[ Regressing in the early '80s ]
He's in his watershed 40s. At
the start of them he wakes up and finds himself in an office with no window.
Every morning five days a week. Looking at a cream wall and three grey filing cabinets full of numbers. These things surely save his life. He starts early on
each of these days, kicks off with thirty minutes (no more no less) of ritual
retro. He does it by staring at his windowless wall until a black-and-white
photo materialises, with him in it. Short pants. Guileless and boy-shaped.
Reputation for being happy.
<<<
>>>
DAD
a
quiet man
all
self-reliance and restraint
always
pleasant in a detached way
walled
up in there where no-one could reach him
certainly
not me
big
hands
thick
and strong and coarse
the
hands of a man who could make anything
honest
handshake square deal hands other men trusted
but
never ruffled small boy's hair
an
engineer
the
real oldtime sort
the
ones who could make something for two bob
that
any damn fool could make for a quid
and
out of stuff other people threw away
he
whistled
an
endless monotonous whistle
a
real through-the-teeth hard-to-pick-the-tune job
probably
irritated the shit out of people who didn't love him
even
those who did
smelled
of kero
a
good clean tractor parts smell
even
after he'd lathered himself down to his belt line
and
coldwater rinsed on the coldest of days with a simple gusto
kero
cologne suited him
travelled
a lot
every
corner of Aus
never
more than a day in the biggest of cities
loved
to be out in the waterfall mountain and big sky country
always
took one of us with him
camped
out every night
did
it with fun precision
ten
minutes from ignition off to billy on
then
grease and oil change the van if it turned up a 1000 that day
regular
as clockwork
took
a lot of photos
beautiful
landscapes with no people
go
to any rock-hanging length for the right angle
logged
each shot carefully in a notebook for later showings
everyone
else thought was boring
kept
a diary
every
day since he was sixteen
december
twenty sixth nineteen thirty eight read
repaired
the gearbox on Shultz's RD24 Chamberlain - had a boy
or
so mum always said
he
lived alone
big
workshop with live-in attached
beautifully
made from war surplus steel ammo cases
vegie
garden down the side and scrap steel out the back
everywhere
an orderliness
made
pickled onions
still
the best pickled onions I ever tasted
big
aga jars-full, in brown malt vinegar
summer
lunches were always fresh tomatoes and dad's pickled onions
made
you fart a lot
always
paid cash
never
owed anyone a penny
let
me use the workshop to pull down my first car
he
had to cut down an allen key to get onto an awkward grub screw
charged
me sixpence for it
yes,
a quiet man
walled
up in there where no-one could reach him
certainly
not me
T.R.E.
(1980)
<<< >>>
WAR
War
was a solid middle class bungalow
in
a quiet street full of the same
with
an Uncle that taught me how
to
make things with Meccano
and
an Aunt and a Grandma
that
made me eat all my vegies
War
was elder brother collecting paper
and
old bike tyres and battered kettles
for
something called the SPF
who
in return hung little battleships in a chain
on
his chest
and
me only being an idle spectator
on
such wonderful activity
War
was soldiers in the house
all
uniforms of khaki and brass
and
big brown boots
strange
but friendly faces
always
smoking and eating
or
singing around the piano
full
of noisy stories with words often blurry
or
sweating with something called malaria
that
seemed more dangerous
than
the bloody Nips
War
was no Dad
except
twice
and
even no Mum for a while
gone
to Queensland for some reason
not
clear to this day
War
was something that caused life
to
revolve around ration coupons
and
put a fascinating thing called
a
Gasproducer
on
the Dodge
War
was a time measured by the importance
of
knowing that a Spitfire was a goodie
and
a Zero was a baddie
and
the best cigarette packets would be found
down
at Port Adelaide
or
out at the Repat
where
they kept Dad in a bed
that
had strange tubes coming out
from
under his blankets
War
was a dull tension
some
background environment
to
my first five years of life
both
a time and a place
an
all-pervading condition of living
that
never quite turned to peace
T.R.E.
(1980)
<<< >>>
SCHOOL ONE
two
storey brick
and
lots of bitumen
in
a solid middle class suburb
steel
swings and a sandpit
rows
of chrome taps over a horse trough
token
trees mercilessly lopped
into
a bunch of celery-shape
lots
of kids with features now only a blur
no
names remembered
except
Mostyn Englehardt
who
diddled me out of some cigarette cards
swapped
in good faith to impress older brother
who
justifiable heaped scorn for several days
one
of the lasting lessons of first grade
was
that you never swapped fronts for backs
you
stupid drip
boy!
everyone
knows that
school
1 was mainly embarrassment and confusion
that
old bitch of a headmistress
who
belted my bare wet legs with a ruler
so
I would learn to not make a dash
across
that endless expanse of treeless black yard
when
it was raining
what
did she care about protestations
of
trying to find elder brother to walk home with
sometimes
the directives of Mum's and Others
are
totally irreconcilable
when
you're six
and
walking home crying
with
crap running down my leg
after
Miss Hayter suddenly gave me
lots
of early minutes for being so quiet
as
I concentrated on holding in the bellyache
unsuccessfully
with
everyone looking at me with wrinkled noses
Miss
Hayter was much loved
why
did she tell me I was smart enough
to
go straight up to third grade
only
to find that when I dutifully lined up
next
morning with the grade three's
they
laughed and jeered and pushed me out
when
I insisted what Miss Hayter had said
then
the grade one-ers laughed when I was led back
to
where I belonged
as
an adult
I
somehow feel such an affinity
with
Charlie Brown
T.R.E.
(1980)
<<< >>>
PEPPER TREES
I
love pepper trees
especially
after rain when everything
is
so clean and fresh
pepper
trees are of childhood memories
those
good feeling memories that stay with us
all
through life, and become part of our personality
I
especially remember that big old pepper tree
at
Auntie Una Steven's farm at Stockport
with
its child-worn rope swing
surrounded
by smells of Clydesdales
and
chooks and farming
damp
stubble, cows, and her dad
who
was the friendly old Grandfather-figure
I
never had enough of
and
that dam great cat of his
that
waited for him at the house gate
every
meal time
to
jump up on his shoulder to make the short trip
to
the back door
The
one-room school among the big gums
going
to the only circus I've ever been to
riding
on the giant old four-wheel dray
all
wood and creaking iron
and
those two great plodding horses
that
smelled of old sweat and dust
and
chaff-cutter straw
and
steaming dark shiny turds
that
smelled of all of it together
that
were designed just to be chucked
by
small boys, at each other
I
keep all of these things in the touch and smell
of
pepper trees
T.R.E.
(1981)
<<< >>>
HOME
2
Home
2 was a big old house
all
stone and brick
of
a simple solid Georgian plain-ness
cut
into the side of a hill
tucked
into a valley
through
which the road and the river ran
on
their way to the city
the
valley and the road and the river
were
also Home
a
boys world of isolated Nature
punctuated
by school
and
visits by relatives
(the
hills were full of them!)
definitely
an isolated world
now
looked back on from the distance
of
more than thirty years
neither
all good nor all bad
but
a little too isolated from reality
for
one prone to too much detachment
it
must have had a simple pretentiousness
back
in the twenties and thirties
when
city people would indulge in “excursions”
a
Sunday spent driving a whole twenty miles
along
narrow gorge roads
terminated
by tea and scones and ice cream
and
a game of tennis
a
spot of fishing
collect
some mushrooms
or
pick blackberries
and
wander off home again
by
1946 the tea and scones kiosk
down
by the road
was
a musty haven for white ants
and
a rusty ice cream machine
till
Dad pulled it all down and carted it away
to
build a shed
and
the tennis court had partly reverted
to
grass and a boxthorn bush
and
an underground creek
that
finally came to the surface
between
the base line and the net
but
it was still good for small boys
building
roads and farms
or
riding elder brother's bike on
(if
you ever got the chance!)
and
the trout and perch still inhabited
that
much-loved river
and
the blackberries abounded
in
the gullies up behind the house
where
mosses and maiden-hair fern
and
bracken and ever-dripping streams
were
the backdrop to day dreams
it
was a good place to be in 1946
for
me the boy
two
miles in any direction
somehow
belonged to me
we
owned none of it
but
I occupied it all
for
those six years between baby and youth
that
is the whole lifetime of the Child
T.R.E.
(1981)
<<< >>>
STEP-DAD
I
still remember him with some affection
which
really didn't diminish over the years
even
though he walked out on us when I was 13
and
left Mum to raise five of us
bastard
of a thing to do
specially
in those male-orientated
social
service days
I
think he was more or less a good man
quite
a bit younger than Mum
did
everything a Dad should do
a
marriage the product of war
in
the turmoil of unnatural order
a
young man from the country
and
a disillusioned love-struck lonely woman
who'd
never been properly touched in her life
the
things I remember most about the man
was
his tall quarry-worker physique
and
a round scar on the back of his neck
said
he got it in the Islands
when
a Jap sniper nearly got him
and
he laid crocodile-low in the mud
but
the last bullet still just nicked past
even
now I like to think that was the truth
but
I suspect it was a big skin ulcer scar
he
was a simple hard-working giant of a bloke
I
wish I could remember more of him
Mum
burned everything in a frenzied rage
poured
sugar in the petrol tank of the Dodge
hates
red-headed pommie women still today
and
I cried to myself
when told I was now the man of the house
I
heard a tractor rolled on him
now
he's a broken and lonely old man
nobody
visits
T.R.E.
(1981)
<<< >>>
GRANDMA
Grandma
was thick-set and stocky
and
not very tall
but
she had the staying power
of
a Massey Ferguson
could
wield a mean axe
and
cuff cheeky ears
and
pick blackberries
and
walk up hills and down gullies
on
those tough thick bandy legs
played
a mean hand of Coon Can
always
put a blanket over the table first
and
hated to lose
made
her crabby
and
she'd go to bed early
always
with that hairnet over her head
and
a jerry at the ready
she
used to cut bread
by
holding the loaf to her well-filled apron
in
a sort of half nelson
like
she intended to wrestle it
then
kind of sawed its head off
in
a big thick hacking slice
designed
to fill kids up quickly
she
ate funny things in sandwiches
like
nasturtium leaves
and
wild watercress
I
helped her collect the watercress
from
up the back creek
because
it wasn't half bad with salt and pepper
but
I couldn't come at nasturtium leaves
sometimes
she'd cut open a lump of prickly pear
stick
the mushy mess on her shoulder
to
fix her rheumatism
and
stepdad would say the old girl
was
a few bricks short of a full load
but
only to mum
and
quietly too
when
the old girl wasn't around
grandma
had a pretty strong personality
I
remember a Xmas tribal gathering
one
of those big family rellie rallies
that
start with a tummy-testing dinner
all
elbow nudging round our giant kitchen table
that
looked like a cricket pitch on legs
where
we'd impromptu on past midnight
till
cow-milking guilt set in
and
sleepy tots filled the corners of buckboards
this
particular time
me
and a couple of hillsy cousins
decided
to scare hell outa the little kids
the
night was deadmoon dark
blacker
than three feet down a bull's throat
we
blew out the lamps in our bedroom
whipped
the bedsheets off and over our heads
stood
behind the door
and
called down the passage for victims
then
leapt out at the first set of footsteps
banshee
and boogeymen howling
poor
old grandma
she
went down hard and fast
holding
her ample left breast
and
grabbing for air
but
not for long
cripes
did we get a gobfull
didn't
know the old lady knew swear words
strung
them together with devastating ease
bored
through us like a post-hole auger
then
mum joined in
then
auntie vera
then
auntie elsie
but
uncle allan kept out of it
and
stepdad was smiling to himself
saved
us some mince pies
when
we all got turfed outside
to
play in the star-riddled dark
followed
by lingering adult echoes
we
got on with our own pagan ritual
of
owl hoot listening
and
old horse stalking
and
sleepy cow rousing
and
grownups window listening
and
shed roof rock chucking
and
boy-cousin wrestling
and
girl-cousin wrestling
every
kid needs cousins
and
grandmas
T.R.E.
(1981)
<<< >>>
THE RIVER
there
were four good places on the river
one
crystal quiet under ancient trees
a
real wind-in-the-willows place
best
suited for solitary hours
watching
fish below not take the bait
where
every movement was part of a semi-shadow
and
the smell was of old and damp
and
the sounds muted shades
of
water hen and bullrushes breeze
then
downstream past the sweep of shallows
and
fallen trees
the
river went suddenly dark deep
surrounded
by reeds and steep banks
with
only one narrow indian-file path
well-worn
here
elder brother kept his drum-net
a
barrel of wire netting
that
every now and then
sucked
in a perch or three
sometimes
even the elusive rainbow trout
that
were oh so against the law sweet
Mick
said that fish swam around in the dark
in
follow the leader lines
straight
into that no escape funnel
elder
brothers know these things
we
never swam in that place
its
darkness totally uninviting
and
it could have been bottomless
like
the Blue Lake
there
are places like that you know
skinny-dipping
was done out in the sunshine
downstream
where it opened out
into
rocky pools all worn smooth
by
the rush and tumble
and
brown water thunder
of
the occasional floods
a
place to lay out on the ancient boulders
and
let the sun dry exhilarated goose flesh
God
that water could be cold
and
then there was the big wide shallow pool
under
the bridge
shallow
enough to wade around in
without
getting your grey serge short pants wet
deep
enough to be still enough
to
see the bottom
and
the rocks all smooth
and
loaded with the best yabbies in the river
it
was always a bit cold under that bridge
an
ancient old masonry arch
that
thundered gently with each passing vehicle
with
shadows that tweaked and dashed
with
wing-swept swallows that skimmed the water
in
a constant feeding of gaping ugly young
in
mud nests high up in the concrete rafters
before
summer left for the north
and
winter drove the yabbies deep into the banks
such
places as these
run
forever through the back reaches
of
the child's mind
T.R.E.
(1981)
<<< >>>
THE ORANGE GROVE
had
a favourite spot down by the river
at
the bottom of an orange orchard
on
one of those bend-of-the-river
black
alluvial soil flats
that
grows things like mad
there
was a big ramshackle pumping shed
tucked
in among the trees
and
a giant old pump
that
SMELT like a pump
all
thick with the greasings of fifty years
big
gears and levers and belts
made
of the stuff of Da Vinci's dreams
and
it SOUNDED like a thing
for
drawing clear cold river water
with
a hum and a whirr
and
a plodding glink plonk bump
and
a "don't stop me now I'm into stride
and
little boys with inquisitive fingers
and
old bent fishing rods shouldn't be in here"
sort
of a sound
I
didn't even need to go by the pump shed
but
I always did
visits
were the best
when
the oranges were in season
because
my uncle (mean old scrooge of a man)
surely
counted every one on every tree
I
imagined he always got angry
when
he discovered the bare patch
my
sunday arvo quota left on his best tree
and
he'd complain to my stepdad
and
he'd go through the pantomime
of
telling me off in front of mum
then
ask me to bring some back for him
when
mum wasn't listening
me
and elder brother
raided
the flat together one night
I
was shit-scared at first
cause
Mick said
uncle
Les laid mantraps after dark
big
diabolical things with steel jaws
chopped
your feet off in one bite
and
trip-wires in the grass
that
set off cross-bows and shotguns
somehow
Mick knew where to tread
to
keep us from getting killed
and
I stuck closer than a sweaty shirt
as
we whispered through the grove
tugging
at those regiments of tree shapes
that
would surely stalk me if I looked away
we
petrified into big-eyed shadows
with
muffled drums beating in our ears
every
time the reproachful black
gave
up one of its denizens
like
when the angel of mouse-death
brushed
past on soft owl's wings
and
old slinky the fox cried out nearby
to
keep rabbits and orange-pinchers
on
the move
that
was one of the darkest nights
I
ever remember
and
one of the best
T.R.E.
(1981)
<<< >>>
WAITING
FOR THE SCHOOL BUS
She
had the sweetest face
a
bright sparkle of a girl
all
curls and cutes and full of living
marred
only by one slow eye
often
tucked away behind a blanked off lens
while
it got better
but
in grade six everyone had some problem
me
and pete and a bunch of lesser mortals
had
best part of two hours to kill
every
night waiting for the blue hills bus
which
was the only alternative
to
seven or eight gorge and river miles home
on
shank's pony
for
ages we'd tried to get joy and her mate dot
up
the back into the school scrub
which
was one of the best places
for
filling boy's hours with mischief
and
finally it was woman's undying curiosity
got
'em convinced that our fort in the creek
must
have been worth a look
personally
I reckon dot had a yen for pete
well
this particular week anyway
dot
shared it round a bit
with
the usual rough and tumbles
and
twelve year olds awkward ideas of courtship
much
rock-chucking competitions
and
half a dozen we better be going's
pam
suddenly said
would
you like to kiss me
gee
I might have been puppy young
but
I knew a once in a lifetime
and
I kissed those dear schoolgirl lips
with
the gentlest of child-days touches
and
for one breaths-held age
the
face of pam morant
etched
itself into the keeping place
that
never fades
T.R.E.
(1981)
<<< >>>
SHANGIES
pronounced
"shang-eye" (or "ding-er")
that
essential piece of equipment
that
made a boy a boy
on
weekends
(six
cuts if caught with one at school)
everyone
had their own secret way
of
making the best dinger of all
some
cut a small sapling fork
and
used long strips of bike tube
which
had the habit of letting go
at
the fork end under full stretch
and
belting you across the face
1
always used heavy gauge fence wire
bent
into a square yoke
with
the rubber tie loops well spaced
for
maximum accuracy
and
the only propulsion was bike tube
but
cut crosswise to make small rubber bands
about
¼ inch wide
looped
together into two chains
each
about 10 inches long
add
a piece of leather always cut from
the
tongue of an old shoe
and
tied to the rubbers with shoelace
roll
about 20 spare rubbers onto the handle
for
padding
and
shove it into the hip pocket
with
rubbers and leather hanging down the back
about
10 good stones in your side pocket
the
arsenal complete
parents
let you have them back then
as
long as you never shot them at anything important
like
bums
and
Topsy
and
birds
and
the side of the shed when anyone was inside
and
windows
and
Brownie
and
relatives
and
passing vehicles
and
the cabbages
they
never said anything about
Uncle Les' mongrel of a dog
that monogramed my arm
Uncle Les' mongrel of a dog
that monogramed my arm
not
that I asked
T.R.E.
(1981)
<<< >>>
THE MINNOW POOL
it
seems to be about discovery
like
having some tantalising piece
and
wondering what the rest is all about
maybe
it's like then I was a kid
and
just had to track those winter streams
back
up into their deep gully reaches
just
to see what was there
not
solely from curiosity
and not
just the adventure
but
the chance that some larger existence
was
waiting to be found
I
remember the time I found the minnow pool waterfall
that no
imagination could have created
something
as child's-mind perfect
as
that quiet day-dream place
the
hours of steady slog of endless up and over
punctuated
by the rock-scramble knee-bark
and
blackberry tug and tear
of
nature's practical jokes
on
a small boy
and
there it was
the
birthplace of a piece of my river
and
of the silent elusive rainbow trout
deep
rocky pool alive with the flick of fingerlings
and
the hint of maybe other things
in
the shadowed maidens-hair dark green corners
fed
by the endless splash and chatter
of
the most beautiful sliver of waterfall
that
ever graced an ancient weather-worn face
I've
never been back
looked
for it once in a man's day
but maybe
I didn't really want to find it
and
yet -
the
idea that it is still there
waiting
to be re-discovered
comes
back in reflections
when
I catch myself looking
into
dark green places
T.R.E.
(1981)
<<< >>>
THE RECIPE FOR BLACKJACK SPUDS
first
you take four small boys
all
restless with saturday arvo fever
flushed
with the victory of parent escape
and
thick with the schemings of time to fill
far
from the city kid's cricket and pictures
next
you need a special place
like
tucked in under an old swallow's-nest bridge
no
less than twice a mum's-call distance
visited
only by the ghosts of bullock drivers
and
blood-brothers for life
then
you have to divide up the today-we'll-be-Indians
(except
for Denis who just HAD to be the Phantom)
into
four separate raiding parties
each
with an argument's end list of booty
like
matches and spuds and bread and salt
and
fags if you can get away with it
you
wait for about a lookout hour
all
filled with pinchings and riflings of pantries
duckings
of corners and whispers of comings
squeak-narrow
escapes and arrow-swift braves
boltings
with warwhoops and bulgings of pockets
and
a circled excitement round the firewood gathering
next
you tallstory in turn till the embers glow
rubbishings
of yarns 'bout how the fags got missed
and
bloody shitheads of school-teachers grim
and
Fatty Boone's hand caught up Sylvia's skirt
(according
to what somebody heard)
then
spuds under the coals and covered with embers
and
wait for as long as small boys can
at
last comes the stuffing
with
peelings of fingers all charcoal burnt
white
hot steamings and earthy smells cramming
salt
sprinkled quick and gusto-ed down
mouths
blister full of primitive delight
much
mulling of words and fanning of breaths
everyone
eating and no-one listening
for
fear of missing the last charred treasure
down
among the greying ash
ah
--
but
you have to be a kid --
and
you have to pinch the stuff
and
you have to swear the secret
with
real swear words
and
spit
to
get blackjack spuds right
T.R.E.
(1981)
<<<
>>>
BROWNIE
even
now
the
simple writing of his name
brings
back the buried emotional remnants
of
something too big to be felt at the time
Brownie
was just a dog to adults
but
he was Brownie to me
and
to elder brother too I know
who
even now well past fifty
can't
talk of Brownie's last days
Brownie
was one of those things of childhood
you
never leave behind
you
pack it away in a special place inside
until
you can deal with it
sometimes
people never grow up enough
to
go back and look at them
and
in that brooding place they remain
ever
the child who doesn't understand
he
was unashamedly a mongrel
well,
more a bitsa
bitsa
eirdale, bitsa terrier
bitsa
exuberant lunatic
and
bitsa big-eyed good-feeling dog-smelling
companionship
with a curled tail
and
he loved life and people
like
all good dogs
not
like that black bastard of a thing
of
uncle les's that autographed my arm
just
for patting him
now
THAT was a mongrel
Brownie
would run through those autumn morning frosts
that
crunch and crackle and bite into your skin
but
not until he had an audience
that
would appreciate the sight of trails
left
through the green-white paddock
by
a lunatic dog
with
a smile on his face
and
he loved to join you in the creek
hunting
tadpoles
with
an entrance especially designed
for
maximum saturation of everyone present
and
help you bring the cow in to milk
whether
you needed it or not
Brownie
used to chase the motor bike
the
old two fifty beesa that stepdad rode
down
to work at the quarry
to
save petrol coupons
it
was Brownie's only weakness
he
was hooked on it
no
amount of beltings or being tied up
would
change him
and
all you could do was hang on to him
until
the bike was out of mind
one
morning I grabbed him by the collar
just
as stepdad was leaving
maybe
I simply misjudged the difference
between
boy earshot and dog earshot
and
just let go too soon
or
maybe he wrenched free
but
he was rifle-shot off down the drive
only
encouraged by the wild threats from behind
about
four cars a day
passed
our old hills place in 1948
Brownie
and one of them arrived together
down
at the little bridge over the creek
broke
his leg and took off some skin
really
dampened his early morning enthusiasms
home
from the vet with leg in plaster
he
worried and gnawed at the ungainly white
and
the pain he didn't understand
we
put an old sock over it
and
lavished affection
but
nothing seemed to work
not
even great gobs of mustard
seemed
to discourage the chewing
as
he fretted away for his lost freedom
over
the next week or two
those
big happy eyes seemed to let go
daily
lost their zest for life
and
mum tried to hint he wasn't getting better
till
one morning his jaw wouldn't work
and
the pain and confusion and resignation
was
all too clear on his pleading look
which
was the only thing
that
could follow us around
it
was a saturday morning
mum
said we'd have to put him down
and
to this day I don't understand
why
two kids had to make it all so personal
somehow
grownups decide these things
me
and mick got the twenty-two
and
with that heaviest of boyhood burdens
carried
Brownie up the back
into
those wild scrubby hills
that
were so much our home
and
he licked at us as best he could
we
laid him down and patted him a while
and
those big doggie-mate eyes
looked
up full of love and not understanding
till
mick couldn't stand it any longer
stood
up and put the muzzle between them
and
a silent scream was locked away ....
IT ISN'T FAIR !
....
and he pulled the trigger
only
now as I write
does
the small boy
cry
for Brownie
I'm
sorry old friend of my boy days
sorry
I didn't know how
to
look after you better
T.R.E.
(1981)
<<< >>>
ONE XMAS
Xmas
eve in the hills
normally
a clean young summer's day
with
night romping through open doors and windows
on
the cheeky gully breeze
carrying
owl sounds
and
fullmoon dog sounds
and
can't go to sleep sounds
like
did I hear sleigh bells
maybe
elder brother didn't know everything
maybe
the old yo ho fella
really
did fly down to Australia
in
a sled full of toys
made
at the north pole
and
great britain
or
japan some lean years
one
Xmas eve though
I
was about nine or ten
the
day was brooding grey
scowling
and grumbling
sky
full of disagreeable clouds
pushing
and shoving and snapping at each other
down
by the river
everything
sort of --
waited
--
the
air hung heavy
kookaburra
sulked
the
pump was silent
nothing
moved but me
even
the water waited
proud
poplar's new green
for
once stopped trembling
old
droopy willow
didn't
want to fish
just
stared down
at
our pondering reflection
trout
stayed under rocks
yabbies
in mud holes
waterhen
didn't ransack the reeds
we
all waited together
then
--
somewhere
around midnight
nature
lost her temper
cripes
did she rant and rave and bucket down
went
right off her head
an
incandescent bluewhite electric fury
lit
up the thundering dark over and over
as
if the pure light of heaven was escaping
in
eyeball cracking awe
she
whipped the gums and the pines
in
every direction at once
till
they staggered into each other
and
belted our old house around the ears
whacking
windows and trying doors
thrashing
roses and slamming gates
and
dancing like a madman on the cowshed roof
next
morning
the
whole world looked exhausted
scraps
of sun in a patchy sky
bits
of scrub scattered everywhere
it
was turkey and plum pudding time
before
the chooks de-cooped
to
check out their soggy run
there
was a cathedral quiet in the air
everything
around was sort of hushed
except
away off somewhere a dull rumble
like
a fleet of distant quarry trucks
that
got louder and angrier
the
closer we got to the road
and
our gentle river down below
my god
how she roared!
she'd
lost all her girlish grace and charm
had
become an out of control
bank-bursting
log-rolling
tree-bashing
bone-crunching
brown-water
cataract
breaknecking
down the gorge
chucking
up debris as she went
yet
-- by new year's day
she'd
regained her composure
and
by the end of a good golden summer
you'd
never know she'd been upset
except
for some reed bunches
up
in the tree forks
I
didn't swim that year
there
was more to my river
than
I understood
T.R.E.
(1982)
<<<
>>>
VIEW FROM THE TOURIST LOOKOUT
It's
all gone now
physically
that is
as
nothing can remove
the
child's time
first
they cut away half the hill
the
hill we used to toboggan down
grassy
slick under an old sheet of iron
yells
and bruises and green legs
where
the trick was not to go sideways
till
you got close to the bottom
at
about fifty miles an hour
they
dumped that half a hill
right
on top of our old stone bridge
buried
the whole stretch of river
where
we tested our first raft
made
out of kero tins and a dynamite box
and
the big sunny rock pool
full
of summer skinny dippers
then
they concreted it all over
and
let my river slowly sink
cut
a new road high up
straight
through the best blackberry creeks
God
ever created
on
up over an ancient bullock track
kept
alive by two small schoolboys' feet
across
the clearing saddleback
where
duffers kept their stolen cattle
or
so Mick said
then
they knocked the house down
all
full of the sounds of christmas's past
cut
down our winter windbreak pines
that
sighed deep sighs
on
the darkest of hills-dark nights
stripped
our valley crying bare
right
up to the waterline
and
then drowned six years of a kid's life
today
I get to water my garden
in
the driest state
of
the driest continent
with
mixed feelings
about
the price I had to pay
T.R.E.
(1982)
<<<
>>>
THE OLD CULTIVATOR
Old
Bill Kraft was a neighbour
worked
a weekend vegie block
in
that uncertain no mans land
where
the suburbs confront the country
Bill
had a favourite trick
he'd
be quietly yarning to you
alongside
his idle chugging rotary hoe
telling
some real mind-stretcher
with
that quiet distant conviction
then
quick as a snake striking
he'd
grab your wrist with one leathery hand
and
hang onto the sparkplug with the other
geez!
that pair of old diggers
gave
a boot like a mean horse
and the
cultivator'd shake and stagger
and
Krafty'd guffaw and wheeze
spit
a green goozy twenty feet
and
have another dirty bent fag
rubbed
rolled licked and lit
while
you were still getting up
saw
him catch four kids together once
they
were loud and smartarse invaders
from
the newbox housing estates
that
were spreading like the bubonic plague
sticking their fences and footpaths
sticking their fences and footpaths
all
aver those echoes of wheatfields
and
blacksoil market gardens
said
he'd show them an old blackfella secret
and
he didn't need to wink at me
I
already knew what was coming
got
them to all hold hands in a line
close
to his fumey iron accomplice
mystically
took the end kid's palm
looking
deep deep into it
like
he was about to impart
some
ancient Dreamtime power
wham!
four Estate-ites down at once
and
we both laughed like mad
Krafty
and me had the same sense of humour
especially
when it came
to
keeping the enemy at bay
I
never saw Bill again
after
that last young summer
they
put ten houses and a corner deli
between
our place and his
covered
the hare-chasing paddocks
with
streetlights and clotheslines
and
domestic arguments
dumped
the silent cultivator in a shed
and
took the old fella away
mum
said he'd gone a bit funny
she
reckoned he'd worked too many years
looking
after the loonies
up
at the mental hospital's farm
sort
of caught it off them
I
always thought it was probably
from
holding too many spark plugs
I
missed Bill a lot
him and his cultivator
him and his cultivator
they
deserved better
than
to end their days
locked
away
T.R.E.
(1982)
<<<
>>>
BOYS
& GATES & FORD V8's
The
old ford ute had seen better days
she
was sort of a pigsty mud brown
smelled
of dogs and leather and sheep shit
blind
in one eye
drank
two pints of 50 grade every day
whether
you used her or not
bit
wobbly in the knees
and
brakes that always demanded
a
heap of forward planning
Yet
she had a heart
that
longwinded side-valve henry V8
had
the forever fire of youth in her
hay-laden
down to the helper springs
two
saturday arvo farm boys
the
gunbarrel track outback to hungry sheep
and
she'd pick up her rusty skirts
and
run like a leggy girl
But
- have you ever noticed
how
Fate has a certain way
of
specifically organising things
to
break thirteen year olds
light
in spirit and heavy of foot?
About
a thousand years ago
it
carefully managed to put a sandhill
twenty
feet on the home side
of
the top block fenceline
not
a big sandhill as mallee sandhills go
just
enough of a two wheelrut drift
to
hide everything on the other side
from
low-flying innocents
Now
Uncle Lance had an odd aversion
to
mending cocky gates --
you
know those fencing wire and sapling things
that
could only be born
in
the mind of an Aussie farmer
with
that scientific length of hookaround stick
that
strains up the whole snakes-and-ladders mess
into
a vibrant music stave without notes
that
lets go and hits you in the guts
if
it gets half a chance
It
wasn't that Uncle Lance was lazy
he
just hated mending cocky gates
and
especially one ten hot flystruck miles
the
other side of nowhere else
laced
with rusty barbed wire
brittle
as a bank manager's wit
that
spent most of its useless life
decorating
the ground
He'd
apparently decided to run the sheep
in
only one half of the top block
and
let the other half pick up a bit
which
meant he had to resurrect the joiner gate
but
the spinifex had no intention
of
letting go its fifty year grip
so
he spent a lot of sweaty hot wire hours
with
flies in his eyes and ants in his boots
making
a proud new heirloom for his descendants
but
forgot to tell us
Well
me and Clive and the old brown ute
found
out the hard way
must
have been doing fortyfive
hoooo-WUP!
over that sandy hump
and
even without half a ton of hay
she
would have needed about five furlongs
to
arrive at that shiny new wire
with
a little decorum
We
stood on EVERYthing!
four
hernia-making tendon-twanging legs
pushing
mindlessly through the floor
in
mouth-gaping eye-bulging white-knuckle
sheer
bloody panic
I
swear she went faster
Made
a marvellous noise though
and
really did a job on that gate
Uncle
Lance's masterpiece
the
last one he ever did
I
bet bits of it are still around the tailshaft
Me
and Clive had to make the new one
it
never did hang right
but
it's still there though
down
among the spinifex
T.R.E.
(1982)
(First published in "The Australian"
national daily newspaper 1993)
(First published in "The Australian"
national daily newspaper 1993)
LADY
AND THE PASTOR
I
remember the day
we
kidded the pastor
into
hopping on Lady
if
ever there was a devil in disguise
it
was that horse
she
had a fire in her belly
and
a glint in her eye
and
hated small boys with a passion
besides,
it tickled our fancy
to
get this pansy bachelor
up
on a wild woman
the
pastor was a soft and quiet man
came
out to the farm for Sunday dinner
every
so often
looked
a bit like Tyrone Power
but
without blood in his veins
the
behind-the-dunny news
was
that he was a poof from Queensland
although
we all knew
he
was banging Cynthia Spratt
he
made a passing comment over dessert
that
he'd ridden a horse or two
so
after dinner we steered him gently
into
Lady's pink flair nostril life
and
he patted her a little
and
her eyes went wild with anticipation
while
I lugged the saddle from the shed
you
know, that bitch hardly moved a twitch
bridle
and saddle pulled up
with
nothing more than the trace
of
a cunning smile
didn't
puff up her belly
or
nip his bum
or
stamp on his foot
or
lash him behind the ear with her tail
you're
a sweet young lady aren't you
he
wooed as she was led like a lamb
till
he put his foot in the stirrup
oh my god
did she put on a performance
did
three circles before his leg was over
kicked
and pig-rooted like a spring lamb
and
had a couple of shots
at
those Sunday best suit pants legs
with
those dingo trap teeth of hers
well,
either that pastor had learned a lot
from
Cynthia Spratt.
or
he'd done more in Queensland
than
deliver boring sermons to sleepy people
cause
with one sharp yank at the bit
two
great rib thumpers from his patent leathers
he
stood that horse up on her hind legs
like
something out of the Lone Ranger
then
headed her over the sheep run gate
and
into the home-yard mallee
like
a line from Banjo Patterson
nice
little horse was all he said
as
he slipped the gear off
the
Lady was never the same
and
neither were small boy's tales
about
the poofta pastor from Queensland
T.R.E.
(1982)
(First published in "The Australian"
national daily newspaper 1993)
<<< >>>
(First published in "The Australian"
national daily newspaper 1993)
<<< >>>
ME AND CLIVE CARTING WATER
summer
was water-carting time
get
going early before the sheep-thirsty sun sets in
old
west coast sol could drill a hole
straight
through pimply thirteen-year olds
if
they weren't finished before lunch
milking
and the eternal boring separating done
bolt
breakfast down grab some extra ten o'clock grub
skree-eck
crash out the wire screen door
at
about fifty two miles an hour
heading
for the fordson
it
didn't really matter which one of us
scrambled
and wrestled into the seat first
the
unspoken boysrules said the loser drove back
it's
just that it added to the ritual
sort
of got the small adventure stage set
yet
looking back and feeling again
that
frantic sprint to the old blue tractor
all
waterbags and morning tea and elbows and knees
it
was that the trip out to the top block
was
full of the unknown, charged with possibilities
the
run back was hot and tired and twice as long
the
loser usually conceded early
and
headed off for the water tank trailer
then
big diesel knocking and blue-smoking
dew
damp brakes grabbing like a hungry dog
back
up and hook on and down to the stand pipe
there
was always tank filling galahs to chuck rocks at
and
the evil callous lambs-eye picking crow
whose
reputation read like the devil's mythology
old
black beady eyed crow who always knew
when
you were about to go for the twenty-two
and
uncle lance's zac a head bounty
the
two big square tanks sloshing full
the
fordson grunting on the governor
always
one gear higher than we were told
coupling
clanking and the mallee sweet air
full
of haysmells and hot day coming
and
the exhilaration of a hundred horsepower
in
your hands and under your bum and between your legs
never
failed to make my pecker
ache
to be a man
glorious
golden hay days
of
two fresh farm boys
now
I push a pencil
and
clive's a grocer
where
does it all go?
T.R.E.
(1982)
<<<
>>>
SWAN SONG
I
guess most of us
have
a Babs Dixon in our high school days
the
object of that tearing crush
that
pervades all thoughts for months
that
no-one else knows about
especially
Babs Dixon
(if
you had any brains at all)
she
had dark hair and flashing country vitality
admired
by all
a
year older than me
which
is about ten years
when
Babs Dixon is a girl
and
you are a fourteen year old
three
left footed
with
acres of ginormous pimples
and
no redeeming status with your peers
except
maybe galloping mediocrity
crushes
make for great stupidity in most people
but especially
in fourteen year old pimplies
having
won the leading man part
in
which I had to kiss the leading lady
in
the closing act
I
had to blew a whole year's safe fantasies
be
emerging from my voyeur's closet
and
exposing myself before the whole class
by
suggesting that I should get to choose
the
leading lady!
fourteen
year olds with crushes
are
such blockheads!
not
content with an amused twitter
I
had to go and suggest out loud
- out loud I tell you! -
- out loud I tell you! -
it
should be Babs Dixon!
YE
GODS!!
she
blushed a little as all eyes
in
disbelief
hung
on her reply
yes
she'd be leading lady
(for
one second I nearly died)
but only if
she could choose the leading man!
(for
the rest of the term I did die)
my
own cousin
with
as many pimples as me
finally
got the part
and
Babs Dixon left school that year
and
got pregnant
and
married a farmer's son
and
became somebody else
I wonder what she remembers
probably not me
I wonder what she remembers
probably not me
T.R.E.
(1982)
<<<
>>>