by Di Morrissey
‘Thanks, mum. Hooroo.’ Clem and Thommo sprinted from the verandah.
Because it was Christmas holidays with no school and his mate Thommo visiting, jobs around the farm were quickly done.
The family didn’t get a holiday away from the farm unless they could pay someone to look after the cows. And in these years money was scarce.
But it was holiday enough for Clem to stay in town with Thommo, going to the pictures Thommo’s dad screened in the Town Hall for free, wandering round the park, the showground, the river and the Brush. And Thommo, being an only child, enjoyed spending time on the farm with Clem’s big family. There never seemed enough hours in the day for all the things they planned to do.
There was a rough tennis court at the side of the house where Clem and Thommo had a hit and a giggle with Phyllis. Sometimes they’d double up on the Clydesdale horse and plod down to the river through the pumpkin patch and go for a fish or a swim. Occasionally Clem’s dad would take them out to shoot a rabbit. He’d taught them how to use the small-calibre rifle by shooting at tins hung on a fence. When adventuring around the property they usually carried their shanghais, mostly for fun target competitions but sometimes they gave rabbits a scare. They made shanghais using bush hardwood for the handles and cutting rubber strings from old truck or car inner tubes. Leather shoe tongues held the small stones used as ammunition. Clem’s mother was a dab hand with her shanghai, using it to scare off birds after her new chickens and eggs.
In town the boys always managed to get together with a gang of Thommo’s mates for a game of cricket or to borrow a boat to row as far as they dared down the river from the wharf by the Brush. Other times they’d sneak into the big railway goods shed and hope Mr Williams didn’t catch them. Sometimes they saw Elizabeth and Mollie Williams playing around the station. The girls considered it ‘their patch’ as their father was in charge of all the freight.
The boys thought the Williams girls were a bit uppity, not like Clem’s sister Phyllis. Elizabeth was about the same age as Clem and Thommo, Mollie being just nine was shy and quieter. Both girls were very pretty and Elizabeth was now aware of her effect on boys, who generally teased, shouted, giggled or whispered to their mates and laughed loudly. Elizabeth ignored them, held her head high and marched home from school across the railway bridge with Mollie in tow. Emily had forbidden them from taking the shortcut through the railway yards where she knew the boys hung around. Elizabeth had a sneaking suspicion that her mother Emily watched their progress home from behind the lace curtains of Cricklewood’s front room.
The boys were wearing khaki shorts, well patched, old shirts with scruffy collars and sleeves torn off at the shoulders, and equally well-worn straw hats. Clem had their lunch in a calico flour bag knotted to his belt. They were walking along the railway line beyond the farm gates, each balancing on the metal track. Thommo was counting the sleepers.
‘Let’s go fishing down at the point,’ suggested Clem.
‘How we gonna get down there? Too far. What’s wrong with the river down on the flat where your dad’s been planting?’ asked Thommo.
‘The ten o’clock cattle train comes along here and stops at the railway cattleyards. We could hitch a ride. Hide in one of the wagons,’ suggested Clem.
A grin split Thommo’s face. ‘Ya reckon? And how do we get off?’
‘It slows down going round that hill just before it swings away from the coast. I heard Keith and his mate Reg talking ’bout how they done it. The swaggies ride them all the time. Even get in with the cattle.’
‘Let’s grab the fishing rods. We can get worms down at the beach.’
They made a dash back to the shed behind the farmhouse imagining the whoppers they were going to land.
Thommo had a sudden thought. ‘And how do we get back home this arvo? Your mum said we had to be back before dark.’
‘Something will turn up.’ Clem quoted his father’s favourite phrase. ‘Anyway, Dad knows Mr Geary who runs the store down there. He comes up to buy ham from Mum for Christmas.’
As they waited in the shade of some trees near the cattleyards, neither of them wanted to admit they were nervous. But it turned out to be easier than they thought. The pens were full of complaining cattle and they soon heard the whistle of the approaching train. Two men jumped to open the race that led to the chute where the cattle were herded into the cattle trucks. Everyone was busy and took no notice of two young boys hanging near the yards.
As the reluctant cattle made their way, single file, into the trucks with covered grates, the boys slipped around to the tail of the train and clambered up into the guard’s van.
‘What happens if the guard gets in here?’ asked Thommo.
‘I’ve watched lots of times. He stays up front with the driver on this run. If he finds us all he can do is chuck us out,’ said Clem philosophically.
They waited while the cattle were loaded, the driver, guard and roustabout at the yards enjoying a quick smoke before the driver and guard swung up into the engine.
It was hot, but there was a pile of empty wheat sacks to sit on as the train rolled along the river flats, then slowed on some rising grades as it swung inland for a mile or so before turning towards the inlet where the river met the sea. They’d left the sliding door to the van open and puffs of steam from the engine floated past. Clem made frequent scans out the door as they went along, and eventually spotted the section where he knew another uphill climb to the sharp bend around the point would slow the train to a crawl.
‘Get ready, mate. Jump time coming up,’ he shouted excitedly.
The old steam train slowed to a walking pace and Clem called out, ‘Right, throw the rods out and get down.’ In a flash he’d turned, climbed down the metal ladder and jumped onto the rough verge.
Thommo followed him out the door, clinging to the metal ladder, then dropped, executing a bit of a somersault before regaining his balance and racing back for their fishing rods.
It was one of those days that burn bright in childhood memory. They hauled sand worms from the beach, and cracked open oysters with Thommo’s penknife, eating some and saving some for bait. They found heaps of sea shells, putting special ones in their pockets. A dead fish washed up on the shore was added to the bait then they settled themselves along the sea wall, casting into the swirl of water rushing into the bar between river and sea. Sometimes they sat in silence willing a big ’un onto their hook. When they talked it was in the casual shorthand of good friends.
‘You staying at the butcher shop then?’
‘S’pose so. Dad says it’s a good trade.’
‘Wish I could get a job in town.’
‘Jeez, Clem, you can’t leave the farm. Can ya?’
‘Mr Henry at school says I have an . . . aptitude . . . for engineering.’
‘You mean like engine driving, fixing cars and stuff?’ asked Thommo. ‘Sounds hard. I’ll be glad to get out of school next year.’
‘Me too. Could I get a job with your dad? Running the projector or something?’
‘We can ask him. He knows everyone in town.’ Thommo concentrated on his fishing. Making plans for the future seemed too hard on such a nice day.
They caught several beautiful silver bream in the main stream, good-sized leather jackets near the rocks and a few fat mullet that Clem laughingly said ‘Seemed to be wagging school.’ The really big school of mullet that came along tantalisingly ignored all bait and the breadcrust burley. The boys shouted at them, and laughed about the frustration they felt, wishing they had a net. Then Clem had a bite and a run that nearly broke his rod and pulled him off the wall. A big jewfish or perhaps even a shark that got away.
They put the fish in the calico bag that had held their lunch and wandered around to the boatshed where Mr Geary had a bit of a shop and Clem introduced himself and asked if he could have some spare ice from the chest where Mr Geary kept bait for the local fishermen.
‘You boys on your own then? Out for a day fishing,
eh?’
‘Yep. Look what we caught.’ Clem opened the bag.
‘Very good. Fish dinner then. Say, how’d you boys get down here from your place, Clem?’ asked Mr Geary.
‘Ah, we got a ride,’ answered Thommo quickly.
‘Not sure how we’re getting back home,’ added Clem.
Mr Geary nodded. ‘Well now, don’t know there’s anyone with a vehicle around. You should’ve ridden your horse down, Clem.’
‘If we can have some ice we’ll walk, thanks, Mr Geary,’ said Clem.
‘Hang about, lads, I’ve had a thought. The cream boat should’ve finished its run and be heading back upriver to the co-op. Maybe you can get a ride. I’ll go and talk to Neville the boat driver.’
And so as perfect an end to a day they’d long remember, the two boys perched on the deck of the Surprise as Captain Nev motored back along the waterways. He indicated where the channels and the mudbanks were near the islands, pointing out the farms and jetties where he’d collected the full milk cans before dawn that morning. In the waning afternoon the water was still, cormorants and pelicans posing like statues at the water’s edge. He told them of days when fog and mist obscured the river, when it raged from floodwaters and sank to dangerous shallows in the harsh dry summers. The cream boat driver knew everyone on the river from oyster farmers and fishermen to the dairy farmers and workers in the waterside villages. They all used the river.
Soon the landscape was familiar: cattle grazing along the river flats, the banks rising up to the paddocks of neighbouring farms. The cream boat nosed in to the jetty nearest Clem’s home and the boys jumped ashore leaving behind the biggest bream for Captain Neville’s tea.
As they came up the hill from the river they waved to Clem’s dad following the old plough towed by George, the Clydesdale, back to the barn. The cows were walking single file from the bails after milking and Keith was cleaning up. At the back of the house they could smell just-baked bread and a gramma pie cooling for supper. Phyllis and Kevin were playing Ludo and Clem’s mother was darning socks. Proudly the boys displayed their fish, declaring it had been a bonza day. One of the best.
In years to come as heavy artillery fired around them, Clem would call to Thommo and remind him of this day. A day when the world was a very different place.
8
Lara
THE PAINTING PARTY AT The Vale was a huge success. As well as the gang from Chesterfield, George and Claude popped in between meal times at the Nostalgia Cafe bearing food and advising on decor. Max came with the two boys, leaving Sarah in charge of the gallery. While Max got to work with a large wire brush, Len and his brother Julian started painting a mural on the water tank of a serpent coiling around the rungs. Roddy was assigned the job of applying paint stripper, carefully following Barney’s instructions. Jolly and Ratso managed to walk in the paint, leaving a trail of dog footprints which Dani decided to leave as an extra feature in the hallway.
Lunch was eaten as a picnic at the old table on the sheltered patio and by sunset the job was done.
Dani raised her glass in a toast. ‘To everyone, thank you all so much. My house is transformed! Cheers.’
‘It’s been fun. When’s the housewarming?’ joked Barney.
‘Isn’t this it?’ asked Max. ‘Too many parties.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Lara. ‘We’re invited to Councillor Catchpole’s house tomorrow. I hope this paint will come off my hands and face by then.’
‘Turps,’ recommended Max. ‘Well, you’ve no excuse not to get to work now, Dani.’
‘I’m starting as soon as Mum leaves. In fact, I have a series to start on that’s going to be a bit of a challenge.’ She hadn’t told Max about her job yet. She wanted to sit quietly with the thoughtful artist and talk through her ideas. Max had a way of helping her focus and clarify her thoughts.
‘Why don’t you come over to our place for a barbecue dinner tonight,’ suggested Helen. ‘Barney caught a couple of crabs in the trap and there are the blackfish Toby caught. Everyone’s invited.’
Lara was ready for a bath to ease her aching arms and back and a relaxing drink at her cabin at Chesterfield. ‘Sounds great. Do you want to stay the night with me, Dani? The paint smell is a bit strong in here.’
‘You’re right. I’ll clean up and see you at Chesterfield. Are you coming, Roddy?’
‘I’ll help you tidy up but I can’t do dinner. Have to see a guy.’
Roddy was the last to leave. ‘You pleased with the job? Probably wouldn’t make a home decor magazine but it’s certainly fresher looking, eh?’
‘I disagree, I think it has potential to make a very nice rustic spread when I’m finished. It’s what’s called shabby chic.’
‘Whatever you say. I’m a modern minimalist. Anyway, you look chic. Or cute.’ He brushed a strand of her paint-splattered hair.
‘I think it should be shabby actually,’ she laughed, indicating the old T-shirt and torn jeans she’d chosen as painting gear. She wasn’t feeling at all attractive, it had been a long, hard day.
But Roddy didn’t seem to think so. His hand still rested on her hair. He touched her cheek and leaned forward to kiss the top of her nose. Dani closed her eyes, overcome at the tender gesture. His lips brushed hers and he drew her close to his chest.
Dani returned his kiss but then pulled away in some confusion, smoothing her hair. ‘Oh, you took me by surprise . . .’
‘A nice one, I hope.’ Roddy looked at her expectantly.
Dani was flustered. It had been a long time since she’d kissed a man. After her divorce she’d had a few dates but had felt no attraction to any of the men. Roddy had caught her unexpectedly. ‘Oh, of course, Roddy, but right at the minute . . . I’m not ready for this.’
He misinterpreted her remark. ‘You look good to me. But, hey, I know you’re going out to dinner.’ He leaned over and kissed her lightly again. ‘I just couldn’t resist. I’ll phone you in the next few days, okay?’
‘Sure. And thanks so much for helping out today.’
‘No worries. I’m not the handyman type, it was an interesting experience. Come over to my place at the beach soon and we’ll have a bite.’
Dani watched him drive away as Jolly nudged her leg looking for attention and her dinner. She rubbed the dog’s ears. She felt vague stirrings of long-suppressed feelings but didn’t think she was ready to plunge into a relationship. And she knew so little about Roddy. Maybe Helen was right . . . she smiled to herself. Roddy was attractive, healthy, co-operative and unattached. What could be the harm? She hummed to herself as she prepared the dog’s food.
‘Just a small one, Jolly. You’ll get a lot of leftovers at the barbie.’
At Chesterfield, Dani drew Max to one side and asked what he thought about Jason’s job offer.
‘I don’t know him well, I met him for the first time at Thomas’s art show in Hungerford. But he’s come around to the gallery a few times, brought visitors and bought a few pieces. He’s interested in some of the local history, asked what I knew about Isabella Kelly, which isn’t much. Then he mentioned you.’
‘And you thought I was capable of doing what he wanted? Why didn’t he ask you to do the pictures for the development?’ asked Dani.
‘Ooh, not my cup of tea,’ said Max hastily. ‘I can’t paint to order, never worked in that kind of commercial way.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to get away from. I’ll turn it down.’
‘Now hang on, Dani, there’s more to this than that,’ said Max gently. ‘For a start, the money will help you out, I’m sure. And it’s a means of exploring the landscape, scratching below the surface and . . .’ He paused, trying to frame his words, ‘and I think it’s important you make contact with Isabella. You’re a woman, I think she’d prefer that. I sense her restless spirit hovering in this valley and there’s a story beneath the mythology. Remember what we talked about, the story beneath the paint on the surface? It will be an artistic challenge.’
>
Dani was thoughtful. ‘The idea is clever – coming up with a line of pictures to give some link and history to his project through Isabella. So you think I should take up his offer?’
Max simply smiled at her, and waited.
Dani knew he wasn’t going to say any more on the subject. ‘I’ll think about it. Let’s get a sausage.’
*
On Sunday at Patricia and Henry Catchpole’s house Lara felt she could have been in middle-class Melbourne. It was only when she looked out the windows and saw the expanse of paddocks, gum trees and distant hills that she was aware she was on a farm some distance out of town.
Patricia told Lara that Henry, ‘Ran enough head of good cattle to make a few bob and keep him out of mischief.’ He was usually out of the house at sunrise checking on the livestock and fences. ‘Or else he’s pottering in his shed or with the historical society mob at the museum.’ She smiled fondly. ‘He works quite hard for seventy plus.’
‘Maybe that’s what keeps him so fit and spry,’ said Lara. Looking around at the Sunday lunch Patricia had set out for twenty people she added, ‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble. And your house is lovely.’
Patricia glanced appreciatively at the rosewood furniture, the crystal and cut-glass ornaments, vases, candlesticks, gleaming silver, lace, linen, and piles of framed photographs on side tables and on top of china cabinets. ‘We do have a lot of stuff. Henry and I got together twelve years ago, both of us had raised a family and I had a houseful of things so when I moved up here to his place we added that extra deck and family room.’ She pointed to where guests were spilling outside to the barbecue area. ‘Now, there are some people you should meet. Dani has already made quite a few friends. But I want you to meet Carter Lloyd.’ Leading Lara through the throng she explained, ‘Carter is the regional head of the National Parks and Wildlife. Started in forestry interestingly enough, went from cutting down trees to hugging them . . . so to speak.’