PRAISE FOR STEPHEN DAISLEY AND TRAITOR
WINNER, Prime Minister’s Literary Awards, 2011
WINNER, UTS Glenda Adams Award for New Writing,
NSW Premier’s Literary Awards 2011
Shortlisted, WA Premier’s Book Award for Fiction, 2011
Shortlisted, Commonwealth Writers Prize for Best First Book 2011
(South-east Asia and Pacific Region)
Shortlisted, Christina Stead Prize for Fiction,
NSW Premier’s Literary Awards 2011
‘Stephen Daisley’s Traitor is one of the finest debut novels I have read. Indeed it’s one of the best novels I have read in recent years.…I want to add it to the list of great modern novels about war…And it’s about so much more than war: love, friendship, loyalty, honour, mercy, spirituality, multiculturalism, class. It’s a work of emotional depth; perhaps the sort of book you can only write in middle age.’ Stephen Romei, Australian
‘Suffused with love, beauty and loneliness. The creation and development of the character of David Monroe is masterful, not least because he is a man of so few words. Also impressive is Daisley’s control of structure…His book is a revelation, woven as delicately as Monroe’s precious prayer rug. A rare pleasure.’ Australian Literary Review
‘A bold debut and a unique story…Winton-esque dialogue.’ Australian Bookseller & Publisher
‘Strangely existential, achingly personal, irritatingly poetic, you’ll love it or hate it—or love and hate it all at once.’ GQ Australia
‘Terrific debut…Exquisitely crafted and beautifully written.’ Sunday Star Times NZ
‘Stephen Daisley’s debut novel is one of beautiful contrasts… Daisley’s greatest success in this novel is the depiction of a simple man with great depth.’ Age
‘A beautifully sparse portrayal—the emotional toll of a soldier’s past choices symbolised by the reticent and isolated figure is palpable. His is an unusually nuanced examination of heroism and love.’ Sun Herald
‘Impact galore. His descriptions of Monroe’s life as a station shepherd and his relationship with the few people, as well as animals, within his ken are superb. But that adjective applies to the entire essence of the novel…The taut style delivers narrative which is striking and suffused with reminders of life’s fragilities. The few characters are well drawn. It is likely that much more will be heard of Daisley…He has the sure touch of a highly gifted storyteller.’ Otago Daily Times
‘A confident and haunting exploration of the nature of betrayal… Daisley’s confident handling of the complex chronology is a major strength, as is his command of narrative. The account of trench warfare is imaginative and finely detailed. All signal the debut of an important new talent.’ Listener NZ
Stephen Daisley was born in 1955 and grew up in the North Island of New Zealand. He has worked on sheep and cattle stations, on oil and gas construction sites and as a truck driver, among many other jobs.
He lives in Western Australia with his wife and five children.
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Copyright © 2015 by Stephen Daisley
The moral right of Stephen Daisley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
First published in 2015 by The Text Publishing Company
Cover design by W. H. Chong
Page design by Text
Typeset in Adobe Caslon Pro by J & M Typesetting
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Creator: Daisley, Stephen, author.
Title: Coming rain / by Stephen Daisley.
ISBN: 9781922182029 (paperback)
9781925095029 (ebook)
Subjects: Country life—Western Australia—Fiction.
Agricultural laborers—Western Australia—Fiction.
Dewey Number: A823.4
This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.
To Sylvia
The father…lit the candle at the kitchen fire, put it where it shouldn’t light the boy’s face, and watched him. And the child knew he was watching him, and pretended to sleep, and, so pretending, he slept.
HENRY LAWSON
‘A Child in the Dark, and a Foreign Father’
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
The dingo ran as if she had been here forever. Loose jointed, her tongue wet and long and eyes nonchalant as she travelled. Ears forward and nose taking in the river of yonga grey coming to her as she crossed a clearing and paused among karrik bush. Looked back to where she had come from.
The last of the day’s sun and the first of the four moons rising above the bloodwoods. The grey kangaroo, upwind of her, grazing quietly across a long, flat valley fringed with desert oak. They were deliberate, selecting and nibbling the beardy grasses. Their slow, graceful feeding in the twilight.
They moved through saltbush and into a grove of long-leaf paperbarks.
The bitch flattened, laid her ears back and watched. She lifted her nose to the horizon and the last of the sun lines, second moon coming. If she was to have meat this night she would need to act immediately.
She came out of the smoke bush slowly at first, then sprinting to close on the mob, and was among them. Ranged alongside, watching their panic as she harried them, searching out what she wanted.
A young doe carrying nyarnyee in her pouch collided with balga, a little grass tree, and lost her footing. She rolled over and righted. The face and front feet of the nyarnyee came out of the pouch. The mother seemed to stand on her head as she aligned herself, saving her baby. She turned and bounded desperately behind the scattering mob. The dingo raced to flank them. They veered from her and she dropped back to make her kill. The mother with the nyarnyee still lagging behind the main mob, frantic to catch up. The dingo closed and balanced again, turned into the run of the yonga, her head towards the long throat; laid her ears back and launched into her killing attack.
The wide-eyed kangaroo flung herself away to the left, skittering through paperbarks; paused in the long grass and shook her head as if to get her bearings. It was another few seconds before she seemed to register where she was and turned to follow her clan.
The dingo somersaulted when she fell, rolling over and over in the dirt. She lay on the ground, her sides heaving. Then she sat up, closed her mouth and stood. Circled the droppings and urine, rubbed her face and neck in the scat and rolled over in it; shook, got to her feet and gave a barking howl; listened to the yonga leaping through the brush. Their strong scent, like water, an easy path for her to follow.
It was just dark when she closed on them again. The third moon three-quarters high and bright. This time it was in open ground, a man-made clearing, a road and prickly dryandra bushes. The yonga nervous now along the verge between the bushes, tentatively grazing on new grass. Again they smelled and heard her, gave off the loud clicks and bounded away. She feinted left to bunch them and just as quickly swung to the right flank to turn them into heavier scrub, all the time searching out the mother carrying the nyarnyee.
It was then that the headlights came on down the road. Great yellow white lights running through the night.
She immediately abandoned her hunt, turned from the monstrous presence and ran at a sharp angle from the road into the scrub. As she ran, there was a great thump. The terrible lights colliding with her prey. She stopped, lay down and waited; listening to the voices. One of the lights had gone out. Men were talking to each other through the trees. Young man, old man. She saw dust rise through the remaining light and clouds crossing the moon. It was silent for a long time before she approached where the noise had come from. Almost morning. Sister sun coming up.
CHAPTER 2
Lew saw the woman walking out of the ocean at Cottesloe Beach. She was bending forward, scooping up handfuls of sea water and throwing them in front of herself. This fine woman staring at him, at his big hands, white arms and body whipped with cuts from the thorns, saltbush and spinifex. Christ.
Another set of waves came in, pushing her up and forward, and she lifted her arms and elbows to keep balance. Stepped out of the water. The tide was being sucked back into the ocean, stripping the sand from beneath her feet. The constant sound of the small waves breaking on the beach. He was just twenty-one and couldn’t swim.
She put her head to one side and removed the rubber swimming cap. Damp brown hair fell to her shoulders. ‘Do you want something?’
The black woollen costume had gathered close into her and sea water was running down between her legs. Instead of speaking, he looked away to the shark-net pylon in the sea. A boy, long armed, up on the concrete shoulder, holding the iron pole. Another crouched to dive off. They were black against the sky.
Someone was calling from the new car park. ‘Is that you down there? Young Mr McCleod?’ He called Lew’s name as if he was announcing a runner in the Melbourne Cup.
An older man, barefoot, walking awkwardly across the white sand. He raised a hand to block the sun.
Lew waved at him. A smile broke out on his face. ‘Painter. Here, mate.’
The old man approaching them was wearing a blue Jackie Howe shearers singlet. Unshaved face. A bald head worn brown in the sun, covered in scars and odd bumps. Both ears were lumped, cauliflowered, and his left ear was much smaller. The nose broken so many times there was no bridge left. He had big wrinkled hands covered in tattoos of birds and stars. Strong, don’t touch me arms, veins stood in his biceps. Spider webs on both elbows. Forearms showed thick blue outlines of a ship in full sail and a naked woman in high heels with her hands behind her head, elbows like a bottle opener. Mary. A heart with an arrow through it.
His name was Painter Hayes and he was squinting at them in the glare of the sunlight coming off the sand. Opened his mouth to smile. ‘Jesus this sand is hot. And white as you like. Go blind,’ he said.
The woman in the woollen bathing costume spoke to him. ‘How do you do?’
Painter nodded to her. ‘Not bad. You?’
She stepped back. ‘Fine, thank you.’
‘Why did we come here again, son?’ Painter, lowering his voice. Speaking to Lew but he kept looking at her.
‘For a swim.’ Lew folded his arms. A muscle in his jaw flexed.
‘That surf patrol is marching over here like they want to rescue someone and they not fuckin’ singin’ come to me Jesus neither,’ Painter said and looked away to his left. ‘They got ropes on their heads before. Walking about the show like they own the fuckin’ place.’ He touched his nose with his thumb. Nodded to say I see you there and sorry missus, I know. I know, the language. Wide strong wrists he had. Shearer’s wrists. Fighter’s hands.
Lew reached out his hand towards her to introduce himself. He had found his voice in the apology and presence of the other man. ‘My name is Lewis McCleod. I’m a shearer. We just got in from Mrs Anderson Darcy’s place, been shearing the rams. Me and Painter Hayes here. Tupping soon, that’s why the rams now see.’ Sorry about him. Look at me. He’s not right in the head.
She said nothing, looking at him as if he was a lunatic. Would not take his hand.
He kept speaking. ‘Lot of them thorny bloody Merinos covered in the spinifex and saltbush. All through the wool, the wrinkly-necked bastards. Cut you apart.’
The water had stopped running off her. She watched him, and still did not accept his introduction. ‘You came down for a swim?’
‘I did. Came down, didn’t expect to see you. Never been here before.’
She was nodding. ‘Mrs Anderson Darcy’s? Tupping?’
‘Son,’ Painter said. ‘Come on, we better go. Stop talking to her. Oh no, look out, they’re here.’
Three muscular young men stood there with their arms folded over their chests. Their feet firmly in the white beach sand. Red and yellow skullcaps on their heads tied up under the chin with strings.
‘What are you doing here?’ one of the lifeguards asked. His face all red. White zinc on his nose.
Lew pointed at the ocean.
‘Maureen,’ a lifeguard said. ‘Don’t talk to these blokes. They are just no-hopers. They don’t even belong here. Look at them.’
Painter spoke to the red-faced man. ‘We were just leaving. On
our way, come on son cut it out. I never been to the bloody beach in me life. You neither. Fuckin’ beach, Mr Jesus where are you now? Why would you want to lie out in the sand anyway? Fuckin’ cook.’
‘Watch your mouth old man,’ one of the lifesavers said. ‘There is a lady present and this is not a sewer.’
Painter glanced at him and nodded.
‘No no,’ Lew said. ‘Now hold on a minute mate.’ Wide shoulders turning.
Maureen sniffed, shrugged and looked back to the ocean. ‘I don’t know.’
Groups of bathers had stopped splashing and were standing still, staring at them. Blue-and-white striped beach umbrellas tilted towards the sun. Frowning mothers holding up towels and little children running to them with chubby, outstretched arms. The pylon divers also stopped and were looking in their direction, leaning out to one side, holding the pole.
Painter looked at Lew. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘I mean it son, don’t. Oh no.’
Lew stepped forward and pushed the lifeguard who had been speaking to him.
Coming Rain Page 1