Fresh Fields (33 page)

Everything gradually got worse without Georgie and Earle next door. The youth sometimes thought it was because Vladimir no longer had anyone to remind him that he was too decent a man to be a standover merchant.

So now Vladimir had got a letter to the woman through Georgie. He must've sounded sincere, the youth thought, for Georgie to have even given him the time of day.

“We had a long talk over the phone two nights ago,” the woman said, at the end of the pause.

“You and him?”

“Yes.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It doesn't automatically mean anything. I just wanted to tell you that we've been talking to each other.”

“Okay. You've told me.”

“Do you object?”

“Why should I object?”

“Well, it concerns all of us.”

“What does?”

“The fact that Vladimir and I are communicating. I just want to know how you feel about it.”

“I'm not in charge of what you do.”

“Don't get angry.”

“I'm not angry.”

“Alright, you're not angry.”

“Can I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“Did the two of you discuss
me
?”

“He asked how you were getting on, and I answered as best I could, that's all.”

“Well, would you please not discuss me anymore. Just leave me out of it.”

“There wasn't any ‘discussion' about you. He just wanted to know how you were, the same as he asked about your brother and about me. It was only a brief conversation.”

“You said it was a long one.”

“It was a medium one.”

“Was it the
only
time?”

“Well, no. We've talked a few times, actually.”

“The story changes each time you tell it.”

“We've spoken three times on the phone, and exchanged one letter each. Is that exact enough?”

“Did you discuss me the other times?”

“He was curious to know whether you're alive or dead, so I told him. I'm sorry if that's classified as a national secret!”

“I have to hang up now. Someone else is waiting to use the phone.”

“Look, don't start acting like a brat! I won't put up with it!”

“There's someone waiting.”

“Let them wait. We need to talk about the future.”

“Why?”

“Because things are happening.”

“You mean getting all chummy with him again?”

“Not just that.”

“What else?”

“I've given my notice here. That means we need to work out what the next move is going to be for all of us.”

“The person is banging on the phone box. I have to hang up.”

“Is there
really
someone there?”

“Yes, really,” he lied. “Shall I put them on the line so you can ask their name?”

He heard the woman sigh.

“Well, hang up if you must. But phone again tomorrow night, reverse charges, so we can talk more. Will you promise to do that? Or will I phone you where you're living?”

“No,” he said hurriedly. “Let me phone you.”

The last thing he wanted was to have her knowing where he lived. All he'd told her was the name of the street, and that he had a nice garage room. Thank God he hadn't given her an exact address or the phone number. She might even have told Vladimir what it was, now that they were getting so pally again. The youth got a sudden chilling image of Vladimir coming along the driveway, a looming figure in the dark, heading for his door. In his mind's ear he could almost hear the sudden loud knock. It gave him the awful stomach-churning, going-to-water feeling.

“By the way,” the woman said, “do you need any money?”

“Um, sort of,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”

“Vladimir has sent me some. Quite a lot, actually. To help us out, and to show his good faith. You have a right to some of it.”

The youth would have snapped back that he didn't want anything that came from Vladimir, but the thought of being able to keep his rent paid at Delia's, of being able to stay with her, was too much of a relief.

“Well, I do need to pay some rent shortly . . .”

“I'll wire you a couple of hundred tomorrow, to the GPO,” she said quickly. “Is that convenient?” She sounded pleased. His accepting Vladimir's money was obviously a promising first step. “Is that okay?” she repeated.

“Yes,” he said, knowing he'd given ground.

“Right then,” she said, her voice rising with confidence. “Talk to you tomorrow night, around this same time. I'll have the old duck out of the way. And your brother will want to say hello, too.”

“Right.”

“Bye then.”

“Just one thing,” said the youth, “so I know what we're really talking about.”

“Yes?”

“Do you want to go back to him?”

“More or less.”

“I see.”

“We need to start being a family again.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“He wants to change.”

“Does he?”

“He's had a bad fright, us walking out like we did. And so have I, in a way. The world's a hard place, and after you reach a certain point in life there aren't a lot of options. There aren't any fresh fields beckoning anymore. You have to make the best of what you've got.”

“Stand or fall where you are, you mean?”

“Yes, that's a way of putting it, I suppose.”

There was a silence.

“Have
you
found fresh fields, these past few months?” she asked.

“I have to hang up.”

“Is the person still waiting for the phone?”

“Yes.”

“Till tomorrow then.”

The youth hung up the receiver, left the phone box, and went round past the front steps of the library and into the park. The statue of Henry Lawson loomed against the dark sky. He sat on a bench for a long while, thinking of what she'd said about not having options, and having to make the best of what you've got. It was the first time he'd understood that her life was poignant too, and that there was a bravery in what she had done and been through, and in her idea now of going back to stand or fall with Vladimir. It was like the lone Viking on the bridge. He must've wished he had other options, wished he didn't have to make his stand that very day on that particular bridge. But he did have to. The youth looked up again at the dark shape of the statue and it made him think of young Harry Dale the Drover. Another case of having to do or die where fate had placed you. Harry Dale must've wished in his heart that he didn't have to swim that particular river, with its deadly flood tide running. But that was the river that ran between him and his homestead and his people. He could've turned away and found another river that was safer to swim, but it would've been utterly beside the point. Fate had allotted him
that
river on
that
day.

Yes, he could see how going back to Vladimir, going back to being a “family” again, might be the allotted thing for her. But he knew it wasn't meant for him. He had some other bridge, some other river.

The money came through to the GPO next day. The youth collected it and went to a cafe and had a slap-up meal of fried eggs and sausages and a big brimming milkshake. It was lovely to be sitting there, looking at the people, feeling well-fed, with money in your pocket, knowing you weren't going to be homeless for a while yet. “This is happiness,” he said to himself, as though recognising it for the first time. He could pay another month's rent now, and go on having Delia in his life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He phoned the woman the next evening. She was back in her old brisk manner and her plans had firmed a lot in twenty-four hours. She and the boy would be leaving the northern town in three weeks, on their way back to Vladimir, and they'd be stopping for a day or so in the city to see the youth and find out what his intentions were. He knew this bit about finding out his “intentions” was a trick to pretend she understood how grown up he was. In fact she took it completely for granted he'd be going back south with them. This assumption on her part was the price he'd known he would have to pay for accepting Vladimir's money. He had tamely taken the money, so of course he must be a tame creature all round. This was what had always hurt and enraged him, though he hadn't put it properly into words until now—you never got credit for having any
honour
.

He began to protest about this on the phone, but then the woman really frightened him by saying that Vladimir was prepared to come from interstate, if necessary, so that all four of them could meet and talk it through. So already it was back to the old system: your life ruled by fear of Vladimir. Maybe the woman had always been able to use that fear as a lever, just as she was using it now.

He decided not to argue the point. He would never go back to that system, never. Whether she knew it or not was
her
problem.

 

IN HIS
daily wanderings in the city, the youth had found the offices of the
Rural Times
newspaper. It had occurred to him that he might need to get another job in the country one day, if things became desperate, and it'd be handy to know where the paper was located. It turned out to be a nice old building in a crooked street in the business area. He had been attracted along that street by a lit-up sign saying “McQuigan's Military Models” and had found the
Rural Times
almost opposite. McQuigan's was a quaint-looking shop with small green-painted windows. When you entered, though, you found a well-lit, air-conditioned space with counters and display cases and a number of large tables with model battlefields on them.

The first table the youth looked at showed the battle of Pharsalia. He had never heard of it and felt no interest, though there was a printed card giving the key information. Then he thought of something and felt his heart beating harder. Maybe there was a model of Hastings here. He approached the next table, almost holding his breath, and found that it showed Bosworth. He paused to read the card. King Richard III had been brave and resolute, but had lost the battle because of treachery when some of his nobles had changed sides at a crucial moment. The youth felt emotion well in him. Another hero who'd gone down. He gazed at the display. It was very detailed and complete and it made it seem as though you were looking down at the real thing from the sky. According to the card, it depicted that moment of the battle when King Richard led the main charge of his knights. There they were, strung out along the slope with their banners rippling and the manes and tails of their horses flying. They must've known, at that moment, about the treachery, and that the battle of Bosworth was already lost, and that most of them would die that day with the King.

Ah well, the youth thought to himself, his eyes hot with tears, ah well, never mind: they were winning the Battle of Honour instead.

The phrase had come unbidden into his mind and he felt a tremor through him and he gave a kind of sob. That was it! That was exactly it! He sighed deeply. How wonderful it was when you found the exact words to express a whole enormity of meaning! “The Battle of Honour” summed everything up, made everything clear, the whole of history and the whole of life. It was so simple, so obvious, that you might have thought of it years ago, except that these things come when they are
meant
to come, and that's only when you are ready for them, and when they won't be wasted on you like pearls before swine.

He turned from the Bosworth table and saw two young men behind a counter. They were looking at him with worried expressions. He wondered vaguely what was wrong with them. Then he glimpsed his own face in a section of mirror. For a moment he did not know who it was. The face was distorted with emotion, the eyes staring and the mouth pulled down in a grimace of misery or something, and tears were running down the cheeks. He ran his sleeve over his eyes and cheeks and took a couple of deep breaths and tried to straighten his mouth from its downward grimace. He looked back at the two shop assistants and they looked awkwardly away.

Walking towards the door, he knew the embarrassment didn't matter. All that mattered was that he'd found the phrase, the meaning, the message of the world. The Battle of Honour. He stood outside McQuigan's for a couple of minutes, breathing deeply and trying to contain his sense of having just been filled with a great truth. He felt like walking for miles, and it was nearly midnight when, tired out and calm in his mind, he tiptoed along Delia's driveway to his room.

The youth never went into McQuigan's Military Models again. It wasn't because he felt embarrassed. He cared nothing about that. It was simply that there are places you never need to return to, because you've already gained the special thing that was there for you. Not returning was a kind of homage to the place, a salute to its significance.

He did go back along the street though, whenever he was nearby. On the side of the
Rural Times
building were glassed-in noticeboards with pages of the current edition of the paper displayed. He went to browse over the pages, to look at photos of prize bulls, advertisements for tractors, scenes of harvesting, reports about wool prices. He found that browsing there set off trains of thought.

How interesting, he reflected, that this paper goes out over the whole countryside, goes to every town and hamlet, into every general store and corner shop and service station. And it worked the other way as well. Every happening in every part of the country was taken notice of in this building. In this building they knew the cattle prices at Bindialla, and what the river level was at Connaweal, and how the wheat was looking in the Gungamai district.