And I know that there are plenty of people worse off, but I’m not them and they’re not me and this is the only thing that’s real to me, this is the only thing I know and certainly there are plenty worse off and there always will be, but this is my life and it’s all I’ve got and it’s all I know. So there are other people, yes, but I don’t live their life and they don’t live mine. So maybe I do feel sorry for myself, maybe I do feel hard done by, but I can’t help it. How can I help it? And can you blame me? Can you blame me for that?
And I know I’ve dug my own grave. I know it’s all my fault, that it’s always been my fault, but how long are people going to keep taking it out on me? Because they make it so much harder, and it seems so unfair because it’s all hard enough as it is without everyone watching you, talking behind your back, looking at you on the street, in the shops, and I know they’re judging me, as if they know everything, everything about me and my life. But they don’t know, they don’t know a thing, not what it’s been like for me, so why? Why do they make it worse? Why do they have to do that? And I know they say that I deserve this, that I deserve it all, that I brought it all on myself, but I know that, I know that already and I’m the one who has to live with it because it’s there all the time, it’s always there for me, and, yes, it is my fault, and, yes, I’m the one who made the mistake, that one mistake of my life, the mistake that changed everything. But even so, I never chose this, I never chose any of it. Not this.
And now it doesn’t matter what I do or what happens to me anymore. I’m just getting older and I can’t bear the thought of it, I can’t bear the thought of getting middle-aged, old. And I’m nearly there. I’m very nearly there. I can see it already. And it’s terrifying for me. When you’re a woman, when you have nothing, no money, no children, nothing. And nothing ahead, nothing to look forward to, nothing changing, and I’m always there alone, waiting, and nobody notices and nobody cares, no matter what happens, or how much I want things to be different, or how much pain I go through, there’s nobody out there, nobody who can help, there’s only me.
But despite it all, I do have hope, there is still hope and there has to be, because it’s only hope that can keep me going now, hope that something will change, that something has to change. And I don’t know what it is, or what will happen, or when it will happen, but I can’t live without that, even if it isn’t real, even if I know, deep down, that nothing can change, that nothing will change, will ever change. But somewhere there is hope and maybe it’s crazy but it’s only as crazy as everything else, because it’s there, it’s always there and I can’t help it. I believe it because I have to believe it. So there is still hope and there has to be. There always has to be hope.
So the holidays ended and I went back to school. And it was all uniforms and assemblies and girls and teachers and classes and the boarding house, but everything seemed different. And it was different because of me, because I was a different person, because I’d changed. Because that summer had changed me. It was all me.
And school and everything, the same routine as always, but I felt like I wasn’t there, like I wasn’t actually there at all, as though I was watching it from somewhere else, like I was looking at everything through glass, and I was on the outside, looking in. Nothing seemed real to me and it must have shown, because first it was my friends who turned against me, asking why I was acting so strangely and then starting to get nasty, teasing me, making fun of me, starting rumours about me, just like we used to do to the other girls, only it was me now. Suddenly I’d become like one of those other girls, and I was alone. And so I lost all my friends, and I had been friends with them for years, but I lost them so quickly, because of how I was now, because I had changed. But I didn’t care, even though once upon a time, I mean, even a few months before, that would have been the worst thing in the world for me. But I really didn’t care, it made no difference to me, not at all. They were just a bunch of stuck-up, horrible little schoolgirls and they didn’t mean anything to me anymore.
And then it was the teachers, and at first they were kind, asking me whether I was all right, if anything was wrong, if something had happened to me over the summer. And I suppose something had happened, but how could I explain that to them, what had happened. I mean, I didn’t even really know myself. But that’s not the sort of thing they meant anyway. And then, later on, they started giving me a hard time, saying I had developed a bad attitude. They kept saying I had to change my attitude. I was even called into the headmistress’s office and given a talking to, and she told me I had to change my attitude as well, but I didn’t even know what that meant, I didn’t understand what any of them were talking about. It was as though they were speaking a different language. Like that school was somewhere foreign, something I didn’t understand. I just didn’t understand anything anymore.
And so, yes, I didn’t care about my friends turning on me and I didn’t care about the teachers telling me off either, but I did feel alone, I felt so alone. Because even with all the people around me it was like I was trapped inside my own head, completely cut off from it all, and I got sad. And I mean really, terribly sad. I used to cry myself to sleep every night, and during the day too. I’d lock myself in the toilets and just cry. And I didn’t know why I was feeling like that, or what was happening to me, or why. And there were days when I barely had the energy to get out of bed, to get dressed, to walk to class. It was like there was this huge weight on me.
And then one Saturday, in the middle of the semester, the boarding-house mistress told me I had a visitor and it was Brett. And seeing Brett in that place, that school. It was like suddenly everything melted away, fell into the background. And all I could see was Brett standing there in his old jeans and singlet, not even trying to hide his tatts, and there were girls all around whispering and putting their heads out of doorways to look at him and then giggling inside their rooms. And Brett standing there with this weird expression and I realised that he was trying to keep a straight face, that he was trying not to laugh.
And I don’t know how he did it, but he got permission to take me out for the day. And I really still don’t know how, because they were so strict about that sort of thing. But he managed it anyway. Like I said, Brett used to have this confidence, this charisma, and I don’t know how he did it, but he did.
And walking out of that school with Brett, through the boarding house, out through the grounds and past all the girls. With Brett. It just didn’t seem real. I couldn’t believe it was happening. I mean it was just so strange and everything seemed so out of place, it was like something that happens in a dream. It just didn’t make sense to me. It all happened so suddenly, I don’t even remember feeling happy about it. I don’t know what I felt. It was like I was in a daze, walking out of that school, walking out with Brett.
So we went to the tram stop, with Brett laughing all the way, about the school and about seeing me there in the boarding house and the look he said I had on my face when I saw him. And we took the tram down to St Kilda beach. And it was one of those old trams and the hot air was blowing through the windows and the seats sticking and burning under my legs and I remember looking outside, watching everything go past, and the light flashing through the trees and Brett beside me, and I felt this enormous sense of freedom. Like I was suddenly myself again, like the weight I had been under for all those months just fell off, just went away. And everything else too, the sadness, the feeling of being outside everything, all the bad things just seemed to wash off me, being there with Brett, with him on that tram. And it was like I had forgotten how to breathe but now I was breathing again.
And so Brett suggested we have fish and chips on the beach and when we got there I saw that he had brought this picnic blanket, this old tartan picnic blanket. And until then I thought he had come to Melbourne to visit his cousin, because he had said he was staying there, and I thought he had just dropped in on the off-chance. Just because I was someone he happened to know who was in the city. Bu
t when he brought out the blanket, I realised that he had planned the whole thing, that he had come down for me, to see me, and I realised that he must have been thinking about me all that time. All that time since the end of the holidays. That he had been thinking about me and that he had come down for me, just for me.
And we lay on the beach all afternoon, not even talking much, but I felt so relaxed, because Brett was relaxed, just like he’d been during the summer, by the river, exactly the same, only there was nobody else around now, no other friends, no group, just me and Brett. And I wondered if that was why he’d come down to the city, because he knew it would be just the two of us. And it was then I understood what was happening. He never said anything, but I understood. Why he was there, there with me.
So we just lay there in the sun, hardly talking at all, and I remember Brett leaning up on one elbow and looking over at me, and him saying, so how’s things? And I said, fine, and he said, well that’s good then, and he rolled over on his back again, with his arm over his face and that’s how we were, all afternoon. And we lay there and we watched the sunset, and the sea like a broken mirror, glittering and silver, and it was long past my curfew, but I already knew. Some time during that afternoon I had already decided. Not that I actually thought about it, but I knew and it just seemed to happen, and it seemed right. It just seemed so right, all of it. I knew that I wasn’t going back to school, not that day and not ever. I knew I wasn’t ever going back.
So Brett and I went to his cousin’s house and I rang my mother because I knew the school would have rung already. And I told her everything. I just told her. And I don’t think she knew what to say because she didn’t say anything except to ask me to phone back the next day, to let her know I was all right. And so I called the next day and she put my father on the phone. And there was this strain in his voice. He was trying not to let me hear it, but there was this strain, and the way he talked, it was slow and strange and desperate. He was almost pleading with me. And he said that he had talked with the headmistress and told her that there had been some problems at home and that it had all been his fault, that he had been under a lot of stress because of the drought. And he told me that the headmistress had agreed to let me back into the school on probation. And then my father said that he’d been looking into the money situation and he thought he could manage to pay for the Florence trip after all. And I just laughed. Because I didn’t care about any of that anymore. Because I was with Brett now. Because everything had changed.
I shouldn’t have laughed, Charlotte says.
Monday and Spit shows.
Me and Wallace are sitting up back of the ute, putting an edge on the shovels.
Win anything on the races? Wallace asks me.
Nope, I say.
Win anything on the lottery?
No, I did not.
Wallace oils the blade. We are at Harris’s close to town and cars pass, the smell of their exhaust wafting across the vines in the fresh morning air.
Well it’s all been happening around here, says Wallace.
It certainly has, I say.
Locust spraying Saturday, says Wallace. Brett Clayton’s mob gone wild.
Wallace squints to look at me.
You heard about that? Wallace asks me. Brett Clayton and his mob?
Yeah, I say. I heard about it.
Did a number on those kids, Wallace says. You hear about that? University students home for the holidays. Farmers’ kids. Bashed them with axe handles. Friday night. Got them after they come out Imperial. Just turned off Main Street. Jumped them there. Bashed them with axe handles, fence posts. Bashed them good and proper.
Yeah, I heard, I say.
Two of them in hospital, Wallace says. One with concussion, other one with busted ribs, busted spleen.
He counts it off on his fingers.
Wouldn’t say who done it though, he says. But they would of known. For sure they would of known.
Wallace shakes his head.
They was scared is why, he says. Scared of the consequences.
I spit into the dirt.
And Saturday night, says Wallace. Saturday night they go and shoot up the town. Think they’re in the wild west or something.
Yep, I say.
Whole bloody town shot up, Saw it myself. Sunday morning. Yesterday morning. All the shop windows blown out. Glass everywhere. Old Joe McLaren sitting in the barber’s chair, head in his hands, display cases smashed up. All them old artefacts ruined, on the floor. I mean, that’s history, that is. Local history. Garage dogs dead. Mechanic hosing down the blood. All blood and glass down the gutters. I never seen nothing like it.
Wallace shakes his head.
Jesus, he says. He starts working on his shovel. We watch the cars pass. One of them slows and stops and Bill Sparrow puts his head out the window and calls out. Wallace slides off the tray and goes over to talk to him. They talk for a while.
Hope they throw away the key, I hear Bill Sparrow say.
Wallace comes back and Bill Sparrow honks his horn and waves.
Get to work you lazy bastards, he yells.
He drives off.
Wallace sits back down with a grunt and picks up his shovel and stone.
I’ll tell you what though, he says. There was plenty of men ready to string them up right there and then. Not just from round here either. Half the bloody RSL come down from Corowa with the Mayor. Mayor come to look at the war memorial. You hear about that? You hear what they did to the war memorial?
Shot the statue, didn’t they? I say.
Shot off the head, says Wallace. Clean off. Digger’s head. Now that’s what they call sacrilege. Far as RSL’s concerned, anyway. Lucky copper got them first, is what I reckon. Lucky they got them in the divvy vans quick as they did. You hear about that? Had to bring in divvy vans far as bloody Albury to take them off. Had them in lock-ups all over the place.
I heard they walked right through the town, I say. I heard nobody did nothing.
Well it took everyone by surprise, didn’t it, says Wallace. You would’ve thought they’d have kept their heads down, wouldn’t you? Shoot up the town Saturday night, come in for a drink Sunday morning. Nobody expected that. Bloody nerve of it all. Explains why the pubs were the only things they didn’t shoot up.
Wallace runs his stone hard against the blade.
I mean, who do they think they are? he says. Driving up and down Main Street firing shotguns out the windows. Bloody cowboys. Bloody cowboys the lot of them.
He throws his shovel into the ground, takes a new one from the tray and leans it between his legs.
I never heard nothing like it, he says. It’s a bloody disgrace. Disgrace for the town. Disgrace for all of us.
Wallace slides the shovel up and picks the dry dirt off the blade with his fingers, wiping his hand on his singlet. He gets up the oilcan.
I mean, you ever heard of anything like that? he asks me. You ever heard of anything like that happen before?
I shake my head.
Never, I say.
Wallace puts oil on the blade.
And you been around too, he says.
Wallace works on his shovel. I look at the sky.
You been up north, says Wallace. I mean, you might expect it there. Plenty of cowboys up north. But down here.
He shakes his head.
I thought we was meant to be the civilised ones, he says. Winemaking town.
Wallace jerks his finger from the blade, dropping the stone. He looks at the cut. Blood oozes out and Wallace sucks on it.
Well it just goes to show, says Wallace, finger in his mouth.
I look around for crows but there aren’t any. The day is silent.
I once saw a copper shoot an aborigine out of a tree, I say. Up north.
What, dead? says Wallace. He looks at his finger and keeps sucking on it.
Nah, I say. Blackfeller was running down the street. All neked. I don’t know why he was neked, but he goes and climbs up a t
ree. Right in the middle of town. Copper comes over and fires his gun into the air and he climbs down again. Whole town standing around watching, same as what it was like yesterday. It was a Saturday morning, small town. Everyone about.
Yeah, but that’s a different thing altogether, says Wallace. That’s the law.
Yeah, well, I say.
Wallace takes his finger out of his mouth and wipes it on his singlet. He reaches back for the bottle of meths and trickles some over the finger, shaking it dry. I finish my shovel and get another one.
Old feller, I say. Old blackfeller, white beard. He come down crying.
What’d he done? Wallace asks, sliding off the tray and looking around for his stone.
Don’t know, I say. Caught drinking probably. That was the old days for you.
I knock the dirt off the shovel.
Tough justice back then, says Wallace.
I shrug.
Wasn’t so long ago, really, I say. Old blackfeller come down bawling his eyes out. Completely neked. Copper shackled him right there, middle of town.
I reach over for the oilcan and smear oil across the blade. Wallace finds his stone and flips it in the air. He sits down, flipping the stone and catching it.
Not afraid of dealing it out up north, says Wallace. Could of used a copper like that down here yesterday.
He flips the stone and it bounces off his knuckles. He picks it up and gets back to work.
I sharpen the blade in long even strokes. Out in the yard the vines are bright with the residue of the locust spray, coating the leaves and the small hard bunches of new fruit, inlaying the bark. A kestrel passes overhead, its shadow flickering across broken surfaces.
Didn’t use handcuffs on the blackfellers, I say. Used shackles and chains. Used to shackle them all up together with a long chain. On the ankles too. All in a line, all shackled together.
Wallace laughs.
How’d you like to see them do that to Brett Clayton’s mob, he says. March them up and down the street. Make them look at what they done. Make a spectacle of them.
The Vintage and the Gleaning Page 21
