Bravo, Papa Charlie by Davina 2025
It was 1905 in Bunyip; Papa Charlie owned the town’s timber and grain store. He was a quiet, wise man with a kind face, a soft chuckle, and a habit of tipping his hat to just about everyone.Six days a week, Charlie worked alongside his large dray horse, hauling sacks and timber. Nell, the store cat, kept a keen eye from the top of the grain stacks. She was always on alert for sneaky mice trying to snatch a crumb.But Sundays were different. They were special— a day of rest, family, and the finest roast lamb dinner cooked by Charlie’s wife. Every evening, after the work was done, Charlie would sit by the open fire. He’d ease off his worn boots and warm his feet in thick socks full of holes.“Air conditioning for the toes,” he’d say with a grin. One day, he intended to ask Penelope, the spider residing in the windowsill at Henry’s bakery, to knit him a new pair.Charlie’s best mate was Henry the baker. Some evenings, Henry would swing by with a basket of fresh scones or crusty rolls. The two of them would sit at the kitchen table, playing cards and chatting quietly. Not too late — bakers had early mornings. They’d share the warm scones with clotted cream from the farm and strawberry jam from Mr. Guppy’s Garden.When Henry left, he’d head up the hill by the light of the flickering gas lamps, the soft golden glow lighting his path.Charlie had a gift for storytelling. Folks at the store would linger to hear his tales — yarns about the bush, the old days, and people long gone. But there was one story Charlie never told. Only a handful of people knew the truth.It happened after days of rain, when the river rose fast and high. Two children had slipped from the embankment near the crossing. Someone shouted. Charlie didn’t hesitate. He dropped his sack of grain, tore off his coat, and ran—boots and all—straight into the freezing water.He pulled them out, one by one, coughing and shaking; they were soaked, but safe. Charlie had saved them. That week, The Argus published the story.BRAVO CHARLIE, the headline read.And that’s when the townsfolk began to call him Bravo Charlie. When the name got stuck, Charlie never made a fuss. He’d puff his pipe, tip his hat, and smile. He didn’t need praise; he was content. That was Papa Charlie.
Thank you Ai for the pictureCaptures Charlie nicely