A Bugger of a Kid.
1950s-1960s.
G. Dixon
The
author, G. Dixon was born in Mitchell, a small town on the edge of the
Maranoa River in south-western Queensland, Australia.
The town was named after explorer/surveyor Thomas Mitchell who is remembered through numerous statues and plaques across Australia as well as a suburb, a highway, an electorate and-even a cockatoo. He is regarded as a “larger than life” character and that description masked his murderous expeditions up and down the length of Australia, In 1836 he got a rap over the knuckles (and later a knighthood) after killing seven Indigenous warriors in New South Wales. No official monuments mention this but the First Nations people have not forgotten. Neither have I.
The town was named after explorer/surveyor Thomas Mitchell who is remembered through numerous statues and plaques across Australia as well as a suburb, a highway, an electorate and-even a cockatoo. He is regarded as a “larger than life” character and that description masked his murderous expeditions up and down the length of Australia, In 1836 he got a rap over the knuckles (and later a knighthood) after killing seven Indigenous warriors in New South Wales. No official monuments mention this but the First Nations people have not forgotten. Neither have I.
My life and my award winning short stories have been informed by the Maranoa River and Mitchell. The silhouette portrait of me above was created out of scissors and paper at the Mitchell Show a long time ago. Then I wanted to write, play the piano and sing. Life eventually settled me in writing.
A short potted history of my career: After the first version failed to rate, I was employed as the writer, the story teller, the designer of characters, the story and script editor initially rewriting from about Episode 24 to over a hundred on the highly successful television drama serial, that I call Neighbours, Version Two. Starting out as the lone employee on the project in 1985 until 1987, I wrote about the town I grew up in. I was creating, writing and editing the rough equivalent of two films a week plus all the thumbnails for publications and more. Mitchell became Erinsborough, an anagram of Neighbours, a small suburb in an Australian city where everyone knew everybody else, and its main characters, based on my family, were Charlene, Henry and Madge Mitchell, Mike Young, Plain Jane Harris and many more. Previous characters that had already been introduced were rewritten and given character breakdowns. Erinsborough gave Neighbours, Version Two a sense of place, a location without naming the city - a parochial Australian thing. Some original scripts and further information are housed at the John Oxley Library Queensland including the original script that introduced Charlene, who was based on me and the stories of my life. Charlene's introduction was about a real encounter I had with my brother, Errol. He was the inspiration for Mike Young. Henry Mitchell and his adventures were based on my Uncle Chook.
Mitchell also inspired my Corrugated Roads novels. A Bugger of a Kid is the first installment of a
künstlerroman or the novels that tell the story of an artist’s life. They will be available here.
I have a Master of Arts from Griffith University in 2005 and I was awarded
Alumnus of the Year in November 2011 by Griffith University, School of Arts,
Queensland, Australia. I changed back to my maiden name, Dixon, in 2010.
I am Mary and Bob's daughter (and yes I did get banished for fictionalising Mum not only as Madge Mitchell but Mrs. Mangel as well.) Mum inspired many other characters too. Thanks, Mum. Thanks, Dad.
###
Copyright © 2010 G. Dixon
All
rights reserved.
ISBN:
978-0-9871513-5-3
Published by G.
Dixon
A
guide to Australian history, its language and the phrases used in this novel is
on this blog.
Previously published stories appearing in slightly altered form as chapters in this volume are: The Maranoa Picture Theatre. Billy Blue.1980. Bloody Children. Nation Review. 1976. The Lawd’s Prayer & The Cat. The Review. 1991. Manuscripts and other material such as the technical book Writing for Television (under Ginny Lowndes) are housed at The John Oxley Library, State Library of Queensland. Reference Code 10147.
Disclaimer: Corrugated Roads is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products
of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, or persons―living or dead―is entirely coincidental.
Apart from use permitted
under the Copyright Act 1968 and subsequent amendments, no part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by
any means or process whatsoever without the permission of the copyright holder
and publisher. A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the
National Library of Australia.
About
the Corrugated Roads series
…
Once upon a time the Jae family lived in a tiny drought-stricken desert town that was miles from anywhere in the sprawl of The Outback of Australia during the nineteen fifties.
The Town was a hard-drinking brawling
kind of place where the men made up the law and everyone, including the
police, obeyed it. The rules changed constantly.
Most people in The Town had more fights
than feeds especially over the long reign of its conservative Prime Minister,
‘Pig Iron’ Bob Menzies. He exploited the constant state of fear about invasion, scarcity and denial that colonialism and White Australia had lived in since its convict settlement in
the seventeen seventies and the self-interested kept them in it any which way
they could.
Along with their parents, Rene and Tom,
the Jae family included Henry, Jenny and Baby Girl. They went to the local
Catholic school and church but on their way there Jenny and Baby Girl had to
protect Henry and his glasses from the local State school kids. They fought all
the way to school and all the way back again.
At school, the nuns brutalised the
children in their care. Their parents, the police and Father Fourex, the priest
who was named after his favourite beer, were too afraid of them to complain.
The only escape from The Town and the
family was at The Mish, an Aboriginal camp across the river. There, Uncle
Lincoln, a tribal elder, tried to provide Jenny, as well as his own mob, with a
sense of safety and sobriety from the grog-induced terror that gripped everyone in The Town.
Jenny’s matter of fact commentary about
their lives provides the backdrop to the comic, tragic and the plain bizarre
stories about it.
And so the stories of her life begin…
I wish I could see it.
Mum wrote the other day to say the grass
grew five foot after the rain they had. So thick you couldn't walk through it.
She said they hadn't seen a sheep for weeks. Probably buried out there
somewhere. The river was up again. First time in twelve years. She said the
place was so pretty you wouldn't recognise it. Dry as a bone, most times, the
Maranoa, and The Town perched on its banks’d shimmer in the heat of the summer
sun. Everything out there in The Outback was bleached and sun-dried—wrinkled up
like the haze that puckered up the gravel roadways. The water came out of the
taps at boiling point, steaming and scalding. Red dust drifted into everything.
I wish I could see it now, looking green.
‘How I hate the heat,’ Mum’d say as she
stacked the wood up for the stove before she’d add, ‘and how I hate this
place.’
Then she’d hurl the wheat through the air
for the chooks to scurry after. A lot of people said she’d married beneath her.
After all, she was a Parton. Her father was one of the biggest squatters in The
Town before he died. He’d owned thousands of acres of land from South Australia
to Queensland, she’d said, as well as the gas and oilfields in Roma. She’d
married Dad in Brisbane. They’d come back to The Town to make a bit of money
before they went back to the city. She’d said she’d loved Dad then. The war was
on and it didn't seem to matter what The Town thought.
Dad was a gun shearer for the western run.
They lived in tents, painted the iron furniture orange and laughed a lot in
those days—before we came along I guess and they got stuck there.
Dad’d say of a weekend when he came home
that, when we had enough money, we’d all go to the city to live.
Mum’d ask wearily, ‘And when will that be,
Tom?’
And Dad—hurt—used to reply, ‘Won’t be much
longer, Rene.’
Mum’d turn away. Dad’d go back to his
newspaper. They both knew they’d never go—not with four mouths to feed.
Sometimes Mum’d laugh and say, ‘Where
there’s life there’s hope’ and ‘Maybe old grandfather’ll die soon and we’ll get
his place’—proper payment for all the work Dad did on it for nothing.
But Mum’s life was creeping on. Her hopes
were now reduced in scale to fit her life in the bush. Most days she’d just
hope it’d rain to settle the dust or the train’d bring in bananas on Saturday
morning.
‘I’d do anything for a banana,’ she’d say
wistfully. ‘In Brisbane they just fall on the ground and lie there, there’s
that many.’
When Dad came home on a Friday night we’d
wait on the front veranda in our neatly mother-pot ironed pyjamas, watching for
the first lights of the shearers’ cars to come across the plains.
‘Here he comes,’ we’d shout, ‘he’s coming
across the back flats. We can see his lights. Mum! Mum! He’s coming.’
We’d stand there, jiggling up and down as
the first of the lights’d dip down into the gullies and finally turn into the
road for home. Dad’d get out of the old utility, kiss Mum on the cheek, squat down
and gather us up into his arms.
‘How are you, Rene?’ he’d ask her over the
din.
‘Fine. How are you?’
‘Back’s playing up a bit.’
He’d put us down and while we searched the
ute for the presents he’d make us out of gum leaves, he’d stand beside Mum to
watch.
‘Kids been all right this week?’
‘Not bad.’
We’d breathe a sigh of relief—so she
wasn't going to tell on us after all. Dad’d put us to bed, then he’d settle
down to tell us a story, usually one of his own invention. Later, he’d kiss
each of us on our foreheads, turn out the carbide light and join Mum for a cup
of tea on the front veranda. They’d talk long after we’d fallen asleep.
At least that’s how I think it was but
perhaps it’s not the rosy glow of family fireside life I’ve remembered but
rather a tin can of memories that once was buried in the red dust out there
that I now feel compelled to kick noisily down the road and I don’t really know
why I’m doing it.
On Saturday morning, the horn of the
Westlander’d sound through The Town. Everyone’d rush about in excitement. The
Town’d smell like Christmas as we’d bustle about doing the shopping for the
week. In the afternoon the men’d go to the pub to lay a few bob on the horses
at the Irish Giant’s place. Apparently there was a law against betting with bookies
like The Giant back then but then there was a law against most things. Dad’d
told us The Giant was a genius at mathematics.
Around teatime Dad’d come home again, park
the ute at an unsteady angle and weave up the gravel path to the house.
‘Your father has tanglefoot again I see,’
Mum’d sigh. ‘Help him up on the couch you kids while I finish getting tea
ready.’
Henry and I’d exchange glances. We knew he
was blotto. Most fathers were. After tea we’d get dressed for the
pictures. Dad’d hop into the ute first then he’d toot the horn just to make Mum
all flustered. But she wouldn't budge out of the house until every hair was in
its place, her lipstick on straight, her teeth checked, rouge not too obvious,
dress just so and stocking seams in a perfect line up the back of her leg. Once
that was done she’d asked us anxiously if she looked alright.
With a last minute glance she’d pick up
her dilly bag and walk out to the car. Dad’d lean out the window to whistle at
her. Mum’d blush. We’d clamber into the back of the ute and cover ourselves
carefully with old sheets so that our clothes wouldn't get dust on them. Mum
and Dad’d stay by themselves in the front, and off we’d go to the pictures.
The Maranoa Picture Theatre was the only
place in town, apart from Mick’s Café that had a neon light. We thought it very
glamorous. Dad’d buy the tickets while Mum’d smile and try to chat to the
people she knew. Because my mother was a Parton, we never had to worry about
getting in early like the other townspeople. Our seats were in the grazier’s
section, on permanent reservation. Mum’d used all her influence to make sure of
it. We were in the last three rows in the theatre. No one was allowed to sit in
our seats even if we never came. After buying the tickets Dad’d talk to a few
of the men standing around together then we’d go into the theatre.
It had canvas walls, a clear sky roof and
rows of canvas deck chairs placed in straight lines on the bare wood floors. We
had an uninterrupted view of the screen plus we could see everybody who came
in. Mum’d take her Chinese fan from her dilly bag, spread it out then wave it
slowly across her face. The theatre’d begin to fill up. People came for miles
around to the pictures of a Saturday night.
On their arrival they were shown to their
seats by Delma, the Methodist Minister’s daughter. She wasn't allowed to wear
make-up, Mum’d said to Dad, because it was against her religion.
‘Such a pity—she’s so plain too.’
The next three rows up from ours were
reserved for the business people of The Town. The respectable people Mum called
them.
Violetta, the French hairdresser, her
brother and their parents took their seats. Violetta’d scandalized The Town
when she told them in her wayward English that they’d eaten horses during the
war. The Town had never heard of such barbarity but then she was French, they’d
muttered. We’d heard they ate frogs and snails as well.
‘There’s no accounting for taste,’ Mum’d
said when she was told.
The French family’d come to the Outback to
heal their lungs after they’d been gassed. Violetta’d set up shop to give women
the latest European hairdos as well as a literal translation of their names.
Mrs. Cunningham, for instance, had become Mrs. Crazy Bacon. We’d gone to
Violetta’s place for tea one night. Mum thought she’d given us cordial to drink
but it was red wine cut with bore water. We were soon as drunk as skunks and
reeking of garlic.
‘There goes Sean O'Connor,’ Mum’d whisper.
‘I see that Maura has a new dress on—probably why he put up the meat again last
week, trying to pay for it. A pretty penny it cost too.’
Dad grunted.
Mum was horrified when we were served
mincemeat and rice rolled and cooked in grape leaves at the Middle Eastern
family’s place for lunch too. She was sure they were poisonous because if they
weren’t then everyone would be eating grape leaves instead of mutton and
potatoes, wouldn’t they?
‘The bank Johnnies have arrived early I
see. Didn’t take long for that Lesley to get one. She must be quite desperate
by now. Skirt’s too short too.’ Mum’s fan swished as she continued her
observations. ‘There’s Mrs. McKenzie from Wanderoo—same dress she had on last
Saturday—you’d think with their money she could afford to change more often.
That girl of hers looks more like a heifer every day with that red hair and
figure—you’d think they’d put her on a diet. Here comes Mrs. Maginnes from
Childers Close—that husband of hers—he looks like a fish with his mouth gaping
open like that. Look at his dirty tie! She still hasn’t managed to teach him
how to use a knife and fork properly by the look of it. Money maketh the
manners not. Oh good evening, Mrs. Maginnes … well thank you and you?’
Mr. Maginnes’d lean over to Dad to say
things like, ‘Blowflies in the ewes.’
And Dad’d reply with, ‘I’ll keep an eye
open.’
The graziers slowly filled up their seats.
Further up, past the business people, the next three rows were kept for the
shearers and the ordinary people. Delma’d run up and down the aisle with her
torch, showing people where to sit.
‘Probably the only excitement she gets all
week, poor thing,’ Mum’d say. ‘They don’t get many in at the church, not with
her father belting the bottle the way he does.’
The next block of seats was kept for the
yahoos, the riff-raff and their girlfriends. They were seated a long way up
from us, so that we wouldn't be disturbed by their carryings-on.
‘Take no notice of those yahoos,’ Mum’d
tell us. ‘They’re just looking for some attention.’
We couldn't take our eyes off them.
Their spurs hit hard on the bare boards,
broad brimmed hats curled up at the sides, half-drunk and defiant, they’d
squire their women up the aisle.
‘Don’t see how any respectable girl could
go out with those yahoos,’ Mum’d say to Dad and he’d grunt some more.
From where the yahoos’ seats were to where
the next seating began, there was a six-foot gap. The old, worn out and patched
up chairs were put there—right up the very front so, if you put your hand out,
you could almost touch the screen. Those seats were for the Aborigines, the
blackfellas—the original owners of the whole joint, Dad said, before the
British came and tried to kill them all off.
They’d come into the theatre dressed to
the nines, starched and polished. As the lights’d dim for the slides, they’d
follow Delma up the front where she’d bob her torch up and down impatiently,
waiting for them to sit.
‘Don’t see why Charlie and his family have
to sit up there,’ Dad’d always complain. ‘He’s a bloody good mechanic. Flamin’
British and their class system.’
Charlie Smith was Dad’s black brother. We
called him Uncle Charlie. We had a lot of Aunties and Uncles. Aunty Pearl was
minding the new baby for Mum tonight. Uncle Lincoln was her brother. He’d been
married to one of Dad’s sisters.
‘Ssssh!’ Mum said. ‘The Queen will be on
in a minute.’ Then she'd change the subject. ‘I wonder where Janette is. She’s
late. It’s always such a pleasure to see her—a lovely girl.'
The theatre shifted about impatiently.
Just about everyone was here except for Janette. Everyone adored her. Her smile
lit up the whole town. She was our movie star—long, shining brown hair loosely
waved, creamy skin, large dark eyes, small and gracious.
A lot of people’d wondered why she’d never
married.
‘She’s no need to,’ Mum’d tell them.
‘She’s got plenty of money of her own. She can’t just throw herself away on
anybody.’
Janette’s parents’d owned one of the
biggest places outside The Town until they died. Now she ran it by herself.
‘She’s as smart as a whip too,’ Dad’d say
in admiration and Mum’d add, ‘It’s amazing how two such plain people as them could
produce something so beautiful—no wonder old Johnny looked like a stunned
mullet most of the time. I don’t reckon he knew how either.’
Us kids called Janette the shining lady.
She was the highlight of our small town—the seal of approval on everything we
did—her just being there seemed to keep The Town a living, dancing kind of
place.
The tap of high heels on the stairs made
everyone turn around. Mum glanced back quickly.
‘It’s just that Karen. Trust her to try to
get some notice by coming in late. Stuck up thing she is too. How the mighty
have fallen. Well,’ she lowered her voice to Dad, ‘they can’t hide her
condition much longer.’
Dad gave another grunt.
‘It’s that football coach,’ Mum said.
‘Threw herself at him. Well, serve her right. I've heard she’s not the only one
either.’
Dad just grunted again.
‘That football coach has caused more
trouble than enough,’ Mum continued. ‘No respectable person’d be seen dead with
him.’
Dad rummaged round a bit and said he’d met
the football coach and he seemed like an ordinary sort of bloke.
Mum said it wasn't what she’d heard. He
was wanted by the police in every town he’d been in. Maintenance, they said.
‘Maybe Janette’s not coming,’ Mum sounded
disappointed. ‘After all she broke up with young Jimmy not long ago—probably
feels that it isn't right to be seen out in public so soon. Though mind you, I
can’t say I could see what she saw in him.’
‘Aaaargh, Jimmy’s not a bad bloke,’ Dad
replied. ‘Hard worker too.’
‘She can’t just throw herself away on the
first person who’s a good bloke,’ Mum retorted.
Loud giggles rang out behind us.
We all turned around again.
‘It’s the Page girls, Val and Donna,’ Mum
told Dad as she turned back to the slides. ‘Getting on too, though god knows
how they’ll find anybody living out there, poor cows—Val’s getting quite
ratty.’
They came into the theatre, walked
straight past the grazier’s section and on up the aisle.
Mum’d clutched Dad’s arm and hissed
frantically, ‘Look at that! They’re going right up the front where the yahoos
are!’
Dad grunted.
‘But Neddie’s seats are reserved down here
with us,’ Mum said. ‘They know that.’
‘They have to have a bit of fun, Rene.
They work like bloody blacks out there,’ Dad protested.
‘They’re talking to that no good Mackie
Mitchell. He’s the one that lives with Gertie, you know, that gin with all
those kids.’ Mum watched in horror. ‘That Val is pawing all over him. It looks
like she’s enjoying it too.’
‘Aaaargh, Mackie’s not a bad bloke,’ Dad
said. ‘He’s a bloody good worker.’
‘So I've heard,’ Mum snapped, ‘and he’s
plenty of kids about the place to prove how fast he is.’
Mum sank back in her seat. ‘Neddie Page’s
girls. I never thought I’d live to see the day. Old Nell would turn in her
grave. The way she slaved to bring those girls up.’
A great cheer ripped across the theatre as
the house lights went down. The Movietone News’d begun.
‘I’ve never liked American accents,’ Mum’d whisper. ‘They’re so vulgar.’
The news was usually several months old by
the time we got to see it, but it always had “a lovely feature on the Queen” as
old Mrs. Tonkin’d say the next day.
Dad’d tease Mum about how beaut the movie
queens looked, and we’d scream around saying “ooohwoo woopie doo” and wriggle
our hips, pretend to smoke cigarettes and do our best to look like them.
The first feature was usually a cowboy
movie. We’d sit glued to the edge of our seats while Dad’d fall asleep. He
always managed to stay awake for the Movietone News but nodded off soon
afterwards. Mum’d nudge him in the ribs but he’d never even blink so she’d keep
fanning herself, hoping nobody’d notice his snoring.
Dad’d wake up with a start at interval to
give us two bob for drinks, ice creams and a small bar of chocolate. It was a
real luxury out there so we’d bolt it down before it melted then slowly lick
our fingers. Dad’d buy Mum the same plus a packet of salted cashews to eat
during the second half. After a short scuffle with the other kids just to keep
our arm in, we’d go back to our seats.
Mum’d grown more restless. ‘Janette’s
still not here,’ she was saying when a noise caused her to turn around to
pretend she was looking at an old poster on the wall. ‘Ah, here she comes now.’
Janette floated towards the aisle dressed
in red chiffon—the flame colour reflected in the glow of her skin.
She smiled and waved to everyone. The
theatre sucked in its breath. She’d never looked more beautiful but Mum’d
gasped. Her face was shocked.
‘My god no!’ Mum caught her breath. ‘I
don’t believe it. First the Page girls and now this.’
Everyone stared.
‘You could’ve knocked me down with a
feather,’ Mrs. Tonkin’d remarked the next day. ‘The football coach with
Janette. I’d heard of course, been going on for months they say. I just
dismissed it as idle gossip.’
‘He’s from Sydney you know,’ Mum said.
‘I might’ve guessed. You can tell them a
mile off by their clothes—smart alecked.’
‘They say he drugs them before he
you-know-what.’
Mrs. Tonkin took in a large amount of
air. ‘And he’s so good looking too.’
‘In a flashy kind of way,’ Mum conceded.
Janette became aware of the stir she’d
caused. Some of the yahoos snickered. Her smile faded and she faltered. The
football coach put his arm under her elbow then guided her firmly down the
aisle behind Delma. She showed them into their seats, blushing furiously,
flustered by all the excitement.
A few people booed.
The football coach held Janette’s shawl
for her while she sat down. We could see her in profile—her chin jutting out,
her ramrod back. She stared straight ahead. The theatre let out its breath as
people began to mutter among themselves. I thought Mum was going to cry. Her
face’d crumpled. Even Dad looked angry. So did a lot of other people. We
silently sank into our seats.
Mick O’Flynn, who owned the theatre,
quickly turned out the lights.
Tom and Jerry jumped onto the screen.
The yahoos roared, whistled and yelled,
stomping their spurs into the wooden boards. Mick flickered the house lights on
and off a couple of times, warning them to be quiet. It had no effect. They
kept the noise up. Their girlfriends tried to shut them up while Delma shone
her torch over the seats. Several couples sprang apart.
One of the graziers at the back of us got
up. ‘Be quiet down the front.'
One of the yahoos answered back, ‘Why
dontcha come down here and make us, mate.’
The grazier’s wife put a restraining hand
on her husband. Furiously, he shook it off.
‘I said you be quiet!’
‘I said you be quiet,’ mimicked one of the
riff raff, taking the mickey out of the grazier’s Oxford accent.
The rest laughed noisily. Then they began
to say loudly, ‘Ssssssh! Ssssssh!’
Several of the jackeroos who’d come in
with the grazier stood up beside him.
The cartoons were over.
Mick O’Flynn stormed down the aisle. ‘Shut
up, y’bloody mongrels.’
‘Why dontcha have a go at makin’ us,
mate?’ drawled one of the yahoos.
Mick walked quickly back up the aisle,
saying over his shoulder, ‘Don’t you try anything, mate or y’can get out.’
Bing Crosby flittered across the screen. Mum
ignored him and grabbed Dad’s arm, ‘Tom, Tom. They’re going to start a brawl.’
Dad just gave another grunt.
Several more grazing properties stood up
to side with the grazier and began to call for the yahoos to be quiet.
One of the jackeroos yelled back in reply
to a yahoo, ‘Yeah mate, we’ll have a go.’
We were agog with an excitement that not
even the movie could hope to match.
Mick ran down the aisle again. ‘Not in the
middle of Bing bloody Crosby y’ not. Get outside, all of yer.’
Out they trooped—the grazier’s mob,
tight-lipped, entitled and angry, the yahoos cocky, spoiling for a fight.
‘Outside, mate,’ they said to the football
coach as they passed him.
Dad got to his feet. ‘Think I’ll go
outside for a while, Rene.’
Mum didn't reply. Stony-faced, she watched
the screen.
Janette was talking rapidly to the
football coach, shaking her head. He stood up slowly, shrugged his shoulders,
walked past her and down the aisle. No one looked at him. Janette sat, not
moving a muscle, all by herself in the row of canvas seats. She looked very
small.
Bing Crosby danced and sang across the
screen, barely able to be heard over the cat-calling and brawling outside the
walls.
When the lights came up, Mum made us stand
for God Save the Queen. Dad never did. Janette stood too and then, looking
neither left nor right, she strode out of the theatre. Mum told us to mind our
own business and to go straight to the ute. Not long after, Dad got in. The
door slammed. Usually Mum’d say ‘Home James’ but not tonight.
Without a word passing between them Dad
drove away.
We never asked Dad what side he'd been on or
who had won. I think Mum knew though she never said anything. But Dad and her,
they never really smiled at each other anymore.
Mum also said in her letter that they’d
shut the Maranoa Picture Theatre down a few weeks ago and that she’d miss it.
Everybody was going to Roma these days for excitement, and that, you know the
old gum tree out the back? Well, it got white ants and Dad had to chop it down.
She said she’d miss the sound of the wind rustling through its leaves.
And oh, she forgot to mention in her last
letter, you remember Janette? You must remember her—the shining lady—though you
were still young when her baby died and all that fuss was on because Father
Fourex refused to bury it—some Catholic law or something—well, she shot herself
the other day. Went out to her parents’ graveside to do it. The loneliness of
living out there all by herself must have sent her silly.
Sad, isn't it? Mum wrote. But she supposed
that Janette never really got over the football coach leaving overnight like
that.
Though, Mum added, it just goes to show, that
life is pretty funny sometimes, isn’t it?