The Colour of Kerosene and Other Stories

by Cameron Raynes

  ‘Still working. Won’t let me quit.’ Charlie hawked up a load of phlegm and spat it neatly onto the ground beside him.

  Peter looked at Charlie in his baggy grey trousers and red braces and saw himself in forty years’ time if he stayed in the game. A bushman, a jack-of-all-trades, shuffling through his last days as a yardie, a hotel dogsbody. Charlie had been one of the best doggers in his day. Five-foot-five, skinny as a budgie in a storm. But by fuck he could fight if the stories were true.

  ‘Thinkin’ of getting a new truck,’ said Peter.

  ‘You wanna put some money away,’ said Charlie. ‘Buy yerself some property somewhere. A house in town you can rent, live in when you’re too old to dog.’

  ‘Still got a few years left in me,’ said Peter. ‘I’m doing alright.’

  ‘That’s what I used to say,’ said Charlie. ‘Look at me now. Nothin’. Just a swag.’

  Charlie sat looking up at the darkness, remembering the brilliant, cold points of light and their names. A life lived under sky, his world bound only by the slow fall and curve of horizon. Hundreds of campsites across three states. Knew each one like the back of his hand. Each morning coaxing the ashes of the previous night’s fire back into life, heating up coffee grounds with water that smelt of canvas and horse sweat.

  ‘Almost did a perish,’ said Peter, breaking the old man’s reverie. ‘Two weeks ago. Friggin’ truck wouldn’t go. Thought I was a goner.’

  ‘Should git yerself a new one,’ said Charlie. He spat on the ground, looking straight ahead, the suggestion of a smile on his lips.

  Peter looked at him and laughed and the old man laughed with him, presenting his glass. Peter topped it up and took another long swig himself.

  It was a week since Ruth had told Anne she was no longer welcome at the hotel. Ruth peered through a gap in the curtains, towards the inky blackness of Spencer Gulf. The military authorities had imposed a blackout: no lights within ten miles of the coast were to be visible from sea. Below her, in the front bar, she could hear Harold ushering the last of the drinkers out of the hotel. She reread the opening paragraph of the letter that had arrived that morning from the Chief Protector in Adelaide.

  We have received a complaint about Miss Williams’ accommodation and will be obliged if you could furnish this office with more information.

  It made her blood boil. So this was her reward for letting Anne Hargreaves into her hotel. She remembered her mother complaining bitterly when Anne’s mother had insinuated herself into half a dozen committees within a year of moving to town. And her father’s rage at the editorials Mr Hargreaves had run in his newspaper, The Transcontinental, at the height of the Great Depression. Attack after attack on the capitalists and their lockouts of mines and saw mills.

  There had been something else as well, in the terrible year of 1930, when swagmen and bagmen roamed the countryside and scraps of leather and horse dung had to do for winter fuel. A misunderstanding at a church fete over whether a cake was for sale or merely on display. Had Anne’s mother refused to sell it to Ruth’s mother? Ruth couldn’t remember exactly. But she remembered clearly that the split-second humiliation her mother experienced had calcified into rock-hard anger within a day.

  Harold thumped his way up the staircase and into their room. ‘Still reading that letter?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. That bloody Anne Hargreaves.’

  ‘Gin-shepherd if ever there was one,’ said Harold, standing by the door, his singlet tight against his belly. ‘Probably wants Grace for herself.’

  ‘Well, she won’t get her,’ said Ruth. And neither will you, Mr Anderson, she thought, for she’d seen the way he looked at the girl.

  Peter Dingo heard the church bells ringing out for everyone but him. He woke quickly, feeling rested and strong after a night in a proper bed, away from sun, dogs and wind. He pulled on a pair of trousers, opened the door to the balcony and revelled in the still-cool morning air on his bare chest and arms. A flock of white cockatoos in a red gum across the street guffawed through their early morning calisthenics. Across the inlet, smoke curled from a hundred rough chimneys.

  And beyond that, two hundred miles away, his grand-father’s land.

  Fifty years ago, Robert ‘Dingo’ Lawton had been granted 160 acres of land – the most an Aboriginal man could receive. His farm had been on the edge of marginal country to the north of Port Lincoln, but he’d grubbed the mallee out, sold it for firewood and lived on kangaroo, goanna, bush plum and acacia seed while he’d slowly stocked his land and sunk wells.

  After five years he had a place any man would be proud of, a place to which he could happily take his new white bride. The good people of the colony of South Australia were scandalised. Soon after the marriage, his lease to the land was cancelled.

  Peter knew that while he was considered a white man by most in Port Augusta, and was extended all the privileges that went with it, technically he wasn’t able to drink or even reside at a hotel without an exemption from the Aborigines Act. He could even be stopped from leaving the state. The breakfast smells of sausages and eggs wafted up from the kitchen and he breathed them in, feeling strong.

  Ruth entered the relative cool of Taylor’s Emporium. Rows of goods and gadgets lined the store. Lanterns, bicycle wheels, mattocks and wicker baskets hung from hooks above the aisles. Taylor also kept the largest selection of women’s clothing this side of Adelaide. Plenty of the new Utility fashion, the square ‘uniform’ shoulders, drab colours, severe lines, nothing with flow or grace. A group of women were chatting and laughing at the counter, Anne among them, her back to Ruth.

  Mr Taylor sat behind his desk. A thin man, with dark hair combed neatly to one side and stuck to his head with oil. Anne was holding something up to her body, twirling it as the others looked on.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Anderson,’ said one of the women. Anne glanced around and, with a flash of emerald green, the object of their excitement became apparent. Ruth felt sick.

  ‘It’s just arrived,’ said Anne, a hint of restraint in her voice.

  ‘Beautiful,’ murmured Ruth, tight-faced.

  ‘My dress for the concert,’ said Anne. ‘I couldn’t wait to get it home.’

  Ruth rummaged through her handbag, muttered an apology – she had left her purse at the hotel – and walked out of the store. Outside, she ignored the postmaster as he dipped his hat. Anger washed over her. Did her family’s history in this town count for nothing? They were second and third generation people. They had entitlement, won from years of hard, bullocking work when the country was new.

  Peter Dingo breakfasted on fried eggs, bacon, toast and tea, chatting with Grace as she served him. When she smiled, her eyes lit up like church windows. Peter told her he was going to set off for Adelaide soon and would she like … but then Ruth stormed in and Grace picked up his plate and hurried away to the kitchen.

  Back at his truck, Peter grabbed the metal toolbox from the floor of the cab, laid his spanners on the ground and set to work. The roads north of Port Augusta were hell on vehicles. Old Charlie shuffled up with a mug of tea in hand.

  ‘Grab this,’ said Peter, pointing to the radiator. Charlie held it as Peter undid the last bolt. They lifted it together and placed it on the ground beside the buckboard.

  ‘When ya goin’ back to the bush?’ drawled Charlie.

  ‘When I’m good and ready.’

  ‘Ya mean when all ya money’s gorn.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Peter grabbed a handful of red dirt and rubbed his hands together to knock some of the grease and muck from them. He pulled a tin of Capstan from his back pocket and offered it to Charlie. The old man prised open the tin, took a pinch of the sweet stuff and placed it under his tongue. Peter began rolling a smoke. He’d give the old man a crisp, new five-pound note when he’d finished helping.

  ‘They reckon The Butcher is comin’ to town,’ said Charlie.

  ‘What! Cleland?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What for?’ Peter brushed
a bull-ant off his trousers.

  ‘Dunno. Bringin’ the Chief Protector with him.’

  This was bad news. Peter had seen Professor Cleland, the don from the University of Adelaide, several times while dogging near Ooldea. The Aborigines called him ‘The Butcher’ on account of his habit of taking a sample of blood from every Aborigine – man, woman or child – he met. He was trying to prove something about them, but he never talked about it.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye out,’ said Peter, thinking Jesus, I’ll steer clear of those two.

  But he couldn’t. The next day, at breakfast, sitting at his usual table by the window, Peter noticed the two well-dressed gentlemen enter the dining room. The shorter of the two, a dapper man of fifty or so, bowler in hand, entered first, as if used to getting his own way. Professor Cleland. Behind him came the bespectacled, lanky Chief Protector of Aborigines, Penhall. Ruth, clearly flustered, made them comfortable at a table as far away from the service entrance as possible.

  When Peter’s meal came he took it in long, thoughtful chews, watching the men. He knew the stories of Cleland. There was a rumour he had asked the doctor at Maitland if he would be prepared to sterilise all the young women at Point Pearce, the government-run station.

  Cleland placed a portion of fried egg on a piece of toast, wiping his knife on the crust to remove the soft yolk. The two men talked quietly to each other, keeping an eye on the door to the kitchen.

  When the last of the regulars had gone, Grace began to clear away the dishes. Peter gave her a quick smile, conscious of Cleland and Penhall. Grace approached their table.

  ‘May I take your plates?’ she asked.

  ‘You may,’ said Penhall. She quickly cleared their table. As she turned to go, Cleland put his hand on her arm. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘You’re Grace Williams, aren’t you?’

  Grace nodded and managed a faint ‘Yes’.

  ‘We’d like to have a chat with you,’ said Penhall, looking over the rim of his glasses at her.

  ‘And with Mrs Anderson,’ said Cleland, patting her arm. ‘Go and get her for us please.’

  Seconds later, Ruth hurried into the room, followed by Grace. Peter remained at his table, half a cup of lukewarm coffee in front of him. He got the newspaper from the sideboard and pretended to read it, following the conversation as it hit upon Grace’s circumstances, the death of her mother, her living arrangements, and the anonymous complaint. Ruth offered information as it was required. Grace said very little.

  ‘You know,’ said Cleland, adjusting his collar, ‘we could always send you to Point Pearce if things don’t work out well.’

  Peter’s chair scraped the floorboards as he rose. ‘I think you’ll find that Miss Williams turns twenty-one in a few months’ time,’ he said, facing the two men.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Cleland, looking him over.

  ‘And there’s very little you can do once that happens,’ said Peter. ‘Under the Act, your guardianship expires at twenty-one.’

  ‘Who are you, sir?’ snapped Cleland, his face reddening as he stood and tossed his napkin onto the table.

  ‘Peter,’ he said. ‘Peter Dingo. Grandson of Robert Lawton.’

  Cleland nodded quickly, looking as if he’d bitten on a lemon. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Your people over-reached themselves, didn’t they?’

  Peter caught a quick glance from Grace that softened him and he smiled wryly. ‘Your people took everything we had, even the little things you gave us. We haven’t over-reached ourselves. Not yet.’ He turned and walked out of the room.

  Before they left for the interior, Penhall and Cleland paid Ruth Anderson another visit. As a result of their enquiries, they told her, they had concluded that a hotel was not the proper place for a part-Aboriginal girl. As Ruth stared out the dining-room window and thought of how impossible life would be without Grace, she heard Cleland mutter about the pernicious effect an octoroon like Peter Dingo could have on Grace’s development. They were investigating an alternative placement and would speak further on the matter when they returned from their survey of ration stations in the north, in a week’s time.

  ‘To whom will she go?’ asked Ruth, but neither man responded. She already knew.

  Later, in the front bar of the Royal Mail, Harold Anderson was getting into the swing of it. The presence of Cleland and the Protector had set him off. ‘We should just fence off Spear Creek,’ he said, grimacing. ‘Round up all the black bastards and leave ’em there. No missionaries or government men trying to tell us what we can or can’t do with them.’

  Charlie shook his head and muttered to himself. Peter Dingo stood alongside him, at the edge of the bar. Through the window above the bar the sky was bleeding out. A couple of men uttered a ‘Too right’ or ‘Yeah’.

  ‘This town’d be bloody lost without ’em,’ said Peter Dingo, and the bar fell silent. Constable Johnston turned to Peter and nodded to him in quiet agreement.

  ‘You’re joking,’ said Harold. He had two inches and sixty-odd pounds on Peter, but the lean dogger had an assuredness of movement and a loose-limbed way of holding himself that gave him a presence beyond his stature. There were stories that suggested he could fight, but no one in town was anxious to find out if they were true or not.

  Peter shrugged and took a sip of beer. ‘Stations round here would grind to a halt. It’s the blackfellas do most of the mustering.’

  ‘Well, we could let some of ’em out to work now and then,’ said Harold, wiping a glass.

  ‘Yeah, the good ones,’ piped up a railway worker.

  ‘And lock ’em back up at Spear Creek when it’s holiday time? When the stations have no more use for ‘em?’ asked Peter. The tone of his voice had hardly changed, and the lines around his eyes could have been mistaken for the makings of a smile.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Harold, his mouth tightening, conscious of a roomful of men weighing each word he uttered for hesitation and retreat. The room stilled.

  Peter lowered his glass to the bar. He turned and walked to the front door and then out and into the gathering dark.

  After closing time, Ruth stood in front of her mirror, the emerald dress exotic and rich against her skin. She heard Harold approaching from the hallway, floorboards creaking under his weight.

  ‘This what you’ve been talking about?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘This is the dress. Ruined.’

  Harold opened his mouth, then shut it again. Ruth watched him in the mirror. He moved towards her. Through a slit in the heavy velvet curtains the mudflats spread below them like a stain on a sheet. ‘Come here Mrs Anderson,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you if it’s ruined or not.’ He stood behind her, one arm around her waist, the other rucking the silk over her skin, the whiff of mudflat suddenly strong.

  Ruth twisted away.

  III

  The first light of day slanted across the town, placing a tiny shadow beside each stone in the hotel yard. Charlie had already been up an hour. He sat on the back step, a cigarette rolled and stashed behind his ear for later. Grace came out of the washhouse in her hibiscus dress, carrying a basket of linen. He rose to help her.

  ‘It’s okay, Charlie,’ she said.

  He watched her as she worked. She took care not to let the ends of the sheets drag in the dirt, swinging them up and over the line in one graceful, strong movement. She was the finest-looking girl in town. Dark, thick hair, long strong limbs the colour of honey. He wondered about his own girl, Rosie, and her full-blood mother at Granite Downs Station. At least they were given rations there.

  ‘Concert tonight,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah.’ Grace threw another sheet over the line.

  Charlie heard footsteps behind him in the hallway, coming closer. Ruth walked past him, blinking as she emerged from the dark of the hotel into the yard whirling brightly with sheets.

  ‘When you’ve done the laundry I’d like you to give the dining room a bit of a dust,’ she said to Grace.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ sai
d Grace, jamming a peg onto a sheet.

  After Ruth had gone, Charlie cleared his throat and spat in the dirt beside the step. ‘Don’t let her get you down, missy,’ he said. ‘Some people just don’t know how to say please.’

  ‘Some people don’t have to,’ said Grace.

  Charlie laughed. ‘True enough,’ he said, wincing as he raised himself off the step. One of these days, he knew, the knee would go and then he’d be stuffed. No good to anybody. Grace hung the last of the sheets, picked up her basket and headed to the washhouse for the next load. ‘You got yerself a dress for the concert?’ he called.

  ‘Aww, Charlie. You know I can’t go.’

  ‘You should,’ he said, knowing it was impossible. There would be no dark-skinned people at the concert, just as none were allowed into the picture show in town on a Sunday afternoon, and only in the front stalls on Friday and Saturday nights.

  When breakfast was done, Grace took morning tea inside her room. There was a knock on the door. Grace opened it. Ruth.

  ‘Mrs Anderson,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing, my dear,’ said Ruth. ‘But I have a favour to ask. May I come in?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Grace, moving aside. She nearly motioned for Ruth to sit on the one chair her tiny room allowed, but stopped, unsure what to do. She couldn’t remember having Ruth in her room before.

  ‘I want you to accompany me to the concert tonight,’ said Ruth.

  ‘What!?’

  Ruth repeated herself.

  ‘But how … I mean, I don’t have a dress,’ said Grace, panic rising in her throat.

  ‘That’s okay. I have just the thing,’ said Ruth.

  ‘But – ’

  ‘You can knock off today at five. Then come up to my room and I’ll dress you.’

  Later, Charlie stopped Ruth as she was going upstairs. ‘The girl tells me you’re taking her to the concert,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right, Charlie.’

  ‘You got her a dress?’ asked Charlie. ‘I thought maybe I could help. Pitch in, y’know.’

  Ruth nodded. ‘Sure, Charlie. What have you got?’

  ‘Here,’ said the old man, reaching into his pocket. He drew out the five-pound note Peter Dingo had given him for helping fix the buckboard. Ruth tucked it into the bosom of her dress and left him at the foot of the stairs.