The Simple Gift

  this key I hold

  and turning it in the lock.

  And Billy looks at me,

  he wants me to do it with him,

  because of this house

  and its past

  and what it means to Old Bill.

  And it’s all too much.

  I start to cry

  because I think of Old Bill

  and what I thought

  when I first saw him

  swearing and waiting for breakfast

  from Billy

  and I think of both of them

  at dinner at my house

  with their hair neat

  and the three of us

  sitting on the floor to eat.

  I feel the tears

  and I turn towards the door,

  I insert the key

  and turn it slowly

  and push the door.

  I reach behind for Billy’s hand

  and we walk inside.

  Old Bill

  Tonight, in my carriage,

  I remember telling Billy ages ago

  to travel,

  to jump some freights

  and see the country.

  I thought it crazy,

  a young bloke living like a bum

  here in Bendarat,

  in an old train carriage.

  But Billy stayed

  and we worked at the cannery

  and he kept waking me

  with breakfast

  and often

  we’d spend nights

  sitting in the dark, talking,

  and those nights

  were the nights I stopped drinking.

  I had something better to do.

  And tonight

  I think of Billy

  and Caitlin

  in the house together

  and I’m still not drinking.

  I’m thinking of an old hobo,

  months ago,

  offering advice to a young kid

  when he should have been listening

  to his own words

  ringing

  hollow in his head.

  A project

  When Jessie was nine

  she did a school project

  on the Great Barrier Reef.

  Together we hunted for books

  on fish and sea life and the rainforests

  and Jessie loved cutting the pictures

  from magazines and pasting them

  onto a huge cardboard sheet.

  She wanted to learn to dive

  among the fish in the warm

  tropical waters thousands of miles away.

  We kept cutting and pasting

  and I promised her we’d go

  and I promised her we’d swim together

  and wave at the fish!

  The Great Barrier Reef.

  Queensland,

  where they have work

  for fruit pickers,

  watermelons,

  pineapples,

  bananas.

  I could do that.

  I could hop the freights

  all the way north

  where it’s warm.

  I could stay for winter

  and I could be sure

  that Billy was looking after

  everything I own,

  for when I get back

  from taking Jessie’s

  trip to the ocean.

  Measure

  Caitlin and I walked

  through the house,

  brushing the spiderwebs

  from the doorways,

  treading carefully,

  quiet, like in a museum.

  The furniture was old

  but solid.

  There was a television,

  and a stereo

  with lots of country records

  stacked neatly beside.

  The curtains

  were beautiful,

  white cotton with seashell patterns

  in vivid blue,

  and in the bedroom

  the wardrobes were solid old timber,

  empty,

  the double bed was neatly made,

  and the dresser was clear

  of photos, or books, or anything personal.

  The kitchen was huge

  with a big fridge,

  a double sink,

  lots of bench space,

  a place where someone

  had enjoyed cooking.

  Caitlin and I walked around

  touching everything gently

  as though each object

  was worth a fortune.

  At the entrance

  to the smaller bedroom

  we found some pencil marks

  on the wall,

  we leaned in to read them,

  they were height markings

  – Jessie 1.2.91

  – Dad 1.2.91

  – Mum 14.6.92

  – Jessie 14.6.92

  – Dad 1.2.93

  – Jessie 1.2.93.

  Under the last entry

  for Jessie

  in a child’s printing

  were the words

  ‘I’ve grown thirteen centimetres in two years,

  lots more than Dad!’

  The swallows still

  sang on the veranda,

  as Caitlin and I

  stood there

  measuring a life.

  Cleaning

  I told Mum and Dad

  the truth.

  Well, some of it was true.

  I told them

  I’m helping a friend

  clean their house

  and that’s why

  I’ve got the mop,

  yes, the hated mop,

  and a bucket,

  and lots of rags.

  And I tell them

  I’ll be away all day

  and I leave quickly

  before they can ask me

  what friend, and where?

  I arrive at Billy’s

  and he’s in the kitchen

  scrubbing the floor.

  He’s already done the bathroom.

  I vacuum the lounge

  and the main bedroom –

  it’s only dust

  that’s gathered lonely in the corners

  and on the curtains.

  Billy and I work all morning.

  We eat lunch under the fir trees

  and look at the house.

  We don’t say much.

  We lie on the blanket

  and hold each other.

  Billy has his arms around me

  and his eyes turned

  towards the white timber house.

  Saturday dinner

  I rang Mum on the mobile

  and I told her I’d be late home.

  I was having dinner at my friend’s.

  She started to ask who

  and I switched the mobile off,

  deliberately.

  I’m having dinner at Billy’s,

  a dinner we will cook together,

  and afterwards

  we’ll make love on the bed,

  Billy’s bed.

  Then we’ll get dressed

  and Billy will walk home with me,

  and I’ll walk into Mum and Dad’s questions,

  and I’ll answer them

  truthfully.

  It’s time.

  I love
Billy, and I’m sure of him.

  I want my parents to know.

  In two weeks I’ll be eighteen

  and I want my parents to know

  what I do,

  what I plan to do.

  I put the mobile down

  on the kitchen bench

  and I help Billy prepare

  the Saturday dinner.

  The best meal

  It was the best meal

  I’ve ever eaten.

  Chicken curry,

  with rice and cashew nuts

  and pappadums.

  It took Caitlin and me

  all afternoon to prepare.

  We kept stopping to put on

  another of Old Bill’s records.

  We slow-danced around the lounge

  to wailing country music,

  laughing at our foolish steps

  and holding each other

  to stop from falling,

  and Caitlin tries to lead

  and I try to lead

  and we both give up

  and go back to the curry.

  We each poured a beer

  and sat at the dinner table

  with a white tablecloth

  and napkins

  and proper cutlery and plates.

  I raised my glass,

  Caitlin did the same

  and we both said,

  ‘To Old Bill’,

  and we drank

  and we each ate two helpings

  of curry and rice.

  It was the best meal

  I’ve ever eaten.

  Value

  Caitlin and I lay

  in the huge bed

  with the moon

  a perfect light

  and the trees

  long fingers scratching

  at the window.

  I reached under the bed

  and found what I’d hidden

  earlier in the night.

  I lifted the small case

  and I opened the lid

  to show Caitlin the

  beautiful green emerald ring

  I’d bought months earlier

  because of the colour of her eyes

  because I’d worked all week

  in the cannery with my hands stained red

  and because

  I couldn’t spend all that money

  on food,

  or beer,

  or myself.

  Midnight

  Last night,

  unable to sleep

  in this quiet house

  without the freight train whistles

  and the diesel shunting back and forth,

  I got dressed, closed the door gently,

  and walked the streets,

  and as the Town Hall clock

  tolled midnight

  I stood on the railway platform

  looking across at the carriages,

  my home for these past months.

  I knew Old Bill was asleep

  like most of Bendarat.

  I made a silent vow

  to visit my carriage,

  once a week,

  to sit and read, alone, on the leather seat,

  with the sounds and smells

  of the hobo life close by,

  to never forget this home

  by the railroad tracks.

  Drinking by the river

  Today

  Old Bill and I met at the river.

  I brought some lunch

  and soft drinks.

  Old Bill laughed

  when I passed him a ginger beer.

  We sat by the bank

  watching the sun sparkle

  on the water,

  with the ducks gliding by

  and an ibis on the opposite bank

  near a log

  looking for food,

  while Old Bill

  told me about his job

  years ago

  in an office

  with his name on the door

  and the days he worked overtime

  not getting home

  until late

  with his wife waiting

  and Jessie in bed

  reading a book

  determined not to fall asleep

  until he arrived home.

  We watch the ibis

  search under the log.

  Old Bill tells me about

  the trust account

  from those days,

  that pays him just enough.

  He drinks his ginger beer

  and pulls a face at its sweetness.

  He sees me watching him

  and says

  it’s taking a while

  for him to get used to

  the taste of being sober

  all day.

  Respect

  It feels strange

  sleeping in a bed again

  with sheets crisp and clean

  and a big doona,

  and being able to watch television

  and play music

  and cook the proper food

  that Caitlin brings.

  I wander through the house,

  so big,

  much bigger than a train carriage.

  I love the curtains,

  yes, I know it’s weird,

  but I love closing the world out

  by pulling them across

  and in the morning

  spreading them wide

  and letting the sunshine through.

  It feels like a home

  where I can look out

  and not be afraid of who sees me,

  or who I see.

  Every morning

  I clean this house

  and I don’t let anything break

  or get dirty

  because this house

  is not mine.

  I know I’m only here

  for a while

  so I tread lightly

  with respect

  for this house

  and for Old Bill.

  Maybe

  I told Irene

  about my new house

  and Old Bill.

  She said she was glad

  but worried

  about money for me

  living in the house.

  I thought about the cannery

  and fruit picking.

  Irene went over to the resource section,

  brought back a TAFE handbook

  and an application form

  for government study assistance.

  If they paid me

  maybe,

  just maybe,

  I’d go back to school.

  I took the form and the book,

  told Irene I’d think about it,

  and maybe

  I will.

  Holiday

  I woke early, at sunrise.

  I filled the thermos with

  steaming hot strong coffee.

  I packed Weet-Bix and milk

  into my bag

  and I walked the quiet dawn streets

  to Bendarat Freight Yard.

  I knocked gently, twice,

  and opened Old Bill’s door

  to the sound of his snoring.

  I poured the coffee

  and he woke, swearing as usual,

  with me laughing

  that anyone could wake so angry.

  Old Bill swore some
more

  then laughed at himself

  as he started breakfast.

  Today he ate three helpings

  and drank the thermos

  and on his last cup

  he told me of his plan

  to head north, taking his time.

  And he said,

  ‘Don’t worry about the house

  and its ghosts,

  I’m taking them with me,

  they need a holiday,

  and so do I.’

  I didn’t know what to say,

  so I sat there

  looking at the freight train

  shunting carriages in the distance

  across the tracks

  where

  months ago

  an old man

  dropped his beer

  and sat down to cry.

  I said to Old Bill,

  ‘I love the house’,

  and I left it at that.

  The hobo sky

  After breakfast

  I cleaned the bowls

  and packed everything

  back into my bag.

  We shook hands

  and I told him

  the Bendarat Hilton

  was the best motel

  I’d ever stayed in.

  Old Bill laughed

  and said, ‘Me too’.

  I crossed the tracks

  heading to the library.

  When I looked back

  I saw Old Bill

  with his back to me

  looking up at the sky.

  He stood there for a long time,

  not moving,

  like he was praying,

  then he picked up his swag

  and walked slowly,

  deliberately,

  north.

  I watched until he

  was out of sight

  and I looked up

  into the sky,

  the deep blue sky

  that Old Bill and I shared.

  LOVE, GHOSTS & NOSE HAIR

  Steven Herrick

  Shortlisted CBCA Book of the Year for Older Readers 1997

  Shortlisted NSW Premier’s Literary Awards 1997

  Jack is sixteen. He’s obsessed with the beautiful Annabel, the ghost of his mother, and nose hair.

  I have just written a great poem.

  A Classic.