Read Online Brown Skin Blue by Belinda Jeffrey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Belinda Jeffrey
Tags: Fiction/General
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goes back to the counter, humming.
I tuck the napkin underneath my plate and take a piece of bacon with my fingers.
âYou might be wondering how I came to know him,â she says behind me.
I glance around, but sheâs still rubbing the counter furiously.
âWell, letâs just say that not everyone gets it right, you know. Some of us have to smell trouble before we know what it is.â
My crunching echoes in my head.
âHe wasnât all bad,â she says, sighing. Iâm staring at my plate, but sheâs still talkinâ. âBut he wasnât much good, either.â
Thereâs one egg left on my plate and Iâm wondering whether it came from the chook that I hypnotised yesterday.
âAll Iâll say is that itâs easy to get lost in some blokes right off the bat. Oh they can make it all sound like a dream, you know. Their eyesâre so bright youâre blinded. Canât see the forest for the trees, then.â Sheâs humming again and I hear her footsteps clicking along the cement floor. The humming gets softer, I see the door at the end of the bar open. The door closes and I swallow the last of my egg. The coffee is cold, but I drink it anyway.
âThatâs the trouble with those dark blokes. They can blind you with those eyes. I used to think God himself was inside âem.â
12
The Story of Teabag Jones
Christmas didnât mean much to the bloke that had just moved into his first home. Life had been tough. School had been a disaster and heâd tried just about everything shitty life had to offer. It was hard having dark skin in this country, even if his parents were white. It was hard to know where to look. What was a bloke like him supposed to do?
Nothinâ seemed to come naturally. Everywhere on the news there was talk of Aboriginal rights. The Tent Embassy, the first raising of the Aboriginal flag. He felt something stir, like part of him belonged to those things, but he was trapped against an overwhelming need to keep going.
His place â his house â was just the beginning of something. It didnât matter that he didnât know what. He had a job, even if it was only packing things on trucks. It was something to fill his days. At least he was working.
His parents called twice a week. It was too far to see them in person very often. They were busy, he didnât have a car. Besides, he had to get on with life. He had to find out what he was made of.
It was Christmas Eve, 1974, and the arrival of Santa wasnât nearly as important as the warnings about the cyclone activity. He had the radio on the kitchen table, the antenna bent at the best angle for reception, and he sat there, listening to everything that was said.
There had been another cyclone warning earlier that month, but it hadnât come to much, and he didnât think this would be anything to worry about either. Heâd just hang tight, hide in the bathroom, and wait out the storm.
He was going to make himself a cup of tea when the storm suddenly seemed to rip through the world like a beast. The sound of wind and rain and smashing was overwhelming. There was no time to grab anything, no time to wonder about whether he should get out of the house or stay put.
He hid in the bathroom, the strongest part of the house, curled up in the bathtub while the wood panels were ripped from the house joints like flaking blisters. The roof left in surfboards, flying off into the sea outside. Furniture flew everywhere. All around the earth shook and his small house was demolished piece by piece. Nature screamed at everything standing in her way and it crumbled under her.
Sheâll win every time.
That night, Tracy tore most of Darwin down to the ground and, for the bloke hiding in the bathtub, the fear and terror were so great he could not even remember his own name.
Tracy left and the sun came up on the world. It was Christmas Day. When he stood up out of
I tuck the napkin underneath my plate and take a piece of bacon with my fingers.
âYou might be wondering how I came to know him,â she says behind me.
I glance around, but sheâs still rubbing the counter furiously.
âWell, letâs just say that not everyone gets it right, you know. Some of us have to smell trouble before we know what it is.â
My crunching echoes in my head.
âHe wasnât all bad,â she says, sighing. Iâm staring at my plate, but sheâs still talkinâ. âBut he wasnât much good, either.â
Thereâs one egg left on my plate and Iâm wondering whether it came from the chook that I hypnotised yesterday.
âAll Iâll say is that itâs easy to get lost in some blokes right off the bat. Oh they can make it all sound like a dream, you know. Their eyesâre so bright youâre blinded. Canât see the forest for the trees, then.â Sheâs humming again and I hear her footsteps clicking along the cement floor. The humming gets softer, I see the door at the end of the bar open. The door closes and I swallow the last of my egg. The coffee is cold, but I drink it anyway.
âThatâs the trouble with those dark blokes. They can blind you with those eyes. I used to think God himself was inside âem.â
12
The Story of Teabag Jones
Christmas didnât mean much to the bloke that had just moved into his first home. Life had been tough. School had been a disaster and heâd tried just about everything shitty life had to offer. It was hard having dark skin in this country, even if his parents were white. It was hard to know where to look. What was a bloke like him supposed to do?
Nothinâ seemed to come naturally. Everywhere on the news there was talk of Aboriginal rights. The Tent Embassy, the first raising of the Aboriginal flag. He felt something stir, like part of him belonged to those things, but he was trapped against an overwhelming need to keep going.
His place â his house â was just the beginning of something. It didnât matter that he didnât know what. He had a job, even if it was only packing things on trucks. It was something to fill his days. At least he was working.
His parents called twice a week. It was too far to see them in person very often. They were busy, he didnât have a car. Besides, he had to get on with life. He had to find out what he was made of.
It was Christmas Eve, 1974, and the arrival of Santa wasnât nearly as important as the warnings about the cyclone activity. He had the radio on the kitchen table, the antenna bent at the best angle for reception, and he sat there, listening to everything that was said.
There had been another cyclone warning earlier that month, but it hadnât come to much, and he didnât think this would be anything to worry about either. Heâd just hang tight, hide in the bathroom, and wait out the storm.
He was going to make himself a cup of tea when the storm suddenly seemed to rip through the world like a beast. The sound of wind and rain and smashing was overwhelming. There was no time to grab anything, no time to wonder about whether he should get out of the house or stay put.
He hid in the bathroom, the strongest part of the house, curled up in the bathtub while the wood panels were ripped from the house joints like flaking blisters. The roof left in surfboards, flying off into the sea outside. Furniture flew everywhere. All around the earth shook and his small house was demolished piece by piece. Nature screamed at everything standing in her way and it crumbled under her.
Sheâll win every time.
That night, Tracy tore most of Darwin down to the ground and, for the bloke hiding in the bathtub, the fear and terror were so great he could not even remember his own name.
Tracy left and the sun came up on the world. It was Christmas Day. When he stood up out of
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