Brown Skin Blue

by Belinda Jeffrey

  I spend the day focusing on all the little things so the big things don’t worry me. Sally is a sour boil in my guts. It’s so deep I don’t even want to pick at it. I watch Boof and Cassie. I watch the way there’s an easyness between them. They know what they’re on about. I wonder if Boof has planned his next move.

  Boof says he has to stay behind to help Cassie and I should get a lift with Sally. Sally looks white. She’s in the toilet throwing up when I go to the laundry to get my bag. I’d like to make her feel worse by telling her it’s her own fault for getting drunk last night. Traitor. Instead I run to the car park and hitch a lift with the tourist bus.

  Tonight there’s air in the coffin. But the letter begins to pulse on the fridge. I know it’s alive.

  I fiddle with the rabbit ears to tune the TV in properly. Bugger. All I can get is ABC news. Not my thing. But I like the sound of the noise. It’s company. The news finishes and is followed by a more in-depth news program. I lie back on my bed with a coke and a vegemite sandwich.

  I’m watching the telly and it’s just a man’s head talking. I’m not really listening. But then there’s a picture of McNabm Blue. He’s framed like a school portrait snap, freezeframed, while the camera sweeps across a number of small communities. Shanty towns and Aboriginal communities.

  ...Government inquiry into abuse and neglect amongst the smaller, rural communities ... Aboriginal children are most at risk ... Some predators, like McNabm Blue years ago, could still be responsible for a continuing litany of child offences ... Why has it taken this long to investigate systematic abuse and government neglect? ... a cycle of abuse ... something should be done ... when will it end? ... who is culpable? ... institutional or personal neglect?

  My heart is beating like a drum and the noose is back. McNabm is laughing at me from the television, as large in death as he was in life. I take the coke bottle in my hand and all I want to do is hurl it at the TV. I want to smash something. Smash anything. It’s like I’m in a glass cage and the whole world is watching me. The stuffed crocs on the fridge are laughing at me. I throw the coke into the bathroom where it shatters on the tiles. Come and get me if you dare! I sit up and hang my feet over the edge of the bed. Here’s another thing I know but suddenly I don’t. I know the floor is right under my feet. That all I have to do is leave the bed and the solid floor will be there underneath me. But it’s sinking. I’m high up on a wall and I can’t get down. Who knows what lies down there. Go on, Humpty Dumpty, bloody well jump!

  ‘You got a problem there, young Barry?’ Blue says to me.

  I’m stuck.

  I followed Jonny through the abandoned mine all morning. Had a great time climbing over everything. Old timber, hills and rock heaps. And then Jonny said that I was too scared to climb the old water tower. I’m bloody well not scared of anything – and I’ve climbed up to the first platform before – so I climbed up the old timber ladder. He was down below me, on the ground, lookin’ up. I wanted him small, so I kept climbing, higher than I’d ever been before. I climbed up as far as I could go.

  I left the timber ladder, which had missing rungs and decaying wood bits, and climbed on the struts of the water tower. I got one satisfying look at Jonny before the top part of the ladder cracked and tumbled to the ground. I was stuck. Jonny ran off.

  ‘Don’t you worry, little fella. I’ll help you. You can trust old Blue.’

  I’ve been sitting here all afternoon. The sun has almost gone down and I’m about to cry. I’m sitting on a plank across the tower holding onto a pole. I watch Blue start climbing up from the front of the tower. He grabs hold of the diagonal struts and uses his hands to cling higher up.

  I’m lookin’ down on the top of his head. My foot can touch his head.

  ‘Now. Hold my hand and put one foot at a time on these rungs. Then climb back down with me the way we came.’

  He smiles up at me and I take his hand. I feel safe. As long as I hold on to him, I won’t fall.

  ‘That little friend of yours shouldn’t have run off and left you, Barry. Lucky I saw him and asked where you were.’

  I look up and smile.

  ‘You want some more sweets?’

  He takes my hand. Then he lifts me up and puts me on his back. I wrap my arms around his neck. He bends his arms around his back underneath my bum.

  ‘How’s your bum today, Barry?’

  ‘Better, thanks.’

  ‘That’s good, Barry. Real good.’

  His hands feel warm.

  I jump and the floor is as close as I knew it would be. But I’m still relieved. I decide that not opening the letter is from too much fear since Blue, so I should open it. But I have to clean up the glass first. I have to find a broom.

  There’s not as many people in the bar tonight. Just a few regulars enjoying their beer. I wait at the counter for the redhead. The blokes next to me are talking.

  ‘This country is a bloody disgrace. A kid can’t live in the country without fear of attack,’ the guy with hair says to his bald mate.

  ‘Typical government. Does nothing.’

  I look up above the bar to the small television in the corner. ABC. The news program is just finishing.

  ‘That prick deserved what he got. Only good thing he did was to hang himself.’

  A poisonous feeling creeps into my skin. The redhead comes to the counter from the back room.

  ‘Another beer, love,’ the bald guy says to her. His head looks like a dark, round moon. In Pitch Black, the woman – who takes charge of everyone – finds this model of the planet, the suns and the moons. It turns on a set of timers and cogs, one compete rotation of the arms equals a year. There’s a counter on the side of the model that marks the passing years. They know it’s been twenty-two years since the last person on the planet was alive (that’s when the last solar eclipse happened). She turns the arms and the counter clicks over. Twenty-two years. The planets, suns and moon on the model line up. Solar eclipse. That’s when they know the dark is coming. And so are the beasts. This guy’s head could be that moon. It’s too small for his body.

  The skin on the back of his head folds in three wrinkles above his neck. His nose sticks out too far from the silhouette of his face. I’ve got the picture of the solar model from the movie in my head. The suns are the heads of my would-be fathers. The planet is my face and the moon is this bald guy. The timer on the side ticks over. TOUCAN, it says.

  ‘You see that piece?’ Toucan says, pointing to the TV.

  ‘About that “Blue” character?’ the other one adds.

  The redhead shakes her head and flicks her hand towards the TV. ‘I don’t watch it,’ she says.

  ‘Good riddance to him and everyone else like him,’ Toucan answers.

  ‘I ... need a broom,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A broom,’ I say louder. ‘I have a room.’ I point feebly towards the rooms along the side.

  ‘Righto,’ she says, disappearing again out the back.

  ‘Them bloody government types. Sit on their arse in Canberra and don’t do a thing to help.’

  ‘Too right.’

  I want the broom. Now.

  ‘They should round ’em all up and shoot ’em,’ Toucan says loudly.

  ‘Yeah, but the trick is finding the bastards.’

  The redhead returns with the broom.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say and leave. If he really was my father, would I really want to know?

  I sweep the glass up from the floor onto a Crocodile Zoo brochure and take it outside to the bins around the back of the hotel near the dirt patch.

  It’s dark but there’s two kids playing with a ball on the dirt. One is tall and skinny. Black. The other one is shorter with skin like toffee. Their hair is wild around them. They’re laughing and teasing each other. I realise that the taller kid is Tyson. He waves
to the little one, and runs off, limping slightly, down the street. The little kid kicks the ball around by himself.

  There’s no one else around. I think about how small he is. How innocent. How happy. How easy it would be to strike up a conversation. To lead him away. For one moment, just a tiny fraction of time, the thought feels familiar and good. It’s something I know exactly how to do. I want what he has.

  I’ve got a wet tea towel across my eyes. I can’t sleep. My body is heavy and tired, but my mind is restless and impatient. I’m like Riddick in cryo-sleep. Part of me is still awake. The animal part.

  It’s hot and the tea towel was soothing for a minute and now it’s just annoying. Every time I think I’m asleep, I feel the pressure on my eyes and then I’m awake. And then there’s the problem of taking the cloth off my eyes. The change in temperature makes the air feel hotter and so I put it back on. I’d love to wrap the pillow around my ears to drown out the noise but I’d suffocate.

  I can’t stand lying down any more, so I get up and go to my window. I pull the curtains to the sides to let in more air. The ceiling fan is on full, grinding like an ancient chopper, wobbling off-centre. I could be killed in my cryo-sleep by a runaway ceiling fan if it gets too loose. Heat can kill a person indirectly.

  For a second I think my eyes are playing tricks on me, now that the cloth is gone, because I can see smoke rising up from the row of houses beyond the dirt path. Black puffs of smoke bleed from the white cloud and red flames leap out above the rooftops. I’m running out of my door, barefoot, towards it.

  People are spilling out of the surrounding houses and the pub, standing on the street watching the house go up in flames. A group of people are huddled just a short distance away on the footpath. A woman is crying and a man has his arms around her. Children are scattered at their feet. Some stand with their arms hanging by their sides. Smaller kids cling to legs. I keep walking past the people watching. I come up behind the family and see Tyson standing at the back.

  ‘Tyson!’ I call.

  He spins around. His father looks back at me, almost unseeing, then turns back to watch the flames. ‘What happened?’ I move to stand next to Tyson.

  He folds his arms. ‘Dunno. Dad woke up, Mum was screaming, and everyone was running outside.’

  ‘You okay?’

  He shrugs.

  I don’t know what to say. At the top of the street, the fire-truck appears, large and red, its siren screaming. People scatter to the footpaths on each side of the road and stand like a guard of honour as the truck passes. We move back to the side of the yard as the truck stops and the firemen get out. Hoses appear, water gushes out and the flames, like angry beasts, rage and hiss as they shrink and die under the pressure. Soon the house is a wet, smoking corpse.

  Neighbours come and surround Tyson’s family and they are huddled and moved to the hotel beer garden. Tyson takes my hand.

  Beer, hot chips and soft drinks are brought out for them as they sit, stunned and mute, on the timber chairs. No one says much. People shuffle and shake their heads. They look awkwardly towards the family and then back at their home. They scratch their heads and huddle in pairs to retell how they each came to notice what was happening. Someone turns the jukebox off at the wall. Blankets appear from somewhere. They are passed hand-to-hand and placed on the top of the table, but none of Tyson’s family make a move towards them.

  Behind me I hear someone talking. ‘I live right next door. We’re bloody lucky it wasn’t us. Just as well it didn’t spread, either. Geez, a thing like that could have taken off. Reckon we should say our prayers tonight.’

  I’m glad I’m not God. One person thanking him and another cursing him at the same time and all the while it’s probably for something he didn’t do anyway. I don’t reckon it’s God that leaves toasters on or custard cooking on the stove top or motorhomes driving by themselves. Reckon that’s just us not wanting to take the blame.

  I get up to go to the bathroom and I see Toucan, Stumpy and Boomboom standing near the bar together. ‘Shit happens,’ Toucan says.

  ‘Poor bastards,’ Stumpy adds.

  Toucan sniffs. ‘Still, they’ve got their kids, hey. That’s all that really matters.’

  24

  The Story of Toucan Bunter

  It was the fifties and, for a young lad, the whole world hadn’t even begun. He was stocky, naturally dark skinned, determined and hardworking. Like his own grandfather before him, his hair fell out early and he looked older than he ever was. But underneath his skin was the blood of a red-dreamer. And he bought into the next sure thing with every penny he had.

  The Humpty Doo Rice Project, part of the great white dream. To turn one of the largest, unfarmed wastelands of the world into a thriving oasis. It was all on the tables: plans, projections, the money to be made. There were Hollywood investors, American TV personalities. Humpty Doo was going to be one of the biggest producers of rice in the whole world. Forget Asia, Australia here we come.

  His parents were blue-collar workers, earning their weekly pay cheque by turning up on time and going back every day. But talk of the project gave their son something different to picture. Another way life might go. He suddenly wanted to be his own boss, a man of the land. Rising and sleeping with the sun and, in between, making a living with his hands. He wanted to be a part of taming something, of taking the raw and rough of the Top End and making it work for the man. This was one of the last places in the world for a pioneer to carve through the unknown. Imagine that, he would think, taming the jungle and beating the bush. Just like the Wild West.

  Hope was something his parents had buried long ago, like so many after the Second World War. We’re not safe from anything. Bloody Japs came right to our doorstep. And here was their son thinking he could change the way things were done. Growing Jap food and turning the world upside down. He was going against every sensible piece of advice they had given him, every instinct they had learned to obey. Stay the straight road, son. Don’t be thinkin’ you can beat odds even your betters couldn’t beat. You don’t know what it’s like to fight and lose, boy. You’re a fool to try and we’ll be here to remind you when it all comes crashing down. Rice is for the yellowman and we bloody fought to keep ’em out.

  But talk like that just flamed the fire he had inside himself. There was no point being young and alive with ideas and passion if he didn’t do something. And by Christ he would die trying. There was something inside him, as crucial as bones and muscles and blood and breath, and he had to flex it. Why else was a man born if not to tread his own path?

  He threw everything he had into his farm like effort was the measure of a man and commitment was all it took to change odds and fortune. He buried his feet in the land and his hands in the mud and determined to stay that way – with his arse in God’s face – until his future grew from the ground up. He knew there’d be setbacks and disappointments – he wasn’t stupid – but he’d hang on, no matter what.

  Birds and beasts ate the seedlings.

  He planted them again.

  Money was promised to the project and never came.

  He ate less.

  He was often seen out in his own field, long after the other workers had knocked off for the day, and then long after many farmers had given up and left their land altogether. Some called him the scarecrow of Humpty Doo.

  Budgets were cut.

  He made do.

  His silhouette was somehow always there, black against the setting sun. His bald head, hands on hips, lookin’ out across it all. Or bent over, planting and picking.

  Floods came and washed everything away. Rain dried up and the sun fried the shoots.

  With nothing else left to try, he pleaded with nature. Come on, I’ve given you everything I have. Don’t you let me down.

 
Some say the project failed because Australia was just too big to manage the transport. You can cut up the jungle and carve out the desert, but there’s no way you can beat the distance. She’ll get you every time. Some say it was the wild itself that doomed it from the beginning. Nature’s a heartless bitch. She’ll shake the boy out of the man and make him cry like a baby.

  It took guts to stay on, long after dark, long after the company closed and the banks demanded their money back. It took guts to be the last man standing out in that field, holding on like he was the only one left. The last of his kind. Just waiting and waiting until hope was just a four-letter word cursing his own name. Guts, that is, or fear.

  At first he refused to believe that it was happening, that the whole idea was squashed under the weight of so much Australia. He just couldn’t accept that his own sense of himself could be so misplaced. What use was conviction and inspiration when the dice were loaded against him? Worst of all, his parents had been right. His dreams were a fool’s fancy and failure was the price to pay for trying. Who was he to fight against what he was, what his parents were, and what they had always known?

  It was only after the scarecrow had disappeared for good that he was called Toucan, by those that knew him. Seemed to others that one day he just flew away, but Toucan had given up. He’d played with life and lost.

  It was Dolly Mundy who found his old bones and ruffled his feathers. A man like you’s a rare thing. I’d liked to have seen you there, out in your field. I’d have been a good woman to have by your side.

  Dolly knew she could have made all the difference. Toucan gave her the woman she could have been and that story was better than the real thing.

  Her stories were everything.

  25

  The letter reads:

  Deer Barry,

  The cops have been around arsking for you. Thay say the goverment is ofering suport to the kids that were atacked around here. I dont know if yore inerested or not so I didnt tell them where you were but I thort I wood let you know.