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  Ern had spent hours listening to the rise and fall of that saw.

  The horse’s circular path was so deeply worn the poor animal, in rushing past the shed, had to almost hurdle the saw’s drive shaft.

  A very high chair supported Coolman in a half-standing position, and his hat was low and angled so that it concealed most of his face. His clothes—which he had insisted his wife stitch, belt, lace and pull so tightly—appeared to be all that prevented him from becoming just another mound of rotting matter and bristling hair.

  Daniel Coolman worked in the shadow cast by a large stack of dressed and very well-seasoned timber. Clearly, business was not brisk.

  Smoke hung about him as if he was slowly combusting. But even the smoke could not disguise the smell of something bad; something that had gone off, some dead and inadequately buried thing.

  ‘I een etrayed,’ he kept repeating. ‘Tricked eye an old cheater. Deserted eye a ruther.’

  He turned to Ernest, took a halting step, his outstretched hand quivering with the effect of that footfall. ‘And now I rely on a coufle o gins to dress ee each day.’ He laughed, blasting stale air into Ern’s face. The old man’s whiskers fluttered across the hole of his mouth like a curtain. There was no upper lip, and yellow teeth hid behind a damp curtain of whiskers.

  The saw sometimes called to Ern, and he would visit Daniel and his timber yard. His pocket-watch and vantage point helped him avoid the young woman, and he sometimes noted an older woman leaving early in the mornings with a horse and cart.

  My great-grandmother, Daniel’s wife—Harriette Coolman—used to go hunting. It was she who supported the family. For the sake of the town’s mental peace—Harriette, after all, was a black—Daniel provided the appearance of working while Harriette smuggled children to the bush and back each day, wanting them to learn what she knew, and hunted and gathered most of their nourishment. Each time she did her shopping she took her shuffling husband with her for support and security against an insecure town which might suddenly turn hostile. She kept the house as clean as anyone—lest they ever doubt—and she washed and stitched, organised and sheltered those that she could; we survivors.

  Knowing nothing of this, Ern kept returning. The stack of timber continued to grow. Coolman was maintaining a habit.

  ‘Can’t stot irking now, you know.’

  Rheumatoid arthritis had made him so swollen and distended, he said (although it took Ern a little time to realise his words); and his pipe had given him cancer of the upper lip. Ern was grateful for such rational explanations.

  Daniel Coolman wheezed as he spoke, and the missing lip fluted his breath in strange ways. But once you adjusted, Ern found, he was easy enough to understand.

  ‘Isness is ad,’ he said.

  And clever Ern could see what he meant. He’d not seen a single customer enter the yard. Although later, recalling the conversation, Ern wondered whether in fact the old man had been suggesting something about the relationship between accounting, or accumulation, and a state of being.

  ‘I used to cart oughter, ut now...’ Coolman shrugged his shoulders, and for an instant the bootlaces which held his coat across his chest loosened fractionally. His age, his health, his problems. It was difficult to put it all into words, let alone words he could pronounce.

  On one visit, the circling grey horse suddenly fell over. There was a thump as it hit the earth, and then an eerie silence. Ern and Daniel looked at one another, then walked over to the corpse. It took them quite a time; Daniel was only capable of a slow shuffle. He used the journey to explain the death. The horse must have inherited a weak heart, he said. He’d thought the weakness had been bred out of that line. It was difficult to know, was always a surprise, he said—pensive, soft, sibilant—how some characteristics can throw back right across the generations. They looked down at the dead animal, its imprint a little wider than its body. Already it was shrinking into the land, leaving only its mark, its one true record, before being rushed away.

  Ernest eked out the work on the stables. He had his savings, was getting food and a bed. In the short term he didn’t need much else, and he loved this work. Well, it was hardly work. He loved it, loved constructing things. He had always enjoyed the building of something from nothing; straight wood, iron, a stack of bricks. But it surprised him to so enjoy a reconstruction.

  Ah, so perhaps there is something my grandfather and I have in common, after all.

  The publican would shout him a beer or two. That was enough.

  Ernest Solomon Scat went up on the roof whenever he thought the woman would be in sight. ‘That roof is taking a long time,’ the publican shouted from below.

  The young woman’s name, the publican explained, was Kathleen, and she worked for Sergeant Hall who had as good as adopted her. ‘Must’ve been a couple of the old people survived, after all,’ he said. Ernest did not ask for an explanation. Did not say, ‘Survived what?’ Even then it was obvious. It was not the sort of question anyone bothered to put, and very few people wanted it answered.

  He asked Daniel, ‘The father a white man?’

  ‘Oh es,’ wheezed Daniel. Sometimes, listening to him, Ern thought he could still hear the saw, somewhere away in the distance. Although no horse circled, the circle remained. Perhaps the old fella’s fluting hissing speech merely enticed the memory.

  ‘Look at her, you can tell. Sun tines, they’re verry fair. Vy children, sun o then, you oodn’t know. Girls varried viners and farmers. Ee don’t see dem now. Vy voy is ere...’

  Ern let the details wash over him. They soaked into him. He let a lonely old man talk, and speak of when he first moved to the area, was a teamster, built roads...

  Ern was thinking of the information he could add to Auber’s diagrams, and of grand theories. How he could help.

  He stayed longer, choosing some timber, waiting for the girl.

  Half-caste, he thought, as if the language gave him the authority to verify Daniel’s words.

  Of course, Ern needed a woman. Daniel and he spoke of this. ‘I have a wonderful wife,’ Daniel would say. After all, Ern agreed, what do you want a woman for? Such a wife would be beholden to him. They would see the treatment the natives get, and be grateful. ‘She looks after me, know what I mean?’ said Daniel. ‘A wonderful mother.’

  And then one day, approaching the yard, Ern saw a stranger handsawing timber, over by the water tanks. Daniel Coolman’s disembodied arm, floating in the sunlight, emerged from the shade and pointed at the stranger. ‘Vy nephew,’ said Daniel. ‘Jack.’

  My Uncle Jack Chatalong. Once more I realise what a curious name it is. As a boy, apparently, it suited him well. Yet when Uncle Will first—so generously—introduced us, it seemed singularly inappropriate; Jack was so quiet. However once he recognised me, he began to speak, and the words flowed as if they had been dammed-up too long. It was a deluge of words which drowned my grandfather’s own, flooding them so that Grandad’s filed notes and pages seemed like nothing so much as debris and flotsam remaining after some watery cataclysm. It was rubbish, for sure, but I clung to it for so long because it was all I knew.

  Jack Chatalong’s home was a hut—you could not call it a humpy—and the very piece of land that Sandy One Mason had once held as a Miner’s Homestead Lease. ‘On the coast?’ the warden had asked. ‘That’s my business,’ Sandy One told him. Chatalong lived there, but had no lease. He kept himself apart, believed he kept his independence. He heard the sea as he woke, and through a gap in the dunes could see the tiny beach.

  Stand on that sheltered beach and you find yourself on a thin strip of weak and riddled limestone, which rises from the water’s edge for a short distance before diving under the dry dunes. Still further up, there grows a grove of peppermint trees.

  The sea rolled small pieces of limestone at Uncle Jack’s feet and, bubbling from the sandy shallows, a quite different sort of rock raises itself. Hard, smooth boulders, grey and brown; and further out the same rock, mixed with coral
, trips the waves and keeps the water between it and the shore calm, but forever trembling.

  Ten minutes walk along the beach to the right, to the west, and near a tiny spring-fed creek, is what you feel obliged to call an island, even though it is so very small and close to shore. A small swell lunges against its back. Then the beach curves out of sight, reappearing in the distance as a smudge of land reaching out to the sea. Chatalong used to walk around that curve to reach the shelter of Wirlup Haven.

  Shelter, at least, from the sea and winter gales.

  Jack Chatalong had taken some trouble with his hut, even though it was an irregular and secret home, he being so often away and working on the farmers’ land. It was made of materials gleaned from other people’s rubbish, and timber pilfered from Daniel’s huge stockpile. It was a sturdy hut, walled with hessian and flattened kerosene tins. A bit of maintenance and care, he thought, and it would easily outlast him.

  He did various work for local farmers and householders; a lot of things with horses, and equipment. Sometimes carted wood, or water. He occasionally spent a day at the tiny store; mending bicycles, helping cart and stack supplies. Regularly, still, there were consecutive months of work on Starr’s property.

  Starr had kept his long-ago promise, and arranged for Jack’s education, after a fashion, and fed and clothed him in return for his labour. But when Chatalong found he could get paid for the same work, and that his skills were valued ... Well, of course he moved away when he could. He was good with horses. He kept to himself, just an occasional visit to the camps of those who cleared the land for the farmers. There was less and less clearing required, and the people became protected, and were kept away from the edge of their traditional runs.

  There were no police stationed in Wirlup Haven, and Jack was known by the few residents, had been since he was a child, and was still remembered as Sandy One’s young boy who went wild for a bit. He’d go to the pub most evenings for a few drinks with the few regular working men that were there.

  Then one day, the pub had a new owner.

  what reason

  Gebalup October 26, 1929

  The Chief Protector of Aborigines

  Dear Sir,

  In regards of the Aboriginals Act has it I am a half-caste and I Don’t mix up with the Blacks and I work Hard and Earn a living the same as a white man would my mother was a black woman and my father was a white man and I can Read and write But I have now Been barred from going Into a Pub and having a drink because I have got no permit so Could you do any thing in the way of granting me a certificate of exemption.

  Yours faithfully,

  Jack Chatalong

  The Officer in Charge

  Gebalup Police Station

  Re. Aborigines Act, 1905

  Section 63—Exemptions

  I have received a communication from Jack Chatalong of Wirlup Haven asking that he be exempted from the provisions of the Aborigines Act, and in order that I may be in a position to decide the matter I shall be glad if you will supply replies to the following questions, and to return the form to me as early as possible.

  Yours,

  A O Neville

  Chief Protector of Aborigines and Fisheries

  ABORIGINAL ACT, 1905

  SECTION 63—EXEMPTIONS

  1. What is the full name of applicant for exemptions: Jack Chatalong

  2. Alias (if any):—

  3. Age: approx. Twenty-eight years

  4. Parentage: Mother—Aboriginal (woman named Dinah) Father—unknown

  5. Where does applicant live, and what is his mode of living?

  As a child lived with Sandy Mason (deceased) and a black woman, Fanny. More recently lives quietly by himself. Clean and respectable, although it is believed he may have been involved with some disreputable native persons in his youth.

  6. Is the applicant married? No.

  7. How does applicant earn his living? General labour, farrier, teamster, shepherd etc.

  8. Does applicant in any way consort with other natives or half-castes?

  Applicant is seldom seen with other natives or half-castes, other than his mother and half(?)-brother and sister. He has been warned regarding supplying liquor to natives travelling in the vicinity of the town. Natives are believed to have visited the senior Mason’s camp, when he was alive, and particularly in his absence.

  9. Does applicant have a good character? Yes.

  10. Is applicant addicted to drink, or likely to introduce liquor amongst other natives or half-castes?

  Not addicted to drink, always a big chance of supplying natives etc however we are usually able to keep natives away from this town.

  To Under Secretary

  Aborigines and Fisheries

  The attached application for exemption under the Aborigines Act is submitted for the Honourable Minister’s consideration. In view of the fact that the application is only made in order that the applicant may enter hotels, and that there is a chance of his supplying liquor to natives if the request be complied with, I recommend that the application be refused.

  A O Neville

  Chief Protector

  Mr Jack Chatalong

  Half-caste

  Wirlup Haven

  Sir,

  With reference to your letter of the 26th October last, applying for a certificate of exemption under the Aborigines Act, I am directed by the Chief Protector of Aborigines to advise you that your application cannot be granted.

  I have the honour to be

  Sir

  Your Obedient Servant...

  Wirlup Haven

  Dec 17, 1929

  To the Chief Protector of Aborigines

  Sir,

  On the twenty sixth of last October I applied for a certificate of Exemption and Received a letter stating that my application can not be granted. Please can you tell me for what Reason my application can not be granted and another thing I would like to know am I under the Aborigines Act or am I not and if I am under the Aborigines Act I don’t think it is right that I should be under the Aborigines Act Because I do not mix up with them nor live with them and I am always with white people.

  I am yours

  faithfully,

  Jack Chatalong

  a half-caste

  Jack Chatalong

  Wirlup Haven

  Jan 3, 1930

  Sir,

  In reply to your letter of the 17th ultimo. I beg to advise you that the reason you have been refused a Certificate of Exemption under the Aborigines Act is that insufficient evidence has been submitted to show why the privilege should be granted to you. Being a half-caste you come within the provisions of the Aborigines Act though half-castes are not specifically referred to in every section. In this connection however I would point out that there is a penalty for supplying liquor to aborigines or half-castes.

  I have the honour to be

  Sir

  Your Obedient Servant...

  strictly routine singing

  Sergeant Hall walked into the space Ernest had almost finished enclosing, complimented him on the work he had done on the stables, and asked whether he might consider a similar sort of job at the police station. They were getting a motor car and could sell off their horses. Nineteen thirty. So it was not before time. If he could do it for keep, plus a little extra?

  Ernest agreed, having formed, if not a plan, then the beginnings of one. And he needed more time in this place.

  He made a small camp in the shed where Daniel sawed the timber. Sometimes he thought he heard children’s voices coming from somewhere deep among the water tanks. He reasoned that it must be all those tanks detecting, altering, amplifying other sounds. But there seemed so many voices, particularly when he awoke in the very early morning.

  It was dark, and Chatalong stood in the doorway. Daniel would have preferred him to stay right where he was, would have kept him there or tossed him clear out. But he was unable to get himself upright. Harriette joked him out of his fit of pique, said she�
�d tickle him like a belly-up crab, and then explained to Chatalong that Daniel was worried. The government had written to Policeman Hall about us, and Daniel didn’t want any trouble for his family.

  Harriette and Chatalong sat on the ground amongst the water tanks and lumber. Chatalong seemed reluctant to speak. He spat, looked at the ground between his feet as if expecting something to grow from his spittle, despite the cold and darkness. He looked across at the policeman’s house, its corrugated iron roof gleaming like a slice of the sea in moonlight, its lines of swell frozen, and being tipped up, tipped away. Similar surfaces, curved, tilted this way and that all around them.

  Chatalong was reluctant to talk, didn’t want to say what kept running through his head but at the same time he wanted to speak it, release it, not hear it again. His own humiliation. This continuing betrayal.