TWO LOGS by JIMMY BROOK - HTML preview

CHAPTER TWELVE

A stiff breeze, picked up dust, and blew it in little eddies,  along with dead grass and leaves, across the paddocks. Overhead,  the sun was bright, but the warmth was nominal. In these short  winter days, it would be cold by five o'clock.

The car, a late model station waggon, with it's middle aged  driver, moved slowly down the main business centre of town, and  passing the RSL club, turned into one of the wide streets, lined  with peppercorn trees, that adorned so many country towns. He pulled  up outside a large rambling house, set on a big block, with a  veranda, running across the front, and down the side. It was   well kept. The galvanised roof, was gleaming silver, attesting to  a new coat of paint.

The driver, carrying a large note pad, walked to the door, and  knocked. He had failed to notice the person, sitting in the cane  chair, on the veranda.

"Help you?" His voice was firm. He did not get up.

The driver, turned, and walked over to him. "My name's Eric  Seville. I'm a journalist with Ryker Publications. You Mr. Mathew  McClymont?"

"Sure am. Won't get up, if you don't mind. Arthritis. And I'm not  seventy." The journalist stuck out his hand, and received a firm  grip. The face was well browned, from the sun. "What brings you  out here? Sit down."

"Thanks. Ryker does books on all sorts of things. Currently they are  putting together, a history of eating places in Australia. I have  the job of getting information on old places, and background data  on the people who ran them, or worked in them. That's why I'm  here."

"Might be a wasted journey, sir. I worked on properties, sheep  and cattle. Never had a restaurant or the like, nor my wife."

Eric pulled his coat around him, as a gust of wind shook the  trees. "All is not lost. Actually it's your mother, we are  interested in. We believe, she ran a restaurant, obviously some  time back. Was hoping you could give me some background on her,  and naturally anything on the place."

Mathew's eyes narrowed, and he placed his hands in  a prayer  like position, before answering. "I assume you mean the one in  Sydney. Burwood."

"That's the one. The Blue Bell. The sort of cafe that has passed  into history."

"Well, I remember nothing about the place. Only ever went there  once or twice, and that was to see mum. Sorry." A kid on a bike,  rode past, tossing a rolled up paper, onto the lawn. 

"What about your mother?," asked Eric, "anything I could put in  as text? Sort of person. Family. I gather she would be gone?"

"Yes, she's no longer with us. Died about twenty or so years  back. She was a wonderful person. Strong personality. Had to,  life wasn't kind to her."

Eric was writing notes. "Want to tell me about it? Just let me  know what you don't want printed."

"Not much to tell, really. My dad cleared out when I was very  young. Never knew him. Gather he was a proper bastard. Mum  brought me up, and then I needed to start my own life. I hated  leaving her, but my dream of owning a big cattle property, was  too strong. She had the Blue Bell, and her own life. We stayed  close, though. Always wrote to each other, and she came to visit,  when she could."

"What happened to her? She ever re marry?"

"Never remarried. Wary of men, she was. She did meet a fellow,  must have been around early 1950s. Think she was keen. Vaguely  remember her coming down to Yass, when I was at 'Brolga', and she seemed a new person. It was in her eyes. She had nice eyes,  my mum."

"What happened?" asked Eric, turning another page.

"Can't really remember. Think he walked out on her, or just  disappeared, or something. She told me about him saving a kid  from a train, I think. A piece of her died after that. Wish I was  in Sydney then, would've rearranged his face, if I ever met him."

"Where is she buried, Mr. McClymont, in Sydney?"

"No. Right here in town. Came to live with me and my wife about,  think it would have been ten years, before she died. We were out  of town then, Penna's place. She's down in the cemetery, near the  big gum. She liked trees. And the kids. We have two girls, and  both got on well with her. That's where my wife is. Over at our  daughter's place. They should be coming back soon. Want to come  in and wait?"

"Think I might pass on that. I have a long way to go, and should  make tracks. Thanks for the interview. Sounds like she was a really  nice person."

"She was."

The journalist stood up, shook hands, and returned to his car. He  drove off, and headed back past the RSL club. Mathew slowly got  up, and went inside. He stopped at the mantle place, and picking  up the photograph of his mother, taken before she died, kissed  it, and replacing it, went to make a cup of tea.

Instead of heading north or south out of town, at the big service  station/self service, the journalist drove straight on for a kilometre, and  turned into the local cemetery. Parking the car, he took his work  bag, with the camera gear, and headed towards the only gum tree.

The air had turned cold, but the wind had died away, to a few  small gusts. Some threatening clouds, were on the horizon.  Buttoning up his coat to the neck, he stopped, and wandered  around the dozen or so gravesites, finding the one he had come to  see. It was well tendered, neat, and the stone, still readable.  He thought the border of small blue bell flowers, was a  nice  gesture.

He took a photo, then reached back into the bag, and brought out  a small bunch of flowers, a jar, and a bottle of water. He set  them up, and stood looking for a few minutes, then with tears in  his eyes, said "Goodbye, Myra. Perhaps we'll meet again."

He turned away, and walked towards the car, as the clouds  gathered. Robert had a long drive ahead of him, back to Sydney.

                                                   The End.

Jimmy Brook

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