Caravan Story Page 8

  Now Polly is calling out, loudly, almost hysterically. Everyone! Everyone! she says. She’s sweeping us towards her with her arms. Bring your chairs! she says. People start picking up their chairs and moving across the oval to the changing shed. I fill my cup again. The Transit van’s headlights go on and it is gradually manoeuvred, backwards and forwards, until it is lighting the front wall of the changing shed where the actors are setting their props. I see the table, the telephone. Andrew gets out of the Transit van and starts pointing directions. Polly is still shouting. I pick up my chair, and the cask of red wine.

  The Arts Minister is a shortish woman, probably in her early fifties. She’s wearing a loose-fitting white summer dress and white fashionable-looking sandals. She gives the distinct impression, as Polly subtly moves her into the light on the gravel rise in front of the kiosk window, of having just come from her hotel room where after a quick shower she has drunk two glasses of crisp white wine while looking through the notes her personal assistant has given her and catching glimpses of the evening news on the television in the corner. She’s on a whirlwind tour of the region; tomorrow she will be visiting a craft gallery in a town somewhere further north. Her shoulders are pink with sunburn; her hair is slightly wet. People have started setting their chairs in rows a few metres in from the boundary fence, with a view of the gravel rise and the shed wall. I sit up the back and off to one side. Polly waits for everyone to settle, the minister is looking through her notes, behind them both a couple of actors are hanging a painted backdrop—the top corners tied by lengths of twine to the downpipes at either end of the shed—showing the internal wall of an office, with a view through the window of an abstract city skyline. One of the painters must have done it. The actors exit stage left and right. Polly coughs and smiles stupidly. The minister’s driver gets out of his car and leans on the boundary fence.

  Thank you, says Polly, your attention please. Another speech—I will not undress her this time. I listen closely, telling myself this is all very important, that my position is precarious, that I need to take things much more seriously from now on. The Arts Minister is introduced: we appreciate that her time is valuable, her support is greatly appreciated, such initiatives as these are always fraught in the beginning but must be given time to grow. We have all been very busy, we are told, our acting group especially—they will soon give a short performance for us. I fill my cup from the cask. We believe, Polly is saying, we believe, she says, that we have achieved some wonderful things in the short time we have been together but equally we believe that there are many great things still to be achieved. There’s an uncoordinated smattering of applause. Polly steps aside, literally steps sideways like a crab, and introduces the minister—she then places her clasped hands over her pubis and dashes her eyes around. The minister takes Polly’s spot. She glances at her notes. Thank you, Polly, she says. There’s a strange radiance coming off the minister, almost all the actors who have been standing off to one side now have their hands clasped like Polly and many in the audience sit forward in their chairs and subtly straighten their spines.

  First of all, says the minister, I want to thank you all for inviting me here this evening. This stop was originally not on my itinerary, I was on my way straight through to Mildura. But before I begin (she lowers the hand with the notes in it as if it has become momentarily redundant), can I just take this opportunity to thank Polly here for all the wonderful work she has done in setting this project up? (Some people start applauding—but the minister is speaking again.) We have, she says, as I understand it, had our fair share of teething problems and it seems Polly has handled it all like a true professional. Thank you, Polly. (Now everyone applauds properly. Polly nods and smiles. The applause stops. The minister raises the hand with the notes in it and continues.) The arts play a vital role in the life of any nation—from the writer in his or her garret to the community arts worker helping the local schoolchildren with their mosaics. Without art and the artists who make it, we are impoverished as a people. This acceptance of the arts by all strata of society as a thing integral to its proper workings has now become a commonplace. Many, many members of our communities, both young and old, people who perhaps twenty years ago would not have had the opportunity to engage with the arts, are now artists themselves of one kind or another and in turn are bringing a new generation of artists along with them. This is a very exciting time. The arts have begun to find their way into almost every aspect of our lives; in the city, where I think most if not all of you are originally from, in the city, as you know, we see this artistic sea change manifesting itself in the architecture, the streetscapes, the bohemian café life, the plethora of festivals, the number of galleries, poetry readings, performances, recitals—from being a society undernourished and enervated we have become one that now feeds gluttonously on every aspect of arts practice. You all, in your various submissions to both state and federal funding bodies, have already demonstrated the almost incomprehensible variety of projects that are being dreamed up in the wake of this enormous release of creative energy. Nothing is impossible—a dictum which this particular project has already proved. But, unfortunately, it is one thing to speak of the riches of a city’s cultural life and another to speak of the countryside’s impoverishment. People on the land are doing it hard: natural disasters, tough international markets, soil degradation, the impact of unemployment and a new generation of disaffected, alienated youth—and yet, again, where we see community and cultural fragmentation, ennui, spiritual vacuity, we again see the role the arts can play in recovering self-esteem, regaining confidence, rebuilding community, restoring employment and reinvigorating economic activity. It is my and my government’s belief that such a role is the role the arts can and should play. I see this project as a blueprint for a new way forward, where the bridges are built between city and bush, where governments and communities become ‘inclusive’ rather than ‘exclusive’, where the arts are seen not as an ‘add-on’ but a vital link in the societal chain. I am not a lone voice in this, my view is shared by many others in Cabinet—the Premier himself is following this project with a great deal of interest and has promised to pay a visit personally in the very near future. In the meantime—Polly?—in the meantime it is my very great pleasure to announce that in recognition of the faith the government has in the future health of this project I will now hand over a cheque for the full purchase price, as negotiated with its owners, of the church hall in town, which will now become the permanent home, with provision for office and rehearsal space, of the ‘New Directions’ theatre group.

  I see the cheque being handed over and I hear the very loud applause but the trouble is I haven’t been listening to a word she’s said. I couldn’t help it, I didn’t mean to, but one by one in my mind’s eye I started undoing the buttons down the front of her dress. At the third button I stopped and thought for a moment about what I was doing—this was the Minister for the Arts, after all—but then, I couldn’t help it, I was plunging one hand through the gap, under the cup of her bra, and with that hand I was kneading a breast that while not firm rolled and floated sensuously under my fingers. In an instant we were in the back seat of her government car—the driver like one of those servant-drivers in the movies looked out professionally through the windscreen—and I was on top of her, her dress up and her legs wrapped around me and me pounding myself into her. Her eyes are closed, she’s giving herself savagely to me, I with each manly thrust inveigle myself more and more into this horrible, perverse, unhealthy contract. She is saying: Fuck me; I am saying: I am—and with that we wrap ourselves into a bargain more degraded than Faust’s. I fuck her so hard I want her to bleed, she gasps so badly it sounds like she might choke. She knows how sick and sorry this whole business is, and now she’s giving herself over to it—I’ll have these people pleasure me, she says, and in return I’ll give them money. She grabs me by the hair and shoves my face between her legs—I do everything she tells me. Polly watches through the stea
m-shrouded window, running a tongue across her lips.

  I’ve not quite reached the end of this daydream—the minister has not quite got what she wanted—when I realise things have moved rapidly on. The minister has taken a seat down in the front row—I can just see the back of her head—and the performance is already well under way. With big gestures and loud voices two of the actors are settling an argument as to who should be the first through an imaginary door. All the audience are laughing; I laugh too. Then there’s the scene with the table and the telephone, just like back at the hall, then the park, her as a dog, then someone who I think is the garbage man, then the office again, and an argument between two people. Then finally she comes bounding back on as the dog—the audience go into hysterics, they start applauding, whistling—then she steps up out of being a dog to address us and particularly the minister directly. She is doing an epilogue, she’s no longer a dog but an actor, in iambic pentameter the minister is thanked and everyone applauds.

  The show is over, things quieten down; people mill around the minister almost as if they might expect her to start signing autographs. I push my way forward so as to study her at closer range: her foundation has been applied unevenly and one cheek is paler than the other; around the rims of her nostrils the skin is very pink, almost red; there’s a blue biro mark on her arm. The actors are taking down the backdrop and putting away the props—the minister walks over to them and shakes all their hands in turn: a few words are exchanged, there’s a burst of laughter, then accompanied by Polly the minister returns to her car where the driver is already in the front seat, waiting. Out on the oval people are clearing the trestle tables and putting things into boxes, others are carting the cleared tables away, still others are stacking the chairs. The lights start going on in some of the caravans, some people are already moving to the showers with their towels slung over their shoulders. Polly and the minister have one last chat before the minister’s car pulls away. It drives off around the gravel track; then, like a continuation of the merry-go-round, another set of headlights approaches. These ones are very bright and very wide apart. Another pair follows the first, then another pair after that. They’re buses, big touring coaches; they move slowly around the gravel track towards the changing shed: the air brakes hiss, the cloud of dust settles, the doors fold back, and the drivers get out.

  Polly hasn’t moved—she has said goodbye to the minister and now she is welcoming the buses. We’ve all stopped what we’re doing to stand and look. Dull lights are on inside them and you can see the faces peering out, some with their hands cupped to the windows. Polly and the three drivers gather near the front of the first bus: I can see the drivers handing over their paperwork and Polly checking through it and signing it where needed. She steps up into each bus in turn and gives a short, presumably welcoming, speech, then steps down from the last bus and starts giving shouted instructions to us: our new guests have arrived, they’ll need to be fed, can we bring the things back out, please? No-one is particularly keen to do what Polly says—we’ve had enough, had enough of it all, we want to go back to our vans, but one by one we relent and start setting up for dinner again.

  The new arrivals get down from the buses and gather on the other side of the boundary fence. Polly is giving them an overview of the camp, pointing variously at the tents, the changing shed and the centre of the oval where the trestle tables are going up again. I watch all this, I have not moved, I am standing just inside the fence, with the cask of red wine in one hand and the plastic cup in the other. More writers: they stream out of the buses and mill around in a mass. Polly moves around the edge of this mass like a sheepdog, trimming a corner here, a corner there, moving the whole thing slightly in one direction, then the other. She herds them through the players’ gate out onto the oval towards the tables. I retreat to my van. It’s all too much. Elizabeth Jolley has the light on and is working up on the bunk. More writers, I say. She doesn’t look up. I sit at the table and drink the wine. More writers.

  My partner comes home—she looks scornfully at the wine and even more scornfully at me. Do you have anything to say? she asks. I look up at her, my head wobbling involuntarily on the top of my neck. That’s good news about the hall, I say. She sits down opposite me and lowers her voice. It takes a while to gain eye contact with me. Things are going to be very different from now on, she is saying: I’m going to be away a lot of the time, I think you’ve got to be careful of getting stuck in a rut here, of seeing everything so negatively. You’ve got to apply yourself, show a bit of initiative—there is a way out if you’re prepared to take it. She pauses. I drink. I’m annoyed with you for what you did, she says, that was a golden opportunity, working with us, you only had to take it. Now look at you. She’s talking about the dramaturgy. I’m working on my Laburnum story, I say, it’s going well; you’ll see. She’s not convinced. You’re so negative, she says, you see this whole thing as if it’s some kind of evil scheme with some awful ulterior motive, as if they’re out to get us—for what? They’re trying to help us; isn’t that obvious? I look at her: she’s happy, she’s radiant, she has a theatre troupe, they have a home, they’re going to be touring the land. I’m sorry, I say. You shouldn’t drink so much, she says. She’s right. You’re right, I say. I stand up, steadying myself on the table. I’ll take it back, I say, meaning the cask. She shakes her head, in pity, I think. I’m sorry, I say, really, it’s just I’m having trouble adjusting to all these changes. Do you remember the backyard, sitting out there in the sun? The cat on the concrete, the jasmine on the shed? I lower my voice—I know Gwen is listening. I miss all that, I hiss, why did it have to change? I don’t want to live here with all these people. I want to go back to Eden, just you and me, before this.

  Confident that I have left a strong impression behind, I step outside into the night. It’s still very warm out there. At the tables in the centre of the oval the new arrivals are eating their dinner. There must be about a hundred of them: the atmosphere is very subdued, almost hushed; you can hear the cutlery clinking. I can’t see Polly—all the others, too, have gone inside. I give the dinner tables a wide berth on my way around to the changing shed. The storeroom door is open: I take the cask inside and put it on the shelf with the others.

  Then I see that at the far end of the room a light has been left on—it’s not until I move closer that I see it is the light coming from under a door, a door I’d not seen before, tucked up in the far left-hand corner of the storage area and obviously leading to another smaller, perhaps more secure room behind. I push the door open: Polly is in there, sitting at a desk with her back to me. The room is tiny, ridiculously tiny. Along one wall is a narrow bed, tucked under shelves groaning with boxes of papers and other paraphernalia. Other boxes are piled up on the floor and on top of the cupboard against the opposite wall. It is Polly’s home, her sleeping quarters and office—this is where she’s been living. I’m looking at the back of her head, I don’t think she’s heard me come in, but then out of the blue she is talking—to me, I presume. I understand your feelings, she is saying, I’m sympathetic to your situation, really I am, but you must try and see it from my point of view. She turns around—then, at the same time, from behind the door I have just opened onto him, the caretaker steps forward. He’s been talking to Polly; Polly was answering him, not me. Now she sees me standing in the doorway—we are standing together, the caretaker and I—but after a flicker of recognition she decides to treat me as if I’m not there, or if I am, that it doesn’t bother her, in fact she welcomes the audience, let them all come in, the more the merrier, let them all come in and see what she’s being made to put up with—if the rest of the camp suddenly started crowding into the doorway I don’t think she could have been happier. You’ve got no idea, she is saying to the caretaker: I’ve just taken delivery of eighty-six new writers, most of them straight out of their courses, and there are another two busloads arriving tomorrow. It’s not up to me, she says, very firmly, very directly, it’s not up
to me to decide whether the overall aims of this scheme are being achieved—it’s enough for me just coping with the outrageous quantity of artists that I’m now supposed to house and feed. I don’t know what it’s doing for your town—to be honest I don’t care. As it is I am stretching the paltriest resources as thin as I possibly can to accommodate a group of people who in my opinion might be much better off left fending for themselves. Polly falls back into her chair and gulps something from a plastic cup. She looks terrible, her hair is all askew. What are you doing here, anyway? she asks.

  I’m not sure what to say. I point behind me to indicate where I have just put the wine cask, thinking perhaps I should tell her how I have brought it back and why—that I’m going to be more sensible from now on, harder working, more responsible—but it would take too long to explain. Instead I say: I wanted to ask when the old lady might get a place of her own? Polly looks at me condescendingly and drinks her whisky. She then tops it up from the bottle on the floor beside her. She is about to speak, but the caretaker, who has been jiggling his hands nervously in his pockets all this time, cuts in. I was here first, he says. He steps forward a little, deliberately putting me to his rear. I don’t actually care if the hall is sold or rented, he is saying—completely ignoring me and speaking directly and very forcefully to Polly—whether we own it or you own it: that’s not my point. The point is, that according to your propaganda, this whole scheme is supposed to be fixing our problems for us. But now if this Andrew bloke turns around like he did today and tells me that he won’t be needing me any more to look after the hall because, I don’t know, because they’re too good for that, well, I can’t see how exactly that is fixing anything. It’s not, says Polly, with a hiss—and with that she turns her back on us: as far as she’s concerned the conversation is finished. The caretaker rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. He looks at me angrily—where did I come from? What’s it got to do with me? Then he turns and goes.