Anyway, me and Ant starts talkin bout how dirty the Grub is.
I said I couldn’t believe anyone could live their life without havin a wash. I mean there aint nothin better after a hard day’s workin, than standin under a shower and lettin it wash all the sweat and grime away.
Then Antman reckons he’d have to be lousy. Reckons he’d be crawlin with lice.
Yogi pipes up from the back. ‘No way, Ant. Those lice would perish for sure.’
‘Whadda ya mean they’d perish?’
‘No fuckin water.’
Me and Ant looked at another and reckoned, ‘Yeh, aye!’
The counter lunch
One time me, Antman and Fleabag was travellin out to do some work in the shearin sheds.
Anyway, we come to this little back country town and see this little pub (the only pub) with a big old sign out the front sayin ‘COUNTER LUNCH SERVED INSIDE’. There’s a coupla utes parked out the front under the trees with dogs sittin alongside em, patiently waitin for their mates inside.
Ant parks the car cos it was just what we was lookin for. We was hangin for one of them old-style counter lunches. Big steaks or cutlets, served with proper old-fashioned lettuce, beetroot, orange slice, onions, and that cheese ya can roll up, and all drownin in vinegar.
So we gits out and Ant pours some water for Flea and gives him a bone. The heat’s got to the dogs beside the utes and they can’t even be arsed barkin at Flea, let alone pickin a blue, so we leave him to it and go inside.
There’s cracked lino on the floors, pictures of the big flood over the bar and a few outback paintins done on plywood shaped into the map of Australia. It’s air-conditioned too, nice and cool. There’s a coupla fullas in the bar, just drinkin and starin into space. They look at us and go back to wherever they was before we got there. The barmaid’s a tiny old woman wearin a black skirt, black shoes, stockins and white shirt. She only looks up from the magazine she’s readin when Ant orders a coupla coldies and asks her what she thinks bout the heat. She reckons it was hot enough ta scorch the feathers off a duck’s arse. We agree and cruise over to check out the juke box. There’s country music and more country music, which suits me and Ant just fine, so we put a coupla Charlie Pride, Slim and Merle Haggard songs on.
We sit down and are lookin for a menu, but we can’t see one. Ant reckons they probably only serve a coupla things, but says they’re sure to have steak and salad.
Anyway, we finish our beers and decide to order. So we walk back over to the bar to tell the barmaid what we want.
‘We’d like to order a couple of steaks and salad,’ Ant says. ‘And we’ll have a coupla more beers while we wait.’
She looks at us like we was from the moon. ‘What steaks and salads?’
Ant tells her bout the sign out front advertisin counter lunches and says again that we’d like to order a couple. He reckons it was okay if they had no steak, we’d just have whatever was on the menu.
She give us that same blank look again. ‘We don’t have counter lunches in here, luv.’
‘What do ya mean? You fullas have got a big sign out the front sayin counter lunch served here.’
‘Oh that,’ she says, flickin over a page of the magazine. ‘That sign’s been out there for years. We aint had counter lunches in here since Noah was a baby. Aint that right, boys?’
The two fullas agree with her and go back to their beers.
Ant asks if they serve any tucker in the pub at all.
She reckons they got chips. Plain, chicken or salt and vinegar.
We git a packet of each. Least we can say we had spuds with chicken and vinegar for lunch. They tasted all right too, washed down with a few beers and some good country on the juke box.
The funeral goer
Cousin Moodle loves funerals. She don’t care whose funeral it is, she goes anyway. She’s always ridin on the funeral bus to some place or another. Funeral buses are usually hired. Or if the Land Council’s gotta bus, they use them to take people to towns to pay their respects.
Sometimes when a funeral bus is passin through town, Moodle packs a bag and goes along with em if they got the room. They can usually squeeze someone else on.
Moodle loves makin a big fuss and bein the centre of attention at funerals. She gits dressed up to the nines in her fancy, black funeral rig-out and hat. She wails and weeps and likes to be helped in and out of the church by at least two people. She likes to stumble and sometimes she faints. The way she carries on really gives Dad the shits and sometimes he tells her to wake up to herself and stop carryin on like some fuckin demented idiot.
Ma reckons Dad should have a bit of patience with Moodle. She reckons Moodle aint hurtin no one. Besides, Ma reckons blackfullas like a bit of a show at these things cos they like talkin bout how old so-and-so carried on afterwards. Especially when they’re sittin round havin their tea and cakes and sandwiches.
One of the things Moodle likes to do is run towards the coffin as it’s bein lowered into the ground, yellin stuff like, ‘Please Lord, take me with her’. People grab her just before she jumps. Dad reckons she relies on them to grab her in time.
Anyway, one time Moodle goes to this funeral. It’d been rainin for days and the red clay was slippery and ya had ta watch what you was doin so ya didn’t slip or nothin. Moodle gits carried away as usual as they start lowerin the coffin and starts runnin towards it screamin, ‘Lord, Gawd Almighty, please take me with him.’
Only one of the fullas slips and doesn’t catch her in time. Then Moodle slips herself and goes slidin into the grave, landing right on top of the coffin that’s been lowered halfway down.
So Moodle’s sittin on the coffin wailin. ‘But please Lord, Gawd Almighty, not now, not now. I aint ready to go just yet.’
Suddenly everyone’s rushin over there helpin Moodle outta the grave.
Ma whispers to Dad that he should go over and help too but he reckons may as well leave her there cos it might teach her a lesson.
It didn’t tho. She still gets dressed to the nines and goes to every funeral she can. And she still wails and runs at the coffin. Only difference is now she always makes sure someone’s there and all ready to catch her in time.
The golden wedding anniversary
Me, Antman and Fleabag went to Uncle Vic and Aunty Bess’s fiftieth wedding anniversary. They’re Ant’s relations. It was a great party. All Aunty Bess’s mob came. Uncle Vic’s brother, his wife, kids, their kids and hundreds of their friends. Their only child Della came from Brisbane with husband Chris and two children, thirteen-year-old Buddy and ten-year-old Lulu.
They had Old Merv Hanrahan as master of ceremonies. Ant reckons he emcees every local event, from christenings, to funerals, engagements to weddings, presentations, sporting or otherwise. He got the job years ago cos he owned a suit and was never lost for words. Uncle Vic reckoned Merv had an opinion on everything and everyone, whether you wanted it or not. Also, his wife Dulcie made the best wine trifle in the district and always bought one along, so that didn’t hurt either.
The Dandenong Country Drifters were the band for the night. They played country, rock and roll and some waltzes for the older folk, and pretty soon had everyone up dancing. The first one up was Luvvo. Coal black skin, a shock of white hair and the figure of someone twenty years younger, Luvvo could shake it with the best of them. And when she’d throw back her head and yell in her port wine and cigarette growl, ‘I still got it’, no one doubted her, least of all the women, young or old. They kept their men folk real close when Luvvo was around.
Later in the evening Bess and Vic danced the Anniversary Waltz. Vic, tall, fair, blue-eyed and sandy-haired. Bess, tiny and dark, with long, thick hair, black but for a few streaks of silver that gave off a sparkle as she danced lightly in his arms. They looked as in love today as they were fifty years ago when they married in the old registry with her mum and dad and his granny looking on.
Then came the speeches. Different ones got up and talked about wh
at a great couple they were. They talked about how they’d turned their property into the best in the district. About their generosity, their terrific family. Della spoke about what fantastic parents they were, how much she and her husband and kids loved and were so proud of them. Vic and Bess was fairly lit up with pride.
Finally Vic got up. He thanked everyone – from his friends, family and the Lord for his wonderful life and the gift of Bess, Della and her family. He and everyone else spoke about everything. Everything but what Della really wanted to hear.
Antman reckoned she’d pestered em for years.
‘Please,’ she’d beg. ‘Tell me how you met. I tell everyone how I met Chris at uni. How we fell in love. How he proposed.’
But they’d just say, ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Or tell her, ‘It’s in the past. We’re together now. That’s all that matters.’
She’d ask their friends or relatives but they’d go quiet. Tell her it wasn’t up to them to say. Reckoned Vic and Bess would tell her when they were ready. It drove her mad. She’d moan about it to Chris, or me and Ant, and we’d say they probably had their reasons. That just give her the shits.
After the party, Big Jim West (five foot four in his socks) drove us all home. He’d been the town drunk, proppin up the bar of the Royal Mail from openin to half past drunk for many years. Then he met Ollie who fell in love with the man, not the drunk. Reckoned he was a good sort, just needed sprucin up. She got him sober and he hasn’t touched a drop in twenty years. Non‑drinkers were a rarity in these parts, and it wasn’t long before he became ‘designated driver’, the town eventually purchasing a community bus of which Big Jim was supreme overlord.
The bus belted along the dirt and gravel moonlit roads. People, full of grog and good cheer, sang out of tune as each family was dropped off in turn, until finally all us mob. We was stayin with Unc and Aunt. Uncle Vic, Chris and Ant went ta bed, they was pretty pissed, so me, Aunty Bess and Della sat out on the wide, screened verandah and sipped cold beer.
‘Jeez, Ma, it was a beaut party,’ reckoned Della.
‘The best thing was you, Chris and the kids comin home,’ replied Bess.
‘Wouldn’t have missed it. Luvvo can still shake it, aye?’ said Della, sipping her beer.
‘You’re not wrong, daught. I told her she better keep her paws off your father, or me and her will be knucklin up.’
‘Oh, Ma! Luvvo’d make mincemeat of you,’ laughed Della.
Bess chuckled. ‘Don’t bet on it, bubby. Ya father’s worth fightin for.’
We just sat there all quiet, just listenin to the sound of crickets.
Finally Della spoke. ‘Ma, please tell me how you met. It can’t be that bad.’
‘Leave it alone, daught.’
Then the low rumble of Vic’s voice disturbed us. We hadn’t heard him come out.
‘Tell her, Bess. It’s about time.’
‘Gawd, Vic! Sneakin up like that. You sure?’
‘I’m sure. We’ll both tell her.’
I said maybe I should go inside and leave em in peace but they reckoned no, I could stay if I wanted.
Vic sat beside Bess and took her tiny, dark hand in his, and after a deep breath, Bess started speaking.
‘In those days, men had no respect for us Koori girls. They’d come sneakin round camps at night, bringin grog. Stirrin up trouble. Sometimes they’d chase us home from town. They got one of me cousins. She killed herself not long after. Funny thing though, the day after they did it, they was all down town with their women folk, helpin em with their shoppin, actin right and proper, tippin their hats to all the white ladies. Meanwhile Ruthie’s lying bleedin in a hospital bed and no copper would believe her story. Even if they did, they wouldn’t have charged em. They were white, we was black, end of story. Who do you reckon the cops believed? After that, men from the camp would go everywhere with us.’
Bess sipped her beer and looked at Vic who squeezed her hand. She took a deep breath and continued.
‘Anyway, I had a job in town, cleanin the café. One day me brother was late pickin me up. I got impatient, started walkin home by meself. I was halfway there when I heard the truck. It was drivin slow and I turned around and saw it comin across the paddock. I heard the boys yahooin and laughin. I knew I was in trouble.
‘I started runnin so fast I thought me heart was gunna burst. I zigzagged across the paddock, like Ma told me. She reckoned it slowed em down long enough to get away. But it wasn’t workin and I tripped over a log and fell down. I thought, I’m gone, they’re gunna kill me.
‘I heard the truck stop. I heard em yahooin. Then I heard the doors slam. I was prayin to the Lord to get me outta this mess. Promised I would always wait for my brother. Would always do the right thing if he’d save me.
‘Then I heard an almighty bang. It was a rifle. I thought they’d kill me right there. They wouldn’t just rape me; they’d kill me. Then I thought bugger it, I’m not gunna lay here with me face in the dirt and let em shoot me in the back like a mongrel dog. They was gunna have to look me in the face before they done it. I turned over, and I saw Merv and Big Jim and a couple of other blokes from town. Ya father was standin there with the rifle pointed at em. They was tellin him to calm down. Big Jim was sayin, “She’s only a gin. They love it, mate.”
‘I sat up and looked at em. Then I heard ya father say, “Look at her. She’s just a kid. You mob of animals git back in the truck and piss off before I blow ya heads clean off.”
‘Merv, Jim and the others got back in the truck. Merv was givin ya father cheek. He was sayin he was weak as piss. Accused him of goin soft, of turnin on his mates for an Abo. Ya father told em to piss off. He wasn’t muckin round anymore and fired another shot in the air. They got into the truck and took off, still yellin cheek at ya father.
‘He walked over to me and, somehow, I just knew it was gunna be okay.’
Della’s face was white. Tears were streaming down her face. Even if she had wanted to speak, she wouldn’t have been able too. She was struck dumb by what she was hearing. Vic continued the story.
‘Gawd I felt like a bastard. Stupid too. The lads asked me to go huntin. I thought they meant for wild pigs or roos. When they saw Bess walkin and started yellin “there’s one, let’s git her.” I couldn’t believe it. I was tellin em to wake up to their selves. But they wouldn’t take any notice.
‘Big Jim kept drivin like a maniac. Then Bessie fell and Jim stopped the truck. They jumped out and I knew what they were gunna do. I couldn’t let it happen so I grabbed me rifle and fired it into the air. They were full of cheek, but like the cowards they were, they weren’t gunna take the chance so they left. I walked over to ya mother. She looked so little and helpless, but she seemed to trust me so that when I put the gun down and offered her me hand, she took it and I helped her stand up. She was shakin and terrified. Then I looked into the brownest eyes I’ve ever seen. I knew there and then I’d marry her. No matter what, Bess was gunna be my wife.
‘While we were standin there a mob arrived from her camp. They were in a panic. They thought someone had been shot. They saw me and ya mother. Saw the shotgun on the ground. I explained what had happened. Told how em how sorry I was. How ashamed I was. Bess’s dad asked me back to the camp for a cuppa. Told me I was a bigger man than those mongrels would ever be.
‘Then I started goin back all the time. Just to visit Bess. I remember the first day I drove her and me to the pictures. Everyone was lookin at us. In those days they made Aboriginal people sit in a roped-off section of the theatre. So I sat with her there.’
Bessie squeezed his hand and continued on with the story.
‘The manager came up and told him that he shouldn’t sit there. It was for the Abos. He said he was with me and if I couldn’t sit in the other section then he wasn’t gunna either. Gawd we copped some shit. We’d walk up the street and blokes would call him a gin jockey. He wanted to belt em, but I wouldn’t let him. He’d just wind up in gaol. They weren’t worth
it.
‘Then he asked me to marry him. I told him he was off his rocker. I didn’t mind if he just came and visited me, took me out. But I told him he’d be better off marrying a white girl. I told him his family would hit the roof. He said he didn’t care.
‘And she was right, baby girl,’ said Vic. ‘I didn’t care. She was then, and she still is, the only girl for me.
‘I asked her father for her hand, he said yes, but he warned us of the hard road ahead. I took her home and me folks hit the roof. Said they’d cut me outta the will. I’d git nothin. But me old grandma said me and Bess could have her old property. She reckoned we could make a go of it. She loved Bess from the day she met her. And we did make a go of it. Together we made it the best sheep station around. Then you come along and well, everything’s been great.’
Della looked at them.
‘How could you forgive Old Merv and Big Jim? How could you speak to those animals let alone be their friends? There was Merv talking at the party about what a wonderful couple you are. How great Mum is. He’s nothing but a fucking hypocrite.’
Bess took Della’s hand and quietly said, ‘Darlin, I didn’ bring you up to use language like that.’
‘What do you mean language like that?’ screamed Della. ‘Those men are pigs!’
Vic stood up and walked over to the edge of the verandah and after what seemed an eternity said, ‘I don’t expect you to understand, but when we got married something came over Merv. He came over one day with Dulcie. She had a trifle with her. Ya ma asked em in and Merv stood there with his hat in his hand and he asked for our forgiveness. Said it had been preyin on his mind. Dulcie reckoned he’d been evil, but he should say sorry and ask for forgiveness and even if we refused, at least he’d tried to be a decent man and make up for what he done.
Me, Antman & Fleabag Page 2
