Coming Rain (3 page)

Painter walked backwards and took three or four sidesteps towards the reversing truck.
He jumped onto the running board, opened the door and swung in, shut the door as
a limestone rock smashed against the windscreen. The glass cracked, didn't break,
and another rock bounced off the bonnet. He coughed, stopped coughing and waited
to cough again. Spat out the window and sat back in his seat.

‘Good idea son,' he said, as they stopped reversing. Lew quickly changed gears and
put his foot down on the accelerator pedal. ‘Coming here.' The Ford jumped and juddered
in a near-stall. White dust blowing around them.

Lew shook his head. ‘You already said that.'

‘Clutch,' Painter said. Lew slammed his foot on the clutch, corrected the stall and
managed to get the car moving from the beach. Changed gears as Painter said, ‘Change
bloody gears go on. That's it.'

They drove away fishtailing along the sandy track towards Fremantle. Norfolk pines
and white sand dunes covered in moving marram grass. A blacktop macadamised road
crumbling at the edges and the blue sky and the Indian Ocean away to their right
for as far as they could see. Fifteen or so merchant ships in Gage Roads.

‘Mr Jesus where are you now?' Painter said.

‘What was that?'

‘I wasn't talkin' to you. What's the name of this place again?'

‘Cottesloe,' Lew said. Looked at the woman.

She nodded. ‘Cottesloe Beach.'

‘Slow down.' Painter leaned forward and looked at him.

Lew ignored Painter and turned again to the woman. ‘Can I ask you your name?'

‘Maureen,' she said. ‘Maureen O'Reilly.'

He felt her leg move against him.

Painter had an unlit smoke in his mouth, his arms folded. He shook his head and looked
out at the passing Norfolk pines. Said something to himself, shook his head once
again.

The muscle in Lew's jaw clenched again. He nodded.

‘And no bloody lifesavers again neither.'

She said, ‘I can swim Lew. I can teach you.'

‘What?'

‘I'm sorry,' she said.

‘No, it's all right.'

CHAPTER 3

There were engine parts and tools scattered about the floor. A tall stack of tyres;
gearboxes in pieces. Wheel rims and a back axle. The light came through lopsided
venetian blinds. A west window with faded Caltex and Chevrolet stickers stuck to
it. Ford and Chrysler. A 1940 Shell calendar above a desk and an old chair pushed
back as if someone had just got up from it.

Her eyes were closed and she had taken off her shoes. The oil-black concrete beneath
her bare feet. ‘You should not be here,' she said, ‘I should not, I am thirty-seven.'
Looked at him as if this was enough.

‘Maureen.'

She stood on one foot to remove her underwear. Whispered, ‘My, Mr Peter O'Reilly.'

‘My name is Lewis.'

‘No…not you.' She placed a flat hand against his chest and smiled into his face.
‘Not you baby.'

‘Who?'

‘No one.' Her hands were undoing his belt, the buttons of his trousers and he could
smell her damp hair as she looked down, said, ‘You,' and then, as if beside herself,
‘just fuck me.' Her legs coming around his legs.

It was another two days before he knocked on the door of the house in front of the
Motor Garage in East Fremantle. P J & M M O'Reilly Mechanical Repairs and Services
East Fremantle Motors Ltd. A big blue sign.

She opened the front door and glanced behind. Stepped out, holding the door almost
closed with one hand.

‘Hello Maureen,' he said.

‘It's you,' she said, and raised her wrist to her mouth. A sea wind moved her cotton
print dress away from her and she smoothed her brown hair back behind her ear. A
straight mouth as she smiled with her lips closed.

He could hear a baby crying and the voice of an older woman from behind her, inside
the house. ‘Who is it Maureeney love?'

‘No one Mum.' She looked back at him. ‘Sorry, but I have forgotten your name.'

‘Lewis,' he said. ‘I told you the other day.'

‘Lewis.' Maureen studied him for a few moments. ‘Are you all right?'

‘I'm all right. Been thinking about you though. Can't stop. All the time it seems.'

‘I know.'

He was quiet, unable to understand what she was telling him. And then he did and
turned away as his mouth was to
break apart and walked down the steps to where he
had parked the Ford.

‘Love,' she called out as he reached the bottom of the steps and was opening the
gate.

He didn't look back or think for a moment that she did what she said. Most likely
just a name, a habit she had. Even something in the workshop. A lot of women called
men love when they said goodbye. Or even hello. That was all right too. Do you want
a cup of tea love? They said that.

CHAPTER 4

Lew spent the remainder of the morning finding his way back to their free camp on
the Djarlgarra. He drove along the Canning Road until he reached the Albany Highway.
Left off onto a gravel road that led to the wild disused land along the riverbanks.
He passed between swamp banksias and paperbarks.

Wetland birds rising from the reeds. The heavy lifting of pelican through the cumbungi
and bulrush. Smelled the clean air coming from the river water and drove through
casuarinas. He stopped the truck once to relieve himself and then he drove on. After
a quarter of a mile he came to the old barge horse path near Mason's Landing. It
was overgrown with wild oats and prickly dryandra.

He bumped through the bushes scraping along the sides of the truck. Followed the
sunken dirt track until he reached their camp. Stopped in a small clearing and switched
off the engine. Cicadas were loud in the sunshine and two or three ringneck parrots
flew away through the trees, calling out their number;
being cheeky bastards Painter
would say, listen to them, the twenty-eights.

Lew got out of the truck, slammed the door, said fuck it and began to pack up his
tent. He rolled his swag and put canvas bags in the back of the truck. Threw the
tent poles, clattering, into the tray. Raised one hand in greeting towards Painter
who was standing next to the campfire.

‘Didn't expect to see you till tomorrow son. Maybe day after,' he said, holding a
fork. ‘Looks like our time in the big smoke's over, is it?'

‘I'm off. You coming?' Lew, using his elbow and palm as a template, began rolling
up a length of rope. ‘I heard there's a bit of fencing work down south round Dardanup.'

Painter scratched his arm with the fork. ‘Dunno bout that but we still got that charcoal
contract northeast of Boddington. Should start it next few days.'

‘Well fuck that,' Lew said.

‘Yep.' Painter scratched his shoulder with the fork again. ‘Then, next month, north
and further out, four days shearing on the Drysdales' place. You want to fuck that
as well?'

Lew finished coiling the rope and looped two holding hitches into the middle of the
roll. Threw it next to the swag and tent poles in the back of the truck. Opened the
truck door and stood holding it open. One boot on the running board. ‘Think you're
funny don't you? Sayin' that? You been drinkin'?'

‘No.'

‘Good. What about that fencing job?'

‘By the time we finish the charcoal, be time to start shearing at Drysdale's anyway.
I just told you.'

Lew hadn't let go of the truck door. ‘I been thinking about doing some prospecting.'

Painter walked over to the truck, reached in, pulled Lew's swag out and dropped it
beside the back wheels. ‘You have?'

‘Yep.' Lew, watching what Painter was doing, continued to speak. ‘There's an old
bloke out there, past the Drysdales'. I heard about him. He's got some gear we can
use. Way out by that abandoned town, Thompson's Find, something like that.'

‘That's what they call wajil country son.' Painter shook his head as he returned
to the campfire. ‘Mulga, jam tree. Useless bloody land. Good for bugger all and no
one in their right mind goes there.' He placed a few more small pieces of wood on
the flames. ‘I know about that old bloke, scratches a living fetching sandalwood.
Fossicks for gold. Old Dingo Smith, some of the farmers call him. There is no gold,
but he needs a reason to make butter. A top dog man, shooter. That's how he gets
by for the most part. Taking dingo, there's the name.'

‘I thought he was a gold miner.'

‘No. He is a dingo hunter, gold was an excuse, why else would he stay there? He loves
being alone and he loves killing dogs. Some say he doesn't know his arse from his
elbow, drinking and barking at the moon, dances with one of them goats he keeps.
Calls her Eunice, everyone knows. But as far as cleaning the place up? Best there
ever was, some say. Wanted to be a miner, no good at it.'

‘Eunice? Dances with a goat? Cut it out.'

‘Well.' Painter looked directly at him. ‘I dunno. But when it comes to gold and goats
and women a lot of blokes go a bit silly in the head.'

Lew nodded at the swag on the ground. ‘Get fucked.'

Painter's laughter as he turned away. His mouth open, imitating Lew, repeating what
he said, ‘Get fucked.' Scratched the side of his face, still with the fork, and touched
what was left of his nose. ‘Young Mr McCleod. You growin' up son. Yes you are.' Laughed
for a while longer.

A small camp oven hanging from a hook and chain on an iron tripod. The lid just tilted
up on the rim to let the steam escape. On a nearby fold-out table, two enamel plates.
Flour in one and a blood-stained white cloth covering something on the other. Flies
circling. Painter waved his hands over the plates. ‘I am cooking this underground
mutton here. You are welcome to it son.'

Lew had closed the truck door and sat on the running board, put one ankle on his
knee. Took off his right boot and sock. Crossed his leg, removed his other boot and
sock, put both feet on the ground and rubbed them into the sand. ‘How many you get?'

Painter, kneeling next to the fire, held up three fingers as he took a flat black-iron
pan and placed it into the fire on an iron cob. Spooned in some mutton dripping and
watched as it began to melt and slide. Lifted the muslin cloth and picked up a back
quarter of the rabbit, laid it in the flour and then into the hot pan. He did this
with three more pieces and waved his hand above the cooking. The sound of the rabbit
frying in the pan. A small wind blew across the river. The riverside bulrushes and
cumbungi rustling.

‘Smells good mate.'

Painter took a black kettle from the side of the fire and dropped in a handful of
loose tea. Wiped the fork on his pants
and used it to stir the tea-leaves into the
hot water. Put the kettle to one side in the sand. Nodded towards the swag. ‘Might
as well unroll that, son. Go on now.'

Lew had his elbows on his knees. He nodded and watched his bare feet in the dust.

Maureen said that her husband Peter had been in Libya with the Australian 6th Division.
He was a hero, she said, and a corporal. He's still there, she said, buttoning her
dress, leaning down to put on a shoe. Two fingers in the heel, hopped on one foot
and held Peter's old workbench for balance. The Shell Oil calendar on the wall.

I married quite young, she said. A row of spanners above the bench. She couldn't
bring herself to take down the sign over the garage. He had loved the East Fremantle
Football Club, she said. The mighty Sharks. His brother was one of those lifesavers
at Cottesloe. Didn't know it was your brother-in-law, he told her. That's why they
were so bloody angry at us. It was you Maureen. It was you, I thought it was us being
there. That too, she said.

‘She knew what to do, Painter,' he said to his feet.

Painter cleared his throat and used the fork to turn the frying rabbit. He nodded
and turned the other three pieces. ‘That's good.'

‘What's good?'

‘That's good son cause you don't.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Everybody remembers their first, mate.' He had placed the fried rabbit onto a plate.
‘Most of us clumsy as a fool.' He lifted the lid from the camp oven. ‘All back legs
and tail.'

Painter let the rabbit pieces slide into the camp oven. Used the fork to move them.
‘And make a flat-out bloody idiot of ourselves,' he said. ‘The flour will thicken
it. Quite a few even run away. Easier, see.'

‘What you think?'

‘About what?'

‘About her? Me?'

‘She's heartbroken son. Nothing to do with you. Can't help it.' Painter took a rabbit
shoulder and laid one side in the flour. Turned it over, white side up.

‘Heartbroken?' Lew rubbed his hand over his face. ‘She didn't want to see me again,
forgot my name,' he said. ‘Told me she was thirty-seven and called me Peter O'Reilly.
Jesus, I think he was her dead husband, then she said I was not him, Jesus fuckin'
wept. Then did it with me…I can't think of anything else but her…and her legs around
me and what she said with her dress up around her waist. Jesus.'

‘Don't say Jesus like that so much.' Painter touched a swollen lump on his head where
a lifesaver had hit him. Thumb pressing above his eyebrow. ‘You ever see a woman
having a baby? Giving birth?'

‘What?'

‘Fucking mess. All over the bloody bed and floor, shit everywhere. Like an animal
they are.' Painter stood up and poured tea into two enamel mugs. Put one next to
Lew's foot and concentrated on flouring the next few pieces of rabbit. Laid them
in the shimmering fat of the pan.

‘There was a baby crying,' Lew said. ‘Couldn't be her dead husband's anyway. Too
young.'