me,” the swagman said. “Walkin nekkid like that.” He watched me place the frog in the small white bag and then place the bag in the inside pocket of my folded suit coat. “Is it good tucker?”
I was always fighting people I didn’t need to fight. I feel like I’ve been awake all my life with a gun across my knees, waiting.
“Yes,” I told the swagman, “very good tucker.”
“That a fect?”
“Like chicken,” I told him. “You can’t tell the difference. That is what they serve the kings and queens of France. It’s only the ignorance of the average Australian toff that stops them doing the same thing.”
“That a fect?”
“Yes,” I said, tucking my singlet into my underpants, “it’s a fact.”
The swaggie shifted on his heels. His attitude was uncertain. “I thought they killed the kings and queens of France,” he said. “I seem to recall that they were killed. They had their heads chopped off, so I was told. They don’t have kings and queens in France any more.”
This was all news to me. If I had not been a pig-headed fool I might have learned something, but I was more worried about two contradictory things—my dignity and the other frog. I went back into the soak while the swagman took the opportunity to have a closer look at my suit.
“I used to have a suit like that,” he said, “but it was took from me up in Albury.”
“That a fact?” I mocked.
“Well,” the swaggie shrugged away his suit, “you know those Albury types.”
I got my second frog and walked carefully back to solid ground. The swaggie watched me put it in its bag.
“We ate roof rats in Albury but we never tried the frogs, never even thought of them. I’m much obliged to you for the information, I must say, much obliged.”
I perched on the edge of the stream and washed my feet and then my hands. I managed to dress standing on a grass tussock.
I was given to doing things suddenly. I had strong emotions like unexpected guests and the urge to laugh or fight often overwhelmed me without warning. Similarly I was often beset with the desire to be good and generous, and I have no idea where this part of me comes from. Certainly not from my father who was never held back by his scruples. He was a fine man for talk of Empire and loyalty but it wasn’t the Empire or loyalty that made him successful: he was a liar and a bullshitter and hungry for a quid.
If my father had seen me hand the pound note to the swagman he would have laughed out loud.
“Here,” I said, “get yourself some flour and tea. Don’t eat frogs. Christians don’t eat frogs.”
We were both, the swaggie and I, puzzled at this development. He held Jack’s pound between the thumb and forefinger of both battered hands and turned it over and over.
“If you don’t eat frogs,” he said at last, “why the dickens do you catch them?”
“My damn snake, man,” I said. I was furious about the fate of my pound note. “I’ve got to feed my snake.”
“Of course you have,” the swagman said sympathetically, “of course you have.”
“I’m deadly serious, man.”
“Of course you are.”
His mistake was to wink.
The pound note disappeared from the swagman’s hand before the wink was over, but even when I held it, tightly crumpled, in my pocket, I did not feel any release from my confusion, I felt worse. I felt guilty, and this did not seem just.
“Charity is good for no one,” I said. “Would you like to
earn
a pound?”
Later, when I recalled how I had made the deal with the swagman, I always felt ashamed, not of the deal itself which was certainly fair. (The swagman honoured it too, delivering two frogs each morning for the snake’s breakfast.) I felt ashamed of reneging on the grander gesture which was more in keeping with how I would like to be.
I felt the swagman had looked at me and seen something less attractive in me than my bowed legs.
16
The whole household was in love with me, and although I knew it I doubt
I was always fighting people I didn’t need to fight. I feel like I’ve been awake all my life with a gun across my knees, waiting.
“Yes,” I told the swagman, “very good tucker.”
“That a fect?”
“Like chicken,” I told him. “You can’t tell the difference. That is what they serve the kings and queens of France. It’s only the ignorance of the average Australian toff that stops them doing the same thing.”
“That a fect?”
“Yes,” I said, tucking my singlet into my underpants, “it’s a fact.”
The swaggie shifted on his heels. His attitude was uncertain. “I thought they killed the kings and queens of France,” he said. “I seem to recall that they were killed. They had their heads chopped off, so I was told. They don’t have kings and queens in France any more.”
This was all news to me. If I had not been a pig-headed fool I might have learned something, but I was more worried about two contradictory things—my dignity and the other frog. I went back into the soak while the swagman took the opportunity to have a closer look at my suit.
“I used to have a suit like that,” he said, “but it was took from me up in Albury.”
“That a fact?” I mocked.
“Well,” the swaggie shrugged away his suit, “you know those Albury types.”
I got my second frog and walked carefully back to solid ground. The swaggie watched me put it in its bag.
“We ate roof rats in Albury but we never tried the frogs, never even thought of them. I’m much obliged to you for the information, I must say, much obliged.”
I perched on the edge of the stream and washed my feet and then my hands. I managed to dress standing on a grass tussock.
I was given to doing things suddenly. I had strong emotions like unexpected guests and the urge to laugh or fight often overwhelmed me without warning. Similarly I was often beset with the desire to be good and generous, and I have no idea where this part of me comes from. Certainly not from my father who was never held back by his scruples. He was a fine man for talk of Empire and loyalty but it wasn’t the Empire or loyalty that made him successful: he was a liar and a bullshitter and hungry for a quid.
If my father had seen me hand the pound note to the swagman he would have laughed out loud.
“Here,” I said, “get yourself some flour and tea. Don’t eat frogs. Christians don’t eat frogs.”
We were both, the swaggie and I, puzzled at this development. He held Jack’s pound between the thumb and forefinger of both battered hands and turned it over and over.
“If you don’t eat frogs,” he said at last, “why the dickens do you catch them?”
“My damn snake, man,” I said. I was furious about the fate of my pound note. “I’ve got to feed my snake.”
“Of course you have,” the swagman said sympathetically, “of course you have.”
“I’m deadly serious, man.”
“Of course you are.”
His mistake was to wink.
The pound note disappeared from the swagman’s hand before the wink was over, but even when I held it, tightly crumpled, in my pocket, I did not feel any release from my confusion, I felt worse. I felt guilty, and this did not seem just.
“Charity is good for no one,” I said. “Would you like to
earn
a pound?”
Later, when I recalled how I had made the deal with the swagman, I always felt ashamed, not of the deal itself which was certainly fair. (The swagman honoured it too, delivering two frogs each morning for the snake’s breakfast.) I felt ashamed of reneging on the grander gesture which was more in keeping with how I would like to be.
I felt the swagman had looked at me and seen something less attractive in me than my bowed legs.
16
The whole household was in love with me, and although I knew it I doubt
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