The Vintage and the Gleaning (27 page)

And then one Saturday, in the middle of the semester, the boarding-house mistress told me I had a visitor and it was Brett. And seeing Brett in that place, that school. It was like suddenly everything melted away, fell into the background. And all I could see was Brett standing there in his old jeans and singlet, not even trying to hide his tatts, and there were girls all around whispering and putting their heads out of doorways to look at him and then giggling inside their rooms. And Brett standing there with this weird expression and I realised that he was trying to keep a straight face, that he was trying not to laugh.

And I don't know how he did it, but he got permission to take me out for the day. And I really still don't know how, because they were so strict about that sort of thing. But he managed it anyway. Like I said, Brett used to have this confidence, this charisma, and I don't know how he did it, but he did.

And walking out of that school with Brett, through the boarding house, out through the grounds and past all the girls. With Brett. It just didn't seem real. I couldn't believe it was happening. I mean it was just so strange and everything seemed so out of place, it was like something that happens in a dream. It just didn't make sense to me. It all happened so suddenly, I don't even remember feeling happy about it. I don't know what I felt. It was like I was in a daze, walking out of that school, walking out with Brett.

So we went to the tram stop, with Brett laughing all the way, about the school and about seeing me there in the boarding house and the look he said I had on my face when I saw him. And we took the tram down to St Kilda beach. And it was one of those old trams and the hot air was blowing through the windows and the seats sticking and burning under my legs and I remember looking outside, watching everything go past, and the light flashing through the trees and Brett beside me, and I felt this enormous sense of freedom. Like I was suddenly myself again, like the weight I had been under for all those months just fell off, just went away. And everything else too, the sadness, the feeling of being outside everything, all the bad things just seemed to wash off me, being there with Brett, with him on that tram. And it was like I had forgotten how to breathe but now I was breathing again.

And so Brett suggested we have fish and chips on the beach and when we got there I saw that he had brought this picnic blanket, this old tartan picnic blanket. And until then I thought he had come to Melbourne to visit his cousin, because he had said he was staying there, and I thought he had just dropped in on the off-chance. Just because I was someone he happened to know who was in the city. But when he brought out the blanket, I realised that he had planned the whole thing, that he had come down for me, to see me, and I realised that he must have been thinking about me all that time. All that time since the end of the holidays. That he had been thinking about me and that he had come down for me, just for me.

And we lay on the beach all afternoon, not even talking much, but I felt so relaxed, because Brett was relaxed, just like he'd been during the summer, by the river, exactly the same, only there was nobody else around now, no other friends, no group, just me and Brett. And I wondered if that was why he'd come down to the city, because he knew it would be just the two of us. And it was then I understood what was happening. He never said anything, but I understood. Why he was there, there with me.

So we just lay there in the sun, hardly talking at all, and I remember Brett leaning up on one elbow and looking over at me, and him saying, so how's things? And I said, fine, and he said, well that's good then, and he rolled over on his back again, with his arm over his face and that's how we were, all afternoon. And we lay there and we watched the sunset, and the sea like a broken mirror, glittering and silver, and it was long past my curfew, but I already knew. Some time during that afternoon I had already decided. Not that I actually thought about it, but I knew and it just seemed to happen, and it seemed right. It just seemed so right, all of it. I knew that I wasn't going back to school, not that day and not ever. I knew I wasn't ever going back.

So Brett and I went to his cousin's house and I rang my mother because I knew the school would have rung already. And I told her everything. I just told her. And I don't think she knew what to say because she didn't say anything except to ask me to phone back the next day, to let her know I was all right. And so I called the next day and she put my father on the phone. And there was this strain in his voice. He was trying not to let me hear it, but there was this strain, and the way he talked, it was slow and strange and desperate. He was almost pleading with me. And he said that he had talked with the headmistress and told her that there had been some problems at home and that it had all been his fault, that he had been under a lot of stress because of the drought. And he told me that the headmistress had agreed to let me back into the school on probation. And then my father said that he'd been looking into the money situation and he thought he could manage to pay for the Florence trip after all. And I just laughed. Because I didn't care about any of that anymore. Because I was with Brett now. Because everything had changed.

I shouldn't have laughed, Charlotte says.

Monday and Spit shows.

Me and Wallace are sitting up back of the ute, putting an edge on the shovels.

Win anything on the races? Wallace asks me.

Nope, I say.

Win anything on the lottery?

No, I did not.

Wallace oils the blade. We are at Harris's close to town and cars pass, the smell of their exhaust wafting across the vines in the fresh morning air.

Well it's all been happening around here, says Wallace.

It certainly has, I say.

Locust spraying Saturday, says Wallace. Brett Clayton's mob gone wild.

Wallace squints to look at me.

You heard about that? Wallace asks me. Brett Clayton and his mob?

Yeah, I say. I heard about it.

Did a number on those kids, Wallace says. You hear about that? University students home for the holidays. Farmers' kids. Bashed them with axe handles. Friday night. Got them after they come out Imperial. Just turned off Main Street. Jumped them there. Bashed them with axe handles, fence posts. Bashed them good and proper.

Yeah, I heard, I say.

Two of them in hospital, Wallace says. One with concussion, other one with busted ribs, busted spleen.

He counts it off on his fingers.

Wouldn't say who done it though, he says. But they would of known. For sure they would of known.

Wallace shakes his head.

They was scared is why, he says. Scared of the consequences.

I spit into the dirt.

And Saturday night, says Wallace. Saturday night they go and shoot up the town. Think they're in the wild west or something.

Yep, I say.

Whole bloody town shot up, Saw it myself. Sunday morning. Yesterday morning. All the shop windows blown out. Glass everywhere. Old Joe McLaren sitting in the barber's chair, head in his hands, display cases smashed up. All them old artefacts ruined, on the floor. I mean, that's history, that is. Local history. Garage dogs dead. Mechanic hosing down the blood. All blood and glass down the gutters. I never seen nothing like it.

Wallace shakes his head.

Jesus, he says. He starts working on his shovel. We watch the cars pass. One of them slows and stops and Bill Sparrow puts his head out the window and calls out. Wallace slides off the tray and goes over to talk to him. They talk for a while.

Hope they throw away the key, I hear Bill Sparrow say.

Wallace comes back and Bill Sparrow honks his horn and waves.

Get to work you lazy bastards, he yells.

He drives off.

Wallace sits back down with a grunt and picks up his shovel and stone.

I'll tell you what though, he says. There was plenty of men ready to string them up right there and then. Not just from round here either. Half the bloody RSL come down from Corowa with the Mayor. Mayor come to look at the war memorial. You hear about that? You hear what they did to the war memorial?

Shot the statue, didn't they? I say.

Shot off the head, says Wallace. Clean off. Digger's head. Now that's what they call sacrilege. Far as RSL's concerned, anyway. Lucky copper got them first, is what I reckon. Lucky they got them in the divvy vans quick as they did. You hear about that? Had to bring in divvy vans far as bloody Albury to take them off. Had them in lock-ups all over the place.

I heard they walked right through the town, I say. I heard nobody did nothing.

Well it took everyone by surprise, didn't it, says Wallace. You would've thought they'd have kept their heads down, wouldn't you? Shoot up the town Saturday night, come in for a drink Sunday morning. Nobody expected that. Bloody nerve of it all. Explains why the pubs were the only things they didn't shoot up.

Wallace runs his stone hard against the blade.

I mean, who do they think they are? he says. Driving up and down Main Street firing shotguns out the windows. Bloody cowboys. Bloody cowboys the lot of them.

He throws his shovel into the ground, takes a new one from the tray and leans it between his legs.

I never heard nothing like it, he says. It's a bloody disgrace. Disgrace for the town. Disgrace for all of us.

Wallace slides the shovel up and picks the dry dirt off the blade with his fingers, wiping his hand on his singlet. He gets up the oilcan.

I mean, you ever heard of anything like that? he asks me. You ever heard of anything like that happen before?

I shake my head.

Never, I say.

Wallace puts oil on the blade.

And you been around too, he says.

Wallace works on his shovel. I look at the sky.

You been up north, says Wallace. I mean, you might expect it there. Plenty of cowboys up north. But down here.

He shakes his head.

I thought we was meant to be the civilised ones, he says. Winemaking town.

Wallace jerks his finger from the blade, dropping the stone. He looks at the cut. Blood oozes out and Wallace sucks on it.

Well it just goes to show, says Wallace, finger in his mouth.

I look around for crows but there aren't any. The day is silent.

I once saw a copper shoot an aborigine out of a tree, I say. Up north.

What, dead? says Wallace. He looks at his finger and keeps sucking on it.

Nah, I say. Blackfeller was running down the street. All neked. I don't know why he was neked, but he goes and climbs up a tree. Right in the middle of town. Copper comes over and fires his gun into the air and he climbs down again. Whole town standing around watching, same as what it was like yesterday. It was a Saturday morning, small town. Everyone about.

Yeah, but that's a different thing altogether, says Wallace. That's the law.

Yeah, well, I say.

Wallace takes his finger out of his mouth and wipes it on his singlet. He reaches back for the bottle of meths and trickles some over the finger, shaking it dry. I finish my shovel and get another one.

Old feller, I say. Old blackfeller, white beard. He come down crying.

What'd he done? Wallace asks, sliding off the tray and looking around for his stone.

Don't know, I say. Caught drinking probably. That was the old days for you.

I knock the dirt off the shovel.

Tough justice back then, says Wallace.

I shrug.

Wasn't so long ago, really, I say. Old blackfeller come down bawling his eyes out. Completely neked. Copper shackled him right there, middle of town.

I reach over for the oilcan and smear oil across the blade. Wallace finds his stone and flips it in the air. He sits down, flipping the stone and catching it.

Not afraid of dealing it out up north, says Wallace. Could of used a copper like that down here yesterday.

He flips the stone and it bounces off his knuckles. He picks it up and gets back to work.

I sharpen the blade in long even strokes. Out in the yard the vines are bright with the residue of the locust spray, coating the leaves and the small hard bunches of new fruit, inlaying the bark. A kestrel passes overhead, its shadow flickering across broken surfaces.

Didn't use handcuffs on the blackfellers, I say. Used shackles and chains. Used to shackle them all up together with a long chain. On the ankles too. All in a line, all shackled together.

Wallace laughs.

How'd you like to see them do that to Brett Clayton's mob, he says. March them up and down the street. Make them look at what they done. Make a spectacle of them.

Old feller comes down from the tree, I say. Crying, neked. Everyone standing around laughing. They was all laughing.

I plant my shovel.

Well, you break the law, says Wallace. Those days. Up north.

I look at Wallace. He is half black himself though nobody ever mentions it.

I take another shovel from the tray and knock off the dirt.

And you hear what the copper said when he went into Imperial? says Wallace. Catches Brett Clayton trying to jump the bar?

Yeah, I heard.

Has his holster unbuttoned, hand on his gun. Says, you just try me, Clayton. Just you give me an excuse.

I look closely at the shovel blade, feeling the thin juts of metal.

I heard different, I say.

Yeah? says Wallace, pausing. What you hear?

Pretty much the same thing, I say.

I take a pair of pliers out of the toolbox and start twisting off the jagged tips. A few break clean off and shoot into the air. Wallace swears and holds his hand over the side of his face. I wrench the others off, leaving the blade worse than it was before. I get out the chisel.

Well, it's all over now, says Wallace.

That's right, I say.

We can breathe easy now, says Wallace.

He plants his shovel and wipes his brow. I give the blade a good going-over and then put an edge on it with the stone. I show it to Wallace.

I don't know why you bother, he says.