A bite at the cherry.

                                   

North Queensland, when I knew it in the early 1990’s was still fairly sparsely populated, especially north of Townsville. The population seemed to be made up of either locals who’d never moved more than 10k’s from their home; farmers who drove at half the speed limit, a hat pulled firmly down over their ears never checking any mirrors for anyone else on the road; and the odd balls, drifters, loners, quasi hippies without the commune, people looking for a place to drop out of the populated mainstream that was, and still is, the cities of the south.

I’d found a nice little house to purchase, one road back from the sea itself. It was brick, unusual in that country of wooden houses on stilts, the so called “Queenslanders”,, or concrete hollow blocks that in England we had called clinkers.

It had been built as a show home to try and encourage the sale of the other blocks developed around a country club sort of affair, not then existent. It was to have bowling greens, a swimming pool, a golf course and a club house eventually. All it had when I moved in were rows and rows of palm trees in plastic bags and a caravan in which lived an odd job man working on projects connected with the development.

His name was Fred, I think anyway. He was typical of outdoor tradesman types – small and wiry, with a skin burned to deep brown even in the wrinkles. I’ve no idea how old he was, around 50’s I’d guess. He was friendly and chatty, as long as no-one wanted him to talk much about himself. He had a small dog that was always with him who seemed to provide Fred with all the company he needed. I never saw any visitors to his place. He commented once that he family “down Melbourne way”. I asked if he ever went to see them, and he said, briefly, “no, they know where are I am if they want to see me”. We left it at that.

I needed a few handyman jobs doing around the place, and Fred was happy to oblige for a reasonable rate. I remember him giving me a superb chili plant in a pot, with the hottest chillies I’d ever eaten.

He opened up once though. Perhaps it was the day, or the associated events. The first Tuesday in November. Melbourne Cup day. On the Monday before, I’d ridden my push bike down to the local store, about 5 kms away, and had a close call in a creek with a taipan which had left me a bit shaken. Late that day, chores finished I’d driven down to the newly opened golf course and club house, deciding to sit out in the cooling evening air with a beer and my form guides and try and pick a winner. I’m a serious handicapper, and rarely bother with big races, but the Cup is a special event, and I enjoyed picking a few on that day just for fun.

I had to admit, although I’d not been overly happy about having a country club built nearby, it was a nice place. Small, quiet, and nestling among royal palms, with a view towards the hills, which are the the beginning of the Great Dividing Range that runs down the entire East Coast. As night fell, the ranges grew to be just a solid black mass, without feature, like a black cardboard cutout against a starry sky undimmed by city lights. Because it was often too hot in the day during summer for golfers to be out, the club owner had instituted little lights where the greens were, and luminous balls, so that those who grow ill when deprived of their game can play at night.

I was watching with pleasure as the sky turned swiftly from deep clear blue to sparkling black, sipping a cold beer, when I spotted Fred. He drifted over and sat at my table, ready for some easy small talk, and I had no objections.

In answer to his query about the paper I was half heartedly perusing, and marking, I explained my vague search for a winner, asking, with confidence of getting a positive reply, if he ever had a bet. I was surprised by his emphatic if slowly spoken “No, never do”.

“Not even The Cup:”? I queried - it being hard, in Australia, to find anyone who doesn't have “a flutter on the Cup”.

“No, never, not even that”.

I began to wonder if he disapproved of gambling, on some sort of principle, but he finished the cigarette he was comfortably rolling, and, fishing out his lighter said, “well, I don’t now. I did once though, just once, a long time ago”.

There was a far away musing look on his face, as though this was the first time in a long time he’d even remembered his long ago bet. And then, pulling on his cigarette, gazing across the green course with it’s sprinkling of “landing lights” and the black mass of hills opposite, he started to tell his tale.

Years ago now, he said, I was in me early 30’s, married with a kid. I didn't want to be employed, at some bugger of a supervisor’s beck and call. But it’s hard being an independent loner these days, and especially down south. I’d started up as a tradie, doing odd jobs, mainly carpentry, but digging ditches, anything so long as I was working for meself. O’course, it often meant being away from home for a few days, picked up by the supervisors and driven to where the job was, then dropped off home again. Supply your own tools, of course.

Problem was the woman I was married to. Complain?? Never stopped. Either I wasn't earning enough to buy all the falderals she wanted, or I was away earning money when she didn't want me to be.

Anyway, I get home late one evening a couple of days before I expected to be, and walked in to find her with another bloke. I hit the roof, she screamed blazing hell, and I left before I hit the pair of them. Went to stay with a mate. Well, I go round there the next morning and she’s gone, most of the furniture, kid too. I called me mate, and he comes round real fast with a ute, and we pack up all my tools. I wasn't about to let her sell them and leave me stranded. I felt so sick and miserable.

Then the family gets on at me. Me parents, me sister. His voice took on a mocking falsetto,

“Oh well, what do you expect, going off for days at a time, wanting to be your own boss. Why don’t you take a job like everyone else”.

I was so down, I couldn’t explain it, just everywhere looked dark and I felt sick. Next day, me mate takes me out with him – a bit scared to leave me on me own I suppose, not that he’d cause to worry. I remember it started pouring with rain. Dark, gloomy day suited how I was feeling to a T.

He was big into his betting, and I think he put bets on for people the bookies wouldn't deal with, so he was hopping here and there. Come the last race, I strolled over to the ring where the horses walk around before the race, just staring at the mud and rain, and suddenly notice this huge set of horse feet – hooves I should say I suppose – go plodding past. I had another look when he come around again, and damned if I've ever seen such bloody big feet on a horse. So I got his saddle number and went and looked for him in the bookies ring. Would you believe his name? Aquaplane. Never forgotten it. Paying a huge amount of money, and I suddenly just felt furious at everything. I took every penny I had and bet him for a win. Well, me mate comes back, asks what I’ve done and lets out a yowl. “Why didn't you wait till I come back like I told you” he groans, “bloody horse is useless, hasn't won a race in years.” 

I just didn't care. Anyway, off they go, and get lost in the rain, then they come round the bend, the caller yelling, and all I can hear is, “It’s Aquaplane, aquaplane plodding home better than anyone”. Horses had been slipping and sliding all over the track, everything but for him and his soup plate hooves. I made a packet.

Next day, I went round car yards and found an old ute I could afford and still leave me petrol and some food money, and packed my ute with everything I had and headed up here. And I’ve never left”.

We stood up to go, and I remember saying “I’d have thought it would have got you wanting to keep betting, to try and repeat that”

“Ah no”, said Fred, “I don’t happen to believe in that see. I reckon you get one stroke of luck like that in a lifetime. It’ll not come again. Anyway, it seems kind of ungrateful to Lady Luck or whoever, to keep asking for more. No, I got me big break just when I most needed it.

I’ll never try it again”.

I couldn’t help thinking what an unusual attitude it represented; at one, I guess with his independence, his aura of being a man who needed no-one. I wondered if it had anything to do with his staying single after that one failed marriage.

I can’t remember whether I picked a winner or not. Probably not, I’d have remembered otherwise.