And then, well, he says smiling, putting his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth, well I always think the next one’s drought, but it isn’t is it?
He smiles his gummy smile at me.
I always feel we got a bit short-changed there, he says, chuckling. I mean a good few years of drought now. Certainly feels like the end of things sometimes. Crops going to ruin. Bad vintages. But it’s death, isn’t it? Am I right there? Can’t forget old death, now, can we?
No we can’t, I say.
I pick up my shovel.
Well, we’ve got Roy’s little dog if that brown snake got it.
He stands there.
And there was George Alister, wasn’t there.
Boss looks up at the sky, scratching his chin.
Now what’s the other one? he says.
I stick my shovel in the ground and churn the dirt, watching it. Down by the fence the crows are squabbling, flying up and stretching out their wings and circling back down to where the snake carcass is, hidden behind the vines. More crows come. I look up at Boss.
Famine, I say.
Wallace and Roy come back just before knockoff. Lucy jumps off the tray and runs over to us, excited. She sniffs our boots, snorting and panting, looking up at us. Then she turns and races along the rows.
Roy wanders up, smoking a cigarette.
False alarm, he says.
When I come home Charlotte is same as she was yesterday, rolled up on the couch, pale and listless.
How you holding up? I ask.
All right, she says in a tiny voice.
She starts to cry silently, tears running down her face, gathering on her nose and chin and dripping onto the bathrobe.
I take my handkerchief from my pocket but it is dirty and slick with oil. I get a tea towel from the kitchen drawer and give it to her. She holds it loosely in her hands. The tea towel was given us by Florrie’s sister after she went to Scotland and the pictures of castles and stags and mountains have faded. Charlotte’s tears fall onto a large purple thistle.
The black make-up around her eyes has spread with the tears and runs in lines down her face. And those black eyes remind me of that night.
I feel like it’s all over for me, she says.
How do you mean? I ask.
She sniffs and shudders.
Like I’m at the end of things, she says. Like there’s nothing out there for me anymore.
I sit down opposite her and go to put a hand on her shoulder but she flinches and I take my hand away.
It’s not about whether I leave Brett or not, she says.
She sobs and breathes.
I look at her face and her eyes, the pupils large, her brow tight and lined.
How are you sleeping? I ask.
Not good, she says. Everything seems worse at night. I keep waking up and looking at the clock. All night long. Sometimes I think I’ve slept but when I look at the clock it’s only been ten minutes, twenty minutes. I just lie and wait until morning.
I hate the nights, she says.
You should try and get some decent sleep, I say. A good night’s sleep can do wonders.
When I do sleep I dream, she says. Last night I dreamt I was walking around the city, looking for my shoes. I’d lost my shoes and it was freezing. I found a whole pile in the city square and I started looking for my shoes but they were all boots, men’s boots. I never found my shoes. I can’t seem to sleep without dreaming.
The gas fire pops. The afternoon sun streams through the back window. Charlotte’s face is downcast and I look at that face and at those black running eyes and I keep thinking about that night.
Why don’t you try to eat something, I say to Charlotte. You’d sleep better with some food in you.
Besides, I say, you need to keep your strength up.
Charlotte isn’t listening. She is looking at her fingernails.
My parents are never going to forgive me, she says. They’ll never trust me again, not after what I did to them. I just threw it all back in their faces. I’ve failed them. I’ve ruined my life.
I shift my legs away from the fire. Outside, the tortured day is fading. Birds call. They go in flocks, the sky growing pale behind them, a weak light falling high in the canopies of trees. The slight movement of leaves suggests the cool of evening.
You haven’t had a life yet, I say. You’re just starting out. There’s nothing you can’t do, put your mind to it.
She shakes her head and wipes her face with the back of both hands and sighs, looking up at me.
You remember how I told you I could have gone to Florence? she says.
Yeah, you were saying.
I feel like that was my big mistake. I feel like if I’d gone to Florence my life would be different. Everything would be different.
She wipes her nose and looks away.
I’m only just realising that now, she says. But it was so long ago. I don’t even feel like I’m the same person anymore.
Her face is red and swollen from the crying.
I can’t make a new start, she says. I just can’t. I don’t have it in me anymore. I feel like everything’s over, like it’s already ended. It’s like I died and just kept on going. Like I’m a ghost.
Charlotte looks out the window at the breeze in the trees, wringing the tea towel in her hands, and I don’t say a thing. Because that night I thought she was death itself.
Wednesday morning I am sitting on my bed in my work clothes, waiting for Roy to come pick me up. Charlotte is awake. I stay in my room while she gets herself together, listening to the shower running and the hairdryer and Charlotte moving about. Then I hear her scream.
She is standing in the living room, staring out the back window.
I saw him, she says. Behind the fence.
I go outside and out the back gate onto the railway line.
The day is overcast and windy. Trees toss. The grass flattens and rises with an angry noise. The rubbish along the ditch shifts and scatters. Across the fences Hills Hoists turn slowly with the rasp of metal on metal, hung clothes blowing violently about.
I look down the track but there is nobody there.
Back inside, Charlotte is standing same as she was.
I shake my head.
No one, I say.
Charlotte sits down.
Well, he was there, she says.
I turn on the gas fire and get a blanket and go to put it over her.
No, I’m all right, Charlotte says. There’s no need for that. I just got a fright, that’s all.
She takes the blanket anyway and puts it over herself, pulling it up to her chin.
Just my bloody husband acting like a child, she says. It just took me by surprise.
In the kitchen I pour out a glass of brandy.
Get that down you, I say, putting it in her hands.
She takes a drink from the glass and gags.
God, that’s awful, Smithy, Charlotte says. What did you give me that for?
Drink it all, I say. It’ll calm your nerves.
My nerves are fine, Charlotte says. I’m fine. I told you, he just gave me a fright. I wasn’t expecting it. Of course I wasn’t expecting it, first thing in the morning. I mean, of all the idiotic things to do.
I hear Roy’s ute turn into the drive, the engine running. The horn sounds twice and I go out.
Roy has the driver’s window open, one arm hanging out.
The wind is warm now, strong and squalling. It is moody weather.
I’m not coming, I say.
Roy leans his head out the window and looks at the day.
Why not? he asks
That’s my business, I say.
Roy looks at me, his hair flying about. I scrape the gravel with the toe of my boot. Roy turns off the engine. It is grey all around.
So what you want me to tell Boss? he asks.
No need to tell him anything, I say.
Well, he’s going to want to know, says Roy. Not like you to miss a d
ay.
He stretches his neck and rubs it and looks at me again.
You want me to tell him you’re crook? he asks.
Nope, I say.
Yeah, but you are crook though, aren’t you? he says. I mean, with your digestion. That’s a medical condition isn’t it? You got a medical condition fair enough.
Yeah, well that’s why I don’t want you to tell him, isn’t it, I say. Just don’t tell him nothing.
Jesus, says Roy. I’m just trying to help you out.
Roy raises himself from his seat and takes his tobacco pouch out of his shorts. He rolls the tobacco slowly in the paper, pulling out strands with his fingernails and putting them back into the pouch. Trees rip from side to side.
It’s not your problem, he says quietly as he rolls. He bobs his head down to lick the paper and smooths it over, looking at it.
Well I made it my problem, I say.
Roy strikes a match and lights the cigarette, turning away from the window and cupping it in his hands. He puffs heavily on it, shaking out the match. He glances at me and holds the tip of the cigarette to his lips, blowing off the fluttering embers.
The wind gusts around us, picking up dust from the gravel and blowing it over the ground. The dust spins and scatters.
Roy takes the cigarette out of his mouth.
Aren’t you too old to be playing the hero? he says.
I turn and walk back to the house. As I reach the front door I hear Roy starting up the engine.
Inside, the gas fire splutters. I sit down opposite Charlotte and watch the blue and orange flames licking at the honeycombed ceramic. The day stays overcast, the sun a dirty bright disc behind the clouds. The morning traffic starts up, a dull roar in the distance. The wind howls.
Charlotte has another shower. I clear up the coffee table and sit in the armchair. The gas fire is hot through my jeans and I shift away from it. I watch the day.
Charlotte comes out in her bathrobe with a towel around her head. The steam of the shower follows her in. Her face is flushed and shiny. She crouches down by the fire.
Bloody Brett, she says, drying her hair with the towel. You know I could call the police about that, get him put back inside. For that.
Well, why don’t you? I say.
Because, she says. She is squeezing her hair with the towel, one part and then another.
Well, it’s complicated, she says. The whole thing is complicated. I mean, it’s not like Brett hits me and, yes, I know he did that one time, but there was a reason.
There’s no reason for that, Charlotte, I say. Come on now.
But there was, says Charlotte. John Gibson. It was all because of John Gibson and what Brett did to him. And because I knew. I mean Brett did do it, he killed John Gibson and I’m well aware that everyone says he did, but I know it for sure. I’m the only one who actually knows.
What, did he tell you? I ask.
No, she says, looking at the flames. But I know. I saw.
I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, she says.
I pat down my jeans. Charlotte finishes with the towel and puts it over the back of the couch.
I don’t mean I saw him shoot John Gibson, but it’s the things I saw the night it happened, after Brett got back. I was asleep and I got woken up by this smell of burning. Petrol burning. And when I opened my eyes the whole room was lit up. I thought the house was on fire. But when I looked out of the window, I could see Brett standing over the incinerator, stoking it with a lead pipe. And the weird thing was that he wasn’t wearing any clothes. He was standing there in his underwear.
So that was strange, but I never said anything to him about it. He didn’t ever know that I saw him. I just shut the window and went back to sleep.
It did seem strange, she says. But when Brett gets pissed.
Charlotte’s hair, damp and dark with the damp, falls down over her face and shoulders. She takes strands and holds them in front of her, looking at them.
But it was the next day, she says. He was wearing an old pair of Dunlop Volleys. And as long as I’ve known him I’ve never seen Brett wear anything but boots. So when I heard about John Gibson I knew. I knew Brett had done it, just like everyone says. I just knew.
Charlotte takes the towel off the couch and flings it out and starts to fold it.
And when the police came I lied. I just lied. And it was so easy.
She finishes folding the towel and runs her hand over it, smoothing it out. She sits down with her glowing skin and long damp hair.
I’m no better than him, she says.
I start to say something.
No, she says. It’s true. You can’t tell me it’s not true.
It’s a difficult thing, Charlotte, I say. I’ve known plenty of men’s wives lied for them, would have said anything to keep their husbands out of trouble. Wouldn’t give it a second thought.
But this, she says.
I known wives lied about worse, I say.
Charlotte gives me a sour glance.
How could anything be worse?
There’s worse, I say.
It’s just, I never told you, Smithy. I couldn’t have told you. Not back then, that night you found me on the railway line. Because that’s why he did it. Because I threatened to tell. I said I was going to go to the police and tell them how I’d lied and that I was going to tell them everything. We were having some argument. I can’t even remember what it was about. But I told him. About the incinerator, how I’d seen him. And his boots. I said I was going to tell the police everything and it scared him. And I’d never seen Brett scared before. And somehow I felt, I don’t know, it was like I had some sort of power over him. But Smithy, I really frightened him. And that’s when he started hitting me.
Charlotte sits with her head and shoulders slumped.
And he wouldn’t stop, she says. I thought he was going to kill me too.
Leaves and twigs fall on the roof like a light rain. Magpies and wattlebirds swoop and gather and fight among the trees. Willie wagtails twitch and click. The fire burns.
Brett should have gone away for what he did to John Gibson, Charlotte says. But instead they put him away for what he did to me. And I was as guilty as him. I deserved it. I deserve much worse.
Now come on Charlotte, I say.
She shakes her head.
No, Charlotte says. I was glad of it. When he was hitting me I was glad of it. Somehow it was a relief. Because it was eating me up inside. And the way he reacted. He knew what I’d done was wrong too.
But it was him done it, I say. You didn’t have a thing to do with it.
I know it sounds crazy, she says. But it felt right. For me it felt right. I wanted it to happen.
She sits up and brushes her hair back with both hands, pulling it back tight. Her face has gone hard.
I’ll never forgive myself, she says. Never. I can’t look Carol Gibson in the face anymore. And her kids. If I see them in town I cross the street to avoid them. And she knows. Everyone knows.
I can smell Charlotte’s hair, warm from the fire, the wet smell filling the room. It is fragrant like women’s things. She breathes deeply.
Sometimes I just want to run away, she says. Just get out of this town. Away from it all. But that’s not going to change anything, is it?
I get up and look out the window into the backyard and the muted colours of the day. The limbs of the camellia are lifting and hovering with the wind, the flowers already bloomed and died but still clinging stiff to the branches, tough, brown and dusty. The bottlebrush swarms. By the fence, pale grapefruit sway and the folds of the paperbark flap back and forth, its angry sprouts of foliage tossing. Unmown grass and dandelions are blown flat. Wind sweeps through the ivy. The sloughing bark of the ghost gum flutters, mottled pink and grey, its cracked edges scorched. Underneath, the new bark is white and smooth, winding ribs at the base of the trunk. Spit’s old punching bag hangs from the bough, creaking on its frayed rope, the bag weathered, sunk and split, mo
ulting stuffing. The birds flock to gather it in spring and have done so for many years.
In the afternoon I walk into town, looking for Brett Clayton. I just want to see his face. It remains dank and humid, the air thick, sullied, swimming in filth. The wind has died and all is still. Exhaust fumes hang. There is something strange and unreal about the day.
I find Brett Clayton at The Crown, sitting at a back table with his mates. Uncollected jugs litter the table and those surrounding it. The other drinkers sit away.
Spit joins me at the bar. He is looking gaunt, more so than usual. He is unshaven, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, his face grey. He stinks.
You all on a bender or something? I ask him.
Spit shrugs.
They are loud at the table. Brett Clayton yells over to us.
Hey Spit, he says. That your old man?
Brett Clayton is leaning back on his chair, with one foot balanced on the carpet, the other against the table. He is looking at us. His eyes are glazed and staring. They are the glazed, staring eyes of a violent drunk.
Yeah, Spit yells over his shoulder.
Brett Clayton turns to his mates.
Spit’s old man, he says. Shacked up with my old lady.
His mates guffaw.
There is the sound of glass, the smell of beer. A grey cloud of cigarette smoke rolls from the table. Behind the counter the barmaid is drying pots with a tea towel. The other drinkers throw us sideways glances and silent.
Hey Spit, Brett Clayton yells. Ask your old man if it’s true love or just a physical thing.
His mates laugh and drink.
Don’t worry about Brett, Spit says to me.
When I leave it is me who is shaking.
The sun falls and shadows come. The air has lifted and it is fresh and floats with cooking smells. Birds wheel after insects in the dusk and daytime thins on the breeze. Men are home and few cars pass. Far off across grainy spaces farmers whistle and call to their dogs, turning themselves home, weary, the grind of tractors.
Night and darkness and me and Charlotte are sitting. I haven’t put the lights on. I am weary too, something about the day, and I can feel my age and my weakness, the sickness inside me, pains in my bones. Charlotte talks and there is only the glow of the fire flickering across her face, soft light and shadow, her face as though in movement, strange like in dreams, and my eyes strain to see her.
The Vintage and the Gleaning Page 11
