Cold Skin (6 page)

He touched my shoulder

and pulled back my chair.

I had no choice but to stand

and walk to the front of the class,

my fingers gripping the paper tightly

with the thought of all those eyes watching me.

Mr Butcher sat at my chair

and pointed accusingly at Eddie.

‘We’ll have absolute quiet, Holding.

You may learn something more valuable

than how to avoid flying objects.’

Most of the class giggled,

except Larry who leaned forward and winked.

My voice read the words,

while the rest of me wished

I was back in my chair

and the likes of Larry and Butcher

would just leave me alone.

Sally

I’ve started praying

because

ever since Eddie and me kissed

on the riverbank

I’ve been having thoughts

that I’m not sure I should be,

and maybe I’m cursed

or blessed

with the best imagination a girl can have

because what I see in my mind

makes me feel all warm inside,

too warm,

and I don’t know what to do with it.

So I kneel by the bed

and talk to God

about what I’m thinking,

and I keep my eyes closed

but that only makes my mind work faster.

I try to see Saint Catherine

in her long dark robes

but all I end up with is Eddie and me

in a bed together

under soft white sheets

with nothing on,

naked,

and he’s cuddling me,

kissing me,

and my hands start to wander.

I feel things

I’ve never felt before

and it’s too much.

I’m alone here,

thinking of Eddie

and tingling.

I’m sure God is watching,

calling out my name,

calling me back,

but I can only hear

the rush of my breath

and the touch of skin on skin.

This isn’t supposed to happen.

Is it?

Sergeant Grainger

When I left the Police Academy,

uniform pressed and clean,

buttons shiny,

notepad and pencil in top pocket,

I never thought I’d end up back here.

A sergeant.

That’s my title.

They gave me that

because only a sergeant

can run a police station alone,

and there was no way

they’d send two officers out here

where nothing much happens

but drunk and disorderly,

and the odd teenager pinching stuff

off the loading dock at the back of Paley’s,

or an ice-block from Sunset Café.

Three years training

for booting kids up the bum,

filling out forms

and keeping an eye on Barney Haggerty,

making sure he doesn’t sleep out in the park

once too often.

Old Barney is so full of metho,

I’m careful not to light a match too close

in case we both go up in flames.

I used to like a beer or three.

But a copper at the bar

wouldn’t have any authority,

not in this town.

So I stock up on lager

and put my feet on the lounge at home,

open a bottle,

and think a wife wouldn’t go astray.

But finding someone out here,

there’s two chances–

none, and Buckley’s.

Colleen

Ruth, Wendy and me

skip down Main Street

for a celebration milkshake at Sunset Café.

Our netball team won!

Now we’re in the finals.

Mrs Kain says we already look like champions

and adds extra malt.

It tastes creamy and sweet.

Mrs Kain stands beside our table

waiting to top up our glasses.

Mr Butcher comes in,

tips his hat and smiles at us.

Ruth says,

‘You going to come to the final, Sir?

Next weekend?’

He holds up his overnight bag and shrugs.

Off to the city again.

I wish he’d stay there!

Wendy wants to go home past the pub

and meet some of the older boys.

‘Let’s really celebrate.’

She leans in close.

‘With something stronger than a vanilla malted.’

We giggle at the thought of the young miners

slipping beers out the side window

and offering to walk us home the long way.

I’m tempted.

Les Johnston will be there.

When we leave,

Mr Butcher offers to pay for our milkshakes.

He passes the money to Mrs Kain,

brushes my arm and says,

‘Congratulations, girls.

A fine achievement.’

His breath smells of mouthwash

and he’s got far too much grease in his hair.

On the footpath,

Wendy loosens her blouse,

smooths her skirt,

and says,

‘We might find someone tall and handsome.

And sober.’

We link arms and walk towards the pub.

Larry

Sometimes a bloke gets lucky.

Wendy and Ruth

and the lovely Colleen

look to be up for a bit of fun.

I step from the doorway of the hardware

and ask them if they want a drink,

just to be friendly, you know.

Wendy asks where I got it from.

‘I’ve got my own supply.

I’ll show you, if you want.’

I offer Wendy the bottle,

but Ruth says no,

and pulls her arm away.

‘Go on, have some,’ I say.

I move towards them

and trip on the cracked footpath.

To stop myself falling

I reach out and grab Wendy’s shoulders,

and she screams.

‘Settle down, settle down.

I just fell, that’s all.’

Ruth sticks up her nose

and says,

‘You’re drunk’,

which is bloody obvious

and I say so,

but that doesn’t go down too well

and they turn to leave.

Smart-arse Ruth says,

‘You pong like an old man.’

Looking at Colleen, I say,

‘But I do everything else like a young man.’

Ruth pulls Colleen and Wendy away.

I shout after them,

‘I’ll be behind the pub, if you’re interested.’

Colleen might follow,

if she can shake those two tight sheilas.

Albert Holding

Fatty Paley does his Friday pub trick,

offering everyone a drink

and making a show

of slapping us all on the back

or shaking hands

and asking if there’s anything he can do.

Yeah, piss off, Fatty,

that’s what I want to say,

but, hell,

it’s a free beer,

so I drink it down.

Fatty sounds a little sozzled himself,

wandering from table to table,

swaying as he offers his clammy hand,

talking louder than he should.

He’s a dimwit of the highest order.

Before closing, I order two beers

and walk outside to smoke in peace.

Those three young sheilas

look to be having fun.

I wouldn’t mind that sort of company.

One of them is drinking a beer,

passed through the back window.

They’re laughing and talking

to the young blokes inside.

The blonde one looks in my direction

and quickly hides the glass.

I shout,

‘Don’t worry, love.

I’m not dobbing on anyone.’

If Fatty sees them

he’ll try to buy their vote.

He’d be too slow to notice they’re too young.

Too young for voting, anyway.

Mayor Paley

My wife Wilma

doesn’t understand.

She accuses me,

yes,
accuses
me

of going to the pub for the beer.

‘It’s work,’ I say.

I’m the mayor.

I should be available,

ready to listen to anyone who complains,

or needs help.

Like the time I offered a tent to the Holdings

until they built that ramshackle heap

they call a home, way out beside the river.

They didn’t have a roof over their heads,

not without my generous offer.

The pub is where I meet people;

where anybody, no matter who they are,

can come up and shake the mayor’s hand.

Wilma spends the evening

knitting in the front room–

another over-sized bloody cardigan–

waiting for me to come home.

My tea,

cold on the table.

To hell with that.

I’m having another beer.

I’m working.

Larry

Look at those girls

hanging around the pub

accepting beers off the Johnston boys.

I pick up a rock,

round and smooth,

and walk past Blind O’Brien’s.

The lights are out, as usual.

He can’t use them anyway.

I chuck the rock

and it explodes on the roof,

like a hand grenade.

The bloody grass is slippery with dew

and I land flat on my bum,

laughing at the thought of O’Brien

hiding in his bed.

I’m having trouble getting up,

feeling a bit giddy

and careful not to spill my beer,

when some coward whacks me from behind,

hard across my legs.

It’s O’Brien waving his cane

and one blow glances off my shoulder.

The stupid old man finds his range

and hits me again and again

until I push past him,

running down the street

calling out,

‘You blind bastard!’

I stumble away,

watching him lean on his cane, smiling.

He can wait out there all night,

I don’t care.

I’ll pay him back

some other time.

Mr Carter

There goes Frank O’Connor’s daughter,

Colleen, walking past with her head bowed,

as if she’s eager to get somewhere.

The raucous sound of voices

echoes from the pub

and the occasional crash of glass

shatters Main Street.

I make a habit of only two beers, early,

well before closing

and then I return to do the accounts for the week.

Since my wife died

I prefer to spend my evenings

working in the front room of my office.

If I stay too long at the pub

with the miners offering the shout

and suggesting stories for the front page,

I get maudlin and start thinking of Grace.

It’s been four years since she passed.

We couldn’t have children,

and in a marriage of thirty-two years

I guess that’s my only regret.

There’s a divine plan there somewhere,

of that I believe,

only sometimes, late at night,

I can’t see why He’d take Grace

and leave me with my writings,

my books and figures

and a knot deep in my stomach.

I’ve tried praying.

It gives me comfort.

But not as much as a cup of tea

and a ginger nut biscuit.

Eddie

I’m waiting for Butcher to show.

He’s late.

Tonight I’m ready with my good jacket

and enough money to follow him,

to find out what he gets up to away from here.

He probably has relatives

in the posh part of the city,

with a painted fence

and a cobblestone path.

I hear the train whistle

and the sound of hurrying footsteps.

He runs like a girl,

swinging his arms low,

his bag banging on his knees.

I climb down from the tree,

skirting around the far side of the station.

I’m sure I can make the last carriage

after Butcher gets in the front one.

The train approaches,

its rushing rhythm beats hard like my heart.

Butcher drops his bag on the platform

and bends over double,

clutching his stomach,

breathing deeply and coughing.

Don’t have a heart attack, Butcher.

As he opens the door,

I scamper out from the bushes

and jump in the back carriage.

I stay low in the seat until I hear the whistle,

and we move slowly away from Burruga.

The train starts the long rise

out of the valley

as I look around the compartment.

We climb Jaspers Hill

and I realise what I’ve done.

I’m heading to the city,

and there’s no train home

until morning.

Eddie

I feel like laughing,

laughing out loud.

I’ve never been alone to the city before,

and here I am on a train

with enough money for the return fare,

maybe a pie,

but certainly not enough for a hotel room.

Maybe I’ll ask Mr Butcher

if I can sleep in the shed?

There’s no one else in the carriage.

No one to tell Dad.

He’d kill me if he found out.

I drop the window and lean out,

letting the air cool my sweat.

In the half-light I can make out the shapes of horses,

slender and quiet in the paddocks

as the train labours up the hill.

At least I won’t have to hear Larry snoring tonight

and then smell our bedroom

when he wakes in his own vomit.

This is an adventure.

Eddie

I’m jostled by the crowds at Central Station,

all looking like they’re going somewhere important

while I loiter behind Mr Butcher

as he walks briskly through the sandstone exit.

He heads up a long wide avenue

with bright lights on the hill,

lots of flashing neon signs

and pubs on every corner.

I can’t believe there are this many people in the city.

It’s like Friday night in Burruga

a hundred times over.