‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘I think. My wife did the bedtime stuff.’
The short one nods. ‘I liked the bedtime stuff.’
* * *
The furniture’s staying in the lounge room. She just wants the books, and the paintings from the walls. And the photo albums from under the coffee table. The moving men pass on a message. She’ll make copies if there are any photos he wants. And he can have the wedding album. The last photos of his dad are in it.
‘She thought you’d want to have them.’
‘Yep, thanks, mate,’ he says and turns away.
* * *
The men move on to his daughter’s room. He doesn’t watch as they slide the organza curtains from the rod, and tip the lolly-coloured undies and training bras into boxes. From the shelves above her bed, glass-eyed bears still gape down, but her desk is now cluttered with lip gloss and nail polish. She only turned twelve last month and he hasn’t quite worked out how to talk to his grown-up girl yet. It had really pissed her off when he mocked the life-sized posters of the big-haired boy band she’d put up on her wall. And he hadn’t been happy when she spent all her pocket money to cover one wall completely, and some on the ceiling, like boy-band wallpaper. But now, with the afternoon sun shining in, and just the shiny spots left behind where the Blu-Tack had been, the white walls make his eyes sting.
* * *
The moving men have finished. The short one stands by the front door, typing into his phone as the tall one comes out of the bathroom. ‘All done,’ he says.
‘Yep,’ says the husband and nods.
While they load it all in the lime green van, he tries to sketch in the future. He looks at the boxes all closed up now and feels a sealing in his mind. He pictures a time when he’ll be alright. A time when she’ll be done with and stowed in the past. When he’ll tell the story of their lives with detachment, analysing his reactions and nodding. When he’ll tell his new wife how unsuited they’d been; how young and unready. When, if he hears in years to come that she has cancer, he’ll think, ‘That’s sad for the kids,’ but not much more. He knows that time will come. He knows he’ll be okay. But as he hears the moving men’s van take off in the driveway, that’s not how it feels just yet.
* * *
Wait! he thinks too late, remembering what he’s forgotten to ask. He leaves the front door open and gets into his car. He’s almost caught up to the van as it turns onto the main road. He flashes his lights and beeps his horn till they see him behind and pull over. He stays in his seat till the tall one gets out and walks back to his car. He winds down his window and looks up. The sun is high behind the moving man’s head, and the glare is too much to cope with. He squints up at the lime green chest and says, ‘Could you do me a favour?
‘Sure, mate. What?’
‘Tell her thanks for the photos of my dad.’ He feels like he should go on, but stops and stares into the side mirror, searching the road behind for clues.
The moving man puts his hands in his pockets and looks down at the top of his head.
‘No worries, mate,’ he says. He pauses, then walks back to his van, climbs in and drives slowly off.
The husband starts his car and follows the van a way, looking for a place to turn around. As he drives over a crest and down into a dip, the road dissolves. The windscreen is a blur and tears drop from his chin. He gulps for air and hits the wiper switch. He feels like he’s driven into a lake and is slowly, slowly sinking. His foot falls from the accelerator and scrabbles for the brake. Tyres grate along the gutter as his hands clamp the wheel. The motor idles on and the wipers click and squeal against the dust-dry windscreen as he watches the van move slowly away. Through muddled eyes he watches as it moves off up the hill. Now it’s just a lime green smear on the crest and then it disappears, swallowed up by the dark grey road.
Rot
The merlot should’ve been picked by late February. Maybe earlier. With the heat they’d had in January. But there it is still. Dusty blue beads rotting on the vines. Shrinking and smelling and being gobbled by crows who stagger off half-drunk and sway on the stump of the peppermint tree.
The nets didn’t go on when they should have. That was Charlie’s job. Should have been. And now the grapes are exposed and swollen and bursting in the sun.
Maggie walks between the rows. The slope feels steeper with her face to the afternoon sun. The grass has grown high and she should be keeping an eye out for snakes. Should be, but she’s not. She’s pushing through the knee-high tangle, running her hands along the wires, stopping from time to time to snap off a powdery purple cluster. She pops them in her palm and licks off the juice before it runs down her wrist. Her fingernails are stained and her chin wears a sugary beard. At the end of the row she sits down on a cushion of sun-bleached weeds and bends over her knees. She cups her nose and mouth in her juice-tacky hand and breathes in the odour of mildew-tainted skins and sugar-bloated flesh.
* * *
The merlot should be picked and pressed and fermenting by now. Not in her palm, but in the barrels in the barn. And Charlie should be climbing up his stepladder, siphoning out a sample to test and keeping watch on the temperature, like others do for a sick child.
Don’t let it rise over thirty-five. That’s when the danger sets in. Cool it down. Break the crust and let the heat escape. Plunge your arm right through, up to your shoulder. Break the crust and save the wine.
But that too was Charlie’s job. The spraying, the netting, the saying, ‘Time to pick.’ The pressing, the straining, the subtracting and adding. The tending, the testing, the tasting and tuning.
And hers was the drinking. Guzzle the product. Piss away the profits. That’s all she was good for.
‘Go on,’ he’d said. ‘Go on. Enjoy. I’m outta here.’
‘Fuck you!’ she’d yelled. Then—‘Don’t go. Stay.’
But he’d gone and he’d not come back. Not even for his grapes. Not even for his wine. And though she’d known it was her fault, she’d resented him. And she’d tried to convince herself that she wasn’t shattered. But that’s not the way it felt.
* * *
‘Fine Vines’ she’d called it when she’d bought it back then. Charlie had suggested Margaret of Margaret River, but she’d wanted to acknowledge his surname; her new surname—Charles and Margaret Fine.
When she’d won the lotto prize, her friends had told her to invest in shares. But she’d just come out of a dispiriting job in a state government department and felt the need to reconnect with her senses. The money gave her freedom to trust her instincts. So, after a short boozy binge to celebrate, she entered her wine appreciation phase, starting a Bachelor of Oenology online. And when the deceased estate vineyard came up for sale, she’d said, ‘Why not?’
It was in the History of Winemaking unit that she discovered the ancient vessels—Roman ceramic amphoras and Chinese celadon wine kettles. She gave up the degree the same week she got married to Charlie.
That had been the start of her ceramics phase. She started with hand building—pinching, coil pots and soft slab moulding, before moving on to throwing. It took her a good while to master the wheel. Her anxiety gave her hands a slight tremble and Charlie’s watching didn’t help. She moved the wheel from the carport to the side verandah, away from the lounge room windows and out of his sight. She’d sip on a nice glass of pinot noir or cabernet sauvignon before she started each throw, to steady her hands.
After they’d built the big hangar and cellar, when production had stepped up, the old wine shed had become her studio—with her wheel and her stocks of clay. And they put in a kiln and racks for drying.
She’d made him a carafe when his first vintage was bottled. A beautiful vessel of fine kaolin clay with a vine leaf design and burgundy glaze. But he’d never filled it. It had sat on the buffet with the wedding photo and golf trophy and had never been used. He was a bit of a purist, he’d joked. Only glass for wine. Ever. Thought the glaze would taint the wine. Preferred to see
its colour, not hide it.
‘Not a problem,’ she’d said.
But it had been.
* * *
And after it was all over, when they had to sit down and talk house and vines and car, she’d said, ‘Take the house and keep working your vines. I just need my shed.’ She was happy to sleep in there. The sofa was wide and soft, and she’d put all her clothes in the trunk that could double as a table. She said it would be inspiring. She’d be close to all her materials and surrounded by her half-finished projects. It’d motivate her. And secretly she thought it’d leave the door open. Being so close. You never know. Things change. After seven years, surely there was hope. And there was for a while. He’d come every day and pruned and irrigated and sprayed. And they’d had a few laughs. There’d been some hope. Until New Year’s Eve, when she was so sure she could convince him, and he just couldn’t come back after that.
And then he’d announced that his ‘good friend’ Jill, who’d been ‘so supportive’ through the break-up, was moving in with him. Into the house. And Maggie had been too stunned to scream. Hadn’t seen it coming. Didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know where she was. Like she’d walked onto the stage at the start of act two.
And so the nets hadn’t gone on and the crows had swooped like they’d known all along, like they were in on it all.
* * *
When the sun disappears behind the slope and the crows sober up enough to head for home, Maggie gets up from the sweaty grass and walks back towards the darkened cellar door. Despite the heat of the day, it feels like it’s going to be a cool night.
She goes down to the cellar intending to smash all his precious ones. Only she can’t. Can’t waste them. Can’t see it seep between the bricks.
Need to make something, she thinks. She picks up two bottles of ’08 shiraz and a tasting glass from under the bar and heads down to the shed.
When she’s finished the first bottle of shiraz, she stands it on the rolling bench and pushes her hips against the edge to steady herself. The tasting glass teeters and falls off the bench, smashing on the concrete floor. She leans forward and grasps a block of clay with both hands. She grunts with the effort of pulling it towards herself. With a rusty wire she slices a chunk and cleaves it off. The initial working is done with her fists. It’s pounded and pummelled flat. Then she picks up the empty bottle and uses it, like her mother did for scone dough, to spread it thin and even. When the soft slab is smooth and squarish, she wraps it round the bottle and smoothes over the seam. She licks her fingers and eliminates the fine cracks along the join. She leaves it on the bench to dry to leather-hard. Taking the full bottle by the neck, she retreats to her sofa under the skylight. The sun is no longer in its frame, and its light is fading to mauve. She pushes her feet under a cushion and leans back against the armrest.
The air has chilled rapidly with the sun low in the sky and the corrugated-iron walls of the shed are already cool to the touch. Maggie crouches in front of the wood-fired heater and builds a tight mound of screwed-up newspaper and dry vine prunings. When the flames have taken, she adds some good-sized logs to the pile and retreats to the sofa. She takes the folded blanket from under the cushion and wraps it around her legs like a shroud. With her head tipped back against the armrest, the flames reflect in the skylight. It’s like she’s set the sky on fire. She lifts the second bottle from the floor beside the sofa. She slides it in under the blanket and holds it tight between her thighs to take the night chill off it. Charlie would be appalled, she thinks as she rolls the cold glass along the tender bumpy inner flesh. From the narrow shelf above the sofa, she brings down a ceramic goblet—an early attempt at pinch pots. Charlie was right. The glaze does interfere. She’s not sure if it actually taints the wine, but it does distract, with its ridges and flows. Especially this goblet, with its clumsy thick lip. She tips the rest of the wine into her mouth and heaves the goblet in a slow arc towards the heater. It misses the open door and bounces across the hot black top. She pulls the bottle delicately from between her thighs and puts her lips to the hole.
Only glass for wine. Ever! she thinks; mockingly or not, she’s not quite sure.
* * *
She wakes with the empty bottle weighing cold on her chest. The skylight is still filled with the reflection of flames, but coated with a muddy grey haze. Her left hand is trailing on the bare concrete floor, and yet it feels warm. She blinks hard and tears squeeze out and sting her eyes.
She turns her stiff neck towards the heater and realises that the rug’s on fire. She rolls off the sofa, her feet still wrapped in the blanket. Her shoulder whacks the edge of the metal trunk. The basket of dry logs next to the heater is ablaze as well. She pushes herself to her knees and scrambles across the floor, the blanket still trailing behind her, grazing her palms on the concrete floor. With the rush of cool air as she pushes open the door, the flames hiss and surge. The wood basket crumbles and flaming logs roll towards the walls. The old wooden frame of the shed starts to blacken and smoke.
* * *
When Jill tells Charlie she sees fire through the living-room windows, his first thought is, Oh, fuck. She’s burning the vines. From out on the verandah, though, they see the flames starting to pierce the corrugated-iron roof of the shed. They run down and stop dead when they see Maggie out on the dirt, still on all fours, away from the now-blazing building.
‘You alright?’ yells Charlie.
Maggie looks up and nods. Charlie grabs the hose while Jill runs back up to the house to call the fire brigade. He starts to spray water through the open door, but the pressure is too low and the flames drive him back. He drops the hose and looks up at the roof as it collapses inwards. Still down on all fours, Maggie flinches at the sound and realises she’s pissed her pants. She sits down in the dirt and pulls the blanket up around her waist. Charlie sees how close she still is to the flames, puts his hands under her armpits and pulls her further from the walls. He looks down at her and yells over the sound of the fire, ‘What the fuck happened?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know. I fell asleep and then it was all on fire.’
‘Freakin’ hell, Maggie. You could’ve killed yourself.’
She looks down at her bare feet and nods. She starts to lean and topple. She has to plant an elbow in the dirt to steady herself.
‘Look at you!’ Charlie shakes his head. ‘You look like a freakin’ wino.’
Maggie turns her face towards the darkness of the vines. ‘Fair enough,’ she whispers to herself. Charlie turns away and shakes his head.
* * *
When the firemen have turned the last flames to smoke, and they are alone, Charlie runs his hand over his scalp and sits down in the dirt next to Maggie.
‘You can stay in the house,’ he says softly. ‘We can fix up the spare room.’
‘No, no. That’s okay.’
‘Where are you going to stay then?’
‘With Gordon.’
‘Gordon?’
‘Yeah. He’s alone. He’s got room.’
Charlie just stares and shakes his head.
‘It’ll be like old times.’ She attempts a laugh, but can only manage a cough. ‘It’s half my house anyway. They were my parents too.’
Charlie sighs. ‘Just stay up at the house with us.’
‘No. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’m sorted.’
‘Well, you have to stay here tonight. You’re not going anywhere now. Not in the state you’re in.’
Maggie pulls the blanket tighter around her chest. She has no idea how late it is, but the sky is completely black.
‘Yeah, okay,’ she concedes.
‘Jill can lend you some pyjamas and some clothes till you buy some new stuff.’
Maggie nods. ‘Yeah, thanks.’
* * *
When Charlie is halfway up to the house, Maggie pushes herself to her knees and lets the blanket drop. She pulls off the piss-soaked shorts and underwear and kicks them away in the dirt. Her t-
shirt is rolled up above her belly. As she pulls it over her head, it catches in her hair and pulls at the roots. She flings it back over her head as she stumbles up towards the closest row of vines.
She grasps the wooden post at the end of the row and pulls herself against it. The ends of the wires scratch her knuckles and slice the soft side of her little finger. She sucks away the blood and feels her breath, warm on her skin. She sinks to her knees in the cool dew-damp weeds.
The crows have left her to cope on her own. The snakes are asleep, wrapped around the warm roots. The peppermint trees to the left are grey and silent. They peer and sneer and shake their heads. Maggie spits on the dirt. ‘Don’t you pity me!’ she hisses.
She thumps her fists on her thighs and breathes in the night air. The rotting fruit pricks her nostrils and turns her mouth dry. She turns to look up at the house. Silhouettes move back and forth in the yellow-lit squares. Jill is upstairs getting the guest bed in the spare room ready for her. Maggie watches her as she raises both arms, then lets the crisp white sheet billow and fall.
Look Down
‘Imagine a million earths.’ The old man looks the barman in the eye and raises his brow. ‘Imagine a million earths all stuffed in a sack.’
The barman exhales and doesn’t lift his eyes from the form guide.
The old man continues, grinning. ‘That’s how big the sun is.’
The barman flicks his eyes briefly in the old man’s direction, then looks back down at the paper.
‘About time you got going, isn’t it, mate?’ he mutters. ‘If you want to catch the eclipse?’
‘Yeah, right. Thanks, champ,’ the old man replies, the grin fixed on his face. ‘I’ll just have a quick one before I go.’
‘Nah, mate,’ replies the barman. ‘That’ll do for today. Off you go.’
* * *
As he turns the corner by the train station, the old man passes a billboard. Standing six foot tall from the footpath up is a glass of ice-cold beer. The photo has caught the drips of condensation as they slip down the glass. The head of the beer is level with his own, and he fights the urge to suck the foam right off the papered wall.
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