Happy Valley Evening 1930

Happy Valley Evening 1930



The birds swoop low over the ground then wheel upwards, etching black parabolas against the purple and orange evening.

The woman stands in the doorway of the tin and hessian shanty. she watches the birds, envies their hollow-boned lightness as she shifts from foot to foot to ease the ache in knees flattened from hours of scrubbing other women's floors.

A barking laugh brings her back to earth. It is harry, slumped in the meagre shade of a stunted gum. It's the only sound he makes since his mates brought him back with a jagged scar on his temple and the life missing from his eyes. A railway guard's billy club has taken away her husband and left her with this husk and the weary hours added to her day to care for him.

They say she is lucky. So many of the men who have taken to the tracks in search of work are never seen again.

A silvery string of spittle quivers on the point of his chin. More has pooled on his bare feet, seeping between his toes to make tracks in the dust. She leans down, using the corner of her apron to wipe his mouth. She wonders if they are right.

Shw walks along the ragtag row of huts, her gait an odd step-shuffle. She is wearing Harry's shoes. He has no need of them and in these times women wear whatever they can find. But they are too big and they rub her bunion so that it is red and swollen at the day's end. She can't remember when she last had something new. The dress she is wearing has more darns than fabric.

Down on the corner a throng of small boys chase a dilapidated football. Somewhere in the heaving mass is her youngest son. It is time he came home for dinner. It is only bread and dripping but it might keep the hunger-rats from gnawing in the middle of the night. She places her hands beside her mouth.

"Frankie! Get yourself 'ome. Now!"

A dark-haired ragamuffin breaks away from the pack and heads towards her. The rest of the boys seem reluctant to let him go. They follow, swaying to and fro like a grubby school of fish, raising waves of ochre dust that surge around them.

The woman watches in dismay as a spiteful gust of wind hurls the dust to coat her clean washing with streaks and blotches of yellow. It has taken her hours to get the clothes clean; carrying the water from the creek, boiling it in the kerosene tin and rubbing and wringing till her shoulders ache. Now it is filthy again, stained the sallow colour of poverty and despair. She takes a deep breath and trudges to the line to bring in the soiled clothing.

In the darkening sky the birds spiral upwards, growing ever smaller and smaller.

Under the gum tree Harry laughs.