Australian Short Stories for Boys (& Girls)

Australian Short Stories for Boys (& Girls) Page 1

by Michael Mardel



  Australian Short Stories

  for Boys (& Girls)

  By Michael Mardel

  Copyright 2011 Michael Mardel

  Cover photo of a rain maker by a Yorta Yorta member

  ISBN: 978-0-9871543-0-9

  Acknowledgments: editors: Dot Green, Sandra Lee & Sigrid MacDonald

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1. All at sea.

  Chapter 2. The Brumby.

  Chapter 3. Dogalogue.

  Chapter 4. Flames and wells and sacred sites.

  Chapter 5. Game set match.

  Chapter 6. The Girl in a Red Dress.

  Chapter 7. The Goldfields.

  Chapter 8. A Long Way to Freedom.

  Chapter 9. Rabbit-O.

  Chapter 10. The White Shirt.

  Chapter 11. Comprehension Questions.

  Chapter 12. Comprehension Answers.

  Bibliography

  1. All at Sea.

  I was twelve years old when I was brought aboard the HMS George in 1801. I had been happily employed as an apprentice to our local blacksmith and expected to take over in a few years’ time when Simon was too weak to hold the horses for their shoeing. My job was keeping the fire going and watching Simon heat and bend the shoes for the horses.

  It was after our lunch break when there was a shout. I looked at Simon and he said, ‘Go, Tom!’ I ran for the woods behind the smithy, hearing the dogs barking nearby. I found my favourite tree and ran past it, then doubled back, to put the dogs off my scent. I scarpered up the tree and none too soon, for the dogs were headed straight for me. It was like they knew the smell of young boys. My ruse didn’t work and I was given the option of coming down under my own steam or having the tree cut down. I didn’t want to antagonise the bounty hunters further so I climbed down. They had their axes ready and seemed put out by the fact they couldn’t use them, selling the firewood to make more money.

  When I reached the ground, they tied me up with a length of rope to one of the horses. I was paraded through my village like a common criminal when my only crime was being of the right age to do the King’s service on board his many ships. No one laughed and I could see my mother crying at the back of the crowd. I hoped my younger brother, Matthew, had got away and would take over my job at the smithy even though he was only nine years old. Father had died years ago and I was worried about Matthew looking after our mother.

  Thus I was taken to Portsmouth which took another day and a night spent at an inn. I was so tired from trotting behind the horse, I just fell to the ground in the stables and slept. The next morning the innkeeper’s daughter brought me broth and bread which really helped. We didn’t see any other boys like me and when we passed through a village, people just stopped and stared, probably guessing that I was being taken against my will. The two bounty hunters didn’t say much except ‘Hurry up!’ They seemed anxious to get there as was I.

  When we arrived the HMS George was preparing to sail. The wind was fluffing the sails and the ship was rocking and pulling against the ropes and the anchor. I was bundled up the gangplank, shown my hammock, and left to wander around. The sailors were busy with the sails. The barber surgeon found me and showed me his cabin which was close to the gun decks. He examined me and found me fit before directing me to the galley for a feed.

  Soon the ship was moving as was my stomach. Seasickness was the curse of all sailors because it is so debilitating. I even fell over at one stage and decided to sit down and wait for who knows what because the swells seemed to increase in size as we entered the English Channel. I didn’t know all this at the time but a few boys explained it to me as I was the newest recruit on board. My first night at sea in my hammock was fairly smooth as I wasn’t moving against the ship.

  I was acquainted with my role as gunpowder boy the very next day. My job was to use a powder scooper and scoop the powder out of the wooden barrel and hand it to the gunner who placed it in the gun. This required some skill and couldn’t be left to a boy. An older boy placed a shot into the barrel at the end of the gun and there were shot gauges for the gunner to use so he fired off the right shot. The gunner would use a linstock, which held his match, to fire the gun. There were two main types of gun: a breech-loading one which was made of wrought- iron, and a muzzle-loading one which was cast bronze. I was assigned a muzzle- loading one which had elm carriages that enabled it to run back and forth for reloading and cleaning.

  We were allowed a practice run once we were in the Channel but only one shot each to save on ammunition. The rest of the time was spent scrubbing the decks, setting up the dining room and washing dishes in the galley. I didn’t have time to see what was happening outside the ship but whenever land was sighted a cry went up from the eagle’s nest.

  It was only after the Battle of Trafalgar that I was allowed to help out with the sails. I was soon well rounded in my knowledge of ships though I still pined for my mother and wrote to her whenever I could, which wasn’t often. There was so much to learn and good pay when I had paid my way to offset the cost to the bounty hunters. When I had worked my passage, I could toy with the idea of staying on as it was quite exciting and better than shoeing horses.

  It was often my turn to work in the dining room on the castle deck which was preferable to the hot, sweaty, cordite-filled decks below. I would take a glance when I could of the rolling seas out of the deck’s window. This was where the decisions were made, how to beat the other ships at sea. I understood that everything folded away and became a battle station. The captain and his officers would soon turn up to eat their meal and we would be banished to the galley to wash up. It was better than swabbing down the decks to washing their pewter dishes. Of course, we didn’t use pewter, only wooden bowls, dishes, plates and stave-built tankards.

  ‘HMS George was launched in 1788 so the captains were fortunate to have survived so long’, said one of the gunners. We were below decks having a break. ‘We have 100 first rate guns and the last battle we won was the Battle of Copenhagen earlier this year. I found out later that the King wanted to break the alliance of Russia, Prussia, Denmark and Sweden against British ships imposing a blockade of French trade and their merchants. In April we entered Copenhagen harbour. It was the job of the signal lieutenant to signal the Captain’s commands from and to the other ships. A decision was made to continue and we won. And when we sailed to Russia we discovered this pact of neutrality had been disbanded so we had fought the Danes for nothing.’

  Another time, I learned of the blockade of Cadiz in 1797 where HMS Theseus collided with a Spanish ship resulting in hand to hand combat between the two crews. We won, of course. It was another crew member who told me how Admiral Lord Nelson lost his right arm. He was our leader and had worked his way up through the ranks and now commanded the high seas for England. It was during the Battle of Santa Cruz de Tenerife which we didn’t win. The next year Lord Nelson had another defeat when he was in charge of HMS Vanguard. Two ships and two frigates were burnt and nine gunships captured. So Nelson didn’t win all his battles and was wounded.’

  There were other battles, often involving the French, and I’m sure they had their stories to tell besides the ones I was being told. Lord Nelson still stood out as being mostly successful and being made an Admiral. In 1794 he lost an eye by a shot at a sandbag when they were bombarding the town of Calvi which surrendered on 10 August 1794, or so I was told by the barber surgeon.

  All these stories were told to me by various crew members when there was a lull in training or action. Most of our time was spent scrubbing the decks in all kinds of weather and being shouted at. Another gunner boasted, ‘I was with Lord N
elson on the HMS Foudroyant during the Mediterranean campaign of 1798. We went first to Malta following Napoleon but he had left. Then we tried Egypt but we missed him by two days. ‘We suffered a major defeat at the Battle of the Nile where Nelson was in charge on HMS Vanguard. However, we managed to evacuate Corsica even though the French had abandoned plans to invade it.’

  By July we were back in England and I was allowed leave to go home. In 1803 we were at war again and I was conscripted. This time I served on HMS Victory as a gunner in training. I did not have officer status, but like Admiral Nelson, our captain, I was working my way upwards. We created a blockade at Toulon until 1804 and chased a French ship who escaped past the Strait of Gibraltar bound for the West Indies.

  We were back in Portsmouth on 4 September and I took breakfast and lodgings at the George Inn. I stayed here for 23 days when I had my orders to sail again. It was pleasurable to be on dry land and in a soft bed and to see my friends but I was getting bored.

  On 21 October we turned towards an approaching enemy fleet. The rest were signalled to their battle stations and we were fairly confident even though the French ships outnumbered us by 33 to our 27. The signal lieutenant signalled from Nelson: ‘England expects that every man will do his duty’. Unfortunately, in the ensuing battle, Nelson was killed. As news spread below decks we found it hard to believe and put more vigour into our tasks. We would have followed him anywhere. He showed an interest in us and thus it was all the sadder to see him go.

  It wasn’t a happy victory but England still ruled the seas, for now. I stayed on and am now an officer being waited on by the boys. I make sure to give them a smile when I pass them on deck but not too much as they have to obey my orders without question. I want to be like Nelson who led his men into many battles. Of course, he didn’t win them all but died doing what he did best, leading his men into battle. That is my wish, to be the best officer, gunner for now, and maybe rise to be captain of a ship with men loyal to me.

  This is how my father came to be on a ship bound for Australia. It was August 1805 and Father’s first command of a ship, the William Pitt. We were to sail from Cork via the West Indies, past South America and the Cape of Good Hope and onto Botany Bay. We were not a war ship so there was no need for powder boys. My official title was cabin boy and I had the unenviable task of fetching and carrying for the officers. The female convicts only came on deck once a day but never in a storm which cleaned everything, including the stench from below. All of us were in the same boat, though, not knowing what to expect when we arrived. Father was going to retire here and maybe find work with Flinders mapping Australia. And I was to be apprenticed to whomever would have me, maybe a blacksmith like my father. For now, I revelled in the roll of our ship, watching the sailors trim the sails and staying out of trouble.

  2. The Brumby.

  John was short for his age but that didn’t stop him from trying out for the football team. Ever since he could walk he was kicking a football. His Dad encouraged him at first but then his mother died and everything changed. He hurried home to prepare the evening meal. It wasn’t much of a place, a bark hut that let in the draughts and nearly made the open fire go out. At least they had an oven on which they cooked their meals. Tonight there was rabbit to be baked plus a few vegies from their garden which John had peeled. Soon, both fires were going nicely so he got out his home- work, sums and writing. It was all rather boring and he couldn’t see the point of it if he was going to be a woodchopper like his Dad.

  But he couldn’t concentrate. Thoughts of his Dad and the school bully cluttered his mind. He wished he had his mother back as she used to listen to him, offering a cuddle which swept away all the day’s bad things. He wanted to tell her how he hated having to rush home to prepare the evening meal. How he was bowled over numerous times at footy practice.

  His Dad didn’t understand his need to be held, if only for a short hug. At least he had his horse to ride to and from school. He was sure this horse had a story to tell of life in the high country. His Dad had roped him one day whilst both were hiding in a thicket. It was the sun shining on the white flash on his fore- head that gave him away. Then followed weeks of trying to break him in though he never took to the saddle. John was the only one who could ride him so the horse became his school transport and a certain amount of freedom.

  One day a new boy came to his school who was an Aborigine. He was old enough to be in John’s class but he needed to do Bub’s or first year’s work because he’d always lived in the high country and been walkabout so he’d had no schooling. His name was Leroy or something like it; it’s what Mr Jones called him. Fortunately they were all in the same room so he didn’t stand out too much, except he was black and he did Bub’s work. Apparently Leroy had been brought in by the police and was living with a white family in town who had plenty of room. He even had his own bedroom, not like John’s corner in his draughty hut. Once the class got used to Leroy’s strangeness, Mr Jones had a brainwave and asked Leroy to tell them a story about where he had been before coming to school. It was like drawing nails because he didn’t like standing out the front of the classroom. The rest of the class was expecting a reprieve from their work. No chance. Mr Jones had the big kids write down Leroy’s story as part of dictation and the most accurate and neatest would get a prize. John was sure he wouldn’t get the prize as his work was always messy. At least they weren’t staring at Leroy the whole time. Here’s what John remembered of Leroy’s story, with a lot of help from Mr Jones. It was about a horse he had befriended before he came to town and which someone had stolen from him.

  My name is horse. I live in the high country, in the mountains where there are many of my kind. I can remember being a foal and travelling for many days amidst the trees and bushes. I remember being hungry but had to wait until it was dark before I could graze. I remember many things and some things that others of my kind do not remember. I am special because no man has ever ridden me. I am special because I have a white mark on my forehead and the other horses show me great respect. I am many hands high and I love to gallop. I love the chill of the winter snow and the heat of summer. I love to run and dodge the trees and the holes in the ground. I love the smell of dew-laden grass and the taste is exquisite.

  Here Mr Jones stopped Leroy and they all sighed with relief. What a lot of writing. This was going to take weeks for Leroy’s story to unfold and John had writer’s cramp. John wondered if the story of the horse was true but he wasn’t going to be the one to ask him; he’d leave that for Mr Jones.The next day Leroy came up to John as he arrived on his horse and patted it. He murmured ‘Brumby’ and John knew that his story was true. Leroy offered to take John out to the cave where the horse and he first met. John told him next Saturday would be good so they arranged to meet at first light.

  That night John told his Dad that he was getting up early on Saturday to go and look at a cave with Leroy. Jim wanted to know all about Leroy and was none too pleased to find out he was an Aborigine. ‘Nothing good comes from being with that lot’, Jim said. ‘Don’t believe everything he tells you and make sure he doesn’t pinch anything either. Where are you meeting?’ ‘At school, first thing,’ John said. ‘OK, but remember what I told you and make sure you’re home before dark. I don’t want to be traipsing around the countryside looking for you. Got that?’ ‘Yes, Dad,’ John said softly.

  John had woken early and sneaked out of bed, taking a crust for breakfast. He didn’t want to talk to his father who would only remind him to be home before dark. He walked the horse to the road before galloping off down the track. Soon he was near the school and sure enough, there was Leroy. The horse nuzzled him as he held out a carrot. John reached down and helped Leroy up behind him. They paced the horse slowly so Leroy could remember his journey from the cave to the town. Soon they found the cave where Leroy had hidden from the government man. They then walked to other places where Leroy had stayed and he showed John which berries were safe to eat.

 
; When the sun was at its zenith, Leroy caught a small mammal which they roasted over a warming fire. It was still the wet season so a fire was safe in the mountains. While they ate, Leroy told how he was captured by the government man, how he was then taken into the village. ‘I was untied and led into their house and into a room where a boy found some old clothes for me to try on. They weren’t as warm as my possum cloak but I was told not to wear it again until it had been cleaned. ‘And of course, I had to be cleaned as well. And they left me alone to do that, after miming washing with soap and drying with towels.’ ‘At least you had running water and a warm place to do it in,’ John said. ‘I’ve got to fetch water and heat it so I only wash once a week.’

  After making sure the fire was well and truly out and buried, they rode back to town. But near their first cave, the heavens opened and they sought refuge, even the horse. John had matches so they made another fire and used some lighted sticks to check out the back of the cave. There were no drawings, only fire-blackened walls, with a few handprints. The storm seemed to rage forever and John was worried about his Dad’s reaction to him returning after dark. It couldn’t be helped as they wouldn’t be able to find their way, not even Leroy or the horse.

  When it was dark and the rain had ceased, they could hear voices and see lanterns in the distance. They yelled ‘coo-ee’ and soon their rescuers found them. Jim was amongst them and only scowled at his son. He didn’t say anything until they got home. ‘What’s the thing you like the most?’ Jim asked. John bowed his head. ‘My horse.’ ‘Then you will forfeit it for a fortnight’, he said. John’s lip trembled but he forced himself not to cry. ‘Now dry yourself off and go to bed!’ ‘But I’m hungry.’ ‘Too bad. I’m off to the pub to thank your rescuers. And I’ll know if you pinch any food, not that there’s much here.’

  Jim left and after hanging up his wet clothes in front of the fire, John climbed into bed. As he drifted off to sleep, warm and snug, he relived his day. He was glad to be home and dry and he was sad that he couldn’t be home by dark. He’d miss his horse and he tried not to cry about it. Best of all, he had a new friend who could show him lots of interesting things.

  3. Dogalogue.

  My name is Trixie, a Jack Russell terrier. I was called Trixie because I was full of tricks. I now live in doggie heaven. This tale is for my master, Jack, whom I know misses me more than he lets on. We had travelled as far as Port Douglas and had just arrived home. We were house-sitting for Suzanne who had three wild cats living in the house that I was not allowed to play with, for my own protection. I was really disappointed and sniffed at their closed door every time I was in the house because I’ve always liked playing with cats.

  Before we started for Port Douglas with Jack’s swag, our caravan, we lived in a house at Black Rock where there was one cat called Susie. When I arrived at Black Rock, after living previously for two years at another house, there was an- other dog called Pooch living there already. There was also a woman called Catie but she and Pooch disappeared one day and I had Jack all to myself. He didn't much care for Susie, which was OK by me. Susie used to play games with me and get me into trouble. In the morning, she would run to the fence and I would chase her. Jack would then scold me for barking at her as she teased me by sitting on top of the fence, swishing her tail and acting unconcerned because she was out of my reach. Jack was annoyed because my barking disturbed the neighbours across the road. Other times, Susie would let me romp with her but Jack and his friend Margaret would forever be telling me off for being boisterous. 'Trixie, gentle now! Don't be so rough!' admonished Jack. But Susie loved all this attention from me. However, other cats didn't and ran away. And that was my undoing.

  I'd been quite happy in the old house by the seaside at Black Rock. I had my own doggie door to come and go as I pleased, except when Jack closed the laundry door to stop me escaping and running onto the street. Sometimes, but not often enough, I would trick him and escape outside into the yard before he could lock me in. Rarely would I be able to make my escape onto the street anyway because he would trick me and lock me inside the back- yard. It was a bit of a game and he would be really annoyed if I was outside be- fore his father, Bruce, moved his car from the backyard and onto the street.

  At first I was clever at escaping and lots of people would come running after me; it was such fun! To me, it was a game, and I would run away up the street, across the road, in front of cars, and sit in the middle of the road, anywhere they didn’t want me to go. After awhile, nobody chased me, and they just left the gate open for me when I did escape. I don’t know why. A few times when they didn’t leave the gate open for me, I had to spend the whole night waiting at a side gate next to Jack's grandmother’s place. This was inside her property and I knew I was safe until someone found me next morning. If I heard Jack I would bark, and he would be so happy to see me he would forget to scold me and give me a nice breakfast.

  One day our Black Rock house was sold and we moved into a caravan. Bruce towed it to a friend of his called Suzanne. Her place was not far away so it was only a very short trip. He had two tries at parking it. Then I was released from the car and tied up to the back of the caravan. Jack wandered in and out of Suzanne’s house and he and Bruce hooked up hoses that I found great fun as the water kept spurting out at the joins. I just loved playing with hoses and dripping taps and had been scolded on many occasions, especially when a hose had been left dribbling onto a garden. I would pat the wet soil and make a puddle. Then there would be a great to-do as I was locked out until my paws had been towelled off.

  When I did get to look inside the caravan, there was stuff everywhere! I couldn’t see where we were going to sleep and thought, hopefully, that we may sleep in the house and I'd get to play with the cats. I’d smelt the cats and I’d seen them looking at me menacingly from the front door and on the window ledges. I was really hoping that I’d get to play with them but it never happened. One was a very big cat who hissed and snarled at me if she went outside, though Suzanne always shooed her back in.

  After dark, Jack let me come inside the caravan to sleep. There was a big bed that was very high up and without my special cushion to spring from, I couldn’t jump onto it. However, there was another bed, narrow and not so high so I was going to be alright after all.

  Once we were on the road I couldn't come and go as I pleased. I was tied up all the time, except when I was inside the caravan when the door was closed. One night, near Hervey Bay, Jack left the caravan door open because the night was warm and I was able to make my escape and chase a cat. I'd been lying on the bed and Jack was busy with his computer. I made a great leap and was out that door in a flash. Jack and Bruce were gone for ages and even drove away. I was a little worried they’d left me behind but eventually they returned. I didn’t come in until Jack offered me a ‘Smacko’ treat.

  The next day I heard Bruce telling a neighbour that he’d driven to a friend’s place because he thought I’d gone there to play with their guinea pigs. I’d had great fun with one earlier in the day but it had stopped moving and was dragging its hind legs after I’d jumped on it. There had been a serious discussion and Bruce said he would buy another one, which he did before we left. He wouldn’t let me near it but I could smell and hear it in the car and only wanted to play with it.

  I n the car, Jack always put me into a harness that stopped me from jumping on him whenever we stopped. Sometimes I couldn't move at all. 'That’s because you’ve twisted the harness strap around the seat belt', Jack said. Once or twice Jack took pity on me, especially on a long trip, and released me from the seat belt. 'It's for your own safety,’ he said.

  The first time Jack smacked me on the nose was when I barked at trucks while we were staying at Orbost caravan park. Trucks would go whizzing past on the way to Marlo. I couldn’t understand why I had to stop barking at them. At Mackay, he smacked me if I barked at the trucks in the street, outside the caravan park. Maybe he was worried about getting into trouble if I barked at
all. However, at a big dusty place called Tamworth, he was happy to let me bark at the trucks going past on the highway when we went for a walk.I think Jack understood that it was good for me to bark as he let me bark sometimes when we were in the car. If he had his window down, I could hear the traffic and liked to bark. He would close the window to stop me and we would be hot if we were going uphill because the air conditioning cut out.

  I even liked to bark at the noise of water on the road, as well as stones. Once, we were going to Mt Surprise and we were often off the bitumen into the gravel. 'It's OK, Trixie, there's no danger!' Jack and Bruce kept repeating. There were road works for a long way, so I spent a lot of time barking.

  I didn’t want to go outside in the early morning when it was still dark. I waited until the sun was up because I didn’t like the cold. Sometimes I jumped on Jack when I heard his breathing change, which meant he was waking up. He would stroke and pat me, and when he eventually moved, I'd jump off the bed and wait impatiently at the caravan door, my toenails clicking on the lino while he dressed. Then Jack would take the key and lock up before I went to relieve myself. Aah! Let me tell you, it was such a relief to go after eight hours. I didn’t want to go near our home except when I was left outside or it was raining. Once it was raining heavily at Eden and Jack told me to do it where we were,under the awning. I compromised and went under the caravan so he couldn’t watch me. I didn’t like people watching me as I attended to my toileting, but Jack seemed interested in seeing me perform.

  Jack also kept encouraging me to have a drink so I didn’t become dehydrated and this was something that I liked to do privately, too. He was aware of this and if we’d returned from a walk to the car, he would strap me in and leave me some water within reach, while he organised himself. Sometimes the bowl fell off the seat and wet whatever was on the floor of the car. Then he was none too pleased.

  Jack was always within sight of me because I would bark if I didn't know where he was. When he went for a shower, he would tie me up outside the ablutions block though at Eden he left me a few times outside the caravan because we were parked close by. Often I was left outside the library for ages while he retrieved his email. At least the patrons patted me and noticed me on their way in and out and I would put on a great show when he did return. Then he would pat me and say: 'What a good girl!'

  There were a few other times that Jack left me locked up in the car. The longest time was when Jack and Bruce left me at Airlie Beach because they went to Hook Island. We had spent the day walking around, checking out the pools and shops. I was always tied up outside shops on the street. I was nearly run over in Traralgon, being too near a driveway. One of the times we were at Airlie Beach, I was under cover and it was only as we were leaving that Bruce saw a "No Dogs" sign. Dumb Bruce!

  They went to the pictures twice in Tamworth and once in Mildura and I only stressed out when they went in the daytime as it got too hot in the car and I lay on the floor. I was nearly a hot dog! Jack always made sure I had a bowl of water and the window cracked open for air, and I was always taken for a walk when they returned. Sometimes it was a short walk if it was dark, but when they returned from Hook Island we seemed to run for ages, like they had been tied up too. Then we had a really long drive back to Mackay, not getting back to the caravan until three in the morning.

  I was quite content to wait most times, sleeping on Jack’s side of the front seat on his special fleecy mat, with no harness restricting me. He only gave me tow- els to rest on which he changed whenever I had wet paws. When we stopped for fuel, Jack would let me out and tie me up to the front of the caravan and leave me some water. Sometimes I needed to relieve myself but I wouldn't go near the car so I would wait until Jack took me for a walk where there was grass.

  Once my paws smelt dreadfully and Bruce complained about the smell of spilled diesel. Jack gave me another towel at the next stop, five minutes later. Bruce had had trouble filling up his gas tank in Grafton so we went to another petrol station. It was here that he first scratched the side of the caravan and tore out the aerial and loosened the power connection. Double dumb Bruce! Another time he had trouble filling up with gas was halfway between Broken Hill and Wentworth. It was only when we were a few minutes away that he realised that he hadn't switched over to gas and his gas tank was still full! Triple dumb Bruce!

  It was five months in all that we spent travelling north before returning to Melbourne. I had Jack's total attention as well as the other people in the caravan parks, and his friends and relations whom we visited on the way. Once we went on a long trip without the caravan to Canberra and stayed overnight at a cousin's place. They had a wonderful dog that was not as smart as me but still good fun to play with. We ran around for ages outside in the garden and I still got to sleep with Jack at night-time.

  There were only two other occasions when I was let loose and allowed to run to my heart's content. At Batemans Bay we visited a cousin and for some reason, Jack let me run around their backyard which was not fenced in. I thoroughly enjoyed myself in and outside the house where everyone made a fuss of me, including giving me wonderful treats.

  The biggest place I had to run was near Ipswich where Bruce had another cousin called John. They had a hectare property fenced all the way. I was able to run to my heart's content chasing the trucks as they charged past. John’s wife, Mary-Anne, gave me a bath when we arrived and she used the special dog shampoo that Jack had bought near Ballina, where I had met up with two huge dogs that weren't very friendly. We weren't able to be in the same room together so I was happy when it was time to go home to the caravan. However, it was at Ipswich that Bruce and Jack left me twice to get the car serviced and Mary-Anne told them I howled. It was because I feared they had left me behind and I didn’t want to stay with this stranger. Of course, Bruce and Jack returned the second time with the car so we were on the road again two days later.

  It was truly wonderful until we were back in Melbourne and Jack left me behind to go to school and Bruce to work. It was cold and wet and a neighbour’s cat was teasing me. I wet Jack's bed one night and on the floor. He was annoyed with me but wanted me to have some freedom. I took it and chased the neighbour’s cat, running at full stretch after it along the main road… and then …RIP 18 Sep 2002

  4. Flames and Wells and Sacred Sites.

  My name is Sean. I have dark hair and blue eyes and I’m 12 years old. We have been travelling for over an hour, following an old trail of the Druids. We will surely meet one or more as they are known to travel from where we left, Kildare, to where we’re going, Glendalough. Our leader, Brother Mark, explained before we left what he knew of the Druids and how we should approach them, with respect.

  In my first few months at Kildare I had heard many tales, the scariest being the one about a young boy who was kidnapped and sacrificed on one of their ritual stone altars. One day, before we left, I asked Brother Mark if this story were true. ‘Of course not,’ he said, ‘it’s a story to scare young boys like you to stay near the church. When we get to Glendalough you will be warned about not wandering alone near the well nor the stone circle.’

  Our travelling group had prayed with the others before we left, first at the flame site and secondly at Brigid’s well, about a furlong away. We were to take a flame with us to light our way if we arrived after dark, and start a fire if need be, like heating water for a drink. Stone flagons, filled from Brigid’s well, were carried by everyone in our group of twelve, the same number as Jesus’ disciples. We also carried enough salted meat and bread for two meals, to be supplemented by whatever we found on our way, like dandelions and berries.

  We left Kildare in high spirits though my leave-taking was sad as I was leaving my mother behind. We had lost father at sea and mother had decided to join Brigid’s band of women and men. She was now a fully-fledged nun who followed a life of prayer over the flame and drawing water from Brigid’s well. I ended up living with the male novices and our paths rarely crossed except a
t meal times in the refectory. I was going to Glendalough because Brother Mark considered I would benefit from more professional teaching and Kevin’s church at Glendalough seemed ideal.

  While we were eating our lunch some men appeared on the path. They did not seem happy to see us. They were obviously Druids by their coloured robes, red ones, white ones and dark brown ones. The ones in red robes carried staffs and threatened us to stand up and be examined. None of us carried weapons so we showed we were no threat. One of those in a white robe explained they were on their way to celebrate their ritual of St Brigid’s feast day on 13 March. Imagine my amazement when I heard this as we had just celebrated her feast day, too.

  Brother Mark then spoke up: ‘We are going to Kevin’s church and wish you no harm. We have students here who will study and work with the monks there.’ ‘Just stay away from our well. Kevin has built his church too close to it and uses it to cook meat with his hot stones. We have warned him of the consequences!’ ‘Very well,’ Brother Mark replied, ‘we will pass on your warning.’

  Thus the Druids went on their way with the red robes first, followed by the white robes. Those in dark brown robes brought up the rear, struggling with their food and water. ‘How will we get our water if the Druids are going to attack us?’ I asked Brother Mark. ‘There are monks who will act as guards when someone has the job of filling the water barrels. Naturally, you won’t be allowed on this water duty for many years. You will, however, continue table duty in the refectory, making sure the flagons are filled from the barrel.’

  Eventually we arrived on the outskirts of Glendalough. We could see the two lakes and the tower. The church was hidden in the bushes and trees. Two men materialised in the gathering gloom, drawn by our flame. They were from Kevin’s community and guided us to the church where we made our thanksgiving. I noticed there was a light in the tower which also guided our way. Then we were shown to our living quarters then to the refectory to share the last of our meals which was supplemented by freshly-cooked deer. I didn’t find out until the next day that they had indeed cooked it in the well. It was quite delicious and a welcome change from salted meat.

  I slept well that night until the morning when we were aroused for Lauds, the morning prayer of praise. Thus my life of prayer and study began at Kevin’s on 14 March. I was shown the area above the kitchen where the scribes copied out the holy books. That was part of my apprenticeship and where I had to spend my afternoons transcribing until recreation time. After an hour of sports of running and wrestling, I worked in the kitchen washing roots and stirring pots.

  The number of people for each meal varied and we had to find food for everyone. A small group of us were hunters who had to be wary of the Druids and steer clear of them, especially the warriors who wore red robes. Most days we had meat for one meal at least. The rest of the time there was bread and water and whatever we found growing wild.

  Our last prayer was Compline which we chanted after we had quiet recreation and where the monks shared their stories and passed on the traditions. Even I had to tell the tale of meeting the Druids on our journey south. Most of the stories were scary ones and concerned the Druids and I was never tempted to go near the well on my own.

  Two months later Brother Bernard was my tutor. He asked me many questions and I did not know the answers. I also wanted to know more about the Druids as they seem very similar to us in their rituals and hierarchy. I learned the number three features prominently in their teachings and they have three levels or divisions with the highest being the Druids. It is believed there was a Druid who acted as a judge before the time of Kevin whilst the priests and priestesses conducted rituals near oak trees and standing stones.

  The Christian story still holds me in thrall and I cannot get enough of the stories of the martyrs. These men and women died for their belief in Christ, sometimes with horrible deaths at the hands of the lions. It seemed the people in the Roman Empire, which stretched far and wide, would not tolerate any gods other than themselves. Jesus was born into this controversy and would not be silenced. It was his followers who started his church on the Feast of Pentecost when the apostles spoke in many tongues.

  We and the Druids have rituals; we have a hierarchy of priests and nuns and we value both men and women within this hierarchy. Brigid is portrayed with a bishop’s staff which signifies she was a bishop, higher than a priest. I do not understand this as she is the only woman to have been given this honour.

  After a cycle of the moon, I was allowed to write to my mother. A small party was returning to Kildare to help with teaching. These monks had finished their apprenticeship and would not be returning. We had another feast of deer using the same method as before i.e. heating the stones and throwing them in the well. When the water was hot, the haunch of deer was thrown in to cook.

  The Druids will not be pleased. I think I saw movement in the trees behind us. I checked on our ribbons and they seemed to be there, all twelve of them. We had placed them there on our first day at Kevin’s to thank the Holy Spirit for delivering us safely. We gathered in the low circle of stones and ate and joked and told of our time at Glendalough. We wanted to impress the travellers with all our stories, so we could remember them as well.

  After listening to all these stories, I have a dream that night where I am taken by two Druids dressed in red robes. I am blindfolded and my hands tied. We seem to be walking a long way. Eventually we stop and my captors remove my blindfold. There in the clearing are ten white robed Druids and one in yellow who seems to be the leader. He motions two of the white robes to bring me to the stone altar.

  I am terrified, thinking they are going to sacrifice me. They release my bonds and one takes hold of my right arm. He pulls up my sleeve and bares my inner arm. The yellow robe throws back his robe from his right arm to reveal a dagger. What is coming next? I have to lean over the stone and the white robes start chanting. Sweat is pouring from my forehead and I am sure I am going to lose my arm or my hand. I turn my head away as I don’t want to watch and grit my teeth so I don’t call out. Ouch! The dagger slices through my arm which bleeds onto the altar. I faint. Then I hear the bell ring to wake us up. I look at my arm and there is a mark, right where the Druid sliced me.

  These stories were told to me by my Irish grandfather and have been passed down to each generation when the boy turns 12. I have travelled to Kildare and Glendalough to see where my ancestors lived. We have nothing like it here in Australia but we do have stories that are more than a few centuries old. I have been to the top of Hollow Mountain in the Grampians in Victoria and have seen a naturally formed well with water in it. No doubt the first Australians have their stories to tell of what it was like growing up without the white men.

  5. Game, Set, Match.

  dimanche, avril 12, 2020

  My name is Rafael and this is mon journal. Papa and I went to the tennis at the Monte Carlo Country Club for the Classic. I was so excited as I had won a competition for two people to go. It was the first time we could not travel by car because there was little or no oil available so we went by bus which dropped us off almost at the entrance. At least buses could run on biodiesel. Before the games started, we visited the tents with their displays of tennis wear and equipment. We were in the northern section and had a magnificent view of the Mediterranean. I was thrilled with our seats and I knew I would find it hard to concentrate on the tennis match. There were hundreds of yachts crowding the marina, also coming to the tennis. It was a perfect day, watching the tennis and looking at the sea, and it wasn’t until after lunch that I started to watch the ball boys. I also noticed the line judges wearing a special headpiece to help them measure where the ball had landed.

  dimanche, mai 3, 2020

  Three weeks later, Philippe has been bullying me ever since he found out I wanted to be a ball boy at the next Monte Carlo Tennis Masters. He started after lunch last Sunday when his mother had asked me what I was going to do with myself when I was older. I replied I wanted t
o be a ball boy. Philippe guffawed and his Papa told him not to be so rude. Philippe ridiculed me for being too small and knowing nothing about being a ball boy. ‘I’ve been to a match and I’ve watched a few matches on television so I know something. I’m also a Monegasque, a native of Monaco, so that should count for a lot,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard there are over eight million French junior tennis players,’ said Philippe, ‘so you would have little chance of being chosen. The Monte Carlo Country Club is in France not Monaco.’ Auntie Sylvie added that robots do the job now, like the line judges. Papa said, ‘No, there was too much movement for a robot to be a ball boy because in the trials the balls were going everywhere except to the right person.’

  dimanche, mai 17, 2020

  Last night, an uncle suggested I watch some tennis games on our 3D-TV. I will go to our film lending store to see if they have any I could borrow. The French Open, the Roland Garros, begins next week so I could watch it when it is broadcast. We won’t be able to watch it if it rains and there is no solar power left. It would be good to watch a copy of a Monte Carlo Masters match on clay with the famous Rafael Nadal and Roger Federer. While I am watching, I will have to concentrate on what the ball boys are doing in the background. The ones in the centre look more my size. I reckon I could roll the balls to either end and pick them up from the middle when there’s a net call. I will find out how big a court is on the Internet or at the library, buy some tennis balls and practise rolling them quickly but not too hard.

  dimanche, mai 31, 2020

  We’re the middle of the Roland Garros for 2020. Papa has let me watch two afternoons of tennis and I’ve still to work out what the ball boys are doing and when. The ball boys seem to know how hard to roll the balls along the ground. It doesn’t look very far and I checked out the dimensions of a tennis court on the Internet on Friday. One site said halfway was 11.89 metres and another said 14.63 metres. Then I had to add on 5.48 metres for the length behind the court. So I would have to roll the ball between 17 and 20 metres. I watched some of the US Open yesterday from 2009 and the ball boys were men who threw the balls overarm to each other.

  It was a women’s match between Serena Williams and Kim Clijsters. Serena was serving and was on the last point when she was foot-faulted. She really blew her stack and threatened the female line judge. The judge maintained her position and the chair umpire was forced to intervene and fine Serena a point for a code of conduct violation. This meant she lost the match.

  I watched the ball boys carefully and noted how they stood or knelt and where. I noted how they ran off the court when they were being rotated. I couldn’t see that there was anything else to learn. Except to get fit, by running short distances, picking up the ball and running back to the net. They also stayed within each service court when picking up the ball and returned to the nearest end of the net. Sometimes they joined the ball boys at the base if the ball had ended up past the service line (I think that’s what it’s called).

  dimanche, juin 14, 2020

  Philippe came by today as my friend, Arnaud, and I were out practising throwing balls. He laughed at our efforts and said he could do better. We took him up on that and he disgraced himself by a soft throw which landed half-way. He demanded another go then trounced off saying this was for babies. I’ve been running two km each day as well as practising running then picking up the ball, running and kneeling down.

  vendredi, juin 26,2020

  Arnaud and I headed off to the soccer field but the older secondary boys were already there. I just knew they would jeer at us. We decided to go to the opposite end and I rolled a few balls to Arnaud and he quickly rolled them back. Sure enough, the big boys, including Philippe, wandered down to see what we were doing. One of them intercepted a ball and wouldn’t give it back. It was a lost cause so Arnaud and I had to leave and find another place to practise. We settled on a quiet street and continued rolling the balls and running to pick them up. So it wasn’t a total waste of time, just a lost ball.

  dimanche, juin, 28, 2020

  I watched some Wimbledon matches yesterday with Papa. Once it is over I am on holidays though every day I have chores in the vegie garden. Arnaud seems to be tiring of the ball games but that’s OK as I’ve been practising throwing towards a fence and it comes back to me if I give it enough pace.

  dimanche, octobre 4, 2020

  At last, I am now in secondary school and the Monte Carlo Masters is only a few months away. I’ve put my name down to be a ball boy and the Monte Carlo Country Club is going to trial me for some matches before winter. So my hard work and persistence have paid off. I am so happy that not even Philippe’s snide remarks at our family dinner of mine and his family last Sunday could upset me. I’m on the way to a date with the Monte Carlo Masters. I’m not good enough to be a famous tennis player but I know I will be one of the best ball boys at the Monte Carlo Country Club.

  dimanche, avril 11, 2021

  I was very proud to be dressed as a ball boy with a new uniform and trainers. As I neared the stadium I started to feel nervous. After all of my practise with rolling the balls and picking them up, I was going to flunk it in front of all these people, I thought. After some time, we were divided into groups of six, and told to wait near the outside court where we were to work. My group was the second one in rotation so we had to wait an hour. The older boys told us not to worry, that they would look after us. Well, I didn’t get to be a ball boy today as it rained. They said maybe tomorrow or the next day. I bought my treat that my mother had given me money for, on my way to the bus.

  lundi, avril 12, 2021

  I got to be a ball boy today, and boy, was it hard work! The sun came out and we weren’t issued baseball caps. But we weren’t there for long — only about an hour at a time. And I got to be a ball boy twice with rotation. I was walking with my head held high. Early to bed and another six days to go. I don’t expect to be a ball boy for the finals. At least I’ll be able to watch it.

  6. The Girl in a Red Dress.

  I waited all afternoon but I didn’t see her returning from her music lesson. It seems years ago that she started and, by my reckoning, would be in second grade pianoforte. I don’t know whether she likes learning music or not but every Saturday she skips down the road in her red dress to the lane which takes her to the back of her teacher’s place. Mum told me her name is Ruth and I know she lives five doors away. I’ve been wheeled past her place though I’ve never seen her to speak to. I’m sure she knows who I am, the boy with polio, everyone does.

  I’d like to go to the Catholic school and learn the piano but Mum can’t afford the lessons. It’s too much for her to even get me ready in the morning, let alone push me up the hill to the school. Dad leaves for work too early in the morning so he can't help out — he works at a construction site as a labourer.

  Sundays are our day together when Dad wheels me down to the lane and we memorise the names of all the people who live there. love the corrugated steel, the different colours of zinc, and the roller doors. The dogs bark at us as we trundle past making a clack-clack noise from the wheelchair.

  ‘Paul,’ Dad would say, ‘that’s Mrs White’s dog. What’s it doing in the Smith’s yard?’ Sure enough, the distinctive creaky door bark of a terrier could be heard in the wrong yard. We didn’t interfere though and conjectured how it got there and whether its owner was just visiting.

  It was a bumpy ride for me over the cobblestones. Even Dad’s voice war- bled a bit as we went along. ‘Remember,’ said Dad, ‘all the roads were like this and it was really noisy before cars with their rubber tyres. The people in these houses had to put up with a lot of noise from horses and carts. The worst job was the night- cart man who exchanged the cans of people’s toileting. You can still see the doors which he used, taking out a full one and leaving an empty one behind.’ ‘Yeah, I heard the joke about the night-cart man who put a full can on his shoulder and the bottom rusted out. Yuck! You know what I’d like to do, Dad.’ ‘What, son?’
‘I’d like to paint this alley with the little girl dancing along it, with a smile on her face. Could you get me paints or crayons, Dad? Please!’ ‘I’ll have to see if I’ve got some spare change.

  What about we go together next Sunday arvo and find us an art shop. Or a toy store might have some. I remember my first visit to a toy store. I had some birthday money and I got a red ute. I wasn’t into drawing much though I did win some competition in Grade 5 as it was back then. I traced around a toy horse and had fields for it and hills. That’s all I remember. Oh yeah, I had to go and spoil the moment by saying I traced the horse!’ ‘You never told me that story before, Dad.’ ‘It’s one I choose to forget. Anyway, there’s no law against tracing. What’s the name of this girl in your picture?’ ‘I don’t know yet but Ruth is the one I’ll base it on. She looks so happy sometimes as she exits the lane. She must have a good time of it. I don’t know whether I’ll be able to get it or not.’ ‘Doesn’t matter, son. That’s the joy of creativity, doing what works for you. Anyway, you have to do your homework first. Have you finished last week’s yet?’

  ‘Sure, it’s ready for you to take to your teacher friend. Can we visit her sometime soon? After we get the paints or crayons?’ ‘Okey dokey, Paul, it’s a deal. I can leave a note with her son, saying we’ll be along in two week’s time and if that’s OK with her.’ ‘Thanks, Dad, you’re cool,’ as I gave him the thumbs up sign. ‘Now, if we had a camera I could photograph the lane but I reckon I can remember enough. And you can bring me back soon, eh?’ ‘Yes,’ he nodded.

  A whole month passed what with one thing and another. My teacher wanted me to write a story about a mythical creature because I had been studying the story of a mermaid. I decided the protagonist would be a sea- horse and what happens to some pirates, who try to capture the mermaid. The catalyst for the story is the Rainbow Serpent. Using my crayons, I drew a picture of a mermaid on a rock, a seahorse in the water next to her and a large rainbow-coloured snake not too far away. Of course, my painting of the girl in a red dress will have to wait.

  Mermaids are the creation of the Rainbow Serpent. As to why she created her, I don’t know and can only offer a guess. I think mermaids are part of the evolution as sea creatures left their watery homes and prepared to live using oxygen only. The pictures we have of mermaids with a tail instead of legs are fairly accurate and because no man survived her call, there are no eyewitness accounts to verify the makeup of a mermaid.

  My mermaid and I communicated telepathically and I think this is how she communicated to the sailors. In their minds, they heard a beautiful woman singing and because they wanted to seeand be with a beautiful woman, especially at sea where it was forbidden to have women on board. The cold and wet wind would blow her hair away from her face, streaming down and out behind her back. She would have been a vision to behold amongst the dullness of the water on which they travelled. I did hear her voice once and it was very gentle, like I was being lulled to sleep (like I am now). The temptation to sleep and drift into the water took the sailors’ lives.They were lost to mortal men but died peacefully and in love. Their deaths or loss of life force was released and captured by the Rainbow Serpent who used it to give my mermaid strength so she could return one day to the world of wild horses.

  I think I too was in love with this gorgeous creature. She could swim under- water but not for long. Maybe in the beginning, when she was first created, when she had gills which enabled her to breathe. By the time we met, this ability had almost disappeared and she swam with her head out of the water most of the time. Her legs were quite like the tail of a fish, but her feet were webbed and she used her legs close together as she kicked herself along. She was never in a hurry and so she took her time when she swam in the water.

  I know the Rainbow Serpent loves me as she has provided everything for me and visits every so often and lets me know how things are progressing with her creating in the Great South Land. I wish I could create something like she does, and she said I could in my relating to the mermaid. I think about her often and look forward to the times the mermaid leaves her rock and swims nearby to chat to me. We can communicate whilst she’s on her rock, though I find it more satisfactory if I can see her face to face. As a seahorse, I think my mermaid friend has a beautiful tail which she swishes around to control her underwater movements. I felt very smug as I live nearby and can communicate with her.Was I ever jealous of the time she spent enticing these men to our world? I suppose I may have been and I realised there was no competition.

  I can’t call her my maiden as she doesn’t belong to me and one day one of us will leave this idyll and travel with the Rainbow Serpent and reincarnate in another part of the world, and maybe in another form. For now, I have this mermaid creature to myself, shared only with passing strangers. From my position under the surface, I can observe her all the daylight hours she is on her rock. Often she combs her hair and the sea breeze may gently blow it so the strands billow out as she turns to look down at me and acknowledge my presence.

  There is so much love in those eyes, and so little compassion for the sailors who would love to get closer to her. She told me once that the men would hurt her if they got too close to her. She told me they could hurt me by capturing me and putting me in a bottle and showing me off to their friends. I was aghast when she told me this as I know I would miss the freedom of the ocean, the freedom to move in my little world, with no barriers around me. If my mermaid was not nearby, I don’t think I would have moved from my hidey-hole.

  We are both the same colour, orange but not orange. My mermaid has tints of red that show up in the sunset. My eyes are forever feasting on her and the wonders of nature like to put on a grand display for me so I may revel in her beauty. She admonished me one day when I told her this. She said it was the Rainbow Serpent who created these wonderful colours and sounds and that we should thank her for her creations. I could not argue with that and told her that her spirit was so wonderful that it wouldn’t matter what she looked like, I would still love her.

  She told me she blushed when I told her this and I was glad she did, as I missed the delicate rose blush which had spread over her body from my disadvantaged point below the surface. All I could ever see was a shimmer of an outline of her, though that was enough as we telepathically chatted all the while, in darkness and in sunlight.

  My little world of reproduction went through its cycles as I spent my time between chatting with my mermaid and looking after my endless stream of youngsters. Most moved on when they were able to fend for themselves, and a few stayed and we all reproduced more of ourselves for my mermaid to love. Indeed, she did love each and every one of them and I wonder if she wanted replicas of herself. There seemed to be no time or aging whilst she was there and she never changed in appearance. Each day began with her ritual of greeting the sun with her arms out- stretched to its rays. It was like she was welcoming its light and life and warmth into our part of the universe.

  I was not sure whether this is what his teacher wanted. I showed Dad who thought it was good but he’s Dad. It was to be two weeks before my teacher returned my story with very few pen marks on it. It was definitely not what she expected. She said I needed to get back to my book work and maybe later I could spend time on my story and what happened to the seahorse. She did say she liked it. So life went on for me with my days full of homework and my spare time with drawing. We couldn’t afford Play Station or anything like that but I didn’t mind as I was too busy with my own creativity.

  I eventually finished my drawing of the girl in the red dress, months later, and procrastinated about giving it to Ruth. Maybe I would one Saturday when she skipped home from music. Of course, she might be upset that I had been spying on her, but that was a chance I would have to take. I didn’t want to be like the seahorse, just looking on. I had to take a step forward or push myself forward, to venture into a world of sweetness and light. It was easier writing the story than living life.

  7. The G
oldfields.

  ‘Father, you’re late! We’ve been saving tea for you and we’re really hungry.’ ‘Well. Patrick, now you can eat and we’ll have peace and quiet while you chew with your mouth closed.’ ‘But I have so many questions to ask you, Father, like what to pack and what time we’re leaving.’ ‘Later, in my study, but first let me eat.’ ‘Alright, later,’ I said. Afterwards, I found Father counting out his gold. He had his balance beam scale on his desk and was working out how much of a profit he had made that week. I loved to play with it using the weights in the drawer underneath. ‘Tomorrow is Sunday and after lunch we’re all visiting Grandma Sofie and Grandpa George. You have to be on your best behaviour and sit quietly while we have afternoon tea. They’ll ask me about my latest trip to the goldfields in Ballarat and Creswick and whether things have quietened down after the Eureka Stockade and if I met Peter Lalor, the leader.’ ‘I like to hear all this news, too, Father,’ I said. ‘You’ll hear it all tomorrow, Patrick.’

  ‘Thank you, Father, for letting me spend the next week with you. I promise to stay out of your way when you’re dealing with the storekeepers and the miners.’ ’That’s an excellent idea, Patrick. Their lives are very rough and you may hear some bad language. Make sure your mother doesn’t hear you repeating any like you did when you were three and your cousin taught you “bugger shit bum” because something wasn’t going to plan.’ I’m sure I blushed to hear this but I had no recollection of such words being uttered.

  ‘Now, our first stop is Ballan where we’ll change our pair of horses. We’ll also stay the night in our wagon, as a safeguard, after we’ve eaten and I’ve dealt with business. You’re not to wander too far away. In fact, I’d like you to stay close to our wagon and keep an eye on things.’ ‘Alright, Father.’

  We’d been travelling most of the day, stopping for lunch and talking to other travellers. The talk was mainly about bushrangers and how they were robbing ordinary folk of their money. Of course, nobody travelled with much gold, preferring to bank it and be paid out. But there were rich pickings on the goldfields and word of a big nugget soon spread like wildfire. The troopers don’t care and are probably still smarting from the revolt led by Peter Lalor.

  ‘How come the bushrangers don’t bother us, Father?’ “Because we keep to the main track where there’s plenty of travellers,’ he said. I mused on that for awhile and soon Ballan came in sight. Father pulled up opposite a store that displayed our pots and pans outside. ‘You stay here while I find a farrier for the horses and talk to this store keeper.’

  I sat out the front of the wagon, pretending I was driving the horses. This was the first time I’d been allowed to accompany Father. It was Mother holding me back, saying I was too young and that I had my studies to attend to. ‘Patrick has to learn the trade if he is to make his way in the world, my dear. Books may be good for some but my son Patrick is good at arithmetic and I could use a hand in weighing the gold.’ ‘What if he doesn’t like it? May I suggest he goes for a week in the school holidays.’ ‘It’s a deal,’ said Father.

  So here I was, guarding our merchandise when a scraggy man made his way over to me. ’’Ow much for this pot?’ he asked, pointing to a small pot hanging off the frame near my head. ‘I’m not sure,’ I replied, ‘you’ll have to ask my father. Here he comes now!’ But the man staggered off in the opposite direction, obviously drunk.

  ‘What did he want?’ ‘The price of this pot,’ I said, pointing at it. ‘And what price did you give him?’ ‘None, as I didn’t remember. But he sloped off when he saw you coming.’ ‘Hmm, not good. I think I’ll have to stand guard tonight though I could do with some sleep. Let’s cover the wagon and I’ll get some shut-eye. You can be my eyes and ears, Patrick, but only wake me if someone tries to steal a pot or pan. Then I’ll get you to run and fetch the troopers if I can’t handle it myself. Pickings have been poor this week and there may be trouble.’

  Thus I took guard, wrapped in a blanket to keep warm, keeping an eye on those in the street. A few troopers went by and I put my finger to my lips and pointed to the back of the wagon. They nodded and went on their way, their horses’ hooves kicking up the dust. After awhile I felt drowsy and had trouble staying awake in the warmth of the afternoon sun. I stepped down, being careful not to rock Father too much.

  I walked around the wagon a few times to get the pins and needles out of my legs. I could smell cinnamon buns from the bakery next door and ventured closer to see if the baker would see me outside and give me a bun. After serving a customer he came to the door and I explained my predicament, promising that father would repay him.

  ‘No worries, boy. I know your father, Mr Byrne, and he’ll treat me right. Here’s four buns to go on with and to have tonight. Do you have enough water? Or would you like a soda pop?’ ‘Yes, please,’ I exclaimed. ‘Go back to your wagon and I’ll bring it over.’ ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  As I turned to go back I caught sight of the scraggy man walking towards me. ‘Any spare buns for a starving man, lad?’ ‘No, Father said I was not to give anything away. Ask the baker yourself.’ ‘He wouldn’t give me the time of day, he wouldn’t,’ said the man. With that he staggered off down the street towards the end of town. I wondered why he didn’t go to the Red Hill mine at Ballarat where there was always work, or pan for gold in the creeks nearby. But he probably didn’t have a miner’s permit, let alone a pan. Not my problem, I thought, as I bit into a crusty bun baked that day and washed down with a soda pop. This was the life, with no school or home- work.

  It was dark by the time Father awoke and I was feeling bored. The stores had closed and some street lights had been lit. I told Father about the buns and the soda pop and he had a bun right there and then. Father engaged a passing pedestrian to bring two meals from the hotel from where we could hear much noise. A pinch of gold for his troubles and he soon returned.

  ‘I’m really hungry, Father. Maybe it’s the country air.’ ‘I’m going outside to smoke my pipe,’ he said, ‘so I suggest you go to sleep now before the street gets noisy.’ I had no sooner laid down my head when I heard a crowd of men noisily rolling past. They were a belligerent lot who threatened to overturn the wagon. I crouched inside, scared to death. Father took out his rifle and fired it. The revellers quickly sobered and went on their way, muttering about father ripping them off when it was the storekeepers who set the price for his goods.

  ‘I heard that the easily picked gold is running out and there was anarchy in the air,’ said Father. ‘Does that mean I won’t be able to pan for gold tomorrow?’ I asked. ‘I think it would be best if you wait until you’re older and I was sure of the man who was going to teach you.’ How hard could it be, sluicing water around in a pan with a groove?

  ‘I make a better living selling my pots and pans and I get to sleep in a nice, comfy bed at least once a week,’ said Father. I think we missed out on the gold fever and maybe Father’s world was the way to go while the gold was still being dug up. ‘This gold won’t last forever, Patrick, but people will always need pots and pans. Let’s see how you go in Ballarat where there’s lots of miners and custom.

  ‘I think we’ll skip Buninyong and go straight to Creswick. Hopefully the miners are quieter there because they’re still striking it rich. Off to sleep, now, Son.’ I dreamed of pots brimming over with gold nuggets. Father was right, selling pots and pans was easier and more rewarding than swilling and digging for gold.

  8. A Long Way to Freedom.

  Son, I know you’ve been through some tough times, not knowing where your next bed is going to be, where your next meal will come from. I’m going to tell you my story as best I can remember. You think you have all the answers but you won’t remember half of what has happened to us. I want you to listen carefully because this is our story and you have to remember it, to pass it onto your children. I know you are only 12 now and I’m sure your classmates have asked you how you came to Australia.

  This is important as someone from the governme
nt might also ask you the same question. Your memories and my memories may differ but you were very young when we left Afghanistan, all of three years old. As you know, we are Shi’ite Muslims like those we hear about from Iraq. I don’t know which political faction of Hazara we belonged to but when the Taliban captured Kabul in 1996, all the Hazara groups came together, according to Wikipedia which you may check out. ‘What did Father do before we left our homeland?’

  Your father was a shopkeeper in Kabul, like a fruiterer here. There were extortion demands and in the end he sold his business for US$8,000. We were in danger, too, from my father being a lawyer. Your other grandfather is still there as he didn’t want to leave. I was married to your father at the age you are now though girls are two years older now, like Mary of Palestine. ‘Tell me about our journey to freedom.’

  After packing our inadequate belongings, we went by bus to a town nearer Iran then hired a car and a driver to go across the border into Iran where we purchased visas. This took six days. We stayed with family members but there was no work to supplement the sale of the shop. It was here that we heard about Australia. As I said, you were three years old and it was like a holiday for you as you had plenty of cousins to play with. You won’t remember this but we somehow found transport to take us to Malaysia via Pakistan all the way to Surabaya in Indonesia.

  All this time you were growing up without the benefit of schooling and mixing with all types of people. Our money was dwindling because we wanted the best food we could find for you. We didn’t want you to be sick when we got to Australia. We didn’t want to give the government an excuse to send us back.

  At one camp, I found an English teacher who spoke both Parsi, our language, and English. Our original language is Hazaragi, an eastern dialect of the Persian language. You were too young to learn and your father was too stubborn. But I went and that is why my English is so good.

  One day your father paid for a plane flight to another town but we ended up on a bus for three days and three nights. We had to pay for food and drinks but not everyone on the bus had money. Also, we had no Indonesian rupiahs and therefore no change for our US dollars so we paid more than required. ‘Wow, I bet you were upset!’

  Eventually we came to a port where there was a pirate ship going to Christmas Island. Unfortunately the Australian government had declared Christmas Island to be no longer Australian territory — the so-called Pacific solution. So we left by boat bound for Nauru instead. This boat sank and I know at least two women drowned.

  The Norwegian MV Tampa came to our rescue and thus we arrived on Nauru after much political wrangling. Your friends’ parents will have heard of this incident, saying that children were thrown overboard. The Australian government did not want us on their doorstep but if the Tampa captain had not helped us we would not be here having this conversation. ‘How long were we on Nauru?’

  Five long years passed on Nauru and in that time I spent every moment learning English. Some days I despaired of ever reaching Australia and what awaited us there. Would we be persecuted, spat upon, because we were different? Would your father ever find work? He would not go to the English classes and spent his days with the other men from our area. Then I fell pregnant with your brother. The authorities were not pleased but what could they do about it? We had been locked up for so long. Maybe the baby would make it quicker to get to Australia.

  We saw no lawyers and no letters for three or more years. Then one day a letter came to me from a man in Australia. He’d enclosed a phone card and a short letter which gave me hope. At least one person in Australia was aware of our plight. Maybe he could find us work, a place to stay. He lived in Melbourne so maybe we could go there where there was a refugee group which helped refugees to find work or study and a place to live.

  One day, in 2004, we heard that our friends from the camp were going to Canberra. There was a lawyer, Julian Burnside, who was advocating for our release, plus Miriam Lee, a refugee advocate. We had been in mandatory detention for five years and some of us were offered temporary visas and others, bridging visas. This means we are only allowed to stay here temporarily and have to prove we can be independent of the government or else be returned to Afghanistan where we will be persecuted. ‘Why did you settle in Canberra?’

  Finally, we arrived in Canberra after one night in Brisbane. We stayed in a woman’s house for about a month before being given our own place, this two-bedroom apartment, a 25 minutes walk from the centre of Canberra.

  You are nearly 13 now and going to a Training And Further Education school to learn English. Next year you will attend a high school in year 9. You are still not proficient in English so you will struggle with the other subjects. Unlike me, I have had our story published by my TAFE teacher. And your father and I will continue to study English for a long time.

  Your father hopes to get work on a farm to supplement our Centrelink payments, which are generous. He wants to buy a knitting machine to make jumpers which he could sell at a market, if any exist. He still cannot drive a car but plans to get his licence. Learning English is important for him to pass the written part of the exam, especially if there is no exam in Parsi. I will have to find out for him. ‘What obstacles are there against us staying in Australia?

  We only have a bridging visa for three years, which causes us great distress. I hear that lawyers are advocating against this on our behalf. We need to show we can be financially independent. Your father has also done embroidery but we don’t know if there is a market for this. We would need cloths and threads to begin, so again, money is needed to buy them. I was a tailor/seamstress for other refugees, altering clothes for free. Maybe I can barter to supplement our food items. Your brother is now two years old and I still need to stay at home to mind him. Altering clothes could be done from home.

  We are allowed to earn some money and so we would need tax file numbers and then an Australian Business Number to declare our earnings and claim expenses. There is much to worry about but your father is very happy to be living in Australia, so much so he smiles all the time. We will stay in Canberra while you are studying so you may be with your friends.

  It’s been 10 years since we left Afghanistan. There is no possibility of our returning as there is no future for us there, as well as the danger of being related to my father. Our local church group has supplied all our electrical goods and furniture. We have an air conditioner and a heater so hopefully next winter we won’t catch colds again.

  Remember always the acts of kindness and generosity from people who have never met us. May you grow into a son who is grateful to all those who have taken him in. ‘Thanks Mother, I will remember.’

  9. The Rabbit-O.

  I’m at the beach, on my surf board, trailing my fingers in the water. The sun is shining and the water is keeping me cool…’Wake up, sleepy-head. Are you going to stay there all day? You’ve got chores to do, Nigel. Don’t forget your hat as it’s going to be a scorcher!’ Just my luck, Dad’s home on a hot day when I could be at the beach. I resist reading the next chapter of my book on sailing. I want to join the Sea Scouts but Dad says it costs too much money to get a uniform and everything. He did make a deal, though — I had to do my chores for a month without being reminded. So I was back to square one because he had to wake me up. It was never going to happen at this rate.

  I had breakfast before taking out the scraps bucket for the chooks. I fed them some grain as well and checked their nesting boxes — six eggs today. We lived on eggs because we couldn’t afford anything extra from the shops. Mum baked our bread and Dad supplied the rabbits. He keeps promising to take me with him but it hasn’t happened yet. He thinks I’m too young and that I wouldn’t be able to keep up. Besides, I need a pair of boots for protection plus long pants and a long- sleeved shirt. We could go to the op shop but they’re in the next town. We don’t have a car and I don’t like to ask for a lift from my best mate, Harry. Harry’s alright but he always has new school clothes and books and pencil
s, Derwent even. He gave me a blue one once but only because it was shorter than the others. Of course, we are like chalk and cheese, me being quiet and him noisy. We are of a similar build and play local football. I have to borrow boots to play but Harry’s Dad is happy to give me a lift to our away games.

  So here I am, stuck at the end of town, no-one to play with but I do have my books. At least the lending library truck comes by once a month and I now know the librarian well-enough to talk to. She even makes suggestions for me. I sneak back inside to my bedroom and make a start on my book. Too late…‘Nigel, get out here. I need you to come with me selling these rabbits.’ ‘It’s too hot. And I’ve got a great book to read on sailing.’ ‘Books aren’t going to put food on the table and pay for your Sea Scout uniform.’ My ears prick up and I leap outside, ready to brave all, even to the hat on my head. So we set off with Dad’s hand cart full of rabbits which he’s collected this morning. ‘Rabbit-O! Rabbit-O!’ we yell as we wander round the town. By lunch time we’re parched so Dad paid for two lemon squashes at the milk bar. ‘Reckon we should call it a day, eh Nigel? It’s getting too hot and the townsfolk don’t want to leave their cool houses to buy dinner, even if I do skin it for them.’ I can’t agree more so we head for home.

  I’m too tired to eat lunch, much less go for a swim which is about a mile away. I lay down on my bed, and instantly fell asleep with my sailing book beside me. I dream of going bush looking for my Dad. He’d been caught by one of his traps and he can’t release it. He’s lain there for three nights and is not in a good shape. I find him and release him using my new boots. The other rescuers organise a stretcher and so he ends up in hospital with a broken ankle and lacerations. Now he has to take me hunting for rabbits.

  ‘Why do you catch rabbits, Dad?’ I asked one Saturday. ‘Rabbits are vermin,’ answered Dad. ‘They were brought here from Europe for sport in 1859. I’m sure you could read all about it at the library that you love to visit. Anyway, the farmers hate them because they erode the soil and ring-bark the young trees. The only good rabbit is a dead one.

  ‘You’re going to meet our nearest neighbour one day when you’re older so he’ll know not to shoot you first then ask questions later. I get a shilling from him for every rabbit I find in my traps and he lets me sell them plus keep the skins if I want them, too. The paddock where I trap is free of animals and he rotates his sheep so they’re not caught. ‘

  ‘Why don’t they have a fence to keep them out, Dad?’ ‘They tried that once; it’s in WA. This fence was a beauty, went for miles and miles. Anyway, it didn’t work as rabbits can jump over and burrow under or just hop through if a farmer leaves a gate open. They’re pretty clever.’

  One day, he said, one day he would introduce me to our neighbour, the farmer. Everything was ‘one day’. Why couldn’t he take me out now? Of course, I didn’t have the right boots and being summer, there was the danger of snakes. They scared me a little and I always made a lot of noise when I hung the washing out for Mum. Our backyard grass was always long but Dad wouldn’t let me mow it as I didn’t have any boots or long trousers. How could I get the right boots so I could do the things Dad did and join the Sea Scouts?

  How could I make money without boots? Dad would give me a shilling for every rabbit we sold but we weren’t selling any fast enough for me. People in town weren’t interested in eating rabbit, it was for poor people. Though with the Depression even people from well-to-do houses were coming out and making a sale. I know I’m impatient as Dad keeps telling me. But I really want to be like him and trap the rabbits and sell them. Maybe my dream will come true, but I need my new boots to release the trap.

  It’s funny how you grow up. I used to like hearing bunny stories. The stories were silly but good fun to listen to. There was even a story about a wombat being caught in a trap. It was from a Snugglepot and Cuddlepie picture book by May Gibbs. I felt sorry for the wombat as there was no animal strong enough to release him. Fortunately a human turned up and did just that. There were two other bunny stories for really young kids called picture story books. I can remember Bunbun, the middle one who was a middle child and often in a muddle. The other one was Boo, Bunny with lots of spooky words for Halloween night.

  I once asked Dad for a pet bunny. ‘Could I please have my own bunny? I’ll look after it and feed it and give it water. Please!’ ‘Don’t be stupid, Nigel. We have paddocks full of them next door. People in town pay for them to eat. What about a dog?’ ‘Ok,’ I said and then brightened up. ‘We could help you out with your rabbiting!’ ‘Maybe. Wait and see if we find a suitable dog.’ Of course, we didn’t. We found a mutt in our yard that had obviously run away or been dumped. Let’s call him Mopsy,’ I said. ‘Whatever,’ grunted Dad.

  So I got over having a pet bunny and moved quickly into schooldays and dogs and later swimming. The beach was far enough away that I was hot and tired by the time I got back home. Mopsy loved it and bounced around me despite the heat. Mopsy went to dog heaven one day after chasing a car and I didn’t want another dog. I was looking forward to high school and getting my new boots. They would have to do for school, the Sea Scouts and rabbiting.

  At long last Dad and I went into the big shopping centre by bus. It was the end of the Christmas holidays and the shops were busy. We’d counted up our pounds, shillings and pence and we hoped we had enough to buy the boots and maybe some long trousers. If not, then we would go to the op shop and see what they had.

  I love the tangy smell of leather in shoe shops and couldn’t wait to try on a pair of lace-up boots. We looked in about five shops before Dad headed off for the op shop outside the shopping centre. They had lots of boots and I tried on heaps. Some were too worn and others not the right size. I chose a size 8 of black lace-up boots that protected my ankles. ‘It doesn’t matter if they’re a little worn as you’ll soon grow out of them and we’ll be back for another pair. You’ll be helping me sell rabbits for years.’ ‘That’s OK,’ I said, ‘maybe you’ll let me go bush with you soon and pay me more.’ ‘Maybe.’ So I got my boots and I fulfilled my dream of trapping rabbits. It’s hard yakka but I love it.

  10. The White Shirt.

  Late one evening I was washing Dad’s white shirt. It was his lucky shirt, ever since he put through his first property deal wearing it. That was over five years ago when my mother was still alive and able to wash his shirts. But it was this particular one that he treasured and it could only be washed by hand. When my mother died I was given the job even though I’m a boy who is now twelve years old. Father and I live in a huge house.

  To get to the front door from the living area you have to go up ten steps. The door is solid with no spy-hole to see who is there. And no chain so there is no protection. When Mother was ill we hired a maid to help out with the cooking and cleaning. When I come home from school Rosa is there with a snack for me. The only thing she doesn’t do is wash the white shirt. Father thinks it brings him luck only when he wears the shirt and I wash it.

  But I can’t be doing this when I’m in high school and I start next year. I’ll be busy with my studies and sport like football practice so I won’t have time to wash and iron his shirt. Rosa and Father and I sat down one evening to discuss these matters and Father came to a compromise. If I would wash his shirt at night, Rosa could iron it in the morning if it needed it.

  The following year we put the new plan to the test and father was still successful in his business. So was it my washing the old white shirt or just father wearing this shirt? The day would come when the shirt could no longer be mended by Rosa, and Father would have to buy a new shirt.

  One evening whilst I was washing the original white shirt, the Monsignor came to visit Father. Rosa had gone home and I was all alone. Monsignor didn’t worry me too much as I had little to do with him, but Father put great store by his words and his work. They had both wanted me to be an altar boy but I told them I didn’t like getting up early in the morning and I had to iron father’s shirt. They
left me alone and I was happy about that, even though I had to go to Mass on Sundays with Father. He always wore his old white shirt in case some of the parishioners asked him about properties, which happened quite a lot.

  Monsignor had arrived unannounced on the off-chance that my father was home. I told the Monsignor that he shouldn’t be long and would he like something to drink. ‘No thanks. Do you have a pencil and some paper? he asked. ‘Sure,’ I said and went to find some in father’s office. ‘You probably want to know why I want to draw. I like drawing houses and thought I would start on one of your house. It’s got lots of windows and shutters, a red door and a tiled roof.’ ‘OK,’ I said and brought him the materials to the dining room. I didn’t want him in father’s office as that was his personal space and I didn’t think Father would be too pleased if I left the Monsignor in there, poking around.

  Monsignor finished his sketch and took it home. Father had still not arrived and I was starting to become worried. I didn’t know whether to wait up for him or go to bed. As it was after 10 pm I opted for bed.

  In the morning when I got up, Rosa had arrived and ironed the shirt. But there was still no sign of Father. I went to his bedroom but his bed was still made up. So where had he spent the night? Maybe he was too drunk to come home but he very rarely drank too much, especially when he had to drive home. Whom should we ring? Rosa knew where he was going last night so she rang Mr. Francis but he hadn’t seen Father all evening and wondered where he had gone instead of being at his place. He wasn’t worried and hadn’t bothered to ring us. He suggested we go to father’s office and see whether he had fallen asleep at his desk.

  Rosa and I caught the bus to Father’s office but it was locked and the shutters were down. What next? Perhaps, the police? The station was close by so we walked there to explain our predicament. Fortunately there was no-one before us so we didn’t have to wait very long. The sergeant behind the desk didn’t seem too worried but made some calls, including the hospital, in case Father had been taken there.

  There was nothing at the hospital so the sergeant put up a notice about the missing man and the registration of his car. The sergeant suggested we make a list of his friends and where he had been in the past week.

  Another policeman went to Father’s office and broke in so he could check that father had not fallen down and to look for his diary. There was nothing again. Where could he be and why had he not kept his appointment with Mr Francis? He was going straight there from home so he may have met someone on the way. He would not have gone for a drink and miss his appointment.

  Word soon reached the Monsignor as he was rung to ask about his visit to our house. He could confirm Father was out and only his son at home. He even showed the drawing of our house to prove he was there. The police were baffled but the Monsignor was able to give the names and telephone numbers of people in his parish who knew Father.

  Each person was visited and each time the police drew a blank. His doctor was asked if Father succumbed to black-outs but no, nothing had been spoken of when Father came for his annual check-up. Pawn shops were the next port-of-call by the police but, again, no-one had brought in any male jewellery.

  That evening, on the news, the police commissioner and the Monsignor were interviewed with both requesting the public to check their sheds in case Father had collapsed and fallen asleep. There was no other explanation.

  If only he had been wearing his white shirt which contained magical qualities. Rosa stayed at our house that night as the telephone kept ringing with friends asking for news. It was the first time in five years that I had not had to wash his white shirt.

  The next day brought more of the same. The police came round twice to let us know they were no further in their investigation. ‘I can’t go to school with Father missing. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate. Rosa is looking after me. Is there anything I can do?’ ‘Yes,’ said the policeman who was doing all the talking. He was tall and softly spoken, a good one to have around to keep everyone calm.

  ‘Have you checked everywhere in the house, cupboards? Have you checked your shed?’ ‘Yes we have but you’re welcome to double-check,’ I said. He and the policewoman pulled on gloves and started their search of the house. They also checked his office for a diary which they found under some papers. At last they had a clue to where he could have gone but it pointed to home — he was expecting the Monsignor. Then we heard an exclamation and Father came rushing into the lounge room where we were. He raced out the door with the police in pursuit. What was going on?

  It seemed hours later when the police revisited us. They had caught up with Father who gave a long-winded explanation as to why he was hiding in his own office. We were amazed we didn’t know but, of course, this was the only place left in town unless he had been driven away. It transpired that a shady deal had been struck and Father wanted to withdraw. The buyer wouldn’t let him and he didn’t know what to do.

  Only the Monsignor knew Father’s secret and he had helped him to hide. Now it was up to the police to prosecute the buyer. We might even have to go into Witness Protection as this person is renowned for killing people who don’t agree with him. So much for the luck of the old white shirt. I suggested Father change colours but not to yellow, which was for cowards.

  11. Comprehension Questions.

 

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