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Member
Join Date: Apr 2008
Location: NSW Australia
Gender: Male
Posts: 2
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I'd appreciate some feedback, thanks
Some of a 5,000 word first chapter - Written in Australian vernacular
Pick’n Season
He bit into the apple, felt his teeth tear into the firm flesh. A granny smith. Tart. Scrunch, scrunch. A dribble of juice runs down his chin. Scrunch, scrunch. He lets it, doesn’t try to wipe it away.
Is it good?
Hmm. He gulps as he swallows. Yep
How long have you bin workin here?
Aww, I dunno, some time.
She nods.
Doya folla the pickn season?
No. I just work around here. Does me.
She nods, again. Where doya live?
scrunch, scrunch, scrunch, scrunch
He swallows
Around
I jus cum down from Mildura, hitched.
He nods
Hid in the back of a blokes van to cross the ferry.
He throws the apple into some tall grass under the barbed wire fence. Then he stands up and stretches.
Better be gettin back to work
She is already standing.
They pick up their bags and throw the strap over their shoulders. He adjusts the strap where it cuts into his shoulder. She watches him, and then does the same.
They walk down the row to their ladders.
Wots ya name?
Adam
She nods
They reach the ladders. He starts to climb his. She watches him and then turns to her ladder.
Mine’s Eve
He doesn’t respond. She shrugs and steps onto her ladder and starts to pick apples.
Tart
Granny smiths
The sounds of chatter from the other workers surrounds them. In the distance, the sound of a ride-on mower. Alex the owner is mowing grass between the rows of trees. Occasionally there is a shout from the pickers or a staccato clatter of laugher.
The air is cool and fresh. There aren’t too many clouds in the sky, so the afternoon sun is a bit hot. But the humidity is low, so no-one really raises much of a sweat. Slow, steady picking: drop the apples into the bag hanging from the shoulder; when the bag is full, climb down the ladder and walk to the nearest bin; empty the bag, the apples thump softly and roll about, finding a place; hitch the bag up and walk back to the ladder.
Then do it all over again.
Pick’n season.
Alex likes to mow because it keeps the snakes away. One of his worker’s got bit two seasons ago, bloody nearly died. It was a copperhead. Nearly done the poor bugger in.
At the end of the day, the pickers walk back to the big shed. It’s a whopper. Gal. steel frame, powder coated Al. pressed metal panels erected on a concrete slab, tacky industrial green. The long industrial sorting machine is still chugging away. The sorters look weary and ready to quit, they glance up at the clock more often. The pickers hang their bags on pegs screwed into a frame on the wall. There is the chatter of incessant industrial noise. Then silence, blessed silence, someone has finally switched the bloody motor off.
’Bout bloody time, gunna come down to the pub, Macka
nah, told the Mrs I’d be home early
rightho, see ya tamorra then.
I thought I might go the pub for a beer, would you like to come?
no thanks
She nods
See you tomorrow then.
He smiles and walks out of the shed, then turns down the dirt track which heads west out of the farm, snaking its way into the low hills. She wonders where he lives. Doesn’t talk much. Might as well go to the pub, not much to do in the bloody caravan except stare at the walls. She goes back to the caravan, throws her work togs in a corner, grabs a towel and saunters over to the shower block with it wrapped around her. The blokes try not to look, unsuccessfully. In the caravan she chooses a white cotton dress, the one with the gold belt, slips on a pair of sandals and leaves; the caravan door is left swinging open.
I’ll have a beer thanks
What would you like?
Ummm, Cascade.
The clink of glass, then the swish as the beer swirls into the glass. The barmaid flicks the handle with practiced skill and the flow stops abruptly. Two centremetres of perfect white head, condensation forming on the glass. She reaches over and places it on the bar in front of Eve.
Are you here for the picking season?
Yeah, just cum down from Mildura
where are you staying?
at the caravan park
there are lot of the pickers at the caravan park
that’s what I was told
enjoy your beer.
Eve nods then picks up the glass of beer and sips it, enjoying the taste.
He walks up the track to his small hut beside the creek. Alex had liked Adam from the beginning. At the end of the first season Adam stayed. He started to do odd jobs around the property and it all sort of happened. Adam hadn’t asked, and Alex hadn’t offered, but there it was as if it had always been. After a couple of months, Alex asked Adam if he would like to move into an old hut at the back of the property. He could have it for free if he did it up. Adam had thought about it for a couple of days, then said thanks. It had worked out well. Adam did the hut up better than Alex had expected, he seemed at peace in his hut. He would come down in the morning and ask Alex what he would like done for the day. Alex would tell him, and then Adam would work quietly and efficiently till dusk. He’d knock off and walk back up the track, the gloomy late afternoon shadows stretching out like arthritic fingers, crooked and menacing, chook’s beak fingernails clawing at his insecurities.
As he nears the hut, a dog rushes out. Adam gives the blue heeler a scratch behind the ears and lets it take his arm in its jaws, a sign of affection from the dog, a sign of trust by Adam. Angus, the white sulphur-crested cockatoo squawks at the top of his voice, his yellow comb up, alert, agitated.
Better go in, eh Harvey. Shut up Angus! I’ll give you a fly later.
Harvey let Adam take his arm away and then trots beside him to the front door, his tongue lolling out, a big idiot grin on his dial.
You know y’re not allowed in, mate
Harvey eyed off the door with curiosity and longing. He was sure there was something mighty special inside. It was the holy grail for Harvey. Adam had decided never to let him in because he’d be ‘so bloody disappointed’ if ever her found out what was in there.
Which wasn’t much.
A small pine table, unfinished, burred and furry from use; two wooden chairs, unpainted, unvarnished, bare; a combustion stove with a water heater in it; a battered stainless steel single sink; a heavy large green lounge chair with white stuffing coming out of one corner, the green dark and brooding; a bare hardwood floor. Over in the corner, under the window, a rusty old iron bed with a thin, hard mattress; three shelves made from slabs of timber and fire-bricks, the bricks were from the ancient fireplace out the back, the one that had the old copper in it; and seven wooden pegs for his clothes.
The hut was spotlessly clean, the bedding neatly folded, his clothes were meticulously laid out on two open shelves. A single plate, knife, fork, spoon & cup were laid out beside the sink; the tea towel was hung out on the verandah to dry.
The food was in a small larder at the end of the verandah, there was no fridge. Adam had a few goats out the back and he milked one whenever he needed some. The nannies had been a real bitch to milk at first, then he had learned how. Now he had the knack. He could walk into the small paddock carrying his three-legged stool and the goats would take no notice. One of the she goats would stand while he scratched her head, then she would continue to eat, methodically chewing while he milked her, the milk spurting noisily into the old enamel bucket. It was a good arrangement, he got milk and she got her udder rubbed. Little black pellets of contentment would issue forth when the milking session was over.
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