by Steve Bisley
Dedication
For Krissie
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Stillways
A day in my life
Summer
Death
God, sport and rock’n’roll
Diseases and maladies
Mum
Dad
The grans and nans
Visitors
Scissors
Shops
The Carters’ big house
The West
Duke gets a lesson
Big school
Back to school
Subject matter
Love on the silver screen
Cracker night
The Wyong Show
Gypsies and other strangers
Gangs
Big trouble
Finding the light
Chuck
Fifteen
The perfect crime
Earthbound
Surf’s up
Peaches
A view from the bridge
Trapped
The Brothers Grim
Prizes
Kristin
Testing times
The formal
Celibacy
Gran’s house
Bliss
A wanted man
Changes
Christmas
Epilogue
Mum’s poems
End of Winter Letter
Poem at Home
Pretty Spring Day
Krissie’s Pear Tree
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Prologue
The soaking wind curves around the channel that empties Lake Macquarie into the Pacific Ocean. It blows across Pulbah Island and reaches to the sodden south. There is no rain, but a thin wetness. There is no whisper through the casuarinas brought by other winds; they are bowed and heavy now and all things feel sunk and riven.
This is the only way to see my home. This is the only true way to see my home.
We could walk from the creek to the house, on other days, when the bright nor’easter sang through the big gums and sifted the green paddocks. I could show you the pump house by the creek. We could start the big diesel and feel the irrigation lines throb and fatten and see the monsoon sprinklers throw their fine rainbows of misty water skywards.
But best not to.
Best tell it like it was.
Rather we should wait beside the pump-house shed. It won’t be long.
Look, here he comes! Look, there – up the track that runs between the two fenced paddocks!
That’s him!
That’s my father!
He’s a long way off, but even through the wet mist you can see the purpose in him.
He has a small sack in his hand that swings as he walks and even at this distance you can hear the kittens crying.
Swing …
Swing …
Inside the sack, a brick and some kittens.
He walks past where we are standing.
Plop!
Splash!
Inside the sack, a brick and some kittens. And water.
Down, down to the countless sacks.
He will walk back to the house now; remove his boots, sit in his place at the head of the table, and drink.
Drink long and deep from the longnecks.
And no one will disturb him.
Rather we will wait in the sodden yard till this communion is over.
The mother and the ducklings.
‘Hush now! Your father’s had a hard day.’
In the failing light I watch the few cows blow steam from their noses. The mist lies heavily on their broad backs as they eat themselves forward. They eat themselves forward all day. They do nothing else but eat.
Eat, forward, eat, forward, eat, forward.
We wait; it’s always the same, this ritual.
There is a man sitting alone at a table inside a house. Drinking.
Outside is a woman with three children. Waiting.
We will go in, after a while.
When we do, we will each go to our rooms in the dark house to sit and learn to be lonely. We will sit with the sadness of our father, till it takes hold and never leaves us.
Stillways
We lived at the end of Carter’s Road.
It dived off the Pacific Highway at Lake Munmorah, midway between Wyong and Swansea, on the Central Coast of New South Wales.
The road got its name from the Carter family, our next-door neighbours. They were orchardists with the biggest farm in the area, so they got the road named after them.
My father had cut our farm out of virgin bush after the Second World War. It was only fifteen acres. He had built the house with the help of local men. There was also a shed, and two fenced paddocks running from the shed to a creek. Apart from some yards used to pen the few head of cattle and our various horses and a chicken coop, there wasn’t much else.
There were other farms along Carter’s Road – smallholdings, like ours.
The Nickelsons, who were horsey; Mrs Tillock, the widow; a family of Jehovah’s Witnesses called Dickie; and the Carters of course.
I’m Stephen – or Stevie, because I’m the youngest.
My sister, Kristin, is three years older than me, my brother, Richard, is two years older than her.
My mother’s name is Pauline.
She is unloved by my father.
My father’s name is Bruce.
There was always work to do at home.
Blokes on bulldozers tore down the lovely gums. The once smooth and silken trunks fell to the earth shrieking, gashed and splintered from the blade.
Once down, they were pushed together and heaped to burn for days, the air sweet with the smell of eucalypt, bleeding sap and diesel.
After the machines had left, us kids would come and start the stick picking. Days bent over, picking up the broken branches, root ends and leaves to hurl them onto the fires.
Then back came the bulldozers to push again and again, year after year, till finally we set the boundaries of our lives with taut wire fences.
Stillways, our farm.
My parents were market gardeners before they gave it away to become schoolteachers. It always seemed to me that when they had made the shift they had just gone from one group of vegetables to another.
I remember running down the rows of ripe tomatoes; at the end of each row, you fairly reeked. I loved the smell. It stuck to you and stayed. When you bit them they slushed in your mouth and after you swallowed, the taste hung there for hours.
We grew vegies for market. Tomatoes, beans, watermelons and pumpkins.
They were sorted in the shed, loaded on Fridays and trucked to the market in Newcastle.
I would curl up on the springy seat of the old Dodge truck in the predawn as my father nursed our way north on the Pacific Highway.
At the markets, men in cracked leather aprons with large wads of money slid the greasy notes sidewards to my father. ‘Can’t give you much, Bruce, just got too many of ’em to shift. You know what it’s like.’
He didn’t.
He wore the disappointment like another skin. You could see it visibly take him, and when it did, it consumed him, and the black rage would rise.
I tried to tell him that I was sorry.
Sorry that his work had earnt so little.
But there was nothing between us that would let me in.
I knew why he took me with him.
He needed someone to witness the wrong he felt.
To save him from the darkness within.
We rode back south, me and him, through the wakening suburb
s of Newcastle, past the blackened port where tugs nudged the empty ships under the hulking coal loader and more waited in the inky blue to load and go.
Newcastle had coal under it a mile deep. The flinty black seams of it ran up and down the coast forever. There wasn’t a village within cooee of it that didn’t have its own pit. Our farm was twenty-five miles from the heart of Newcastle, but even at that distance we knew there were men deep beneath our paddocks toiling at the coalface.
On the southern outskirts of the city the road narrowed to the coast.
Dad down-shifted through the whiny gearbox and eased the truck over the rickety Swansea Bridge to park in front of the pub.
‘I’ll be an hour,’ he said. ‘Stay out of trouble!’
The pub was an early opener and even at eight am on a Saturday it was crowded. Miners, off shift, propped up the bar with farmers, tradies and fishermen. Blokes in pork-pie hats studied the racing form and blowsy women shrieked over the din. There was a gaggle of kids on the footpath waiting, forbidden to stray, caught in the draught of hop-sweet air and smoke from the saloon.
I left the truck, its motor tick-ticking as the engine cooled, and headed back to the bridge.
Past the newsagent with its inky smell of paper and titty cards bending in racks on the footpath: Having the breast time in Swansea. Wish you were here!
Bags of green plastic soldiers half price out the front. Wishing I had a bob for a roll of caps, just for the smell of them after the bang.
Further up, the cake shop, opening now. Fat lamingtons, cream horns, horseshoes and pies. Pavlova in the window with a fly on the fruit.
Wish I had another bob.
The fire station with the limp hoses hoisted on poles and the big truck, polished, gleaming red in the cool inside.
The squat police station where Jimmy Evans, the local copper, dealt out justice with a heavy hand.
There are houses with beachy shells stuck to their front walls. Bleached shacks with names like Bide A While, Shangri-la and Mick’s Palace.
Tanned people lounge in their front yards on some permanent holiday.
Loony gnomes peer out from the barren cacti gardens.
A white cocky in a cage with its lemony crest unfurled screeches. ‘Ricky!’
On the bridge, blokes bend over the railing, staring into the blue-green spiralling eddies for the flash of silver. Gulls overhead on wings that shape the fresh nor’easter to keep them held above us. Fish scales and gull crap.
The bridge spans the channel that draws the rolling greenies from the Pacific Ocean and funnels them across the bar to freshen the lake.
I let the time pass; an hour, he said. I know he will be drinking deeply in the pub now, brooding, dark and dangerous.
I stay on the bridge in the clean brightness.
I am scared to go back.
I don’t know what I’ll find.
I don’t know how he’ll be.
We never know.
Until it’s too late.
I wait on the bridge, and hope.
I am windblown and bleached and too small for this.
Finally I head back to the pub. I wait quietly in the truck until he comes, the smell of dirt and beer is all over him. We’ll drive home now, unload, and I’ll join the others in a paddock of sticks.
Later that day, Dad accuses me of swearing at my brother and orders me to wait in the shed. So now it comes. Usually we have to pick our own stick to be beaten with, but today Dad has one with him when he arrives.
He lays into the backs of my legs. I can smell his breath, still beery from the pub, as he thrashes me, and I know this is not really about my behaviour; it’s about the price of fruit.
A day in my life
We didn’t have electricity. Everyone else in the district had the power on, but not down our road. We had the poles – they’d been there for years, greying and split – but nothing else. My father had wired the house in anticipation of our connection to the grid but we remained dark and dim. We had kerosene lamps and a wood-burning stove to cook on. One of my jobs was to make sure there was always enough wood for the kitchen and the big open fire that warmed the house in winter. I split the sawn logs on a big block beside the shed. I gathered bundles of kindling. I was young and determined.
We had Aladdin lamps to light our house at night. At dusk my mother would gather the lamps and set them on the kitchen table. She would fill them with the blue kerosene, trim the wicks, light them and set their tall glass chimneys in place.
We spent our nights in the soft glow of them. It made the whole house seem like a shrine to something, as if we’d invoked something holy.
In winter, when the open fire in the lounge room was burning, I would sit for hours in front of it, caught by the mystery of the dancing flames and the deep, deep core of it.
At bedtime we would take small lamps into our rooms. They had sand in the bottom to stop them from falling over. I would lie in my small bed with the shadows dancing on the walls and the big house settling. Frogs bongoed from the creek, flying foxes in leathery squadrons screeched through the orchard, possums skidded on the iron roof. There was the faraway sound of a train and, faintly, the mopokes hunting in the dark bush.
In the morning the house lifts gently on its stumps as the dawn gathers.
The five bodies of my family come to life with the last thoughts of the night slithering back and further back, and for the briefest moment we are as one, together but alone.
Mornings are busy. There’s the kitchen stove to be stoked and readied for the rush. Wood shoved into the firebox, toast burnt on the open flames, eggs knocking together in a blackened saucepan, thick porridge ladled out with golden syrup swirled through.
I brush my beaten school shoes with a double beat on the front verandah; my toes are curled against the cold as I watch the roos invade the paddocks in the dew.
My brother, Richard, who is older, cuffs me under the ear on his way to the outside dunny, slams the door and rips a great fart into the morning. The dunny doesn’t flush; it slowly fills over a week to be taken away by the dunny man, who leaves an empty one in its place. At Christmas time my father leaves a bottle of beer by the front gate. It’s a gift to the dunny man for taking our shit away for a whole year.
I’ve only recently learnt to swear.
Some kid told me that he saw the dunny man eating his lunch and he dropped an apple into one of the full cans of shit and he just reached in and got the apple out, wiped it on his shitty pants and ate it! I didn’t believe it.
I wondered if the dunny man ever got really clean and had a wife who really loved him.
On his way back from the dunny my brother cuffs me under the other ear. He doesn’t know that he’s my hero, but then again, I’m my sister’s boyfriend too and she doesn’t know that either.
I’ve got lots of secrets.
I’m a watcher.
I know where my father hides his condoms! They’re in a white box in the third drawer down in a cupboard in my parents’ bedroom, right beside his large Y-fronted undies. I don’t know what I was looking for when I found them; I think I was just having a general look around, digging for other people’s secrets to make them my own.
So my parents were having sex!
Right!
Some nights I creep from my bed and glide like a shadow into the lounge room and wait. Wait for the slightest sound of proof. The rustle of a sheet, a sigh or the sound of a body shifting. In the mornings I look for the telltale signs of the night’s coupling, but there are never any. Or maybe there are and I don’t know what I’m looking for. There is something going on because my father gets through a lot of condoms; I know, I check them every week.
I didn’t know much about sex, only that it required some form of rubbing.
I did know, most years, where my parents hid the Christmas presents.
That my sister hid beans in the side of her mouth at dinnertime and, unseen, spat them out through the bathroom window into the ga
rden.
That my brother had a book with pictures of girls’ boobies under his bed.
I slide my books into my satchel and find my lunch on the kitchen bench. My school bag smells of banana and pencils. Then we’re all out the door together. Us kids will walk the half-mile up Carter’s Road to catch the school bus at the highway. I want to walk close to Richard ’cause he smells of Brylcreem. He is square and muscled and handsome, in his last year at high school now, and all he wants is to be a farmer. Mum walks with us. She teaches at a small school at the end of our road. My sister, Kris, is with us too, all pigtails and whip-smart.
Back at home my father eases the big black Jaguar from the carport. Inside it smells of women and my father. It has walnut wood carved into a dashboard and silver vases for cut flowers above the back seat. It has courtesy lights and a lighter with cigar printed on its black knob and a jaguar’s head that stares out from the centre of a silver-spoked steering wheel. There is an ashtray that slides out from under the dashboard. Inside it are cigarette butts with fresh red lipstick on them.
Like I said, I’m a watcher.
We are halfway to the highway when the Jaguar catches us. We stand to one side of the gravel road as Dad glides by in his lovely car. He is going to another school to teach strangers the things he can’t teach us.
My father has more secrets than me.
I wait beside the Pacific Highway. It’s as big as its name. Its blue-black surface goes forever, or at least to Queensland. There’s a mob of kids in the bus shelter now, but I want to wait right here, beside the highway’s edge. There’s life in these cars, bold stuff flashing by me.
Blonde woman, red mouth, with a guy slumped and leaning on her shoulder. Man in a suit with his hand on his forehead. An older woman driving with a neat man in the passenger seat, both peering ahead into the morning.
The school bus looms into a close-up and drags me back from wherever and I’m right in a fight for the door and a seat by the window. Daryl Carter slides in beside me; he’s my neighbour, but whatever he’s got to say can wait, ’cause I’m still with the blonde in the Chevy. Daryl fidgets beside me. He’s such a kid; he’s only nine.
Still, I tell him about the Elvis Presley movie we saw with my parents at the drive-in on Friday. Daryl wants to know what Elvis sang. I lose interest and drift back to the road. Daddy-o!