‘What can I do ya for? Coupla snags? Nice juicy chop?’
‘A chop, thanks,’ I said. ‘What about you, Dumby? You want something?’
‘Nah, mate.’
Slogs handed me the chop. I took a bite. I knew it! When Slogs turned away, I threw the rest in the bin. I just couldn’t eat anything he cooked. It always tasted like mettwurst to me. I liked mettwurst, when it was mettwurst. I didn’t like it when it was a chop, however.
‘You wanna drink?’ said Dumby.
‘Sure,’ I said.
He came back with two Cokes.
We sat down.
‘Can I ask ya something, Dumby?’ I said.
‘Sure, fire away.’
‘Why’d you pass the ball for?’
‘When?’
‘You know, after you took that amazing mark. Did Clemboy call for it?’
‘Not really.’
‘Then why’d you pass it?’
‘Dunno.’
‘C’mon, you must’ve had a reason.’
‘Cos Clemboy hadn’t had a kick all day.’
‘Cos he hadn’t had a kick?’
‘That’s right, I didn’t wanna see Clemboy shamed. He’s me cousin, unna.’
‘But, Dumby, according to you all the Nungas are your cousins.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Christ, Dumby, I’ll never understand you blackfellas.’
‘And I’ll never understand you whitefellas.’
We both laughed.
‘Is that your old man over there?’ said Dumby.
It was him all right. It was the first time I’d seen him that day. He was standing next to the keg with Mick and a couple of other front-bar regulars. He had a plastic cup of beer in each hand. He was laughing. Free piss always made him happy.
‘Yeah, that’s him,’ I said.
‘Wanna go over and see him?’
‘Nuh, let’s go. I’m still hungry.’
‘Get yourself some tucker,’ said Dumby as we walked back inside. ‘I’ll be over there.’
He pointed to a table where a group of girls was sitting, including a couple of my siblings. They started whispering and giggling when they saw Dumby coming.
At the back of the Institute were five or six trestle tables. They were loaded with food – I’d never seen so much. I took a plastic plate and started piling it on – a piece of cold chook, some tuna mornay, a sausage roll, some potato salad, half a mini-pizza.
The plate started to sag in the middle.
‘Sure you got enough?’
It was Clarence, Dumby’s sister. She was wearing a Port footy jumper. And jeans. She had a white streamer, like a headband, tied around her head.
‘Didn’t think you’d make it,’ she said. She had a plate in her hand with a lamington on it.
‘Doctor reckons I got concussion.’
‘No wonder, brudda. Standing in front of that monster.’
‘You’re not gunna eat that lammie are ya?’ I said.
‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’
‘It’s one of old Mrs Porter’s.’
‘And what’s wrong with it?’
‘You know old Mrs Porter?’
‘Nuh.’
‘She’s got dandruff. Really bad.’
Clarence looked down at her plate.
‘Yuk!’ she said. She put the lammie back on the table.
‘Whatta you recommend then?’
‘Those little pink lammies are Mrs Fraser’s. They’re okay, but she doesn’t use real cream. Those big ones are Mrs Bedser’s. We call ’em Mrs Bedser’s Bricks. That’s what they taste like, too. Dazza’s mum made those ones there. They’re pretty good. But I reckon you’re better off with those, over there.’
‘Who made ’em?’
‘Me mum.’
Clarence laughed.
‘Your mum got dandruff?’ she said as she put two lammies on her plate.
‘No way.’
‘What about your mum?’ I said. ‘Is she here?’
‘My mum?’ she said, looking at me like I’d just asked a really dumb question.
‘You know – your mum. Your mother. The woman who gave birth to you,’ I said.
‘Nuh, she ain’t here. She’s not keen on being ‘round you lot.’
You lot? What did she mean by that? I felt a bit insulted.
‘Why not?’
‘Stop asking such tricky questions, will ya? She’s just not. She’s happy staying out the Point with our mob.’
Actually there weren’t so many Nungas at the Do. Not when you considered that half our team was from the Point. I’d seen only one table inside, with maybe twenty people sitting at it. And there was a group of blokes near the keg.
Clarence’s voice dropped.
‘You smoke, Blacky?’ she said. ‘Wanna come out for a durrie?’
I wasn’t much of a smoker. I’m not sure why. It wasn’t because I was a goody-two-shoes or anything. I just didn’t like it that much.
‘Yeah, love to,’ I said.
‘Meet you outside in ten minutes.’
‘Okay.’
16
‘Hey, Blacky, over here.’
I looked around, but I couldn’t see anybody. Then Clarence stepped out from behind the wall. She brought her hand out from behind her back. There was a cigarette, a tailor-made, sitting in her palm.
‘Not here,’ I said. ‘Somebody might see us.’
‘Where, then?’
‘Down the jetty, it’s not too far.’
‘Okay, let’s go then.’
As we walked off I thought I heard somebody snicker. I turned around.
But there was nobody.
‘How many of youse Blackies anyway, Blacky?’ said Clarence.
‘Eight kids.’
‘Big mob, unna? Just like us Nungas, too much courtin’,’ she said, smiling.
‘Yeah,’ I said, a little embarrassed.
But at least she hadn’t said, ‘Catholic then, are you?’ like most people did.
There was a lone figure at the end of the jetty, under the lighthouse, standing in a pool of light. It had to be Darcy, of course. The only person in town not at the Do.
We walked along the railway lines. Clarence was really good at it. She didn’t fall off, not once, not until we reached the shed. I’d never seen anybody do that, not even Deano, who reckoned he was so good at it he was going to join the circus and become a tightrope walker.
We sat down in the shed, on opposite seats.
‘Mmmm, smells lovely in here,’ said Clarence.
Like fish guts and cigarette smoke and stale beer.
The smell didn’t really bother me, but something else did. Right above where Clarence was sitting was some graffiti. ‘BOONGS PISS OFF’ it said. It was written in enormous block letters. Even in the gloom the black paint stood out clearly against the white of the shed.
If you wrote something like ‘MONICA IS A SLUT’ then it wouldn’t last very long, maybe a week, but ‘BOONGS PISS OFF’ had been there for ages. I didn’t have a clue who wrote it, and I could recognise most people’s writing.
I wasn’t sure if Clarence had seen it; she didn’t say anything. Still, I didn’t feel comfortable. I felt guilty in some way. I hadn’t written it, but I hadn’t scratched it out either.
‘Sure does pong,’ I said, holding my nose. ‘Let’s go under the jetty.’
‘Suits me,’ said Clarence.
There was only one way under the jetty, from the end, where old Darcy was fishing.
‘Congratulations, young’un,’ he said when he saw us coming. He didn’t say anything to Clarence.
‘Heard you done it, pulled off the big one. How’s the Do going up there?’
‘Pretty good. Just getting some fresh air. Caught anything?’
‘Not a bloody thing. Not even a bloody bite.’
Clarence disappeared under the jetty.
‘Been using the mutton gent. But I’m not having much luck with him. Tim
e to change I reckon.’
He reeled his line in.
‘Young Blacky, can I offer you a word of advice?’
He opened his bait box, an old artillery case, and took out a jar of gents. He unscrewed the lid, lifted the jar up to eye level, tilted it to one side and gave it a gentle shake.
‘There’s a beauty,’ he said, picking out a maggot, holding it delicately, with thumb and forefinger. ‘Just a word of advice from an old bugger who’s seen a thing or two in his day. You be careful of these gins now, lad. Nice girls, but they’ve all got the clap. Every last one of ’em.’
He speared the maggot, fat and squirming, with the hook.
‘Thanks, Darce,’ I said, as I lowered myself, feet first, over the side.
Clarence was already there – under the jetty, astride a crossbeam, her back against a pylon. She was looking down, into the water, humming a tune. I knew the song – ‘An Octopus’s Garden’.
‘Don’t like that old fella. He your mate is he, Blacky?’
‘S’pose. He’s okay, minds his own business.’
‘Does he now?’
‘Whatta ya mean?’
But Clarence didn’t reply.
I wondered what Darcy had meant – all gins have got the clap. Every last one of them. I remembered a film we’d seen at school, about a corroboree. The men stomping in the red sand, surrounded by women who were chanting and clapping sticks. Was this the clap he meant? Did it have some sort of magic power? Was it like pointing the bone? I looked over at Clarence as she lit the cigarette. She didn’t look too scary. But old Darcy did know a thing or two. He was right, I better be careful.
I could see the tip glowing redder and redder. Christ, she was really dragging it in! She must’ve been smoking all her life.
Clarence blew a plume of smoke from the side of her mouth. She really knew how to smoke, all right. Probably blow smoke rings and all.
‘Deadly,’ she said, and passed me the durrie.
I took a drag. Was she watching? No, thank goodness, she was looking down at the water again. I blew the smoke straight out, without taking it into my lungs.
‘Deadly,’ I said, and passed the durrie back to Clarence.
She’d started humming the same song again.
‘That’s a Beatles’ song, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘Surely is,’ said Clarence. ‘You like The Beatles, Blacky?’
‘Yeah, I do.’
‘Deadly, unna,’ said Clarence.
‘Deadly, unna,’ I agreed.
Then there was silence.
I never knew what to say to girls. With boys it was easy, if you ran out of things to say you just insulted them. Like ‘Geez Pickles, you’ve got a head like a robber’s dog’. You couldn’t do that with a girl, though. Not if you wanted to impress her. I wanted to impress Clarence.
She took a drag. Then she tilted her head back. She blew a smoke ring, then another, then another. Three perfect circles drifted away from the jetty. Then the wind caught them and pulled them apart. Wisps of smoke floated upwards, into the night sky.
I racked my brain. What could I say? Then I remembered what Malcolm Prestwidge had told me.
‘Clarence,’ I said, ‘did you know that some of those stars you see up there are actually dead?’
She looked up. She took a while to answer.
‘How can they be dead if you can see ’em?’ she said.
I knew the answer.
‘Because they’re so far away, light years away, and it takes ages for their light to reach us.’
Clarence laughed.
But I continued, ‘And by that time they’re dead.’
‘You sure have some funny ideas, Blacky.’
‘It’s not an idea. It’s the truth.’
‘The truth, eh? Then tell me – why do them stars die?’
‘They burn out,’ I said.
Clarence laughed again. She wasn’t impressed. I could tell. Not at all. I felt like a complete dickhead.
‘Shit!’ I said, looking at my watch. ‘Look at the time. We better get back. We’ll miss the awards.’
Clarence flicked the ciggie. It tumbled, sparks flying off the end, like a tiny Catherine Wheel, into the sea.
17
When we got back Big Mac was already on the stage, stooped over the microphone. Big Mac was the president of our club. And the secretary (except that’s not how he pronounced it, he said ‘secatree’). He was also the local publican. Victor James McRae was his real name. It was written in gold letters above the pub’s front door. But everybody called him Big Mac.
I had this theory (yes, another one). To be president of a footy club you needed to possess three qualities. Number one – you had to have a fair-sized gut. Number two – you had to sweat a lot. Number three – you had to breathe heavily, preferably through the nose.
Big Mac had been president of the footy club ever since I could remember. Elected unopposed.
He had the biggest gut in town, probably the peninsula. He was sweating profusely under the lights, his nylon shirt sticking to his body. You could see the pink flesh of his chest covered in curly black hair.
He switched on the mike. The sound of his breathing boomed through the hall.
‘Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, distinguished guests. First I’d like to welcome youse all here tonight on this auspicious occasion. It’s been a long time between drinks. Thirty-eight years since we last had a premiership in this town. A bloody long time, but I’m sure you’ll all agree it’s been worth the wait.’
Everybody cheered.
The hall was chockers now. All the seats were taken. In front of the stage kids were sitting on the floor, and the blokes were all standing at the back, drinking their free beers.
‘And as president and secatree of the Port Football Club it is my great pleasure to introduce you to somebody who needs no introduction, somebody youse all know well, please give a warm welcome to the number one ticket holder of the Port Football Club, our local member, Mr Bernie Wilmott.’
The local member stood up. There was a smattering of applause.
The local member reminded me of Johnny Beelitz, this kid in my class at school, even though he didn’t look anything like him. Johnny Beelitz was always the first to put his hand up when the teacher had a question. ‘Please, Sir. Please, Sir. I know.’ (Most of the time he didn’t.) He wore his trousers really high. He had one of those ties on, made of the stretchy elastic. He was a champion dobber. And of course he always got belted up after school.
The local member gave the same long and boring speech he always gave. He talked about his exemplary track record. About the sterling qualities he brought to the job. About his vital concern for our collective welfare. He talked about everything, except football. The hall was starting to empty; the blokes were drifting back to the keg, kids were playing chasey.
‘At the end of the day,’ said the local member, and he paused.
‘Come on, Bernie,’ yelled Shirl from the back of the hall. ‘Pull ya bloody finger out.’
‘Yeah,’ somebody else yelled, ‘get on with the bloody thing.’
The local member looked stunned, like a rabbit caught in a spotlight. His eyes blinked.
‘Urn, er,’ he said.
‘Probably thinks it’s School Speech Night,’ said Pickles.
Then the local member looked over and saw the trophies on the table.
‘The trophy. That’s right, the trophy,’ he said. ‘It’s my great pleasure,’ he continued, ‘to present the trophies for outstanding academic achievement.’
‘Told ya,’ said Pickles.
Big Mac whispered something into the local member’s ear.
‘As I was saying,’ said the local member, ‘it’s my esteemed pleasure to present the trophies for today’s football game.’
‘About bloody time,’ yelled Shirl.
The local member ignored her.
‘A game won in grand style by the Port Football Club.’
People cheered. The hall started to fill up again.
The local member was on a roll now, his voice growing in confidence.
‘First I’d like to present a premiership medallion to each of these fine young men.’
There were more cheers.
We filed onto the stage, one at a time, and got a medallion and a clammy handshake from the local member. Pickles was looking very pleased with himself. I’m sure he thought that from now on, with that medallion round his neck, he’d be spending quality time down the bushes.
‘Now for the individual trophies. The first trophy, donated by the Progress Association, is the Best Team-man award.’
Here we go, I thought. Best Team-man wins another Best Team-man trophy. Another little silver man in our lounge room. We’ll have to buy a bigger telly just to fit them all on.
‘And the winner is … Tim Black.’
Just as I thought. But why is everybody looking at me? What have I done? Then I realised, he’d said Gary, not Tim. It was me! I’d won the trophy. I’d won Best Team-man’s Best Team-man trophy.
‘But, but, but …’ I said.
I wanted to tell them that I didn’t really deserve the trophy, they’d made a mistake. I hadn’t meant to stand in front of the galloping Thumper.
‘No buts about it,’ said Arks. ‘Go on, Blacky, get up there.’
Dumby pulled me to my feet, and I walked onto the stage, everybody clapping madly.
It felt weird to be up there, standing in front of all those people, all of them looking at me. I could see Mum sitting at a table, her hands clasped together. Clarence was next to Claire, both of them were smiling. The deliriously happy head of Arks was beaming up at me. Dumby was giving me the double thumbs-up. Even Team-man didn’t seem upset that I’d stolen his trophy.
Again I shook the local member’s clammy hand. He handed me the trophy. It was lighter than it looked. The little silver man was taking an overhead mark. His head was a weird shape, like it’d been squashed.
I gave a speech. I thanked the Progress Association for donating the trophy. I thanked Arks for coaching the team. I thanked all my team-mates.
As I came off the stage I could see the old man standing at the back of the hall.
Slogs was next to him. He was still wearing his apron.
‘Over here, young Blacky,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a look at that trophy.’
Deadly Unna? Page 9