On and on he went. Sometimes it seemed to the girl that Cooley forgot she was there until he turned and smiled gently at her.
‘You need never be afraid of this place, sis. There’s food and shelter all over for them ’oo know where to look.’
Go on, old Headmaster Cooley. This is your school. Never mind the building in the town where you forget tomorrow what you learned today. Come on, Professor Cooley, you teach these white people about your land.
Then he began telling her about his real land. Once, when they were resting, he looked up from rolling a cigarette and said, ‘You know, soon I’m leavin’ ’ere. My mother’s land, and ’er people’s land, ya know, well, that white bloke ’oo owned the station, ’e’s given it to them now. Why, they got an emu farm goin’ there, and a watermelon farm and all kinds of things there. You watch. As soon as I can buy a car. As soon as Ben comes ’ome, we’re takin’ off—’im and me. You won’t see me for dust, girl.’
The pride in his voice transformed him. He wasn’t Cooley the shuffling, snuffling, yellow Abo any more; he was Cooley riding a stock horse behind his herd of cattle upon the land of his ancestors.
‘If I go up there soon, I could even go through the law. I wouldn’t mind that, ya know. There was one white bloke there before and ’e shacked up with the leader’s daughter there. Well, I suppose ya might call that old bloke the chief, I dunno. But ’e went through the law, scars and all. I seen ’em one time.’
The girl listened and feared she was losing him to this wild brown woman, the spirit of the bush. She touched him gently on the faded knee of his jeans, and his smile down at her reassured her.
‘Come on, Rachel. We nearly there at the pool now. ’Ave some gilgies with our tucker, what ya reckon? Ya never ’ad gilgies before, eh?’
The pool was a small part of paradise. It was a roughly circular patch of water about ten metres in diameter in a hollow of the hills. A small clump of old gnarled paperbark trees, looking as if they had been there since the earth’s creation, guarded the dark pool’s secrets carefully. Covering the ground around the pool were clumps of wild couch grass and bushes that had stunted, fleshy leaves with a salty taste. The paperbarks looked like beggars in their ragged, scruffy coats, but they held their heads up in pride. An even older body of a huge dead white gum dipped into the still waters.
Once Watson’s pool would have had a more musical name that sang softly from brown lips. How many stories had rippled across this small green pool like the webbed feet of silent departing ducks stirring up the water? How many campfires lay buried beneath the sticky warm black mud? How many dark young couples had lain together on the grassy bank, stared up at their stars and shared their dreams? Had these old paperbarks heard stories about the coming of the first white man, the ghosts of the returned dead? Then the orange flames rose high in wrath and shadowed faces gazed up into the sky fearfully, but the stars held no joys now. Had stories of the white man’s cruel laws and uncivilised ways reached even here? Had the pool’s own people been chased and raped and diseased and destroyed for ever, so only the stars and the moon and their reflections were left? Perhaps they had been friendly, awed by the arrival of the spirits of family, the djanga or wetjela. No one would ever know, not now.
One day one of the walking dead men, bringing the stench of his kind ever inland, had stumbled upon this piece of beauty and in arrogance had named it after himself—Watson’s Pool. Now the stories were as dead as the gilgies or marron that the kingfishers had killed and eaten and whose dried orange claws were left strewn around the muddy, track-marked edges. But the pool itself would never die, because it was fed by an indestructible underground spring and would stay green and glorious until the end of time.
Cooley busied himself collecting sticks and old hunks of wood to make a fire in the lee of the grey, fallen giant’s trunk. As soon as the fire was flickering softly he smiled at the girl.
‘Get ya some bush tucker now, eh?’
He went down to the side of the pool with the billy and filled it with water. A series of small dark holes clustered in the mud. He thrust a long yellow finger down one and in a moment, whipped it out. A green-black crustacean clung desperately to him, and he flung it up the bank. The girl squealed, half in fright and half in joy, and he turned a grinning face to her.
‘Catch ’im now, before ’e gets back into the water. Grab ’im by the ’ead, so ’e don’t bite ya, see?’
He laughed at her gingerly-made attempts and her squeals, so she laughed too and finally got the prawn-like creature into the billy, where it thrashed around.
He made his way right around the pool, selecting holes, until they had about twelve gilgies fighting and squirming in the billy.
‘Doesn’t that hurt your finger?’ she asked.
‘Not much,’ he smiled. ‘I just think of the feed we’ll ’ave d’rectly.’
What a feed it was. While the gilgies bubbled away in death and the meat Rachel had packed sizzled on the piece of tin Cooley had found as they walked through the bush, he told her more stories about his mother and brother. He didn’t talk about his father. He told her about the country of his birth, of the sprawling station house with the wide verandahs and the frangipani and hibiscus trees in the big green garden and the purple flowered sharp-thorned bougainvillea that covered the verandah and the outhouses, of his raggle-taggle cousins and the games they had played on the plain of spinifex grass and mulga and boab trees, or down at the waterhole where lilies covered the surface in coloured glory, as sweet as a nubile young woman—and where sometimes a crocodile lurked like an evil lover, ready to grab someone in a hug of death.
She, in turn, told of her life in the city, in a flat suburban land of houses and lawns and foreign trees and noise; a place where there were more cars than birds and more people than trees and no dreams at all.
She told of the private school she had gone to until her mother died, where all the girls wore the same boring fashionless uniforms and were taught to be ‘ladies’. There had been no boys at all in her life, only when the school had an occasional social. She didn’t tell how, after one of these socials, an older boy had tom away the only true thing she owned and left her broken open like an oyster. That was her secret.
So the hours drifted past like the clouds in the sky, and the morning became afternoon.
The boy glanced up at the sun peeping shyly from a cloud; his eyes peeped shyly at hers from behind his untidy brown fringe.
‘Come on then, Rachel. I’ll find ya some foxes now, if ya like,’ he murmured from behind his cigarette.
‘Could you, Reg? I’ve never seen a wild fox,’ she cried happily.
They left the basket by the pool and headed up the softly undulating hills. Near the top was a jumbled pile of red-black ironstone to which the lithe youth glided, stopping occasionally to sniff the air. At last he beckoned with a crooked finger and, turning, pursed his lips towards a jagged hole. The earth was trodden flat and the bones of small animals lay round. Even she could smell the musky scent now.
‘This fox isn’t too clever, ’avin’ a place ’ere. Not too many people come out this way, but, so I s’pose she thought she’d be safe enough,’ he said. Then he whispered, ‘Can you ’ear them?’
By concentrating her hearing she could just make out a faint whimpering and snuffling.
‘Come on,’ he said eagerly, and bent to enter.
‘Oh, Reg, it might be dangerous.’
He grinned from the darkness of the opening and shook his head.
‘Tracks tellin’ a story ’ere. Ole Mum Fox gone for a walk and never come ’ome yet, see? There’s no danger.’
Inside was a terrible smell and the walls felt too close, while the air seemed too heavy. But, in the corner, their little eyes glaring green in the light of Cooley’s lighter and their little white fangs bared as their lips turned back in snarls, lay three baby foxes. It was the greatest joy of that joyful day for the city-bred girl to share for just a moment the pri
mitive habitat of that wildest of animals and stare at her young. Was the mother old or young? Was that her first litter? How many would fall beneath the farmer’s gun before the year was over?
She stretched out a hand to touch one, but the boy’s hand rested on hers and he shook his head again.
‘No, Rachel, ya can’t touch ’im. Ya see, if ya do, the mother will leave ’im alone and ’e’ll starve to death. More better if we go now, else our scent’ll scare the mother away.’
‘We’ll leave them in peace,’ the girl agreed.
They set off down the hill towards the pool and unobtrusively she slipped a hand into his. He turned and stared at her with troubled eyes.
‘I like you, Reg. You’re so kind to me. I don’t care what anyone says, you’re my best friend. No matter who says bad things against you, you’re my best and true friend.’
‘’Oo says what?’ he murmured, while his eyes darted away from her clear turquoise gaze like snakes in long grass. Then they glanced back again while he rested a hand on her shoulder.
‘Mr Packer says I shouldn’t go out with you. He says I might be hurt by you.’
‘Ya told Packer you was seein’ me t’day?’ he questioned, surprised.
‘I’ve got nothing to hide, Reg, and neither have you. Mr Packer doesn’t own us.’
‘Well, but, ya shouldn’t of told the old prick. ’E can make things bad for us, ya know. ’E could make up a story and get me sent to reform school. That’s what ’e said ’e’ll do, any rate. Why, ’e could even send you away. That might kill me, you gettin’ sent away,’ he added.
‘He can sack me, though he won’t because I’m too useful and don’t cost him much. But he can’t send me away. I live here now, with Uncle Reeney. No matter what he does, he can’t hurt us, Reg. I like you so much, Reggie Cooley, that words can’t say.’
His eyes flickered at her a moment, then he turned away.
‘Better get ’ome,’ he mumbled. ‘Got school tomorrow.’
It was a quiet walk home. Darkness slowly came down and purple clouds gathered at the edge of the world, ready for tomorrow. Cooley wished today could last a thousand years, but tomorrow was quickly coming with all its mysteries.
At the Cooleys’ gate they parted.
‘See ya when I see ya.’
‘Not if I see you first,’ she countered, and they smiled at the old joke. ‘Thank you for the best day I’ve ever had, Reggie. It was marvellous.’
‘It was a good day, eh?’ he said shyly, and ran a hand tentatively over her face. ‘See ya.’
She reached up and wrapped her arms around his skinny waist, then her moist red lips smothered his brown ones. Tongue met tongue in a proper kiss, while she sucked his soul dry.
At last they parted and she gave a wicked smile. ‘See you, Cool Cat Cooley,’ then she was skipping off down the hill towards the Packers’. Cooley turned and walked up the cracked garden path.
His quick eyes caught a glimpse of the curtain being lowered and when he opened the door he saw his stepmother’s worried face and Sam’s cheeky grin and knowing eyes. As he made his way through the kitchen, he could hear Sam’s voice and the giggling of the two girls from where they sprawled in front of the TV set. But when he got to his room he lay on the bed and dreamed, amidst the untidy sheets and dirty blankets, about him and Rachel getting married: in a proper church, with a priest and organ and all. And Rachel in a white gown and veil, with himself ... He would be dressed in a purple velvet jacket, with a lilac silk shirt and black trousers, and a pair of R. & M. Williams elastic-sided boots, the very best in footwear. Ben as his best man would be dressed the same, and what a pair Lucy Fluter’s boys would make.
VI
When Rachel opened the door of the kitchen, the three Packer men stared at her with smouldering eyes and said nothing. The only sound was the clatter as they ate their tea.
‘Good picnic, was it?’ old Packer grunted at last.
She turned from where she had been putting away the picnic things and smiled at the glowering trio.
‘Yes, Mr Packer.’
‘I was thinking, Rachel, that you need a bit more time off. To make a few friends and get to know people in the district. After all, I was thinking today, you came to work here as soon as you arrived at Reeney’s, after your unfortunate experience. Go to the. Katanning drive-in and the Maidstone disco. Let your hair down and make a few mates in your new home. Lou and Ken will be happy to introduce you to a few of their friends.’
‘Why, thank you for the offer, Mr Packer, but I already have a friend in Reg.’
‘Shit! With friends like Cooley, who needs enemies?’ sneered Lou with typical lack of originality, and Ken, from the side, added, ‘I’d rather be friends with Idi Amin than Reg Cooley, any day of the week.’
‘You two get off and do your studies,’ Mr Packer ordered, then, when the two boys had gone, he turned to the fidgeting girl. ‘As for you, Rachel, you’d better go to bed and get some sleep or you won’t be fit for work tomorrow. But just think over what I’ve said. Young Cooley’s no good and if you get too friendly with him you’re only going to choke off all the decent young blokes in the district who would be glad to take out a pretty girl like you. Off you go.’
She went out to her small room and lay on her cold bed pondering and absently fondling her pillow.
She showered and admired her young body, a gift for only one man, she thought. Who that one man was she didn’t quite know yet. Then, warm and clean, she went to bed, holding her fluffy white pillow to her white body. In her dreams the pillow became Cooley’s wiry yellow body.
So Rachel Layne taught Cooley love and Mr Roper taught him maths and another month went by. Cooley went down to the bridge with the usual gang on Saturday night. Morry had a couple of stitches under his eye from a punch in football that day. The person who gave it to him had a suspected broken rib and lay in the Maidstone hospital determined never to pick a fight with an Aboriginal again. Morry cuddled Judy Crow and bragged. Dan Crow told how his cousin had discovered some paintings in a cave down at Mandurah and had his picture in the paper. Aborigines weren’t only getting their names in the paper for violence, Land Rights and football.
They played poker with a dirty, creased pack of cards. A red fire flickered shadows on the trees and the stonework of the bridge uprights and the dark shining faces of the boys and girls.
‘There’s a good fillum on tomorrow night at the hall,’ said Danny Crow, who knew such things. ‘One picture about Indians. With Charles Bronson as an Apache, too. Then one Bruce Lee picture.’
‘Aw, I’ll be in on that. Bruce Lee? ’E’s a muritj bloke, orright.’
‘Yeah, I know. I taught ’im ’ow to fight.’
‘Fuck off, Lindsay. You taught ’im shit, budda!’
Cooley looked at their hybrid faces and strange thoughts churned in his mind. What were these people? Were they Aborigines? With clothes and boots, cigarettes and cars, radios and money? Greed and hate and jealousy? And a strange mongrel language, product of their mongrel breeding?
Once upon a time there had been a naked man on a red hill. Strong and healthy, with his spears and family and dogs—with his laws and religion. Then another man had come, white and weak and diseased, with his beer and smokes and clothes and hatreds. He said to the first man, ‘Come with me and I’ll teach you things you’ve never seen the likes of.’
So the Aboriginal had followed—now he died of white man’s pox and drowned in cheap wine and suffocated in prejudices and his laws were trampled by white man’s laws. They cried as all they had was turned to dust when they listened to the white man’s lies. And the white man laughed and jeered at their plight and their efforts to mimic their masters.
But Cooley was happy. He thought he was all right now. He had a girlfriend, his mum didn’t boss him around so much and he hadn’t seen Packer for days. The kids at school left him alone now. And Herron River, for the first time, was doing well in the football carnival. But Cooley
couldn’t see that a different type of trouble was catching up to him.
It all began that night, when he was feeding up. He had just stoned two rats that writhed in death on the chaff-strewn brick floor when he heard a rustle by the door and spun around. He was expecting one of the Packers, but relaxed into a grin when he saw Rachel.
‘G’day. I’m just feedin’ up. Like to help me?’
‘Why, yes,’ said the girl, then looked in horror at the two dead rats.
‘Oh, Reg!’ she said reproachfully. ‘Why did you kill those poor things?’
Cooley stared at her. ‘Rats?’ he said, puzzled. ‘Hell, you love everything, eh? Rabbits, rats. Geeze, I dunno.’
Rachel looked up with her soft eyes. The love he felt for her chipped away a little more of the hate he’d built up against the world.
‘I just hate anything dying. I don’t see why other things should give their lives for man’s greed and anger. Don’t you think so, Reg?’ her gentle voice whispered.
‘Well, ya right, Rachel. Do I care if the rats eat out Packer’s oats? It’s ’is bloody farm, any rate,’ he smiled at her.
The girl’s arms encircled his thin waist and her red lips reached up and met his brown ones.
‘I love you, Reg Cooley,’ she whispered, and her voice was so different to Shaughn and Morry’s rough imitation that those two might as well never have been alive. There were only Rachel and Reg in a world of softness and love.
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