narratorAUSTRALIA Volume Four

By narrator AUSTRALIA

narratorAUSTRALIA Volume Four is a collection of more than 180 poems and short stories from 75 emerging and established Australian writers which were published on the narratorAUSTRALIA blog during the period 1 November 2013 to 31 May 2104. Contributors are: Kylie Abecca, Stephanie Adamopoulos, AA Anderson, David Anderson, Sophie Andritsos, Eulyce Arkleysmith, John Arvan, Hettie Ashwin, Irene Assumpter, Alyssa Boorman, Judith Bruton, Bryson, Jean Bundesen, Shirley Burgess, Linda Callaghan, Robyn Chaffey, Robert Chancer, James Craib, Julitha De La Force, Demelza, Arthur Derek, Rebecca Dodd, Bob Edgar, Samantha Elliot-Halls, Fantail, Mark Fowler, Virginia Gow, Dee Dee Graham, Garry Harris, Jason Hawkins, Andris Heks, Corrie Hinschen, Connie Howell, Paul Humphreys, Judy Iliffe, David Jenkins, Joanna Jensen, Henry Johnston, Dianne Johnstone, Susan Kay, Crystal Lee, Simon Lenthen, Ramon Loyola, Felicity Lynch, JH Mancy, Julie Martin-Lock, Evelyn MD, David Newman, Judy J Newman, Greg Parker, Amily Jean Parr, Toni Paton, Joanna Rain, RL, Robertas, John Ross, Madeline Ross, Jane Russell, Stephen Russell, Lorraine Sanderson, Anneliese Senn, Emma-Lee Scott, Winsome Smith, Jessica Soul, Graham Sparks, Spiller, Craig Stanton, Sunrise, Gregory Tome, Wendy Vitols, Kate-Michelle Von Riegen, Vickie Walker, Ann Whitehead, Gareth Johnny P Williams, Ruth Withers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Sep 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781925219050

Book preview

narratorAUSTRALIA

Volume Four

Various Contributors

November 2013 to May 2014

A showcase of Australian poets and authors

who were published on the narratorAUSTRALIA blog

from November 2013 to May 2014

First published August 2014 by MoshPit Publishing

an imprint of Mosher’s Business Support Pty Ltd

Shop 1, 197 Great Western Highway

Hazelbrook NSW 2779, Australia

http://www.moshpitpublishing.com.au/

This ebook © MoshPit Publishing on behalf of all authors listed in the Index.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the authors herein.

Cover image Cover image: Leaves © Hettie Ashwin http://hettieashwin.blogspot.com.au

This book is also available in print. Please visit http://www.narratorINTERNATIONAL.com for more details

Contents

Foreword

Copyright Reminder

Index

Bios and contact details

MoshPit Publishing, narrator and more

Foreword

Welcome to narratorAUSTRALIA Volume Four.

This compilation of short stories and poetry from around the country brings back many of our regular contributors and mixes them with new writers venturing out for the first time. It’s great to see the continuing feedback on entries as they get posted on www.narratorAUSTRALIA.com and the supportive interaction between narrator community members. Writing is such a solitary process, but with the internet we can have the support and feedback we need as we try out our techniques and ideas.

Over the last twelve months we’ve been slowly expanding the publishing side of our business and this compilation would not have been possible without the help of our Assistant Editor, Sarah McCloghry. Many of you will have noticed the undisguised stress in my weekly notification emails when Sarah was on holiday earlier this year – we are really starting to depend on her here! So from me, a big thanks to Sarah for her help and support with the narrator project.

While Sarah was away we were lucky to have proofreading help with narrator from Keri Welter and for a week in the form of work experience student Samantha Stevenson. Thank you Keri and Samantha – you really helped ease the load!

And I mustn’t forget my offsider, daughter, web and graphic designer, Ally Mosher. Ally is the one who sits quietly in the background tweaking the narratorCENTRAL upload site as I mutter away, ‘Can we do this with it?’ and ‘What about adding that?’ Always patient and creative, Ally makes this whole project much easier to manage. So my heartfelt thanks to you, too, Kiddo!

During this issue we ran a ‘whatever was he thinking’ writing competition, and the winners of that were The Final Judgement by Kate-Michelle Von Riegen and The Green Ticket by David Anderson. Thank you to all who participated, and also thanks to Peter Griffiths, our external judge, who is a volunteer with Room to Read Australia, the local branch of the charity which works to help improve literacy and gender equality in education in developing nations (http://www.roomtoread.org/sydney).

And congratulations to Hettie Ashwin for unanimously winning our cover image competition! This was judged internally, and Sarah, Ally and I all came to the same independent conclusion that Hettie’s image was the most suitable for this issue. Again, thank you to all who entered, and sorry that there could only be one image on the cover.

In Volume Three I made mention of our narrator expansion plans. I have said before that what I love about small business is that you can make a decision and run with it. And if it doesn’t seem to work, you can just as quickly stop. After several months of attempting to get our genre issues up and running, we realised we were fragmenting our audience, which is not good for you as our writers and readers. So we have refined our offerings back to three geographical areas:

narratorAUSTRALIA– the Oceanic region including New Zealand, Fiji, etc.

narratorUK – Great Britain, Ireland, and surrounding European countries

narratorUSA – the US, South America, Canada and surrounding countries.

The coming months will see us start focusing on pursuing more entries from around the world. And if you have writing friends or relatives overseas, please encourage them to consider contributing. The more the merrier!

Well, that’s enough from me.

Congratulations again to all contributors and thank you to all readers for taking the time to make it worth our writers’ efforts to write.

We look forward to seeing more of these original works over the coming months.

Jennifer Mosher, AE

Editor-in-Chief

Copyright reminder

Please remember that every item in this book is the copyright of the attributed author.

Please do not even think about plagiarising these works or using them without permission.

If you wish to gain permission to quote from these works, or to use them elsewhere, then please contact us via our MoshPit Publishing website at http://www.moshpitpublishing.com.au if you can’t easily find contact details for the author in question.

The above also applies to any images supplied by the authors to illustrate their artworks.

Thank you.

Index

Abecca, Kylie

Learning To Fly

Missing You

To Love For Real

Adamopoulos, Stephanie

Balloons

Anderson, AA

The River Mystery

Anderson, David

A Night On Mt Victoria Pass

Changes

Harassment Blues

The Green Ticket

Andritsos, Sophie

Back-To-Back Facing Each Other

The Loser

Arkleysmith, Eulyce

A Day On The River

Arvan, John

Santa’s Christmas Sack

Ashwin, Hettie

Bucking The Trend

Assumpter, Irene

Project Lokitaung – Part 1

Boorman, Alyssa

A Battle Called Sunset

Bruton, Judith

Chancing Paradise

Natural Life

Spice

Bryson

For Phoebe

The Colour Of Days

Bundesen, Jean

Citrus Dawn

Lady In Red

Burgess, Shirley

A Lucky Escape

A Surprise Attack

Bad Luck Honey

Holiday Town

Revenge And Regret

The Postman

Callaghan, Linda

The Awakening

The Tree Swing

Chaffey, Robyn

Mum

My Raggedy Santa

Chancer, Robert

A Place To Call Home

Artificial Sun

As Through My Own Eyes

Craib, James

Bloody Long Lines

Gone Astray (Lost And Found)

I, Ethel

Love’s Silly Song

Only God Knows

The Ostrich Complex

De La Force, Julitha

Goodbye Lucy

Demelza

A Matter Of Timing

Derek, Arthur

Disintegrate

Forget Me Below

Of The Human Abyss

Dodd, Rebecca

Shattered

Edgar, Bob

Forever Bound

Elliott-Halls, Samantha

Backyard Morning

Free

Haze

Fantail

A Neighbour

Fallen Angel

Fowler, Mark

Humility, My Greatest Fault

Kelly

Pathetically Alone

Samuel S Tuck

Gow, Virginia

Australia Day

Hollywood Sneakers

Mama Camilla’s Cooking School

The Spectators

Tribal Tribulations

Graham, Dee Dee

Hanging Rock

Harris, Garry

Thanks For Asking

Hawkins, Jason

Like A Bird In Flight

Heks, Andris

Battered Grandeur

My Childhood Passion

Hinschen, Corrie

Dead Soldier

Judgement

Standing On A Chair

Whatever Was He Thinking?

Howell, Connie

Rainbow

Whatever Was He Thinking?

Humphreys, Paul

315 Condoms

Harry And Sweet William

Regret And Reunion

Iliffe, Judy

Judgement By Blind Jury

Jenkins, David

For Her

Jensen, Joanna

My Poem

Johnston, Henry

Granda’s Wake

In A Mist

Rommel’s Gold

Johnstone, Dianne

Seasons Of A Life

Kay, Susan

Psycho Bubble 1, Psycho Bubble 2

Retribution

Lee, Crystal

Ghost Of My Heart

Lenthen, Simon

A Name For Smoke

Loyola, Ramon

as a child i

caught

Somebody’s Sunday

Lynch, Felicity

The Neighbour

To My Daughter

Mancy, JH

Derailing The Gravy Train

Fractious Fractions

If Words Could Speak

Just Because

On The Sixth Day

Reflections

Sent Out

Martin-Lock, Julie

Sea Change

End Of The Dry

MD, Evelyn

126 On Love

Behind The Eyes

Being No-one

Bring Music To Us

You

Newman, David

Mist And Thistles

Mystery Lady

Sleep To Death

The Vision That Is You

Newman, Judy J

The Burning

White Light

Parker, Greg

B-Grade Blues

Parr, Amily Jean

A World Afire

Paper Smell

Sandcastle

Sonnet Sonnet

Paton, Toni

Pain

Tomorrow …

Windows Down

Rain, Joanna

One

Subtle

When The Last Tree Falls

You-You-You-You And Us

RL

Summer Storm

The Errand

Robertas

Apple Pie

Just A Tick!

The Jesus App

Ross, John

Beach Fishing At Dawn

Rubbish

The Truth

Ross, Madeline

The Toys Of War

War In A Forgotten Meadow

Russell, Jane

Xing Saga Part 7 – Polly Tackles Things Head First

Xing Saga Part 7.1 – Polly The Christmas Angel

Xing Saga Part 8 – Oggie Has An Accident

Xing Saga Part 9 – Polly The Hero

Xing Saga Part 10 – The UFO

Xing Saga Part 11 – Whatever Was He Thinking

Xing Saga Part 12 – Dog

Xing Saga Part 13 – Searching For BodWilf

Russell, Stephen

The Black Hole Of Dublin

Sanderson, Lorraine

A Secret Meeting

This Walking Life

Scott, Emma-Lee

Seven Letter Prayer

Senn, Anneliese

Solitaire

Smith, Winsome

Banjo Man

Barbara Maude

Dragon

It Happens

The Glass Eye Of The Beast

The Preacher’s Daughter

The Short Life Of Cedric Fellowes

Soul, Jessica

Inside The Mirror

We Weep

Sparks, Graham

Body Parts

Hello Mrs Taylor

I Find No Chasm

Rays Of Light

The Mechanism Of Our Demise

The Mother Tongue

Within That Space

Spiller

Awareness

Burdensome Youth

Stanton, Craig

Carriers

Vampire

Sunrise

Who And Why

Tome, Gregory

Frank And Mark: A Tribute

The Twist Of War

Vitols, Wendy

Formica

Knock Knock

Shards

Von Riegen, Kate-Michelle

The Final Judgement

Walker, Vickie

One Man’s Point Of View

Whitehead, Ann

Bamboo

Francie Baby

Williams, Gareth Johnny P

Exposed

X

Withers, Ruth

Be Still

Oh You Young And Beautiful

When The Drink Gets Into You

Sunday 3 November 2013

A World Afire

Amily Jean Parr

Callaghan, NSW

Wailing sirens, smoke-choked air

Crossing fingers, desperate prayer

‘Please be safe’ and ‘Please take care’

Fire, fire everywhere.

Flames that race along the ground

Burning rings of hell surround

Blazing roar the only sound

Fire, fire all around.

Many must evacuate

Some will go, but some will wait

Stand their ground against their fate

Fire, fire claims our state.

Spurred on by a fierce breeze

Claiming cars and homes and trees

Spreading like a red disease

Fire, fire, spare us, please.

Friday 8 November 2013

Tribal Tribulations

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, NSW

Hanging out with thirty-five women, sleeping in swags on a dry riverbed was not high on Willow’s list of a hundred things to do before she died. In fact, this type of adventure wasn’t even on the list, not even considered. Large groups of women reminded her of the hen house where she worked. Her passion was travelling to distant lands. Her adventures were legendary. From the hill of Tara in Ireland, to upriver in a dug out canoe in Sarawak, across the lava fields of the big island of Hawaii, to the black-water rafting in the caves of KiTanawa, she did not shy away from the unknown. She had always preferred to travel independently.

An invitation to go and learn from the Aboriginal Women Elders came at a time when she was open to exploring new ideas, and she began to look upon this type of travel as something that would stimulate her landscape painting and lead her in a new direction. Having a desert experience, exploring the hidden layers of Aboriginal history, intrigued her.

Years ago, at an art gallery, she had met with artists from a remote community in Australia and had enjoyed the playfulness of the gathering. These artists had travelled with their sacred art in a bus, from Pupunya to Sydney, a journey of seven days. After meeting with them she had promised to visit one day. Now this gathering was to be held at Pupunya, deep within the outback of Australia, and she resolved to keep her word. Accepting this invitation to go and learn from medicine women of the Northern Territory, she allowed herself some sense of optimism. How difficult could it be to camp out for seven days in the desert with thirty-five women?

She found herself on a journey of internal discovery and external natural beauty. She had never been to Alice Springs. This journey also gave her friends that she would value for all her life. It was a clearing out of the mind that was about to engulf her, although she did not consciously know this. She had accepted the invitation to go and learn from the medicine women in Central Australia because it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Whatever the agenda, everything changed when ‘sorry business’ interrupted the learning. Sorry business happens when there is an Aboriginal death on a remote community, and this was the case when a bridge collapsed killing members of Pupunya Community. Willow learned of this when an Aboriginal woman on the plane noticed her black outfit and asked her if she was attending the funeral.

It was like being given a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Further pieces were added to the mix when another Aboriginal woman at a gathering informed her that Nelly, the medicine woman, was in hospital. The concerned community was closed and the thirty-five women found themselves on another type of journey, one where they would learn from the land directly.

Out through the MacDonald Ranges, caterpillar-dreaming country, they would go, in search of ancient wisdom. The land yielded up its secrets to them easily as they sang and danced their way into history.

The women came from all walks of life and many came from overseas. There was Miss Brazil, who danced in the desert night as if in a Rio carnival. The super model took time out from the catwalks of Milan, London and New York to do grasshopper yoga under the night sky. There were shamans with wild clothes from America, bringing ceremony and magic of their own, creating their links with this land.

There was a lawyer who carried a feather, an accountant who lost the account books, a farmer who built a pit toilet, an opera singer, skilled in the practice of reike. There were teachers of grace and refinement, nurses to heal any wounds. A famous songwriter and her following came to sing songs that went on forever. There were mountain maids and city girls, writers, artists and healers, readers of palms and psychic storytellers, mothers and daughters, sisters and aunts. They were gathered together on a mystical journey and they bonded and helped one another. Whatever the reasons, each had a story of sorrow and joy. As they shared cooking and chores and water, the seven days dissolved into the sand and time was immaterial.

Half way through this journey, the women stopped at Uppie’s place. Uppie was an Aboriginal Elder who initiated young males into song lines and stories. Extending an invitation to the women to stay on his homeland, he bade them welcome to this remote part of the landscape. He was a direct descendant of Albert Namatjira, who was the first famous Aboriginal artist in Australia. Willow had studied his skillful artworks as a child. They had been part of the art process introduced to her through convent schooling. Now, surprisingly, she found herself staying on the very land that was depicted in those epic works.

Clearing out a tin shed with the help of a broom was Petal’s choice of activity. She was one of the women Willow had met and respected. Petal was practical and this energetic person saw an advantage in securing a clean shelter because ominous clouds pocketed the sky. The idea of another night in a swag on a dry riverbed that may flash flood was far from being a pleasing option. Some of the women spoke of snakes that may be lurking in the riverbed, as ribboned tracks criss-crossed the sand. Willow chose to sleep in the bus. She was in need of a quiet place to reflect, away from company. Earlier on this journey, she had been walking alone by the river, when something drew her up short. She turned to stone when 10 metres from her toes a snake of intense beauty, a fierce snake, slithered by her. She knew that animals attack when frightened, and she controlled her mind to have no fear. This would help her scent to be non threatening. However, she did feel that bus sleep was required.

Upon arrival at Uppie’s, she had an epiphany of sorts. The land’s vibrations wove around her and she disappeared into its very soul. The ‘I’ did not exist. Time did not exist. This was her mind clearing out. No name was whispered in the wind. After coming out of this trance, she decided that that bus was the most grounded place for her to sleep. She was intimidated by the energy of this land.

Morning found the women awake and refreshed. As the early sun peeped over Pine Gap, the neighboring American Information base, Uppie joked, ‘Missile strike on Pine Gap, bye bye Uppie.’

The women gathered around to do ceremony and listen to Uppie’s talk. Uppie told Willow and Petal to ‘go walkabout’, learn from the land, but not to cross the river – ‘Wild dogs over there’. So Willow and Petal set out, overjoyed at being free from the restraint of ceremony and the morning circle that seemed to go on for hours.

They travelled along the dry riverbed. The landscape paled into the purple Namatjira hill and they were inside his painting. Circling around till they found the grave of the painter, they fashioned a simple gum leaf wreath to honour this man who gave so much of himself to his people. Circumnavigating the property, they came at last to a tarred road, the southern boundary.

When people talk of endless flat roads that go on forever in the outback, this, indeed, was one of those. It stretched to and from infinity. Down this stretch of highway the two women sauntered, dressed in their sarongs, gay umbrellas sheltering them from the sun’s rays. Song came naturally as they freewheeled along.

A dot on the horizon slowly turned into a car, but the pace and saunter of these two did not change. As the car sped past, amazed faces stared and the unasked question beckoned, ‘Who are these women in the middle of nowhere? Where did they come from? Where are they going?’

It was a mild, three-hour stroll, before partaking of a quiet breakfast in the tin shed. Resting there, sipping milk, they felt happy and at peace. Suddenly, fussy, angry women, burst into the shed. They were cranky with being so long in the heat and the circle. They were unaware of the serenity that existed there. ‘Don’t sit in the middle of the circle,’ one said. 


Willow and Petal moved outside where Uppie was smiling. ‘Enjoy yourselves?’

They answered, ‘Yes, we walked the land.’ So glad were they to have taken his advice to clear out. They handed Uppie a poem that they had composed over breakfast and he accepted their gift gracefully.

We are desert weaving in this ancient land.

Finding stillness in a star-studded night,

We whisper a song to the soil.

Black cockatoo dreaming tale lives on,

Is this the world before the dawn of time?

Toes in red earth, learn the ways of the elders.

You are invited.

Warmed by campfire sisters sit,

Mesmerised by flames dancing.

Darkness descends gracefully in the desert.

Willow named Petal ‘Miss Universe’ when she first met her in the desert. She was dressed in white, her slender frame she carried with elegance. High cheekbones and polite conversation delivered with an exotic accent suggested ladylike tendencies of a European nature. Later, Willow learned of a German heritage and a farm at Dorrigo that Petal called home. The connection was casual, but deepened as they learned about the land.

Having said goodbyes to the Finke River Camp, a bus arrived to transport the women back to Alice Springs. Unfortunately, the river sand was soft and the bus bogged down deep into the earth.

The desert sisters formed a circle and started a chanting. They were chanting a ‘bubble’ around the bus so that it would move.

This was too much for some of the party. Willow realised that no amount of song wishes would move a bus. Why would it? Physical strength and practical knowhow was needed. She turned from the circle and walked towards the bus. Seeking out stones from the surrounding area, she started to place them under the wheels of the vehicle. Seven sisters extracted themselves from the circle and started collecting stones. They piled them up at the back of the bus, building a solid path for it to back up. Petal was one of these people. These eight worked like navvies till the bus slowly drove back over their rocky road. The circle broke up and everyone ran to the bus, singing and delighted with the success of the circle. So that’s how wishes work! Many talk, a few do. ‘It’s the doing that counts,’ remarked the bus driver, so pleased to have received assistance.

Willow and Petal were invited to ride back in a jeep with one of the tour men. There’s always a backup vehicle when travelling in the Outback, if wisdom prevails. This was a reward for working so hard on the makeshift road. On the way they stopped at Simpson’s Creek, and ‘painted up’ Petal with the ochre from the surrounding clay pans. It was another joyous connection for Petal to the land.

Petal never left Alice Springs. She passed away shortly afterwards; nobody on the journey had been aware of her cancer. There was at the Memorial Gathering held: her photo displayed on a sideboard, surrounded by candles, offerings, and friends. In this photo, Petal lay in state, encased in white, eyes closed by death.

Willow never returned to her city life, either. She finally met up with Nelly and received the learning that she had come so far to find. Nelly told her that she was a butterfly in the Caterpillar Dreaming and this was her home now. She stayed on at Uppie’s place. Her passion now is for painting the landscape and gazing into serenity. If you ever find yourself driving down a road to infinity, you may pass her. She walks the land of her dreaming, singing, in her sarong with a colourful umbrella to shade her from the harsh sunrays.

Sunday 10 November 2013

Body Parts

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, NSW

Selling body parts is common in the tertiary world,

sell a kidney for a rental year

or flog a lung to put your kids through school,

but in the west we see it not

distasteful as the concept is.

And yet we see the concept manifest,

a system order higher,

for in the land of Oz, a magic place

where treason is the norm in place of reason,

the government, that august body,

invokes this concept often.

For is a nation not a body of a kind,

having land for flesh and infrastructures for its organs?

So when a politician sells an infrastructure to a foreign company,

is this not unlike the act of selling body parts?

For reference look at Chris and Baz!

And since I am entangled with this land

by love and other quantum mechanisms,

when land is sold to foreign interests

my heart begets diminishment,

and when an infrastructure goes in liquidation

so my organs go by increment.

Does a liquid not escape the pocket that contains it?

The Portuguese of old betokened her as follows:

‘Australia del Espiritu Santo’,

The South Land of the Holy Spirit,

a name I find appealing.

At the feet of English overlords we learnt our lessons well,

Pillage, rape and greed, the old colonial creed,

and all the arts of heresy and exploitation.

Why can no one see the damage being done?

She needs a loving husband, not a pack of rapists.

Perhaps in times to come she’ll shed her burden of myopic lice

and cradle some who more deserve her.

One can only hope.

Ed: Whether you agree or disagree with the concepts in Graham’s poem, we felt it was a brilliant analogy for what he was seeing and feeling. It came to us a week after the last federal election, so made even more sense to us under those circumstances!

Monday 11 November 2013

The Twist Of War

Gregory Tome

Burradoo, NSW

‘Have you finished wiping up?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well go out and get the mail. And don’t drop the bread like you did last time.’

Tony and his mother were about to sit down at the table on the side verandah. It was always sunny there and that’s where the family spent a lot of time. Perhaps they were waiting for Uncle Cliff. His mail came with theirs. The mother and the boys often asked Uncle Cliff things about the farm. He would tell them if what they were doing was right.

He liked getting the mail. It was an important job. It made him feel important. Wiping the dishes did not make him feel important. He hated it, especially wiping the enamel dishes. He hated the rough feeling of wiping them. If he and Tony were wiping up together Tony always grabbed the good plates to wipe. Tony always left the enamel plates for him. He pushed them towards him so he had no choice. He had to wipe them. He hated that.

Tony often teased him and bossed him around. As he walked through the house-yard gate he could hear his mother talking to Tony. She was talking sternly, ‘You’re too tough on Nicholas. He’s only six. He’s just a kid.’

‘There’s a war on, Mum. He’s got to help out more. We’re all working hard. He spends too much time daydreaming.’

He thought about these words as he walked along the drive that ran from the house-yard down to the front gate where you drove into the farm. The mail would be on the ground beside the road into the town close to the front fence.

Nicholas his mother had called him. Nobody else called him that. Normally he was just Nick. Except to Tony. Sometimes he called him Santa Claus because Saint Nicholas was the other name that Santa Claus had.

‘Hurry up, Santa Claus. You haven’t gathered the eggs yet.’

Or he called him Old Nick which Tony said was another name for the devil. He didn’t know why the devil was called Old Nick. Once or twice, when they were well away from the house and where their mother couldn’t hear, Tony had called him another name.

‘Hurry up, Nickel arse. It will be dark before you get the cows into the yard.’ Tony had been on the horse, Toby, when he had said that to him. Then he laughed and cantered away. He just had to keep walking and it was a long way from the gully paddock to the cowyard.

Today as he walked he could feel the sand on the drive under his bare feet and he liked the feeling. Before Dad went away he would sometimes race his sons the length of the drive. Usually he won. ‘Bloody bunch of doughboys,’ he called them whenever he won.

He made sure that he was still walking fast and not daydreaming. They would all be on the verandah soon, waiting for the mail. It was important.

Dad had to go away because of the war. He couldn’t remember the time before the war. He wondered what it was like at a time when there wasn’t war.

~~~

He liked school. Cherryvale Provisional School was the only school that he knew anything about. In the town he had seen the big schools. Tom and Peter had gone to the high school there. Both had left when Dad went away in the army. Tony was going to go to high school but the family thought that he should stay at Cherryvale. There he did high school lessons by correspondence. Mr Browne helped Tony a lot. He liked Mr Browne because he was kind.

Cherryvale School had only one teacher. It had only one classroom. All the classes were in the one room. He liked it when he had finished his work and he could listen to the older kids’ lessons. Sometimes he joined in and answered a question when the older kids did not know the answer. The older kids did not like this and sometimes he could see Tony staring at him and frowning. But Tony wasn’t always at school. Often he had to stay at home to help with the farmwork.

Mr Browne liked it when he answered a question that the older kids couldn’t answer.

He was the best in his class. Les Mitchell was in his class but he did not like school much. Les Mitchell did not try hard at his schoolwork and he was not good at it. Patricia Hart did try hard at her schoolwork. She, too, was in his class. However, she was not good at her schoolwork. While he sat listening to the older kids’ lessons, Les and Patricia had to keep working at their set tasks.

On this particular afternoon the classroom was quiet. As usual he had finished his work before Patricia and Les. Mr Browne collected his Nature Study workbook with its soft green cover. Quickly Mr Browne read through what he had written about insects and larvae and pupae, and his drawings. He ticked the work a few times, scribbled his initials and the date. Mr Browne reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a stamp pad and a stamp. Another star found its way stamped into his workbook. Mr Browne winked at him and said, ‘Good boy,’ as he handed back his book. He looked quickly at the stamp, closed the book and put it away carefully into the shelf under his desk.

On the wall near where he sat was a large coloured poster. On it were pictures of aeroplanes that were fighting in the war. Some were allied planes, others were enemy planes. He liked the pictures of the allied planes best. Without reading the words he knew which one was the Spitfire. He knew the Kittyhawk, the Flying Fortress, the Lancaster bomber which had a special twin-shaped tail. He especially liked the Lockheed Lightning with its double-barrelled shape and the way its tail stretched all the wide way right across the plane. The names of the German planes were hard to remember. The Messerschmitt was the only one he could remember and he hated the menacing Japanese planes with their fierce red circles on their wings but he knew which ones were the Mitsubishi Zeroes.

While he was musing over the poster the silence of the afternoon was shattered by a thunderous noise. One of the older kids had farted, and farted very noisily. There was a universal gasp, followed by a moment’s silence, and then laughter right around the room.

‘Good heavens, Gwen. Was that you?’

‘Yes, Mr Browne. I’m sorry. I tried to keep it in but it just burst out.’

‘That’s all right then. Let’s all get back to work.’

‘Hey, Mr Browne,’ Barry Duffy called out. ‘When Gwen farted I thought Hitler had dropped a bomb.’

‘A very reasonable reaction, Barry. I wonder which one would be the more dangerous.’

~~~

The family was sitting around the lounge room. As usual the wireless was playing. Soon the next episode of First Light Fraser would begin. His mother was the last to enter the room. She surprised everyone by switching off the wireless. They all looked at her, wondering what she was going to say.

‘I haven’t had a letter from Jimmy for a long time. Normally he writes so regularly. I’m worried sick. Tonight we’re going to say the rosary. Together. So please get your rosary beads.’

Nobody said a word and all four brothers stood up and each went on his way to find his rosary beads. He knew exactly where his were. As he took them from the little drawer beside the mirror on the dressing table he heard Tom say to Peter, ‘It’s not fair. Poor Mum. Dad’s away, there’s a farm to manage. Her two brothers are in the war; Uncle Bruce is a prisoner of war in Germany. Now Jimmy. Fighting the Japs somewhere. No word from him.’

‘It’ll kill her.’

‘She’s tough but it’s too big a load.’

As they knelt in a circle around the room, each facing out and leaning against a chair, they took it in turns to lead through the prayers. Because it was Tuesday they would say the sorrowful mysteries. His mother led through the first decade. After the mother, the boys led the responses in order of seniority: Tom, Peter and then Tony.

During the earlier decades he allowed his mind to drift, to think about Uncle Bruce and Jimmy. He didn’t know Uncle Bruce very well. He had lived a long way away out west. But he knew Jimmy well. Jimmy was his uncle too but nobody called him Uncle Jimmy, perhaps because he was so young. Jimmy lived in town and he often came out to the farm. And he often played games with him.

‘I want to play cricket with Nick,’ Jimmy would yell. They would have a game with just the two of them playing. If they had a game when everybody played, Jimmy always made sure he was on his side; he always helped him and cheered him on.

They had reached the fifth and last decade of the rosary, the Crucifixion. Who was to lead now? In a way it was his turn but he had never led before. He waited. There was a pause before his mother said quietly, ‘Thank you, Nicholas.’

Off he went, his fingers shifting carefully from bead to bead at the end of each prayer. It was important for him to get the number of Hail Marys right. One too many or one too few would give Tony something to mock him about. When the prayers finished they stood. Each stretched or rubbed his knees prior to returning his rosary beads to their resting place. Out of earshot of their mother Tony launched his attack.

‘Did you hear old Nick? Thought he was a racing commentator describing a race.’

‘Pity he’s not perfect like you, Tone,’ was Tom’s response.

~~~

He was woken by movement on the verandah outside the door of his bedroom. He could tell from the weak sunlight that it was early. A strong wind was blowing and the top branches of the pepper tree swayed backwards and forwards. There were two main clumps of branches, one higher than the other. He could watch them from where he lay in bed. The taller clump seemed to be hitting the other clump over and over again. He imagined the taller clump was the Phantom. The other clump was the Japs. The Phantom often fought the Japs in the comics in the Women’s Mirror. Not like Mandrake the Magician in the Women’s Weekly. He only gestured hypnotically. But the Phantom used his own strength. He was brave and strong. He liked the Phantom but still he liked to read the Mandrake comics too. But the Phantom was better.

He looked across at Tony’s bed. Usually it was empty at this stage because Tony got up to help milk the cows. Now, however, there was somebody in the bed. It was his cousin, Siobhan. He remembered that she arrived yesterday while he was at school. She cried a lot because she wanted to be at home. ‘I want to be with my mummy,’ she said a lot of times. He didn’t know what was wrong at her home and why she couldn’t be there. Her parents were Aunty Emma and Uncle Tim. Aunty Emma was his mother’s sister. Siobhan did not have any brothers or sisters. Not like him with his three older brothers.

He remembered how his mother had told Tony that she wanted him to sleep on a bed on the front verandah and that Siobhan would have his bed.

‘That’s all right,’ Tony replied. ‘Put the two girls in together.’

He cringed at the memory and pulled the blanket over his face as if to hide his embarrassment. Tony was cruel to him a lot and he wished he could sometimes strike back. He would like to call him a clever name. Tony did have a nickname. Because he was skinny Tom and Peter sometimes called him Splinter. One day Dad had tried to console him when he heard Tony calling him a silly name.

‘Do you know why we call him Splinter?’ Dad asked him.

‘Because he’s skinny.’

‘No. It’s because if he scratches his head he’ll get a splinter in his finger.’

He giggled quietly at the memory and threw the blanket back off his face. The trouble was if you called Tony a name, no matter how clever, he would belt you.

Not that Tony hit him very often. In a way Tony was often kind to him. At school none of the other kids were ever nasty to him, specially when Tony was around. When he first started school Tony helped him a lot when they walked to school. Things often scared him, things he hadn’t seen before.

One morning a dead goanna lay beside the road just where they were walking. He was frightened and started to cry. He didn’t want to, wouldn’t walk past it. The goanna was scary. Dead things were scary. He stood where he was, frozen to the spot. Tony took him with him away from the road into the bush until he found a long, strong stick.

‘Wait here,’ Tony told him. He waited and watched Tony use the stick to pick up the dead goanna and carry it a long way into the bush. Even as it hung on the stick with its head and then its tail swaying and its legs sticking out away from its body there was something frightening about the dead goanna. After Tony dropped the goanna he was able to walk alongside the road again without being frightened.

But there was something else that frightened him and it wasn’t an animal. It looked like an animal, more like a monster, a huge scary dragon. That was a road grader. He was frightened one day when he was walking home from school on his own. There it was parked on the side of the road on top of the hill. From this hill he could see their farmhouse.

This day he did not cry. He scrambled to the other side of the road and half walked and half ran as fast as he could. He did not look back because he did not want to look at that scary dragon monster made from iron. He did not cry but he felt very frightened.

He wondered if the Phantom was scared of things when he was a boy. He couldn’t really imagine the Phantom as a boy. Did he grow up in the jungle? They wouldn’t have had road graders in the jungle, other scary things but not road graders.

He thought about Siobhan. He liked Siobhan. Her family visited there often. When that happened he and Siobhan scampered away as soon as they could to play some game. One day Tony came looking for them and he found them pretending to be drinking tea and eating cake using Siobhan’s toy tea set. He was afraid of what Tony would say but Tony only gave a silly grin.

‘Would you like a cup of tea and some sponge cake, Tony?’ Siobhan asked.

‘No thanks, Siobhan. I’m afraid I’m a bit too busy.’ With that Tony walked away with a smirk on his face. Strangely Tony never said anything about it to him. He waited for it but it never happened.

He liked Siobhan but he like Patricia Hart better. Patricia Hart was rounder and darker and, well, juicier. Siobhan was fair and stringy and dry-looking with her thin face and big freckles. Patricia Hart liked him. She said she wanted to marry him when they grew up. She had told her mother this, but her mother told Patricia she couldn’t marry him because he was a Catholic. This surprised him. He didn’t understand it. Siobhan was a Catholic, too. But she didn’t say she wanted to marry him. Anyway, she couldn’t because they were cousins. Patricia Hart told him this.

He wondered why girls talked so much about who they would marry when they grew up. He thought it was silly. He didn’t think about things like that. He didn’t think the Phantom talked about who he would marry.

‘What are you doing up at this time?’

‘I’m going to set some rabbit traps.’

‘Rabbit traps? You?’

‘Yeah, I found six in the shed. Peter knows and so does Mum.’

‘Mum? You sure? Where are you gonna set them?’

‘Over the road in the stock route.’

‘Six is too many for you to carry. Not all that way.’

‘I’m only taking three today, and three tomorrow.’

‘Well, don’t muck around. You’ve gotta get home and get cleaned up to go to school.’

‘Are you going to school today?’

‘Yeah, but I’m not waiting for you if you’re not ready.’

~~~

It was hot where the sun shone on the side verandah. The family was grouped around, reading the mail and the newspapers. Uncle Cliff was there looking at his mail.

He sat at the verandah edge, his legs dangling down. At the moment he had nothing to read. He had collected up some of the little pieces of brown paper. Each had been wrapped around a tightly rolled newspaper. On each he read the typewritten address:

Mr. T.J. McKenna

Dungarvan

Cherryvale

Dungarvan was the name they had given to their farm. It was an Irish name, his mother had told him. They chose it because her grandparents were born in Ireland. ‘McKenna is an Irish name so Dad’s people had come from Ireland too,’ she said. And somebody had lived in some place called Dungarvan in Ireland. At school one day he had used the school atlas to find Ireland. Then he found Dungarvan. It was at the bottom of Ireland and close to the sea. He told Tony what he had found.

‘The printing is not very big. Perhaps it is not a big place.’

‘You can bet it’s bigger than Cherryvale.’

Mail day on Saturday was different from the other two mail days. On Tuesday and Thursday he was at school and the mail came about one o’clock. On Tuesday when he got home he liked to read the Phantom. Then there were the comics in the Sunday paper which arrived on Tuesday as well. He liked Ginger Meggs and also Henry but he thought it funny that a schoolboy should have a bald head. On Thursday Mandrake the Magician came in the Women’s Weekly.

The silence was broken when the telephone started ringing. Everyone listened to work out who the call was for.

‘That’s yours, Uncle Cliff. I reckon that’s three shorts,’ said Peter.

‘Yeah, somebody wants to talk to me, I guess.’

Everyone went quiet while Uncle Cliff stood in Dad’s office as he spoke into the telephone that was fixed to the wall. Uncle Cliff’s voice sounded quiet and thoughtful. When Uncle Cliff rejoined them on the verandah their mother asked, ‘Everything all right, Cliff?’

‘Yes, Betty, but it’s a bit funny. That was Alan Hart. He told me he’d been over at Le Clerq’s and they have Italian prisoners-of-war working on their place. Alan decided he’d try and get one for his place.’

Everyone went silent as they considered this strange news. He couldn’t stop himself calling to his uncle, ‘But, Uncle Cliff. Harts don’t have a prison, do they? Where are they going to lock them up?’

Uncle Cliff answered quietly. ‘They’re not that sort of prisoners, Nick.’

‘Are you goin’ to get one, Uncle Cliff?’ asked Tom.

‘Dunno. Living on my own makes it a bit awkward. I’d have to cook for him, and I’m not the greatest cook.’

‘You might get one who can cook for you,’ suggested Tony.

‘We’ll see. We’ll see,’ said Uncle Cliff.

‘What about us, Mum? We could do with an extra hand,’ said Peter.

‘With your father away and no grown man on the place, no.’

‘It’ll be hard at harvest time. Looks like Tony’ll have to drive the tractor.’

‘I can drive the tractor,’ snorted Tony.

‘Hang on, Tony,’ said Uncle Cliff. ‘This isn’t just about being able to drive the tractor. It’s about driving it all bloody day. Every day, from sun up to sun down. For seven or eight days in a row. Not a day off. You’ll be dog tired. And that header’s a heavy bugger to lug around a paddock. It takes a strong man to change direction around a corner with that mongrel behind you. No job for a kid like you, strong as you are.’

He paused and then spoke to their mother. ‘Betty, do you have any other choice?’

She shook her head slowly and they could all see the tears in her eyes. ‘He’s only twelve, for God’s sake. But what else can I do?’

~~~

It was lunchtime at school and they were playing hidings in the horse paddock which was next to the schoolyard. The horse paddock hardly ever had horses in it. The only time that it did was when he and Tony rode Toby and Prince to school and that wasn’t very often.

He and Patricia Hart were hiding behind the big tree. It was called the big tree because it was wide and knobbly but it wasn’t taller than the other trees. Patricia Hart always hid behind the big tree. Everyone always knew where she was hiding. They never bothered to look for her. The two of them snuggled close to the tree with its prickly bark and close to each other so that they couldn’t be seen. He could smell something from her sandwiches on her breath. Suddenly, like a bird grabbing a worm, she turned her face and gave him a quick kiss on his cheek. Then she giggled.

Next she lifted her dress and he could see her snow white pants. ‘I’ll take them down and show it to you,’ she said. He gave a