Pick'n Season

Tales from the Apple Orchard

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Pick'n Season

 Twelve Short Stories

GP Mills

Pick’n Season is an exploration of style. After writing the novel, Dance me, I was puffed with all the ‘she saids’, ‘he pondered’, ‘she exclaimed’. I wanted to try to write a story where there was none of that and little guide as to who was saying what except the context.

I hope you enjoy my experiment.

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 core 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 straps over their shoulders. He adjusts the strap where it cuts into him. 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

Sounds of chatter and laughter from the other workers drift over to them. In the distance, the sound of a ride-on mower. Alex, the owner, is mowing grass between the rows of trees. The occasional shout, broken by a staccato of laugher.

The air is cool, and fresh, and 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 pick'in: drop the apples into the bag; when the bag is full, climb down the ladder and walk to the nearest bin; empty the bag, the apples thumping softly and rolling 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 the grass because it keeps the snakes away. One of the worker’s got bit two seasons ago and 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 aluminium pressed metal panels erected on a concrete slab; tacky industrial green. The long industrial sorting machine is chugging away. The sorters look weary and ready to quit, they glance up at the clock more often. The pickers hang their bags on wooden pegs screwed into a frame on the wall. There is chatter and laughter and noise.

Then silence, blessed silence, someone has finally turned the bloody sorter 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 up 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, then, after the shower, saunters back. The blokes try not to look, unsuccessfully. She chooses a white cotton dress, the one with the gold belt, slips on a pair of sandals and leaves; the caravan door left swinging open.

I’ll have a beer thanks

what would you like?

ummm, Cascade.

The clink of glass, then the swish of beer swirling into the glass. The barmaid flicks the handle with practiced skill and the flow stops abruptly. Two centimetres 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 bin 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 liked Adam from the start. At the end of the first season Adam just 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 and did some work around the place. 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. Adam 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, 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 he found out what was in there.

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