by Bruce Pascoe
It seems other facts have eluded the entire parliament too, John. Did you know that the greatest attendance at Christian churches is by Aborigines? Did you know that the most abstemious Australians, those most likely to be teetotallers, apart from Muslims, are Aborigines? Did you know that the highest birth rate in Australia is in the Aboriginal community? Not only are most blackfellas righteous and sober, but there’s going to be more of them, too.
Do you really think you’d lose an election if you read those pages from the Bureau of Statistics 1998 census report on Alan Jones’ radio program? Or are you happy for Australians to continue to believe what they believe? Do you share the opinion of our first two prime ministers on the relative value of the colours black and white? You know, John, I don’t think it would cost the nation one dollar to acknowledge how the country began. There’d still be a Boxing Day Test, mates would still stand around their barbeques having a few coldies, the economy would still function, waves would still break at Bondi. The only difference would be that if a black Australian turned up in the backyard and grabbed a frosty can from the esky, the conversation wouldn’t fall deathly silent; we’d be able to tell each other yarns about our family, enjoy the jokes about Gillespie’s hair … Oh, sorry John, he’s a blackfella too. Well, Lehmann then, how he lost the race against Richardson to prove he was the slowest cricketer on earth … Oh, but we can’t talk about that either because he thinks Sri Lankans are black c***s, yelled it on television. Is there nothing we can all talk about together?
That’s all we’re on about, John, basic decency. We can work together and we’ll make a stronger not weaker country as a result, but first we need to know the same things about the past. We know that there is much that frustrates you about Aboriginal affairs – it frustrates us too – but we want you to know our history and your part in it, and relying on the education you received at school will not tell you how we experienced the last 230 years. Most Aboriginal people don’t want money from the government, would simply settle for acknowledgement of their history. Further justice would flow automatically and naturally from that knowledge and cost much less than the failed foreign currency trade of Treasurer Peter Costello. Oh, but you don’t want to talk about that either, I suppose.
You pride yourself on being a reasonable man, and Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people see acknowledgement of demonstrable Indigenous history as a reasonable expectation. Keith Windshuttle can argue about how many deaths make a massacre or how many battles make a war, but he’s yelling into a kerosene tin, all boom and echo. Arguments of the quantitative right need not stand in the way of good policies that will enhance the lives of all Australians. We can all reap economic, moral and psychological benefit from just policies that recognise the entire history of the land.
This is not what I was thinking on 9 October 2004. There were bleaker thoughts in my head, but then I turned to the land and it took me in its arms, as it always does. Most Australians might find it acutely embarrassing to talk about falling into the land’s embrace, but it is our one true and lasting solace. The farax we eat as children comes from that land, our mother’s milk springs from it, and the last thing to enter our mouths will be the soil of our graves. It will be important for us to have earnt that soil’s respect and love.
Anyway, after the election fish still swam in the river. John Who, Alexander What, they asked dreamily. Azure kingfishers still flew like blue neon darts along the bank. The mussels had not fled to more egalitarian seas. On a sandbar baby stingrays were testing submerged flight in such studied, laborious strokes that I was awed by their innocent vulnerability to the sea eagles – creatures much more moved by the sight of unprotected flesh than by inherent beauty and naked hope.
I climbed a ridge where the river makes a massive turn towards the lakes and found the need to lie on a patch of ground where the sun tossed a dappled light. I watched tree creepers and sittellas, honeyeaters and robins, and was soon rocked to sleep in the swaying shadows of the massive ironbark arms.
I woke staring into the branches, the sun several degrees lower in the sky, and the feeling that someone had been whispering while I slept. Was it the gentle river breeze, the fantail’s wing, the fluttering prayer flags of the leaves, or was it all of them? The land. I felt the spine of her pressing against mine, and a mighty reassurance swept over me as it has done so many times before. You are home, you are welcome.
If we do the right thing by the land, justice and peace will flow to its people.
Don’t get one of your staff to send me a letter outlining your brilliant record on Indigenous Affairs, John, you’ve sent me plenty of those, and don’t think I’m not grateful, but I was hoping we might have a yarn together about what really makes Australia’s ticker tick.
Anyway, John, I know you’re planning to slip away to the Lord’s Test because I’ve noticed a softening of the detention policy, tax cuts and help for farmers … and it’s not even an election year. You’re tidying the desk, aren’t you, John, getting ready for the royal biographer? I notice you’ve done nothing for blacks, John, and don’t think we aren’t grateful. Kindness from people like you has always meant trouble in our camp.
THE BRIDGE NEAR NOWA NOWA
This is what happened. You’ll hear otherwise, but I was there, and so was Lofty Koczak. He’s not bright but he’s got eyes. You know Lofty, Victor’s brother, works at the Cabbage Tree Mill.
Well, Tiny Austin says you’ve got to have both feet on the ground. Since when, goes Brett Armstrong. Since always, says Tiny. Bullshit, says Armo. Bullshit nothin’, says Tiny. I was usin’ the bridge, goes Armo. ’Zackly, says Tiny, goes fa when ya usin’ the bridge. Bullshit, says Armo. Suit yaself, says Tiny, lifting his glass and turning his back, sort of deliberate and taunting.
You could see Armo just wanted to belt Tiny on the back of the head, at least smash the glass out of his hand, but even he had enough brains not to try. Tiny had four cousins in the bar, and all Armo had was his mum and uncle, his sister and a city brother, and his mate ordering counteries in the saloon.
Armo was smokin’ he was that wild, swallowin’ down his pride in great hard lumps. Tiny was smug, it was awful to see, but for once he had the power, and in this room, at least on this one night, at his table, he had the upper hand and couldn’t help the swagger, the jaunty walk, didn’t want to help it. Monday it’d be back to the mill takin’ orders from the boss, Armo’s old man, while Armo drove around in a damn near new Bravo twin cab 4×4 doin’ just about bugger all.
So Tiny swaggered and Armo smoked.
One of Armo’s mill mates, Eric, yelled at Tiny, slammed his cue down and said the whole bar was fucked. Tiny’s sister, Evelyn, said Eric was fucked. Eric said she was fucked … by everybody. That was a mistake and Eric knew it.
You could see him try to reel back the last two words, but it was too late. He’d only been tryin’ to stick up for the boss’s son, but it was a mistake, and when Evelyn’s cousin, Reggie Wallace, smacked him a good one in the mouth, he bellowed and smashed his glass against the bar and threatened Reggie with it, but you could see his heart wasn’t in it. One swipe with that glass and he’d be barred for a year and there wasn’t another pub for fifty miles. Even so, it’d be touch and go. The new publican was a smooth dago from the city and might not understand the rules yet. Eric had to make a noise and smash a few things for pride’s sake. Everybody expected it. But eventually he slunk out, muttering curses as he went. You mob of arseholes, I’ll get you mongrels. Yeah, yeah, soft cock, goes Evelyn, which was a terrible thing to say to a man, but Eric told me later that he could feel two stray teeth with his tongue and didn’t want to swallow them by accident by yelling out fuckin’ mole, which involved the tongue a fair bit and could cost you for a plate and a couple of front dentures. Nearest dentist one hundred miles. Every second Tuesday. If you’re not too pissed you think of those things. Cut your losses.
And Armo just muttered and glared and stalked all sulky into the saloon to
join his family. He jammed his huge frame into a chair and smoked. The barmen poked their heads into the pool bar nervously, assessing the atmosphere; the publican made a show of bonhomie and business as usual in the saloon, trying to smile a weak smile of support for Armo without jeopardising his bread-and-butter trade in the pool bar. It was all politics.
Armo’s mum sat rigid in her chair. She’d die for her son, die just to save his humiliation, but she was powerless too. One wrong move, one wrong word, and you could have a strike on your hands or an accidental bridge spike would go through the breaking-down saw. Stop the mill for hours. She knew that, she’d been born here. If Armo’s father’d been there the power ratio might have been their way, but he wasn’t and damn near everyone knew he was in Lakes shaggin’ that mole from the central, so Armo and his mum were restricted on that score, knew they couldn’t even refer to him without someone bringing it up. Where is he then? Slippin’ the wick? So, mother and son chewed chips of enamel off their teeth, comin’ down so hard on the bit. Mrs Armstrong’s brother-in-law was there but he was from the city and knew fuck all, you could see he thought he’d landed on another planet, and the locals saw the hairpiece – well, it was like a red darn in a brown sock, toupee, couldn’t command respect in a kindergarten.
Violet, the barmaid, Mrs Armstrong’s niece, dashed out to the kitchen and brought them back a big plate of calamari rings, lacka bands in batter, and Armo clamped on to one like it was Tiny’s ear and tore it to bits. I always stand where I can see into the saloon, that way you can see any stray sheila what walks into the pub by mistake. Happens a bit, bein’ on the highway an’ that. You can see the startled look of ’em straight away, like they’d walked into a jackal’s cage or somethin’. So, I saw Armo’s family try all sorts of ways to eat the calamari and sip the drinks with a show of calm. Armo’s uncle did his best, tells some damn fool story about the city, I couldn’t hear it, but you could see it comin’ off his lips, all jokey and mistimed. At least he was havin’ a go. Armo’s sister, Tina, was just embarrassed, she just wanted to be out of there, somewhere, anywhere, some place in Dandenong where no one knew ya, where you could wear sunnies at night with no one laughin’ at ya. I know that Tina. Bitch.
Tiny was in the bar still shoutin’ about what a great pool player he was, doin’ high fives and all that American shit and you could see Armo was gettin’ the message loud and clear. It was all over really, apart from a bit of dust and heat and bile, hot rushes of adrenaline still squirtin’ around. Few drinks, few smokes, shoutin’ the bar, all that crap, but it was sort of back to a normal Friday night. Well, a blue is normal too, can’t remember a Friday night without one, but people were startin’ to get into the ordinary groove, slappin’ their coins on the side of the table, chalkin’ cues, catchin’ their reflections in the mirrors, seein’ how the gel was holdin’ out, gigglin’, swishin’ the hips, that’s the sheilas a’course, but I never miss that, stirs ya, ’specially Friday night, bit of music, bit of a laugh, few beers, women swingin’ their cheeky arses …
Anyway, I glance into the saloon and see Armo’s city brother’s mate, Carl I found out later, he pushes his chair back and Armo’s mum glares at him, a what’s-up-with-this-prick look, but he just barges past and out the saloon door. I see Armo’s mum’s lips move like cracks in a shingle: Who is that cunt? Plain as day you can see it. Armo’s city brother tries to explain but she looks away. The solidarity is broken, the determined retention of pride, you know their way of saving face. Look, Armo’s old man didn’t own the mill, he was just the foreman, but in a town like this it was the most respected position apart from the publican: you couldn’t cross either of them without risking your whole way of life.
But Armo’s brother’s city mate broke the truce. Left the table. Next minute he barges into the pool bar, and I couldn’t see him proper because as he throws the door open he knocks Evelyn arse-over while she’s carrying a countery and two pots. There’s chips and beer everywhere. Evelyn hits the deck and you could see her mouth open to begin a decent bloody assault, when we both spy the barrel at the same time.
Armo’s brother’s city mate, this Carl prick, has been out to the ute and got his gun. He pushes open the door and shoots Tiny fair and square in the guts and then walks out, and we all hear the ute start up and screech off towards Lakes. Tiny is cactus. Who brought that Carl cunt into it? What’s his fuckin’ trouble?
The blackfellas all go wild, you know, their cuz is as good as dead, an’ there’s wails an’ screams an’ threats, well, not too many threats, what’s the use? Reggie pulls out his car keys and stands in the doorway and you can see him thinkin’, what’s the use? The publican’s on the phone, and he’s white as shithouse pasta an’ he’s thinkin’ this will cost him a few days trade … until the funeral, when it’ll pick up again.
I glance over and Armo’s mum is still at the table and she’s glarin’ at Armo’s city brother, not sayin’ a bloody word. Armo is lookin’ at his beer, thinkin’ Oh shit, knowin’ that when his old man hitched up his pants and got back to town there’d be hell to pay. No work for at least three days, coppers sneakin’ around, super payout, all sorts of shit.
Barry Baker turns up and gets the doors locked, scares the publican shitless, and takes us out the front of the pub one at a time. Takes me first, the prick. Typical copper. We stand there and he lights two fags and gives one to me. Who’d he see do that, Pierce Brosnan or someone? He was always full of shit.
Alright, Possum, he goes, what’s the story? I smoke his cigarette: why not? I’m lookin’ at Armo’s ute parked right in front of us, the tray backed up to the verandah. You can read his shitty stickers. Mountain Cattlemen. Save the Bush, Kill a Greenie. No Fear. Valvoline. I’m a Shooter and I Vote. Keep This Our Flag Forever. If This Ute is Rockin’, Don’t Laugh, It Could Be Your Daughter Inside.
How can they bear to put all that shit on a perfectly good ute?
Well, goes Baker, what’s the story?
I was tryin’ to work it out into a sentence that wouldn’t dob in no one, even Armo, though I hated his skin like the rest of us, but Reggie Wallace came out of the pool bar door. I told you to fuckin’ stay inside, goes Baker, tryin’ for all the world to sound like Rod Steiger in Midnight Cowboy. But Reggie just stands there. Barry, goes Reggie, you better shut up and listen, that ute hit a tree near the Toorloo Arm bridge, dead as a maggot. Lake cops on the phone now, wanna talk to you.
While he’s in there, the ambulance turns up, the schoolteacher from Tostaree and some other poofter, in all their flash clobber, and I can see them in there tryin’ to do somethin’ for me cousin, but what’s the use, his guts is out, he hit the floor dead, we all knew that. Reggie is still in the doorway watchin’ the ambos and I can see him sort of slumpin’, slidin’ down the door, and so I take his arm. Alright cuz, I say, can’t think of nothin’ else, but I can see Mrs Armstrong had her head in her hands. The city brother is screamin’ out, How’d I know he was a fruit loop, don’t blame me, he had a ute, how else was I goin’ ta get down for Tina’s twenty-first? Don’t blame me! Armo was just starin’ at him.
Evelyn was tearing lumps out of her hair and I hooked an arm around her as she spun past. Take it easy, sista, I said. Fucked if I knew what to say to any of ’em. I’ve got Evelyn under one arm, her bitin’ me shoulder, hard, true, teeth like a barracouta, and Reggie’s sort of slumped in me other arm, an’ Baker gets off the phone and turns to stare at me. First murder we’ve had here for years. Wrong time. This’ll make the papers like when young Jaden got killed in Moe. We’ll all be in shit. Five hundred thousand reconciliationists cross the Sydney Harbour Bridge on Sunday and the first blackfella to be shot is in Nowa Nowa. Tiny Austin was gunna be famous and so was Evelyn – she wouldn’t be able to resist all them microphones and cameras – Mrs Armstrong knew she was going to be famous too, and the mill; the publican knew the pub was going to be famous but wasn’t sure if he’d lose the licence or get rich selling grog to the curious. The journos’d
give up on Lofty after the first few grunts, and I could see Baker thinkin’ Carl had just shot the bolt on his promotion to Deer Park. No one, ’part from us, gave a fuckin’ thought for Tiny, or his three nippers, or his mum, my aunty, who had seen too many blackfellas die like this, she was sick of it, sick to death of the violence, the beer-breath bullshit.
Baker was still lookin’ at me as if he expected me to do somethin’ about it all. I don’t want no more trouble, Possum, it wasn’t Armo’s fault, right, Tiny’s neither, just that prick from the city, an’ he’s dead, so can you just get it all settled down for a bit?
Me?
’Course you, who else can keep a lid on this mob?
It’s me cousin.
I fuckin’ know that, Possum, I fuckin’ know who’s who. Just get your mob to treat it as the fuckin’ accident it is.
It’s not an accident, Barry, an’ you know it … it’s part of the war.
He just stared at me. Opened and shut his mouth a couple of times as he went to speak and thought better of it and then said, War bullshit.
I dunno what made me mention the war, it just came to me an’ I said it. I’d been readin’ all the papers, listenin’ to all the news, an’ well, that’s how it seems to me, a last stray bullet in the last days of the war. A frightened man’s bullet by a crazy soldier who wasn’t sure if his side had won.
No one’s won. No one ever does. It’ll take years to forget. Aunt will have to die, Evelyn, Mrs Armstrong, Armo, Tina, Reggie, me, we’ll all have to die, an’ then our kids and then that’s when things’d start gettin’ back to normal, an’ even then people will catch each other’s eye on opposite sides of the Nowa Nowa pub on a Friday night. Take more than a stroll on the bridge to fix that.
