The Best Australian Stories 2012

by Sonya Hartnett

  ‘Just draw the garden or barbecue area that you would like to own. Maybe you would like a spa or a big fountain. Or a gazebo. Or lots of concrete and cactus and gnomes. If you want a monkey house, you can draw a monkey house. I don’t care. But on account of the rain, this is all that I need today for my assessment of your Certificate 1 Horticulture. Everybody who hands in a design will get an instant H1 credit for garden planning/cognitive mapping for Certificate 1 Horticulture. There are no rules to this project. But you’ve got to have a go and think about it and be honest. It takes a different sort of guts to do this, I know, but you will get credit for it, I promise.’

  I have lots of coloured pencils. I sit with them and draw a garden I would like to have one day – a small fish farm that recycles itself into a small vegetable garden. And a hermitage for my hermit, who I will point out to visitors but never, ever speak to face to face. And a large, bronze sculpture of an upturned foot, like a giant’s foot sticking out of the ground, that you can sit on, like a park bench. With a perfect view of the fish farm and the hermit being wretched and unkempt. Because that is what my visitors have come to see.

  The Children

  H comes to talk to me at lunchtime. He is having trouble getting to work on time because he has to take his kids to school. I call Laurel and write a passionate email to Corrective Services. I write, ‘The kids should be the priority here,’ and ‘who are we really punishing here?’ and stuff like that.

  I got a call from Laurel and it’s all official now – H can arrive late to work but he must work through lunchtime to make up for it. I stick my neck out for H.

  I find it truly amazing that I still like H even though I know all the truly horrible things he has done to animals, plants and people.

  ‘I’m such a good boss,’ I tell myself as I drive home over the Westgate.

  That’s All Well and Good

  Dee says he has been clean for three years. I overhear him telling H how good it is to be able to save money and go into shops and buy little luxuries and clothes and electronics whenever he wants. To not funnel all his time and money and energy into a black hole that just keeps getting bigger. Just so that he can stay well.

  H flails his hands up like a giant bird. ‘But isn’t there something missing? I’m on the methadone program too, but there are some times when there’s just something missing. Know what I mean?’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ says Dee.

  I walk past later and H has written down a list of dodgy doctors and a list of dodgy chemists, as a special favour to be redeemed later. They go on like this, like ants communicating in their secret language.

  I am really pissed off at H, and next time we are alone I will let him have it, but for now the damage is done.

  I Thought She Was Just Pleased to See Me

  I keep bringing in fruit from my garden and putting it in a big communal fruit bowl in the kitchen. Strange fruit – pepinos, babacos and tamarillos – but it remains uneaten for a long time. But then, this week, some of it is missing. I get excited at first, but then I realise that my students wouldn’t have eaten it. They would have told me they had eaten it or eaten it in front of me to get more marks on their assessment for Certificate 1 Horticulture.

  I think the Buddhists have been stealing our fruit. I saw the Nasty Old Buddhist Administrator as she was leaving and she had a pepino-shaped bulge in her trousers.

  It Was Like Some Sort of Secret Competition

  I have noticed that H is jealous of Dee, or is angry at him for giving up heroin. H is always suggesting dodgy doctors and chemists to Dee in case he needs to start using again. He always makes a point of talking about heroin when Dee is around. H is on the methadone program but he still uses. ‘Sometimes I just like to take a little holiday,’ says H. ‘Does that make me a bad person?’

  When I drive H to Bunnings to buy him overalls, I tell him to stop talking about heroin to Dee. ‘You hate him for giving up, don’t you?’ I say. I say it politely.

  ‘He hasn’t given up,’ snorts H. ‘You’re a nice guy, but you just believe every little thing ya hear.’

  ‘Well, I think from now on we have to agree that we can’t talk about heroin or dodgy chemists around Dee, okay?’ I narrow my eyes at him, to see if he sees that I am serious.

  ‘Ahhh,’ he says, covering his face with his hands.

  H understands my eyes, but not the situation. ‘Okay,’ he says, ‘I never would do anything to fuck things up. Sorry.’

  My Own Personal Golem

  H is late for work again. He has been down at the Sheriff’s Office, he says, brokering employment deals for my future. H says that he has been putting in a good word for me.

  H is continuing to leave work very early and arrive very late. He always has the paperwork to support his stories. He always gives me some sort of conspiratorial slap on the back as he is leaving each day. I have created a monster.

  I keep wondering if the criticisms of my program are becoming true – that somehow my students are taking advantage of my goodwill and trust-building exercises.

  A Monster

  I don’t know about H. He is doing my head in. I have created a monster. A golem. He comes in at 10.30 or 11 a.m. or 12 p.m. sometimes, but still expects me to sign him in for 9 a.m. All he does is make cup after cup of sweet, sweet tea. H gets stoned on sugar and flicks through the paper, just looking at the pictures – because he is illiterate, they told me at the Community Centre.

  I ask him, could he re-pot the lavender, sow all the vegetable seeds for the vegetable garden, clean the coffee cups and sweep the floor. ‘And if there’s any time, could you pick up papers in the car park?’ He keeps wanting to push the boundaries. We agree that he works through lunch to make up for being late, but then he somehow makes me drive him to McDonald’s. I sit with him near the playground while he eats.

  He gives me the seventy cents he borrowed a week ago. ‘You thought I had forgotten,’ he says, ‘but I always repay my debts. Some cunts don’t, but I do.’

  Brass in Pocket

  Laurel thinks that my clients are taking advantage of me; she says she is telling me as a friend. This makes me uncomfortable because I know we are not friends. I point out that I was employed as a horticulture teacher and the formerly disengaged students are learning about horticulture as per my curriculum or rationale or syllabus. Everyone is working hard and respecting each other so what’s the problem? I certainly don’t feel like my students are taking advantage of me. I feel like we are a team, that I have the support of my students. I feel like we are fighting for each other rather than against each other. I really do believe all this claptrap and bunkum and hogwash.

  I tell Jasmine about it but she is not amused. She agrees with Laurel. ‘They probably are taking advantage of you,’ she says, ‘but you just don’t know how yet. But you will and then it will be too late.’

  Maybe I am a soft touch; maybe they are taking advantage of me. I must come off sounding like a terrible hippy when I open my arms out wide, saying things like, ‘We can build trust’ in the kitchen of the Lutheran Church, as the rain comes down on a Monday morning in Werribee.

  Pirate Among the Pigeons

  H is preparing to take advantage of me, but of course I don’t realise this until much later.

  First, he says, ‘Do you know what my favourite show is? The Simpsons. Who likes The Simpsons? Know my favourite character? Bart. Because he gets away with everything. Who’s your favourite character on The Simpsons?’

  I give this serious thought. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Maybe Moe or Mr Burns. I like a lot of the supporting and cameo characters like Lenny and Disco Stu. Lenny. I think my favourite character is Lenny,’ I say. ‘Nuts,’ I say, in a little Lenny voice.

  Everyone talks about their favourite character on The Simpsons. Everyone has a go at their favourite catchphrases from their favou
rite characters.

  ‘I think I’ve seen every episode three times,’ says H, ‘because it’s the type of show you can watch again and again and again, even if you’ve seen it before.’

  Now everything is set up nicely for H, he is going to sell us pirate DVDs, and we are all ready to buy them. ‘Well listen,’ says H, ‘I’ve got heaps of Simpsons boxsets here, three for ten dollars. Take ’em home and if they don’t work just bring ’em back to me. I’ll give you some that do.’

  Everyone starts ordering pirate Simpsons boxsets and I take a little walk to the toilet until they have finished. I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything. Later on, I have a little talk to H. I tell him I don’t really care about whatever it is he is doing, just not to do it in front of me. Just don’t do it here. They haven’t said anything about it but I’m sure we are not allowed to sell pirate DVDs during work time. And I don’t even know who they are, but they will not be pleased.

  ‘So, just save it for down the pub,’ I say.

  ‘Sorry,’ says H, rubbing his hands against each other like he is trying to start a fire with them, rolling up little cigars of dirt in his palms. ‘I’d never do anything to get you into trouble,’ he says.

  H goes to the pub after work and moves the whole bag of Simpsons boxsets and gets orders for more. I overhear him telling Jay about it – he deliberately says it within earshot so that I can hear. H is a fantastic salesman – it is just something that he wants me to know. It’s like he wants me to give him extra marks on his Certificate 1 Horticulture or something.

  Vegemite Soldiers

  I go out in the morning in my pyjamas to warm up my yellow Mitsubishi L300 and I find Dee asleep in the back in my sleeping bag. I check all the doors and windows for forced entry but there is no damage. I can’t figure out how he got in but he is a professional, I suppose. He wakes up when I start the engine but only for a few seconds. It must all seem like a horrible dream.

  I go back inside and make some coffee and get dressed for work. It’s okay, I’m not going to get in trouble because Jasmine has already left for the day. I make Dee some Vegemite on toast. I cut the toast into thin Vegemite soldiers the way my grandmother did for me.

  I cut Dee’s toast in this way because I believe Dee missed out on lots of experiences like this when he was growing up. I believe the Vegemite soldiers will cause some sort of chemical reaction in his brain. I believe it will be a catalyst for good things to happen in his future. It’s only toast so I probably won’t tell Jasmine about it. It is probably something she doesn’t need to know.

  Dee is leaning against my car, having his first cigarette for the day.

  ‘I had a fight with me wife,’ says Dee. He smokes the rest of his cigarette and eats the toast at the same time. I must confess that I have never seen this done before. He tastes the coffee and is shocked that it is not instant coffee. He is not sure if he should drink it now or save it for later.

  He must think I am rich, I think.

  ‘This coffee works better than instant coffee,’ I say. I am relieved and proud that I know more about coffee than Dee does.

  ‘How did you know where I lived?’ I say.

  ‘Everyone knows where you live,’ says Dee.

  Later that day, I overhear Dee talking to ATM about the Vegemite soldiers and the real coffee that I made for him. ‘You should have seen the breakfast this cunt made for me,’ says Dee.

  Dee keeps referring to me as a cunt but I know that he means I am a good cunt and not a rat cunt or a dog cunt or a cunt rat fucking dog cunt or anything like that.

  Crack

  We are having our morning cup of tea in the ugly, ugly winter drizzle, sitting under the veranda so that they can smoke. Everyone is complaining about the rain but the truth is that everybody is much happier when it is raining because we don’t have to work.

  ‘Good weather for ducks,’ says H.

  ‘It’s good for the peas,’ I say. It is the second cup of tea for our second morning tea break. On days like these our morning tea is sometimes interrupted by lunch.

  H takes a cigarette out of his shirt and I notice that it has a little twist on the end like a joint. He has this funny look on his face like a naughty boy about to do something naughty.

  ‘H,’ I say, with a little menace in my voice, ‘is that a joint?’

  ‘Nah, don’t worry. It’s not dope. Don’t worry,’ he says with confidence, lighting it up, puffing away, ‘it doesn’t have any smell.’

  He takes short, deep little drags as it sizzles and burns down one side, all sticky and black and moist, burning blue smoke with a fizzle.

  Oh my fucking god, I think.

  I glare at H.

  ‘Nobody will know,’ he says, ‘for shizzle my nizzle.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I say, frowning and rubbing my brain firmly with one hand.

  H shrugs; he does not know what it means. Then he actually offers me the butt-end of whatever it is he is smoking.

  ‘Jesus, H, I can’t believe you’re doing this,’ I say, walking away in disgust. I can’t believe any of this. Jasmine and the women at the Community Centre were right – H is taking advantage of me.

  I don’t feel as though I can really rat him out to the Community Centre but I tell him that he has to go home for the day. I sign him out, saying that he is sick. He doesn’t go home right away, he makes a big production out of weeding all the peas and beans and making sure they are all supported. It is the most work he has done in weeks. It’s like having a baby elephant loose in the garden. He tries to engage me in a conversation about the peas but I stonewall him and then he leaves, slamming the side gate behind him.

  Fooled Again

  Later, when we are alone, Dee tells me the real reason H is late every day – he is out finding his morning taste. ‘You didn’t hear this from me,’ says Dee.

  Even though he is on the methadone program, H has to shoot up before he is well enough to come to work. Dee says that H’s wife takes the kids to school anyway. ‘Everybody knows that, even those bald bitches at the Community Centre,’ says Dee. ‘Why would they let you get sucked in like that? There’s going to be trouble now,’ says Dee.

  Dee says that H’s problem is that he is just too disorganised. Dee says that when he was using, he always planned his heroin use a few days in advance, unlike H, who never knows where his next taste is coming from. ‘He’s always got his hand out and his leg up,’ says Dee.

  ‘H is making a fool of you,’ says Dee, ‘you have to do something. Or they will come down here and do something. He’s going to fuck it up for everybody.’

  I feel really confused about Dee. I really thought he was interested in gardening, but now I realise it is just an easy work dodge.

  Like I said, at least we are all learning something new and getting some exercise and not hurting anybody.

  Debriefing H

  The next day I talk to H about using drugs at work and letting me down. H doesn’t really understand what the problem is. I try to see it from his side but I just can’t.

  ‘You can’t do it here,’ I say. I have to take a deep breath. I think I am getting asthma or something. ‘You have to wait until you get home,’ I say.

  ‘You think that got me stoned?’ he says. ‘That didn’t have any effect whatsoever.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I say. ‘You are an elephant, so you need more.’ H looks at me funny – he probably thinks that I am calling him fat, but I mean that he needs a big dose because he has built up such a resistance. Maybe he thought I meant he had a good memory; you would have to have a good memory to be such a good liar.

  ‘The thing is,’ I say, ‘I don’t want you doing that here. I don’t want you talking about it and tempting people with it. I don’t want you coming here loaded again. Otherwise you will have to find a different cours
e to do and we would really miss you here.’

  ‘You know what?’ says H, taking a step closer to me. ‘You do this funny thing with your eyes when you’re angry, that’s when I know I am really in trouble.’

  Positively Punitive

  I am really angry with H but it’s not like extra punishment is going to help him take fewer drugs. They are already watching him. I think about H’s children. I have to make things clear. The thing I am really pissed off about is that he did it in front of Dee and then offered him some. Dee just looked at me and shook his head.

  Later, I see Dee speaking very quietly and intensely to H about something and H waving his arms around and slapping himself in the head and the chest and the back of the legs. Then he tries to offer Dee his hand, but Dee spits on the ground and walks away without shaking it.

  Peas

  Laurel has sent me a crop of new students today. I talk firmly about working in a drug-free environment and I give a short talk to them about what is expected in case they have heard anything different from H or somebody who knows H. He keeps working really hard and breaking a sweat and looking over at me like a little puppy.

  H loves helping with the peas, or says he does. He loves helping the peas grab onto the string, although sometimes his act is a little wooden. ‘Look at their little hands,’ he says, jabbing his enormous sausage fingers into the tangled loom of peas. ‘I tied this string up here for them to grab onto,’ he reminds us. ‘I can’t wait to eat some of these,’ he claims, ‘straight off the fucken bush.’