Cold Skin

  When I pushed the white ant for an answer,

  and stood close enough

  for him to count my nose hairs,

  he had the hide to say,

  ‘It’s not only the body that has to be fit, Holding.’

  I almost slugged him, then and there,

  but they had military police

  stationed outside his door.

  He’d been punched a few times before

  by the look of him.

  Cheetham and me wandered around in a daze

  for a week

  until they stationed us in the Alice,

  a million bloody miles from Frank and our mates.

  When I got home

  I thought the wife would understand

  and wouldn’t nag me

  about going back down the mine,

  where the enemy is a thousand tons of dirt

  held up by timber studs and a few nails and bolts.

  After the war I was going to make up for lost time.

  But the time I spent away,

  it’s still lost.

  No matter what I do,

  it stays lost.

  I pull hard on my durry

  and watch the heavy clouds roll in.

  It’s going to rain for Colleen’s funeral.

  As it should.

  At least that’ll keep my wife quiet,

  for an hour or two.

  After the funeral.

  That’s when I’ll make my move.

  If Grainger can’t put two and two together

  then I’ll do it for him.

  No one in this town will think of me as gutless.

  Not this time.

  FIVE

  Burning candles

  Eddie

  The Catholic church is full to bursting

  with every pew taken

  and people crowded along the walls

  and at the back.

  They shut the mine for a shift

  and the shops are all closed.

  The school has a day off

  and we’re spending it here with Colleen,

  her coffin near the altar,

  with a photo on top.

  Her long blonde hair

  shines from behind the glass

  and I can hear Mrs O’Connor

  crying in the front pew.

  I’m wearing Dad’s army boots,

  polished with spit and rags,

  because my feet are too big for my good shoes

  and Dad said we weren’t buying new ones,

  not for a funeral.

  Sally and me are sitting close,

  listening to the priest

  talk about God calling his children home,

  welcoming them to his side,

  asking us to pray for those lost

  and those reunited.

  I close my eyes

  and imagine the river at Taylors Bend.

  A bunch of us from school

  went there one afternoon to swim.

  Colleen sat on the wild grass beside the bank

  and laughed as I dive-bombed from the tree

  and nearly flooded the beach.

  The priest asks us to stand

  and hold hands to give us strength.

  He prays that peace be with us

  and I’m pleased to feel Sally’s warmth

  and look into her sad eyes.

  We sit down again and I glance around.

  My family are in the pew opposite.

  Larry is looking at the altar.

  Mum is clenching her hands tight in her lap

  and Dad stares straight ahead,

  not a muscle moving.

  Mr Carter is sitting near the front.

  His paper said Colleen was a ray of sunshine

  that bathed our town in a glow,

  bright enough to stay with us for ever.

  When this is all over,

  I’ll thank him for honouring Colleen.

  The priest calls us to sing

  but all I hear is the sound of hard rain

  falling on my empty town.

  Albert Holding

  Christ almighty!

  I can’t put up with this much longer.

  The organ’s grinding on,

  putting my teeth on edge,

  and the wife is crying by the bucketful.

  If the rain crashes harder

  I won’t have to hear this singing.

  Paley’s weasled his way into the front pew,

  wiping his pudgy face with a white handkerchief.

  I remember him on Friday,

  drunk and backslapping,

  offering the shout.

  I was outside under the sarsaparilla vine,

  watching him buying friends at the bar,

  until the girls came along

  and I turned my attention to them.

  The town prays to a God

  who takes young girls

  and welcomes the killer into his church.

  Believing,

  it ain’t worth a pinch of dust.

  There’s a trick I learnt in the army,

  on the parade ground

  listening to the drill sergeant bellowing insults.

  I stand straight and stare forward,

  close my mind to everything,

  feel my breathing steady

  and try to sleep, with my eyes open.

  I spent long days at the base camp

  working on doing nothing but this.

  It’s probably the only good thing I learnt,

  along with how to roll smokes with one hand

  and how to hate someone

  and never show it.

  Mr Butcher

  Sergeant Grainger is up the back

  looking for a sign, a weakness.

  I dare not turn around to see him.

  I stare straight ahead at the statue of Mary,

  her immaculate heart,

  and think of what to do.

  But what I can’t get out of my mind

  is the sight of blonde hair

  through my fingers.

  I tighten with the memory.

  Of course!

  There’s my answer.

  I’ll pay for a mother.

  My blonde friend must have a mother,

  or an aunt,

  anyone who’ll be Mrs Butcher

  if someone rings.

  Simple.

  A few pounds for answering a phone call.

  I hope mother is like daughter,

  willing to provide a service.

  Anything to get rid of Grainger.

  It’s a waste of my wage though.

  The money would be better spent

  on soft warm silken pleasurable things.

  Sally

  As we follow the procession out of the church

  I want to hold Eddie’s hand

  but my dad is watching,

  so I walk quietly beside him.

  I hear his sharp intake of breath

  as we see the rain falling on Colleen’s coffin.

  Mr O’Connor and some miners

  load the coffin into the wagon

  for the short trip

  around the corner to the cemetery.

  We all follow in the rain.

  Eddie opens an umbrella

  and holds it over my head,

  and instead of saying thanks,

  I look at his downcast eyes

  and say,

  ‘I love you.’

  It just came out.

  I looked into his eyes and saw love.

  I thought I saw love,

  so I mouthed the words.

  The rain tumbles down

  as we reach the old iron gates and file through.

  Eddie’s worth more than anything to me.

  So I’m glad I said it.

  Eddie

  It’s like the first time we kissed

  beside the river

  and I fled as fast as my
feet could take me.

  Only now,

  I’m holding an umbrella

  in a line of people.

  There’s no escape.

  I focus on the hearse up ahead

  and think of Colleen

  being lowered into the ground.

  I’m afraid of hearing

  the thump of dirt on her coffin,

  and her mother wailing

  while Mr O’Connor struggles

  to hold himself steady.

  Sally’s words dance, uninvited,

  inside my head.

  I move the umbrella closer to Sally,

  so I can feel the drops of rain

  on my face,

  cooling my skin

  and rolling down my cheeks.

  I feel too much.

  Let the rain wash it away.

  Mr Carter

  As the rain drenches us all

  I close my eyes for a minute

  and pray for my Grace

  to be with the young girl

  and to tell her of our thoughts,

  our sorrow,

  and to forgive us.

  The Lord sends these things

  to test our spirit,

  and while we can’t make sense

  or understand why,

  we must believe and accept.

  Mr O’Brien leans heavily on his cane

  beside the grave.

  As we all start to leave,

  I touch his arm and say,

  ‘Can I walk with you, Bob?’

  He was a watchmaker,

  before the war, before his injury.

  His workshop next to my office

  rang with chimes and gongs,

  and I marvelled at his dexterity,

  his long fingers tinkering

  with the crowded workings

  of all manner of clocks and watches.

  We slowly file out of the cemetery,

  his cane tapping a route home.

  He says,

  ‘Sometimes it’s all right being the way I am.

  Not having to see things.’

  When we reach his front gate,

  he holds out his hand and asks,

  ‘Are you still a Catholic, Mr Carter?’

  Before I answer,

  he adds,

  ‘If you are.

  And I hope you are.

  Burn a candle for Colleen

  next time you’re in church.’

  Eddie

  Sally and me walk along the banks of the river

  without saying a word.

  Kingfishers and swallows,

  creekdippers and acrobats,

  swoop along the surface.

  We duck under the branches of the willows

  and cross the stream.

  The water swirls around my knees

  as I grip her hand.

  We take nervous steps

  through the cold rush,

  our feet gripping the stones below.

  When we reach the far bank

  I struggle out onto the high ground

  and help her climb up the track.

  On Jaspers Hill

  we lie in the grass

  under the cliffs,

  away from town,

  away from the memory of yesterday.

  Sally kisses me

  and I don’t want to run this time.

  I wrap my arms around her.

  Then, in one quick movement,

  Sally leans back and takes off her jumper,

  tossing it behind her.

  She’s wearing a thin top

  that clings to my fingers

  as my hands drift over her body.

  Sally grips my shoulders.

  Her nails press into my skin

  as she moves closer.

  I smell her faint perfume,

  feel her lips,

  soft and welcoming.

  My hands fumble under her blouse

  exploring, awkward.

  Her hand slips into my shirt

  and I almost jump in fright.

  I don’t know what to do

  with her fevered skin tingling

  under my big clumsy hands.

  She takes my hand,

  placing it between her legs,

  and the shock of her warmth

  surges through me.

  She pushes me back

  and we are rubbing, touching, fondling,

  doing things I’ve only dared think about.

  Sally’s breathing, my hands,

  her lips, her face, her skin,

  her smell, her touch,

  fill my afternoon.

  Albert Holding

  The pub is quiet

  with me and Johnno the bartender,

  alone,

  drinking the bitter brew of a desolate afternoon.

  I told Laycock I was finishing early

  and walked off before he could respond.

  There’s nothing at home for me.

  I’m holding a glass of the only friend I’ve got.

  Johnno sips his beer

  and rabbits on about last Friday

  and how everyone drank far too much,

  and when Sergeant Grainger came in on Saturday

  asking him to name the drunks,

  Johnno scoffed and said,

  ‘Every bloke in town, mate.’

  So we’re all suspects, I guess.

  I lean close to Johnno,

  raise my glass,

  swill it down

  and say, ‘Thanks.

  One more for the guilty.’

  He looks at me in horror.

  ‘Guilty of being drunk on Friday, you drongo.’

  He pours another as Fatty comes through the door,

  looking pale and bloated,

  like a fish tossed up on the bank.

  He puffs,

  ‘Just a shandy for me, thank you.’

  He sits beside me at the bar

  and starts on.

  ‘I’m so sorry for the parents.

  It’s a bad business for Burruga.

  A blight on our future, you could say.’

  I down my beer in one gulp,

  and say,

  ‘There’s only one bloke who can make it right,

  Fatty.’

  I leave my money on the counter

  and walk out.

  Sergeant Grainger

  The clock ticks past two in the morning

  and the kettle boils on the stove.

  Another cup of tea is better than sleep.

  I’ve had a week of stories:

  beer on Friday till closing,

  rude singing, bad jokes,

  and staggering home to a cold dinner

  and an angry missus.

  Some blokes want to take up a collection

  for the O’Connors,

  to help with the expenses,

  and they asked me to look into it.

  Everyone mentions how pretty Colleen was.

  They didn’t see her like me,

  at the end,

  on the sand.

  That’s what I can’t shake.

  It keeps me awake,

  going over every detail.

  Particularly the Holding family.

  No one saw Eddie on Friday night

  and all he told me

  is he sat up a tree beside the railway station

  watching Butcher run late for the train.

  So if I believe Eddie,

  I should talk to Butcher again

  and make more calls to the city.

  Still no mother.

  Albert Holding was as hostile as always.

  He scowled at each question,

  answered with a grunt whenever possible,

  and looked off into the distance.

  But when I mentioned Larry

  he spat on the footpath, growling,

  ‘No son of mine would do that.

  The bloke who did it was gutl
ess.

  A coward.

  That’s who you should be looking for, Grainger.

  A coward.’

  Eddie

  When Butcher calls her name I stand quickly,

  my arm blocking the aisle.

  Everyone looks at me.

  Mr Butcher sees his chance.

  ‘I said “Sally”, Eddie,

  You don’t look like Sally.

  She’s much prettier.’

  He’s so proud of himself

  when he hears the sly giggles.

  It’s all I can do to stop myself

  from storming to his desk.

  ‘Do you like pretty girls, Sir?’

  The laughter stops

  and I hear my brother curse under his breath.

  Butcher grabs his cane,

  pointing to the door.

  ‘Outside, Holding.

  Not another word!’

  I walk out slowly,

  taking each deliberate step

  with my eyes never leaving Butcher.

  His hand is shaking and he shouts at the class.

  ‘Chapter Four.

  There’ll be questions when I return.’

  Butcher leads me to the staffroom.

  ‘In here, boy.’

  He adjusts his glasses

  and motions for me to hold out my hand.

  ‘No, Mr Butcher.’

  ‘What do you mean, Holding?

  Don’t disobey me.’

  I take a step towards him

  and he starts to raise the cane.

  ‘I know what happens in the city.’

  He steps back.

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  I’ve been thinking of what to say,

  careful not to accuse him of what I suspect.

  ‘You won’t choose Sally,

  or any of the other girls to run errands for you.

  From now on. Choose a boy.

  My brother, Larry, he’ll do.’

  Butcher’s face goes red with rage.

  He taps the cane hard against his leg.

  ‘Sergeant Grainger knows

  you almost missed the train.

  You can tell him what else happened.’

  Butcher says,

  ‘There’s nothing wrong in what I did.

  Nothing whatsoever.

  She’s a fine young lady.

  In fact, I’d call her my friend.’

  I open the door and walk back to class.

  Butcher won’t ridicule me again.

  Mr Carter

  The week stumbles along

  with everyone in town quiet, subdued.

  The men walk home from the mine in groups.

  No one stops at the pub.