barrels. Tangled hoses run along the dirt floor. One of the barrels has a ladder against it and I climb it. There is hardly enough light to see inside but I can make out Boss well enough, sitting inside the barrel with his legs stretched out and propped up against the rounded wall, half sunk in the residue and covered in it, his bare arms and legs shiny with the dried sludge, Boss purple all over. He is eating a pie.
Boss looks up at me and scowls.
What the bloody hell are you playing at? he asks.
There is another pie sitting on his lap in a paper bag and a bottle of tomato sauce.
You said Iris needed a hand this arvo, I say.
So what did you come down here for then? he says. Iris is up at the house, isnât she?
Boss takes an angry breath.
I mean, whereâs your common sense?
He takes a bite of the pie and chews it.
Come poking around here, he says. Poking around the bloody place. I mean, what were you thinking? You expect Iris to be down a barrel? Now come on.
He swallows and grins, his eyes white in the wine-soaked darkness.
I was just looking for Iris, I say.
Well, can you see her here?
He picks up the sauce bottle and shakes it.
For Christâs sake, he says.
I climb down the ladder and start to walk off when Boss calls me back. I cup my hands against the barrel wall and yell into them.
Yeah?
Bossâs voice comes out echoing.
No need to tell Iris about the pies, he says.
Righteo, I say and I leave.
Bossâs house is in the middle of what we call the house vineyard. Before Iris came along the vines crawled the sides of the house and matted the sunken verandah, climbing the chamfered wood supports and running along the guttering. In late summer bunches of dark ripe grapes would hang from the eaves.
But Iris wanted her garden and it was me and Wallace cleared the rows from out the front and a few acres round the sides. We pull up more of them every winter when the ground is frozen solid and us splitting our fair share of mattocks, Boss standing there watching us with a look on his face like we was pulling teeth, as Wallace says. And Iris got her garden all right and now she grows roses that win prizes at local shows.
I walk along the garden paths. The lines of silver birches planted at the sides of the garden are tall now and gleaming. Underneath the hardwood bower, shaded with new-leaved wisteria, purple blossoms bloom. Soon they will bend their stalks, hanging in bell-shaped masses and they will bloom and die and bloom again all summer long. The jasmine flowers have withered and fallen now, the leaves grown thick over a long trellis bordering the front lawn and pruned like a hedge. In spring the breeze wafts the smell of the jasmine into town. And when those first warm and fragrant nights break through the long chill I know the season has come.
Iris is on her knees, tending roses with secateurs. She is wearing long filthy gloves and a straw hat. She stands up when she sees me coming.
Smithy, she says. I thought they would send up one of the boys.
Well, they sent me, I say.
Iris brushes dirt off her gloves.
Itâs just weeding the paths today, she says. Nothing exciting.
Makes no difference to me, I say.
Iris looks at me from under her hat.
But what about your knees, Smithy, she says. What about your poor old knees?
My old knees will be fine, I say.
Iris clucks her tongue.
Rubbish, she says. No point playing the tough man with me.
Iris pulls off her gloves and throws them into the wheelbarrow. She takes off her hat with one hand and pats down her hair with the other.
No point trying to impress me, she says.
Iris goes into the house through the sunroom. She comes back with a cushion and hands it to me.
The cushion is corduroy, a burgundy colour and embroidered with a picture of two birds on a branch. The birds are blue with coloured wings and the wings are patterned with gold thread. The branch spreads across the cushion. One of the birds is beginning to fly, but the wind
Boss looks up at me and scowls.
What the bloody hell are you playing at? he asks.
There is another pie sitting on his lap in a paper bag and a bottle of tomato sauce.
You said Iris needed a hand this arvo, I say.
So what did you come down here for then? he says. Iris is up at the house, isnât she?
Boss takes an angry breath.
I mean, whereâs your common sense?
He takes a bite of the pie and chews it.
Come poking around here, he says. Poking around the bloody place. I mean, what were you thinking? You expect Iris to be down a barrel? Now come on.
He swallows and grins, his eyes white in the wine-soaked darkness.
I was just looking for Iris, I say.
Well, can you see her here?
He picks up the sauce bottle and shakes it.
For Christâs sake, he says.
I climb down the ladder and start to walk off when Boss calls me back. I cup my hands against the barrel wall and yell into them.
Yeah?
Bossâs voice comes out echoing.
No need to tell Iris about the pies, he says.
Righteo, I say and I leave.
Bossâs house is in the middle of what we call the house vineyard. Before Iris came along the vines crawled the sides of the house and matted the sunken verandah, climbing the chamfered wood supports and running along the guttering. In late summer bunches of dark ripe grapes would hang from the eaves.
But Iris wanted her garden and it was me and Wallace cleared the rows from out the front and a few acres round the sides. We pull up more of them every winter when the ground is frozen solid and us splitting our fair share of mattocks, Boss standing there watching us with a look on his face like we was pulling teeth, as Wallace says. And Iris got her garden all right and now she grows roses that win prizes at local shows.
I walk along the garden paths. The lines of silver birches planted at the sides of the garden are tall now and gleaming. Underneath the hardwood bower, shaded with new-leaved wisteria, purple blossoms bloom. Soon they will bend their stalks, hanging in bell-shaped masses and they will bloom and die and bloom again all summer long. The jasmine flowers have withered and fallen now, the leaves grown thick over a long trellis bordering the front lawn and pruned like a hedge. In spring the breeze wafts the smell of the jasmine into town. And when those first warm and fragrant nights break through the long chill I know the season has come.
Iris is on her knees, tending roses with secateurs. She is wearing long filthy gloves and a straw hat. She stands up when she sees me coming.
Smithy, she says. I thought they would send up one of the boys.
Well, they sent me, I say.
Iris brushes dirt off her gloves.
Itâs just weeding the paths today, she says. Nothing exciting.
Makes no difference to me, I say.
Iris looks at me from under her hat.
But what about your knees, Smithy, she says. What about your poor old knees?
My old knees will be fine, I say.
Iris clucks her tongue.
Rubbish, she says. No point playing the tough man with me.
Iris pulls off her gloves and throws them into the wheelbarrow. She takes off her hat with one hand and pats down her hair with the other.
No point trying to impress me, she says.
Iris goes into the house through the sunroom. She comes back with a cushion and hands it to me.
The cushion is corduroy, a burgundy colour and embroidered with a picture of two birds on a branch. The birds are blue with coloured wings and the wings are patterned with gold thread. The branch spreads across the cushion. One of the birds is beginning to fly, but the wind
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