by Mark O'Flynn
‘That’s lovely, Barry.’
Any road, it took ages to prepare the location. Barry followed the powder monkey around getting in everyone’s way. You might have thought he was taking lessons although, God knows, lessons were wasted on him. Eventually, they were ready. All they had to do was wait for nightfall. The mobile phones rang hot, synchronising watches and so forth. Dusk came and went, turning the cliffs of the escarpment all around us orange. The faces in the sandstone were changing with the light. It was a clear evening. Roos abounded. No wind. I thought the cliffs would have looked real beaut in a film if you were making a film about cliffs, but I guess they didn’t look much like the desert either. Barry gazed at them in rapture.
‘Barry,’ I called, ‘put your jumper on. It’s getting cold.’
He didn’t hear me. I had to take the cotton wool out of his ears and repeat myself.
‘Birds,’ he said, pointing to the sky.
Eventually the director called—Lights! Camera! Action! No. No lights. It was nighttime. Just action, then. In the distance, coming from Medlow, a little Cessna flew overhead with a few red lights blinking. This was simply for the cameras and the bad guys on the ground to track through the sky. Continuity again. They think of everything. Later they would get a computer to superimpose Stealth stealthily traversing the treacherous terrain, pinpointing the location of the bad guys with his infrared, X-ray vision. Funny really, because according to the plot, Stealth was supposed to be able to read people’s thoughts and empathise with their predicaments and be a protagonist for good, before offering helpful advice in the cause of peace and ultimately blowing the billy-o out of them. Oh well.
Livingstone, standing alone on his porch, watched all this activity with interest.
Then came the wanton destruction. Ka Boom! as they say in the comics. The ground trembled and bucked, which made Barry widdle. I gasped to my boots. Flames reached the moon, or so it seemed from our point of view. Whole trees exploded into kindling. The escarpment glowed ochre and shimmered. They had cameras all over the place to capture every flaming, spinning piece of debris, moment by moment. Parallel lanes of flame burst through the night. Pity the poor parasites, not to mention all the other wildlife about the place, blown to smithereens. The noise of it was truly deafening. Echoes rumbled to every corner of the valley. Some of the extras lay dead on the ground. Burning birds flew like comets. The bonnet of one of Livingstone’s old Bedford trucks erupted high into the air and floated down like a piece of flaming pastry. It was like the ending of the world. Very speccy.
Then came our turn. Once all the pyrotechnics had blown off and the director had yelled Cut, through his loudspeaker, or That’s a wrap, or whatever he said, my team of volunteer fireys ran around with their extinguishers and hoses dousing the flames where they were beginning to spread. A blaze down in Livingstone’s gully almost got away into the bush, but luckily the tanker was down that way with the new pump paid for by a sausage sizzle and meat tray raffle. It worked a treat and a real disaster was averted. Good work, lads.
I don’t suppose even Hollywood can plan for every contingency. Unfortunately, the Bedford bonnet, flaming down from orbit, crashed through the roof of Livingstone’s shed and set the whole shop on fire. Oil and grease everywhere, it’s no surprise. It was lit up like a Christmas tree by the time anyone noticed. That is, a Christmas tree doused in oil and grease and set ablaze. Ross ran around shouting but I don’t think they got any footage. In about three minutes, the shed was a pile of smoking rubble. Where was my crew? Nowhere to be seen. Eventually, I found Barry around the back, his face turned up to the stars, fireman’s helmet hanging from his chin by its strap, his jaw agape. I could still see the dancing sky aflame in his eyes. He did not hear me until I pulled the plugs from his ears.
‘It’s all over now, son.’
He looked at me, putting the words together.
‘Dad, can we do that film again?’
As the evening began to wrap up, Livingstone complained loudly about the shed, but Hollywood thought they had paid him more than enough. They had all the footage they wanted. He could buy a new shed. All this while they were bumping out. The situation was what the Americans called a YP not an OP. That is, it was Your Problem not Our Problem. So then, he complained loudly that the CFA had not done their job properly and we ought to compensate him for the loss of his antique Harley-Davidson which had been inside the shed and was now underneath the smoking rubble. When no one showed any interest, he complained loudly about the sort of people the CFA had working for them. Cretins. Look at them. Some of them couldn’t even tie their own shoelaces. I told him that if he spoke about my son like that again, I’d drop him on his arse as soon as look at him. He did not respond, other than with the closure of his jaw. The film crew then stowed their cameras, tents and other gear into the vans and drove in convoy back up to the swishy Hydro Majestic hotel on the cliff top, leaving us to mop up any spot fires, although after Livingstone’s tirade no one was very enthusiastic. We all wanted to go home to bed.
The next morning, not too early, Barry and I were back, wandering through the carnage of the landscape. Tendrils of smoke drifted in the air. It was like a bomb—well, yes, I suppose a bomb had hit it. It was surreal, like—well, yes, like being in a movie. I’m not saying this right. Barry was horrified; charred and blackened patches of earth, trees uprooted and flung aside, fences ruined, charcoal scars, the bush scorched to ash. On neighbouring properties, horses and sheep trembled up against the most distant gates. Cows did not come in for milking. It looked—well, yes, like a war zone, which I guess was what the producers were after. Veris-(I looked this up)-imilitude. It was very lifelike. The sad bit was—all that aftermath and not a camera in sight.
While Livingstone was busy mourning the loss of his shed and composing letters of complaint, Barry found a splintered, devastated tree, laid flat like a twisted civilian. In the soft light of day, it was hard to see how Livingstone’s bottom paddock could even remotely resemble a desert filled with terrorists. More full of nervous kangaroos with the squitters than terrorists. A giant angophora had been felled by one of the blasts. Barry walked its length. I followed slowly, extinguishing coals and hot spots underneath with a burst of foam. I watched him peel a strip of torn bark from the trunk. Angophora sap is red, so it looked like he was peeling back flesh from a human wound. Under the bark was a small hollow where a dozen little bats huddled together in the smoke and steam. They shifted their wings as if shielding their faces from the light. Barry made some soft noises and nudged them with his finger. As we watched they flapped their leathery wings and rose together in a spiral, like stars around a cartoon character’s head. Barry watched them, willing them upwards, his neck craned back.
The bats circled for a while about the spot where the giant tree had recently stood. But there was nothing. Just an absence. Just smoke over the paddocks, settling in the gully. The smell of petrol. Not even a sheep bleating. After a while, when they realised things were no longer in their proper place, the bats fluttered off silently over the paddocks towards the distant river, where there were a few tall trees still standing.
Barry said: ‘Birds.’
BANJO
This story which I will write is not about a great man. But it will be about how he help me get over trying to top myself. This man’s name is called Banjo Paterson and I don’t see what is so funny about that. I was nothing but a young fellow aged 20 years of age when I met a woman whose name is Margaret. At that time I could not read and I also could not write. I don’t know why it seem no one ever tried to teach me before. But I was good with my hands. My Margaret had 4 children which were her children. They are all girls. Margaret and me fell right in love from the start. In time I got to marry this Margaret and the greatest thrill in my life was when she say ‘I do’ to me inside the registry office. We lived and were v. happy.
Margaret had 2 more children which were
my children also. So there were at least 6 children running about all the day and night. Time past or passed. We moved into a real nice house with real cladding on the walls. It was also a v. nice suburb. At that time it was a good place for children to grow up. Apart from some rats in the roof we was v. comfortable. I worked on Volvo 988 trucks. My job was to fix up Volvo trucks after they had broken down. One day I will go back to this work. My money was v. good. I could work 3 days and nights without sleep to fix a certain Volvo truck. It was dirty work but kind of happy. I loved their grease and the fact that grease is not a secret. Now when I look backwards at what I had, I see I had it all without knowing. I spent more time with trucks than I did with my family. When I lost my happy life I learnt the world was not a good place and I was not a good person in it. I had been married with Margaret about 4 years when it start to happen. My crime which is a v. bad one has to do with the 2 older girls. The youngest 2 were too young. I don’t know why it happen that way. It just did. It concern me v. bad. However this is not about my crime which is not hard to imagine. Finally I took the gumption to tell Margaret what was happening with me. With the inside of me. I do not remember the exact words. I telled her because I wanted it to stop. Just to stop. I could not sleep. I begin to hate myself and so I stopped. I work hard. I save money. I stay stopped like that for a year or more but then I begin to hear people whispering about me. Or else stop their whispering when I go in a door. The man at the petrol station would not speak when before he always axed about the weather and what I reckon about the price of fuel or the price of fish. But it was all me. The words in my head, nobody saying anything. The petrol man would not touch my hand when he give back the change. He said everybody has troubles of his own. A funny look in his face. In time I lost my job and started worrying too much, hearing things all the constant.
One day I seed a way of escape. I telled my family we will move to Western Australia and begin a new life. I byed a big 4WD with a powerful donk with lots of grunt and a trailer. So we packed up our boxes. It felt great to tear up the telephone bill and just walk out. The girls did not like to leave their friends or their school but I was their legal guardian and they got to do what I say for their own well being and so on. That was some adventure driving all that way. When we breaked down I fixed us. But everyone got a little bored in the long run. We hit a kangaroo and I had to knock it on the head with a tyre jack. All the girls cry. When we got to Carnarvon I still could not find forgiveness inside or outside of me. So one day, my blackest day, I went to the police and telled them what had happened long ago. V. long ago for I was stopped. I don’t know why my head goes like this.
The police thought I was taking the mickey and why did I not just keep quiet, then they took me to see a doctor. The doctor put me to sleep for 4 days which I liked because I did not dream and when I waked up I was 4 days older. Sleep is v. good for you and I had missed it. I stayed in that hospital for several months. I could feel myself growing better, the voices going quiet because I could not dream. The police came to speak to me again. They had spoke to the children and also to Margaret and now said when I was fit for travel I would be extradited back to Victoria. 2 police from Melbourne came and fetched me home. Before we left they stopped by a beach where they taked photos of the purple ocean. In the plane, they cuffed my wrists to my ankles so I could not see the hostess tell us what to do in case of a crash. I kind of hoped the plane would crash but it did not. That was when I first seen Pentridge and Barwon and Loddon.
Jail was all new for me. I know my crime was v. unpopular but also v. common. Everybody give me a bad time considering it. Name calling and spitting started on me. People punching and laying the boot in. Once a knife. The officers giving me grief as well. I had no one to turn to. My cellmate kept trying it on me and when I said ‘No’ he would lay the boot in. Poured boiling water on me when I was asleep. A deep part of me did not care. One day the inmate who was trying to have sex with me was tipped to another jail. I was on my own now and began to feel better. Whenever there is a lockdown I feel happy. All at peace in my slot. I could see time passing without me having to do much. The other inmates started calling me caveman. A few other names besides like dog and boner and panlicker.
Then Margaret sended me some v. bad letters how I would never see my children which were mine anymore. I did not feel too good. I heard voices in my scone. I made a shiv and slashed up. They give me a few stitches and 2 Panadine then took me to the Assessment cells. So I collected some shoelaces and joined them together. People were happy to give me shoelaces. I was a great joke. People flapping about in loose shoes thinking they were doing the world a favour. The prison psych wrote a letter in her report that I showed no remorse for my crime. After lights out, voices started calling me Rocky and how they going to rape my sister when they get out. I don’t tell them I don’t have a sister. They were just words but even words get you.
One night with all my shoelaces I tried to hang myself in my cell. Nothing happened but the shoelaces broke and give me a bad burn around my neck. All well and good to laugh. I would vote myself to die but society don’t think so. Tried a lot of ways after that to do myself in. Nothing did the trick. So I went back to the locked ward at the hospital on strict protection. More time passes or past. One day out in the yard and this is where I began my story, my ears heard a man reading something. I stood nearby in the sunlight and listened. I seed the razor wire and it is like froth on top of a dirty wave and this is what I heard.
They hunted them off the road once more to starve on the half-mile track
And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time recite
How the best day’s work that he ever did was the day that he lost the fight.
I axed him to read it all from the start and this man did that for me. Saltbush Bill. When I heard these words I feeled insects prickling my scalp. Afterwards, I feeled alive. Happy and alive and sad all at the same time. It was hard to explain, hard to know inside of me. This man read me more of Banjo Paterson’s words. He axed did I want a lend of his book but I telled him there was no point as I could not read.
After a while we were called in for muster and lunch. I speaked some more to that man whose name was Pete. Pete and me become good friends. When we go out into the yard on sunny days, Pete would read Banjo Paterson for me. I know now it’s not much to speak of but those mornings in the sun mean a great deal to me. In time I telled him about my crime and he did not seek to judge me, though he should and maybe he did in his heart. Later they gave me the chance to appeal. Pete said my lagging was v. harsh for what I done and I could cut 2 or 3 years off my top sentence. But I dunno. I am learning here about my mistakes. I am happy to pay and keep paying for them. I am learning about my self. And the self that is not me but who I was. I also dunno if this is justice to get what you expect.
As this time passes I can see that jail is good for me. It has been necessary. The food is food. I have done my education and have learnt to read and write. Of course, the computer has helped me fix my spelling. I have even been teached about paragraphs; the uses of semi-colons; my past and present tents though I still worry about my future. When I get out, I will go back to fixing trucks if someone will give me a start. Reading and writing will help me locate a job. I will hear no whispers. I will have no dreams. I am doing v. well. I don’t know why people laugh when I tell them how Banjo Paterson save my life. Every person has to try and live no matter what they be. Every person’s story is different and in time I will be one of them.
A GOOD BREAK
All this was before he’d applied himself to the learning of First Aid. After the horse had bolted, so to speak.
But for the moment at hand—a heat wave; beachy weather. Half the townspeople sprawled in various stages of leisure and undress. Frisbees in the water; the day hot enough for the dumping margin of the surf to be jumping with swimmers.
Dean had brought the family down to the beach as a k
ind of littoral gesture to weekend harmony and they’d camped outside the flags (there was no room left between). He glanced with envy at the private shade of a beach umbrella near by. The kids, Gracey and Aaron, ran to the water’s edge to begin a game with the waves. Leap, hop, squeal. Shona plonked herself on a towel and pulled a book, no it was a magazine, from her bag. Her eyes squinted at the reflected brightness of the pages. Seagulls strutted about on the sand, puffing their chests out, craning their necks. The shrieking insides of their orange beaks, enough to make someone want to throw a bottle at them. Dean stood keeping an eye on the children.
‘Do you think they need any more blockout?’
‘What?’ asked Shona.
‘Do you think they need—’
‘You decide, you’re their father. I’m having a rest.’
She did not lift her eyes from the page, even though she must have felt the tight grip of crowsfeet about her eyes. Was that fair? Stupid time to come, really, Dean thought. He could have said No, could have insisted that the late afternoon would be a better time. He might have been able to carry on with the work he’d brought home for the weekend. Get ahead. He felt the sun eating through the fabric of his shirt.
Beyond the dumpy waves, surfers danced their dance on the curling breakers further out. Taking advantage of the good break and the tide. Behind him, there was a healthy queue at the ice-cream van in the car park. Dogs. Dean watched the kids now digging a hole in the wet sand; watched them watch it fill with water. He felt the tips of his ears burning. A jogger puffed past, all shiny with sweat. It looked as though he was limping, but that was just the gradient of the sand sloping down to the water. As the waves pulled back from the feet of the bathers, he could see reflected on the shimmering sand, the cliffs at the end of the beach. A sign writer was concocting the first puffy stilts of a message in the sky. Otherwise not a cloud.
