The Rise and Rise of Lord James

By Joyce Will

the drive for success takes lord james around the world. love is sacrificed and lives endangered in the quest for recognition

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joyce Will
• Release date: Nov 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465815095

Joyce Will

I was born in Parramatta, NSW, Australia. My paternal forebears, the McKinnons from Isle of Skye, in 1837, came out to Australia under the Dunmore Lang Migration Scheme, and settled in the Hunter River area of NSWThere are NO convicts on either side of my family tree.After finishing high school, I moved with my family to Sydney, where I gained employment as an office worker, one workplace was with The Australian Womens Weekly.I married and we moved to a wheat,wool and meat property in the Bingara District, NSW.After many years of droughts and flooding rains, and with three children, we crossed the border into Queensland, not stopping until the family reached Townsville where we became involved in the hospitality industry.After attending James Cook University, I moved to Brisbane, then to Gympie where I purchased and ran the Fox Glenn Motel. I now reside in Brisbane.I love Music, opera, live shows, my great friends, my great family and my great country, Australia.

Book preview

Chapter 1

REJECTION

Jasper stared from the window as gusts of wind and rain assaulted shops, dwellings and factories along the deserted street. He tensed as a figure appeared for a moment at the front gate of the old timber cottage across the street, delved into the mailbox, and then dashed back into the building.

The cat, after licking his fur, settled into his warm bed to sleep until feed time. He had a passion for the motor bike owned by the hurrying figure across the road. To lie on the bike’s warm leather seat in the sun was bliss.

Slamming the front door behind him, his hair wet from the storm venting its fury outside, Jim aggravated the old floorboards into a staccato of squeaks as he charged down the hallway. Bursting into the kitchen, he waved a soggy letter. ‘Mum, I’ve got a reply. I’ve got a reply!’

Beth, elated, turned from the chipped enamel sink, the half peeled vegetables and hurried to his side. Wiping her hands on a towel, she watched him rip open the envelope his eyes bright with anticipation.

After reading the letter he stared at his mother in dismay.

‘Mum, I didn’t get it. Not even an interview. They want experienced people. If I can’t work, how can I get experience?’ The rat of rejection gnawed at his already battered self-esteem, and crushing the letter in his fist muttered, ‘Bloody hell, where do I go now? My leatherwork money doesn’t go far.’ He slumped into the nearest chair; he hated getting handouts from his mother and sister and by not working, felt he had let down his dead father.

Beth wanted to embrace her son; however no longer a child, he would be embarrassed. Folding her arms, she gazed down at her youngest with concern and pondered how many knock-backs he can take before giving up altogether, and stay in bed as there was nothing to get out of bed for. Was his lack of confidence evident to an employer who would choose to employee those showing more initiative and drive?

‘Dad would be disappointed in me,’ he muttered.

‘No, not disappointed...he would be proud of his kids, you and Jill.’

Placing a hand on his shoulder, Beth stared out at the storm, remembering the past as trees bent to the onslaught and rain flowed down the kitchen window. It was a night like this, over twelve months ago when tragedy struck the family. The most effected had been Jim. He and his father had been close. She shivered as if an icy hand had touched her, and reacting squeezed her son’s rigid shoulder.

‘We’ve discussed this many times…,’ she paused to muster her courage, ‘you’ll have to go back to school for your High School Certificate. Without it, you won’t get an apprenticeship or a job with decent prospects. Facts are facts...employers want to see that piece of paper.’

‘No. I don’t want to go back. I want to earn money...it sucks that you and Jill have to be the breadwinners.’

Ignoring his angry protests, she persisted, ‘My advice is, search for work during the day, and at night study for the certificate at the nearest college.’

Jim frowned and started to object but hesitated, he knew the signs of his mother’s tough love as muscles tensed around her mouth. With reluctance, he agreed.

Over the next two weeks, Jim applied for numerous positions, but encountered an equal number of rejections.

This morning early, he stumbled from bed when he heard the paper bounce off the wall of the front verandah. He stared at the local paper wondering if it was worth the effort. Shrugging his shoulders, he peeled away the thin covering and flipped pages to the jobs vacant section. An advertisement caught his eye: Wanted – young man to train in a medically orientated profession, artistic talent required and must hold a current driver’s licence.

His heart raced. This could be his break. Jim phoned for an interview. He was so nervous his voice broke.

The next day, dressed in a pristine white shirt, one of his father’s ties, black knife-edged pressed trousers, beige jacket, highly polished black shoes and wavy hair pressed flat, watched by Jasper reclining on the brick wall, Jim mounted his old motorbike and drove to the address.

Locating the suburb, he searched for the street and found it in a commercial area. As the bike putted along, he read the numbers until he came to the one sought. He stared, taken aback and again read the lettering on the plate glass entrance doors: AMOS FUNERAL AND CREMATION SERVICES. He checked the street and number. Yes, that’s what I’ve written. What’ll I do? It’s rude not to keep an appointment. Gee…

Climbing off the bike and bracing his shoulders, Jim pushed open the doors and entered. Much to his surprise the reception area was bright and pleasant.

Behind the reception desk, a cheerful, plump and attractive young woman watched him approach.

‘I’ve an appointment with Mr. Amos in answer to the advertisement in the paper.’

He glanced around noting the care taken and good-taste of furniture and soft furnishings that made the area so attractive. These things mattered to Jim, they appealed to his artistic streak.

‘Congratulations, you’ve made it through the doorway,’ she chuckled. ‘You’d be surprised how many applicants after one look, hurry away. Take a seat and I’ll tell Mr. Amos you’re here.’

Jim sat on the edge of the leather lounge rubbing his sweaty palms on his trousers and waited. Nausea swept through him. He tried to swallow, and control his nerves that were jumping out of control.

He glanced up as the front door drifted open, and a dark face appeared with large brown eyes and teeth sparkling white. A body followed. He was an Aboriginal youth and sighting Jim crept across to slide onto the seat beside him.

‘Hi Bro...you here for the job?’

‘Yes. It’s not what I expected, you also...?’

Anxiety flowed from the newcomer as words tumbled over each other. ‘Yeah, my old lady said get out and get a job or else. She’s tough, my old lady. She’s reared fourteen of us kids, not all hers. Our old bloke ran out on us. She takes in any young black fella strays, like some people take in dogs and cats. My name’s Lionel Rose-White...after the boxer you know,’ his husky voice stated, tinged with pride, as he shook Jim’s outstretched hand.

Wide-eyed, Lionel Rose-White also studied the surroundings.

The receptionist returned. ‘Mister Miggums, Mister Amos will see you now.’

She guided Jim towards the far door, which when opened revealed the funeral director, Patrick Amos, seated behind a magnificent antique desk.

The office was crowded with antique furniture, all needing repair: desks, lounges, and, jammed into one corner was a dining room suite, its chairs packed on top of the table and sideboard.

‘Come in lad,’ the jovial man addressed Jim.

He also was not what Jim expected. Patrick Amos was over-weight with a large stomach.

‘Take a seat. Refreshments are coming.’

Jim’s hand shook as he handed over his CV. ‘These are references from my school principal, stock and station owner Ray Hall, and, from our local minister Reverend Butterworth.’

Patrick, after fixing eyeglasses to the bridge of his nose, perused the documents.

Plaques and framed accreditations on the wall behind the owner attracted Jim’s attention; they included Rotary, Lions, Quota, community organizations, civic groups, government bodies, educational facilities and a political party. It was obvious to Jim that Patrick Amos was a public-spirited man and good at business.

Dropping the references on the desk, and interlocking his fingers across his stomach, Patrick declared, ‘It’s not what you expected, is it? We have to advertise that way to attract prospective employees. I apologize for the deception. However, remember this, it’s not the dead you have to fear, but the living.’ He chuckled at his own homespun philosophy, making his tummy wobble.

His demeanour changed, and became serious. Gazing into Jim’s large grey eyes, added, ‘Funeral services, really, are for the living: family, relatives, good friends...to help people with their grief.’ Patrick detected pain in Jim’s eyes and surmised that the lad opposite had known deep sorrow.

After the interview, Jim headed for the entrance in a daze.

‘How’d you go?’ whispered Lionel Rose-White.

‘I don’t know. He’ll be in touch. Good luck with your interview.’

‘Thanks Jim.’ Tucking his hands beneath his knees, Lionel hunched his shoulders, and leaned forward to gaze at the far door with apprehension.

Outside, Jim studied the premises he had just vacated, remembering with a sharp pain another funeral home in a small country town, and a day that had begun in an ordinary way over twelve months ago - the day his life changed forever.

* * *

CHAPTER 2

Tragedy

The day dawned warm and clammy with storms brewing. In the afternoon, although the sun was well down on the horizon, heat still shimmered on the country road. A cloud of dust appeared on the horizon. Out of this emerged the old battered school bus. It stopped at a rusty oil-drum, utilized as a mailbox, nailed to a post cemented into the ground. Nearby was the homestead turn-off.

A youth jumped from the bus. He was tall, thin, in his early teens, with big feet, big hands, bony knees and a mop of unruly wavy hair.

The bus turned and headed back into town with blue smoke belching from its rattling exhaust.

Living at the far end of the school bus-run, Jim was the first to board at seven o’clock in the morning after helping on the family’s dairy farm, and the last off the bus about five in the afternoon. He tried to study on the trip home, but induced by the rhythm of the swaying bus would slip into a deep sleep and snore much to the amusement of fellow passengers and Ernie, the bus driver.

Brushing back strands of brown hair that kept falling over large, dreamy, grey eyes, Jim pulled his heavy sports bag onto his back. After collecting the mail from the oil-drum, headed down the dusty track bordered on either side by lush green stands of maize. After scuffing up clouds of fine dust, his old worn shoes were soon grey.

This was his final year. His assignments were almost complete, he knew he was just scraping through; nevertheless, was confident of passing. School had been a part of life for so long he felt sad at leaving.

Jim grinned, as a dog trotting three quarters-on, came to meet him. Bruce, a blue and white cattle dog, considered it his duty to meet the school bus of an afternoon. He could hear it kilometres away and jumping to his paws, would race across paddocks and over fences regardless of the job he was doing, much to the frustration of Malcolm who would report this to his wife in the evening. ‘I’m sure that dog belongs to a union and has a knock off time.’

‘Hi Bruce,’ Jim said rubbing the dog behind the ear. ‘Are you behaving yourself?’

Stopping to pull his battered grey school hat down to shade his eyes, he gazed towards the riverbank. The flats were green with cut lucerne now in rows waiting for the tractor and baler to gather and spit it out as baled hay. The sweet, tangy smell of the hay came to him on the hot breeze.

Jim was escorted to the homestead step by Bruce. With escort duty done, the dog with nose between paws closed his eyes. He was finished for the day and would doze until mealtime.

* * *

The homestead stood on a hill above flood level. It was large and rambling, built of local river red gum and in two sections: a verandah attached to the front section on three sides was the oldest part. The back section, built later, housed the new kitchen, storerooms, laundry and office. The building commanded a view down river of a line of river red gums, and, in the distance, the ever-changing blues of the Great Dividing Range.

Jim bounded up the steps, and, after slipping off his dusty shoes, tugged open the fly-screen door that banged after him, sending shock waves through the quiet house. He sighed with relief, as he entered the coolness of the hallway.

‘Is that you Jim?’ a woman’s voice called from the far end of the premises.

‘Yes Mum,’ he replied dumping his bag on the floor.

‘Listen love,’ continued the voice, ‘change your clothes and after you’ve had a snack, there are scones and pikelets on the bench, take the sandwiches and tea in the basket to Dad and Jill. Dad wants to bale as much as he can this evening, before the dew gets too heavy. The weather forecast is for storms.’

After consuming three pikelets and three scones, washed down with two glasses of orange juice, Jim hurried to the garage from where he wheeled out his pride and joy - a second hand motor bike. He had purchased the bike from sales of the leather goods made in his workshop, the old slab hut, once the original dairy. Jim had built up a steady clientele for his belts, stock-whips and wallets.

Jumping aboard the bike, he bounded in and out of the gullies. Taking the more difficult track, and with engine roaring, the bike scrambled and slid up the steep slope. The afternoon tea in a thermos sloshed and bumped in the bag on his back.

Heading towards the far lucerne paddock, he passed a long line of black and white cows swaying towards their night camp on a rocky hillock dominated by a large Moreton Bay fig tree.

Arriving at his destination, he relieved first his sister and then his father who was driving the truck that had attached to it a mechanical arm for lifting the bales onto the back, as the truck powered along.

Sister and brother had learned to drive and handle all types of farm equipment at an early age. The farm could not afford to pay for permanent outside labour.

‘Thanks Son. Sorry to drag you from your studies...must get this hay into the shed before it rains.’ Taking a mouthful of hot tea Malcolm Miggums stared at the far horizon where ominous blue-black clouds were marshalling. ‘Ah that’s good. A cuppa is always welcome. That storm is going to be a bigun.’

It was late when Jim, with Jill riding pillion, pulled away from the paddock, and sedately motored along the track made by cattle over the years, until they were out of sight of their father.

‘OK. Hang on!’ Jim yelled as the engine roared. Leaving the cattle track, they raced across country and down into gullies to shoot up over the top with wheels suspended then down again to race around trees, logs or go over the top when warranted. The bike launched into mid-air off a high bank, and hanging on with arms around her brother’s waist, Jill squealed with delight.

In sight of the homestead Jim changed down into a lower gear and proceeded along the cattle track at a steady pace to the front gate indicating to their mother, that this was the speed they had been doing all the time.

‘Race you to the bathroom!’ yelled Jill as she slipped off the seat.

‘That’s not fair. I have to park the bike.’

‘Yes it is. The bathroom’s at the back,’ she replied vaulting over the front gate in an unlady-like manner.

Both contestants raced for the bathroom accompanied by an excited barking dog. Jim, after pulling the bike onto its stand, burst through the back entrance to see the bathroom door slam on a cheeky grin from his sister.

‘Mum, Dad’s bringing home a load to stack in the shed tomorrow. He won’t be long,’ Jim said bending down to loosen the laces of his work-boots.

‘Here, you can feed Bruce and tie him up. Better feed him before the storm hits, it’s going to be a beauty.’

Taking the dish of dog food, he strode towards the kennel with a very attentive and hungry dog following. As Bruce gulped down his dinner, Jim watched lightening play around the horizon. He hurried towards the house as large drops of rain embedded into the dust. As he entered the kitchen, the storm struck. The rain came down in torrents and lightening performed, sending wave after wave of brilliant colours across the clouds to a rendition of thunder.

Above the noise of the storm came frantic barking followed by a long mournful howl from Bruce.

‘Whatever’s the matter with Bruce,’ Beth said in alarm, ‘something has upset him.’

Jill showered and changed for dinner, exchanged concerned glances with her brother as he passed her for the bathroom.

After his ablutions, Jim now also sat waiting. He picked up a magazine and tried to read, but could not concentrate.

Time crawled on. Silence settled over the family in the kitchen.

‘Whatever’s happened to Dad? He was not far behind us. I can’t even see the headlights.’ Jill peered from the window into the stygian night. Flashes of lightening heralded rolls of thunder.

‘I’m going back,’ called Jim over his shoulder as he hastened towards the door.

‘I’m coming too.’ Grabbing an oilskin coat, Jill hurried after him.

Rushing to the front verandah Beth watched the taillight of the bike disappear into the deluge. With heart racing, she slipped into her wet-weather coat and ran to the garage. Backing out the ancient Land Rover, she followed.

The motor bike churned its way towards the far paddock in blinding rain. Its headlight magnified the lashing streams of water.

Over a rise, they were horrified to see the truck, its headlights still on, tipped onto its side in a gully. Bales of hay were everywhere. Racing down to the truck, they found their father in the smashed cabin draped around the steering wheel. His head had gone through the windscreen and now was a bloody mess.

‘Dad! Dad!’ screamed Jill trying to lift him away from the windscreen, cutting her arm as she did so.

‘Come away Sis,’ Jim pleaded his face white. ‘We can’t do anything for Dad now.’

Two wet trembling figures met their mother, as she stumbled from the vehicle.

‘Mum,’ Jill sobbed, ‘Dad’s dead.’

Late that night the ambulance, escorted by police, carried Malcolm Miggums’ body into town.

The next day neighbours rallied to take over the farm work. The small farming community organized a working roster, until Beth could take control.

* * *

Jim’s schooling became erratic. To assist his pupil, Michael, the school principal sent lessons home by bus every afternoon so that Jim would not slip too far behind.

Many months passed and the family of three battled on, trying to make a living. It was hard but they managed.

Jim found it difficult keeping up with his schoolwork. However, he worked at his studies whenever he could, and, after sitting for his final examination, now awaited results.

That fatal morning, the school principal, Michael, called Jim into his office. As Jim came into the room, the principal approached and placing one hand on his shoulder said, ‘Jim, I wanted to tell you before the official results come out. I’m terribly sorry, but you’ve failed to obtain the required marks. We know you’ve been through tough times after your father’s death. We’ve given you more points, after reviewing your work, but not enough to pass. You can try again next year.’

Watched by the principal, the distraught youth left the room. What else could I do? Michael asked himself. He and his staff had gone over and over the exam papers finding half a point here a point there, but it would not add up to a pass. The work was just not there.

* * *

CHAPTER 3

Farewell

The local golf club had only nine holes; nevertheless, with its prefabricated clubhouse was one of the social centres of the small community.

Jim’s failure to pass his senior examination troubled Michael. He dragged his buggy and golf clubs from the boot of the car. Somebody calling jogged him back to the present.

‘Hello Michael! Can I join you for a round, if you haven’t anybody else to go with?’ Ray the stock and station agent approached, also dragging a golf buggy. ‘You look miserable, are the kids getting you down?’ He laughed at his own joke.

‘Oh...how are you Ray? Yes, glad of company. I’m very down; I had to fail one of the senior students, Jim Miggums, the lad was devastated. The family has had a rough time since the death of Malcolm.’

‘Hell! That’s bad news. The kid works hard. He’s built up his leatherwork into a tidy business that he sells through my office. The extra cash helps the