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,
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.