Published: 21 May 2020

It was early morning as a cloud of red dust rose from the Georgetown road heading towards the big house, soon a battered dark green Austin A40 Devon came into view and turned towards the lagoon, where its faulty breaks eventually glided it to stop outside the bookkeeper’s house. Roo Frazer alighted from the vehicle and called up the stairs in his high voice, a pitch that was renowned through the area and the bane of much humour, being the wonder if he had balls at all and if so how he could have possibly produce nine children. Yet it could not be doubted as even the four girls were the image of Roo and just as ugly.

Roo’s eldest boy was eighteen with sandy hair buck teeth and freckles, while the younger kids to the teen years all had snotty noses and what some declared to be kennel cough.

“You there Stan?” Roo called up the stairs. Stan answered and appeared on the verandah dressed in his best white terylene shirt, baggy shorts past the knees and long white cotton socks that met the pants at the knees, appearing more like a bank manager on a banker’s picnic that a man from the scrub and seeing he wasn’t driving he had already consumed most of a special bottle of wine he had purchased while on his last trip south. He offered the remaining glass to Roo who without reverence told Stan what he could do with the muck.

“What about you Lewis – want a glass of red?” Stan called to Lewis who was returning from his morning chores and most humoured at Roo’s reaction to the offer.

“Ditto Stan, I’m a beer man, vinegar is for your fish and chips not for drinking.”

“Sure?” Stan reoffered. Lewis shook his head.

“Well I can’t waste it.” Stan said then served himself the last glass and skulled it with out refinement, “I’m ready Roo,” Stan placed his empty glass down on the verandah decking beside the depleted bottle,

“Do you want a lift Lewis? I’m sure you can squeeze in beside Elsie.” Roo called across the space between the houses as Elsie made extra room. She was a large woman and not designed for the front, taking up much of the back seat, while her excess weight appeared to ooze out across the sweaty vinyl.

“She’s jake Roo; I’m looking forward to the bike ride, besides I’m not yet ready and still have a couple of jobs to do.”

“You be careful on that thing it’s almost an antique and believe me has a nasty kick.” Stan again warned. He had once borrowed the motorbike to travel into town and after a stack that did more damage to him than to the bike, swore off two wheels for life.

“Can you ride a bike?” Roo Frazer enquired, remembering Stan’s accident as it was he who rescued Stan from the bull dust along the side of the Georgetown road.

“I’ve been practicing,” Lewis answered.

“Practice! You should have seen him!” Stan added.

“Do you have a licence?” Roo inquired.

“Car licence.”

“Should do around here, I don’t think Sergeant Davidson can read anyway, Stan freely accused.

“That new constable is a bit of bastard.” Roo added and climbed back into the car, with Stan close behind then drove off to the men’s quarters to collect Walter Drysdale, whose dress code was as one going mustering only laundered, not forgetting the hat which remained on his head eternally in its stained and battered state.

Watching the Austin as it clouded the dust on its way brought Lewis memories of his own vehicle which he lost during a cyclone near Cairns. How proud he had been of that car, almost living in it and how short the time his freedom machine had given him pleasure. A few short months and gone, squashed to the ground by a falling tree whose trunk was almost as wide as the vehicle itself. He also brought to mind the financial pain it gave as the insurance didn’t totally cover the repayments and for six months he paid out without the privilege of having wheels. Then he thought of Will and sadness crept into the morning. “Will,” Lewis sighed gently as he re-climbed the steps and stood looking back at the Austin. Now the black dog of remorse came to visit and all he wanted to do was go to bed and sleep away his melancholy but he had promised to attend the race meeting and his word was adhesive no matter how unimportant the decree may have been.

Lewis collected his jeans, shirt and with his second best pair of boots slowly strolled to the shower block at the men’s quarters, where he took a long warm shower. He found comfort in the trickle of soapy water that downed his back then sensuously gathered between his buttocks bringing on an erection, which dissipated as quickly with the memory of Will’s accident. Since Will’s demise he had hardly thought of sex and had only on a few occasions relied on manual handling, which although it relieved the urge didn’t give satisfaction, always ending in once again being bitten by the black dog.

It was mid morning before Lewis was at last ready to straddle the old motorbike and head out. Firstly he visited the kitchen where Joyce Marshall was kneading dough for the next day’s bread. Ivy had joined Jack and Elizabeth for a day at the races but Joyce was not one for the horses or crowds. Besides a day without having to cook for anyone was a day out in itself. She also had a selection of books she had promised to read, believing Barbara Cartland told a wonderful love story, even if she had never encountered such men in her past experience.

“I’m off now Joyce is there anything you need before I leave?” Lewis called from the kitchen steps. The cook wiped her brow and her hands on a large tea towel she carried over one shoulder, leaving a smudge of flour across her forehead and cheek. “Only one thing Lewis,” she answered meeting him at the steps.

“What would that be?” Lewis asked willingly.

“You have yourself a good time and take care on the ruddy bike.”

“Will do – I’ll be off then.”

“Oh one thing Walt said Bob will be back tomorrow,”

“So I heard – see ya’.”

“Again, take it slowly I remember the bother Stan had on that bike.”

It was rough riding over the cattle grid as he left the station and not much better on the unsurfaced road towards Georgetown, while attempting to manipulate the corrugation which vibrated up from the forks, through his arms and rattled his teeth. Lewis had only ridden the bike on the stretch of road outside the main buildings, along the flat between the big house and the lagoon and a number of times down to the river to check his fish traps, finding control on the open road less predictable. By keeping his speed down he managed and as the miles disappeared under the wheels, his ability along with confidence improved.

Once he came off as he slowly crossed a dry creek bed, when the front wheel turned in the sand. He landed heavily but not injured with the bike across his leg. He laughed loudly then dusting down remounted and revved up the opposite bank and was once again on his way.

While approaching the Cumberland chimney Lewis spied a black sedan parked to the side of the road and on passing discovered it to be the Georgetown police. As the bike’s gages were faulty Lewis lowered his speed to what he believed to be respectable, while developing concern as the vehicle filed behind him and commenced to flash its lights. Lewis pulled the bike to the side of the road and turned off the motor as the black Ford progressed and parked a distance to his front.

The seconds passed before Sergeant Davidson alighted from the driver’s seat, followed closely by a beanstalk constable whose kaki shorts appeared too short for his slender elongated shanks. In his own time Davidson manoeuvred his weight towards Lewis while wiping copious amounts of sweat from his fat ruddy face with an oversized navy blue handkerchief. Finally he approached Lewis.

“Whose motor is it son?” The officer asked dryly as the beanstalk, notebook in hand, scrutinised every possible aspect of the motorbike, ending with verbal notification that the bracket containing its registration was empty.

“It belongs to the station sir,” Lewis answered respectfully and nervously fiddled with a loose end of gaffer tape wrapped around the handlebars for grip.

“What station would that be? The young constable demanded while writing the account in his notebook and making what he believed to be intelligent sounds with each stroke of the pen.

“Settle down now Ron I’ll asked the questions.” Davidson quietly commanded.

“Gilbert Downs.” Lewis softly answered.

“How is Jack?” Davidson enquired for no other reason but to verify Lewis’ credentials.

“Mr. Thompson is fine and he must have passed you on his way to the races an hour or so back.”

“Umm,” Davidson sounded then held out his hand, “licence boy?”

Lewis retrieved his battered wallet from his pants pocket and handed the folded document to the sergeant. Davidson clumsily unfolded the document and slowly read its contents, mumbling the words as he read, while the constable peered over his shoulder.

“Well Lewis Smith this is a car licence, do you have a motorbike Licence?”

“No sir I thought it would suffice for both.” Lewis answered honestly.

“I’m afraid not son and it appears that you are not only unlicensed but in charged of an unregistered vehicle, what do you have to say to that?” To which Lewis remained silent.

“You have to book him Sarge!” The eager constable demanded.

“Davidson taped the three stripes on his kaki shirt sleave while giving young Ron a controlling glance.

“Where are you off to?” Davidson asked Lewis, ignoring his constable’s suggestion.

“Georgetown races Sir,” Lewis answered.

“Then Lewis Smith be on you way and don’t overdo the drink,” he paused, “and when you get back to the station put the motor back in the shed or get it registered, I’ll speak with Jack later on the matter.” Sergeant Davidson handed back Lewis’ licence and began to leave. He again turned, “also get a bloody motorbike licence.”

“Thankyou Sir.” Lewis answered gratefully as the policeman commenced to lay his authority onto his young constable, who turned back to Lewis giving a glare of revenge. I’ll get you was obviously the young officer’s thinking. Lewis gave a cheeky smile and dip of the head which obviously didn’t endear him to the youthful official.

The Georgetown racetrack was a shy short of the town on its western edge and more a dust bowl than a sporting area. It consisted of the track itself, surrounded by a log rail fence at stomach height, an officiators box, an iron store shed, two large trees for shade a bar area and horse stalls. Anything else was considered superfluous to needs and seeing there were only four or five race meetings each year no one contemplated improving the venue. Besides the course was often used as holding pens for cattle by the neighbouring station during the trucking season, so additional amenities would only take up cattle space.

As for the track proper, it was well peppered with cowpats which mixed with dust under the galloping hooves adding to the ambience but most were accustomed to the scent of cow shit so it became but background to the wattle bloom and the flowering eucalyptus.

Lewis paid his fifty cents admission fee at the gateless entry to a member of the Salvation Army who used the proceeds to help the town’s needy, then parked the motorbike beside Rupert Frazer’s old green Austin and headed for the bar to find Stan and Walter.

While passing the four rows of parked cars and trucks, Lewis rhetorically declared that the crowd must have exceeded a hundred, possibly more. “Huh looks like the Melbourne Cup,” he chuckled while jolted by the ringing of a loud bell and the thunder of horses hooves, the first race had commenced and he hadn’t had a bet, then again he had doubts towards laying down his hard earned cash anyway.

Stan was with Walter at the bar in heavy conversation with a group of ringers while across at the finishing line in the shade of the Judges box Ivy had taken to the rail with Elizabeth to view the progress of the race. Ivy looked quite smart in her below knee blue dress with a white collar and equally white shoes and sunglasses. Her hair freshly dyed henna and set in waves by Joyce Marshall early that very morning.

Elizabeth Thompson on the other hand outshone the local ladies with her mauve dress, hat and matching handbag and gloves, appearing like a reject from England’s Epson and looking most out of place among the red dust, heat and flies. There were always flies and when one stood still for a matter of seconds they settled in swarms on one’s back, feasting on the sweat soaked material. Moments later the race was over and the two ladies came away from the rail looking somewhat disappointed, suggesting their choice had been fruitless.

Betting on the local races was more a novelty as most seasoned punters preferred to gamble on the southern fixtures with the three oncourse bookmakers. They, like travelling salesmen, would tour the circuit from race meeting to race meeting with their Gladstone bags displaying title and names in large white lettering on the bag’s side. Tom Gross, George Spence, Roy Kemp and always present with pads of coloured tickets in pink and blue and green, always the same to avoid confusion. They would shout their price to the gathering of fly covered stockmen and managers who would wait with eagerness to obtain the best deal, while by the bookies side blaring loudly would stand semi-portable radios powered by car batteries and tuned to the southern race meetings as three attempted to out do each other in scavenging the meagre earnings of the crowd.

“Correct weight Randwick,” crackled over the air.

“They are racing at Moonee Valley.”

“They are off and racing at Randwick.”

“Protest Doomben.”

Tom Gross as usual bettered his compatriots with his wicked humour and once the crowd had gathered, he worked his fiscal way with them, declaring that once you have them laughing, they were more ready to empty their pockets.

Standing deep within that group Lewis spied Bob Kelly, freshly back from his brother’s wedding in Normanton and decked out in that town’s best western gear. Lewis sidled up to the young stockman and tapped his shoulder.

“Betting all your money away Bob?” He asked, turning Bob’s attention from the bookmaker and his coloured chits.

“Lewis! Na, I don’t have any left, spent it for a present for the brother and the bitch.”

“How was the wedding?” Lewis enquired encouraging Bob away from the crowd.

“As good as expected, they are well and truly married now and fighting like cat and dog,” he paused adding, “won’t last.”

“Why did they bother,” Lewis asked.

“Had to, there’s a brat on the way and more than noticeable as she walked down the isle of the church,” Bob gave a deep huh and a cackle, “he looked like he was going to the gallows and she as if she would pup at any moment.” It was more than obvious Bob lacked empathy towards the new bride and member of family, almost as if he wished the union to fail.

“I’ll buy you a beer,” Lewis offered and guided the young stockman towards the temporary bar. Once under the hessian sacking stretched across the rough log frame of the bar they felt cooler even if it was only psychosomatic.

“Well if it isn’t young Bob Kelly?” Stan commented from close by, “how was the wedding?”

Bob repeated what he had told Lewis and drank deeply from his glass, then partook of a second supplied by Stan.

“That’s women for ya’.” Walter Drysdale barked, declaring his compulsive dislike and mistrust of the fairer sex.

“When are you getting hitched to that little filly of yours?” Stan enquired of Bob.

“Dunno’ Stan, I don’t have the money and I’m too young for all that,” Bob answered from the commencement of a third free beer.

“How about you Lewis have you a filly hidden somewhere back around Mareeba?” Walter asked, realising Lewis had never divulged such information in any form and although Lewis had no wish to disclose such matters he felt pressured into proclaiming something even if fictitious.

“Na Walt, there was a girl back in Townsville but you know how it goes, she dumped me for money – a cane farmer with a paddock full of acres and a shit load of dollars.”

There was a measure of truth in his complaint. There was a girl, Sarah and she was from Townsville. Becoming frustrated with Lewis’ indecision she did leave him for a farmer but as for marriage, that was never Lewis’ intention, nor as it came to past, was it on the mind of the farmer. The truth being on the weekend Lewis was dumped, he was attempting to get his leg over and failed, then as he waited with Sarah at the Cairns station for his return connection came the proverbial Dear John letter but in simple syntax. A simple explanation that their relationship was heading nowhere and there was someone else. Oddly that was the very day he became reconnected with his once adversary Billy and the start of something wonderful as Billy became Will and their lives became as one.

Lewis had returned home from that weekend more relieved than disappointed then after a measure of time was the recall through his friend Ian acting as go-between. Although Lewis hadn’t been successful in getting his leg over, the farmer had and Sara became pregnant. The farmer quickly dumped her, declaring she was loose and it was someone else, possibly Lewis who was responsible for her condition. By then Lewis had met Will and as some would say, turned to the dark side and away from any thought of marriage or his litany of children, all with Lachlan and Lewis somewhere in their names.

After a short stay with an out of town aunt, Sarah returned to Townsville and magic, she was no longer expecting but in need of company and sympathy, so once again she thought of Lewis.

“Women!” Walter grunted once more as he felt the influence of drink depreciate his ability to display coherency, while looking towards Stan for support on the matter of matrimony. Stan agreed in principal but remained reluctant to be reminded of his own failures.

“Don’t you get the urge to dip your wick now and then?” Stan asked Lewis from a similar intoxicated state. Seeing that neither would be driving Stan and Walter had paced each other glass by glass and were equal in their pursuit of oblivion.

“That’s what weekends away in Georgetown are for,” Lewis lied but it was enough to satisfy their interest.

“Good on you mate!” Walter roughly slapped the back of Lewis and changed the subject away from woman, while Stan followed willingly.

“Had a bet yet?” Walter asked Lewis.

Na, I don’t know anything about racehorses but maybe I will later on one of the local races – Barry Connor from over Chisholm Station has entered his mare and I’ve heard she’s fast.” Lewis declared confidently.

“They are all fast ‘till you get them on the track.” Walter stated adding his disdain for horse racing to that of women. Lewis didn’t reply and left the three to their drinking to join with Ivy and some good southern conversation.

“Have you been to the Mareeba races?” Ivy asked from a giggle gleaned from a past memory.

“No, I don’t think much of gambling. I don’t have anything against it as such, just doesn’t press my buttons, besides when it comes to luck, if I was the only entry in a chicken raffle, the chicken would win,” Lewis exclaimed returning from the bar with fresh drinks. He handed Ivy a beer.

“You know Lewis you remind me so much of Wayne.”

“Is that so?”

“He doesn’t think much of horse racing either and I was remembering a time at the Mareeba races when I had him listen in on what horse the punters were betting on and he kept getting the horses names confused. I lost the lot.” Ivy laughed once more then continued; “you see I am a little hard of hearing in one ear, the doctor said one too many unpressurized plane rides, so I had Wayne be my ears and I should think the little bugger did it on purpose.”

“How’s you luck holding out today?” Lewis asked.

“Had a couple of bets but didn’t do any good, I no longer know the southern horses and the locals are too hard to pick.” Ivy sipped her beer then scratched at the top of her ear. “Two bets – two losses,” she concluded.

“I may have a bet on Barry Connor’s horse in the last,” Lewis exhaled the statement without enthusiasm.

“What’s its name?” Ivy asked

“Pup.”

“Strange name for a horse,” Ivy divulged.

“Stan said it got its name because its brood mare was a right bitch.”

Ivy laughed at the notion and with talk of horses becoming somewhat disinteresting she dragged Lewis’ memory back to Melbourne where they spent most of the time leading up to the final race.

“Hey time for my bet.” Lewis declared showing the first ounce of excitement that day, “what do you reckon Ivy, going to have a bet on it?”

Lewis had a quandary. Not knowing what the Pup looked like and only ever seeing Barry Connors from a distance while at the starter’s yard he didn’t have a clue which horse was Pup and to make matters worse all mounts were given fictions names such as Ned Kelly, Thunder and Cyclone, as for the jockeys, they were but a pack of young lean and lanky ringers wearing moleskins, or jeans and fancy silk country shirts, embroidered with bullock horn and horseshoe designs. Each adorned with running numbers, a white cloth that went over the head down the front and back and was tied at the sides with cord.

“Hey which one is Pup?” Lewis quickly asked of a punter at the marshalling yard, who was so drunk he most probably couldn’t see past the slip rail.

“Seven the man replied with a touch of alcoholic confidence.”

Lewis quickly approached Tom Gross waving a five dollar note. “Hey Tom put five on the nose of number seven.”

Tom quickly wrote the appropriate information on a blue slip and after removing the money from Lewis’ grasp handed him the chit.

‘Five to one on seven, that seems a little generous,’ Lewis thought as he pocketed his ticket.

Back at the starting line he again met up with Ivy who had also taken a bet on the final race.

“What number did you take?” Lewis asked holding up his blue slip.

“Three like you suggested,” Ivy answered holding a pink slip, “Pup.”

“No it’s number seven a fellow down at the starting yards told me.” Lewis declared while pointing towards his scruffy adviser as he staggered towards the bar.

“That’s old Mac he wouldn’t know what day it was never mind which horse was Pup.”

“Bugger!”

“Number seven that’s Ned Kelly and a gelding not a mare and you a horse man I thought you would know the difference.” Ivy jested while reading Lewis’ betting chit.

“I didn’t really look – didn’t have the time,” Lewis grumbled.

That’s your horse the black monster at the end, Pup is up this end and called Cyclone.

As they spoke a starting pistol resonated from close by and the group of eight horses thundered away into the dusty distance. Ned Kelly was leading by a full length while Cyclone was a close second but closing. At the turn Ned Kelly had lost the lead to a third horse but in the strait both Cyclone and Ned had once again taken the lead and were neck to neck, nose to nose with Ned Kelly pulling away, until the lanky jockey on Ned lost his hat into the following dust and automatically pulled back on the reins, then realising his dilemma spurred his mount on once more to come in a close second, crossing the finishing line close to the tale of Cyclone. Pup had won the race.

“Hope you had it for a place.” Ivy said while tightly clutching her winning ticket.

“On the nose Ivy and boy was its jockey on the nose.”

“That’s a shame.”

As the horses returned to the marshalling yard Lewis approached the jockey from his loosing mount. “Hey he called.” The lad turned.

“Your hat just lost me bucks and winnings of five to one.”

“Eh,”

“I thought you were riding Pup.”

“Pup won,” The lad confusingly advised.

“I know that but old Mac gave me the wrong information and I accidentally bet on Ned.”

“Stiff shit mate, maybe next time you will have a good look before wasting your money,” the lad released a wry smile as he placed his heavy stock saddle on the top rail of the yards. The lad paused, shook his head and laughed at Lewis’ misfortune.

“There won’t be a next time,” Lewis grumbled and returned to the bar where he found the others.

“You had a winning on Pup then,” Walter congratulated.

“No I backed the wrong flaming nag; Ivy did ‘tho.”

“Better luck next time.” Walter sympathised.

“There won’t be a next time, hey Bob how are you getting back?”

“The boss is giving me a lift, how did you get here?”

“The motorbike, I was going to offer you a pillion lift.”

“You’ve gotta’ be kidding, in my condition I’d fall off.” Bob dismissed with vigour.

By the time Lewis prepared to leave the sun was sinking into the western trees. At the gate he was again stopped by Sergeant Davidson who flagged him down.

“I hope you haven’t overdone the drink young fellow?” The sergeant asked, while his constable held well back displaying the appearance of a scolded child but his revengeful eye remained on Lewis. If a glance could speak it would do so loudly. Lewis gave the constable a cheeky nod and answered Davidson’s question in the negative.

“No sir, only three beers all afternoon,” Lewis truthfully answered.

“Don’t forget to get that licence.”

“No worries Mr. Davidson.”

“Come and see me next time you’re in Georgetown and I will write one out for you.” Davidson offered; “and put that antique up on blocks, I don’t want to see it off the property again unless it’s registered.”

Past Cumberland the weather changed and the tropical depression that had threatened all week set in. Firstly it was a light mist followed by a downpour which soaked both rider and motor alike, making the road slippery as if driving through red porridge.

Slowly Lewis inched his way back to Gilbert Downs, approaching each creek with trepidation as they tended to rise quickly with little rain. It was the last creek that caused the biggest problem. On the far bank in the bike’s light he could see the skid marks of two vehicles, suggesting that both the Thompson and Frazer’s vehicles had passed recently with obvious inconvenience and had stirred the creek bed into a churning of mud and sand.

Lewis entered into the flow and immediately the rising water began to drag him off the crossing while stalling the motor and fusing the light, leaving him in darkness. He pushed with as much strength as his lean body could muster but the flow only made the bike heavier and beyond his ability. As he progressed he felt the sand wash from under his feet causing him to loose his grip while falling sideways towards the far bank. On doing so the motorbike went with the rush of water, disappearing into the blackness beyond the crossing.

Lewis struggled as the flow also tugged him away from the crossing, while clutching at anything he could reach. He heard the metallic sound of bike on rocks as the flow increased. Groping at anything his hand found a hold; it was only a tuft of grass but enough to allow him to pull himself out of the torrent onto the far bank while shaking from adrenaline and fright.

Shivering from the cold he stood searching the blackness for a sign of the motorbike but it was gone only the sound of the raging creek greeted him and all he could think of was how he was going to explain its loss to Jack, secondary how far was he from the station. He knew he was within the body of the property but the more he tried to place his location, the more confused he became.

“Lewis concentrate!” he shouted.

“Think!” He growled and slapped his face as his breathing became erratic. He calmed then peered into the blackness ahead.

“I’ve passed the second grid.”

“This creek is about four miles from the last grid.” He continued while still somewhat mesmerised by the creeks flow.

“And that is about four miles from home.”

“Well?” he finally questioned as the rain eased. “No choice but to walk,” he admitted while peering into the distance at the ribbon of dirt road stretching ahead, now just visible in the almost non existing light.

After more than an hour’s walking the Homestead’s windmill came into view towering above the tree line, dark on dark as Lewis managed the final turn. His legs felt like lead as the struggle from the creek had sapped most of his strength. Now that final mile to his house appeared impossible but with a new deluge commencing, the coldness pushed him on.

The station land-rover was parked outside of the big house, while across the flat the Frazer’s vehicle was parked at Stan’s house, suggesting that the Frazers had stayed the night because of the rain. The Frazer property was back across the creek where Lewis had lost the motorbike, so after returning Walter and Stan home it was prudent not to recross the creek until daylight.

All was in darkness as Lewis reached the base of his stairs without the strength to ascend, but a terrifying flash of lightning and a thunder clap that sounded as if it came from directly above his stance, gave him new legs as he hurdled the stairs three at a time to stand at the verandah’s apex. A second bolt of lightning illuminated the big house across the flat as if it were day, then a third and a forth, followed by deafening thunder. Then came the real rain, it had set in for the night.

Once inside Lewis stripped and dried. Hungry without food of any kind in the house he would need to wait for breakfast. He remembered a packet of biscuits he had left in a kitchen cupboard some time earlier but they were of the dry type, more for topping. Under the illumination of a hurricane lamp he reached for the biscuits, finding nothing but an empty packet and rat droppings. “Bugger,” he complained and closed the cupboard, “I guess their need was greater than mine.”

Now out of the weather he settled on the front verandah to recoup his strength and marvel at the continuing storm but weariness prevailed and he fell asleep where he sat.

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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