The Hands

by Stephen Orr

  Harry’s eyes lingered on his father. It wasn’t being said, but it was obvious: his brother was leaving because he hated him.

  ‘If you’re sure it’s what you want,’ Trevor said.

  ‘It is. I like taking things apart and putting them back together.’

  Harry couldn’t believe his brother was letting him off the hook. He jumped down from his tree, walked up the road and stood looking at his dad. ‘He wants to go because of you.’

  ‘Harry,’ Aiden said.

  ‘Cos you’ve made it horrible to be around here now.’ He was clutching his book. ‘I don’t want to be here either,’ he shouted.

  ‘Harry,’ Aiden said. ‘It’s cos Dad thinks the farm—’

  ‘It’s not! Go on, tell him the truth.’

  The conversation he’d had with his brother the previous evening. When Aiden had said: This is bullshit, he can’t even look us in the eyes. He can’t say sorry … he won’t tell us when …

  And he’d said, How do you think he hid it from Mum?

  Lots of lies.

  What are you gonna do?

  Nothing. I’ve gotta look after you, y’ little prick.

  Harry turned from his father to his brother. ‘You didn’t even tell me.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘You tell me everything.’

  ‘I was still thinking.’

  What, he wanted to say, am I gonna do here by myself? You’re meant to be my brother. My brother. He turned and ran. Around the house, to the porch, where Murray was busy rolling a cigarette.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he asked.

  ‘Aiden’s leaving.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s got an apprenticeship in Port Augusta.’

  Murray soon found him, alone, polishing the car window. ‘What’s this about an apprenticeship?’

  ‘I’ve been offered—’

  ‘Stupid bloody idea. This is yours—’ He used his hand to describe the desert, the grass, the cattle. ‘I don’t know what this is all about. No one’s told me.’

  ‘My mate’s dad runs a garage in town.’

  ‘Why can’t your mate work for him?’

  ‘He’s got a different job.’

  He waited. ‘No discussion … that’s it?’

  ‘I’ve discussed it with Dad.’

  ‘Who’s gonna run this place? It’s a family farm.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Trevor said, appearing from the laundry. ‘It’s your place.’

  Murray could feel his heart racing. ‘It’s your responsibility,’ he said to his son.

  ‘It’s not. None of it’s mine. None of it.’

  To Murray, this was the ultimate betrayal. The future. He could handle death and a lack of fidelity. Even rudeness, stupidity, incompetence. But not this. ‘I forbid it,’ he said to his grandson.

  ‘You’ve got no say,’ Trevor said.

  He wanted to hit him. ‘This is all your fault,’ he said. ‘No wonder the boy wants to go.’

  ‘I want to be a mechanic,’ Aiden said.

  He wasn’t finished. ‘You know what will happen? He won’t come back. Once he’s got a taste of it—he won’t come back.’

  ‘I will,’ Aiden said.

  He wasn’t interested. ‘Well, what have you got to say?’

  ‘It’s all organised,’ Trevor said.

  He returned to Aiden. ‘We’re not gonna lose all this … so you can change people’s air filters.’ He turned and went in, his hands shaking.

  The following days, Trevor retreated. There was nowhere for him to go where there wasn’t a pair of eyes, and Murray’s constant comments. ‘Where does this leave us now?’

  It was all silence, television, Bruce Willis in his tower, as Chris just stared, oblivious to their own siege. Fay, holding the middle ground, cleaning the oven, asking Harry to shower. ‘And why are you so miserable?’

  No response. Slippered feet dragging across carpet; the door quietly closing; silence. Then his afternoon lesson: clipped responses (How did the Egyptians move their building blocks?); Aiden sitting beside him with the answer sheet; Mrs Amery saying, ‘Aiden, what did Harry write down?’

  ‘He hasn’t done it.’

  ‘It’s due.’

  ‘We’ve been busy.’

  Trevor couldn’t stand it any more. Four days after Aiden’s car-wash he got in his Commodore and, without telling anyone, set off down the highway.

  A few hours later he pulled into the Belalie Roadhouse. He sat in his car studying the building. It was orange and brown; striped awnings and acres of glass radiating hot days and cold nights into a plastic dining room. He got out and went inside. The walls were spray-on concrete, decorated with Trev’s Tractors calendars from the nineties; a few snake skins nailed up under a clock that tried to tick, but couldn’t.

  He approached the counter and noticed food sitting in bags in the bain-marie—drying out, festering, waiting: spring rolls, dim sims, corn jacks and a grey-looking yiros. ‘I’ll have three spring rolls,’ he said to a girl, although he knew he was making a mistake.

  He found a table and sat down. Didn’t feel hungry. Even if he did, couldn’t eat this shit. Still, it gave him a reason to sit and stare out of the greasy windows and listen to the travellers’ conversations.

  Once, this had been a special place. He could remember when he was a kid, Murray saying, ‘Right, a treat for tea!’ He could remember knowing what that meant. The Belalie. Like the Savoy or the Windsor. The Belalie. He could remember getting dressed in his best cords and desert boots and arriving in expectation of some grand experience: T-bone, mashed potato and peas, or maybe the cabbage-laden chow mein or Bombay curry. There was a Fisherman’s Basket, of course, six types of seafood straight from deep-freezer to deep-fryer. But that was fair enough. It was a four-hour drive to the nearest beach. Or maybe a schnitzel, or fancier still, a parmy, or if you wanted to play safe, the roast of the day.

  He sat in the dining room for almost two hours. At one stage the manager asked, ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Anything else I can get you?’

  ‘No.’

  He wondered if he really had to go home; keep working; deal with his father, and sons. He wondered if he should keep driving to Port Augusta and see Gaby. Explain. Apologise. Negotiate. But there was no point; he wasn’t welcome there either. The Belalie was the only place that would have him.

  Towards evening the diner filled up. People were looking for a spare table. The manager looked at him a few times and eventually came over and said, ‘If you wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘Fine … I was just leaving.’

  So he went, depositing his bag in the bin by the door. He drove back to Bundeena. When he arrived it was dark and the lights were on inside. He sat in the car for another ten minutes deciding whether to go in. When he did (still wearing his boots) they were all sitting at the table eating Fay’s tuna casserole. She looked him over and said, ‘Sit down, I’ll get yours out of the oven.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Where you been?’ Murray asked.

  ‘The Belalie.’

  ‘Why?’

  He didn’t respond. Harry wasn’t looking at him, but Aiden said, ‘You should have some—it’s good.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve been holding the fort,’ Murray said.

  He went to his room and lay on his bed and listened to them eat. Didn’t even take off his boots, but could hear Carelyn growling at him: Not on the bed.

  So what?

  Look, you’re getting shit everywhere.

  He listened for another hour: television; Murray spitting on the front porch; the tinny ring of Aiden’s iPod. Then Fay came in.

  ‘You okay?’ she asked, switching on the light.

  ‘Turn it off.’

  She could only see his outline: ‘Want a beer?’

  ‘No.’

  She stood staring. He wanted to tell her to go away. �
�I’m fine. Just tired.’

  ‘I worry about you.’

  No reply.

  ‘Everything going on … it’ll all clear up eventually, won’t it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He turned towards the open window. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I’ve told Murray to keep his nose out of it. I told him Aiden can do what he wants.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘You know, made a big production, but so what? I just ignore him. Just a lot of noise. And bluff.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s the thing … don’t listen to him. Now, do you want some food?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll keep it in the oven.’

  Then she was gone, back to her son, telling him to turn the television down, Trevor was trying to sleep.

  Just after 10 pm, when the house had settled, he stood and went out to his shed. Left the door open to the night and worked by the yellow light. Continued sanding Harry’s hand—every line and wrinkle. Guessing that it was beyond finished. Despite everything, he was happy with it.

  It was nearly 11.30 pm when he stopped working. Putting the hand on his desk, he wiped his own hands clean and found his phone in his pocket. He started writing: hi gaby. ive been sorting things out. spoke to the old man. is it possible to come and see you tomorrow. we need to work this business out.

  Send. He felt better. Until he heard his father’s footsteps coming from the front of the house, shuffling, stopping in the doorway. ‘What the hell you doin’ at the Belalie?’

  He picked up the fine sandpaper and the hand and kept working.

  ‘A little excursion.’

  ‘What was the point of that?’

  ‘There was no point. I felt like doing it, so I did.’

  Murray just looked at him. He still couldn’t work him out. Didn’t know why he was so moody. ‘What are we gonna do about Aiden?’ he asked.

  He just looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This apprenticeship. How are we gonna stop him?’

  ‘We’re not.’

  Fine dust filled the air.

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ Murray said. ‘He’s your son. You gotta make him see sense.’

  ‘Why? It’s what he wants to do.’

  ‘He’s always known, he always said he’d stay here.’

  The phone lit up and jumped about on the desk. He picked it up and read the message: not convinced not coming back for more of the same that old cunt will never change. He faced his father. ‘Why would he want to stay?’

  ‘He used to love getting out with the animals.’

  ‘Why? I don’t want to. Harry doesn’t want to. Fay never wanted to, but she never had any choice.’

  ‘If you hate the place so much, leave,’ Murray said.

  ‘The boys were getting along with Gaby—but you weren’t going to have that, were you?’ He stood and walked from the shed; the compound; down the hill into the night. Murray called after him. ‘If you won’t do it, I’ll call this fella. I’ll tell him there won’t be no apprenticeship.’

  He was gone.

  ‘Then I’ll tell your son.’

  The phone lit up and jumped about again.

  Murray went in, looked around the lit-up lounge room, saw Chris asleep on his chair and muttered, ‘Christ!’ He went into the boys’ room. Harry had kicked off his sheets, as usual, and his long legs lay over a pile of clothes and books. He sat beside Aiden, stripped down to his boxers, covered in a single sheet. He studied the three or four days’ growth on his face, the few pimples, the edges of sharp teeth in his open mouth. ‘Aiden,’ he said, taking his elbow and shaking it.

  He turned away, pulling his sheet up over his shoulders. ‘What?’

  ‘You listenin’?’

  ‘I’s asleep.’

  ‘I want to talk.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘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?’