The Simple Gift

by Steven Herrick

  I walked home to my old carriage

  and thought of how to repay them

  for their simple gift,

  and I enjoyed the thinking.

  Making love

  It was like falling headlong

  into the clear waters

  of the Bendarat River

  and opening my eyes

  to the beautiful

  phosphorescent bubbles of light

  and trying to catch those bubbles

  in the new world of quiet and calm

  that carried me along, breathless,

  and too late, or too early,

  I surfaced

  and broke the gentle tide,

  and I gasped and rolled

  and wished Caitlin and I

  could return to the hush

  of that special world

  and we could float

  safe for a lifetime

  lost

  and hoping never

  to be found.

  My other life

  We fell asleep.

  I fell asleep with Billy

  beside me,

  his arm on my stomach,

  his breath so close,

  and when we woke

  we woke together

  and he kissed me

  and we made love again

  in the single bed

  I’ve had since I was eight

  with its crisp white sheets

  and oversized doona

  and lots of pillows,

  and I looked around my bedroom

  at the posters on the walls

  and my dresser full of make-up

  and moisturiser and clutter

  and my school uniform

  hanging neatly behind the door

  ready for my other life,

  the life I’d forgotten about

  for a few hours last night

  and this morning.

  Monday

  It was early Monday.

  I was sleeping,

  and I heard the knock.

  I knew it wasn’t Caitlin,

  her knock is quieter.

  I woke with a start

  and was ready to run

  when the door opened

  and it was Old Bill

  with a coffee

  and a breakfast bowl

  for me.

  He came in,

  sat opposite,

  handed me the cup,

  and he said,

  ‘Milk and two sugars,

  the way you like it.

  You young blokes sure

  know how to sleep,

  it’s nine o’clock you know.’

  We looked at each other

  and I started laughing.

  I couldn’t help it.

  I laughed long and loud,

  and Old Bill,

  who at first looked offended,

  joined in,

  two hobos laughing,

  laughing the morning away.

  Tell the world

  On Monday at school

  I sat with Petra and Kate

  and I wanted to tell

  them about everything.

  I so much wanted to tell

  but I couldn’t

  because

  I thought of Kate

  and her story

  of sex in the bushes

  and I didn’t want

  to have to talk about

  the details

  as if to prove to her

  that it was good

  and fine

  and I felt lucky

  and I didn’t want to admit

  that I couldn’t wait to see Billy

  and do it again

  and again

  and that somehow

  while mopping the floor

  at McDonald’s

  I’d met someone

  who I could lie naked beside

  and not feel foolish

  or embarrassed,

  that I’d met someone

  I could trust

  and feel safe with.

  I wanted to tell them that,

  but not yet,

  not just yet.

  I wanted to go to Billy

  tonight

  and tomorrow

  and next week

  and I wanted to prove it

  to myself

  before I tell the world.

  Share

  Sometimes

  before my McDonald’s shift,

  I pack my bag

  with food –

  bread, cheese,

  some fruit –

  for Billy.

  Enough for Billy

  but not enough

  for my parents

  to get suspicious.

  At first

  Billy said, ‘No, no way’,

  but I reminded him

  of our house,

  ‘the richest house in Bendarat’,

  he’d said.

  He took the food,

  promising to share it

  with Old Bill.

  Billy, dancing

  I spent $5 on candles,

  two dozen candles,

  and I worked all day

  looking for tins

  and scraps of metal

  and discarded old mugs,

  anything to stand a candle in.

  As evening comes

  I light each candle

  let the wax drop onto the tin

  and stand the candle

  firm in its wax,

  and soon enough

  I have twenty-four candles

  burning in my carriage

  and each throws a dancing shadow

  on the walls

  and the windows covered

  with cardboard.

  I shake my sleeping bag

  and spread it neatly

  across the bench seat

  and I sweep the floor

  and push my bag

  under the seat

  and I wait for Caitlin

  to walk into

  the brilliant soft light

  of twenty-four candles

  dancing for her.

  Heaven

  It was like stepping

  into heaven,

  all that light,

  with Billy smiling

  on the seat,

  proud of what he’d created.

  As I stepped

  into the carriage

  I closed the door

  to everything,

  and I went to Billy

  as if we’d been

  doing this for years

  and the candles

  burned long and gentle

  as we lay together

  for hours.

  What can I say?

  It was like stepping

  into heaven,

  no less than perfect.

  The clink of the bottles

  I saw Billy

  kissing his girl Caitlin

  on the train tracks

  as they walked off.

  Billy returned an hour later

  and came to my carriage.

  We sat opposite, talking.

  I heard the bottles clink

  in his bag

  and said,

  ‘Come on then,

  let’s have them’.

  But when he brought out

/>   the ginger beer

  I swore

  and laughed

  and swore some more,

  but really

  you’ve got to admire the kid.

  So I drank the stuff

  and we sat up late

  talking

  and I slept

  better than I had in a long time

  so maybe

  just maybe

  I’ll work on less beer

  for a while.

  For the kid’s sake.

  Old Bill and this town

  I wake early,

  I eat properly,

  for breakfast at least,

  and I’ve taken to walking

  every day.

  I go to the river with Billy

  and we swim and wash,

  or sometimes

  I walk the streets

  looking at the houses

  and the corner shops

  and the parks with trees

  and fountains,

  and young couples kissing,

  and old men reading newspapers,

  and ladies walking dogs,

  and sometimes

  these people nod and say hello

  as though I’m one of them

  and not an old drunk.

  I nod back,

  even talk about the weather on occasions,

  and I walk back to my carriage

  planning

  where I’ll go tomorrow,

  where I’ll walk in my town

  where I’ll go to stop

  thinking about the drink.

  Nothing’s easy

  ‘Nothing’s easy.’

  That’s what Billy said

  when I told him about my walks

  and how I pass a pub

  and my hands start shaking

  and it would only take

  a few steps

  to be at the bar

  ordering a pint …

  And the young kid,

  sharp as a tack,

  says,

  ‘Don’t walk near a pub then’.

  We looked at each other

  and I said,

  ‘Nothing’s easy’.

  Closing in

  Bloody cops.

  I hate to lie.

  I hate it,

  but with two of them

  on Main Street

  asking me questions,

  questions I couldn’t answer

  honestly,

  I made up what I could.

  I said I was passing through,

  I was staying with a friend,

  I’d been working at the cannery

  and now I was heading west.

  I said I was eighteen,

  old enough to look after myself.

  They didn’t believe a word,

  I could tell,

  but I hadn’t done anything wrong,

  and the older cop,

  he was smart,

  he knew what to do.

  He gave me a card,

  Department of Community Services

  Welfare Officer: Brent Stevens.

  He said he’d meet me

  at the office tomorrow

  at four o’clock

  and if I didn’t show

  well, fine, I’d moved on,

  but if he saw me

  in town again

  and I hadn’t shown,

  he’d ask more questions,

  and this time

  he’d want some answers.

  Bloody cops.

  Bloody welfare.

  I walked home

  to the Bendarat Hilton

  and I lay in bed

  with the old carriage walls

  closing in.

  Old Bill’s long walk

  Today

  I walked past

  Jessie’s old school.

  It’s had a paint job,

  and they’ve built a new library.

  It was lunchtime

  and the children were outside.

  The big kids were

  playing cricket on the oval.

  The young children

  played in the sandpit.

  A few girls were sitting

  and talking under a tree.

  As I walked by

  one of the girls

  started to climb the tree.

  I was about to say something

  when a young teacher

  came over:

  ‘Sarah, no climbing trees’.

  The teacher smiled at me

  and walked back to

  the shade of the school veranda.

  I could feel my hands

  shaking

  as I walked back to town.

  I walked the long way,

  careful not to go past a pub.

  Early, or late

  I woke early,

  went to Old Bill’s carriage

  with coffee and breakfast

  and he was already awake,

  he was shaving!

  We sat in the sunshine

  and I told him

  about the cops

  and asked what I should do?

  I knew welfare would ask

  about where I lived

  and how I lived

  and I had to keep them

  as far away from here

  as I could

  and it seemed that

  moving out west

  was the only answer.

  But how could I leave

  the only town

  I’ve ever wanted to call home,

  and Caitlin …

  Home

  When young Billy

  told me about the cops

  I knew I had to do something.

  I told him not to worry,

  that somehow

  we’d come up with an idea.

  I left Billy to his coffee

  and his fears of leaving town.

  I wanted a long walk to think.

  I avoided the park –

  today I didn’t need conversation,

  I needed time.

  I walked the suburbs

  looking at the neat lawns,

  the pebbled driveways,

  the flowers and hedges,

  and the paint jobs of

  a thousand everyday dreams.

  And I thought of Billy

  leaning against the carriage

  reading a book

  waiting,

  as I kept walking

  the familiar streets

  of Bendarat.

  So obvious

  I walk for hours

  to end up here

  in Wellington Road

  opposite

  my house,

  Jessie’s house.

  I sit on a bus seat

  looking across,

  picturing Jessie

  at the window

  in the backyard

  on the veranda.

  I could use a drink

  to help me decide

  but

  I know Billy has only got

  until this afternoon

  and I know

  that what I must do is

  so obvious

  and simple

  and so unbearably painful

  my whole body shakes

  with the thought.

  To help people

  Si
tting here

  I thought of Jessie

  and the injured bird.

  Jessie was eight years old,

  she found a parrot

  unable to move.

  We placed it in a shoebox

  wrapped in a handtowel

  to keep warm,

  hoping the shock would subside.

  Jessie stroked its head,

  she prayed,

  she fed it sugar syrup

  with an eye dropper

  and we stayed up late,

  waiting.

  It took two days

  of Jessie praying

  and stroking

  and feeding,

  and the bird got stronger.

  Jessie and I stood on the veranda,

  Jessie holding the bird gently.

  She opened her hands

  and it sat on her palms

  looking at her

  then it turned and flew

  high into the wattle

  where it perched.

  Jessie waved

  and the bird flew away.

  I thought of Jessie

  helping that bird

  and how, after it left,

  Jessie turned to me

  and said that

  when she grew up

  she wanted to be a vet,

  she wanted to heal animals

  and to help people.

  Peace

  I unlatch the gate to my house

  and walk around the backyard,

  the wattle is in bloom,

  and a pair of swallows

  have made a nest

  of clay and straw

  under the veranda ceiling.

  It’s so quiet,

  the grass is knee-high

  and I think of the lawnmower

  in the shed.

  I’m sure I can find some two-stroke

  and with a bit of coaxing

  get the thing started,

  but for now

  I sit on the veranda

  and admire the peace

  that I’d never noticed here,

  with the morning sun

  filtering through the trees,

  and I understand

  why it’s so quiet,

  so unworldly.

  The swallows swoop along

  the grass and weeds

  and arc into the nest