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 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