The Hands (24 page)

Her. ‘Should we get him to a doctor?'

‘No, it'll pass. What, I gotta drive him to town
again
?'

She was still watching her brother. ‘That job nearly killed me,' she said. ‘I had four big roasting ovens and they were going all day. The men had to have meat and veg. I started at four and finished at nine. Then they'd want something before bed.'

Gaby couldn't see the frail old thing slaving away all day. ‘Quite a job,' she said.

‘Yes, for no pay.'

‘And why did you stop?'

‘My brother said I wasn't keeping up.' She remembered the men waiting for their tea at 8 pm, looking at her, decent enough not to say anything. ‘He sacked me,' she said.

‘No?'

‘As much as you can be sacked, by your own family.'

And again, she could hear him, on the phone to the stock agent, asking if he knew any decent camp cooks, and pronto, today, tomorrow—as theirs had just walked out on them.

‘I don't know what they're gonna think of our scones,' Gaby said, looking at Harry.

‘We should start.'

She sprinkled flour on the chopping board and spread it with her fingers. Took the lump of dough from the bowl and slapped it down. ‘Off you go,' she said, messing his hair.

He knew what was expected. Started kneading the dough, rolling, flattening and ripping off chunks that he formed into scone-sized balls. ‘Okay?' he asked.

‘Good.'

Fay looked at the way she dressed. The boots that weren't suited to a farm; the horse-riding pants, although there wasn't a horse for miles; the vest, with its sewn panels, fresh from someone's needlework class. Still, she guessed, these habits could be changed. Would be. If she ended up staying at Bundeena things would be different.

‘Righto,' she heard Murray call, and looked to see him picking up a calf, load it across his shoulders and walk from the yard.

He came towards them, watching Gaby, smiling, saying, ‘Fresh meat.' He knelt down, put the calf on the ground, took a knife from his belt and cut its throat.

Gaby turned away. ‘Jesus.' She almost stumbled and fell. Harry held her.

Murray sliced through the trachea. He waited as blood drained from the artery and the calf kicked a few times, stilled, kicked again, and relaxed.

‘Not there,' Fay said to her brother. ‘You'll bring in the flies.'

But he wasn't listening. He was watching Gaby, and the way she walked away, her head low, her groans accompanied by Harry's fussing.

Part Three

2006

23

‘Harry!'

Trevor walked the perimeter of the compound searching for his son. It had been hours since anyone had seen him. ‘Where are yer?' He looked through the sheds, his carving nook, the veggies, Fay's garden. ‘Harry!' The native pines, the branches of every tree, the crew hut, even inside the old tank. Then he went back to the house and looked through every room. His bed was made. He searched for a clue—a game, a letter, a toy. Then back out to the living room. ‘Stuffed if I know,' he said to Aiden and Fay, sitting at the dining-room table.

‘Is his bike there?' Aiden asked.

‘Yes.'

‘He's probably off diggin' for wombats.'

‘He knows better.'

‘He's a shit-head.'

He went out to the front porch and sat on the edge of the verandah, scanning the desert, trying to think of a hiding spot.

‘Harry!'

The country had returned to desert. After the road trains had left, the crew rolled up their swags and driven off, life had returned to its usual drudge of jobs to be tackled and avoided. Then there was Christmas, and a circle of bodies sitting in the same spots saying the same things, giving the same gifts. Roast pork. Apple sauce. Tissue crowns.

Chris had distributed the gifts. He'd given everyone his usual coat-hanger in a crocheted cover. They'd all given their well-rehearsed thank you. ‘That's great, Chris, I needed a new one.'

This was the template, and it sufficed, mostly. Gaby stayed for a week and gave them all expensive gifts. Murray knew what she was up to (again) but this time didn't care.

‘Harry!'

‘He won't be far,' Murray called from his sleep-out.

The grass had died over the first few weeks of summer. The cattle had slowed, revealing more bone, rib, hip, spending more time sniffing for something green. And now, he'd found two dead animals: a young steer and a cow, their hides collapsed onto a scaffold of bone, flies in their eyes and ears.

‘Prob'ly kickin' a ball somewhere,' Murray said, tuning his ukulele, singing:

Oh! wilt thou think of me, Eileen,

When I am far away …

‘Not again,' Trevor said.

‘Your great-grandfather used to sing this one.'

‘And you remember it?'

‘I remember everything.'

He listened for the sound of a football, a boot, a bounce, a dribble. ‘Harry!'

‘Shut up, will yer.'

The scuffed Sherrin football, dug up from the bottom of Harry's wardrobe every December in time for the School of the Air staff versus students football match in Port Augusta. This year it was just him, standing on the outer as the other dads formed a chorus of good blokes, laughing at each other's jokes, slapping each other's arms, encouraging each other's boys. All of whom were fighting for the ball, pushing and shoving men twice their size as Harry dragged his leg across the turf, called for the ball (which no one ever kicked to him), tried for a mark (but fumbled) and finally attempted a left foot kick for goal (the ball veering off in the wrong direction, dribbling, stopping, as the chorus fell silent).

He screwed up his leg in an accident, he'd wanted to tell them, but realised it wouldn't make any difference. Instead, he'd shouted, ‘Nice try, Harry.'

Harry had looked at him and shrugged, as if to say, Save your sympathy for someone else. On the way home he'd said, ‘I just gotta practice my kicking.'

‘That's it. You could train your left leg, couldn't you?'

Upon the stormy sea, Eileen,

Each sad and dreary day?

‘Dad!'

Murray stopped. ‘I can never get this chord.'

Trevor sat up, squinted, his head jutting forward. He stood, walked across the yard and down steps that led to the low part of his property. Five minutes' walk to the Wilkie plots. ‘There you are,' he said to his son, sitting with his back against a tree.

Harry just looked at him.

‘I've been looking for you for ages.' He opened the rusted gate and went in. ‘What you doin'?'

‘Just sittin'.'

He sat beside him. ‘I've had to listen to Pop all morning.'

‘I shouldn't have shown him that site.'

‘No, you shouldn't have.'

Music Hall Song Albums: Complete Lyrics, Guitar and Ukulele chords, with biographies of all the great singers
.

‘He's workin' his way through every one of Albert Chevalier's songs,' he said.

‘Some of them are okay. Some of them are funny.'

‘Some. I blame that doctor …'

‘Remember?' Harry asked, ‘
Tell me, darling, that you love me …
' As he remembered Murray, sitting in front of the computer, playing for the Year Five and Six assembly. The applause. The other kids asking for more.
‘Why you sittin' out here?' Trevor asked.

No response.

He knew it was a stupid question. ‘Get out of the mad house, eh?'

Harry looked at him. ‘It's not a mad house.' He couldn't say why he'd come. He'd brought his sudoku book but hadn't done any.

‘Strange,' Trevor said. ‘All this space, and it's hard to find a quiet spot.' He looked across the desert. Longed for it. To walk, to keep walking, in a long, straight line; until his feet or body gave out. ‘You missed this morning's lesson.'

‘Aiden wasn't there.'

‘So?'

‘It's just maths.'

‘You like maths.'

Harry rested his head against the trunk of the tree. ‘It's the same stuff as last year. Fractions. Lowest common denominator … blah, blah.' He watched a small mob of roos pass in front of them.

‘We should go hunting,' he said.

‘We should do fractions.'

Trevor looked at the urn. He noticed someone had shifted it from its spot under the tree. ‘What are we gonna do with the ashes?' he asked.

Harry shrugged.

‘What do
you
want to do?'

It was nearly lunch. Trevor's stomach gurgled. It was getting hot, on its way to forty-two, but this didn't bother Harry-in-the-shade, a baseball cap low over his face. ‘It's up to Aiden, too, isn't it?'

‘Perhaps … but I'm sure, if you decided …'

‘Do you think she'd like it here?'

‘I do. It's cool. She'd get the breeze.'

Harry stood, brushed his pants, took a few steps and picked up the urn. He walked through the gate, out to where the grass started. Trevor followed him. He saw that he had decided, that he was determined. He saw how he tried to unscrew the lid, but couldn't. ‘You lift it off,' Trevor said.

He did this. Stopped, waited and looked back at his dad. Then he lifted the urn and sprinkled the ashes and watched them fall. Although he wanted them to scatter, to blow across every inch of desert, there was no wind. He replaced the lid. ‘I didn't want her in there, with the others,' he said.

‘Why not?'

‘She wasn't like them.' He walked back. ‘It's funny how people go … forever.'

They walked back to the house. Trevor put his arm around his shoulder. Soon they could hear Murray.

Tell me, darling …

They laughed. As they climbed the steps, Harry asked, ‘What should we do with this?' He held up the urn.

Trevor thought for a moment.

 …that you love me …

‘Should we keep it for Pop?'

Trevor stood in front of the fridge. The door was crowded: one of Harry's assignments (87%—he knew he could do better, if only Aiden would spend more time with him); a cheque: $1200. Payable to Trevor Wilkie. From the account of Lifton-Padfield Salvage P/L. And a note: ‘I've calculated this for two days work. Hope all improves. Regards, T.'

T for Turner.

He'd been surprised when it arrived. Not so much for the money, but the salvaging of faith. Turner, he guessed, was only a put-on arsehole: someone who acted tough because he thought that's what was expected of him.

The door was heavy with junk: a plaster dinosaur Harry had made; his laminated certificates from the past three years (a few with the paint not quite cleaned off the edges); Carelyn, with her arms around her boys, attempting a crooked smile.

He heard a noise: metal on concrete. Walking outside, he saw Aiden on the ground in the shed, playing with his trail bike. ‘You just had a shower,' he said, as he walked over.

‘So?'

‘Why didn't you do this first?'

‘I didn't think.'

He could see grease stains on his son's new jeans. ‘What's wrong with it?'

‘The chain slipped.'

He'd completely stripped the bike: chain, brake pads and nuts. The back wheel sat on the ground and he used a rag to clean the spokes, to wipe grease-soaked sand from the frame and engine. ‘I was talking to Tom's dad,' he said.

‘Yeah?'

‘He has his own garage. He said there's a job for me … if I want.'

Trevor wasn't at all surprised. ‘What, an apprenticeship?'

‘Yeah.'

It was what he wanted, but didn't want, for his son: a future away from the farm. A new beginning; a new life. It was happening too quickly, but not fast enough. ‘And you're interested?'

‘I suppose.'

‘You either are or you aren't.'

‘Well, I am.'

‘And where would you stay?'

‘They got a spare room.'

Where he'd already been staying. The room left behind by an older sister who'd moved to town to study medicine. A pink room with shag carpet and a white tallboy full of girls' clothes.

‘So, why didn't he take on Tom?' Trevor asked.

‘He wasn't interested.'

‘I would've thought—'

‘Dad, they don't get along.'

‘Right.'

Trevor stopped to think. Was it generic? Fathers and sons? ‘So, you'd stay there, pay board?'

‘Yeah.' Aiden looked at him as if he were stupid. He couldn't understand how he couldn't grasp something so simple.

Trevor was trying to see the big picture. He knew what the boys got up to. Knew Tom had a ute with spotlights and air-horns and, he guessed, spent his nights trawling the streets of Port Augusta. But he knew the father was cautious and didn't, wouldn't, take any shit. ‘Tom, he's sensible?' he asked.

‘Yeah.'

‘No burn-outs … speeding?'

‘I'm not gonna end up wrapped around a tree, Dad.'

‘I know how boys that age—'

‘No, just cos you see …' He looked at him. He wanted to say it, but couldn't. The kangaroo. There was no kangaroo, was there, Dad? But we can
choose
to believe, can't we? You can say it, and we can agree with you.

‘No whoopee weed?' Trevor asked.

Aiden put down his rag. ‘Dad.'

‘No little pink pills?'

Eyes. Glaring. ‘You haven't even met him. Ten minutes, you'd see what I mean. I don't hang around with fuckheads.'

‘Idiots.'

He continued working. Trevor was in two minds. He waited, opened the door to the EH and sat down. ‘Still … I've got a farm to run.'

‘Well, George, Tom's dad, said I could do it part-time, so I could be here for the muster, and whatever needs doing.'

‘Right.' He waited. ‘Might work.'

‘It'd work. You don't need me all the time.'

Trevor was arguing with himself. Testing the water, throwing in sodium and watching it glow, splutter and explode. ‘Pop will hit the roof.'

‘Do you care?'

‘After all these years, you'd be the first to opt out.'

‘I'm not opting out. I'm just trying something different. It's not like I'm goin' to Adelaide, and not coming back.'

‘Well, you can tell the old bugger.'

‘He's your dad.'

‘Your grandfather.'

Aiden slipped the wheel back in place. Adjusted it, secured it with a couple of nuts and started tightening them. ‘Can I remind you of something?'

‘What?'

‘You said I shouldn't feel obliged to stay on … if there was something I wanted to do.'

‘Did I?'

‘Yes. You know you did.' He smiled.

‘Well … I might've said something along those lines.'

‘That's
exactly
what you said.'

Trevor was starting to like the sound of it. Aiden and George obviously got along, and had a
sensible
relationship, and George had made a
sensible
proposition. He, this old mechanic, searching for someone to fill the gap his son had left, had obviously seen that Aiden was a
sensible
boy. ‘And what about Harry?' he asked.

‘Well …' He started feeding the chain onto the cogs. ‘He can look after himself.'

‘Can you imagine him here, without you?'

‘He'd be ecstatic.'

‘No, he wouldn't. You know that.'

‘Well, he'd have to get used to it.'

He'd seen it. In the last six months, especially. How Harry watched his older brother, waiting to hear what to say, how to think, how to be smart, and sarcastic, and
sensible
. How he'd always stay behind him when they rode off on their bikes; how he'd occasionally overtake him, but then drop back. ‘No, he'd be okay,' he said. ‘Then, when he starts at Mercy, you'd be close, to keep an eye on him.'

‘Hold on. I never said I was gonna do it. I just said he'd asked. It's like you've already decided.'

‘No … it's up to you, son.'

It was Chris's fault, of course. Always was.

You're the one left the doors open, Murray had told him.

For four months, since the muster crew had left. Sand blowing in. Bird shit. Kangaroos. Rabbit droppings.

So he'd been sent to the crew quarters. Murray had followed and stood giving orders, telling him to run the long hose from the house, wash the floor, scrub it with a broom and hose it out again. Then he'd gone back to the house for lunch.