The Simple Gift

by Steven Herrick

  as I reach the library

  and sit down on the front steps,

  one hour until opening.

  My day today is reading,

  reading about people who don’t need money

  and people

  who have somewhere to sleep

  tonight,

  and the night after.

  Lord of the lounge

  It’s a good library.

  Lots of books, sure,

  and lounges soft and comfortable

  for real reading,

  and I choose one

  in the corner

  and I settle down

  with a book about these kids

  stranded on a deserted island

  and some try to live right

  but the others go feral

  and it’s a good book

  and I’m there, on the island,

  gorging on tropical fruit,

  trying to decide

  whose side I’m on.

  And then it hits me.

  I’m on neither.

  I’d go off alone,

  because you can’t trust

  those who want to break the rules

  and you certainly can’t trust

  those who make the rules,

  so you do the only thing possible,

  you avoid the rules.

  That’s me,

  on the deserted island

  of a soft lounge

  in Bendarat Library.

  The librarian

  ‘You can borrow that if you like.’

  Her badge says

  Irene Thompson – Chief Librarian.

  Trouble I’m sure.

  ‘It’s a good book.

  It was my favourite when I was young.’

  ‘No thanks.

  I’m happy to read it here.’

  Please just leave me alone.

  ‘That’s fine.

  But we close for lunch in ten minutes.

  I’m sorry. But you can come back at two.’

  ‘Thanks Mrs Thompson. I will.

  It’s too good a book not to finish.’

  She’s OK.

  Not like the librarian at home.

  She hated kids touching books.

  She ran the perfect library

  because no-one ever went in there

  to disturb the books.

  ‘Call me Irene.

  I’m old, but not that old.

  See you after lunch.’

  Lunch

  I’m poor, homeless,

  but I’m not stupid.

  For lunch I go to Coles.

  I buy a packet of bread rolls,

  some cheese and a tomato.

  Enough for three meals.

  I sit on the bench

  at Bendarat Gardens

  with my Swiss Army knife

  cutting thin slices of tomato

  with chunks of cheese

  and I eat two rolls

  watching the pigeons

  watching me.

  I toss them some crumbs.

  Lunchtime entertainment,

  free of charge,

  is a couple kissing on a blanket.

  For twenty minutes

  they lay together

  kissing

  hugging.

  They hardly touched their sandwiches.

  I can’t blame them.

  As they got up to leave

  I felt like applauding,

  but as I said

  I’m poor, homeless,

  but I’m not stupid.

  The Motel Bendarat

  I finished the book,

  nodded goodbye to Irene

  and walked out

  into the late afternoon cloud

  and a slight drizzle.

  No sleeping in the park tonight.

  Two options:

  a church

  or a railway station.

  Churches are too spooky and cold.

  I walk to the station.

  Men in suits, like tired penguins,

  wait for the bus

  and throw furtive glances

  at the woman on the seat

  reading a magazine.

  She ignores them.

  The train station is sandstone

  with a long veranda platform,

  hard wooden seats and a Coke machine.

  I walk across the tracks

  past the freight yard

  to some old carriages,

  disused, waiting to be sold

  and turned into

  fancy bed and breakfast accommodation

  or maybe used as someone’s chook shed.

  I try each door until one opens.

  I climb in.

  There’s a long bench seat

  fit to hold eight people

  and certainly long enough

  for me to sleep on.

  It’s comfortable too,

  being old and well made.

  I close the door

  and make a home

  in Carriage 1864,

  painted red and yellow,

  my Motel Bendarat.

  Night

  I had two rolls for dinner,

  washed down with

  the last of Dad’s beer.

  The carriage was surprisingly warm

  and quiet, so quiet.

  I used my bag as a pillow,

  wrapped my jacket over me,

  lay back and slept

  the sleep of the dreamless.

  Occasionally I woke

  to a train whistle

  or the clank of metal on metal

  as the night shift worked,

  shunting the freight carriages.

  I thought of Bunkbrain, my dog,

  probably asleep on the veranda

  and I wished I had brought him

  for the company

  on nights like this

  in a new town

  and in a new home.

  Eating out

  I finished the rolls

  and cheese for lunch today,

  so tonight I’m eating out.

  McDonald’s.

  I order a small lemonade,

  no ice,

  no fries,

  no burger,

  and no smile from the lady

  behind the counter.

  She’s the manager I’m sure.

  Everyone else working here is my age

  except this lady

  who looks at me as if I’m diseased

  for ordering only a drink.

  I go upstairs

  where it’s quiet and warm.

  I read the free newspaper

  and wait.

  Sure enough

  the couple in the corner

  can’t eat all the fries,

  and the woman leaves half a burger.

  They get up to leave

  and before they’ve reached the stairs

  I’m over at the table,

  grabbing the burger

  and the fries

  to go with my lemonade,

  the lemonade I bought.

  This is the only way to eat at McDonald’s.

  I sit back

  read the newspaper

  and wait for the family of five to leave.

  I can see dessert

  waiting for me.

  Caitlin and mopping

  When I first saw what he did

 
; I wanted to go up

  and say,

  ‘Put that food back’.

  But how stupid is that?

  It was going in the rubbish

  until he claimed it.

  So I watched him.

  He was very calm.

  He didn’t look worried

  about being caught

  or ashamed of stealing scraps.

  He looked self-contained,

  as though he knew he had to eat

  and this was the easiest way.

  I had work to do,

  mopping the floor,

  which I hate,

  so I mopped slowly

  and watched.

  He read the paper

  until the family left,

  then he helped himself to dessert,

  and as he walked back to his table,

  holding the apple-pie,

  he looked up and saw me

  watching him.

  He stood over his table

  waiting for me to do something.

  He stood there

  almost daring me to get the manager,

  who I hate

  almost as much as I hate mopping.

  So I smiled at him.

  I smiled and said,

  ‘I hate mopping’.

  He sat in his chair

  and smiled back

  and I felt good

  that I hadn’t called the manager.

  I kept mopping.

  He finished his dessert,

  came over to me,

  looked at my badge,

  looked straight at me,

  and said, ‘Goodnight, Caitlin’,

  and he walked out,

  slow and steady,

  and so calm,

  so calm.

  Too rich

  I don’t need to work at McDonald’s.

  Dad would rather I didn’t.

  He buys me anything I want.

  But Mum and I have a deal.

  Whatever I earn she doubles

  and banks for me,

  for university in two years.

  Dad says why bother.

  Dad is too rich for his own good.

  It was his idea I go to

  Bendarat Grammar School

  instead of Bendarat High School

  where all my old friends went.

  So I wear the tartan skirt

  and the clean white blouse

  and I shine my shoes every week

  and wear the school blazer on Sports Day,

  and feel like a real dork

  when I see my old friends

  in the street in jeans and T-shirts.

  Bendarat High

  has a ‘progressive uniform policy’

  which means ‘wear what you like’,

  while Grammar

  is Discipline and Charity and Honesty

  and all those other words

  schools like to put on their crests

  so they can charge people like my dad

  $10,000 a year

  to make me wear a uniform.

  And I can’t wait for university

  so I can leave home

  and that’s why I work at McDonald’s

  and mop floors.

  Billy

  She had clean hair.

  Bouncing, shiny, clean hair.

  That’s the first thing I noticed.

  And her skin was pale and clear

  and I knew she was rich

  because I saw her watch

  and it shone like her hair.

  Her eyes were pale green

  and they seemed to know

  something I didn’t,

  they seemed to be thinking.

  Can eyes think?

  And when I saw her watching me

  take the food

  my first thought was to hate her

  because of that shiny watch

  and her perfect skin

  and I knew she’d call the manager

  and I’d be out of there,

  but she just smiled

  and complained about the mopping

  as if we were both caught

  doing something

  we didn’t want to do

  but had to.

  Breakfast

  Bendarat is the perfect town.

  A friendly librarian,

  a warm McDonald’s,

  luxury train accommodation,

  and the town is surrounded by

  apple and pear orchards.

  So every morning

  I walk the two kilometres

  to the Golden Crest Cannery Farm.

  I climb the fence

  and help myself to a

  healthy breakfast of fruit.

  Then I walk slowly

  back to town,

  past the Bendarat Grammar School.

  Yes, I bet Caitlin goes there.

  I cross the road.

  I wouldn’t want to meet her here

  not when she’s with her friends

  and in uniform

  and me

  dressed in the same clothes as always.

  All the students look clean

  and rich and smug

  and confident,

  and I thought of Caitlin

  and decided I shouldn’t judge,

  not yet anyway.

  Hunger

  Now I’m not going to admit

  to liking the work at McDonald’s,

  particularly mopping,

  but since Billy arrived

  it’s certainly more interesting.

  Tonight he did the usual,

  cleaned the tables,

  ate his fill,

  sipped his lemonade,

  and said, ‘Goodnight, Caitlin’,

  but when I went to

  clean his table

  I found a note

  that read

  ‘Did you know that

  Caitlin is an Irish name

  from Catherine

  meaning pure and innocent?’

  I read this and felt

  something in my stomach,

  a slight ache, a twinge,

  and I knew it was hunger

  but not a hunger for food.

  And I blushed with the knowledge.

  Manners

  He came back tonight,

  sat in the same chair,

  and waited.

  I mopped, as usual,

  and watched him.

  Tonight was busier.

  He had lots to choose from.

  He ate slowly.

  We each nodded hello.

  The manager came upstairs

  so I couldn’t say anything.

  When she left

  I mopped over near his table.

  He said, ‘Hello, Caitlin’,

  as if we were friends,

  so I stopped mopping,

  stood straight

  and said, ‘I’m Caitlin Holmes’.

  He stood and shook my hand

  and replied, ‘Billy Luckett’.

  Such perfect manners,

  eating scraps at McDonald’s.

  Business

  This time when he left

  he came over to me

  and he had something

  in his hand.

  It was a business card.

  He gave it to me

  and said,

  ‘Goodnight, Caitlin, />
  it’s a beautiful name’.

  So well-mannered,

  so unlike every boy

  at Bendarat Grammar,

  or any schoolboy I’ve ever known.

  I looked at the card.

  It didn’t make sense.

  Then I turned it over.

  I smiled to myself.

  Homeless, and proud of it.

  Caitlin

  Now I’m a normal seventeen-year-old girl.

  I think about boys.

  I sit with my girlfriends, Kate and Petra,

  at lunchtime.

  Sometimes we talk to boys

  when they sit with us.

  I watch Petra flirt madly

  and I notice her body language

  change when boys are near.

  She moves her hands more,

  her eyes wink and flutter,

  she’s such a show pony,

  but I like her.

  And yes I’ve been out with boys

  ‘on dates’

  but mostly with Petra and Kate

  and a whole gang together,

  not alone.

  And I’ve done some things,

  you know,

  at parties with boys,

  just mild stuff really.

  So I’m normal,

  a normal seventeen year old.

  I think about boys

  but only in a general way

  like not a boy I know

  or anything

  but just some good-looking guy

  and me

  and what we’d do

  if we had the chance.

  Pure fantasy really.

  Nothing wrong with that,

  but nothing real about it either.

  The hobo hour

  It’s morning

  but still dark

  when I hear a bottle crash

  outside the carriage.

  I go out to check

  and find

  an old man

  with long grey hair

  and beard

  sitting on the train track

  looking at the beer stain

  the wooden sleepers.

  He can’t believe he’s dropped

  a full bottle.

  He sits there, staring,

  doesn’t notice me