Joe Marshall warms slippered feet by morning fire, nursing pannikin tea. “Hot as hell, black as sin, sweet as a woman.” A dawn mantra. Old, alone, in a one-room Turon River hut, life hangs on bones of routine and ritual. The previous night’s call was not routine. Joe grunts, “A visitor…”, unfolds from the chair, cracks cup on laminex, and pulls his cot from the wall, “…man’s got things to do.” He pulls rolled hessian from behind the bed, and tips a wooden ca

A vehicle sounds at the top gate, dissonant. The smile gone, Joe packs the fiddle and bow, snaps the case shut, and tucks it back under the bed. Just between us and the Maggie, Dad. He swings the kettle back over the fire.

Joe pours tea, “Weak and milky, you say Simon?”

“Thanks.” Simon is young, earnest, pushing “I only have today, Mr Marshall. Your violin tunes are very valuable.”

“I’m sorry, but the Arthur-itis…”

“Hmmm…” Simon is searching, “Do you have any children playing?”

“The second war.” Joe drifts to the fire.

Simon pulls him back, sharp, “It’d be a shame to see the tunes”, he contemplates the ancient bushman, “you know - lost.”

Joe leans forward, “I know where to find ‘em.”

Simon drains his cup, “Just one? Just to capture your style…”, unpacking a video camera, cables sprawling over blotchy lino.

Joe stiffens, “Style? I play like my father, son. What about you?”

“Grandfather taught me - um - fiddle.” Simon, easier, “Pop played the old ones. I’m more of a classical player - when I get time. Maybe just a picture of the fiddle, for posterity?”

“Yes. Well, I s’pose it’s around here somewhere.”

“Oh, that’s beautiful. French?”

“Me great-grandmother was French. It’s came out with her.”

“May I try?”

Simon rips fierce, arrogant arpeggios - corrugated iron screaming reverberant protest. Joe holds thumb, forefinger to temples, shielding his eyes. Simon pauses, pained, and peals a pitch-perfect slow aria, hollow in the little bush hut. He lifts the bow, shaking a lost, befuddled head. He runs four falling notes, falters again…

“I’m trying to remember one of Pop’s schottisches - ‘Click Go The Shears’?”

“Ah.” Watching the young man battle, Joe is back, struggling at his father’s side, learning the same tune. Dad had it as ‘Ring the Bell, Watchman’. He gently whisper whistles, tapping slippered toes in walking four-four. Simon catches the melody, and the care - and his fingers follow. Joe’s eyes smile, hearing the old dance pulse return to Simon’s bow. The walls sing, and Joe stands, bum to the fire.

“It’s a lovely fiddle, Mr Marshall.”

“Joe.” He reclaims his instrument. “Here’s one your Pop didn’t know.”

“But - your arthritis.”

“It eases as the day gets warmer.” Joe points his bow at the video recorder. “Can you use that thing?”

Simon clears cables with his foot, “My fiddle is in the car.”

“I’ll make another cuppa… Weak and milky?” Joe smiles.

“Yes Joe… Weak and milky.”

The fiddlers sit, knee to knee, eye to eye, and Joe plays with a tight mazurka snap. Simon rushes to fudge along, and Joe scrapes to a stop.

“Even Mozart had to hear it once, boy.”

Simon smarts, bow down. Joe’s fiddle flies, and Simon’s sulk falls. He’s lost in wonder. Then, slowly, phrase by phrase, Joe hands his father’s tune to Simon. The Turon hut holds a ritual, now seventy years past. As Simon finds the phrases, the synchronous fiddles swell, rolling the tune around, over and over. In one infinite moment, Joe looks up, hearing a ghostly third part. Ever the dance player, Joe lifts his foot to signal “last time”. Joe follows Simon’s window stare, sees Maggie, returning his gaze.

“It’s - wonderful, Joe.”

Joe turns away, “‘Turon Mazurka’”, wiping the corner of his eye with a cuff, adding split Yellow Box to the fire. “It was - is - me father’s…” He shoulders the fiddle. “…be a shame to see it lost.”

David Broughton stares through sheeting rain, across Sydney city traffic, at the adversarial pub door. He has walked the block twice, in winter sun sinking; downtown is warning edged, dark. He pulls the last of the hash joint, tucks guitar case under arm, and bolts across George Street, generating kinetic courage. He shoulders the heavy wooden door - it barely shifts. What an entrance. He squares himself, and pushes into the beer-fume gloom, eyes down, straight to the bar.

Why this place, Sal? Sally Carberry is David’s best mate, but they haven’t spoken since the school break-up party. It’s hazy, but David knows he played arse of the Class of ’86. He was not expecting the call, and was too shocked to question, The Regal? No place for a flanno-clad country kid! Sally had sounded happy to catch up, tempting, “I’m meeting mates… A fella with old bush songs… Bring your guitar. See you Tuesday, say - six?”

“Sir?” The big penguin-suited barman doesn’t smile.

Sir? Is he taking the piss? David looks along a tree-line of exotic taps “schooner thanks”, pointing, avoiding mispronunciation. The barman nods, and David counts the chins flowing from tight collar and tie, as he pulls beer into a bespoke glass. David surveys the pub… Bloody picture-book - red cedar, brass and glass, dark leather. David is the only punter, now looking to hide.

“Seven-fifty, sir.”

“Sorry?”

“Seven dollars, fifty cents.”

David swallows, pays from a wallet holding a tenner, and a return to Newtown. He finds a dark booth, stows guitar, slides arse across smooth leather. He secret-slugs hip-flask bourbon, lights a cigarette - three left - and lifts boutique beer. Here’s to old friends, made anew. Toasting Sally Carberry.

David cannot nurse warm beer much longer, the hip-flask is drained dry. Where’s Sal? He studies the retro jukebox, buzzing on bourbon, beer, hash - too much, too fast. He slots a dollar, nudges pages, painful pretty-boy pop, Pop’s favourite jazz hits - Aha! David punches G-44. Cold Chisel’s fiery four-four roar fuels David’s cocky stagger-swaggering back to his booth, winking at the barman en-route.

David hears the heavy door, the city roar - Sal - he turns, singing Chisel “Open up the door Astrid”. It’s not Sally. Oh, great - a gaggle of pretty perfumed yuppie kids - suit and tie lads, leathered girls, diamonds, pearls, chains, and designer handbags. He ducks into his booth. “I ain’t gonna listen to no more pissin’ around.”

The party rolls easily into the pub, finding a window table.

“Fizz all ‘round?”

“Thanks Simon. And, please do fix that jukebox squawk.”

They laugh, David’s neck prickles, Fuckin’ yuppies.

Simon walks to the jukebox, pulls the plug. Turning, he discovers David, “Oh!” He slides a dollar coin across the wooden booth table, “for your - ah - music.”

David’s forehead itches, “Sure you can spare it?”

“Sorry? Oh, ha - yeah.” Simon smiles.

David stands, unsteady, “I don’t want to leave you short.” He knows he’s sliding on slippery-slope sarcasm, dragging palms across his red flanno; red flag to his own bull. Shit.

Simon’s smile falls, “More where that came from.”

David snarls, “Put it in the fucking jukebox.”

“We’re just in for a quiet drink.”

“Ah, celebrating another glorious day of stock-market fidget wheels?”

“No stockbrokers here, mate. Hey, maybe this isn’t your pub?”

“Wanker-bankers maybe? Own the pub, own everything, hey?” David to the window, louder, “A coven of wanker-banker witches - WAR-locks… Fucked over any third-world countries lately?”

Simon holds up his left palm, and closes right fist behind his back, “Time to go.”

David flicks the dollar at Simon. It cracks onto the polished wood floor, and rolls. He swings his guitar. “Past time… Air’s foul in here.” He pushes hard past Simon, gives the party middle finger, walking towards…

The door creaks open. Sally. She catches David’s eye, “Sorry… The traffic!” She sees Simon following, feeling fierce fracture in the bar, “Oh, Simon - you’ve met David.”

David’s head falls, heart sinking to his boots, walking. Sally closes the door. On the footpath, he circles in sobering rain, sick, spiralling, drilling a hide-hole.

Sally finds him sitting, staring, “Dickhead.” She sits beside him, looking at the same asphalt. “Bloody David, looking down in judgement. Trying to overthrow the moneychangers’ tables? No bankers in there, you know.”

“I know.”

“They’re mates. We’re studying law, David. Idiot.”

“I’m sorry. I was - out of my depth.”

Sally looks up, “I was out west, working with these people, David. Volunteering in Aboriginal communities. Simon is the bloke I told you about.”

David meets her eyes, “The bush songs?”

“Yeah, a muso - learnt a swag of songs from an old fella at Walgett. I thought of you… I was hoping…”

“I’ve fucked up again, Sal.”

Sally stands, turns hard, leaving, “Up to you. You can piss off, or come and - ah - explain yourself.”

David’s gut grinds, winding a coiled spring of regret. I’m unbefuckinglievable! At it’s tightest, the spring flies. He shoulders guitar, breathes deep, and swings the pub door wide.

Shivery shadow walls stretch forever above. I’m off with Jim on another grand bush adventure. We’re holding fast to Li-los, shooting on a silver stream, inches over smooth grey-green stones; a Blue Mountains river, with a serrated crack of blue sky far away at the top of the gorge. David Broughton, James Warburton, big goofy grins, wet rubber Li-lo smells through eucalyptus clear sinuses. We’re off!

As usual, he has left me behind, bringing up a more cautious rear. I watch him now, off the air bed, bouncing over fallen boulders, shaking up out of the creek at a deep pool ahead. By the time I catch him, he’s hanging from a low-set branch, scaling a big gum I wouldn’t tackle. I hear his asthmatic wheeze, and in a shake of shadowy leaves, there’s just a flashing grin, and glinting diamond eyes. We’re just on finished school now, but he’s never changed; still stick-skinny, half back high - a rough-headed larrikin, a heart as big as your head, and hard to know. I can see his skinny white legs away above me in the tree. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in jeans - shorts, t-shirt, maybe a flanno nod to icy tablelands winter. His asthma is bad. It’s nearly carried him away several times. But he’s always moving, flying, first, fastest. Sometimes I picture trying to hold him still, like all the other footy teams can’t, and he’s gone in a wisp of imaginings.

He leaps onto rocky river flat running, clips the back of my head as he flies into the river pool. We float in a foot of warm surface water, the icy deep clear pool below us. Jim hits the far bank, and I look past him, up through infinite shades of blue-green bush, dreaming of thousands of Dharug years. A big juicy red freshwater crayfish edges away below, and I dive through the cold to watch. When I lift my head, Jim is away.

Jim knows this run; he’s been here with his older brother. “I’m sure it was here somewhere.” But we haven’t found the walking track up out of the gorge.

I’ve never been before, and have no idea.“We’ve been going for hours Jim.”

Jim studies the bush on the edge of the creek. “Nah, nah, still a way to go, I reckon.”

“We should double back. All these turns are starting to look the same.” It’s my first troubled thought on a magic day. I’m picturing how far it is back to the road, back to the servo where the folks will come pick us up. Back to a jumper, and some tucker.

Jim smiles, sniffs, and karate chops water at me. “Just around the next bend.” He’s off.

As we scramble over the creek rocks, slipping, sliding, skinning knees, we both peer into the scrub, looking for that trail back to the road. I watch him tearing ahead, red t-shirt grow smaller, glowing brighter, as the light turns gloomy. I’m trying, ever trying, to keep up, but Jim scrambles faster, as I slow down - becoming aware… We’re lost. I’m not panicking, not exactly not panicking. I watch ahead, Jim hits another stretch of big fallen boulders. As he leaps up onto the first rock, I see it; the track marker, and a walkers’ sign. I yell out, but Jim doesn’t turn. He springs onto the second rock, like he’s bouncing from rubber puppet-lines. The scrub is inky dark now, but to me, he looks like he’s jumping on the moon, floating higher with every bound. I yell again for him to come back - that I’ve found the way. His red shirt is now clear above the creek rocks. I see him lean onto his Li-lo, and soar. His feet have golden wings. He leaves the ground like flying through the centres at the footy last Saturday. The Li-lo turns some fancy flying manoeuvres, climbing ever higher. He’s flying. I silent yell, “Come back!” He climbs ever upwards, until he cracks into the golden light. As he reaches the top of the gorge, he banks into the west, into the setting sun, and I catch a glint of diamond eyes. He’s gone.

My trusty old Li-lo feels rubbery wet, now strange to touch. I flip it over, open the air valve, roll it flat, and start up the endless track to the road. It’s going to be a slow crawl home - small steps in wet sneakers, sliding in dirt - down rocks. I sit and listen to to the night bush while I catch my breath, watching a cracking big full moon just rising in the east. A shadowy silver path to the heavens, Jim. See you at the top.

These old lungs. Seven doctors can’t be wrong, can they? ‘Course they can. He looks at nineteen more steps down to the city-bound platform. His heart sings… His grandson David Broughton, sitting, nose in a magazine. ‘Guitar Player’? What happened to the Superman comics?

Charlie calculates - David is fifteen. He has caught the train down, visiting from his central NSW boarding school, and his grandfather is spiriting him away. Charlie heard the morning radio forecasting a big Sydney Harbour swell, and this western-suburbs family has a long-standing tradition; big swell, train to town, ferry to Manly – best ride around. Now, Charlie is pulling air like water from a well. At fifteen, I was holding half-breaths, cracking the twenty-two, popping rabbits so the Johnsons could breathe easier through the big Depression. Another step. Can’t let the boy hear me puffing like a broken-down steam engine. No need for that. Another step, silent singing, Whispering grass, don’t tell the trees…

Inching down, he sees the line shimmering in summer sun, heading east, where dark clouds are brewing. In another swirl behind his eyes, he is twenty-five, crouching, silent... Quiet breathing Digger, the jungle has Japanese ears. Charlie falls back often; doctors’ diagnoses have provoked twisted sheet nights, and uneasy days of foreboding. The long descent pulls another trigger… That bloody unsecured ladder, the factory floor coming up fast, and then - counting the intensive care breaths beneath closed eyes, hearing every damned word the unknowing doctors said. They were wrong twenty years ago, so why not now? The past is open, clear, while the future closes in, cloudy.

At the last step, he is startled by his reflection in the station-hut window. He’s puffy from steroidal treatment, sweating, bent over his lungs. He straightens “Gotcha!” Charlie, the trickster “Good to see you mate.” But in his grandson’s greeting eyes, wide in shock, reality is razor sharp. Bloody doctors.

Charlie ushers David into the window seat, and collapses hard next to him. In antique creaks, grinding groans, the old train stutters, asbestos brake smell lingering. The ‘Red Rattler’. Charlie caught them at David’s age. And they’re still in good shape.

“Settle in, mate.”

“Long trip I suppose, Pop. Red train, all stations.”

“We have all day.”

“Are you sure you’re OK, Pop?”

Charlie snaps “I said so, didn’t I?”

David flinches “Ok.” Back to his magazine.

Damn. Who am I kidding.

The train rolls a rattle-trap rhythm.

Charlie breaks the discomfort “Hey, mate, I’ve been wondering, what are you thinking of doing? You know, after school?”

“Dunno. Mum and Dad reckon uni - but I think I could make a go of the guitar.”

“Ah, guitar. Yes. Well, I don’t know anyone who’s actually been to university.” Charlie lets the subject simmer through Seven Hills.

At Granville, David yawns “Jeez, Pop, this train is taking forever.”

“You see that building? Big grey thing, green roof? Your great Uncle Frank and Aunty Jane had their wedding reception in there… Some wag ‘mislaid’ a piglet on the dance floor...” Charlie chuckles “…Real to-do about that!”

They laugh. Charlie coughs – unambiguous coughs.

“I’ll bet there was, Pop.” David is uneasy, anxious.

Recovering, Charlie muses “Yep. Good times, mate. They make it all worthwhile.”

The train shudders, David shifts in his seat. “Any slower we’d be going backwards.”

Charlie looks away “We’ll get there.”

The train stops, past Petersham, not yet Stanmore, and the clouds open. David sighs, slaps ‘Guitar Player’ on lap, “This is unbearable.”

Charlie, too loud. “For Pete’s sake, don’t wish it away David. It’s gone in the blink of an eye.” “Oh - oh, I’m sorry Pop. I know.” David, softer, “I do, you know.”

“It’s alright.” Charlie sits his workingman’s hand on David’s knee, shifts subject, “I was thinking, not that I’d know, but if you do go to the university, there’ll probably be other musos around. And you know - you’ll always have a home down here with Nan, you know, with - us.”

“I know Pop, thanks…”

“Just - know it, mate.” Charlie pulls closer. “Whatever happens, you have a home.”

Beneath a renascent sun, the ferry bucks and plunges across the heads, a rough-riding rodeo nag. Charlie breathes salt air, sitting on the outside bench. He’s watching David standing at the bow, swinging a wild sideshow clown grin, catching sea spray. Charlie sees the near-man in David, and falls fifteen again.

Endless moments, momentary forevers, futures beyond my ken, seemingly limitless possibilities, and yet…

David turns, wide-eyes, fly-away hair. “This makes it all worthwhile.”

Charlie smiles, finds air, enough to sing “Whispering grass, the trees don’t have to know.”

“I wish this ride would last forever, Pop.”

“So do I, mate.”

, impossibly distant... But it seems no time at all, in his easy mate’s nostalgic rave.

Davo and Johnno, ‘The Storm Riders’, had hit Sydney three decades before… Psychedelic rock and roll tricksters, chasing bright city-light enlightenment, in piles of pills, pot and powders. And, three years later John’s little brother Will joined, riding lightning-rod guitar. Then John fell in love, headed bush, the ‘The Storm Riders’ faded. It was a game of rock and roll tag, as David and Will brewed hard-bush-rock hurricane ‘Warrego’. Davo and Will, soul-twin guitars entwined, searching, ever searching. One piece of tonight’s puzzle is but a ghost, and David feels it. Will.

Earlier in the evening, David’s mobile, “Johnno? Shit, man!”

“Yeah… Ring a bell? I know you’re gigging in Annandale. I’m in town for a work do, boring as bat shit. Quiet couple? The Court?”

David spiralled thirty years, gut sinking, thinking of poor Will, “Yeah, sure,” building cheer, “my oath!”

In seamless temporal synergy, they found a seedy dude dunny-dealing foils, rolled and smoked a number, and now they’ve fallen righteous on a pinball machine.

David’s neck prickles, A KISS pinball machine. Will would draw synchronous magic lines in that. He’s remembering a Warrego gig, a KISS cover-band support. Thirty years… Forever, and no time at all.

John pumps the plunger; the ball cracks in. “I dug up an old ‘Storm’ tape yesterday.”

David, eyes heavy lidded, rose coloured glasses, “On our day, we were… “

“Shit, mate…” John laughs “It sounded like shit.” Drain ball.

David steps in, flicks his ball into play, “Oh, in a few crystalline moments, we burned.”

They did. But Will burnt fusion bright, and then - he was gone. Somewhere in the psycho-spiritual yearning, his soul crumbled. David didn’t see it coming, and he aches in guilt. The last he saw of Will, he was roaring, raving pornographically violent Biblical damnation across a rainy night Martin Place, cigarette red eyes glowing demonic.

The ball cracks back off a bumper, Davo’s score flies high. The KISS backboard lights up, and in the glow, spectral Will walks in, flipping a cigarette, missing.

David needs to know, “How’s Will, man?” Drain ball.

“Not good.” John holds the table.

“Diagnosis?”

“No one can get near him. He sleeps just up the road, in a Marrickville park. I went looking this morning, but…” Spring – plunger on ball.

David pushes, “You know your old man rang me, back then. Blamed me, I suppose.”

“Of course he fuckin’ blamed you, man,” He hits the right flipper hard, “He blamed every one… Mostly himself.” Bumper – CRACK - drain ball. John slams David’s ball into play.

David, edgy, “Do you? Blame me, I mean?” Stumbling, “I churn it over; what I missed, did do - didn’t do.”

John smashes a left, right flipper combo. KISS rocks – TILT. Game over. He turns angry, loud, pointing, “Look, this was a three-player game. You fucked up. But - it’s not about you.” He swallows, settling, “I was in the game. I’m his brother, man. I left.” He wipes one tear. “But it’s not about me either. We were just mad fuckin’ kids, man.” John reaches into his coat pocket, “None of us are coming back.” He locks eyes with David, and reveals his hand of three pill sleeves; royal red, white and blue. “It’s about finding Will, man. He was playing too.” He pops one red, two blue, washed down with Brown. “I’ve tried. The folks have tried, time and again, to pull him in. Who the fuck knows where he is? How he got there?” He sits the empty schooner on the table, “But we’re searching, always searching.” He sighs, sanguine, pulls out his wallet, “None of us are what we were, man. But I still like rum. You?”

David nods, returns the sigh, “Yes mate, I do. Middy chaser.”

John smiles remembrance, “Middy chaser” and walks to the bar.

David sits, settles with the dust. He feels a soul-ache easing, and a gentle sadness moving in. The KISS machine falls dark. Without cognisance, he reaches for John’s cigarettes, lights up, and pulls deep biting smoke. He realises, he hasn’t smoked tobacco in twenty years. Forever, and no time at all.

Johnno slides the tray across the table, holding golden-brown rum in arm outstretched, offering a tired joke, “Here’s to nostalgia, it’s not what it used to be!”

Davo clinks, and slams the shot. He drags his left hand through his hair, smoke ghost swirling, curling. “We did make some terrible noise in the name of rock and roll.”

Johnno, middy midway to lips, “But in a few crystalline moments, we burned.”

Space Ace Frehley is pacing, raving, furious. He’s only halfway through applying his make-up… So more accurately, it’s half Ace from The Australian KISS Experience, half Frank from Fairfield. But he’s fully furious. “You little shits.”

David Broughton slumps sunken, sweaty, Telecaster slung, leaning against the greenroom wall - watching KISS and make-up, in the golden globe framed mirrors. His own band - ‘Warrego’ - have just torn the roof off the cavernous western Sydney beer barn, leaving a heaving, screaming, sweating human sea, and are reshaping themselves for their second set. Davo is on a mission. Follow this if you can.

Space Ace is in a raving orbit, firing in at Davo, “Brett told me youse blokes played covers.”

Brett Phillips is the booking agent for both bands. He’d signed ‘Warrego’ after seeing them tear up an inner-city pub, with a set of original songs, promising a rock and roll rocket ride to the stars. The same Brett now casts the cover-song chain and anchor, dropping sinister hints of “connections” who will fix the band’s “attitude problems”. And yes, David had promised that the band would toe the covers line, and do what they had to do, to get the gig.

Ace’s rant isn’t over, “I’ve rung him, you know.”

David nods, pulling at his hip flask rum - gut turning, adrenaline seeping onto the mottled-brown tiles. He knows. He saw Brett storm in during the last song of the set. His three bandmates, even his guitar-twin Will Maloney, have conveniently forgotten the drink rider for the first time in their lives, and have run off to the bar, leaving him to smooth the waters with Brett. David groans, bastards, and wishes he could slide away across the tiles, and out the… Brett is standing at the door, red-faced, puffed with rage.

“Am I not making myself clear enough? Is that the fuckin’ problem?” Brett, screaming green paint from the walls.

David doesn’t get up, “Mate, did you see that crowd?” This conversation is stale. He is disingenuous. “What more could we do?” He knows the answer - do less.

Brett, easing to pink-faced, “Your job, is to play covers. You blokes are the foreplay, KISS are the fuckin’ -- fuckin’.”

“Ok man, look - we thought we’d slip in a few of our own, and wind back with covers. We’re cool, man.”

Brett turns away to KISS, his bigger fish - shakes his head, and Space Ace’s hand.

David climbs from the tiles, and keeps hosing down, “We’re cool Brett, hey? We’ll do what we have to do, man.”

It’s like a switch is thrown. Brett smiles conspiratorially “Yeah, yeah – we’re cool. But man, try and get Will in line. That’s your attitude problem, right? It’s Will?”

David knows his part in the play. “Will’s good, man. We’re all with you. We’ll all do what we have to do to crack it.”

Brett sticks to the script, “I know what the band can do. But we have to manage this right. We have to do - what we have to do – to…” He pushes his sweaty hand into David’s, and shakes too hard, too long, “…to crack it.”

David winds into the second set with a free-form snaky guitar riff. He sees Brett, imposing in stage-left wings. Will catches on in a flash, and harmonises. A cover. David smiles at Brett, nodding obediently. Brett looks satisfied, but confused. The guitar-twins ride entwined, ever building, climbing…. As they snap to tempo, the rhythm section crash in, and lighting take the cue – the stage explodes in laser light, and an unmistakeable riff. The crowd rush to the stage, singing, ‘I was made for loving you, baby…” KISS.

Brett screams over the stage monitors, “You’re fucked!”

David looks to his left… Brett is running circles, and Space Ace appears, glowering black and white in the gloom. David blows a KISS, and conducts a sharp stop - the snare shot rings through the dark, beer-fumed cave, and slaps back off the bar wall.

David rock and roll raves into the mic, “Coming up soon…”, Stevo punches a mock-dramatic snare roll, and Chuck pumps a bass crescendo – BANG, “The Australian KISS Catastrophe! For now… We’re ‘Warrego’!” Will lifts his guitar three notches, and slams into the intro for the eponymous ‘Warrego’ original song. The smoke-machine sends clear signals… And in a hurricane of double-kick drum, thumping bass, twin skyward guitars, and nuclear lighting – the fist-punching crowd gives a deep, seismic roar. David screams over crowd, over band, and over truth... He lies, “Here’s a cover song off an old Sabbath bootleg.” He fires a fierce look to his left. “This one’s for a lost friend, Brett Phillips. It’s called… ‘The Things We Have to Do.”

Not scared, no. Not David Broughton. He dodges alarms, and shimmies down three floors from the top dorm window, wedged shoulder to heel ‘tween the brick columns - risking dorm-master’s wrath, and more. Three months at Catholic boarding school, and David has already worn a pre-dawn pilgrim’s path to the music room. No key… Crack the fly-screen, jemmy the window, pull it all in behind - and play guitar. After two years of make-do on the farm, this critical instrument mass generates gravitational waves, dragging him in - from two hundred miles away… No fear.

He had enrolled in HSC music, but then ran to chemistry in fear of weekly performance. Now, his driven delusions - “I must be mad” - have brought him back to music - and today, he plays. He will perform for the whole class… For Sally Carberry. “Yes - I may have given her the impression that I could play… That when I hit these damned strings, that something approaching music would come out. I mean - it won’t be her beautiful Baroque flute pieces. What - does she think I had a guitar teacher hiding up the back paddocks? Now - If only I knew what to play… How to play. Not that I’m scared… ” Not half.

There are limitations to these off-the-record solo sessions in the music room. A perambulating ghost-robed Brother is likely to emerge from the mist - so it’s no lights, no heat. The infinite dark is no problem - if the drum-kit is where it should be. But river-flat frost flows both sides the room’s fibro shell, and David’s fingers are icy sharp. Today, his gut is colder still at the thought of playing in front of his mate, Sal. Fingers push painfully at performance pieces, while the creeping dawn offers only teasing warmth. Frozen moments. And of course - there can be no sound above the unplugged Ibanez solid-body, and fingers searching for coherence. He is driven to play, beyond reason… “So, how the fuck does it come as such a shock that people will hear me? That Sally - will hear me?” Bound, and gagged.

Time is still… Still the sun inches higher. First light through river-bend gums - in the back window, illuminating a sheared-sharp beam of dancing alien dust-beings - his jitter-flitting audience. He stops for their applause, and time starts… “Missed breakfast again” - his iceberg gut growls, hungry in response. Shaking his head… Every note is sour, muffed. He shapes his hand on neck, on strings - but - nothing. Now HE is frozen. Time ticks towards music class at nine. He is looking vacantly at Sally’s empty chair, not six feet away - and shrivelling to a dust mote, as the shadow guitar grows up the wall, a giant gnarly River Gum.

The faintest shake of the door…

“Aw, fuck!”

Key scrape - metallic click - and the reluctant stiff-lock slow grind… Loud.

“What the… !”

No time to run, nowhere to hide… It’s bluff time. He steals himself, and hits down hard on the guitar, no longer worried about noise. He falls into a chugging honky-blues riff, and the door cracks. “Suspension? Expulsion? And his folks scraping pennies to finish his education.” The riff takes a swagger and growl. “That’d be right… Busted, just as I mine music gold.”

“What the… Davo?” Sally Carberry, flute under arm - freshly showered, rugged in winter uniform - soft sun haloed…

David breathes again, “Oh - you’re kidding! Hey, Sal.”

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

Eyes to the flute, “Same as you, reckon.”

“Yes, Davo… “ She flicks the switch, sending him flouro-blind - he throws his forearm across his eyes. “But I have one of these.” She swings the key around on it’s loop of wool, and slides it at him across the desk. “Now - WE have it.”

He’s relieved, “Yeah, well - thanks… But - you know - where there’s a will…”

“I don’t want to know.” Sally likes David. He blew into school like a southerly change on a cracking hot day. But he’s loaded, dangerous. “So - bit nervous about the performance, are we?”

“Nah - WE - are just jamming - you know… “

“Cool. So, what are you going to play this morning?” She sits on the drum stool.

“I dunno… Something will come.”

Provoking now. “Come on - let’s hear it.”

David is backed into a corner, and comes out swinging, “Well, I won’t be doing a cover of some dude, a thousand years dead - that’s for sure.”

Sally now catches his insecurity. She’s stung, and throws a counter-punch, “So, what WILL you be playing?”

“I told you… Something will happen. I’ll…“, he shapes the academic word, “…IMPROVISE - man.” Smirking weak, staggering.

She’s landing blows, “So - IMPROVISE - now”, a tidy, sharp straight left. But she is not unkind, and is burning curiosity.

David leans the guitar against the still-quiet amp. “Nah - nah - I’m done… “, standing now, “All yours.”

“What? David Broughton - chicken?” Right cross to the jaw… Jelly legs and standing count. He starts swinging haymakers…

“Well, at least I don’t sound like some pale fuckin’ imitation…” “Whoah, mate.”

“…throwback to some wiggier time…”

“I’ll hear it in class.”

“…with my head up some HandelBachBrahms sonata-arse.”

She ends his misery, “You’ve got nothing, hey?”

He’s bleeding on canvas, no ideas - but one…

“I’ve got nothing.” David picks up the guitar, and recovers enough front to flick the amp switch - CLICK - and crackle-hum swells… “Well…“ He hits a low A, it feeds back in a groan, “I’ve got this…“, and he winds into his honky-tonk blues shuffle.

Sally laughs, “What - the hell - is that?” It’s filthy, funky - and fierce.

Stung by the laugh, David’s only option is to keep playing. “Just - a mongrel little riff… “ And he finds a laugh. He’s off the canvas. Somewhere behind this riff is his new awareness of deep dark delta blues. Sally shivers, nervous at the naked expression of despair. Unable to look straight at that feeling, they are running under cover of laughter - teens in a boxer’s clinch. “Just a mongrel black dog, walkin’ on down the road… “ Over blues changes, he strings rhyme-crimes pulled from childhood Lawson, and his ‘Loaded Dog’. Sal laughs, and puts the drum kit exactly where it should be… KICK, SNARE, KICK KICK, SNARE. David is flying now - off, and running. They don’t notice the small blue-uniformed crowd gathering, dancing on the music room verandah. “Well the mongrel black dog ain’t got no soul at all.” The Ibanez howls on “soul”, Sally and David howl laughs, and the verandah-mosh yodels. “Well, the mongrel black dog got hit by a fuckin’ great truck!” BANG - stop… Crying with laughter, verandah cheering - and the school bell - RING RING. They walk to assembly.

“Yeah - too bad you can’t sing THAT in class.” “I bet I can, Sal.”

The stained brown, yellow vinyl lounge is folding me in… Stone paralysis. Four left standing, four rum tumblers, four am - ‘Elsewhere’ via fuck knows where, via Kandos. The wood-fire is lit - aromatic, but not pushing far into the frosty farm-house lounge room. The coke-bottle-bong is going round the clock, a tick-tock second hand… I look across at Will, sitting at three o’clock to my six. Will Maloney and David Broughton - years playing psychedelic guitars entwined, telepathic - a resonant look is all we ever need…

“We’re inside-out again, man.” Will - explicit wild wide-eyes, tucked heavy lids.

I pull big, sweet smoke - hold a cough - silent, “Tonight’s the night.”

“Well, you lads certainly ripped a righteous rock ’n’ roll hole in the Railway roof this good evening…” Eloquent, Cheshire grinning guru-dude, Kev, holding court at nine o’clock on the cone clock. He’s a good ten years older than us - maybe thirty - big-boned, his blonde mop shakes avuncular punctuation, as he pours nostril-flaring over-proof rum. Herbaceous Kev… Our host, here in his rented rabbit-warren ramble farm-house, ‘Elsewhere’. He is famous for this kind of exclusive gathering, and for farming the most mind-mangling bush weed. “Yes… righteous indeed!”

At bong-midnight is Glen. “Shit, yeah…Fuckin’ oath, dudes! Man - it’s fuckin’ years since the pub went off like that - a frog in a sock… Fuckin’ huge!” Glen is our taxi-driver. He shot us the thirty-odd ks of dirt to ‘Elsewhere’ in twenty minutes, pushing the old Falcon cab through every sound barrier. “Even fuckin’ Phil wants you back… ‘Warrego’ rock! Where d’ya get a shit name like ‘Warrego’ anyway? Fuckin’… ” Rabbit, rabbit… Glen - always speeding, cars and chemicals - bean-pole thin - bouncing off walls, packing cones, and playing ‘Metallica’ on Kev’s stereo - ‘…And Justice for All’… then - FLASH - sharp, angry, sneering “We’ll have his fuckin’ guts for fuckin’ garters if he doesn’t get you back - make no fuckin’ mistake.” He stops, looks down at his hands, wringing - recovers his cool. The bong – tick-tock - Glen at midnight… The witching hour.

Tense now… I can only give a hoarse. “Yeah - nah - no worries, man.” We’re deep into a gig run, and I’ve been singing and smoking for days - my voice, little more than a whisper. Glen starts packing again, covering his angry brain-snap tracks.

I look down at my rutted black, red raw fingers, dreaming… Tonight was a grand six-hour shred - ’Warrego’ in fierce full-flight. My head is still swimming in the sea of heaving dancers… Waves flowing around, and up onto the bar. The schooners, and whisky sevens, spun to the band on flying-saucer trays - so it was joint, and piss breaks only. Ah - the long gigs… Demolishing nineteen-thirties blues, screaming metal, working obscure country covers, country lad bush tunes - all laced in fiery psychedelic searching… Always searching. “Ask the question… You might get an answer.” Nose to nose and back on back with Will, wielding axe-necks, and winding vortex swirls in the low ceiling smoke, alive in red and blue stage lights.

We played a failed hour set the night before last, at the UNSW Roundhouse - we all felt destroyed by the show… Too short. ‘Warrego’ were not fit for purpose, nor up to the challenge. Tonight’s Railway Hotel explosion was a motivated response - always searching… And we know - we know - that in a handful of crystalline forevers, the skies opened - and from nowhere, rock ’n’ roll salvation struck like lightning. By the time the good local constabulary shut down the roar - around one I suppose - we’d played near everything we know, and near many things we don’t. The last set was straight-out free-form - borderline psychotic - punk rock… In final throes, it was only Chuck’s ‘Rick’ bass pumping my heart, Stevo’s snare working my lungs, mic stand keeping me mostly on the level…

G - L - O - R - I I I I I A… GLORIA - We’re gonna shout it now…

Guru Kev is dispensing ‘Elsewhere’ wisdom…

So… I was looking for a post-driver in Mudgee last week, following two sheep-cockies into the hardware joint - just young blokes, brothers for sure - and they had this mad yarn goin’. The older dude said…

“Fuckin’ sheep broke its leg.”

And the little brother just grunted, “What?”

“Sheep fuckin’ broke its leg.”

He’s just blank… He says, “What?”

“Sheep broke its fuckin’ leg.”

“Oh… Fuck!”

And we’re coughing up lungs. It’s the best joke I’ve ever heard… And it’s true. It’s fuckin’ dead-set true. We’re laughing until it hurts. And I’m crying - I can’t stop…

RING, RING… A four-thirty phone call. RING, RING - “Fuck”, in four-part discord.

“Who the… ?” Even Kev looks rattled - answers, “Hello.”

The rant is tinny through the phone… But loud, violent. I want to turn ‘Metallica’ down - I’m stone frozen.

Kev waits it out, “Trace - he’s here - just chill, man.”

Glen’s face falls. He takes the phone off Kev, “Tracy - just, fuckin’ - give it up!”, he’s yelling – so is Tracy - and then… “Obviously, I’m not fuckin’ coming now, am I?” - BANG - downs the phone, “Fuck!” - RING, RING… “Oh, for fuck’s sake… “, Glen picks up, slams down, picks up again - and throws a rank looking pillow over the receiver. “Fuckin’ bitch!” He’s packing again… “Fuck!” The second-hand stops. He smokes Kev’s cone, as the last song fades to black.

Kev sits forward, reaches and replaces the phone. Then grabs the bong, too quickly, “She’s your kid’s Mum, mate.” A guru without a grin.

Glen doesn’t answer. He slinks across the room, and flips the album.

I’m retracing our steps to ‘Elsewhere’. After the gig, polite police persuasion pushed the crowd out, steaming into the Kandos frost and fog. The band collapsed around the cleanest table we could find, joined by publican Phil, a couple of bar staff - and Kev with his grin.

Big Phil was happy, “Well done fellas! Thirty-year bar record…” offering a generous looking envelope. We bullshitted for half-hour or so, before taxi-man Glen knocked in… knocked off. The party was fast falling weary - except for Speedy Glen Gonzales. Phil left, pulling the bar door locked behind him… A turning point.

“Wanna kick on lads?” Glen was talking to the band, but looking at Kev. Kev’s Cheshire grin widened… Just the slightest mop nod. Glen caught the smile, and offered an old joke, “Come on… Let’s go ‘Elsewhere’.”

He had opened up a traditional ‘Warrego’ fissure. The relatively sensible rhythm section fired tired, resigned looks at their spiritually adventurous front-men.

Chuck stands, and walks… “We’ve got the park gig at eleven, and Mudgee tomorrow night… I’m going to bed - I’m fucked.” Chuck can rock root note bass all night, but he never needs rocking to sleep.

Stevo looked at us concerned - fatherly - but only added, “Be back for the lug to the rotunda.” He followed Chuck up the stairs.

“Tonight’s the night, Will.” It was just a look.

The eyes had it, “Yes Davo, I believe it is.”

So now - near five am - we’re ‘Elsewhere’. I have no idea where we are…

…‘To Live is to Die’ - Metallica digging deep. We look inwards together, eyes closed in sudden, cracking unity. The music is bending minds and hearts, and - now - we are lock-step with the universe. We all four know - now. We know. We see through time. No one speaks.

“Tonight’s the night, fellas.”

“Too fuckin’ right!”

Then - gone. The mourning riff fades, and the forever moment is lost. Glen ticks the second-hand faster… We all fall dark in the feeling, now over. The edginess returns to the room, Tracy re-enters my mind. I try to spring my lounge-trap. “I need to have a leak… “ I slowly stand, stumble, a stone statue crumbling in animation. “Any clues?”

My apparent wasted struggles bring back Kev’s grin, but he doesn’t help much, “Down the hall…” He’s reclaiming his stereo… Searching - always searching - ‘Black Sabbath’ - first album.

Will’s eyes, “Davo, you bastard!” I’ve beaten him by one cone-clock second.

The long hall is dark, and I’m Alice following the rabbit. I feel no light-switch - nothing - unsteady, holding onto moving walls, Sabbath riffs receding to bass thump. Wasted now… Scrambling my way around the big old fibro farm-house, freezing… I find no dunny. A first hint of coming dawn guides me into cracking open the back door. In the deep dark black blue sky smear, the smells are frozen sharp - sheep-shit, range eucalypts and pines. My feet crack on frosty grass - sobering cold, shaking salvation - steaming breath and piss. Recovering by degrees, I walk back in through the screen door - and I hear Sabbath bass stop - RING, RING. I push the door closed, holding it quiet. As I feel my way back through the house - I hear Glen scream, “I told ya, bitch… I’m not ya fucking… !” I hear the receiver crack plastic. I stand at the lounge room door.

Glen doesn’t see us anymore, “Don’t worry Kev. All good.” He is shaking. It is not good… RING, RING - “Fuck off!”

The dark wail through coiled phone line is clear “I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”

Glen slams again, leaps across the room and unplugs the phone at the wall. “She’ll calm down Kev… She always does.”

Tracy, yesterday… Working behind the bakery counter from four am. Finishing the long shift, picking up Charlie from her Mum’s just after five. Finding Southern Comfort, cooking, feeding the three of them, and finding extra for Glen’s drop-in buddy Wayne. And Charlie, crying - always crying. Glen’s off now, driving the taxi. Tracy, holding teething Charlie, pacing floor - and spirits. Mum and child now with tears flowing together, and - finally - he sleeps around nine. She rings Glen’s Mum. “Can you come, Mum? I just want… I need to get out.” And she does. Tracy dancing hard to the band, golden brown glass always in hand. Me coming back from the dunny, and she’s waiting - drinking, “Are you gonna play, or what? Come on! Let’s get this party fuckin’ started!” Tracy, dancing harder. Phil calls her over to the bar, somewhere around eleven, “Charlie’s upset Trace - you need to go help.” She tries to send Glen, but he’s working, “I’ll be home after I knock-off.” She drinks, pays for a take-away bottle, and leaves. She walks past Will and me sneaking a joint out back - “Fuckin’ kids - who’d have ‘em?” - and takes a winding, stumbling scenic arc to her yellow Torana. She squeals hard out of the car park.

‘Elsewhere’ is loaded, crushing heavy.

“Kev - She’ll be right. Sweet, man.”

No reply. The record player fades - hum, needle lift, click - finished - silence.

Kev stands - walks to the stereo and turns the album over… Dials the volume in hard, as sledgehammer Sabbath riffs roar back to life. His mop nods time, as he turns - playing air guitar… The guru-grin is back, but not convincing. He walks over to the socket, and plugs in the phone. He bangs out another air-riff. His voice is low - just a pointed aside - “Boys - stay, or go - but Glen’s your ride.”

Glen has head in hands, shaking. He downs the last of his rum. “Mate… One cone for the road. I just... I don’t think I can drive until I calm down.” I think he’s right.

Kev is sitting cross-legged now - eyes closed, drumming on his knees.

Will forms a kind of answer for Glen, “I need to piss, anyway.” He heads up the hall, and Glen reaches for the mull bowl. I’m watching Kev. He doesn’t move, and the phone doesn’t ring. I risk the lounge trap - swallow rum hard… And again… Wiping mouth on flanno sleeve. Still no phone…. I pull another cone, without real cognisance… Sabbath grind on…

Will emerges, looking green but determined. “Davo, man, we might run through a few songs this morning - give ‘em something new at the park. We both have to restring the axes first.” I know he’s ready with other excuses, but that’s all he needs. I confirm, “Yeah, man…. Time to go.”

I look over at Kev… Eyes closed - now flying solo. Glen looks shattered, says nothing - but to my relief, he picks up his keys from the coffee table.

“Take it easy fellas…” smiling Kev, mop-nodding into oblivion. We see ourselves into the faint dawn. I hear one early Kookaburra - and - a car. It’s heading out from Kandos… The dirt road running roars clear across the frosty paddocks. My neck prickles, and I look out towards the… “Oh, fuck!” The headlights swing wide onto the farmhouse drive, my guts turn to ice. Tracy.

Glen snaps, “Get in!”

I fall into the back seat next to Will - our eyes wide, white holes in the dark cab.

Glen gives up scraping at the windscreen ice, and slams into his driver’s seat. The cold old Falcon is a reluctant starter. I hear the spit of gravel behind us, and the headlight glow grows into high beam fire. The car slides right in behind us, nudging the rear of the cab. The garbled yell is deep, furious - as the car door opens. In the eternal grind of struggling starter motor, I’m trying to see Glen’s escape route. The windscreen is frosted opaque, the house in front and parked in from the back.

“You dead cunt!” Tracy roars.

I try for a quick look out the back window. Staring though ice, glass - and into high beams… Nothing.

“You’re fucked!” She yells, and laughs.

My eyes adjust… Just a silhouette… A... A shotgun - shouldered with intent. I drag Will down onto the seat. More laughter from behind… BOOM! Back window jewels fall in pools - I throw my hands over my head. The Falcon kicks over. There’s no way to go. BOOM! Second barrel, -“Fuck!” - more glass. Glen sees a way… He slams into drive, heavy right foot, and pulls hard right-hand down. I feel the back wheels beneath me spin and slide in the frost. More screams from behind, now clear through the shattered window. As the drive tyres grip, I roll across into Will. The back-left corner of the cab kicks off - something? The house? Heavy correction from Glen, but we’re away - sliding, gripping - tearing across the house paddock.

In the tumble-turn, I see Tracy more clearly out my window. She’s climbing back into the Torana, shotgun across her lap. We tear through the fence, scraping and dragging wire strands behind, kicking off tussocks, and bucking wild over the table drain - onto the driveway. I hear the Torana whine in reverse, and swing on gravel. Glen is away - flying… the Kandos morning is tearing loud at us through the smashed back window. Tracy’s headlights fall in. I sit up, not hurt - and see that Will is OK… “Christ!” Glen’s heavy army jacket is pockmark torn off the left shoulder - a dark shape forming.

“Shit, man… You’re shot!” Will sees as well.

“Aw - Aw - Fuck!” Just aware. He shakes himself, and feels along his arm. “Yeah… I’m fine - I think. Fuck!” He wipes his fingers on his jeans. The taxi roars.

We’re ranting now, raving - mad, wild - dumb, fearless. The Falcon pig-roots over the cattle grid, and Glen takes the right-hand onto the Kandos road in an easy, expert slide… Again, I roll across into Will.

“Shit, man - you can really fuckin’ drive!” Will is impressed.

I steal a look out the torn back window. Through clouds of dust, I see Tracy take the corner out of the drive just as convincingly as Glen. In chase. Glen opens up, and pulls away. I picture Tracy, pushing into our dust and sheeting gravel.

“She’s not stopping.” My fear is returning fast…

Will’s as well, “Fuck! Watch those roos, dude.”

Speedy Glen Gonzales is flying into town, breaking unsound barriers. I look at Will. “Inside-out again…” We brush glass off each other - were both shaking, and can’t stop - SLIDE - I see us around a tree - SLIDE - I see us in a paddock, Torana parked behind. But Glen is rock solid - in his element. I turn around, dry-nostrilled in the dust… Tracy’s headlights are now three bends behind us, shining across paddocks - through the trees and dust… Now just a glow in the lightening sky. Glen is trying to convince us that it’ll be sweet by tomorrow… That the park gig will be no dramas… That his arm is fine. I’m hoping he’s right - on all counts.

“Next time fellas…” Glen drops us behind the pub. “This is all just between us - right?”

I’m not thinking about return visits. “Um - yeah - yeah - no worries - next time.” I’m ready with the key, but I don’t need it. The cleaners have beaten us in. We walk into a rock ’n’ roll wasteland, hitting the vicious stale sweet smell like a wall. We fall shaking into chairs.

The older of the two cleaners squawks over the vacuum, loud in my ear, “You boys won’t be long, will ya? We’ve gotta be finished by breaky.” She’s pointing at stage chaos - instruments, amps, drums, PA, lights, empties…

“Nah - just give us a few minutes.” Still shaking, we get up, and climb the stairs. I look at Will, pale white in the gloom, processing one night - now over… Questions? Wondering what the hell we’ve just seen… Thinking of the park rotunda gig in an impossibly short time… Of tonight - the Woolpack in Mudgee. Answers? We don’t say a word… Always searching.

“Tonight’s the night, Will.”

“Yeah, Davo - I believe it is.”

I can’t believe it. Where’s me sleep-in? First day of the hols tomorrow, and I’ve set an alarm… Me new alarm clock - the one that Nanny gave me. It’s a great clock, with numbers clicking over one by one. But when I can’t sleep, it clicks too loud. I’ve packed cheese sangas in me bag, I’m hiding under the blankets in me clothes - CLICK - I know it’s getting late. Mum’s just gone to bed, and Dad’s crashed out watching ‘Prisoner’ on the idiot box. He’ll be snoring before Mum… It’s shearing time, and he’s knackered. He’s built the fire up big - I can hear it crackle. But it’s the end of first term - CLICK - and I’m glad I have the extra blanket.

Here’s the train. I could set the new clock by the big goods train… Every night - ten to ten. It’s huge. Dad reckons on a cold frosty night, you can feel it ten miles away. I dunno ‘bout that. I know I can hear it when it hits the big bridge over Watsons Creek, and that’s a long walk. If I’m still awake - like tonight - I always try and count the trucks as they hit the bridge. One… Two… Three… - CLICK - bloody clock. I give up counting, and picture the bridge. When you stand under it, it looks near high enough to touch the sky. It’s a lot higher than it is wide, and I’m lost in its criss-cross frame. That’s where we’re headed tomorrow. I don’t feel crash-hot. I don’t know how it happened - CLICK - but that’s where I’m going.

All through the last day of school, passing notes, and on the long bus ride home - yak, yak - he wouldn’t let up, “Let’s do it… Let’s go down the bridge tomorrow, Turner.” Davo always calls me Turner, never Craig. I know it sounds rude. But he’s me mate, and mates do that. His real name is David Broughton. He’s two years older than me, but we’re in the same combined class at school. Well - that’s until next year anyway, when Davo goes off to high school in Goulburn. I s’pose he might repeat again. Then we’d both be in year six… And I’d finally catch him.

All up, there are fourteen kids on ‘Willowdale’. But six are girls, and five are little squirts. And Billy’s away at boarding school most of the time, anyway. He and his folks live in the massive posh house - we don’t even go in the fancy gardens, unless we’re invited. They own ‘Willowdale’, and lots more as well. ‘Willowdale’ is a flash racehorse stud, but my Dad and Mr Broughton look after the sheep side of things… I suppose Mr Broughton works for my Dad, who works for Billy’s Dad. It’s complicated. Dad reckons “Sheep pay the bloody bills”, and whinges about the boss - says we’re “treated like serfs” - but he likes his job, really. When it comes to proper kids’ fun, it’s always down to Davo and me.

“Really? The bridge? Billy’s home as well. Why don’t we get everyone together for a kick?”

“Nah… William is a wanker”, he says “William” like the Queen. “Just you and me Turner - down the bridge. Don’t tell ya folks.”

“Yeah, right. Like I’d tell.” I don’t remember saying yes. But - it’s on.

The plan never changes - same bat-time, same bat-channel. Six o’clock at the wool-shed cattle-grid - then head north, up the track next to the row of big pine trees. Those huge pines must’ve been planted a million years ago. It’s a windbreak for the shed. This is ‘Willowdale’ - so windy, a chook can lay the same egg three times. Dad has other jokes about wind. Davo keeps me waiting, then leaps out of the fog like bloody Ben Hall, screaming “Stick ‘em up”. I jump out of me skin, even though I know it’s coming. It’s an old joke, with a new twist…

“No way Davo - you’re kidding”. He’s holding his old man’s twenty-two magnum.

I’m really scared now, but he’s already walking ahead, “We’ll pop a bunny on the way”. I’m still trying to catch up, when I see him crouch at the last pine tree - raise his left hand.

I whisper-yell, “Not here!” The farm has eyes - I know it.

He points at a bunch of tussocks on the edge of the gully, then shoulders the rifle - CRACK. I hear the sharp twenty-two smack back at us from the northern ridge, and echo across the paddocks.

“You’re fuckin’ mad!” He’s not listening. By the time I catch up, he has cracked squealing bunny dead on a half-buried rock, and is now peeling off the skin… A sock from a steaming silver-pink rabbitty foot. No luck for Bugs. “You’re mad. It might be misty… But they’ll hear ya.” I puff, as he flings guts across the paddock, and catches me face in the spray, “Aw - gross.”

“Better than cheese sangas.” He’s talking to the rabbit, not me… He’s already across the gully, and headed north for the scrub. I wipe me face on me tracky sleeve, and hurry after - always bloody chasing.

He’s going over the ridge. Any ordinary idiot would follow the gully down to the bridge, but I know this game too. He leaves me for dead in a scramble up and down - through the scrub, over the bald-rock top, and down the other side. I only really see him when he springs from hiding somewhere to scare me shitless.

“You arsehole…” Even carrying the gun and bunny, he leaves me for dead.

“Pull ya finger out, Turner” he yells “We’ll be late.”

“Plenty of time.” I know I can’t catch him… But I can’t let him go.

By the time I hit the creek flat, he’s already underneath the rail bridge. It’s always bigger than I remember. I slug at the water bottle, hot now in the late morning sun - and walk. Eventually, I fall down on me back, right beside rifle and rabbit.

“Heaps of time” he’s smiling, piling sticks in the mouth of a wombat hole under the bridge. “Let’s get cooking”. He lights the fire, and skewers Bugs with a bent green stick. He hands him over “Time to earn your name, Turner… Roll him ‘round slow and steady - don’t burn him.” So now I’m cooking.

Davo is stripped, and in the creek before I can say a word. It’s been a pretty good autumn, and there is decent water. Davo tears up stream, runs out along the trunk of a downed River Gum, falls in face first… Yeah - I know - Davo’s drowned. He’s gunna let the muddy creek roll him back down under water, and hide himself in the willow on the opposite bank. “Ha ha… Funny bastard. Good one - now - enough. Stop arsin’ around. Shit… Shit… Davo?”

Then I hear it. The prick is laughing, right above me head. I dunno how he’s bloody done it, but he has climbed right up into the bridge without me seeing. Now he’s shaking creek water on me head.

“Oh - you arsehole!”

“Pass up the bunny.”

We’re both laughing now, but I’m not feeling real good. We sit in the bridge frame, and chew black and pink rabbit off the bones. Not bad tucker. But I’m really starting to feel crook.

Davo looks at my watch. “Time to go, Turner.” We feel the train before we hear it.

“Yeah - righto.” I hate this bit.

We climb. Up we go. Its Davo’s favourite game. He swings, part monkey - while I clamber on up behind. Always chasing. It’s a long way to the top, but it’s a bloody lot further looking down. I try not to do that. It feels like we’re climbing for hours - I don’t suppose it’s that long - and the train is tearing on its way… Sydney to Melbourne. I always think of the passengers as I climb, caught up in their newspapers and magazines… No idea of the games us kids play.

“Come on, Turner. Don’t get left behind.” Davo is at the top, laughing like a bloody lunatic. The train is loud now. I’m really concentrating hard, trying to remember Dad’s climbing rules - always have three holds… two feet and a hand, two hands and a foot - careful as I go, moving just one at a time… until…

“Extra treat today, Turner”

I look up. I can’t believe it. Davo has swung himself right up under the track, on the tiny pylon cap, and is sticking his head through the sleepers.

“No way!” I stop, dead-scared.

Davo turns and looks at me, his goofy noggin between the stripy sleeper shadows, big glaring sun behind. “Come on Turner - it’s huge fun!”

“No fuckin’ way!” I don’t like to look down, but that’s what I do. The little fire is sending smoke signals curling up through the bridge frame, and I’m planning my retreat.

“I dare ya, Craig.”

I’ve had enough. “He called me Craig?” The bridge is shaking now, and I’m holding on. I look up again, yelling “Get outta there, you idiot!”

“Ah - ya fuckin’ yella dog coward - get up here!”

“No.”

I can’t hear him now. He’s yelling, the bridge feels like a ride at Luna Park, the train is roaring, and he turns into the sun - to stare down a bloody train. The horn blows long, like the world is ending, and I’m already climbing down. When I get to the bottom, I just keep walking… back home along the gully, eating cheese sangas, like any ordinary idiot.

I get back to the wool-shed just in time to catch the old man at knock-off, and score a ride home. Mr Broughton asks me if I’ve seen Davo. I dodge this one, saying I left him walking back home in the gully paddock. I hope I’m right. Dad’s pretty stuffed, and he’s had a blue with the boss - so there aren’t too many hard to answer questions there. I think back on all the fun I’ve had with Davo - all those adventures, the crazy days… I never really said yes. I s’pose it’ll be different now. I’ll cop it when I see him at the wool-shed dance for cut-out next week. But as Dad drives the ute through the home paddock gate, I don’t feel too bad at all. I said “No” to Davo, and I feel - alright. Sorta bigger. Maybe I caught up with him at last.

“To the lions…” Sally pushed him back stage, both laughing loons.

“Sit there, shut up, be ready”, fold-back sound-guy grace.

Now David Broughton breathed beer-fumes in pitch-black wings, gulping his hip-flask rum - hoping it will temper nerves, and tame the hash joint he’d shared with best mate Sally Carberry… it had seemed like such a rock’n’roll idea. “Only Sal…” He had accepted the gig with a breezy… “Next Tuesday, Manning Bar? Fill spot between the bands? Fifteen bucks? No worries.” He cooly managed to avoid, “Me? First solo gig? Are you mad?” He was now questioning his own sanity.

“Well - it’s one for the money…”

In the loaded pre-gig eternity, he nervously - unwisely - reflected… Six months previously, he was solo jamming in the dust and diesel of the farm’s corro machinery shed. His grand vision involved two dodgy tape decks and a couple of C60s, bouncing electric guitar on electric guitar, with ambient mongrel dog barks, and his old man’s yells. Sal had flatteringly called the tapes “art-noise”. Now he was sitting in brave new university world, holding an acoustic guitar that felt like a strainer post strung with fencing wire. His stomach was stone torture. He swigged rum. “Two for the show…”

The band brought it home in full glorious rock catastrophe, and left nothing on the stage. He heard the crowd roar, and start the bar rush. He walked three drink-sticky steps towards the stage. “Three to get ready…”

The MC ran by, “You’re up”, as the four sweating rock-gods strode past in the other direction. The bass player offered a good-hearted “Have a good one, man”, and stepped on David’s guitar lead, just as he hit the blinding stage. He tripped, regathered, and tripped again on the stage-right fold-back. He heard the dance-floor mob laugh, and felt the stomach stone dissolving. He squinted out expectantly, and saw - nothing - not a damned thing. None of his life-long rock’n’roll imaginings warned him about the sci-fi galaxy wars of blinding stage lights. Sal had promised to blow him a good luck kiss. “Sorry Sal… I’m through the looking glass.” He was a rabbit in headlights. His stunned stoned look betrayed him… And the mob laughed again. Now - the stomach stone is gone. Those holding up the bar at the back of the room heard the laughter, and turned to join the fun. David hit centre-stage, bent to plug in, and his guitar head hit the rock-amped mic… A simultaneous BOOM, and YOWL of feedback. Now they were really laughing hard, and so was David. It’s not that he found it funny… Just pure joy at the sudden stillness inside…

“Now go cat, go!”

“Ah… um… hello… “, a second yelp of feedback punctuated David’s inglorious first big-stage entrance. A klutzy clown walk-on, and a mumbled grunt. Most of the hipper than thou, mid-eighties uni-black Manning Bar crows were cackling. Some were sober sensitive, cringing. But David fell to the Chaplin-esque clowning like a duck to a cream-pie. Amidst the laughter, the eternal pre-gig pain stopped in a frozen, crystalline moment. He will wonder later if the nuclear blast of stage lights didn’t spark some kind of instant hypnosis that stopped the clock, and sent him spiralling back…

Back to a party, suburban back yard lawn, six candles on the cake, and someone plays a record. “Day Tripper? The Beatles?” He sees his future mapped to one lightning strike guitar riff. From that day on, he is a broken record… Endless with “That’s what I’m going to do, mummy… Play guitar.”

Back to the thirteen-year-old boy… Oldest child, only boy in a relentlessly itinerant - routinely skint - farm labouring family, who finally - finally - gets his hands on a guitar. He had taught himself to play mind guitar, a million times over, and now… the gifted jumbo acoustic felt like a missing part of his body, reattached. It was a kindness from his English teacher, Mr Grande. “Permanent loan, mate. The bottom string should be the same note as the start of ‘Day Tripper’…”

“‘Day Tripper’?!” David smiles.

“Yeah… Why?”

“Doesn’t Matter. Anything else?” He’s hungry.

“Tune the second string to the feedback at the start of ‘I Feel Fine’. Fifth fret, bottom string… You’ll get the pattern. After that, you’re on your own.”

Someone from the back of Manning Bar yelled, but he only caught the end… “any Sunnyboys? Come on… No band? Are you on your own?”

He was.

Looking back… He was on his own. The next two years on the farm were a blur… Alone, with old records, Henry Lawson stories, and six bewitching strings. His old man was still toiling, now boiling, as David just - disappeared… The Broughton road forked, and Dave took the ratbag rebel route… No choice. Anything, anybody - that took the guitar away, left him glowering dark. The painful noise of home-grown practice left bloodied hands, and bruised home life. “Get out there and feed the mongrel dogs. I’ll burn that bloody guitar.”

Manning Bar waited, watching the nervous train-wreck debut - but time is still frozen for David. He is tumbling backwards in his mind…

Back to changing schools - again - and heading into town for his final two years. He enrolled in his first formal music subject, surrounded by “proper musicians” - real musicians like Sally Carberry - and he was paralysed with insecurity. The flat-out fear made him leave music for chemistry. It lasted two weeks… whereupon his defeated-dog-depression sent him back to music - his tail between his legs.

“And - you will need to perform a piece for the class once a week.” Mr Bachhoven-Brahms on the piano stool, sounded rounded vowels, resonating strings with no sympathy.

“Oh - perform… a piece?” David’s home-grown agricultural guitar strangs didn’t fall to “pieces”. “I know. I’ll - compose - something, Sal.” He rolled “composed” around his tongue like the punch-line for a bad joke. “Decomposed, more like it.” That’s it… He chugged away, fifth fret, bottom string - the start of ‘I Feel Fine” - and banged out a hillbilly honky-tonk song about the sudden, unexpected death of a mongrel dog… covering his insecurities in clown makeup. He will realise later that it was Lawson’s “Loaded Dog” bounding after him. Sal laughed, along with most of the class. Even Mr Amadeus-Strauss grinned at the climactic “hit by a fuckin’ great truck” - another bad punch-line.

The uni-black bar crows were getting edgy. The walk-on laughs were gone, and David’s insecurities returned. “Should I? Oh - what the fuck… “. He rolled the dice. He pushed aside the list of clever and cunning songs he’d prepared for the uni hip-kids, wiped his brow with farm-flanno-sleeve, and reached for a recycled-time-rhyme. He hit the fifth fret, bottom string, in a honky-tonk groove, it fed-back through the PA - and he felt… fine. “Well, the mongrel black dog was a-walkin’ on down the road… “. Just like the dog with the truck, no one in Manning saw it coming. The punch-line landed a tidy little glancing blow. But as the laughter fell away, so did the crowd. The next three clever, cunning songs gathered some interest, smattering applause, and a sea of uni-indifference. David clowned his way off, while one wag punter howled like a dog. The gig was done.

“Well… I never saw that coming!” Sally was the only other person in the bar to have heard both live performances of David’s “Mongrel Black Dog”, but she just rolled her eyes at the privilege. After pushing him behind the curtain, she crawled quickly back to a darkened solo table under the window. Despite her best wishes, she is ripping apart inside… Fearing for her fragile best friend up there, naked on the stage. The hash joint was working it’s rock’n’roll wonders, but now the accompanying paranoia was kicking in. Damn. “Only David…”

Sally had - in truth - only showed at the gig in support of her friend, and spent most of the four songs watching strangers watching David. They’d been best mates since he had blown into the country town boarding school - a welcome southerly change. But his music always seemed so dangerously seditious. And while she acknowledged his “wild beast’s skill”, quoting Paterson to his Lawson, she does sometimes darkly think that his music will be how David dies. Her own musical life was worlds apart… Fifteen years of violin study, favouring slow baroque works - and now… Too many ‘Smiths’ records for David’s liking. Sally was the town GP’s only daughter, and the latest in a long Carberry line to do their time at Sydney Uni. Her rebellion was to reject the family business, and study Economics Law, with humanitarian ideals. Music was side-lined to a hobby. She was the only Wiradjuri woman in her course… Her dear mother’s side - she called it her life-line. She wondered if it was in her Aboriginality, that she found the bottomless pools of empathy for David… David the tortured artist, the storyteller, forever misfit, and yes - the pain in the arse. No one in David’s family had seen the inside of a university, and he would claim to be “majoring in dropping out as slowly as possible.” Sally knew his insecurities - had seen too much of what she called “Dark Dave”.

The gig was a swirling blur for both Sally and David, and when it finished, he fell relieved into her hug. They waited for a take-away bottle, raving smiles. As the next band roared into gear, they paid for the Bundy, and fly-walked buzzing joyous… straight out the door.

“Hey, that really was… great!” Sal is honestly pleased, proud. Impressed.

David swings his guitar case hand to hand, “Yeah… I think it was.”

They were off-campus now, sipping rum, ripping up King Street, bouncing off shop windows.

“If our oldies could have seen that, they’d…”

“They’d have - um…” They laughed at images they couldn’t form - absurd pictures… Incongruous thoughts of worlds colliding across time. The headstrong explosions of two nineteen-year-old kids, striding into the brave new late-eighties. They held no awareness of their “oldies” at nineteen, nor the endless generations who had walked these lines. But they were right. This was their time.

They fell shoulder to shoulder through the terrace door, and collapsed - still laughing - feet up on the board and brick coffee table.

“They really did laugh, Sal”

“I know. You’re mad… Where did you pull the ‘Mongrel Black Dog’ from?”, Sally smiles, rolling up another number.

“I had nothing else.” David was drinking quicker now.

They were the only two in the crowd who could not answer the unspoken question… Were they laughing with him, at him, or a combination of both?

“They did clap… A bit. Did they like the ‘Mongrel Dog’?” David’s insecurities were returning, with interest.

“They did - mate.“ Sal lit the joint and pulled hard, covering an awkward silence. “It was… fine.”

“It was the stage lights I think. When the tuning went south of sour, I just couldn’t pull it back. And that feedback… Where the hell did that come from? Next time, I’ll…” David is sinking fast.

“David - it felt fine.” Sally passes him the joint. “Hey, have you finished your Phil essay?” It was the only subject they had in common, and the best change of subject she could find. “Due tomorrow, you know.”

“What? Oh - no - no - haven’t started. I’ve been working on the gig. I really wasn’t sure which song to play second. Maybe - maybe they only liked ‘Mongrel Dog’… I could feel them drifting away after it. Do you think… “

“It felt fine.” Sally cuts him off too sharply, “The whole thing was - fine.” She’s suddenly tired. She passes him the joint, thinking, “Here comes Dark Dave”.

She stood, stretched, “Anyway - see you there if I see you there.” She walked to the door. David was smoking, sinking fast. “Don’t go yet… It’s only half-ten. How about a jam?” Sally knew they had never been able to connect over music, and she knew David knew that too. He was desperate, depressed. “Well, the mongrel black dog ain’t got no soul at all.” She tried a half-laugh, and sat on the edge of his chair, “I’ll stay for a bit. Just - don’t sing.”

David flicked his guitar case latches, and lifted the lid… “Oh fuck! Fuck! I’ve left me guitar strap.” It hurt him beyond reason. By now, he felt it to his marrow - the gig was a disaster… He did not want to go back to Manning. Not then, not ever. It’s was his worst nightmare. He would have let the ringing phone ring out, but Sally answered. “It’s Cheryl at the uni bar… they’ve got your strap “.

“Yeah”, Dave did not want to have this conversation.

Cheryl was sunny, bellowing over the bar clatter, “David, you pissed off early man... Your strap is behind the bar. If you don’t need it now, pick it up Friday - play another fill spot for us - if you want? We’ve got Died Pretty. It’ll be huge.”

“Yeah? Yeah… alright… Friday.” David’s forever turning weather-cycle mood just rolled around again… His low-front lifted. But even as he shone a cloud-break smile at the note of approval, the slow-build of a pre-gig fear storm topped the horizon. Sally raised her eyebrows - matching his loaded smile… The black dog was back on the chain - for now.

Cheryl went to hang-up, then adds “Oh - and David… Maybe - Don’t play the dog song. We’re pretty well unanimous down here.”

“Yeah, man… Nah - no worries.”

Well, the mongrel black dog was a’walkin’ on down the road.

Well, the mongrel black dog was a’tryin’ to loosen his load.

Wel, the mongrel black dog is a real bad son of a bitch.

Well, the mongrel black dog was a’walkin’ on down the street.

Well, the mongrel black dog was a’lookin’ for something to eat.

Well, the mongrel black dog ain’t got no soul at all.

Well, the mongrel ball dog was a’walkin’ on down the road.

Well, the mongrel black dog was a’tryin’ to loosen his load.

Well, the mongrel black dog got hit by a fuckin’ great truck.

David’s earliest memory… Christmas, and clinging koala-like to his dear Nan’s hip, and waltzing giddy “You are my sunshine, my only…” How old? He’s tiny… He must’ve been two, three tops. The recollection is golden joyous.

Now it’s Christmas, David is fifty-one, and Nan is dying. He gathers his own family, smallest child on hip, and sings into the microphone “I dreamt I held you in my arms.” He drops the recording onto CD, piles kids in car, and drives the six hours to his Nan in less than five.

Nan is holding on at home - David’s first home - for her beloved Christmas. They help Nan to her chair, and put up decorations - willing her over the line to Christmas time. No one is confident, but David looks in her eyes and has a shy hope that she’ll make it. The angel on high on tree, they sit and play Nan her recorded gift.

“Our song”, Nan’s spirits lift and she manages a chorus “You make me happy, when skies are grey.”

David and the kids swing in, “You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take…” No one completes the chorus.

Nan is so small, so reduced, that he could have taken her on his hip. They hold hands, and her eyes smile sunshine tears.

He can’t leave… Until - he leaves - the kids sleep in silence. He “hung his head and cried.”

Nan made Christmas, then flew away into song.

A rich smear of first light autumn sun pushed past the big gum on the eastern ridge, poured across the lambing paddock, swept aside the half-closed curtains, and rudely made itself known through Natalie Giancoli’s defiant, drawn eyelids. Too early. The gig wasn’t for hours. Six o’clock, Main Concert Stage, Port Fairy Folk Festival. Six o’clock, Main Stage! She turns away from the window, “Get back to sleep, you goose…”, But the air is loaded, silent. She can’t sleep. Something is - missing.

Eyes still closed, she realises, “Where’s the morning magpie chorus? My alarm never fails…” Uneasy, she opens one eye, two… John is sleeping sweetly, soundly - and… Silently? He doesn’t have his chainsaw snore roaring. “And I can’t even sleep in celebration… That’d be right!”

She pads down the carpeted hall, and feels strangely claustrophobic, like the walls are pushing in. “Kids are quiet too… And no bawling from Sally and her calf yet. Maybe I will get the fiddle out after all.” She knows that cramming isn’t much use for anything but settling the nerves. But this is a big one. At twenty-seven, this fiddler-come-farmer has finally cracked her local festival. Her four-piece band is hot, and after twenty years, her fiddle - John calls it her third arm - is finally feeling like a dear friend. The repertoire is a fierce challenge though… Arrangements she has crafted with her trademark - stratospherically high expectations. “Yep… Time to practice.”

Walking into the kitchen, she notices an unfamiliar whine through her foggy morning head, and blames the dodgy fridge. She kicks the kettle into gear, and reaches for her favourite mug… Life is a song. It is only when she sits the mug on the counter does she realise. She bangs it down harder, and her heart falls into her feet. She can barely hear a sound. That miserable little sniffle that she was passing off as hay fever… “I can’t hear”, she says aloud, loud in her head.

Natalie turns and walks over to her fiddle, still sitting on the dining table after last night’s session - shoulders it, and flicks her left fingers across the strings. It’s a movement natural as breathing, but this breath holds no oxygen. She looks down the neck - the four heart-strings - and watches an infinite array of nuanced notes fade away, falling like leaves into a bleak murky scrub. She cries. She sends five identical texts - the band, and the festival director - turns her phone off, and hides it in the desk drawer. She throws on her coat and boots at the back door, and heads out to milk… “Welcome to my nightmare Sal.”

The new little Mazda slid into the corner too fast, and Wayne Rogan braced. He knew he was in trouble, and cursed the damned lamb-marking - making him late for footy. When the car hit the table drain, he cracked his head hard on the driver’s side window. Wayne never imagined a car would roll so slowly… He counted each gravel-kicking spin, until he lost consciousness on the third turn. He didn’t see how neatly the sideways Mazda picked the gap between the big strainer-post, and the even bigger road-side gum - Billy Slater screaming through the middle of the ruck… A life-saver. The ripping spinning car tore the fence away, and flew a decent torpedo punt into the farm’s front paddock, where it fell upside down against another big gum. Wayne hung bleeding and limp from the seatbelt.

Wayne’s old man Ted was following into town. He drove the farm ute straight through the same gap, yanked on the handbrake, and leapt from the cab. As Ted dragged his broken son through the misshapen window, Wayne came to, and thrashed wildly in a flat panic. He screamed, he swore… “Fuck! Fuck! Aw man… “, His senses slowly coming together, he stopped struggling, wiped blood from his eyes, and looked back at the wreck, “Aw - look at the car. Shit Dad, it’s a write-off. Fuck! Life sucks!”

The wiser man cradled his son’s head, “It’s better than the alternative.”

The fly-screen hung from the window frame, and flies buzzed without favour - inside and out. Shaun didn’t notice. His aching shearer’s back dropped down, creak onto cot. He tore the end off the envelope, breathless. Wednesday was mail day - the Cocky had delivered the post before breakfast. But he’d stopped himself reading the letter from the missus in front of the other blokes. Something about his Annie’s careful, formal lettering had made him edgy… Since when did she call him Mr Shaun Fulton? He had tucked the letter under his mattress, but it didn’t leave him all day. He could feel the loaded anticipation behind every blow… He easily knocked over his best numbers of the shed. Now, he had an hour before tea to put his fears to rest.

As he unfolded the letter, his eye caught random phrases… “…not planned…”, “…sorry, but… “, “…just happened…”. “Over.” Over? By the time he started at “Dear Shaun,” he knew how the story ended. He read the letter as slow-moving torture. “You don’t know him…”, “We’re in love.” He read of his world falling apart in a bad movie script. The balled paper dropped to the lino floor. He turned to the wall, and slapped flies dead one by one. He didn’t make tea.

The fibro-shelled kitchen-dining leaves no room to swing a cat. The table runs near wall to wall, eroded smooth, and sat on weary lino - mopped thin. There is just enough room to perch the Johnson family for meals, to sit neighbours down for a cuppa and chat… Endless tea deliveries - full cup, empty cup, full cup, empty cup - just a two-step to the kitchen, maybe a song-line-like waltz swing over the screen door dance floor - if the smiles are shining… “You are my sunshine, my only… “. This tiny room holds this working family close… Against social atomisation odds and rising consumer gods - circle the wagons.

The problems of the world are sorted in here… problems pointed at off-hand through lace curtains, washed - but white in name only - softening a small window looking south over the little garage, and to the street. Dad’s home…

“Call your father up for tea.” Pat Johnson’s evening refrain.

“What are we having?” They all knew their lines.

“Bread and duck under the table.”

Big Dripping meals keep them strong. Vegetables are cooked until there is no doubt. Three kitchen skin layers scrubbed away each Thursday - house day - yet every meal lingers… Dripping smell.

House Thursday, little shop Tuesday, big shop Friday, church for Mum and the kids on Sunday - Dad reckons it’s just up and down like emus… “I don’t need a roof between me and the big fella.” But tonight, is Saturday night. Card night. Dad holds up his KB long-neck… “This is what makes it all worthwhile”.

As the last fork falls, Marie Johnson clears for washing-up, and catches herself happy home… She has escaped her mistake, though she has brought home reminders. She is joyous and terrified over what her Dad is calling her “belly full of arms and legs”, but she is hoping the memories of her new baby’s father fade with her bruises. There has not been much smiling lately. But the well-worn Johnson routine is healing magic.

Mum throws the green checked card blanket in another conjurer’s trick - cards, coins, pickled onions, ashtrays, Marlboros and matches… Dad’s second long-neck never left the table. Magic. Marie smiles over her shoulder, and Charlie Johnson grins in return. “Leave it, love - come and sit for a warm-up round.”

“Yeah, right.” Marie savours the warmth as she washes, and falls dreamy… But the reverie is cut short, as she feels the V8 rumble she thought she had shaken, and turns to the sink - sinking. Then - the two-tone fall of the doorbell.

Dad doesn’t stop dealing, “Come in if you’re good looking.” His call is an eddy in the low-ceiling smoke.

“It’s too early.” Mum’s words are casual, but her face is intuition dark.

Matt had rolled the Holden across the lawn like he owned the place. He bounded the twelve front steps, there by three. He has come to reclaim his baby-girl, and his baby. “Marie home?” He blusters over the screen door slam. But the quick steps - bright summer evening sun, to shaded front porch, to dark hall - lead him eyes-wide into darkness. He sees his own face falling in the hall mirror - his collapsing courage. Now, only desperation drives him. As he hits the flouro-lit, smoke-filled dining room, he’s blinded. And where there’s smoke…

It is the last little fibro house on Morton street. The Johnsons have clung to their border country yard, as new neighbours - one by one - moved brick mini-mansion armies to the garish new Colour-bond borderlines.

“How’d ya be… ratting ‘round in there?” Charlie was honestly bemused.

Pat was more angry. “The world’s going to pot! We used to have a Blue Mountain view. It gets shady so early - I’ve given up on the garden… Nothing grows anymore.”

Matt stalled at the stilled dining-room door - silent, but for the washing-up clink and splash… Marie hasn’t turned. Charlie doesn’t look up, but he squares his shoulders. Pat subconsciously edges between the door and Marie. No one says a word. Matt goes to speak, but his throat catches in the smoke. He coughs. He grabs for air, and coughs again. And again. A downward spiral now, breathes smoke - coughs - breathes again. He feels like he’s dying, but no one moves to help… They are holding fast in judgement. As he backs away down the hall, Matt bends double and waves wildly across his face, trying to clear the air. He hawks so hard, he can later blame his tears on the smoke. Marie will blame hers on the steaming sink. No one says a word.

That summer inched by, an unrelenting crawl of hot, dry, dusty days. Lindy’s last school holidays before high school - she had wanted them to stretch forever. But here she was… The big school - big change for a small-town kid. Lindy sat nervously through the hot first morning. She didn’t make friends easily… She was in a pressure cooker, boiling on the summer heat. One endless class after another, she aimed for invisible - and just about made it. When the lunch bell rang, she tucked herself under a tree with her cheese sangas, and squirrelled nose-down re-reading ‘Harry Potter’.

“Hey - Lindy - come have a kick.” Clare was one of only three kids who had been at her Primary school.

“Nah… I’m right.” Lindy felt queasy.

“Come on… Do you good.” Clare dragged her onto the oval.

“You can play - can’t you?” A town kid looked dubious.

The game started half-hearted, hot in the sun. Lindy felt awkward, and wanted to hide. But the ball found her. She aimed a kick, and fell hard on her backside. The laugher wasn’t cruel, but it cut deep, and she wanted to crawl underground. In her despair, she hadn’t noticed the storm clouds gathering.

As a sudden gust blew from the south, a hand was offered in kindness…

“Best trick of the day”, Craig helped her up as the first drops of rain splashed puffs of dust. She smiled a half-smile.

The heavens opened in a roar, and Michelle threw her arm around her with a warm-hearted yell, “Too funny Lindy! Welcome to the team.” The timely rain fell hard, and Michelle swung Lindy until they both fell laughing dizzy back to the grass. As they regained their feet, the other kids circled in joy… The soccer ball left in a growing puddle near one goal.

Rain stuck streams of Lindy’s hair to her cheeks. Her drenched uniform hung long on her frame. She arched her back, looked up into the stinging downpour, and breathed - really breathed - for the first time that day.

“Sleep light, wake early” - Lieutenant Liffey’s nightly advice, until the day he himself failed to heed it… And then…

Now back with his folks, in his Grenfell farm bed, ‘Rabbit’ sweats in screwed sheets every horror nightmare night. At sixteen, Billy ‘Rabbit’ O’Reiley had bounced onto the peninsula, brim-filled with freckled grin courage. But it leeched slowly into Turkish blood mud tears, until Liffey closed his eyes… Then… The courage drained, a giant plug-hole whirlpool in his soul.

His mother’s nightly kindness is a contrasting - hopeless - “sleep well”. He is broken. The folks down town don’t speak, but whisper “shell shock”. He smothers the gutless-given silent screaming white feathers… But he doesn’t throw them away. They sit under his new bedside table, shoe-boxed with his discharge. He doesn’t sleep well. He sleeps light, wakes early.

On his nineteenth birthday - he wakes to a terror… He sees a savage broken face which drills new depths of fear. Chilled white, he can’t stop the scream as he leaps away towards the door. His mother had finally fallen asleep, but hears the yell and the floorboard running. She flies. He shoulders the fox-ready-loaded Lithgow Lee Enfield, sat by the back door. She arrives to see him leap into the house paddock. He turns towards the house to face his attacker. She calls “Billy”, stepping out into the yard. As she hears the shot, she realises her mistake. The new bedside table has a mirror. He sinks in sudden awareness, screams, slams the bolt, fires again.

Billy and his mum are not war casualties. The real cost is never counted.

Shrinking days, early frost… the late autumn chill didn’t help Mick’s icy mood. But it was the job that currently left him cold. His teaching work - ordinarily his great joy - was an impossibility, a fiction, a farce. Three weeks into term two, and his bright-eyed Year Five students were falling into darkness.

“Aw - Mr Moran - what do we need to know this for?”

“Yeah - When are we going to use this stuff?”

Just into the third year of his career - his vocation - and Mick already had a thousand answers to these familiar drones. In fact, he had lately learned to let the kids answer for each other… using his finest resource, what he felt was his competitive advantage - the joyous diversity of his western Sydney school. It was invariably one of the several recent arrivals from distant lands who would put some fine focus on the role education played in a happy life.

“You don’t need to know it, mate… “, was Ahmed’s memorable response, “but I’m pretty happy to be somewhere where I CAN know it. Give it a go… ya mug!”, and Mr Moran had covered a quiet laugh. Ordinarily there were almost limitless enjoyable ways to face down the “What’s this for” challenges. But this time of year, was very hard for everyone… This was NAPLAN test preparation, and neither he, nor his sparky kids, had answers.

He had left preservice teacher training with several well practiced ideas on the importance of standardised testing. He’d been taught to toe the NAPLAN line. Now the grim reality set in… And this year, after the big transfer, his frustrations grew to despair. He had moved to Williams Public with every ambition to take on the kids with English as a second, third - or in Li-An’s case - fifth language, and while the challenges had been substantial, so had the rewards. Now he was watching the priceless teaching hours slip away, day after testing day.

Despair is not too strong a word. He had a started feeling unwell most mornings before school, “I’m really crook… I don’t feel like I can make it in today“, he’d wake with a groan, before remembering… His long-term partner Shaun had calmly left the flat a week ago - after another of Mick’s nightly tirades, “I love you. I followed you to Sydney, and I’m not gone forever. Call me when the tests are done.” Mick pointed no fingers, but he wasn’t yet sure about calling him back. And now, his dreams had turned physically violent… He actually pictured himself hitting out at the kids, and he wasn’t even surprised. “Well, I bludgeon them with blunt testing every day”… day after testing day.

“Why do we need to know this?”

“I don’t think I have an answer”, and the thought shocked him. NAPLAN. When the cheekier kids asked him about the life-skills offered by learning to “best-guess” a multiple-choice test, he stared angrily. When they easily saw through junk food learning to future knowledge malnutrition, he turned away. When a tearful parent took time off work to ask if there was anything he could do to ease their child’s sleepless anxiety, he was too honest, and was called in to answer to the boss. When he saw the cultural biases of the tests repeatedly disadvantage children like Ahmed and Li-An - the very kids he sought to reach, and the kids who most needed the teaching time he was losing - he cried. When Li-An herself asked if he thought NAPLAN would help in her ambitions to be a teacher like him, he stopped his hidden tears, and finally found an answer, “Don’t be a teacher!”, then quickly qualified with a hollow, “I mean - all jobs have their challenges.”

“Don’t be a teacher.” Not good. The regretted words spiralled and echoed through the day. He’d been told he’d make a good teacher since he was Li-An’s age. On his first school day as prac teacher, when the challenges had almost beaten him, his supervisor had told him that in time, he would be a great teacher… That great teachers were born to the job. He had tirelessly worked his way through university, making coffee fifteen hours a week to pay his way, and then graduated at the very top of a talented cohort. After accreditation, he took to the game as a duck to water, as everyone knew he would. He cruised through endless ten-hour work days, overcoming exhaustion with the great teacher’s creed, “I’m making a difference.” He’d faced every challenge that rising managerialism, and the growing relentless drive for reporting, had thrown his way with a shrug of “whatever it takes.” He wore the bore of forever commuting - from the kind of rented flat he could afford on a teacher’s salary, to the school that needed his teaching skills. He politely tolerated the endless line of tradesmen, bank tellers and shop assistants, dinner-party companions, strangers at the pub - it seemed like every second person - who felt inclined to generously voice their advice as self-styled experts on his profession… One that he knew he wouldn’t master in a lifetime. And now… shaken to his core in the terrible NAPLAN wastelands, the best he can find is an angry “Don’t be a teacher” to a bright little ten-year-old girl. “Yeah… fine pastoral care, there Mick”. He’s been teaching for two and a half years.

“Don’t be a teacher? Ouch!” He tried every trick he knew driving home through Sydney peak hour pressures, and while he distracted himself, the angry reply to Li-An still smarted. At home… he didn’t eat. He finished his fast-found fancy Shiraz in two gulps, and fell into bed exhausted. He woke early - surprisingly refreshed. “Too tired to dream I suppose. That’s good.” He left for work early for the first time in weeks, happy - he thought - because he had time to treat himself to a Flat White from his favourite little hole in the wall, before facing the morning traffic crawl into school.

“Morning Sal… You look rushed.”

“Usual Mick?”, puffing, running to the coffee machine with her silver milk jug. Mick was getting to know Sally - well enough to know that she herself was in teacher training, and he thought darkly of that as he nodded. Sally answered, “Yeah, I’m on me own… Bloody Gian let us down - again. Last time. You don’t know anyone who can make a good coffee do ya?”

Before he knew what he was saying, “Yes Sally. I think I do”.

He composed two speeches on the way to work. The first was an apology and explanation for a ten-year-old future teacher. The second was a resignation.

“Hello…?”

“Out-back.”

A western-suburbs-Sydney hundred-in-the-shade summer’s day, and the party had fallen under the backyard’s only tree - laughing on backs, on lawn. The esky emptying fast, grog runners sent. Ice-water fights left hair and shirts dripping - where shirts were still on. Matty was drenched… always first, best, biggest, loudest. Little sister Rachel’s twenty-first was cooking over a fast heat, and Matt was burning bright. Few of the gathered mates could have told you that the southerly had blown in an hour ago. It stirred great wheels of dust, whipping dripping cheeks with dried grass now sticking wet. Inversely entwined, the wild party heat rose as the temperature fell.

“Just once… “, Marie swore, “For Christ’s sake, just once I’d like to ditch bloody Mum, get to a damned party before the smell of beer is my only screen door welcome.” By nature, Marie Johnson was her good Catholic mother’s daughter… But you’d never dare mention it. Not when she’d just sat through another tidal wave of straight-jacket nagging, and hell-fire tears. Certainly not as she nervously, rebelliously stepped through Rachel’s folks’ dark humid hall. These were her older brother’s footy mates and their girls, out of public school, into the Royal - fellas the bar, girls the lounge… And crucially, a world away from Marie’s own “bloody Mum”.

“Hey! Marie!” Matty was too welcoming, and the gang - as ever - followed him with a hard-to-read laugh. “Spumante darl?” It didn’t ease her nerves, but the rebel bloomed…

“One of those”, Marie corrected, pointing at Matt’s ‘Rech’s’ can, “today!” “Hey - Rach - got a glass?” Marie’s Bacardi bottle went down hard on the picnic table - loaded, cocked, aimed, and… “Cheers!”

Marie met Matt’s car first. His big, red, bloody near brand new, almost straight, not entirely legal, pride and joy. She heard the thunder of home-grown Holden V8 a block before she saw the car outside The Royal, and then… Matty’s goonish grin, elbow out the window. Lion’s roar… Law of the jungle.

Rachel yelled “Saturday arvo” over the idle-rumble.

“Great Rach… Never miss a party!” A spontaneous acceptance, and sharp flutter of awareness that it was Matt who never missed a party. And now he’s handing Marie a beer, wide-eyed in mock admiration.

“I didn’t know you were a ‘Reckers’ girl ‘Rie”

“You don’t know much, Matthew.”

All bluff… Outside, she was all southerly cool drinking beer grin. Inside, breaking apart, in… What was it? Fear? No. Fear was turning away - walking the seven suburban blocks back into her parallel universe home. No - this is…

“Even me Mum’s stopped calling me Matthew.”

“Maybe that’s where she went wrong, mate.”

His grin cracks, sharpens… his bare left shoulder leans in, she feels skin wet from beers, cheers, water fights. Clink on her tinnie, and the party fades to a murmuring blur.

“Maybe… “, he whispers, and with a vague snarl “What do you reckon?”

It’s not fear. But it’s not exactly not fear.

He regretted it before his jibe moved air. Matty had been taught hard… Keep your fists up, strike early and often. And now - he thinks he’s scared her. He saw Marie flinch, cursed his fierce tongue, and lost his balance through his own fear of what she might do. But - she didn’t pull away, only closer…

Matt somehow sensed a life-line in Marie. He knew hard times were getting harder. As a kid, his father was absent, violent when home, drunk either way. And now - pissed off for good. Maybe dead. Fine. But his mum has stopped calling him “Matthew”. She rarely speaks. He lost his job in a hangover, and dodgy knees ended his glorious half-back career. At the fine age of twenty-two, he is drinking away the fear of life slipping out from under him. He’s still sharp enough to see that. And since he first caught Marie’s eye, riding his burbling HT into the pub carpark, there seemed this last angelic chance - a last roll of loaded furry rear-view dice.

He sipped, clinked tinnie on tinnie, took a longer draw, and met her eyes, “Don’t fuck this up, dickhead.” - it rang so loud in his head he worried she’d heard. Another silent whisper, “don’t fuck it up.”

“It must be here somewhere, man… “. Will scrambled under his unmade bed, behind the mouldy-backed cupboard, under the hippy rug that covered his tiny, dark, dank bedroom’s floor. But the hopes of Will finding his secret stash, like his hopes of making the great Spring come-back gig, are gone. They used to call out ‘Man Maloney’… Chant it over and over until he hit the first notes of the great guitar God solo, then the earthquake roar. You’d hear it over the band’s own self-styled thunder. It’s not that Will cared - in that moment - for the hero’s acclaim. There was plenty of time later for post-gig prizes. But the roar, the thunder, were Zen-like moments of sky-cracking unity… For the crowd, for the band, for the crew, all for one and one for all… The bed creaks. Will falls under the weight of past dreams, lost glories… and sings, “Must be here somewhere”.

“Where did it all start?” Will must’ve been small. Nature, nurture? It’s a moot point. Glorious four-on-the-floor-rock-and-roll was Will Maloney’s oxygen, and given spark - it burned. Anything else in his life just fed the machine. Every breath, bite and step. Every shot, cone, line. Every ten-hour drive for a four-hour gig. Every damned choice he made, making his folks ask “Why? Why?”… There really was only one answer, best formed by his band striding like Gods across the stage. He’d form other inadequate responses… “Lightning only strikes you if you’re willing to stand in the storm.” And - damn it - lightning did strike. Not every night - every gig. But often enough to leave him on the road. Often enough to leave the folks who heard him still talking in awed whispers. The storm is over. The music is gone. But… the echoes… flashes… And Will is still, still on the road. “I’m getting it together, man. I’ve rebuilt the Marshall. I’m booking gigs for the Spring.” The music is gone, and Will’s life is a glorious song.

Love? Love? What can I say that a billion writers have not said already? Well.. here goes… Falling. Mostly falling. The great joyous fall. Then - sometimes - the pain of failure to live up to love. But oh the joy! That big rush of first love, revealing strange parts of you that were previously not within your ken. That love - is madness. I feel overwhelmed by fortune to have experienced it in a mainline adult dose - three times. That’s my other half and two kids. I’m glad I won’t experience it again. That love is crazy big.

But even deeper - wider - is the forever running river love that flows under all. I know I’ll never cross, ford, negotiate that one - and this is a good thing. I’ll just swim. When I’m lazy, I’ll float. We’ll paddle our own canoe. Oh - and I’ll always have a line in. There’s always a soul feed of fish to be had. Are gill-nets illegal in that river? Answer yes, or turn your head. This is the river love that powers my world. It doesn’t run dry. A permanent transiency, forever anew. Love? That’s about it.

Glorious beach, and subtle shrieks with each sinking step falling into hot dry sand. Stepping up the motivation for an icy change. Surf’s up. Slap onto the wet stuff firm, and finally… In with a rush, splash, look out fish. A north-facing beach on the NSW mid-north coast. Borderland. Of course, it’s rolling chaos for an inexpert country boy. The ocean planet’s fierce wake-up call… A timely reminder to be here now. Wow, that was a big one - soar - dunk - cough - splutter - fly - half-drowned… and streaming salty happy tears. I’ll swim until midnight if the coast is clear.

Mother was my life’s first dichotomy. I’m spoilt for choice… And boy was I spoilt. I landed on Australian dirt to an unwed teenage Catholic mum who clung to me against the “give it to us and we’ll find it a home” odds. “There are people who deserve children, you know!” And my mum could only stake this claim against this conservative bigotry by accepting a familial job-share with her own mother… my dear nan. I was enveloped in love by people that I now see were in a kind of joyous pain. I’m guessing I was a pain. They were kind enough to call me their pride and joy. A broken home? An abusive, and soon to be absent father? Well… yes, in retrospect. But I’m not aware of feeling any of this. I recall arms and kisses, wrestles and firecrackers. Weetbix with honey. There were songs and dancing, and laughter. I remember playing the dozy kid to stake my own claim on either mum’s lap at late night card nights. Hazy smoky KB card nights on blanketed table with snacks and sweet drink. And two laps waiting.

Water is desire. A farm kid learns to do without, or to make-do with an inch in the bottom of the bath, and as oldest kid - last in. Water recedes, more mud showing, sun-dried cracking, drinking water comes on a truck, sheep die, sheep die again - and again… And then - rain comes. It’s a well-established pattern. Mind you - drinking tank water spoils you for life, and every town tap is forever disappointing. I drink water - tap or tank - by the gallon. It’s my tonic. I find myself wondering if it was the scarcity as a kid that makes me knock it down in such quantities now. Hard - dry, soft - wet… Life’s like that. Wet times are home times. Braving the driveway after decent rain is a short-lived adventure. Rain makes inside work less edgy. Rain is a writer’s friend. So now, as a big grown-up village kid writer, I’m as happy as ever to see the rain. I still check the dams, I still think of the sheep, and I still love the rain… just not on the first day of a Test Match. I have limits.

We rocked and rolled… repeated rhythmic crescendos of rattling trains and bouncing buses - hip flask and mojo in sweet harmony - rocketing us bullshitting tablelands kids into the Bondi sun and surf. Slamming tequila, and getting slammed in the waves. When the bands started at the Hordern, we were ready. I was 14… I was born ready! Oils… Oils… I’d never seen a band in concert, let alone this band at this time - and I knew, that my world was in here. A black sheep in the home paddock. My place. My own rock ’n’ roll heart burst through my chest in a wall of sound louder than anything I’d ever heard, and building song into glorious song - light brighter than a million suns. And then, it hit. I knew the song. I knew the stop was coming. But it hit like the universe cracking apart, and we fell into a deep dark black shattering silence… And the band held that black stop forever. Long enough for the crowd to recover it’s roar by degrees. I fell forwards into that black, and I’m still falling.