Shirl

by Wayne Marshall

Genres: Absurdist Fiction

Synopsis

A lonely yowie emerges from the bush to attend the Desperate and Dateless Ball. Mysterious creatures descend from the sky to place a ban on footy. A shark named Bruce turns up in the local swimming pool. A fisherman enjoying a boys’ weekend on the Murray River finds perspective where he least expects it.In Shirl, Wayne Marshall takes a range of what-if scenarios to their fabulist and comedic extremes. Superbly inventive and powerful, these fourteen stories skewer contemporary Australian society – particularly the crises of masculinity and national identity – in insightful and yet hilarious ways, blurring the line between fantasy and reality. This astounding collection will make you rethink what it means to be Australian.

Release date: January 28, 2020

Publisher: Affirm Press

Print pages: 395

Sample

PRAISE FOR SHIRL

‘A stunning collection, wildly imaginative and outrageously theatrical, underscored by a quiet tenderness and truth. Marshall has taken the unlikely concept of ‘Australiana’ – in all its glorious absurdity – put it through the crusher and come out with gems. Despite his halls of mirrors, his weird twists and turns, every story here is built on a bed of impermeable logic, as all great stories are. They are as smooth as velour and mad as a cut snake.

The very best of them are brilliant.’

Wayne Macauley

‘Wayne Marshall’s Shirl is a wonderfully daring, absurd exploration of the sacred tenets of small-town Australian life. Beneath the humour, the booze, and blare of the footy, we find levitation and mermaids, and loneliness and addiction, and the terrible punishment of a man who dares to cry.’

Nic Low

‘Wayne Marshall’s Shirl is a collection of bizarre, consistently funny stories that delights in dismantling the tropes of Australiana … a hugely entertaining and thoughtful read.’

Books+Publishing

****

‘These are stories of Australian men in small towns and poor suburbs - stories of sport, drinking, fighting and love. Sounds awful, right? But these are stories told with so much heart, wit and meticulous craft that, even as you’re reading about a levitation class, a man in love with a kangaroo, a mermaid on a fishing trip, you’re asking yourself, “Wait: did this really happen?” Wayne Marshall is a worthy successor to his town-mate, Peter Carey; a writer of gorgeous imagination, daring experimentation and aching compassion, and Shirl is one of the best books of Australian stories you’ll read.’

Jane Rawson

‘Marshall embeds a strong sense of joy in stories of folly and wonder. Each individual piece is remarkable in its own right but collectively they form a cohesive narrative about Australian life and culture. Marshall uses satire to great effect, rendering memorable and surprising stories that reimagine masculinity. He stretches the short-story form to its very limits utilising both stylistic invention and absurd humour.’

Victorian Premier’s Literary Award judges’ report

‘Wayne Marshall brilliantly uncovers the strangeness and absurdities behind Australian life.’

Ryan O’Neill

Cod Opening

It’s dusk by the time Cod speeds over the cattle grid and into the forest. As soon as he hits the gravel, he throws off his seatbelt and brings his window down. The familiar smells of eucalyptus and dust f lood the cabin of his green Nissan. The heat too, hitting him like a furnace blast. But he welcomes it, delving into his esky and opening a beer, his first for the drive despite three-hundred-odd kilometres of temptation.

So, finally. After a near torturous week of waiting, it’s here. After a week of sleepless nights, of time crawling by on the factory walls, of preparing his fishing rods and watching the weather – Cod Opening. Every first weekend in December it’s the same. Rain, hail or shine, and no matter what’s happening in their lives, Cod and his friends converge on the river, eager to catch their first Murray cod of the new season.

Deeper into the forest he goes, dodging potholes the size of moon craters, the voices of cricket commentators on his radio turning to static. He spots emus and kangaroos in the tinder-dry scrub. At the river he veers left, his tinnie rattling on the trailer behind him, driving until he reaches a tree with a green VB can nailed to its trunk. Slowing, he scans the bush.

There are tents, cars, half a dozen men by the river bank.

‘Boys!’ Cod rides his horn as he pulls into the camp. He hurries from his car, beer in hand. Already he’s in a sweat, still wearing his thick work shirt, trousers and boots.

‘Cod!’ comes the universal cry. The men flock to him, shaking his hand. The last in line is Doolan. He’s shirtless and wearing his weathered akubra hat. It’s been six months since they saw each other – the last time was Cod’s daughter’s engagement party – and Doolan’s looking older. They all are. But he notices it in Doolan the most, given how often he sees the younger version, the two men standing side-by-side during Cod’s wedding ceremony, in the framed photo on Julie’s side of the bed.

Wasting no time, Cod asks how the fishing’s going so far.

‘Haven’t been out yet,’ says Doolan. ‘Too hot.’

‘Haven’t been out yet? What about throwing a line in off the bank?’

Doolan sips his beer. ‘Just relaxing, mate. Plenty of time for fishing.’

‘Plenty of time? We’ve got two days. Day and a half, really.’

‘As I said. Plenty of time.’

Cod laughs with the others, walking to the edge of the bank.

Below, the Murray unfurls in all its glory. Snake-like, it curls between the tall banks that wall it in, the blue-green water peppered with the limbs of fallen timber. To some, the snags are an eyesore – to Julie, for instance, who refuses to go anywhere near the river, unless it’s on the deck of a luxury paddle-steamer, complete with a glass of wine and three-course meal. But to Cod the timber only adds to the magic. Because there are cod down there, lurking beneath the logs. Big cod, enormous cod. He’s hunted them all his life, since his father took him here as a boy. Throughout the years, he’s amassed a considerable tally of really big fish, documented in a shrine of grainy polaroids in his shed. But what he hungers for is the massive one, the monstrous one.

He swings to the men. ‘Righty-o, you lazy bastards. Who’s gonna give me a hand getting my boat in the water?’

Cod works fast, racing the falling night. He reverses to the edge, where the men help him slide the tinnie from his trailer and down the steep bank. Drenched in sweat, he lugs his outboard down. Soon he’s in the boat and good to go.

‘What about your rods?’ Doolan watches from above, hands on hips.

Cod smiles from the driver’s seat. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘Then what—’ Doolan laughs. ‘Can’t help yourself, can you, mate? I’d be careful with that shit if I was you. Fisheries’ll have your balls if they catch you doing it.’

‘How long since we’ve seen Fisheries out here?’ Cod squeezes the fuel pump. ‘And at this time of day?’

‘Never know when they might show up. Especially being Cod Opening.’

‘I’ll take my chances.’ Cod grabs the nose of the starter cord.

‘Oh well. Your funeral.’

‘Yeah, and yours when I come back carrying a hundred-pounder.’

Cod yanks the starter cord and the engine roars to life. He jets away, the rushing air like cool water across his sun-reddened face.

Doolan’s right, of course. Anyone caught operating an unmanned set-line – a ‘springer’ – faces a ten-grand fine, not to mention the impoundment of their boat and even a court appearance. The argument is that not only are springers cruel in their keeping a fish hooked for a prolonged time, but that fishermen can also accidentally catch other animals – pelicans, say, or other large waterbirds. But it’s all a bunch of bullshit as far as Cod’s concerned, typical of the raft of rules and regulations handed down in recent times. If you want to catch the really big ones, a normal fishing rod just doesn’t cut it. For the really big ones, you need a springer. That’s the way his old man did it. And his old man before him.

Cod’s not an idiot though, so he works quickly, eyes peeled for boats. In no time he’s planted five springers, starting two bends upstream and working his way back. Every spot’s chosen in a rush, not having the freedom – or light – to select carefully.

All except the sixth and final line.

Last trip, when they camped in the same spot, Cod set a springer in a tantalising backwater around the bend. He checked it the first morning – the bait hadn’t been touched. But when he came by the second morning, he found the green fishing line floating on the surface, broken, smashed. Whatever he’d hooked had fought so hard that the springer’s rubber handle had left an imprint on the timber.

Cod shifts the engine to idle and drifts to the log. The imprint is still there, evidence of his previous defeat. But not this time. This time, he’s fashioned a rig using steel line, the kind usually reserved for deep-sea fishing. Another improvement is the chemically sharpened, triple-barbed hook. Then there’s the yabby. At the bait shop on the way, Cod asked for the biggest, nastiest yabbies in stock. He picks up the wildest of the bunch now, slicing the hook through its meaty tail. The finishing touch is a cowbell. He tests it, the copper bell clanging across the darkening river.

After nailing the rubber handle to the log, Cod tosses in the line. He attaches the cowbell and for a moment it goes on tolling, like a forecast, a premonition.

Night’s fallen by the time Cod steps back on dry land. Since he’s been gone, another half-dozen men have arrived. The perimeter of the camp is now a parking lot of four-wheel drives and utes. In front of them, dome tents and swags jostle for space. A campfire rages, despite the temperature lingering in the thirties. Its flames flicker and leap and spit, illuminating the faces of those gathered around it.

Cod puts up his tent in the firelight, then joins the circle, opening a beer.

Before long the men are telling stories from their years of coming to the river. Barge brings up the time they put a dead goanna in Mick’s sleeping bag. Everyone laughs, even Mick, who says that incident goes a long way to explaining his heart condition. He then tells the story of how Leon, notorious for hating it when other campers encroached on their space, stripped naked and did cartwheels by the river, scaring off the old couple who’d pulled up in a campervan.

There are stories of roo-shooting missions gone awry, over-inquisitive snakes, wild brawls in the pub outside the forest.

All the while, Cod keeps an ear out for the bell. A number of times he’s certain he hears it, and jogs to the river bank. But it’s always something else: a bird, the cicadas, a certain high-pitched note in the hum of conversation.

By the time he flops drunk and exhausted into bed, his mind’s an echo chamber of imaginary bells. They even invade his dreams. That’s why it takes him a while to spring upright when, right on dawn, the real one begins tolling in the distance.

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe. When confirmation comes, he scrambles into a shirt and a pair of army-green shorts. Then he bursts from the tent, leaping over the ashes of the fire. In a heartbeat he’s in his boat and speeding upstream.

He rounds the bend. Ahead, the cowbell swings wildly. But not only that. The log itself is moving. Now pulling. Now bending. Now threatening to snap.

Cod’s at the timber before his next breath, ploughing into it, the overhanging branches slashing his bristled cheeks. He snatches the zigzagging line.

‘Fuck,’ he gasps, pulling. It’s heavy. Heavier than any fish he’s ever caught. It’s an effort just to lift it from the bottom. In the struggle the bell falls into the river.

Grunting, sweating, he finally makes headway. Any second now the fish will show in the water. He pulls. And pulls. Suddenly, a sequinned tail rears up and slaps the surface, as long as an oar and forked at the end. Cod frowns. And then. No—

A face, in the water. A lip, bloodied and cut through with the hook.

A woman’s face. With green eyes that blink.

Cod falls back, dropping the line as if it’s white-hot.

‘Everything okay, mate?’

Cod sits with Geoff and Doolan in his boat, tied to a shady bank. Earlier, he, Mick, Leon and Chappy set out in their boats – downstream from camp – carrying two passengers each. He’d wanted to say no, he’d wanted to tell them the river was the last place he could be. But he was numb with shock and couldn’t begin to explain what had happened. So here he is, smoking like he hasn’t since his cancer scare last year, hunched forward, eyeing the river with something like suspicion.

‘Cod?’ says Geoff.

‘Think I’m just tired.’ He takes another drag of his smoke.

‘Up at the crack of dawn chasing bells’ll do that to you.’ Doolan’s at the toe of the boat, feet dangling over the edge, his jovial voice a telltale sign he’s already started drinking. ‘I heard you this morning. What’d you catch?’

Cod tells him it was a small yellowbelly.

‘Yeah, figured we would’ve heard if it was something decent.’

Cod smiles half-heartedly. When the men look away, his face goes blank again.

So, a mermaid. He lets the word linger, willing it to conform to the normality of other words he knows, like footy and factory and scoreboard. But it can’t. Won’t.

‘Cod!’ says Doolan. ‘Your rod!’

Sure enough, his black Shimano is bent double. Normally, he’d be on his feet and snatching it up, his back arched and rod held high. But not today. Today he remains seated, reeling without enthusiasm until the mouth of a reasonably sized cod appears at the surface. He lifts the fish straight into the boat, not bothering with a net.

‘Good one!’ Geoff slaps Cod’s back. ‘That has to be nudging ten pounds.’

Cod looks at the fish as it gasps for air on the aluminium flooring. It’s the first time he’s seen the green-skinned natives as anything other than beautiful.

Back at camp, the eskies are raided, the cricket commentary turned on. While the others take to deckchairs by the blackened fire, Cod walks upstream, following a path between the bank and some tall grass that screams of snakes. He goes until the river straightens and he can see the log. It isn’t moving. He can’t be sure about the line.

Aren’t mermaids supposed to have hands, he wonders? He didn’t see any this morning, but if she does have them, why doesn’t she just pull out the hook? He pictures her attempting it, visualises the underwater struggle, and for the first time contemplates what it might be like to have a hook through his lip. He puts a calloused finger to his mouth, the cicada shrill reaching fever pitch in his ears.

He can almost feel the wound.

As per their ritual every Saturday on a trip, come the afternoon they cram into two cars and drive to the pub outside the forest. There are often arguments beforehand, none of the men wanting to drive and thus be confined to light beer. Cod volunteers from the get-go, in no mood for a day of heavy drinking and keen to escape the river as quickly as possible.

So he drives, the air conditioner on full blast. Around him, the others drink and jostle and yabber, squeezed into the back like teenagers on a joy ride. Cod eyes their ageing faces in the rear-view. These are men he’s known for decades. The best man at his wedding sits in the front passenger seat, for fuck’s sake. Why, then, can’t he tell them? Why is it so hard to simply open his mouth and let the story come out?

Cod chauffeurs the men through the forest in silence.

Soon, he and Big Toe are pulling up outside the pub in a cloud of dust. Cod steps from his Nissan, confronted not only by the heat, but also the scorched yellow paddocks surrounding the pub in every direction. Swatting flies from his face, he trails the others inside and onto carpet that once upon a time was red. They take their usual corner, beneath a row of screens showing the horse races and cricket.

Rounds are bought, form guides produced. Someone hands Cod a pot of light beer.

Gradually, the paddock outside fills with cars. Men pour into the air-conditioned bar, the majority of them. . .