by Kim Scott
They heard the ute returning, and all except Gerrard turned to it. He kept his eyes on the business owner, and she walked away as the car doors opened.
*
A sandy, two-wheeled track wound its way through spiky scrub: stiff grey twigs, small bunches of bristling spears, flat leaves with spikes reaching beyond their perimeters. Muted explosions of colours erupted here and there. A kangaroo’s head and shoulders looped in and out of sight before the animal finally emerged fully formed, bounding along the firebreak the other side of a wire fence. It jumped to their side of the fence, then bounced back again just as quickly. The track turned back on itself, led them between thickly shaded trees and out onto a sheet of rock beside a wide lake.
‘Really a lake?’ asked Tilly.
‘Well, not when there’s plenty of rain, might be a river then. Most of the time it’s a lake. Call it a lake,’ Milton told her.
Small isolated groups of trees stood in the water, a short distance from the rock. Dead, white, their scarred bare arms silently beseeched the heavens, their neighbours, anyone who might save them. A strong wind swept across the water, making a pattern of small slopes and ridges.
The ute went to and fro. Kathy and Wilfred sat out of the wind near a low rock face and a few trees and watched fish leap from the water, throw themselves at the feet of the fishers and flap bright white and silver.
‘Better catch yourself some before we end up with too many – gotta clean ’em too, you know.’
Tilly had never caught a fish before. Wilfred was beside her, selecting the line, showing her how to bait the hook though, in fact, he moved too fast for her to follow.
She threw the line. It didn’t get far, the line billowing in the breeze, but almost immediately it pulled hard in her hand, and something unseen tried to escape, to lead her away.
‘Oh!’
‘Pull him in, pull him in.’
She did, throwing the reclaimed line onto the rock, and soon the bream was flapping on the rock, its mouth pursed in dismay and its strong tail agitating ineffectively.
‘Get the hook out, then put it in the bag. Hold him.’
The spikes along its spine stabbed her. She felt the muscle of its curve, the gristle of its mouth as she wiggled the barbed metal. The hook came out easily.
‘Remember, we have to clean them too,’ Wilfred said again.
They heard another vehicle arrive. Doug again. He took out a rod and line and started to fish about fifty metres from one end of their group.
‘No police here,’ Gerald called out, mockingly.
‘Ah, just ignore him, Ger,’ said his twin.
Doug was concentrating on his line. Waiting for a bite.
Although Wilfred had warned each of them that they would have to clean whatever fish they caught, Gerrard kept hauling fish onto the rock, every now and then scooping the silver bodies around him into a bag. Then, when they were all packing up ready to leave again Wilfred made sure the bags of fish were all in the ute’s tray.
‘Men’ll clean ’em,’ he said.
But in fact when the twins, along with Milton and Wilfred, got back to Hopetown there was a sign at the jetty, its red letters commanding:
Fish Must Not Be Cleaned Here. Fines Apply.
They had so many fish. What to do? Drive back out to one of the beaches?
In a very short time the men were standing at the public bar, admiring the array of colourful labels. This was the place to get some advice.
‘Sorry, don’t want to buy anything. Not yet anyways; fair bet bunch of alcoholics like us be back soon enough,’ they explained.
At first the woman behind the bar had been surprised, nervous. Then suddenly, almost with relief it seemed, she said, ‘Yes, of course, yes, Frankie Jones, just around the corner . . . He’s got a great set-up for cleaning fish. Ask him.’
‘Great.’
She explained where the house was.
‘He might want a few beers though. Hire fee, like.’
‘We’ll have a yarn with him first.’
‘This time of day he’s probably around the back. If he doesn’t answer the front door just go around the side of the house. No dog.’
They pulled into the driveway: two wheel ruts in overgrown green grass. A dilapidated, timber-framed house; paint and boards peeling, it appeared to lean to one side. Bloody Paradise, it said in faded lettering on the wall beside the front door.
‘You go, Milton,’ said Wilfred. ‘They’ll feel safe with you: old and not so dark.’
Milton looked at Wilfred.
‘Go on. Don’t wanna frighten them, do we?’
Milton knocked at the front door. Waited, looking back at those in the car. Came down the steps, and disappeared around the side of the house.
The car passengers fell under the enchantment of the car radio’s preview of the coming weekend’s football fixtures.
‘Oy.’
Milton again, at the corner of the house. He gesticulated for them to join him, and disappeared.
*
It was a large backyard, fenced, and as overgrown with lush green weeds as the front, except for a well-maintained vegetable garden and, between it and the house, a long steel table with a trough and tap at each end. Milton and a companion were standing on its other side, doing something with a hose.
Milton called out, ‘This is FJ!’
The man held out a meaty hand as they approached. ‘FJ,’ he repeated. FJ was middle-aged, balding and bearded, with a large earring, an eye-patch and a belly that held his shirt out like a tent.
‘Hey,’ said Wilfred. ‘I’ve got a parrot you’d like. Sit on your shoulder.’
FJ laughed. ‘Shit on my shoulder, you mean.’ Then went on: ‘Caught yourself some fish I hear.’
‘Few,’ said Gerrard, holding up a bag with some difficulty.
‘No worries. Cost you a few beers with me while you clean ’em is all.’
The men looked at one another. Gerrard was jogging back to the pub before Wilfred had finished his words of assent.
The fish-cleaning table was large enough for them to work side by side, and before long the men were doing just that. The water in each of the troughs was regularly drained into the veggie garden, and the fish heads and guts went into a bin. ‘Bury that here,’ said FJ, ‘or mates’ve got pigs, chooks – they love it too.’
They raised a storm of silver scales with their blades; sliced, broke backbones, clawed at entrails with their fingers.
‘You said your name was Coolman? I knew a Fred Coolman when I was rousabouting, years back.’
‘That was my father,’ said Wilfred.
‘I think his name was Fred. Best shearer I ever worked with,’ said FJ.
Gerrard rinsed and put down his knife, went to move away from the table.
‘Oy.’
‘What?’
‘You giving up?’
He’d cleaned the number of fish he’d caught.
‘We’re doing it for everyone, Gerry,’ said Milton.
The other men kept working. The twins looked at one another. Gerrard picked up his knife once more.
‘And you need another beer,’ said FJ, offering him a bottle.
They worked furiously side by side, no man wanting to fall behind the other; cut backbones, tore heads off, flung intestines into the bin. Rinsed and packed the fish in ice.
‘Beers, love,’ FJ said to a woman who emerged from the back door. She put down her glass of wine. ‘My wife, Penny,’ he said by way of introduction, and presented each of his new companions by name.
*
They were in the pub: the largest building in the street. It had an L-shaped bar at its centre, and windows along two walls looked over a huddle of fuel bowsers and a small park – a picnic shelter, a tap – on one side and, on the other, t
he jetty and ocean could be glimpsed between the scrap of peppermint trees at the edge of the dunes. The fish lay iced in neat silver rows in a box in the back of the vehicle.
FJ and Penny were regulars at the pub, of course. Thus, they were the hosts. But we’re the custodians, thought Gerald. He had already resigned himself to a long drinking session, eagerly. Even enjoyed the barmaid’s surprise when she saw he and his brother side by side.
‘I need a man like you,’ she said to his brother. ‘Two for one.’ Penny shoved Gerrard’s shoulder. Gerald wondered if he should warn her. ‘Girl ever know who she’s with?’
‘Back soon,’ Gerald said, and fled. The others laughed, then quickly forgot him.
Lifting the box of fish from the ute at the caravan park he saw Angela and Beryl walking to the pub. He realised their abstinence was about to break and that he would join them. Their visit to the massacre site briefly crossed his mind. He called to Tilly. ‘Fish ready to be cooked,’ and she walked with him as he carried the heavy weight to the barbeque area. ‘You might want to get them started, or . . . I dunno who’s cooking. Ruby and Wally might. Old fellas have met up with someone. Me and Gerry keeping an eye on ’em.’
‘Ok,’ said Tilly. ‘Most on their way to the pub anyway.’ She didn’t say anything else. Gerald tried not to breathe; he didn’t want her smelling the beer. And he wanted to get back to the pub before anyone else turned up.
‘Kathy or Ruby will know who’s cookin’.’
He was quickly back in the car. He would have walked back to the pub, but he wanted to get away, the more so when he saw, in the rear-view mirror, Ruby talking with Tilly. He drove around to the other side of the pub. It was in his mind to get inside as quickly as possible, but the sea, swollen and still blue with the light of the dying day, grabbed him; and the rawness of the flayed and retreating sky held him. The big warm windows of the pub showed its interior like a film screen. Already the crowd had grown. Who’d have thought there were so many people living in Hopetown; of course it was the mine, contractors, service providers and farmers. There was a camp for the mine workers on the outskirts of town, new houses peeping from among the dunes, the population now five or ten times what it was just a few years ago. A lot of young people, in party mood. Through the window Gerry saw FJ; right at home in the Great South. In turns, Gerrard and Penny leaned over the pool table.
Gerry two-stepped into the comforting noise, the light and warmth.
Time shifted. The black windows reflected the bar and the crowd. Beryl and some of the younger ones from the camp here too. What was the time?
‘Wanna talk to you.’ His brother beside him, grinning, tilting his skull to indicate they go outside. There was a stranger beside him; toothy grin framed by freckles, red beard and dark beanie.
‘Right,’ said Gerald. His voice seemed to emerge from beside him, not from within. They stepped into the cold darkness, then were suddenly a hundred metres away at the jetty car park. There was no light, no moon. The sea was a dark and shifting presence, just over there. They stood by the toilet block.
‘Good stuff,’ said their new companion, Tommy, packing his little pipe. The stars glittered, seemed to have lowered. They could smell the sea, the old smell of it, and the funk of what Tommy was smoking.
‘Got it from another tourist,’ the man said.
‘We’re not tourists,’ said Gerald, exhaling.
‘But you don’t live here.’
‘Not yet. We did, once.’
‘Huh?’
‘I mean, our old people. This is our country. But the massacre . . .’
‘Yeah, I heard about that. Taboo.’
‘But we’re coming back.’
‘Oh yeah.’
Gerald saw Gerrard’s face, up close, smiling. Might have been laughing. ‘Loosen up, brother,’ he said, eyes shining. ‘Shottie?’
‘Nah.’
‘Yeah.’
It was easiest to not resist, not struggle. The red-headed stranger held him, but not forcefully or with real intent. Gerald could’ve easily broken away, but wanted to submit, to have his will taken away to be obliterated. His brother inhaled deeply, then – palms on Gerald’s cheeks – put his mouth to that of his twin and, as many times before, Gerald breathed in as his brother exhaled.
*
Tilly’s vision had long adjusted to the dark. Don’t go walking alone, she had been told, but a woman has a right, and she felt quite safe at night, especially in relatively open space like this where she was sober and everyone else drunk; she knew how to choose her vantage points in the dark. She watched the twins embracing, how they and the stranger stumbled. The men released one another, staggered apart, one of the twins laughing, it seemed triumphantly. She tried to remember how the one who had dropped off the fish – for she reckoned that had been Gerald – was dressed (not, she knew, that their dress could be trusted). It was dark. She was alone. The twins and their friend could’ve been devils dancing.
But who could tell devils by the look of them, or how evil?
‘Good stuff, Tommy.’
A twin was embracing the stranger, kissing him with the same passion he had kissed his brother, and they fell apart, their breath smoking in the thin light. The other twin leaned back against the brick wall of the toilet block.
Tilly moved away, back along the path through the trees, alert for any sound or sign of movement. The men’s voices were very thin, and it was very dark, and the white, sandy path hardly visible. Tilly came to the street parallel to the beach. Staying close to the trees, she saw the three men walking from where she had left them. They were unsteady on their feet and, as a car went past, their shadows leapt and grew and suddenly they were twice the number, distorted and unstable. The car slowed and did a U-turn. Exposed in its headlight beam, Tilly froze. Then, blinded and in the dark again, the car gone, she heard, ‘Tilly. Tilly.’ There was no running away. The three men walked toward her, and she waited. One Gerry hugged her briefly, surprised her with the friendliness of it; out of his tree, she realised. The other twin held her tight in an embrace. His hand cupped her one buttock, then slid down between her legs. Shocked, she started to struggle but by then he had moved away and was singing some nonsense tune, arm around the shoulders of the stranger.
‘This is Tommy,’ said the other twin.
‘Coming to the pub?’ asked Tommy.
‘Nah, no ID.’
‘How old you?’
‘Old enough,’ said the groping twin.
‘I’m heading back to the camp,’ Tilly said.
She left them before the entrance to the pub, rushed from the possibility of a goodbye hug. From a safe distance, she watched them at the bar, so clear in the bright windows it might have been a stage, or a brightly coloured film. Snatches of music and voice reached her. The crowd seethed and rippled. A lot of the family there, even the oldies. Milton at the dartboard, Wilfred at the corner of the bar talking to some young women; a cloth puppet jumped up from his hands, and one woman bent from the waist, the other pirouetted. Wilfred had them laughing; they might almost be his puppets too.
And there is Doug, hands full of froth-brimming glasses, joining a group of people – one of the twins, Beryl . . . others Tilly doesn’t recognise. Most everyone blooming, one after the other. But they are clumsy; they bump against one another, stagger and stumble, lean close to hear their partner’s words, pull them close in their arms, push them away again.
Standing with hunched shoulders among the fuel bowsers and lidded windows, hands deep into her pockets, Tilly could find no emu in the sky, and the stars reminded her only of the tiny holes in the corrugated iron roof of an old, collapsing shed she’d been in earlier today; pinpricks of light. And now, rising, a thin crescent moon.
*
Back at the caravan park Kathy, Nita, Wally and Ruby were in one of the workshop rooms, Kathy working on
a large painting.
‘Who?’ said Nita as Tilly entered the room.
‘Tilly, we were worried about you,’ said Ruby.
‘Sorry. I’m good.’
‘Look at this.’
It was a large painting of a landscape. Strange though: something like a map, something of an aerial view, and something else again. A ‘naive’ view of a land through which a bright bus moved, following a winding road.
‘See?’ said Kathy. ‘All the seasons at once, and history too. All times together.’
Bright geometries of yellow canola, of freshly ploughed earth, then patches of fire, rivers brimming in dunes, in pools among dry, coarse sand. Animals grouped around fresh green grass; kangaroo, emu, sheep. There were many broken fences. People around the pools, clothed and naked and randomly coloured white, red, black, yellow and brown. The single bright bus, that golden road. Tilly wished for a magnifying glass so she could peer into the bus.
‘Not traditional painting, I guess; but it might be one day.’
‘Someday.’
‘We’ll have something for the Peace Park tomorrow, anyway. A councillor rang me today,’ said Ruby. ‘Would still like a speech. Disappointed we got no song or dance to do. I said we might donate some of the stones to the museum. I’m still hoping that Wilfred . . .’
‘They’re all down the pub,’ said Tilly.
‘Yes.’
‘That’ll be the end of the funding then.’
‘I just hope we’re right tomorrow.’
‘You do the Welcome to Country, Nita, unna?’
‘Speeches. Afternoon tea.’
‘It’s a start,’ concluded Ruby.
They drank tea. The women were in tracksuits and coats and sheepskin boots. Yawning.
‘You sleeping in the bus again, love?’
Tilly nodded. She’d thought that was secret.
‘Safe I guess, if you like . . . Need to be on your own.’
The bus seats were sentries as she lay herself down.
ROLL N RHYTHM
Afterwards, Gerald remembered only fragments. Lay in the lonely hours trying to string them together.