Caravan Story Read online

  We all stand shoulder to shoulder: behind the woman, beyond the fence, I can see the old timber scoreboard: ‘H——’ above and ‘Visitors’ below, painted in large white letters. H——, I whisper, but someone behind me says, Shh! The woman is talking, her name is Polly, she appreciates our patience, we will be eating shortly, there are showers in the changing shed, men to the left, women to the right, this will be our home for a while. Are there any questions? she asks. Someone asks are dogs allowed. The woman smiles and answers yes. A young child breaks away from the group and runs back to her caravan; the dog is let out, it starts yapping and turning in circles. A small ripple of laughter passes through the group. Is there a phone we can use? someone asks. The woman says there’s a public phone in town, a driver can take us there after we’ve eaten. The woman pauses, raises her eyebrows, passes her eye across every face. We look at the ground, or at the sky; no-one has any more questions.

  We all move back to our caravans, to freshen up before lunch. The drivers have lit a fire in a cut-down diesel drum, they are standing around it, drinking cans of beer; from behind the shed two of them carry out a big steel grate and drop it on top of the drum. I think I might have a shower, she says. There’s a queue already, I say. But she doesn’t care, she’ll wait, she says: if she doesn’t have a shower soon she’ll die. She takes a towel from the cupboard (Towels and all, I think) and walks back towards the door. What do you think? I ask, as she puts her foot on the step. She turns around and shrugs her shoulders. We’ll just have to wait and see, she says.

  I pull the curtains open and watch the goings-on outside. The day is already hot and shade here hard to come by. People are moving to and from the changing shed with towels slung over their shoulders. I see her stop and talk to someone—a young woman about the same age—and they enter the right-hand end of the shed together. For a while I keep looking at the shed, and the dark doorway they have disappeared into. But then for some reason I can’t look any longer and I pull the curtains closed again.

  I haven’t eaten since the tuna—that seems like days ago now—and as I lie on my back on the bed again my stomach starts to rumble. I lay one hand across it and the other hand across my chest. I’m trying to calm myself down, though I don’t feel upset at all. All day I’ve felt this calm, this I-don’t-care-we’ll-see-what-happens-it-doesn’tmatter kind of calm. I can’t get excited about anything, or get upset about anything either. As if to test myself I move the hand that was on my stomach down towards my crotch but then my stomach rumbles again.

  She comes back freshly showered, a strand of wet hair stuck to her cheek. She sits on the bottom bunk at the far end of the caravan, lays the towel over her head, twists it into a turban and throws her head back. Only then does she look at me, seeing what I think. I let it go; I don’t think anything. I’m looking out the window again; they are carrying a large wooden trestle table out into the centre of the oval. Polly follows, a cask of wine in each hand. People start appearing at the doors of their caravans. Polly flutters around, encouraging them to take a plate and form a queue at the barbecue. Formlessly at first, they do. Are you hungry? I ask. She’s drying her hair now, like out of a painting or a movie, her legs spread wide, her head between them, her hair falling down, rubbing her scalp with the towel.

  We go out together, it’s a long time since we’ve been out, and though I know as I think it that it is a ridiculous thought, I think: At least we’re going out. From the trestle table beside the players’ gate you take a paper plate, move forward to the barbecue where you choose your meat, then back around to the other gate where you help yourself to the salads. We choose a quiet place at the row of tables in the centre of the oval but soon we are joined by others. To her left sits an energetic-looking man with greying hair, probably in his early forties. To my right sits a young couple, both dressed in baggy clothes and smelling of sandalwood. The young man leans past the young woman towards me and says: All that’s missing is the string quartet! He lets out a giggle and returns to his plate.

  Meanwhile my partner has struck up a conversation with her neighbour. I catch only bits of it—our table is full now, the other tables too, and a lively hubbub of talk has begun. It seems he’s an actor, they’re comparing shows they’ve seen, in particular something from years ago in which, they now realise, they both had a mutual friend. She leans back to introduce me to him: This is Wayne, she says: this is Andrew. Hi Andrew, I say. Wayne’s a writer, she says. Andrew nods and smiles. She leans forward and they continue talking.

  I have chosen the chicken wings but they are not cooked in the middle. Around the joint the flesh is pink and streaked with blood. I look around the table, everyone is eating theirs. My eye falls on Polly. Unfortunately, just as I look at her, she looks at me. There’s something strange about her look, something that actually frightens me—I don’t know why or what it is exactly but I know in that moment that I must take what I’m given and, in a practical sense, I must eat the chicken wings without complaint, no matter how badly cooked. I pick up the bone from my plate again and sink my teeth into the uncooked flesh. Polly goes back to her meal.

  A strange thought starts moving through me. We are eating our last meal, I think, and will soon be coaxed into the changing shed perhaps under the pretext of an after-dinner dance where the doors will be locked and bolted and the gas taps turned up full. They’ll get a big bulldozer to dig a big pit, dump us in and cover us over. On top of us they’ll build a shopping centre or a sporting complex or perhaps new municipal offices. For a while those who knew us will try to track us down but they will soon be put off the scent. It won’t take long for us all to be forgotten—this too has been thought out in advance. In thinking all this I’ve managed to amuse myself and am now looking down at the plate of scraps in front of me, smiling. But then the young woman beside me starts nudging my arm with her elbow and thrusts a long tube of white plastic cups in my face. I take one and pass it on. Two casks of wine follow: one white, one red. I take the white and fill my cup. Now Polly is up, tapping her plastic cup with a fork, a gesture that provokes some good-natured laughter from the crowd. Polly responds. Yes, she says, yes of course, she says, no long-stemmed crystal here. But if I could just have your attention for a moment, please, there are a few things I want to say. Everyone goes silent and gives Polly their attention. Even the drivers, still gathered around the barbecue, turn and look in her direction and respectfully lower their cans. You have all been very patient, says Polly, and I would like to thank you for that. The problem was that the salads had been left back in Melbourne and the shop here had no lettuce. Eventually you will be allowed to cook in your caravans but the arrangements for that are still pending. A watch has been found in the showers—Polly holds up the watch. A woman stands up, embarrassed, and the watch is handed down the table to her. Polly adjusts the neck of her dress. A few more things, she says.

  The children are getting restless, one of them has crawled under the table and her mother is whispering angrily at her to get back in her chair. The heat has become unbearable, and that combined with the wine has put blank stupefied looks on everyone’s faces. But Polly is talking again. She talks for a long time, but I understand very little of what she says. It’s as if her words are now being spoken in a room at the far end of a corridor, I’m too tired to strain my ear, something soft and dull inside my head keeps distracting me. I don’t think the others understand much either. Everyone is trying their best, they’re looking at her and listening, but they just don’t understand. She finishes and asks do we have any questions. I put up my hand to speak. Is there something we can clean the caravan with, I say, some cleaning liquid or something? Polly smiles. Come around to the car after lunch, she says. I have stood up to ask the question, without realising that I have, and though I’m satisfied with the answer I feel awkward when I sit back down. I pick up my plastic cup and self-consciously drink the drop that’s left.

  When I go to Polly’s car after lunch Polly is not there. I se
e her hurrying towards me. She’s had a huge day, it’s all fallen on her shoulders, she’s wearing a sleeveless purple cotton dress and I can see the sweat glistening in the creases under her arms and the dark crescent moon stains beneath. She apologises for being late, someone went missing, but they’ve found them now. I almost want to hug her, tell her to calm down. She opens the back of the four-wheel drive and begins pulling the boxes towards her, opening the flaps on the top, then pushing them away again. She finally finds the one she wants. She takes out a bottle of Lemon Jif and a three-pack of Chux Superwipes. What’s all this about? I ask. Polly looks at me, the cleaning items still in her hand. I just explained it all at lunch, she says. I say I didn’t understand and I don’t think the others did either. Polly pushes the Jif and the Superwipes into my hands and closes the door again. I’d advise you not to ask too many questions, she says. She looks me straight in the eye: I’d think yourself lucky if I were you; a lot of people have been working very hard, myself included, to set this up, and I’d appreciate your cooperation. What’s your name? she says. Wayne, I answer, Wayne Macauley. All right, Wayne, she says, now go and clean up your van.

  It’s so hot in there when I get back that I have to open all the windows. My partner hasn’t come back from lunch; she must be talking to the actor she met. The inspiration to clean has now completely deserted me, it’s too hot to do anything. I lie on the bottom bunk and count the wooden slats of the bed above. I can still smell Polly’s faint scent of green apples, I close my eyes and look at her face then try to picture the body beneath the dress. But the body keeps pulling in and out of focus. I open my eyes again. I lie on the bunk like that for the rest of the afternoon, staring at the slats, closing my eyes and letting the pictures come, then opening them again. Dusk falls. The window above me darkens. I hear the grate being dropped on top of the diesel drum. Flywire doors are squeaking, the dog is barking. Everything seems a long way away.

  two

  During the days that follow we are divided into groups. I go with the writers, she goes with the actors; there are musicians too, and painters. All over the oval small groups sit around in circles with Polly flitting about between them. The actors are gathered way over there near the changing shed—I can only catch a glimpse of the back of my partner’s head. They have already broken the ice, I can see them talking animatedly, but Polly has to help us by setting up a game. Under her instructions we arrange our chairs in a circle and then one of us is given a ball, a medium-sized plastic ball with a tropical fruit motif on it. The person must throw the ball to someone else in the circle, but only, as we realise after two false starts, after saying the first sentence of a story. The person who catches the ball must then provide the next sentence and so on. It’s a story game, says Polly. The first player is an elderly man with a grey beard and his sentence is: As I walked out that day the air was crisp and clear. When it gets to me my sentence is: She took me by the hand and led me down the steps. It seems to go on forever. Polly has left us to our own devices and gone over to the painters, we don’t know whether we are supposed to find our own ending or wait till she comes back. After flitting around the painters; she goes over to the musicians. I am now on my third sentence—everyone is getting restless. By the time Polly returns to our group some people have got bored with the game and have started talking among themselves. Please, says Polly. The story ends in the hands of a very young woman with short cropped hair who speaks her sentence with a little quaver in her voice. Polly applauds with short sharp movements, rapping the four rigid fingers of one hand against the four rigid fingers of the other. Some in the group briefly applaud too.

  I look across to the actors. They are doing some sort of performance now; she is acting out a scene with another woman and all the actors watching are falling about laughing. Now, says Polly, drawing my attention away: I have here a list of possible subjects that you may choose to work on. Please pass it around. If a topic interests you, write your name in the column provided. One topic only per person, please, but be sure to give a second preference in case your first choice is taken. The sheet of paper is handed around the circle. I choose A Short History of Laburnum, a suburb not far from where I grew up, and hand it on to the next person. Some people spend a long time over their choices; others, not many though, seem to be treating the whole thing as a joke. Polly has already made a mental note of these people and deliberately distracts herself when one of them giggles over the list. If the game had created a sense of camaraderie in the group then already it is dissipating; sideways glances are being exchanged, some older members have become deliberately aloof—they fill in their name and pass on the sheet without looking at their neighbour—while still others just look confused and afraid they may do the wrong thing.

  The list finally ends up back with Polly, who quickly runs an eye over it. It’s so hot out here in the centre of the oval that I’m afraid one of us is going to faint. I want to ask again—What is this all about?—but I’m afraid that if I do Polly will finally lose patience with me. I’ve begun to feel sorry for her—it’s not her fault, she’s been left to organise the whole thing herself—and I don’t want to make things worse. I look around the circle, wondering if anyone might be brave enough to ask the question instead. My eye falls on a red-headed young woman in a big straw hat. Jane Austen, I think. She has her legs just slightly open and I can almost see her knickers. An idea suddenly comes to me and I have to hide my smile. I move my eye around the circle: Anton Chekhov, Nikolai Gogol, Robert Louis Stevenson, Heinrich von Kleist. This is very funny. I’m giving them all names. The names come easily to me, I am barely thinking—Christina Stead, Henry Lawson, Elizabeth Jolley, Patrick White—and the excitement I’m getting out of doing this is almost too hard to contain. I go around the whole circle—Polly is talking, explaining what we are supposed to do next—and effortlessly I give a name to each member of the group. I finish with Jorge Luis Borges to my left, a middle-aged man with over-shampooed hair and sharp birdlike features, who, perhaps sensing something strange, glances briefly at me before turning to Polly again.

  And so, says Polly, I think you’d agree that this presents a fabulous opportunity for you all. She has just explained the whole thing. Even the cynics, those who laughed at the list, have now become respectfully silent. Any questions? asks Polly. I have a question but I can’t ask it. Polly smiles and moves away: we are free to go back to our vans.

  I’m always missing something—I have missed something again. I don’t listen properly, I am always thinking about something else. Long after the other writers have moved away from the circle I remain there thinking about all this and am still thinking about it when I see Polly glaring at me from over near the boundary. I pick up my chair and stack it in its place and go back to the van.

  That evening I ask my partner how was her day and she asks me how was mine. I tell her everything—the ball game, the talk, the list, the afternoon staring at the wall—but the more I tell the more depressed I get. She on the other hand can’t contain her excitement—some of the best actors from town are here, people she’s always wanted to work with, they’ve already formed a small company and started devising a show, soon they’ll be touring, it’s everything she’s ever wanted. I listen to her and watch her moving around the caravan as if she has suddenly become someone else. I explain to her that from my point of view the work I will be doing will not be so exciting, but she just laughs me off. You’re right, I say, I know, I say, I’m just feeling a bit lost, that’s all.

  That night we sleep back to back. I hear her gentle breathing. I look up through the crack in the curtain at the deep black star-filled sky. Strange muffled sounds from the other caravans drift towards me. I close my eyes. We are walking along the edge of a cliff-top, below us in the void a flock of birds are wheeling around. I lean over to kiss her but she jumps aboard one of the birds and flies away. The other birds follow; little pebbles tumble down the cliff-face and echo far below.

  Next morning wh
en I wake up she is already gone. They are devising their bouffon piece in the church hall of a town somewhere nearby. She has left a note on the sink, she wants me to ask about the washing: Is there somewhere we can wash our clothes? I go back to bed and masturbate then take her socks and undies and mine to the toilet block where I wash them in the basin. I hang them on the chrome rail at the front of the caravan. Breakfast is being served over near the players’ gate. You have to take your bowl and plate, spoon and knife, and from the trestle table covered with a white plastic tablecloth you can choose from Cornflakes or Weeties and cold white bread toast with strawberry jam or Vegemite. I take my bowl of Weeties back to the van.

  On the bed is a small package: a Tudor 5mm ruled ninety-six-page exercise book, a Pilot Fineliner pen and a small kit in a plastic pocket with a sticker on the outside that says ‘Laburnum’. I open the plastic pocket and look at the kit. It is two A4 pages, stapled together; it tells me something about Laburnum and has a bad copy of a photograph of the local primary school stapled to the top of the second page. It gives me guidelines to follow (‘feel free to use your subject in a creative way’) and has a short reading list at the end which has, however, been hastily crossed through.

  It’s not easy getting started. At about eleven o’clock that morning I write Laburnum, then, Laburnum is a small suburb in Melbourne’s east, then Laburnum is a small suburb in Melbourne’s east, perhaps best known for the railway station bearing its name—then quickly scratch my pen through that and start again. This goes on until lunchtime when quarter-cut ham sandwiches are informally served out on the oval. I linger too long over my sandwich and by the time I sit down in the caravan again more than half the day is gone.