WRITING GALLERY - MAY 2025

LITTLE FAMILY, EARLY MORNING
by Cindi B

I walk a lot. What I see is not a picture but a spasmodic video in my brain of what I pass, always complete with pungent early morning smells. Sometimes when I pass people there are more questions than answers. Mostly it doesn’ t matter.

I saw them not long past dawn on the cool frangipani scented walking path. Ahead of me, dawdling at the pace of the smallest walker, who was perhaps three years old, were a family group. At first I had thought the tallest walker was Dad, which filled me with admiration. As I got closer, I realised that ‘he’ was a big capable Mum. I understand intimately the

organisation and persistence needed to get small children fed and dressed to go out early. So, even more admiration for them. Mum was pushing a stroller, littlie on her left, walking well and a five-year-old boy rushing ahead and running back and forth like a puppy. In Mum’s right hand she has the lead of a lively dog. Wow, I thought, huge handful! The dog was being indecisive about where to pee and then skittishly threatening the necessity of a poo bag; how was Mum going to manage that with everything else in her hands?

I considered slowing down to find out, but the dog, as they do, changed her mind. How people manage their pets in that situation always interests me! Lots of work, I thought, but a healthy harmonious family; no whingeing, no cross words.

Passing I commented to Mum, “great little handful you have here!” She smiled and nodded. The stroller contained a tiny baby.

I was already several metres past them, I thought, when a childish voice called out from right behind me.
“Guess what, guess what!” it was the bright five- year-old.
“What?” I asked, turning to see him bouncing with importance. “See that house there?” he said, pointing down the driveway of the house we were passing. “That’s where my Daddy’s friend lives.
“Oh,” I said, “are you going to visit?”
“No, we just walk past”.
He ran back. I strode on, the quiet morning not as bright as it had been.

Somehow, something sad had smeared the lens through which I had interpreted the little family. I so hoped I was wrong.

FANNINGS DAY DAWN
by Melinda G

Long ago in the tropic sprawl of Ingham town,
Where cane fields were sown and heavy rains came down,
Stood Fanning’s Day Dawn pub, with signage bold and proud,
Its swinging doors always invited a regular, rowdy crowd.

The pub had a timber frame, with battered charm,
A tin-topped roof, a right angled, crooked arm
Of veranda quite wide - to shade from the blistering heat
Bars filled with chatter where blokes would often meet.

The year was 1943, it was the middle of war’s weary tide
When young Yanks in uniform had been sent both far and wide;
And it was here in Ingham, in convoy, that their trucks stopped
With wide grins, and loud voices they thought they’d enjoy a drop

They swaggered in with hearty cheers,
And quickly fell for the Aussie beers.
They liked 'em cold, they liked 'em fast,
And they drank it all like each round was their last.

The locals watched, with arms crossed tight,
Not keen on seeing this brash, invasive sight;
"Too bloody loud," locals muttered, "bloody yanks full of airs
They’re drownin' our peace - and those bloody foreign stares."

The soldiers drained the kegs, and not one drop was spared,
Ol’ man Fanning groaned, “hell, I wasn’t at all prepared!”
The cellar was bare, and the lads were still keen
but there was not a single full barrel to be seen.

Fanning scratched his chin and globbed a spit,
“I reckon that’s it, boys, you’ve drunk it all - every bit!”
And one yank soldier used some newly-learnt Aussie phrases with cheer,
“Hey mate, you’ve got a flamin’ good pub... but it’s got bugger-all beer!”

Now that the beer was gone, the mood quickly turned black,
One bloke tossed a stool, another blew his Yankee stack.
Years later, one man heard the tale, and it rang in his ear
Slim Dusty penned a winning tune - The Pub with No Beer.

DOGSTOOTH
by Trevor S

AN EVENT OR TWO
by Julie S

February 1954

Elizabeth II had been crowned Queen of England and the Colonies in June 1953, and now in February 1954 she was making her first visit to Australia.  The whole country was buzzing with excitement and we children from the Sacred Heart Primary School in Sandringham could talk of nothing else for we were to be going on a bus to St Kilda where Her Majesty was to have lunch at the Town Hall.  We were scrubbed and polished to within an inch of our lives and all issued with a little Union Jack flag which we were instructed to wave vigorously when her cavalcade came past. Some parents were roped in to help keep us in line and we were under the control of Mrs Deegan, Mary’s mother.  Mary was an only child and was always immaculately clean and always very well behaved.  Unlike the rest of us she never swore or got into fights and was seen as the teacher’s pet.

 “She’s coming. She’s coming” we all surged forward to wave and cheer, and Mrs Deegan nearly bowled us over as she barged through us to grab Mary and thrust her forward as if she were a rugby player.  I was very excited to see the back of a black car.

March 1970

The Queens Gallery at Buckingham Palace was established in the early 1960s’ and was created from the bombed-out ruins of the Private Chapel at the Palace. It contains works from the Royal Collection and was not well known by the general public at that time. An early morning visit rewarded us with no crowds, BUT with Her Majesty herself selecting pictures under the guidance of Sir Anthony Blunt Surveyor of The Queens Pictures and subsequent spy, one of the Cambridge Five.  We colonials not knowing we were not supposed to speak to Her greeted her with “Good Morning your Majesty”.  She gave a most discreet nod and smile as acknowledgement.

Stick that in your pipe and smoke  it Mrs Deegan.

ANZAC DAY
by Valda R

Wearing just a loincloth, his body coated with pig grease, and with a sharp knife tucked in securely, he made his way down the mountain path on this moonless night. Upon reaching the beach, he quietly crept until he reached the tent of the Japanese Officer he had been observing for days. He entered silently and then slit the knife across the throat of the man who had shot his brother. 

The noise awoke others and the injury from the bullet which entered his lower leg caused great pain. He managed to escape and was able to make his way crawling through the rainforest, back up the mountain and knowing there would be a search for him, would need to go into hiding to protect his villagers.

The Japanese had been camping on the beach for several weeks and during the day made excursions into the local villages, burning houses and raping the women, when they believed the villagers were providing information to the coast watchers based high in the mountains. Kissikau was incensed when his brother had been shot and was determined to pay back.

April 25 was a special day and now an old man, he proudly slipped on his T-shirt with several precious medals pinned on it. He made his way down the mountain to the small settlement where he would be treated as a hero. He had been attending this day every year since the Japanese were driven out by the strong American force twenty years earlier.

He wanted to arrive early, enjoy his betel nut, and sit with the children who would admire his medals and ask him every year to repeat his story of the time he changed the war.

Local villagers continued to make their way to the meeting point, several appearing with medals proudly pinned to their well worn T shirts. Excitement built when the small naval patrol boat anchored, with the naval band onboard. The highly respected District Commissioner who was an original explorer in this primitive country in the 1930s, with his local knowledge had lived rough as a coast guard high in the mountains, radioing the positions of the Japanese with the information gained from the villagers. With the band leading the march on the glaringly white crushed coral road to the delight of the small crowd, he marched proudly with the barefoot locals to the parade ground, where the ceremony would take place undertaken by the small local police constabulary along with the Naval captain. The day became one of celebration, tinged with sorrow for the many locals who lost their lives supporting the Australians.

For Kissakow it was his day of glory and although his leg had been treated years after by a medical officer when order was restored to this small island, he was left with a permanent limp and limited movement. However his actions during the war when the Japanese had taken over the Manus Islands were acknowledged, and he was a very proud local hero.

Postscript:
District Commissioner Jim O’Malley has been widely written about for his expedition into the highland areas with Jack Hides in the 1930s. I worked as his Secretary and still remember the long morning tea breaks listening to his amazing stories.

We were told this story by Kissakou when he called my husband aside when we were invited to this village high on the mountain, for the wedding of the cousin of our housegirl.

A GOLDEN OLDIE
by Malcolm W