Fresh Fields (12 page)

It began to get late in the afternoon and he felt very hungry. He left the book on the table and his bag on the chair and went out and bought a dry bread roll and a small carton of milk. He took these back to the front steps of the library. It was quite high there and you could see out over the city. There was a large park next to the library and another imposing building away on the far side of it. The air was turning cold and the youth shivered and finished off the last of the roll and milk and went back inside into Dickens's world, which was a strange far-off place and yet at the same time the actual world you were shivering in right now.

The daylight faded from the skylights high above. The electric light came on. The youth read some of the time and then to rest his eyes sat observing the people. There were enough of them to make the place seem occupied without being crowded. At eight forty-five a gentle voice came over a speaker announcing that it was fifteen minutes to closing time. The youth was one of the last to leave. A young woman librarian stood at the bronze doors to see people out. She wished the youth a good evening.

He stood on the library steps for a longish time, then began walking aimlessly. There was a long uphill street with many lights and flashing neon signs at the top of it. The youth went that way. As he got closer to the bright lights and neon he noticed women standing in doorways and at corners where dim side streets ran off. The youth kept his eyes averted and quickened his pace. He heard one or two of them murmur to him but he did not quite catch what they said. He felt horribly self-conscious. Just ahead of him a girl emerged from a doorway and drifted across the footpath. She was young and slim and wore a short skirt, black stockings and high-heeled shoes. The youth didn't dare look directly at her, but he saw she had blonde hair cut short like a boy's. She touched him on the arm as he drew level with her.

“Want a girl, love?” she said. For an instant they were looking straight at each other. The youth felt both stirred and stricken. The girl realised how young he was and stepped back. He strode on faster, then began to run, dodging around people. The momentary touch on his arm was still sending electric currents through him. He ran till he came to an intersection all garish with neon. He had to stop to wait for a break in the traffic and as he waited he tried to gather his thoughts. The women in the doorways must be prostitutes, and the girl who'd touched him had been offering to have sex. The youth didn't understand the exact details of having sex, but the thought of hugging and fondling that girl filled him with desperate feelings. Then he felt enraged that she'd interfered with him like that. He'd always minded his own business! Couldn't he walk along a public street in peace? It wasn't fair! He should have given her a look of such utter disdain that she'd have reeled back as from a blow from the butt of a Schmeisser. Diestl would have. The youth let himself go limp in the shoulders and his gaze grew blank and distant. He felt the rage fading away into cold contempt. He felt the familiar weight of the Schmeisser. It was all very simple, the youth reminded himself. If someone was a real threat you killed them. And you did it quickly and without it being personal. If it wasn't a serious threat you ignored it. The youth saw it clearly now. Like Diestl with that French girl from the farmhouse, the one who'd come to him wanting to be held because she was so lonely and scared. You just give them a blank look, then you limp on past them down your long road alone.

He walked on through the glow of the neon signs, past other women in other doorways. He came to darker, quieter streets and then the neon was far behind. He was in such a mechanical rhythm of walking that he didn't want to stop, even though he felt tired. Tiredness was good. It tranquillised you. He realised he was back in the business area of town and that it was practically deserted. He began to make mental notes of spots where it might be possible to sleep. There were dark laneways that might do. He had a worn old piece of blanket in his bag, and the bag itself could be used as a pillow. In Diestl's terms that was almost luxury. He let the Diestl mood slip off. It had served him well again, had got him through.

Passing a lane, he saw a building site a little way along it. There was a digging machine parked, and piles of debris, and what looked like a big wooden crate. He went along the lane. It was dark there, away from the street-lights, and he had to let his eyes adjust so he could examine the crate. It was empty, and big enough for a person to lie down in. He wondered if he was tired enough to settle in the crate for the night. A torch suddenly shone on him and a gruff voice asked him what he was playing at. The youth shielded his eyes and tried to see past the glare of the torch. Two uniformed men came forward. They were security guards.

“What's your game?” one of them demanded.

“Nothing.”

“What's in the bag?” the other asked.

“Nothing.”

“Out doin' a bit of thievin', are you?” said the first.

“No.”

There was a pause while they looked him up and down with the torch. He hadn't tried to run away and he didn't look like the sort of kid who wanted to be a tough guy.

“Piss off then,” said one of the men. “And don't let us catch you skulkin' round here again. Understood?”

The youth said he understood. He walked back down the lane to the street and passed the security company car at the kerb. He remembered that he'd vaguely noticed a car like that pass him in the street before. They must've had their eye on him, and had seen him turn down the lane. That was really scary. It made you feel you weren't safe, not even alone in a deserted street at night.

Ahead, the youth saw the clock-tower of the main railway terminal. He went into the big hall of the country and interstate trains. There were a few people sitting about on benches with their luggage beside them. One small kiosk was still open and an occasional announcement came over the loudspeaker. He went to a bench and sat down. It was just after eleven by the big clock.

The youth felt hungry. He counted his money and found he could afford a sausage roll from the kiosk. He decided to wait. He noticed that there were two or three people lying on benches with bags or coats under their heads. He eased himself down full-length with his bag for a pillow. It was good to be lying down, but his mind was not at ease and he didn't feel like dozing.

He came alert to the sound of shouting. The police were removing a drunk up at the far end and the drunk was yelling and trying to resist. They got him out and the noise died away. The youth saw that the kiosk had closed. It was cold and he would have liked to use his piece of blanket but thought it might make him look too much like someone using the station as a place to sleep rather than just waiting for a connection. He then saw that the policemen had come back into the hall and were speaking to people on the benches and asking to see their tickets. The youth got up and hoisted his bag and walked away as casually as possible.

He found a phone box in the park across from the railway terminal. The park was dirty and stale, but it was dark amongst the gnarled old trees and he couldn't see anyone lurking about. The phone box's light was broken and so there was nothing to draw attention to it there in the shadows. The youth went in and swept the floor with his foot to make sure there was no broken glass, then sat down. He couldn't straighten his legs, and the shelf above his head made him keep his neck slightly bent, but he was by himself and out of sight and that was the main thing. He took his piece of blanket from his bag and draped it over himself. He became aware of a bad smell in the box. Like dogshit. He hoped he wasn't sitting in any of it, and that it wasn't getting on his piece of blanket. But he felt too tired and cold and cramped and depressed to care all that much.

He wasn't aware of sleeping but he must have dozed for long periods in between his twisting attempts to find a bearable way to sit. The dawn light was seeping into the park. He had a splitting headache and his whole body ached, especially his knees, neck and backside. He felt conspicuous with the light brightening, and there were increasing sounds of traffic. His mind was sluggish and he could not think where to go. He needed some food, and a drink of water. He decided to go back to the station. The daily bustle would be starting now and he could mingle with it. And there was a toilet there to use.

On the park benches nearby sat several derelicts. They were old-looking and had dirty overcoats on, and broken shoes with no socks. The youth glanced at them from the corner of his eye, then looked away in case he was giving offence. One of them got up and lurched towards him and began to speak in a harsh, gravelly voice. The youth was scared but forced himself to glance up as though he wasn't too bothered.

“Go on!” said the man. “Go on!” He was staring at the youth with raddled eyes.

“Sorry?” the youth said.

“Go on! Get out of it!” the man almost yelled. He loomed closer. “Go on, get out of it! Yer only young! Yer don't want this!” He waved his arm, taking in the whole park, or maybe the whole city. “Get the fuck out of it! Go and have a decent fuckin' life!”

The man swayed for a moment, then walked on unsteadily, his broken shoes scuffing the ground.

It took a couple of minutes before the youth could get his legs to work properly. He hobbled to the station toilet and splashed water on his face and drank a little out of his cupped hand. A man with his face all lathered was having a shave at the next basin. He boomed a cheery good morning and the youth muttered good morning back. The man wanted to have a conversation about how good it felt to be alive, but the loudness of his voice echoing in the tiled lavatory made the youth's head hurt. He felt so hungry he could hardly bear it. He went across to a kiosk and asked for a sausage roll. A young woman behind the counter snapped that he'd have to wait until they were ready to serve. He sat down on a bench and waited. A bit after six o'clock he went back to the kiosk and got a lukewarm sausage roll and ate it too quickly. He'd have liked to get a small carton of milk too, but he didn't dare spend the money.

The station gradually became busy. The only plan the youth could think of was to return to the library and spend the day there. It reopened at eight-thirty, he knew, for he had made a point of checking the notice outside the doors. He went out of the station and trailed through the streets and waited on the front steps until the bronze doors opened. He got
David Copperfield
off the shelf and went to his place at the big table and tried to read. But he couldn't focus on it. He leant forward with his head resting on his arms, but that didn't help. He was thinking about the dogshit smell in the phone box. He wondered whether he had that smell on him and was stinking the place out. He looked at people out of the corner of his eye to see if they were looking at him. They didn't seem to be, but then he wondered if they were deliberately
not
looking at him.

He left the library and went to the large park alongside. It was called Foundation Park. It had paths and trees and statues. The youth was looking for a spot to lie down. He found a nice patch of grass between a big spreading tree and a statue of Henry Lawson. He remembered how one time at school a teacher had recited a poem of Lawson's. It was called “Faces in the Street” and the youth had liked it. It was about someone studying the looks on the faces of people as they go past his window. One or two lines came back to him. The day was cool but sunny and the grass felt dry, so he put his piece of blanket down and lay on it and went straight to sleep.

He felt so hungry when he woke that he went immediately to a shop and spent the last of his money on a meat pie and a small carton of strawberry milk. The pie was a bit runny and the pastry wasn't very strong and it kept sagging in his fingers. Finally, half the pie fell on the ground. He drank the strawberry milk carefully so as not to waste a drop.

The youth did not know what to do. The imposing building on the opposite side of the park from the library turned out to be the State Art Gallery. He thought of seeing if it cost anything to go in, but wasn't sure he'd be allowed in anyway. He had never been in an art gallery and didn't know how they worked. Maybe only toffs were allowed in. Besides, there was the thing about the dogshit smell.

He made his way slowly back through the city to the railway terminal, going through the grubby park where the phone box was. He looked into the box and saw the smear of something running up one wall. He tried to think whether he would have touched that part during the night.

The youth sat in the crowded terminal. It was quite late in the day. Making contact with his mother was the key thing. That meant phoning Mrs. Stott to see if she had heard anything. But he didn't have the money for a call. He wondered whether he should walk to the Miami, but Bankington was a fair distance, and he didn't really feel up to it. Besides, he was scared of meeting Mr. Stavros. And it'd be for nothing anyhow. Why would his mother go out of her way to ring the Miami after she'd got the sack? And it wasn't as if she was aware of his situation. As far as she knew he was up in the bush having a great time.

The noise of the train announcements was giving him another headache, so he went out of the big hall and into the street. The evening peak hour was starting and there were lots of people coming to catch trains. The youth wondered whether he could ask someone for some money. Just enough to ring up. But he knew he couldn't do it. All those Oncoming Looks were too real. It wasn't like in the poem, where the faces in the street are passing a window behind which the watcher is snugly hidden.

The youth felt so much at a loss that he thought he might cry.

“It isn't that bad is it?” said a voice beside him. There was a nicely dressed man with a briefcase.

“Pardon?”

“From the look on your face, anyone would think you hadn't a friend in the world.”