by Bruce Pascoe
‘Yeah.’
A man walked into the bar, a stranger, in a thick woollen jacket. They sized him up in one glance. Little pub like this, only stop on the highway in the middle of the hundred-plus-kilometre forest. Had to be a truckie. Heard the air brakes too.
He glanced at them, nodded – it was that sort of pub, too small not to acknowledge those already there – and stood for a moment with his back to the fire, a brace of wood-chopping trophies bristling from the mantel behind his shoulders. It wasn’t rude to hog the fire for a while; almost everyone did at this time of year, even strangers. It was a magnet.
‘Porterhouse is on special, love, if you want it,’ Vera called from the bar, ‘cause that silly Veronica didn’t come tonight, mopin’ about some man. You want it, love, with chips ’n’ veggies?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Or salad?’
‘Salad.’
Strewth, a man who ate salad. Still, it got rid of the porterhouse she’d cooked out of Monday-night habit.
‘Where’re you from?’
‘Sydney.’
‘Going to?’
‘Melbourne.’
‘Truckin’?’
‘Yeah. Load of cattle.’
‘Good-o then love, steak won’t be long. Don’t get mixed up with them girls though, they’re … voracious.’
All the voracious girls giggled, some even touching their hair or the top button of their card-playing blouse, the second best, satin, sort of.
He bought a pot of light beer. They noticed that. Responsible. He sat with his back to them and plucked at the pages of last week’s Forest Leaves: old badminton results, desultory fishing reports, front page bagging the minister about criminal forest policy, crucifying the bush, again.
Vera brought his plate and an army of sauce bottles and condiments. He cut into the steak. Not very hot, but it’d been in the warmer for a while. The chips were good.
Rene wouldn’t go to the bar to get her own drinks. Had to have company. Moral support. Usually Roma would go with her. Nothing bothered Roma. Anyone who wore men’s work pants and a plaid shirt was obviously impervious to shame, but even though she wasn’t as tough as she looked, she stuck by her mates, and she’d never let anyone pick on Rene.
The man watched the smaller woman. Neat. Nervy like a finch, but tidy in her poverty, if he wasn’t mistaken. The clothes were Kmart for sure, but he could see they’d been chosen with care, kept clean, pressed, never washed with socks or towels.
He studied the profile of her face, recognised the history written there.
The cards were flipped, greeted with triumph or disdain, the stories slipping in between shuffles, but quieter now, not as bawdy, or as cruel.
A couple of men shouldered their way into the bar, bought their beers and set up a game of pool, acknowledging the women’s comments with practised indifference.
‘Geez, your bum looks big in those, Michael.’
‘Got Eileen pregnant again, Rog?’
The click of the balls punctuated the flip of the cards.
Roma escorted Rene to the bar for the next round but veered off to the toilets. The man picked up his empty glass and casually took it to the bar and waited for Vera to fill it. Rene was pretending to pick up her drinks but her little hands were never going to get around four pots.
He turned to her with his back to Vera and said, so no one else could hear, ‘You’re Koorie, nah?’
She looked up, startled, the breath fluttering at the top of her throat. But she nodded.
‘So am I. Where’re your people from?’
‘Don’t know,’ the little woman breathed.
‘Don’t know? So what’s your name?’
‘Arnold.’
‘Arnold?’
‘But me mum was a Kane.’
‘Kane? And you don’t know where they’re from?’
‘No.’
‘Know anything about them?’
He heard the toilet door slam and knew Roma was returning, but she just leaned between them, scooped up three of the pots and carried them back to the card table, winking extravagantly to the girls. Well, he didn’t seem a bad sort of bloke – and she could recognise bad sorts of blokes, had kicked plenty of them out. But bad blokes seldom ate salad. In her experience. Which wasn’t small. Not small at all, quite often.
Rene kind of shrugged. She wasn’t used to talking to men. She knew nothing about her family. ‘But I’ve looked,’ she told him. ‘There was this book I saw in the mobile library.’
‘And you looked under Kane and couldn’t find anything?’
‘No.’
‘Did you spell it with a C or a K?’
‘K, I’ve always spelt it with a K. That’s what Mum said it was.’
Rene was twisting her pot on the bar towel, hoping Roma would come and rescue her, even glancing towards the table, but they all seemed oblivious.
‘Did you look under C?’
‘C?’
‘For Cane.’
‘Cane?’
‘You’re a Cane, I’d bet anything on it. Your grandmother and grandfather are heroes. Took on the government when they tried to kick the people off the mission. Your family’s famous.’
Oh, no. Famous. How can I hide? Why doesn’t Roma come and help me?
‘I bet your family is looking for you. I’ll tell you what, I’m coming back next week, next Monday it’ll be – card night, isn’t it? I’ll find out for you if you like.’
He watched her face. Her lips moved a bit, and there was a sort of nod of assent. Or it could have been a jerky intake of breath.
‘Well. I’ll see you then. Next Monday.’
The cards fell, mostly from Rene’s hands. ‘Come on, Rene, you’re not concentrating,’ they yelled at her. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll turn up, his type always does.’
His type. She tried to get the cards into suits but kept fumbling them.
‘You trying to advertise that ace, Rene?’
But eventually they heard the air brakes.
‘Your shout, Rene,’ Roma called, even though everyone knew it was Kerry’s. Roma stood up and handed Rene her purse. ‘Time to let the moths out, darl.’ She grinned. Well, Roma thought of it as her grin. Dogs put their tails between their legs.
Roma escorted Rene to the bar and left her there just as the man opened the door. Like a lot of big women, Roma’s timing was pretty good. She was light on her feet. Surprisingly delicate. Delicate in dungarees.
He nodded at Rene, bought his beer.
‘Porterhouse, darl?’ Vera called. ‘Make you a fresh one this week, Veronica’s stopped sookin’.’
‘Thanks.’
Vera bustled off to the other end of the bar. She was loud but not stupid. They all liked Rene. Protected her. As you do the smallest in the litter.
‘Cane, alright,’ he said, taking a sip from his glass. ‘Irene Cane.’
‘Irene?’
‘Yes, Rene, I for Irene. You never knew?’
‘No.’
‘Your mum never said?’
‘The home said she died when I was ten. Only saw her a few times.’
‘Rene, she died three years ago. They were bullshittin’ ya, the home.’
Rene froze, clutching her purse. Roma came up and took it from her hands, plucked a note, slapped it on the bar and returned to the cards, which were stalled, waiting, even the gossip abbreviated. Hard to talk when you were listening so hard.
‘Those homes are full of shit, Rene. I was in one too. I saw it in you straightaway. I’m sorry about your mum, but they do that to you. Lie. Lie through their teeth. For your own good. So that you don’t know who you are. And you’re famous, Rene.’
She glanced at him in panic.
‘You must have known, Rene, you’re so dark.’
Her lips went to move but only kind of wriggled.
‘Your family fought the government. They were heroes. Still are. Your aunty is a big shot in Canberra. Got ’em all bluffed, she has. Rea
l tough cookie. Gotta be, or they’d crush her like an ant. Would you like to meet her? Your family? I could take you up there if you like. In the truck.’ He put his hand in his pocket and withdrew a crumpled note and some coins. ‘Buy you a drink, Rene?’
Roma saw the hand go in the pocket and come out with the money. No wallet, she thought, poor as … poor as a half-black truck driver. Still, he was a decent poor half-black truck driver. Decent, she could tell that. Stood out like a beacon. Not her type. She liked ’em dangerous. Stupid bitch she was. Dangerous and big enough to throw her across the room. And some of them did. Even her, Big Roma. Still …
‘What do you say? I’ve got a house in Liverpool. Me uncle’s, really. He’d set up a room for you while you had a look around and then I could bring you back next week if you wanted.’
Wanted. She’d never dared want.
‘They know about you, Rene. Your family. Never knew what happened to you. Your sister went looking for you but the home said they didn’t know where you were.’
‘Sister?’ Rene stared up into the man’s eyes for the first time.
‘Yeah, sister, you’ve got a sister. Two. They cried when I told them.’
So did Rene. Right there, couldn’t help it, bubbling like a brook. Plopping fat tears onto the bar towel so that Vera plumped the plate of steak down on the bar with two beers and scuttled off. ‘Strewth, Rene’s cryin’. Something’s up.’
‘Who are you?’ It was Roma. Big and bustling, hoping she hadn’t made a huge mistake.
‘Kevin Murray. I’m her cousin, sort of.’
‘Cousin!’
Rene was too damp to gasp.
‘So that means you can make her cry, sort of?’
‘I know her family. I know her sisters.’
‘Sisters,’ Roma said, glaring.
‘Yes, she’s got a whole family looking for her. Koorie family.’
‘Don’t take us for mugs, Kevin, it’s obvious what she is, but she’s our mate, and you hurt her and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre’ll be nothin’ on what we do to you. But look, she’s just won the raffle jackpot.’
‘What jackpot?’ Vera asked.
‘The jackpot, you stupid fat bitch, the Monday $100 jackpot.’
‘Oh yes,’ Vera tried to perk up and follow the hint, ‘number 49 Blue.’ She handed over the $100, hoping the other girls would cough up part of it. Sort of like a dowry or something. Even if he was a sort of cousin.
Roma put her shoulder between Rene and Kevin. ‘Hurt her and we’ll kill you,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll kill you. No funny business. She’s got a family, you take her to her family and bring her back. And after that she can decide. But a new family – it takes thinking about. Alright?’
Kevin didn’t reply. He wasn’t about to be intimidated by bluster. He knew what he knew and he’d do what he’d always done. What he thought was best. He didn’t need to be lectured. He stared her down. Or tried to. But she’d met enough truck drivers not to shift her gaze.
‘She doesn’t need any more bad luck.’
Roma talked as if Rene wasn’t there.
‘This is good luck, she’s got a family, sisters. With our people that’s good luck.’
Roma just looked at him. He didn’t need to tell her about his people. Small bush mill towns. Plenty of his genes spread around those places. Paid not to look too close, to ignore unexplainable suntans. Not to ask too many questions. Even about your own family. But sisters. That was different. Rene had sisters.
Roma steered Rene back to the table and they reacquainted themselves with their cards.
‘Don’t mind Roma – what’s your name?’ said Vera.
‘Kevin.’
‘Look, Kevin,’ Vera went on, ‘don’t mind her, she’s too big for her boots, and she’s got bloody big boots, but she’s also got —’
‘A heart of gold?’
‘Well, what’s wrong with that? She’s only lookin’ after her mate. Rainbird’s a small town, Kevin, we look out for each other, especially the women. And Rene’s been ripped off a few times.’
‘I’m her cousin.’
‘So you say, after drivin’ a truck up to the pub after dark, but she’s our mate.’
‘I know that, and I am her cousin.’
‘Good. And Kevin, your truck plate is RA1390 and your CB is 863030. We only know who you say you are, but we know where to find you … And you won’t need another drink if you’re driving to Sydney.’
‘Canberra.’
‘Well, Canberra then. I suppose someone has to go there.’
‘They threatened to kill me,’ he said.
Rene just looked down the tunnel of light that sucked them through the forest. She wished she hadn’t got into the truck. She clutched her purse, couldn’t see a place to put it. He might be wrong. They mightn’t be her sisters, and if they were they mightn’t like her.
She was better off back in the bush. Knew where the teapot was. Fed the birds at the back step. Watched the quiz shows, amazed by the answers. Played cards on Monday. Spent pocket money from part-time at the post office. Knew the routine, knew where she was, where she belonged, safe at last. What was she doing in the truck? With a stranger? A cousin she didn’t know. He might be wrong. Easy for him to say he knew all the answers, but if he was wrong, think of the upset, the … problems.
‘Put your purse in the glovebox, Rene. Listen, your grandmother wrote to the government and said they couldn’t just turn around and give the mission to the farmers. It was her home, she told them, and was given to her people by the Queen. That’s what she told them. Told them they’d have to carry her out. But she was smart too, told ’em she’d seen the original document, where it said while the people are still alive and want to live there the place was theirs. She could read and write, see, very smart woman.
‘They tried to say that because she was living with a man who wasn’t her husband she’d have to go. She said that’s your rules, not our rules, and your document says nothin’ about who has to live with who. She could quote them letter and verse, Rene, she was a smart woman, a hero, and if you weren’t able to take your place in that family, it’d be a crime. Like, they’d been successful at last. Got what your grandmother had stopped them from getting. That’s all I thought, Rene, I thought you should know and your sisters should know and we should know, all the rest of your family, we’d know that they hadn’t won again. That’s all. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
She looked down the tunnel veering through the rushing trees.
‘You’re famous, Rene. We need you.’
My teapot, my flowers. The thrush won’t get his cheese. Who’ll be a millionaire next?
‘It doesn’t work out, tell my uncle, he’ll get you back home, he’s the best man alive. He’s your uncle too, sort of. He’ll get you home. Or I can drive you next week.’
Sisters and uncles was one thing, but that thrush needed her, sang to her. What would happen to the thrush? It might think she’d deserted it, never given it another thought.
‘Can I …’ she began. ‘Can I ring Roma on that thing’ – she indicated the CB radio – ‘and see if she’ll feed my bird?’
SOLDIER GOES TO GROUND
It was a paddy field that had been slurped into mush, like a huge plate of cereal. And they were firing at him. He didn’t want to be killed. He didn’t want to feel the scorch of hot metal rip through his tissues. As he ran, he could imagine the lead searching to plunge a hole through his back. His spine tingled as he slushed through the mud and blasted harvest.
There was a lump, a sodden thing, and he fell beside it, hiding his head. He panted into his arm, his body sinking into the sour mud. The firing continued, but nothing found a cave of flesh, at least not his flesh. He opened his eyes and saw that his shelter wore a uniform, the same uniform, and that the intestines were beginning to stray from beneath the jacket. They were a puzzle, a mystery, an organic jigsaw.
He couldn’t be sick. He couldn’t be sad. He had his own warm
sac of tubes to protect from the blazing hounds of the air. What were they firing at? He seemed to have been here for hours. Surely the others were all gone, or dead, like this fallen lump he was hiding behind. He dared not lift his head. Perhaps they assumed he was dead. He let his face sink deeper into the slush, wishing that the mud would embrace him, take him into its arms and protect him.
‘G’day.’ Silence punctuated by bursts of fire. ‘Rather be at Lorne, meself.’
Who spoke? Involuntarily, he lifted his head an inch and swivelled his eyes to look around. No one, only the corpse. And then he saw the eyes looking at him.
‘Give you a fright, did I? You’d better stick your head down again, mate. You can stay here until it stops. I don’t think I’m going anywhere.’
His eyes slewed to the side to look at the mess of gut seeping from beneath the jacket, and he felt ashamed of the glance, but the corpse had seen the direction of his gaze.
‘I know. I tried to put it back, but I can’t move anymore. I can’t even feel it anymore. Like a bad dream, except it’s not, is it?’
‘Can I do —’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ The dead and living gazed at each other across eight inches of mud.
‘There is one thing you can do for me, in return for a bit of shelter.’ A sick green smile stretched the facial muscles of the spoilt soldier. ‘There’s something in my top pocket, and I want you to give it to someone in Melbourne.’
A sodden silence.
‘Take it for me.’
The living soldier watched in dismay as a bead of moisture fled the cheek of the face that was taking on the texture of an old sago pudding.
‘Give it to a girl who lives at 46 Pacific Street, Brunswick. Sue.’
The breath was still stirring the puddle between their faces, but the eyes had closed. The lips parted jerkily once more, but no sound came, and the pool of slush became still.
He stared for an age at the white-green mask, before he saw his fingers grappling with the button of the top pocket. These fingers disappeared and withdrew a shell, a frail pink shell. In acres of slop and screaming air, two fingers held a perfect shell.
Pacific Street. Pacific Street. Forty? Forty-eight? Forty-six.
