Published: 17 Sep 2020

Friday arrived and so did the blacks, led by Charlie but this time ready for work. There were cattle to dip, horses to shoe and heifers to brand, to say nothing of castration and dehorning, so once again men were needed and arrived in the count of four white stockmen and the obligatory half dozen black stockmen.

Charlie as was his usual returned to the lagoon camp instead of using the quarters set aside for them near the swamp and behind the bunkhouse, preferring to be close to nature rather than be controlled by the white man’s convention.

Once they had settled and Lewis had finished his day’s work he took a stroll down to the camp and on approached heard Charlie playing his guitar. Charlie paused as Lewis approached.

“Hey Lewis,” he called as Lewis entered the camp.

“Charlie I have a present for you.”

“What’s that Lewis?” Charlie asked noticing the large dark object Lewis was carrying.

“A guitar case so you can keep it dry and dust free.” He handed Charlie the case and watched as Charlie’s face lit, as in all his years the aging black man had never been given a gift. He opened the case, closed it, turned it over and opened it once more, then placed his guitar inside and again closed it before once again removing the instrument and giving it a strum across all strings.

“Is it really for me?” Charlie asked.

“You’re the one with the guitar.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“One of the locking clips is a little sticky,” Lewis admitted

“It was the one I saw in the shop window in Georgetown.” Charlie recognised.

“Yes, I got it when I went to Jimmy’s funeral.”

“It cost to much Lewis just for me old strummer.”

“I beet him down, it wasn’t that expensive.” Lewis assured.

“Lewis you are a good man,” Charlie praised, shaking his head in wonderment, while testing the sticky clip. It worked well enough for his use.

“Na’ it’s nothing, by its look had a caring owner,” Lewis said, rejecting the black man’s admiration.

“Hey join us for a drink,” Charlie offered his brown paper bag containing some unknown substance, to which Lewis declined and looking up at the late afternoon sky and the gathering clouds rolling black across the northern horizon he ask for Charlie’s opinion on rain, who gave a negative without viewing the horizon or taking his eyes off his gift.

“How do you know it won’t rain?”

“Blackfella’ feel the weather it is part of us, not in a tube on the wall.”

“Clever – don’t forget tick dipping tomorrow,” Lewis reminded his friend.

“Tell the boss we be there nice and early.”

“Nice and early ‘Ewis,” Bruce Jones echoed as he collected the guitar case for closer inspection.

“Hey Bruce what have you done about your singing,” Lewis asked.

“He won’t do anything,” Charlie answered for the lad, “I keep telling him, he should send his songs to that Slim Dusty fella’ but he won’t listen.”

“Why not try singing on the radio? The Mareeba station has a programme for beginners,” Lewis suggested.

“He won’t go to Mareeba either, too bloody far he reckons and too many white buggers.” Charlie again answered for the lad.

“Bruce promise me something,”

“What that Ewis?”

“There is a fellow who comes through this way regularly and he is always looking for new talent, Robert Hemsworth I think is his name. Promise me next time he’s through you will approach him.”

“Maybe Ewis, we’ll see.”

“You make sure he does okay Charlie.”

Charlie was correct the black clouds rolled across the horizon throughout the night and into the morning, while the day’s heat became unbearable but no rain. The grass that sprung from the previous downpour had turned to brown tuffs of dryness, while the lagoon had lost almost half of its area, its edges turning into sticky red mud with the consistency of treacle, where emaciated cattle became stuck while attempting to reach the disappearing water.

Once stuck some animals lacked the strength to pull themselves out, which almost weekly brought the men down with ropes to free them from the bog, some once extracted lacked even the strength to stand and died where they lay bringing Jack to the conclusion that during the dry he would build a fence around the north side of the lagoon and put in an artesian bore.

Willy willy winds sprung up in the dust bowl that was the flat between the big house and the lagoon, dousing everything with a fine layer of red dust while turning the once silver leaves of the eucalypts into bloody teardrops. The river whose flow only some weeks earlier was belly deep on a horse had become a trickle on its south side, mostly stained black by decaying vegetation, while water birds gathered around the billabongs to feed on the now exposed fish, yet the large expanse west of the Freshwater crossover remained clear and deep, perfect for swimming and like most years would remain so right through the dry. It was here Lewis had his fish trap, a fruitless exercise as he seldom caught anything and what he did was usually so small he let them go.

The days were taken up with checking and cleaning the bore tanks around the property and their flow as they brought up gushers of hot mineral rich water from deep underground at almost boiling. The water was channelled into cooling ponds some distance from the windmills, where flocks of finches drank their fill and searched from seed, while the calls from such small birds became almost deafening, coming like some stereophonic pitch from front to back, left to right, calling and calling as they darted amongst the tea tree and when a large flock lifted from the water’s edge the sound of their whooshing wings hurt the ears.

When the grass went to seed there would be flocks of green budgerigars in their hundreds, if not thousands all screeching their happy gregarious calls as they covered the ground like a carpet of fresh grass. Disturbed they lifted as one, only to resettle again at distance while transforming red earth to the colour of wattle leaf green.

With the real wet only weeks away there was the dipping for ticks and branding of the heifers before transferring them to the outstations which with the expected rain would once more spring to green and become productive. Once the rain arrived it would be downtime. Then with all the creeks running to overflow and in most the bush tracks unpassable, even the road out to Georgetown or Croydon would for some short while appear more a creek than a way of passage. With the downtime the extra men would again drift to the coast, or the prawn trawlers in the gulf leaving only the regulars to manage the running of the property.

Early Sunday morning Lewis saddled Flea-bitten and Whipstick and after breakfast called on Wayne.

“You ready Wayne?” he called from the bottom of the kitchen steps bringing Wayne to lean over the verandah rail.

“What’s up Lewis?”

“Don’t you want to go riding?” Lewis said as Whipstick’s ears went back while attempting to bite Flea-bitten. “Steady.” Lewis demanded and separated the two.

“I thought you forgot,” Wayne said while descending the stairs and eager to mount.

“You won’t be wearing shorts?”

“What’s wrong with shorts?”

“Nothing if you want your legs rubbed raw – best you put on a pair of long pants.”

Wayne nodded in agreement and soon returned wearing pants and bounded down the stairs giving both horses a start.

“Hey mate, you said you have ridden before?”

“Yea.”

“On thing you need to learn and that is horses spook easily, so take it steady – Do you need a leg up?”

“I’ll manage.”

Wayne placed his left foot in the stirrup, his hand on the pummel and with one easy swing was seated in the saddle like one accustomed to riding.

“Where do you want to go?” Lewis asked.

“Firstly there’s a grave on the Croydon road and then down to the river Donald said you took him and there were some carvings and stuff.”

“That’s well enough, I’ve seen the grave and it isn’t far across the cattle grid to the west.”

“I asked Mr. Thompson about the grave and he said he would look up the records but I think he has forgotten,” Wayne offered.

“I know a little about it,” Lewis admitted, “how are you getting along with Donald?”

Wayne released a nondescript sound keeping his eyes turned.

“Don’t you like Donald?”

“Yea,”

“So what is it with the look?”

“He’s alright but he talks down to me as if I’m a kid.”

“You are both kids in most aspects but don’t let it get to you, underneath Donald is worth listing to.”

“All that computer stuff;” Wayne commented.

“Don’t you find it interesting?”

“I probably would if I could understand what he’s on about.”

“So what do you get up to when you go wandering for half the day?”

“Nothing,”

It was but a short ride to the grave a little west of the home paddock, between the Croydon Road and the lagoon’s overflow. Once there Wayne dismounted and knelt beside the marble marker, reading aloud the inscription – Fred Hedglong Tenth November Nineteen hundred and one.

“Who was Fred Hedglong?” Wayne asked, running a finger along the etched engraving on the stone, believing it was in excellent condition for its age.

“Fred was the bookkeeper here at the station at the turn of the century.”

“How did he die?”

“That is a good question and one that can’t be answered with assurance but the headstone hasn’t been here for all those years.” Lewis explained and continued with the little information he had gleaned from others.

It appeared at that the time the manager of Gilbert Downs was considered of shady character and Fred found some anomalies in the station records on stock movement. Fred had for a reason only known to himself decided to peddle his old bicycle into Georgetown to honour an appointment with the stock agent and on his return became confused taking the wrong track, some days later his bicycle was found many miles of the main track and after further searching, Fred’s body was discovered in a gully a short distance away, by then almost unrecognizable. Foul play was suggested but nothing was proven.

“So he was murdered?” Wayne gasped in that youthful way when intrigued by some mysterious event.

“I didn’t say so, only suggestions were made.”

“What happened to the manager?”

“He went on to manage another station and was implicated in the murder of the housemaid after she become pregnant but nothing was proven and his wife was charged.”

“Was she guilty?”

“That was also a mystery, the whole ordeal was strange and badly handled by the police, at first a black lad admitted doing the killing but could not have, as it was well known he wasn’t anywhere near the station at the time. He therefore withdrew his claim and one of the other workers was suggested, finally the manager’s wife but in the end it was undecided who did it. Later years the blame was once again on the manager, suggesting he was the father of her unborn child, by then the evidence was either lost or so confused nothing could be done about it.”

“What happened to the wife?”

“I believe she divorced and went south, living her life in misery,”

“What about the manager?”

“He died a few years after the event.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t, too long ago but there is a book written on the incident titled, the murder of Nellie Duffy.”

“I’d like to read it.”

“Sorry I don’t have the book nor have I read it but one of the men had it last year, possibly it’s somewhere around the bunkhouse if you look. Ask Bob he may know,” Lewis then expressed a teasing smirk referring to Bob’s earlier jibe about his horse riding, “he’s the happy reader.”

“Who erected the stone?” Wayne asked.

“That I don’t know but I believe it was some years later by a relation of Fred’s.”

Wayne remained beside the grave for some time pondering over the mystery and creating more mystery than actual as he placed the story to memory to share once back at school and while doing so was embellishing the facts well beyond what could be considered feasible.

“There is another story that may interest you.” Lewis said and turned Flea-bitten away from the grave.

“What’s that?”

“Have you seen enough here?” Lewis asked.

“I guess so,”

“Righto off to the river, there’s a waterhole for swimming not far from the crossover to Freshwater outstation.”

“I’m more interested in finding agates, Donald showed me the one you gave to him.”

“Should be plenty with the last run, they come down river from Agate Pocket on Robin Hood station.”

“Will you take me there?”

Lewis laughed, “you are getting a little beyond reach kid, it’s the other side of Georgetown by a good distance, it’s a day trip even by car.”

“Oh,”

“Don’t concern there are plenty in the river here.”

“What was the other story you mentioned.” Wayne remembered Lewis’ earlier remark.

“I’ll give you the basics but best you ask Jack to see the station’s journal for the war year of fifty three.”

“Mum and I were on a sheep station out Hughenden way back then.” Wayne recollected.

‘Strange,’ Lewis thought but made no comment, yet his own story and that of young Wayne held so many similarities and appeared to be travelling in the same direction like the rails of a train line, with but a few short years in separation. They rode on towards the river.

“What happened in Fifty-three?” Wayne asked.

“It was a local stockman who had that week become engaged to a young lady from Georgetown. She had visited the station with her parents to attend a party to celebrate and they were about to depart when the lad brought around the buggy and missed his footing. As he landed on the ground the horse took fright and bolted, both wheels crossed his chest and killed him.”

“Why were they using a buggy?” Wayne asked.

“I suppose they couldn’t afford a car, it was only a few years after the war and luxuries were still hard come by.” Lewis answered.

“Oh, is he also buried on the station,”

“In Georgetown I think, you can read the rest in the journal, there is a little more.”

“How old was he?” Wayne asked.

“Does that matter?”

“Just interested,”

“He turned twenty-one the same day; that is part of the tragedy as it was a party to celebrate his coming of age and engagement.”

“Oh,” Wayne again repeated.

“Come on the day isn’t getting any shorter and I have afternoon jobs to attend to.” Lewis moved ahead.

“I don’t think I want to know any more about it,” Wayne solemnly declared while feeling the tug of his heart in sadness. He soon shook it away and followed.

The track to the river was straight and dusty, crossing at a place known as the crossover with its permanent water hole close by before leading towards Freshwater outstation.

“How far is it to Freshwater?” Wayne asked.

“Half an hour by car but most of the day if riding.”

“I’d like to go there,”

“Not today besides there isn’t anything to see other than what you can see here.”

Wayne noticed a rope leading into the water hole, “what’s that?”

“My fish trap and don’t go fiddling with it.”

“What do you catch?”

“Freshwater crayfish mainly but not often, mostly it is only a release of energy and relaxing time.”

“What did you think of the hostel?” Wayne continued as they came down the gentle bank onto the crossover, where the horses paused for water. They drank deeply taking their time, which neither Lewis or Wayne minded, as the willows grew close and thick along the river bank, while their drooping branches caressed the still water giving shade from the day’s heat.

“It was a long time ago,” Lewis had no wish to converse on his school days, thinking the only memories worth keeping were those he couldn’t share.

“Not that long,” Wayne boldly corrected.

“Long enough,”

“What did you get up to?” Wayne was, if nothing, persistent.

“In what way Wayne?”

“Your lot used to go camping out along the Walsh River?”

“All the time summer and winter and as you would know Herberton gets cold in the winters, especially out at the Walsh. Did you go camping?” Lewis asked.

“I sure know about the winters but they put an end to the camping the year before I arrived, something to do with your lot finding unexploded bombs from the war and setting them off.” Wayne answered.

“We did at that,” Lewis mused being one element of his time at the hostel he didn’t mind contributing towards.

“What bombs were they?”

“Twenty-five pounder’s mostly, the American’s used the area for target practice during the forties and many didn’t explode.”

“It must have been dangerous,” Wayne expected.

“In retrospect I guess it was, we would build a fire beside a large tree and place the bomb in it then run like hell. It would blow the tree right outa’ the ground.” Lewis gave a pleasing grin of memory towards his better time at the hostel.

“I wish we went camping,” Wayne sighed.

“You should make the suggestion when you return.”

“Don’t wanna’,”

“Don’t wanna’ what,” Lewis softly laughed, teasing the lad’s badly formed use of the language.

“Go back to the hostel,”

“Get yourself an education and then you can do what you like.”

Wayne sighed and came beside Lewis. “You only went to Sub Junior,”

“Yes and you’re not there yet.”

“That is what mum said.”

“So listen to her,”

Lewis recollected those weekends when they would after Friday night’s meal, pack the necessities in old sugar bags; remove the blankets from their bed and in the dark walk over the razor-back mountains to the Walsh River. Once there would set up makeshift camps in the dirt under the stars. They were penury times, no tents, no tarpaulins, no cover but old bags and scant waste of plastic found laying about the town to protect from the weather and there was always weather. It was as if nature held back during the week days to soak the weekends.

As for their blankets, firstly they were considered to be war surplus, some wearing the motive for the department of defence and once the weekend was over they were returned to their beds in a smoky, grubby condition. In retrospect Lewis wondered how they were given permission to do so, or if it was given at all but without the blankets there would have been nothing between almost bare skin and the elements.

Those weekends they would eat poorly and sleep badly. When it rained they became wet. When it was cold they huddled and when hungry they occasionally caught possums and made stew but still they were memorable days which Lewis held fondly.

“Was Ralph Williams in charge back then?” Wayne asked.

“He was and he used to look after us when camping. Is he still there?”

“He was last year but didn’t return this year.” Wayne appeared disappointed with the cancellation of the camping excursions. “There were stories about Whistling Willy.”

Lewis laughed at the title as he hadn’t herd the name since leaving school. Williams, or Willy, as he was known, spoke softly and whistled his S’s. He also had a mean streak and ruled the hostel with a heavy hand as he did his year grade at the state school.

There were rumours about Williams, even in Lewis’ time, being he molested the older boys but Lewis hadn’t any proof and rumours are unlike smoke and don’t mean there is fire. As for himself, there had been many chances for Williams to approach but not once did he display the slightest interest.

“What sort of stories would that be Wayne?” Lewis asked showing a rare seriousness. Wayne paused, unsure of continuing but being young and lacking in tack could not resist.

“There are stories that he used to bum-jump his camping headquarters boys?”

Bum-jumping! Fuck Wayne I haven’t heard it called that in years.” Lewis broke into laughter and repeated the words, “Bum-jumping don’t tell me you lot are bum-jumping each other?” Lewis meant his words to strike hard to take Wayne’s mind from Lewis’ internment at the hostel but Wayne was determined.

“I didn’t say that,” Wayne answered soberly, “but many of the boys say it was true of him.”

“What proof did they give?” Lewis asked.

“Only words, no one admitted he had touched them.”

“There you go only rumours and spreading unsubstantiated rumours can destroy a person’s character.”

“I guess so,” Wayne appeared disappointed with the conversation’s outcome as Whipstick moved from the water’s edge.

“Come on the horses have had enough, tether them in the shade and let’s go look for your agates.” They dismounted and commenced their search, “I have asked Donald to go riding with you and he said he would, is that alright with you?” Lewis suggested.

“Sure but I thought he didn’t ride.”

“He does when it suits him.”

Halfway across the wide expanse of sand that was the Gilbert River, Lewis paused and stooped, bring up a shiny stone. “There you go, your first agate,” he passed his find to Wayne.

“Can I have it?”

“It’s no good to me but keep looking there are plenty more to be found.”

“Thank you,” Wayne eagerly pocketed the small shiny stone.

“Do you want to go for a swim?”

“I don’t have any swimming togs.”

“Swim in your pants, in this weather they will dry in minutes, or your undies if you like.”

“Do you want to go in?” Wayne asked with an air of expectancy.

“Na, I’ll keep guard.”

“Wayne hesitated, “guard for what?” he curiously asked.

“Mainly for crocs,”

“What! And you are suggesting I go swimming.”

“They are only small freshwater crocks, won’t hurt you unless you grab one by the tail, then I guess it would then give you a nasty bite.”

“How big are they?” Wayne asked bringing to mind the stories he had heard of monster salties taking people in the northern rivers.

“In here but a matter of inches, maybe a foot but further along the river where there is more water some reach six feet.”

“I don’t think so; I’ll go in the lagoon later.” Wayne gave a shudder at the thought.

“Lewis commenced to laugh.

“What?”

“Have you been swimming in the lagoon?”

“Sometimes – why?”

“I have heard they are in the lagoon as well.”

With a pocket full of shiny stones, Wayne decided he had had enough of the river for the day and they moved on towards the cairn.

“Donald told me about the cairn.”

“Yes I brought him here a few weeks back but it didn’t excite him.”

“He said it was a native sacred site.”

“It was,” Lewis paused, “I guess it still is but you can go climbing if you wish, but don’t touch anything.”

That night it was hotter than usual and the air hung over the land like a wet blanket while the black clouds built layer upon layer but held their distance.

Lacking the ability to sleep Lewis went to the lagoon where at least it appeared cooler. Across the muddy fluid a mob of wallabies attempted to obtain moisture without wading into the sticky red mud and had more success that the cattle. The wallabies had a hundred thousand years to learn the way of the land while the cattle were new with little experience.

The soft voice of Bruce Jones came over the playing of Charlie’s guitar as Lewis entered their camp.

“Hey Lewis how’s the night eh?” Charlie enquired and placed his guitar aside.

“Bloody hot Charlie, when is it going to rain?”

“Not tonight Lewis maybe next week.”

As he sat among the group Lewis removed something from his pocket and handed it to Charlie. It was a small bottle of scotch.

“Here you go Charlie better than that rotgut you drink.” Lewis knew better as by law it was illegal to serve alcohol to the aborigines but seeing someone was giving Charlie the rotgut, what Lewis offered was at least better for his belly.

Charlie’s remaining eye lit as brightly as the carpet of stars as he received the gift.

“Two presents from Lewis, now you must join us in a drink.” Charlie demanded as he twisted the bottle’s top. Lewis accepted a pretended swig without swallowing and handed the bottle back to Charlie.

“Don’t get too drunk or you will have the boss after me,” Lewis warned as he stood to leave.

“Sure boss,” Charlie laughed and shared his bottle with the others but it passed by young Bruce on the round.

“That young fella’ of Ivy’s was down yesterday afternoon.” Charlie said as he commenced to strum his guitar.

“Not being a nuisance I hope,”

“Na, he and Stan’s kid went walking across to the bore drain, said they were going fishing but they didn’t have any line, I said you can’t catch fish without a line only blackfella’ knows how to do it that way.”

“What did they say?”

“Young Wayne he’s a good kid but that Donald he said bugger off.”

“I’m sorry he’s disrespectful Charlie but he’s the same with me.”

Charlie laughed; “bloody long miserable life ahead from him eh boss.”

“I would reckon so.”

Bruce collected Charlie’s guitar and commenced strumming.

“Have you written many songs?” Lewis asked remembering his earlier advice to the lad.

Bruce paused, “I don’t write them down I just remember them.”

“He does and has many,” Charlie cut in, “go on Bruce sing that one you did earlier, the one about the missing black boy taken by those preacher fellas’.”

Bruce again strummed the guitar and soon his melodic voice came through with words. Lewis listened until it was over. “Yes Bruce you should do something about your singing.”

“Maybe one day I will Ewis.”

“You know them old girls from Jimmy’s mob?” Charlie asked.

“Which ones would they be?”

“Them at Jimmy’s funeral, the ones you offered them things of Jimmy to.”

“Yes, that was silly of me but I didn’t realise. I was only trying to do the right thing.” Lewis apologised once more.

“No worries, old Lucy she comes upta’ me and says to tell you she was sorry for being rude.” Charlie gave a light laugh and continued; “she reckons she be a hundred sometime next year but doesn’t know what day or month.”

“She doesn’t appear that old.” Lewis admitted remembering the old woman as she sat in the dust beneath the trees at the funeral.

“We reckon she skipped a few.” Charlie agreed.

“If it’s true we should contact the Queen and have her send a birthday telegram.” Lewis stood and gave a suggestive stretch and yawn, “I should be on my way early start tomorrow, goodnight.”

As Lewis returned along the lagoon Bruce once again commenced to sing, his voice floated softly through the tea tree in sweet strains of harmony, sad harmony bringing Lewis to pause and take seating on the lagoon bank to listen. The darkness seemed to accentuate the melancholy while Bruce’s diction was perfect, each word rounded and complementing the next, each note of the guitar in harmony with his voice. Lewis took a deep breath and shook away the air of sadness that was developing, ‘he sings too sweetly to be sad,’ he thought and went inside.

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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