laying bets,
shouting and cheering.
In an hour I’ll have to drive the loser home,
hoping he doesn’t bleed on the upholstery.
He’ll try to remind me
when we were both just kids in town,
riding bikes and kicking footballs.
He’ll tell me I should have joined him
down the mine, at a real job.
Just like our fathers, years ago,
when they were alive.
I’ll spend Saturday cleaning up the mess,
and Sunday in church watching the men
praying silently for forgiveness,
or a win in the lottery.
I’m not what you’d call religious, especially.
But it goes with the job.
Be seen.
Blend in.
Colleen
Mr Butcher wrote at the bottom of my essay,
‘A work of talent and promise.
Beautiful.’
When I glanced up
he was smiling at me.
His eyes dropped a fraction
and he cleared his throat,
quickly turning to the blackboard.
In the far corner, someone groaned.
Mr Butcher spun around
and threw a piece of chalk at Eddie,
who ducked as it bounced off the wall
and shattered into pieces.
Eddie leaned over and picked it all up,
placing each piece in a neat pile on his desk.
No one said a word.
We all looked down at the floor.
Mr Butcher walked slowly around the class,
until he stood behind my chair.
I crossed my legs, nervously,
and sat up as straight as I could manage,
wondering what he was going to say.
‘Colleen. Would you do us the honour
of reading your work this morning?’
He touched my shoulder
and pulled back my chair.
I had no choice but to stand
and walk to the front of the class,
my fingers gripping the paper tightly
with the thought of all those eyes watching me.
Mr Butcher sat at my chair
and pointed accusingly at Eddie.
‘We’ll have absolute quiet, Holding.
You may learn something more valuable
than how to avoid flying objects.’
Most of the class giggled,
except Larry who leaned forward and winked.
My voice read the words,
while the rest of me wished
I was back in my chair
and the likes of Larry and Butcher
would just leave me alone.
Sally
I’ve started praying
because
ever since Eddie and me kissed
on the riverbank
I’ve been having thoughts
that I’m not sure I should be,
and maybe I’m cursed
or blessed
with the best imagination a girl can have
because what I see in my mind
makes me feel all warm inside,
too warm,
and I don’t know what to do with it.
So I kneel by the bed
and talk to God
about what I’m thinking,
and I keep my eyes closed
but that only makes my mind work faster.
I try to see Saint Catherine
in her long dark robes
but all I end up with is Eddie and me
in a bed together
under soft white sheets
with nothing on,
naked,
and he’s cuddling me,
kissing me,
and my hands start to wander.
I feel things
I’ve never felt before
and it’s too much.
I’m alone here,
thinking of Eddie
and tingling.
I’m sure God is watching,
calling out my name,
calling me back,
but I can only hear
the rush of my breath
and the touch of skin on skin.
This isn’t supposed to happen.
Is it?
Sergeant Grainger
When I left the Police Academy,
uniform pressed and clean,
buttons shiny,
notepad and pencil in top pocket,
I never thought I’d end up back here.
A sergeant.
That’s my title.
They gave me that
because only a sergeant
can run a police station alone,
and there was no way
they’d send two officers out here
where nothing much happens
but drunk and disorderly,
and the odd teenager pinching stuff
off the loading dock at the back of Paley’s,
or an ice-block from Sunset Café.
Three years training
for booting kids up the bum,
filling out forms
and keeping an eye on Barney Haggerty,
making sure he doesn’t sleep out in the park
once too often.
Old Barney is so full of metho,
I’m careful not to light a match too close
in case we both go up in flames.
I used to like a beer or three.
But a copper at the bar
wouldn’t have any authority,
not in this town.
So I stock up on lager
and put my feet on the lounge at home,
open a bottle,
and think a wife wouldn’t go astray.
But finding someone out here,
there’s two chances–
none, and Buckley’s.
Colleen
Ruth, Wendy and me
skip down Main Street
for a celebration milkshake at Sunset Café.
Our netball team won!
Now we’re in the finals.
Mrs Kain says we already look like champions
and adds extra malt.
It tastes creamy and sweet.
Mrs Kain stands beside our table
waiting to top up our glasses.
Mr Butcher comes in,
tips his hat and smiles at us.
Ruth says,
‘You going to come to the final, Sir?
Next weekend?’
He holds up his overnight bag and shrugs.
Off to the city again.
I wish he’d stay there!
Wendy wants to go home past the pub
and meet some of the older boys.
‘Let’s really celebrate.’
She leans in close.
‘With something stronger than a vanilla malted.’
We giggle at the thought of the young miners
slipping beers out the side window
and offering to walk us home the long way.
I’m tempted.
Les Johnston will be there.
When we leave,
Mr Butcher offers to pay for our milkshakes.
He passes the money to Mrs Kain,
brushes my arm and says,
‘Congratulations, girls.
A fine achievement.’
His breath smells of mouthwash
and he’s got far too much grease in his hair.
On the footpath,
Wendy loosens her blouse,
smooths her skirt,
and says,
‘We might find someone tall and handsome.
And sober.’
We link arms and walk towards the pub.
Larry
Sometimes a bloke gets lucky.
Wendy and Ruth
and the lovely Colleen
look to be
up for a bit of fun.
I step from the doorway of the hardware
and ask them if they want a drink,
just to be friendly, you know.
Wendy asks where I got it from.
‘I’ve got my own supply.
I’ll show you, if you want.’
I offer Wendy the bottle,
but Ruth says no,
and pulls her arm away.
‘Go on, have some,’ I say.
I move towards them
and trip on the cracked footpath.
To stop myself falling
I reach out and grab Wendy’s shoulders,
and she screams.
‘Settle down, settle down.
I just fell, that’s all.’
Ruth sticks up her nose
and says,
‘You’re drunk’,
which is bloody obvious
and I say so,
but that doesn’t go down too well
and they turn to leave.
Smart-arse Ruth says,
‘You pong like an old man.’
Looking at Colleen, I say,
‘But I do everything else like a young man.’
Ruth pulls Colleen and Wendy away.
I shout after them,
‘I’ll be behind the pub, if you’re interested.’
Colleen might follow,
if she can shake those two tight sheilas.
Albert Holding
Fatty Paley does his Friday pub trick,
offering everyone a drink
and making a show
of slapping us all on the back
or shaking hands
and asking if there’s anything he can do.
Yeah, piss off, Fatty,
that’s what I want to say,
but, hell,
it’s a free beer,
so I drink it down.
Fatty sounds a little sozzled himself,
wandering from table to table,
swaying as he offers his clammy hand,
talking louder than he should.
He’s a dimwit of the highest order.
Before closing, I order two beers
and walk outside to smoke in peace.
Those three young sheilas
look to be having fun.
I wouldn’t mind that sort of company.
One of them is drinking a beer,
passed through the back window.
They’re laughing and talking
to the young blokes inside.
The blonde one looks in my direction
and quickly hides the glass.
I shout,
‘Don’t worry, love.
I’m not dobbing on anyone.’
If Fatty sees them
he’ll try to buy their vote.
He’d be too slow to notice they’re too young.
Too young for voting, anyway.
Mayor Paley
My wife Wilma
doesn’t understand.
She accuses me,
yes, accuses me
of going to the pub for the beer.
‘It’s work,’ I say.
I’m the mayor.
I should be available,
ready to listen to anyone who complains,
or needs help.
Like the time I offered a tent to the Holdings
until they built that ramshackle heap
they call a home, way out beside the river.
They didn’t have a roof over their heads,
not without my generous offer.
The pub is where I meet people;
where anybody, no matter who they are,
can come up and shake the mayor’s hand.
Wilma spends the evening
knitting in the front room–
another over-sized bloody cardigan–
waiting for me to come home.
My tea,
cold on the table.
To hell with that.
I’m having another beer.
I’m working.
Larry
Look at those girls
hanging around the pub
accepting beers off the Johnston boys.
I pick up a rock,
round and smooth,
and walk past Blind O’Brien’s.
The lights are out, as usual.
He can’t use them anyway.
I chuck the rock
and it explodes on the roof,
like a hand grenade.
The bloody grass is slippery with dew
and I land flat on my bum,
laughing at the thought of O’Brien
hiding in his bed.
I’m having trouble getting up,
feeling a bit giddy
and careful not to spill my beer,
when some coward whacks me from behind,
hard across my legs.
It’s O’Brien waving his cane
and one blow glances off my shoulder.
The stupid old man finds his range
and hits me again and again
until I push past him,
running down the street
calling out,
‘You blind bastard!’
I stumble away,
watching him lean on his cane, smiling.
He can wait out there all night,
I don’t care.
I’ll pay him back
some other time.
Mr Carter
There goes Frank O’Connor’s daughter,
Colleen, walking past with her head bowed,
as if she’s eager to get somewhere.
The raucous sound of voices
echoes from the pub
and the occasional crash of glass
shatters Main Street.
I make a habit of only two beers, early,
well before closing
and then I return to do the accounts for the week.
Since my wife died
I prefer to spend my evenings
working in the front room of my office.
If I stay too long at the pub
with the miners offering the shout
and suggesting stories for the front page,
I get maudlin and start thinking of Grace.
It’s been four years since she passed.
We couldn’t have children,
and in a marriage of thirty-two years
I guess that’s my only regret.
There’s a divine plan there somewhere,
of that I believe,
only sometimes, late at night,
I can’t see why He’d take Grace
and leave me with my writings,
my books and figures
and a knot deep in my stomach.
I’ve tried praying.
It gives me comfort.
But not as much as a cup of tea
and a ginger nut biscuit.
Eddie
I’m waiting for Butcher to show.
He’s late.
Tonight I’m ready with my good jacket
and enough money to follow him,
to find out what he gets up to away from here.
He probably has relatives
in the posh part of the city,
with a painted fence
and a cobblestone path.
I hear the train whistle
and the sound of hurrying footsteps.
He runs like a girl,
swinging his arms low,
his bag banging on his knees.
I climb down from the tree,
skirting around the far side of the station.
I’m sure I can make the last carriage
after Butcher gets in the front one.
The train approaches,
its rushing rhythm beats hard like my heart.
Butcher drops his bag on the platform
and bends over double,
clutching his stomach,
breathing deeply and coughing.
Don’t have a heart attack, Butcher.
As he opens the door,
I scamper out from the bushes
and jump in the back carriage.
I stay low in the seat until I hear the whistle,
and we move slowly away from Burruga.
The train starts the long rise
out of the valley
as I look around the compartment.
We climb Jaspers Hill
and I realise what I’ve done.
I’m heading to the city,
and there’s no train home
until morning.
Eddie
I feel like laughing,
laughing out loud.
I’ve never been alone to the city before,
and here I am on a train
with enough money for the return fare,
maybe a pie,
but certainly not enough for a hotel room.
Maybe I’ll ask Mr Butcher
if I can sleep in the shed?
There’s no one else in the carriage.
No one to tell Dad.
He’d kill me if he found out.
I drop the window and lean out,
letting the air cool my sweat.
In the half-light I can make out the shapes of horses,
slender and quiet in the paddocks
as the train labours up the hill.
At least I won’t have to hear Larry snoring tonight
and then smell our bedroom
when he wakes in his own vomit.
This is an adventure.
Eddie
I’m jostled by the crowds at Central Station,
all looking like they’re going somewhere important
while I loiter behind Mr Butcher
as he walks briskly through the sandstone exit.
He heads up a long wide avenue
with bright lights on the hill,
lots of flashing neon signs
and pubs on every corner.
I can’t believe there are this many people in the city.
It’s like Friday night in Burruga
a hundred times over.
Mr Butcher will never see me,
even if he bothers to look.
This doesn’t seem like a place people live.
There are shops and tattoo joints
and gloomy parks
where I hear voices and laughter.
Someone’s having a party outdoors.
Mr Butcher walks slower
and he stops occasionally,
looking in shop windows
in a distracted sort of way.
I don’t think he’s heading home at all.
A young lady with long flame-red hair
comes up behind him
and they start talking,
but they’re not smiling or anything,
like they know each other.
It’s not like that at all.