The Tea In China
By C.L Eyles
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“Cup of tea, Earl?”
“Lovely, thanks Frank.”
Frank Campbell looks around at the myriad of boxes that line the walls of the room. ‘Frank and Earl’s Fine Tea Emporium,’ the stamped motif reads. And just for a moment Frank imagines he can still smell the aroma of freshly blended tea leaves, and spices, if only he concentrates hard enough.
Boxes, so many boxes; all sizes, big, and small, it seemed their entire life had been defined by boxes. Set square packaged, and forced into neat definitions of what society had expected from men like them.
Frank Campbell had met Earl Spencer in the summer of 56. They’d been droving Cattle together, travelling the stock route from Halls Creek to Willuna. Short of stature, with a thick set neck, and broad shoulders, Frank had cut a contrasting figure against the back drop of Earl’s own long limbed, and slightly gangly appearance.
That summer had been a scorcher, even by Outback standards. Tempers, it seemed, rose quicker than the noon day heat. Franks first memory of any real physical contact with Earl came in the form of a fist that connected squarely with his jaw, and knocked him flying.
“What the bloody hell did you do that for?” Frank demanded to know, whilst Earl stood over him, glowering.
“Look at the sign you flaming drongo,” Earl pointed to a weather beaten, and paint chipped board now hanging loose on the gate they were about to pass through, “this is old man Munson’s farm. I told you a kilometre ago we were going the wrong way, and now you wanna drive fifty head of cattle straight through private property? “
“Saves us going round the long way,” Frank got to his feet, and brushed red earth and bits of bark from his oilskin, “it’ll save us at least four days of saddle time, unless of course you like the stench of saddle sweat, and having your old fella all squashed up to buggery.”
“Of course I don’t,” Earl had scoffed, and then given in. Later that evening he would apologise as they made camp, and swung billy tea.
“Sorry ‘bout clocking you one back there.”
“She’s right mate, let’s just forget about it.” Frank replied as he ran a hand over his bruised jaw.
“Do you reckon it’s true what they say about fellas out here in the bush?” Earl had asked then, using the heel of his boot to nudge a wayward branch back onto the fire. “I mean about fellas turning to one another, when they haven’t got a sheila within cooee.”
“Dunno, haven’t heard anything myself.” Frank had lied. Of course he’d heard all the talk, listened in on the gossip of old biddies who didn’t seem to have anything better to do than flap their gums about things that were no concern of their own. Even so, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be having this particular conversation, not with Earl Spencer at least.
“I don’t reckon it’d be so bad, beats being lonely out here.”
Studying Earl’s dirt roughened features, Frank wondered if he had somehow misjudged the man. Droving was hard work, there was no room for those who didn’t have the strength, or fortitude to cope with the harsh terrain, or the months of back breaking labour that went along with it. He’d sized Earl up when they had first set out; despite the man’s comparatively diminutive form Frank had taken note of his weather beaten hands, paid particular attention to the callouses on Earl’s fingers, observed the way he seemed to swagger open legged as he walked, and promptly deemed him to be ‘not that way inclined’. According to Frank’s observations, Earl appeared to have all the hallmarks of a man who enjoyed their women, just as much as their booze, and never shied away from an honest day’s work. Then again, Frank figured, the same could probably be said about him.
Making a strategic choice not to respond to Earl directly, Frank had taken a punt then. Opportunities like this didn’t exactly present themselves every day, nor did men like Earl Spencer. And Earl had been right; life out here did get lonely at times. More often than not a man would find himself staring out over a vast stretches of baked red ochre earth, with only the stars in the sky, the lowing of cattle, and his own secrets to keep him company.
“There’s a Billabong up ahead, just off the track a bit. Old Man Munson sometimes uses it to water his own cattle. We should head there tomorrow arvo, give the stock a bit of a rest, spend some time relaxing, together…”
Frank had taken care not to make his offer seem too much like an invitation, the tone of his voice kept suitably nonchalant. Earl would be given a chance to make of it what he would. Besides, Frank didn’t much relish the thought of ending up on the receiving end of another fist. You never could be too careful in a situation like this, and Earl packed a mean wallop for a man his size.
“Yeah, alright,” Earl sprinkled tobacco into a tally-ho, and rolled himself a smoke. “We’d best get some shut-eye then. Hit the track first light, head down to that watering hole when it gets too hot,” Earl had turned towards Frank then, a faint smile playing across his features, “we’ll have the place to ourselves, not like anyone’s gonna be spying on us, not out this far.”
Years later they would joke about how they first met. Romance by stealth, Frank called it. A complicated series of hinted looks, and surreptitious gestures, the signature mating dance of the homosexual male in 1950’s Australia.
And that was how it had all begun. Drawn to one another through circumstance, and a slow growing realisation of shared attraction, and mutual respect, they had found respite from the long days, and even lonelier nights out bush, wrapped in each other’s arms.
At the start of the Canning Stock Route they had assessed one another in turn; each ascertaining whether the other was up for the job.
Halfway through, they had slowly forged the beginnings of a companionship.
By the end, they were inseparable.
They’d headed up north together after that, spent a year working at Delamere Cattle Station, before making their way south-eastwards to Channel Country. Frank had picked up a few month’s Overseer work at Monkira Station situated along Queensland’s Diamantina River. Earl had been hired as a Station Hand, and Camp Cook.
For the most part, just as they had at Delamare, Frank and Earl kept to themselves. They both knew it didn’t pay for men like them to go making their presence too well known; not amongst certain company at least; not unless they wanted to run the risk of ending up having to drink their meals through a straw for the next six months - if they were lucky. Best they just lay low, got on with their work, set up camp away from the others. There was always an excuse they could come up with; Earl snored too loudly, Frank needed a swift kick to get him out of his swag in the morning.
At Monrika things had seemed different in a way though. It was nothing Frank could quite put his finger on, but as he sat ‘round the campfire, and watched the other men pay special note of the way Earl swung the Billy Tea, listened to them laugh uproariously as Earl regaled them with more colourful tales of life on the Travelling Stock Route, heard the gratitude in their voices as they declared Earl’s cooking to be, “The best tucker I’ve had in months, thanks mate”, Frank had begun to feel something akin to true acceptance.
“Yeah, and how long d’ya reckon that’d last if those blokes back there knew what we were?” Earl had scoffed, dumfounded when Frank had voiced his feelings one evening, out of earshot of the others. “You know what we are to them? We’re nothing but a pair of bloody poofters, a couple of filthy queers; you think blokes like that are gonna suddenly up and welcome us with open arms, just because one of us manages to rustle them up some decent grub every now and then?”
“No, but…”
“…You’re mad ya bastar
d,” Earl had shaken his swag out next to Frank’s then, taken a final swig of billy tea that had long gone cold, as he prepared to bed down for the night, and wrinkled his nose in disgust at the bitter taste, “Christ what I wouldn’t do for a decent cuppa.”
“Would you trade me in?” Frank had joked, trying to lighten the pall of annoyance his previous conversational attempt seemed to have cast over them.
Earl had cupped Frank’s chin with his hand, noted the contrast of their skin; his own freckled paleness set against Frank’s coarse, olive tones. Had run the fingers of his free hand through Frank’s mop of black hair, greased with the pomade he used to sculpt its length into a smooth-topped quiff, so different to Earl’s own dishwater blonde crew cut. “Not for all the tea in China.”
They’d travelled a few more years after that, picking up work where they could. A stint