Life in The Village, through the eyes
of Tom Grant, the only teacher at the remote school.
This is an original work of pure
fiction (just an expression of a fantasy)
(re-written from my 2013 version)
The resemblance of the characters by action,
name, location or description to any real person is purely coincidental.
If it is illegal, or offensive, for
you to read stories involving interactions of a sexual nature between adults
and youths, then what are you doing here?
[Author: posted
from my hospital bed. Not COVID! Hope to be fully back on deck soon!]
From Chapter 46:
What's that in the distance?
As I draw closer, I take my foot off the pedal and allow the
car to slowly succumb to the friction between the tyres and the dirt until it
slows to a stop.
The surrounding dust settles and my vision clears.
I stare.
It looks like a homestead.
But there are, supposedly, no buildings out here.
Except for...
But, that one would have disappeared after the helicopter
crash claimed the curse's latest victim, wouldn't it?
Unless...
Nah!
Chapter
47 - A New Neighbour
I
sit in my car and stare at the building dominating the landscape ahead of me.
Is it the dreaded homestead, the object and source of the Jintabudjaree curse?
How could it not be? But... this is so soon after its last victim, who hasn't
even been buried yet!
I
struggle to recall details of the curse that I heard in the pub. Is it possible
that it's returned so quickly? And unexpectedly? But, then, every re-appearance
is unexpected, isn't it?
Am
I now cursed too? Am I going to die? Or have I just jeopardised the lives of
those people closest to me? Who? How? My mind is befuddled with possibilities.
Why did I come here at all? Where is my common sense? What force drew me out
here to investigate?
Is
it possible that it did not disappear at all during this past week? What would
that mean? Has the last aboriginal, murdered by the landowner so long ago, been
avenged? Is that what I heard somebody say in the pub... that at some point in
time, it would remain visible? If only my memory was a little sharper!
And,
yet, what I can see up close, and at ground level, appears somewhat different
to, and somewhat neater than, the building which we three observed from a safe
distance up in the helicopter.
OK,
then! What could be worsened by investigating it more closely? Anything?
I
drive on, then wait in front of the building.
Has
any living person ever seen this place up close?
Is
this the same homestead? It appears to be in excellent condition for a building
that is so old! Maybe it's the wrong one. But, then, who owns this house?
I
turn off the ignition and stare, taking in its features. It is of obvious
Victorian, colonial design; a broad-fronted double-storey building with a
cluster of chimneys at each end. The woodwork appears to be freshly-painted or
stained. It sits between 2 and 3 metres off the ground with ornate railings
surrounding both of its lower- and upper-level verandahs. And, are those slate
shingles on the roof? There appears to be vacant space below the building -
high enough to walk through, or where to store things because there were no
garages in those days because there were no cars. Perhaps it was for a
horse-drawn buggy and the horses.
I've
not seen such an example of period architecture except in photographs. Ash
would love it! I want my new house in The Village to look very much like this
one, in style!
Is
this the building that was out this way last week! I saw it. Will saw it. Uncle
Bill remarked on it, and, in the pub, they said that nothing else had been
built on this side of the river for hundreds of miles around. And the distance
seems about right!
I
decide to introduce myself to whoever lives here and who maintains it so
beautifully.
I
pass two matching rows of rose bushes, one on each side of the stairs. They are
covered, somehow in this heat and drought, with beautiful, red blooms. I didn't
notice them from the helicopter, but then, we didn't get nearly as close as this!
I
climb the wide wooden stairs to the broad, lower verandah, then take four paces
directly to the front double doors with their polished brass ornamentations.
The large, heavy knocker invites use. Three loud raps echo sonorously within.
I
wait then knock again, and lay my hand on the brass door handle. The door silently
swings ajar. Invitingly.
"Hello?"
I cry out, poking my head through the space.
No
response.
I
push the door and step inside. "Is anyone home?" I call. Absolute silence
follows the last subsiding echo of my voice.
I'm
not accustomed to entering a person's house uninvited, but...
I
step into a cavernous entry hall. It has polished timber floors with dark
wooden panelling all around. Paintings and animal skins decorate the upper
walls. The large red and the grey kangaroos are almost anticipated, as are the
cow hides. However, the single zebra-coloured pelt dominating the extreme opposite
end looks totally out of place.
I
imagine that any one of a retinue of house staff (maybe a maid or butler) could
emerge at any moment and ask, `Good morning, Sir. May I help you?'
I
wait for a few moments and then begin to wander.
What
appeared to be the `ends' of the house from the outside are actually the side
rooms. Everything is oriented differently to what I had presumed.
I'm
bewildered. Not a skerrick of dust!
Perhaps
the most imposing feature that I see is the grand staircase at the far end of
the hall, `overseen' by the headless zebra. The stairs branch to the right and
left and connect to upper balconies that lead back to a set of doors over the
entry, and out onto an external verandah which appears to match the one on this
level.
The
doors down here are mostly wide open. I meander back and forth, progressively approaching
the staircase.
While
checking to the right, I discover what appears to be a well-stocked library,
then a lounge room.
To
the left is a formal dining room, adjacent to which, not actually discernible
because of the only closed door, is most likely the food preparation area, the
kitchen.
On
the short side of each `visible' room I see a fireplace which sits back-to-back
with its counterpart in the adjoining room. They are ornate, crafted from cast
iron and marble!
Where
is everyone? The house is so clean and tidy that there must be staff,
somewhere.
"Hello?"
I call again.
Receiving
no response for the third time, I decide to explore the upstairs.
I
discover two double bedrooms on each side, with their accompanying bathroom in
the rear corner of the house. The bathrooms are finished in marble and brass.
The
furnishings in the wood-panelled bedrooms are plush. Each bedroom has its own
fireplace which is directly above the one on the floor below.
This
is one impressive building! The landowner must be very rich!
My
fertile mind wonders whether there are any secret passages! Then I reprimand
myself for partaking of too many fiction novels and thriller movies!
I
exit the balcony onto the upstairs verandah, above the entry at the front of
the house, and gaze eastwards.
What
I see is breathtaking. Virtually nothing!
I
am surrounded by a vast, flat plain of reddish-brown earth, scarred only by a
single pair of wheel tracks leading directly towards me, to my stationary car.
Away upon the horizon there lies a very thin line of greyish-green - the tops
of the river gums at The Village!
I
immediately wonder whether this place is visible from the top of Marty's
windmill, perhaps with binoculars. But, given the distance, probably not!
I
wonder about lots of other things to do with the house: its immaculate
condition, its age, its curse. Why did I come here? Why was I drawn here?
I
spread my arms past 180 degrees to embrace the dry panorama and, for no logical
reason, I scream out the name, "Jintabudjaree".
Is
it in defiance, or in recognition, of some force, unseen and not understood?
I
feel a sudden iciness.
I
hear the door behind me shut. But there was no wind!
I
open it again and hurry back downstairs and head for the front door. I reach
for the handle and freeze. Something is different. I slowly turn and look
around. I realise that every one of the doors, previously open, is now closed.
They were open, weren't they?
I've
seen enough. I'm out of here!
Leaving
the front door to its own devices, I feel a sudden urge to urinate and take the
stairs down two at a time. I struggle with my zipper and almost make it in time
- but not quite! 90% actually reaches the ground. The wetness of my trousers
will dry in this heat.
A
large patch of earth beside one of the rose bushes turns dark brown. I draw my
initials, `TG', as my bladder empties. Thomas Grant was here!
I
breathe and exhale deeply at the relief, which is short-lived. I hear two loud
`bangs'. I look upwards. The front door is closed. So is the door on the
verandah above, which I distinctly remember leaving open.
Relieved?
Calmed down? You've got to be joking!
Tracking
back along my tyre impressions, I drive I don't know how many kilometres before
I feel the pounding in my chest and head ease.
I
pull the car to a stop. I elevate my hands above the steering wheel and stare
at them shaking. I force myself to breathe deeply until the trembling stops.
What
the hell just happened?
What
have I found?
Or,
what just found me?
I
replay everything, over and over, in my mind as I continue to drive.
I'm
fearful of acknowledging things which I cannot logically explain, or in which I
do not believe! Is there a previously untold, or unknown, side-effect of the
curse?
Maybe
I just imagined it all. It never happened! What did I eat or drink to induce
this hallucination? Was it something in Di's cooking? Is that why Reg was in
such a happy mood? Or did Will slip something into my coffee as a joke? No,
actually, I made the coffees.
I
reach the road. Left would take me to Whispering Gums. Right to The Village.
Instead
of driving straight back to Thunungara, I decide that something cold at the pub
might be helpful.
My
haphazard `parking' is not out of place amongst the other cars, utes, SUVs and
small trucks.
"Hello,
Tom, love," Julie Smith greets me, as I step up to the bar.
She
pours me a lime juice and sparkling mineral water over crushed ice without
asking what I would like. She remembered! Actually, I could do with something
alcoholic right now!
I
quickly scan the patrons. The `regulars' are all here, at least the ones whom I
saw previously. Not much work around in the current drought. Socialising
overcomes frustration and isolation. I join the younger guys.
"Still
on the wagon?" one jokes, looking at my limed water and ice.
I
reply jovially, "Yeah, I'm doing a Peter Pan. Not ready for a man's drink yet!"
They
all laugh at my self-deprecation.
In
the back of my mind there is a pressing need to find out as much as possible
about the homestead and the curse. How can I best initiate that discussion?
I
join in their nondescript conversation.
I
could learn a lot about the habits and diseases of sheep, cattle and horses by
hanging out in here more often!
In
the midst of a discussion on the promise of rain based on `all the signs', one
of the young guys throws in, "How's the Jintabudjaree thing treating you,
Schoolie? Anybody die yet?"
Given
the fact that no local has been affected, his tipsy mood is light-hearted, even
cynical. Not for long!
"Yes,
actually," I reply.
There
is instant silence all around me, as though somebody pressed a `mute' button. I
look up. Every face and body in the building is turned towards me.
They
don't need to ask who, when, how and where? The question is implied by their
expressions.
Davo,
the `old timer', steps across and lays a consoling hand on my shoulder.
I
take a large mouthful, swallow, breathe deeply and relate those happenings
about the helicopter hitherto unknown to the locals. "His funeral is on Friday
in Cunnamulla." I add, "Will O'Brien and I will both be going. The pilot was
our dad's best friend."
The
immediate active exchange of glances around the bar does not elude my notice
and I suddenly realise what I have just said and that I might have imparted
some new, startling, information to the locals. I said, `Our dad', following
mention of Will and me.
I
suppose that it's inconsequential but, in the broader scheme of things, it
could be for the best and explain why Will and I would be living together. Two
brothers sharing a house or a bedroom will be far less scandalous than a
teacher with one of his teenage students.
A
chronology of the curse's victims is collectively reviewed by those in the bar
during which the details of the curse are expounded again.
There
are still questions in my mind. I make no mention of the homestead being in
pristine condition or of any `spooky' manifestations.
"When
will it all end?" I ask, knowing already that deaths will continue to occur
until the total number of murdered aborigines is avenged. I add, "What then?"
There
is a low-key buzz of comments around the bar.
Again,
it's Davo, obviously respected by everyone else as the `authority' on the
subject, who speaks.
"Nobody
knows for sure, son, how many of the natives were murdered. With your dad's
friend, we are now up to thirteen. We'll only be aware of that when there are
no more deaths," he begins. "And we'll only be sure that there will be no more
victims when the homestead no longer disappears after somebody has died."
"Has
anyone here actually seen the homestead?" I ask.
"The
publican's nephew and his mates described it, as I remember," the old timer
relates, "as an old two-storey house. That wasn't so long ago."
I
have a question concerning the property upon which I intruded.
"Are
there any other houses out that way?" I ask, seeking to re-affirm what I
thought I had heard previously.
"Nobody
would dare to live out there, son!" I hear from a raised voice somewhere in the
crowd.
Davo
adds, "Can you imagine anyone wanting to live near the homestead? They would
always be the first to see it whenever it re-appeared, and become the obvious
targets of the curse."
There
is a murmur of agreement from all of the patrons, including the
semi-inebriates.
When
it subsides, Davo adds, "That is why all of the folk here in The Village
agreed, many years ago, that the first person to discover the house when it
finally returns without anyone dying, should be granted ownership of the entire
property, over 200,000 acres or almost 100,000 hectares, stretching north, west
and south." He pauses. "Not that there is much out there, as anybody knows. Nobody
goes out there in case the homestead has returned and they could be the next
victim of the curse."
"The
ownership papers are all drawn up, and ready," Julie Smith says. "They have
been kept here, in the pub, for decades now." She leaves the bar then returns
shortly afterwards, displaying what appears to be a document wallet,
leather-bound and secured by a faded ribbon. "My drunken cousin and his moronic
university mates thought that they'd claim the place which is why they rode out
there, he told everyone. The next day my father died and the idiots all immediately
high-tailed it, back to the city."
Her
contempt for her cousin and his friends is obvious.
I
turn squarely to Davo and ask, "Sir, please excuse my ignorance, but how would
you explain the fact that there is a beautiful, well-kept two-storey homestead
sitting out there, right now, this very afternoon?"
Again,
the bar falls silent.
"What
are you saying, Tom, dear?" Julie Smith asks. "What are you talking about?
There are no buildings out there. The house would have disappeared after your
father's friend died."
I
turn towards her.
"Julie,
I can't explain why, but this morning I felt an overwhelming urge to drive out
there." People look at me, their eyes widen and there is a collective gasp.
"You've
been out there?" Davo asks me. "Even though you knew of the curse, and have
already witnessed the truth of it for yourself?" There is a tone in his voice
of stern admonition at my foolishness.
The
bar is still shrouded in expectant silence.
"I
know that it wasn't a smart thing to do," I reply, "but I almost couldn't help
myself. It was as though some force was drawing me to it."
"So,
you've actually seen the place?" Julie Smith asks me.
I
pause before I answer, and consider what to say. "I not only saw the place, but
I went inside it."
I'm
not sure if the buzz is disbelief, shock or in anticipation of hearing a long-concealed
secret. I guess that nobody here would have seen the house in their lifetime
and, therefore, definitely nobody (living) from hereabouts would have been
inside it.
I
describe the place in detail - the outside, entry, rooms, stairs, marbled
bathrooms and the view. Everything. Well, not everything: I omit the strange
events that I experienced.
"How
is that possible?" I hear somebody ask. Then he puts to Julie quietly, "Did
your cousin mention whether he had been inside?"
Julie
shakes her head, and turns to me.
"I
can only tell you what I saw," I say, looking around at them all.
"It
hardly seems possible at all," the old-timer mutters. Then, turning to all of
the patrons, he announces with some obvious emotion, "There can only be one
explanation." Then, sweeping his arm to encompass the attention of everyone in
the bar, exclaims, "Do you all understand what this could mean?"
The
buzz builds to a crescendo of excitement.
"Could
it finally be over?" Julie Smith asks, wiping her eyes with her apron. "Is it
all over?"
"I
was beginning to think that I'd never live to see the day!" Davo exclaims,
almost dancing a jig. Then he stops and addresses the patrons, "And, do you all
realise what else this means?"
"What,
Davo?" my tipsy young drinking buddy asks, somewhat loudly. "Tell us, what else
does this mean?"
"It
means that we all have a new neighbour," Julie Smith chirps.
"Only
if he and all of his friends are still alive tomorrow! We'll know by tomorrow
night," a sceptical voice interposes, only to be quickly hushed by those close
to him.
"Not
only a new neighbour, but a young, smart and handsome one!" Julie Smith adds,
then calls out, "Any girls around looking for a rich husband?"
I
feel myself blush, and drink the last of what is in my glass in an attempt to assuage
the heat and colour in my face.
I
endure much hand-shaking and back-slapping while, at the same time, wondering
what I would do with a second house `out of town'. Or someone chasing a
husband. Not Anna!
"Give
the man a real drink!" the young guy demands. "Peter Pan just grew up! He's a
landowner now, and he might want to hire some farm hands, like me." He receives
an admonishing punch to the arm by one of his mates. "Hey, I'm not against a
bit of `brown-nosing' to get some work to pay off my drinking tab!" That evokes
a good laugh all `round, even applause at his bravado.
I'm
inclined to decline with thanks, but then realise the importance in a small
community of accepting another man's offer of a drink. His `shout' is not to be
refused. One won't hurt. I smile to myself, it's not as though the local cop
(Chad) is going to bust me for drink-driving. There would be many here way
ahead of me in line for that charge!
While
I'm indulging in my celebratory drink, I sense from various comments that
people are curious to get a look at `my' homestead. They would be too polite to
ask, so I offer, "Would anyone like to come out with me and check out the
place?"
"What?
Now?" Davo asks.
I
reply, "I need to pick up Will from Thunungara first and do a couple of things
at the school. What if I meet you all back here in an hour, and we can go out
together - anyone who wants to come."
"Are
you joking?" Julie Smith asks. "There's not a single person around here who
wouldn't want to see that place, after all the years of fear and heartache that
the curse has inflicted upon the people of The Village."
I'm
glad that she didn't say `The Village People', an unintended reference to the
performers doing one of my favourite `action songs' - YMCA. That would have
caused some mirth which I would have found awkward to explain.
"OK."
I say. "I'll be back in an hour."
"I'll
even close the pub and come too," Julie Smith announces.
I
offer to return the young guy's shout when we all return. Then I say, "In fact,
I think I'll shout the bar." Everyone cheers at the thought of a free beer. As
I head out, I repeat, "Drinks all round when we get back from the homestead."
As
I leave, I see Marty's SUV pulling up and I walk across to him.
"What
were you doing in there?" he questions, knowing that it's not where he would
normally expect to see me.
"I
didn't think that a bit of liquid refreshment would hurt after my horse-riding
lesson," I chuckle. Then I add, "Besides, I've just been chatting to the locals
about their new neighbour."
"What
new neighbour?" he asks, probably curious that Acacia had mentioned nothing to
him; she being the first to know (or want to know) everything that's going on
around here.
"They'll
tell you, I'm sure!" I say. "I'll be back soon. I'm just going to pick up Will
from Reg and Di's."
I
smile inwardly at being able to maintain a serious face to Marty. Just wait
`till he finds out who the `new neighbour' is!
But,
in the back of my mind, troublesome thoughts emerge.
Is
it fair that I should come into a curse-decimated town and have bestowed upon
me one of the potentially best properties around? (I wonder if there is a
market for red dust?)
Maybe
Acacia should own it, seeing that she lost her husband to the curse.
Despite
the resolve of The Village folk years ago, I wonder whether some of the locals
will resent me having it, especially those who have lost a loved one - like
Julie Smith.
Anyway,
I suppose, it would be mine to do with as I please - even to give it to
somebody else. But... would they actually want it? Yes, who would want to live in
the thing that caused the death of their loved one? That's the thing, isn't it?
"You
lied to Jake and me," Will confronts me with while he is driving us back from
Reg and Di's.
"Why?
How?" I reply. "What did I say?" I try to recall my advice during `the talk'
and wonder what I said that was wrong.
"About
having a sore arse," he replies.
"I
never said any such thing," I tell him. "I only pretended to be sore because
that's what you and Jake expected. I didn't want to disappoint you both." I
grin.
There
is momentary silence while Will concentrates on avoiding a couple of stray
sheep.
"Uncle
Reg said that you were pretty good for a `first timer'." He smiles at me. "Full
of surprises, aren't you?"
"You
don't know the half of it yet, brother!" I smirk and stare at him.
"What
the hell does that mean?" he asks, turning and locking eyes with my own.
"Watch
the road!" I tell him. "You'll find out soon enough!"
He
shakes his head at me and concentrates on his driving.
As
we near The Village I ask him to drop me at the school so that I can deal with
a few administrative matters that I forgot yesterday. "Why don't you go and
visit Karl and Kurt?" I put to him. "I'll walk over when I'm finished. I should
only be 15 or 20 minutes."
He
pulls up outside the school gate, uncouples the ring holding the school keys
from my car keys, and says, "No, that's OK. Just pull up one blind, like
before, and I'll drive over and get you."
It
crosses my mind that he doesn't want me to interrupt any fun and games with the
twins by me turning up without warning.
I'm
sitting at my desk, filling in attendance details on a Departmental report form
that is due, when I hear footsteps. With all of the verandah blinds down, I
can't tell yet who it is.
Kurt
appears in the open doorway. "Hi, Mr Grant," he says cheerily. "May I come in?"
I'm
always impressed by his impeccable manners. His parents have taught him well!
"Sure,
Kurt. Come in!" I smile.
As
he enters, he closes the door behind him. I know instantly what is on his mind.
I
hadn't expected this, but I feel an immediate stirring within my loins. Do I
have time for this? Time for him?
"To
what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, young master Kurt?" I say, most
politely. It's politically correct talk for `What do you want, kid?'
As
he walks towards me, the outline of a chunky, somewhat-elongated young cock is
clearly visible in his shorts.
Behind
my desk, I swivel my chair to meet him and he stands in front of me. I almost
instinctively look from his face to his bulge and he follows my gaze downwards.
Then he looks into my eyes. "We don't have long, I think," he half-whispers as
if telling me a secret that nobody else, including the walls, should hear. He
looks at the suddenly-growing prominence in my own pants then smiles at me.
"You too, huh?" he asks.
I
reach forward to ruffle his already-untidy hair, and he moves in close between
my parted knees. I close my legs as if to hug him with them, then I relax. With
him standing and me sitting I slide slightly forward so that his erection is
softly greeted by my own. We make them touch and engage in some mutual rubbing
against each other.
He
drops his shorts to the floor, and increases his action against me to
thrusting. I notice the precum on his white undies. "You gonna take yours off?"
he asks, which almost sounds like a rebuke for being so slow to follow his
lead.
I'm
too much into this with Kurt to mount any kind of defensive argument, to him or
to myself.
I
stand, drop my trousers, and he points. We both note, with amusement, the dark
patch on my light blue CK's.
I
resume my seat. He places his hands on my upper thighs and I reach around him,
grip his firm young butt cheeks and pull him closer to me. We re-commence our
mutual stimulation, with very little thickness of materials now between us.
Then,
using one hand, he deliberately and carefully guides his wet patch at the end
of his erection to my own. He bravely begins rubbing the head of his hard cock
back and forth against mine, glancing up at my face occasionally. I savour the
feeling of his firmness pressing and rolling over mine then back again.
He
confidently grasps my cock and squeezes it. I shudder, and my wet patch grows.
I
love that he is taking the initiative but I wonder if that is, in any way,
stressful for him. Is it unfair of me to place the onus on him to do things?
My
duty of care to one of my students is already shot to pieces and my ethics is
also in tatters so I decide to ease his possible burden by assuming the lead.
I
hook my thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and lower them slowly, past
his patch of hair, taking his spike with them, causing it firstly to point
directly outwards and then strain against the descending fabric until it pops
free and stands tall, eliciting from him a giggle of pleasure.
He
stares directly into my eyes. I get the message. I stand and repeat the process
upon myself, although I would have been happy for him to do it. His eyes widen
in anticipation of my straining cock's snappy appearance. He is not
disappointed and chuckles as his face deftly avoids a blob of precum flicked
upwards in the process.
I
continue to lead by cupping his round balls and rolling them gently in my palm.
He's certainly going to have big ones in only a couple of years.
He
looks at me, hopefully, and I nod. He extends his left hand and I raise myself
slightly to allow my balls to rest on his upturned fingers, then I resume the
edge of my seat to allow freedom of movement for his hand with my jewels.
I
take his cock in my other hand. He reciprocates. He copies my every hand
movement. My sliding actions are slow and firm. Our precum, a measure of our
enjoyment, is providing quite sufficient lubrication. I speed up. He follows. I
slow down. He follows. I squeeze. He follows.
He
laughs. I follow.
We
are both enjoying our little game.
His
breathing starts to become erratic and I feel his balls move of their own
volition. I release them and, with that hand, reach for the box of tissues,
grabbing a handful, ready for his eruption. He begins to thrust into my
slippery fist then he freezes. I wrap the tissues around his cock as it pulses,
and I catch everything.
I
haven't cum yet but, with Kurt's stimulation, I'm too far gone to pull back
now. I envelop his fist that is gripping me with my own and I encourage his
actions, masturbating myself using his hand.
I
grab more tissues, telegraphing to him my `getting close' to spouting. He puts
out his `free' hand to take them. "I want to feel you shoot," he tells me.
I
try to hold back as long as possible, savouring the anticipation as the deep
stirrings begin. I guide his handful of tissues close to my shaft.
When
I say "Now!" he covers my head and has a grip of me with both hands. I twitch
and pump and groan, and he hums and moans with delight.
We
clean up, pull up and zip up. Mutual hugs and thanks follow.
I
lock up and we head for the toilets with the tissues.
On
the way back, Kurt says, "Mr Grant, do you want to sneak up on Karl and William
and see what they're doing?"
"You
mean spy on them?" I put to him.
"Not
exactly," he replies. "It would be more like going home early and looking
through the window to see if it's OK to go inside."
"You
mean spy on them!" I say with a different intonation.
"I
like my version better!" he chuckles. "Besides, if we see what they are doing
then it should be OK for you and me to do the same stuff, whatever that might
be."
"I
think that, maybe, we might even be one step ahead of them Kurt," I say,
sucking my middle finger to clarify my intent.
He
giggles, "Oh, Yeah, well I won't tell if you don't."
"Kurt,
would you like them to come over while we are here together and look through
the windows `to see if it's OK to come in'?" I ask.
"You
mean spy on us?" he replies, smiling and clearly understanding my meaning.
"Heck, no!"
"Then
we should respect their privacy just the same, don't you think?" I put to him.
"Yeah,
I guess," he replies. "But it's not the same! You already know that Karl,
William and I do stuff together."
"Maybe
so," I begin, "but there are times when people like some privacy. I'm sure
there are times when you just like to be alone, without your brother watching
you."
He
is silent momentarily then says with a cheeky grin, "Yep!"
I
don't ask!
"So,
we're not going to sneak up on them, are we?" I say. It's more of a statement
than a question.
"What
are we going to do then?" he asks.
"Go
over to your place." I reply.
"But,
you just said..." he starts.
"I
said that we wouldn't sneak up on them."
He
looks at me, confused. I say, "You know the song that we've been singing this
week?" (I've been teaching them a series of colonial folk songs.)
"Yeah,
I really like this one," he replies.
"Well,"
I explain, "when we get close to your place, we'll start singing it, then
continue straight inside. They'll know that we're coming. So, that's not
sneaking up on them or spying then, is it?" I ask him, smiling.
He
grins an evil grin. "I like your style, Mr Grant. But let's wait until we get
really close, eh, before we start singing?"
"But
not onto the front verandah," I say, ruffling his hair. I can tell exactly what
his brain was plotting!
"Awww!"
he responds light-heartedly.
I
think that he loves me swatting his tail as much as I enjoy doing it.
He
leads us across the paddock on the now-well-defined track. He must have been
over at the school for not even ten minutes so no casual observer from the pub
should suspect anything untoward. For once, I'm glad that he's a quick cummer!
The
closer we get to the house, the more antsy he becomes. He keeps looking around
at me for the signal to start our ditty.
When
I think that we're close enough to alert them, but without giving them too much
time to disguise what they've been doing, I burst out in a clear voice, "There
was a wild Colonial Boy, Jack Doolan was his name..."
Kurt
joins in as we swagger with the tempo towards the house. "Of poor but honest
parents he was born in Castlemaine..."
We
don't even finish the first verse before I'm mounting the few front steps. Kurt
takes them in one leap, and boldly strides through the front door.
"What
the hell are you doing back so soon?" Karl almost shouts at him. His tone
changes when he sees me as well. "Umm... we didn't think that you'd be so quick."
He looks around, grabs a cushion from the lounge and clutches it in front of
him to hide his erection.
"It's
OK, Karl," I say, smiling. "I have seen you naked a few times, you know."
"Yes,
Mr Grant, but not exactly like this..." he replies. He slowly removes the cushion
to reveal an exact duplicate of his twin brother's stiffness that I was playing
with not five minutes ago.
"Yes,
even like that!" I tell him. "In the weir."
"Oh,
yeah," he grins with embarrassment. I admire his nerve to bare all to me.
I
try to encourage him with, "Well, it does look as though you've grown since I
saw you last!" which elicits a proud, broad smile.
Will
is standing, muted, erection in hand, and stroking it slowly.
"So,
you guys haven't finished with each other yet?" I ask, almost matter-of-factly.
Kurt
giggles at the naked pair.
Will
scowls at me for my intrusion.
Karl
replies, "No, Mr Grant, but we were close."
I
smile at him. "OK," I say. "Come on, Kurt. Let's leave them alone. We'll take
the car and when they are ready, they can walk over to the pub. I have a
surprise for everyone."
The
anticipation of a mysterious surprise should ensure that they `get on with it'
in a hurry!
"Don't
be long," I tell them.
"I
think that they're both already as long as they get," Kurt laughs as we leave,
for which he receives `the finger' first from Karl and then from Will.
"Happy
now?" I ask Kurt. He nods and beams broadly, as if embarrassing his brother had
been his prime, or sole, objective.
I
drive the short distance to the pub and pull up. There is a small crowd
waiting. "Back in a minute, mate," I say to Kurt.
I
go into the bar and announce, "OK, folks. Who's coming?"
Julie
Smith tells them all to drink up because the pub is about to close.
Marty
empties his glass into his mouth then walks up to me. I can't tell from the
expression on his face whether he wants to hug me or hit me. He settles for a
firm handshake and a chest-bumping man-hug. "I don't believe it," is all that
he says.
"Come
in my car," I tell him. "But we'll have some young company."
The
crowd empties from the pub and begins filling various vehicles (hopefully with
the most sober people as drivers). It looks as though we will have a convoy of
six.
Kurt
climbs into the back seat and Marty takes the front one. Karl and Will come
running and pile into the back, with Will between the twins.
"Hi
guys," Marty says.
"Hey,
Marty," they chorus back, somewhat out of sync.
Will
asks, "What's going on?"
"Don't
you know?" Marty puts to him, then to the twins.
The
negative answers and head shaking only cause Marty to laugh and say, "Well, you
are in for as much of a treat as the rest of us!"
I
lead off, cross the bridge and turn onto the track. I follow my previous tyre
impressions and the vehicles behind me spread out in wild-goose formation to
avoid being enveloped in my, and each other's, dust.
Will
and the twins are at first fearful of our direction and potential destination,
having been warned for their entire lives, but without the details, that the
land out this way is cursed. Will is now aware, first hand, of its reality
through the death of our dad's best friend.
Marty
does his best to reassure them that "It's OK now. It seems that the curse has
been broken. It's finished."
"But
why are we heading out here?" Will asks. "Are we going to see the old place?"
"You'll
see!" I say, as the homestead looms in front of us.
The
six vehicles pull up abreast of each other and the occupants allow the dust to
settle before clambering out.
"Oh,
my gosh!" Julie Smith is heard to say. "Will you just look at this place! It's
not at all what I imagined. It's absolutely beautiful!"
There
are `oohs' and `aahs' and even some blatant expletives from the small crowd.
Davo
stands motionless, as if attempting to reconcile his knowledge and the history
of the place with the vision before him. He wipes tears from his eyes, perhaps
in remembrance of those lost to the curse or the wanton loss of the natives at
the hands of the murderous land owner. Perhaps from relief!
Julie
Smith notices the rose bushes. Trust a woman's aesthetic nature! She walks over
to one, crouches to smell the flowers and comments on their strong perfume. "I
cannot imagine how this thing of beauty could possibly grow out here!" she
says. "It's so dry, all around! Perhaps there's some underground water. There
must be!"
Davo,
also being the district's walking encyclopaedia on local flora and fauna, examines
the flowers and comments, "I've never seen one of these before. Ever! I have no
idea what type of roses they are. I'll have to check old man O'Sullivan's
journals that he compiled and gave to me the day before he died. I must have
missed this one! He told me that his journals were a smaller, draft version of
a set of more detailed drawings that he was putting together in a portfolio for
his granddaughter, Helen."
Helen
O'Sullivan had shared with me her grandfather's passion for drawing wildlife.
His work is supposed to be the definitive catalogue of everything in the
district.
We
ascend the stairs. The boys are not as enthusiastic as I might have expected
and they hang back, letting the adults go first. Maybe, they are apprehensive.
Or, perhaps it is just their good manners.
I
offer for Davo to `do the honours'.
He
reaches for the large brass door handle, turns it and pushes. It does not
yield. "It appears to be stuck," he says, shoving a little more forcefully.
Nothing happens.
A
few of the others, including Marty, try their hand.
"It
appears to be locked. Did you lock it, Tom?" Julie Smith asks.
"No,"
I reply. "I didn't find any keys, besides which, I don't even see a key hole on
this side, do you?" I walk to the door myself and lay my hand on the handle.
The door opens with absolutely no effort, almost of its own accord.
"How
did you do that?" Marty asks me.
"No
idea!" I say. Then I add, jokingly, "Maybe it just likes my gentle city-slicker
hands."
Many
chuckle. I sense from Will's face that he is about to comment but my frown
prevents him from vocalising whatever ribald comment that his brain had
conjured up.
We
all file into the expansive entry hall which, I consider, would be perfect for
holding a large, local function. All of the internal doors are open. I shudder.
Somebody, apart from me, has been here, and re-opened them.
The
boys' inhibitions have evaporated, and they take off up the stairs - one twin
to the right, the other to the left, with Will in hot pursuit.
I
find myself perusing the books in the library with Davo. He comments, "Tom,
from what I can tell, most of these look like first editions, well over a
century old. Any single one of them might potentially be worth a fortune!"
I
handle them with more respect.
After
about a quarter of an hour everyone is congregated on the upper front verandah,
commenting on the stark contrast between the austerity of the landscape and the
lavishness of the house.
"It's
almost as though time has stood still and the house is exactly as it would have
been over a century ago. This is really weird!" somebody comments.
"Well,
so was the curse. There are some things that you just can't explain!" another
adds.
"It
looks like you've got yourself a real treasure, love," Julie Smith says.
Will
is standing alongside me. "What do you mean, Mrs Smith?" he asks her.
"Hasn't
he told you yet, dear?" she says.
"Told
me what?" Will replies, then looks at me, puzzled.
"Tom
is the new owner of this property," she replies.
Will
stands with his mouth open. I push his chin up. "Close your mouth. You'll catch
flies!" I tell him. It was one of my mother's favourite sayings when I was
little.
(to
be continued)
There is a parallel version to this
story, told through the eyes of Kurt.
Find it at https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/kurt-series/
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