Published: 12 Sep 2019

Prologue

Lewis Smith was a young man with much sexual baggage. Coming from a broken home and beginning life as a carefree kid in the great Queensland outback his only friend his horse and in the company of adults, mainly male shearers and stockmen. Yet being Melbourne borne and while visiting his grandparents in the south, he developed belonging there, and after returning to Queensland his longing increased but physically and mentally he remained north, becoming known as the Stay Behind Kid.

From his carefree situation of horses and outback stations there developed his mother’s second failed relationship and his need for education. At the tender age of six he was transported a thousand kilometres further north to what was known as the Herberton Methodist Hostel, catering for outback families where there lacked educational opportunity.

With the loss of his horses, the carefree lifestyle and serenity of the outback he was thrust into the midst of half a hundred likeminded boys, many also from broken homes. With that, what chance did he have to become normalised – yet he did manage a normality of sorts but one that would not and was not accepted by his society.

Chapter 1

Thursday – 23^rd Feb 1967

Arrived back in Mareeba and I am beginning to regret my return.

While in Melbourne I missed Mareeba. Now back in Mareeba I’m missing Melbourne, or maybe I miss seeing my grandparents and the rest of the family. I didn’t really get to know them before I returned to Queensland but I suppose I will get over it. Although my mother is still living in Atherton, I decided not to return there as after all my farewells and dogma on not returning to Queensland, I don’t think I could face the old gang.

Here he was, once again a Mareeba boy and not exactly happy in being so. Lewis Smith had spent the Christmas of sixty-six with his Grandparents in Melbourne and although he had promised he would create a new life in that distant city, found it much too difficult to leave the tropics and his small town existence. Thus to a degree, giving some credibility to the adage, you can take the boy out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the boy.

In truth Lewis hadn’t given his sea change in Melbourne a proper chance to succeed. Discovering he lacked the necessary measure of emotional and social ken to do so in a large city, where everyone appeared to be heading in different directions with confused purpose and at the same time. So he shrunk from the challenge and after less than three months repacked his bag and was gone. While the returning was plagued with second thoughts but once beyond Rockhampton in Central Queensland his regret turned towards the comfort of what he was accustomed.

Back in the north, Lewis felt he no longer belonged there either and a wall of emotional concrete impeded his path to wellbeing. He loved Mareeba but hardly knew the town, spending most of his youth on the move and much of his school years in Herberton some short distance higher on the adjacent tableland, as a boarder at the Methodist Hostel and a pupil at the town’s state primary and high schools, only returning to Mareeba for school holidays.

Before Mareeba life there was sheep country and horses, with all the excitement a lad could wish for but little experience of crowds of young larrikins all wishing him displeasure. That would come later with his so called internment at the hostel but even that was behind him now and life as an adult lay ahead and for the present Mareeba would be his training ground.

Although Lewis carried a feeling of displacement, there was always something endearing about the quality of Mareeba, giving warmth that flowed like tepid bathwater around his person, embolden a strong sense of belonging. First and foremost, was his early morning walks under the spread of mango trees that lined much of the length of the main street. Their branches reaching from shop awning to distant awning, supplying welcomed shade and meeting place for the indigenous people from the native camp along the Granite Creek and far enough away not to offend the sensitivity of the town’s folk who held but toleration towards the original holders of their fair quarter acre house blocks with fine timber houses, many in the Queensland vernacular, with sweeping and shady verandahs, long staircases in vivid white and topped with small but excluding gates.

It was during the early mornings when Mareeba delivered Lewis its most precious gift. To walk along the main street, before the sun rose with the sting of a paper wasp and view the swallows darting amongst the trees in the cooling mist of the opened fire hydrants, let flow to wash the gutters. This was his peace and had remained a sweet memory during the few months he had been away but now in return the morning air did not taste as sweet, or the warm air as homely, not the town as welcoming.

Winnie, Lewis’ mother remained in Atherton, some thirty kilometres higher into the tableland but held the intention of returning to Mareeba in the near future. John her de-facto of some years had a green grocery shop there and before leaving for Melbourne, Lewis had worked the shop but it was failing and this lack of success inspired John to re-establish in Mareeba, although some years previously his business had also failed in Mareeba, to be more accurate, twice failed and twice so his attempt in share farming towards Atherton under the influence of farmers who promised all and gave nothing while demanding more than the verbal agreement issued.

John’s business seemed to be destined to failure, as he put far too much faith in the opinions of his associates. Seeing only the good in others is not always necessary a virtue, unfortunately, John saw the pleasant side in most and forgave their indiscretions much too quickly without analysing their intent. If money was stolen from his left hand, John would tender more to his adversary with the right hand, until his pockets were empty and forgive them for their trespass, without realising hard work and honesty doesn’t always create a good businessman or adequate lifestyle.

That year Melbourne, although mid-summer, had been cold and wet and except for the warmth Lewis found in the bosom of his family, there was little to be found elsewhere. He had attempted to obtain work but discovered his education standard was lacking, as most wished to hire someone with ready experience. He was almost hired to work in a hardware store but again they wanted experience.

“You appear to be suitable but can you mix paint lad?” the proprietor asked with a stern and demanding inclination as a tin of beige shuddered on the paint covered electric mixing machine, being the result of the previous employee, one who failed to secure the lid, also failing to secure future tenure.

“No,” Lewis had honestly answered “but I am a quick learner,” he hopefully added, showing as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

“Sorry but I can’t afford stuff-ups, the margins are too small,” the proprietor declared, his ever watchful eyes on his staff, while escorting the disappointed lad towards the door.

“I am studying commercial art!” Lewis pleaded from the shop doorway in a vain attempt to influence the man’s decision but without success. The surly, fat, balding paint spotted shopkeeper was having none of his plea and unceremoniously deserted him at the footpath to attend to a well spoken lady with a paint problem and a poor sense of dress.

“Mrs. Jamieson, was the paint to your satisfaction?” Lewis heard the man enquire in hopeful tone.

“No, not at all,” She answered most displeasingly.

“But why?”

“It is grass green, I had asked for beige, like it was in the living room picture in Home Beautiful I showed your boy.”

“Oh my apologies, return it and I will remix a replacement batch for you.” The man offered with an eye on Lewis as he remained close by listning to the issue.

“No thank you Mr. Reynolds, I have already replaced it at Hattam’s Hardware but I would like a refund.”

“By all means, bring it back and I will reimburse you, Lenny is no longer with us, so there shouldn’t be any future problem.” Still the man’s eye remained on Lewis.

“Reimburse yes, Mr. Reynolds but Hattam’s is less expensive.”

Lewis moved away leaving the two in argument about if she should return the paint or the shopkeeper should collect it, while in doing so was somewhat pleased he wasn’t acceptable for the position.

Unfortunately Sixty-Six was a bad year for school leavers acquiring employment, as the crop of births from the loins of the previous war’s returning soldiers were reaching working age. Especially for one who didn’t know if he had passed his Queensland sub-junior high school year, a standard not often acknowledged in the southern state. Besides the city was blessed with a multitude of young men who knew their results, while even they were finding difficulty in acquiring employment.

At nineteen Lewis had the social development of one younger but would never have admitted so. In truth there was doubt he actually realised, or even thought about his lack of social fortitude. During those first tender years in the mid west he had been detached from other children, enjoying a quiet life on stations or in small insignificant towns, simple dots, or train stops in the Queensland outback, then later at boarding school with none but children to glean life’s experience.

The Herberton hostel had been established by a Methodist minister some years earlier, with the realisation there was a need for children from cattle stations to further their education and somewhere affordable for them to board while doing so. Herberton being situated high in the Atherton Tablelands with a mild climate was considered perfect for such an establishment, also being a small community there was little occasion for the boarders to find mischief.

Most of the hostel’s children were from those far flung cattle stations of the cape or gulf country, while a number came from the dependency of Papua in New Guinea to Queensland’s north, where there were few opportunities for higher school education. Many were, as was Lewis, from broken homes, from drunken abusive fathers or situations of neglect. Yet in general they fitted well together and there were few obvious signs of their past situations, at least on the surface but previous frustrations often surfaced in bulling.

The hostel was not a boarding school in the true sense but a place to board and attend the town’s state schools, while lacking the discipline and social structure many associate with boarding schools. In truth there was little supervision and during weekends the children were left to find their own entertainment but strict rules were made towards being found out of bounds. If one was discovered up town or down the creek, it was the strap and often across the bare arse, or extended study time which some considered worse than corporal punishment.

Lewis often recollected a time when one or more lads had stolen food from the kitchen pantry. Who was guilty could not be established; therefore one and all would suffer. The following morning, being Saturday, all boys were driven from their beds at four-thirty on a winter’s morning and Herberton was high and cold, marched barefooted in their pyjamas to the study block and made to stand in line facing the wall, until someone owned up or made accusation towards others. The punishment failed, so that day there was no issue of their two shilling pocket money and all privileges stopped for the remainder of that month. The culprit was never discovered, yet pilfery of food continued. In Lewis’ opinion, if they had served decent meals in the first place, the pilfering may not have occurred at all.

The establishment was notoriously lacking in parental control or supervision and leaving the children to their own entertainment did not lend to building proper development, so the hostel children, in the main, learnt social skills from their piers. Lewis was also a casualty of such circumstances and at the end of his school years went into the adult world lacking many of these skills but equipped with the ability to quickly learn by his mistakes.

Lewis was a trusting lad without true direction. Sometime before travelling south he had commenced a commercial art course, its advertisement found in some magazine but even that lacked promise and although he continued with the lessons to completion, common sense lay deep in reality telling him it would amount to nothing.

As for art Lewis paddled within the shallow waters of his mind realising there was no future to be had there either, as the camera was quicker and more appealing than the brush. He would never be an artist never mind a commercial artist. Even Lewis knew that, as to perform true art, one must have conflict and dedication and Lewis had neither.

During those mid teenage years Lewis bounded through each day like a tireless Labrador puppy, all bright eyed and energetic, besides in truth he couldn’t paint. I’m going to be a painter, he once told his mother while at home on school holidays. That’s nice dear; you can paint the shop for a start. No, not walls, an artist, he had proudly offered. A bullshit artist; had been her reply. Negative criticism excluded, Lewis had continued with his course without appraising he had no future in art, until the final flimsy certificate of no obvious value arrived in the mail, toned with a silent here you go – good luck.

Friends did praise his work but mainly through lack artistic knowledge or a genuine need to show him a measure of kindness. Like his conversation, paint flowed from the tube via the brush to the canvas without conception. As for style, whatever eventuated became his modem operands. Yet on his return from Melbourne, the hard knocks of life were slowly toning his ability to conform as the lad became a young man. Gone his aspirations towards art, gone his intention to commercialise his lacking of talent, gone the games of the child, replaced with realisation it was his future and he would need to quickly align himself to it.

Lewis did have one redeeming attribute, he was a likeable lad and non-threatening. His stance of average height and slight of frame, along with his total lack of aggression made him popular with adults but didn’t lend to popularity with his peers. If Lewis was invited to a party it would be to create numbers rather than his conversational skills.

Oddly when faced with a crowd of strangers, Lewis would become as quiet as a church mouse and sit alone to one side, watching the party progress, believing his strength was to observe rather than be part of it. Once introduced and his nervous disposition subsided, he would become quite animated but within a moment others would realise he had little of interest to offer. He could converse extensively on sheep and cattle stations, horses and historical events but had no ken in every day occurrence like who was dating and which girl was easy, or the design of the latest Ford or Holden sedan.

Sex was another mystery to Lewis. Something everyone about him was having but he wasn’t. There had been a litany of boarding school experimentations but that was mutual masturbation with a mindset on future promise. Lewis quickly learnt that in his post school world, the sexual tap had been turned tightly off and had all but rusted shut. Unlike latent teenage boys, girls weren’t the pushover he thought they would be. Besides he believed, if only because of the lack of experience, none could apply the correct pressure or timing and it was more pleasurable to rely on a hand-trolley in the dark of night or during extended toilet breaks.

Penetration scared Lewis. It wasn’t the act of mounting some willing girl but his sense of self-worth that sent him into virtual abstention. Why would any self-respecting female surrender her privacy to his pleasure? Even the thought of attempting foreplay sent him spiralling into a cold sweat. He was also afraid of rejection therefore believing it was safer not to approach girls in the first instance, rather than be scorned as teenage girls were most apt in detecting innocence and quick to parody.

There was an occasion with one of the aboriginal girls from the town’s native camp. Mary White, a name that was most unfitting to her skin tone or her morality, as white as winter’s snow she was not. With Mary there wasn’t need for foreplay as her intent was clearly dictated. She was the predator and Lewis her prey. Like some gangly limbed black widow spider, she pounced on Lewis and drained him while devouring his gratuitous virginity.

Lewis had only been back in Mareeba a matter of weeks when going to buy lunch at the Tip-Top café, on approach he noticed a black girl giving him the eye. He politely smiled and continued on for a matter of steps. There were many stories told about the camp girls who hung around the door of the Dunlop Hotel, and none encouraged towards social etiquette.

“Hey white fella’ want a fuck?” Mary crudely and loudly offered as Lewis passed Pollards’ general store. He paused, allowing Mary’s brazen request to register while establishing none had witnessed her approach. Rational advised him to continue but any mention of sex to a young lad was more than enough to halt his progress.

“Bet ya’ got a big cock in them pants eh white boy?” her words were direct and without shame, her eyes remained directed towards his crotch.

Lewis became instantly aroused and it showed. His curse being, once erect it would stay so for longer than nature would deem necessary and tight trousers were not inducing towards concealment. Mary could not else but notice, she smiled, her eyes burning away the fabric of his trousers and into the very flesh beneath, creating in him a need that was now beyond rational. Lewis was hers’ for the taking and Mary was wanting.

“I’m not interested,” Lewis rebuffed without confidence but remained affixed to the footpath, again surveying his position. Still they appeared alone.

“You may not be but your dick is.” Mary’s eyes remained fixated on Lewis’ crotch.

“You’re having me on?” with uncertainty Lewis nervously answered; his eyes remaining about with sensibility advising him to continue on his journey. Yet he remained.

“I won’t offer again.”

“Where can we go?” Lewis asked in a curious breath, giving her his innocent smile, still not believing Mary White had real intent, while looking around the near empty street and hoping no one had seen him even talking to one of the native girls. Still they appeared to be alone.

Pollard’s was the quieter end of town, leading to the railway yards and the bowling green, away from the main shopping area, with most of the railway traffic a street away.

“Down the lane eh, no one’s around.” She nodded towards a narrow lane between the two buildings with an over growth of shrubs at the far end.

“I don’t know.” Cautious but not confident.

“Come on; only cost ya’ a packet of smokes,” she offered.

“I don’t smoke” Lewis admitted.

“Then ten shillings,” Mary suggested while using old currency terminology.

“No spare money either, dollars or quids or shillings.”

“Well I’ll do ya’ anyway you can owe me eh,” she laughed.

“I don’t think so;” spoken with little urgency to depart, even less conviction as his desires built into hot pumping blood.

Lewis once again scanned the street, were they alone, had anyone seen him talking to Mary. She did have a reputation and he had often seen her hanging around the Dunlop Hotel. On one occasion Lewis had observed Pete Temple one of the town’s police constables showing more interest than requesting her move along, his hands on her arse as he nodded towards the seats under the central trees and there were times when punters from the pub would invite her to go for a drive, done so in much caution not to be discovered.

“Whatya’ scared about?”

“It’s not that,” Lewis protested.

“Are ya’ a virgin?”

“No I’m not!” Lewis growled as the truth of the matter turned crimson across his face while removing any notion of rational that may have remained. If his intention was to depart it was soon squashed by her accusation, as no red blooded young man would admit to such an insult, especially from a woman.

“I’ve seen you about eh,” Mary said, “you useta’ live here eh and you know my cousin Rex Gordon?”

“That was a long time ago; I’ve just arrived back from Melbourne.”

“What kinda’ white fella’ joint is that,” Mary questioned indifferently.

“You probably would know if I explained.”

“You saying I’m dumb,” Mary displayed pretence of annoyance.

“Of course I’m not.”

“I dunno’ you look like a virgin to me,” Mary again laughed.

“I’m not but what the dif if I was.”

“Don’t matta’ come with me white boy, show me what ya’ got.” Mary proposed, while taking control of the top of his pants and leading Lewis the short distance down the small dark walkway beside Pollards store and the woman’s rest room. As he travelled his William’s dress boots echoed loudly on the concrete while following Mary’s silent lead, his heart thumping out nervous anticipation with each loud step. No, remained on his lips but yes drove each step into the deserted lane.

Lewis accepted her direction as if in a dream of disbelief and if there was final resistance Mary’s forwardness now drove it from his thinking. Then as soon as they were clear, Mary was upon him with the intent of a woman possessed. His trousers with ease fell to his ankles and her light summer dress rose high as she guided him in.

The encounter was over within seconds and as Lewis spun into ecstasy all he saw was the expanse of black flesh devouring him. Then without further word Mary White was gone along with Lewis’ virginity and as she departed she laughed, taunting him for weeks, making him feel used as if he were raped but soon he only remembered the sensation of the experience and with the experience Mary’s colour faded, feeding many late night’s manual renditions in his small and austere room at the Royal Hotel.

Monday – 6^th March 1967.

Running out of money, will have to find work soon and find somewhere to live. I May have to approach Gladys King. That will be most interesting, as I haven’t seen her since leaving for Melbourne and seeing she and mum are no longer on talking terms I don’t know what kind of reception I’ll receive…. Had my first fuck today behind Pollards’, she was a ‘B’ girl from the local ‘C’. -still it felt good.

As Lewis made his diary entry he found it difficult to be honest even to paper that he had had sex with one from the camp and one known to be notorious for offering her services for grog and smokes. It was as if the very page carrying his words had tongues and would broadcast his indiscretion to anyone who would wish to listen.

If it were considered improper for a white boy to talk to an aboriginal girl, to have sex with her was a scandal and the transgressor would be branded a gin-jockey and scorned. Even bestiality carried a lesser social stigma than such a deed. If a suggested sheep shagger became the bane of jest, then a gin-jockey became an outcast in mockery.

That was the way during those post-war decades when the indigenous people remained without citizenship or respect and under government protection like the koala and cassowary. Disallowed to even travel without official permission, while being forced to work on white man’s cattle and sheep stations for a pittance that was held by some government department. Even after many decades, wages were not advance to the rightful owner and had to be argued for in the law courts.

If Lewis knew of such treatment was debatable, he did know of the stolen generation and disagreed with such action but there was a measure of superiority within his thinking and without realisation he was imperialistic. There also remained a high measure of British within him and why not so, two of his uncles were from Devon, as were his grandparents, his mother born the following year of their immigration. Much of Lewis was English and he was proud in being so. Yes Lewis was more than a little imperialistic but with it, strongly proud to be Australian.

Lewis found as soon as his embarrassment subsided, he was once again passing Pollards and the railway yards like a bitch on heat looking for a second chance but there was none coming. Mary White had left town, going walkabout was the expression, with the rest of her family to work on a cattle station in the Georgetown Gulf. So at night in the darkness of his room at the Royal Hotel his hand would dance a heated dance to the memory of Mary’s gaunt black frame, while her skin became whiter on each passing occasion.

Being back In Mareeba did render a new problem for the lad. He couldn’t afford to board at hotel prices for an extended period and had never had to find his own lodgings before, thus after two days of failed attempts he drew courage to approach Gladys King, a past friend of his mother, with whom he had often been billeted during many school holidays from Herberton.

Saturday morning found Lewis cautiously approaching Gladys, finding her busy at work sweating over a heated copper, while feeding the water with her weekly wash and the grated flakes from a large bar of sunlight soap. “I heard you were back,” Gladys spoke petulantly, her face ruddy from the copper’s steam, while catching sight of the lad as he walked cautiously along the drive between the two buildings. Lewis paused momentarily almost too anxious to advance but necessity prevailed and releasing his friendliest smile he approached.

The Kings rented an apartment above two shops, one a dentist surgery, the second some business that made cloth buttons and sold haberdashery. The apartment was accessible by a long set of stares at the rear, with the washing facilities in a shed like structure in the otherwise uninspiring yard behind, with its single tree being the ubiquitous mango tree, laden with a heavy crop of fruit.

With a large poker Gladys stirred the soap flakes into the wash, releasing a light cough as particles lifted with the steam to aggravate her ruddy nose and face. “Yes, I arrived back some time ago,” Lewis cautiously answered, keeping his conversation minimal to ascertain the woman’s mood.

“It’s taking you long enough to call in.”

“I’ve been meaning to but -,” Lewis paused, realising he hadn’t any plausible reason and none was coming.

“But what Lewis?”

“I wasn’t sure what would be my reception.”

“How is your mother?” Gladys asked while ignoring the lad’s excuse.

“I haven’t visited her as yet.”

“Umm.”

“I was wondering,” Lewis left his question open, hopeful Gladys would complete it for him.

“Yes Lewis you can stay for the time being but I don’t understand why you didn’t approach me in the first instance.”

“I guess I was a little nervous to do so, seeing I left for Melbourne without saying anything,” Lewis answered as the weight of having somewhere to live lifted from him.

“You will need to pay board once you find work; you will be looking for work?”

“Yes I have already commenced to do so but there isn’t much around.”

“Have you tried the Tobacco Board, I hear they have advertised?”

“I have but it was for grading and I don’t have experience, I did do a few days picking and stringing.”

“Never mind, I should think you will find something.”

The asking of Gladys to allow him to once again board with her was challenging, as his last stay had been most difficult, ending with his mother and Gladys parting company, their friendship denounced by a bitterness that had built over the years like tropical storm clouds hugging the horizon. All knew that some day that storm would break and when it did so, it would be more than drizzle but, to a degree, was lessened by his mother’s departure from town to reside in Atherton.

Living back with Gladys proved to be less stressful than Lewis had anticipated. Her husband Tom had only recently commenced new work and they needed the extra money, so as long as he kept his mother out of conversation, Gladys emotionally remained stable, or at least at a slow simmer, yet by her clipped sentences and half spoken innuendo it was always there and nagging just below the surface.

Although Lewis was staying with Gladys at the time of the controversy between Gladys and his mother, he was then too young and callow to understand the implications. Gladys had taken to drinking heavily and believed she was in love with John, Lewis’ mother’s de-facto but John wasn’t interested in some overweight out of control woman, sending her packing with a much damaged ego. Thus Gladys turned on Winnie and to a lesser degree Lewis but time had dulled the storm, creating within her a permanent rain depression.

As for Tom, he remained confused in the background hopeful it would all blow over and some kind of normality would return to their marriage. It did so in time but it was obvious Tom silently suffered from her rejection and mood. He was a quiet simple man with few necessities, a comfortable home, his son and life without disquiet; therefore to remain unobtrusively mute appeared to be his only choice.

Lewis had his old bedroom, a corner of the verandah, doubling as an awning over the main street’s footpath, open to weather and anyone who willed to look. His only privacy being a tattered canvas blind and on many a night his bed had to be dragged away from incoming weather, as sheets of rain turned the verandah into a virtual lake. It was on such nights Lewis was at a peak of inspiration and from the height of the balcony could watch any developing storm as it came in from the ocean and across the tall dividing mountains to the east. Those days had gone. They were carefree school days without thought towards employment or money, his only concern being how many days remained before the next school term or year, as they quickly passed.

By the close of February Lewis was at wits end. He had little money left and had received no offer for work, except for a few extra days stringing tobacco on a local farm. Now with the picking season at its end, even that avenue had dried away. It was then, as his fortune had reached its nadir, when chance came in the form of Gladys’ husband Tom.

“I hear they are looking for a junior at Jack and Newells,” Tom declared during breakfast while peering willingly over the top of his Cairn’s Post newspaper. Young Timmy, their fat overfed son giggled and crammed even more bubble and squeak through his mocking lips into the cavernous mouth beyond, while repeating his father’s words, “Jack and Newells?” being the only one who saw humour in his repetition.

“Suppose you’re still a junior,” Tom asked incidentally, dropping his thick framed glasses down his nose. He released a weak smile as he waited for Lewis to answer.

“I guess so.”

“Lewis is a junior,” Timmy mocked while his father ignored his comment.

“You have to start somewhere son,” Tom continued adding a minuscule portion of empathy. Timmy again repeated the sentence, continuing to laugh without any inclination towards parental control.

“I suppose I could give it a go,” Lewis agreed despondently as he glared at young Timmy, wishing the kid would choke on his food.

Timmy had now lost interest in the conversation and was dancing half a beef sausage through the squeak to drown it in a sea of tomato sauce.

“Don’t play with your food,” Gladys quietly scalded, “would you like another sausage?”

“You should have the right experience since you worked John’s shop in Atherton before travelling.”

“I thought Jack and Newells was hardware,” Lewis implied, realising he knew little about builder’s tools or timber.

“Were so, but now they have expanded into groceries and green groceries, it’s a big concern and takes up the full corner right to Byrnes Street behind.”

“Groceries,” Timmy mimicked and again laughed.

“At least it would be work,” Lewis admitted.

“Right, I’ll put in a good word for you with Jack Campbell the manager, I know him from the bowling club.” Tom concluded and folded the Cairns Post, placing it neatly to the table top beside his finished breakfast plate, “right,” he once again exclaimed, “I guess it’s time to be on my way.”

“I believe John and your mother are moving back to Mareeba to open a new shop?” Gladys offered from her position behind Timmy, her large fleshy hands placed firmly and lovingly on his fat shoulders, “good boy eat it up,” she softly directed, patting him gently on the top of his head. The lad smiled and crammed the last of the bubble and squeak into his mouth.

Gladys’ question to Lewis was directed without eye contact appearing somewhat rhetorically. She had heard the news from Flow Brentworth from the Graham Hotel who was a friend of Moll Tanner who owned the shop in Hort Street, where John and Winnie intended to open their new business.

On speaking Gladys’ face contorted into a slight grimace, which at sentence end diluted into a mild sneer, although all the while her voice remained soft and gentle giving the false conviction of care. Lewis remained silent.

It was true John and his mother were to return to Mareeba but he was surprised with Gladys’ knowledge, as he had only received certainty of the return the previous day and with the news came a directive, for the present not to tell Gladys.

“Suppose you will go and live there,” Gladys added as she removed Timmy’s empty plate from the breakfast table. It was washing water spotless, licked clean by Timmy’s ravenous tongue, giving Gladys much pride as she immersed it into the sink of warm frothy suds.

“Get your school bag and I’ll walk you to school,” Tom suggested as Timmy slid from his chair, burped, then waddled to where he had left his bag. Lewis watched with indifference as Timmy shouldered his bag and shuffled out of the kitchen behind his father, his head bobbing up and down on the back stairs until out of sight, while repeating the words ‘Lewis’ gotta’ job.”

“I did hear they were thinking of returning but I don’t know when or where they will live,” Not wishing to upset Gladys Lewis lied.

“They are renting the shop on the corner in Hort Street.” Gladys stated without lifting from her dishes, “and on the same side as the Graham Hotel,” she added from the deep sink of plates and soap suds.

“I didn’t know so,” was the only answer Lewis could muster in his defence.

“I think you did but that doesn’t matter,” Gladys softly inferred, “will you be living with them?”

It was also true Lewis did know where they would be living but had not yet been asked to join them, although if he were he would jump at the chance. Finance would dictate so, as Gladys at every opportunity suggested when he found work his board would increase from the small pittance, being barely enough to cover his meals. Even with the bad blood between his mother and Gladys she still showed empathy towards the lad’s situation, which he thankfully accepted.

“Maybe there won’t be any spare room.” Lewis suggested.

“The shop comes with a house and has three bedrooms.” Gladys continued, sounding more an accusation than a statement, displaying the fact that her contempt and jealousy of Lewis’ mother was still partly in control of her emotions.

“Perhaps, – if I were to be asked,” Lewis admitted as he left the breakfast table. “I think I’ll go and try for that job at Jack and Newells before someone else gets it,” he concluded, thinking the better part of valour, at that moment, was to be well away from Gladys’ pending downward spiral.

“Would you like a hand with the dishes?” he asked and reached for the tea towel, which Gladys snatched from his grasp.

“I’ll do it love, you go and see about that job.”

It appeared Tom had met with Jack Campbell that same morning, suggesting Lewis may apply for the position and when he arrived was pleasantly surprised the job was offered with a starting date the following Monday.

Arriving back at home late in the afternoon Lewis found the rear door unlocked, as was tradition in most country towns but the apartment empty. Although he had been back living with Gladys for a number of days he had not taken much attention to the apartment so having an inquisitive nature decided to explore.

Dumping his bag onto his verandah bed he took a tour of the rooms, finding them much as he had left them during that final school holiday. Everything dusted and in its proper place as if never used, clothes neatly folded to their drawer, beds made without a single wrinkle, even young Timmy’s room was spick and totally lacking in individuality, being quite out of character for a nine year old boy, going on ten. Not even a toy could be found upon the polished linoleum, while both Timmy’s and Gladys’ beds were adorned with ballerina dolls from side show knock-em’-downs won at travelling carnivals; their multi layered dresses in pink and orange making the slender plastic dolls appear somewhat ridiculous, while appearing to be holding a sheppard’s crook or walking cane.

It was the final room that brought on the most memory, being Gladys’ special room set aside for Christmas and visitors, with its many plaster carnival animals lined along the skirting board and cane furniture holding gloss as if new, while shrouded by dustcovers. The windows draped in thick brocade curtains blocking out even the slightest ray of sunshine to fade the tablecloth fabric, or the furniture placed at perfected intervals around the walls.

Lewis smiled as he peered into the dim lighting of the room, as if afraid to switch the light lest it may fade the quality. It was here during those holidays Lewis was made, each and every Saturday morning, to dust and with a large cloth polish the timber of the flooring, by sliding back and forth on his knees. The smell of pine polish remained and was pleasant.

Back in his school days Lewis had often marvelled at the decor of Gladys’ special room, evening polishing and dusting wasn’t considered to be a chore, although he did remember chipping paint on one large green plaster frog but never admitted to his clumsy action. Instead he turned its face and placed it closer to the wall. Noticing the same frog in the gloom he turned it to find the chip and marvelled how he had got away with it and guess, seeing young Timmy had the chore once he had departed, possibly Timmy had long since been blamed for the damage.

As he closed the door Gladys arrived home with her shopping.

“You’re home?” She huffed finding the rear door wide to the afternoon dust and heat.

“Only a few minutes ago.”

“How did you go with Jack Campbell?”

“Yes I got the position.”

“Then come and give me a hand with the shopping, I left two bags at the bottom of the stairs, be a lad and fetch them for me.

Gary’s stories are all about what life in Australia was like for a homosexual man (mostly, long before we used the term, “gay”). Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net

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