When I pushed the white ant for an answer,
and stood close enough
for him to count my nose hairs,
he had the hide to say,
‘It’s not only the body that has to be fit, Holding.’
I almost slugged him, then and there,
but they had military police
stationed outside his door.
He’d been punched a few times before
by the look of him.
Cheetham and me wandered around in a daze
for a week
until they stationed us in the Alice,
a million bloody miles from Frank and our mates.
When I got home
I thought the wife would understand
and wouldn’t nag me
about going back down the mine,
where the enemy is a thousand tons of dirt
held up by timber studs and a few nails and bolts.
After the war I was going to make up for lost time.
But the time I spent away,
it’s still lost.
No matter what I do,
it stays lost.
I pull hard on my durry
and watch the heavy clouds roll in.
It’s going to rain for Colleen’s funeral.
As it should.
At least that’ll keep my wife quiet,
for an hour or two.
After the funeral.
That’s when I’ll make my move.
If Grainger can’t put two and two together
then I’ll do it for him.
No one in this town will think of me as gutless.
Not this time.
FIVE
Burning candles
Eddie
The Catholic church is full to bursting
with every pew taken
and people crowded along the walls
and at the back.
They shut the mine for a shift
and the shops are all closed.
The school has a day off
and we’re spending it here with Colleen,
her coffin near the altar,
with a photo on top.
Her long blonde hair
shines from behind the glass
and I can hear Mrs O’Connor
crying in the front pew.
I’m wearing Dad’s army boots,
polished with spit and rags,
because my feet are too big for my good shoes
and Dad said we weren’t buying new ones,
not for a funeral.
Sally and me are sitting close,
listening to the priest
talk about God calling his children home,
welcoming them to his side,
asking us to pray for those lost
and those reunited.
I close my eyes
and imagine the river at Taylors Bend.
A bunch of us from school
went there one afternoon to swim.
Colleen sat on the wild grass beside the bank
and laughed as I dive-bombed from the tree
and nearly flooded the beach.
The priest asks us to stand
and hold hands to give us strength.
He prays that peace be with us
and I’m pleased to feel Sally’s warmth
and look into her sad eyes.
We sit down again and I glance around.
My family are in the pew opposite.
Larry is looking at the altar.
Mum is clenching her hands tight in her lap
and Dad stares straight ahead,
not a muscle moving.
Mr Carter is sitting near the front.
His paper said Colleen was a ray of sunshine
that bathed our town in a glow,
bright enough to stay with us for ever.
When this is all over,
I’ll thank him for honouring Colleen.
The priest calls us to sing
but all I hear is the sound of hard rain
falling on my empty town.
Albert Holding
Christ almighty!
I can’t put up with this much longer.
The organ’s grinding on,
putting my teeth on edge,
and the wife is crying by the bucketful.
If the rain crashes harder
I won’t have to hear this singing.
Paley’s weasled his way into the front pew,
wiping his pudgy face with a white handkerchief.
I remember him on Friday,
drunk and backslapping,
offering the shout.
I was outside under the sarsaparilla vine,
watching him buying friends at the bar,
until the girls came along
and I turned my attention to them.
The town prays to a God
who takes young girls
and welcomes the killer into his church.
Believing,
it ain’t worth a pinch of dust.
There’s a trick I learnt in the army,
on the parade ground
listening to the drill sergeant bellowing insults.
I stand straight and stare forward,
close my mind to everything,
feel my breathing steady
and try to sleep, with my eyes open.
I spent long days at the base camp
working on doing nothing but this.
It’s probably the only good thing I learnt,
along with how to roll smokes with one hand
and how to hate someone
and never show it.
Mr Butcher
Sergeant Grainger is up the back
looking for a sign, a weakness.
I dare not turn around to see him.
I stare straight ahead at the statue of Mary,
her immaculate heart,
and think of what to do.
But what I can’t get out of my mind
is the sight of blonde hair
through my fingers.
I tighten with the memory.
Of course!
There’s my answer.
I’ll pay for a mother.
My blonde friend must have a mother,
or an aunt,
anyone who’ll be Mrs Butcher
if someone rings.
Simple.
A few pounds for answering a phone call.
I hope mother is like daughter,
willing to provide a service.
Anything to get rid of Grainger.
It’s a waste of my wage though.
The money would be better spent
on soft warm silken pleasurable things.
Sally
As we follow the procession out of the church
I want to hold Eddie’s hand
but my dad is watching,
so I walk quietly beside him.
I hear his sharp intake of breath
as we see the rain falling on Colleen’s coffin.
Mr O’Connor and some miners
load the coffin into the wagon
for the short trip
around the corner to the cemetery.
We all follow in the rain.
Eddie opens an umbrella
and holds it over my head,
and instead of saying thanks,
I look at his downcast eyes
and say,
‘I love you.’
It just came out.
I looked into his eyes and saw love.
I thought I saw love,
so I mouthed the words.
The rain tumbles down
as we reach the old iron gates and file through.
Eddie’s worth more than anything to me.
So I’m glad I said it.
Eddie
It’s like the first time we kissed
beside the river
and I fled as fast as my
feet could take me.
Only now,
I’m holding an umbrella
in a line of people.
There’s no escape.
I focus on the hearse up ahead
and think of Colleen
being lowered into the ground.
I’m afraid of hearing
the thump of dirt on her coffin,
and her mother wailing
while Mr O’Connor struggles
to hold himself steady.
Sally’s words dance, uninvited,
inside my head.
I move the umbrella closer to Sally,
so I can feel the drops of rain
on my face,
cooling my skin
and rolling down my cheeks.
I feel too much.
Let the rain wash it away.
Mr Carter
As the rain drenches us all
I close my eyes for a minute
and pray for my Grace
to be with the young girl
and to tell her of our thoughts,
our sorrow,
and to forgive us.
The Lord sends these things
to test our spirit,
and while we can’t make sense
or understand why,
we must believe and accept.
Mr O’Brien leans heavily on his cane
beside the grave.
As we all start to leave,
I touch his arm and say,
‘Can I walk with you, Bob?’
He was a watchmaker,
before the war, before his injury.
His workshop next to my office
rang with chimes and gongs,
and I marvelled at his dexterity,
his long fingers tinkering
with the crowded workings
of all manner of clocks and watches.
We slowly file out of the cemetery,
his cane tapping a route home.
He says,
‘Sometimes it’s all right being the way I am.
Not having to see things.’
When we reach his front gate,
he holds out his hand and asks,
‘Are you still a Catholic, Mr Carter?’
Before I answer,
he adds,
‘If you are.
And I hope you are.
Burn a candle for Colleen
next time you’re in church.’
Eddie
Sally and me walk along the banks of the river
without saying a word.
Kingfishers and swallows,
creekdippers and acrobats,
swoop along the surface.
We duck under the branches of the willows
and cross the stream.
The water swirls around my knees
as I grip her hand.
We take nervous steps
through the cold rush,
our feet gripping the stones below.
When we reach the far bank
I struggle out onto the high ground
and help her climb up the track.
On Jaspers Hill
we lie in the grass
under the cliffs,
away from town,
away from the memory of yesterday.
Sally kisses me
and I don’t want to run this time.
I wrap my arms around her.
Then, in one quick movement,
Sally leans back and takes off her jumper,
tossing it behind her.
She’s wearing a thin top
that clings to my fingers
as my hands drift over her body.
Sally grips my shoulders.
Her nails press into my skin
as she moves closer.
I smell her faint perfume,
feel her lips,
soft and welcoming.
My hands fumble under her blouse
exploring, awkward.
Her hand slips into my shirt
and I almost jump in fright.
I don’t know what to do
with her fevered skin tingling
under my big clumsy hands.
She takes my hand,
placing it between her legs,
and the shock of her warmth
surges through me.
She pushes me back
and we are rubbing, touching, fondling,
doing things I’ve only dared think about.
Sally’s breathing, my hands,
her lips, her face, her skin,
her smell, her touch,
fill my afternoon.
Albert Holding
The pub is quiet
with me and Johnno the bartender,
alone,
drinking the bitter brew of a desolate afternoon.
I told Laycock I was finishing early
and walked off before he could respond.
There’s nothing at home for me.
I’m holding a glass of the only friend I’ve got.
Johnno sips his beer
and rabbits on about last Friday
and how everyone drank far too much,
and when Sergeant Grainger came in on Saturday
asking him to name the drunks,
Johnno scoffed and said,
‘Every bloke in town, mate.’
So we’re all suspects, I guess.
I lean close to Johnno,
raise my glass,
swill it down
and say, ‘Thanks.
One more for the guilty.’
He looks at me in horror.
‘Guilty of being drunk on Friday, you drongo.’
He pours another as Fatty comes through the door,
looking pale and bloated,
like a fish tossed up on the bank.
He puffs,
‘Just a shandy for me, thank you.’
He sits beside me at the bar
and starts on.
‘I’m so sorry for the parents.
It’s a bad business for Burruga.
A blight on our future, you could say.’
I down my beer in one gulp,
and say,
‘There’s only one bloke who can make it right,
Fatty.’
I leave my money on the counter
and walk out.
Sergeant Grainger
The clock ticks past two in the morning
and the kettle boils on the stove.
Another cup of tea is better than sleep.
I’ve had a week of stories:
beer on Friday till closing,
rude singing, bad jokes,
and staggering home to a cold dinner
and an angry missus.
Some blokes want to take up a collection
for the O’Connors,
to help with the expenses,
and they asked me to look into it.
Everyone mentions how pretty Colleen was.
They didn’t see her like me,
at the end,
on the sand.
That’s what I can’t shake.
It keeps me awake,
going over every detail.
Particularly the Holding family.
No one saw Eddie on Friday night
and all he told me
is he sat up a tree beside the railway station
watching Butcher run late for the train.
So if I believe Eddie,
I should talk to Butcher again
and make more calls to the city.
Still no mother.
Albert Holding was as hostile as always.
He scowled at each question,
answered with a grunt whenever possible,
and looked off into the distance.
But when I mentioned Larry
he spat on the footpath, growling,
‘No son of mine would do that.
The bloke who did it was gutl
ess.
A coward.
That’s who you should be looking for, Grainger.
A coward.’
Eddie
When Butcher calls her name I stand quickly,
my arm blocking the aisle.
Everyone looks at me.
Mr Butcher sees his chance.
‘I said “Sally”, Eddie,
You don’t look like Sally.
She’s much prettier.’
He’s so proud of himself
when he hears the sly giggles.
It’s all I can do to stop myself
from storming to his desk.
‘Do you like pretty girls, Sir?’
The laughter stops
and I hear my brother curse under his breath.
Butcher grabs his cane,
pointing to the door.
‘Outside, Holding.
Not another word!’
I walk out slowly,
taking each deliberate step
with my eyes never leaving Butcher.
His hand is shaking and he shouts at the class.
‘Chapter Four.
There’ll be questions when I return.’
Butcher leads me to the staffroom.
‘In here, boy.’
He adjusts his glasses
and motions for me to hold out my hand.
‘No, Mr Butcher.’
‘What do you mean, Holding?
Don’t disobey me.’
I take a step towards him
and he starts to raise the cane.
‘I know what happens in the city.’
He steps back.
‘What? What do you mean?’
I’ve been thinking of what to say,
careful not to accuse him of what I suspect.
‘You won’t choose Sally,
or any of the other girls to run errands for you.
From now on. Choose a boy.
My brother, Larry, he’ll do.’
Butcher’s face goes red with rage.
He taps the cane hard against his leg.
‘Sergeant Grainger knows
you almost missed the train.
You can tell him what else happened.’
Butcher says,
‘There’s nothing wrong in what I did.
Nothing whatsoever.
She’s a fine young lady.
In fact, I’d call her my friend.’
I open the door and walk back to class.
Butcher won’t ridicule me again.
Mr Carter
The week stumbles along
with everyone in town quiet, subdued.
The men walk home from the mine in groups.
No one stops at the pub.
Cold Skin Page 8