Common People

by Tony Birch

  ‘These are our most popular brand. Because they’re the cheapest, to be honest.’

  Lola looked down at the packet, plastered with bold warnings – SMOKING KILLS – and a picture of a pus-filled eyeball.

  ‘I can see what attracts customers to the brand,’ she said, handing Astra a twenty-dollar note. ‘The choice of serious risk-takers.’

  ‘Really?’

  Lola put the cigarettes in her cardigan pocket and walked back along the street to the vacant shopfront. The old woman hadn’t moved from her canvas chair but the young man, done with sweeping, had buried himself under a blanket and looked to be asleep. Lola stopped and offered the woman the cigarettes.

  ‘Here you go.’

  She reached out and took the packet from Lola. ‘Thank you, love.’ She frowned at the diseased eyeball and turned the packet over.

  ‘Sorry,’ Lola said, ‘the news is no better on the other side.’

  The homeless woman looked down at a picture of a swollen tongue riddled with sores. ‘Do you mind if I take two? One for my son?’

  ‘They’re yours. The packet.’

  The woman delicately removed the cellophane wrapper. The young man under the blanket groaned and rolled over.

  ‘That there is Robbie,’ she nodded. ‘He’s worn himself out, carrying all our gear. We had a shopping trolley, but it got stolen from us last night.’

  ‘People will steal anything,’ Lola observed. ‘I once had a boyfriend who had his glass eye thieved from a glass of water sitting by the side of his bed. Either that, or he lost it at the pub.’

  ‘Nothing surprises,’ the woman agreed. She took a cigarette out of the packet, put it in her mouth and let it rest on her bottom lip, searching her pockets until she found a box of matches. She lit the cigarette and took a long, soothing draw.

  ‘Can’t remember the last time I was offered a full packet of cigarettes.’ She held up a plastic food container, exhaling at the same time. ‘You know what’s in here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Japanese food. They call it sushi. Fresh last night. I’m not game to get into the stuff. Don’t matter. Robbie loves it. I’m happy to settle for a couple of slices of toast and a cup of tea.’ She reached into her pocket and brought out a bottle of pills, rattling it in her hands. ‘Now, these are Vitamin C tablets. A lady came by last night, gave ’em to me and said, “Take one a day. They’ll keep you from catching a cold out here.” I wanted to ask why she didn’t leave me a blanket instead. But who wants to be ungrateful? You take what you can get.’

  She reached under her chair and picked up a picture frame. ‘What do you reckon I’m going to do with this?’ she laughed. ‘Have my portrait taken?’

  Lola looked at the empty frame. It looked as lonely as a stray animal.

  ‘Oh, that feels good.’ The woman coughed, taking another drag on the cigarette. ‘You sure you won’t have one?’

  Lola shook her head. ‘Don’t tempt me. It would be a smoke, followed by a big drink. Next thing I’d be back on the merry-go-round.’

  The woman knowingly raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, it’s like that. Pills and all. I understand, been there myself.’ She held up the cigarette. ‘This is it for me. These days. The streets are no place for a woman who plays. Dangerous enough as it is.’

  Her son stirred and the blanket fell onto the footpath. She got up from her chair, waddled across and neatly rearranged the blanket over him. She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.

  ‘You know, I’ve had some ordinary jobs over the years. I worked on a goat farm one time. That was hard going. Have you ever been kicked by a goat?’

  ‘Not that I can remember,’ Lola said. ‘Doesn’t mean that I haven’t been, of course. One day I went to bed in a motel in Sydney and woke up in a car in Ballarat. Anything can happen.’

  ‘Well, let me tell you, it hurts. I did fruit-picking over a few summers. That was hard as well, out in the heat. But no work I’ve ever done is as tough as being out here. Robbie spends half the day chasing a meal for us. The rest, he’s looking for a roof over our heads.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ Lola asked. ‘Originally?’

  ‘The other side of the river. Out east. Near the mountains. We had a house for a while. But Robbie owed a couple of debts, and our place was burnt down on us. We run out of options over there, and he came up with the idea to try our luck closer to the city.’ She looked over at her son. ‘Well, luck’s gone missing. My other kids have had it with me. But not Robbie, he’s a good boy. Sticks fat. You got kids?’

  ‘I have. A daughter. And a granddaughter,’ Lola added. ‘I’m taking care of her today.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  Lola wasn’t certain. ‘Ten months, about.’

  ‘Do you have her often?’

  ‘No. Today’s my first time. My daughter’s had me on probation until now.’

  The old woman smiled knowingly. ‘Oh. It’s like that?’ She smiled. ‘You’ll make it, I reckon.’

  ‘Ta. I’d better head off. Can’t afford to give my daughter a reason to call it off.’

  ‘Will you be back this way again?’

  ‘Yeah, of course. I come up here most days.’

  ‘Good. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  When she got home Lola put the shopping away and again inspected the flat. She flushed the clean water in the toilet, straightened a crease on the bedspread and picked up a solitary piece of fluff from the carpet. She felt satisfied with herself until she noticed the bottle of wine on the mantle. She picked it up and ran into the kitchen, opening and closing cupboard doors until settling on a shelf below the kitchen sink. She lay the bottle of wine on its side and covered it with an empty hot water bottle. She stood back to see if the wine was sufficiently hidden. Satisfied, she closed the door, sat at the kitchen table and beat her fingernails on the laminex.

  When Lola’s daughter arrived with the baby she brought along a written list of her own. It’s long, Lola thought, looking down at the column of dot points her daughter had created, a manual for taking care of grandchildren. The list included instructions for meal time, snack time, sleeping time, plus a few do’s and don’ts, including fresh air do, and sweet biscuits don’t.

  Lola wasn’t sure how sweet a Scotch Finger was, but her granddaughter, Isabel, had happily devoured two of them before her afternoon sleep. Lola was pleased with herself. The day had gone smoothly, even though she’d misplaced the list several times. While Isabel slept she sat in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea, surprised by how familiar and comforting the scent of a baby was after so many years. She only became anxious a little later, when Isabel hadn’t woken, half an hour after the written note instructed that she would. Lola headed for the kitchen, opened the cupboard under the sink, took out the bottle of red wine and returned it to its rightful place on the mantle.

  ‘Come on, let’s associate,’ Lola ordered.

  She stood back and watched herself take the top from the bottle, lift it above her head and pour the contents down her throat, not stopping until the bottle was empty. Within seconds Lola’s shadow collapsed on the floor. She looked down at herself, a little shocked. She leaned forward and gave herself a decent shake.

  ‘You’ll have to sort this out on your own from now on,’ she said aloud, ‘I have work to do.’

  Lola heard Isabel babbling in the cot and went to the baby. Isabel looked up at her grandmother cautiously, before smiling. Lola was pleased that the baby seemed to recognise her. She lifted Isabel from the cot, pulled the bedroom curtain aside and looked into the street. The sun was about to go down, the early evening outside her window looked cold and still.

  ‘So, your mother says that you love the fresh air. Do you? Let’s find out.’

  Lola changed her granddaughter and carried her into the lounge, sitting her on a rug in front of the television.


  ‘Have a look at Judge Judy while I sort out this contraption.’

  Lola unfolded the baby sling her daughter had brought over, turning it upside-down and inside-out in an effort to sort out how it worked.

  ‘Okay, I think I’ve got it,’ she whispered to Isabel, looping it over her shoulders.

  Searching through the baby bag, she found a red knitted beanie and quilted jacket. She slipped the jacket on Isabel, buttoned it and put the beanie on her head. She lifted the baby gently into the sling then struggled with her own woollen coat.

  ‘Are you ready for your fresh air?’ she asked. ‘I could be too old for this, but let’s see.’

  Lola was about to leave the house when she looked over at the sofa, at a rug draped over the headrest. She folded the rug under her arm, left the house and walked to the end of the street. She quickly felt the weight of the baby spreading across her shoulders and back. She stopped at the corner opposite the old hardware store, a little weary. ‘I don’t know if this was a great idea, kid. Next time we’ll ask for a pram.’

  A yellow flashing light on the roof of a council maintenance truck lit up the shopfront. Workers were loading a mattress onto the back. Lola watched as they collected a canvas chair, plastic food containers, a new pair of leather boots and the flat-screen television. When they finished, one of the workers took to the footpath with a heavy broom, while another connected a water hose to a fire hydrant on the corner.

  Isabel shifted in the sling. Lola opened the top button of her coat and Isabel’s head popped up, her wide brown eyes lighting up the night. The worker turned the water on at the hydrant and began hosing the footpath, washing away the cigarette butts and food scraps. Once they’d finished, the crew hopped into their truck and drove off. Lola crossed the street and stood outside the shopfront. The footpath was as empty as it was clean. She noticed an elderly man walking along the street towards her, carrying his life in a plastic garbage bag. She sat the blanket in the shop doorway.

  ‘We best get back,’ she whispered to Isabel, ‘or your mother will give me hell.’

  On the way home Lola detoured through the park. As she passed by the basketball court in the middle of the park she watched two teenagers, a boy and a girl, playing a game of one-on-one under the bright lights. Steam rose from their bodies as they dribbled the ball and weaved around each other. Each time one of them landed a basket the pair would generously high-five each other before again competing for points. The girl, wearing the famous Jordan 23, dribbled the ball towards the key and glanced over at Lola and the baby. She shot a basket, stopped and waved. Lola waved back and walked on. She could feel the baby’s lungs lift and fall. She closed her eyes and imagined the baby’s heart beating against her own.

  Turning into her street, Lola saw her daughter pacing the footpath.

  ‘Mum,’ she called. ‘Where’s Isabel?’

  ‘In here.’ Lola unbuttoned her coat as she walked towards her daughter. Isabel looked up at her mother and smiled.

  ‘You’re sweating, Mum. Is there something wrong with you?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m about as fit as a politician with a fat arse. I’ll get better at this. Don’t you worry.’

  Her daughter gently quizzed her as she put the key in the front door.

  ‘Did she have her sleep?’

  ‘Slept like a top,’ she smiled.

  ‘And no sugar?’

  Not if you don’t count the Scotch Fingers, Lola thought. ‘Definitely not.’

  They walked into the flat. Lola sat on the couch and her daughter helped her unhook the sling. She lifted Isabel out and the baby kicked her legs in the air as if she was riding a bicycle. Lola saw the look on her daughter’s face shift from a smile to a dark grimace. She pointed to the unopened bottle on the mantle.

  ‘Mum. What’s this doing here? Explain yourself.’

  ‘Oh that,’ Lola smiled. ‘Explaining that is easy.’

  Her daughter picked up the bottle. ‘You haven’t opened it?’

  ‘Not in two years. It’s probably turned by now.’

  ‘Why do you keep it?’

  Lola took the bottle from her daughter, walked into the kitchen, unscrewed the top and poured the wine down the sink. She then rinsed the bottle clean of alcohol. Lola looked down at her granddaughter, who’d managed to wriggle herself into the kitchen on her stomach. Lola held up the bottle. ‘I think we’ll keep this.’

  ‘Why?’ her daughter asked. ‘It’s empty.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Lola smiled. ‘It just looks that way.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Firstly, I want to thank Madonna Duffy at UQP for sticking to me like fly paper. She gets it. Jacqueline Blanchard is a wonderful editor. She could also be a third sister of mine. Who knows? Erin, Siobhan, Drew, Grace and Nina – you’ll never live off the royalties, but you do get the unwavering love. To Sara, I can only ask the obvious question – with love – how do you put up with me and maintain sanity? I also want to thank my extended family and friends, who are always there for me. To my RHS Class of ’69, what a vintage year we were. In particular, and with deep appreciation, Peter Andrews, I owe you an ocean. And finally, Isabel, Isabel … the words will not end.

  The author would also like to acknowledge the following publications where versions of these stories have appeared:

  — ‘The Ghost Train’ in Kenyon Review, Volume XXXIX, Number 2, Ohio, 2017.

  — ‘Harmless Joe’ in Here I Stand – Stories that Speak for Freedom, edited by Amnesty International, Walker Books, London, 2016.

  — ‘Death Star’ in Crime Scenes, pp. 103-116, edited by Zane Lovitt, Spineless Wonders, Sydney, 2016.

  — ‘Joe Roberts’ in Australian Love Stories, edited by Cate Kennedy, pp. 73-81, Inkerman & Blunt, Melbourne, 2014.

  — ‘The White Girl’ appearing as ‘Spirit in the Night’ in Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 10, Issue 4, 2014.

  — ‘Party Lights’ in Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 20, Issue 2, 2016.

  — ‘Liam’ in Overland, Volume 225, pp. 17-24, Melbourne, 2016.

  — ‘The Good Howard’ in Heat, No. 11: Sheltered Lives, pp. 205-213, Giramondo Publishing Company, Sydney, 2006.

  THE PROMISE

  Tony Birch

  In this breathtaking work, Tony Birch affirms his position as one of Australia’s finest writers of short-form fiction.

  Using his unflinching creative gaze, he ponders love and loss and faith. A trio of amateur thieves are left in charge of a baby moments before a heist. A group of boys compete in the final of a marbles tournament, only to find their biggest challenge was the opponent they didn’t see coming. Two young friends find a submerged car in their local swimming hole and become obsessed by the mystery of the driver’s identity.

  Across twelve blistering stories, The Promise delivers a sensitive and often humorous take on the lives of those who have loved, lost and wandered.

  ‘Birch’s return to short-form writing is an event to be celebrated … this terrific collection … is united by Birch’s characteristic wit, matter-of-factness, and charm.’

  Australian Book Review

  ‘Each story is very different but just as engaging. Tony Birch has the ability to write interesting stories, often of everyday events, with vivid characters. An enjoyable read.’

  The Big Book Club

  ISBN 978 0 7022 4999 0

  GHOST RIVER

  Tony Birch

  Winner of the Victorian Premier’s Literary Award for Indigenous Writing

  The river is a place of history and secrets. For Ren and Sonny, two unlikely friends, it’s a place of freedom and adventure. For a group of storytelling vagrants, it’s a refuge. And for the isolated daughter of a cult reverend, it’s an escape.

  Each time they visit, another secret slips into its ancient waters. But change and trouble a
re coming – to the river and to the lives of those who love it. Who will have the courage to fight and survive and what will be the cost?

  ‘The hard language is always underpinned by a battler’s romanticism, a belief in people, the world, the spirit, and the struggle.’

  Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘This is a beautiful novel, part coming of age story, part history of inner Melbourne.’

  Readings Online

  ‘Birch is a natural storyteller … in Ghost River we find a welcome and vital addition to his body of work.’

  Australian Book Review

  ISBN 978 0 7022 5377 5

  First published 2017 by University of Queensland Press

  PO Box 6042, St Lucia, Queensland 4067 Australia

  uqp.com.au

  uqp@uqp.uq.edu.au

  Copyright © Tony Birch 2017

  This book is copyright. Except for private study, research, criticism or reviews, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

  Cover design by Josh Durham (Design by Committee)

  Cover illustration by Josh Durham

  Typeset in 12/17 pt Bembo Std by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane

  The University of Queensland Press is assisted by the Australian Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.

  National Library of Australia cataloguing-in-publication data is available at http://catalogue.nla.gov.au.

  ISBN 978 0 7022 5983 8 (pbk)

  ISBN 978 0 7022 6073 5 (pdf)

  ISBN 978 0 7022 6074 2 (epub)

  ISBN 978 0 7022 6075 9 (kindle)