A sequel to ‘At the Turning’

Published: 31 May 2018

Even for Cairns the early December day was hot and sticky, while along the Esplanade only harden tourists braved the humidity during the wet, where children cooled in the water playground that substituted for a beach. The city of Cairns was built on an ancient mangrove swamp, positioned because Trinity Bay held the best harbour for a hundred kilometres in either direction north or south. The irony being, the best location for a port but the worst crocodile, mosquito infested mangrove, with the highest most insurmountable mountains in Queensland as a backdrop.

Cairns therefore had remained isolated from the fertile tablelands behind and the good cattle country further west, until the American army built the first true road during the Second World War, not out of generosity but necessity to supply the airfield and large contingent of troops stationed on the tableland. That was more than half a century past and since both Cairns and the tablelands had become a tourist destination with every modern convenience possible, equal, if not, surpassing most modern destinations.

There had been a road of sorts since the early years but if you wished to take carts or coaches into the hinterland, it had been necessary to go further north and travel through Cooktown, skirting those high mountains while adding hundreds of kilometres to the journey.

The closest sand beach to Cairns could be found some distance north of the city, across a wide river and its floodplain, where coconut palms grew at the verge of pristine white sand, leading down to warm tropical inviting waters.

Swim at your own risk, – such signs were prominently displayed on every beach, if the stingers didn’t get you the crocodiles would and cyclone season was stinger season, anytime was croc season.

The city’s waterfront, a semicircle of tidal mud flats retained behind a concrete and stone wall, with a wide apron of lawn and tropical trees but by no means could the lack of white sand and coconut palms be considered unsightly. Many a tourist sat at sunset and watched the mud crabs scurry across the tidal flats, while never coming close enough to be caught but best of all, when a tropical storm was brewing far out past the reef, bringing electrical displays surpassed by none and black ominous clouds that built and built, promising much but seldom delivering.

There was power in those storms and it could be felt surging through your blood, your veins, each molecule of tissue and with each clap of thunder your teeth rattled, with every strike of lightning you hair statically stood, while your body sweated profusely from every pore from the still humid air.

With a cooling sea breeze at night, it was uplifting to walk the length of the Esplanade, sample the bars and coffee shops, the souvenir sellers and be chilled by the scream of curlews as they courted and scratched for food along the wide grassy verge, obviously unperturbed by the passing humanity, or dogs straying from groups of drunken aborigines camped under stands of tropical palms.

Nightly those pristine lawns would become embassy and bedroom for a number of black souls, lost in a void between the old and the new, singing badly their mix of language and country songs and feeding their addiction to alcohol disguised within brown paper bags, while cursing all who chanced by.

Cairns was a pretty city, small on world standards, with a hundred and thirty thousand living on the narrow strip between sea and high mountains but considered a mega city to the locals. It was a clean green place and upwardly mobile with its international jetport bringing flight after flight, arriving from the south and the colder climates, from Asia expecting a tropical paradise and coral reef and from the United States, to marlin fish in the unspoiled tropical waters beyond the reef. In all accounts it was considered a tropical paradise with much to interest any visitor.

The afternoon breeze off the Coral Sea had failed and a tropical depression hung over the city like a wet woollen blanket, draining the strength from all. Far out to sea the first of the summer’s cyclone had formed, given the name of Harry but the Weather Bureau was certain Harry was heading south by south east, to play havoc with the islands of Vanuatu and not the continental Queensland coast. Besides Cairns had a natural weapon against most cyclones, being the high mountains behind and to the north and south. These majestic mountains acted as a barrier, dividing most storms in either direction but when one chanced along the narrow coastal strip those same mountains became a giant funnel, channelling the full force in a southern direction and capable of causing devastation in the highest order.

Inside the office of Travis, Davis and Coen the air conditioner had, like the afternoon sea breeze, also failed, while a ceiling fan hypnotically whirled above giving little relief, only a measure of annoyance from a warn bearing in the fan’s aging motor, clunk whir, clunk whir as it ineffectively rotated at a leisurely speed, clunk whir while moving hot air from one corner to another without supplying anything but mythical comfort.

It was a typical downmarket solicitor’s office, functional but little more. Brown furnishings, timber shelves holding volumes of legal manuscripts, more for display than the information they offered, being designed to forecast knowledge to all who ventured there.

In one corner was a solitary metal filing cabinet with three drawers alphabetically tagged, A to H, I to R and the bottom, S to Z, its centre drawer slightly ajar, displaying one large file, neither in nor out, as if waiting for attention.

It was the desk that captured first notice, being much too large for such a poky space, leaving little room to manoeuvre to the rear or sides, giving wonder how it managed to fit through the narrow office door or equally small window. Possibly disassembled and reassembled with the stratagem never to again be moved.

The fat balding man behind the book and document covered desk, puffed out his greeting as he offered his sweaty stubby hand, finger tips stained brown to almost black from nicotine, even into the fingernail quicks. His expressionless eyes, failed to agree with the weak smile from his haggard features, crowned by long strands of sandy to grey hair appearing more irritation than natural feature and styled by comb-over with the help of splayed fingers. There was a quiet urgency about the man’s manner as if at any moment his overworked heart may expire, even before the purpose for the mid afternoon meeting could be divulged.

Slowly smoking in a ceramic ashtray in the design of a naked woman, her legs suggestively wide, her face beaming with a happy smile, burnt a cigarette, adding to the already thick atmosphere in the room. The man took a deep breath attempting an insincere smile. It failed becoming more a sneer, then dissolved away to appear the pain from a peptic ulcer that, with the help from stress, bad food and too much alcohol, etched away a little more red-raw stomach lining. A half bottle of Mylanta strategically placed behind a small framed photograph of a woman with a harsh expression added belief to this condition.

“Stanley Travis,” the fat man introduced with the offered hand. “You would be Wayne Jenkins?” As he spoke he nodded in agreement to his deduction.

“Yes but what is this all about?” Wayne asked settling into the shabby leather sweat squelching seat, his legs stretching under the oversized desk, arms folded in defiant measure while placing his head quizzically to one side in anticipation, his expression one of bother rather than interest in why he had been summonsed.

“I hope I haven’t taking you from your work,” the solicitor apologised making small talk as he built towards the business in hand.

“Not at all Mister Travis, I am a man of leisure, my time is mostly my own.” Wayne arrogantly informed, emphasizing mostly.

“I’m afraid I am not so privileged.”

“I guess that’s the way of things.” Wayne answered somewhat whimsically, feeling there was a measure of envy in the man’s tone, also laziness about his character. An opinion brought about by the untidiness of his office, the man’s loose tie and the protrusion of a hairy fat belly forcing its way through his sweat stained shirt with the slightly frayed collar.

“Are you between jobs?” Travis enquired.

“No.” Wayne simply answered, not wishing to oblige the man with his private business.

“I see,” Travis concluded realising that polite conversation had dried. He searched his desk for the required documents and found them confused with the conveyancing for a house in Holloways Beach and an invitation to join some exclusive club, whose annual fees were more aligned to the debt of some small Pacific Island nation than the affordability of his wallet.

“Well,” Travis spoke collating the pages of the document and tapping them to straight on the desk top.

“I may not work during the day Mister Travis but I do have another appointment this afternoon.” Wayne announced with as much politeness his impatience would allow.

“Right then Mister Jenkins so down to business.” The familiarity had drained from the solicitor’s tone, again he tapped the pages before laying them flat on the only space his desk could provide; he reached for his spectacles and placed them low on the bridge of his nose, clearing his throat he commenced to silently read, leaving Wayne anxious awaiting reason for his visit, believing whatever it may be, it surely could have been executed with a simple telephone call.

At twenty-one Wayne Jenkins was on his way towards wealth beyond even his understanding. Firstly he had inherited from his parents, whose death came during his early teens when their vehicle was struck by a semitrailer, while travelling the Bruce Highway some distance south of the city. After being taken in by his Grandmother, she also departed from simply old age the day after his twenty-first birthday, leaving him a generous portfolio of shares and more property.

Now almost a year had passed since his grandmother’s demise, yet the dimension of his acquired wealth had not become apparent. To Wayne Jenkins, all this meant nothing, he was engaged to the most socially acceptable girl Cairns could provide and life was progressing though the dress circle of the Cairns society at a steady pace, while with his intended in-law’s help he was accepted most anywhere.

Louise Miller was a year younger than Wayne but in some ways at least a decade less mature with a nature that needed constant control. This trait Louise inherited from her father who had already set the date for their wedding and created the guest list, even going as far as choosing the best man. Leaving only the destination for the honeymoon to be decided, even this Wayne was assured would come with the old man’s wedding package.

To Wayne this was fine, what family he had was so distant they became nothing more than a blur of archaic recollections. One of cousins names without faces, uncles without character and aunts without marriage certificates.

In his youth every woman was an auntie, it only took a good joke and a few drinks for someone to become his mother’s best friend and during those early years she had many. There were also a number of unrelated uncles, creating a valid reason for his father to move from the family home.

It was during a visit to their family solicitor to arrange a divorce and sharing of the family’s wealth, when the accident occurred. Some said it wasn’t an accident at all but suicide, with the possibility his father aimed their Holden station wagon at the semitrailer. It had been a clear day and the straight section of road lacked burnt rubber from breaking, even so the death certificates declared it to be death by misadventure.

Now even the memory of his parents had faded and when Wayne closed his eyes he could no longer picture their faces and if it were not for a single photograph provided on his eighteenth birthday by his grandmother, they would have been lost from his memory forever.

In the early years there were happy days, filled with laughter and parties and card nights lasting long into the morning. As a boy Wayne would sneak from his bed and stretched upon the cool linoleum of the hall floor, becoming engrossed in the social antics as the game progressed, listening to the banter and scandal and hearsay as well as Sylvia’s bawdy humour to which Len, his father, would quietly discourage, with a simple throat clearing or tut-tut.

Where is your sense of humour? Sylvia would complain but all she received would be a gentle shaking of the head or a deep breath of discontent, yet for many years the tolerant man forgave for the sake of the boy.

With quiet aspiration Wayne remembered those nights, laying face down on the cool of the linoleum, elbows to the floor and head gently resting in open palms as the conversation developed. Len knew his son was there and occasionally issued a smile and a wink, while others gave him banter as they made their way to the kitchen for more beer.

From the coolness of the linoleum he learnt what a trick was, how to euchre one’s partner and about bowers. He liked the sound of the words and the atmosphere in which they were uttered concluding life was but a party of card games.

Such nights became the building blocks for the lad’s social fabric. Len I didn’t know you bought yourself a new puppy would be suggested with a ruffle of hair as one passed Wayne by. Yes and he should be in his basket and asleep, Sylvia would imply without enforcing her requirement.

Wayne also remembered such times as his puberty arrived, the card nights had gone as had the parities, replaced by the knowledge his father had moved out and Uncle Mal had arrived to comfort his mother, then after being sent to his room, the house would become quiet except for a soft murmur and the gentle closing of his mother’s bedroom door. There was also Uncle Stan and on his thirteenth birthday Uncle Reg.

It was not long after the arrival of Uncle Reg; Wayne’s father returned to the family home and took Wayne for a drive, explaining he was divorcing his mother. He also assured it wasn’t Wayne’s fault and he still would have a father and could come and stay with him and Elsie whenever he wished to do so. Now it appeared he was to have unrelated uncles with his mother and aunts with his father.

“Could you show me a driver licence?” Travis softly determined. His fat hand belly up to receive Wayne’s identification, even if doing so was somewhat unnecessary as Travis knew well of the lad even if he had never been introduced.

“These days you can never be too cautious,” he added while scrutinising the identification of his client. “Twenty-One;” Travis commented somewhat enviously.

“I was earlier in the year, what is this all about?” Wayne asked once again as he replaced the licence back in his wallet next to a photograph of Louise, taking his mind away from the swelter of the solicitor’s office, to the previous night and the heat of her body between his cooling sheets. Wayne quickly closed the wallet and recrossed his legs, avoiding the rise which came with the thought of her nakedness.

“Do you know a Grace McBride?” Travis asked, once again scanning the document which lay before him on the desk top, subconsciously flicking the dog-ear at its corner. Lifting his lazily smoking cigarette from between the ceramic naked legs of the ashtray Travis drew deeply from it, allowing the ash to fall across his protruding belly. Flicking the ash to the floor he exhaled the smoke.

Wayne gave a light cough of disapproval, “yes I do know Grace – why?”

“Sorry,” Travis hollowly apologised.

“I don’t smoke.” Wayne gruffly admitted.

“No, I should give it up as well, it’s a dirty habit.” Yet the man took another draw before butting the remainder onto the ceramic breasts in the ashtray.

“As for Grace I haven’t seen her for many years but she is an Aunt of mine – a great aunt on my mother’s side I believe.” Wayne answered remembering the ancient maiden aunt his family occasionally visited on a property somewhere near Tully but that was when he was a child and all he could remember of her was the old woman smelt of stale piss and lavender water and made wonderful cakes and homemade lemonade, while fussing over him to great lengths.

There were other cousins who visited the old lady over those almost forgotten Christmas holidays but it was always Wayne she preferred and lavished him with presents and hot kisses.

“Was my friend, she is now sadly departed but she was a good age.” Travis solemnly declared as he once again returned his gaze to the document before him, while smoothing imaginary wrinkles from its surface.

“What has that to do with me?” Wayne asked attempting to read the reversed document.

“It appears Mister Jenkins you are her closest living relative and she has left you her house and a small parcel of land but no accessible money, what little there is will go towards outstanding accounts and fees.”

“Not another bloody house. Besides as I recollect from when I was a kid it was old and musty,” Wayne answered displaying a measure of disappointment with the news.

“That may it be but it is now yours to do with as you wish, along with about four hundred acres of land attached to it.” Travis passed the will across the table to settle correct way around in front of Wayne. He commenced to read the document but was interrupted.

“There is only one caveat and that is an Aboriginal camp attached to the land, although it is part of the title it is held in trust and cannot be sold, so if the rest of the property is sold then one hundred acres on the title will revert to the Gulngai tribe.”

“Who the hell are the Gulngai?”

“They are a group of natives that once lived between here and Tully.”

“Do the blacks live at the camp now?” Wayne asked as he read the paragraph on native title. It was short and to the point and most definitely deciding their ownership.

“Na they are all up here at Yarrabah now or drunk down on the Esplanade but that doesn’t change the deed.” Travis ironically laughed while lighting up another cigarette. Drawing deeply he blew a haze of blue smoke towards the ceiling fan and away from his client. It rose with the heat to dissipate within the downward blast of hot air. Wayne finished reading the document and passed it back without showing any level of joy in its contents.

“So young fellow what are you to do with the property?” Travis enquired, more as a lead away from the mundane servicing of the will than out of interest in the property there in, although the man did have an alternate reason for his question.

Wayne shook his head sending his long hair into a dance with its curled ends appearing like gentle waves across his forehead.

“Sell it I suppose – I’m no farmer.” He sighed.

“I don’t think it is farming land but from what I understand would be good for running cattle.

“Then for sure I’ll sell it.”

Travis nodded his head slowly in agreement. “There is one other thing young Mister Jenkins, that unit of yours fronting North Esplanade, I have a friend interested in purchasing it, as he has family living in that building.”

“Oh it’s not for sale Mister Travis,” Wayne answered wondering how Travis knew of his property, “but there is already one on the same floor that is for sale,”

“Yes I know of that unit, number seven and it is on my books but it has only one bedroom, yours has three. Pity as I could get you a good price.”

“How do you know about my unit?” Wayne asked.

“Ah, I also have a Real Estate licence and my property is in the next street to you, so if you have need for conveyance on the farm or the unit.” Travis handed Wayne his business card and stood to end their transaction. “Time is money,” he declared nodding towards his next appointment, a man in a heavy woollen suit wearing the serious expression of forboden while waiting beyond the glass panelled door to the solicitor’s office. On catching Travis’ eye the man attempted to smile but failed, he stood and approached the office door.

Wayne accepted the card and placed it in his wallet next to a contained condom, its obvious outline had forced through the thin leather of the wallet. He smiled thinking that the placement was most appropriate – one screw to another, as even in his short life he had come to mistrust solicitors and real estate agents, in Stanley Travis he had both.

Travis bid Wayne good morning while reminding him of the interests in his unit then showed him out by placing his hand in the small of Wayne’s back as he directed him from the office, one extra annoyance for Wayne being a business man who found it necessary to put their point across by touch.

“Please come in Mister Reynolds, I’m afraid I have some distressing news for you.” Travis expressed as he ushered the man in the woollen suit into his office and closed the door behind.

“Good morning Mister Jenkins.” The chirpy secretary with sweat stained armpits greeted as he passed by her desk, “it’s rather warm today.”

“Somewhat,” Wayne nodded and forced a smile as her long red artificial fingernails in quick succession struck the keys of her word processor. She returned his smiled but Wayne wasn’t in the mood for idle conversation. Nodding once again he bid her good day and departed.

Once beyond the office of Stanley Travis Wayne allowed his thoughts to wander back to Grace McBride and her four hundred acres. ‘What would that be in hectares?’ he had learnt about acres during his school days and many within the farming community still preferred to uses that terminology. Quickly he calculated it to be around one hundred and sixty hectares but could not imagine the definition of his calculation in relation to land, while his memory of the property was manicured lawns, fruiting trees and pumpkin vines and of course chooks, there appeared to be dozens of them producing hundreds of eggs but common sense dictated otherwise.

Wayne remembered during those Christmas holidays it was his daily chore to collect the eggs in a large metal colander and count them into the kitchen container. There was also an old scruffy dog named Bill but he would be long gone and a cat that had one eye, while the joke being, with one eye you would never know if the cat was coming or going. It was many years before Wayne understood the humour composed for the dumb mangy animal and had often related the jest with little success. He also recollected the cat habitually delivered small live snakes and dead rats to Graces kitchen, until it took on one snake too many and was found dead beside the chicken run.

‘What was the cat called?’ Wayne could not recall, ‘bugger the cat, what am I going to do with a farm?’ he thought, ‘sell it I guess,’ his answer but what of the old woman, did he feel remorse, he thought not as he hardly knew his great aunt and why should she leave the property to him? Surly there were more deserving relations, he had uncles on property and cousins who worked property, why leave it to him without a miniscule of understanding of farming or the land? A deep sigh and a decision at some future time he would at least visit the property and realise its value.

Reaching his vehicle Wayne retrieved his mobile telephone and made a call.

“Louise it’s me.”

“No I’ve only just left the solicitor’s office; I’ll be home in ten minutes.”

“Sure come around.”

“I’ll tell you all about it then.”

Wayne quickly drove the short distance to his unit and while parking noticed Louise had already arrived, parking her mother’s Mercedes in his allotted parking space, grumbling towards her action he parked on the street.

Once inside he found Louise helping herself to his drinks cabinet.

“What’s your poison lover?” She offered adding ice to her drink.

“I’ll have a beer.”

“You’re out of beer.”

“Then I’ll have rum.”

“It will be scotch, don’t you ever do shopping and I used the last of the ice, don’t you ever refill the trays?”

“Shopping is woman’s work.” Wayne portrayed with a measure of annoy.

“You have a cleaner, why can’t you get her to bring in? Our cleaner does mum’s shopping also fetches the dry cleaning and does bill paying.”

“I hire the woman to clean not to be my servant.”

“You pay her by the hour, so why not utilise her.”

“I’ll go to the bottle shop later.”

“I had a call from Stella this morning; she wants to know when we’re coming up.” Louise incidentally placed within the conversation.

“I hadn’t thought of it.” Wayne mumbled as he prepared a drink.

“You do know she and Peter are travelling soon.”

“I know. Why don’t you go up to Port Douglas, you can drive my car?”

“What about this clandestine meeting of yours?” Louise asked, ignoring Wayne’s suggestion as she sprawled across most of the leather chesterfield and kicked off her shoes, her short skirt rising to flaunt, drawing Wayne’s attention. “My feet are killing me, how about a foot massage.”

“Not at the moment, why wear heels during the day.”

“Fashion lover, one must be seen to be well dressed at all times.”

“I don’t bother.” Wayne grumbled.

“No dad said you arrive for Sunday’s dinner dressed as if you come from slopping out the pigs.”

“That’s a little unfair, I think I dress well.” Wayne protested.

“Of course you do but you must admit, you are a little countrified.”

“That is because I was brought up in the country.” Wayne objected to her insinuation.

“You were brought up with your Gran and she lived at Freshwater.” Louise contradicted.

“It was almost in the country then, besides before that.” Wayne argued.

“Never mind I wouldn’t worry about it.” Louise concluded needing to have the final word on any subject.

Once settled and in as few words as possible Wayne explained what he had discovered from his meeting with Stanley Travis. Louise listened without displaying interest until the mention of Federation Bay caught her attention. “Dad has some business associate down there,” she added to the conversation.

“Oh,” Wayne finished his drink.

“Some Italian named Verrocchi or something like that, I don’t think much of him he has wandering eyes,” she paused and gave up a light snigger, “also wandering hands.”

“I wouldn’t know I haven’t been down that way since I was a kid.”

“You never told me about your Aunt Grace.” Louise admitted.

“I guess I had all but forgotten her until today, besides she was my mother’s aunt and very old, even back then.”

“Was she rich?” Louise measured most people’s worth by the size of the bank balance or number of properties.

“Na, no money only the land but I guess she was rich in other ways.”

Wayne remembered the woman’s endearing character, her infectious smile also her unconditional kindness and she was always ready for a board game and how she cheated, or evening walks in the scrub and along the river near the swamp. How she would warn of stinging nettles, snakes in the long grass and by the water’s edge crocodiles and tell of Max, her first dog, a big black mong with a loveable character, being taken by a crocodile at the very spot Wayne liked to paddle.

Grace had loved that dog and often decreed it was better company than any man she had ever chanced to encounter. Her reasoning being it was loyal, kept away unwelcome strangers and never arrived home drunk and late for dinner. It was also described to be a perfect yodeller, being set off by the slightest sound, car horns, sirens other dogs, even music on the radio. It would sit mid floor in the kitchen yodelling, while attempting to lick its privates concurrently. Grace enjoyed relating the animal’s toiletry habits and would laugh loudly at the telling, while if she happened to be present, Sylvia would become quite disgusted for relating such a bawdy account in front of the child.

“What are you going to do with this farm?” Louise asked.

“Good question, sell it I suppose, it isn’t of much use to me.” Wayne admitted as he attempted to bring to mind past holidays with his great aunt. He remembered how his father loved to escape to the farm but his mother, although related to Grace, held no sentiment towards the woman or her country ways, finding her isolation and simple living somewhat repugnant.

It was true there had been many happy memories but memories alone wouldn’t convince him to keep the farm as a going concern besides he knew nothing about farming.

“You could take up farming, grow spuds.” Louise laughed.

“I can see you as a farmer’s wife, up all hours, milking cows and no night clubs within a hundred kilometres, talking to farmer’s wives about the going price for sugar cane, the weather and who is expecting a kid, – and nowhere to wear your heels except in the cow paddock while dodging the shit,” he nodded towards the expensive shoes kicked unceremoniously across his floor.

“Bullshit Wayne.”

“It was your suggestion.” Wayne cut back.

“Still bullshit.”

“That reminds me Louise, where are we going to live after the wedding as your flat is much too small?” Wayne asked.

“I haven’t thought of it, dad will arrange something.”

“We could live here.” Wayne hopefully suggested, wishing to hold a miniscule measure of independence.

“I’ve told you before, I don’t like high rise living.”

“It’s only the second of four floors; you can hardly call it high rise.” Wayne disputed.

“Dunno we’ll see and as we are on the subject of the wedding, mum has been asking for your list so she can arrange the invitations.”

“There isn’t one.” Wayne shrugged.

“What about aunts and cousins, you have a number of them.” Louise was growing impatient with Wayne’s non-committal attitude.

“I haven’t seen any of them in yonks, besides they most probably wouldn’t come.” Wayne explained.

“What about friends?”

“Most are our friends and your mother would have already invited them.”

“There is your mate Rob and Terry Hopkins from your time living in Yungaburra?”

“Yea put them on the list but Terry’s gone roo shooting and is living somewhere near Charters Towers. I doubt he will be back in time.”

“And that girl you went out with before me. She should be invited.” Louise mockingly suggested.

“Her name was Colleen and you didn’t much like her, why would you wish her to come to our wedding?” Wayne asked.

“No reason, I thought she was still a friend of yours.”

“I haven’t seen her since living in Yungaburra, Louise I believe you are trying to be funny.”

Louise fixed another drink, “want a refill?” she offered.

“Not at the moment and I don’t think I wish to invite Colleen to the wedding, she wouldn’t come anyway, as for the list, I’ll leave it up to you.”

“Wayne when we’re married I hope you aren’t going to be so casual. I can’t do everything.”

“No I guess your parents will do most.”

A new novel from Gary Conder. Drop an email to him: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net.

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