Bloke, page 18
‘Aunty, Aunty, I’m not a bloody lawyer, I’m —’
‘Yev got an education, Jim. If ya mother had been given a go she’d a’ had one too. She was that bright, that girl. We were so proud of …’ The old woman started to bawl. All over the chicken. She clutched the blobby grey corpse to her face and bawled all over it. ‘I miss …’
‘All right, Aunt, all right. I know. I’ve got those photos. I can see what was in her eyes. Just give me time, let me sort out —’
‘Go on then.’ Her words were glubby with moisture. ‘Go on, go back to that woman an’ sort it out, but don’t be bloody long coz I’m …’ She pressed the chook to her mouth and her shoulders heaved, the chook rocking and heaving with her sobs, slippery with tears, legs and wings jiggling in macabre grief.
I put my hand on her shoulder. I reached a little and put it on her head, let it slide over her old steely hair to her neck, my touch nervous, tentative. Reassuring women, aunts, wasn’t a skill I’d trained for. I waited while her shoulders subsided from the renewed quaking.
‘Sorry, Jim, sorry, I never cry like this. Waste a time, it’s just …’ She shrugged her shoulders and straightened, noticed the slippery chook, and tried to arrange the bird’s limbs into something resembling a presentable hen. ‘Geez, I loved this chook.’
The sorrow-drenched fowl roasted up all right, but after tea I took myself out for a walk. I’d never been to the local pub. It was a redbrick monster on a hill above the river. Massive, belligerent, squat, in brick the colour of unhealthy liver.
Sports photos on the wall, dark timber horseshoe bar, the click of pool balls in a dim corner. An old joker in a beaten felt hat and RSL badge propped on a stool like a superannuated owl, ready to sneer and disapprove of outsiders. Two blokes in jeans looked up as I entered, assessed, nodded acknowledgement, went back to their conversation about baling contracts. The barman polished a glass like a parody of himself but could have been taking the mickey … of someone.
He served me a pot of beer that was just right. Asked how I’d been battling. Not bad, I said. Lifted the glass, eyeing the head and the frosty glass with anticipation. But the Owl, with that uncanny watchful timing, spoke before the foam had reached my lip.
‘You’re the bloke livin with the coons.’
I glanced at the barman and the two other blokes to see how they took all the news in this sentence. I thought at least one of the pool players must have been Aboriginal, but perhaps they didn’t hear, or heard it every night and accepted that that’s just the way owls earn their dinner. Swooping on mice.
‘I’m living in Mrs Thomas’s house.’
‘That old commie bitch.’
‘Ease up, Stewie,’ the barman cautioned mildly.
‘She’s stuffin up the River Authority is what Stewie means,’ the taller of the baling contract men explained.
A woman sailed into the bar from the saloon lounge – manager’s wife, I figured. She had the no-nonsense, seen-it-all look.
‘Yes, I have to retain Stewie as my Customer Relations Manager, he’s got such a sweet way with words,’ she explained, before sweeping up the Owl’s pony glass and filling it in the same action. ‘Keep ’em happy or keep ’em pissed is our motto.’
‘You slingin off at me, Deidre?’
‘No, Stew, I’m just being polite to guests, which is why we put up with your more colourful moments.’
‘Senior moments,’ added the hay-baler, winking at me.
I had another beer and calculated that it was my first drink since La Paz, if you didn’t count the beers at Uncle Binny’s. First independent drink. I took the beer with me and strolled around the bar inspecting the sporting photographs. Football Grand Final teams, big fish, local racehorses, the pub itself in 1910, soft-porn postcards from Coolangatta – hard to imagine anyone from here travelling further than the Coles in Bairnsdale.
Near the pool table was a series of the ‘Big Flood, 1972’.
‘Full a shit that Stewie,’ the shorter pool player addressed me. ‘Aunty Cookup’d be lookin after ya, though, wouldn’t she?’
‘You’re full of shit yourself, butcher boy,’ the Owl hooted.
‘Likes to work “boy” into the sentence when he talks to our mob,’ the pool player murmured to me, and then addressed himself to Stewie in a louder voice. ‘You’re only shitty because I sacked you after I bought the shop. Didn’t seem to understand we were lookin for somethin a bit quicker than a dozen sausages per stubby.’
Everyone in the bar laughed quietly. Stewie’s capacity as butcher’s assistant must have been discussed here before.
Again he spoke to me so Stewie couldn’t hear. ‘Told his missus not to buy the meat there because blacks had touched it.’
He turned back to the table and despatched a few balls. ‘That bloody Retha’s a bit of all right, eh?’ He was fishing.
‘Yeah, she’s a lovely girl – my cousin. Sort of.’
‘Yeah, know that, bruz, but hard to take your eyes off that girl but. Tried to turn her into the butcher’s wife but she was havin none of it.’
‘I just tried to turn one into her,’ the other pool player added and the two laughed quietly together. It didn’t seem vicious, just the reality of small-town loins.
‘Destined for higher orders,’ the butcher said.
When the taller pool player ordered drinks he returned with a pot for me. ‘Ever been to India?’ He asked the tired old joke. ‘Well, get that indya.’
I smiled, knowing it was a joke simply to mask his generosity, his welcome.
‘Me name’s Kenny Fox, this here’s Cottee Arnold … the butcher boy,’ he added sotto voce. They both laughed.
They continued to play pool, greeting errant shots from the other with mild abuse and laughter. They didn’t talk a lot, just enjoyed the beer, the game and laconic company. They rescued me from the Owl because they knew I’d come for the same purpose. Or because they were more bloody cousins. Or one of them was. Couldn’t tell about the tall one. Not everyone objected to the company of a black man, or to being served by him in a shop.
I wondered if there was a Mrs Butcher. Wondered if I should have asked about the butcher’s family. See if we were cousins, but I was tired, too tired to put myself through the emotional wringer of the identity thing. I’d come here for a rest from Aunty Cookup. But as soon as that thought came I felt a surge of – I couldn’t tell whether it was grief, annoyance or love. I thought of her unwavering courage and began to think a sentence where I declared to myself that I’d be proud if she was my – and I stopped right there. She was. And that was half the trouble. She was and I could never deny it. Never be able to travel the road again and rock into a bar or café in a country town as Mr Anonymous. That old woman with the size 28 undies was my aunty.
sixteen
When I came back the house was quiet. Just a slit of light from the firebox door. I put tea in the pot and poured water from the simmering kettle. I waited for the tea to draw, standing by the stove, letting its warmth surround me. Comfort me.
‘Wouldn’t mind a cup meself.’
I spun around, saw the faint outline of Aunty Cookup in the chair.
‘Been for a walk?’
‘Had a beer.’
‘Hmpph.’
‘Met the butcher and his mate. Good bloke.’
‘My oath he is. Robin Hood, that man. Makes sure a black man’s meat is a bit heavier, few more snags or chops. Good man.’
‘Little weasel man there reckons you’re a communist.’
‘Thank Christ for that. I thought he hated me.’
‘It was good to have a yarn.’
‘Yes, you need that, Jim. I seen you boys come home after your holiday, all emptiness, restless an’ cranky.’
‘I’ve always been a loner, Aunt.’
‘But you chose that. Different when they force it on you.’
I poured two cups of tea. ‘What about some toast as well, eh? Make a bit of a picnic.’
I cut bread, lifted the damper on the stove and cooked the toast on the hotplate.
‘Ah, blackfella toast,’ she sighed. ‘Better get that honey Darce got for me.’
I knew the jar. It was real dark honey, with little black bees embalmed in it like Chinese jewels. Native bees. She actually licked her lips as I passed her the plate of toast. ‘Oh, you know, Jim, when we were kids we hardly ever got white food. Flour an’ sugar an’ tea but everythin else was out of the bush. Rabbit, roo, fish, cabbage, cobbera, duck, snake, oyster, mussel – we never thought we was poor until we went to school an’ the other kids laughed at us. We might have an apple and piece of rabbit leg for lunch an’ those white kids would piss ’emselves laughin. It hurt, you know, because we loved our parents. Hated to hear them shamed. Specially by little snotty kids. That’s why I love this black tucker.’ She saluted me with a slice of toast.
‘Yeah, I seen you boys come back lonely an’ loose. Trouble brewin like last week’s stew. Went into town the other day as witness for one of Jemmie’s boys. Been in for six weeks for beltin some bloke, gets out and within a week he’s inside for stealin a car. Wasn’t his car but them mongrels let down his tyres, locked it and pinched his keys. Big joke. So he borrows one in the car park. Bloke reports it stolen, doesn’t realise it was someone in his own footy club. Didn’t want to press charges but then they ask this bloke about the stash in his car, the under-age girl. Had ’im, made ’im press charges. That’s the sort of work grinds me down, Jim. Arguin to keep a young boy out of gaol when he was just wild an’ stupid, an’ thought he could trust his mates. That’s when you realise the colour difference, that’s when the anger starts. That’s why ya have to bottle it. You can’t afford to get angry, Jim, because last time you did they done you, an’ they’re itchin to do it again. We need you with us, Jim, this side of the fence. Inside ya just more work for us, more worry, less hands to do the work.’ She took a long draft of her cooling tea. Stared at the cup.
‘Go a bit cold on you, Aunt?’
‘Yeah.’ She looked up hopefully.
‘I’ll make you another one.’
‘Good picnic this.’ She even smiled at me, but in the light from the stove it looked a bit like a snarl from the Gippsland panther. ‘You’re not a bad sort, Jim, you know that. You an’ Retha would be all right, and it never hurts for black to marry black but you’ve got the holiday lonelies, Jim, and you can’t trust that. You spent all those years in the home an’ then all those years inside, and you can’t trust what you feel as soon as you get out. You got the lonelies, an’ woman lonelies is the worst kind. An’ you got that other woman an’ …’
‘That right?’
‘She’s your age and you found her. You courted her, Jim. Get that look off ya face. We know a lot a things, Jim. Nugget went down ta Nullakarn tryin ta suss out Stoker an’ Baras. People told him stuff. We know all that fishin mob, worked for plenty of ’em, treat us better than most white people. Mainly coz some of ’em aren’t all that white.’
‘So that means you can give me advice on romance?’
‘Woman’s prerogative. Aunt’s duty. Black woman’s right.’
‘Never saw it in the constitution.’
‘Constitution lists us under flora and fauna.’
‘For a lady who never went to school you know a lot.’
‘I learnt ta read, Jim, and for lonely people readin is liberty.’
‘Lonely, Aunt?’
‘You wouldn’t know the half of it, Jim.’
We looked at each other in the faint, flickering light of the stove.
‘And don’t you tell no one about what I said.’
‘About Jemmie’s boy’s car?’
‘No, smartarse, the lonelies, mine an’ yours. All my mob think I’m strong as an ox. No need for ’em to know otherwise. Don’t know why I told you.’
‘Too much tea.’
‘Well, you’re probably right. Aren’t too many ever made me a cup of tea. And when they do I appreciate it.’
I nodded, embarrassed.
‘On the outside, Jim, that’s where we want you. Pickin up the slack an’ helpin us poor old people.’
‘Geez, Aunt, I hope you’re not goin to sook on me.’
‘Sook. No time for black people to sook.’
We finished the tea and toast and I took the plates and cups to the sink. I could hear the old lady squirming down into the chair. I glanced over my shoulder. She was a big woman but was wriggling down into the arms of the battered chair like a child.
‘You going to bed, Aunt?’
‘No, I’ll stay here now, next to me fire. Often sleep out here Good place to think.’
‘Well, good night, Aunt.’
‘Jim, there’s one thing I want you to do.’ I looked at the kettle. I’d just filled it with cold water. ‘I want you to be an old man. Outside. Sorry to nag but if you do that I’ll lie down by ya mother a happy woman.’ She turned away from me, and just as well.
I turned off the light and in the sudden darkness waited for my eyes to adjust and pick out the edges of furniture lit by the gleam from the stove door. Her voice began again, deep and muffled by the cushion. ‘Of course, they’ll hate you for it, Jim. You wait. Choosin black over white. Been the same since day one, just couldn’t believe we didn’ wanna be white. Couldn’ believe we preferred our own life, our own way of —’
‘Sleeping in chairs.’
She just ignored my attempt to lighten it a bit. ‘They want us to be grateful. There’s some good people about. I’m not stupid, I can see that, people who do you a good turn when it suits them, but they’re always waitin for us to kiss their hand —’
‘Kiss their hand!’
‘Well, I know they’re not all like that, I know not all, but I can’t give in to not all, we have to keep our pride, Jim, not go all gooey when they give us a break, let us have a broken-down mill house, let us rent a bloody rotten house on our own land.’
‘This is a good old house, Aunt.’
‘Are you listenin, Jim?’ I heard her sit up in the chair. Probably turned to face me, but not even the edge of her cheek could be seen. ‘It’s not about the house, or a second-hand armchair that no one wants any more, it’s the fact that they want you to love them, love their bloody Christian generosity, they want us to see the superiority of their love and charity, their Christian goodness, and I won’t bloody do that, because it just encourages them. I don’t want to be white.’
‘I think you’ve had success there.’
‘I don’t want a garden like theirs, a house like theirs, manners like theirs. I want my old granny’s manners. I want my old man’s food. But they want me to aspire …’ The last word hung in the air because I heard the hesitation as she searched for it and she drew a breath on account of it. ‘Aspire to their way of life. And I won’t because that means they were right to pinch our land. Soon as they came along we want their church, their lace, their washing bloody powder.’
‘No one’s got whiter washing than you, Aunt.’
‘Yeah, I’m famous for me whites, but that’s just so they can’t point the finger. I never go past without buyin a raffle ticket for the old folks’ home neither. I want to pull me weight so they can never point the finger, so that when I refuse to be white they know it’s not because I can’t wash a fuckin tablecloth.’
The dark surrounded us, the strip of light at the edge of the stove door our only comfort. I heard her squirming in the chair again, bedding down.
‘They’ll hate ya for not choosin white, Jim. I’m just warnin ya. It’ll never be easy, they’ll be always waitin for ya to trip up, to prove their way is best. That’s why it’s lonely. That’s why ya get tired.’
‘And have to sleep in a chair.’
‘I sleep here so’s I can feel the fire on me face. Reminds me of the old days, that’s all. And you’d better get back to the shed. I’m just warnin you about the haul ahead, that’s all. No use pullin out later because the goin gets tough. We can’t afford to be lookin over our shoulder all the time, wonderin where you are.’
‘I’m over here in the dark.’
‘We’re all in the dark, my countryman. We need you to pull your weight, Jim. You’re either black or ya not, but if ya black, then ya wake up black and go ta bed black. And in between ya workin for the mob.
‘Ya seen the butcher, eh? Is he just cuttin up meat? No, he’s a good lad. He’s provin to ’em that he can cut the mustard. Provin that he can run a business, look after his wife an’ kids, but anytime there’s a sports day or dance, he gives us the meat, we don’t have to ask. He’s a black man and proud of it. Doesn’t have ta wear badges and ribbons to prove he’s black, he just is, and he’s workin for his people. When ya black you’re never free, because there’s two hundred years of spadework to do.’
‘You want me to cut up some snags, Aunt?’
‘Don’t try and joke out of it, Jim, I’m not in the mood. Ya got that education, education, Jim, not a bloody apprenticeship. Sausages will keep us alive but we can’t fight the bloody authorities with famous corn beef recipes. That girl, Charlie’s daughter, ya seen what she done. She made a film about us people, made them bastards watch it, with her will and her mind, that’s what we need, educated people to argue, we need …’
‘Water in the rivers.’
‘Don’t sneer at an old lady doin her best.’
‘Not sneering, Aunt.’
‘Just as well because that’s the sort of thing we need. Why’s there no bloody water in the river? Coz the greedy bastards used it all, couldn’t bear to see any of it run past their fence. We have to teach ’em about the country they live in. Teach ’em how to look after it. Like that Perkins girl.’
We sat in silence, both of us leaning forward, watching the crack of light below the stove door.
‘That’s all.’ A log of wood crumbled to coals inside the firebox and sent a shower of sparks up the chimney. We could see the rush of their constellations through a hole in the flue. I heard her crush back into the corner of the giant chair, heard it moan in acceptance of her. I didn’t look around but imagined the tired old woman curled up like a girl.
