Not long after Agincourt ’64 and the loss of his hand, Conway packed Joy into a stolen Holden EK and took their act on the road. They drove between country towns, staging what he called their “pig and pony” act. They’d pull up at pubs, fetes, fairs, church picnics, and footy matches, Conway standing on a “borrowed” Bodkin’s Cider barrel and reeling in onlookers, rubberneckers, and rubes with his whip-crack yelp and livewire energy. Years spent as The Bugger Bandit shouting “Your money, or your life” at his (undeniably charmed) victims had primed him for this second act as a carnival barker:
“Roll up, roll up! Which one of you mugs reckons they can outshoot the apple of my eye!”
His oily banter and back-alley menace would tickle their small-town pride, bushmen’s machismo, and rural insecurities, and he’d soon have a crowd of cranks, drunks, and kids tossing two bob in his hat for a shot at outshooting the girl with the ginger bowl cut and the “Jap bow ’n arra.”
Joy, a quiet child who turned beet red when making an order at Bodkins Bakery, felt like she was trapped in that nightmare where she came to school in the nick. She and Conway were polar opposites in shape, size, and temperament: Conway was tanned, lithe and leathery, with a belt-like build and bend, his eyes constantly darting about like a magpie deciding who to swoop. Joy was a plump little gumnut, apple-cheeked, her cloud-white freckle-flecked skin easily reddening from embarrassment and sunburn, her deadpan expression telegraphing just how badly she wanted to be doing anything but this. Together, they looked like an old slapstick duo—a smoko Laurel and candy-apple Hardy—a double act the crowd went absolutely mad for.
“Only two bob to take a crack at Li’l Ms Robin Hood h’self, carn!”
And punters would fork out said bob for said crack, taking shots at the makeshift targets Conway had cobbled together. His favourite of these was a department store mannequin (stolen) to which he’d pinned a photo of the MP he blamed for his missing hand.
“I trained the girl m’self, handing down the art of archery,” he’d hold up his stump here, “as it was handed down to me by my father and his father before ’im, goin’ back time immemorial, to when me great times a million grandpop Paris stuck ol’ mate Achilles through his bunion at Troy!”
This final flourish always bothered Joy, who was far too familiar with her father’s opinions on “every breed of mongrel wog” to think she was Greek, but his nonstop bullshitting never stopped her from humbling every schoolboy, bushman, or cocksure cockhead with her rapid-fire, pinpoint bowmanship. Drawing the bowstring back to her plump cheek lowered the volume on Conway, his marks, and the world. The cacophony of self-doubt and confusion that roared away in her head every waking moment of her life was muted until the moment her arrow found its target, which it always did. She often felt she could not make the required leaps between point A and point B to point C in school, relationships, family, and life, but her arrows could. Once loosed, they traced pathways between all things, revealing invisible back roads around her hurt and confusion, mapping out the bends and byways between the world’s version of herself and who she truly was.
The show’s grand finale was always a flurry of unholy trickshots so impressive that the sore losers in the crowd would drop to their knees in genuine awe. Even those who realised they’d been hustled didn’t seem to mind.
The show’s grand finale was always a flurry of unholy trickshots so impressive that the sore losers in the crowd would drop to their knees in genuine awe.
The duo would end their day at the local of whatever town they were in, Conway knocking back a pint (or six) of Captain Bodkin’s while counting out their winnings, paying Joy as much attention as you would an empty bar stool. Joy would sit across from him exhausted, barely moving as he ate his pub dinner (bangers, mash, and peas) with his mouth open, making noises Joy still heard in her head whenever she was at her limit. She was never one to raise her voice, but she’d scream internally throughout these dinners:
“CHEW WITH YOUR MOUTH CLOSED, YOU STUPID SHIT! SHUT YOUR FUCKEN GOB FOR ONCE IN YOUR GODDAMN LIFE, PLEASE!”, while he pontificated aloud on their (her) future:
“Yeahhhhhhh,” he sniffed as a pea flew from the corner of his mouth, “I reckon it’s time we hit the big league. Yeah? Yeahhh, I reckon it’s time we got the big bucks.”
“Ok.”
They drove their (newly stolen) car out into a clearing in the bush to camp. Conway built a fire (not without some difficulty and much swearing) and taught her how to cook his favourite meal—roasted marshmallows.
“See,” he blew the flame out on one she’d charred for him, “yer a wiz in the kitchen, just like yer mother was. That’s good. Means you’ll be able to care for y’self once I’m done ’n dusted.”
She nodded before throwing a dry branch on the fire, hoping its crackling would drown out the wet and smacky sounds of his interminable chewing. He blacked out outside his swag ten minutes later, and Joy used the last of her strength to roll him closer to the dying embers, while also making sure she placed him on a fire-ant nest.
He was a snorer.
This is an extract from Nock Loose by Patrick Marlborough which will be published by Fremantle Press in July 2025. Nock Loose was shortlisted for the Fogarty Literary Award in 2023.
