‘Pretty good, eh?’ Clayton smiled.
‘Me and Johnny gonna be boxers one day, unna, Johnny?’ little blonde Micky cried, and skipped with the shadows.
Clayton’s mind cried, ‘No, no, don’t become like me. Look at me, look into me. Stay as you are, dancing with the grey dappled shadows.’
Johnny spat, ignoring his brother.
‘’Ere, koord, ’ave a smoke.’
Clayton accepted one: the first he had smoked for a long time. He drew the blue fumes back deep inside him.
‘Eh, mate, ya got a spare twenty cents on ya?’ Micky pleaded.
Clayton looked down with vague eyes. He looked at eager Micky and the shy girls and thin Johnny, who was already almost a man. He was once again back home with his brothers and sisters, the leader of his clan.
He dug a hand deep into his pocket and pulled out $20.
‘Go and ’ave some fun, you fellahs. Remember Baby Clay give ya that, orright?’
He watched, sadly, as the children swooped and whooped away. Only dust left now. All his children, all his people.
He made his way across the street to the hotel, whose blackened brick walls frowned down at him, daring him to come in.
No one was there. Only the publican, who warned him, ‘Now, look, you—I don’t want any trouble, all right? Any of your mates comin’ ’ere?’
‘Just me,’ Clayton said sullenly, and moved off to a comer table, out of the way. It was the same wherever he went. He was a hero in the regions of the boxing tent, but once he was free of its stifling hold for even half a day, he was just another darky.
When he returned to the showground, Mally Price was waiting for him.
‘All right, Clayton, I warned you. Now you wander off, getting drunk, and not caring about training for this important fight. What’s the matter with you? If you beat him tonight he’ll want to have another go before the end of the show, and that means more money. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’
The Aboriginal stared down at the twisted little crook quietly and impassively. But he was no longer the king, for the jester had found out his secret.
‘Well, watch your guts, Clayton. You go over to Ken and get him to work you over.’ Mally strode off, muttering to himself.
Clayton picked up a book and lay reading in the shade. He watched Hector playing two-up by himself and thought of the fight. Six rounds. If the challenger won, he got $200. If he was knocked out, he got nothing. If he lasted all the rounds but lost on points, he got $100.
He stayed there the rest of that afternoon, alone and meditating, undisturbed. The soft dusk drove the harsh reality of the day away. The sun turned the clouds into a rosy pink or bloody red. The colour was darker on the bottom of the cloud layers so it looked as though a giant animal had ripped its claws cruelly across the pulsating belly of the sky, and the blood dripped into the horizon, while night hid the agonizing beauty of the sun’s death.
He could hear Mally raving on, behind the canvas walls.
‘Come on, don’t go past. This is the fight of the show! Your champion and the tent’s champion in a six-round fight. The prize is two hundred dollars, so come right in and for a few bob see a fight you’ll never forget.’
Clayton stared up at the stars. They made him think of people; some in organised groups, others like himself, alone in their own space.
Hector came along and stared down at the young man sadly.
‘Geeze, Clayton. You done no trainin’ all day, look, and you been drinkin’, too. Ya never even got Kenny to give you a massage. ’Ow you think you goin’ to win that fight now?’
‘Use me fists, Hec,’ Clayton smiled, then stood up languidly. ‘S’pose I better get ready, unna?’
‘It’s on in fifteen minutes, big boy. ’Ere, let me give you a rubdown.’
They went into the caravan and Clayton pulled on his maroon silk shorts, crumpled and meaningless now. How often had someone cried out, ‘I’ll fight the champion, the bloke in the red shorts?’ And how many people had he knocked out? Then he stood calmly while the older man pummelled at his body, loosening up the muscles. Hector’s hands came to his stomach, where his muscles yielded more—soft and weak. Dark smouldering eyes stared sadly at him.
‘You watch your guts, koordah. Keep ’em covered, orright?’
Then he smiled and took out a 20c piece.
‘Toss you, Clayton. Double or nothin’.’
The coin spun crazily in the stuffy air, and Clayton said disinterestedly, ‘Heads.’
It tinkled to the floor and Hector looked up. ‘Tails, koordah.’
Clayton shrugged and took out 40c. Then the door burst open and Mally Price came in.
‘What a crowd we’ve got, Clayton! You’d better give them a good go for their money—and no dirty fighting.’
‘Do I ever fight dirty, you white bastard?’ Clayton said sullenly, then stood up to go.
Outside, the noise was deafening and sickening. Up on the platform, coloured lights played upon the young champion’s dark body. He stood apart from the shouting show, yet he needed the coloured non-conformity to hide in. Without the show he was naked, lost and vulnerable. He stared, immobile and undemonstrative, over the seething people. He looked at the merry-go-round, but its monotony made his head spin like that coin of Hector’s so instead he stared up at the stars, so far away from the earth’s troubles. They reached out cool hands to take their brother away, but he remained on the rickety stage, being exhibited by a rickety little man in front of all these stupid, gawking people.
‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, here is the challenger—David Howard.’
The hulking blonde giant mounted the steps and stood beside the slight Aboriginal, ignoring him.
‘Now, let’s see your money as you step this way to see the big fight. Jimmy, ring that bell; Hector, go and help Ken sell tickets.’
Jimmy Green rang the bell and the noise went round and round in Clayton’s head. Then he had to go below into the packed tent, the tent that bulged with farmers and farm labourers, shearers and townsfolk—all white, so he lost sight of all the stars and trees and grass. He was terribly alone, bounced along by the hubbub of spectators.
Ken sat the young man down and rubbed him over. His dark eyes ran expertly over the champ. He patted Clayton on the back reassuringly.
‘Just keep at him, Clayton. The big bastard can’t last six rounds.—A minute’s a long time, unna?’
‘Yeah.’ Suddenly Clayton felt weary. He wished it was all over, so he could go away from this throbbing ulcer that was his life.
Mally Price was going to referee this fight himself and grab a mouthful of glory. He held up his hands and the two boxers came together: David Howard wary, with a cynical smile on his big face, Baby Clay, dead inside. Then the whistle blew.
For the first round, both men sparred, checking each other out and trying to find weak spots. Clayton was too slow and was hit a stunning blow to the face, but he came nowhere near the nimble giant. In the second and third rounds he began to fight better, getting in some good punches, which nevertheless failed to make an impression on the white man. Instead, the giant closed in with a right cross to Clayton’s forehead, opening up a cut above the eye. Clayton reeled and David Howard attacked his stomach. Clayton tried to cover up, but the white man kept on slogging and slogging, driving him back to the edge of the canvas. Mercifully, the whistle blew and Clayton staggered to his corner, feeling sick.
‘’Alfway over, Clayton,’ Ken hissed. ‘Geeze, that’s a mean cut you got there, look. Time to bust ’im now, old kid, before ’e gets too cocky.’
Clayton nodded his sweating head and struggled to his feet as the whistle blew. David Howard came out, fresh and fast, brushing aside the slight young man’s defence and belting into the soft stomach again. He had discovered the champion’s weakness and stuck at it. This time, Clayton gritted his teeth and gave the big man a jarring left to the jaw, followed by a right hook. He closed up and sent a volley of punches
raining over the white man’s body. He tried to hit the man’s solid jaw again, but David Howard kept ducking. At least his stomach was given a reprieve.
In the fifth round, both men were getting tired. The wiry Aboriginal danced and ducked while the white man followed him doggedly, trying to get some good blows in. At the end of the round, Clayton wheezed to Ken and Hector, ‘If I don’t get him this round, I’ve lost on points.’
‘You’ll get ’im, Clayton. That fellah’s about done, look,’ Hector said.
He nearly did get the huge hulk when they began again. He punched him twice on the jaw and Howard fell to his knees. Then the white man got up and fell into a silent, violent tempo of punching. There was nothing Clayton could do except take it, punch for punch, while the crowd yelled for his blood. He felt sick and shaky, yet refused to fall down. His legs were rubber, and hate and the sour taste of that day’s beer welled up in his throat. Now he knew what losing was like and having to lose to such a man in front of such a crowd was the worst of all. He wanted to end it all and fall onto the floor. His head spun round and round like the mad merry-go-round.
He scarcely heard the whistle blow for the end of the fight.
He almost didn’t feel Price hold up his limp hand and announce him the winner.
Brash David Howard had been parading around the ring with his hands in the air. Now he looked amazed—as did many other people—at Mally’s decision. The crowd began shouting and threatened to tear the tent down. Hector, Jimmy and Ken moved forward, ready for trouble.
‘Gentlemen. Gentlemen, please. I think I know more about boxing than anyone here. I’ve been a referee for twenty-odd years, and a boxer for another twenty. Sure, the challenger was going strong in the first three rounds, but Baby Clay came back in the last three.’ Mally Price could talk his way back to life if he wanted to, and his words reassured and quietened the crowd. ‘But, just to show what a sport I am and how I appreciate your challenger’s courage, I’ll add another fifty dollars to the original purse. Now, let’s have a round of applause for the Aboriginal—come on!’
There was a half-hearted spattering of clapping then Clayton was let go. He staggered through the hostile white crowd and out into the friendly darkness. He fell to his knees, vomiting blood and pride. He had not won that fight, and Price knew he hadn’t: everyone knew. The little white man owned him now for saving his reputation. He would never be free again, but go on boxing until Price thought it was time for him to go.
He made up his mind then. He would go away, and live out his destroyed life. All along, he had been no one. Not like Lennard who was feared, or Arley who was respected. They had something concrete to hold on to. All his life, while he had believed he was getting somewhere, he had really been meandering meaninglessly nowhere. Perhaps, one day, his name—and painted picture— would have flapped lifelessly in the laughing wind. That would have been his reward for being Baby Clay.
He packed his battered, dusty, cracked case with his few belongings. At the bottom of the case he came across an old newspaper clipping, yellowed with age. He looked at it curiously. He remembered it now; it was his first mention in a newspaper! ‘Baby Clayton defies all‘’. There was a photo of him punching a bag and a bit about his successes. It had been important to him; the first step towards a better life—or false life? He crumpled it into his pocket. He slipped quietly away into the eerie blue night. His shadow danced jerkily on the flat, grassy ground as he walked into the glare of an occasional light; yellow bravado daring the truth to hide its cruel glow. How many mothlike believers smashed themselves against the light of fantasy because they were afraid of the dark of reality outside?
He felt in his coat pocket and pulled out the yellowed paper clipping.
He turned back. Over the trees he could see the glow of the show that had held him for so long. He gave a queer little smile then tore up the clipping and watched the pieces of paper blow away in the wind.
JOHNNY BLUE
NO one liked Johnny Blue much. They reckoned he was a larrikin, a rebel and a lout.
But I liked Johnny all the time he was here, because he was the Nyoongah’s mate, and mine especially. The only person who ever understood me and the only white bloke to notice me as a human instead of just a hunk of meat who could run fast.
You see, when me old man went to jail, Mum and me moved down the country because now me old man was a crim like, us Maguires had got a bad name. So we moved to Quarranocking.
There wasn’t much at Quarra: only a school, a pub, a store, and a few houses settled in the yellow dust like a flock of tired cockatoos. We went and lived down the camp, near the river with the other Nyoongahs, and Mum sent me to school.
All the other kids there, most of them off farms, was older then me, and brainier and bigger too, so, being coloured as well, I got smacked up first day out. That’s what the kids down these little towns is like.
There was these two big blokes pushing me around when, out of the shadows where I hadn’t seen him stepped this cruel big bloke and says, quiet like,
‘Youse buggers let the kid alone and fight me.’
Well, I see the big bloke’s got a name about, because the two bullies let go of me like I was a tiger snake, and scooted off. Then the big bloke said, ‘What’s ya name, skinny ribs?’
So I says back me name, which is Jesse Maguire, then he said, ‘Well my name’s Johnny Blue, but I got others what people call me, whenever they find sumpin’s missin’.’ Then he laughed. An’ I reckon he sounded like a kookaburra.
Then he tells me to come and sit in the shade and have a fag, so I do. He was me mate from that very day and us two stuck together like feathers on a bird.
He was the only white bloke ever to show any real kindness to me, except perhaps me dad. Most white blokes have always pushed me round until sports days or footie seasons come around, then they lay off and even suck up because I’m a good runner.
But in Quarranocking no one touched me while I was Johnny’s mate. Once Eddie Callanan tried to fight me when he reckoned Johnny wasn’t around. But he was, and he came in like a cornered boomer. He gave a right that lifted Callanan off his feet, then a haymaker to the Irish kid’s belly that laid him stiff as a board.
That was one of the things I admired about me cobber. He could fight like a bunch of wildcats and he was as game as a dozen Ned Kellys.
Like the time he jumped off Dogger’s Ledge, sixty feet into the waterhole, just for something to do, or when he fought five chicken kids who reckoned they would have a chance of beating him in a mob. But he laid them flat, every one of them, on his own. Or when he kicked the priest’s gate down because the father had abused his mum.
No one else would have touched the priest because most of them was Catholics anyhow. Besides, the priest would go straight to the town cop, who was another mick, if anyone even gave him so much as a dirty look. But this didn’t stop Johnny after he come home and found his mum howling.
Johnny really loved his old mum, but he never liked his dad, who was always drunk, fat, dirty and vicious. He was bigger and stronger than Johnny, too, so the kid got hell. Once when he come to school with a real beaut black eye he swore to me he’d get his old man one day.
Johnny was kind to all us Nyoongahs. He was a real good carpenter and made ripper toys for us, like the hill trolley he made for the Innitts, which lasted until Riley Johns smashed it into a rock and nearly brained himself. He was a good carver too and made tons of bonzer carved things for the kids down the river. He made me a horse out of red gum on a wandoo stand. Struth, it looked good—real muritch, you know—all red and shiny and all.
He loved making us kids laugh, though he never laughed much himself. He’d get us up by the dump and dress up as Miss Raymond, our teacher for maths. He’d stick an old pillow in his shorts, put a wig of mattress stuffing on his head and, speaking in a high voice, ‘teach’ us maths. By Jeeze he was funny, and he had us rolling around in stitches. Sometimes he’d stick a tin on his head a
nd put on a pair of broken glasses and, with an old piece of piping, creep stealthily among the rubbish acting like the town cop.
He was funny allright, a real good actor, and I felt pretty proud that such a clever bloke was my mate.
And I admired him because he never treated us any different. When we was all laughing and fooling around together at the dump, we was all equal and all mates. And at school or in town, in front of the other white folk, he was just the same. And that’s really something. A lot of white folk are friendly if no one’s looking, but when there’s a crowd around, they don’t want to know you if your skin’s black.
Johnny Blue never had a girlfriend, but he wasn’t queer.
He was handsome enough in a rugged sort of way. His eyes were black like the backs of beetles and were often hidden behind a fringe of his curly black hair that grew thick and long enough to hang over his broad brown shoulders. Sometimes his eyes squinted up with laughter but mostly they were as cold as the middle of a dam in winter, them eyes of Johnny’s. His nose was flat and broken like Billy Keith the boxer’s, who smacked up the shearers every year in the local show. Except when he was fooling around with us kids, his mouth was always drawn back in a half-snarl, like one of them dingoes in the South Perth zoo. But his teeth was big and white and he had a ripper whistle—better than anyone else.
Another thing about Johnny Blue, he could fight, chuck boondis, spears or boomerangs, spit and run better than anyone, but he never bragged or boasted. He let other kids think they could beat him in everything, except fighting.
Winter came and the dust turned to mud around the town. The kids had mud fights instead of using boondi or conky nuts, and the old man was due out of jail soon.
Johnny and me was sharing a fag under the tank stand when Micky Rooselett came and told me Acky wanted to see me. Acky was our nickname for Mr Ackland, the headmaster. I gave a grin to Johnny and says, ‘Silly bugger’ll probably cane me for not doing me maths.’
Johnny gave a snarl. There was no love lost between him and old Acky, they were always getting into yikes together like a pair of male dingoes fighting over a bitch. Acky didn’t like us Nyoongahs either so, since I was the only one in his class, I got the lot, too.
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