The Simple Gift (5 page)

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

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.