The Hands (19 page)

The interior of his cab was full of dirt and chip packets. There was a tape-deck: Dire Straits on a loop. By 5 pm he knew which song was coming next, where the tape had been chewed, each guitar solo and lyric. Turner would arrive and knock on the cab window and ask, ‘You gettin' the knack?' and he'd think, Six hundred metres of cracked bolts. Does it look like I'm gettin' the knack? But he'd say, ‘No problems, once you get the rhythm.'

‘Good … when you get going you should be able to work a bit faster.'

‘Really?' As he looked at what he'd done and wondered how that could be the case.

There was a late tea of cold chicken, strong coffee and thick slices of stale bread coated with jam. Then, a talk around a fire of old sleepers, the chill settling on their faces. Someone asked him, ‘What would you rather? This, or mucking around with cows?'

‘This is a lot simpler.'

‘But not as much fun?'

They talked among themselves: a story about a monkey and an ape; Mick Reynolds gone back to Alice; and Turner, fiddling with papers and a calculator. ‘We're not gettin' enough sticks on the trucks,' he said.

‘How's that?' someone asked.

‘There should be a hundred and eleven rails on each trailer. I calculate, a hundred and four or five.'

There was a pause as everyone waited for a solution.

‘We'll have to work on that.' He looked at Trevor. ‘How about you have a go tomorrow?'

‘Sure.'

‘I'll show you how it's done. If we miss five per load that's an extra trip every day.'

Turner stuck to his figures, but the others turned to politics. They formed a chorus of half-remembered song, unreliable memories and stories about their families. Trevor didn't feel part of this arrangement. He walked away from the fire and tried to call home but there was no coverage.

The next day he was on an excavator equipped with a hydraulic forestry claw. Another man, a young Irishman named Romona, put a chain around each of the loose sticks and he lifted them onto the tray. After he'd lowered them Romona released the chains. He worked slowly, constantly aware of the young man's head, the rails swinging in the light breeze.

Mostly it was just boredom, again. No variation on the theme of up, down, left, return, move, handbrake. By 11 am he'd ejected the tape. He'd thought of each member of his family and what they'd be doing.

He felt anxious: his body sweating, his heart racing. He didn't know why he felt this way. Things would be okay for a few days without him. There'd be arguments and muttered insults. Harry would tell him when he got home and he'd have to spend a few days sorting it all out. But they'd survive.

At 1 pm Turner arrived in his ute, watched them working for a few minutes and counted the number of rails on the truck. Trevor noticed how he moved his lips as he counted; how he lost track and started again. How, when he'd finished, he scribbled something on his sheet.

Turner called to him to stop working. He gathered this team of two and stared at them and shook his head. ‘Ninety-three sticks.'

Trevor shrugged. ‘So?'

‘You could get another five or six on.' He waited. ‘Ten sticks short. That's another truck.' Then he approached the end of the tray so he could see how they'd been stacking them. ‘See, gaps, here and here … you haven't been careful enough.'

Trevor didn't respond. Turner was an unlikable person. Trying too hard to understand why they were seven sticks short and how the fuel had been used up so quickly.

‘Here, see, the way I showed you this morning. With all the flats up close.'

Trevor nodded, mostly defeated. He tried to remember the last time anyone had talked to him like this. Murray, all the time, but that was different. The deputy principal at Mercy? For refusing to pick up other people's rubbish. He could remember saying, ‘Fair enough if it was mine.'

‘Walking past other people's rubbish is just as bad as if you'd dropped it yourself.'

‘No, it's not.'

‘Pardon?'

Although he remembered standing up to the Brother then he didn't feel the same way now. ‘We've been working as fast as we can.'

‘Precision beats speed, mate.'

Mate?
What did he mean by that?
Mate?

‘We can work on that too,' he managed.

‘Good. Even if you could get five or six more.'

He looked at him and thought, Could you get 111? Has anyone got that many? In the same way he'd said to the principal, when he'd been dragged in to see him, ‘It was an old sandwich.'

‘Yes?'

‘Old meat and pickles.'

Just a pair of eyes sizing him up.

‘I take responsibility for myself.'

He was shrinking, collapsing, in front of Turner. He thought of the money but remembered the debt and wondered if it would make any difference. ‘Should we stop for a bit of lunch?' he asked.

‘We've gotta get this load off, so you're gonna have to finish it first.'

‘Does it matter? If we make it quick? Twenty minutes?'

Turner glared back. He could tell the troublemakers. ‘It's better if we can all just agree,' he said.

‘It is …'

‘So?'

Trevor took a moment, and returned to his excavator. Turner watched him go. He couldn't see why they were arguing over seven lumps of iron.

That night he decided to sleep inside the transportable shack. Here, he was safe from the cold on his face and the conversation and singing and laughing that dragged into the night. As he lay in his swag he thought of Harry. There hadn't been a day, he guessed, when they'd gone without hearing each other's voice. Even during the months in hospital there'd be a morning, lunch and bedtime call.

Still, he supposed, he'd be okay. He'd be running things, as usual, growling at Murray for leaving his loose tobacco on the coffee table.

He heard rats, but couldn't see them. He wondered how they'd travelled so far. Maybe they'd come with the building and settled in to make the best of things? Or maybe they were from the old machinery shed, already stripped back to its iron skeleton.

No, he thought. That's enough.

The thought came to him in an instant.
That's enough
. Like an unexpected breakfast, brought into his room on a tray, as Harry jumped up and woke him from a deep sleep.

That's enough
.

He could have remained, and argued with himself, but he couldn't see the point. Life was too short. The pain in his left wrist, from where he'd wrestled for fourteen hours with someone else's hydraulic controller, was a prompt. He rolled his swag, gathered his few things in his backpack and left the building. Once he was at the bottom of the steps he stopped and looked at the sleeping faces. The fire was still burning.

He turned to go.

‘You won't get any pay,' Turner mumbled.

‘Shove yer fuckin' pay,' he replied. ‘And yer sticks.'

There was a short pause, then Turner said, ‘Can't hack it, eh?'

Trevor waited. He could still see the principal, grasping the cane, his jaw clenched.

19

Turkey nest. He could see it in the distance—full, less than a week ago, but now shrunk to a puddle. He could see the rest of his farm from halfway up the ladder: the old long-drop where Murray would sit with his ukulele; the trail-bike track where Harry and Aiden used to race each other; the scar, in the distance, where the earth had once been graded for a landing strip; a graveyard of old fence posts and wire; the neat square where his wife sat waiting.

The power had failed during the night following his return: the roads peeling away as he drove too fast, his tyres skidding on loose gravel. He'd wondered if it mightn't be for the best. The car, his head and body, perhaps, compressed; a fire, just to make sure; the wreck going unnoticed for a few days.

He arrived at the top of the ladder and checked the eight solar panels. The circuits were all switched on, functioning. There was a row of green lights but no sign of electricity. Fay was anxious, her washing machine full, her vacuum sitting idle in the lounge room. Chris was staring at the television, waiting for a miracle, trying to force a video cassette into the machine. Harry was more philosophical. Lessons could wait. Tuesday was year level assembly, maths, and another hour of the Mesolithic. Luckily, Aiden had already learnt to improvise: a page of homophones.

He crawled onto the roof, inched his way over to the panels and shook them. Secure. Examined the cables that ran from the silver boxes. Intact. ‘Fuck,' he said, sitting down on the tiles.

‘What?' Murray called up.

He moved to see him. ‘They look okay to me.'

‘They all read zero.'

‘Must be a problem with the control panel.'

‘You can fix it,' Murray said, farting and then lighting a cigarette.

‘We might need an electrician.'

‘Bullshit. You can fix it.'

Murray couldn't remember ever having had an electrician. Even when the house was wired (Bill up a ladder, shouting at Mary), rewired, fans fitted, extra power points added. It was all common sense: earth, live, neutral. And anyway, what electrician was going to travel to Bundeena?

‘Where are the manuals?' Trevor asked, climbing down.

‘In the desk.'

He jumped down the last few steps and walked towards the door. Murray followed him. ‘You think I should start the generator?'

‘No.'

‘Fay wants to get on with it.'

‘Tell her to wait.' He went inside. A few minutes later he re-emerged, flicking through the manual.

‘It's full of diesel,' Murray said.

‘What?'

‘The generator. We've lost food before. It's a big job to replace it all.' He wanted to mention the time, seven or eight years before, when the power had dropped out during the night. When he, Trevor, whose job it was to fix that sort of thing, had taken most of the following forty-three degree day to deal with the problem. Then two trips to town for fresh food. The waste piled beside the bottle tree. Rabbits, rats and dingoes until he, Trevor, head of the house, found time to dig a hole and bury it. ‘It's better to be safe than sorry.'

‘Five minutes.'

‘That's what you said two minutes ago.'

Trevor glared at him, then kept reading. ‘The problem must be in the box.'

Murray looked out across the grass. ‘So, they payin' yer?' he asked.

‘Yes.'

‘You won't see any money.'

‘How do you know?'

‘If someone walked out on me …'

‘I didn't walk out on anyone.'

‘No?'

‘He was a prick.'

Murray couldn't see the problem. ‘He'd have to be, wouldn't he?'

‘Why?'

‘He's got some other fella breathin' down his neck.'

Trevor was confused. ‘It wasn't
what
he said …'

Murray spat tobacco from his lips. He was used to this argument. It didn't bother him anymore. It was just Trevor, unfortunately. Even as a child he'd act the same way, building half a table, wiring most of a fence, finishing the majority of his education. You can't afford to lose interest, he'd always say. Even if it's a mistake, see it through, otherwise people won't take you seriously.

His boy, he knew, could be trusted with the muster, mostly, but he still had to be there, watching, telling him to finish a mob when he wanted to leave them until the next day. This is why he believed he had to keep the place in his name for as long as possible. Family businesses were ruined by the weakest link. Like John, curling up in a trench somewhere, and Bill, living the bit of life he could handle before it all got too much. This was a shame they were still recovering from. ‘We've got a lot of meat in those freezers,' he said to his son.

‘He wouldn't even let us have a lunch break.'

‘You do the same with the men, if there's animals waitin'.'

‘That's different.'

‘How?'

‘These were lumps of metal.'

Murray was angry that his son couldn't see the world as it really was. ‘He's runnin' a business.'

‘So?'

Fay appeared at the sliding door. ‘Chris is asking about his movie,' she said.

‘Tell him it can't be repaired.'

‘No?'

‘Give us five minutes.'

Trevor knew he'd done everything he could to show his father he was capable. He'd done well at school, despite the indifference of his teachers and the irrelevance of the subjects. He'd put his own interests on hold. He knew he could've done something creative: art, sculpture, music. But all these things were just notions, not something anyone took seriously when there were troughs to clean and gates to weld.

So, he'd determined to become a good farmer. He clearly remembered Murray putting him in charge of the muster when he was nineteen. He remembered riding his favourite horse and finding big, angry mobs and moving out in front of the other men. Remembered talking on the radio, and Bill Clarke saying, ‘If you head another mile east there's a couple of dozen more.' Finding them, and other herds, and bringing them all into the yards.

Murray threw the scraps to the chooks. There was a flutter of legs and feathers and the leghorns started trawling the leftovers. ‘Go on,' he said, kicking one away from a lump of chicken schnitzel. He went into the chook house, searched the boxes and emerged with six shit-smeared eggs.

An old Toyota with dented panels drove into the compound. Gaby got out and looked around. ‘Hello?'

He retreated into the darkness of the henhouse, careful not to give himself away. Watched as she opened her back door, retrieved a small case and a bag full of awkwardly shaped objects; as she tried to hold both and walk towards the laundry; as Chris came out and took the case from her.

‘I'm Christopher,' he said, offering his hand.

She accepted it. ‘Hello, Christopher, my name's Gaby.'

He couldn't work out what she was wearing: knee-high boots over a sort of riding pants arrangement; a plaid shirt and a vest—something the Queen might wear at Balmoral. He couldn't work out why she was dressed this way. Was she intending to work, and had she misunderstood the dress code? Or was this some sort of landed gentry fashion statement? Or was she just a snob, trying to create the right (wrong) impression?

She went inside, and he followed with his eggs, his stony face, his determination to retreat from their society-of-seven until she was gone. As he came in she stood, smiled, held his arm and kissed him. ‘Murray, beautiful place, just like I imagined.'

‘How are yer, Gaby?'

‘Excellent. It's a nice straight drive, isn't it? Gives you time to think about things.' She stopped, realising the road was connected to other things.

Trevor was sitting on the couch, holding the bag she'd brought in, while Gaby sat next to him. Harry was on the floor and Aiden was perched on the armrest. Fay and Chris were at the dining-room table, and Chris looked unhappy, seeing how this woman had settled on his throne.

‘I feel like Father Christmas,' she said, placing her hands on her knees, and searching each face. ‘Right, children first.' She reached into the bag and produced two plastic-wrapped canvases. ‘There,' she said, presenting one to each of the boys. ‘As promised. I expect to see a masterpiece before I leave tomorrow.'

‘We've only got three colours,' Harry said, and she produced two sets of acrylic paints. ‘See.'

The boys took the gifts and smiled. Murray stared at her. He hadn't thought she'd try to buy them, yet. Even she'd be more subtle than that. She was feeding off their gratitude, using it to strengthen her resolve.

‘I'm gonna try a landscape,' Harry said, and he stood and showed her the possibilities beyond the front door.

‘There's not much to paint,' she said.

Murray sat on the edge of the table. ‘It's just how you look at it.'

She knew he was trying to block her. ‘Well, you paint whatever you like,' she said to Harry.

Trevor was staring at his father. ‘Perhaps you should have a go, Dad?'

‘I haven't got time for all that.' He could see from the grin on his son's face that these two were now a team. ‘That generator's nearly empty,' he said to Trevor, reminding him of where, and who, he was. ‘We can't use up all the diesel, if those panels don't work.'

‘I'll get to them.'

Gaby knew she could get around the old bastard. Had to. She knew he could be a tornado, ripping through every landscape he didn't like. Trevor had already told her the stories—how he'd never liked Carelyn, either, but how she'd learnt to manage him by throwing every lie, every grudge, every inconsistency back at him. The way he loved steak and kidney pie one night but refused to eat it when he was in a shit with her. How Carelyn would just say, ‘Fine, go hungry then,' and he'd reply, ‘What am I gonna eat?' and she'd say, ‘You sound like an eight-year-old.'

She produced a carton of cigarettes, handed them to Murray and smiled.

‘What's this?' he asked.

‘What's it look like?' Trevor said.

‘Right … I generally roll my own.'

‘Oh, I didn't know that,' Carelyn said, pretending. She held out her hand to take them back. ‘I'm sure they'll give me a refund.'

‘Pop, you smoke those,' Harry said.

‘Not this brand.'

‘But you just said—'

‘Okay.' And he glared at the small brown eyes. Then he looked at Gaby. ‘I prefer rollies, but these'll do nice, thank you.'

‘No worries,' she said, savouring the moment.

‘You'll be through those in a week,' Trevor added.

‘We'll see.' He knew what she was doing; the games she played. He wanted to ask her about her previous relationships—a husband, ground down beneath the heel? Or, more likely, a succession of boyfriends; managerial types, probably; more pricks that had no idea about anything; agreeing with her every tedious opinion until they couldn't agree any more; until the gifts and gushing and home-cooked Asian food weren't enough.

There was more: a box-set of Bruce Willis videos for Chris (although he had them all) and a book titled
A History of Lavender
for Fay. She was taken, searching the pages for French, Italian and English strains she knew but had never named:
Lavandula dentata
var.
candicans
;
L. stoechas
spp. s
toechas
. ‘Beautiful,' she said, holding the book against her chest. ‘I want to plant some new types.'

‘They're all in there.'

‘Yes, and my brother said he's gonna help me with a new garden.'

‘I am?'

‘Paved walkways, the lot.'

‘Good on you, Dad,' Trevor said.

Murray looked at him. He wanted to ask: Can't you see how she works? Instead, he said, ‘Looks like you've been giving Gaby some ideas.'

‘Well, I told her how you liked brandy.'

She fished around in her bag and produced the spirit. Handed it to Murray, sure that this would do the job. ‘Aged,' she explained.

‘Like you,' Trevor said, laughing. They all laughed.

Murray wanted to hit someone. ‘Christ, it's almost like you're trying to buy our affection,' he said.

She waited, and wondered what to say. ‘I could have a go … if you think it'll work.'

‘It won't.'

Harry, meanwhile, had ripped the canvas from its plastic. He was looking at the blank and imagining what would go where.

‘I'm gonna start,' he said.

‘The shed?' Trevor suggested.

He was up, and out the door. ‘Come on, Aiden.'

‘No.'

‘Come on.'

Gaby looked at Aiden. ‘You've been told.'

He tried to smile. A canvas? Really? I'm seventeen, you know. I have my licence. He stood and followed his brother out. She squeezed his hand as he brushed past.

After lunch, and a tour of the house and its surrounds, Trevor and the boys took Gaby to the shed to show her the EH mural. There was a bull, and a boy pulling on its tail, and she asked Harry, ‘Why's he doing that?'

‘He's a bull-catcher.'

‘A bull-catcher?'

‘Yes, during the muster, when someone's gotta catch the bull.'

She inspected the brown blob of a bull and its triple-jointed legs; its tail, three times the length of its body; and the orange-haired, blue-faced boy struggling with the animal. ‘So,' Harry explained, hoping his picture might make it clear, ‘you ride your bike towards the bull and when you're close enough you jump off, grab its tail, tip it over and tie its legs.'

‘That sounds very dangerous.'

‘Aiden can do it.'

‘Can you?' she asked.

‘Long as it's not too big, or pissed off.'

‘You ought to see him,' Harry said. ‘This bull was charging and Dad was screaming to keep away from him, but Aiden just chased him.' He looked at his brother. ‘You were going too fast.'