by Peter Kocan
Then some talk began. Greg mentioned school, and Meredith said how fed up she felt there. It seemed to be a well-worn topic. Mr. and Mrs. Blackett reminded Meredith about prospects and the importance of having some. Meredith groaned and rolled her eyes.
“Oh, not again, please.”
“You don’t want to be without prospects, do you?” asked Mr. Blackett.
“Okay then,” Meredith snorted. “I’ll have half-a-dozen in a brown paper bag, thank you. And a pound of sausages as well!”
“Punna sosses!” cried the toddler. “Punna sosses!”
They found this amusing and the mood lightened.
The youth was able to slip away from the table and escape outside.
NEXT MORNING there was a single place set for him in the kitchen. He sighed with relief.
“It’s such chaos with us, breakfast time,” said Mrs. Blackett. “I thought you might find it pleasanter to have yours in peace when we’ve finished.”
While the youth ate his breakfast he could hear voices and bustle as Mrs. Blackett got Meredith and Greg into the car and drove off. She was taking them a couple of miles to a crossroads where the school bus would pick them up. From somewhere outside, the youth could hear Mr. Blackett talking to the toddler.
The youth finished his breakfast, rinsed the dishes at the sink and went outside. He looked at the flat land stretching all around. The sun was well up now and the last of the dew was drying in a slight wind.
Mr. Blackett and the toddler were nowhere in sight. Then Mr. Blackett appeared at the door of the big shed and called the youth over. The shed was full of tools and bits of machinery. Mr. Blackett had some kind of mechanism in pieces on the bench and was trying to do something with it with one hand while holding the toddler away from the bench with the other.
“Just fetch me that Phillips head screwdriver, will you,” Mr. Blackett said. The youth didn’t know what a Phillips head screwdriver was, but went to the shelf that Mr. Blackett pointed to and got the only screwdriver he could see there. He handed it across, and was told it was the wrong one. The youth went back to the shelf and looked again. He found another screwdriver and took it across. It was the wrong one again.
“Isn’t the Phillips head there?” Mr. Blackett asked, puzzled. The youth started to mumble that he wasn’t sure what a Phillips head was, but the toddler began to squirm and whine and Mr. Blackett got distracted. Then Mrs. Blackett arrived and took the toddler back to the house.
“Ah, peace at last,” said Mr. Blackett. “Now we can get some work done.”
The youth stood around, watching Mr. Blackett. He was asked to fetch this or that and mostly did not know what the item was, or what it looked like. He was asked to hold this or that in place while Mr. Blackett adjusted something or unscrewed something, and half the time he did not hold it properly or in the exact position. Everything Mr. Blackett was doing was a mystery. He did not grasp the process or the logic of any of it, and so could not understand which tool would be needed next, or which piece of metal would need to be held or adjusted. And the more he tried to concentrate the more confused and fragmented his thinking became. “Oh well, we all have to learn these things,” Mr. Blackett said when the youth had confessed to not knowing what a ballpein hammer was. When Mrs. Blackett came in cheerfully at mid-morning with tea and scones on a tray, she asked how it was all going.
“Oh well, we’ll get there eventually,” Mr. Blackett replied. “With the Lord’s help.”
Mrs. Blackett’s smile wavered when she registered her husband’s tone of voice and she gave the youth a glance of reassurance, but the youth understood that he was already trying Mr. Blackett’s patience.
That evening the youth sat at the family table with his eyes downcast and listened to the chatter. Meredith had had a bad day at school, she said, because another girl was spreading rumours about her. Meredith didn’t say what the rumours were. The youth sat staring at his plate and wondering what kind of rumours could be attached to Meredith, and hoping she would say more about it. Mrs. Blackett told Meredith she should ignore the other girl’s behaviour, or, better still, try to make friends with her. Meredith snorted at this. Then Mr. Blackett gave a quote from the Bible about forgiveness, and Meredith snorted again. Mr. Blackett told her she was not to be unseemly at the Lord’s table. The youth cast a quick glance at her face and saw that she was flushed and was biting her lip. Nothing more was said for a few moments, then Greg chimed in.
“She said you started it.”
“What?”
“Carol Metcalf said you spread rumours about her first.”
“She’s a liar!”
“You are!”
The toddler began screaming. Mrs. Blackett stood up and tried to shush him, while Mr. Blackett was saying something to Greg about not tormenting his sister. The youth watched Meredith stalk out of the room and slam the door behind her. Mrs. Blackett got the toddler quietened and asked who wanted dessert.
A little later the youth went outside. The sky was cloudy, but there was a moon partly visible and a breeze blowing across the paddocks. He went past the woodheap to the door of his garage room. He saw a shadow move and made out Meredith standing a few paces further on, gazing out over the flat expanse. He went to go quickly into his room so as not to intrude on her, but she had turned and was looking at him, the moonlight on her face.
“Why did you come here?” she asked.
“Sorry?” he said.
“I wouldn’t come here in a fit.” She didn’t sound hostile, just unhappy.
“I came for a job.”
“You came from the city, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I wish I could get to the city.”
“What would you do there?”
“Be a hairdresser.”
“Do you like hairdressing?”
“It’s alright,” said Meredith. “It’s a living.”
“Would you have to learn it?”
“Of course. You do an apprenticeship. My Aunt Patricia would take me on. She’s got a salon in the city. She’s told my parents that I can come down to her and learn hairdressing, and have a life in the city, but they keep saying I’m not ready to leave home yet.”
“How old do you have to be to do hairdressing?”
“I’m fifteen. I could leave school now and start as soon as I like.”
“I knew a girl who was a hairdresser,” said the youth, feeling very daring. “Her name was Polly.”
“Did you go out together?”
“Yeah. We sort of had a few dates and stuff.”
Meredith did not reply and the youth began to wish he hadn’t said anything about Polly. It was a bit too personal and also Meredith might be thinking he had made it up. The breeze strengthened and brought the sound of a creature bellowing from somewhere. The moon came out and lit everything up for a few moments. It embarrassed the youth to see Meredith so clearly and to have her see him. He began to mutter goodnight and to go into his room, but Meredith spoke.
“You could come to Con’s, if you like.”
“Sorry?”
“Con’s place in town. It’s a milk bar and cafe. There’s a jukebox. I go there on Sunday morning while my family goes to church.”
“Don’t you go to church with them?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t believe in it, that’s all. We had a lot of big fights about it. Now my parents and I have an arrangement. I go to town with them on Sunday morning, but if I don’t want to go to church I don’t have to. So I mostly go to Con’s.”
“Ah,” said the youth.
“You could come to Con’s too, if you like.”
“What happens there?” he asked.
“Nothing much. I play the jukebox a bit. Anyway, it’s up to you.”
“Thanks,”
he murmured.
“I’m going in,” Meredith declared abruptly. “I’m getting cold.” And without saying anything else, she went quickly past him and inside.
The youth stayed out there for a long time, gazing at the moon. He was thinking about what had just happened. He’d had a long private talk with a girl and she’d invited him somewhere. He reflected on it from every angle he could imagine. Yes, that was what had happened. He’d been asked out by a girl! He was part of the great flow of life now. He could feel the vibrancy of it in his veins and in the air around him, in the earth and in the moon. He had this forever now, this fact of having stood in the moonlight talking to a lovely girl about life and everything, and it couldn’t be taken away.
The longer the youth sat there, though, the colder and more remote the moon became and the emptier the night grew, and the glow of what had happened began to fade. He told himself what a paltry thing a brief bit of happiness is.
He went inside eventually and lay on the bed without undressing. He wondered how it would be if he gathered his things and left now, just walked away. Then he remembered that he had no money. He was trapped here at least until he got his first pay. He would stay quietly inside himself, he thought, and just go through the motions. He would not speak an unnecessary word or look anyone in the face. He would be beyond it all, like Diestl. Diestl! How could he have forgotten Diestl, even for an hour! It was Diestl who always got him through. The youth began to let go his grip on the quilt and to let his body sag on the bed. The bed was in a bombed-out house in a bombed-out village somewhere, and Diestl was just passing through and needed some shut-eye. The youth made the motion of settling the Schmeisser comfortably against his stomach where his hand could rest easily on it.
He began to picture the scene that often came to him: The Beautiful Girl Alone in the Village. This was not a scene from the movie, but one inspired by what the youth had learnt from Diestl’s journey. The scene could vary in its details but was always the same basic situation. The girl has been hiding somewhere like a bombed-out cellar and comes to Diestl in her loneliness and fear. The two of them lie side by side for a few hours. Then Diestl gets up before dawn and leaves the village and the girl forever. The scene was painful and yet consoling. It said that there was no turning from the path that the Diestls of this world must walk. But it also said that now and then, when you least expect it, there might be a moment of sweetness and consolation. The price of that occasional sweet moment, though, was that you never try to prolong it or make more of it than it really is. If you try to prolong it, or enlarge on it, you are breaking the agreement you have with life—and life will punish you by not letting the odd sweet moment happen anymore. It was quite simple and fair, the youth thought.
MR. BLACKETT wanted to attend to an irrigation pump that was giving trouble. There was no school that day and Greg was home.
“Get the Clanger, son,” said Mr. Blackett. Greg ran off to a shed and there was a sound of an engine starting and he drove out in an old stripped-down car. It had no roof or doors or windscreen and there were rust holes along the sides. Mr. Blackett slung a toolbox in the back and got in beside the boy. The youth squeezed in beside him. They sped off across the paddocks, the wind in their faces. The youth soon understood why they called the car the Clanger. Whenever the gears were changed, there was a loud metallic clang. But it didn’t seem to have any bad effect on the way the car ran. Greg was a good driver, the youth thought, although he had to sit on the very edge of the seat to reach the pedals. They came to a big artificial ditch with a pipe running along it and some kind of pump half-submerged in water. They got out of the Clanger and Mr. Blackett began to take off his boots and socks. He rolled his trouser legs up.
“I’ll come in with you, Dad,” Greg said, starting to remove his shoes.
“That’s alright, son,” Mr. Blackett replied. “I’ve got my paid off-sider here.” He gave the youth a look. After a moment, the youth realised he was supposed to go into the water. He took his shoes and socks off and rolled his trouser legs up too. Mr. Blackett got his toolbox out of the Clanger and waded across to the pump. The youth followed gingerly. The water was cold and there was a current that made it swirl around his knees. But it was the feel of the bottom that worried him. It was soft, squelchy mud. He wondered what creepy-crawlies might live in mud like that. Mr. Blackett asked the youth to hold the toolbox for him. It was heavy and the youth’s arms began to ache with the strain of it almost at once. He tried bracing it against his thigh and that wasn’t so bad except it meant that he had to stand twisted at an awkward angle.
“Dash it!” said Mr. Blackett. “I’ve left the multi-grips back in the shed.”
“I’ll get them, Dad,” cried Greg. He had the Clanger started and was off in a moment. They watched the car going away. It hit a bump and they saw Greg bounce up out of the seat and then heard loud revving as he shoved his foot back on the pedal when he came down.
“That boy is what you call a real live-wire,” said Mr. Blackett. “Don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” said the youth politely.
“It makes you wonder what work the Lord has in store for him.” Mr. Blackett took a spanner from the box and began loosening a nut on the pump. “Do you ever wonder what work the Lord might have in store for you?” he asked.
The youth said nothing.
“I think the Lord would be concerned about you at the moment.”
The weight of the toolbox and the twisted way the youth was standing were starting to become unbearable.
“Do you know why?” asked Mr. Blackett.
“Sorry?”
“Do you know why the Lord would be concerned about you?”
“No,” said the youth. He wanted to adjust his stance, but was afraid of losing his footing in the mud.
“I’ll tell you, shall I?”
“Alright,” said the youth.
“Because you seem to be at a loss. You’ve seemed that way the whole time you’ve been with us.”
The youth tried to reposition his feet carefully in the mud.
“Do you feel that yourself?” asked Mr. Blackett, who had stopped using the spanner and was examining him.
“I suppose so,” said the youth.
“You suppose what?”
“What you just said.”
“What did I just say?”
The youth felt insulted. Did this man think he was too stupid to know what was being said to him? Just because a person doesn’t like to get into private issues, and tries not to respond when someone else starts getting personal, that doesn’t mean they’re too dumb to understand. He looked Mr. Blackett in the eye and spoke very clearly.
“You said that the Lord might be concerned about me because I seemed to be at a loss, and that I’ve given that impression the whole time that I’ve been here.”
Mr. Blackett seemed taken aback. He began using the spanner again and then they heard the Clanger returning. Meredith was at the wheel. She alighted and came to the edge of the water with a pair of multi-grips. She had on shorts and a T-shirt and her legs and feet were bare. She waded across to them and dropped the multi-grips into the open toolbox. The jolt of it nearly made the youth lose his grip. He just managed to regain hold of it before it could tip sideways and the tools spill out.
“My fault,” said Meredith, quickly bending to help him.
Between them, they got the box back up to waist height. Meredith’s hand was clamped over his underneath the box and her shoulder and bare arm were pressed against him.
“Whoa there,” said Mr. Blackett. “That was a close one. Have you got it?”
“Yes,” said the youth. “But I need to put it down for a sec.”
He and Meredith waded side by side to the bank and put the toolbox down. The youth didn’t know whether to be relieved at having the weight of it off his muscles at last, or bereft at Meredith
taking her hand and arm away. She watched him rubbing his thigh.
“Did I make you sprain something?” she asked.
The youth shook his head.
“What happened to your brother?” Mr. Blackett asked Meredith.
“Mum needed him,” she answered. There was something abrupt in her tone.
“Oh well, not to worry,” said Mr. Blackett. “We can work you just as hard.” He gave a hearty laugh as though trying to smooth away her abruptness. But Meredith didn’t smile or bother to glance in his direction. Instead she continued to look at the youth.
“Sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I’ll just give the multi-grips to your dad.”
He bent to the toolbox but Meredith pushed his hand aside, picked the multi-grips up, waded briskly in and across and handed them over, then turned and splashed her way back.
“Thanks,” said Mr. Blackett, turning to the pump with a troubled expression and tinkering with it again.
“Come for a walk,” Meredith said to the youth.
“Can’t,” he replied. “I’m supposed to be working.”
She took him by the elbow and pulled him forward.
“We’re going for a walk,” she called to Mr. Blackett as they went away along the bank. The youth walked carefully because of his bare feet and being worried about creepy-crawlies on the ground.
“Oh, okay, sweetie,” said Mr. Blackett.
There were some beautiful trees growing alongside the irrigation ditch. They were thin and tall and upright, but very green, and they rustled in the breeze and the light glinted off their leaves. Meredith said they were poplars that her grandparents had planted.
“Your whole family tradition is here then?”
“Yes.”
“Does it feel nice, to know you belong so much in a place?”
“It does, sometimes.”
“And yet you want to get away.”
“I’m not asking for a voyage to the moon. Just to go to the city and be a hairdresser. I mean, I’d be coming back for holidays. It isn’t such an extreme demand, is it?”