Clouded by Dark Shadows

By Dirk Ring

While a lifelong drover and small child debilitated by chronic illness fight for survival in the harsh Australian environment, the town below is traumatised by the same weather event, bringing many hidden secrets to light. The winter of 1953 was cast upon Eagle Brook.

Clouded by dark shadows of past happenings, the townsfolk, will be left with a sense of unrest for generations to come. With many searching for a fresh start in the city, while others are left to face their demons. No matter which, all are confronted by the emotions of love, self-acceptance, excitement, sadness and grief. Others are challenged through the abuse of alcohol, homelessness, violence, bullying and an ever-changing society.

In searching for true inner peace, some will even question the need to return to where it began before it is all too late.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jan 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669885795

Dirk Ring

Born 3rd of November 1979, on the Mornington Peninsula, I moved to Benalla in 1987 to finish my schooling. I completed a Bachelor of Nursing degree in the year 2000, and currently work as a nurse in North East Victoria. I continue to write in my leisure time, this, an independent book, following on from, With Dad’s Gloves and Quill to Paper- The diary of Jonathan Black.

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Copyright © 2022 by Dirk Ring.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 12/14/2021

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Dedication

April-1973

April-1953

Mid-June-1953

Late-July-1953

Early-August-1953

Late-September-1953

November-1953

April-1973

Late-November-1953

Early-December-1953

December-1953

January-1954

Late-February-1954

October-1954

November-1954

March-1955

May-1955

Late-June-1955

April-1973

September-1955

October-1955

Mid-November-1955

December-1955

January-1956

March-1956

August-1956

August-11th-1956

August – 22nd-1956

September-1956

April-1957

August-1957

November-1957

March-1958

Summer – 1958

April – 1959

October – 1959

June-1960

December – 1960

February – 1961

November – 1961

Winter – 1962

Mid-September-1962

March-1963

December – 1963

Winter – 1964

November-1964

December-1964

January-1965

June-1965

July – 1965

May-1966

December-1966

February-1967

March-1967

June-1967

October – 1969

December-1969

March-1970

April-1973

March – 1971

Mid – April – 1971

September – 1971

March-1972

Mid-June-1972

October-1972

February-1973

Early-March-1973

April-1973

Acknowledgements

Dirk Ring – Front Cover Photo

Terry and Jan Ring-Proof Reading

Dedication

Dedicated to my family, close friends and other significant people whom I have crossed paths with along this inspirational journey.

And

In memory of those loved ones no longer with us.

April-1973

Fletcher Barneveld had grown up in commission house after commission house in the Western Suburbs, raised by his young alcoholic mother and her unstable de facto. Most of the people who lived nearby were the same or similar. Single-parent families, victims of domestic violence, and, or users of drugs and alcohol. The streets are dirty, yesterday’s rubbish and newspapers pushed along by a strong breeze. Cigarette butts are gathered in drains with pieces of clear plastic. Trees that were once covered in seasonal leaves, stripped bare, peeled back bark dumped in piles on what would be exposed roots. Paving stones, which once formed significant borders around ornamental trees, are now broken and crooked, the concrete paths uneven. The summer sun was also limited in the brightness it shed, generally highlighting the masses of smog, concrete and at times a gloomy place.

Fletcher and his mother had found it difficult to find housing for extended periods and they seemed to move every six months or so. Fletcher could remember living in a three-bedroom brick commission house somewhere in the Eastern suburbs. There was minimal furniture and little food in the fridge. Windows were never sealed and the fly screens were always torn or misfitting, letting the insects swarm in at will. A lot of the time, the front door did not lock and many of the internal doors did not open or were jammed against the floorboards. No matter where they were, the house always felt damp and dirty. Most of them had been extremely cold in the winter months and distressingly hot in summer. One house had an open fire, but no wood. Fletcher could remember the grass on the front lawn being above knee height. Old rusted car bodies would be crammed in the front yard, the motor oil staining the concrete path.

This time they were on the eighth floor of an eleven-story housing commission building. They had been waiting for months to secure a place like this, something more permanent.

Steel wire caged fire escape stairwells ran down the side of the building. The steps were scorching hot in the long summer and slippery and cold over the winter months. Fletcher often took the stairwell, supposedly only used during emergencies to avoid the overcrowded lifts in the foyer. The fear of who else was in there, the rattle and shudder as it went up and down. Often there would be broken beer stubbies, used syringes and shredded pictures from hustler magazines. Taking the stairwell by choice also let Fletcher stand and stare over a sunburnt city. The smoke haze and pollution drifting from then thousands of rusted tin roofs and the smell of open fires and combustion stove during the bleakness of winter. The sharpness of the wind blew across his face, piercing his well-used parker jacket, that had been given to him by the Salvation Army, which was now three sizes too small. Nevertheless, even now, something to keep you warm was better than nothing when you were as poor as him and his mother.

The misfitting front door, leading from the communal internal corridor did not close properly, letting rodents as they chose. At times a gold-plated chain was the only thing holding the door closed. Mosquitoes and other insects forced their way through the broken fly screens shielding the windows and glass sliding doors onto the balcony. The balcony was a small ledge with a waist-height green steel balustrade, only big enough for one plastic chair that was already there when they moved in. A wilted green plant in a terracotta pot was in one corner, an old jam tin half-full of stagnant water and cigarette butts was also visible. At times, empty cans also littered the balcony. A purple velvet curtain, on wooden rings, half dragged across would screen out the night-time city lights and also dampen a hot afternoon sun, leaving the two-bedroom flat in darkness. In the cooler months, a bar heater takes the chill out of the air if it can be turned on, as the electricity had been cut off from the home many times due to unpaid bills.

Three non-matching wooden chairs, one with a broken back were plonked in the kitchen around a white laminated table with a silver trim that was peeling off. The mostly empty draws and shelves were lined with an early sixties style stencilled yellow wallpaper, the benchtops, a bright green laminate, scratched and damaged by the constant banging of the few kitchen appliances. Mouldy bread littered the fat splashed bench, along with loose sheets of paper and unpaid bills. If it was pension day, there may have been a bowl with a few pieces of fresh fruit.

Fletcher would stand, gazing into a mostly empty pantry, picking up a stale packet of cereal. Cockroaches would wriggle from the often-damp cardboard box. Ants would crawl around the lids of opened jam and pickles jars. At night, the mice and rats could be heard scampering across the shelves, the thought of this almost turning him away even though he was starving.

The fridge was similar, mostly empty, ridden with insects in the vegetable crisper. Most of the time the milk was at least three days out of date and the bread stale, however, what was always present was at least one bottle or cask of wine and half a dozen long necks of Victoria Bitter.

His mother’s room was untidy, clothes scattered across the floor, cigarette butts where they fell, dirty, handless or cracked coffee mugs lying where they were left, some still half full. The double mattress bed was never made, the sheets left in a twisted tangle at the end. On occasions, the mattress was not even covered by a bottom sheet. The wardrobe had no doors, the draws were broken and the legs were full of holes chewed by wood borers.

Fletcher’s mother could not afford a bed for him, so he had become accustomed to sleeping on a second-hand mattress on the floor in a sleeping bag. The mattress was littered with mouse holes, the wooden batting entangling the heavily stained carpet. Carpet beetles had eaten patches of the flooring away. Unable to afford a desk and chair, he had leaned with his back against the brick wall and rested his homework on his lap. He had learnt to write and draw by candlelight. There was a large bee wax candle on a white saucer that he kept on top of a small bookshelf along with his most important possessions. There was a Swiss Army knife on a silver chain that he found lying in one of the local parks. He had a small dog statue, a photograph of the beach and his surfboard that his mother had sold to buy wine, a tin of coloured pencils mixed with charcoal sticks for drawing, a couple of skate magazines and a comic.

Fletcher’s bedroom door had a foot size hole in the panelling where the previous tenant had kicked it. Each night it would be partially pulled shut, lighting his walls with shadows. Shadows that were both big enough and scary enough for Fletcher to pull his head into his sleeping bag. For hours, night after night, Fletcher would lay there trembling, beads of sweat dripping off his forehead and soaking through his tee-shirt and boxer shorts waiting for the next punch or kick from his mother’s de facto. He could hear the creak of the door and see the shadows jumping around as he stood beside him screaming, spilling his beer on him and pushing at him with his foot. Fletcher kept his skateboard deck close to his side. Everywhere he went the board was with him. The deck had been his pride and joy. A present from his mother for his tenth birthday gave him his only sense of freedom.

Now as a teenager, he had a beautiful smile and greasy dark brown shoulder-length hair, covering many of the pimples on his face and back. Often appearing to be in a daze, with his hazel eyes circled by dark bags and black-rimmed glasses. Fletcher always looked washed out, for reasons many would not know or understand. His appearance often gave the impression of homelessness or drug addiction. At times, homeless would probably have been a preferred choice. Even when the weather was hot, Fletcher would dress in black acid wash denim jeans and a black sweater, to hide his pale complexion and limbs that were tarnished with scratches and scars.

Fletcher had attended multiple schools so he had found it difficult to make friends. It was not until his first years of senior school that he had been able to settle down. At school, academically, he had struggled, not through the lack of ability, but the required amount of effort. He had always done well in art and drama, classes in which he could remove himself from reality and that took his interest. Fletcher’s uniform does not fit him and is stained, his shoes are falling apart, and his school bag is often a paper bag. Months earlier, he had a second-hand backpack, the zip did not work and there was a hole in the bottom corner, and one of the straps was broken and still, someone took it tipped his things out and threw it off a footbridge onto the train tracks below.

From his school to his home was over a mile and a half walk, much of it along the train line. The streets were dangerous and Fletcher was often confronted by drug dealers and schoolyard bullies who followed their chosen one home. Concrete culverts were littered with graffiti and gang tags. It was not that uncommon for Fletch to be walking home and children his age and younger would be seen sniffing paint and drinking alcohol. The gangs would stand in their groups of boys and girls, eight to fifteen, their greasy long hair, pierced ears, noses and eye brows, ripped branded jeans, skate shoes and dark hoodies. Their music coming from portable stereos, one or two puffing away on a cigarette, another couple practising their tricks on skateboards.

His mother stared into the cracked mirror on the green hand basin vanity, how had her life ever come to this? A dim single bulb hanging from the centre of the roof provided the only light to an otherwise dull room. Cracked, off white tiles, lined the floor and lower part of the walls, a vinyl blind, rubbed against a tattered lace curtain in a gentle breeze, exacerbating the musty smell. A matching bath with overhead shower, deeply stained by orange watermarks and soap scum rested against the wall, and a forever-leaking toilet, with a cracked seat, was in a corner.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, her blue eyes sunken in the back of her head outlined by dark bags and her once perfect smile, spoilt by chipped rotting teeth. Her beautiful braided strawberry blond hair was now matted and often riddled with head lice. Her pale weak arms trembled and her smoke-stained finger twitched. An empty vodka glass bottle lay in the sink, another on the floor near her feet. Well-used sheepskin moccasins were paired neatly beside the bath and a discoloured towel was draped around her frail body. Faint yellow bruises, marked her lower thighs, freckles dusting the rest of her pale sun-damaged skin. Shocked by the reflection, she stood stunned, an image that looked well beyond her thirty-seven years of age.

She stood in front of the shower. Discoloured, water trickled from the loose-fitting rose. More prominent orange-stained water gushed from behind the leaking taps, the coldness, sending a shiver down her spine, as it ran across her arms. She would be lucky if the water was even lukewarm for a couple of minutes, as yet again, she had failed to pay the electricity bill in full. Stepping onto the shower base, her foot slipped on the mould and soap scum. Looking down, hair entangled the drain grate and a couple of used, rusty razor blades laid in one corner. Stepping under the water she shivered, tears still filling her eyes. How could she go on like this? This was not the life she wanted, especially for Fletcher. He would be grown up soon and ready to move on. The slimy curtain, stuck to her frail body as she pulled it closed, ripping another eyelet in the process. The curtain now sagged, draping across the floor, and letting the water run across the cracked tiles on the bathroom floor, wetting everything in its path. Dirty underwear, cigarette-buts, an empty vodka bottle and used tissues also littered the bathroom floor. The single light hanging from the roof on a chain was barely enough to cast a shadow, yet bright enough to highlight the abundance of dust and cobwebs that clouded the room.

Fletcher paced the lounge room floor waiting for his mother, in fear, that her boyfriend would return unannounced. He hoped that this was not going to be another day of broken promises and his mother would take him to her hometown of Eagle Brook. It was a promise broken many times before.

The storm of April 1953, was the cause of this spiral of dishevel and unrest for many people in Eagle Brook including the Barnevelds. Grace was now unable to account for many of the years between the past and the present, clouded by a haze of drugs, alcohol and domestic violence. Since that regretful night, her life was forever changed. She often wondered if it had not been for that once in a lifetime storm, whether her life would be where it is now.

April-1953

Apprehensively, Alice had woken, her only son early so that he was ensured to be ready. Although she had huge doubts, she knew it was the right thing to do to let him go to the High Country.

Now as an adult in her late thirties with two children whom she loves dearly and yet has very little else to identify as her own after a life overshadowed by her intimidating husband. At times, she is overcome by grief, anger and sadness and had often questioned whether her husband wanted children in the first place. Standing at a little less than five foot eight, Alice has long brown hair, usually worn in a tight bun, held by numerous hair clips. Dark brown eyes and a beautiful smile, she is quietly spoken, gentle and kind. She had a happy childhood, growing up in a small country town in a loving, caring Christian family. With age, her parents decided it was time to move from the High Country town. Breaking family unity, she had stayed for the sake of her future husband, much to their disapproval.

Since marrying, her close friends had drifted away from Eagle Brook, to chase their dreams of city life. Charlotte Western had been one of Alice’s closest friends growing up. At eighteen she too had left and had begun to follow her dreams to the city, for the want of becoming a legal secretary, a passion the two of them had shared growing up, like many other young girls. On the occasions that they had seen each other, they had always shared many laughs. Charlotte was a divine, athletic, woman who took pride in her appearance and always dressed to the occasion, whether it be socialising or working.

Alice had heard second hand it had not been the perfect dream for Charlotte. With secretarial and administration work being hard to come by, she needed another source of income just to get by. Charlotte had been taught to sew from a young age by her mother. There was so much demand in dressmaking and tailoring that this had become a second income. There was never a moment when there was something that did not need mending. Charlotte would sit there by candlelight stitching until the wee hours of the morning. She would repair men’s suits, work pants, business pants, school uniforms, shirts and dresses, as the need arose.

Shyla Fawkes was probably now her closest friend and like Alice also remained in Eagle Brook. Shyla was married to the local pharmacist, Ivan. She also worked in the pharmacy, serving behind the counter, doing the deliveries and paying the bills.

Originally serving in the army as a medic, Ivan had completed four years of military training before studying to be a pharmacist. Athletic build, from his years of service, he walked with a sense of direction and purpose in his step, while harbouring a depth of knowledge that was unbeknown to many. The chemist shop was set back behind the hospital, with walking access from the main road, more so away from the other shops.

Like always, Alice was left to make the decisions regarding the children, the only area of their lives where her husband did not dominate or have some input. The night prior, again after an argument, she had laid in bed wide awake until the wee hours of the morning questioning all the things that could or might go wrong and all the reasons why she should change her mind and not let him go into the High Country.

It was a few weeks, maybe months, before that storm, behind the reason as to why they were in the High Country. Sidney Charleston, or Sid, was known as the man in the oilskin coat. Long hard days was the only life he knew. Anything else and he could take it or leave it. Saffron, Sid’s horse was his passion in life, as were the cattle, working dogs and the High Country. He was a tall man, with a lean physique, early sixties, grey moustache and matching hair. He always dressed in overused boots, a tattered ankle-length oilskin coat and a moth-eaten Akubra hat. A blade of dry grass, nearly always hung from a broad smile, hidden somewhere under his hat. Life as a stockman was not always easy for him. Unkempt in his appearance, he was renowned for a heart of gold and a real Aussie sense of humour. Sid truly believed you could only rely on yourself, especially in the High Country, as your life may depend on it. He said very little about his wife. Sid had always brought his favourite photograph, tucked away in his top pocket close to his heart, but each time had failed to show anyone.

The year of 1953, William would have been nine turning ten. Over recent months of that year, Sid had taught him so much. From tying flies to casting a line. Although years ago, Grace could still hear his words today. Back forward, back forward, flick release. She could remember the day when Sid said to him. If you can land this fly in that water trough, I will take you into the High Country.

Tears often stream down the face of William. Thick black-rimmed glasses hide his brown eyes and often the pain of the ever-tightening callipers, strapped to his weak legs. He is small in stature and has pale skin dusted with a brush of freckles. He has cropped orange hair, protruding ears and crooked discoloured teeth. In William’s eyes, a picture paints a thousand words, the joys and the depths of his anger and frustrations beam off the pages of his artwork. Only able to speak with single words or in short sentences he is also unable to write. Silently he would sit hour after hour drawing the world around him.

He had most likely learnt these artistic skills in the many visits to the hospital trying to hold his fears at bay. He hated the city hospitals, the long, dark corridors, the raised windows and the endless walls of double brick blocking out all the natural light. Unable to see the outside world, no grass, no trees, no normal daily life, nothing except endless grey slabs of concrete. Many like William lay in their beds staring at a blank ceiling and an empty wall.

Grace recalled the day as it happened. Standing alongside her mother in the kitchen, preparing dinner, they pulled back the lace curtains and looked into the afternoon shade. There they stood. Sid supported his weak body, his arms placed on each of William’s as they went, back forward, back forward, flick, time and time again. She could not believe what she was witnessing. Beside them, a noticeably empty wheelchair. Was this a new beginning for him?

Splash, the fly landed in the trough of water. Well done mate, Sid shouted, as excited as William, slapping him on the back. It looks like I’ll have to take you into the High Country as I promised. A promise is a promise.

It was just after daybreak five days later when Sid rode in on Saffron and hitched him to the fence. As promised, Sid would attempt to push William in his wheelchair to where the steepest part of the High Country met the grasslands. From there he would piggyback him to the hut. Saffron would carry their bedding, fishing gear and food. The challenge would be for Sid to get the horse and the wheelchair to go in the same direction.

Make sure it’s all tied down properly, bellowed James, glaring at him, the bristles of his moustache twitching. James had stamped his authority over Sid and William, overlooking every piece as he tied the last of two bedrolls, a cooking pan, a bag of food, billycan, fishing reels and spare tackle to Saffron’s back. The same authority that he had stamped over Alice for all of their married life.

James was destined to take over Barneveld Family Funeral Home. He was driven by greed and had left school at an early age. Work was hard to come by. James tried his hand on one of the many local orchards for a few months and the mill, but much to his mother’s disgust, Cora, this had fallen through, as too did his attempt at being a farmhand. The heat, wind and the flies did not agree with him, nor would he tolerate standing on a ladder hour after hour picking fruit and pruning trees.

With one hand always in his pocket, the other clasped around a cigar or pipe, there was no doubt James acquired his habit of smoking from his father and also to his arrogance. Alice hated to think how much money he had spent over the years on a filthy habit. She could not stand nor tolerate the smell of smoke ridden bedding and whisky stained clothes. Honest at face value and highly intelligent, he spoke with a sense of arrogance and showed little emotion toward anyone else. Not very well-liked amongst the townsfolk. James was never interested right from the beginning in William and did not or could not understand his condition. From birth, he had ignored the truth about his only son. Usually well-presented and dressed in a grey or black suit, James stands at approximately five feet tall and is of a solid build. With dark brown eyes, raised jet-black hairline, a matching neatly groomed moustache and limited wrinkles, he only appears a fraction of his forty-eight years of age.

James had always been verbally aggressive towards Alice from early on in their courtship days, however, if the thought of him ever hitting or pushing her had crossed her mind, she would never have married him. James would come in from the funeral home, placing unrealistic demands upon Alice as he stormed through the door. An expectation was that his dinner was always hot and placed on the table by six o’clock every night of the week. A Sunday roast is to be served by no later than 12.30 each week. During the week, he would expect two rounds of sandwiches, cake, and a piece of fruit ready for the taking by 8.30 am, in case he needed to be on the road.

James had always controlled their finances and dictated whom she could and could not see. This had all been behind closed doors. It was probably after the first twelve to eighteen months of marriage, just before the birth of Grace around the end of 1941. Money was tight and of recent time, Alice had been questioning James. He had come home late from one of his trips to Sydney for so-called business. He was a day later than what he had told Alice. He had spent a lot more money than what he had budgeted for and had little to show for it. She questioned him, and with little tolerance and patience, he slapped her across the face with an open hand.

Don’t you ever, ever dare question my whereabouts. What I choose to do and spend whilst I am away on business is not your concern and never will be. Do you understand? Do you? Is that clear enough for you? Do you understand never question my whereabouts?

Alice was too scared to do anything but whimper a faint. Yes, darling I understand. Sorry.

James smirked as he walked out of the kitchen. That’s better. What is for dinner? I am going to bathe. He turned toward the shower. Make sure my dinner is on the table in twenty minutes.

She wept bitterly. I will, she fearfully whimpered, rubbing at the bruising already visible on the side of her face.

James reappeared in the kitchen, reinforcing his authority, by stretching in the doorway. I would prefer to eat alone tonight. You can eat after if you like, or whenever. I don’t care if you even eat all, to be frank, he smirked closing the door behind him.

Alice wept alone in the kitchen as she so often did over the years. This was just the beginning of a lifetime of abuse.

I will, sighed Sid nervously. I have done this before.

Sid had one last glimpse at their belongings, wriggling a bedroll. It’ll be right, he reassured, but Alice was still concerned.

Sid knew that little knowledge was a dangerous thing and a deep understanding was not a given, it took years of experience and exposure to the harsh elements. Over the year’s droving, he had heard yarns of numerous cattlemen and horses going missing in the High Country trying to cross one of the many bluffs during the cooler months. As a mark of respect, some of the huts were named in their memory. One of the most well-known was McCall’s, a farming family for generations. This hut was located on one of the bluffs in an area Sid did not intend to take William. He had stayed there a few times himself when driving cattle out of the High Country. With this knowledge, he had hoped that he could reassure Alice, and give her some confidence that they would be home safe within a couple of days.

William, is your coat there? You might need it sooner than you think, she questioned nervously.

William was almost abrupt and on the verge of being rude. Yes mother, whined William in a tense voice. William felt, and rightfully so that he had been doubted all his life and that particular day appeared to be no different.

Alice turned toward a darkening sky. Just checking, she confirmed, scratching at the side of her cheek in a shy kind of way.

Best be off my boy, Sid laughed, slapping William on the shoulder and reaching for the wheelchair with one hand and Saffron’s lead rope with the other.

Let’s go, cried William excitedly.

Say goodbye to your mother.

William scoffed under strict direction from Sid. Goodbye, mother.

See you later, she waved. Please be careful.

Sid put most of his strength into getting the wheelchair and horse to move in the same direction. What about your father? he inquired.

See you father, gabbled William hesitantly.

James did not even raise an eyebrow in response. So long.

Alice still had her concerns about the whole thing. Oh, do be careful please William.

He was fast growing up. She had not seen him this happy or smile as much for such a long time. We will, he laughed. His joy almost brought a tear to her eye.

Goodbye William, whispered Grace, who by now was outside standing between her mother and father, breathing in the smoke from James’ cigar. Be well-behaved, have a lovely time, I’ll see you when you get back, she choked, coughing on the smoke.

See you, Sis.

Almost twelve years of age at the time, Grace had pale skin, blue eyes and beautifully kept strawberry blond hair. She was an intelligent sweet girl, with a great understanding and empathy towards others. She was the voice and legs of her younger brother. With above-average grades in her early schooling years, she had the world at her feet. Through life circumstances, although a sweet positive girl, she had found it difficult to forge everlasting friendships as a part of her childhood was snatched away by the need to care for her younger brother.

Alice planted her hand firmly on her daughter’s shoulder and squeezed it. Catch me a fish, laughed Grace, squirming as her mother squeezed that little bit harder.

Will do, William called turning away. Their voices faded as they made their way down the track. William in his chair, carefully guided by Sid with one hand, and also leading Saffron on his halter rope with the other.

Alice walked along the street, a little lost, trying to remember what she was looking for. She turned to note the sudden disappearance of the afternoon sun, casting dark shadows along the shops.

They say there is a once in a lifetime storm coming, a familiar voice startled her.

She turned around. Oh, hello. How do you know that, Peter?

Peter Landcross was the local veterinarian. Four years older than his wife, he would be in his mid-fifties. He was well-liked and respected amongst the community for his extensive knowledge, leading the way in many of the advancements in the management and treatment of domestic stock, especially horses and cattle. He would do house visits if required, but for dogs, cats and smaller animals he much preferred them to be brought to him. The property from which he works was well established and maintained enabling him and his wife, Rosa, to convert it to both their home and business premises. Rosa was a very intelligent, yet shy lady and extremely artistic. She too had a diverse interest in animals, sharing Peter’s love of dogs.

A young bloke, Sebastian Hamilton, about five miles from here came in with his dog yesterday morning and said, his father had just returned home from mustering,