https://bookshop.cqu.edu.au/details.asp?ITEMNO=8880000114738
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CQUni Bookshop - Search and Order : Idiom 23 Volume 27 August 2018After a decent interval I’ll re-post the pieces on the blog.
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Pavle
P. S. A badly butchered version of “Cunnamulla,” revised without any consultation as part of an editing workshop, was published by North Melbourne Institute of Technology (Writing & Publishing), in 2013. For those who may be interested in such matters, the two pieces appear side by side on my blog here —
http://axialmelbourne.blogspot.com/2013/09/editorial-butchery-author-protests.html
Three Australian Shorts
Published IDIOM23 Aug2018
Arthur’s Meteorology
The night before the washing arrayed around the electric oil heater for the last of the drying. There had been some sun through the afternoon, but the clothes were still damp when they were taken from the line. Nights at the desk beside the heater the hands are run over the bars something like the petting of a dog—more briskly in this case to avoid the sting. When his supper is delivered one of the ways Arthur confirms the level of cold is by blowing out his vapour behind his side gates. For the display Arthur turns side-on, a large child-like O formed for the production, chin uptilted and proper Huff sounded. In the dark from a metre distance the evidence is not always easy to discern. 7pm weeknights the planes round overhead for the approach to Tullamarine, large four engine jets illuminated particularly noteworthy. The droplet when it forms on the end of Arthur’s nose is left alone most nights; occasionally there will be a shake of the head, not ever wiping or brushing away. Through the day Arthur never turns on his heater; if there is any sun he will come out back to catch the warmth, raising a leg on one of his piles in the old fashioned way, elbow resting on knee. If the grass is still wet and he is wearing his slippers Arthur won’t come to the side fence for a chat; the tree cover makes it too cold in any case. Cold evenings feet need to be warmed before bed; cold feet will never be warmed under the covers. Through the day indoors foot stamping alleviates the chill; otherwise for confinement inside the house a treadle rigged up to run the television and computer would be just the thing. As the Africans have remarked at the café for cooling, Arthur suggests it’s all in the extremities at ground level. Cloud cover lessens the cold overnight, while a clear sky portends bitter passage. Wind too prevents the harshest cold, though of course it turns up the chill a notch no matter what the mercury records if one is caught outdoors. Early mornings Arthur gauges the cold by the vial of jojoba beside his bed. Particularly cold nights, nights only one or two above zero, the jojoba in Arthur’s bedside vial turns a grey cloudy colour; as the temperature rises in the morning the lightening marks the return to liquid. When Arthur’s bread and buns are delivered he usually has not turned on his heater and comes to the gates without jacket, scarf or cap. Knowing his body is sagging particularly in winter Arthur strives to stand himself upright for correction; after the battle of the day by evening at the gates his figure reminds of the drawings of the aged in Dickens. Dead winter there was no point rising much before 10; much better keep in the burrow and dream on. Unthinkingly once tongue quicker than brain a correction was passed to something Arthur said about the best means of keeping warm at night. Far the best though Arthur is holding tight onto a pretty babe!.... Yeah well, there was that, Arthur conceded. On his laptop it was mostly the porn Arthur surfed when the TV programming ran dry. When the net was down Arthur was sad, he admitted some weeks past before the winter had set in properly.
Chinese Marriage Market
A proper Chairman Mao great-niece this morning Miss YuB. Short queue, hand-knitted vest over shirt, ruddy cheeks and bright eyes.
Twice weekly she volunteers at the Sunshine school, helping the Mandarin teacher with her difficult task. Alternate weekends YuB joins the soup van delivering to the homeless around town.
A picture from another place and time sitting upright and firm, unheeding of the traffic, the churning trucks and darting cars. Formidable revolutionary Red Guard in her civvies, not long turned twenty-three.
It had to out. She had to be told….
Months past YuB had been joshed once or twice before in this same way, without much reaction. It seemed inconsequential for her, water off an imperturbable Chinese duck’s back. Only now on the morning ride to Sunshine did the surprise on her side emerge.
In fact, as it turned out, back home only a few short years ago, Miss YuB had been commonly mocked in precisely these same terms—either as Mao’s granddaughter, or great niece.
The settled poise, the unsophisticated dress and sober behaviour was a throw-back to a remote past even for her own countrymen—her schoolmates in this case.
By the early nineties Yuan’s kind of firm uprightness, her all-weather calm, had become an anachronism even in the land of her birth.
The schoolmates’ revenge back then on their prim and proper Class Monitor was one thing; that the same barb would follow her out to Australia quite another. There was cause for some concern.
There had been a simple, straightforward pride evident when Yuan first revealed her former position of Class Monitor. Not any kind of Class Monitor either. Twelve years YuB had been the chosen one; through each year of her school-life.
Evidently there had not been another candidate to compare for dependability, serious mindedness, the no nonsense rallying of the classroom. In early grades one of her teachers had wanted to adopt Yuan. When family turmoil disrupted her schooling the teacher had stepped forward.
Yuanbin tells tales that stretch much further into the past than a 10 hour flight would suggest. Something of the fine, reliable Class Monitor still hung close.
The kids in the class, the back-rowers and others, must have been gentle and circumspect in their ragging. Some of these former classmates still texted her in Australia, addressing YuB as Monitor, or Sis.
The family upheaval in early years had delayed her schooling; as a consequence Yuan had been a year older than most of her classmates. The seniority another cause for respect.
In the Sunshine Mandarin classes there were a couple of intractable students. Miss YuB suggests strategies to the class teacher, only a few years older than herself. Back home in Fuzhou YuB had tutored youngsters in a variety of subjects, Mandarin included. No doubt she had an aptitude; for teaching and much else. With trains and buses taking over an hour to get to Sunshine, a quick lift was the least one could do.
In the new country three or four years later YuB was a little uneasy at the echo of the old taunt. Concerned now she was at what appeared a bad look.
Certainly neither Yuan nor her family had ever been Maoist. All his life her father has practiced his Buddhism. Now too with the future looming, this kind of prim and proper look might impede prospects. It was unlikely to win favour with the boys perhaps.
At fully twenty-three, the pressure was on at home from YuB’s mother and aunts. Only a year older, her eldest sister had a child already; the younger a solid boyfriend. For a number of months now the matchmakers had been at work.
Friends here were well underway meeting prospective husbands, introduced by either their parents or parents’ allies. Facebook and online chat were often the first acquaintance. A few months ago when there was a lad being proposed, YuB had said she preferred if her mother or aunt found her a suitable boy. Their judgment Yuan was willing to trust and follow; explore the possibility at least. Having someone sourced by these wise heads would at the same time relieve the responsibility. Of course the whole thing was daunting. How to bring off a good marriage? Doing it on one’s lonesome, by one’s own devising, presented all kinds of problems, no less so for a clear-minded, sensible and practical young woman.
For our evening walks often the Red Star baseball cap came out. Among the Chinese diaspora the cap had caused YuB some trouble. Many of the older generation particularly were affronted. And of course YuB shared the antipathy, like everyone else now she was a young capitalist-roader now. Another reason why the Chairman ragging was unwelcome.
For her generation, however, the five-pointed star stood for nation. The proud, strong China moving forward into the new century. YuB’s little moon-face carried the star nicely. (It was not a harvest moon; only a small orb. The weight-gain in Australia was another cause for worry in the marriage market. Ten kilograms YuB had put on here—therefore the evening exercise.)
With the cap the vigorous swing of arms inevitably suggested a march– of the long variety of course.
— I’m exercising on my arms, Yuan defended herself, throwing off the imputation.
Yuan’s friend Nina recently returned to Hong Kong to meet the boy proposed by her stepmother—in fact her aunt. (When her mother abandoned Nina as a baby the responsibility was immediately accepted by the aunt, the mother’s sister. Not the only case of fluid familial relations among YuB’s friendship group. Yu B herself had been raised by her good aunt when her parents’ marriage broke down.)
We were keen to hear news of Nina. Being so busy over there even Facebook and texting lagged. In the last weeks before she left Nina had spent $2,000 on new clothes and got herself trim for the introduction, losing 8 kg.
Nina worked as a professional barista in a Box Hill café. Some money she had salted away. The agreement between the brokers was that the prospective groom weighed into the deal with $600k, a figure referenced to the property market in Melbourne. It was enough for a decent entry-level apartment. The fellow did not have tertiary education, but neither did Nina. What Nina had was PR. A sizeable bargaining chip.
Yuan’s own position had been stated over the last few months as more and more of her friends had entered the marriage stakes. Yuan’s first prospect had apparently taken offence at her tardy response to mails. Or at least the lad’s sponsors had taken offence it seemed. Yuan had tried to argue her commitments of schooling, work and volunteering. Without success.
A recent Sydney trip with another girlfriend for whom a preliminary meeting had been arranged with the son of her father’s friend back in Shanghai proved unsuccessful. The lad had a good IT job, PR; father had some money. Problem was he was both too short and very plain looking. The girl involved, LiLin, couldn’t be swayed.
YuB on the other hand had different criteria. On the matter of height she was in accord with Shanghaiese LiLin. Not only could the girls not stomach the thought of a shorty, ideally Mr. Right needed to be over 180cm. Decidedly taller than themselves. A podgy fellow was OK, as long as the ranginess was there.
Everyone liked good looks of course—or so you would have assumed. LiLin certainly did. LiLin was conventionally pretty, chasing the fashion, wearing make-up. At home her wardrobe was overflowing with shoes and handbags. Good looks in the boys was only to be expected.
Yuan however dissented. Handsome boys raised doubts and distrust for her. Not considering herself attractive might have had something to do with it. The whole outward beauty factor Yuan seemed to consider a trap, a kind of misfortunate by-way. Marriage and the chief direction of life was side-tracked by such elements. This seemed to be YuB’s thinking.
The matter of height was something else. Health and wellbeing possibly involved; not a superficial aesthetic standard.
In YuB’s criteria then (a) height and a close second (b) intelligence. There was definite intolerance for “stupidity”.
Handsomeness a clear negative: the wariness was as strong as that. Money and education were unnecessary; the latter more important than former.
That pretty much covered the matter.
One other qualification was added recently in a particular context, which unexpectedly re-cast the position somewhat.
Should she be pursued earnestly, with some persistence, by a shorty, Yuan might in fact come around.
— If he likes me a lot….
Weeks past that particular factor had seemed fixed and unalterable.
Cunnamulla
Daryl didn't mind you getting his name wrong. It must have happened commonly. Daryl, Terry, Greg—he was of that vintage and strata.
Call me Nipper, he allowed immediately at the error, too rapidly for comprehension.
Nipper. It had been a long while since Daryl had nipped about.
The day before he had discharged himself from hospital. Trouble with the ticker. A stent had been put in. Drugs for opening up the little veins around the heart. Drugs to thin the blood. More drugs to control blood pressure. Then pancreatitis, Hep C and liver damage. On top of that Nipper left hospital with a chest infection. Tests for nasties on the pancreas and liver couldn't be conducted because the infection meant Nipper couldn't be put down.
Greg could meet Nipper half-way—or some part of the way—in blackfella talk. They bounced off each other a bit playfully. The pair evidently knew each other well, though Greg had never mentioned Nipper, or Daryl. The blackfella talk was full of smiles and bright eyes, a completely unexpected vaudeville in Greg’s dark, dingy room.
Cunnnamulla Nipper hailed from. He left on December 17 19----....
The year was a problem for a while. For a while Nipper was stuck in the 90's, which he knew was wrong. Eventually 1976 definitively returned.
A few weeks short of his seventeenth birthday. The apprenticeship papers for a diesel mechanic had just come through.
On December 17 1976 Nipper came home early, pulled out his drawers and emptied his belongings into his kit, while his mother looked on.
Where do you think you're going?
Brisbane.
Brisbane! You'll get killed in Brisbane.... You never seen a traffic light, you're going to Brisbane.
Cunnamulla was seventy miles north and a thousand kilometres west—Nipper thumbed for inland in a single jerk. Cunnamulla wasn't on the coast, No. Nowhere near the Gold Coast or Surfers.
More than likely Nipper thumbed rides in those days. Since 1976 he had been back to see the old lady three times. The last time he had been in thirteen fights in twelve weeks. These numbers came immediately and unimpeded.
Greg's black jokes went down without a problem. Nipper's large hands, raised knuckles, the tattoos visible even rugged up against the sudden winter blast, stayed put. No cause for alarm.
Greg's other black jokes on the state of Nipper's health and his mental balance likewise went down smoothly.
He may as well put a gun to his head.
Nipper gave back to Greg's cracks, but without the nimbleness. To this last there was no protest.
Working in the mines, drink and substances were tricky even on days off. Each morning you had to blow. Not only .05 but .01 got you a window seat. On the aircraft to the mainland.
Talk of work on the islands brought out Greg's familiar story about Hamilton. The head honcho who will remain nameless here, who was called God by his minions, wore a pith helmet and monocle. In his office a large plaque on the wall declared: You Can Tell the Size of the Boys by the Size of their Toys. That didn't stop Greg dropping his strides and brown-eyeing the monocle when he got fired. You could forgive Greg for returning to the story over the years; finally it was the repetition of detail that confirmed its veracity.
The Achilles was the name of God's runabout, a former mine-sweeper. When some Arab sheiks were being entertained by God and given a tour of the islands, $98,000 of diesel went into the jaunt. Later God bulldozed a mountain to extend the runway for direct flights to his resort. A waterbed in the cabin of the runabout, mirrors on the ceiling, Greg poking one of the lasses where God alone had the prerogative—Nipper might have heard the story before too. It was hard to tell.
Had it been a first listening Greg’s fragmentary delivery would have made it almost impossible to follow.
Nipper may have worked on the island himself. Either way, in Nipper's hearing no added bullshit would have gone down in such a story.
Through the hour or so Nipper remained on his feet, arms crossed on his chest like the quiet guy in the bar who needed to be monitored for the good order of proceedings.
More than strange to catch Nipper—Daryl—up close like this. On Fitzroy Street you could often see him lurking with a couple of pals nursing a stubby. Around in Gertie Street the same, on the Koorie gym corner. Nipper roomed in Fitzroy nearby. In Nipper’s time there were no gyms in Cunnamulla, you could be sure. Not many Marquis de Queensberry lads could have gone a round with Nipper in his day.
On the street Nipper was always a little dauntingly squint-eyed like now in Greg’s bed-sit. Squint-eyed, hollow-cheeked, gap-toothed, heavily creased.
In the winter clobber, cap pulled over his eyes, none of the signs of illness were visible. You couldn’t see Nipper submitting to a medical regime, tests and pills, palliative care.
They’d pass round the hat for Nipper’s fare. The ride to Culla took as long again as Brisbane almost, one of them reckoned, with some kind of wry truth that produced nods.
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