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  That was until they decided to move, and planted a huge crop to dry and package for taking along to the city to sell as the need arose – to finance getting established. They had lined up a small inner-city flat, and they’d play it casual and keep a low profile to start with. Sell a few pounds to mates who’d already moved to the city …

  As they drove into the city in Turk’s V8 Commodore, which they’d actually both helped buy, they hooted. Whoooooo! We’re here! We’re gunna be mega! Crossing the Causeway, they looked at the skyscrapers and then at the river and said, It looks beautiful. And it was as the evening set in and the sun played out its last tricks on the water. Neither of them was averse to sentimental or even romantic moments. They had layers and layers to them, Ellie used to say. She was the girl they’d screwed together. She loved them both and cried when they left. Don’t worry, Ellie, we’ll come and visit you.

  The flat was furnished, so they only had their clothes and stuff plus twenty pounds of mull. They’d vacuum-sealed the heads in plastic and stacked them neatly in a chest of drawers. On a glass table in the centre of their tiny loungeroom, they placed their prized clay dragon bongs.

  Blue says he’ll mull up while Turk nips out to get something quick to eat. Neither of them minds cooking, but they haven’t had time to shop. When Turk gets back with Chinese they pull a few cones together, though Blue has already had a few. Blue, ya bastard, you could have waited, says Turk, laughing and punching Blue on the arm. Blue rocks sideways to lessen the impact and laughs as well. They are happy, real happy.

  And it goes on like that for a few weeks. They get in a groove. During the day they sleep. At night they go clubbing. A few old mates pop around and Turk and Blue shift a few pounds. They sell it cheap – three thousand a pound. And their punters know the quality. They can live like this for ages. And then why not put in another crop out in the bush back home? Already they are thinking about a bigger place. Already they are thinking about girls who might want to hang with them, rather than just come here after clubbing, smoke their dope in exchange for a fuck, crash out, smoke more in the morning then go. Turk and Blue want more than that in life. They are looking for meaningful relationships.

  You guys are pretty weird, says one girl after they ask if she’ll screw them both. In bed together. A threesome. We’re mates, they laugh, it doesn’t worry us. But it worries me, she says. I came home with Blue. But it’s not fair, says Blue, the other chick you were with said she was coming, then changed her mind. Where does that leave Turk?

  As one might expect, word got around that these country boys had a lot of good mull. Turk and Blue were oblivious to the problems with this, or maybe considered themselves immune, so used to not having to watch their backs because the one was always there looking out for the other. A lot of good mull. Bowl always full. The girls they took around to their place spread the word through the clubs. And lots of girls went home with them. A few with big ambitions came back again and again and got really close to one or the other of them, and tried the divide-and-conquer technique – if you want me, then it’s time you moved on from your mate. But it never worked. I can tell you now, whatever happens, Turk and Blue remain loyal to each other. There’s no flaw in their relationship.

  But what does happen is that the word unsurprisingly reaches some of the big dealers in the clubs and they want a bit of the action. At first it’s Sell us a bit of your gear, which Turk and Blue refuse to do, saying they’re not selling (being more than happy with their chain of distribution through old friends). But soon it becomes threatening: Where do you get this dope we hear so much about?

  It won’t be long until we have the cops at our front door, Turk says to Blue. Yeah. Maybe we should shift all the shit straight away? And that’s what they do. They sell twelve pounds at two thousand a pound and keep a pound for smoking themselves. The rest has already gone.

  You know, Blue, if the cops bust us with a pound we could still go for dealing. That’s true, says Turk. I tell you what, I reckon it’s time we moved from here anyway. The inner city is pretty boring. Not a bloody tree in sight and I don’t know about you, but I am getting pretty sick of clubbing. And Blue, to tell the truth, you’ve been looking pretty crook lately.

  Yeah, Turk, too many eckies and booze. Was much better when we used to stick to the mull. Do you know, we’ve been here months and we’ve never been down to the river. I mean, to sit by the river and watch it flow by. We don’t do much of anything. And I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but I am bored of fucking these girls who don’t give a shit. I miss Ellie.

  So do I, Blue, so do I.

  And we haven’t been home the whole time. We’re losing our identity here, Turk. I don’t like it.

  Nor do I, Blue, nor do I.

  And so the boys decided to go out with a bang that night. We’ll visit the clubs, invite all the girls and scaly dealers we’ve met there, and invite them to our place for an early morning bongfest. We’ll blow them out like they’ve never been blown out before. We’ll mull up the entire pound of heads we’ve got left and leave a smoke haze over the city. If the cops come within a hundred feet of the place, they’ll get so stoned from breathing the air they won’t know what the fuck’s goin’ on!

  So that’s about it, really. Not much of a tale. The party didn’t last long because some of the heavy dudes that came with the girls stole the dope direct from the bowls the boys had laid out. They pushed Turk and Blue up against the wall and demanded to know where their stash was hidden. Now, Turk and Blue could have smashed those blokes, but they’ve never been violent boys. They just said, Sorry, but that’s it. All we’ve got.

  The heavy dudes ransacked the place while the girls laughed and the boys laughed with them. Finding nothing, they smoked what dope was left around the table and went off with their ill-gotten gains. By three in the morning, and without too much noise or even too much smoke in the air, the flat was cleared. The boys tidied up the next day, and when they closed the boot on the Commodore and looked back up the stairs to their old centre of operations, it was with a clear conscience. Other than a few burn marks in the carpet, they were leaving it pretty well as good as they got it. They had paid up a few more months’ rent so they placed the key on the table and locked the door behind them, leaving a phone message for the real estate agent. Keep the change, they said.

  Back home, almost every night for a fortnight, the boys were guests at someone’s house, or at a party. Even the shire president had them around for an evening. What are you going to do now, boys?

  We thought we might look into setting up house with Ellie.

  The mayor, who was no wilting daisy, smiled and slapped them both on the back. That’s it, boys, keep it local. You’re an advertisement for the town. We all know you could have made it big in the city but you’ve chosen to come back here. And while you were gone, our young folk went off the rails, you know. Without your guidance we’ve had all sorts of trouble.

  That was the first news Turk and Blue had heard on returning. Speed had come into town through an outsider, and all the kids had gone crazy. A couple were up on assault charges, a good girl on theft charges. Ellie had tried to kill herself with an overdose of hammer. That’s what the world comes to when it loses the guiding lights of a generation.

  Turk and Blue and Ellie are happy now. The three of them still make a run to the city every so often to move their produce, but all in all, they are homebodies. The boys are coaching the local footy team. Ellie is pregnant, so she has given up smoking and drinking. Turk and Blue tell the tale of the last big smoke-up over and over, always adding that the inner city is not like the rest of the city. When they say this, they flick their hair, and even occasionally blow their nose and wipe it on whatever’s handy. I can tell you that they never did this while clubbing in the city. It’s a testament to their level of comfort back home. It’s where they fit in, and it’s where they belong.

  THE FAVOURED SON

  How did I get this hole through
my hand? It’s a bullet hole. Bullet went straight through the back of the hand and out of the palm. In and out. True. The evidence is there for you to see. You can poke your finger into the hole. It’s sealed in the middle, but you can still tell. That happened twenty-five years ago. Yes, I’ll tell you how …

  I’d been wandering around the south-west for a couple of years when I came across the Family. I should say right from the beginning that this was what they called themselves, and what they were known as in the tight-knit orchard town of Z. It wasn’t a religious thing – well, they were religious –strict Catholics – but I mean, it wasn’t like a cult or anything. They were all related – all close family – just part of what we might now call the cliché of the hard-working Italian migrant family. Two generations who came out together in the late fifties and kids who were born in the early sixties and on. From scraps of land they built up orchards and market gardens in no time – the whole family labouring from sunup to sundown when the kids weren’t at school. They mixed with other Italian migrant families, and fought to keep their values. Out our way in the central wheatbelt, we saw a few Italian families – a lot more Slav single men who had come out to do the clearing, and stayed single in their tin and asbestos huts on forty acres, all their lives. We – the old farming families – didn’t get on well with the ‘Eyetie’ kids at school, truth be told. We used every name we heard from our own for them, and others we invented. We used to joke that they only ever drove red Dodge trucks, which was pretty ridiculous considering my dad had a Dodge truck.

  So I arrived at Z and started asking around for work, as I usually did when I arrived in a new town. I had my swag and a few dollars left from the last orchard I’d worked in. I went straight to the front bar of the pub, ordered a beer, and got chatting to the barmaid. She told me they were looking for hay carters out at the Family’s place. I looked sidelong at her and asked if it was a religious thing, of course. Nope, that’s just our name for them. They stick close together. Then, for no apparent reason, she said, Vince – that’s Vincenzo – is a spunk. That was more information than I needed, but to make matters worse, she continued, But Lou – Luigi – would be a real catch. Got his head screwed on right. He’s gonna be rich like his old man – like Papa.

  The Family’s property was a bit out of town, so I tried to hitch a ride in the direction the barmaid had told me. It wasn’t a big town and there was only a road in and a road out, so it was easy enough. And it didn’t take long for me to hitch a lift. It was much easier since I’d shaved my dreadies, I can tell you. Looking for work, mate? asked the old bloke who picked me up. Yep, I said, and before I could continue: ‘You’ll be heading out to the Family’s place, then …? Yep, I said, and that was the sum total of our conversation.

  He dropped me off at the gate. White-painted wooden posts all the way down to the house. An orange orchard off to one side. A large milking shed. Plenty of spring pasture. Grapevines, olives, apple trees. A newish brick house – maybe ten years old. Out back, a smaller weatherboard place – the original house, no doubt. A dog raced towards me, barking and going at my ankles. A red cloud kelpie. It was getting late in the day, so I was taking a gamble that they’d want me and that they’d let me stay on the property. I guessed the old house was empty – the sort of building they’d keep for workers, I told myself confidentially. I could hear cows in the shed – milking time.

  An old lady covered in black came out through the front door, yelling at the dog, and then yelled at me in broken English. It was just like in my childhood. I wasn’t sure if what I felt was prejudice, or something about being out of place. Strange really, as so many of the people I’d worked for in my wanderings had been Italians. So many apples and pears and oranges picked in their orchards. I got on well enough with them, if keeping my distance. Mind you, they kept their distance from me, too. And it’s a truism – if you’re a hard worker, the Italian boss will like you well enough. And I am a hard worker. More than once in the past I’d heard it said from one boss to a neighbouring boss, Don’t let the hair fool yer, he’s a bloody hard worker, and reliable. I’ve always been proud of that.

  So as she yelled at me, I called back, shaking the dog off my boot, Hi, I was told you might be looking for workers. Yeah, yeah! the old woman replied, reaching to grab the dog by the collar. She shouted at it in Italian, and the dog took off for the milking sheds, stopping briefly to look at me over its shoulder and growl. Dogs can always tell something about you you’d rather pretend wasn’t true.

  Sure enough, Papa installed me in the old house. The old lady – Nonna – Papa’s mother – brought me the best food I’d eaten in months. And yes, it was pasta with homegrown tomatoes, olives, the works. And a bottle of wine.

  I was ready to go at dawn, though I wasn’t called for until later – the cut hay was a little damp from the morning and it’s never good to bale with too much moisture in the grass. It was Vince who collected me. I could tell – as the barmaid said, a ‘spunk’. Or what, back at school, would have been called a ‘homo’. He was dapper in his work clothes, and kind of rocked as he walked. Hair rolled in waves. His belt buckle was large, and it gleamed. Astonishingly, he wore braces as well as the belt. Bright blue braces. Slick as. He spoke in a strained Aussie accent: How ya goin’, mate … you gonna be helpin’ us out over the next couple of weeks …? Lot of balin’ to do. Lot of work. When I’m finished, I’m up to the city for some partying. I chatted with him as we walked to the hay sheds … he was a clubber. He asked if I smoked dope. He asked if I took speed. He told me his life’s history. Heart-on-his-sleeve kind of guy. That was Vince.

  At the sheds his brother, Lou, was waiting. Crisp in his fleecy checked shirt, sturdy workboots, shearers’ greasies. Hair short and neat, nothing out of place, nothing extra, not a touch of affectation. There was a family resemblance, sure. But they weren’t two peas from the same pod. Lou shook hands and said it was good to be working together. That he was looking forward to it. And you could believe him. I liked him. But then I liked Vince as well. And Nonna. And Papa, though I hadn’t really swapped more than a few gruff words with him. And then there was Mamma. I’d seen her out of the corner of my eye – I guess you’d say a stylish-looking woman in her late forties. Papa looked about fifty-five. The Family. By proxy, I already felt part of it.

  The days rolled by, as they say. It was good hay-carting weather, though as anyone who has done the job will know, there’s never a perfect day stacking and restacking bales of hay. Your skin is a hell zone and every muscle in your body aches. But the boys had style. After baling, Lou drove the truck while Vince and I took turns at taking bales off the loader as it scooped them from the ground, swinging them to each other, to stack on the truck bed. It took skill to build a pile of blocks at the rate Lou drove – he expected the work to be done steadily and efficiently – and Vince’s joking and singing at the top of his voice made the time pass all the quicker. And then we had to stack the shed when the truck was fully loaded. All three of us at work. Two in the shed and one on the truck hurling bales down, then up, as the stack built. Though I’d done the job plenty of times before over the years, I still picked up some good hints from the boys about how best to roll the bales and stack them neat.

  Throughout the day, Papa would come down from the house to watch our work. He was up well before daybreak with an assistant who lived in town – a dairyman – to bring in the cows and do the milking. When they weren’t carting or doing some other work in the orchard, the boys would be in with the cows as well. Same in the evenings. But Papa still found time to make sure everything was going fine. He’d test our handiwork on the truck – poking at the bales to ensure they were secure, commenting if Vince had let them go a layer or two too high – you’ll lose the lot, you’ll lose the lot, he’d repeat. Actually, he seemed a bit hard on Vince. There was clearly stuff between them – issues – but I kept out of it. I once heard Papa screaming at him about being lazy. Vince wasn’t lazy – he was just, well, ‘free
’. I smoked the odd scoob in the evenings with Vince, but he said to keep it from his brother because he’d tell Papa who would throw us both out. Believe me, he added, if an Italian son can get thrown out, then it’s bad news!

  There was only two weeks’ work, and at the end of it Lou gave me my pay and my marching orders. You’ve been a good worker, mate, he said. That was it. Vince was slightly emotional and we went into town and the pub that night and got pissed. Vince screwed the barmaid out the back of the pub somewhere, and I held the pool table for five games. One of Vince’s old schoolmates gave us a lift back to the farm, since both of us were too out of it to drive. We walked down that white-posted drive with a full moon overhead, arm in arm, singing our lungs out. We didn’t even know the words of the songs. Whatever came out would do. The dog barked and barked and pulled against its chain. Cows bellowed in the distance and the porch light came on. Lou and Papa came out and yelled, as one, for us to keep it down, we’d wake the women. But there was nothing more to it – hard work brings a little bit of slack, even in the Family. Vince said goodnight and lurched off to his father and brother, and I slunk into the old hut.

  The next morning, I started to get my shit together and get ready to head off. I went up to the house to say thanks to Nonna for the fine food I’d been eating, and to thank Mamma, who had generally kept away from me. She didn’t fraternise with the hired help, I’d say. But she was warm in her thanks and her goodbye, and Nonna gave me a hug. I stood at the back door the whole time – I’d never once been into the main house while I was there. I saw Christ on a crucifix on a corridor wall, but that was it.

  By that time, the milking was over and the cows were being led back to the paddocks. I went to say goodbye to the blokes. Vince was in the shed, washing it out, looking worse for wear, and just gave me a sickly grin and a lacklustre wave. Papa was taking the cows down to the paddock, but I’d see him shortly, because he’d promised to drive me back into town when I finished work, and to introduce me to a friend who was looking for someone to help with some fencing. Papa said to me, You’d make a father proud … I will recommend you to my old friend Joseph. We came out on the same ship as boys. He will be a good boss for you.