The Vintage and the Gleaning

by Jeremy Chambers

  Righteo, says Wallace and he goes into the vines.

  We take our shovels and we follow him.

  Somewhere in the distance the sound of a motorbike starting. The engine idles and then the bike goes across paddocks and away. We work our rows, knocking the shoots off the vines, going vine to vine and row to row. The sun has come up behind the trees on the hill and they are fiercely gilded. Light slides along the long threads of spiders’ webs strung across the rows and it comes dappled through the vines and onto the soil and there is the shadow of vines on the ground, twisted and quivering, leaves fluttering in the breeze, and where it hits the earth the earth is red.

  In the paddock behind us, the wheat is bare and bleached under the sky and it tosses and whispers. Lucy comes past me, nose to the ground and she stops to sniff at my boots and at the fallen leaves and shoots and is off down the row. And there is nothing but the sound of shovels scraping against the vines, the metal ringing on the wood, the rustle of falling foliage. And the caws of the crows, the smell of soil. And as we work I can feel the sun coming up hot on my back and I start working faster, vine to vine and row to row.

  Wallace finishes a vine and stands there, mopping his brow with his hat. He leans on his shovel and watches the boy over the rows.

  You must’ve been drinking like a fish, he says to the boy.

  What? says the boy.

  You must’ve been drinking like a fish, says Wallace. Spend your whole pay. Must’ve been drinking all weekend.

  Nah, says the boy. Just Saturday. Saturday night.

  Where were you drinking? asks Roy.

  Wasn’t at the pub, says the boy. Went down to the river. Got takeaway.

  Everyone’s stopped working now except me. They’re all leaning on their shovels, talking over the rows. The other boy is grinning. I keep knocking off shoots.

  Well, what you buy then? asks Wallace. What you spend your whole pay on? Whole bloody lot?

  Dunno, says the boy. Slab, lemonade, bottle of Blue Curacao.

  Jesus, says Wallace. That’s top-shelf isn’t it, Roy?

  It’s top-shelf all right, says Roy.

  What’d you want to go drinking that stuff for? asks Wallace. What’s the point of wasting your money on that? Whole pay-packet?

  Wasn’t for me, says the boy. Was for my girlfriend. She won’t drink anything else.

  I hope you got a root out of it, says Roy, leaning forward on his shovel.

  The boy doesn’t say anything. He takes hold of a tendril and starts twisting it around his finger.

  He did, the dirty devil, says Roy.

  The boy is smirking. He keeps twisting the shoot around his finger. The other boy starts working again. Roy and Wallace watch the first boy, leaning on their shovels.

  What, says Wallace, she drink the whole bottle? She drink the lot?

  Nah, says the boy.

  I was going to say, says Wallace. She’d be sick.

  She was sick, says the boy.

  I hope you got a root out of it first, says Roy.

  Wallace shakes his head. He pulls his shovel out of the ground and turns around muttering, going back to his vine. Roy spits and whistles to Lucy. The boy pulls at the shoot, pulling hard until it comes off, tearing it green near the base. He throws it away and looks at his hand. The other boy keeps working, chopping hard, puffing and sweating and red in the face. Wallace finishes his vine and turns back to look at the boy, letting his shovel fall against the wires.

  So where’s the rest of it then? he asks the boy. This Blue bloody Curacao.

  I drunk it, says the boy. I was sick too.

  Wallace takes his hat and glasses off and polishes his glasses with his hat and stands there swearing. Roy lifts up his legs to slap the ants around his ankles. He scratches his legs and whistles to Lucy and she comes down the row and he bends down and strokes her all over. Wallace looks at the other boy.

  And what’s your story, he asks him. How come you got no boots?

  Bought a model aeroplane, says the other boy, puffing away.

  Wallace stands and swears. His shoulders hang out front of him, making him stoop forward, his arms low and his neck bent out and up like a tortoise, jagged bile-coloured teeth a mess in a mouth that doesn’t know which way it’s turned. When I look at Wallace, with those big arms and shoulders and that jaw, his squat body and long legs thinner than mine, he looks like someone’s made him up from bits and pieces which don’t fit right. He puts his hat and glasses on and goes back to work, still swearing.

  Roy’s still leaning on his shovel.

  You hear that, Smithy? he calls over to me. One of them spends his pay getting a root and the other one buys a model aeroplane.

  Yeah, I heard, I say, knocking off a shoot.

  Can’t root a model aeroplane, says Roy.

  I just keep working, keep knocking off shoots, working fast, moving up the row. I keep moving up the row until I can’t hear them no more.

  Boss comes down after smoko. He takes a deep breath and looks up at the sky and then he looks at us.

  Well, he says, and how are you all going here?

  Fine, says Wallace, hacking away at a vine.

  Well, says Boss. That’s good. Good to hear.

  We are working hard with our heads down, pretending not to listen to Boss and Wallace. Boss crosses his arms and nods over at the boys.

  And how are these two coming along? he asks.

  Fine, says Wallace, pushing back a heavy vine. Yeah, not too bad.

  He looks over at the boys.

  All right, he says.

  Wallace finishes his vine. He pulls a leaf off and hands it to Boss.

  Boss looks at the leaf.

  Well, he says, we’ll have to spray then, won’t we?

  Looks like it, says Wallace.

  Yeah, says Boss. Well then. He looks at the leaf some more.

  What do you think? he asks Wallace.

  I say spray, says Wallace.

  Certainly looks that way, doesn’t it, says Boss.

  Wallace keeps working and we all keep working and there is the sound of shovels going at it hard and fast. Boss stands there with his arms folded over his gut. He wears an old jumper full of holes and stained with wine. He smells of wine, of the cellar. He wears army shorts and he wears the same jumper and the same shorts all year round. He picks a few shoots off a vine.

  We seem to be one short today, he says.

  That’s right, says Wallace. Spit.

  Yeah, Spit’s not here is he, says Boss. He picks off a few more shoots. He folds his arms back over his gut and leans back on his heels. Lucy comes and sniffs around him. Boss squats down and scratches her behind the ears.

  And what’s Spit doing with himself today then? he asks, stroking Lucy’s flank.

  Nobody says anything. We keep our heads down, working.

  Probably crook, says Roy, not looking up from his vine.

  Crook is he? says Boss. Well. That’s no good, is it? He gives Lucy a slap on the backside and she trots away. Boss stands up and looks at the sky.

  Spit’s crook then is he, Smithy?

  Could be, I say.

  Hard to tell at this point, is it? says Boss, looking at me.

  Hard to say?

  He is looking at me smiling. Smiling and squinting. He shades his eyes with his hand.

  What is it? he asks. One of those one-day things?

  I keep working on my vine, picking off tendrils with my fingers.

  I wouldn’t know, I say.

  No, says Boss, pulling the top of a vine towards him and examining it. No, well you never can tell, can you?

  He picks another leaf off the vine and holds it in both hands. He pulls the vine back again, pushing it up with one hand and looking at the underside. He lets it drop and looks back at the leaf and turns it around and he looks up at the sky and looks at the leaf again and tosses it onto the ground. Lucy comes over and sniffs at it. Boss rubs her side with his boot.

  Well, I’m sor
ry to hear about Spit, he says. That’s no good, is it? No good at all. No good being crook, he says. Poor Spit. Poor old Spit.

  He has another look at the leaves and he leans over and strokes Lucy’s nose.

  I think we’ll spray, Wallace, he says.

  Righteo, says Wallace.

  Best to spray, says Boss.

  He pats Lucy on the head and he stands up and stretches and he looks at the vines and looks at the sky and he turns around and goes.

  We watch Boss go. We watch his ute leave and we watch it all the way down the road.

  Roy stops working and leans on his shovel.

  Spit was down Imperial Saturday night, wasn’t he? he says. I’m sure I saw Spit down Imperial Saturday night.

  He yawns.

  You weren’t down Imperial Saturday night, were you, Wallace? he asks.

  Nope, says Wallace.

  Well, I’m pretty sure Spit was there, says Roy. I’m pretty sure I talked to him.

  He pulls his shovel out of the ground.

  I think he said he was going fishing, says Roy.

  Boss comes to spray lunchtime. I’m sitting with Roy in his ute and Wallace’s got the boys in his. The windows are wound up and I am drinking sarsaparilla. Roy is smoking and the smoke rises from his cigarette and fills the cabin.

  Boss brings in the tractor, spluttering and heaving with the sprayer behind, bouncing over the uneven earth. It has five pipes at the end of its chassis and they are bent. Boss is wearing an old oilskin with the collar turned up and buttoned to his nose. His hat is pulled down over his forehead. He stops the tractor next to Wallace’s ute and undoes the top of the oilskin and yells something to Wallace. Wallace winds down his window and yells back. They are yelling over the growl and the thud of the tractor engine. The diesel exhaust hazes upwards. Boss yells again. Wallace waves and winds the window back up.

  Boss does up his oilskin again and pulls at his hat. He wheels the tractor into the front row and turns on the sprayer. The spray comes out of the pipes in a strong fine jet and the tractor kicks up dust, and a cloud of dust and spray blooms behind the tractor like a slow explosion. Roy is studying the form guide.

  I watch the tractor through the dirty cloud as it ends the first row. The sprayer goes off and the pipes drip and the tractor makes a tight circle and comes down the next row towards us. It ends the row and the sprayer turns off. Boss takes the tractor round and the cloud billows behind and into us and when it hits it is all dust and spray through the windows and you can’t see a thing outside. You can’t see anything at all.

  After knockoff, Roy drives us into town and parks outside Poachers. Men are standing on the footpath underneath the pub balcony, smoking and spitting in the shade. Kids ride up and down Main Street on bikes, dinking their friends and pulling wheelies. Some of them are still in their school uniforms and others wear jeans and T-shirts. They gather in groups outside the bank and the post office, sitting on the steps and sprawled across the footpath, eating chips out of butcher’s paper. Dogs lie under parked cars, tongues hanging out.

  Lucy jumps down onto the road and Roy grabs her and chains her to a pole. He gets her bowl from the back of the ute and sets it beside her. He fills it and she drinks.

  I’m off, I say.

  Still sulking are you? Roy says.

  I’m not sulking, I say.

  Yes you are, says Roy.

  A cat prowls about under one of the cars, watching the dogs and sniffing the ground. It darts across the street and down a concrete lane mottled with the rainbow tint of oil stains. The cat is sleek and black, its bones jutting from under its coat, looking hard as a carved thing.

  You been sulking ever since you been to the doctor’s, says Roy.

  I look for the cat, but it is gone.

  I’m not sulking, I say. I’m just not drinking. Sulking’s got nothing to do with it.

  Roy takes Lucy’s bowl and throws the rest of the water out onto the road. He flings it back into the tray and takes out his tobacco pouch and papers and rolls a cigarette, lighting it with a match. He shakes out the match and flicks it away.

  It’s not just about the drink, he says. It’s about being sociable. I don’t see why you can’t come in while I have a drink. I’m your mate, aren’t I?

  He drags on the cigarette and lets the smoke float from the side of his mouth. One of the men on the footpath calls out to him and Roy points his thumb at the pub. The man nods.

  Yeah, I say. Yeah, I spose so.

  We go into Poachers.

  The pub is cool and dark and hung with mounted Murray cods, fat and pink and silver on their undersides. Each board has an engraving saying when the fish was caught and who caught it. Liz is tending the bar.

  Roy flicks his cigarette butt into the trough which runs the length of the bar. Embers scatter and fade. The trough is piled high with ash and cigarette butts and rubbish, all of it sodden with spilt beer. Roy takes off his hat, smoothing down his hair. He puts the hat on the counter and sits on a barstool, looking at his bare legs. He scratches his legs and winks at Liz.

  How are you Roy? Liz asks, stacking pots. Keeping out of trouble?

  I’m doing my very best, Liz, says Roy. Yourself?

  Aw, yeah, she says. She sounds tired. The pots knock against each other as she stacks them. She picks up another crate. Liz is big and dressed in black.

  Down the end of the bar, old Ted Matthews is watching the television, a glass sitting on the bar towel next to him.

  Any lady wrastlers today, Ted? Roy asks him.

  Ted Matthews doesn’t say anything. His eyes stay fixed on the television screen.

  Liz is straining to hold a crate with one hand, pressing it against her ribs. It is full of trembling pots and the sound of glass on glass.

  Ted missed out on the lady wrestlers today, she says. I had the greyhounds on.

  That’s a shame, says Roy. Greyhounds aren’t lady wrastlers, are they, Ted?

  Ted Matthews doesn’t say a word. He just keeps staring up at the television. It’s the harness racing now, afternoon races. On the screen a buggy overturns. Ted Matthews sits there, not moving one bit.

  I pull up a barstool and sit next to Roy.

  Come and work your charms on Smithy here, Liz, Roy says.

  What’s that, Roy? Liz says, giving him a funny look.

  Cheer him up, says Roy. He’s sulking. He’s sulking because he’s off the piss. Off the grog. Doctor’s orders.

  Liz finishes stacking the pots and takes the empty crates outside. She comes back brushing off her hands and holds up a pot, looking at Roy. Roy nods and she fills it from the tap.

  Off the grog? she says. Why’s that, Smithy?

  Because, I say. Because I’ve buggered up me insides. Buggered them with the drink.

  Liz puts Roy’s beer down on the bar towel. Roy leans back, feeling in his pockets for coins. He piles them on the bar towel and raps the club soda sign on the tap, pointing at me. Liz pours me a glass of lemon squash and begins sorting through the coins.

  He given you something for it? Liz asks me. The doctor?

  Yeah, I say. Pills. Pills they make from pigs.

  Roy skols his beer and hands the pot back to Liz.

  How they make pills out of pigs? he asks me. What good’s that going to do you?

  Don’t ask me, I say. That’s just what he tells me. Because pigs got something I don’t have. I don’t have it no more on account I’ve buggered up me insides. With the drink. The grog.

  Liz hands Roy his pot back full and keeps sorting through the money on the counter. Roy blows the froth off the top.

  Well, can you drink after that then? he asks. Once you take these pills?

  Roy’s pot is beaded with liquid and the froth runs down the sides. He puts the beer down and wipes his hand on the bar towel.

  Pills aren’t for the drink, I say. They’re for the digestion. For my stomach. Because I’ve stuffed that too. With the drink. I can’t keep anything down.

 
Liz is counting coins.

  You not eating, Smithy? she says. Off your tucker? She opens the cash register and slides the coins in, one at a time.

  Roy leans back again and squirms to pull his tobacco out of his pocket. He slaps the pouch down on the counter.

  I can’t keep a thing down, I say. I take one bite and I feel sick. I can’t even look at the stuff without feeling sick.

  Liz closes the register and it rings.

  That’s no good, Smithy, she says. You should be taking better care of yourself.

  Roy holds up his empty pot to her, dripping with suds. Liz puts it upside down on the pile of empties and gets him a clean one. Roy takes his papers and peels one off, putting it between his lips. He opens the pouch and takes out a pinch of tobacco.

  Well I am looking after meself, I say. That’s why I’m off the drink. I haven’t touched the stuff. Not once.

  Roy rolls the cigarette and puts it in his mouth. He gestures to Liz and she gets a lighter from under the counter. She lights the cigarette for him and hands him his beer, sorting through the coins on the counter again. Roy turns to me, holding his pot against his knee.

  But one drink’s not going to do you any harm, surely, he says. Just one glass.

  I shake my head.

  Doctor said if I started drinking again I’d end up in hospital, I say. I’m not going to hospital.

  Roy blows smoke into the air. He takes a long drink from his pot and puts it back on the counter. He rests his arm on his leg, knocking ash between his knees.

  Hospital wouldn’t be so bad, says Roy.

  He drags on his cigarette and sits sipping his beer, flicking ash into the trough, looking at me with his pale eyes, his baby-blue eyes.

  Hospital, he says. It’s just lying there, isn’t it? Everything brought to you. Good-looking nurses caring for you.

  He leans his elbow on the counter, turning back towards the bar.

  Not as good-looking as you though Liz, he says.

  Yeah, thanks Roy, says Liz.

  I look at Ted Matthews sitting down the end of the bar. He still hasn’t moved, not one inch, just sits there staring up at that television. He’s got a face like stone, Ted Matthews does.

  No, I say. I’m not going to hospital. You haven’t got nothing left once you’re in hospital. All you’ve got is just yourself and your own thoughts. No, I say, I’m not going to hospital. I’d rather be out on the vines.