Coming Rain (2 page)

She put her head to one side and removed the rubber swimming cap. Damp brown hair
fell to her shoulders. ‘Do you want something?'

The black woollen costume had gathered close into her and sea water was running down
between her legs. Instead of speaking, he looked away to the shark-net pylon in the
sea. A boy,
long armed, up on the concrete shoulder, holding the iron pole. Another
crouched to dive off. They were black against the sky.

Someone was calling from the new car park. ‘Is that you down there? Young Mr McCleod?'
He called Lew's name as if he was announcing a runner in the Melbourne Cup.

An older man, barefoot, walking awkwardly across the white sand. He raised a hand
to block the sun.

Lew waved at him. A smile broke out on his face. ‘Painter. Here, mate.'

The old man approaching them was wearing a blue Jackie Howe shearers singlet. Unshaved
face. A bald head worn brown in the sun, covered in scars and odd bumps. Both ears
were lumped, cauliflowered, and his left ear was much smaller. The nose broken so
many times there was no bridge left. He had big wrinkled hands covered in tattoos
of birds and stars. Strong, don't touch me arms, veins stood in his biceps. Spider
webs on both elbows. Forearms showed thick blue outlines of a ship in full sail and
a naked woman in high heels with her hands behind her head, elbows like a bottle
opener. Mary. A heart with an arrow through it.

His name was Painter Hayes and he was squinting at them in the glare of the sunlight
coming off the sand. Opened his mouth to smile. ‘Jesus this sand is hot. And white
as you like. Go blind,' he said.

The woman in the woollen bathing costume spoke to him. ‘How do you do?'

Painter nodded to her. ‘Not bad. You?'

She stepped back. ‘Fine, thank you.'

‘Why did we come here again, son?' Painter, lowering his
voice. Speaking to Lew but
he kept looking at her.

‘For a swim.' Lew folded his arms. A muscle in his jaw flexed.

‘That surf patrol is marching over here like they want to rescue someone and they
not fuckin' singin' come to me Jesus neither,' Painter said and looked away to his
left. ‘They got ropes on their heads before. Walking about the show like they own
the fuckin' place.' He touched his nose with his thumb. Nodded to say I see you there
and sorry missus, I know. I know, the language. Wide strong wrists he had. Shearer's
wrists. Fighter's hands.

Lew reached out his hand towards her to introduce himself. He had found his voice
in the apology and presence of the other man. ‘My name is Lewis McCleod. I'm a shearer.
We just got in from Mrs Anderson Darcy's place, been shearing the rams. Me and Painter
Hayes here. Tupping soon, that's why the rams now see.' Sorry about him. Look at
me. He's not right in the head.

She said nothing, looking at him as if he was a lunatic. Would not take his hand.

He kept speaking. ‘Lot of them thorny bloody Merinos covered in the spinifex and
saltbush. All through the wool, the wrinkly-necked bastards. Cut you apart.'

The water had stopped running off her. She watched him, and still did not accept
his introduction. ‘You came down for a swim?'

‘I did. Came down, didn't expect to see you. Never been here before.'

She was nodding. ‘Mrs Anderson Darcy's? Tupping?'

‘Son,' Painter said. ‘Come on, we better go. Stop talking to her. Oh no, look out,
they're here.'

Three muscular young men stood there with their arms folded over their chests. Their
feet firmly in the white beach sand. Red and yellow skullcaps on their heads tied
up under the chin with strings.

‘What are you doing here?' one of the lifeguards asked. His face all red. White zinc
on his nose.

Lew pointed at the ocean.

‘Maureen,' a lifeguard said. ‘Don't talk to these blokes. They are just no-hopers.
They don't even belong here. Look at them.'

Painter spoke to the red-faced man. ‘We were just leaving. On our way, come on son
cut it out. I never been to the bloody beach in me life. You neither. Fuckin' beach,
Mr Jesus where are you now? Why would you want to lie out in the sand anyway? Fuckin'
cook.'

‘Watch your mouth old man,' one of the lifesavers said. ‘There is a lady present
and this is not a sewer.'

Painter glanced at him and nodded.

‘No no,' Lew said. ‘Now hold on a minute mate.' Wide shoulders turning.

Maureen sniffed, shrugged and looked back to the ocean. ‘I don't know.'

Groups of bathers had stopped splashing and were standing still, staring at them.
Blue-and-white striped beach umbrellas tilted towards the sun. Frowning mothers holding
up towels and little children running to them with chubby, outstretched arms. The
pylon divers also stopped and were looking in their direction, leaning out to one
side, holding the pole.

Painter looked at Lew. ‘Don't,' he said. ‘I mean it son, don't. Oh no.'

Lew stepped forward and pushed the lifeguard who had been speaking to him.

‘Fuck off.'

The lifeguard fell back and another lifeguard ran in and shoulder-charged Lew. ‘Fair
bump, play on,' he yelled, turned and snarled.

Lew fell backwards into the sand. He was playing football.

Now they were fighting.

Lew was on his back, arms and legs waving like an upturned turtle. He was trying
to get up. Somebody else stood above him and swung both fists at his head. Hit him
on the cheekbone once and in the mouth, forehead and nose. He saw Painter stepping
over and pushing away the man who had been punching his face. There was a roaring
of voices as the old man moved forward and knocked one of the surf rescue blokes
down. Turned as he was hit from behind; covered up, blocked and hit another with
a combination of punches. Old man moving like a good fighter, sound as a bell of
brass but step into your punches son and no cursing nor profanity when you box I
will not have it, the old trainer Mr Kilpatrick speaking to him yet. Fine fine…but
keep your hands up and be aware of yourself as you move above the canvas; did you
hear me, above and not on or about the canvas? You come to bearing close to the gentleman
Mr Eagan, the American Irish…A prince in the ring and no doubt about it.

Two straight rights double jab, step-away left hook and down goes another lifesaver
on his red and yellow arse. Painter blew air and snot from what was left of his nose
and danced to his left, hands up. ‘Yep. That'll do. Good. Wait on now boys. My hands
are not what they were and I need to see them.' He coughed and
his bottom lip rode
up onto his top lip for a moment. He allowed it and pulled his chin in. Waved his
right hand up and down as if in pain; all the time he studied them. ‘Hurts.'

‘You ugly old bastard,' one of the lifesavers said. Fingers holding his bleeding
nose, bent over and backing away. ‘You just broke my nose.'

‘You got any wet paper bags boys?' Painter, smiling. ‘I couldn't punch me way out
of one if you paid me. Not a single one. Would you ever look at me? Knackered. Old
as a rock.'

Lew on all fours, blood streaming from his nose and mouth and about to stand. Becoming
giddy and still seeing white sand kicking up. Got to his feet, staggered to one side.
Noticed the woman Maureen had walked off a few yards, folded her arms and was watching
them all.

‘Run, son,' Painter says to him over his shoulder, ‘go on now, get on up out of it.'

Lew began running in the soft white sand, paused and looked back.

Painter had stepped away from the lifesavers and was once again appealing to them.
‘Come on you young blokes.' His big hands back on his hips. Stars and birds. Love
on one set of fingers, smile on his face. Skin smeared off the knuckles. ‘We can
let this go now, can't we? We'll be on our way. I'm sorry about all the fuss.'

‘Stupid old man. The last time I saw a head like that it had a hook in it.'

Ripples of laughter.

‘Well,' Painter said, ‘I got a head only a mother could love no doubt about it.'

Someone mimicked him in a high-pitched voice. ‘No one would love that ugly fish head.'

They all laughed. Painter too, he was nodding. ‘That'll do boys.' He cleared his
throat. ‘That'll do.'

‘That'll do.' Again the insulting mimicry. ‘Boys.'

More lifesavers had joined the group. The leader spoke. ‘Who are you anyway? A stinkin'
old dero by the look of you. Here on our beach. Old sailor are ya? Crim, just got
out?'

Painter looked directly at him. ‘A stinkin' old dero is it? That's me. A crim just
got out.' He shrugged as if he was sick of trying. ‘Yep and I was with your mother
last night mate. Right here on the sand we did it. Almost to death we did it. And
you know what? She was useless. Like a wet sack of wheat she was and smelled like
an old dog left out in the rain for too long. I'd rather fuck a cricket bat than
your mother. Probably thinking about you as I rooted her anyway son.'

Mr Kilpatrick would have turned away in disgust at such talk. Painter's chin lifted
and he slipped his right shoulder for the left hook. Fists held at his waist. Nodding
towards them. ‘How do you like that? Boys? Come on now.'

Some of them seemed to pause, confused; someone said Jesus Christ while another two
started laughing. Someone else said, ‘No you weren't. She wasn't.'

‘Step forward son,' Painter said to them all. ‘Have a go. At me the ugly old bastard
who fucked your mother. You got a sister? I bet you all know what's between her legs
as well. A little wet slit in the dark under the blankets and do you dip your middle
finger, smell it? Do you? You do, don't you?' Painter paused and looked at the eight
or so lifesavers gathered around
him. They just boys, never been hurt in their lives.
God bless them they don't know what they are sayin' and I do. Children are easily
frightened. He took a deep breath, coughed again and began rolling his fists in comic
imitation of a fairground boxer. A carnival man.

‘Be a man don't be afraid, look at me. A good horse never stumbles and a good mug
never grumbles so give us the money boy and don't fuckin' sook about it like a fat
girl with the smile and no ice-cream. My hand is open. Like your mother's legs. I
am truly Mr Kilpatrick's disgrace. Punch as hard as you like. You cannot ever hurt
me you young cunts.'

Lew had reached sandhills and tussock grass at the top of the beach. He knew what
Painter would be saying. Tell them lies, boy, everyone believes what frightens them.

Fuck-off tauntings and feigned bewilderment; seeming friendliness and crude words
as to take your breath away. Your mother's cunt, almost beautiful, the belief. Next,
the humility amid the shocking humour; all the time looking for the weaknesses. Usually
beat them before they start with the words if you can son, it's easier. Make them
weak as they think.

Painter glanced to where he was, waited and nodded. Began to back away. Turned, walked
and spun to face the following lifesavers. ‘Wait a moment you. Don't get too close
or I'll smack you down. By God I will and no jokin' now.'

Lew crossed the white shell-rock car park to the 1939 Ford pickup truck where they
had parked it earlier. Got in, the door swinging open, and he was turning the key.

An empty clicking sound came from the engine.

‘You're a bloody idiot son,' Painter yelled as he too reached
the car park and waited
at the verge. He was breathing hard. ‘Look at us. Got no bearings here boy. We should
have found a card game, something else, people we know. Who know us.'

‘What?' Lew got out of the truck cab, slammed the door. He was carrying something
as he walked to the front of the vehicle.

‘Coming here,' Painter said. ‘What's wrong?' He was speaking over his shoulder. Looking
to his front and answering his own questions. ‘Apart from you, that is, what's wrong.
You young fool.'

‘Won't start. Flat battery.'

‘Jesus, son.'

Lew was trying to insert a crank handle into the truck's motor, his mouth still bleeding.
Spat out spooling blood. Cheekbone swelling red. Left eye closing.

‘What?'

Painter looked at the first of the lifesavers who had come up from the beach, pointed
at him. They gathered and were standing at the edge of the sandy car park. The limestone
bulk of the club pavilion behind them.

One of them called out, you better go all right you bastards, when the woman, the
one Lew had been speaking to at the water's edge, pushed between them and walked
to where he was trying to start the truck. She had a beach bag over her shoulder
and a wide straw hat.

‘Maureen?' A lifesaver called to her, stepped forward from the group. ‘No, cut it
out. Not with them, oh no. Maureen, come on?'

Lew was down on one knee, positioning the crank.

Painter was standing apart from them both, his hands on his
hips, glancing at Lew
then at the ground. Towards the lifesavers.

Lew raised himself up and with all his
strength pushed hard and down on the crank handle. The Ford caught and the motor
began turning over.

‘Can I come with you? Please.'

He stared at her and all he could think of was putting his fingers under her bathing
costume, there at the top of her thighs. Lord, his thumb on her navel.

Painter heard and shook his head. ‘No son.'

Lew said yes and she laughed, repeated Lew's yes and got into the truck. Said thank
you. Threw the bag and hat in the space behind the drivers seat. The cab smelled
of oil and hot metal. Cigarette smoke, raw wool and sweat.

Lew slid in behind the wheel. The navy blue stitched bench seat was sticky from the
heat and she moved towards him to make room for where Painter would sit. Positioned
herself so the gear stick was between her legs, the housing beneath her feet. He
moved the gears through first to fourth and reverse while she opened her knees and
thighs to allow him and stared straight ahead as he started to let the clutch out
and looked back over his left shoulder. Touched him with her shoulder and elbow to
say sorry. Lew smiled, no you don't have to.