The Vintage and the Gleaning (16 page)

After Charlotte turns in I get my old shotgun from out the hall cupboard and clean it at the kitchen table. I find a box of shells in the garage. I load the gun and put it under my bed and then I change into my pyjamas and go to sleep.

Thursday I wake from broken dreams and Charlotte's voice. All night in my dreams and half-asleep, Charlotte's voice, and I dreamt she was there in the room, talking from out the darkness. I get up, exhausted, my pyjamas soaked in sweat. Dawn breaks and the song of magpies. I shiver as I dress.

What did Boss say? I ask Roy.

Roy shrugs his shoulders. He's left the motor running.

Not much, he says. Didn't say nothing.

Yeah? I say.

Not as far as I heard, said Roy.

So nothing, I say.

Roy shakes his head. He winds up the window and leaves. I sit in the living room and watch the sun rise over the trees. There is movement in Charlotte's room and then the bathroom. She is in there for some time.

I remember I left the shotgun cocked and I go and get it from under my bed and unload it, putting the shells in my pocket. I stand the shotgun against the back of the wardrobe and wipe my hands on my jeans.

Charlotte comes out of the bathroom scented and made up, her hair done and colour on her cheeks. Her eyelashes are long and dark, her brows high and arched. She walks in carrying herself, her back straight, and sits down on the couch, her back straight still.

You look well, I say.

She is arranging Florrie's bathrobe.

I just woke up and I thought, bugger it, she says. I'm not going to let this destroy me.

She pats her pinned up hair. Her straight back and arched eyebrows give her a proud look.

I've got to keep going, don't I, she says. Whatever happens.

Good for you, I say.

I owe it to myself, she says. I deserve better than this.

The dawn clears. The sun is full, the sky untroubled.

Charlotte stands up and goes to the window. Cars and utes pass.

I watch her, the morning sun on her.

I make porridge for Charlotte. She eats at the kitchen table while I clean up. The mealy smell turns my stomach.

You know I've lost five kilos, Charlotte says. I've been trying to lose that for years. The one good thing I've got out of this whole bloody mess.

Oh yeah, I say.

I scrub the saucepan and the wooden spoon. The kitchen smells of starch and detergent, the sink water grey and swimming with globules. I nearly retch.

I'll probably just put it on again, she says.

That's what they say, isn't it.

I keep working on the saucepan.

So how come you never take that hat off? Charlotte says. You've got beautiful hair.

What? I say, my hand going to my hat. I look at Charlotte who is watching me, smiling.

Last night I woke up in the middle of the night and my heart was racing like crazy, she says. And I was breathing funny. It was like I couldn't breathe, like I was suffocating. I think it must have been a panic attack or something. Anyway, I was still half asleep, sort of confused. I'd been dreaming and I thought I was at home, I mean back at my parents' house, on the farm. When I finally woke up I was in your room. I didn't know your hair was so white.

I didn't hear you, I say. I would of thought I'd hear you come in.

It was all spread out around your head, she says. I never knew it was so white.

I put the clean things onto the dish rack and drain the sink. I sniff my hands and wash them and sniff them again.

You're blushing, says Charlotte.

Even old men got vanity, I say. He didn't come back? Charlotte asks, looking out the back window.

Not that I saw.

We are in the lounge room. The gas fire is off today and I look at the cold waxy ceramic. Light splashes the room.

I'm just sick of it, says Charlotte. These games, these stupid games. Whatever it is he's playing at. My useless bloody dropkick of a husband. I'm just sick of it. I've had enough.

There is a sharp pain in the knuckle of one of my fingers. I rub it but the pain does not go.

I mean, I should be the angry one, says Charlotte. I'm the one who's been hard done by, aren't I? Not Brett. No matter what he thinks. I'm the one who should be, whatever he's doing, holding a grudge or whatever. It should be me. I should have stayed home, told him to pack his bags, told him to never come back. That's my right, isn't it? After what happened?

Of course it is, I say.

The police told me I should get a restraining order, she says. And I should have. But instead I go running off and hide, like it's all my fault. Which is how he sees it, I'm sure. Well, I know that's how he sees it. And I'm just playing into his hands, aren't I? I mean, running away, whatever I'm doing. I really don't know what I'm doing. I mean, you tell me. Why am I here? Can you tell me that? Why did I come here, of all places? It's ridiculous. No offence Smithy, but I don't even know you. I mean, I appreciate what you're doing for me, but really we don't know each other, do we? So what the hell am I doing here? Hiding out like this. I don't know what I'm doing.

Charlotte turns from the window and looks at me and turns back again, looking out at the fences and trees and the light striking the landscape, in places, in parts, here and there. There is still the smell of boiled oats and starch coming from the kitchen.

I suppose it just goes to show what sort of friends I have, she says. Why didn't I go to them, my friends, my so-called friends? I mean, what I wish I had, what I really need right now, especially now, is a proper friend. A woman. Someone I can actually talk to, especially now, with all this, with Brett, whatever it is that's going on. I need that. But I don't have anyone, a friend, a proper friend, I mean, obviously. Because I came here, didn't I?

Charlotte walks over to the couch and sits down. She fixes up the bathrobe, pulling it down over her legs, tightening the belt, smoothing it over her thighs. The glowing pools falling across the room tremble, receding with the rising sun.

Oh, well, bugger it, says Charlotte. It's my problem anyway. Why should I be lumping other people with my problems.

Charlotte paces the room. She looks at Florrie's crystal cakestand, picks it up, turns it over, puts it back, looks at the family photo. She walks over to the glass cabinet with the wireless at one end, the framed print of the sea over it and crouches down, her arms folded. She looks at the Franklin Mint plates on stands and the silverware, the old photos in frames inlaid with pieces of mirror and mother-of-pearl, things of coloured glass and Florrie's collection of porcelain cats set out in a row.

I honestly don't know what I do with myself, she says. During the days. I sleep in. I watch TV. I have long baths. I do my nails, my hair, I put on make-up. I mean, not for any reason. There's no reason. I don't even leave the house. It's all just passing the time, just something to do. I mean, there's no actual reason. I've got no reason to do anything.

Charlotte stands up and stretches. She looks at the picture of the sea.

But I'll tell you this. When the day's over, somehow it makes me, not happy, something else. I mean, when I go to bed, it's like I've achieved something, even though all I've achieved is getting through it. That's all. Getting through the day. And it goes on and on, like that, every day. Days, weeks, months. Years. All these years. All this time.

Charlotte comes over and sits on the couch. She smooths down the bathrobe. Her eyes are dark.

It's like all this time I've been waiting for something to happen. And it's like I still am. Like things are going to get better and I'm just sitting it out. Counting down the days. But nothing's going to happen, is it. I mean, really. Not for me, anyway. I know that. Of course I know. But it's like somehow I can't help acting like it will, like something's going to happen and I don't even know what. It's just that I feel like something has to get better. Something has to change. And if I don't believe that. How else can I live with myself?

Outside the sound of insects. Things crackle in the heat.

I don't know, says Charlotte. I should probably just leave town. I should have done it while Brett was inside. Just left. Disappeared. It's just that I don't have the energy. I mean, I think about it all the time, and not only now, with Brett getting out and everything, but before then. All the time. But I don't. I don't leave. I couldn't face it. I just can't seem to face anything these days. And it's like that more and more. Sometimes I just can't be bothered. I go for days without having a shower, don't get dressed, don't do anything. I just sit there. All day. I mean, there doesn't seem to be any point.

She looks at me, her painted face, her high arched eyebrows.

You wouldn't understand, she says.

We sit there. The morning keeps on. The sun seems to pulse audibly, a distant scream. Charlotte puts her feet up on the couch and leans against the armrest, arranging the bathrobe again.

How do you do that? I ask Charlotte.

What? she asks.

I point to her hair and face.

Charlotte gives me a funny look.

What do you mean? she says.

I point again.

I don't know, she says. Pins. Make-up.

Women have to learn those things, I suppose.

Charlotte shrugs.

I suppose they do, she says.

And I do understand, Charlotte, I say. It's what made me used to start the day with a glass of brandy, waiting for the pubs to open.

So what did you do about it? she asks.

Me, I say. Work. Without work it would be an early grave for me. Would've been anyway.

Well, I've missed the boat there, she says.

Rubbish, I say. You're young. Healthy. No reason you can't work.

I've got no qualifications, no experience, she says. How am I going to find work.

There's always something, I say. Look at me. At my age.

It's different, she says. I can't just go and get a job at some checkout.

Why not, I say. There's no shame in that.

But there is, she murmurs. For me there is. I know there shouldn't be, but there is.

She is patting down her hair. She sees me watching and she stops.

Besides, she says. Think what people would say.

What does that matter? I say.

It matters, she says. I couldn't bear it. I couldn't face them. I know what they'd be thinking. I just couldn't.

The outside is like a faded photograph. Sunlight comes off guttering and tin roofs, slicing from gashes of peeled paint, piercing my vision, leaving burning spots long after I look away. There is no noise, no bickering of birds today, just the occasionally cawing of a crow. The day is still.

So every day I ask Brett what he wants for his tea, says Charlotte. Because that's the one thing I do, at least, make tea for Brett. And he always says, Whatever, you know. Whatever. I mean, he doesn't care and the thing is, I don't care either. It's not like that's my purpose in life, cooking Brett's tea, looking after Brett. That's not how my life should be. I mean, there's better things I could be doing, so many other things I could be doing.

But I cook for Brett every night anyway, and whatever Brett might say, he does expect me to. And then I sit and wait for him to come home, and whenever he comes home late or drunk or whatever, I start yelling at him and he acts like I'm this nagging housewife. You know, he hears me out, he apologises, but like it's nothing important to him, like he's just putting up with me, his nagging wife. And he never thinks that maybe it's not important to me either, maybe I don't want to be yelling at him and nagging him, maybe I don't care either, maybe I don't care any more than he does. But what I hate is that I actually do end up caring, because I make the effort. And I don't want to, but I do. And so this is what my life has been reduced to. Cooking for Brett, waiting for Brett to come home. I mean, does he think that's what I want? That this is all I want out of life?

And that's the thing. It's not what I want and it's not what he wants, so what are we doing? But that's how it is and, I don't know, it's like I can't get out of it. It's like neither of us can get out of it.

I remember there was this one time, years ago, I was cooking dinner for Brett, as usual. It was early, but I often cook early, I mean, what else do I have to do? I cook early and I heat it up whenever Brett comes home. So I was cooking. Chops, I remember. Chops in the grill. And for some reason I just turned off the stove and I went outside and sat on the kerb. It was like I was sleepwalking or something. And I couldn't get up, couldn't move. I just sat there. And I was sitting there thinking, I've got to go and cook those chops. But it all seemed too much. So I just stayed there.

Anyway, these kids were playing on the street, riding their bikes around me, watching me. And after a while they started throwing stones at me, yelling stuff, making fun of me. Like I was some mad person. And I didn't do anything, I just put up with it. Like a mad person would. But eventually this woman came along, I didn't know who she was. I still don't know who she was. I'd never seen her before and I haven't seen her since, thank God.

But she was nice. She was really nice. She came over and asked if I was all right, if there was anything wrong. I can't even remember whether I answered her. And she asked me if I knew where I was and I said no. But of course I knew where I was. I was sitting outside my own house, but for some reason I said no, that I didn't know where I was. And so she went off. She said she was coming back, I suppose she was probably going to get help of some sort, I don't know, the neighbours or the police. So I went back inside, because I didn't want someone I knew seeing me. I didn't want people hearing that I was sitting outside my own house saying I didn't know where I was, because they'd have known I was lying. But for a moment, just for that moment, it felt like a relief to say it, that I didn't know where I was, like I'd forgotten, like I had amnesia or something. I can't explain it properly, but I sort of wished it was true.