In the kitchen at the back of The Telegraph Beryl and Alice heard the siren too.  Alice looked at Beryl, “What can have happened?”

Young Molloy, having slept through the day, was now up and waiting for his tea to brew while he read The Express again. He heard the siren too, fading in and out along the highway. Forgetting his tea, he dropped the paper and ran out into the yard to his bike. He kicked the “Matchless” into life. Chook would almost certainly end up at the station and obviously something was going on. Molloy had never heard the siren on the Police ute before.

Round at Harry’s place the three men heard it too as Harry and Porky sorted out sleeping arrangements and Algernon took a quiet stroll around the garden.

Mongrel hadn’t left Algy’s side since the drive from the hospital but now Mongrel’s ears pricked at the sound. He became agitated, barking loudly and running up and down the fence. Then he took to howling. A deep chested howl that started big and low and ended in a strangled “woooorrrrrrr”, his head high and extended, jaws almost shut and his front legs stiff and forward.

Not to be left out, The Runt abandoned Porky who was making the beds, and raced down the hall, pushed his way through the fly screen door and joined the bigger dog. Together they made for a distinctly dissonant performance. Soon other dogs from all over town had joined in and by the time Harry and Porky had come out into the garden dogs could be heard all over Molong joining in the pack song.

Then Algy and Porky had joined in too, getting down on all fours and egging the dogs on, much to Harry’s amusement. Unfortunately the antics started Algy’s head aching again and he went and sat on the edge of the verandah. That worried Mongrel so the dog stopped howling and went to sit by Algy.

Without Mongrel as the canine choirmaster all the other dogs soon fell silent too, turning Harry’s amusement to astonishment. He looked at Mongrel and the dog barked a happy bark as if to say, “What did you expect? I am the big dog around here!”

“Somethin’ mus’ be goin’ on.” Harry said. “Praps they’re comin’ for you two, ya mad buggers.” Harry laughed as Porky picked himself up, still barking, and they all went back inside.

Some time earlier across town Mrs Bell had been tucking the knitted woollen tea cosy over the pot. She put it on the tray next to the platter of butterfly cakes. Young George Cassimatty had apparently been struck dumb the moment he crossed the threshold. After brightening up the fire box in the stove in the kitchen and lighting the fire in the parlour he just sat there fidgeting, his eyes occasionally darting around the room as if looking for an avenue of escape. When Mrs. Bell came in with the afternoon tea tray he jumped as if shocked.

“Now George, exactly what is it that seems to be troubling you? Asked Mrs Bell as she poured their tea. “Milk and sugar?”

“Yes thank you Mrs. Bell; two please.” George was grateful for this small ritual. It staved off the inevitable for a moment longer. He sipped his tea and diffidently took a butterfly cake. He picked the wings off and ate them.

“Well, ya know when Tinker was sick and ya had ta take ‘im t’ the vet?” George didn’t wait for a response. He just kept going, thinking that if he faltered now he might not go through with it. “Well it was me who made ‘im sick.” He blurted. “I give ‘im some o’ me lunch. I didn’t mean t’ make ‘im sick. Tinker’s a great moggy, the best cat I know.”

It was obvious that Tinker liked George too. The big cat was purring like a diesel in George’s lap.

“Well George…..,” Mrs Bell started, uncertainly, “You’re a very honest young man. Not like some of those children, I can say!”

Mrs Bell remembered all the Springs and all the nectarine thieves. Had George been one of them? She thought he had but she wasn’t sure. Anyway, children and fresh spring fruits right off the tree; of course they were going to swipe a few. She just wished they’d ask first.

“But honesty really is the best policy George and you’ve shown yourself to be a young man of good and honest character. Besides Tinker has forgiven you and so I will too.”

George was thrown right off balance. He hadn’t expected this at all and the butterfly cakes were really good, and maybe Mrs Bell wasn’t such a bad old stick after all.

George looked across the mantel as Mrs Bell sipped her tea. There were several of those spotty old brown and white photographs in darkened silver frames; people standing stiffly together, looking down the years from the timelessness of their sepia past. In one there was a young girl in a long white summer frock and broad straw hat. She was standing by a man in uniform. He had a big moustache and sorta fluffy feather stuck in his slouch hat. They looked very happy.

“That’s my husband Athol and me on the day we got engaged.” the old woman offered wistfully with a smile, noticing George’ interest in the photos, “and those are my sons Bernard and John, and my daughter Mary and her husband Eric. They’re all of family.”

It occurred to George that Mrs Bell must miss her family. He didn’t want to ask but he knew Mr Bell had died and it was well known around town that Mrs Bell led a solitary kind of life. George’s mum had often said how she kept herself to herself, even at CWA meetings.

George thought of his own boisterous family, the fun and the fights with his brother Paul, the talk and arguments, planning and work; the sense of security and home. Mrs Bell’s house was full of ghosts, happy ghosts maybe, but she must still be lonely.

“They’ve all gone away now, got their own lives to lead.” Mrs Bell put her teacup down, straightened her back and laid her hands in her lap as she looked across the framed photos. “Bernard’s up north on a cattle station. He’s doing very well for himself.” She brightened and added, “He’s trying to get down for Christmas but they’ve had some heavy flooding and he may not be able to get away.” She gently bit at one side of her lower lip. “It would be marvellous to see him and Ronnie, well Veronica, his wife, and the kids. It’s been years since we were all together.”

George was thinking of last Christmas at home; the extended family all talking at once in Greek and English, the mountains of food and the endless homemade wine, and Ouzo for the men. The dancing and singing and the gifts, always opened after lunch.

“I could come and cut ya grass or chop the firewood.” George blurted. He had no idea where that came from. “ya know, ta make up f’ Tinker.”

Mrs Bell gave George a beautiful smile that completely dispelled the years and the lines and the shadows on her face. Suddenly George recognised the young girl in the photo and he smiled too.

After that it was easy and they talked for a while and got to know one another.  It was odd to think of an old lady as beautiful, but that was how George was thinking of Mrs Bell as he later slowly made his way home.

Funny how things change. George was now actually looking forward to coming back on the weekend and cutting Mrs Bell’s grass. Maybe they’d have tea again, and some of those yummy butterfly cakes. With his tongue George retrieved a lime green icing escapee from his top lip and began to skip along, swinging his satchel and singing in time,

“It’s just a brown slouch hat, with its brim turned up, but it means the world to me.”

George liked the look of Mr Bell in his uniform with his big moustache and his feathered slouch hat. He might even work up the courage to ask Mrs. Bell about him. George was sure she’d be happy to tell him.

His skipping reverie was interrupted by the distant sound of a siren; and then, stone the crows, if every dog in town didn’t take to howling. George got a great big smile on his face and joined the dogs, howling fit to burst and running as fast as he could. When the siren ended and the dogs fell quiet one by one George just laughed, swung his satchel over his shoulder and thought to run all the way home. Maybe his dad would let him have a dog.

Down at Harry’s there was a change in the air too. Harry had been doing some serious thinking over the last few days. About himself, his son and Dotty, the butchery and life in Molong. He thought about these two young lads; good, straight boys, both of them. It struck Harry that while they probably wouldn’t have acknowledged it, they were very similar; both loners with baggage, both quick, confident in their individual ways.

It’d all started at the butchery on Saturday morning. The day had begun like every Saturday for years. In to the butchery early, get breakfast for Mongrel and The Runt, prepare and make the sausages, the mince, then start on butchering the carcasses. He’d been feeling twinges of pain “down there” for a day or two and it’d been getting worse.

He’d hardly had any sleep the night before but then, as the sausage machine pushed out Harry’s famous fat sausages, a stab of pain like a spear in the groin just dropped Harry to the tiled floor, the cleaver clattering out of his hand.

“Jesus H Christ!” Harry swore. “Bloody stones!”

He knew what it was straight away. He’d been having trouble with his waterworks for a year or two now and it didn’t seem to be getting any better. All Doc could suggest was that Harry eat less meat and change the tea he drank. Eat less meat! Harry was a butcher! What’s more, he just couldn’t see how tea could make kidney stones and so he’d continued to slurp down buckets of dark black Indian Char; but the pain this time…. Harry admitted to himself that maybe it was time to take Doc’s advice.

When the pain subsided to the point where it was merely excruciating, Harry dragged himself to the phone and called the ambulance. It was all he could do and it exhausted him.

The trip to the hospital was a bit of a blur, the pain being intense, and Harry was now feeling nauseous too.

He was grateful for the shot of morphia and the pain seemed to just drift away, and soon after Harry drifted off too. When he awoke he was in bed up at the Hospital, alone in the general ward. He had a drip connected to his arm and a tube running into his John Thomas. It was all a little embarrassing and somewhat uncomfortable but at least the pain had gone.

With nothing to do but lie down and watch the drip empty into his arm Harry had begun to reflect on the incident. For the first time in his long life Harry faced the simple, palpably obvious fact that he wasn’t a young man anymore. In a brief, fleeting moment of terror he even wondered what might have happened had he had a heart attack or some other equally serious and immobilising condition. He may have died, alone, with the sausage machine churning out snags till the meat hopper was empty or the gut ran out. He’d’ve gone to meet his maker in a bloodied blue and white striped apron.

“I’m MacCafferty from Molong. I’ve brought the big bloke’s breakfast snowlers.” Harry had joked to the empty ward.

“Yes, of course Mr. MacCafferty.” Harry now playing St. Peters part, “Come right in, he’s been looking forward to them.”

Harry chuckled, but this was quite serious really. He was seventy five, well beyond most bloke’s retirement, and while he was fit for his age and had led a healthy active life, there in the hospital it occurred to Harry, like a weight landing with a leaden thump, that these were his autumn years and winter wasn’t very far away.

Harry’s mood flattened, but soon the old optimistic Harry reasserted himself. He wasn’t going to go quietly. While he was still alive Harry had things to do. He was still able to make a difference and he was going to start the moment he got out of hospital.

He’d already decided that he’d ask Porky to join him at the butchery, a kind of late apprentice. Porky could already slaughter and butcher lamb and beef; he’d learned that at Fairbridge. Harry could teach him everything else he needed to know.

That was how it had started; but then the young bloke had been brought in with his battered bonce and they’d got to know one another and now it was a few days later and Harry’s plan had “growed” like Topsy. He was as excited as a schoolboy with his secret plan. A plan he would keep secret until he saw how things turned out between Porky and Algy.

It wasn’t only the three men at Harry’s that were in for some change. Mongrel and The Runt had things on their dog minds too, though how anyone might have figured out what was an open question.

To Mongrel and The Runt, their own company had always been enough. They were their own little pack of two and between The Runt’s cunning and Mongrel’s strength, and with occasional help from well meaning townsfolk, they’d lived a good life for two strays. They were fit and fly, well fed even, they were well liked, even cared for in a way and they had all the adventure two dogs could stand.

But for all this there was still stress in their relationships; to each other, to the people of Molong. Apart from Porky The Runt trusted no human, except maybe old MacCafferty, while Mongrel wanted to be everyone’s friend. This simple difference in the dogs’ personalities meant that their little pack of two had simply never become the ordered hierarchy that dogs feel best fitted in. Sometimes Mongrel was the boss dog, sometimes it was The Runt. Sometimes it worked well and sometimes it didn’t. To the dogs this was just a dog’s life. It didn’t occur to them, it couldn’t have occurred to them that it might be different, somehow better.

So it was that this evening round at Harry’s, the dogs had begun to feel different about each other, about Harry and Algy and Porky, about life in Molong. The dogs were about to discover the greatest truth a dog can know. That a dog’s life is almost always better with a human companion.

Even this late in Spring it had turned cool, so earlier Porky had lit a fire in the cast iron grate and the men had eaten their dinner, sausages, eggs and chips, from their laps as the house warmed up and lost that damp mustiness that old houses get when they’ve been closed up for a few rainy days.

The dogs had enjoyed a special treat of beef and bones with a couple of dried pigs ears for dessert.

As the dogs watched with uncomprehending but close interest the three men set to talking at length. It was Harry that started. His tone at first was serious. The dogs became alert. At length Harry became enthusiastic and he used his hands a lot as he talked. The younger men just listened, with a hint of apprehension at first but eventually responding to Harry with a like enthusiasm. The dogs became more relaxed. This felt better.

In the middle of it all Porky had unexpectedly scooped The Runt into the crook of his arm and gone to brighten the fire. Held there against Porky’s chest in the glowing warmth of the fire The Runt could hear and feel the man’s heart beating in his chest and smelled the sweet smell of Porky’s sweat. This was a man a dog could feel proud of. It felt right with Porky.

When Algy had entered into the talk his tone had lifted from uncertainty and apprehension to a more relaxed and confident one. He had become very animated, using his hands a lot. Mongrel had sat up, his tail wagging, he was panting happily; but then Algy had become a little sad, reflective. Mongrel drew in close and rested his head on Algy’s seated thigh. He wanted things to be better for Algy. Algy needed a friend.

As the evening wore on and the men continued talking, their voices slowly becoming quieter, more intimate, it was obvious to the dogs that the men had something planned and when the dogs had gone together to get a drink from the bowl in the laundry, with the men’s voices still babbling in the lounge, they found themselves with their heads down to drink but looking at one another.

Neither dog could know what the men had planned. They’d taken their cues from the men’s tone, how they related to one another; and it was obvious the men were forming a pack of their own. In that moment both dogs had unconsciously decided they wanted to be part of that bigger, better pack. They’d still be together and the men might give their pack a prestige even beyond that which they now enjoyed.

Satisfied that all was right at Harry’s house the dogs had taken a drink, gone back into the lounge and taken up their respective positions, Mongrel with Algy and The Runt on Porky’s lap. Soon both dogs were asleep while the men talked on.

Outside the moon was bright, the night remained clear and cool and as the hours slipped by, one by one across town lights were going out.

Harry was dreaming by the fire, occasionally grunting quietly and shifting in his overstuffed armchair; the clock on the mantel slowly ticking its way towards midnight.

Algernon was asleep too, on the couch, propped up on cushions; his bandaged head apparently giving him no problems. There was just the hint of a smile on his face and the darting of his good eye under the closed lid showed him to be deep in a dream too; dreaming of a girl with a fragrance like vanilla, they were walking their dog across sunlit green fields.

Lying on the floor next to the couch, Mongrel had come to rest so that Algernon’s left hand, having fallen from the couch as Algernon slept, rested gently on the thick ruff of blue fur around Mongrel’s neck. From time to time Mongrel woke, checked Algernon and reassured by his steady breathing, went back to sleep.

Porky had enjoyed a few beers while the men had been talking and was now fast asleep too, opposite Harry in front of the fire. His spare frame hardly touching the sides of the fat armchair; one hand holding his sleeping head, his other arm resting in his lap, his legs were spread before him on the hearthrug. The Runt was curled up in Porky’s lap dreaming of being curled up in Porky’s lap. Every now and then one or the other of them would let go a little fart. Beer always gave Porky gas and the Runt, though small, could “fart for Australia”.

The fire had now burned down to a few dull red embers among the ash and charcoal. The cast iron of the grate “ticking” as it cooled and contracted set a random rhythm against the steady regularity of the clock ticking into the future.

Out at “the scene” Young Molloy, pulling his slicker tighter around him with one hand and thankful the rain had held off, was stoking his little campfire with his free hand and thinking of making another billy of tea. The light from the campfire threw a dull yellow flicker across the blackened ruin and Molloy began to wonder again just what had gone on here. The boss had been emphatic. No-one was to go near the building until the D’s from Orange turned up in the morning.

Molloy had seen enough when he was rigging the tarps. That weird “smile” on the blackened head.

Every now and then the breeze would flap one of the tarps and Molloy would start at the sound. The young constable thought he’d heard someone a few times but it had turned out to be nothing. It occurred to him that he was expecting something to happen, he had no idea what. It was an eerie feeling and the blue silver light from the almost full moon gave the entire scene an otherworldly feeling.

 

By Warrigal Mirriyuula

After school young George Cassimatty dragged his sorry self around to Mrs Bell’s house. The rain had stopped and the sky was clearing. It had been a big day in young George’s mind and he was thinking that he’d better get this apology in before his father found out that it was him that made Tinker sick. And he would find out, George was sure of that. Mrs. Bell always dropped in to the Pantheon Café for a cup of tea and a sticky bun when she did her shopping. She’d tell George’s father for sure.

George hesitated outside Mrs. Bell’s gate. He knew he was in for it, but he felt he had an obligation and so he opened the gate and marched down the path, up the few steps to the verandah and knocked on the door.

As Mrs. Bell opened the door Tinker ran out and began rubbing himself on Georges legs, purring loudly. The salami sandwiches may not have done Tinker any good but the fat moggy obviously remembered George as a source of snacks.

George just blurted out his apology right there on the doorstep. He admitted the sandwiches were his and how sorry he was, because he liked Tinker, but the policeman had said it was wrong and Tinker might die, and he really was very sorry, and he didn’t want to get into trouble with the police, and was there anything he could do for Mrs. Bell that would make it up. He hung his head in contrition, waiting for what he imagined would be a severe rebuke. Maybe Mrs. Bell would chase him off with a broom the way she had before.

Mrs Bell however had been unable to follow George’s rushing, incoherent apology. She’d been snoozing in a chair before he arrived and was woken by the knocking. Frankly she wasn’t quite awake enough to work out what young George was saying. He seemed awfully agitated; something about his lunch and the Police, and Tinker being sick. Mrs. Bell looked at her cat. He had been sick a few weeks ago but he seemed fit and hearty now. Mrs Bell shook her head a little as if hoping to clear her mind.

It was perplexing, and while the rain had stopped and the sun had come out, it was also getting a little cooler and Mrs. Bell thought it best if they continue their conversation inside. She’d get George to light the lounge room fire for her and she’d make some tea and George could have one of her Butterfly cupcakes with her famous lime icing. Children always liked her lime iced butterfly cakes.

“Young George,” she said pulling her old cardigan tighter around her ample breast, “I haven’t understood a single word you’ve said but it must be important so why don’t you come in. You can liven up the firebox in the stove for me and we’ll have some afternoon tea and you can explain it all again to me slowly.

“Yes Mrs. Bell.” Said George with a little trepidation as he stepped over the threshold, Tinker still making a great fuss over him.

Down at the Telegraph Beryl and Alice had spent the afternoon dealing with the “Doc” problem. Alice had explained that her tears earlier had not been over her awkward feelings for Doc, but rather for her dear late father. They’d talked about Alice’s dread that she might turn out the same kind of wife as her mother, which she now considered no kind of wife at all. Beryl had dismissed this as highly unlikely given Alice’s passion for caring for people. Indeed Beryl had said that the very fact that Alice was so disconcerted by her feelings for Doc was proof of an emotional honesty not common in matters of the heart.

Clarry had come in right in the middle of this particularly intense moment hoping for a cuppa with his missus. He took one look at Beryl and Alice deep in collogue and backed out of the room on tip toes hoping he hadn’t disturbed them. When women got together like this, talking feelings and romance, Clarry felt like a cork in a storm. He went back down to the bar and had a squash instead. As he sipped the sour refreshment and chewed absently on the pulp he considered the days goings on.

The game was certainly afoot here at The Telegraph. Alice and Beryl had been holed up all afternoon in the small kitchen of Clarry and Beryl’s flat at the back of the hotel. They’d drunk enough tea to float a battleship. Meanwhile, having started out in the dining room, Doc and Gruber had now finished their lunch and decided a few frames of billiards might be therapeutic. They’d moved into the billiard parlour where Doc had quickly lit the fire and then joined Gruber in several Pilseners as the wet afternoon wore on.

As professional men will, their conversation had turned to politics and they’d worn down the afternoon discussing whether or not Menzies and this new fangled Liberal Party were any good.

Doc had said that he was with Labor and Evett and had voted John Breen for Calare at the election last May. He was unhappy that the Liberal Howse had got in. Doc considered Howse a lightweight who’d only been preselected on the back of his father’s reputation. Howse senior, Major General Sir Neville Reginald Howse VC, KCB, KCMG, KStJ, had been a real hero and held the seat from 1922 until 1929 Howse junior had always relied on his father’s reputation to get him over the line.

Gruber didn’t think much of Howse either. In fact he had little time for politics or politicians in general. He’d voted for Madge Roberts, the independent. He admitted to Doc that it was her “independence” that had convinced him. Gruber knew nothing else about Madge and she’d got less than 500 votes in the end.

Gruber was building up a run of nursery cannons, deftly shepherding the balls down the baize stopping now and then for a sip on his beer. When his skill ran out he racked up his score and slumped in one of the club chairs by the fire.

“Democracy is all things to all people, Berty. Look at this last election here. The current government won neither the popular vote or the two party preferred. Hardly sounds like a democratic mandate does it? Gruber asked rhetorically.

“Menzies is a mendacious, manipulative ersatz patrician, as the French so beautifully put it, an “arriviste”.” pronounced Gruber in perfect Parisienne.

Becoming terrifically animated and sitting on the edge of his chair, his hands, fingers spread before him as if to encompass the entirety of his argument, he dived in.

“You know Jimmy, Jimmy Hang Seng?”

Doc nodded but was somewhat surprised that Gruber knew Jimmy, and he was entirely uncertain as to what Jimmy had to do with the new Menzies government.

“You probably don’t know that Jimmy’s family have been here in Australia since the 1840’s.”

“Is that right? I didn’t know that.”

“That makes him more “Australian” than most Australians!” Gruber added with some gravity.

“His ancestor arrived on a whaler from San Francisco and somehow ended up working with explosives at the Copper Hill mine. When the Hill End rush was on he went there and made a modest pile from the gold, but more importantly, he ran a kitchen for the miners. When Hill End ran out he came back to Molong. He could have gone back to China a relatively rich man but he came back here. Why did he do that?”

Doc, having taken his shot and assuming this question was also rhetorical, sat down opposite Gruber and prepared for one of his friend’s enormously entertaining and occasionally bizarre analyses.

Doc entered into the spirit of the question as he topped up their beers, “I have no idea Karl. Why did Jimmy’s ancestor choose to stay?”

Doc sat back into the smooth brown leather of the club chair and took a sip of his own beer, waiting on the answer.

Gruber, his cue abandoned against the mantel, took a long pull on the amber fluid then putting his glass down on the chair-side table, he sat once again on the edge of his chair; leaning forward, his elbows on his thighs while his hands engaged in a kind of sorcery, somehow drawing the narrative of Jimmy’s family from the thin air between his knees. It was as if Gruber could actually see the story there, filled with characters and action, in front of him.

Doc loved this aspect of Karl; his enthusiasm for people and their stories.

“When Jimmy’s great, great grandfather landed in Sydney Town his accent must have confused the customs officer’s ear. Having landed with a crew of Americans, the single Chinese member of that cohort went completely unnoticed; a small Chinaman lost amongst the hulking blue pea coats of the American crewmembers. When finally confronted with authority in the form of a huge ticket of leave man who asked his name, he had been careful to pronounce it properly, but to no avail. Chinese phonemics was beyond the customs officer’s ear and he wrote the name down as Jimmy Hanson.

From that day forward he was known as Chinese Jimmy, presumably so that no one he met could be in any doubt that the man with the oriental face and English sounding name was actually Chinese.

His real name, his Chinese name, was Jie Meng and in honour of that industrious ancestor the name has been given to the first born male of Jimmy’s family ever since. It’s Jimmy’s true name, the name he thinks of himself as. It means “one who rises above the rest, energetically.” Gruber said nodding, as if to confirm Jimmy’s successful rise.

“And I think that’s why he stayed Berty; why I’m here, and you too in your way. This is a place for rising above the rest, for energy and innovation.”

Gruber paused again, then added, as if further confirmation of the success of the Hang Seng family were required, “Jimmy’s brother’s a surgeon in Adelaide. His sister’s a librarian in Orange. There are Hang Seng restaurants all over the Central West and you know why? Well I’ll tell you why. It’s because that original Jimmy understood a thing or two about the potential of this place, a place that might be big enough for a young man’s dreams.”

In his minds eye Doc saw a caricature Jimmy, coolie’s hat, queue and all, setting charges at Copper Hill; before the town, before the highway, before the railway; blasting away at the native rock to get at the first payable copper in the colony. As a figmentary explosion filled Doc’s daydream with dust, Gruber waded back into his exposition.

“When he came back to Molong he wrote to his family in China. He needed a wife. They sent one, a hardworking young woman from his home village. Her name was Mingmei which means intelligent and beautiful. Too apt to be true apparently but there you have it.  In time they grew into a deep love and depended entirely on one another. He had a big family, ancestor Jimmy, and while his wife never managed English all that well, their children all learned it and, what was considerably more difficult, they all learned to read and write Chinese. As the family grew they worked a market garden they ran on the flats along Molong Creek. As each son reached his majority he was staked in a small restaurant or grocery business. Those restaurants and grocers were guaranteed supply from the home gardens. Over the years some of the younger generations married local girls and boys but the first born son has always married a Chinese girl.”

Ancestor Jimmy’s English was good, he was amiable and hardworking. He and his family prospered, but more importantly he made a part of this country at a time when being Chinese wasn’t all that easy. In fact you might say that it was his early arrival that assured his place. Later, after all the anti Chinese rioting and murders that took place on virtually every goldfield, he wouldn’t have been allowed off the boat. And do you know why the Anglo-Celts didn’t like the Chinese?”

Doc just shook his head. This was no time to interrupt the flow. Karl was rolling now and he couldn’t stop until he came to the end. Gruber’s face took on that serious look that Doc always associated with Gruber having found something in human nature that assaulted his rationality and which Gruber recognised served only to brutalise those that had given in to its baser drives.

“The Chinese miners were what we’d now call “socialists” and tended to work in large organised groups. They exploited the entire resource; the gravel in the creek beds and the veins in the rock. If there was any gold there, the Chinese miners usually found it. They lived communally and frugally, and could get by on a much lower return than the other miners.

The agrarian background of most of the Chinese diggers suited them well to the hard physical life of being goldminers: they were used to long hours of heavy outdoor work. They saw themselves as parts of a greater whole, individually satisfied with a much smaller share of gold than the Europeans who tended, when they weren’t too drunk, to work alone or in small groups, always looking for a mother lode that would make them rich. Often times moving on when there was still gold for the taking, always staking their future on the next big rumour.

It was a cultural difference to be sure, and one the Anglo Celtic miners should have learned from. Instead they demonised the Chinese miners for their success, blaming them for a host of ills, none of which could have been proven, and set in train a kind of murderously ugly culturally ingrained racism that’s still with us today. You’ll recall Caldwell’s deathless line about “two Wongs not making a white.” Gruber’s mouth made an ugly grimace as he quoted the line. “So you see it’s not just the conservatives whipping this dog, we have bipartisan hateful stupidity”

“Fear of  “the other”, pure and simple.” Gruber face went motionless as he considered the ugly face of racism. Presently it turned to a more speculative aspect.

“It’s just possible that the reason ancestor Jimmy came back to Molong is because he read the writing on the wall at Hill End. Even though there were relatively few Chinese at the diggings on the Turon, anti Chinese sentiment arrived with the miners from previous fields. As the riches of the Hill End field declined, ancestor Jimmy decided to move on. Shortly after his return to Molong he purchased the deep rich loamy creek flats and started in the family vegetable business. He fed the locals, he added value to the town. He was a genuine pioneer and he did it all by the sweat of his own brow and his commitment to his family and his new country.” Gruber paused to let that sink in. “We’re all immigrant stock here except the aborigines.”

“Yes but what’s that got to do with Menzies?” Doc was openly puzzled but genuinely excited to hear his friend’s thesis come to its somewhat convoluted end.

“Well Menzies family were crofters, little better than ill educated agricultural serfs. They came here from Scotland at about the same time, maybe a little later. They’d been forced off their land by enclosure and had decided to join the exodus to the new world. Australia was a cheaper destination. They were in much the same straightened circumstances as Jimmy’s family and they too came for the riches the gold promised.”

“I won’t bore you with Menzies’ family history. It’s little better than the usual scrabble for prosperity and social position. They worked hard, put a little by, so that when our Menzies arrives his parents have a small shop in the Wimmera and for the rest of his life he is imbued with the small concerns and constrained view of a rural shopkeeper. Christ, have you read “The Forgotten People”, Berty?”

Gruber looked like his beer had suddenly gone sour.

“Turgid, tiny minded piece of nonsense masquerading as political homily. Boiled down it essentially says we should all be small shopkeepers and that the family so focussed, far from being a hotbed of neurotic psychopathology, an oven in which sociopaths are baked, is actually the basis of our society. I suppose from a terminally middle class shopkeeper’s viewpoint that may look like the truth. So why does he support the White Australia Policy? Possibly the single most antifamily policy ever devised in a country of immigrants! If you’re not quite white that is.”

Gruber paused and sipped his beer before ploughing in again. “Menzies, ever the great classicist, at least in his mind, sees himself as some kind of antipodean Greek hero. The Liberal Party is little more than his chorus, tasked to constantly sing his praises and provide the unquestioning support the “leader” requires. It’d be laughable except that the mistrust between the warring factions of the Labor party looks like crippling any meaningful opposition for some years to come. Looks to me like this so-called “coalition” may be Menzies answer to the possibility of a series of ineffective hung parliaments. The DLP obviously now has more in common with the Liberals that Labor. Whether we love him or would like to lacerate him, we’ve got Menzies pro tem. I only hope Evatt can hang on. Labor under Caldwell would involve a frying pan and a fire.”

Doc could see Karl mentally testing the cables of his argument, trying to pick up the strong line again.

“Where was I? Oh, yes. So here is where Jimmy and Menzies tie up. Jimmy and Menzies are more alike than they are dissimilar. Both families were immigrants from harsh circumstances, both used to struggling and both families find a future here. And yet, in a “Yellow Peril” climate of fear and loathing Jimmy’s family have worked hard, prospered, paid their taxes and contributed to the town and the country. In essence the family’s life has been entirely about family and the business that supports them. Perfect Liberal fit! You see Jimmy is Menzies constituency.”

Gruber shrugged as if to reinforce the obvious fit.

“Only problem is Jimmy’s Chinese ancestry. For purely ideological reasons Menzies continues to shamelessly manipulate the electorate’s long established historical fear of Asian immigration for his own base political advantage. In effect saying that the entirety of Jimmy’s family’s time here in Australia, a spectacular example of the triumph of hard work, dedication and commitment, are as nothing. Other “Chinese Jimmy’s” from the mainland of China cannot come simply because they are Chinese. Oh, and communist of course. Let’s not forget Menzies’ other great political theme, strident anticommunism, which has him shamelessly manipulating the electorate’s fear of a bogeyman totalitarian oppression. You must have followed the Petrov business. Low farce dressed up to look like international intrigue. I mean, really, can you see an Australian communist state Berty, regardless of what Santamaria says?” Gruber chuckled. “It’s ludicrous. The man’s a political cur barking as loud as he can for fear that anyone recognise he has nothing worthwhile to protect. Frankly Menzies is no better.”

Once again Doc had to admit to himself that his friend was truly a one of a kind. Only in the country a few years and yet he could hold forth not only on the individual life story of one of the locals but his understanding of local politics and the Byzantine intrigues of the parties was simply remarkable.

“You really are a one of a kind Karl…..” Doc began to say, and then stopped.

Off in the distance a siren could be heard. The Doctors both looked at one another and then after the sound. Maybe there’d been a smash on the highway.

 

Story and Photograph by Warrigal Mirriyuula

Sergeant Fowler drove away from the sawmill shaking his head. According to Ted Condon, the owner and manager, the money and the chain saw had turned up again and as far as he was concerned that was the end of it. He wouldn’t be pressing charges; it had all been a big misunderstanding.

It didn’t jibe. Ted had been pretty pissed off when Chook responded to the original call. It was him that had originally made the suggestion that it might be one of the mill crew. The McCulloch chainsaw alone was worth nearly a hundred quid and Ted had been spitting chips about its theft.

Chook wasn’t buying any of this new story though, not for a moment; but without a complainant and with the alleged cash and goods back in the owner’s hands, this was no longer a police matter. Then, in that way that it often did for Chook, as he drove back into town, not thinking of much really, the whole affair fell into place.

Chook would bet his pension it was Nugget did the burg. He really was a sorry case. Years of piss and too many fights had addled Nugget’s brain. It was about all he could do to get the occasional day working as a general hand at the sawmill, or on the roads for the council. As soon as he had his pay in his hand he’d be off to the pub and wouldn’t stop drinking till his pay ran out. He lived in a coldwater rat hole in East Molong. You wouldn’t call it a life. He was only half there when he was sober, when he was drunk he had a chip the size of a river red gum on his shoulder and an ugly angry violent streak. Pissed, he could convince himself that his problems were always of someone else’s making.

Chook could see it now. Nugget got himself three days at the mill, he’d seen it in the mill’s day book; on the second day, the day of the night of the burglary, he’d’ve come back from lunch half cut, slung off at someone, who’d’ve slung back. Nugget would’ve brooded on it. Somehow it gets twisted up into some kind of sawmill conspiracy to do him down. Nugget, thinking to get even, would’ve come back later, even more drunk, and done the amateur burglary. Chook smiled sardonically as he imagined a pissed Nugget lugging the heavy chainsaw away, cursing it continually for its awkward weight. Nugget didn’t turn up the next day; that was in the daybook too. A dead give away in Chook’s mind. He’d have paid a few pressing bills and begun drinking the rest of the money. When that ran low he’da tried to sell the chainsaw. Not that many buyers there, and those that might be buyers woulda known where it came from. The word woulda got back to Ted Condon. Condon gets the mill crew to find Nugget, they take him to the Freemasons, outa hours, just Jack looking on, no trouble there; play some cards, get Nugget pissed and skiting about the burg; Nugget was too addled to know when to shut up; that loud abusive stupid mouth of his was his fatal flaw.  The mill crew woulda been dark on Nugget for stealing from Ted. They take Nugget outside, give ‘im a quick tune up then over to Nugget’s to pick up the chainsaw and any cash they could recover. Nugget ends up pissed, bruised and lumpy in the cell with young Molloy scraping off the blood and dried spew. Nugget’s oblivious, collapses in the cell, pisses himself and spends the rest of the night snoring and farting; just another Sunday night for Nugget.

Ted was never going to come clean. He had his chainsaw back. That was the main thing. If he’d done dough in the process then he’d extract it outa Nugget’s hide over the next few months. Nugget wasn’t going anywhere, and the sawmill was one of a very few places where Nugget would be taken on, even if only as a day labourer.  What’s more Ted needed his crew just as much as they needed him. Timber getting and milling wasn’t for weak men. They’d back one another’s stories and alibi one another up over the beating.  It was an investigative dead end but there might be one way to prove out his theory.

Chook shuffled his day in his mind. Bagley would just have to wait a little longer; Chook was off to front Jack Hornby at The Freemasons. He could rocket him for trading out of hours; then, on the back of his not reporting Jack, maybe get Jack to fill in a few blanks about Nugget and the burg, just a conversation between two blokes in a pub, no actual police involvement.

As Chook pushed through the main street doors of The Freemasons his appearance drew the usual response. Several of the drinkers pulled their beers in close to them, hunched their shoulders a little, adopted a watch and see posture. A couple skulled their beers and made their way out of the pub, others looked up, noted the sergeant’s stripes and went back to their counter lunch. Through out the front bar the level of conversation fell a notch or two.

Fowler took a stool at the bar, his back to the room. He chose the muttonchops, mash and peas from the counter menu, decided against a beer and had a squash instead. Chook wasn’t a big drinker, never had been, but he had nothing against the pubs or their patrons so long as nothing they did had to be written up at the station.

As he waited for his lunch the usual hubbub returned, the lunch patrons acclimatising to the presence of the law. There was a loose copy of “The Express” lying on the bar and Chook filled his wait with the local headlines. There was a great picture of Mongrel and The Runt on the front page. Chook had heard about the young Inspector’s mysterious mishap and when he’d called Billy Martin to retrieve the abandoned ute from the rye pasture, Billy had already taken care of it. Billy was like that. He just got on with it. Not like these no hopers that filled the Freemasons during the day.

Since The Royal had burned down during the war there were just the two big pubs in town and they couldn’t be more different. The Telegraph was more like a community club, a family pub with a dining room and billiards. It was Clarrie and Beryl’s pub and reflected their character and style. The Telegraph was no trouble at all.

The Freemasons was a horse of an entirely different colour. It was the regular resort of the hard men, the sportsmen, gamblers and straight out heavy drinkers. Jack the publican was ex British army. He’d been in Tobruk and El Alamein and in the midst of that misery had run a very successful black market operation.

The story that came back was that Jack was about to be taken in charge by the Redcaps when the Boche kicked off again, lobbing in heavy fire. The surprise attack had caught many in the open and there’d been serious casualties, mostly blast and shrapnel, lots of wounds to dress. Jack’d bought his way off the charge by handing over a purloined consignment of sulpha drugs and leading a party of commandos out past the German line by a secret route normally used to move contraband. The commandos destroyed fuel and amunition dumps and several vehicles as well as chopping up the guards. Even Jack got his arm in, silently and efficiently garrotting a sleeping kraut sentry.

The Germans, seeing their dumps exploding and on fire, and fearing a rear guard attack, fell back, taking the pressure of the town. The whole thing had gone like a clock. Tobruk could breathe again for a day or two.

Jack’s CO had even been tempted to mention Jack in the despatch reporting the failed German attack. He’d decided against it on the grounds that Jack was still a complete bounder who had recently been greatly profiting from the scarcity that beset the entire besieged garrison. Besides, Jack just couldn’t be trusted to do the right thing with any cache that might attach to “hero” status. Instead the CO had simply marked Jack’s record with the notation, “No promotion this theatre”, and curiously moved him under the wing of the Supply Corps. Perhaps the CO thought that Jack’s unconventional procurement skills might be more generally beneficial to the unit.

When he was demobbed Jack had chosen Australia over Canada and New Zealand. With all the post war shortages and civil disruption in Britain it was considered prudent to offer demobbing British servicemen assisted passage to attractive destinations in the Empire. There was even a modest cash incentive. The idea was to limit the impact of returning servicemen on the labour market at a time of rebuilding and deep change at home. There was nothing for Jack in England and he ended up in Molong. Bought the pub, license and freehold for cash and never looked back. He claimed he got the money from a freakish streak at the horses that included an accumulator over four races.

The way Jack told it, he got off the boat at Circular Quay, went to a pub aptly called “The First and Last”, met a bloke, they got talking, then took a bus to the races at Randwick where Jack and the bloke had enjoyed a supernatural streak of luck. Jack had always been coy about exactly how much he’d won but it must have been a considerable sum of money. The bloke came from Wellington. He was a wool classer in Jack’s story, said he was going to retire on his winnings. This is where the bloke disappears from the yarn; but not before telling Jack of this pub he knows is for sale in this place called Molong. The pub’s going cheap after years of wartime rationing and restrictions. Jack dreams big and quick and a few days later he’s in Molong, the deal is done and after jumping through flaming hoops and walking on hot coals with the licensing division in Orange, he’s confirmed as the licensee of The Freemasons Hotel. A sanitised and heroically proportioned version of his exploits in North Africa was no small part of his success in the Licensing Court. It all just added to the legend.

Jack wasn’t exactly a crook. He was just a bit of a “Jack the lad” who hadn’t quite grown up yet. He loved a caper and was happiest when he had a big deal going. Chook reckoned he fenced a bit of stolen goods, only occasionally and only if the goods weren’t from Molong. He had some scruples. He fiddled the hotel books to avoid excise and tax and ran a substantial part of the black economy in Molong. He accommodated Molong’s SP bookie in a dark corner of the front bar. He was well known and liked by a certain kind of Molong citizen and kept his record clean with the rest by making hefty donations to the local football and cricket clubs and being a “captain” in the local volunteer bush fire brigade. He was a loveable rogue with a flair for the fantastic. He’d have been the kind of bloke that’d be good to have as a mate Chook thought, if only he wasn’t into the fringes of every dodgy deal running.

What ever else Jack was, he was always reliable for a good story. The trick was to tease the truth out of Jack’s rococo embellishments. To Jack the truth was just what happened. A good yarn was something else altogether.

Chook pushed a bit of bread around his plate and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing while he shoved his plate away. Jack was at the other end of the bar talking with a truck driver whose lorry was parked illegally on the other side of highway. Chook got up, swilled the last of his squash and ambled down the bar.

“That your truck mate?” he asked the driver while Jack stood back smiling, waiting to see what would happen.

“Yeah mate. Ya gotta problem?” the driver asked as he sized up the police sergeant, scratching his ample gut through his worn blue singlet.

“No mate, not me; but you might have if ya don’t move it. Yer parked “near and close” mate. I’ll have to give ya a ticket if ya not away soon.”

The truckie, figuring he could do without the ticket said, “Yeah well I’m away right now boss.” He picked up the two bottles of Dinner Ale sitting on the bar. “See ya nex’ week Jack.” The truckie looked at Chook again still trying to size him up. “Sergeant…” he nodded. Chook nodded back, filing the face for future reference.

“What can I do ya for Chook?” Jack lent in, wiping the bar with a rag. He liked Chook. They’d be mates except that Chook was a rozzer.

“Ya wanna beer?”

“No thanks Jack.”

“On the house…”

“I’m on duty.” Chook said, looking to remind Jack.

“Suit y’self.” Jack said and shrugged his shoulders. It was only a beer. He put his rag down and gave Jack his attention. “What’s on ya mind?”

“When I got in this morning Nugget was sleeping it off in the cell. Looks like he got a seeing to last night.” Chook paused.

“He’s a fool for a fight, that Nugget.” all light and breezy like there’s nothing going on here officer.

“Yeah, well he’s a bit of a mess, the old Nugget.” Chook paused again watching for any reaction from Jack. There was none, just Jack’s affable smile.

This was where their conversations always got interesting. Chook never knew whether he was ballroom dancing or prize fighting. Jack wanted to be genuinely helpful, he was that sort of a bloke; but he couldn’t really be frank with Chook, tell him what he really knew; and Chook couldn’t give anything away either. He had to walk a fine line between encouraging Jack to open up while questioning him with just the right tone of intimidation appropriate in a policeman on an enquiry.

“He wasn’t in here earlier was he?” Chook asked directly.

“What, th’smornin’?” Jack played up “being confused”. “I thought you said he was in a cell at the station.”

“No, not this morning,” with softly played exasperation, “earlier yesterday, Sunday.”

“On a Sunday Chook? That would be against the law wouldn’t it?” Jack asked rhetorically. He picked up the rag and began to studiously wipe the bar again. It’d save him having to look directly at Chook.

“Look Jack, no names, no pack drill, OK? You wouldn’t want me to have a closer look at your license, maybe call in the Licensing Sergeant from Orange.” Fowler let that sink in. “I know Nugget was in here and I know there was some others from the mill.” Chook lied smoothly.

“Seems you know more than me Chook.” Jack wasn’t giving anything away. “The last I saw Nugget was at closing on Saturday night, after the darts. He was lying in the garden over at the railway station.” Jack’s face took on a look of innocent befuddlement as if to say he was at a complete loss as to how Chook could be so wrongly misinformed.

“So you know nothing about the burglary at the mill, the missing chainsaw now miraculously turned up again? What about the thirty-five quid? Anybody been a little too splashy with their cash?”

Jack was on easier ground now the conversation had passed by any direct focus on his license. He stopped wiping the bar and pulled in close to Chook so as not to be overheard by the regular patrons.

“Yeah I heard about that.” Jack heard about everything. “Ted Condon gave me a call. Asked me to be on the lookout for someone trying to sell a McCulloch chainsaw.” Jack did an impression of someone trying to remember. “You know, now that I think of it, Nugget has been a bit flash lately, and he lost a fiver on the darts.” This was the gem of truth around which this entire conversation had been skirting. “I didn’t hear anything about the chainsaw though;” Jack and Ted were both wheels in the local bush fire brigade, thick as thieves, “but Ted’ll be pleased to have it back.”

“Yeah, it’s almost as if it was never stolen.” Chook offered with thick irony. “So Nugget wasn’t here yesterday but he has been a bit flash lately, right?”

“That’s about the strength of it, yeah.” Jack confirmed.

“So he wasn’t in here drinking and playing pontoon with the other blokes from the mill. They didn’t ply him with piss and get him skiting, giving himself up. They didn’t take him out the back and sort him out then fetch the chainsaw from that dump he calls home, leaving him mindless blind drunk and bleeding on Bank Street.” Chook took a breath and fixed Jack with his copper’s stare. “None of that happened?” Chook asked in a tone of mocking disbelief.

Jack’s face became a mask of guileless innocence. “Nah Chook mate, nothing like that happened.” Jack said nodding his head.

That was the “tell”, the nodding head. For such an accomplished liar Jack was still easy to read and Chook felt vindicated. Not that it meant anything, the investigation was going nowhere, but it was good to know that his instincts had been basically right. Chook smiled at Jack.

“Right, well I s’pose that’s that,” Chook had all he came for, “except that if I were to find out, for sure, that you’d been selling on a Sunday I’d be bound to do something about it Jack. It’s the law. You understand that don’t you.”

“Of course mate, fa sure.” Jack took Chook’s diaphanously veiled meaning, assuring him that Chook would never have any reason to treat the pub or the publican any differently than from this friendly conversation. The balance was restored. Both men had their pride and both were oddly thankful to the other for the manner in which this curiously refracted conversation had been executed.

“Righto, well I better get cracking.”

“No worries Chook, any time.”

Fowler turned and took a quick squiz around the bar, just in case there was anyone else he might need to talk to, new faces to note. It was the usual crowd. He walked out through the highway doors.

Chook slung his slicker over his shoulders and ran for the ute. The radio was calling. Opening the passenger door Chook leaned in and grabbed the handset.

It was Pat the local Volunteer Fire Brigade Warden on the emergency services channel. He wanted Chook at an outbuilding fire on a block along the highway to the east of town.

“Let me get this straight”, Chook needed a little clarification; ”You’ve got a fire on a day like this?” The rain continued to rattle on the ute roof.

“Not just a fire mate. Ya better get out here smartish.”

There was something in Pat’s tone, an urgency, serious concern. It was all Chook needed. He jumped in, slid across the seat, lit up the ute, dropped a tearing “Uee” and took off back down the highway past the railway station. He could be there in ten minutes.