~
The evening meal was pleasant. We made pizzas in the wood oven outside. I stretched the dough, while Susan helped Seth put on the toppings. Jarrod managed the fire. He handled the peel like a master, revolving the pizzas smoothly with a quick turn of his hand. It was impressive, and my dark sentiments towards him lightened. He told us a story I’d heard many times, of working in a pizza restaurant during his jaunt through Italy – a ‘real pizza joint’, he emphasised.
Jarrod had been hit by a car when he was seventeen. He was drunk and tried to jump over a plumber’s ute. It was his fault, but he got a payout anyway. He backpacked around the world for two years on that money.
Jarrod appeared to be enjoying the evening, especially with his nephew hanging off him – his ‘protégé’, he claimed, trying to provoke me. But I noticed that there was something underlying his mood, something slightly desperate in his eyes. He was struggling to hold it together.
‘Can I get a photo of you boys?’ asked Susan.
We lined up in front of the oven, with the dragon tree to one side. Jarrod held the peel like a guitar, and Seth clung to his neck. Susan indicated, with a flick of her head, for me to move in closer. After an awkward pause, I placed my hand on Jarrod’s back and then slid it up to his shoulder. My fingers cupped the hard ridge of his clavicle. The movement brought us together, and I felt his body against mine. It was curved and racked like an old, arthritic street dog – all hips and distended joints. In contrast, I was soft from my office job. Those nights on park benches, stony garden beds and concrete stoops had taken their toll on my brother. He was only thirty-seven. I tried to suppress a pang of guilt, but it prevailed: I had made him sleep on our shitty couch, knowing what a bastard it was.
He fixed me with a solemn stare. Seeing something in my eyes, he turned back to the oven and started sweeping out the firebricks. I felt he could sense a moment of weakness in me and was trying to exploit it. I hated the suspicion he aroused in me – and not just the suspicion. All the feelings, not one of which was good. I had been rehearsing our ‘talk’ all evening, but I still wasn’t prepared. I had no idea, really, what I was going to say. But I knew I didn’t want to talk to a drunk.
Earlier, while working in the garden, Susan had said, ‘Why don’t you tell him he can stay with us? I don’t mind, as long as he sorts himself out.’
‘What’s the point of trying again?’ I replied. ‘We don’t get along. We never have.’
Jarrod put down the peel. ‘You got anything to drink?’
~
‘Here you go,’ I said, pointing the cap end of a bottle at Jarrod.
He was sitting outside on the patio table, constructing a rollie. He took the beer with a grateful, yet dubious, nod. He sat with it unopened in his hand, waiting for the catch.
‘Drink up, then,’ I said, and took a swig of my own.
‘Cheers,’ he replied, and downed the whole stubby.
‘This is healthy, you know,’ I started hesitantly. ‘Just a couple of beers …’
‘I don’t need a lecture on drinking, bro. I’d rather leave.’
‘Yeah, right. And go where? Back to the park?’ I instantly regretted saying it, and the tone that I’d used.
‘Can I have another beer?’
I sighed. ‘Why not?’
Jarrod went to the fridge and grabbed two more stubbies. Before I could tell him that mine was still full, he put both of the bottles down in front of himself.
‘I know you’re going to tell me to sort my shit out,’ he said. ‘But I’m going to tell you first: you need to sort your own fucking shit out.’
‘Hey. Quit fucken swearing,’ I said, through gritted teeth. ‘Seth—’
‘Is inside, so shut the fuck up,’ Jarrod finished.
Rage incapacitated me, and I couldn’t reply.
Into the silence, Jarrod continued, ‘You’re in denial.’
‘Denial?’ I laughed, mockingly.
‘Yeah, denial. And you’re living a lie.’
‘Okay, Jarrod, Mr Scholar of the World. What’s this lie, then?’
‘You’re in denial about your Aboriginality, and you’re living like a white man.’ He spoke matter-of-factly.
‘Oh, here we go. The “black and white” thing, again.’
‘Look around,’ he said. ‘Look at this house – it must be costing you a fortune. Every tool and knick-knack in the garage, every piece of crap that you just had to buy, but never use. A ridiculous jet ski.’
‘You’re on a roll, mate. Keep going.’
‘A mortgage, which you’re locked into for life. Life, bro. And a fucking trophy wife. I mean, Christ, I love Susan – she’s a better person than you are – but you couldn’t have gone much whiter.’
‘Don’t bring Susan into this. The way I live my life has nothing to do with my heritage. And it’s got nothing to do with you either, for that matter.’
‘We’re palawa, whether you like or not. I hate it that you live like a raytji. It brings shame on me. Shame on our community. I want my nephew to grow up proud of who he is.’
‘Shame?’ I was fighting to keep my voice down. ‘Coming from someone who lives in the park? I’m the one who should be fucking ashamed. My brother sleeps with T-rex and the other losers in The Square, living on free coffee and stealing staff lunches from the fridge at the bloody housing co-op. Youse are a frigging disgrace.’
‘At least I’m with my people,’ said Jarrod. He had taken on a sulky tone.
‘Your people? What people? We’re just descendants, Jarrod. Aborigines were our ancestors. We’re not them. Sure, we’ve got a bit of colour in us but, you know … Look, we were going to ask if you want to stay with us for a while. I could clean out the guitar room.’
He sculled the rest of his beer. ‘I feel sorry for you,’ he said, with what seemed like real pity. ‘Descendants? Really?’
I said nothing, until he rolled and then lit up his second smoke.
‘So, you don’t want to stay?’
‘Of course not. I just wanted to tell you what I thought,’ he answered. ‘To get it off my chest.’
‘Well, are you staying tonight? You can have Seth’s bed. He can sleep with us.’
‘The couch is fine, thanks. It’s what I’m used to.’
~
I was in town a few weeks later. Susan had been pestering me to take Seth to the barbers, to replace his curls with a short back and sides. A bitter southerly, straight from Antarctica, was singing down Charles Street, sweeping frost-burned oak leaves into unruly mounds. We pushed head-first into the wind, following the spiked iron fence surrounding The Square, past the Aboriginal housing co-op and the small cafes with their alfresco tables. I could have gone the other way – the shorter way – but I wanted to walk through the park.
The Square was almost devoid of people in this bitter weather. A lone council worker in an orange hi-vis shirt rose from the bed of pink-and-white snapdragons he had been tending. I marvelled at how something so beautiful and exotic could thrive in such bleak conditions. Seth watched the man push his wheelbarrow to the next bed, while I surveyed the rest of the park.
I crossed The Square, past the fountain, with Seth huddled against me. By the camellia border, on the far side, the parkies were bent over a small fire. Fires were banned in the park, but the council workers turn a blind eye in winter. They had one of their own, smouldering away by their quarters.
A gruff voice rose from the huddle as we approached, and the parkies shuffled and twisted, in some sort of acknowledgement. Seeing that my brother wasn’t amongst them, I turned and headed back towards the fountain.
‘Who are they, Daddy?’ Seth was looking back at the parkies.
‘Our people, apparently,’ I said.
‘Are we still going to the hair-cutters?’
A stiff gust drew a
tear across my cheek, leaving a cold trail. I ran my fingers through Seth’s thick, dark hair and walked him back the way we came, back to the car.
TIME AND TIDE
As the heavily laden tinnie turned and rode a wave into the small bay, James Beeton placed a hand on his son’s shoulder and give it a sharp squeeze. He let go of the tiller while he took the brown sherry bottle from between his knees and the boat lurched forward on its own wake.
‘Gunna be a good season,’ he said, pointing the bottle towards their patch of muttonbird rookery along the coast of Big Dog Island. To his son, Henry, it sounded like an affirmation.
In the dying light and with the boat nosed against the shore, James passed a loaded cardboard box to Henry. A small shore-breaker jerked the bow skyward just enough to fling the box from Henry’s grasp before he could fully take hold. The contents landed in the cold sea that rose and fell around his bare thighs.
‘Shit, boy,’ growled his dad. ‘That’s our only box of tucker. Grab what you can. Quick.’
Henry didn’t answer. He was already snatching at packets of two-minute noodles that were holding their own in the water. Each one he rescued was folded into the crease of his t-shirt. He ran up the beach a way and dumped them on the sand. He was stripped down to his undies and the skin on his legs was reddened and tight.
On his way back into the water, he spied the treat that his mother had put in for him: the only treat they could afford this year. The block of Cadbury chocolate bobbed around the front of the tinnie. Not flat on the surface like the noodles but up-ended and half submerged; tragic yet glorious, like the sinking Titanic.
‘Leave it,’ said James. He had braced himself up the front of the tinnie, legs bent and on the lookout for the next waves. He took another pull on his bottle of plonk. ‘Time and tide, boy. Go for the spuds. Don’t lose the bloody spuds.’
Henry waded up to his neck, to where the vegetables were now floating. He lobbed them, one by one, high onto the beach. Now that the onions and the potatoes dotted the granite sand – between the wash and the two-foot-high pile of ribbon weed that ran the length of it – Henry went for his treat. His father had his head down, fussing with the ropes and preparing to tie up the boat. As Henry stooped for the chocolate, the boat pitched forward, knocking him beneath the bow.
Before he went under, Henry heard the grating, metallic thud and clank of heavy chain as James fell to the aluminium plate floor. The front of the boat pressed down on Henry, pinning him to the sand. He released his breath and inhaled just as the tide surged out. Before he could call for help, the next wave came over him and he was submerged once more. There was not enough water in the wave to lift the boat and release him. All he could do was hold his breath and wait.
There was a moment of serenity as the movement of the sea seemed to stall. Through the ripples, Henry could see the bright blue moon against a scarlet sky. Then a wavy shadow blocked out the moon and a long-necked bottle splashed into the water above. Its inky contents pulsed into the seawater in lazy gushes. At the end of his breath, Henry’s heartbeat quickened. He screamed his last air into the sea as the cloud of black sherry enveloped him.
Henry came to between his father’s legs. He was slumped forward and a projection of hot spit and mucus covered his groin – a string of it still hung from his bottom lip. There were drag marks in the sand that led up the beach, from the water’s edge to the soles of his feet. Henry could smell his father’s sweet breath as he silently sobbed against Henry’s back. The only movement Henry dared make was to sneak the chocolate bar still gripped in his hand inside his shirt.
‘Thought I’d lost you, boy,’ his dad said, once he had gathered himself.
‘I’m … okay … Dad,’ Henry replied between coughs.
James got to his feet, anger rising in his voice. ‘Fucken told you to leave it, didn’t I?’ He cuffed Henry on the side of the head, hard.
Henry rolled into a ball, covering himself.
After a while he cautiously lifted his head, his ear hot and throbbing, and watched his father load up with gear and trudge through the squeaking sand towards their sheds. But not before he opened a new bottle and took a long swig.
~
Henry and James spent the next day cleaning up the sheds. Over a breakfast of fried devon and baked beans, they had agreed on the division of tasks. It felt like a ritual and they barely spoke. James worked hard and fast, and Henry knew to keep out of his way. It didn’t take long – they had done the same thing for as far back as Henry could remember.
The processing shed sat just above the beach. It was modern, unlike their quarters, which were old and run-down. The lease had been in Henry’s family ever since his great-grandmother won it from a drunken shed-boss, in a card game at the end of one muttonbird season. Over the following years, people had patched up the accommodation and built on many times. During the last few seasons, Henry had observed the progression of the New Zealand spinach vine smothering the exterior – its tendrils invading the shed through openings large and small. It now looked like an eco-village someone might pay a fortune to stay in – until they looked inside.
~
In the afternoon, when the boat was afloat on the high tide, they went back to the main island to collect fuel to run their generator. Henry always marvelled at their trusty Lister Petter. During birding, it was central to the whole show: lights in the bunkhouse and cookhouse, and power to run the cool room and water pump in the processing shed. The generator was their economy and diesel was its currency.
At the general store, Henry watched his father squint into his empty wallet for a moment after he’d paid the shopkeeper for the fuel. Out in the car park, James stopped and looked out across Franklin Sound to Big Dog Island, their island, his chiselled jaw set in defiance.
‘This should get us through the season,’ said James. Henry knew the statement was not to him, but a challenge to the gods.
It was the same every year. His father put it all on the line for birding. And with each year that passed, the stress of it never waned. But the pay-off was worth it. After the harvest – after the birds were sold – they made enough money to scrape through the year.
Henry smiled to himself as they bumped back over to Big Dog Island. He was at the tiller this time, his father weighing down the bow as they cut into the wind. If all went well, Henry’s take this year would be two grand. He had already put a small, non-refundable holding payment on a road bike that he had spent all year dreaming about buying. A bike and a learner’s licence equalled freedom in Henry’s mind.
They worked on into the night so that they could start birding the following day. The Lister Petter provided the soundtrack to their birding trips: a ceaseless drone from daybreak to dark, raising and lowering in octave with the variation of its load. One of his dad’s sayings was, ‘You’ve never known silence like a generator switched off.’
~
‘Got a bird yet?’ James called, from across the track.
They’d set off before dawn to work a patch up on the hill.
‘No, you?’ Henry answered. The tussocks were sparse in this part of their lease, and Henry could see clearly where the old birds had been moving around and scratching at their holes. This was their go-to spot, early in the season, and they always did well here. He sat up in the rookery. The tussocks parted and waved in the place where his father’s voice came from.
‘Not a damned thing.’
‘Think someone’s been here already?’ asked Henry. He gave up trying, having been down at least fifty good holes. All he’d pulled up was one angry old bird that had squawked at him while it tore at his wrists with its scaly feet.
‘Dunno. You can’t trust half the black bastards on this island, can ya? We’ll go and have a look down Old Snakey, ay?’
They met back on the track, spits in hand, and looked each other up and down for a second. James was a
solid man, but sinewy. He had strong, masculine features and a grim, determined look about him. A difficult look to warm to. Henry often wondered what his mother saw in him. Standing there with a ripped tea towel over his head like a bandana, short fingerless gloves and a three-day beard, his father resembled a militia fighter from one of the war-torn countries regularly on the news. Henry doubted he appeared much different, except he was taller and lanky and carried a light layer of what his father teasingly called ‘puppy fat’ on his face. He’d shed it one day.
Old Snakey was a section of track at the bottom of their rookery, close to their shed. Growing up, Henry assumed it was called that because it was a winding part of the track. He later learned that it was because birders often saw snakes in that area – mostly whip snakes but also the odd tiger.
Finding a good section of rookery each, they drove their spits into the ground and started working the holes.
After a while, James held up a scrawny chick. It barely had enough energy to scratch at him. ‘One bird – not even a keeper.’
They worked the patch until the sun had dried out the dew on the ground. They only pulled out two more birds that were of size (and even then only just). It had taken nearly two hours to get those. They sat and ate their smoko on the edge of the track. Afterwards they lay back in the rookery, where it smelled like dry straw and game. James made up a rollie and smoked it while Henry sucked on the single square of chocolate he’d brought along. He’d decided to ration himself to one per day.
Henry was the first to speak. ‘What’s going on, Dad?’
‘Fucked if I know, boy.’
~
They’d called it quits before lunch and walked back to their shed in silence. Even though it had been swept out and cleaned inside, the sharp smell of mice hit Henry’s nose like vinegar. James sat at the table, sipped cold tea and rolled cigarettes until he had a small pile. Some of the flex had left his jaw, and Henry thought he looked older and slightly softer, somehow.
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