by Di Morrissey
For the two boys the Depression the grown-ups talked about was a distant abstract thing, marked mainly by drifting unemployed men looking for jobs, even for a day, or at least a handout of a bit of meat and some bread as they hiked along country roads and door-knocked in towns. The boys knew from overhearing conversations that many of the drifters had good educations and work backgrounds; men who had taught in schools, run offices, worked in factories and knew how to repair machinery. Some occasionally worked on the farm without pay for a time, happy just to have some food and a dry bed in the barn. However, government decree kept the unemployed on the move, and the whole tragedy was a complete puzzle to the boys.
The two boys had become close friends at Cedar-town’s small high school, which accommodated kids from all over the valley when they finished primary school at one-teacher bush schools. Occasionally Thommo would stay the night on a mattress made of corn sacks stuffed with hay in the sleepout that Clem shared with Kevin, his older, middle brother. Clem had his share of Saturday nights at Thommo’s, where the mattress was kapok and on a real bed. Unlike their roaming days outdoors at Clem’s farm, a visit to Thommo’s meant unlimited time in the darkened Town Hall watching the serials and newsreels. They bonded strongly as mates. They lived for the moment. Their world was a small one.
For Clem and Thommo life during the Depression was as it had always been – school, working at home, and a lot of freedom to explore the district. Thommo helped clean and pack up the Town Hall after the picture shows and sometimes helped his father as projectionist, but, unlike Clem, he had no interest in electrical workings or engineering. Clem, the farm boy, was deeply interested in mechanics and had a natural gift for repairing most broken machinery. The mechanism for screening the films relied on a three-phase electric motor borrowed from a sawmill. Mr Thompson built the projection box where the operator also had to work the mechanism rigged up to open and close the curtains across the screen. Once the amplifier was in place they soundproofed the back wall of the hall with Cane-ite to give better sound. Clem was always trying to think up ways to improve the whole system.
Thommo was a keen member of the 1st Cedartown Boy Scouts where he learned camping and bushcraft skills. When he visited Clem at the farm he liked to show off his culinary skills, like whipping up a damper and cooking it in the coals of an open fire when they went bush for a day. It was too difficult for Clem to travel into town for the night meetings of the scouts and he envied Thommo’s achievement badges he’d worked so hard to earn.
Thommo’s parents, Frank and Vera, approved of his friendship with Clem. Even felt a bit sorry for him as they knew Walter Richards worked Clem and his brothers hard on their farm.
‘Too bad young Clem can’t get to scouts,’ said Frank Thompson to his wife Vera. ‘Any young fellow in the boy scouts is learning loyalty, honesty, courage at times of adversity. I loved my days as a scout master.’
When Clem mentioned the scouts to his father, Walter Richards brushed it aside. ‘You have plenty to occupy yourself here. You’ll learn more from me and your brothers. And besides, you don’t have to be a boy scout to do someone a good deed every day. You can practise that at home.’
The boys spent much of their free time exploring the river in an old wooden dinghy, fishing, catching eels and yabbies. Sometimes they hitched a ride up the mountain range just out of town with a friendly driver of a timber jinker or cattle truck. At the top they had just enough time to scramble down a rough path beside a big waterfall to swim in the leech-infested surrounds at its base before getting the return ride back to town. But escapades like this were rare, usually reserved for the summer school holidays.
Clem was the outgoing and chatty one of the two boys and could generally talk one of his two brothers into getting the cows into the bails for the late afternoon milking if he and Thommo had planned a full-day adventure on the weekend. Being the youngest boy, Clem generally got his way. Though not as much as the youngest child, his sister Phyllis, who was five and the only one who could soften the normally hard lines on their father’s face.
Clem’s father, talked round by his mother, Nola, had come to accept Clem’s friendship with Thommo. Walter Richards didn’t approve of the boys skylarking in town. To his mind life was hard, no one gave you anything, you worked your way in this world. Clem sometimes wondered if there’d been a time in his father’s life when he’d enjoyed himself, laughed, and did things just for fun. He was strict with all the family, quick to punish, and even Clem’s brothers, with the physiques of men, cowered when Walter raised a fist. But Walter accepted Thommo’s visits to the farm. Thommo enjoyed the space and freedom after the small house in town. He regularly cycled out from town, and was often at the Richards’ table on Saturday nights. Clem’s mother thought the boys were more suited to the other’s home as Clem loved being in town and hanging round to watch Mr Thompson fiddle with the projection equipment.
Lara looked again at the names pencilled on the back of the photograph then put it down with others scattered around a shoe box of letters and clippings. She looked at the two boys smiling at the camera, and smiled back. Who were these boys? And whatever had become of them?
2
Dani
DANI DROVE OVER THE Sydney Harbour Bridge at dawn. Jolly the dog sat in the back seat amongst bags and baskets. Lara had tried to persuade her to leave the dog with her as finding somewhere to stay with a medium-sized, if happy, hound could be difficult.
As Dani headed up the near-empty F3 the dog settled down to sleep sensing it was going to be a long trip.
Dani stopped for a hasty breakfast at a highway servo and once the freeway ended she drove through small towns, past state forests and into the countryside. In the bright morning sun, crossing a shining river and seeing paddocks of beef and dairy cattle, some sheep and goats gave her the sense of moving into another world. She could feel her body relaxing as she realised she had no pressures of time or demands of duty. Her spirits lifted.
Reaching the bustling regional city of Hungerford, she crossed the bridge and glanced down at the attractive park and council chambers facing the river. She swung around and parked at the river’s edge, letting Jolly run along the neatly tended embankment. They walked through the park admiring the flower beds, and a memorial of stone pillars carved with the names of all the local men who’d served in two world wars. Spotting a tearoom, she bought a paper cup of well-brewed tea poured from a huge teapot by a chatty lady who persuaded Dani she should try one of their rock cakes.
She sat on the river bank and shared the crumbly, old-fashioned, raisin-filled cake with Jolly. It was late morning, she had the rest of the day to drive the twelve kilometres into Cedartown and find somewhere to stay.
At the roundabout out of Hungerford she saw the sign to Cedartown via Riverwood. From what she’d seen on the map, Riverwood was a village on this side of the Oxley River, nine kilometres before Cedartown. In her great grandparents’ day it was a bustling upriver township. ‘Let’s check out Riverwood village on the way, eh, Jolly.’
It was better than Dani had imagined. Wonderfully picturesque. She wanted to stop and start sketching the old buildings with their verandahs facing the river, the quaint main street along the river front with a small general store, a tiny post office, jacaranda trees carpeting the ground with mauve flowers and, on a corner, a delightfully renovated original house that had tables and chairs along the verandah, a front garden filled with roses, and glimpses of a courtyard at the back with tables and umbrellas. A sign proclaimed it to be the Nostalgia Cafe.
There was one couple seated at a table. A middle-aged man in a long white apron and striped T-shirt came to greet her with a smile. ‘Good morning. Are you wanting morning tea or lunch, or just a cool drink?’
‘I left Sydney at five-thirty this morning. We’re ready for lunch.’
‘We? A table for two . . . ?’ He glanced around.
‘Actually it’s me and the dog. Can I tie her in the shade in the gar
den?’
‘Absolutely. I’ll bring a dish of water. Would your dog fancy a small bite of something? Provided it’s not a customer.’ He laughed.
With Jolly settled on the grass under a tree with water in a pink china bowl, Dani read the menu, surprised at the selection of simple French-style dishes and carefully chosen wines.
‘I’m George and my partner Claude is the chef. If you have questions, feel free.’ He placed a bottle of mineral water and a goblet on the table.
‘I’m impressed. This all sounds wonderful. Is Claude French?’
‘Of course. Actually he was born in Australia, but we did the south of France thing, went back to his village and his aunts and all the women taught him their special dishes. But we try to keep it fresh and simple. I can recommend the leek flamiche or the salmon terrine.’
‘I think the onion tart sounds wonderful. Especially if it’s cooked by a French chef. I hadn’t expected to find such culinary delights up here.’
‘You’d be surprised what’s happening in this area. People like us have run away from the city for the good life. There’s a couple in Cedartown turning an old butcher’s shop into a divine cheese factory. There’s a venison and ostrich farm and in Hungerford the best German smallgoods maker you can imagine. Now, a little rocket and roasted beetroot salad on the side?’
‘Why not. Don’t know where I’ll be eating tonight.’
‘You’re passing through, heading north or south?’ George shook out the starched linen napkin and spread it on her lap.
‘Actually, I’ve sort of arrived. My family came from Cedartown so I thought I’d come to the area and look around. Do you know any places that take dogs? Just for, say, a week.’
George poured water into her glass. ‘Not sure about Cedartown. But why don’t you stay here in Riverwood, it’s only fifteen minutes to Cedars. And there’s a farm, Chesterfield, down the road which has lovely cabins on the river on ninety acres. Dogs welcome.’
‘Really? That sounds perfect. I’ll call them. If I’m close by I can eat my way through your menu!’
‘How about a few marinated olives and an excellent French olive oil with Claude’s mini baguette to start?’
It was that easy. By the end of the meal George had arranged for her to drop in to see a cabin at Chesterfield five minutes away.
Again she was in for a surprise. Driving along the dirt track she came to paddocks with goats, a huge wooden shed that looked to be every man’s dream and a large house surrounded by a verandah swathed in an old grape vine. It was a picture postcard. As she parked under the shade of trees a smiling woman came to meet her.
‘You must be Dani. I’m Helen Moss. And this is . . . ? She patted the dog.
‘Her kennel name is the Jolly Roger but we call her Jolly. She’s very friendly and clean. I saw you have a border collie at the gate.’
‘She’s an old working dog put out to pasture. We also have a nosey little Jack Russell. I’m sure they’ll all get on with your schnauzer. Would you like to see the cabin?’
As they walked around the house past a chook pen, a rabbit hutch and an aviary filled with tiny quail and doves, Dani caught her breath at the panorama. The broad smooth river curved in front of the expanse of lawns fringed with trees at the water’s edge. On the opposite bank were lush green river flats dotted with dairy cows. Farm roofs glinted in the sun. In the distance were the peaks of a small mountain range.
‘This is stunning. Can you swim in the river?’
‘There’s a landing with an old dinghy if you want to fish, a kayak to paddle and, yes, it’s good swimming when the tide is up. Though there’s a pool on the other side of the main house. You’re welcome to use it. We have three cabins tucked away so you’re quite private. Only one is taken at the moment.’
The little A-frame one-bedroom wooden cottage with its tiny bull-nosed verandah was exactly what she needed.
‘I’ll take it,’ Dani said immediately, then turned towards the big house where she had parked. ‘That’s your place?’
‘Yes, it is. And we love it,’ said Helen and went on to explain that it was built in the late nineteenth century for the first Presbyterian minister in the district. ‘A lot of Scots came up this way in the early days. When we bought it the house had been modernised. We’re trying to restore some of the old charm with antique furniture, polishing the original floorboards and uncovering the old fireplaces and walls and so on. My husband Barney and I are around if you need anything. Help yourself to vegies from the garden and eggs, of course. There’s a local store but then you’re only a few minutes from Cedartown and Hungerford.’
Dani put her bags and sketching materials in the cabin and with difficulty called Jolly away from the wooded area where she could smell wild rabbits and wallabies. ‘Let’s go stock up on provisions, some wine and other goodies, old girl. I might never leave this property.’
After shopping she watched the sun go down behind the hills and the river turn a silken pewter splashed with rose gold. On the opposite bank the cows were trudging single file from the milking shed to their paddock. Sipping a glass of wine, an exhausted Jolly at her feet – she’d raced over every inch of the acreage led by the energetic Ratso the Jack Russell – Dani couldn’t recall when she’d felt so at peace. This is what I need, time just for me, she decided. There was only patchy mobile phone reception at Chesterfield unless she walked to the top of the hill overlooking the dam. Dani decided to put off calling her mother and son till the next morning.
Helen and Barney Moss, who owned Chesterfield, took Dani under their wing without being intrusive.
Barney brought her a fish he’d caught for her dinner and offered to take her along the river in his small boat to show her his secret places. ‘The landscape looks different from the river. You might find something to paint.’
Dani had been wandering about the property and the river bank making sketches. Helen invited her up to the big verandah to have a sundowner and Dani told her why she was in the area.
‘What say I take you for a bit of a run tomorrow, show you some of the out-of-the-way spots? I have to deliver some leaflets,’ said Helen.
‘That would be nice . . . but I don’t want to put you out.’
Helen, in her fifties, was short and stocky with bright blue eyes and a quick smile. Her hair was a peppered faded ginger, which Barney told Dani was not as fiery as it had once been.
‘Though her tongue and temper are still hot,’ he said with a grin. ‘She gives them curry at those council meetings. A community activist is what they call her when they’re being polite but she has a reputation as a bit of a bomb thrower.’
Helen was dismissive of the comments. ‘He exaggerates everything. Look, I’d love to give you a bit of a tour. I’m delivering a newsletter to people who don’t get into council meetings. And I wouldn’t offer to take you if I didn’t mean it. How’s tomorrow afternoon suit?’
‘Terrific. Thanks, Helen. I thought I’d drive over to Cedartown, go past my great-grandparents’ old house. Mum is anxious to know what it’s like. Got my camera to take photos for her.’
It was hot and in the middle of the day Cedartown looked deserted. Dani drove slowly along the residential streets where houses built in the fifties and sixties were unchanged. Some much older homes had been renovated and extended but all had small front verandahs, some screened by glass or wooden louvres or lattice. Roses flourished in neat front gardens. Brick dwellings dominated only in the newer areas opened up in the postwar boom years and were still proliferating into paddocks on the edge of town.
The main shopping street, Isabella Street, was wide and had fat Canary Island date palms down the centre with parking down the middle. She wondered if some of the old shops had been there when her great-grandparents moved in during the 1920s. She began to notice innovations. The gracious old stone bank was now a boutique B&B with a restaurant. There was a cafe, Convivia, serving organic food and juice next to the CWA meeting rooms. The two pubs
were typical of old-style country hotels with wide verandahs, except now they boasted satellite TV and air conditioning. The main street encircled a broad sweep of public park that was dominated by an old Air Force Vampire jet mounted on a plinth, its nose aimed at the sky, giving the impression that it might just soar off at any moment. The cockpit and fuselage looked so small Dani wondered how one man, let alone a second, fitted inside. Across the road and overlooking the park was the Services Club. Further up by the park boundary was a giant log mounted on concrete blocks. Dani imagined it was probably a memorial to the timber industry. The School of Arts (est. 1874) with iron lace verandah caught her approving eye, and a sign announcing it now housed the Cedartown Public Library. And a big wooden building with double shop-front windows advertised its new role as home of the Historical Society and Museum.
Dani led Jolly across the park and studied the museum’s window displays of relics of early twentieth century life in the area. Or maybe even earlier, she thought, taking in a stiff wax model of a woman in ankle-length period costume standing next to a wooden washing mangle and a ‘Kangaroo Butter Churner’. Old farming implements, saddles, gold-panning equipment and clay pipes were in the adjacent window. Judging from the layout and the faded gold letters above the door, this had probably been a large emporium in its heyday, selling just about anything anyone needed. Glancing inside she was amazed at the rows of packed display cases and standing exhibits. A sign announced that out the back there were farm equipment and horse buggies along with all manner of larger items. It would take a week to see everything in here, she decided, stepping inside simply to ask the man behind a table at the door the time.
‘Two o’clock, dear. Plenty of time before we close.’
‘Sorry, but I have to meet someone, I’ll come back and spend a day here later in the week.’ She went down the broad stone steps worn to a deep dip in the centre by the comings and goings over many decades of the people of Cedartown. I bet my great Nana and Poppy came in here, she mused.
