Published: 20 Nov 2023

Christmas was but a week away and the studio preparing to close down until the second week in the New Year. Most of the extra’s had already departed, leaving Alun with Taylor and a number of the crew who after storing the equipment would also be on their way, as the property owner would soon be arriving with his family.

“I suppose you will stay with Jillian over Christmas?” Taylor suggests while they relaxed with a beer on the cottage steps. It is a clear warm night with a full moon silhouetting the line of fruit trees leading to the dam against the even darker form of the forest beyond.

“No she is performing in some Christmas pageant during the break from The Gardener and will be touring country towns. I believe it is a tradition the company does every year.”

“Will you be staying at her apartment?”

“Again no, she’s offered it to a friend while she is away.”

“Then home to your parents,” Taylor suggest with doubt.

Alun laughs before issuing yet another negative, “I’ve burnt my bridges there for a while, the old man is still smarting over my little outburst and Peter has moved out. What about you Taylor, where will you go?”

Something is spooking the horses, Alun rises and walks to their yard but on arrival they appear settled. It was uncommon to see wild dogs in the area but dogs would never attack a mature animal. He returns to his seat and repeats his question to Taylor.

“I haven’t yet decide, I could stay at mums but she will be visiting a sister in Wonthaggi over Christmas and I don’t much like the idea of staying in her poky little cottage on my own over the break.”

“What about your uncle in Gippsland. You said you holidayed there when you were a kid?”

“It wouldn’t be right turning up after not visiting for more than four years.”

“I guess not. So we are both free agents.”

“It appears that way.”

“Why don’t we do something together?” Alun suggests.

“Like what?”

“I dunno’ possibly we could hire some camping equipment and find a clearing in the forest near a creek with lots of shady trees.”

Taylor is smirking, “you and me in a tent?”

“Why not, possibly get gold prospecting stuff and do a little panning, it would be good experience for the film.”

“It would – I like the idea, have you ever used a tent?”

“No.”

“So you don’t know anything about finding all sorts of unwanted wildlife sharing your sleeping bag.”

“You are starting to put me off my own idea Taylor.”

“And snakes,”

“Huh,”

“And spiders,” Taylor continues.

“So we won’t be going camping.”

On passing Simon hears part of the boy’s conversation, “going home for the break boys?”

“Not this time Simon,” Alun says.

“What about you Taylor?”

“Me neither.”

“I heard you mention getting a tent and camping.”

“It was a thought Simon but Taylor has just dampened the idea, so that won’t be happening.”

“Can I make a suggestion?”

Both quietly listen.

“An associate has a caravan along the Great Ocean Road at Lorne alongside the Erskine River and not far from a good surf beach. He usually uses it over Christmas but this year he is going fishing for barramundi up on the Carpentaria Gulf, possibly I could arrange something for you.”

“I like the idea,” Alan says. He looks to Taylor whose expression is agreeable.

“I’ll give him a call tonight, I’m sure it can be arranged.”

It was Friday afternoon with Christmas day on the following Sunday and by the weather forecast it was going to be a scorcher. Simon had arranged for the boys to use the caravan at Lorne. Now with the last of the crew departed, Simon was at his vehicle stowing his gear as the boys approach to bid him farewell. “Are you packed and ready to push off?” Simon asks.

“Yep just about ready and will be right behind you, again thank you for arranging the caravan.”

“No bother but be sure to leave it as you find it. No wild parties and be back on set early morning of the fifteenth.”

“What will be your destination Simon?” Taylor asks.

“Mostly work I’m afraid, I will be with Mr. Barrington for part of the time working on a few changes to the script, he also has a new project he wants me to take a look at.”

“Will it be another period movie?” Taylor asks.

“Now that would be telling. I think we should get this one in the can before we start worrying about another.”

For a moment Simon becomes motionless, his gaze is towards the cloudless sky then across they drying landscape with concern for the lack of late seasons rain and the chance of bushfire. He quickly shakes it away. Bill Linton the property owner would be in residence and well accustomed to country living. Even so he would give Bill a call on reaching the city, suggesting he do some preparation before the fire season arrives. Simon is about to depart but feels he should give the boys some final encouragement, “I must congratulate you both on a fine performance so far, especially you Alun, I don’t know where your inspiration has come from but lately and it is as if you are the incarnation of Logan McGregor.”

“Thank you Simon, that means a lot to me.”

“Well the two of you have a nice resting break, for it will be full on in the New Year.”

The boys stand watching Simon’s departure, his battered Land Rover trailing a voluminous cloud of dust as it bumped along the narrow bush track in the direction of civilization, the vehicle’s panels clattering and squeaking over the corrugated road surface, while at his fence line guarding against the slightest intrusion stood the neighbour Bill Harris.

“I suppose we should also be going as well,” Alun suggests as the caretaker appears impatient to lock the gate.

“I’ll drive,” Taylor offers.

Alun gives a nod as his mobile begins to dance and buzz in his pocket, “yes you drive I better see who wants me. Without checking the caller’s identification he answers. It is his mother and her tone suggests she is in tears.

“What’s wrong mum, you sound upset?”

“Peter has moved out.”

“Yes I know; he contacted me yesterday.”

“Are you coming home for Christmas?”

“I don’t think that would be a wise idea at present, beside aren’t you going to spend Christmas fishing with Sally and Fred?”

“No you father has cancelled out, there has been some business problem that needs his time in the city, instead we will be leaving New Year’s Eve.”

“Is dad still mad at me?”

“You know your father; he believes it to be weakness if he backs down.”

“Didn’t Peter explain to you and dad?”

“Yes but I don’t think your father was listening.”

“I hope you believed me.”

Sylvia remains mute towards his plea.

“Mum I’m on the road; I’ll call you in the New Year. Did you receive my package?”

“Yes it arrived during the week.”

“Don’t open it until Christmas and there is also something for Peter.”

“I have a present for you also but it will have to wait until your next visit,” Sylvia admits.

“Are Dianne and the kids coming for Christmas?” Alun asks.

“No they are going with Michael to his parents.”

“When you see Dianne, be sure to give her my love and say I’ll visit her in the New Year.”

Again Sylvia begins to cry. Alun takes a deep frustrated breath as they reach the gate. He gives Len Firth the caretaker a high wave as they exit and after promising to contact as soon as he reached Lorne he finished the call, “I don’t know,” he softly utters.

“Is there still trouble at the mill?” Taylor says as it was becoming a constant with each call Alun received.

“It was mum and she sounds stressed, wanting to know if I’m going home for Christmas but dad is still cranky with me.”

“Didn’t your brother explain?”

“He tried but with the phone call dad got about us being at it, dad wasn’t accepting anything other than I’ve damaged the family’s reputation,” Alun expresses then with a cheeky smile he continues, “also after what I said, I don’t think convincing otherwise would be possible.”

“At it,” Taylor repeats followed by a gurgling sound.

‘At it,’ Alun thinks as the unsurfaced bush track joins with the main Ballarat road. He glances across towards Taylor, ‘he is quite handsome, if I was that way inclined and if I was Logan I may fancy him.’

“What are you thinking?” Taylor curiously asks while giving way to a road transport followed by two vehicles towing long trailers. The wind from the speeding b-double carrying livestock buffers their car.

“Why do you believe I’m thinking of anything?”

“The expression you are wearing says more than you realise.”

“You were always the one for reading expressions.”

“I suppose it is part of our job description, besides you are easy to read.”

“Believe me you wouldn’t want to know.”

‘Could I?’ Alun returns to his previous thought.

‘It would be an experience, besides it may give clarity to the character of Logan.’

‘Or permanently destroy the friendship I’m developing with Taylor.’

“I could tell you something,” Taylor says and falls in behind the two trailers.

“Go on.”

“I could but I don’t know how to put it in words.”

“One after another is the usual way.”

“It isn’t that simple.”

“Christ Taylor you are as bad as Jillian. You know how I hate half spoken sentences.”

“Let’s get Christmas and the New Year over first and I will think about it.”

“Think all you want, only don’t half say it.”

The Great Ocean Road is one of Victoria’s treasures considered to be the world’s largest war memorial. It was built immediately after the First World War to honour the thousands who didn’t return and further developed in the thirties during the great depression. The road was hone out of the steep windswept cliffs with a scenic length of two hundred and forty kilometers, and their destination Lorne closer to its eastern end.

As it was Christmas holidays the traffic was heavy with numerous caravans along the way, almost doubling a usual two hour drive, therefore quite late when the boys arrived at the Lorne caravan park but Simon’s directions were precise and easy to follow to their home for the next fortnight.

Taylor is first to enter, he finds the light switch, immediately dim yellow lighting fills the interior of the van.

“What do you think?”

“It is big.”

“I like it,” Taylor looks about, “no air-con,” he says.

“Never mind the ocean isn’t far and from what I hear there is a good surf beach.”

“I’ve never surfed.”

“Then it will be fun teaching you and watching while you take a dumping or two.”

“Or more,” Taylor opens the refrigerator, “beer but nothing to eat, except for a half packet of sliced cheese with suspect freshness and part of a loaf of bread.”

“We passed a seven-eleven on the way in. We’ll do some shopping in the morning.”

“There is a note,” Taylor reads aloud, the beer is for you- enjoy and Merry Christmas. “Want one?” he offers.

“Why not.”

Taylor extracts two cans, passing one to Alun, “sleeping arrangements,” he says noticing a bunk at either end of the van, “you pick Alun, left or right.”

“I’ll have right, it’s closer to the beach – I’ll get the bags.”

Alun returns and Taylor is gleeful, he found the air conditioner over what is to be his bunk. He flicks the switch. There is no response, “there can’t be any power,” he says.

“We have lighting so it must be broken.”

“I didn’t think of that. Taylor impatiently switches on and off a number of times in quick succession – still nothing.

“Doing that will do nothing but break the switch.”

“You never know.”

“My gut is rumbling,” Alun says and gives his stomach a gentle rub to prove his need for sustenance.

“Possibly that seven-eleven we saw on the way in is still open.”

“It is almost midnight Taylor.”

“Some country places stay open all night for travelers.”

It was a short walk to Lorne’s shops that lined along the north side of the Ocean Road adjacent to the main beach. By their arrival it had gone twelve, with the town in darkness and the seven-eleven closed for business. So it was back to the van by the longer rout following the beach front. Some distance out at sea the lights of a small boat flicker, as the craft dips and rides the gentle swell, from further out the sound of a ships horn breaks the otherwise silence. The night was hot but bearable while outside and sweltering in the van, with the weather forecast for the following days reported as hot, hotter and more so.

“We could sleep on the beach?” Alun suggests as they approach the van park.

“Or get the air-con fixed.”

“I don’t like your chances over Christmas.”

“Point taken,”

“Entertainment,” Alun says.

“What about entertainment?”

“We can’t sit about the beach all day and drink beer all night.”

“I saw a poster outside the pub; The Back Seat Boys are playing New Year’s Eve,” Taylor recollects.

“How many times is it now – three?”

“Times for what?”

“How many times have we almost seen the Back Seat Boys and missed out, besides there is a lot of time to kill between now and New Year’s Eve.”

“I would suggest sightseeing during the day, there is lots to see in the national park around here and in the Otway’s. There are also the Disciples.”

“What are the Disciples?”

“You foreigners know nothing;” Taylor laughs.

“I’ve never been down this way before.”

“The Twelve Disciples are a number of limestone stacks washed by the sea from the mainland.”

“And there are actually twelve of them?”

“Twelve if you have a good imagination. There was also London Bridge.”

“Was you say,” Alun asks as they enter into the van.

“Like in the nursery rhyme it fell down. It was a double arched peninsular of limestone, then about thirty years back one of the arches collapsed into the ocean.”

“Lucky no one was on it at the time.”

“There was but they managed to get to the end where they became stranded, having to be rescued by helicopter.”

“Then it will be sightseeing and if we make it until New Year’s Eve, the Back Seat Boys at the concert.”

“Hey look what I found!” Taylor brings out what appears to be a black plastic box with chromed tinted trimmings from the back of a cupboard.

“What is it?”

“An old cassette player.”

“What does it do?”

“It plays music.”

“Where does the disc go?” Alun is being obtuse.

“No disc, it uses magnetic tapes and there is a cassette with it.” Taylor examines the cassette, “when I was in junior school the olds’ would dance to this one.”

“Who is it by?”

“The Drifters and called Save the last Dance for me.” Taylor plugs in the machine followed by the cassette. The tape makes a whirring sound then starts.

You can dance –

Every dance with the guy who gives you the eye –

Let him hold you tight –

“It’s a little slow; who can dance to that?”

“Anyone who has an ounce of rhythm.”

“I remember when I was a kid, mum and dad would leave Dianne to look after Peter and me and go dancing but that was back in England at a time when they liked each other.”

“Do they still go dancing?”

“No they are too busy arguing.”

“What about you Alun did you learn a few steps?”

“I don’t dance.”

The music continues.

But don’t forget who’s takin’ you home –

And in whose arms you’re gonna’ be –

So darlin’ save the last dance for me –

The words scratched their way into the heat of the van.

“I could teach you a few steps,” Taylor offers.

Alun laughs, “who is gonna’ take the female role?”

“Well for the exercise I suppose I could, besides do you realise Logan and Chance have a scene where they dance together. So you will eventually need to learn a few waltz steps.” Taylor rises to his feet, rewinds the tape and beckons Alun to join him with his wriggling fingers, “come on – up you get.”

Alun stands.

“I’m embarrassed.”

“We are alone – come on.”

Taylor places a hand on Alun’s shoulder the other on his waist.”

“There isn’t much room in here for anything,” Alun says and all but freezes to the van’s flooring.

“Loosen up Alun.”

Then without further Alun breaks into a Waltz and sweeps Taylor along the narrow passage of the van.

“You can dance?”

“I can.”

Taylor momentarily pauses.

“Keep dancing I like the tune.” Alun encourages.

They continue for a few steps and as they do a strange sensation comes over Alun, once again he was Logan and with it came an outpouring of emotion towards Taylor.

Alun stops dancing and returns to his seat.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, turn the music off.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“Just turn it off, I’m tired and need sleep.”

Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Conder 333 at Hotmail dot Com

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