among the wealthy.
Not here,
jump-starting tractors,
sleeping in a shed,
working ten-hour days
and now, get this,
going to birth classes
with Emma and Annabel!
I’m eighteen years old
and going to birth classes
for a girl who’s not my girlfriend,
for a baby that’s not mine,
and I’ve got to admit –
yes,
when I think about it
I’ve got to admit –
I’m looking forward to it!
Emma deserves help,
like George needed help with picking.
And one day,
maybe one day,
Annabel and I will want a baby.
God!
I’m starting to sound like my dad.
Birth classes.
God!
I hope I don’t have to touch anything.
Or lay on my back and breathe funny …
Uncle Craig
I hope Emma has the baby at home.
I want to see it,
you know,
being born.
I’ve seen calves and lambs
and even a piglet being born,
but never a real baby.
I reckon it’ll be unreal.
Emma says after I was born
I cried for days.
She said I never shut up,
which is funny really
because Dad says I never shut up now,
so maybe that’s what happens –
you get born and act the same
your whole life.
Anyway, I’m being real nice to Emma now,
so she’ll let me watch,
and you know
it means I’ll be an uncle
at my age.
It’ll be unreal.
Different
You two are different.
Different from my school friends.
They want to know about the baby, sure,
but only because they’re not pregnant
and only because they’ve got nothing else to say,
not since Jenny’s party anyway.
They don’t want to know about me
and how it feels
to be carrying this great weight,
to be a mother without a boyfriend,
to be missing school and parties
and all of my friends.
I’m glad you’re here.
I’m glad you’re coming with me to my classes.
I couldn’t go alone
and I need to know stuff
about the birth.
Truth is, I’m scared.
I’m sure Dad’s truck won’t start.
Or the ambulance won’t come.
Or the midwife.
Or I’ll be home alone
with everyone in the orchard.
And the pain,
and how long it’ll take.
It’s kind of funny really.
Jenny, Peter, Rick Harvey,
even Adam bloody Barlow,
are hard at it studying
for their exams,
and I’m here
about to study
for something much bigger.
I hope I pass …
Saturday night
The drunk night.
George in town.
The farmhouse asleep.
Annabel and me on the hay bales,
stacked high.
We can almost touch the roof.
A bottle of wine,
a dozen beers
and all night
drinking and telling stories,
like
your first embarrassing moment,
the day you learnt Santa wasn’t real,
the first time you vomited,
the day you learnt your parents
did more than just sleep together
and the first time you got drunk.
Hours of stories,
here, above the farm
on our hay bales.
At midnight
Annabel took off all her clothes
without saying a word,
then asked for another glass of beer, please.
So beautiful and so well-mannered.
What could I do?
I took a long drink
and undressed.
Annabel cheered
as we stood,
straining to touch the roof,
from our naked hay-bale world.
The snake
It was two metres long,
brown and mean,
and coming after the chickens.
I nearly stepped on the thing,
and, yes, it was probably as scared as me,
but I jumped higher.
And I picked up the shovel leaning against the shed
and hit it hard,
once, right in the middle,
and again on its head,
and again and again
until I was sure,
and again because I’d never be sure.
And then I felt sick
and I ran behind the shed to vomit.
Nothing but green bile came up,
green bile and tears.
I walked back
and George was inspecting it.
A king brown.
Annabel came out and saw it too.
And Craig. And Beck.
The farm dogs still barked at it,
too late now to be of any use.
Everyone standing out in the sun
looking at the snake,
except Annabel,
who’s looking at me.
Annabel’s snake
All night, in the shed,
I held Jack.
He was sweating in the chill air,
waking every hour, jerking his legs
as if running.
I held his arms tight.
I could feel the muscles tense,
wanting to move,
wanting to flex,
so I held him.
I didn’t sleep much, maybe an hour.
Most of the night,
I watched Jack
strike that snake
a thousand times over
and not once, in his sleep,
did that snake die.
Beck’s snake
After it was all over
I picked it up,
took it down to the garden
and I buried it
deep in the ground
where it’s quiet,
where it’s safe,
where the dogs can’t get it.
Naming rights
I’m going to call him Joseph,
or Josephine if it’s a girl.
Why?
Because it’s a strong name,
Joe, Joseph.
You give a kid a name like Cameron
or Alfred or something like that,
and they end up wearing glasses
and looking at computers for the rest of their life.
And Matthew and Nathan
enter school with another
fifteen Matthews and Nathans beside them.
So Joe it is.
He’ll turn out strong. Strong and smart.
And I thought of Joseph, you know,
in the Bible.
Him and Mary and Immaculate Conception.
Well, I reckon my baby’s conception
was pretty damn immaculate.
And I couldn’t call the kid Jesus,
could I?
Joseph.
Josephine.
Cheers
It’s six weeks since we left home.
Our great adventure ran out of petrol
and stopped on this farm.
The harvest is nearly done.
George looks happier:
he lets me
drive the tractor,
he lets us finish early on Friday,
he even let Emma come to town with us last Saturday.
We watched the local football.
Big farmers tackling even bigger truckies,
and their sons stepping effortlessly
around them all.
A few of Emma’s friends came up to say hello.
They all asked the same questions.
Baby this, baby that.
Emma only existed as the baby-carrier it seems.
They all looked slightly guilty,
especially the girls,
as though a bond had been broken
or something, I don’t know.
We sat on the bonnet of our car
and clapped
when someone scored a try,
and we all cheered whenever
Adam Barlow got tackled.
Emma, Annabel and I
cheered the game,
and cheered ourselves.
Emma and apples
I needed to get away from the farm,
if only for a day.
People say apples have no smell,
well, even now,
twenty kilometres away,
I can still smell them.
I’ll smell them when I’m dead, I reckon.
If you stay too long on the farm
you’ll get the same, for sure.
It’s alright for Craig.
He wants to be a farmer;
he’s got apple juice for blood.
And Beck? She’ll escape
on her brains, I bet.
But me? Where do I fit?
Not on the farm,
not in a one-pub town
like this,
not anywhere I guess.
Maybe in a city,
where I can get lost,
get lost for good.
Emma
After the football on Saturday,
when Jack, Annabel and me
got back into the car,
I had this urge to drive and not stop,
to tell Jack to just keep going,
to follow the Midland Highway forever,
just the three of us.
I’ve had enough of this town
and my friends
asking guilty, stupid questions,
and I’ve had enough
of the smell of our farm
and the animals’ noise,
and the winter winds whipping down Broken Lookout
and rattling our house.
I wanted to forget being pregnant
and remember being young,
like Jack and Annabel are with each other.
I was thinking all this on Saturday
in the car
when we reached Broken Lookout,
where Jack parked for the view,
and Annabel said,
‘There’s the farm.
It looks so beautiful at night.’
Jack agreed,
and I looked at the stars,
the thousands of stars in the cold sky,
but I couldn’t say a single word.
Craig hates school
I hate school.
I hate school.
I hate the kids in Year 8 and 9
who come up to me at lunch
and ask, Hey, where’s fat Emma?
Where’s your sister? We want to try our luck.
I hate school.
I can’t fight the big kids,
but I do anyway.
I get one good kick or punch in
before they clobber me
or the teachers come.
The sooner Emma has a baby, the better.
I hate school.
A place like this
I go walking, early.
Me and my baby.
Me and my big stomach.
We walk to the channel,
sit on the bank,
watch the dragonflies
like mad helicopters cutting the surface.
I go walking
to avoid the kitchen
and the smell of food –
too early for cooking,
Craig and Beck arguing
and Dad looking out the window,
thinking of money.
I go walking to watch the trees
and the sun’s light filtering through them.
I talk to my baby.
I describe the farm.
I tell him about the apples
and the blossoms in spring
and the Paterson’s curse that covers the hills
and the birds gorging on rotten fruit.
I tell him everything
as we walk.
Maybe so he won’t be disappointed
being born into
a place like this.
Weird
It’s weird.
Very weird.
I started going to birth classes
with Emma and Jack.
I sat in the room, on the floor
beside them.
Ten couples and the three of us.
Eleven couples holding hands, and me,
not knowing whether to touch Emma or Jack.
And Jack’s weird;
he looks at me when he talks to Emma
and looks away.
He can’t focus.
He’s not sure who he’s partner to.
He wants to help Emma, I know,
so do I.
But I can’t help there.
I can’t be her partner,
neither can Jack,
not with me around.
So I keep away.
I stay here in the shed.
I think about Emma’s baby,
and Jack.
And where Jack and I are going,
which is nowhere it seems,
and it’s all too weird,
too weird to work out.
Craig and the cows
Hey, you know what?
Some Year 9 kids have painted the cows.
Farmer Austin’s best dairy cows.
Each cow has a red number on its side.
Some even have sponsors!
One’s sponsored by Nike!
Number 23. The Shane Warne of dairy cows!
It’s all round school.
It’s all round town.
There’s even a photo in the newspaper,
old man Austin shaking his head,
looking at his stupid cows.
Everyone at school reckons he should
leave it on and call them by number,
‘Number 12, your turn for milking.’
‘Number 8, stop scratching against the gum tree.’
Our footy coach says we should adopt one
as a mascot.
He says we play like a bunch of cows anyway.
It’s great.
The town hasn’t been so happy in years.
It’s great.
All over a herd of painted cows!
Annabel is ready
I’m ready.
The work is nearly done.
I want to move.
I can almost smell the road
and hear the soft hum of tyres
rolling through this year
where Jack and I plan nothing.
I’m ready. I know.
But Jack’s dreaming.
He sits against the shed
reading the same page of his book
over and over.
He’s looking for a reason to go
or stay.
He walks through the house of his past,
hoping he’ll find the right door,
hoping he’ll find the key.
It pisses me off.
I want to go and shake him,
shake that house down.
I want to tell him he’s in the wrong house
at the wrong time.
I want to tell him we’ve built a new one,
no keys,
just him and me and open space.
I want to move.
Even if it’s back to
sleeping in the car by the highway
with tinned food for dinner.
I don’t care.
I’m ready.
Jack and the beach
The work is nearly done.
Once the top orchard is stripped,
we’re finished.
A week, maybe two.
We’ve saved enough money
for six months of holiday,
camping on a beach.
I keep thinking of the one
I went to as a kid,
with Mum and Dad kissing on a towel
and my sister at the shop, talking to boys.
I want to do nothing for a long time.
No more apples
or 7am starts.
Annabel and me.
Open fires, books to read,
baths in the creek behind the surf
and enough petrol in the car
to go to town whenever we want.
Annabel and me
at the beach.
And we’ll get there,
we will,
after the baby.
Annabel
Jack’s mad!
He thinks Emma and the baby
are his responsibility.
Uncle Jack.
Mad Uncle Jack.
He’s like some crazy social worker.
Everything he touches he can fix.
I should remind him of the car!
So, what’s he going to do?
Help Emma have the baby
and then what?
Jack can’t save the world
beginning on this farm.
This is Emma’s life,
she’ll work it out.
Jack’s got to leave it,
leave it to Emma,
and George.
They’ll work it out.
Of that I’m sure.
Making sense
My mother died when I was nine.
The last time we spoke
was late in the afternoon
after school.
She was in bed, resting,
trying to read,
and it was a beautiful day.
The sun shone right up to her bed
and she told me stories,
as well as she could –
she was heavily drugged for the pain.
And I told stories right back.
Only my stories were ones in the future.
What I planned to do.
Me and Dad and my sister.
I told her
to make her know we’d stay together,
you know, afterwards.
I didn’t have a clue
what would really happen,
but I kept talking.
And one story was about grandkids.
About me and a wife and babies.
I did it for her.
I didn’t want kids, I was ten years old!
I wanted my mother, alive and healthy.
But I made up this story,
and Mum smiled and listened;
she even laughed when I promised her
a football team of grandkids.
Then her laughing turned to coughing
and that awful sound she couldn’t break.
I left her to rest.
A Place Like This Page 4
