The Limestone Road

Lampana, South Australia, January 1944

Canning Christie watched his father give a series of elegant bows from high in the saddle, accompanied by a wave of his slouch hat, a touch of the minstrel about him with his beloved guitar strung upside down bouncing rhythmically on his back. The two men were riding their horses down the main street of Lampana, and the sight of these returning warriors had lured customers from the baker’s shop. A half-dozen people crowded onto the pavement, clapping and waving, the ruckus drawing the postmaster to the street, followed by the butcher, who called out to the pair, offering them the choicest cuts.

Similar incidents had marked their long ride to the south-east corner of South Australia and while Canning had urged his father to bypass the towns, Michael was not about to be deprived of these acknowledgements. He called out their names in introduction, adding a Scottish lilt to the Christie surname as women gathered in twos and threes near the red-gum timber of the kerb. Michael’s smile widened. Three boys ran to the middle of the road and marched behind them, swinging their arms high and proud.

‘Play us a song, mister!’ one yelled.

Michael dropped the reins and swung the guitar around, plucking at the strings. With tactical charm he chose ‘Waltzing Matilda’, and a cheer rose from the townsfolk now lining the road. The simple tune suited his warm, graceful voice, and his long-suffering horse, well used to its rider’s musical inclination, clomped along in a drum-like beat. A handsome woman stepped from the hotel, observing them with a pleased air as she tilted her well-formed hip. His father glanced at Canning. Perfect, he mouthed. Canning could only guess what would come next.

As if by magic, Michael’s horse swerved across the road towards the woman, who threw back her head as she laughed, her blonde hair falling onto broad shoulders. Canning’s father slung a leg across the saddle and slipped easily to the ground, all the while continuing to play the guitar. He circled the captivated woman, strumming and singing. She caught the beat and tapped a foot, her gaze fastened on Michael. Never once did he falter in tune or step, or break the created intimacy as he circled her again. When she moved towards him, he grinned, backed away and leapt onto his horse.

‘Great little town!’ Michael declared.

Canning tried to appear pleased by both the town and his father’s antics. The clutch of fine limestone buildings signified a wealthy history before people and progress had marched to another destination. He would have preferred a sprawling metropolis or an empty space devoid of people, not this small town where anonymity would surely be impossible.

Michael recommenced playing and the music rang down the street, enticing onlookers to join in the chorus. Silence fell only when Canning and his father paused at the Great War Memorial, with its sacrificial cross and crusader swords. Then, reverence complete, Michael strummed the guitar, adding improvised twangs, and Matilda waltzed on along the limestone road.