The Simple Gift (10 page)

The weekend off

I've got the weekend off.

No McDonald's,

no schoolwork,

and thankfully no parents – 

Mum has a conference interstate,

with Dad going along

‘for the golf'.

It only took three days

of arguing to convince

Mum and Dad that, at seventeen,

I can be trusted on my own,

even though I can't.

And what is trust anyway?

No, I won't burn the house down.

No, I won't drink all the wine.

No, I won't have a huge drug party.

But

yes, I will invite Billy over

and yes, I will enjoy myself

in this house,

this big ugly five-bedroom

million dollar brick box

that we live in.

Hobos like us

Every morning

I wake Old Bill

with a bowl of Weet-Bix

and a cup of coffee from McDonald's,

kept hot in a thermos overnight.

I pour us both a cup

and sit in the sunshine

as Bill groans and complains.

He sits with me and eats

and tells me how he used to be

too busy for breakfast

when he worked,

and he laughs,

a bitter, mocking laugh,

‘Too busy for breakfast,

too busy for sitting down

with people I loved.

And now I've got all

the time in the world.'

But at least he eats.

And sometimes he comes with me

to Bendarat River

for a laundry and a bath.

And when he does

and he dives

fully clothed into the river

his laugh becomes real

and it's a good laugh,

a deep belly roar.

I laugh as well,

sure there's hope in the world

even for hobos like us.

The kid

I like the kid.

I like his company.

He's got me waking early

and eating a decent breakfast,

and yes

I drank away most of the cannery money,

but I saved some,

just to show myself I could.

Billy and I go to the river,

we dive and swim

and wash

and for a few hours

I almost feel young again.

Billy deserves more

than an old carriage

and spending his days

trying to keep an

old hobo from too much drink.

I like the kid.

The shadows

I knock gently,

like I always do,

so just Billy would hear,

no-one else.

It's Friday morning

before school.

I want to tell Billy

about my parents' weekend away.

I knock again,

then I hear voices

from the next carriage

and I'm scared.

Maybe he's been discovered?

I creep around the back,

keeping to the shadows,

and I see Billy

in the carriage

with an old man

and Billy's pouring coffee

and giving it to the man

and he's pouring milk into a bowl

and handing this across

and the old man coughs

and groans and swears

and Billy sips his own coffee

and helps the old man

out of the carriage

and into the sunshine

where they sit beside the track

sharing breakfast.

And I stay in the shadows

watching

Billy and the old man

who's finished his breakfast

and Billy washes the bowl

and pours another coffee

for the old man

who is fully awake now

and the old man

looks up at Billy

and says ‘thanks'

and that's when I turn

and run to school

without ever leaving the shadows.

The afternoon off

I stopped running

when I reached school

and as I entered class

I felt like a real idiot.

I sat through Maths

and Science

and English

trying to understand why I ran

and all I can think

is that seeing Billy

with that old hobo

made me think of Billy

as a hobo

and I was ashamed,

ashamed of myself

for thinking that.

Hadn't I known

that's how Billy lived?

Hadn't I seen him

stealing food,

and hadn't I seen

where he sleeps?

By lunchtime

I decided

I was a complete fool

and maybe I was more spoilt

than I thought,

maybe there was something

of my parents in me,

whether I liked it or not.

And I walked through the school gates,

and I walked slowly and deliberately

back to the railway tracks,

determined not to run away again.

In the sunshine

He was in the sunshine

reading a book.

He saw me coming across the tracks

and waved,

and he stood, closed his book,

and he smiled,

and said welcome,

welcome to my sunshine,

and he jumped into the carriage,

brought out a pillow

for me to sit on.

He offered me coffee

from the same thermos

I'd seen this morning

with the old hobo.

He kept talking

about the book,

his favourite,

The Grapes of
Wrath
,

and the honour of poverty,

that's what he said,

‘the honour of poverty',

and each word he said

made me more ashamed,

and more determined

to sit with him

here

in the bright sunshine.

A man

I know it was shame

that did it,

that made me do it,

but I asked Billy

and his friend, Old Bill,

to dinner at my place tonight.

I only wanted Billy

but the thought of me

running to school

shamed me into asking.

Billy seemed pleased

and he told me about Old Bill,

the saddest man in the world – 

that's what he called him –

and as he talked

I understood

what I'd seen

this morning

and I realised

that Billy was sixteen years old

and already a man

and I was seventeen,

nearly eighteen,

and still a schoolgirl.