Odd Times: Dinner at Stanley’s

(By Jan Ward)
It was 1990 when I stumbled upon the central Queensland Gemfields, a rustically elegant sapphire-mining community that time and progress had tossed aside.

The Gemfields is known for its wealth of dazzling sapphires, but also holds more than its fair share of colourful characters. I came to visit friends and never left. The spirit of the people captured my heart.

Stanley, a nuggetty fellow, was one such character. He hailed from the Wimmera, arriving on the Gemfields under a shroud of mystery with a Jack Russell named “Spot”. In the manner of pets resembling their masters, these two were like peas in a pod, except Spot didn’t drink.

Stanley, on the other hand, could drink a trough dry. In spite of his penchant for overindulgence, he was mild-mannered with a dry humour and a heart as big as a planet. His reputation as a cook preceded him, so when he invited me to a roast dinner, I accepted.

Stanley lived in a shed. Gemfields homes possessed varying degrees of charm and completion, but were generally practical in meeting the needs of their inhabitants. They displayed evidence of great resourcefulness, required when living in the bush with no power or permanent water supply. Each home wore its own stamp of ingenuity. Stanley’s had a roughly concreted floor, which, in itself, was a rung up the social status ladder from many of his neighbours.

The air was heavy with the smell of roast and Stanley, well into his moselle cask when I arrived. He pulled out a seat — one of those red vinyl and chrome kitchen chairs like my grandmother had, only the padding had gone on this one, and the vinyl was crisp with age. It was, however, scrubbed to within an inch of its life. I sat down, content to soak up the surroundings while Stanley finished his preparations.

It was a one-room shed, with the kitchen on one side and a perfectly made bed on the other. A dartboard hung on the far wall and, further along, next to the kerosene fridge, was an old pine washstand, neatly laid out with a towel, a basin of water, Stanley’s razor, shaving brush, comb and a new cake of Palmolive soap. A broken piece of mirror balancing on a wall noggin, leaned against the corrugated iron of the external wall. There was no internal cladding.

Honestly, it was like walking onto a Ned Kelly movie set. It was spotless. Absolutely everything had its place.

Stanley was cooking on a boot-black, cast-iron wood stove with an oversized kettle blowing steam on top.

“D’you eat everything?” he slurred, snapping me back to the present.

“Oh, yes please!” I felt my stomach gurgle in anticipation and hoped that Stanley didn’t hear.

He finished dishing up and brought the plates to the table. He lit a limp candle and standing it in a jam-jar lid, set it on the table between us. I didn’t sense any romantic intent. It felt cosy and comfortable.

The meal was indeed a feast fit for royalty. The roast beef was succulent, the potatoes perfectly crisped, the beans firm and luscious. I ate with relish, savouring every mouthful, while Spot sat beside me, growling softly and emitting frequent sharp yaps. It was as though he’d just become aware of my presence.

“Has the dog been fed?” I asked.

“Yep,” replied Stanley, flatly.

We continued eating, and Spot continued his objection. I was mystified. What had brought this on?

“So . . . why does he keep growling at me?” I gently persisted.

Stanley placed his knife and fork carefully against the edge of his plate and painstakingly finished his mouthful. Leaning forward, his moselle-moistened eyes gazing penetratingly into mine, he spoke with lip-smacking clarity.

“Because, you’re eating off his plate.”

Jan Ward (Letts) is a great-great granddaughter of the “Times” founder, Godfrey Morgan. Raised in Darwin, she moved to Queensland Gemfilds and now lives in Murtoa. She has published two books, “A Glimpse of the Dragon”, and “In the Rough”.