Blueberry

by Glenna Thomson

  The Airbus flew on and I watched the vapour trail slowly disintegrate into a long flimsy cloud.

  As the morning passed the long shadow from the cypresses receded. The top half of the orchard was now in the late morning sun and the quiet melt in my muscles felt good as I pruned. About fifteen bushes down the row I drifted into a pruning zone, an unfamiliar calmness somewhere between meditation and relaxation. Even though I kept thinking it was time to stop I methodically worked on – sawing, snipping and shaping – crafting the vase. And in that unfamiliar state I felt a sort of hyperawareness of the colours and shapes around me. The pale crimson canes, the few golden and red leaves that hadn’t fallen, the grassy birds’ nests within the bushes, the soft blue sky above. Along Josephs Road there was a tall, handsome ghost gum and a rough line of gangling black wattles. The only sound was my breathing as I sawed and the occasional distant warble of magpies. It was warmer, so I unzipped my coat and let it fall to the ground.

  I was wondering about sharpening the secateurs when I heard a noise, sensed something. Glancing up past the long spindly heap of grandmother canes on the ground, I saw Charlie and Blondie working their way down to me. It was hard going for Charlie, tramping and half stumbling through the prunings.

  ‘You’re crazy if you think you can prune the whole damn orchard on your own.’

  ‘I’m just practicing.’ I stood back with my arms apart. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Looks all right to me.’

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

  ‘I always hated pruning. Found it boring.’

  ‘I don’t mind it.’

  ‘What would you know? You’ve only been at it a couple of hours.’ He looked back up the row. ‘And you’ve done fewer than twenty bushes. That’s way too slow. You’ve only got about another nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty to do.’

  ‘Not bad for a beginner though.’

  ‘Forget it. Get backpackers in.’

  ‘I’ve got an ad in the Euroa Gazette, comes out tomorrow.’

  ‘You’ll get Centrelink bludgers who won’t turn up, and if they do they’ll only work on their own terms. Lazy, spoilt or plain dumb. Sometimes we’d get a good one, but it used to drive me and Audrey nuts. And any experienced pruner will want forty dollars an hour and that’ll send you broke. Backpackers are hungry. They’re grateful for the work and just get on with it.’

  ‘How do I get backpackers?’

  ‘I thought I was done with this goddamn orchard, but I can see I’m not. Let’s go and have another cuppa.’

  I liked it that Charlie had already been in the house, it made me feel less alone. The fire had been stoked, the kettle was warm and two mugs were already waiting on the bench.

  ‘Came looking for you,’ he said.

  ‘Something smells a bit off in here.’

  ‘Just the old plumbing around the sink.’

  ‘It’s in the bathroom as well,’ I said.

  ‘Plumbing issue there too, then.’

  The way he was sitting back in the chair, with his legs crossed like he was at an important appointment, it was hard to believe he was so sick. He looked well enough and his colour seemed all right. He walked slowly with a stoop and often pressed a fist into the small of his back, but from what I could tell, he was managing.

  ‘We need a strategy,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For our situation. Yours and mine.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘Well. You need me as your adviser. For the orchard. You’ve got no idea what you’re doing and already I’m steering you in the right direction with how to get the pruning done. There’s soil testing, fertilising, packaging, irrigation, the harvest and getting the berries to market. It’s an all-year-round job, you know.’

  I put mugs of tea on the table and sat opposite.

  He stared at me, those ancient, sad eyes, pale aquamarine. ‘I’m not going to beg you. But the situation is this. I’ve got a medical problem that probably isn’t going well.’

  ‘Warren told me. He wants you closer to the doctors.’

  ‘They want me to have more radiotherapy. But I can’t see the point, so I’m not having it. I want to live here. This place is all I’ve known for the past fifty years. I love the garden and don’t want to be anywhere else.’ He pressed the flat of his left hand on the table and leaned forward. ‘I’ll be happy here and you need me. To advise you.’

  Perhaps it was in my sleep, or during a daydream somewhere in the past couple of days or nights, that I’d worked out some fanciful plan that I could turn the sleep-out off the back veranda into Charlie’s room. It was a little separate from the main body of the house, but the room was a good size, with east and north-facing windows. His paintings could be hung around the walls. The thing was, I now wanted Charlie to stay. Not only because I liked him and could use his orcharding experience, but because his presence, and Blondie’s, filled the vast country silence. I didn’t know what the future held for us, but I wouldn’t send him away.

  ‘We’ll need to get your bed back here then.’

  ‘So I’m staying?’

  I smiled. ‘Yes. Let’s do it.’

  ‘How long can I stay?’

  ‘As long as you want.’

  He lowered his head so I wouldn’t see his face crease into a proud man’s tears. I thought about going to him, but I wasn’t sure. His one hand, resting on the table, was mottled with brown spots, the veins a map of lines. After more than half a century of wear, his gold wedding ring was dull and scratched and settled into a groove at the base of his ring finger. I reached forward and clasped his soft leathery hand in both of mine.

  ‘I’d better call Warren,’ I said.

  Charlie swiped his face across his sleeve. ‘You have to be very firm with him,’ he said. ‘Tell him this is none of his business. Tell him to leave me alone.’

  ‘I thought maybe we could set up the sleep-out for you. You’ll get the morning sun.’

  ‘I’ve been lonely without Audrey.’

  ‘I’ve been lonely since Nick left.’

  ‘Who’s Nick?’

  ‘Sophie’s dad.’

  ‘I’ve wondered about him. What happened?’

  ‘He left.’

  ‘Why would anyone leave you?’

  ‘I’ll tell you some other time.’

  ‘Well, whatever happened, it’s good for me that you’re here.’

  And I was thinking the same, that it was good for me he was staying.

  ‘You’ve got absolutely no right to interfere,’ Warren said.

  ‘You know this situation has been put on me. But I’m agreeing to it.’

  I had the call on speaker, so Charlie could listen in. He sat very still, staring into his cupped hands.

  ‘I’ve just signed a lease on a unit in Euroa.’

  Charlie shook his head, no.

  ‘But he wants to stay here. I can look after him.’

  ‘No. No. That’s not happening,’ Warren said. ‘You’ve only been in Huntly for a week. You can’t just take on my father like that.’

  ‘You need to consider his wishes.’

  ‘You’re just making this worse for him – prolonging the inevitable.’

  ‘We’re going around in circles.’

  ‘Have you come to some financial arrangement with my father?’ His tone was blunt with suspicion. I took him off speaker, put the phone to my ear and walked to the back porch.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Exactly, what I said. I’m Dad’s enduring power of attorney so I need to know what arrangements you’ve made.’

  ‘I’ve not discussed money with your father. What time will his things be delivered back here tomorrow? He needs to get off that couch in the studio and into a proper bed.’

  Silence. He was thinking.

  ‘I’m not agreeing to his bed and furniture being returned to the house.’

  ‘This is your father’s request, not mine.�
�

  He sighed. ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘What exactly don’t I understand?’

  ‘My father is a very sick man.’

  ‘And your point is?’

  We both tuned in to the long hollow silence, that unfathomable distance between our phones and the revolving satellite that connected us.

  ‘I need to think,’ he said.

  ‘You need to think about what your father wants.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’ He hung up.

  When I turned, Charlie was leaning against the doorframe, his thumb up in a victory sign.

  ‘He didn’t agree to anything,’ I said.

  ‘But you stood up to him. That’s more than most do. And anyway, I’m not leaving here.’

  ‘It’s cold,’ I said. ‘Go sit by the fire.’

  ‘Don’t fuss, woman,’ he said, turning to the lounge room.

  I looked out across the backyard. Two rosellas darted into the fig tree and perched on the lowest branches. They faced each other and nodded, as if talking.

  11

  IT was 9 ºC and even colder with the wind chill. Ruby and Eliza were wearing shorts and thongs and shivering into their multi-layers of t-shirts and long-sleeved tops.

  They gazed at me as if they thought they’d come home to Mum, a pathetic look with their tats and piercings, hoping I’d invite them in for a roast meal and offer to do their washing.

  ‘We thought Australia was a warm country,’ Ruby said.

  ‘This time of year only Queensland is warm. Up north.’

  They glanced at each other as if that piece of information was important, filing it away for future use.

  They struggled to get their army-green nylon tent pitched under the blue gum beside the shearing shed. Inside the shed I’d cleared a space away from the sheep pens and set up some old chairs and a second-hand bar fridge I’d found in Euroa. When I showed them what I’d done, they’d gazed around like they were checking out a rental. We talked about washing and water, but it was the power points that lit their faces. They plugged in their phones.

  Charlie had told me that having backpackers coming inside every day to use the bathroom would become too invasive, that I’d need my own space.

  ‘There’s an outside toilet beside the garage,’ I said. ‘And you can come into the house for a shower every two or three days.’

  Charlie was right, they seemed eager enough. I was curious about what they did back in England and why they’d come to Australia, but they answered me like I was a prying grown-up. I handed them their personalised folders. They diligently filled in their forms for tax, super and my own sheet for next of kin and bank details.

  As requested, the next morning at eight, they knocked on the back door. I had a blueberry pruning briefing planned, which included a YouTube demo on my laptop, a practice in the orchard and training on how to sharpen the secateurs.

  ‘Sorry,’ Eliza said, ‘but we’re leaving.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s too bloody cold here.’

  ‘Of course it is. It’s winter and you’re wearing shorts.’

  ‘We’ve not slept.’

  I had felt a deeper wave of cold mountain air during the night. The temperature had dropped around two in the morning and that’s when I’d curled up and pulled the doona tighter around me. It would have been freezing in that flimsy tent.

  ‘Maybe you could sleep in the shearing shed tonight?’ I said.

  ‘We’re miserable.’

  They were rubbing their arms, treading from foot to foot in their thongs.

  ‘Well then,’ I said.

  They turned away from me so casually. From the back step, I could see they’d already packed up and within a minute they were gone.

  A German couple came next, Jonas and Marie. They could have been brother and sister they looked so alike with their slightly tanned, serious faces. Their glasses were identical and their earthy-coloured clothes were similar, stylish yet casual in an adventure-store way. She was a little shorter and her hair was longer, but aside from that there was this kind of elastic between them, so they moved and thought as if they were one.

  They set up camp in the shearing shed and pruned eight hours a day for three days. They said the reason they were leaving was Jonas’s bad tooth. He even pulled his lip back to show me the problem – it was impossible to see, and I didn’t want to get that close. There was a dentist in Euroa and I offered to drive them down, but they politely refused. It made no sense and I felt panicked about losing my second lot of pruners. I watched them leave. Through the back window of their white Lancer were square piles of bedding and plastic boxes. The last I heard of them was the rubber of their tyres burring across the cattle grid.

  Charlie said not to worry, that it sometimes went like that. ‘They probably earned the couple of hundred dollars they needed. Just get back on that phone,’ he said.

  But the pruning was behind schedule. It was now the third week of June and only seven of the sixty rows had been done.

  Enrico was a greyhound-thin Italian with a dozen or more dreadlocks, each one as thick as a sausage, falling halfway down his back. A loose-weave rainbow band kept them together in a fat ponytail.

  He was waiting for me in his blue van when I arrived home from Euroa. I had been grocery shopping and had picked Sophie up from school on the way through. She was telling me she’d played with a girl called Freya who had a baby brother – and the next thing I knew, the car door was being opened. When he saw Sophie in the back seat he smacked his leg and said, ‘Bella, bella.’

  There was supposed to be two of them.

  ‘Where’s Paulo?’ I said.

  ‘Gone to the mangoes. So there is just me.’ He grinned and looked down at himself, as if it was a miracle he was standing there.

  Enrico was too much, too alive, his darting brown eyes alone were hard to keep up with. His gummy mouth, the crooked white teeth and pink wet tongue seemed too big for his skinny face. He talked fast in rapid bursts and his hands and upper body worked along with whatever he was saying.

  ‘My English good, eh?’

  I didn’t actually invite him in. He just took my shopping bags from the backseat and followed me inside. With the groceries on the bench, he pulled out a kitchen chair, sat down then looked around appraising the place as if trying to decide if it suited him.

  ‘There is a smell,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are aware, yes?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘All right.’ He nodded. ‘I sleep in the back of my van. This is what I do. I can use your shower every second day, good?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Washing of the clothes once a week.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Sometimes I go to the town for supplies. I eat mostly fruit, bananas. I am what is called a fruitarian.’

  ‘Why bananas?’

  ‘Cheap in Australia. Save much money.’

  ‘You can eat with us sometimes,’ I said.

  ‘That is what I wanted to hear,’ he said. ‘Two times a week, eh?’

  ‘Okay. Why don’t you eat vegetables and meat?’

  ‘Of course I do eat them. I am Italian.’ He put his fist on his heart. ‘I work hard. Don’t you worry.’

  ‘So why only fruit?’

  He frowned. ‘It is cheaper to live.’

  He told me he wanted to stay permanently in Australia, to find a place of his own.

  ‘But Italy is a beautiful country,’ I said.

  He raised his fist. ‘Only for the tourists.’

  He was twenty-six, the eldest of five, and it demeaned him to live with his parents. ‘I make my own way in this life.’

  He was dramatic. But with all the energy he tossed around there was something certain about him.

  ‘Double espresso,’ he said, pointing to the coffee machine. ‘I can make, if you like.’

  And then to Sophie, who was sitting on my knee, wide-eyed and speechless, �
�You got pretty face like your Mumma.’ He winked at her. Then he put his hands up in surrender. ‘I make a joke. Well, no joke about pretty, but nothing is meant.’

  We drank espressos while we filled out his tax forms. Then we went to the orchard and I pruned a bush while he watched. He had the right gear, a thick yellow coat and black thick-soled boots, red knitted gloves with the fingers exposed.

  I’d done the maths. With nine thousand bushes and two and a half months left to prune them, at an average of eight hours a day, at Enrico’s hourly rate, and all that overlayed against my budget, I’d made the arbitrary decision that I could afford only five minutes per bush.

  ‘Only five minutes per bush,’ I said.

  Enrico frowned, looking confused. ‘If the bush needs more then I do it.’

  I nodded, agreeing to that too.

  12

  THAT night, around eight, a car crossed the cattle grid. I had become used to the sound of tyres slapping across those thick metal bars, a distant warning that someone was about to knock on the back door. I was working on my laptop in the lounge room, studying fertilisers, trying to work out if I really did need an agronomist to do soil and leaf tests to know which combinations of nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium to use. I kept reading, getting more confused, until I heard a knock.

  Shane was standing on the back step. I opened the back door; the flywire screen was between us.

  ‘Got a minute?’ he said.

  ‘Warren’s emissary?’

  He wiped his feet on the mat.

  It felt too real or obvious – this nice-looking neighbour stepping into my house, into my life, wearing his non-farmer clothes, like he had just had dinner at a classy pub. He followed me to the kitchen and accepted a beer. Two bottles from the fridge – we twisted the caps and sat at the dining table. Marilyn framed his body.