above my head.
I hear the chirp of
young birds after a feed
and I stand, walk to the shed,
unlock the door,
push the cobwebs away,
and I roll out the old mower
and go rummaging
for some two-stroke,
ready to work.
The neighbours
The house next door
has new owners
and when they saw me
mowing
they came to the fence
to ask questions,
so many questions.
I told them
I owned this house
but lived elsewhere
and I’d just rented it out
to a young lad,
a friend of the family,
and he was moving in soon
and he’d keep this grass mown
and look after the place
for me,
an old man
with a house
too big for him.
That seemed to please them,
they stopped asking questions
and talked about
the weather instead.
I went back to mowing.
I wasn’t any good with neighbours
and I wondered if
I ever will be.
War
Today in History
in Room 652
I looked out the window
and saw Billy
sitting across the road
with his head in his hands.
I wanted to rush out
cross the road
and hug him
right there in the park
opposite my school
and we could walk
to his carriage
and make love
while Petra and Kate
and the rest of this class
learn about the Vietnam War.
Billy and I could make love
not war
and Billy looked so sad.
I wanted so much
to flee History
and the murderous armies
and Mr Hawkins
handing out
homework sheets
that gave me more work
to keep me away from
Billy and freedom
and I felt like
a prisoner of war
here in Room 652
while Billy
sat in the park
with his head in his hands.
Not moving
All morning
I sat outside Bendarat Grammar
hoping to see Caitlin,
wishing she’d walk through
those big iron gates
and we could run away
from Bendarat
and cops
and nosy welfare officers
who call you by your first name
after every sentence,
‘So where are you living, Billy?’
‘Do you have enough food, Billy?’
‘Do you want to go back to school, Billy?’
‘I’m only here to help, Billy.’
All morning
I sat in the dull sunshine
waiting for something to happen.
I thought about Old Bill
and what he said.
I guessed he was going to
give me the last of his money
from the cannery work,
and a map of Australia,
and tell me which train
to jump on to get out of town
before four this afternoon
like I’m some dangerous cowboy
being run out of town by the sheriff.
All morning
I thought of Caitlin
and I thought of leaving
and
all morning
I sat opposite the school
not moving,
not moving a muscle.
Old Bill’s suit and tie
Before meeting Billy
I went to the Salvation Army shop.
I bought a clean shirt
and trousers
and a tie.
in a plastic bag
and walked out
a businessman
ready to impress the world.
Near
Everything took longer
than I thought,
mowing the grass,
buying clothes,
paying the electricity deposit,
so I walked quickly,
with my plan getting clearer,
sure I was doing
the only thing I could,
sure it was right
because
it was the only way
for him to stay in Bendarat
near Caitlin.
I was exhausted
when I turned the corner
and saw Billy
sitting against a wall
with his bag
and his troubled grin,
but
when I saw him
I felt something
I hadn’t felt in
many years.
I felt pride.
All that knowledge
I wasn’t always a hobo.
I worked in town.
I dressed neatly in suit and tie.
I understood the law.
I earned a lot of money
knowing stupid rules and regulations
and I’d studied for years
to make sure those rules
were enforced
when someone came to me for help.
But all that knowledge
and all that training
couldn’t stop a young
beautiful child from
falling out of a tree,
or a wife from driving
a car too drunk to care.
All that knowledge
couldn’t stop a man
from drinking to forget
to forget the life
with the suit and tie
in his office in town.
But today
the knowledge
that hasn’t been used
in five years
could come up
with a solution
to where a sixteen-year-old boy
could live,
and what his legal rights were,
so all that knowledge
is finally worth something,
finally.
Old and young
I told Billy
I wanted to buy him a coffee
to pay him back,
you know,
for every morning coffee
and breakfast.
He didn’t want to come.
He wanted to see Caitlin
and tell her his problem.
I told Billy
to sit, and enjoy his coffee,
as the waitress brought
two cups of steaming brew.
Billy looked out the window
and I saw the first signs of defeat
in his young eyes.
I know how it looks,
and I knew, right then,
I’d made the right decision
and I told him
; my plan
without stopping,
my plan.
Old Bill’s plan
It’s so simple.
Billy lives in Wellington Road, alone.
We’ll tell the welfare I live there too.
I’m a family friend helping Billy out.
We’ll talk about
the drunken dangerous angry father.
Billy looking for work
or considering returning to school.
Welfare people like that talk.
We’ll mention our work at the cannery.
We’ll talk about how I can help Billy
with the cost of living in such a big home.
We’ll talk nonstop.
We won’t let welfare talk
their welfare bullshit.
We’ll say everything’s taken care of
and we’ll prove it.
And we’ll leave that office,
go straight to Wellington Road
and let Billy start his new life
in a house that needs a new life,
happier than the old one.
Billy
I held the keys
to Wellington Road
as Old Bill talked
and tried to convince me
and himself
that we could fool the
welfare worker and the cops.
I listened to Old Bill
and knew we could do it
but
as I listened
I knew that I’d never
never in my life
feel sadder
than I did right then
because
I knew
that Old Bill was giving me
more than these keys I held.
And as I held these keys
I wasn’t sure
whether taking them
meant Old Bill
had a new life too
or if taking them meant
he now had nothing,
nothing at all to hold.
I held the keys
and I listened to Old Bill
and I tried to read
between the lines
holding someone’s past
in my dirty hands.
Caitlin
I rushed out of school
but Billy had gone
so I went to his carriage
and knocked.
He wasn’t there
and I thought of him
outside school
looking so lonely.
I knew something was wrong.
I walked home
making plans
to finish at McDonald’s
tonight
and return to his carriage
with two apple pies
and some coffee,
eager to listen.
Liars
Luckily
the old cop didn’t stay.
He introduced Old Bill and me
to Brent Stevens, the welfare worker
who took us into his office
and asked us lots of questions,
‘Billy this, Billy that’.
And Old Bill
told him our story,
and I’ve got to admit
Old Bill is one hell of a good liar!
When I asked him later
how he lied so well,
he laughed aloud,
and said he used to do it for a living.
I don’t know if Mr Stevens
believed us or not,
but I knew
he couldn’t do a thing about it.
I was eighteen.
I was living with a responsible adult
in a normal house,
and I planned to go back to school.
All lies,
but believable lies.
We shook hands with Mr Stevens
and he wished me luck
when I knew
I had so much already.
Old Bill and I walked out
into bright afternoon sunshine.
Celebrating
I hugged Old Bill
like I’ve never hugged
a man before
sure that he’d saved my life.
I hugged him in Main Street
with the office workers walking by,
and the shopkeepers staring,
and the two old ladies at the bus stop
watching the big grey-haired man
wrap his arms around the teenager
and I thanked him once
and thanked him a hundred times.
I shouldered my bag
and we walked up the hill
to the better part of town
with the neat gardens
and orderly trees
and brightly coloured fences
to Wellington Road
with the freshly mown grass
and the swallows
celebrating a birth
in the nest
above the veranda.
Swallows
Old Bill and I
sat on the veranda
watching the swallows
swoop and play
with a gentle breeze blowing
through the fir trees
along the back fence.
Old Bill told me
he planted those trees
their first year here
and he built the shed himself
and this veranda used to have
a gas BBQ for summer evenings,
sipping wine and cooking steak,
and they had a dog,
Jerry,
a little cockerspaniel
who loved sausages,
who’d leap in the air
when Old Bill threw him a snag.
Old Bill told me they’d
lived here for fifteen years
and he closed the door
and locked it on March 2nd, 1994.
He told me he came back
occasionally,
‘To sit on the veranda
and cry, like an old drunk’.
I held the key in my hands.
I knew better than to ask him inside.
I knew he hadn’t been inside
since that March day,
and I wasn’t going to force the issue,
not for my sake.
I pocketed the key,
said thanks, again,
and we both walked back to town.
I wasn’t going inside
without Caitlin with me.
I could wait.
Tremor
My hands still shake
from the drink
or lack of it
so when I can
I walk with them
deep in my pockets
so people won’t see
my tremors.
Billy and I sit on the veranda
and I tell him
about the BBQ
and Jerry
and his acrobatic tricks.
I keep my hands
in my pockets.
Billy holds the key,
returns it to his pocket,
says thanks, again,
and offers his strong young hand.
We shake,
and my hand in his
stops trembling
for a moment.
Loc
ks and keys
It’s been too long
since I’ve seen Caitlin
and I say sorry
as soon as I walk
into McDonald’s
and she smiles
even though she’s mopping!
I order a lemonade
and sit upstairs.
I’ve got so much to tell her
and I don’t know how.
A house seems so …
so …
so adult,
even though
it’s only for a short time
until the welfare
are off my track
and I can decide
what I really want to do
here in Bendarat.
Caitlin and the key
Billy told me last night
to meet him here
on the corner of Wellington and Jamison
after school.
I feel very silly
here on the corner
in my school uniform
with an umbrella
as the rain tumbles down.
And of course Billy walks towards me,
wet and grinning like a madman.
We kiss, and he takes my hand
and leads me down Wellington Road,
a long way from his train carriage.
I ask question after question
but I can tell
it’s a surprise
and he doesn’t want to tell me,
he wants to show me.
So I hold my impatience
and he leads me
into the driveway
of a beautiful white timber house
with an old shed
and a huge backyard
of trees – wattles and firs –
and one of those homemade bird feeders
on a pole near the fence,
and there’s a king parrot
sitting, eating some seed.
Billy and I stand on the veranda.
He hands me a key
and we stand, his hand on mine,
the key between us,
and he tells me
about the cops and welfare
and Old Bill’s story
and Old Bill’s plan
and how they both
sat on the veranda yesterday
talking
rather than taking the key