Once a Pommie Swagman

by Thomas, Nick Arden

  “Yes, you do!”

  “Oh, don’t start again for Christ’s sake!” and I turned on my side away from him.

  It was easily the lowest we’d ever been, and both of us tossed and turned all night.

  What were we doing in this fucking place! Later that night, although I didn’t look at him, I was sure I heard Glen whispering a prayer.

  We barely said a word the next morning until we got to Harry’s smallholding, and as soon as we saw the place we knew there would be no point in mentioning work. We almost turned back, so dispirited were we. The bus was parked in the front yard like he’d said, but it was Bing, rushing up to the gate excitedly and obviously expecting us to come in that persuaded us. The only thing growing in the front yard, other than thick tufts of paspalum grass, was a pomegranate tree about twenty yards from the bus, and two goats were trying as hard as they could to reach the leaves on the lower branches, stopping to stare indignantly at us as we came through the gate. The block of land was about an acre and it was fenced off, but most of the wooden posts supporting the two strands of rusty barbed wire were leaning over, with long grass and weeds growing up around them. The fence didn’t look like it could keep anything out, much less in. The house, or rather the three-roomed fibro shack, had also seen better days, with a rusty corrugated iron roof with wisps of thin blue smoke coming from the rickety brick and iron chimney at one end. Having decided we were no threat, the goats continued their efforts to get at the pomegranate branches as, accompanied by a still excited Bing, we stepped up onto the small front veranda. Beside the open front door was a single wicker chair with a much flattened and very grubby cushion on it. The chair looked like it had been placed there the day the shack was built and not been moved since.

  “Anyone home?”

  “Oi!” Harry’s startled voice came from the darkness inside, and a moment later he appeared at the fly screen door, wearing old shorts and a moth-eaten singlet.

  “Hello, boys! This is a nice surprise. We don’t often get visitors. Just a tick, I’ll get Edie” and he disappeared back inside. “We’ve got some visitors, love,” we could hear him say loudly, and moments later he emerged pushing a wheelchair.

  Straight away we could see there was something the matter with the woman other than not being able to walk. One arm sat limply in her lap, the fingers at funny angles, and one side of her mouth was more or less permanently half open and wet. She was quite a large lady, although she had obviously lost a lot of weight and her well-worn floral dress was now far too big for her. Stains of dribble and food were plain to see down the front of it, and the little clumps of wispy hair on her chin glistened with saliva. “This is Nick, and this is Glen,” Harry introduced us, bending down so she could hear him and see who he was pointing at, and his wife gave a slow nod of her head but didn’t say anything.

  For a moment there was an uncomfortable silence, but Harry came to our aid.

  ”So what brings you here, boys?”

  “Oh, we were just passing and thought we’d call in.”

  “Had a good look around, have youse? Lovely place, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, we went up Mt Cook yesterday.”

  “Oh, yeah; lovely views up there, ain’t there love,” his voice rose as he bent down to his wife. “They’ve been up Cookie, love, we used to go up there a lot, didn’t we?” and although her smile came out looking like a crooked grimace it was obvious from her eyes it was a genuine smile. “How about a mug of tea,” he exclaimed, standing up. “Got time for a quick one, haven’t you?”

  “Sure,” we shrugged, and he disappeared into the shack.

  Again there was a heavy silence; what do you say to an old woman in a wheelchair, with a beard and dribble all over her front! Fortunately this time Edith Melling came to our rescue herself, and with her good hand pointed at the pomegranate tree, indicating she wanted to be wheeled over to it. Between us we tilted her chair back to get it down the step and wheeled her across the lumpy grass, the goats scampering out of the way. When we got underneath the tree she pointed at one of the fruits, as if trying to reach it herself.

  “Shall I pick it?” Glen asked, and Mrs Melling nodded gently. Having picked one, she then nodded to another fruit and pointed at it, obviously wanting us to have one each. Then Harry emerged out onto the veranda carrying three enamel mugs of tea.

  “Ah!” he smiled. “Shown you her tree already, has she, her pride and joy that, planted it herself sixteen years ago, didn’t you love,” and the three of us sat on the ground beside her in the shade of the tree and drank our tea, Harry giving his wife little sips from his mug from time to time. The quiet moment was shattered minutes later when from around the back somewhere came a loud, urgent squawking and shrieking. “That’ll be Dave,” Harry grinned, getting up. “Wants to go out, I reckon,” and he stood up and bent down over his wife. “You okay for a bit, pet, I’ll just go and see to Dave,” and Edith gave a little nod. “Come round the back, fellas, and I’ll introduce you.”

  Dave was an enormous sulphur crested white cockatoo, sitting on a perch in his cage and screaming his head off, his sulphur crest waving angrily about. “He gets a bit pissed off if I don’t let him out straight away,” Harry explained as he opened the cage door. “Don’t you, mate?” and he went to scratch the bird on the chest, but Dave was not in the mood for play. He simply shrieked loudly, flapped his wings once and was gone, forcing us all to duck as he flew off to sit on the roof of the shack, where he sat fluffing his feathers, preening himself and glaring at us.

  “I found him on the ground the day after Dave Sands died; the famous boxer, killed in a car crash in ’52,” Harry explained, seeing our blank looks. “He was just sitting there all limp like, and when I came up to him and he made no attempt to move I knew something was wrong. I never did find out what. I just brought him back here, put him on a sack in the kitchen and fed him warm milk and pomegranate seeds. It was touch and go for a few weeks, but like Dave Sands he’s as tough as teak and he never gave in.”

  “What else does he eat?”

  “Just about anything, but he has his specialties — Cornflakes, nuts, honey, cabbage, even meat sometimes.”

  “Cornflakes and cabbage!”

  “Oh yeah, loves Cornflakes. You just can’t give him too much of any one thing, that’s all. Anyway, within a few months he was as right as rain and shouting the odds whenever he wanted something. I’ve got to understand his screams over the years. They’re clever birds really. He knows exactly what he wants and when he wants it and look out if you don’t give it to ’im! He’ll scream the bloody place down.”

  “Does he talk?”

  “Yeah, but usually only when he’s in the cage. Sometimes in the late evenings he’ll bump the gums to himself for half an hour or so, and he responds to certain words and phrases.” Just then Dave squawked loudly and took off with a flourish, heading inland and disappearing into the trees.

  “Goin’ to visit his rellies, I reckon, or his girlfriend,“ Harry winked.

  “Does he come back, then?”

  “Oh yeah. I only shut the cage door to keep other creatures out. Just occasionally he’s gone for a couple of days but he always comes back. He’s not stupid. He knows where he can get a good feed and a comfortable bed and he’d kill for pomegranate seeds. Besides, I don’t think the old bastard knows where else to go,” he grinned.

  Apart from two or three of the ubiquitous kapok trees and a wild fig tree, the main area of the backyard was given over to a very large vegetable garden, surprisingly well-tended compared to the rest of the place. It was completely enclosed in chicken wire, as was the chicken coop at the end of the plot. There were about a dozen chickens and a rooster, all of them having names, as Harry informed us. The rooster was called Humphrey, and the chickens were also named after movie stars, especially ones that had been in pictures he and his wife had seen together when they were younger. “It sort of reminds us of the good old days.” He smiled. “When I go back to t
he house and tell Edie I’ve just fed Katherine Hepburn, or better still I show her eggs laid by Ingrid Bergman, you should see the smile light up her face.”

  “What happened to your wife?”

  “Had a stroke about two years ago. Been getting a little bit better each day, but the Doc reckons she’ll never fully recover.”

  “Do you look after her yourself?”

  “More or less,” he shrugged. “They wanted to put her in a hospital but I said no way — in sickness and in health I vowed. Our daughter comes over twice a week from the mainland, and once a week one of the nurses from the first aid station over at Arcadia calls in. And when I do the bus run, Norma, Doug’s wife, rides over for an hour or so. But Edie’s no trouble and I can look after her better than any hospital. If I do have to leave her on her own for a bit Dave stays with her, sits on the back of her chair and won’t move until I get back. It’s like he understands she’s crook. I reckon he’d come and get me if something happened.”

  We went back to Edith still sitting under the tree and Harry showed us how to peel and eat a pomegranate. “It’s the juice you’re after,” he explained, opening one with a penknife and letting us lick the juice off the blade. “I put it with scrambled egg, lovely. Isn’t it, love!” He bent down to his wife, but she didn’t respond. Her head was slumped on her chest, and with great care and tenderness Harry lifted it up and gently wiped her mouth and chin with his handkerchief. Then, letting her head fall slowly down to rest on her chest again, he stroked her hair and forehead. “Sleeps a lot,” he whispered. “I’ll just take her back inside.” I had a lump in my throat.

  We were just beginning to wonder whether we should leave or not when Harry came out and slumped into his wicker chair. “I’ve put her to bed. She gets a bit exhausted. I’ll just sit here for a bit in case she calls out. She likes to know I’m still around until she goes to sleep.” He smiled, but it couldn’t hide his weariness or the strain he was obviously under. “Anyway boys, sit down, sit down.” His chirpy nature didn’t take long to return. It was obvious he wanted us to stay and talk, and we didn’t really have anything better to do. “So what are your plans?” he asked, as we got settled on the veranda step, sitting with our backs leaning against the posts. Our hesitant shrugs and blank looks were answer enough. “No,” he sighed sympathetically, “there ain’t a lot to do for young fellas round here, is there.”

  “Is there any work at all over here?” Glen asked, and Harry shook his head.

  “None that I know of son, I’m afraid. They’ve got big plans for the place, want to build a resort on Alma and a marina at Nelly Bay so I hear, but that’s years away I reckon. Nobody comes here to work.” He shrugged. “You want work, you need to go to the mainland. What do you do, anyway?” Then he realised what he’d said. “Not that I suppose you do anything yet, do you. How old are you?”

  For ten minutes or so we talked about what we could or might be able to do, but it all sounded a bit bleak. Then Harry had an idea. “You could head out west. I was talkin’ to a bloke the other day, said they’re cryin’ out for workers in Mt Isa, thirty bob a day he says they pay for unskilled labourers,” and Glen and I looked at each other, the first glimmer of hope lighting up our eyes. Mal Dixon had mentioned Mt Isa too; was it possible? Why not! The adrenalin was beginning to flow. Thirty bob a day!

  Our growing excitement was interrupted a minute later when Doug arrived on an old motorcycle, opened the gate and came in, parking his bike next to Doris.

  “Harry, boys,” he waved, and climbed into the bus.

  We waved back and Bing, who’d leapt up as soon as he saw him arrive, began barking excitedly, looking from the bus to Harry, as if pleading with him.

  “Go on, then,” Harry smiled, waving at the bus, and the dog was gone in a flash, leaping inside as Doug began reversing out of the gate. “He just loves riding round in Doris.”

  After the bus left I went over and closed the gate and was returning to the veranda when in a flutter of flashing white, yellow and sprawling feet, Dave came swooping down, landing deftly on the back of Harry’s chair.

  “Gidday old fella.” Harry scratched his chest. “Had a good time?” and Dave stuck out his chest, demanding more scratches, beak open and crest erect with pleasure.

  “Have a go,” Harry offered, “you’ll be his friend for life.” We both gave Dave a scratch and were rewarded with little chirps of appreciation. “Now say the magic words,” Harry grinned, and he turned his face and mouthed the words, “Pretty Polly” so Dave couldn’t see or hear.

  “Pretty Polly,” Glen said.

  “Get stuffed!” Dave screeched, and the three of us fell about laughing. Even Dave seemed to think it was funny.

  When we got to the gates to leave, the goats were beginning to sidle back towards the pomegranate tree again. “Do they have names too?” Glen called out. “Laurel and Hardy,” Harry shouted. “Just as stupid and always together.” And we all burst into laughter again and could just imagine Edith smiling her crooked smile of delight as he told her about them. “Well, here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into Stanley!” Fifty yards down the track we turned back and waved. Harry was still sitting in his chair, Dave on his shoulder.

  “Get stuffed!” screamed Dave.

  * * *

  That night Glen and I sat by the fire until the sun rose, talking about everything under it. Although we were excited at the prospect of going to Mt Isa, we were a bit cautious. After all, our two previous big ideas — cutting sugar cane in Ballina, and now coming here — hadn’t exactly been raving successes. For the first time we seriously discussed what we were doing, and why; we talked about God, sex, money, our parents and our dreams and fears. When we finally went to bed I’m sure we both felt more like brothers than friends, it was like the night in the Mt Gravatt bus shelter, only this time there was real substance to our relationship.

  I suppose the two subjects we spoke about most were our parents and what we wanted in the future. For my part, that was fairly easy. Despite my family history appearing far more traumatic than Glen’s, on paper at least — parents divorce when children are very young, mother drags them away from their father halfway across the world, dumps them with her parents because she doesn’t really want children and then buggers off to New Guinea — appearances don’t always match the reality. My parents divorced because they just didn’t get on any more; there was never any bitterness or rancour between them, at least not in front of my sister and I. Quite the contrary, in fact; each spoke of the other with great affection and respect. We also saw them both frequently after they divorced, and my stepmother was a loving, caring substitute. I lacked for nothing in the mothering department. I suppose my biggest problem was my father being so ill and dying. I loved him dearly and missed him terribly, and there was no doubt that had he still been alive, I would not have been sitting idly on this beach beside the fire under the moonlight. As for the future, I didn’t really have any idea what I wanted to do or be, other than travelling and seeing things. I didn’t want to be a fireman or a dentist. In fact I wasn’t really interested in ‘being’ anything. It would be nice to have some money and one day have kids of my own, but other than that I didn’t have any set ambitions.

  Glen’s upbringing, on the other hand, appeared on paper to be as close to the perfect, stable, well-off middle-class family as you could get. Both parents had good jobs and earned good money; they lived in a large house with a well-tended garden; went to church regularly and their children wanted for nothing. In truth, Glen’s childhood had been about as close to hell as you could get. I’m sure these thoughts hadn’t properly formed themselves in my young mind at the time, but I believe it was this difference in our upbringing that taught me not to judge a family situation — or any situation, come to that — by its appearance, either on paper or the neatness of the front garden.

  Perhaps it was because of our very different backgrounds that Glen took life more seriously, was more focused and in ma
ny ways far more mature than I was; he’d had to grow up faster. Although he took me completely by surprise when I asked him what he wanted to do in the future.

  “I’m going to join the Navy,” he said emphatically.

  “The Navy! Really! You never said that before!”

  “You never asked. My dad wants me to join.”

  “Your dad! But I thought …”

  “Oh, I don’t like the arsehole, and I don’t want to have anything more to do with him; when I get back I’m going to rent a room or get a flat or something. I’m not going home again. But when he was sober, he made sense sometimes. He says the Navy teaches you all sorts of useful things. You can get a trade, and when you get out employers want you because they know you’ve been well-trained. You get to travel for nothing, the pay and conditions are pretty good, and if you stay in for more than fifteen years you get a pension for the rest of your life.”

  “Fifteen years! Shit! That is the rest of your life!”

  “You don’t have to join up for fifteen, it’s either six or nine, I think.”

  “Six or nine — that’s half a lifetime! When is all this going to happen?” I asked him.

  “After I’m seventeen in December, I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, and getting here just made up my mind I suppose.” He shrugged, then he looked quickly at me and added, “But I don’t want to go home yet!” as if to reassure me he wasn’t planning on leaving straight away. “I want to go back with some money in my pocket. I don’t want to have to ask my dad for anything ever again.”

  “Aren’t you frightened of him?”

  “Not anymore” he shrugged. “Best thing I ever did was leave. He’ll never hit me again.” This he said with such calm certainty that I didn’t really know what to say, and we both stared into the fire.

  “But December is still a long way off.” Glen broke the silence. “Let’s just go out to Mt Isa and work for a few months, get some money and then make our way home. That’s if you want to do that too,” he added, with a little less certainty. “Or do you want to go off and find Carol?”