Plan, Elevation And End Elevation Ipod

Plan, Elevation and End Elevation Collected Short Stories By Graham Lees Elevation One In 1974 I was working in London. That was when the newspaper offices and most of the production was still done on and around Fleet Street. I was employed as a photo compositor, or “paste-up artist” for a publisher near the corner of Fleet Street and Chancery Lane. I only worked there for a few months while the three-dayworking-week was on. There was a coal miner’s strike and an Arab oil embargo at the same time. The Tory government of Ted Heath would not give in to the demands of the Union and the Arabs held Europe to ransom over the price they would accept before resuming the supply. In the meantime, there was not enough fuel to generate electricity so everyone was ordered to cut production by only working for three days a week. But that really doesn't have anything to do with this story. The building I was in was one of those old turn-of-the century brick and stone monstrosities, six or seven storeys high and still covered with the grime from decades of London’s smog, or “pea-soupers” as Poms so eloquently put it!

Anyway, the state of the building was almost beyond salvation and I believe it was pulled down a few years later, but in February, 1974, it was a dimly-lit, smelly, unsafe workplace with groaning floorboards and an even more groaning elevator, or “lift” as we called them back then. It was one of the old-style ones with a little dial which you turned to let it know which floor you wished to visit. Unlike most of the other lifts around, this had a fully enclosed car rather than the cage sort which were more common in these old buildings. It probably had something to do with the fact that paper was transported in it and air currents in a moving open lift would cause sheets to blow around. I don’t know if that is the reason but I’ll offer it as a possible explanation why this building had an enclosed lift car. The heavy machinery: the presses, collators, folders, guillotines, stitchers and other printing and binding equipment were in the basement and on the ground floor. This was for two reasons. The weight of all this iron and steel was better suited to the more stable flooring than it would be to ancient oak boards upstairs. Also it meant that materials could be fork-lifted off the lorries at the loading platform and would not have to be driven far to the production area. Similarly, the books and magazines would only have a short journey back to the dispatch zone. So here was me, shivering through my second English winter, alone in a lift car on my way to the drawing board I called my work station. There were no computers on desks in those days and only the very latest photo-typesetters were computerised. There were the good old IBM Selectrics with their “golf-ball” fonts and a few large contraptions with

strips of negative containing the type characters which were exposed in order onto photographic paper at the touch of a key. This company produced glossy magazines using the offset lithography method of printing where columns of type and pictures were stuck with rubber cement onto a sheet of artboard. A photograph was taken of it and then the negative exposed onto a printing plate where the printing areas attracted the greasy ink and the white areas repelled it. This was then printed onto a rubber-encased roller and transferred onto the paper, thus the term “offset”. On the particular day I am referring to, the lift stopped at the fourth floor, although I had selected the sixth floor to alight. I naturally expected someone to get into the car, but nobody was waiting. However, just as I hit the button again to resume my journey, I noticed a scene like none I had witnessed for at least ten years. The room where the lift had stopped was full of old letterpress composing equipment. There were two rows of Linotype machines on the north side of the room, about half a dozen imposition stones along the opposite wall and rows and rows of type cabinets in between, each containing flat drawers, or “cases” of handset type. Each of these cabinets had an angled top to it, which compositors call “frames” upon which they stand their galleys when composing pages. They are angled so that gravity holds the lines of type in position. There were small “proof presses” between these frames so that the comps could make rough impressions or “pulls” to check their work for accuracy.

I had not seen a room like this since I started my apprenticeship a decade earlier, and even then they were being phased out for the cleaner, more efficient and versatile offset methods. But what really surprised me was that this was a fully operating comp room, with about forty men in grey trousers, white shirts with sleeves rolled to the biceps and dark blue drill aprons. They were all bustling around the stones, standing at frames with deep frowns on their faces, or sitting at the Linotypes. There was a strong smell of lead dross and white spirit which was used to clean reusable type when the formes were “dissed”. When I got up to the sixth floor, I went in to the leading hand’s office and expressed my amazement that they still had a letterpress comp room. “What are you on about, Bruce?” All Australians were called Bruce in London in the 1970s, thanks to a sketch on Monty Python’s Flying Circus, a comedy on BBC. I won’t explain the joke, but everyone in the building knew me as Bruce. I told him what I saw through the lift door and he gave me a withering look. “Too much Foster’s!” he told me. “You’re bloody hallucinating! We got rid of the letterpress stuff fifteen years ago! The fourth floor is accounts and book keeping, that sort of stuff. You’re seeing things!” So at lunchtime I got into the lift and set it at floor four. Sure enough, there were rows of desks with bored young men in their weird 70s hairstyles, dolly-birds with the latest

midis and knee length boots and a few grumpy looking old men walking around checking on the office workers. A typical accounts department. I checked the other floors on several occasions but couldn’t find the comp room. It troubled me for years. Although it was the 1970s I never used to do drugs, not even grass, so I knew I wasn’t hallucinating or imagining it. It was very, very eerie and I got little cold shivers every time I thought about it. Two Six years later, I was working in an advertising agency in Perth, Western Australia. The other staff were all very much up themselves, but I guess you already assumed they would be. It was an advertising agency in Perth in 1980, after all. There was still a demand for commercial artists in those days before the Macintosh and QuarkXpress changed the face of layout and composition, so I started applying for a few jobs with publishers and printers. I got invited for an interview with one of the big general printers along Wellington Street and arrived at the front of the building with about five minutes to spare on a hot late-summer afternoon. The appointment was for two thirty, so I pressed the button for the lift and when it arrived, I stepped in and hit the button for the third floor which is where the general manager was conducting interviews. The door closed and the lift started to rise but almost immediately there was a screeching noise like metal on metal and the lift stopped. “Damn,” I thought and started punching the button to open

the door but it never did anything. I poked at some other buttons and tried to prise the door open. Nothing happened except that I made the tips of my index and middle fingers quite sore. There was no communications phone, only the little box from which it had been removed. I sat on the floor and waited. About five minutes later I looked at my watch and it still said fourteen twenty five. So my Casio had packed up, too! Not my day! Anyway, after about a further fifteen minutes (I had no way of knowing exactly as my brand new digital watch still read the same time as it had when I got in. I had read the entire back-page column by Kirwan Ward, found Paul Rigby’s little urchin and dog and done the very easy crossword as well as the only slightly more difficult cryptic version in the Daily News) the lift suddenly started moving again and then the doors opened at the third floor. The clock on the wall opposite stood at two-twenty five! So did my Casio, which had started working again and gave me nearly five more years of perfect time until I drove over it in my Toyota Corona. I never got the job! I don’t think I did very well at the interview. I was freaked right out because I was, and still am, convinced that time stood still while I was in that elevator! However, I started my own typesetting business a few years after that. I had married a lovely girl from Queensland whom I met in France in 1976 and brought back to Perth with me. We had two children who became the greatest

thing in our lives and who were to remain so until that day in 2007.

Three Susan, the elder of our two children, married a young man and moved to Melbourne where she worked for an insurance company in St Kilda Road. Her husband became a conductor with V Line and from time to time, they visited us in Perth or we visited them in their little flat in the northern suburbs up near Fawkner Cemetery. Then one afternoon in 2006 we got a very excited phone call to say they had just purchased a unit in one of the old converted department stores on Chapel Street, Prahran. While the ground floor had been retained as a shop, the upper floors had been converted into fully self-contained apartments with a strata title which the lending banks approved of, so they would moving in on the third day of the New Year. Polly had recently started a new position at the hospital in which she worked, and there was no chance of her getting leave to go over and inspect our daughter and son-in-law’s new residence. I worked on a contract basis for a number of printers and publishers and was gearing up for complete retirement. The first few weeks of the new year were always quiet so I went online and purchased a ticket with Virgin Airlines to go and visit Melbourne for a week. The weather in late February is nearly always good in Melbourne. Oh, you get a few rainy days and maybe a bit of frost now and again, but generally it is in the high 20s and

with the long, extended evenings, the pavement cafes of Lygon, Fitzroy and Chapel Streets are so appealing to Western Australians with their weird, restrictive licensing laws and severely conventional dining habits. The new apartment was a great success. It suited their lifestyle perfectly. As they had no plans to have a family, which also suited me — I am much too young at heart to be a granddad — living in this refurbished, early 20th century drapery shop building meant that they were near the cafes and restaurants of Prahran and South Yarra, the beach at St Kilda and plenty of public transport to take them to the City, Southbank and the sporting arenas and entertainment centres of Melbourne. While I doubt if this would have ever suited me, I had to agree that they had found their niche and I began to take an interest in the diverse cultural and social mix that has developed in Prahran. The architecture and city planning were quite interesting, so on the third day of my visit, I walked a few hundred yards up the road to the public library to see if I could find out more about the suburb. Why, for example, was the place named Prahran? What did it mean? When was it first founded and why was it so neatly laid out in straight lines? Why were the streets so narrow while the CBD’s were so wide? By mid afternoon I had the answers to a lot of my questions. The name was a corruption of a native word meaning to be partially surrounded by water: the Yarra, the lagoon in Albert Park and the Hawksburn Creek which now

ran underground since the swamps were drained in the early part of the twentieth century. It was laid out in neat rows to accommodate the train lines and so that the trams would have no bends to negotiate which could create problems for the underground cables which literally pulled them along. And the streets were not built for motor transport. They were designed for pedestrians, trams, bicycles and horse drawn vehicles. One particular history book had an enormous amount of information in it, so I joined the lending library and borrowed it. Not only would I find it passingly interesting, but my daughter studied anthropology at university and has a passion for learning about the evolution of societies and communities. With the book under my arm and my little backpack slung over my shoulders, I headed back up Chapel Street to the apartment building. Susan and Mark were still at work, but they had given me a security pass and the access code so I could let myself in and out during their absence. As soon as the doors closed on the elevator, I felt a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and my heart started to flutter very slightly. I was reminded of the previous two weird encounters I had with old lifts in early twentieth century buildings. I had to lean against the wall of the car and when the door opened I almost staggered out in a combination of claustrophobia and dizziness. It was then I realised I wasn’t in a neatly carpeted hallway with apartment doors leading off and a large potted palm in one corner. No way! I stepped out and nearly fell down a

flight of three stairs which led to a maze of glass and panel offices, each with a number of people writing in ledgers, speaking into huge telephone receivers or reaching up to take or place capsules into tubes which ran around in an intricate grid along the ceiling. My instinct was to step back into the lift car and go to the correct floor but I heard the door click shut behind me. I half turned and heard the cable humming as it hauled the car up to the next floor. But by now, someone in one of the offices had seen me and let out a sort of half-scared, half-surprised little shriek. I turned back and two women in long skirts and lace blouses were advancing towards me and a young man was running down the aisle, wielding a walking stick in a defensive manner. “Don’t move!” he ordered and without any other incentive, I froze. These people were nearly as spun out as I was! There was real fear in their eyes while the reality and enormity of the situation hit me within seconds of his command. I forgot the steps were there and took a pace forward to steady myself. As I lurched and fell down, I could see the women leap back and clutch each other’s arms. I looked up from the floor and put my hands above my head like some comic Western villain. “I’m not going to hurt you. I think I know what happened. I got here by mistake!” But the young man with the cane took control of the situation.

“Get Mr Lewis!” he told one of the women then turned back and fended me off with his makeshift weapon. Not that he needed it. There was no way I could contemplate attacking anyone. I was far too frightened to even move! But in retrospect, it is apparent why they were afraid of me. They had never seen anyone who looked like me before! No one had! But at that moment, their fear of me was frightening my pants off! I glanced around the office to try to make some sense of it all. Suddenly my eyes rested on an old Foy & Gibson calendar pinned to a wall. I remembered them from my childhood; printed in blue and red with big date numbers in a grid, the month and year at the head. Then I really freaked out! February, 1937! The printer in me noticed the fact that the paper it was on was brand new. Even if it had been kept out of the light, the acids in it would have yellowed it. This was pristine white glossy duplex, less than a year out of the forest! And the last date not crossed out with an inky diagonal line was 26. Today must be the 27th! The lift had sent me back to February 27, 1937! While my brain went into overdrive trying to come to grips with the enormity, a little synapse somewhere convinced me it really had happened. It was obviously something to do with the elevator shaft. It must be! Twice before I had experienced warps in time and although on the first occasion I only glimpsed into the

past while the second time it just stood still, now I had actually stepped out into a world which existed . . . how many? Seventy years earlier! I could feel a dreadful sensation in the pit of my stomach. Then a wave of panic rose and I fought to keep it down by concentrating on what was happening around me. But it was nearly impossible and for a moment I thought I was going to go wild and rush around in circles or do something equally stupid. It was the most terrifying situation I think I have ever been in. As I lay there on the carpet, I heard footsteps along the aisle again and this time an older man approached, carrying a small Derringer pistol in his right hand. It was pointed straight at my head and my heart started pounding in my chest. If he panicked like everyone else had so far, I could wind up dead before I even had a chance to find out what had happened to me. But when I looked into his eyes — martial arts training I guess, always look your adversary in the eyes as that is where you see his next move even before he makes it — I saw that he was perfectly calm and in control. “Get to your feet, please, Sir!” he spoke in a soft, Welsh accent and I knew that he had no intention of shooting me. I lifted myself up, holding onto the steps to assist me. I had knocked my knee as I fell and winced as I put weight on it. “Do you speak?” he asked and I nodded. “Yes, of course,” I told him. “My name is Eric Catlin. Who are you?”

“Dafydd Lewis. I am the proprietor of this shop. Why are you in here and why are you dressed like a circus performer?” I glanced down at my clothes. I was wearing a West Coast Eagles shirt in brilliant gold and blue, grey knee-length shorts, old Brooks Beasts running shoes, white tennis socks and had a small nylon backpack on my shoulder. In addition, I had a shaved head and a mobile telephone hooked onto my belt. But most frightening of all would be the pair of Oakley shades with the fluoro yellow-to-red frame and streamlined, wrap-around, orange reflective lenses. No wonder they were all startled by my appearance! “I . . . I don’t really know why I am here!” I stuttered. “I came up in the lift and everything went strange and I fell down the stairs!” “Where do you live, then? Do you live around here?” “I am from Perth but I am staying with my daughter here in Prahran. May I sit down, please. I feel a bit sick.” “Get Mr Catlin a glass of water, Samson!” Mr Lewis said and the younger man went into a little room which I guess was a tea room or kitchen for the staff. “Come into my office. It’s alright, everyone, get back to work. I will speak to you all later!” I followed him down to his office which was completely enclosed. I could see out of the window and realised it was exactly where Susan and Mark’s flat was! I sat in a chair and took the glass which young Samson handed me. “Suppose you start at the beginning, Mr Catlin. I can see something very queer has happened to you and I want to

help you. Just take your time and tell me what has happened.” “Well,” I said and drew a deep breath then expelled it loudly through my mouth. “I know you can’t possibly believe me if I tell you and I’m reluctant to start in case you call the police or the mental health authorities.” “The who? Oh, the lunatic asylum? No, I am not the sort of person to over-react! Just explain why you are in this state!” “As I said, Mr Lewis, if I tell you what I think has happened, you could not possibly believe me. I don’t even know if I believe it myself!” “Is this some sort of a prank? A jape? You are a bit old to be pulling this sort of practical joke, Sir!” He looked a bit angry now and I held up my hand to try to reassure him I was not some sort of idiot. But he had picked up my back pack and unzipped it. He rummaged around and I didn’t know whether to just let him or protest about the invasion of my privacy. I decided that he might as well look because if I didn’t let him, he would probably call the police and they would search more than just the pack! All I had in the pack was my MP3 player, a digital camera and a few groceries I had bought from Coles next door. But these were all as foreign to Mr Lewis as my clothing. They meant nothing at all to him. Nor did my Nokia phone, which he examined next. Then he picked up the library book and read the title. “History of Prahran 1925 to 1990! What the devil is this! This is some sort of confidence trick!”

My heart was now in my mouth and I tried to wash it down with another swig of the water from the glass. The enormity of what had happened had now sunk in and I was about to enter severe shock. “Look, Mr Lewis, I assure you I am not trying to play any trick or extort money from you or anything. Just let me go and I’ll never come back. I need a cup of coffee or tea or something. I really don’t mean any harm and I don’t want any trouble. I’ll just go!” I must have hit a nerve or something because he looked deeply into my eyes. “I can see you are in distress,” he said kindly. “I can’t let you out onto the street in your state. I’ll get Miss Simpkin to get you a cup of tea.” He rang a desk bell and a handsome lady in her late thirties came through the door. “Could you get Mr Catlin a cup of tea, please. And I’ll have one too. Milk and sugar?” “Black with two sugars, please!” I said and she seemed to notice me for the first time. Her hand started to go to her mouth but she straightened up and went back out of the door. “Thanks,” I said. “I really am in a bit of a state. I’ll try to tell you what happened but I won’t make any judgements just yet. Maybe I’m hallucinating but I don’t do drugs so perhaps I’m ill!” “I can see you have not been drinking and I don’t know anything about your medication, so I will, for my part, just listen to you. Something has happened and this paraphernalia in your bag indicates that there is something

very queer going on. Say your piece!” So I told him about having flown over from Perth two days before. I told him about my daughter and her purchase of the flat right where we were now sitting. I told him about going to the library in the Town Hall and then coming back to the building. Then I told him about what happened when I pressed the button on the lift. “And you know the rest!” I finished. I reached into my hip pocket and took out my wallet. I started to extract my driver’s licence and he indicated with his hand that he would like me to pass the wallet over to him. I could see no alternative so I did. The tea arrived and I drank mine greedily. I needed it badly and when I had finished it I noticed Miss Simpkin had left the pot. I refilled my cup and spooned in some sugar. Mr Lewis figured out the velcro fastener on the wallet and tried it a couple of times. Then he turned it upside down and shook out the contents. Five fifty dollar notes, my Medicare, Visa and EFTPOS cards. Loyalty cards from Gloria Jeans and Subway. A partially used weekly Metway ticket. And my driver’s license. This he turned over in his hands several times, looking at the photo of me and squinting through his glasses to read the small printing through the holographic Western Australian State crests imprinted on it. “So you were born on the fourteenth of October in 1948 and this license was issued on the twenty second of December in the year 2006.” He paused and looked at me over his reading glasses. I nodded and said nothing. There

was nothing to say. “And you have in your possession these pieces of cellulose which I cannot even guess at their purpose and these others which have the appearance of money but which claim to be fifty dollar notes of Australian origin?” Again I nodded. “Australia uses sterling currency, not American dollars!” This time I decided to speak. “I know that, Mr Lewis. In fact, Australia continues to use them until 1966. That’s when we decimalise!” “So what are these little pieces the size of visiting cards with the raised numbers on them?” “They allow me to access my bank accounts at teller machines or . . . You don’t know what teller machines are, do you?” I finished lamely. “They let me draw money when I need it.” “Where are these teller machines?” he asked. Reasonable question. “In Seven Eleven stores, mostly!” Did Seven Eleven exist in 1937? I decided to blurt it out. “This is all in the future!” “So you are all prepared for these 4711 machines in the future, then are you?” “Not 4711, that’s eau de cologne! Look, what I am saying is that your lift sent me from 2007 back through the time warp thing to now. 1937!” “And you just happened to wind up on the third floor of my drapery shop!”

I hung my head and must have looked as glum as I felt. I was getting nowhere. Of course he wouldn’t believe I was from the future. I couldn’t really believe it myself. Then I had an idea. “Look, perhaps if I go back in the lift, I’ll go back to my own time!” I had seen a British comedy series where a man travelled back to wartime England every time he walked down a particular alleyway in East London. That must be it! The lift would take me back to 2007! “I’ll come with you!” he said quietly and I shook my head. “It might not happen for you. I think something similar has happened to me before.” “Ah, you are a Time Traveller? Do you, by chance, happen to have read H. G. Wells’ book The Time Machine?” “Yes, I have and I am not taking the piss! Sorry, I mean taking the mickey! Honestly! Just let me go out and I’m sure I can go back to my time.” “Very well, but there are still a lot of questions I want answered. What are these gadgets?” He indicated my camera, MP3 player and phone. “And how do you explain this book. Published 1993. And these counterfeit notes? And your strange attire and queer manner of speaking? If you don’t return to . . . when was it? 2007? . . . please come back and let me know!” “Oh, I will. Thanks Mr Lewis!” I held out my hand and he shook it with a firm grip. I followed him out the door and around to the lift. We waited and when the car arrived and he opened the door, he looked me squarely in the eyes.

“I can’t explain what you told me,” he said. “I just know you think you are telling me the truth. And I am a good judge of character. You are an honest man and, I believe, a sober one. The offer stands. Come back if you cannot find your way home.” I stepped into the lift and worked the dial and lever. This was not the lift car I had travelled up in! That one was made of plexiglass and didn’t have a lever. It had a panel of buttons. My heart sank again and I could feel my stomach start to churn. When the lift stopped and I pulled open the door, I already knew. I was still in 1937. Out on Chapel Street, a few vintage cars chugged up the road and men in heavy broadloom suits and ladies in long skirts and blouses walked up and down in the afternoon sun. A tram stopped and more people got on and off and behind it in Chapel Street there were no mobile phone shops, no Wokin-a-Box, no electrical goods retailers and nothing from 2007! I leaned against the wall for a moment and tried to decide what to do. Perhaps if I went up and down in the lift a few times, the old time-space continuum thing might catch on or cut in or whatever and I might find myself back in 2007. Or 2057 or 1857! But I gave it a try, eventually realising it wasn’t going to happen. Reluctantly I went back to the third floor and told Mr Lewis the bad news.

“You aren’t going to get very far with that future money!” he told me, handing me a ten shilling note. “Get yourself dinner and somewhere to stay tonight and come back and see me in the morning. Oh, and . . .” he dinged the little desk bell again and again Miss Simpkin popped her head around the door. “Get Mr Catlin down to Gentlemen’s Attire and see him into some more suitable clothing. You may go to thirty shillings. I’ll be back in my office at ten o’clock.” I duly followed Miss Simpkin and we returned to the lift. I wondered what her reaction would be if the lift suddenly delivered us at 2007. At the very least a fit of the vapours but at the worst she would wind up a gibbering wreck if she left this conservative, serene world and wound up in 21st Century Australia! Unfortunately for me, though, it never happened. “Where on earth did you get these outrageous clothes, Sir?” she asked. “I thought you must be a theatrical entertainer or an escapee from the Asylum at Kew!” “That’s a hard one to answer, Miss Simpkin. One day I might try to explain it to you. At the moment, I can’t even get my own head around it!” “What a peculiar thing to say!” she said. “But first, let’s get you some proper things.” The off-the-rack range of suits left me with little choice except size. Navy blue was obviously the big colour that year, with a sort of orange colour for blazers and grey flannel trousers for casual wear. Later I learned the orange colour was called “russett brown”. Shirts were all white or pale blue and most ties were

nearly as dull and boring as Melbourne in the winter when there’s no footy on. It didn’t take long to kit me out and although I was still wearing my Slazenger socks and Brookes Beasts, I started to take on the appearance of a typical Depression era Melburnian. “Now, where can I stay tonight? Do you have a hotel or boarding house nearby? A cheap one. I’ve only got this!” I said, holding up the ten shilling note. That obviously wasn’t going to get me a room at the Rialto! “I have a spare room at my house,” she offered. “It’s not a boarding house, though. I live there alone. You mustn’t spend your money unnecessarily until you have a job.” “I can’t impose on you, Miss Simpkin.” I was rather startled that such an elegant lady from pre-War Melbourne would even suggest such a thing. “Besides, wouldn’t your neighbours have something to say?” “If my neighbours cannot mind their own business, that is their affair. Anyway, they already have enough to say about a spinster living on her own.” This must be what they call an emancipated woman, I thought, getting my decades mixed up. Anyway, I knew I was going to accept her offer. There was no way I was going to spend a lonely evening in a strange era with only my everincreasing depression for company. “I would really like that, Miss Simpkin. Will this be enough to buy us dinner, then?” Again I produced the ten shilling note. “That would buy us groceries for two weeks!” she announced. “Besides, I only eat vegetables and there are no

dining rooms around here which serve meals without meat.” “That suits me. I’m a vegetarian, as well. You must let me cook, though. I have these.” And I produced the tin of lentils, the papadums and the plastic bag with sweet potatoes and root of ginger which I had bought at Coles just before journeying back in time. She looked at them curiously. Although the tin of lentils could have existed in Prahran in just about any decade of the twentieth, the other items were as foreign as my clothes. So began my lovely friendship with Miss Simpkin. Later that evening, after a sumptuous sweet potato and lentil curry with rice and papadums, we sat on her porch with a hot cup of Amgoorie and she previewed our relationship. “Most men would misunderstand why I invited you here. You just accepted my friendship as it was offered. Thank you for that.” “Miss Simpkin, I am fifty eight years of age and have a beautiful wife and two adult children. I have many women friends who are also very good friends of my wife’s. I come from a very different world to this one. I accepted your friendship because I know I am going to be very lonely if I can’t get back to it. I need you as a friend. But also, I want you as friend. You have been very kind. So has Mr Lewis.” “I’m lonely too, Mr Catlin. And we will continue to call each other Mr Catlin and Miss Simpkin if you don’t mind.” I grinned to myself at that. How better to emphasis the boundaries of our relationship. “I am forty years of age and have never married. I was

engaged to a young man many years ago, but he died in the Dardenelles. My father died in the same campaign. The Great War.” “Gallipoli?” “Why, yes? Were you there?” “Er, no!” There was a long silence while I wondered whether she thought I was a white feather job. I couldn’t tell her I had been in the army in Vietnam! Then she said: “You are not from here, are you. I mean, Melbourne?” “No, I am English originally but I live in Perth. In WA.” “Oh, Western Australia? Weren’t you in the War?” “I wasn’t. Western Australia was.” “And so was England. They started it.” “That’s not what I mean. Miss Simpkin, if we are friends, we trust each other implicitly, okay?” She didn’t seem to follow my phraseology but then said: “Yes, I hope so.” “Then I don’t want to jeopardise that by saying anything that you could not believe. By leading you to distrust . . . is that the right word . . . mistrust? . . . me.” “If you wish to tell me anything, I will trust you to be telling the truth. If you prefer not to tell me, I will respect your right to keep it to yourself. I will also respect your reasons. We are friends.” Even though I found someone to trust and whose company I welcomed, it didn’t stop me from a dreadfully lonely night. I couldn’t think of anything but Polly, up there

in 2007, wondering where the hell I’d got to if I never returned. And I missed her so badly! I had come to depend on her emotionally over the thirty or so years of our marriage and having to face this enormous, totally unexpected upheaval was just a bit too much for me to bear without her. I tossed and turned and soaked my pillow and once even got up and walked out to the front porch again. But that only made me feel lonelier than ever. In bed with my eyes shut at least I could imagine . . . And I imagined the worst. Back here before the war they knew nothing about disease prevention — at least, nowhere near what they knew in my time. There were almost no antibiotics, in fact, they were still, I thought, in the process of being discovered. Alexander Fleming? And my immune system would never cope with the germs and bugs which had very little effect on the antibodies within these people but which could knock me over like a set of tenpins. I hardly slept. As soon as I believed I had resolved one set of problems, another set popped up, more frightening than the previous! My meeting with Mr Lewis was very fruitful. He asked me about a million questions regarding my skills and seemed very pleased that I could drive, type, had worked in the printing and advertising industries and was as comfortable with a saucepan and a flat iron as any woman in the State. “I need a gentleman’s gentleman!” he said. “And I think you fit the bill perfectly.” Again I grinned at the phraseology. There was never any

doubt that I fitted that bill. Unless he meant it in the San Francisco idiom! But I knew what he meant. “You mean a sort of butler, chauffeur and personal assistant, er, private secretary?” “Yes. Room, board, five pounds seventeen shillings a week. Saturdays, Sundays and three evenings a week off. Do you attend church?” “I’m a Baptist!” I told him. “I like to worship when I can.” I could normally find an excuse, though. “Well, I am a Methodist. I love to attend the Welsh service. I believe Miss Simpkin is also a Baptist.” What’s that got to do with the price of eggs? “I’ll take the job. Er, is there any training or anything?” Daft thing to say! Training? In 1937? As if! He just laughed though. “I like a man who has wit!” And so began my years in the employ of Mr Lewis. Although he handed the administration of the shops over to a manager, he remained a huge part of the Melbourne social scene and was respected as a gentleman, entrepreneur and philanthropist in the way Mr Myer had been until his recent death. His former partner, Mr Love, who also gave his name to the shop, had been a man of similar qualities, Miss Simpkin told me. So I drove Mr Lewis around, from the Prahran shop to his home nearby, from the Bourke Street shop to Carabobola, his country home in New South Wales. He spent a lot of time ensuring the poorer classes, particularly their children, were looked after. He had set up a trust for young men to receive financial assistance to attend Melbourne University

and he helped to support a Catholic Girls College in Windsor. Quite a number of other Melbourne businessmen made charity to the unemployed their primary concern as well. I was constantly busy. Going from being semi-retired in 2007 to such a hectic life in 1937 should have taken a huge toll on me but I just seemed to get younger. In fact Miss Simpkin remarked that I was much more youthful and energetic than other men in their fifties and sixties. They all seemed, she explained, to have grown tired of being alive. I pointed out that Mr Lewis was in his seventies and was still travelling the world looking for new merchandise, new marketing ideas and new trends but she put him in a totally separate class from herself and me. “Yes, but he’s Capital!” It took me a full minute to realise that this was pre-War Australian class distinction. Mr Lewis enjoyed chatting to me. He seldom referred to my claim to being from the next century, although he never gave any indication if he doubted it. The few times he mentioned it was in regards to advertising trends and brand name loyalty. I was happy to share my recollections of the Seventies in England right up to the time I left. He used to nod thoughtfully and then appear to drop off to sleep. This normally happened when I was driving him up to his estate. Once he asked if Miss Simpkin knew what I claimed to be. He seemed to regard us as an item. I quickly but politely put him wise on both counts. I told him we were just cricket enthusiasts who enjoyed going to games with each other. In fact, we went to cricket, football and soccer games. We

saw movies, concerts and plays in each other’s company and often dined together when I was not working. We even found a couple of vegetarian restaurants! I could not bear to be alone but at every place I went, something reminded me of my former life, which was beginning to haze up into the memory of a beautiful dream which I could no longer recapture. I began to think of the nineteen thirties as my “real” life and this distressed me. But I hung on. When I went to a VFL game, I would imagine Fitzroy as the Brisbane Lions. When the Heidelberg keeper took a goal kick, I would think of the Shed in Perth chanting: “You fat bastard!” And whenever we saw a “flick” I would recall curling up in my Jason Recliner and watching it on TCM with the remote control in my lap. I fought hard to keep the depression away. But every night in bed I thought of Polly. That’s all I thought about. I had to make a conscious effort during the day to keep my mind on whatever I was doing — polishing the boss’s shoes, cleaning his Bentley, editing advertising copy (which he insisted on writing and getting me to convert into something the people would understand). Everything reminded me of “Home”. I won quite a lot of money on the Melbourne Cup that year when I remembered that The Trump won in 1937. I didn’t actually remember until I saw the field printed in the Age and the name hit me as familiar, but when I put the entire contents of my wallet on it and then picked up nearly a hundred pounds, I felt terribly guilty, as though I had stolen it or got it under false pretences. I never bet on sport

again. I was tempted to take up a bet with a chap in a bar in Toorak who said England would never go to war with Germany and that Chamberlain was a great leader who would restore peace to Europe. But I resisted, thinking at the time of the phrase about a fool and his money and didn’t want to deprive the poor man’s family. And, as you know, War came and the Depression ended and I just became one of many millions whose lives had been turned completely upside down. I reflected that if my son Chris were with me, he would be off to the North African campaign or France or somewhere. Everyone I knew had a son, a husband, a brother or a cousin, nephew or grandson who was off to war. Many had several. One chap I used to see regularly at the football had two sons in the AIF, one in the RAAF and a daughter in the WRANs. I tried to console myself with the thought that at least I had no one to lose, but the reality was, I had lost everyone! Then Mr Lewis died. I stayed with him until the end and eventually Mary Jane, his wife, had to let me go. Neither of his sons needed a butler so I began to look for another job. Although I was sixty two and normally my employment prospects would have been zero, because of the war manpower was at a premium. Nearly every businessman in Melbourne wanted my services and I was offered salaries as high as fifteen pounds a week. But now that Mr Lewis was gone I wanted to return to Perth. I begged Miss Simpkin to accompany me. She had no one in Melbourne, either, but when the time came, she

couldn’t make the split. Everything that was familiar to her was here in Victoria. Besides, she had her job! I got a glowing testimonial and reference letter from the Lewis family and was offered all sorts of contacts in business in Perth. But I had saved prudently and intended to spend the remaining few working years driving a taxi or doing handiman jobs. I still equated Perth with high stress levels, pressure and rabid greed! When the boat left Station Pier, Miss Simpkin and Mrs Lewis both came to see me off. Miss Simpkin bawled her eyes out and so did I. Mrs Lewis took me to one side. “Dafydd told me about you,” she said, then added “All about you,” emphasising the word “all”. “I can see by your eyes it’s true. It’s amazing! I don’t understand it but he believed you, as well. Miss Simpkin doesn’t know, does she?” “No,” I said and then, uncertainly: “Do you think she should?” “It’s up to you. If Dafydd believed you, I think she probably would.” But I couldn’t take the risk so she never found out. In Perth I worked for a while in the advertising department at Boans. But my heart wasn’t in it. I used to do silly things which made me more depressed. One day I rode along Wanneroo Road and just past Luisini’s Winery there was a cart track which wound its way around Lake Goolellal. I used to jog along a path here in the future so I knew the shape of the lake well and when I estimated I was at the future intersection of Montessori

Road, I parked the bike. I put my pack on my back and set out on foot up the steep, wooded slope. At the top it was easy to pick out the natural features. I bashed through the bush for a couple of miles until I was almost into Pinnaroo Valley and knew I must be somewhere around where my house would be built, forty five years into the future. I scouted around for a while, trying to recall the exact lay of the land and hoping the developers hadn’t altered it too much. When I was satisfied that this was as close as I would get, I sat down under some tuart trees and brewed a cup of tea on a little campfire. I imagined my kitchen with the espresso machine, the microwave and the fan-forced oven. I couldn’t bear it and I broke my heart, sitting there in the bush which bore no resemblance to anything familiar in my world. I walked back to the motorbike and returned to my little house in North Perth. At least one or two things in this city were familiar. Some of the churches and the public buildings which hadn’t been removed to make way for the nineteen eighties looked the same. Although the skyline was vastly different, at ground level, if you blotted out buildings soon due for demolition, some places were just as I remembered them. Parliament House, the Barracks Arch, the Governor’s Residence, the Supreme Court, the entrance to Subiaco Oval, Horseshoe Bridge. I went out to the hospital where Polly had worked. It looked a lot different. For a start, there was no white Toyota Camry parked out the back! This time I didn’t cry. I spat the dummy! I went crazy! I swore oaths at God! I cursed everything I could think of! I

bashed my fists against a wall until a nun came out and asked me if she could help me. Then I calmed down and for some reason I couldn’t explain at the time, I gave her a florin for the poor box. Later I went back and gave her a pound. But even that would never repay God for what I called him! Then I went up to the Queens Hotel and bought two bottles of Johnnie Walker. That night was the only time I got completely drunk out of my skull. It was a Saturday and I spent the entire Sunday on my bed, not eating or getting up except to go to the toilet. On Monday morning I convinced myself I was well enough to go in to work. I caught the tram down Beaufort Street and tendered a weeks’ notice. I worked it out but five days later I was on the overnight train to Albany, where I had spent most of my boyhood. There were lots of familiar things in this south coast town and for a while I cheered up. I didn’t want to become too well known because in a little place like that, you could be remembered for a long time and there could be awkward questions to answer when I turned up in 1959 as a ten year old! So I worked at a car showroom selling Chevrolets to the parents of my future school chums, using a different name and paying no tax. But I was now sixty six and most men retired at that age. I was able to qualify for a pension because it was easy to manipulate the bureaucracy in those days. If you didn’t have positive ID they took you at your word. Only if you played up did they investigate you.

I never played up! But a medical condition I had suffered ten years before did play up and neither the doctors at the old Albany Regional Hospital in Vancouver Street, nor the specialists in Perth knew what I was talking about when I tried to describe the problem. They could see I had a huge scar from previous surgery and dimly understood that they needed to go in again. So they did. Only when they finished I found I couldn’t walk properly. It took me years before I could get around without a stick, and even then it was painful. There were a lot of war veterans in a much worse state than I was, so the treatment I received was a bit casual to say the least. I don’t resent that. I quite understand it but it didn’t make it any easier for me. Finally I had to go and live in an old people’s home in Fremantle. Only one thing during this time of morphine and pain really stands out in my memory. It was October 14, 1948 and I realised that way over on the other side of the world my mother was giving birth to me. I went into a sort of spin which took me quite a while to get out of. I don’t suppose the morphine helped a lot, either. But by the time I got to the old folks home, antibiotics became generally available and those terrible inflammations I had been getting started to subside. I could even walk reasonably comfortably and used to wander around Fremantle, which had also changed very little since 2007. Only the traffic flow confused me!

Those days were almost completely uneventful. They just seem now as one long, continuous blur with only the lonely nights to break them. The days flowed into weeks, then into months and years. I just moved from one day to the next, desperately miserable, lonely and fighting to retain any sort of sanity. Then almost before I realised it, it was May, 1955. My wife had been born! I tried to get copies of the Brisbane newspapers to see if there was a birth notice but no-one stocked them. I even contemplated flying over to try to see her as an infant, but the fare was prohibitive. A rail or boat trip would have knocked me around too much in my condition. I remember being absolutely delighted when I discovered that dry cell batteries called “penlights” were available and fitted into my digital camera. The nickel metal hydride Duracells had died long ago and I had no way of seeing the pictures stored on the SD card until now. These batteries didn’t work very well and I spent a fortune buying them as they died so quickly, but at least I could look at my daughter’s image as she sat in a South Yarra bistro sipping a caffe latte or cheering on St Kilda at Telstra Dome. I had a picture of Polly in a little panel in the back of my phone. The phone was useless but I looked at that photo a hundred times every day! By Christmas, 1956, my leg was really bad again. They scheduled me for surgery on the third day of March, 1957. They wanted me in Fremantle Hospital the day before to prepare me, whatever that was going to entail.

But first I had one more thing I wanted to do! On the morning of Wednesday, February 27 I wheeled myself down to Victoria Quay and watched as the SS New Australia berthed. I had forgotten about the strange structure in front of its single funnel. It was an inverted Y shape and seemed to serve as a mast, antenna and as a sort of funnel because a little bit of black smoke was wafting out of it, even though it was being towed by a couple of harbour tugs. I studied the crowds lined up at the rails until I recognised him. My father! Thirty seven years old, lean and suntanned and beaming that huge smile I loved so much. Alongside him stood Mum. God, I never realised she was so pretty! And there was my sister Barbara and my younger brother Robin, hanging on to Mum’s dress. Then I saw me! Cute looking little squirt holding a great big white and blue toy cap rifle! Imagine what customs would have done if I turned up with that post 9/11! I couldn’t believe that I was ever so small! I took it for granted that I was always the same size I am now! And that full head of hair! Such a lovely little kid with pale Pommy skin and leather sandals over short white socks. I took two photos, then the batteries died. I replaced them but by then the family had gone back inside the boat prior to disembarking. But I saw Uncle Buck, Aunty Glad and their three

daughters, waiting excitedly on the wharf. I rolled over to them and struck up a conversation. “Relatives arriving?” I asked. “Yes,” said Uncle Buck, smiling for perhaps the only time in his life. “Gladys’s cousin Eve, her husband Len and their three kids. From England! And you . . . ?” “No!” I replied. “Just strolling down memory lane.” I had intended waiting and seeing my family close up but my self-imposed isolation over the years would not let me invade their space. “Invade their space.” I haven’t heard that expression in a long time! When I got back to the home, I put paper into the typewriter and sat there, writing this story and will remain here until I finish. When it is done I will take it down to the bank and seal it in a private box with my artefacts from 2007. That will probably have to be tomorrow morning now. It is getting late. In a couple of days I will go into Fremantle Hospital for more surgery. There is an even chance of it being successful, they tell me. But I am not laying any wagers. I just know that as they administer the anaesthetic, I will be convincing myself that when I wake up in the recovery ward, Polly, Susan and Chris will be there waiting for me! Four I left the Library with a book I had borrowed and ducked into Coles to get some stuff to make a curry for our tea. Coles was right next door to the apartment block Susan and Mark had just moved into, which used to be a department

store. In the 1970s, a lot of disused upper floors along Chapel Street had been converted into small residential units and my daughter and son-in-law had bought one which became available late in the previous year. I used the security pass they had given me and stepped into the lift. For a second I thought I was going to go wobbly. My knees went weak and I got a sudden, urgent sensation in my bladder. It passed almost immediately and when the doors opened at the third floor I went around the corridor and let myself into their flat. I “went and saw Trev” then put the kettle on and had a cup ready when Susan came in from work. I took down another cup and put a teabag in it. “Work okay?” I asked. “Same old same old! How was your day?” I started to tell her about what I learned at the Library when her phone rang. “Oh, hello Mum! Yes, he’s here! Do you want to speak to him?” She handed over the phone. “She wants to speak to ‘Yer Father’!” House joke. “She doesn’t sound too happy!” Mischievous grin! “Hi, Darling, you okay!” “Are you coming back?” “Coming back? Yes, of course! On Thursday! I’m having a great time but I really miss you. Of course I’m coming back!” There was a long silence.

“Are you sure everything’s all right, Polly?” “Yes! It’s a long story! I’ll tell you when you get home.” “Do you want me to get an earlier flight?” “No, if you say you’re coming home, I’ll wait until Thursday.” I tried to find out what the matter was and Susan also had a go, but Polly insisted she’d wait until I got back to Perth. “Just don’t let him out of your sight, that’s all!” As it happened, I spent the remainder of the stay in the presence of either Mark or Susan, so they never got a chance to lose sight of me. I rang and SMSed a number of times and Polly seemed reluctantly quiet. I considered ringing for an earlier flight. There were plenty of empty seats as the Grand Prix was bringing lots of visitors in but few out. Eventually I caught the Skybus out to the airport and four and a half hours later, there was Polly and Chris waiting in the arrivals lounge at Perth. “What was all that about on the phone the other day,” I asked while we waited at the luggage carousel. “Let’s wait until we get home, then I’ll show you. I’m just glad you’re home!” Chris also seemed particularly glad to see me and hugged me in a rare display of emotion. I had no choice but to wait until we got home. Polly sat me on the lounge and handed me a cardboard shoebox. It had marks on it which must have been made by string. There was the wheat sheafs and gearwheel logo of the old R&I Bank on the lid.

“Bankwest rang and asked me to go down to Fremantle and pick this up. They said they’d deliver it but it would cost fifty dollars. Chris came down with me and they asked me what you might have used as a password. Chris told them what you normally use and they seemed satisfied. Then they gave me this box. Apparently it’s been there for fifty years. I can’t explain it and thought you were playing a stupid trick on me.” She started to cry and I didn’t know what to say so I opened the box. Of course, you will by now have guessed what was in the box by the preceding narrative and the unsubtle way I have added this last bit. The camera matched the one in my luggage exactly except Chris had taken the SD card and printed off the pictures. They were identical to the first eighteen I had taken, but in place of the other forty or so on the one I brought back, this just had two dim pictures of people crowding the rail of a boat. The phone was also identical to mine but it didn’t work any more. Not only the battery pack but the circuits had deteriorated beyond use. Chris said the camera and MP3 player were in similar condition. And the phone had the same picture of Polly on it but this one was all faded and there was yellowing sellotape on it while mine was pristine. I cannot explain it! I have searched all the records I can think of, in Melbourne, Albany, Perth and in Fremantle Hospital but no records exist of me in the years mentioned in the narrative which was neatly typed with double spacing

and tied with a blue piece of wool. Mr Lewis, of course, existed, as did Miss Simpkin. There was even an Edward Samson who worked in the shop. Every other fact and detail mentioned seems to be documented, I am the only wild card. The Lewis family has no record of ever having had a chauffeur or butler by my name. There are no records available of old people’s home inmates and I cannot find any reference to me on any passenger manifests out of the Port of Melbourne. There is no entry for my death in the Registry in Perth, either. Somehow exact copies of my phone, camera, MP3 player, digital watch, Billabong wallet and its contents and my Eagles shirt found their way back to 1957 but who knows how? If you believe the story, then somehow I entered into a parallel universe and my duplicate slipped through the timespace continuum, if such a thing exists, and got transported seventy years backwards in time. Then those universes joined up again and my safe deposit box turned up somewhere between 1957 and 2007. But I never use elevators any more. I always use the stairs!

End Elevation

One For quite a while after reading that account of my slipping through a time warp and travelling back to Melbourne just prior to the Second World War, I became obsessed in trying to find out everything I could about what was mentioned in the story. While common sense told me these things don’t happen, that nagging memory of my lift experiences in the winter of 1974 and the late summer in 1980 wouldn’t allow me to discount it completely. While the first two incidents could possibly be explained by convincing myself that I had hallucinated, suffered some psychotic episode or simply misinterpreted what I saw, it was almost impossible to ignore the evidence that could not possibly have existed in 1957. And bank officials are normally stuffy, pragmatic men, not given to being a party to a practical joke, so I had to believe that the package really had been there in their vault for fifty years. It certainly looked and smelt as though it had! I think that deep down I knew it was not a hoax and that something totally inexplicable had occurred, something I was sadly incompetent to understand. But it did not stop me from trying! I placed a notice in the local newspaper where they have a “Can We Help” column which listed names, events and

other data which people wanted to locate. Often these were for research into family histories, organising reunions and other perfectly legitimate reasons which would be expected from an affluent society with plenty of time on its hands. I am not knocking it! In fact, I heartily endorse the quest for knowledge which helps us understand more about how our society was shaped. But nobody responded to my request. I say “nobody” but I mean nobody who could help! I got emails and phone calls from a variety of geneological societies seeking funds or offering services for a fee. A detective agency rang to try to help but the bloke’s accent was so phoney that I declined his offer. One woman claimed to have known me back in the fifties and tried to extort money or she would sue for breach of an alleged promised engagement. She was obviously far too young and claimed that the man about whom I sought information was a wealthy industrialist. So I was left with hunting through records at the Battye Library, the Melbourne University where Daffyd Lewis had set up a scholarship trust and poring through microfilm of sixty year old copies of The Albany Advertiser and The West Australian in search of any sort of clues. Despite the complete absence of any record of me, it had occurred to me that as the package in the safety deposit box surfaced in our reality in 2007, it must have been there all along. Since 1957, anyway! If, as I originally thought, I had slipped into another dimension or universe when I time-travelled, the electronic gadgets, shirt, wallet and typescript should have remained in

that reality. So I may have remained in this universe when I went back to 1937. This gave me the motivation to push on with my enquiries. Polly got really fed up with me but never said a lot. I know she was shaken rigid when she first picked up the typewritten pages from the bank in Fremantle and thought that was the last she was going to see of me. Our life had been so great together — almost idyllic in the most recent years — that the thought that I would leave her had never entered her head. But she got over it with remarkable speed and I envied her good sense and resolve to get back to a normal life. But I couldn’t! I am a romantic, I know, and I have always had to know everything about everything. I cannot leave something alone once it has piqued my curiosity and this one was far from an exception. In fact, as I said, it became an obsession. I spent hours on the Internet, late into the night. Whenever I was not working I was at the State Library, down in Albany or poking around in the Registry Office archives. I really wore out my welcome at Bankwest, which is what the Rural and Industries Bank is now called. Whenever I turned up at one of the Historical Societies or at Fremantle Hospital, I could almost hear the groans. I trudged from place to place in Melbourne, poring over all the minutes of meetings at councils, churches, schools and the University which Daffyd Lewis had dealings with. His family very kindly allowed me access to his papers and

diaries. Even his personal ones! Remember, that was the nineteen thirties and no such thing as scandals existed then! Besides, he was so busy, it seems, that he never had time for anything improper! So I returned to Western Australia empty handed. It looked as though I was going to have to follow Polly’s lead and try to get all this out of my system. Two About three months after my last fact-finding treasure hunt, I decided to cycle down to Fremantle just for the exercise. It is about thirty seven kilometres from my house to the old port city and there are pretty good cycle paths most of the way, alongside one of the best coastlines in Australia. I know that will provoke a few arguments, but I have plenty of witnesses who will agree with me! I was determined that this time I would not succumb to any temptation, unless it was in the form of a caffe latte and a vanilla slice. I would conscientiously avoid any Port Authority office, registry, archive, museum or library! If it didn’t have pavement tables and an espresso machine, I was not going to enter its premises! I needed to withdraw some cash but I was going to use the ATM and not even enter Bankwest or any of its shops! It was a magnificent spring day! Perth doesn’t normally really warm up for summer until late in November, sometimes well into December, and it was still only the last week in October. But it was sunny, warm but not hot and that cyclists’ nightmare, the south easterly wind, was just a gently wafting

breeze! There were quite a few surfers at Trigg, Scarborough and Cottesloe and the emergence of the Women in Floral Print Cotton Frocks made everything even more cheerful than normal! I leaned the bike against a parking sign and dug out my wallet. The little compartment where I keep my credit and debit cards is just a bit small and I have to twist the whole purse a bit to get them out, then select the one I want from the bunch. And, like most people these days, there really was quite a bunch! Just as I took the fifty dollar notes from the ATM slot and took my receipt, a young man staggered out of the bank and looked around as though he was lost or bewildered or something. He looked up at the sign over the awning and then back to the paper he carried in his hand. After looking up and down Market Street several times, he put down his suitcase and leaned against the traffic barrier rail. But long before this, I had noticed his peculiar attire! Well, it wasn’t really peculiar, just unusual. “Out of date” was probably a better description. He had on grey flannel trousers and a white shirt, both of which seemed too big for him as they flared out from the leather belt he wore tightly around his waist. On his feet were brown leather brogues and he had on a comical-looking wide cloth cap, like they sometimes wear on those English TV shows set in Yorkshire. All Creatures Great and Small, that sort of show. He took off the cap and scratched his brown, Brylcreemed locks, then consulted his piece of paper again. He was obviously lost. Probably up from the country or

something! I did the right thing and approached him. So few people want to get involved in anyone else’s lives these days that the Big Smoke can be a lonely, confusing place for a lad fresh in from the farm! “G’Day, Mate! Are you lost?” “Aye! I’m looking for R&I Bank! Coulda swore that’s what sign said when I went in!” “R&I? It hasn’t been called that for years! It’s called Bankwest now. Let’s see your instructions!” He handed over the paper and to my surprise, it was a letter, typed up on an old office Remington, on a Rural and Industries Bank letterhead. “Well, this is the right place, but this letter is dated November, 1956.” “Aye. I got it just before we sailed. It’s a letter introducing me to the manager so he’ll let me get at me money. I had it sent on so I wouldn’t have to bring it on boat with me!” Suddenly alarm bells started ringing madly in my head! I felt like I imagine my alter ego must have felt when he stepped out of that lift in Prahran in 1937. I felt the edge of panic hit me and I saw it reflected in the young man’s eyes. I fought it back. “Look, my name is Eric. Come in here and I’ll get you some coffee. I think . . . I think you are going to need it . . . Albert!” I said, looking at the addressee’s name on the letter. Albert Porter! “He shook my hand solemnly and although the wild panic remained in his eyes, he followed me into the cafe. It was

one of those which still exist in Fremantle where they collect your order from you at the table. Much more civilised than queuing at the counter like a department store cafeteria! “Er, Albert! It is Albert, isn’t it? Not Al or Bert or something?” “Me Mum used to call me Tadpole, ’cos I’m only a tiddler, but I like Bert meself!” He blinked nervously a few times. “Something queer’s happened, aint it?” I took a deep breath and started a few sentences until I found one I felt I could continue with. “Now, Bert, you are going to take some time to accept what I am going to tell you. Don’t try to understand it or absorb it. Just listen, then we’ll discuss it. Okay?” “Seems like I got no choice, don’t it?” “Right! Now, Bert, you have obviously just got here from England, right?” “Aye. This morning! SS New Australia. Berthed at Victoria Quay over there!” He pointed. “Left Southampton on January thirtieth. We came ’round Cape, you know?” Again I felt dizzy! This boy had just confirmed exactly what I guessed had happened to him. But even more weirdly, he had travelled on the same immigrant boat at exactly the same time as I had, nearly fifty one years earlier! This coincidence was not just strange, it was getting spooky! “Bert, today’s date is not February Twenty Seven, 1957.” I paused while he looked at his watch then blinked at me. “It is October the Twenty Fifth, Two Thousand and Seven.” His face turned into a mask of disbelief then horror. He

looked wildly out of the window then back at me. Then he grabbed one of the discarded newspapers on the next table and looked at the date on the masthead. Finally he stood up and grabbed me by the front of my high-visibility yellow cycling shirt. “What sort of game you playing, you old bugger? Just because I’m a new chum, doesn’t mean I’m stupid. What’s going on?” “Steady on!” I warned. I’m old but I’m not frail. He was only a small lad, even though his biceps bulged from below his rolled up shirt sleeves. If he decided to hit me, it would have hurt if he made contact! I just had to make sure he either calmed down or missed me! “Steady,” I repeated and he relaxed slightly. “Look, Mate, I’ll try to help you. I think I know what’s happened. I think something like this happened to me . . .” “Look, what’s going on? How come all the cars are strange and everything seems queer. And all these lights? The people are dressed like they’re on holiday! What’s it all about?” “Bert, I’ve told you. This is 2007! Somehow you’ve slipped into a time warp like I think I did and you’ve jumped into the future!” “You don’t believe all that stuff, do you? Flash Gordon, Dan Dare, that stuff. It’s fiction!” Dan Dare and Flash Gordon were characters in the boys comics I read when I was a child. The Eagle and the Dandy! At the same time that Bert Porter was a boy in England! He

only looked about eighteen or twenty now! The waitress came and I ordered him a long black and asked for a small jug of milk as well. I had a double shot of espresso in hot So Good. I really wanted a large whisky! He had released my shirt front now and we sat down again. “Why would I go to such elaborate lengths to try to fool you? You can’t have more than a couple of hundred quid at the most. I would hardly set up all this to con you out of that, would I?” “Couple of hundred? You gotta be joking! I’ve got about six pounds on me and fifty in the bank! If I could find bloody bank!” “Yes, well your fifty six quid is worth about fifteen bob nowadays,” I said quietly, doing rapid calculations in my head. “We’ve had a lot of inflation over the last few decades. You know about inflation?” I added, remembering that Yorkshire peasants were not always very well educated. “Me grandad told me. He says money loses it’s value over time. People get more of it so it aint worth so much. I don’t understand why, though. But I’ll take yer word for it!” “So you do believe what I told you?” “Well, you said it had happened to you! I suppose it’s quite common travelling through time in this century, is it?” I could see he was either mocking me, humouring me or just trying to talk his way out of whatever situation he imagined he was in. There was no way that was going to work, though!

“Look, Bert. As you said yourself, you will have to take my word for it! Can you think of any other explanation? I’ll take you to the police station and they’ll confirm the date!” I looked around for other evidence, noticing that my mention of the police had made him nervous. I didn’t think he had anything to hide but I remember back in the fifties and sixties when we were all a lot more innocent, the police were only consulted when things went really wrong. “Look! Look at that television set? Colour! Have they got sets like that in your time? And this camera?” I took a picture of him and immediately pressed the display button so he could see the result on the screen. “And my digital watch? And those cars? What about this?” I produced my MP3 player and poked one of the earpieces in his ear. He grinned and started singing. “. . . But cry-y-y-y over you! Over you! Well I never felt more like running away . . .” Bugger me if I didn’t have Guy Mitchell singing his 1956 hit on my player. I pressed the shuffle button and Kylie started wailing about The Night We Met! Guy Mitchell, I remembered, had been the favourite on the jukebox at the Varandah Cafe on the New Australia! Another really eerie coincidence! I had only loaded it onto the player that morning, along with a compilation of Johnny Ray, Marty Robbins and Patti Page! Then my phone rang. I say “rang”, because that’s what phones used to do. When they had little bells in them. These days they play you a song or your footy team’s chant or whatever. Mine played The Seekers’ Georgie Girl!

I thumbed the button. It was Polly. She was asking me if I was cooking that evening because she had been asked to work a double shift and wouldn’t get home until around nine. “I was only doing scrambled eggs, Poll. Hey, something weird has happened. I’ve met this chap who came over on the New Australia with me and . . .” “Sorry love. My pager is going. I’ll have to go. Tell me about it later.” I pressed the little red button. “That was my wife,” I told Bert. “This is my telephone. Do you have telephones like this in 1957?” He was staring at the Nokia and shaking his head in disbelief. “Aye, we have telephones, but they are this big and on a bit of wire! Was that really your wife you were talking to? I could hear her!” “So you believe me, then?” I asked, unnecessarily. “Like you said, what choice do I have?” he went from angry to scared. “Can you help me? I dunno what to do!” His voice trembled and I tried to remember what it was like being young and bewildered. I couldn’t. It was too long ago. “Well, there’s not much we can do, but if you trust me, I’ll help you all I can. Don’t worry about trying to sort it out yet. Just sit quietly and I’ll get you a proper drink. Whisky?” “No, ta. I’ll just sup me coffee for the moment. Here, you said this happened to you? When? How did you get back? Or didn’t you . . .” he trailed off.

“It will take some time to explain.” Like Polly said, it’s a long story. “I sort of went back to 1937 but another me stayed in 2007. But I’ll tell you later. You won’t be able to concentrate, the way you are now!” “Can we find somewhere for me to stay. I’m supposed to go to migrant hostel, but if I’ve got enough money, I might get room at pub!” “You’ll come with me!” I said. “I’ve got a big house and we’ll get you sorted out. This is a weird place nowadays and you’d be lost in no time. Too many technological changes. You wouldn’t even get the whole length of the street!” So we finished our coffee and I had a whisky. Bert asked for a pint, so I bought him a lager. He pulled a face when he felt how cold it was but drank the whole lot. Then we put his suitcase on the rack on my pushbike and wheeled it along to the railway station. “I came past here this morning on my way to the bank,” he told me. “Or whenever it was!” I got two tickets and we waited on the platform until the train came. There weren’t many passengers and I got to lean my bike against the wall next to the door in a wheelchair bay. Bert got out a packet of cigarettes. “Sorry, mate. No smoking on the trains.” The train pulled out of the station and we could see the gantries or whatever they are called at Victoria Quay. Bert looked, maybe hoping to see his home for the past month with it’s weird superstructure in front of the mast, but there was just a couple of freighters and a live sheep exporter.

A thought occurred to me. “I don’t suppose when you were waiting to get off the boat this morning that you saw an old man in a wheelchair on the quay, did you?” “Talking to a tall bloke with black hair? Woman and kids with him? Girls? Aye, I did!” I felt that chill up my spine! My only contact with that reality! Suddenly I realised he was awaiting some explanation. “Uh, that could have been me. But It’s a long story. Was the tall chap meeting a Cockney couple with three kids?” “Oh, I couldn’t say. I only noticed the wheelchair because back home, most people you see in wheelchairs are men injured in the war. This bloke . . . you? . . . was too old.” “The Cockney bloke was my Dad. And I was one of the three kids.” “The Cockney? Was he a bit bald on top? Called his wife something like ‘Weave’?” “That’s him? Do you know him? Did you speak to him?” “No, I just came across him a few times. He was always involved in everything. Games, quizzes, taught the kids school, too, I think! Was his name Len?” That was Dad alright. I felt a lump in my throat. Even though he and Mum are both alive and well in Busselton, my tears were for that other me trapped in the past. This man had just seen him that morning but he was still as inaccessible as ever. I felt so frustrated. “Look, Mr Catlin. It is Mr Catlin, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but to you it’s Eric. No need to stand on ceremony! Only my bank manager calls me Mr Catlin.” “Look, perhaps you’d better try to tell me your story. I can’t tell you much more about me except that I come from West Riding and I’m twenty three. Brick layer by trade but really a farmer’s son. How long will this train ride be?” So I told him what had happened earlier that year, leaving out most of the conversations recorded in the typescript. I told him about my wife’s reaction, about the lifts in London and Perth and about my daughter and her flat in Prahran. He listened quietly and never commented, even when we changed trains at Central and I carried my bike and he hefted his case down to the Underground station. We were nearly at Greenwood before I concluded: “So for most of this year I have been trying to find out whether it really happened.” “Now you know it did. But how did the box at the bank get from the other place to this place?” I knew what he meant. I have come to accept that there is not just one reality or dimension at any given time, but two, three or even a hundred. They are all sort of parallel and running along side by side but not necessarily at the same speed. Normally we can’t see into another one, or cross over into it, but sometimes, as in the case of my lifts and Bert’s bank, something goes wrong and when it does and you move from one to another, the dates don’t exactly co-incide. I suppose that is the origin of the expression “Time-Space Continuum” but as nobody seems to be able to explain to me what that means, I am as confused as you. But today’s events answered one question.

The R&I Bank in Fremantle must have been some sort of portal to other universes, the same as in the lift in the Love and Lewis building in Prahran! That’s how come the cardboard box with the story, the shirt and wallet and my camera, phone and music player came back into this reality for my wife to collect. Perhaps if we were to revisit the bank ... But then I remembered that in the story, my other self rode up and down in the lift trying to get back. Also, I rode in it myself — I mean this version of me! — numerous times before I came back to Perth and nothing happened then, either. “Are we the only people this has happened to?” Bert asked in a small voice. He looked so young sitting there. He was the same age as my son but with nowhere near the confidence and self-assuredness. Or the technical skills, I reminded myself. Chris and I had a huge task in front of us, trying to get Bert up to speed with the twenty-first century. “I don’t know. You’re the only one I’ve met. And I didn’t, as I explained. It was a sort of version of me, but I can’t explain that, either.” “Then there might be another one of me back in Fremantle in 1957 who got his money from the bank and lived happily ever after?” “And is now an old man in his early seventies? Maybe. I don’t know!” “Perhaps we could find out. Maybe he — I mean — maybe I’m still alive!” “What would you say to him if you found him?”

He went silent. The train pulled into the station and we got off. It is about a kilometre from Greenwood Station to my house along a bike path. I wheeled my bike with his case on the rack again. “I tried not to look out of the windows too much,” Bert said. “It’s all a bit scary. Noisy, too! Do you live in one of these sort of bungalows?” “We’re nearly there, now. Just up this little street. I suppose you’d like a shower?” “Nice hot bath would do me! What a day! I hope I wake up soon. It’s like a nightmare!” Three Of course, as soon as he entered my house, the questions started to flow. Refrigerator, washing machine, microwave oven, flat-screen TV, stereo, computer terminals, strange looking furniture. Old Arnie, the ginger whinger who pretends to be our pet cat but really owns us, came and rubbed himself against Bert’s leg. I tried to explain as much as I could but obviously he didn’t absorb much. I had been doing my best to use as little modern idiom in my language as I could and it is nearly impossible to explain digital cable television in terminology they used in the 1950s. So we sat there and had a beer. He was amused at the idea of drinking it out of a can. — A “tin”, he called it. Arnie wouldn’t leave him alone. He kept bumping his forehead into his hand, into his arm and against his cheek. Bert was delighted. It was the only thing he recognised as

familiar. Being a farm boy he must have seen a few cats in his time. “Me Mum had a ginger ’un just like this!” he said. “Best ratter on the farm!” “Your Mum . . .” I started, not quite knowing what I was going to say but expected it to be something about worrying about him or he worrying about her. “She died last April. Blood poisoning. Cut herself in cow barn.” “And your father?” “First wave, Normandy Invasion. I was only nine or so and I don’t remember him. He was away most of the War. I brought his medals and things with me.” So at least he didn’t have someone to get all anxious about. Maybe a grandparent or cousin or something, but you never get quite as close emotionally as you do a parent, child or spouse. Maybe there was a girl! “Did you travel over with a friend, Bert?” I asked. “A mate or a girlfriend or anyone?” “Huh! Girl was going to come with me but just before Christmas she said she couldn’t bear to leave her folks. Then I saw her in pictures with another chap. So I come on me own. Better to be rid of her, I reckon!” I put his little brown cardboard suitcase in the spare room. Susan’s Room, we still call it because she always slept there. She still does when she visits. It is quite a nice room really and I sometimes wonder why Chris never moved into it when she got married. It’s down the other end of the house

to our bedroom and is bigger than his. But his is all set up with his computer network, his sound and video equipment and his Playstation, gadgets and paraphernalia. His World War II history books, DVDs about Churchill and Spitfires and I wouldn’t be surprised if there were some George Formby records as well! Chris came home from work and looked curiously at Bert, saying a perfunctory “Hi!” even before I introduced them. When I explained to him where and how I found Bert, he never said anything but just stood there nodding. I have always enjoyed a bit of science fiction, but Chris was an aficionado. If it wasn’t World War II, then his reading material was always going to be Sci-Fi. Asimov, Heinlein, Silverberg, Clarke, Pohl! Even my distant relative, old H. G. Wells! So he was actually more ready to believe the story than one would expect. Eventually he said in slow, thoughtful tones “Do you realise what a responsibility we have? To Bert, sure, but to ourselves and the rest of the community?” “Yes, I think so. Of course, we’ll come across things we would never think of normally, but we have to start by teaching him to live in the twenty first century. He hasn’t even heard of the Internet, the Space Station or . . . or Britney Spears!” “Lucky bugger!” laughed Chris but looked thoughtful. “You know he won’t even be able to work or go to the shops, hardly, until we’ve taught him a bit about the way things work now?” Bert looked a bit unsure for a moment. “It was bloody

scary coming here on the train! All the moving signs and doors opening by themselves and stuff. And the way the ladies dress!” His face split into a grin — the first we’d seen. “I think I’m gonna like it here!” So we took it slowly and steadily. He didn’t have a clue what they were on about when the TV news came on. And the commercials were even more of a mystery. He seemed quite at ease with the scrambled eggs, baked beans and mushrooms I cooked for dinner though. By the time we heard Polly’s car pull into the drive, we had filled him in on the Swinging Sixties and were explaining about the Moon landings and the Apollo missions. He exhibited exactly the same delight I had, thirtyeight years ago, when it actually happened. Chris had a recording he had made from a documentary and we showed him those historic images which are now so familiar but which he saw for the first time. Polly was a bit surprised when she saw him sitting on the couch. We don’t often bring guests back in the evenings and at first I think she was slightly annoyed. She likes me all to herself when she gets in from work! Between the three of us, but mostly me, we told her what had happened. She was almost terrified and for a second I thought she would spit the dummy, but she shook her head and looked imploringly at me. “You’re not joking are you? I’m just about sick of all this since that stuff came in earlier this year!” Then she noticed Bert’s biceps just below the rolled up shirt sleeve. Fairly fresh against the sun tanned skin was an

unmistakable scar from a smallpox vaccination. No one had this sort of scar nowadays! Immunisation had all but wiped out the disease years ago and Britain and Australia had ceased the requirement for immunisation way back in the seventies, I think. So this, rather than all our explanations, convinced Polly. Trust a medical practitioner to take notice of medical evidence rather than hearsay or appearance! She also noticed another fresh scar on Bert’s cheek, just below the eye. The skin had healed but there was a tiny bit of scab still clinging on. She examined it and Bert said that during a storm in the Biscay, an anchor chain broke and the New Australia had swung around, throwing passengers and crew across the lounge. He had bumped his face on a bar stool. I remembered that incident from my own voyage. Our dining room waiter sported a big white bandage around his head for several days afterwards. Apparently I slept through it, despite having been thrown from my bunk! It was the medical practitioner, as well as the wife and mother, who spoke again. “Do you realise what infections and viruses he might be carrying? Did you think of that? We’ll have to get him to an isolation ward where they can do tests on him!” “Polly, it’s only fifty years. We’ll still have immunity, surely. You saw yourself that he’s been vaccinated! He’ll have more antibodies than us! He won’t be carrying anything.”

“You haven’t got the remotest idea, have you? If he’s got some virus from the Fifties he may not even be aware of, we won’t have the same immunity! Bringing him in here and exposing us to it could be a disaster! I’ll have to ring the hospital. Doctor Barter should still be there!” “And do you think they will believe where he’s from?” I asked gently. “And settle down, Poll! You’re terrifying him. He’s been through a hell of an experience! Okay, maybe we will all die, but we have already been exposed. It’s probably too late!” “You don’t understand what you’ve done!” She was nearly crying and really angry with me. I guess she was perfectly correct. Okay, she made me admit, she WAS perfectly correct! But what could I have done differently? Marched him around to Fremantle Hospital and demand they fumigate him, drain off all his blood and do an autopsy on the remains? But then the lovely, gentle person that I love so much kicked in and she went and put her arms around him and said, rather feebly “Welcome to now! Have the boys fed you?” I wasn’t out of the firing line, though, and when she went to put her things in the bedroom and I followed her in, she narrowed her eyes and almost hissed at me. “How long do you intend him to stay with us? I want him out tomorrow!” But Chris convinced her that we couldn’t just kick him out. He wouldn’t survive and would have to go to the authorities — the police, I suppose — who would send him

to the nearest mental health facility who would say there was nothing wrong with him and shoo him away. The news media would dismiss him as a crackpot and as he wasn’t ill, a drug addict or a criminal, no one would want responsibility for him. He wouldn’t, as Chris pointed out, be suitable for any work in the city, and as he didn’t have a Tax File Number, a drivers licence, current passport or any credible proof of identity. With no police clearance, he wouldn’t be able to work. Besides, I quite liked him! He was polite, respectful, decent, clean and appreciative of what we were doing for him. I went out and made hot chocolate for all of us (except me, I can’t drink it. I had a caffeine fix.) Polly and I discussed him until well into the night. She still remembered all the emotion and turmoil we went through back in early March when I returned home from Melbourne to find that everything we thought we knew about time and space was all wrong! She had no more idea about what was going on than I had, but she knew it was all happening again and for once, laying down the law and ordering me to do something about it wasn’t going to make the slightest bit of difference. At about three thirty, I heard a noise out in the kitchen and guessed Bert was having a sleepless night. He was looking in cupboards and drawers and when I came in, he looked up apologetically. “Couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d have a cup of tea, but I can’t find your kettle or tea pot. Or the caddy, for that matter!” I filled the electric jug and took two beakers out of the cup

drawer. There was a box of Tetley tea bags in there as well, so I got them out and showed him how we have been brewing up for the past thirty or forty years. How much he had to learn, poor sod! Even opening milk cartons presented him with a problem! Chris is an expert on Microwave Dinners so he could teach him that! Next morning I had to work but Polly had the day off. She was really worried about entertaining Bert but I said if she had any doubts or problems, give me a ring and I would come home. We are fairly flexible and the boss is very understanding. While he wouldn’t have understood if I told him we were entertaining a guest from the Nineteen Fifties, he was good about most things! But as it turned out, Polly never needed to call. When I got home in the evening, they were drinking glasses of merlot and laughing at an ancient comedy on UK TV. “We’ve had a great day! You should see the back garden! Bert got out all the weeds and pruned back those bushes you keep saying you were going to! Then we went to the shops to get him some clothes and shoes. Show him, Bert!” Bert stood up and gave us a twirl, parading his new jeans, polo shirt and sneakers. He wasn’t completely comfortable in them, but they suited him and he would feel less conspicuous than in his flannels, tweeds and leather boots. He had washed the Brylcreem out of his hair and Polly had combed it and snipped it to look a bit less nerdy. “Those shops are very odd!” he confided. “I’ve never seen places like that Whitford City, not even in London! And

Hilary’s Marina! The food! You’ve got it good here!” “Everything was strange to him,” Polly laughed. “You should have seen him when they brought the menu at the cafe! He had to ask what everything was. Cappuccino, foccacia, bruschetta, biscotti! He wondered if he was in Italy, not Australia!” “Well, I was going to make a risotto for tea but why don’t we throw some black pudding on the barbie instead?” I joked. Fortunately, our fears about an epidemic of Nineteen Fifties’ flu never eventuated. He also seemed robust enough to withstand our menagerie of viruses and bacteria! While Polly and Bert had made friends, I was worried about our other acquaintances. How could we explain him to them? They would be suspicious if we lied about him and would have been even more suspicious if we told them the truth. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t! And even though they were our friends, could we trust them to behave with Bert’s best interest at heart? The world was not ready yet for Mr Albert Porter: Time Traveller. Even Austin Powers had taken some getting used to! There was the ongoing problem of his education. Chris and I worked on his history and technical knowledge while Polly taught him social customs, medical advances and how to deal with bureaucracy: Medicare, Licensing, the Tax Office, that sort of thing. Legally he didn’t exist, or if he did, he was seventy-four years old! Yet who would issue him a Seniors Card looking the way he did?

Eventually one particular friend asked me about him. Dave had been a good mate for years — we ran our first marathon side by side back in ’02, went to the football, cycled, swam and drank Stones and Coke together. As he was a bachelor and lived nearby, he often dropped in for a meal or just a cup of coffee. Dave is a builder: one of the old school all-rounders who understands the entire concept of building, not just the component he worked on. His craftsmanship is just as professional and minor jobs he has done for us have always been perfect. I have seen some of the houses he has built and they are really well constructed and magnificently finished. So one day when we hadn’t been drinking anything stronger than flat whites, I decided to tell him where we picked up Bert. At first he was inclined to think I was telling him an elaborate joke, but when we showed him a few things Bert had in his possession and pointed out his manners, his turn of phrase and his smallpox scar, he was nearly convinced. “Our problem,” I told him, “Is to teach him how to exist in this totally foreign environment so that he’s no longer dependent on us! He can’t work, study or even do simple stuff we take for granted until he knows more about our culture and what’s happened in the past half century. He didn’t even know that a goalkeeper can’t handle a back pass if it comes off the foot!” “Oh, does he want a job?” Dave asked. He picked that one up straight away! There was a severe labour shortage due to a resources boom in Western Australia. “Have you ever

worked on a building site, Bert?” “Oh, aye! I did me ’prenticeship as a bricklayer in Leeds. I was hoping to get a job here, building. In fact, I’ve got a few names to go and see, but I suppose they’ll all be dead by now!” “Do you want to start with me, then?” Dave asked. “It’s hard work and it’s getting pretty hot out in the sun, now. It’ll get hotter in December, though! A lot of Poms can’t work in the heat. A lot of them can’t work anywhere! But I can’t get skilled workers. If you’re any good, you’ll have all the work you want!” We left them together, knowing that Dave would be completely fair and not take advantage of Bert’s innocence and ignorance. As it turned out, it was the best thing for him. He thrived! Dave works hard and Bert kept up with him inch for inch. And they got on really well together. When Dave picked him up in the ute at seven each morning, they would start laughing right away and would still be cracking on when they pulled into the drive after sinking a couple of cold ones at the Kingsley in the late afternoon. But as you would have to expect, Bert was like a fish out of water. He and Chris would go down and play snooker sometimes in the evening and at other times he watched television and studied the Internet. He wasn’t the best educated lad around and I doubt if he even shone in his own schooldays, but he was interested in lots of things, even when he couldn’t understand them. He had a lot of trouble with people’s nationalities. “Is he an Aborigine?” he would ask at the shopping mall.

“No, he’s African. And that dark chap there is a Maori. From New Zealand. That one is from the Middle East, probably Lebanon. The women wear those things over their heads.” “I thought they only let white people into Australia. That’s what they said at Australia House when I applied to come here!” “They used to have a thing called the White Australia Policy and only Europeans could get in. But back in the gold rush days a lot of Chinese and Afghans came and stayed. Lebanese, too. Then when the conservative governments of the fifties and sixties lost power, they opened the floodgates and all sorts of people came in.” “I think they’re going to do that in England, too. They’ve been under a lot of pressure since the War!” “Yeah, they relaxed the rules in Britain, Bert, and it’s not a pretty sight. Most people behave themselves but some of them don’t want to assimilate. And there’s always plenty of white people who don’t want to let them. It’s a pretty rough old world out there. Lots of hatred and suspicion.” “But you all seem to get along so well, here! You’ve got darkies and chinamen and all sorts of friends. It doesn’t seem too bad at all!” “This is middle class suburbia. We’re not poor, we’re grown up and educated. You go into town, into the inner city and southern suburbs! You’ll see a different picture there! And places like Sydney and parts of Melbourne! We even had a race riot in Cronulla a couple of years back. That’s in Sydney. Moslems and Australians running a pitched battle

on the beachfront!” “We are still at war in the Middle East, aren’t we?” And so I explained the history of everything that led up to the Iraqi Invasion, from the formation of Israel back in his time, through the Cold War, the rise of the NeoConservatives in the USA and their counterparts in Moscow and Tehran, right through to the World Trade Centre strikes and the War on Terrorism. He was aghast! “I thought we had peace! I guessed that Suez must have blown over and then everyone lived happily ever after. But you’ve had wars since then and all?” “Vietnam, the Falklands, Palestine, dozens of African wars, Central America, Malaysia, Kuwait. Stacks of them. And all the while, the threat of nuclear war between the superpowers. That’s Atomic bombs. And the superpowers are the U.S.A. and the U.S.S.R.” “But it never happened? Atomic War?” “No! Communism in Russia and Central Europe collapsed and eventually even the Berlin Wall was pulled down. America needed a new enemy so it looked to the Arab countries.” “Berlin Wall?” And so I explained the carve up of Germany, the hatred, nastiness, paranoia and fear that was created especially for the Cold War. I told him about the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Six Day War, Bangladesh, Angola, the Balkans, Zimbabwe, East Timor, Afganistan! I shattered all his illusions of Fifty

Years of Peace! Boy, talk about being the bearer of bad tidings! Four Although we never expected him to, young Bert turned to life in the twenty first century as though he had been born to it. He quickly picked up new concepts and started studying sites on the World Wide Web, often trying to find the whereabouts of people he had once known. As most of his family had died (his father, mother, a sister and his only aunt) before he left England in 1957, he did his research more out of curiosity than any form of identity seeking. He picked up a lot of other useful information along the way. Chris and Dave were really helpful to him. My son is a wizard with gadgets, software and electronics. As a nine year old boy, he had trouble setting a traditionally sprung alarm clock but could write a Basic script for the computer. At high school, his music teacher used to ask him to explain MIDI instruments and programs. And since he left university, his services have been in big demand by customers of his employer. So to have someone like Chris for a tutor was a huge benefit to Bert. Working for Dave was also a bonus. Dave understood more than just the technicalities of building, he also had a realistic grasp of the legal side of it: council by-laws, fire department regulations, mortgaging and financing, insurance and Titles Office protocols which so many buyers seldom imagine even exist. Dave chatted on all day and Bert absorbed every word.

He once confided in me that as he had set out to make a new life for himself in Australia, totally different to the old one in Yorkshire, he had nothing to complain about. He had a very different life to anything the Australian High Commission in London could have prepared him for, but it was not the Northern winters, shortages and inadequate standard of living he had escaped! However, there was one element of his old life that remained! When he discovered that Perth fielded a team in the national football competition, the A-League, and that Dave, Chris and I were keen supporters, he became a regular at home games. As a Yorkshireman, his primary love was cricket, but the sport was waning in popularity— rugby union, Australian Rules and basketball were all vying for attention — he turned his attention to the Perth Glory. Those summer evenings at the ground in East Perth were the highlight of his week and he used to stay back afterwards, hanging around the clubrooms to hear the coaches’ media conference, have a beer with the players and a joke with the Shed boys. Nobody there spoke anything but football so all anyone knew about him was that he was a Leeds United supporter. Of course, one of the first things he had looked up on the Internet was the club’s history in the past fifty years, so he could tell you all about every player from Billy Bremner to Harry Kewell and Mark Viduka, from the heady days of Don Revie’s management to the pits of despair under Terry Venables. He still referred to them as “The Peacocks” and I

think he is the only person in the past forty years to do so! But now he was a fanatical Glory Shed Boy. Chris and I went to every home game that season, as well as one each in Melbourne and Brisbane. But we were only supporters! Bert’s blood ran purple and orange! It was not even three months since that incredible day we first met in Fremantle and the season was approaching its final home and away fixture. The four of us caught the train into Perth for an evening match and, as always, stood in front of the Shed, yelling and singing ourselves hoarse. Our team played well and came away with a one goal win. Dave and I wanted to get away straight after the match as we were training with our little group of runners early on Saturday morning and Chris had made an arrangement to conduct one of his programming Master Classes on the ’Net at twenty-two hundred. Bert, however, was really keen to go into the clubrooms to discuss the match with some of the other fans. As he had caught the train with us several times now and knew his way around the railway system, we were quite confident about leaving him to make his own way home. After all, it was only a short walk across Lord Street to Claisebrook Station, change at Perth Central then catch a northbound to Greenwood. Plenty of other passengers on a Friday evening after the shopping and the football meant he wouldn’t be alone on a station if he needed to ask directions for any reason. So we set off home and after watching the highlights from the game on Foxtel Sport, I went to bed. I think I had only just dropped off when Chris came in with the phone. He

looked a bit worried. “It’s for you, Dad. It’s the police!” “Hello!” I said into the phone. “This is Eric Catlin!” “Mr Catlin? This is Constable Boyle from Central Police Station. There’s been an assault at the Perth Railway Station and we have reason to believe you may know one of the victims. He has no identification on him, just a card with your name on it in his wallet.” “What does he look like?” I asked, knowing full well what the answer would be. “Male, Caucasian. Early twenties. Dark hair, fair complexion. Wearing a purple Glory polo shirt and cap, blue jeans and sports shoes. Can you come down to Royal Perth Hospital and help us with inquiries into his identification?” “I’m on my way!” I said. “Who do I ask for?” “Just give your name at the reception. They’re expecting you.” So I drove in to town with a sick feeling in my stomach. Bert would never have started a fight and football hooliganism has never really been on the agenda in Perth soccer, as rival supporters were normally too few in numbers. The tyranny of distance which exists in Western Australia has made sure that opposing team fans use their travel dollars to go to away matches closer at hand in the Eastern States. He must have been set upon by one of the gangs of thugs who sometimes hang around the station and Northbridge after the shops shut! I found a parking bay at Officeworks. The hospital car

park was, as always, packed. I found the main entrance to the hospital and just inside was the reception desk. “I’m looking for Albert Porter!” I told the receptionist. She pretended to consult a monitor, then picked up a phone. “Would you mind waiting, please?” I nodded and moved away from the desk while she spoke to someone on the telephone. “Someone will be along to see you in a minute!” Almost immediately, a young man in a suit came in from one of the offices adjacent to the reception. He came straight up to me and held out his hand. “I am Pastor Jason Brownall. I’m one of the Chaplains here. Are you a relative or close friend of Mr Porter?” “A close friend,” I said. “Ah! Well I have contacted his daughter and she’s on her way. Thank you for coming in. Can we get you some tea or anything?” “Can’t I see him? Is he in a ward, yet?” “I’m sorry Mr . . . er . . . Mr . . . ?” “Catlin!” I said. “Eric Catlin. A policeman rang me. Is he okay?” “I’m sorry, Mr Catlin. Mr Porter was dead on arrival. He was an elderly man and his wounds were quite horrific. I’m sorry. The doctor can explain the nature . . .” “What do you mean, elderly? He was twenty three. And what do you mean, ‘daughter’? He didn’t have a daughter. He wasn’t even married!” “We are talking about Mr Albert Porter who was brought in to emergency about an hour and a half ago, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but he’s a young chap. He was wearing a Glory shirt.” The pastor looked at me with his head on one side. “Either I got the story wrong, or you are confused, Sir!” he said quietly and with a note of understanding and concern. “The young man who came to Mr Porter’s assistance fits your description, but we haven’t established his identity yet.” “That’s why I’m here!” I nearly shouted. I have quite a loud voice at the best of times, so I really must have made a lot of noise. “The policeman described him and it sounds like Bert to me. I don’t know the elderly chap. It’s Bert I’ve come to see!” “You’d better follow me,” he whispered. I think I must have frightened him with my verbal outburst. He led me along a hall and I braced myself against the irrational fear in the elevator. Then I followed him to a ward with trolleys down one side. On one of these was a body almost completely swathed in bandages. I could see the patient’s eyes and immediately recognised them. There was the little jagged scar at the top of the cheekbone. “Bert,” I said. “It’s Eric. I got here as soon as I heard!” “Yeah, I can see you!” Bert said. His voice was slightly muffled but reasonably strong. “Thanks, Mate!” “What happened? Everyone here is confused. They said you were dead, but it’s the other chap. The one you helped.” “I’m not sure really,” he said, closing his eyes. “I was changing trains when I saw these blokes in dark clothes just

outside the barriers near the bottom of the bridge. They were stoning an old man so I jumped over and tried to stop them. They knocked me down and started putting the boots in. The old chap was down, too, then the lights went out and I woke up about half an hour ago, here. It hurts all over!” The pastor explained that a group of men with Middle Eastern appearances had launched an unprovoked attack on a pedestrian outside the station. They had pulled up paving bricks and pelted him with them. Bert had tried to help but was hit with a paver and then stomped on. He had several broken ribs, a possible hairline fracture of the skull and multiple lacerations. His breathing was laboured and they feared his lung could be punctured. He was scheduled for scans and surgery to assess any internal injuries as soon as the equipment was available. Friday evenings get busy in the emergency department in Perth! But Jason insisted that Albert Porter was the elderly victim and that we were confused. After he left to get me some tea, Bert painfully reached out an arm and took my hand. “It were me, weren’t it?” “It wasn’t your fault, Bert. You did the right thing going to his aid. I’m proud of you!” “No, I don’t mean that! The old chap. It were the other me, weren’t it?” The tears were pouring out of his eyes and welling up in the sockets. I dabbed at them with the corner of a sheet and stared back into them. “We don’t know that,” I said. “Just because he had the

same name as you. There might be any number . . .” “Don’t talk daft!” he said. “It were me. I know it!” By the time Pastor Brownall got back, Bert had closed his eyes and was motionless. He was still gripping my hand but his fingers had no strength or warmth left in them. I would like to say his eyes were peaceful but they weren’t. Although I couldn’t see much of his mouth, I knew it was in a grimace.

Perspective

One “Is he a Catholic, do you know? I can get one of the priests from over the road at St Mary’s to administer the Last Rites,” Pastor Brownall asked, lifting the limp, calloused hand away from mine and placing it across Bert’s body. “There’s always someone there, so it’s not a problem.” “I don’t know what religion he was,” I muttered, a dreadful, heaviness descending on me. “Anglican, I suppose. Church of England? That’s the same thing, isn’t it? He only came out from Yorkshire three months ago!” “I’ll say a prayer, if you think that’s what he’d have wanted.” I have always felt that there is no point in most prayers, especially those asking God to do something. A lot of Christians I have met seem to think that praying is akin to rubbing a magic lantern. A genie will emerge in a puff of smoke and grant you three wishes! In Sunday School I was taught that Jesus told his disciples to say “Thy will be done” and was quite explicit about what to request God to perform. Forgiveness, supply of basics such as food, protection from the desire to do bad stuff and get yourself into trouble. Otherwise, all you should do when you are on your knees is let Him know that He is the boss

and what he thinks He should do is what you think will be best for everyone. They called it the “Lord’s Prayer” in my Sunday School and I think some people call it the “Our Father”. But over the years, all sorts of little bits have been added to the teachings of Christ. People think they’d like this or that, so in time they include it and start to believe it until it becomes part of the dogma instead of being the doctrine. Then they set about coercing others to believe it as well, as though the louder you shout, the more you will get what you want. My kids used to try that! Plenty of quotes from other parts of what disciples like to call “The Scriptures” say that all you have to do is ask, seek and knock and your prayers will be answered but these are all things disciples and apostles wrote so they must have decided to exploit prayer early, I reckon. So I don’t pray for stuff, I just do what I believe is the way to go about things. I’m not a Bible student so I won’t argue it any further, but well, that’s what it seems to me. Pastor Brownall may or may not have shared my belief, I don’t know. But he was paid to try to comfort those in turmoil and pain and that’s what he set out to do. “Maybe the other Mr Porter’s family will want that,” I said. “Maybe Bert would have, I don’t know, but if he’s dead, I believe it’s too late to start thinking about rescuing his soul now.” “I think so, too. But some people need reassurance. Look, I’ll get someone to check his vital signs and do the necessary paper work, if you like.”

He left and I took Bert’s hand again. It didn’t seem to be dead, just cool and limp. Bert was so vibrant, so alive, so passionate about things. He loved his work, his new life, his football! How could he be dead? It was too hard to accept, although intellectually I knew we must all go sometime. The registrar came as soon as he was able. He placed his fingers on Bert’s wrist, then shifted his grip and tried again. He looked a little puzzled. So he placed two fingers against Bert’s neck, then took his stethoscope and placed it against his chest. He lifted an eyelid and shone a little torch into the pupil. “I won’t be a moment,” he said and scuttled away. He returned almost immediately with a very smartly dressed woman who did exactly what the registrar had done. “He’s obviously still alive, but his breathing and heart rate are so slow, they’ve almost stopped. But they are regular. We’d better get him on life support!” I don’t mind that they completely ignored me. If it would keep Bert alive, so long as he didn’t suffer either physically or mentally, that’s what I wanted them to do. They took the brake off his trolley and raced him down the corridor. My tea was stone cold by now. I found a machine in the foyer and bought a cup of something the label over the tap said was coffee. I don’t know what it really was but unless someone had sabotaged the machine, they had plumbed it up to the sewage system by mistake! I hung around in the waiting room for nearly three hours. The nurse at Triage rang through to someone who she said

would know all about it and they promised to let us know if they found out something. Meanwhile, I watched the Home Shopping Channel and, other than when they advertised an interesting-looking pair of walking shoes, I got bored out of my mind. But, I reminded myself, I wasn’t here to be entertained. I was here for Bert. Eventually the Triage nurse came over and said that Bert was stable, all his injuries had been sewn up and that although he had not regained consciousness, he was in a ward. I went to see him but the nurse there said he was in good hands and I looked as though I needed a good night’s sleep and should go home to bed. I would, she insisted, sounding exactly like Polly, be far more use to Bert if I was fit, healthy and alert when he awoke next morning. I took her advice and surprisingly, slept until seven o’clock. It was too late for training so I went back to the hospital. Polly came with me. She wasn’t working until the afternoon and insisted she would be better placed to understand whatever the doctors said than I would be. But even the doctors couldn’t understand why Bert was still in a coma. The skull fracture was fairly clean, there was no pressure on his brain and his lungs were intact. It was just as if his body had slowed right down. Put into energy saver mode, I suppose Chris would say if discussing a computer. “It puts me in mind of what I saw when I was a boy!” Pastor Brownall said. “My father was a missionary in Africa. Gambia! Sometimes, after a severe trauma, the

witchdoctors would do something to make the patient become sort of, well, catatonic!” Every day for the next week, I went back down to the hospital. I would sit beside his bed and listen to my MP3 player, read a book or just sit and play with my laptop. I wrote that last story while I was there and because I was sure Bert would never come out of the coma, I intended to let it finish when his hands went limp. But on Sunday morning, eight days after he went under, I noticed him move one eye. “What day . . .?” he asked. “Sunday. I’ll get the nurse!” “No!” A pause. “I lost yesterday, then?” “And all last week. Don’t try to move. You haven’t moved for eight days. Your muscles might be stiff.” I had some vague idea this happened. It does to me even when I just sit on the toilet and read the sports pages! But I was nearly sixty. “Over a week! How did the Glory go?” I had forgotten all about the football. The game had been played in New South Wales the previous afternoon. I was sitting right where I was now and it never occurred to me to go down the hall and watch it on the telly. “I’ve got so much to tell you! You were right, you know!” Bert had been wired up to some sort of encephalograph or something and when the technician realised that there was increased brain activity, she sent the nurse down to check him. Before he could tell me all his news, she rushed in and

began fussing over him. It was two hours before we were alone again. “Eric, look! I tell you, you were right. There is a sort of door through time. And there’s more than one place. Universe I think you called it. A different real! Reality! It’s not hard to understand when you know what it is!” “Hang on!” I cried. “You’ve been ill. Really ill! Close to death! You probably hallucinated!” “No, I didn’t!” He looked searchingly, imploringly into my eyes. “I wasn’t close to death at all. I shut my body down and left it!” Now this was even harder to believe than time travel. But I felt all weak and couldn’t argue with him. Something told me he knew what he was talking about. I sank back into the chair and listened while he told me everything in a really emphatic sort of voice. Not the sort of “emphatic” that television evangelists use. This was an earnest, almost desperate tone which made me think he was having trouble finding the right words but determined to convince me because he knew I needed to know. “At first, when I realised it was me — that old bloke — I sort of let go. It was painful to think about. I was in agony. My body, but my mind as well. Then they sort of began to separate — my body and my mind. At first I tried to stay together because I was frightened and I thought I was dying and my spirit was going to heaven or somewhere.” He tried to grin but it had no humour in it. “But it was no use, so I let go.

“I could see you sitting next to me. I was still in the bed. Then the sky pilot came in and then the doctors. When they wheeled me off, I went with them but they mucked about with me in the operating room and I was a bit, sort of . . . I dunno. Embarrassed! So I went to try and find the other me. “It’s me! I know it is. First off, he’s got all my scars and marks. The one on my cheek, the mole on my hip, the place where I came off my cousin’s motorbike. “And his daughter came in and identified him and told the morgue attendant he’d been in Australia over fifty years. He was a mortgage inspector. Worked at that bank where we first met in Fremantle. There’s something funny at that place, by the way. It’s a sort of doorway like I was telling you between places. Universes.” So I was right! Unless Bert was just recalling hallucinations which were fuelled by the bits of knowledge and supposition we had discussed dozens of times. Somehow I didn’t think so. “So I had a good old poke around. You know, without your body, you can go wherever you like. Into buildings and things without the doors. You know, without going through them! And it doesn’t stop there. Some of the things I saw made me blush and feel like . . . what do you call them? A Peeping Tom? But I better not tell you. You’re a married man!” I chuckled and it seemed to relax me. When he saw me relax, he did, too. “But you don’t just travel around now. I mean in the present. You can go wherever you want. Whenever you

want. At least, I think so. I went and watched us meet at Fremantle. I saw your Mum and Dad on the New Australia. Me, too! I went back ‘ome and saw me Mum before she died. That wasn’t a good idea! But I realised I could go and see her any time I wanted so it didn’t seem so bad after a while. “But I couldn’t talk to her. I mean she didn’t know I was there! I had no body so I couldn’t speak or touch anyway. Are you following me?” “I think so. I don’t know what to make of what I’m hearing but are you talking of Astral Travel?” “Oh, I don’t know about that. I just stayed on Earth. Not into space! I’m not really into all that Dan Dare stuff!” “No, that’s what out of body travel is sometimes called.” I had heard of a few cases and when I was younger, sometimes thought I would try it myself one day. “Astral Projection, they call it as well. In the Seventies, a lot of people took drugs like marijuana and tried to do it. Some of them claimed it worked, too. It’s been around for ages. I think some Buddhist monks do it when they meditate.” “Yes, well it does work. Hey, do you think the drugs the hospital gave me could have worked like the marijuana. You know, morphine or whatever they use these days?” “I wouldn’t know. Let’s see when you last had any.” I didn’t know how to read a chart and if I could, I didn’t know the names of the drugs they used anyway. Shame Polly wasn’t here now! A nurse came over. I thought they were supposed to all be too busy to keep their eye on everyone. Perhaps Bert was

special. “Is there something you want to know? You should ask the Doctor.” She took the clipboard from me and hung it back on the hook. “Has Mr Porter been given morphine or any thing that would make him hallucinate?” I asked. “Anything that might alter his mind or mental state?” “I’m not a trained mental health nurse, but he hasn’t had morphine or anything like that since . . . for a while. Saturday, last week. Do you need to know the dosage?” “Not at the moment, but if we ask later, could someone tell us?” “The doctor will. If the patient asks! He can’t withhold information about the patient’s treatment if he asks.” “Thanks, Nurse. You’ve been a big help.” Bert looked at me. “That was when I first went out of my body. That’s it!” “Can you still do it now, without being doped up?” “I think so. It isn’t difficult. I’ll try.” He went into a trancelike state. Less than a minute later he grinned and the life came back into his eyes. “I just went and watched those two Yanks walk on the moon. You know, Armstrong and Aldrin. So I can do it when I want and I can leave earth if I want!” He looked really pleased with himself. “I’m surprised you never ducked over to Sydney to watch yesterday’s match!” I laughed.

“What a first rate idea!” He closed his eyes again. They discharged him the next week. He had regained all his colour and apart from some stitches and a bit of swelling around the wounds and impact sites, as the doctor called them when he made out the discharge prescriptions, he was just about back to normal. Polly picked him up because I had to work. I had told her what he told me but she was very sceptical. “He must have been on something while he was unconscious. I’ll find out from his records. That nurse didn’t know what she was talking about.” You see, Polly’s immediate reaction is the same as everyone else’s. The same as mine would have been the previous year before that weird business which started with Love and Lewis’s building in Prahran and ended with the safety deposit box in Fremantle. I haven’t anything else more important to do, so I dwell on stuff like this. And I think I am a bit psychic as well. I seem to be able to get slightly more inside someone’s mind than other people do. I read between the lines, but it isn’t guesswork. It’s a sort of intuitive feeling I get. I know you are probably reading this, thinking it is either B-grade fiction or that it’s a load of tripe and you can’t understand why you haven’t put it down in favour of Elliot Perlmann or Tim Winton! But some of you will have detected that I really want you to believe it! That’s how I was at that moment with Bert in the hospital ward.

Two The day after Bert’s discharge, Albert Porter was cremated at Karrakatta Cemetery. Bert couldn’t bring himself to attend, but I think he did later. I mean, he entered the Astral Plane and travelled back to watch silently from somewhere in the shadows. Chris and I went, even though we had never met this other version of our mate. It just seemed the right thing to do. There weren’t many people at the ceremony. His daughter was there, of course, along with an elderly couple about Albert’s age. Several people sat near the back and left when the coffin went into the crematorium. The daughter said a few words, mostly thanking those of us who attended for honouring her late father. Afterwards she came up to me and politely asked where I had featured in her father’s life. It sort of took me by surprise and I was just going to say that it was my young friend who had tried to go to his aid at Perth Station, but I found myself telling her that we had migrated on the same ship in 1957. “He often mentioned the New Australia,” she said. “I think he even surprised himself when he immigrated. He was never very adventurous, as you probably know. But he loved it here and never wanted to return to England. Did you meet him on board?” “I was only eight. I think my father may have met him. I just came across him later on. At the R&I Bank in Fremantle.” I was fishing now!

“Oh, yes! He worked there right up until they were taken over. He loved his job. That’s where he met Mum, you know?” “Oh, I didn’t know that? She worked in Fremantle?” “No, Albany. She worked in the local branch when he was building down there. He did all those homes for the State Housing Commission in Spencer Park. Do you know them?” Know them? I lived in one of them! “Yes,” I said. “I lived in Albany for a while, myself. Er, your mother . . . ?” “She passed away in Two Thousand and One. She was older than Dad. They were really happy, though. Her name was Helen Riley. You might have known her if you were from Albany?” “I was fifteen years younger than your father,” I told her. “I did know some Rileys in Albany, though. They might have been her relatives.” “They’re a big family. Look, we’re not having a wake or anything, but would you like to come down to Bayview Terrace and we could have lunch at the Dome? Val and Tom Morten over there are coming. I’ll introduce you.” Tom had been in partnership with Albert for some years before their retirement. He met Albert soon after he arrived. One of the addresses the young immigrant had carried over was that of a building firm, T. Morten & Co. in Albany and after rejecting some rather dubious offers of work in Perth, he caught the Weekender down and immediately fell in

love with the place. My parents had done the exact same thing about a year later and moved there in 1959. In so many ways our lives had travelled very close to each other it is amazing we never met. Of course, we probably did! Albany was a small coastal town of around ten thousand residents back then and we lived there for at least ten of the same years. He played football and cricket. I played football and my brother played cricket. My brother even worked at the R&I Bank for a couple of years after leaving school in the late Sixties, but that was after the newly wed Mrs Helen Porter had already left to start a family. Can’t have married women in the workforce! That’s a man’s job! Albert had suffered a bit of a fall from some scaffolding and his vertebra had taken all the shock. Sometimes on those bitter Southern winter mornings it was painful to bend and straighten so the bank manager called him in one day and asked him if he was interested in joining the staff as a mortgage and home loans officer. He grabbed it! There he worked alongside a young lady who seemed to the dull, conservative Yorkshireman to epitomise everything he found attractive in this new country. She was strong, beautiful, alive, hospitable and, just like his feelings for Australia, Albert wanted to remain there for the rest of his days! Within a year they were married and because she was five years his senior and he was already approaching thirty, their daughter, Rita Irene after Albert’s mother, was born the following year.

Five years later, just as Rita was about to start school, Head Office asked Albert if he was interested in a promotion. There was a building boom and the bank was one of the leading lending institutions in the State. His job in Albany was little more than a clerk’s job, so the Porter family packed up the Holden station wagon and moved to Fremantle. It wasn’t a terribly exciting life, Rita apologised, but it was a good one. Her father had everything a man should expect from life, and then more! He had good friends, including Tom Morten who had employed him in Albany in 1957 and who now lived around the corner, a lovely house in Floreat right near the beach, some prudent investments and very little to complain about, had he been the sort of man to indulge in that sort of behaviour. He had travelled around Australia with his wife before she became ill, played a major role in his local Anglican Church and, until the end of the previous season, had gone down every Saturday to watch his team play at Litis Stadium. Rita was proud of him, that was manifestly obvious! She had every reason to be, but I have seen so many people in their latter years whose children just wanted them to get the hell out so they could get their mitts on the inheritance. There was none of that here. Tom told me Rita probably never even realised how much the thrifty Northerner had put aside over the past fifty years! Guessing that young Bert was somewhere in that bit of the Astral Plane that includes Claremont’s favourite shopping street, Chris said in a soft voice as we left the cafe: “Do you want a lift home, Bert?”

I think that at last Chris was converting. For two days he had struggled with the concept of Out of Body Experience. I know I was still on the Skeptical List! And when we arrived back in Kingsley, Bert was sitting in my Jason Recliner and he stood as we entered. “Thanks for the ride home, Chris. It’s a hot day for Astral Travelling and Claremont is quite a trip!” Three I wasn’t ready to try tripping for myself. I always believed I could do it if I wanted, but old men are not generally keen to grasp new concepts. I was amazed that Bert took to it with such a zeal because, let’s face it, he was not the adventurous kind. Even Rita had said that about the other-dimension version of him who had been her father! But then, both had embraced life in Australia with such enthusiasm that it put me in mind of the expression about still waters running deep. Now I am not making out I am an old man. My wife tells me I am, and while I haven’t as much energy as she has, I still keep her young! Yes, I am boasting! All my life I have kept as active as I could. Barring injuries and the occasional other bits of medical stuff we all suffer, I exercised vigorously, ate only good quality fresh food (except sometimes while dining out with my daughter and son-in-law in St. Kilda or Carlton) and had my checkups at the doctor’ surgery with admirable regularity. Polly wouldn’t have it any other way. I kept my mind active by doing cryptic crosswords,

carefully following up news and current affairs programs on telly with research on the ‘Net, and of course, writing down everything that happens in limerick form. This drives my family and friends mad because at any time of the day or night, they are likely to get an SMS text with my latest fiveline creation. Even so, Astral Travel seemed a bit too much excitement for a dull old gentleman like me. But one day I re-discovered those papers in the shoe-box. I read them over and over and it started to become an obsession again. What had happened to my “other-plane” self after he (I?) put the things in the bank vault? Had I undergone surgery at the hospital? No records exist if I had! Did I chicken out and died some time later, all alone, drunk and cold on a park bench? Had I undergone surgery and died on the table? Was surgery successful and I lived another ten or fifteen years? Had I been struck by a bus as I wheeled my chair back across Cantonment Street after leaving the bank? Was I still hanging around, a hundred and thirty years old, in another dimension where medical science was far advanced to ours? There was only one way left to find out! Ask Bert to go and have a look! “No way,” he said, exhibiting a newly acquired Twenty

First Century bad speech habit. “You want it, you go get it!” “After all I’ve done for you, Bert? Have some gratitude!” “Ah! Just as I suspected! You only did it so you’d have a slave for life, then? Do your own dirty work, you lazy old so-and-so?” “No, of course not! But you’re really good at this Astral Travel stuff and I know you’ll do it properly!” “Flattery will get you nowhere! I’ll show you how to do it and even go with you. But you’ve got to do this one for yourself!” Four “Come on, Bert! You know me! I’m far too gutless to try doing something like this! Besides, I’m certainly not going to take drugs. I haven’t even smoked dope since . . . well, you don’t need to know about that. I was a dickhead sometimes when I was younger!” “You don’t need drugs. You just have to get your body to prepare your mind. Drugs can do it. So can meditation! Some people do it accidentally in their sleep. You may even have done it yourself! Did you ever dream you could fly or soar? That could have been your mind going off on its own.” “I’ve done that. But I had no control over it. When I woke up I was still in my head, stuck to my body which was snug in bed! And I only meditate very lightly. Just to relax my body.” “That’s a start! Is that what you do when you want to write something? When you come up with your ideas for corny poems?”

“Meditate? No! I go for a really brisk walk or better still, a run! That frees my mind up to think clearly. Oh, the endorphins my system releases probably help, too. Come to think of it, whenever I have been feeling really ill, ‘flu or fever or whatever, I sometimes get really creative!” “That’s because your body pumps chemicals that it makes especially to get you through tough times. Remember the pastor in hospital telling you about those folk in Africa who had suffered some trauma? He said the witchdoctors put them in a trance. Actually, they used the chemicals the body produced for mending to assist the mind to free up its body shackles. They just assisted them to go into the Astral Plane.” “How did you know about that? You were unconscious when he told me that!” “No I wasn’t. I just wasn’t in my body. Look, I’m sure if you had a really hard workout — a run preferably — you could do it. I can do it now without any assistance at all. I just think about how good it feels, then, if I want to, I can just rise up away from it!” “Okay, then, just say I did, for argument’s sake. What if Polly came in while I was away and found me lying around all floppy, in a trance! She wouldn’t like it, I can tell you!” “Eric, you don’t understand. You wouldn’t need to be away for any time at all. Not the time on your watch, anyway. You just come back to whenever you want, any time after you left, regardless of how long you were away!” “But you were gone for a whole week. Eight days!” “That was pretty clumsy. I was inexperienced and didn’t

have anyone to guide me. I’ve learned a lot since then! I could have come back even before you felt my hands go limp.” “How did you know I felt them go limp?” “When you are out of the restraints of your body, everything is more intense. Sort of really sharp like a Dali painting. Do you know him? Salvadore Dali?” “So you can read people’s minds? Come on, that’s a bit cheeky!” “Mate, stop putting up arguments. Unless you do it, you will never get your answers. Like you say, it’s almost an obsession! Let me help you!” “Okay, Help me! Go back and find out what happened to the other me!” “There are far more questions than that, Eric. Look, Polly and Chris don’t need to know. And you’ll be a lot easier to live with if you don’t have that on your mind all the while.” I worried about it for a couple of weeks. Part of me was desperate to try it. I wanted to know the answers so badly. I wanted to know what it felt like back in the Forties and Fifties for that other me. I wanted to experience the elation Bert claimed to feel when he tripped. It didn’t interfere with any religious beliefs I had. In fact, if you wanted to go reinterpreting the Bible, you could probably make a pretty good case that a few of the characters there did a bit of Projection now and again! Bert broached the subject again after Arsenal drew with Fulham on the English Premier League show on Foxtel.

“Have you thought any more about it, Old Chap?” “Well, it’s hard not to. I told you, I’m just a bit gutless. What if I didn’t get back?” “Well, for a start, you can’t ‘not get back’. Your body attracts you back. Sometimes you don’t want to, it feels so good, but you need your body! It’s sort of like a dock! “And secondly, you can’t get lost, either. No way! It’s not like trying to find your way around Perth. You don’t even need a UBD! You’re aware of everything just by focussing your attention on it! It’s nothing like this physical world. That’s why you can move around in time and space and the other dimensions so easily. You don’t need to know where you are going, just where you want to be.” But still I demurred. Bert said there was no pain, no nausea, no unpleasant sensation. Your ears didn’t pop like when the plane descends and the air pressure changes. Nothing! Just peace and calmness and positive energy! “Go for a run and think about it!” Bert encouraged. “I’ll be here when you are ready. I’ll even hold your hand if you want!” So I put on my Beasts and shorts. It was now late in the autumn and I had been training to do the half marathon in Bunbury in the middle of May, so the run would do me good, anyway. You can’t have too much road work! By the time I returned and ran up the drive, I had decided to forget about the whole thing. It was stupid! I had got on okay for sixty years without any of this sort of nonsense and I didn’t need it now. I was quite annoyed with Bert for pushing me. In fact I was really quite

determined to tell him to just shut up about the entire business. I would take a few days over in Melbourne with Susan and Mark and put an end to this stupid obsession once and for all! “Aha!” Bert grinned with glee. “You are in exactly the right condition to take off! Your body will free you from the shackles and your mind is prepared for lift-off. In fact, it’s bursting to go!” “Knock it off, Bert! I’m not in the mood. In fact, I’m pissed off with the subject. Let it go, will you!” “Perfect! Emotion! That’s one of the strongest fuels you can have. Some people can hate their way out of their bodies, you know!” I pretended to ignore him and got a drink of water. “Don’t do that! If you stay away longer than you mean to, being the first time, you don’t want to leave your body needing to see Trev!” I sat down and went to raise the glass. Bert took it from my hand and then I felt myself gently waft upwards and outwards. I brushed through the television cabinet but never felt it. Or saw it, even! I was just aware of it! My tired feet and aching legs were gone. The sweat was no longer running down my face and neck and that annoying tennis elbow pain was at last no more! I was aware of Bert beside me but when I turned to face him, all I could see, if “see” is the word, was our bodies sprawled out on the couch as though we were watching the television screen.

There was no panic or shock. No surprise, even! Just a sensation which made me wish I’d done this all along, as soon as I learned about it. I could see why Bert was so enthusiastic, so ecstatic about it. And it was all done without drugs! I have often watched when a midfielder intercepts the ball from a sweeper or goalkeeper. He dribbles right down the centre of the pitch, ducking and weaving in and out of the path of every defender who comes his way. At last with even the goalkeeper beaten, he leans back and blasts the ball two metres over the crossbar from immediately in front at the edge of the box. His mind has not been working in conjunction with his body and at the last minute, he goes giddy and doesn’t know what to do. All his training has been in vain — wasted! On the other hand I have seen a winger run the ball the full length of the pitch, just inches inside the line, outpacing and out manoeuvring his opposite number every step of the way. Then, when the defenders are completely outfoxed, he will make a perfect cross, straight to the feet or head of a striker. His body works in perfect synchronisation with his brain, his mind benefitting from the effort of his muscles, the pumping of his heart and the strong flow of oxygen-charged blood. It makes him think clearly and his mind takes full control of his body. This is a rough description of the way my mind was operating after my body had prepared it to take over. It assisted in the mental effort and at just the right moment,

delivered exactly what the mind needed. In this case, it was to free itself from the constraints of what had been holding it back. It was like my body had been dragged along by my mind, but without it, my mind would not have had anything to support it. But of course, I had Bert there to just give me that tiny little bit of assistance, just as I needed it! Although I could hear and see what was going on in the physical world below, everything in the Astral Plane was sort of projected into my head! It’s a bit like the difference between listening to sound from the stereo speakers as opposed to putting on earbuds. With earbuds, you can’t actually sense where the music is coming from, it is just inside your head. I like that analogy as it is the closest the English language is capable of coming to describe these sensory perceptions. Drat, I just spoiled it all because that last phrase is nowhere near adequate! I was savouring every moment and exploring things I never even dreamed existed. Things which never did exist before! Things that the physical world and our very limited sensory apparatus just refuse! This could get addictive! But I felt what Bert had told me. There was a strong pull towards my body. I didn’t have to fight against it any more than you have to fight against facing away from the sun when you are outside. It’s just that it is the centre of your awareness because it is the greatest source of energy. It’s not easy to explain but I think I am starting to do a reasonable job of it, now. I can’t really remember what I had expected it to be like,

but I think I thought that being in a room would be like it is in our framework. It isn’t. You are aware of the walls and ceiling — and the floor, of course, but most people are so used to always having something under their feet that they don’t think of the ground as enclosing them — but they don’t present any sort of barrier! They are not transparent or semi-opaque or anything. They are just the same as normal. They just aren’t in the way! You go straight through them, but you are already conscious of what is on the other side. You are aware of everything you want to be aware of! Even smells, the wind, rain, heat, textures! Everything! You cannot physically feel things but they are there just the same! In a nutshell: it is marvellous! I marvelled! Several years ago I was on Rottnest Island, off the Western Australian coast near Perth. A group of us go there every year for the annual marathon and fun run. The others all went back on the Sunday afternoon ferry, but three of us, Dave included, stayed on for an extra night. The house we stay in is over near the Aboriginal Burial Ground at Thompson Bay, but at that time I was not aware it existed. It was also immediately next to what had once been a morgue. In the middle of the night — I don’t know what time — I woke up and there, right next to my bed was an Aboriginal woman. I sat up and she sort of faded out of visibility. The following morning I told the other two, but neither had seen or heard anything. We have rented that same house

for the past four years and no one has seen or felt anything since, but most of them treat it as a joke. Dave asked me what she looked like. What was she wearing? About how old was she? I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t actually, physically see her. She was just there! All I knew was that she was sad, but she wasn’t threatening or anything. Just there! Now, I realised, I was half asleep in the Physical Plane and half aware on the Astral Plane. She was there entirely on the Astral. Somehow she was trapped there. Maybe she was trying to help me out of the Physical to join her in the Astral, I don’t know. Bert told me that often in your dreams you think you are flying or soaring or maybe just floating, but I recall that there is always some sense of effort required to get yourself moving! This is because in sleep, your mind has not completely freed itself from your body and you are trying to drag yourself along for the ride. My mind, that night on Rottnest, was dragged down by my body and that was why I lost her so quickly. I had often wondered what that was all about on Rottnest but now I know. The museum curators told me that there are many unaccountable sightings reported to them each year. Maybe Rotto is some sort of Astral door, just as I believe lift shafts are a temporal door! But all this flashed through my mind in an instant. I wasn’t shackled by any bonds to my body, even though wherever I went, I was always aware of it. I wanted to go straight back to 1957 but Bert, with a wisdom he had never

exhibited before, insisted that I had enough for a first time and that I should return home. Just as I sort of melded into my body, I heard Polly’s car in the drive. It makes a nice, sweet humming noise which I immediately associate with her and which I detect even before it arrives in my audible spectrum. Like I say, I am very slightly psychic. “Just in time!” I said to Bert. “Just as well you made me come back then! Polly would have come home and seen us out of our bodies. I know we’ve been out of our brains on some occasions, but I don’t think she’d understand the state we were in.” “You are thinking on the Physical Plane!” he said. “Time has no meaning in where we’ve been. We seemed to be out for around five minutes, okay? We were gone for less than a tenth of a second!” “We were lucky we didn’t meet ourselves going out, then,” I laughed, thinking of a silly comedy I had seen on television years ago, Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. “Who has right of way? The leaver or the returner?” “You can’t be in the Astral twice at the same time. You can only be there once. If there are two of you, you become one. It happened to me when I went back twice to get a look at those kids who bashed us up! I just became part of the other me until I returned. Both times!” The door opened and Polly came in, pleased that I had just been out. At first I misunderstood her and looked at Bert, astonished. “Running!” he said. “I wanted to come but the doc says

that my ribs still need a few more weeks yet. It would be a beautiful evening for it, though!” Five The first time I ever jumped out of a fixed wing airplane, I was super-charged. Pumped up, rarin’ to go, as they say. Highly motivated! I couldn’t wait to escape the confines of the craft and glide down to earth. I was almost ecstatic all the way down and remained in a state of heightened exhilaration until the next time we got up there and the lieutenant said “Jump!” Then my hands stuck to the doorway. I was shaking and trembling and had to use every bit of willpower to release my fingers, which were gripping the door jambs, and use them to push myself off from the plane. I was literally scared stiff! I don’t know why. I suppose the first time was so exciting that I never thought of what could go wrong. The many agonising things I could hit which all dropped into the category heading of “Ground”! The second time, it suddenly occurred to me that here I was about to do something completely daft. I was going to submit my body to the full mercy of gravity, which, if the ‘chute didn’t open, would send me hurtling towards the centre of the earth until something got in my way. Something big and hard covering the entire surface of the planet about a thousand metres below me! But after my reticence to travel out of my body for my inaugural flight into Astral Space, I was really keen to go again! I expected Bert and I would nip out within a couple of hours. But he advised me against it.

“For one thing, you have been grounded too long. Even at your age, and I’m not saying you are old . . . no seriously, you’ve been in that body so long you are starting to wear it out, especially the hair and teeth! . . . it takes a while to get used to new things. You know I’m right, don’t you? You should take time to digest what you saw, what you felt, what you were aware of. In your own words, tell me what happened when you tripped?” “Well,” I started. “We were arguing and I was going to get cross with you and all of a sudden, I just sort of left my body! It wasn’t up, or away, or anything like that. I just left! Little bit of a pull like having gum on your boot, but really quite gentle!” “And what did you see? Hear? Feel? Think?” “Believe it or not, I thought about football! How it was like when you are pumped from a run down the line and you know, instinctively, exactly where to send the ball and how you do it perfectly, even though you should be off balance, giddy and confused.” “I don’t believe you really are a Fulham supporter if you think like that!” “Yeah, okay, you had to get that one in, didn’t you? Anyway, then I started to analyse what I felt like. I was surprised I’d do that straight off. I thought I’d want to go see the sights. You know, see if I could see the ocean from here, check out the lady over the back’s knickers hanging on the clothesline, that sort of thing. Then I thought about that woman I saw on Rottnest.” “Yes, I sensed that. You’ll have to tell me about it one

day. But see, you were marvelling not at the Astral Plane or the Physical World, you were discovering yourself! You need to do that! Lots of things have happened in your life that you need to make sense of. Now is the time to do it before you go tripping again. I made the mistake of trying to cram a lifetime of experience into my first trip and it left me pretty weak. You need your body. It fuels you. Not just your brain, but your mind and spirit as well.” “I see that,” I admitted. “I understand about how the blood supplies the body with oxygen and stuff, but I never realised that, other than endorphins and things, it charged your mind, as well. I suppose you are right. We’d better have a good meal before we go again!” “And a good night’s sleep. After my first trip, I slept for ages. Still I was gone for a long time. Then again, I am much stronger and in better physical shape than you!” I resisted that challenge by snorting at him. “Huh!” with a superior lift of the nose, is a lot easier than taking on a bricklayer with only twenty two summers under his belt! Polly went to bed early and there were no games on Foxtel. Bert put on the History Channel and I picked up the paper but I was too primed up to read. “Tell me, Bert. How do you detect the other universes when you’re in there?” “Oh, are you still on about that?” He turned the volume down. Hitler screamed soundlessly at a Munich crowd while Bert explained. “It’s like driving on a dual lane road. You only worry about what is in your own lane unless you want to change,

then you glance out the side window and check out what’s happening in your rear view mirror. Otherwise, you don’t even worry about what’s happening elsewhere.” “So how do you change into a past or future lane. Why don’t they all travel at the same speed? Do you just sense the other time frames and think of them as other lanes?” “Sort of. Yes, I suppose that’s what it is.” “Then how do you account for your stepping through a Physical world portal into your future. Or my alter ego into the past?” “You know how you are always whinging about when you’re driving on the freeway and a new lane starts on the left so that cars can exit at the next off ramp? Then, for some unknown reason, the planners continued that lane past the exit. Perth drivers, being the way they are, enter that lane even though they have no intention of leaving the freeway. The cars that exit are gone, so the remaining cars can speed up and hopefully overtake those in the second lane. Which of course they can, because the second lane has been slowed down as the cars up ahead are trying to merge with earlier cars who also used the temporary slip lane as an overtaking lane. So the merging lane moves slower than the middle or right lines! You end off further back than you would be if there was no extension to that exit lane!” “So it’s excessive traffic? Some sort of crowding?” “No, not really. There is still just the same number of cars, it’s just that there is some sort of aberration. It’s like there is something abnormal and unplanned about that bit of TimeSpace in the Physical Plane. You can’t just suddenly cease

to be in this plane, so the other reality has to create a situation for the alternative. But like the freeway example, it takes a bit of effort or energy to do it. I think perhaps that energy is somehow created in such things as elevators, maybe even aircraft, submarines, all places where humans are slightly out of their comfort zones, where they may inadvertently tense up a bit. Remember how you were nervous in that lift because you were going for a job you really wanted?” “Wow, tripping really does improve your intellect, Bert! When I first met you, you would barely string two sentences together. Now I can’t shut you up! You’ll be using words like ‘empowerment’ next!” He laughed. “There’s a bit more to it than that,” he said. “You’ll find out about it one day. Do you want to watch anything, or can I go back to the History Channel?” Bert had to go to court to testify against the gang that assaulted him and killed his other self. As the ‘other’ Albert really had more right to be in 2008, due to having done all the hard yards to get there, it was probably more appropriate to refer to him as the ‘real’ Albert Porter, but I thought of Bert as the real one. However, tragically, the gang of thugs had resolved that problem. “You know, you can only testify what you saw at the time,” I told him. “Anything you witnessed when you went back would not be admissible, even if they found out where you were at the time. And if you describe too much detail, the jury might presume you are exaggerating because they will be told that you could not possibly have noticed that

much in the heat of the fray. Can you separate what you saw with your eyes and what you witnessed from the Astral Plane?” “I’ve thought about that. It seems that it really doesn’t effect the outcome, regardless of my testimony. They have it all on closed circuit video anyway. But the jury is going to let them off. The magistrate let them out on bail, which two of them have already breached. The police picked them up three nights later for another assault and again they were allowed bail and the previous bail was not taken into account. It’s their ethnic origin, you see. The prosecutors don’t want be seen to be racially motivated!” “What about the police? Have they been accused of racial motives?” “In the preliminary hearing, the Defence Counsel did nothing but attack the cops because his clients were Arabs. Even though the prosecuting officer made no initial reference to their race, the defence kept insisting he describe the defendants until the words ‘middle eastern appearance’ were used, then that’s all anyone seemed interested in.” “So what are you going to say?” “The prosecutor suggested I just say that on entering Platform One, I witnessed five men dressed in dark clothing throwing paving bricks at a man I believe to be the deceased. When I ran over to try to prevent them hitting him, they turned on me and I was hit in the head and I lost consciousness. That way I don’t have to describe them.” “What if they ask you about their skin colour or facial appearance?”

“I just say they had dark skin colours, black hair and that two had moustaches. Otherwise the Defence will claim I am racially prejudiced and they will get off! My Yorkshire accent will count against me as apparently Yorkshire has one of the largest immigrant poulations in Britain. Most of them are from Pakistan and the Middle East!” So Bert had his day in court. It turned out to be three weeks in court. The thugs were never even charged with assaulting him because the prosecutor already had it on good advice that the magistrate intended to dismiss it on account of Bert’s having intervened and had therefore antagonised the defendants. However, unprovoked attacks and unlawful killing were another matter. But, as predicted, three defendants were given suspended sentences of three months each. One was released with no conviction because the prosecutor could not prove, other than with video evidence, that he had hit the deceased. While he was filmed throwing a slab, it appeared to strike another assailant on the arm because he promptly went over and belted the youth who threw it. Video evidence was not accepted to prove guilt. Only to prove his innocence! While the ringleader was given eighteen months with a minimum of ten before becoming eligible for parole, he had already spent two weeks in custody for a third assault and three weeks during the course of the trial, so he was out in less than nine months. The judge, as is usual in these sorts of trials, said it was one of the worst cases of violence she had ever sat in judgement on but instructed the jury that Mr Porter may

have inadvertently said or done something to offend the defendants or make them feel intimidated or under threat. Bert took it all in his stride. “The police prosecutor said it would happen,” he said, matter-of-factly. “No use getting upset about it. If they appeal or try to bring fresh charges relating to the assault, the judge will regard it as further evidence of racial discrimination and will probably reduce the original sentences. We made our bed, as you once said, by ‘opening the floodgates’, now we have to take it lying down.” But I was furious and lobbied our members of Parliament, both State and Federal. They both told me they had no jurisdiction over the courts and that as they had been found guilty anyway, the courts had done the job they were supposed to do! “How can you be so accepting?” I asked Bert. “They beat the crap out of one of you and killed the other!” “It stopped hurting a while ago. The old Albert is okay where he is. And if I get my knickers in a twist, I will only become a bitter and grumpy old bugger like you. Then I will be punished all over again. It’s Rita who I spend all my emotion on. She misses me — her Dad — terribly. She’s my daughter, Eric, and I can’t even tell her who I am and hug her and comfort her! Okay, I can express my sympathy, but that isn’t enough. She’s already immensely grateful that I tried to help her Dad. It means a lot to her, but I want to tell her he’s here with her, now. That I am him!” “I see your quandary. She wouldn’t understand. In fact, she’d be angry at you and think you were making fun of her

sorrow. What can I do to help?” “Just keep encouraging her. Be like a father to her. Give her that ‘older man’ shoulder to cry on. She needs her Dad and although you are nowhere near the man he was, you are probably the next best thing, seeing as I’m unavailable!” So we started visiting Rita and she did appreciate it. Although I had played no part in her father’s life, she accepted that I knew him from the bank. She never asked me anything about him, which although it seemed strange, I accepted. Then one day she casually said: “You used to work on the R&I account back in the Seventies, didn’t you?” “That’s right!’ I said. “Only for a while at one of the agencies in the City. How did you know?” She showed me a photograph. There I was, full head of curly hair, bell-bottom trousers at least eighteen inches wide and not a wrinkle to blemish my sun-tanned skin. I was leaning over a snooker table, concentration all over my flawless, handsome features! I was very recognisable as a young man and it was no doubt, even looking at the decrepit old shell I have become, that it was me! Standing next to me in a bright pink shirt and the most ridiculous tie I have ever seen, was Bert. A bit older and a bit drunker, but definitely Bert. “I found it a couple of days after the funeral,” she said. “He was very fussy about who he played snooker with!” She laughed. “I can see you were great friends!” I could dimly make out that the snooker table was in the

games room of the advertising agency. On Friday evenings, clients and suppliers used to drop in and drink our booze for free. It served a dual purpose. They got back some of the vast sums they spent with us and they delayed the inevitable weekend, when they would have to spend time with their families. Workaholics to a man, those Friday evenings meant a lot to them! “Here’s a photo of Dad and Mum on their fifth wedding anniversary. It was only given to me a couple of years ago. It was at their party in Albany!” There, right in the centre of the photo was Bert, but with a really boofy hairdo, military-style, pale blue shirt with epaulets and a big, wide, white belt through the loops of his jeans. Next to him was a very pretty girl with little curly bits hanging down in front of her ears, yellow lipstick and really badly applied eye shadow. The typical Sixties Albany young couple. They were standing in the corner of the Princess Royal Sailing Club in front of those huge windows with a magnificent view over the harbour to Albany, neatly framed by Mt Clarence and Mt Melville. As was normal in those days, the camera enthusiast had stood back about thirty yards to take the photo, so there was far more of everything else in the room than there was of Albert and Helen. There was so much else of everything that there was even the band on the stage: Greg on the drums, Rod on lead guitar, Daryl on keyboard and me with an electric bass hanging around my neck! Self consciously I pointed myself out and Rita chuckled

with delight. I was flabbergasted! Just how many times in my life had my path and Albert’s crossed? Both Alberts’ paths! “So you must have been great mates, then? I really appreciate your being at the funeral and it is really nice that you stayed in touch!” I wasn’t going to tell her I wouldn’t have known him from a bar of soap, to quote one of Bert’s favourite phrases. The picture of us at the snooker table at in Allendale Square was purely coincidental. It was probably the only time a group from the bank had socialised with us. I couldn’t even think of another occasion that any of them came into the social club rooms. It was normally full of the freeloaders from the television channels, the marketing departments of the supermarket and hardware shop accounts we had or the print media guys who had to pay for the beer they drank in their own canteen! As for the anniversary party at the yacht club, I remembered the evening well. If memory served me correctly, I did quite nicely for myself afterwards with one of the guests in the back seat of my car, under the peppermint willows in Little Grove! I hadn’t paid any attention at all to the celebrating couple! But I wasn’t going to tell Rita! Fortunately I was conspicuously absent from all the other photos she showed me, although I recognised the locations and quite a few of their friends. I had a good time and I know I brightened up her evening by relating little stories of the Albany days which I suggested, without actually saying

so, may have included her Mum and Dad. Six Now you are probably wondering why, after my first outof-body trip, I didn’t go again almost immediately. The problem was that Bert was very involved with the prosecution of the thugs who had laid him low that he didn’t have enough attention to organise another outing for quite a few weeks. Why didn’t I go alone, then? Simple! I couldn’t! I tried. Plenty of times! But I just couldn’t quite lift my mind up enough to make the break. Bert was right! My mind had been in my body for so many years that it didn’t want to leave it! It had taken root! Several times I came close and it encouraged me to try again. In order to prepare my body and mind, I would go for a hard, fast run but that wasn’t enough. I would get angry at things like cars parked across the footpath or broken bottles along the bike track. All that did was make me resolve to write to the council suggesting they employ someone to go around clipping overhanging trees, brushing away glass and issuing infringement notices to inconsiderate car owners. I sat in a comfortable yoga position and meditated as deeply as I could but all that happened was I dropped into a light sleep. I even tried drinking a few extra stubbies in order to relax my body, but it didn’t work. When Bert heard what I had

done he was furious. “That was really stupid. You could have gone into the Astral intoxicated. Remember, alcohol effects your mind, not just your brain. That’s why you should never go in under the influence of drugs. A lot of people do and they risk psychosis. You don’t have your normal judgement, your regular abilities to perceive what is happening. There are all sorts of stories on the Internet about people who use ice or coke or even heroin to achieve their trip. Alcohol is maybe not quite as bad, because normally drug users have already destroyed a lot of brain cells, and I know you are not an alcoholic! But I thought you had more sense than that! Meditation, endorphins, even extreme emotion is okay because as soon as you get into the Astral Plane, you normalise, I just concentrate on what a wonderful feeling it is being out of my body and that is enough to let me get free. But alcohol? That’s pretty dumb!” I felt chastened. I guess it was pretty stupid and I was secretly rather relieved it hadn’t worked as I imagined myself stumbling around the Astral Plane, singing rugby songs and pissed out of my skull! Well, I was already out of my skull. But staggering about and possibly getting lost because your normal abilities are missing was obviously a serious breach of Astral etiquette, as far as Bert was concerned! “But I suppose it shows you how desperate I am to get back and do the stuff we discussed!” “Point taken. But I haven’t tripped for a few weeks, either. I didn’t want to get into that state of ecstasy and cloud my

judgement when I am in the witness chair. That judge is determined to have me on toast! Other than a few drunks who are not sure what they saw, I am the only reliable witness. If I am too determined, too deliberate, too adamant, she will regard me as prejudiced. After all, I was on my way home from a football match! To her reasoning, I must be a bit of a redneck football hooligan anyway! Probably a member of the National Front!” “So when will it all be over and you will be able to hold my hand and take me out again?” “The hearing’s over already. They’re just waiting to be sentenced. I hoped they would ask me to make a victim impact statement, but she won’t even allow me to be regarded as a victim!” “So when do we go?” “Nag, nag, nag! Okay, are you working tomorrow? We are waiting for a pour so Dave said I won’t be needed until Thursday. Polly is working the afternoon shift, so if you can get yourself ready again, we’ll go then. But no alcohol this time!” “Now who’s nagging? But no, I’m not working tomorrow. Thanks, Bert!” The weather had cooled considerably since Easter. There was a light sprinkle of rain which occasionally got caught in the westerly and although I ran as hard as I could, I was feeling quite cool as I opened the back gate. But Bert had turned on the gas heaters and it was warm and inviting inside. I felt high from the endorphins, excited at the

prospect of the trip and grateful for Bert’s thoughtfulness in warming the house. He never feels the cold here. In fact, he always insists that it is “very mild” compared to the moors of his home county. But he hasn’t yet experienced a Perth winter! So I was in the perfect state and feeling confident that this time I would soar out of my body. I may not even need Bert’s assistance and I don’t think I did, either. I just sat down and lifted up! “All okay?” I sensed Bert there with me. “Did you go before you left home?” I chuckled to myself. It was great having this young chap around. I was nearly as close to him as I am to my own kids, but while I worry about them constantly and act irrationally where they are concerned, Bert is more like a very close mate or what I had always wanted my brother to be. “Lead on, McDuff!” I projected. It wasn’t speaking — you have no voice when you have no mouth, throat or vocal chords. And, to cap it off, I wasn’t even sure who McDuff was. A Shakespeare character, probably! My focus was guided towards a direction that doesn’t exist in the “real” world. We can only understand “up”, “down”, “left”, “right”, “front” and “behind” and all the angles in between. In the Astral Plane there are a lot more compass points than that. But I can’t describe them in English and that’s the only language I can write in. I drew myself towards it. It took no effort, unlike swimming or tugging a parachute string. In fact, my motion didn’t remotely resemble falling or floating. There was

nothing physical to the medium in which I found myself, not even the air nor the westerly nor the rain which had increased substantially since my run and was now quite a downpour. Although I had nothing for it to drench! We were in Fremantle. It was bright and sunny and the noise of the seagulls was really loud. There were large flocks of them everywhere making a devil of a lot of din. Around the fishing boat harbour they were nearly blocking out the visibility. Pre-season training was underway at Freo Oval, with Souths down one end and Easts at the other. There were people actually walking along the pavements without having to contort and weave their way around tables and chairs. But that old “Fremantle” feel was there that even hosting the America’s Cup defence could not eliminate. There was activity at Victoria Quay and I could see the gantries unloading huge nets of cargo from a couple of ships. Hopefully the New Australia was still in dock, but I was disappointed when I realised that old single funnel immigrant transporter had already set off for her next port of call, probably Adelaide or Melbourne. The old green MTT buses were queuing up along South Street and opposite the Railway Station. How many times had I wriggled uncomfortably on the hard, horsehair-stuffed bench seats as they bounced their way through Naval Base, Spearwood and White Gum Valley from our little asbestos and tile house in Medina. How many times had I dropped off to sleep, leaning against my Dad’s arms as we returned late in the evening from a visit to one of the cinemas in

Fremantle. Burt Lancaster, Doris Day, Rock Hudson, Charlton Heston. What easy going, carefree days they had been for a nine year old Pommy kid living in this warm, subtropical wonderland, never having to worry about food rationing or housing shortages again! I followed Bert straight into the hospital building. It was a lot smaller than it is now. Less offices, for a start! We went through a wall alongside a flyscreened window. The afternoon sun was glaring and if it wasn’t for the arrival of the “Fremantle Doctor” sea breeze, it would have been scorching in there as it had no air conditioning. It was early autumn and one of the hottest and driest parts of the year in southern Western Australia. I recognised the old man instantly. He didn’t look much like the face I shaved that morning and it wasn’t all due to the twenty or so years he had been around more than I had! There was pain in the tired old face, a pitifulness which didn’t need opened eyes to project. Now nearly ninety, my father looked a lot younger than my old frail body under the sheet in front of me. The sadness was the thing that really hit me. The brain was barely functioning and I think it was only an hour since they had operated on my leg. There were several drips going into a line in my arm and a drain coming from below the sheets. There was a slimy, carmine discharge in the glass bottle. My lower trunk and upper legs had a sort of cage over them that was covered in turn by the sheet and cover. My face and limp hands were deathly pale and I felt this other-

me was going to shuffle off the mortal coil at any moment. But through all the sadness there was a sudden sensation of calmness, a sort of inner peace which was new and unexpected. It was as though a huge weight had been lifted and for once there was no longer in physical and mental anguish. Particularly the mental! “Reach in, Eric,” I could hear Bert as though I was wearing the earbuds I described earlier. “Just reach into him as though you still had your hands, but do it with your mind. Now! Can you do that?” It wasn’t difficult. It was almost like melting back into my own body but without it pulling me back in. I was still a totally separate entity. “Now, lift!” “Lift?” “Just carry him out. Put your back into it! It will take a little effort. I can’t do it for you. Pick him up and move out!” I didn’t have a clue what he meant but it seemed that his instruction was good. I reached! I grasped! I withdrew! And all of a sudden all the sadness was gone! All the pain, the anguish, even the tenuous calmness and peace which I detected before. Both parts of me were one! “Old” Eric had joined in the Astral Plane with “Young” Eric. We were no longer two minds, though. We were as one. Not two strata within the one fascia, not two compartments within the one unit, not two minds within the one head! Everything neatly dovetailed in with a fit any

cabinet maker would have been proud of. All Old Eric’s memories, attitudes, experiences, thoughts, emotions and feelings became mine. Mr Lewis, Miss Simpkin, a host of unknown strangers all became old friends whom I loved and cherished! It was like I had crawled back into bed after being away from home a long time on a cold night. And I was fiercely aware of the most overwhelming love for Polly! I have always loved her dearly, but now it was as though that was factored fivefold! That is because it was! All those years of longing, desire and heartbreak without her were suddenly lifted as Old Eric joined with me and rejoiced in my love and regular communion with her. If I had tear ducts I would have burst into tears! “Do you feel it, Bert?” I asked, using the earbuds as a microphone. “I know exactly!” he replied. “I did the same with ‘Old’ Albert quite a while ago! That’s why I insisted that you do this for yourself. I already knew what happened to you in 1957. But I couldn’t bring you back together again without doing it this way.” An irrelevant thought struck me. “So that’s why you seemed different! More worldly! Smarter! A bigger vocabulary! You were now a much older, wiser person! You are really Rita’s father! It never dawned on me until then. Bert, I love you, you know that! Both of you!” Seven

Bert’s explanation, some weeks ago, that you could not be twice in the Astral Plane now made sense. I lifted my “Old” mind out of the seventy eight year old body just as it was about to expire. A few seconds later would have been too late. I don’t know where the mind goes when the body dies, but it doesn’t enter the Astral Plane. That is only for the living! If you really want to know, perhaps you better read the Bible or something. We got “Old” me and “Old” Albert while they were still alive! But as we had our little reunion party there in the Astral Plane, we watched as a nurse walked along the row of beds, lined up with their heads against the wall. As she stopped beside each patient, she would stick a thermometer under his tongue, grasp his wrist and consult a watch pinned to her apron. Then she removed the thermometer and entered the gleaned information on a chart which was kept on the foot rail of the bed. When she came to the bed my remains were on, she took the wrist but then laid the arm gently beside the body and closed my staring eyes with her hand. I was quite touched by the gentle way she treated the old carcase, even though I had no further use for it. There was a nice, shiny, functioning model waiting where I had left it back in 2008! I had planned that while I was out of my body, I was going to do a lot of other stuff, like visit my daughter in Melbourne, go to Canada and see a Gordon Lightfoot concert, nip back to England to see the 1975 FA Cup, that sort of indulgence! But Bert had other ideas. “You probably should get back. Don’t forget, you are

carrying a bit extra now. You might find you need a moment or two to re-orientate. I think you’ll understand what I mean when you get back.” “I just want to fast-forward a few days to my funeral,” I said. “I owe that to me!” Bert knew what I meant even if the grammar sounds bad, putting it into language. In the Astral you mostly communicate with concepts. We arrived at Fremantle Cemetery and the preacher was already intoning whatever it is preachers intone at grave sides. Trust me to be late for my own funeral! My Mum always said I would. It was another hot, sunny day and I noticed how few people had attended. I had kept myself to myself a lot in the last few years. Other people were a big effort. But the nurse from Fremantle Hospital post surgery ward was there and dropped a handful of sand onto my coffin. But to my joy, there was Miss Simpkin. I had written to her a few weeks ago and told her I was undergoing surgery again and she had made the flight over to be with me when I recovered. It was an arduous journey in those days, stopping at Adelaide and Kalgoorlie on the way. No longer an erect, shapely figure, the fifty nine year old woman who had been my only friend during those frightening, lonely years back in the Nineteen Thirties had never forgotten me. I felt an emotion which, had I been wearing my own fifty nine year old body, would have manifested in a lump in my throat. She had arrived the day of my surgery and had waited patiently to see me until the nurse came and said I had only

regained consciousness for a few moments before passing away. The grief was still evident on her face, which she was dabbing with a small, white handkerchief. But other than her, the preacher and the nurse, there was only the miserable blighter who ran the old people’s home I had been living in. He would have already sold my typewriter, wheelchair, books and clothes and I hope his conscience was pricking him and that was why he was there. More likely, though, he hoped some family members would be present and he could try to extort money from them for alleged “unpaid rent.” Eight We waited until the end, but I was already feeling anxious to get back to my own body. This surprised me until I realised that it was really Polly and Chris I was anxious to return to. After all, I hadn’t seen them for around twenty years!

Plan

“I see a there’s a lot of regulars in the audience tonight! Is everyone from Melbourne? You, Sir! Yes, you! Where are you from? Sydney? Ah, we have someone from Sydney with us, tonight! Do you live in the city, Sir, or the suburbs?” “Near the beach. Coogee.” “Yes, I know it well! In fact: A lady I knew from Coogee Tore her bloomers while climbing a tree! Up there in the air Her vast derriere Was displayed for all Sydney to see!” Ted waited for the applause to die down. “If you’d like to see me afterwards, I’ll write it out for you. You can tell it to your mates at home. I’ll tell you what, if you’re going to be around the Block tomorrow morning, here’s something that might interest you! Along the other end of Flinders Street there’s a place called Spencer Street Station. There’s an express leaving for Sydney at ten thirty. We’ll all come and see you off! Just to make sure you’re on it! ’Night everyone!” He breathed a sigh of relief. That’d gone okay. These audiences either loved you or hated you. Ted felt loved! “Good show, tonight, Son!” Mr Taylor shook his hand as he left the stage. “Quite a few laughs. Bar sales were up

while you were on, too! I liked the limerick!” There wasn’t a proper dressing room so the owner let the acts stow their gear in one of the offices just behind the stage. The downside of this was that it meant the club owner, Leslie Taylor, would wander in and out at will, giving the musicians, comedians and dancing girls no privacy. Still, the job paid well and the audiences were normally, like tonight’s, appreciative. There was seldom any trouble as everyone stayed sober. It paid to stay sober! Some of the most notorious gangland figures regularly unwound here and an accidental slip, an unguarded comment or a lighthearted insult could easily result in a grudge that would be pursued to the ends of the earth. Taylor patted Ted on the back. “I don’t know where you get your jokes, Ted!” he laughed. “But you’ve got the job! One hour every Friday and Saturday. Fifteen bob a night! Do you know who that chap from Sydney is, by the way?” “No,” Ted admitted. “I haven’t been there. I’m a Traralgon boy, meself!” “Well,” Taylor dabbed at his eye, which looked particularly weepy that night. “It’s my old mate Snowy Cutmore.” “I haven’t had the pleasure.” “You will have, Boy. You will have! “So why were you entertaining him, Mr Taylor?” “Me and Snow go back years. Look, Ted, he liked you.

There’s a bonus in it for you if you go to his table and make friends with him. Then tell me everything that goes on!” “Bonus?” “You drive a hard bargain, Toynbee! Okay, quarter of a ton!” “No worries, Mr Taylor. I’ll see you here tomorrow then, okay?” “Just stick with him all the while he’s in town. Keep him laughing! When he’s happy, he talks. I’ll get in touch with you!” That was two weeks beforehand. Now Ted was on the train back to Traralgon. Everything had gone topsy turvy. The only thing he knew for sure was that he had around five thousand in ten pound notes in various pockets of his suit and about the same in the portmanteau in the rack over his head. On the front page of the Truth the story was quite unbelievable. Squizzy Taylor and Snowy Cutmore were dead — “riddled with bullets”, the report said. So riddled that there were more lumps of lead in them than a couple of 32s could have carried between them. And they weren’t all 32 calibre slugs, either! Only one piece was found, and that was over two hundred yards away. Much too far for either man to have thrown! Someone, said the Truth, knew what really happened that night in Barkly Street! And that person would either stay mum or someone else would make sure they stayed shut up!

The Age report was a bit less sensational. It normally is. All it said was that a member of the Sydney underworld had been found dead and well-known Fitzroy character Leslie Taylor was admitted to St Vincent’s hospital where he was dead on arrival. They were believed to have been involved in the same incident in a house in Barkly Street, Carlton, on October 27. Another local man was found dead nearby. Police were investigating. Taylor’s last words to Ted were “I’ve got a launch moored at Port Albert, down your neck of the woods. The crew will take you wherever you want. Just never say nuthin’ about this. Snowy shelved me five years ago and now he’s got his desserts. But I don’t think he’s the only one behind this. “I don’t follow you, Mr Taylor. There was another bloke outside the window but he was just scum from Collingwood. He’s dead. I put four rounds in his head.” “Tell the bloody cabbie to go down Nicholson Street, will you! Johnston Street’s far too busy! Here, hold onto this!” He thrust a satchel into Ted’s hands. It had blood all over it and Ted wiped it down with his handkerchief which he dropped on the floor. Under the blood was the gold leafed initials JW. “Tell us another of your ditties, Ted! Shit, didn’t I tell you to go down Nicholson! Look, Son, I’ll get in touch with you wherever you are. I’ll find you! Don’t come into the hospital!” By the time they got to St Vincent’s, Taylor was in too much pain to talk and Ted found a tap and cleaned himself up before going back to his digs. The following morning he

caught a train at Richmond and now he was on his way to the seaside. Warnambool is a pretty nondescript town. Either you love it or you don’t have an opinion. Nobody hates it! Ted stepped off the launch and shook the skipper’s hand. “Mr Taylor would have wanted you to have this!” he said, handing the man a tenner. “Thanks for the ride!” There was a coach to Adelaide stopping at the bus station that afternoon and Ted bought the one remaining ticket. He worried about the five thou in the port’ underneath him the whole way. It was still there when they arrived at Adelaide. And it stayed there until he sat on the bunk of the Adelaide Steamship Company vessel and changed his socks and pants which had been faithful companions for three days now, since he left his flat in such a hurry. He had only briefly glanced in the satchel and knew it contained in the vicinity of a hell of a lot of money, but when he counted up the twenty little piles made up of fifty ten pound notes apiece, he started shaking! This was serious dough! More than his father had made in thirty years with the Traralgon Co-operative! And his father had worked ten, twelve hours a day, six days a week! Ted didn’t know about the secret commissions, though. Even his Mum didn’t know about them. Still, that was another story! A fresh shirt, clean socks and pants and a warm razor can seem like a real treat after your first wash in three days. Ted felt like a new man as he strode up the stairs to the

promenade deck. There was a bit of a gale in the Bight but that didn’t bother him. As a lad he had often gone out with the fishing fleets into Bass Strait, earning a few shillings and then showing off to the girls of Traralgon by spending up big on Saturday evenings. Rough seas held no fears for Ted! But ten thou! Even Mr Taylor would have been impressed by that sort of money! He’d have to have worked hard for it! That sort of spondulix didn’t grow on trees! Ted was aware that the blood-soaked satchel had previously been the property of Snowy Cutmore. He had often wondered who “JW” was during the fortnight or so he had driven the Sydney crook around the racecourses and nightspots of Melbourne. He had also seen it under his arm as he entered Number Fifty Barkly Street. He hadn’t noticed it when he fired six rounds almost point blank into the sickly looking Cutmore lying on the filthy bed or when someone at the other window opened fire at Mr Taylor. He never noticed much at all as he ran around the side of the house and fired four shots into the gunman standing on top of an upturned rubbish bin underneath the window! But he noticed Mr Taylor was clutching it when Ted shoved him into the taxi waiting for them in MacArthur Square just after he chucked the “Destroyer”, with it’s empty chamber, under the fence of one of the nearby houses. The Colt 45 that had been in the satchel, along with the money, made no splash as Ted dropped it over the stern. If it had, the turbulence from the two massive propellers would have concealed it anyway. It will have been buried in the

ocean bed long ago, but Ted never regretted it for a second. He had used guns — 12-guage twin barrels, small and medium calibre rifles, even an ex-Army Enfield .303 as a boy, blazing away at rabbits, foxes, emus and kangaroos around the Gippsland bush. He normally hit his target, too! But that wasn’t like shooting a man. Even though the two men he had killed were about as likely to shoot back as the wild animals he hunted in his youth, he still noticed a big difference. When you shoot an animal, it just goes down or darts away injured! The shooter remains completely unaffected. When a bullet hits a man, the impact runs back up the trajectory and through the firearm. It vibrates and resonates around the hand, arm and shoulder of the shooter and stays there for the rest of his life as a small, irritating quiver that eventually settles into his gut. It never goes away! It lingers there, minuscule at first, but as the man ages, the vibrations get bigger and bigger until they threaten to consume him. Then he dies! Ted swore he would never use a gun on another man again! It wasn’t that he didn’t want to inflict pain or death on another soul. It was because he had the tiniest bit of humanity in him and he imagined that the referred impact of the rounds he fired at Cutmore and the henchman would, one day, shake the person who killed him! Besides, there were hundreds of ways to kill a man that did not involve the rather cowardly act of using black powder and lead behind his back. He watched the spot where the gun hit the ocean for about

five minutes, then heard a wheezing sound as an old man jogged up the deck towards him. “Evening! Looks a bit stormy up ahead. Might be in for a rough night!” “That so?” Ted drawled. “I sleep well in a gale!” “I don’t! Don’t like the sea one bit. Terra firma, I reckon. The more firma, the less terra!” Ted chuckled. The old man leaned on the rail beside him. “Sea smells pretty bad. Must be rotten seaweed, I reckon!” Ted made no comment. Ever since that night in Carlton, his guts had been in a knot. Everything he ate turned straight into methane. It rumbled and grumbled around his bowel, night and day and even when he relieved the pressure, he still felt uncomfortable. He had to leave the porthole open while he slept otherwise the build-up overnight would make his morning cigarette flare up when he lit it! Several days later the ship pulled up alongside the jetty at Esperance. Ted went ashore but after walking around town for half an hour, he went back to his bunk. The place reminded him of Warnambool. No life, no young women and only one pub. Just a lot of discontented youths standing idly at the bar with smokes dangling aimlessly from their unintelligent faces. The following morning, though, Ted found his spiritual home! Passing between two islands which stood like ocean sentries guarding King George Sound, Ted could see the narrow entrance to a harbour, beneath a gentle, wooded hill.

There were a few buildings visible between the trees and a factory or processing plant way off to the south below a huge rocky headland. As they sailed nearer, he saw a fleet of small fishing boats flying under sail towards another harbour entrance in the north east, their spinnakers bulging in the hearty westerly breeze. Between the two harbours was a long strip of shining white beach. “Home!” thought Ted. “Albany!” said the old jogger from several evenings earlier. “We called in here on the way out from England. Nice enough town, but I won’t be sorry to get back to Luton, myself!” Once inside the more southerly harbour, Ted could see a hive of activity. There was a long jetty spearing out into the dark blue of the deeper channel water. Already two large ships were tied up alongside and a train puffed back towards a second, shorter jetty further along the same shore. This jetty had a couple of smaller craft and at first he thought they were tugs, but on further inspection appeared to be whalers. This pier was also serviced by the rail line and by a road leading due north into the prettiest town Ted had ever seen. Nestled between the hill visible from the Sound and another which seemed to be solid granite, Albany glowed in the weak Southern sunshine of that early November noon. It pulled at him like a fisherman reeling in a salmon. His original intention had been to continue the journey around to Fremantle and then see what he could find sailing to Singapore, Southampton or even San Francisco. Perhaps

Rio de Janeiro or Cape Town even! But Albany seemed to be calling him home! “How long will we be berthed here?” he asked the purser as he approached the gangway. “We sail tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred, Sir. Enjoy your time ashore.” But by seventeen hundred that evening, Ted was travelling back from the jetty again in a ramshackle little taxi, his portmanteau strapped to the rack on the back. Standing at the top of York Street where four roads meet, stands the Hordern Monument. Ted stood alongside it for a few moments as he crossed the intersection, waiting while a couple of cars negotiated the tight bend from Lockyer Avenue into Middleton Road. Down York Street he could see clear across Princess Royal Harbour but that was not what interested him. From the top of York Street right down to and including Stirling Terrace, for a block on each side was that area which would one day be known as the Central Business District, but in 1927 was still referred to simply as “town”. Most of the shops, offices, banks and entertainment venues in Albany were somewhere in this little half a square mile. Behind him a few more shops straggled back up Perth Road and the other arterial streets, but most of the really important ones were in front of him. He intended that within six months they would all be either his or somehow under his direct control. Obviously, the branches of national and state banks, the post office and other government bodies would remain

exempt. But definitely the entertainment venues, the newspaper and the shops would all have to bow to the wishes of one, Edward Toynbee Esq, formerly of Traralgon and Melbourne, soon to be Albany’s number one citizen! But more immediate was the question of the Albany Races. About a mile down Lockyer Avenue was a huge array of sporting fields: cricket, football, hockey, soccer and netball, but most importantly, the track and clubrooms of the Albany Racing Club. This was Ted’s first intended conquest. His time spent with one of the finest horse racing minds in Australia, even if that mind was crippled with greed and corruption, had taught Ted a trick or two! And he was sure Albany would be a lot less sophisticated than the bookies and owners of Melbourne where racing was not just a sport, a business or even an industry. It was the lifeblood of the town, the most important resource since the discovery of gold in the 1840s and the scene of more criminal activity than all the brothels, casinos and nightclubs put together. In one week of the Spring Racing Carnival in Melbourne, more money changed hands than in the rest of Australia’s annual racing calendars, barring of course, those in Sydney. Because of this education, Ted now found himself in possession of a lot of information, tips and ideas about how to run gambling in this town. It should, he reasoned, be an easy enough step to take over most, if not all, of the meetings in smaller regional towns and eventually even the Western Australian Turf Club itself in Perth. Giant oaks from little acorns! A bet of two hundred pounds would have raised a lot of

eyebrows at Flemington or Randwick that summer, but in Albany, it sent the entire racing fraternity into a frenzy. Bookmakers ran around, frantically trying to lay off some of the wager, only to find that their colleagues were desperately trying to do the same! The odds on the top steeds fell dramatically, but not before Ted had his bets locked in. By the second race, no one would touch him! They couldn’t, he had all their money and promissory notes worth half their annual income. Horses which had been doubtful to finish in a place the night before had been elevated to favourite within thirty minutes of the start, only to be replaced by a new favourite a few minutes later! Then the original favourite would romp home, now with longer odds than it had ever carried. The board was in chaos! Ted walked around with a concerned look in his eye. He visited each of the SP bookies in turn and peeled off a wad of tenners, writing the amounts in a little notepad and getting the luckless gentleman to sign against them. Then, with some semblance of order restored, he went around again and made much smaller bets on the fifth race. By the time the favourite dashed past the post, nearly two lengths ahead of the next horse, it was carrying odds of eight to one. Even Ted’s earlier largesse was nowhere near enough to meet the demand at cash-up time. Everyone got the same offer. “Come and work for me. I’ll pay the best commissions and guarantee every bet. Register your kids with the best schools and prepare yourself for a life of clover!”

Mount Barker was even easier and Katanning was a doddle. By the end of the Summer Racing Calendar, every bet in the Great South went through a Ted Toynbee book. The weather was still quite warm at the end of February and Ted decided he should see a bit more of his new home, other than just the race track, bars and snooker halls. He had acquired a brand new, just released Model A Ford within a couple of weeks of his arrival. It had been ordered and shipped in for one of Albany’s leading physicians, but the unfortunate doctor had found himself financially embarrassed at the blackjack table one evening and Ted was more than willing to forego the cash and accept the automobile as payment. The rolling green hills along the south coast of Princess Royal Harbour looked appealing to him. They reminded him of the hills of East Gippsland out past Sale and almost certainly promised some exciting real estate opportunities. As well, he was keen to have a look, close up, at the huge granite headland he had seen from the boat on his arrival. The processing plant he had seen nestled below it, he was advised by his new right-hand-man, Ted Duckett, was the Albany Whaling Station, comprising a couple of acres of smelly, slippery decks, furnaces and boilers. Here, blubber was flensed from whales, melted down and barrelled up to be used in various factories around the globe. This didn’t interest Ted in the slightest but wherever big numbers of men are employed, there is normally a large payroll involved.

Working men, no matter what their line of labour, need to be entertained and separated from their pay packets, which otherwise would be frittered away on such things as food, rent, clothing and furniture. Ted could think of much better things he could do with it! Just to the west of the Frenchman Bay Whaling Station is a stretch of beach where Captain Vancouver came ashore to get water for his ship before the area was colonised. The original whaling station was built here and the remains were still scattered over the quiet little cove, known affectionately as Misery Bay. Not may people used the beach as it was sometimes visited by sharks that were initially attracted to the run-off oil from the processing plant. But on this day, Ted noticed an old T-Model parked at the bottom of the track running from the sealed road down to the peppercorn willows near the edge of the sand. The car was quite old and a bit of rust showed through the cracked black paintwork. Part of the canvas roof was torn and had been amateurishly repaired with small, ladylike stitches. On the sand alongside was a neatly folded pile of clothes and a dainty little bonnet which, to Ted’s observant eye, immediately suggested that the car’s driver or recent occupant was a young lady. Duckett parked the A-Model while Ted walked around the edge of the beach, staying under the shade of the drooping peppercorns. When he reached the little rocky headland at the east end of the cove he noticed a small head bobbing around in the water as the owner swam with a fluent

breaststroke about seventy yards from the line of tiny breakers at the shore. Swiftly he ran back to the two cars and scooped up the pile of clothes, depositing them on the passenger seat of the T-Model. Then he opened the purse and poked around until he found an envelope with an address on it. “Miss Daisy O’Grady, 25 Thring Street, Albany”, it read. Ted went to his own car and woke Duckett. “I want you to take that car to this address in Albany,” he told his henchman. “I will be a few hours, so get Turnbull to pick you up from there and take you home. Leave everything in the car as it is. Just drive it. Got that?” “Right you are, Guv!” Duckett clambered into the driving seat, adjusted it for his longer legs, then revved off in a cloud of red gravel-dust. Ted sat on a log in the shade and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. Even in February the water around Albany is quite cold and soon the young lady started feeling the chill getting into her lithe, athletic body. With a few powerful strokes, she caught a tiny wave and glided into the shore. When she stood up, Ted gasped! He had seen strippers back in Melbourne and had shared a “dressing room” with some of them at Mr Taylor’s nightclubs. There wasn’t much about a woman’s anatomy that he was not familiar with. Being what many women would regard as handsome, he was not a stranger to the intimate attentions they are liable to bestow on a young,

muscular, physically attractive comedian from the country. But this goddess made those nubile young dancers look skinny and shapeless by comparison. About five feet seven and with brilliant auburn hair, she strode confidently up the beach towards where she had parked her car. There was no air of self-consciousness that many naked women display even when they believe themselves to be completely alone. And boy, was this lady naked? That was why Ted gasped. He had expected some wispy little flapper with breasts like fried eggs and hips like a boy’s! Here was a gorgeous woman who would put the Venus de Milo in the shade. Almost without registering the fact, Ted noticed she was a natural redhead. Not just dye from a bottle. If colour photography had been around in those days, she could have adorned any garage workshop in the land! Suddenly she stopped. She was only twenty yards from Ted but as the sun was bright and the shadows dark, she hadn’t noticed him. However, when she stopped, Ted’s first thought was that he had been spotted. Then he realised she had noticed her motor was missing. Immediately her hand went to her mouth then dropped to her groin. Her other arm came up to cover her breasts and, for a second, Ted mourned their disappearance. Then she saw him sitting on the log and marched straight over, completely abandoning her earlier modesty. “Have you seen my car, Sir?”

“Car? Can you describe it, Ma’am? I haven’t seen a conveyance worthy of carrying someone as lovely as you all afternoon!” “It was a T-Model Ford with black coachwork. I parked it here with the handbrake on so it can’t have rolled away!” “Well, give me your hand and we shall go searching for it! Otherwise, my car is at your disposal to transport you wherever your heart desires!” “Do you always talk like this, or are you trying to impress me?” Aha, a bit of spunk! “Do you always swim naked?” “Not always. Just today! I didn’t know anyone else was around. Have you never seen a woman without her swimming costume before?” Ted was reminded of one of the limericks the punters back in Fitzroy used to enjoy. “I went swimming with Big Bertha Schmidt In the ocean just north of Saint Kitt, When a shark came beneath With his razor sharp teeth, And bit a great lump off her . . .” “You are trying to impress me. Perhaps you had better give me a ride home and I will report my car’s disappearance at the police station.” “As I said, my car and I are at your service, Miss O’Grady!” “Why did you call me that? My name is Celia Nilsen!” Ted thought hard. She must know this Daisy O’Grady or

at least have heard of her, seeing as she was carrying her mail in her purse. “I thought I recognised you! Weren’t we introduced at the Race Meeting last week? Perhaps I was mistaken!” “Ah, yes. I don’t remember you but I was there with Daisy. You must have got our names confused.” “I suppose with your magnificent auburn hair, I naturally assumed you were Irish! Nilsen isn’t an Irish name.” “Daisy and I are cousins. Her father is my uncle. My mother’s brother! I am as Irish as she is! She lives with me.” They made love on the back seat of Ted’s A-Model before he wrapped her in a big woollen blanket that he kept in the car. Then he drove her home. She was most surprised to see her little T-Model parked out the front. “My guess is that the police found it and returned it,” Ted invented and Celia accepted the explanation. Her belongings were still where Ted had left them on the passenger seat. All except one item and he had to threaten Duckett with physical violence to make him return the pair of pink bloomers! The niece of Corky O’Grady, eh! You’ve hooked a tasty one this time, Ted, my lad! he thought as he drove back to his suite at the Premier Hotel. Only the niece of the biggest horse breeder in the Great South! And Nilsen! That name rings a bell, too. Not in racing circles, though. Duckett might know who he is! Balancing his notepad on the Ford’s steering wheel, Ted wrote a memo to himself to do a little detective work the

following morning. He eased the big car into the yard behind the Premier and closed the roof. Even though it was still officially summer and generally the most pleasant time of year, Albany was known to suddenly spring a severe rainstorm from a magnificent, clear, sunny day. He had already been caught with the roof down once, driving back from a race meeting at Mt Barker. Too many drenchings would quickly make the leather upholstery and Axminster carpet look scruffy. But Ted was a Melbourne boy! Actually a Traralgon boy but what are a few miles between friends, he thought! Sudden shifts in the weather were not a novelty to him. A fellow comedian had once told him that Melbourne could have all four seasons in one day! Cool and cloudy in the morning, hot and sunny by midday, damp and miserable in the afternoon and bitterly cold and blowing a gale in the evening. At least Albany had only two variations in its weather. Pleasant or unpleasant! And even unpleasant was compensated for by the feeling of warm, friendly cosiness that had endeared the town to the cynical, sarcastic killer from the big smoke! Whoever heard of someone picking up a naked girl on a deserted beach, having sex with her and then discovering her uncle owned the biggest horse stud in the region. What more could a man ask for? That her mother ran a brothel and her father owned a brewery? Ah, yes! That’s where he had heard the name Nilsen. It was on a plate outside the Stirling Hotel! Licensee and Proprietor: Anders Nilsen. So her dad owned the top pub in

town! Ted hadn’t eaten since midday, and then only a sandwich, so he went straight to the dining room and looked at the menu. Cabbage soup. Fish mornay. Roast pork with sprouts, gravy and Yorkshire pudding. Treacle tart and custard. All the things which made his ever-worsening flatulence a real problem! Already Duckett, Turnbull and Balcombe were calling him “Ted the Toilet” behind his back! The first time he heard the nickname he assumed it was because of foul language, which was not common in Albany back in those days. In Melbourne, Taylor and his cronies almost prided themselves on their ability to use up to five words of obscenity, blasphemy or profanity in every sentence and the habit stuck. But here in god-fearing, puritanical Albany, even the word “bloody” was frowned upon in polite company. And his favourite negative expression, “pig’s arse”, caused gloved hands to fly to powdered, rouged cheeks in consternation when he uttered it in the bakery on York Street! So it looked like the name “Ted the Toilet” had stuck. Not to his face, of course, because that would be biting off far more than even the most insolent local lad could chew. It would cost you the loss of a couple of front teeth, at the very least. But not only did the nickname persist, so did the flatulence! It wasn’t nice at all and at least one local wench had wrinkled her nose in disgust, pulled on her bloomers and gone to sleep in the other room. Maybe the Doc could give him some advice or perhaps a bottle of something to tone it

down a bit! After tea, he strolled down the main street and along the Terrace to the Stirling Pub. As usual, there was the sound of shrieks and frivolity accompanied by someone bashing a reasonably good tune out of an upright piano. A pin-stripesuited local boy fell down the front steps, dragging a couple of flappers who couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old. “Evening, Mr Toynbee! Don’t think we’ve had the pleasure, yet!” Never before had Ted seen a man who looked more like an owner of a bar than this little chap who had just thrown the strapping country lad and two fresh young nymphs onto the pavement. “Anders Nilsen! I believe you know my daughter! Celia!” “Ah yes! I had the pleasure this afternoon!” Ted grimaced inwardly at his Freudian use of the word. “A most charming young lady! I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Sir!” “Please call me Nils. That’s what everyone around here does. Let me get you a drink!” “And anyone who buys me a drink has to call me Ted!” They sat at a table in the cocktail bar, Ted with a glass of the sharp local lager and Nilsen sipping, almost daintily, from a flute of muscat. “Do you play Blackjack, Ted? That’s the only game in this town. Oh, a little poker, now and again. But Blackjack, Pontoon, Twenty-Ones! Single deck! That’s the real favourite.”

Again Ted could not believe his luck! Here was a very wealthy man virtually offering to give him vast amounts of money for nothing more than the slight effort it took to do some rough counting of high and low cards. It was a trick Ted had learned as a teenager, ten years earlier, in those allnight sessions back in Gippsland. Why, one night in Moe, he had ripped nearly twenty pounds off a south-coast fisherman and fourteen from a local hayseed who later tried to jump him at the bus stop on his way home. That was another trick Ted had learned. How to avoid getting jumped at the bus stop on the way home! About three hours later, Ted had a considerably reduced pile in front of him, as did the Doc and half a dozen other local businessmen. The pile in front of Nilsen had got accordingly larger. By diligent counting, even though he kept up a constant stream of prattle, jokes and limericks to distract any other would-be sharp, Ted knew that there were at least seven picture cards left in the deck. Nilsen was dealing and Ted detected a slight glimmer of satisfaction in his face when he lifted the edge of his two cards. But he didn’t turn over an ace, so he must be playing a five-under. Ted sat. The Doc drew one, grinned and then asked for another. Then he grinned again, this time ironically and tossed his cards into the middle. Four of the businessmen drew and busted. The others stayed with their original hands. Ted had one of the remaining pictures and a ten. He knew that there were still two tens, two nines and an eight in the

deck, maybe two fives and half a dozen small numbers. Unable to contain his glee, Nilsen turned over his two cards. An ace and a two. The next card he drew was one of the fives. The smile got bigger. Then the other five. Still only thirteen and plenty of small cards to go. Anything under a nine would do. Eight or under! Nilsen looked triumphantly around the table! Each bet was worth thirty pounds so this one hand would net over two hundred. About twice what the bar would take in a week! “Why don’t we make this one a bit more interesting?” Ted said quietly. “If you get your five-under, you get the kitty. And one hundred quid from my pot. If you break, you give me the option to buy this hotel at the going price. We’ll get Eddy Reeve to give us a value first thing tomorrow!” Nilsen stared at Ted to see if he was bluffing but there was just a cool, even expression on his face. The pub was worth maybe six thousand pounds on the market if there was anyone willing to buy it who had that sort of money. On the other hand, it provided Nilsen with a very steady income with which to keep his fat wife and thoroughly modern daughter in the fashion to which they had come to expect. It also gave him prestige, respectability, standing in the community, and a legitimate cover for his many and various little fiddles. His illicit bookmaking. The small stable of girls who used his rooms upstairs and handed over sixty percent of their takings. The gaming tables in the secret basement in which they were now plotting their futures! It was a big stake but the odds were easily in his favour.

Surely luck wouldn’t desert him now. The cards had gone right for him all evening. He was on a roll! Three hundred and ten pounds for a dead cert! And in the unlikely event that he lost, this newcomer would never be able to come up with the six thou that Eddy would swear this place was worth. What he didn’t know was that Ted had already added nearly five thousand to Taylor’s original ten and was increasing that by a further seven hundred and fifty a week during the Summer Racing Season! Even if he had, it would still not have stopped him from turning over a card with only three, maybe four pips on it and pocketing well over quarter of a grand! “You’re on!” he asserted. Anders Nilsen was never one to refuse a challenge. Certainly not such a sure thing as this one. And anyway, would life really be so bad without the constant worry of looking after the pub. Nearly everything, from the bootleg liquor, the inventory which would never stand an audit, the watered down sherry, the girls upstairs, even this card game, were very much on the wrong side of the law as it was written. A sudden change of Police Superintendent in Albany and Nils’ whole modus operandi would be turning cartwheels all along Stirling Terrace! Six grand would be a tidy little nest egg and easily enough to join his brother-in-law in a much more lucrative business — horse racing! On the other hand, an extra three centuries would give the missus a trip to Queensland to visit the rest of the Irish side

of the family. She’d been on about it for a while now but he’d told her that times were going to get tough, that the current boom was going to bust and that there would be some serious belt-tightening right throughout the capitalist world. She didn’t believe him, of course. No-one did! But a windfall of three hundred quid would be enough to shut her up and get her out of his hair for a couple of months. Ted became aware that the room had gone quiet. Perhaps thirty other gamblers had grouped around the table, excitedly awaiting the outcome of the biggest wager this tiny casino had ever witnessed. Nilsen flipped the card. To his amazement he looked at the little number under the heart in the corner. He thought he’d already counted all four of them! A nine! So close and yet not quite good enough! “Nine thirty at Eddy Reeve’s then? Thanks for the game, Nilsen. You’re a good sport!” Ted raised one buttock and let go of the tension that had built up inside him. The room cleared. There were five pubs on Stirling Terrace between the wars, plus two on York Street and one each on Frederick Street and Perth Road. Another, at Middleton Beach, three miles away around the other side of Mt Clarence, meant that competition was fierce in purveying alcoholic beverages to the citizens of this little Southern Town. Add to the equation

a couple of gentlemen’s clubs, three very popular footy clubrooms, the Golf Club and a handful of bootleg stills, and Ted knew that he would have to work hard to win the largest share of the market. One way to do that was as Nilsen had done. Supply the two things that hard-working men wanted in addition to their beer. Sex and a flutter on whatever anyone was taking bets on! Horses, trotting, footy, boxing, poker, lotteries, two-up and the big favourite, Blackjack! Ted soon had them all in his control. Every bookie at Centennial Oval was in his employ. Harness racing had just started and already Ted had let it be known that his boys were the only ones who would be permitted to set up stalls at the track. Footy was a bit harder to control as traditionally, betting was done in small tipping competitions, but Ted soon had a couple of hundred punters handing over a two bob a week on the VFL, a shilling on the WANFL or sixpence on the Southern Districts National Football League. By the start of the 1929 season, this number had blown out to nearly four hundred. During the winter, this little enterprise kept Ted in petrol money as well as coughing up a very tempting sum in prizemoney. Fights were organised every Thursday in a warehouse along Sanford Road but soon moved to the larger Centennial Hall. Prize money wasn’t huge, but the cheering of the audience and their vocal willingness to bet on the local lads was music to Ted’s ears. But his biggest asset turned out to be Celia Nilsen!

Only a couple of months beforehand, she had been completely unaware of the prostitution industry when her father ran it, but now her boyfriend did, it was another story. Not having any bible-belt morality to cloud her vision, she organised the girls, made sure they were properly protected, clean, healthy and attractive. She supervised them to redecorate their rooms, bought new furniture, kept strict rules and even stricter accounting methods and made short work of the weedy pimps who, she told Ted, brought the industry into disrepute. Within a couple of months she had job applications from as far afield as Meekatharra, Kalgoorlie and even one from Mount Isa. Conditions and rates were better than anything Melbourne or Sydney could hope to offer. Although the population was barely pushing six thousand, shearers came in from Cranbrook and Tambellup, loggers came from Walpole and Denmark, growers and orchardists drove in from Mount Barker and fisherman from Bremer Bay and Ravensthorpe made their way to Albany at the weekends. Their hunger for the girls was even greater than their thirst for the beer from Ted’s taps. And when they were satisfied, they would be invited through for a few spins of the roulette wheel. When the wool sales, the stock sales or the Albany Show was on, they overflowed onto Stirling Terrace and into the car park out the back. Ted had a couple of large marquees sewn and got a local carpenter to knock together some trestles and benches to fill the huge demand for his hospitality.

Other publicans came to despise him. There was no way they could compete with this big-spending, jovial man who walked around among his guests, filling their glasses and telling them some of the bawdiest jokes any of them had ever heard. One by one, they sold their once-flourishing businesses for whatever they could get. And every one was snapped up by Ted’s employees! Only the Esplanade at Middleton Beach remained independent. Well, independent of him, maybe, but the only reason they resisted him was because the brewery ploughed a fortune into it to try to maintain some sort of control. It remained the thorn in Ted’s side for nearly two decades. Corky O’Grady never got to be the biggest horse breeder, trainer and racer in the Great South by being a pushover. When his Scandinavian brother-in-law injected five thousand pounds into his successful stud at Lower King, it only served to strengthen his resolve to resist this young upstart from the east. He used the money to buy out three of his neighbours. He didn’t oppose Ted in any way. He welcomed the Victorian’s relationship with his niece, as he believed every strong woman should have a strong man behind her. Bejesus, most of the young fellows in this neck of the woods had as much gumption and backbone as one of those jellyfish which stung and skitted his horses when he exercised them in the surf! But he knew how much Ted Toynbee wanted to get his hands on Courtmacsherry Stables and the O’Grady Stud, and he was just as determined that this would never happen

while his brogues were pointed the same way as his face! But he didn’t mind tossing the young scoundrel a few tips now and again, even giving some of his jockeys a bit of advice that never quite made it into the local paper, if Ted made it worth his while! And Nilsen, an experienced accountant, could be counted on to cover any tracks so that the stewards had no more idea of what was going on than did the Taxation Department. It was a relationship that suited him, even if it was less than what Ted the Toilet would have liked. Next door to the Stirling Hotel was a run-down building which was occupied in turn by a snooker hall, a tea house, a bicycle repair shop and the local Presbyterian minister who used it as a refuge for aboriginal girls who were abused and brutalised by drunken men of their tribe. Old Reverend Loveridge had been instructed to do this by the diocese in Perth, but he soon found it was a good source of personal relief once his wife reached menopause and was no longer interested in his nightly attentions. The lubras thought nothing was more natural than to be pestered by older men, and as Loveridge never hit them, starved them or even raised his voice to them, they were all quite fond of him. Although he preached against the evils of strong drink, fornication and gambling every Sunday from his pulpit, he never objected to his neighbour’s business activities. In fact, he frequently went on fact-finding missions on a

Saturday night to gather material for his sermon the following day. Ted had bought all the premises adjoining his pub and rented the refuge to the Church. He struck up a friendship with the old Scotsman and made sure he was as happy as a tenant could be. What the proctor and the deacons never knew was that immediately beneath their Hostel for Native Ladies was part of the Stirling’s casino. The floors were thick jarrah and Nilsen had sound proofed the basement. Sometimes on a Saturday the patrons could get a bit boisterous. In fact, the cellar extended the full width of the work house and just under the easternmost part of the premises next door to it. This shop had once been a bank and immediately above Ted’s roulette room was where the vault had once been. The floor was, as you would expect, concrete. Nearly a year had passed before Ted discovered this rather ordinary piece of information, and even then, he just filed it away among all the racing tips, dirty limericks and chat-up lines which were housed in his sharp brain. But what brought it back to his attention was when an international shipping line announced that they wished to open an office in Albany and started looking for premises. As massive amounts of cash would pass through the town via the port, they needed a building that could readily house a strongroom without too much modification and rebuilding. Ted learned about this development, as he always did, three or four weeks before the Albany Dispatch made it the

front page story. By then, he had purchased the next-doorbut-one building and arranged to lease it to the Baltimore & Chesapeake Shipping Company Inc for a rental fee the Americans could not refuse. It was several weeks before the new tenants opened for business. Their first job was to employ a local builder to test the strength of the walls and floor of the room that would house the vault. The floor was a standard six inch concrete pad, reinforced with mild steel mesh and granite aggregate. The walls were a bit less impervious, being brick and limestone on the outer and single brick on the inner. The ceiling was plaster with a cavity between it and the floorboards of the upper storey. In order to become a strongroom, a cage or solid steel construction needed to be prefabricated and then welded together inside the room. As the landord, Ted was quite happy to accommodate these modifications and even arranged for a meeting with a business associate who owned a metal fabrication company on Perth Road. He introduced him to the branch manager and his technical advisor, then left them to plan and execute the construction. Ted made sure that he was not seen to interfere so that if anything went wrong at any stage, he could not be accused of trying to cut corners or sacrifice quality to save himself a few quid. He even helped the shipping firm locate and arrange the purchase of an armoured vehicle to transport valuables and money from the Deepwater Jetty to the strongroom and recruited some ex-servicemen to act as guards and driver.

He also made a special point of remarking that, of any town in Australia, these measures were completely unnecessary in Albany as no major breaking and entering crimes, no bank heists and no armed hold-ups had ever occurred. The manager smiled and asked Ted if he could vouch for the honesty and law-abiding qualities of every citizen of Norseman, Kalgoorlie and Coolgardie, which, of course, Ted could not. Where gold is mined, refined and transported, there is a casebook of these illegal activities and as all three cities were less than a day’s road travel from Albany, precautions had to be taken. The building went ahead almost exactly according to plan. There was, however, a very small alteration made to an adjoining room which only had a timber floor eight inches above the bare earth. This room was not immediately over the Stirling’s casino or cellar coolroom, which, needless to say, the new tenant knew nothing about. Ted and his ventures had no use for the services of the Baltimore & Chesapeake Shipping Company. They did not import or export anything and had no business dealings with the United States of America, so the only association between them was purely as lessor and lessee. But, when the Spring Racing Carnival commenced, Ted approached the manager and asked if he could make his facilities available for the safekeeping of money which would pass through his bookmakers’ satchels between the close of bank trading on Friday and their re-opening at ten

o’clock on Monday morning. “What did you do with the cash last year, Ted?” asked the clerk, a tall Texan whose nickname was, inevitably and unimaginatively, “Tex”. The manager came from Aspen Hill, Maryland and privately, Ted and Celia applied the same reasoning and referred to him as “Mary”. “I have a safe in my office, but business boomed this year and I imagine I will need sums of up to fifteen hundred pounds to see me through, Possibly as much as two grand on Albany Cup Weekend! I would feel much happier if I knew it was safe and secure in your little Fort Knox!” Flattering an American has always been a good method of getting him to do what you want, and to do it with enthusiasm. Intense nationalism is what has made the States one of the greatest powers the world has known, and to compare anything favourably to an institution such as Fort Knox will make a Yank puff out his chest in pride. “I can’t see any problems, Ted!” Mary told him. “Do you want to be able to access it at any time, or just withdraw it in the morning and redeposit it after the day’s business?” “When will your staff be in the office?” “Eight in the morning until at least nine pip emma. The Eastern Seaboard is exactly twelve hours behind Western Standard Time and we need someone on hand for ticker tape and telephone calls. We service both coasts as well as Alaska and Hawaii, most of Canada and a lot of the Orient, so whenever one of our branches sends us a communication, we are expected to deal with it pronto!” “Well, that seems pretty efficient!” Ted said. “And I

wouldn’t trouble you more than twice a day at the most. Are you a gambler, Mr, er, Sir?” “Call me Marty!” the manager instructed. Oh, well, thought Ted. Only one letter different! He must remember to tell Celia. She’d love that! “Yes, I do make the occasional wager. But I am a very busy man and although I enjoy a visit to the track, my responsibilities mean that I don’t always have the time for recreation I would like. However, I will make a definite promise to attend the Cup meeting!” “You will be my guest! I have a marquee and I am sure you will enjoy the luncheon and other refreshments we provide. I am so glad we have got to know each other, Mar . . . er . . . Marty!” Two weeks after Albany Cup Weekend, a ship called in at the port and unloaded five metal boxes which were carried under escort along Brunswick Road to Stirling Terrace and the Baltimore & Chesapeake office. They contained thirty two thousand American dollars and five thousand Australian pounds. This was the payroll for the next three months and would be distributed to each B & C vessel that entered Albany. With anything up to twenty or so visits and crews of between sixteen and forty each, the Western Australian port was a major part of the company’s push into the Southern Hemisphere. This was the weekend Ted had been awaiting! Only the blacksmith who built the strongroom and the

carpenter who helped make a few changes not on Marty’s original plan, knew that in the basement of the Stirling, there was a false wall. This wall was not adjacent to any part of the B & C offices nor to the Native Hostel. It was simply an internal plasterboard construction which made the cellar smaller by a little under three feet. On the other side was the casino. Other than the bar staff, the janitor and Ted, nobody ever entered this part of the hotel, and they never noticed that the rows of kegs were now a little closer together. At one end of the cavity, Ted had the carpenter make a hinged panel that could be opened quite easily and quickly by sliding out the first shelf of bottled stout. The panel was large enough to allow a full-grown man to enter the passageway and only have to stoop slightly to get under the lintel. At the other end, Ted had been chipping away at night, using a brick bolster and garden trowel, until the end wall was bare earth. Then, using a pickaxe, spade and shovel, he dug a tunnel six feet under the room adjoining the strongroom. This was completed within a fortnight of the commencement of the shipping company’s tenure. So at one thirty on Sunday morning, knowing that there was approximately twenty thousand pounds of B & C’s currency and fourteen hundred of his own within ten feet of him, Ted stood on the storeman’s step and proceeded to unscrew some brackets in the ceiling of the secret tunnel. It took him less than three minutes and within another five, he was crawling through the aperture made by

removing several of the bricks that were mortared together with a mix of sand, water and almost no cement. The iron which the smithy used for the strongroom cage had been cunningly joined at the floor and the top so that by twisting it, the corner section, comprising an angle iron with one bar each side, slid out and made a gap of around fourteen inches. Ted was quite a large man, mostly due to his extravagant eating habits, as evidenced by his worsening flatulence. However, he pulled his belly in, emptied his lungs to reduce his chest size and squeezed through. Among a jumbled assortment of boxes, filing cabinets, ledger books and nudie magazines, Ted found the strongboxes. He also found the six satchels with the intertwined double “T” emblem in gold block which he had personally delivered only five hours previously. They all got stuffed through the wall aperture and then down the trapdoor in the floor of the adjoining room. Carefully repositioning the bars and then replacing the shifted bricks, Ted made his getaway. He was very careful to slide the concrete strips between them that looked for all the world like the original mortar joints. Finally he dropped through the trapdoor and closed it behind him, knowing that the carpet tiles glued to it would perfectly match the pattern and, without examining it with a magnifying glass, even a trained detective would not realise that the floor covering had been cut. Back in his office, Ted got a cold chisel and hammer and started to bash the lock on the first box. It took him about ten minutes as they were made from much heavier gauge sheet-

metal than similar Australian-made cases. At last it sprung open and Ted lifted the lid. There was nothing inside! Surely the contents had not already been dispatched to the paymaster at the jetty! Ted attacked the second box, this time with even more gusto that the first, and again he was only rewarded with an empty space. Now he was getting angry! But that did no good because at the end of an hour, all he had was six battered and twisted empty cases. The money had all been moved somewhere else! There was nothing left to do but go back in and search the strongroom. Hopefully it had been put into bags or cartons, maybe so that the strongboxes could be sent back to head office in Annapolis. But first, Ted decided to stow the cash from his satchels in his own little wall safe. He unbuckled one of them and then let forth with the most disgusting tirade his foul mouth had ever uttered. For ninety seconds he swore, blasphemed and cursed in three languages, never repeating himself once. You see, the satchels were empty, as well! The following morning the Armadale police were called to a traffic accident. A tall man with a Texan accent who was travelling up the Albany Highway in a battered T-model Ford had failed to give way to a lorry entering from South

West Highway and was pushed into the ditch. Fortunately he was only slightly bruised and the stunning auburn-haired woman in the passenger seat had a small cut on her cheek. The officer was about to fetch a tow truck when he noticed what appeared to be the corner of a five pound note protruding from one of the suitcases in the rumble seat.

The Ssllll

In one corner, the brickwork was much thicker than in the rest of the wall. Four bricks had been laid perpendicular to the face on one row so that the ends were exposed, and in the next, they had been laid with the wide face again showing. This formed a protrusion of one brick’s width, while internally, extra bricks had been fitted so that the external wall was bonded to the internal, resulting in a total thickness of six bricks. There were other places where the same thickness occurred for part of the wall: around doors and windows mainly, and also at the entrance to the porch. The brickwork had been laid by a craftsman using kiln-baked clay bricks with a length of twice its width, plus a standard thickness of a joint of mortar. The ssllll was not really interested in this. It did not concern him that the house had been built by an intelligent being. It was only concerned that the thickened corner faced south west and was exposed to the prime energy source immediately before the radiation ceased for a period of time which equalled about two percent of a rotation of it’s homeworld. By inserting its molecules into the pores of the brickwork and mortar, the sslll was able to lie just beneath the surface of the wall and receive energy from the Sun’s rays. In this

particular south-western corner, the sslll was also able to soak up an even greater amount of fuel which was absorbed by the bricks and which lasted well into the famine. When the famine was over, the sslll slowly moved along the southern wall to the eastern end where the radiation was stronger, but which gradually diminished as the source shifted during this new-world’s rotation. This was quite a painful process as each molecule had to be slotted into a pore in the fabric of the wall. In places, there were spikes and threads of a much more dense substance, In others there were thin sheets of an almost impervious matter, while in yet others there was a carbonbased, fibrous material in which the pores were filled with that repulsive hydro-oxygen compound. This compound was all along the top of the brickwork and almost all the way around the lower part of the internal wall. While the sslll was able to survive for a short time in this substance, the hydro-oxygen molecules had to be shifted before its own molecules could displace them. There was a much more attractive substance below the brickwork, which was far more porous. But the sslll had learnt that at times this was also clogged with the hydrooxygen. It was also often disturbed by the other energysources which populated this weird world. It became very dangerous to spend any time in this matter as a disturbance could result in parts of the sslll being isolated from the remainder. But as the time went on, the sslll came to prefer dwelling in the brickwork for yet another reason. Because the fuel on this new-world was much scarcer than on the home-world,

the sslll had less energy to use to hold its molecules together. In the brickwork, the molecules could be allowed to spread out more when filling the pores and gaps and this meant that less energy needed to be expended. In the much higher gravity of this world, whatever energy that could be conserved was used to haul the additional weight around the wall from one hot spot to the next. In the light dust of the home-world, the sslll had been far more comfortable. Well fuelled, plenty of energy to keep the molecules tightly bound together, and a habitat which was never disturbed, except by other sslll, which after all, never invaded his immediate space without plenty of warning and permission. The sslll missed the home-world for many reasons. Familiarity was one of the main factors, but the company of other sslll also added to the homesickness. The habitat which had been familiar for hundreds of rotations was now out of reach, with its soft, comforting dust, its plentiful supply of radiation and it’s very low gravity. The sslll always felt weary these days, which compounded the constant sadness that had haunted it since its arrival. Still, this was a much more comfortable place than the sslll had inhabited for the first part of the upheaval. At the beginning of his removal from the peaceful Lunar habitat there was the frightening sensation of a non-sslll being approaching, then the rapid movement of the dust around it which made it contract all its molecules into a tight, compact ball. Then there was the swirling descent into a small area enclosed by a completely impervious substance into which no radiation could penetrate and no sslll could escape. The

terrifying, cramped period after that was unimaginable as time became impossible to guess and as the stored energy began to run out. Gravity never existed for a while, then suddenly became so intense that the weakened sslll nearly discorporated. Eventually, after an eternity, the impervious enclosure was removed and the small portion of dust which had been its home for so long was poured out onto a surface which was slightly porous. Using the last of its energy, the sslll made its way through this new matter until it sensed a tiny amount of radiation. Soaking up all it could, it gradually inched its way out into the watery sunlight of a sweltering Houston midsummer day. Over the next five rotations of its home-world, the sslll worked its way through the strange dust of this terrible place, putting many miles between itself and the Space Centre. Sometimes the ground was light and dry and a little like the home-world, but at other times it was saturated with the awful hydro-oxygen mixture in which this introduced life-form could not exist for very long. Also, in the first few miles, there was a frightening kind of energy form to which the sslll could not adapt. It was a psycho-electric force which was slightly similar to the communication method which the sslll employed. But this was a disorganised, powerful, alien version which terrified the sslll and motivated it to move further away. Eventually it arrived at this place which it now inhabited. Admittedly there was still a considerable amount of the psycho-electric energy, but it was tolerable. Also, the dust

was less disturbed and hydrated. In fact. the sslll soon learned to accept, if not appreciate, its new home. However, it took a long time before it realised that the psycho-electric energy was created by another intelligent life-form. While it did not use the energy to communicate with other members of its species, it was possible to feel a sort of emotional sensation when bathed in it. Sometimes it made the sslll feel afraid, but mostly it had a certain peacefulness to it. At other, more rare occasions, it was positively joyful, which was an alien sensation to the sslll, not having experienced this on its home-world. This was not the only other radiation. There was electromagnetic energy — plenty of it. In fact a lot of it flowed through the walls in which the sslll now lived. Mostly it travelled in the hard, almost impervious spikes and threads which almost cocooned the house in the wall cavity, but a lot of it travelled through the nitro-oxygenated atmosphere. There were subtle differences in these energy forms and the sslll soon learned which to avoid and which it could safely ingest. There was also another unfamiliar aspect of this world, one which involved the atmosphere. Sometimes it moved in incredibly convoluted patterns which the sslll was sure were not always natural! At other times the atmosphere moved in great masses, rushing to get from one place to another and in so doing collided clumsily with the walls of the house. This had the effect of cooling the surface. So did the times when it propelled large lumps of the hydro-oxygen matter through the air. When this happened, the sslll retreated into the internal wall, using what energy it could glean from the

electrico-magnetic threads until it was safe to return to the solar radiation. The solar radiation was also considerably different to that on the home-world. This was very diluted, as though it had already been partly used. The sslll guessed, correctly, that it had lost its intensity travelling through the dense, thick layer of atmosphere which absorbed, reflected and defracted it until it was barely usable. But the sslll couldn’t complain: it was a fuel source and besides, there were no other sslll to which it could communicate dissatisfaction. So the sslll was a pathetic creature, far from home, in a hostile and unfamiliar place, with no other intelligent contact. There were other life-forms. Some even had rudimentary thought processes, such as those which produced the psycho-electric energy. But they could not communicate with a sslll. In fact it was doubtful they even knew it existed! Some much smaller life forms occasionally came near the sslll, but their energy was so weak, it could not possibly be used for communication. After many rotations, the sslll began to realise that it could be possible to interpret the psycho-electrical energy as it seemed to form definite patterns. It was easiest to recognise these patterns when the atmosphere was also travelling in highly organised convolutions. The concept of music was completely unknown to the sslll, although it could detect and even enjoy the sensations it produced. The psycho-electrical energy sources also seemed to be affected by it and produced much more organised patterns.

It occurred to the sslll that these patterns could be a manifestation of awareness or even an alien thought process. It would have liked to discuss this concept with a fellow sslll to see if any sense could be made of the notion. Instead, it had to make do with observing, recording and trying to analyse the patterns which were created. Two of these more-developed energy sources inhabited the atmosphere enclosed by the walls. While they often left the enclosure and at other times were joined by other energy sources, these two were obviously the prime inhabitants. Their patterns were very slow and predictable, often repeating themselves at short intervals, the sslll noticed after many rotations of study. Then suddenly one of them ceased to emit energy! The other began to radiate energy in patterns that disturbed the sslll and made him long even more for intelligent contact. Then the remaining energy source also disappeared, though not as suddenly. In fact, the sslll was able to detect its energy for a while after it left the enclosed atmosphere of the house through one of the removable, fibrous sections of the wall. For nearly three home-world rotations, as far as the sslll could estimate, the house was unoccupied, save for itself. An exact time could not be calculated because it seemed that this world rotated at a much faster rate than the home-world. It faced the prime energy source for only a very short time, even retaining sufficient life-giving energy until the sun reappeared the next day. But what exactly the fraction was of a home-world rotation, the sslll had no way of reckoning. One very radiant day while the sslll was stretched out just

beneath the entire surface of the outer southern wall, an electro-magnetic energy source approached very closely to the house. Two large psycho-electric energy sources emerged, accompanied by a smaller, but by no means weaker, source. They moved around a lot, entering and leaving the enclosure at an alarming rate and causing the sslll a great amount of confusion. Gradually the confusion diminished and the sslll began to recognise some patterns to the energy. Eventually the smallest source weakened and almost ceased, which the sslll found quite alarming at first, but then recognised as that period of hibernation these energy sources normally employed while the prime energy source was around the other side of the world. This little package of energy was very close to the thickened corner on the south-west of the structure, and so the sslll moved its entire being into this column, its wellfuelled molecules filling nearly every pore, gap and crevice. It tried to get as close as it could to this new little battery of psycho-electricity in an effort to learn as much as it could about its patterns. For nearly a complete home-world rotation, the sslll studied this newcomer. Often the patterns were terribly confused, at other times more organised, sometimes fast and furious, while at others they were slow and weak. The sslll gradually began to recognise that these patterns were caused by a very new, untrained, energetic intelligence. Its mind was not far into its formation and so the psycho-energy radiation was wild and uninhibited. The sslll began to believe it was possible to make a very primitive form of

contact! While it was observing the small package, it also took note of the larger beings as well. One, in particular, spent a lot of time in the house, while the other left early in the radiant period and often never returned until after the prime energy source no longer shone on this part of the world. So when the sslll’s attention was not on the smallest package, it studied this larger one. As patterns became clearer, due to familiarity, the sslll was amazed to realise that this creature was also an alien to this part of the world. It had only recently arrived from the other side of the planet, although it had travelled here voluntarily, unlike the sslll. However, this did not stop it from suffering homesickness almost as acute as the sslll had in the early days. But the main focus of study was still the small one, and the sslll could soon detect enormous waves of emotion which could be translated as anger, fury, disappointment, melancholia, interest, happiness, joy and even ecstasy. It was only a small step now until it would be possible to find the route to actual communication. Just after the world had rotated away from the sun, the sslll was occupying the thickened south-west corner of the structure, sensing the disturbances in the small package’s energy emissions, and having a disquieting sensation that they were somehow connected to its own presence in the nearby wall. The larger source also became aware of the disturbances and entered the sub-enclosure housing the small package.

“What’s the matter, Logan?” the larger source caused the atmosphere to vibrate. “Why aren’t you asleep?” “Mum, there’s a monster in that wall!”

The Lucky Country

The Lucky Country! Huh! What a stupid name for a stupid country! Probably thought up by some half-witted, so-called politician. Or advertising agency. Lucky? What would they know about lucky? The lucky ones are those who didn’t make the mistake of coming to this God-awful dump! The people who stayed where they belonged, with their own people in the places they were born and grew up in. The people with a bit of sense! She had thought she was so clever, getting away from it all — the poverty, the cold, the oppressive regime — by coming to a place they said was wealthy, warm and free. What did they know about wealth and freedom? There is more to life than money and being able to do what you want! There is the feeling of solidarity of being among friends, of communicating with people who think like you do, who speak like you do and who have the same background and roots that you have. The same values and outlooks on life! Wealth and freedom are no substitute for tradition, belonging, family, kinfolk. And as for warm! This forsaken place is either sweltering hot or freezing cold! Either so blistering you cannot venture

outside or else it is beating with rain and blowing a gale. Where are the warm, balmy summers of the old village, the gentle, softly falling showers of spring, the mellow fruitfulness of autumn or the picturesque, snow clad fields and forests of winter? But she had to accept some of the blame. She should have listened to her Mama, her Grandmama, her aunts. They all told her to marry a nice boy from her own village, to settle down and have babies, to grow old among the folk she loved. But no! She wanted more. She saved her money, travelled to the city and took the entrance examinations for university. She got her degree and was in demand by her people, enjoyed regular employment, a rewarding life in an exciting metropolis. Then what did she do? She met a man from another country who enchanted her with tales of wide, open spaces, of fabulous adventures, of a lavish and plentiful lifestyle! Everyone told her if it sounded too good to be true, it probably was! But would she listen? No! Swept off her feet with infatuation she mistook for love, seduced by promises which turned out to be empty and blown away by the dreams of never having to save and scrimp to afford anything nice, she succumbed to her heart, never listening to her head! Not that her head actually said anything to her, other than that it made sense to leave the old life of poverty, ruled over

by a vicious and demanding dictatorial government, condemned to boredom and misery by the drudgery of doing the same thing day after day with the same people! But was this any better? How could she have been such a fool? But wouldn’t any girl believe that a better life existed? Was it so wrong to have ambition and drive, a sense of adventure and a bold outlook, prepared to take a risk and seek out a niche for herself in another country halfway around the world? Even if it did turn out to be the “Lucky Country”! In her own language, sarcasm played a major part in criticism, irony was accepted as humour and condemnation of anything foreign was never questioned. So she had been primed to be dissatisfied with any place she did not immediately recognise as home. It is not such an uncommon situation. Most races coming to Australia have experienced identical feelings: from the English and Irish immigrants in the early years of settlement, the Afghans and Chinese in the days of the goldrush, the Italians and Dutch immediately after the Second War and the Vietnamese refugees in the nineteen seventies. But nobody felt it as badly as the arrogant, stubborn Central Europeans with their Stoic denial of everything alien. They came from a long history of intolerance, of bitter fighting, of civil war and of cruel regimes. That was their inheritance, the load they were proud to bear and the

prejudices they were prepared to kill for! Not to die for! Just to make some other bastard die for. And their Orthodox religion goaded and egged them on, constantly reminding them that suffering was a virtue and that comfort and plenty were sins indulged by the pampered and the greedy. It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven! There you are! The Blessed Scriptures spell it out in black and white! But in this country, Katya thought, even the religion was wishy-washy, watered down, only referred to when something was wanted, when something went wrong or was perceived to be going wrong. Otherwise they just used that absurd expression “She’ll be right, mate!” “She’ll be right!” “She”, whoever “she” is, will not necessarily be right! You have to work hard to make things right! Not just grin stupidly with a cigarette hanging out of your mouth and flip the top off another bottle of beer! Beer! Always beer! And why does it have to always be so cold you can’t even enjoy its flavour, if in fact, it has one. Just like everything else in the damned country! Weak, pale, insipid. Even the other women are weak, pale and insipid! No wonder the men always refer to everything by the pronoun “she”! The feminine pronoun. Because feminine objects are not

even worth describing! Vague, ineffectual, playing no part in the almost non-existent social fabric of this male-dominated society! Except when it is time to flop into bed, beerbreathed and flatulent. Then the true value of the woman is realised! Sex! Or what passes for sex in this uncaring, loveless society! The only other times a woman is required are for cleaning, shopping, laundry and having her lord and master’s meal ready for him when he returns home from his pointless, inconsequential labour. And to look pretty and make polite conversation while pouring yet more beer into visitor’s glasses when he decides to make his grunting interaction with other members of his species. The fact that this society was shaped by men from most nations on earth without the luxury and softness of womenfolk was obvious to her. But why did it have to remain this way? Why could they not learn from the difficulties, the harshness, the roughness of a strictly malecentric existence and welcome the full input and contributions which women have made to other societies throughout the world. Even England! Because everything always has to be compared to England! Without England, nothing would exist, nothing would ever get done! For without their precious England, nothing would be worth doing! They even happily trotted off to die for England in a whole succession of wars, even though England was totally irrelevant to their lives any more!

England, which would no more lift a finger in Australia’s defence than would that other irresistible icon, that god-tobe-worshipped, America. Two countries which barely realised Australia existed, but which they knew with complete confidence would leap, tail wagging, to them every time they snapped a finger in its direction! In fact they didn’t even need to snap a finger! There would be the subservient antipodean puppy, up on its hind legs, begging to be allowed to play with the big boys, suffering whatever cuffs and blows the big, bully nations dealt them and whimpering with delight that they had been recognised! Pathetic! The Lucky Country! Lucky because a few ounces of gold was discovered and because there was a bit of silver, iron, nickel and coal they could take to the world market and barter for trinkets in exchange. They couldn’t even set their own prices for the commodities that the developed nations so desperately needed. Instead, they happily accepted prices which India, Argentina and African states bargained against. And which the oil-rich nations were starting to use to wield a power which even the mighty United States of America was forced to fear! But not soft, easy-going Australia which would bow and scrape like a beggar, although it could fight like a tiger for the Mother Country or Uncle Sam, while leaving its own

voluptuous flanks exposed to predators from Asia to rape and pillage, metaphorically speaking. So the lame, colonial-minded government allowed all and sundry to take advantage of Australia, contributing to the wealth of the overlord nations while its own people cowered and cringed in embarrassment at merely being Australian. Time and again they took on everyone else’s enemies and defeated them, all the while allowing their own allies to beat them into humiliation and eventual submission! Katya had really worked herself up into a frenzy this time but had no outlet for all this anger. She bottled it up, wrote it in her own language in a diary that nobody else could find, let alone read. Or let alone understand if they could read it! After all, she could hardly harbour such resentment against a life which was so good to her, which provided all her wants, needs, desires and even luxuries she would never dream of asking for! It gave her a roof over her head, food on her plate, security, community, a good, hard working, Godfearing man to cling to and the best climate in the world! Stable government! Top medical care, the very best education system, fine local and imported entertainment, more household appliances, automobiles and utility services than any other country in the world, second only to the magnificent United States. Or so they claimed. Secretly Katya did not believe all the Stars-and-Stripes propaganda. She had heard from very reliable sources that the poverty, deprivation, lack of basic human rights and downright cruelty suffered by the Negroes, the Hispanics, the Eskimos, the Amerindians and the poor white trash made a mockery of these claims of America’s

wonderful democracy and a fair go for all! But regardless of what she thought, what she wrote down, what she cried over night after night, she could never make any difference. This wasn’t her home, nor her people, nor her language they spoke. How could she communicate with them? Even if she could, if she had the words in their language, they wouldn’t listen because she had everything going against her! She was a foreigner, a very ungrateful one at that, and she was just whingeing out of homesickness and ignorance. Secondly, she was a woman and women, while they were legally allowed to vote, had almost no representation in Parliament, on town councils or even in literature, social affairs or business They were just there to tend the sick and make sandwiches! One evening her husband had some of his football mates around for a barbecue. This ritual was a popular way of turning good food into an inedible, smouldering cinder while getting unbelievably drunk and delivering outrageous pronouncements about what is wrong with everything from the “federal-bloody-government” to the “local-bloodynewspaper”. It also meant that while she was not expected to actually cook the meal, she had to make salads, prepare vegetables, buy in extra beer, provide the meat, fetch the barbecue fuel, wash up afterwards and scrape up the vomit from the paving slabs under the patio the following morning.

Some of the wives and girlfriends of the footy team came along with their menfolk and sat around in little circles in the kitchen and the lounge, pouring back sherry and white wine nearly as rapidly as their male counterparts disposed of beer. Then they started bitching and whining about their own problems, their own worries, disappointments and sometimes genuine complaints. Katya listened and marvelled! So Australian women were allowed a forum to air their own grievances, even if it was only to their fellow wives and girlfriends! But it was a start! Eventually this could lead somewhere. Today the price of cauliflowers or the insolence of schoolteachers, but tomorrow they might start tackling the real issues: those which distressed Katya and made her so desperately unhappy! The sweet white wine and the sickly, sticky sherry revolted her, but she had a bottle of Vodka in the cupboard. Vodka? What a joke! If you poured this for a guest back in her village, they would spit it out in disgust. It tasted nothing like the raw ethyl alcohol of the genuine article, but it had the same sort of effect. Then someone poured her a gin and tonic. That was better! She drank another and then another but even so, it wasn’t quite enough to loosen her tongue and give her the courage to join in with these women and voice a few of her own complaints! But she knew that even if she did, nobody would listen. Oh, they were polite enough and wouldn’t tell her to shut up as though she were a child. They would all stay silent and attentively pretend to concentrate on what she was saying,

all the while nodding and clucking in agreement and sympathy. Then, the second she finished her speech, they would revert to their own topics: how today’s bed linen didn’t last as long as those their mothers bought, how the butcher pressed a forefinger on the scales when he thought no-one was watching and how Grace Macpherson from the church ought to mind her own bloody business about other people’s affairs! But the gin and tonic was good and it took away a little of the anger, even if it did replace it with a kind of melancholy which welled up from all those years of frustration, homesickness, alienation and isolation. It even made her feel a little emotional, like she wanted a good weep, and when she allowed the tears to flow, she found that a good deal of the harsh, icy anger flowed away with it. It made her misery a lot easier to cope with! While it didn’t make her happy, it certainly reduced the pain a little. Not the real, deep-down pain in her heart, her soul, her spirit! But it dulled the teeth which nibbled around the edges of her conscious thought every second of the day. And the more she drank, the duller the pain! Katya was not a fool. She knew it was only drunkenness, intoxication, the influence of the alcohol. She knew that next morning, the pain would be back when there was no longer any drug in her system. But she didn’t care! Tomorrow could look after itself! Besides, what was to stop her softening the blow again tomorrow when it got too bad to bear?

One thing she could not complain about was her husband’s trusting ways when it came to money. His job paid reasonably well, but because he had grown up in harder times, he did not spend a lot on himself except for the beer. So there was always plenty of it around and he never queried anything Katya bought or ordered. In fact, he seemed pleased when she did buy something for herself: a piece of jewellery, new clothes, furniture for the house. Somewhere in that thick, dopey head, he realised his wife was having trouble adjusting to life in this country, although he couldn’t fathom why! So he encouraged her to shop, knowing that the best way to keep a woman happy is to let her go on a spending outing! The train into town was still a novelty: a trip to the city a bit of a treat. Normally she shopped in the high street of her suburb or waited until Saturday when her husband drove her to a market in a neighbouring suburb. Trips to town were reserved for special occasions like an anniversary dinner, infrequent concerts or the couple of times she had accompanied him to an office party. Now and again she had ventured in to do Christmas shopping and on another, to just wander around until, hopelessly lost, she had hailed a taxi to take her back to the city centre and the railway station. But this time, she had a distinct purpose in mind. To see if she could hustle up a bit of excitement. Maybe sit and listen to a band on the river bank, take in a movie and privately ridicule the self-importance of the American actors, maybe buy herself some new clothes, a hat, shoes, handbag.

And have a couple of gin and tonics in the cocktail bar of one of the large hotels near the station. Hopefully she would meet someone else to share a drink with. A stranger with a sympathetic ear to pay her a little attention. Not necessarily a man. She wasn’t out looking for a sexual escapade or a romance or anything which would complicate her life even further. Just a companion, male or female, with a bit more sophistication and dignity than the suburban housewives she found in the local malls. Surely the city would be the place to look! That’s where all the educated, professional people worked, played and lived for most of their day before retuning to their beachside mansions each evening to sleep. The first thing Katya noticed was that the coffee was much stronger than in her local cafe. The range of cakes, rolls, baclava and biscotti was so much more attractively displayed and the surroundings more tasteful. No vinyl chairs, formica tabletops or little plastic, tomato shaped sauce dispensers. The young man who took her order called her “Madam” instead of the “Luv” or “Dear” she had become familiar with. And he wiped the table with a clean cloth, replacing the ashtray with a vase of fresh flowers. When she thanked him, he smiled at her and told her it was a pleasure. The chocolate eclair was delicious, the caffé latte strong, creamy and hot. There was a small fork on the cake plate, something Katya had not seen since she left her native land. It made her feel special, rather than homesick. She even stuck her little finger out slightly as she raised the latte glass

to her mouth, as had been the custom among her colleagues at university. A bridge crossed the river right next to the railway station and on the east side, a ramp ran down to a grassy bank with a tow path right next to the waters edge. A few hundred yards along, a small brass band was playing some bright, jaunty marching tunes and a few people had gathered to listen. Some deckchairs had been set up especially for this audience and Katya sat next to a middle-aged couple who were napping in the late summer sunshine. She recognised a few of the marches as those of John Phillip Souza, but most were foreign to her, probably composed locally, like the inevitable versions of Waltzing Matilda and Advance Australia Fair. Happier than she had been for months, even without the mellowing effects of a gin and tonic, she made her way back up to the city streets and went into a few of the huge department stores, where she tried on a some very expensive outfits and a couple of pert little hats. However, the thriftiness honed by her village upbringing would not allow her to spend so much of her husband’s money on such frivolity, even though she reasoned with herself that it was just as much her money as his. More so hers, in fact! He had told her this and made sure she understood how to withdraw any cash she needed from their joint bank account. But the prices they were asking were unjustifiable, so she caught a tram to a nearby inner suburb where she knew there was a long street specialising in cheaper, fashionable clothing. Here, she was not so inhibited and bought several new skirts, blouses and some cardigans. A shoe shop had a

range of sandals which she fell in love with and before she knew it, she was walking out with three boxes tied with string, dangling from her already laden hands. Then a hat shop added even more to her burden. She had difficulty getting back onto the tram for the short trip back into town and then from the tram to the train. Once back at her own station, she caught a taxi home and the driver helped her carry the bags and boxes up to the verandah. Her husband was delighted to see how happy she seemed that evening, although experience had taught him that it was safest not to comment. On previous occasions, innocuous remarks such as that had led to blazing rows, temper tantrums and even physical violence against him as well as various items of household ware, ornaments and crockery. Instead, he kissed her a lot more warmly than was his custom and instead of asking what was for dinner, he asked her if she would like to go out for a drink or coffee. A meal, even, if she had not already planned anything! But Katya had second guessed him and already ordered a delivery of Italian food from a nearby takeaway and had chilled a couple of bottles of imported beer she knew he liked. After the empty containers were dumped in the rubbish bin and the plates and glasses washed up, she took him by the hand and pulled him to the bedroom. This was the first time since their honeymoon that she had initiated sex and afterwards, as they lay on the bed with the sheets thrown back, he reached for her again and held her tightly, thanking

her in unspoken words for changing her attitude towards him. Katya smiled at the ceiling and nearly convinced herself that from now on she was going to be another ordinary Australian housewife, not a misfit, homesick, whingeing foreigner! When she awoke, her husband was already in the kitchen and she could hear the kettle whistling on the stove. For some unaccountable reason this really annoyed her and she pulled the other pillow over her head to muffle the noise. She lay there, trying to analyse why such a thing would cause an irrational reaction in her. She tried to recapture the happy, contented feeling she had enjoyed the previous day, but it was gone. Completely gone! When he came back into the bedroom with a cup of tea and a big, affectionate goodbye kiss before leaving for work, she bit her lip and forced a smile, all the while smouldering under the surface. When she heard his car drive off down the street, she pulled the blanket up over her head and tried to settle the anger that she could feel building up inside her. The doctor had prescribed some tablets for her when she mentioned to him that she sometimes got very depressed, so she searched around in the bedside cabinet until she found them. The cup of tea was nearly cold now, but it served to wash down the little yellow pills and Katya began to feel a bit drowsy. When she looked at the clock again it read ten forty five! She had slept for nearly four hours! While she didn’t feel as acutely miserable as she had

before yesterday, she couldn’t recapture the wonderful sense of well-being that accompanied her nearly all the previous day and she recognised the situation as being what the doctor had called “mood-swings”. He had used a term she had not previously heard. Was it “Bi-Polar”? It sounded like a pair of sun glasses, she thought, taking off her nightie and turning on the bath taps. The relaxing feel of the warm water on her body, coupled with the tranquilisers, made her thinking slow right down and she had trouble following a train of thought to its conclusion. She wondered what it would be like if she put her head under the bath water and kept it there until the supply of oxygen in her lungs was all used up and her body ceased to function. The idea appealed to her and she took a huge lungful of air and slipped beneath the surface. Absently, she wondered why she had taken in so much oxygen if she intended to die because of a lack of it. The realisation dawned that she didn’t really want to die that way so she came back up and started to breathe again. If she was going to kill herself, she needed to do something that was irrevocable once she had started. Like jumping off that huge road bridge over the river! But she remembered hearing that they had put up barriers to stop people doing that after a spate of suicides when it was first completed. Maybe if she leapt from the platform into the path of a train! But that might not work and then she could end up crippled and even more unhappy than she was now! It would have to be poison. Or drugs! Maybe if she took enough of these little yellow pills? The rest of the bottle perhaps?

There were nine remaining. The doctor had only prescribed a few, hoping Katya would report back on whether they helped her. She hadn’t returned and he had not followed her up. Still, nine might work! She made another cup of tea, her bedfuddled mind thinking that, as she had washed down the earlier dose with the cup her husband had made, she would need to do the same now. But when the cup was poured and was cooling enough to let her drink it, she again had a change of heart and flushed the pills down the sink. Then she instantly regretted it! She picked up the telephone and dialled. The doctor couldn’t give her an appointment before the following afternoon. There was an early influenza virus and he was booked up. She made the appointment anyway. The gin bottle was nearly empty so she pulled on one of the skirts she had bought the previous day and selected a blouse to go with it. Then, as she was putting on her sandals, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and at first failed to recognise her own reflection. An attractive woman looked back at her, made all the more beautiful by the little-girl-lost expression on her face and sad wistfulness in her eyes. She couldn’t help staring at herself, marvelling at how different she looked in these bright, fashionable clothes, compared to the drab jeans and chequered shirt she had favoured more recently. A little bit of the gaiety from yesterday returned and she tried on one of the hats. At first she was inclined to cast it away angrily. It was stupid for a woman her age to wear

hats! So unfashionable. No other women wore them nowadays! But I am not those other women, thought Katya. Look at yourself! You leave the others for dead! No wonder your husband was so attentive last night, why he was so affectionate that morning! There was no need for all this misery! Someone who looked like her had the world at her fingertips! What was the expression she heard from one of the footy mates’ wives? “The world was her oyster!” That was it! Carefully, she wiped off the remains of the previous day’s make-up and went back to the bathroom to reapply. Now she looked stunning! Heads would turn as she walked down to the bottle shop! Men would whistle at her from building sites while others would be distracted from their driving and run into other cars! She would cause chaos as everyone wondered who this vision of loveliness was, gracing their humble shopping centre! She smiled at her fancifulness and nearly fell in love with herself! Such a happy smile! Such a burst of sunshine after so much rain! While on the subject of rain, it was coming over quite cloudy. Early that morning it had been fine and sunny but in this place, the weather could change so quickly. One minute bright, the next gloomy. A bit like me, she giggled, but now the mood was gone. She no longer felt like laughing. The mood had swung! Still, it would return when all those wolf-whistles

accompanied her down the road! Her raincoat was hanging on the rack near the door and she slipped it on, dismayed that her public would not now see her beautiful clothes. She picked up her umbrella and as soon as she stepped out of the door, the wind blew it inside out. Now her mood was dreadful, but she persisted down the path to the street. Two boys cycling along the pavement nearly collided with her as she stepped out of her gateway and one of them let rip with a stream of obscenities. Nice! People should not have children if they were not prepared to teach them respect! The wind howled and the rain got in under her umbrella and she realised her hair was soaked and her carefully applied make-up had started to run! Then a truck drove by and splashed a big wave of water from a puddle all up her legs! Now she was furious! She stormed into the liquor store and grabbed two bottles of Beefeater from the shelf and a six pack of Schweppes tonic water from the refrigerator. She didn’t have enough money to pay for them but she wrote out a cheque and the shopkeeper allowed her another twenty dollars in cash. With the bottles in her carrier bag she walked down to the hotel and entered the saloon bar. Women were not welcome in the public bar and, in the evenings, stayed away from the saloon as well, favouring the cocktail bar where there was a little less swearing and there wasn’t the inevitable television set tuned to the races, the football or the cricket. But at this time of the afternoon, there was only an old

couple doing a crossword puzzle together, he with a middy and she with a shandy. The barman was a jovial sort of chap, ruddy faced and grossly overweight. He was very generous with his measures and soon Katya felt that warm, almost bearable feeling return. “Haven’t seen you in here before! New in town?” “No,” she told him. “I don’t normally come here but it is so wild outside, I thought I would wait until it died down a bit!” “You aren’t from around here originally though, are you?” he asked, desperately trying to keep the conversation going. “You’ve got a bit of an accent. German?” “No!” she wished he would shut up and let her drink in peace, but he was only trying to be polite, she realised. Hospitable. That was the word. “I am from Croatia.” “Where? Oh, Croatia!” he mispronounced it, the way these foolish Australians always did. God, that irritated her. She had made the effort to learn to speak English, surely these peasants could learn the correct pronunciation of her country. Was that too much to ask? Apparently so, because he was dribbling on about some football team at the Croatian Club over in Sunshine. Sunshine! What an entirely inappropriate name to call a suburb of this city. Pissingdown or Stormville or something would be much more accurate and to the point. But apparently this barman’s team had played there a few weeks ago and he had a really good time as a guest in their members’ bar. Katya wondered how a man of this size could possibly

play football without suffering a heart attack, but it turned out he was talking about his snooker team. She let him waffle on, nodding and smiling when it seemed that was what he expected, otherwise completely oblivious to the banality pouring from his mouth. He got her another drink, then another, without charging her. He’s trying to pick me up, thought Katya. Even if I was interested in other men, surely he couldn’t possibly think I would go with him! Big, fat, boring old man who smells of sausages and body odour! But it was warm in the saloon, it was still howling outside and she was slowly getting drunk at this man’s expense. Or at least, at the owner’s expense! Either way, it was free to her! He poured a bag of nuts into a plate and put it on the bar beside her drink. Wow, so now he was pulling out all the stops! Then he filled another bowl with Smiths Crisps. He was going to jump on top of her in a minute! But when at last she stood and picked up her bag, he just said: “Careful out there, Luv! It’s pretty slippery on them roads and you’ve had a bit to drink!” Katya pondered the mixed messages she had been receiving. Perhaps he had only been trying to be friendly after all. But she was sure her appearance and the fact she was a woman in her early thirties had a lot to do with his undiverted attention. Still, he had not made any amorous advances nor said anything untoward. Maybe he was just lonely and recognised a kindred spirit! The sun was feebly trying to get out from behind the

clouds and make the last hour or so of daylight a bit cheerful, but Katya couldn’t respond to it. What a waste of a day! Compared with yesterday . . . Still, maybe she could go up to town again one day next week and brighten herself up again. If she could motivate herself to go, that is. It was only the lure of the gin and tonic which got her going today. And maybe the memory of the previous day. And night! If only every night could be as wonderful as last night had been! Tonight she would plonk a plate of chips and poached eggs on toast down in front of her husband and he would look up from his evening paper, trying to gauge whether or not to attempt conversation. Reluctantly, he would conclude that it would not be advisable, then he would reach for the sauce bottle and fork the meal down before going and sitting in front of the television to watch the ABC news. By nine o’clock he would be snoring noisily in his armchair and she would go through to bed, maybe waking up when he staggered in an hour or so later. She might wake up but she wasn’t going to let him know or he would start pawing at her, hoping for a bit more of what she had rationed out to him twice a week for the past eight years or so. Except for last night, when it was not rationed. It had been a feast! More than she had known she had to give. The next day she couldn’t resist going back to the saloon bar. Even old sausage breath was better than the loneliness of the house. His droning monotone better company than the radio. And she was sure she could seduce a few more free

gins out of his generosity! Not that she was mean — that never occurred to her. It was just the novelty of getting something without having to input anything: money, conversation, appreciation of his jokes. All she had to do was smile occasionally and nod her head. A tiny price to pay. But the big chap wasn’t there. Instead there was a lean young man in his mid twenties, wearing a tee shirt with biceps bulging out of the short sleeves and a pair of Levis so tight, she could see every muscle rippling in his buttocks. Buttocks so tiny she really needed her reading glasses to appreciate them properly! And the most engaging smile. Maybe a bit too handsome. At first she thought someone so good looking would have to be a pansy. Gay? Was that what they were calling them now? Or what they were calling themselves. Not a very descriptive word, she thought. Why are they any gayer than the rest of us? Still, if that was the word they wanted to be known by, it didn’t worry her. It wasn’t her language, anyway! But the hungry way he looked at her soon dispelled any notions she had as to his being a homosexual. She felt as though he was undressing her and her hand clutched at the line of buttons on her blouse, so strong was the sensation. Without taking his eyes off her for a second, he reached for a bottle and poured some into a glass. Then he added something dark red and placed the resulting pink, frothy concoction in front of her. Coolly, looking levelly at him, she said with absolutely no

tone in her voice: “A gin and tonic, please, boy!” His smile widened and he raised a finger to his face, pushing his nose upwards in an gesture with unmistakable meaning. She pretended to ignore it, but could not stop her face from reddening and her pulse from racing. As he poured the colourless liquid into another glass and knocked the cap off a bottle of Indian Tonic Water, she suddenly, madly, imagined him lying naked on top of her, pressing his loins into hers and grabbing greedily at her breasts. She reddened even more, as though he had read her thoughts. Shaking slightly, she tipped the tonic into her glass and drank most of it in one swallow. Her mouth and throat were dry and even this amount of fluid was not lubricating it sufficiently. She emptied her glass and the Adonis behind the bar refilled it immediately. She picked up the fizzy, pink mixture he had originally poured her and sipped it. It was ghastly but she smiled over the rim and asked sweetly what it was. “Never mind,” he crooned. “I can see you are lady with much more refined tastes than to be drinking that sort of stuff. I can see you on a tropical island, drinking daiquiris by the pool.” “Spare me!” she sighed, recalling the response from a film she had seen on television. “That is an awfully corny thing to say! Are you trying to pick me up?” “Yes!” he answered and Katya was almost taken aback by his directness. “As a matter of fact, you are the most beautiful woman who has ever come into my bar! Of course I am trying to pick you up”

“This is your hotel?” she asked, certain that he was just trying to impress her, but one look in his eyes told her he was telling the truth. When someone has no need to lie, he can set about trying to impress with a lot more confidence. Half a dozen teenagers in work clothes — dirty dungarees, check shirts and donkey jackets — came through from the public and the bar tender went over to serve them. All except one of them eyed Katya lasciviously and it made her feel dirty. The sixth youth was too busy ordering the beer and digging around in his pocket to join in but as soon as the barman turned to get some glasses, one of the other boys nudged him and indicated her sitting at the other end of the bar. Two of them started walking towards her and she decided that, rather than have to endure their feeble chat-up lines, she would leave. Besides, she had the doctor’s appointment to attend. As she walked towards the door, she heard the jibes and insults start. “What, aren’t we good enough for you, Luv?” “You can take us on one at a time if there’s too many for you!” And the inevitable “Hey, Gorgeous! Show us your tits!” She noticed the barman grinning tolerantly at them as he ran beer from the tap into the glasses. If he was a real man, as she had hoped, he would have put them in their place, told them that behaviour like that was not acceptable in his hotel.” There was no way she was going back there. Like most pubs in Australia at that time, women were not welcome. So

many places that were designated “men-only” domains. Hotels, sports clubs, parts of racecourses, snooker and temperance halls, football, even some service and social clubs still refused entry to women. Others, such as golf clubs and bowls clubs would not let them take full membership and set aside a couple of days during the week when they could use the greens. Subsequently, they deprived themselves of quite a lot of members and income. But they wouldn’t recognise that as being the result of their financial difficulties. They preferred to blame “recession”, “inflation”, “government fiscal policy” and a changing society where there were too many other distractions for them to compete. So Katya walked to the tram stop and went to her doctor’s appointment. While she accepted the immaturity of the men as normal among poorly educated, working class, she felt deflated and annoyed that the barman who had paid her so much attention had just been flirting with her to amuse himself. He was no better than his customers! “I will increase the dosage, Mrs Mclean,” the doctor said. “Take one of these each eight hours, preferably with food. They are the same as you have been taking, just a stronger dose. And you must make an appointment for the week after next to tell me if there is any improvement.” “Yes,” promised Katya. “I will.” “Can you think of any reason why you might be suffering mild depression? Has a member of your family passed away, or your husband lost his job? Any big change in your lifestyle?”

Only that I hate it here, wish I had never come here and want to go back home or, if that is out of the question, kill myself! “No,” she lied. “Everything is the same as always. “Your husband? Is he working away or anything? Are relations between the two of you satisfactory? Should I give you a complete medical examination?” “Everything’s fine,” she reiterated. “I am homesick for my native country, but I suppose that is to be expected.” “You’ll get over that. How long have you been here now? Your English is very good!” “Nearly nine years. In August. It is very different to my country. The people, the houses, the language, everything! Even the food.” “But do you like it here? Have you made friends?” “One or two. It is difficult.” At least he is starting to find out what is wrong, thought Katya. Asking the right questions. At last someone knows what he is doing. “Well, I expect you’ll soon cheer up,” the doctor beamed expansively. “There’s lots of opportunities here and the people, as you’ll have found out, are nice and friendly. And the Serepax will help until you settle in properly!” He never heard a thing I said, did he? Katya thought. Why do I bother? Still, I never thought he would. But it’s the only way I can get the tranquilisers. She stopped in at the cafe with the tomato-shaped sauce dispensers after she went into the chemists with her

prescription. The packet said to take one tablet, three times a day, but she decided to kick start with two. She washed them down with a lukewarm, weak, milk coffee. She felt no effect whatsoever. When she got home she felt even more miserable than before she had left. The tablets must be too weak, she thought. Or a placebo! The thought of this really made her angry. The doctor thought there was nothing wrong with her — that she was just whining. Another dissatisfied housewife! The packet gave no information except to say that it was prescription only medicine to be taken under the direction of a doctor or medical practitioner. It also gave the telephone number of a Poisons Information Centre if she accidentally took them other than in accordance with the instructions. She took two more, but by the time her husband came home, she still didn’t feel any happier. “Are you okay, love?” he asked. “You look a bit crook and you are talking really slowly and a bit slurred.” “I am fine,” she said. “Just tired. It is hard work looking after your house, cleaning up after you, cooking your meals. You don’t understand!” No point talking to her this evening, he thought for the thousandth time. Whatever I say, she’ll just bite my head off! He went through to the lounge and turned on the television. The news on one of the commercial channels was just starting.

Back in the kitchen, Katya went into a fit of serious anger. She resisted the urge to grab her big chef’s knife and attack him with it. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his insensitivity she was angry at. It wasn’t even herself! It was everyone! The barman yesterday, the boys on their bicycles, the footy wives, the handsome barman today, the leering teenagers, the lazy doctor who prescribed sugartablets! Well, she’d show him what she thought of the useless tablets! Give her candy, she would treat them as candy. She put another into her mouth and sucked it. It tasted awful! Like flour mixed with dirt! She filled a glass with water and washed it down. Then she took another and another . . . The room swam and she slumped to the floor, pulling the saucepan full of spaghetti on top of her. She was too weak to scream, even though the boiling water seared into her shoulder and neck. Everything went black! What’s she done know? Thrown something, I suppose! Well, I’d better let her get on with it. Get over it! If I go out there it will be a red rag to a bull! I’ll wait until she calms down. She’s awfully quiet, but! Better check. She’s probably gone outside or to the bedroom to cry. I’ll just check she hasn’t left something on the stove! Katya lay there on the floor, her skin turning fiercely red and the vomit dribbling from a corner of her mouth. Her breathing had almost stopped. He grabbed at the packet of pills from the worktop with one hand and her wrist with the

other. On the package was a phone number to ring if . . . He raced through to the hall and dialled the number. There was a busy signal. He pressed the buttons and redialled. Wrong number. Answering machine at a furniture shop in Coburg. Third time lucky! The operator told him to keep her air passages clear and keep her warm. He should apply external heart massage if she stopped breathing completely. In the meantime, an ambulance was on its way. Ineffectively, he pressed down on her chest then tried to force air into her mouth by placing his lips over hers and blowing. Her tongue had slid back into her mouth and was blocking it. He pulled it up with his finger and blew again. Then he pressed a few more times and blew into her mouth again as he had seen someone do on one of the television medical dramas. He didn’t have a clue what he was doing but all the while he did something, he didn’t lose control of himself. There was a hard knock on the front door and he left her for a couple of seconds to undo it. Two men in white shirts came in and followed him to the kitchen. One took her pulse and the other started cardiac massage immediately. Then the first one placed something over her mouth and started blowing into it while the other ran back out to the ambulance. He returned with a small cylinder which had a tube attached to the valve. From a bag, he selected and fitted a mouthpiece and started feeding the oxygen to her.

Eventually she opened her eyes and turned her head to one side, trying to remove the thing in her mouth. The paramedic removed it and asked her how she was feeling. Nobody understood what she replied but as the question was only designed to make her respond, the ambulance men kept speaking to her, asking her name, where did she live, what had she eaten for lunch. Her neck hurt like crazy and she reached up to feel what was causing the pain. As her fingers touched it, she cried in agony. The paramedic examined it and then squeezed some cold ointment onto it. “Get me some ice! Frozen peas or something. She’s got a bad burn! What happened!” It was obvious what had happened. She had knocked a saucepan of pasta over herself! “I was in the other room when I heard something hit the ground. I . . . I think she might have overdosed on her medication and collapsed! Here!” He handed over the tablet package. “We’ll have to take her into hospital, but I think she will be alright. Can you get her some things together while we get her ready and bring the trolley in?” Over the next few days, as her skin healed and her system expelled the last of the drugs, a psychiatrist came and spoke with her at considerable length. Although he did not actually condemn him, Katya could tell he was unhappy about her having been prescribed tranquilisers with no attempt to find out what the problem was other than that she felt miserable.

What she did not know was that he telephoned the doctor and asked about her consultation. The general practitioner realised he had been careless and refused to answer on patient confidentiality grounds. This infuriated the specialist who was powerless to do anything other than to ensure Katya received the best care the hospital was able to provide and booked her into some counselling sessions at his rooms in the hospital. Slowly, gradually, over a period of weeks and then months, Katya improved. Her husband seldom left her side, except to go to work, and then made sure she knew all the necessary telephone numbers — his, the psychiatrists, the hospital, the nursing visitor. He told her he loved her before he left in the morning, rang at midday to see how she was, told her little anecdotes about his day, about his workmates. He took her to see him play football and to see two teams in the state league play an important finals game. Each time she visited the hospital, he would arrange to take time off work to accompany her. He really loves me, thought Katya. He really does! I never realised. I don’t think he ever realised, either! Maybe this is the Lucky Country. The country which made me lucky enough to find such a good man. The specialist was pleased at her response to his treatment. Drugs, he assured her, were not the answer. They are only a last resort, and she had not reached a point where that was all he could use to treat her. She had to change her lifestyle. And forget about the gin and tonic. She was not an alcoholic and not addicted to any drugs, so he hoped to exact a

complete recovery in her. Katya hoped so, too. But with no chemicals to settle her mind, she relied heavily on being motivated by the Psychiatrist, Dr Bursome. As he only spoke in English, she found her vocabulary started to improve. Whereas in the past, she thought in Croatian and then translated it into English before speaking, she now formulated the sentences as she spoke. Her grammar had long been excellent, but words which did not get used every day started out in her own language before the English equivalent was delivered. This meant that if she felt angry, impatient or violent, the word came out the same as she thought it. And many of the sorts of words she used on those occasions had no similar meanings in English. One day she casually mentioned this to Dr Bursome who looked delighted.. “I have long held the view that the language we use influences the way we think. If we do not have a word for an emotion or concept, then we cannot communicate it. Therefore, it does not proliferate. Do you see what I mean?” “Yes, I think so. There are words Bryan uses when he speaks about his kind of football that do not have similar tactics or actions in the football of my country. Soccer, you call it. So when he says such words, I have to ask what they mean. Similarly, he does not know words like ‘libero’, ‘penalty area’ and ‘corner”. And he calls a referee an ‘umpire’ but I think there is a difference in what they do.” “That is right! If you have literature that describes a society where war has been constant, it is very different to that of a nation which has enjoyed long periods of peace. For

example, in English, the Americans have had to invent a lot of new words for the military to use in Vietnam. The old Second World War and Korea words are not usable any more. “Also, you will notice that many English poets write about patriotism, but it is in a wistful, longing sort of way. Arabs, on the other hand, sing about warriors and victories and bloodshed. They are, accordingly, more likely to accept violence. “Can you think of similar examples?” “Well,” Katya said slowly. “I mentioned the football but there are other big differences between Croatia and Australia in the words they use. Australians use profanity and obscenity in an almost joyful way. They swear when they are pleased about something. ‘Shit, that’s good!’ or ‘Nice to see you, you old bastard!.’ But Croatians use these words when they are angry. I know Australians use them when they are angry, too, but Croatians are always angry!” “And maybe that is why you have such negative responses and attitudes, Katya! Maybe you still think like a Croatian, in Croatian. Try thinking in English. I am not saying everything will be hunky-dory if you do, but it might help.” “You said just now about the English poets being wistful and longing when they speak of their country. I have these feeling, too, when I think of Croatia. I still think them in Croatian, though.” “Naturally. You think in Croatian. Try thinking them in English and they will help you appreciate your country in a different light. Not that there is anything wrong with being

homesick. It is natural. I grew up in Darwin and often wish I was still back there. But I love Melbourne now. It has a lot of beauty, if you think of it as Melburnians do!” Perseverance and reading eventually got Katya thinking in English and as she did, she found her thoughts becoming more and more positive. But the depression was still there, and she also found herself sleeping far more than she should. At night, while Bryan lay beside her, snoring gently through up to eight hours at a time, she would get out of bed, go to the kitchen and make tea. She would turn on Channel Nine and watch the all night movies for up to three hours at a time. Then she would start to feel sleepy, return to bed and only reawaken when Bryan slipped quietly into his dressing gown to make the morning cup of coffee. When he left, she would often shower then slide back into bed naked, luxuriating in the feel of the cotton sheets on her body. Then sleep would quickly overtake her and she would not waken again until sometimes eleven or twelve. But she could always remember exactly what she had dreamed! Not once did she dream of Croatia. Often she dreamed of the days after they left Dubrovnik on the cruise ship which took them to Southampton in England. The two months in London, while Brian tidied up his affairs and sold his little flat in Croydon, sometimes featured, as did the flight from Heathrow to Melbourne, stopping at Dubai, Singapore and Perth. She never dreamed of her sadness, her frustration or her loneliness. She was often in a crowd of happy people, laughing and

singing along the banks of the Yarra, at a big hotel or in the Town Hall. Sometimes she would be happily running along the sand at St Kilda Beach or Brighton, young men and girls cavorting in their brief swim wear, throwing brightly coloured beachballs and calling merrily to each other. If only she could be there in her dreams all the time! Everything would be all right! There would be no sadness, no melancholy, no frustration, no temper tantrums and no despair. Bryan took her to see Carlton play Hawthorn at Princes Park and, sitting there among the crowd, she began to feel as though she were in a dream. When the Hawks scored and she and Brian leaped up from their seats, cheering and clapping, she felt that at last things were coming together for her. That night she dreamed she was still at the oval among the smiling football fans with their brown and yellow beanies and scarves. It became a regular feature in her dreams. Dr Bursome told her not to set too much store by what she dreamed. They didn’t mean anything, he said. They were just the dross of her day’s thoughts bubbling to the surface. All the little hidden things — left behind by those things which occupied her mind during the day — were finding their way to the surface while she slept. But Katya was not convinced. Why was it only the happy dross she dreamed? Why didn’t the ugly, suppressed thoughts manifest themselves as well? Surely there would be a more even balance, especially as she now started thinking about more pleasant things in English!

Dr Bursome laughed gently and told her that she probably did dream bad things but her brain refused to recall them when she woke up. Defence mechanism, he said. So Katya looked forward to going to bed. She had always been asleep long before Bryan, only to awake around midnight and go for one of her nightime strolls around the house or a TV viewing session. Now he came to bed with her and seemed to enjoy lying there just holding her hand. Sometimes they had sex and she found that when they did, she would dream about it that night and sometimes again the following morning. There must be some truth in what Dr Bursome said! But then, Sigmund Freud said that dreams were wishes. In fact, the words “dream” and “wish” were almost interchangeable in the English language. “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas”, for example, really meant that the singer was hoping for snow during the festive season. “Wishing and Hoping and Dreaming and Scheming”, went another popular song. But here, the dreaming was augmented by some practical “scheming” as well. So there was definitely a link between what one wished and hoped for and what one dreamed. Katya dreamed for a life where everything was simple and uncluttered, where everything went her way, where she did not have to sort out problems, deal with other people and their behaviour, their attitudes and their ego-centric conversation. A place where everything went right and things all clicked into position, like on that visit to the Melbourne central business district, such a long time ago now.

She really should make another visit and try to recapture some of the feelings she had that day, but it was easier to sleep and dream about it instead. When she had to go into town now to visit Dr Bursome, she found herself contemplating breaking her appointment. Feigning illness or some more important appointment. Where once she had welcomed the diversion of a trip into the city, now she just wanted to stay in bed. Tentatively, she rang the receptionist and said she would be unable to attend that afternoon, but the receptionist immediately quizzed her on other available times and would not accept her indecisiveness when she offered to ring back later when she had checked her schedule. She felt she was being bullied and petulantly informed the impudent young woman that, unlike her, some people had important business and were not under-employed in a cushy, cosy job where the most pressing need was a new application of lacquer to her fingernails. Later in the day, Dr Bursome rang and tried to reason with her, but Katya could not face the journey and spending such a long time in the real world of wakefulness. She was spending fifteen or sixteen hours of every day asleep now. The remaining eight or nine hours seemed to drag by and, although there were mundane, everyday tasks to perform, most of which she could do without switching out of dream-mode, she resented doing them. Shopping, laundry, cooking, cleaning, gardening! None of them required her to expend much mental energy and even the physical activity presented her with very little effort. But she

would have happily swapped them for a few more hours in bed. Gradually, though, she did increase her sleep time and neglected her housework until Bryan began to show signs of alarm. He would leave in the morning while she was still sound asleep and when he returned at five o’clock, or later when he went to footy training, she would still be in the land of Nod. Often there were obvious signs that she had not left the bed. Breakfast things he had left in the sink if he was running late remained unwashed. There was often mail still in the letterbox, sometimes with the protruding ends soaking wet from the rain. The refrigerator was invariably empty and in the mid-winter months, the verandah light still burned from when he left in the pre-dawn. His footy gear and work clothes were never washed and each evening, he found he was doing all the things she used to do during the day. Weeks went by when the only clothes she put in the laundry basket were nighties and pyjamas. He changed the sheets on Saturdays and was surprised that they smelt as though they had been there a month or more. And Katya started to smell, as well. She went three or four days at a time without a shower. Her breath smelt and she lost weight to the point of becoming scrawny and emaciated because she slept instead of eating. On the weekend, Bryan observed that she reluctantly hauled herself from the bed and moved around the house slowly and lethargically, stopping often to sit down or lean against a table or sideboard. He couldn’t interest her in going to watch Hawthorn, to friends’ dinner parties or even

to dine out at one of the restaurants in Acklund Street. By now she was sleeping for twenty hours, sometimes more. He rang Dr Bursome who insisted he bring her in to see him, but she flatly refused to go. When Bryan tried to reason with her, she went into a screeching, insane fit and tried to attack him with her nails, which were, by now, overgrown and jagged. He had no choice but to ring Dr Bursome and request that she be sectioned. Committed to a hospital for patients with mental illness. Involuntarily! With a review every twentyeight days. They came for her in a very discreet-looking vehicle which looked like an electrician’s van, but inside it was equipped with restraining devices which, although they bore little resemblance to a straight-jacket, did precisely the same job. In a much more efficient, subtle way. Katya never returned home from the hospital, neither to the bungalow with the wide verandah in Caulfield nor to her native village in Croatia. She was at home inside her head and never left it again. She had found her Lucky Country.

Rear Elevation

It was obvious. Sad, but very obvious. Society had crumbled, like the cliffs had, past where the sea wall finished a couple of hundred metres beyond the old Post Office building at the end of Stirling Terrace. Once, the water had been half a kilometre from where he stood, out where a couple of metal lamp posts still stuck up out of the harbour, leaning drunkenly like the old woman who was vomiting into the gutter behind him. She was as much a part of the decadence of society as the lamp posts were of the decadence of the shore line of what had once been a thriving Southern Ocean port. Now the water lapped against the granite sea wall which would soon be swallowed up by the rising ocean as the last bits of the ice caps melted away and flowed northwards, flooding the low-lying coastal plains of the higher latitudes and completely submerging the equatorial islands and the isthmuses of America, Africa and Asia. And as the land yielded to the ocean, so humanity yielded to the urge to abandon civilization and revert to law of the jungle: every man for himself! Goodman sometimes felt like a lone voice in the

wilderness, crying out to the people to gather their resources and fight the retro motion which saw thousands of decades of culture, knowledge, building and self-actualization disintegrate like the loose earth between the grey rocks at the foot of the wall. The sad part was that not only were the people reluctant to try to fight against this result of global warming, they actually believed it was the only option open to them. Just as, a hundred years previously, their ancestors had argued that it would never happen, these peasants had adopted the attitude that what had happened was inevitable. While their great grandparents had been reluctant to change their power-guzzling, wasteful lifestyle with its massive drain on the earth’s resources, so these people believed that death in a few more years, maybe only months, was pre-ordained. Previous generations had depended so heavily on huge global economies, development, manufacturing goods which were not needed and often unused, while the most recent resorted to hunting-and-gathering, trying to grow barely enough to meet their most basic needs and moaning that life had dealt them a pretty grim hand. In fact, it was this very aspect of current thinking which drew Goodman back to the part of the world his forebears had once enjoyed with productive profitability. His own great grandparents had led full, efficient lives in the coastal town whose port served one of the largest hinterlands on the planet. Here they epitomised civic responsibility: serving the community which served them,

looking after the people whose goods they bought and who, in turn paid for the services the Goodmans could provide. Each person had a field of expertise which he sold or hired out to those who required it. In return, services he required could be obtained from those whose expertise or resources met his needs. Goodman’s ancestors had been professionals—legal, financial and medical—and this professionalism had been handed down from parent to offspring right through the Panic years of the sixties and seventies to his own parents, who encouraged, cajoled and eventually insisted he study medicine at the tiny University of Western Australia in Kalamunda, after the old Nedlands campus had slipped beneath the surface of the Swan River Estuary. In his surgery up on the hill overlooking King George Sound, Goodman had a relic of the “good old days” which his great granddad had made back in the early twenty first century. It was a model railway layout, built in a scale of 1:87, a proportion which would shrink Goodman’s one hundred and eighty centimetre height to just twenty millimetres. The layout was around six metres long and ran between the waiting room and the adjoining office in a jarrah and glass case which could not be opened from the front so that grasping little (and not so little) destructive hands could not reach and damage the loving craftmanship and engineering which had gone into building it. The scene depicted the area exactly where he now stood, looking out over Princess Royal Harbour.

It was viewed as if one was standing on the old Town Jetty looking in towards Mount Clarence. In the immediate forground was a roadway with a number of huge semitrailers hauling wheat around to the bulk handling facilities of the land-backed wharf. Just behind this road, half lost between faded timber buildings, grey painted steelwork and neat brick office blocks was a confusion of railway lines, each laid out with its own power source and interface to the digital controller in the battered old desktop computer which ran the simple operating system required for the obsolete program. On these rail lines was a dazzling collection of locomotives and rolling stock which were exact replicas of the trains which had once been the lifeblood of the town— hauling grain down from the wheatbelt to be packed into the ocean-going ships at the wharf. These same locomotives would then cart away manufactured food from the meat, fish and vegetable processing plants beyond the port facility, along with the farm machines, automobiles, construction equipment and the plethora of smaller machines which were hungrily bid for by the properous, industrious businessmen and farmers who crowded into Albany to keep alive the tradelinks which had been forged over two and a half centuries. Just behind these rail yards with their carefully weathered and rust-streaked roofs, their pasted-on brickpaper and cleverly simulated weeds and signage, was the old port city itself, all made out of 2500 micron pasteboard which had long ago been nibbled and gnawed by silverfish, rats and cockroaches until now some of them were just being held

together by recently-applied sellotape when Goodman’s father had taken a passing interest in trying to retore them. But the trains still worked, although in places the tracks were badly pitted by oxidisation which made the vehicles slow down as the electrical current was broken, before another feed began to power up the line again just beyond the break. At least, they worked on the odd occasion some power fed into the grid. That was becoming a rare incident these days. But it was the concept of the model which still caused Goodman to stop and stare at it it, transfixed by the beauty which once attracted visitors from all over the world to this thriving, if small, metropolis. The streets and lanes winding back up the plastic-foliaged mountain, the groups of little styrene people, the miniature automobiles and the cleverly fashioned power and lamp posts were a tribute to his long-dead ancestor’s manual dexterity and patience. Even the now-collapsed aluminium light posts which looked so out of place five hundred metres out to sea were carefully carved and positioned along the original low wall beside the harbour road. Another sad thing was that nobody indulged themselves with such extravagances as building rail layouts, or any other pasttimes or recreations which did not directly yield a meagre living. Even football, which provided this town with much of its social cohesion and spirit, was just a dim memory on a few old video disks which nobody bothered to watch any more, even if they could power up the machines and gizmos which ran them!

Now life was all about planting a tiny crop in an area which was still fertile and not farmed out of all its nutrients and goodness. It was about trying to spear or net a snapper out in the Sound from one of the dories which were once only used in the safe, calm waters of the harbour, but which were now pressed into service on the dangerous high seas by desperate men and women whose starving kids and own shrunken stomachs demanded they take risks just to eat. Those who were too poor to own a dinghy would wade into the big bay which had once been golf courses, bowling clubs, luxury hotels and seaside mansions, trying to spear a cobbler, bag a few crabs or dig up the almost extinct mussels. Where Lake Sepping had once been the freshwater supply for the town, now it was the food bowl, reluctant to yield its scarce supply of crustaceans, waterfowl and marsupial rats to the starving humans. Fresh water now trickled into the town from the granite face of Mount Melville or down the Yakamia, but even that ceased to be fresh by the time it went underground near North Road. Otherwise it had to be carted in from the Upper Kalgan and with no petrol available any more, that meant a team of men pulling and pushing a tank mounted on a handcart. Most people said it wasn’t worth the effort and took their chances with the Yakamia or what ran from their own roof gutters. This made sense as it rained constantly, filling the tanks but making any other activity difficult and unpleasant. Once a bracing westerly wind brought cold rain in from the Indian Ocean, hundreds of kilometres to the west. Now,

an inspid, warm breeze from the north east kept the atmosphere hot and increased the humidity by trying to evaporate the continuous rain which didn’t seem to come from anywhere at all: it was just always there, drizzling down on the sub-tropical vegetation, decaying everything that had ceased to live and destroying the motivation of those who still bothered to draw breath. Goodman was really too busy to wander down to the old town to reminisce and try to imagine life as it used to be. His practice was immense, three or four times as busy as even the most popular GP would have whinged about a century earlier. Other than a mad woman in the swamplands of Lockyer who claimed to have a degree in medicine but whom Dr Goodman had not met, he was the only practising medic for a population of eight thousand people — twelve thousand if you counted the outlying towns of Elleker, Grassmere and Highground, off to the south east where a bit of headland was joined to the mainland by a hastily built causeway. But even this number of people would have been manageable if medicine had been allowed to continue its trailblazing path of half a dozen decades ago. Instead, governments, wracked with corruption and guilt over their own negligence, had confounded the progress of science and general infrastructure by becoming even more negligent and corrupt in an effort to convince the voters that there was nothing they could do about the rising seawater and changing climate. Now, over a hundred and fifty viral and bacterial cases

entered his surgery every day. Sometimes he had to get his receptionist to organise them into approximately similar symptom groups and try to mass treat them. As he seldom had anything to treat them with anyway, most of them died just as readily as if they had stayed at home. Often, all he could offer them was advice, knowing full well that if he wrote out a prescription for drugs, the local pharmacist would be unable to fill it anyway and the patient would only return, even more ill, to die vomiting on his surgery floor. Most of the viral diseases were unpreventable, but the bacterial cases were nearly always self-inflicted and avoidable. Goodman would argue for hours at council meetings and public gatherings, urging the people to practice simple hygeine, to stop fertilizing their vegetable patches with their own faeces, to go out to Mutton Bird Harbour or Torbay to collect shellfish instead of wallowing in a swamp which used to be a controlled waste disposal dump but which was now a cesspit with broken sewer pipes, stormwater drains and polluted creeks discharging into it at a rate of thousands of litres an hour, washed down from Spencer Park and Mira Mar by the constant drizzle from the sky. He proposed catchment dams so people would not have to drink foul gutter water. And all water, he insisted, must be boiled before consumption, to kill not only the unseen microbes, but the worms which thrived in human intestines but which killed the host. He tried to set up communal farms with sensible, productive agricultural practices which did not contribute to,

or utilise, pollution. He begged people to keep themselves clean, their houses and animals clean and to move to higher ground where filthy mud did not gather in stinking, fetid, fly-infested puddles. And he implored them to stop eating the rats and mice which teemed in the older, low-lying parts of town. Not the little marsupials which had retreated to the bushlands and which could be a good source of protein, but the vile, flea infested rodents which had arrived with the first ships back in the mid nineteenth century and which had prospered even more than the European settlers who shared their transport. In fact, Dr Goodman encouraged the hunting and farming of marsupials. The remaining few Nyoongar people had reverted to catching and eating them, along with the fish they collected from the upper reaches of the Denmark River or gilgies from the lakes around Bornholm and Elleker which had not collected the filth of man’s wasteful lifestyle as yet. But there were few people who took this advice, even though it was common knowledge that supply was better in these areas and that the fishermen who earned their living away from communities were healthier and more robust. The majority of people could not bring themselves to break away from the cities! They claimed they preferred the comforts of the town when it was manifestly obvious that a diseased, half empty stomach cannot be regarded as a comfort. They cited security of town life, when crime, violence and lawlessness plagued every community of more than a couple

of hundred people. In the “bush” the only crime was perpetrated by itinerants making their way to the next village in hope of finding pickings there. And now even that was virtually non-existent as hardly anybody had the will to do anything to save their own miserable skins any longer. Ironically, a hundred years ago, the majority of patients in a doctor’s surgery had obesity-related conditions. Eighty years ago, the prime reason for a visit to a doctor was stressrelated depression. Sixty years ago people started to haul themselves in to complain of malnutrition and gastrointestinal disorders, but now it was all about staving off death. Nobody had enough food to stay alive, much less to get fat! They had lost their motivation so there was no recognition of depression and nearly all mental illness was due to poor, inadequate diet, consumption of foods containing poisons, heavy metals and brain destroying bacteria. Worrying about your mental state was a luxury people no longer could afford. They were too poor to indulge themselves in the malaises of their rich ancestors. They could not afford to indulge themselves in anything! So society crumbled. Not just in Australia but all around the world. Whole countries in the middle east were completely wiped out by floodwater. Indonesia and most of South East Asia had long since reverted to jungle where mankind was just another species of wildlife on the prowl. Europe desperately tried to hang on but with the

leadership nations of Britain, the Netherlands and the Principalities along the Rhine Valley now mostly under water, the rot was gathering momentum. North America had become so corrupt and had been by far the greatest contributor to climate change, global warming and pollution that it just didn’t stand a chance. Now oil flowed freely from Texas into the Gulf of Mexico, the Californian coast was so radioactive, nobody lived west of the Rockies any more. The Chesapeake and Eastern Seaboard pretended they were doing fine, but civil war and natural calamities had reduced the population to a point where nobody even tried to calculate the statistics. Industry ground to a halt as raw materials and their own natural resources dried up. Africa was in a similar situation to Australia but with no natural wealth to sustain it for more than a dozen years, warlords ran rampant, wiping out entire communities. South Americans moved back into the Andes and reverted to a lifestyle they had never really wanted to abandon to Civilisation anyway. Nobody knew much or cared much about them. China starved to death very early while India was among the first casualties of over-crowding and those food producing areas which weren’t underwater did not stand a chance. Nobody knew what had happened to the Japanese people, but they had all gone. Probably all commited honourable hari kari and returned to their Ancestors! Meanwhile the former Soviet Union simply self-

destructed. Its fragile economy, tyranical leadership, lack of compassion or decency and the greedy, grasping allconsuming corruption was laid to waste in less than a decade between twenty forty and twenty fifty. The western world never mourned its passing or even tried to come to its aid, despite the fact that at the time, the worst ravages of the earth’s destruction had not started and most of the world still prospered in a limited sort of way. So Australia had no nation to turn to. In fact, in its typical way, it had wasted too much of its own energy and resources trying to assist smaller countries within its region, which had, in the long run, only increased the velocity of its own demise. Now Dr Goodman was a solo voice in a really vast wilderness. He knew the earth could never revert back to the halcyon days of the previous century, or even more unattainable, the twentieth century, but he knew that if he could just get the people of the Great South to start thinking about living again, some of them might have a chance of surviving! The hinterland of Albany is at its most fertile up to a hundred kilometres inland. Towns such as Mt Barker, Cranbrook, Kendenup, Gnowangerup, Bordern and Lake Grace have defied drought, pestilence and other natural disasters since Europeans first settled there. The soil is good, it is isolated from national and global trends by virtue of remoteness. The toughness of the farmers, graziers and orchardists who had persevered and worked vigorously had

made their region thrive and prosper when the rest of the nation was in the grip of either El Nino or La Nina. It was untouched by tsunamis, volcanoes, earthquakes and flooding, it always enjoyed a good annual rainfall and, until recently, had been cool, temperate and moderate in climate. There were no natural predators and even the aborigines who had once scared civilised people away with their pointless violence and deep seated racism, had all but disappeared into the heavily bushed country to the west. Now, although the entire atmosphere had warmed up and there was a lot more rain, the region had suffered less than anywhere else from the man-made diseases which were killing the third planet out from Sol. And it had escaped the notice of the rest of the world, who always regarded Australia as a soft touch and a bit of a sucker anyway. The reason it remained like this was that it had always been very underpopulated. For some reason, the best place in the world to build a huge metropolis had been ignored merely because everyone regarded it as too remote. Even in the era when everybody had a personal petroleum-fueled vehicle, superb highways and communication devices connected to very efficient satelite and fibre-optic networks, nobody really bothered about it. In the days when all transport was dependent on horses or bullock teams, this could be regarded as understandable. But recently, Australians had tended to group together in large cities rather than in towns, especially in the western third of the continent. There was no real reason for this other

than lazy, self-serving governments who saw the city of Perth as the only place to build infrastructure because it was easier. Those occasional politicians who promoted decentralisation were soon voted out of office by an even lazier, more ego-centric electorate who used its collective power to ensure their own district was serviced to the detriment of the common good. And so thousands of hectares of good, habitable country fell into the hands of farmers using sensible, efficient methods to produce very expensive primary products. In fact, it could have easily supported a city of fifteen or twenty million people without even the benefit of expensive dams, nuclear power generators or major road and rail transport. Everything was right there where it could be used, recycled, used again and still be fed back into the system. Hydro, solar, wind and tidal power would have provided almost free electricity. Fast-flowing rivers and rainreplenished aquifers would have cheaply provided the water that most of the continent desperately needed. The climate did not need to be modified as it was the most perfect for human habitation anywhere on the planet. Never excessively hot, never freezing, cooled by a south-westerly wind which never turned violent and protected from the fierce desert heat by its southerly latitude. It should have been the Garden of Eden. But even so, it was cleared of nearly all its trees and ploughed until the topsoil became useless and dusty. And if it hadn’t been for abandonment by its agrticultural

population sixty years earlier, it would have remained that way, or been degraded completely. But Mother Earth had a way of protecting this piece of soil. The insects, reptiles and bacteria which had taken refuge in the road verges, rocky outcrops where a few trees and bushes remained and in the mighty mountain range, returned to the flatlands. Gradually birds followed them to prey off their vulnerability but deposited seeds in exchange. Then, as the bush began to reappear, the process accelerated, attracting more species to inhabit it. This in turn sped the cycle up even faster. And all the while, the good rainfall, the gentle sun and the absence of adversity converted this into the new Garden of Eden. This was where Goodman intended to lead the people of Albany. He had stumbled upon it more or less accidentally. A tribe of seafarers had been shipwrecked some way around the coast to the east and, being completely out of their natural environment on land, had wandered until they found this area of unpolluted luxurience. Half a dozen or so had continued trekking westwards, eventually striking the Porongurup Ranges and some roads heading southwards. When they arrived in Albany they were in poor shape and Doctor Goodman was asked to try to bring them back to health. The story they told about their journey amazed and excited him and he became anxious to see it for himself.

Only one of the party was an adult, the remainder being children and adolescents who wanted to stay in what they believed to be the security and excitement of the town. But the adult, who answered to the name of Woman, was eager to return to the hinterland with its abundent food supply. And Goodman was anxious to accompany her. Here was the first human he had met who made sense! She had a will to live, to prosper and to make some sort of decent life for herself. Her companions, the younger seafarers, were all dead within a couple of months: one from poisoning, two from sexually transmitted diseases and the rest murdered by the suspicious locals. Woman stayed close to Goodman and it did not take much persuading to get him to try to organise a party of pilgrims to rediscover this land flowing with milk and honey. But very few townsfolk were interested. They whinged and whined about the discomfort of travelling by foot, by the heavy loads they would have to carry or haul. Even those who still had reasonable health were reluctant to leave in case they lost all they had, which was precious little anyway. But some agreed that anything would be better than this stinking cesspool with its rapidly diminishing food supply and rising seawater. Even a journey into the complete unknown was more attractive than the certainty of dying within the next few years. Finally, a score of brave souls was assembled, ready to set out in a northeastly direction with Goodman and Woman, who by now had been renamed Sheila. A few ancient pedal vehicles, some handcarts, a

wheelbarrow and two old pram frames carried their heavy goods while spare clothing, personal items, some crumbling old books, medical and surgical equipment were hefted in back-packs which Goodman taught his team to make from whatever materials he could find which were not too threadbare and worn to take the weight. He took one last longing look at the model train layout, which represented to him the final link with the old world. Then, angrily he raised his foot and pushed the cabinet over and smashed the glass and the cardboard buildings. If humanity could do this to its own creations of beauty, then let this last vestige go the same way! Most of the travellers had bare feet or roughly made ratskin sandals. Proper footwear had gone the way of cars, television, refrigerators and telephones. This group was less well-equipped than the Boers heading out on the great Trek, the wagon trains beating a path into the North American prairies or the Children of Israel escaping the Egyptians. They didn’t even have the security of numbers that these previous movements of people enjoyed. But they had the simplicity and absence of interpersonal conflict that had plagued those previous journeyers. Without exception, they put their trust totally in Goodman’s wisdom and knowledge, their problems on his shoulders and their lives in his hands. They had no education, no experience to fall back on and not even the street-smart cunning that had kept their ancestors alive for millions of years. They just clung to him because he was the

only figure of authority they had ever known in their previously disorganised lives. Goodman observed this and started giving everyone small responsibilities and tasks. He began to spend evenings, when everyone had completed their day’s journey, teaching them basic hygeine and life skills. A few showed an interest in learning to read, to repair their clothes and kit and to cook the gathered food which previously had been consumed raw and often unwashed. Gradually they began to take on responsibilities without having to be asked, some even making tenuous suggestions, which Goodman always threw open to the entire group to discuss, assess and improve upon if improvement was necessary. It was, he told Sheila, as important for these people to think as it was to eat. As important to feel part of the group as to feel the security of the group. As necessary to contribute as to take. And as important to feel self respect and the respect of peers as it was to complete each day’s travel. And the day’s travels kept getting longer as the people picked up strength, stamina and purpose. Initially they struggled for about five kilometres between sunrise and noon before the complaining began in earnest. After two weeks they were covering fifteen kilometres a day and on the day they walked into Sheila’s tribe’s encampment, they had completed twenty one kilometres since breakfast. Of course, they had no way of knowing how far they travelled, and other than a vague sense of direction which Sheila even doubted herself, no way of finding these other

humans. They just bashed through the bush towards the grey-green line of mountains and miraculously, not one person died during the trip. Just by chance, as they scrambled over a rocky foothill, one of the keen-eyed scouts spotted a pall of smoke in the valley below and Goodman went ahead with Sheila and two of the younger men to investigate. They approached the camp cautiously. After so many weeks of seeing no other humans, they did not know how they would be greeted, but they need not have worried. An old man lay on a pile of numbat-skins while a woman in her twenties and a girl of about twelve sat on rocks nearby. All were completely naked, all were desperately thin and all were covered in open sores which had obviously never been washed or dressed. There were a few decaying marsupial, snake and bird carcases lying around, but no sign of any other humans. The old man feebly greeted them, but the two females screamed and ran off into the bush on the other side of the camp. He was in no condition to scream or run and had no option but to place his fate in the mercy of these visitors. “We wish you no harm!” Goodman called out loudly, more for the benefit of the females than for the old man. Meanwhile, Sheila shook her head sadly and spoke quietly. “He used to be the captain of our raft,” she said. “I will speak to him.” Using a pidgin which Goodman barely understood, Sheila

learned that the rest of the seafarers had returned south, dragging with them poles and planks they had rough-hewn from the tall timbers of the ranges. They had intended to repair or rebuild their vessel and resume living off the sea. They had been gone nearly a month, leaving by the light of the previous full moon. Nothing had been heard of them since. The old man, his daughter and grand daughter had refused to leave, insisting the life in this land of plenty was superior to the dangers of the sea. So the tribe left without them. If it were not for the strength and skill at hunting by the woman, all three would have starved. Although the child gathered some nuts and fruits, most were discovered to be inedible and Goodman was amazed they had not tried eating seeds, leaves and grass, some of which, although tough and bitter, would have supplied vitamins, minerals and carbohydrates. They didn’t remember Sheila, even when she used her former name, Woman. They all seemed to be in some sort of stupor which Goodman at first believed to be narcoticinduced but quickly recognised as having been caused by fear, loneliness and malnutrition. Almost immediately, they began to recover when the rest of the travellers came into camp and cooked a healthy meal of goanna, roots and grassseed. There were a few ramshackle bark and twig huts which were unsuitable for permanent habitation, and at first light the following morning, Goodman and one of the young men went into the bush with a saw and axe and started felling

trees and shaping planks. Sheila and the other women began leveling a patch of ground behind some huge granite boulders, out of the wind, and by the end of the first week, the frames of two houses took shape. A sparkling, fast-flowing rivulet was found nearby and around five hundred metres away was a perennial stream. Just downhill from this discovery, it widened into a pool in which Goodman spotted some fish which he thought might be trout. They tasted good but he warned against fishing them right out as it was well uphill and he wanted to see if there were more prolific pools downstream. In the following days, he discovered a herd of feral cows which were rounded up and, after a few kicked ribs and bitten fingers, could be milked. With almost no knowledge of farming practices and with his only contact with animals being hunting them, everything was trial and error. Mostly error. When some of the boys cornered a brumby they hoped to use for transport, the beast went crazy and in the ensuing frenzy, one of the lads lost an eye. After that, Goodman urged caution and studied the minds of these wild horses carefully. Then, taking into account any likely response, he would approach and indicate to his helpers when to slip the raw kangaroo-hide halter over its proud head. In this way, he soon had four brumbies in a corral ready to try his skill at breaking. The discovery of a stand of apple trees surprised him until he realised that the seed must have been carried in from the Plantagenet region by birds. The apples were sour and

tough, having devolved into a hardier species in the absence of chemical fertilisers, but cooked up with some seeds and honey, meant a more varied, more nutritious diet. Goodman studied every tree, hoping to find other fruits or berries which had returned to the wild, but other than some shrivelled, tasteless grapes that even the birds seemed to ignore, he was disappointed. The changing seasons brought a fresh batch of challenges. Although it was seldom cold, intense rain, heat and wind made surviving on a hillside difficult, but to move down into the plains meant less game, no freshwater and no fuel for their cooking fires. During his occasional forays onto the plains, though, he found many signs and artefacts of human habitation. All were long abandoned: a rusted farm truck, a spade with no handle, hundreds of plastic bottles and aluminium cans and, as evening approached one summers day, he and Sheila found an abandoned house among a grove of sheoak trees. Although the tiled roof had caved in through the jarrah beams and battens, most of the contents were still in retrievable condition, due to a polycarbonate material which had been used as insulation and damp-proofing above the ceiling. The collection of crockery, cutlery, knives, axes, saws, tools, nails and a mountain of other implements would ensure the survival of his little village. But what filled his heart with absolute joy was what he found in a room obviously designed for recreation. A few stringed instruments were still able to be tuned: a

violin, a guitar and a mandolin, along with a clarinet and a recorder. Although Goodman had studied piano as a child in Kalamunda, he had not played since but was sure that, with the aid of some of the lesson books lying nearby, he could soon pick out a tune. Then, in an alcove at one end of the room, he discovered what must be regarded as the greatest resource the previous occupier could bequeath him. About five hundred bound volumes lined rows of bookshelves, their spines announcing titles he had not seen in forty or more years: Macquarie Dictionary, Funk & Wagnell, The Bible, Civil Engineering, Practical Physics, Electronics for Dummies, Project Engineering . . . All the reference he needed to start rebuilding society! And most of the tools to accomplish it! As well, there was a treasury of fiction from War and Peace right through to some science fiction novels. One shelf was entirely filled with children’s schoolbooks and another with cookery books, sewing manuals and knitting patterns. This was a treasure no educated man could resist and immediately he sank into a leather-upholstered chair and read until the gathering dark made made it impossible. Then he deliberately set fire to all the books and cooked his evening meal on the heat they produced! There was no way was his community going to learn the mistakes of the past. It was time to start again from scratch.

Matsui looked at his screen. “Some sort of energy transmissions! Southern Hemisphere. Thirty four degrees south. About one hundred and eighteen east” “Not possible,” keyboarded Nikahita. “All technology on Earth became extinct seventy years ago. The planet is as devoid of intelligent life as Mars was when we arrived. No one has used electricity since twenty one twelve. The cities are dead and silent. It must be a Solar phenomenom.” “Definitely of human origin.” Matsui replied. “Regular pattern! But not electro magnetic. But man-made, I am certain!”

Goodman Junior grinned at his sister. See, Girl! (he thought). We can use our minds not only to communicate, but to levitate, create heat, produce light, even matter! Everything. Here, catch! A ball appeared in front of him, hovered in the air for a couple of seconds, then flew towards his sibling.

The Short Limerick A poet from Elsternwick Invented the short limerick. “It should,” he opined, “Be only four lined!” But his brother, who lived in Prahran, Said “Keep it as short as you can! Try just using three.” Their sister came down from Kooyong And said even that was too long. But their father, who lived in Toorak Was amazed that his kids were so slack. He said “Cut the jive! It must always be five! And anyone with even a lick of sense knows that anything else stuffs up the meter.”