Cold Skin

by Steven Herrick

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.