Published: 23 Apr 2020

During the afternoon a collection of vehicles arrived with an assortment of men to help with the coming muster. The native workers arrived on the back of a tray truck with the usual lack of care for their safety, also two gins for the kitchen and house but they had the pleasure of riding up front with the driver.

Jack Thompson met the new arrivals and introduced the permanent staff and as soon as the native stockmen had departed for their usual camp along the lagoon and the gin’s to the kitchen, Jack once again warned the men to stay away from the women, declaring anyone who approached them would be sent packing immediately. Lewis comfortably agreed as fraternising with the black kitchen help was the least on his mind though one of the two women appeared familiar to him but then again like his opinion of the Chinese they all looked alike. As she departed for the kitchen she gave him a cheeky smile but said nothing.

Throughout Jack’s lecture on how to treat the women, Stan Wilson stood hand on hips on the store verandah. To Stan the black stockmen were nothing but figures on paper that had to be counted and costed then declared to the State Department for Aboriginal Affairs and the station’s controlling company. Once under his charge their wages would be calculated to be held in perpetuity by that department. In truth there was doubt if they would ever see a penny of it, while their keep and wellbeing would be the responsibility of the property. For extras they would need to beg for pocket money while most station managers disregarded such requests, although Jack was a little kinder and even if he seldom advanced money, he would supply tobacco and extra food if they were in camp by the lagoon and not using the cooking facilities designed for them.

Since his marriage failure Stan had become settled in his bachelorhood without any urge to recant relationships of any kind. He slowly shook his head as the newcomers smirked with lowered heads away from Jack’s warning and once Jack finished talking Stan departed to the office, where he gave thought to his self imposed exile and his harpy wife and her excesses. She now had his house, his friends and his son, who he declared she could keep. Donald their only child was in his late teens and like Margaret his wife, held little respect for Stan but would have to suffer a visit from Donald during the coming Christmas holiday at the end of his last school year.

It was hot and Stan felt every degree, while his once proud belly now sagged in folds of sweating skin beneath his dirty white nylon shirt, sending rivulets of gritty brine to gather at the tightness of his belted trousers. He wiped his brow with a large yellow handkerchief, while giving an all-knowing chuckle as Jack Thompson entered the office.

“What do you think of the new lot?” Jack asked, his voice expressing strains of disappointment.

“They’ll do.” Stan answered.

“And the blacks?”

“They are all the same in my mind, as long as they don’t go walkabout. I suppose they will suit the purpose.”

“Purpose,” Jack simply stated.

“They will do well enough.”

Jack turned to leave, “I’m off to the coast tomorrow, my mother is unwell and I’ll return young Wayne to his school – will you be alright running the new lot for a few days?”

“No worries Jack.”

“I am somewhat concerned with Lewis.” Jack said as an addition as he departed.

“In what way Jack, his work is more than adequate.”

“Not his work but his isolation down at the lagoon, he should be mixing with the others.” Jack stood, hands on hips while fixing his gaze towards the two houses beside the lagoon, their outlines distorted within a haze of heat.

“Lewis is alright, I guess he has a number of issues to work through but I’m only next door if needed,” Stan assured.

Jack took a deep breath, “Umm I’ve seen too many young men go troppo out this way, it’s the heat and isolation,” Jack remained concentrating on the distant lagoon, “remember Bill Travis, shot himself in that very house Lewis is using and he was only nineteen.”

“Before my time Jack but I wouldn’t tell Lewis that,” Stan warned.

“Before my time as well Stan – but,”

“Lewis will be fine,”

Jack gave an uneasy nod and departed but remained sceptical towards Lewis’ isolation, possibly he would insist Lewis move back to the men’s quarters but how to word that desire without relating his reasoning for doing so would not be simple, concluding it was one problem he would leave for another time, or take Stan’s advice and leave well enough alone.

That night Wayne once again visited Lewis, as he was to leave for Herberton in the morning with Jack, who after dropping the lad back at the hostel would take the Palmerston route to the coast. Wayne quietly arrived along the bank of the lagoon as one with the weight of the world on his shoulders. As he walked he collected pebbles and tossed them into the water. Eventually he came up to Lewis and without invitation found seating almost at touching distance.

“Wayne,” Lewis simply said.

“Can I talk with you for a while?”

“Why not what’s on your mind?”

Wayne remained silent.

The two sat quietly on the Lagoon bank watching the multitude of stars, while listening to the arguing of the black hands a short distance along the lagoon and close to the large flat rock which had in the past been a sacred site.

If the new generation of natives realised or cared about the site was doubtful. Most had to be told of its importance by men in white shirts and sensible ties and knee length shorts, arriving from southern universities armed with clipboards, gold plated fountain pens and cameras. Once informed, the ancient scribbling became a weapon against invasion rather that ritual and used whenever possible to at least become an unscratchable itch to the white man’s progress.

There was sadness in the bickering, as if somewhere deep in their existence the spark of those past millennium still existed without knowledge or understanding and was attempting to surface. Lewis felt the melancholy drift across the placid water of the lagoon, giving him comfort in his own sadness and a feeling of being alone even with the company of Wayne.

“They are a noisy lot,” Wayne commented.

“They are most likely drunk.”

“I’m never going to touch grog,” Wayne boldly admitted.

“Never Wayne?” Lewis questioned with a touch of recollection as he had once made that same promise after a man gave his mother a slap for no good reason.

“Never,” Wayne repeated.

“Never say never Wayne, as it may return to bite you;” Lewis warned as his thoughts digressed.

It had been in the small community of Torrens Creek. Lewis was all of six and had just returned from a fancy dress party for the town’s children at the local hotel. Lewis dressed as a pirate with the only similarity being an eye patch his mother had made and carrying a small hand axe. It was a small affair, a handful of children in the most, while entertaining the adults as they partied at the bar.

The night had been the suggestion of the town’s only school teacher, Samuel Locksley, who taught six grades of children in a single room, a row for each grade and no more than three or four pupils in each grade. Their days were often interrupted with leisure time such as boomerang throwing and the marbling of paper, by dipping absorbent paper onto water infused with swirls of coloured oil paint, the result representing the inserts of expensive hard covered books and manuals and somewhat useless for anything else.

After the party had finished and arriving back at the house Winnie discovered they had left the axe behind and quickly returned to retrieve it but after a through search it remained missing, believed stolen which in such a small town was considered rare. Terry Jackson, the licensee was sure the lad had taken it with him on leaving and may have dropped it. Hardly possible as the house was beside the hotel and lit by street lamp all the way.

On their way home for the second time and barefoot, Lewis had attempted to jump a number of fence wires at ground level, one happened to be barbed. His foot caught and the barbs cut into the bridge of his foot. It wasn’t a deep gash but did draw blood and would need disinfecting or it could turn nasty, as tetanus was a constant worry.

Winnie had placed a basin of warm water on the kitchen table and was bathing the wound when Taffy, her man at that time, arrived home drunk and in mood. Taffy had heard from some of his drinking mates about the loss of the axe and that Winnie had considered it stolen. Taffy then commenced to lay blame on anyone he thought may be guilty of the theft and was sharply rebuffed as a newcomer to town and out of order. Still well influenced by alcohol he returned home and an argument broke out between Taffy and Winnie, ending in Taffy giving her a number of slaps.

Lewis standing on the table and now at head height to Taffy commenced to scream at the man while pounding Taffy’s head with tiny fists. “Don’t you hit my mother,” he shouted over and over giving the man such a start he left the house for the pub.

I’m never going to drink, the five year old Lewis promised his mother. I’m never going to drink.

But he did.

Mother and son left for her sister in Hughenden the following morning and that was the end of Taffy, the house, Torrens Creek, his horses and the small country school. A month later he was at the Herberton hostel and suffering the same misery as Wayne now felt.

“You better not stay too long as your mother will want to spend time with you,” Lewis advised on seeing Wayne become a little more settled in his company than he should on his last night.

As Lewis spoke he perceived a spark within Wayne he recognised as a reflection of he own adolescence and realised the mask of youth was paper thin and his own was eroding. He also realised it wasn’t the lack of years that represented youth but innocence and with the loss of Will he felt his had quickly dissipated.

“She’s working until nine.”

“So back to school tomorrow?” Lewis said teasingly.

“Don’t wanna’.”

“What would you rather do?”

“I want to be a cowboy on a station like you.

“Now that isn’t the life for a young fellow,” Lewis advised, making him feel older than actual, while bring to mind his own misgivings on returning to the hostel and the turn he bunged on during that last school holiday. The memory now brought embarrassment, realising he had put so much extra strain on his mother’s emotional state and wished for the chance to return to that night and undo his actions. Not being able to do so he would at least encourage Wayne to accept his lot.

As Lewis spoke Wayne quickly turned from the moonlit waters of the lagoon, “you’re not much older than I am!” he protested emphatically.

“Six years but I didn’t mean young in years mate but you have a lot of living to experience and the life of a ringer is somewhat isolated and you will never meet a girl out here.”

“I don’t like girls,” Wayne snapped.

“At your age I don’t think you would know what you like.”

“You seem to like it here.”

Wayne was now in full protest and appeared hurt by the suggestion Lewis disapproved of his wishes, to which Lewis remained tacit, his vision crossed the water, becoming fixated on the tongues of flames that occasionally leapt from the black’s camp fire, sending those beside it into motion and complaint as they escaped the fire’s heat. ‘Why a fire on a hot night?’ he thought but could give no reason other that it gave comfort while connecting them to their ancestors.

Eventually Lewis brought himself back from the dancing flames but without answer to Wayne’s question, knowing he could not begin to explain his self-inflicted isolation nor his loss. That would be one of life’s experiences the lad would have to discover for himself and with luck would never face.

“It’s almost nine,” Lewis suggested.

“Will you be here at Christmas?” Wayne asked.

“There’s a good chance I will be, why?”

“Do you promise to take me riding when I come up for the holidays?”

“If you come up,”

“You promise,” Wayne was pushing the issue.

“I was once told never to promise anything as the future isn’t ours to keep.” Lewis became involved in his answer, ‘who told me that?’ he thought as he trawled through the fog of memory, ‘it was Will and he was more than correct.’

“You promise?” Wayne was pushing further for a guarantee.

“Yes Wayne, if I am here and you come for the holidays and I have time; and there are horses to ride, I will take you riding.”

“I will keep you to that,”

“Cheeky bugger, now get going before your mother comes looking for you.”

“I’ll stay a little longer.” Wayne insisted.

“If you like but not too long.”

“Lewis,”

“Yes Wayne, another question, I hope it isn’t about my business.”

“No it is about,” but Wayne faltered and by his tone Lewis believed he may not wish to hear.

“You hold onto that question until Christmas. I feel it could be one I may not be the best person to ask.”

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“Time is up my friend; off you go and treat your mother well, she will be sad with your leaving.”

Wayne stood but was slow in departing, he sighed deeply and took a single step and turned. “Will I see you in the morning?”

“I guess so at breakfast, good night.”

“Good night Lewis.” Wayne slowly returned into the darkness leaving Lewis with a measure of the lad’s sadness.

Lewis allowed his thinking to digress and he was back in Herberton at the hostel. He could hear voices, happy voices, mates at play, secrets shared as well as good time holidays. He remembered his fear of scholarship failure and his inability to study. How he often pondered on his future, where would he be in one year, in five years in ten. It was now past the fifth year and he had arrived at a point most unexpected, even while at the hostel he believed it would be Melbourne. Was Wayne thinking those same thoughts, had he the same wanting and fear? Lewis collected his thoughts and moved on.

Again he returned his thoughts to Will and then to Ashley and the times he had spent visiting and how the man had encouraged his true feelings to surface. ‘What were his words? Be your self and go with the flow.’ Yet it still took the love of Will to appreciate Ashley’s merit.

He remembered Ian and their time working at Jack and Newell store, of Ian’s mishap and his plastered arms and the night he gave him hand relief. Then there was his cousin Liz and her complete dislike of him and how she appeared to go after Ian more to irritate Lewis rather than a developing affection for his friend. He remembered the day Ian departed and his denial of their marriage, refusing to attend the wedding. Lewis remembered until it hurt too much to do so and remembered no more, allowing his mind to become blank against the past.

Across the lagoon a yearling came down for water and was bellowing. Another answered and it departed for reunion. “Oh well,” Lewis sighed and returned to his thoughts on Wayne, ‘he’ll be alright,’ he thought without certainty.

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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