The Vintage and the Gleaning

by Jeremy Chambers

  The Vintage and the Gleaning

  Jeremy Chambers was born in 1974.

  He lives in Melbourne. This is his first novel.

  JEREMY CHAMBERS

  The

  Vintage

  and the

  Gleaning

  The paper in this book is manufactured only from wood grown in sustainable regrowth forests.

  The Text Publishing Company

  Swann House

  22 William Street

  Melbourne Victoria 3000

  Australia

  textpublishing.com.au

  Copyright © Jeremy Chambers 2010

  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 by The Text Publishing Company, 2010

  Cover design by WH Chong

  Page design by Susan Miller

  Typeset by J & M Typesetting

  Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Author: Chambers, J. E. (Jeremy Edward), 1974-

  Title: The vintage and the gleaning / Jeremy Chambers.

  Edition: 1st ed.

  ISBN: 9781921656507 (pbk.)

  Dewey Number: A823.4

  To my father

  Monday we drive to Butlers’, same as where we were last week.

  We’re still at Butlers’, aren’t we? asks Roy.

  We go in through town and turn down the highway into the morning sun. We go past Beaumonts’, Tylers’ and Crews’, St Margaret’s Cellars and Pulham’s cherry trees. Wallace’s ute is parked at the end of the rows. Roy pulls in next to it and looks at his watch. He puts on the radio and rolls a cigarette.

  I get out and go over to Wallace’s ute. Wallace is sitting up back of the tray, putting an edge on a shovel. I get another shovel off the tray. I sit up back with Wallace and he hands me the oilcan.

  Win anything on the races? Wallace asks me.

  Nope, I say.

  I run my finger along the edge of the shovel. More than half the blade’s been worn down and the edge isn’t straight any more. It’s far from straight. It’s crooked all over the place.

  Win anything on the lottery? Wallace asks.

  Nope, I say.

  I knock the dirt off the shovel and put oil along the blade.

  You win anything? I ask.

  Me? says Wallace. Nah.

  I show him the shovel blade.

  I know, says Wallace.

  Wallace finishes his shovel and sticks it into the ground. He takes another one off the tray and knocks the dirt off it.

  You hear about George Alister? Wallace asks me.

  No, I say.

  Jeez, he says. Hasn’t heard about George Alister.

  I hawk and spit over the side of the tray and reach back for the water bottle and drink and spit again. Wallace hands me a stone from the toolbox and I start putting an edge on the crooked blade.

  Wallace picks at a splinter.

  Bloody hell, he says. Hasn’t heard about George Alister. Thought someone must have told you.

  Nobody told me nothing, I say.

  Wallace digs around the pockets of his shorts, muttering to himself. He finds his clasp knife and snaps it open, holding onto the blade and flicking the handle out. He pares the splinter off the shaft and closes the knife with one hand. I finish my shovel and take another one off the tray. I look at the blade. It’s as worn and crooked as the first one. They’re all worn and crooked. All them vineyard shovels.

  Wallace hands me the oilcan.

  Dropped dead, he says. Middle of Main Street. Heart attack.

  What, I say, George Alister?

  Yep, says Wallace. Right in the middle of Main Street. Dead before he hit the ground they reckon.

  Jeez, I say. George Alister.

  Wallace gets an old piece of torn sandpaper from the toolbox and works it along the handle. He holds it up and looks at it, running his finger along it. Reaching back for the jerry can, he pours turps into the palm of his hand and streaks it over the shaft. It glistens in the pale sunlight.

  Thought you would have heard, says Wallace. By now. Monday morning. Happened Saturday. Heart attack. Dead before he hit the ground.

  I finish the shovel and stick it in the dirt. I get off the tray to stretch my knees, wandering towards the vines and looking down the finished rows. They are neat along the wire, twisting up bare from the earth and spreading out full and leafy at the top. Some are already hung with bunches of new fruit, small, hard and green. By picking time, when the women come with their secateurs and we only work mornings, the grapes will be fat and purple and heavy on the vines, the flesh sweet inside the tough, bitter skins. Some of the women eat while they pick, sucking out the insides and spitting out the rest, marking their rows with dark spittle and half-chewed skins which grow deep in colour and crisp in the sun.

  Normally I like the picking, when there’s the company of women, who chat away and gossip while they work and Wallace plays foreman proper but throws me a grin as he empties his bucket into the container, and Roy cheeky so the women laugh. But not this year. I’m not looking forward to it this year, not with lunchtime knockoff and empty afternoons and I wonder what I am going to do with meself.

  I look down at the ragged mess of vines along the unfinished rows and I wander back.

  Wallace hands me another shovel and the oilcan. I sit back up on the tray and knock the dirt off the shovel, hitting the handle against the side of the tray. It falls in a dry and silty pile, pale on the soil. Dust rises from it like smoke.

  Eating an ice-cream, Wallace says. George Alister. Was eating an ice-cream when he carked it. Just come out the milk bar, taken the wrapper off and that’s it.

  He snaps his fingers.

  Gone. Just like that. Still holding onto the bloody ice-cream when he hits the ground. Hits the deck.

  Just like that, I say.

  Just like that, says Wallace.

  He bangs his shovel against the tray. The dirt sticks. He bangs the shovel again, hard. The metal rings. He hits it until the dirt falls off in a clump.

  The noise sends the crows up from the vines. The crows go up cawing. They come back down again further along the rows.

  And you know George Alister’s dog, Wallace says.

  Yeah, I say. I know the one.

  You know what it did? What it did when George Alister has his heart attack? Has his heart attack and hits the ground?

  I shake my head.

  Nicked the bloody ice-cream, says Wallace. Goes up, sniffs around, sees George Alister’s a goner, takes the ice-cream right out of his hand. Then dog pisses off. Does the bloody bolt. Goes and eats the ice-cream in the bushes behind the post office. And there’s George Alister lying there. George Alister lying there dead, dog’s nicked off with his bloody ice-cream.

  Well, I say, planting my shovel in the dirt. That’s dogs for you.

  Too right, says Wallace, laughing. That’s dogs for you. That’s dogs for you all right. Bloody dogs, ay.

  We finish the last of the shovels and put them in the ground.

  George Alister, I say. He was Roy’s mate wasn’t he?

  Yeah, says Wallace. He was Roy’s mate.

  Wallace spits on the ground and rubs the spit into the dirt with his boot.

  He was Roy’s mate all right, says Wallace. But from what I heard Roy was more interested in the o
ld lady. Nora. Nora Alister. Widow now.

  That’s right, I say.

  Not the old lady any more, says Wallace. Widow. George Alister’s widow.

  Something sends the crows up again and they go over us and come round and back into the vines. I look up at the sky.

  Fair game now, George Alister’s widow, says Wallace. Roy’ll probably have a go at her now.

  Wallace puts the oilcan and the whetstones back in the toolbox. He opens his knife again and wipes it on his shorts.

  For sure Roy’ll have a go at her, he says.

  Well, I say. That’s Roy for you

  Wallace laughs. That’s Roy for you all right, he says. That’s dogs for you and that’s Roy for you.

  He pulls himself back along the tray and takes one of his boots off, knocking it against the side of the tray. Soil and stones fall out. Wallace wears thick, filthy socks rolled over the top of the elastic siding. He does one boot and then the other.

  Bloody Roy, ay, he says.

  I look up at the sky. I look at the sun coming over the hill, squinting. It is coming up bright and yellow, the air fresh, a clear dawn. The old ghost gum in the next paddock catches the light and it catches it high up so that high up the foliage is rimmed with gold and it sways slightly and the leaves move all together, the branches smooth and white with swollen folds like loose skin, swaying, barely swaying, but in the light the movement seems beautiful. There is beauty there.

  Wallace goes and pisses in the vines and comes back and looks at his watch and looks over at Roy’s ute. He holds up his hand and points to the watch. Roy comes out slamming his door and swearing and whistling to Lucy. Lucy opens her eyes and lifts her head from between her paws. She yawns, looking around, her eyebrows twitching. She jumps to the ground and comes over and sniffs at me and Wallace. Then she goes up and down the vines with her nose to the ground, looking for snakes.

  Roy comes up bare-headed, his silver hair thin and sunburnt underneath. His eyes are pale and blue. When they talk about Roy they call them baby-blue. They say it’s his baby-blue eyes gets the women. When they talk about Roy that’s what they always say. Roy scratches his arm and looks over at the road.

  Where’s Spit? Roy asks. And bloody flaming Tweedledee and flaming bloody Tweedledum?

  Late, says Wallace.

  You going to dock them? Roy asks Wallace. I don’t mean Spit, he says to me. I mean Heckle and Jeckle. The flaming double act.

  If Boss comes first, I’ll dock them, says Wallace.

  You expecting Boss this early? asks Roy.

  No, says Wallace.

  Roy goes into the vines and pisses and comes and sits up back of Wallace’s ute with us. We wait for the others.

  You hear about George Alister? Wallace asks Roy.

  Course, says Roy. Everyone’s heard about George Alister.

  Smithy didn’t, says Wallace. Didn’t know a thing about it till I told him.

  Well, says Roy, he knows now then, doesn’t he?

  That’s right, says Wallace. I told him. Dropped dead. Middle of Main Street. Heart attack.

  That’s right, says Roy.

  Just like that, says Wallace. Gone.

  Yep, says Roy.

  You heard about his dog then, did you? Wallace asks. George Alister’s dog?

  Roy nods.

  You know what Smithy said when I told him? says Wallace. I told him, George Alister goes down, hits the deck, dog nicks bloody ice-cream. Does the bloody bolt. And you know what Smithy says? He says, that’s dogs for you.

  True enough, says Roy, leaning over and spitting between his knees.

  That’s dogs for you, says Wallace, laughing. Bloody dogs.

  We sit up back of the ute. Roy leans forward and hawks and spits again. Wallace looks at his watch and swears. He pulls himself down, grunting, and walks over to the road. He stands in the middle of the road looking towards town with his hands on his hips. Lucy comes up and sniffs our boots.

  You find anything, girl? Roy asks her. Find any snakes?

  Lucy snorts and sits there panting. Roy rubs her side with his boot and she leans into it with her head up, licking the air.

  Wallace lumbers back, hunched over with his huge shoulders and arms which seem too heavy for his body. In his shorts and singlet he is most of him bare skin, dark from the sun. He is cleaning his glasses with his terry-towelling hat.

  They coming? Roy asks.

  Wallace holds his glasses up and looks through them. He breathes on them and polishes them.

  Yeah, they’re coming, he says. They’re bloody walking.

  Lucy sits down, still leaning against Roy’s boot. Roy leans over and strokes her head and behind her ears. Ay, girl? he says softly. Ay? Lucy half closes her eyes. Roy takes her head in his hands and rubs her jowls, showing teeth and black gums and thick spittle going all over the place. He lets her go. Lucy snorts and goes back into the vines.

  Wallace stands there polishing his glasses.

  George Alister, he says to Roy. He was a mate of yours, wasn’t he?

  That’s right, says Roy.

  Roy gets up and walks around in a circle, stretching his back and neck. He takes one of the shovels and sits back on the tray, looking at the blade. He swears and chucks it overarm and it lands sticking in the ground. He pulls out another one and looks at it.

  You going to the funeral? Wallace asks.

  I am, says Roy.

  When’s the funeral?

  Wednesday, says Roy.

  Morning or afternoon?

  Morning.

  You taking half-day off then or full day?

  Dunno, says Roy.

  May as well take full day, says Wallace. What they got after the funeral? A wake? Something like that?

  Something like that, says Roy, throwing the shovel.

  What, says Wallace, widow’s place or down pub?

  Down pub, says Roy.

  Which pub? asks Wallace.

  Imperial, says Roy.

  Imperial, says Wallace. That where George Alister drank then, was it? Imperial?

  Nah, says Roy. He spits on his fingers and runs them through his hair. He drunk at Crown or Poachers.

  Well, what they going to Imperial for? asks Wallace.

  Sometimes he drunk at Imperial, says Roy.

  Roy pulls another shovel out of the ground and looks over the blade and slides it down next to him.

  The boys are coming down the road and we watch them. They are pushing and punching each other, laughing and groaning when they get punched. Their heads are down and their long hair falls over their faces. They are trying to punch each other in the gut. Wallace swears.

  Hurry up, he yells.

  The boys keep shouldering each other. One of them lands a punch and the other one comes after him, feinting and then punching him hard on the arm. They tussle and lean into one another and then push each other away. They come up grinning.

  You’re late, says Wallace, holding out his watch. I should dock you.

  Yeah, but it’s miles away here, says one of the boys.

  You knew where we was, says Wallace.

  He stands there looking at the boys. They grin. Wallace looks hard at them.

  I ought to dock you, he says. Next time I’ll dock you.

  Wallace stays staring at the boys. The boys grin back at him. He kicks one of them in the foot.

  What’d I say Friday? Wallace says.

  Dunno, says the boy. Probably some bullshit story.

  Wallace holds out the back of his hand and the boy ducks, still grinning, his stringy blond hair falling over his face. The boys don’t wear hats. They wear T-shirts and tight, faded jeans.

  Boots, says Wallace. I told you I wanted to see you wearing boots today. Both of youse.

  Didn’t get them, says the boy. He is picking at the skin on his sunburnt arm.

  Why not? says Wallace. I told you meself, didn’t I? I told you Friday. Last thing. Friday knockoff.

  Couldn’t afford them, says the bo
y. He peels a long piece of skin off his arm and looks at it.

  Whadd’ya mean you couldn’t afford them? says Wallace, pushing his glasses against his face. What about your pay? I gave you pay-packet meself. Thursday.

  The boy is looking at the piece of skin, holding it up to the sun. It glows.

  Spent it, he says.

  What? says Wallace. All of it?

  Pretty much, says the boy. He tosses the skin and it flutters to the ground. He takes a shovel and stands both feet on it, twisting it into the dirt.

  Wallace is standing there hunched over, his scarred and callused hands held palms up. He watches the boy. Wallace’s hat is pulled down tight, the brim touching his big, thick glasses, his oversized jaw jutting out. Wallace’s jaw is too big for any man and with his hat on Wallace’s face is nothing but glasses and jaw.

  What on? says Wallace. What you spend it on? Whole bloody pay.

  Dunno, says the boy, trying to balance on the shovel as he churns it into the soil. Booze. Tea. Had tea from the shops Friday night. Chicken and chips. Fried pineapple. Coke.

  Well, says Wallace. Booze. Tea. What else you spend it on?

  Mostly booze, says the boy.

  He falls off the shovel.

  Wallace looks at his watch and swears, peering over at the road. He watches the boy, looking at his sneakers. The boy is back on the shovel and he is trying to jump it out of the ground.

  Well, don’t you come crying to me, says Wallace. Don’t come crying to me when you cut your toes off.

  I’m not gunna, says the boy, jerking about on the shovel.

  That’s what you say now, says Wallace.

  He looks at his watch again.

  Where’s Spit? he says to me.

  Don’t ask me, I say.

  You reckon he’s going to show?

  I shrug.

  I’d say it’s a no-show, Wallace, Roy says.

  Wallace swears. The boy comes off the shovel again. He pulls it out of the ground and grips the handle like a cricket bat and swings it at a dry clod. He makes a whooshing sound as he swings. The clod explodes into a cloud of dust which thins and hangs and is gone.

  Well, says Wallace, looks like Spit’s not showing then.

  Wallace goes over to the ute, wiping his hands on his shorts. He puts his mattock over one shoulder and a shovel over the other.