Coming Rain (4 page)

Painter nodded and began to roll another smoke. He put the unlit cigarette in his
mouth and prodded the browning rabbit with the fork. Spooned in more mutton fat,
turned the pieces and lit his smoke.

CHAPTER 5

He was about nine feet in the air, leaning over the top of a black conical charcoal
kiln and smoothing wet clay on the widening cracks. It had been burning for five
days and the charcoal would be ready to uncover, cool and stack tomorrow.

Painter had positioned upright jarrah poles, a yard long and about six inches in
diameter, two feet apart, around the base, secured smaller cross branches on top
of the poles and was standing on these branches as he worked. Thin white smoke easing
out above him. His hands, arms and chest splattered with red clay. A beaten-up Traveller
hat on his head and now he was wearing sandshoes on his feet. Balancing on the cross
branches, he looked down at Lew. ‘This burn's finished pretty much, take a day to
cool no worries son. Sixteen hundredweight I reckon.'

Lew held a tall Henry Dilston and Sons crosscut log saw and was sitting on one of
two cross-pole sawhorses. Four cords of jarrah and marri stacked behind him.

They had laid out corrugated-iron sheets to deter termites.
This would be ready for
the next burning. More sheets of corrugated iron roofed the cords. They had weighed
down the iron with logs and stones. Behind Lew, a makeshift workbench with two attached
vices. Three Kelly axes lying flat on the benchtop alongside a stand of wooden-handled
flat, fine and half-round files.

The bush surrounding them was olive green, grey and black. Straight, brilliant white
trees and blackened bloodwoods. Smoke bush and granite heather. Prickly Moses. Painter
had rigged a sharpening stone with a foot treadle and an upturned kerosene tin as
a seat. Two canvas tents and an open fireplace with the iron tripod holding a black
billy tin. Smoke was drifting from the campfire. Another axe driven into a tree stump.
An American.

The truck was parked at the edge of the clearing. Clothes, trousers and shirts laid
out on the bonnet and roof to dry. A track through umbrella wattle bushes led away
from the clearing towards a wider, two-wheel dirt road running parallel to a rail
line. Painter climbed down from the charcoal kiln and slapped his hands together.

‘Abdul and Wahid be here to pick up the charcoal day after tomorrow.' He took out
a round blue tin of Capstan tobacco, opened it, removed a cigarette paper, stuck
it to his bottom lip and began to roll the tobacco in his palm.

‘Abdul. Wahid? They got camels?'

Painter shrugged. ‘Afghans. Probably got camels.'

They sat on a log, drank black tea and ate damper spread with golden syrup. Lew watched
one of his bare feet as it made a furrow in the sand.

‘Still like your bare feet in the ground son,' Painter said.

‘Never had shoes in my life till I started work in the sheds. You teased me, remember?'

Painter took the white paper off his lip, placed the tobacco into the paper. His
fingers and thumbs working on the smoke. Nodded. ‘Barefoot kid turned up for work
in the shearing gang. That contractor dropped you off. You were what?…Seven? Twelve?'
Painter cleared his throat.

‘Eleven. I was eleven.'

The next day, two Afghans from Coolgardie arrived and asked how're ya goin'? Trans
Australian Transport 1933. Boulder. Ph 613 written on the door of their green Chevrolet.

Painter whispering to Lew, urging him to ask Abdul where his camels were. They were
a long way from home after all. ‘Go on,' he said, ‘they'll appreciate it.'

‘Where are all your camels Abdul?' Lew was completely black from the charcoal dust.
His white eyes and teeth.

Abdul glaring at him as he tied a tarpaulin over the charcoal. Shook his head. ‘You
some sort of a smart-arse mate?'

Painter walking into the mallee, bending over and holding a branch; laughing so hard
he began to cry.

That night the fire had burnt down to a red glow and Lew was leaning forward, reading
a magazine by the light of a Coleman lamp. He was sitting on a canvas camp chair
in front of the fly of his tent. His finger followed the words and his mouth moved
occasionally as he read. The lamp was between his feet and trunks of large salmon
gums were shining behind him.

They had washed with a bushman's shower rigged up with a
Baird hand pump and tin
bath. Salvaged water from the railway depot. Sunlight soap. The water was black when
they threw it out.

Painter was seated at a fold-out card table and in front of him, spread out on a
towel, were cutters and combs, a shearing handpiece. He was examining the gear by
the light of the fire and another kerosene lamp on the table. An unlit cigarette
dangling from his mouth. ‘What you reading son?'

Lew turned the magazine towards him. ‘There's a story in it. I read it before anyway.'
Pointed his finger at the title. ‘Him.'

‘Who is it? Banjo?' Painter peered at the yellowed pages. ‘How many times you read
that?'

‘Henry. A few times mate. My mother read it to me.'

‘I heard about that poor old bastard Henry. Heard he sung out at the end that he
should have been a woman. What you reckon? Cried for it.'

‘He was gone mad and pissed to bits half the time mate. He could have said he should
have been a fuckin' bird of paradise.'

Painter nodded. Threaded some cutters onto a piece of number-eight wire bent into
a long fish-hook shape. ‘A bird of paradise?' He waited, glanced at Lew. ‘Not a woman,
then?' He placed the cutters into a leather bag and began holding each of the combs
up to the lamplight.

Lew ignored Painter's taunt. ‘Our mother hated this story. Flat out looking after
us kids and it was every day, mate, every day. Trying to follow Dad all over too.
One day it all got too hard and we just stopped. That wheatbelt rail town. Blackwood
Junction, we stayed on for a bit there.'

‘I know Blackwood Junction. Never met your father but.'

‘He just left. Nothing. Took off like a dog shot up the arse. Methodists helped us
out. Mum'd say, when it was cold she'd say it was cold as charity. But y'know. The
women would smile and say Jesus loves you. Give us a lot of food and never asked
for anything back.'

Painter was running his forefinger along the comb teeth. Frowning in the lamplight.
‘They all right. The Methodists.' He was squinting as he spoke. ‘I think I need glasses.
She did all right too. Your mum. You always reading whenever you can, seen you read
the labels of tins.'

‘Yeah. But not all her dogs barking sometimes, y'know?' Lew pointed his finger at
his ear and made a circling motion. ‘After Dad.'

Painter wrapped his combs in a length of leather and carefully folded them away
in the bag. ‘Some things don't need to be said son. No need.' He placed a shearing
handpiece on the table. It was wrapped in oily rags. ‘The old lizard,' he said.

‘She had a copy of
Robbery Under Arms
,' Lew said, ‘and Ginger Mick. Jist to intrajuice
me cobber, a rorty boy a naughty boy. But Henry, too sad, she said. Too real.' Lew
held the magazine up, shook it. ‘I told her it's just a story Mum. Not what is.
Oh yes it is, she said, that's the point isn't it? He must have known.'

Painter picked up the handpiece and turned it over in his hands, put a thumb into
the turning gear and rotated the moving parts. ‘You mean the bird of paradise?' Winked
at him. ‘Sad lookin' bastard, Henry, did you ever cop a picture of him? Maudlin cunt
of a thing he was.'

‘Yep, I have.' Lew laughed.

Painter smoked. Nodded and made a noise of agreement, sniffed. ‘I never knew me mother,
y'know. I'm what they call a foundling orphan out of Kalgoorlie me.'

‘Kalgoorlie?' In ten years, Lew had never heard Painter speak of his past. ‘Your
mum?'

‘To be honest she probably a whore, working on Hay Street, y'know? Hawking the fork
and thinking about buying corrugated iron.' Painter winked, his mouth thin. ‘Ever
hear the way their head bangs on the wall when you fuck them?'

Lew looked at him. ‘No. Sorry mate.'

Painter waited, shifted his weight in the chair, the canvas creaked. ‘Don't ever
fuckin' sorry me son.' Cleared his throat. ‘I'll knock you down. You hear?' Relit
the cigarette which had gone out in his mouth. ‘You know what a Fitzroy cocktail
is?'

‘No. No I don't.'

‘You drink it. Cheap, see. Methylated spirits mixed with Brasso. Strain the metho
through a loaf of bread. Mix the Brasso in, it turns a cloudy colour. Give you an
off balance no worries son.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Good company and doesn't ask questions. Tastes like wet bread and fuckin' door handles.'

‘Jesus.'

Painter gave a short laugh. ‘I was inside. That's where I learned that.'

Lew stared at him. ‘You been drinking haven't you?

‘No I haven't been drinkin'.'

‘You were in prison?'

‘I was inside for a while. Just don't ask me why. All right?'

‘Righto.' Lew couldn't look at him, nodded as the old man continued.

‘I got out and I was sent to the sheds. They needed what they called manpower on
the land see; most of the men away at the war. I didn't go. Then I was caught and
I went. Almost forty years now gone it's been. Nineteen fifteen, sixteen. Our vast
land they called it.'

‘Righto.'

Painter suddenly growled and held up an impatient hand, moving it back and forth
almost as if he was trying to stop the words of an unwelcome visitor. ‘I knew this
other bloke was all alone in the cell next door. True as I sit here. He existed.
No hope and him knocked about. I couldn't hear him breathing, see.'

‘Who mate?' Lew asked. He had heard fragments of this before, mostly when the old
man was drunk. Once, when it was very bad, he had wept.

A minute passed. ‘It was me I was talkin' to, son. Took a while to work it out. I
was slapping my hands on the limestone and singin' out to the other bloke. All the
old lags thought the same. Whisperin' out of the sides of their mouths, they were
mostly gone mad and plain stupid with the scars all over them, no doubt about it.
But, when you start talkin' to yourself, they said, you think you are someone else.
Ready for Jesus or sideways son, y'know? I got Jesus.'

Painter stopped talking, looked away, embarrassed, realising he had been speaking
too much. ‘Fuck.' He stood up and made his way to his tent.

‘Night son.'

‘Night.'

‘I dunno what.' Painter turned and knelt to disappear into his tent. ‘Doesn't matter.'

Later that night, Lew dreamed of his mother. He was sitting on the edge of a veranda
listening to laughter coming from a public bar. His feet in the dust and his mother,
dancing inside with bare feet. She would never do this, something was wrong. Her
shoes in the street, straps undone.

He woke. Painter was somewhere nearby, snoring softly. Occasionally he would mumble
something. The dream was as clear as memory. It was as if he could hear his mother's
voice yet. Couldn't see her face, not much of it anyway. Remembered mostly her hands
and the feeling of becoming weightless when she lifted him up onto her hip and kissed
him on the mouth. Everybody had bare feet then. Her hands smelling of wet potatoes
and flour.

A shearing contractor who knew his father had asked his mother if the oldest boy
needed a job. Price of wool going through the roof, see, be a pound a pound before
long and you with all those kiddies missus. Smart thing to do, with a wink and a
finger tapping the side of his nose. Smart thing for you all. A lot of the men not
right still or away over there. The country will be riding on the sheep's back after
the war, the newspapers reckon. A boom.

‘On the sheep's back,' she said. ‘I have heard that. That'll be good, won't it?'

The contractor left a letter from their father, a brown paper parcel and a white
carton of tailor-made American cigarettes with a big red circle on them. Lucky Strike
Toasted plain cut.
Lew would remember his mother holding the carton as she hugged
him and told him to do his best. The crinkly sound of the cellophane. The other kids
around them like chooks as he tried to say goodbye Mum. She was holding the carton
of cigarettes to her chest. No tears in her eyes this time, nodding and trying to
smile. Then, breathless and coughing, with her wrist up to her mouth.

The contractor dropped him off at the shed and nodded to the drunk Painter. He seemed
to be always drunk in those days. He was the Ringer, the fearful head shearer. Lew
could not look at him and stared instead at his feet. The contractor seemed nervous
and left quickly, speaking over his shoulder. ‘Show him the ropes will you Painter?
He might be all right if he's anything like his father.'

‘Son,' Painter ignored the contractor and spoke to him, ‘do you know a shearer is
just a rousie with his brains knocked out?'

Looked to where Lew was looking at his feet and shaking his head.

‘What's your name boy?'

‘Lew.'

‘Lew who?'

‘Lew McCleod.'

‘Well now Mr McCleod. You got nothing on your feet son?'

‘No mister.'

‘Come on then.'

Painter took him to the end of the shed near the Ferrier wool press. ‘Put your foot
on there. I'll make you some dancing shoes.'

Painter doubled a jute sacking fadge top and placed it on the floor. Lew stepped
on it and Painter cut around the outline
of his foot with a pair of crutching hand
shears. He left a wide overlap at the front, sewed up the heel, tied it off and gathered
the sacking around Lew's toes. Then, using a blanket stitch, sewed it all together.
Pulled it tight. ‘How's that feel son?'