at Mimong, a man could earn good money there during shearing season, another at Nockatunga, they’d even hit the Travelling Stock Route a few more times, droving a thousand head of cattle along the Strzelecki Track from Lyndhurst to Innamincka, and then again along the Tanami Road.
Frank had begun to paint during this time. Vivid landscapes created with oil, and acrylics, thick splashes of colour applied to the canvas with a palette knife, more subdued, gentler scenes painted with water colours; he’d even experimented with traditional Indigenous techniques, grinding different coloured ochres, and then mixing the resulting powder with egg, or spittle, before chewing on the end of a fine stick to create a rudimentary brush, the way he’d seen the Djauan people do when they’d work up north. Soon it had turned from hobby to passion.
Frank and Earl never spoke much about that night at Monrika, the ideas Frank had tentatively put forth, his sudden, apparent desire to throw caution to the wind. Nevertheless a seed had been planted. Frank craved the acceptance he’d felt on those long nights, seated around the Monrika campfires, a plate of Earl’s bangers, and mash in hand. His landscapes gave way to scenes of people, crowds all thronged together, conversing, welcoming; the way he wanted it to be.
In 1963 they moved to Sydney, took up lodgings at Elizabeth Bay House, amidst an ever changing population of artists, and bohemian types coming, and going. The property had been bought in 1940 by a Mrs Evangeline Murray, plans quickly drawn up, the architect Charles C Phillips subdividing the house into multiple, separate apartments, kitchens and bathrooms built over side terraces to service the ground floor residents. Earl had heard rumours as they travelled the Pacific Highway from Taree to Gosford, a place where Frank could concentrate on his work, a place that welcomed men like them. Frank could paint here; maybe even exhibit some of his work. Earl imagined himself in tuxedo, and bow-tie, putting on airs, and graces as he greeted the hoi polloi. For a man who’d spent most of his life travelling the open road, and working out bush, the stark contrast of two very different worlds was almost laughable.
“Still, if it helped Frank…”
“I don’t know why they have to insist on flaunting themselves the way they do,” Earl had complained about the other residents on more than one occasion, “swanning around, all dolled up like they don’t know whether they’re Arthur or Martha”.
Frank had merely smiled, and nodded in mute agreement, his paintbrush, and palette knife scraping across the canvas in front of him. Personally, Frank didn’t much care how anyone else acted, it was no skin off his nose. But Earl was a man’s man, always had been. He wore his masculinity on his sleeve for all, and sundry to see; expected others to do the same. Frank often wondered if it was Earl’s way of blending in; there was a certain sense of safety to be had when you were just another one of the crowd.
They moved again in 1965. Frank had grown tired; frustrated that the few exhibitions he’d managed to hold hadn’t drawn anywhere near the sort of attention he’d expected. He’d continued to paint a few more years after that, mostly at Earl’s insistence. His heart just wasn’t in it though, not like it used to be. For Frank, it seemed, passion had come full circle. Now he waited for something else, something that would fill the restless void.
Taking up residence in one of Sydney’s more fashionable outer suburbs, Frank had eventually swapped his paint brush for a cash register.
They’d opened a shop together; become partners, “The way it should be,” Frank had thought as he signed all the necessary paperwork. He meant more than just the business.
‘Frank and Earl’s Fine Tea Emporium’, the sign out the front had read.
“Now maybe I can finally get a decent cuppa.” Earl had declared with gruff pride when they’d first opened the store.
Frank had remembered Earl’s gripe about decent tea, and the lack thereof, all those years ago at Monrika. He remembered something else as well; those long nights, seated around the Monrika campfires, a plate of Earl’s bangers, and mash in hand, the longing for acceptance that had never really gone away.
Frank had almost spit a mouthful of tea across the page when he’d first turned to the article in The Australian that September morning in 1970. ‘Couples’, the heading had boldly declared. Below that, the text had talked about relationships, relationships just like his and Earl’s. There had been a photograph of two men, seemingly happy that their faces were being shown, their names printed in full. It had begun. The acceptance that had always seemed so far away now appeared tantalisingly close.
“Why’d ya wanna get involved with that rabble,” Earl had furrowed his brow, and demanded to know when Frank had first begun to attend the gatherings, and rallies. “We’ve got a good life here, they leave us alone, and we don’t bother them.”
Earl knew what happened to those who rocked the boat, the heat it brought down on them. The police surveillance, the harassment, reputations ruined. He was having none of it.
“And maybe I don’t want to spend the rest of my life having to hide, and pretending to be something I’m not,” Frank had replied, “For Christ’s sake we’ve been together more than fourteen years, and I can’t even hold hands with you in public for fear of being bashed. I’d marry you if I could, but we’re not even afforded the most basic rights of acceptance, let alone being able to do that. Something’s gotta change, Earl. Remember those nights at Monrika? Remember the acceptance we felt?”
“You still harping on about that?” Earl had rolled his eyes, and shook his head with weary impatience then, “They accepted us, because they didn’t know what we were. You’ve got Monrika all set up as some bloody fantasy land out woop woop somewhere that never really existed.”
“So? It can exist for us now. All we have to do is be prepared to fight for it, tough it out. We’ll get there in the end.”
“Just the like the days on the Travelling Stock Route.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re mad…”
“…Ya bastard. Yes, I know.”
For the most part Earl had left Frank alone after that, let him do his thing, rattle the cages of the establishment for all the good he thought it would do them. He’d spoken up again in 1978 though.
“It was supposed to have been a celebration”, Frank had said when he’d staggered through the front door bruised, and bleeding; the result of being on the wrong end of a baton. The night had started out well enough; there’d been music, and dancing down Oxford Street. And then for reasons no one had been able to fathom, their permit to march had been revoked, the parade diverted up into Kings Cross. Trapped in a sort of Canyon, that’s when the police stepped in.
“This is getting too bloody dangerous, why don’t you back off for a bit.” Earl had pleaded with Frank, as he tended to Frank’s wounds, knowing his pleas would fall on deaf ears. “Think outside the square, Earl,” Frank had told him on more than one occasion, “think of a life that’s even better than the one we have now.” And Earl had tried, but he wasn’t like Frank. Frank had always been the restless one, chasing after dreams. Earl had been content to just let life carry him along, travelling the open road; wherever he ended up, that’s where he’d be.
As the years went by, despite his own reluctance, Earl had to admit he was proud of what Frank and his cronies managed to achieve.
But Frank wasn’t satisfied. Earl’s hair had receded, and greyed over the years, his skin had wrinkled, his body sagged with age, but Frank loved him none the less. Frank wanted what he saw as the ultimate prize; he wanted the right to marry Earl if he damn well pleased.
“I’d marry you if I could…”
They’d come this far, now they were going all the way.
“You’ve got two chances of making this happen, Buckley’s and none.” Earl had declared with a wry grin, when Frank had first joined the campaign, “besides, wouldn’t you rather have the right to trade me in for a younger model.”
Frank knew Earl was only joking, but still he’d responded in
earnest, that old, familiar phrase that had so often passed between them.
“Not for all the tea in China.”
More than a decade went by. They had kept the store open, despite their advancing age well past retirement. Kept ‘em out of mischief, Earl had joked in his own jocular way, and Frank had to admit there was a grain of truth to that. They’d been active men in their day, hardly the types to spend their retirement years sitting quietly by the fireside, waiting until their bodies had practically moulded to the armchairs they sat on.
Frank had been tending the store when the announcement came through. He’d heard the newsreaders voice on the radio, strained his ears to listen as the words were read out. ‘Marriage Act’, ‘Reform’, ‘landmark decision’, by god they’d actually done it.
For the first time in more decades than he cared to remember, Frank had shut up shop early.
“Earl!” Frank had felt almost twenty one again as he raced home, bursting through the front door in a whirlwind of celebration, “Earl you old bugger, get ya dancing gear on, by crikey we’ve done it.”
Earl’s body was already cold by the time Frank found him.
“Ah geez, Earl.”
It had all been for nothing.
“No, not for ‘nothing’, never for ‘nothing’,” Frank had reminded himself as he’d watched them