Ghost River (3 page)

‘That's no accident. It's for the chilblains,' Ren explained to him.

‘The what?'

‘Chilblains. It's why they piss on their feet. They all got them from getting round with no shoes and socks on. The only way to get rid of chilblains is piss between your toes. My stepdad, Archie, does it all the time. I seen him do it in the backyard, in his vegie patch.'

‘Your stepdad pisses on his own feet? He don't even drink.'

‘It's nothing to do with the drink.
Home remedy
he told me when I caught him one time and asked what he was doing.'

Other than rabbits the only occasional meat brought to the fire were chickens that came off the convent farm, two bends along the river. The men would occasionally try their hand at chicken rustling. It was a tricky business and not always successful. The convent birds were slick and shifty-eyed. They also made a hell of a noise. The racket would wake the nuns, who'd come out into the night, each of them swinging a kero lamp in one hand and some sort of fearsome weapon in the other. On one raid Big Tiny backed out of the hen house with a bird tucked under one arm, only to see the lamps swinging across a field in his direction. He slipped in a bog and got stuck. When the
Sisters of Charity
caught up with him they laid into him with picks and shovels, rescued the bird, and sent him back to the camp covered in cuts and bruises.

The river took such good care of the men that Tex called it their
mother.
She kept them safe from those who would do them harm, be it young bucks from the streets above, out for a night of menace, or the local police steaming with grog themselves. Coppers loved the drink as much as anyone and went hard at it any opportunity they got. Their amusements came cheap, and most often involved kicking a wino around the back lanes on a Saturday night. Down on the riverbank, tucked up in their shelter, the men were able to charge on in peace.

It soon became obvious to the boys that Tex organised all camp business. He was in charge of the fire and announced the menu each night, although he did none of the cooking himself. That was a job left to Tallboy, with Cold Can in assistance. As well as possessing the ability to sniper rabbits and cook, Cold Can drew beautiful pictures. Sometimes, as they gathered around the fire, he drew the face of one of the men with a piece of charcoal, or nothing in particular but swirls and lines mapped in the dirt. Ren would watch him closely and later try to copy the same drawings into his sketchbook.

Tex was also an accomplished musician. He played the gum leaf and could belt a song as good as a professional singer on a record album. He liked an audience and was soon performing for his newfound young friends. When he stood up from the fire for a song he transformed into a man from another time, strutting about in his boots, wearing a moth-eaten pair of woollen pants and jacket, and a hat worn back on his head with a magpie feather poking out of the band.

All the river men loved a tune, be it country and western or gospel. The singer would wail over a friend he'd lost to the grog, or a woman he'd busted up with and the kids he'd left in his wake after taking to the road. They had so many children between them the river men could never have recalled all their names, even when sober. Tex would sometimes choke on a lump of pain, and for a moment would be unable to go on with his song. He'd smudge the tears across his face with the sleeve of his jacket, cough and splutter, take a good swig of the flagon and clear his throat.

Most days of the week, bar Sundays, they'd gather of an afternoon out the front of the local wine shop and chip in for a flagon, a pair if one of them had done particularly well on the twine. They were connoisseurs of a cheap brand of red that went by the dubious name of
Captain's Table.
Tex was usually good for a dollar or two, picking up loose change by singing and playing the leaf outside hotels or on the railway station platform. Tallboy, who had at one time been a trump pickpocket, working the markets and racetracks, held his reflexes
steady enough to shoplift goods for campfire dinners. And Big Tiny wasn't too bad at the snatch and grab, usually fruit and vegetables. He might have been as fat as a house but he was also as quick as a rat on the run over a short distance. Tex once referred to him as
the refrigerator on ballet shoes.

The only one who never weighed in was the Doc. He contributed little to the camp other than the miserable look on his face. He was called a
lazy old cunt
any time his back was turned and more than one of the men wanted him barred from the camp every other week. The Doc and Tallboy had come to blows many times. The same day the boys showed up at the camp, they fought over a missing flagon of wine, which Tallboy claimed the Doc had ferreted away for his personal enjoyment. While the Doc denied the theft, as soon as he got up to take a shit in the blackberry Tallboy fronted Tex demanding he be expelled.

‘His con … con … tree … bution is fuck all.'

Tex listened to Tallboy carefully before answering, ‘I know it myself, Tallboy. Many times I want to be rid of him. But the Doc's been here with us too long. It'd be like throwing a relation in the street. I can't be doing that.'

‘But he's no relation of mine.'

Tex raised a hand in the air, which was enough to indicate the conversation was over. Tallboy dropped his head. Tex knew to banish the Doc, for all the selfishness he possessed, could bring bad luck to the camp and he'd have no part of it.

In the weeks after Ren and Sonny first came across the river men, they spent more time around the campfire listening to stories than they did exploring the river. They'd race down to the camp after school and leave late of an afternoon wearing the campfire smoke, envious of the life of freedom and adventure the men enjoyed. Late at night, from his open bedroom window, Ren would sometimes hear the men singing down on the river, listening to the drunken choir wage a battle with the water tumbling over the falls. A breeze would sweep along the river valley, roll up the hill and carry the music and the scent of the water with it. Ren would look up at the same stretch of sky the river men were resting under and wish he was at the water's edge with them
.

The river men told prison stories, drinking stories, lost dog stories, and tales of their years on the road. Ren was a good listener and quickly understood there were strict rules governing how a story was told and listened to. Interjections were occasionally allowed, by way of a jeer or a hand shooting into the air, requesting a
point-of-order.
Big Tiny was the most common culprit in that regard. Other stories were sacred, recited in hushed tones and observed in silence, except for the crack and groan of the fire.

Ren soon became so familiar with particular stories he knew them by heart. A favourite was the story of the wreck of a drunk who supposedly dug himself out of the hole he'd been in for years, got himself back on his feet and eventually became a rich man. The story lit the eyes of those around the fire, no matter how many times it was told. While none of the men had personal experience of the story, or the character himself, each of them would have been prepared to swear on the bottle the story was true. Big Tiny went as far as to claim that he'd once crossed paths with the reformed drunk. ‘He come out of one of them big banks in the city dressed up like a pox doctor's clerk and got into this shiny new car. In the back seat, of course. He owns the bank and has his own driver.'

On another occasion Ren and Sonny were sharing a rusted car rim one afternoon when Big Tiny and the Doc got into an argument about the truthfulness of a story about a famous strong man from the old days – the Mighty Apollo. Tiny was nearing the end of the story where Apollo had dragged a tram
up the Collins Street hill fully loaded with passengers, by his bare teeth
. Tiny got overexcited and began stuttering and spitting. The Doc, impatient with him, started muttering quietly to himself, ‘Fuck me … fuck me.' He picked up an empty wine bottle and hurled it across the fire. The bottle missed Tiny's head by inches before shattering against one of the bridge pylons.

‘Shut the fuck up, will ya, Tiny. He didn't drag nothin by his teeth. Apollo
ate that tram.
'

‘Fuck up ya self,' Tiny screamed back. ‘I'm talking here. Ya know the rules. Apollo dragged the tram with a line of piano wire
in his mouth.
No man can eat a tram, ya fucken imbecile.'

‘And nobody drags one through the street by his gob. It was ate.
Piece by piece
. Don't worry about that. I got an old mate, mechanic out there, that took the tram apart at the Preston depot. Apollo lived off that fucken tram for two years. Ate nothing but it. He drunk the sump oil and all.'

Big Tiny threw his arms in the air. ‘Fuck me. I give up,' he said, looking across the fire to Tex for support. ‘How much longer we got to put up with this fucken lunatic?'

With Tex ignoring his pleas, Tiny turned to Sonny and Ren.

‘Don't ya be listening to a word from his trap. If a government man was able to track down anyone in the Doc's family they'd have papers signed and he'd be certified and put away for good. The Doc wouldn't see daylight again. They found no one to put him away cause he had become an orphan. When he was a kid his own mummy put him out on the street one day with a sign round his neck begging someone to take pity on the bastard. He weren't wanted, by no one. Not even the shirt-lifters would take him home. And no one wants him now.'

‘Up yours, elephant arse,' the Doc spat. ‘Only one that was left for dead is you. Your old girl looked at you the day you was born and sent a telegram to the fucken circus, hoping for an earner from the sideshows.'

The Doc stood up, hitched his pants under his armpits and mimicked the performance. ‘Come see the whole world's fattest baby – also born absent of a brain.' He bowed, sat down and waved a finger at Tiny. ‘What Apollo done was in all the papers, with a picture of him tucking in the upholstery off a seat. Horsehair, it was. That's what the sump oil was for. To wash it down. You ever tried eating the stuff?'

‘Horsehair can't be eaten!' Tiny screamed.

The Doc pointed at Big Tiny's stomach. ‘Was eaten. You'd give it a run yourself, fatman. Could eat your own fucken leg. Between ya mouth and the gut ya could knock the
Southern Aurora
over. What they call that thing on the back of the train? The caboose. You'd do that for dessert.'

Tex smiled and Tallboy laughed out loud, while Cold Can giggled quietly to himself. Tiny didn't find the Doc's attack on him funny at all. He got to his feet, slammed a foot into the dirt and kicked dust across the fire.

Ren and Sonny joined in the laughter, thinking the river men were enjoying a joke between themselves. But before they knew it, the joke had got out of hand.

‘Ya know nothing, Doc. Why don't ya tell these young fellas something of ya own life? Bout the poor kiddie ya killed way back.'

‘You cunt!'

The Doc charged at Tiny, head-butted him in the guts and knocked him to the ground. The two men rolled around in the dirt like a pair of mongrel pups. The others laughed, until Tiny rolled over and crashed into the coals and the sleeve of the Doc's suit-coat caught fire. Tex had had enough. He picked up an iron poker and belted the Doc across the back of the legs with it.

‘Knock it off. Both of ya. Fuck this fire up and ya both barred. For life.'

He gave the Doc a second whack with the poker and turned on Tiny. ‘You fucken goose.' He raised the poker in the air. ‘Say sorry for what ya said or it's the same for you.'

While Sonny seemed to enjoy the spectacle, Ren was shocked by the sudden violence Tex displayed.

Tiny rolled the Doc onto his side and stripped him of his smouldering coat, stomping on it as he apologised for what he'd said. ‘I went too far there, Doc. You got my temperature going.'

The Doc picked himself up and brushed the dust from the knees of his pants, which hardly seemed worth it, seeing as the arse was caked in dry mud. ‘You don't know what ya talking about there, Tiny. I have never dealt with no kids.' With that, the Doc lay down by the fire, turned his back on the other men and soon went off to sleep.

Many stories circulated as to how the Doc came by his alias. A popular telling was that he'd once earned a living as a street quack with no medical training and had posed as a doctor going door to door across the city selling the
medicinal powders
he prepared himself, with a claim they cured colds, pains and
general ailments
. The powders were a risky remedy, seeing as the Doc purchased the raw ingredients from the hardware store – various chemicals and dyes mixed with warm water. It was claimed that he'd once sold a powder to a mother nursing a baby screaming from a gut ache and throwing up its own insides. Not more than ten minutes after the mother administered the medicine provided by the Doc the infant went off to sleep. When the mother went to fetch the baby the following morning she saw that it had turned a sickish green colour. The baby was dead.

While they had no idea if the story was true or not, the thought that the Doc may have interfered with kids scared the boys a little. After hearing Tiny's story Ren backed away from the campfire and pulled Sonny by the shirt. Tallboy was watching and saw the worried look on Ren's face.

‘Hey ya, boys, listen to me. Old Tallboy's got a real good story to tell yas.'

He held up a half-full wine bottle and took a long swig for lubrication.

‘I remember one day I been drinking in town, by the Banana Alley there, with a couple of boys who was labouring casual on the railway, chasing some drinking money.'

He stopped and did the best he could to gather his thoughts before he continued. Ren and Sonny listened closely.