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Authors: Diana Hockley
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in the crowd, but still couldn’t remember who it was. Perspiration prickled his whole body, turning his fresh, crisply ironed pyjamas into sodden, rumpled cotton rag.
Determined to get the better of his wayward thoughts, he focused on the caravan trip Nola and he planned to take as soon as he retired. Coober Pedy, the opal mine capitol of the world would be their first stop, where many people lived underground in order to escape the intense heat on the surface. The township even boasted an underground motel and church.
He was looking forward to making the trip a late-in-life honeymoon. Dreaming, particularly of sex, made him feel like a sad wanker, hoping Nora might accommodate him sometime, but Edna’s waxy, dead face kept looming into his mind, no matter how hard he tried to dispel it. The harder he tried to remember the face in the crowd, the more frustrated he became. He needed to focus on something else, but Nola’s dry comment – ‘this’ll be a family thing’– kept recurring. Finally giving sleep away as a bad job, he threw the twisted, perspiration-soaked sheets aside, arose and made coffee which he took into the lounge room.
John let his mind drift to memories of growing up on the small farm which adjoined the much larger Robinson property. He had mingled with the kids in the primary school playground, and joined them in “yabbying” in the creek which ran through both family properties. John smiled as his mind fast-forwarded to the early 1960s, when winter turned to spring and the all-important country dance season started. Hormonal tension vibrated in unison with bees’ wings in the rising temperature.
A few days before the first event of the season, a committee of ladies descended on the bush hall, organised their men to chop wood, chase the mice out of the slow-combustion stove in the kitchen and top up the refrigerator with kerosene. John smiled wistfully as he remembered being co-opted to clean the outhouses– the dunnies–along with the Robinson cousins, Jack Harlow and George “Slimeball” Murphy, now a well known developer. The women on the committee, which included their mothers, would set them to clear the outside dunnies of possum excreta–and possums. The dance committees always hustled to bag the travelling piano tuner after he’d finished the church piano. The priest had the largest congregation and therefore first “dibs.”
It was the happiest time of his life. From trawling for yabbies in the creek with the Robinson girls, John and his cronies progressed to chasing them, and any others they could get, during the dances, where an advanced form of ‘doctors’ was frequently played in the back seats of cars parked amongst the trees. Oh yes, he knew the Robinson tribe very well.
The murder of Jack Harlow frightened him. The man had always been inclined toward the ladies and had an unsavoury reputation, but John couldn’t visualise any boyfriends or husbands actually shooting him for it. ‘More likely they’ve have bashed him to a pulp behind the pub,’ he mused.
The shooting was no accident. The shooter concealed himself–or herself, because they couldn’t rule out a markswoman–somewhere in the vicinity of the grandstand and found Jack’s heart with deadly accuracy. The weapon, according to preliminary reports, had been a rural favourite, the Enfield SMLE bolt-action rifle. The few registered in the district were accounted for, so would that indicate that the killer was an outsider? Possibly. Jack’s appetites had been distributed without fear or favour.
John arrived at the arena as pandemonium began to erupt. His first job had been to ring for an ambulance, advise City Despatch of what had occurred and call for backup. His next action was to peel Jack’s dog, Stephen, off his body and surrender it to shocked friends along with Penelope, Jack’s long-suffering wife. The hardest task involved keeping the over-excited bystanders away and retaining as many
Determined to get the better of his wayward thoughts, he focused on the caravan trip Nola and he planned to take as soon as he retired. Coober Pedy, the opal mine capitol of the world would be their first stop, where many people lived underground in order to escape the intense heat on the surface. The township even boasted an underground motel and church.
He was looking forward to making the trip a late-in-life honeymoon. Dreaming, particularly of sex, made him feel like a sad wanker, hoping Nora might accommodate him sometime, but Edna’s waxy, dead face kept looming into his mind, no matter how hard he tried to dispel it. The harder he tried to remember the face in the crowd, the more frustrated he became. He needed to focus on something else, but Nola’s dry comment – ‘this’ll be a family thing’– kept recurring. Finally giving sleep away as a bad job, he threw the twisted, perspiration-soaked sheets aside, arose and made coffee which he took into the lounge room.
John let his mind drift to memories of growing up on the small farm which adjoined the much larger Robinson property. He had mingled with the kids in the primary school playground, and joined them in “yabbying” in the creek which ran through both family properties. John smiled as his mind fast-forwarded to the early 1960s, when winter turned to spring and the all-important country dance season started. Hormonal tension vibrated in unison with bees’ wings in the rising temperature.
A few days before the first event of the season, a committee of ladies descended on the bush hall, organised their men to chop wood, chase the mice out of the slow-combustion stove in the kitchen and top up the refrigerator with kerosene. John smiled wistfully as he remembered being co-opted to clean the outhouses– the dunnies–along with the Robinson cousins, Jack Harlow and George “Slimeball” Murphy, now a well known developer. The women on the committee, which included their mothers, would set them to clear the outside dunnies of possum excreta–and possums. The dance committees always hustled to bag the travelling piano tuner after he’d finished the church piano. The priest had the largest congregation and therefore first “dibs.”
It was the happiest time of his life. From trawling for yabbies in the creek with the Robinson girls, John and his cronies progressed to chasing them, and any others they could get, during the dances, where an advanced form of ‘doctors’ was frequently played in the back seats of cars parked amongst the trees. Oh yes, he knew the Robinson tribe very well.
The murder of Jack Harlow frightened him. The man had always been inclined toward the ladies and had an unsavoury reputation, but John couldn’t visualise any boyfriends or husbands actually shooting him for it. ‘More likely they’ve have bashed him to a pulp behind the pub,’ he mused.
The shooting was no accident. The shooter concealed himself–or herself, because they couldn’t rule out a markswoman–somewhere in the vicinity of the grandstand and found Jack’s heart with deadly accuracy. The weapon, according to preliminary reports, had been a rural favourite, the Enfield SMLE bolt-action rifle. The few registered in the district were accounted for, so would that indicate that the killer was an outsider? Possibly. Jack’s appetites had been distributed without fear or favour.
John arrived at the arena as pandemonium began to erupt. His first job had been to ring for an ambulance, advise City Despatch of what had occurred and call for backup. His next action was to peel Jack’s dog, Stephen, off his body and surrender it to shocked friends along with Penelope, Jack’s long-suffering wife. The hardest task involved keeping the over-excited bystanders away and retaining as many
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