White Light (8 page)

The bats circled for a while about the spot where the giant tree had recently stood. But there was nothing. Just an absence. Just smoke over the paddocks, settling in the gully. The smell of petrol. Not even a sheep bleating. After a while, when they realised things were no longer in their proper place, the bats fluttered off silently over the paddocks towards the distant river, where there were a few tall trees still standing.

Barry said: ‘Birds.'

T
his story which I will write is not about a great man. But it will be about how he help me get over trying to top myself. This man's name is called Banjo Paterson and I don't see what is so funny about that. I was nothing but a young fellow aged 20 years of age when I met a woman whose name is Margaret. At that time I could not read and I also could not write. I don't know why it seem no one ever tried to teach me before. But I was good with my hands. My Margaret had 4 children which were her children. They are all girls. Margaret and me fell right in love from the start. In time I got to marry this Margaret and the greatest thrill in my life was when she say ‘I do' to me inside the registry office. We lived and were v. happy.

Margaret had 2 more children which were my children also. So there were at least 6 children running about all the day and night. Time past or passed. We moved into a real nice house with real cladding on the walls. It was also a v. nice suburb. At that time it was a good place for children to grow up. Apart from some rats in the roof we was v. comfortable. I worked on Volvo 988 trucks. My job was to fix up Volvo trucks after they had broken down. One day I will go back to this work. My money was v. good. I could work 3 days and nights without sleep to fix a certain Volvo truck. It was dirty work but kind of happy. I loved their grease and the fact that grease is not a secret. Now when I look backwards at what I had, I see I had it all without knowing. I spent more time with trucks than I did with my family. When I lost my happy life I learnt the world was not a good place and I was not a good person in it. I had been married with Margaret about 4 years when it start to happen. My crime which is a v. bad one has to do with the 2 older girls. The youngest 2 were too young. I don't know why it happen that way. It just did. It concern me v. bad. However this is not about my crime which is not hard to imagine. Finally I took the gumption to tell Margaret what was happening with me. With the inside of me. I do not remember the exact words. I telled her because I wanted it to stop. Just to stop. I could not sleep. I begin to hate myself and so I stopped. I work hard. I save money. I stay stopped like that for a year or more but then I begin to hear people whispering about me. Or else stop their whispering when I go in a door. The man at the petrol station would not speak when before he always axed about the weather and what I reckon about the price of fuel or the price of fish. But it was all me. The words in my head, nobody saying anything. The petrol man would not touch my hand when he give back the change. He said everybody has troubles of his own. A funny look in his face. In time I lost my job and started worrying too much, hearing things all the constant.

One day I seed a way of escape. I telled my family we will move to Western Australia and begin a new life. I byed a big 4WD with a powerful donk with lots of grunt and a trailer. So we packed up our boxes. It felt great to tear up the telephone bill and just walk out. The girls did not like to leave their friends or their school but I was their legal guardian and they got to do what I say for their own well being and so on. That was some adventure driving all that way. When we breaked down I fixed us. But everyone got a little bored in the long run. We hit a kangaroo and I had to knock it on the head with a tyre jack. All the girls cry. When we got to Carnarvon I still could not find forgiveness inside or outside of me. So one day, my blackest day, I went to the police and telled them what had happened long ago. V. long ago for I was stopped. I don't know why my head goes like this.

The police thought I was taking the mickey and why did I not just keep quiet, then they took me to see a doctor. The doctor put me to sleep for 4 days which I liked because I did not dream and when I waked up I was 4 days older. Sleep is v. good for you and I had missed it. I stayed in that hospital for several months. I could feel myself growing better, the voices going quiet because I could not dream. The police came to speak to me again. They had spoke to the children and also to Margaret and now said when I was fit for travel I would be extradited back to Victoria. 2 police from Melbourne came and fetched me home. Before we left they stopped by a beach where they taked photos of the purple ocean. In the plane, they cuffed my wrists to my ankles so I could not see the hostess tell us what to do in case of a crash. I kind of hoped the plane would crash but it did not. That was when I first seen Pentridge and Barwon and Loddon.

Jail was all new for me. I know my crime was v. unpopular but also v. common. Everybody give me a bad time considering it. Name calling and spitting started on me. People punching and laying the boot in. Once a knife. The officers giving me grief as well. I had no one to turn to. My cellmate kept trying it on me and when I said ‘No' he would lay the boot in. Poured boiling water on me when I was asleep. A deep part of me did not care. One day the inmate who was trying to have sex with me was tipped to another jail. I was on my own now and began to feel better. Whenever there is a lockdown I feel happy. All at peace in my slot. I could see time passing without me having to do much. The other inmates started calling me caveman. A few other names besides like dog and boner and panlicker.

Then Margaret sended me some v. bad letters how I would never see my children which were mine anymore. I did not feel too good. I heard voices in my scone. I made a shiv and slashed up. They give me a few stitches and 2 Panadine then took me to the Assessment cells. So I collected some shoelaces and joined them together. People were happy to give me shoelaces. I was a great joke. People flapping about in loose shoes thinking they were doing the world a favour. The prison psych wrote a letter in her report that I showed no remorse for my crime. After lights out, voices started calling me Rocky and how they going to rape my sister when they get out. I don't tell them I don't have a sister. They were just words but even words get you.

One night with all my shoelaces I tried to hang myself in my cell. Nothing happened but the shoelaces broke and give me a bad burn around my neck. All well and good to laugh. I would vote myself to die but society don't think so. Tried a lot of ways after that to do myself in. Nothing did the trick. So I went back to the locked ward at the hospital on strict protection. More time passes or past. One day out in the yard and this is where I began my story, my ears heard a man reading something. I stood nearby in the sunlight and listened. I seed the razor wire and it is like froth on top of a dirty wave and this is what I heard.

They hunted them off the road once more to starve on the half-mile track

And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time recite

How the best day's work that he ever did was the day that he lost the fight.

I axed him to read it all from the start and this man did that for me. Saltbush Bill. When I heard these words I feeled insects prickling my scalp. Afterwards, I feeled alive. Happy and alive and sad all at the same time. It was hard to explain, hard to know inside of me. This man read me more of Banjo Paterson's words. He axed did I want a lend of his book but I telled him there was no point as I could not read.

After a while we were called in for muster and lunch. I speaked some more to that man whose name was Pete. Pete and me become good friends. When we go out into the yard on sunny days, Pete would read Banjo Paterson for me. I know now it's not much to speak of but those mornings in the sun mean a great deal to me. In time I telled him about my crime and he did not seek to judge me, though he should and maybe he did in his heart. Later they gave me the chance to appeal. Pete said my lagging was v. harsh for what I done and I could cut 2 or 3 years off my top sentence. But I dunno. I am learning here about my mistakes. I am happy to pay and keep paying for them. I am learning about my self. And the self that is not me but who I was. I also dunno if this is justice to get what you expect.

As this time passes I can see that jail is good for me. It has been necessary. The food is food. I have done my education and have learnt to read and write. Of course, the computer has helped me fix my spelling. I have even been teached about paragraphs; the uses of semi-colons; my past and present tents though I still worry about my future. When I get out, I will go back to fixing trucks if someone will give me a start. Reading and writing will help me locate a job. I will hear no whispers. I will have no dreams. I am doing v. well. I don't know why people laugh when I tell them how Banjo Paterson save my life. Every person has to try and live no matter what they be. Every person's story is different and in time I will be one of them.

A
ll this was before he'd applied himself to the learning of First Aid. After the horse had bolted, so to speak.

But for the moment at hand—a heat wave; beachy weather. Half the townspeople sprawled in various stages of leisure and undress. Frisbees in the water; the day hot enough for the dumping margin of the surf to be jumping with swimmers.

Dean had brought the family down to the beach as a kind of littoral gesture to weekend harmony and they'd camped outside the flags (there was no room left between). He glanced with envy at the private shade of a beach umbrella near by. The kids, Gracey and Aaron, ran to the water's edge to begin a game with the waves. Leap, hop, squeal. Shona plonked herself on a towel and pulled a book, no it was a magazine, from her bag. Her eyes squinted at the reflected brightness of the pages. Seagulls strutted about on the sand, puffing their chests out, craning their necks. The shrieking insides of their orange beaks, enough to make someone want to throw a bottle at them. Dean stood keeping an eye on the children.

‘Do you think they need any more blockout?'

‘What?' asked Shona.

‘Do you think they need—'

‘You decide, you're their father. I'm having a rest.'

She did not lift her eyes from the page, even though she must have felt the tight grip of crowsfeet about her eyes. Was that fair? Stupid time to come, really, Dean thought. He could have said No, could have insisted that the late afternoon would be a better time. He might have been able to carry on with the work he'd brought home for the weekend. Get ahead. He felt the sun eating through the fabric of his shirt.

Beyond the dumpy waves, surfers danced their dance on the curling breakers further out. Taking advantage of the good break and the tide. Behind him, there was a healthy queue at the ice-cream van in the car park. Dogs. Dean watched the kids now digging a hole in the wet sand; watched them watch it fill with water. He felt the tips of his ears burning. A jogger puffed past, all shiny with sweat. It looked as though he was limping, but that was just the gradient of the sand sloping down to the water. As the waves pulled back from the feet of the bathers, he could see reflected on the shimmering sand, the cliffs at the end of the beach. A sign writer was concocting the first puffy stilts of a message in the sky. Otherwise not a cloud.

‘Do you want an ice-cream?' he called to Shona.

‘Not yet.'

‘Do you think the kids—'

‘I don't know. Ask them.'

He turned to the kids, furiously digging their hole, and there, just beyond them, was a punch-up. A struggle in the water between three men. And then suddenly there wasn't. One of the men, a boy really, a youth, called to Dean.

‘Give us a hand, mate.'

For a moment Dean considered foisting this plea on to someone else. But there was a particular look he could not name in the boy's eyes, and in that moment there was no one else. Then Gracey stood up to see what was going on.

Two young fellows were holding up an older man between them in buffeting, waist-deep water. His head lolling forward. Dean stepped towards them decisively.

‘Go to your mother,' he said, marching past the children.

He admired what ever it was in his tone of voice that made them obey him so swiftly. Dean splashed through the choppy backwash to the young lads who were struggling to keep the older one's head out of the water.

‘He was just floating,' said one.

Dean grabbed the legs, which were limp and leaden.

‘Up to the sand,' he said.

They were only teenagers. Didn't really know what they were doing.

They staggered out of the water. Between the three of them, the man was as heavy and slack as a sack of lemons. Dean felt mildly shocked at so suddenly having a stranger's feet in his hands. No sooner had they laid him down and rolled him onto his back than the two young lads ran off. Dean looked down at the face before him. He saw the froth and slime at the lips.

Come on mister, snap out of it, he might have thought.

‘I don't know how to do this,' he called, as though he were speaking to the figure lying on the sand. Suddenly, a woman dropped to her knees beside him. She tipped the man's head to one side and scooped the white goop out of his mouth with a finger. Then tipping his head back and placing her lips over his she blew heavily into the open jaw.

‘Find the xiphoid location,' she said, between breaths.

Dean looked at her stupidly.

‘I thought you knew how to do this,' she said.

Dean shook his head. She'd misheard him. He looked at the white slop on her fingers. Then there was another man beside them who seemed to snip some hairs from the hairless chest with his fingers before launching into a fierce barrage of chest pumping. What was that called? Repercussion or something? The woman jerked her face aside as sea water and mucus gushed up into her mouth. She spat on the sand. Returned to breathing.

‘Come on mate, you can do it,' said the chest-pumping fellow.

Really, Dean thought, isn't that going a bit far? Surely, after a little rest this chap will spring up and ask what all the fuss is about. He thought this even as he watched the man's face turn blue. Then bluer. There was sand on his eyeball. Dean picked up the fellow's hand and searched for a pulse. The hand was flaccid and cold, the fingers wrinkled from the water.

‘I can't find a pulse.'

The others said nothing. Perhaps he hadn't said it at all. From the periphery of his vision, Dean saw several dozen legs gather and mill around them as they worked.

‘Does anyone know him?' Dean called out. It was the only thing he could think to do, to try and involve everyone. To his surprise, a voice answered:

‘Yeah, he's my uncle.'

Dean glanced up at a face amongst the crowd.

‘How old his he?'

‘Sixty-two.'

Dean looked at the hard muscles of the stomach; the penis shriveled within the Speedos. Sixty-two! Jeez, he looks fit for sixty-two. He looked at the blue body, the blue hand in his. Even at that moment, the cynic in him wanted to shout: He's your uncle why don't you try and save him? In fact, while we're on about it, where's the bloody lifeguard?

‘Can you do this?' asked the man pumping the chest.

‘No.'

Surely I'm doing enough—still searching for a pulse and finding none. Should he admit that perhaps he was no good at finding a person's pulse? They turned the man's head to the side again and drained more of the bubbly slop from his mouth. It looked like dishwashing water. This was what he was afraid of, and of not knowing what to do, for despite all the urgency he was afraid. It was like a dream where he should have known and had forgotten everything.

He couldn't believe a face could turn so blue.

After a while someone said, ‘Here are the ambos.'

The crowd parted and the uniformed legs of two ambulance officers soon crouched beside them. Calmly they took over. Their uniforms incongruous among the bare legs surrounding them. Thank Christ. Their calm was a deep relief to Dean. Surely now the bloke would be all right. He realised there was no more he could do; that there was probably nothing he had done at all, other than be first on the scene. Apart from the two teenagers, but where were they?

Letting go of the man's hand, he stood and became one of the forest of onlookers.

‘There's no carotid or radial pulse,' said the woman who had done the mouth-to-mouth. She knew what she was doing.

‘Thank you.'

‘He's sixty-two,' Dean thought to add, a voice from the throng.

The ambulance officers opened their box, greased the electroshock pads—whatever they were called—it was just like television.

‘Stand clear.'

The body jumped on the sand and lay still. Again. And again. The waves lapping at them. One of the ambulance men told them there was nothing more to see, and the people began to move away. All except the one who had identified the man as his uncle.

Dean went back to Shona and the kids, who had thankfully kept their distance. His hands felt cold. His relief at their calm, also cold.

‘What happened, Dad?'

‘I don't know, love.'

‘Is that man dead?'

‘I think so.'

‘Will he be all right?'

‘I don't know.'

‘I've never seen a dead person before.'

He had no idea how much time had passed.

‘I don't know what story that nephew is going to tell the aunt.'

Shona put her arm around him, ‘Let's get these kids out of the sun.'

They packed their paraphernalia: towels, snorkel, flippers. Warm apples in the bottom of the bag. The message in the sky had blown away.

‘Dad can we have an ice-cream?'

‘Sure.'

‘Can we look in the ambulance?' Its lights flashing in the car park.

They shuffled across the sand. Moving away slowly, as did the other onlookers, from the small scene on the beach. Retrieving their number. And the seagulls and dogs carried their ceaseless activity into the brightness of the afternoon.