Cold Skin

  ‘Sorry, fellas.’

  Jamming the head of my next bottle

  under the brass plate,

  I twist and the cap snaps off,

  rolling along the concrete like a stray dice.

  There’s nothing to do now

  except wander down Princess Street

  towards the river.

  Trying my best to follow the white line,

  not having much luck though.

  The bastard who painted this

  must have been drunk.

  A dog starts barking

  and jumping against his lead.

  I’m tempted to chuck the bottle at it

  except there’s still some left

  and I’m not wasting it on no stupid animal.

  At the end of the street

  I climb the fence and cut myself on the barbed-wire.

  What idiot fences off the river

  for God’s sake?

  I hurl the bottle across the water,

  smashing it on the rocks.

  ‘Better not swim there, children.’

  At least it’s quiet down here,

  away from all the old men wandering home,

  singing tunes from the war

  and vomiting in the gutters.

  My head is spinning.

  Must be Mum’s awful cooking.

  Mr Butcher

  On Friday evenings

  I take my supper

  at the Sunset Café.

  A mixed grill

  with Mr Kain’s special–

  grilled mince rolled into a long thin sausage

  cooked with tomatoes and mushrooms.

  He makes it for me alone

  because no one else in this town

  cares much about food on Friday night.

  I ignore the noise from the pub.

  A mob of uncouth drunks falling about,

  spilling drinks and cursing.

  Mrs Kain pours me another cup

  of her strong black tea.

  ‘Off to visit your mother again, Mr Butcher?’

  Forcing a smile, I answer,

  ‘Dear Mrs Kain.

  My poor mother insists she can cope alone.

  But–’

  Mrs Kain interrupts,

  ‘You’re a good man, Mr Butcher.

  A good man.’

  In a few hours

  I’ll be on the train

  heading into the city,

  away from this backwater,

  to spend two days

  and my wage

  on pleasures you can’t enjoy in this town.

  Delights that I deserve

  after another week

  teaching the unteachable.

  Things that a single man needs

  when he lives in a town of married old matrons

  and young schoolgirls.

  Things that Mrs Kain and my mother,

  dead for ten long years,

  wouldn’t understand.

  Things that make me forget

  Monday morning.

  Eddie

  I dangle my legs over a fork in the branch

  of the old fig tree,

  waiting for the night train to the city.

  A lady beetle lands on my arm

  and tickles along my skin.

  Mr Butcher takes a long time to light his pipe.

  He stands at the far end of the platform,

  away from the lights,

  thinking no one sees him.

  I do.

  Maybe he has a wife and kids in the city,

  where he goes every weekend,

  but I don’t believe it.

  He’s not the type.

  The train whistle echoes through Dulwich Gap.

  Mr Butcher empties his pipe onto the tracks

  and tucks it into his overcoat.

  He glances up and down the platform,

  picks up his Gladstone bag,

  and pulls his hat low over his eyes.

  I see you, Mr Butcher.

  I see you.

  Mr Carter

  Here comes Larry Holding

  staggering towards my office,

  doing his best to stay upright,

  talking to some imaginary friend

  who dances around him.

  A slow waltz, by the look of things.

  When the paper is put to bed,

  I relax with a cup of tea

  on the old lounge chair

  in the front room,

  with all the lights out.

  It’s then I watch my town lurch by,

  getting itself into such a tangle.

  Larry wants to fight the lamppost.

  He’s so drunk

  he starts swearing at it.

  I expect he’ll throw the first punch.

  My money’s on the lamppost.

  He sits in the gutter for a while,

  scratching his head,

  shaking his fist at the post

  and muttering to himself.

  Maybe his imaginary friend

  became bored and moved on?

  Larry gradually stands and sways

  before wandering off

  slowly down the street.

  There’s no pedigree in that family.

  A dad with a chip on his shoulder,

  brooding on Laycock’s farm.

  A mum, quiet as a dormouse,

  sending the boys out to find food at the river

  or shoot rabbits on Jaspers Hill.

  And big Eddie,

  stuck at school

  when he really wants to work those muscles

  where they might be of some use.

  Larry

  They shouldn’t stick lampposts

  right on the footpath

  where you can walk into them.

  If only I had an axe.

  Hang on,

  Colleen’s house isn’t far from here.

  A walk will clear my head,

  but it won’t do much for my stomach.

  Bloody heck, the footpath is really uneven.

  Maybe it’s something to do with the mine?

  All that digging underground.

  The old man reckons the whole town will collapse

  and disappear into a giant pit.

  I wish he’d disappear into a giant pit!

  Here’s Colleen’s place.

  Up and tumble over the fence

  into the bushes beside her room.

  How did my clothes get so dirty?

  I’m just sitting here,

  innocent, I swear,

  giving my eyes time to focus . . .

  through her window.

  And there she is,

  getting out of bed,

  wearing just a nightie,

  a very short nightie,

  as she heads out to the dunny

  in the backyard.

  My eyes follow her,

  but I don’t move.

  I can’t move.

  When she walks back up the path

  I see her ankles,

  fine slim ankles,

  and I gulp so hard

  I’m sure she can hear me.

  But she doesn’t look around.

  She hurries inside

  and I watch as she snuggles down into bed.

  Then I stagger away from the bushes,

  thinking a thousand things at once,

  feeling mad sober

  and wild drunk

  all at the same time.

  Albert Holding

  My wife and I don’t talk much.

  Not since I got home from up north

  and she asked me questions,

  too many questions,

  about what I’d done,

  what I’d seen,

  what I planned to do

  now that the family was back together.

  It only took a few hours

  for her to mention the mine

  and the jobs begging to be filled
r />   and how some boys

  were leaving school

  to work down the pits

  because the money’s so good,

  and everyone in town

  is buying one of them new fridges,

  and how the Bennetts have moved

  into a bigger house

  now there’s two breadwinners.

  That’s when I slammed the chair back

  and leant over the table,

  pointing towards town.

  ‘I’m never going down that bloody mine again!

  And neither are the boys.

  They either leave town,

  if they got half-a-brain,

  or they find whatever work they can

  above ground, in the sunshine.’

  She doesn’t understand.

  No one can,

  unless they’ve been down the pits

  where men get buried

  and all the management does

  is put a cairn at the entrance

  to remind us of their sacrifice.

  Each miner touches the inscription

  ‘for luck’

  before disappearing.

  Not me.

  Not my boys.

  My wife and I,

  we don’t talk much.

  Mr Butcher

  In the city, the streets reek

  of perfume, beer and smoke.

  It’s easy to find what I want,

  no matter how late it is.

  She has hazel eyes

  and glistening black hair.

  We go to the Royal Hotel,

  offering rooms by the hour,

  and climb the creaking stairs

  with stained carpet.

  The odour of fried food

  blows through an open window.

  She switches on a lamp,

  which throws a pale light

  over the unmade bed.

  When she asks my name

  I answer, ‘Eddie. Eddie Holding.’

  That insolent kid wouldn’t know what to do.

  Her perfume is so strong my eyes water.

  I tell her what I want.

  My hand reaches for her hair,

  a slick of fine weave,

  her thick lipstick on my cheek

  and the touch of her cool skin . . .

  and suddenly I think of the classroom,

  my weekday world,

  so I lean heavily on her soft body.

  I’m so thrilled and so ashamed

  all at the same time.

  I push harder

  trying to forget everything,

  but I see the blankness in her eyes

  and that’s when I ram

  as rough as I dare.

  I want to drive that emptiness away

  until it’s replaced by fear.

  With one last lunge

  I groan like an animal,

  roll off and keep my eyes closed

  for as long as possible,

  even when I hear her dressing.

  ‘Time’s up, Eddie.’

  She’s standing there

  looking older than she did an hour ago,

  with her hair a charcoal mess

  and clothes slouched on.

  She stuffs the money in her handbag,

  says goodbye and walks out,

  leaving the door open

  to remind me this room

  is rented by the hour,

  not the night.

  Eddie

  Larry stinks of beer

  and mumbles to himself

  as he climbs into bed

  on the other side of our small room.

  He’s gonna snore all night

  and in the morning

  roll over with a headache and a temper.

  He’ll stumble outside

  and throw up under the lemon tree.

  I’ve got no chores tomorrow

  so I jump out of bed,

  climb over my rank brother

  and step out the open window.

  I wrap the blanket tight around me

  and follow the track up into the hills.

  The path is overgrown

  with swaying grass stalks and banksia.

  I lie in the cool grass under the rosewood tree

  and look up at the looming cliff.

  It has the face of an old man

  with one eye closed

  and a scar on his chin,

  a coal-seam scar

  too high to mine.

  I close my eyes,

  listening to the rustle of the leaves

  and the distant siren from the mine.

  The afternoon shift finishing at midnight.

  I sleep beside the Coal Man

  battered into the cliff,

  miles above my town.

  Mr Butcher

  The valley is covered in mist

  as I return on the mail train.

  Back to my flat

  to boil the kettle

  and sit by the window

  with my feet on the ledge,

  drinking my tea,

  thinking of her shoulders,

  the arch of her back,

  her thick black hair.

  And although I try to stop myself

  I’m already imagining next weekend.

  This time a blonde,

  with a ponytail,

  a long ponytail.

  A young lady.

  Someone who doesn’t put on lipstick

  quite so thick,

  who doesn’t drench herself in cheap perfume

  that rankles through my clothes

  so I’m afraid everyone in town can smell it.

  I leave the clothes to soak

  in the washtub downstairs.

  Next week I want someone fresh,

  with alabaster skin.

  Monday morning,

  I pack my briefcase

  with this week’s homework

  and try to steady my thoughts.

  The students are walking to school.

  In all the time I’ve lived here,

  in this wretched flat,

  not one person has ever looked up

  to wave hello.

  THREE

  Town and city

  Albert Holding

  Every morning before dawn

  I stumble out of bed

  in the chill damp of our house

  to make my lunch for the day ahead.

  Yesterday’s bread wrapped in wax paper

  and a thermos of sweet black tea.

  The boys are still asleep,

  fidgeting in their hand-built beds.

  My wife has a whisper of grey hair on her temple.

  Her dressing gown tossed across the blanket.

  On our bedside table are two photos.

  One of our wedding day.

  All I remember is slicking my hair down

  with Brylcreem

  and the little tail that wouldn’t sit

  at the nape of my neck.

  My hair was laughing at me behind my back.

  I’m in uniform in the other photo,

  the hat tilted just right.

  I’m grinning like someone

  who doesn’t know what’s about to happen.

  The smile of a fool;

  a happy idiot.

  One day I’ll take that photo

  and toss it in the wood stove.

  Replace it with one of the boys.

  As I close the front door,

  the click of the lock

  sounds like loading a gun.

  My heavy boots crack the frost.

  The sky is charcoal grey.

  Nobody wakes to see me off now.

  Pretty girls kissed me on victory day,

  their lips soft red petals brushing my face.

  Now I’m just a married man in farm overalls.

  I remember my arms tight around their waists,

  closing my eyes to their rich inviting smell
.

  It stayed on my uniform for days,

  until the wife washed and stored it

  in the wardrobe to be eaten by moths.

  Victory lasted precisely one day.

  Now I work like a mule

  alone in a mud-bog paddock

  and the only enemy left is myself.

  Mr Carter

  Pete Grainger is a smart lad

  and I guess there are worse places

  to be stationed than your home town.

  So I wrote it up in the paper

  with a big splash.

  ‘Local policeman returns to help his community.’

  Pete does his best.

  He wants to see the town prosper,

  so he goes easy on Mr Wright

  when he gets drunk.

  Pete escorts him home,

  never to the lock-up,

  because you can’t have the mine manager in jail,

  now can you?

  And Mr Calder never heard about his son

  stealing the milk money after dusk.

  Pete gave the kid a good talking to,

  and a solid kick where the bruise won’t show.

  No one knows,

  no one was told,

  but I’m a newspaperman

  who can smell which way the wind blows.

  I’m not broadcasting the town troubles

  for all the world to read.

  Pete’s job would send me balmy.

  Filling out forms,

  patrolling the town,

  waiting for something to happen.

  And all the time wishing for a little excitement,

  then, when it comes,

  shuddering

  because it means someone is up to no good.

  Pete’s the poor beggar

  who has to deal with it.

  It’s true to say

  that nobody welcomes a copper

  knocking on their door

  in the small hours of the night.

  Sergeant Grainger

  I patrol the evening streets

  in fading light,

  nodding to each of the store owners

  as they shut up shop,

  asking if there’s anything I can do.

  Mrs Kain grabs my hand and pleads,

  ‘Yes Sergeant, more customers, please!’

  She’s joking, but I wish I could help.

  For all that Kenneth Paley says about a new town

  with a better life and brighter future,

  it’s still the same sleepy place it always was.

  Except Fridays

  when there’s always a brawl at the pub,

  with two blokes squaring off outside

  and a crowd gathered,