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The flies must have thought all their Christmases had come at once. Well, I guess they weren’t that far out, seeing as it was the third of January. The reasons for their joy were the rivers of sweat pouring down my face and the moisture from my back and armpits plastering my shirt to my body.

The greedy little buggers must have thought they were water-skiing on Sydney Harbour, I was so wet.

Yes, it was bloody hot but what else do you expect in North Queensland in the summer. It must have been 40 C in the shade, but there wasn't any shade. It was either that or a thunderstorm, and as drenched as I was I really didn’t want it to start raining, even if that would have got rid of the flies.

I was dressed in standard Queensland summer gear, socks and Red Wing work-boots on my feet, the Red Wings well worn in, khaki Hard Yakka shorts over regular briefs (no give-away panties) and a khaki work-shirt with two breast pockets. I was lucky that I had had my Akubra with me too or I would have been fried. Even so, my hair was sodden. But it kept the sunburn off.

My handkerchief was drenched from wiping the sweat rolling down my forehead and into my eyes.

There are a few unbreakable rules in the bush, one of which is “look where you’re going”. I wasn’t. I was looking all around, trying to suss out any problems we might have for the next section of the road we were building instead of where my Landcruiser was pointing. I drove straight into a long and deep patch of bulldust at the wrong speed and in the wrong gear. Even my four-wheel-drive couldn’t handle it, so there I was, well and truly bogged, about five miles south of Kajabbi.

There was nothing for it but shanks’s pony, so I started walking. The flies lost no time targeting me and the only other companions I encountered along the way were two goannas, a pair of dingos, a snake and an emu with her chicks. They didn’t give me any grief so I didn’t bother them either. No roos. They’re too smart to roam in the middle of the day. Their times are dawn and dusk. Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid-day sun, and, yes, I’m English, or I was when I came out here ten years ago.

I had been walking for about two hours when I came over a small rise and, lo and behold, there in front of me was the Kajabbi pub, like an oasis in the desert, or the Wizard’s palace in the Land of Oz, even if it was only a corrugated-iron shed with those wooden windows which opened at the bottom, propped up by a pole. Very basic air-conditioning.

Anyway, right then, I didn’t care. All I wanted was a cold drink and somewhere to rest out of the blazing sun. Then I could contemplate how to solve the rest of my problems.

Kajabbi wasn’t exactly a metropolis, its population was roughly twenty-five in those days. The pub was the entertainment centre. There was a general store, a police station which was a 40 by 10 prefabricated hut, similar to the one I lived in back at the camp. Next door was a neat Queenslander with a garden where the local cop and his family lived, and scattered around were a half-dozen or so run-down shanties. Oh, I almost forgot, there was a railway station as well. They got one train a week from Cloncurry.

It was the end of the line for now but people were hoping the railway would be extended. Gold had been discovered at a place called Gunpowder, about twenty miles to the west and there were plans to extend the line to the proposed mine-site. If that happened Kajabbi would become a full-blown mining town. Our new road would connect the place to the larger settlements to the north and south, Normanton, Cloncurry and Mt. Isa.

I didn’t exactly stagger into the pub but I wasn’t galloping either. Yes, it had bat-wing doors! Once in the gloom inside I took off my hat, wiped the sweat from my face and looked around. Only a few of the more stubborn flies stayed with me and I swiped them away. The only occupants were a couple of blokes sat at the bar, about my age, obviously ringers or station-hands who looked as if they had started pretty early. Official opening time was 10 a.m. but nobody took much notice of that in these parts. Then there was the barman and the local copper, who was sitting by himself at a table writing a report or something.

He was a friend of mine, all six-foot-six of him, and I was tremendously glad to see him.

He looked over when I entered, “G’day Mac. ‘Ow yer goin, orl right eh? ”

“G’day, Tiny. Could be better but I’ll survive. Talk to yer later.” I went to the bar, sat on a stool and spoke to the barman, who I hadn’t seen before.

“I don’t suppose you have a Chardonnay?”

He looked at me as though I was an alien from Mars. “What’s that?”

“It’s a kind of white wine.”

He all but sneered, turned to the shelf behind the bar and came back with a bottle in each hand. “If it’s plonk yer after, we got red and we got white. This is Kajabbi, not the Hilton in Brisbane. Which one do yez want?”

I looked at the offerings. The white was sauvignon blanc which I normally hated, but I was hot, dry and thirsty. The red had no label but knowing where I was I reckoned the grapes had probably been picked from the shady side of the boat at four o’clock in the afternoon, sieved through a sweaty sock and poured into the bottle a few minutes later.

“I’ll have a glass of the white, please.”

This time he did sneer but poured me about two-thirds of a middy in a beer glass.

One of the young guys at the end of the bar turned to his mate, “I tolja. He’s a bloody Pom.”

“Nah, I think he’s a poofter,” said his oppo.

“A girl, more like it.”

“Same thing.”

I didn’t rise to the obvious challenge. All I wanted was to relax, drink my drink and rest my weary legs. In a way I couldn’t blame them because some of our boys from the camp used to come here on Saturday nights to get plastered and then have a good old-fashioned punch-up with the equally drunken locals. All good fun and generally no permanent damage done.

I continued to mind my own business while they eyed me. I took one sip of the wine. It was warm, so I asked the snarky barman, “Do you have any ice, please?” I didn’t like sav blanc and I specially didn’t like warm sav blanc. At least ice would mask the taste and make it drinkable.

“Of course we have ice, sir,” he replied, trying to imitate an upper-class English accent and failing miserably.

I don’t have one. I come from Brighton (well, Hove actually) not bloody Eton.

Continuing with his witticism, he asked, “One lump or two, sir?”

By this time I was tired of being belittled by morons. I snarled, “Fill up the fucking glass.”

I may have startled him because he did exactly that.

However, his two sozzled mates at my side of the bar took it as an invitation to start the fight that they were looking for and got off their barstools.

That was when Tiny stepped in. “Listen, you ratbags, just sit down and behave yourselves. Tom, give these bludgers a triple rum each on my tab.”
Tom, evidently the barman, did as Tiny instructed. The ratbags basked in Tiny’s generosity and retreated back to their end of the bar.

You really didn’t want to upset Tiny. Apart from his size and his position he was a bit of a legend in his own right.

I had come to know him because he was the armed guard on our payroll runs. In those days we still used to have to pay our men in cash, which meant we had to travel from the bank in Mt. Isa to our construction camp with tens of thousands of dollars in a four-wheel-drive and the insurers insisted that the money was protected. We were allowed by the Queensland Police Force to hire Tiny for that duty. I was happy to have him on board because otherwise it fell to me. We had a rusty old pistol at the camp which scared the hell out of me and also I didn’t have any ammunition so if anyone tried to rob us I would have had to point the gun at them and yell “Bang!”

He was a real outback character. When I started on the job I had an out-of-date NSW Driving Licence. I told Tiny and the next day I had a brand new QLD Licence. Strictly speaking I should have had to take a fresh driving test, but Tiny didn’t care about that.

He just did the right thing.

If you wanted to embarrass him all you had to do was mention his Bravery Medal. A young aboriginal stockman had got his knickers in a twist over something and held his station’s managers at bay for a six hour siege with a rifle. Tiny just walked up and took the gun from the kid.

His other little quirk was a fascination with fast-draw. He had an old-style Western gun belt and a Colt 45 and he would go out onto the airstrip in the evenings and practise his fast-draw. He was rumoured to have killed more beer-cans than anyone else in Queensland.

And he was a lovely, unassuming man.

He watched our two trouble-makers finish their rums and told Tom to pour them two more triples, and then he watched them drink those, too. He gave them ten minutes and dragged them off their perches. By now they were glassy-eyed and could hardly stand. He took one in each hand and marched them out of the pub. “Just hang on a minute Mac, and I’ll be right back.”

So I sat and finished my drink until he came back, grinning. “They’re safely stashed until tomorra. They’ll sleep it off in the lock-up and then I’ll send ‘em back to the station.”

“Why did you shout them the free liquor, Tiny?”

“Saves wear and tear on the knuckles and I just add the cost of the drinks onto their fines.” He turned to Tom the barman. “You’d better watch yourself, mate. You don’t know who this is,” pointing at me. “He’s the Project Manager on the new road, so give him a bit of respect.”

Tom sort of gulped and gave me a sickly grin, which I took as a kind of apology.

“Now, Mac, what’s your problem?” questioned Tiny.

I told him about getting bogged and how a ride and a tow would set me straight.

“No wucking furries. The ute’s outside. Let’s go. We’ll have you set in half an hour.”

So we set off in the paddy-wagon. As soon as we were on our way he turned to me. “Well, are you still dressing?”

“What do you mean? What are you talking about?” I knew full well what he meant but I was gobsmacked.

“Wearing dresses and such.”

“Who told you that?”

“Look, don’t get shitty. First of all, I’m the local cop, so I’ve gotta know what’s goin’ on, so I don’t get any trouble I can’t handle. Second, some of your boys told me about it, the party you had and how well you scrubbed up. Wish I’d been there. So, are you still doin’ it?”

“Nah, I made a resolution to give it away. I’ve got enough problems as it is.”

“Pity. I reckon you’d make a pretty good lookin’ girl. I’d like ta see ya. My youngest boy is sayin’ he wants ta be like his mum when he grows up. Thought maybe ya could give me some advice.”

Tiny was married with three kids, all of whom he doted on.

I shrugged. “Tiny, all I can say is be patient with him. It may go away or it may not . Time to start worrying if it doesn’t. You don’t need advice from a weirdo like me causing you trouble.”

“Mac, you don’t even register on my weirdo meter. This is the Queensland bush. You have no idea how many nutters we got out here.”

“What, like that kid whose gun you took away?”

I was trying to distract him from focusing on my strangeness.

He laughed. “Young Willie? Nah, I knew he wouldn’t shoot me. He just needed a bit o’ time to calm down. I used ta go huntin’ pigs with his Uncle Darcy and we taught the boy how ta shoot. He didn’t actually hurt anyone. I’m just sorry I had to turn him in. I look in on him every month and as long as he behaves himself he’ll be out soon.”

He eyed me. “But we were talkin’ about you. “Why stop? You’re not hurtin’ anybody.”

“It’s hard to explain, but it does cause problems. Some people don’t like it. I figured it would be better if I just stopped. That’s my New Year’s resolution.”

“OK, your choice, but if you ever dress again I want an invite.”

“Sorry, Tiny, not gonna happen.”

We were back at my bogged vehicle so that conversation ended, much to my relief.

We tied a rope between the cars and pulled mine out, no problems. Afterwards we shook hands and went our separate ways, without broaching that subject again. I went back to our construction camp and took a bottle of chardonnay from my personal supply. I went into our wet canteen and had my first decent drink out of a proper wineglass. Cold wine that I liked. I had only the one and then I went back to my quarters, stripped off and had a long shower to wash away the grime of the day.

I washed everything, including my matted hair. I have to say that, after my two-hour bushwalk it felt wonderful to get clean. Only one problem, I just couldn’t resist using my fragrant shampoo and conditioner, which led me to using my scented soap. When I finished I felt so feminine and one thing led to another.

Everything went downhill from there. All the old feelings came back and when I dried myself off, blow-dried and brushed out my hair, I had to tell myself that I really couldn’t…. mustn’t…. wear those beautiful clothes that were calling to me with a siren song. That lovely underwear, the pink nylon panties with the lace trimmings, the matching bra and the inserts which would give me the curves that I always desired.

I couldn’t help myself. I succumbed to temptation, put on my underwear and a pair of thigh-high stockings, took a nice eggshell-blue dress, with three-quarter sleeves and white lace trimming from my wardrobe and finally began to feel like myself.

I couldn’t just leave things like that so I had to make up my face and put on a bit of bling. I even went mad and did my nails. Finally, the shoes. Had to be heels, yeah, why not?

So here I was, all dressed up with nowhere to go. But then, I did have somewhere to go. The boys had all seen me so there was nothing to be afraid of except myself. Let them have another look at the real me.

It’s a Project Manager’s job to inspect the camp regularly and there’s nothing that says how you’ve got to be dressed when you’re doing it. Deep breath and out of the door of my donga. Nothing to be afraid of. I walked around in the evening shadows, poked my head into the dining hall and the wet canteen. I took care to stay on the concrete walkways; I didn’t want to break either a heel or an ankle. Nobody took any notice of me.

There you go. It was a pretty stupid resolution anyway when I think about it. I had no hope of sticking to it and making it work. Being honest with myself I didn’t have my heart in it and if you really want to quit something you have to mean it.

Looks like you’re here to stay, Joanne.