The Hands (28 page)

‘This apprenticeship … I don't think it's a good idea.'

‘I's asleep.'

‘You might
think
it's a good idea, but I don't understand why you want to leave.'

‘Tomorrow …' He slipped back into his dream.

‘I have a plan.'

‘Pop.'

To sell off some land, the old man wanted to say. To pay down the debt. To restock. To make the place viable. So there's a future, for you and Harry.

‘While I got it in my head,' Murray said. ‘I'll explain.'

But he was asleep.

27

It was already hot by eight. Harry—wearing his boots, shorts and a T-shirt—walked away from the house. He was pulling a small, flat-topped trolley. Sometimes it sank into the sand and he had to yank it out. It held toys. Stuff, he figured, he didn't need any more: a few action men, a Bionicle, a couple of dinosaurs and a container of Lego.

He walked until the house was a small bump on the horizon. Stopped, took a bottle of water from the trolley and drank. Replaced it and cursed himself for not wearing a hat. On, for another hundred metres, until he came across a dead cow, the last of its skin stretched across its bones. There were others, plenty, across the farm; cattle that had strayed too far from water, or couldn't get what they needed from the grass. He examined the ear-tag and saw that it was only three years old. What did it matter? It was his dad's, or Murray's, or someone else's fault.

He moved on and, a few minutes later, stopped at a lone gidgee tree. Taking a small spade from the carriage he started digging. As he did he heard a trail bike. He looked up and saw his brother approaching. When he arrived he said, ‘What are you doing?'

‘Digging.'

‘Why?'

No reply.

Aiden looked at the trolley and noticed the toys. ‘What you doin' with those?'

‘I don't need them any more.' He continued, deepening and widening the hole.

‘Why'd you come out here?'

He shrugged. ‘Just did.'

‘Why didn't you put them in the bin?'

‘Didn't want to.' He reversed the trolley up to the hole and tipped the toys in. Aiden kept watching, wondering if the whole ritual had some hidden meaning. ‘You might want them sometime.'

‘No.'

He picked up the spade and slowly, carefully, filled the hole. When he was finished he walked over the sand, compacting it.

‘Done.'

‘You got anything else buried out here?'

‘No.'

‘A dead body?'

He sat down against the gidgee tree and used his T-shirt to wipe sweat from his face. Reached for his water and drained the rest of the bottle.

Aiden got off his bike and sat down next to him. ‘Why did you bury that stuff?'

‘No reason.' He looked back to the house. Took a few moments and said, ‘Are you really going to leave?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why?'

‘Cos that's what you do when you're my age.'

He felt the contradiction; knew his brother should go, knew he should stay. ‘I'll have to deal with Pop.'

‘You can do that.'

Silence.

‘At least
she
won't be back.'

Aiden felt the contradiction; that she was bad; that their father still needed her. ‘Dad, he's the one you're gonna have to look out for.'

‘I know.'

‘You'll have to … forget all the other stuff.'

‘I know.' He looked at him. ‘I'm the cripple, I know.'

‘Cripple? You've just got shit for brains.'

He looked at him and felt happy. ‘At least I've got a brain.'

They rode back with the trolley hitched to the bike. Harry guessed it would be okay. There'd still be tuna casserole, and Pythagoras.

Another hour, on his bed, Trevor was lost, jumping from one solution to another. All he could really take was silence; his dark room; curling up beneath the sheets; entering a trance where there was no thought, no concerns, no connection with other people. He could hear them, of course. Chris, who would live his life in this one unchangeable mood; Harry, telling Aiden to stop wearing his slippers; Murray in his lean-to,
she had a pair of fine daughters
 …

At 3 pm Fay came in. ‘You okay?'

‘Fine.'

‘You tired?'

‘I think … I got some sort of bug.'

‘Just rest.'

Soon he couldn't hear the noise; he was awake but didn't know what was going on. Felt warm and secure. Gathered his legs in his arms.

At 4 pm he stretched out, dropped his legs to the floor and slipped on his boots. Walked from his bedroom. The television was on but there was no one around. He went out through the laundry, across the compound, to the shed. Yanga followed but he didn't acknowledge her. Sitting on Aiden's trail bike, he turned the key in the ignition. And waited. For someone to come and stop him, or at least ask what he was doing. But no one came.

So he rode across the compound, down the hill, into the emptiness of his, or Murray's, top paddock. He didn't try to find the road or a trail or firm ground. Went over the grass, down hills and back up before seeking a straight line and following it. Rode like this for an hour—slowing, quickening, stopping, setting off again.

5 pm. No darker or cooler. He kept moving in some direction towards some destination. He was grateful that thoughts had stopped forming. It was as though by leaving things behind they ceased to exist. By refusing to argue, there was no argument. By refusing to explain himself, he was no longer at fault.

He stopped and realised he was only a few hundred metres from Number one, with its water, fuel, ghosts. He decided he needed to move beyond any straight line, any join, any joist. So, he turned and rode away from the shack.

A few minutes later he ran out of fuel. He dropped the bike in the sand, stood, and thought. Started walking away from the bike, the shack, Bundeena itself (although there were thousands of hectares in front of him). His boots sank into the sand so he kicked them off and walked in his socks.

At 8.30 pm Fay stood outside his door. ‘Do you feel like something yet?' she called.

No reply.

‘Trev?'

Nothing. She knew he was withdrawing, something he'd always done, ever since he was a boy. Running and hiding in his tree when Murray growled at him, but then moping about for days; going into the shed, sawing pieces of wood, nailing them together. She'd find him and ask, ‘What's that?'

‘The
Titanic
 … but I need some round bits for the funnels.'

She waited, but guessed he wouldn't respond. ‘If you want something later, tell me. I'll warm it up.'

Everyone assumed he was asleep. It wasn't unusual. He was often asleep by 7 pm during the muster, or after a long drive from town. Snoring by 8 pm; his light and radio left on.

The next morning it took a while to notice. Fay opened his door and saw the made bed with its single indentation. The thought occurred to her, she dismissed it. There were a hundred places he could be. She went out to the lounge room. The rest of the family was gathered around the table. ‘Anyone seen Trevor?'

No reply. Just slowly grinding jaws; Murray reading the
Stock Journal
.

‘His bed hasn't been slept in,' she said.

‘Prob'ly gone to see his girlfriend.'

Aiden looked at him. ‘The car's still there.'

Silence; as they all looked at Murray. ‘What about the bikes?' he asked.

Harry jumped up. Ran outside and was back in a few seconds.

‘Just the one.'

‘He's off on some job?' Fay asked.

‘No,' Murray replied. ‘I've been awake since five. I haven't heard a thing.'

Unusual, since it had always been an unwritten rule (even if you were in a shit) that you told someone where you were going.

Aiden stood. Walked outside and they heard him calling, ‘Dad?' Heard him walking around the house and into the sheds. ‘Dad, where are you?'

Fay was worried. ‘What do you reckon, Murray?'

He took a few moments. ‘Mighta just took off into town.'

‘He always says something.'

‘Well, maybe he didn't.'

But she couldn't imagine it. ‘It's not like him.'

‘He's been upset,' Harry said.

‘Yes,' she agreed. ‘He was very … down last night.'

‘What time?' Murray asked.

‘When did I go in there …? Six, seven?'

Murray felt the warm breath of history. ‘Maybe we should call the girlfriend?'

Aiden came back in. ‘Nothing,' he said, standing in the doorway, waiting. Then Fay noticed his keys and wallet sitting in their usual spot on the end of the bench. ‘He would've taken them,' she said, indicating.

‘Right!' Murray knew this was another problem he'd have to fix. ‘Harry, hop on yer bike, ride down towards the highway. Fay, get Chris, go through the house, the sheds, all around. The bike track. The old airstrip. The yards. And take a phone. Aiden, you come with me.'

Ten minutes later they'd separated and were travelling around and away from the house. Aiden was driving the ute at full speed along the bore run. It jumped, dropped, settled, followed the low land, spun out in sand, gripped the earth and carried on. Murray was holding his door, his feet planted on the floor. ‘He knows better,' he said.

Aiden didn't reply. He was searching the distant flats and gibbers for his broken-down or out-of-fuel father. That's all it could be, he thought. Something technical, something mechanical.

After a silent drive they arrived at Number one. They got out and Aiden said, ‘Have a look inside. I'll go for a walk.'

Murray waited. ‘You go in.'

‘Don't be stupid … I'm gonna climb some of these dunes, get a good look.' He was gone, sprinting across the sand, climbing the highest of the hills in the mid-distance.

Murray looked at the small shack, its door left open to the desert.

Come on, you silly old cunt, he said to himself. Come on.

He approached and slowly climbed the steps.

Come on. If he's done something he wouldn't do it here … why would he?

He kept walking, stopped at the door but then went in. It was dark. His eyes took ten or fifteen seconds to adjust: the spare jerry-cans; the containers of water; the first-aid kit. Then he looked up at the few inches of wood he'd been avoiding for so long. It was rough, but there were no marks, no signs, or at least nothing he could make out in the semi-dark. ‘Shit,' he whispered, feeling his heart race.

Aiden was behind him. ‘Pop, come on, I've found him.'

They went out, climbed into the ute and Aiden started it. He pumped the accelerator a few times and said, ‘I can see his bike.' They set off across the flats. Murray took out his phone and said, ‘I'll call Fay.'

‘Wait. Let's see what's happened.' He imagined the scene; the accident; the result of their desert chase.

‘Christ knows what he was thinking,' Murray said, refusing to believe, even now, there was more to his son than Bundeena.

‘He was just trying to get away.'

‘From what?'

He just looked at him.

They stopped beside the bike. Aiden got out, looked around and called, ‘Dad?' He waited. Louder. ‘Dad?' Then lifted and shook the bike. ‘Empty.' He noticed tracks heading west. Walked over and stood beside them. ‘I'll follow them, you drive.'

They continued for ten minutes, Murray keeping the ute in second, sinking, revving, driving on, Aiden with his head down. The tracks started deep but shallowed. They came across his boots. Aiden picked them up and showed them to Murray.

They continued until they found his shirt; his pants; his socks. Until Aiden said, ‘He's going round in circles.' He pointed to Number one, a few hundred metres to the east. ‘Dad!' he shouted. Louder. ‘Dad!'

The tracks continued into another depression. Now, Aiden was running and Murray was in third, fourth.

‘Dad!'

As it dawned on him how little time they had.

‘Dad!'

The tracks were unevenly spaced, blurred, where his father was dragging his feet. He came over another rise and there he was, lying near-naked under a gidgee tree. ‘Dad!' He knelt beside him. ‘Dad …' He gently shook him but there was no response.

Murray got out of the ute and came over. ‘How is he?'

He could see that he was alive, moving, stretching out on the hot sand. ‘Get some water.'

Murray returned to the ute, fetched a bottle of water and returned. Aiden sat his father between his legs and lifted him so he was mostly upright. He took the water from Murray and tried to make him drink. At first he wouldn't take it, but then started swallowing. Then he kept going until the bottle was empty.

Aiden stood, lifted his father and slung him across his shoulder. He didn't feel the weight. He carried him towards the ute, waited until Murray dropped the back panel and lifted him onto the tray. ‘Right, you get in, I'll drive,' he said to his grandfather. He unbuttoned and slid off his pants and rolled them into a tight cylinder. Then he propped them under his father's head.

28

When Aiden carried his father inside, Fay knew she'd been right. As he laid him on his bed she cursed herself for not having done more. Discussing it with the others (although Murray wouldn't have cared). Calling a doctor. Finding Gaby.

But, for now, she realised, they'd have to fix the body. So, she ordered the boys to find extra fans, bring them in, fix them on their father; she washed him with a cold flannel and spent an hour rubbing aloe cream into his red skin. She made him keep drinking and covered him with a sheet as he pissed into a pan from the medical kit. Stayed with him as he slept, or at least pretended to. Said, ‘Aiden wants to call for help,' and he replied, ‘No, I'll be better tomorrow, Aunt.'

When she started falling asleep she asked Chris to come and sit with him. When she woke the next morning he was still there.

She was soon back at work: bedpan; aloe; flannel. She stared at him, sometimes muttering comments like, ‘Get you up and about' or ‘See how you feel tomorrow.'

Later in the morning, he got up, walked to the toilet, returned and sat up in bed. ‘I'm alright now,' he said. ‘You've got stuff to do.'

Instead of going, she just smiled. ‘It's always been my job.'

‘What has?'

‘Looking out for you. Murray was never the father-type, I don't think. I worked that out a long time ago.'

‘So did I.'

‘You wouldn't remember, but when you were little we all went to the Claradine race meeting.'

He looked up, curious she'd never mentioned it before.

‘Murray was off somewhere and you,' and she touched his arm and smiled, ‘sprinted across the track in front of the horses.'

He studied her old eyes. Maybe she was making it up. Maybe it had happened. Either way, he sensed, it was the notion more than the memory.

‘So there's me,' she continued, ‘off across the track after you, these horses coming towards us …'

‘What happened?'

She tried to remember. ‘I must have got you back.'

He was convinced it might have happened, in some form or another. Perhaps he'd run onto a road and the story had grown. Perhaps it was something Chris had done and she was substituting, like different attachments on her old Mixmaster. Perhaps it was something she'd seen on a telly show, and dreamed into existence. Or perhaps it had never happened at all.

She said, ‘A lot of water under the bridge.'

He didn't reply.

‘But if it's come to this,' and she squeezed his hand, ‘perhaps it's better to move on.'

He waited.

‘Sometimes things don't repair … can't.'

He looked down. ‘Thirty-eight thousand hectares,' he said.

‘Murray's carved from salt. You wait for him to change … even drop off the perch … there'll be nothing left.'

‘It's all down to me.'

‘So? You ring up, they take some photos, they put them on the internet. Some fella calls, makes an offer, you say, I'm gonna refer you to my father, and if Murray says no …'

He waited. He'd already decided (as he laid awake, bladder-full, during the night). It wasn't so hard; it was just the mechanics of leaving.

‘It's all over,' she said to him.

‘I know.'

‘For the boys' sake … you and Gaby.'

He waited.

‘I've been worried about you for months,' she said. ‘I knew this day would come. I'm only glad you didn't …'

He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. She was still chasing him, he guessed, across the track, turning to see how close the horses were.

Harry stood in the shed, looking at the hand, laying his own beside it and comparing them. It was almost a perfect match: the length of his fingers, the curve of his thumb. He ran his hand over the knuckles, between the webbing, along the sharp edge of the fingernails. He guessed it was finished. His father had taken down the photos and burned ‘H. WILKIE 2006' on the plane of amputation. He took the sculpture and went inside.

Sitting down between Chris and Aiden, he placed his hand beside his plate. Murray was serving stew from a dish. He looked at the hand and said, ‘Not on the table.'

He looked up and said, ‘It's finished.'

‘Not on the table.'

He made no attempt to move it.

‘Did you hear me?' He almost threw a bowl of stew down in front of him.

‘I want to look at it.'

‘This is the problem, isn't it?'

‘What?'

‘Causing people grief.'

‘Who?'

Murray decided it was wiser to back off, for now. He gave Chris and Aiden their stew and they all started eating.

The next minute was cutlery on china, the whispers of Fay and Trevor from the other room, a radio left on, somewhere.

Then Murray said, ‘I did have a plan.'

They all looked at him.

‘The Coopers are interested in that land beyond the railway line.'

Again, silence.

‘Jeff Cooper, he's been asking about it for years.'

Aiden didn't believe a word he said. More games; more blame shifting. And if things came good, it'd all be forgotten.

‘I's thinking of going to see him and asking if he wants to make an offer.' He waved his hand in the air. ‘That's what I was gonna tell Trev … before all this business. I'm still willing, but I don't know how this changes things.'

‘How what changes things?' Aiden asked.

‘This … drama.'

‘You think he … got lost?'

Murray stopped eating. He didn't know how to have this conversation.

‘You can say it, Pop,' Aiden continued.

He just ate.

‘He didn't want to be found,' said Aiden.

‘Just eat yer stew.'

‘And you know why.'

‘Quiet!' He slammed his fist on the table. ‘
I've
come up with a solution. Ten thousand acres … even if he only offers a couple of hundred an acre. Next year we restock … it rains.'

All three looked at him.

‘It's a bit late for that,' Aiden said.

‘It's not my fault that he—'

‘It is.'

Trevor was standing in the hallway. He came forward. Fay came up behind him. ‘Alright boys,' he said. ‘In yer room … I'll get yer cases.'

They all stared at him. They could see he was tired, but determined.

‘Get your stuff packed,' he continued. ‘We're going.'