to do some shopping so you can have a look around town while I do so.”

Once past Georgetown and Lewis’ shopping attended to, Wayne’s memory kicked in and he began to remember landmarks.

“There’s that chimney I saw last time we passed here.” Wayne declared as they approached Cumberland.

“And I promised to show it to you on your next visit.”

“You did.”

“Only for a few minutes, okay?” Lewis agreed as he headed off the main road towards the stack of bricks.

Wayne stood at the chimney’s base with the sun at his back, allowing his eye to follow upwards along the decaying brickwork to the vault of blue sky above then back down to the grid of streets that once serviced the town of Cumberland but now only the ghosts of the settlement remained.

“How big was the town?” Wayne asked.

“I don’t rightly know, a few hundred lived and worked here I believe.”

“Now nothing,” Wayne said.

“Only what you see,”

“Where did everyone go?” Wayne asked, his eyes discovering the footprint of streets and the occasional concrete slab that may have anchored a tank stand and the scattering of struggling fruit trees that once grew in house yards and refused to yield to the hot and dry conditions, while sporting back to their original unproductive root stock.

“Everywhere I guess, it was half a century ago.”

“It looked more impressive at night,” Wayne admitted.

“Don’t know mate it’s still the tallest man made structure west of Cairns and east of Darwin not including Mt. Isa and that is impressive in itself.” Lewis lightly protested.

“What was it used for?”

“Gold smelting I believe, Cumberland was once an extensive goldfield and town, they crushed and smelted the stuff right here but the easy gold ran out in the Eighteen-nineties.”

“Any left?” Wayne asked feeling gold fever take control as he kicked at the rocks beneath his shoes in hope for a glint of yellow.

“Don’t get excited, it would cost more to get it out of the ground than its worth.”

It was passed the second creek and on station property before Wayne returned to conversation being his favourite subject, horse riding.

“I am sure we can find you a mount,” Lewis promised.

“What about Horse?”

“Nope I told you last time she isn’t a toy, beside she is expecting a foal, even I haven’t ridden her for quite some time.”

“Are the Thompson’s kids up yet?”

“Yep, also the bookkeeper has a son visiting and more your age.”

“What’s his name?”

“Donald.”

“Donny?”

“I wouldn’t call him Donny if you want to get along with him,” Lewis warned.

“He sounds like a nerd.”

“What is a nerd?” Lewis asked although he knew well what it suggested.

“Someone who doesn’t like nicknames and is stuck up.”

“So what is your nickname Wayne?”

“I don’t have one but when I had a crew cut they called me deserthead.”

“And now with your beetle cut, do they call you Ringo?”

“I don’t like the Beetles much.”

“I suppose you like country music?”

“Nope but I did sing at the Hughenden Show once.”

“What did you sing?” Lewis asked.

“Tom Dooley but I could only remember the first verse and everybody laughed when I repeated it again.”

“Did they have singing competitions?” Lewis asked as he could not remember so during his time in Hughenden.

“It was at a party on the final night of the show.”

Then the conversation died with Lewis reluctant to mention he once lived in Hughenden, believing it strange how providence and Wayne were running parallel to his earlier life. He gave a shudder but said no more.

Wayne appeared to have something on his mind and after a number of attempts to project a thought he braved his investigation.

“Lewis you didn’t tell me you were at the hostel.” Wayne said nervously.

“Didn’t I, how did you find out?” Lewis asked displaying surprise as he had been gone for a number of years and didn’t believe anyone would remember him.

“Do you remember Malcolm Larson?” Wayne asked his tone somewhat inquisitive.

“Yes he was a lot younger than me and a different grade.”

Lewis recollected a sissy young boy who hung around the older boys mostly making a nuisance and it was said by some that he had an inclination towards horseplay, although Lewis had never connected with him during his stay.

“He is in Sub Senior now and I was talking to him about coming up here for Christmas and he told me your mother once worked on Gilbert Downs and you used to talk about visiting.”

Wayne had found his way into Lewis’ privacy and as such through the back door. Most things about the hostel were simply left unspoken but there were others who knew of Lewis’ youthful past even if much was but hearsay. As for his earlier time at Gilbert Downs, only Jack knew of his association, not that it was intended to be reserved in secrecy, more the point it never rose in conversation.

“I didn’t think you wanted to be reminded about the hostel.” Lewis answered.

“He told me a lot about you,” Wayne smiled.

“And what would that be young Wayne?” Lewis asked avoiding any showing of surprise.

“How far is it to the station?” Wayne enquired changing the subject away from Lewis and his internment at the hostel.

“About five minutes at most,” Lewis answered as they crossed the last creek. “I lost the station’s motorbike in that creek some time back.” Lewis said.

“In the sand?” Wayne gave surprise how one could do so, as he had never seen water in any of the creeks leading to the property.

“Not sand, we had a flood and I was washed off it while crossing.”

“Shit!” Wayne exclaimed.

“Don’t you let your mother hear you using that kind of language;” The words slipped out unintentionally and brought a smile to his face, making him feel like a pseudo father.

“Shit no.” Wayne answered and laughed.

“Cheeky little bugger,” Lewis declared as the stations windmill came into view.

It was late afternoon on arrival and after delivering Wayne to his mother he offered to introduce him to Donald when he settled, then to the kitchen to see if his services were needed there. Entering he ran into Bob Kelly who had taken over from Lewis while he was in Forsayth collecting Wayne.

“Out of wood Bob?” Lewis declared looking into the large bin to the side of the stove.

“Can’t do all your work for you mate, you know where the axe is.”

“Bob’s done a good job,” Joyce declared from the sink with her hands dripping with suds. She wiped them on her apron and moved on to the preparation of the following day’s bread making. “Did you have lunch?” she asked.

“Yes we had a hamburger at the Georgetown pub this morning.”

“What about Wayne,” They had arrived late for lunch but Joyce had cooked extra for their arrival.

“What’s offering?” Lewis asked.

“A fair dinkum Irish stew and there is plenty, Walt said he doesn’t eat wog food, then he helped himself to two helpings.”

“Wog food; the Irish aren’t wogs.” Lewis protested.

“You tell Walt that,” As Joyce spoke Wayne entered the kitchen with Ivy.

“Are you hungry Wayne?” Joyce asked.

“A little,”

“Sit yourself down and I’ll feed you. You as well Lewis, get some beef on that frame of yours.”

Ivy had to finish up at the house and left Wayne with Joyce. Soon she had both seated with a hot meal and slices of her finest bread.

“I’ve had a word with Mr. Thompson and asked for a few days off.” Joyce informed as she sifted the flour for the bread making.

“That’s nice where are you going?”

“My son is bringing Julia and her baby up to Cairns to meet me, if I can get down there.” Joyce Marshall declared her eyes bright with the pending reunion.

“How will you get down to Cairns?” Lewis asked.

“That is the problem; Mr. Thompson said you can take me down in the land rover. That is if you agree.” Expecting a negative the cook’s eyes dimmed.

“I can’t see why not; when?”

“Three weeks time.” The cook advised.

“No worries it will be a break for me as well.”

“Jack said the down period is coming and Ivy can do the cooking until I return. As Joyce spoke Ivy entered the kitchen.

“You can cook then Ivy?” Lewis asked.

“At a push,”

“My mother Winnie did the cooking here for a while and what I heard it wasn’t a joyous occasion,” Lewis laughed.

“I remember Winnie she was the housemaid and departed the week I arrived. I didn’t know Win was your mother.” Ivy appeared most surprised.

“I also remember Win but Lewis you never mentioned she was your mother.” Joyce added her words to the surprise. As for Lewis’ earlier visit to Gilbert Downs it had been the Christmas before Joyce became cook.

“I guess I didn’t get around to saying,” Lewis admitted.

“And Lewis was also at the hostel,” Ivy added to the intrigue.

“You are a dark horse Lewis,” Joyce admitted, her arms to the elbow in bread flour while attempting to sift out the weevils, “I suppose they add body,” she mentioned rhetorically and left it unexplained.

“Not dark Joyce, maybe chestnut but I suppose I never had reason to say, it was never intended to be a secrete.

“What is Winnie doing these days?” Joyce asked.

“She and John are living in Yungaburra, they did have a shop in Mareeba but it didn’t do so well when Jack and Newell went to groceries and greengrocery.”

Joyce asked no further as in her memory Winnie had remained single after a bad marriage and a further difficult relationship, thinking it best not to pry into her privacy by asking about her present relationship. She did remember Winnie being somewhat taken by one of the ringers during that last season, remarking he could put his boots under her bed anytime but that desire remained unkindled although they often held lengthy conversations and took evening walks around the lagoon but he left after that season and there didn’t appear to be further contact.

“A penny for them Joyce,” Ivy asked.

“I was attempting to remember a name.”

“Who,”

“One of the stockmen from a few seasons back, he was only here for the muster. It was just before you arrived.” Then the thought was lost as Joyce moved on to scraping the remanence from the stew pot.

“I’ll go get more wood for the morning.” Lewis departed for the wood while the women remained in surprised conversation on Lewis’ so described dark past.

Bob arrived from the stockyards as Lewis returned with an armful of firewood. “Who chopped the wood?” Lewis asked.

“I did.” They walked back to the kitchen together. “I hear the boss has suggested you take Joyce down to Cairns for her reunion.”

“So Joyce said,”

“Lucky bugger,”

“Do you want to go instead?” Lewis offered.

“Not likely but I would like you to get me a couple of things.”

“Like what?” Lewis asked.

“Mostly underwear, I’m about your size and as long as they aren’t fancy I don’t mind the look – and,”

“And what?”

“A bottle of scotch, but not the rotgut you get locally.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem, how are you getting on with Donald?” Lewis asked.

“Not,” Bob simply answered.

“Why do you say that?”

“He’s an arrogant little bugger, I chanced to speak to him yesterday as he crossed the flat and all he said was bugger off.”

“Ask him about computers, that will break the ice,” Lewis suggested.

“I’d rather leave it frozen.”

“About your underwear,” Lewis gave a cheeky grin, “are you sure you can trust me? Underwear is quite personal.”

“No one will see them on, so it doesn’t matter.”

“We’ll see them on the clothesline.”

“Oh I didn’t think of that – just y-fronts and dark blue, white goes red from the water after a second wash.”

“And you can see the piss stains and skid marks.” Lewis laughed.

“Fuck off.”

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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