Pecking Disorder

By Robert Moore

It is 1971 Tasmania. Ross Mayne is boarding at Yurnadinah, an education department hostel. He has been away from the family hop farm for a month. The night before his first trip home an unexpected liaison with Michael Nichols, sends him into a spin.

An anxious weekend of discussions, disclosures and secrets unfolds. Phillip, Ross’s older brother leaves home in a hurry. Fearing what people might say, the Mayne family fabricates a story about Phillip’s departure. Ross is offered the family farm, something that has always been Phillip’s birthright.

Ross experiences contradictory feelings. Some set him free. Others imprison him. While his eighteenth birthday is soon to be celebrated, he has to protect the image and beliefs of his parents. His own desires become a challenging second place – a place where there is plenty of ammunition to destroy a sensitive soul.

Ross comes home on a weekly basis to help the family regroup. His feelings for Michael blossom. However, his sister Fiona drops a
bombshell to rival Phillip’s.

Meanwhile, Ross is unprepared for Michael’s revelation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blazing Heart Publishing
• Release date: May 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463839485

Robert Moore

Robert Moore is an award-winning TV journalist who was ITN’s Moscow correspondent during the collapse of the Soviet Union, and subsequently served as their Middle East correspondent. Since 1997, he has been their foreign affairs editor, covering a wide range of international stories, including wars in Chechnya, Kosovo and Sierra Leone.

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BLAZING HEART PUBLISHING

https://www.blazingheartpub.com

Pecking Disorder

© 2019 by Robert Moore

ISBN: 978-0-46383-948-5

Print ISBN: 978-1-09961-708-9

First Blazing Publication: May 2019

Cover Art by JP Graphics Design

Copyright © 2019 by Blazing Heart Publishing.

Edited By: Beth Water Cotters

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photocopy reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

DEDICATION

For Cameron at Cludgeon Corner.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Copyright Page

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

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One - Something

Hobart. Tasmania. 1971

Keep moving. Don’t stop.

Do you hear that Ross Mayne?

I remind myself again and again to the point of exhaustion. I need a distraction. Last night. The hostel. No. I must forget it happened.

The classroom empties. I stuff my briefcase with text books and dog-eared photocopies of class notes. As usual I am last to leave. Another escape has begun.

It’s a rerun of the same thing.

I have to avoid recapture. There is no other way than to keep on kidding myself. A bag of books. Hours of study. The right image. And perfect weekend incarceration.

For some time I fumble trying to engage the brass locks. I finally succumb to letting the top flap reveal all to be reborn later. Here is the tangible evidence. Incomplete assignments and class work I have yet to finish. Is it because I can’t concentrate today? The clutter of text books and foolscap pads are the loose thoughts I so desperately want to avoid.

And how much I always have to do to catch up.

It’s more than that.

It’s him.

Admit it.

Pitiful me.

I’m in ‘kidding myself’ mode. I’m good at that. I start off with the best of intentions to excel, yet somewhere along the way a nagging, restless voice undermines those good intentions. That same voice keeps me in my place.

Of knowing my place.

Apparently some refer to this as a ‘pattern of behavior’ while others call it the ‘order of things’. It’s an imprisonment ritual I’ve agreed to. But there’s nothing worse than knowing you’re both prisoner and gaoler. I am not allowed to succeed. I can’t be seen to be better than anyone else. That’s the crux of one of my cruxes.

I see the annoying and frustrating repetition of my habits fulfilling this belief as I leave the classroom. It’s that desperate delusional pattern again. But I live in hope. This time the books will be more than a distraction. I will finally master runaway thoughts and complete all my assignments. At least I will be able to acknowledge the symptoms of success.

My thoughts are briefly positive, as I negotiate the door tumbleweed fashion. I stride towards the Brooker Highway which is next to the college

I keep telling myself that this weekend I need to bury myself in schoolwork. But as I step out, gone is this Friday afternoon’s number one recommitment. I blame the shift on traffic noise. Other nagging thoughts surface. I am naked. Both my fright and flight are coming through. I have some thinking to do and I can’t speak to anyone about it.

There is absolutely no one I can talk to about it. I won’t dare talk about it. I will have to pretend that everything in my world is okay. The same as usual.

But it’s not.

It’s all because of something I’ve been doing for quite a long time.

Hiding the truth about myself from myself.

Maybe I just want to get away for the weekend on the family farm. To be alone but not lonely. To think about things. To exchange Yurnadinah, the Education Department hostel for a country home after another long month.

Home.

Bliss.

Cars read me as they pass. Should I step out in front of them?

I am already carnage, struggling to survive on this disabled friendly footpath.

My briefcase which looks as though it is ‘due at any moment’ is a metaphysical signpost for life. The nearest thing to my involvement in procreation is in my hands. Without fully comprehending the symbolism of my expectant carryall, I have elected to live a progeny free future.

So much has happened at the hostel this week.

I’ll start again. I need to start again. With the truth this time. The full truth. The truth escapes me. Or do I let it escape? There is a difference.

So much happened at the hostel last night.

No those are the words I have practiced. I have told myself to say them to a public me. Over and over again. Not the private me.

The truth is only one thing happened. Admit it

I wanted it to happen and yet I didn’t. The ‘yet I didn’t’ is still talking its fear. It stalks me. The finger pointing of a majority who will deem me and my actions repugnant.

All power to the mighty index digit. You can forget where it’s been.

The fact is it can point. And in terms of success that’s pivotal.

He wanted it to happen. And he seemed cool about it. Far less fear in him.

How lucky he is.

But not me. Right now I am still the bait and the fish. The pain of scrutiny hooked on my own guilt. And those eyes staring at me with disgust and disapproval. Okay. Maybe a silent majority. But I know what they’ll think.

And when they talk in whispers and sniggers I’ll know what they’ll say.

And after it happened?

I wanted it to happen again and again. He knew I was drawn to his suggestions. The touch and the torment was too much. I was propelled towards it, ached for it, but in the middle of it, recoiled.

‘No,’ I whispered quickly. ‘We shouldn’t be doing this. I can’t do this anymore. Never again. Never. Do you understand?’

I watched him get out of my bed. The moonlight lit his naked body as he tiptoed back to his own bed. I ached for him to return but I had already shunned him. I dragged the sheets and blankets around me and tossed and turned the rest of the night.

Never again. Never. Do you understand?

I let my confused words echo into my thoughts, desperate for membership of the silent majority. I pulled the index finger on both hands until the joints cracked.

How can something be so nice yet so wrong?

I told myself a hundred times that it didn’t happen. Straight after, my heart murmured two voices. It didn’t beat that night. It raced and reprimanded. One heart talked loud. It argued my voice. The other pumped sporadic chatter, the utter and total condemnation of those dumb finger pointers.

They’ll see and they’ll learn how to talk.

I could still smell him on my hands.

I was terrified the others in the dormitory would wake. But six versions of snoring reassured me. The ‘something’ was shared between Michael and me alone. We saw ‘the something’ in each other the first day at Yurnadinah. Yes that’s his name. Michael. Michael Nichols.

Dare I say it? Oh Michael. No.

The heart I chose to listen to kept saying it didn’t happen. Nothing happened.

Nothing happened.

I must have got to sleep somehow and hoped all this would be forgotten.

Who’s kidding who?

Myra my Mum is waiting for me in the Austin 1800. There’s someone else in the car with her.

Grace. Can’t be.

Grace Badcock is meant to be in Adelaide. Nursing. She’s my brother’s fiancée. There is something odd happening. Something going on that I am not supposed to know about. But I can see it. And feel it. I’m kind of glad in a weird way. It’s a distraction from last night. I wish every day and night had a ‘Thursday night something’. And then a Friday to forget it all.

No I didn’t or no I shouldn’t?

Oh yes you did.

I open the car door. But why is Grace back home?

Mum and Grace have been struck by something unspeakable. I sense unease straight away. They share the same body language. They look shell shocked. Good.

It is a distraction from my own stuff.

They half smile and look at me kindly, warily. Look at each other as if to halt their symbiosis and the broadest of beans spilling. They are both smoking heavily. Two chimney chums.

‘Hello dear,’ Mum says coughing and smiling. She wants to be free of her own pent up feelings so she can connect with me as she always does. You know it’s that mother and favorite son stuff. It’s been a whole month since I’ve seen her. Smoke drifts over her. It adds to the nicotine wisp staining the front of her permanent wave.

‘Hi Ross,’ Grace says in a half whisper. She partly echoes Mum and forces a smile to crowd out her anguish.

The car is full of smoke. Talk and thoughts. Talk and cigarettes. Smoke and double contemplation for an hour or more?

Mum and Grace are trying to cocoon themselves. I sprawl with my water breaking briefcase on the back seat. The mess falls onto the floor as a grateful reminder I will have another distraction.

Great.

I am being saved by the secrets in the front of the car, the secrets in the back and the elimination from my briefcase namely the birth of Ancient History notes. ‘Xerxes the Great killed by Artabanus’, catches my stinging eyes. I am not yet part of this shell on wheels.

Somehow I know not to say ‘why are you home’? I can feel pain now. A lot of it. Especially Mum’s. I don’t worry all that much about Grace but surrounding her chrysalis is an energy field of hurt and confusion. It’s the pain of fear too. The pain of not talking but having to eventually. The pain of knowing. Of maybe pretending not to know or not wanting to know. And the pain of pretending everything is normal.

This really is a carbon copy.

It’s all for my sake.

And for the finger pointers too?

Somebody has to say something. I do after the interior cloud partly drifts out the side windows of the Austin. The car floats on its well-advertised fluid up the Brooker.

A prison on wheels with three inmates. All cocooned. Is it fear of the known or unknown that automatically drives this car?

‘Didn’t think you were coming back until you finished your course.’

I finally talk, using a cough and a spit to dislodge the human ice, smoke and cigarettes have only half succeeded in thawing.

Grace and Mum swap furtive glances and light more cigarettes. Their symbiosis resumes. They are conjoined twins performing identical actions. Their ashen faces have a remarkable resemblance. It’s all part of an hour long agreement.

‘Something’s happened. Grace had to come back for a while,’ Mum coughs so she has time to search for the right intonation for an appropriate response. But then she always does this with my father. It’s like an apology she feels she must make before words are formed. I hate how she has to justify her existence all the time.

Don’t I know about justification?

‘When did you get back,’ I ask Grace.

Mum coughs an interruption again.

‘I picked Grace up from the airport. She rang me this morning. Your brother doesn’t know yet, or your father.’

‘It’s a surprise then,’ I say knowing already that it is not to be a pleasant one.

‘I guess so,’ Mum answers through clenched teeth. I expect she will take the steering wheel in her mouth at any moment.

The next five minutes are like preventing a resealed road from setting. The car has dragged bitumen inside and molded three statues as we head north. There is no use talking even though equal amounts of intrigue and suspense demand more questions. The rear windows remain half open. Crisp autumn air blows across the narrowing Derwent, funneling the smoke back inside like shifting halos. I sit awkwardly in the center of the back seat imagining that Mum, Grace and I are points on an isosceles triangle.

Equal sides. Equal angles. Perfect balance?

Hardly.

Given that a hideous weight rests on Mum and Grace’s shoulders I try to construct possible scenarios as to why Grace should suddenly return, why my mother who is trying to give up smoking is a chimney again and why the two women share some knowledge that neither of them can handle.

It obviously means one thing. Grace is back because of my brother and not just to see my brother. My brother’s fiancée is not back to discuss wedding preparations.

Grace has arranged for Mum to pick her up from the airport. Some days ago? She has told Mum it’s a secret and that she wants to speak to her alone.

I think about last night. My Thursday night with Michael the Great. Thursday night with so many seconds and minutes. It seems like a whole leap year jammed into that one half hour now. In that half hour I wronged what was right. In those thirty minutes I unleashed 1800 seconds of dueling chatter. Two voices of continual conflict that walk a tightrope towards each other.

I hate these thoughts.

Can they pass?

Will they pass?

Thirty minutes later the 1800 slows before turning off Loveday Road.

What a coincidence.

I spin out connecting the family car with a specific passage of ‘my time’.

The planks on the farm bridge rattle. Mum tries to avoid potholes, but scrapes the sump guard more than once. She accelerates up the hill past the hop kiln. The car requires more power than normal. The load is still bituminized.

Under the rear of a Holden ute, a man’s legs protrude. An assortment of spanners and other car tools scattered on either side of the legs suggest a major job is underway. A frame for carting a rowing shell is being dismantled.

Slowly Mum guides the Austin into the ramshackle garage alongside the Holden. A body slides out from underneath the ute to reveal Phillip, my brother who has just glimpsed the occupants in the Austin 1800.

Two – Something Else

Phillip drops a ring spanner, aghast. His eyes bullet at Grace then Mum. There is a strained collective greeting. Surprise which yields to terror flickers across his face like layered clips from a silent movie.