Coming Rain (24 page)

She slept, and in the morning they would return to the caves above the freshwater
springs.

CHAPTER 62

Painter was in the men's ward of the Gungurra Public Hospital. Bed 12.

‘Mate,' Lew said.

Painter looked up from his Bible. Tried to take a deep breath and looked at Lew over
his glasses. ‘Son. Sit down. Sit down. Good. Jesus, good to see you boy.' He took
off his spectacles. ‘Finally got the glasses.'

Lew was holding a bag of grapes. He could hear the wheezing in Painter's chest, the
catch and small cough after each breath. He sat down. It hadn't been that long. Maybe
a month. Lew sniffed, looked at Painter's emaciated right arm. ‘What happened?'

‘I came to town and got bad on the drink,' Painter said and lost his breath. He held
up a finger. They waited.

‘Y'know, after old man Drysdale shot the dogs.'

‘You start fightin'?'

‘Young Mr McCleod, my you look good boy,' Painter said and coughed. Turned his head
to one side and spat into a white
enamel bowl. He lay back in the bed. ‘What you
looking at?'

‘You?' Lew looked at Painter as if to ask him, did you hear what I just said?

‘Yes I did. It all happened again. Then I was out the monkey.'

‘How you now?'

‘No good son. No.' Painter coughed. ‘Bugger it. Cunt of a thing this. How do I look?'

They were silent. Lew shook his head. ‘Not too…y'know. No, not too flash mate. Lost
a bit of weight there.'

‘It's cancer,' Painter said. ‘Jack the Dancer.'

‘You sure?'

‘Well, they are.' He tried to laugh. ‘So there you are.'

‘Painter,' Lew said.

‘No.'

‘All right, you sure?'

‘I don't want to talk for a while. Let me get my breath here.' He closed his eyes.

Lew got up, went to find a nurse to ask where the toilets were.

When he returned Painter had woken. ‘My young mate the idiot,' he said. ‘You ever
heard of Hank Williams?' The Bible sitting open on his chest. Spine up, pages down,
like spread wings.

‘Yep.' Lew sat. He pointed at Painter's chest. ‘You reading your Bible mate?'

‘You got one?'

‘No.'

Painter nodded. ‘You can have mine.'

‘That's all right.'

‘You take it.'

Lew shook his head.

‘I can't read son,' Painter said, holding the Bible up and pointing his finger into
the pages. ‘Never could. All that time.'

Lew stared at the old man lying on the bed like a broken shape. He recognised the
tattoos and the voice but that was about all. ‘Doesn't matter.'

‘How's Drysdale's daughter?' Painter coughed. ‘That Clara girl?'

Lew studied the old man. ‘I love her.'

Painter closed his eyes and repeated what Lew had said. ‘You love her. I saw trouble
that day. You passin' nyarnyee up to her when she on that horse, like you passin'
a baby to her.' He coughed and spat. ‘That was the future I saw Lew. Trouble and
no doubt about it.'

Lew stared at the linoleum floor. Painter had begun to ramble. Like he was drunk.

‘You talkin' shit Painter.'

‘Bastard of a thing that old man did out there boy, Winjilla. There was not even
burials. Mad when he come back.'

‘It was the best day of my life Painter. The day I knew.'

‘Knew?'

‘Knew who she was. I was. She, me.'

‘No…no I was not talkin' about that. You and her swimming is all Jimmy said. Like
that.' Painter made the sign of a middle finger going in and out between the thumb
and index finger of the other hand. ‘He should not have done that son.'

‘No,' Lew said.

‘Oh Jesus,' Painter said. ‘Old man Drysdale and Dingo
Smith cleaned them up and made
a bonfire with what was left. All dead, nortj.' He coughed, leaned over and coughed
again as if he would never stop. Dry-retched and raised a trembling hand. ‘Never
lay a finger on her in anger will you now?' he said.

‘I don't know how you could.'

‘Well there is a lot you don't know son. About a lot.' Spat spooling blood into a
stainless steel bowl.

Lew stared at him. ‘Now is not the time to be telling me off again.'

Painter leaned back and held the Bible on his chest. Closed his eyes. ‘Not a bloody
finger.'

‘Mate,' Lew looked at the pale walls of the ward. There were three other beds, separated
by curtains. A ceiling fan was circling above them and the edges of some of the curtains
moved. The smell of disinfectant and floor cleaner. Green and black linoleum beneath
his feet. A white enamel bottle under the bed with a handle and a long neck for Painter
to piss into. ‘I don't know Painter,' he said. ‘I don't know.'

He must have said it a few times because after a while Painter said, ‘You can shut
up now son don't need to keep saying the same thing over again.'

Coughed and again dry-retched, breathless. ‘Over and over you repeating yourself.
It's embarrassing. You got shoes on?'

‘Yeah mate I got shoes on. Boots.'

‘Good. Bout time, you'll be a boss cocky soon. Mr McCleod.' Said his name like he
used to. Owner of a winner.

Lew looked at a jug of water and a glass on the bedside table. ‘You want anything?
Right for smokes? Tobacco? I can bring you whisky if you want. Brandy.'

Painter shook his head and waited. ‘Got a spare set of lungs? Another heart? Liver?
They all fucked son.'

‘Cut it out.'

‘Tell me who won the Melbourne Cup?'

‘Evening Peal won the Cup; Redcraze second. Dunno who third. Little Georgie Podmore
the hoop.'

‘Evening Peal,' Painter wheezed. Both hands came around onto the Bible.

‘First mare since Rainbird.'

‘I would've backed Redcraze myself.'

‘Top weight but, ten stone three.'

‘That old truck of yours got more rattles than a millionaire's baby son.'

Lew laughed. ‘It did.'

‘One of the headlights didn't work neither since that little grey roo broke it. Blind
in one eye.' Painter was looking towards where the curtain was moving from the motion
of the fan. ‘Good soup, her tail.'

Lew watched his feet.

‘I give it away son,' Painter coughed. ‘Our truck. The old Ford.'

‘That's all right mate.'

Painter nodded as if confirming what he had known about Lewis McCleod all his life.
‘Give it away to a blackfella. Looked like he needed it more than me.'

‘Yeah mate. Good.'

‘You eat yet?' Painter's eyes opened wide and he looked to where they would bring
food.

‘No.'

They watched the light easing out of the day from a north-facing window.

The lights came on in the corridor outside the room. Someone was pushing a trolley
and Lew smelled reheated mutton and gravy and potatoes, cabbage. One of the other
men in the room had turned on his bedside light and a radio was softly playing, Don't
Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes.

Painter sighed. He tried to say something else but his voice faded on the words.
He remained silent for a very long time then. The sound of his breathing.

‘How many pro fights you have, Painter?' Lew whispered. ‘You old charcoal burner
you?'

No reply. It was like he had fallen asleep. One tattooed hand on the back of the
Bible. Thin, skinned knuckles healing over and his knee still propped up. His eyes
in shadow and bottom lip jutting.

Lew stood and leaned forward. He couldn't see properly. His hands felt about on Painter's
face. Felt the broken nose and cheeks and mouth. All still now. Held his hand. Hand
like a broken foot, he would say. Don't sorry me mate. It was like to become paperbark,
his face, his voice, such familiar words, all still. Gone.

Rain on the windscreen of the truck and he sat back in his chair. Leaned forward
and put his elbows on his knees, looked down and said, ‘Painter.' Said it again.

Then he closed his eyes and shook his head. The radio was still playing.

CHAPTER 63

The big homestead kitchen was filled with the smell of baking. Jimmy had his back
to the door as she quietly let herself in. He had a radio turned up loud and was
singing in Chinese to the Perry Como song. Don't Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes.

The border collie bitch Dee was lying in a kindling box. Jimmy had emptied the box
and folded an old horse blanket into the bottom of it. She was curled head to tail
and did not look up as Clara entered the kitchen. Her tail gave tight wags and a
wave of shivers came over her at the sound of the door. The yonga Gwen was lying
on a seagrass mat, also near the fireplace. She had grown and no longer wore a straw
hat. When she saw Clara, she stood, leaned forward onto her front feet and then manoeuvred
her two large back feet and tail to move closer as she sat quietly and gently at
the long table. Jimmy still had his back to her and continued singing.

Gwen scratched at the pocket of Clara's trousers. That was where she kept the barley
sugars she would feed to the horses.
Clara fondled the top of Gwen's head and behind
her ears. Let her sniff her open hand while looking at the dog. ‘Dee,' she whispered.
‘Come on now honey, who is the good girl now?'

Dee did not look up but her tail moved a little faster.

‘Dee the good girl.' Clara, pursed lips, whistled softly to her. Dee raised her head
and opened and closed her mouth. Her wet eyes darted left and right and then back
to Clara.

Jimmy remained oblivious, kneading bread, singing.

‘Jimmy,' she said and cleared her throat.

Dee half-stood and lowered her head, licked her nose and lowered her chin onto the
floor.

‘Jimmy.' Louder.

He spun around, bread dough in his hands. ‘
Ayo tahi suci,
holy shit Miss Clara you
give me heart attack isn't it.' He turned the radio off.

Dee had curled up again in the box, but her head was up, eyes glancing and her tail
wagged properly.

Jimmy came to the table and stood before her. His flour-covered fingers on the table
top. ‘I am so pleased. Miss Clara,' he said. ‘You come down here again.'

‘I had to come, didn't I Jimmy?'

‘Yes Miss Clara.'

He fed her with bread and butter and jam. Sweet tea. ‘Miss Clara,' he said again
as he served her. Slicing the steaming bread. ‘Tastes good isn't it?'

As he poured her a cup of tea, he frowned and spoke to her. ‘That Pearl,' Jimmy said,
‘she is close to having baby foal?'

Clara looked at him. ‘Why do you say that, Jimmy?'

He began to butter yet another slice of bread. ‘Her
puki
come
down, getting big and…dropping.
Drooping? She close I think.'

‘Her backside, in behind?' Clara asked. ‘She is springing?'

He nodded. ‘Yes
puki
bouncing up and down when she walk and water coming out not
piss. Y'know?'

Clara stood and brushed crumbs off her lap. ‘I had better get to her,' she said.

Jimmy clapped his hands. ‘Your father, Mr John he…'

She turned and pointed. ‘I will not speak of him Jimmy. Understand? Not now. We will
not speak of him now.'

‘Yes Miss Clara.'

‘You hear me?'

‘Yes Miss Clara.'

Dee sat up in the box and watched her as she closed the door.

Clara walked out of the homestead kitchen and made her way towards the stables. Tom
raised his head as she neared and gave his soft sound of recognition. She walked
to him and held his head and spoke to him. The horse took her in with his nostrils,
wide-breathing her smell deep into his lungs.

‘Now where is our darling Pearl?' she whispered.

Clara crossed the yard and entered the stall and saw Pearl standing in a corner,
her sides bulging; looking sad and distracted. She was facing Clara and looked up
when she came in. Stamped a front foot as a fly landed on her shoulder, a muscle
shivered. Clara walked to her and held her. Pearl too smelled her and then flicked
her head at the fly, which had landed on her rump.

‘You the big fat girl, come on now let's have a look at you honey,' Clara cooed and
took hold of Pearl's tail and pulled her around. Pearl's water had already broken
and the feet of a foal
were showing. Clara scuffed a boot across the hard clay and
sawdust. ‘Hold on darling girl,' she said and walked out of the box and found a stack
of wheat-straw bales. She carried one back into the box, broke it open and spread
the straw over the ground. Repeated this five more times and when she had finished,
placed a hand on Pearl's neck, fingers in her mane. ‘Go on now.'

Pearl pawed at the straw, sniffed it, circled twice and knelt, waited and then slowly
allowed her weight onto her near side, gave a great sigh and rolled over onto her
off side. Clara stood back and watched Pearl's belly contract; more fluid accompanied
the foal's head as it emerged. It was covered in a gauze-like shroud.

Pearl continued to push, her back off leg lifting with each effort. Clara saw the
flushed udder and two black nipples swaying with each contraction. Pearl's breathing
rasped as she pushed. She waited, rested and began to get up, knelt, her head going
down with her nose touching the ground, blowing air out her nostrils and then, accepting
her situation, she lay back down and continued to push. She struggled and the foal's
neck and shoulders came out further with wet sucking sounds, it was close now, and
then with a final muscular push the seemingly enormous black body of the newborn
slid out of her. A gush of uterine fluid washed out over the foal and he was in the
world.