by Stephen Orr
‘Well, if he wants,’ Trevor said, looking at the mother.
Harry showed him how to do it. The boy tried but the whip just snaked around on the grass. Soon all of the kids were having a go but none of them managed a crack. Still, there were phones and photos, and everyone got to look the part. Harry was left with the feeling that this was his specialty.
The novelty wore off and the group started crumbling—wheeling, limping and even running back across the park towards the hospital. Soon the Wilkies were alone. Harry gathered his whip. Aiden placed his hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s see them beat that,’ he said.
They walked back across the grass. Murray lit up a half-finished cigarette.
They gathered the three bags of Harry’s and Murray’s gear and said goodbye to the staff. Trevor had bought a box of chocolates and distributed them to anyone in uniform (including the ward clerk, and a cleaner who’d once helped him with one of Harry’s accidents), shaking hands, kissing cheeks, saying things like, ‘This has meant a lot to us,’ and, ‘Harry won’t soon forget.’ Although, of course, that’s exactly what he wanted to do.
As they walked from the ward, one of the nurses handed Murray a new ukulele, its price tag still attached. ‘I almost forgot,’ she said. ‘Doctor Diamond left this for you, Murray.’
Surprised, Murray took the instrument. A note had been threaded through the four strings: ‘Dear Grumpy. So you can come up with your own act. Yours, Ted H. (aka Dr Diamond).’
‘He was looking for you yesterday,’ the nurse said, ‘but I think you were at the Cathedral.’
Trevor looked at his father. ‘The cathedral?’
‘No, not that one.’ He walked on, unwilling to explain, taken by the only real gift he’d had in years.
Ten minutes later, Trevor was reversing from the spot in the carpark he’d been in and out of since the first few days; his hands trembling on the wheel, visions of flesh and bone and the small metal rods that had held his son’s leg in place. He moved back, straightened the car, and a ute came around the corner, closing on him. The driver braked and held down his horn. Trevor put down his window, put up his finger and said, ‘Fuck you.’
Aiden, sitting in the back beside Murray, smiled. ‘Nice work, Dad.’
‘What a prick. What’s the limit in here? Ten, twenty?’
Soon they were on city roads. Trevor was still driving slowly, over-indicating, waiting for anything that looked like a pedestrian. When they were on a clear stretch he asked his son, ‘How does it feel to be going home?’
‘Great,’ Harry replied. ‘Although it wasn’t all bad.’
Silence; late braking; the radio avoided, for now. Then Harry said, ‘So, you got a surprise party planned for me?’
Aiden laughed. ‘Yeah, the surprise is, you move out into the shed and I get my own room.’
But they all knew Harry was a good guesser; was probably aware that Fay had hung streamers and balloons; Chris had made a ‘Welcome Home’ poster; that there was chicken, hot dogs, chips, Coke, and chocolate. ‘I should get my own room,’ Harry said. ‘I’m the cripple.’
‘You’re not a cripple,’ Trevor growled.
‘Injured.’
Harry looked at his brother. ‘You should be in the shed.’ And then at Murray. ‘He can move in with you, can’t he, Pop?’
‘No bloody way,’ as the old man finished tuning the ukulele, and started singing, ‘Tell me, darling, that you love me, While the moon is shining bright …’
‘Very good,’ Trevor said, ‘but I don’t want to have another accident.’
‘I’ve got my L plates,’ Aiden said, leaning forward.
‘Not in town.’
‘Come on?’
‘No.’
‘I just want to get home in one piece,’ Harry added.
‘You’re lucky I gotta be nice to you,’ Aiden replied.
‘No, you don’t.’
‘I’ve been told.’ He looked at his father. ‘What if we find a back street?’
‘No.’
‘Why today?’ Harry asked.
Aiden looked at his brother, but stopped himself.
‘Didn’t you come to bring me home?’
Aiden shook his head. You weren’t the only one in the accident, he wanted to say.
They all sank into their seats. Murray played one final chord, just to make it known he wouldn’t be told. They travelled in silence for a few minutes. Trevor provided a critique of the local drivers. ‘That’s it, don’t indicate, I can read your mind.’ Then, glaring at the driver of a van in the rear-vision mirror: ‘Nice work. Could you get any closer?’
‘Hey, Harry,’ Aiden said. ‘Dad’s agreed to let me leave school and become your full-time tutor.’
Harry looked at his dad.
‘He’s bullshitting,’ Trevor said.
‘He said I’d be more use at home,’ Aiden continued. ‘Helping out … especially with you hobbling around.’
‘I won’t be hobbling around much longer.’
‘Anyway, that’s what’s gonna happen, isn’t it, Dad?’
‘No.’ He came to a stop in the middle of the road and turned to his son. ‘Do you bloody well mind?’
‘What?’
Trevor undid his belt, got out and walked back to the van. ‘Are you completely stupid?’ they heard him ask the driver.
‘Oh, no,’ Harry said. He glared at his brother. ‘Look what you’ve done now.’
‘What?’
‘Dad’s pissed off.’
‘It’s your fault.’
‘What did I do?’
The van sped off, almost collecting Trevor. ‘Prick!’ they heard him call, as he returned to the car.
‘Trevor!’ Murray growled, although his window was up.
‘It’s your fault,’ Harry said to Aiden. ‘You could see Dad was stressed.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Aiden!’ Murray barked.
‘He hates city driving,’ Harry continued.
‘Shit-for-brains. I was having a nice bloody time until …’
‘Should I go back to the hospital?’
Aiden just sat with his arms crossed. Murray shook his head. ‘You need to grow up. Don’t you think your father might need a bit of—’ He stopped, as Trevor climbed in and put on his belt.
‘What a prick,’ he said, starting off, as a few angry drivers sounded horns and drove around him.
Aiden knew what his grandfather was about to say. Help. Understanding. Cooperation. And a little less silliness.
Trevor glared back at Aiden.
‘What?’ the older boy asked.
‘Thanks.’
‘Sorry. I was only kidding.’
‘You need to …’
‘Sorry.’
Murray placed his ukulele on the floor. It would be a long trip home.
12
The following morning Harry was already at work. Out in the lavender patch. Lavandula angustifolia, spica, dentata, purple flowers plucked from their stems, thrown into buckets hiding between rows. Chris had fetched him a chair and set it out close to the plants so, according to his wishes, he could make himself useful. He leaned forward, harvested and launched each of the flowers in a perfect parabola he’d practised throwing a tennis ball into a bin in the corner of his hospital room. Murray had kept saying, ‘Enough,’ and he’d replied, ‘What else am I meant to do?’
‘Read a book.’
He’d looked at the pile beside his bed. ‘I’m bored.’
Harry smelt his fingers. Lavender was okay. It was better than the stink of Betadine and the antiseptic they used around his room; the smell of Dr Diamond, with his wet underarms, or cabbage floating across his plate. Lavender was Aunty Fay, tisane, furniture polish, potpourri and scented water sprayed in the toilet after one of Murray’s sessions. ‘How much does she want?’ he asked.
Chris stopped to think. ‘All the buckets.’
‘All of them?’
Chris was bent over, caught up in
the task. Harry could see confetti on his scalp, stained by the poppy oil Fay combed into his hair every morning. ‘That was a nice party,’ he said, but there was no response.
It had already been cleared. Fay, up at six o’ clock with her old Hoover, vacuuming the rugs and carpet, tearing down streamers and removing cards from lengths of tinsel. And, of course, Deepest Sympathies, and all the other rose and carnations spreading their cursive grief across book shelves and venetian blinds.
Fay was always the efficient one. The casserole dishes and oven trays put away, the beer returned to the drinks’ fridge, the flat dregs of Coke and Fanta tipped down the sink. There was no point drawing it out—they’d had their celebration—now they just had to get on with things: white sauce for the silverside, the boys back to their old routines, churchy-silence during the news headlines.
It had been a good party. Confetti, as Harry came through the door, Chris playing the Mastersingers overture, Fay dutifully presenting her cheek for kissing, Harry ushered to the table, a party hat slipped onto his head, bon-bons left over from Christmas, and lids lifted from steaming bowls of chicken and tuna mornay. Eating, jokes (at his expense), Chris with his fists clenched and then, inevitably, silent gaps.
‘It’s good to be home, I bet?’ Fay had asked.
‘Of course,’ Harry had replied.
‘I’ve made up your bed with new sheets, straight from the pack.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No point thankin’ me. You’ve just gotta get better. Get that thing off your leg.’ She’d looked at his cast.
‘Not much longer,’ he’d replied, but she’d just stared at it, as if it were something she couldn’t understand.
‘It doesn’t hurt,’ he’d said.
‘No?’
Aiden had grinned. ‘It’s gonna stink when it comes off.’
‘You always find the positive,’ Trevor had said.
Back outside, Harry smiled at Chris and said, ‘I had to wake Aiden up during the night.’
‘Why?’
‘I had to go to the toilet and couldn’t get out of bed. It sinks in the middle. Do you think Dad could put something under it?’
‘Yes,’ Chris replied. ‘I do think Dad could put something under it.’
Harry looked at him. ‘He’s not your dad.’
‘Trevor,’ he said.
Harry thought it strange how he’d barely mentioned the accident, and nothing at all about Carelyn. ‘It’s sad, what happened,’ he said.
Chris just kept working.
‘Were you sad?’
He dared to look up. Didn’t know what to say. She’d gone, and hadn’t come home. Like his own father. Sometimes, apparently, people just did this. It was hard to say why. One thing led to another; arguments to unhappiness; anger to weeks in the wilderness. Carelyn wouldn’t come back. She was dead. ‘I couldn’t understand,’ he said.
‘What?’
He fell silent.
‘Anyway, we have to keep going,’ Harry said. He grabbed a handful of lavender heads and pulled them from their stems. Then he smelt them and threw them into the dust.
‘Not there,’ Chris said.
‘You can say it,’ Harry continued. ‘You can say you miss her.’
Chris was biting his lip. Why was Harry going on about it? Why couldn’t he just pick the lavender? ‘I miss her,’ he said, mechanically.
Then Harry leaned forward. ‘Wanna know a secret?’
No, Chris thought. No secrets. They always meant trouble. More arguments. More anger. ‘Yes,’ he made himself say.
Harry took a moment. ‘I still speak to Mum.’
‘When?’
‘At night … in the toilet … when there’s no one around.’ He waited for Chris to ask him more, but he didn’t. ‘I tell her what I’ve been up to.’
He only stared at him.
‘Like, I might say, the surgeon took out the screws and he says my leg’s nice and strong. Or, I’ve finished another Specky Magee.’ He sat back and continued picking. ‘Anyway, it’s not like I’m … praying,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe in all that. It’s just like she’s listening … in case she’s listening.’
‘She is listening,’ Chris replied.
‘You think?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t believe in Heaven.’
‘She might be in Heaven,’ Chris said, but this time Harry didn’t know what to say. Eventually he managed, ‘Maybe it’s like that, but Aiden reckons all that Catholic shit they teach him …’
Chris smiled.
‘It’s all just to keep people …’ He couldn’t see the point of the thought. Not now, anyway. ‘Yesterday on our way home, I asked her if she could help Aiden pass his driving test. But then I thought …’
‘What does she say back you?’
‘Ah … nothing.’ He sighed, slowly dropping his head. ‘I wish we hadn’t gone to that picnic. If it wasn’t for my lessons.’ He looked at Chris. ‘It was a stupid party anyway.’
‘It wasn’t because of the party.’
‘It was.’
‘It could’ve been—’
‘It was! Don’t be so stupid, Christopher. You shouldn’t talk about what you don’t understand.’
Silence, as Harry looked down, and immediately felt bad, looked back and said, ‘I’m sorry.’ Pausing, listening to the morning. ‘I say some dumb things now.’
But Chris couldn’t understand what the problem was. To try and make things right he said, ‘I do miss having Carelyn here.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wish she was still here, Uncle Chris.’ He could feel his eyes well up and he wiped them with his lavender fingers.
Chris wasn’t sure how to react. So, he took a full bucket inside and returned with it, empty. He knelt down on his cushion and recommenced the harvest.
‘I bet it was good without Murray,’ Harry said to him.
Chris didn’t look up. That was only inviting trouble.
‘He was painful,’ Harry continued. ‘Can you imagine, all those weeks, in the same room?’
Chris giggled. His shoulders jumped about.
‘He’d take off his socks and cut his toenails and gather all the scraps in his hand, like this.’ He demonstrated. ‘Then he’d just think about it …’ He showed how Murray threw the clippings over his shoulder. Chris was laughing, his eyes squeezed shut. Harry sat forward in his chair, half-remembering, half-inventing. ‘He has these corns, like lumps of dead skin on his feet. So he gets out this little grate thing and starts to sand them, right beside my bed, and when he’s finished he just blows all the dead skin away and it goes over my sheets and the floor and when you get up you walk through it all.’
Chris put his head back, still laughing.
‘And the cigarettes. He’d just sit there, fiddling with them for hours, and spitting on them, and you could smell his spit. Man, you were so lucky.’
‘It was nice and peaceful,’ Chris agreed.
‘I bet it was. He’d come back to my room smelling of beer and crawl into bed, and fart all night.’ He blew a few raspberries on his arm for good effect.
Chris fell to the ground, laughing. Harry just watched him. It felt good to be home. ‘And the worst,’ he said. ‘You know his potato sack undies, and the holes in them? He started wearing them around my room. His singlet and undies!’
Trevor came out and walked into the shed. He started the ute and drove into the compound. Looked at his son and asked, ‘Coming?’
‘Where?’
‘I gotta fix some fences.’
Harry abandoned the lavender, climbed in and they set off. He was surprised to see it was clean—no wire, elastrator rings, tools, no dried-out chicken bones. It had even been vacuumed. ‘What happened in here?’
‘Fay,’ Trevor replied. But it hadn’t been Fay. It had been him, on a lonely day without his son, moping around the house, finding something to do and willing himself to do it. ‘How are you feeli
ng this morning?’ he asked, as they drove along the bore run.
‘Fine.’
‘Any pain?’
‘Not really.’
‘Cos the doctor told me what combinations, how much, how often.’ His eyes searched the land and all of its disappearing fences. ‘He said it was important to stay on top of it. He said you might try and … ignore it.’
‘No pain at all,’ Harry replied. He moved his leg about, to demonstrate.
‘He said he can send it through the mail, or—’
‘Dad.’
They drove silently. Harry savoured every oomph of the shock absorbers, the rattle of the strainer in the tray, the clunk of the post-hole digger; the hiss of the radio, minus its signal, always switched on, hopeful, waiting.
‘And your exercises,’ Trevor continued. ‘He said you’d know what to do, and show me.’
‘I will.’
‘Half an hour, three times a day?’
‘I know … I’m not a cripple.’
‘I never said you were.’
‘Like you think …’ He stared at him.
‘What?’ Trevor asked, as he veered into the sand, but then gunned his way out of it.
Like you feel guilty, Harry thought. ‘Like you think you’ve gotta fix everything,’ he said.
‘I just want to …’
‘You don’t have to do anything. I can look after myself.’
Trevor looked at his son; his forehead, with a long scar; the dozen or so freckles beneath his eyes, fading, still, as they had been since he was a baby; his cracked lips; a partly yellow incisor.
There’s no point saying sorry, Harry thought. I’ve worked out I can’t get her back. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said.
‘Well, perhaps.’ But he didn’t see the point of taking it any further. ‘Hold on.’ They shot off into the bush. The ute jumped, dropped, slid down an embankment and stopped. Trevor was out, running towards a steer that was caught in the fence. He looked back. ‘Careful,’ he said.
The animal was all rib and hip, a well-muscled rump and legs. Its head was caught between four lengths of wire and a run of rusty barbs that cut into the back of its neck. ‘Careful,’ Trevor warned, watching it kick, imagining a hoof contacting his son’s skull.
Harry managed to come around, to stand beside it. He studied how the four wires had wrapped around its neck. He saw how they were twisted and how they might be undone. ‘If you could hold his head.’
