Fresh Fields (25 page)

“What did he sack him for?” asked someone.

“For bein' a lair,” another replied.

“Somebody oughta front up to the bastard!” declared Long John. “Sackin' a bloke! One time I'd've had a go at him, no worries!”

“It ain't right,” said someone else. “Sackin' a bloke just because he reckons he's a lair. Who's he to say anyone's a lair?”

“He's the ramrod.”

“He's the fuckin' Hat-rack!”

“He's General Patton with pearl-handled friggin' revolvers.”

“And besides, that bloke
was
a fuckin' lair.”

“Yeah, there is that.”

The new driver went very sedately.

 

THERE WAS
what they called an ablutions block at the camp and it had an endless supply of hot water. The nozzles of the showers were broad and shiny and when you stood in the stream of water your whole body was enveloped in it. The showers were always crowded after knock-off and there was lots of talk and laughter and horseplay.

Later on, after the evening meal, the campfire would be lit. Two of the men had guitars and another a mouth-organ and they would play together. One of the guitarists liked folk music, the other was into rock'n'roll, while the mouth-organist only ever wanted to play “Swannee River.”

The folk music chap was the best musician, so he generally played and sang what he liked and the other two tried to follow along. There was a song called “Deportee” that he sang a lot. He said it was by someone named Woody Guthrie. The youth loved that song from the first moment. The tune gripped his heart and he thought the words were the most beautiful poetry he'd ever heard. He wasn't sure what it was about at first, but gradually understood that it told of Mexican workers coming illegally into America to pick fruit, and then being deported back over the Rio Grande:

 

My father's own
father

He waded that river.

They took all the money

He made in his life.

My brothers and sisters

Came working the fruit trees,

And they rode on the trucks

Till they took down and died.

Then there were some words in Spanish, and a part about being chased:

 

Six hundred miles

To that Mexican border

They chase us like outlaws

Like rustlers, like thieves.

 

Next there was the part about a lot of people dying:

 

We died 'neath your trees

And we died in your bushes.

Both sides of that river

We died just the same.

 

Then came the part that made it clear why the song had such a feeling of pain and disaster. It was about a plane crash, a plane full of those Mexican fruit-pickers being deported:

 

The sky plane caught fire

Over Los Gatos Canyon.

Like a fireball of lightning

It shook all our hills.

Who are all those friends

All scattered like dry leaves?

The radio says

“They are just deportees.”

 

The youth could not stay seated by the fire after hearing that song. He had to walk far off into the dark by himself, to think about the deportees going down in flames at Los Gatos, and the Anglo-Saxons going down under the arrows, and Harry Dale the Drover drowning in the flood, and the Bushranger riddled with a hundred bullets. The refrain of the song was “Goodbye Rosalita,” and in that name was all the beauty and sorrow of the world. It made you see vivid red roses, and then the roses darkened with tragedy . . . Goodbye Rosalita, Goodbye Rosalita.

After a long time out in the dark, seeing the campfire flickering in the distance and the men leaving it one by one to go to bed, the youth would feel cried-out enough to be tired. He'd go to his hut and lie on the bed and try to keep his thoughts on dark Spanish roses until he could drift away in sleep, but it was hard to block out the sounds that Long John made, specially when he sat up mumbling and coughing and reached for his tin to piss in.

 

THE TWO
uni students were usually working the nearby rows and the youth could listen to their conversations. It was only ever bits of conversation, but he began to piece the bits together. Their names were Simon and Patrick. They looked a lot like each other, except that Simon had black hair always neatly combed, while Patrick had an unruly mop of red hair. They talked a fair bit about
sar-tra
, and also about
nee-cha
, and sometimes about
hi-digger
and
shoppin-hower
. None of it meant anything to the youth but it sounded wonderfully intelligent and interesting and made Simon and Patrick seem like beings from another dimension. They also talked about films, though not just ordinary films. They liked “art-house films,” whatever that meant.

“Let's face it,” said Simon. “Beyond art-house, there's nothing remotely watchable.”

“Absolutely,” Patrick agreed. “Hollywood's a wasteland.”

Then he heard them mention a film he'd seen. The youth had gone into a cinema near Telford Square one time, in the afternoon, not knowing anything about the movie but feeling overwrought and wanting to be in a cool dark place for a while. The film had impressed him because it had been so strange and foreign—Swedish, it was, with people talking very intensely to each other and shots of snow on the ground—and yet he'd been able to follow it, more or less. He felt like calling out to Simon and Patrick that he'd seen that film and that it just went to show that outside art-house there's nothing remotely watchable and that Hollywood is a wasteland. He imagined being friends with them and having interesting conversations. He could discuss 1066. Being uni students they'd know all about that for sure. He'd ask them where they thought it had all gone wrong for the Anglo-Saxons. Were the tactics too negative at Hastings? Had the effort of Stamford Bridge been too much? Yes, he should definitely have a talk to them about it. They'd probably be glad of a chance to compare notes.

He reflected on how he could get into conversation with them. He needed to have a topic ready for when the chance came. He spent hours trying to formulate something just right, something he could memorise. A question would be best. “Excuse me, I've just been trying to recall. Of King Harold's brothers, was it Gyrth or Leofwine who was with him at Hastings?” And they would reply: “Oh, both of them actually, and of course it was the other brother, Tostig, who'd turned traitor and joined the enemy side at Stamford Bridge.”

Yes, a question about the brothers would do nicely. It felt good to have it up his sleeve.

At the moment, though, he was trying to think what “peons” were. Simon and Patrick were talking about “peons.” They were very amused with the word and were looking across at other chippers and giggling between themselves. It sounded like a really good joke. The youth wished he knew the gist of it. He kept a grin on his face in case they looked across at him, so they'd know he was on their level and understood how funny it was.

Then they burst into loud laughter. Simon had said something about ruling the peons with a big hat. Patrick replied that the Yanks were working on a new super-hat that would control the world.

The mirth stopped suddenly. Denny was coming along behind them, checking their work, his big white hat bobbing. He did not say anything to them. He stepped across several rows and went back to where Long John was lagging a longish way behind the broad line of chippers. He stopped and spoke to him and then the youth heard Long John's voice rising and falling. “Goin' like steam!” he said. And, “These young blokes today don't know they're born!” And then there was low mumbling that sounded like excuses being made. Denny stood with his hands on his hips, listening to the apologetic mutter, then he said something in a soft voice and walked back to his jeep and drove off. Long John watched him go, then called to the chippers nearby, “One time a man woulda told that mongrel where to stick his fuckin' job!”

But when the truck came at lunchtime, the youth saw that Long John could barely drag himself to it. His face was very red and his breathing harsh. The false leg didn't seem to be bending when it should and he had to keep stopping to bang at the knee-joint with his hand. When he got to the side of the truck he could not hoist himself up and the second time he tried he fell backwards and sprawled on top of some cotton plants at the end of the row. Panos and another couple of blokes helped him.

“Jeez, mate,” said one of them, “let's get movin' before the Hat-rack notices them busted plants and wants to dock yer friggin' pay!”

“Yes,” said Panos, in his soft Greek voice, looking around at all the men. “Best we go. We have seen no damage of Product, okay?”

There was a chorus of responses.

“Seen nothin', mate.”

“I was lookin' the other way, meself.”

“Glare o' that friggin' sun blinds a man!”

“I wouldn't know a busted cotton plant if I fell over it.”

“What, are there cotton plants round here?”

They helped Long John onto the truck, a couple of the men lifting him by the armpits from above.

“Once upon a time . . . a bloke woulda hopped up here like . . . like a flamin' sparra,” he said, “but that was when . . .” It was coming out slower and more slurred than usual and it trailed off without finishing.

Long John did not return to the fields after lunch. He was having a lie-down, Panos said. The work was too much for a man with a false leg. Simon murmured to Patrick that that might be a false premise, and Patrick replied that a false leg was nothing compared to a false premise. The men were discussing how Long John had lost his leg in the first place. Someone said he'd lost it in the Korean War. The youth was asked what he knew, being the room-mate. The youth was embarrassed. He didn't like the room-mate thing being mentioned in front of Simon and Patrick. They might think it meant that Long John was a friend of his or something. He felt like making it clear to everyone on the truck that he'd hardly spoken three words to the man, and that he kept out of the room as much as possible because of him pissing in the tin and stuff. But he just shrugged and kept his eyes lowered.

Someone said they'd heard Long John had lost the leg in a train accident.

“He accidentally left it in a train,” muttered Patrick.

“Along with his umbrella,” Simon shot back.

“And his premise,” Patrick answered.

The youth wasn't sure what “premise” meant, but he could tell it was a really clever joke and he chuckled, to show them he was still on their level.

When they returned to the camp they heard that Long John had had a bad turn and that Denny had driven him into town, to the base hospital.

“Poor old bastard's feet never touched the ground,” said one of the cook's helpers who'd seen him taken away. “As soon as they realised how bad he was they had him off company property like a shot. These Yank companies are always scared of gettin' sued.”

“How did he look?” someone asked.

“Turnin' blue in the face.”

“Did he say anythin'?”

“Nah, he looked unconscious.”

Later someone said that Denny was in the shit with the Yank bosses for letting Long John have a job at all. A man with a bung leg, and a bit long in the tooth as well.

“Must've felt sorry for him.”

“What, Shadrack? That'd be the day!”

“It's the Yanks who are the bastards.”

“Shadrack's a Yank himself.”

“No he ain't. He was born and bred at Mulangumby. He's no more of a Yank than you are. Mind you, his
hat's
from fuckin' Tombstone, Arizona!”

“And the hat does all the thinkin'.”

“That's right. They didn't give Shadrack the hat to wear. They hired
him
for the
hat
, because it needed a set o' legs to walk around on.”

“Anyone ever seen Shadrack without the hat?”

“Yeah, once, when the wind blew it off.”

“What happened?”

“He started runnin' round in circles like a chook with a missin' head!”

“Like a big chook, eh?”

“Yeah, an enormous chook.”

“Did someone put the hat back on him?”

“Yeah, after a while.”

“Why after a while?”

“We needed the eggs.”

 

THE YOUTH
had the room to himself after that. It was nice to have privacy again. He could get the White Book out of his bag and look at pictures of Sweetheart before he went to sleep. And when he woke he could have another session with her. It was so good to lie there in the first fresh light, gazing at her face. She was as sweet and natural and trustworthy as the morning. Nothing could change that. It went without saying.

Different photos in the White Book drew him at different times. For a while it'd been the one he called “The Lonely Princess,” an unposed shot of her at the opera. She is standing at the foot of a grand staircase with a program in her hand. Her hair is up and she's wearing a gown that shows the whole contour of her neck and shoulders. She is with a group of people—men in fancy suits and other women in ball-gowns—but they have all turned momentarily aside, so that she seems alone and ignored in their midst. How could those people be looking away, even for an instant? That picture called forth all the youth's tenderness. Even in the midst of the fame and glamour, she could be alone and unappreciated. Poor darling.

The picture he dwelt on now was the one he sometimes called “The Sword Maiden” and sometimes “The Highwayman.” She is having a fencing lesson and is dressed like a man, like the most beautiful slim graceful man you could imagine. Her hair this time is fastened back. She is wearing high shiny boots and has a ruff of lace at her throat. She has just removed her mesh face-guard and is holding it down beside her with one hand while with the other she flourishes her rapier in a gesture of salute. The photo is being taken over the shoulder of the fencing teacher and she is looking and smiling directly at him, which means that she is looking almost directly at you also. As ever, she's cool and poised and lovely. But there is something else. It is apparent that even in her blonde coolness she is flushed and excited. She is scared of the sharpness of the blades, even with the safety tips on, and of the desperate quickness of the swordplay—but her fright has brought her fully alive. You almost feel the hum of it in her body. He had no experience of such things, but he knew that at the moment of that photo she was in a mood to make love. That was why he found the picture so thrilling.