STEVEN HERRICK was born in Brisbane, the youngest of seven
children. At school, his favourite subject was soccer, and he
dreamed of football glory while he worked at various jobs,
including fruit picking. Now, he’s a full-time writer and performs
in many schools each year. He loves talking to students and their
teachers about stories, poetry, soccer and even golf.
Steven lives in the Blue Mountains with his wife and sons. Visit
his website at www.acay.com.au/~sherrick
Love, ghosts & nose hair – shortlisted in the 1997 CBCA
awards and the NSW Premier’s Literary Awards
A place like this – shortlisted in the 1999 CBCA awards
and the NSW Premier’s Literary Awards, and commended
in the 1998 Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards
The simple gift – shortlisted in the 2001 CBCA awards
and the NSW Premier’s Literary Awards
By the river – Honour Book in the 2005 CBCA awards
and winner of the Ethel Turner Prize in the
NSW Premier’s Literary Awards
Lonesome Howl – a Notable Book in the 2007 CBCA awards
Also by STEVEN HERRICK
Water Bombs
Love, ghosts & nose hair
A place like this
The simple gift
By the river
Lonesome Howl
for children
The place where the planes take off
My life, my love, my lasagne
Poetry, to the rescue
The spangled drongo
Love poems and leg-spinners
Tom Jones saves the world
Do-wrong Ron
Naked Bunyip Dancing
Steven Herrick
COLD
SKIN
First published in 2007
Copyright © Steven Herrick 2007
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander St
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: info@allenandunwin.com
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Herrick, Steven, 1958 - .
Cold skin.
ISBN 978 1 74175 129 1.
I. Title.
A823.3
Cover design by Josh Durham, Design by Committee
Set in 10.5pt Apollo by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Teachers’ notes are available from www.allenandunwin.com
CONTENTS
One A bright future
Two Coal town
Three Town and city
Four Cold skin
Five Burning candles
Six Cowards
Seven The bridge
Eight The miner
CHARACTERS
Eddie Holding
Larry Holding
Albert Holding
Sally Holmes
Colleen O’Connor
Mayor Paley
Mr Carter
Sergeant Grainger
Mr Butcher
ONE
A bright future
Eddie Holding
They named me Eddie
after Mum’s father
who died before I was born.
‘A quiet, stubborn bastard,’
says my dad.
I’m not sure if he’s talking about
Grandad or me.
We live near the railway tracks
beside Jamison River,
two miles out of town,
opposite the slag heap,
overgrown with thistles
and yellow dandelions.
Dad and me and my brother Larry
built our place in a real hurry
’cos we had nowhere else to live
after Grandma died
and the Wilsons took her house
before we’d had a fair chance
to say goodbye to Gran’s memories.
They said it was their house
and I guess it was
because they went out and sold it.
So we packed everything on
Mr Laycock’s Leyland truck
and drove it here,
where we bought some land,
no bigger than an acre,
with the last of Dad’s army pay.
Larry and me set to work
dragging logs from the bush
with our horse.
Dad mixed concrete
and poured the foundations
in the hot sun
while Mum washed our clothes
in the old tub,
hanging them over the wire
stretched between two poles
along the boundary to our yard.
We lived in a tent
loaned from Mr Paley, the mayor.
He said,
‘Anything for a supporter.’
And for six weeks
me and Larry didn’t go to school.
We built this three-room log house
that looks like a squat brown toad
sitting on a rise
about to jump into Jamison River.
Eddie
Taylors Bend is named after a bloke
who owned some of this valley a long time ago.
Mr Taylor lost his sons in the Great War
and all he had left
was a few hundred head of sheep
and the river that flooded his fields most winters.
They say when his sons didn’t come home
he tied himself to a tractor wheel
and jumped into the water at the deepest part.
No one could find his body
so they named this bend to remember him.
It’s the best place for skimming stones.
You can dig your toes deep into the sand.
Once I skipped a flat black rock
fair to the sandstone wall
on the far side of the river.
I’m fishing for yabbies
because Mum says
there’s only potatoes to eat tonight.
So I tie the pork fat to the string
and toss it in,
waiting for the tug.
Sometimes I catch ten river yabbies
with the same piece of meat.
Into the old tin bucket they go,
half-full of river water,
ready for Mum to boil ’em up.
We have them with spuds
cooked slow in our wood oven,
so you can taste the smoke.
Larry whispers to me,
‘Blackfella food.
That’s what you’re eating.’
I don’t care what colour eats the yabbies.
It don’t make them taste any less sweet.
I say,
‘Good food, Larry.
Fresh caught food.’
He don’t know what he’s g
ot.
My smart lazy brother.
Albert Holding
I came home from the army
and saw my wife and two sons
standing on the train platform
waiting for me to hug them.
I’d been away too long,
even if it was only driving transport
across the desert in the Territory,
while other blokes died of starvation and malaria,
and God knows what else,
a few thousand miles north.
The closest I got to war
was loading the heavy artillery
onto the ships in Darwin Harbour
and getting into fights at the pub
with the blokes from the Navy,
who could swing a fist as sure as a pint.
I drove the bloody trucks
such long nights across the country
with only Corporal Cheetham for company.
Cheetham had a fine way of spitting
between his teeth,
scratching his head,
and saying, ‘Well, bugger me’
whenever we got a flat tyre,
out there in the middle of nowhere.
We’d sit under the cold stars
and wait for daylight before changing the tyre,
rather than struggling around in the dark.
I’d stand on the dirt track
and smoke cigarette after cigarette,
That’s how I spent the war.
When it was all over, after demobilisation,
fresh-faced girls in the city had welcome smiles
and kisses for every man in a uniform.
I walked to the train station
dizzy with the smell of perfume and victory.
We all came home on a slow train,
sharing jokes and beers,
playing cards
and telling long-winded stories
of what we’d do once we got back.
Then I saw my family on the platform.
My wife with her black hair
covered in a scarf with yellow sunflowers.
Larry shuffling his feet in the dirt,
his hands deep in his pockets.
And Eddie waving, smiling,
saying, ‘Hello. Welcome back.’
to each of the men
as they stepped from the carriage.
My family.
‘Well, bugger me.’
Eddie
‘Welcome to a big year for Burruga,’
says Mr Paley, our mayor.
He’s standing on the speaker’s box
at the rotunda in Memorial Park,
waving his hat above his head
as he calls to everyone gathered.
‘Rally around, ladies and gentlemen.
I’m going to put our town on the map.
Imagine, a modern blast furnace near the coalmine,
and a new ticket office for the railway station.’
He points towards the jerry-built shack opposite
and wipes the sweat from his brow
with a white handkerchief
flourished from the breast pocket of his suit.
He leans forward and says,
‘And, ladies,
I promise a new haberdashery
for my department store.
An emporium of taste and refinement.
Something special for all of you.’
Mr Paley winks at Mrs Blythe and Mrs Reynolds.
Both smile and bow their heads slightly.
‘Let’s put the war behind us
and build for the future.’
As he says this he raises both hands into the air,
clenching his fists in triumph.
Mr Wright, the mine manager, steps forward and starts up a three cheers for the mayor.
He calls to the crowd, ‘Mayor Paley, a man of will and purpose.’
Me and Dad walk home from the park.
Dad brushes the flies from his face and drags hard on his smoke.
‘What does Paley know about the war.
That fat bastard stayed home, cowering in his father’s store.
Will and purpose.
Yeah. He will get richer on purpose.
’ Mr Paley is still chatting to the ladies on the stairs of the rotunda.
He stands one step higher than everyone else, his voice booming over their heads.
‘A bright future.
I promise.’
Eddie
The coalmine is surrounded
by a high wire fence.
In the far corner I scrape the loose dirt
from under the boundary
until there’s enough space to lie on my back
and pull myself under the wire.
Through the gritty window of the rusted tin shed
I can see the picks, shovels and lanterns
stored neatly on wooden shelves.
Dad hates me talking about the mine
and he made me repeat this year in school,
just to stop me working underground.
I’m stronger and taller than him.
I weigh close on twelve stone
and most of it’s muscle.
I can move rocks
bigger than a yard square
and I can swing an axe to split firewood
quicker than Larry.
You can load my arms with ironbark
and I’ll carry it all inside,
no problem.
This mine is where I want to be,
with the returned soldiers
and my mates from school,
who earn a decent wage doing a real job.
I dodge between the outbuildings
to watch the men in their dirt-coloured overalls
and thick brown boots
prepare for the night shift,
laughing and singing
like they’re going out to the pub.
They strap their helmets on,
test the light, twice, for safety,
and clip the strap tight under their chin.
I want to sneak in behind them
and take the trolley ride
down into the soul of the world
and see what it’s like,
deep in the pit
fight their daily battle.
Albert Holding
You can smell the coal smoke
long before the train rounds the bend
and drops down into the narrow valley.
Some days in winter the plume settles so low
you could stand on Jaspers Hill
and not know there’s a town below.
Let me tell you, I was grateful
that scabby bastard Wilson evicted us.
The land we bought is next to useless
but at least it’s out of town.
The wind blows the smoke east
back up through Dulwich Gap.
At least a man can breathe in his own backyard.
Not like the miners
who walk through town to work at the pit.
My mates, every one of them.
I remember marching in our khaki uniforms,
wheeling down Main Street in perfect file
while the town,
the whole district,
cheered us on and waved little flags.
The chinstrap on the slouch hat
kept our eyes straight
should we be tempted to gaze at all the young sheilas
smiling and waving our way.
That was at the start of the war.
The high and mighty ladies at Paley’s
go on about us living out here like gypsies.
We’re only one rung above Barney Haggerty,
who sleeps in a cave halfway up the gap,
drunk most of the time.
They don’t know what he went through
during the war.
They certainly know sod-all about me.
And I want to keep it that way.
Eddie
Dad says, it’s not right,
working on Laycock’s farm.
He didn’t fight a war
to muck out after ignorant animals.
Hay bailing,
picking eggs,
slopping out pig-swill.
That’s work for a boy, he says.
But Mr Laycock’s got no kids
and no one wants the job,
not when there’s men’s work to be done.
When I bring up the mine again
Dad slams his fists on the table
and shouts,
‘I ain’t going underground.
And neither are you, boy.
Not while you live in my house.’
I want to tell him it’s our house.
We helped build it.
But most of all,
I want to ask him
why he’s always so angry.
Ever since he got home,
he’s been blaming me and Larry for everything
when we done nothing wrong.
‘The mine needs workers, Dad.
I’m not doing much at school
except wasting time.’
He shakes his head
before walking outside,
muttering,
‘I’m better off with the pigs.’
Larry Holding
My big brother’s not too smart.
He thinks living out here,
miles from anyone,
is an adventure.
I heard him say that.
‘An adventure.’
Shooting rabbits for dinner
with our rusty-barrelled .22,
picking blackberries for supper,
fishing in the river
with a string line tied to bamboo,
hoping for a silver eel
so Mum can make an evil-smelling stew.
This is my brother and his life.
This is why I want to shoot through.
But you don’t leave Burruga,
not without an education,
even I know that.
So I don’t want to miss school.
In the baking-hot classroom of Burruga Central,
I listen to Mr Butcher
with his maths and stupid algebra
and his splitting infinitives in English,
whatever they’re meant to be.
I keep a clean book
with lines straight
and practise handwriting that slopes
‘like a long-haired girl dancing’
Butcher says, in his nancy-voice.