Cold Skin (4 page)

I wish there was somewhere else to sit

but I need a desk to finish my homework

and the library is the only room open before bell.

So I focus really hard on what I’m doing

and I only say ‘morning’ to Larry

and go straight back to work.

Why doesn’t he go out to the verandah

where all the other girls are,

chatting, flirting, laughing,

and leave me to study.

I don’t give him time to start anything.

I’m not stupid.

I’ve learnt enough about boys

to know you give them an inch,

well, they’ll take more than a mile.

And Larry, he’s the type who’d enjoy

telling the whole town all about it.

That’s not happening to me.

Mum says I’m too good for Burruga.

I take one quick look at Larry

and think she may be right.

Eddie

I hate Monday mornings.

Mr Butcher is staring out the window

and the whole class keeps quiet,

trying not to disturb him.

But there’s no way I can do this algebra

without help,

so I risk it.

I raise my hand,

swollen

from his cane an hour ago,

and wait,

hoping he’ll see,

but he’s paying no attention to us.

So I cough, too loudly.

He rises from his chair and smirks.

‘Don’t grunt, Holding.

Speak up if you need help.’

Some of the class giggle

and Mr Butcher looks pleased with himself,

so I forget algebra and say,

‘No need for help, Sir.

I just want to go to the toilet.’

The class snigger again,

only this time Butcher’s not sure

if they’re laughing with him,

or at him.

He looks at me for a long time,

adjusting his glasses,

‘When it comes to algebra, Holding,

you have the intellectual capacity of a newt.’

I clench my fists under the desk.

‘Even newts need to go to the dunny, Sir.’

Everyone laughs.

Butcher’s eyes flash.

He stands quickly and points outside.

That means I can go.

I walk slowly,

smiling,

knowing he’ll be looking for payback

sometime today.

Eddie

After the river kiss

Sally and me seem closer.

No, I’m not imagining it.

We sit together at lunch

and she tells me where she’s planning to go

when she leaves school

in exactly five months

and fifteen days.

That makes me sad.

I try not to show it

but if Sally leaves Burruga

then I know I’ll be alone.

Better to let the mine swallow me

than stay in school without her.

I decide to make the most of the time we got left

before she gets too big for this small town.

But I know she’s already stepping on that train

and I’m waving from the platform,

cursing under my breath . . .

the necklace still in my pocket.

Albert Holding

Every Friday

I stump work early

so as to get to the pub

with a few hours of drinking time left.

The wife complains when I stagger home.

Reckons I’m roaring drunk.

So what?

A bloke needs some relief after

a week of feeding chooks,

mucking-out pigs

and running errands for Mrs Laycock,

who’s too crook to move from the veranda.

She spends her day watching me work,

waiting for her husband

to come home from ploughing the far paddock.

So I have a drink after work

with some buddies from town

and listen to their stories of the mine.

The stink of coaldust clings to their clothes,

their skin and hair.

The only job worse than Laycock’s

is the one underground.

We all get merry together

and tell lies about the war

and lewd stories about women

we dreamed of meeting,

fighting far from Burruga.

Frank O’Connor offers the shout

and we all accept

because Frank spent time in Burma

and whatever he saw

he keeps close to his chest.

So we all tell jokes,

as rude as possible,

to help him forget,

to help us all forget,

even those of us with bugger all to remember.

Albert Holding

I’m standing at the bar,

bending my elbow,

listening to Donald Cheetham tell his lies,

when Fatty Paley comes in,

taking up way too much space

with his back-slapping

and his toady voice.

He bowls up to the bar and trumpets,

‘A round on me for everyone.

For my mates.’

I force a smile,

take his beer,

swear under my breath

and scull it in one gulp,

glad to be done with it.

Fatty stands next to Frank

and offers him another.

Oily bastard.

Frank’s had enough to cope with.

The jungle,

the Japs,

and now Fatty.

Colleen

When I’m walking down Main Street after school

I see the miners coming towards me

in their coal-dirt overalls.

Their teeth shine through smeared faces.

They’re laughing and joking around

and someone always shouts,

‘How ya goin’, Blondie?’

I can feel their eyes on me.

The Johnston boys look quite handsome,

even in dusty overalls.

My dad walks with them and nods at me.

He tells me they’re good blokes,

just having a laugh.

And Mum says they look at me

because I’m pretty.

I suppose I am.

She says

that their eyes

and their stares

are the price I pay.

I’ve just got to keep my head high

and my eyes forward.

Easier said than done.

But when Les Johnston winks at me,

I smile back,

careful not to let Dad see.

Les is six foot tall

and his hair is dark and wavy

and a girl wouldn’t mind

running her fingers through it,

given half a chance.

One day.

Larry

Yeah, I nicked the beer

from behind the Railway Hotel

and I sit in Memorial Park knocking back a few.

Eddie walks by

looking like he’s got somewhere to go.

‘Hey, brother. Come here.’

He turns and waves,

checking both ways before walking across the grass.

‘No one will see, Eddie.

Here, have a drink.’

He steps back as if I’ve got some disease.

‘Geez, it’s beer, not cyanide.’

He’s not going to take it.

Be blowed if he’s not!

‘Eddie. Catch!’

He doesn’t spill a drop,

grabbing it in both hands,

wondering what to do next.

He has a quick sip

before handing it back.

‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’

He sits beside me

and shakes his head.

‘You’re a talkative bastard, Eddie.’

He grins slowly and says,

‘Just like our father.’

‘Don’t remind me,’ I say.

‘The grumpy bugger’s always on my case.’

Eddie reaches for the beer

and takes a long swig.

‘He wasn’t always like that, Larry.’

He wipes the mouth of the bottle

before handing it back.

‘Yeah, yeah. I know.

The bloody war.

Except the old bastard didn’t go anywhere.

Just chased his tail around the desert.

He’s hardly a hero.’

Eddie nods and says,

‘I gotta go, Larry.

Don’t let Sergeant Grainger catch you.’

He walks off down the street,

his hands deep in his pockets.

Mayor Paley

It’s just a little treat

for the men of my town.

They deserve a beer.

Even lazy beggars

like Albert Holding

who won’t work in the mine.

He wastes his days

gathering eggs and feeding cows

like some novice farm boy.

Hell,

I don’t care

as long as they vote for me

next election.

I down a few pots myself,

to show I’m one of them,

even if I’m better educated

and wear tailored clothes

and own a few places around town.

I don’t ever mention that.

It’s not good form.

That Holding fellow

didn’t even thank me for his beer.

Ungrateful boor.

I force a laugh

and slap him on the back

to show I’m the bigger man.

Sally

Dad meets me at netball.

He’s there, regular as clockwork,

a few minutes before we finish,

as the sun fades behind Jaspers Hill.

He hates Friday evenings.

‘The drunk night’ he calls it.

And even though it’s only

a few blocks to our house,

he won’t let me walk it alone.

He always invites Jean Bennett

to come with us

because she lives on the way

and he’s not letting her walk home alone either.

The men are still at the pub,

getting the last few drinks in before closing.

My dad won’t take no for an answer,

and every Friday I see him

looking at the girls strolling home

in the opposite direction

and I know he hates that.

He doesn’t say much on the walk.

He’s thinking of the other girls

and their fathers jostling each other at the pub,

trying to get one last shout

before the publican calls time

and they all stagger out,

wondering which way is home.

Larry

I stand the empty bottle below the plaque

dedicated to the soldiers from the Great War.

‘Sorry, fellas.’

Jamming the head of my next bottle

under the brass plate,

I twist and the cap snaps off,

rolling along the concrete like a stray dice.

There’s nothing to do now

except wander down Princess Street

towards the river.

Trying my best to follow the white line,

not having much luck though.

The bastard who painted this

must have been drunk.

A dog starts barking

and jumping against his lead.

I’m tempted to chuck the bottle at it

except there’s still some left

and I’m not wasting it on no stupid animal.

At the end of the street

I climb the fence and cut myself on the barbed-wire.

What idiot fences off the river

for God’s sake?

I hurl the bottle across the water,

smashing it on the rocks.

‘Better not swim there, children.’

At least it’s quiet down here,

away from all the old men wandering home,

singing tunes from the war

and vomiting in the gutters.

My head is spinning.

Must be Mum’s awful cooking.

Mr Butcher

On Friday evenings

I take my supper

at the Sunset Café.

A mixed grill

with Mr Kain’s special–

grilled mince rolled into a long thin sausage

cooked with tomatoes and mushrooms.

He makes it for me alone

because no one else in this town

cares much about food on Friday night.

I ignore the noise from the pub.

A mob of uncouth drunks falling about,

spilling drinks and cursing.

Mrs Kain pours me another cup

of her strong black tea.

‘Off to visit your mother again, Mr Butcher?’

Forcing a smile, I answer,

‘Dear Mrs Kain.

My poor mother insists she can cope alone.

But–’

Mrs Kain interrupts,

‘You’re a good man, Mr Butcher.

A good man.’

In a few hours

I’ll be on the train

heading into the city,

away from this backwater,

to spend two days

and my wage

on pleasures you can’t enjoy in this town.

Delights that I deserve

after another week

teaching the unteachable.

Things that a single man needs

when he lives in a town of married old matrons

and young schoolgirls.

Things that Mrs Kain and my mother,

dead for ten long years,

wouldn’t understand.

Things that make me forget

Monday morning.

Eddie

I dangle my legs over a fork in the branch

of the old fig tree,

waiting for the night train to the city.

A lady beetle lands on my arm

and tickles along my skin.

Mr Butcher takes a long time to light his pipe.

He stands at the far end of the platform,

away from the lights,

thinking no one sees him.

I do.

Maybe he has a wife and kids in the city,

where he goes every weekend,

but I don’t believe it.

He’s not the type.

The train whistle echoes through Dulwich Gap.

Mr Butcher empties his pipe onto the tracks

and tucks it into his overcoat.

He glances up and down the platform,

picks up his Gladstone bag,

and pulls his hat low over his eyes.

I see you, Mr Butcher.

I see you.

Mr Carter

Here comes Larry Holding

staggering towards my office,

doing his best to stay upright,

talking to some imaginary friend

who dances around him.

A slow waltz, by the look of things.

When the paper is put to bed,

I relax with a cup of tea

on the old lounge chair

in the front room,

with all the lights out.

It’s then I watch my town lurch by,