Fresh Fields

by Peter Kocan

  A brick structure stood outside the compound and gave off a faint hum. Maybe it held the generator that sent the charge into the fence, the youth thought. It had no sign warning not to touch, so he gingerly put a fingertip on the brickwork. Nothing happened. He sat down with his back against it and opened the copy of Family Realm he’d brought with him. It had a piece in it that he liked, about sewing, with pictures of embroidered blouses that made him think of Russian peasant costumes.

  He began to daydream about a summer afternoon on the Russian steppes, of being alone in that vast solitude. What would be over the horizon, he wondered, if this really was Russia? He imagined birch forests, and churches with onion-shaped domes of gold, and beautiful intense girls with names like Natasha. There was the fabled city of Samarkand. Or was that more in China? He had a vague notion of caravans of camels going to Samarkand. Did they have camels in Russia? Surely it was too cold for them there. How patchy his knowledge was. It was all bits and pieces, not a seamless cloth. That was the thing, to have a seamless cloth of understanding. That’s what going to uni gave you, he supposed. It was what Simon and Patrick had. He felt bad that he had no deep knowledge about anything in particular, except maybe about 1066, having reread Year of Decision so many times. He told himself to read more books, to take stock of life and the world. He made a mental note: Take Stock.

  Sitting upright against the brickwork made his arm and shoulder ache again and he was drawn to a bush a short way off beside the wire fence. It had dense foliage and made a pleasant patch of shade and the grass there was too short to hide snakes. He lay down in the shade and closed his eyes and listened to the leaves rustling. The magazine lay open beside him. He would rest his eyes for five minutes, then go back to those blouse designs with their Russian look. And while he rested his eyes he would think about a beautiful Natasha . . .

  A voice was speaking to him. At first he thought he was dreaming it, but he realised his eyes were open and he was staring into the green of the bush. He went to sit up and scratched the side of his face on a prickle.

  “Hi there. You okay?” A white utility was beside him, and a man was leaning out of the driver’s side. “You seem to have drawn some blood,” the man said, pointing.

  The youth felt his face.

  “I’m alright,” he told the man.

  The man was looking him up and down without being too impolite about it. “Do you know you’re on private land here?” he asked.

  The youth replied that he was from the chippers’ camp and had come for a walk to see the giant machines.

  “Ah, I see. Well, we don’t normally encourage folks to mosey round the Company’s property too much,” he said, not sounding angry or hostile, but just a bit wary.

  “Sorry,” the youth said, getting to his feet and brushing himself off.

  “It’s not that we mean to be inhospitable.”

  “No, I understand.”

  “There’s a dandy little first-aid kit here,” the man said, opening his glove-box. “Let’s see if we have anything for that scratch of yours.” He handed the youth a sealed packet. “That’s an antiseptic pad, I think.”

  “Thanks,” the youth said and went to put it in his pocket.

  “You tear the end off.”

  The youth tore the end off and found a wet pad. He dabbed at the scratch. It stung.

  “It smarts a little, I guess?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that probably means it’s doin’ some kinda good.”

  “Yes, thanks for that.”

  “I’m goin’ your way—past the camp, I mean—if you’d like a ride.”

  The youth felt awkward and would have answered that he was okay and didn’t mind the walk, but he thought maybe this was the man’s polite way of telling him to get straight back to where he belonged. He picked up his magazine and got into the vehicle. It had the logo of the three intertwined “C”s on the doors and was very shiny and new, and inside there was a pleasant smell.

  There was something impressive about the man too. He was distinguished-looking, with greying hair and bushy eyebrows. He wasn’t just a security guard or something. He must be one of the big bosses. You could sense that he was rich. You could tell it by all sorts of things—the way his fingernails were so clean and pink, the heavy gold wrist-watch, the fine material of his blue shirt, the grey cloth of his trousers, the gleaming brown boots. The youth pressed himself against the door so as not to contaminate the man’s space. He felt like a dirty peon, a deportee.

  “So how do you like our little operation here?” the man asked.

  “It’s good.”

  My father’s own father

  He waded that river . . .

  “You’re a country boy, I guess?”

  “No, not really.”

  They chase us like outlaws,

  Like rustlers, like thieves . . .

  “Well, the weather’s holding out for us.”

  “Yes, it’s been nice.”

  We died ’neath your trees,

  And we died in your bushes . . .

  “You find the work okay?”

  “Yes, I don’t mind it.”

  The sky plane caught fire

  Over Los Gatos Canyon.

  Like a fireball of lightning

  It shook all our hills . . .

  The youth felt like crying for the broken bodies in the canyon, and for the broken bodies on the hill at Hastings, and for all the others everywhere. He suddenly thought of Long John sprawled in the dust of the road that day beside the truck, unable to haul himself up. There was something about being in this spotless vehicle with this nice man that made you feel tight in the throat and on the verge of sobbing out loud.

  Who are all these friends

  All scattered like dry leaves?

  The ute slowed.

  “I’ll set you down here, if that’s okay.”

  “Thanks,” said the youth, his voice muffled.

  The man turned and looked at him and spoke softly.

  “Are they treatin’ you right, son, down there at that camp?”

  “Yes,” the youth replied. He had tears running down his cheeks from thinking about all the people scattered like dry leaves.

  “You sure about that?”

  He nodded yes.

  “You can always talk to Denny Russell, you know. He’s a real good guy. If anyone was beatin’ up on you, or any kinda thing like that . . . And there’s Rita, too, and she’s a real understandin’ lady. If you feel like havin’ a talk with either of ’em, you tell ’em I advised you to. Okay?”

  “Thanks,” said the youth, wiping his cheek with his hand.

  The man’s deep voice grew even softer.

  “We’ve all been where you are, son, every one of us, especially round your age. But it gets better. It might not seem that way from where you’re standin’ right now, but it does.”

  “Thanks.”

  The man put out his hand.

  “You take care now, son.”

  They shook hands and the youth hopped out and watched the ute pull away.

  The man gave a wave and there was a flash of sun on a gold ring.

  9. THE KISS

  The youth trudged the remaining distance back to camp and lay on his bed. The aching soreness had come back and he dozed fitfully until he heard shouting and laughing. It was the men returning from the pub in Weegun. He stayed dozing on his bed for most of the Sunday as well.

  On Monday he was hoeing his row when Denny came up to him and asked, “How’re you findin’ things?”

  This was the first time Denny had spoken directly to him and the youth wondered if he had found fault with his work.

  “Going alright, I think,” he answered.

  Denny pushed his big hat back on his head and put his thumbs in the waistb
and of his jeans, as though to show he was relaxed and not in any hurry to go.

  “You made friends with Gus on Saturdee, I hear.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Gus Gordler. The big boss.”

  “I didn’t actually get his name.”

  “He said he came across you at the machinery depot.”

  “Ah, yes. Is that out of bounds?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well, Gus wasn’t concerned about that. He just asked me to make sure you’re okay, that you aren’t havin’ any problems in the camp or with the other blokes.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I told Gus you’re a very good worker, which you are. And that you’re not a smart-arse.” He glared across to where Simon and Patrick were. “Unlike some.”

  “He seemed like a nice bloke.”

  “Gus? Yeah. He is,” Denny replied, turning back slowly. “Got no tabs on himself. Always has me and Rita to his barbecues. Likes a barbecue, Gus does.”

  Denny gazed around at the chippers and adjusted his hat and the youth expected him to move on. But he lingered.

  “He was a bit dubious when he first saw you lyin’ there beside the electric fence. Didn’t know if it was a dead body or what. He said it suddenly brought a few things back to him. Gus was in the Company’s operations in South America, and over there they’ve got Marxist guerrillas, sabotage, the lot. Over there there’d be Company men with tommy-guns guardin’ those machines. Anyway, when he drove across to check on you he didn’t know what to expect. Then he found a young fella asleep with a cookery book open beside him.”

  The youth half-thought to correct him that it was sewing, not cookery, but he didn’t want to interrupt. This was too interesting.

  Denny was scuffing at the soil with the toe of his brown cowboy boot, deep in reflection. “They killed his wife, you know,” he said softly.

  “Pardon?”

  “The Marxist guerrillas. Gus and his wife were in the wrong place at the wrong time and there was a bloodbath. His wife and five others were shot dead in front of his eyes.”

  “Jesus,” said the youth.

  “That’s why Gus was posted over here. To give him a quiet life for a while, and a chance to adjust.”

  “They must really hate the Yanks, then, over there.”

  “They hate ’em everywhere,” snapped Denny. “Here too, even. I get sick of hearin’ these no-hopers mouthin’ off against the Yanks. I’m on the Yanks’ side a hundred per cent. The Yanks are about makin’ things happen, producin’ things, bein’ efficient—and about makin’ somethin’ of yourself as well. Most people are bums, lazy bums who’d rather grizzle for fifty years instead of gettin’ somethin’ goin’! I grew up among grizzlin’ bums, and I’ve had it all me life! It’s either grizzlin’ bums or pukin’ little smart-arses who think the world’s only there for them to have a fuckin’ giggle at! People hate the Yanks because the Yanks show ’em up as the total fuckin’ losers they are!”

  His voice had got loud and there was no mistaking how angry he was. Simon and Patrick were bent over their hoes, working intently. The youth felt scared too.

  “Anyway,” Denny said, forcing himself to calm down, “I told Gus I’d have a friendly word with you. Like I said, you do good work and you’ve got a good attitude. I wouldn’t mind havin’ a few more like you. Keep it up.”

  He walked back along the row to where his jeep was, then got in and drove off.

  A couple of the blokes on the other side called across to the youth, to ask him what had got up Shadrack’s arse. The youth shrugged and called back that he had no idea.

  He thought about what it must be like, having to be the ramrod to blokes who think you’re a jumped-up little prick and a Yank toady, and some of whom would punch you black-and-blue if they thought they could, and who you in turn despise. He saw Denny differently now. The abrupt little man was trying to serve an idea much larger than himself, was trying to wage a noble fight against the endless no-hopers’ grizzle of futility that would cover the whole world if it wasn’t held off. The things that got him laughed at behind his back—the big hat, the jeep, the binoculars—were part of the fight. They were the warrior’s equipment. Of course blokes would laugh at those things. That’s what bums do, Denny would say—they laugh at what is noble and dedicated. And yet it was a bit harsh to call people bums and smart-arses, just like that, as though those words conveyed everything about them.

  It all cuts too many ways, the youth thought, to be that simple.

  It was like Gus Gordler’s wife, and those others, being gunned down. There were sorrows on both sides, and it wasn’t just the poor deportees who were scattered like dry leaves.

  Both sides of that river

  We died just the same.

  The youth’s arm and shoulder got worse with every day on the cotton rows. And the more he tried to spare them, the more strain it put on other muscles. His back was always aching now. He found it difficult to sit upright for any length of time and did not stay late at the campfire. He would go to the room and stretch out on the bed in the least uncomfortable position and hear the sound of the talk and laughter from outside. The glow of the fire came through the window and made flickery patterns on the ceiling. The youth reflected that this was how it’d been for Long John when he lay there, staring up, the stump of his leg raw from the day’s chafing, the false leg unstrapped on the floor, the piss-tin under the bed.

  It was good, though, to be able to lie back in the flickering dimness and listen to Keith, the folk singer. Being in the room, away from the others, you could let your tears flow free if the songs brought them out.

  Keith was a fixture at the fire. He always had his guitar with him, and at some point, when the talk and banter had died down and blokes were starting to stare quietly into the flames, someone would say, “Bugger this! Give us a song, Keith.” And each night Keith went through five minutes of stage fright before he got properly started. He would pick clumsily at the guitar strings and mutter that the tuning wasn’t right, or he’d break off after the first few words of the song, saying that he had a sore throat and probably wouldn’t sound too good. The chap with the mouth-organ would offer to play “Swannee River” to break the ice. So Keith would strum along with the mouth-organ and start vaguely singing the words and by the time “Swannee River” was finished he’d be into his flow. The mouth-organ chap’s playing was pretty bad, really, but no-one minded as long as it got Keith going. When Keith was in his stride he’d do the songs like a real pro. They were mostly about poor farmers being evicted, or factory workers being sacked or underpaid, or hobos being beaten up by the railroad cops, or coalminers getting killed in faulty shafts. As Keith got going you’d sense the emotion rising in him and his voice would get stronger and his strumming more emphatic. The youth thought the songs were true and sad and stirring, but he also saw why Denny might call them the glorified grizzles of bums and losers. The suffering was laid on a bit too thick. Even “Deportee” was like that, the youth realised. But Keith sang a few songs that had a tougher tone. They told of striking workers getting guns and shooting back at the police, or of bank robbers who always made a point of destroying the mortgage papers in the vaults and so became folk heroes. Yeah, that’s more like it, the youth thought.

  After a while Keith would leave off the plight of the workers and begin to lighten up. He’d sing songs like “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain,” songs that everyone knew and could sing along with.

  Not everyone gathered round the fire in the evenings. The camp had sorted itself into various groups and circles. The caravan people were a whole separate tribe.

  The biggest, flashest caravan belonged to Alf, the camp cook. Alf travelled the country all year long, cooking for shearers, fruit-pickers and cotton-chippers, and when there weren’t seasonal workers about he’d hold ove
r in some town for a few weeks as a pub cook. He was a bald-headed bloke who never smiled or made conversation but had a set of stock responses he’d give to various remarks. If someone asked what was in the stew, Alf would say, “Dingo baits! Just for you!” Or if someone wondered what was for dessert, he’d snap, “What the cat dragged in!” But his favourite retort was the Like-it-or-lump-it one, as in:

  “What’s for breakfast, Alf?”

  “Like-it-or-lump-it pie!”

  Or: “What time will lunch be, Alf?”

  “Like-it-or-lump-it time!”

  Or:

  “Where’d you learn to cook, Alf?”

  “Like-it-or-lump-it college!”

  Alf was known as a bit of a comedian, but the youth thought he was very depressed and just wanted to be left alone to do his work. It was hard being a camp cook. You were always on duty and had to do three meals a day for maybe dozens of people, plus morning and afternoon teas, and you had to do it with whatever stoves and fridges and facilities the place had. And the cooking had to be good and varied enough to keep people reasonably happy. No-one feels more friendless than a camp cook that everyone’s disgruntled with.

  One of Alf’s offsiders had to leave for the weekend because of a family matter and Denny asked the youth if he’d like to make a little extra money by filling in as Alf’s dishwasher. It was hard work, manhandling the pots and pans in the sink, especially with a sore shoulder and arm, but the youth got by.

  Alf generally hunted people away from the cook-shed, but the stint as dishwasher gave the youth the right to hang around. You could make yourself a cup of coffee, or have a taste of the apple crumble, or sample a scone, or just enjoy the cosiness of the kitchen. It was interesting to watch Alf work. His face would be tight with concentration as he poked and fiddled with six different pots and pans on the stove, and with other things in the oven. At the same time he’d be rolling out dough, or slicing up fruit, or mixing jelly or custard. Whenever he had a free moment he’d go out to the back step, fling his arms wide, throw his head back and make groaning noises. They were stretching exercises, but it looked as though he were appealing to heaven for help. Then he’d shrug and come back inside to concentrate again for a while.