~ Brogan ~

by

Kev Richardson

“Bloody hell, it’s you, eh?”

The boy peered up into the tangle of sweaty armpit.

The score of conversations in the bar faltered, voices stuttering to an eerie silence to hang expectant in the still air. A score of eyes focused on the boy, his face the window of an innocent mind in conflict.

His eyes roved the bleary face.

“Cat got ya bloody tongue then, eh?”

The face mouthed the words in a slur as the head jerked in a hiccup. The eyes rolled in stupor before a careful refocus on the boy.

The Arab waited, as expectant as the rest, for he’d seen the boy arrive, watched him settle on the stoop to share it with a half dozen skeletal dogs waiting for a drover to flee the bar spewing remnants of a greasy breakfast and alcoholic dinner, repast for the mongrel herd, reward for patience.

From the stoop the boy fixed his gaze, as he had so often, at the man becoming more besotted by the minute. And the Arab noted, as he in turn had done so often, the anguish on the boy’s face, conflict in the young mind between love and disgust for he who fathered him.

Da’oud had long ago decided there was no more love in the boy for his father than in the father for his son. It seemed clear that the boy had yet to question instincts, had yet to begin evaluating whether or not his father deserved the endorsement of instinct, let alone adoration. But certainly there was no longer gloss in the boy’s eyes when he looked on his father, merely question. Yet the father had never really seen the boy, the Arab reckoned. To him the lad had ever been but a nuisance, a creature simply there for ten years, tagging, running, straggling along on what had always been a catch-up chase of life, wondering who he was, how, why he was there.

The others in the bar also watched, yet maybe with not the yearning interest of old Da’oud’s eyes. Many times they had witnessed this scene; the present confrontation incited no more interest than to see if it would end as usual. Another standoff was expected, the father becoming more brazen, believing that to reject the recognition the boy sought would enhance his reputation as a man’s man, rather than raise question in mates’ eyes that he might be prey to sentiment.

And none admired the father for his victory when the boy capitulated rather than test the turbulent waters of contrition, nor did they of the boy for doing so. But it had always been good sport to ponder on.

One day, they reckoned, there would be a full-on confrontation, an end to the standoff, a winner and loser.

Old Da’oud wanted to be there when that time came, in case he was needed.

~ * ~

The day began well for the boy. It was not every morning the dawn arrived slowly, and the difference excited him, set him to ponder on how suddenly after weeks of sameness, of the brilliance of a million glittering stars quickly dwindling, or was it dying, as dawn approached, there could be change.

The brightness now faded slowly he realized, for the dawn seemed somehow confused by the haze of cloud awaiting it. For months with regular monotony, eerie shadows had each morning emerged quickly from the blackness into shapes of twisted gums, cobwebs across a grey blanket. Then, in the next instant, the eastern sky would erupt in an orange ball, transforming the entire sky into brilliant azure.

Yet today was different.

His eyes traced the line of straggling cloud, his mind pondering on how it hovered over the horizon, slowing the startling suddenness of the usual channel-country dawn. Yet this cloud would bring no rain, for it was yet but a month since the saltbush collected morning dew. No rain would fall for three or four months yet but he understood the perverse pleasure the cloud probably felt, tantalising station folk who even so early in the season, would be counting days, hoping for a thunderstorm.

Station folk were fools, he believed. Though just as well they were, for if they were not prepared to put up with erratic seasons, cope with the problems of withering dries and slithering wets, there’d be less work for drovers. Cattle and sheep must be moved in the dry, he also knew, to better pastures, even to more or less permanent agistment at times. Or to market. And station folk had the added problem, he’d heard the men say, of carrying all the money risk while the drover didn’t care, simply moved stock and got paid. So why be a farmer?

He had decided long ago, swayed by the droving rationale, that they were fools. Such was the boy’s simple solution to the frustrations of life, which to his mind made simple sense. Station folk had problems, drovers didn’t. Or so his pa ever spouted between hiccups and bouts of vomit.

Certainly droving life had more to offer, not being tied to a station with the curse, the ever-spreading purple weed. Or lack of water. Or too much water. Either way, money must be spent to right things. He’d seen many go bust, walk off the land, sacrifice their spread to the curse, or to the rabbits and roos to now do their bloody worst.

‘Worst’ always came with ‘bloody’. Or with ‘the fuckin’. Usually the latter. He often wondered when one should use ‘bloody’ and when ‘the fuckin’. Learning had ever been a quandary. Yet it was important, he’d come to believe. All drovers and even old Da’oud the camel herder porting their stores were always telling him how important it was to “get some learning”. Yet he’d never seen a drover read a book. Unlike the Arab. That old man had his special book bound in cracked leather. He was forever reading it.

“This book is not for drovers,” he had once told the boy.

“What yer readin’ then?” the lad had asked.

The old man had gently closed the volume and tucked it into his galibiya sleeve where the boy knew was secreted a pocket for holding such treasures.

“The book of wisdom and truth for my people,” he was told. “One day if the will of Allah looks kindly on you, your father might let you stay in the school over the fence, get some learning that you too can read; read books in your language as I read in mine.”

The boy always felt kindly towards the Arab because the old man took an interest, always had time to hear his questions, deal with each as if important. Drovers never had time or inclination; they rather seemed to avoid questions. Avoid answering them at any rate. Even his pa illustrated a lack of interest in all things the boy found important, even impatience about his every interest.

“Now don’t go worrying your mind about those sorts of things,” was his typical answer. “There’ll be time enough for that later, when you’re growed.”

The ‘when you’re growed’ expression was one the boy had ever remembered hearing. It punctuated most answers. It was like the ‘tomorrer’ word he reckoned, that never comes. He had realised for a long time now that he would never ‘be growed’ to the stage of having a question answered, so it would be good in a way he reckoned, if he got to stay in school for a spell, to get enough learning to give answers to questions that nagged his mind.

Black nuns ran a school at Milparinka. Well they were mostly black, except their faces, the round bit of smiling flesh shining from the blackness like a full moon in a starless sky. All he knew of nuns was that they smiled a lot and hated flies.

They’d made a school in one of the houses that convicts built back in the old days. “...to bring learnin’ to station kids and coons,” his pa had said. Not that the boy had ever seen a coon read. Although station kids took to reading, he noted when once at the mission. The team travelled south of Tibooburra maybe once in a busy year and even then they didn’t visit the mission every time, only the pub. One of the black nuns had told Da’oud when delivering furniture that the coons would never stay long enough to learn. They wandered off, she had said, on walkabout, not to return for sometimes months, by which time they’d forgotten all they’d learned before leaving.

But the nuns merely smiled again and tried again. To fail again.

But he would stay if it weren’t too lonely, for just a short time. Shouldn’t take too long to learn the words of a short book, and short books should offer less challenge than long ones, he reckoned.

Old Da’oud told him once that he was a bright lad and would take to learning all right, so maybe it wouldn’t take too long.

Droving didn’t call for book learning, his pa reckoned. He said so one time when the team sat round the fire talking on the boy’s future. It was ever only when others were around that his pa had time for such conversation, and then he didn’t really talk with the boy; he was rather intent on spouting off about stuff he reckoned would impress his mates, make them feel he was interested in the boy, helping him understand, make decisions. But decisions never got made. The boy had come to realise the matter always drifted off on some different tack, with always lots of swearing, cussing and spitting. With plenty of ‘bloodies’ and ‘fuckins’.

But the boy never minded when the matter dropped, when the subject changed. Not that he was pleased they were off it, or that he felt either uneasy or happy about the fact it was him they were spending mental effort on, but because talk around the fire at night, as they sipped tea once the boys had cleared away the pannikins and things, turned to stories: either imagined tales, or past incidents relived. And although he didn’t realise it, these stories were his education. Everything he knew was learned from drover gossip. Around the fire was time for swapping news like who in the district had measles or TB or syphilis.