Hi.
Was gonna say it. Then wasn’t, then was, then… Oh, f’gawd’s sake, the sun burns me out’a the swag nowadays anyhow, hours after new year’s already ho-hum. Oh well. Kate and Court saw it in. For them it was stretchers and a campfire down at the dam, and swarms of Scotch Greys hungry to revel. 700 ml of Fireball helped, (the girls) and maybe a tin of Aeroguard. Whatever. Know how old and boring I am now?
So… this blog, unlike some of my earlier attempts, is all about my writing. A question first. Ever looked in the mirror? Scrunched your eyes up until your mono-brow tickled your cheekbones? I did, when I penned the coda for ‘Last Train to Menindee’ on Christmas Eve. I’m guessin’ Albert Facey did too, many Christmases ago.
Back then Albert saw the reflection of a fortunate man; careworn and weathered at the pointy end of an honest life of toil and hardship. Don’t worry, I saw some of what he saw too, even though my narrative aint all about me. But it was the background accompaniment that set our creativity apart. Albert heard trumpets; the kinda stuff ushers heroes into the halls of Kings. I heard violins and Vincent Price. Oh, and a damned rooster… thrice! Confused? Check out a chunk of chapter six…
There’s a hush over the chamber. The air is heavy. It’s why they return, week after week. Every so often there’s a case that’s not traffic infringement, drug-bust or dick-pic-post. One that captivates beyond the norm. They have a sense of it now when Chris swipes my hand from his elbow, and scuffs uninvited towards the bench. In his confusion, he recalls something of court procedure. After all, ‘Rumpole of the Bailey’ was prime viewing in his formative years. On cue, the bailiff reacts, but not before the audience smells fear, outrage and desperation.
‘I object!’ Chris shouts ‘… I refute these allegations. I… I demand a lawyer!’
Now they wait with baited breath after an unexpected twist. Half an hour’s ticking away, the allotted adjournment for Chris’s legal consultation. Meanwhile, a young man in T-shirt, jeans and tatts hangs his head while a female officer stands in the aisle and begins to itemise his charges. A small, twitchy, bespectacled man, the magistrate flutters an impatient hand midstream. He’s heard enough. It’s not so much an almost off-the-chart DUI, or the chase-down and cuffing, or even the pool of vomit that blinged the bonnet of the arresting officer’s candy-car. It’s the re-offending after such a short interval, and the outstanding fine. It was never gonna go well for young Mr Tatts.
The sentencing washes over me when the bailiff reappears with my brother. Once again, we sit shoulder to shoulder, centre front row. Between us, there’s a frosty chasm as deep and wide as the Rio Grande, filled with tobacco fumes and anxiety.
In his lap, Chris holds my handwritten affidavit. With trembling fingers, he traces and retraces each damning sentence, then pauses to pick his nose. As shocking as he finds the allegations, his primary focus is on the signatures. The second and third, all smudged with sweat and nicotine mean little. Dr M Richardson GP, and Dr A Walker Psychiatric Consultant, are just two more in a passing parade of medicos. It’s the first and foremost that rankles. His own brother for fuck’s sake! His brother turned Judas!
Again, he’s too quick for the bailiff, a slow, heavy-set man in blue. At the bench, Chris stutters out his desperate last plea. The magistrate directs me to come forward for support while he states the terms of an Inebriate’s Order. Before his wraps up, I have my arm around Chris’s shoulder before he slumps. His legs are jelly. There’s nothing but acquiescence now, nothing except a pitiful, last request for water. Through glassy eyes, I see compassion and sadness in those of the magistrate. With the mike pushed aside, he says ‘here son’, then slides his un-sipped glass across the bench.
Behind us, a liquid slurp carries on a silent wave of empathy, all the way to the back of the chamber. Outside, a rooster gives all he’s got. I can’t hear him, but I know he’s there. Behind us, the faces have turned a shade darker. With furrowed brows and hooded eyes, they stare and scold ‘That your own blood. Shame, shame on you, bro’.
…
Even so; pre-Morisset Asylum, there were times when my brother heard birdsong rather than the denigratory voices that dictated; back when he held hands with Valerie; proud, forgiving Warlpiri woman and wife; Val who fashioned super-fine brushes from twigs and locks of her hair for the dot paintings that rivalled his outback landscapes. And super-glued the ends of skeins of wool, and strategic points of a 16” girl’s pushbike to the roof of their Datsun 180B. Hell, Val taught herself to read by memorising lyrics from cassette covers, and kept the music going by placing dead D batteries next to the campfire.
‘Last Train to Menindee; 90,000 words possibly set to moulder in ‘acquisitions’ on the slush-pile. Whatever. It’s that or nothing. Albert did it, and without a catchy handle like HRH Harry or Sonny-Bill. Any ow, who’d wanna rite summa there bessed stuff bout summa the werst stuff thy dunn, and tell the werld? Oops. Sorry Harry.
Til next time. Steve.
PS Happy new year!
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