By now we were ‘getting his drift’, as Mr Archer might have said, and as it was obviously futile to say anything else we didn’t. He left a few minutes later, warning us again of what he could do to us and telling us not to be in the area the following day. When we were sure he wasn’t coming back we went down the road to see if the Aborigine was alright. It was starting to get dark but we could see he was still alive, breathing heavily.
“Are you okay?” Glen asked, bending over him. He stank of booze and dirty clothes, and at first we thought he was asleep. Then he waved his arm about and shouted, “Fuck off!” before mumbling something in an incomprehensible language, liberally laced with English swear words. Do Aboriginals have swear words? We stood by him for a few minutes wondering what to do, but he seemed to be alright and he certainly wasn’t dead, so Glen said, “Listen, mate, if you want a cup of tea and something to eat we’re camped just up the road. Okay?” Again the man mumbled something unintelligible, but at least he didn’t tell us to fuck off again. When we woke up next morning there was no sign of him.
We got to Richmond early the next morning, courtesy of a lift with a farmer and his wife who emerged from nowhere out of a gate not far from where the Aborigine had been lying. They were going into town shopping, and were as surprised to see us and learn where we’d come from as we were happy to get a lift so soon; we hadn’t even packed up and they had to wait for us, which they did with good humour. We treated ourselves to a slap-up breakfast in Richmond — only another two hundred and fifty miles and we’d be there! We even began to contemplate making it that day, with a bit of luck. In the cafe we met an old bloke who, although he didn’t say much about himself, wanted to know where we’d come from and where we were going.
His name was Charlie and he seemed okay, if a bit vacant. His clothes were a bit grubby and worn, but so were everybody’s out here it seemed. The most notable thing about him was a large burn scar on the side of his head above his ear. He told us he could give us a lift, but was only going to the turn off to his property twenty-five miles west of the town.
“Oh, that’s okay!” we told him confidently. “We’re used to sitting by the side of the road!” For a moment he didn’t say anything, and then surprised us a little by asking if we had any food and water. “Oh, yeah!“ we assured him. “We’ve got everything!” “Hummm.” He shrugged. “Okay, let’s go.”
Like his clothes, his 1952 Ford F1 pick-up had seen plenty of use but it sounded okay and we could at least sit up front with him. He dropped us off opposite an open gate, where a rutted track disappeared into the distance across the flat plains.
“How far do you go down there?” we asked, climbing down.
“Only about fifty miles,” he shrugged. “See youse,” and he went bumping off over the cattle grid and down the track. It was ten-thirty in the morning, and at twenty to eleven we could still see his dust. It wasn’t really until that began to settle that we realised where we were.
If we’d thought we were alone and the only people in the world the day Mrs Hayes dropped us off, it was nothing compared to this. Since leaving Townsville we’d seen innumerable kangaroos, emus, brolgas, wedge-tailed eagles and galahs, vast blankets of them, swooping and turning in unison, grey-pink-grey-pink — aren’t the birds of Australia just fantastic! There was wildlife all over the place! Now, suddenly, there didn’t seem to be a creature alive anywhere. Flat, featureless land stretched for miles in all directions, still and deathly quiet, and nothing moved in the stunted undergrowth; even the ants seemed lethargic.
Two empty cattle road trains, quite close together, thundered by going east at about two o’clock, the drivers waving to us, but apart from that nothing came by. Then just after three o’clock, a car also heading east appeared on the horizon. It was travelling quite fast but it still took a few minutes to reach us; one thing about being out here, you could see a vehicle coming from miles away. We stood up to wave as it approached, and to our surprise the car stopped and a youngish man got out and quickly came across the road to us. Unusually, he was quite smartly dressed in shorts and long socks, shiny shoes and a crisp short-sleeved white shirt with button-down pockets.
“Gidday, boys,” he smiled, and not hiding his surprise, asked: “What are you doing out here?”
When we told him, he shook his head slightly and sighed knowingly. “His name wasn’t Charlie, by any chance, was it?”
“Yeah! Why?”
Again he shook his head. “Haven’t got time to explain at the moment, I’ve got to get into Richmond, but I’ll be back some time later tonight. It might not be for a few hours, but I will be back, and if you’re still here I’ll pick you up. You can come with me if you like, but you’ll just have to hang around.”
“No, it’s okay, besides, we might get a lift.”
“Sure,” he smiled, “and if you do, jump in by all means, don’t wait for me. But the road is pretty quiet on Sundays, so you might still be here when I come back. I take it you’ve got water and food?” When we assured him we had, he extended his hand and asked us our names. “I’m Dr Richards,” then he raised his hand in apology. “Sorry, boys, I’ve got to go, but I’ll be back,” and running back to his car, he drove off rapidly.
Half an hour later we were sitting under one of the few scrubby bushes nearby that were large enough to give us some shade, when in the distance we heard a noise. “Listen, a truck!” said Glen.
“That’s not a truck! That’s a train!”
Since Charters Towers, the railway line had run more or less right next to the road; not that we’d seen a single train until now. As this one got closer it was obvious it wasn’t a steam train, but one of the smart new diesel engines that were beginning to take over from steam. It was hauling several passenger carriages, behind which were a dozen or more freight cars of various make up. As it got nearer we walked over and leaned on the fence, waving with both arms at the driver. It was going quite fast and Glen held up our Mt Isa sign and we kept waving to the passengers, many of whom saw us and waved back. Suddenly we heard a squealing noise.
“It’s stopping!” Glen shouted excitedly. “It’s stopping! Quick, get our packs!” And we rushed back, picked up our bags and climbed over the fence. Running over to the line, we got there just as the guard’s van pulled up, the guard standing in the doorway looking down at us.
“What’s up, boys?”
“Nothing, we just saw you stopping. Any chance of a lift?”
“You what!”
“Well … we just …”
“You stopped a fucking passenger train for nothing!”
“We didn’t stop it, we just waved …”
“Bullshit, the driver obviously thought you were in some sort of trouble. It’s an offence to stop trains without reason, you know!”
“But we didn’t stop it, we just waved … anyway, you’ve stopped now, so can we get on?”
“No you fucking can’t,” said the guard, and he leaned out and made a forward motion with his arm, like John Wayne setting out with his troop from the fort. In the distance we could see the driver had climbed down from the engine and was standing beside it looking back towards us, as were many of the passengers, their heads poking out of windows to see what the problem was. At the guard’s signal the driver waved back and climbed up into the engine, and the train began to inch away.
“But that’s ridiculous! You’ve stopped!”
“Yeah, and now we’re going again, and I’ll be reporting you in Julia Creek!” And he stayed in the doorway looking back at us until the train was far enough away that we couldn’t jump on or anything.
Shit! Shit! Shit! How fucking stupid can you get! But we could only stand there, almost in tears, watching the train disappear down the track. Moments later things got even worse when a small truck came past on the road going in our direction, and despite our frantic waving its driver didn’t see us. Jesus, life can be so unfair sometimes!
By nine o’clock that night, life seemed e
ven more unfair. The doctor hadn’t returned, but because we’d expected him at any minute we hadn’t eaten. When hunger got the better of us, we had to scramble about in the dark, heating up some tins and hunting about for bigger pieces of firewood as it had suddenly turned really cold. “How can it be so hot in the day and so bloody cold at night?” Glen protested, putting on another pair of socks. At half past eleven we had to accept the fact that the doctor probably wasn’t going to come until the morning, so we put an old sleeper we’d found on the fire, wrapped ourselves in our duffle coats and lay down.
I thought it was a dream when I heard the doctor’s voice calling. “Hey, boys! Nick. Glen! You there?” And bleary-eyed, we looked into his torchlight. “Sorry I’m late,” he apologised as we got going. “I was held up, so I had a bit of a kip before I left. Got to be bright-eyed and bushy tailed for my surgery in the morning.” After we were settled and on our way, we told him our story, leaving out a few things; and then he told us all about Charlie Stebbing.
Charlie didn’t own any property at all, it seemed, but lived in an old drover’s shack that a local station owner let him use. “These days he’s a bit of a bum, but he was born and bred out here and in his younger days he was highly sought after as a stockman and drover. He knows the land like the back of his hand, even the Aboriginals respect him,” the doctor told us. “Then about eight years ago, he and his wife were involved in a bad accident just west of here. His wife was killed, and Charlie suffered terrible burns. He never really recovered, and a few years later he had a complete nervous breakdown. The other car was driven by a man from Melbourne, and since his breakdown Charlie has had it in for interstate people, especially Victorians. Not only does he blame them all for his problems, but he thinks they’re soft and stupid and don’t understand the ways of outback Queensland life, which is true sometimes. His usual trick, if he happens to see a Victorian number plate coming towards him out here, is to wave them down and tell them the road ahead is shut and they’ll have to turn back. Most famously, though, a couple of years ago he came across a travelling salesman from Melbourne who had broken down between Hughenden and Richmond. He was heading for Mt Isa with a boot full of smart Van Heusen shirts, of all things. Unfortunately for him, the first vehicle to come by was Charlie and he took an instant dislike to the man and his ‘poofter’ shirts.” The doctor grinned.
“What happened?”
“A bit like you, really. Charlie told the salesman he was only going a few miles up the road, but could drop him at a bus stop, which would take him to Richmond.”
“A bus stop!”
“Sounds stupid, I know, but it seems the bloke believed him. Anyway, Charlie knew of an old drover’s hut on the side of the road about four or five miles away, and he dropped the bloke off there. Unfortunately, by the time the bloke got back to his car three or four hours later, the shirts had all been stolen. Of course they picked Charlie up, but he just denied any knowledge of them. However, over the next few months a lot of Aboriginals were seen wearing smart new shirts,” he smiled.
“But we’re not Victorians.”
“No, but you are from Sydney, which is almost as bad. Oh, the old bugger might be as mad as a cut snake, but he isn’t evil. That’s why he asked if you had water. He’ll check later today to see if you’re still there; if you had been, he’d have given you a lift back to Richmond. Charlie thinks inconveniencing people teaches them a lesson.”
“But how could he have known we wouldn’t get a lift, that we’d be stuck there all day?”
“He didn’t, but he knew there’d be very little traffic about on a Sunday. Even if you’d only sat there for a few hours, it would have satisfied him.”
As they say about every cloud, there was one positive outcome of our extended stay, had we got an earlier lift or been allowed onto the train in the afternoon we would not have arrived in Julia Creek at such a perfect time. It was ten to five in the morning and we hadn’t had a shower since leaving Townsville, so we said our farewells to the good doctor and set off down the nice quiet street to find a nice quiet hotel with nice hot showers; easy as tip-toeing up the stairs.
FOURTEEN
Julia Creek
Everything was going just fine. We made it up to the bathroom without seeing a soul, had a shower, washed our underpants and shirts, wrapping them as ever in our towels before setting off back down the corridor; no need for burglar alarms when you have creaking floorboards. But we were getting the hang of this caper and we weren’t too bothered. In fact, I was so relaxed I was just thinking there must have been only one set of plans for all these old country hotels, so similar in layout were they, when suddenly one of the bedroom doors at the end of the corridor nearest the stairs opened and a large man came out, wearing nothing but underpants and a towel draped over his shoulders. He had an enormous belly and was yawning and scratching his crotch as he came towards us. There was nothing else to do but try to brazen it out, and for a second I thought we’d succeeded as initially he didn’t seem to notice us at all. But as we drew level he stopped abruptly, as if suddenly realising we were there.
“What room are you two in?”
“Fourteen,” I said, as confidently as I could.
“Fourteen my arse!” he growled, and his hand shot out and grabbed me around the neck under the chin with such force that my head was flung back and smashed into the wall, causing me to drop my rucksack and towel, underpants spilling out.
How was I to know there were only nine rooms!
“You cunts have been in the fucking showers!” he yelled, as if he couldn’t believe it was possible, and twice more in his fury he banged my head against the wall and I think I might have come close to passing out. I vaguely remember Glen pulling the man’s arm to make him loosen his grip on my neck, as I was also frantically trying to do, arms flailing. Then a woman with blue curlers in her hair suddenly appeared at the man’s shoulder, shouting something, and another man in pyjamas arrived, grabbing Glen and wrestling him to the floor.
The next thing I recall with any certainty was both of us being frogmarched down the stairs and into the bar by three or four younger men who had heard the commotion. They made us sit on chairs at the back of the bar and stood above us, daring us to make a run for it. Within minutes the bar was half full of people in various stages of dress or undress, two of them women in dressing gowns, one of them being the lady with the blue curlers. Then the man who’d originally grabbed me came into the bar, now wearing a pair of shorts and a blue singlet.
“Right!” he barked to one of the younger men. “Go and get Ted Masters. I’m goin’ to crucify these little pricks!”
“We only had a shower,” said Glen.
“You shut your mouth!” snapped blue singlet, then he did a double take and glared at Glen. “Wait a minute! Are you a fucking Pom? You fucking are, aren’t you! Well, that just fucking caps it,” he exploded, and he stepped forward and grabbed Glen by his shirt, virtually lifting him out of the seat with one hand while he raised the other one as if he was going to give him a hard backhander. “I’m going to …”
“Leave it, Reg !” ordered the lady in blue curlers, grabbing his arm. “Let Ted deal with them.” For a second I thought he wasn’t going to take any notice, but eventually he lowered his hand. Cursing, he shoved Glen back down into the chair. Then he looked at his watch.
“Right, everybody, excitement’s over.” And he turned to us. “If either one of you so much as moves I’ll beat the shit out of both ofyou, understand!” Then he ushered everybody out and locked us in the bar and there we sat, not game to move, with Reg or one of the other men coming to check on us every now and then.
We’d never been so relieved to see a policeman as when Constable Ted Masters arrived a couple of hours later and came into the bar accompanied by Reg, although it was short-lived relief as after asking our names it suddenly dawned on him and he pointed at us.
“You’re the two kids who stopped the train yesterday, aren’t you?
”
“We didn’t stop it! We just waved and it stopped.”
“So I suppose you’re going to tell me you didn’t break in here, either!”
“But we didn’t! The door was open. All we did was have a shower!”
“Bullshit!” snapped Reg. “I want ’em charged, Ted. Breaking, entering, trespass — I don’t give a shit what it is. They just can’t get away with it!” The constable was quite young and obviously not very experienced, and we could see he felt almost as intimidated by the landlord as we were.
“Yeah, okay Reg, calm down!”
“Fucking calm down!” he exploded, and sighing slightly, Constable Masters held up his hands to deflect Reg’s anger and turned to us.
“Okay, you two. Go outside and get into the back of the police car, and don’t try any funny business.”
“But what about our gear?”
“I said, go outside and get in the back of the police car — now!”
Driving us to the police station, the constable was deep in thought and didn’t say a word. Even though it wasn’t far, by the time we got there we were champing at the bit.
“So, what’s going to happen to us?” I blurted out as we pulled up.
“I don’t know yet,” he frowned, obviously not completely happy about the situation.
“Sergeant King will be back in a few days. Until then you will have to stay in the cells.”
“But we only had a shower!”
“You were trespassing, and the landlord has every right to prosecute you; now I need to take down some details,” and he sat us down in his office and made a note of just about everything there was to know about us: addresses, phone numbers, parents’ names, where we lived, how old we were, where we’d come from, where our parents were now, where we’d been living and how we had earned a living for the last few months. He wasn’t angry or intimidating or anything, just breathtakingly pedantic. We found out later we were the first people he’d processed before locking them up, so he was going to do it right.
Once a Pommie Swagman Page 19