Coming Rain

by Stephen Daisley

  ‘Fuck off.’

  The lifeguard fell back and another lifeguard ran in and shoulder-charged Lew. ‘Fair bump, play on,’ he yelled, turned and snarled.

  Lew fell backwards into the sand. He was playing football.

  Now they were fighting.

  Lew was on his back, arms and legs waving like an upturned turtle. He was trying to get up. Somebody else stood above him and swung both fists at his head. Hit him on the cheekbone once and in the mouth, forehead and nose. He saw Painter stepping over and pushing away the man who had been punching his face. There was a roaring of voices as the old man moved forward and knocked one of the surf rescue blokes down. Turned as he was hit from behind; covered up, blocked and hit another with a combination of punches. Old man moving like a good fighter, sound as a bell of brass but step into your punches son and no cursing nor profanity when you box I will not have it, the old trainer Mr Kilpatrick speaking to him yet. Fine fine…but keep your hands up and be aware of yourself as you move above the canvas; did you hear me, above and not on or about the canvas? You come to bearing close to the gentleman Mr Eagan, the American Irish…A prince in the ring and no doubt about it.

  Two straight rights double jab, step-away left hook and down goes another lifesaver on his red and yellow arse. Painter blew air and snot from what was left of his nose and danced to his left, hands up. ‘Yep. That’ll do. Good. Wait on now boys. My hands are not what they were and I need to see them.’ He coughed and his bottom lip rode up onto his top lip for a moment. He allowed it and pulled his chin in. Waved his right hand up and down as if in pain; all the time he studied them. ‘Hurts.’

  ‘You ugly old bastard,’ one of the lifesavers said. Fingers holding his bleeding nose, bent over and backing away. ‘You just broke my nose.’

  ‘You got any wet paper bags boys?’ Painter, smiling. ‘I couldn’t punch me way out of one if you paid me. Not a single one. Would you ever look at me? Knackered. Old as a rock.’

  Lew on all fours, blood streaming from his nose and mouth and about to stand. Becoming giddy and still seeing white sand kicking up. Got to his feet, staggered to one side. Noticed the woman Maureen had walked off a few yards, folded her arms and was watching them all.

  ‘Run, son,’ Painter says to him over his shoulder, ‘go on now, get on up out of it.’

  Lew began running in the soft white sand, paused and looked back.

  Painter had stepped away from the lifesavers and was once again appealing to them. ‘Come on you young blokes.’ His big hands back on his hips. Stars and birds. Love on one set of fingers, smile on his face. Skin smeared off the knuckles. ‘We can let this go now, can’t we? We’ll be on our way. I’m sorry about all the fuss.’

  ‘Stupid old man. The last time I saw a head like that it had a hook in it.’

  Ripples of laughter.

  ‘Well,’ Painter said, ‘I got a head only a mother could love no doubt about it.’

  Someone mimicked him in a high-pitched voice. ‘No one would love that ugly fish head.’

  They all laughed. Painter too, he was nodding. ‘That’ll do boys.’ He cleared his throat. ‘That’ll do.’

  ‘That’ll do.’ Again the insulting mimicry. ‘Boys.’

  More lifesavers had joined the group. The leader spoke. ‘Who are you anyway? A stinkin’ old dero by the look of you. Here on our beach. Old sailor are ya? Crim, just got out?’

  Painter looked directly at him. ‘A stinkin’ old dero is it? That’s me. A crim just got out.’ He shrugged as if he was sick of trying. ‘Yep and I was with your mother last night mate. Right here on the sand we did it. Almost to death we did it. And you know what? She was useless. Like a wet sack of wheat she was and smelled like an old dog left out in the rain for too long. I’d rather fuck a cricket bat than your mother. Probably thinking about you as I rooted her anyway son.’

  Mr Kilpatrick would have turned away in disgust at such talk. Painter’s chin lifted and he slipped his right shoulder for the left hook. Fists held at his waist. Nodding towards them. ‘How do you like that? Boys? Come on now.’

  Some of them seemed to pause, confused; someone said Jesus Christ while another two started laughing. Someone else said, ‘No you weren’t. She wasn’t.’

  ‘Step forward son,’ Painter said to them all. ‘Have a go. At me the ugly old bastard who fucked your mother. You got a sister? I bet you all know what’s between her legs as well. A little wet slit in the dark under the blankets and do you dip your middle finger, smell it? Do you? You do, don’t you?’ Painter paused and looked at the eight or so lifesavers gathered around him. They just boys, never been hurt in their lives. God bless them they don’t know what they are sayin’ and I do. Children are easily frightened. He took a deep breath, coughed again and began rolling his fists in comic imitation of a fairground boxer. A carnival man.

  ‘Be a man don’t be afraid, look at me. A good horse never stumbles and a good mug never grumbles so give us the money boy and don’t fuckin’ sook about it like a fat girl with the smile and no ice-cream. My hand is open. Like your mother’s legs. I am truly Mr Kilpatrick’s disgrace. Punch as hard as you like. You cannot ever hurt me you young cunts.’

  Lew had reached sandhills and tussock grass at the top of the beach. He knew what Painter would be saying. Tell them lies, boy, everyone believes what frightens them.

  Fuck-off tauntings and feigned bewilderment; seeming friendliness and crude words as to take your breath away. Your mother’s cunt, almost beautiful, the belief. Next, the humility amid the shocking humour; all the time looking for the weaknesses. Usually beat them before they start with the words if you can son, it’s easier. Make them weak as they think.

  Painter glanced to where he was, waited and nodded. Began to back away. Turned, walked and spun to face the following lifesavers. ‘Wait a moment you. Don’t get too close or I’ll smack you down. By God I will and no jokin’ now.’

  Lew crossed the white shell-rock car park to the 1939 Ford pickup truck where they had parked it earlier. Got in, the door swinging open, and he was turning the key.

  An empty clicking sound came from the engine.

  ‘You’re a bloody idiot son,’ Painter yelled as he too reached the car park and waited at the verge. He was breathing hard. ‘Look at us. Got no bearings here boy. We should have found a card game, something else, people we know. Who know us.’

  ‘What?’ Lew got out of the truck cab, slammed the door. He was carrying something as he walked to the front of the vehicle.

  ‘Coming here,’ Painter said. ‘What’s wrong?’ He was speaking over his shoulder. Looking to his front and answering his own questions. ‘Apart from you, that is, what’s wrong. You young fool.’

  ‘Won’t start. Flat battery.’

  ‘Jesus, son.’

  Lew was trying to insert a crank handle into the truck’s motor, his mouth still bleeding. Spat out spooling blood. Cheekbone swelling red. Left eye closing.

  ‘What?’

  Painter looked at the first of the lifesavers who had come up from the beach, pointed at him. They gathered and were standing at the edge of the sandy car park. The limestone bulk of the club pavilion behind them.

  One of them called out, you better go all right you bastards, when the woman, the one Lew had been speaking to at the water’s edge, pushed between them and walked to where he was try
ing to start the truck. She had a beach bag over her shoulder and a wide straw hat.

  ‘Maureen?’ A lifesaver called to her, stepped forward from the group. ‘No, cut it out. Not with them, oh no. Maureen, come on?’

  Lew was down on one knee, positioning the crank.

  Painter was standing apart from them both, his hands on his hips, glancing at Lew then at the ground. Towards the lifesavers.

  Lew raised himself up and with all his strength pushed hard and down on the crank handle. The Ford caught and the motor began turning over.

  ‘Can I come with you? Please.’

  He stared at her and all he could think of was putting his fingers under her bathing costume, there at the top of her thighs. Lord, his thumb on her navel.

  Painter heard and shook his head. ‘No son.’

  Lew said yes and she laughed, repeated Lew’s yes and got into the truck. Said thank you. Threw the bag and hat in the space behind the drivers seat. The cab smelled of oil and hot metal. Cigarette smoke, raw wool and sweat.

  Lew slid in behind the wheel. The navy blue stitched bench seat was sticky from the heat and she moved towards him to make room for where Painter would sit. Positioned herself so the gear stick was between her legs, the housing beneath her feet. He moved the gears through first to fourth and reverse while she opened her knees and thighs to allow him and stared straight ahead as he started to let the clutch out and looked back over his left shoulder. Touched him with her shoulder and elbow to say sorry. Lew smiled, no you don’t have to.

  Painter walked backwards and took three or four sidesteps towards the reversing truck. He jumped onto the running board, opened the door and swung in, shut the door as a limestone rock smashed against the windscreen. The glass cracked, didn’t break, and another rock bounced off the bonnet. He coughed, stopped coughing and waited to cough again. Spat out the window and sat back in his seat.

  ‘Good idea son,’ he said, as they stopped reversing. Lew quickly changed gears and put his foot down on the accelerator pedal. ‘Coming here.’ The Ford jumped and juddered in a near-stall. White dust blowing around them.

  Lew shook his head. ‘You already said that.’

  ‘Clutch,’ Painter said. Lew slammed his foot on the clutch, corrected the stall and managed to get the car moving from the beach. Changed gears as Painter said, ‘Change bloody gears go on. That’s it.’

  They drove away fishtailing along the sandy track towards Fremantle. Norfolk pines and white sand dunes covered in moving marram grass. A blacktop macadamised road crumbling at the edges and the blue sky and the Indian Ocean away to their right for as far as they could see. Fifteen or so merchant ships in Gage Roads.

  ‘Mr Jesus where are you now?’ Painter said.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I wasn’t talkin’ to you. What’s the name of this place again?’

  ‘Cottesloe,’ Lew said. Looked at the woman.

  She nodded. ‘Cottesloe Beach.’

  ‘Slow down.’ Painter leaned forward and looked at him.

  Lew ignored Painter and turned again to the woman. ‘Can I ask you your name?’

  ‘Maureen,’ she said. ‘Maureen O’Reilly.’

  He felt her leg move against him.

  Painter had an unlit smoke in his mouth, his arms folded. He shook his head and looked out at the passing Norfolk pines. Said something to himself, shook his head once again.

  The muscle in Lew’s jaw clenched again. He nodded.

  ‘And no bloody lifesavers again neither.’

  She said, ‘I can swim Lew. I can teach you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘No, it’s all right.’

  CHAPTER 3

  There were engine parts and tools scattered about the floor. A tall stack of tyres; gearboxes in pieces. Wheel rims and a back axle. The light came through lopsided venetian blinds. A west window with faded Caltex and Chevrolet stickers stuck to it. Ford and Chrysler. A 1940 Shell calendar above a desk and an old chair pushed back as if someone had just got up from it.

  Her eyes were closed and she had taken off her shoes. The oil-black concrete beneath her bare feet. ‘You should not be here,’ she said, ‘I should not, I am thirty-seven.’ Looked at him as if this was enough.

  ‘Maureen.’

  She stood on one foot to remove her underwear. Whispered, ‘My, Mr Peter O’Reilly.’

  ‘My name is Lewis.’

  ‘No…not you.’ She placed a flat hand against his chest and smiled into his face. ‘Not you baby.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘No one.’ Her hands were undoing his belt, the buttons of his trousers and he could smell her damp hair as she looked down, said, ‘You,’ and then, as if beside herself, ‘just fuck me.’ Her legs coming around his legs.

  It was another two days before he knocked on the door of the house in front of the Motor Garage in East Fremantle. P J & M M O’Reilly Mechanical Repairs and Services East Fremantle Motors Ltd. A big blue sign.

  She opened the front door and glanced behind. Stepped out, holding the door almost closed with one hand.

  ‘Hello Maureen,’ he said.

  ‘It’s you,’ she said, and raised her wrist to her mouth. A sea wind moved her cotton print dress away from her and she smoothed her brown hair back behind her ear. A straight mouth as she smiled with her lips closed.

  He could hear a baby crying and the voice of an older woman from behind her, inside the house. ‘Who is it Maureeney love?’

  ‘No one Mum.’ She looked back at him. ‘Sorry, but I have forgotten your name.’

  ‘Lewis,’ he said. ‘I told you the other day.’

  ‘Lewis.’ Maureen studied him for a few moments. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m all right. Been thinking about you though. Can’t stop. All the time it seems.’

  ‘I know.’

  He was quiet, unable to understand what she was telling him. And then he did and turned away as his mouth was to break apart and walked down the steps to where he had parked the Ford.

  ‘Love,’ she called out as he reached the bottom of the steps and was opening the gate.

  He didn’t look back or think for a moment that she did what she said. Most likely just a name, a habit she had. Even something in the workshop. A lot of women called men love when they said goodbye. Or even hello. That was all right too. Do you want a cup of tea love? They said that.

  CHAPTER 4

  Lew spent the remainder of the morning finding his way back to their free camp on the Djarlgarra. He drove along the Canning Road until he reached the Albany Highway. Left off onto a gravel road that led to the wild disused land along the riverbanks. He passed between swamp banksias and paperbarks.

  Wetland birds rising from the reeds. The heavy lifting of pelican through the cumbungi and bulrush. Smelled the clean air coming from the river water and drove through casuarinas. He stopped the truck once to relieve himself and then he drove on. After a quarter of a mile he came to the old barge horse path near Mason’s Landing. It was overgrown with wild oats and prickly dryandra.

  He bumped through the bushes scraping along the sides of the truck. Followed the sunken dirt track until he reached their camp. Stopped in a small clearing and switched off the
engine. Cicadas were loud in the sunshine and two or three ringneck parrots flew away through the trees, calling out their number; being cheeky bastards Painter would say, listen to them, the twenty-eights.

  Lew got out of the truck, slammed the door, said fuck it and began to pack up his tent. He rolled his swag and put canvas bags in the back of the truck. Threw the tent poles, clattering, into the tray. Raised one hand in greeting towards Painter who was standing next to the campfire.

  ‘Didn’t expect to see you till tomorrow son. Maybe day after,’ he said, holding a fork. ‘Looks like our time in the big smoke’s over, is it?’

  ‘I’m off. You coming?’ Lew, using his elbow and palm as a template, began rolling up a length of rope. ‘I heard there’s a bit of fencing work down south round Dardanup.’

  Painter scratched his arm with the fork. ‘Dunno bout that but we still got that charcoal contract northeast of Boddington. Should start it next few days.’

  ‘Well fuck that,’ Lew said.

  ‘Yep.’ Painter scratched his shoulder with the fork again. ‘Then, next month, north and further out, four days shearing on the Drysdales’ place. You want to fuck that as well?’

  Lew finished coiling the rope and looped two holding hitches into the middle of the roll. Threw it next to the swag and tent poles in the back of the truck. Opened the truck door and stood holding it open. One boot on the running board. ‘Think you’re funny don’t you? Sayin’ that? You been drinkin’?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. What about that fencing job?’

  ‘By the time we finish the charcoal, be time to start shearing at Drysdale’s anyway. I just told you.’

  Lew hadn’t let go of the truck door. ‘I been thinking about doing some prospecting.’

  Painter walked over to the truck, reached in, pulled Lew’s swag out and dropped it beside the back wheels. ‘You have?’