The Vintage and the Gleaning Read Free

the other.
    Righteo, says Wallace and he goes into the vines.
    We take our shovels and we follow him.
    Somewhere in the distance the sound of a motorbike starting. The engine idles and then the bike goes across paddocks and away. We work our rows, knocking the shoots off the vines, going vine to vine and row to row. The sun has come up behind the trees on the hill and they are fiercely gilded. Light slides along the long threads of spiders’ webs strung across the rows and it comes dappled through the vines and onto the soil and there is the shadow of vines on the ground, twisted and quivering, leaves fluttering in the breeze, and where it hits the earth the earth is red.
    In the paddock behind us, the wheat is bare and bleached under the sky and it tosses and whispers. Lucy comes past me, nose to the ground and she stops to sniff at my boots and at the fallen leaves and shoots and is off down the row. And there is nothing but the sound of shovels scraping against the vines, the metal ringing on the wood, the rustle of falling foliage. And the caws of the crows, the smell of soil. And as we work I can feel the sun coming up hot on my back and I start working faster, vine to vine and row to row.
    Wallace finishes a vine and stands there, mopping his brow with his hat. He leans on his shovel and watches the boy over the rows.
    You must’ve been drinking like a fish, he says to the boy.
    What? says the boy.
    You must’ve been drinking like a fish, says Wallace. Spend your whole pay. Must’ve been drinking all weekend.
    Nah, says the boy. Just Saturday. Saturday night.
    Where were you drinking? asks Roy.
    Wasn’t at the pub, says the boy. Went down to the river. Got takeaway.
    Everyone’s stopped working now except me. They’re all leaning on their shovels, talking over the rows. The other boy is grinning. I keep knocking off shoots.
    Well, what you buy then? asks Wallace. What you spend your whole pay on? Whole bloody lot?
    Dunno, says the boy. Slab, lemonade, bottle of Blue Curacao.
    Jesus, says Wallace. That’s top-shelf isn’t it, Roy?
    It’s top-shelf all right, says Roy.
    What’d you want to go drinking that stuff for? asks Wallace. What’s the point of wasting your money on that? Whole pay-packet?
    Wasn’t for me, says the boy. Was for my girlfriend. She won’t drink anything else.
    I hope you got a root out of it, says Roy, leaning forward on his shovel.
    The boy doesn’t say anything. He takes hold of a tendril and starts twisting it around his finger.
    He did, the dirty devil, says Roy.
    The boy is smirking. He keeps twisting the shoot around his finger. The other boy starts working again. Roy and Wallace watch the first boy, leaning on their shovels.
    What, says Wallace, she drink the whole bottle? She drink the lot?
    Nah, says the boy.
    I was going to say, says Wallace. She’d be sick.
    She was sick, says the boy.
    I hope you got a root out of it first, says Roy.
    Wallace shakes his head. He pulls his shovel out of the ground and turns around muttering, going back to his vine. Roy spits and whistles to Lucy. The boy pulls at the shoot, pulling hard until it comes off, tearing it green near the base. He throws it away and looks at his hand. The other boy keeps working, chopping hard, puffing and sweating and red in the face. Wallace finishes his vine and turns back to look at the boy, letting his shovel fall against the wires.
    So where’s the rest of it then? he asks the boy. This Blue bloody Curacao.
    I drunk it, says the boy. I was sick too.
    Wallace takes his hat and glasses off and polishes his glasses with his hat and stands there swearing. Roy lifts up his legs to slap the ants around his ankles. He scratches his legs and whistles to Lucy and she comes down the row and he bends down and strokes her all over. Wallace looks at the other boy.
    And what’s your story, he asks him. How come you got no boots?
    Bought a model aeroplane, says the