Jeanie sat there. Georgie and Robyn were fighting in the back seat, Nadine was crying out that she was thirsty. In the front yard was a fire-pit. Thin whiffs of smoke and animal fat drifted into the cab. Jeanie tried to remember. The smell.
An old Landrover motored up the road and stopped behind the truck. A middle-aged man got out of the driver’s seat. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a freckled complexion brushed red on the cheekbones and nose from too much recent sun. Last night he had rubbed a sliced tomato on the burns to take away the sting. It hadn’t worked.
Two policemen were talking to the truckies, taking notes. Another was busy photographing the ugliness of it all in colour and black and white, snapping away indifferently, for he had seen it all and done it all before: still-life images, for posterity.He waved to the freckly man, who most people knew simply as Pastor.
‘They tell me a baby survived. Is that right?’
‘Yeah, it’s over there with the Abos.’
‘You don’t like those people, do you Artie?’
‘I’m just doin’ my job, Pastor. Maybe you don’t understand much about policing.’
The man they called Pastor turned and walked slowly towards a group of Aboriginal women standing in a clutch at the side of the road, where the sergeant had told them to stay. Those blacks were just a nuisance at times like these, all that crying and weeping. Too full of emotion, still too full of tradition.
‘Oh, Passor, is Albert and Ginny. Dey bin lyin’ in dat moddercar all dead, Passor.’ The Pastor’s eyes moved to the baby, still naked, asleep in the crook of a dark arm. ‘Oh, Passor, she was saved by der ’and of God, dat bebby.’
‘Then give it back to God.’ The Pastor reached out.
‘You can’ take dat bebby! She’s kin, dat bebby, Passor!’
But the Pastor took the baby. When he got home, his wife understood. She knew it was for the best. He told her to start packing, for they were heading back to Perth. That night he slept fitfully, for his mind was awash with the sounds of wailing and gnashing of teeth, and he wondered if he had really done the right thing.
14
Vince sat in traffic, windows down, sucking in fumes: the bad breath of a big city. Just ahead, a truck had spilled its load, and movement west on the highway slowed to a crawl. He was still two kilometres from the casino when his phone rang. It was his older brother, Leo, the gifted, golden boy who had gone to uni and once played for Swan Districts. He became Romano and Partners Investment Consultants while Vince was still in market-garden mode. Each step Vince took was weighed down with clods of dirt and manure, and he still read very slowly.
‘Hey, Leo.’
‘Vince. Barbara and I would like to take you guys out for dinner Saturday night.’ His union with Barbara was a means to an end. Her family were successful on so many levels. She was both incredibly wealthy and plain, maybe even ugly, depending on the light. Leo was a driven man of dubious motives. ‘What about Capriccio Italiano? They make the best chilli mussels.’
‘Sounds great.’
‘Ah, I’ll have a proposition for you.’
‘A proposition.’
‘It’s a chance to make real money. Look, I’ve tried to ring Sophie this morning. Everything okay?’
‘Yeah, um, Sophie’s out somewhere. I’ll let you know by tonight, all right. Look, the traffic’s starting to move again. Gotta go.’
Leo had started to say something more but Vince snapped the phone closed. He passed the accident at a reverential pace, still cloaked in a damp sweat of anxiety that blew dry by the time he got to Vic Park.
—
Newhaven Gardens was among the finest aged-care facilities in the southern hemisphere. The brochure said so. There were photos of nurses and the elderly residents smiling in simulated interactions. It looked pretty good in the brochure. Leo said it was the best. Vince took the stairs to the first floor. Slowly. At the top to the right was a small lounge with tea- and coffee-making facilities. From there, the brochure added, it was possible to see the Swan River drifting about under The Causeway. Vince paused for a moment and looked out the window over red roofs and through the blessed coolness of trees, and he imagined the river out there somewhere. To the left was the locked ward. Inside were the soulless ones, those soft-skinned packages of spent life, with dull-eyed faces draining of humanness, which leaked out, silent and unstoppable. It wasn’t in the brochure. He pressed the red buzzer as directed and waited for a nurse to open the door.
‘Ah, young Mr Romano!’ Her name was Helen. She always called him ‘young Mr Romano’; Leo was always ‘Mr Romano’.
‘Hello, Helen. How is he?’
‘A bit grumpy this morning. Maybe you can cheer him up?’
The nurse left Vince at the doorway to the room his father shared with Mr Bronski, who was in his bed, the covers pulled up to his armpits. Photos of him catching different fish in different places up and down the western coast were all around him. Perhaps those pictures of the past, like stray ghosts caught in time, floated around his mind as fleet shadows. Regardless, he told everyone who entered to ‘Bugger off!’
‘Hello Mr Bronski.’
‘Bugger off!’
Vince took no notice. He sat down in a chair beside his father’s bed.
‘Hey, Dad, it’s me, Vince.’ The large, grey face tilted sideways and dry, empty eyes searched around for recognition. Vince clasped his hand over his father’s, willing him to sense that touch as an expression of hope, of love, of life. A month ago there may have been a reply. Now there was nothing, just a vacuum of silence drawn out from the deep unknown, the blinds of the mind pulled down into a blank stare. ‘It’s me, Dad.’
Eddie, Vince’s dad, had photographs of Leo, Patty and Vince as children and, again, as adults. Photos of Rottnest, Eddie’s favourite place, of Vince and Sophie’s wedding there; a picture of himself, on the veranda of unit 339, his beaming face all bronzed and grappa’d up. Vince’s mum, stout, sensible, with streaks of silver, photos of them all together. Things of importance Eddie no longer visited, things once desired now floating away out of reach, bobbing on the ebb tide of memory … and gone.
Vince spent half an hour sitting at his father’s bedside, eking out a dispirited monologue, his words spoken onto Eddie’s sometimes querulous, sometimes frightened, but mostly blank countenance. When he felt he had talked enough, Vince got up to leave. He bent down to kiss his father’s forehead and sadly walked towards the door.
‘Bugger off!’
‘See ya, Mr Bronski.’
‘Bugger off!’
So he went. Vince walked out into the car park, roasting under the summer sun, disheartened by his father’s predicament. As soon as he had gone, the nurses had fallen on his father, doing the deeds that needed doing, servicing those requirements he could no longer do himself. Vince didn’t see the tear run down the delta of wrinkles that spread out from the corner of Eddie’s eye or hear his name whispered through pale, chapped lips. He drove away wondering what he should buy for lunch.
—
‘Who turned the radio off? Wasn’t that ding-looking bloke, was it?’ Rheumy eyes blinked open. Archie struggled to raise his head from its resting place on his chest.
‘Vince? He’s an Aussie, Dad. His people are from England, somewhere. And you were asleep. I turned it off.’ Matthew leaned over from the chair and switched the radio back on. ‘Can we listen to a station with some music on it?’
‘No! I like listening to the talk-back. People aren’t afraid to say what they really think.’ He dabbed at some drool with an already soggy tissue.
‘That’s only because they remain anonymous.’
‘Doesn’t matter that they are!’ Archie reddened and coughed. ‘Where’s my cup of tea?’
‘You’ve had morning tea. Silver Chain will be here in a minute.’
‘Why?’
‘You need a shower, Dad. You smell.’
‘Bloody queer lot today, showering every day. Years ago, well, th
at’s why we’re so short of water, now. I’m sure about that. I don’t care that I smell, you know.’
‘Think of other people, Dad.’
‘You young people are afraid of stink. It’s the juice of hard work. It’s a badge, a man’s smell. Women used to go for it. What’s the word … ?’
‘You’re thinking pheromones; I’m thinking plain old body odour.’
‘Hum.’
‘Whatever, Dad, you’re having a shower.’
‘Not that Doris girl again, is it? She’s too rough. What happened to the English lady?’
‘Dad, you just have to put up with it. You can’t pick and choose. They service a lot of clients and only have so much time.’
‘It’s a good case for slavery, isn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, all those no-hoper blacks could be put to some use.’
‘It’s been tried in this country, Dad. People are more enlightened today.’
‘Bullshit!’ The effort to spray out the words almost caused Archie to choke. ‘People are afraid to say what they think. They fear the socialists and all those left-wing loonies. You know, all those poofs marching through town with the arse cut out of their pants!’ He sank back down in his wheelchair, almost spent. ‘God, what the world has come to.’
‘You really think the world was a better place in your day?’
‘There was an order of things, then. People knew their place. Society had rules. It’s all gone to shit, now.’ The words drained out in an aching of despondency. ‘All gone.’
‘Hello, anyone home?’ It was Doris. She stood at the screen door bearing with her the tools of her trade: two strong arms that hung from broad shoulders and a back braced with an engineered amalgam of nylon webbing and velcro.
Archie heard her call and muttered a resigned expletive beneath his breath. He would have his shower.
—
Matthew set off for the newsagent, one of the last bastions for the sale of the humble cigarette packaged in gory glory that offered illness or death to the addicted, so designed to shock the smoker into abstinence. That cut no ice with Matthew. He bought a packet of ‘Reds’ and whinged about the price. The newsagent smiled back at Matthew as he always did. Thank you for your custom. Matthew walked back to THE WOUNDED SINNER, smoking furiously.
‘I’m done, here.’ Doris found Matthew in a chair on the veranda, smoking and drinking tea. ‘It’s all right for some,’ she thought. ‘See you next time,’ and she was off, driving away in her little car.
Matthew could hear Archie trying to move about the lounge room in his chair. He listened to Archie’s grunts and groans of frustration, the emotions screwed from a body with nothing left to give, the black glove of Death creeping closer each day.
‘I’ll be in when I finish my cuppa, all right?’
—
Vince had bought a cooked chook, coleslaw and a loaf of bread for lunch. There was a churning in the pit of his stomach and he didn’t know if it was hunger stimulated by the smell of the chicken, or if it was anxiety, or both. His guts grumbled nevertheless. He drove back to Guildford and tried to fight the urge to pass by Sophie’s mother’s place. He lost. A left onto Epsom, a right onto Mattheson, just a quick drive past, no damage done. Sophie’s Mum’s place was a 1950s fibro-and-weatherboard, typical and nondescript. Leo’s red BMW, however, stood out like dog’s balls.
15
Popeye stirred a large pot simmering away on an antiquated gas stove. Jeanie and Auntie Peggy stood at either side, looking in at the strange brew of Popeye’s creation. Flies buzzed incessantly, annoyingly, defiantly. Here, in the kitchen of Popeye’s little hovel, they flew unimpeded by the luxury of screens, or windows for that matter. Kangaroo tails, wrapped inside a bag proclaiming HANNAN’S PET SUPPLIES and in smaller letters PET FOOD ONLY, lay draped over a counter, a hive of insect activity. Jeanie saw no refrigerator. A single brass tap drip-dripped into a stainless sink. Cockroaches carried on their shifty business on walls and floor: like the flies and road kill, just part of the bush.
‘Fix eb’ry t’ing, dis me’cin.’ Popeye stirred her potion for a moment more, and then turned off the stove.
‘What is it?’ Jeanie brushed at flies and damned their tenacity.
‘Bush me’cin. Fix artritus, monia, eben cancer.’ In a bucket on the floor were various leaves and berries and bits of bark picked out from nature’s vast emporium. Popeye put a lid on the steaming pot. ‘It’s gonna cool down, now, okay.’
‘Do you really believe it will cure everything?’
‘Why not?’ Popeye moved through to the lounge room. She lowered herself into a vinyl couch, its back broken, the legs long gone, its plain, black ugliness now propped up with bricks. Jeanie sat down in a rusty dining chair flecked with the remnants of chrome plating: it wobbled about dangerously. There was a mattress on the floor, a television on a milk crate against a wall, and a small CD player beside it, still sounding out some dusty outback anthem. Auntie Peggy stayed in the kitchen, making tea and preparing the kangaroo tails.
Popeye looked across at Jeanie through strange, tired eyes and passed her tongue over the fatness of her lips. ‘Dat Passor man, dat one you call farder, ’e gone to der spirits, yet?’
‘No, he’s still alive. Quite healthy, really.’
‘All der time ’e tell us to belieb, to ’ave fait’. I belieb in Jesus. I belieb in bush me’cin, too.’ She chuckled and closed her eyes. ‘I ’member dat man from long ago. I ’member dat day.’
‘You were there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Tell me what happened?’
‘Okay. Long-ago times. All dirt road, den. Big bash-up.’ The old lady flicked a bony finger to a point out from the community, a distance of about forty years. ‘We know ride-away those modder-cars. Albert an’ Ginny all busted up ebriwhere. All dead ’cep’ you.’
Jeanie leaned forward. ‘Then the Pastor came?’
‘First puti, you know, der policeman.’ Popeye chuckled and said, ‘Dey come an’ tell us to shut up. We sad down wailin’ an’ cry’n’. Big carry-on.’ She was quiet for a moment, her bulbous eyes closed. ‘Den puti foun’ you on der road. Nod broken, all good. Gabe you back to us. Straid-away we know id was der ’and o’ God.’
‘Was it?’ Jeanie thought out loud.
‘True, dat! Puti tell us “Stop bloody yabb’rin’!”, bud allus woman cry oud louder. Id was a mi’cle. Dad smash up all Sadan’s work bud you was saved by our God.’
‘Then the Pastor came?’
‘’E took you from us. You was jus’ a bebby! Up t’you if it was right or wrong.’ Popeye opened her eyes once more. ‘You was a bebby, pluck’d from der earth, your mudder. Your roots dry out and die. You got t’ask yourself, wad you do now?’ She accentuated the last ‘you’ with a poke of her bony index finger. ‘We ’ab a cuppa tea, now, ’ey?’
—
Ben Poulson leant against the wall just outside the side door of the pub, smoking and thinking. He wondered what Jeanie was up to, what her game was. Bloody Matthew had crossed some boundaries, all right. Might be acceptable in the city with its anything-goes mentality. Though not here, not in the bush. It was the last frontier, said Squire, and they’d talked about it long into the night, how things had changed. But even Squire said Jeanie was a good-looking black. He said that was an oxymoron and laughed and Ben laughed, too, but didn’t understand at all. They all had another round, those rednecked men, a conspiracy of dated thoughts and well-greased words.
Inside, Squire was making himself look busy with half-a-dozen customers; Mondays were always slow. The lunchtime clientele would begin to filter in soon, mostly business people and tourists seeking the myth of outback. Another car pulled into the car park and Ben stubbed out his smoke. He hacked and hawked and watched as Jaylene walked past with the younger brats, no doubt carrying chicken and chips from the servo.
‘Where you off to, kids?’
‘Nowhere!’ Jaylene shot out
a dark, fierce glance through slitted eyes.
‘Barren something, I think.’
‘Georgina! Just shut up!’
‘Barren Hills, ’eh? You be careful out there, girls. You never know what might happen.’ He turned and went back inside to finish off his beer.
—
The Landcruiser hummed along the tar at a hundred clicks, speeding past the sparse bush towards the constant of a far horizon; for some, in the new millennium, still a place of mystery.
‘Are we ever gonna get there?’ asked Robyn, one part inquisitive, two parts impatient.
‘Are we ever going to get there, is what you should have said, Robyn,’ but Jeanie knew it was a losing battle.
Auntie Peggy swigged the bush medicine straight from the flagon, then recapped it and set it down between her feet. ‘We nilly dere. Nudder twenny miles, mebby. Dat’s all.’
‘I need to do wee!’ Nadine squirmed around anxiously in the middle of the bench seat.
Jeanie pulled over onto the verge. Back doors opened, kids spilled out, relief all round. The chatter of small people disturbed a family of goats only thirty metres away. Jaylene and the twins darted off into the scrub in pursuit for a few dusty seconds and the animals disappeared amid a shower of sticks and stones and childish futility.
Jeanie watched from the driver’s seat. ‘It’s amazing goats can live out here!’
‘Blackfullas live out ’ere from Dreamin’. Dat your trouble, t’inkin’ like a whitefulla!’
‘What do you mean?’ but Jeanie thought the old girl was probably right. Just too much whitefulla.
‘You know what I mean. Your mother and I have brought you up in the Christian tradition and in a good home. You’ve just finished a teaching degree. The world is your oyster.’ She listened as he spoke and leaned forwards in her chair, hands burrowed into her lap, opposite the man she called her father. Almost everybody else outside their little family called him Pastor. ‘You know your real mother and father died in a terrible accident. I’ve never hidden that fact from you.’ The Pastor sat at his desk, papers in neat piles, pencils sharpened and pens lying side by side. He looked over at Jeanie, her face all hope and longing for understanding. ‘I just don’t think going back there is a good idea. What about your family here? Can you give me one good reason why you would want to leave?’
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