“He’ll be asleep in the morning. We’ll go then. We’ll leave him a bloody note!”
Flynn giggled and seemed to cheer up a little and soon he was singing to himself and crawling around in the dirt under the truck to see what he could find.
The last time Henry had taken them fishing it had rained. It’s not too heavy, not really rain at all, he’d said. Tom had followed him into the paddock, through the barbed wire, his legs wet from the long, water-loaded grass, his mother behind them in the car with Flynn becoming smaller and smaller. He remembered that his mother had smoked a cigarette that day. The car was a black Holden Special and the smoke had curled out through the chromed window frame. Henry had a wicker fishing creel that hung at his waist from two old leather belts that he’d stitched together with oiled string. In their back yard at home Tom remembered Flynn, only two or three, standing in the basket and holding on to its greasy rim. Tom had carried the short bamboo pole Henry had made for him, an old Alvey reel attached to the bamboo with wire and window putty, and on his head he’d worn a battered old oilskin hat that had leaked cold rain down the back of his neck. He’d looked back before they’d reached the dark curve of trees at the far end of the paddock and seen his mother following at last, her head bowed, her bare feet white against the grass, she and Flynn just small dark shapes against the expanse of grass and trees, connected at the hands, arms like rigging between them, his mother helping Flynn, who’d still been mastering walking, over the rough ground. Flynn had had no hat at all and his thin hair when they’d caught up had been flat against his scalp and his little shirt wet. The river when they’d reached it had been dark, fast flowing and overhung with willow. He remembered the sound of the water rippling through tree roots and black rocks. Henry had sworn that it was a special spot, shown to him by his own father, but they had not caught anything that day, and they had never been back.
After five minutes or so the eggs were nearly cooked. He looked over to where Henry was sitting. He was still talking. Tom called to him but he made no move. He peered at the eggs through the smoke that was suddenly wafting towards him. It got into his eyes and made them water and sting. He lifted the pan and saw that the eggs were exactly how Henry liked them, any longer and they would go hard and rubbery, the way he hated them. He looked around for Flynn but couldn’t see him. He swore under his breath— Bloody shit—and put the pan in the shade of the truck and then he walked over to Henry and tapped him on the shoulder, acutely aware of the clunky black shoes on his feet. Henry looked at him from the corner of his eye but made no move to come. Tom fidgeted and swore some more but this time silently and to himself. One or two of the other men looked up at him and then back to Henry, who was listening intently to an old-timer going on and on about something. Tom’s ears grew hot with frustration and embarrassment. Finally he turned away, shouting The bloody eggs are ready! just before he did. When he glanced back some of the men were grinning at him, turning their heads from him to Henry like dogs waiting for a stick to be thrown. He walked back to the truck, the sun burning his already hot neck. He heard Henry’s boots crunching through the dirt behind him, and then the soft padding sound they made through the ash.
“Where’s Flynn?” he demanded, when he’d caught up.
Tom jumped. He looked around but couldn’t see him. He looked under the truck but Flynn wasn’t there either. Just then they both heard a little boy’s moan coming from the far side of the truck. It was Flynn. He’d taken off his shoes and he was holding his arm with his other hand. His feet and arms were both covered in the crumbly dirt of the clearing. Henry reached him and took hold of his arm and brushed away the dirt. He asked him what the matter was but Flynn could only cry, his tears leaving trails down his dusty cheeks.
“He’s burnt his arm,” said Henry. “He’s gone too near one of these fires and tripped over into some ashes or something. Bloody hell, Tom! I told you to fucking look after him!”
Tom, stunned, opened his mouth to defend himself, but, before he could, Henry shot out his arm and caught him across the ear and the side of the head with his open palm. His ear rang for a moment and then he heard Flynn’s crying rise and rise until it was a high-pitched squeal. He saw Henry almost throw Flynn up into the truck and then he heard an order to fetch the pan. The blood was right up in his ears and his cheek was on fire under his hand. He heard laughing and he turned. The men—all the men—were watching. Some were laughing, their shoulders and bellies shaking. They were all looking at him, laughing at him. He picked up the pan and threw the eggs into the fire and then walked to the truck with his head down. Flynn was still bawling. His anger at all of them grew. His brother was burnt. That was nothing to laugh at—there was nothing funny about it. He felt like throwing the pan at their stupid faces, but, instead, he climbed up into the cab, tossed the pan on the floor, and slammed shut the door.
They roared off down the track. Henry said nothing else to him but swore a few more times under his breath. Flynn held his arm and cried big breathy sobs and looked miserable. Tom put his arm round his shoulders—but more for his own comfort than Flynn’s. They drove to the nearest town, a little place called Jack’s Mountain that had a general store, a post office, a hotel, a few dishevelled-looking houses. Henry found a tap at the side of the hotel and stuck Flynn’s arm under it. Flynn watched transfixed as his arm emerged from the dust and the damage could be seen. There were two long red marks, one above the other, beginning to puff out in blisters. Tom couldn’t look at Henry.
“It’s not too bad,” Henry declared. “Keep his arm under there a while longer.” He put his hand on Flynn’s head.
“You’ll be right, tiger,” he said. “You’ll live.” He turned and stomped up the hotel stairs and disappeared inside. Tom waited with Flynn at the tap. When Flynn became impatient he pulled his arm out from under the water but soon afterwards the pain would return and he would put his arm back under again. A dog came and sniffed them both and a kid on a bike rode past and nearly steered into a post looking at them.
“Look at him, Flynn. Nearly crashed into the post,” said Tom. Flynn giggled.
The wife of the publican came out to look at Flynn’s arm. She tuttutted and then took him inside. When he came out he had a bright white bandage on his arm and a glass of Coke with a straw in it. She had a glass for Tom as well and a plate of sandwiches. They climbed up into the truck and sat amidst the curled and sun-yellowed racing guides, the dried and miniaturised orange peel, the crushed red Marlboro packets, the smell of sawdust and hot oil. They ate their sandwiches, washed them down with their Cokes, burped. Tom began to think the day might finally be looking up.
Soon Flynn was sound asleep, his mouth open and his head back against the wine-red seat, the band of burnt, freckled skin across his nose and cheeks vivid against the smooth white skin of his neck. Tom sat and listened. He could hear the hotel noises: shouting, laughing, tinny music. The sounds seemed strangely comforting. A breeze filtering down through the trees fanned him through the open window. He put his head back and fell asleep beside his brother and soon he was dreaming. He dreamt he fell off the deck of a great ship and sank down through the sea, the sun disappearing, miles and miles of black elbow-room opening up all around.
Henry woke them by thudding on the door of the truck, right where Tom’s head rested. He looked up, his thoughts in a muddle, but not so much that he couldn’t see that Henry was good and drunk. He looked out the window at the street. It was much later in the day. Where before there had only been their one truck in the street there were now half a dozen. It seemed work was over for the timbermen for the week. They sat out on the verandah of the hotel, leant against the doorposts and spat into the dust. The boy on the bike was back, but keeping his distance on the other side of the street.
“Mr. McKinnon’s going to take you home,” said Henry. “I’m stayin’ on for a bit longer.” He turned and went back into the hotel after mumbling something about waiting by the truck. Tom rubbed his face, s
hook Flynn, then climbed down from the truck’s cab. Flynn followed at his own pace, muttering to himself.
“You sleep a lot,” Tom told him.
“Do I?”
“Yep, you do.”
“Well, so do you.”
“Not as much as you. How’s your arm?”
“Good,” said Flynn, as though there were nothing wrong with it.
“You hungry?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you want to eat?”
“Bacon.”
“Oh yeah. Bacon’d be good.”
He took Flynn to the tap and let him drink and then he took a few mouthfuls himself. They wandered down to Artie McKinnon’s truck to wait. Tom could see Henry inside the hotel. He was laughing and holding up his empty glass and pointing to it. Being inside there obviously put him in a much better mood. Tom looked at the golden glasses of beer in the hands of the men and tried to imagine how cold they were, colder than ice maybe, from the way water dripped from them like it did from trees in the rain. He swore to Flynn he would go in there when he was old enough and drink twenty of them at once but Flynn seemed unimpressed.
Three or four men were drinking quietly in the shade of the hotel’s southern wall, admiring an axe one held, when the boys walked by. Tom recognised a few from the clearing.
“Henry’s boy,” one said, as if Tom were hard of hearing.
“Doesn’t treat him good,” said a second.
“Maybe it’s not your business.”
“Maybe not, but he’ll be six feet under, Henry doesn’t watch out.”
“How’s that?”
“Henry’ll let go a log on him, way he charges about, bull at a gate.”
“Henry has a good boy there,” said the first man.
“Yep, he’s a good boy. Not his boy though.”
“No?”
“No. That’s Alex Ferry’s boy.”
“You don’t say?”
“That little un’s Henry’s.”
“Ah.”
“Henry should watch out, all I’m saying,” repeated the second man.
The first man sang out to Tom. “Come here a minute, son!”
Tom thought about ignoring him but then he turned and walked over, his head down, Flynn trailing behind.
“How’s the little feller’s arm?”
“It’s all right.”
The man was old and stocky with a small red nose and big ears. The deep, crinkled skin around his eyes made him look like a coolie he’d seen once in a book.
“Your old man, he’s all right.”
Tom nodded and looked at the gaiters over the man’s socks.
“We’re all a bit rough and ready but our barks are worse than our bites. You follow?”
Tom nodded.
“Good boy. Hey, here’s something for ya.”
The man pulled something from his pocket and palmed it before Tom could see what it was.
“What is it?”
“Don’t want to guess?”
“No.”
“No, I suppose you’re gettin’ too old to be guessing.”
The man held the object out to Tom in his palm and Tom picked it up. It was a harmonica, about three inches long and silver.
“I can’t take this.”
“You go ahead. You’re a good boy, helping your—helping old Henry. I want you to have it. I’ve got plenty.”
“Take it, kid,” said the second man. “Anything to stop him playin’ it.”
Tom was about to protest a little more when the man’s attention was caught by another of his mates. One of their number, a huge man with black chops, was stumbling about in the vacant land next to the hotel. A building had once stood where he tottered but had burnt to the ground long ago, charred stumps the only evidence of its dimensions. The man leant to the side and then his leg gave way on him and he fell into the long grass. The men laughed and began to pelt him with small stones from the side of the road and anything else they could lay their hands on.
“Thanks then,” said Tom.
The man glanced at him and grinned and raised his hand, gave a slight nod, his eyes concealed almost completely now by the folds of skin around them. He turned to his mate, pointed to the tool he held in his hands, said: “Yeah, she’s a good axe that.”
Tom walked on, turning the harmonica over in his hands. Flynn held out his hand to look and after a while Tom gave it to him.
“What is it?”
“It’s a harmonica.”
“What’s it for?”
“It’s to make music. You blow through the front there.”
Flynn put his lips to the instrument and blew and then laughed at the sound he made and then began to make it again and again.
“What do the words say?”
“The Miniature Boomerang. Albert’s System. Tangent Tempered Reeds,” read Tom.
“What’s that mean?”
“Something to do with its innards, I think.”
“Its gizzards.”
“Yep. Its gizzards.”
“Why did he give it to you?”
“I don’t know.”
They waited for Artie McKinnon by his truck for another twenty minutes or so before he appeared, striding down the road with his head down, sucking on the cigarette he seemed to be hiding in his palm. When he saw the boys he jerked his thumb.
“Hop in,” he said.
They clambered up into the cab as Artie started the truck and they were soon roaring down the valley road. Artie reeked of beer and smoke. He shouted a few things over the noise of the engine but didn’t say much after a while. Tom noticed that he was looking at his watch more and more often, scratching his pointy nose each time. Flynn was leaning forward to work the old indicator hand. Tom grabbed a handful of his shirt so he wouldn’t topple forward. Artie became more and more distracted, pressing the accelerator pedal further and further to the floor, the engine wailing its way up and down the hills. After a while they pulled up in a cloud of dust down by the turn-off to Angel Rock. Tom looked over at Artie.
“I’m sorry, fellers, I’ll have to drop you here. I’m real late for something.”
“Is it far?”
“Nope. You can see the rock from here,” he said, pointing out his window. “You just go down this road, take the first right; that goes straight into town. Shouldn’t take you twenty minutes.”
“All right.”
“Thanks, son. Really appreciate it.”
Tom was more than glad to get out of the truck. He hopped down after Flynn and shut the door behind them. Artie wasted no more time and took off up the road, sounding the truck’s wheezy horn and waving his arm out the window. They watched him go and then waited for the dust to settle.
“Well, come on then,” said Tom, setting off, when it had.
“Wrong way, Tom.”
“Right way, Flynn. We’re not going into town, are we. We’re going home. Home’s this way, towards the river. This road meets up with ours.”
Flynn didn’t argue and he followed Tom as he set off along the eastern branch of the crossroads. The afternoon was still and very quiet. The road followed a ridge for a little while and then dropped down into a gully. As Tom thought they might, Flynn’s shoes soon began to pinch him and he sat, put the harmonica down, and pulled them off. He would have left all three items behind if Tom hadn’t picked them up. When they walked on the sun seemed much lower in the sky than it had been just five minutes before and in under the trees the light was growing dimmer. Tom wasn’t worried. He thought the shale road would be easy enough to follow, even after dark, and Artie had said it wasn’t far.
They came to where the road split into two and, after thinking about it for a moment, Tom decided on the right fork. The road wound down through a stand of gnarled old swamp gum where the darkness was thickening, great drifts of it piling up in the undergrowth. They could hear rustling, whispering sounds coming from behind the roadside trees.
“Is this the right way?�
� Flynn asked, his voice hesitant.
“Yep. It must be.”
Flynn looked doubtful. Tom slipped the watch off his wrist and gave it to him to play with. He’d started to teach Flynn how to tell the time but he seemed happy enough just watching the second hand go round and the luminous dots marking the hours.
“What time is it?”
“I can’t tell.”
“Try.”
Flynn looked at the watch, his lips moving as he laboured with the concepts of big and little, numbers, circles, hands. Tom squeezed at the splinters starting to itch under the skin of his palm. Surely by now they’d be able to see the town, he thought, as what felt like another fifteen minutes passed. He hadn’t seen or heard a car for a long while now and the road was becoming less even and more and more pot-holed and corrugated. He felt a moment of panic but fought it down. He stopped in the middle of the road and turned round. Flynn stopped too.
“I think we’ve come the wrong way,” he said at last. Flynn looked up at him but, thankfully, didn’t start to cry.
Back along the road, maybe half an hour before, he had seen the last roadside mailbox, the last gate, the last track leading up to a farmhouse. It would be simple enough to go and ask someone the right way—they might even get a lift. Henry need never know, Tom thought. He wouldn’t get back home until much later, maybe even tomorrow morning. He turned round, happy with the plan, but as he did he noticed a long, dark shape by the edge of the road. It was just behind a white road marker with a red reflector nailed to it. They must have walked straight past it before and not noticed. He stared until he was sure it was not a shadow and then he moved closer. It was a kangaroo, stretched out, with its smaller front legs above its head, its head between them, its massive hind legs and tail half-obscured by the roadside grass. Tom had seen kangaroos before in the valley, but never one as large. He’d heard stories from the timbermen of the kangaroos of the outback and how they could leap over high fences and how to shoot one and skin it and cut it up and which parts to eat. He thought this one must have been hit by a car. He’d seen many things killed this way and had even been in the truck when Henry had cursed and hit something, but they’d never stopped to see what. One time Tom had turned and peered out into the blackness and seen a strange shape in the red glow of the truck’s tail-lights, something stumbling and broken, an outlandish shape spilling its blood and its life out onto the road, and he’d never forgotten the sight.
Angel Rock Page 4
