Glimpses of Purgatory

By Robert Menzies

It is the 1960s and the world is changing rapidly - socially, morally and politically.Two brothers, raised on a dairy farm by their hard-working and loving parents become confused and disillusioned by the sudden departure of their father.
As the small family's circumstances gradually decline, the boys' lives are made more miserable by an abusive drunken stepfather, a sadistic teacher and a school bully who graduates into an underworld thug.
Forced to grow up quickly, the boys find themselves thrust into a world of violence and intrigue, payback and retribution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Menzies
• Release date: Jan 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311493279

Robert Menzies

Robert Menzies is a retired school principal who now lives with Merilyn his wife of forty-two years at Hope Island on Queensland Australia's Gold Coast. Robert has a daughter Jacquie, a son Ben, a daughter-in-law Natasha and two grandchildren William and Isabella.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Freddie and Harry were two typical Australian farm kids, born to a struggling farmer and his loving but hard-working wife. They both vividly remembered their father Henry with a near-ethereal love and affection. Although he laboured very long hours on the farm to eke out a simple existence for his struggling little family, he was a good provider and a kind, if not affectionate, father. Henry was not often available for his two boys as much as they would have liked, but whenever there was a moment to spare from the year-round labour and commitment of a dairy farmer’s life, he would invariably find some time to spend with them, sharing stories with them and talking to them about his childhood experiences. There was seven years difference between Harry and Freddie, but their father made them both feel equally important and grown-up whenever they were fortunate enough to be with him.

Henry was a non-drinker but a heavy smoker. He always had a packet of Champion tobacco in his back pocket, a box of Redheads matches and a packet of Tally-Ho cigarette papers in another. Whenever half a chance arose, when there was a lull in the milking or a break in the ploughing, Henry could be observed expertly rolling a smoke with just one hand whilst holding the steering wheel of the tractor, the tail of a cow or the reins of a horse with the other. He would position the cigarette paper on his bottom lip whilst performing this delicate operation with the ease and accuracy of a true professional, at the same time miraculously managing to hold a conversation or yell at the dog.

The boys would watch in silent fascination and undisguised awe as a perfectly formed cigarette materialised and was placed delicately on their father’s lips, to be expertly lit with, once again, one hand. The boys could never work out how their dad could hold a box of matches, extract a match, strike it and light his cigarette, all with one hand. Their father always smelled of a curious mixture of perspiration, cigarette smoke and tobacco; but it was a smell that endeared him to his little family. It was ‘Dad’s smell’, and every time their senses alerted them to that curious aroma, they knew he was close by, and they felt loved and secure.

Two of Henry’s great qualities were his prodigious bush skills and his immutable perseverance. Nothing would ever defeat Henry, no matter how difficult it appeared to be. The boys would watch silently in awe as he went about improvising ways to fix the old Fergie tractor, or one of the ploughs or sets of harrows that he pulled behind when they broke down, using just a few simple tools, consisting of a pair of rusty pliers, a few well-worn spanners, a trusty old hammer and some discarded fencing wire. With these trusted tools, combined with some bushman’s ingenuity, Henry could work miracles. A puncture in a tyre could be mended by using a lighted match to melt and fuse the rubber around the puncture. A blow-out could be temporarily mended by throwing the tube away and replacing it with anything that would provide a little buoyancy—an old shirt, sand or dirt would do the trick. Henry would persevere when others would’ve given up. He would never let anything beat him; and Harry and Freddie unconsciously assimilated this quality in themselves as they grew up.

Henry would never let the sun go down on an unfinished job. He would often be seen ploughing well after dark, with only the meagre light from the old Fergie to guide him along. He couldn’t bear to leave a paddock unploughed if there was any chance he could finish it that day. One night, Henry was finishing a paddock using chain harrows behind the Fergie. Chain harrows are used to spread the manure that has been deposited by the cows, providing a natural fertilizer for the new grass. The ‘harrows’ consist of dozens of sharp-pronged pieces of steel chained together. The prongs are sharp on both ends so that the harrows can be turned over and used again when one end becomes blunt from contact with stones and rocks. Henry was in a hurry to finish the job, when a rock became wedged in the harrows. He jumped off the tractor to dislodge the rock, but misjudged his jump in the dark and landed on one of the sharp-pointed prongs. He was wearing rubber boots, but the prong pierced the sole of his boot and stabbed him in the foot. It didn’t bleed too much and the pain went away after a while, so, nursing his injured foot, Henry finished the paddock. When he came in for tea, Ivy made him bath his foot in hot salty water. There was only a small puncture mark, but the wound looked red and angry.

Next morning, Henry woke in great pain and was unable to walk. His foot had swollen up alarmingly and there were red streaks up his leg. Fearing he may have contracted tetanus, he asked Ivy to drive him into town to the family doctor. With the aid of an old walking stick, he managed to walk to the ute, where he sat in the passenger seat for the first time he could remember, whilst Ivy did the driving. Dr Chin examined the injury and suggested that some rubber from his boot had lodged itself deep inside his foot, and that an operation was necessary to remove the rubber and prevent certain infection. Henry hated hospitals, but thought a night inside might be a necessary evil.

‘Can you do the job tonight, Doc? I should be right to go home by morning, eh?’

The doctor looked at Henry sternly. ‘I’m afraid not, Henry. You’ll need to have a general anaesthetic for this. We’ll need to have you in for two days prior to the operation, then you’ll need to stay in hospital for at least a week afterwards. We will need to monitor you very closely for infection. You may have already contacted tetanus.’

‘That’s at least ten days in bloody hospital!’ exploded Henry. ‘I can’t afford that. I have cows to milk and mouths to feed.’

‘I’m afraid you have no choice,’ replied the doctor sternly. ‘Unless you want to die.’

‘Look, Doc, I’ve had a bloody lot worse than this before. I’ve fought in a world war, and I’ve been a prisoner-of-war in a Japanese prison camp, for God’s sake! I’ve had wounds ten times as bad as this, with no medical help at all. I’m outta here. Come on, Ivy.’

And with that, Henry gathered up his old walking stick and limped painfully out of the doctor’s surgery, his wife clinging ineffectually to his arm, trying unsuccessfully to make him change his mind.

‘Henry, this is madness! You can’t do this!’

‘You don’t know me, then, love, if you think that.’ Henry grimaced as he stumbled out the door like a man on a mission.

As they walked unsteadily towards the ute, Ivy asked, ‘So what miracle cure are you going to use, Henry? Something you learned from the Japanese prison wardens? I hate to think what that would be!’

‘Yes, dear, you’re partly right. I didn’t learn it from the wardens, but I did learn it from the Japanese people.’

‘But Dr Chin is Japanese! If there was a miracle Japanese cure for this, surely he would know about it!’

Henry ignored her plea and tried bravely to grin through gritted teeth. ‘You and the boys are going to have to do the milking tonight and tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, I want you to drive me to the natural artesian bathhouse at Moree and leave me there for tonight. You can pick me up tomorrow morning. I’ll be healed by then.’

‘Darling, are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ his wife asked, concern written all over her face. ‘That bathhouse is full of Aborigines. White people never go near it. You’ll probably pick up more germs there than you’ll kill!’

‘You don’t know much about Aborigines, do you, dear? They know more about natural healing than any bloody doctor I’ve ever known.’ Henry gave his wife a pained but patient and loving smile. ‘Let’s go. You’ve got to be home by milking time.’

The journey to the bathhouse at Moree was a two-hour trip in the old Chevy Space Master. Ivy could see that Henry was in great pain throughout the trip. Every bump in the road caused him to grimace. She feared terribly that he had contracted tetanus, but she knew nothing she said could change his mind.

She pulled up outside the artesian bathhouse, to the curious glances of a small group of Aborigines, who obviously did not see too many white faces around these parts. Henry wouldn’t let Ivy come into the pool with him. He grabbed his bag, gave her a quick kiss on the forehead, picked up his stick and then limped painfully towards the pool entrance. She watched him lovingly until he disappeared inside, and then slowly and tearfully began her two-hour journey home to milk the cows and pray for her pig-headed husband.

Once inside the pool area, Henry was almost knocked over by the powerful smell of sulphur which accompanied the boiling artesian water. It came gushing out of the earth and spewed malodorously into the man-made pool. There was a group of Aborigines in the water, some old men and women resting quietly under a spout, and some children playing loudly down the other end. After changing into his swimming trunks, Henry found a spout that was not being used. He lay under it, waited a few minutes to adjust to the heat, the humidity and the terrible stink of sulphur, then gingerly placed the sole of his injured foot directly against the steaming hot gushing water. It was going to be a long night. He had seen this done in Japan. Villagers—men, women and children with horrific war wounds—would soak themselves in communal baths for hours, even days, on end. The healing power of this water from deep inside the Earth’s core was greatly revered by ancient cultures.

Henry stayed with his foot under the spout for the entire night. He did not sleep; he did not dare. He craved a cigarette, but was determined to leave his foot under the spout throughout the night. No-one came to throw him out or to enquire about his condition. The Aboriginal people came and went. Many of them acknowledged him with a smile, but they sensed he was there on a mission of self-healing and so let him be.

When the first rays of sunlight began to creep ubiquitously through the sulphur-encrusted windows above him, Henry lifted his foot out of the water for the first time in twelve hours. There, just inside the opening of the wound, he could make out a small black object. Henry smiled broadly to himself, satisfied that his nocturnal sojourn had been successful. He pulled himself gingerly up onto the poolside, sat down and gently squeezed the wound. Out popped a small piece of rubber!

Time to go home, Henry thought benignly to himself as he examined his wrinkled body. The wrinkles would soon go away and he could return home a healed man. He walked proudly, without a limp, into the changing room and dressed himself. Ivy would be there in half an hour. He was ravenous and dying for a smoke. A nice lump of steak for breakfast, followed by a hot cup of coffee and a couple of roll-your-owns would be a fitting reward for a sleepless night in the water.

When Ivy pulled up half an hour later and saw Henry waiting for her with a broad, ebullient grin on his face, then walk unaided, without a limp, across the road to the car, she could not believe her eyes. Henry gave her a brief kiss, then jumped athletically into the passenger seat.

‘Time to go home, love!’ Henry grinned affectionately as his wife sat staring at him, her mouth open and stunned disbelief showing in her eyes. ‘Got a little souvenir, too!’ Henry held up the centimetre-long piece of rubber.

Ivy could think of nothing to say except, ‘Oh, I love you, you stubborn man!’ She smiled adoringly at her husband then floored the old Chevy for the journey home.

Henry’s arrival home was the cause of great excitement for his two sons. Their dad was never away from home, not even for a night, and to go away so sick and in so much pain only to return completely healed was like a magician’s act to the boys. To Ivy, it was nothing short of a miracle, an act of God. Henry’s stubbornness and belief in self-healing became legendary in the family after that. But despite this, whenever Ivy or the boys got sick he would always insist that they go to the doctor. That was the sort of man he was.

As soon as Harry was old enough, he would be out the door with his father at daylight to spend the day with him. Even at five years of age he was never an encumbrance. Harry was a smart kid with a prodigious natural intelligence, an instinct for dealing with animals and for living the bushman’s life. Henry loved taking young Harry with him, not only for the company he provided but because he was another pair of hands and another brain. He was a great help around the farm, but his father was only too aware of the need for Harry to attend school. So on many occasions his father would explain gently to him that he had to go to school that day.

Harry abhorred school, though not because he was a poor student. He was blessed with a high intelligence. It was his teacher that was the problem. Mr Taro—or ‘Adolph’, as he was called by the kids (behind his back, of course!)—was a sadist, who loved inflicting pain on the children with his treasured selection of canes. Harry looked for every opportunity to take a day off school and spend it with his father on the farm. On the days he had to go to school, he suffered Adolph’s punishments, but quietly resolved that one day, when he was older and stronger, he would rise above Adolph and seek his revenge.

Harry’s younger brother, Freddie, was similar to Harry in many ways, and loved the farm life. Right from the moment he could talk, all he ever wanted was to be out in the paddocks with Harry and his father. When Freddie reached the tender age of three, Harry was ten, and already driving the tractor and other farm vehicles, riding a horse expertly and milking the cows. Freddie could be seen painstakingly following his father and big brother along the furrows as they went about their important business of checking the state of the growing crops of lucerne or rye grass, or eagerly riding on the mudguard of the beloved old Fergie tractor as they did the rounds of the farm. Freddie carefully watched everything his older brother did and said, and tried to copy him in every way possible, even to the point of voluntarily wearing Harry’s hand-me-downs in order to look like his big brother.

Both boys learned to drive the tractor at a very early age. Harry was in the driver’s seat at three, and driving the tractor entirely by himself at five. Even at that age, his father had enough confidence in him to allow him to take the tractor out of the shed by himself and deliver bales of hay to the cattle, with just Freddie sitting proudly on the mudguard, eagerly watching his every move.

The only vehicle Harry was not permitted to drive was his father’s beloved 1949 Chevrolet Space Master, his pride and joy. Harry would often sit in the driver’s seat, pretending to drive it, wishing dearly that his father would let him have just a little go at the wheel.

One Sunday morning Henry announced that he was going to take the Chevy for a spin, and asked Ivy and the boys if they would like to go for a picnic. Of course! The two boys jumped at the opportunity of an outing with Dad, who was always such fun. And riding in the Chevy was something else. Harry was ready before anyone, and he was impatiently waiting at the wheel of the Chevy, which, as always, was parked in the garage. Harry looked around him. Dad wouldn’t mind if I backed the car out. It’ll be all ready for a quick getaway then. So Harry started the Chevy up and very carefully backed her out of the garage. Suddenly there was a horrible rasping noise. Harry slammed on the brakes and jumped out to see what he’d hit. To his dismay, he discovered that he had backed right into the dog’s kennel, which had been moved there the day before; he hadn’t seen it in the rear-view mirror. And to his shock, he noticed a long, deep scratch that stretched for about two feet along the otherwise perfect black paintwork of the rear mudguard. It was a very ugly scratch indeed!

Dad will be furious! What can I do? Then suddenly an idea came to him. There was a big black texta in his pencil case inside the car. He would carefully trace over the scratch in black texta, and no-one would be any the wiser. After his art work was completed, Harry held his breath as his mother, father and Freddie walked out of the house with the picnic gear and piled into the Chevy. As an extra precautionary measure, Harry positioned himself in front of the scratch until everyone