The Vintage and the Gleaning

by Jeremy Chambers

It’s old, she says. It’s the cat’s cushion. The cat sleeps on it. See?

  She brushes short hairs from the cushion and hits it with her palm. Dust billows out. Iris laughs.

  She gets me a bucket and a trowel. I place the cushion on the gravel and kneel on the birds and the branch and the wind.

  Rosebushes run along the fence line fronting the lawn and freestanding roses flank the paths behind box hedging. They are red, white and yellow. The yellow roses are like buds, small and closed, even in the blasting sun. The white roses lay their petals right out, rippled and limp, long stamens sticking out and heavy with pollen. The red roses are the same as red roses always are. The garden smells of roses and I like the yellow ones best of all.

  I begin to work. The day moves slowly with the noise of insects.

  Iris’s niece comes out the front door letting the flyscreen swing free. It slams shut and Iris’s voice comes raised from inside. The niece is wrapped in a towel, wearing sunglasses and carrying magazines, a bottle of sunscreen and a walkman. She goes down to the lawn without seeing me and I am about to say hello but she takes off the towel and spreads it out on the lawn and she is hardly wearing a thing underneath. After that I keep my head down.

  The sunscreen bottle spurts and whistles and the niece slaps it on. I can smell it. The tinny sound of the walkman starts up and the niece lies unmoving in the sun.

  Iris comes out of the door carrying a tray. She hooks the flyscreen door with one foot and lets it close slowly, putting the tray down on an old wrought-iron table sitting on the verandah, topped with fractured whitewashed slats.

  Teatime Smithy, she yells out into the garden.

  I sit up on my knees and stretch my back.

  She’ll be right, Iris, I say. We work through the afternoons. Just morning smoko.

  Iris looks for me from the verandah, shading her eyes. She comes down the steps and prods the niece with her toe.

  The niece takes one of her headphones out.

  What? she says.

  Iris looks for me again.

  I don’t care what you lot do out there, she says. At this house we have afternoon tea.

  She prods the niece again and the niece looks up through her sunglasses.

  Come inside and wash up, Iris says to me.

  It’s all right, I say. I’m fine with the hose.

  Suit yourself, says Iris.

  I go and wash my hands at the garden tap and go past the niece to the verandah. The niece stays sprawled out in the sun. The heat brings a faint chemical smell from the verandah, the thick stain sticky under my boots.

  Iris has put out a pot of tea and a plate with slices of fruitcake arranged around it, cups, saucers, a sugar bowl and milk jug. It is good china, patterned with blue flowers and all of the china matches. She pours me a cup of tea and puts a slice of cake onto a plate. I put three spoonfuls of sugar into the tea and stir it in. Iris clucks her tongue and offers me the milk jug. I shake my head.

  We sit drinking tea. Iris has her chair facing out onto the lawn. She has slipped off her house shoes and is swinging her bare feet. There is something about Iris that reminds me of a little girl. Sometimes there is, anyway. She is wearing a sun frock.

  Iris nods out at the niece.

  She’s in disgrace, Iris says. Her father sent her up here as a punishment.

  The niece is lying on her front with her bikini straps undone. She is all brown body out on that lawn.

  Oh yeah, I say.

  Running with the fast crowd, Iris says. Up till all hours. Getting up to God-knows-what. Her father thought it was about time she saw how real people live.

  She shouts out to the niece.

  Didn’t he? she shouts.

  The niece doesn’t hear her.

  Iris walks down from the verandah onto the lawn and pokes the niece with her toe.

  Oi! shouts Iris.

  What? says the niece, turning, holding onto her bikini top.

  Sent up in disgrace, weren’t you? says Iris.

  The niece puts her head down between folded arms.

  Iris comes back and sits down.

  Just you look at her, she says, taking a sip of tea. Getting herself all primped up for the boys.

  Oh well, I say. There’s worse things in the world.

  Still, says Iris. More to life than sunbaking and boys.

  Iris pours more tea. I spoon in sugar.

  Aren’t you going to eat my fruit-cake? she asks me.

  Sorry Iris, I say. It’s just I’m not used to eating during work hours.

  I pick up the cake and bite some of the icing off, letting it dissolve in my mouth before I swallow it. Iris watches.

  You don’t look like you eat much anytime, says Iris with a snort.

  That’s just age, I say.

  Iris snorts again.

  I know what you men do, she says in a singsong voice. I’m nobody’s fool. I know where you go after work. You might not eat but you certainly have no problems with the beer.

  I try to eat as much of the icing as I can. I take a bite of the cake but it hurts to swallow and it sits like a brick in my stomach. I put it back on the plate.

  Suit yourself, says Iris, swinging her feet.

  Iris yawns and leans back in her chair, looking at the niece again.

  I made her fold sheets with me this morning and now she’s sulking, she says. Apparently madam is too good for that. Won’t even help with the dishes.

  We both look at the niece. She has turned over onto her back and put her sunglasses back on. The headphone wires curl across the grass.

  I’ve never said no to anyone staying with us, says Iris. You know that, you’ve seen it. And I’m always very pleased to oblige. I enjoy having guests. But I do expect them to pull their weight.

  The afternoon sun is starting to come around the side of the house, the wood supports casting shadows across the jarrah boards. A light breeze stirs. I am reminded of other summers.

  Iris is still talking about the niece.

  Well, you’re only young once, I say.

  Friday night Roy and Wallace are taking the boys down to The Imperial to teach them how to drink. They say I’m coming even if they have to drag me kicking and screaming.

  I walk into town along the railway line. A voice calls my name. I look up and see Charlotte Clayton coming out her back gate. She waves and starts walking carefully down the embankment, tripping in the ditch. I catch her.

  Sorry Smithy, she says. It’s these heels.

  We walk down the line together, me holding onto her shoulder as she stumbles on the railway stones. She is a slim girl with long hair and she is all done up.

  So where are you off to tonight? I ask her.

  I’m meeting up with some friends at The Imperial, she says. Then we’re going clubbing in Albury.

  Yeah? I say. They got some good clubs there?

  Charlotte laughs.

  Not bloody likely, she says. I just had to get out of the house, take my mind off things. You know, with my husband getting out and everything.

  That’s right, I say. When’s that happen?

  Monday, she says. This Monday.

  Charlotte slips on the stones and swears. She grabs onto me.

  I just don’t know what I’m going to do, she says. I’ll see when the time comes, I suppose.

  We walk along the line, Charlotte tripping and swearing and apologising all the way.

  You usually come into town along here? I ask her.

  Always, she says. And I love going back this way. You can see the whole sky in front of you.

  Yeah, well you ought to be careful, I say. There’s some nasty characters in this town.

  Charlotte laughs.

  I know, she says. But they’re all my husband’s mates, aren’t they?

  I shake my head.

  There’s whole other generations, I say.

  The Imperial has not started to fill yet. A few teenagers are playing pool and the usual ratbags are drinking at the bar. Les is
sitting fat and puffing on his stool. Friday nights every working man goes down Imperial.

  I look at Les as I pass him, waiting for a comment. Friday nights Les drinks too, heavily, with a pot and a brandy under the counter. I nod to some men I know.

  Roy and the boys have a table with a half-empty jug of beer sitting on it. I sit down with them. Roy is rolling a cigarette.

  Where’s bloody Wallace? he asks me. Still having his tea? Playing happy families? He shakes his head and lights his cigarette, pouring beer into the boys’ glasses.

  Boys are matching me glasses for pots, he says.

  What about Smithy? asks one of the boys.

  Smithy’s not drinking, says Roy, dragging on his cigarette.

  How come? asks the boy.

  Because I drunk enough, I say.

  What, already?

  No, I say. I mean I drunk enough for good.

  Don’t worry about Smithy, Roy says to the boys. And don’t worry about Wallace neither.

  Why not? asks the boy.

  Because you can’t match him, says Roy. Can’t match Wallace.

  I reckon I could, says the boy. Give it a go.

  You reckon do you? says Roy.

  Why not? says the boy.

  Because no one can match Wallace.

  Roy finishes his pot and looks over at the boys’ glasses.

  I thought you was here to drink tonight, he says to them.

  The boys start gulping down their beers, Roy watching them.

  I watch the slow traffic up and down the staircase above the bar, going to the residents’ floor where seasonal workers rent rooms and old men live. The railing is worn smooth and shiny. There are balusters missing and broken, leaning outwards over the wainscotting, its whitewash dirty from the hands of men standing against it and cracked dents in the boards where heads and bodies have slammed and fists gone near through them in pub brawls and friendly drunken melees.

  Wallace comes into the pub carrying his bicycle with one hand and Roys says speak of the devil. Wallace makes like he’s going to throw the bike over the counter to Les, right over the two pool tables. Les doesn’t move from his stool but he watches Wallace as he lifts the bike so that it’s pointing upwards, the back tyre high in the air. Holding it in one hand, he hooks it over the pool table light. The long green shade rocks on its brass chain and the front tyre spins just above the felt. Wallace walks off.

  The teenage boys playing pool have stopped their game and are looking over at Les. Wallace sits at the bar and Les doesn’t say nothing. The ratbags are laughing at the teenagers. Les pours Wallace a pot and Wallace skols it and then goes and unhooks the bike and carries it to the end of the bar. He leans it against the back wall and comes over.

  Boys matching me glasses for pots, Roy says to him.

  Wallace tops up the boys’ glasses and takes the empty jug to the bar. He comes back with a new one, fills his pot and skols it and fills it again.

  They sit and drink and we watch as the pub fills up. Roy squashes the butt of his cigarette between his fingers to get the last puffs out. The butt is wet and tan, Roy’s fingers gone the same colour a long time ago.

  I get up and go to the counter. Les doesn’t move, because Fridays Les’s wife does all the work. Les just sits there on his creaking stool. He licks his thin toad lips and makes a crack about me. The men down the counter laugh.

  His wife comes over and pours me a lemon squash.

  Now don’t you worry about those jokers, Smithy, she says. She puts the glass down on the counter and waves back the coins I offer her.

  I hear you’ve given it up, she says.

  I nod.

  That’s right, I say.

  You given up for good? She asks.

  That’s right, I say. For good.

  Well, good for you, Smithy, she says. And don’t you worry about that lot.

  They don’t worry me, I say.

  Les’s wife is a thin woman with a hard face and short permed hair. She is wearing a patterned cardigan and is strong from heavy work.

  And I seen you at church too, she says. I never seen you at church before. You raised a Catholic, were you? she asks.

  I nod.

  So you coming to church now? she asks. A regular churchgoer? I’m planning on it, I say.

  Well, good for you, Smithy, she says. Good for you.

  At the table, the boys are already flushed with drink. Wallace skols.

  It is the time of arrival and men arrive. It is the quiet time and men have few words for one another. A nod here and there, men stand together with glasses in hand and the silences are long and the talk is talk between closed lips. The men gather and wait. They are at the counter coming away with pots, glasses and jugs, the empties stacked high, carried in one hand. They drink in the pauses of quiet conversation and they still have the pride of the day and the work about them. Wrists tip and glasses empty and men go back to the bar and I know what they are waiting for. More men arrive.

  Nah, this is slack work, easy work, Wallace is saying to one of the boys.

  It’s hard work though, says the boy.

  Boy says it’s hard work, Wallace says to me.

  What’s that? I say.

  On the vines.

  It’s a holiday, I say. I’m retired from hard work. Vines is a holiday.

  It’s only the sun gets you, Wallace’s telling the boy. The other day, day you dropped, that’s the sun, the heat. We knock off if it gets too hot.

  How often do you do that? asks the boy.

  Wallace shrugs.

  Not often, he says. Hardly ever.

  More men, more voices, noise rising, low and dull, but growing loud all the same. They stand at the bar, sit on stools, flicking glowing cigarette butts into the trough at the bottom of the bar, the trough smouldering, resting their elbows against the brass pole that runs flush with the bar, the plating scratched and gouged through to the steel by the knives of men bored or angry or just drunk and the many silver cuts flash along the pole and the men lean against it, pots in their hands, pots on the bar towel, pots on cardboard coasters with the emblems of breweries going sodden from running suds and they take off their hats, weary from the day.

  Roy, Wallace is saying. Oi, Roy.

  Roy is smoking, holding his cigarette overhand, watching a group of girls at one of the pool tables. Wallace reaches over and pokes him in the shoulder.

  Yeah, what’s that? says Roy, watching the girls.

  You remember that day? says Wallace.

  How’s that? asks Roy, still looking at the girls.

  They are young girls, local girls in blue jeans and blue denim jackets. The jackets have studs and stars and gold sequins on them and patterns sewn in shiny coloured thread, fine and gleaming in the light. Some wear necklaces of cowrie shells and their faces are made up, heavy black lines around their eyes and their eyelids painted green, make-up thick and uneven over their faces, caked and cracking at the sides of their mouths and their foreheads, showing up their unpainted necks white and freckly. One girl has taken off her jacket and wrapped it around her waist with only a singlet underneath and that is the girl Roy is watching. She leans down to take a shot and Roy looks back at us, grinning.

  Real scorcher, says Wallace. You and me went for a counter meal.

  Oh yeah, says Roy.

  So me and Roy are driving back to the cellar, to tell Boss we knocked off and there’s Smithy still out on the vines. Out there on his own, still working. It was that hot wasn’t it Roy.

  Yeah, it was, says Roy.

  Bloody hot, says Wallace.

  It was hot all right, says Roy. He is watching the girls.

  And Smithy didn’t knock off at all, says Wallace. Worked the full day.

  Vines is a holiday, I say. For me it’s a holiday.

  Older men wear their work clothes and the young ones come showered and changed and there is cream in their hair. The older men make fun of them. A lot of sheilas here tonight, they say. The men are fat i
n singlets and shorts, stained and dirty, bloody from the abattoir, gaunt in flannel shirts and workpants, all wearing elastic-sided boots, thick socks rolled over the tops, filthy and bristling with sawdust and burrs. And there are hats, all styles, most of them too old and worn to be any style at all, some with feathers in the hatband, cockatoo, galah, whole budgerigar’s wings of all colours, others pinned with metal and enamel badges. The older men mess up the young men’s hair and sniff them under the armpits.

  Jesus Christ, they say.

  Roy belches and picks up the jug. He empties it into the boys’ glasses.

  Drink up, he says. You’re holding me back.

  The boys drink.

  Roy gets up and stretches his legs. He is wearing his pub shorts which are white, tight and obscene. Roy wears those shorts to attract the women though he’s never said it straight out and everybody jokes about Roy’s pub shorts behind his back. He takes the jug and goes into the crowd and the noise.

  You’ll get used to it, says Wallace. Few years.

  Not me, says the other boy. Not once I got enough for a car.

  Roy has gone over to the pool table where the girls are playing. He is trying to talk to them, leaning against the table with his beer in his hand and the empty jug in the other. The girls keep playing around him as though he is not there and Roy keeps on talking.

  Wallace turns around to look.

  Christ, he says.

  I am looking at the back of one of the girls’ jackets where a butterfly has been sewn in electric colours. I watch as the butterfly disappears when the girl turns from the hanging lamp and then the dazzle of the thread as she bends to take a shot, the light flowing and settling as she walks around the table, the brightest points following the swirl of the pattern until the girl turns away again and the butterfly is gone. I wonder whether she sewed it herself.

  Once I get a car I’m going to Sydney, says the boy. Bondi beach. Go on the dole. Learn how to surf. Get a girlfriend. Surfer chick.

  He grins.

  Surfer chick, he says grinning. No tan lines.

  Wallace is looking hard at the boy over his tilted pot. He drains the suds. He looks over at Roy, who has moved in close to one of the girls, talking to her while she smokes a cigarette, watching another girl take her shot. Wallace looks back at the boy.