Authors: Stephen Daisley
Coming Rain
PRAISE FOR STEPHEN DAISLEY AND
TRAITOR
WINNER, Prime Minister's Literary Awards, 2011
WINNER, UTS Glenda Adams Award for New Writing,
NSW Premier's Literary Awards 2011
Shortlisted, WA Premier's Book Award for Fiction, 2011
Shortlisted, Commonwealth Writers Prize for Best First Book 2011
(South-east Asia and Pacific Region)
Shortlisted, Christina Stead Prize for Fiction,
NSW Premier's Literary Awards 2011
âStephen Daisley's
Traitor
is one of the finest debut novels I have read. Indeed
it's one of the best novels I have read in recent years.â¦I want to add it to the
list of great modern novels about warâ¦And it's about so much more than war: love,
friendship, loyalty, honour, mercy, spirituality, multiculturalism, class. It's a
work of emotional depth; perhaps the sort of book you can only write in middle age.'
Stephen Romei,
Australian
âSuffused with love, beauty and loneliness. The creation and development of the character
of David Monroe is masterful, not least because he is a man of so few words. Also
impressive is Daisley's control of structureâ¦His book is a revelation, woven as delicately
as Monroe's precious prayer rug. A rare pleasure.'
Australian Literary Review
âA bold debut and a unique storyâ¦Winton-esque dialogue.'
Australian Bookseller &
Publisher
âStrangely existential, achingly personal, irritatingly poetic, you'll love it or
hate itâor love and hate it all at once.'
GQ Australia
âTerrific debutâ¦Exquisitely crafted and beautifully written.'
Sunday Star Times
NZ
âStephen Daisley's debut novel is one of beautiful contrasts⦠Daisley's greatest
success in this novel is the depiction of a simple man with great depth.'
Age
âA beautifully sparse portrayalâthe emotional toll of a soldier's past choices symbolised
by the reticent and isolated figure is palpable. His is an unusually nuanced examination
of heroism and love.'
Sun Herald
âImpact galore. His descriptions of Monroe's life as a station shepherd and his relationship
with the few people, as well as animals, within his ken are superb. But that adjective
applies to the entire essence of the novelâ¦The taut style delivers narrative which
is striking and suffused with reminders of life's fragilities. The few characters
are well drawn. It is likely that much more will be heard of Daisleyâ¦He has the sure
touch of a highly gifted storyteller.'
Otago Daily Times
âA confident and haunting exploration of the nature of betrayal⦠Daisley's confident
handling of the complex chronology is a major strength, as is his command of narrative.
The account of trench warfare is imaginative and finely detailed. All signal the
debut of an important new talent.'
Listener
NZ
Stephen Daisley was born in 1955 and grew up in the North Island of New Zealand.
He has worked on sheep and cattle stations, on oil and gas construction sites and
as a truck driver, among many other jobs.
He lives in Western Australia with his wife and five children.
The Text Publishing Company
Swann House
22 William Street
Melbourne Victoria 3000
Australia
Copyright © 2015 by Stephen Daisley
The moral right of Stephen Daisley to be identified as the author of this work has
been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of
this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner
and the publisher of this book.
First published in 2015 by The Text Publishing Company
Cover design by W. H. Chong
Page design by Text
Typeset in Adobe Caslon Pro by J & M Typesetting
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Creator:
Daisley, Stephen, author.
Title:
Coming rain / by Stephen Daisley.
ISBN:
9781922182029 (paperback)
9781925095029 (ebook)
Subjects:
Country lifeâWestern AustraliaâFiction.
Agricultural laborersâWestern AustraliaâFiction.
Dewey Number: A823.4
This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia
Council, its arts funding and advisory body.
To Sylvia
The fatherâ¦lit the candle at the kitchen fire, put it where it shouldn't light the
boy's face, and watched him. And the child knew he was watching him, and pretended
to sleep, and, so pretending, he slept.
HENRY LAWSON
âA Child in the Dark, and a Foreign Father'
CONTENTS
The dingo ran as if she had been here forever. Loose jointed, her tongue wet and
long and eyes nonchalant as she travelled. Ears forward and nose taking in the river
of yonga grey coming to her as she crossed a clearing and paused among karrik bush.
Looked back to where she had come from.
The last of the day's sun and the first of the four moons rising above the bloodwoods.
The grey kangaroo, upwind of her, grazing quietly across a long, flat valley fringed
with desert oak. They were deliberate, selecting and nibbling the beardy grasses.
Their slow, graceful feeding in the twilight. They moved through saltbush and into
a grove of long-leaf paperbarks.
The bitch flattened, laid her ears back and watched. She lifted her nose to the horizon
and the last of the sun lines, second moon coming. If she was to have meat this night
she would need to act immediately.
She came out of the smoke bush slowly at first, then sprinting to close on the mob,
and was among them. Ranged alongside,
watching their panic as she harried them, searching
out what she wanted.
A young doe carrying nyarnyee in her pouch collided with balga, a little grass tree,
and lost her footing. She rolled over and righted. The face and front feet of the
nyarnyee came out of the pouch. The mother seemed to stand on her head as she aligned
herself, saving her baby. She turned and bounded desperately behind the scattering
mob. The dingo raced to flank them. They veered from her and she dropped back to
make her kill. The mother with the nyarnyee still lagging behind the main mob, frantic
to catch up. The dingo closed and balanced again, turned into the run of the yonga,
her head towards the long throat; laid her ears back and launched into her killing
attack.
The wide-eyed kangaroo flung herself away to the left, skittering through paperbarks;
paused in the long grass and shook her head as if to get her bearings. It was another
few seconds before she seemed to register where she was and turned to follow her
clan.
The dingo somersaulted when she fell, rolling over and over in the dirt. She lay
on the ground, her sides heaving. Then she sat up, closed her mouth and stood. Circled
the droppings and urine, rubbed her face and neck in the scat and rolled over in
it; shook, got to her feet and gave a barking howl; listened to the yonga leaping
through the brush. Their strong scent, like water, an easy path for her to follow.
It was just dark when she closed on them again. The third moon three-quarters high
and bright. This time it was in open ground, a man-made clearing, a road and prickly
dryandra bushes. The yonga nervous now along the verge between the bushes,
tentatively
grazing on new grass. Again they smelled and heard her, gave off the loud clicks
and bounded away. She feinted left to bunch them and just as quickly swung to the
right flank to turn them into heavier scrub, all the time searching out the mother
carrying the nyarnyee.
It was then that the headlights came on down the road. Great yellow white lights
running through the night.
She immediately abandoned her hunt, turned from the monstrous presence and ran at
a sharp angle from the road into the scrub. As she ran, there was a great thump.
The terrible lights colliding with her prey. She stopped, lay down and waited; listening
to the voices. One of the lights had gone out. Men were talking to each other through
the trees. Young man, old man. She saw dust rise through the remaining light and
clouds crossing the moon. It was silent for a long time before she approached where
the noise had come from. Almost morning. Sister sun coming up.
Lew saw the woman walking out of the ocean at Cottesloe Beach. She was bending forward,
scooping up handfuls of sea water and throwing them in front of herself. This fine
woman staring at him, at his big hands, white arms and body whipped with cuts from
the thorns, saltbush and spinifex. Christ.
Another set of waves came in, pushing her up and forward, and she lifted her arms
and elbows to keep balance. Stepped out of the water. The tide was being sucked back
into the ocean, stripping the sand from beneath her feet. The constant sound of the
small waves breaking on the beach. He was just twenty-one and couldn't swim.