‘Good on ya, Jimmy,’ said Granpa. ‘Crayfish from Nuriya reef,’ he explained to Mick. ‘Thank God for eskies. There’s no need to look like a stunned mullet, they’re bloody lovely.’
‘I don’t know how to eat them, Granpa,’ said Mick, dubiously.
‘Well, I’m going to show you.’
‘Do I have to?’
‘Yes. If you can face down a perentie, you can learn how to eat a crayfish. But don’t try and eat the heads. The cat gets them.’
Afterwards, while Mick surveyed the heap of broken discarded shell, happily emitting streams of small burps as quietly as he could, and feeling that weight of delicious crayfish and melted butter settling in his stomach like a brick, Granpa went to the sideboard and came back with a bottle and a small glass.
He carefully filled it with the golden-brown liquid, swirled it a couple of times, and presented it to Mick, saying, ‘You’re not allowed to drink it, but you’ve got to have a sniff. Go on, take a deep one.’
Mick took a long breath from the glass and inhaled a deep, beautiful caramelly smell that suddenly set the back of his nose atingle. His head swam pleasantly for a moment.
Granpa took the glass back from him. ‘It’s Bundy,’ he said. ‘It’s something to look forward to when you’re older, like women, but a lot less trouble. Here’s to you, son, and happy birthday.’
Granpa took a delicate swig from the glass, sighed, and said, ‘Ah, happiness.’
CYCLONE COMING
TAYLOR PETE AND Mick spent a week taking the motorcycle apart in the shed. It was so interesting that Mick didn’t mind being too hot, and covered with oil and grease, with barked knuckles, and cuts that stung. He was finding out that being a mechanic meant accepting all sorts of unexpected minor injuries, and working in strange and cramped positions. In the end, Mick and Taylor Pete lifted the bike up onto a table to make it easier to work.
Taylor Pete was an Aborigine who’d been born on the station and worked there all his life. He was six foot two, with broad strong shoulders like Granpa’s. He had a big bush of hair that was going grey, with a wrecked bush hat crammed on top. When he was younger he had been the best jackaroo on that station, and was still the one who did the final round-ups, collecting in all the cattle that the whitefellas on their motorcycles had missed. He’d bring in a good dozen head from every spot. Taylor still rode a horse when he could, and he went in bare feet, walking on hot sharp rocks that would have made a whitefella wince. His feet were big, scarred and gnarled like two slabs of driftwood.
Taylor Pete was the blackest man that Mick had ever seen. Living in Sydney had given him the impression that blackfellas were like creatures from another planet. He had only ever seen one on television, for this was long before you could find them down at the harbour playing the didgeridoo for tourists. In those days, because their traditional life had become impossible, almost all the blackfellas worked on the stations. Everybody knew they were often better workers than the whitefellas, but they were paid a lot less. The number of blackfellas on a station was a big factor in its sale value, just as important as water. Unfairness was built into the system, but it didn’t stop the blackfellas and the whitefellas from getting fond of each other, on account of working side by side in a common enterprise for so much of the time. A lot of white people had some insulting names for Aborigines, and the women might get called ‘gins’ or ‘lubras’, and no doubt the Aborigines had some insulting names for the whites too.
Mick had no idea how to relate to a blackfella at first, but after they’d got as far as removing the pushrods, he’d forgotten most of his fears and doubts. Taylor Pete liked to explain how and why everything on the bike worked, and by the time they’d cleaned up the jets in the carburettor, they were fast friends, and Mick had forgotten that Pete was a blackfella at all.
Taylor Pete also liked to tell Mick things that he knew would surprise and shock him, such as how to solve an Aboriginal dispute. ‘Well, mate,’ he said. ‘You grab a spear each, without a barb, but nice and sharp, and you put one leg forward, and you take it in turns to spear the other bloke’s thigh, and then one of them gives up, and you rub the wounds with ashes, and that’s it. And that’s just the blokes. You should see what the women do.’
‘What do the women do?’
‘They whack each other over the head with a piece of wood, taking turns, until they’ve both got mashed-up skulls and one of them gives up, and then you’ll never guess what.’
‘What?’
‘They rub ashes into the bloody mess, and that’s it, blue over.’
‘Blimey,’ said Mick.
‘Works for us,’ said Taylor Pete. ‘Those gins’ve got thick skulls. And guess what else?’
‘What?’
‘Some of us blackfellas can go invisible.’
‘Invisible?’
‘You get whitefellas taking photographs, and when they’re developed, there’s a couple of blackfellas there, in the pictures.’ Mick looked dubious, and Taylor Pete said, ‘If you don’t believe me, ask your grandad.’
When Mick did ask his grandad, he replied, ‘Yup, everyone knows that,’ but Mick was still not convinced. He forgot to ask Taylor Pete if he knew how to go invisible, and in later years always wished that he had.
The day came when it was time to start up the motorcycle, and Taylor Pete gave a hearty heave to the kick-start. It fired on the third kick, and a great cloud of blue smoke came out of the exhaust as the engine rattled into life. ‘Wobba wobba!’ shouted Taylor Pete, and he danced in a little circle. ‘Wobba wobba! Hey, Micko, we’ve done it!’
The engine settled down and Taylor Pete kept it revved up with the twist-grip until it was warm. Then he took a long thin screwdriver and made some adjustments to the carburettor. ‘We’ll keep it running a bit fast until it’s settled in. Then we’ll slow it down a bit.’
It wasn’t easy learning to drive the motorcycle. It was really too big and heavy for a twelve-year-old, and when it fell over, Mick had to run and fetch someone to help him lift it back up. It took him ages to learn to use the clutch with any subtlety, and he crashed into a lot of trees and fences. Often he failed to find the brakes in time, and, when he did, his grip on the lever was not really strong enough. The bike bucked and lurched and wouldn’t go round corners, and his legs weren’t sufficiently long.
It was at this time that Mick made friends with Stemple. Stemple was a good-looking whitefella city boy in his early twenties, who had gone out into the boondocks full of the spirit of romance, determined never to have to do a job that entailed the wearing of a tie. His idea of being an Australian was to be nut-brown from the sun, with rippling sinews in his forearms, who could swim the length of Cottesloe Beach and give the average shark a good run for its money. Stemple was out in the Pilbara working for Mick’s grandad, until such time as something came along and made him realise what his life was for.
Whereas Taylor Pete was keen on getting the bike working, because he loved machinery, he was not so keen on having to ride on it. He was a horseman at heart, and it felt completely wrong to be on a motorcycle.
Stemple, however, loved motorcycles. There were many of them on the farm for rounding up the cattle and getting about the station, but none of them was a bona fide classic like Mick’s Francis-Barnett. When he thought that the old man wasn’t looking, he helped Mick learn how to control the bike, and utterly wore himself out by sprinting alongside the machine, inhaling mouthfuls of red dust, shouting instructions over the racket of the engine.
Mick received a great many scrapes and bruises before the miracle happened, and he became at one with the motorcycle, as a jackaroo does with his horse. He suddenly had the most wonderful freedom, and could go wherever he wanted, but both Granpa and Taylor Pete told him never to go out without a pannikin of water and a bag of tools, and there were indeed times when he had a long walk home. His best day was when an emu came up alongside and challenged him. Emus always love a good race, and Mick lost this one bec
ause in the end he couldn’t go where the emu went.
He was out on the bike one day when he came across a cluster of graves with aged wooden crosses on them, with white writing. He walked among them wonderingly, reading the epitaphs. They were Granpa’s mother and father, and Granma, and there were several little graves with children in them, and Granpa’s grandparents. There were folk who must have been great-aunts and -uncles, and cousins. On the crosses were painted the causes of death. ‘Fever’, ‘Gwardar bite’, ‘Typhus’, ‘Hanged at Roebourne’, ‘Killed by a Falling Tree in a Cyclone’, ‘Drowned at Cossack Fishing’, ‘Speared’. There was one that read ‘Don’t Know Why’ and another that said ‘Got Too Old’. It gave Mick a strange feeling, to think that the bones under the ground here were his relatives, and that without them, he would never have existed. It gave him a sense that everything passes away, and that one day he must too. He was sad that his dad wasn’t out here in the family graveyard, but in a neat suburban cemetery in Sydney, and then he thought that he was here in his place, having ridden out on his dad’s old Francis-Barnett. ‘Maybe one day I’ll be out here too,’ he thought.
That night he asked, ‘Granpa, when I’m dead, can I go in the graveyard too?’
‘Up to you,’ replied Granpa. ‘If we still own the place. It’ll be good to have the company.’
‘If we still own the place?’
‘Everything’s changed, son. We arrived here in big carts drawn by bullocks, and everyone called my grandad Bullocky Bob. All our stuff came from Freo in sailing boats. We lived off cans of Libby’s. Even the spuds were canned. We ate corned beef that came out swimming in melted fat. And you couldn’t get bum nuts ’cause there weren’t any chooks to lay ’em. No moo juice, and butter wasn’t butter, it was warm grease. The pearling beaches were knee-deep in bottles and tins. And we had camels. Now we’ve got highways and planes, and Karratha Station’s ruined. Soon we’ll all be gone.’
‘Karratha Station?’
‘Karratha means “soft country”. It was the best station round here. The mining company put a railway through the middle of it, and then they bought it. Two years ago. It was bloody impossible. The miners came out and speared the sheep for their bloody barbecues, and the gates got left open, and the company wouldn’t pay compensation. They’re building a town on the best paddock. Soon there’ll be no more planting up with birdwood and baffle grass, no more moving the mobs from one paddock to another to save the grass.’
‘But why would we have to leave, Granpa?’
‘Things come and go, son. This place was full of blackfellas once, roaming about, living off what there was. Then it was gold miners until the gold ran out, and pearlers until they moved to Broome. There were folk who set up a turtle-soup factory in Cossack. Even made their own tins. Now it’s our turn to fade out. Your dad didn’t stay, even though he loved it. When the stations have gone, this’ll all turn back to desert like it was before. Desert with iron mines. And one day there’ll be something better than iron, and that’ll go too.’
Mick didn’t know what to say, but his grandfather put his hand on his shoulder and said, ‘The important thing, son, is that we lived as we wanted to, and after us, they’ll live as they want, and it’s not much to do with us, and we’ll be under the ground and not giving a stuff. How’s the bike going?’
‘It’s great, Granpa. Stemple’s taught me everything, I think. I haven’t fallen off for ages.’
‘Well, your dad enjoyed it. You know what? One day you’re going to take a ride on Blind Willy. Prove yourself a man. We’ll start you off on an ordinary horse. Taylor Pete’s going to teach you.’
‘What’s for supper tonight?’ asked Mick, adroitly changing the subject.
‘Garfish. You’ll love it. It’s got green bones. By the way, there’s a cyclone coming. The glass just dropped like a bride’s knickers. I mean, like a bloody stone. We’ve got about three hours.’
GREEN BONES
MICK AND GRANPA stood on the veranda and watched the weathervane spin on the water tower. A small whirlwind of dark red dust whipped up from the middle of the yard, and spiralled into the sky. Granpa was both calm and worried; worried because there was bound to be damage, and calm because he had been through this so many times before, and had become a fatalist.
Ever since the glass had dropped, Granpa and the men had been rushing from one thing to another, stowing it away or tying it down. Even the henhouse had a chain over it, attached to two concrete blocks. They had shut down the generators, but about the mobs and the cattle they had been able to do very little. Most would survive.
Mick had had some fun in the past, swinging from the chains that held down the buildings, and shinning up them, upside down, sailor-fashion, but it was only now that he fully appreciated why they were there. Granpa said they were attached to railway tracks buried in concrete six feet below ground. The homestead had chains, and so did all the sheds, and anything loose had been brought indoors. His motorcycle was roped through the frame to the base of the water tower.
Granpa said, ‘Granma used to have a lovely garden here. It was all zinnias and petunias, and sweet peas and sunflowers, and bougainvillea. She spent hours watering. Then it all got wrecked in a cyclone, and now there’s only the orange tree left. I never did have the heart to start another one. That’s why we only do veg.’
‘I don’t really remember Granma,’ said Mick.
‘That was the one thing she regretted about going early,’ replied Granpa. ‘She said, “Mick won’t remember me.”’
A violent gust almost hurled them back against the wall, and Granpa said, ‘Time to go indoors and settle down for the blast. Welcome to your first cyclone, son.’
Granpa told Mick to go and sit under the kitchen table, but he sat himself in his usual place at the head of it. In front of him he set his bottle of Bundy, and a small glass. He fetched two hurricane lamps from the cupboard, topped them up with paraffin, and lit them with a match.
Outside the storm started its roaring and howling, and the house seemed to amplify it, like the soundbox of a guitar. Sheets of rain began to hammer at the house sideways, too loudly for them to hear the rattling of the shutters. There were noises that clanged like explosions, and Granpa, as if reading Mick’s thoughts, leaned down and said, ‘This is what it’s like being bombed.’
‘Are we going to die?’
‘Prob’ly not. Just try and enjoy it, mate. This is where you find out that the world can do without you.’
For Mick, the worst thing was having to imagine what was happening outside. There was no question of going out to take a look, or even trying to peep out of the window. He sat, hugging his knees, and endured the howling, and screaming, the bangs, the crash of sheets of water against the house. He needed to cry but did not want to in case Granpa would think him weak. He began to shiver with fear. Granpa bent down and looked at him.
Mick saw the table begin to move, and at first he thought the storm was lifting the house, but then he realised that his grandfather was moving it up against the wall. Granpa fetched a couple of cushions and crawled in under the table with him, settling his backside on a cushion, and leaning against the wall. ‘Thought you might like some company,’ he said, and put his arm round Mick’s shoulder. Granpa smelled of sweat and Bundy and horses, but above all he seemed to smell of indomitable strength.
‘Don’t worry, son,’ he said. ‘You get a half-hour break. You get eight hours from the north-west, and eight hours from the south-east, and then you wander out and tidy up.’
Granpa kept Mick calm by reciting him the poems that he remembered from The Drover’s Cook, starting with ‘Australia’.
Come all you fervent democrats,
Prepare to strike with force
Against our swarming enemies,
To change their mind and course …
When he finished it, he said, ‘I reckon these cyclones are pretty fervent democrats. They pick on all of us just the same.’
Granpa calmly went and fetched the little book of Tom Quilty’s rhymes, and they took turns to read them to each other under the table. Mick did not understand ‘Rum and Religion’, or very many of the others, either, but he enjoyed the occasionally stilted rhythms and the unusual topics, and the sheer silliness of poems like ‘Miss Underwood’s Cake’.
It was just as Granpa had predicted. After eight hours of that infernal screaming, bass booming, and slashing and banging, there was a sudden lull, and the two went out onto the veranda. The whole yard was covered in wreckage; timbers, sheets of corrugated iron, shredded tarpaulin, vegetation. The beautiful poinciana tree lay on its side, all its leaves ripped off, its branches snapped into ragged stumps. Never again would it flower at Christmas. At least Granma’s orange tree was still standing, albeit with the leaves stripped.
‘Bit of a dog’s breakfast, but not too bad,’ said Granpa. ‘Go and see if your bike’s all right.’
It was all right, but covered with unrecognisable shreds of everything under the sun.
When Mick came back to the house Granpa said, ‘The worst one was 1945. At Karratha Station the river broke its banks and brought in sand a yard deep. They lost fifteen thousand sheep, and they found their horses and cattle hanging on fences, and hanging out of trees. There was twenty inches of rain. Here it was almost as bad. It took the roof off the house and smashed the water tower.
‘And you know what? Afterwards we found a wheelbarrow up against the wall that no one’d ever seen before. A bit bashed up, but brand new. And out at the graves there was a nice little sailing boat with the mast snapped off. Must have been rolled there for bloody miles. Never found out who it belonged to. And we lost our rooster and found another one, even better.’
The next phase kicked in with a vast wall of dust advancing on them across the paddock, so they sped back indoors. Granpa cooked the garfish on a Primus, with potatoes and onions and a can of peas. ‘It’s not as good as Jimmy Umbrella’s,’ said Granpa, ‘but it’ll have to do. I’m not much of a cook. Might be a chew and spew. Jimmy’ll be hiding up if he’s got any sense.’