Read Online Hunger Town by Wendy Scarfe - Free Book Online

communist. My father laughed. ‘It’s the name. He shares a name with Benito Mussolini, the Italian prime minister. They’re both Benito. It’s not an insult, it’s affection.’
    Jock and Bernie nodded to me but their absorption was in their latest political grievances. ‘Our bastard of a prime minister, Bruce, plans to reduce wages. Says we have to compete on foreign markets. Us poor working men can be caned but those Queensland landholders, those robber baron bastards, they don’t have to reduce their incomes. I tell you, Niels, we fought for very little when we fought for the English.’
    Jock’s rich Scottish accent burred his words but they were forceful enough. Bernie nodded. Jock usually acted as spokesman for them both. They moved away enclosing my father in their resentment. Ignored, I went to find Joe.
    He was at his desk, reading. The room was silent, dimly lit, and still held the musty smell of old books.
    â€˜Why, Nearly-Twelve,’ he still called me this. ‘I haven’t seen you for some time. Your books are overdue.’ He pretended to look stern and I grinned at him.
    â€˜I’m a working girl now, Joe, and don’t have much time to read.’
    â€˜That’s a pity, Nearly-Twelve.’
    I sighed, dispiritedly. ‘I know.’ And in a mood of desperation I appealed to him, ‘What is to become of me, Joe?’
    â€˜In what sense, Nearly-Twelve?’
    â€˜I don’t know.’
    His expression became compassionate. ‘Are you unhappy?’
    â€˜Yes,’ I burst out, ‘of course. I have a terrible job and no hope of anything better. I don’t have any education and I don’t think I have any talents. My mother has a hard life as a domestic drudge and her satisfaction now is to escape into sentimental songs. They don’t appeal to me. I can’t abide too much sweetness and I don’t want to listen to music that looks back so sadly. I want a future.’
    He was quiet and put his hand over his mouth to suppress his cough. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘of course you want a future. You’re young and it’s your right. If that isn’t your right, then why did we get into the goddamn awful war? What a waste.’
    I had never heard Joe swear before, and looked at him, startled.
    â€˜Yes, Nearly-Twelve,’ he repeated, ‘a goddamn awful war, an unnecessary one, and an unproductive one. The only people who win in a war are the rich ones.’
    This time his spasm of coughing racked his whole body. Over the years he had grown thinner, his skin had now a grey hue and his hair, once thick and white, fell in cotton-wool wisps about his ears.
    â€˜You’re not well, Joe.’ I was ashamed of my concentration on myself. He repeated his words from years earlier, ‘You could say that, Nearly-Twelve. You could say that. But what is that folder you have on your lap? Have you brought me something interesting?’
    I blushed. ‘It’s nothing, Joe.’ He was clearly very ill and I shouldn’t be bothering him.
    â€˜Well,’ he said, ‘I’d like to see what nothing is.’
    Shyly I took out my drawings and put them in front of him. He studied them thoughtfully, one by one, occasionally pushing his glasses up on his nose. Then when he had looked at them all he started again. Sometimes he turned one so that the poor light fell more strongly on it and he held it closer to his face peering at it. I noticed large brown spots on the back of his hands. Finally he looked up at me.
    â€˜Well,’ he said, ‘well, well, well. Who would have thought? How long have you been doing this, Nearly-Twelve?’
    â€˜Since I first came to the Club.’
    His intensity puzzled me, as he kept returning to examine the drawings.
    â€˜Well,’ he said again, ‘well, well, well. You know, Nearly-Twelve, when I worked as a compositor on the Argus we printed sketches and