Open Writing

When I awoke it was daylight, and reality slowly dawned in my mind. I realized I was in a bed in a glorified wooden shed belonging to my host Mr. Turner, whose property lay in the settlement of Stratford from where the nearest town Gloucester was seven miles.

I remembered that the night previous -- or early morning in fact-- I had consumed six hard-boiled eggs along with a quantity of rum, courtesy of my host, who I was to learn was an alcoholic with a dislike of eggs.

Being then in my late teens and blessed with the resilience of youth, I still possessed rapid regain of equilibrium, mental and physical. Thus any effects from the previous night’s imbibition were as chaff in the wind. Therefore I had no trouble in rising and shining that morning, although what I had for breakfast I don’t recall. But it wasn’t eggs, of that I am certain, for the reason to be explained later.

Wandering around the premises -- a sawmill -- getting my bearings as it were, I was fascinated watching the six foot diameter circular saw blades at work, slicing their way through the great logs as easily as the proverbial ‘knife through butter’. Band saws too were hissing along timber, converting it into planks and piles of sawdust. What breed the trees were I never learned, not eucalyptus, of that I’m sure, or the atmosphere would have been laden with their characteristic aroma despite the building being an open-ended, high-roofed structure allowing for complete ventilation.

The morning passed in that manner, and sometime later I recall being told to get into my host’s car as he wished to introduce me to a friend of his, Angus, who lived in Stratford. Angus, I discovered, was a Scotsman. What else with such a name?

He was the proprietor of the one and only local store, one constructed on the American Western design, built of wood and raised on short piles, access being gained via steps onto a veranda, then through a central doorway. Once inside, the layout was simple and how one would expect it to be, groceries on the left, hardware on the right, and between the two stood Angus.

He was a big man, age doubtful, perhaps because of his Father Christmas appearance, a prolific growth of white hair surrounding a beaming countenance, the cause for which I am uncertain. Was it, I have often asked myself, his delight in making my acquaintance or his anticipation for joys to come created by the sight of the remains of the previous night’s bottle of rum? Or then, it could have been an entirely new supply of Nelson’s Blood, since such beverage was produced as if by magic. I never did learn where Mr. Turner kept his arsenal, but he was most adept in his presentations.

Our trip soon developed into a quartet with the arrival of a fourth toper. Blessed with hindsight, I am of the opinion that such a gathering did not occur by mere chance and that the whole affair was pre-arranged. Either that or, as I am quite convinced, there are those who can detect from a great distance the squeak of a cork being withdrawn from a bottle of spirits. Then again, with practice over years of dedication one might attune one’s faculties of smell and likewise trace the source of liquid bliss. Whichever, it is needless to say that the rum didn’t last very long, although by that time my powers of concentration were beginning to wane, so much so that unbeknownst to me at that moment, we had progressed on to whisky, and I had no idea how much of that had entered my raddled sense of reasoning.

My lasting memory of that episode is of myself yapping to the fourth member of our group - who, it transpired, was a colonel in the Australian army - my elbow on the grocery counter and a foot in a box of onions!

Then we were back in the car driving towards the town of Gloucester. There we patronized a restaurant, and I was confronted with a steak and fried eggs, two of the latter. I may have been devouring my portion with more enthusiasm than the rest of the party. I don’t know, but what I do remember is that Mr. Turner slid his egg onto my plate with a comment to the effect that he knew I could do it. So I did, which brought the grand tally of eggs I had consumed to nine in less than 24 hours.

Maybe I looked emaciated after my Pacific cruise and it was thought provender was required, with the principle amount being hen fruit. Fortunately for me the deluge eased. Had it not then I would have been clucking before the end of my stay.

That day ended with more drinks, this time in the parlour of the local hotel, the bar being closed as a result of licensing hours terminating at six p.m. Opening time was six a.m., so if a person hadn’t had enough to drink in 12 hours, then surely he or she hadn’t really been trying! Not having begun to imbibe until midday, then we had a few lost hours to make up for. So we did. Someone played a piano, songs were sung, toasts were drunk and a good time was had by all.

I have to admit I was ready for sleep by the time I poured myself into bed, so much so that I neglected to arrange my mosquito netting. The sound of those winged torments whines ever in my ears in the fashion of tinnitus. Only at that time the noise did occasionally cease for a reason which I was later to learn. It meant the airborne menace had landed to take on sustenance via my legs. Their bites raised irritating blisters which I scratched, breaking the skin, and because of perpetual sweating the eruptions refused to heal, converting themselves into tropical ulcers, of which their evidence remains ever present. I should be thankful my visitors were not the malarial carrying species.

Having told my host that I had spent some of my earlier times in the butchery business, arrangements were made for me to attend the local abattoir and there view methods of animal despatch. The concern was owned by two brothers. Where their shop was situated I never learned, but their slaughtering establishment I found quite fascinating, if one can appreciate such locations. That one consisted of a structure in the middle of a field, sturdily fashioned from split logs with overhanging eaves, also of wood. These were raised above the walls to allow free passage of air etc. Although the floor was concrete, I have no recollection of any drainage system. Presumably there must have been one, or the result would have been unforgettably obvious.

After watching the disposal of some sheep, which process added nothing new to my existing knowledge, it was then time for beef production to take place. I was ushered out of the building, which was puzzling, but after all that was Australia, so upside down people had different ways. However, one brother went into an adjoining pen and drove two bullocks into the abattoir. Where the other brother was I had no idea, but I wasn’t left in ignorance very long. Two shots rang out in quick succession. They came from overhead. The door of the building opened, and there on the concrete floor lay two very dead bullocks. The second brother had quite neatly shot them both by means of a small bore rifle whilst he was safely positioned in the gap between walls and roof. A novel method, I thought, and one which worked most efficiently and safely.

Later in my stay arrangements were made for me to spend time on the farm of some friends of Mr. Turner, that being around 50 miles away. I was to be transported there by the local baker, who, I learned, covered a daily distance of some 60 to 70 miles on his round. Such deliveries also entailed him acting as the local media, carrying news and gossip to his customers who in the main lived on isolated farms. Mrs. So-and-so had broken her leg. So-and-so’s dog had died. Someone else had gone to Sydney. Another person had returned from Newcastle. Trivia to some, but yet a strand which helped form a society’s fabric, holding that fraternity together.

Around lunchtime on our outward safari the baker -- I never learned his name -- a cheerful old soul with a sweeping white moustache, informed me we would take our midday meal along with some ‘friends’ of his. In due time we pulled in at the edge of a wooded area, and I followed him as he made his way between the trees. Crossing a small stream over stepping stones, we disturbed a black water snake which hastily disappeared downstream, never to reappear, despite the old man’s determined poking with a stick amongst the rocky stream-bed. I kept a respectable distance.

Our meal consisted of bread and cheese -- no eggs thank goodness. No sooner were we settled and partaking of our meagre fare than the baker’s ‘friends’ began to make an appearance. ‘Guanas,’ as he referred to them; in full, iguanas, leathery-skinned reptiles with protruding swivel eyes, short legs and a burst of scuttering speed. It transpired that the two parties -- man and guanas -- were associates of some standing. The creatures had learned that there were tasty morsels to be had at that time of day from their provider, namely cheese. Placing a piece on his wrist, the old man held out his open palm and one guana some 18 inches in length nipped onto the outstretched hand, took the cheese and retreated hastily. Others gathered around and seemed grateful for the crumbs thrown to them. There was no show of hostility, only timidity. We finished the al fresco meal and wended our merry way, eventually reaching the farm where I was to stay.

Relaxation in lazy living, good food, swimming daily in a nearby river, all to a constant chorus of chattering budgerigars and chirping cicadas, dawn to dusk sunshine and starlit silence by night. All very different to shipboard life, where silence and privacy were ever absent.

The day arrived, though, when I had to return to base, there to await the opening of the next chapter in my life, decisions for which, then unknown to me, had already been made. My die was cast.