Lionel for Blog

8/3/2019 Lionel for Blog

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Australians have an unusual tradition in pubs and clubs across the nation .

On any given Sunday, some fellow will wander through the assembled

masses carrying a large tray encouraging the drinkers to try their luck by

purchasing a raffle ticket. The tray encased in clear plastic wrap holds an

array of meat cuts to suit every carnivore’s taste, which the holder of the

winning ticket will take home.

Not long ago, I found one of these meat trays on my doorstep. On top of

it rested a grubby envelope. Inside, I found five hundred dollars in a

variety of denominations. The only message that gave any clue to its

origins was a scrap of paper that said, simply

‘ Preciate it.’ Lionel .

******

Fourteen months earlier I had taken a trip to western Queensland.

In early November, the Australian outback shrivels under a merciless sun

in a cloud free sky. The few clouds that occasionally do appear hover on

the horizon and then retreat like shy guests at a party. The earth a deep

shade of red supporting the scrub that wilts in the merciless 42-degree

heat. In the middle of this stifling afternoon I pulled into the town of St

George.

Driving slowly down the main street and from the array of stores guessed

the population to be no more than a few hundred. The town had a feeling

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of desperate decay. The shuttered and empty storefronts looked sadly

forlorn, the dusty windows displaying faded For Lease signs .The post

office had closed, as had the two banks and a variety of businesses that

had once served this farming community.

I slowed to a halt in front of the general dealer’s store and gazed into the

dim interior. An array of farm implements, pesticides, and piles of

animal feed filled the trading area stacked in no particular order.

Cobwebs hung low from the ceiling like wisps of grey hair, barely

moving in the still furnace like air.

At the end of the street was a crossroad and standing like a forgotten

sentinel stood the Orion hotel, keeping watch over a garrison of ghosts.

A classic Queenslander, built in the days of outback prosperity, it offered

food and lodging but, like the rest of the town, had long ago seen better

days. An upstairs balcony ran around the whole ornate structure, it’s

paint slowly peeling and blistered after years of neglect.

In the shade of the wide downstairs veranda sat the publican sprawled in

a rickety rattan chair that was close to collapsing under his immense bulk.

He watched impassively as I mounted the steps carrying my bags, making

absolutely no attempt to help his ‘guest’.

"G’day mate. You’re either a Pom or a mad city bastard to be out in heat

like this,” he said, tipping his hat further back on his balding head.

The name of the licensee was printed on a sign above the door. Ted and

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Abigail Horton and I presumed correctly that this large man was he.

His frame bulged like a bull struggling to free itself from the confines of

his tight khaki shorts and faded, short-sleeved shirt.

Looking up at me, I was forced to stare into his nostrils that had the

appearance of twin dark tunnels in a mountainside. The bulbous nose sat

all too comfortably in a pillowy face topped off with eyebrows that

sprouted like weeds above his pale blue eyes.

" I was wondering if you offered rooms?” I asked.

" I reckon we could help you out there" he said, grunting, while pushing

himself ever so slowly to his feet. One could almost hear a sigh of relief

from the rattan chair.

" Its nothing flash mind, just your basic room with the bathroom and

dunny at the end of the hall, that’s what you get out here for twenty five

dollars a night with breakfast thrown in"

The reception area’s carpet was practically threadbare as were the stairs,

which squeaked and groaned under our weight as we ascended.

My amiable host still made no attempt to help me with my bags, although

I was gratified to skip the check in process indicating the hotel was not

exactly running at full occupancy.

I followed the man’s broad beam watching as his buttocks rotated in

figures of 8 still making valiant attempts to escape the confines of the too

tight shorts. “”Gotta tell you mate,” he wheezed, “ been a bit quiet so

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you’ve practically got the place to yourself “

At the end of the dim hallway, we arrived at my room. Spartan would be

too optimistic a word to describe the layout and furnishings.

It consisted of a single bed, a rug of dubious origin and quality, a

washstand next to a wardrobe replete with faded images of Winnie the

Pooh on the doors. A naked, overhead light bulb provided the only

illumination as the bedside lamp looked like it had ceased functioning

when electricity was invented.

" There you go mate," said Ted, ushering me in, " she’s basic but clean,

and the bed’s bloody comfortable. We eat at about seven, so shoot down

to the bar for a cold one before that to wash the dust out”

With that he gave me a wink and ambled off down the hall.

I surveyed my surroundings and wandered over to the French doors that

led to the outside balcony. Pulling them open, the room was instantly

flooded with harsh sunlight that captured the dust mites floating in the

shadows whirling around like Dervish dancers. Nothing in the town

seemed to be moving apart from a lone truck on its way to somewhere

else.

******

The public bar was, like the rest of the hotel, tired with a forlorn air about

it as if it was sad that it no longer played host and confidant to the

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drinkers who used to frequent it. A long wooden bar ran the entire length

of the room, made bigger by the huge Parisienne mirror, fly specked and

badly in need of a clean which dominated the wall behind it .An eclectic

array of exotic bottles from another era stood like soldiers in neat lines

and, like the most other items in the bar, were dust covered.

Four overhead fans at intervals along the room rotated languidly,

struggling to disturb the hot, dusty air.

The wooden floor was scuffed and chipped from a thousand pairs of

drinkers’ boots and stained from gallons of spilled beer.

Old black and white photographs of rodeos and district football games

lined the walls, the players, trapped behind smeared glass, stared out like

gladiators at the empty bar.

The dartboard had fallen into disuse, judging by the scores on the

blackboard from a game played two years prior. The darts their tail

feathers almost gone, hung precariously around the bullseye threatening

to fall at any minute.

My host stood behind the bar talking quietly with the only other patron at

the end of the counter. The muted conversation drifted over to me and I

feigned disinterest even though it was difficult not to inadvertently

eavesdrop.

" C’mon Lionel" muttered Ted " You can’t keep this up, your credit’s as

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full as a boot and its costing me a bomb.” He looked at me and raised his

bushy eyebrows. “Now I’m going to serve a paying customer.

" Sorry mate, sometimes you have to lay down the law to the local

wildlife. What’ll it be?"

" Just a beer for me, and tell you what, one for the gentleman with my

compliments."

Ted gave me a quizzical look, nodded, and drew off two ‘schooners’ of

lager.

" Lionel, it’s your lucky day mate; this gentleman’s bought you a beer;

can’t think why, but there you go"

A second later Lionel was seated on the barstool next to me extending

his hand in greeting. An arm, thin as a pool cue supported this hand that

protruded from a faded and darned sleeve of a shirt that had long since

passed its use by date.

"G’ day mate, the name’s Lionel. I’m what you might call a local - not

many of us left now.”

His demeanour and size made me think of a wiry whippet. He was tiny

in stature and his feet, encased in worn out boots , didn’t quite reach the

floor. He wore a battered, wide brimmed hat that cast a dark shadow

across his shrunken facial features. His lips as thin as fencing wire hid a

row of crooked and missing teeth rather like a dilapidated picket fence.

6



He took a long swallow of beer before giving me an intense stare from

eyes sunk like dry waterholes into a face as weathered as the landscape .

" Me family’s been farming this district for four generations; cattle and

sheep mostly; the soil’s good when it rains and we get good pasture.

Farming’s in me blood.” He paused in mid sentence.” Another couple of

beers Ted, we’re bloody dyin’ of thirst down here."

Lionel’s drone filled the bar in sync with the metallic grind of the

overhead fans. He talked of the ups and downs of farming in an

unforgiving environment, pausing only to regale Ted into supplying more

beer.

I decided to take my leave and so bid him a fond farewell. using the

excuse that I had been driving all day and was tired.

Lionel, not one to give in easily, looked at me from behind his glazed

eyes and said, " Tell you what mate, why don’t you come out to me farm

in the mornin. You’ll be able to see what an outback station is … It’ll do

you good to see how country folk live. I can have you back here by

lunchtime"

From the corner of my eye I saw Ted making waving motions, indicating

that I should decline his offer.

" Well Lionel" I said " That’s kind of you but I was planning on an early

start and…."

" What, you’re not interested then?" he interrupted, looking like a scolded

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child .

" It’s not that, it’s just that I have to get on and I have a long drive

tomorrow.”

The hurt and disappointment in his eyes was palpable. I wilted. “But

then again, I suppose I could manage a couple of hours to…"

"Beaut, that’s settled then, I’ll pick you up at 7 …Ted, another beer I’m

drier than the bloody drought.”

He clutched his glass and disappeared into his own thoughts gazing

without seeing, his own reflection in the mirror. I asked Ted if it would

be convenient to take my meal in my room. He nodded and added, a

touch sardonically, "well, you’re in for an interesting time tomorrow "

******

The promise of a comfortable bed was a little far fetched as I woke

feeling as if I had slept in a hammock. I lay in the bed pulling the knitted

quilt around me to ward off the unexpected chill. Something had changed

in the night as the temperature had dropped significantly and it was

almost cold.

Why had I allowed Lionel to badger me into taking a journey that I really

didn’t want to take? I toyed with the idea of checking out early and

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letting Ted explain to the hapless Lionel that I had to dash back to the city

for family reasons.

I rose stiffly from the bed and opened the French doors to see what the

day was like. Silhouetted against the early morning light a thick band of

dark cloud hovered on the horizon like a swarm of locusts. A persistent

wind rustled the spindly trees that lined either side of the main street.

Gathering my things, I headed downstairs, where, to my discomfort, I

found Ted engaged in conversation with Lionel who shuffled from foot to

foot like an excited child at Christmas

" Morning mate" said Ted " You’re an early riser, I better get crackin and

get you fed" With that, he turned and left me with the very person I had

been hoping to avoid.

" It’s a beaut day," said Lionel looking at me sideways " Get a feed into

you and we’ll be off. I’ll wait outside." I was caught. There was no

backing out now. “ Will I travel with you?”

"Now there’s a thing" said Lionel " You see, I’m having a bit of trouble

with the truck, so I was wondering if we could travel in your fancy

vehicle…makes sense don’t you think?"

Before I could answer, he turned and ambled out the door.

The hearty breakfast, served to me by the rotund and cheerful Mrs.

Abigail Horton, was substantial, and I took my time wading through the

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heaped plate.

Emerging from the entrance I found Lionel sitting on the front steps

clutching an enormous pair of bolt cutters in one hand. In the other he

held a wilted bouquet of wild flowers.

As we drove out of town I noticed the black line of cloud had become

darker and was obviously headed our way.

"Looks like rain,” I said to Lionel, who stared fixedly at the road ahead.

" Mate, I’ve got two nippers, the eldest is five and he’s never seen rain in

his life so I can’t really see it happening today."

The narrow bitumen road cut its way across the flat, arid landscape

flanked by rusted barbed wire and rotting fence posts. Lionel, stirred

from his silence, and suddenly muttered. "Just ahead on the right you’ll

see a dirt road, that’s the turnoff we take"

We took the turn onto the track, kicking up clouds of red dust in our

wake. Some minutes later Lionel said…"Just up here on the left, you’ll

see the gate"

The gate was probably once a grand affair with an arch that carried a

wooden sign into which the words, DIMBOOLA STATION were burnt.

The elaborate font almost made one feel that we had reached the

Promised Land. Another sign tied to the gate itself read, FOR SALE.

MORTGAGEE IN POSSESSION. A phone number of the local real

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estate agent I noticed had been scratched out. The whole ensemble was

held shut by stout chain and a huge padlock.

As we drew to a halt Lionel, leapt out bolt cutters in hand, and was off

like a robber’s dog. “Won’t be a second mate.” There was nothing

hesitant in his stride as he marched up to the gate and lifting the bolt

cutters and, and after struggling a while severed the chain. He pulled the

gate open, calmly sauntered back to the car, got in, and said. “Right, let’s

go.”

My growing sense of unease was not really eased by Lionel’s sudden

sense of unbridled optimism.

We drove through the gate onto the repossessed property I, careful to

avoid the potholes on the neglected track. Lionel once again resumed his

hunched position looking left and right as we inched along the rutted

road. To me, the scrub at either side of the narrow track held no obvious

landmarks although Lionel obviously knew what he was looking for.

"Pull up here for a moment mate" he said.

We both got out this time and, as I came around to his side of the car, I

noticed, beyond the bushes caked in dust, an area the size of a football

field that had fairly recently been excavated. By the size of the mound of

earth, it was clear that an enormous hole had been dug and then filled in

again. Lionel walked slowly the mound and scampered up its rough

sides. He stood atop the summit like a mountaineer who had conquered a

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difficult peak. He looked down at me and said.

"There’re five thousand sheep and about eight hundred head of cattle

buried here. When we started to get 50c for a lamb that was costing $2

each to get them to market, there didn’t seem to be much point.

The poor buggers were starving and virtually dying of thirst.”

He removed his hat and squatted on his haunches before continuing.

"Breaks your heart to have to shoot your stock…took days. Each one

broke me heart. Sheep weren’t too bad, but the cattle knew what was up.

And the noise they made bellowing was deafening cause they was so

frightened. He stood up and returned his battered akubra hat to his

balding head and made his way down the mound.

“Still, I suppose it was better than letting the poor buggers die out in the

paddock, but it wasn’t an easy thing to do, well nigh killed me. Bloody

tragedy it was.”

“C’mon,” he said, “I’ll show you the rest of the place.” The sky was now

beginning to fill with huge, black clouds that rolled towards us; yet

Lionel, even if he did notice, made no comment.

It was definitely going to rain.

A homestead came into view through a stand of eucalyptus as we

rounded a bend in the road. It was everything I always imagined an

Australian outback farmhouse to be. The main building had a steeply

pitched, red tin roof that was showing small holes where the rust had

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triumphed. The roofs overhang created a deep veranda that provided

ample shade.

Empty chairs, some of them having been blown over added to the total

forlornness of the place.

Dotted around the property several blue gum trees dwarfed a windmill

whose rusted blades rotated and screeched in the stiffening breeze but

brought forth only a dribble of water from the depths of the earth.

Lionel slumped in the passenger seat, gazed at the house then slowly got

out and holding his wilted bouquet said, "I’m going to pay me respects to

the family, won’t be long"

He set off toward a stand of cypresses laid out in a perfect square

surrounded by a small fence that had of late leaned inward, in danger of

collapsing altogether.

The sky now took on the colour of sludge as mountainous, cumulonimbus

clouds, rolled like stallions in full gallop across the landscape towards us.

Lionel had entered what was a small graveyard, removed his hat and got

down on his knees, his head bowed in prayer. He gently placed

individual flowers from his bouquet in front of the many headstones laid

out in neat lines.

Sensing my presence he spoke, pointing to one of the graves. “This

one’s me grandmother, her and granddad settled this place over a hundred

years ago. Them two graves is mum and dad, they died bout ten year ago

13



now. The little one over was me brother Benny, he drowned in the dam

when he was just a nipper. Auntie Betty and Uncle Jack are here too as

well as two of their kids. Nice to think about them all being together

don’t you think?”

I wasn’t quite sure what to say so I remained silent.

He rose slowly to his feet and came toward me attempting to close the

tiny gate that protected the sad resting place even though the gate refused

to close.

A clap of thunder resonated like cannon fire and a flash of forked

lightning tore across the angry sky that was now as black as pitch.

Lionel looked up, "Bugger me, who would have bloody thought!"

As if on cue, the first of the raindrops began to tumble from the cauldron

from above. As each globule of water hit the ground the dust reared up

and fell back as if mortally wounded. In a matter of seconds torrential

sheets of rain began to lash the homestead; the thunder and lightning

created a continuous cacophony of light and sound. We turned as one

and dashed to the house to seek shelter on the veranda .The sound of

rain, beating down on the tin roof was as loud as a freight train, causing

Lionel to lean over and bellow in my ear.

"Can’t last mate, bound to be just a passin storm; weird though, we

haven’t had one of these for years”

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The huge droplets collided and exploded as they hit the parched ground

and immediately formed muddy pools in the uneven and corrugated

forecourt. Lionel shook his head as the storm veered away leaving

behind a grey sky that wept with steady, soaking rain falling in a one

continuous stream making it difficult to see more that twenty feet or so.

The thirsty ground parched for so long was sucking in the life - giving

nectar to its core.

Lionel leapt off the veranda, walked to the centre of the forecourt, and

spreading his arms wide, tilted his head back. His hat slipped and then

fell, sodden into the puddles behind him.

Rivulets of water cascaded down his face, his body, his legs and finally

into his scuffed work boots. He looked down and around at his hat lying

in the mud and suddenly lifted his foot and began to stomp on it first like

a petulant child and then, bellowing like a wounded calf he began to jump

up and down on the battered headpiece until it was consumed by mud and

water and disappeared from sight.

As suddenly has he had begun this dance of rage, regret and remorse he

stopped; his breath coming in panting chokes, his shoulders slumped, his

head bowed; he was like a battered boxer on the verge of defeat.

"Six years, six bloody long years without a drop of rain" he shouted up at

me as much at the elements. I was grateful that I was the only witness to

his display of frustration, anger and grief. Rain still coursed down the

15



gullies and hollows of his battered face dripping down his neck and

disappearing inside his already sodden shirt.

"If this had come a month or two ago we might have saved the place but

its too late. Instead, what have I got…? Nothing. The wife up and left

me when the bank moved in. Took the nippers and everything else and

headed to the city. I couldn’t go, I mean what would I do in a bloody

city, I was born here, it’s all I know! Four generations have worked this

place and now it’s all gone"

He lowered his head until his chin rested on his chest. Quietly at first, he

began to weep, then, as his grief swelled, great painful, heaving sobs

wracked his body. Snot ran freely from his nose mingling with the tears

and rain. He held his head held back, mouth open displaying his

yellowed teeth, a picture of total despair.

After what seemed like an eternity, his heaving shoulders began to

subside, and he dropped his head onto his chest, the sobs slowly retreated

to quiet tears and then he composed himself.

I left my vantage point on the veranda and led him quietly back to the

steps placing a hand on his shoulder.

He wiped the snot from his nose on the sleeve of his shirt.” Preciate it

mate" He said,. "Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to burden you with me

troubles. It’s just that the last few years have been such a bloody

struggle. No matter what we did, nor how hard we tried, we were always

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goin backwards. Without the rains there was no ways we could ever win.

I was the one who didn’t want to see it. Everyone else could but not me,

I was always prayin for a miracle."

We sat in silence for a while and then he spoke in a voice that was barely

above a whisper.

" You’re a good bloke mate, but the thing is, we can’t ever drink in a pub

together again"

I was a little taken aback at this and I thought it best not to say anything

at all. Without looking at me he said.” No other bloke has ever seen me

cry like a baby before, and that makes me a bit ashamed. I don’t like to

be seen as weak"

I thought it best not to break my silence, as I had not uttered a word since

the episode began. We sat for a while, Lionel and I, until it was time to

leave this place of broken dreams.

The trip back to town was made in silence, as no words were needed. I

dropped him off in front of the pub. He stepped out of the car turned and

said, “safe travels mate,” gave me a wave, and walked off to wherever he

was going.

I've never seen him again.

I settled my bill with Ted and knew that there was one thing I had to do

before I left. I gave him a cheque for $500 to give to Lionel. I made the

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point that it wasn’t a gift, but rather a loan that Lionel could repay one

day if he ever got back on his feet.

I stressed to Ted that he was to make it clear to Lionel that there was no

obligation whatsoever but it should never be looked upon as charity.

Ted took the cheque, looked at it and said, " Leave that to me, I’ll talk

some sense into him. Take care mate, come and see us again"

My last vision was of Ted standing on the balcony watching me drive off

through the now soft rain that was trying valiantly to wash away the

sorrows of this tragic little place.

***********************

The images of that time flooded back as I stood on my doorstep clutching

the meat tray. I turned and headed inside to put Lionel’s gift onto the

shelves of the freezer.

END

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