The Simple Gift

  behind him.

  I don’t know whether

  to leave him be

  or say sorry

  although I didn’t do anything.

  Then I remember

  Dad’s carton of cigarettes

  in my bag.

  I don’t smoke.

  I just stole them

  to annoy Dad.

  I rush back into the carriage

  and get them.

  I sit beside the old hobo

  and hand them across.

  He looks at them awhile,

  then at me,

  smiles weakly,

  takes them, saying,

  ‘I should give up.

  These will kill me.’

  He unwraps the carton,

  hands shaking,

  lights one

  and takes a huge drag.

  The tip of the cigarette

  burns brightly

  then

  fades to old smoke.

  We both sit

  staring at the beer

  and the sunrise,

  sharing the hobo hour.

  Old Bill

  His name,

  would you believe,

  was Bill.

  So I decided to call him

  Old Bill.

  He didn’t mind.

  He said he’d slept

  in the carriage next to mine

  on and off

  for years.

  He’d bought himself

  a bottle of beer

  to celebrate his birthday,

  and look at it now.

  His grey beard was stained with smoke,

  his hair long and swept back,

  his face lined but

  when you looked closer

  he wasn’t that old,

  forty-five, maybe fifty.

  He got up to go to bed

  to sleep off his sorrow

  or so he said.

  As he left he turned

  and said,

  ‘Welcome to the Bendarat Hilton,

  I’ve been here since March 2nd, 1994.

  May your stay be as long,

  if you wish it.’

  Then he stumbled off,

  an old man

  before his time,

  sleeping in a carriage,

  and I shivered

  as the sun came up.

  Rich town

  In the late afternoon

  Old Bill told me

  that Bendarat was once

  the railway hub of the south-west.

  A rich town,

  with pubs on every corner

  and drunken railway workers

  walking the streets looking for action.

  Over one hundred men

  worked in the freight yard

  on eight-hour shifts

  around the clock,

  loading cross-country trains

  with wheat and wool

  and fruit from the orchards.

  A rich town.

  But the highways improved

  and semitrailers were faster than trains

  and they built a wheat-loading

  facility outside of town

  so now

  there’s only a few men left

  driving forklifts

  loading fruit pallets

  and that’s all.

  Old Bill said

  the workers

  know he’s here

  but they don’t say anything

  to the authorities

  because

  he keeps the carriage clean

  and doesn’t make much noise

  and, like the few workers left,

  he’s got nowhere else to go

  and nothing else to do,

  in Bendarat,

  that once

  was a rich town.

  Before my time

  I slept badly.

  I dreamt of myself

  as an old man

  in a pub, at the bar,

  watching the races on TV

  with my smokes and my plans

  for winning $5 on the grey horse

  running second last.

  All night

  I could hear Old Bill

  snoring, coughing,

  swearing in his sleep.

  He made more noise

  than the wind

  whistling through the freight yard.

  I lay in bed

  listening

  afraid to fall asleep

  and dream again

  of myself

  getting old

  long before my time.

  Too early

  In the morning,

  too early,

  I got a bowl

  and filled it with Weet-Bix and milk

  and I took it next door

  to Old Bill.

  I knocked quietly

  and I heard him grunt.

  I opened the door

  to his carriage,

  to the smell of old socks

  and alcohol

  mixed with the Weet-Bix,

  the Weet-Bix I offered

  to Old Bill

  as I leaned inside.

  He lifted his head slightly,

  shielding his eyes

  from the light,

  and he growled,

  ‘Piss off, son.

  Piss off. Leave me alone.’

  It was too early

  for a drunk,

  too early for most of us I guess.

  I left the bowl and a spoon

  and I closed the door

  and walked away

  into the fragile morning.

  Bendarat River

  The river is cold, clear,

  and deep. Outside of town

  there’s a weir where the water

  falls swiftly over rocks

  and forms whirlpools

  and bubbles and makes more noise

  than the cockatoos in the rivergums.

  Further downstream it rounds a slow bend

  and here I swim fully clothed

  and stand waist-deep in the shallows

  with a bar of soap.

  I wash my clothes and myself

  in one soapy afternoon

  swim in the deep,

  feel the weight of my clothes

  pulling me down

  but I’m a strong swimmer.

  I reach the bank

  and undress to my Speedos

  and hang my pants, shirt

  and jumper in the trees

  to dry.

  Every second day

  I come here

  to the Bendarat Laundry

  to wash the world away.

  Old Bill

  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised

  by anything anymore.

  The kid must be fifteen,

  or sixteen at the most,

  and here he is,

  living at the Bendarat Hilton

  with a bag of clothes

  and some smokes

  to give away

  to a bum like me.

  And when he gave me

  those smokes

  I almost cried,

  a kid like that

  with nothing

  giving stuff away.

  But I took them

  and I sat in my carriage

  smoking

  and t
rying to place

  the past five years

  and my memory

  flickered and grew dim

  like the cigarette

  and I stopped remembering

  because I knew

  that I’d end up

  thinking of my darling Jessie

  and I knew I’d never stop

  thinking of Jessie.

  And the cigarette

  tasted foul

  and I flicked

  the butt out the window.

  It died on the tracks

  quickly

  in the cold night air

  of a bum’s

  stumbling memory.

  Caitlin visiting

  I finish work every night at ten.

  Dad always waits up for me.

  But tonight I tell Dad

  I’m going to Petra’s to study

  and I make Petra promise

  to sit by the phone

  should my parents ring

  and if they ring

  she’s to tell them

  I’m in the bathroom

  and I’ll call back.

  Then she’s to ring me

  on my mobile and I’ll

  ring them and no-one

  will know where I am.

  Sometimes being rich

  and having a dad who

  spoils you and buys you

  completely stupid

  expensive crap like

  a gold watch

  and a mobile phone

  has its advantages.

  After work

  I change into jeans and

  a heavy wool jumper

  and my long overcoat

  and into my schoolbag

  I place two apple pies

  and I ask the manager

  for two cups of coffee,

  to go.

  My dad always said

  that you should take

  something, a gift,

  when you go visiting.

  Billy’s cave

  I’m well-mannered.

  I knocked on the door

  of Carriage 1864 and waited.

  I knocked again.

  Then I heard his voice

  behind me.

  I almost dropped the coffee

  and he apologised for scaring me.

  He took the coffee

  and we went inside.

  There were two long leather seats

  facing each other.

  On one he’d stacked books

  and clothes and bits and pieces

  of things he’d found,

  like old bottles and a tin drum.

  On the other lay his sleeping bag

  and his rucksack as a pillow.

  It was clean and warm.

  He showed me the broom

  and the kerosene heater

  he’d found.

  It was like a little cave,

  a warm, safe little cave

  for children to hide in

  when

  they’re scared or lonely

  and need somewhere safe

  to go.

  Billy’s cave.

  Picnic

  I heard the knock and jumped.

  Cops? Railway Security?

  I crawled out the back window,

  dropped quietly onto the track

  and skirted along the carriage.

  Then I realised cops or security

  wouldn’t knock!

  They’d come barging in

  looking for a fight.

  So I came in from behind

  and saw who it was.

  I swallowed hard,

  now I was nervous.

  I said hello

  and she jumped.

  Great start, I thought.

  I invited her into my carriage,

  and watched her as she

  saw how I lived.

  She’s cool.

  She didn’t sneer or

  look uncomfortable.

  She sat on the seat

  and put her feet up

  as though she belonged.

  I sat opposite

  and we drank coffee,

  ate apple pie,

  and felt like two kids

  on a picnic.

  Looking

  I told Caitlin

  about leaving home,

  the champagne,

  and Ernie,

  and my days spent

  in the library reading books

  and researching the meaning of names

  like Caitlin,

  and Luckett,

  which is Scottish in origin.

  I found an ancestor

  who was a Duke –

  from royalty to unemployment

  in a few generations.

  Something to be proud of.

  I was nervous

  but I kept talking.

  She listened

  and smiled

  and her eyes

  never strayed from me,

  but the more she looked at me

  the more relaxed I became

  and I looked back

  and I saw past

  the shiny watch

  and the clean hair

  and the beautiful woollen overcoat.

  I saw Caitlin,

  and I liked what I saw.

  Happen

  I told Petra

  about Billy and my visit.

  I told her about his cave

  and his library days

  and how he read more

  and knew more

  than anybody I’d met

  and as I talked

  the thought came,

  ‘What now?’

  And Petra read my mind.

  ‘What now?’ she said.

  I looked at her,

  at the school

  with its stone tower

  and huge clock

  and teachers dressed in suits

  and the Indoor Sports Centre

  with its heated pool,

  and the rose garden

  skirting the circular driveway.

  The lunch bell sounded.

  Petra and I stood

  and I said,

  ‘I’ll visit him again,

  and again,

  until something happens’.

  And all next period

  I thought of what could happen

  and what

  I could want to happen.

  Going nowhere

  I sleep well in my cave,

  warm in the railway dark,

  the mail train whistle

  and the town hall clock

  sounding the hours.

  This morning I woke

  and I knew where I was going

  for the next few months –

  to the library

  to McDonald’s

  to the river

  and home here to the Hilton –

  a circuit of plans

  with Caitlin at the centre,

  and me

  a badly dressed satellite

  spinning crazily in her orbit.

  Sorry

  I feel sorry

  for swearing at the kid,

  abusing him for bringing me breakfast.

  Breakfast! Of all things.

  A good kid,

  living like a bum

  and I knew he’d need money,

/>   even bums need money to live.

  So this morning, early,

  far too bloody early for me,

  I knock on his door

  to return the bowl and spoon

  and he opens it slowly,

  invites me in,

  and I tell him

  about the cannery and work.

  How every Monday during the season

  they offer work,

  and if he needs money

  that’s the place to go,

  and he says,

  ‘Sure, great. Let’s go.’

  And because I’m still sorry

  about swearing at him

  I find myself

  walking to the cannery

  with the kid

  looking for work,

  work I don’t need,

  or want.

  Walking with the kid

  early Monday morning.

  Work

  Seven-thirty Monday morning.

  Old Bill and me

  at the gates of the

  Golden Crest Cannery

  with six other men

  waiting

  for the foreman

  who saunters out

  points at two blokes

  then me and Old Bill

  and tells us to follow him.

  We do. We need to.

  He takes us into the cannery,

  the noise, the smell

  overpowers everything

  but my need for money.

  He leaves Old Bill and me

  on the tomato line.

  A conveyor belt

  of overripe fruit

  circles the cutting table

  where we stand

  with apron and gloves,

  a hairnet and a knife.

  The head lady

  shows us what to do –

  cut only the black fetid bits

  from the fruit

  put the overripe mess

  back on the belt

  where it heads to the crusher

  for soup

  and sauce

  and somebody’s kitchen table –

  while I

  pick and cut and slice

  and think only

  of the $12 an hour cash,

  waiting at the end of the week.

  That bloody kid