Published: 21 Nov 2019

Friday night arrived and time for Liz to depart. Stan was scheduled to collect her at seven but Liz was ready with her bags and boxes stacked neatly on the footpath outside the shop at six, where she said her farewell to Lewis as he departed for a shammed meeting with some mates, promising to stay in touch, with Liz giving a positive invite to her wedding and Lewis making equal promises to attend. Why not he was to be the best man, Ian had decreed it to be so and as his closest friend it was his right.

Even for such an early hour the Royal was unusually quiet for a Friday. Lewis found his spot at the end of the bar vacant and settled to wait his cousin’s departure before returning home. Sipping his beer he found relaxation returning to his shoulders as if a weight was rising into the stale smoke-filled room, now not even the departure of Ian mattered, while looking to the future and a defiant return to Melbourne.

He would marry Sarah then with his new bride would return south to live in happy wedded bliss, blessed with Sarah’s suggested large family. He smiled at the thought she predicted, even more so at her choices of names for imagined children.

“Want a refill?” The barman asked, bringing Lewis back to the reality of the bar, taking away the sweet scent of wedding flowers from his nostrils, to replace it with that of sweating tobacco farmers and the bar’s toilet as someone had left the outer door open.

Brian didn’t wait for an answer and pulled another glass, giving it a perfect head. “You wouldn’t get a better beer pulled anywhere else in the north,” he said with his usual measure of pride, while helping himself to its cost from the small collection of coinage Lewis had left on the bar.

“Thanks,” Lewis appreciated and sipped from the glass.

“I hear your cousin is leaving for Townsville?” Brian asked during a quiet period.

“Yes she’s leaving tonight,” Lewis replied.

Brian smiled while pulling a beer, with equal skill for a farmer fresh in from the fields, “perfect,” he commented, to the delight of the farmer.

“Will you miss her being around?”

“No way, I’m glad to be rid of her.”

“Is she marrying Ian?” Brian asked.

“Looks that way,” Lewis answered indifferently.

“Pity,” Brian said with an air of remorse, “you know I fancied Liz myself.”

“No saying?” Lewis showed surprise as Brian had never admitted so previously.

“We did go out a couple of times but when I asked her to take it further she bluntly told me to shove off,” Brian sadly reminisced.

“Liz actually said that?”

“No, not in as many words but I got her meaning.”

“She can be a heartless bitch at times, by the way, speaking about cousins, how’s Billy enjoying the Army?” Lewis asked deflecting the conversation away from Liz.

“Funny you should ask, his dad only yesterday had a letter and he hates it.” As Brian spoke his lips turned into a gratifying sneer. There was bad blood between Billy and he, caused by the fact that Billy had been given the bar job, when Brian had been promised. The pretext being Billy was more outgoing and would bring in more trade, while his masculine stature would dissuade any trouble that may arise.

“So what’s he going to do about it?” Lewis asked.

“Nothing, you don’t get out of national service because you don’t like the work, he will have to put up with it.” The thought of his cousin’s misfortune pleased Brian as he moved away to attend to patrons.

“Lewis Smith isn’t it?” Lewis turned to the gentle tap on his shoulder as a stranger moved into his private space.

“Yes.”

“Bob – Bob Furlong,” the stranger fired a confident hand, accepting a half hearted return while Lewis attempted to place him.

“What can I do for you Mr. Furlong?” Lewis gave a slightly backwards move to regain his space.

“You’re a friend of John Ashley?”

“No, I’m a mate of Ian Warwick, who rented Mr. Ashley’s bungalow. I hardly know the man.” As Lewis replied Brian pricked his ears to the conversation. Lewis continued to back away from his association with Ashley, while studying the stranger’s confidence and polish. From his hat to his shiny new boots Bob Furlong advertised money and with that perception also suspicion towards his purpose.

“Oh my apology, I have seen you at Jack and Newells.”

“I do work there but what has that to do with anything,” Lewis cautiously answered.

“Sorry Lewis, I hadn’t meant to pry but I am in the throws of opening a café up near the Civic theatre and I believe you would be the perfect person to manage it.”

“There are two already in the street, why open another?”

“It won’t be your usual café like the Tip Top but an American style, what you seen in the movies, hamburgers, milk shakes French fries, you know the type, the kids of today love it.”

“I don’t know Mr. Furlong, I’m happy enough where I am, besides I’ll be returning south to Melbourne soon.”

“Well you think about it – good money and you would be your own boss.” Bob gave a slap to Lewis’ back and passed what appeared to be a business card, “as I said, you think about it and give me a call but don’t leave it too long as I have others to consider.”

During a lull Brian returned to Lewis’ corner to place a tray of hot steaming clean glasses on top of a small rack, making a clatter that diverted Lewis’ attention from what had just occurred, he flinched and spilt his beer.

“Aren’t you a jumpy fellow?” Brian teased; “who was that overdressed turkey?”

“He said his name was Bob Furlong.”

“I’ve seen him in here a couple of times but he’s usually down at the Masterson. What’s all this about offering you a job?”

“Don’t rightly know but I won’t be calling back,” Lewis tore Bob’s card and dumped it into the ashtray.

“Hey I’ve something to run past you,” Brian said throwing his drying towel across his shoulder.

“What would that be Brian?” said Lewis, wiping the spillage from his hand on the towelling bar runner.

“You know that Ashley bloke, where your mate boarded?”

“Yea as you would have heard me tell Mr. Furlong I sort of know him,” Brian’s quest panicked Lewis.

“I don’t know if you are aware but I don’t get along with dad and seeing Ian has gone, I wondered if I could rent his bungalow.”

It appeared Brian’s father displayed much disappointment in his son while idolising Billy, often openly admitting for two pence he would swap them.

“I don’t know Ashley all that well, only saw him sometimes when I visited Ian.” Lewis repeated his trepidation; “besides I hear he’s a bit strange,” he added, then immediately wished he could retract his addition.

“Strange in what way?” Brian curiously asked.

“Can’t rightly say, just strange I guess – or so people say.” Lewis was attempting to place as much distance as he could from his accusation and his friendship with Ashley.

“Anyway strange or not, if you see him could you ask him for me?”

“Now that Ian has gone I probably won’t see him,” Lewis replied sharply, then finished his drink and said goodnight.

Ian’s replacement was a lanky fellow with a mop of rust red hair crowning a long face and supporting an adolescent attempt at growing whiskers across his milk-white chin in the form of a dozen or so weak red bristles, giving the simulation of a ginger lavatory brush. He was also blessed with gangly limbs appeared to hang from the air rather than his thin elongated torso.

“Hello I’m Ralph, Ian’s replacement,” the new boy introduced thrusting one of his gangly limbs in friendly gesture.

“Ralph’s a dog’s name,” Lewis replied while accepting the open hand.

“Sorry?” Ralph said, not understanding Lewis’ cryptic statement and squeezed the offered hand beyond toleration.

“Nothing mate, I’m Lewis.

“Yes I know dad told me,” the red-mop answered with a willing smile.

“Dad?” Lewis queried with uplifted eyebrows.

“Yes my father owns Jack and Newells,” the new boy announced with pride, “and one day I’ll inherit,” he bragged while releasing the crushed hand. Lewis didn’t respond, regretting his comment on Ralph being a dog’s name.

“What are your hobbies?” Ralph enquired in an over educated and condescending accent.

“Hobbies?” Lewis queried, believing it to be a strange question from someone of Ralph’s years.

“Yes, what do you get up to in a town like this?”

“I thought you were local?”

“I was but have been away since a nipper, would have remained so if hadn’t been for father’s wish for me to learn the business.”

Lewis shrugged his shoulders, believing admitting they were rooting and drinking may shock Ralph’s breeding. “I don’t really have hobbies. Where are you from Ralph?”

“I was at boarding school in Brisbane; I’m no longer accustomed to small towns like Mareeba.”

“I’ve lived in smaller towns,” Lewis protested.

“Compared with Brisbane Mareeba is small and dull,” Ralph corrected.

“I guess so, best I get working or old Cookie will be on my back.” Lewis led away towards his position in hardware with Ralph close at his heel.

“Dad said I’m to work with you.”

“He did – did he?” Lewis stated over his shoulder as Ralph entered into his comfort zone.

“Yes he said I could learn a lot from you.” Ralph admitted from close to Lewis’ ear.

“Then I should start teaching,” Lewis smiled, taking Ralph’s words as complementary, “these are bolts and these are nuts,” he informed pointing at the product and recalling his first day as the new boy with Ian as his instructor.

“So you were a Mareeba boy,” Lewis asked assuming Ralph would live in the family house across the Barron Bridge on the Cairns road.

“No I live with mother in Townsville, they are divorced but while I’m here I’m staying with dad’s sister over by the cemetery, I don’t get along with his new woman. Are you from Mareeba?”

‘Far too much information,’ Lewis thought. “I’m from Melbourne and I’m going back there soon,” Lewis stated with the usual pride when questioned on his birthright. “If you’re from Townsville you may have known Ian Warwick who you replaced” Lewis added.

“Yes we’re cousins of sorts on my mother’s side. Dad wants to skill me in the business and as Ian is from Townsville he jumped to the chance of working close to home, so we swapped stores, although I had only worked there for a week before the swap.”

“Ian never said he was related to your father?” Lewis showed surprise.

“He is only by marriage not by blood.” Ralph answered as if placing the relationship as distant as conceivable.

“Ian and his bloody cousin’s, he must be related to half of Townsville, or if it comes to that, North Queensland!” Lewis concluded shaking his head in disbelief.

“We are a large family,” Ralph dryly admitted, “what time is lunch?”

“Twelve-thirty but we only just arrived.”

“Dad said I could have my lunch in his office and he would explain how the business works.”

“Then happy learning Ralph, I have mine under the trees amid street.” while thinking, ‘less bullshit there.’

It was immediately after morning tea, when relief came from Ralph’s barrage of questions in the form of Ashley, who in his usual manor approached from Lewis’ blind side, speaking in his best radio voice. “Hello Herbie!” he greeted creating a spillage of bolts as Lewis flinched from daydreaming.

“Shit John! I wish you wouldn’t do that, you are as bad as Liz!” he growled, while Ralph stooped his long body towards the floor to retrieve the spill. Lewis drew Ashley aside to avoid being overheard.

“Sorry Herbie but I was hoping you could do me a favour.” Ashley asked loosing his radio voice. “You know old Mrs. Johnson who lives next door to me?” Lewis declared he didn’t. Ashley continued. “She has been in hospital for some time and is being released next week and I need a hand in cleaning up the house for her.”

It appeared Ashley had been approached through the radio station for assistance and being a neighbour and public spirited, decided to take on the project, besides it could help increased his declining ratings with the younger generation growing strongly towards the more modern genre of music.

“She is somewhat a bowerbird and hordes everything and seeing you have a driving licence I wondered if we could borrow a small truck or runabout.”

“Dunno about a truck and there isn’t much room in my car but I don’t mind helping,” Lewis paused, “hang on Tom King has an old pick up with a tray; possibly he would lend it to me for a couple of hours.”

“Saturday afternoon if that suits you,” Ashley suggested.

“I’m working the morning but afternoon will be fine; I’ll speak with Tom and let you know.”

Tom King was obliging in lending Lewis the truck but on condition he took young Timmy along for the afternoon and he treated the old vehicle with respect, as the motor had recently been overhauled and not yet run-in.

As for the vehicle’s bodywork the wooden tray had gaps one could lose a dog through, while the cabin’s timber floorboards were either rattling free or missing, giving one a perfect vision of the miles as they passed beneath their feet. Also the lights didn’t work so the trip to the tip would have to be accomplished before the sunlight dissolved from the day.

To start the truck one had to use a cranking handle and much effort but once the motor kicked into action it could go all week without a hic-cup. The bonnet was once painted but now wore rust as its coat, while the tray still displayed some of its original night blue like a shabby overcoat.

Tom King often told of when he ran over a snake. It was a big brown bugger, which was thrown up with the turning of the wheel and commenced to enter its angry and broken body through one of the gaps in the floorboards. Tom immediately brought a heavy work boot down on its head, sending it back onto the speeding road surface and into the swirling dust behind.

From that day on, regardless if Lewis believed the story or not, whenever he travelled in the old truck, he kept a keen eye on the bitumen ahead in search of reptiles that may chance to cross the road and his feet paused to lift from the gaps if such an incident reoccurred.

The exterior of the Johnson’s house was as derelict as Tom’s truck, while its garden was nonexistent being overgrown with morning glory creeper and wild tobacco bush. To one side was a neglected vegetable garden displayed a scattering of potatoes exposed to the sun by the digging of hungry bandicoots and a row of carrots and onions that even the bandicoots wouldn’t touch – gone to seed and as wooden as the old Carambola tree in the far corner, with its fallen fruit, commonly called star-fruit and spread as a thick carpet within the tree’s shade. The fruit was considered tasteless unless sprinkled with salt and so much so even the birds and bandicoots neglected them. As for the house, it obviously hadn’t seen a paintbrush since it was first erected, yet remained quite sturdy, while the rear door’s wire screen was lacking one hinge and most of the wire.

Although the house was connected to town’s water, there was an old corrugated iron tank by the rear door that had a connecting pipe to the wash house but because of a large rusted gash at the bottom lacked water or the capacity to hold any, besides part of the guttering was missing and the down pipe blocked with a birds nest.

“Shit!” Lewis declared while following Ashley into the back room of the house. Newspapers were piled to the floor and wherever one walked there were more, all smelling of age. As Lewis retrieved an ancient edition that he had dislodged from the pile an old scruffy tomcat spat and bolted between his legs towards the door, making him lose his balance and fall into the tallest stack, sending the pile crashing to the floor. He nervously laughed and after righting his stand, attempted to straighten the pile of newsprint but was dissuaded to do so by Ashley.

“Don’t worry it’s all going to the tip.” Ashley assured as Lewis read aloud the headlines from the paper he had collected.

“War in the Pacific ends – shit I wasn’t even born when this was issued,” he exclaimed loudly.

“Lewis swore,” young Timmy accused from his position blocking the door. Lewis ignored the lad’s accusation.

“She only kept important events.” Ashley said and surveyed the closest stack, “she said it wasn’t hording but saving for posterity.” he added then collected a large armful of print and headed for the truck.

“Then all I can say is there must have been a hell of a lot of important events over the last fifty years!” Lewis chuckled as he followed Ashley to the truck with an equal armful.

“Yes and I’m surprised she agreed to have them dumped but she is in her nineties now and somewhat frail.”

It took most of the morning to clear away the hording of newsprint and with the help from young Timmy, who carried one newspaper at a time; they were soon off to the tip and back for a second load, which was mostly the collection of broken pots, perished garden hose and rusting tins from the yard.

It was during the second visit to the tip that something glinting in the midday sun caught Lewis’ eye. Stooping to investigate found it to be a small silver container with elaborate engraving across its perfectly preserved surface. Lewis opened the container and to his surprise discovered it held a gold coin.

“Hey what’s this?” he asked of Ashley’s world travelled experience while offering up his find.

“Let me see,” Timmy shrieked but both ignored his demand. Ashley removed the coin checking its reverse for indication, finding an embossing of St. George and the dragon.

“It’s an English gold sovereign,” He supposed, passing it back to Lewis.

“Can I have it,” Timmy demanded in a high pitched voice, thrusting out his hand in anticipation, while wriggling about his fat sausage fingers but to his displeasure Lewis replaced the coin back into its container, then into his pocket, ignoring the boy’s request.

“I want it.”

“You can’t have it,” Lewis quietly denied.

“I’m telling mum.”

“Tell her what you like kid but you’re not getting it.”

“You have a good find there, it was valued as a pound way back when but you could probably sell it for maybe ten or twenty dollars these days.” Ashley enlightened, while faulting over the word dollars, as although the country’s conversion to decimal currency was now more than a year since, he like most, thought in pound notes and real silver shilling coins. As for cents they were too small and too easy to lose to worry about.

Previously one knew they had money with a pocket full of quid notes and zacks and bobs and copper pennies and half-pennies. As for Lewis, to him money was to spend, no matter what its name or shape and Timmy just didn’t care, being attracted by the sovereign’s golden glow.

Back at the house Timmy tried once again to own the coin with its shiny container but to no avail, so he stamped his foot and returned to sit out the rest of the afternoon in the truck.

“You have a right brat there,” Ashley laughed as the boy disappeared around the house to where the truck was parked.

“He’s okay, a little spoiled that’s all,” Lewis explained giving some credibility to Timmy’s tantrum.

With Timmy gone, Lewis approached Ashley on his meeting with Bob Furlong as the man’s offer remained intriguing, even if not one he wished to accept.

“A question John, do you know a joker called Bob Furlong?”

“I do, why?”

“I met him at the Royal the other night and he offered me a job managing some café he is opening.”

“Oh that old chestnut.” Ashley began to laugh.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s offered that position half a dozen times in the last two years and no one’s seen the café yet.”

“Oh.”

“I’d keep away from Bob,” Ashley warned.

“Why would that be?”

“He’ll want more than your employment if you understand my vernacular.”

By Lewis’ appearance Ashley soon realised what he was thinking. “You are referring to me as similar?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to; it’s all across your face.”

“Sorry John, I assure you nothing was intended.”

“Apology accepted. Bob is a nasty predator and prefers underage lads, one of these days it will bring him undone.”

“So I guess a change of employment is out of the question.” Lewis laughed.

“Unless you agree to a nonexistent job, I would say yes.”

“Do you associate with him?” Lewis asked.

“No only show courtesy in passing, I never socialise with the man. Best we get moving with the rest of the work, it’s getting late.”

Once back inside the Johnson’s house Lewis became most impressed. Although somewhat dusty and busy, it was a window onto a century past, crammed with Victorian furniture and artifacts, as well as paintings from that period and portraits in gilded frames of ancestors posing in stiff starched collars, with rigid bodies displaying stern profiles. Surprisingly there wasn’t a newspaper to be seen or other junk in the main rooms.

“Wow!” was the only expression Lewis could muster as he moved from room to room surveying more and more memories of the woman’s past, while afternoon sunlight beamed through grubby stained glass windows, pooling on the rich woollen carpets in reds and blues.

Returning to the living room Lewis was greeted by the haunting reverberation of a grandfather clock striking thrice and exactly to time. Ashley had wound and set the ancient clock to welcome the old lady on her return. There were other clocks, one in each room and all striking the hour. Some had metallic pillows supporting temple style casings others were art nouveau in design with cherubs or animals swirling around gaudy ceramic dials. All were a magical land for imagination.

Off to one side of the living room was an antechamber opening onto a side verandah. It was furnished as a study or library, with oak bookcases around two walls, while beside the verandah door was an ancient roll-top desk, its roller door open displaying a multitude of letters, neatly returned to their envelopes. Lewis picked up some of the envelopes and read the post marks. Nineteen-Twenty-Six, Nineteen-Seventeen and the third with an English stamp, marked in a fading roundel Eighteen-Ninety-Two.

“Don’t move anything, as the old girl knows where she placed everything in the house. She can find even a single pin if you were to ask.” Ashley warned from a cloud of dust he removed from the large polished table in the dining room, while finding humour in Lewis’ astonishment and lack of worldly experience.

“Have you seen the dates on these envelopes?” Lewis gasped as he collected more from the desk top. “She must be a hundred and twenty!” he claimed while carefully replacing the letters back to approximately where he found them.

“They were probably the property of her father, who had something to do with the Queensland Government.” Ashley said coughing from more table dust and moving back from its cloud. “Did you know she is related to Kingsford-Smith the flyer?” he asked while returning to his cleaning; “whose father was the first Mayor of Cairns.” he related in a matter-of-fact tone as Lewis returned to the dining room and the dust.

“I read about Kingsford-Smith at school, he was the first to fly England to Australia in the Southern Cross,” Lewis admitted.

“Were about finished here, you better get the truck back before we run out of light, I’ll finish up,” Ashley suggested through the scent of O-cedar wood polish, “would you like to come around for a drink tonight?” he offered as Lewis commenced to leave.

“Not tonight but some other time,” Lewis agreed.

He was growing to like Ashley even if the man could not be trusted to keep his hand to himself, concluding as long as he didn’t overindulge the alcohol, he would be safe from the man’s advances.

Saturday night and alone in his room, Lewis was feeling the tug of remorse. John and his mother were at the Graham, Winnie quietly seated with Gladys sharing a little gossip and a smoke, John on the maracas, his eyes heavy as the drone of music removed the toil of the day, his Hawaiian style rayon shirt soaked with the night’s humidity as beads of perspiration slowly descended down his sun-weathered cheeks.

It was dance night at the town hall and both picture theatres were showing the latest releases and a James Bond film at the drive-in on the Atherton road. Lewis had given thought to the Bond film but seated alone at the drive-in gave the inclination of being desperate. His last visit had been with Ian and his interest more towards Ian than the film. It had been a double showing, firstly was, the creature of the black lagoon, followed by the creature takes revenge, both unbelievable, both lacking in acting ability with some woman, whose name escaped him, screaming at every opportunity. The only highlight to the night’s entertainment was Ian allowing hand relief.

The radio tuned to music to midnight, Lewis drifted with the hypnotic tones of classical blues and what he would be doing if he had remained in Melbourne. An almost smile as he returned to his present situation, he should have taken Ashley’s offer, at least he would not feel the solitude of the night tighten across his chest.

Feeling something dig into his rump as he lay on the bed, he remembered his find and brought it out for viewing. The shiny container intrigued him as did the coin within. ‘Real gold,’ he thought and felt as if he had found a fortune, ‘maybe I should have let Timmy have it.’ Removing the coin from its container he turned it one way than the other becoming involved in its history. ‘Eighteen fifty-two, that is old, really old even more so than old Mrs. Johnson and her clocks,’ he returned the coin to the container, ‘Queen Victoria,’ he thought and snapped it shut. “Bugger Timmy, he would only lose it.” Lewis breathed loudly.

Slowly an unguided hand reached beneath the bed retrieving the box but it wasn’t the diary that held his interest, it was Ian’s underwear. Unconsciously Lewis lifted the flimsy cotton to his nostrils and breathed deeply but like Ian the scent had gone, they were now but an inert object of memory. He grinned with thought, ‘I was to return these while Ian was out of his bungalow,’ another thought, ‘I could post them to him anonymously’, one final thought, ‘best not, he may blame Ashley’, possibly on a visit to Ashley I could hide them and when Ashley found them he could return.’ A huff and a change of mind, instead he would keep them as a memory.

Placing Ian’s underwear aside he readied to write but could not, whatever reason he held in the past to keep alive his thoughts was becoming irrelevant. Lewis replaced the diary, the underwear, including his golden find. He closed the box.

‘I wonder what Ian is up to tonight?’

‘I can guess,’

‘I should write to Sarah.’ At the table besides his bed he found Sarah’s last letter. It arrived two days previously and he still couldn’t think of any news to offer. Picking up a biro he commenced but transcribed no more than Dear Sarah before his imagination dried away.

‘My Darling Sarah,’ he thought.

“No definitely not,” He loudly spoke.

‘Sarah,’ he silently amended, ‘no too formal.’

“Sarah, Sarah, Sarah what am I to do.” He loudly sighed as he put aside the writing pad.

With a deep breath he forced it all from his thoughts. It would all be fine with the morning. It was also so with the brightness of the new day.

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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