Just in case you think you might enjoy being transported back to
outback Australia in 1963, here’s the first chapter of Verity Creek.

*******

“Shut up, you stupid bloody galahs! I don’t care if the sun’s up. Go back to sleep.” The large flock of pink and grey pests ignore my appeal. From the grating sound of the caws and squawks, there are a few Sulphur-crested cockatoos in the mix as well. They’d roosted overnight, in the couple of ghost gums that define our backyard from the rest of the Australian outback. I shove my pillow over my head. It’s no use. A few minutes later, I throw back the single sheet that provides all the cover I need, for a January night in north west Queensland.

The railway clock on dining room wall shows six am. Dad’s halfway through his Bushells tea and yesterday’s paper. Joe Sullivan is one of those men who rise at dawn to embrace each new day, ready to take on the world. That’s never going to be me. Dad is up with the crows, while I’m wishing that my family had invested in black-out curtains. Mum has worked her usual magic. His light grey overalls show little of the grease stains that mark each day’s work.

“Gidday son, you’re up pretty early. Trying to crank out every minute of your last week of freedom?”

“If I were doing that, I’d be sleeping in,” I said, lifting my hand to stifle a yawn. There’s a portable crib in the corner of our dining room. My little brother is on his back, naked apart from the nappy on his bum. He’s rocking from side to side; his arms and legs waving in random directions. He looks like a little white turtle trying to right itself. “Markie’s wide awake, aren’t ya mate?”

“Ian, please call him Mark,” said Mum as she walks through the door from the kitchen.

Mum hates the outback tradition of sticking a vowel to the end of every name and profession. Mickie the garbo comes down the side of our house every other Thursday to empty the bin. Tommie the postie delivers the mail around three in the afternoon. Jacko from Brissie runs the Servo on the edge of town. Mum swore that the names of her children were not going to be casually truncated, so we were baptized Mary, Liam, John, Ian, and Mark. Calling my brother Markie in front of Mum, is not on. In her opinion, we might live on the edge of woop-woop, but that doesn’t mean we have to sound like it. Dad doesn’t mind how we talk, but he always backs Mum up.

“So, what are you getting up today mate?” asks Dad.

“I told Dougie we’d play a bit of cricket this morning. Maybe read this arvo. I’ve nearly finished Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.”

“Sounds good. Make sure your Mum doesn’t need you for anything before you head out.” Mum puts down a plate in front of Dad. A greasy slice of camp pie sits in the middle. A circle of baked beans forms a moat around the processed meat. A grilled half tomato floats on the side. “That looks great Luv,” said Dad. “Couldn’t ask for more.”

“Oh, go on with you,” said Mum. “What would you like this morning Ian?”

“Tea, and baked beans on toast. Please.”

Mum opens another can of Heinz as I grab the back half of the paper. While I’m reading Peanuts and the Phantom, Dad opens the world news page. “Listen to this Luv,” he calls into the kitchen, where Mum is watching to make sure the toast doesn’t burn. “The Yanks are pulling their missiles out of Turkey. I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Don’t want to give those Commie rat-bags the idea we’re soft.”

“I’m just glad there’s a Catholic in charge of the White House,” said Mum. “After that Cuba rubbish, I think the Russians will mind their place.” She puts my beans on the table and lifts the pot to pour the tea. “It’s nearly empty,” she says. “Let me go and put the kettle on.” Ripper, I thought. I’d just started drinking tea. I prefer it weak with milk and two sugars. Mum and Dad drink it black, and steeped to a potency that could strip paint. Mum carries the two quart HotPoint electric jug over to the sink. It’s a recent addition to the kitchen, and a welcome replacement to the rusty kettle that still sits on the back of the stove. The bulging ceramic pitcher is adorned with a swirling white on white pattern. A cloth wrapped electric wire plugs into the back of the black hinged lid. In a society where tea just falls behind air and shelter on the list of basic needs, a fast kettle is a thing of beauty.

Dad has moved on to State news. “It says here,” he calls to Mum. “That next month Parliament is going to discuss giving the Aborigines the vote. That should shake things up a bit. Billy Longeran might have to change how he runs the Country Party campaign for Flinders.”

“I thought Dougie’s Mum got the right to vote last year,” I said.

“That was Federal,” said Dad. “Not in Queensland yet.”

“But how come you, Mum, and Dougie’s Dad, can vote but not Dougie’s Mum?”

“That’s a big question mate. Not sure I’ve got a big answer. The world is changing. Change just takes a bit longer in Queensland.”

On the back half of the front section, there’s a headline about The Pill. An activist is arguing that all women should be able to get a prescription, not just married ones. Mum and Dad won’t be discussing that article in front of me.

Dad folds the paper and puts it back down on the table. “The new butcher put his sign up yesterday,” he says. “Took down that faded Fahey’s sign, and put up a bright red and white one, that says Messina Meats.”

“That was quick,” said Mum. “The Faheys only left for Hughenden last month. Have you had a chance to talk to the new owner?”

“No, been too busy. Connor met him though. Reckons he’s a nice enough bloke. Says his wife and kids came up with him from Mackay.”

“He’s got kids?” I said. “How old are they? Are they going to school with me, or are they going to State School?”

“Don’t know mate,” said Dad. “Guess you’ll find out next week.” Dad swallows a last gulp of tea, and pushes back from the table. “Well I’m off,” he says. He kisses Mum, gives Mark a rub on the belly, and tussles my blond mop. He pats the pockets of his overalls, checking for his wallet in the left pocket, car keys in the right, and the Bic pen, tucked behind the Sullivan Brothers Holden stitching on the breast.

Mum sits down with a steaming cup of tea for each of us. I’ve finished with the funnies, so she pulls over the Courier Mail, picks up a biro from the wicker basket on the table, and gets to work on the cryptic crossword. Her brow wrinkles as she stares at the clues, then smooths as she puts pen to paper.

I wipe the last of the beans off my chin. “Can I have a go Mum?” I ask. Mum stares at me and raises her eyebrows a fraction. “May I have a go, Mum?” I say.

“Of course, Ian. Let me show you how it works.” She scans the clues. “Here’s one that’s not too tough. A five-letter word. I already know the second letter is H. The clue is Bronze in the endless individual way”. Mum swivels the folded newspaper so we can both see the checkered grid. “In a cryptic clue,” she says, “you are usually trying to find another way of saying either the first, or last word in the clue. So, we probably want another word that means Bronze. In this case, the answer is Third.”

Last month in the display window of the butcher’s shop there was a whole mullet lying on a bed of ice. Its eyes were dull and its mouth gapped open. That’s probably what Mum sees now. “Huh?” I said.

“You have to break up the clue,” she says. “It says Bronze in the endless individual way. T H E endless is TH. Individual is one person or I. And another word for way is road, or the abbreviation RD. TH I RD, or Bronze.” I take a sip from the milky tea in my mug, scratch the short blond hair behind my ear and say “That’s an easy clue?”

“Don’t feel bad,” said Mum. “The Courier Mail prints the Times crossword from London. It can be tricky. If you really want to practice cryptic crosswords, you might want to try the ones in the Woman’s Weekly. That’s how I started.”

Mum stands, and pulls a Woman’s Weekly off the divider between the kitchen and dining room. She sits down, opens to the back of the magazine and says “Here we go. Eight letters. Aussie animal is a mixed up salty pup. When they use words like mixed up, assorted, or moving, it often means it’s an anagram. You find the odd words beside each other that add up to the number of letters in the clue. What do you think they are?”

“Salty and pup are kind of weird words. That’s eight letters, and it’s at the end of the clue.”

“Exactly. Now are you able to come up with the name of an Australian animal that could be made from the letters in Salty Pup?”

Mentally I go through a list. Kangaroo, wombat, goanna, echidna. “Platypus!”

“There you go,” Mum said. “You’ve got your first clue.”

We sit together for the next twenty minutes. Mum steadily working her way across the Times cryptic, me pleased with solving five clues in the Woman’s Weekly. Then the little gurgles behind us turn into whinging. Mum glances at the clock. “It’s time for Mark’s bottle. Ian, would you please give it to him before you head out? I’ve got to start another load of washing.”

Markie smiles as I reach into the crib and slide my hands under his head and back. I sit back down, bouncing him on my knee. Mum pulls an open can of Carnation evaporated milk from the fridge. She pours half into a baby bottle and then tops it up with still warm water from the kettle. She sprinkles a little on her wrist, and happy with the temperature, hands me the bottle. I tuck Markie’s Charlie Brown head against my shoulder and plug the brown rubber nipple into his open mouth. His tiny hands grip the bottle. The alabaster skin on his arms is almost translucent. I wonder how soon the Queensland sun will leave its spotted calling cards. “Remember to keep it angled up so he’s not sucking air,” said Mum.

“I know, Mum. I know. I’ve been doing this for a month.”

“All right, all right. I’ll be in the laundry if you need me.” You might have thought that with three of her five children in boarding school, Mum would get a breather from washing our kit. But Dad’s work clothes, and Markie’s cloth nappies, need almost daily attention. Over the last twenty years, Mum has worn a track in the backyard between our Kelvinator Top Loader and the Hills Hoist.

Markie’s pistoning cheeks cause a steady decline in the bottle’s contents. His belly rises and falls with each breath. Even in the warm morning, the heat is radiating off his smooth bare skin. I’m not sure why, but it gives me a comfortable feeling in my chest when I feed Markie. Like the joy and contentment from his body are filling me up. With a pop, I pull the bottle away. The milk has hit bottom and he is starting to suck air. Just as Mum has shown me, I prop him on my shoulder and rub circles on his back. In a predictable application of digestion and physics, Markie burps, toots and dampens his diaper in a couple of minutes.

“How’s he doing Ian?” Mum says as she walks through the back door.

“Great, but he’s a bit ripe. I think he needs a change.”

“Just pop him back in the crib. He’ll be fine for a minute,” Mum said. It’s not that I don’t know how to change a diaper, but… yuk. My volunteering goes just so far. I settle Markie down before heading to Dougie’s house.

~~~~~

“Richie Benaud studies the field closely to prepare for this new batsman. The Australian captain thinks about putting in a fourth slip, but decides instead to be aggressive, bringing up the man at point. He only has two men deep, daring the batsman to try for a boundary. England still need fifty runs to catch the Australian first innings total, with only two wickets in hand.”

“Cripes Dougie. Shut up and bowl the bloody ball!” I said.

I tap the chipped toe of my wooden bat on the bitumen. Take my line off the middle slat of the fruit crate stumps. Adjust my grip on the duct taped handle, and squint into the morning glare. It’s hot enough, that there’s a sweet tang from the linseed oil evaporating off the bat. Dougie rubs a mangy tennis ball on the side of his shorts. He starts his run up to the chalked bowler’s crease.

“Ow’s that!” he yells, as I edge the medium paced delivery behind me.

“How’s what? That’s four runs.”

“Not bloody likely, you heard me set the field. That ball carried to third slip. A fantastic diving catch to his right by Burge.”

“Oh, bugger off. First, I never agreed to be the Poms in this game. Second, that ball was straight to ground and raced to the fence. Never a chance.”

“That’s rubbish and you know it Sullie. You got eyes in the back of your bloody head? Definitely carried.” I trudge down the street to hunt for our motley green ball. It’s resting in the brown scrub grass at the base of the McMahons chain link fence. I prick my fingertips tugging a few bindies off the ball, before I toss it to Dougie.

“Struth, we could really use a wicket keeper,” he said.

“You want me to see if Farty McMahon is home?”

“Nah, he’d just want to bat all the time. Anyway, I left my gas mask in the trenches.”

“Well you’re an only child. My older brothers and sister just went back to boarding school. What do you reckon? Should I get Markie out here to trap no-balls in his nappy?”

“I reckon he’d crawl faster than you’re fielding.”

“And I reckon his babble makes more sense than you rabbiting on about Benaud’s field placement.”

“Just for that, I’m putting in a silly mid-on, a silly mid-off, and bringing in the spinners.”

“Just try it, Wronger, I’ll hit ya for six.”

I take my mark and squint down the pitch. Dougie scratches the black curls above his ear, contemplating his next bowl. He gestures for an imaginary fielder at backward square leg to move in a few yards. His next delivery is another medium pace ball, that might have turned a little bit. I take a big agricultural shot, miss, and the ball bounces over the stumps and rolls down the centre of the street.

Dougie Wright, or of course, Wronger, lives four down from us on the south side of the street. We’ve played cricket together, ever since my brothers let us chase down their shots. As athletes, Dougie and I are both terrible. I connect on one swing out of five. Dougie’s bowling is all over the shop. But we enjoy following the radio coverage of the Australian team. When Australia is playing away against India, the West Indies, or England, I sleep over at his house. We lie on the floor of his living room, listening to the overnight broadcast on his parent’s wood panelled stereophonic.

Tomorrow’s the first day of the fourth test for the Ashes. Australia is at home, playing a strong English side. The series is tied, a win for Australia, a win for England, and one draw. I know Dougie will be listening to every ball he can, so it’ll be five days before he’s be ready to play outside again. While I don’t have Dougie’s cricket obsession, I enjoy listening to his pontification on the best way to set a field against an Indian spin attack, or when Australia should declare if the Poms are playing for a draw.

“School start for you on Tuesday?” I ask after I get back to the crease.

“Yeah. We get Monday off for Australia day, but apart from that, State School’s always in session. Not like you Micks. Bloody day off every time a saint scratches his arse.”

“Not my fault Henry the Eighth spat the dummy, and your family ended up being Catholic light. You could always convert.”

“What? Spend all day getting slapped with a ruler by the Sisters of Perpetual Punishment? There’s bugger all chance of that happening.”

“Well then stop whinging. Anyway, I’m back on Tuesday too.”

We play for the rest of the morning, apart from a couple of breaks to sit on Dougie’s steps and have a Cottee’s lime cordial. Around twelve, Dougie’s Mum calls him in for lunch.

“I’m not home this arvo,” said Dougie. “Mum wants Dad to drive her over to Cloncurry to buy dress material or something, and we’re going to have dinner at a pub on the river. Do you want to play again on Sunday?”

“Maybe,” I said. “I’m serving Mass and then we have lunch at Gran’s but I should be back around four.

“Righto,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see you then.”

~~~~~

A frilly lizard flares his neck at me while I’m walking home from Dougie’s house. It’s only a baby, less than a foot long. I start thinking about the cuttlefish monster in Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. It’s not a bad book, but imagining all that time in a submarine is a bit claustrophobic. I prefer Jules Verne’s circumnavigation odyssey. The first time I read Around the World in Eighty Days, I was inspired to figure out how I could do the trip from my house. In keeping with the spirit of the book, I didn’t want to use airplanes. That would be too easy.

Dougie’s Dad is the Station Master, so he helped me figure out how to get a train from Verity Creek to the Queensland coast. Using the Atlas and the Encyclopedia Britannica in our living room, I identified the major destinations. I sent letters to lots of government transport agencies. Some never replied, others took ages, but six months later I had enough information to map out a route. From Townsville, I’d keep heading east on a cattle steamer to San Francisco, and then on a locomotive heading east. A combination of trains and ships would get me all the way to Western Australia. What stumped me was how to get from Broome to Verity Creek. There’s no direct road across the top of Australia, and a ship back to Darwin or Townsville would take too long. It wasn’t until last year, as I sat on the folding metal chair at the open-air movies, watching David Niven’s face lift off the screen and into the inky sky, that I had my answer. The hot air balloon idea rejected by Jules Verne in chapter thirty-two, but embraced by Hollywood, would become my solution to traversing the Australian Outback.

I thought about my triumphant return after seventy-seven days of exciting adventures. I’d start my descent about one hundred and sixty miles away, over the mines of Mount Isa. Seeing the massive ore trucks from the air would be really cool. I’d follow the railway line east, and watch a double engine freight train pulling a hundred hoppers, mounded to the brim with copper ore. I’d level off when I was about eighty-five miles away, and above Cloncurry. That way I’d get a bird’s eye view of a river that has water year-round. I’d fly over a dinghy, as an angler reeled in a yellow belly perch.

I was a bit sketchy on how to slow down a balloon, but somehow, I’d be at a crawl as I approached Verity Creek from the west. Just past the new railhead, I’d see the single strip of the Verity Creek airport. Mr. Dawson would have shooed his herd off the end of the runway, so the weekly TAA flight from Townsville could land, and not have to fly past, offloading a handful of irritated passengers in Cloncurry. Clouds of ochre dust would swirl, as the wheels of the blue stripped Fokker Friendship hit the packed dirt landing strip.

I’d align my balloon to cruise over Verity Creek and look down on all six of the bitumen roads. On Buckley Street, the one street south of the main road, I’d see the old stock yards, the short railway platform, and the Police Station. On the right-hand side of Burke Street, I’d see the shiny new roof of the Town and Country Club, the tops of the 4 Square Supermarket and Sullivan Holden. I’d be over the highest spot in town, the veranda on the second story of O’Leary’s Pub. On the left-hand side of Burke street, I’d see the Post Office, the shire council building, Holy Name Catholic Church, St Kieran’s Primary School, Verity Creek State School, and the Surgery. Further north, I’d see kids running on the three residential streets of Moran, Bell, and Murdoch. Beyond the homes, I’d see the cemetery on the right, and the garbage tip on the left. I’d planned a gentle touchdown on the grey concrete playground of St. Kieran’s. The whole town, nearly a thousand people, would greet me. There’d be cheering children, and parents who wanted to shake my hand. Sister Benedict would say a prayer of thanks for my safe return.

~~~~~

On the radio, they said the high would be a hundred and fifteen, but I think they guessed low. Mum and Dad are having a Saturday afternoon nap in their bedroom. Through the open door, I can the hear the little wheeze of Markie’s snores, from the crib on Mum’s side of the bed. My bedroom door is open, but there’s no breeze to cool the sweat that sticks the cotton singlet to my back. It’s too hot to go outside. I decide to immerse myself in the military diorama that occupies the left half of my room.

Last summer Dad let me put a four by eight sheet of plywood on the lino floor of my room, and turn it into a battle scape for my models. The end near the window belongs to the axis powers, with Zeros and Messerschmitts sitting side by side on the aerodrome. In front of the aircraft, plastic soldiers of the Imperial Japanese Army, patrol the veranda of a South Islands command hut. It overlooks a papier mache bunker filled with assorted Wehrmacht from the Third Reich. On their left, a steel grey pontoon bridge spans a painted lake. A Panzer tank points its gun turret towards the allied forces. My first failed attempt at model building, is now an exploded Sherman tank, resting on its side in no man’s land.

I’ve got the British Tommies facing the Germans and dug in behind an armoured troop carrier, half buried in clay from our backyard. Machete wielding Aussie Infantry face the Japs from behind a bamboo jungle, made of pipe cleaners and shredded green paper. Nearest my bedroom door, is the allied airstrip. Beside the Lancaster bomber, is a British Supermarine Spitfire, Mark V. I’d spent hours getting the green and brown camouflage just right on the wings. Exactly positioning the RAF blue, white and red roundels on the wings and fuselage.

The scale of the hardware, the theatres of war, and even the timing of the conflicts is out of kilter. I don’t care. For the next three hours, I’m blissfully lost in troop movements, imagined explosions, and aerial dogfights. Mum had warned me that this time next year, I’d have to pack everything away so Markie would have a spot for his cot. For now, the room and the meticulously staged conflicts, are all mine.

~~~~~

The ache gets worse. There’s a crease in the altar boy robes under my right knee. The longer I kneel, the more it feels like I’ve got my weight on a number two pencil. Sean McMahon is kneeling on my right. I glance his way. He is smiling and his hands are clasped in angelic prayer. I wonder what he’s so happy about? I inhale the result of his last inadequately digested meal. Mongrel. He seems to do that at will.

“Te igitur, clementissime Pater, per Iesum Christum, Filium tuum, Dominum nostrum, supplices rogamus ac petimus,” sings Father Eugene. He faces the altar with his back to the full congregation. He doesn’t seem to smell the toxic cloud hovering over the altar steps. Great, I thought. We’ve just begun the Canon. I’m stuck listening to this prayer for five minutes. “Et cum spiritu tuo,” Farty and I mumble back at a pause by Father Eugene. One of Sister Benedict’s self-appointed responsibilities is the training of the altar boys. As the representatives of congregation, it is our job to offer the correct Latin responses. Every missed response earns a half hour weeding the convent garden.

Maybe I can ease the pain in my knee by slowly rocking back on my heels. Or I could reach down and give the robe a tug. From my vantage point at the side of the altar, I can see the congregation on my left. Sister Benedict is in the front pew, and has me in her sights. I’ll cop it from her at school, if she sees me unclasp my hands and fidget during the transubstantiation. Being in pain draws no sympathy from a Sister of Saint Kieran of the Holy Word. “Why didn’t you offer it up,” she would say. “Do you think Jesus wasn’t in pain, up there on the cross, dying for your sins? Do you think he would have cared about having a sore knee?” I thought that Jesus might’ve fidgeted a bit, if his hands and feet weren’t spiked to planks. But that answer is likely to score me six of the best with a ruler, and a note home to Mum.

I shift as much of my weight as I can, onto my left knee. I distract myself by scanning the church. The Sullivan clan are in their usual pew, five rows from the front on the right side. Dad is kneeling by the aisle seat, holding Markie, who’s padded bum rests on the back of the pew in front. Mum is next, and then Grandma Sullivan. She smooths down the lace on the wrists of her white gloves. Pinned into her snowy hair is a simple yellow pillbox hat, that she wears every Sunday. Some women her age sit during the kneeling parts of mass, but not my Gran. Uncle Harry kneels beside Gran. He’s holding a blue hankie to his mouth, stifling a cough. Auntie Jenny reaches into her black vinyl handbag, and hands him something. I wonder if eating a cough lolly means he can’t take communion? Uncle Harry’s eldest, Greg, is in the middle of the pew.

The red circle of a pack of Lucky Strikes shows, through the cloth on Uncle Connor’s shirt pocket. It looks like a target drawn on his heart. Auntie Maureen’s clothes, seem more appropriate for the Adsen Dip on race day. A thin strand of pearls, falls over her pleated sea green dress. Her strawberry blond hair is poking out from under her broad-brimmed polka-dot hat. Their daughter Lisa, is at the far end of the pew. She is kneeling, but leaning so far back that her bum’s resting on the edge of the seat. “Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccáta mundi,” sang Father Eugene. Thank God, I think with a tiny touch of blasphemy. It’s time for me to get ready for Communion. I stand up, rub my knee, grab the Communion Plate, and hurry down to the Communion rail, before the Catholics of Verity Creek shuffle forward to the front kneeler.

Mass ends around ten-thirty and for the next half hour, my family stand in front of the church, sweating in their best clothes. The news of the week is exchanged with the station owners, who’ve come in for Mass. Apparently the Blackbull fire has burned through several properties, but the Normanton volunteer fire department saved the houses and shearing sheds. After everything worth knowing is shared, we form a stately convoy for the five-minute drive to Gran’s house.

~~~~~

Gran and Granda sold their sheep station and bought a house in Verity Creek when Dad was about my age. I don’t know how much they got for the drought ravaged property, but enough to buy one of the nicer lots in town. The house has a deep front and back yard. It sits on the corner of Moran Street and the Old Normanton road, making it one of the few homes with bitumen on two sides. The grey green corrugated iron roof, forms a pyramid cap on the square body of the three-bedroom house. The roof continues down to form a metallic awning over the wrap-around veranda. A second smaller pyramid, caps the kitchen, bathroom, and toilet, attached to the main house by a sheltered walkway. Once I asked Mum why the kitchen is a separate structure. She told me the house was built before the First World War, when the cooking was done on a wood stove. If the kitchen caught fire, there was good chance of saving the main house. I didn’t have to ask why the loo was added on. I could see the original dunny sitting deep in the backyard. The whole structure rests on three dozen eucalyptus stumps. Each two-and-a-half-foot stump is capped with a tin lid to keep the white ants from the juicy hoop-pine floorboards. The clearance also keeps the house off the baking Queensland earth, and lets air circulate under the rooms.

The Sullivan brothers park their Holdens out on the baking bitumen. Gran heads the family procession up the front steps, through the hallway, and into the dining room. The men take their places at the table and light up smokes. The women go out the back door and into the kitchen. They put on the kettle and start lunch. All the women except for Lisa. She slips out the side door to the veranda, probably to have a smoke of her own. With my copy of Huckleberry Finn, I plonk myself into the white wicker chair on the front veranda. Time to find out how Huck escapes from his Pap’s cabin.

I don’t how many minutes pass before Dad calls me for lunch. With reluctance, I leave Mr. Twain in the bright sun, and head into the cool gloom of the dining room. I take my place beside Mum. Markie’s in a high chair at the corner. Mum’s on one side of him and Dad, the oldest brother, has the end of the table. Gran sits at the other end.

“Joe,” said Gran. “Will you please say Grace?

After Dad finishes the prayer and we all say Amen, I turn my attention to the food on the table. A haunch of roast mutton. Again. Oh well. And the usual bowls of boiled potatoes, boiled carrots, boiled green beans, and canned corn kernels. I don’t mind the taste of mutton. The grease mixes well with the soggy and salty vegetables on my plate. But sometimes, I hit a piece of gristle that I have to chew until my jaw hurts. Eventually I concede defeat, take a big gulp of milk, and force the lump down my throat. Once I’d tried to slip the mangled meat under the lip of my plate. That had copped me a dirty look from Mum, and cuff across the ear from Dad.

Gran sits ramrod straight in her chair, cutting her slice of mutton into tiny squares, before putting them into her mouth. She pauses her eating and turns towards Greg. “So, young man. You’re done with school. What are your plans?”

Greg gives a shrug. “I’m not really sure, Gran. I hadn’t planned on leaving the Creek, if that’s what you mean.”

“I mean work, of course. What do you plan to do for work? You’ve already spent five more years in school than any of my sons. They were all earning a living by the time they were fourteen. What are you doing with your extra education?”

“Well, I’ve been talking to Dad about maybe helping down at the dealership.”

My Dad flicks a look over at his brother Harry, who focuses intently on the beans sagging at the end of his fork. “Really,” said Uncle Connor. “That’s a bit of a surprise. I didn’t think you had much of a time of it, last summer when you gave us a hand.”

“I thought you said he couldn’t organize a piss up in a brewery,” said Lisa under her breath.

“Lisa,” whispers Auntie Maureen. “That’s enough from you.”

“What’s that?” said Gran.

“Nothing,” said Auntie Maureen. “Nothing at all.” I remember Dad telling Mum last year, that Greg couldn’t find a spanner if it was tied to his wrist. “Well the receptionist job is taken,” said Lisa. “So, don’t think you’re going to replace me.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” said Uncle Harry. “I’m sure we’ll find something to sort you out.”

“And what about you, young lady?” said Gran to Lisa. “Does your comment mean you are not going back to do Senior at St. Catherine’s? Shouldn’t you be there by now?”

“No Gran. School and I just weren’t a good fit. Time for me to make a go of things for myself.”

I knew that Lisa wasn’t going to school this year. But I didn’t realize the choice had been hers. At Christmas dinner, there were some whispered conversations between Mum and Auntie Maureen about a different school, but I guess that didn’t work out.

“Well that seems reasonable to me,” said Gran. “When I was your age, I was already engaged to your Granda, bless his soul. How about you. Any young beaus ready to declare their honourable intentions?”

“There a few who have made their intentions pretty clear,” said Lisa. “But you know, it’s 1963. These days a girl gets to test drive a few models, before parking one in her garage.”

“Lisa!” hisses Aunt Maureen.

“I remember the first ride I had with your Ganda,” said Gran. Lisa and Greg snigger. I’m not sure why. “He picked me up in his Father’s one horse sulkie,” continued Gran. “He’d only been back from the Great War for two months.”

I wish I’d known Granda. On our kitchen divider, there’s a black and white picture of him, taken four months before he died. He’s holding me in my christening robes. Dad said that Granda never fully recovered from a few whiffs of chlorine gas at Ypres. In March of ’52, his lungs finally packed it in.

“And how about you Ian?” said Gran. “Are you ready for Scholarship at St. Kieran’s on Tuesday?”

“Huh. Uh, yes Gran. But they don’t call it Scholarship any more. Now it’s just Grade 8. But I’ve got all my books, and my uniform. I’m ready to go.”

~~~~~

That night, I yell “I’ll get it” in response to the double ring of the phone. Dad’s already holding the black receiver in his hand by the time I make the hallway. Between pauses I hear him say “Yeah. Right. That long? Where are they staging? Yeah. Righto. If I get a good run in the morning I can be there by seven. Right. See you tomorrow.”

“Who was that luv?” said Mum from the door to the kitchen.

“It was the Normanton volunteer fire station. They’ve lost containment on the southwest side of the Blackbull fire. Wanted to know if I could take a shift using the dozer to make a firebreak, before it gets to Four Ways.”

“Four Ways?” said Mum. Her hands twisted a damp tea towel. “That’s halfway to the Gulf. Isn’t there someone else?”

“They’re really light handed up there. The poor bugger on the dozer, has been there for three days straight. Short of ringing Mount Isa, there’s not a lot of us who know how to handle those old Caterpillars.”

“Can I help?” I said, blurting out the words before my brain has a chance to think it over. Dad looks down at me, but he doesn’t have to lower his gaze as far as he would have last year. He turns his face towards Mum. Water drips from the strangled cloth in her hands. I plead with Mum “I’m thirteen now,” as if this was all the argument necessary to let me go.

“And you were twelve, four weeks ago,” counters Mum. Dad walks over and rests his hands on hers. “It’ll be alright luv. I’ll keep an eye on him. It’s just one shift. We’ll leave first thing tomorrow, and be home before bedtime.”

A suckered tentacle of a giant cuttlefish wraps around my shoulder. Where’s Captain Nemo? What’s happening? “Come on mate. Wake up. Get your gear on.” Dad’s voice is gentle, unlike the callouses on his hand. “I’m awake. Be there in a minute,” I slur and gurgle. There’s no light coming through my window. Even the galahs are silent. “What time is it?”

“Quarter to four. I’ve made some vegemite sandwiches for the road, and the kettle’s on for tea. ETD is ten minutes. Alright?”

ETD and ETA are two of Dad’s favourite abbreviations. Although there is nothing estimated about his times of departure. Nine minutes and forty-five seconds later he’s sitting behind the cloth-coated steering wheel of his Holden station wagon, warming up the engine. I close the front passenger door and slide my bum onto the cold vinyl bench seat, careful to not squish the grease-paper sandwich packet between us. Dad takes a gulp of tea, screws the lid on the thermos, and we are off. Last night I’d laid awake thinking of a dozen questions that I wanted to ask Dad about fighting bushfires. I’m asleep ten minutes after we take the turnoff north.

There’s no tentacle on my shoulder the next time I wake, but for a couple of minutes I’ve got that weird disconnected feeling, from starting the same day twice. The rattle of Dad taking a cattle grid at seventy gives me a start. “Are we close?” I ask.

“Gidday mate. Good to see you back in the land of the living.” Dad keeps his eyes on the bitumen, stretching like a narrowing spear until it pierces the red horizon. “We’re close to the junction, maybe another half an hour. You hungry?” He takes a hand off the wheel and taps the bench seat near the opened sandwich packet. “Get some tea and sandwiches into you.” Half-inch slices of white bread support butter applied with a trowel, and a layer of vegemite as thick as sump oil. After chewing the first bite for close to a minute, I swallow a mouthful of tea to wash it down. The caffeine in the rocket-fuel Bushells clears away the last cobwebs of sleep. Finishing the sandwich rules out any possibility of conversation, so I take in the scenery.

I was ten the last time there was a wet season. The dry river beds filled and then flooded, covering hundreds of miles in brown silty sludge. The plants thrived by the thousand, with trees, shrubs and spinifex sprouting across the plains. But there’s been no rain since. In the grey haze, there’s a few stunted gums and a handful of hardy acacia bushes surviving, amid a swath of brittle dead grass. “What time is it Dad?” I said.

“Half past six.”

“Why isn’t the sun up?”

“I’m sure it is mate. But it’s gonna have to get a bit higher to clear the smoke. The fire’s to the northeast of us, but the wind’s blowing south.”

I squint to the east and see a black smudge on the horizon, climbing into the sky. “It’s a long way off.”

“About twenty miles. Let’s hope it stays over there.”

A single petrol bowser sits on a concrete slab in front of the Four Ways roadhouse. The red and yellow shell logo has faded to a faint outline, on the dusty white tin of the pump. I fill the Holden’s tank while Dad speaks to a cluster of men on the uneven veranda. We’re at the junction of the four roads that lead to Normanton, Burketown, Cloncurry or back to Verity Creek. There’s a tap on my sandshoe. A family of apostle birds, cluster in the dirt near my feet. They peck and preen as they shuffle in a tight circle, on towards the front of the car. The white tips on their grey feathers, make it look like they’ve just stepped out of the shower. Another pack of the foot-high spectators sit shoulder to shoulder on the roo bars of a Ford ute, squawking their disdain at the wandering of their cousins. It doesn’t seem like they are worried about the fire, but they can fly. As I clunk the nozzle into its niche in the pump, Dad comes back with two hessian bags draped over his shoulder, and a sloshing jerry can in each hand. He gives me two quid to pay for the petrol, while he loads the back of the station wagon.

After forty-five minutes on a dirt road to the north east, we pull over at the edge of an almost dry watering hole. “Will you look at that?” said Dad as he opens the car door. “That’s a ’43 D8 Cat. I used one of them to grade runways up in Darwin during the war. This one’s seen better days though.”

Better days? The rust showing through the bulldozer’s faded yellow paint could be a camouflage job gone wrong. In fact, if you added a few bits of armour, and replaced the blade with a gun turret, it would have been an oversized twin for the busted Sherman Tank on my model board.

“Alright,” said Dad, as he lifts a jerry can full of diesel from behind the back seat of the wagon. “Here’s our assignment mate. This billabong is on the edge of the Dismal Creek delta. Our job is to head north for nine miles, staying on the left side of the creek basin until we hit the main road. Then we’ll turn around and come back, making a break twice the width of the dozer. Your job is to be spotter. Keep an eye on the fire. If you see any hot spots from drifting embers, hop off the dozer and use a wet hessian bag to stamp ’em out. Make sure you soak the burlap all the way through, before you pull the sack out of the water bucket. If the fire’s spreading too fast, or if the bushes have caught, come back and I’ll give you a hand.”

There’s no steering wheel, just a series of levers that Dad pushes and pulls to drive the dozer, and adjust the blade. My eyes water from the belching diesel smoke coming from the narrow smokestack. I’m standing beside the open driver’s seat, squinting under the wide brim of my stained slouch hat, watching for any curls of smoke rising out of the scrub. Dad has the blade two inches deep and angled about thirty degrees to the right. We create a snaking wall of dark brown earth, that piles on the side of the track, or tumbles down on the bushes in the dry creek bed.

The novelty of my firefighting adventure wears off after half an hour. My jaw aches from the rattle of the caterpillar treads. Trying to talk over the chugging of the engine is impossible. I don’t know what I’d expected. Trees wrapped in pillars of flame? Bush creatures fleeing by the hundred? Dramatic music? I realize I’m waiting for Bambi and Thumper, to escape a fiery celluloid maelstrom from Disney. What a doofus I am.

Dad kills the engine after a couple of hours. The absence of noise is complete, except for what sounds like a low growl from a dog. “Got to let her cool down,” Dad said. “Feels like she’s running a bit rough. I wish I had the time to give her a good service.” He takes a swig of water a green metal cooler. “You hear that?” he said.

“The growling?”

“Yeah. That low rumble’s the sound of the fire.” He stands and lifts his head toward the east. “Still at least fifteen miles I reckon. If that southerly keeps up, we should be alright. Back at Four Ways the chief said they’ve got a big crew working the south. Properties that way should be safe.”

A little water splashes on my shirt pocket as I gulp from the jug. “Dad. How come there are no animals running from the bushfire? Cattle, sheep, roos, emus, goannas, and snakes. You know.”

Dad has another swig and then screws the lid back on. “Well, this fire’s been burning a couple of weeks, so the jackaroos have had plenty of time to move the stock. And unless the fire is on top of them, there aren’t too many wild animals that’ll come within cooee of a running bulldozer.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling like a nong for not realizing that. I climb back onto my perch behind Dad’s seat. We crash and thunder our way into the scrub. A couple of times Dad slows to dig deep under a gum sapling, but most of the plants we hit are dead, or have shallow roots, or both, so we shove them aside at a fair click. We make great time and pull up by the bitumen highway just after midday. Dad shuts the engine down and grabs a couple of mutton sandwiches out of a sack under the driver’s seat. I climb down to get a break from the caustic smell of burning diesel. But it doesn’t go away. Or it kind of does, but it’s replaced. “Wind’s shifted,” said Dad. “You can smell the fire. Come on, we’ll eat as we go. Let’s move. Now.”

Still chewing on the leathery meat, I beetle back on the dozer. On the eastern horizon, there’s an orange line snaking across the grass. Above are billowing white clouds, streaked with tongues of grey and brown. Before Dad turns the engine over, I hear something like radio static. A lot louder than the growling dog noise from two hours ago. Dad does a half circle on the bitumen. We head back, beside the track we ploughed through the bush. He lines up the blade, and we start widening the nine-foot gap, into a six-yard fire break.

Less than an hour later Dad says “There. Up on the right.” A white spiral curls its way through the branches of a dead Acacia, and then flattens towards the west. I plunge the hessian bag in the tin pail of water at my feet. Jump off the back of the moving dozer. Run twenty yards along the break, then cut into the bush. The smouldering circle of grass is less than six inches around. I pound it with wet burlap until there’s not a wisp left rising.

I do my best as spotter, but every time it’s Dad who sees the fire signs first. In the next hour, I make three more runs into the scrub, dowsing hot spots, each less than a foot around. As I come back from the fourth trip the dozer is stopped. “You cooling her down again Dad?” I say. He doesn’t answer. His hand is on the starter. The engine burps. A single black puff curls out of the smokestack. Dad gets up from the driver’s seat, and squats on the dozer tread. He pulls a stained rag from his back pocket to open the hot engine cowling. Without looking away he says “Ian. There’s a toolbox bolted on the back of the dozer. See if there’s an adjustable spanner. And screwdrivers. Long ones.”

The lid’s heavy but not locked. With a squeal from the rusty hinges I push it up. “There’s a spanner,” I said. “And a Phillips and a flat screwdriver. But they’re standard, not long.”

“Bugger,” says the disembodied voice from the side of the dozer. “How about baling wire and pliers?”

“Yeah, they’re here. But there’s not much wire.”

“It’ll have to do. Bring ’em round and lay ’em on the tread beside me.”

I line the warm metal tools along the caterpillar track. “What’s wrong?” I say.

“I’m not sure. She just died. I know there’s plenty of diesel in the tank. Might be something with the fuel pump, or maybe a block in the line.”

“Can I help?”

“Just stay on patrol for hot spots. It’ll be alright, soon enough.”

The radio static noise is louder now. There’s sounds like firecrackers as well. The light is dimming from the greyness above. My chest constricts from the smoke. Soon, I’m coughing and wiping the water from my eyes. Standing on the curved metal driver’s seat, gives me a view to the other side of floodplain. Black silhouettes of burning shrubs are sheathed in red. With the crack of a rifle shot, a flaming gum tree splits. The tightness in my chest gets worse. I don’t think it’s from the smoke. “Dad.” I call. “It’s pretty close. Do you reckon we should make a run for the car?” Dad’s arm is deep in the guts of the engine. “Fire’s not going to travel fast, across the light scrub in the creek basin,” he says. “We’ve got time. And we’re not leaving the only bulldozer for two hundred miles to get torched in the bush.”

“But Dad…”

“Shut up and do your bloody job!”

Wow. I pull my head in, and go back to scanning the west side of the break. Five minutes later I see it. About thirty yards up and ten yards in. A thick curl of white. Giving the hessian bag a quick splash in the bucket, I call “Just going back up the track a bit to get one Dad. Back in a minute.” Dad has his lips pursed around a black rubber fuel line. He gives me a thumbs up.

I bush bash in towards the smoke. A two-foot spiny ficus is alight. I raise the burlap sack above my head. A couple of drips trickle down my back. With all my weight, I swing down on the bush. The bloody thing explodes in a swirl of sparks. Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger. A half-dozen spots flare up. I scramble, beating almost at random to my left and right. There’s a buzz in my ears from blaze across the creek. I can’t stop coughing. I beat out the spots in front of me. I turn to find a dozen more behind.

My arms are heavy but I keep slapping at the ground. The bag is dry now, and the burlap material smoulders. I stomp on the embers instead. I’m concentrating on my sandshoe, as I grind down the final smoking patch of spinifex. A red blur clips my shoulder. I stagger, and spin down onto the brittle grass. They are on top of me, flashing by on either side. One clears my head with a blaze of white. I try to sit up and another one shoves past me. I scream in fear. What’s happening? And then they are gone. Roos. I’d freaked out over a mob of bloody kangaroos. Dad finds me sitting in the dirt. Snot running down my nose. He leads me like a toddler, back to the idling bulldozer.

Dad’s correct. The fire does slow as it burns down into the creek beds. As we grade south, the creek delta widens. We’re further from the worst of the blaze. The flames are still heading towards us, but we have enough time to finish the firebreak. Dad parks the dozer, back in the six inches of muddy water where we found it in this morning. I stay in the car as Dad reports back at the Four Ways roadhouse. Dad doesn’t have a deep voice, but it carries. He asks them to send a crew to defend the break overnight. I turn down his offer of a lemonade, while he drinks a stubby of Fourex on the veranda. I just want to go home.

Tick, tock, tick, tock. Dad turns on the indicator for the first time in a hundred and fifty miles. The lights of Verity Creek glow on our left. For the last three hours, I’d kept my hat pulled down over my eyes, so that Dad would think I was sleeping. “You awake?” Dad said. “We’re nearly home.”

“Uh huh,” I grunt back.

“You know, I’m proud of you mate. You did a top job today.”

Yeah. Right.

“Sorry I got a bit short with you when we stopped. For a minute there, I was worried the pump had gone. But as soon as I figured out it was just dirt in the line, I knew we’d be right.” We turn off Burke street and head to our house. “So, let’s not let your Mum know how close we got to the fire, alright?” said Dad. “I don’t want her to worry. We don’t want her refusing to pull the chocks, the next time we get a call. Right?”

Mum might have some idea how close we got to the fire, as we both smell like we’ve been cooking rissoles on a barbie all day. “Yeah. Sure Dad,” I said. Dad is hiding it well, but I know he’s not going to take a cowardly no-hoper with him, if Normanton calls again.