The Simple Gift (9 page)

Truth and beauty

I walked into the

Railway Hotel

and put $20 on the bar.

I said to the waitress,

‘Keep the beer coming

until there's nothing left.'

She took the money

and replaced it with

a big cold glass

with the froth

trickling over the lip

and I thought

how beautiful is a drink

that hasn't been touched,

the deep radiant colour

burning gold,

the bubbles dancing

ballet-perfect to the rim,

the sweet-bitter smell

of malt and barley.

I lifted the glass

and downed it

in one ignorant gulp

and I called for another

as all thoughts of

truth and beauty

washed from my mind.

Old Bill's fall

In 1993

my ten-year-old daughter Jessie

fell out of a tree

and landed bad

in a coma

in the District Hospital

and for twelve days

my wife and I

sat beside her.

I held her hand

and told stories

about our holidays together

and what she'd say to us

at dinnertime or

early in the morning

when she'd climb into bed

with my wife and I.

I talked to her

so she'd remember

and wake up

and we'd go back home

as if nothing had happened.

The doctor came

with the form for us to sign

and I couldn't,

not for another four days.

I sat by Jessie

and waited.

My wife signed

and handed me the paper

and I held Jessie's hand

and signed with the other.

They switched off the machine

and Jessie lay there

for hours

still not moving,

then she died.

I went home and

took to the tree with an axe.

I was there for hours

mad with rage and pain

and God knows

that tree fell …

But look at me.

Kids fall out of trees

all the time.

They sprain their ankle,

or get the wind knocked out of them,

but my Jessie,

my sweet lovely Jessie,

fell

and I fell with her

and I've been falling

ever since.

And this pub,

this beer, these clothes,

this is where I landed.

The house

My wife died one year

to the day after Jessie.

She died of signing the form.

She died of making me sign

more than she died

of driving drunk

and a roadside gum tree.

After the funeral

I moved to the carriage.

I closed the door

to our house,

left everything as it was

and walked away.

The house remains

and I sometimes think

I should sell it,

or rent it,

but the thought of a family

within those walls,

people I don't know

within those walls …

I go there sometimes

to sit in the backyard

and remember.

I mow the grass,

then I walk back

to the Hilton

and get so drunk

I sleep for days.

I sleep, and

I don't dream.

Comfort

Back at Wentworth High

I never talked to girls,

I hardly talked to anyone.

Sure, I answered questions from teachers

and occasionally I'd talk

to some guys I'd known for years.

But I didn't have any friends,

I didn't want any.

I had books and Westfield Creek

and I had days spent

in my bedroom reading

and avoiding my father

attached to his lounge,

his television

and his smelly unkept house.

So living in this carriage

is special, it's mine

and I keep it clean

and I read to give myself

an education that Wentworth High

never could

and I think of Caitlin

and how we fell asleep

on the picnic

so comfortable

and I don't know

what she sees in me.

I hope it's

someone to talk to

someone to look in the eye

knowing they'll look back.

Old Bill and the ghosts

Old Bill and me are friends.

Sometimes he comes into

my carriage and we share a beer.

He asks me questions

about my day

about the books I read,

he never asks me about family.

He gives me advice

on how to live cheap,

and how to jump trains

late at night,

and how to find out

which trains are going where,

and which trains have friendly guards.

He encourages me to travel,

to leave here

and ride the freights.

He makes it seem so special,

so romantic,

and I ask him

why he doesn't do it,

you know,

if it's so special,

and he tells me

about his Jessie

and his wife

and the house he visits

when too much drink

has made him forget

and how he's afraid to forget

because without his ghosts

he's afraid he'll have nothing to live for.

And at that moment I know

I am listening to

the saddest man in the world.

Lucky

No more taxi rides home

after McDonald's.

Billy walks with me.

Billy and the half-moon

and perfect stars.

We walk the long way

down Murdoch Avenue

and across the City Ovals.

The dogs bark

and each house glows

with a television light.

I tell Billy about school

and Petra, Kate,

and the drudge of exams.

Billy has become the diary entry

of my days. He holds the secrets

of every long session of Maths

and the crushing boredom

of Science on Thursday afternoon,

and as I tell him all this

I don't feel rich or poor,

or a schoolgirl, or a McDonald's worker,

or anything but lucky,

simply lucky.

Dinner

Dinner in our house

is always the same.

Mum's perfect cooking

and Dad's favourite wine.

He and Mum drink,

talk about work,

ask me questions about school

which I answer quickly

so as to change the subject.

Once a week

Dad brings up the topic of university

and a career for me.

His favourites are Law

and Medicine,

Mum's are Teaching and Business.

I tell them mine are Motherhood

or joining the Catholic Church

and becoming a Nun.

This usually shuts them up.

We eat in silence

and I think of Billy

in the carriage

waiting

for my shift to start at McDonald's.

I forget all about

careers and education

and the dreary school world.