Cold Skin
Page 4
‘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,
getting itself into such a tangle.
Larry wants to fight the lamppost.
He’s so drunk
he starts swearing at it.
I expect he’ll throw the first punch.
My money’s on the lamppost.
He sits in the gutter for a while,
scratching his head,
shaking his fist at the post
and muttering to himself.
Maybe his imaginary friend
became bored and moved on?
Larry gradually stands and sways
before wandering off
slowly down the street.
There’s no pedigree in that family.
A dad with a chip on his shoulder,
brooding on Laycock’s farm.
A mum, quiet as a dormouse,
sending the boys out to find food at the river
or shoot rabbits on Jaspers Hill.
And big Eddie,
stuck at school
when he really wants to work those muscles
where they might be of some use.
Larry
They shouldn’t stick lampposts
right on the footpath
where you can walk into them.
If only I had an axe.
Hang on,
Colleen’s house isn’t far from here.
A walk will clear my head,
but it won’t do much for my stomach.
Bloody heck, the footpath is really uneven.
Maybe it’s something to do with the mine?
All that digging underground.
The old man reckons the whole town will collapse
and disappear into a giant pit.
I wish he’d disappear into a giant pit!
Here’s Colleen’s place.
Up and tumble over the fence
into the bushes beside her room.
How did my clothes get so dirty?
I’m just sitting here,
innocent, I swear,
giving my eyes time to focus . . .
through her window.
And there she is,
getting out of bed,
wearing just a nightie,
a very short nightie,
as she heads out to the dunny
in the backyard.
My eyes follow her,
but I don’t move.
I can’t move.
When she walks back up the path
I see her ankles,
fine slim ankles,
and I gulp so hard
I’m sure she can hear me.
But she doesn’t look around.
She hurries inside
and I watch as she snuggles down into bed.
Then I stagger away from the bushes,
thinking a thousand things at once,
feeling mad sober
and wild drunk
all at the same time.
Albert Holding
My wife and I don’t talk much.
Not since I got home from up north
and she asked me questions,
too many questions,
about what I’d done,
what I’d seen,
what I planned to do
now that the family was back together.
It only took a few hours
for her to mention the mine
and the jobs begging to be filled
were leaving school
to work down the pits
because the money’s so good,
and everyone in town
is buying one of them new fridges,
and how the Bennetts have moved
into a bigger house
now there’s two breadwinners.
That’s when I slammed the chair back
and leant over the table,
pointing towards town.
‘I’m never going down that bloody mine again!
And neither are the boys.
They either leave town,
if they got half-a-brain,
or they find whatever work they can
above ground, in the sunshine.’
She doesn’t understand.
No one can,
unless they’ve been down the pits
where men get buried
and all the management does
is put a cairn at the entrance
to remind us of their sacrifice.
Each miner touches the inscription
‘for luck’
before disappearing.
Not me.
Not my boys.
My wife and I,
we don’t talk much.
Mr Butcher
In the city, the streets reek
of perfume, beer and smoke.
It’s easy to find what I want,
no matter how late it is.
She has hazel eyes
and glistening black hair.
We go to the Royal Hotel,
offering rooms by the hour,
and climb the creaking stairs
with stained carpet.
The odour of fried food
blows through an open window.
She switches on a lamp,
which throws a pale light
over the unmade bed.
When she asks my name
I answer, ‘Eddie. Eddie Holding.’
That insolent kid wouldn’t know what to do.
Her perfume is so strong my eyes water.
I tell her what I want.
My hand reaches for her hair,
a slick of fine weave,
her thick lipstick on my cheek
and the touch of her cool skin . . .
and suddenly I think of the classroom,
my weekday world,
so I lean heavily on her soft body.
I’m so thrilled and so ashamed
all at the same time.
I push harder
trying to forget everything,
but I see the blankness in her eyes
and that’s when I ram
as rough as I dare.
I want to drive that emptiness away
until it’s replaced by fear.
With one last lunge
I groan like an animal,
roll off and keep my eyes closed
for as long as possible,
even when I hear her dressing.
‘Time’s up, Eddie.’
She’s standing there
looking older than she did an hour ago,
with her hair a charcoal mess
and clothes slouched on.
She stuffs the money in her handbag,
says goodbye and walks out,
leaving the door open
to remind me this room
is rented by the hour,
not the night.
Eddie
Larry stinks of beer
and mumbles to himself
as he climbs into bed
on the other side of our small room.
He’s gonna snore all night
and in the morning
roll over with a headache and a temper.
He’ll stumble outside
and throw up under the lemon tree.
I’ve got no chores tomorrow
so I jump out of bed,
climb over my rank brother
and step out the open window.
I wrap the blanket tight around me
and follow the track up into the hills.
The path is overgrown
with swaying grass stalks and banksia.
I lie in the cool grass under the rosewood tree
and look up at the looming cliff.
It has the face of an old man
with one eye closed
and a scar on his chin,
a coal-seam scar
too high to mine.
I close my eyes,
listening to the rustle of the leaves
and the distant siren from the mine.
The afternoon shift finishing at midnight.
I sleep beside the Coal Man
battered into the cliff,
miles above my town.
Mr Butcher
The valley is covered in mist
as I return on the mail train.
Back to my flat
to boil the kettle
and sit by the window
with my feet on the ledge,
drinking my tea,
thinking of her shoulders,
the arch of her back,
her thick black hair.
And although I try to stop myself
I’m already imagining next weekend.
This time a blonde,
with a ponytail,
a long ponytail.
A young lady.
Someone who doesn’t put on lipstick
quite so thick,
who doesn’t drench herself in cheap perfume
that rankles through my clothes
so I’m afraid everyone in town can smell it.
I leave the clothes to soak
in the washtub downstairs.
Next week I want someone fresh,
with alabaster skin.
Monday morning,
I pack my briefcase
with this week’s homework
and try to steady my thoughts.
The students are walking to school.
In all the time I’ve lived here,
in this wretched flat,
not one person has ever looked up
to wave hello.
THREE
Town and city
Albert Holding
Every morning before dawn
I stumble out of bed
in the chill damp of our house
to make my lunch for the day ahead.
Yesterday’s bread wrapped in wax paper
and a thermos of sweet black tea.
The boys are still asleep,
fidgeting in their hand-built beds.
My wife has a whisper of grey hair on her temple.
Her dressing gown tossed across the blanket.
On our bedside table are two photos.
One of our wedding day.
All I remember is slicking my hair down
with Brylcreem
and the little tail that wouldn’t sit
at the nape of my neck.
My hair was laughing at me behind my back.
I’m in uniform in the other photo,
the hat tilted just right.
I’m grinning like someone
who doesn’t know what’s about to happen.
The smile of a fool;
a happy idiot.
One day I’ll take that photo
and toss it in the wood stove.
Replace it with one of the boys.
As I close the front door,
the click of the lock
sounds like loading a gun.
My heavy boots crack the frost.
The sky is charcoal grey.
Nobody wakes to see me off now.
Pretty girls kissed me on victory day,
their lips soft red petals brushing my face.
Now I’m just a married man in farm overalls.
I remember my arms tight around their waists,
closing my eyes to their rich inviting smell
.
It stayed on my uniform for days,
until the wife washed and stored it
in the wardrobe to be eaten by moths.
Victory lasted precisely one day.
Now I work like a mule
alone in a mud-bog paddock
and the only enemy left is myself.
Mr Carter
Pete Grainger is a smart lad
and I guess there are worse places
to be stationed than your home town.
So I wrote it up in the paper
with a big splash.
‘Local policeman returns to help his community.’
Pete does his best.
He wants to see the town prosper,
so he goes easy on Mr Wright
when he gets drunk.
Pete escorts him home,
never to the lock-up,
because you can’t have the mine manager in jail,
now can you?
And Mr Calder never heard about his son
stealing the milk money after dusk.
Pete gave the kid a good talking to,
and a solid kick where the bruise won’t show.
No one knows,
no one was told,
but I’m a newspaperman
who can smell which way the wind blows.
I’m not broadcasting the town troubles
for all the world to read.
Pete’s job would send me balmy.
Filling out forms,
patrolling the town,
waiting for something to happen.
And all the time wishing for a little excitement,
then, when it comes,
shuddering
because it means someone is up to no good.
Pete’s the poor beggar
who has to deal with it.
It’s true to say
that nobody welcomes a copper
knocking on their door
in the small hours of the night.
Sergeant Grainger
I patrol the evening streets
in fading light,
nodding to each of the store owners
as they shut up shop,
asking if there’s anything I can do.
Mrs Kain grabs my hand and pleads,
‘Yes Sergeant, more customers, please!’
She’s joking, but I wish I could help.
For all that Kenneth Paley says about a new town
with a better life and brighter future,
it’s still the same sleepy place it always was.
Except Fridays
when there’s always a brawl at the pub,
with two blokes squaring off outside
and a crowd gathered,