thanks. No sauce. Yeah, another coke. Ha! Reckon it’s warm in here? How bout we trade jobs then? Haha. Righto. Catchya later. I step outside the bakery. John’s sittin on a milk crate on the footpath, just inside the witch’s hats. Good sausage rolls here ay John? Haha. Yeah, she’s got a fucken big rack ay? Fucken oath. So we just gotta lay them last two pipes, glue em in, fill the trench and we’re done. Gravel or metal dust? Right. I’ll get a load from the yard later and bring it back here.
Half twelve. Jump back into the trench. John puts the conduits on the edge. I take the orange one and put it on the bottom of the trench. Make sure there’s no sand inside the rim. Right. Chuck us the glue, John. Cheers. Fuck that reeks. Just about gettin high off it already. I brush a smear of blue glue around the ends of the conduits and shove em together. Right. Chuck us the other pipe.
Ten to one. Dig. I sink the shovel into the pile of cleanish sand. Gotta cover the pipes well before we chuck the gravel on. Fucken hot now. Sweat’s stinging my eyes. Arms are cooking and darkening. Hair’s wet under the old Akubra. Shovel, shovel. Mute smell of damp sand. Tsunk. Clean sand. Tsunk. Clean sand. Tsunk.
One o’clock. Tsunk.
Wacker. My bones vibrate as I push the wacker packer over the trench, compacting the sand. One, two, three, four times.
1:34. Nat’ll be on lunch now. Wonder if she’ll come past and say g’day.
Quarter to. I glow the truck. Get him on the first go. Clunk. Off the kerb. Crank the radio. Khe Sanh. Chug down the main street, windows down. Off to the yard for a load of gravel.
2:35. The excavator bucket scrapes against the truck’s metal tray. Worse than nails on a blackboard. John scoops up a bucketful of gravel and swings the boom around one-eighty. I stand back. He shakes the orange gravel into the nearly full trench. I walk over the loose gravel in my shoes. Compact it down a bit.
2:36. John scoops up a bucketful of gravel and swings the boom around one-eighty. I stand back. He shakes the orange gravel into the nearly full trench. I walk over the loose gravel in my shoes. Compact it down a bit.
Twenty to three. I lug the wacker back over the trench. Bones vibrate. One, two, three, four times over.
Sweep. John loads the machine up onto his truck. I grab the big broom and sweep the gravel dust and shit off the road, back into the trench. Day over.
Half three. I pull the truck into the yard. Park it beside John’s. Wipe my forehead. Fucken hot one today. Woulda got to forty easy. Wouldn’t mind a few stubbies. It’s Fridey anyway. I jump outta the truck. Fifteen steps over the metal dust. Into the shed. Grab a six-pack of Draught from the old fridge. Fuck it. I grab another one. Catchya Mondey, John.
Twenty to. Chuggin down Barrett Street. Stop at old Barney’s deli. How’s it goin Barney. Yeah, not bad ay. Just a little job for the council. Nah, we’ll still flog ‘em. Chuck young Richards in the ruck and we’ll be right I reckon. Yeah, just the milk. Cheers, mate. Seeya Mondey.
Four o’clock. Second best part of the day. I sit down on the concrete porch. Take me boots off. Crack open the first stubby.
Beer. Cold. Cold beer. Cold and crisp and bitter. Perfect end to a hot day. Perfect end to the week. I rest my forearms on my knees and look around the front yard. The palms are dying. Have been for ages. Should probably water them, but it never makes any difference. The land’s too dry for them here anyway. Still, they hold on pretty well. Still a bit of green at the centre of some of the leaves. I sit and watch the other people in the street coming home from work. The sheila across the road rocks up in her silver Camry and gives us a wave. Forgotten her name but I wave back. Grab another stubby. Ah. Even if it’s a bit warmer, it’s still beer. I chug it back. It’s a good drop, Draught. I look over at my red ute. Fuck, it’s needin a wash already. Should do that this weekend. Should keep it in good order. Might need to sell it soon. Shit. Shit shit shit. I sink the stubby and grab a third. Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. Second six-pack. Warm beer. It’s not so bad once you get used to it, I spose. Mm. Just takes getting used to, that’s all. The metal dust crackles as Nat’s green Excel rolls up beside my ute. She looks upset. Her face is red. Hey babe. How was your – never mind. She steps over me on the porch, opens the door and goes inside without a word. I wait a second and decide to follow. Fuck. Didn’t feel them beers till I got up.
Dusk. I drop my daks and shirt in the laundry and walk down to the bathroom in my jocks. The water’s running. I don’t need to knock. Warm air. Wet air. The fan’s whirring loud. Hey baby. I know she won’t say anything back. Her face is already streaked with blue mascara as she looks at her reflection. Like every other night. I move in behind her. Put my head on her shoulder. Kiss her ear. I rub the belly. It’s getting big now. Only three months to go. Hey. It’ll be alright, babe. Hey. It’ll be alright. It’s gonna be so good.
Best part of the day. Hot water on her lips.
Tea. Steak and vegies. Cauliflower, carrot, peas and mashed potatoes. Bottled tap water for her. Eighth stubby for me. Nat puts on some Fleetwood Mac in the background while we eat. During Tusk she looks at me and nearly smiles.
8:49. Mobile vibrates in my pocket. Dave and them blokes are goin to the pub to watch the footy again. I text back some shit about copping a root off the missus. Nat shifts on my lap and turns the volume up on Miss Congeniality.
Nine. Hello? Who? Mrs Bailey? Yeah. Yeah I got your message. Mm, but it’s nine o’clock on a Fridey night! Yeah I know I did your leach drains four months ago. Mm. OK. Look, give us a call first thing Mondey mornin, orright? Yeah, I’ll sort it out. I will. Cheers. Bye.
9.15. Fuck. I’m buggered ay.
Half ten. “Babe. Wake up. The movie’s over. Come on. Let’s go to bed,” says Nat.
Ten forty-four. Haven’t pissed yet. Shit. Off the couch. Nat must’ve gone to bed already. Drunken path to the dunny. Half lapse into sleep again while I stand over the bowl. I yawn, grunt, wash my hands and stub my toe on the edge of the doorframe. Nail on my big toe looks like it cracked but there’s no pain. Ten stubbies. I fall into bed beside Nat, head swirling. Fuck. I’m gonna feel this tomorrow.
About the Author
Holden Sheppard is a Perth-based fiction writer originally from Geraldton, Western Australia. His short stories have been published in Indigo Journal and page seventeen. He has also written for the ABC’s The Drum, DNA Magazine and FasterLouder.
A graduate of Edith Cowan University’s Creative Writing program, in 2015 Holden received an ArtStart grant from the Australia Council for the Arts. During 2016, he undertook an Australian Society of Authors mentorship to develop his first novel.
Holden spends his spare time reading, listening to rock music, working out, playing video games and watching (or quoting) sitcoms. He may be the only writer in history to switch to decaf and live to tell the tale, and he's quit smoking more times than he cares to admit.
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