Cold Skin
S
TEVEN
H
ERRICK
was born in Brisbane, the youngest of seven
children. At school, his favourite subject was soccer, and he
dreamed of football glory while he worked at various jobs,
including fruit picking. Now, he’s a full-time writer and performs
in many schools each year. He loves talking to students and their
teachers about stories, poetry, soccer and even golf.
Steven lives in the Blue Mountains with his wife and sons. Visit
his website at
www.acay.com.au/~sherrick
Love, ghosts & nose hair
– shortlisted in the 1997 CBCA
awards and the NSW Premier’s Literary Awards
A place like this
– shortlisted in the 1999 CBCA awards
and the NSW Premier’s Literary Awards, and commended
in the 1998 Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards
The simple gift
– shortlisted in the 2001 CBCA awards
and the NSW Premier’s Literary Awards
By the river
– Honour Book in the 2005 CBCA awards
and winner of the Ethel Turner Prize in the
NSW Premier’s Literary Awards
Lonesome Howl
– a Notable Book in the 2007 CBCA awards
Also by STEVEN HERRICK
Water Bombs
Love, ghosts & nose hair
A place like this
The simple gift
By the river
Lonesome Howl
for children
The place where the planes take off
My life, my love, my lasagne
Poetry, to the rescue
The spangled drongo
Love poems and leg-spinners
Tom Jones saves the world
Do-wrong Ron
Naked Bunyip Dancing
Steven Herrick
C
O
LD
S
K
IN
First published in 2007
Copyright © Steven Herrick 2007
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The
Australian Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
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Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
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Web:
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National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Herrick, Steven, 1958 - .
Cold skin.
ISBN 978 1 74175 129 1.
I. Title.
A823.3
Cover design by Josh Durham, Design by Committee
Set in 10.5pt Apollo by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Teachers’ notes are available from
www.allenandunwin.com
CONTENTS
CHARACTERS
Eddie Holding
Larry Holding
Albert Holding
Sally Holmes
Colleen O’Connor
Mayor Paley
Mr Carter
Sergeant Grainger
Mr Butcher
Eddie Holding
They named me Eddie
after Mum’s father
who died before I was born.
‘A quiet, stubborn bastard,’
says my dad.
I’m not sure if he’s talking about
Grandad or me.
We live near the railway tracks
beside Jamison River,
two miles out of town,
opposite the slag heap,
overgrown with thistles
and yellow dandelions.
Dad and me and my brother Larry
built our place in a real hurry
’cos we had nowhere else to live
after Grandma died
and the Wilsons took her house
before we’d had a fair chance
to say goodbye to Gran’s memories.
They said it was their house
and I guess it was
because they went out and sold it.
So we packed everything on
Mr Laycock’s Leyland truck
and drove it here,
where we bought some land,
no bigger than an acre,
with the last of Dad’s army pay.
Larry and me set to work
dragging logs from the bush
with our horse.
Dad mixed concrete
and poured the foundations
in the hot sun
while Mum washed our clothes
in the old tub,
hanging them over the wire
stretched between two poles
along the boundary to our yard.
We lived in a tent
loaned from Mr Paley, the mayor.
He said,
‘Anything for a supporter.’
And for six weeks
me and Larry didn’t go to school.
We built this three-room log house
that looks like a squat brown toad
sitting on a rise
about to jump into Jamison River.
Eddie
Taylors Bend is named after a bloke
who owned some of this valley a long time ago.
Mr Taylor lost his sons in the Great War
and all he had left
was a few hundred head of sheep
and the river that flooded his fields most winters.
They say when his sons didn’t come home
he tied himself to a tractor wheel
and jumped into the water at the deepest part.
No one could find his body
so they named this bend to remember him.
It’s the best place for skimming stones.
You can dig your toes deep into the sand.
Once I skipped a flat black rock
fair to the sandstone wall
on the far side of the river.
I’m fishing for yabbies
because Mum says
there’s only potatoes to eat tonight.
So I tie the pork fat to the string
and toss it in,
waiting for the tug.
Sometimes I catch ten river yabbies
with the same piece of meat.
Into the old tin bucket they go,
half-full of river water,
ready for Mum to boil ’em up.
We have them with spuds
cooked slow in our wood oven,
so you can taste the smoke.
Larry whispers to me,
‘Blackfella food.
That’s what you’re eating.’
I don’t care what colour eats the yabbies.
It don’t make them taste any less sweet.
I say,
‘Good food, Larry.
Fresh caught food.’
He don’t know what he’s got.
My smart lazy brother.
Albert Holding
I came home from the army
and saw my wife and two sons
standing on the train platform
waiting for me to hug them.
I’d been away too long,
even if it was only driving transport
across the desert in the Territory,
while other blokes died of starvation and malaria,
and God knows what else,
a few thousand miles north.
The closest I got to war
was loading the heavy artillery
onto the ships in Darwin Harbour
and getting into fights at the pub
with the blokes from the Navy,
who could swing a fist as sure as a pint.
I drove the bloody trucks
such long nights across the country
with only Corporal Cheetham for company.
Cheetham had a fine way of spitting
between his teeth,
scratching his head,
and saying, ‘Well, bugger me’
whenever we got a flat tyre,
out there in the middle of nowhere.
We’d sit under the cold stars
and wait for daylight before changing the tyre,
rather than struggling around in the dark.
I’d stand on the dirt track
and smoke cigarette after cigarette,
not saying much.
That’s how I spent the war.
When it was all over, after demobilisation,
fresh-faced girls in the city had welcome smiles
and kisses for every man in a uniform.
I walked to the train station
dizzy with the smell of perfume and victory.
We all came home on a slow train,
sharing jokes and beers,
playing cards
and telling long-winded stories
of what we’d do once we got back.
Then I saw my family on the platform.
My wife with her black hair
covered in a scarf with yellow sunflowers.
Larry shuffling his feet in the dirt,
his hands deep in his pockets.
And Eddie waving, smiling,
saying, ‘Hello. Welcome back.’
to each of the men
as they stepped from the carriage.
My family.
‘Well, bugger me.’
Eddie
‘Welcome to a big year for Burruga,’
says Mr Paley, our mayor.
He’s standing on the speaker’s box
at the rotunda in Memorial Park,
waving his hat above his head
as he calls to everyone gathered.
‘Rally around, ladies and gentlemen.
I’m going to put our town on the map.
Imagine, a modern blast furnace near the coalmine,
and a new ticket office for the railway station.’
He points towards the jerry-built shack opposite
and wipes the sweat from his brow
with a white handkerchief
flourished from the breast pocket of his suit.
He leans forward and says,
‘And, ladies,
I promise a new haberdashery
for my department store.
An emporium of taste and refinement.
Something special for all of you.’
Mr Paley winks at Mrs Blythe and Mrs Reynolds.
Both smile and bow their heads slightly.
‘Let’s put the war behind us
and build for the future.’
As he says this he raises both hands into the air,
clenching his fists in triumph.
Mr Wright, the mine manager, steps forward and starts up a three cheers for the mayor.
He calls to the crowd, ‘Mayor Paley, a man of will and purpose.’
Me and Dad walk home from the park.
Dad brushes the flies from his face and drags hard on his smoke.
‘What does Paley know about the war.
That fat bastard stayed home, cowering in his father’s store.
Will and purpose.
Yeah. He
will
get richer on
purpose.
’ Mr Paley is still chatting to the ladies on the stairs of the rotunda.
He stands one step higher than everyone else, his voice booming over their heads.