‘Why you always gettin’ sluts, Shaughn? Must be that face.’ laughed Morry.
Cooley lay back in the dirt. Today was a good day for him. His dad had gone, he’d met a wonderful girl and big Ben had scored four goals against VFL whom Western Australia had beaten.
Cooley’s boss now. You can keep your black girls. You can keep your sluts. Old Cool Cat’s got a real white lady, Cooley dreamed.
‘Hey, what ya reckon, Cools? Old Black Mac ’ad an ’eart attack and now we’re gettin’ a new teacher,’ said Morry.
Black Mac leaving! This truly was a day for rejoicing.
The next day, the principal called Cooley out and took him into his office.
‘Your father has been sentenced to three years in jail, Cooley. This is a great sorrow for your mother, of course, but I intend to try and not let it affect your schooling. What I propose to do is see how your examinations go at the end of this year. That will decide whether you go on to the Maidstone high school next year. It would please your family and teachers very much if you succeed, of course. But only you can make the effort, Cooley.’
The half-caste listened with closed ears, returned to class and continued to read his comic.
Cooley didn’t go down to the bridge with the rest that afternoon. Instead, he checked his rabbit traps up on the hill, then went down by the river that swept past Packer’s mansion.
Here he saw the girl and in a moment of bravado he loped up to her. But when he got to her side, all his confidence and dreams vanished.
‘G’day,’ he said shyly and squatted down beside her. She glanced up at him equally shyly, then stared in horror at the three dead, limp bundles of bloodied fur.
‘Oh, did you have to kill those beautiful rabbits?’ she burst out, running a hand over the little bodies. Cooley was surprised out of his shyness.
‘Uh? But, shit, they’re only rabbits an’ us fellahs gotta eat some’ow. That bastard Packer don’t give us no meat, y’know,’ he said, then could have bitten his tongue off. This girl was probably a relative of Pig Packer’s and now she’d go off and tell him what Cooley had said. Now she’d never be his friend.
But the girl seemed to sense his thoughts because she smiled at him, saying, ‘Don’t worry. I’m only the maid there. You see, my mum died a while ago. Now I live with Uncle Reeney at the Two Mile and work as a maid for the Packers.’
‘That’s tough luck, ya Mum dyin’,’ said Cooley. ‘My mum died too, once.’
‘We all have to die one day, I suppose. But thank you for your condolences.’ Her voice was so soft and her eyes so friendly. She gave a smile that brightened up her whole face and emphasised her high cheekbones. She truly was a goddess in the boy’s eyes. ‘Let’s not get morbid while the sun is out and it’s such a glorious day. What’s your name?’
‘Aw, Cooley. Reg Cooley,’ Cooley said, lying down beside her. He watched the movement of her hands and the movement of her body as she breathed, just as he would lie for hours and watch a bird building its nest or a wallaby with its young.
‘That’s a funny name.’
‘Aaah, us blokes gotta keep our cool,’ the boy returned, and joined in her muted laughter. It was the first time he had laughed for ages.
‘My name’s Rachel Layne,’ came the soft voice. ‘What does your father do? Is he a workman, or something?’
Cooley lost his smile.
‘’E’s in jail.’
‘Oh, I am sorry,’ began the girl, but stopped short as Cooley’s bony brown fist hit the green grassy bank.
‘I wish the bastard had got fuckin’ life instead of three pissy years. Still, when ’e comes out I’ll be nineteen, then won’t I make ’im sing for what ’e done to me. I’ll give it to ’im good,’ Cooley said, lips pulled back from his teeth, like a rabid dog.
Rachel staged at the boy and her turquoise eyes were full of wonder at the hate in his thin body. She felt like reaching out and touching him and drawing him into her soul. She too, was lonely here in this land of strangers, with only her Uncle Reeney as a friend. She sensed that Cooley could be different if treated kindly, and she was nothing but kind. She had never done a cruel thing in her life, perhaps because she preferred the company of books and paints to people. But she couldn’t understand Cooley’s hate, branded on him by his father’s belt and white man’s abuse.
Cooley stood up, shy again. He wished he hadn’t become angry just then, when everything was going perfectly. Now who’d want to know a vicious little bugger like you, Cooley? All this talk of getting even, I don’t know. You must be Al Capone, here.
Suddenly he froze into stillness and the girl, looking up at him, thought how handsome this strange boy was. At that moment some of Ben’s regal looks, the same as a long time ago old Nat Cooley had had, showed briefly upon the boy’s bitter face, and his amber eyes became as soft as his mother’s brown ones had been. He moved his hand, indicating silence and then the girl heard the trilling notes of the bird.
‘Cuckoo,’ Cooley murmured. ‘You only ’ear it in winter. Pretty sound, eh?’ He smiled faintly.
He helped the girl up and she sensed his wiry strength. His yellow-brown eyes were warm now and he flashed her an even, white-toothed smile.
‘S’pose you come ’ere tomorrow, Rachel. Might be I’ll ’ave one present for ya.’ Then he slipped away as silently as he had come into the green bush. For a moment the girl’s clear gaze followed him, then she set off for the farmhouse.
Cooley thought, ‘If she loves rabbits I’ll catch her a few, then.’ He made his way up to the sheds and proceeded to make two wire cages. For the best part of two hours he toiled at his task. After making the cages he quickly fed up, then heaved half a bag of oats onto the back of the ute and roared back into the rocky red hills. He came to his favourite warren, lying in a pool of white sand between two ravines and, in the dying light, his slanted cat’s eyes searched the sand around the burrows. He found what he was looking for; tracks that said a rabbit was living there but hadn’t come out yet. So he put the cages down and scattered oats in a trail up to them and their wooden floors inside. The trap was designed with a funnel-type entrance that let the rabbit in, but that ensured it couldn’t get out. He stood up and surveyed the orange-purple sunset as the sun died again. His sunset—his land, and when all the white men were dead and mouldering, his spirit would live on. All the other dark, silent spirits that mingled with the mists or smoke from campfires, and whose voices echoed with the wind or didgeridoo—they would return and it would be their land again.
So, all in the space of twenty-four hours, Cooley had lost someone he hated and found somebody whose peaceful love puzzled him as much as his hate puzzled her. Cooley wasn’t to know that this girl was to change his entire life.
He drove the ute back to the house, then collected the chicken eggs and chopped some wood without even being asked, so his stepmother gave him an extremely rare smile.
‘Why, thank you, Reg. You are being a help since Dad’s gone.’
Cooley shrugged and took his tea into his room, leaving her to stand and stare after him. Old habits die hard, and he wanted to be where no one could disturb him. He lay on his back and thoughtfully chewed a piece of mutton bone from the stew. It began to drizzle again. His world was filled with the whispering rain that settled on the roof with a murmur and scratched the window pane gently. Just the rain and his dreams.
’Rachel Layne,’ he mouthed and thought for a second. ’Missus Rachel Cooley,’ he murmured and chuckled like the water running down the rusty pipe by the door. He repeated the words to see how they felt in his mouth, then began to dream and let his stew go cold.
The last event that changed Cooley’s life was the arrival of the new teacher, Mr Roper. He was short and solid and brown, with greenish-brown eyes that shone like an eagle’s under a jutting brow. He had thin lips and a crewcut and he was worse than Black Mac could ever have been. It was bad luck he and Cooley got off on the wrong foot.
Cooley arri
ved late, thinking there was no hurry now Black Mac had gone, and blundered into the strangely silent class. Morry and Shaughn were up the back, but Shaughn was sullen and Morry was without his lazy smile. All this should have warned Cooley, but he was in the middle of a Rachel Layne daydream, so didn’t take it all in. When Mr Roper looked up at last, his eyes narrowed. Another Aboriginal—that made three boys and two girls. All troublemakers, obviously. He studied this late arrival with obvious distaste. He saw a long, curly tangled mop of brown hair falling like a crazy waterfall surrounding a lean face and resting on thin shoulders. Cooley’s eyes were almost yellow instead of brown, and the whites a brownish colour. He had a thin, aquiline nose, slightly hooked, above thin lips. His chin jutted out stubbornly and he had high bony cheekbones. His body was in a permanent stooping slouch and his hands, thin and bony like the rest of him, were thrust into his faded blue trouser pockets. A thoroughly unpleasant sight, decided the teacher.
‘Why are you late, boy?’
Cooley, to be the big man in front of the class, shrugged.
‘Dunno.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Reg Cooley.’ He grinned and winked at Marcia Quinn, who stared back blankly.
The teacher was on his feet so suddenly that Cooley reared backwards. He was prodded in the chest with a heavy blunt finger.
‘Take your hands out of your pockets, stand up straight, and address me as ‘’sir‘’. And never ever come late to my class again, do you understand? You will come back here on Saturday, with your friends Garpey and Quinn. In fact, you may find yourself coming back the Saturday after as well!’
Cooley’s jaw dropped. Saturday? What about football?
‘Hey, but...’
‘Don’t argue, Cooley, unless you want six of the best,’ snapped Mr Roper. ‘Get to your seat, this minute!’
For a moment Cooley hesitated, then he shuffled down the aisle. He would play anyway, and see what the man did. But Morry muttered as he sat down, ‘This bloke’s worse ’an Black Mac, Cools. ’E caned Shaughn and drew blood, look. We can’t play either.’
Roper was satisfied; put Aborigines in their place the first day and you got results. He looked at the three Aboriginal boys. Big dark Shaughn sat sulking, with his head in his arms. His cousin, Morry Quinn, who was supposed to be a rebel and who fought at the slightest opportunity, had a face that was almost a semicircle from his round, receding forehead to his small snub nose and round chin. His hair, as black as an Apache warrior’s, fell halfway down his back. His large black eyes hid behind long black lashes so he could look as innocent and demure as a young virgin. But he was the main troublemaker. Then Cooley. He was a body with no soul, no pride. Give him a good kick and he crumpled, afraid of the white man.
Roper set the class some maths. Most of them began working, but Cooley decided he would rather read his comic, since he felt in a rebellious mood. It was a good story—about Australians in Crete—and the first Cooley knew of Roper’s presence was Shaughn giving him a warning punch. The comic was whisked away from him and he stared up into Roper’s triumphant face. Said the teacher, ‘Well, Cooley—commando, eh? The digger. Fancy becoming a soldier, do you? Defend Queen and country with your life and all that sort of thing? Mmmm?’
There was laughter at that, then Mr Roper beckoned to Judy Crow. ‘Burn this rubbish in the stove, Miss Crow.’ He turned back to a sullen Cooley and said ever so softly, ‘Have you done the work I took great pains to print on the blackboard?’
Cooley shrugged, then swore loudly as Roper grabbed an ample handful of hair, pulled him painfully to his feet and sent him stumbling down the aisle. He cracked his shin on one of the desks and swore again, more softly than before because he finally realised here was a force to be reckoned with.
Roper turned to Morry, who returned his gaze intently and coldly, never wavering for an instant.
‘You can join him, Quinn. I don’t like my pupils eating in class.’
‘Hey, what?’ Morry’s dark face crumpled in bewilderment. ‘I was chewin’ me tongue, sir, that’s all!’
‘Just get down there with your friend. It’s obvious I’ll have to keep my eye on you three.’
Morry stood up slowly, dignified, and sauntered idly down to Cooley, hands in pockets. A member of a dying race, refusing to give in to the white people who thought they owned this land— and owned this soul and mind, to thrust their ideas into.
They were both caned in front of the class with sisters and girlfriends watching. The dust rose off the patched seat of Cooley’s old trousers and the thin whip-like cane stung into his flesh, drawing pain and blood. The same happened to Morry.
Then Morry sauntered back to his seat, his dark face showing no emotion: no shame at having been caned in front of the girls. His hands were in his pockets and his head held high, showing everyone, showing the white teacher, that no one could defeat Morry Quinn.
Cooley tried to act the same as Morry, but couldn’t. White man had defeated him on the day he was bom.
He had no identity and belonged to no tribe. One day he would skulk down by the railway line in East Perth or Midland or scrabble around in some rubbish tip or be found on the outskirts of some country town—an outcast in his own country.
He wasn’t the only one. Some became famous at sport, but the famous one would be beaten or fade away into obscurity and those who clutched at him or her would have to find someone new. The white men would nod wisely and say, ‘There you go; I told you these Abos couldn’t stick anything out. They haven’t got the willpower, see.’ And the forgotten half-caste would grow old and die, clinging, to the end, to his time of fame in the white man’s world. A forgotten member of a forgotten people.
Forgotten people? No, the white man’s lust that had spawned this tribe then ignored it could never be forgotten. There would always be a drunk old man, begging for a few bob, angry, loud old women fighting outside a pub, thin little children playing in the dust, a frightened young boy in court. There would always be these people to remind the arrogant white man, who strode the land, that here were his half-brothers and cousins.
So Roper met some of these people and treated them as most other white people treated them—with contempt.
After school. Cooley made his way through the dripping quiet bush. For a white person, there were burnt slimy logs to trip over, hidden red rocks to stub toes on, prickle bushes to scratch the face. But Cooley’s lithe brown form slipped silently through his bush. Tall green old trees with scratched scraggly bodies rustled to him from the grey drizzle and Cooley grew wet and cold. But he didn’t mind. Away over a hill, a kookaburra laughed. The green moss on the knobbly rocks caressed his big flat feet, while his boots danced a jig around his neck. Greeneyes flitted in amongst the moaning, olive-coloured leaves and whistled to him. Parrots fled, shrieking over the hills at his approach. Cooley blended into the swirling shadows of the bush and the black cockatoos’ cry echoed in his mind. Back, back to a thousand years ago when a wild, short full-blood had also fled silently into his sanctuary. Cooley’s slouch and sullenness were gone, and a rare glint shone in his yellow, evasive eyes. Cooley was home. The wind that sang for him told him this, the leaves that brushed gently against his face told him; and Cooley was free, alone, a man again.
When he was here he could forget all about the troubles that fell upon his sloping shoulders. He could forget Packer with his red face and contemptuous blue eyes, he could forget his lying, sneering brood. He could cease worrying about the insults heaped upon him by the white boys in class, or by his family at home. He could forget the teachers with their canes and detentions and more subtle insults. Now he was Yagan. Now he was Pigeon. Now he was king of the universe.
He reached the rabbit traps and saw that he had caught a black one and two brown ones. For the first time he looked properly at the creatures—not just at a skin and something to eat, but the softness and the fear; the big warm brown eyes and long silky ears, and he was ashamed of killing his
kin. Hunted by white man, they were hunted by half-caste Cooley too.
He put them all in one cage and began the long walk down to the river. The cage balanced on his shoulder and bit into his skin. The rain probed him with cold fingers and the wind whipped his hair into his eyes, stinging him. But he didn’t care; he was doing all this for Rachel.
When he reached the river, he sheltered near a huge old white gum, whose mottled grey trunk kept away most of the rain. His curls were all gone and his hair hung like rats’ tails down his rat-like face. He thought for a moment that she wouldn’t come. Rachel wasn’t Kathy Sumpter, after all. She had only been teasing him yesterday with gentle looks and soft words, the cruellest insults of all.
Then she came. She still looked beautiful, even in this cold, colourless environment, and Cooley felt a tug at his heart.
Rachel Layne smiled in happiness and turned friendly eyes up at him. ‘Oh! Aren’t they gorgeous? You’ve got a black one, too.’
He smiled at her happiness, then they started for the big house, Cooley carrying the cage. Rachel prattled on about what she had done that day, working in the kitchen and around the house. Cooley told her about the new teacher and the trouble he had had.
They stopped underneath the wattle grove and Rachel looked up at him with her gentle eyes. She murmured, ‘Poor old Reggie.’ Then her arms were around his neck and her mouth was warm on his cold face. She skipped back, lifted up the cage and walked off. Then she turned and smiled. ‘I hope that makes you feel better, Reg. See you, maybe. Thank you for the rabbits.’
Then she was gone.
For a long while Cooley was transfixed with wonder. A girl had kissed him. A white girl had kissed him! Not Kathy Sumpter, but a real white lady. Cooley was really happy for the first time in his life. He could have floated over hills, he could have climbed Mt Kosciusko on his hands, he could have swum the entire length of the Indian Ocean. He wouldn’t have cared. Cooley was in love.
The next day, at school, Cooley told Morry and Shaughn, while they shared a cigarette and a yarn before school. ‘Hey, I gotta girlfriend. ’Er name’s Rachel Layne.’
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