Fresh Fields

by Peter Kocan

  “Right,” said Errol as he closed the boot. “Let’s move.”

  The car was already hooked up to the caravan. Errol only had to disconnect the van from the camp electricity, turn off the gas cylinder and hop into the driver’s seat. A few blokes around the camp looked, but no-one seemed interested.

  As he and Simon and Patrick went to get in, the youth felt a moment of confusion.

  “Um, who’s sitting in front?” he asked.

  “Well, you are, silly!” Simon replied.

  “Talk about coy!” said Patrick.

  The youth got in beside Errol, who was tapping a gauge with his finger.

  “We’ll need to stop in Weegun for petrol,” he said.

  They drove out of the camp and then out beneath the Continental Cotton sign onto the public road. They drove beside the cotton fields for several minutes and the youth gazed over the endless pattern of green and brown. There was already a slight heat haze and the huge machines in the far-off compound shimmered. Errol had his eyes on the road and was fiddling with the car radio with one hand. Simon and Patrick were talking in the back. The road began to veer away until the cotton fields couldn’t be seen anymore.

  Simon and Patrick were discussing places in the city, especially somewhere called “Ricky Rascal’s.” It was a nightclub or dancehall or something.

  “We met at Ricky’s,” Simon said, clutching Patrick’s arm. “Didn’t we, chook?”

  “Yes,” Patrick replied. “I was cradle-snatched at Ricky’s.”

  “I thought you’d probably met at uni,” the youth said.

  “Nah,” said Simon. “We’d been at the same campus for two years without clapping eyes on each other.”

  “I suppose you would’ve studied 1066 at uni?” the youth said.

  “What?”

  “1066.”

  “What’s 1066?”

  “King Harold and all that.”

  “Who’s King Harold?”

  “Hastings and all the rest of it.”

  “Who’s Hastings?”

  The youth figured they were having a joke, so he turned and grinned at them, to show he was enjoying it.

  “Actually,” said Simon, “1066 has a delicious ring to it. Sounds like something you’d get at Ricky’s.”

  “Yes,” agreed Patrick. “I can just picture some slutty little baggage sidling up and saying, ‘Hello. I’m into 1066. Are you?’”

  “And ‘King Harold’ hardly bears thinking about!” cried Simon.

  They clutched each other, giggling.

  The youth forced himself to chuckle, while Errol looked ahead at the road with a preoccupied air.

  “Actually,” said Simon, when they’d recovered, “you’ll have to get Errol to take you to Ricky’s. We couldn’t live without it.”

  “Or without the Green Door,” said Patrick.

  “Or the Passion Pit.”

  “Or the Velveteen.”

  “Get him to take you to all of them!”

  “Hear that, Errol?” said Simon. “We’re getting you organised.”

  “Good,” Errol replied. “I need organising.”

  “And for God’s sake get him some clothes!”

  “Right,” said Errol. “Any more instructions?”

  “No,” said Patrick. “But stay alert. We may think of something.”

  The youth was trying to figure out exactly what the talk meant, what the joke of it was. Why would Errol take him to places? Why would Errol buy him clothes? It dawned on him that Simon and Patrick thought he was going to be Errol’s boyfriend, the way they were boyfriends with each other. The youth wasn’t stupid. He knew now that they were on together, though it had taken a while for the penny to drop. But they were wrong if they thought he was like that too. Or Errol. Errol didn’t giggle and clutch arms, or roll his eyes and make pouty faces. And he never mentioned sar-tra or nee-cha. The youth thought of the moment when Errol had come back from the showers and made that gesture of fluttering his fingers through his wet hair. That had reminded the youth of Grace Kelly somehow, and so he’d got a bit tingly and aroused. But it was Grace Kelly he’d felt tingly about, not Errol. That was the important thing. It was Sweetheart it loved and yearned for. And if it couldn’t be her, if it had to be someone you’d known in real life, well, he had Meredith Blackett to remember. He’d always have the sweetness of their time together. Nothing could ever take that away. But in fact he had Sweetheart herself, ever-present and ever-lovely, and as long as he had one photo of her, or one image of her in his mind, the world would be alright for him. Except when he was having the Tunnel of Love dream . . . The youth did not want to think of the Tunnel of Love dream just then, so he brought his mind back to Errol. You could tell how silly Simon and Patrick’s chatter was by the way Errol half-ignored it, as though he couldn’t be bothered even setting them straight about such nonsense.

  The youth felt he should say something to Simon and Patrick. He should be the one to set them straight. Just a brief comment would do. Something like: “Gee, you blokes have got wild imaginations. All Errol’s doing is giving me a lift back to civilisation.” And no doubt Errol would appreciate having it cleared up as well. After all, they were going to be in the car together for a few hours, and they didn’t want any awkwardness. But just as he was getting ready to speak they arrived at Weegun and pulled in beside a petrol pump at the garage.

  “I’m going for a pee,” Simon announced.

  “Need any help?” Patrick asked.

  “Could be.”

  “Lead on then.”

  The garage attendant came out and Errol told him to fill the tank, then started to check the oil under the bonnet. The youth felt he should offer to pay a share of the petrol. He took a couple of notes from his wallet, unsure of how much he should offer but anxious not to offer too little. He went over to Errol, bent under the bonnet, and bent beside him.

  “Um, let me contribute towards the petrol,” he muttered awkwardly, proffering the two notes.

  “Oh don’t you worry,” Errol said, pushing them away. “It’s those other two who’ll need to kick in.”

  “No, really,” the youth insisted, proffering the notes again, wanting to get the embarrassment over.

  Errol made as though to push his hand away again, but then he closed his own hand over it and held it shut. The youth felt how strong a grip he had, but it was gentle, too. He looked up, into Errol’s eyes. Errol moved his face closer and tilted his head to bring his lips level for a kiss. The youth could not move his head away because of the car bonnet, so he closed his eyes and held his own lips firmly together and stayed still, telling himself not to panic. He was surprised how cool and soft and pleasant Errol’s lips felt on his. It lasted only a moment, then came the voices of Simon and Patrick returning.

  The youth stepped quickly out from under the bonnet, his heart pounding, but feeling that he’d coped rather well. He knew his face had gone a bit flushed and he saw Patrick giving him a smirky look.

  “And what have our two little grease-monkeys been doing under that big naughty bonnet, do you suppose?” he asked Simon.

  At that moment a big-finned American car came gliding along the street. It slowed right down and the youth saw someone looking across at them from behind the wheel. The car looked familiar, but the youth was too full of confused feelings to think. He turned away and went round to the Gents to give himself a minute alone to get calm.

  As he stood at the basin he heard a challenging voice outside, then other voices responding. He realised that the American car was Alf’s big Pontiac, and that it was Alf’s voice he could hear. He went out of the Gents and cautiously approached the corner of the building and peeked around the edge. The Pontiac was pulled up across the driveway with the front wheels slewed to one side and the driver’s door open, and Alf was confronting Errol and the other two
in front of the open bonnet of Errol’s car.

  “Who are you to be so high and mighty?” Simon was asking.

  “Yes, what gives you the right?” Patrick demanded.

  Alf ignored them and kept talking to Errol in a low intense voice. The youth heard the words “underage kid” being repeated.

  Errol didn’t reply. After a moment of silence he turned and put the bonnet down with a clunk and waved Simon and Patrick to get into the car.

  The youth pulled back from the corner and stood against the wall of the building. He heard the car start up and saw the back end of the caravan glide forward and out of sight. He took deep breaths. After a minute he went round the corner and found Alf leaning against the Pontiac, rolling a cigarette.

  “Ah,” Alf said. “How ya goin’?”

  The youth nodded distractedly. He’d just remembered his bag had been in the boot of Errol’s car.

  “Um, them friends o’ yours said to tell ya they had ta go. They was runnin’ late, or somethin’.”

  The youth was thinking of his bag, his White Book, his few belongings.

  “Anythin’ wrong?” Alf wanted to know.

  “My bag’s in their car.”

  “Nah, it’s here,” Alf replied, indicating the Pontiac.

  The youth sighed with relief.

  “I’m just headin’ back to camp, if ya want a lift.”

  “No, I’m okay,” the youth said. “I think I’ll hang around in town for a while.”

  Alf finished rolling his cigarette, lit it and blew out a long stream of smoke. He didn’t seem in any hurry to go. He kept on smoking and gazed away at the sky. The youth gazed at the sky too.

  “Ah well,” said Alf after a minute. “I better get back to me cookin’, I s’pose.”

  “Okay.”

  “I just made a quick run into town to see how Teddy Bennett was doin’.”

  “Ah,” murmured the youth, wondering who Teddy Bennett was.

  “The news ain’t too good. He had a bad turn last night. The doctor said he’s goin’ downhill fast and there’s not much they can do except keep him comfortable. He’s dopey from the drugs they’re givin him and I don’t think he’s got much idea of what’s goin’ on.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” said the youth, having realised it was Long John.

  “Yeah. And he seemed so chirpy on Wednesday when I saw him. He asked after you. I think I told ya that, didn’t I?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “He’s got no relatives, apparently. I been droppin’ in ta see him because I knew him a bit round the shearin’ sheds years ago. Before he lost his leg.”

  “Yes, you mentioned knowing him.”

  Alf flicked his butt sharply away.

  “Ah, well, it’s what we’re all gonna fuckinwell come to, sometime!” he said, as though to himself. Then he seemed to remember the youth was there. “Blokes o’ mine and Teddy’s vintage, I mean. Blokes who’ve let it all slip by ’em somehow. But you still got the chance of havin’ a life.”

  He looked as if he might say more, but a big truck nosed into the drive and he had to move the Pontiac out of the way. He handed the youth’s bag out, said, “See ya later,” and drove off.

  At the railway station the youth was told there was a train to the city in twenty minutes, so he bought a ticket. He sat slumped in his seat, watching the outskirts of Weegun fall away. How sad, he thought, how sad. He called up the words and tune of the song, and wished Keith was there to sing it one last time. The youth hummed it, for a man who was going downhill fast, and who had asked after the room-mate who hadn’t even bothered to know his name.

  Goodbye to you Juan, goodbye Rosalita,

  Adios mis amigos, Jesus and Maria.

  You won’t have a name

  When you ride the big airplane,

  All they will call you

  Will be deportee.

  10. KARMA

  He had rented a room in a converted garage at the back of a big old run-down mansion from the Victorian era. The garage had been divided into three tiny rooms and the youth had the middle one. It contained a bed and a dressing table and a wardrobe and this left hardly enough space to turn around in. The youth didn’t mind. The room was cheap and snug and he had no possessions other than what he could keep in his one bag. The lavatory and shower were over in the rear part of the house. There was a large backyard with a sagging clothesline and lots of unruly vines with purplish flowers on them. If you pushed past the tangle of vines you found a back gate and a laneway.

  There were occupants in the other two rooms of the garage. One was a young chap named Sunny, from Ceylon. The youth knew this because he heard the chap talking to Delia, the landlady. Sunny and Delia spent a lot of time together in the backyard. Sunny’s English wasn’t the best but you could get the drift of what he said.

  The man on the other side was a night-worker that no-one ever saw. The youth would hear him come in early each morning, and then a few sounds of him moving about, then nothing.

  Sunny made a fair bit of noise with his radio. The youth would hear him repeating words and phrases from it, as though he was practising his English. There was a disc jockey who called himself “Mannie the Man” and “Mad Mannie” and “Mannie Wannie” and “Mannie Mabuly Wuly” and other names. Mannie talked a whole crazy lingo of his own. “Mabuly Wuly’s Truly Cool, Fool!” he might shout half-hysterically, and then you’d hear Sunny repeating it, but in a tone of formal politeness, the way you’d say, “Hello, I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  Sometimes the youth felt like knocking on Sunny’s door and explaining to him that Mannie was a nitwit and not worth taking notice of, and also that he’d prefer not to have the rubbish inflicted on him through the partition. And God knew what the night-worker bloke on the other side thought. He must be getting a gutful of Mannie too. Sometimes the youth fancied he could feel the irritation coming from that side. But he said nothing. He just wanted to mind his own business. He wanted to be snug and private with his White Book and his magazines and his copy of Year of Decision. He wanted to be left to think his own thoughts, a lot of which were now about Delia.

  He’d been walking past, that first day, and had heard a tinkle of wind-chimes. He had looked up at the old house and had noted the elaborate verandah, the wrought-iron balcony, the stained-glass panels in the front door, the run-down relaxed look of the whole place. He had thought it would be nice to live there. Then he’d seen the small “Room to Let” notice. He’d wandered up and down the street for a long time, bracing himself for the ordeal of having to front up and act like a normal person who can smile and talk and be pleasant. Finally he went in at the iron gate and approached the front door. There was a discreet sign beside it which said: DELIA’S KARMA CENTRE * BIRTH CHARTS * TAROT * CRYSTALS * AROMATHERAPY * ETC. He rapped with a heavy doorknocker and waited for a longish while, but no-one responded. The sign worried him. He could feel his dredged-up determination draining away. He was heading back towards the gate when she came around the side of the house and called hello.

  She looked like a beautiful witch. She had on a long flowing robe, and her hair was flowing too, long and dark and wavy. She was barefoot and had beads round her neck and bangles on her wrists. There were tiny bells attached to her ankle so that she made a tinkling sound when she walked. The youth was deeply struck from the first instant and would’ve fled except that her manner was so friendly.

  “How are you?” she called as she came up to him, as if he was an old pal she was pleased to see.

  “Not bad, thanks,” he replied, stopping at the gate. It would’ve been too rude to keep walking away.

  She came and looked straight at him. She had hazel-green eyes, and her eyelids were painted a gold-speckled green, so that when she blinked you got two flicks of iridescent colour, as if two green butterflies had instantaneously fluttered
and vanished. She had a long nose and pointy chin and very red lips and was perhaps in her thirties.

  “How can I help you?” she asked.

  He didn’t trust his voice at that moment, so he gestured towards the Room to Let notice.

  “Ah, lovely,” she said, as though the prospect of him coming to live there was just the nicest thing.

  She showed him the garage room and within a minute they’d decided that he would take it. He asked if he could pay a month in advance and she agreed. Even though the room was cheap, four weeks would use up most of the money he’d brought back from Weegun. But at least he’d be sure of a whole month of having a roof over his head.

  “You’ll be one of my outsiders,” she said. “But only in the bodily sense, not the spiritual. In spirit we’re all insiders here.”

  They went into a front room of the house to organise the payment and the receipt. It was an office or consulting room where she received her clients. The room was full of crystals and charts and beaded curtains and feathery things dangling. And it had a smell that gave you a light, tingling sensation. It was bracing like the air of a high mountain meadow. But there was a heavy, musky, witchy feeling about it too, even if the witch was beautiful and had gold-flecked green butterflies for eyelids.

  As Delia had leant over a little desk to write the receipt, she’d been outlined against the daylight at the window and her robe had become slightly see-through. The youth had been able to glimpse her breasts, or at least tell that they were bare under the material. After a moment he had averted his eyes, to be polite, and had looked instead at her feet. They were beautifully shaped, the toes long and slender, the nails painted a silvery colour. Then he looked at her hair lying across her back and shoulders, at the rich dark weight of it as it rippled to one side when she moved. The tinkle of the wind-chimes came from the verandah and suddenly the youth had a vivid sense of how much beauty and pleasure there must be in the world. It must be everywhere, just a little out of sight but almost close enough to touch. He had stumbled on a fraction of it, simply because those wind-chimes had prompted him to look up from the footpath. It was as chancy and flukey as that. You might walk the footpath till the end of time and never know what tingling beauty and bracingness was near you at a given moment.