The fulla looks at Andrew and asks im what it’s got to do with him.
Andrew tells im quick smart. ‘It’s my car you’re driving, budda boy.’
The fulla stops and gits out. He’s real shame, but that don’t stop im from givin a mouthful a cheek ta Andrew.
‘What stupid bastard puts the handbrake on out here?’ he says. ‘What do ya think it’s gunna fuckin do? Roll away?’
He points down the long, flat road leadin outta town before he stomps away, his thongs kickin up a mini dust storm.
That afternoon, we decide to follow Andrew and Harry to the next town and chill out with a few beers and a feed. We’re travellin real close behind him, when he stops to pick up a hitchhiker. We can’t see him too clear cos of the dust from Andrew’s car, but we see im git into the back seat. Harry always rides up front. Always!
When we pull up in town, the fulla gits out. He’s the same one that tried to pinch cuz’s car. He slams the door shut and walks off yellin, ‘Thanks for the ride, cuzzo. See ya next time.’
Andrew gits out and comes over.
‘Righto, you fullas. Let’s git settled and git a few beers and a feed into us.’
We don’t see nothin wrong with that suggestion.
Bringin the old ones home
Me, Antman and Fleabag was travellin though river country and decided to stop by and spend a coupla days with his cousin, Jake. Ant and Jake was real close, they grew up together and was more like brothers than cousins. It upset Jake a lot when Ant went to live in the city. He followed him for a while but couldn’t settle. Said he couldn’t feel his blackness in all that concrete. Couldn’t see the stars, smell the earth or hear the whisper of the old fullas when it was quiet and dark.
Jake was real in touch with bein a blackfulla. He could read the earth and knew before any weatherman when it was gunna rain, when you was gunna have a drought, all that kind of thing. He knew when trouble and sad times was comin too, cos the willy wagtails told im.
Anyway, this time we pull up and there’s no sign of Jake. The front door’s open, but he always leaves it like that in case someone needs a feed or a bed and he aint home. So we walk outside and old Mrs McCormack calls out to us. We wander over. She’d know, if anyone would, what Jake was up ta.
She gives us a big kiss and picks up Fleabag for a cuddle and tells us that there’s been some sorry business. Jake’s been asked to take care of things. She doesn’t want to go into anything cos she reckons it makes her feel funny inside, but says Jake’ll tell us when we see im. ‘He’s down at the old water hole,’ she says, ‘with a whole heap of other fullas.’
She tells us she’s just seen Gus Hill walk past on his way to the pub with Jake’s order. She reckons if we hurry we’d catch him and could fetch Gus and the supplies back out to Jake. It’d help everyone out.
Gus Hill is Jake’s dog. A pure white little fulla cept for a big tan heart on one side. He was wanderin past Jake’s, lookin scrawny, tired, thirsty and hungry one day and Jake called im in. He give im a feed and a drink and told im he could hang around if he wanted to. Gus took im up on the offer. He had a tag round his neck with the name Gus Hill on it, but no one ever come lookin for im.
Anyway, Jake taught im how to do lots of things and Gus seemed happy to go along with it for his room and board. Cos Jake aint got a car or a phone, he puts messages in a little pouch round Gus’s neck. He’s taught him to go to the pub or store with his order and they bring Gus back with it later and collect the money. Sometimes if he’s too pissed to walk, he’ll send Gus round to relations or mates with messages if he needs to yarn with any of em.
Anyway, we decide to go and pick up Gus and go out and see Jake. We tell Mrs McCormack we’ll catch up with her later and cruise off.
We git down the pub and there’s Gus sittin inside with a bowl a water and a snack. He’s real happy to see us and makes a bit of a fuss over his old mate, Fleabag. The publican, Curley, comes round from the counter to shake Ant’s hand and give me a kiss. He shouts us a beer and we tell im we’ll fetch Jake’s order out for im.
We git out to the waterin hole and there’s the biggest mob of fullas out there. Lots of kids and dogs, and lots of elders. Flea sees Jake and jumps outta the window and goes barrellin over to im. He looks real surprised to see him and grabs im and starts cuddlin im. We open the door and let Gus out and go over ta Jake. He starts cryin and grabs Ant and holds him real hard. Then he gits me in a bear hug.
‘Whut the fuck you fullas doin ere?’ he yells.
We tell im we was passin and thought we’d call by for a coupla days.
Ant asks im whut the sorry business was all about.
He tells us ta have a beer then we’d go for a walk.
Bout half an hour later we walk over to this mound and we sit on a log and he tells us the story.
‘Some fulla out on one of the properties found a big heap of old bones lyin all together. He reported it to the police and they found out it was the bones of blackfullas who’d been shot round a hundred years ago. Anyway, the fulla felt real bad cos it woulda been his people whut done it. He went down to the Land Council and asked how he could set things right and they tell him he could have the bones reburied in the proper blackfulla way and if the old fullas whut died was happy, their spirits would come home to rest.
‘So they come and asked me.
‘I was real happy to do it. Those poor old ones’ spirits would be out there floatin on the wind cos they died so violently. They must be buggered and need to rest in their own place by now.
‘So I got together the mob and we collected the bones, and cleansed them in a smokin ceremony and wrapped them proper and reburied em and we had another smokin ceremony. Now we just waitin ta see if the old fullas are happy and comin home.’
Jake tells us to hang round if we want. We was real honoured to be asked and Jake took us to the burial place and we knelt beside the big mound and held hands while Jake sang a song in the lingo real quiet and soft. Gus Hill and Fleabag started to howl real soft too. It was scary and lovely at the same time.
That night we sat up eatin emu and johnny cakes and singin and yarnin. When ya went off into the scrub to go to the toilet you could hear the soft voices floatin on the wind. Later we all sat quiet. The whole place felt real peaceful. We could hear the river flow and the soft rustlin of the leaves on the big old trees. Jake reckoned the old ones would’ve sat under the same trees all those years ago. Then Jake told us all to not make a sound, so we went silent and suddenly we could hear the old fullas whisperin in the night. Jake reckoned they was happy and was on their way home.
Funny thing is, next morning we all woke up at the same time. We looked over and saw Flea, Gus and the rest of the dogs all lined up and lookin up into the sky. Their ears wuz all pricked. Next thing, we hear the biggest noise and look up and this big flock a cockatoos comes roarin over our heads and disappears into the sky.
Jake and everyone starts huggin one another and jumpin round. Jake comes over and grabs us both. ‘They’re home. The old fullas ave come home.’
We sure did celebrate that night. We invited the old farmer and his family along. Jake reckoned they really needed to know they done the right thing.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following people: The nuns, in particular Sister Aquinas of St Mary’s Convent, Hay; Jim Kable and the late Violet Medway, founder and former principal of Queenwood School for Girls: great teachers all who gave me a great education and belief in my abilities; Deb Armstrong, Debbie Barnier (nee Clarke) and Linda Keyte for being friends and supporters in the first difficult years in Sydney; Alan Randall, the late John Powlay and Mick Ford, who took me in and cared for me in one of my darkest hours; Mark Hogan, Sara Davidson and Gregory White, David and Christine Rollison and Christophe Lee, who gave me tremendous encouragement and support when I boldly said in 2004 that I was going to be a writer and have a book published.
Thanks also to Scott ‘the big Queens
lander’ Dowie, who bankrolled my competition entries and shouted drinks when required; Terri McCormack, Gary Mitchell and Rebecca Jameson who lasered, printed and emailed for me and gave me friendship and encouragement; My mum, dad, brother, sisters, nieces, nephews, aunties, uncles and cousins and adopted sister, Shirley Lomas, for their unconditional love and for providing the inspiration for many of the stories that appear in this book; Irina Dunn whose support has meant a great deal to me; and my good mates from the Sir William Wallace Hotel who, through their fundraising efforts, ensured that I remained mobile and able to live my life.
I’d also like to thank the judges of the Unaipon Award for picking me as the winner in 2006; Janet Hutchinson for her invaluable suggestions; and Wendy Sanderson and UQP for making it all seem easy. Last, but certainly not least, I’d like to thank my good and enduring mate, Chris ‘Erkus’ Burke, who graciously allowed me to pilfer bits and pieces of his yarns and who has travelled with me, allowing me to see things and parts of the world I never would have thought possible.
About the David Unaipon Award
Established in 1988, the David Unaipon Award is an annual literary competition for unpublished manuscripts in any writing genre by an Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander writer.
The award is named after David Unaipon (1872–1967), who, in 1929, was the first Indigenous author to be published in Australia. He was also a political activist, a scientist, a preacher and an inventor. David Unaipon was born in Port McLeay in South Australia and is commemorated on the fifty dollar note.
This prize is judged and chosen by a panel of established Indigenous authors and a representative of University of Queensland Press. The author of the winning manuscript is mentored and the work published by University of Queensland Press.
Winners of the David Unaipon Award receive financial assistance from the Queensland Government through the Minister for the Arts.
Previous winners of the award include Tara June Winch, Vivienne Cleven, John Muk Muk Bourke, Sam Wagan Watson and Larissa Behrendt.
Information is available from the Queensland Premier’s Literary Awards website.
BITIN’ BACK
Vivienne Cleven
Winner of the 2000 David Unaipon Award
When the Blackouts’ star player Nevil Dooley wakes up one morning to don a frock and ‘eyeshada’, his mother’s idle days at the bingo hall are gone forever. Mystified and clueless, single parent Mavis takes to bush-cunning and fast footwork to unravel the mystery behind this sudden change of face.
Funny but cleverly covert, too, this is a truthful rendering of small town prejudice and racist attitudes. Hilarity prevails while desperation builds in the race to save Nevil from the savage consequences of discovery in a town where a career in footy is a young black man’s only escape. Neither pig shoots, bust-ups at the Two Dogs, bare knuckle sessions in the shed or even a police siege can slow the countdown on this human time bomb.
Bitin’ Back won the David Unaipon Award and was shortlisted for the South Australian Premier’s Literary Awards and the Courier-Mail Book of the Year Award.
SWALLOW THE AIR
Tara June Winch
Winner of the 2004 David Unaipon Award
When May’s mother dies suddenly, she and her brother Billy are taken in by Aunty. However, their loss leaves them both searching for their place in a world that doesn’t seem to want them. While Billy takes his own destructive path, May sets off to find her father and her Aboriginal identity. Her journey leads her from the Australian east coast to the far north, but it is the people she meets, not the destinations, that teach her what it is to belong. In this startling debut, Tara June Winch uses a fresh voice and unforgettable imagery to share her vision of growing up on society’s fringes. Swallow the Air is the story of living in a torn world and finding the thread to help sew it back together.
Swallow the Air won the Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards Indigenous writing prize and was shortlisted for the Age Book of the Year–Fiction.
HOME
Larissa Behrendt
Winner of the 2002 David Unaipon Award
Home is a powerful novel from an author who understands both the capacity of language to suppress and the restorative potency of stories that bridge the past and present. Young lawyer Candice sets out on her first visit to her ancestral homeland. When she arrives at the place where her grandmother was abducted in 1918, her family’s story begins to unfold and Candice discovers the consequences of dark skin and the relentless pull of home.
‘A stunning first novel. Behrendt creates vivid characters whose convincing inner lives bring this story of loss and survival powerfully to life.’
Kate Grenville
‘This novel’s greatest strength is its insight into the pain and inherited shame of being a racist society.’
Sydney Morning Herald
‘Behrendt brilliantly explores the subtleties of race and identity in a palpable way. It is like getting under another’s skin.’
Age
First published 2007 by University of Queensland Press
PO Box 6042, St Lucia, Queensland 4067 Australia
www.uqp.com.au
© Gayle Kennedy 2007
This book is copyright. Except for private study, research, criticism or reviews, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
Typeset in Adobe Caslon 12/18 PT by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
Sponsored by the Queensland Office of Arts and Cultural Development
This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.
Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
National Library of Australiata
Kennedy, Gayle.
Me, Antman and Fleabag.
ISBN 978 0 7022 3617 4 (pbk)
978 0 7022 5061 3 (pdf)
978 0 7022 5062 0 (epub)
978 0 7022 5063 7 (kindle)
1. Aboriginal Australians – Fiction.
I. Title.
A823.4
Me, Antman & Fleabag Page 8