Fresh Fields (29 page)

The youth drifted to sleep a long time after the campfire had been left to itself and had sunk down to embers. He had a vivid sense of blood-red roses turning dark, and a black-haired, olive-skinned girl . . . Goodbye Rosalita . . . Goodbye Rosalita . . .

In the light of morning he had to decide what he would do.

Half his mind told him that going with Errol and Simon and Patrick was an opportunity to get out of the old groove of his life. He could take the Yellow Brick Road with them. The thought of it made him feel tingly and excited. He knew that something was being offered, something beyond a mere lift back to the city. It was like the Pleasures of India thing that he thought about sometimes—the sense of being in an exotic street full of mysterious perfumes and alluring doorways. It was very scary though. It meant opening yourself up and being vulnerable. Who knew what might happen? But that risk was the price of the pleasure. He wasn't stupid. He knew that nothing comes for free.

There were practical aspects to consider, too. His arm and shoulder and back were troubling him so much that he'd be struggling to get through the remaining fortnight of the job. He had three weeks pay in his pocket now, and could afford to just up and go if he chose.

He wondered what Diestl would advise, but knew the answer already. Do anything, as long as you fundamentally don't care. If you start caring, you start wanting to survive for the wrong reason—you start wanting to savour life, and then the world has you where it wants you. You have surrendered then. The only good reason to survive a bit longer is to get closer to the point of striking one good blow, of hitting the enemy hardest as you go down. But now the youth was toying with hopefulness.

“I thought you were one of my kind,” Diestl would say. “That's why I've kept saving you in the Tunnel of Love. But it seems not. You want strudel instead of steel.”

The bit about the strudel was the worst insult you could get from Diestl. The youth wasn't completely sure what strudel was, but he knew that wanting it more than the steel of the Schmeisser, or more than the long empty road, made you the weakest of the weak. And yet “weak” wasn't the right word. Diestl didn't despise anyone for being weak. He knew too well how cruel the world was and how it could frighten a person to their very core. What Diestl despised was a person who wasn't entirely weak, who had the potential to hit back, to make the world grin on the other side of its face, but who shirks the duty. It wasn't cowards he hated but turncoats, those who
could
choose steel before strudel but decide not to.

Just before breakfast the youth went across to Errol's van. The door was open. Errol was lounging on one of the seats with his hands behind his head and his feet up on a bench-top. At first he didn't notice the youth looking in. He wore only a pair of shorts and the youth could see how fit and muscled he was. He looked like a lightweight boxer. For a moment the youth felt scared.

Errol told him not to make any fuss about their departure, but to just bring his bag quietly across and stow it in the back of the car. Simon and Patrick had already put their bags in.

“Strictly speaking,” he explained, “we signed up for the full five weeks work. If you shoot through they blacklist you for the future. I couldn't care less, and I don't suppose you do either, but I'd rather avoid a scene with the Great White Hat if possible.”

The youth nodded agreement. He hadn't known he'd be barring himself from working here again. It gave him a pang of misgiving. He'd liked it, really. It was just his line of work. It would've been good to know he could come back another time, even have it as a regular thing each year. But he'd made his decision. Besides, with his sore arm and shoulder . . .

They left while breakfast was being served.

“Right,” said Errol as he closed the boot. “Let's move.”

The car was already hooked up to the caravan. Errol only had to disconnect the van from the camp electricity, turn off the gas cylinder and hop into the driver's seat. A few blokes around the camp looked, but no-one seemed interested.

As he and Simon and Patrick went to get in, the youth felt a moment of confusion.

“Um, who's sitting in front?” he asked.

“Well,
you
are, silly!” Simon replied.

“Talk about coy!” said Patrick.

The youth got in beside Errol, who was tapping a gauge with his finger.

“We'll need to stop in Weegun for petrol,” he said.

They drove out of the camp and then out beneath the Continental Cotton sign onto the public road. They drove beside the cotton fields for several minutes and the youth gazed over the endless pattern of green and brown. There was already a slight heat haze and the huge machines in the far-off compound shimmered. Errol had his eyes on the road and was fiddling with the car radio with one hand. Simon and Patrick were talking in the back. The road began to veer away until the cotton fields couldn't be seen anymore.

Simon and Patrick were discussing places in the city, especially somewhere called “Ricky Rascal's.” It was a nightclub or dancehall or something.

“We met at Ricky's,” Simon said, clutching Patrick's arm. “Didn't we, chook?”

“Yes,” Patrick replied. “I was cradle-snatched at Ricky's.”

“I thought you'd probably met at uni,” the youth said.

“Nah,” said Simon. “We'd been at the same campus for two years without clapping eyes on each other.”

“I suppose you would've studied 1066 at uni?” the youth said.

“What?”

“1066.”

“What's 1066?”

“King Harold and all that.”

“Who's King Harold?”

“Hastings and all the rest of it.”

“Who's Hastings?”

The youth figured they were having a joke, so he turned and grinned at them, to show he was enjoying it.

“Actually,” said Simon, “1066 has a delicious ring to it. Sounds like something you'd get at Ricky's.”

“Yes,” agreed Patrick. “I can just picture some slutty little baggage sidling up and saying, ‘Hello. I'm into 1066. Are you?'”

“And ‘King Harold' hardly bears thinking about!” cried Simon.

They clutched each other, giggling.

The youth forced himself to chuckle, while Errol looked ahead at the road with a preoccupied air.

“Actually,” said Simon, when they'd recovered, “you'll have to get Errol to take you to Ricky's. We couldn't live without it.”

“Or without the Green Door,” said Patrick.

“Or the Passion Pit.”

“Or the Velveteen.”

“Get him to take you to all of them!”

“Hear that, Errol?” said Simon. “We're getting you organised.”

“Good,” Errol replied. “I need organising.”

“And for God's sake get him some clothes!”

“Right,” said Errol. “Any more instructions?”

“No,” said Patrick. “But stay alert. We may think of something.”

The youth was trying to figure out exactly what the talk meant, what the joke of it was. Why would Errol take him to places? Why would Errol buy him clothes? It dawned on him that Simon and Patrick thought he was going to be Errol's boyfriend, the way they were boyfriends with each other. The youth wasn't stupid. He knew now that they were on together, though it had taken a while for the penny to drop. But they were wrong if they thought he was like that too. Or Errol. Errol didn't giggle and clutch arms, or roll his eyes and make pouty faces. And he never mentioned
sar-tra
or
nee-cha
. The youth thought of the moment when Errol had come back from the showers and made that gesture of fluttering his fingers through his wet hair. That had reminded the youth of Grace Kelly somehow, and so he'd got a bit tingly and aroused. But it was Grace Kelly he'd felt tingly about, not Errol. That was the important thing. It was Sweetheart it loved and yearned for. And if it couldn't be her, if it had to be someone you'd known in real life, well, he had Meredith Blackett to remember. He'd always have the sweetness of their time together. Nothing could ever take that away. But in fact he had Sweetheart herself, ever-present and ever-lovely, and as long as he had one photo of her, or one image of her in his mind, the world would be alright for him. Except when he was having the Tunnel of Love dream . . . The youth did not want to think of the Tunnel of Love dream just then, so he brought his mind back to Errol. You could tell how silly Simon and Patrick's chatter was by the way Errol half-ignored it, as though he couldn't be bothered even setting them straight about such nonsense.

The youth felt
he
should say something to Simon and Patrick. He should be the one to set them straight. Just a brief comment would do. Something like: “Gee, you blokes have got wild imaginations. All Errol's doing is giving me a lift back to civilisation.” And no doubt Errol would appreciate having it cleared up as well. After all, they were going to be in the car together for a few hours, and they didn't want any awkwardness. But just as he was getting ready to speak they arrived at Weegun and pulled in beside a petrol pump at the garage.

“I'm going for a pee,” Simon announced.

“Need any help?” Patrick asked.

“Could be.”

“Lead on then.”

The garage attendant came out and Errol told him to fill the tank, then started to check the oil under the bonnet. The youth felt he should offer to pay a share of the petrol. He took a couple of notes from his wallet, unsure of how much he should offer but anxious not to offer too little. He went over to Errol, bent under the bonnet, and bent beside him.

“Um, let me contribute towards the petrol,” he muttered awkwardly, proffering the two notes.

“Oh don't
you
worry,” Errol said, pushing them away. “It's those other two who'll need to kick in.”

“No, really,” the youth insisted, proffering the notes again, wanting to get the embarrassment over.

Errol made as though to push his hand away again, but then he closed his own hand over it and held it shut. The youth felt how strong a grip he had, but it was gentle, too. He looked up, into Errol's eyes. Errol moved his face closer and tilted his head to bring his lips level for a kiss. The youth could not move his head away because of the car bonnet, so he closed his eyes and held his own lips firmly together and stayed still, telling himself not to panic. He was surprised how cool and soft and pleasant Errol's lips felt on his. It lasted only a moment, then came the voices of Simon and Patrick returning.

The youth stepped quickly out from under the bonnet, his heart pounding, but feeling that he'd coped rather well. He knew his face had gone a bit flushed and he saw Patrick giving him a smirky look.

“And what have our two little grease-monkeys been doing under that big naughty bonnet, do you suppose?” he asked Simon.

At that moment a big-finned American car came gliding along the street. It slowed right down and the youth saw someone looking across at them from behind the wheel. The car looked familiar, but the youth was too full of confused feelings to think. He turned away and went round to the Gents to give himself a minute alone to get calm.

As he stood at the basin he heard a challenging voice outside, then other voices responding. He realised that the American car was Alf's big Pontiac, and that it was Alf's voice he could hear. He went out of the Gents and cautiously approached the corner of the building and peeked around the edge. The Pontiac was pulled up across the driveway with the front wheels slewed to one side and the driver's door open, and Alf was confronting Errol and the other two in front of the open bonnet of Errol's car.

“Who are
you
to be so high and mighty?” Simon was asking.

“Yes, what gives
you
the right?” Patrick demanded.

Alf ignored them and kept talking to Errol in a low intense voice. The youth heard the words “underage kid” being repeated.

Errol didn't reply. After a moment of silence he turned and put the bonnet down with a clunk and waved Simon and Patrick to get into the car.

The youth pulled back from the corner and stood against the wall of the building. He heard the car start up and saw the back end of the caravan glide forward and out of sight. He took deep breaths. After a minute he went round the corner and found Alf leaning against the Pontiac, rolling a cigarette.

“Ah,” Alf said. “How ya goin'?”

The youth nodded distractedly. He'd just remembered his bag had been in the boot of Errol's car.

“Um, them friends o' yours said to tell ya they had ta go. They was runnin' late, or somethin'.”

The youth was thinking of his bag, his White Book, his few belongings.

“Anythin' wrong?” Alf wanted to know.

“My bag's in their car.”

“Nah, it's here,” Alf replied, indicating the Pontiac.

The youth sighed with relief.

“I'm just headin' back to camp, if ya want a lift.”

“No, I'm okay,” the youth said. “I think I'll hang around in town for a while.”

Alf finished rolling his cigarette, lit it and blew out a long stream of smoke. He didn't seem in any hurry to go. He kept on smoking and gazed away at the sky. The youth gazed at the sky too.

“Ah well,” said Alf after a minute. “I better get back to me cookin', I s'pose.”

“Okay.”

“I just made a quick run into town to see how Teddy Bennett was doin'.”

“Ah,” murmured the youth, wondering who Teddy Bennett was.

“The news ain't too good. He had a bad turn last night. The doctor said he's goin' downhill fast and there's not much they can do except keep him comfortable. He's dopey from the drugs they're givin him and I don't think he's got much idea of what's goin' on.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said the youth, having realised it was Long John.