Never Felt Less Like Dancing

In a millisecond there was a blinding, fiery flash, a shattering explosion.

And three lives changed forever.

Did she do it on purpose or was it an accident?

oOo

1980

I pedalled alone, thinking heavily,  along the pebble gravel to the farmhouse on the outskirts of Kwolyin. The old farmer was stony-faced but civil. He invited me inside.

The timber and iron-roofed farmhouse was large. Not quite grand. More genteel and old worlde. Quality jarrah timber throughout. Wide, shady verandahs on all sides. These days the seasoned wheat and sheep farmer lived here alone. The house lacked that finished feminine touch.  No flowers. No music. No aroma of fresh baked bread or rhubarb cake. Layers of dust filtered framed pictures. A sense of creaking age.

He made me tea in a CWA mug. I asked him about the weather, the season and the crops. Then I asked him about his daughter, Gwen.

‘I don’t want to talk about her.
Now I want you to leave’.

oOo

1962

The old Migrant Centre was abuzz with colour, life, excitement, opportunities. My first year at Graylands Teachers College. Three girls for every boy. For someone who had attended an all-boys Catholic College this looked like being a  wonderful, wonderful year.

We all looked a slightly studentish, casually dressed. Some really casual, slightly feral. Few girls wore make-up or had fancy hairstyles. Boys looked daggy reflecting the $13 week living allowance. Out for a good time. Minimum study, maximum fun. One girl stood out. Different. She was voted leader of our group. Gwen.

Gwen was the product of one of WA’s leading schools for young ladies. She dressed every day like she was heading off for a photo shoot with Vogue. Gwen always wore full make-up, framed by a perfect black bob, her fragrances tumbling around. 

Her living allowance was more than $13 a week. A lot more. Thanks to her Dad. Unlike other students, she drove a powder-blue Austin Healey Sprite. Gwen's appearance was so sophisticated and mature she made immature boys like me go weak at the knees. Despite her stylish, upmarket appearance she became popular because she had a 100% warm, genuine personality.  Despite the fact Gwen and I were worlds apart in every respect, we became good friends.

We got to know each even better when we ‘co-starred’ in a production of ‘The Importance of Being Ernest’. ‘Gwen’ played Gwendolyn, I played Algernon, both of us dressed in tennis whites, racquets in hand. In a second scene, dressed in a suit and Gwen in an elegant ball dress, Gwen and I waltzed on stage. It was like we were each a book, reading a chapter on each other’s lives.

The Importance if Being Ernest 1963

Gwen met Bob at college. Bob was a larger than life character. Broad-shouldered, 6 foot 2, confident, successful sportsman, their relationship flourished. They became a steady item. Gwen fell madly in love with Bob and what she envisaged for their future. However, Gwen’s father did not like Bob one bit. He disapproved of him in the strongest terms.

Winter came and Gwen visited the family farm. The topic of Bob was sure to arise and arise it did. A powerful emotional argument developed like a simmering furnace. Gwen’s father forbid her from seeing him again. In his rage Gwen’s father went on to say that if she continued to see Bob she would be cut out of the will and she was never to return home.

They were in the lounge of the old farmhouse. A winter fire was roaring in the fireplace.

In a moment of desperation or mistaken identification Gwen grasped a container of petrol and threw it on the fire.

In a millisecond there was a blinding, fiery flash, a shattering explosion.

A moment of madness. 

Gwen clothes and skin burst into fire. Her body, face and neck melted.

Gwen’s promising career as a classroom teacher closed abruptly. Her future with Bob finished even more abruptly. In her painful recovery Gwen turned to alcohol for relief. Sadly, her bright vivacious personality was replaced by a morbid solo isolation.

Postscript

I met Gwen briefly some years ago at a reunion. I spoke quietly to her. I imagined her bubbly, colourful nature but sadly it had completely disappeared.

I never felt less like dancing.

 

Paris is Kissing

Paris is Kissing

It was the best kiss of his life. It was the worst kiss of his life.

She nudged her bare shoulder gently to and fro into his chest as they kissed; like she did years ago. Quick, quick, slow. He recognised the Rhumba rhythm. A flood of distant memories; her shapely, smooth shoulders. It was a long way from down under.

His face looked older, weathered, a bit like a farm shed slowly falling apart; exposed to the wind, sun and rain. There were a few boards missing, but the structure was still standing.  Not dead yet. His triangular cheekbone scar had a pinkish tinge and stitch marks.  She didn’t ask what happened. She could guess.

But his lips had not changed, even after eighteen years.  Soft, sincere, insecure. Resistible.

Lena chose Le Duc des Lombards. She never looked backwards but she made an exception for Le Duc. In her dark period, she met Le Duc’s choreographer on a train from Toulouse to Paris. It was here she first danced in Paris.  

‘All That Jazz’ from Chicago pumped into the crowded bar and the dimly lit dance area. ‘Le Duc’ was still one of her favourite places. Lena hadn’t been here in a while.

He could see nothing. Nothing at all. Zero. The black, silk blindfold was tied tight. Lena made sure of that. She had only agreed to meet him if he wore a blindfold. He agreed. Really, he had no choice.

A jazz club in Paris is as far as you can get from an Aussie semi-arid outback landscape. Lena had popped into his little corner of the world; fourteen days of touring and camping with Outback Spirit. Drinking mulled wine around camp fire, bumping along 3000 kilometres of red, dusty corrugated roads, in a state ten times bigger than her birth country.

Lena wrote in her journal of her Dream under Capricorn. Seduced by a strumming guitar and ‘500 Miles’, walking along bush tracks beneath unblemished skies;  dancing in the dust under the Southern Cross.

He first shot Lena akimbo, atop a rocky outcrop.  He said she looked like a stock boy from a Slim Dusty song. She laughed her special laugh.  Then he shot Lena as her body glistened in the noonday sun in Honeycomb Pool. They kissed under a blood-red moon at Mt Augustus. He photographed her by scruffy, window light in Home Valley Station, muddy red sweat trickling down the curve of her back and dripping off her bare ass into the dust. Like tears.

Lena sipped her champagne, nuzzled harder with her shoulder and knee. She took his hand and led him to the dance floor. His right arm pulled her waist hard. She gasped. Their lips met as they danced. He softly bit into her bottom lip; an almost imperceptible moan escaped her lips. They danced slowly, rhythmically, like before.

His blindfold tight, in place.

His lips near her left ear. She never used to have pierced ears. They were pierced now.

‘Are you still searching?’ he murmured.

She hesitated. Searching for the right words.

‘Not any more’ she whispered.

The music ramped up. The vocalist channelling Edith Piaf.

Overlooking the Seine, the clock at Musée d'Orsay struck midnight.

2019 arrived.

Two uniforms emerged from the dark recesses of Le Duc des Lombards.

The senior uniform approached the embracing couple.

‘Votre temps est fini’.

Ch 17 Wally and Corrigin

Wally and Corrigin

My closest mate at Marist Brothers was Graham Walden. Everyone called him ‘Wally’. And Wally always called me ‘Duck’. Wally and Duck. We were closer than brothers. We shared intimate secrets, aspirations, and thoughts. 

Wally’s family lived in Corrigin, a small wheat and sheep town in the wheat belt about four hour’s drive east of Perth. Wally and his pretty, younger sister Rhonda boarded with their Grandmother and Aunty Nance at No 28 Pangbourne St in Wembley, about half a mile away. If there was mischief to be had, Wally and I were usually front row contenders.

Wally and Rhonda would travel back to Corrigin about once a month to see their Mum and Dad, Joan and George. Two or three times a year Wally invited me to spend a weekend in Corrigin. The Friday night drives from Wembley to Corrigin were the most hair-raising, adrenalin-pumping experiences of my motoring life.

Wally’s father George was Corrigin’s local Holden dealer and also raced speed cars. He raced TQ’s at Claremont Speedway and had hotted up his FC Holden to the nth degree. The six-cylinder engine had been re-bored and rebuilt with oversized pots and triple carburettors. I had never heard an engine with so many horses under the bonnet. The high-pitched revving of the engine, the front spotlights searching the night for roos and George angling for the best line on each white-posted bend was a million times scarier than the octopus at the Royal Show. 

It seemed to me that we flirted with death on each tyre-squealing corner as the car powered from side-to-side and engine revs changed up from high revs to a gut-wrenching power-whinny.

The bonuses were that George compressed a four-hour journey into two and a half hours and Rhonda’s arms and legs pressed into mine as we rounded the sharpest bends. On the downside, I was taking enormous risks as I was almost certainly in a state of mortal sin. But so was Wally. Surely, God wouldn’t take us both at once. But I did reflect on things and secretly wished I had gone to confession!

Corrigin life was different to Perth life. Wally associated with some nefarious country lads who were into all sorts of mischief and mayhem. My initiation into Corrigin country life was everything and more for a Boys Own Annual. It was so far removed from my urban Catholic upbringing; it was simply another world; and far, far away from the clutches of my Mum and Dad and the Church. 

Dudley Bradshaw was a power broker, butcher, and local ringleader.  He was the mid-west mafia chief-in-waiting. Dudley led a gang of youths who intimidated and terrorised assorted locals, in particular the deli cum milk bar owner, Nikos. Nikos was Greek or middle eastern or something. He was simply a New Australian. We’d swagger into Nick’s deli trailing behind Duds, order milkshakes, drink them and leave without paying, laughing down the street.

Sometimes we’d add sugar to the salt or vica-versa. We smoked cigarettes, drank beer and had secret bush barbecues with the fillet steak we had ‘borrowed’ from Dudley’s father’s butcher shop. Deep inside me I knew it was wrong, but everyone did it. I went with the flow.

The Corrigin lads introduced me to a country girl named Shirley.  Dudley and Wally told me ‘Shirl’ was a bit of a goer. That was of little reassurance. First I didn’t know what a ‘goer’ was.  More importantly I had absolutely no idea where the ‘go’ button was located.

Shirley was petite with an olive complexion and straight dark hair. She was one of those salt-of-the-earth, relaxed, everyday country girls. What you saw was what you got. She had large brown eyes and a warm, welcoming smile. Shirley was the seventh of eight children. Catholic or non-Catholic I liked her.

Shirley and I hung out together when the Corrigin lads had their sheilas on their arms. As a bonus I discovered that Shirley knew how to kiss. I suspected it wasn’t her first time. She was spontaneous and genuine in her affection. After several visits to Corrigin I received a letter with a photo from Shirley in her school uniform and white blouse. She had a beaming smile. ‘To Dale, love Shirley’ was written on the back.

But Shirley was not a Catholic. I had just kissed my first non-Catholic girl.

Bless me Father for I have sinned, it is four weeks since my last confession, I started

Yes, my son, and what are your sins, Father responded

I missed mass on Sunday, ate meat on Friday twice, told lies to my parents once and committed the sin of self-abuse four times. I rattled it off in a matter of fact way.

Why did you miss Sunday Mass, Father asked

I was in the country and was too far from church, I lied.

The reason I had missed mass was because I would have lost face in the eyes of my Protestant Corrigin mates

Have you anything else to confess, my son, came the reply.

Yes Father. I kissed a girl.

Oh well, that's not too serious unless it went further.

Pause

Ah, did it go any further? Father asked hopefully.

No Father

Pause

But, ah, she's not a Catholic, she's a Protestant

I heard Father Brosnan take a deep breath and shuffle his boots.

What are you saying? A Protestant girl? That's far more serious. You know you are on a slippery slope to sin, my son. Why in heavens did you kiss a Protestant girl?

I thought for a moment. I decided to tell the truth.

Because she kisses much better than Catholic girls.

There was a long pause and several snorts of indignation.

You kissed a Protestant? Father queried firmly

Yes, I replied

WHERE did you kiss her? he asked
At the back of the Town Hall I answered
No, No. Where on her body did you kiss this Protestant?
pause

I thought that was a ridiculous question. Where on earth would you kiss a girl but on her lips

On her lips, I said cautiously.

Silence reigned.

I was still pondering Father Brosnan’s ridiculous question. Where else could you kiss a girl, I thought.

Father Brosnan resumed his inquisition.

My son, you are on a dangerous path associating with Protestants. You never know where a kiss from a Protestant can lead.

Yes Father, I said

For your Penance say the Rosary …. Twice --- and make a donation to the Poor Box.

Yes father, I said contritely.

ps Next year I heard that Shirley had become pregnant. The Corrigin mafia were tight lipped about the identity of the father. I never saw Shirley again.