Cold Skin

She calls to her husband,

  ‘Is the grill ready yet, Ernie?’

  I raise my hat and keep walking to the corner,

  past Paley’s Emporium,

  with the staff already busy

  sweeping and dusting

  because Paley doesn’t employ cleaners.

  He gets the staff to do everything.

  Mr Carter

  I’ve had some front-page stories,

  let me tell you.

  Our boys marching to war in crisp uniforms,

  eyes forward,

  the click of heels down Main Street.

  The day our football team won the Shield

  for the first time in a generation, by Jove.

  They mounted the trophy in the window at Paley’s

  and the young children stood admiring it till sunset.

  The collapse of number two shaft

  at the end of the day shift.

  A pall of dust settled over the town

  while we waited for the bodies to be brought up.

  The following Sunday the church was full

  for the first time in years.

  A week later, Mayor Paley unveiled the memorial

  for two family men lost.

  In the paper the next day

  was a photo of the grieving miners,

  arm-in-arm at the ceremony.

  I gave a paragraph to Paley’s speech.

  The rest of the page was devoted

  to the brave souls lost

  and the Union Appeal for their families

  with an anonymous one hundred pound donation

  to get things moving.

  Never you mind who it was.

  I’m careful with what I put on the front page.

  No rubbish or gossip.

  I don’t print what people think,

  only what they say.

  If they say it, I quote them.

  I’ve studied awhile on who to believe in town,

  and how to check on those I don’t.

  I run a newspaper,

  not the town diary.

  And those who don’t like it,

  well,

  they can listen to the gossips

  at Paley’s Store.

  Mayor Paley

  Dr Barnes said it was ‘fluid on the knee’

  and he wrote a letter to the Army

  dismissing my chances of serving.

  I wanted to enlist.

  I craved to go with the rest of the men.

  But, my knee.

  It was cruel to watch them leave.

  I made a rousing speech at the farewell parade

  and decided to serve at home.

  I ran for mayor to improve my town.

  Not for myself.

  Lord.

  Didn’t I already have enough to do with my store?

  But we all must make sacrifices,

  and so I put my name forward

  and won.

  In a landslide.

  It’s the fluid that makes me limp

  but I don’t complain,

  even when a youngster from school,

  some little tyke, asks me,

  ‘Did you get that in the war?’

  Bloody cheeky kid.

  No respect for my efforts.

  I do it all for this town.

  Mayor Paley

  I didn’t approve of what Carter wrote

  when I was elected mayor.

  He didn’t have to print ‘unopposed’

  as the headline,

  implying that there was no one else to vote for.

  I was elected because of what I stood for,

  what I had to offer,

  because the whole town,

  all the women

  and the men not at war,

  everyone believed in me.

  I call that a landslide.

  A lesser man would have cancelled

  all advertisements from the paper,

  in protest.

  But I like to think of myself as a big man,

  a trifle overweight,

  but big in spirit and generosity.

  I don’t have much time for the likes of Carter.

  My father always said

  to remember your enemies

  as well as your friends,

  and don’t trust either of them.

  Mr Carter

  Mr Butcher walks by each day

  with a shallow ‘Good morning’.

  That’s all.

  He thinks I’m looking for a front page.

  Tell me,

  how can a man employed as a teacher

  be so clueless?

  What I am doing is watching the kids

  wandering ragtag to school,

  and even though I dare not,

  I’m writing their stories.

  The freckle-faced boys,

  future miners.

  In five years time I’ll be nodding to them

  as they come coughing up Main Street.

  A few will leave town to work in the city,

  in an office,

  with clean clothes

  and a determination to forget

  where they came from.

  The rest will bide their time on farms,

  or in the shops in town.

  Some of the girls will fall pregnant,

  choosing their life

  by what goes on down by the river

  one Saturday night.

  Except Sally Holmes

  and Colleen O’Connor.

  Those two,

  they’ll make their way.

  They won’t let Butcher’s pedestrian teaching

  ruin their chances.

  So I answer Mr Butcher with a firm nod

  and I keep vigil on those two girls

  because I know

  there’s always hope.

  Sally

  This morning I see Eddie

  taking the short cut to school,

  along the riverbank.

  He swings his bag from side to side,

  hand to hand,

  playing some intricate game only he knows.

  I wolf-whistle as loud as I dare

  and quickly duck behind a bush.

  Eddie stops and looks around,

  the hint of a smile on his face.

  When he starts walking away

  I try to whistle again

  but nothing comes except laughter.

  He’s seen me!

  I grab my bag and run to meet him.

  He’s carrying a sprig of mountain wattle

  and he offers it to me.

  I push the stalk into my top buttonhole.

  ‘Thanks, Eddie.’

  He smiles back

  and I’m pretty sure

  we’re both thinking of what happened by the river,

  even though neither of us is going to say

  a word about it,

  today,

  or the day after.

  Colleen

  Larry scares me with his wandering eyes

  and greasy hair.

  I know he’s looking at me,

  sitting across the desk every morning

  in the library.

  I wish there was somewhere else to sit

  but I need a desk to finish my homework

  and the library is the only room open before bell.

  So I focus really hard on what I’m doing

  and I only say ‘morning’ to Larry

  and go straight back to work.

  Why doesn’t he go out to the verandah

  where all the other girls are,

  chatting, flirting, laughing,

  and leave me to study.

  I don’t give him time to start anything.

  I’m not stupid.

  I’ve learnt enough about boys

  to know you give them an inch,

  well, they’ll take more than a mile.

  And Larry, he’s the type who’d enjoy

>   telling the whole town all about it.

  That’s not happening to me.

  Mum says I’m too good for Burruga.

  I take one quick look at Larry

  and think she may be right.

  Eddie

  I hate Monday mornings.

  Mr Butcher is staring out the window

  and the whole class keeps quiet,

  trying not to disturb him.

  But there’s no way I can do this algebra

  without help,

  so I risk it.

  I raise my hand,

  swollen

  from his cane an hour ago,

  and wait,

  hoping he’ll see,

  but he’s paying no attention to us.

  So I cough, too loudly.

  He rises from his chair and smirks.

  ‘Don’t grunt, Holding.

  Speak up if you need help.’

  Some of the class giggle

  and Mr Butcher looks pleased with himself,

  so I forget algebra and say,

  ‘No need for help, Sir.

  I just want to go to the toilet.’

  The class snigger again,

  only this time Butcher’s not sure

  if they’re laughing with him,

  or at him.

  He looks at me for a long time,

  adjusting his glasses,

  ‘When it comes to algebra, Holding,

  you have the intellectual capacity of a newt.’

  I clench my fists under the desk.

  ‘Even newts need to go to the dunny, Sir.’

  Everyone laughs.

  Butcher’s eyes flash.

  He stands quickly and points outside.

  That means I can go.

  I walk slowly,

  smiling,

  knowing he’ll be looking for payback

  sometime today.

  Eddie

  After the river kiss

  Sally and me seem closer.

  No, I’m not imagining it.

  We sit together at lunch

  and she tells me where she’s planning to go

  when she leaves school

  in exactly five months

  and fifteen days.

  That makes me sad.

  I try not to show it

  but if Sally leaves Burruga

  then I know I’ll be alone.

  Better to let the mine swallow me

  than stay in school without her.

  I decide to make the most of the time we got left

  before she gets too big for this small town.

  But I know she’s already stepping on that train

  and I’m waving from the platform,

  cursing under my breath . . .

  the necklace still in my pocket.

  Albert Holding

  Every Friday

  I stump work early

  so as to get to the pub

  with a few hours of drinking time left.

  The wife complains when I stagger home.

  Reckons I’m roaring drunk.

  So what?

  A bloke needs some relief after

  a week of feeding chooks,

  mucking-out pigs

  and running errands for Mrs Laycock,

  who’s too crook to move from the veranda.

  She spends her day watching me work,

  waiting for her husband

  to come home from ploughing the far paddock.

  So I have a drink after work

  with some buddies from town

  and listen to their stories of the mine.

  The stink of coaldust clings to their clothes,

  their skin and hair.

  The only job worse than Laycock’s

  is the one underground.

  We all get merry together

  and tell lies about the war

  and lewd stories about women

  we dreamed of meeting,

  fighting far from Burruga.

  Frank O’Connor offers the shout

  and we all accept

  because Frank spent time in Burma

  and whatever he saw

  he keeps close to his chest.

  So we all tell jokes,

  as rude as possible,

  to help him forget,

  to help us all forget,

  even those of us with bugger all to remember.

  Albert Holding

  I’m standing at the bar,

  bending my elbow,

  listening to Donald Cheetham tell his lies,

  when Fatty Paley comes in,

  taking up way too much space

  with his back-slapping

  and his toady voice.

  He bowls up to the bar and trumpets,

  ‘A round on me for everyone.

  For my mates.’

  I force a smile,

  take his beer,

  swear under my breath

  and scull it in one gulp,

  glad to be done with it.

  Fatty stands next to Frank

  and offers him another.

  Oily bastard.

  Frank’s had enough to cope with.

  The jungle,

  the Japs,

  and now Fatty.

  Colleen

  When I’m walking down Main Street after school

  I see the miners coming towards me

  in their coal-dirt overalls.

  Their teeth shine through smeared faces.

  They’re laughing and joking around

  and someone always shouts,

  ‘How ya goin’, Blondie?’

  I can feel their eyes on me.

  The Johnston boys look quite handsome,

  even in dusty overalls.

  My dad walks with them and nods at me.

  He tells me they’re good blokes,

  just having a laugh.

  And Mum says they look at me

  because I’m pretty.

  I suppose I am.

  She says

  that their eyes

  and their stares

  are the price I pay.

  I’ve just got to keep my head high

  and my eyes forward.

  Easier said than done.

  But when Les Johnston winks at me,

  I smile back,

  careful not to let Dad see.

  Les is six foot tall

  and his hair is dark and wavy

  and a girl wouldn’t mind

  running her fingers through it,

  given half a chance.

  One day.

  Larry

  Yeah, I nicked the beer

  from behind the Railway Hotel

  and I sit in Memorial Park knocking back a few.

  Eddie walks by

  looking like he’s got somewhere to go.

  ‘Hey, brother. Come here.’

  He turns and waves,

  checking both ways before walking across the grass.

  ‘No one will see, Eddie.

  Here, have a drink.’

  He steps back as if I’ve got some disease.

  ‘Geez, it’s beer, not cyanide.’

  He’s not going to take it.

  Be blowed if he’s not!

  ‘Eddie. Catch!’

  He doesn’t spill a drop,

  grabbing it in both hands,

  wondering what to do next.

  He has a quick sip

  before handing it back.

  ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  He sits beside me

  and shakes his head.

  ‘You’re a talkative bastard, Eddie.’

  He grins slowly and says,

  ‘Just like our father.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ I say.

  ‘The grumpy bugger’s always on my case.’

  Eddie reaches for the beer

  and takes a long swig.

  ‘He wasn’t always like that, Larry.’

  He wipes the mo
uth of the bottle

  before handing it back.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I know.

  The bloody war.

  Except the old bastard didn’t go anywhere.

  Just chased his tail around the desert.

  He’s hardly a hero.’

  Eddie nods and says,

  ‘I gotta go, Larry.

  Don’t let Sergeant Grainger catch you.’

  He walks off down the street,

  his hands deep in his pockets.

  Mayor Paley

  It’s just a little treat

  for the men of my town.

  They deserve a beer.

  Even lazy beggars

  like Albert Holding

  who won’t work in the mine.

  He wastes his days

  gathering eggs and feeding cows

  like some novice farm boy.

  Hell,

  I don’t care

  as long as they vote for me

  next election.

  I down a few pots myself,

  to show I’m one of them,

  even if I’m better educated

  and wear tailored clothes

  and own a few places around town.

  I don’t ever mention that.

  It’s not good form.

  That Holding fellow

  didn’t even thank me for his beer.

  Ungrateful boor.

  I force a laugh

  and slap him on the back

  to show I’m the bigger man.

  Sally

  Dad meets me at netball.

  He’s there, regular as clockwork,

  a few minutes before we finish,

  as the sun fades behind Jaspers Hill.

  He hates Friday evenings.

  ‘The drunk night’ he calls it.

  And even though it’s only

  a few blocks to our house,

  he won’t let me walk it alone.

  He always invites Jean Bennett

  to come with us

  because she lives on the way

  and he’s not letting her walk home alone either.

  The men are still at the pub,

  getting the last few drinks in before closing.

  My dad won’t take no for an answer,

  and every Friday I see him

  looking at the girls strolling home

  in the opposite direction

  and I know he hates that.

  He doesn’t say much on the walk.

  He’s thinking of the other girls

  and their fathers jostling each other at the pub,

  trying to get one last shout

  before the publican calls time

  and they all stagger out,

  wondering which way is home.

  Larry

  I stand the empty bottle below the plaque

  dedicated to the soldiers from the Great War.