Published: 20 Jan 2025

Mareeba was found to be a dusty overgrown bush town and the gateway to the Gulf cattle country. The town was also a railway hub with lines extending into the distant Gulf Country also the many mining settlements but most of all the Atherton Tablelands, a twenty-five thousand square mile tropical, often cool paradise. Even so Mareeba was at the tableland’s edge, the so called Downings and didn’t enjoy the cooler winters of the higher tableland while boasting of over three hundred days of sunshine each year.

You will be going to school in Herberton.

Those words meant nothing to the lad.

Will there be horses?

No horses but many boys of your age to make friends with.

To Kevin the school his mother spoke of, would be somewhere in the town of Mareeba and he would return each afternoon to the hotel. So the question was asked.

Will we be living here in the hotel?

I’m afraid not, the management doesn’t allow children to stay here at the hotel.

The penny was dropping.

If Ivy was working at the hotel and Kevin couldn’t live there, it meant separation which would be a new experience for the lad, possibly Taffy Jones would be living in the town designed for his future education. Ivy soon discredited such thinking, declaring Taffy was back in Torrens Creek and they would not be seeing him again.

No Taffy; at least that would be some consolation Kevin.
 
 
The short holiday with Ivy at the hotel was soon at an end and as Ivy packed his little port, or portamento or suitcase depending on one’s preference, she explained what was to eventuate. Kevin would travel with her by train to this far off destination where he would be enrolled at some establishment called a hostel and attend the local state school. Kevin could not yet comprehend separation from his mother, possibly as they had never been apart in his short life. Firstly Ivy was his teacher while at the station then after going to Torrens Creek he would return home each afternoon from school to his mother’s question on how was your day when there would be fresh scones with strawberry jam for the liking.

There was also Taffy Jones who was Kevin’s surrogate father while for many years he believed Taffy to be his birth father, even with his mother protesting negatively. How could a child believe differently, at the sheep station Taffy was always there, also when they moved into town he was mostly around being amorous with Ivy as a father should with a mother. True Taffy was often away working for days at a time but come the weekend he would be back in town although for much of that time he could be found at the hotel bar and drunk. As for filling the roll of father, Taffy was rough and unloving while using mental cruelty as his weapon although he never raised his hand against the lad as he had against Ivy but that was only the one time with mother and son departed company soon after.

An example of Taffy’s mental cruelty was after an incident Kevin had with the railway station master’s daughter. Robyn was a girl of ten or eleven who had been sent from their home adjacent to the town’s general store to purchase a straw broom. Once outside the shop she encountered Kevin, who in his usual mischievous manner commenced to tease the girl. Robyn wasn’t one for nonsense so she swung the new broom at Kevin, hitting an awning post and breaking the broom handle.

Later that day Robyn’s father is at Kevin’s house demanding compensation, declaring if he ever caught the lad he would put him in a bag and send him to Timbuktu. Kevin had no idea where Timbuktu could be found but definitely didn’t want to be sent there in a bag. As the man delivered his threat Taffy simply stood aside grinning, then once the threat had been issued both Taffy and the railwayman departed as best of mates to the hotel.

Some days latter Taffy approached Kevin offering an envelope containing money, instructing the lad to deliver it to the railwayman. Kevin did Taffy’s bidding but only as far as placing the envelope on the gate post, shouting out the delivery before running as fast as his little legs could to the safety of home. That was one occasion he would not be sent to Timbuktu.

Once Kevin arrives home he is questioned by Taffy.

“Did you give Norman the money?”

“I left it on the gate.”

“Didn’t I tell you to hand it to him?”

Kevin doesn’t respond.

“Don’t you want to go to Timbuktu?”
 
 
“I’ve allowed you to digress somewhat,” Neil interjects, “you were about to become a boarder at the hostel.”

“I suppose I was trying to establish my opinion of Taffy Jones. I have already related my first days at the hostel.”

“True but I’m interested in what life was like in board,” Neil releases a cheeky grin, “I have to ask, except with your mate Will did you play dickies at the hostel?”

Kevin releases a breathy denial, “not during my first internment. Well not often anyway although I remember one instance but it didn’t eventuate further than look-see”

“Yes I remember you saying you left the hostel in fifty-nine and returned in sixty-two.”
 
 
In the early sixties life away from the big cities was a dreamy state of affair. True the larger cities were gaining world sophistication, even if fashion was always a season behind Europe and North America but the lifestyle had changed little in a hundred years. If you were a student at the turn of the twentieth century and happened to be transplanted into a school in the late fifties or early sixties you would feel quite at home, especially in Queensland’s north as even the maps on the schoolroom walls hadn’t changed, although most of the red bits were now independent members of a Commonwealth but the feeling of being British remained strong while those thousand of immigrants after the European war were considered wogs, chinks and dagoes.

An example of Australian xenophobia in the earlier yeas could be defined in the words of the then leader of the opposition labour party Arthur Calwell, who was all for sending the remanence of the Chinese from the previous century’s golden age back to China, who said Two Wong’s don’t make a White. These days it is more than apparent without the immigrants Australia would be in dire straits and still eating overcooked meat and three vegies swimming in tomato sauce or pan gravy with lumps, overdosed with a more than generous helping of fat and salt. Yet even with the great influx of foreigners the country retained its unique style of being British, even up to modern times.
 
 
The fifties and sixties were times when the children of those who fort in the Second World War were enjoying their newly found independence. Unlike their parents they had taken control of music and the radio airways. It was their music they danced to and unlike their parent’s bakelite recordings of the thirties and forties played on expensive clockwork gramophones, the youth of the fifties had numerous 45s singles while electricity powered their players made in Japan, not forgetting the transistor radio meaning entertainment could be on the go, instead of with the family about a large crackling valve set on the living room mantle. It was a brave new world and we were going to make the best of it at any cost.

When it came to layback and archaic the hostel run by the Methodist Church was no different as it survived on little money, been established to service the children of the outback along with the children of white families who governed the Australian colony of Papua and the mandate given over German New Guinea. The hostel was mostly a white affair, some Dutch expats from the recently independent Indonesia but the sight of a black face was rare, except for a couple of suntanned faces of those from the Pacific Islands.

The hostel’s furnishing was as ancient, the bedding ex-army and the cutlery carried the markings D^D depicting they were leftovers from the armed forces and the war. The beds were wire sprung iron bunks, with many of the springs removed by recalcitrant children and the mattress kapok and lumpy, often having to be unstitched and restuffed. The bedding was nothing more than a single blanket and a thin quilt displaying it was the hostel’s property, even in the high tableland winters when it was common for the night’s temperature to fall far below freezing.

As for meals, breakfast would be scrambled egg made from powered egg in large trays cut into slices, dry toast with a smidge of butter, maybe a dollop of honey or plum jam extracted from a ten pound canister and porridge as lumpy as the mattresses, lubricated and washed down with a cup of sweat grey tea more resembling dishwater.

In the early years lunch had been delivered by a truck to the school, consisting of a brown paper bag containing two sandwiches spread with peanut paste, as we called peanut butter in the north, or the notorious plum jam that more resembled flavoured boiled sugar. Sometimes there would be fruit, a spotty banana an orange, or whatever management could get on the cheap and so sour it made your eyes twitch. Although to be fair and in retrospect the Methodist Church did run the hostel on what could be said, low fees and charity.
 
 
Neil cuts in with a smile, “what about the night’s dinner?”

“The main meal would be sloppy mash potato made from potato powder, a couple of beans so tough you could use the stringy part as dental floss and if you were lucky a sausage that we called mystery bags, but in the main it was brawn made from leftover meat pressed into a container and held together with gelatine.”

“What about dessert?”

“There would be sour plums, lumpy custard and black mange.”

“I don’t know black mange.”

“Sorry, it was our name for blancmange, which was basically flour, water and flavouring.”

“I would say the hostel could have been considered underprivileged.”

“They were different times Neil, no one had much but again there wasn’t much to have, except for a vehicle and a nicer house than your neighbour. Not like today where ever child with his own laptop and mobile telephone.

We thought we were privileged to be given a wrist watch on your thirteenth birthday, or two shillings pocket money.”

“What is a shilling?”

“I am forgetting that you are Gen-x Neil, a shilling would translate to ten cents. There was also a coin called a florin that was worth two shillings or twenty-four pennies, today it would translate to twenty cents. The florin coin was developed in England during the mid nineteenth century as an attempt to go decimal, it being one tenth of a pound.”

“What could you buy with a shilling?” Neil asks.

“You would be surprised; using today’s money but not true to value, a hamburger would cost fifteen cents, if you were a smoker a packet of twenty would relate to twenty cents and a haircut twenty-five cents, one stile though, short back and sides and no arguments.

“Using a pudding bowl,” Neil laughs.

“I think that was a myth, I never saw such a result, although I did see many bad cuts done by some kid’s mother; I could give an example of a bad haircut.”

“As a matter of fact it was.”

“Out with it.”
 
 
Kevin’s bad haircut occurred during his first internment at the hostel at the age of eight or there about. At the time he was billeted in what was known as the little boy’s house and set away from the main hostel building and influence of the older boys. There was also a house for younger girls called the dolls house.

This night the woman who looked after the little boys happened to be away from the house and after she had gone a pillow fight erupted followed by a spiting fight. Then bored with pillows and spitting someone suggested Kevin was in need of a haircut and in no time his head was a patchwork of snipping.

With their house lady’s return there was trouble and she wasn’t pleased with the mess made by broken pillows, so she called the boys one by one to her room, she knew one would break and when it was Kevin’s turn he was in tears, Mrs. Moore they gollied (spat) all over my bed and cut of all my hair. Punishment was obviously applied to all involved including Kevin who believed he was innocent, even if he had been involved in the pillow fighting.
 
 
“I would love to have seen the cut,” Neil says.

“It is said the difference between a good haircut and a bad haircut is two weeks.”

“What punishment did you receive?”

“I was bent over Mrs. Moore’s ample knee and received a whacking.”

“Where you often punished?”

“I can only remember one other time during those early years by Mrs. Moore at the little boy’s house.”

“Come on out with it.”

“It was not long after the haircut. As I remember I was having a shower while resiting a ditty I had heard and laughing loudly at the crude parts.”

“What was the ditty?”

“I can only remember it in part. It goes – I’m sitting in the goal house with my hands upon my knees with the shadow of my prick upon the wall. I forget the in-between bits but it ended with, the rats are playing ping-pong with my balls.”

“Then what happened?”

“One of the boys reported my rendition to Mrs. Moore and she called me to her room. Once there she demanded I repeat what I had resited.”

“And did you?”

“Never, all I would say was I can’t Mrs. Moore, I can’t it is dirty as it was a time when men never swore or spoke crudely when in company of women, not like these days with women swearing worse than men. She then gave me a whacking and washed my mouth with soap and water.”

“Tasty,” Neil comically says.

“Cruel if you ask me, there were other cruel punishments. One I recall but much earlier being if a kid winged too much it was said to have S.O.L. translating to shit on the liver and a good dose of cod liver oil was the cure for that one.

“Did you ever have S.O.L. Kevin?”

“Often I’m afraid and once when given the cod liver oil I took an extra dose on purpose and chucked my last meal over everything. That was the last time I was given the so called good oil. Did I tell you I once cleared out from the hostel?”

“Do you mean ran away, no I don’t believe you did.”

“It occurred not long after the pillow fighting and hair cutting incident. I think I mentioned the name Foxy Furlonger.”

“You did mention someone called Foxy, it was during your first arrival at the hostel and something to do with playing marbles.”

“That’s him, Foxy was always strong willed and it was Foxy who gave me the haircut for that he was dealt most of the punishment. A couple of weeks later he decided to clear out back to his Grandmother in Dimbulah, a town the other side of the Atherton Tableland while convincing me and another kid to join with him.”

“If he was the instigator for your bad haircut why did you agree?”

“Although my heart wasn’t with him, you never said no to Foxy Furlonger and there were many incidents where Foxy induced rule breaking. One I recall was his habit of shooting birds along the creek with his ging (slingshot). Foxy often enticed me to go with him when the Bottle-brush trees (callistemon) were in flower to shoot rosella parrots that feed on the nectar and if his aim was right he would have me blow air up their arse to revive them.”

Neil’s sounds doubting; “did that work?”

Kevin laughs; “not likely, dead is dead and I don’t think any poor bird would survive Foxy’s aim.”

“Were you ever discovered out of bounds?”

“Sometimes but if you chose the right time, there was a large covered drain that lead away from the railway cutting towards the creek, therefore you would only be spied for a second or two while crossing the railway line.”

“How old were you when you ran away?”

“I would have been about nine I suppose.”
 
 
Foxy decided to leave during the night after lights out and as there would be a bed check the boys made their bunks appear as if someone was sleeping in them. It was a cold night with a light misty drizzle, giving a halo effect about the dull street lighting but the drizzle had dissipated once the boys reached the outskirts of town.

Less than a mile along the Atherton road from town Foxy decide it was too cold to continue therefore it was necessary to light a fire to keep warm. Foxy always had a box of matches in his pocket even if there was little use for them, except lighting one and placing the still hot head against someone’s arm. Soon he had a raging campfire burning and the three sat about telling heroic stories of would be adventure.

“If old Thomas turns up I’ll hit him with this,” Foxy declares while demonstrating his striking skills with a length of firewood, his aim at the fire sends sparks flying in all directions.

“I’ll kick him in the balls,” Kevin bravely adds to the mix.

The third kid may have made comment but time had removed him from memory and all that remains of him is a dark outline of someone being there.

No sooner than Kevin declared his brave action, vehicle lights approached from the direction of town. It was soon discovered the driver was Mr. Thomas in the hostel Combi van, obviously the boys had been discovered missing during that so described bed check by Mrs. Moore. Immediately Foxy and the third in the little renegade gang scarpered into the scrub, Kevin simply stood by until Mr. Thomas escorted him back to the vehicle. In reality Kevin had nowhere to run to as he had no idea where his mother was living. True he wrote his weekly letter but it was to an address that meant little to him. After escorting Kevin to the van Mr. Thomas did a quick reconnaissance of the area but Foxy and the other lad had long gone, so after extinguishing the campfire it was back to his bed for Kevin without a single word spoken during the short drive. Once snug and warm in his bed Kevin sunk into gratification in being discovered and put the failed adventure down to experience.
 
 
“What happened to your mate Foxy Furlonger?”

“Oddly he made it back to Dimbulah but the following week he was returned to the hostel as a hero.”

“Did you get another whacking?’

“No and nothing was spoken, I don’t think they even related the incident to my mother as it may have been detrimental towards the hostel’s capability to manage young children. I did relate the incident to mum many years later but she had no recollection of it.”

As Kevin speaks Neil’s recorder sounds a gentle click. “Time to change the tape,” Neil says while collecting a replacement cassette from his bag, Neil does the swap and writes on the first; “can’t confuse them,” he says.

“Would you like another coffee?”

“Yes please if you are making. You said Wayne has the beans sent down from Mareeba. Wouldn’t that be expensive?”

“Not really if you buy two kilograms at a time there isn’t any postal charges, besides it only takes a couple of days by express post.”

“I didn’t know we grew coffee in Australia.”

“Funny story, a couple of years back when I returned to Mareeba on annual leave from work, I visited Jaques’ farm and bought Wayne a packet of local coffee. When he tried the coffee he remarked it reminded him of the Kenya coffee he once enjoyed. Ironically the farmer who grows the coffee in Mareeba was from Kenya and according to a documentary I saw some time previously on television, he had searched the world for the best soil and conditions to set up his farm, finding the best spot to be Mareeba.”

“If I recollect correctly isn’t Mareeba your home town?”

“Spiritual home, I wasn’t born in Mareeba but it was my mother’s favourite and I do have fond memories of the town.”

“So you are the town’s adopted son.”

“I don’t think there would be many if any who remember me there these days.”

“You say you have been back?”

“Yes on a number of occasions.” Kevin pours the coffee and returns to his chair.

“Thank you,” Neil hesitates with his finger hovering above click.

“Will you get anything of value from your tapes?”

With the fresh tape rolling Neil gives his answer, “I believe so. I am finding your history most interesting. Except for that school trip to Cairns I mentioned earlier, the furthest I’ve been in the Australian bush was during a school camping expedition when we all got food poisoning and two of our group were lost for a couple of days.”

“I’ve sort of been lost in the bush on the occasion,” Kevin admits.

“Explain what you mean by sort of?”

“The first was in Torrens Creek while riding, the second was when mum was station housemaid on a cattle station further into the Gulf Country near Georgetown. On both occasions I remembered what had been drilled into my youthful skull, being if you are out riding and become disorientated, slacken the reins and the horse will make its own way home when it wants a feed.”

Kevin gives a cheeky grin.

“Something has amused you Kevin, do you care to share.”

“Yes, I was about to mention the words give head but may have far reaching connotations.”

“So you were somewhat skilled in riding?”

“I rode a lot but I wouldn’t say skilled, some were of the opinion I looked like a sack of potatoes perched up on the horse. Yet I did win second prize for riding at the Hughenden Show.”

“Therefore your skill couldn’t be all that bad.”

“Huh, I was six years old, my horse bolted into the arena, I lost my hat and Roany bowled over one of the judges.”

“And you still received a prize?”

“Many years later while bragging about the prize to mum she said they gave all the young boys a red second prize ribbon.”

“That is a little deflating.”

“I thought so and soon after I threw the ribbon away, besides by that time as it was made from felt it was half eaten by moths, in retrospect it was really Roany’s prize and I should have kept it regardless of its condition.”

“Have you done any riding lately?”

“Not for many years, a friend had a farm up country here in Victoria and a couple of horses. My favourite was a mare he called Pup.”

“That is a funny name for a horse.”

“He named it Pup as its mother was a right bitch. Whenever I visited Josef I would ride but most of my riding was way back when mum did station work. After going to the hostel there wasn’t any opportunity.”

“You have spoken the name Roany on a number of occasions, was she your favourite.”

“She was and you could do almost anything with her although she did have a spiteful side, I remember there was one paddock infected with prickle bushes. If I was ever riding through there she would head directly towards the prickles. I remember on one occasion as she took control and headed for the prickles I thumped her neck with my fists screaming you bitch Roany. She simply ignored me and continued on her merry way, I’m sure I could hear her laughing. Another little trick and most horses learn it is to grit their teeth when you try to put the bridle’s bit in their mouth.”

“You seem to know a lot about horses.”

“About one percent of what there is to know, besides they all have their own personality.”
 
 
Kevin appears to drift away, he is remembering other times when Roany showed great tolerance. He could do almost anything to her as if she thought well he’s young and doesn’t understand, I can bide my time until we are again in the paddock with the prickle bushes. Even when she gave birth to her foal Kicker she allowed Kevin total access to her and the foal although Kicker had other ideas and when Kevin approached from behind the foal lashed out kicking him in the stomach. During the same day while sharing the story with his mother she asked what he was going to call the foal.

“Kicker!” Kevin boldly announced.

“Don’t you mean Flicker?”

“No it is called Kicker.”

And from then on the foal was Kicker.

Another example of Roany’s trust was while on a morning’s ride with some of the stockmen. As it was to be a short ride returning by lunch time it was decided to allow Kevin to ride along with them, so they set out with Kicker trotting close by Roany’s side. Being mid morning and smoko (morning tea) time they took a break and set a small fire to boil the billy (water container).

Soon the tea was made a pannikin was offered to Kevin.

Black and sweat.

Kevin appears confused.

“What’s the matter kid?” one of the men asks.

“Where is the milk?”

They all laugh.

“You can’t carry milk in this heat Kevin – besides real men drink their tea black.”

“I only have milk tea.”

One of the men had a bright suggestion, “off you go,” he points to Roany with Kicker suckling, “there’s your milk.”

Without hesitation Kevin approaches Roany and pushes Kicker of her teats, moments later he has enough milk to lighten his brew.

“At least the kid has tenacity.”

A better example of Roany’s tolerance was while Kevin was riding near a creek leading into the Torrens Creek that for years on end remained dry, or appeared dry to the untrained eye but water remained a short distance below its sandy bed.

When riding Kevin was warned away from the creek as it was known to have quicksand but it had never been proven and country folk were notorious exaggerators. Possibly it was because the creek was close to an ammunition dump that exploded after a bushfire during the second war, leaving a scattering of live ammunition. It was written that except for the quick thinking of one of the men the situation for the town may have become devastating.
 
 
Kevin pauses with a memory and laughs, “hoop-snakes,” he says.

“What are hoop-snakes?

“They grab their tails and form a hoop then chase after you.”

“Really,”

“No it was simply a way of frightening children, then there was the min-min light but I think you have to be indigenous to believe that one.”

“Tell me more about the ammo dump.”

“I only recently read about the incident, it appears during the Second World War the American air force needed somewhere safe away from the coast to store bombs and chose Torrens Creek because of its distance, also as it is on a rail line to Townsville.”

“Sorry please continue as I interrupted your story about the quicksand.”
 
 
Kevin was never one to take heed of wisdom and one afternoon while riding he needed to be across the creek. Deciding it was too far to ride to where a bush track made its crossing, he cautiously headed Roany into the creek bed. Within reach of the opposite bank Roany commenced to sink into the sand and she stopped. Kevin dismounted attempting to encourage her to continue by tugging on the reins. It was then he also commenced to sink. Roany simply walked out leaving Kevin sinking up to his knees. Panic set in and he screams Roany, Roany. It was then the camaraderie between rider and horse became obvious. Roany turned and stepped back into the creek, her reins dangling over Kevin and as he took hold of the leather reins she pulled backwards bringing him to the bank.
 
 
“So Roany was your hero?” Neil says.

“She was, even if most don’t believe me but it is as true as I am sitting here talking into your recorder. Although if the truth be known, I wasn’t in any danger as in retrospect my bare feet had reached solid and I could have struggle out by myself, although for those few seconds at the age of six I came to understand the meaning of mortality.”

“Bare feet you say, wouldn’t it be dangerous if your foot slipped through the stirrups and you were to fall?’

“Would be but my stirrups had leather cups that prevented slippage. So you do have some knowledge of horse riding?”

“I have a cousin who has a horse and she never stops talking about it,” Neil says.

“Do you ride?”

“A bicycle yes.”

“Then you will never understand the feeling you get when two minds are joined, that of boy and horse. When out in the scrub you learn to trust each other.”

“My cousin’s horse bit me.”

“Ha, you get over it but I know how you feel. As I said Roany had a mean streak. Often when I tried to mount she would reach about and give me a nip on the arse. The trick is to shorten the rein on the opposite side so the horse can’t turn towards you. Mind you she never drew blood; I think it was a simple reminder who was boss. She had another trick and equally frustrating.”

“More so the trick is to leave horses alone. Being young who did the saddling for you?”

“Mostly it would be one of the stockmen; sometimes I did my own saddling.”

“What at such a young age?”

“It’s surprising what a country kid can do when he puts his mind to it. Mind you having a rail fence close at hand is a must and on the occasion if you needed to dismount away from fencing you would need to find a suitable tree.”
 
 
To saddle a horse it takes strength tightening the girth strap and horses quickly learn to inflate their gut so it wouldn’t feel too tight. A true horseman would understand the trick and while tightening the girth give a quick jab to the horse’s tender flank to induce release of the held breath.

There were occasions when no one was about to help therefore Kevin would do his own saddling which would be an epic undertaking, firstly to struggle the saddle and saddlecloth to the top fence railing then transfer it to Roany’s back. As he lacked strength the girth would be loose, even looser when Roany exhaled. On one occasion when using the yard railing fence to mount he soon discovered his folly with the saddle slipping sideways, he holding tightly until he was upside down underneath her belly before falling to the ground. Once again Roany showed her comical side and again Kevin believing she was laughing at him.
 
 
“What did you mother think of you riding alone at such a young age?”

“I never asked, possibly she did concern but she had her work and couldn’t be watching what I was up to. Country kids come to realise danger at an early age, so most of what happens are knee scrapes and insect bites.”

“Insects you say?”

“Spiders, scorpions, bull ants that sort of thing.”

“What was your worst experience?”

“Oddly I had few that I could consider life threatening. Unhealthy possibly, like eating chunks from the cowlick and molasses put out for the stock.”

“What is cowlick?”

“Blocks of salt put out for the cattle to compensate for the lack of salt in their diet. In retrospect it was somewhat rank but kids will be kids.”

“You actually ate it?”

“Well took a lick or two, I don’t think you could call it a feed.”

“What is molasses?”

“It is a bi-product from refining sugar and the rough state before treacle.”

“Golden syrup?”

“Yes that is the household product but what was fed to the cattle looked more like used motor oil but left in the sun it became more like tar.”

“What did it taste like?”

“That I don’t remember, I guess not very nice as I don’t remember making it a habit.”

“What about family Kevin, you have spoken some about your mother but little about others.”

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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