the cemetery,
his cane tapping a route home.
He says,
‘Sometimes it’s all right being the way I am.
Not having to see things.’
When we reach his front gate,
he holds out his hand and asks,
‘Are you still a Catholic, Mr Carter?’
Before I answer,
he adds,
‘If you are.
And I hope you are.
Burn a candle for Colleen
next time you’re in church.’
Eddie
Sally and me walk along the banks of the river
without saying a word.
Kingfishers and swallows,
creekdippers and acrobats,
swoop along the surface.
We duck under the branches of the willows
and cross the stream.
The water swirls around my knees
as I grip her hand.
We take nervous steps
through the cold rush,
our feet gripping the stones below.
When we reach the far bank
I struggle out onto the high ground
and help her climb up the track.
On Jaspers Hill
we lie in the grass
under the cliffs,
away from town,
away from the memory of yesterday.
Sally kisses me
and I don’t want to run this time.
I wrap my arms around her.
Then, in one quick movement,
Sally leans back and takes off her jumper,
tossing it behind her.
She’s wearing a thin top
that clings to my fingers
as my hands drift over her body.
Sally grips my shoulders.
Her nails press into my skin
as she moves closer.
I smell her faint perfume,
feel her lips,
soft and welcoming.
My hands fumble under her blouse
exploring, awkward.
Her hand slips into my shirt
and I almost jump in fright.
I don’t know what to do
with her fevered skin tingling
under my big clumsy hands.
She takes my hand,
placing it between her legs,
and the shock of her warmth
surges through me.
She pushes me back
and we are rubbing, touching, fondling,
doing things I’ve only dared think about.
Sally’s breathing, my hands,
her lips, her face, her skin,
her smell, her touch,
fill my afternoon.
Albert Holding
The pub is quiet
with me and Johnno the bartender,
alone,
drinking the bitter brew of a desolate afternoon.
I told Laycock I was finishing early
and walked off before he could respond.
There’s nothing at home for me.
I’m holding a glass of the only friend I’ve got.
Johnno sips his beer
and rabbits on about last Friday
and how everyone drank far too much,
and when Sergeant Grainger came in on Saturday
asking him to name the drunks,
Johnno scoffed and said,
‘Every bloke in town, mate.’
So we’re all suspects, I guess.
I lean close to Johnno,
raise my glass,
swill it down
and say, ‘Thanks.
One more for the guilty.’
He looks at me in horror.
‘Guilty of being drunk on Friday, you drongo.’
He pours another as Fatty comes through the door,
looking pale and bloated,
like a fish tossed up on the bank.
He puffs,
‘Just a shandy for me, thank you.’
He sits beside me at the bar
and starts on.
‘I’m so sorry for the parents.
It’s a bad business for Burruga.
A blight on our future, you could say.’
I down my beer in one gulp,
and say,
‘There’s only one bloke who can make it right,
Fatty.’
I leave my money on the counter
and walk out.
Sergeant Grainger
The clock ticks past two in the morning
and the kettle boils on the stove.
Another cup of tea is better than sleep.
I’ve had a week of stories:
beer on Friday till closing,
rude singing, bad jokes,
and staggering home to a cold dinner
and an angry missus.
Some blokes want to take up a collection
for the O’Connors,
to help with the expenses,
and they asked me to look into it.
Everyone mentions how pretty Colleen was.
They didn’t see her like me,
at the end,
on the sand.
That’s what I can’t shake.
It keeps me awake,
going over every detail.
Particularly the Holding family.
No one saw Eddie on Friday night
and all he told me
is he sat up a tree beside the railway station
watching Butcher run late for the train.
So if I believe Eddie,
I should talk to Butcher again
and make more calls to the city.
Still no mother.
Albert Holding was as
his cane tapping a route home.
He says,
‘Sometimes it’s all right being the way I am.
Not having to see things.’
When we reach his front gate,
he holds out his hand and asks,
‘Are you still a Catholic, Mr Carter?’
Before I answer,
he adds,
‘If you are.
And I hope you are.
Burn a candle for Colleen
next time you’re in church.’
Eddie
Sally and me walk along the banks of the river
without saying a word.
Kingfishers and swallows,
creekdippers and acrobats,
swoop along the surface.
We duck under the branches of the willows
and cross the stream.
The water swirls around my knees
as I grip her hand.
We take nervous steps
through the cold rush,
our feet gripping the stones below.
When we reach the far bank
I struggle out onto the high ground
and help her climb up the track.
On Jaspers Hill
we lie in the grass
under the cliffs,
away from town,
away from the memory of yesterday.
Sally kisses me
and I don’t want to run this time.
I wrap my arms around her.
Then, in one quick movement,
Sally leans back and takes off her jumper,
tossing it behind her.
She’s wearing a thin top
that clings to my fingers
as my hands drift over her body.
Sally grips my shoulders.
Her nails press into my skin
as she moves closer.
I smell her faint perfume,
feel her lips,
soft and welcoming.
My hands fumble under her blouse
exploring, awkward.
Her hand slips into my shirt
and I almost jump in fright.
I don’t know what to do
with her fevered skin tingling
under my big clumsy hands.
She takes my hand,
placing it between her legs,
and the shock of her warmth
surges through me.
She pushes me back
and we are rubbing, touching, fondling,
doing things I’ve only dared think about.
Sally’s breathing, my hands,
her lips, her face, her skin,
her smell, her touch,
fill my afternoon.
Albert Holding
The pub is quiet
with me and Johnno the bartender,
alone,
drinking the bitter brew of a desolate afternoon.
I told Laycock I was finishing early
and walked off before he could respond.
There’s nothing at home for me.
I’m holding a glass of the only friend I’ve got.
Johnno sips his beer
and rabbits on about last Friday
and how everyone drank far too much,
and when Sergeant Grainger came in on Saturday
asking him to name the drunks,
Johnno scoffed and said,
‘Every bloke in town, mate.’
So we’re all suspects, I guess.
I lean close to Johnno,
raise my glass,
swill it down
and say, ‘Thanks.
One more for the guilty.’
He looks at me in horror.
‘Guilty of being drunk on Friday, you drongo.’
He pours another as Fatty comes through the door,
looking pale and bloated,
like a fish tossed up on the bank.
He puffs,
‘Just a shandy for me, thank you.’
He sits beside me at the bar
and starts on.
‘I’m so sorry for the parents.
It’s a bad business for Burruga.
A blight on our future, you could say.’
I down my beer in one gulp,
and say,
‘There’s only one bloke who can make it right,
Fatty.’
I leave my money on the counter
and walk out.
Sergeant Grainger
The clock ticks past two in the morning
and the kettle boils on the stove.
Another cup of tea is better than sleep.
I’ve had a week of stories:
beer on Friday till closing,
rude singing, bad jokes,
and staggering home to a cold dinner
and an angry missus.
Some blokes want to take up a collection
for the O’Connors,
to help with the expenses,
and they asked me to look into it.
Everyone mentions how pretty Colleen was.
They didn’t see her like me,
at the end,
on the sand.
That’s what I can’t shake.
It keeps me awake,
going over every detail.
Particularly the Holding family.
No one saw Eddie on Friday night
and all he told me
is he sat up a tree beside the railway station
watching Butcher run late for the train.
So if I believe Eddie,
I should talk to Butcher again
and make more calls to the city.
Still no mother.
Albert Holding was as
Similar Books
