A sequel to ‘At the Turning’

Published: 8 Nov 2018

The leading to Nebraska Ranch was as American as its name and situated in the lower hills of the divide, to take advantage of a cooler atmosphere. Yet its background was less aligned to the North American continent than one could possibly encounter, as the property was enclosed by indigenous forest, lining along three sides as if it had been carefully sliced from the tropical forest like a piece of fruit cake from the block.

At the approach white paling fences followed a long gravelled drive lined with large whitewashed rocks, leading to an entry of a timber arch. On the arch’s crossbeam a set of imported longhorn cattle horns had been proudly bolted, with the name Nebraska Ranch inscribed in large black iron letters, one word on either side of the horns.

Stretching out from the gravel lead were mowed pastures of introduced grass, where a number of horses grazed lazily under the tropical sun, while off in the distance someone operated a ride-on mower, otherwise the view was as serene as a pastoral view could be.

Once past the entry was found two rows of stables dramatic and clinical, with the main house beyond surrounded by a low picket fence containing a rose garden and an orchard of tropical fruiting trees to the rear.

The house was single story but rather large in cream brick with white window framing and totally alien to the Queensland tropical bush, although well shaded by shrubs and eucalyptus trees being the only indication to its antipodal situation.

As the vehicle came to park in front of one of the stables the boys were met by a rather lean man in his advancing years wearing American dress boots, high to the calf and elaborately designed, a Stetson hat and a silver belt buckle almost as big as a cup saucer. He wore his snowy hair long with a touch of Wild Bill Hickok, falling untidily from the protection of his hat to beyond his shoulders, while an extremely grey moustache covered his upper lip and drooped in length from the corners – and silver rimmed glasses, it was the glasses that appeared to be out of place, it gave the wearer more of a religious appearance than a man accustomed to being astride a mustang or in the vernacular, brumby. It was a certainty his attire had been developed to epitomise rather than depict the true fashion of the American mid-west.

“Colonel Sanders without the goatee.” Wayne whispered to Ralph.

“Howdy,” the man in the Stetson greeted offering his hand in turn to Wayne then Ralph, who accepted the offer before introducing themselves.

“Chad de Coupe.” The horseman introduced. “So you guys want to buy some real horse flesh.” Chad de Coupe asked in his broad Mid West accent, which although he had lived in Queensland for more than half his life had not lost its edge, becoming part of the package Nebraska Ranch.

The boys agreed that they were interested, while Wayne freely admitting he knew little about horses – his first mistake. Ralph kept his silence.

“Can either of you ride a horse?” de Coupe asked showing a degree of superiority.

“I can.” Ralph incidentally admitted.

“So what kind of mounts would you be wanting?”

“Just horses what’s the difference?” Wayne answered, displaying his lack of knowledge. Now de Coupe’s superiority became even more apparent.

“There are Quarter horses, Stock horses, Walers, Pacers, Racers and a host of others; here we have basic stock horses, riding mounts and Quarter horses, I also have also a number of Walers for your heavy stock usage; are you cattle men?”

“No only what you may call a hobby farm.” Ralph admitted and the man released a grunt representing I thought so.

“So what’s a Quarter horse; a Shetland?” Wayne asked more in jest than in need of an answer.

“Well sir, it is the fastest mount over a quarter mile, mostly used for heading stock and back home they have Quarter Horse Racing.” de Coupe explained his tone somewhat condescending.

“I suppose we are after riding horses.” Wayne advised.

“What is your price range, de Coupe enquired while looking over Wayne’s BMW. “I have a Dodge myself – imported,” he commented, his head bent through the BMW driver’s window checking the vehicles control panel, “don’t like these European makes, too fussy, too many dials, too many things that can go wrong.”

“If the flesh is good then I’m not greatly concerned about the price.” Wayne answered from his scruffy disposition, his faded torn jeans, frayed shirt and attitude, giving the expat American the opinion of easy pickings. Being Wayne’s second mistake for the day, Ralph gave him a dig in the ribcage for saying so.

It was written all across de Coupe’s face, he considered he was dealing with a spoilt rich kid who he could manipulate into buying a couple of nags at a premium price. As for Wayne at that instant he could as easy taken himself away from Nebraska Ranch and given his business to someone with fewer attitudes but as the notion developed Ralph spotted a mare close by that caught his interests. Ralph slowly walked to the fence and leaned inwards to the animal. As he did so the bay mare approached muzzling into his outstretched hand.

“You friend appears to fancy the mare.” de Coupe commented as the sound of a telephone came from the office attached to the stables. Moments later it transferred to de Coupe’s mobile service.

“Excuse me young fellow but I have to take this call.” de Coupe apologised moving into the shadows of the stable.

“Do you like that one?” Wayne asked taking his place besides Ralph and nervously reaching towards the mare’s muzzle.

“I’d say she’s around three or four years.” Ralph declared as de Coupe returned from his telephone call, “how much for the mare?” Wayne asked.

“Rosie? No she’s not for sale but her foal is, it has just been broken-in and should make a good riding mount.” De Coupe’s attitude had changed; he was now on a sale and a naive rich boy’s dollar was as good as any other, in fact better as he could inflate the price. “Your friend appears to know horse flesh.” de Coupe added with surprise at Ralph’s choice as he beckoned them to follow him to an adjoining paddock containing a dozen or so horses, lazily grazing the deep rich pasture. “See that bay filly at the far end? That is Rosie’s foal.”

“Are they all for sale?” Wayne enquired taking fancy to a skewbald.

“All in this paddock are, including Rosie’s bay filly.”

Wayne took Ralph aside out of de Coup’s hearing. “What do you think?” He asked being ignorant of the difference between a fine mount and a nag.

“Rosie’s bay foal is shy of two years I guess and in my opinion perfect but would have to see her gallop first and I see you like the skewbald?”

“I like the colour.” Wayne admitted.

“It’s not a motor Wayne,” Ralph laughed, “I agree with your choice but watch this bugger he’ll try and put one over you with the price.”

“I guess that to be the case.” Wayne led the way back to de Coupe. As he did so the mob became spooked and as one they galloped the length of the paddock. Their movement appeared to satisfy Ralph’s curiosity on quality.

“What price for the bay and the skewbald?” Wayne enquired; de Coupe appeared to be doing mental calculations, eventually he answered.

“Look I like you boys.” He lied.

“I’ll do you a deal.” He wasn’t.

“The bay let’s say three thousand eight hundred and the skewbald is a good riding mount, four thousand. Tell you what make it a round seven five and they are yours.” de Coupe offered making inclination that he was doing them a favour.

Wayne was about to agree with the price when Ralph spoke.

“A bit steep Mister de Coupe, I tell you what we’ll give you six five for both.”

“Seven two.” de Coupe fired back with surprise.

“Six eight or we walk.” Ralph offered.

“Seven Two,” de coupe repeated, obviously not prepared to lower his evaluation.

“I don’t think we can do business Mister de Coupe,” Ralph determined and nodded Wayne towards their vehicle.

“Alright young fellow, six eight.” de Coupe agreed but at that price you are robbing me.

“Will you take a cheque?” Wayne asked while extracting his cheque book from his rear pocket.

“No cheques.” de Coupe rejected, scoffing at the idea.

“I don’t carry that amount of cash around in my pocket,” Wayne complained, “tell you what Mister de Coupe, I’ll give you a cheque and you can deliver the horses after the bank has cleared it, will that do?”

The American thought for a while and agreed to the sale.

“How much for the delivery to Federation Bay?” Wayne enquired.

“Four hundred ,”

Wayne filled out the cheque and handed it to the American, “and to show equal trust, you can deliver the papers with the horses.”

The deal was done.

It was tea time and Ralph had prepared a stew. The aroma filled the house bringing Wayne to the kitchen table. It had been arranged to deliver the two horses the following Monday and both were becoming a little excited at the prospect. Then amid sentence a notion came to Wayne.

“What’s wrong?” Ralph enquired while serving a large portion of steaming food.

“Saddles and all that!” Wayne declared loudly, “We don’t have saddles.”

“Bare back.” Ralph suggest while offering slices of hard crusted homemade bread.

“I’d fall off!” Wayne affirmed.

“You will probably fall off with a saddle.” Ralph’s humour didn’t go well with Wayne who gave him a glare of disapproval.

“No seriously we need saddles.”

“No worries, what do you think I’ve been doing in the shed over the last couple of days?” Ralph asked.

“I’m almost too scared to ask.”

“There are a couple of old saddles in the shed and I’ve been cleaning them and oiling the leather, they are stock saddles and a little on the bulky side but should do the trick.”

“You think of everything.”

“Someone has to.”

“You cheeky little bugger.”

“Question, when are you meeting up with Louise?” Ralph asked.

“It was going to be last week but with purchasing the horses I’ve put it off for now.”

“How did she take that?”

“Not too kindly but I guess this time I’m in the driver’s seat.”

Federation Bay’s only hotel was called the Federal and on the first Saturday night of every second month management hired a band. Usually it would be some local group, made up of old folk with a moderate knowledge of music playing compositions their parents would have enjoyed. This night an aboriginal group was to play. Their rhythm leant towards traditional while their style was mainly country, right up Ralph’s entertainment alley.

It was the lead that most came to hear, as he mixed his language between Gulngai and English with a smoothness that was like silk and sadness that could bring tears to the eyes of the most harden bushman.

“Hey Ralph how would you like to go to the pub in town tonight, there is a band playing.” Wayne asked will overseeing the saddles Ralph had been working on. It was true they were old and in parts the leather was cracking, while the under padding had little wear left but in general they would suit the purpose.

“Who’s playing?” Ralph asked.

“That black group from Cairns you said you like, Berringar or something like that.”

“Alright I like them,” Ralph agreed.

The Federal Hotel was an ugly two story fifties monstrosity in two toned brick that had been built after the original building was destroyed by fire in fifty-seven. Some around town perceived it to be a Jewish Stock-take but Ben Hanlon the proprietor proved all wrong by rebuilding in fifties vernacular, bringing on the opinion he did so in a style totally foreign to the town’s colonial bent in retaliation towards common opinion. The establishment had a bottle shop and two bars on the lower floor, with rooms on the upper floor, which were seldom rented as the shifting of the Bruce Highway further to the west had somewhat isolated the town.

The blackboard outside the hotel’s main bar declared that Berringar was playing but a long white line had been chalked through the notice declaring the gig had been cancelled and the local glee club would be pumping out their ancient airs to the delight of the older generation.

“Tell you what, we’ll have a couple of drinks anyway and I will take you up to Cairns to see them, we can have a meal and stay the night at the unit.”

It was agreed and the two found a quiet corner as far away as possible from the tiff, tiff, tiff, of the snare drums and old Percy Douglas with his maracas and ancient Hawaiian silk shirt, of which he had a never ending supply, purchased at great expense over the internet.

“I see the feller’ we met mowing at the cemetery is in.” Ralph observed while catching his eye, the mower-man gave a wave but remained drinking with mates at the bar.

“Who?”

“You know the bloke who showed us where Lachlan was buried and thought he was a distant relation.”

“Ah I remember, what was his name?”

“Mitch Bennett he said, I guess Mitchell.”

“Yes he alleged he was related to the McBride family.”

“I think he claimed sorta’ related, if I’m correct his Uncle Bert had and Uncle Henry whose grandmother Violet was half McBride.”

“You remembered all that?” Wayne was impressed.

“I have a fair memory for things.” Ralph admitted.

“Do you want to go and say hello?”

“Na, if he comes across but he looks busy – want a refill?” Ralph asked while making his way to the bar.

“I guess one more wouldn’t hurt but if you’re not drinking, you drive.”

“Hello there.” Wayne raised his eyes towards the voice to perceive a young woman with long brown hair and more makeup than her otherwise pretty face needed to wear. Her attire was somewhat country but she wore it well and it suited her.

“Hello yourself,” Wayne smiled his answer.

“What’s your name?” She asked stirring her drink with a long painted fingernail.

“Jenkins, Wayne Jenkins.”

“Liz Milton, do you want to buy me a drink?” She asked with a gentle cheeky grin.

“Sure, but I am with a friend, he is at the bar.” Liz gave an uncomfortable glance,

“Sorry I didn’t realise.” She apologised and immediately Wayne understood her mistake.

“Hey he’s only a mate, out for a couple of drinks, we came to see Berringar but they have been cancelled.”

“Oh I thought.” Liz declared as Ralph returned.

“We were an item?” Wayne laughed.

“I guess something like that.”

“Do you still want that drink?” Wayne offered as he stood to go to the bar.

“No it’s alright.”

“Sure, I don’t mind.”

“It was just a way of meeting you besides I haven’t finished the one I’ve got.”

“Hey Ralph meet Liz.” Wayne introduced then left for the bar, “brandy and lime?” he asked noticing the dregs in Liz’s glass.

“If you must thank you,”

By the time Wayne returned Liz and Ralph were in deep conversation about horses. Seating himself he passed the brandy and lime across the table.

“So you two have managed to come up with possibly the only subject I know absolutely nothing about.” Wayne lifted his glass to Liz, “cheers.”

“Sorry but I love horses and was brought up on a station west of here.”

“What are you doing in town?” Wayne asked.

“My parents lost the property and moved into town,” Liz explained.

The conversation on horses continued for some time, then after a number of drinks Wayne was becoming bored with the subject and commenced to drift away. As he did so he jolted back to the ambience in the bar, while feeling something moving along his inner thigh. Liz had slipped out of her shoe and planted her foot onto Wayne’s crotch and was manipulating his zip with her toes. She was clever.

‘She must know Louise,’ he thought while holding a deadpan expression.

‘Cheeky woman.’

‘She’s on the mark; I should nip this before it becomes serious.’ Wayne looked across at Ralph who remained in deep conversation on horse flesh while Liz appeared content in listning.

Usually Wayne would respond at just a touch. Liz Milton was having Ralph with her conversation and Wayne with her foot but the only response Liz received was a heavy blush from Wayne’s face and confusion why he did not rise to her touch. He blamed the drink, or being Louise’s favourite game in public it was no longer erotic. He tried to concentrate on an erection but nothing. It wasn’t that he wanted to respond but now his masculinity was under review from within his own mind. He was losing his touch and worried.

“I think we should be heading home soon.” Wayne suggested and collected his change from the table top. “This music is driving me to sleep.” He blamed and Ralph agreed.

“Thank you for the conversation.” Ralph expressed then downed the last of his soft drink. Liz slipped back into her shoe and as Ralph turned away from the table, slipped a piece of paper into Wayne’s hand. “Call me some time.” She whispered. Wayne smiled and nodded.

“You drive Ralph; I think I’m too pissed.” Wayne threw Ralph the keys and climbed into the passenger’s seat.

“What did you think of Liz?” Ralph asked as he pulled away from the parking lot.

“Not a lot.”

“She liked you.” Ralph expressed as the last of the town’s lights disappeared behind.

“Why do you say that?”

“She had her foot in your crotch for most of the night and she did slip you a note.”

“That, if you want to check, I threw it into the bin outside the pub as for the foot, well,” Wayne cut himself short, how could he brag about his failure to rise under her touch.

“I was going to suggest I could walk home and you could go with her.” Ralph said and appeared genuine with his suggestion.

“Too far in the dark, you’d probably break your neck.”

“I’ve done so before.”

“Not to night Ralph my boy, besides I didn’t think much of her anyway, too forward, reminds me too much of Louise and far too much makeup.”

“Still I don’t want you to think I am holding you back from getting on with your life, if you know what I mean.” Ralph honestly disclosed.

“I know what you mean and I’m happy with everything at present, I don’t think I have ever been -,” Wayne paused then continued, “I was going to say happier but I don’t think that is the correct word, contented, that’s the word. I feel contented.” Wayne sighed and relaxed back into his thoughts then laughed loudly pointing towards the dark ribbon of road ahead. “Home James and don’t spare the horses.”

“How much did you have to drink?” Ralph asked as he drove along the farm drive.

“Enough,”

“You sound pissed.”

“I am.” Wayne answered supported by a wide supercilious grin.

“Righto were home, I’ll put the car away.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Not likely out you get.”

Wayne opened his door and fell out, regaining his footing he pointed to the door and giggled, “Loueese’s skatch,” giggling he ran a finger along the groove, “bitch.”

“I think the car can stay here, hang on I’ll give you a hand.” Ralph turned off the motor and quickly came to his friend’s aid.

“Stop fussing man I’m alright.” Wayne growled but he wasn’t and with some difficulty Ralph managed him up the steps.

“I’ve never seen you drunk, tipsy yes but never drunk.” Ralph admitted and dumped Wayne on his verandah cot, “you can sleep it off here tonight.”

“I should never mix my drinks,” Wayne groaned.

“Will you be alright?”

“I guess so; I’ll just rest my eyes.”

“Are you going to be sick, I’ll get a bucket?”

“I never chuck.”

“Goodnight then,”

“Good night and Ralph.”

“What?”

“You’re a real mate you know that, a real bloody mate, the best a bloke could have.” Wayne then passed out.

For a time Ralph stood over his friend surveying his peaceful face as he slept. With a deep sigh and a gentle shaking of the head he left him to his peace and went to his bed, “you’re more than a mate, I can honestly admit that.” Ralph admitted as he retired.

Towards early morning the weather changed and a cooling breeze arrived. “What’s the time?” Wayne exclaimed sitting bolt upright while feeling cold. The breeze had turned to misty rain and was blowing across the verandah. Wayne shifted the cot but staggered somewhat from the lingering effect of the alcohol. Breathing deeply he sat at the edge of the cot and shook his head. More deep breaths as the spinning appeared to lessen.

“Feeling better?”

“Not much, whose there?”

“You had a good night?”

“I did,” Wayne peered through unfocused eyes into the darkness of the verandah. A face illuminated. “Who is it?” He again asked, “I don’t know you.”

“I think you do,” The stranger admitted.

“Is it Toby!” Wayne asked.

“Yes Toby.”

“Where are the others?”

“They are around.”

“Why am I seeing you Toby?”

“I guess you wish to do so.”

“I don’t think so, besides like the others you’ll probably bugger off before the conversation gets interesting.

“What did you wish to talk about?” Toby asked.

“Nothing – I was looking at the photograph of you all this afternoon and thought of your association with this weird mob.” Wayne recollected.

“So there you go.”

“I was thinking you were a good looking turkey but little more.”

“I guess that was what made the connection, was that a complement or insult, as I don’t recollect anyone calling me a turkey?”

“It was most definitely a complement.”

“Then thank you.”

“I’m drunk,” Wayne broke into a fit of giggling.

“You’re not a bad looking turkey yourself.” Toby complemented.

“Were you the partner to Daniel?”

“I was,”

“What the four of you all poofs and doing it in the one house, it must have been like Worth’s Circus.”

“It was a wonderful life and a long one at that and Daniel was a wonderful man.”

“You were a sailor?” Wayne asked and shook the booze from his head but still felt woolly and his eyes hurt and his person stunk of cigarette smoke from the bar.

“I was a merchant man and from a very early age.”

“I bet you could tell a story or two about the goings on at sea?”

“I could but what happens at sea stays at sea.”

“It must have been a wonderful life?” Wayne thought of the freedom, visiting exotic shores and the majesty of storms. He loved watching storms, being one thing he missed away from his unit on the Cairns Esplanade. From there the storms across Trinity bay were a wonder and when at full strength he would sit in the dark for hours watching them.

“It was ruddy hard work, as for storms there is no magic in having a ship ripped apart under you, or being marooned and washed ashore in an area of cannibals.”

“Cannibals?” Wayne inquisitively asked.

“The natives north of here were once cannibalistic.” Toby informed.

“Even so I would have loved to have been around in those days, it would be exciting, a brand new country into a brand new world and nothing to give grief.” Wayne turned as he spoke but Toby had gone, “huh as I suggested the bugger clears out just as the conversation was getting interesting.”

A bear with a sore head, a grumpy bear with a hangover met the morning and the happy voice of Ralph asking if breakfast was a good idea.

“Ur no, black coffee yes.”

“I’ve never seen you with a hangover before.” Ralph revealed.

“It’s not a regular occurrence, what was I drinking last night?”

“I think you attempted to out drink Liz.”

“Liz was that her name, boy she could put it away.”

“She could at that.”

“Hey Ralph did you put me to bed?”

“Someone had to or you would have slept on the damp ground if I didn’t carry you up the stairs.”

“And the clothes?”

“Yes I undressed you as well.”

“Doesn’t a fellow have anything that’s private?” Wayne asked realising under the sheet he was completely naked.

“Not any more, besides I’d seen it all before, I wouldn’t makes such a fuss over such a small thing.”

“Small! I hope you know I’m well above average down there.” Wayne protested most affirmatively.

“Are you getting up or want your coffee delivered?”

“Give me five, I’ll have a shower and join you.”

Once showered Wayne joined Ralph in the kitchen, “ah now I remember,” A spark of memory exploded in his head.

“What is it you recollect?” Ralph asked as he made the coffee, “are you sure you wouldn’t like toast?”

“No toast, maybe later. Yes her name was Liz and she had her foot in my crotch for half the night.”

“That I know but you didn’t appear to be enjoying it.” Ralph deduced.

“It was one of Louise’s tricks in public.”

“Isn’t it a little personal?” Ralph suggested displaying his temperate character as he passed Wayne his coffee.

“Louise could be a very public person when it suited her – and rows, it wouldn’t matter who was listening. Truthfully the bigger the audience the stronger her theatrics, she could have received an academy award for some of her outbursts. She was also a hurler?”

“What’s a hurler?” Ralph asked.

“She would throw things, so you learned to duck or keep your distance. Enough of Louise, I guess it’s all academic now and thinking of her only makes my head hurt more.”

“Want some aspirin?”

“No a few minutes and I’ll be as right as rain; the coffee should do the trick.”

Wayne tasted his coffee. Black as ordered but hangover or not it was much too bitter, he added milk and sugar. “It can be somewhat embarrassing if you have to get up from the table in a hurry.

“What can?” Ralph asked.

“The foot trick. Did I like Liz?” Wayne released a self gratifying smirk.

“Don’t you remember?” Ralph asked.

“Not a lot.” More sugar and a deep swallow, “the coffee tastes bitter.”

“It’s your drunken taste buds, probably burnt out, “she gave you her telephone number and you said you binned it.”

“Why would I do that, I must have been really drunk?”

“You said she was too forward and wore too much make-up.” Ralph recalled.

“I guess that must be the reason, I reckon I’m losing my touch.”

“I thought it was like riding a bicycle, you never forget, or riding a horse.” Ralph mused.

“What are you taking about Ralph my boy?”

“Having sex I guess.”

“If you don’t already know sex and alcohol do not mix.”

“That I wouldn’t know I’m somewhat a stranger to both.” Ralph amusingly admitted.

“You have a drink.”

“Only socially, so I’ve never had a hangover. How’s the head Wayne?”

“Aw shut up.”

“Would you like to go back to bed.” Ralph suggested.

“Na I’m up now but I don’t think the shower worked, I may take another.”

“I’ll go finish preparing the tack for Monday.” Ralph commenced to wash the morning dishes.

“Hey a little less noise, what is tack?”

“Sorry, you know saddles bridles and all that, remember the horses are coming on Monday.”

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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