After buying aspirin at the chemist next to the clinic, Baxter took a walk up and down the town’s main street. Many of the shops and buildings from his childhood were still there, and brought up all kinds of fond memories.
But he also recalled, with painful clarity, the day his mother told him with a smile that they’d soon be leaving Moondilla to live in Sydney.
‘But why?’ he asked, shocked.
Frances sighed and tried to explain. ‘We were offered a very good price for our business, and we took it. Sydney’s a bigger market, with so many more people who want to dine out. We’ve already been offered a place to begin.’ She looked thrilled to be leaving their home, and Greg felt even worse.
His face fell. ‘But I love it here, Mummy. The beach and the river are my favourite places.’
‘Sydney has one of the best harbours in the world, and there’s lots of beaches.’
‘They’ll all be crowded and ugly. It won’t be like here.’ Greg’s throat felt tight and tears stung his eyes. ‘The schools will be different too.’
‘Greg, you must allow your father and I to be the judges of what’s best for our family.’ She put her hands on his shoulders and gave them a comforting squeeze, gazing into his eyes. ‘I know it’s hard for you to understand, but I hope you can trust me. We’ve gone as far as we can go in Moondilla, and now it’s time to move on.’
Greg went away dragging his feet. His mother’s announcement was the biggest item of news he’d ever had to digest, and there was only one person he felt disposed to talk to about it. This was the elderly World War One soldier who fished at the southern end of Main Beach, Albert Garland.
Although the young Greg Baxter wasn’t then aware of it, Mr Garland had been decorated for gallantry in France. He’d also been gassed and hit by two bullets from a German machine gun. After surviving all of that, he’d lost his son in the Second World War, and then his wife had died when Greg was a baby.
What moved young Greg was that Mr Garland didn’t treat him like a little boy, but spoke to him as he did to older people.
Greg had first come across the old man on one of his many tramps around Moondilla. He knew every street of the town, and every nook and cranny, but he was always drawn most to the beaches and the river.
He would sit on the rim of the beach and watch the old man fish, sometimes with a rod and at others a handline. Being a naturally curious little boy, Greg was always interested in the kinds of fish the old man caught. Soon the boy was sitting and watching every day he could, but he kept quiet, afraid that if he caused a disturbance he’d be told to go away.
Finally, after several days of this, the old man spoke to him. ‘What’s your name, young man?’
‘It’s Greg. Greg Baxter. We own the restaurant in Moondilla.’
‘I’m Albert Garland. You can call me Mr Garland. Like fishing, do you?’
‘I like to see the different kinds of fish there are.’
‘I suppose you know them all, do you?’
‘No, but I know the ones my mum uses in the restaurant. Snapper and flathead mostly.’
‘Your mother can’t go wrong with them,’ Mr Garland said and nodded wisely. ‘Very good eating fish. I like them best myself.’
The old man would make lunch of a sandwich and small thermos of tea. He carried them and his fishing gear in an ex-army haversack that had attracted Greg’s attention from the outset. Aside from the haversack, Mr Garland carried his rod and a sugar bag with a rope noose. He’d put his catch in the sugar bag and drop it into the water until it was time to leave, when he’d kill and clean the fish.
‘That’s a strong-looking bag,’ Greg said once, after a thorough inspection of the haversack. It was made of a kind of canvas and fastened with brass-edged straps. The boy had never seen a bag like it.
‘It will never wear out,’ the old man said proudly. ‘That haversack was in North Africa. They made them tough for the army.’
•
So it was to Mr Garland that Greg made his way after his mother had told him the awful news. He hoped the old man would appreciate how badly he felt.
‘What’ve you lost, young Greg?’ Mr Garland asked. ‘You look very down in the mouth.’
‘We’re leaving Moondilla,’ Greg said tremulously. He was on the verge of tears but trying desperately not to appear a sook.
‘Ah, so it’s true.’
‘What do you mean?’ Greg asked.
‘I heard your people’s business had been sold. Surprised me, ’cause it seemed to be going so well.’
‘That’s the problem.’ Greg explained his mum’s plans.
Mr Garland listened thoughtfully. ‘And you’re very unhappy about leaving?’
Greg sniffed. ‘Yes, I love this place. I love the beach and the river and watching you fish. I don’t want to go to Sydney where there’s millions of people.’
‘Well, if you’re a good boy—and I reckon you are—you’ll fall in with what your people want. They must reckon they’re doing the right thing, and it’s them that has to find the money for everything. One day it will be your turn to make the decisions about what you’re going to do.’
‘I suppose so,’ Greg said glumly.
The old man set his rod aside and stooped down a bit closer to the boy’s level. ‘I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone—not even my late wife.’
Greg nodded eagerly.
‘I was in the first AIF, in France. It was a dreadful business, young Greg. Freezing cold, snow at times, the shelling was awful and the German machine guns were terrible. Then there was their stinking gas. Thousands of Australians killed. I finished up in hospital in England. And do you know what helped to get me through?’
The boy shook his head.
‘It was the thought of being able to come back here where there were no guns and no stinking gas, just the sea and the river and the fishing. So I’ll give you two pieces of advice. Fall in with a good heart with what your parents want to do, but keep the picture of Moondilla in your mind. And when you’re your own boss, you can come back here.’
‘What’s your second piece of advice, Mr Garland?’
‘Be the best it’s possible to be at whatever you do. If you’re successful, that will help you to come back here.’ The old man’s face softened in a way the boy had never seen before. ‘I’m going to miss you, young Greg. Although I won’t be here to see it, I reckon that one day you’ll return to Moondilla. That’s the kind of young man I think you are. You’ll come back here and do things that people remember.’
‘But you won’t be here,’ Greg said, again feeling like he might cry.
Mr Garland shrugged. ‘Nobody lives forever. I could have, and probably should have, died in France along with my best mates, so I’ve had a fortunate reprieve. And I’ve caught a lot of good fish.’
•
Some three years later, a parcel arrived at the Baxters’ home in Sydney, addressed to Greg. It wasn’t Christmas or his birthday. ‘Who could be sending me a present?’
‘If you open it, you’ll find out,’ Frances said, handing him a pair of scissors.
Once he’d cut the packing tape, Greg tore the cardboard box open and let out a whoop of excitement. ‘It’s Mr Garland’s haversack! It was in North Africa. There’s an NX number on it.’
‘And there’s a note inside,’ Frances pointed out.
Greg withdrew the single piece of creamy notepaper.
Dear Greg,
Keep the dream alive.
Your old fishing mate,
Albert Garland.
‘He didn’t forget,’ Greg whispered. ‘He knew I liked his haversack.’
‘The really worthwhile people never forget, Greg,’ his mum told him.
Greg looked at his mother and nodded. Her eyes were damp. That was when he realised that the arrival of the haversack meant Mr Garland had died.
This didn’t lessen Greg’s desire to go back to Moondilla, though he knew the town would never be quite the same without his friend. An old and very decorated ex-soldier had treated him not as a small boy, but as a mate.
Years later, when he finally returned to live in Moondilla, Baxter brought the haversack with him. In fact, it was where he stowed the aspirin he’d just bought.