Seymour And Weep

From where I am in the great sweep of the Universe, to get from Point A to anywhere else requires a voyage a la trein  if you are sans un voiture, as I am these days.
One boards at the tiny halt at the bottom of Cowslip Street, which I hastily did, along with a chap who asked, rhetorically I assumed, as I would clearly have no idea, and could care even less; " I wonder if it's the "City of Morwell" or the "City of Wangaratta",  indicating the locomotive engine, as it  thrummed into the station. "Its always one or the other." It turned out to be the former, causing a smirk of satisfaction from my co-entrainer. "Correct, again ." the smirk said.  These are the things one worries about, if one stays too long in one small town in the countryside, from innocent childhood, through an uninquisitive middlehood, to budding querellous senility .Little victories.

Seymour Railway Station

There seemed to be an air of impatience attending the large basso profundo humming machine, having to pause in it's throb through the Northeast, so one was encouraged to be quick about boarding. We were soon away. I intended to go to Melbourne to attend some business and a spot of "must have" shopping, but a last minute change saw me detrain at the small town of Seymour, some one hundred k's shy of my original destination.

 Although I had never before actually set foot in the town, I was reasonably confident of being able to obtain what I needed, as the place, from the train window,  seemed to be of a fair size, and  very few places in a first world country like Australia Felix, have escaped the tentacles of marketing and free enterprise in the global village. You can be mistaken, you know.

As I walked out of the station, through a shallow, brick lined tunnel that passed under the railway lines, I observed, with a slight tremor of consternation , a large round person of the feminine pursuasion, lumbering towards me at a pace which, although not  FloJo velocity, was swift enough to cause we convocation of detrainers to part like the Red Sea, in fear of being flattened like proverbial tacks. Her only connection with the athletic exploits of said,  late FloJo, was a probable injestion of some chemical substance which enabled her to break into a pace other than an elephantine plod.

Her progress was accompained by those particular screeches which females of a certain age, say from thirteen to about twenty years, these days utter when approaching their compatriots, and as I turned to see her likely quarry, I was assured  this was indeed the case.
She fell upon a pair of  her fellows, a rather lumpy bloke, ardently clinging to his highschool girl companion, he in dusty stained black tracky dacks and a T shirt of indeterminate hue, greasy dark hair and a fair crop of acne. His paramour wore a blue check school uniform summer dress, of a length I believe these days is called Hornsby; that is to say, just below The Entrance. She  topped this with  a "Windcheater", school logo imprinted thereon. I did not manage to read said logo, to ascertain which particular seat of learning she hailed from. As she and the screeching farago clashed in the middle of the tunnel, there was a cry from the student along the lines of " Ya don't havta barrell me ya fuckin' moll-get fuckin' off!" followed by more screeches from both. The black clad moron stood about, akimbo, with a stupid look. Probably deaf, I thought, with a twinge of envy.

 I gathered that she was not numbered among the alumnus of Gennazzano or Melbourne Girls Grammar School, although the language used would not necessarily have been an indicator. I thought rather,  her choice of beau was a more reliable sign. Although the stupidity quotient might have been on par, the ladies of Gen and MCCEGGS usually only permit themselves to be handled by chaps with much better teeth, and with personal hygeine, supervised by their Mumsies. A rather interesting welcome to the town, I thought. It is probably a good thing to be so uninhibited in such public demonstrations of affection. I would not know.

My first duty was to find a branch of my bank, and I wandered about more or less in search of same. It was only a little after nine o'clock, and a steady rain washed the rather glum looking streets. I assumed that there would be a part of the town given over to all the merchant activity we have come to think we need, in this day and age.  So I meandered around the few shops, expecting that eventually the whole bustling metropolis would appear. As I have mentioned, you can be mistaken, No such vista offered itself, which I thought unusual.
Euroa, a smaller town further north, where I have shopped and explored the excellent book shop, is a case in point. Still with covered verandahs down each side of the main drag, most things one wants are there. An added attraction to visiting the town is it's brace of quite beautiful Victorian buildings, an old bank now a private house, some fine public buildings, particularly  the decommisioned court house and another bank, which claim connection to Ned Kelly, are architecturally interesting and speak of an earlier epoch, pre Federation, when towns like these prospered and thrived, mostly on the sheep's back.
 Ned and his gang; a group of bank robbers/police killers/horse thieves/ thugs/colonial heroes/transvestite nee'r do well bounders, inhabit the social history of many towns up, down and across the Strathbogie Ranges, from Donnybrook to Glenrowan, and into New South Wales, to Jerilderie at least.
Benalla is another. Again with courthouse, bank and colonial lockup now a butchershop, again  with connection to the Gang. Excellent shopping each side of a wide shady thoroughfare. Rowses, Rowses everywhere, a lake complete with fountain and boatsheds. The streets have a solid, dependable country look that bespeaks a town which has not forgotten it's halcyon times, and indeed might still be expecting them to re-appear any day now. Open faced, happy looking people inhabit both these places, and upon leaving the train earlier, I was supposing that Seymour would be much the same. Nah.
 I searched among the couple of thoroughfares around the railway station for a branch of my bank, but no such luck.
 I spied a few matronly women setting up a fund raising initiative in a small piazza between some shops of the sort which trade in men's and women's clothing, kitchen implements, and a gift shop or two, offering the sorts of gimcrackery that find it's way into your local Opshop, a year or two after purchase.The women set up card tables, home baked goods, raffle tickets, and an old tartan biscuit tin or two for small change, raffle books and biros.  With collapsible chairs, travelling rugs and knitting, they seemed set for a day's fund raising and gossip.

An approach to one likely mesdame,  punctilious about a mannerly opening gambit, aware that a certain generation are sticklers for these things, I wondered aloud if she might be able to advise me of the whereabouts of X bank?
"Cripes, I dunno" she said, not looking up from her purling and plaining. None of her companions seemed to know either. Well if they did, they were going to keep it to themselves. Faced with such implacable silence, I did not feel the need to embark on any formal farewell. I walked on. Nothing to see here.

At around 9.30am I encountered my first drunk of the day. A thin bloke sprawled on a bench in the street, he held a bottle of something, still in it's brown bag, held up to his lips with one shaking hand, the other holding a thin cigarette which I knew as a 'racehorse" in my youth. This was held in black nicotine stained fingers, which were a common sight once, but not so much now in these more health conscious days. Health was not a priority for this bloke obviously, as each swig was accompained by a hacking cough that shook his thin frame, causing his feet to leave the ground and his body to double up. He kept a firm grip on both booze and fag, however, and at the cessation of his mild fit, he continued on imbibing and inhaling.  Not much point asking him for directions. The other street traffic went about their lives oblivious, so when in Rome.

 My second drunk  leaned against a motor vehicle parked outside the Liquor barn of one of the chain supermarkets. I had wandered about some more, realising that my break in journey  had all the hallmarks of one of my usual impetuous blunders, and had fetched up  in a small arcade leading to either Coles or Woollies, which was exactly where I  did not want to be.
Drunk Number two was a tall loutish looking chap, probably somewhere between twenty and forty. There is a particular sort of Australian male, a subspecies within the Genus HomoErectus Australis, I name for want of a better-Crassus Ignoramus Moronicus. He (or She) is visually distinct from another subspecies found on the streets, (equally best avoided.) Dentus Absentus Docket headicus Junkycus.
D#2(C-I-M) nursed his can of either Bundy and Coke or Southern Comfort and whatever, making it last. He was, as I mentioned, tall and solid. with a huge gut hanging over tight legged jeans that ended in a pair of scuffed and dirty Blundstones, which had never been cleaned since the day he put them on.
Any sign of pride in personal appearance in this subspecies is looked upon as having poofterish tendencies, and clean footwear, which by the way, always  consist of either the aforementioned  boots or an equally dirty pair of sneakers, will earn you the scorn of your mates, who won't want it known that they even know a poofter, let alone have a mate who dresses like one. This, along with unironed clothes, the non wearing of a suit and tie (even at weddings, funerals, or court appearances)  is inculcated at about 12 years of age, so D#2 had many years of conforming to type. He had also a florid complexion under a scaly unshaven four day growth, bleary bloodshot eyes, rimed with a hoar frost of sleep. All true to the breed.
The usual truculent expression, I assumed, was on this occasion exacerbated by the fact that the liquor barn could not commence trading until eleven am, which was some 30 minutes in the future, requiring him to nurse his can a while longer before he could get a replenishing slab, I supposed, to get him through the day. I offered a silent prayer that he was not driving a car, in the hope he would not cause the death of some innocent abroad. He himself? Well, fuck him, and all his breed, I thought. A single vehicle crash on a deserted back road would be one less.
A sense of frustration is begining to assail me. I ask at the cigarette counter of the Supermarket for directions: "X Bank? No, there is no X Bank here If you go to the end of the carpark, go under the bridge at the roundabout, on the other side of the railway, there might be a branch there, but I couldn't really say "

At least she was being helpful. Unhelpfully helpfull, but she displayed a willingness to communicate and that, in itself was, a leap forward.
"How about X Store?"
"There used to be one here a while ago, but it closed."
Right. So my sojourn in this dump has proved to be totally pointless. I am reluctant to set off on a search that might, probably will be fruitless. The train back home doesn't leave until well after midday and it wants little for eleven am. Never mind, I'm going back to the railway station, and will wait in high dudgeon for it's saving hoot to carry me away, never to return. Which I do.
Seymour Station is a pretty building. Pointed and tucked brickwork of an unusual (for Victoria) purply red colour with lots of quoining. Not the usual bluestone, so prevalent in the north in places like Woodend,  Kyneton, Malmsbury, Carlsruhe. Bluestone is the Victorian signature. Bridges, viaducts, churches, farmhouses from Rupert Clark's fifedom  to the great squatocracies in the Western district, Camperdown, Hamilton, Mortlake. Back when the railway was king. The stone lends itself to stolidity. Expensive to quarry, cart and build, which told the tale of the emergence of the land owning gentry. If you could afford that, you were on your way.
If your family seat was one of the bluestone variety, tucked with a pale mortar to highlight the dark heavy stone,  reached by a long winding carriageway, planted about with fir or cypress windbreaks, the house overhung with a Rambling Rector over the portico and around the square paned windows, you were made. You were someone. Not  Crassus Ignoramus Moronicus anyway.  Countryparticus Borntoruleicus probably. Equally repellent, but is another kettle of fish entirely.

I wandered around the Station. In the days of rail, it had a Refreshment Room of some note. It is still there, but in straightened circumstances. Still a large space, with attractive crown mouldings, Victorian overhead lighting,and some panelling remain, as does the long wooden counter which runs for most of it's twenty or thirty feet length. The kitchen is still there, but only produces snack food, the inevitable pies, chips and mundane sandwiches. Mine host, a slight little bloke is in black tracksuit pants and boots, which I have decided must be regional costume  in these parts, as every second person I have seen this day, is thus attired. Much like Lederhosen in Munich, or the woollen cap of a Basque cheesemaker, the blacktracksuit pants of your Seymourian is a readily identifiable cultural garb.
I'm sure,  in the sometime, never, when I do my long planned trip to Fromelles, via Turkey then ferry to Brindisi,  if I come across les touristes queueing up outside the Ufizzi; or"The Madonna of the Rocks" in the Louvre; or even waiting to take the ferry across to the Asian side in Istanbul; if any of them are clad in black trackies,  feet shod in dirty blunnies, I'll be able to shout out "Hey Seymour, get a dog up ya!" and he/she will immediately feel not so far from home.

Far from home is probably what the subjects were feeling,  as they had their photographs taken, while they sat down to a meal in the Refreshment Rooms more than half a century ago These subjects were part of the great wave of immigration to Australia that took place in the late 1940's and 50's. They would have arrived in Port Melbourne, aboard the Angelino Lauro, Fairstar or Fairsky, Orcades or Orontes, or perhaps the magnificently named Johann Van Oldenbarneveldt, and quickly loaded onto trains on Station Pier, hissing and steaming, waiting for the trip to Bonegilla Migrant Camp, out of Albury on the Victorian-New South Wales border. To begin a new life in a new country, where most likely their first Antipodean meal would have been in Seymour.

These photographs line the walls of the Rooms. Black and White of course, they are so sharp in their detail, and so completely encapsulate their moment, suddenly I'm glad that for all the frustration of the day, I'm able to see these wonderful images, not only of a time long gone, but of a very important record of the social change impacting not only on the Immigrants but on their heretofore predominantly Anglo Saxon, hosts.

My eyes are drawn to the waitresses, what they wore.  Starched pinafores, over the uniforms, what colour? Pale green I'm thinking. The pale green of servitude.They wear sturdy shoes, some have socks on. Maybe they are lesbians. Is it a sign?  Perhaps like the bunch of violets the daughters of Sappho wore in the 30's Bloomsbury set.  Oh well, a random thought.  Covered cakestands, electroplate jugs,coffeepots and teapots. Solid white crockery, it would have VR stamped in blue. The coffee would have been good, Railway coffee in those days was excellent. Well, that is to say good as far as your rail travelling  Australian was concerned. It certainly did not have the harsh reputation of British Railways tea.The migrants might have had better coffee in their native villages, but six weeks on a British liner would have dulled those memories.

Look at them. They look tired. There are only women and children at the tables Wearing war time clothes, ill fitting. Overcoats and pullovers. Of Course!! the socks. It's winter time and the constantly opening doors from the station outside would bring icy draughts whistling around your legs. Your finely turned heterosexual, womanly Australian legs.Sorry OK?  A young mother is offering a cup to a small child, who looks fractious and weary. An uneaten meal sits before her. Big thick sausages, and an ice cream scoop of something pale and unappetising, probably mashed potato.What a meal for a child. A first meal on Australian soil. In Seymour of all places. Welcome to the great southern land of stodge. To recoil from a Railway Cafeteria meal is one thing, wait a few more hours until you get a smell of the fumes of mutton overhanging the Nissan huts of Bonegilla, and you'll wish you were back in the Bay of Biscay.

In the photographs all the men sit at one long table at the back of the room. I imagine that most of them will go to the Snowy Mountains Hydro Electrical scheme. The biggest infrastructure undertaking in Australia up until that time. Where are our big schemes now I wonder? We need tunnels, bridges, railways, water. We need manufacturing, we need our own cars, ships, shoes, Television stets for Goodness sake. I wander about the photographs. Europe has gone to hell in a handcart once again, I'm thinking. Same handcart, same hell as these people were escaping , not because of Hitler this time round,  but another monster. He doesn't live in Bertchesgarten, but Wall Street.
In the end I'm paraphrasing Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard.
 In Australia it's not the schemes that got small, its the politicians. Too scared to take a big idea to the people. To timid and poll driven to voice a plan for the future. The future seems to be only as far as the next By-Election. Tony Abbott says "Election now"  "Election now." not because he wants to DO anything, but because he knows he can win without doing anything. Julia won't  deal with Craig Whosit because her majority will be paper thin if she does.

I fish out a book from the old Gladstone bag, and wait for the train. "Venice" Peter Ackroyd. I love his use of language, and I'm losing myself in it. A youngish chap lurches through the door and stares blankly at the sparse chalked menu at the counter. He carries a plastic bag that clinks when he puts it at his feet. Either he can't decipher the menu, as he sways before it, or there is nothing he wants to buy.  He apparently decides that he is no longer hungry or in any event his mind wanders, as he fixes his stare on the bag at his feet for some moments. As though he suddenly remembers that it is his, he gathers it up and stumbles back through the door. A moment or so later there is a glassy crash from somewhere on the platform, and a yeasty smell permeates the room. Drunk Number Three, I muse. The whole town seems full of them, and it's only midday. On a Tuesday.

I can hear a conversation between two young girls sitting on the platform.
"You know Hughesie" one of them is saying. "Well did you see the interview on The Project he did with the Pope?"
Nah. I didn't know he met the Pope, was Hughsie, like you know, in Rome or  like somewhere?"
"Yeah,no he wasn't in Rome or nothin', He was like here."
"Like here, ya mean. Like in- you know, Seymour"
"Don't be fuckin' stupid. Nah- like in Melbourne."
"I reckon the Pope hasn't been to Melbourne"
"He was in Melbourne, he like- was in that place in Braybrook where they all go"
"Where who go?"
"Like all those people, like you know, that wear those red and orange robes that like, shave their heads and stuff"
"That wasn't the Pope, that was the Dalai Lama"
"What the fuck's a Dalai Lama?"
"He's like an Asian guy, he's sort of good to people, and he, like, laughs a lot an' that, He said Hughsie had funny eyes."
"Not the Pope"
"Nah the Pope's like  the boss of like,  Catholics. He's not Asian. I heard he was, like a Nazi during the war or somethin'
"What's a Nazi?"

I put the book away. Peter Ackroyd cannot compete.

Please Lord, send the train. Like now, if you want. Like, you know, soon. Please.

The Spring Gully Dance.

THE SPRING GULLY DANCE

The hall rides upon the verge

A powder blue ship of state.

Nearby the General Store is closed and barred,

For the hour approaches eight.

Inside the hall upon the stage,

The “Treble Clefs” tune and trill,

Wearing silver lame waistcoats

Adorned with tuck and frill.

A California Poppied Keith or Jack

All belly, boots and tie,

Casts damp sawdust here and there,

To ensure the dust will lie.

St Joseph’s P and F are “front of house”

To sell admission chits,

Which cover the raffle and supper for the throng

The paper piece admits.

Gradually the dancers arrive, as darkness

Falls without.

The ladies daintily step across the park,

Their menfolk stride about.

As the frogs and moon and stars come out

To croak and gleam and shine,

The breeze sighs gently on the native grass

Through the strand of sugar pine.

The menfolk have a ruddy well fed look,

The “girls” have dancing pumps close to hand.

With a bright birdlike glance,

They finger “hello” to the band.

Some huddle in small familial groups

Some step and test the floor.

Some sit to fit their dancing shoes,

With one eye on the door.

Beryl, on pianoforte, notes the hour, by the watch upon her wrist,

And gives a rolling, thumping left hand down

With a right hand finger twist.

Wally riffs and taps a roll, upon the aged snare,

Les lifts up the saxophone, glinting brassy in the glare.

Wally announces “Evening Two Step”

And they play the dancers in,

From where they sit around the walls.

And gently, they begin.

The first, more ebullient couples, promenade with precision militaire,

They slide, and skip, and dip and turn,

With a graceful, insouciant air.

With nods, and smiles of recognition,

 Though their numbers still are few.

The Goornong mob is still to come,

And the Eaglehawk bus is due.

Alf, (in his Quiberon blazer) ingratiates himself

With a couple he just met,

Muriel wears her cardy like a cloak, while stepping briskly through the set.

Soon the hall is full of folThey dance and chatter bright.

They “Dorothea” and “Pride of Erin”.

 The moon sails through the night.

As if by giant magnet draws,

All eyes to the door.

And fix on beauteous Esmeralda and her beau,

Does someone whisper “Whore?”

Her beau is Jason, callow youth

All muscle slim and taut.

A lanky looselimbed rawboned frame

She the tutor, he the minstrel at her court.

With pursed lips and eyebrows arched

A waspish answer sought

Who sees what in whom?

What is sold and what is bought?

She is a local single mum,

Who rents a farm house near

She has a grown up strapping son

Whose chiefest love is beer.

He moved away to Melbourne

He said in search of work

But the local horny handed men of toil

Said he was a lazy Turk.

Now Esmeralda teaches Jason

Each step, and turn, and pause.

She knows the tongues are wagging,

And she knows she gives them cause.

She flaunts his angled beauty,

He parades his virile youth.

In the fluorescent rest room glow

Some dancers confront their truth.

“Sweet Little Alice Blue Gown” is played,

“Lily of Laguna” and “China Doll”

“Red Red Robin” bobs along

“My Silver Bell” has taken toll

“I Get the Blues When It Rains”

They dance and sing along.

The Committee repair to the kitchen,

Which means supper won’t be long.

Wally announces that refreshment will be served

At the end of the next set.

And invites the followers of Terpsichore

To take partners for “Tangoette”

As the Latin staccato strains begin, the dancers stamp and wheel

Alf notices with thin lipped satisfaction

The boy in Esmeralda’s grip

Is decidedly down at heel.

With a flourish then and some relief,

The band played to a break

As is their wont, they end the set

“Everybody Ask For-TruBake”

The kitchen doors are now thrown wide as dancers become melee,

For fish paste sandwiches and lamingtons,

Washed down with cups of tea,

“It was all over my Jealousy”

Seems somehow apt this night,

As Esmeralda and muscled pretty boy

Parade beneath the mirrored light.

It is as though the room grows silent

 In some breasts the knowledge grows

 The sap has long since risen

 The bloom is off the rose.

Others, more content in love

Are happy with their lot

Scarce give a thought to this little scene,

Or whatever Jason’s got.

They fit each other comfortably

Like suits of well worn clothes,

 Warm and aptly fitted,

New sap and fresh bloom grows.

                         

 So the evening sails along,

“Monte Carlo” “Barn Dance” Then door prize won.

“Gypsy Tap”, now “Goodnight Sweetheart”

Ends the fun.

Home to bed in married bliss,

Or spinsters chilly cot,

Car and Ute and bus depart,

Leaving Alf to count his lot.

Upon the sunny Sunday morning,

At her farmhouse, on her hill,

Esmeralda wanders from her bed,

Where her love is sleeping still.

She meanders though the dewy meadow,

And turns to retrace her way,

In her hands she holds a violet rose,

For a childish game to play.

She remembers it from childhood,

As she loiters on the trip,

She plucks each velvet petal,

From the purple bloom to strip.

As the petals flutter, she speaks the childish rhyme,

 As Jason snores a peaceful sleep

In ignorance sublime.

Afraid of what the future holds, she does it all the time.

Her grip on youth is weakening, for time is on the trot.

The last two petals voice her fear.

 He loves me,

 Loves me not.

 

The Mother Lode

       Whenever a north wind moaned in the summer it caught the stench from dye factories, oil refineries, tanneries, rendering works and abattoirs lining the Maribyrnong River, spreading an amalgam of noxious odours over the flat, brown, clay baked suburb of Junction.

      You could choke.  Mrs. Carmody, round in Castley Crescent said old people sometimes did. When it blew, housewives shut the doors and windows of their Ministry houses. Those who had them, pulled down their blinds, to escape a smell so pungent it had taste and colour to it.

       Some kids walked to Ballarat road to wait for the bus that would take them to the Armsprawn baths, spend the day in the water, and if a late change arrived, come home in the cool afternoon sunburned and sore, the hair of blondes like Maureen, dyed to a green hue from the chemicals in the pool.

      On arrival at the bus stop they were surprised to find a small crowd gathered to watch the Olympic torch relay travel to the MCG, awaiting the runner in his baggy white shorts, tee shirt and Donlap Volares, who soon loped into view.  A tall manly figure from one of the colleges in the eastern suburbs, he had sweet regular features, muscled limbs, and a wide white smile.  His father had driven him out to the Sunray Town Hall to join the team that would share the relay through this western wilderness. Neither parent nor son had visited this part of Melbourne before, and never would again.

       In the young man’s later career as a solicitor, as he did not specialise in criminal law, Junction was rarely mentioned. On those occasions he immediately conjured up memories of a blistering north wind, timorous silent people, a foul cloying stench of noxious industry, and was again pleased he lived in Surreythorn.

      The kids having forgotten, or perhaps not having been told about the relay, were happy to observe the runner’s progress while they waited for the bus. A fire truck, police vehicles, Olympic officials of various ilk and sundry local dignitaries in big motor cars, escorted the runner fore and aft. For a moment a few of the kids thought the Queen was visiting  as she had  done two years before, deciding this time to honour Junction with her presence. The appearance of the runner holding aloft the smoking replica of a miner’s lamp, soon decided that.

      “Perhaps it’s the Queen?”  Brian, aged eleven had said. He had a striped bath towel around his neck, sunglasses hiding his mild eyes. “Remember when we lived in Marivale and she came down Mount Alexander Road?  The nuns heard the cheering from St Hortense’s”

      “You’re the only queen here” said his sister Maureen, aged twelve. Her fox terrier hazel eyes glinted with malice, she set her lips in the self satisfied way she always did whenever she thought she had stumbled upon a truth.

       Behind the sunglasses Brian ignored the taunt, not entirely sure what it meant, even though Pop, had shouted it earlier in the morning.  Brian had swept into the kitchen wearing a voluminous dressing gown made from heavy grey stuff with a maroon window pane check, gathered and pleated, with big red buttons.  Maureen had overheard the epithet the way she overheard everything, and saved it up as was her wont, against the time she could use it. Brian thought the garment was just something to wear.

      The gown had been in a parcel brought by Leo Limerick of Salvation De Pedro, who visited the house every couple of months with a food hamper or vouchers, sometimes bed linen, and in the winter, arranged for firewood.  No one else wanted the ugly robe so Brian claimed it as his own. The only other item he made use of was a pair of boots Leo provided.  Brian’s mother Gloria said she was certain he would play football if only he had some boots.  Gloria took them to the boot maker to have the stops banged into the soles and heels. Not having played before, Brian was very bad at football and was taken off the ground during the first quarter for holding the ball. He did not know what else to do with it. Following a kick to a thigh from one of his own team, he sat on the sidelines in the still shiny boots until the end of the game and never played again.

      Both children thought that Leo was keen on Gloria, and although she flirted with a careful piety because Leo, with holy pictures in his Gladstone bag and rosary beads in his fob pocket was very Catholic, they knew nothing would come of it.

      Leo had started to visit the family after Sister Mary Josepha found out from another child that Maureen and Brian were not coming to school, because until Pension day, Gloria did not have the bus fares to get them to Armsprawn.

       He was very religious, a bachelor of  late middle age looking to marry, and thought that a penniless widow aged forty  would see value in him, and Gloria was still pretty.  She had already made one bad marriage however, and when her husband died three years ago, she determined not to repeat the mistake of marrying an older man she did not love.

       There was Ken Harrison, a friend of their Marivale neighbours, Esmae and Clem Felmingham.  Ken lived alone in a big brick house in Aspentone, and owned a bathing box on the foreshore.  Gloria seemed to Brian to be cross when he did not want to take up Ken’s kind offer of a weekend at the box, so that he could take him fishing.

      A dinghy was lashed into the ceiling of the box, a pair of oars crossed over the lumpy bed jammed against one wall, and maritime artefacts such as lifebuoys, signal lamps, nets, fishing rods and the like, covered the other walls. A kerosene fridge kept the beer cold, always with room for fresh bait. 

       “Wouldn’t you like to stay this close to the sea, and hear it pounding all night?” Gloria said, as they watched the green water crash against the sea wall.

       “No” said Brian.

      “Why not?  Are you afraid of the sea?” She said coldly with her blue eyed stare, thinking of the big brick house.

      “I just don’t. That’s all” said Brian.  He did not like Ken.

      “Coward” said Maureen

      Ken, who smelled of stale beer and cheap roly weed, had a lined seamy face with a skin tag on one eyelid, eyes yellow and dull from booze. Always, it seemed, a thin cigarette rolled with Bally Ho paper stained with brown spittle, was stuck to his bottom lip.  He habitually wore a slouch hat from his days as a Rat of Tobruk.

      On a Saturday afternoon, as Maureen and Brian sat in Ken’s black De Soto parked outside the Waning Moon Hotel, Ken came out and gave them each a bottle of Boon Spa lemonade and a Chocko Roll, warning them to behave themselves in that big landing craft of a car.  He and Gloria eventually came out of the hotel lounge and they were off. On the way, Gloria, dizzy from all the cold beer, the yawing and pitching of the great vehicle, vomited all over her seat.  “Arr, Cripes” said Ken.  From the front gate, Ken said he would not come in on this occasion.

       “We don’t see the Felminghams anymore since we left Marivale” Gloria said a while later, “And I suppose Ken finds it difficult to get all the way over here.”

      The Felminghams visited Gloria only once, a while after the family moved to Junction. They found her in the barren, flat backyard; empty save a large metal drum sitting four square in the centre, which served as an incinerator.  She was feeding pictures and framed photographs into it, which had decorated the lounge room in Marivale.

       Her parents wedding portrait went in, her Irish Grandfather, full beard, dark suit, striped tie and celluloid collar, killed at the railway gates in Craigie lea,  Sacred Heart of Jesus, Immaculate Heart of Mary, all looking disconsolate at being thus immolated. In a heavy cedar frame, Pop’s Great Uncle Patrick, a handsome Irish Canon murdered in Dunmanway by the Black and Tans.   Elegant in flowing Soutanne, elaborate lace Amice, and Biretta, he offered his perfect profile to the now roaring fire

      Distressed and shocked by the look on Gloria’s face, eyes shining as she wreaked the vandalism, Clem and Esmae thought they had better clear out before Pop came back from the pub. They never came again.

      Maureen told Brian she once found a book in Clem’s garage, where he tinkered with his Morris 10 on Sunday afternoons.   Maureen had been able to observe Clem thumbing through the book, by keeping still while squinting through a broken window covered with chicken wire. The book had pictures of naked men wearing sandshoes, and naked women wearing high heels with ribbon ties at the ankles, like the black suede pair Auntie Gwendolyn had. The men and women were playing games like quoits, shuttlecock and volley ball.  Both sexes had big white rumps and heavy limbs.  Clem jammed the book behind some paint tins Maureen said, when he went to find Esmae about something urgent.

        “You couldn’t see anything rude” Maureen said, “It’s smudgy in those parts. See for yourself, I couldn’t put it back in the garage because Fellmo came out, so I ran home and hid it under your mattress.  It’s yours now, if you say anything it will be a mortal sin”

      Gloria’s Cousin, Ralph, whose wife had died the year before, called in occasionally to see how she was managing. He took them to the Drive In on Rosamond Road, on opening night. They could not get in, as the “House Full” sign went up almost straight away.  Ralph drove his Hillman Minx over to the Marivale Theatre in Onion Road to see “Rock Around The Clock.”

       Gloria was worried because the audience was largely made up of noisy, tough looking young people, wearing clothes which accentuated the shape of their bodies. During a scene when one of the actresses, describing a dress she was wearing said, “It spells S-E-X”, the noisy young toughs all shouted out “SEX”, drumming their feet on the floor, and cackled with laughter at their own bravado. Gloria, horrified, wanted to leave there and then. She supposed they were these Bodgies and Widgies one was reading about in the Argus, and hearing about on 3AW.

        Usually, she went to the pictures only in the city, to the Regent or the State where one never called out or stamped one’s feet. She told her family later it was the worst night of her life, the raw animal behaviour of the crowd unsettling her so deeply she hardly slept.  When Ralph was driving them home to Junction he kept asking Gloria if the kids were asleep. “Maureen’s wide awake, the little miss.” she said, noticing the child’s gleaming eyes reflecting the traffic and the street lights. Waiting in anticipation of what she might see.

      Ralph worked at Montello Chemical Plant out on Geelong Road and sometimes brought things he thought they could use. A carving knife, a five gallon glass jar, a thick length of Strasbourg sausage that must have weighed over two pounds.  The kids and Pop always knew when he’d called to say “G’day” by the odd items he left behind.  He called usually on Pension day when Pop met his sisters, “The Aunts”, for lunch and a few beers at the London Hotel, and the kids were at school.  Ralph eventually married a woman called Druzka whose husband had been accidentally killed in the Blizzard Mountains Hydro Electric Scheme, and stopped coming around.

      Before the last “Widows Association” Christmas party, Gloria said this time they would not have to travel to the Zoo in the back of a hired furniture van with all the other widows and children, as they had previously.  She added that Mr Cheatley, whose wife was not well, did not get out much, and never went to these things, would be taking them in his Armstrong Siddley.  In the months prior to the party, Mr Cheatley had been calling occasionally to see how they were getting along.

      The car was a luxurious vehicle, just the sort an Executive of a Charitable Organization would drive. Brian felt like Royalty when the tyres crunched over the gravel driveway to the main entrance, people staring into the car trying to see who was so important. Brian looked straight ahead the way he thought he should, resisting a magisterial wave.

      The people in charge of the gifts had his age wrong, the zero was missing. When he went up to receive his present, he glumly accepted the plastic toy and cardboard book suitable for a one year old and scuttled away from Father Christmas, whose beard, Brian could plainly see, was attached to his cheeks with some sort of green braid.

      They had Maureen’s age wrong also, and upon receiving an expensive Chemistry set, she stared blankly at the box and hissed to Gloria that she did not want it. Thankfully Gloria found a pleasant young man who was able to exchange it for something more feminine and suitable. Mr Cheatley called a couple of times afterwards. Then, as his wife had begun to feel more like being up and about, ceased his visits entirely.

       The bus dropped the kids a short walk from the pool, and once there they went straight out onto the deck as they wore their bathers beneath their clothes, to save getting undressed in the sheds. Brian hid his sunglasses in his towel and jumped into the water.  They showed each other how they could dive from the three metre board, and how long they could hold their breath under water. It was hard to swim for any distance as the pool became very crowded, so they contented themselves with restrained skylarking and keeping cool.

       When Brian got out of the water to dry himself he found that his sunglasses had been removed from his towel, which was to be expected. He looked up to see Albert Sunday wearing them, waving from the diving board to no one in particular, before bombing into the crowd of swimmers below.  He came to the surface without wearing the glasses, which was also to be expected.

      Albert Sunday was the son among the three children of George and Hilda Sunday, the English family who lived in Brian’s street. Their houses shared the same design, except that the Sunday’s house was sited down the block, rather than across it, as was Brian’s. When the houses were built, the two and three bedroom designs were alternately sited throughout the seemingly endless, treeless estate.  The Ministry  thought that the streetscape  would be less uniform and boring that way, except that they all shared the same low post and rail fences, painted with black sump oil, and cyclone wire gates painted Indian red. They were the same, only different.

      Albert had two sisters, Lorelei and Linda.  Lorelei was very beautiful with long blonde hair, flawless pale skin, and eyes Brian thought, the same unusual shade of violet shared by Elizabeth Tyler and Princess Martinette. Lorelei had gone to Sydney when she was seventeen, and came home occasionally. The last time accompanied by two broad shouldered sailors, who stayed until the Shore Patrol came at six thirty one morning and took them away.  Maureen was able to elicit from Linda, who was a coarse unpleasant child, that Lorelei was engaged to a man who owned a nightclub in King’s Cross, which probably explained the expensive clothes she wore.

      Brian didn’t speak to Albert often. No one did. Maureen, never.  Albert had a defect that made his face go into all sorts of strictures when speaking, which Brian found embarrassing. People avoided having to engage Albert in conversation because it was so time consuming. On the day Gloria and her family moved in, Albert came to the door and eventually asked if her “bruvva” could come and play.  This “bruvva” Gloria assumed, was Brian, so she sent him off with Albert to get him out of the house. The two boys walked around the roads. Albert sang “The Junction Song” which he was clearly inventing while they roamed as far as the river, torpid and green with industrial sludge, past the slaughter yards where cattle patiently waited to be killed.

       Albert took him to meet his mother, who sat motionless in a tattered arm chair in her darkened lounge room, wide hips jammed into the seat, staring at Brian.

 “This is Brian” Albert said, eventually.  “He don’t know how cows have babies”

“He’ll soon learn” his mother said, wearily.  Brian said he’d better be going as it was getting late. Hilda impassive and immobile watched him leave, seeming to enjoy his embarrassment as he stumbled to the front door, struggled with a lock he could not open, retreated, ran down the central passageway to the back door and fled.

      In the late afternoon Maureen and Brian arrived home, where Gloria and Pop were listening to the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games, on the wireless. Gloria lay on the couch in the hot lounge room in her petticoat, a faded pinafore over it for modesty.  In a husky voice Prince Philip said eleven words about the Olympiad.  

     Pop said “What a waste of taxpayer’s money, ten thousand miles, just for that”. He went to the ice chest for a bottle of beer.

      Life went on. A shuttle in a loom. Backward, forward. Up, down. Weft and warp. Bright colours, muted colours. Mistakes made, sometimes corrected, sometimes not. The tapestry grew under unseen hands rippling in the winds, toward an end which hung below the unchanging, motionless horizon.

A Night Ashore

      The Radio Operator in HMAS Jabiru during the forenoon watch one Saturday, received a signal from Canberra as his ship lay anchored off the north coast of Australia.

     The message was relayed from a ham operator who picked it up emanating from the Beverly group, a cluster of reefs, outcrops, and atolls at the bottom of the Whitsunday Passage.

     Wandering Tattlers, Greater Frigate birds and migratories use the reefs and beaches for rest during their travels, and turtles come ashore once a year to lay their eggs. Humanity left the area alone because it is low, windy and unattractive.

     Jabiru was two hundred miles to the south of where the message originated. The sun was high in the sky; white caps flecked the green sea out beyond Sandy Cape.

     Jabiru had recently joined the fleet, still carrying out trials, alone in the wide ocean. Because of these trials, in addition to the Ship’s Company, there was a number of technicians crammed into the sailor’s messdecks. 

      Unused to life outside universities, laboratories and testing grounds; they found the coarse, obscene banter of the messdecks curious and disconcerting. They accepted the situation with equanimity, and observed the sailors with owlish interest.

     These men were boffin types, with beards, thick spectacles and white legs. They made an awkward concession to tropical dress, rolled up the sleeves of their shirts above bony elbows, donned ill fitting Bombay Bloomer shorts, and encased feet in clumsy sandals. They were not comfortable, only reinforcing an image of birds of strange plumage out of their usual habitat.

     Saturday morning at sea meant the ships company prepared for the Captain’s inspection, and they cleaned, polished, swept and tidied the spaces between decks. The boffins sought the shade and refuge of workshops, places where inspection was not to take place. Smoking their briar pipes, they conversed in technical language until the typhoon of domesticity passed.

      The signal passed to the Communications Officer, who tramped across a just scrubbed lobby, ignoring the sailor standing with a scrubbing brush in hand, to find the Captain on the Bridge, who studied the message and sent for the First Lieutenant.

     “Number One, there you are.” The Captain addressed his second in command, a middle aged officer, passed over for promotion, due to a social faux pas involving spilled drink, the dampened breast of an Admiral’s wife. Drunken apologies effusively tendered, only exacerbated the situation.

     The aggrieved husband was Flag Officer Commanding the Fleet.  Such relatively harmless incidents are rendered pivotal, in the tenuous climb upwards. He had stumbled, never to recover.

     No stumble had befallen The Captain, the second son of an Anglican Archbishop, blessed with excellent dentistry, silky hair and an easy manner. He held out the signal pad.

     “We must proceed to Lady Fermoy Island.” He said. “We have to assist a scientist who is in some sort of difficulty”

     He tapped the signal pad, as they crossed to the chart table at the rear of the Bridge. “We don’t know too much about Fermoy, do we?” He raised an eyebrow at the Navigation Officer.

      The quickest route ran through the end of the Whitsunday Passage, at the southern extremity of the Great Barrier Reef, taking them through a chain of islets and atolls, and although shallow and tight, it was well marked and safe. Eight hours steaming should see them able to offer assistance.

     “Let me know when we are ready for sea” said the Captain “I’ll cancel my inspection, which should please the troops.”

     The First Lieutenant sent for Buffer, the sailor in charge of the upper deck.

     “Buffer” He said. “Make ready for sea. We have a job to do. Let me know when boats, booms and ladders are inboard, Cable Party closed up ready to proceed.”

     “Aye, Aye Sir” said Buffer and turned away. Buffer was tall with a hard lean body, broad shouldered and tanned. He had that grizzled sort of fair hair which falls out early, and had begun to do so. His eyes were a startling blue in the lined, angular face dominated by a large nose and a square jaw.

     He set about his tasks as the voice of the Captain came over the sound system, relayed to all parts of the ship.

     “D’ye hear there.” All announcements began this way in Naval Ships.

     The Captain advised the ship was to sail, and inspection had been cancelled. The sailors, always ready for rumor, were already alerted by increased action about the upper deck, with the retrieval of the Boom, to which ladders and lines for the boats, now being hoisted had been rigged.  

The cancellation was greeted happily by the crew as the Captain had foretold.

     Soon the anchor was wrenched from the sea bed, and it rattled home into the hawse pipe. The ship steamed away, into the green chop of the open sea.

     Sailors settled down to the duties of the afternoon, governed as always, by routines and traditions. Bells rung, orders given, watches kept, courses reported, charts consulted. All was safe, orderly and seamanlike.

     The sea slapped against the ship, sending spray flying across the forecastle, as it dipped into the swell and yawed upwards, flinging good handfuls of salty ocean against the windows of the bridge, far above the waterline.

     Below decks soon became stuffy and uncomfortable for the sailors, who went about dressed only in blue shorts and brown sandals. Wind rattled in the yards and flapped in the sea ensign, begrimed with soot from the funnel.

     The wake creamed and boiled behind, the ship steamed steadily North North West.

Late in the afternoon, Number One addressed the ship to advise that they would soon arrive at their destination.

     At his instruction, the boats were made ready to be lowered; boom and ladders prepared, the forecastle crew readied the ship to come to anchor, bracing themselves against the rolling deck as they did so. Lashings were removed from the cable, and wisps of steam hissed from the capstan.

      Soon the ship was creeping towards its selected anchorage. A sailor held the anchor mallet ready, and when ordered, hammered the cable free. The anchor hurtled to the seabed, took purchase, and the ship was riding in the lee of the island.

     Lady Fermoy was fringed about with a coral reef which pitched up jagged teeth of shining rock able to slice the keel of any unsuspecting boat. The wind stirred up choppy waves which crashed against the reef wall.

     Jabiru had anchored near an opening, too narrow and shallow for large vessels, but a motor whaler with an experienced crew could negotiate its confines easily.

     Under the all seeing gaze of Buffer, the boat’s crew took to the craft.

     “Lower Away” said Buffer. Seamen passed lines hand over hand around stag horns, and through the heavy wooden blocks.

     “Handsomely now” Buffer said, his eyes flicking over the operation, the boat’s crew, lines, boat, and the blocks. As the boat jerked slowly to the waterline, the Coxswain started the engine.

     “Avast lowering” Buffer raised his voice over the noise of the engine, now sputtering oily fumes over the sea. Buffer held his arms outstretched from his body.

     “Standby” he said. And “Slip.” The Bowman in the boat released clips attaching the boat, which now free of the heavy wooden blocks, dropped gently into the swell. The Coxswain swung the rudder, slammed the gear forward, pointing the boat towards the shore.

     They surfed through the gap between sandy headlands, chugging towards the beach.

      The Bowman saw the Scientist first; a broad smile lit his features, seeing her waving a towel above her head. The Coxswain steered the boat to where she stood; he cut the engine and the keel scraped on soft white sand.

     The Bowman threw a small anchor as far forward as he could. They clambered over the side and waded through the warm shallows.

     “What seems to be the trouble?” said the Coxswain as if he was meeting a motorist stranded beside a country lane.

     The Scientist stared at the two sailors, their faded cotton shirts and shorts, feet shod in the incongruous sandals. She read “H.M.A.S. JABIRU” on their cap tallies.

     “The Navy to the rescue” She said, with a low throaty chuckle.

     “I expected fishermen or some such. Never the Navy. Not for one minute.” She laughed again, showing brilliant white teeth.

     “It hardly seems necessary, not important enough for our Navy….” trailing off she walked over to her camp site, an orange-coloured tent, small and cramped, dug into the side of a sandy hump. The opening angled away from prevailing winds which had heaped sand against the sides.

     Away from the cooling effects of the water the sun beat down, it was hot and humid. She led them to her boat, upturned on the beach. A yawning gash ran down a third of its length.

     “I was dashed against the reef” she said. “I’m taking my readings, when a huge wave swept in, and before I knew it, I’m upside down, the boat tumbling towards the shore.”

   “I swam after it. It’s ruined, and I can’t continue my work.”

     They examined the boat, and stood silently for some moments. It seemed that it could be repaired but it was not their decision to make.

      “We’ll go back to the ship.” said the Coxswain, at last. “You can explain to the Captain, He will know what to do.”

      “This is an adventure” said the Scientist. “I have never been on a warship, this should be most interesting”

      The sailors thought she was beautiful. Tall and slender, she wore a length of cotton cloth passed between her legs, and bound about her slim waist, like a dhoti. A mans’ singlet cropped above the navel, covered her breasts. Light brown hair containing an occasional strand of grey swung in a thick plait between her shoulder blades, as she helped the sailors push the boat off the sand.

     She sat demurely upon the centre thwart of the boat, which puttered greasy black smoke over the sea.

     Sailors smiled down as the boat came alongside, the Coxswain handed her onto the slippery rungs of the ladder.

      With athletic strides, she landed nimbly on the deck, grinning at Buffer.

     “What a surprise?” She laughed her throaty musical sound.

     “I hope I haven’t caused you any trouble. The young man said I am to see the Captain. Are you he?”

      “Not by any means “ said Buffer, returning her grin     “Come with me I’ll take you to him”

“No need, I will do that.” Said Number One, who had come from the Wardroom on seeing the boats’ return.

     “Hoist the whaler, will you, Buffer. The sea is getting up, and it will be safer that way”

     “Aye, Aye Sir.” His face inscrutable. A glance at the horizon and the almost imperceptible way the deck was shifting under his feet, told him the approaching weather might not just be a shower.

     Soon thunderheads crackled around the horizon; rain slanted down onto the sea under the weight of the approaching storm. Lightning forked out of the purple clouds.

     Quickly sailors worked to raise the boat out of the now boiling sea. Number One appeared on the deck with the Scientist.

     “Have the boat take her back, and return, chop, chop. There is not enough light left to assist now, the ship will remain at anchor, and we will carry out repairs tomorrow.”

     The boat manned by its crew, had been raised to the level of the deck, which made it easy for the Scientist to step into it.

     “The adventure continues, my Captain” she said to Buffer as he bent to the task of lowering the boat.

     She could not see his eyes under the shadow of the peak of his cap, but she fancied they shone with amusement.

     The boat was lowered closer to the sea, now slapping the keel with green summits, falling away to deep valleys.

     Buffer leaned over to give instructions to the crew, but against the rising wind and the noise of the boat engine, the Coxswain misheard, and released the boat, plummeting into a deep valley, instead of onto the crest of a summit. That oncoming wave lifted the boat into the path of the heavy wooden blocks swinging wildly in the wind, catching the Coxswain under his chin, pitching him into the sea.

    

        The Bowman leaped quickly to the tiller, punched the engine into gear, and steered clear of the ship’s side, to recover the Coxswain, who clung to a bright orange lifebuoy, hurled from the upper deck the moment he had hit the water.

     The Scientist leaned out of the boat and assisted the sheepish seaman to scale the gunwale of the rocking whaler. He sat miserable and embarrassed as the Bowman maneuvered the boat back to their ship.

     A ladder and fenders were let down, to prevent the boat smashing to pieces, as it rubbed and grated against the side.

     Quickly Buffer leaped down the ladder and took the tiller from the Bowman.

“Get the Coxswain on board” he said “I’ll take the boat in myself; the Scientist will help”

     Buffer and the Scientist pushed the whaler off, and it turned in a wide safe arc towards the island. He glanced back at the shrinking figure of Number One, who was staring after the boat, hands on hips, lips pressed into a thin line of deep annoyance.

     The Scientist stood in the bow and guided Buffer through the narrow passage. The wind was blowing fiercely in the storm; the pounding surf was breaking over the reef. The whaler shot through the opening, and hurtled to the beach. They leaped from the boat and dragged it to higher ground.

     “You cannot attempt to get back out there tonight,” she said as they stood, panting from their exertions. “It is nearly dark; to sail against this running sea would put you on the reef.”

     He stood uncertainly before her, scanning the sea beyond. He could see Jabiru clearly, the distance was not great, but huge waves crashing and streaming over the reef made it as impenetrable as a prison wall.

     The Scientist said “We should gather some wood for a fire; we can dry our clothes and eat out of tins tonight. I suppose the Captain will know you are safe?”

     “Yes.” said Buffer “He will know I would not risk damaging the boat.”

     They built the fire. Sparks flew upward in the wind. The Scientist removed her wet clothes and stretched them out on the guy ropes of her tent. She was seemingly unconscious of her nakedness, and when she suggested that Buffer rid himself of his sodden clothing, he did so and hung them beside hers.

     In the flickering firelight they ate canned beans, washed down with warm beer. She was intrigued by the pattern of suntan that the design of the plastic sandals had made on his feet. He looked at them as though he had never seen them before.

     “I suppose when everyone else is the same it goes unnoticed,” He smiled in the light of the fire. “You are seeing me out of context.”

      She had seen also that his toenails were cut straight and clean,  such evidence of self containment and strength touched her, although why this small act of self husbandry did so, she was unable to fathom.

       The fire died away. She undid her plait, which freed around her shoulders, rippled and teased in the wind.

      “The fire has gone” she said finally.” My tent is a one man affair, and as fate has it, you are one man.”

     Buffer covered the glowing ashes with sand. He followed her to the tent and zipped it from the inside.

       His large hands were rough from years of work, scarred and calloused from fid and marlin spike. Years of splicing wire rope, sewing canvas, carrying heavy cable. Ammunitioning ship with heavy shells and cordite left their mark, but he touched and cupped the weight of her as though she would break, tracing gentle patterns on her cool skin.

      Kevin woke early. When the first fingers of dawn lightened the sky he crept from the tent and dressed quickly. The gentle sea whispered over the reef. He woke Jennifer. Smiling, she watched him safely through the channel.

      He secured the boat and climbed quickly onboard and sought out Number One. He found him in the Wardroom, finishing his breakfast.

He listed the items needed to repair the boat. Number One summoned the Shipwright, and gave instructions that he was to take a Mate and affect the repairs.

      As it was Sunday, later in the morning the Captain walked though lines of his men, starched and pressed in white uniform. Inspection completed, the Captain led them in The Lord’s Prayer, prayers for Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth, and for those whose business is on the waters. Buffer looked out upon the sparkling, perfect blue sea, to where the atoll shimmered in the sun.

      Later, the Scientist saw the ship moving away with short blasts on the siren she knew were for her. She watched until it dropped below the horizon, happy with her repaired boat, able to continue her readings.

       A week later, Jabiru, her trials finished, detoured from its return to Garden Island to spend a harrowing night searching for Voyager, which had been run down by the Flagship.

      Jabiru’s men lined railings with searchlights, binoculars and red rimmed eyes, for any signs of their mates. They found scraps of timber, a lifebuoy and an empty life raft. Observing the grief of the sailors, the boffins excused all erstwhile profanity.

    These events forced Jennifer from Buffer’s mind. Later in the Brooklyn Hotel near the Quay, a shipmate remembered to ask him about the night he took the boat to Fermoy. He just drained his glass, and said “My shout” and changed the subject.

3,000 words.

Note

This is a work of fiction, and characters described therein have no relation to any person. There is no RAN Ship named Jabiru, or was not at the time the story is set. The “Voyager” incident however, did take place, in February 1964, with the loss of some 84 lives. There is a Brooklyn Hotel, in George Street, Sydney, near Circular Quay, which was a popular drinking spot for Navy sailors in those days.

Michael Grelis.