by Tony Parsons
“Lilly, no,” Steele said firmly.
“You leave everything to me, Mr Clay. You’ll be right for women after I make you good again,” she said sweetly.
“No, you won’t, Lilly. The last thing I need is help of that kind from you. It’s very sweet and generous of you to offer and I appreciate very much that you want to help me. But no thanks,” Steele said.
“You think that I’m not good enough to go to bed with, Mr Clay? You won’t sleep with a Murri woman?”
“I won’t sleep with any woman who’s involved with two men, Lilly. I know about Danny Evans and I know what will happen if Dooley Davis finds out that you’ve been seeing him, which he will. I have no intention of being the middle bloke in an Evans-Davis argument. I’m doing fine and you don’t have to worry about me,” Steele said. He picked up Lilly’s skirt and handed it to her.
“You’re a strong man, Mr Clay. I reckon no other man around here would knock me back,” Lilly said as she stepped into the skirt.
“I know what I’m missing, Lilly. I saw you in the creek one day. I wasn’t spying on you. I was looking for bird perches in the timber,” Steele said.
“You think I’ve got a good figure, Mr Clay?”
“I think it’s a bit better than good, Lilly,” he said with a gentle smile.
“You got a bit of devil in you, Mr Clay. If I’d met a fella like you when I was younger, I might have given some of those women singers a run for their money.” She moved closer to him and gave him a long, lingering kiss on his lips. “You’re a pretty special man, Mr Clay. I wish right now you weren’t. You ever need me, I’ll come down to you,” Lilly said, and her smile was a guarantee that she would.
“Shoo, Lilly. Go home to Billy,” Steele flicked his fingers and listened to her peal of laughter as she realised he’d trumped her rhymes. “And watch yourself with those men of yours.”
Steele watched her as she went down the steps and out through the garden. She turned and waved to him just before she walked up towards the road. He reckoned that it would have been one of the only times in her life that a man had refused what she had to offer.
Steele breathed deeply and went into the house to begin preparing his dinner. He was well aware that the last thing he needed was the complication of Lilly in his life. Yet, he was not unaffected by Lilly’s gesture. What she’d offered him was the best she thought she had to give… her sexuality. She was grateful to him for what he’d done for Billy and wanted to repay him by restoring his manhood. Steele shook his head. Women never ceased to amaze him. They were often hard to please but in their best moments, they were sublime.
Billy looked at his mother as she came into the kitchen and continued looking at her while they ate dinner.
“What’s up with you, Billy?” she asked at last.
“He knocked you back, didn’t he?”
“Who, Billy?” Lilly said, playing dumb.
“Mr Clay, of course. You offered him sex and he knocked you back. I knew he would. Mr Clay isn’t like Danny and Dooley. Why did you have to do it, Mum? He just wants to be left alone so he can write in peace. He doesn’t want anything to do with women,” Billy said.
“You’re a little smart arse, Billy Sanders. I only wanted to help him so he’d be okay again. It was the least I could do after all he’s done for you. So, he knocked me back. It’s no big deal. But I’d be better for him than any posh woman,” Lilly said. “He’d get better real quick with my help.”
“Just stay away from him, Mum. Mr Clay just wants to be left alone. If he was lonely, he’d go to town more… go to the coast. But he doesn’t need anyone. He’s just happy to be alive and writing again,” Billy said.
“He’s told you that, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, he told me. We talk a lot and he doesn’t give up until I understand what he’s telling me. Mr Clay says that knowing how to talk properly and how to sing aren’t enough and you need to understand a lot of other things. Like if you were going to write a song about Uluru, it wouldn’t be enough to simply describe it as a big rock. You’d want to understand why it’s so important to the people who live there,” Billy explained.
“You like what Mr Clay tells you?” Lilly asked.
“You bet. Mr Clay is better than any teacher I’ve had.”
Lilly leaned across and ruffled his hair. “You’re a good boy, Billy. A little smart arse at times, but a good boy most of the time. It’s a pity you’re not with your father. You’d get somewhere if you were with him.”
“You know very well that he’ll never have me, but I’ll get somewhere with Mr Clay. He doesn’t care that I’ve got Gubbi Gubbi in me. You wait and see,” Billy said enthusiastically.
“You help him all you can, Billy. And I hope you never let him down. There’s probably more men like him, but I’ve never met them. You’re the luckiest boy in Queensland to have a man like him take an interest in you and right next-door into the bargain. Who’d have thought anyone would want to restore that old building? It’s a kind of miracle.”
Chapter Eight
A couple of mornings after Lilly’s visit, Steele woke up feeling ‘different’. He couldn’t put a finger on why he felt clearer in the head and lighter in the body other than the fact that he’d had a particularly good night’s sleep. He took a glass of orange juice and some pieces of pineapple from the refrigerator and went out to the back veranda where he sat and let the morning soak into him. As he listened to the songs of the birds in the trees and coming, as though through a tunnel, from along the creek, Steele realised that he’d begun a new phase of creativity. And it had all begun with the song he wrote for Billy. Although he’d had to work at it to get it right, writing this song hadn’t been as difficult as he’d anticipated. It had given him a great deal of satisfaction writing it, and this had multiplied when he’d heard Lilly sing it.
What he felt now was a desire to write more lyrics. And the inspiration to do so seemed to be coming from all about him; it was coming from the birds and from the possums that made sounds like birds and from the breeze that rippled the leaves of the trees and shrubs that hedged in his dwelling. It was there in the noisy squabbling of the multi-coloured lorikeets as they ate greedily from the trays of millets and honey-soaked bread that Steele dispensed for his feathered population.
As further evidence of this change of feeling, Steele found himself singing. In the beginning, it was only snatches of songs but then, he began to memorise the words of different songs so that he could sing them right through. It was a strange development, because although he had a reasonably pleasant singing voice, Steele had never bothered to use it. Back in his high school days, his music teacher had raved on about his voice. “Get yourself a good teacher and you’ll go places,” he’d told him. Steele hadn’t taken his advice but neither had he pushed his voice or ruined it by smoking. The voice had been there all along but other things had taken higher priority. Now, Steele was able to utilise his voice to give expression to the lyrics he wrote at all hours of the day and night. Sometimes, there would be only the bare bones of a song because all the words wouldn’t come to him in a great, single sweep of inspiration. Then he’d look up to the great glassy peaks beyond Jerogeree and words seemed to come out of the air.
Billy was musical but he lacked Steele’s command of the English language. He looked on in wonder as Steele put together lyrics that made him want to burst into immediate song. What Steele quickly realised was that he would have to learn to play either the piano or guitar, or both, if he wanted to go further with writing songs. He had no piano, so there wasn’t much point in considering it, but the guitar was a different matter entirely. He’d heard there was a woman in town who gave lessons.
In his wilder moments, Steele felt that it had been pre-ordained that he should find the cottage and restore it. Some great force beyond his understanding seemed to be directing his actions and his movements, just as his brain directed what to write and how to write it. It wasn’t something he would eve
r mention to anyone because he was aware that there were people who would categorise him as a ‘loony writer’, a kind of modern day’s hermit, but he believed in such things.
Steele had become accustomed to Billy coming to visit him at the weekend, so, Billy’s announcement that he wouldn’t be coming the following Saturday was something of a disappointment.
“It’s me birthday on Sunday and Mum’s taking me in to town on Saturday to get me a present,” Billy informed Steele one afternoon. He’d just hopped off the bus and was having a drink of orange juice and a scone before walking home.
“It’s ‘my’ birthday not ‘me’ birthday, Billy. And what is your mum going to buy you for your birthday?” Steele asked.
“Long duds, Mr Clay. Mum says I can wear them when I go singing. I can wear a check shirt with them,” Billy said.
“In that case, I’ll contribute the shirt, Billy. Do you need a big hat, too?” Steele asked.
“Yeah, I will, but maybe not for a little while,” Billy said.
“‘Yes’, not ‘yeah’. If you talk like that, you’ll be called a hillbilly, not Billy,” Steele chided.
“That’s funny, Mr Clay.”
“If you talk like a hillbilly, some people might think that’s all you are and that they can take you for a ride. It’s a tough world out there and you need to present yourself as well as you can,” Steele said.
“Did you do anything but write books before you came here, Mr Clay?” Billy asked.
“I went to university before I wrote books,” Steele said.
“Were they good books?”
“Some people thought so. They were all bestsellers. If they hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have been able to afford to go to America to get well and I wouldn’t have been able to buy this property,” Steele said.
“No wonder you can write a song so easily. A song should be easy for you after writing books.”
“That doesn’t necessarily follow, Billy. A lot of people can do what I might call straight writing but can’t manage poetry or song-writing. Then, there’s people who can write prose, poetry and the lyrics for songs,” Steele said.
“I bet you can do it all,” Billy said, looking across at Steele as if he were a kind of hero figure.
Steele laughed. “Maybe. I certainly want to write more songs. I don’t know about the poetry. I tried my hand at some of that in my teens but didn’t go on with it. Some poetry has been set to music. I know you’ve read ‘Clancy of the Overflow’ but are you aware that it was set to music by a chap called Arlen. There are three or four recorded versions of it. A famous Australian baritone by the name of Peter Dawson recorded a great version that I like a lot. And there are other bush poems that have been made into songs… ‘The Man from Snowy River’ and Henry Lawson’s ‘The Loaded Dog’. Some of Will Ogilvie’s, too.”
“That’s the kind of thing I want to know about, Mr Clay. I don’t give a stuff for maths and science and that sort of thing. I just want to learn about music and singing,” Billy said earnestly.
“And so you shall, Billy. Just bide your time. There’s an old saying that ‘All things come to he who waits’. Don’t be in too great a hurry to set the world alight. We’ll see what we can do about getting you taught a bit more about music and singing. There’s a woman in town who gives lessons. I’ll talk to your mother about it. You’ve got a nice voice but you’ll need to learn how to use it. And how to present yourself, because voice alone won’t get you on stage. You need to come across well,” Steele said.
“Wear a big black hat like Lee Kernaghan,” Billy said.
“I think Lee might have a copyright on the black hat gimmick, Billy,” Steele said.
“What else should I do, Mr Clay?”
“Stay off the booze and the cigarettes. Don’t be kidded into drinking. After what you’ve seen of Dooley Davis, you know what booze can do to a man or a woman. You don’t have to drink to prove you’re a man. You become a big country music star and people will look up to you,” Steele said.
“That’s what I want, Mr Clay. I want people to look up to me. I want to be as big as Slim Dusty. And people still talk about how great Tex Morton was and how big he’d be if he was singing today. But if I could be anyone, I’d like it to be John Denver. He’s got what Mum calls a lovely floaty voice that nobody else has got,” Billy said with shining eyes.
"The important thing is to be yourself and to be able to get across what makes you unique. That means being different, Billy. Every singer sings a song in a slightly different way because every voice is different. It’s the way you use your voice and the technique you apply to a song that’s important. And maybe, a little bit of luck. Most people, even the really talented people, need a bit of luck to get ahead. Maybe it’s winning a competition or being heard by some influential person. But you need to do the ground work, Billy.
“Now, let me see the size of the shirt you’re wearing. I’ll get one a good size bigger than that one because boys grow a lot from your age on,” Steele said.
So, Steele bought a red checked shirt and had it wrapped in fancy paper. He debated whether he’d walk up to Lilly’s on the Sunday so he could give Billy the shirt on his birthday or wait until the boy called in one afternoon. The first option would be the most appropriate for the occasion but he baulked at the idea of going to Lilly’s place. A delay of a couple of days in presenting Billy with his shirt wouldn’t diminish the present in the boy’s eyes.
As things turned out, the decision was taken out of Steele’s hands.
Chapter Nine
On the Saturday evening prior to Billy’s birthday, Steele began working on the lyrics of another song. It was to be an additional birthday present for Billy. He’d worked at it for an hour or so, knocked off and had dinner, and then resumed work at the words. He worked until about ten, went to bed and fell into an immediate deep sleep. About an hour or so later, he was awakened by Billy calling to him from the front veranda.
“I need you, Mr Clay,” Billy called anxiously.
Steele climbed out of bed and made his way to the front veranda. When he switched on the outside light, he saw that he had not one nocturnal visitor, but two. Billy had one arm wrapped around his mother and appeared to be trying to hold her upright. Billy had a great red welt across one side of his face and his pyjama top was held together by only a couple of threads. Lilly was in much worse shape. Her dress was ripped nearly in two and she seemed both all in and all out because there was very little in the way of clothing beneath the dress. Lilly’s face was contorted with pain and she appeared to be having trouble with her breathing.
“Good heavens!” Steele exploded. “What happened, Billy?” Steele asked as he took Lilly’s weight and eased her down on to a step.
“Dooley came home from the sheds and found Mum with Danny Evans. Danny took off and Dooley belted Mum. He’s gone off looking for Danny. I didn’t know what to do, so I helped Mum down here. I reckoned you’d be able to help her, Mr Clay,” Billy said anxiously.
“Is it your ribs, Lilly?” Steele asked.
Lilly nodded. “I’m sorry to put you out, Mr Clay,” Lilly said weakly.
“Never mind that,” Steele said tersely. He stood for a moment looking down at her and then at Billy’s anxious face.
“We’ll take your Mum straight to the hospital, Billy. Run in to my bedroom and bring me out my dressing gown.”
“Righto, Mr Clay,” Billy said and took the stairs two at a time in his eagerness to comply.
Between the two of them, they eased Lilly into the back seat of Steele’s van and took off for the hospital. From the driver’s seat, Steele watched Billy stroke his mother’s face, reassuring her that she’d be okay.
After Lilly was admitted, Steele had Billy checked over too. After an all clear on Billy, he told the boy to get back in the van, as he’d be staying with him while Lilly was indisposed.
“Thanks, Mr Clay,” said an obviously relieved Billy. “I don’t want to be home tonight if Doole
y comes back.”
“How’s your face, Billy? Is it hurting?” Steele asked when they were back together in the van.
“It’s all right, Mr Clay. Just feels a bit funny.”
“A bit numb, perhaps?” Steele suggested.
Steele swore under his breath and Billy looked at him apprehensively. “We need to call the police, Billy. Dooley Davis has a lot to answer for,” Steele said by way of explanation.
“No police, Mr Clay. Mum wouldn’t want no coppers putting their noses in again. The family wouldn’t like it. There’d be more trouble.”
Inwardly, Steele fumed. If Lilly wouldn’t press charges, or denied that Dooley had caused the injuries, there was probably nothing the police could do about him.
“I told you Dooley wasn’t much chop,” Billy said.
Steele grunted and patted the boy on the shoulder. “And you were right, Billy. That about sums him up.”
It was after 1:00 a.m. when Steele and Billy finally made it back to Jerogeree, and just on daylight, Steele was again woken from a sound sleep by another voice calling for him from the front veranda.
Billy slid into Steele’s bedroom and whispered in his ear, “It’s Dooley, Mr Clay.”
“I thought this was going to be a peaceful place,” Steele said as he threw back the bedclothes. He dressed quickly and stepped into a pair of slippers. “You stay here, Billy.”
Dooley Davis presented roughly. He gave every indication of a fellow who’d had a big night on the booze, with an unshaven face and bloodshot eyes.
“Have ya seen Lilly?” Davis asked without ceremony when Steele appeared on the front veranda.
Steele nodded. “Billy brought her here last night and I took her straight into hospital. I think she’s probably has some broken ribs and they might have found more than that when they examined her. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Dooley. It’s a pretty low act to belt a woman,” Steele said harshly.