Part 6
'Apples
goes home
APPLES WAS
released from the cells about 8am. The police didn't even offer him
breakfast. They just advised him to get a lawyer and face the music
at the Windy Mountain Magistrate's Court the next day.
The charge
was: appearing in public dressed as a woman between the hours of
sunset and sunrise. They didn't bother with the assault charge threat.
Apples'
head was swirling with events of the night before as he pedalled his
bicycle towards home, still dressed in Barbie's pink dress which by
now was crumpled and wet around the hem.
Blackstump
Road was more of a bush track than a road. In winter, it consisted of
a network of puddles that sometimes joined to form little lakes. In
summer, the road crumbled away in what little sun Tasmania has to
offer. The road led only to a couple of once-deserted farmhouses. The
council had jettisoned the area from its maintenance programme long ago.
As Apples
pedalled away, the landscape grew wilder.
From land
cleared for agriculture, it graduated into low-density bush with
ribbons of blackberries skirting both sides of the road.
Some of
the land had once been worked by farmers. But the farmers had long
since gone and nature had moved back home.
Apples
rode past the Billy Jabobs Memorial Commune, home of the greenies,
and freewheeled down into a gully. In a small clearing at the bottom
was the Cameron farmhouse, on the other side of a rickety wooden
bridge which spanned Blackstump Creek.
The house,
with its faded white weather-boards and even more faded red roof,
badly needed a face-lift.
It was a
single-storey building with a sagging verandah stretching around two
sides. Around the back of the house was an odd assortment of
ramshackle sheds which probably had never been painted.
The
Cameron family had deserted the house and moved to Launceston years
before. Nobody knew who owned the property now. Nobody ever asked for
rent, so nobody got rent.
Apples and
his friends were squatters.
They
weren't obliged to pay rates because they didn't own the house. They
didn't bother anyone and no one bothered them; not the Windy Mountain
Council, not the police, not even the Jehovah's Witnesses who either
didn't know they existed or else thought they were beyond saving.
Nobody in
Blackstump Road had electricity. The greenies didn't subscribe to the
Hydro Electricity Commission because it was against their principles.
Apples and
his friends didn't subscribe because they had better things to do
with their limited incomes.
They
illuminated the house by candlelight and cooked by wood stove.
Bruce
pinched the firewood from the wood-shed at the Billy Jacobs Memorial
Commune. The greenies didn't seem to mind; maybe they felt guilty
about having stolen it themselves from the local timber yard which,
in their eyes, had raped the bush and stolen the wood from Mother Nature.
Everyone
had set jobs to do at the Cameron farmhouse.
Water had
to be carried in buckets from Blackstump Creek which mostly meandered
beneath the shade of thick clumps of ti-tree and leech-infested
manferns not 20 metres from the house.
The only
exposed part of the creek was at the bridge just downstream from the house.
It was
Barbie's job to fetch the household water and it was here she came,
safe in the knowledge that the leeches seemed to prefer the cover of foliage.
A family
of eels once lived under the bridge and Barbie was always fearful
that she might accidentally scoop up one of the wriggling snake-like fish.
But she
needn't have worried because, unbeknown to her, Foetus had ensured
long ago that the eels moved on to a new, more environmentally
friendly neighbourhood.
It was
Foetus's job to empty the commune toilet, a tin drum really, which he
invariably hauled upstream and dumped almost entirely into Blackstump Creek.
No one -
not Barbie, not Apples, not even Bruce - suspected him of doing this
even though each week or so he could be seen wrestling the drum into
the ti-tree and disappearing.
The others
assumed he took it far away from the house and buried it. But, in
fact, he knew a pathway through the ti-tree to the creek and it
wasn't far at all.
It seemed
to take him a long time but that's because, after emptying most of
the drum, he took the remainder a bit further up the creek for use on
his little organic marijuana plantation hidden in the bush.
Often he
stopped awhile to sample his produce and marvel at the irrigation
system he had built to ensure that the plants were continuously
drip-fed with water from the creek nearby.
The others
should have woken up to Foetus's ploy.
They knew
he had a secret plantation because, from time to time, Foetus sold a
bit of his crop in order to afford some of the little luxuries that
his unemployment benefits - the dole - didn't cover.
But Foetus
would never reveal the plantation's location even though he was often
asked. Bruce, Barbie and Apples should have taken a closer look at
his bloodshot eyes on those frequent occasions he returned to the
farmhouse with the empty drum and a silly giggle.
But it
never occurred to them. Despite his obvious happiness, Foetus always
looked suitably exhausted and sweaty as he deposited the drum in the
former Windy Mountain High Street telephone box which was discreetly
hidden around the back of the chook-shed.
Barbie had
used her artistic talents to brighten up the exterior of the box.
Bruce had
carved a toilet seat from Huon Pine, custom-made to fit on top of the drum.
There
wasn't a lock on the door but
Apples had
attached a bell which could be rung from inside to warn anyone heard
approaching that the telephone box was already engaged.
Apples
jumped off his bicycle at the place the gate used to be at the front
of the house.
Normally
Bruce's dogs, Acid and Anti-Acid, welcomed him home with a chorus of
howls, hoping for belly rubs as they strained on their chains.
But as
Apples wheeled his bike around the side of the house he could see
they weren't at their kennels.
Two chooks
wandered across the yard, stopping every few steps to peck the ground
for seed.
Apples saw
Barbie, who was raking the bottom of the pig pen, but she didn't see
him until he got closer.
She looked
up when she heard the soft click-click-click sound of his approaching wheels.
"And
where have you been all night?'' she demanded to know. "Bruce
and I have been worried sick about you.''
"Worried?
I suppose there's a first time for everything,'' said Apples, coming
to a halt with his bike.
"Well,
we could have done with your help around here,'' said Barbie, who
took a breather from mucking out the pig pen.
She looked
him over closely but didn't say anything about the state of the dress
she had lent him for the fancy dress party.
"You
look awful, Apples,'' she said.
"Your
mascara has run.''
"Your
mascara would have run, too, if you had spent the night in jail,''
said Apples.
"Jail!''
said Barbie. "Is that where you've been?''
"Yes,
I was. Thanks for your concern,'' said Apples sarcastically. Deep
down, he was proud to have spent his first night in jail but he
wasn't going to let Barbie know that.
"What
were you in jail for?' Barbie asked.
"Basically,
for being a greenie,'' said Apples.
"You're
not a greenie,'' giggled Barbie.
"Try
telling that to old Sergeant Wetwistle,'' said Apples as he started
towards the old tool shed to put his bike away with Barbie in tow.
"He booked me for dressing in drag. But I think the real reason
he locked me up was because he didn't believe me when I said I didn't
come from the Billy Jacobs Memorial Commune. I spent the night in the
company of a very smelly old drunk who claims he's an priest.''
"Father
Whitchurch?'' said Barbie, without blinking.
"Yeah,
do you know him?'' said Apples.
"Is
he a client?''
"No.
I used to be a client of his,'' said Barbie.
"What?''
said Apples.
"He
used to hear my confession,'' said Barbie.
"You?
At confession? I don't believe it,'' said Apples, who had a sudden
mental picture of Barbie dressed in a veil emerging from a confession
box with her soul cleansed and five thousand Hail Marys to say as penance.
"I
don't go any more,'' said Barbie matter-of-factly.
"So
Father Whitchurch really is a priest then?'' said Apples, as they
turned for the back door.
"No,''
said Barbie, frowning. "He's the town drunk now.''
They wiped
their shoes on a mat on the back step and entered the house through a
tatty fly-wire door.
Inside,
the kitchen fire in the wood stove radiated its heat. Barbie's frilly
undies and other freshly-washed garments were drying on a clothes-horse.
"Anyway,''
said Apples as he sat down on one of the wooden kitchen chairs
around a big Tasmanian Oak table, "it's the last time I play
proxy for Bruce. Next time he can go to his own football social
functions." He paused for a moment, then said: "Where is
Bruce anyway?''
"He's
gone hunting,'' said Barbie. "He's trying to unwind. We had a
bit of drama with Foetus here last night.''
"What
kind of drama?'' asked Apples.
"We
had to take Foetus to hospital,'' said Barbie.
"Hospital?
What's wrong with him?'' Apples blurted.
"He's
got hepatitis we think, and a broken leg,'' said Barbie.
"Hepatitis
and a broken leg. How did that happen?''
"Well,
when Bruce and I got back from the footy yesterday Foetus looked
just awful,'' said Barbie.
"His
skin had gone all yellow and he was lying on his bed moaning. He told
us not to worry. He told us to go away and he'd be all right. But
Bruce somehow persuaded him to let us take him to the Windy Mountain
District hospital to see a doctor. They admitted him on the spot.''
"But
you said he broke his leg?'' said Apples.
"He
did,'' said Barbie. "But that was later.''
"How?''
"You
know Foetus,'' said Barbie, raising her eye-brows. "When we
finally got him settled into the hospital, he didn't want to stay. He
tried to escape through a toilet window, slipped and broke his leg.''
"Gees!
So Bruce has gone out hunting, eh? said Apples.
"Yes,''
said Barbie. "He just wanted to get away from it all for a while.''
"Yeah,
I can't blame him,'' said Apples, yawning.
"I
think I need to get away for a while myself. I might have a lie-down
for an hour then go and see Foetus at the hospital,'' he said as he
got up from the chair and headed down the hallway towards the bathroom.
In the
bathroom, Apples found a washbowl of water from which he splashed his
face. He took a green toothbrush out of his shaving mug on the second
shelf next to the mirror. He also kept two razors in the mug: a big
single-blade razor with a fake ivory handle, and a plastic razor with
a twin-bladed cartridge.
On the
third shelf next to the mirror was Bruce's mug with his toothbrush
and a cut-throat razor. He used the cut-throat once a year to shave
off his bushy red beard. He then packaged the whiskers and sent them
off to the United States to be sold as Ned Kelly souvenirs.
Foetus's
mug was on the top shelf. It contained an almost bristle-less
toothbrush which must have been a family heirloom since nobody had
ever seen Foetus clean his teeth. He didn't have a razor because he
never shaved, even though Bruce had tried to do business with him on
numerous occasions.
The bottom
shelf was crammed with Barbie's gear. There was everything from
toe-nail polish to 17 brands of perfume. There were lipsticks,
deodorants, shampoos, conditioners, breathe sweeteners, hair dyes,
mascaras, wrinkle creams and condoms.
Apples
gave his teeth a quick brush, spat into the washing bowl, then
retreated to his bedroom. It was a place where old clothing was left
to die.
Sweat-stained
shirts, assorted underpants, odd socks and shoes were littered from
doorway to walls. Some belonged to Apples; the rest belonged to
Foetus. Apples kicked off his sandshoes and wriggled out of Barbie's
pink dress and bra, which he buried on the floor. He found a pair of
ex-army khaki shorts on the floor, sniffed them suspiciously, then
slipped them on. They were obviously designed to fit a larger
soldier. They came down to Apples' knees and up to his rib-cage. He
pulled on a reasonably clean T-shirt, laid back on his unmade bed,
closed his eyes and dozed off.
