Fresh Fields

by Peter Kocan

  And the acceptance is in the gardener’s willingness to be the gardener. If he or she could choose, they’d probably rather be a great sports champion, or a world-famous beauty. But for better or worse those sites of the Battle of Honour are allotted to others. Being the champion is Ronnie Robson’s bridge to defend, being the beauty is Grace Kelly’s river to swim. The post that is actually there, to be accepted rather than chosen, is that of growing gorgeous flowers in a suburban yard. And though Ronnie Robson and Grace Kelly may never see those flowers, they are of the world made sweeter by them. And equally, though the gardener might never see Ronnie on the field, or Sweetheart on the screen, he or she is of the world made finer by the prowess of the one and the enchantingness of the other.

  The youth was sipping a milkshake in a cafe as he mulled for the fiftieth time over this notion of people in the world doing things for each other. It was, he told himself with the clarity of truth, The Great Reciprocation. He knew the word “reciprocation” because he’d come across it a few days earlier and had looked it up in a dictionary: “mutual giving and receiving,” it said. How amazing, to find that word just when it was needed to click everything into place! But of course he knew it wasn’t amazing at all. It was fate providing what was needed.

  These concepts of The Battle of Honour and The Great Reciprocation had armed him in a way he’d never known before. He began to see what a crude implement a Schmeisser was by comparison. He would have liked to confer with Diestl about it all, but he feared Diestl would be suspicious—especially of the bit about accepting joy as readily as disaster.

  A FEW nights later the youth came home to Delia’s house after dark and went to walk along the driveway to his room. There was a strong breeze that made the leaves rustle at the front, and he could hear it stirring and sighing in the tangles of vine down in the backyard. There were clouds moving fast in the sky, so that the moon kept going bright and dark as they swept across it.

  The sounds of the breeze were loud enough that the youth did not feel he had to tiptoe on the gravel. And besides, it was only about ten o’clock. In fact he had started getting out of the habit of tiptoeing past Delia’s lounge-room window. He’d decided that he had to live up to his new idea of accepting the good as readily as the bad. Delia’s presence in his life was about as good as a thing gets, and he knew he must try to be open to it. He must allow things to happen, to unfold, to “blossom” even. “Blossom” was a nice word and the youth had it in his mind a lot. It came, he supposed, from those thoughts about the flowers and the gardener. Acceptance was allowing things to bloom as they are meant to. Like at that walk they’d had to the bus stop. Look what had blossomed from that, and all because he’d accepted that Delia wasn’t going to let him wriggle free. And now, too, because of his insight about The Great Reciprocation, he could imagine that maybe Delia being in his life wasn’t totally one-sided. If she was in his life, he was also in hers, and surely that meant there was reciprocation. He must be doing something for her, even if it was only the tiniest fraction of what she did for him by just existing. She’d said that she and Sunny had talked about him quite a lot. That was a scrap of reciprocation. He’d been a topic, a talking point, a help to her in occupying an idle moment.

  As he came near Delia’s window, he heard a faint sound of music from inside. It was the old-fashioned New Orleans jazz that she loved. She and Sunny and the youth had had a little conversation about it the morning before when the youth had come on them lounging in their deckchairs in the backyard. The old-fashioned New Orleans jazz was the real thing, Delia said, because it had melody and was based on tunes that people knew and could sing along with or dance to. All that got thrown away later, and jazz turned demonic, like so much else in the world. All the good karma was in the old style. Louis Armstrong was a great karmic force, Delia declared, and one that she often recommended to clients as an antidote to demonic energies. The youth had enjoyed the conversation and had promised himself he’d get into old-style jazz and Louis Armstrong and all that. Maybe he could even buy himself a record-player. It was another bit of the reciprocation system—Delia giving him guidance about something that could enrich his life. There was no doubt about it: once you cottoned on to a profound insight like The Great Reciprocation, you saw it constantly at work.

  He paused near the window to try to catch the music properly above the noises of the breeze. The window was shut and the blind drawn, but the blind had a crease or curl at one edge, and this opened a space you could see through. The youth peered in. He could only see one side of the room, with the gramophone and the back of the sofa, and there was no sign of anyone there. The music was slow and sensuous. It was a saxophone playing, he thought. The youth looked up at the clouds and the moon, and listened to the faint, slow saxophone mingling with the rustling and sighings all around him. It all seemed to flow together and he felt calm and happy.

  Then Delia came into sight. She had on an Oriental silk dressing-gown. It was shimmery and clung to her body, and her hair was flowing loose. She was looking across the sofa at someone and speaking to them. She smiled and gave whoever it was a long level gaze. Sunny came around the sofa into view. He had on only a pair of white shorts. They kissed. It was a very long and slow kiss, and the youth thought he could see their tongues working at each other’s mouths. Suddenly he felt hot and excited and leant closer to the glass.

  As they drew apart, Delia lifted her hands and drew her dressing-gown from her shoulders and it fell with a motion as quick and smooth as water. She gave a shake of her hair and it moved like water too, but darker and heavier. She stood there naked, smiling at Sunny, and he smiled back. Delia put her hands on the band of Sunny’s shorts and began to pull them down off his hips. The shorts were bulging at the front and she eased them gently over the bulge and then let them drop on the floor. They kissed again, with Delia stroking the erection with her hand. The youth was erect too, inside his pants, and his throat felt so tight he could hardly breathe. He pressed closer to the glass. When the long kiss ended, Delia leant her bottom against the back of the sofa and moved her legs apart, then Sunny bent and began to position the end of his erection between her legs. Delia took it in her hand again, to guide it. She looked up and said something and Sunny gave her face a reassuring touch. Then they got their positions right and he slid into her and began to move quite slowly and gently.

  They both smiled again and gave each other more of the reassuring touches. Even half-choking with excitement, the youth thought how sweet of them to be so friendly. He knew about lovers being sweet and tender when they cuddled. He’d had lots of sweet and gentle times with Sweetheart, cuddling his pillow. But he’d always imagined that actual fucking was abrupt and frantic, that you got it over quickly because it wasn’t fair to the woman to make her put up with it. The sweet friendliness of this fucking was unlike anything he’d imagined. So was the fact that you could do it in a position other than lying down. And that the man got between the woman’s legs. The youth had vaguely assumed the man lay astride with his legs outside hers. He had assumed a woman’s opening was right up in front, but now he could tell, from the angle of the thrusting, that it must be further down between her legs. So that was how it worked. The woman held her legs apart to let the man in.

  How sweet, he was thinking, how sweet . . .

  He heard the crunch of gravel a split second before he felt the hand grab him by the shoulder.

  “What are ya fuckin’ doin’?” a voice bawled in his ear. “Ya fuckin’ pervin’, aren’t ya!”

  “No,” the youth said weakly, half-collapsed with fright.

  “Yes ya fuckin’ are, ya dirty little bastard!”

  The youth tried to step away but the man grabbed him by the front of the shirt and held him. It was all happening very fast, but to the youth it felt like horrible slow motion.

  “You’re not goin’ anywhere, ya dirty little hoon!” the man snarled, his face so close tha
t the youth could feel the spit.

  The man rapped loudly on the glass with his knuckles.

  “Hey, there’s somebody pervin’ out here!” he bellowed. “Hey, I’ve caught a fuckin’ perve!”

  The youth made another effort to pull away, but the man shoved him against the wall and pinned him there while he banged his fist against the window frame.

  “Hey, I’ve caught a perve! Phone the fuckin’ Jacks!”

  The blind went up and light spilled out. Sunny peered anxiously through the glass.

  “Hoy!” the man yelled to him. “Phone the fuckin’ Jacks!”

  Sunny peered harder.

  “Here he is!” the man said, pulling the youth away from the wall and into the light.

  Sunny was still adjusting his shorts with one hand. Behind him in the room Delia was clutching her dressing-gown tightly round her and looking shocked and frightened.

  It was obvious that Sunny couldn’t quite see who was outside. The man tapped on the window and made a gesture to him to open it. Sunny fumbled with the catch.

  “What is this kerfuffle occurring?” the youth heard Sunny ask as the window went up. And he saw Delia coming cautiously forward. In a moment they would be able to see who was there.

  He pulled away hard and got free of the man’s grip, then turned and ran.

  “Hey, you fuckin’ . . .!” the man yelled after him.

  The youth felt too weak in the knees to run properly and expected to feel himself being grabbed again. But he wasn’t. He heard Delia’s voice saying, “Is that you, Dave?” and, “What on earth’s going on?” He realised the man who’d grabbed him was the bloke from the end garage room, the night-shift worker, and he sensed that the bloke had vaguely realised who he was just as he’d pulled free.

  “The little bastard was pervin’ through the window!” he heard the man tell them. “Getting a good eyeful of somethin’, he was!”

  The youth had not known which direction he’d run. It turned out to have been towards the backyard. He got to the tangle of vines and paused, ready to make for the back gate. He listened carefully above the sighing of the breeze in the foliage. There was no-one coming. He could tell from the voices that the man was still at the window, explaining what had happened.

  From being like slow motion, everything turned to a rapid blur. His mind sped. He might just have a minute before they came down to the backyard. They might be taking a minute to phone the police or whatever. He must try to get his things from his room, right now. He ran to his door and fumbled in his pocket for his key, then grappled frantically to get it into the lock. He ordered himself to stop the panic. The door flew open and he flicked the light on and went in. If they came now they’d have him like a rat in a trap. He began to count the seconds under his breath and as he counted he got his bag and laid it open on the bed and put the few important things into it—the White Book, the old broken spurs of Clem’s, a couple of pieces of clothing. He tried to think what else, but panic was rising again: the words “get out, get out, get out” were chiming with the seconds as he counted them off. He was up to twenty-something seconds now. Or had he lost count and got confused? Where was his money? He couldn’t think. In his pocket? Yes! Go then!

  He shouldered the bag and went out, half-expecting to find them standing by the door. He could no longer hear voices along the driveway. Where were they? He ran to the back gate and entered the lane, then scurried as fast as he could along it, his ears pricked for any sound behind him. At the end of the lane he paused and looked along the street in both directions. He bolted down the street to the next corner, then turned left and ran to the corner after that. He stopped, out of breath. The police would be alerted by now. He didn’t know what the cops did when they got word of a perve. Did they arrive with sirens and flashing lights? Or did they creep up stealthily? Should he focus on being quick, or being careful? He was standing there too long. He began counting seconds again, to give himself a time frame. The panic was rising once more. The cops hate perves. That was common knowledge. The police probably give perves a good bashing when they catch them. And perves get bashed up in prison too. That was a well-known fact.

  Then a voice in his head said very clearly and calmly: “Start walking in a normal manner, and keep going till you’re out of the area.”

  He supposed it was Diestl, but wasn’t sure.

  He did what the voice said.

  HE HAD walked solidly for about an hour. The energy that shock and fear had given him had drained away and he felt exhausted, hardly able to keep lifting his feet. The breeze had gone and the air hung heavy and warm. The youth stopped for a minute to think. There were no people in the dark streets and only an occasional car went by. One of them was a taxi with its “For Hire” sign lit. He half-thought to flag it down, but he had nowhere in particular to go and would not know what to tell the driver. He wanted more than anything to lie down and was wondering where he might find a sheltered spot.

  “Good evening,” a voice said beside him.

  He jumped with fright. He was next to someone’s front fence and an old chap was standing in the shadows with a sprinkler hose in his hand. The youth had not heard the faint sound of the water.

  “They like a bit of a drink after dark,” the old chap said, swishing the spray onto some broad leaves so that it made a soft pattering sound. “Do any gardening yourself?”

  The youth had recovered enough to mutter, “No.”

  “I took it up when I retired,” the old chap said. “To give myself an interest. And then I got hooked on it. Wouldn’t be without my plants now. The thing of it is, they stay with you when everything else has gone—the job, the family. That all goes, one way and another. But the plants are always there.”

  The old chap didn’t seem to mind that a strange youth had come to stand at his front fence in the middle of the night.

  Suddenly the youth yearned to be like this old chap, to be seventy or eighty, to be on the pension and finished with everything except the plants that like a drink after dark and are always there. And to know that sometime in your sleep you’ll probably just drift away without even knowing it. Life was too hard and too complicated. And the complication, the youth saw, was in the moment-to-moment detail rather than in the larger scheme of it. You could think your way through the big scheme—or try to, at least—but the devil is in the detail. That phrase had popped into his head. He’d heard or read it somewhere. Yes, that summed it up: The devil’s in the detail. The devil suddenly jumps out of some casual-seeming moment, out of a trivial detail—like whether there’s a crease in the blind of a window—and before you know it a disaster has happened and can never be made to unhappen.

  He half-thought to ask the old chap whether he’d found life very complicated, and whether the devil had kept leaping out of the detail at him, and how he had coped with the whole tangle of it. After seventy or eighty years a person must know a thing or two.

  The youth wished someone would tell him, for instance, whether his life was the way it was because he was doing it wrong, or whether life just happened in certain ways no matter what you did. Was “life” more inside yourself, in the form of thoughts and feelings and dreads and decisions, or was it more outside, like weather conditions that you have to put up with or adapt to. He thought of Lawson’s “Faces in the Street.” Do the faces make themselves miserable, or is it the street that does it to them? A bit of both, he supposed. You do the best you can inside yourself, and you cope with the outside weather as best you can too.

  He might have asked the old chap about it, but he had walked on and the old chap was a couple of streets back.

  But of course he didn’t need the old chap’s advice. He had Diestl. Diestl had merged into step with him. The youth felt the weight of the Schmeisser, the roughness of the torn tunic, the rhythm of the limping walk. How familiar and comforting it was.

  “Where
have you been?” the youth asked in his mind.

  “I’ve been with you all the way.”

  “I didn’t realise.”

  “Your mind wanders.”

  “Yes, I know. But I’ve been thinking about interesting things. About The Battle of Honour and about The Great Reciprocation.”

  “They were good ideas. They’ll help you do what you need to do.”

  “Will they?”

  “Of course. That’s why those ideas came to you. Did you think it was all unconnected?”

  “I wasn’t sure.”

  “But now the situation’s laid out.”

  “Like it was for the lone Viking, and for Harry Dale, and for the Bushranger?”

  “That’s it.”

  “So everything is as it should be?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Is it very close now?”

  “You know the answer to that. You know the instrument is at hand.”

  “What if it gets sold? Anyone could walk into that shop and buy it any time.”

  “You know that won’t happen. You know it is meant for you.”

  “Yes.”

  “All the same, don’t get careless. Even if a thing is meant to be, it still has to be done. You might let them off the hook if you get sloppy about it.”

  “I won’t get sloppy.”

  “Good.”

  “I won’t let them off the hook.”

  “I know. If I hadn’t been sure of that I wouldn’t have stayed with you all this time.”

  “Thanks for believing in me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And for always coming to help me in that dream. The Tunnel of Love one. I still don’t quite understand what all that meant.”