Wayne was more than capable of cleaning his own apartment but Mavis Bevin’s name came up in conversation along with the fact that she had been abandoned by her husband, leaving her with three small children and was having financial difficulties. He thought of advancing a gift of money but she was an independent proud woman and doing so may be misconstrued as charity.

Checking his answering machine, he found one stored message. “Louise,” he thought as he nervously retrieved the message, receiving first a lift in hope, then a measure of disappointment at the thought of losing his newly gained freedom. It wasn’t Louise.

“Mister Jenkins, it is Miss. Fairchild and I was wondering if you could have someone take a look at my rear door. It isn’t closing properly and there are a number of undesirable backpackers about town.” Her voice came sweet and hopeful.

“Silly cow I’ve fixed it.” He checked the message date and found it had been made before his visit to Yungaburra. “Forgiven,” deleting the message he reached for the telephone. Picking it up he replaced it as quickly, “you were going to ring Louise.” He growled at himself.

“No Wayne my boy, it is up to Louise to contact you and that was her decision.”

“Maybe I should call and enquire if she is alright.”

“I could ask her how the party at Roslyn and Barry went.”

Wayne laughed, “I bloody know how it went, the same as the last one, booze, drugs and sick. I don’t even like Roz or Barry, so why ask?”

Releasing a sigh into the solitude of his apartment he unpacked his overnight bag, throwing his dirty clothes into the washing machine. “Another thing Wayne Jenkins,” he spoke loudly, “if you’re going to keep talking to yourself then get a dog, at least it would appear as if it was listening.”

As for his apartment, truthfully it did appear somewhat solitary since their split, even if Louise seldom stayed more than once a week, almost guaranteeing sex, while leaving his hand to wander with that memory on other nights.

Wayne looked around the lounge thinking there was something missing, and then entering his bedroom he realised that Louise had been over and had removed her belongings, leaving her key on the bedside table, where it lay without even a good bye note.

“How did she know I wouldn’t be here, she hadn’t telephoned?” He rubbed the back of his head.

“Of course, the car was gone.”

“Then Wayne my boy, this looks like the end of a good thing going,” he sighed loudly while attempting to come to terms with the obvious permanency to their split.

“Oh well, it appears Jack has enforced his influence.”

“If she was so easy swayed, then maybe it all wasn’t worth it.”

It wasn’t the first time Louise had returned her key after some spat. Usually there was more drama in doing so and after a cooling period came the telephone call, hello lover what are you doing tonight? This time the key return appeared to be less dramatic and somewhat permanent.

The cleaning lady had placed a number of mail items on the lounge coffee table, mostly advertising fliers and share conformation, while at the bottom was an envelope headed J. Alexander and Co.

‘Bad news,’ Wayne thought and quickly opened the envelope. He read its contents. Moderate news was the answer as he had been chosen by the taxation department to supply all receipts for his last return. ‘No worries,’ He sighed in relief as John Alexander, his accountant, had all the necessary documentation. If nothing else Wayne was meticulous when it came to holding receipts and documents, going as far as running a computer file with amounts, purpose and receipt numbers, all backed up by hard copy.

More news and gratification, his earnings for the quarter had increased by almost ten percent, at a time when the average was less than five. Filing the correspondence he fixed a drink and slumped into his couch. “I should go on a spending spree.” Deep discerning thoughts as he stirred the ice cubes into his drink with his finger, bringing about a measure of gratification, ‘that is for you Jack,’ he thought and gave it one more stir, loudly clunking the cubes against the side of the glass.

‘What do I need?’

‘Clothes – no,’

‘Sound equipment – I don’t think so;’ a loud huh while realising there wasn’t anything he wanted, maybe a root but he wasn’t in the habit of paying for sex. There was that one time while walking along Bunda Street in Cairns. She was pretty, he was young and it was offered at a fixed price. It took all his will to resist temptation, only saved by having an empty pocket at the time. Wayne laughed at that thought and swallowed the remainder of his drink, besides most of his expenditure went on entertaining Louise, restraints, clubs and buying her ever more expensive gifts. As for self, there wasn’t anything he wished for. “What happened to my hedonistic lifestyle,” he mumbled, ‘I guess it was always a mirage, something to keep Louise entertained, oh well,’ he concluded.

Twice the telephone chirped but by the time he answered the line was dead. His first impression was Louise, then he believed it may have been Ralph and possibly with some problem with his Italian neighbour. On the third call he quickly answered.

“Hello!” Wayne barked aggressively into the receiver.

“Mister Jenkins?” A foreign woman – the accent appeared to be Indian yet her English was faultless, maybe a little too so to be from Australia. She would have to be from some overseas call centre on a scam. Such calls had of late become a nightly occurrence and many fell for their ploy, giving personal information that caused much grief. Wayne was not so naive.

“Yes that is correct,”

“My name is Leah and I represent Telstra, we are having some difficulty with your internet connection.” The caller appeared sincere and clued on telecommunications but there was one underlining error on her behalf.

“You are?” Wayne sarcastically asked.

The sarcasm was either overlooked or not understood, “yes, is your computer switched on?”

“Not at the moment, what appears to be the problem?”

“If you switch on your computer and go into administration I will guide you.”

“We have an even greater problem there.” Wayne calmly admitted.

“What would that be Mister Jenkins?”

“I’m not with Telstra. I think you are a crook.” Wayne snapped into the receiver only to be answered by a sharp click, then silence.

“You bitch, stop wasting my time!” To no avail the line was once again dead. Only last week a caller professed to represent the electricity company, admitting he had been overcharged by almost a thousand dollars and all he needed to do to redeem the money was to supply his bank account details so it could be deposited. That caller received much bad language and cut the call before half his foul words had been excreted.

Almost two weeks had passed and Wayne had not heard from Louise, not even to advise she had returned his key. Gradually the walls of the unit appeared to close in, crushing his existence into a negative puddle of self pity, while his only outing was a visit to the supermarket and the post office to pay a number of accounts and to his accountant to draw up the new rental contract for Sophie Fairchild, his Yungaburra tenant.

The only telephone call, excepting the prank computer lady, was a woman attempting to sell him solar panels, to which he hung up without speaking, while thinking he should not have done so as it would have at least been someone to talk to. Now the instrument waited silently in its cradle like some listless bird that had lost its tune.

Since meeting Louise most of Wayne’s friends were through her introductions and the small group previous to their relationship were single males from his youth and girls on casual sleepovers. Somehow in the scheme of things when single, you have single friends and when in a relationship, friends seem to be couples, while to take the equation to a more convoluted level, couples without children don’t mix with couples with children and couples with houses don’t mix with couples with units. The latter being Louise’s prognoses and it seemed to tally with one exception, when alone there is no one.

Wayne appeared to be once again single, believing everyone had taken Louise’s side and had abandoned him. As for the acquaintances before Louise, they had moved on and re-contacting them may appear to be a sign of desperation, besides most had been snubbed by Louise as underlings to her lifestyle and seeing Wayne was with her, he would need to move in more sophisticated circles.

“I’ll take a trip.” Wayne resolved while reading the travel section of the Cairns Post, “Europe.” He folded the paper to the coffee table and relaxed back into the couch. His hands coupled behind his head, his gaze fixed on his image reflected on the balcony window glass which appeared as distorted as his mood. Standing Wayne drew the curtains against the evening traffic. “That would be running away.” He thought and reaching for his car keys deciding to visit the local.

The Esplanade Bar was crowed, allowing Wayne to dissolve into its mood without detection. Ordering straight rum he found a table in a badly lit corner where he could sit undetected and observe the milling sea of humanity. Or so he thought.

“Hey Jenkins,” A hand reached and gave firm greetings to his shoulder. He turned.

“Michael.”

“Mind if I join you.”

“No go for it.” Wayne waved a hand towards the free chair, as the somewhat overweight young man dressed in a badly fitting grey suit and in desperate need of a haircut lowered himself into the seat.

“Hot,” The young man complained as he sat.

“It’s always hot.” Wayne answered.

Michael Grogan was in his mid twenties and had once been in a relationship with Louise some time before Wayne and his extra weight arrived. It had been a loose affiliation which ended almost as quickly as it commenced, leaving them as friends.

“Sorry to hear about you and Louise but it was bound to happen.” Grogan attempted sympathy. Wayne smiled weakly but didn’t answer unsure what Grogan may have heard. As far as Wayne knew, it was only a cooling but then there was the removal of Louise’s belonging from his apartment maybe that was the statement, a ‘dear John’ letter only Louise Miller was capable of penning and written in action rather than words, being dramatically executed without his presence.

“How’s work?” Wayne asked in an attempt to rescue any thoughts of his relationship failure away from Grogan.

Michael Grogan was another of those poor rich boys who stood in their father’s shadow without casting one of their own. He had been sent to University in Brisbane and had returned with an accounting degree, trained to run his father’s books at the family Brickworks, a position in which he took much pride, while continuously broadcasting its virtues as well as his own.

“Dad wants me to manage the business so he can travel.” Grogan declared proudly.

“That’s great.”

“Yes it should be a challenge; so you upset Louise’s old man?” Grogan asked bringing the conversation back to Wayne’s situation.

“To be honest with you Michael, Louise hasn’t even told me what’s going on, likely you know more than I do.”

“She doesn’t, I learnt through a friend when she broke it off with me. It’s that bloody old man of hers, he’s worse than the Mafia.” Grogan shook his head, “no he is the Mafia,” he enforced.

“I knew you were friends with Louise but didn’t realise you were once an item, she never said so.” Wayne faked surprise while delivering another lie.

“It was more a loose association I guess, we were young and couldn’t make up our minds until her father cornered me at some family celebration and told me to fuck off.” Grogan paused, “It was two days later a mutual friend let me know that I was dropped.” He laughed then realising Wayne’s situation displayed a more serious disposition. “She can be bad news that girl but a good friend.” Again Grogan realised his miss-choice of words, he recanted, “or should I say a good times friend, I only see her when she is down and there isn’t anyone else around offering a shoulder to cry on.”

‘Strange.’ Wayne thought as he didn’t know they ever met alone. What else was unknown about the girl he was supposed to marry? Were there others who serviced her fancy he knew not and sighed realising it no longer mattered.

One thing was certain, he hadn’t taken himself out onto the town to listen to Michael Grogan carry on about how successful he was, or continuously remind him how good a friend was Louise. Fortunately after a short period Grogan was called by one in a small group gathered by the bar having the look of young bankers or business executives and introduced to a tubby girl with long black hair and jeans that made her arse appear larger than it was. Soon the two were conversing like old friends.

Wayne lifted his glass to his eye and viewed the patrons through the distortion, thinking they looked better that way and after a few more they may even appear acceptable. Now Grogan and the girl with the big arse were conversing as if they had known each other for a lifetime. He relating about his work and how good he was at it, she about an office job and a boss who couldn’t keep his hands away from the female staff. If so, she obviously didn’t protest against Grogan’s hands as they were wandering all over her ample rear end. Then he kissed her.

Wayne laughed and shook his head as Grogan gave him an, ‘I’m in here tonight, kind of wave’. Wayne aimlessly waved back and collected his change from the beer splashed table.

“No good feeling sorry for myself.” He realised in a pitiful mumble.

“Getting drunk won’t help either.” He rebuke in a low voice. “There I go again, talking to myself.”

As Wayne departed Michael Grogan again appeared and offering his hand wished him well. “Don’t worry she’s not worth it, I should know,” he assured.

“I guess you should.”

“Got to go Leanne is getting drinks.”

“Sure thank you for the advice.” Wayne riposted sarcastically and departed.

Once again he was in the solitude of his unit attempting to convince the dull tightness in his chest he actually enjoyed being so. Why he could do anything, go anywhere at a whim, he could pack a bag and travel to the far ends of the earth but all the convincing possible couldn’t take away the obvious excess of his king size bed, the growing silence between the vivid white walls, or the mood lighting that gave no mood.

“Tomorrow,” Wayne softly spoke as he lay across his bed, “tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life.” He was not convinced but at that moment it was all he had to offer. He thought of Ralph and his uncluttered existence, yet the lad appeared happy? Or was it no more than a façade and there hid a sad underlying current within the lad he successfully excluded from those around? “Tomorrow,” Wayne repeated and turned out the light.

“Biff its Wayne Jenkins.” Wayne advised as he swallowed the dregs of his breakfast coffee. It was bitter, ‘did I add sugar? Obviously not enough to counter last night’s grog.’

“What’s up young fellow?” Biff answered roughly.

“I thought I’d come down for a while and would like to call on that lady you told me about.” “Molly McBride?” Biff advised.

“That’s her, is she okay for a visit?”

“Molly has been in hospital but she’s out now, I am sure she would love a visit.”

“I should be down tomorrow morning. I’ll call in on you first.” Wayne concluded then as he terminated the call he felt weight lift from his chest and a happy note was singing in his head.

On approaching the Federation Bay general store, Wayne spied, Biff on the footpath, straw broom in hand scattering windblown leaves back into the same breeze. As the swept leaves scurried down the footpath more arrived from up wind to take their place. Still she remained sweeping.

“Good morning young fellow.” She greeted as Wayne joined her, “What’s up?”

“You won’t win with those leaves and the wind.” Wayne laughed.

“I know but it passes the time of day, also I get to see what the locals are up to and you would be surprised who chances by. Come on I’ll put the kettle on.” Biff placed the broom inside the door and lead Wayne to an area behind the counter which doubled as a store room and kitchen.

“So you want to find out more about your family.” Biff asked, adding a teaspoon of instant coffee into each cup and a second into her own; “milk sugar?” she asked.

“Both please, yes of late the family has become most interesting as well as the McBride property, mainly because of a sign I found at the farm, also I found a cousin of Ralph’s with the same name as on the sign.” Wayne accepted the coffee and added more milk.

“What name would that be?” Biff asked offering biscuits. Wayne took two and continued.

“Henderson.”

“That name’s familiar but you best talk to Molly McBride, she’s the oracle on the town’s history.”

“Has Ralph been in?” Wayne asked helping himself to another biscuit.

“He was in yesterday and has changed so much since your last visit.”

“In what way would that be?”

“He seemed more confident and not as scruffy. Do you still have Molly’s address?”

“Yes.” Wayne patted his wallet then finished his coffee.

“Molly does all her own shopping you know.” Biff declared proudly of the old lady.

“How old is Molly?”

“Hard to say and Molly won’t tell you, she said she is naught but a slip of a girl and with her teeth in could pass for much younger.”

“Toothless, that would be a sight.” Wayne laughed while noting Biff’s similar condition.

“She’s as sharp as a pin mind you but of late it has become obvious she is fading.”

“If so, I think I’ll call in before going out to the farm.” Wayne suggested.

“It would be as good a time as ever.”

“Should I take her something?”

“In the past I would have suggested a bottle but since her last fall I believe she has sworn of the drink, she said it was but the devil himself in liquid form.” As Biff spoke she was interrupted from the shop.

“Hello anyone home?”

Biff poked her head beyond the string bead curtain separating her kitchenette from the shop. “Missus Palmer, I’ll be with you in a moment. Wayne followed out behind Biff. “Missus Palmer I don’t think you have met Wayne Jenkins, he is a McBride, Grace McBride was his great aunt,” Biff turned to Wayne, “your mother’s side wasn’t she.”

Wayne concurred.

The woman took a step back and searched Wayne’s face for likeness, “what did you say was your name son?”

“Wayne Jenkins.”

“No you are most definitely a McBride, I knew your Aunt Lucy well but only in her later years.”

“I have never met any of the McBride family and definitely no Aunt Lucy.” Wayne admitted.

“Lucy like Grace has now passed on, much a pity as there was a woman who knew the town’s history.”

“Wayne is on his way to visit Molly.” Biff expressed.

“Mister Jenkins don’t leave doing so too long, she is losing it fast.” The woman turned to Biff, “no fresh milk?”

“Should be here within the hour but I’ll give you a litre from my supply.”

“Molly is the keeper of the McBride secretes but be careful, let her tell you and don’t lead otherwise she may clam up.” The Palmer woman thanked Biff for the milk and instructed her to put it on her account. Turning back to Wayne, “yes you are a McBride that is for certain.”

“Oh Val, would you let Jane Longford know her package has arrived.” Biff called after the woman.

“I probably won’t see her until Sunday.” The woman answered.

“Never mind I’ll give her a call.” Biff turned to Wayne, “Be careful what you tell Val she has her nose and ears to everybody’s business,” Biff warned once the woman had departed.

“I don’t expect I will have much to do with her.”

“Never the less, you tell Val anything in the morning and it would be in Tully by the evening and in the Cairns Post the following morning.”

“I guess if I’m going to call in on Molly I better make tracks.” Wayne collected some chocolates.

“Have a sweet tooth eh?” Biff commented.

“They are for Ralph.”

“No it’s Mars bars he likes,” Biff handed two bars to Wayne, “they are on the house.”

It was a little past ten as Wayne approached the gate of twenty-one Tully Street. He had waited until after ten and brought a bottle of Gilbey’s Gin as Biff had originally suggested but remembering Molly’s fall and implied abstention, kept it from sight . Still he felt somewhat apprehensive as he slowly progressed along the pebbled pathway to Molly’s front door. He knocked without response. He knocked once more. There was movement inside, the sound of someone shuffling their way along the long dark passage.

“Who is it?” Molly’s voice croaked through the stain glass and lead light door illuminate.

“Wayne Jenkins, Biff at the shop suggested I should see you about a farm my Aunt Grace left me.”

“Yes I was told you were coming dear.” Molly said as she opened the door, “Come in I’ve put the kettle on.” Molly’s voice came weak and cracked as the door opened to advance the face of a short withered toothless old lady, whose hair, or what was left of it was long and grey and unkempt, while her frame had become quite stooped through passing time.

The house was dim and musty, smelling of stale air and old people. That same smell which lingers as death approaches, closing down one’s functions then leaking from every orifice.

“It was the Henderson farm you were enquiring about?” She asked as the kettle called her to the kitchen.

Wayne followed the old lady along the passage to a small kitchen at the rear, “I hope I’m not putting to any trouble,” he said.

“Not at all dear, I don’t have many visitors these days,” pausing at the kitchen door to catch her breath, “most of the old folks have gone; I guess it won’t be long before I am joining them.”

The dull lighting in the house was not helped by the placement of an over representation of furniture, all bulky and showing the strain of many decades of use. Most were covered with dusty rugs and shabby crochet antimacassar doilies, while surfaces were cluttered with keep-sakes of a forgotten past but Molly knew all their stories, kept safe in her memory to be called upon with fondness at will. She had often said when asked how lonely it must be in such an old house, ‘dear one can never be lonely with so many fond memories’.

Taking the kettle from the wood stove she filled the tea pot. “I still prefer a wood stove.” She admitted and placed the teapot onto a tray along with milk, sugar and two ancient cups and saucers. “They were my mother’s you know,” she offered referring to the tea cups, “but the teapot belonged to Lachlan, it was his mother’s.”

“They do look old Missus. McBride.”

“It is Miss dear. I never married but please call me Molly.” She attempted to lift the tray, “be a dear and carry that up to the front room for me.” She shuffled along behind Wayne and directed him to their seating, her preference an old club chair covered by a tattered quilted spread.

Once settled and with little effort she poured the tea; “help yourself to milk and sugar.”

“Thank you Molly.”

“Now it was the Henderson farm you wished to know about.” She spoke as she sipped at her tea, while her faded eyes appeared to search Wayne’s face for some spark of the past.

“No it was Grace McBride’s farm.” Wayne corrected but most interested why she had mentioned the Henderson farm.

“So lad, are you a McBride or a Henderson?” She asked.

“I am Jenkins but my mother was a McBride, so I guess I’m a McBride as well.”

“What was your mother’s name?” Molly asked.

“Silvia,”

“Silver the old lady repeated as she shuffled through her memory for a face to suit the name.

“Yes she was a McBride but married a Jenkins.”

“Yes my father, Len Jenkins.”

“Yes I remember now I was at their wedding, do you realise I am a distant relation to you dear.”

“I guessed so by your family name but why did you call it the Henderson farm?” Wayne asked.

“Well dear a long time ago it belonged to the Henderson family but after the original house burnt down and the bank reclaimed the property the family moved to Mareeba, it then became the property of Lachlan McBride,” she paused, “and others but that is a long story,” Molly added and with the happiness of memory she continued. “Did you know that Federation Bay was once known as McBride’s Point but on the eve of Federation the old man died in a cyclone and Lachlan McBride had the name changed?” Molly rattled her cup in its saucer and reached for an old hard covered book placed beside her on a reading table.

“Yes I did know it was once named after my mother’s family.” Wayne admitted recalling his conversation with Stephen Henderson, “I was told so recently,”

“Lachlan McBride purchased the farm at auction and handed back to Jack Henderson’s son but they lived there together. The Henderson boy was called Stephen.”

“Am I descendent of this Lachlan McBride?” Wayne asked.

“Heavens no, dear Lachlan never married you are descendent from his sister Martha, while we are both descended from Lachlan’s father on my father’s side, my mother’s lot were fresh from the old country.”

“That all appears somewhat confusing.” Wayne freely admitted, finding it akin to completing a giant jigsaw with many of the pieces missing.

“Yes the McBride family was quite large and diverse; there was even a bushranger but that was more folklore than fact, although Lachlan always admitted it to be so.

Molly opened the book and as quickly closed it. She continued; “the old man owned most of the land in this area including half the town but he wasn’t popular, more to the point he was hated.” Molly reopened the ancient book and again closed it, passing it across to Wayne. “Many of the old folk still hold Jock McBride responsible for the districts ailments and he has been gone for more than a hundred years, even if Lachlan made it right but others believe Lachlan was short of being a saint.”

“What about the Henderson family?”

“That my dear boy is a journal or if you wish, the diary of Lachlan McBride, your great – great uncle, it’s all in there. I was given it in safe keeping by Lachlan himself just before he died and seeing I won’t be around for much longer, I need to pass it on to the next generation.” There was a tear in Molly’s eyes as she passed the journal to Wayne, as if she was passing part of herself to an almost stranger.

“He was a dear man and much loved in Federation Bay and the saviour of the town. You most likely didn’t know it but it was Lachlan who changed the town’s name from McBride’s Point to Federation Bay,” she repeated proudly.

Wayne accepted the journal without opening it while Molly continued.

“There is something else, you may find Lachlan’s life different so please don’t judge him cruelly.”

“So the farm was owned by the Henderson family and not McBride?” Wayne asked.

“That my dear boy is not as simple as you make it and caused a great deal of dissention between Lachlan and his father, a rift that was never restored but in everybody’s belief Lachlan did what was right. The journal will explain.”

“I did find an old board with what appeared to be Henderson etched onto it,” Wayne shared.

“It was always known as the Henderson farm until your Aunt Grace came by it, Lachlan had that sign made at the time of purchase and it hung proudly above the front gate, possibly for no other reason than to infuriate the old man. It hung there for many years, until a wind storm blew it away.”

“So when did it once again become the McBride farm?” Lachlan asked.

“It’s all in the journal I think it best you discover it from the words of Lachlan, he explains it better than I could ever do so.”

More than two hours had passed before Wayne once again entered into the sunlight, holding the journal of his great uncle and with Molly’s help a better understanding of the McBride family but oddly he learnt very little about the so called Henderson farm or of Lachlan McBride’s personal life. That Molly promised as she bid him good day at the door, would all be explained in his journal, while again asking Wayne not to be judgemental on the past.

Let Gary Know that you are reading and what you think of his story. Drop an email to him: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net.

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