Fault Lines

By David Vernon

Thirty-two award-winning short stories from the Stringybark 'Times Past' Short Fiction Awards entertainingly brings Australian history to life. From gentlemen bushrangers and destitute children to the impact of The Pill, and women being allowed in pubs, these true stories will delight, challenge and intrigue you. Written by some of Australia's best contemporary short story writers, as well as new and emerging authors, each tale illuminates a neglected part of Australia's history.

"When Janine found out a ‘flying trapeze workshop’ was being offered as one of the events at the first ever Sydney Festival, she thanked her lucky stars and expressed her joy with dance... all over the furniture, bouncing around the lounge room like a possum in a cement mixer. The half-filled ashtray and tarot deck went flying across the room as she vaulted over the coffee table, interrupting her flat mate from his studies."
— from "Buckley’s Chance" by Mark Luntungan

"I was seven-years-old when my mother was taken by Death. When the fever came upon her, I lit two candles and placed one on the window sill looking onto the street; the other I placed on the small table by Mother’s bed so that I could see to bathe her face. I was careful to keep it away from the cradle where baby Mary Ann cried and fretted. I had given the baby a rag to suck soaked in a little sugared water, but she would not take it. Her tiny body was burning up too even though the evening was cold."
— from Neglected by Beverley Lello

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Vernon
• Release date: Aug 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463878651

David Vernon

I am a freelance writer and editor. I am father of two boys. For the last few years I have focussed my writing interest on chronicling women and men’s experience of childbirth and promoting better support for pregnant women and their partners. Recently, for a change of pace, I am writing two Australian history books. In 2014 I was elected Chair of the ACT Writers Centre.In 2010 I established the Stringybark Short Story Awards to promote the short story as a literary form.

Book preview

Fault Lines — thirty-two award-winning stories from the Stringybark Times Past Awards

Edited by

David Vernon

Selected by

Fiona Hannan, Antoinette Merrilees, Julia Robertson and David Vernon

Published by Stringybark Publishing

PO Box 464, Hall, ACT 2618, Australia

https://www.stringybarkstories.net

http://www.stringybarkpublishing.com.au

Smashwords Edition

Copyright: This collection, David Vernon, 2019

Copyright: Individual stories, the authors, various.

These stories are works of fiction and do not relate to anyone living or dead unless otherwise indicated.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold 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 book 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 editor, judges and the author of these stories.

Contents

Introduction

Rabbits — Colin Campbell

Dear Grace — Carole Worthy

Sons of the South — Julie Davies

Neglected —Beverley Lello

Requited — Valerie Everett

The Ploughman — Greg Bartlett

The Last Tiger —Lucinda Joura

Lightfoot Linfoot — Kay Spencer

Setting the Bar — Emma Mulheran

Hail Mary — Jon Hogan

Two Leg Trade — Shirley Fletcher

The Legacy — Greg Bartlett

Double or Nothing — Rod Flanagan

Fault Lines — Holly Bruce

The Chicken — Sarah Jane Rutherford

A Party with a Purpose — Caryn Jacobs

Margo — Marion Langford

The Waif Wanderer — Paula Wilson

For Freedom and Honour — Anne Tavares

Got the Lot — Meg Main

Saving Sarah — Rosemary Argue

Tears, Fears and Bloody Boots — Jenny Parkes

Horizon — E.B. Richards

For Valour — Shannon Coyle

Doosia’s Choice — Juliet Blair

The Gentleman Bushranger — Karen Lieversz

A Perfect Murder — Chris Moss

The Swamps in Truro — Petr Joura

The Woman on the Wall — Kay Spencer

Buckley's Chance — Mark Luntungan

An Editor, December 1854 — Regan Rist

Pay at Reception — Rod Flanagan

The Stringybark Times Past Award 2019

About the Judges

Acknowledgements

Other titles by David Vernon at Smashwords.com:

Introduction

— David Vernon

Fault Lines is Stringybark Stories fifth anthology of Australian historical fiction. Historical fiction is a very popular genre, but this anthology is a collection with a difference. While most historical fiction tells tales within an historical context — usually a particular setting but sometimes with real people — our collection deals with actual events. The fictional aspect arises from how the author retells the event or engages their character within the setting. You can be assured that by reading this collection your knowledge of Australian history will be all the greater.

The authors represented here have constructed entertaining stories that have been trawled from the depths and dusty crannies of history — from the treatment of women in Setting the Bar by Emma Mulheran; to the changing sexual mores in Australia in Rod Flanagan’s tale, Pay at Reception. The horror of the Truro Murders is revealed in The Swamps in Truro by Petr Joura. But not all is gloom and doom, we have some unfailingly clever stories that focus on good things, such as the battle in an outback pub between the poetry devotees of Lawson and Patterson, told by Julie Davies in Sons of the South.

Whatever your interest in history, you will find many wonderful tales to keep you entertained.

On behalf of the other judges, Fiona Hannan, Antoinette Merrillees and Julia Robertson and our wonderful sponsor, Stringybark Publishing, we hope you savour these tales. 

Happy reading!

David Vernon

Judge and Editor

Stringybark Stories

Rabbits

— Colin Campbell

They were brothers; Jock, was ten, the youngest and the better shot and he was carrying the .22 while his brother Gordon, a head taller, carried the pole across his shoulders, from which rabbits should have hung, if they’d shot any. The pole was empty. It was about seven on Friday morning and the light was just drifting with the mist through the trees.

Mustn’t be too long, I don’t wanna be late for school, my arse is still tender from the floggin’ old Smithy give me for bein’ late last week. Come on! It’s still twenny minutes to home an it’s getting lighter. Maybe we’ll get a bunny yet.

They pushed on, following the track and not saying much. The underbrush was thick here and the rotting leaves muffled their steps. Gordon said later to the journalist, I thought I was dreamin’ when we come to where they was, all huddled up together against a fallen tree. Most of the girls were asleep but the woman was awake, ‘though she was in a bit of a state, her clothes were all creased and dirty. There was blood on her arm, too, an she looked like someone who’d been through somethin’ awful, her eyes big and starin’ An’ she wasn’t dressed for bush-walkin’ neither; she’d got a blouse an a really short skirt an tall boots nearly up to her knees with them platform soles. He wanted to say that the little girls looked like something from a story or something, huddled up against the tree as they were, with their arms around each other, all sleepy with smudges on their cheeks where it looked like tears had run and mixed with dirt before they dried. They reminded him of an illustration in a book at school, a book of fairy stories but he decided not to say that, ‘cause if the boys at school read about it, they’d say he was a wuss an’ a fairy himself and he’d never live it down. So he just said they looked sleepy and dirty and left it at that.

The journalist said, Then what happened? What did she say?

Nobody had said anything for a minute or two; the two boys looked at her and she stared back with dark, frightened eyes. The little girls began to wake up and whimper. They all looked at the brothers, but nobody said anything; they just huddled closer and the very smallest sucked her thumb.

Do you live near here? the woman asked, and Jock nodded and said, Yair, about fifteen or so minutes from here, just over the hill. He paused and shuffled his feet in the leaves and then cleared his throat. Who’re you?

My names Miss Grey and I need to get these girls to somewhere safe and make some phone calls. Is there a ‘phone at your house?

No, but Mr Swain, our neighbour, has got one. He’s a couple of minutes away, I reckon he’d let you use his, Gordon said, shifting the empty pole on his shoulder. Who’d you need to ring?

Their parents and … never mind, let’s get moving. She turned to the girls and said, briskly, Right everybody stand up, come on, now! That’s good! Now, we’re going with these boys to their house where we can get a drink and I can ring your Mum’s and Dad’s, Okay? Now, Mary, what are you crying about now – and you too, Rita? What’s the problem? Come on, whisper! And she leaned close to the girls and there was a brief whispered conversation. The woman looked at Jock and said, It’s your gun – they’re scared of it. Can you sort of make it less obvious? These girls have been badly frightened – can you hide it, do you think?

Gordon said, Go on ahead, Jock, and tell Mum we’re coming, indicating the woman and her girls and then looked hard at his brother who nodded and set off at a trot along the track, the offending weapon in his right hand, and disappeared amongst the trees.

Now, said Miss Grey with as bright a smile as she could manage, "there’s nothing to be frightened of now, is there? Course there isn’t! Now, what are your tears about, Megan?"

She’s peed in her knickers, Miss, and she smells awful, said a dark-haired girl.

Well, I expect none of us smell very nice after last night, do we, Jill? And it’s not very nice of you to say things like that about Megan. Whilst we’re on that subject, does anyone want to ‘go’ before we move off? Okay, go quickly behind this tree. I’m sure, and turning towards Gordon she said, I’m sorry I don’t know your name…

It’s Gordie … er, Gordon Fraser.

Well, I’m sure Gordon is too much of a gentleman to look. As the girls disappeared behind the log, she turned to Gordon and said, I know this sounds like a silly question but where exactly are we? Where’s the nearest town, Gordon?

Daylesford, Miss. He’d already decided she was a teacher; you can always tell, he thought. About six kilometres, Miss. And, suddenly, he was pretty sure he knew who the woman was, and the girls too, but he said nothing. There’d been something on the radio news last evening about a kidnapping of the teacher and all the kids from … where was it? … some one-teacher-school? Nobody knew where they were, or whether they were safe or anything; but his thoughts were interrupted by her as she briskly encouraged the girls to hold hands and began to lead them along the track that Jock had taken. The girls, seemingly all younger than Gordie, stumbled along behind the young woman. They were still scared and sleepy and Gordie sensed their fear and unhappiness. Then, the teacher began to sing, in a loud voice, I love to go a wandering, along … and soon they were all singing, including Gordie. They finished with that and then the smallest girl began, Bye, bye, Miss American Pie, drove my Chevy to the levee… and the teacher laughed as all the other girls joined in. Gordie knew some of the verses and sang them and the little girls joined in the chorus. Then, from up ahead came a single rifle shot followed by another and, after a brief pause yet another and a rabbit, leaping and kicking and trailing blood, staggered past them, followed by Jock who swung a bloody furry corpse in his left hand.

He yelled, Look! I got one, maybe two if I can catch this wounded bugger! He disappeared around the bend in the track, gaining on the bleeding rabbit and they all heard what sounded like dull thuds and then his triumphant shout of, Gotcha! Gordie looked back at the teacher, who was white and shaking. Three of the girls hugged her, their faces hidden in her blouse, two others hugged each other and the last, the youngest stood, her hands over her ears and Gordie realised the high-pitched sound that seemed to cover everything was the little girl’s scream. She paused for breath and began again and again until it seemed to the boy that the sound had become part of the track and the trees. The teacher pushed the three bigger girls away and grabbed the tiny child, swept her into her arms and pushed her head into her shoulder until the dreadful sound was stifled.

The teacher said, Gordie … and that was all, but Gordie knew what she couldn’t say. He turned and ran towards his brother, who was still shouting and whose footsteps could be heard in the dead leaves coming closer to the whimpering tableau.

Gordie said, Jock! Get home, stupid! Hide the rabbits and the gun and tell Mum we’re on our way. Quick – and don’t come past the girls. You’ve scared them bad. Go ‘round the other way…. and be quick. Tell Mum it’s a teacher and kids and they’re all scared shitless. She’ll know what to do. Go on, quick!

When the sorry party got to the house, Mum had the kettle boiling and there was the smell of something frying. She said she’d sent Jock with a written message to Mr Swain to make a phone call.

Gordie told the journalist later, It took us a while to get home, but. That littlest one kept screamin’ about rabbits an’ blood an stuff an kept tryin’ to run into the bush. In the end, the teacher picked her up again an held her tight. The teacher’s face was all wet an’ I dunno if it was her tears or the little girl’s. Later, when the girls was chewin’ on bacon sandwiches an sippin’ tea, Mum said, I’d like to get my hands on those two men, I’d give em … an she was wavin’ her bread-knife at the time an’ that littlun started to scream again …

A school kidnapping occurred on 6 October 1972 at a one-teacher Primary school at Faraday, Victoria. Six female students and their female teacher were taken by two men. All were unharmed.

Colin Campbell was born in Debenham, UK and came to Canberra, via North Queensland in 2013. He lives alone with his cat, Suzi, in the middle of a golf course and is mostly very happy. Colin has previously been published in the Stringybark anthologies Behind the Wattles (2012), Valentine’s Day (2013), A Gentleman and a Scholar (2017) and The Scientific Method (2019).

Dear Grace

Carole Worthy

1 July 1942

Dear Grace,

Barry here. I wish I was actually writing a letter to you, but I’m stuck in this hell hole on a Japanese ship that’s bound for God knows where, and I don’t have pen and paper to write with, so it’s all in my head for now. Helps me pass the time in this rotten hold with all the others who were captured in Rabaul. I reckon there’s well over a thousand of us blokes, all Aussies! They shipped out some of the civilians as well as some of the Volunteer Rifles, and those of us from the 2/22nd, except for the officers that is.

You know what? As the Japs were marching us up the beach at Rabaul to put us into transports that were to take us out to their ship, I picked a safe moment to chuck my hanky to young Rudy, who was there watching the whole thing. He’s a nice local kid who used to get stuff for us from time to time, when it was safe. Well that hanky has my name and service number on it- B. O’Neil VX19523, (as you well know). I figure if we all disappear, it might be some sort of proof, along with what Rudy witnessed, of what happened to us.

The stink in here is terrible! We’re locked in the hold the whole time… I don’t know where they think we’d go if we were allowed out, but I’d kill to have a wash. The food, if you can call it that, is lousy. Think I’ll complain to the shipping company when we get there…wherever that will be!

Remember I said that perhaps I’d be back in time for Muriel and John’s wedding? Well I don’t like my chances now, worse luck. Oh boy, I’d give anything to see you again, and the sooner the better! Say a prayer for me and the boys, love.

It all happened after that last letter I sent to you in the new year. On January 23rd , all hell broke loose when the Japs began to attack Rabaul Harbour. The coast watchers had alerted us that the Japs had it in