Published: 28 Aug 2023

Ballarat’s city centre was a wealth of colonial aspiration, as was the boy’s hotel for the weekend and chosen for its lack of modernity. The Gold Exchange Hotel had been purchased derelict some years previously after an extended time as business offices, then as a back-packer hotel before becoming a squat for vagrants. The new owners purposely re-established the hotel to its former glory to promote the state’s golden years and with its lack of modern amenities, even WyFi, it was promoted as a mecca for those wishing a colonial experience at five star prices, compensating by offering the finest dining in the city.

The boys were to share a double room with instructions to understand the hotel’s past glory and its part in the development of the colony’s golden wealth. While in town they were to visit certain sites of interest to the script, the first being the stockade where the miners fort a short battle with the military and a building, now a private residence, that was believed to be the writer’s inspiration for Logan and Chance’s hotel.

“What do you think?” Taylor says as they enter their room, spying the iron beds and the ancient wardrobe, not forgetting the antique washstand supporting a jug of water with matching washing bowl and porcelain soap container, even the soap had the air of antiquity.

“In a word I would say primitive.”

“There is power for lighting but no television, not even a socket to plug one in,” Taylor approaches the washstand, “water,” he says while thinking of how the mornings shave would be managed.

“Don’t worry there are modern facilities down at the end of the passage, although after seeing in here, I dare to think what will be meant by modern, possibly be a bucket to piss in.”

“Well Logan, which bed do you prefer?”

Alun smiles at the title, “I don’t mind Chance; either suits me.”

“If we are getting into character then we should put them together.”

“I don’t think we should go that far into character,” Alun firmly negates.

Taylor expresses humor.

“I’m not sure you were joking,” Alun says.

“I guess I was.”

Alun tries the bed, “at least the mattress is modern. I wasn’t looking forward to kapok or horsehair stuffing on a roped frame.”

“Or straw,” Taylor agrees, “so how are we going to handle this weekend?”

“Tonight a meal and a couple of beers will do for a start. Possibly chat up a few of the local chics.”

“And you a married man Alun,” Taylor jests.

“Not yet.”

“Have you put the question to Jillian?”

“In a roundabout way but she doesn’t appear interested, she said give it a couple of years and see how it turns out.”

“That to me seems like a brush-off.”

Alun ignores Taylor’s inference. “What of you Taylor, have you someone, or are you playing the field?”

“No one a present.”

“Strange.”

“What is?”

“There isn’t a thing that Logan and Chance didn’t know about each other and with us playing their parts; I hardly know anything about you. Even after some weeks of working together.”

“You only need to ask Alun.” Taylor’s response is soft but firm.

“You may regret giving me permission.”

“Why so? I don’t have anything to hide. Have you?”

Alun disconnects from furthering the subject of their limited acquaintance, “come on it’s getting late and I want to try that little Vietnamese restaurant we passed at the corner near that old bank building.”

A late rise then after breakfast the boys are ready to adhere to Barrington’s wishes for them to visit the Stockade, although after referring its position with the novel and what was suggested in the tourist pamphlet left in their room, there was nothing but confusion.

“You do know how to find the stockade,” Taylor asks as Alun puzzles over the pamphlet.

“I thought I did; but going by this I’m not so sure.”

“What appears to be the problem?”

“The author; and I suppose he did research, says it is between Stawell and Queen Streets; this has it further away and in a park now holding the Eureka Tourist Centre – and there are photos.”

“Photos of what?”

Alun offers Taylor the tourist guide.

“I don’t see the stockade in any of the photos,” Taylor admits.

“Then we should go and have a look for ourselves but it has been about a hundred and seventy years and seeing the stockade was erected from logs and bits of timber they found about, I would think there would be much left anymore.”

It was a long walk from their hotel to Eureka Park although the time passed quickly as there were many grand colonial buildings to be seen along the way, giving the impression the city was locked in a time capsule of Victorian splendor. Arriving at the park they weren’t surprised to find it had been turned into what could only be explained as a theme park, developed for the tourist industry and those who wanted only a passing glimpse, giving the ability to take photos and brag about their visit.

Inside the pavilion were many exhibits and mock-ups of diggers panning for the elusive yellow metal and reproductions of posters from that time, even a replica of the two thousand two hundred ounce Welcome Nugget, but it was the remnants of the Eureka flag, on loan from a local art gallery for an exhibition on Victoria’s Golden Days that captured the most of the boy’s interest.

“What do you think,” Taylor asks.

“I’m impressed; and to think it has survived for all this time.”

“We stand as one below the Southern Cross,” Taylor says.

“What is your meaning?”

“Weren’t they the words Peter Lalor used during the lead up to the rebellion?”

“Reported as such but seeing there wasn’t any recording equipment back in those days and no six o’clock channel nine news hour; I would say they could have been misquoted. Possibly his actual words may have been – lads what do you reckon? Let’s go get the buggers and then off to the pub.”

“You are the eternal pragmatist Alun.”

Unnoticed by the lads was their observation from an old man who after giving them enough time to ponder over the flag, quietly approached.

“Do you young fellows know what that tattered remnant stands for?” he asks.

The boys turn from the flag without giving an answer.

The old man shuffles a little and points towards the flag, “My Great, great grandmother helped to stitch one of the stars and Great Granddaddy was killed during the following battle.”

Alun shows surprise and stands back from the glass casing protecting the flag, “really!” he utters.

“No one is interested these days and take it all for granted.” The old man pauses then draws a ragged breath through his unkempt whiskers as he rearranges his threadbare shirt and hat. He removes the hat and runs his long sinewy fingers through his thinning gray hair.

“I find your story interesting,” Alun says, allowing the ancient storyteller to continue.

“It was long ago but I once had a small patch of that very flag kept by my great grandmother. The flag was removed after the battle by the Governor’s men although not before parts of it had been cut away. Later the flag was used as evidence during a trial brought against Peter Lalor and some of his committee, charging them with insurgence and assembly under a flag other than that of the Empire.” The old man pauses and takes a catching breath, “it was to be flag of the republic of Victoria and as you would know it now flies over the entire country.”

“The national flag is different,” Taylor corrects.

The old man inverts Taylor’s correction, “In design lad I agree, although still the Southern Cross.”

“We have been given the task of finding the actual spot where the battle occurred,” Taylor says.

“You and many others have attempted that.”

“So we will have to accept what we have been told,” Taylor exhales in disappointment.

“Not so young man.”

“Why do you say that?”

“If you come outside I will show you something but you will need to be patient, my old legs don’t move quickly these days.”

Once outside it takes a little time for their eyes to adjust to the strong sunlight then the old man lifted his hand to shade his eyes and directs with the other. His finger pointing midway between a copse of trees and a rusted metallic wall surrounding a replica of the Eureka flag, “have you visited the Eureka memorial at the other end of the park?’ he questions.

“Not as yet,” Alun admits.

The old man laughs.

“Is there a problem?” Alun asks.

“Its position isn’t correct.”

“So where was the stockade?”

It was true the monument for those killed in the early morning attack on the stockade was well designed with its plinth, ancient cannonade and roll-call for those killed. It was also a fitting representation but even in the tourist guides it was agreed the actual site had been lost forever and the suggested site was as close as anyone could consider.

“My grandfather told me it was across the road over to the left and off by a couple of hundred yards and when he was a boy, part of the barrier still remained.”

“Have you tried to correct the mistake?”

“Those in authority will always believe what suits them best and possibly not knowing offers a little mystique to the event.”

“I was under the impression it was atop a hill?” Taylor says.

“The hill was lowered to take an extension to the Melbourne road; they also remove a second bend and that bend was reported to be closest to the stockade.”

Taylor appears to drift from the old man’s telling and turns away, “I’ll leave you to your history lesson Alun, I have to make a couple of calls and I left my mobile back at the hotel.”

“Here, use mine,” Alun offers up his mobile.

“No, I’ll go back and get mine. I may have messages,” he then gives appreciation to the old man, “thank you sir. I’ve enjoyed your story but things to do.”

Alun watches after Taylor as the narrator ends his memories being interrupted by the calling of a number of noisy minor birds protecting their nest from a persistent crow.

“I should leave you to your exploring,” the old man wheezes the words into the still morning air.

“Sorry I was thinking of what needs to be done over the following days.”

“What is your work lad?”

Alun is about to explain but because of the stranger’s knowledge of that part of the movie relating to Ballarat, he decides to lie, “I help out on a property near Buninyong.”

The old man appears satisfied then with a slight nod of the head he concludes; “as I said I will leave you to your exploring.”

Alun eyes follow as the old man shuffles away towards town. Once alone he decided to continue his exploration of all that was the rebellion. Firstly it was a visit to the memorial to those who perished during the early morning attack on the stockade. To one side Alun finds the well marked graves of the troopers. As for the rebels there was a common unmarked grave believed to be in the general area but at least their names were represented on a plaque. As an addition to the list of names it stated the number could be greater, as friends may have removed bodies for private burial before the military could take a count.

Further along the Eureka trail Alun discovered the site of Bentley’s Hotel, also Bakery Hill where the miners had their meetings and raised the standard of the Southern Cross. He found them interesting but it was the fictitious site of Logan and Chances hotel from the novel he found most intriguing. To his surprise the nineteen fifties fibro bungalow erected on the spot held an historic marker, declaring it to be the site of the Golden Mile Hotel, although not the name given to Logan’s hotel at least once there had been a public house on the site.

‘So the author did base the boy’s hotel on an actual building,’ he thinks while seated on the grass verge across the road from the house, his knees uplifted and comforted by his interlocking arms.

Alun sat watching the house for some time visualizing the old hotel with the surrounding diggings. Now all that remained of the once pitted landscape were geometrically designed streets and houses with manicured lawns and English gardens of roses and camellias that grew well on the uplands around Ballarat.

‘What would Logan think of all this?’ Alun thinks.

‘Nothing as Logan is fictitious.’

‘Yet I must get into his fictitious mind.’

A deep breath:

“If only,” he softly exhales.

‘If only I was a better actor,’ he thinks but immediately challenges that thought, ‘no if only I was more spontaneous and like Taylor I didn’t have to use so much energy to get the required result.’

Alun commences to focus his energy on Logan as a hotel keeper, although that part of the filming wouldn’t be for some time. He brings to mind the old man’s telling and associates the name of Peter Lalor to that in their script; he also attempts to imagine Logan and Chance running their hotel. Then for no obvious reason the question of sexuality rises and again he feels uncomfortable with the part of Logan. Taylor appeared at ease with Chance but Alun held firm to his fear of being typecast into future gay roles. What would his father think once the movie had been released, as there would be no way of hiding it from him? It was also too late to pull out as he had been contracted, receiving a generous retainer with ongoing.

‘It’s your life,’ Alun quietly reflects.

‘What does it matter what people think – what do I think?’

‘I think I should get on with it and enjoy the ride.’

Alun closes down his reflections and moves on.

Pausing at the site of the Colonial Catholic Chapel Alun is overcome with forebode as emotion began to rise from his gut, manifesting in his thinking without words only as a deep seated sensation of panic. He gazes about and can hear the cries of miners, their laughter; their curses and for a moment, only a single moment, he felt Logan McGregor inside him and for that moment he was Logan and in love with Chance.

‘Taylor,’ he thinks.

‘What of Taylor?’

‘Have I feelings for Taylor?’

“Alun stop it!” he loudly growls and forces it all from his thoughts.

“What’s wrong with me?” he questions.

Alun’s words are drowned out by a passing truck, “It’s the part and it is beginning to take over.”

Alun quickly gazes about and everything appears to be normal but somehow the thought of owning his own destiny had embedded into his spirit and although shaken he felt resolve.

Alun moved away from the chapel’s site back towards town and his hotel room, when his concern is taken away by the vibration of his mobile telephone in his pocket.

Alun quickly answers.

“Hello,” his voice arrives shaken.

“What’s wrong?” Taylor asks while sensing Alun’s gruffness.

“Sorry nothing – what’s up?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m about to come back.”

“There is a party tonight and we are expected to be there.”

“What’s it for?”

“There are some more of the cast arriving and they want us to get acquainted, also Simon has arranged extra riding lessons for later this afternoon.”

“I thought we had another night here in town?”

“It’s been cut short.”

“Never mind, I think I’ve seen enough anyway.”

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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