A sequel to ‘At the Turning’

Published: 7 Jun 2018

It had been almost two months since Wayne Jenkins received the news relating to the inheritance of his Aunt’s property and had hardly thought about it until he received a visit from a neighbouring farmer, bearing an offer he believed to be more than generous but came as Wayne was about to leave and true to character, was running late, only entering into a short conversation at the door before promising to contact later.

Albert Verrocchi was the epitome of a Southern Italian. Dark skinned, round faced, stout and short in stature, descended from four hundred years of Roman African slavery. His hair was boot nugget black, obviously touched with a measure of vanity and heading towards that of a friar’s ring. He also had an air of superiority about him, while peering down his aquiline nose as if he had stepped on something stinking.

The man arrived at Wayne’s door one hot morning as he was readying to meet with Louise and being in somewhat of a hurry wasn’t prepared to make promises or discuss the sale. After a short discussion the man left with a maybe but little more.

Verrocchi’s English was sound but heavily accented and delivered in rapid fire. His family had emigrated from the island of Stromboli in Italy more than half a century earlier, when a volcanic eruption sent a substantial proportion of the island’s population to Australia. Many came to the sugar area of North Queensland and some had through hard work and a measure of graft become prosperous landowners.

In general these newcomers were industrious, honest law abiding citizens, bringing much colour to the otherwise banal Anglo tradition, handed down from colonial days under the guise – if it ain’t broke don’t fix it.

With the newcomer’s general good nature, love of wine and food, there was one underlying current not appreciated or understood by the local population, being the Mafia and rumours placed Albert Verrocchi at the apex of that dark undertow of society.

Albert Verrocchi’s family was one of those who had made a fortune in farming, purchasing much of the land north of Tully close to the small township of Federation Bay and was most interested to increase his holdings for the glory of ego rather than good business sense. The man held a number of blocks north and south of McBride’s Road with Grace’s farm being an unwelcomed buffer between. A buffer he wished to eradicate.

Verrocchi had inherited much of his holdings from his father and now wished to expand, to create a legacy for his three adult sons and with the stagnating McBride acreage he could join his south and northern properties into one large sugar estate.

On numerous occasions the man had attempted to purchase the land from the aging Grace McBride prior to her death but she would not budge, she had lived on the farm for all of her life and wished to die there. Besides she had a liking for her young nephew Wayne, even if they seldom met and wished to pass her legacy on to him.

On his rare visits as a child Wayne was always polite and appeared to appreciate good country living, fresh air and the solitude of farm life, often declaring that when he grew up he would become a farmer growing miles and miles of sugar cane. All this was now lost to Wayne Jenkins the adult but had never been forgotten by the aging aunt.

With the old lady’s demise Verrocchi believed he had only to offer the right price and the farm would be his. He had only met with Wayne for a matter of minutes but having association with the Miller family he believed with Jack Miller’s influence, the old run down farm would be of little interest and more a collateral millstone to Jenkins. So after a second approach through a solicitor’s letter they created a loose agreement, arranging to meet on the Friday before Anzac day at the Verrocchi residence, which happened to be almost at the gate of the McBride farm.

After the Miller’s traditional Sunday evening meal and Jack Miller’s continuum on the farm Louise followed Wayne to his vehicle. Taking her by the hand Wayne pulled her close and kissed her. Louise pulled away, casting her eyes upwards to the dark shadows of the Miller balcony.

“What?” Wayne growled, his eyes following her direction.

“Dad’s watching.”

“Were engaged for Christ sake!”

“Still,”

“Shit Louise, I’m not trying to hump you in the street, it was only a goodbye kiss.”

“Still,” Louise anxiously repeated.

“Anyway about next Friday, do you want to come for a drive down to Federation Bay to have a look at the farm before I sell it?” Wayne once again reached out to take Louise’s hand but she stood her ground. There was a shuffling on the balcony capturing Louise’s attention. She quickly looked up.

“I can’t dad has a function and has asked me to hostess it.”

“What sort of function?” Wayne asked.

“I don’t know, just business I guess.”

“Can’t he get one of the girls from his club to do so?”

“No Wayne he likes the family touch, he thinks it helps to loosen their purse strings.”

“Fair enough,” Wayne again reached for Louise’s hand and pulled her closer in attempt to complete his kiss; once more she pulled away, her eyes on Jack now visibly standing in shadow on the upper floor balcony. Jack shuffled his feet and released a dry cough.

“See you instead on Wednesday lover.” She pouted a kiss and departed.

“You will be staying the night?” Wayne sighed out his frustration.

“Maybe,”

“Goodnight Mister Miller.” Wayne presented to the dark shadow on the balcony as Louise went inside.

“Goodnight,” the man abruptly answered and turned from the night.

Federation Bay appeared small and tired from Wayne’s viewpoint on the hill to the north of the town. He paused beside the marker at a small lookout which gave a panoramic view of the town and across the deep dark water to the chain of tropical islands, strung like green pearls towards the Hinchinbrook Channel. ‘Pretty,’ he thought and as quickly put the outlook from his mind. Pretty was common place along that northern coast. Wild, mostly unspoiled and appealing and this was just one more attractive vista.

“Federation Bay Pop 732,” he read aloud from the marker and smiled at the amendment. Some larrikin had run a thin red line of house paint through the population number and corrected it to 731. Obviously while leaving under duress or just one more sufferer of the modern disease that was eating away at matrimonial commitment.

Wayne’s vision followed the main street to rest at the margin of gleaming white sand that disappeared into a maze of mangrove swamps at either end of town. Centrally at the water’s edge two rows of black dots were visible leading into the surf, being the rotted supports of a once proud wharf, destroyed during a cyclone and taking with it the town’s union celebration and its future. Without the wharf the town stagnated while trade diverted to Tully in the south and Cairns to the north, also the arrival of the railway removed necessity to rebuild the port facilities.

As Wayne returned to his vehicle he noticed an ancient stone marker some distance from the town sign, almost lost in the tall brown grass at the road’s verge. Curiosity brought him to part the grass to view its inscription,

‘McBride’s Point – 2M, I wonder what that’s about,’ he silently contemplated, knowing his mother’s family name was McBride and she had come from that very region, ‘must be the name of the lookout,’ he considered as he drove down the incline towards Federation Bay, speculating which branch of her family had been honoured by the naming.

So many years had passed since Wayne had visited his Aunt’s property that vagueness had removed all comprehension of direction. He remembered it to be some distance south west of the town but changes had occurred since he was a lad and now everything appeared closer and smaller. Even the Bruce Highway had altered its direction, running further to the west, creating more isolation for the town’s inhabitants, a remoteness that the older folk cherished but those in business cursed. Once caravans and travellers continuously ran the main street, their late night arrivals, loud as they came upon the town that the local council had placed signage demanding that lights be dimmed and transports limit compression breaking as they descended the incline towards town. Now past nine at night one could bed down in the street without fear of being run over.

Federation Bay’s main street was called so, consisting of a line of shops along its south side with a lesser number to the north, mostly timber and many unoccupied. There were three ancient brick and stone buildings, one held signage of the Bank of Queensland but had long closed with its broken glass windows boarded, with paper wasp nests protruding from every orifice, while an old faded sign, also inscribed with the bank’s name, swung freely in the gentle breeze under the awning, giving a rusty squeak to the otherwise silent day.

Beside the abandoned bank a timber structure carried the signage of once being Mansfield’s drapery store and through its open doorway, almost blocking the entrance, stood a dressmaker’s dummy. Humour was obviously found by some lark, dressing it in floral skirt and placing a somewhat deflated basket ball on top with painted features, although roughly applied appearing as a women in mortal distress.

The other two brick buildings were still occupied; one a Cafe of the style from an earlier time, with booths along one wall and out of order jukebox selectors at the head of each booth. It also contained many of that era’s fittings from milkshake machines to advertising but all this was but display, as nothing worked and in pride of place on the huge counter stood a Breville Expresso machine, shiny and new and by its appearance had had little use, while behind the counter the deep fat filled containers of the chip frying vats, lay waiting for someone to chance by feeling peckish. Obviously sandwiches were the go or so advertised on a blackboard near the door, pricing them all, from steak sandwiches, salad to cheese and tomato and fairly priced, while guaranteeing they were the best to be found in the entire north.

The third building and much larger was a quasi General Store and bric-a-brac, selling everything from bread and milk to ancient trinkets gathered from the district’s colonial past, also a small section set aside as a book and comic exchange.

It was at the General Store where Wayne asked for directions from its middle aged female proprietor. Her toothless gape hummed a happy tune while lengths of unkempt grey hair hung about and danced to her tune as she moved dust from one item to another with a feather depleted duster, her portly body appeared to dance with the movement of the duster.

“Morning sonny,” She greeted then continuing her dusting.

“Good morning, I wondered if you could direct me to Grace McBride’s property.” Wayne enquired while manoeuvring away from the cloud of dust.

“I’m afraid the old girl has passed on.”

“I’m her grand nephew she has left me the property.” Wayne explained.

“I thought you looked familiar.” The woman declared, placing the duster to the glass counter top. “What’s your name?” she asked giving a forced almost toothless smile, while retrieving a small sheet of yellowing paper supporting a local map from the jumble beneath her counter.

“Wayne Jenkins.” Wayne answered.

“Not a McBride than eh?”

“My mother was before she married and Grace McBride was my Great Aunt, so by blood I suppose I’m half a McBride.” Wayne related somewhat sarcastically.

The shop keeper passed the map and pointed to a spot where the road divided a short distance from the town.

“It’s on the right around about a kilometre from that road junction, north side of McBride Road.” She explained. “I wouldn’t go about telling some folk in this town that you are a McBride,” she warned.

“Why would that be?” Wayne answered somewhat mystified how being a McBride could cause division.

“Don’t rightly know sonny, I’m a newcomer here, only been in town ten years and never found its politics all that interesting but you can’t help hearing things eh. You have one half of the town declaring McBride’s as devils, while the other declare them to be angels, almost a split personality I reckon but I guess you know more about your family than I.”

“Not a lot I’m afraid, I did stay with Grace during early school holidays but hadn’t seen her for probably longer back than your arrival,” Wayne admitted.

“Yes I knew Grace, a friendly old stick with never a bad word said about anyone. I went to her funeral but it was a small affair,” The shopkeeper expressed while tidying her counter by moving one pile of clutter to join another.

“I didn’t know of her passing until I was contacted by her solicitor.” Wayne’s words came more as an apology for not showing Grace a little more consideration for leaving him the property than any sentiment he felt for the old woman.

“Yes it was a quiet affair, only seven people in the church and that included the minister and his organist.”

Wayne didn’t enquire further, as he had no interest in what people thought of a linage of ancestors he didn’t know. He accepted the map, “What about a cane farmer named Verrocchi?” He added.

“That is easy, he is spread all over the district but his house is a little closer to town from the McBride farm on the south side.” The woman paused, “Turn off about half a hundred meters before your Aunt’s drive.” She paused again, “Umm,” she uttered as Wayne prepared to leave. “Are you going to farm there?” She added.

“Na but Verrocchi has offered to buy it.”

“No you don’t look like a farmer and old man Verrocchi may as well have it, he owns nearly everything else around here. By the way I’m Biff and if you need anything just come and ask eh.” The woman suggested then returned to her dusting, while keeping an interested eye on the youthful stranger.

“Thank you Biff, I’ll keep that in mind.” Wayne expressed as he left the store.

“Biff,” He smiled while repeating the proprietor’s name, “and I reckon she could and would,” he laughed as he drove west through the almost deserted main street passing the town’s only drinking hole, The Federation Hotel, or as a second more modern signage suggested, The Fed, while observing its better days were well gone and its nineteen fifties design appeared somewhat out of kilter with the older structures. Moments later he was travelling through cane fields on either side of the road, tall ripe and almost ready to harvest, filling the warm afternoon air with a sweet pungent scent.

‘Farming?’ he thought, ‘me, never, that’s a mug’s game.’

Verrocchi’s house came into view as Wayne crested a hill and turned the final corner. It was a huge split level cream brick Italianate style monstrosity with vivid white balustrade and concrete lions perched high on red brick pillars, set back from the road down a tree lined drive. All around the monstrosity were fruit trees and a failed attempt at growing grape vines. Wayne smiled at the struggling vines, he may not know farming but any fool should realise that grape growing and the tropics are never used in the same sentence, except negatively.

Verrocchi descended the long marble staircase at the instant Wayne brought his BMW to stop. Bending he spoke through the closed window of the vehicle’s passenger side. Wayne lowered the glass.

“You found the place alright young fellow.”

“I asked at the general store.”

“Ah,” the man negatively grunted as if the mere mentioning of the establishment had set off disdain in the farmer’s psyche.

Wayne turned off his motor and walked with the short balding Italian to the base of the stairs.

“Besides it wasn’t difficult, it stands out like dogs balls.” Wayne commented on Verrocchi’s pride.

“So you like my palace.” The assertive Italian asked proudly, his face radiating the arrogant superiority that sometimes came with financial success.

“Not my taste Mister Verrocchi but I guess it looks sound enough.” Wayne commented, casting his gaze up the wide staircase to the balcony, to the ornate doors with their oversized door decoration, leading in from a wide shaded verandah.

“Nice wide verandah ‘tho, I do like that,” Wayne admitted, masking his true opinion of the ugly monstrosity and his belief that all design should be kept simple, especially in tropical conditions. Simple with ample shade, protection from the changeable elements and most definitely cyclone proofed, were his thought.

“I have the papers inside, would you like to look them over?” Verrocchi suggest, placing an impatient hand to the small of Wayne’s back to guide him on, – mistake number one.

“You’re rushing me a little Mister Verrocchi.” Wayne answered showing a measure of irritation towards the Italian’s persistence.

“Well I like to do business quickly and not stuff around debating the finer details.” Verrocchi complained at Wayne’s stalling, while still attempting to lead the way inside.

“I haven’t seen the property since I was a boy and I would like to have a look around first while I still own it.”

“I’ll come with you.” Verrocchi offered as he dusted down his white tailored cotton suit with his wide brimmed hat, believing his presence with Wayne’s inspection would hold him to the sale.

“No it will be alright, I would rather go over on my own.” Wayne climbed back into his car and started the motor.

“Watch out for the mad bastard who is squatting there.” Verrocchi called.

Wayne turned off the motor.

“What do you mean squatting?”

“Some skinny kid is living wild over there, says he is the caretaker.”

“Caretaker?”

“Yea the old girl had him do odd jobs; he’s been there for months.”

“Okay, I’ll speak with you in a while.”

“I’ll have the papers ready,” Verrocchi enforced as Wayne commenced to drive away.

“Yes you do that.” Wayne muttered as he parted company with Verrocchi who remained standing in his driveway gazing impatiently and somewhat annoyed at Wayne’s procrastination.

The distance between Verrocchi’s farm and his Aunt’s property was hardly worth the drive and as Wayne turned back onto the main road he sighted the entrance to the farm and noticed a tall well built young man standing in the long grass beside the fence line, some distance from the farm gateway. Wayne waved but the stranger didn’t return the greeting. There was something old world about the man, upright and wearing what appeared to be the apparel of a cattleman, yet somewhat archaic. Wayne continued on, momentarily pausing before entering his aunt’s property and looking back he noticed the stranger was no longer there. ‘Must have crossed the road,’ he judged then forgot the sighting, being more interested in Verrocchi’s report on some squatter living at the farm, while expecting excessive damaged as often happened when a property was left vacant for any length of time. Parking at the rear of the house Wayne scanned the yard for his squatter but appeared to be alone, also the tall stranger at the gate had gone, registering as little more than a passing thought.

The old house, except for the need of painting and replacement of the occasional weather board, appeared much as Wayne remembered when he visited as a child. Then it had a happy disposition with a neatly appointed garden and well stocked vegetable patch, now the garden was a scattering of failing shrubs and scrubbed out lawn, while the vegetable patch was red sunbaked soil and fading weeds, where bandicoots scratched for long forgotten tubers.

The house appeared lost and sadness seemed to shroud it, standing as if it had turned its face from the world to wallow in self inflicted sorrow. Soon it would no longer even have the squatter to attend to its changing moods, most probably becoming a store for disused farm equipment, a dump for fertilizers and weed killer, or demolished to grow even more cane. A sad thought but Wayne could never be accused of being sentimental.

The front door was unlocked and slightly ajar, allowing the escape of an un-kept musty smell, which Wayne envisaged to be the remnant of his Aunt. He commenced to enter. “Hello,” he echoed into the dim passage beyond.

“Hey!” A sharp shout brought him to the turn to face Verrocchi’s skinny squatter.

“Hey yourself!” Wayne snapped jumping at the sound of the stranger’s voice.

“Who are you?” The stranger demanded as he approached to within striking distance.

“More to the point, who are you!”

“My name is Ralph Matthews and I’m looking after the place for the old lady until her nephew arrives.” Ralph paused then smiled and reached out his hand in greeting, while his green eyes became happy and trusting. “You must be Wayne; you are the image of the McBride’s, or anyway the few I have met.”

“Yes I’m Wayne Jenkins, Grace’s nephew but not a McBride.” Wayne reluctantly accepted the offered hand.

“You are a McBride for sure; you have your Aunt’s smile.”

“Who was that I saw near the gate before I turned in?” Wayne enquired realising that this curly dark headed skinny kid, with the slightly elongated face and bristled chin, standing before him was not who he had previously seen beside the fence line.

“Dunno’ mate, I’m the only one here, must have been one of those bloody Iti’s from across the road, they are always snooping around as if they own the place.” Ralph answered as his eyes searched deeply into Wayne’s features, making him feel most uncomfortable. He turned away from the lad’s gaze.

“Na he wasn’t Italian that is for sure but he didn’t appear to be happy to see me.”

“I couldn’t say. There are a number of small holdings some distance along a side road, maybe someone from there.” Ralph suggested.

“Probably, yet he did appear to have purpose.”

“Would you like me to show you around?” Ralph offered while advancing through the door ahead of Wayne.

“I haven’t been here since I was a kid.” Wayne admitted as he followed.

“There’s no electricity; switched off the week the old lady died.” Ralph declared. Entering into the kitchen he lit a kerosene hurricane lamp, sending their shadows in dance around the kitchen walls, then with a flopping sound the kitchen’s Holland blind sprung upwards to disappear under a cream painted pelmet, stained by a lifetime of smoke and cooking fat, allowing the afternoon sunlight to stream into the lonely musty interior.

“That’s better.” Ralph commented.

“Hungry?” the lad asked while taking a glass of water from the kitchen tap.

“I thought you said there wasn’t any electricity?” Wayne commented.

“The stove and hot water service are gas and I guess they haven’t got around to disconnecting the gas yet, I don’t have much in but I’m sure I could do you a sandwich or something but the bread is a couple of days old.”

“No I’ll be right, how long have you been living here?” Wayne asked running his eyes over the skinny kid, thinking he was in need of a good feed along with a change of clothing. His oversized trousers, although clean, were holed at both knees and held to his narrow waist by a knotted length of bridle leather. Most of the fly buttons were missing from his trousers and beneath it was obvious the lad lacked underwear. Ralph followed Wayne’s gaze to the open fly then modestly covered the gap.

“I promised the old girl I would look after the place until you arrived. She didn’t trust the Iti’s.” he answered.

“Where are you from?” Wayne asked.

“Originally Railway Estate in Townsville but that was years ago.”

“How old are you? You look no more than fourteen.”

“Past eighteen,” He placed the empty glass back to the sink, “are you going to sell it to the Iti’s?”

“Dunno, I was but I don’t much like that Verrocchi fellow, he’s too damn full of himself.” Wayne answered as he left the kitchen to inspect the rest of the house. The lad followed close behind like a puppy; so close that even Wayne’s shadow would be proud of the lad’s position.

“The house doesn’t seem as big as I remember it,” Wayne surmised while moving from room to room.

“It has five bedrooms and solid,” the lad forcefully proclaimed in the house’s defence.

“Smells the same,” Wayne complained on opening the door to his Aunt’s bedroom.

“That’s because the room has been closed since she died.” Ralph answered, his voice showing a somewhat disapproving attitude towards Wayne’s conclusion.

“Did she die in here?” Wayne closed the door.

“No I managed to get an ambulance to take her to the hospital and she passed away the same night but she always wished to die in her own bed, I guess I failed her on that point.”

“Which room are you using?”

“None, I’m sleeping in the shed.”

“Why there’s plenty of room here?”

“Dunno really, I’ve always lived rough, can’t get used to living in a real house. Some say it’s the boong in me”

“Are you part black?” Wayne enquired somewhat incidentally.

“Na – just my attitude,”

“Where are your things?”

“I’m standing in them, well almost I don’t believe in property and usually when no one is around I go naked but I threw on these dacks when I heard you drive up,” Ralph declared without an inkling of embarrassment.

“Dacks?”

“Yea pants, I found this old pair in the shed. Mine are in the wash.”

On opening the door of the fifth bedroom Wayne felt something come over him. It was as if a rush of cold air escaped with the opening door, appearing to make its way through his body, not around him and as it passed left behind a sensation that could not be understood. He felt he was on the threshold of an answer but could not explain it. He closed his eyes against the rush and saw nothing, yet he most definitely felt a presence.

“What’s wrong?” Ralph asked taking Wayne’s arm and lightly shaking him.

“Nothing, I thought I saw something.” Wayne answered, his face turning as pale as Verrocchi’s balustrade.

Ralph didn’t answer but smiled while once again following along the dullness of the passage back to the kitchen, “I often get that feeling,” he admitted, “but I assure you there isn’t anyone else around.”

“Who lived here before my Aunt?” Wayne asked.

“I don’t know much about your family, you will have to ask back in town but I believe Grace lived here from when she was a little girl.

“Did Grace have many friends?” Wayne asked.

“Not a lot, sometime she took a taxi into town to play bingo at the pub and some old lady visited on the occasion, Molly I think she was somehow related and in the days before she passed Biff from the store would deliver her shopping.”

“Yes I’ve met Biff.”

“When is the handover?” Ralph asked during a pause in the conversation but didn’t receive an answer. Instead Wayne opened cupboards, checking their contents while shaking his head in disbelief.

“I wouldn’t believe someone could acquire so much junk.”

“She was a strange old lady but had a heart of gold,” Ralph declared, “and was always talking about you and your wish to become a farmer.”

“Farmer, I don’t think so.” Wayne cynically laughed at the suggestion.

“That was Grace’s belief.”

“How long had you known my aunt?”

“About six months, firstly I came proposing work for a feed then stayed to help her around the farm. She offered me a room but as I said the shed was good enough for this white boong,” Ralph declared while running his long fingers with their dirt ridden nails through his unkempt curly black hair dragging it away from his sight. Beneath that mop of curls his eyes although bright showed a measure of sadness and neglect.

“Where do you shower?” Wayne asked, noticing the lad to be somewhat grimy.

“I used the creek.”

“You said the hot water is on so why not shower in the house?” Wayne asked.

“I didn’t wish to run up your bills, or mess up the house.”

“A few cents of water and gas wouldn’t amount to much.”

“I guess not but I wasn’t sure what you would be like, I didn’t wish to get on your wrong side for Grace’s sake.”

“Umm,” Wayne grunted and continued his inspection, “what do you reckon then Ralph?” Wayne asked as he stood once again to take view of the slope of land leading towards the forest beyond the kitchen window.

“About what?”

“Should I sell to your bloody Iti?”

“Can’t say but I would like to know how long I have before I move on.”

There was something about this lad that interested Wayne. He perceived a rare honesty and a slant on life lacking in the modern world, along with a fragility that like the wings of a butterfly would shatter if touched by the hands of man, creating in Wayne an emotion he had not before experienced.

Wayne remained silent as he continued to open cupboard doors only to as quickly close them against the clutter. Eventually he spoke.

“Tell you what Ralph,” Wayne said while placing both hands on the kitchen sink and leaning into the view beyond the window. It drew him in as memories of happier days prevailed and at that instant he did not wish to sell away those joyful recollections.

“I’m not going to sell to Verrocchi but only on one condition.” He declared without losing sight of the distant tall trees standing deep green at the edge of the forest. Ralph remained silent as Wayne continued.

“Only if you stay on as caretaker,” Wayne paused into the silence, “Do you agree?” he added as Ralph’s silence continued.

“Why would you do that?” Ralph eventually answered.

“Can’t rightly say but I don’t need the money from the sale and I definitely don’t need another house but there is something about this place that is holding me back, I have a feeling I can’t quite quantify and feel I can trust you.”

“You will really piss off the Iti; he’s been after this place for years.” Ralph dryly asserted.

“That’s his problem but what do you think of the idea?”

“I agree.”

Wayne turned to the Ralph and laughed.

“Another thing; move into the bloody house and do me a favour, open all the flaming doors and windows and get rid of the smell of death.” Wayne paused.

“And build a bonfire in the back yard and burn everything of no use.” Then throwing his car keys into the air and re-catching them he turned for the door.

“Suppose I better go and give Verrocchi the news – one more thing, it’s getting late I’ll stay overnight could you ready the bedroom closest to the back for me, I’m going into town to get some supplies.”

“Sure.” Ralph answered.

“What do you like to eat?” Wayne asked.

“Anything, I do like baked beans.”

“Alright then baked beans it will be, I’ll see what this town has to offer but while I’m gone, take a proper hot shower – you stink.”

On his way back to town Wayne again called on Verrocchi, meeting the man in the house yard and not wishing to elongate the conversation, spoke to him from his vehicle.

“Did you see the kid?” Verrocchi asked and once again enticed Wayne to enter for refreshments.

“Ralph, yes I met him.”

“Come inside and we can finalise the sale in comfort.” Verrocchi offered, impatiently showing the way with an outstretched hand while unconsciously handling the vehicle’s door with the other, encouraging Wayne to alight and follow him, – his second mistake.

“Hang on Mister Verrocchi, you’re travelling a little fast, I’m not ready to sign anything as yet.”

“I believe we had a verbal agreement.” The man forcibly debated, now displaying a high degree of frustration as two of his sons arrived to smugly peer down on the conversation from the verandah but satisfied to keep their distance.

“No we have a verbal consideration and I’m not yet ready, I need more time.”

“Is it more money, I can up my offer by five thousand.” Verrocchi dogmatically demanded.

“No it isn’t the money.” Wayne was growing tired of the Italian’s pushy nature, which was making him more determined not to sell, or if so not to Verrocchi.

“Then when will you decide. You do realise I am an associate of Jack Miller?” Verrocchi offered as a not so subtle threat, – his third and final mistake for the day.

Wayne was now more than determined not to sell but not prepared to say so face to face with the intense Italian. Firstly he would need to speak to Jack and talk him around to his way of thinking and that he knew would be somewhat difficult but believed his future father-in-law had enough decency left in him to support one who would be family.

“I guess soon but not today.”

Verrocchi stepped back from the vehicle, his face transformed from friendly to aggression, while his sons commenced to descend towards the building argument but noticing the heat wasn’t returned from Wayne, they held to their position. As for the enraged farmer, not being accustomed to resistance to his will was left somewhat detached to what was occurring.

“I will be leaving Ralph to look after the property for the present and he will have my contact details.”

Verrocchi opened his mouth to speak but rage had stolen his voice.

“I’ll be in touch Mister Verrocchi.” Wayne promised and prepared to depart, once spoken he commenced to drive away, leaving Verrocchi standing in a quandary attempting to understand what had just eventuated.

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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