‘No-one called Rachel Layne ’ere, koordah. Bet you bullshittin’,’ said Shaughn.
‘Naw. She don’t go to school. She works as a maid at Packers, see.’
‘What you say ’er name was, Cool Cat? Rachel Layne? I bet she has been, too, by them Packers. Ole Ken’ll ’ave sunk the bluey, no worries there,’ Morry grinned.
‘If ’e ’as, I’ll kill ’im,’ Cooley growled.
‘Heeeeeeey, boy, you must be a solid man, or what? You Romeo or ’oo, Cools? Big ’andsome Cooley,’ Morry laughed, and Shaughn joined in.
‘Look ’ere at Casanova Cooley!’
‘Cool Cat wanta look out ’is own woman, Kathy Sumpter, don’t find out about this Rachel Layne. She’ll make you koomph!’
‘She’ll go right up your ’ole, budda,’ cried Shaughn gleefully.
‘Aaah, Kathy Sumpter was just one girl, ya know? I’m talkin’ about love ’ere. I caught ’er some rabbits and she kissed me properly. Besides, that Kathy Sumpter, she ignores me since that night, you know that. But me and Rachel is different, see?’ Cooley answered, and a dreamy smile spread over his lean face.
Morry turned to Shaughn.
‘Oh, Rachel, I love you true. You know I’m mardong for ya, girl. You just send me to pieces,’ he said and Shaughn took up the joke with his assumed American Negro accent,
‘Oh, hoooney! It’s ex—sta—ceee! Oh, Cool Cat. Oooh, you big tomcat, do that to me one more time, baby.’
‘’Cos I truly love you, girl, Rachel,’ cried Morry, slinging an arm around Shaughn’s broad shoulders.
‘Oh, Cooley, I love you, too. Shall we get married? Give me a kiss, honey, Cooley?’ returned Shaughn.
Just as it appeared the two would actually kiss, Morry pulled back in surprise, saying, ‘But ’ow? ’Ow shall I kiss you? I only did ’ave one kiss before, and now I forgot ’ow.’
Then the two cousins clung to each other laughing, while Cooley stamped off in annoyance. Everything was a joke to Morry. Nothing was serious to this little Nyoongah. One day he might marry, or he might die. He didn’t care one way or the other. But Cooley did.
V
That Saturday, while the rest of the class went over to play Rocky Gully or watch their mates and boyfriends, the three Aborigines sat in the large empty classroom doing maths, watched over by Mr Roper, who sat like a stone up front. The sun shone through the windows and mocked them, as it was a beautiful day for once. A day for walking in the bush, searching for the wild bees’ honey, or rabbits, or baby foxes in the caves of the hills. This was a day for enjoyment, not for doing something they could only half-comprehend, anyway—if that. The trees threw green shadows onto the dusty chipped floor. Outside, cheeky parrots whistled to the world and magpies argued in sweet melodies, while little birds of every kind joined in and sometimes peeped at the three miserable forms hunched over desks. This is worse than getting caned, thought the three boys. But at last the dreary day was over and they were free to run as quickly as they could from the flat, black playground.
On Sunday afternoon Cooley drove the old ute down to the Packers’ mansion, to borrow some flour and sugar. He parked beneath the wavering blue-leaved wattles and ran onto the verandah. He would have been in a bad mood if it hadn’t been for the thought of seeing Rachel. Thick black clouds heaved themselves over the gentle hills. Sudden bursts of fierce squalls sent the trees moaning and shivering and the bedraggled sheep into tight, wet groups. Lightning leaped over the sky and licked at the edges of clouds. On such a day he would rather sit and watch TV, or just sit, than run errands for his stepmother.
He pounded on the door and waited, then pounded again, not caring if he annoyed Packer, but wanting to get home as quickly as he could.
The heavy jarrah door was opened cautiously and the girl stood there, her soft body wrapped in a towel and her hair wet from the shower, her eyes apprehensive until she saw who it was.
‘Oh, goodness! Come in, Reg. It’s terrible outside, isn’t it? Such a change from yesterday.’
‘Yeah, it’s bloody murder out there. That wind nearly had me off the road two times,’ Cooley returned and moved inside, shaking the drips off him.
Once inside though, away from the wild frivolity of the wind and the rain, close to her near-unclothed body that smelt of lavender and orange flowers and sweet things in his nostrils, he became shy again and his eyes darted everywhere but at her serene face.
‘You see, um ... looks like I disturbed ya shower, ay? I ... um, gotta see Mr Packer, see. About some flour and sugar. Make a damper, see, cos we’re clean out of bread,’ he dithered and tried not to look at her, so thinly concealed behind the thin towel.
‘They’ve gone up to Perth to visit Mrs Packer and should be down tomorrow. I’ll give you some flour and sugar, though.’
‘What? You all alone ’ere? Don’t ya ever get lonely?’ Cooley said, surprised, glancing into her face and keeping his gaze there.
‘No. Sometimes I like to be alone.’ Rachel smiled at him, then turned. ‘I’ll just go and get dressed, if you would like to put the kettle on for some tea.’
Cooley stoked up the old stove until it was roaring, then put the huge blackened kettle on top of it. He found some bread and made up a little feast of bread and jam for the girl he loved.
When she came in she looked even more glorious than the first time he had seen her. She wore a pair of silk patchwork slacks and a silky blouse that hugged her body as tightly as any lover. Her feet were bare and pale and white and delicate like her hands, like baby mice or a butterfly, or petals on the prettiest flower in the bush.
‘Why, Reggie! Jam sandwiches as well? You’ll make someone a good wife, one day,’ she smiled.
‘Well, ya look a bit skinny. We gotta fatten ya up.’
‘Goodness, Reg, you can talk about being skinny.’ She placed a hand on his arm. ‘Thank you, anyway, Mr Cooley.’
‘S’orright,’ he muttered, while his eyes flew everywhere like birds in a cage. They alighted on Packer’s pipe that nestled in its rack on the wall, looking smug and content in all its affluence. A cheeky grin split his hatchet face.
‘Wait ’ere, Rachel. Be back, d’rectly.’
The girl sat sipping her tea and wondering about this strange boy, then stared in amazement at the apparition in front of her before laughing.
For Cooley was transformed. He wore one of Packer’s best suits upon his ragged shoulders, a silk tie around his scrawny neck and Packer’s Sunday hat upon his unruly head, with Packer’s pipe in his cheeky mouth.
If there was one thing he had inherited from his mother’s people, it was the trick of mimicking, anything from kangaroos and emus to publicans and station owners. So, for a good while, Cooley had Rachel in stitches while he mimed to perfection his worst enemy. He had him buy his two sons, by mistake, at the pig sale. That was a good one. He had him caught by old Dean Garpey, with Dean’s old lady. He copied exactly every habit old Packer had, from rubbing a nervous finger across his big bulbous nose, when he was excited, to scratching his rear after making sure no one was looking.
The girl was thoroughly entertained. Tears streamed from her eyes and she shook with laughter while she clapped her hands. This was better than watching TV or reading a book or painting a picture. At last Cooley ran out of ideas. When he sat down she looked at him and started laughing again. Cooley joined in her laughter until they both forgot what they were laughing at. They were just happy in each other’s company.
‘Aah, it’s good to laugh, I reckon,’ Cooley said.
He put away the clothes, but decided to light up Packer’s pipe, just to see what it was like. So he smoked and they talked of the day’s happenings. Then, at length, he had to go. It was growing dark and Mum Cooley and the kids were getting hungry, most likely.
His fingers, shy as bandicoots, touched her thick, still damp auburn hair and he murmured, ‘See ya soon, Rachel,’ while his eyes, softened now, glanced fully into hers. She saw his soul for a brief second before
the whirling, howling night swallowed him up and whipped away her farewell. When she went back inside and saw the two cups, she, who had spent so much of her life in solitary joy, felt lonely for the brown boy’s coarse words and gravelly laugh and cheeky grin.
In the days that followed she often caught glimpses of him as he walked to school, surrounded by the smaller, rowdier, white children of his family or as he trudged off alone on Saturday mornings to the football oval—or in Kelly’s old orange bus if it was an away game. Then in the afternoons coming home, shuffling despondently along, muddy and bruised, with his head down if Herron River had lost. Or leaping into the grey sky, a bird for a moment, taking almost incredible marks, kicking imaginary goals and dodging unseen opponents in boundless joy if they had won. She would watch him as she hung out the washing or cleaned out a room, seeing him from the window. She would share his joy and sadness at these times and so became a part of him.
She would watch him feeding up Packer’s stock as he effortlessly hurled bags of oats and bran around and the big square bales of hay. One day, she thought, he would be a strong man, and handsome, too.
One Sunday she awoke to a warm and pale blue day, with a soft wind ruffling the surface of the world. It was a truly glorious day and she decided to go on a picnic, since Sunday was her day off.
She busied herself around the kitchen preparing salads and sandwiches and meat. She was almost ready when Packer came in, having moved a mob of sheep closer to the sheds in preparation for carting to the sheep sales in Midland on Tuesday.
‘Aah, going on a picnic, Rachel?’ he smiled.
‘Yes, Mr Packer. I thought I might see a piece of the country.’
‘See what’s cooking on the other side of the mountain, eh? Yes, well, you certainly picked a nice day for it. A very nice day,’ the man bumbled as he wandered around the kitchen getting some breakfast together. ‘Do you want the boys to go with you to keep you company? They should he finished yarding the sheep soon. You know you could get lost out there.’
‘Oh no, it’s all right, Mr Packer. I thought I might invite Reg to come. He knows the country inside out, I hear,’ she said as she arranged the basket, so didn’t see the look that spread over the man’s red face.
He put his cup down abruptly and stared at the girl in consternation. Then he rumbled, like thunder before a storm.
‘Reg? Reg Cooley is the only Reg I know. If you mean to go out with him, alone, into the bush ...’ He let the sentence lie there like a death adder, full of buried threats.
‘Mr Packer, Reg has been very kind to me. He gave me those rabbits for pets and he has never been nasty to me. I should like to repay his kindness now. Besides, I’m almost eighteen and can surely choose my own friends,’ Rachel said gently. She smiled at the glowering man, who tried again.
‘That’s as may be, but his family and friends are a bunch of thieves and liars, a regular thieves’ kitchen, indeed. You don’t know his brother, but he’s a common lout who was always arguing and fighting. He worked for me until I kicked him out. Of course you might have heard about his father, and blood runs with blood, I always say! Then his mates, like those beer-swilling Peters boys and Quinn and Garpey. Not to mention Lindsay Pepper, who’s as many—faced as Rubik’s cube. And anyhow, he’s black—or brown—and you’re a white woman.’
During this speech, Packer had moved around the room. Now he sat down again and took a sip of his tea. ‘It’s your decision, of course, but with no family to look after you I feel a bit responsible for you.’ He smiled up at her, certain of victory.
‘Thank you, Mr Packer. I’ll go and get Reg now. The day will soon be over,’ she said quietly, and left him sitting there, dumbfounded.
She made her way up to the shabby old house right at the top of the hill. As she passed the sheepyards, where there was a commotion of noise from sheep and dogs, and swearing, she got a coo-ee from Ken and a leer from fat, dark Lou.
‘Where you going, sugar plum?’ Ken shouted.
‘Could you be Little Red Riding Hood, by any chance? Because I’m the big bad wolf,’ cried Lou, and let out a loud wolf howl.
She ignored them and made her way to the clearing where the shearer’s quarters and the milking shed were.
Up above, the sun seemed to drift from cloud to cloud like a butterfly, never stopping, because to stop would cause pain. It was going to be a wonderful day.
Mrs Cooley opened the decrepit door to Rachel’s hesitant knock. Her hair was lank and untidy and the mumbling baby, Johnny, clung to her thin hip and stared at the girl while snot dribbled from his nose. The woman’s faded eyes looked the fresh young figure of the girl up and down.
‘Yes?’ came her exasperated voice.
‘I’m Rachel. From down at Mr Packer’s. I was wondering if Reg was at home?’
‘Oh. Yes, he is. Come in.’
Rachel edged her way into the room nervously. Like most quiet people, she didn’t like being the star attraction. This was a dining room and living room combined, crowded with chairs and tables and a second-rate lounge suite and the television set. There were children all over the chairs and floor, it seemed, who stared at her out of predominantly blue eyes in an atmosphere that had gone suddenly quiet. She clutched her basket closer to her, nervous in this environment. She could sense the dislike in this house.
‘It’s a bit messy, now. You’ll find Reg in his room out back of the verandah. Just go through the kitchen,’ the woman said in her tired voice.
‘Thank you,’ Rachel breathed.
‘What? Oh, yes. You’re welcome,’ the woman said unsmilingly, then she was gone.
The two sons of Lucy Fluter had been given their own room out in the back garden. Nat had built it when he first came there, so the two could have some privacy and the rest of the family could ignore the two black sons. It was merely a corrugated iron room about six metres by three metres, with two beds, two chests of drawers, a cupboard and an old armchair rescued from the dump on one of Ben’s foraging missions. But it was their own piece of land and no one was allowed in there without their permission. Even Nat, when Ben grew up, kept away. Ben had jokingly called the room ‘Cooley’s Camp’, which was indicated by a rough sign tacked on the door. Everyone needs a home to hide in, like a tortoise.
From inside, Charlie Pride sang songs of prison and cheated love and the wind played with a loose piece of iron on the roof, making a rough tune. A tuneless voice sang with Charlie.
She knocked softly on the door and was greeted with a sullen growl, so alien to Cooley’s usual voice that she wondered if it was really he.
‘Now what ya fuckin’ want? Look, I cooked the bloody dinner last night, and gutted them rabbits. Can’t ya do anything, ya stupid buggers? I might as well—’ then the door opened and he stopped in mid-sentence, staring at her with eyes that melted from agate hardness to soft confusion and shyness. He stood there in a pair of faded dirty levis and nothing else. The sun ran hands as gentle as a woman’s over his thin chest.
‘Oh,’ he said at last. ‘I didn’t know it was you. I... you know ... um...’ he faded away, then grinned in embarrassment as he busied himself with the agile rolling of a cigarette while she stood there trying to think of something to say.
‘Nice day,’ he said at length, lighting up.
‘Yes. I thought it would be a good idea if we went on a picnic. Shall we do that?’
She watched his profile anxiously as he stared out away over the hills to some land that only he knew, then he turned to her with the warmest smile he had given her yet.
‘Picnic, eh? Ya know... ya know, I never been on a picnic before.’
‘Well,’ she smiled back, ‘there’s always a first time for everything. If you don’t like it, you can leave it.’
‘Well, ’ang on. I’ll put some clothes on. Come off the verandah, anyway. I aren’t ignorant.’
She followed him into the room and gazed around at the yellowed clippings of football and boxing stars, the few naked whi
te women and the big poster of Elvis Presley. They all lent the room an individuality and a warmth that the rest of the house lacked. One of the beds was lonely in its cleanliness, empty, with the blankets neatly folded at the end. The other was a mess of dirty grey-yellow sheets and thin grey blankets and lumpy pillows. A Sunday paper lay open at the sports pages and a cheap paperback lay spreadeagled on the floor near an ashtray full of cigarette butts.
Cooley went away armed with soap and a towel and she heard water gurgling in the wash-house next door. He came back as clean as he could be sifter a quick wash. He selected one of his few clean shirts and his old familiar brown coat.
‘Righto. Let’s go, then. Where ya wanta go for ya picnic?’
‘Oh, some place nice.’
‘Up to. Watson’s pool be all right. Gilgies and marron up there too. Might be we’ll find a fox’s place. But, like, it’s your picnic, eh?’
‘Watson’s pool sounds wonderful.’
‘Come on, then.’
She never forgot the joys of that day. It seemed to her that in the serenity of the bush the boy changed completely. His body relaxed and his eyes lit up and a tiny smile played on his brown lips. He no longer seemed clumsy, but glided along like an animal of the bush, noiseless and at home. Every hundred metres or so, he would stop and tell her what a sound was, or a sight meant.
‘The place in those rushes is where yesterday a kangaroo made his home. Those marks means that a possum lived in this tree, probably in that dead branch halfway up. Those tracks are a fox’s imprint, different from a dog’s because of the claws. That sound is a rabbit thumping a warning to his brothers that strangers are about. That bird is a black cockatoo that the mob down here called munadj the name for police too; because once the policeman’s uniform of dark blue was the same as the cockatoo’s coat of feathers, some fellahs said. When you see cockatoos wheeling and crying, it may rain soon. That’s a wallaby trail—different shit from a kangaroo, see? Up there in the tree is an eagle nest, not a crow’s nest, which looks the same. See that bush there? That’s what white people call a zamia palm. The nuts are poisonous, but if you prepare them in a special way, by soaking them in running water and things, you can eat them. Tastes like a tomato a bit, yeah. You ever eaten red-gum blood that oozes out and dries in shiny lumps on the sides of the trees? Even blackboys, you can eat the middle-of-the-bush leaves; just take hold of the centre spikes and pull them out and chew the greeny-yellow bottoms. See, they’re delicious, taste like young almonds. In the dead blackboys you find bardi grubs that are all right, too. Sometimes you see a quondong tree and the red fruit is good tucker too, but I don’t think there are any around here because it’s the wrong country.’
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