A sequel to ‘At the Turning’

Published: 23 Aug 2018

The morning had been overcast and by midday the sky opened drenching everything with a quick tropical downpour, which once over brought out the sun, turning the country side into a steam bath and so many smells Wayne had long forgotten but most of all was the ripening cane bringing back memories of those long ago Christmas holidays with Grace.

“I love the smell of the country,” he admitted as he stood over the kitchen sink with the window wide. “It’s exactly how I remembered it as a kid. I would run about in the warm rain getting soaked, with Grace standing at this very spot laughing, until my mother called me inside and scalded me for dirtying my nice new city clothes.”

“You as a tearaway I can’t imagine.” Ralph teased.

“Leave him be Sylvia, he is having fun, Grace would say but no, my mother would have the last word and in I would come, to change into nice fresh city clothes and sit by the window watching the rain.” Wayne released an ironic grunt and turned from the view. “I guess we should make tracks before the rain returns.”

“Go where?”

“Two things Ralph my boy.” Wayne declared grabbing his car keys and hurried his friend out of the house.

“The first?” Ralph asked.

“We’re off to the cemetery.”

“Exciting, okay that’s the first, what’s the second?”

“You are going to start your driving lessons.” Wayne was assertive and offered Ralph the keys.

“Not today, besides I only agree to one thing at a time and I have already agreed to visit the cemetery.” Ralph laughed and raced Wayne to the car, placing himself into the passenger seat before Wayne could have him behind the wheel.

“Alright then tomorrow,” Wayne determined as he started the car.

“Tomorrow is another day.” Ralph argued, obviously unprepared to attempt to take driving lessons.

“Why don’t you want to learn to drive?” Wayne asked showing a measure of frustration towards his friend’s negative approach.

“What do you think we will find up at the cemetery?” Ralph answered disregarding Wayne’s question; “ghosts and old bones is my guess, or rows of stones gleaming in the afternoon sun like giant teeth.”

“Very poetical, I don’t rightly know maybe your ancestor’s grave, maybe other information, when they were born, died, you know the usual stuff they put on grave stones.”

At the gate they chanced upon Verrocchi standing hands on hips at the end of his first row of sugar cane but well inside his property line. “If looks could kill,” Wayne accessed.

“If so we would be heading for the cemetery in boxes and not a car,” Ralph affixed to the suggestion.

“Should I give him a wave?” Wayne boldly asked, instead kept his eye on the road and ignored his adversary and was hardly on his way before a car sped past him at speed.

“Idiot!” Wayne shouted after the speeding vehicle, feeling the vortex from its passing and so close they could have exchanged paint.

“He’s travelling fast?”

“That was Vince Verrocchi; I’d know his heap of shit anywhere.” Wayne complained as the speeding vehicle disappeared over the rise, “I guess he’s trying to prove he has balls. He’ll end up killing himself or some other poor bugger.”

Towards town some sense of justice was discovered. Vince’s old rusting Ford was pulled to the side of the road with the bonnet up and the motor smoking profusely.

“He’s cooked the motor!” Wayne laughed as they passed; “there is a god after all.”

“Should we stop and offer assistance?” Ralph suggested without conviction in his offer.

“I don’t think so, are you any good with motors, besides it’s only a couple of clicks back to their farm.”

“I agree, where is the cemetery?”

“Biff said the turnoff is this side of town just past the two-way, it’s called Rolley Road”

“Have you learnt anything about the Henderson’s in Lachlan’s journal?” Ralph asked as Wayne reached the two-way and turned into Rolley Road. He had never travelled in that direction before and found it somewhat hilly to begin with then after a steep climb through a small patch of rain forest on a poorly maintained stretch of bitumen, the terrain flattened out once again to become cane fields, which with the heat of the afternoon and the previous rain was pungent and sweet.

“No I have only read twenty pages or so and there are some hundreds, all freehand and difficult to read. I haven’t seen the name Henderson as yet,” Wayne eventually answered as he kept an eye out for the tip and cemetery turnoff.

“You watch for the turning, it is also the rubbish tip road,” he suggested but hardly had the words been uttered than Ralph cried; “missed it.”

Doubling back and discovering under the larger sign showing the direction to the tip, was a much smaller sign advising that it was also the way to the cemetery.

“Obviously rubbish is more important than dead people.” Ralph commented after reading the inscriptions.

Some distance along an unsealed road they arrived at a junction. To the left the signage determined tip, while pointing right was again a much smaller sign but in enhanced letters revealing cemetery.

“Does that sign meet with your approval?” Wayne asked, taking the right diversion.

“At least the lettering has improved.” Ralph answered as they quickly came upon a parking area beside a small but well kept graveyard. “Obviously not many people die in Federation Bay.” He added as they alighted from the vehicle and walked towards the entrance, “it’s well kept.”

The cemetery consisted of a large enclosure, surrounded with a picket fence and a small red brick gatehouse about the size of an average bathroom and of course a number of rows containing burial sites, with a quantity of freshly dug graves as if smiling in anticipation towards their usage.

In one corner an ancient ficus tree grew and by its mass was as old as the cemetery itself, giving eternal shade to a number of cremated burials.

“What would you want burnt or buried?” Wayne asked as they approached the gate house.

“At this time neither – where do you start looking?”

“My guess in there, I should think there would be a map or listing.” Wayne pointed to the gate house, with graffiti scrawled across its outer walls while thinking, if some kid needed to apply his tag, at least it could be something interesting or readable – or correctly spelt.

“We could ask that fellow over there on the ride-on mower.” Ralph issued.

Wayne agreed and waved to catch the rider’s attention as he sped between the graves. Moments later the mower man was at their side, astride his noisy hacking machine.

“Hey there,” the young workman greeted; switching off the mower he removed his wide brimmed hat to swab with his shirt arm at the ever increasing perspiration running rivulets from his mop of blond hair and down his grimy youthful face, spotted with lawn clippings. He replaced the hat.

“Do you know any of the burials?” Wayne asked, squinting in the strong afternoon sunlight.

“Most, why? – and I can most probably name them row by row, well up to row C that is.” The youthful workman answered nodding towards the neat lines of white marble glistening in the glare of the afternoon sun.

“I’m looking for the grave of a Lachlan McBride?” Wayne enquired.

“Are you a McBride? You sure look like one.” The young man asked.

“Not as such but a distant relation,”

“I’m a McBride,” the young man offered, then quickly clarified his linage, “well sort of they call me Mitch Bennett.”

“How can you be sort of a McBride?” Wayne asked.

“Easy, my Uncle Bert had an Uncle Henry whose Grandma Violet was half McBride.”

“That’s confusing.” Wayne admitted as he attempted to work out the lineage and where and how his own lot fitted into the equation.

“Not to me it isn’t,” Mitch Bennett professed and slowly nodded with satisfaction at his capability to recognise Wayne’s family connection, while pointing a knowledgeable finger towards a monument proudly standing away from the rows of burials. “See that large stone on the rise, that’s Lachlan McBride.”

Mitch Bennett restarted his mower, “Love to stay and chat but I have the park in town to mow after this, as well as the mayor’s house yard.” Then at the same breakneck speed as before he was gone, to once again manoeuvre around the graves as if they were witch’s hats on a speedway racecourse.

“Another McBride;” Ralph humoured and followed Wayne towards the large memorial set aside on a slight rise towards the back of the cemetery.

“It seems so.”

“I had a thought.”

“What would that be Ralph?” Wayne prepared for one of his friend’s many slants on life.

“You asked about burnt or buried.”

“I did and you appeared somewhat vague.”

“I guess I am somewhat. Whatever is decided, I don’t wish to know about it.” Ralph paused as he waved his hand across the neat rows of stones. “What are we doing here?”

“I thought that was obvious, trying to find out information on our uncles.” Wayne answered somewhat perplexingly.

“What did I say happened to my father’s remains?” Ralph asked.

“You said he was cremated and now in a box on your mother’s mantle.”

“And now that my mother is no more, where are his ashes?”

“Ralph is this going somewhere, how would I know?”

“My guess Bob would have binned the box.”

“And…?”

“Where will future generations go to visit the burial site of their ancestors like we are doing now?’

“Good question kid, I had never thought of that.”

The two approached the grave of Lachlan and read its inscription.

‘Lachlan McBride born Third September Eighteen Eighty, died Fourteenth March Nineteen Sixty-Four, erected in loving memory by the people of Federation Bay.’

The inscription was short but spoke volumes, while the grave was well attended and decorated with flowers that appeared to have only recently been placed. Beside Lachlan McBride’s grave were three other graves, one to the right and two to the left, which became of more interest to the boys than that of Lachlan himself. The second was marked ‘Daniel McBride born Third September Eighteen Eighty died Tenth October Nineteen Sixty-Eight, loving brother of Lachlan and son of Jock and Martha McBride.’

The two moved silently to the third monument, which lacked inscription, only having one short line, ‘Toby – and in parentheses the name McBride – birth unknown; died Third January Nineteen Sixty-Nine.

It was the grave to Lachlan’s right and final burial that became the most interesting. As they approached they clearly depicted the name Henderson. It was Ralph who read the inscription.

‘Stephen Henderson born Fifth October Eighteen Eighty, died Sixteenth August Nineteen Seventy-Two, well loved and friend to Lachlan and Daniel to the end.’ It was the final inscription that choked and confused them both. ‘So travels a broken heart.’ The inscription stood alone from Stephen’s statistical information while its wording was of a different font as if it was meant to stand out and be remembered by anyone who chanced to read it.

Ralph read the inscription aloud.

“You know Wayne there is something poignant here, I feel it but I can’t understand what it actually is,” he solemnly declared.

“They all lived long lives for their time and your uncle outlived them all.” Wayne appraised.

The two stood for some time staring at the four graves, feeling they had stumbled onto something most private. Here before them was a story that possibly the town’s folk knew but would not tell and strongest of all was declared on the stone of Stephen Henderson’s grave, as this memorial would have been erected without influence from the other three after their demise. Now Wayne knew he would have to once again visit Molly McBride to discover more. He also realised that he would need to persevere with the Journal as it was certain its pages would reveal what the town would not.

“What did you make of that?” Wayne asked of Ralph on their return journey.

“As you suggested my great uncle was also Stephen Henderson as is my cousin.”

“What else?” Wayne asked.

“I don’t know but the four of them seemed very close, they must have had a long lasting friendship.” Ralph released a sigh of remorse for their passing, “suddenly I am interested in my family and feel sad that I was born too late to have known them all.”

“That is exactly how I feel.” Wayne agreed.

Some days had passed since their visit to the cemetery and Wayne had continued with Lachlan’s Journal. He read much on Lachlan’s disappointment with his Father and his memories of treatment inflicted on him by his two elder brothers, the twins William and Cameron. Also to Wayne’s surprise Lachlan was the youngest of triplets, Robert and Daniel. Being Daniel McBride who was buried near Lachlan and at last there was mention of Stephen Henderson. They had grown up together while their friendship had become closer than any Lachlan had with his family. Lachlan’s description of the young Stephen Henderson brought a smile to Wayne as it would have been the exact description he would have given for Ralph, thinking the lad could be the reincarnation of his great uncle.

“There was also a Robert McBride.” Wayne shared during that muggy damp morning keeping Ralph from his garden plot, while thumbing through a number of Grace’s old recipe books, searching for pickling recipes.

“Another uncle of yours.” Ralph admitted.

“I guess so and Lachlan’s triplet with Daniel.”

“He wasn’t buried with the others, possibly he is still around?” Ralph suggested.

“I should think not, if so he would be at least one hundred and twenty, I don’t think anyone is that age.” Wayne corrected.

“Possibly your friend Molly will know.” Ralph advocated.

“Yes I’ve become most interested and will have to research further, maybe go on line through that ancestry site you see advertised on television. Lachlan also had two sisters and older twin brothers as well as his triplicates Daniel and Robert.” Wayne discovered by reading further.

“It was a large family.”

“I should think they had to in those days, so many died young and parents needed children to look after them in their old age.”

“What about the pension?” Ralph asked.

“No pension, unemployment – nothing, back then.”

“We didn’t find any other McBride burials at the cemetery.”

“Yes strange, possibly they all moved away.” Wayne suggested.

“You would think Lachlan’s parents would be buried locally, especially as his father owned half the district.” Ralph discerned.

“I guess Lachlan’s diary will sooner or later explain.”

“Why not jump to the back.” Ralph suggested.

“I don’t read a great deal but know enough to believe it isn’t etiquette to do so, besides it would be like watching a mystery film while knowing the plot.”

“True.”

It was late into the night. Wayne had been reading the journal for some time and grown weary. The verandah light was dim, while the strain from it had taken away his ability to keep his eyes open. He yawned and placed the book onto the table beside. On doing so he heard a noise at the base of the stairs, being more like the rustling of leaves in the still night air. It couldn’t be Ralph, as he had already retired. Possibly it was one of Verrocchi’s pig dogs on the prowl. He disregarded the distraction until he heard the sound once again.

“Who is there?” Wayne softly called into the darkness beyond the reach of the weak verandah light.

“Are you enjoying the journal?” A voice came from the base of the steps as the figure of a youthful man appeared, his face remained in shadow.

“Who are you?” Wayne demanded his heart commenced to race while focusing on the intruder.

“Don’t you recognise me Wayne?” The stranger came closer into the light while showing disappointment in Wayne’s failure to identify. It was true within the half light the stranger did appear familiar, with his broad well built stance and honey-red hair, while cutting a most handsome figure.

“I saw you at the gate some time back,” Wayne recollected, “what do you want?” Adrenaline commenced to flow, fight or flight but Wayne somewhat confused did neither.

“You did and still you don’t recognise me.” The stranger said with a smile but held his distance.

“No, should I?”

“It’s me, Lachlan.” The stranger affirmed.

“Lachlan who?” Now Wayne was becoming mystified and somewhat uneasy with the stranger’s declaration, or to be precise most anxious, “who are you?” he demanded.

“Lachlan McBride,”

“Is this some kind of joke?” Wayne barked at the image at the foot of the stairs.

“Have you realised the story of my life as yet?” Lachlan softly asked.

“What do you mean?” It was then Ralph came to the verandah and as naked as was possible.

“Is everything alright, I thought I heard voices.” He asked entering into the weak verandah light to find Wayne asleep in his chair.

“Yes why?” Wayne responded now fully awake.

“I heard voices.”

“No I was asleep.”

“You must be talking in your sleep but there was defiantly a second voice.” Ralph yawned, “If you’re alright I’m going back to bed – goodnight.”

“Again goodnight Ralph.”

Wayne picked up the journal, marked the page and closed it while taking it inside. Once asleep Wayne commenced to dream; a dream that someone was wandering around the yard. There was more, he was at the cemetery and beside Lachlan’s grave. He spoke to the marble monument and a voice came from the cold surface. What do you want? Wayne asked of the voice. It answered but the words were indefinable, if they were English then Wayne no longer understood. Speak more clearly what do you want? he again asked but the voice was gone from the stone and all about was lost in darkness.

That night he slept poorly and the question from the stone repeated itself over and over until morning removed it from his thoughts.

Ralph’s garden was growing well, now he had cabbage and carrots almost ready for harvesting as were his Eggplants and cucumbers. As he was weeding Wayne joined him.

“Want a hand?” He asked and bent to remove some weeds.

“You will more than likely weed out the seedlings,” Ralph complained but let him help anyway.

“What’s that on the trellis by the fence?” Wayne pointed towards the trellising.

“Beans: On the left snake beans and at the end winged beans.”

“Where do you find out about all this stuff?”

“I read and ask questions. If you want to give me a hand, tomorrow I will need to strengthen the fencing as the bandicoots are starting to burrow in.”

“Sure, want to take some into Biff and see if she can sell them?” Wayne suggested.

“They aren’t ready yet but Biff said she would take some but I will give them not charge her, she could do with a little extra, although a few of the local ladies are willing to pay.”

“Good idea Wayne agreed.”

“You were reading the journal last night, did you find out anything else?”

Ralph inquisitively asked while commencing on a new row of weeding.

“Lachlan has started to write a lot on Stephen Henderson and I believe they were lifelong friends.” Wayne cautiously advised.

“That was most obvious by their grave stones but what about the farm?”

“I haven’t got that far yet, he started the journal long before moving here but did save your uncle from being killed by aborigines at one stage.”

“I thought the local lot were friendly?” Ralph suggested.

“No not the local lot, going by the Journal, Lachlan was almost a member of their tribe, as was Stephen Henderson. It was some renegades over the divide that caused trouble. Some runaway by the name of Jimbo but the Tully police tracked him down and found he had been speared to death by his own lot. They removed his head and brought it back to Tully in a sugarbag to prove he was dead.”

“That’s gruesome.” Ralph shuddered at the thought of the head in the sack.

“I am beginning to get a feeling about Lachlan and Stephen Henderson.” Wayne added.

“Why is that?”

“Can’t rightly say as yet, wait until I’ve read further, I may be wrong. I’m going into town do you want to come. Maybe it’s time for your first driving lesson.” Wayne asked.

“Don’t think so, I have too much to do.”

“Scaredy – you know I’ll win out in the end.” Wayne laughed, giving Ralph a light push in the back as he departed.

“I’m sure you will but it won’t be today.”

Wayne stood back and watched as his friend worked his patch. There was much dedication in his actions, which all seemed to happen in harmony and simplicity. Wayne shook his head and smiled. ‘I like the lad,” he thought before leaving Ralph to his work.

“Want anything?” Wayne asked.

“How about a mars bar?”

“Sure,” Ralph paused, “you know Wayne I’m beginning to think in some ways my Great Uncle Stephen was a little like me.”

“In what way would that be Ralph?”

“Just,”

“Just doesn’t answer the question in what way was he like you?”

“Just,”

“I guess you will tell me in your own time but why say so if you’re not prepared to support it.” Wayne commenced to leave for town, “I’ll get you two mars bars.”

“I would like that, Wayne there are things about me you don’t know,” Ralph stood from his work, his hands gently resting on his hips while surveying his patch, ‘grubs,’ he thought while scrutinising cabbages, ‘best get to that before it develops further.

“Don’t tell me you have escaped from some prison farm and you are a mass murderer.” Wayne laughed.

“No nothing drastic but I guess time will tell, I’ll put dinner on while you are in town.”

As Wayne drove from the farm he felt as if he had settled deeply into a state of ease, almost euphoria, while any of his previous stresses appeared to have faded away. It was now more than a week since arriving back from Yungaburra, even longer since he last slept in his own bed and he didn’t miss Cairns and the clubs, as for Louise, she had all but faded into the background. With that thought he smiled, ‘that’s it background noise, Louise has become only background noise.’

What was a little frightening was his developing relationship with Ralph. Wayne understood mateship and the bonds that often established between two male friends, the back slapping, almost hand in underpants manner but even that had boundaries. There were permissible zones, a gentle slap to the arse, arms on shoulders and eyes kept from meeting. Ralph appeared to search another’s eyes, look deeply into character, into one’s spirit but in such a way it could never be felt as intrusive.

Such was the relationship Wayne desired and had done so with Louise not some kid he hardly knew. Searching back into his youth, even further into the child, he realised he had always longed for the closeness of person. With this realisation came another and one he was not prepared to admit as it was always with his gender, a mate he could trust and share his inner thoughts, possibly even more. That frightened him further, that same thought that had often come to haunt him and now he was almost ready to admit it but not totally and only on his convoluted terms.

As he entered into town he quickly cast it all from his mind but could not resist smiling at the image of Ralph, deep in concentration while hands on hips pondering over what to do next with his vegetable patch and complaining about cabbage moths.

Biff was tidying her so called antiques after a tourist bus had come through the town and some of the old dears had purchased trinkets reminding them of their past, being nothing of value, small china ornaments, or a few cups and saucers, because their mother had once owned that very pattern. Most of which was from the decade of the sixties, a time when it was fashionable to collect low value trinkets, and to give mother a cup and saucer on mother’s day was quite common. Still a great deal of her so call precious reminders didn’t cost Biff anything, so a dollar sold was worth the effort.

“Hello young Wayne, I haven’t had the chance to talk to you since you two returned from the Tablelands, how did Ralph take seeing his cousin?” She greeted.

“Surprisingly well and since we discovered his Great Uncle and mine were best of friends and he has family, he has really come out of his shell,” Wayne paused and laughed “but I haven’t been able to get him to learn to drive.”

“I guess there is plenty of time to do so.”

“I guess there is.”

“I suppose it isn’t long before you are married?” Biff related.

“I’m afraid not, to put it bluntly Louise gave me the shove.”

“What brought that on, by your account, I thought the two of you were made for each other.”

“It was over selling the farm, her old man is a friend of Verrocchi and demanded I sell the farm to him, that’s why he called off the wedding but I felt, other than pissing off Verrocchi, morally I didn’t have much choice the farm is more Henderson property than McBride and seeing Ralph is descendent from the Henderson family, I guess he is entitled to it.” Wayne explained.

“Louise’s father called off the wedding?” Biff sounded most surprised.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Then young fellow, be it not my position to say so but you are better off not marrying the girl,” Biff strongly recommended.

“That is also my opinion, besides as they say, there are plenty of fish in the sea. I think I’ll stay around here for a while as I’ve become interested in the family tree. It was then Wayne explained what he had discovered relating to the farm, being it once belonged to Ralph’s family also including what he had found through Molly and his visit to the cemetery.

Biff gave a soft chuckle, “my family tree is more a shrub, as I didn’t know any of them.”

“I guess we all have family, even if we don’t know who they are.” Wayne made light.

“I guess so, what about Ralph, don’t just stay a while then abandon him.” Biff warned.

“No I like the little bugger, I wouldn’t do that.”

“Would you like Coffee?” Biff offered.

“Yes that would be nice.”

“Then young fellow, you know how; make me one as well.” Biff demanded pointing towards the kettle and the coffee jar.

“By the way Ralph has a stack of vegies coming on and he would like you to try to sell them.” Wayne said as he filled the kettle. He placed a teaspoon of instant coffee in one cup and two into the other, Biff liked it strong. “You know Biff coffee smell’s much better than it tastes; I reckon it tastes like mud.” He declared while adding the milk.

“So why do you drink it?”

“Dunno really, suppose I’m addicted eh.” He passed Biff her mug of steaming brew.

“I love the stuff.” Biff answered.

“About selling Ralph’s vegies?”

“I could try selling some but I don’t think Jack Fenton would appreciate me doing so.”

“Who is Jack Fenton?”

“He has the greengrocery down the street, maybe Ralph should try there.”

“He was going to give them to you.”

“Nice gesture but best I don’t upset Jack Fenton, I only stock a few tomatoes and things to help out my regular customers.”

“Molly gave me Lachlan’s journal.” Wayne spoke incidentally while staring through the open shop door as a small group of children noisily passed.

“She never spoke of a journal, what have you learned from it?”

“As yet not a lot, his writing is bad and it takes most of my time syphoning even a simple sentence. As for spelling, one instant he spells a word one way and in the next paragraph he does so another way.”

“I should think the education standard in Lachlan’s days wasn’t as high as these days, if at all, I believe most only received a couple of years schooling and mostly only what they called the three-R’s.” Biff perceived in Lachlan’s defence.

“I guess so, besides being good at spelling doesn’t make you a better person.” Wayne thought of a once class mate Geoffrey Fields, he couldn’t spell to save his life but give him a list of numbers in quick succession he could collate them in his head and accurately every time.

“You said you visited the cemetery?” The passing children returned and started to squabble at the shop’s doorway. “Haven’t you lot anything better to do?” Biff called out. They became silent and paused.

“The toad took my marbles,” the younger of the boy complained in a shrieked voice.

“I did not!” an older boy, obviously the toad, answered and gave the younger boy a shove.

“Give them back Shawn or I’ll be having words with your father.” Biff warned.

“Aw yes Biff,” the lad agreed submissively and passed something to the younger lad, to which they all ran laughing towards the park.

“I didn’t know kids still played marbles.” Biff commented as the last of the boys disappeared around the corner at the street’s end.

“I believe the fad has returned but they don’t actually play, only swap them.” Wayne explained.

“Now back to Lachlan, you said you have some information.”

“I did and discovered there are four graves together, one a brother, another belonging to a fellow called Toby and the last Stephen Henderson.”

“Did you ask Molly about the graves?”

“I didn’t know about them when I visited her but I also discovered Lachlan was the youngest of triplicate boys. Daniel is buried beside Lachlan but there is another brother named Robert, I don’t know anything about him.”

“I can’t help you there and Molly has gone back into hospital.” Biff answered.

“Is she alright?”

“That is an unknown quantity she is always in and out of hospital. I guess at her age it is inevitable.”

“Hey Biff is there anyone else in town except Molly who would know about Lachlan and the family?” Wayne swirled the dregs in his coffee cup and wondered if his fortune could be told in its staining of the white porcelain.

“You could try old Millie Haslow; I believe she nursed Lachlan at one time during an illness just before he died.” Biff paused, “That is if you can believe anything the old girl says; half mad she is – half mad.”

“Do you know this Millie?” Lachlan enquired further.

“Only through coming into the shop, she is always trying to sell me some rubbish collected from the tip and she continuously talks, gossiping about one person or another while giving their family history.”

Biff placed her cup on the sink and went to attend to a couple of pensioners who had been browsing for some time and found interest in a number of nick-nacks they discovered in a dim and dusty corner cupboard. By their vehicle’s number plate they were from Victoria and by the size of the caravan were travelling for an extended period. Such people were often referred to as grey nomads and with their leisurely pace and huge caravans tendered to clog all roads leading north.

The woman quickly lost interest in the objects while the husband decided he was in need of conversation, explaining how he had been stationed in the north during the war and how he flew planes out of Mareeba during the battle of the Coral Sea. Biff attempted to get away but the man was persistent then as he finished his history lesson the woman took over and commenced on her collectibles, bragging how little she would need to pay for them. Eventually Biff made her escape.

“Lookers that what they are; bored by the driving and want to entertain themselves at my expense,” Biff growled.

“What about this Millie Haslow?”

“She lives in the last house on the right going out your way; can’t miss it; looks like an extension of the tip.” Biff directed helping herself to a second cup of coffee. “Really I shouldn’t drink the stuff; the doctor said the amount I consume will eventually kill me.”

“Yes I’ve seen the place.” Lachlan had noticed the house on passing and wondered if anyone could live in the decaying old hovel at all, “how would it be if I called in unannounced?”

“She probably would love the company but don’t drink her tea, she’s a dirty old biddy and smells. Your best bet would be to visit the tip; she’s out there most days and you wouldn’t have to refuse her refreshments. She walks out in the early morning and back after dark; walks for miles and skinny as a rake to show for it.”

“That’s a long walk.” Wayne declared.

“Ah there’s a short way, cuts more than half the distance but it’s only a path and you can’t drive, it cuts through croc infested mangroves. Yes best to visit her there.”

“I just may do that.”

“Oh I almost forgot to say, old man Verrocchi was in asking about you when you were away in Yungaburra.” Biff recollected.

“What did he want?”

“Mainly to see if I knew how much you got for the property and what I knew about young Ralph.”

Wayne finished his second coffee and washed the cup, “and?”

“And nothing, I told him to speak with you.”

“You know something Biff, that man is becoming a pest.”

“You do realise he owns all the land to your north, right across McBride’s Road to the south towards the highway and up to the town, even a couple of blocks across the river. He had the council build that bridge to nowhere just for his use.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“He also owns a number of shops here in town and he charges city rents.”

Biff pointed across the street to a row of three empty establishments with windows and doorways boarded, “for starters they belong to Verrocchi but he can’t rent them and won’t fix them. The end shop has a hole in the roof you could drive a bus through,” Biff was getting started on the man, “he even tried to buy this shop.”

“Obviously he didn’t get it?”

“No way, I beat him to it and he’s never forgiven me.”

“Good on ya’.” Wayne praised.

“Does Ralph know his family once owned the farm?” Biff asked.

“He does now and thinks it’s somewhat spooky how he ended up there without even knowing the history and I inherited it from Grace, again without knowing of Ralph’s connection. He said it was ordained by a higher order.”

“Religion,” Biff vaguely uttered.

“I have none myself.” Wayne admitted.

“In my thinking, most people don’t believe but are too frightened not to believe as the wrath of god will strike them dead.”

“I suppose it helps some.” Wayne casually affixed to the woman’s prognosis.

“Ralph doesn’t seem religious.” Biff continued.

“He isn’t, or at least doesn’t admit being so but you must admit the chances of both of us meeting at the farm and both having something to do with it are somewhat remote,” Wayne checked the time, “I should be going, Ralph is cooking tonight and he takes it most serious; so you don’t want any of Ralph’s vegies?”

“I’ll tell you what – I’ll take a small amount for my use, so not to disappoint him.”

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