Gatherers and Hunters Read online

  Time me now, Turner. That wasn’t altogether too bad, young Michael. Now it’s my go. Your brother thinks this will be a walkover, Jim, but I’ve been doing a lot of training up in the dam. Corrie races me. You should see her in Speedos. You should see her without Speedos, but not on your life old sport.

  And Rasmussen gives Jim a shove before he leaps up to the starting post, still laughing. Mick pulls himself out of the water but he knows he has to see just how close his enemy gets to his own new record. His mother, last week, called Mick a Water Otter.

  It is painful to watch. Rasmussen swims like a porpoise, all over the place, rolling and heaving. But he does have that added length and it isn’t all flab in there. He can crack the pace.

  Jim gives a shout: for the first fifty metres the two have just about broken even. Mick senses suddenly that his brother might even be hoping that Rasmussen tops him. Would he have been so hearty had he won his own game? Mick separates himself a little from his brother. One of the younger kids comes out with his towel and offers it: Mick gives him a grin of thanks and realises his attention has been diverted.

  Diverted long enough to let Rasmussen’s pace fall some­how out of his mind. He returns to his brother just in time to note the stopwatch as his brother clicks it immobile. Jim looks up to Mick and wags a finger. There is just one second between them.

  Mick can’t believe it. He had been sure Rasmussen was already flagging after his fifty metre turn. And the turn itself was all water and splash, too untidy by far, enough to get him disqualified in any reasonable competition. That would never happen here, in this school. And not with Rasmussen. Mick knows he would score on points in any fair competition, but when was competition fair?

  That sounds the sort of thing Rasmussen would say.

  It will be a good battle, Jim says and crosses over to Rasmussen to give him the news. They crow together, as Mick cannot help noticing.

  Keep your mind on the swimming and not on your cousin’s Speedos, Jim advises his friend, and they both chortle. It is so unfunny.

  Mick had known, absolutely, that he had given of his best. He had done that race against himself, solo in the pool, even if silently in severe competition with the stationery Rasmussen. Every kick had been pure vitriol.

  Rasmussen comes up to him then, benign because Jim is near at hand. That was with one hand tied behind my back. As it were. Tomorrow’s the real test. And he gives Mick a slap on the back so that it leaves a red mark on his fair skin. There is no way out of this.

  Mick towels himself vigorously. He steps into the shower and lets the cold water wash the chlorine smell off. Jim is still laughing with Rasmussen as he strips off and has his own shower, on the other side of the stalls. At one point he looks over at Mick. He seems almost embarrassed. Mick cannot help it that his skin is so pale. So pale and so freckled where the sun bites it. He took up swimming because it was a way to get into the sun and the water with some purpose; he had thought it would help that look, like a peeled potato, which has been with him for life. Jim and his olive skin: he can stay out in the sun all day and it never matters. Mick has only ever seen someone else as pallid as himself: when Johnny Armstrong came to the school from down in Melbourne, last year. It is terrible to be embarrassed by oneself.

  Two of the other boys come in. That was a good cracking pace, Turner, one of them says. Wish I could manage that just for the fifty metres.

  Nah, his friend says, Turner’s the white seal, you’re the pet cocker spaniel. And they both set to with their towels. Mick pushes through their maelstrom and heads for the clothes pile. Jim and Garth Rasmussen are still talking in the showers, about girls and whatever else causes Jim to laugh so blatantly. It is not like Jim at all.

  Mick feels even more vulnerable. Why should that be?

  +++++

  The last of Mick’s ‘wild Irish’ fits was the worst. Mick remembers it because he can still feel, somewhere deep inside, the outrage and overriding fury of that outrage, when he discovered Jim had meddled in his clothes’ drawer – Mick’s drawer, the second from the top – and had taken the special packet of transfers Aunt Aggie had saved from her cereal packs and handed to Mick when he called over with the chokos from Dad’s garden. Mick had hidden them under his hankies, thinking they’d come in useful sometime.

  Jim, without asking, simply took them and used them on his balsawood planes. He had built six of them, they were his pride and joy. He had varnished four and was waiting for new transfers of Air Force emblems for the others. Mick tore downstairs, two at a time, and crashed open the gate to the downstairs work room where Jim kept his models and his unfinished planes. He thumped Jim over the back with both fists, then pounded him over the head where Jim was sitting. Before even screaming out his rage Mick swept the finished models from their shelf, breaking them, and would have picked up the chisel from the bench if Jim had not been quick enough. Mick had the advantage but Jim had the precision. Mick ended up pushed to the concrete, kicking and flailing as Jim finally pinned him down, after much effort; though Mick’s strength in these outbursts was almost unnatural. Jim had learned a few tactics of his own, and he had the merit of cool-headedness.

  He felt misunderstood.

  +++++

  It is two days later; the morning of the swimming champion­ships. Jim is clearly nettled that their parents have promised to be there. They did not turn up for his tennis contest. Just as well, he thinks but that does not really help. Mick, as usual, manages to be centrestage. Jim eats his four Weet-Bix stoically and shuts up. When his mother asks him about the chemistry test he grunts. He rises from table just as Mick comes in, sluggish as usual. He pulls the pud too much, and that’s the truth. No self-control at all. One day Jim will have his own separate room. Even if he has to leave home to do it.

  Good luck today, Mick, Jim grunts as he whips out his bicycle clips and heads off. Mick looks up and gives a smile, almost of gratitude.

  But at the lunchtime break, just before the races begin and the people are allowed into the school grounds for the contest, Jim, who has been uncharacteristically grumpy all morning, not his usual self-contained self, gets involved in a stupid argument with one of the kids. It is not even someone he has much to do with.

  If I had a brother like Mick Turner I’d get some brown boot polish and polish him up; he’s so white it makes you sick, Colin Thompson had said.

  That was it. Jim grabbed him by the scruff and pushed him against the big jacaranda by the tennis courts.

  What’s that you said about my twin?

  Can’t you take a joke? Why are you and him such different colours, but? Suss to me, that is. Very suss.

  Jim was into him and even he was surprised by the ­vehemence. It took Garth Rasmussen to break in and intervene and even then Jim turned on him and they ended in a wrestling match on the lawn, almost within sight of the Headmaster’s upstairs verandah. It became a real fight.

  Mick heard of it from one of his classmates. He rushed around and found Jim sprawled under Rasmussen and still struggling.

  Something like a white sheet of fury entered Mick’s spirit then. He threw himself on Rasmussen, fists gripping and with a strength that clearly took Rasmussen unprepared, surprising him with a force that unbalanced him and left him sprawling. Jim, released, started to pick himself up.

  Mick had to be forcibly restrained by two or three of the onlookers. His freckled face was flushed deep red and his eyes were almost unseeing in their wildness. They were frightening.

  Rasmussen began laughing, awkwardly, as he dusted himself down and stood up to resume the conflict – with whichever of the brothers chose to be in it. Both, if necessary.

  But that was quickly avoided. Let your brother fight his own battles, one of the boys hissed to Mick. You two can’t gang up like that, let him finish where he started off. It was his fight. And Mick was shaken by several arms gripping his shoulders, to make sure he heard what was being said.

  Slowly he nodded, and then pulled
back.

  Quick! Teacher! One of the others whispered. They all dispersed into separate parts of the yard and Mick was led away by some of the other members of his swimming squad. He was still shaking with something of an echo of that rage, the madness that claimed him and took over, like the times he was a kid, before he learned.

  He had found himself fiercely protective in a way he had not been prepared for. That image of Jim sprawled, on the ground, straddled over by Rasmussen and struggling to get free: what you do at the time of your first emergency is not quite what you might have anticipated, nevertheless what you do is absolute ground base. It is what matters.

  Mick had never thought of his twin in those terms. He had never even asked himself (why should he?) what really matters.

  He looked over to seek out his brother. Jim and Rasmussen over there, laughing together, chiyacking each other.

  Mick turned away. No. It’s no surprise. That deep rage which spurred him into action had been self-generated, no doubt about that. And yet, no, not self-generated, it was something quite outside self.

  He walked up to them and they quietened down.

  He caught Garth Rasmussen’s eye and held it. You lay a finger on my brother, I’m telling you, you’ll have me to contend with. Like you say, Rasmussen, it’s cunning that counts, and once I start nothing can stop me.

  Aw, Mick. Come off it, Jim attempted to intervene.

  Once you get me going, you will regret it, Gat Ratmutton, ask Jim, he will tell you; Mum calls it the wild Irish but if I get started I can’t stop. So don’t get me started, Ratmutton.

  Now Mick … His brother attempted a laugh but nobody was convinced. They were all waiting.

  You tell him, Mick repeated When I was twelve that time you all thought I’d gone out of control. Out of control, that was what Dad said, but I was a machine then, I was a machine.

  Not here, Jim whispered. Mick, you’re getting yourself worked up …

  Too right I am. But I’m telling you, Ratmutton, I can be subtle, too, I can play my own jokes if I have to; remember the salted Weet-Bix, Jim? Remember that time?

  Jim looked almost grateful. His brother had somehow defused himself, that frightening head of steam had been prevented from building up. When was it, two years ago? Jim knew his brother’s eye was no longer fixed onto Garth Rasmussen. Jim played back the opening.

  Not the week of the salted Weet-Bix! he exclaimed with such unexpected vehemence that everyone broke up. Jim Turner was not noted for dramatic acting; that was his brother’s line. They all wanted to know more, and even Mick ended up laughing and explaining.

  Jim let his brother move back centre stage.

  Every morning, regular as the milkman’s horse, Jim has these four Weet-Bix. Mick gave a wink to his brother. You can time him, too. Quarter to eight on the dot – pick up the Weet-Bix packet, shove out four Weet-Bix. Reach for the sugar bowl. Three big spoonfuls of sugar, over the Weet-Bix. Pour in the milk – from the side, never on top. Let the milk seep up the dry sides and when the sugar begins to melt and not before, then Jim shoves in his spoon and the swishing and dunking begin. It is 7.48 exactly by then. I’ve timed it. Regular as clockwork.

  Mick’s always running late, his brother put in.

  Weet-Bix, sugar, and then milk. In that order. Every time. What would happen, Jim, if you put the milk in before the sugar? I’ve even suggested Jim put the milk in first, like an ocean to float his Weet-Bix in. You think he’s interested?

  Only Mick would suggest milk in first. He’s got no sense of order.

  Well, I decided something had to be done, before Jim turned into clockwork himself. I got up early before piano practice and I filled the sugar bowl with salt. No one saw me.

  But didn’t your parents …?

  Dad doesn’t have cereal and Mum always waits till we’re finished. Jim is always first with the sugar bowl. In this case, with the salt bowl.

  But you can tell the difference. You can feel it.

  At 7.48 am? Jim didn’t give it a thought.

  That’s true. Not at first.

  Until he took his first mouthful.

  Ugh! I’ll get you for that, Mick. I’ll think up some revenge, just you wait.

  I’ll help you, Garth Rasmussen said. Who could endure salt on his Weet-Bix? What a sacrilege to a Weet-Bix. What did it taste like, Jim?

  But Mick gave his brother a bear hug. Jim’s making deep plots, I know. Will my stamp collection be safe? Or has Jim hidden plans to short-sheet my bed and sprinkle it with pepper? Tell you this, salt Weet-Bix, once tasted never forgotten.

  Mick’s black rage seemed as if it had never existed it had evaporated so completely. Jim looked on, hands in pockets, his fingers rubbing bruised knuckles against the tight cloth.

  +++++

  They all ended up in a gang making down to the races. Mick in the centre and Jim more or less quietly mingling with the others. Not with Garth Rasmussen either. He remembered being under him, and carried his own quiet feelings of unforgiveness.

  It was, in fact, Jim who insistently spread the tag name of Ratmutton till it became currency, at least for that year.

  Mick himself was looking forward to the big race, almost upon him. It did not matter, now, that when he stood on the blocks, his tight belly and muscly buttocks under the Speedo racing togs were pale as a peeled potato, or a white seal.

  Turkish Coffee

  Dragana had already cleaned all the sauce from her plate of pasta. She had broken the bread with relentless fingers. ‘Only a light meal, a small salad,’ she had said when they first sat down. Rachel was still using her fork to divide the pale, dry sections of gemfish. These looked – and tasted – like string. Something out of the deep freeze. But almost anything she tried, today, would seem tasteless.

  Dragana with sharp eyes scanned the crowded Italian ­restaurant. They were squeezed at a small table alongside the major party, twenty birthday celebrants, everyone in black. It was a very Melbourne function, the men swarthy and the women elegantly coiffed. Dragana’s suit was plum coloured, the waist nipped in with a conscientious neatness that betrayed its origins.

  ‘Do you know I was in Belgrade in March? The twenty-fourth of March, when the Americans began their bombing. Yes, I was there, and only halfway through my research; I would be there now.’

  ‘How did you escape?’ Rachel’s interest was aroused. She had met Dragana only twice before. A mutual acquaintance, the formidable Ortrun, had declared Dragana a fire-breathing monster. Rachel was of course impressed. Anyone who challenged Ortrun had to be, at the least, estimable. Dragana, tonight, was all smiles and constant, if firm, chatter.

  ‘I should be in Belgrade still. But we crossed the border into Hungary and went up to Budapest. Two weeks after the bombing started. I am from Belgrade. I was born in Belgrade, so I felt these things.’

  More Italians had arrived at the long table, more than there was seating for. The newcomers were also young, or youngish, and in black. The women’s smiles were magnificent, their hair sleek and even more magnificent. Two of the young men, closest to Rachel, had at least four rings on each hand, heavy gold. She imagined gleaming medallions on golden chains rubbing their dark chest hair, but tonight silk ties were tight to the neck; and arms, in their expensive suits, sprawled everywhere, sometimes impeding the waiters. How they carry all that flamboyance, she thought. Such unselfconsciousness. She was a real sucker for that. She fell for it every time. And yet, beneath those well-tailored suits, they were probably only boys. But they all looked so young these days; she must not be critical.

  The most expensive items from the primi were most popular: giant king prawns and the Moreton Bay bugs. Rachel carefully placed her knife and fork in a parallel flank among the discarded gemfish shreds and the steamed carrot and broccoli. She reached for the wine bottle and replenished Dragana’s goblet.

  ‘Now. Yourself. What have you been doing?’ But the waiter appeared with the Dessert selection before Rachel could reply and D
ragana was instantly declaring her intentions. ‘This ice cream? What are the three flavours? I will not have chocolate, but if you have three flavours without chocolate, that is what I will have. And a little cream. Then, as a finish, give me the short black coffee. I always have a Turkish coffee at home but that is not expected here, so I will have a short black. And you, Rachel, have you chosen?’

  There was a time when Rachel had almost invented Turkish coffee for herself. It was a drug. Then she had tasted real Turkish coffee in Istanbul. She had returned to Australia bearing a large brass samovar, two prayer rugs and an even more passionate taste for genuine Turkish coffee.

  In time she had settled for Nescafe Espresso, but that was many years later. Many many years later, and the incident of the fortune teller no longer reminded her so insistently.

  It is funny how the mind censors many things, how the past remodels itself in accordance with present predilections. It is as if we take what we will, or what we remember, out of a grab bag of memories with all the skill of a juggler, whose very art is not only precision, but deception. Everything must appear to be more difficult than it is. Everything must appear easier, almost a gift. Everything is on the surface. Everything is hidden.

  That was where the fortune teller rankled. Rachel was not really filled, ever, with the trickeries or the difficulties of Turkey. She had, before that wonderful expedition, read her guide books and her histories. She was not one to stride down a bazaar wearing a short summer dress and sandals. Long flowing robes were infinitely more delightful and she knew she could never attempt them back in Brisbane. She wore heavy necklaces and amulets, earrings and bulky finger rings. She bartered with gestures and fingers and all the primal numbers in Arabic, which she had memorised while waiting for three hours at Bahrain airport. She knew when to walk away and when to throw up her hands. It was with infinite sadness that she finally accepted the penury of the stall holder and graciously consented to accept his trinket for a ridiculously small exchange of coins.