Lonesome Howl (3 page)

Everyone gets married in the Trobriands.

And everyone goes crazy for two months a year.

Jake: in class

Coomuya Central School has seven teachers

for classes Prep to Year Twelve.

Which means sometimes Peter, Lucy and me

are in the same class

even though we're at different levels.

Mrs Clarke roams around each desk,

hands behind her back,

grinding her teeth as we work.

The rule is you put your hand up

if you don't understand anything.

Simple.

As soon as we start Maths,

Peter raises his hand.

Mrs Clarke explains it once again,

leaning down to write the formula

on his workbook.

She circles the classroom,

the click of her heels loud on the timber floor,

until Peter calls,

‘But, Miss . . .?'

his hand held high.

This goes on all morning.

It's perfect.

Those of us who want to work, do it.

Those who want to doodle on their books

can draw for as long as they want.

Peter is the most popular kid in class,

for all the wrong reasons.

Lucy: the library

Stupid old Mrs Bains only lets us

take out three books over the holidays.

It's nowhere near enough.

So, every day this week

I've picked a book I want

and taken it to the back corner of the library,

well away from Bains and her hawkeyes.

I settle on the beanbag,

acting like I'm absorbed in the book,

but really I'm waiting for her phone to ring.

Bains has this weird habit

of closing her eyes when she talks on the phone.

I reckon she's deaf

and her fuzzy old brain thinks

that if her eyes are shut

then her ears will be open.

I don't know and I don't care.

But when she's talking, she can't see me.

I sneak open the back window,

place the book on the ledge

and head out of the library.

I race around the back and pick up the book.

My long-term loan.

Jake: last day of term

The last day of school

before the winter holidays.

Mrs Clarke is chirpier than usual.

She gets the class to read aloud

from this book about an old bloke

who thinks he's in a Prisoner of War camp.

We all laugh when he hides under the bed

‘cursing the Japs'

as the nurses spend hours searching the grounds.

Everyone in class wants Mrs Clarke to read,

but she insists we do.

The book goes round from desk to desk,

one page each . . .

Peter reads so slowly.

Everyone stares out the window

at the cleaner emptying bins,

at the Primary kids playing cricket,

at the cows in a distant paddock,

as we try to follow the story . . .

one painful, mispronounced word at a time.

Mrs Clarke thanks Peter for his effort

and asks me to take over.

I'm eager to see if the old fellow escapes the home.

I cross the fingers of my left hand

as thanks to Mum for teaching me to read,

so I won't be shamed

like Peter Harding

staring straight at the chalkboard.

Lucy: disgust

I hate it when Clarkie does that.

I reckon it's payback

for all the questions he asks in Maths.

Peter can't read for nothing.

She shouldn't make him.

Everyone in class lounging around,

groaning

or looking out the window,

listening to him stammer over simple words,

all because he got genes from Dad

who wouldn't know what a book is for.

I've seen him rip out pages

to use as fire-starters

for our old woodstove in the kitchen.

At home I hide my books

under the wardrobe in my room

and read them late at night,

while the dogs bark

and Dad opens another bottle.

Dad says,

‘You don't need books, girl.

To be smart, all you need is what's up here.'

And he taps his head

with a nicotine finger.

He means a brain,

but I so want to say,

‘What? Dirty hair?'

Lucy: three weeks

I'm thinking of nothing but holidays

as I walk out the school gate

to wait for the bus.

Three weeks away from this place,

reading books by Wolli Creek

and dreaming of places I'd like to go.

The creek is far enough away

so I don't hear Dad shouting at Mum,

or hear Peter whining, bored,

or the dogs growling over leftover bones,

and the constant bark of talkback radio

and know-all announcers raving on

about the economy

and refugees,

the unemployed,

the Aborigines,

and on and on

and Dad hanging around outside,

smoking rollies,

saying, ‘He's right, you know!'

to every stupid thing he hears.

I'd like to pitch a tent beside Wolli Creek

and live there,

listening to the gentle sound

of clear water bubbling over rocks.

Lucy: on holidays

On the bus home,

Nathan Stokes,

a seat behind us,

mocks Peter's reading,

mimicks his words,

stuttering,

looking for an audience.

Peter's hands are shaking

and I'm not sure if he's going to cry

or start screaming,

and either way

I don't want to be part of this crap.

So, I turn and face Stokes.

I don't say anything.

I just give him a killer look

until even Nathan Stokes

is not sure if it's worth the effort of going on.

I see him searching for help.

He's about to try his luck,

so I lean in close

and slap him hard across the face.

The slap echoes down the bus

and no one moves until our stop.

I pick up my bag,

saunter down the aisle

and step off onto the road.

When the bus turns,

Nathan calls after Peter,

‘You wait, Harding.

You can't always hide behind your sister.'

Big, strong Peter

gives Nathan the finger

as I stroll up our long dirt driveway,

on holidays.

Jake: on holidays

I skirt the western boundary

with Patch bounding ahead

chasing the swallows

and barking at the clouds.

Spud ambles beside me,

tongue out, tail wagging.

I check the fence,

feel the tension in the wire,

the strength of the posts,

firm in the ground.

I remember working the post-hole digger,

hoping there were no rocks underneath

as we dug into the brown soil.

It took two weeks last winter,

with the winds ripping down the valley.

Sometimes I imagine

I can still feel the cracks in my hands,

deep and hard.

Patch drops a stick at my feet

and jumps away,

eyes flashing between me

and the lure of the prize.

I fling the stick

and sit against the post.

Spud nuzzles his head into my chest,

wanting to be scratched behind his ears.

I rub my hands deep into his fur.

Patch drops his new toy at my feet, again.

The three of us in the sunshine,

on holidays.

Lucy: dinner

It's the last time

I do anything for my stupid brother.

He didn't have to tell everyone what I did,

and bullshit about

how he was going to hit Stokes himself,

if I hadn't done it first.

Sure, Superman, sure.

And all the time he's talking

I know Dad's watching me,

waiting for the chance . . .

‘So, your sister
can
fight back, Peter?'

I shovel in the food,

quick as it'll go.

I just want out of here.

And Peter says,

‘I would have punched him, Dad.

Not just a slap.'

I bite down hard on my food

to keep from reaching across the table

to shut him up myself.

‘Only girls slap, Dad.'

I can't take it anymore.

‘Yeah, and only boys are cowards with fists.'

As soon as the words are out,

I know I've said too much.

I carry my plate to the sink, to rinse,

sure his eyes haven't left me.

I hear him get up

and slowly walk around the table

to stand behind me.

He says,

‘These hands work this farm, girl.'

He's waiting.

If I turn to face him he'll hit me,

so I wash my plate,

keeping my head down,

my shoulders stiff,

hands shaking under the flow of the water.

He says,

‘She's not so tough now, Peter.'

Peter

My dad, he gets angry sometimes.

I don't know what for.

Maybe it's because of the farm

and not having no money and stuff.

Or maybe it's 'cause he wishes

he was a truckie,

which was his job before he met Mum.

He was just driving through town,

delivering stuff.

When he told me that

he snapped his fingers and said,

‘Like that, from truckie to farmer.'

And he clicked his fingers again

to prove how quick things change.

Then he goes quiet for a real long time

as if he's back driving across the country,

with no one around and nothing to worry about.

I try and cheer him up by telling him

I've made the cricket team at school,

and asking about the farm

and whether we should plant some crops

and hope for better luck this year.

I reckon I'll be a farmer one day.

Only I'll try and not get too angry,

even if we don't make money

or have much to do way out here.

Jake: chasing ghosts

This morning I boil the eggs,

and wait for Mum and Dad

to come in from the bottom paddock.

Dad chucks his hat on the table

and wipes his sleeve across his forehead.

He swears under his breath.

Another sheep is dead.

I put the toast on his plate

and an egg in the cup, ready.

Mum sets the old kettle on the stove.

‘Second sheep this week, Jake.

If this keeps up,

there'll be no shearing this season.

None.'

‘It's a fox, Dad.'

‘No way, Jake.

The sheep was ripped to bits.

Foxes eat their fill and leave.

This animal's bigger.

I followed his paw prints down to the creek.

He's a smart animal, this wolf.'

I don't answer.

I know Dad and his endless search for the wolf.

‘Are we spotlighting tonight, Dad?'

He sighs.

‘I spend my days burying sheep

and my nights chasing ghosts.'

Jake: spotlighting

Patch and Spud jump on the ute

as Dad loads his gun,

flicks on the safety switch

and carefully places it along the rack

behind the seat.

I climb on the back

and grip the spotlight on the roof.

My knees press into the old mattress

wedged against the cabin

so the bumping and shaking

over the paddocks won't toss me.

Dad starts the engine

and the dogs start barking.

It's a clear crisp night with hundreds of stars

and I can smell the smoke

from the Hardings' fireplace.

Dad drives slowly and keeps to the tracks,

his hands tugging the wheel

to miss the potholes.

The ute bounces along

as I direct the spotlight,

this way and that.

Its murderous stare

stabs deep into the scrub.

We both see something

reflecting from the bush,

glinting in the beam.

Dad reaches for the rifle,

eyes never leaving the light,

until he sees it's a kangaroo

dazzled by the brightness.

Dad could take him out with one shot.

Patch and Spud bark,

but their leads hold firm.

The roo bounds through the bush

and Dad drives on.

Jake: midnight

After an hour of searching

and rattling over sheep tracks

Dad parks by the creek

and kills the engine.

I let Patch and Spud off their leads.

They jump from the ute

and dash for the creek,

tails flipping like wild antennae.

Dad and I sit on the warm bonnet

as we unwrap the sandwiches.

He pours tea into the tin mugs

and we look up at the stars.

‘I used to count them

when I was your age, Jake.

I could never keep tally.

There's just too many.'

‘Like possums, rabbits and roos,' I reply.

‘Lucky they live here.

Harding would use them for target practice.'

Dad has no time for the Hardings

and their farm with overgrown weeds

and stock that run wild,

knocking down fences

and fouling the creek.

Dad never kills anything,

except foxes and snakes.

Foxes kill sheep.

Snakes kill people.

So Dad kills foxes and snakes.

Simple as that.

But here we are spotlighting,

gun loaded,

hunting.

‘If it's really the wolf, Dad,