Story and Pic by Warrigal Mirriyuula

The Emergency Department of any small country hospital is used to trauma, even major trauma. You may get gunshot wounds and stabbings in the big cities, and of course there’s always the motor vehicle accidents. You get those in the country too; but you don’t get the crushing and penetrating trauma you get off the farms.

So it was no surprise to the young attendant when Sister MacGillicuddie, spying the bloodied young man being helped through her doors, had stepped out from behind the reception area and taken efficient, no nonsense charge of the still bleeding Inspector. She took his weight on her big shoulders and helped him to a gurney in the curtained triage area. The young attendant, now with nothing to do, ambled about the reception, poking and sticky beaking for a bit, trying to hear what was being said behind the curtain without making it too obvious. He heard something about “no fracture”, “there’s a lot of blood here”, and he heard the young Inspector draw his breath in and moan slightly as Sister cleaned the wound.  “You’re going to need some serious stitching. I’ll better call Dr. Wardell.” She left the injured young man holding a wad of cotton wool and gauze to his head and went off to make the phone call.

The young attendant watched as Sister walked briskly up the centre of the hospital’s one general ward, her starched white sister’s veil looking like some Chesley Bonestell space illustration he’d seen in Life magazine. The phone was at the other end. She’d be gone a minute or two. He slipped behind the curtain and took a look at the young Ordinance Inspector. Half his face was developing a beaut bruise centred on the injury hidden under the wad he gingerly held to his hairline. He’d be alright the attendant thought.

“Listen mate, I gotta get back to the roadhouse. You’ll be alright. Old Wardell’ll stitch you like a Sunday school sampler. A handsome scar. The girls love a scar.” He put his hands in the pockets of his greasy overalls and swung on the spot for a moment.

The Ordinance Inspector, still holding his head looked up and wanly said “Thanks. Really thanks, I dunno what might have happened. Those bloody dogs might’ve tried to eat me.”

“Mongrel and The Runt!??! The young attendant just laughed. “Don’t be bloody silly man! It was Mongrel came and got me. He must think a lot of you that dog. He’s not one to put himself out unless there’s food in it for ‘im.” Something occurred to him. “What were ya doin’ up there anyway?

The young inspector took an inward look at himself. Molong wasn’t working out for him. Christ, he couldn’t even catch a couple of stray dogs without making a complete cock up of the entire issue. “I don’t know. I really just don’t know.” he sighed. Nothing seemed to make much sense. “I suppose I’ll have to buy those dogs a steak.” He tried to stand up and shake the attendants hand but was still too groggy and slumped back against the edge of the already rolling gurney. The attendant grabbed him and ensuring he was upright got the gurney back and helped him to lie down.

“Thanks again.” The inspector lay back with his eyes closed. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Billy, Billy Martin. Me an me brothers run the roadhouse.” He held out his oily right hand but of course the inspector’s eyes were still shut. Billy looked at the filthy paw and self-consciously withdrew it.

“Well thanks Billy. I’m Algernon, Algernon Hampton.” He opened his eyes and looked at Billy.

“Jesus, is that ya real name? S’bit Biggles init? Algernon? He said the name as if it actually had a bad smell on it. “What’a ya friends call ya?” He was genuinely convinced that no one would call him by that name.

“I’m not sure I’ve got any friends. Well not this side of the Victorian border.” He sighed again.

“Now ya just bungin’ on the agony.” Billy laughed. “It’s just a bump on the bonce mate. You’ll be right as rain in a few days. Anyway look, I gotta go or my idiot brothers’ll burn the place down or somethin’ worse. Come out and see me when ya get outa here. I’m always there.”

He turned and pulled the curtain aside just as Sister was about to do the same from the other direction. Old Wardell was bringing up the rear. The three of them outlined a complex rondel of apology and side stepping which ended with Sister barking, “Oh for goodness sake, Billy! Just get out of the way! You shouldn’t be in here anyway with your filthy clothes and hands!”

“See ya Sister, Doc. See ya “Head Case.” Billy called back, feeling better not using that other name. He ran outside, jumped in the ute and took off.

Sister sniffed a peremptory sniff. “Head Case indeed.” She muttered. “Still, he’s the only decent one amongst those brothers. Idle loafers except Billy.” She turned back to the Doctor and the patient. Doctor Wardell was looking at the dark blood oozing in vermilion beads along the laceration. The patient’s eye was beginning to close and the bruising was swollen and darkening to an ugly crimson purple. He looked like he’d done fifteen with Dave Sands.

While Sister prepared the curved needles with fine gut, Doctor Wardell did some very fine and fancy stitching. Particularly at the point in the laceration where a side cut produced two small flaps of skin that didn’t want to sit flat. He’d looked at the wound for several minutes in silence. The young Inspector looking up through his one open eye thought the old boy had dropped off, but then the doctor had said, “Right that’s how we do it.” and with much muttering at the tiny fine stitches and some help from Sister the wound was finally closed, cleaned and disinfected once more, and a clean dressing applied to soak up the little blobs of bloody ooze.

The doctor washed his hands in the basin and said over his shoulder. “Algernon isn’t it?” He turned and flicked the water from his hands onto the floor before drying them on a towel from the dispenser. Finishing up by drying between his fingers, he threw the damp wad of linen at the small laundry bin. It missed and fell onto the floor. Sister tisked audibly at the liberty the doctor took.

“Algernon you’ve had a very severe knock, you’re concussed and still suffering from a little shock, but your pulse is strong and regular. I’ve managed to close the wound nicely and the scar shouldn’t be too grotesque.” He puffed a little with an old man’s pride in a simple task done very well. The quality of his suturing was known throughout the district. “I’m a bit concerned about that eye though; and of course, as with all head cases, it’s best to wait a day or two to see what happens with your vision and memory, cognitive skills. That sort of thing.” He began to pack his bag. “I’ll get Sister to give you something to help you sleep and I’m recommending that you stay overnight or maybe until Monday morning. We might need to get Gruber out here from Bloomfield.” Bloomfield was a large psychiatric hospital located in Orange about 22 miles east. “He’s a specialist in these sorts of head cases.”

Algernon had heard about Bloomfield. “I’m not mad Doctor.” Algernon hurriedly interjected, “I’ve just had a crack on the scone.”

This amused Doctor Wardell and he had a chuckle. “Don’t worry, I’ll call him in his capacity as a specialist neurologist. You seem clear to me now but you never know.” He lightly gripped and squeezed the younger man’s arm. “Now you must get some sleep. I’ll drop in tomorrow morning.” He turned to Sister, “Give him a shot of phenobarb and make sure the nurse monitors his breathing through the night.” He pushed his stethoscope into his bag, snapped it shut and threw the brass latches. “Thank you Sister.”  Doctor Wardell did a stagey bow. “As usual your assistance has been both invaluable and reliable.” He smiled a broad gracious happy smile at her. “Oh go on with you Doctor. I’m not moved by such soft soap.” But you could see she really was.

The sun was going down and with the doctor gone, Sister had helped her patient into a bed in the general ward and given him his sleeping pill. There was only one other patient in the small ward. He was a snowy haired old bloke and he had his ear glued to a little portable radio while making notations in a newspaper with a stubby pencil. Algernon thought he recognised him and smiled a painful one eyed smile. The old boy turned and smiled back, then suddenly wincing in what was significant pain, “Kidney stones.” he said, as if each of those two simple words cost him an effort, sucking the air in between nearly clenched teeth. Algernon didn’t hear the rest, if there was any. He was already falling into a head throbbing barbiturate sleep.

Meanwhile Mongrel and The Runt had made their way down town. It was a beautiful Summer evening; warm air, clear skies and a light breeze. The dogs were hungry. They hadn’t eaten since MacCafferty’s that morning and after their eventful day they were on the hunt for some grub. They wandered all the way down Bank Street until they were outside the Freemasons. The front bar was noisy and still half full with the afternoon drinkers. They’d dissolve away over the next hour or two while the evening crowd crushed in for the darts tournament. There was twenty quid in it for the winner and a money prize always drew a big crowd of punters who’d wager loudly through out the bar. They’d bet on a single spear, they’d bet on doubles and triples, they bet on individual players and the teams comp; in fact they’d bet on anything. There was a roster for the cockatoo so no one bloke missed all the action. Hundreds of hard earned pounds would change hands on the grand final match at the end of the evening. Blokes’d be cadging smokes and botting beers ‘til next payday if it didn’t go their way; and it had gone that way very badly indeed a few years ago. A ring in team from Bathurst had turned up pretending they were the regulars from St Pat’s. One of them however was a past state and national champion. After blundering through the early rounds, the ring in had just turned it on and torn the locals apart. The ring’d taken the local punters for a little more than was thought fair in a country town. The issue had been settled a few weekends later at a dance in Blayney when one of the more robust locals made short work of the bloke who’d organised the ring and fixed the tournament. There had been talk of hand injuries to the ersatz champ but the kybosh was put on that as going too far. He was a former genuine champion after all. He ended up with a black eye and a fat lip instead. The St Pat’s team had played fair ever since.

There was nothing to eat at the Freemasons but both dogs could smell BBQ on the breeze so they set off to find it. It wasn’t far. Just up Bank Street at the Telegraph. Clarrie had decided it was such a nice night they’d have some music and spit roast a couple of pigs in the courtyard out the back of the pub. They’d been on the spit for about half an hour and the delicious smell of sizzling pig fat and crackling had drawn Mongrel and The Runt as though on leads being wound in by the turning of the spit. The courtyard out the back of the Telegraph had originally been an ostlers yard for the Cobb and Co coaches that carried the western mail before the railways. The courtyard was connected to Bank Street by a carriageway large enough to take big coaches and four. Mongrel didn’t hesitate and ran through into the courtyard where Clarrie was basting the dripping pigs with a paintbrush. “G’day Mongrel” Clarrie called as the dog ran up to him and sat down at his feet, looking from Clarrie to the pigs and back to Clarrie.

“Ya hungry mate? Where’s The Runt?” Clarrie looked around and then spied The Runt sitting in the shadows of the carriageway. He turned the carriageway light on and the smaller dog flinched a little. “Well come on then,” Clarrie said to The Runt, as he got down on his haunches, “Come on in. I won’t bite you.” but the little dog didn’t move. He just sat there against the wall in the carriageway. “Suit yourself Runt.” Clarrie said equably, knowing the little dog’s ways. He got up and went into the pub.

Emboldened by the departure of the man, The Runt joined Mongrel by the spit in the courtyard. In a moment Clarrie was back with a bowl loaded up with a couple of bones and some old lamb chops that had seen fresher days.  Clarrie took the food over by the old stables. The dogs followed. Clarrie dumped the meat on the cobbles and filled the dish with water from a tap on the wall. “There ya go boys. That’ll sort ya out.” He gave Mongrel a ruffle on the top of his head but The Runt was keeping Mongrel between him and Clarrie. “You’re a funny little bloke Runt. You really are.” Clarrie smiled and shook his head and went back to basting the pigs.

The dogs wolfed down the chops and lapped and slopped their way through a good drink. Then, selecting a meaty bone each, settled down to give them a good chewing. The Runt looked up from his bone and across at Clarrie occasionally. Clarrie wasn’t a bad human, and he had just fed Mongrel and The Runt, and he always felt friendly and had that sweet beer smell, but for The Runt people were a problem. A dog just couldn’t be sure if or when they’d turn on you. It was always better to be cautious. He kept an eye out for Clarrie but, like Mongrel, having had a good feed, the next pressing issue was a snooze. The dogs lay down together on an old sugar bag in a corner. They were both asleep in minutes.

The pigs turned, Clarrie basted, an odd assortment of locals turned up with guitars and fiddles and harmonicas. Beryl, Clarrie’s wife, loaded an old trestle table with salads and fresh bread, plates and eating iron. When the dogs woke up the courtyard was full of people. Mongrel noticed the young bloke from the roadhouse talking with Clarrie as Clarrie carved into the first pig. The young bloke was a freshly bathed pink and wearing an ironed shirt. Mongrel could smell the odd mix of mechanical swarf and soap all the way over in his corner. He seemed excited and Clarrie was hanging on his every word, looking over at Mongrel and The Runt from time to time as the young bloke told his tale. When the young bloke finished he stood back slightly and winked over at Mongrel as Clarrie just looked at the dogs, his mouth slightly open. Then as if gathering his senses he shook his head and laughed. “I’ll be buggered!” he exclaimed.

It was one of those nights when everything was right in Molong. As Algernon the young Ordinance Inspector slept his deep barbiturate sleep, the evolutionary miracle of regeneration repairing his battered bonce, aided no doubt by the painkillers and a shot of anti inflammatory Sister had thought prudent to add to his chart, the town enjoyed a memorable night.

It wasn’t that anything particularly exciting or important happened. They seldom do in country towns. It was that everyone who came into town that night found company enough, a good feed, a yarn and a joke. Many danced, some sang, every body that could, played an instrument or two. Raconteurs found ready audiences and drank well and deeply in every corner of The Telegraph and The Freemasons. Lies were told, myths were remembered. Even the Rev. Gamsby came down from St Johns to the Telegraph and danced with Beryl while Clarrie played congenial host. The company and communion of people just like themselves, with whom they shared a kind of spirit of place. Just like the old blackfellas; like Yuranigh whose grave was just out of town. It was a magic night. Even The Runt had a great time after Porky turned up at the Telegraph. They’d stayed together all night while Mongrel played the show off. Singing along with the fiddler, doing his entire repertoire of leaping tricks, nudging all and sundry for bits of pork crackling. Mongrel really liked pork crackling.

Down at The Freemasons the local team won the darts. Even those blokes that’d lost more than they could easily explain to the missus went home feeling good, and some of them that had won went home not a little amorous. What’s more, while a lot of beer was drunk and there certainly were many sore heads the next morning; on that magic night there were no fights, no crashes and no one embarrassed themselves on the way home. In fact every one went to their bed happy and safe.

It was special in its very ordinariness, but the most interesting thing that happened that night was that the people of Molong, having heard of the injured young man and the story of Mongrel’s run for help, began to think differently about the young Ordinance Inspector. He became one of them. No longer an outsider. The very rocks the town was named after had reached out and knocked away the past. In a curious way Mongrel, having run for help, had conferred on the young Inspector the same welcome he and The Runt knew from the people of Molong. It would be said around town that if this young bloke was good enough for Mongrel and The Runt, he was good enough for Molong.

Clarrie, having cleaned up the courtyard and shared a last port with Beryl in the cool night air, turned off the light in the carriageway and went in the back door of the pub. He turned around in the doorway with his finger on the courtyard light switch. He could hear Beryl climbing the creaking stairs to their apartments at the back of the hotel. He looked across the courtyard and saw Mongrel and The Runt curled up together on the old sugar bag. The Runts little back leg was kicking slightly. Clarrie smiled and snapped the switch off.

As he climbed the stairs after Beryl his smile broadened a little. He’d loved it when Beryl and the reverend were dancing. He’d remembered the bush dance at Cumnock all those years ago when Beryl was a slight and shy young girl and he was a diffident young man just back from the war. As he stepped onto the top landing he realised in an almost overwhelming moment how much he loved his wife and family, how much he cared for the people of this little town, how good his life was, how rich.

The lights went out in Clarrie and Beryl’s apartments. Most everybody else in town was already asleep. A few wispy clouds slid over the moon and the stars twinkled in the deep blue black of the western sky. Every now and then a dog barked or a curlew called as Molong dreamed a new day into beginning.