Fresh Fields (18 page)

The youth got a knot in his stomach when he remembered he had to pass on Meredith's message. He wished he hadn't agreed to it. It was always like this, he thought to himself. You take on the idea of something, just as an idea, then you're stuck with it in the real world. He tried to rehearse exactly what to say. If he had it all prepared he might be able to just blurt it out in one go. Then he would have done what he'd agreed to do. After that, it wasn't his problem. He was just a messenger.

“We thought we'd find you here,” Mr. Blackett said when he came in. “Ready to roll?”

The youth nodded.

“Where's Merry?” Mr. Blackett asked, glancing around.

“She went,” mumbled the youth, making a gesture of departure with his hand. Mr. Blackett seemed to think he meant that she'd gone to the loo.

“No hurry,” he said, and went across to the counter and bought a packet of jubes. “We'll see you outside.”

Greg was hanging around the jukebox. When his father had gone, he searched his pockets for a coin to put in.

The youth went out and found Mrs. Blackett changing the toddler's nappy on the hood of the car and Mr. Blackett across the street talking to someone. Mrs. Blackett finished changing the nappy and put the toddler into the back seat. She smiled at the youth. There came a blare of music from inside. Greg had found his coin. The song wasn't “Honey Bunny” though. What a pity, thought the youth. Mrs. Blackett asked him if he'd keep an eye on the toddler while she went in to fetch Meredith.

“She's gone,” said the youth. “She left a message for me to give you.”

Mrs. Blackett's face twisted.

“Tell me,” she said.

So the youth told her the message. She called out to Mr. Blackett and he came over the road. The youth repeated the message.

“I'll wring that girl's neck!” Mr. Blackett cried. “Lord help me!”

“No,” said Mrs. Blackett, taking him by the arm. “It isn't so bad. She said she's going to Pat's. She'd have no reason to say that if she didn't mean it.”

“But who is she with
now
?” he snapped. “That's the immediate issue.”

“Oh Lord,” groaned Mrs. Blackett.

Mr. Blackett told the youth to describe the young man and the car. He said how it was a red sedan with a big rubber spider stuck to the back window.

“That's Ken Cunningham!” cried Greg, who'd joined them. “He only got the spider the other day.”

“Ken's alright,” said Mrs. Blackett. “If she's with Ken, and she goes to Pat's place, then it isn't as serious as it could've been.”

“I'm still going to wring her thoughtless neck!” said Mr. Blackett. “Did you know she was planning to do this?” he demanded of the youth.

The youth said he'd known nothing. He was beginning to feel offended by the ugly looks he was getting.

The man Mr. Blackett had been talking to came across and asked what was wrong, and they fobbed him off as best they could. Then the toddler began bawling. The Blacketts decided to go to Pastor Eccles's place. They could phone the city from there and alert Auntie Pat. And phone the Cunninghams. And get the pastor's advice about it all.

Pastor Eccles's place was an old weatherboard house next to the church. When they pulled up at the kerb Pastor Eccles was talking to a couple of people out the front. Even from a distance the youth could see that his buck-teeth made him look like a big rabbit or beaver or something, just as Meredith had said. The Blacketts went up and spoke to him and after a minute the youth heard him saying, “Yes, you must make your calls. That's the first thing.” He ushered them into the house, together with the people he'd been with before. Then he turned back and introduced himself to the youth and asked him to repeat Meredith's message again. He listened carefully. Then he invited the youth in for a cup of tea or a soft drink, and to join them in prayer.

“Have you given your life to the Lord Jesus?” he asked in such a straightforward way that the youth was touched.

“Um, not really,” he replied.

“What do you mean when you say ‘not really'?”

“I mean I'm not religious.”

“Ah well, neither am I, for that matter. Religion isn't the issue. The issue is Jesus. But look, I think I'd best go in.”

The youth said he'd prefer to stay outside for a while because Mr. Blackett was angry with him, as though what had happened was his fault.

“I'll have a word with him,” said the pastor. He put his hand on the youth's shoulder and looked into his eyes. “You seem a decent young chap to me. But even if you are deep-dyed in iniquity, the Lord loves you still. That is the rock upon which all stands.”

He went inside and the youth stood with tears welling in his eyes. The way the pastor had spoken about the Lord loving him had been so simple and sincere, like someone pointing out that two and two make four. At first it seemed a bit comical, having this big rabbit or beaver talking to you, but you quickly forgot the buck-teeth and began to be grateful for the kindliness. And yet Meredith hadn't got on with him at all. How odd.

Greg was sent out with a mug of tea and a biscuit. He said they'd phoned Auntie Pat and she was to ring them back the minute Meredith showed up. It was about four hours' drive. The Cunninghams had confirmed that Ken had left to drive to the city that day. They were upset that the Blacketts were upset, but were sure Ken had taken Meredith in good faith, and would look after her. The Cunninghams were on their way over.

The youth wandered around the building. Through one of the windows he saw the Blacketts and the others kneeling with heads bowed in prayer. He went quickly past and then meandered along the street.

He came to an old stone church with a graveyard beside it. The youth went in through a rusty gate that was half off its hinges and walked aimlessly among the gravestones. The inscriptions were faded and hard to read but they all appeared to date from about a hundred years ago. He remembered the Bushranger in the song, riddled with a hundred bullets. The people buried here might've known that Bushranger, might've been the very people the song told of—the shanty-keeper's fair daughter, the jealous rival, the troopers who set the ambush and let loose the hail of deadly shots. The youth felt tears welling up again. He went and stood on tiptoe and peered through a window into the old church. It was empty and bare, the pews gone. He stared into the space that had heard so many hymns and prayers, so many marriage and funeral services, the space to which so many people must have brought their hopes and fears and disappointments.

The day was turning overcast and windy. The youth shivered and buttoned his jacket tighter. He moved to a sheltered corner of the wall. The stone still held some of the sun's warmth, so he set his back against it. After a while he sat down and put his arms across his knees and rested his head on them. It was cosy there, hearing the wind among the gravestones and round the church walls. He thought of Meredith. Then he thought of how Diestl would force a way into this musty old shell of a building and use it to get some shut-eye. And then he thought about the shanty-keeper's fair daughter lying low in the churchyard, and the jealous rival whose passion was long spent, and the troopers whose writ no longer ran. Then he thought about the Lord who loved even those deep-dyed in iniquity . . .

Greg found him there a long while later, half-asleep.

They'd had a call. Meredith was at Auntie Pat's and perfectly okay.

 

THE YOUTH
sat at Pastor Eccles's kitchen table. The Blacketts had gone and the pastor was on the phone to the local motel arranging a room for him that night. The motel owners were members of his flock and there'd be no charge.

They often put people up gratis for one reason or another, the pastor said. In the morning he would drive the youth back to the Blacketts' property to collect his belongings and then deliver him to the railway station in time for the train to the city.

“I'm afraid Mr. Blackett is adamant that you be let go,” the pastor had explained. “I discussed the matter with him to the extent I could. But in the end, of course, he is answerable to the Lord for the wellbeing of his own household, and that responsibility is heavy on him just now.”

“It's alright,” the youth said. “I wasn't a very good employee.”

“You know you are welcome to use the phone if there's anyone you want to call. Parents? Family? Is there anyone it'd be helpful for you to speak to?”

“Not really,” the youth replied.

Pastor Eccles looked at him sadly. He had to get ready for the evening church service now, he said, but they'd have a chance to talk in the morning.

The youth had a few minutes to browse through the bookshelves in the pastor's loungeroom. There were lots of books about archaeology and others on history. The youth's eye fell on a title:
Year of Decision
. It was about 1066. It was old and battered, but it looked very readable and had lots of illustrations. He was leafing through it eagerly when Pastor Eccles came in.

“You have an interest in that?”

The youth said he did.

“Keep it, then, with my compliments.”

The youth could hardly believe his luck.

The motel was only a minute's drive. Pastor Eccles dropped the youth off, saying he'd be back around nine in the morning.

The youth had a snug night, propped up in bed reading
Year of Decision
, then sleeping soundly.

On the way out to the Blackett property Pastor Eccles told him how he'd studied to be an archaeologist. Fresh out of uni, he'd been offered the chance to go on a dig in Persia. A week before he was due to leave he found the Lord and resigned from the trip. He'd never regretted his uni studies though.

“What I learnt from archaeology was that life is about layers, layers of love, grief, trust, conflict, creation, experience. You need a good eye for surfaces, but the
spadework
tells the story.”

They reached the Blacketts and the youth fetched his belongings from the garage room while Pastor Eccles went into the house. He came out and handed the youth an envelope and some wrapped sandwiches.

“The Blacketts aren't here,” he said. “They left first thing this morning for the city. They're anxious to get firm arrangements in place for Meredith. I gather she'll be working in her auntie's hairdressing salon. The envelope is the money owing to you, and the sandwiches are to have on the train. The Blacketts wish you well and that the Lord will keep you.”

On the way back to town Pastor Eccles wanted to hear of the youth's life and background. He had a way of asking questions, of probing from different angles, so that you ended up telling him what he wanted to know. The youth supposed that was the “spadework” learnt from archaeology. So he told about them escaping from Vladimir, and then a bit about Dunkeld and being adrift in the city. He knew it all sounded pretty negative. Of course he couldn't speak of the support Diestl gave him, or of how Grace Kelly made his life worth living.

When they got to the railway station they saw the train already pulling in. They had to hurry. Pastor Eccles handed the youth a piece of paper and said it was a note of introduction to something called the Alison Street Mission.

“Do call in there and say hello,” he urged.

“I will,” said the youth as he stepped into the train.

“May the Lord bless you,” Pastor Eccles said, shaking his hand.

“Same to you,” replied the youth.

As the train pulled away the youth thought again how much like a big rabbit or beaver he looked, standing there on the platform, waving.

The Astro Private Hotel could be scary at night. Drunken men staggered and swore in the corridors and there were scuffles and yells. On the youth's second night there someone banged on his door in the wee small hours and bellowed, “Open up, ya fuckin' cunt! I'll punch ya fuckin' head in!” The youth leapt up and stood big-eyed in the dark, trying to make sense of it. Had he offended someone in some way? He thought it must be a mistake and that they had the wrong room. He called out, “This is room eleven,” but his voice was faint with fear and anyhow the banging and bellowing drowned it out. He wondered how strongly built the door was. Then a voice called from another room for the man to shut the hell up and that people were trying to sleep. This increased the man's rage and he went along the corridor hammering on doors and shouting for the dirty fuckin' bastard to come out and say it to his face. The youth imagined that in each room there was someone standing in the dark like himself, hoping for this to stop. After a while the angry man went away, still bellowing threats. What frightened the youth most was that the man had sounded cold sober.

The youth might've left the Astro after that second night except that he'd paid a month's rent in advance and had very little money left. He'd paid the month because he'd been scared of being homeless in the street again. With a roof over his head he could focus on finding a job.

He was determined to smarten his ideas up. No more daydreaming. No more being a dud like Mr. Blackett had called him. He would be keen, and on the ball. The phrase “being on the ball” had struck him. Life was like a football game, he thought, and a football game is all about the ball—where it is, who has it, what's being done with it. If you are a football player you don't stop and daydream. You stay focused. The youth had never taken any notice of football, but now he believed it held a deep truth about life. He told himself he would start going to football matches to soak up the spirit of it. He'd go and watch Ronnie Robson, the greatest player of all time. There were always articles in the paper about Ronnie and the youth had taken to reading up on him.

Each morning he left the Astro and walked up the busy street to the big intersection called Telford Square. As he walked he would try to throw off the sense of the night's darkness and squalor and fear. He'd breathe deeply, and flex his limbs, and imagine his system taking in the day's pure energy. He'd imagine himself getting taller and tougher and incredibly fit, like a champion footballer who's ready to give a hundred and ten per cent and then some. He had heard a radio commentator say that about Ronnie Robson. “Ya can't bank on much in life,” the commentator had declared, “but ya can bank on this: Ronnie Robson will give a hundred and ten per cent and then some!” And the co-commentator had agreed: “Ya never said a truer word, Bill! And by gee, ain't he tuned like a Swiss watch!” The youth tried to imagine how it felt to be Ronnie Robson, fit and focused and tuned like a Swiss watch.