Cold Skin (2 page)

‘A bright future.

I promise.’

Eddie

The coalmine is surrounded

by a high wire fence.

In the far corner I scrape the loose dirt

from under the boundary

until there’s enough space to lie on my back

and pull myself under the wire.

Through the gritty window of the rusted tin shed

I can see the picks, shovels and lanterns

stored neatly on wooden shelves.

Dad hates me talking about the mine

and he made me repeat this year in school,

just to stop me working underground.

I’m stronger and taller than him.

I weigh close on twelve stone

and most of it’s muscle.

I can move rocks

bigger than a yard square

and I can swing an axe to split firewood

quicker than Larry.

You can load my arms with ironbark

and I’ll carry it all inside,

no problem.

This mine is where I want to be,

with the returned soldiers

and my mates from school,

who earn a decent wage doing a real job.

I dodge between the outbuildings

to watch the men in their dirt-coloured overalls

and thick brown boots

prepare for the night shift,

laughing and singing

like they’re going out to the pub.

They strap their helmets on,

test the light, twice, for safety,

and clip the strap tight under their chin.

I want to sneak in behind them

and take the trolley ride

down into the soul of the world

and see what it’s like,

deep in the pit

where muscle and rock

fight their daily battle.

Albert Holding

You can smell the coal smoke

long before the train rounds the bend

and drops down into the narrow valley.

Some days in winter the plume settles so low

you could stand on Jaspers Hill

and not know there’s a town below.

Let me tell you, I was grateful

that scabby bastard Wilson evicted us.

The land we bought is next to useless

but at least it’s out of town.

The wind blows the smoke east

back up through Dulwich Gap.

At least a man can breathe in his own backyard.

Not like the miners

who walk through town to work at the pit.

My mates, every one of them.

I remember marching in our khaki uniforms,

wheeling down Main Street in perfect file

while the town,

the whole district,

cheered us on and waved little flags.

The chinstrap on the slouch hat

kept our eyes straight

should we be tempted to gaze at all the young sheilas

smiling and waving our way.

That was at the start of the war.

The high and mighty ladies at Paley’s

go on about us living out here like gypsies.

We’re only one rung above Barney Haggerty,

who sleeps in a cave halfway up the gap,

drunk most of the time.

They don’t know what he went through

during the war.

They certainly know sod-all about me.

And I want to keep it that way.

Eddie

Dad says, it’s not right,

working on Laycock’s farm.

He didn’t fight a war

to muck out after ignorant animals.

Hay bailing,

picking eggs,

slopping out pig-swill.

That’s work for a boy, he says.

But Mr Laycock’s got no kids

and no one wants the job,

not when there’s men’s work to be done.

When I bring up the mine again

Dad slams his fists on the table

and shouts,

‘I ain’t going underground.

And neither are you, boy.

Not while you live in my house.’

I want to tell him it’s our house.

We helped build it.

But most of all,

I want to ask him

why he’s always so angry.

Ever since he got home,

he’s been blaming me and Larry for everything

when we done nothing wrong.

‘The mine needs workers, Dad.

I’m not doing much at school

except wasting time.’

He shakes his head

before walking outside,

muttering,

‘I’m better off with the pigs.’

Larry Holding

My big brother’s not too smart.

He thinks living out here,

miles from anyone,

is an adventure.

I heard him say that.

‘An adventure.’

Shooting rabbits for dinner

with our rusty-barrelled .22,

picking blackberries for supper,

fishing in the river

with a string line tied to bamboo,

hoping for a silver eel

so Mum can make an evil-smelling stew.

This is my brother and his life.

This is why I want to shoot through.

But you don’t leave Burruga,

not without an education,

even I know that.

So I don’t want to miss school.

In the baking-hot classroom of Burruga Central,

I listen to Mr Butcher

with his maths and stupid algebra

and his splitting infinitives in English,

whatever they’re meant to be.

I keep a clean book

with lines straight

and practise handwriting that slopes

‘like a long-haired girl dancing’

Butcher says, in his nancy-voice.

But here’s my deal,

the pact I made with myself–

I’ll give it a burl

and do every inch of Butcher’s homework

if only I can leave town when I’m fifteen,

in six months time,

after the exams,

after I get the certificate.

I’m going to wave it in their faces and say,

‘See ya.

See ya for ever.’

Mayor Paley

I tell them exactly what they want to hear

and I’ll try to make it happen, truly.

Everyone in town should have a job.

We’re sitting on a pile of coal here.

So I promise what I can

and now it just depends on money

and the State Government.

Most of these people don’t realise

it isn’t the town that’s building the things I promise.

It’s the State.

I’ll do my best to swing it, I will.

A man of my stature has influence.

And friends.

Trust me.

It’ll take a few trips to the city, mind you,

and I’ll have to spend some town money

entertaining those business folk

so they’re sure we’re worth helping,

way out here.

But I know a few people;

associates of my father.

Good citizens.

Rich people in the city.

I will never cease working for my town.

‘Will and purpose.’

Mr Wright spoke the truth.

Albert Holding

Fatty Paley was a sneaky kid in baggy trousers,

with a limp,

and a father who owned the general store.

And Fatty grows into,

expands into,

the mayor of this town,

while the rest of us are fighting the war.

Driving trucks
is
fighting a war.

Fatty charms the ladies

with his boarding school education

and his prissy sincere voice.

He greases the palms of certain people

who backed him as mayor

while the rest of us were thousands of miles away.

Fatty gets fatter and richer than his old man

and he has a sign above his store,

his crummy little general store,

that reads ‘Paley’s Emporium’,

because Fatty’s too proud to own just a shop.

And he had the hide to stand on the platform

when our train came in,

holding out his arms,

hugging,

yeah, hugging,

every man who came home from the war.

It made my flesh creep.

Eddie

I’m not much good at maths

and

I’m not much good at grammar

and

I’m not much good at geography

and

I’m not much good at anything,

says Mr Butcher

with his hair slicked-back so tight

it draws the blood from his face.

His thick black-rimmed glasses

sit useless on his nose

as he stands at the chalkboard

tapping his long ruler,

talking to the class,

pointing at a map of the world

and trying to convince us

our country is the biggest island

in the whole world.

I believe him,

it’s just the idea of an island,

you know,

surrounded by water,

when it looks to me that map shows

nearly every country is surrounded by water.

So I put up my hand and say,

‘Africa looks bigger than Australia, Sir.’

Mr Butcher removes his glasses,

rolls his eyes and slowly shakes his head.

‘Yes, Eddie Holding.

But Africa is a
continent,

not a country.

Didn’t I mention that?’

He says it like he
did
mention that,

but I can’t remember,

and judging by the look on everyone else’s face,

they can’t remember either.

Continent.

Country.

So Mr Butcher explains the difference

and I can tell he’s mad at me

because I picked him up on something.

After he’s finished he’s says his usual,

‘There, Eddie.

You’re not much good at geography.

You’re not much good at remembering.’

I see Larry smirking,

and hear the giggles from behind me,

so I stand up,

wave my arm just like Mr Butcher

and say,

‘And you’re not much good at teaching, Sir.’

Then I walk out of the classroom

and head to Jamison River to go swimming.

I’m very good at swimming.

I reckon the river

and the sunny day

are worth the punishment I’m in for

on Monday morning.

Larry

My stupid brother can’t keep his mouth shut.

Yeah, Butcher never told us about continents.

In all the years pointing at that boring map.

I know he never told us because, unlike Eddie,

I remember everything I’m taught

and I studied it in the library,

tracing my finger over the world atlas,

imagining how long it’ll take me

to travel the distance from here to all those places.

Eddie will get six cuts on Monday

and we’ll all be given a lecture

with Butcher’s voice like powerlines in winter,

whining in the wind.

You’re never sure if they’ll snap over your head.

He’ll go on about manners,

proper behaviour,

respect for your elders,

and I’ll be thinking,

just get on with it, Butcher,

and whip my stupid brother a few times

with your nasty little cane.

Let’s start algebra

because I still don’t understand it all

and I’ve only got six months more

and yes, you are a hopeless teacher,

but you’re the only teacher we got,

so get on with it.

Eddie

Sally Holmes runs through the willows

and stands beside me, looking down at the river.

‘As soon as the bell went

I was out of there like a shot.’

She kicks off her shoes

flings her socks after them,

not taking her eyes off the clear water

and the rope dangling from the river gum tree.

‘Do you think I can grab it, first go?’

Sally orders me to look away

and I hear the rustle of her dress

as she pulls it over her shoulders.

She’s wearing dark blue swimmers

and I feel my face go blush red

as I try my best not to look at her.

‘I’ll go first, if you want, Sally.

It’s going to be freezing.’

She has wavy hair like flowing cream

and she’s as tall as me,

with long legs and a narrow waist.

I love Sally,

but I don’t tell anyone that,

especially not Sally.

I’m her friend,

and I listen to her wild laughter

as she runs from the bank

and leaps towards the rope,

both hands grabbing the very end

as she swings far out to midstream and hangs there,

looking back at me,

‘Too late, Eddie!’

She falls with a scream,

hits the water in a curled-up ball,

comes up laughing and hooting,

racing back to shore to do it all again.

She pushes her hair back

and flicks her wet hands,

spraying cold drops all over me.

‘Come on, jump in.

It’s not too chilly.’

I hold the rope for her

because if there’s one thing I like

more than swimming,

it’s watching beautiful Sally Holmes

laughing and rope-swinging.

Just me and her in the afternoon

at Jamison River.

Sally

All the wowsers and bullet-heads

in school say Eddie is slow.

They call him names behind his back.

‘Pudding brain’ and ‘Clod-boy’.

They say it quietly,

because whether he is or not

doesn’t matter so much,

they know that if he ever heard them

there’d be trouble—

trouble in the form of big Eddie

and his oversized fists.

They’re all wrong anyway.

I know Eddie better than they do.

He’d never hurt anyone,

not unless they meant him harm.

We swim down at the waterhole,

even in winter when there’s no one else around.

One day I’m going to dive deep enough

to touch the bottom,

way out in the middle of the river.

Eddie calls this place, Sally’s Spot, in my honour.

He holds the rope for me,