Free The Promise by Tony Birch Page B

outside a block of flats at the end of the street. A yellow plastic bucket was sitting on the nature strip, beneath the ladder. I got closer to the tree and noticed a pair of legs, wrapped in thick woollen socks, and a scuffed pair of slippers perched on the top rung of the ladder. I looked higher and saw an old woman picking olives from the tree and throwing them down into the bucket. She looked at me and nodded. I nodded back and walked on.
    At the milk bar Ali suggested I increase my supply of cigarettes from three to four, or even five.
    â€˜Don’t get me wrong. I’m no pusher, man. But if you buy more each time, you will come back not so quick. It is better for you not to run so much. Come again. Back again. You kill yourself like that, man.’
    â€˜Maybe, Ali. But I like the walk.’
    As I paced the footpath outside the shop, puffing away like a madman, he stood in the doorway complaining about his son’s recent trip back to Egypt.
    â€˜The bastard, he rings me, every time reverse. Reverse charges. I say “No”, but his mother, she is soft. Always, she takes his call. She talks, I pay. Look at me. Fucking idiot.’
    A kid brushed by Ali and went into the shop. Although it was a cold morning he was wearing just a singlet, a pair of track pants and no shoes or socks. He was wired no doubt. As we talked Ali occasionally looked over his shoulder, keeping an eye on the kid. He came out a couple of minutes later, empty-handed. As he walked past Ali reached out and grabbed him by the neck.
    â€˜The pockets, little thief. Empty the pockets.’

    As the kid tried wriggling free a plastic bottle of tomato sauce fell out of his side pocket and bounced on the footpath. Ali released his grip, reached down and picked up the bottle of sauce. The boy ran until he reached the street corner. He turned and screamed out at Ali, ‘You fucken wog cunt.’
    â€˜I’m not wog,’ Ali screamed back, waving the bottle of sauce at the boy. ‘I’m Arab.’
    He laughed to himself as he studied the bottle of sauce.
    â€˜Let me give you no offence, my friend. But this country has nothing. You know how many tomatoes in the bottle? Nothing. Like this country. It’s all shit now.’
    â€˜No offence taken, Ali. I’ve got nothing myself.’
    I lit another cigarette, said goodbye and walked homeward. Back at the olive tree the old woman was down from the ladder, collecting the loose olives that had missed the bucket. It was almost full. I’d reached my front gate when I stopped and headed back up the street. She looked up at me from her hands and knees.
    â€˜I have a tree.’ I pointed towards the house. ‘In the backyard.’
    She stared blankly at me. I wondered if she understood English.
    â€˜I have a tree,’ I repeated. ‘In my backyard there is an olive tree, just like this one. I live at number thirteen. You can come and have a look if you like? It has olives all over it.’
    â€˜Olives?’

    â€˜Yep. Lots of big olives.’

    She shrugged her shoulders, disinterested, struggled to her feet, picked up the full bucket of olives like it weighed nothing and walked off.
    I wasn’t back home more than five minutes when there was a knock at the door. I immediately thought of Rachel and hurried to open it. The woman was standing on the doorstep carrying an empty bucket in each hand. An old man dressed in a checked flannel shirt, work pants and muddy boots stood behind her, leaning on the wooden ladder she’d been using in the street. She introduced him as her husband.
    â€˜We come to see your tree,’ she explained. ‘We pick. Olives.’
    I opened the side gate and escorted them into the yard. They smiled with delight as they walked around the tree, admiring the abundance of fruit. I went into the kitchen and watched them as they worked together, chatting away in what sounded like Italian, English and,