The Rain Never Came
Lachlan Walter
Published by Odyssey Books in 2017
www.odysseybooks.com.au
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Copyright © Lachlan Walter 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Author: Lachlan Walter
Title: The Rain Never Came / Lachlan Walter
ISBN: 978-1-922200-93-8 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-922200-96-9 (ebook)
To Mia, my beautiful Mia.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Acknowledgments
About the Author
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One
The teams started brawling as soon as they stepped onto the oval of dying grass, egged on by a crowd hungry for some rough entertainment and a diversion from the dry grind of life. The pushing and shoving quickly escalated, a beefy townsfolk player knocking one of the First Country players to the rock-hard ground. The crowd cheered louder, and I joined in with them. Punches flew back and forth; both players got in some clean strikes. The crowd cheered louder still, and so did I.
My throat burned …
I leaned against an old gum tree that was slowly dying and took a quick sip from my canteen, trying to stretch out the pitiful amount of water I had brought with me. For the umpteenth time that day, I waved away some flies. But still, it was good to be taking it easy in the shade rather than standing out in the sun.
And so I just watched as most of the players from both teams joined the fight, the mob of bodies a mess of writhing limbs, punches and kicks. Some sections of the crowd encouraged them, while some booed and hissed, and only a few players from each team tried to break it up. They did their best but were obviously overwhelmed, and so a swarm from the crowd soon joined them, both townsfolk and First Country, all keen for the game to get underway. Fighting players were separated; injured players were quickly checked over—no one was seriously hurt. Only moments later, a dozen First Country folk faced off against an equal number of townsfolk.
The crowd—fifty or sixty of us holdouts and old-timers, twenty or so folk that made up the rest of the First Country caravan—welcomed the two teams with the loudest cheer yet. I cheered with them once more, as happy as a boy.
And then our cheers died out as the umpire ran onto the oval, stopping between the two lines of men. She spoke quickly, gesturing back and forth, presumably setting out some ground rules, her words lost in the moan of the wind. A tall, solid First Country bloke stepped forward. He held out his hand, his smile flashing lightning-white against the dark of his skin. A nuggetty little someone I didn’t recognise—a ringer from the hill country, maybe—stepped forward to meet the First Country captain. They shook hands as the umpire took something from her pocket—a coin, a tiny piece of worthless currency—and tossed it into the air. It gleamed dully, catching the late afternoon sun. The First Country captain called ‘tails’ in a booming voice. The coin landed, the umpire nodded at him, and he pointed at the goalposts that still stood tall and proud.
At the other end of the oval, one of the goalposts had cracked and fallen.
The teams quickly dispersed, teeming like flies around a dead roo. The ruckmen stayed in the centre, two great towering hulks that you would swear were twins if it weren’t for the colour of their skin. They squinted at each other in the too-bright light. I recognised ours as Jack MacDonald, a burly bastard with a shaved head who fashioned coffins from scrap when it came time to bury our dead. The two big men both took a handful of steps back as the umpire picked up a possum-skin ball that had been lying at her feet. Under an enormous blue sky, we impatiently waited for her to throw the ball. She did; we cheered again and roared as one. The ruckmen ran, jumped, crashed into each other hard. One of the townsfolk—he was moving too fast for me to tell which one—got a sneaky touch in and flicked the ball to a teammate, a long streak of pelican shit whose name wouldn’t come. Before I could blink, the First Country captain had mown the long streak down and stolen the ball. He ran hard, nothing but a burnt paddock ahead of him, his teammates making sure it stayed that way. The townsfolk captain suddenly broke away from his shadow, ran to catch up, slowly started to gain some ground. His desperate effort wasn’t enough; the First Country captain glanced over his shoulder, smiled wide, looked back, sped up. Though I was technically supporting the townsfolk—being one of them and all that—I couldn’t help admire his cheek.
He caught my eye, winked, and then booted the ball straight at me.
I managed to mark it before it hit me in the face, and silently thanked someone I don’t believe in. I stood up, shaking an ache from my weary body, as the goal-umpire waved a tatty flag over his head. The First Country captain gestured at me; deciding not to embarrass myself, I threw the ball to him instead of kicking it. He smiled again, bent down, scooped the ball up and ran back to the centre. Once more, the ruckmen faced off. They ran and jumped and crashed. A little First Country bloke snatched the ball from the pack—he darted away, his townsfolk shadow only inches behind. They ran together, zigzagging, snaking back and forth, almost moving as one. None of their teammates could catch them. My mouth hanging open, I watched the townsfolk bloke—Frank Ong, a relative newcomer, his family having only been in town a few generations—finally catch his opponent and throw a desperate tackle, launching himself into the air. They both crashed to the ground in a cloud of dust. Somehow, the First Country bloke got boot to ball and dribbled it forward. The crowd roared as the ball bounced unevenly before stopping just short of the goals. Frank made it back to his feet, wiped blood from his forehead, was knocked aside by another First Country bloke who seemed to come out of nowhere. The crowd felt Frank’s pain as he fell to the ground for the second time in less than a minute, letting out a long collective ‘ooh’. The First Country bloke seized the moment, ran on, kicked the motionless ball with more force than was necessary. Once again, it headed straight for me.
‘Bill, mate, looks like you got the best seat in the house.’
The unexpected voice—right behind me, almost in my ear—stole my attention. I instinctively turned my head, and the ball grazed my face and knocked my glasses to the ground.
‘Shit.’
The voice laughed. I fumbled around, found my glasses, wiped them clean, slipped them on. Sometimes luck comes my way—they hadn’t been broken or scratched more than they already were.
‘Nice one, dickhead,’ the voice said.
I looked up and couldn’t help smiling, my day that much brighter—Tobe stood there, squinting in the sun with an easy smile on his face. He was my oldest friend, my best mate, the brother I never had. Tall, wiry and a little manic, his face creased by
years under the unforgiving sun, his bony ribs poking through a T-shirt that had long ago seen better days, his cut-off shorts ripped in some spots and threadbare in others—he was a classic.
‘G’day, Bill,’ he said.
I stood back up, once again shaking the lethargy from my body. The football had come to rest at my feet, and I gave it a swift kick, sending it back onto the oval.
‘Tobe, long time no see.’
He leaned his bike against the tree I had been slouched under. It was such a ridiculous thing, more a homemade rickshaw than anything else, with two mismatched wheels at the front, a metal bench seat between them, the rider’s seat at the back, and a single wheel behind that. He looked at it lovingly, and then pulled a worn metal strongbox from the bench seat. On one side of the strongbox, still visible despite the rust, were the initials CRP.
Creeps. The bastards.
‘How’s it going?’ Tobe asked, holding out his hand.
‘Not bad.’
We shook hands, hugged awkwardly.
‘It’s good to see you, Tobe.’
‘You too, mate.’
Another throaty roar from the crowd broke our embrace as the First Country blokes kicked their third goal in only a handful of minutes, the ball once again heading straight at me.
‘Looks like we’ve got Buckley’s,’ Tobe said.
‘Sure does.’
‘We might want to, ah, find some new seats, too.’
‘Right you are.’
‘Okay then, give me a sec.’
He turned away, cupped his hands to his mouth, yelled loud enough to be heard above the crowd. ‘Red! Blue! Come on!’
Two dogs darted onto the oval, bringing the game to a halt. It was Red and Blue, Tobe’s blue-heeler and his red-heeler. They were chasing each other, nipping at each other, stopping every now and then to wrestle. Tongues lolling and tails wagging, they were playing hard and loving it.
‘Come on, stop pissing about!’
They froze, sniffed the air, looked back and forth, ran again, mounted the fence around the oval with ease, headed straight for me. They ignored Tobe, preferring to sniff at my crotch instead.
‘Get out of it!’ Tobe yelled, his voice unexpectedly violent.
I took an involuntary step back, a little startled and trying hard not to show it. Tobe’s temper was a local legend, a contrary and rage-filled thing that still managed to shock me. Red and Blue flopped down on their bellies, staring at him pitifully.
‘So, where were we?’ Tobe asked, smiling wide, his anger dissipating like a lone cloud under the hot sun.
I shook my head. ‘Lead on, MacDuff,’ I said, waving the way forward.
‘It’s lay on, dickhead, lay on.’
We set off. Red and Blue stayed by Tobe’s side, tails between their legs, still spooked by his outburst. I offered to carry the strongbox while he wheeled his bike, but he just shrugged, telling me not to worry. Slowly, we wound through the crowd that lined the oval, nodding and smiling and saying ‘g’day’ to everyone we passed. I was chuffed that the town had rallied—it was something that didn’t happen very often. But it was funny as well; no one we passed wanted to talk, their eyes fixed on the game. Although we might have come together to enjoy it, we all ended up watching it alone.
Tobe and I stopped in the shade of the ruined grandstand. It loomed over us, a towering skeleton of splintered wood, jagged steel, faded signs. Most of the roof had fallen in, dropping a pile of rubble and scrap where rows of seats had once been. Only the two rows closest to the oval had escaped being crushed, their trailing innards slowly crumbling into a powdery plastic dust, the scraps of leather still clinging to the cushions brittle and worn.
‘I reckon this’ll do,’ I said, eager to sit down and take it easy again.
‘No worries.’
The seat I had chosen almost collapsed under me. Tobe smiled a cruel smile before dropping the strongbox and gingerly settling in the seat next to mine. Red and Blue looked at him quizzically, so he reached out and patted them both.
‘Good boy, good girl.’
He pulled a hefty set of rusty keys from his pocket and unlocked the strongbox, dragging out a battered tin bowl and an equally battered canteen. He poured the dogs a drink and then settled his lanky frame back in the seat.
‘So, what did I …’
Red jumped up on him, cutting him off. She planted her front paws firmly in his crotch and started licking his face. I laughed aloud. Seemingly unable to hide his amusement, Tobe laughed as well and then playfully pushed her away. He told both dogs to sit. They sat. He nudged the water bowl with his foot and told them to drink. They drank. And then he told them to piss off, and they ran.
‘I’ll try that again. So, what did I miss?’
I looked out at the oval. We had moved a long way from the First Country goals and were only an easy spit from our own—I could barely make out the thrashing I knew we were receiving. The crowd roared again, but I couldn’t see why.
‘This mob rocked up about a week ago,’ I said. ‘They set up camp and a market behind the school, and asked around if anyone wanted a game, wanted a bit of old fashioned fun. You know, the usual.’
It was far from that; theirs was the first caravan I had seen in five or six years. It was no wonder they had pulled such a crowd.
‘Looks like things haven’t changed that much.’
‘Nothing ever does.’
Tobe laughed.
‘How about you?’ I asked.
He leaned forward, reached into the strongbox, pulled out a dusty glass bottle and two stained tin cups. ‘I’m good, mate. And it’s good to be back.’ He held the bottle up. ‘Fancy a little something to get the party started?’ I nodded. If it weren’t for creature comforts, the life we lived would be nothing but an all-day grind. Tobe wrenched the cap off, held the bottle to his nose, took a deep breath. His face wrinkled in disgust.
‘I guess something’s better than nothing,’ he said, carefully passing me the bottle.
I didn’t need to bring it close to catch the eye-watering smell of rancid backyard whisky.
‘And for my next trick …’
He reached into the strongbox once again, this time pulling out a metal box about ten inches square and four inches deep. It was his ‘treasure chest’, taken advantage of frivolously and often, there not really being any rainy days left. He opened it up, revealing a thin piece of animal skin folded over on itself. The skin yawned open; inside sat a hefty chunk of the wild-weed that grew rampant in the mountains to the south.
Same old Tobe, he doesn’t change.
‘Nice one,’ I said. ‘It’s good to see that you came prepared. But where’d you get the stuff? The weed, as usual, no worries. But the whiskey?’
Tobe said nothing, smiling to himself.
‘I thought the pub had run its cellar dry?’
Tobe still said nothing.
‘You know how annoying you are, don’t you?’
‘No, Bill, I don’t. You know what—why don’t you enlighten me?’
‘Dickhead.’ Tobe snorted and tried not to laugh.
‘So, come on, where’d you get it?’
‘Well, yeah, the pub has almost run dry,’ he said, deflecting my question. ‘I reckon Lou’s got just enough tucked away to help us forget this woefully one-sided game, and then that’s it.’
He leaned forward, pouring us both a shot. I leaned back and threw my feet up on the strongbox.
‘It’s a bloody shame, there’s pretty much nothing else left.’
‘Yeah.’
Tobe picked up the two tin cups and passed one to me. ‘To happier times.’ I smiled, despite the solemnity of our skol. I’m not sure why, it was one of those things. I hadn’t seen Tobe in a while—he had been out scavenging, running some of his ‘errands’. Whenever he left, there was never any guarantee he would be back. Believe me, there’s no point waiting; I once wasted more years that way than I care to count. As always, I had been missing ou
r bullshit sessions, crap talking and dog wrangling, hazy nights filled with tequila and weed, old records blaring loud and pushing back the dark.
We knocked off our drinks. Tobe poured two more.
A car horn blared from one of the wrecks filling the carpark next to the oval, signalling half-time. Tobe smiled to himself and plucked a wooden bowl from the seemingly bottomless strongbox. He wiped it clean with his grimy T-shirt before reaching into the animal-skin bundle. His nimble fingers shredded weed and homegrown bush tobacco—rough stuff, bred for the drought—and he started rolling a joint, using a crumbling piece of yellowing paper.
I watched Tobe tear and fold the paper, add his special mix and slowly create a monster. I resisted the urge to call out: ‘It’s alive! It’s alive!’
‘Ta-da,’ he said when he was done.
He reached into his pocket and dug out his lighter. It was an antique, made of some dull grey metal. A Zippo, I think that’s what they used to call them. It ran on an esoteric fuel of Tobe’s own design; the flame shot high when he sparked it up. The acrid taint of burning hair and the pungent tang of smouldering weed drifted my way as Tobe lit the joint, singeing his eyebrows at the same time.
A man of strange dignity, he ignored the smell, took a few drags and then passed it my way.
‘Cheers.’
‘No worries.’
I took a long, slow drag.
‘So, what do you reckon?’ Tobe asked.
‘It’s good,’ I managed to say before I broke down coughing.
‘But maybe a little harsh?’
I passed the joint back and gulped my canteen, my throat raw and hot. ‘Just a little,’ I said with a wheeze.
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