The Vintage and the Gleaning

by Jeremy Chambers

  Old feller comes down from the tree, I say. Crying, neked. Everyone standing around laughing. They was all laughing.

  I plant my shovel.

  Well, you break the law, says Wallace. Those days. Up north.

  I look at Wallace. He is half black himself though nobody ever mentions it.

  I take another shovel from the tray and knock off the dirt.

  And you hear what the copper said when he went into Imperial? says Wallace. Catches Brett Clayton trying to jump the bar?

  Yeah, I heard.

  Has his holster unbuttoned, hand on his gun. Says, you just try me, Clayton. Just you give me an excuse.

  I look closely at the shovel blade, feeling the thin juts of metal.

  I heard different, I say.

  Yeah? says Wallace, pausing. What you hear?

  Pretty much the same thing, I say.

  I take a pair of pliers out of the toolbox and start twisting off the jagged tips. A few break clean off and shoot into the air. Wallace swears and holds his hand over the side of his face. I wrench the others off, leaving the blade worse than it was before. I get out the chisel.

  Well, it’s all over now, says Wallace.

  That’s right, I say.

  We can breathe easy now, says Wallace.

  He plants his shovel and wipes his brow. I give the blade a good going-over and then put an edge on it with the stone. I show it to Wallace.

  I don’t know why you bother, he says.

  We finish the shovels and sit up back of Wallace’s ute. The boys come up the road. Wallace looks at his watch.

  On time for bloody once, he says. He looks at his watch again. Just about on time.

  The boys come up and pull shovels out of the dirt. Wallace watches them.

  You two sober yet? he asks.

  The boys grin.

  Course, says the talker. Wasn’t even hungover.

  Don’t bullshit me, says Wallace. You’re hungover all right.

  Not me, says the boy. First thing I got up, nicked one of my Dad’s longnecks. Drunk it. Don’t feel a thing.

  He looks at Wallace, scratching his sunburnt nose.

  Hair of the dog, ay? says Wallace.

  What’s that? says the boy.

  Hair of the dog, says Wallace. Hair of the dog that bit you.

  He looks at the boy.

  You not heard that before?

  No, says the boy.

  Jeez, says Wallace, turning to me. What do they teach the young people these days?

  I get up to stretch my legs and go and take a piss in the vines and come back.

  You was drinking was you? I ask the boy.

  We was all drinking yesterday, says Wallace, wiping his hands on a rag. Boys got pissed proper this time. Could barely walk out the pub straight.

  Where were you drinking? I ask.

  Crown, says Wallace. Crown Sunday. Time they learned what real drinking’s all about.

  You should have come, Smithy, says the quiet one. We started drinking in the morning. We drank all day.

  He grins at me.

  It’s better, says the boy. Drinking days. Better than at night. We were drinking for hours.

  Spit’s car comes down the highway and makes a handbrake turn into the vineyard. The wheels scream and dirt churns. Dust comes up from the side of the car and settles on it. The engine revs and the wheels spin, grinding into the ground. The car bolts forward and brakes with a high metal whine. Spit gets out and slams the door. He comes up with a lit cigarette in his mouth, a long bent line of ash hanging off it. He starts pulling the shovels out of the dirt, inspecting the blades.

  I thought you were in the lock-up, says Wallace.

  I was, says Spit.

  He goes through the shovels and picks one. The boys stand watching him, grinning.

  What’s youse two looking at, says Spit.

  Spit leans against the side of Wallace’s ute, his back to us. He drags on his cigarette until a burst of flame shoots through the filter. He flicks the blackened butt out into the vines.

  You hear about George Alister? Wallace asks him.

  Who’s George Alister? says Spit.

  Mate of Roy’s, says Wallace. Was, anyway. Dropped dead. Middle of Main Street. Sunday before last. Heart attack.

  Yeah? says Spit, looking out onto the vines.

  Yeah, says Wallace. Dead before he hit the ground they reckon.

  He looks at Spit.

  And you know what his dog did? After George Alister carks it?

  Dunno, says Spit. Ate him?

  Wallace laughs.

  Close, he says. Pretty close to it, he says. George Alister, right. He’s eating an ice-cream. When he dies. Has his heart attack and hits the ground. Anyway, dog goes and nicks the ice-cream. George Alister lying there dead, dog nicks the bloody ice-cream.

  Spit lights up another cigarette.

  And you know what Smithy said when I told him? asks Wallace.

  No I don’t, says Spit, smoking. Pray tell me what Smithy said.

  Smithy says, that’s dogs for you.

  Is that right, says Spit.

  And do you know Nora Alister? Wallace asks.

  Spit shrugs.

  Yeah, well she was George Alister’s wife. Widow now though.

  Well she would be, wouldn’t she.

  So I say to Smithy, I say, George Alister was Roy’s mate all right, but I reckon he’ll be after the widow now. Have a go at the widow.

  Spit leans his head back and blows smoke rings into the air.

  And you know what Smithy says? He says, that’s Roy for you.

  Wallace chuckles, shaking his head.

  That’s dogs for you and that’s Roy for you.

  Spit looks out at the vines. He swears and throws his shovel. It flies in an arc and hits the wire and bounces and falls among the vines. He takes out another cigarette and lights it from the first one.

  You got a mortgage to pay, Spit, I say.

  Yeah well fuck that too, he says.

  He looks over at the boys.

  And how are you two retards? he says.

  The boys grin.

  Wallace took us drinking, one of them says.

  Wallace’s whipped, says Spit, turning away.

  I still got the record, says Wallace. No one’s beat me yet.

  That’s ancient history, says Spit. Nobody counts anymore.

  Roy gets out of his ute, whistling for Lucy and stretching. He comes over and looks at the shovels. Lucy bounds up and sniffs at our feet and trots off along the rows.

  So you scored with this bird yet? Spit asks Roy.

  What bird? says Roy, looking over a blade.

  Wallace said something about some bird, says Spit.

  He’s talking about Nora Alister, says Wallace.

  Roy takes out another shovel.

  Gone to flaming Perth, hasn’t she, he says. Gone to live with her sister.

  So pay her a visit, says Spit. Get a few roots. She’d be gagging for it out there.

  I’m not driving to bloody Perth, says Roy. Takes bloody days to drive to bloody Perth.

  Take a holiday, says Spit. Do some sightseeing.

  Roy examines another blade and sticks the shovel back into the ground.

  Nothing to see, he says. It’s all desert, isn’t it?

  True enough, says Spit.

  Roy picks a shovel and leans on it. Wallace opens the toolbox and hands out knives to the others.

  Besides, the ute would never make it, Roy says, wiping his knife on his shorts.

  So take the flash car.

  I’m not bloody well taking the flash car out there, says Roy. It’s all unsealed roads. Ruin the paintwork.

  He pulls up his shovel and goes and stands against the ute, next to Spit.

  Boss been asking about you, he says quietly.

  Yeah? says Spit.

  Yeah, but Smithy told him you was crook.

  Spit looks over his shoulder at me, cigarette in his mouth.

&n
bsp; Cheers Dad, he says.

  Yeah, but he’s bound to find out, isn’t he, says Roy. Whole town knows about you lot. Everyone saw it.

  So? says Spit.

  So he can lay you off, can’t he?

  Spit flicks away the cigarette, still burning.

  So what? says Spit. I’ll go down the river. Get some decent fishing done for once. Rather be down the river than out here with you jokers.

  Wallace looks at his watch and swears. He shows me the time. He slides off the ute and takes his shovel and mattock and puts one over each shoulder.

  Righteo, he says, and we go into the vines.

  I am already in bed when the doorbell rings. I get up and put on my dressing-gown and go to the door. Brett Clayton is standing there, his hands in his pockets. His face is skull-like, whiskered and grey, his eyes tired, hard, without expression.

  She here? he asks.

  She’s here, I say.

  He walks past me as if I wasn’t there. As if I was nothing. I follow him on weak knees.

  Brett Clayton stands in the lounge room, looking around with his back to me. His clothes hang off him. He smells of stale booze and cigarette smoke.

  He barks Charlotte’s name into the empty room.

  I hear movement and Charlotte comes out, tightening the belt of Florrie’s bathrobe.

  So you coming home or not, he says to her.

  Charlotte’s hair is down, loose strands over her shoulders.

  Just give me time to pack, she says.

  Brett Clayton tilts his head.

  And how long’s that going to take you? he asks.

  Not long, she says. A little while.

  Well how long? he says.

  I’ll be as quick as I can, she says. Can’t you just have the decency to wait?

  Brett Clayton folds his arms, looking down.

  How about I come and pick your stuff up tomorrow, he says. I’m dead on my feet here.

  Well can I get dressed at least? Charlotte snaps. Or do you want me walking through town like this?

  I’m not stopping you.

  Charlotte goes into her room and I can hear her rushing about. Drawers open and shut. Brett Clayton stands stock-still and straight with his back to me, staring out the back window. He takes a soft-pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, shakes out a cigarette and then lets it drop back in. He puts the pack back into his pocket.

  The night murmurs.

  Charlotte comes out dressed in jeans and a jumper, wearing sneakers.

  All right? she says.

  Brett Clayton turns and walks past me, not looking at me, saying nothing. Charlotte hurries after him. I follow them to the door. As she is leaving, Charlotte turns back quickly and gives me a small wave, mouthing goodbye. Silently. The way women do. I close the door behind them.

  I go into Charlotte’s room and begin gathering up her things. I fold her clothes and put them into her suitcase. In the bathroom I put her lipsticks and bottles and tiny cases of make-up into a small zippered bag. Pink and fragrant dust puffs out of the bag when I open it. It sticks to my dressinggown and falls onto my slippers and onto the tiles. I put the bag into the suitcase with her lotions and shampoos. Her hairbrush is sitting by the sink. I pick it up and look at it. There are strands of her hair wrapped among the bristles, long and honey-coloured. For a moment I think of keeping the hairbrush. I put it into the suitcase.

  Back in Charlotte’s room which is not her room, not any longer, I look through the drawers and the wardrobe, making sure that nothing has been left behind. Florrie’s bathrobe is lying spread over the bed. It smells of Charlotte. I fold it and pack it with her things. I close the suitcase and put it by the front door.

  Going into the lounge room, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the mantelpiece, my ruined old face, my bare head, my white hair.

  The room is silent and empty.

  I go outside for a piss. It is a moonless night and cloud cover hides the stars. It is still and quiet and dark. I can’t see a thing in front of me.

  I go to bed and wake before dawn.

  And I remember the sisters and the wind, the black kids all in a row and the nuns’ robes flapping, wrapping about them, their hands holding down wimples and fussing about the children’s clothes, white shirts washed and pressed and stiff, bright in the sun and a strange thing to see in that place of sand and dust, and us lived so long in sully that it was deep to our pores. And we had never imagined such a thing as cleanliness, not until this day. So there was excitement among us. And while the nuns straightened collars and pulled at the grey starched shorts and smoothed the sharp seams, the piccanins could not help but all of them smile wide and they were restless, looking out into the distance, shifting about and beginning to wander until the nuns shoved them into place again, the children holding paper Empire Flags in their hands, the flags drawn in crayon, the red sand skewing about us. We were waiting for the wife of the Protector of Aboriginals.

  And the wife of the Protector of Aboriginals arrived in a big black car, the driver in a khaki uniform, a large peaked hat and a face without expression, the kids all waving their flags as the car approached, the nuns rushing to the car, the driver opening the door, the sisters holding their hands together and bent over saying, Oh no ma’am it will ruin your clothes, and the driver standing watching. And he shut the door and a window was wound down and Sister Bernard stood in front of the smiling children, conducting with her hands. And they sang God Save the Queen and Land of Hope and Glory and For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow and clapping came from inside the car, the driver slumped back in his seat with his cap over his eyes and the wind growing stronger. And Sister Bernard went to the open window and talked to the woman inside and she turned and gestured to me and I stood on the footboard and looked into the car and I saw the wife of the Protector of Aboriginals.

  And the wife of the Protector of Aboriginals was all in white, a satin sash around her waist, an embroidered blouse high in the collar and patterned with tiny beads of motherof-pearl that glistened in the slanting light and there were all colours in their sheen. And her hair was soft and short and in waves, a golden colour, catching the sun, shining in the sun. And on the shaded seat next to her an ivory fan lay open, filigreed, and a hat swathed in tulle. And she wore lace gloves and I felt them as she took my raw and dirty hands in hers and she looked at me, smiling, and she was beautiful. And I had not expected her to be beautiful and I had never seen such things before. And her eyes looked into mine and I forgot why I was there, only her eyes, only the woman, and it seemed that she was looking right into me and her saying, He’s shy, her eyes amused, Sister Bernard prodding me and I remembered and I sang and I sang to the woman and when I had finished she touched my face and she kissed me gently on the forehead and her hands stayed on my cheeks and still looking into my eyes, the whole time looking into my eyes. And I was looking into hers.

  You’re an angel, she said. A true angel.

  So there was that. I can remember that.

  And the driver turning and hard-faced under the peak of his cap, pointing across the desert saying, It looks like a dust storm is coming ma’am, the wife of the Protector of Aboriginals turning to look.

  A dust storm? she said, the driver nodding.

  If we leave now I think we can make it into town.

  And the woman looked out at the red and dirty sky and the milky spread of the horizon, the disc of the sun dangerous, a smouldering, seething ember. And the sky above a restless grey, us in uncanny shadow like dusk, the wind heaving and twisting plumes borne from the earth and towering. And she looked back through the open window at the piccanins and a gust of sand splattered hard against the car, the metal sounding, the children’s flags tearing about in the wind, the paper crackling.

  And the wife of the Protector of Aboriginals took her hands from my face and she moved back into the dim of the car, the driver saying, We need to get into town before it hits or we’re stuck here until it passes. They can last fo
r days, ma’am. I’ve seen it before. And as the driver leaned over to wind up the window I looked at the woman one last time, the car starting with a roar and a belch of dark smoke, the wheels kicking up a hail of sand over the line of black children who coughed and rubbed their eyes and they waved their Empire Flags as the car jerked forward and onto the road. And they waved their flags as the car sped into the distance and they kept waving their flags until long after it was gone.

  The sand coiling, the nuns moving frantically as the dust storm drew nearer, marching the piccanins off in double time, bolting the doors and closing the shutters and I felt a pull at my arm, the sister saying, The cow, bring in the cow. And I walked out towards the paddock and as the wind roared and as the dust swirled thick around me I was struck by sand and twigs and stones, stinging my face and my bare skin and eyes. And as I wandered blind in the angry ruddy gloom, the cow bell sounding its low and hollow noise somewhere in the raging distance, I could think only of the woman, only of her, and of her clothes and finery, her hair soft and gold in the sun, the fan and hat beside her and the feel of lace on my cheeks, the touch of her lips and her eyes looking into mine and her beauty, and at that moment I did not care, I did not care whether I lived or died.

  And what I want to know is, was that wrong? Was it all wrong? Has it all been wrong from the start?