The Vintage and the Gleaning

by Jeremy Chambers

  So we got the photos taken in the studio and we wandered around town for a bit and I bought Spit an ice-cream from a van and then we took Florrie to the hospital. I didn’t know she wouldn’t be coming out.

  I sit down on the bed and look at the photo. There’s Florrie sitting on a chair in her Sunday best, her hat with plastic flowers on it. Spit in front of her, just a boy in his school uniform, cross-legged on the floor, his legs brown and gangly, smiling for the camera. Both of them smiling for the camera. And there’s me standing behind them, standing dead straight in a short-sleeved shirt and a tie, my hair in tight steely waves and my hard shearer’s face and my jaw clenched because I am not smiling for the camera, I am the only one not smiling.

  I look at the photo for a long while and I feel my heart go tight and I throw the photo onto the dresser with Spit’s other stuff.

  I change the sheets that have not been changed for a long time and open the window to air the room. Then I gather up the poster and all the other naked pictures and throw them into the outside bin. I put the photos and the other things from the dresser into a plastic bag which I leave on the hall table and I suppose I will give it to Spit when I see him.

  There is still a bottle of brandy in the kitchen cupboard and I pour myself a full glass and sit down at the table. The brandy burns the ulcers in my mouth and throat and all the way down to my stomach and guts. I double over in pain. Drinking again I taste blood and bile. I tip the rest of the glass down the sink and drink some cold lemonade, but my insides still burn. The pain comes in waves and I go and sit hunched over on the toilet until I pass blood and mucus and start to feel all right.

  Charlotte hasn’t come back yet and it’s getting so late I wonder if she will come back at all. I go into Spit’s room again. The musty smell is leaving with the warm night air. I check that Spit’s things are all out and notice the dust on the dresser and the bedhead. I wipe it off with my sleeve. I open the wardrobe doors and more dust billows out with fluttering dead moths, powder spilling from their wings. The cupboard is empty except for wire hangers and a studded khaki jacket. I take the jacket and turn it inside out, using it to wipe out the cupboard and the drawers, the floor runners and the windowsill.

  I pass the hall table and stand looking at the plastic bag. Sitting back down on the bed I watch the clock for a while and then go back into the hall and take out the photo. I place it on the mantelpiece in the living room, standing it up against Florrie’s crystal cake-stand. I look at it until the doorbell rings.

  Charlotte has been crying. I take her suitcase into Spit’s room.

  It’s not much, I say.

  Charlotte grasps my arm and puts her head against my chest.

  Try to get some sleep, I say.

  She looks around the room, sniffing.

  I can’t, she says.

  Try anyway, I say.

  She nods, turning away from me.

  Monday, Spit doesn’t show. Charlotte is still in bed when I leave.

  Wallace is giving the boys a hard time.

  Call that drinking? he says. Sniff of the barmaid’s apron, the both of you.

  Yeah, but I didn’t spew, says the talker.

  At least he was trying, says Wallace.

  After knockoff Wallace drives me home and we see Roy’s ute parked outside Imperial.

  Roy’s drinking down Imperial now, I tell Wallace. Afternoons and all.

  Wallace grins and pulls over to the kerb.

  Roy isn’t in the bar. Les thumbs in the direction of the lounge.

  Wallace grins at me again.

  Here we go, he says.

  Wallace goes to the door and tries to look through the lettering on the frosted glass. His glasses knock against the pane and he swears, pushing them up. He squints and closes one eye, looking with the other, then turning away. He pushes his foot against the door, carefully, opening it a fraction and wincing when the hinges squeak. He looks in through the open crack and lets it close carefully.

  He comes back shaking his head and goes over to the bar.

  Nora Alister been here? he asks Les.

  Les shakes his head.

  She usually come down? Wallace asks. Afternoons? Mondays?

  Les slides off his stool, hitches up his shorts and goes to the tap.

  What are you having Wallace? he asks.

  Wallace pulls some coins out of his pocket and chucks them on the bar towel. Les pours him a glass and Wallace points over at me. I come over and Les gives me a lemon squash and a dirty look.

  Have a look at this, will you, says Wallace.

  We take our drinks and go and look through the door of the lounge.

  Roy is sitting drinking from a glass. He is alone at his table and alone in the lounge. His hat is hanging from the back of a chair and his hair is slicked back with Brylcreem. The cream shines on the skin underneath his thinning hair and over his bald patch. Wallace nudges me and points and I see that Roy has his pub shorts on. He sits looking out the window.

  Wallace grins at me and we go back to the bar.

  You should put some oil on them hinges, Les, Wallace says.

  He looks about the pub.

  You don’t do much round the place, do you, he says to Les. Look at it. Going to pot.

  Les shifts on the cushion of his stool and the stool creaks.

  Come and criticise me when you got your own place, Wallace, he says.

  He looks at the both of us through his bulging yellow eyes.

  Don’t teach them to hold their drink down there, do you? he says.

  There is a sneer in his voice and on his face and he stares at me, waiting for an answer.

  He sits back on his stool and folds his arms.

  But then you can’t hold it yourself, can you? he says, sneering even more.

  Wallace nudges me.

  Probably wearing aftershave too, he says.

  We are about to leave when Wallace says, well look what the cat dragged in. He says it quietly, under his breath.

  Brett Clayton has come into the pub with a group of men. He is thinner than I remember, his hair longer. His face is gaunt and long-jawed, unshaven. He looks around the place before he sits down. His eyes are pale, almost without colour at all. Spit is with them. They take a table near the front window. A few of them go to the bar and get jugs and pots.

  Wonder when he got out, Wallace says. He turns his glass in his hand, watching the group.

  Wallace talks quietly.

  He’s supposed to be barred, he says.

  He looks over at Les.

  Spit wanders over and leans against the bar next to us, putting his pot on the counter and shaking a cigarette out of a soft pack.

  Since when you been mates with Brett Clayton? I ask him.

  Brett’s all right, says Spit, shrugging his shoulders. He taps the butt of the cigarette against the back of his hand and lights up.

  Les is watching the group too. The puffing and blowing and belching has stopped and his face is frozen, his popped eyes popping even more than usual. The burst vessels which run like crazy maps across his face have gone scarlet and lavender. He is waiting and we are watching him wait.

  Spit drains his pot and goes back to the table. The men are getting rowdy. Me and Wallace keep watching Les.

  Eventually Brett Clayton comes up to the bar. He lets a handful of change drop through his fist onto the bar towel. Les sits there staring at the money. He can’t take his eyes off of it. There is a moment. Then he slides off his stool and pours Brett Clayton a pot.

  Looks like he’s not barred anymore, Wallace mumbles into his glass.

  Brett Clayton takes his pot and walks down to where me and Wallace are sitting. He stands next to me and drinks. He is standing dead straight. He drinks slowly.

  You know where my old lady is, Smithy? he asks, not looking at me, not for a moment. He looks straight ahead to the back of the bar.

  Yeah, I say.

  She staying with you?

  That’s righ
t, I say.

  I thought as much, he says. He drains his pot, leaves it on the counter and walks back to his mates.

  When I turn to Wallace he is sitting there looking at me, just looking at me, not saying a word, not saying nothing, staring at me through those thick lenses with huge faraway eyes.

  When I get home, Charlotte is curled up on the couch in Florrie’s old bathrobe, her feet tucked up underneath her. She is looking off nowhere. The gas fire is going despite the heat. It doesn’t look like she’s moved from that spot since she got up.

  The family photo is sitting in front of her on the coffee table.

  She gives me a faded smile as I come in. It goes quickly. There are twitching lines at the corner of her mouth and on her brow.

  Well I saw him, I say. Down Imperial.

  She looks up, barely interested. Her eyes are tired.

  Drinking, I say.

  She nods slightly.

  You had anything to eat today? I ask her.

  Charlotte shakes her head.

  You want me to go and get you something? I ask. Put some colour in you.

  I couldn’t eat, she says.

  I sit next to her on the couch. She picks up the photo and looks at it.

  Is that your family? she asks me.

  Yeah, I say. Taken some time back.

  Charlotte points at Spit in the photo.

  How old is he now? she asks.

  What, Spit? I say.

  Oh, that’s Spit is it? she says, looking closer at the picture. Belle’s Spit?

  That’s right, I say.

  She looks at the little bare-legged boy in the photo.

  I can see that now, she says. I didn’t realise he was your son.

  Well he’s his own man now, I say. Got his own family.

  I stretch, craning my neck.

  He was down Imperial too, I say. With your husband. I didn’t realise they was mates.

  I don’t think they are, really, she says. I mean, we know Spit and Belle, we see them around. But I never really thought they were mates.

  Spit, I say. I look down at my hands. Spit’s not perfect. He’s got his own faults like everyone else. But he knows what Brett done. I would of thought, you know, after what happened.

  Well, the boys stick together, don’t they, Charlotte says.

  Yeah, I suppose so.

  Charlotte pulls her feet under herself some more.

  I like Belle, she says.

  Yeah, I say. Belle doesn’t have it easy. I suppose most women don’t. Working men’s wives anyway.

  Charlotte turns her worn eyes on me.

  Brett’s never worked a day in his life, she says. I don’t know where he gets his money. He doesn’t say and I don’t ask.

  She looks at the photo again.

  But I know the rumours, same as everyone else.

  She is pointing at the picture of Florrie.

  My wife, I say. I lost her. Cancer.

  Charlotte keeps looking at the portrait, tracing it over with her finger.

  Florrie, I say. Florence. But I always known her as Florrie.

  Charlotte puts the photo down on the coffee table.

  Florence, she says. Was she named after the city?

  I’d doubt it, I say. It was a common name in my day. Florence, Florrie, Flo.

  Charlotte’s head is down, her face sad. She is chipping at the polish on her fingernails.

  When I was at school, my Italian teacher used to say that Florence was the most beautiful city in the world.

  Well, I wouldn’t know about that sort of thing, I say.

  I could have gone there, she says. To Florence.

  You should of, I say. Broaden your horizons.

  Charlotte nods weakly.

  I know. I should have. But I didn’t.

  She leans over and looks at the photo again and then curls back up on the couch. She stares off. Outside the light is fading.

  Tuesday, Spit doesn’t show and Lucy catches a snake.

  We can hear her snarling from down the rows. Roy drops his shovel and runs, losing his hat as he goes. We follow him. He stands at the end of the row, watching.

  Jesus, he says. She’s got the wrong end.

  Lucy’s lips are drawn back showing her teeth with the snake’s tail clamped between them. She is making frantic noises, growling and barking and whining all at once. She shakes her head violently and swings the snake across the dirt, the snake trying to arch itself back, its fangs drawn.

  Roy steps forwards with his shovel raised. The snake sweeps towards him. He leaps back, swearing.

  I go and lop the snake’s head off.

  The snake’s body writhes and Lucy keeps shaking it. Roy goes and pulls the tail from her mouth and Lucy growls, circling the twitching body. She sits down panting, her tongue out, and she looks up at Roy, whimpering.

  Aw, Christ, he says. I think she’s been bit.

  He picks up Lucy in his arms and she snaps half-heartedly at him. He strokes her head, looking into her eyes.

  Aw Christ girl, he says. Oh Jesus.

  He starts carrying her down the row and towards his ute.

  You drive Wallace, he calls over his shoulder.

  Where to? asks Wallace.

  Animal hospital, says Roy. Come on, will you.

  We walk after Roy. He is putting Lucy gently into the back of the ute, stroking her head and talking softly to her. She half closes her eyes.

  That was a brown snake, Roy, I say. If she got bit she’ll be dead before you get there.

  Roy climbs onto the back of the tray and sits next to Lucy, sliding over and putting her head on his lap.

  He’s not wrong, Roy, says Wallace.

  Roy looks up at us. There are tears in his eyes.

  Just bloody drive, will you, he says to Wallace.

  Wallace swears under his breath and chucks his shovel. He takes the keys from Roy and we watch them drive off.

  I go back to where the dead snake is lying and dig a hole in the dirt, rolling in the head and burying it. I pick up the long body and look at it, feeling the scales with my fingers. I fling it towards the back of the vineyard. It goes wheeling in an arc and lands on the wire fence, hanging there for a moment and then slipping to the ground, light running off the scales in a quick flashing stream. The crows go after it.

  Well get back to work, I say to the boys.

  We walk back to our rows.

  You reckon she’s gunna die? asks one of the boys.

  If she got bit, I say. If she got bit, she’ll die.

  Boss comes up not long after.

  He walks towards us scowling and stands there with his arms folded, watching us work. He watches for some time.

  So what’s this? he says finally. Everyone off crook or we had some more funerals?

  Roy’s dog got bit by a snake, I say, pushing back a vine.

  What? he says. The little blue heeler?

  Yeah, I say, sticking my shovel in the dirt. Roy’s dog.

  I get my knife out.

  Him and Wallace have taken her into Corowa, I say. Up to the animal hospital.

  Well that’s a shame, says Boss, pushing his hat back and scratching his forehead. Hope it pulls through. Fingers crossed.

  He goes and looks at some leaves, turning them over. I bend over and cut off some shoots at the base of the vine.

  You see the snake? Boss asks me, looking at leaves.

  Yeah, I say, standing up and closing my knife. Brown snake.

  I put my knife back into its pouch and pull my shovel out of the dirt.

  Boss stops sorting through the leaves and looks at me.

  Brown snake? he says. It’ll be dead before they get there.

  That’s what I said.

  So what’s the point of taking it all the way out there then? Boss asks. Bitten by a brown snake. You would have been better off shooting it. You should have come and got the shotgun from the cellar. I mean, that’s the humane thing to do, isn’t it?

  I start o
n the next vine.

  I mean, poor bloody thing, says Boss. It’s a hell of a way to die.

  Well they weren’t sure whether it got bit or not, I say, chopping into a thick shoot.

  You would have known soon enough, says Boss. I mean, where’s the logic in that? There’s no point taking it in if it did get bitten and no point taking it in if it wasn’t.

  Well, that’s Roy for you, I say, gripping the shovel above the blade and pounding hard.

  Boss folds his hands over his gut again.

  I mean, what do they think they’re playing at? The afternoon’s wasted now, isn’t it? Spit still crook. These two still learning.

  He watches the boys work.

  It’s just a waste of time, isn’t it? Wasting all our time.

  Boss shakes his head and walks off. Then he turns around and comes back again.

  I look up and he is smiling at me.

  Sounds like the end of days, doesn’t it Smithy? he says.

  What’s that? I say, moving around a vine.

  The end of days, he says, smiling, his mouth open. Now come on, Smithy, you’re a church-goer, aren’t you?

  I stop my work and face him.

  End of days? I say.

  Well, yeah, says Boss, looking up at the sky. The signs.

  He holds out his palm and counts off fingers.

  Well, there’s pestilence for one, he says. Spit crook. And I don’t know, what do you reckon? Snakes count as pestilence?

  I shrug my shoulders.

  Could be a double meaning there, says Boss. Something like that.

  I wouldn’t know, I say.

  Well, there’s this locust plague, isn’t there, he says. Can’t get more biblical than that now, can you?

  The sun is coming in behind him and I shade my eyes.

  So after that there’s war, says Boss, counting off another finger. Always a war going on in some part of the world.