A Place Like This

by Steven Herrick

  Steven Herrick was born in Brisbane, the youngest of seven children. At school his favourite subject was soccer, and he dreamed of football glory while he worked at various jobs. For the past thirty years he’s been a full-time writer and regularly performs his work in schools throughout the world. He has published twenty-two books. Steven lives in the Blue Mountains with his partner Cathie, a belly dance teacher. They have two adult sons, Jack and Joe.

  www.stevenherrick.com.au

  Also by Steven Herrick

  Young Adult

  Another night in mullet town

  Black painted fingernails

  By the river

  Cold skin

  Lonesome howl

  Love, ghosts & nose hair

  Slice

  Water bombs

  Children

  Bleakboy and Hunter stand out in the rain

  Do-wrong Ron

  Love poems and leg-spinners

  My life, my love, my lasagne

  Naked bunyip dancing

  Poetry to the rescue

  Pookie Aleera is not my boyfriend

  Rhyming boy

  The place where the planes take off

  Tom Jones saves the world

  Untangling spaghetti

  Dedicated to Leonie Tyle, Robyn Sheahan-Bright and Glen Leitch for their support and belief

  Contents

  Go

  This quiet land

  Screwed

  A place like this

  Weird

  A young orchard

  A full tank

  Warm

  Jack

  I’m not unemployed.

  I’m just not working at the moment.

  School now seems a distant shame

  of ball games, half-lies at lunchtime

  and teachers fearing the worst.

  I’m not studying either.

  Yeah, I got into uni,

  so did Annabel.

  Two Arts degrees does not a life make.

  So we both chucked it.

  University is too serious.

  I’m eighteen years old:

  too young to work forever,

  too old to stay home.

  Annabel and I make love most afternoons,

  which, as you can imagine,

  passes the time

  but

  I don’t think we can make money out of it,

  or learn much, although, we have learnt something …

  I want to leave town,

  I want to leave town,

  I want to leave.

  Jack’s dad

  What can I tell you about my dad?

  Years ago I would have said

  an ill-fitting suit, brown shoes,

  a haircut of nightmares

  and a job in the city.

  That’s all.

  That’s what I would have said.

  And a dead wife.

  Long dead. Dead yesterday.

  No difference.

  But not now.

  Now, he tries.

  He reads the paper with courage.

  He never shakes his head when I’m late home.

  He’s forty-two years of hope,

  seven years of grief and

  two years of struggle.

  Let me tell you this one thing about my father,

  and leave it at that.

  Friday night, two months ago,

  I’m trying to sleep,

  when I hear this soft bounce, every few seconds,

  and the backyard floodlight is on.

  It’s midnight,

  and there’s a man in the yard.

  I grab the cricket bat from the hall cupboard,

  check my sister’s room – she’s asleep,

  still in her Levi’s and black top.

  (I like that top – I gave it to her

  for her birthday, and she always wears it.

  Sorry, I’d better go bash this burglar …)

  Where’s my father when the house needs defending?

  At the pub? At work?

  Not at midnight, surely?

  I grip the bat,

  wish I’d taken cricket more seriously at school.

  I open the door slightly,

  think of newspaper headlines –

  HERO DIES SAVING HOUSE,

  CRIME WAVE SOARS OUT WEST,

  HIT FOR SIX!

  There’s that bounce again,

  and the figure bends to pick something up.

  (A gun! A knife!)

  A cricket ball!

  What?

  He runs and bowls a

  slow drifting leg-spinner, hits middle stump.

  Dad turns,

  whispers, ‘Howzat!’

  and walks to pick up the ball again.

  What can I do?

  My dad, midnight cricket

  and a well-flighted leg-spinner.

  I walk out to face up,

  tapping the bat gently.

  Dad smiles and bowls a wrong-un.

  The bastard knocks my off-stump out.

  He offers me a handshake and advice.

  ‘Bat and pad together, son,

  don’t leave the gate open.

  Let’s have one more over, shall we?’

  He goes back to his mark,

  polishing the ball on his pyjamas,

  every nerve twitching,

  every breath involved.

  The stumbling bagpipes

  We make love every Tuesday afternoon.

  I kiss her eyelids

  and rub my hand along her arm

  to feel the soft hair

  that shines in the fading light.

  Sometimes the clouds float

  up the valley

  and the rain dances on our window

  as the parrots fly for home.

  I kiss her shoulders and her neck

  and we try breathing slowly, in time,

  under the doona.

  There’s a young boy next door

  who’s practising the bagpipes.

  He stands on the veranda

  and scares the hell out of the dogs.

  They howl in time

  as he blows himself hoarse.

  We love that sound:

  discordant, clumsy, feverish.

  It reminds us of that first Tuesday afternoon,

  two years ago,

  trying to make love before

  Annabel’s parents got home.

  We agreed on further practice.

  That’s why we celebrate like this,

  every Tuesday,

  me and Annabel,

  and the stumbling bagpipes.

  What Dad said

  This is what Dad said

  when I told him about me and Annabel

  wanting to drive and not come back

  for a year or so …

  ‘Son.’ (When he says ‘son’ I know a story

  is not far behind.)

  ‘Son. When I was eighteen

  I’d already decided to ask your mum to marry me.

  And I had my journalism degree half-finished.

  I wanted my own desk, my own typewriter,

  a home to put them in, and I wanted your mum.

  She said yes, and the rest followed.

  At twenty-two, we had this home.

  At twenty-two, I learned gardening.

  You know the big golden ash in the corner?

  I planted that, first year here.

  Most of our friends were going overseas,

  taking winter holiday work in the snow,

  or getting drunk every night at the pub.

  At twenty-two, your mum and I

  were sitting on the veranda with a cup of cocoa

  and a fruit
cake.

  I’m fifty-two years old this August.

  You’re a smart kid, Jack. A smart kid.

  I think you and Annabel should get out of here

  as fast as possible. Have a year doing anything

  you want. My going-away present is enough money

  to buy a car – a cheap old one, okay? You’ll have to

  work somewhere to buy the petrol, and to keep going.

  But go.’

  Let me tell you,

  it wasn’t what I expected.

  But maybe, just maybe,

  I understand the old man more now.

  More than I ever have.

  For once in my life

  When Jack told me last night

  about leaving,

  what I really wanted to say

  was NO.

  Like a father should.

  NO.

  And I had all the words ready,

  all the clichés loaded,

  but I couldn’t do it.

  He looked so hungry,

  so much in need of going,

  that I gave him my first big speech in years,

  only this time it was one he wanted to hear.

  So that’s it.

  When Jack was asleep last night

  I went into his room.

  I sat beside his bed

  and listened to his breathing.

  I don’t know for how long.

  I listened,

  and with each breath

  I felt his yearning and confidence

  and strength.

  I walked out of his room

  sure I’d said the right thing,

  maybe not as a father,

  but as a dad.

  I’d said the right thing,

  for once in my life.

  A 1974 Corona

  It’s a 1974 Corona sedan

  that’s been driven by a

  middle-aged, single bank manager

  called Wilbur who never went out on the weekend,

  except for a Sunday morning drive with his mum

  to church five kilometres down the road,

  and enjoyed cleaning its dull brown duco

  every Saturday instead of

  watching the football,

  getting drunk,

  doing overtime

  or playing with snappy children.

  All I had to do was give him $1,200

  and a handshake to drive it home,

  through a mud puddle or two,

  and take that crucifix off the mirror –

  give it to the kid next door –

  and maybe even consider a paint job …

  But no, let’s leave it brown.

  Bank manager brown.

  That’s my car.

  That’s my ticket with Annabel, out of here.

  Annabel on Jack

  Jack reads too many books.

  He thinks we’re going to drive all year

  and have great adventures.

  He thinks the little money

  we have will last.

  He wants to sleep in the car,

  cook dinner over an open fire.

  I’m just waiting for him to

  pack a fishing line, smiling,

  saying, ‘We can live off the land.’

  Jesus Christ.

  I’m not gutting a fish and cooking it.

  But

  I do want to go,

  even if it only lasts a month or two.

  Even if we drive to Melbourne and back

  and don’t talk to another person.

  I want to go.

  Why?

  Because I’ve never

  been more than two hundred kilometres from home,

  and that was with my parents, on holiday.

  And because Jack’s smart,

  but not that smart, if you know what I mean.

  You watch.

  First week, we’ll be out of money,

  sleeping near a smelly river,

  eating cold baked beans out of a can.

  The car will have a flat battery

  and Jack will be saying something like,

  ‘Isn’t this great? Back to nature.

  Living off the land. Not a care in the world.’

  Jesus Christ.

  Jack driving

  I love to drive,

  to blast back to boyhood

  when I dreamt of a highway,

  a car with a floor-shift

  and nowhere to sleep for a week;

  burning rubber and a dare

  to take every bend

  faster than advised.

  Even now

  I think of a blow-out

  as a test for how steady

  my hands are on the wheel,

  my knuckles white with impatience.

  Me, Annabel and

  the stereo sing,

  trucks threaten our dreams

  like thunder.

  As we reach the hill,

  curse the oncoming lights,

  I strain to keep the revs up

  as we crest the rise,

  I snap into top,

  glide down the mountain,

  escape ramp five hundred metres ahead.

  We don’t need it.

  Two days out

  Two days out.

  Last night we slept in the car.

  Yes, by a river, as I predicted.

  Not smelly, though.

  Clean. Surprisingly clean.

  Jack and I had a bath in it.

  A naked, goosepimple bath.

  We raced each other from bank to bank.

  We even used soap –

  my mum’s going-away present.

  Soap-on-a-rope. It floats!

  We lay on the grass.

  The sun dried our white bodies.

  We did nothing for as long as possible.

  In the quiet afternoon

  we drove for hours.

  Jack said, ‘I’m hungry,’

  and the bloody car slowed to a stop.

  Jack looking at me,

  me at Jack,

  and neither of us knowing why.

  Then I looked at the petrol gauge.

  Empty.

  Empty; and food, cold river baths

  and the nearest town

  were all a million miles away.

  Two days out …

  As I stood on the lonely back road,

  I’m sure I heard birds –

  kookaburras –

  laughing …

  The ride

  ‘You two heading anywhere special?’

  he says, changing down gear, double-clutching

  and churning the old truck’s insides loud.

  Annabel and I look at each other.

  What’s this mean?

  I decide to answer a question with a question.

  I learnt that in Year 9

  and it hasn’t failed me yet.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Because I got fifty acres of ripe apples

  and a town full of unemployed kids that

  hate the sight of them, that’s why.

  And my kids and I can’t pick fifty acres

  in two years, much less two months.

  I’ll pay you, give you a place to sleep.

  That’s if you’re interested?’

  The truck cabin rattles over potholes.

  He winds down the window

  and flicks his cigarette out.

  It’s not what I’m expecting.

  Two days away, out of petrol and offered a job.

  I wanted to get as far as possible,

  not a few hundred kilometres down the road.

  But it’s money. And a place to stay.

  Annabel squeezes my hand and I know

  it’s a yes squeeze.

  I squeeze back and before I can answer

  Annabel says,

  ‘Sure, mister. We’ll take it. I like apples.’

  George smiles and sa
ys,

  ‘You’ll be picking, miss, not eating them.’

  But he’s all right.

  Anyone who drives a truck this old can’t be too bad.

  Hay bales

  It was from a book I read in school.

  Two teenagers and a shed full

  of stacked hay bales,

  a crow’s nest in the loft

  and her father, the farmer, in town.

  I can’t remember anything else but

  these two, barely fifteen years old,

  lying up high on the bales

  and the boy with his hand

  up her dress,

  and they’re both shaking,

  even though it’s summer outside.

  She takes off her dress,

  her bra and undies,

  stands on the highest bale

  and gestures him up.

  And in a tumble of straw and clothes

  they made nervous love,

  page after page.

  First from his side,

  all awkward, lopsided and flush.

  Then hers,

  sweat and itch and eyes on the crow’s nest.

  I kept that book for years.

  And when George offered us his shed to sleep in,

  I said, Yes,

  and asked if it had hay bales …

  The farm

  The road goes through a path of pines.

  It’s dusty and hot, but here, for a while,

  the trees hold the cool and dark.

  Then a sharp left and you see the wooden house,

  surrounded by wattles and a sagging fence.

  Two kids run out,

  no more than ten years old.

  Both jump on the tray while the truck’s still moving –

  country kids.

  There’s someone else, older –

  sixteen maybe – a girl,

  standing in the dirt of the drive,

  wearing overalls and dusty riding boots.

  And when we turn to park near the shed,

  I see she’s pregnant.

  George says, ‘That’s Emma, my eldest,’

  as the four dogs start barking all at once.

  Sniffing our hands and boots,

  and running around George, jumping up,

  and not stopping barking,

  not for a second.

  Craig

  I’m Craig. I’m ten next week.

  You come to pick apples for us?

  You gunna stay? Lots don’t stay,

  reckon it’s too hard.

  Reckon Dad don’t pay enough.

  Reckon we’re stupid to live this far from town.

  You gunna stay?

  We need help, Dad says.

  Now Emma can’t pick.

  She’s pregnant, you know.

  Gunna have twins, or three, or four.

  She’s so big. Bigger than a cow.

  Bigger than a house.

  She couldn’t climb the ladder to pick now.

  You ever picked before?

  I can pick two bins a day.

  I reckon it’s good for football training.

  You two married?

  You’re not gunna get pregnant, are you?