by James Roy
Greta looked at him levelly. 'What does he do in the van?'
'Yeah.'
Mum was staring at Harry in disbelief. 'Harry! How is that any of your business!'
'That's right,' Dad agreed. 'Even though it's an excellently good question. Sorry, dear, but it is.' He patted Mum's hand, which she withdrew as suddenly as if he'd dripped hot wax onto it.
Harry looked sidelong at Trent, whose face was sullen. His advice had been ignored, and he wasn't happy.
Greta cleared her throat. 'I don't know,' she said, lifting her chin. 'He goes up there sometimes, mainly when he's getting stressed. Like now, for instance, with the wedding coming up. Or after Reg's dad died. I don't know what's in that van, Harry, but sometimes you don't ask.'
'That's right,' said Mum, giving Harry the death glare. 'Sometimes you don't ask.'
'Like I said,' Trent muttered.
Frank slid the back door open then, bringing a slab of the cold evening air into the room with him. 'Sorry about that.' He smiled around at everyone, sitting with empty plates in front of them, while a huge casserole steamed in the centre of the table. 'Working on my speech for tomorrow.' He took Greta's hand. 'Two sleeps and a wakey. Let's eat.'
Greta squeezed his hand. Her smile seemed strangely empty. 'Yes, two sleeps and a wakey,' she replied.
Sixteen
In Harry's dream, he was asleep, but he was awakened by a voice. It was a voice he easily recognised – his mother's. And his father's voice was in the dream as well, but quieter, and less hysterical.
His mother's voice was shouting, almost screaming, over and over. 'Call an ambulance! David, call an ambulance!'
And his father was saying, 'All right, all right, I'm doing it now.'
Then his mother was shouting, 'Where's Harry? Wake him up! David, wake Harry up!'
'One thing at a time, Sandy.'
Then, still in his dream, Harry was stirring awake, looking at the TV at the foot of the king-sized bed, and seeing a man playing golf. And in his dream, he looked around, and recognised his parents' hotel room, with his father standing beside the bed with the phone receiver held to his ear. And through the door leading into the next room, he could see his mother, bent over Joel's bed.
His father was talking now, asking for an ambulance, giving the name of the hotel and the room number, and explaining. 'He has CF. Cystic fibrosis, yes, and he's taken a bit of a turn. He's really not well at all. Yes, please, right away.'
Then he was hanging up, glancing at Harry, and saying curtly, 'Get up, Harry, your brother's crook,' before heading into the next room, where Mum was talking to Joel in a low voice now, as she tried to make him wake up, in between asking Dad why he hadn't checked his phone battery before they left.
And in his dream, Harry sat up on the bed and started to cry. Then he really was awake, in the bedroom at Frank's place, and he was still crying, because the dream he'd just had wasn't some weird mess of fact and fiction and other unrelated events, but an almost exact recollection of that night in Cairns, when he'd fallen asleep watching a boring game of footy, while his brother began to suffocate in his sleep in the next room.
Dad sat at the table, a newspaper and a bowl of cornflakes in front of him. He raised his eyes as Harry entered. 'Cripes! You all right, Harold? You look wretched!'
'Thanks, Dad.' Harry slumped into a chair and rested his chin in his hands, glumly observing the collection of cereal boxes assembled in the centre of the table. 'I had a bad night.'
'What's that?' Greta asked from the kitchen. 'Is your bed uncomfortable, Harry?'
'No, the bed's fine. I just didn't sleep very well.'
'At least there were no gunshots to wake you up this morning,' she said.
'Is Trent up yet?' Harry asked.
'It's the weekend, so we won't see Trent for hours. I had to ask him to turn his music down at three. That boy ...'
Dad chuckled and went back to reading his newspaper, and crunching his corn flakes.
'Greta, has anyone collected the eggs yet?' Harry asked.
She placed a cup of tea in front of him. 'That's one of Trent's jobs. One of the very small handful, I should add.'
'I can do it. Once I've finished my tea.'
'You want to be a farmer, Harold?' Dad asked. 'A man on the land?
'No,' he answered indignantly.
'He just wants to help, and I'm very grateful,' Greta said. 'You can take the chooks this bucket of scraps as well, if you like. You'll be their friend for life.'
'Chickens for friends. Nice.' Harry sipped his tea and waited for his eyes to fully open. 'Where's Mum?'
'Hanging out some washing for me,' Greta said. 'It's been so good having you guys here. All those little jobs that Robyn and I would have had to do by ourselves, I've had extra help with.'
'Not to mention needing to cook for three more,' Dad remarked.
Greta dismissed the comment with a lazy wave. 'It's been nothing, honestly. It's been nice to get to know you. And I think Trent's enjoyed having someone roughly his own age in the place, rather than just us oldies. I know Frank appreciated the help with the car yesterday, Harry.'
'Really?'
'Oh yes, absolutely. He does love working on cars, but yesterday it was the last thing he felt like doing. Talk about lousy timing! But he really enjoyed working with you.'
'Thanks. It was fun.'
'You managed to find something to talk about for all that time?'
'Yeah, the car, of course, and how to fix it, but we chatted about other stuff too. He told me a bit about his time in the army.'
A gentle smile spread across Greta's face, followed almost instantly by a very small, mysterious frown that caught Harry off-guard. 'You must be special. He doesn't say much about the war.'
'Most vets don't,' Dad said.
'He doesn't tell me much. Some of the people in town know more about his past than I do.'
'People like the woman from the newsagent's?' Dad asked.
'Yes, that's right, people like her. They tell me all about what he got up to, and how he used to crawl around with a bayonet between his teeth, and I come over all goosebumpy. Oh, there I go now,' she laughed, holding both her arms out in front of her. 'Look – goosebumps!'
'But he doesn't talk to you about it?' Dad asked.
Greta shook her head. 'No, not much, but that's OK. There'll be plenty of time for Frank to share that with me, if and when he wants to.'
'What have I done now?' said Frank, coming in the door at the far end of the kitchen. 'Not guilty, guv, I swear!'
'We're just talking about how Val has such a crush on you,' said Greta.
'Val from the newsagent's? Oh yes, and the feeling is very mutual, my love.'
Greta put her arms around his waist and squeezed. 'I think I might drive down there and tell her to get her own hero.'
'Hero?' Frank sniffed. 'Hardly.'
'I'll go and get the eggs now,' Harry said, standing up. He took the bucket and the little egg basket, slipped into some thongs by the back door and went up the hill towards the chicken pen, with Curious Reg in tow. The chickens saw him approaching and scurried over to the fence to wait for him, clucking and squarking.
'What are you doing?' Mum asked, as she pegged up the last of the washing.
'Getting the eggs.'
'They're happy to see you,' she said, nodding towards the chickens. 'So, how did you sleep?'
'Terrible. I had bad dreams.'
'About what?'
'Honestly? About Joel.'
Mum bent over and picked up the empty basket. 'I have those constantly,' she said. 'Maybe we should compare notes some time.' And she turned and headed back towards the house.
'Do you want to go for a walk with me later?' Harry called.
Mum stopped. 'Yeah, maybe. I'm pretty busy helping Greta and Robyn, though.'
'Well, only if you have time.'
'Let me see how the day pans out. Enjoy the chooks.'
Harry watched her go, then con
tinued on to the chicken pen. 'Are you hungry, girls?' he asked as he began to unlatch the gate. 'Hang on, I'm coming.'
He tossed the scraps on the ground, rapping his knuckles on the bottom of the bucket to get the last stubborn bits out. The chickens got busy immediately, pecking and scratching at the pile, while a couple of the smaller ones grabbed half a soggy slice of toast each and darted off away from the others, all zigzaggy, wings flat to their sides and legs flailing furiously. Their desperation made Harry laugh.
'So, you're doing my job now?'
Trent stood outside the gate, and the sound of his voice made Harry jump. 'You gave me a fright – I didn't see you coming.'
'Obviously not.'
'Sorry, I was just trying to help ... We thought you'd still be asleep.'
Trent snorted. 'I don't care if you want to feed the chooks. Saves me doing it.'
Harry straightened up. 'So what does he keep in that van, anyway?'
'What's with you and that van?'
'Nothing. I just ...'
'I told you yesterday, I don't know what he keeps in there, or what he does in there. Nothing special, probably. It's only Pop.'
'But the door's all chained up.'
'Yeah, so?'
'You don't usually chain up a caravan full of nothing special.'
'No, I guess not.'
'Have you been in there?'
'Nuh.'
'Why not?'
'I just haven't, that's all. I've never been invited.'
'Have you ever looked through the windows?'
'You can't – there's curtains and blinds and stuff.'
'So you've tried?'
'Maybe.'
Harry smiled as he squatted down and felt about in the nesting boxes for the warm, smooth eggs. 'It sounds like you're intrigued as well.'
'Intrigued?'
'Interested. Curious.'
'Yeah, maybe a bit. But it's private.'
'Has Frank told you that?'
'Yup. I asked him once what was in there, and he told me it had nothing to do with me. So there you go.'
'Interesting,' Harry said slowly.
'Probably not,' Trent replied with a shrug.
'But interesting enough to make you try and look through the windows?'
That shy – or was it a sly – grin was back. 'I guess.' But then, just as suddenly as it had arrived, the smile was gone. 'But it's Pop's van, and whatever he does in there is his own business.'
'Yeah, of course,' Harry said.
As they walked back to the house, Harry glanced again over his shoulder at the caravan, sitting low and frowning on its brick piers and cracked tyres.
Harry was watching Mum. She and Greta sat cross-legged on the living room floor, and while Greta wrote names on place cards with a fountain pen, Mum took pages from a pile, folded them in half, and placed them in a second pile. Glimpsing a hint of shiny gold on the front of the folded pages, he guessed that they were programs or menus or something similar for the wedding.
It was nice, seeing his mum doing something that didn't require too much concentration, or even much thought. She was relaxed, laughing and chatting with Greta as if they were childhood best friends, and Harry smiled to see it. His mother, relaxed. It had been a while.
Her manner had always seemed to be right on the edge of snappy and stressed, especially where Joel was concerned. It was hard, having a kid who was always sick. Harry knew that, and even forgave her. But there were times back then when he'd wished his brother wasn't sick, not just because he didn't want him to be ill – of course he wished for that anyway – but because down deep he blamed Joel for making Mum hard to live with. And he hated himself for thinking that.
He thought back to that night in Cairns, and his shoulders tightened at the memory. Perhaps stressed wasn't quite the right word for how she was that time. Maybe angry was a better word. Yes, angry was exactly the right word. And she'd been angry with him.
She hadn't used those actual words – 'I'm angry with you, Harry' – but he knew. He could tell. While Dad paid the taxi driver, Harry had gone over to the ambulance where they were unloading his brother, under the supervision of Mum.
It had been humid – Harry remembered that very clearly. Humid, oppressive, and claustrophobic. For some reason he clearly recalled the streak of sweat running down the middle of his back as he stood and watched his brother emerge from the ambulance on a stretcher, feet first. His eyes were closed, an oxygen mask was in place, and his arms were flat by his sides, beneath the white cotton blanket and the stretcher-belt. Mum's right arm had been clasped tight around her handbag, while the fingers of her left hand toyed with the amethyst pendant Dad had bought her for her birthday.
'Mum,' he'd said. 'Mum, is he all right?'
'Not now,' she'd replied, her lips tight.
'Why did he get sick?'
'I said not now, Harry.'
Dad was behind him now, and he gripped Harry's shoulder. 'We should just let them get your brother inside.'
'Dad, why did he get sick?'
'I don't know, mate.'
'I don't think I gave him his stuff.'
'What stuff?'
'His medicine. All the medicine I was meant to give him before bed. I went to sleep, and I think I forgot to give it to him.'
'Well ...'
Mum was at the automatic doors that led into the emergency department, close behind Joel, and she'd turned around to check that Dad and Harry were there. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. All she'd had to do was raise her eyebrows, and the message was as clear as if she'd said, 'Well? Are you coming or not?'
'All right, mate, we'd better get in there, find out what's going on.'
The doctor who'd seen them first was very young, and tall, with narrow sideburns that reached almost to the corners of his mouth. He had the annoying habit of rolling his pen around his thumb again and again, the whole time he was speaking.
'So, Joel is ten, and he has CF, is that right?'
'That's right,' Mum replied.
'And how long has he had CF?'
Mum's jaw tensed. Harry knew immediately that Dad was going to have to speak for her. Either that or she was going to explode.
Dad kept his voice level. 'He was born with it. You can't catch CF.'
The doctor's face had immediately started to turn red. 'Yes, of course.' He tried a bad joke by way of excuse. 'I knew that – I was just checking that you knew.'
Dad hadn't found that terribly funny, and Mum squirmed in her seat, as if she was about to stand up and walk out.
And later, when a different, older doctor had come into the cubicle to go through most of the same questions all over again, Harry had heard him ask about the medications. 'Is he pretty compliant with his meds?'
'Yes, we're careful to make sure that he gets given everything he's supposed to have,' Dad had replied. 'Tonight was a slight exception, though. We think he might have missed a couple of things ...'
Harry had run into that doctor later, on his way back from the toilet. They'd been on a collision course near the main desk, and Harry stepped to one side while the doctor muttered some kind of apology, since he was reading a chart, and seemed distracted.
'Um ... excuse me,' Harry said. 'Can I ask you a question?'
The doctor glanced up. 'Hmm?'
'My brother – is he OK?'
'Which one's your brother?'
'Joel.'
'Oh, right. I think he'll be OK, yes.'
'Is he sick because he missed some of his medicines and things? He didn't have his BIPAP mask or anything tonight.'
'Well, that can't have helped,' the doctor had said, flicking through the chart. 'But he'll be fine. Excuse me, I have to make some calls.'
Mum and Dad were still beside Joel's bed. Mum was holding his hand, while Dad sat with his arms folded over his chest, deep in thought.
Joel had flashed a quick smile. 'Hey, Harry.' There were oxygen prongs in his nose by then, and Harry was glad. I
t made it seem like Joel was improving, even though he suspected that wasn't really the case.
'So what's happening now?' Harry asked.
'He's going to have to stay in hospital,' Mum replied. 'He'll be here for a few days, probably.'
Dad stood up. 'I'd better call the hotel. Let them know we'll be around for a while yet.'
'And the airline,' Mum reminded him.
Dad sighed then. 'I'm getting the strong impression that this is going to get expensive.'
In his mind, Harry had started going through his funds. Bank account, piggy bank, his wallet, adding it all up, knowing that it wasn't going to come close even to making up the difference. Deep down, he'd suspected with a plunging realisation that all the cash in the world wouldn't make up for what he might have just cost his family.
Seventeen
It was the middle of the afternoon when Harry finally turned off the TV in disgust. There was nothing on, or at least nothing worth watching. On one channel was a telemarketing show, selling some kind of super-duper multifunction remote controller for making your blinds and curtains open and close, all at once, or one at a time. Another featured a very exciting game of lawn bowls, and further around the dial was a show about antiques, plus something featuring an orchestra full of people in tuxedos. Harry read over the TV guide once more, as much in forlorn hope as anything, then dropped it on the couch and wondered if there'd ever been a single recorded case of someone actually dying of boredom. Perhaps he'd be the first.
There really was nothing to do, and no one to do it with. Trent was in his room with his gun magazines and his dark, dense music, Dad was elbow-deep in work at the table, and Greta, Robyn, Mum and Frank were nowhere to be seen.
'Dad?'
'Hmm?
'Where's Mum?'
'Why?'
'I thought she might want to go for a walk with me.'
Dad's eyes didn't leave his laptop, and his voice was tight-edged. 'She can't. She and the others went into town to get some more fancy food and stuff for tomorrow. Do you mind, Harry? I'm trying to work.'
'Sorry.' Harry sighed and stood up. 'I'm going for a walk.' By myself, he thought bitterly.
Curious Reg was sleeping on the porch, and he briefly opened one eye and gave a flick of the tail as he heard Harry close the door. He didn't get up, though. He simply closed his eyes, heaved a big breath and went back to sleep.