Then he thought of the belting he would get. He suddenly remembered he hadn’t fed up yet and decided to do it when he was supposed to go to bed. But he didn’t: he was warm in bed and it was cold and dark outside. So the morning of another day appeared, grey and emotionless, cold and still.
Cooley set off for school, armed with a stick. Maybe the Packers would be waiting for him. That was just their style, to hide behind a bend then come charging out of nowhere. There was no sign of them, however, along the track, and for once he was pleased when he came in sight of the school. As he entered the playground, Shaughn called, ‘Look at Cooley the caveman. What you doin’ with that nulla-nulla, buddy?’
‘He’s goin’ to ram it up his arse for a thrill,’ murmured Ned Grey and his mates cackled in appreciation of his wit.
Cooley wandered over to Morry and Shaughn, keeping a wary eye out for the Packers.
‘You seen the Packers t’day, Morry?’
‘They never come yet, bud. What you so anxious to see those pricks for?’
Cooley spat on the ground and glanced around, then whispered into the boy’s ear, ‘I got a feelin’ I might of killed them last night.’
Morry doubled over, hooting in laughter at the best joke he had heard for ages. He rolled on the ground coughing and spluttering and gasping. It nearly killed him and Shaughn had to pound his back. Then he started off again.
‘Ooooohh! Cooley, you should see your face!’ then he stood up and feigned terror as he cringed away. ‘D-don’t kill me, big Cool Cat. I—I never meant none of it, true. Oohh, boss, p-please spare me. ’Ave mercy on m-my black soul. Ooooh, Mummy, this Cooley gunna kill me d’rectly.’
It was the best joke and all that day, whenever Morry looked at Cooley, the small youth’s face would crumple into joy. Even Shaughn laughed until the joke wore off for him. But Cooley was worried, so worried that he was caned twice during the day for not paying attention. During football training he caused the coach, Jimmy Conner, to say, ‘Geeze, Reg, if you don’t pick your game up you’ll be out of the team. Jingalup’s a good team and we want to win this season.’
He kicked his way home after practice, not bothering to keep an eye out for the Packers—he was sure they were dead.
He went around the house and on to the sheds. Just as he got there he noticed Packer’s shining new Mercedes, then he saw the big man himself and the hairs on the back of his head tingled as though he had just seen a featherfoot.
’You, Reggie! Come here!’ the boss shouted. Cooley, wiping an arm across his nose, shuffled forward, head down. ’Get in, you. By geeze, boy, you’ve had it now!’
‘Aw, what ’ave I done, boss?’ cringed the boy, although he already knew. What happens to murderers, boy? Are they hanged, or what?
‘You don’t know what you’ve done, eh?’ snarled Packer, and grabbed a handful of the boy’s long brown hair, giving it a vicious tug. ‘You cold-blooded bastard, you’ll see, you half-ape,’ he cried and jerked his foot on the accelerator.
They reached home too quickly for Cooley, who was as dead inside as a jarrah with dieback. He was hauled out of the seat and dragged up the garden path that beckoned like a crooked finger. Come inside to my web, you juicy fly. I’ll suck all the life out of you. His coat was nearly choking him.
Packer burst in through the cottage door without knocking and pushed Cooley into the room. Cooley’s dad, in his singlet and braces, stood up in surprise from the table, while the other Cooleys stopped eating and stared. Nat scratched his stomach nervously.
‘G’day, Mr Packer. What’s wrong?’
‘This bugger is wrong,’ shouted Packer, which started the baby crying, so Mrs Cooley took it outside. ‘You know what he’s done? Put Lou-boy in hospital and nearly blinded Ken.’
‘Well,’ growled Cooley, feeling a little better to discover that no one was dead. ‘What did they do to me? Kiss me?’
‘You shut up!’ snarled his father.
Packer went on. ‘Do you know why that animal attacked my boys? Crazily attacked them? Because they caught him smoking in the feed shed and he was afraid they would tell.’
‘Hey, that’s bullshit, anyway. Listen, they was Cooley began, then received a slap on his face from his Dad that sent him reeling back into the corner and left a purple mark on his cheek. He saw Packer smiling in triumph and hated him as only he could hate. In that moment he could have killed the big man, but the time for dreaming was over.
‘Smoking in the hay shed so a spark could send the whole thing up in smoke,’ Packer continued. ‘Then after all that, he didn’t even feed the stock last night.’
Nat Cooley reached for his thick leather belt.
‘You’re damn lucky I don’t have him sent to a reform school. A bit of discipline, that’s what the vicious ungrateful little bastard needs.’
Cooley’s old man purred softly as he ran the belt through his fingers. ‘You lazy little shit. I ought to skin you.’
Cooley looked at the stranger who wasn’t his father. This was not the man who had given him pony rides and piggyback rides, laughing with him and explaining things to him, the man who had been teaching him how to work with rawhide when his mother had died. This was a drunk, old, balding man, going ugly in his old age, as an old boomer becomes nasty when he’s toothless and grey. This was a man who pushed his kid around because he was a constant reminder of a bygone folly.
Cooley clenched his fist and his Dad growled, ‘Threaten me, would yer? By the Christ I’m sick of you, you little prick.’
The belt lashed out and stung Cooley’s back. All he could do was cover his head and turn away from his tormentor while he backed into the comer. His thin trousers and frayed coat gave no protection from his father’s frenzy, and the belt left red welts on his brown skin and bit into his bare legs. But Cooley kept the tears back, even when one stroke lashed into his mouth with the viciousness of a scorpion’s sting, splitting and numbing his lips so blood ran in a thin river down his bruised face. He would cry when there was no one around to laugh and jeer. He got enough of that just being himself. He sensed Packer, Linda, Rebecca, Sammy, all watching him in his shame and pain, and he hated them all as much as he had ever hated anyone.
I’ll get even, Pig Packer. One day Cooley will hold the aces and I’ll make you cringe, cunt!
Nat Cooley kept going until the sweat ran into his eyes and his beer-pot quivered and Cooley lay crouched on the floor. The man’s arm hung loosely by his side. It was the worst of the many hidings he had given Cooley and he hoped Mr Packer was impressed at the way he disciplined his son.
‘Get to bed and let that be a lesson you’ll not forget.’
It was. Cooley was too sick to go to school the next day and he wasn’t able to play in the football team that week. When Cooley told Morry and Shaughn and showed them the bruises, the two cousins were full of plans, which they half-believed were possible, for beating old man Cooley and Packer into fertiliser. But Cooley snarled while his eyes flashed like knife blades.
‘No, boy, you leave those bastards to me.’
Morry felt fear touch him and was glad he wasn’t Packer or Nat Cooley, sleeping off a drunken spree one balmy summer night.
Ken came back to school a week later, with his eye all black and yellow. He kept away from Cooley and the half-caste sensed King, Mizen and Grey staring at him during class. But they didn’t have the courage to attack old Cooley—cousin of Dave Sands or Ron Richards, maybe! When Morry saw Packer’s face, even he was surprised.
The days went by faster now; there was a lot for Cooley to do. He read that big Ben was best player in the game against Victoria. The term exams were coming up, too, although this didn’t worry the three Aborigines. It just meant they had more time to read comics or mess around under the guise of study. Also, Cooley was a rising star in the football team—all he had to cling onto now. In football he had a chance to prove himself, just as Ben had done.
Cooley often thought of Ben. His older brother was a bigger
version of him, with long yellow hair. Ben had learned early to stick up for himself and had gained a name as a tough, whipcord fighter. Everyone respected Big Ben Cooley, and he had been afraid of no one or anything. The trouble was that he had fought Cooley’s fights, too; now he was gone and Cooley was alone.
Ben believed in truth, while Reg lived in dreams. This had always been so. Cooley wished he could be like Ben. Like last year when Ben had leapt off the tractor and yelled at Packer, ‘Listen, you big shit! You wanna do the ploughin’ your way, then ya can bloody well do it yaself, ya fat-arsed prick. Christ knows then we’d all be ’appy ’cos I can ’ave a rest an’ you can bugger up ya paddocks and really ’ave somethin’ to complain about, ya stupid bastard!’
Then he had loped off, leaving Packer, redder in the face than usual, gaping after him. Cooley had laughed because he had been safe beside Big Ben. He wasn’t laughing now, only hating, and he was alone. The football scout had come down and watched Ben play against Maidstone, then asked him to come to Perth. The big half-caste had played several trial games, come down to say goodbye, and left.
IV
So life rolled over Cooley, Quinn and Garpey, and they grew older while they did nothing. One day it was Cooley’s birthday, but no one remembered or cared, so it didn’t really matter. Soon it would be the end of another year.
Then things happened—too fast for Cooley, who liked to take things slowly.
Cooley had fed up early for once and was eating a hot meal with the rest of the family in the warm living room. Sammy was wolfing down his meal so he could get seconds, Linda and Rebecca—dirty little grubs—were arguing in high, trembling voices and Mrs Cooley, hair awry and eyes weary, was trying to feed baby Johnny who was crying, as usual. Nat sat drinking beer and reading the paper. Cooley, wishing he hadn’t come in early, had finished his meal and was getting up for more.
‘Leave some for me, Reg. You had enough, anyway,’ Sammy whined.
‘Yes, Reg. Don’t be greedy,’ reprimanded his stepmother, staring through him as always.
Then there was a knock on the flaking three-ply front door.
‘Get that, will you, Reg?’ asked Mrs Cooley, and Cooley growled angrily as he saw Sammy spring up and scrape out the bowl. Those spuds had been good, too. He slouched over to the door and opened it, expecting Packer. His jaw dropped when the two policemen from Maidstone came in. His brain worked overtime as he tried to think of something he might have done. The rest of the Cooley family fell silent and started in surprise, then Nat stood up, brushing his mouth.
‘G’day. What youse blokes want?’
The biggest policeman, with a bass voice, said, ‘Is your name Nathaniel John Cooley?’
‘Yeah, of course it is.’ Nat said. ‘You know that already, sarge.’ He smiled, uncertainly.
The policeman stepped forward and placed a hand on Nat’s heavy shoulder, saying solemnly, ‘We are enquiring into a robbery, conducted with violence, on the night of the fifth at Johnson’s garage. We have reason to believe you may be able to help us in our enquiries. We have a warrant to search the premises.’
‘Well’ blustered Nat in surprise and confusion, ‘I dunno what’s goin’ on, sarge. Course I’ll ’elp if I can. But what are you searching for ’ere? I suppose you can search the place. I dunno!’ And he turned to his wife for comfort.
Even as he was talking, the other policemen had moved into the bedroom and now emerged carrying a heavy black box.
‘Looks like this is it, sarge,’ he said.
Cooley surveyed the room with quick eyes. Did he detect a look of fear in his dad’s grey, glazed eyes, wide open in shock?
‘Aaah, cripes! What’s goin’ on ’ere?’ cried Cooley senior.
‘Packer saw you come home at midnight, just after Johnson rang to tell us he’d been robbed,’ jumped in the young policeman.
Nat shuffled his dusty boots.
‘Yeah, well I heard the bull bellowing,’ he said. ‘Went out to see why. But what’s that got to do with Johnson and the robbery? And what’s that box? I never seen it before.’
‘It’s no good, Cooley. Just you come along with us,’ growled the sergeant.
‘Oh, Nat! Nat! What’s happening?’ cried his wife, and the children started bawling. Only Cooley, sucking his bottom lip, stared at his stepmother in a perturbed way. She seemed to be acting— how?—falsely, maybe? Then the three men were going outside. Nat turned his head and cried, ‘Get Mr Packer, Vi. He’ll help get me out of this mess. I’m innocent, Vi, believe me!’
‘I wouldn’t believe you if you was God ’imself,’ thought Cooley, and gave a grim smile.
But Mrs Cooley ran to the door and cried out, into the darkness that had swallowed up her husband. Then she turned to Cooley, her thin face flushed and wild-looking. ‘Put the children to bed, Reg. I must go and see Mr Packer at once.’
Cooley put the children to bed and for once there were no pillow fights and noise. The three little white faces stared up at him sadly and silently, too young to understand, but knowing that a calamity such as they had never dreamed of in their worst nightmares had befallen the family.
‘Reggie,’ whispered little Linda, ‘Would you read us a story, please?’
So Cooley, because he was full of good hot food and his Dad had gone, read to them in his deep, halting voice. Then he went out to his small room near the wash-house and joined in the wild laughter of the wind.
‘Eeeee, I ’ope you get an ’undred bloody years, you old bastard,’ Cooley said to the spider in the comer of the dusty ceiling.
But this is not all that happened. The next afternoon Mrs Cooley asked him to go down to the Packers’ and find out what had happened to Nat, since she hadn’t been able to get into court that morning. He was also instructed to borrow some tea, milk and butter.
He went outside, whistling happily. Cooley, you’ve changed, now the old man’s gone. He drove the ute down the five-kilometre track that wound among the green trees and stubby bushes, then past the young crop just starting to peep out of the brown soil.
He skidded into the drive, in front of the big house with the blue-sheened wattles around it. He stepped jauntily up the stone steps and along the wide verandah. He didn’t care if his father went to jail. He knocked on the heavy jarrah door and Packer opened it. Cooley lost all his bravado and became himself again.
‘G’day, Mr Packer. Mum wants to borrow some tea, milk and butter for our breakfast tomorrow and to know about Dad,’ said he, staring at his feet, keeping all his secrets to himself.
‘Come down to the kitchen, then. It’s getting cold,’ grunted Packer, turning his back and stalking ahead.
It was warm in the kitchen. Cooley sniffed and wiped his nose on his coat sleeve. Then he noticed the girl at the sink and stared at her.
He didn’t think he had ever seen a girl like her, not even Kathy Sumpter, with her brazen blue eyes and voluptuous red lips and hips that suggested songs of love. This girl had henna-red hair that fell to her slim waist and shy turquoise eyes that washed over him with the gentleness of a spring shower. Her hands that deftly washed the dishes were small, but her fingers were long and slender. Her nose was perfect and her lips (with just the faintest touch of light orange lipstick) were lifted in a faint perpetual smile, as though life was one long joke. Small brown sunspots caressed her dimpled cheeks and the end of her nose to add character to her face.
She completely distracted him so he was unprepared when Packer came hustling back from the storeroom carrying a box with the provisions and beckoned him outside onto the cold verandah.
The big man was dictatorial.
‘Now you listen, Cooley, and listen well! Your father didn’t go to court today, he’s going tomorrow and it seems a pretty clearcut case against him. I saw him and there are several other reliable witnesses to testify against him. Is that clear? Do you understand?’ Cooley nodded and listened to the breeze and watched the wind whip up little ruffles on the water of the pool. ‘There�
�s going to be some changes, now.’ Packer was warming up. ’I want the chores done properly now. No more buggering around with those niggers from the camp. If any come onto this farm I’ll have them for trespassing, OK?’ Cooley nooded his windswept head and wished the fool would hurry up and finish his speech so he could go. It really was going to rain, he thought.
Packer continued, ‘You thought you were hot potatoes with your big brother. Just don’t forget I’m the one who pays you—if I feel like it. Next year you can work full-time, if you’re any good. At least we can keep you out of trouble. I may pay you sixty dollars a week if you’re any good. If you’re not, you can clear off out of it for all I care. I won’t want you around like a bad penny. I’m doing you a favour and giving you a chance, like your father would want me to do.’ He paused and strutted a bit on the verandah, then hitched his trousers up and glared back at Cooley. ‘So no more backchat. No more cheek and pull your digit out, smartarse, all right? Understand?’
‘Mmmm,’ Cooley murmured.
‘What!’
‘Yeah,’ he murmured again.
‘Yeah—Mr Packer!’
‘Yeah, Mr Packer, that’s as clear as water.’
‘Good. Take this to your mum.’
Cooley glanced up as he left and saw the girl’s face through the window, watching him with her strange calm eyes. As soon as she noticed him looking at her, she went back to her work.
All the way back to the Cooleys’ house he didn’t see the swaying trees and bushes and shrieking black cockatoos, or the flat ploughed red-brown paddocks pricked with green. All he saw was the smallish, slim girl with the soft eyes and quiet smile. And the long silky auburn hair tied in two plaits. He told himself that she would have nothing to do with a half-caste—but still, he could dream.
He got to school early next day and, when Morry and Shaughn came, they all had a smoke under the honeysuckle canopy of their castle.
‘You comin’ down to the bridge t’night Reg? I’m takin’ Sarah Pepper,’ grinned the woolly-headed Shaughn.
Going Home Page 21