by David Vernon
— Frances Warren
Ted Trounson rode horses. Rode them and trained them all; broke trotters and racers and ponies to harness. Could ride anything they put in front of him. He had herded and broken brumbies in the High Country in his youth. Ted Trounson trained and rode and breathed horses the way only true horsemen do. He served in Palestine in the Great War — was a part of the Light Horse Brigade, he believed that he could face the mud and the blood and the death if he just had the smell and the weight of his horses. He survived the war and afterwards bought stables in Dandenong just outside of Melbourne and continued to train horses. It was all he knew how to do; all he wanted to do. By the end of his career Ted Trounson’s name was known in horse racing and show circles throughout the Melbourne area. Yes — it would be safe to say that Ted Trounson rode horses.
In 1913, Ted and his wife Miriam had their first child. There is a photograph of them — Ted and his first-born — one of those old sepia-toned prints all lovely greys and shadows, the baby cannot have been more than six months old and is sitting on the back of a huge leggy thoroughbred, propped up by Ted’s careful hands. It is dated 1914. The child grew, as children are wont to do, and from the beginning Ted Trounson’s child rode and trained and breathed horses with Ted.
At four years old the child developed polio. It’s all but wiped out now and we — the lucky generation — can’t understand the dread that sprang up with an outbreak. The horror that gripped an area where it occurred. Some children it killed outright, some it crippled, while others caught it but recovered unscathed and no way to tell which it would be. A terrible lottery; with a child’s life the prize. Ted’s first child recovered with only mild paralysis and a leg that stuck out at an angle — a flaw that meant a career riding dressage horses was out but that was never the plan anyway, Ted Trounson’s first-born would train horses, just like Ted.
The child graduated Dandenong High School in the height of the Great Depression — one of the top ten students in the school — and was offered the opportunity to go onto college. But further education wasn’t part of the life of a working class family in Melbourne in the Great Depression. Every hand was needed to stay fed and keep a roof over the growing family. Ted’s first born had been joined by three more children, a sister, Joyce and two brothers, Athel and Jackie. So at just fourteen years of age, more child than not, Ted’s Trounson’s first-born was sent to get a job.
Ted sent the child to an acquaintance named Johnny Chapman. Chapman owned thoroughbreds and was one of the few businessmen that seemed to be weathering the Depression unscathed. His Moorabbin stables employed a dozen young strappers, all single men (boys by today’s standards) who bunked on the premises. It was here Ted sent his child to ask for work training horses. And so the youth stood alone, all nervous angles and twisting hands, in front of Johnny Chapman and was about to begin with introductions and ask for the coveted position when a friend of Ted’s (another horseman) walked by, “Johnny,” he called, “That’s Ted Trounson’s kid, you’d do worse for a strapper.”
And that’s all it took and though Ted Trounson’s kid was skinny as a whippet and soft of voice, Chapman hired the child then and there. Mention of Ted’s name was enough to seal the deal. In those days a man lived on his reputation and Ted Trounson was known as a good trainer; a true horseman. Of course when Chapman told the child, “You can bunk in with the rest of the fellas,” the child seemed oddly hesitant, until finally explaining that the plan was to stay at home with Ted and Miriam and travel in on horseback before sunrise every morning. Chapman shrugged. He figured the kid would have a change of mind once the colder weather kicked in, it was one thing to ride in at 5am in late March and another in early June.
In the next few months Ted Trounson’s kid took to the work with gusto and though so slight of build and still hesitant to converse with the older men, Johnny Chapman was pleased with the way his new employee was turning out. The kid knew horses and handled the high-spirited racehorses with an easy confidence. He was even considering offering the kid a chance to jockey, where the slight build would be an advantage. The kid had been there awhile and was still faithfully riding in every morning, despite the colder weather, when Ted Trounson turned up one afternoon to tell the kid that help was needed at home. Chapman was standing there when Ted yelled out to his first-born who (not to put too fine a point on it) was shovelling horse-shit. “Dot — your mother needs you!” and when the child did not look up, “Dorothy Trounson your mother will give you a fair hiding, if you don’t come now, Jackie’s sick as a dog.”
It would be fair to say that Johnny Chapman near fell down with shock. The young lad, he’d employed for the last three months, was — as it turned out — a young lady. Ted Trounson’s first child was a daughter. Once she’d realised Johnny Chapman thought she was a boy, Dorothy Trounson had been too frightened to let on to anyone, scared that she’d lose the much-needed job if Chapman found out she was a girl. She didn’t lose the job. It turned out Ted Trounson’s kid made a damned good strapper, girl or not. She kept the job with Johnny Chapman until the family moved from the area. Dot Trounson rode and trained and breathed horses all of her life, just like her father.
There were other jobs, later. In her lifetime Ted Trounson’s kid trained dressage horses for Irene Coffee whose animals competed in the Melbourne and Sydney shows and who eventually sent horses to the Olympics. Of course she could never ride dressage herself, her crooked leg from the brush with polio made sure of that. Later, she trained trotters for Ronnie Males and half a dozen other well-known horsemen in the Melbourne area. By that time she had married Thomas Sargent and become Dorothy (Bambi) Sargent. She had five children herself and her first born son was named Ted. Her youngest daughter is my mother and Dorothy Sargent (nee Trounson) owned horses up until her death in 1996. My grandmother was a strapper in the 1920s when she was more girl than woman, and in a time when women simply didn’t become strappers.
The facts:
My grandmother first told me this story when I was very young. It was my favourite story and I made her retell it many times before her death. As far as I know all of it is true, although the family are not sure if it was Johnny Chapman or his father or another trainer altogether who gave Dorothy her first job training horses or exactly how long she worked for him before he realised she was a girl. But he did keep her on and she held various jobs with horses her whole life.
Frances Warren is a history teacher in a small school in the Latrobe Valley. She lives with her partner and daughter and has always had a fascination with the amazing life stories that everyday people have. Frances has been published in six other Stringybark anthologies, The Bridge, A Visit from the Duchess, The Heat Wave of ’76, Marngrook, The Seven Deadly Sins and Yellow Pearl.
Crossed Out
— Rosalind Moran
Fred Hodge was taller than most people, unusually bold and notably dedicated to Catholicism. None of these attributes, however, would normally elicit the reaction that followed him being spotted through The Boggy Bull’s window.
“Fred?” exclaimed the barkeeper, pausing in his glass-cleaning mid-wipe. “But Fred’s dead!” Yet there he was, heading for the pub door. “He’s…he’s returned.”
Jaws dropped in horror. Such phenomena never occurred in towns like Boggawagga!
“Hide!”
Everyone dived to the floor, some fumbling for crosses while others darted opportunistic fingers onto tabletops to grab comforting beer tankards.
The door creaked open and then swung back into place. There was a pause accompanied only by the rattling that comes from customers quaking under pieces of furniture.
“Why are you all on the floor? You can’t be that drunk at midday!”
Back-From-The-Dead-Fred seemed remarkably personable. A brave man stuck out his head to take a peek. “You don’t look dead,” he observed.
“Dead? Have you been hearing tales?” Fred’s rough accent certainly didn’t sound saintly. More faces
appeared from underneath various pieces of furniture. “You all look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Well, aren’t you one?” The barman had found his voice, although it came across as slightly muffled owing to him remaining crouched behind his counter. “We heard the priest went to say the last rites over your body.”
Fred smiled, sat down at the nearest table — ignoring the man still crouched beneath his seat — and leant towards the huddle of onlookers. “How about I tell you all what happened?”
Everything started (said Fred) with the town council giving building permission for that new Anglican church. I wasn’t thrilled about it being built opposite our Catholic church on the high street, but I hoped God had some greater plan.
Then when the new church was adding its spire, I realised it’d be more visible than the Catholic church — which was in Boggawagga first.
(“Aye, true enough,” affirmed Fred’s audience).
Anyway, height’s important (Fred drew himself up), and churches are landmarks for people and for God. As a faithful Catholic I saw it as my duty to ensure our church would remain tallest and therefore be the rightful landmark, as it’d always been.
“Let’s build a spire too,” said I — and you all thought it a great idea. “We’ll build it good and strong,” I remember you saying. (Fred’s onlookers succumbed to the intense desire to look away uncomfortably).
So we built a spire, nice and tall. No more flat-roofed church for us! Our tin spire was in great form and looked as good as any new fancy brickwork.
(“Looked,” lamented the spire’s principal designer, whose handiwork had earned him the nickname of Slapdash Sam).
Then those building the Anglican church revealed they had a cross to put on top of their spire — and, once it was up, their church would be tallest.
Despite our best arguments — and fists, in the case of our good barman here — their big shiny cross went up, and their church was taller again.
Now, by then you (Fred eyed his friends) were ready to call it a day. But I had some metal back home worth resurrecting. So I fashioned a cross, bigger than theirs; went back to our church; climbed the ladder onto the roof, reached the spire’s top, and stuck the cross on. (He paused, smiling with satisfaction.
“But the cross fell off,” remarked a voice from under Fred’s chair.
“Yes, yes,” came the cross reply. “I was getting to that.”
A storm blew in and blew my cross clean off. Maybe I would’ve left it there, had the new Anglican church’s minister not said, “Looks like God’s will in tempestuous action.”
Said I, “As the tallest man in town, my head’s closest to heaven. Any message from God would reach me first.”
The minister’s manner turned pricklier that an echidna’s behind. “There’s already been a message. Put your homemade cross up again and I’ll wager God will strike you down with it.”
What a challenge! “Well,” said I, “I’ll hold that cross up myself all night, and come morning you’ll see how God rewards those who champion faith against the odds.” I marched across the road to my church and, cross in hand, climbed the ladder onto the roof.
Then a terrible storm began brewing.
(“What a downpour!” The barman shook his head.
“Actually,” rectified Fred, “I meant when my wife got wind of my doings.”)
Dear Violet (“Violent Hodge,” sniggered the voice underneath Fred’s chair, and met with a well-aimed boot) added her voice to yours — raising the general volume considerably. But despite the coming rain, risk of catching cold and almost certain death — by wife if not by weather — I stuck to my guns. One by one, you left.
Night fell. I stood alone, shivering, rain drumming on the roof. But I did hear one voice…
“Uh, Fred? Won’t you come down?”
The Anglican minister was yelling from inside his church on the other side of the street. It turns out he wasn’t concerned about my safety so much as his own, but we’ll get to that later.
“No!” I roared. (The roar’s recreation made Fred’s audience jump, and curses sounded as heads hit the undersides of furniture.) “I’m proving my faith!”
And that’s the last I remember — but the minister saw what happened. You all, er … (Fred shifted uncomfortably.) You’re all familiar with the term ‘electrical conductor’?
(There was silence.)
Well, it seems I became one. I knew it was my job to hold up that cross, because as the tallest man in town I had the best chance of raising it higher than that confounded cross on the other side of the road. The only thing is, well … hanging onto the tallest metal structure for miles around during a thunderstorm isn’t recommended.
After both the cross and I were struck by lightning, I fell onto the church’s tin roof. It had rusted over time … I crashed straight through, coming to rest in a right heap on the altar. Nearly impaled myself on a crucifix and all.
I was found at dawn. Father Murphy came to bless my tender singed head, and Violet arrived to curse me and my stupidity. For seven days I lay there, quiet as the grave, right where coffins are laid, if you please.
On the seventh day, Father Murphy came to chant over me in gloomy tones. But as the last rites were being performed (Fred grinned triumphantly) I woke up.
Wonderful, you may believe — but you don’t go seven days unconscious without building up thirst. I couldn’t help it; I drank the first thing I could lay my hands on.
(“Ah,” said Barney Bickleshaft in a moment of realisation.
“Ah,” agreed Fred.).
The delicious liquid which gave life to my poor parched throat turned out to be the Holy Water, placed by my side during the last rites. When I lowered the vial from my face, Father Murphy was so red he made beetroot look pale.
For a moment I thought he would sing the Lord’s praise, clasp my hands and speak of miracles. Missed opportunity, in my opinion. You know what he did instead?
(“What?”)
He excommunicated me. Me; (Fred raised his hands) devout Catholic of Boggawagga, champion of the faith. He asked me to be on my way as soon as my legs could carry me — and never to return.
Fred’s audience sat in silence. “So your soul is doomed,” concluded Grousy Ned.
“I may have been excommunicated,” said Fred indignantly, “but my spiritual self is clean as a whistle. I merely crossed the road and turned Anglican. Same God. How different can two churches be?”
“But what about the Anglican minister?”
“He,” said Fred, “has actually changed faiths too.” He ignored his audience’s impersonations of fish that had discovered the edges of their bowls. “When he called for me to come down, he wasn’t fretting over my safety. Rather, he was busy facing a flooded church on his side of the road. That double brick and mortar recipe was built so well that rain could seep in but had no way of leaking out again. Our Anglican church became a glorified pond. The minister was inside and quite put out by his midnight swim.”
“Was he hurt?”
“Oh, just wet clothes and shrivelled feet. He did take it personally though, thinking it best to cross the road to a church which, while battered, at least didn’t hold water. Says he’s a Catholic now.”
The barman leant forward. “So you’re no longer championing Catholicism, Fred?”
Fred laughed. “No, those days are done. I’ve learnt my lesson about taking devout Catholicism too far.” He stood up.
“So where are you going?”
“To drain my church. The former Anglican minister looked quite smug as he passed me bailing out the pew. We Anglicans may have won the battle of the steeple, but I’ll wager all rests on the race to a dry floor!”
The facts:
While names have been changed for privacy reasons, Crossed Out is based on real Australian Catholics. ‘Fred Hodge’ and ‘Violet’ — my great-grandparents — lived in a rural New South Wales town. Fred was a respectable, hard-working labourer, and a go
od husband. Unfortunately, however, he suffered an injury while working which left him in a coma. Fred’s unexpected awakening from this coma interrupted his own last rites. Being very dehydrated, he proceeded to drink whatever came to hand first, namely the Holy Water. The local priest was appalled and excommunicated him. In response, Fred had himself and his children re-baptised at the Anglican church.
Rosalind Moran is a first-year university student based in Canberra. She writes far more than she should but far less than she’d like. Her other hobbies include horse-riding, playing the piano, and studying Portuguese. Rosalind has previously been published in the Stringybark Anthology, Marngrook.
Prelude to a Dream
— Sophie Constable
With each breath, black air pressed wet against Kwizera’s throat. The insects loud, the AK-47 warm in his palms, his eyes scanned the darkness. There: a whispering in the shadows. He stepped closer, honing the point of his gaze to dissect us from them, alive from dead.
A movement. Fronds shivering. Kwizera’s finger slipped onto the trigger.
“Relax, mec.” Emanuel’s smooth voice.
Kwizera’s breath eased. Sweat slimed down his chest. His mind ached with what could have been, as Emanuel’s silhouette squatted beyond the leaves of their bivouac, his radio cradled to his ear.
“We have to move.” Kwizera bent to whisper. “Captain’s orders.”
“Shh, mec. The race!”
“Hey Emmi, how long’s five thousand metres?” Beyond, Celestin stretched out his arm to glance at an ant bite.
The radio’s glow picked out the beads of sweat on Celestin and Emanuel’s cheekbones. They waved Kwizera closer, their minds far away in Atlanta. A quick glance around — no one moving. Kwizera hesitated. His bent back burned.