as I reach the library
and sit down on the front steps,
one hour until opening.
My day today is reading,
reading about people who don’t need money
and people
who have somewhere to sleep
tonight,
and the night after.
Lord of the lounge
It’s a good library.
Lots of books, sure,
and lounges soft and comfortable
for real reading,
and I choose one
in the corner
and I settle down
with a book about these kids
stranded on a deserted island
and some try to live right
but the others go feral
and it’s a good book
and I’m there, on the island,
gorging on tropical fruit,
trying to decide
whose side I’m on.
And then it hits me.
I’m on neither.
I’d go off alone,
because you can’t trust
those who want to break the rules
and you certainly can’t trust
those who make the rules,
so you do the only thing possible,
you avoid the rules.
That’s me,
on the deserted island
of a soft lounge
in Bendarat Library.
The librarian
‘You can borrow that if you like.’
Her badge says
Irene Thompson – Chief Librarian.
Trouble I’m sure.
‘It’s a good book.
It was my favourite when I was young.’
‘No thanks.
I’m happy to read it here.’
Please just leave me alone.
‘That’s fine.
But we close for lunch in ten minutes.
I’m sorry. But you can come back at two.’
‘Thanks Mrs Thompson. I will.
It’s too good a book not to finish.’
She’s OK.
Not like the librarian at home.
She hated kids touching books.
She ran the perfect library
because no-one ever went in there
to disturb the books.
‘Call me Irene.
I’m old, but not that old.
See you after lunch.’
Lunch
I’m poor, homeless,
but I’m not stupid.
For lunch I go to Coles.
I buy a packet of bread rolls,
some cheese and a tomato.
Enough for three meals.
I sit on the bench
at Bendarat Gardens
with my Swiss Army knife
cutting thin slices of tomato
with chunks of cheese
and I eat two rolls
watching the pigeons
watching me.
I toss them some crumbs.
Lunchtime entertainment,
free of charge,
is a couple kissing on a blanket.
For twenty minutes
they lay together
kissing
hugging.
They hardly touched their sandwiches.
I can’t blame them.
As they got up to leave
I felt like applauding,
but as I said
I’m poor, homeless,
but I’m not stupid.
The Motel Bendarat
I finished the book,
nodded goodbye to Irene
and walked out
into the late afternoon cloud
and a slight drizzle.
No sleeping in the park tonight.
Two options:
a church
or a railway station.
Churches are too spooky and cold.
I walk to the station.
Men in suits, like tired penguins,
wait for the bus
and throw furtive glances
at the woman on the seat
reading a magazine.
She ignores them.
The train station is sandstone
with a long veranda platform,
hard wooden seats and a Coke machine.
past the freight yard
to some old carriages,
disused, waiting to be sold
and turned into
fancy bed and breakfast accommodation
or maybe used as someone’s chook shed.
I try each door until one opens.
I climb in.
There’s a long bench seat
fit to hold eight people
and certainly long enough
for me to sleep on.
It’s comfortable too,
being old and well made.
I close the door
and make a home
in Carriage 1864,
painted red and yellow,
my Motel Bendarat.
Night
I had two rolls for dinner,
washed down with
the last of Dad’s beer.
The carriage was surprisingly warm
and quiet, so quiet.
I used my bag as a pillow,
wrapped my jacket over me,
lay back and slept
the sleep of the dreamless.
Occasionally I woke
to a train whistle
or the clank of metal on metal
as the night shift worked,
shunting the freight carriages.
I thought of Bunkbrain, my dog,
probably asleep on the veranda
and I wished I had brought him
for the company
on nights like this
in a new town
and in a new home.
Eating out
I finished the rolls
and cheese for lunch today,
so tonight I’m eating out.
McDonald’s.
I order a small lemonade,
no ice,
no fries,
no burger,
and no smile from the lady
behind the counter.
She’s the manager I’m sure.
Everyone else working here is my age
except this lady
who looks at me as if I’m diseased
for ordering only a drink.
I go upstairs
where it’s quiet and warm.
I read the free newspaper
and wait.
Sure enough
the couple in the corner
can’t eat all the fries,
and the woman leaves half a burger.
They get up to leave
and before they’ve reached the stairs
I’m over at the table,
grabbing the burger
and the fries
to go with my lemonade,
the lemonade I bought.
This is the only way to eat at McDonald’s.
I sit back
read the newspaper
and wait for the family of five to leave.
I can see dessert
waiting for me.
Caitlin and mopping
When I first saw what he did
; I wanted to go up
and say,
‘Put that food back’.
But how stupid is that?
It was going in the rubbish
until he claimed it.
So I watched him.
He was very calm.
He didn’t look worried
about being caught
or ashamed of stealing scraps.
He looked self-contained,
as though he knew he had to eat
and this was the easiest way.
I had work to do,
mopping the floor,
which I hate,
so I mopped slowly
and watched.
He read the paper
until the family left,
then he helped himself to dessert,
and as he walked back to his table,
holding the apple-pie,
he looked up and saw me
watching him.
He stood over his table
waiting for me to do something.
He stood there
almost daring me to get the manager,
who I hate
almost as much as I hate mopping.
So I smiled at him.
I smiled and said,
‘I hate mopping’.
He sat in his chair
and smiled back
and I felt good
that I hadn’t called the manager.
I kept mopping.
He finished his dessert,
came over to me,
looked at my badge,
looked straight at me,
and said, ‘Goodnight, Caitlin’,
and he walked out,
slow and steady,
and so calm,
so calm.
Too rich
I don’t need to work at McDonald’s.
Dad would rather I didn’t.
He buys me anything I want.
But Mum and I have a deal.
Whatever I earn she doubles
and banks for me,
for university in two years.
Dad says why bother.
Dad is too rich for his own good.
It was his idea I go to
Bendarat Grammar School
instead of Bendarat High School
where all my old friends went.
So I wear the tartan skirt
and the clean white blouse
and I shine my shoes every week
and wear the school blazer on Sports Day,
and feel like a real dork
when I see my old friends
in the street in jeans and T-shirts.
Bendarat High
has a ‘progressive uniform policy’
which means ‘wear what you like’,
while Grammar
is Discipline and Charity and Honesty
and all those other words
schools like to put on their crests
so they can charge people like my dad
$10,000 a year
to make me wear a uniform.
And I can’t wait for university
so I can leave home
and that’s why I work at McDonald’s
and mop floors.
Billy
She had clean hair.
Bouncing, shiny, clean hair.
That’s the first thing I noticed.
And her skin was pale and clear
and I knew she was rich
because I saw her watch
and it shone like her hair.
Her eyes were pale green
and they seemed to know
something I didn’t,
they seemed to be thinking.
Can eyes think?
And when I saw her watching me
take the food
my first thought was to hate her
because of that shiny watch
and her perfect skin
and I knew she’d call the manager
and I’d be out of there,
but she just smiled
and complained about the mopping
as if we were both caught
doing something
we didn’t want to do
but had to.
Breakfast
Bendarat is the perfect town.
A friendly librarian,
a warm McDonald’s,
luxury train accommodation,
and the town is surrounded by
apple and pear orchards.
So every morning
I walk the two kilometres
to the Golden Crest Cannery Farm.
I climb the fence
and help myself to a
healthy breakfast of fruit.
Then I walk slowly
back to town,
past the Bendarat Grammar School.
Yes, I bet Caitlin goes there.
I cross the road.
I wouldn’t want to meet her here
not when she’s with her friends
and in uniform
and me
dressed in the same clothes as always.
All the students look clean
and rich and smug
and confident,
and I thought of Caitlin
and decided I shouldn’t judge,
not yet anyway.
Hunger
Now I’m not going to admit
to liking the work at McDonald’s,
particularly mopping,
but since Billy arrived
it’s certainly more interesting.
Tonight he did the usual,
cleaned the tables,
ate his fill,
sipped his lemonade,
and said, ‘Goodnight, Caitlin’,
but when I went to
clean his table
I found a note
that read
‘Did you know that
Caitlin is an Irish name
from Catherine
meaning pure and innocent?’
I read this and felt
something in my stomach,
a slight ache, a twinge,
and I knew it was hunger
but not a hunger for food.
And I blushed with the knowledge.
Manners
He came back tonight,
sat in the same chair,
and waited.
I mopped, as usual,
and watched him.
Tonight was busier.
He had lots to choose from.
He ate slowly.
We each nodded hello.
The manager came upstairs
so I couldn’t say anything.
When she left
I mopped over near his table.
He said, ‘Hello, Caitlin’,
as if we were friends,
so I stopped mopping,
stood straight
and said, ‘I’m Caitlin Holmes’.
He stood and shook my hand
and replied, ‘Billy Luckett’.
Such perfect manners,
eating scraps at McDonald’s.
Business
This time when he left
he came over to me
and he had something
in his hand.
It was a business card.
He gave it to me
and said,
‘Goodnight, Caitlin,
it’s a beautiful name’.
So well-mannered,
so unlike every boy
at Bendarat Grammar,
or any schoolboy I’ve ever known.
I looked at the card.
It didn’t make sense.
Then I turned it over.
I smiled to myself.
Homeless, and proud of it.
Caitlin
Now I’m a normal seventeen-year-old girl.
I think about boys.
I sit with my girlfriends, Kate and Petra,
at lunchtime.
Sometimes we talk to boys
when they sit with us.
I watch Petra flirt madly
and I notice her body language
change when boys are near.
She moves her hands more,
her eyes wink and flutter,
she’s such a show pony,
but I like her.
And yes I’ve been out with boys
‘on dates’
but mostly with Petra and Kate
and a whole gang together,
not alone.
And I’ve done some things,
you know,
at parties with boys,
just mild stuff really.
So I’m normal,
a normal seventeen year old.
I think about boys
but only in a general way
like not a boy I know
or anything
but just some good-looking guy
and me
and what we’d do
if we had the chance.
Pure fantasy really.
Nothing wrong with that,
but nothing real about it either.
The hobo hour
It’s morning
but still dark
when I hear a bottle crash
outside the carriage.
I go out to check
and find
an old man
with long grey hair
and beard
sitting on the train track
looking at the beer stain
the wooden sleepers.
He can’t believe he’s dropped
a full bottle.
He sits there, staring,
doesn’t notice me