The Hands

by Stephen Orr

  Harry shrugged.

  ‘You won’t feel a thing,’ Trevor said. ‘Will he, Aiden?’

  ‘Of course not, Dad.’

  ‘Aiden’s an excellent doctor. Just delivered his first calf. A few stitches? Nothing.’

  Aiden smiled in agreement.

  ‘Why didn’t you take me?’ Harry asked.

  ‘All in good time,’ Trevor replied.

  Aiden made his first two snips.

  ‘Ow.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Aiden!’ Fay rang out, from the bathroom.

  ‘You didn’t even feel it.’

  ‘Did so.’

  ‘Did so.’

  ‘Get stuffed.’

  ‘Harry,’ Murray growled.

  ‘Well, he’s—’

  ‘Enough. Aiden, just get on with it, please.’

  Aiden looked at his brother. ‘Close your eyes.’

  Harry refused.

  ‘Little shit.’

  ‘You could scar me.’

  ‘I will scar you.’

  ‘Harry,’ Trevor said, and he closed his eyes.

  Aiden snipped the rest of the thread. Harry sat still, wincing, repeating, ‘Ich bin, du bist, er ist, wir sind …’

  ‘I’m not removing your leg,’ Aiden said.

  Harry opened his eyes and looked at him. Closed them and continued. ‘Ich arbeite, du arbeitest …’

  Aiden picked up the tweezers and with a series of sharp, accurate jerks, removed the stitches.

  ‘Christ,’ Harry said, reaching for his head.

  ‘All done.’

  He opened his eyes. ‘That hurt.’

  ‘How about a thank you?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Right, you can put the rubbish in the bin. I’m cooking breakfast.’

  That afternoon Trevor and Murray returned to check the cows. Aiden asked to come with them but Trevor said, ‘No, Harry will need help with his lessons.’

  ‘That can wait.’

  Trevor just stared at him.

  ‘Just for the calving?’ Aiden asked.

  And the look, again.

  ‘Okay …’

  Father and son set off. The weather would clear but then descend again, settling low over the land. They’d find a herd and stop and watch. There were already a few calves hobbling around on stilt-legs, smelling grass, brushing up against their mothers. Once, when they stopped, Trevor said, ‘He did a good job delivering that calf.’

  Murray took his time before replying. ‘So, you’re happy he’s leaving school?’

  ‘Not happy … but what else can I do?’

  ‘Make him see it out.’

  Trevor guessed his father was having a few bob each way. ‘Well, you try and make him,’ he said.

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  ‘You know it’s not that easy.’

  Silence; then thunder rolling across the desert; photo-flashes picking up the hummocks, highlighting the empty, electric world in front of them. ‘Shit,’ Trevor said.

  ‘Where’s that comin’ from?’ Murray asked.

  And the rain, easing, pushing against their ute. Neither of them spoke. Trevor knew there was no use trying to make conversation or discuss the weather. The worse things got the less you needed words. All disasters were accompanied by silence. ‘I’ve got it,’ he said.

  Although the curtain of rain had destroyed any visibility he knew the outhouse was only a few minutes away. ‘I’ll stop … we can wait it out in Number one.’

  Murray didn’t reply.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘I’ll wait in here.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  Trevor rose from the grass, cut across the road and followed it, parallel, towards the roofline in the near distance. When they arrived he killed the engine, gathered their lunch esky and looked at his dad. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’m hungry.’

  Murray knew there was enough room to stay dry on the porch. Still, he could see Bill climbing the steps to the outhouse. He could see him standing, looking out across his farm, and he could feel (knew, exactly) what he was thinking. He could see him sighing, deciding, going in, dragging the rope behind him. ‘I can wait here,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be so stupid.’

  He looked at his son. ‘What’s it matter? I’ll still be dry.’

  Trevor shook his head. He got out, ran over to the porch and stood looking back at his dad. Then he waved for him to come in.

  Murray took a deep breath. He got out and walked slowly through the rain to join his son on the porch.

  ‘Come on,’ Trevor said. He went inside.

  And waited.

  ‘Dad?’

  Murray knew he’d see him hanging if he walked through the door. It would be real: the sound of the rope against the wood, the body gently swinging despite the lack of breeze; the scuff on his shoes and the scabs on his arms; his shirt done up to somewhere near his nipples. ‘I’ll stay here,’ he called.

  Trevor came back out. ‘You’re so superstitious.’

  ‘That’s not it.’ And what he wanted to say: Would you disturb a grave? Would you upset a memory (a few yellowing photos of his grandfather herding cattle into a yard)? Could you face the most unpleasant facts of your own history?

  ‘For a man who’s up-front about everything.’

  Murray glared at him. ‘Don’t talk about what you don’t understand.’

  But Trevor did. ‘It’s not like they didn’t take him down.’ He opened the esky and took out two foil-wrapped sandwiches. The sound of peeling foil was lost in the rain. He spoke as he ate. ‘I was thinking of bringing the muster forward a few weeks.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s better for Bill, and the crew.’

  ‘Well, it’s not better for us.’

  ‘It might be, depending on the weather.’

  Murray ripped at his sandwich and a slice of tomato fell on the floorboards. ‘We’ve always started on the same day.’

  ‘The date’s never actually mattered.’

  ‘It has. So we can plan.’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying. He organises the labour, the trucks, the abattoir …’

  Murray shook his head. ‘No, just cos it suits him …’

  Trevor had had enough of being told. ‘I’m the one running it.’

  Murray looked at his son’s face, the trespass upon his authority.

  ‘You can stand back and have your say but I’m the one who’s gotta make it happen.’

  He was itching to say it: It’s still my farm. Look at the deed.

  ‘I don’t just work for you.’

  ‘You work for the family.’

  ‘So I’ll make the decisions.’

  He gave him his you-certainly-will-not look. ‘The oldest has always decided,’ he said.

  ‘That’s ridiculous. If you want to know the truth …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you want to encourage me to stay and make this place work …’

  ‘Why, where are you going?’

  Trevor stumbled. ‘What I mean is, there needs to be some incentive.’

  ‘Or else you’ll leave?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it.’

  But Murray wasn’t so sure. He’d never heard anything like this before. ‘So you think I should sign the place over to you?’

  ‘If I’m the one running the farm.’ He was unsure if that’s what he really wanted anyway. There were other lives—shacks, beaches, afternoons of fishing; a few acres somewhere near the coast, a dozen sheep and his hands, sawdust, and the smell of Gaby’s carrot cake drifting into his shed. ‘What would it matter? It’s just a piece of paper.’

  ‘Exactly, a piece of paper.’

  He was retreating, aware that he was arguing with a rock. He threw his crusts into the rain. ‘Bill asked me,’ he said. ‘So they can do Separation Well before Christmas.’

  ‘So he can make more money.’r />
  Trevor started on a muffin that Harry had cooked. ‘So?’

  ‘We have an arrangement.’

  ‘We do not. It’s just that he’s always accommodated us.’

  The rain started to ease. In less than a minute it had stopped. The run-off continued dripping from the roof and walls.

  ‘He’s got a dozen men to think of, Dad.’

  ‘So? We’ve got a farm in drought.’ He looked at the puddles surrounding them.

  ‘I’m gonna tell him it’s okay.’

  ‘You will not.’

  ‘I will.’ He stared back. ‘I’m running the muster.’

  Murray moved his lips, but stopped.

  ‘I’m running the farm, aren’t I, Dad?’

  Nothing.

  ‘So, I’ll tell him?’

  ‘Do what you want.’

  I’m not eight years old any more, Trevor wanted to say. I’ve just let my son make his own decision. ‘Anyway, Aiden will be a big help this year.’

  Nothing.

  ‘I’m cold.’ He picked up the esky and went inside. ‘Coming in, Dad?’

  Murray stood still, convinced this piece of choreography was for his benefit.

  ‘Dad?’

  He threw his sandwich into the mud. Then he walked down the few steps and returned to the ute. He got in the driver’s side and started it and turned the heater to full. Inside, Trevor just stood waiting, listening. After a few minutes he opened one of the jerry cans and went out to fill his ute.

  16

  Aiden sat in an uncomfortable seat in the motor registry. He held a small card in his hand. He studied the number: 56; the equally sized and spaced numerals, the tight, crimped edges of the laminate. A digital queue on the wall counted down from 97. Every time the number clicked over he looked at it, willing it to hurry, unable to work out where these forty people were. His shins were crossed, his left foot tapping. When he realised he stopped, but soon started again. Then sat up and spread his feet flat on the ground.

  96. He looked at his brother. ‘What are you gonna do with that?’

  Harry was holding a section of his freshly removed cast. It was wrapped in a plastic bag and tied up, as if it might be carrying some sort of superbug. ‘Keep it as a souvenir,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ He started tapping his foot again.

  ‘A reminder.’

  It had been an eight o’clock appointment—Trevor, Murray and Aiden lined up beside the bed, Harry propped up on a mountain of pillows, the nurse with the electric cutter and a slightly-too-wide smile. ‘Shall we get started?’ She turned it on and it buzzed and Harry looked at his father.

  ‘The sooner it’s off the sooner you can get back to work,’ he said.

  The small teeth of the saw bit into the cast and white powder settled across the bed, the sheets, his pale skin. He winced, waiting for the pain, turning his head so he wouldn’t see the blood.

  ‘She’s not gonna get you,’ Aiden said.

  ‘I hardly ever mess up,’ the nurse added, smiling. She cut the cast down both sides. It fell away to reveal a small, bony leg, paler than the skin around it, still punctured where the pins had been inserted and removed. ‘How’s it feel?’ she asked, brushing away the powder.

  Harry tried to bend his knee. ‘It still works.’

  91.

  ‘Christ, how slow are they?’ Aiden said, looking through a booklet that had turned soft and sweaty in his hands.

  ‘Do you want me to test you?’ Harry asked.

  ‘No.’ He looked at the immovable digit. ‘Okay.’ He handed the booklet to his brother and Harry laid it across his cast. Then he studied the rules. ‘A crossroad,’ he said. ‘You’re turning left, the guy coming the other way is turning right. Who goes first?’

  Aiden closed his eyes and squeezed his cheeks against his eyeballs. ‘Well, I gotta give way to the right … so he goes first.’

  ‘Good.’

  87, 86 …

  ‘Are you allowed to change lanes in the middle of an intersection?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When exiting a property, is the driver required to give way to pedestrians?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Give me some harder ones.’

  Harry looked at him. ‘There’s no point, you know ’em all.’

  Aiden reclaimed the booklet. He rolled it up, put it in his top pocket, took it out, flattened it, put it in his pants pocket, took it out again and handed it to Harry. ‘Here, hold on to it, will yer?’

  He took the booklet. ‘You’re nervous.’

  ‘Of course I’m fuckin’ nervous.’

  ‘I was nervous when they cut this off.’ He patted his plaster leg.

  ‘It’s a bit different.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘She could’ve cut my leg open.’

  The pulsing number changed from 86 to 62. Aiden sat up and studied the box. ‘What happened?’

  Customers kept standing, approaching the counter and handing over their stubs. Aiden wasn’t sure he liked all this progress. Every digital clunk, every screaming kid, every aborted argument brought him closer to his driving test. He watched a girl wait and smile and shake hands with her examiner. He studied the man: crew-cut, closely shaved, a tie cutting into his neck. ‘I hope I don’t get him,’ he said. He watched the pair walk through the front door and heard the girl ask, ‘Have you had a nice day?’

  And the response: ‘What type of vehicle will you be driving today?’

  ‘If I get him I’m rooted,’ he said.

  Harry didn’t know what to say. ‘Don’t look nervous.’

  He stared at him. ‘It’s not something you can control.’

  ‘If they see you’re confident …’

  He wanted to ask, What the hell would you know? But didn’t, realising he meant well.

  61, 60, 59…

  Then, time slowed. One, two minutes. He couldn’t see any staff behind the counter. ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘What do you think of Gaby?’ Harry asked.

  He shrugged. ‘I dunno.’

  ‘She looks a bit … way out.’

  ‘How can you tell? You’ve met her once.’

  Harry wrapped the booklet around the cast. He smoothed it, asking, ‘The speed limit in a built-up area?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I’m just trying to help. She had all those bangles, clattering together.’

  Aiden glared at him, more confused than annoyed. ‘So?’

  ‘And that necklace with the shells on it.’

  ‘Fuck … so what if she did?’

  ‘It’s okay, but Mum wouldn’t have—’

  ‘Shut up! Do you think I care, now? I’ve got a driving test.’

  58.

  ‘If you’re like this you’ll make a mistake. I’m trying to get your mind off it. I just thought, I couldn’t ever see Mum wearing all those bangles.’

  ‘Well, she’s not Mum.’

  ‘But she’s nice enough, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Harry imagined his mother hacking into a leg of lamb as a dozen bangles dangled in the grease. ‘Do you think Dad likes her?’

  ‘Of course he does.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll …’ He trailed off, into the unimaginable, the neither pleasant nor unpleasant, the drift into an unknown future.

  ‘I don’t know what he’ll do. But it’s his life.’

  He wasn’t sure about this. ‘So, you wouldn’t mind …?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If he …’

  57. An old hump-backed cocky stood and approached a staff member who’d appeared from the back office.

  ‘Would you?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose not … if it came down to it.’

  This response gave him cause to stop and think. If it came down to it. Which, the way things were going, it might. Aiden thought it was okay. So, maybe it was. ‘That dress she had on,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mum
wouldn’t have worn a dress like that.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ He tapped his foot.

  ‘I don’t know whether I like her … yet.’

  ‘Jesus. It. Is. Too. Early.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, why are we having this conversation?’

  Harry looked forward, and shrugged. ‘I don’t know what Mum would think.’

  ‘Mum would want Dad to be happy.’

  He stopped to think. ‘I suppose that’s right.’

  ‘Yes, it is. It’s right. I’m always right.’

  ‘Mum would just want …’

  ‘Give it time,’ Aiden said, looking at him. ‘It’ll sort itself out.’

  56.

  He breathed deeply. ‘Wish me luck.’

  ‘You’ll be okay.’

  The examiner appeared from a side door. He had the same short hair, but hadn’t shaved for days. There was no tie, and his shirt had come untucked at the sides. His gut hung over his belt and his pants were stained and un-ironed.

  ‘See, she’ll be apples,’ Harry half-sang, poking his brother in the side.

  ‘Aiden Wilkie,’ the man called out. He coughed, searched his pockets for a handkerchief and spat into it.

  Aiden stood and approached him. ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘How are yer, Aiden?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  Aiden could see phlegm on the man’s lips and chin. The examiner used his sleeve to wipe his face. ‘I’ll just get you to pay your money to this lovely lady here.’ He indicated the clerk.

  Aiden bit his lip. ‘Two seconds. My dad’s got it.’ He walked past his brother and winked. He went outside and found his father and grandfather (smoking) standing in front of an adjacent deli. He asked for the money.

  ‘Good luck,’ Trevor said, as he pulled the notes from his wallet.

  After he went back inside, Murray said, ‘If he gets his licence you’ll never see him again.’

  ‘He’s not using my car.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to buy him his own. A ute. Something reliable.’

  ‘Where’s the money for that?’

  Murray stopped to think, and smoke. ‘I won’t have him doin’ bore runs in a rust bucket.’

  Aiden and the examiner came out of the motor registry office. Aiden looked at them and grimaced.

  ‘Go easy on him,’ Murray called out, and Aiden glared at him.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ the examiner replied.

  Aiden opened the car, slipped into the driver’s seat and waited for the older man to settle in and buckle up. Trevor watched anxiously as the car started; as his son slowly backed out; as he exited the carpark, indicating (thankfully); as he pulled into the flow of traffic and disappeared down the road. Then he said, ‘I think I’ve got a solution.’