You got something on your mind? I ask. You want to talk about it?
No, I’m fine, says Charlotte.
Is it about Brett? I ask.
No, she says. It’s not Brett. For once. It’s not about Brett at all.
In the distance the school bell rings and the shouts of children. Patterns of light move slowly across the couch and the chairs and the carpet, creeping over surfaces, meeting, melding. Dust shows up on the coffee table. Heat hazes off the roof tiles. The bell rings again and the noise rises and is gone.
Charlotte sits, tracing unseen patterns on the bathrobe. Her hair has come loose, falling in places.
Cars and utes begin to pass, early knockoff from the abattoir, and I recognise the voices of men walking by. They have a jovial bark about them. Their work is over for the day and it is a Thursday, after all, payday, and on a Thursday men cannot help but start already, in a life measured in weekends. The room is cool despite the day.
I am standing in the kitchen drinking a glass of lemonade. From far off I can hear the clatter of hooves and the groan of iron-rimmed wheels on the bitumen. It comes closer, the hooves and the squeaking wheels and I go to the window to watch the Clydesdales and the carriage come along the road.
Lort Dory’s son is at the reins and bearded men and welldressed women are sitting up top, holding glasses of white wine and talking, looking over the houses to the old gold mines which Lort Dory’s son is pointing out to them. As the carriage rattles past they fall against each other and spill their wine and laugh.
The Clydesdales glisten with sweat and snort and shake their manes as a cloud of flies hovers and settles on them. One of the men looks down and sees me at the window. He holds up his glass and I wave and then all of them are waving to me, smiling and calling out. Lort Dory’s son looks over too and he grins and shakes his head.
A boy with a schoolbag is walking along the footpath on the other side of the street. He holds up a finger at the carriage and yells something I don’t hear. The faces of the tourists drop and Lort Dory’s son turns and glares at the boy. And the carriage goes but the boy stays standing there with his flushed and angry face and his finger held up, yelling after them and still holding up his finger and still angry and yelling even after they are long gone.
Friday, Spit doesn’t show.
When me and Roy arrive we see Wallace alone out on the vines.
What’s bloody Wallace up to? says Roy, rolling a cigarette.
I get out and walk up the row. Wallace is swinging a mattock and the thud sounds across the quiet of the morning.
You got some clumping? I ask him.
Yeah, he says.
He swings the mattock over his shoulder and brings it down into the clump. The vine shakes and the blade sticks in the wood. Wallace twists it around, trying to lever it off. I watch the vine.
Nah, you’re going to crack it, I say.
Wallace swears and bends over to pull out the blade. He puts the mattock down next to the open tar tin and takes off his hat, wiping his forehead.
You hear what happened last night? he asks me.
No, I say.
Wallace takes off his glasses and blows on them, flicking woodchips off the lenses.
Everyone’s talking about it, he says.
He blows on his glasses again and wipes them on his singlet. We stand there looking at the clump.
What happened? I ask.
Someone smashed the cop shop window, says Wallace. Put a pig’s head through it.
Jeez, I say.
Yeah, says Wallace, bloody pig’s head.
He picks up the mattock and swings it. The blade sticks again and Wallace swears, pulling it out.
Copper’s ropeable, he says.
I can imagine, I say.
Bloody pig’s head through the glass, says Wallace. Gone right through. Whole thing come down.
He kicks the clump and the vine quivers.
Of course he knows who done it, says Wallace.
I thought cop shop windows were made of some special glass, I say.
You’d think so, says Wallace.
I thought they was meant to be bullet-proof, I say.
Maybe they are, says Wallace. Maybe they’re bullet-proof, but they’re not pig’s-head proof, are they? Who ever heard of that, anyway? Pig’s head.
Wallace puts his glasses and his hat back on. He takes another swing and splices the clump through. He picks it up and throws it.
No witnesses of course, says Wallace. Even if there were, nobody’s going to come forward, are they? Copper’s made no friends in this town.
He takes the tar tin and brush and churns it up, smearing tar over the cut.
Besides, he says, no one wants to get on Brett Clayton’s bad side, do they?
He glances at me and falls silent.
Boss comes up lunchtime.
Iris needs someone for the garden this afternoon, he says.
He clears his throat and looks down at the ground.
She asked if Smithy could do it, he says to Wallace. You think you can spare Smithy for an afternoon?
Wallace is bent over, cutting a vine.
If that’s what Iris wants, he says. I wouldn’t say no to Iris.
Boss chuckles and leans back on his heels.
None of us can, Wallace, he says.
After lunch I go up to the house and through the garden, looking for Iris. She is in the prize rose garden bare-headed, her grey hair tied in a bun. She has a pair of secateurs in her hand.
Off with their heads! she shouts when she sees me coming, waving her hands in the air.
What’s that? I say.
I can’t bear to do it myself, she says, handing me the secateurs.
I look at the roses.
What, I say, all of them?
The whole lot, she says. We’ve got black spot.
Iris brings me a wheelbarrow. I begin in the prize rose garden where the flowers bloom on tall stalks in different colours and tints and blushes. Native bees are all about me as I work, hopping from flower to flower, crawling inside. They waft and buzz, the secateurs click and the sound of falling roses.
I move on to the other roses, freestanding in their beds along the paths. The plump yellow buds, the red roses and the limppetalled whites. They drop by my hand.
The roses stand in the full sun but the garden is cool. Dragonflies dart about the pond and the silver birches shine. Birds twitter and shuttle about in the shade.
I watch a honeyeater hover among the thin branches of a weeping tree, falling in small pink flowers. The bird feeds slowly from the flowers, hanging in the air, its wings lost to the eye. I cut the roses from the bushes along the front, massed in thick foliage. By the time I have finished the wheelbarrow is piled high.
I go and knock on the back door.
Where do you want them? I ask Iris.
Just throw them in the compost, she says.
But they’re still good, I say.
I couldn’t stand looking at them, Iris says. I just could not stand it.
I take the wheelbarrow out to the compost heap and stand there for a while, watching the cloud of vinegar flies swarming and crawling about the rotten and fast-drying pile. I go back to the house.
It seems a shame, I say to Iris.
Well, she says, that’s how it is.
She looks at me.
What is it, Smithy? she asks.
It just seems a waste, is all.
Iris laughs.
What? she says. You want them? You, Smithy? Well, help yourself. Be my guest.
Inside the house she is still laughing.
I borrow some buckets and move the wheelbarrow under the shade of the Moreton Bay fig. I sort through the roses, taking out the best ones and carefully placing them in the buckets. I fill three buckets and carry them home.
There is a note from Charlotte on the kitchen table. She says she has gone to a friend’s house and will be back later on. The note says please not to worry.
>
I get out Florrie’s vases but I cannot use them, as I did not cut the roses with any length of stem. I put the vases away and take out glass bowls and oven dishes and baking trays. I fill them with water and float the roses on the top. Petals fall and drift among the flowers.
I place the containers on the coffee table and mantelpiece, in a row across the glass cabinet, and in the bathroom. I put a large bowl of red roses on the dresser in Charlotte’s room. The house smells of roses.
I sit down and look at the clock. After a time I realise that I am waiting for Charlotte to come home. I take the bowls and dishes and trays and pour the roses out over the back fence. I go back into the house and rinse everything and set them on the drying rack. Then I sit in the living room, doing nothing. She doesn’t return until late.
Saturday I am woken early by the roar of engines. I hear a plane take off. It circles high above the town. And then another.
Charlotte comes out of her room frowning. She squints in the light, her eyes tired. I watch her as she yawns.
What’s all the racket? she asks me.
Looks like they’re spraying after all, I say.
Charlotte falls onto the couch. She rubs her eyes.
Spraying what? she says.
Locusts, I say. The locust plague. They must be headed this way.
Charlotte stretches and lies down on the couch. She puts a cushion under her head and closes her eyes.
That’s all we need, she says. They could have told us.
They did, I say. Government’s been warning about it for ages.
Charlotte groans and puts the cushion over her face, squirming about and kicking against the armrest. The robe comes loose and falls, showing her bare legs.
Why today? she says. Why do they have to spray the locusts anyway?
What? I say. Because it’s a plague, isn’t it. Wipe out the crops, the vines, the fruit. I seen it once before. Even eat the grass, leaves off the trees, plants, flowers, just about everything. Like that, I say, snapping my fingers. Gone.
Locusts get here, I say. Be nothing left.
A government man comes to the door wearing a blue suit and a badge, carrying a clipboard. He is young and his hair is slicked back and stiff and he is sweating. He starts telling me about the locust spraying.
Yeah I know all about that, I say.
He hands me some leaflets and writes down my name. Sweat drips from his brow onto the clipboard and paper, spotting the page and making the blue ink pale.
So you would know that pregnant women and families with infants are being advised to leave the area, he says. Did you know about that?
Well, what, should we leave too? I ask.
No, that’s not necessary, he says. It’s perfectly safe. This is just a precautionary measure. But that is the advice we are giving.
He closes the clipboard and wipes his face.
And if you have any pets you might want to keep them in the house today, he says.
So it’s not safe for animals, then, I say.
No, it’s safe, he says. Again, this is just a precaution, you understand. It won’t affect humans, animals. It’s not anything to worry about.
He taps his pen on the clipboard, looking down the street.
But not safe for the locusts, I say.
No, says the man. Not for locusts.
I walk over to Spit’s house to see what Belle is doing. People are out on the footpath with dogs on leashes, the dogs squatting on the nature strip. A man is at the side of his house shooing chooks into their coop and covering it with a tarpaulin. Cars pass quickly, and, despite all the people about and the rush and activity and the thunder of planes above us, there is something still and quiet about the place. I pass fresh dog turds and clouds of flies erupt and scatter. A woman stands in her front yard, calling for her cat.
All around the town hall and spilling onto the footpaths there are winemakers and farmers, standing in groups and talking, nodding and looking up at the planes and the sky. They are in grey suits and old sports jackets, brilliantined hair and faces like leather. Government men move among them in their blue suits and badges and clipboards. I see Charlotte’s father by the footpath. He doesn’t see me and I walk into the crowd before he does. On the other side of the town hall, Boss is talking to a group of vignerons. I go over to him.
Well, Smithy, says Boss. Hail-fellow-well-met. So what do you think of all this locust business, then? This government spraying?
It’s meant to be safe, isn’t it? I say.
The other men snort and mutter.
According to the government, it’s meant to be safe, says Boss. He looks at me with his grin.
There is talk all around, the whole crowd, the dry, slow talk of men who own land and work it. They agree with each other and argue with the government men, raising their voices and talking over them, answering their own questions and angry but not so angry that they do not laugh and talk amongst themselves, enjoying the day and the excitement of the day, of things happening, and there is something about the crowd of men, talking their lazy talk, something like a holiday.
You trust the government, Smithy? You believe what the government tells you? Boss asks me.
Government says one thing one day and another thing the next, says one of the men.
They all nod. The men are all of them like Boss, heavily built and powerful with long gazes and faces creased by the sun. They keep talking and looking up at the planes.
What’s all this about? I ask Boss.
Meeting, says Boss. Usual useless government meeting.
That’s right, say the men, nodding.
It’s the wine, says Boss. What we want to know is how it’s going to affect the grapes, with all this heavy spraying, this aerial spraying.
He watches one of the planes.
The government says it’s going to be all right, but I don’t know. I mean, what do you reckon? he says to the men. Didn’t have much in the way of hard facts did they?
Well they had plenty to say, but not much of substance. That’s my opinion, for what it’s worth, says one of the men.
They were being a bit evasive, don’t you think? says Boss. Would you say that? That they were being evasive? I mean, it seemed to me they were talking in circles. Seemed to be saying the same thing over and over again, didn’t they?
The others agree.
Well, that’s the government way, isn’t it? That’s where our taxes are going.
They pause to watch one of the planes pass overhead, its white fuselage moving across blue sky. The government planes are large and white and modern with twin propellers and they fly high up. Everyone stops to watch the plane and then the talk starts again.
The government already says the wine’s toxic, Boss says to me. They say it’s toxic from the spraying we’re doing already, the herbicides and fungicides. And, well, they tried to get it banned, didn’t they? he says to the other men. A while back.
The men nod. Their heads are bare and pale skin circles the tops of their foreheads.
So what we want to know, says Boss, is if the wine’s toxic from the spraying we already do, then what’s this locust pesticide going to do to the grapes? That’s all we want to know.
But the grapes are hardly out yet, I say.
Doesn’t matter, says one of the men.
The farmers and vignerons talk, looking up at the sky or down at their toes, kicking their heels against the gutter, their arms folded. It is an open sky and full sun. Light comes off the chrome of parked cars. The town hall is behind us, an old building of red brick and terracotta, a ragged gumtree towering over it. Magpies fly over the building and the crowd, birdcalls and men’s talk all together in the morning.
Boss looks around.
Well truth be told, he says. Well what I reckon is if what they’re saying is right then we shouldn’t be growing vines at all. No, he says to one of the men. Well you have to face facts, don’t you? The government says the wine’s toxic, but if we don’t s
pray then we lose them, don’t we?
Boss turns to me and grins. He folds his arms over his chest and rocks back on his heels.
I don’t know Smithy, what do you reckon? Think we should chuck it all in? Maybe we should. What did they say? he says to the men. Not fit for human consumption, wasn’t it?
That’s right.
The men are all looking at a government man standing close by. He is talking to a group of farmers. They are all talking at once, pointing fingers. The government man keeps opening his mouth to speak but he can’t get a word in. He looks at his clipboard as the farmers talk at him. The tree casts a long shadow over the lawn and the crowd. Branches sway, leaves flutter and the shadow moves. Light dapples the crowd. Men standing in the sun shade their eyes with their hands.
But if we chuck it all in, do you think the government’s going to compensate us? says Boss.
Not bloody likely, says one of the men.
I thought you would have known all this, Smithy, says Boss. I mean, it’s your living too.
Grab that bloke when you can, says one of the men, nodding over at the government man, who is backing away from the other group.
One government department tries to ban it, another one sweeps it all under the carpet, says Boss. Doing too well off our taxes. Ever heard of the government turning down taxes?
Boss grins his gummy grin, his mouth open. He turns to the men. They shake their heads and look at the ground.
And the exports, says one of the men.
Well that’s taxes too, isn’t it, says Boss.
He turns to me again.
But this locust stuff, this aerial spraying. What we’re worried about is it might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. I mean, we can’t have people dropping dead on us, can we Smithy? Even the government doesn’t want that.
One of the men scrapes his foot along the concrete.
Yeah, but since when’s the government done anything for primary producers? he says.
Oh well, says Boss. If the vintage gets ruined they’ll send in the social workers, won’t they. You see, that’s what they do, Smithy. Crops get ruined, farms go broke and the government sends in the social workers. Won’t put a cent in to keep the farms going. Let the farms go broke and send the social workers in. That’s the government solution.
The Vintage and the Gleaning Page 14