Coming Rain (10 page)

Lew stared at him for a bit.

‘Gettin' drunk? Goin' somewhere else.' Painter sighed. ‘Like walkin' to China son
and believin' in Jesus.' He lit the cigarette with a burning stick he had taken from
the stove. ‘Better than playin' fuckin' golf I would imagine.'

Lew was still holding the magazine. It was open now at the pages with photographs
of perfect long green expanses. A man with a checked flat cap swinging a golf club
above a white ocean cliff. Cocked hip, white leather glove on the left hand holding
the club. Ventilation holes on the backs of the fingers. ‘This bloke looks pretty
pleased with himself. Bet he doesn't get pissed to bits,' Lew said. ‘Calling out
to Jesus and Mary and wanting to cut the world's throat. Who will wash my feet? You
used to say that. Fighting everybody who even looked at you.'

Painter smoked, pointed at the magazine Lew was holding. ‘No. He wouldn't, would
he?'

Lew ignored him.

Painter stood, tossed the stick on the cement base of the stove and sat back down.
Groaned. ‘You know eh, my Mr Jesus never run away even when he could? Never did.'

‘I know he never.'

‘He was a tough bastard, Jesus was.'

‘I know mate.'

‘You reckon you know do you?'

‘No. I don't know.'

‘Those peaches were sweet weren't they? Jimmy give us the top milk too, good boy.
Didn't scoop it off for the butter.'

In his dream he was approaching an old woolshed. There was banging and calls and
yells coming from inside the shed as he walked up wooden steps towards the side entrance.
He stood on the landing and slid open the heavy door. Stepped inside, and closed
the door as someone was yelling: just in time for smoko mate. But it was he who was
the yelling man. I am in time. One of the shearers had begun to hit a frantic, kicking
sheep in the head with the side of a handpiece. Yelling at it, I will kill you. Stabbing
it in the face. The wool classer looked at his watch as he came to the end of the
board and rang a steel railway spike onto a suspended twenty-five-pounder brass shell
case, called out: there are no blackfellas here; no they left of their own accord
for the flour and the sugar and the tea. Dingo Smith persuaded them, oh yes he did.
It was not theirs anyway was it? Just cause they danced here, doesn't make it theirs
now does it? Now it's
a safe place to swim. First run gone down boys…good work… Smoko
time. Be careful now…mother's come home, ducks on the pond so watch your language.

The song on the radio loud in the shed. Your Cheatin' Heart. The shearers standing
and leaning on the pen doors, wiping their faces with towels, hands on their hips
and above their kidneys. Their heads began to nod; one turned to another and pretended
to sing, using his empty hand to hold an imaginary microphone. Danced a small jig.
The song and laughter lifted up in the shed. They walked tender easy, the shearers,
wide shouldered, thin hipped and leaning back a little, rocking to the end of the
shed. The song ended and a radio announcer began to speak about the weather and the
possibility of rain in the wheatbelt around Koorda. A bushfire near the southwest
town of Manjimup. Your Cheatin' Heart still yet playing on the radio. Hank Williams
asleep in the back seat of a 1952 baby blue Cadillac. Good as gold mate.

He woke in the darkness of the shearers quarters. Looked around and saw nothing.
Dream and memory merging.

Painter, in the opposite room, snoring. The building creaked in the wind.

His bladder was full and that was what mattered at the minute. He sat up in the bed,
found a candle on the bedside and lit it. He made his way outside, carrying the candle
with a hand cupped around the flame. When he opened the back door the wind caught
the candle and blew it out.

Lew stood there and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It was a windswept
night, desert clear and moon bright.
The wind making the immense throw of stars somehow
colder and the third phase of the moon falling away to the west. He looked at his
wristwatch, 2:15 a.m. He could see where he was now, the outline of the buildings,
the truck and the sheep yards. The thrashing trees in the easterly wind. He walked
around the side of the quarters to the trees and he urinated, ensuring his back was
to the wind.

As he finished, he remembered the running dingo in the sheep yards. A shadow of long
legs and open mouth, glancing back at him with indifferent, killer eyes. Her ears
turned to him.

The wind chilled him and he returned to his room and got back into his swag on the
kapok mattress. The warmth of that. Soon he fell asleep, dreamless yet somehow also
aware that he was sleeping until the alarm clock woke him an hour later, 3:20 a.m.
It was time to start breakfast.

CHAPTER 18

Away from the water she had continued to run east. White under the waning moon, a
crescent shade less than full as it was throwing light across the land, she ran until
the moon was almost directly overhead; slowed and stopped, waited, listening to the
night, smelling the wind, and began to circle back. It was the hunger. Cutting and
recutting her tracks. Stopping often now and listening, her nose lifted. Coming around
to the south, to be crosswind of anything that might be following. Waited and let
the quivering knowledge of the night come into her. She began to hunt. Something
stopped her; she stood still, lay down and waited.

Waited until she knew nothing. Now she could hunt again. She cut across her tracks,
stopped and squatted to piss, ran on and stopped to defecate; scratched at the earth
behind her. Circled and sniffed and again ran in a large backtracking circle to be
upwind of where she had come from. Checked her leavings, others too. Rolled in them.
The hunger hollowing her like the lack of water, she resisted the urge to howl, growling
out
instead her need, her whelps' unvoiced need, for hunting. Began once again to
run. The calling in her blood. After a long time, she had returned to the homestead
and shearing shed where she had been that night to water. The shed was in darkness
but there was still a light burning in the big house.

She had travelled in a wide shape to be in the west of a holding paddock where a
large mob of young hoggets had been mustered the previous day. The great bumbling
stink of them came rolling to her. Their blind walking and touching comfort of each
other's presence. The constant unthinking urination and shitting and lying down in
stupidity on the bare stony ground. These creatures are what they are.

The bitch stood and slunk along the fence line. Waited and again slipped sideways
through the rails. This time not to drink. This time to slaughter. She stopped. One
foot raised. Her body focused, alone, absent from the pack run and kill. Took two
tentative steps forward. Again raised a hunting foot, flattened her ears and head
lowered below her shoulders.

A small ram hogget had strayed near enough to her to sense an unwelcome presence
among them. He stamped a defiant front hoof and studied the darkness. A moment later,
realising what was there, he let out a terrified moan and turned to escape.

The bitch was on the hogget in the time it took him to turn. Her teeth caught first
along the eye socket and cheekbone. She readjusted in an instant and her mouth closed
on his throat and she tore and bit down hard, strangling any noise, and they rolled
over in the dust. She continued to bite down on his throat, shifting her body into
the shape of her kill. Her back legs through and around his back legs. Without the
pack, she had become
the pack. Her patient eye lit in the shape of the moon watching.
Deepened the grip of her mouth into the hogget's arched neck. She was waiting for
the weakness. Waiting for the giving. Once it came she immediately ripped out his
throat. Blood gushed over her face and she lapped at the torn hole. Paused, resting
for a moment, blinked and relaxed. Panted, a bloody mouth and tongue. Waited, stopped
panting and laid her chin on its ribs. The last of the hogget eased away and it became
still. She crouched and bent her head between the back legs of the dead animal and
began to rip and tear at its lower belly, exposing the intestines.

The pups in her belly squirmed. Aligned as they should be.

CHAPTER 19

Lew rose, pulled on his trousers and shirt in the darkness. Remained barefoot, as
always, his eyes becoming accustomed to the light. His feet silent as he crossed
the veranda boards of the breezeway and opened the cookhouse door.

The kitchen was lit by three Coleman lamps and there was the faint smell of warm
kerosene among the smells of cooking eggs, hot fat and roasting meat. Jimmy using
a spatula to make small waves over the tops of the eggs. When the yolks were covered
with an opaque film, he lifted the eggs from the pan and slid them onto slices of
stale bread to drain. He would feed this bread to his beloved hens later.

Jimmy did not think in English. He thought in Malay. English was his third language.
Penang Hokkien came after Malay. He bent to the stove and removed a tray of lamb
chops and kidneys. The fat sizzled as he turned the cutlets and the rounds of kidney.
He basted them with a spoon and slid the tray back into the oven. Almost done. Only
take a minute. He
laid thin slices of lambs fry and bacon in the iron pan in which
he had cooked the eggs. Grunted to himself, bloody lambs fry; thinks he funny laughing
at me.

He began to speak in Malay and after a while he crossed into Hokkien. A good language
for cursing, the orifice of a pig sounding much better than in the English. Jimmy
shook the pan and added another spoon of lard. Turned the frying bacon and liver.

‘Jimmy,' Lew said, ‘I just got up to light the stove. Thought I heard you in here.'

Jimmy turned to him and smiled. ‘Mr Lew, I no see you there. Mr John tell me you
start at four isn't it? I get you breakfast. First day. Big job. And you got no
cookie. No good…You want a cup of tea?'

Lew nodded. ‘Thank you.' He sat at the kitchen table. The lamp was hissing in the
centre next to a pile of sliced bread and butter. An opened paper bag of white sugar.
Glass jug filled with white milk. A bottle of Fountain tomato sauce. Lea and Perrins,
the square bottle of HP.

‘No newspapers sorry Mr Lew, you want I can bring you some from the house? Last week
paper anyway.'

Lew waved a hand. ‘No no,' he said. ‘I never had a newspaper with my breakfast in
my life.'

Jimmy laughed in bewilderment and looked at the table. Knives and forks had been
set out. He placed a mug of tea next to Lew's elbow. ‘Sugar
gula
on the table.
Susu
…milk
too, fresh from cow. Sorry but don't put wet spoon in sugar OK?'

‘All right Jimmy.'

‘I mean it OK? No bloody wet spoon in sugar. It really piss
me off. Brown lumps pretty
soon whole bowl had it, then, pretty soon, whole bag had it.
Semut
…ants coming anywhere
then and no sugar for a month. No wet spoon in sugar OK?'

‘Yeah, all right mate.'

The door opened and they both looked up as Painter came in and closed the door. He
stood behind Lew and looked at them both, and around the kitchen. The smells and
sounds of breakfast. The soft yellow lights and shadows of the lamps. Jimmy with
a white apron and a white plate in his hand.

‘Mr Painter.'

Painter looked at his wristwatch. ‘It's three-thirty. Just after. Twenty to four.'

Jimmy indicated the chair opposite Lew. ‘You sit. Cup of tea in a minute.' Began
piling eggs and bacon, chops, kidney and lambs fry on a plate. He came to the table
and placed the breakfast before Lew. ‘There you are Mr Lew.' Slid the plate onto
the table.

‘Thank you Jimmy.' Lew took the bottle of Lea and Perrins and shook it over his eggs.
Then the HP, poured a sauce line across the chops. Sprinkled salt and pepper and
began to eat.

‘Welcome.' He looked at Painter. ‘Mr Painter. You want some
bleakfasts
?' Almost shouted
the last word.

‘Thanks mate.' Painter coughed and cleared his throat. ‘Morning son.'

Lew paused from eating, took a sip of tea. Nodded to Painter. Reached out and took
a slice of bread and began to butter it.

Jimmy placed the mug of tea in front of Painter. ‘Sugar and milk there. No wet spoon
in sugar please. I ask don't do it OK?'

‘Righto mate.' Painter sniffed.

Lew paused from his eating and looked up as Jimmy turned back to the bench and spooned
eggs and chops and bacon, kidneys, lambs fry onto a plate. Put it down in front of
Painter. The plate bumped as Jimmy took his hand away.

‘Thank you Jimmy.' Painter paused and, as was his habit, touched two fingers to his
forehead, heart and each shoulder. Whispered a quick prayer of thanks. ‘You and…by
Your simple grace, amen.'

Jimmy was standing behind him, frowned, serving tongs still in his hands. ‘Welcome
Mr Painter.' Turned back to the sink and began to pour the excess lard from the pans
into a large tin that had once contained apricots from Mildura. Began to wash the
pots. Spoke in Malay and laughed in mock apology.

Painter picked up his knife and fork and began to eat. ‘Done just right this
rams
fly
Jimmy.'

Jimmy's shoulders tensed and he spun to face Painter, who was dipping a fold of bread
into his egg yolk.

Lew was eating, not looking up as he forked the eggs, bacon and kidney into his mouth.
Nodding. ‘Good mate.'

Jimmy relaxed. ‘Good,' he said. ‘Okey dokey.' Laughed.

Painter and Lew continued to eat and Jimmy finished the washing-up.

‘I have to go now. You get your own lunch. I make you mutton sandwiches for morning
smoko. Mango chutney I put. Broome special recipe very beautiful. Ipoh spices.'