Evan’s Book
Originally published as part of
The first book of short stories
By the u3a Batemans Bay
Northside Writers
December 2013
All Copyright retained by the Author
ALL THAT GLITTERS By Evan Holt ©
Young Peter Burke pulled in the jerking fishing line and, with a flick of his wrist,
neatly dropped another pan-sized bream into a bucket on the deck of ‘Coramandel’.
‘That’s enough’, growled a voice from the wheelhouse. The bleary-eyed skipper
emerged into the morning sun and hawked noisily over the side. “Clean ‘em, and
wake Cookie up. Tell him I want my breakfast ready by the time I’ve checked over at
Mr. Budd’s store about orders.’
‘Fat chance’, thought Peter. The ‘Coramandel’ had been swinging at anchor in the
Clyde River for over two weeks. Money had dried up since Sydney had gone bust,
and the mines at Currowan were laying off workers, so the locals said. Sydney wasn’t
buying pigs and cows from Port Nelligen, and the miners up the Clyde River didn’t
need many pit props because most were digging in solid rock. Mind you, the thought
of another deck cargo of pigs for Sydney didn’t thrill him. It had taken a week to get
the Coramandel cleaned out thoroughly, and even then, the stink still lingered in
places.
1893 had started worse even than last year for shipping orders. Braidwood was
now getting produce from the local Chinese gardens, and grain from Goulburn, so
there wasn’t much going up or down the Corn Track. As well as that, the gold at
Majors Creek was thinning out too. It was time to look around for new employment,
he thought quietly to himself.
Although it was only a couple of twists on the oar to scull over to Budd’s Island,
the skipper didn’t reappear for almost an hour, by which time Cookie had burnt two
fish and his language was unusually foul.
On his return the Skipper’s language matched Cookie’s. There just were no orders
for any sort of cargo, be it stinking pigs, bleating goats, scabby sheep or sawn timber.
Cookie and the Skipper settled down over a jar of rum after breakfast and would
probably sleep for most of the day.
‘Yes’, thought Peter, ‘time I went and looked for a shore job somewhere.’ He
‘borrowed’ the dinghy and began rowing up the Clyde River with the morning’s flood
tide. As he rowed past Chinamans Point a sawmill steam-tug threw him a line and
towed the dinghy the rest of the way up river to Port Nelligen. Peter was most grateful
and chatted to the tug crew as their ship threaded its way past Big and Little Islands.
No, the crew hadn’t heard of any shore jobs. They called Port Nelligen ‘Nellican’, and
thought it might be the original aboriginal name.
What a desolate sight the port was, with three coastal traders moored in the river
and one rusting steam-ship tied to the Illawarra Steam Navigation Company’s huge
wharf. Quite obviously the tug’s crew were correct; there wasn’t much of a chance of
a shore job at Port Nelligen. However, as the ebb tide wouldn’t start to flow down
river for another two hours he rowed on past Port Nelligen.
‘Nellican, Nellican’t,’ he muttered in time with pulling on the oars. The land
opened out a bit past the port and away to the right up a big inlet he could see slab
huts, a few cows and even a heavy Shire horse standing outside one of the sheds. As
the sun had warmed the day he removed his sailor’s thick shirt, and with nothing
better to do, he rowed slowly up the inlet to have a better look at the horse.
‘Hello sailor.’ A quiet voice interrupted the sound of his oars and the water
lapping on his boat. He swivelled around on the thwart and looked up to the top of the
riverbank to see a long-legged girl silhouetted against the morning sun. The sun flared
her red hair, and made her cotton dress transparent. Peter caught his breath and
realised he was looking at an angel.
There was one discordant note: she was dangling a large furry bundle in one
hand, and Peter – who had never seen a koala so close before – took a moment to
stare and realise that it was indeed a dead koala. ‘For the pot,’ she said flatly,
following his gaze. ‘Even if they do taste a bit like gum tree leaves,’ she added.
‘Er, Er, G’day”, he stammered, blushing, as his eyes returned from the koala to
the girl’s figure, and then to her flaming red hair and green eyes. “G’day”, he
repeated. “I don’t suppose you know of any shore work around here do you?” She
changed the weight of the koala to her other hand and swivelled her hips just enough
to cause Peter’s mouth to gape even wider.
“Well you might be able to give me Dad a hand with a well he’s trying to dig, if
you know anything about ropes,” she added hopefully. Peter was suddenly aware of a
string of curses from behind the hut. ‘Dad’s digging a new well and he ain’t having
much luck with the ropes to pull up the dirt, y’see. He’s in a right tangle.’ This was
too good an opportunity to miss, and Peter quickly sculled the boat towards the small
timber wharf, tied up and followed the girl towards the muttered cursings.
It didn’t take long for Peter to sort the tangled ropes that were attached at one end
to the horse, then wound around a crude windlass, and eventually dropped into a sixfoot square hole in the ground. ‘Bert Hetherington’s me name, lad,’ said the girl’s
father, ‘and I see you’ve met me daughter Rosie. I’m most grateful for your help. You
wouldn’t like to give me a week or so’s work digging this bloody well, would you?
Sorry lass’, he added, apologising for swearing.
‘Hoo!’ thought Peter. A week away from Cookie’s burnt offerings and the
Skipper’s complaints, with a gorgeous girl and a grateful Dad. This had to be better
than cleaning up after a cargo of pigs or swinging on an anchor at Batemans.
It only took a week to excavate the well, with Bert and Peter taking it in turns to
dig or walk the horse back and forth with scoops of rich red earth, but the water was
brackish, and only good for stock. So higher up the hill Bert and Peter dug a deeper
well, which proved with good, clear fresh water. Ma Hetherington’s cooking was
great: rich meat stews of wallaby - and the occasional koala – which soon brought a
glow to his skin and filled out his ribs.
His heart ached for Rosie’s smiles. He was smitten with her, and, from her sighs,
smiles and fluttered eyelashes, she with him. However, he couldn’t see himself
settling down at Kiamalla Creek, for that was the name given to this inlet off the
Clyde River. The farm was too small, and the market for milk, cream, cheese and the
occasional consignment of pig meat to the diggings were never going to amount to a
fortune. The miners paid in gold dust, but there weren’t any big strikes lately and the
Black Diamond mine at Currowan Creek was laying-off workers. It was about now
that Bert and Peter hatched a plan.
Together they picked a likely spot and sunk a shaft over 20 feet deep, and then
began digging into the hill horizontally. Bert used a little of the gold dust from the
Black Diamond diggers to pay for stores at Port Nelligen.
Rosie now wore a quality linen dress, and – although her feet hurt – she was
never seen in town without good leather boots. Her seriously big new hat was the talk
of the district! Bert and Peter dug on, and muttered word started to go around the
Port that they had struck gold: good payable gold. A few Townies started to call at the
Hetherington farm to buy milk, butter and cheese, but Peter was always there with the
farm muzzle-loader over one arm whenever these visitors called, and sightseeing was
discouraged.
Then one day a Sydney-sider in a frocked-tail coat and top hat called and
enquired directly about buying the Hetherington mine. Bert was at first reluctant to
discuss it with him, but eventually said ‘Look, I’m getting to be too old to work this
mine, and I wouldn’t mind cashing it in and moving back to Sydney. Peter, would you
show this Gent the workings?”
Mrs Hetherington and Rosie were aghast, and Peter looked to be uneasy about the
prospect of once again having to move on, but he reluctantly agreed, and soon he and
The Gent were lowered into the mineshaft. As Peter swung the lantern, tiny flecks of
gold dust lining the walls of the stope reflected back. Gold! Yes, old Bert
Hetherington had struck it rich.
A year later when Peter and Rosie’s first child - a red-haired daughter - was born
in Merrooyah, Bert laughingly apologised to Peter about not being able to sprinkle the
baby’s head with gold dust. The whole family collapsed in laughter.
‘That’s all right, Dad’, said Peter when he stopped laughing. ‘The only gold dust
we have now might be a few flecks in the barrel of the old muzzle-loader, although I
have cleaned it many times since I fired the last of your gold dust into the walls of the
famous Hetherington Mine. It was lucky the Sydney Gent came along just at the right
time, because that was the absolute last of the gold dust from the Black Diamond
miners.’
Peter and Rosie called their daughter “Goldie”, and it was always with a knowing
chuckle.
Evan Holt ©
“1862 saw the discovery of alluvial gold at Kiamalla near Nelligen”. Read
more http://www.smh.com.au/travel/travel-factsheet/nelligen-200811135yta.html#ixzz26yuNwfUi “
When Surveyor Florance heard the word ‘Kiamalla’ pronounced by the locals,
he, being English, wrote it down as ‘Cyne Mallows’, and that is its name on
the maps today. Locals still pronounce this as “Kye-malla”. Cyne is Old
English for cattle, and a mallow is a watery field of pasture.
A stope is a stepped or sloping tunnel in a mine, which descends to follow the
direction of the ore body.
Merrooyah was the name given to the settlement, which later changed into
Moruya, now the seat of the Eurobodalla Shire Council.
THE CHRISTMAS DAY BARBECUE By Evan Holt ©
Christmas for the Field Engineer Squadron in South Vietnam began two days
early in December 1967. Although our enemy, the Viet Cong, had agreed to a truce
we all knew what that meant – bugger all! If the VC or NVA wanted to attack during
a truce they just went ahead and did so. The Field Engineer Squadron was designated
to take over the patrols and defences at Nui Dat Base on Christmas Day while the rest
of Task Force took a day off to enjoy Christmas, such as it was, thousands of miles
from home.
So that the Engineers would be clear of eye and sound of mind, they would start
their Christmas Day celebrations two days early in the hope that they would have
sobered up at least 24 hours before Task Force sat down to celebrate Christmas Day,
as only soldiers in a war zone know how to.
Across the wide, red dusty road from the Engineer lines were the tents of a small
Unit, the 1st Australian Civil Affairs Unit, or ‘those crazy C. A. blokes’ as it became
known. As the Unit was building things for the local Vietnamese, running medical
clinics, and teaching at local schools, the Viet Cong seldom shot at a “crazy C.A.
bloke’ who often wandered around armed only with a 9 mm pistol in a briefcase
stuffed with school books.
The Civil Affairs Unit had been sent to South Vietnam to “Win the Hearts and
Minds” of the Vietnamese civilians. The aim was to build market places, roads, and
schools, set up medical and dental clinics, and find good things to do to convince the
locals that the Australians were nice to know, and not the nasty people who went
around destroying things as the Viet Cong did – or dare I say it – the Americans did.
The projects were supposed to make the locals like the Saigon Government,
which was obviously and obnoxiously corrupt, which seldom visited Phuoc Tuy
Province where our base was located, and only ever wanted taxes, taxes and more
taxes. Fat chance of achieving our aim, but the work done by 1 ACAU did give the
blokes a warm, fuzzy feeling at times.
On the day the Engineers had their Christmas Day, the CO of 1 ACAU, John
McDonagh, decided to have a lunchtime barbecue for no real reason except it seemed
like a good idea at the time to rally the troops for a pre-Christmas get together on a
relatively quiet afternoon. This was, in the words of the book “1066 And All That”, ‘a
good thing’, and we rallied around our leader. The thought of a free beer and the
widely rumoured prime barbecue steak may also have had something to do with our
enthusiasm.
By midday the Engineers were well into their Christmas celebrations, with water
fights and much hilarity. Nobody ever owned up to throwing the first smoke canister,
but before long the Engineer tent lines had disappeared into a cloud of red, green,
yellow and white smoke. It was about this time that the CO and a few others were
cutting up the onions for the barbecue.
‘Crikey’, said the Colonel, as he wiped the tears from his eyes, ‘these onions are
really strong.’ Soon we were all wiping away tears, but stoically persevering with the
preparation of the onions, steak and sausages, and buttering the fresh bread, the latter
being an uncommon luxury.
Eventually we realised that the Engineer’s smoke was drifting across the road and
our little gathering began coughing and weeping. And it wasn’t all just coloured
smoke, either. The Engineers had escalated their water fights from Stage 2, which was
throwing smoke canisters at each other, to adding a little CS gas, also known as ‘tear
gas’, to the colourful mixture.
Soon the barbecue area disappeared in smoke and tear gas. The steaks and
sausages were left to burn, and I imagine that the onions were caramelised solid. The
sliced fresh bread was left where it was, and even our sweat-damp clothing had
absorbed the smarting vapour of the riot gas, making our necks sting.
Please pause for a moment to consider the pleasures of standing fully clothed
under a cold shower while washing off the riot gas and waiting for the smoke and tear
gas to disperse, and at the same time watching a Christmas barbecue of steaks and
sausages burn and turn to cinders. Consider also the freshly baked and thickly
buttered bread, now fit only to be thrown out with the rubbish.
The riot gas had penetrated the tents, drifting on to the mosquito nets and
clothing, and every item had to be tentatively examined before use. Even so it was
days before all traces of the gas dissipated.
The main problem for me was that I was at that time also a member of the Corps
of Royal Australian Engineers, and therefore guilty by association with the Field
Engineers across the dusty road who had wrecked the CO’s Christmas barbeque.
I had to adopt a very low profile in the 1st Australian Civil Affairs lines for a
week or so for fear of being roasted slowly over the funeral pyre of the CO’s
barbecue. I wisely decided to have Christmas Day with a good mate who was the
Operations Officer of 7th Battalion, which was located on the absolute far side of the
Task Force area, but that’s another story.
Evan Holt ©
WHEN GOD CAME TO WARD M4 By Evan Holt ©
As you possibly know, the strategy for maximum profitability of private hospitals
is to have a high through-put, achieved by getting patients out of the ward as soon as
can be managed, and having another waiting patient admitted immediately sometimes before the bed can be stripped and new sheets tucked in. Hospital corners?
A figment of imagination these days. The tactics arising out of this are to dose the patient with every imaginable
narcotic drug allowed, and for a few days, while there is no sensation of pain, the
physiotherapists inflict something just short of Grievous Bodily Harm on the poor
patient so that he or she can be wheeled out through the front doors of the hospital
with minimum delay and maximum profit. Hospitals also have subtle tricks to hasten the departure of the patient. Like
sending God around to stand at the foot of the bed and stare at the now totally
traumatised patient. Well, not necessarily the traditional God, but quite frightening
doppelgängers. A few hours out of the High Dependency Ward, when the patient is coming to
grips with the fact that he or she has survived open-heart surgery, seems to be about
the ideal timing for one of these visitations. Of course, at this time the patient is still hallucinating on double doses of drugs
like Oxycontin and Oxycodone, seeing things backwards or possibly even upside
down depending on what substances have been introduced into the drip in the
patient's arm.
Management has decided that this good a time to introduce some good oldfashioned patient bowel-churning fear, so that the patient really does want to go home
- and as soon as possible.
It happened like this to me. I was propped up on pillows so that any passing nurse
or doctor could register the fact that I was alive and breathing without having to
actually come to the bedside and check that I hadn’t turned blue. That's why they prop
you up – it saves time when checking the patients. You surely didn't think it was so
you could have a better view of your surroundings? How refreshingly naïve.
As I said, I was propped up on pillows when God came and stood in the doorway
to my four-bed Ward. Just like that. No noise, no flashes of lightning, no puffs of
smoke, and no triumphal organ music. He just stood there and looked at me; just
stared at me, unblinking. In case you have any misguided impression that God is an old man with a flowing
white beard and clothed in bedsheets, I can assure you that He is not at all like that.
He is a towering figure with a very tall black stovepipe hat, flowing black robes
almost to the ground, and a huge gold crucifix dangling almost to his waist. God also
has a flourishing black beard and piercingly black eyes. At least two metres tall, he
seemed to fill the entire doorway to Ward M4. He certainly wasn't old, well not as old
as God is supposed to be; probably only thirtyish, maybe forty? He said nothing, but continued to stare at me. Not ever having met God before I
was stunned. I couldn't form any words, no clever bon mots, not even a limp wave of
the hand, preferably the one without the drip in it. A century of time passed very
quickly, and yet God just stood there looking at me with a slightly puzzled look on
what parts of his face you could see behind the beard and eyebrows. I realised that my time was up. I was, in any language, next. My time was up and
I was very probably about to be consigned to Hell for a bit longer than conventional
three days. Well, with 28 years in the Army I had probably logged up a few more
days than the customary three-day Hades pre-Purgatory visit. A voice from the far end of our Ward called out something, but not in English.
With this, God stopped staring at me, and glided down to the end bed. He didn't walk,
he just glided. I'm not even sure he had feet or shoes. He flowed to the end bed and
shook hands with the man in the bed. With flooding relief, I realised that God had
come for the bloke in the end bed – not me! I must have dropped off for a while because next time I looked God had left us,
and luckily the bloke in the end bed was still there. Not only that, but he had visitors;
a woman and a young child, and they were all chattering in some foreign language. A nurse stopped beside my bed and said “Wasn't that Russian Orthodox priest
tall? And that high hat he was wearing? He had to duck his head to get in through the
doorways.” Russian Orthodox priest? What rubbish! That was God, or at least one of His
manifestations. You can't fool me - I know what I saw. Evan Holt