The Vintage and the Gleaning (2 page)

Wallace stands there polishing his glasses.

George Alister, he says to Roy. He was a mate of yours, wasn't he?

That's right, says Roy.

Roy gets up and walks around in a circle, stretching his back and neck. He takes one of the shovels and sits back on the tray, looking at the blade. He swears and chucks it overarm and it lands sticking in the ground. He pulls out another one and looks at it.

You going to the funeral? Wallace asks.

I am, says Roy.

When's the funeral?

Wednesday, says Roy.

Morning or afternoon?

Morning.

You taking half-day off then or full day?

Dunno, says Roy.

May as well take full day, says Wallace. What they got after the funeral? A wake? Something like that?

Something like that, says Roy, throwing the shovel.

What, says Wallace, widow's place or down pub?

Down pub, says Roy.

Which pub? asks Wallace.

Imperial, says Roy.

Imperial, says Wallace. That where George Alister drank then, was it? Imperial?

Nah, says Roy. He spits on his fingers and runs them through his hair. He drunk at Crown or Poachers.

Well, what they going to Imperial for? asks Wallace.

Sometimes he drunk at Imperial, says Roy.

Roy pulls another shovel out of the ground and looks over the blade and slides it down next to him.

The boys are coming down the road and we watch them. They are pushing and punching each other, laughing and groaning when they get punched. Their heads are down and their long hair falls over their faces. They are trying to punch each other in the gut. Wallace swears.

Hurry up, he yells.

The boys keep shouldering each other. One of them lands a punch and the other one comes after him, feinting and then punching him hard on the arm. They tussle and lean into one another and then push each other away. They come up grinning.

You're late, says Wallace, holding out his watch. I should dock you.

Yeah, but it's miles away here, says one of the boys.

You knew where we was, says Wallace.

He stands there looking at the boys. They grin. Wallace looks hard at them.

I ought to dock you, he says. Next time I'll dock you.

Wallace stays staring at the boys. The boys grin back at him. He kicks one of them in the foot.

What'd I say Friday? Wallace says.

Dunno, says the boy. Probably some bullshit story.

Wallace holds out the back of his hand and the boy ducks, still grinning, his stringy blond hair falling over his face. The boys don't wear hats. They wear T-shirts and tight, faded jeans.

Boots, says Wallace. I told you I wanted to see you wearing boots today. Both of youse.

Didn't get them, says the boy. He is picking at the skin on his sunburnt arm.

Why not? says Wallace. I told you meself, didn't I? I told you Friday. Last thing. Friday knockoff.

Couldn't afford them, says the boy. He peels a long piece of skin off his arm and looks at it.

Whadd'ya mean you couldn't afford them? says Wallace, pushing his glasses against his face. What about your pay? I gave you pay-packet meself. Thursday.

The boy is looking at the piece of skin, holding it up to the sun. It glows.

Spent it, he says.

What? says Wallace. All of it?

Pretty much, says the boy. He tosses the skin and it flutters to the ground. He takes a shovel and stands both feet on it, twisting it into the dirt.

Wallace is standing there hunched over, his scarred and callused hands held palms up. He watches the boy. Wallace's hat is pulled down tight, the brim touching his big, thick glasses, his oversized jaw jutting out. Wallace's jaw is too big for any man and with his hat on Wallace's face is nothing but glasses and jaw.

What on? says Wallace. What you spend it on? Whole bloody pay.

Dunno, says the boy, trying to balance on the shovel as he churns it into the soil. Booze. Tea. Had tea from the shops Friday night. Chicken and chips. Fried pineapple. Coke.

Well, says Wallace. Booze. Tea. What else you spend it on?

Mostly booze, says the boy.

He falls off the shovel.

Wallace looks at his watch and swears, peering over at the road. He watches the boy, looking at his sneakers. The boy is back on the shovel and he is trying to jump it out of the ground.

Well, don't you come crying to me, says Wallace. Don't come crying to me when you cut your toes off.

I'm not gunna, says the boy, jerking about on the shovel.

That's what you say now, says Wallace.

He looks at his watch again.

Where's Spit? he says to me.

Don't ask me, I say.

You reckon he's going to show?

I shrug.

I'd say it's a no-show, Wallace, Roy says.

Wallace swears. The boy comes off the shovel again. He pulls it out of the ground and grips the handle like a cricket bat and swings it at a dry clod. He makes a whooshing sound as he swings. The clod explodes into a cloud of dust which thins and hangs and is gone.

Well, says Wallace, looks like Spit's not showing then.

Wallace goes over to the ute, wiping his hands on his shorts. He puts his mattock over one shoulder and a shovel over the other.

Righteo, says Wallace and he goes into the vines.

We take our shovels and we follow him.

Somewhere in the distance the sound of a motorbike starting. The engine idles and then the bike goes across paddocks and away. We work our rows, knocking the shoots off the vines, going vine to vine and row to row. The sun has come up behind the trees on the hill and they are fiercely gilded. Light slides along the long threads of spiders' webs strung across the rows and it comes dappled through the vines and onto the soil and there is the shadow of vines on the ground, twisted and quivering, leaves fluttering in the breeze, and where it hits the earth the earth is red.

In the paddock behind us, the wheat is bare and bleached under the sky and it tosses and whispers. Lucy comes past me, nose to the ground and she stops to sniff at my boots and at the fallen leaves and shoots and is off down the row. And there is nothing but the sound of shovels scraping against the vines, the metal ringing on the wood, the rustle of falling foliage. And the caws of the crows, the smell of soil. And as we work I can feel the sun coming up hot on my back and I start working faster, vine to vine and row to row.

Wallace finishes a vine and stands there, mopping his brow with his hat. He leans on his shovel and watches the boy over the rows.

You must've been drinking like a fish, he says to the boy.

What? says the boy.

You must've been drinking like a fish, says Wallace. Spend your whole pay. Must've been drinking all weekend.

Nah, says the boy. Just Saturday. Saturday night.

Where were you drinking? asks Roy.

Wasn't at the pub, says the boy. Went down to the river. Got takeaway.

Everyone's stopped working now except me. They're all leaning on their shovels, talking over the rows. The other boy is grinning. I keep knocking off shoots.

Well, what you buy then? asks Wallace. What you spend your whole pay on? Whole bloody lot?

Dunno, says the boy. Slab, lemonade, bottle of Blue Curacao.

Jesus, says Wallace. That's top-shelf isn't it, Roy?

It's top-shelf all right, says Roy.

What'd you want to go drinking that stuff for? asks Wallace. What's the point of wasting your money on that? Whole pay-packet?

Wasn't for me, says the boy. Was for my girlfriend. She won't drink anything else.

I hope you got a root out of it, says Roy, leaning forward on his shovel.

The boy doesn't say anything. He takes hold of a tendril and starts twisting it around his finger.

He did, the dirty devil, says Roy.

The boy is smirking. He keeps twisting the shoot around his finger. The other boy starts working again. Roy and Wallace watch the first boy, leaning on their shovels.

What, says Wallace, she drink the whole bottle? She drink the lot?

Nah, says the boy.

I was going to say, says Wallace. She'd be sick.

She was sick, says the boy.

I hope you got a root out of it first, says Roy.

Wallace shakes his head. He pulls his shovel out of the ground and turns around muttering, going back to his vine. Roy spits and whistles to Lucy. The boy pulls at the shoot, pulling hard until it comes off, tearing it green near the base. He throws it away and looks at his hand. The other boy keeps working, chopping hard, puffing and sweating and red in the face. Wallace finishes his vine and turns back to look at the boy, letting his shovel fall against the wires.

So where's the rest of it then? he asks the boy. This Blue bloody Curacao.

I drunk it, says the boy. I was sick too.

Wallace takes his hat and glasses off and polishes his glasses with his hat and stands there swearing. Roy lifts up his legs to slap the ants around his ankles. He scratches his legs and whistles to Lucy and she comes down the row and he bends down and strokes her all over. Wallace looks at the other boy.

And what's your story, he asks him. How come you got no boots?

Bought a model aeroplane, says the other boy, puffing away.

Wallace stands and swears. His shoulders hang out front of him, making him stoop forward, his arms low and his neck bent out and up like a tortoise, jagged bile-coloured teeth a mess in a mouth that doesn't know which way it's turned. When I look at Wallace, with those big arms and shoulders and that jaw, his squat body and long legs thinner than mine, he looks like someone's made him up from bits and pieces which don't fit right. He puts his hat and glasses on and goes back to work, still swearing.

Roy's still leaning on his shovel.

You hear that, Smithy? he calls over to me. One of them spends his pay getting a root and the other one buys a model aeroplane.

Yeah, I heard, I say, knocking off a shoot.

Can't root a model aeroplane, says Roy.

I just keep working, keep knocking off shoots, working fast, moving up the row. I keep moving up the row until I can't hear them no more.

Boss comes down after smoko. He takes a deep breath and looks up at the sky and then he looks at us.

Well, he says, and how are you all going here?

Fine, says Wallace, hacking away at a vine.

Well, says Boss. That's good. Good to hear.

We are working hard with our heads down, pretending not to listen to Boss and Wallace. Boss crosses his arms and nods over at the boys.

And how are these two coming along? he asks.

Fine, says Wallace, pushing back a heavy vine. Yeah, not too bad.

He looks over at the boys.

All right, he says.

Wallace finishes his vine. He pulls a leaf off and hands it to Boss.

Boss looks at the leaf.

Well, he says, we'll have to spray then, won't we?

Looks like it, says Wallace.

Yeah, says Boss. Well then. He looks at the leaf some more.

What do you think? he asks Wallace.

I say spray, says Wallace.

Certainly looks that way, doesn't it, says Boss.

Wallace keeps working and we all keep working and there is the sound of shovels going at it hard and fast. Boss stands there with his arms folded over his gut. He wears an old jumper full of holes and stained with wine. He smells of wine, of the cellar. He wears army shorts and he wears the same jumper and the same shorts all year round. He picks a few shoots off a vine.

We seem to be one short today, he says.

That's right, says Wallace. Spit.

Yeah, Spit's not here is he, says Boss. He picks off a few more shoots. He folds his arms back over his gut and leans back on his heels. Lucy comes and sniffs around him. Boss squats down and scratches her behind the ears.

And what's Spit doing with himself today then? he asks, stroking Lucy's flank.

Nobody says anything. We keep our heads down, working.

Probably crook, says Roy, not looking up from his vine.

Crook is he? says Boss. Well. That's no good, is it? He gives Lucy a slap on the backside and she trots away. Boss stands up and looks at the sky.

Spit's crook then is he, Smithy?

Could be, I say.

Hard to tell at this point, is it? says Boss, looking at me.

Hard to say?

He is looking at me smiling. Smiling and squinting. He shades his eyes with his hand.

What is it? he asks. One of those one-day things?

I keep working on my vine, picking off tendrils with my fingers.

I wouldn't know, I say.

No, says Boss, pulling the top of a vine towards him and examining it. No, well you never can tell, can you?

He picks another leaf off the vine and holds it in both hands. He pulls the vine back again, pushing it up with one hand and looking at the underside. He lets it drop and looks back at the leaf and turns it around and he looks up at the sky and looks at the leaf again and tosses it onto the ground. Lucy comes over and sniffs at it. Boss rubs her side with his boot.

Well, I'm sorry to hear about Spit, he says. That's no good, is it? No good at all. No good being crook, he says. Poor Spit. Poor old Spit.

He has another look at the leaves and he leans over and strokes Lucy's nose.

I think we'll spray, Wallace, he says.

Righteo, says Wallace.

Best to spray, says Boss.

He pats Lucy on the head and he stands up and stretches and he looks at the vines and looks at the sky and he turns around and goes.

We watch Boss go. We watch his ute leave and we watch it all the way down the road.

Roy stops working and leans on his shovel.

Spit was down Imperial Saturday night, wasn't he? he says. I'm sure I saw Spit down Imperial Saturday night.

He yawns.

You weren't down Imperial Saturday night, were you, Wallace? he asks.

Nope, says Wallace.

Well, I'm pretty sure Spit was there, says Roy. I'm pretty sure I talked to him.