And love, to Cooley, was a waterfall, loud and powerful and forever. So loud it made the rocks shake and mountains tremble, so a man could not talk but only stare at the dancing rainbows in the mists that swayed over the wild, white water. And love was like a mountain of flowers, of red and pink and mauve and blue, standing supremely alone in a vast, harsh, dry red desert. And love was like the shape of swans flying into the sunrise of a cool morning, quiet and slow and rhythmic. Like the swan that gently crossed the sun’s warm red heart for an instant, then faded into the greyness of dawn, Cooley allowed himself to float into the pools of the girl’s soft green-blue eyes and their souls met.
This was not Kathy Sumpter with her eyes as blue as the sunstruck skies, as bright as the midsummer sun. This was not the girl who manoeuvred her body with the expertise of a machine, like a champion woodcutter with his axe or a jockey with a racehorse. That was Kathy Sumpter and her body. Rachel did not have Kathy’s red-painted lips and purple-painted eyes, her powdered cheeks and the scent of cheap perfume to send a boy mad. Being with Rachel was not rocking and rolling among darkened trees with a wild moon cartwheeling through the jagged clouds, making a boy wild and crazy as well—for a whole night.
This girl was as shy as he was. Her small dainty hands fluttered and hovered like hummingbirds and delved into the flowers of youth to get some sweet honey. Her mouth tasted like mint. The petals of her clothes were folded away to reveal a flower the beauty of which had never been seen before. So soft and white like the most delicate rose, like jasmine, like a lily of the field. This was a girl whose eyes were coloured like the hearts of oceans, whose mind and soul and love was as deep as the oceans and just as secret.
Cooley’s heart felt like bursting. The girl’s pale fingers wiped away the last shards of hate and mistrust from his slanted, light eyes and her soft murmurs of passion wiped away his tension and hate so that the fortress he had built himself came crashing down and he stepped from the ruins like a prince freed from some evil spell.
The Nyoongahs down south said the swan was the soul of the dead and whenever a swan was bom, another ancestor was reborn.
That day, Cooley was a swan. He would soar above the sun. He would dive to the deepest, darkest bottom of the ocean and learn all the secrets there. The whole universe was his, such was his joy. The girl’s hands, as fragile and white as eggshells, had moulded him into a new being, a peaceful gentle being.
The girl wrapped long legs around his bony body, not like a spider catching another fly, but like a cool snowflake settling onto the brown earth as it prepared for winter.
Their bodies crushed the hay beneath the scattered clothes, so the sweet scent of the straw was their perfume. And so they loved while daylight died a graceful death and purple misty clouds spread over the sky like a blanket on a bed or a flag on a coffin. All the world’s troubles were forgotten for a short while and the only world they knew was the warm feed shed and themselves.
Afterwards they lay in the straw.
‘That wasn’t ya first time, eh?’ Cooley said softly.
‘No.’ She turned her head to give her strange serene smile. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Not to me. any rate. I s’pose ... um ... I s’pose ya me girlfriend now, eh?’
‘Would you like me to be?’
‘Well, would you like me to be ya boyfriend, but? Ya know what most people would say, don’t ya?’
‘No. What would they say?’
‘They’d run ya down somethin’ wicked.’
‘We’ll just have to stick together then, won’t we?’ she said and she leaned over and kissed him again, so he cuddled her for a second.
‘We’d better get up before some of the Packers come. Wouldn’t they spew if they caught us like this?’ Cooley chuckled.
‘No hurry. They’ve all gone off to Perth again. Mrs Packer doesn’t spend much time here, does she?’
‘Naw. Too busy, she reckons. Well, we got time for a smoke, then. Packer’s animals can bloody wait t’night. It’s our night t’night, ay?’ he smiled, and ran a hand down her body. ‘Ya so soft, girl,’ he said in wonder.
‘Here’s a question, Reg. What would you rather be? A white man or an Aboriginal?’
Cooley smiled at her. ‘What would you like me to be?’
‘What you would like to be!’ returned the girl, then they both laughed.
‘I dunno,’ muttered Cooley, suddenly serious. That was the thing about the half-castes—people imagined they had a choice. Some choice, since neither culture wanted them. Then Cooley put the question out of his mind and, jumping up, rolled them both a smoke and they dressed and began feeding up.
‘I don’t know how you can smoke these foul contraptions,’ said the girl. ‘Have you ever smoked marijuana?’
‘I get in enough shit without ’avin’ drug charges on me, too. Coupla blokes just out of Maidstone grow it, if ya want to buy some. Go into the Railway Hotel and ask for Les.’
‘Goodness, whoever am I mixed up with here? You’re a regular book on all the district’s underworld activities, aren’t you?’ she giggled, and hugged him.
‘Yeah,’ he smiled down at her. ‘I’ll die a gangster’s death, me. Real violent, same way as Baby-Face Nelson. Bugs Moran, that’s me,’ he grinned, surrounded by squealing pigs and with the remnants of the moon shining down casting sharp shadows on his face.
A shiver ran up her spine and she shook herself.
‘Brrrr! A goose walked over my grave.’
‘You cold?’ he said, full of concern. ‘’Ere ya go. Wear my coat while I walk ya down to the ’ouse, orright?’
So he walked her home. At the door, as he was leaving, Cooley said, ‘Hey, Rachel. Like to come and see me play footy on Saturday? We’re playin’ Mobrup for the grand final.’
‘Why of course I will, Reg. It should be fun,’ returned the girl.
That was when the trouble began.
Saturday loomed cold and wet, with grey clouds racing over the jagged horizon and cutting their soft stomachs open so the rain fell out. In the little tin shed that shook like an epileptic and clattered away to itself, the boys changed and froze, no matter how hard they stamped their feet. Jimmy Conner gave them some tips and a little speech about wearing the school’s colours with pride—and a promise that if they won he’d shout them all to a party, with beer and a barbecue and all. This brought the biggest cheer from the ragamuffin boys, then they ran out onto the playing field and into the rain. The creaking old grandstand echoed to encouraging yells from the people who had come to watch.
The Mobrup team was undefeated; so was the Herron River side, and the game promised to be good. There was a line of cars and trucks huddled along the boundary, miserable in the rain. Men crowded into the bar so steam rose from drying clothes. It was important to supporters of both sides that their team won. There were many heated arguments, words spilling among the spilt beer, and everyone on the field had his personal supporters in the bar.
Even Cooley had someone to watch him today, for the first time. He could see her lonely figure standing under a drooping river gum; two slender white bodies together. Cooley had received a huge partner, bigger even than Wally King. But Rachel was watching today, so he leapt high into the air and won the first knock. He sent a long torpedo kick out towards Morry Quinn on the flank, and he scored a goal.
Wally King, Shaughn Garpey and Rick Mizen were excellent rovers, seeming to be in three places at once and the other players had it all over the Mobrup team, who had grown soft as the undisputed champions. They couldn’t quite believe, even when it became obvious, that they were losing to Herron River.
Cooley seemed to kick a little further, mark a little higher and play harder now that he had someone cheering for him. He played so well that Jimmy Conner said at half-time, ‘You’re playing well, Reg. A good game, mate. Why you’re as good as Ben ever was, no bullshit. I was thinking of changing you into Wal’s place, because you drew such a big ’un, but she’ll be apples,
no worries.’
Cooley, shy of all the praise, wandered away. He glanced over towards the tree and saw Rachel waving to him. He waved back and was loping over to see her when the siren went for the start of the third quarter.
It was raining consistently now, coming down in a grey deluge, and play was sluggish. The ball was hard to mark because it was slippery and wet, but Cooley still took some good marks and kicked well. However, the torrents of water hid the game from the umpire and the Mobrup team started getting their own back on the cocky, jubilant Herron River side. Cooley was shoved in the back and went skidding through the mud on his face. Then, as he struggled to rise he got a boot in the ribs that winded him and a knee in the fleshy part of his thigh that nearly made him faint and sent a searing pain through him. As he was carried off in agony, supported by Morry and Jimmy Conner, he heard Micky Jackson say to Ken Packer, ‘Look, he’s so muddy he looks like a full boong now,’ and their laughter followed him off the playing field.
They don’t care how well you play, Cooley. There you went, thinking you were Stephen Michael or Maurice Rioli or the Krakouer brothers. But you’ll always be a boong to them.
Then Rachel was by his side, staring worriedly into his pain-ridden face. ‘Oh, Reg? Are you all right?’
Big Cooley, the man, speaking. ‘Yeah. A little kick don’t ’urt old Cools,’ he wheezed.
He couldn’t hear Jackson and Packer laughing now and was glad Rachel had come. The girl leaned over and kissed his wet, muddy face, then hurried off, calling, ‘You take care, Reggie!’
He was taken into the tin shed and Jimmy Conner sat him up, head between knees. The young coach grinned.
‘Who was that gave you the kiss of life, Reg?’
‘Me girlfriend, Mr Conner,’ Cooley smiled back. He was happy today, despite his injury. He’d had complete control of the game and had scored three goals and a point himself. Then, to cap it all, everyone had seen his girlfriend.
He went to have a shower then, and didn’t see the thoughtful look in the man’s green eyes. Jimmy had gone to school with Ben Cooley and lived only for football and girls himself. But the girl was white and Jimmy could see trouble looming, because they obviously loved each other.
VII
The next day was Sunday and Rachel was going to see her old uncle. She and Cooley wandered up the path to town from the Cooleys’ house. It was a lazy blue day, with the remnants of yesterday’s storm lying in tattered wastes across the sky.
Last night, there had been a party at Jimmy Conner’s place, just as he had promised. But Cooley hadn’t stayed long. He wasn’t much of a socialiser at the best of times and he still felt sick from the blows he had received in the game that day. Besides, being in a crowd of semi-drunk white boys hadn’t seemed like Cooley’s idea of fun.
He had walked home and sneaked around the back of Packer’s house and knocked on Rachel’s window. Then they had gone for a walk to the sheds. They had talked and made love and talked some more.
So today he was relaxed and happy.
He showed her the long, low school, with the hedge and wooden verandah all the way around. One side was walled with weatherboards so the kids could eat their lunches in a dry place. The school was a ship of learning, sinking in the bitumen sea of the playground.
Cooley showed her the caning room and put on an act as though he had been cut. He got plenty of practice during the week. He mimicked all the teachers, so Rachel laughed and hugged him.
They wandered on through the empty town, past the two or three drab town houses with the wet white tin roofs, muddy derelict gardens and lopsided picket fences which huddled around the sprawling hotel with ‘Orlando Wines’ and ‘Swan Lager’ painted on the brick wall. The garage, swimming in yellow mud, with the grass-grown mechanics’ ramp out back, with blue and red drums lying, strangling, in the hold of the wild oats. They wandered over to where the old hall stood alone, except for the trees and the main football oval. It was made of creaking wood, grey and moss-covered, held up by sprawling stilts, as though the weight of the building threatened to collapse any day. The tin roof was rusty and flapped noisily whenever there was a meeting on, or leaked during picture shows and church services, having no respect for human dignity. The old building knew so much; the arguments that had echoed around its walls, the sermons and services held within it, weddings, christenings and funerals, the picture shows it had seen. Only the hall knew what Lou Packer and Isobelle Clark had done under the building last night. Only the Hall knew where the three Crows, Dan, Judy and old Pete, slept while they waited for their house the government had promised them. They had been promised it three months before and still they slept under the hall, where it was dry.
The hall was far more than just a building. It was a social centre and a symbol of some sort of community spirit, much like a tribal meeting house.
Cooley saw Rachel off on the old, dented, orange-yellow school bus when Mr Packer went back to his farm after the morning session at the hotel. Then he set off more or less where his feet took him. He reached the dark old store, with tattered sale price notices sticky-taped to the window and a few rusted, battered cans sitting despondently on the dusty, barren window shelf. It started to rain, just a fine drizzle at first, and Cooley sheltered under the store’s awning. He leaned against the wooden wall and waited for the rain to stop.
He noticed the mob of white boys come laughing and kicking down the street, then fall silent and nudge each other when they caught sight of him. Once Cooley would have run off like a stray dog, at the sight of all those boys, but lately he had been left alone and his wariness had ebbed. So he stayed where he was, rolling a smoke, his biggest problem at the moment being that he was running low on tobacco.
Only when they surrounded him and stared silently at him did he realise his danger. Big Wally King, with his shock of hair and huge brown, almost red arms, matted with black hairs, stood in front of him. He smiled down with his wide mouth, but his pig-like eyes stared out, unsmilingly, from under his jutting moronic brow. ‘How are yuh, Reg, mate?’
Cooley finished rolling his fag, then lit it and, taking a draw, gazed around the group. Besides King, there were little brown Rick Mizen and the white-haired Austrian Fritz Bauer, thin Micky Jackson with the wiry black hair and laughing grey eyes, the Packer brothers and Ned Grey, Stewie James who walked in a permanent stoop as though his lantern jaw was too heavy for him.
Eight blokes, Cooley, and those Garpeys and Quinns are all away down at the camp. Take it easy, boy.
‘How are yuh, Reg?’ repeated Wally.
‘Good,’ muttered Cooley.
‘Got us a weed, Reg?’ grinned Micky Jackson.
‘Ahh, naw. I’m down to me last dregs, see.’ Cooley was cautious. He could smell beer on Mick Jackson’s breath and recognised the direction they had come from. The football party must have gone on all night and just finished that day. It had probably been a wild affair.
‘What? Not going to give yuh old mate a smoke?’ the white boy pressed.
No answer from Cooley, who shuffled his feet and wished he could fly. But his feet stayed firmly on the ground and the white boys still surrounded him. He looked up.
‘Ah, look, youse blokes. I done nuthin’ to you,’ he whined. ‘Why don’t ya leave me alone?’
Wally King looked at the others.
‘Our old mate here thinks we’re hassling him. The star of yesterday’s match and all. Isn’t that what Jimbo reckoned?’
‘Aaah, c’mon, Cools. We’re just having a little talk. You too good to talk to us white blokes?’ said Stewie James.
‘Just because you can kick a footy around you think you’re king of the bush, is that it, Cools?’ said Rick Mizen.
‘King Billy, more like,’ smiled Ned Grey coldly.
Again no answer from Cooley, who was frightened now. He looked up and down the street for a friendly dark face. There was no one.
‘What’s your Dad doing, Reg?’ grinned Micky Jackson.
<
br /> ‘Time,’ replied Fritz Bauer, and there was laughter.
‘C’n I go now, youse fellahs?’ Cooley pleaded.
‘Sure, mate,’ said Wally King, not moving.
Cooley rubbed a hand across his nose.
‘Ya ... um ... ya in me way.’
‘Am I?’ grinned King.
‘Yeah.’
‘Aaaaah,’ sighed the giant.
A chill ran up Cooley’s spine and stayed there. He moved forwards, but a bump from King nearly sent him to the dirt.
Said the giant, ‘Geeze, I dunno. Won’t lend his mates smokes. Won’t talk to us, pushes into me. It’s almost as though old Cools wants a fight. And we being nice to him and all. You just can’t change a tiger’s stripes, can yuh?’
They all moved closer to him and Ricky Mizen wrapped a limp arm around Cooley’s scrawny neck. He leaned close and whispered, ‘How’s your chick goin’, Reg? She’s real spunky, eh? I’ll bet you make her grunt, you old tomcat. Kathy told us all about how good a root you do, know what I mean?’ he grinned.
Cooley recoiled, snarling.
‘You leave Rachel alone, ya white cunts!’
‘Yes. That’s just what you’re going to do, Cooley,’ said Lou coldly, speaking for the first time. ‘You see, Ken likes her and he’s taking over now. You go back to those gins where you belong.’
‘Yeah, Cooley. You’ll give her the pox and spoil it for all of us. So you can fuck off now,’ answered his brother.
Cooley flattened himself against the weatherboard wall, his eyes turning to yellow slits of rage. So they would try to take the only thing that meant anything to him and spread her around on their filthy tongues and destroy her peaceful smile forever, would they?
All the white boys saw was a thin, weedy half-caste.
Then he sprang like a dingo, brown and sleek, into a mob of white sheep, all the more menacing in his silence. His boot connected with the Austrian, right in the stomach, and sent him sprawling to the dirt. A hard fist between Grey’s eyes made him spin crazily into the wall and fall, stunned, onto the verandah. Then King’s huge hands grabbed Cooley’s thin frame and hurled him back into the wall, where he stood shaking his head, dazed. He was in no condition to fight the six remaining boys who closed in on him, but he remembered something his brother had said, ‘You face up to those white blokes, Reg, and keep standing up, else they’ll wipe you into the dirt they think you are.’
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