What do you think?
Tell me.
Please tell me something, Zina.
Anything.
Tell me about your faith. What’s it like to commit yourself to the power and virtue of God? What’s it like to believe that your fate is in his hands? How does it feel to give praise, to live in accordance with the commandments, to obey the Word of God? Is it comforting? Does it make things easier? Do you really believe you’ll attain eternal reward and dwell for ever in Paradise?
No offence, but I find that hard to imagine. Paradise, I mean. What the hell must that be like? Pretty damn good, I suppose. But, you see, the thing is, it’s not that I’m faithless. Oh, no. I have faith. I have faith in the magic of intoxicated blood. I sink into its promise. I drink barley wine, I tell her. I always have, ever since I was a child. And to prove it I show her that shaky old ciné film that constantly plays in the darkened rooms of my mind. I set up the projector, aim it at the wall, turn out the lights, and there we all are…
See? That’s my mother and father sitting at home drinking barley wine from crystal tumblers. Mother with a cigarette, Father with a small cigar. Both of them watching the television. And that’s me, cross-legged on the floor, glancing up at them every so often. See? That’s me. I’d be about eleven then, eleven or twelve, something like that.
Now if you listen carefully you can hear what I’m saying.
“Dad?”
“Hmmm?”
“Can I try some of your beer?”
“You’re not old enough,” he says, or, “You won’t like it.”
“Just a sip, Dad. Go on, please. Just a sip. Please?”
He smiles at me, smiles across at Mother.
“You won’t like it,” he warns me again, passing me the glass of nut-brown beer.
I grin and take a mouthful and – bleaah! – I’ve never tasted anything so foul in my life. How can you drink that? How can you? It’s disgusting.
And Father smiles knowingly. “I told you you wouldn’t like it.”
And the ciné film cuts back to the start, with Mother and Father sitting at home drinking barley wine from crystal tumblers. Mother with a cigarette, Father with a small cigar. Both of them watching the television. And that’s me, cross-legged on the floor, glancing up at them every so often. See? That’s me. I’d be about eleven then, eleven or twelve, something like that.
Now if you listen carefully you can hear what I’m saying.
“Dad?”
“Hmmm?”
“Can I try some of your beer?”
“You’re not old enough,” he says, or, “You won’t like it.”
“Just a sip, Dad. Go on, please. Just a sip. Please?”
He smiles at me, smiles across at Mother.
“You won’t like it,” he warns me again, passing me the glass of nut-brown beer.
I grin and take a mouthful and – bleaah! – you’ve never tasted anything so foul in your life. How can you drink that? How can you? It’s disgusting.
And Father smiles knowingly. “I told you you wouldn’t like it.”
And the ciné film cuts back to the start again … and here I am, Zina, one hundred thousand sips of barley wine later, standing stooped and drunk in your convenience store staring down at the cheese and pies in the big refrigerator. Drunk and homesick and hungry. I’ve been soaking up the Word, you see, just like your father there. I’ve been soaking up the elements of my faith in the chapel up the road. I’ve surrendered to the will of my god and now I’m broke, and I can feel the spirit within me telling me to take that cheese, that tasty-looking wedge of Edam. Take it, it’s saying, go on, stick it in your pocket and go. It’s a question of faith, you see. A matter of understanding. I understand that it’s a sin to steal, and that if I sin and don’t repent I’ll be condemned eternally to the fires of hell. But you have to understand that I have no choice. I have to obey the Word of my god, and my god says, “Take it, take the cheese.” Listen to me, Zina. Let me explain. You see, faith wouldn’t be faith if it wasn’t blind, and the only thing… Zina? Are you listening to me, Zina?
She’s not listening.
A slim dark man in a white shirt has entered the store and is standing at the till, talking to her. Although he’s a fair distance away you can see him quite clearly. You can see that he’s tall, with a pencil-thin moustache and slick black hair and fingers ringed with gold. And you can see him leaning on the counter jangling his keys and grinning like a dog, and you can see that Zina’s smiling … she’s smiling at him. Now he’s nodding his head to indicate a bright red car parked on the street outside, and Zina is leaning across the counter to take a look. She says something to him, he laughs, and then she leans back smiling with her arms stretched behind her head, arching her back. That gets him staring, which she doesn’t seem to mind. And then he’s moving closer and whispering something and Zina’s raising a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle, and I can’t stand it any more. So I turn to her father to see if he’s watching, but he’s not – he’s still lost in the murmur of his book, lost in another world. What’s the matter with him? Hey, mister, what’s the matter with you? Look. Can’t you see what’s going on over there? That’s your daughter. Look at her. See what she’s doing? See the kind of man she’s with? See the way she’s taking a stick of gum from him, curling it under her tongue while he lights a cigarette and flicks the gum-wrapper to the floor? See that? Don’t you care? Hey, mister! Listen to me, don’t you care? Hey. Wait a minute. No. Just wait a minute, Zina. Hey, Zina. What about us? Me and you in a nice quiet place, talking together. I only want you to listen to me. I could make you laugh if that’s what you want. I can be funny. I’m funny. All that stuff about faith and surrender, it doesn’t matter – we don’t have to talk about that if you don’t want to. It doesn’t matter. We could talk about anything. Hey, I’m funny, I can make you smile…
Zina?
Hey, Zina…
But she’s not there any more. My Zina has gone. There’s just a girl at the till chewing gum, open-mouthed, like a cow.
So I bow to my god and grab the cheese and slip it inside my coat.
When I leave the shop the girl at the till is too busy laughing and joking with the slim dark man to notice anything else. I could have the whole damn refrigerator stuffed under my coat for all she cares.
I walk on by, open the door, and step out into the rain.
DEEDS NOT WORDS
Mary and Bryan Talbot / Kate Charlesworth
“The three of us worked together on Sally Heathcote, Suffragette, a detailed account in graphic novel form of the Edwardian struggle over civil liberties. It’s a reminder of how hard-won, and how precious, our civil liberties are. There are people today going through ordeals very much like those endured by the suffragettes, so for this anthology we decided to focus on one courageous woman whose story isn’t told in the book.” Mary and Bryan Talbot/Kate Charlesworth
HARMLESS JOE
Tony Birch
I want to tell you bout this man. Harmless Joe. I’m not saying that was his true name, but it was the name others used for him. There goes Harmless Joe, people round the town would say. He walked the streets in the daytime, and at night he slept in the best place he could find, long as it was in the shadows where no one watched over him. He was always keeping to himself, minding his own business. Harmless.
But them wild boys from the town who hung out on the street, kicking off when they was drinking, they done real harm to old Joe. Smacked him and belted him when they felt they needed some fun. Police did nothing bout it. Town people did no more than look the other way. Joe, he got hurt by them boys.
Joe was an Aboriginal man, though most called him abo or boong. He had more than a stomach full of trouble in the end and took off out of town. Joe walked along the railway track, by the big silo, crossed the bridge over the creek and went away into the bush to an old cutter’s shack, overgrown and out of sight. Nobody knew he was up there. Any time he went into town to
scratch for some food, he doubled and tripled back and no one seen where he was hiding out. I seen him, though, cause I followed him.
I have me an old push bike and I ride it through the canals and drains along the edge of town, picking up this and that what people throw away. Like Joe, I don’t have no one to talk to. But I’m different than him. He’s an old man and I’m just a boy. First time I seen him on the railway track he was sneaking home to the shack, carrying a bag of potatoes. I was underneath the bridge listening to different sounds. Echoes. I seen Joe up above me, crossing the bridge. Then he left the bridge behind and was on to a dirt track and gone. I followed him, way behind, walking soft as I could, breath quiet as a sparrow. Joe got to the shack and I hid in the bushes and watched him looking round for any strangers. He opened the door and he closed it behind him. I waited and soon I seen smoke coming out of the chimney and I reckoned Joe was warming himself in there and cooking up his dinner.
Next time I seen him, he was heading cross the bridge to town. I waited till he was a long way off, then took off to the cutter’s shack. The bolt on the door was broke. I opened it and stepped inside. Quiet. The room had a mattress on the floor and blankets, folded neat as a handkerchief, sitting on top. I seen a kettle, a tin mug and plates, a fork and different spoons. Odd shapes and sizes. It wasn’t no house most people would live in, but it was clean and tidy and homely as the best house could be. Pages from magazines were stuck on the walls, mostly pictures of famous people. The Queen, she was up there, right alongside Mr John Lennon and a football player kicking a ball. I sat down on the mattress for some rest and looked round the room and could hear the wind rattling the sheets of tin on the roof, and then the rain beating a tune. I lay down for a time, listening to the rain and thinking that Harmless Joe had a good life.
It was close on dark when I woke, sitting up with fear, knowing nothing bout where I was until I looked up and seen the Queen, tiara on her head, looking down on me. I jumped up, left the shack and ran for home. But I seen Joe on the bridge, making his way back with a bag swinging at his side. I sprinted off and lay down in the dirt and held my breath until Joe had passed by, then ran all the way home and had explaining to do bout why I was late. My gran, who looks after me, she knew much more than I did bout Joe. I even seen her talking to him on the street. Only person in town who ever done so. When she asked where I been and why I was late, I could have spoke the truth and told her I been up at Joe’s shack, sitting on his bed and smiling up at the Queen. But I knew better. She don’t like me out late, no matter where I been or who I’m with. And she got no time for the Queen, telling me once, that girl is in the wrong country.
In the wet season we get more rain here in one day than some people have in a year. Builds up in the west and charges at the town like a runaway train. The streets flood, and the drains and hollows too. Land goes under and everywhere looks like a lake. One time my gran took me into the bush and showed me waterfalls running red long the valleys, into the rivers and creeks. She said to me, pointing her old bony finger, that there is the Earth, Tyrone, and she’s bleeding for you. She’s bleeding for all of us, cause sometimes we’re no good. You can believe her or not. It don’t worry me, cause I know every word she speaks is true. The story stuck to me, and next time it rained I headed for the water and sat and watched the rush, and just like my gran said, the Earth bled for me.
After the last big rain I was resting on the bank watching the creek run crazy when I seen Charlie Hooten’s van scream along the dirt track by the creek. He was with the wild boys at one time, way back. Now he’s a man. The whole town knows Charlie and his van. He rides through the main street calling out to the girls, getting drunk and picking a fight any place he can find one. Charlie has always been plain stupid, my gran says. Don’t you forget it. That don’t stop him being cruel and a bully. I call him out – stupid – whenever I see him. But I keep the words well under my breath so he don’t hear me.
Charlie come to a stop next to the wire fence keeping the town dump from the roadway. I didn’t want him finding me by the creek so I crawled behind an old gum tree and spied on him. He got out of his van, walked round to the other side of the car and opened the door. I seen a woman sitting in the car and Charlie swearing and screaming at her. She screamed right back and he dragged her out of the van. That’s when I seen her long red hair and knew straight off who she was. Rita Collins. She was no woman after all. Rita was a girl, no older than me, who was taken out of school by her ma before the new school year started. No one seen her round the town after that. As she stood by the van I seen she had a big belly. Not like she was fat or something, but like she was gonna have a baby. They yelled some more at each other, and Charlie pushed her and she pushed back. And then he hit her. Not like two kids going at it on a street corner. Not a bit like that. Charlie, a man, hit Rita like she was a man too. She fell to the ground, kneeling in the red dirt, bleeding with the Earth. He stood over her, laughing like there was something funny bout what was going on. But there wasn’t. Nothing funny in hitting a woman. He looked down at Rita, smiled, swore at her again and got into his van and drove away. Left her alone in the dirt.
I stood behind the tree, watching her. She lay down and I could hear her crying and, a little while after, moaning. She sat up, lifted her dress and looked between her legs like her own body was a mystery. Rita didn’t notice me at all till I was standing near her. Maybe she thought I was Charlie come back for her? She ducked and covered her face with her hands until I called her name. Soft, so as not to frighten her. Rita. She looked up at me like I was a stranger. She didn’t know who I was, except that I wasn’t Charlie.
I’m gonna have a baby, she cried. I told her I knew so cause I seen her belly, and I seen pregnant bellies before. Now! Now! Rita screamed. A baby is coming now!
The rain come again. Out of nowhere. Rita’s skin turned grey and the rain belted her round the body. I looked long the track and said, come with me, and held out my hand. She put her hand in mine and I helped her to stand up and we walked long the bush track away from the creek. She looked at me, turned away and looked at me again. You’re Tyrone, she said, the slow kid from school. Pulled her hand away from mine and held the other over her guts, moaning more and more. Where you taking me, you creep? I never been no creep and would have left her be, to find her own way, if she hadn’t been in pain that way. She screamed out and looked between her legs again. I seen liquid running down, the colour of weak milk. You gotta come, was all I could say. You gotta come. She looked at me like I made no sense in the world, but took hold of my hand again just the same.
I seen the smoke coming from Joe’s chimney and felt good that he was in. I knocked at his door. Not too loud. When he didn’t come I knocked harder and called out to him, Joe, Harmless Joe, I need you to help. I put my ear to the door and heard some rustling round, and then I heard the latch and the door swung open so quick I nearly fell into the room. Joe was standing there, squinting at me, white hair, white beard and skin like burnt leather. He said nothing. Looked me up and down, looked at Rita out of the corner of his eye and went to close the door again till I said, Joe, a baby. She says a baby’s coming. If Joe had turned us away right then, if Joe had shut the door on his shack, I can tell you for certain, that girl, Rita, she might be dead. He looked at her, down to her belly, and hauled her into the room, where she fell onto Joe’s old mattress. I’d felt a ton of fear without knowing why, but inside the shack, warmed by the fire, with Joe throwing a blanket over the girl, talking to her in a voice both soft and strong, my heart stopped jumping. Rita was screaming loud enough to lift the roof, and Joe sat next to her and told her, you got to work, girl. You got to work.
I would be dishonest if I told you I seen the baby come out. I’d like to say I did, as that would be a better story. But I seen nothing. Rita screamed and swore and slapped her own legs and kicked out and even spat at Joe one time she was so crazy. I ran to the corner and closed my eyes and covered my ears. Then I heard s
ome crying and knew it was too high a pitch to be Rita. I looked up at the Queen, and was sure I could only be going crazy cause she was smiling and she wasn’t smiling at all the last time I looked at her. Then I looked cross the room and saw Harmless Joe holding something in his dark arms. It was wriggling and squirming and was pink and bloodied and covered in some paste. It was a newborn.
Get up! Joe barked at me. Run and get help, boy! I stood up and walked over to where Joe was sitting, at the bare feet of Rita. She was staring up at the baby like she been witness to the greatest miracle of all time. Joe had the baby resting in his arms and I could see the tears in the eyes of that old man.
I ran harder than I thought I could that day, through the red dirt and into town, straight to the hospital. My lungs were afire and I couldn’t speak a word, and in the Emergency Department I heard a voice behind me say, it’s that imbecile, Tyrone, but I didn’t listen and I didn’t care cause all I could think bout was Rita and the baby lying in Joe’s shack. Took an effort for the ambulance to get cross the bridge and onto the track, and then they could go no further, except on foot, carrying a stretcher and blankets and medicine. Joe was waiting, holding the baby in a blanket. Rita was lying back on the mattress stained with her own blood. They carried her out and let Joe walk with the baby in his arms and me falling in behind. At the hospital they took Rita and the baby away and some nurse told me and Joe to sit and wait on a bench until the police come. I sat longside Joe, looking at him and at me in a mirror cross the hall. I could look straight at him that way, without him knowing. He was small and tight and strong. The nurse, she come back and told us, police be here in five minutes. And soon as she was gone Joe stood up, looked down at me and patted me on the top of my head. Soft as a feather. He lifted my chin so I was looking him straight in the eye and said to me, my name is Goruk – the magpie. I looked down at the wooden floor and mouthed his name, trying to speak it right. I knew the story of Goruk, a special bird from another time who takes care of the land, and takes care of all of us, together.
Here I Stand Page 18