Caravan Story Read online

  Are you a writer? I ask. (Another writer, I want to say.) The old woman sinks back into her pillows. I write children’s books, she says, for children. She fiddles with the blanket. I used to work with an illustrator, she says—Mary Gruben, you might know the name—but unfortunately Mary passed away a couple of years ago and I have since been working on my own. Polly thinks she can team me up with one of the painters here, it’s a nice idea, a young man who has apparently done some magazine illustrations, and we did get together a few days ago and he did show me some of his work but—I shouldn’t be telling you all this—I was very unhappy about it. My relationship with Mary, you see, this had been built up over years—we first started working together in our early thirties—and you don’t just replace a working relationship like that overnight. I don’t blame Polly herself for this, she’s doing what she can, she’s just a functionary really, but it does show a certain amount of naivety, I think, to expect a collaboration just to happen, simply because a couple of people are put together willy-nilly. There’s a pause. Tell me, I ask, if you don’t mind: did you happen to apply for any government money recently? For the last three years, she says, since Mary died, I have applied each year for what I would call a very modest amount to develop work that might succeed independent of any illustrations but unfortunately each application has been unsuccessful, yes. And now you’re here, I say. And now I’m here, she says.

  It’s almost dark outside. I look out through the curtains above the sink. Just about everyone is out there now, sitting down to dinner at the trestle tables that are all lined up in rows out in the centre of the oval. It’s time to eat, I say, can I help you down? I’d rather just stay here, she says. Can I get you something then? I ask. That would be nice, she says. You’re welcome to stay, I say, stopping in the doorway: I’m sure we can work something out. She smiles. I go outside.

  It’s already very lively out there in the centre of the oval and as I walk from my caravan towards it I can see that every day, every night, little by little, in spite of everything, the awkwardnesses between us are diminishing. The groups are no longer so clearly defined—writers sit with painters, painters with musicians—and within each group, and between them, a lively conversation is taking place. The table is spread with candles, the wine casks are handed around; as I approach the tables Büchner the talker comes towards me with a cask of red wine in one hand and a plastic cup in the other. I don’t hear what he says at first—I’ve already held my cup out and had it filled and taken my first sip before I do—because all I am really conscious of is the group of actors all gathered down there at the end of the far table, talking among themselves and occasionally glancing over in what I imagine is my direction. Well, Büchner is saying, have you seen it yet? I don’t know what he’s talking about: I don’t think I want to know. It’s just like I was saying, he’s saying, you don’t have to lie over and let them tickle your belly—if you feel strongly about something you’ve just got to speak up for it. He’s talking about his garden. I told her very clearly, he says, you’ve got to make some allowances for individual creativity. You can’t just give us a plastic pocket with a piece of paper in it and expect us to work. The garden’s not an indulgence, it’s a part of the creative process. You got your garden, I say. After a bit of sweet-talking, he says, smiling: I spent the afternoon setting it up—but it’s still early days, of course. You’ve got to come and have a look. I will, I say. Büchner suddenly grabs my elbow and turns me aside and whispers in my ear. She’s vulnerable, he says, she’s running the show on her own, if you put enough pressure on her you can get what you want. Personally, he continues, I think we’ve got to stop thinking of ourselves as victims, outcasts—we’ve got to turn it back around. We’re important members of the community, we are an essential part of the cultural and economic fabric of the country, they know that, they have to take us seriously. He lets go of my elbow again. You must come and see my garden, he says, it’s just a start, but I think you’ll like it.

  I tell him I will come and see his garden tomorrow and I half raise my plastic cup towards him as if to toast the fact. He walks back to his chair. I watch his fat arse kicking out from side to side and the backs of his sandals flapping. I move to the nearest table, take a plate and fill it with food. I can feel some of the actors still looking at me. Polly is sitting down the end of one table and her look, too, I feel. There are sausages and vegieburgers; I put one of each on the plate. All these people, with nowhere else to go. I go back to my van.

  Gwen is asleep. She’s sunk down into the pillows and her head has flopped to one side. The curtains on the window next to her are open and her pale old woman’s face shines like a moon in the moonlight. I sit down at the table and eat the meal, glancing up at her occasionally. I’ll probably get into trouble for this, I think; I should be out there being social. Then, like the realisation of a prophecy, my partner is at the door. What’s wrong with you? she whispers. I gesture towards the bunk and shrug as if to say: Isn’t that obvious? But I thought you were going to be working with us, she says. I still have the cup of red wine with me (To accompany the meal, I think): I take a sip then cut the sausage and put a piece in my mouth. She looks at me and smiles. You’re a strange one, she says. I don’t speak, I don’t answer her, but what I do is I look up from my meal and look around me theatrically, first to Elizabeth Jolley, sleeping, then to the crowd gathered out on the oval as if to indicate to her what I personally think when I hear the word ‘strange’. Then I go back to my meal. It’s a pity you’re not coming with us, she says. You’ll be better off without me, I say. Will you be all right, though? she asks. She’s looking up at the bunk. I nod and smile. I’m starting to think about Laburnum. They’re all talking about what you said today, she says, meaning the actors. I don’t reply. She comes over and kisses me. I look up from my sausage. It’s going to be good, she says, everything, it’s going to be good.

  She goes. The flywire door creaks, hisses and shuts. The drummers have started up. The air is very warm and still. I can hear Elizabeth Jolley breathing. I push aside my plate and pull the Laburnum folder back across the table in front of me. There are little specks of blowfly shit on the cover. I wipe them off with my thumb. So, I say, out loud, and then again, in my head, to myself: So.

  four

  I wake up late with a hot shaft of sun on my cheek. She is already gone. The sheet is crumpled around my ankles, I’m bathed in sweat (it’s going to be hot, already the caravan feels like an oven); the inside of my mouth feels swollen and I can’t lift my head from the pillow. I stare at the woodgrain veneer of the caravan wall, right there in front of my nose. Then I remember the old woman.

  You got very drunk, she says. I open my eyes and roll over. Good morning, she says. I pull the sheet back up over me. Good morning, I say. She’s already working, propped up on the pillows with her notebook on her knees. Did you sleep all right? she asks. Yes, I say. Your partner’s already gone, she says, she said she’ll see you this evening. With the sheet still wrapped around me, I rummage through the pile of clothes on the floor, find what I need and get dressed, then splash my face with water in the sink. Have you had breakfast? I ask. No, she says. I look out through the curtains—the last trestle table is just now being carried back to the changing shed. We’re too late, I say. She doesn’t mind. She looks down at me over her reading glasses and smiles.

  I put the bedclothes away and raise the table. My folder has spent the night under the mattress and with the mattress base now become the tabletop again I need only reach out with my free hand and draw it towards me. What is your topic? asks Gwen. A Short History of Laburnum, I say—it’s a suburb near where I grew up. And you’re making progress? she asks. Yes, I say. I slide the papers out of the folder and start flicking through what I have written. I place the information sheet with the photo attached on the table where I can see it. A long time passes. My stomach grumbles. I can hear the scratch of Elizabeth Jolley’s pen.

  Later that morning the
re’s a knock at the door. It’s Büchner. He gestures for me to come outside. Gwen looks down over her glasses at him, a dark shape behind the flywire. This is Shannon, I say, pointing: Shannon’s a writer too. This phrase, ‘a writer too’, depresses me to no end; it sticks in my throat, starts to burn, then the burning goes down to my stomach. Büchner nods stupidly, then gestures to me again. I look at him, his stupid grin, his greasy hair, his t-shirt hanging out. I need to have a chat with you, he says.

  I step outside. The sun is high—it must be nearly midday—and there are no clouds but a few wisps low down in the west. The light is sharp and stings your eyes; I stand in the thin slip of shade along the caravan wall. Büchner, his stupid sloppy t-shirt already dark around the neck and armpits, chooses to stand in the sun. I’ve got one too, he says. I look at him dumbly. I’ve got one too, he says. He means an old person. They put him in my caravan yesterday, says Büchner, while I was out; he’s been snoring all night—you know him, the guy with the beard. There’s a pause. Büchner glares at me. So you’re just going to accept the situation? he says, with a ludicrous tone in his voice. I don’t know what to say. There’s not much we can do, I venture. Büchner looks back at me indignantly. See this? he says—he has half-turned himself around and is now showing me the back of his calf. (It’s a bruise, topped by the raw remains of a graze.) Don’t worry, I’ve got photos of it, he says; it’s nearly healed now. He turns to face me again. You see, I refused to go; I actually put up a fight. They had to drag me out the door. Do you think we should accept what’s going on here without putting up a fight? He’s waiting for an answer. What’s going on? I ask. This! he says, in a snake-whisper: we’re artists—that’s why we’re here—but how are we supposed to work like this? (Like what? I think: like what?) Do you want to share your caravan with a writer twice your age? he asks. I’m not sure, I say, it might be good: maybe they intend it as some kind of mentorship? Büchner snorts. Honestly! What kind of work do they expect to get out of us if they’re going to saddle us with the older generation? Surely not anything dynamic and original! Do I really need some old stylist looking down over my shoulder, judging what I do, loading me up with all their outdated baggage? How old are you? he asks. Thirty-six, I say. You see, he says, you’re not a young writer any more, thirty-five’s the cut-off, it’s different for you. But I’m prime young writer, says Büchner, I need to protect my branding. I’ve only got a few years left. The least I can expect is a room of my own.

  He has a point, I think, as I stand there looking at him, standing under the blazing sun, sweat now pouring in tiny streams down his forehead and cheeks. But what I don’t understand is why he’s saying all this to me. Am I supposed to feel sorry for him? Everything about him is pitiful: the hair, the stupid little chin-beard, the t-shirt with the slogan on it, the cargo shorts, the leather sandals. But most of all the idea that we—we, of all people—should raise our voices in protest and ask—for what? Quiet time? Better food? Compensation for our bruises? I’ll come over and see your garden later, I say. Büchner is disarmed. He shuffles in the dirt, lifts and drops his shoulders—it was not the garden he’d come to discuss. He’s about to speak. I’ll come over later, I say.

  I step back inside out of the sun and sit at the table—through the curtains I see Büchner walking back across the oval to his caravan. He stops, looks back, then shuffles on. It’s all quiet out there now, and deserted. Everything is shimmering under a pitiless sun. The old woman coughs, then asks can I wet the facewasher she is holding out towards me—she has also made a fan from some sheets of notepaper and with the other hand is now fanning herself with it. On a drift of thoughts I put the washer under the tap, squeeze it out and hand it up to her. She lays it on top of her head and resumes fanning herself with the paper. I’m sorry, she says, as I turn back to the table: I know this is awkward—I turn back again—it’s not the ideal situation for either of us, is it? With the washer on her head it’s hard to take her seriously, but I do. It’s not your fault, I say. I don’t usually work in the afternoons, she says, I usually sleep, so your time will then be your own. (Afternoon, I think, yes—it’s nearly lunchtime already.) Would you like to get up and stretch your legs for a while? I ask. Perhaps tomorrow, she says. She falls silent. I look at her with the washer on her head, staring out into space. She’s having a thought. After some time staring she picks up her pen and starts writing and then all I can hear is the scratch of the pen and some half-heard sounds from outside.

  The washer is a good idea but I don’t have another. I splash my face and hair in the sink and go back to the table without drying it. I sit there letting the cool get into my blood. I wipe my hands on my shirt. I look at my papers but there’s really no point. The heat coming off the window, even with the curtains closed, is unbearable; the laminex table is warm to the touch. I close my eyes but when I do I don’t see Laburnum but Büchner, his sweaty face, his dark underarms, his smug smirk, I even see in my mind’s eye his grub of a penis, hiding under a ledge of fat. Everything about him is slippery, odorous, repugnant. I don’t care that I have an old woman with a washer on her head sitting on the top bunk of my caravan—this is nothing compared to the nausea I feel looking at Büchner in my mind’s eye and hearing him call himself a writer. I try again to think of Laburnum—When Ernest Fairweather, the draper’s son, and his wife, May, first stopped their cart in that rough clearing ten miles from Melbourne—but the thoughts are wrenched from me by thoughts now of her, of the actors, of the airconditioned Transit van and the cool church hall. Why didn’t I go with them? What was I thinking? They’re out there playing, have been playing all morning, they’re free, and here am I, a prisoner, chewing my brains out, worrying, for nothing.

  I go outside, I’m not sure why. It’s extraordinary out there, under that sun. I start walking across the oval—way off over in the distance I can see the vague shape of a tractor working the paddocks, a cloud of dust rising, drifting and overtaking it, pushed by a faint, barely detectable breeze. Out in the centre of the oval, where all the meals are served, signs of our occupation are clear. There is no grass out there now, just trampled earth, the concrete cricket pitch is stained with the grease leached from fallen food, small chicken and chop bones lie scattered in the dirt, a couple of screwed-up paper towels are waiting to be carried off by the wind. I stop there in the centre of the oval for a moment but then as I do I become aware that behind the curtains of all these caravans other writers’ eyes must be watching. I’m not supposed to be out here; I’m supposed to be working. In my head I make up an excuse: I’m going to see Georg Büchner’s garden. But I don’t know where Georg Büchner lives. The caravans are arrayed in a circle around me, there are probably about fifty in all, but I don’t know which one is Büchner’s.

  Are you coming over to help with the lunch? says a voice behind me. Yes, I say, turning around. It’s Jane Austen, the redhead, in a pale blue cotton dress with a straw hat on her head. I’m Jane, she says (But you can’t be, I think), are you coming over? Yes, I say. We start walking. How is your work going? she asks. I don’t know what to say. I find it hard to work in the afternoon, she says—does your caravan get hot too? Yes, I say. We walk in silence. Every moment, every day, another thing to make me think this is not of this world. I’m Wayne, I say. She smiles. Under a tap at the corner of the changing shed a young woman in overalls with a purple headscarf holding back a tangle of black curls is washing out a paintbrush. The mix of paint and water has formed a little red river, running across the concrete slab and down onto the gravel. How’s it going? asks Jane Austen. Good, says the young woman with the headscarf: come and have a look. This is Wayne, says Jane Austen. I’m Trish, says Trish. We go around the back; all the painters are there, with brushes and rollers in their hands, all dressed in old oversized shirts or overalls, all with some kind of hat on their heads. They’re all standing back, looking at their mural, which now Jane Austen, Trish and I are looking at too.

  It’s a community mural. It depic
ts the community. There’s a farmer holding a sheaf of wheat, a farmer riding a tractor, a farmer’s wife holding a cake, throwing back her head and laughing; there’s a big truck and a receding road, children running a footrace, a football player flying for a mark. But my eye is drawn most strongly to the man in the bottom right-hand corner holding in his outstretched arms a piebald calf. It’s the caretaker from the church. He doesn’t look happy, and this unhappiness—or better, disquiet—has been captured perfectly by the painter. With a few rough brushstrokes the whole broken life is revealed. What do you think? says Trish, beside me. It’s done from photographs? I ask. Yes, she says. I love it, says Jane. Did they pose? I ask. Some did, says Trish. We’ve tried not to glamorise things too much, says another voice beside me, which on turning I see is the voice of the woman with the hennaed hair I saw—when was it? yesterday? the day before? She has a chain with trinkets around her neck—there are wrinkles there, and sunspots—she must be about fifty. The idea is to try to capture the community in time, she says, and to give it a sense of continuity and belonging. But it’s not even disquiet, I think, as I look at the brushstrokes of the caretaker’s face; it’s humiliation. He looks humiliated. Then I look at his shoes; they’re not farmers’ boots, they’re black vinyl slip-ons.