‘Alright,’ came the drawling response, the newspaper lowering to half-mast.
Jonah used a thumb to indicate himself and Matthew. ‘Me and me China are down from the bush. Wanna surprise our girls and our push when we gets back. Thinkin’ ‘bout one of these buggers.’
Matthew had never heard Jonah speak in such impenetrable vernacular before, but he recognised it as a perfect impression of any of at least a dozen Dinbratten locals. Belatedly, he realised what Jonah had said—tattoos for both of them? He swallowed.
The tattooist let the newspaper fall to the counter in front of him and leaned forward on his elbows. ‘Anything particular in mind?’
Jonah rubbed at his chin contemplatively. ‘D’ya do letterin’? I reckon her initials’d be bewt.’
Taking two steps closer to the wall, the tattooist pointed at some red pictures. ‘Hearts are popular for that sort of thing.’
‘I dunno,’ said Jonah. ‘She’s not much of a sentimental bird.’ His gaze fell on a particular design that made his mouth tick up at one side. ‘I like that one, but. That bloody scrolly thing there. Can ya do that without the heart behind it?’
The artist nodded. ‘Yeah. Just the scroll with initials on it? Easy.’
Jonah turned to Matthew. ‘Whaddya reckon, Matty?’ He pronounced the nickname with the double T sounding like D, and Matthew had to physically force himself not to laugh out loud.
‘Yeah,’ he managed with a straight face. ‘Bewdy.’
Jonah smirked at him, clearly loving that he was playing along, then re-schooled his features and turned back to the tattooist. ‘We’ll both ‘ave that then, mate.’
The tattooist pushed two squares of paper and a stub of pencil across the counter. ‘Write down what youse want on the scrolls. I’ll get set up.’
Matthew came to stand by Jonah’s shoulder and watched as he carefully lettered their respective sets of initials onto the two pieces of paper.
‘So that’s J.P. for Jane Phelps for you—’ Jonah glanced up at Matthew sideways and gave him a sly wink, ‘—and that’s M.O. for the lovely Maud Owen for me.’ He dropped the pencil to the counter with a clatter. ‘Rightio then. Let’s get this show on the road!’
***
They seemed to have an attack of the juveniles when they were done, when they stumbled out of the tattoo shop together, steadying on each other’s shoulders, both almost breathless with held-in laughter. Port Melbourne’s bustle and business ignored them as they turned south-east, further away from the city, into a lashing wind whipping in from the bay.
‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ!’ Jonah swore as they crossed the road. ‘That hurt more than a bullet in the fuckin’ shoulder!’
Matthew slung an arm over said shoulder and pulled Jonah close for a moment. ‘More than my prick up your bum?’ he murmured at Jonah’s ear, low voice thick with amusement.
Jonah spluttered a laugh and shrugged off Matthew’s arm. ‘Fuck! Did he stick that needle in ya too hard? Let all your priestliness out?’
Matthew ignored the accusation, too busy trying to hunch against the cold wind whilst attempting to keep his shirt from touching the raw tattoo over his heart. A glance to his side showed Jonah attempting something similar, and that only gave him another round of giggles. Lord, it was like the two of them were half grogged-up, or had lingered too long in the doorway of an opium den. They were intoxicated on something. The sting of the tattoo inks, perhaps. Or maybe just each other.
They hadn’t planned a walk or even discussed, upon leaving the parlour, which direction to turn. The pier of St Kilda was visible in the distance, however, and their boot-falls on the narrow path along the foreshore weren’t slacking. There were people about, it being almost lunchtime on a regular Saturday, but most were busy with work, and the glowering weather was keeping pleasure seekers away. Matthew and Jonah walked the seafront without purpose but with some determination, paces in step more often than not, shoulders grazing every few steps. The chill air stung their cheeks and tamed their earlier laughter, and eventually turned Matthew’s thoughts sober.
‘You truly believe we can do this?’
‘Hm?’ Jonah looked at him as they walked. ‘This?’
‘This,’ Matthew repeated, flapping a hand between the two of them. ‘That!’ he added, flapping a hand at the bay and the ships hulked upon it.
‘Oh.’ Jonah’s crooked smile appeared and left again. ‘That.’ He sighed into the wind. ‘Yeah. I do.’
Silence again for another three, four steps. Then Jonah added, ‘But it’s more than just believing we can. It’s more that … that I want to.’
‘I must’ve caught a brain fever from some place,’ Matthew contemplated, not the least bit serious. ‘Or I’ve spent too long in close proximity to you,’ he added, flicking a smirk Jonah’s way. ‘Because despite all my, well, my considerable better judgement … I’m finding it harder and harder to resist thinking on your stated daydreams.’
There was silence a few more steps.
‘You mean you’re considering it?’ Jonah eventually asked. Matthew heard the hope in his tone. The fear, also.
‘I’m considering it quite seriously,’ Matthew replied, as leaden skies were finally blown open and rain began to fall.
‘Fucking hell,’ said Jonah. Matthew knew not if he said it in reaction to the drenching they were suddenly taking, or Matthew’s statement of consideration.
Matthew paused to close the top button of his coat and pull the collar up around his neck. Jonah stopped with him, fat droplets of rain falling over his face from the brim of his hat as he watched. Matthew cast his gaze back the way they’d come, then ahead where the fun grounds of distant St Kilda lay somewhat sadly in the downpour. To his wonderment, he found he had no care for the weather or for a destination, or what they might do there. He turned back to face Jonah and was hit with the full realisation of everything Jonah was suggesting, exactly what it was Jonah was offering. Dear Lord, who knew freedom would feel so terrifying.
He tried to think of what to say. All that came out of his mouth was a simple, ‘It’s raining.’
‘Just water falling outta the sky.’ Jonah was even beautiful with rainwater falling off his nose.
***
The torrential rain had eased to a steady drizzle by the time they reached where Beaconsfield Parade met Kerford Road, and Jonah spied something that made him drag Matthew across the road by his coat sleeve. It was colours he’d spotted—red and white on a fair amount of people, yellow and black on one scowling gentleman with an angry walk.
‘It’s bloody Saturday!’ Jonah was suddenly grinning hugely. ‘Of course it bloody is! How could I fuckin’ forget it’s fuckin’ Saturday?’
‘You’re referring to the footy, I assume?’ Matthew asked, shrugging his coat sleeve from Jonah’s excited grasp once more.
‘What else? It’s bloody Saturday!’
Matthew could only smile and let Jonah drag him along again. His enthusiasm was contagious.
Jonah wiped some rain from his eyes as they strode up Kerford, following the people with rosettes and ribbons. ‘So who is it, then? Whose colours are these?’
‘The local one’s South Melbourne,’ Matthew told him. ‘They’re white and red. That bloke across the road there, black with a bit of yellow, that’s Richmond. They’re pretty young, but I like watching them.’
‘Richmond?’ asked Jonah. ‘That’s along the river a bit, isn’t it?’
‘It is. Have you built a mind-map of Melbourne so quickly?’
Jonah pushed his hands into his pockets and shrugged. ‘Just how me mind works.’
‘Would you miss police work, if you no longer did it?’
‘About as much as you’d miss priesting, I bet.’
‘I think I’d miss being a priest rather much, actually.’
Jonah cut a look up at him. ‘Yeah. As I said.’
The crowd led them to a football ground on the edge of Albert Park Lake, and Matthew and Jonah joined
streams of drenched people marching through the gates. Jonah made a beeline for a stand selling rosettes in team colours, but stopped in his tracks and looked back at Matthew.
‘Who we going for, then? Who do we wanna win?’
Matthew half-shrugged. ‘Neither of them’s Fitzroy, I don’t have a care one way or the other.’
‘Well, who’s the underdog, then?’
‘Richmond. You’ll be wanting a yellow and black one.’
‘Correction,’ said Jonah. ‘We’ll be wanting two.’
The team decided upon and colours adorned, they procured drinks and sought a vantage point. For five or six minutes, the sun made valiant attempts to break through the cloud, but as the teams ran out onto the paddock, the grey closed in again and the rain set in proper for the afternoon.
Most of the first half, Matthew found he could barely keep his eyes on the play, exciting though it was. Thirty-two fit young men ran around in wet clothes and wrestled each other in mud, but Jonah was happy and loud and hardly stopped grinning, and Matthew didn’t want to look anywhere else. It occurred to him that he might never want to really look at any other man ever again.
From several hours before, he recalled words spoken to him by another priest. “He’s in love with you, too!” Words that were damning of them both, yet at the same time lifted them up, raised them beyond themselves. If they were true, of course.
On the field, a Richmond player took a spectacular mark of the ball, soaring above three other players, and the noise of the crowd rolled around the ground like thunder. Matthew and Jonah applauded the play and Jonah turned bright eyes upon him, mouth open to pass comment on the speccie, no doubt, but Matthew beat him to it.
‘Beautiful,’ he declared.
‘I’ll say,’ Jonah replied.
The return of their attentions to the game was a lazy affair.
At half-time they ate pies and shared short, pleasant conversations with nearby spectators. A handsome lady with a yellow knitted scarf wrapped around the high collar of her black coat tried to draw Jonah into a deeper discussion, and Matthew stared glumly at some little boys playing kick-to-kick.
‘Sorry, luv, I’m spoken for.’
Matthew stared at the kick-to-kick less glumly.
An errant ball landed at their feet and Jonah picked it up. The boy who owned it waved his position and Jonah kicked it out, dropping it onto his boot one-handed so as not to spill his beer.
Four days in Melbourne, Matthew pondered, and he’d seen Jonah do umpteen things he’d never witnessed before. Kicking footballs and getting tattoos, professing fear of trams and standing awestruck in a cathedral, billy-club twirling and journal entry writing, suit shopping and wearing hats at rakish tilts, oiling bedsprings and watching the dawn. And, of course, the most life-changing things—being fucked and making daring proposals.
Then it occurred to him. This was Jonah free and smitten. This was Jonah without responsibilities or a whole community’s care to put before his own desires. This was Jonah unfettered.
‘What?’ Jonah asked him.
‘Hm?’
‘Yer staring.’
‘Was I? Sorry. It’s just …’ The bell clanged, signalling the imminent start of the second half. Matthew stood a little closer to Jonah so he could drop his voice. ‘I’ve rarely seen you like this. In fact, I doubt I’ve ever seen you like this.’
‘Ah.’ Jonah moved a little closer too, letting their shoulders press together. ‘This is me without the uniform.’
Matthew snorted in amusement. ‘Jonah,’ he whispered, ‘I’ve seen quite a lot of you without your uniform.’
‘You’ve seen me without my uniform,’ Jonah corrected him. ‘This is the first time you’ve seen me without THE uniform. It’s a difference of scale. What it symbolises.’
Matthew understood. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘This is you without fetters.’
‘This is me without Ratty.’ Jonah nodded.
The bell clanged again and the umpire bounced the ball into play, making the big men leap.
‘I hope ya like it,’ Jonah added.
‘I do,’ said Matthew. ‘Rather much, in fact.’ He glanced sideways. Jonah steadfastly watched the resumption of play, but he was smiling and looking more than a little pleased with himself.
The second half was a ripper, even if differentiating the teams was proving difficult due to the amount of mud. Play was interrupted twice, once when a rover took exception to the encroaching of over-enthusiastic boys into the playing area, and a second time due to a randy dog.
By game’s end, everyone in attendance was drenched to the skin, Richmond had lost by a shifty goal, and Jonah’s expression had turned so smouldering that Matthew feared a public indiscretion. As the crowd squelched its way from the footy ground, Jonah knocked his shoulder into Matthew.
‘I’d love a visit from Mary when we’re back in the digs.’
Yes. Matthew hadn’t misinterpreted that smouldering look. ‘I’m sure that can be arranged.’ He even managed to sound halfway casual about it. He was about to add more, but a tall streak of colour came shouting through the crowd.
‘Sarg! Sarg, is that you?!’
‘Well, bugger me,’ Jonah said unselfconsciously, making Matthew cough. ‘If it isn’t Lachie Jackson!’ Sideways, to Matthew, he mumbled, ‘Keep on. Turn right. I’ll find ya.’ Catching up Lachlan into a showy hug, he purposely turned the young man away from Matthew’s direction. ‘Lachie ya lil’ bastard, how are ya?’
Matthew could hear them as he walked away, keeping his head down in the crowd. ‘I’m grouse, Sarg! God, I thought it was you! What the hell’re you doin’ here? How long you about?’
‘I’m headed back on Monday. I was down for a trial.’
‘Oh, the Chinee girl? Yeah. Hey, that bloke you were talkin’ to—’
‘Just some bloke I met on the terraces. So tell me all about it, whaddya been up to, son?’
Matthew let the crush of people carry him out of the footy ground, then turned right as Jonah instructed. He walked a few yards up the road and found a tree to stand under, affording him a view of the Lake Oval gate but with hanging branches to hide himself. He wasn’t waiting long. Jonah exited the gate alone several minutes later. When Jonah drew level with Matthew’s waiting spot, Matthew stepped out and fell into step beside him easily.
‘Dinbratten makes its presence known,’ Matthew said quietly.
‘It’s alright,’ Jonah assured him. ‘He didn’t get a good look at us together.’
‘And how is the boy doing down here on his own?’
‘Seems happy enough, even though his introductions to Carlton and that other one didn’t bear any fruit. Still, he’s fallen in with some Richmond lads now. Looks like he might be ingratiating himself in there.’
Matthew laughed softly. ‘He’s a nice kid. It’d be good if he made a go of it down here.’
‘Yeah,’ Jonah sighed. ‘Now then.’ He looked around as they walked. ‘Where the fuck are we?’
‘It’s a short walk to St Kilda Road,’ Matthew told him. ‘We can catch a city tram there.’
‘A tram?’ Jonah pulled a face.
‘It’s the quickest way to get us to Mary,’ Matthew said, with a note of teasing.
‘Christ, you know how to sell a bloke on shit he’s not keen on.’
***
Wintery late-afternoon lent their room a grey but cosy light with the curtains half drawn, and Jonah requested they leave the interior lights off to enjoy it. They hung their sodden hats to dry, one each, on the ends of the curtain rail. And while Jonah locked the door and fussed with blocking potential keyhole views, Matthew quietly opened the brown paper bag he’d brought home from the Eastern Market the previous morning, and placed its content on the small bedside table.
‘Where’d that come from?’ Jonah’s voice was close behind him, breath warm on clammy skin that had marinated in Melbourne rain all afternoon.
‘My walk early yesterday. I stopped by the Ea
stern Market …’
Jonah nuzzled his face into the side of Matthew’s throat. ‘My arse thanks you for yer consideration.’
Matthew’s face heated. ‘Actually. I thought mine might.’
Jonah raised his head so suddenly he only narrowly missed clocking his nose on Matthew’s jaw. ‘You serious?’
‘I was contemplating it on the tram ride. It’s only fair, isn’t it?’
‘And I’m all for fairness.’ Jonah put his hands on Matthew’s shoulders and turned him so they faced each other.
It was a slow undressing, made all the more sensual by the heavy slide of wet fabrics. They soon both discovered their brand new tattoos had bled into their union suits and, to a lesser degree, their shirts.
The tattoos, it transpired, dictated a position, neither of them wanting to risk rubbing the raw flesh against either bedding or another body. They lay on their right sides, Jonah spooned behind Matthew, with his right arm curled beneath Matthew’s neck.
Matthew took up the petroleum jelly from the bedside table, removed the blue lid and held the jar so Jonah could dip his fingers inside. He tried to reinstate the lid and set the jar back on the bedside, but Jonah was wasting no time in putting his fingers to work and Matthew fumbled, sending jar and lid separately to the floor and caring not one jot.
‘Good stuff, this,’ Jonah murmured, and Matthew could well imagine the sly smile likely accompanying it. After some minutes, Jonah’s fingers slid free. Matthew didn’t have time to mourn the loss before he felt the slick press of cock against him. Instinctively, he held his breath. ‘Don’t do that,’ Jonah chastised gently. ‘Gotta relax. Bear down on me as ya breath out.’
Matthew did as told. Jonah pushed a little further.
‘You’re controlling it, see,’ Jonah whispered. With his right arm still under Matthew, he now splayed his hand over the centre of Matthew’s chest, ever mindful of the fresh tattoo. When he felt Matthew inhale, he stilled his hips, and when Matthew breathed out he rolled them forward.
It was slow, incremental, and so astonishingly intimate that Matthew could feel himself blushing. Jonah’s cock felt huge moving into him, stretching him as it pushed inside. Matthew felt the need to hold onto something and scrabbled at the mattress edge with his left hand, his right settling easily over Jonah’s on his chest.
By the Currawong's Call Page 23
