Valedictory

By Patrick Ford

Andy Merton is approaching old age. He looks back on his life and the people who made significant contributions to it. Perhaps it is time, he thinks, to try to find some of those people he has lost contact with. His search leads him to old friends and old loves, and in the process presents him with a question for the ages. Can a man love more than one woman? Will he solve this conundrum, or will he end up breaking all their hearts? A story that showcases the life of just one man and the sometimes momentous times, in which he lived.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick Ford
• Release date: Jul 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393181477

Patrick Ford

Patrick has had an interesting life – student, soldier, farmer, accountant, teacher. He is widely travelled and loves history. His wide experiences have given him deep well of knowledge from which to draw inspiration for his stories. He writes from his home in rural Queensland and produces what Aussies call “a bloody good yarn”.

Book preview

1. Twilight.

Here, in the sand ridge , it was easy to imagine that time had stood still. There, for instance, was the old pine tree he had used as a rest for his rifle when he had shot the biggest feral pig he'd ever seen. It was sixty years ago, when he was ten. In those days, boys grew up fast on the farm; at that age he could shoot with the best of the grown-ups, ride any horse on the place, and drive the old Land Rover with its crash gearbox, indifferent brakes, and vague steering. His father called him his 'little mate' and he was proud to be thought of in those terms. Mateship is a serious business for an Australian.

Over there, a concrete water trough, filled by the artesian bore, provided stock water, just as it had for more than eighty years. He had slaked his thirst there a thousand times. He looked at the blackened stone circle he used for his campfires. How many times had he gazed into those flames? How many times had he seen the spirits there, the good ones and the evil ones? How many times had he bared all to them, raw, emotive, gut-wrenching sadness, or the exhilarating, blazing triumphs that had illuminated his long life?

He was part of this place, shackled to the trees, the whispering breezes, the soft light, the soil, the birds, and all the other animals. After any time away, it refilled his senses, refreshed his spirit, washed away his sins, cured his broken heart. It was the only thing he would regret leaving behind. At least his son and his sons understood; life would go on and the world would keep turning. Perhaps his spirit would come back to keep an eye on things, help them out a little.

As dusk approached, the birds settled for the night, twittering their last songs as he walked back to his truck. He was getting close to his ultimate song, too. He knew the end was drawing down on that day he had started over seventy years ago, screaming with rage as they expelled him from his soft, warm home. It had been a long day, indeed. Now it was the twilight of his life.

Later, as he sipped tea from an old, chipped mug that bore the faded inscription, 'World's Best Dad', he tried to put his life into perspective. He knew one thing: you meet many people in your life. Sometimes they may seem important, usually they turn out not to be. They are the sand and gravel poured from the pan, leaving only the gold nuggets behind, and there are very few of them. Most only find a couple in all their years, some find none. He had been lucky. He had a list of them, ten golden prizes. 

Some have a 'bucket list' of things to do before they leave. He had a list of the people who had played important roles in his life, priceless people, each of them one in a million to him. Some he had lost track of, some were most likely dead, some living in a fuzzy zone of fading memory, but most were still there. What had happened to them all?

After this morning's visit to the doctor, he knew he had to find them. They would be his epithet, his valediction, the thick line drawn under his life, the final accounting.

2. Peter.

He met Peter on his first day of school. Peter stood at the gates of Saint Joseph's and looked up and down, assessing the new students. He was a little tall for his age with a freckled face and bright orange hair, and he had contrived a stance and a look that marked him as someone you didn't mess with. It was important that he maintained his rank amongst the other kids. It meant that he had the best parts of the leftover lunches, first choice of the limited sports equipment, and other kids he could delegate to do the tasks the nuns assigned to him. Later, of course, it would mean he had the first choice of the girls too, but right now that was in the future. Like all the other boys his age, he knew nothing about girls except that they were tittle-tats and a constant source of annoyance.

Andy Merton went to live with his grandmother in town so that he could attend the school. He had endured two years of instruction from a succession of governesses at home on the farm, but he was becoming a handful for them. The great outdoors called him without pause. His rifle, his dog, his horses, and the old Land Rover. The search for him that consumed part of every morning was necessary to get him to his studies. His father would say, When I retire, I'll give up sheep dogs and breed kid dogs. A man'll make a bloody fortune!

Andy wasn't big for his age, and he was a bit timid around strangers. After all, he had been by himself mostly, and his dog couldn't talk, although she was often a captive audience for his long soliloquies. Plenty of good food, exercise and fresh air made him fit enough, but he wouldn't grow into a big man until the testosterone cut in, and along with the girls, that lay in the distant future.

Hey, who are you? said Peter. Andy didn't answer, for he had no idea that he was the subject of the enquiry. Peter pushed his shoulder, none too gently. "Who are you?

Answer me or I'll give yer a kick up the arse!"

Andy looked at him. I'm Andy Merton, he said. I come from a farm north of here. This is my first day.

Well, yer better smarten yerself up around me, mate, or I'll give yer a hidin', see?

Andy was not quite sure what a hidin' was, but he could see that it wouldn't be anything good. Why? he said. what have I done?

Don't be a smartarse, said Peter, What grade're yer in?

Grade five.

Good, that's my grade. I'll be watchin' yer. Yer got any lollies on yer?

No.

Well, yer better 'ave some termorrer, or I'll give yer that hidin' I promised yer.

Andy was about to speak when the school bell rang and several nuns mustered them all into the open space in front of the school. There, they had to line up to sing the national anthem, in those days 'God Save the Queen'. Then one of the senior boys ran up the flag. A nun said a prayer, and they marched into their classrooms. Peter had made sure he was marching behind Andy, trying to step on his heels and make him stumble. Around him he could hear the other children giggle. Then everyone stopped as a large nun grabbed Andy by the collar and dragged him from the corridor into a classroom. Naughty boy, she said, you'll learn that this school and the blessed Saint Joseph are no laughing matter. She cuffed him over the head and pushed him back into the corridor.

Andy's head hurt, but more than anything, he felt a burning sense of injustice. He didn't know it then, but that minor act of brutality would infuse him with a determination that he would carry to his grave. Nobody was going to push him around again! He didn't tell his grandmother that night about his new acquaintance, Peter. Nor did he ask for lollies to take to school. Instead, he took a small brown paper bag from the kitchen and went outside. Grandma's house was an old one and, like many of the old houses in the town, it had a resident family of possums in the roof space. You could hear them hissing and fighting in the night. They used to chew up Grandma's garden relentlessly and left a generous deposit of their small, hard, pellet-shaped droppings behind. Andy half-filled the bag with them. In the morning, he poured a spoonful of Grandma's icing sugar into the bag and gave it a shake.

Peter was waiting for him at the top of the concrete steps when he arrived at the school in the morning. Where's me lollies? he said.

Up here, said Andy, and walked past him to the top of the stairs and onto the patch of grass that passed for lawn. Peter walked behind him. Andy turned and handed him the bag. This is all my grandma had, he said. Peter grabbed the bag, took out a handful of its contents, and stuffed them hungrily into his mouth. At first, he only tasted the sugar, but when he chewed into the pellets, his face changed into an expression of sheer horror and he spat them onto the ground. 

One of the other children looked down and screamed. They're not lollies, she shrilled, Peter's eating possum poo! All around, the children began to laugh. Possum shit, possum shit, they chorused. For a moment, Peter stood there. Then he swore and rushed at Andy. Andy was small, but he was strong; life on the farm had made him so. Before Peter got going properly, Andy pushed him away fiercely. He went down and sat there, looking at a fat worm of blood making its way down his leg from a badly grazed knee. Finally, he stood up, and Andy tensed, expecting him to retaliate. Instead, he ran around the corner of the building and disappeared.

In class, when they called the roll, everyone looked at the empty desk where Peter should have been. Where is Peter Gorman? said the nun. There was silence in the room and then a little girl put up her hand.

I saw him run away, Sister. He went towards the sports hut. I think he hurt his leg.

Alright Mary, said the nun, thank you. She pointed to Andy and two other boys. You go and find him. Bring him here immediately.

Andy found him crouched under the refectory building in the crawl space. He was curled up in the foetal position and crying as though his heart had broken. When he saw Andy, he flinched and tried to burrow further under the building. You better come out mate, said Andy. they're all looking for you.

I can't.

Why not?

Because yer beat me in a fight. They'll all laugh at me now, everyone will. Besides, me old man'll give me a beltin' for losin' too.

Who's going to tell him?

Everybody will. You will. I won't be able ter go ter school now. Everyone will laugh at me.

I won't. I saw what happened. You tripped and hurt your knee. That's what I'll say. Nobody else can argue with that. I'll tell them to shut up. Come on, out you come, and stop crying. Your knee isn't that bad. Wait till a big woolly sheep jumps on top of you.

Peter crawled out from under the building, his face muddy from his tears and his attempts to rub them away with his grubby hands. Andy gave him his handkerchief and led him back to the classroom. The nun fussed over his knee and went to get a bandage for him. Peter went to his desk and sat in silence. The other children watched him, puzzled.

This was not the aggressive little terror they knew.

For the rest of the week, Peter said nothing to Andy. Then as they were leaving the school on Friday, he said, D' yer wanna come'n see me new cricket bat? Me old man was good at cricket. He'll show yer 'ow ter play.

And so, the friendship began. Later in his life Andy would realise Peter's aggression and bullying was a reaction to his father's treatment of him. Bill Gorman was an uneducated man, bitter that his life amounted to a menial labourer's job with the railways and a wife who would eventually leave him to avoid his brutal treatment of her and her children. Bill comforted himself with nightly sessions at the Railway Hotel.

Andy's Grandmother's house was only a hundred yards from Peter's, on the opposite side of the service lane that ran between the back-to-back allotments. Originally designed for passage of the night-soil carts before the town gained a sewerage system, it carried little traffic, and was a playground for the many children that lived in the houses it served. It was a cricket pitch and a racetrack and later a trysting place for teenagers fumbling their way to a knowledge of sexual relations, a topic studiously avoided by most of the parents of the time. Peter was the first to tell Andy of the ridiculous facts of intercourse and procreation. Neither believed the fanciful story. Their parents would not have done such weird things, surely?

The kids playing in the length of the then unnamed lane found themselves in conflict with each other, mainly Catholics and State School pupils. The 'cattle ticks' and the 'prodos' found themselves engaged in deadly conflict, or it seemed like it to them. They threw stones, shouted insults and sometimes they came to blows. They hurt nobody much, and they learned a mutual respect over the years. It would horrify today's parents.

Across from Peter's house was the town park. Here there were long-neglected playground items like the roundabout that broke many a young ankle, a monkey frame made from inflexible galvanised pipe and the Pepperina trees that demanded to be climbed, with subsequent broken bones and concussion as kids fell or were pushed from their branches. They learned valuable skills here. Today's parents would be just as horrified.

Andy and Peter were more interested in the small football field in the corner of the park. Later, a swimming complex would replace it. Now they kicked a football, swung their cricket bats, and played 'red rover' with the other kids. Andy was hopeless at sports, but Peter and his father taught him some basic skills. Later he would become a handy cricketer and an enthusiastic but inept Rugby player.

Peter became Andy's best friend. The streetwise Peter and the studious Andy complimented each other beautifully in the game of life. Andy learned the still-not-believable theory of sex, the tricks of spin-bowling and boxing. Peter had a ready accomplice to complete his homework for him, and a friend with whom to go to the farm on many weekends, where Andy taught him to ride a horse, handle a sheep dog and use a rifle. Andy had no brother. Peter had no friends; he had alienated them all with his stand over tactics.

For three years they were rarely apart. As they grew, the mysteries of life slowly revealed themselves. Both had trouble with religion. To them the whole thing, a man rising from the dead, miracle cures and total obedience to the church was anathema. They even tried to turn water into wine, a notable failure. Peter's father laughed long and hard and called them fools. In any case, he would have preferred beer.

Then one day two hammer blows fell upon Andy's head. Peter's father transferred to a big town called Ipswich where the railways headquarters was located. Nobody knew, but Bill Gorman was lucky to have a job. His alcoholism had affected his work. Finally, in a rare example of common sense for those times, his bosses gave him a job in Ipswich with the proviso that he quit drinking and begin a programme of rehabilitation. He was to depart within the month. The second blow to Andy was his parents' decision to send him away to boarding school. There was no high school in their town then, and Andy's parents had a comprehensive education in mind for him.

It was the end of his friendship. Both boys were despondent. Andy asked his parents to send him to a school in Ipswich, but to no avail. They discussed running away together, a childish scheme that involved hiding in the bush at the far extremities of the farm and living on the rabbits Andy would shoot with his rifle. But, in the end, they followed their parents' wishes. They wrote to each other, but Peter wasn't much of a writer and the correspondence died a natural death. Andy only saw Peter one more time, at his father's funeral. But there was now a distance between them that was palpable, and their conversation was short and perfunctory.

ANDY MERTON PUT DOWN his cup and ended his reverie. Peter Gorman, he thought, where in hell are you, what happened to you? You were going to play cricket for Australia, you were going to travel the world, you were going to be rich, drive a sports car, live in a penthouse on the Gold Coast. Was it all a dream? Time to find out.

He fired up his computer and started his search. Nothing on Google, nothing on Facebook. He opened the Brisbane Courier Mail site and typed the name in the search box. He tried 'Gorman' by itself and found Bill Gorman. It was the funeral notice for Peter's father, small, no eulogy; old Bill had departed as insignificantly as he had lived. Such is the fate of many like him, sunk without a ripple, forgotten by all, mourned only by the publicans and his immediate family.

He typed in 'Peter G...' Insufficient information, said his smug screen. Please input further details. He tried the Ipswich newspaper with no result. He tried the small free local papers in Ipswich. Nobody. Then he took a punt and brought up his own town's newspaper. There, in a small article, he found it. 'Former resident in court.' said the headline. Andy went to the article and learned that Peter William Gorman, aged sixteen, resident of Ipswich, had appeared on several charges involving car theft, shoplifting and resisting arrest. Damn! His old mate had fallen on bad times, hooked up with the wrong people, perhaps. Andy knew. Peter's whole upbringing had led to this, a broken home, a drunken father and lack of direction and ambition. It did not surprise Andy. Such was the lot of many who had not enjoyed the love and support he had received from his parents.

Andy tried some other sites, but there was no follow-up story about the court case. This was not surprising; the hearing would have taken place in the Children's Court and of limited interest to the media of the time.

Andy stood and stretched, rubbing his eyes. He couldn't spend much time on the computer nowadays. His eyes blurred after a couple of hours and he had to use the eye drops, although they didn't seem to help and half of them ended up dribbling down his cheeks. He went out to his veranda, into the soft autumn night, and sat for a while in the darkness, his mind active as ever, Where to from here? He had a cousin who was into genealogy. She had driven him crazy over the years with her questions and her searches for family documents; maybe it was time for her to get some of her own back.

IN THE MORNING, HE phoned his cousin, Lillian, and told her about his search. I can get access to the court records, she said. I'll get back to you soon.

Andy hung up his phone and thought again about the list he had composed. There were ten names on