Long Gone the Corroboree

by Tony Parsons

  “Lordy, look at the way that boy moves,” Steele said with a look of wonder on his face.

  “There’s nobody near his age that can beat him in a foot race,” Evans said. “He’s a bloody natural. I heard that the sports teacher reckons Billy is the best runner the school has ever had, but the little bugger hasn’t got his heart in it. He wants to play cricket and football.”

  “That should please you… about the cricket, I mean,” Steele said.

  “Yeah, but I’m not one-eyed. I’d like to see Australia come up with a bloke good enough to beat all those black runners that win everything at the Olympics. We’ve got plenty of good cricketers but our runners aren’t good enough. A boy as good as Billy could do it maybe, but he needs to be guided and trained properly, not dragged up by a hot-arsed woman like his mother and a drongo like Dooley. Look at all those good swimmers. They’ve all got parents that cart them to swimming early morning and drive them home from the gyms where they do their weight training. Billy hasn’t got any of that. But most of all, Billy doesn’t want to train because he says there’s no money in running even if he was the best in Australia. He’s a natural musician and that’s all he wants to be,” Evans said, and having said all this, he emptied what was left of his mug of tea onto the ground and walked back to the dismembered dwelling.

  The demolition of the old building continued the next day and for a couple of days after that. Steele was grateful for the thick, leather gloves which he’d purchased at Josh’s suggestion. The ends of the slabs in particular, yielded some massive splinters. They were also caked with a thick layer of dust that had accumulated during the many years the building had been unoccupied.

  Billy Sanders arrived the next afternoon and for many subsequent afternoons. He also came when Evans worked at the weekend. Steele supplied him with a pair of gloves and he helped Steele carry the slabs to where they were laid out for cleaning. Billy worked well, steadily and uncomplainingly and at any job he was asked to do. He would hare off to the creek with a bucket to obtain water for washing the slabs. The spring was much closer but the water was so cold and sweet that neither Steele nor Evans was disposed to utilise it for washing the old slabs.

  “Ya oughta put a pump in the creek, Clay,” Evans suggested. “Now ya’ve got power, ya could install a small electric motor and pump that’d push the water up to a small tank. I know a fella who could do the job for ya.”

  Steele was by this time aware that Josh could be relied upon to know just the man for any job that needed doing. “Two questions: would it cost much and is it legal?”

  “Not a lot. Save ya heaps of work and be bloody handy if you want to start a veggie garden. I don’t know that anyone would object to ya pumping up a bit of water for domestic use though if you enquired, ya’d probably have to fill in twenty different forms. It’d be different if you were going to irrigate a crop,” Evans said.

  “Then we’ll do it,” Steele said.

  “Way to go. We’ll make a bushie out of you in no time,” Evans said with a face-splitting grin.

  So, Josh’s man installed a pump and motor that pumped water up to a small holding tank. Josh supplied a hose too, which made the job of cleaning the slabs a whole lot easier. Steele was surprised to find the old timber slabs in such good condition and said as much to Josh.

  “Yeah, well, I reckon those slabs will see you out, Clay. First thing ya want to do when we’ve finished building is to get the place done for white ants. Beats me why they haven’t chewed the old place to powder but I haven’t seen any. Bloody amazing. Only thing I can think of is that either insects or birds have kept them down,” Evans said. “Maybe even ant-eaters. There’s a few around here.”

  The two men had developed an easy familiarity. Steele was impressed with Josh’s energetic approach to the job. It seemed that once he’d taken it on, he was determined to make a success of it. Steele thought that he was in many respects what he’d always imagined a real Australian to be. Evans was good-humoured, irreverent, capable and co-operative. Although his grammar was at times quite atrocious, Josh had a pleasant-speaking voice and he was fond of using words such as cobber, mate, bloke and bloody. Steele found him highly entertaining and not short of grey matter either.

  The truth was that Evans was intelligent enough to understand that Steele was unlike any man he’d ever met. Clay Steele spoke beautifully, which suggested he’d been educated at a posh school, but he wasn’t in any sense la-di-dah in his behaviour. He’d contribute to any subject Josh brought up and what he said always made sense. Evans couldn’t make up his mind whether Steele was running from something or someone, possibly a woman, or whether he was simply a genuine loner. He knew of another man who lived on his own nearby and that man was a poet. And he wasn’t the only dropout in the area. Steele was a mystery and Evans didn’t like mysteries. He was a what-you-see-is-what-you-get bloke, a straight-from-the-shoulder fellow who was intrigued when other blokes weren’t the same.

  The two men were sitting at Steele’s table having lunch when Josh’s curiosity at last got the better of him. “Who are ya, Clay?”

  “Just a fellow who’s restoring an old house, Josh,” Steele answered equably.

  “Yeah, and I’m the bloody Prime Minister. Give us a go, Clay. I reckon you’re a lot more important a bloke than you’re letting on and I also reckon that you don’t want to be found in a hurry,” Josh said.

  “What makes you think that, Josh?” Steele asked.

  “I may be only a bush builder but I’m not a dill. You’re not like any bloke in these parts. My bet is that something happened and you want to drop-out for a while. Ya not on ya Pat Malone. There’s a few blokes have come here that were jack o’ the big smoke,” Evans said.

  “That’s very percipient of you, Josh,” Steele said with a grin.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s better than being plain smart. It means, you’ve got some degree of insight,” Steele said.

  “Is that good?” Evans asked.

  “It’s very good, Josh. There aren’t too many people that have insight,” Steele said.

  “So, am I right about ya? Are you someone fairly important?” Evans pressed.

  “That’s a moot point, Josh. Some people would consider me very important and some wouldn’t, while most wouldn’t know or care what I was. It depends on whether you’re literary-minded or otherwise,” Steele said.

  “You mean, you’re in the book business?”

  “You could say that,” Steele said.

  “I reckon ya’ve probably written books, maybe some pretty important books,” Evans suggested.

  “You’re a bright bloke, Josh Evans. Yes, I’ve written books, though I don’t want that fact bandied around the town and district. Right now, I’m trying to keep a low profile. In fact, my family and old associates don’t even know that I’m back in Australia. Not even my last girlfriend,” Steele said.

  “Ya’ve been overseas?”

  “Yes, Josh. I was very sick and had to have treatment in America. When I left Australia, there was a good chance that I’d never return. Owning this property and thinking about what I wanted to do with it helped me while I was having all the treatment. After I recovered, I did a tour of several countries and stayed with some other writers. I’d intended to stay away longer but I got homesick for Australia and suddenly anxious to get started on this restoration. I couldn’t settle to write even though I was at some lovely places,” Steele said.

  This was true because no place seemed the same as Australia. He longed for the smell of eucalypts, the sky’s blue vastness and the long, white beaches. He wanted a piece of Australia he could call his own and the memory of this lovely place with its long-abandoned garden, riotous with colour and scented with perfume, stayed in his mind.

  “So, ya’ve written books?”

  “Some,” Steele said.

  “Good books?” Josh asked.

  “What’s good, Josh? Books are a very subjective thing. Not everyone likes t
he same books. I’ve written bestsellers for what that’s worth but there’re people who would never read my books. All that was before I got sick,” Steele explained.

  “You okay now?” Josh asked.

  “I doubt that anyone who’s had what I had is ever free of the thought that it could re-occur,” Steele said. The return of his illness was a fear that kept him from thinking too much about relationships, past or present.

  “Why don’t ya want people to know ya here, Clay?”

  Steele hesitated before answering. It would take far too long to give Evans the kind of answer the question really deserved, and if he gave it, the builder would think he was up himself. Instead, he searched his mind for a brief answer that would give satisfaction. “I suppose the best answer I can give you is that I want some privacy. I don’t want and wouldn’t appreciate a horde of news-hungry reporters falling over each other to report that I’m back and wanting to know where I’ve been and what I’ve done since I left Australia. I don’t know how long I can maintain my privacy but I’ll do it for as long as I can get away with it. This beard is part of the act. By the time some sharp reporter picks up on the fact that I’m here, I might be in better shape to handle any subsequent publicity,” Steele said.

  “But why here, Clay? You could have found more out-of-the-way places than here. The Mexicans from all those states south of Queensland are comin’ here in droves now. Some of them are sure to be book readers and one of them could recognise you,” Evans said.

  Again, Steele hesitated. He imagined that Josh had probably driven past this property dozens of times yet it seemed that he’d never been stirred by it. How then would he be able to make him appreciate why he’d bought it?

  “There’s a very famous place in India and there’s some writing on that building that goes something like this: ‘If there is a heaven on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this.’ This property, this lovely, wild garden and that creek below it, are my heaven on earth, Josh. This is where I’ll be able to write again one day. Can you understand what I mean?” Steele asked.

  Evans looked at Steele and then looked away at the disordered acres and the madly blooming shrubs. “It’s very colourful and it smells nice but it’s a huge mess, Clay. It’ll take a lot of effort to clean it up and you aren’t the right bloke to be doing it.”

  “I won’t be cleaning it up very much, only adding a vegetable garden. The birds love this place, the grey possums love it and I love it. It’s… elemental. It’s like things might have been a long time ago… before we went mad with axes and saws. I know in my heart that I’ll write well here, Josh. So don’t give me away please. If anyone asks, I’m just a fellow who paid you to restore the old cottage. Nothing more. Can you do that?” Steele asked.

  “If that’s what ya want, Clay. I reckon a bloke’s business is his own, but it’s hard to keep secrets in these country towns. It’s part of the way of life to know all the gossip. I’d go so far as to say that these towns run on gossip,” Evans said.

  “Then I hope I won’t contribute anything for people to gossip about,” Steele said with a gentle smile.

  “Fat hope, Clay. There’s already a lot of talk about the old Hewitt place being restored. It’s news. One joker in the pub wondered if you’d seen the ghost yet! Ha ha. I reckon that when we get this building up, there’ll be a lot of sticky beaks drivin’ past to have a squizz at it,” Evans said with a broad grin.

  “Good heavens,” Steele said with a sigh. “Maybe I ought to go into the tourism business and charge for a tour of inspection.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Evans said. “There’ll be a few that will want to see what’s been done but it won’t be flash enough for you to charge for a look. What ya haven’t taken into account is that this is the most er…”

  “Iconic?” Steele suggested.

  “Does that mean famous or something like it?” Evans asked.

  “It could.”

  “Well, this is the most iconic site in the Shire because of the Hewitts and the massacres, not to mention the ghost stories. It’s part of the history of the area. You can’t expect people not to talk about what you’re doing here. That’s the first step towards wanting to know who you are,” Evans said.

  Steele nodded soberly. When he’d bought the property, he’d had no knowledge of its history. He hadn’t been made aware that the land had been part of a former camping ground of the Gubbi Gubbi people and that many of these people had been massacred by a ruthless white man. And he doubted that this knowledge would have made any difference to his decision to buy the property.

  “You mentioned a sheila, Clay. Are you running away from her, too?” Evans asked.

  “I think it would be truer to say that I’m running away from all sheilas,” Steele said with a half-smile.

  "They give you a hard time?’ Evans asked with a grin.

  “Women make demands, Josh. Especially young women. I don’t want anyone making demands or having expectations of how I should behave. The only person I want to answer to is myself. I’ve had relationships and I’ve had limelight and I’ve had literary psycho-babble, and I want no more of any of it. I want to write in peace, grow vegetables and herbs and be able to sit down and smell the flowers,” Steele said.

  “You don’t have to sit down to smell them here,” Evans said, still grinning.

  And Steele let out a deep laugh from his barrel chest.

  Billy asked questions too, but his were of an entirely different nature. He seemed happy to be involved in the work at the old cottage. His interest in the project intensified and became more overt after the demolition of the building was completed and Josh began the rebuilding. The big round posts that were sunk to support the new and higher roof finally convinced Billy that the old building would indeed be restored. His interest reached barely concealed excitement when the new roof went on.

  “I’d like to bring me mum down to see it,” Billy announced late one evening.

  Steele glanced across at his builder and noted his frown and the slight shake of his head. Steele took his cue and suggested to Billy that it would be better to wait until the building was completed when there would be much more to see. “A woman wouldn’t be interested in looking at a roof, Billy. Women like looking at rooms because they like imagining how they’d furnish them. Just hold your horses for a while. When we’ve finished, that will be the time to bring your mum here,” Steele said.

  “Yeah. Okay. I’d better go. Gotta get the calf in.” And so he left them. He moved over the ground as if touching it hurt the soles of his feet. Steele thought the boy almost floated, so fluid were his movements.

  “Why did you veto Billy’s mother coming here? I took it that way from the signals you gave me?” Steele asked when Billy was out of earshot.

  “I was thinkin’ about your health,” Evans said, smiling broadly. “That Dooley Davis that Lilly lives with is a fair terror when he’s on the grog. He’s been up for assault a couple of times. Dooley sees red when Lilly looks at any other bloke. And Lilly likes to look. If he heard that she was down here, you could land yourself a heap of trouble. You wouldn’t be the first bloke to cop a knuckle sandwich from Dooley.”

  Steele considered this information before answering. As much as he wanted to be left in peace, it seemed that, like it or not, he’d be unable to live in absolute peace and isolation. And that probably wouldn’t have changed no matter where he might have bought a property.

  “Billy told me that his father cleared out on his mother. Do you know much about the family?” Steele asked.

  “I know plenty, Clay. Billy’s father didn’t actually clear out on Lilly. She was never married. Lilly got pregnant when she was only sixteen. She was still at school when it happened. Lilly was a real good sort and she could sing the place down. She wanted to be a country-and-western star but she was the sort of girl that fellas wanted really bad. And Lilly wanted them back, if you know what I mean. Anyway, to cut a long story short, she was crazy for a
good-looking boy who was the son of a local quack. He’s a top doctor in Brisbane now. His family looked after her in a manner of speaking and the story is that they’re still sending her money for Billy.”

  Evans looked back across Steele’s garden towards the road. “The thing is, Lilly could waggle her backside like no other female I’ve ever seen. And she was hot, Clay. The sort of girl that could drive some young fellas mad. And the boy that got her pregnant was the pick boy of the school. His mother just about had a stroke when she found out what Luke had been up to. Anyway, Lilly had Billy – that sounds poetical, doesn’t it? –and after that, she had a couple of other affairs before she took up with Dooley Davis, who’s an umpteenth cousin of hers and also, like Lilly, one of the few people left that traces to the old Gubbi Gubbi people. Lilly’s still a great lookin’ bird but she’s had enough of Dooley. He’s given her a few hidings but she’s too scared of him to piss off. Besides, where she lives is her place,” Evans said.

  “And where exactly does Lilly live?” Steele asked.

  “Her place is right next to yours,” Evans said with a grin. “Lilly’s your closest neighbour. She owns both sides of the road. The block next to you is mostly bush but where she lives, which is across the road, is good grass country.”

  “So, Billy’s mother is my immediate neighbour,” Steele mused.

  “She sure is, but you can’t see her house from here because of the bush,” Evans said.

  “And Billy’s really related to the old chap that lived here.”

  “Yep. Jack Hewitt Junior sired a daughter late in life and she married a gun shearer with a fair dose of Gubbi Gubbi blood in him. Doosem shore a heap of sheep, saved his money and bought the place next door. Doosem didn’t meet Hewitt’s daughter until he was a fair age and then she died havin’ Lilly’s mother. They were at some God-forsaken-place where there was no doctor handy. Lilly’s mother got brought up rough by Doosem in shearing sheds but she was supposed to be a good-lookin’ piece just like Lilly. There’s a lotta white fella in them from the wrong side of the sheets, if you know what I mean, but it turned out a couple of good lookin’ sorts.”