Cold Skin

  But here’s my deal,

  the pact I made with myself–

  I’ll give it a burl

  and do every inch of Butcher’s homework

  if only I can leave town when I’m fifteen,

  in six months time,

  after the exams,

  after I get the certificate.

  I’m going to wave it in their faces and say,

  ‘See ya.

  See ya for ever.’

  Mayor Paley

  I tell them exactly what they want to hear

  and I’ll try to make it happen, truly.

  Everyone in town should have a job.

  We’re sitting on a pile of coal here.

  So I promise what I can

  and now it just depends on money

  and the State Government.

  Most of these people don’t realise

  it isn’t the town that’s building the things I promise.

  It’s the State.

  I’ll do my best to swing it, I will.

  A man of my stature has influence.

  And friends.

  Trust me.

  It’ll take a few trips to the city, mind you,

  and I’ll have to spend some town money

  entertaining those business folk

  so they’re sure we’re worth helping,

  way out here.

  But I know a few people;

  associates of my father.

  Good citizens.

  Rich people in the city.

  I will never cease working for my town.

  ‘Will and purpose.’

  Mr Wright spoke the truth.

  Albert Holding

  Fatty Paley was a sneaky kid in baggy trousers,

  with a limp,

  and a father who owned the general store.

  And Fatty grows into,

  expands into,

  the mayor of this town,

  while the rest of us are fighting the war.

  Driving trucks is fighting a war.

  Fatty charms the ladies

  with his boarding school education

  and his prissy sincere voice.

  He greases the palms of certain people

  who backed him as mayor

  while the rest of us were thousands of miles away.

  Fatty gets fatter and richer than his old man

  and he has a sign above his store,

  his crummy little general store,

  that reads ‘Paley’s Emporium’,

  because Fatty’s too proud to own just a shop.

  And he had the hide to stand on the platform

  when our train came in,

  holding out his arms,

  hugging,

  yeah, hugging,

  every man who came home from the war.

  It made my flesh creep.

  Eddie

  I’m not much good at maths

  and

  I’m not much good at grammar

  and

  I’m not much good at geography

  and

  I’m not much good at anything,

  says Mr Butcher

  with his hair slicked-back so tight

  it draws the blood from his face.

  His thick black-rimmed glasses

  sit useless on his nose

  as he stands at the chalkboard

  tapping his long ruler,

  talking to the class,

  pointing at a map of the world

  and trying to convince us

  our country is the biggest island

  in the whole world.

  I believe him,

  it’s just the idea of an island,

  you know,

  surrounded by water,

  when it looks to me that map shows

  nearly every country is surrounded by water.

  So I put up my hand and say,

  ‘Africa looks bigger than Australia, Sir.’

  Mr Butcher removes his glasses,

  rolls his eyes and slowly shakes his head.

  ‘Yes, Eddie Holding.

  But Africa is a continent,

  not a country.

  Didn’t I mention that?’

  He says it like he did mention that,

  but I can’t remember,

  and judging by the look on everyone else’s face,

  they can’t remember either.

  Continent.

  Country.

  So Mr Butcher explains the difference

  and I can tell he’s mad at me

  because I picked him up on something.

  After he’s finished he’s says his usual,

  ‘There, Eddie.

  You’re not much good at geography.

  You’re not much good at remembering.’

  I see Larry smirking,

  and hear the giggles from behind me,

  so I stand up,

  wave my arm just like Mr Butcher

  and say,

  ‘And you’re not much good at teaching, Sir.’

  Then I walk out of the classroom

  and head to Jamison River to go swimming.

  I’m very good at swimming.

  I reckon the river

  and the sunny day

  are worth the punishment I’m in for

  on Monday morning.

  Larry

  My stupid brother can’t keep his mouth shut.

  Yeah, Butcher never told us about continents.

  In all the years pointing at that boring map.

  I know he never told us because, unlike Eddie,

  I remember everything I’m taught

  and I studied it in the library,

  tracing my finger over the world atlas,

  imagining how long it’ll take me

  to travel the distance from here to all those places.

  Eddie will get six cuts on Monday

  and we’ll all be given a lecture

  with Butcher’s voice like powerlines in winter,

  whining in the wind.

  You’re never sure if they’ll snap over your head.

  He’ll go on about manners,

  proper behaviour,

  respect for your elders,

  and I’ll be thinking,

  just get on with it, Butcher,

  and whip my stupid brother a few times

  with your nasty little cane.

  Let’s start algebra

  because I still don’t understand it all

  and I’ve only got six months more

  and yes, you are a hopeless teacher,

  but you’re the only teacher we got,

  so get on with it.

  Eddie

  Sally Holmes runs through the willows

  and stands beside me, looking down at the river.

  ‘As soon as the bell went

  I was out of there like a shot.’

  She kicks off her shoes

  flings her socks after them,

  not taking her eyes off the clear water

  and the rope dangling from the river gum tree.

  ‘Do you think I can grab it, first go?’

  Sally orders me to look away

  and I hear the rustle of her dress

  as she pulls it over her shoulders.

  She’s wearing dark blue swimmers

  and I feel my face go blush red

  as I try my best not to look at her.

  ‘I’ll go first, if you want, Sally.

  It’s going to be freezing.’

  She has wavy hair like flowing cream

  and she’s as tall as me,

  with long legs and a narrow waist.

  I love Sally,

  but I don’t tell anyone that,

  especially not Sally.

  I’m her friend,

  and I listen to her wild laughter

  as she runs from the bank

  and leaps towards the rope,

  both hands grabbing the very end

  as she swi
ngs far out to midstream and hangs there,

  looking back at me,

  ‘Too late, Eddie!’

  She falls with a scream,

  hits the water in a curled-up ball,

  comes up laughing and hooting,

  racing back to shore to do it all again.

  She pushes her hair back

  and flicks her wet hands,

  spraying cold drops all over me.

  ‘Come on, jump in.

  It’s not too chilly.’

  I hold the rope for her

  because if there’s one thing I like

  more than swimming,

  it’s watching beautiful Sally Holmes

  laughing and rope-swinging.

  Just me and her in the afternoon

  at Jamison River.

  Sally

  All the wowsers and bullet-heads

  in school say Eddie is slow.

  They call him names behind his back.

  ‘Pudding brain’ and ‘Clod-boy’.

  They say it quietly,

  because whether he is or not

  doesn’t matter so much,

  they know that if he ever heard them

  there’d be trouble—

  trouble in the form of big Eddie

  and his oversized fists.

  They’re all wrong anyway.

  I know Eddie better than they do.

  He’d never hurt anyone,

  not unless they meant him harm.

  We swim down at the waterhole,

  even in winter when there’s no one else around.

  One day I’m going to dive deep enough

  to touch the bottom,

  way out in the middle of the river.

  Eddie calls this place, Sally’s Spot, in my honour.

  He holds the rope for me,

  hands me my towel.

  He’s a gentleman,

  he’s my friend.

  Eddie

  I found the necklace beside the train tracks

  and knew that someone rich

  and spoilt,

  or angry,

  had thrown it from the train window.

  It shone in the grass

  and I rushed across the line to pick it up

  and polish its shiny-metal smoothness.

  I opened the heart-shaped locket.

  The inscription read

  ‘To my Beloved’.

  That’s all.

  No signature.

  Maybe he was embarrassed to sign his name.

  Or he didn’t mean it,

  didn’t have the guts to commit.

  Perhaps that’s why it got tossed by a girl

  who couldn’t stand to wear it around her neck

  and be reminded of his lies.

  When I got home

  I hid it in my drawer,

  stuffed in the oldest pair of socks.

  For safe keeping.

  For Sally.

  Sally

  I don’t know what came over me.

  When Eddie held the rope

  as I walked towards him,

  dripping wet and trembling from the cold water,

  well,

  when he handed me the rope

  and smiled in his relaxed way,

  I leaned forward and kissed him.

  On the lips.

  I closed my eyes

  and I’m sure he closed his.

  We stood there together

  with our lips touching

  for a few seconds

  and I stopped shaking.

  I gripped the rope tightly

  as I drifted back from Eddie

  and flung myself

  as far into the river

  as the swing would take me,

  and just before I dropped

  I looked back towards the bank.

  Eddie was gone.

  Eddie

  Sally has a tiny gap between her two front teeth.

  I get lost in her smile.

  That’s what I was looking at

  when she walked up to me

  all wet and shivering,

  and I wasn’t ready for what she did.

  Bloody hell.

  Would I ever be ready?

  At school, when it comes to Friday games,

  like tug-of-war,

  I’m the first picked

  and the other side always asks for an extra player.

  When deliveries come in from the city

  they get me to unload the truck

  and I toss the boxes into the storeroom.

  Sometimes I lift three at a time

  just to see how much I can carry.

  I tell the driver this is better than school work.

  Nobody in school is stronger than me.

  But when Sally Holmes kissed me,

  I never felt so weak in all my life.

  Eddie

  I do the washing up for Mum

  same as every night,

  because Larry says he has to study.

  Aren’t we in the same class?

  Don’t we do the same homework?

  Larry sneers when I say this.

  ‘My homework is nothing like yours.’

  I know what he means

  but I don’t argue

  because someone’s got to do the dishes

  for Mum,

  who’s done all the cooking.

  Tonight I wash real slow

  because I’m looking out the window

  down to Jamison River

  and I’m thinking of Sally Holmes

  with her red lips wet,

  brushing mine,

  and I figure

  it’s worth it

  in my little life

  to stand here

  dreaming.

  Larry

  Yeah, my brother

  hangs around with Sally,

  but I reckon

  she’s just taking pity on him,

  on account of her too-good ways.

  I don’t care.

  She ain’t that pretty.

  Give me Colleen O’Connor any day.

  She’s as attractive as any movie star, I reckon.

  That’s why every morning

  I go to the library

  and sit at the same desk as Colleen.

  She don’t say much

  but I don’t care

  because I work on reading my book

  and looking at her white blouse

  and imagining what’s underneath.

  I’m getting so good at it

  sometimes

  when the bell rings

  I can’t move for a few minutes

  until it’s safe to stand,

  if you know what I mean.

  I watch Colleen walk out of the library,

  her fine legs and ankles,

  and I sit here

  getting the courage

  to ask her out,

  one day,

  when I think the time is right.

  Me and Colleen.

  Eddie

  In the backyard of our old house, before the war,

  Dad built us a cubby

  out of cast-off fence posts and rusty nails.

  Me and Larry would play in it most of the weekend,

  pretending to be cowboy scouts

  waiting for the Indians to attack.

  Dad carved us guns out of pine wood

  and coloured the barrels with charcoal,

  drilling a hole where the trigger should be.

  He taught us how to twirl the six-gun.

  Me and Larry would face off across the grass

  until Dad called ‘shoot’.

  We’d both fling ourselves to the ground

  pointing the guns at each other,

  yelling, ‘bang, bang, bang’

  until Dad would wink at one of us to play dead.

  He did it in turn so Larry and me

  each got to blow imaginary smoke from our barrels

  a
nd be a western hero

  while Dad carried off the body of our brother

  to the far corner of the yard

  where the compost heap steamed.

  Dad called it Tombstone Hill.

  That was when we were young.

  Before Dad signed up for the war.

  Long before the war.

  TWO

  Coal town

  Mr Butcher

  I have ambitions

  for teaching in the city.

  At a Grammar school,

  where everyone,

  I mean everyone,

  addresses you as ‘Sir’.

  Where they have servants

  preparing lunch for staff,

  served in a dining room lined with pictures

  of the school history.

  They have linen on the tables,

  leather chairs,

  and the only sound you hear

  is the clink of fine bone china.

  A school where you can dedicate your life

  and become a History Master.

  And the students sit up straight

  in spotless, pressed uniforms,

  listening.

  And they all have plans.

  Solicitors.

  Doctors.

  Managers.

  A school where they play rugby,

  serve tea and scones

  on the sidelines every Saturday,

  with the parents asking after ‘young Harold’

  and whether his homework

  is up to standard.

  As if it isn’t anything but perfect.

  Mr Butcher.

  Master Butcher.

  Sir.

  Mr Butcher

  I stroll to school down Main Street,

  listening to the groaning freight train

  pulling the night-shift coal load to the coast.

  I nod to Calder, the butcher,

  and Old Man Wilson

  who runs the hardware.

  He spends most of his day

  sitting in his office,

  looking down on the store

  as he sips his tea

  and watches each customer,

  tipping his hat to the ladies,

  but rarely getting up from his

  expensive swivel chair,

  letting his son do the work.

  I say ‘Good morning’ to Mr Carter,

  editor of The Guardian,

  who keeps an eagle eye

  on Main Street early morning,

  as if the news is just waiting to happen

  outside his shopfront.

  Mrs Kain sits on her bentwood chair

  at the front of Sunset Café,

  having her first tea of the day.