The winds whipped dusty, sandy driveway between four cars. A late 90s 4WD Triton Ute, silver, one long raking ding on the driver’s side, back behind the rear wheel. A late 80s Camry, sky-blue with paint peeling, full of rubbish. A brand new LDV 4WD Ute, gunmetal grey, perfectly unmolested. And a 2000 Lexus GS300, fading, passenger side front wheel pushed way back in the well, like an eyeball traversing leftward to its extreme.
The owners discussed the day’s work, crowded around a diesel UTV, in a long shed lined with shelves full of tools and farm consumables.
R spoke in a quiet voice with the weariness and authority that came with 40 years of vineyard experience, as hand and manager. He addressed a question he’d been asked by T, his most enthusiastic hand, a chirping, curly haired ex-convict. “Yeah,” he sighed. “The wires in C block do need lifting.”
B avoided R’s eyes as he spoke. B’s own blue-grey eyes moved from the cigarette in his hand, to the grey summer sky outside, and back again. He nodded patiently in acknowledgement. His huge frame caused the suspension in the UTV to squeak as he pushed off it and stood, no longer leaning.
“Well, boys,” T put in, grey eyes in his curly head regarding the men in one quick look. “Time for a bit of workin’.” He squeezed the last words casually in his throat, flicking a cigarette into the bin.
The grey sky hung with black clouds. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. No-one was looking forward to the day ahead.
