by Stephen Orr
‘What?’
‘Money.’
‘There’s money.’
‘There is not. There’s debt.’
Murray took a moment. He knew the figures. He’d seen the spreadsheet; he’d seen the piles of bills, Trevor’s hand-scribbled sums predicting what was going to come in and what needed to be spent; the bank statements, the totals of monthly and yearly interest; the rainfall gauge and the meatless ribs on his cattle.
‘There’s some off-farm work going,’ Trevor said. ‘Gaby’s brother-in-law. Works for this salvage company. They’ve got a contract to rip up a heap of spur lines.’
Murray had never heard his son mention work that other people paid you for. ‘What spur lines?’
‘Apparently there’s a whole heap of lines that were put in, used for a while, then abandoned. S’pose the iron’s worth something.’
‘Where?’
‘West. Might be away for a few days at a time.’
‘And meanwhile?’ He flicked his cigarette to the ground, turned away and crossed his arms.
‘Meanwhile, you and Aiden keep things ticking over.’
No response; just cars pulling up in front of shops.
‘Me and Aiden?’
‘You know what you’re doin’. It’s your farm, isn’t it?’
Murray wouldn’t be drawn. ‘Meanwhile, we don’t keep up with the work.’
‘Six hundred dollars a day to drive a tractor?’
‘Wait for the muster.’
‘Wait, it’s always wait. Things never get better.’
‘They will.’
‘How?’ And what he wanted to say: Prices will go up? It’ll rain, the grass will take off, the cattle will fatten, go forth and multiply? Make us millions? ‘It’s bloody good money, Dad.’
‘It’s not the same, workin’ for someone else.’
‘What, cos you actually make money?’
Nothing.
‘So, it’s agreed?’
‘And I’ll be the one left in charge?’
Harry came out of the office carrying his cast, searching the roads for any sign of his brother. ‘How much longer?’ he asked.
‘Not long,’ Trevor replied.
‘Aiden reckons he’s gonna drive me to town, to the pictures.’
‘He doesn’t have a car.’
‘But he can use yours.’
‘No.’
‘You can buy him one?’
And looking at Murray. ‘Perhaps. What do you say, Dad?’
‘There’s no point arguing with you.’
‘With me?’
Meanwhile, Aiden was driving slowly along the highway that headed out of town. He was well under the limit; ten-to-two; straight back, keen eyes, watching for anyone who might pull out in front of him, kids on bikes, unexpected lane-changers.
‘Farm boy?’ the examiner asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘How many head?’
‘Five thousand, just under.’
The examiner seemed impressed. He wrote something on the sheet in the folder in his lap. Aiden glanced to see what it was but dared not linger.
‘What’s yer place called?’
‘Bundeena. A couple of hours west.’
‘Yeah?’ He wrote again.
‘Everything okay?’ Aiden asked, looking at him.
‘Yep.’ He looked up and smiled. ‘What was that sign we just passed?’
‘Sixty.’
‘And what are you doin’?’
He checked. ‘Fifty-five.’
‘Good lad.’ He wrote again. ‘Mum and Dad both with you today?’ He looked up.
‘Dad is … Mum died.’ He wondered whether he should’ve mentioned it, whether it might look like he was casting about for pity.
‘That’s a bummer. What happened?’
‘Car accident.’
‘Well …’
‘Dad rolled the car.’ Then he felt even worse. ‘A kangaroo came out and he swerved …’
‘That’s the thing, isn’t it? You can learn all you like …’
‘Yeah.’
‘So, you don’t want to be comin’ back to do all this again?’
‘No.’
‘Despite the fact that you just went through a stop sign.’
Aiden shook his head. ‘Did I?’
‘Pull over.’
He checked, indicated and pulled over. Then he sat back in his seat, cursing himself. ‘Bloody hell, I’ve failed, haven’t I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Shit.’
And the examiner asked, ‘What have you got, Shorthorn?’
Aiden didn’t get it. ‘Sorry?’
‘Well, there’s no point comin’ back, is there?’ He started ticking a column of boxes on his sheet. Then he looked at him. ‘Promise me you’ll look next time?’
‘Yes.’
‘If a truck hada come along then …’
‘Okay.’
‘Right, so you can reverse parallel?’
‘Yes.’
He ticked the box.
‘Reverse around a corner?’
‘Yes.’
He looked at him. ‘No bloody grog, right?’
‘Yep … no.’
‘Not a drop. You wanna stay alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Slow on dirt roads, and don’t try to impress your mates. They’re prob’ly a bunch of inbred farmers’ sons anyway, present company excepted.’
Aiden smiled. ‘I haven’t even got my own car.’
‘No V8s, no fat wheels, roll bars, all that shit. Keep it simple.’
‘Yep.’
‘And stop at stop signs.’
‘Okay.’
‘And yer better watch out for kangaroos.’ He paused and looked him in the eyes. ‘I bet she was a nice lady, your mum?’
‘She was.’
‘One death’s enough. Got it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Do a U-turn and stop in front of that shop. I gotta buy some smokes.’
When they arrived back at the office, Aiden pulled in and gave his dad the thumbs up. He parked, got out and swapped his L plates for Ps. Harry was the first to him, and he stared up as though he’d just returned from the moon. ‘See, I told you,’ he said, studying the piece of paper with the ticks. Trevor and Murray were soon over, shaking his hand, before Trevor turned to the examiner. ‘I remember you.’
He was hitching his pants. ‘Almost perfect,’ he said. ‘Forgot to check his mirror once, apart from that …’ Then he turned to Aiden. ‘Come in and we’ll get your licence.’
For the first time in a long time Aiden felt that life wasn’t so bad, that it wasn’t all weight, that there was something beyond the confusion. He turned to his dad and whispered, ‘I went through a stop sign.’
Trevor smiled, remembering.
Late afternoon, long shadows. Aiden cruised the back streets of Port Augusta, stopping for pedestrians, giving way to cars that should’ve given way to him.
Harry was laughing. ‘So you stopped at the deli for him?’
‘Yep, and he came out and lit up a smoke and asked if I wanted one.’
Trevor sat in the back beside his stony-faced father. Remembered being offered his own smoke. He arranged a bottle of wine and Coke on the floor between his feet. Gaby had told him she’d cook a stir-fry, so he’d bought fortune cookies. He took one from the bag and broke it in half. You will prosper in the field of wacky inventions. He tried to think of one. His modified cattle crush? A cradle he’d welded together to help with the marking? Or maybe his hands, destined for greatness? He offered his father a cookie but he just shook his head.
‘Go on.’
‘I’ll have one,’ Harry said, and he offered him the bag. Harry took one, opened it and read his fortune. ‘Hard work breaks no bones and fine words butter no parsnips.’ He looked at his dad. ‘What’s that mean?’
‘Who knows?’ He turned to his father.
Murray looked at him as if he were stupid. �
�It means that a lot of talking gets you nowhere.’ His eyes seemed to stay on Trevor, who was offering Aiden a cookie.
He was far too busy. ‘Left or right?’
‘Left.’
Murray was still staring at him, and his eyes said, You seem to know the route well.
‘What?’ Trevor asked, taking another cookie. He crushed it and it crumbled into the seat. ‘Listen to life, and you will hear the voice of life crying: Be!’ he almost sang.
Murray was still looking at him. ‘Be?’
‘Yeah, get on with your life.’ He leaned forward. ‘Straight ahead at this roundabout.’ He studied the scrap of paper. Be!
It sounded so simple: Be! Exist. Function. Live. Love. Eat. Fuck. Smile. Be happy. So simple but so difficult. He’d come to believe that every left turn was laden with guilt; every comment analysed and found wanting; every suggestion ignored, or at least discounted; every idea for a new way forward rolled tightly in his father’s fingers, lit and smoked; every line of poetry lost in the generator’s grunt. He flattened the fortune and placed it in his shirt pocket.
‘Can I have another one?’ Harry asked.
‘After tea.’
Gaby’s house was modest but inventive. It was Port Augusta dolomite, surviving in the sun with its red-tile carapace, bleached besser bricks and too-big windows shaded by torn blinds. But she’d imparted herself upon it: a little cactus garden where the grass had died, a few gnomes, one with his head glued on, a windmill made from beer cans. There was a hose dribbling onto a lemon tree and a football-sized Buddha resting between cane chairs on the verandah; wind chimes, a dreamcatcher and prayer flags, some worn down to a stub of threaded philosophy.
Aiden pulled into the driveway, careful to manoeuvre between the narrow fence posts. He stopped and they got out. Murray stood staring at a collage made from shells and leaves, hanging beside the front door. ‘It’s not Bundeena,’ he said.
‘Promise you’ll try?’ Trevor asked.
He shrugged.
‘A couple of hours, okay?’
He didn’t mind this, as such. It was more a case of what came next: the small wedding, in a small park; the moving van; the bathroom reclaimed by lavender soap and fresh towels; her, inserted into his life like a deep splinter; opinions floating through the air and settling on the floor like talc; fine words butter no parsnips; her laugh; bright dresses on the line beside their overalls and pyjamas. This woman, part of his family.
Trevor was still looking at him. ‘A couple of hours?’
‘Go on, get going.’
She met them at the door, took the wine and fortune cookies and kissed them all (even Murray) on the cheek. She ran her hand through Harry’s hair but he just looked at her, unsure. Then she turned formal, shook Aiden’s hand and said, ‘I hear congratulations are in order?’
‘I only lost one point.’
‘Great.’ She took his arm and squeezed it. He wanted to reclaim it but she wouldn’t give it back. Instead, he said, ‘Dad said I could have the car every Saturday night.’ He smiled at his father, determined to take advantage of the moment.
‘No, you misheard what I said,’ Trevor replied. ‘You can earn some money and buy your own.’
Murray was already finding it far too saccharine. Everyone was trying too hard. He wanted to turn and walk all the way back to Bundeena. Nothing, he guessed, came from dreamcatchers. The bangles, again, and this time, earrings made from loops of wire, banging up against each other like a scaled-down solar system.
‘Come in,’ she said, and they went into the house, smelling of incense and fresh basil in cold rolls in the middle of a coffee table in the middle of her small living room. ‘Sit down.’
They all found a spot on one of her old couches. Murray sank into his plastic-covered cushion. Why, why cover it? It’s old. It’s shit. He watched as she offered the cold rolls to his family. ‘No, thank you,’ he said, when she came to him.
‘Go on. You’ll like them.’
But he was holding up his head, indicating she shouldn’t continue.
He was worried about the crappy furniture. What could it mean? Earth mother with plastic sofa covers? A mean streak? He thought he could see it in her small, brown eyes. She was all for Gaby. Everything else was a hobby. That’s why she didn’t have a husband or children. She was some sort of monster, trawling life for its every giveaway possibility. He looked at a bookcase and noticed a picture of a young girl. ‘She your niece?’ he asked, indicating.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘My sister’s daughter.’
Trevor was looking at his father. I told you she’s been married and divorced, he wanted to say. I told you the fella was a prick, and broke her jaw. I told you all of this, Dad, so why bring it up now?
She sat and looked at Harry’s leg. ‘How’s it feel?’
‘Good.’ He showed her, moving it around.
‘Back on the bike soon?’
‘Yes.’ Although he knew he should’ve been chattier, he couldn’t force it. He didn’t know who she was or what she wanted from him. He looked down the hallway into the bedroom and was even more confused. Had his dad been in there? With her? And what about his mum, what would she be thinking about all this? But he tried. ‘You can see here and here, where the pins are.’ He showed her.
‘Nasty,’ she said, leaning forward. ‘Can you still feel them?’
He stopped to think. ‘No.’
‘You’ll be able to show your grandchildren.’ She stopped, realising. There was a few moments’ silence. Murray sat back, folded his arms, stretched his legs and crossed his feet. Nice work, he thought, studying her face. Fairy fucking godmother, loved by all.
Trevor was looking at him. He could read the body language.
‘We been out with the calves, haven’t we, Dad?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’s telling Gaby all about it. She said she’d like to come and help out.’
‘Yeah?’ He studied her. ‘Work in a chemist, do yer?’
‘A pharmacy.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘None, really.’
Well, why fuckin’ mention it.
‘Big difference between cows and … cattle,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘Still, I’d like to come and have a look at your station.’
‘Farm,’ he said, feeling himself sink into the couch.
Old prick, she thought, although she kept smiling.
‘You might find something to interest you,’ he said. ‘Carelyn often slipped on her boots and came out to help.’
She guessed this was how it would be if she intruded any further. ‘That’s nice,’ she replied, looking at Trevor for help.
‘Carelyn liked to look the part,’ he said, but stopped, turning to the boys with a slight smile.
‘She was no good with a spanner,’ Aiden added, but even he had to leave it there.
Gaby stared at Murray. He smiled back. ‘You could always try a bit of branding,’ he said.
She stood and went into the kitchen. Trevor followed her. She removed a tray of spring rolls from the oven and slammed them down on the bench. ‘Why did you have to bring him?’
Murray heard her; the boys heard her. They looked at their grandfather. Harry wanted to say, You should make an effort, Pop. Aiden wasn’t so subtle, but said it with his eyes.
‘What?’ Murray shot back, but Aiden just reached for another cold roll, dipped it and stretched back in his own plastic.
‘Why’s she got this stuff on her couches?’ Harry whispered to his brother.
‘Keep them clean.’
Then the kitchen door closed and all they could hear was mumbling.
Gaby was working with her head down, filling a finger-bowl with sweet chilli sauce. ‘There’s no point talking to him,’ she said. ‘He’s an old prick.’
Trevor tried to come around, to meet her eyes. ‘He just takes a while to warm to people. It took years before he even acknowledged Carelyn.’
>
‘Well, you need to tell him to grow up. That’s bullshit. No excuse for rudeness. Even old age.’
He didn’t know what to say. She was right. But there was no quick fix with Murray. He’d have to teach her patience—the sort he’d perfected over many decades.
‘What have you said to him?’ she asked.
‘You know.’
‘What?’ She glared at him. ‘That’s weak, Trevor. You could always try a bit of branding.’
‘Ssh.’
Murray tipped his head back. ‘Maybe she could put a pie on for me,’ he said.
‘Pop,’ Aiden said.
‘What?’
‘You’ve eaten Mum’s stir-fries.’
‘And her cold rolls,’ Harry added.
‘Can’t remember that.’
‘You have,’ Aiden said.
Gaby slid the spring rolls onto a glass tray. ‘I wanted to come to the hospital.’
‘Ten minutes and it was all over,’ Trevor replied.
‘I think I’ve hit it off with him, haven’t I?’
‘Of course. Harry’s anyone’s friend.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You know what I mean. He won’t get bitchy, like that old cunt.’
She smiled.
‘That’s the main thing, isn’t it, the boys?’
‘I guess.’
‘And Aiden, he just deals with facts, you know?’
Meanwhile, Murray was cataloguing her living room: some sort of New Guinea or Polynesian mask; a wall hanging—an old rug that, he supposed, told some sort of story; a sideboard covered with happy and serious Buddhas; a bookcase full of books (he guessed) she’d never read. And even if she had, it just proved she didn’t live in the real world: Timon of Athens, The Power of One. Shit. Nothing about anything real. All as phoney as the cubist self-portrait hanging above the door.
Harry liked the painting. He walked over and stood in front of it, trying to recognise the figure hiding in the lines. As she came in he asked, ‘Is that you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so.’
She put down the spring rolls and came up behind him. ‘See, the nose,’ she said, showing him her own. She put her arm around his shoulder and asked, ‘You like art?’