Published: 24 Feb 2025
The fifties into the sixties was time a before digital cameras, mobile telephones, cd’s, or video’s. Television was introduced for the fifty-six Melbourne Olympics but very few households had a set and even into the mid sixties television hadn’t reached Queensland’s north. The closest television station to the Atherton Tablelands was in Brisbane more than a thousand miles to the south. Some people did purchase a set and put up a thirty foot or higher antenna in hope or in readiness for television’s arrival.
During the early sixties a Mareeba radio repair man had a black and white television set in his shop window that was permanently switched on with a notice posted with the set of a prize of twenty pound (forty dollars) for the first person to see a picture. Many stood about in anticipation but all they heard was crackling and all they saw was snow, so there wasn’t any fear of the shopkeeper paying out the money. As for mobiles (cell phones), the only mobile telephone was that suggested with Dick Tracey’s radio wrist watch and who could find an extension cord long enough to make the landline more mobile than a couple of yards.
If there was pornography and certainly there would have been, it was rare and well buried. Possibly it would be a blurred and well fingered black and white photograph of a scantly clad woman, folded into the secret of a wallet, being cautious not to make the fold over the best bits and shown about to like minded companions in the dim lighting of a hotel bar. Owning such material was against the law of the land with a postal regulation making it criminal to transfer or receive pornography or illicit material via the Royal Mail.
Obviously by reading the court proceedings of any city newspaper there was much to be had of sexual explicit film and photographs. Anyone with a movie camera, a couple of mates and a kink for flesh could make money. As for novels there was a long list of censured books from the Karma Sutra to Lady Chatterley’s lover on the prohibited list, later on Portnoy’s Complaint was quickly attached to the list that was so extensive it would take an entire chapter to explain. It appeared it only took a fertile mind to find explicitness in publication even where there wasn’t any. A good example poor old Noddy lost his sleeping arrangements with Big Ears as it may encourage children towards homosexuality, even breathing in the exhaled breath of a homosexual may turn young Tommy to the dark side. The irony being if you surveyed the country in those days you would find half the kids under six sharing a bed with a brother, sister or cousin and if you transported your vivid imagination back to colonial days you would find travelling men sharing a hotel bed, often with a complete stranger, without the fear of wandering hands but they were quite safe as they kept their boots on.
Kevin’s introduction to such material was while working in the family shop in Atherton. A lady customer from out of town would weekly arrive for supplies and after a number of visits they became chatty. Kevin shared his interest in becoming a writer of novels and during the woman’s next visit she offered up a tattered workman’s pay envelope holding a number of small handwritten pages. The short story wasn’t all that explicit but to a seventeen year old teenager it was more than enough to lubricate his imagination.
Soon after sharing her uncompleted story the customer relocated for work in Chillagoe and gaining Kevin’s confidence she posted shopping orders to be sent up on the train, with the promise of a new chapter and payment to be honoured at month’s end. Needless to say the promised chapter or payment never eventuated and nothing further was heard from her. As for payment Bob blamed Kevin for being too trusting, even if it had been Bob’s decision to honour her order.
There was another source to lubricate young Kevin’s imagination being an advertisement in the Post Magazine found on the same page as an advertisement Seven Seas stamps, promising genuine copies of postage stamps from around the world. The advertisement in question was for semi-erotic men’s underwear. For two shillings plus postage you could order a small catalogue displaying the company’s products. Many years later the supplier admitted the company sold ten times more catalogues than items. Other than that one could send to Denmark for the fun in sun magazines displaying hairy, skinny-gutted men with button dicks playing volley ball with likeminded saggy breasted women. Alas even fun in the sun could land you in trouble if the police came knocking at your door. Oddly during those puritanical days there was fun to be had as the pool at Melbourne’s YMCA building had an all male nude night and in the city one could visit Bouchies Turkish Sauna for men. One could draw their own conclusions what went on in dark rooms with the lights out.
“So Kevin you had little exposure to the erotica?”
“Not in my youth but I made up for it later in life,” with a chuckle Kevin continues, “I remember back in the seventies pornography was a total no-no and a couple of pics of naked flaccid men, or women’s breasts was enough to have a visit from the police. Oddly no one appeared to complain about the naked African woman in National Geographic, even men as they danced about in tribal bliss, possibly the porn police thought blacks weren’t human therefore wouldn’t cause corruption.” Kevin pauses then continues. “As for gay sex it remained punishable by prison time as did soliciting pornography although after visiting a city theatre Wayne and I would pass the paper stand outside Flinders Street station on our way home, our eyes on the plastic covered Golden Boys Magazines hidden below the copies of Women’s Weekly and Gardening Australia. Our hesitation would have been obvious with each coxing the other to approach and buy the latest copy.”
“I don’t know the magazine,” Neil admits.
“No it is long gone. I suppose with the internet, magazines became obsolete. Besides although the photography was of excellent quality they weren’t what most would call pornography. Being nothing more than handsome young men in the buff, no erections or touching, it was up to the buyer to use imagination.”
“How did the bookseller get away with selling them?”
“By the mid seventies the law was smudged a little, as long as the content wasn’t too flashy, or in sight no one took much notice. What the eye doesn’t see the dirty mind doesn’t grieve type of thing.”
“If homosexuality was illegal weren’t you frightened of being caught out?”
“I don’t think I gave it a lot of thought, there were plenty of straight guys sharing a flat so that wasn’t of police interest. Some cops took on poofter bashing or entrapment, therefore you needed to watch who you approached while doing a beet.”
“What is the beet?”
“Public toilets; in England it was called cottaging and tea rooming in America, here it was often called checking the traps.
“You mentioned police entrapment how would the police do that?”
“They would select the best looking young cop, put him a pair of tight pants and send him into the most notorious toilet block. He would incite some poor fellow to go the grope, then gotya you dirty little fucker.”
Neil gives a cheeky smile, “did you do the beets Kevin?”
Kevin returns the smile, “now Neil that would be telling. I will admit living in the city in the seventies was interesting, it seemed every supermarket and coin laundry was a pick up joint and one could be forgiven for believing that every young male was at it, or at least showing what could be had if they were inclined to do so and every pair of 501’s became a billboard for what was for the asking.”
“Moving on, what was travel like back in the fifties and sixties?”
“Do you mean overseas?”
“I suppose I mean anywhere; around the country or overseas,” Neil suggests
“When I was a kid I didn’t know anybody who had travelled overseas, as the cost was too restrictive, that is except for returned soldiers and many of them had a one way ticket to hell, although some of our soldiers could brag they travelled on the Queen Mary when she was used as a troop ship. For us travel to Europe or North America would be by ship, even so only those with money or working overseas had the opportunity to travel. Have you heard of a singer Margaret Roadknight?”
“No.”
“Back in the mid seventies she had a song Girls in our Town, a line from the lyrics was girls plan on going to England and that is what many did. They would find work on board a passenger ship to pay for their passage but we blokes simply stayed behind, unless you belonged to a rock band, I guess there wasn’t our kind of work on ships.”
“What about cruise ships?”
“Possibly there were ships that did cruses, if so they would be out of Europe or North American and expensive, Australia was too distant to run cruses besides with our small population it wouldn’t have been profitable. Occasionally cargo ships would take a few passengers if you liked living rough.”
“Did you have aspirations towards travelling overseas?”
“To England yes as my grandparents and two of my mother’s brothers were from Devon but it wasn’t until some years back I had the opportunity. Over recent years I enjoyed quite a lot of travelling but have now lost the inspiration. More so I have never liked the long flights and I don’t enjoy travelling on my own. I have a poignant story about travelling to England.”
“Go on.”
“It commences many years ago when I was first staying with my grandparents and my grandmother told me a story about leaving England. She was one of nine children the youngest believe it or not was Neil. When they saw her away at the station she said to Neil; don’t you dare cry Neil or I’ll never come and see you again.”
“Did Neil cry?”
“I’m getting to that. What she meant was, don’t cry or you will start me off. Then while I was in England I visited Devon and two of grandma’s youngest brothers were still living and in their nineties, Neil was one of the brothers and at one stage while we talking he became teary eyed, he said do you know dear Nelly’s last words to me were, if you cry Neil I’ll never see you again. Neil took a deep breath and continued, I did cry and I never saw dear Nelly again.”
“That is sad.”
“Both brothers died within a year of my visit to Devon and I would have loved to have told my grandmother what Neil remembered but she had also died a couple of years before I travelled.
“If you don’t like travelling alone then why don’t you travel with Wayne?”
“He prefers travelling alone, besides we have the cat who hates visitors and would more than likely bugger off if we had someone stay to look after him, also there is the garden and his fifty or so Bonsai plants and he would never trust them to any of our friends.”
“Yes I’ve notice them. What about travelling locally when you were a lad?”
“As we were originally from Melbourne mum and I often returned but in the most my travelling was about Queensland’s far north and west. Back in the fifties and sixties there were few sealed roads and corrugation soon destroyed vehicles, so people restricted travel to necessity or did so by train.”
“What about giving me a travel story, possibly your first time in an aeroplane?”
“That really takes me back. I would say it was during the early fifties. At that time we were living on Dunluce sheep station near Hughenden. Mum and I had returned to spend some time with my grandparents here in Melbourne and we flew back to Townsville in Queensland. The remainder of the journey to Hughenden was by train as there wasn’t any air service further west. Once in Hughenden it would be up to Dunluce to collect us by car.”
Mid southern winter with the flight departing Melbourne before the sun had time to show its weak face. The aircraft a DC3, most likely air force disposal from the war and unlike later aircraft of the Ansett fleet the Convair, it didn’t have air compression cabins therefore during the flight, barley sugar was passed around to stop your ears from popping, if it worked or not is another matter. Smoking was permitted so by landing the air in the cabin would be almost opaque from cigarette smoke. There would be a non-smoking section towards the rear but only one air supply so avoidance was impossible.
Unlike modern jets that would have you home in a couple of hours, the flight took most of the day. It was often referred to as the milk run calling into a number of towns on the way with lengthy connection times at major cities, arriving at Townsville towards sundown. Kevin well remembered the flight and some of the refreshments being half oranges with neatly cut chunks of cheese, gherkin pickles and kabana sausage on toothpicks protruding out of half oranges like the spikes of a porcupine.
It was a time before airports had landing bays therefore the disembarking (de-plane) was via steps on the tarmac. As the aircraft doors opened and coming from Melbourne’s winter to tropical Queensland it was like receiving a hit in the throat by the force of a hairdryer on high, taking some time to adjust to the tropical evening.
During the flight Kevin was given an experience he never forgot and one impossible during today’s travelling. The hostess came by and as he was the only child on the flight, offered him a viewing of the cockpit with introduction to the pilot and co-pilot who were clearly visible through the cockpit’s open doorway. What Kevin mostly remembered was the earth far below appeared like a green map and the rivers like long silver ribbons. During his visit to the cockpit the co-pilot pointed to a light above their heads, telling Kevin to wave his hand over the light. As he did so it went out. On second instruction it reignited. Magic but in retrospect he failed to perceive the pilot flicking a switch, as he had not yet realised that magic is always the sly of hand or tongue.
After arriving in Townsville there was a layover of a number of hours before catching the train to Hughenden then on to Dunluce sheep station. Usually the service would be one known as the Inlander but that service had long departed by the time the aircraft had landed, therefore it would be necessary to catch the night goods service, commonly named the Midnight Horror as it was slow and habitually arrived at its destination in the darkest hours. Also as money was tight for Ivy the goods service ticket was half that of the Inlander.
The service had a single passenger carriage to the rear and as it was goods didn’t require a guard’s van (caboose). It was a time when a person’s responsibility was to one’s self and not the concern of officialdom. If you fell because of a raised footpath, it was simply get up, brush yourself down and stop complaining. It was also a time when it remained unlawful for barristers and solicitors to advertise their trade, besides a working man could never afford their service and compensation was unheard.
Once again the unreliability of nineteen fifties rail travel in the outback became relevant and the late night goods didn’t leave until early morning without reason given to the passengers. The delay wasn’t considered problematic as urgency wasn’t an issue, although for Kevin and his mother it meant finding what little rest they could on the rough wooden platform benches. Also for the service were three stockmen from Cloncurry and hearing the delay they left to party with some mates returning with minutes to spare.
The fifties was a time of steam and as the great black noisy engine eventually came from the sheds billowing smoke and steam, it tooted to warn it’s linkage to the waiting goods vans and carriage. The carriages violently jolted as all aboard was called with Kevin, his mother and the three inebriated stockmen arranging their seating. “Good morning misses,” one of the stockmen greeted with a mischievous grin making Ivy feel uncomfortable to be travelling with the men. She drew Kevin closer as if for protection. Fortunately the stockmen remain intoxicated and slept off the effects by stretching out at the far end of the carriage.
Without haste the goods train departed, at one point it stoped allowing a slow moving truck towing a loaded trailer of timber time to clear the line, then as the dizzy speed of twenty-five miles an hour it headed into the west with Kevin grumbling for his breakfast but there would be no refreshments until the train reached Charters Towers and its refreshment rooms. There was a water cruet on the carriage wall but empty containing nothing abut a dusty ring where the water had once been. Ivy reaches into her bag producing half a roll of lifesaver mints. She offers the mints to Kevin but his nose quickly turns away as they were too peppermint for his immature palate.
As they travelled through the hills of the Great Divide Range the train gave a sudden jolt before stopping and the engine exhaled like an old man releasing his final breath. The shaking brings life to the stockmen, one lifts his head and fixes his blurry gaze through the window grime; “Charters Towers?” he questions.
Another of the stockmen grumbles and joins his mate at the window. “I don’t see the pub,” he says.
“Fuck the pub, get back to sleep.”
“Keep it down Jacko’ there’s a lady present.”
“Lady or not, I need to take a leak.”
The stockmen stretch the lethargy from their bodies and follow to the carriage verandah where they are met by the fireman.
“What’s up?”
“We’ve blown a boiler.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Yea – got some gum.”
“What next?” a stockman asks.
“We wait for a replacement engine to come from Hughenden.”
“How long will that be?”
The fireman shrugs away the question, “your guess is as good as mine. I’m about to boil the billy (kettle),” he climbs onto the verandah and peers into the carriage, “are you alright misses?” he asks.
“Yes thank you,” Ivy says.
“Sorry love, we may be stuck here for some times; I’ll bring you and the lad a cuppa’, I also have some leftover sandwiches. They are a bit stale but they will fill the lad’s belly.”
Some time was an understatement with the replacement engine not arriving until mid afternoon. There was one consolation, it brought with it refreshments and apologies for the passengers. With the failed engine and carriages in tow the service continued reaching Hughenden; you guessed it, arriving after midnight confirming its title of being branded as the Midnight Horror.
There had been many memorable trips but the most poignant of them all was at the end of Kevin’s sixty-three summer holiday spent on Forest Home Station near Georgetown. That year the monsoon rain was late with the possibility of failure, as for more than a week the clouds had hung low on the northern horizon but advanced no further. Monsoon seasons appeared to have a rhythm of strong to failure and failure was always concern in cattle country as in no time the waterholes and creeks would dry and what was left of the previous season’s grass wither and die, or burn during summer fires. That would mean an unscheduled stock muster and sell off at giveaway prices, or watch the emaciated cattle die in the dry and dusty waterholes.
While waiting for the monsoon to break the heat was worse for the station’s cook and housemaid, as they had to grin and bear it as the only air-conditioning being the A.W.O. (all windows open) system, with the cook Gladys Martin working through the heat of the day over a large wood burning, heat leaking range, while preparing three hot meals daily for the house and the few stockmen remaining over the down season.
For Kevin’s mother Ivy as housemaid it was as difficult. There were beds to make, washing and ironing to be done, sheets to starch and wonder why. If the heat and humidity wasn’t bad enough the washing was performed in a wood fired copper where the only agitator being a poker stick at arms length, then fed boiling hot through a large hand powered wooden mangle. The ironing was by a shellite burning iron that hissed loudly and expelled, if it was possible, even more heat.
Why not use electricity one may ask.
The closest mains were at Georgetown forty miles to the east, although the station did run a generator powered by a large truck engine, its power stored in a bank of twenty or so heavy duty truck batteries. The power generated was enough to run weak yellow lighting but definitely not strong enough for ironing or for refrigerating. With the kitchens refrigerators powered by kerosene and so ancient they leaked more cold air than they retained, most of the meat from the monthly kill needed to be salted. Once the carcass had been quartered it was off to the butcher shop to be sectioned into prime cuts and salt cured.
The station’s butcher shop was a small square shed, covered on all sides with fly mesh, its furnishing no more than a concrete bench and salting tub, wash down water came by bucket from rainwater tanks but sparingly. Once the salting had been completed, it was off to the kitchen’s refrigerators and with so much product caution was given towards how often the refrigerator doors were opened and for what length of time. It was also necessary to keep an eye on the buzzing blowflies as if the sneaked through an open door they soon ruined the meat with their maggots, even when salted. Also when the roast came from the oven it would be quickly covered as maggots could be laid while it cooled. On one occasion while Ivy, Gladys Martin and Kevin were enjoying a midday meal one of the stockmen approached from the men’s dining room cautiously carrying his meal.
“Misses do you expect us to eat this?” he questioned the cook.
“Why?” Gladys Martin questioned knowing well it was a perfectly cooked roast as she had already sampled her own meal.
The stockman lifted a slice of meet, “look it’s galloping around the flaming plate,” he comically explained, as the freshly laid maggots became obvious. Needless to say no one enjoyed that day’s meal with the most of it tipped into the slops bucket for the pigs.
The storage of vegetables was a further problem. Most were canned with a long shelf life, some having been in storage for so long they became mysteries, as their labels had either faded or eaten away by paper loving bugs. Fresh vegetables, if possible to be so described, such as pumpkins, potatoes and onions were left in the open although out of the weather on the station’s store and bookkeeper’s office verandah. The reason for the open storage was humidity, as without good air circulation the vegetables would soon become mouldy and spoil.
For Christmas and if the rain had been kind with the creeks flowing and the landscape dotted with waterholes, the manager Sam Arnold would do a spot of duck shooting. One would imagine the plump succulent birds that often adorned the southern or foreign Christmas table. Not so with these scrawny birds with the occasional scorched feather and avoidance of a led pellet or two, or more. Even so the thought was there.
With the holiday season nearing conclusion the dark clouds that previously refused to budge from the horizon were at last slowly crossing to the east and by midday the clouds had taken away the sun but not the heat and humidity, making even the slightest movement uncomfortable with rivulets of perspiration soaking clothing, while swarms of sweat flies found pleasure on your shirt back. Taking a cooling shower was useless, as once you dried and put on fresh clothing you were again as wet and sticky as you were before.
The breaking of the monsoon can be an eerie experience. Everything becomes still, not a leaf moves while the birds become silent as they seek shelter. The cattle also appear to understand what in coming, habitual they face their rears towards the approaching storm. Then the heavens open, the rain like hammer blows strike the corrugated roofing so loud you need to shout to be heard. Within minutes puddles form to become small rivulets while turning red from the parched soil as nature finds its way to the lowest point. At the homestead that point happened to be close by the fowl house but the previous day John Miller the station’s cowboy in anticipation had been seen building the earth high about the pen.
The rain lasted all day and that night and with the following morning the heat had been washed away, then for the first time in a month smiles returned with conversation on past storms and the flood of forty-nine, when the Gilbert River came to meet the home paddock. Thankfully by all reports this year’s rain should be average, although even with average the Gulf Road towards Georgetown and the rail head at Forsayth could be impassable for sometime.
With two days before Kevin returned to the Tablelands and his dreaded hostel he had aspirations towards being flooded in. Even so he realised the rain would stop and the water would recede, although even to extend his holiday for a week would be a blessing and to arrive late because of flooding would give him much bragging rights with his hostel mates.
With one day remaining the word arrives that the road to Forsayth and its rail head is passable although further storms were forecasted, therefore the gods of weather had been unkind towards Kevin’s wishes to extend his holiday. By morning he would have packed away his heavy cache of agates from Gilbert sand, stowed away the rifle he found down by the lagoon but for now it was lunchtime of the penultimate day and with difficulty he attempted to wear a happy face.
Lunch or should I say dinner as to many country folk the meals are breakfast, dinner and tea. Usually the heaviest meal of the working day would be the midday meal and common to outback stations would be beef, boiled potatoes, cabbage, carrots and gravy made in the roasting pan’s juices, washed down with sweat black tea, sometimes whitened with lumpy powdered milk, once the ants had been removed.
Gone was Kevin’s usual chatty attitude, replaced with dread for the following day. If only he could realise his mother felt as bad, having to hold to a happy face while avoiding any mention of her son’s departure. Gladys Martin can feel the building sadness between mother and son and attempted to lighten the mealtime. “You are quiet Kevin,” she softly says while lifting a slice of beef, remembering a previous flyblown occurrence. Fortunately the meat is juicy and appetising.
“I am thinking.”
“What are you thinking love?” Ivy asks.
“With all the rain possibly the road will be washed out and I won’t have to go.”
Not wishing to deflate the lad’s hopes she answers; “possibly.” As she speaks the tea cups commence to chatter on their saucers and the dinner gong, a long cylinder of iron with an equally long bolt as its donger, commenced to sound from its hanging beside the covered walkway between the kitchen and the big house.
“Stop shaking the table!” Ivy crossly demands of Kevin.
“It’s not me!” Kevin protests as the table commences to bounce across the kitchen verandah; with on leg over the edge the table tips.
They all pull the table back but not quick enough to save a plate of sliced bread from falling to the ground amongst a number of struggling geranium plants.
The plate doesn’t break
“Earthquake!” Kevin joyfully shouts.
After a matter of seconds the tremor stops without any obvious damage, as the men come from their dining room to share the experience. “Did you feel it,” one asks.
“We did,” Gladys admits as she retrieves the fallen plate.
“My first earthquake,” Kevin laughs and for a while his pending departure is forgotten but the morning would come.
“Have you got everything packed?” Ivy asks once the excitement of the tremor fades.
“I think so.”
“What about the rifle you found down by the lagoon?”
“I’m taking it as well as Mr. Arnold said I could keep it.”
The day before the storm there had been a small grass fire at one end of the lagoon close by the houses for the bookkeeper and handyman, more than likely started with hot midday sun on broken glass. Kevin had been walking that way when he caught a glinting in the burned stubble. On investigation he discovered a Winchester pump-action twenty-two calibre rifle, its butt had a slight scorch mark otherwise the rifle appeared to be in perfect condition.
After showing the rifle to the station manager Sam Arnold it became a mystery, as by its lack of rust and cleanness it wouldn’t have been there for any length of time and no travellers had been by for over a month. Kevin was quick to take ownership of the rifle which was given without question.
Ivy is concerned, “you should give it to Mr. Arnold; you can’t take it back to the hostel.”
“He said I could keep it, besides I don’t have any bullets. How am I getting to Forsayth?”
“Mr. Arnold will drive you as he is going to a stock meeting in Townsville.”
“Couldn’t he drive me all the way?”
“No he turns off and takes the Palmerston Range Road therefore he wouldn’t have the time to take you to Mareeba as well.”
“I could stay here.”
“Kevin you know it isn’t possible. What about your education?”
“After ten different schools I believe I’ve had enough education.”
“Sorry,” Ivy says feeling fault pull at her heart strings.
Kevin becomes brighter, “I could get a job, maybe when John Miller marries I could have the cowboy’s job.”
With a gentle smile Ivy humours her tone, “what experience do you have?”
“I can ride a horse.”
“There is more in being a station cowboy than riding a horse lad. Can you milk a cow?” Gladys Martin says.
“I could learn and I have milked a mare.”
Gladys Martin appears confused.
Ivy explains the time on Dunluce when Kevin was out with the stockman and he whitened his smoko cup of tea with Roany’s milk.”
“Cleaver lad but I don’t think that is enough training for the cowboy’s job,” Gladys denies.
Ivy allows the conversation to end with Kevin realising all the wishing in the world wouldn’t keep him from his rendezvous with the Forsayth train. There would be a night’s stopover at Forsayth then a day or two with Ivy’s friend Edith at the Mareeba refreshment rooms before returning back to Herberton.
Kevin gives a noticeable shudder before placing such thoughts aside until the morning.
And no matter what the morning would come.
Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Conder 333 at Hotmail dot Com
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