by Mudrooroo
She glances at her watch.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “but my time’s about up. I’ve an appointment in half an hour.”
“Important engagement with a golf ball I suppose.”
“Not golf,” she says. “I’m a poor slogging student at the University.”
“What do you study?” I ask.
“Psychology, as a matter of fact.”
“You’ll go far,” I say. “Every post a winning post, even a neurotic jailbird on the beach.”
“Look here,” she protests, good-humouredly, “who forced this conversation, anyway?”
“I should have smelt the profit motive when you didn’t knock me back. Well, you’ve about squeezed the lemon dry now, so that’s it.”
“Have it your own way,” she says. “But there’s enough juice left in the lemon yet to keep the profit motive interested.”
“You’re kidding,” I say.
“Call my bluff then,” she says. “Meet me at the Uni coffee lounge tomorrow afternoon and meet some of my gang. It’ll be a change for you, anyway.”
I stand up and watch her as she pulls on a sweater and skirt. She names a time and tells me how to find my way. I want to tell her to go to hell but somehow all the fight drains out of me. She has a swell body, a nice voice and what I can see of her face is all right too. She is a change from the ignorant giggling chicks I have known before and it might be worth seeing her again. Typical boy meets girl on beach.
The sun sprays blood as it drops into the sea. “Well, I’ll be seeing you,” she says. She takes off her glasses and her eyes are wide and blue. She is about the prettiest doll I have ever seen, but she is as far away from me as the wide blue sky.
five
The girl has gone and I must move on again.
I make my way to the railway station, buy a ticket to Perth and drift about the platform like one of the stray sheets of newspaper waiting for a wind to blow it away. The lines hum and the train rickracks to a stop. I get in, find a place and lean back, propping my feet on the opposite seat. I notice there’s a railway law against this (Regulation 166B), but I stay as I am.
A middle-aged couple enter at the first stop and look in disgust at my sprawling legs and my cigarette in a non-smoking compartment. They seat themselves as far away as possible and we ignore each other until the city lights jerk into view. The train pulls to a stop and I walk out alone into a roar of traffic and a dazzle of neon signs.
I wander down the main street, alone in the crowd. It is against the law to sleep out in the city, so I must find a room. I turn into an alley swaying with shadows and knock at a place advertising rooms to let. An old woman shows me up a flight of stairs into a small room where a weak ceiling globe reveals a bed, cupboard, table and chair. I take it and pay a week’s rent in advance and she gives me the key.
I sit on the sagging bed and work out my next move; brood about friends for a time and find that friendship has no meaning for me. It is only a word, but I do have acquaintances and one of these will lend me clothes. I will go and see him now.
Out in the street again, I dawdle past a music shop from which comes the sound of a familiar song . . . Trouble in mind. I’m blue. . . . A solitary drummer beats a slow death beat behind the words. A single saxophone wails out in long drawn notes of pain. Blue shades of the sorrowing dark people, all with trouble in mind . . . The voice of an old-young negress singing into my heart . . . Trouble in mind.
Always trouble in mind. “Don’t make trouble, son,” Mum had said when I told her how the white kids laughed at me and kicked my case along the road. She hoped I’d make friends with them but I never did. They played with me at school when they had to, but outside the school gates they only picked on me. I didn’t tell her at first until she got wild about the case and my torn shirts. One day I found her mending them and saw that she was crying. So I told her it was O.K. and I didn’t care. “They’re only jealous because I get top marks,” I told her. “And when I’m grown up I’m going to be rich and buy you pretty dresses like the white kids’ mums’ve got.” She laughed and rumpled my hair and told me to grow up quick so she’d still be pretty enough for them. . . .
At the corner of the main street I pause for breath outside a cellar grating and stoop to peer inside. It’s the storeroom of a shop, full of packing cases and parcels and long rolls of linoleum and material.
I grasp one of the bars with my free hand and notice that the grating is loose and the thought comes into my head that I could probably squeeze in at the side. There would be all sorts of wonderful things in there — things we looked at in shop windows but could never buy, like the dresses, and the sheets Mum is always talking about. Some day, she keeps saying, she’ll have sheets for her bed. And I can see dresses too, pretty shop-made ones. Mum makes her own clothes as well as mine out of cheap material, but she would look real good in a shop-made dress.
I can see stairs from the cellar that go up into the shop. There would be money in there. I could go to the movies, buy heaps of comics and tell Mum I’d picked them up on the road. If I got a dress and some sheets I could tell her I had found them in a box that fell off a carrier’s truck. Things did fall off trucks and she’d believe that. . . .
Saturday night. I lie awake in my bed waiting for the town to go to sleep. The pub should close at nine o’clock, but being Saturday it stays open illegally unless there’s a mean cop in the town. I know when it closes because Mr Willy will come out then. Saturday is always a gay night for him and he stays to the end. At last I hear him come stumbling towards the house.
“Good night,” he calls out.
That means he isn’t coming in. Too tired and drunk, I suppose, and rolling home to his own bed. His boots sound away.
I let time stream by for a while before I get up. The kitchen fire is dead and the street lights turned off. Mum is at last asleep and my bare feet make no noise as I slide out the door. There is no one about. I am scared but the thought of Mum’s face when she sees the things I’ve got for her makes me brave.
I was right about the grating. I can get through quite easily. . . .
The big town cop shrinks the kitchen as he comes in the door. I look at Mum. Her eyes are scared and defiant. The cop grudgingly removes his cap, lifts an eyebrow as he looks about and clears his throat.
“I’ve come about the boy.”
“He’s done nothing. He’s a good boy.”
“There’s been a breaking and entering job in town, and I’ve reason to suspect your son is the culprit.”
“It can’t be him. He’s never pinched anything. Never done anything wrong. You’ve picked on him because he’s coloured, that’s all.”
The cop shrugs. “I have a warrant and I intend to search this place.”
“Go ahead,” she says. “You won’t find anything. He’s not a thief.”
I stand in the corner, shaking with fear. The cop pokes around the house and looks under my bed where I’d put the money and the comics. I had given her the dress and a pair of sheets, but I was still working out the story for the other things.
“I’m taking these things as evidence,” the cop says. “I’ll be back here soon.”
I look at my mum and see that her expression is no longer defiant. It is sort of beaten and servile.
He clumps out the door. Mum crumples like she has been hit in the stomach. After a while she comes over to me and we cling together. I cry because I am scared. She cries because she knows I will be taken away from her.
In the afternoon the copper returns to hand us a summons.
“On Thursday at ten o’clock you will bring the boy along to the courthouse. Ten o’clock. Understand?”
“Yes.”
The sky is overcast as we make our way along the gravel road and turn the comer into the town. It is as quiet as any week day in a small country place. No one notices a coloured woman and a boy. Nobody knows. We are a bit early as Mum does not want it held against us that we are late. She
stops and looks in a shop window. On one side there is a flash bedroom suite and on the other dresses on hangers, all pulled in at the waist and the bargain prices marked. She looks up and sees it is the shop I have robbed and she hurries on.
The police officer is waiting in nervous expectation. The hands of the clock are just on ten and he probably thinks his birds have gone bush. His face relaxes as we come in and he shepherds us to our places. I cling close to Mum and we both wait for the worst. Up to now she has always protected me but I know that this is something out of her control. There are just the two of us against the world.
I look across at the long table and the white men around it who have come to decide my fate. I look down at the dusty floor and the long, dirt-caked cracks between the boards. I look up at the slime yellow walls seeking a spot on which to concentrate. My eyes rest on an enlarged photograph of the reigning monarch. Defender of the Faith. Whatever that means. The royal eyes look down coldly and accusingly. No hope there. I look away, quickly scanning the large stern men on their large pompous bottoms. They stare vacantly at the table top as the constable reads his statement.
During the night of Saturday the first of April the premises of Mr Cox of this town had been broken and entered. On examining the grating abutting on the street he found that it had been forced to provide entry. From the restriction of the entrance, he decided that a child or children were responsible and, acting on his suspicions, he had questioned various residents of the town and finally the mother of the defendant. On conducting a search of her house he had found the stolen goods. From what can be ascertained the mother knew nothing of the crime and in no way encouraged her son.
“Thanks constable. That’s quite enough. Will the defendant please stand.”
The Magistrate beckons and I stumble to my feet and stand alone.
“Answer the following questions truthfully. Did you or did you not break into Mr Cox’s shop?”
“I did, sir.”
“How did you force entry, that is get into the place?”
“I found the grating was loose accidentally, sir. I was just mucking about and found I could get in.”
“Was anyone with you?”
“No, sir. I was all by myself. Only me it was, sir.” My voice breaks into a whimper.
“Good. You can sit down.”
My mother is now told to stand.
“Did you know what your boy was up to?”
“No, sir. He used to bring home things from the dump, some of it real good stuff too. Then he said he picked up this parcel off the road. That’s the God’s honest truth, sir. If I’d known he was stealing it I would have stopped him, sir, but he’s always been a good boy, sir. I didn’t think — ”
“Yes, yes. I believe you knew nothing about it. You can take the boy home now. The constable will call on you later.”
The last day of freedom. Mum and I are standing beside the policeman on the station platform and I am crying as the clock ticks the minutes away. At last the train comes in.
“Never mind, son. Everything will come out all right.”
I sob and cling to her. Nothing will ever be all right now. I have been tried and found guilty. And I am already nine years old. . . .
“Trouble in mind. . . .” To hell with sentimental memories! I’ve been through a helluva lot of trouble in the ten years since that snivelling kid left his mum and his home town for the Boys’ Home near the city. Boys’ Home . . . bloody awful joke that was. And it was the end of any sort of home for me. The end of Mum too by the look of her last time I was outside. Couldn’t get away from her fast enough with her whining about her ailments and how none of her kids ever came to see her now. As if I didn’t have enough to do looking after myself. And right now that means getting out of this blue serge prison suit.
I reach the house where my acquaintance lives. His mother answers the door and when I tell her who I am she says to wait. He comes to the door and asks me in. He seems surprised to see me and is nervous though he fakes pleased. He flings questions at me and I answer him. He bores me and as soon as possible I put it on him for the clothes. He did a job with me once. I took the rap for us both, but he knows I could still put him in if I liked. He takes me to his room where I choose black jeans, black shirt, black desert boots. I ask him to look after the prison rig for me and he says O.K. I can collect them any time I like. He offers me a drink and we have a few whiskies. Then I glide like a black shadow into the street.
The night is still young, so I turn towards the milk- bar where the old gang hangs out.
six
I look through the window of the lighted milk-bar and the familiar surroundings glow a “Welcome Home” to me. This joint is the meeting place of the bodgie-widgie mob. Here they all are — the anti-socials, the misfits, the delinks, in a common defiance of the squares. The juke-box, a mass of metal, lights and glass, commands the room, squat god worshipped and fed by footloose youth to fill their empty world with the drug-delusion of romance. It flashes me a sarcastic grin and blares a Rock ’n’ Roll hullo. I’m back and the gang crowds round — the boys in peacock-gaudy long coats and narrow pants, the girls casual in dowdy-dark jeans and sloppy sweaters.
They question me about jail — who’s in and who’s getting out soon? As one of the mob I have to answer them. Then they tell me about their own activities, the last week-end party and the latest dance hall that chucked them out. One chap has been picked up for carnal knowledge, another for car stealing. I sympathize and bum a cigarette and laugh at the funny bits. Already I’m bored and feel depressed from the whisky I’ve had.
I drift away to a vacant table, order sandwiches and cigarettes and whisper for a cup of wine. The waiter says he is glad to see me back and passes me a bottle with a reminder about the cops. I fill my cup and put the bottle under the table. The music comes out good and sad. . . .
You can get rid of loneliness
If you can fall in love....
A theme song for the kids.
I sit and drink, peering through the haze of smoke.
“Hi, man!”
Big hazel eyes stare down at me. Long lashes flicker.
“I’m drunk, doll.”
“Like I can see that.”
“Sure am.”
I look at her as she hums a few bars of the song. It is that moment of drink when the fog rolls back and the mind clears. Every object becomes detached, vivid, intense and stark. Nothing runs into anything else. This girl Denise stands there transfixed in time.
Big eyes glow, lips nature-red are parted revealing strong slightly stained teeth. Dark hair is alive, writhing to her shoulders to frame the moon-pale oval of her face. She still attracts me. Denise is one of the few people with whom I never have to pose.
She is a semi-pro. I met her at a dance one night a couple of years ago. I paid her the first time but not after that. I couldn’t care less what she does. Making money that way is better than working and her family feels the same. She lives at home, but all they worry about is the rent money.
We are glad to find each other here again. I talk.
“How’re you going?”
“O.K. Thought of joining the Salvation Army to see you inside.”
“You’d have made a real hep hymn singer.”
She sits down next to me.
“I’ve got a bottle of wine under the table,” I say.
“Wasting your prison dough.”
“Why not?”
“Yeah. That’s right. Why not?”
She walks to the counter to get a cup.
“It’s vile stuff,” she says, tasting the grog. “No wonder you look rotten.”
“I’m miserable.”
“I’ve got some pills that’ll sober you up and give you a lift. Take a couple and then we can get pissed together.”
She takes a small bottle from her pocket and gives me two yellow tablets. I gulp them down with a cup of wine. A mistake. The clearness fogs and the world grows dull again, but the m
usic still shrieks sharply through my head. I feel bad now, real bad. Sick drunk fool! Crazy, I’m way down in the blues. Got a ten ton load on my head. I get up and fall back on to my chair. Rest on her shoulder.
“You’re really drunk now, ain’t you, mate?” Her voice is low-pitched and soothing.
“I know.”
“The pills will hit you in a minute. They’re great kicks.”
She walks to the juke-box and back with a hip wriggle that makes me think of bed.
“I’ve picked a couple of good numbers that’ll cheer you up.”
She’s kidding me. The sad tune makes me ache with loneliness.
The bell-hop’s tears keep flowing,
The desk clerk’s dressed in black.
They’ve been so long down lonely street
That they’ll never, oh never, come back.
’Cause they’re so lonely, oh so lonely,
They’re so lonely they could die.
The voice wails out to reach me, but now the pills are taking effect and I can contemplate my mood objectively.
Denise goes on drinking to get drunk. I go on to stay that way. The juke-box keeps playing. Mind flows with the rhythm and follows the sad-sounding horn. I put my arm around Denise and fake togetherness.
It’s late and the waiter hovers about wanting to close the joint. I buy another bottle of wine and we stagger out. The coolness of early morning sobers me a bit and I’m feeling sick by the time we reach my room.
I switch on the light and open the bottle of wine. Denise puts down her little transistor radio and switches to an all-night station. I have a swig, go to the bathroom, put my head under the tap and dry it on someone else’s towel. Come back to the room tired but not sleepy — the pep pills have taken care of that.
We sit on the bed drinking and listening to the radio. God, I feel awful and I want to be alone, but she’s here and I suppose I have to sleep with her — oh damn.
Denise goes on gazing into space; she hasn’t spoken a word since we came in. The bottle falls to the floor and she leans back against the wall. Her breasts jut under her jumper and desire floods into me. I want her and hate her for making me want her. I pull off her clothes and take her violently, like it was rape. Hate her. Hate her. Love her. It is finished. I fling away from her and she lies like a discarded doll. There’s no more wine blast it! When I get drunk I usually end up with a chick, but why should this girl mean something to me? I want to be unmoved by everything — like a god.