The Hands

by Stephen Orr

  ‘Sort of,’ he said, stiffening.

  Murray was watching them.

  ‘I’ve got plenty of canvases, brushes and paints.’

  ‘Aiden likes art,’ he replied, turning to his brother and using this movement to loosen her grip. Murray could see what he was doing. He closed his lips and ran his tongue over the back of his teeth.

  She sat down and smiled at Aiden. Guessed he would be the harder nut to crack. ‘A farm boy who likes art?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s something to do.’

  ‘He’s good,’ Harry said, sitting down. ‘We’re painting Aunt Fay’s old car.’

  ‘Does she mind?’

  ‘It doesn’t run any more. It’s like a hundred years old.’

  ‘Forty,’ Aiden said.

  ‘We’re painting the whole farm on it. Aiden drew it.’ He looked at his brother.

  ‘I can’t wait to see it,’ she replied, turning to Murray. ‘You’ve got some very talented grandsons.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Hopefully they end up being very talented farmers.’ He looked at Harry, wary of his growing enthusiasm. He could see that she would trap him this way.

  ‘It’s modern art,’ Harry said, and Murray wanted to tell him to be quiet.

  ‘Have you tried watercolours?’ she asked Aiden.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Before you go, remind me, I’ll give you a set.’

  He lit up. ‘Great.’

  ‘Try your hand. When I visit you can show me.’

  When I visit … when I visit, Murray thought. He studied the way Aiden was looking at her and wanted to say, She’s not your mother, boy.

  ‘And you,’ she said to Harry. ‘I’ll give you a canvas. You can try your own self-portrait.’

  ‘What about me?’ Murray asked.

  ‘You paint?’

  ‘I haven’t got the time to paint.’

  Trevor came in with three glasses of wine. He put them down on the coffee table. Murray said, ‘I can’t drink that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My gout.’

  One glass, Trevor wanted to say. One fucking glass. You would any other time.

  ‘I’ll have it,’ Aiden said.

  Trevor slid it across the table.

  ‘He shouldn’t be having that,’ Murray said.

  ‘One won’t hurt him, he’s seventeen,’ Gaby said.

  Murray glared at her. He could see his future, again, and he didn’t like it.

  ‘In France they’re drinking at twelve,’ she said.

  ‘In France, children do what their parents tell them.’

  ‘Dad, one won’t hurt,’ Trevor said.

  Aiden sensed the dilemma. He lifted the glass and put it back beside his father’s. ‘I think I’d rather Coke anyway.’

  Gaby looked at Trevor, and Trevor at his dad.

  ‘What?’ Murray said. ‘The law says eighteen.’

  ‘Since when do you …?’

  Aiden stood and asked Gaby for a Coke.

  ‘Of course. I put it in the fridge.’

  ‘Want one, Harry?’

  ‘Ta.’

  Aiden went into the kitchen and there was silence. After a while Gaby picked up the spring rolls and offered them to Trevor, Harry and Murray. ‘No, thank you,’ he said. ‘And I’m not sure about the meal. What are we having?’

  ‘Cantonese stir-fry,’ she replied.

  ‘I don’t suppose you got a chop or anything?’

  ‘No, no chops.’

  Trevor shook his head and looked at his father. ‘Should we just go home?’

  ‘I just asked if she had a chop.’ He moved about in the plastic and wiped something from his lip. ‘It doesn’t matter … I can get something on the way home.’

  Trevor said, ‘Perhaps we should just leave it for tonight, Gaby?’

  ‘Why?’ Murray growled.

  ‘Why?’ Trevor shouted at him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Fine.’ He stood and walked from the house.

  The Wilkies said their goodbyes, and apologies, and set off into the night. They found Murray a few blocks away. Trevor slowed beside him but he kept walking. ‘Get in,’ he said.

  Aiden had had enough; he reclined in his seat listening to his iPod. Harry put down his window. ‘Pop.’

  Murray nearly tripped on the gutter. Then, he stopped and got in the car.

  17

  The following day the mood persisted: Trevor sorting his receipts, scribbling columns of numbers. ‘How long did you have that sports top?’ he asked Aiden, sitting beside his brother at the computer.

  ‘End of last year.’

  ‘Did you ever wear it?’

  ‘No.’

  He put the receipt aside, determined to ask for a refund.

  Murray sat across from him reading a letter from an old friend who was offering the services of a stud bull. He wanted to tell Trevor, but wouldn’t. Wanted to say, We can have him for a month, and apparently he’s in like Flynn. But he wouldn’t even do this.

  Trevor said, ‘Harry, do you need more stationery?’

  ‘No.’ He kept studying the chatter on the screen.

  History. Now that Aiden was Harry’s home supervisor he had to make him understand; to work hard. ‘What’s the three age system?’

  Harry stopped to think. Looked at the screen; Aiden minimised it. ‘You’re meant to remember.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Stone Age, Bronze Age, Iron Age.’ He smiled a sort of told-you-so smile.

  ‘And what are the three Stone Ages?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘Maybe we should do maths?’

  ‘I decide now. Fifty minutes of history. The three Stone Ages?’

  Trevor guessed it could work. Aiden knew more than enough to get him through. Of course, there was the problem of familiarity, the possibility of telling your teacher to get fucked on a regular basis. But Harry knew the part he’d have to play, and that he was only allowed to kick his brother after the computer was switched off. He knew Aiden wouldn’t put up with any bullshit. The corner of the room was school and it had its own set of rules. It was home room and Saturday detention and what went with those places: listening, waiting to ask questions, avoiding distractions (Chris and his movies had been banned during school hours).

  ‘Paleolithic,’ Harry said. ‘Mesolithic. Neolithic.’

  Aiden checked his supervisor’s notes. ‘Good. And what do they mean?’

  ‘Old, Middle and New Stone Age.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  Harry grinned at him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t have to sound like a teacher too.’

  ‘Would you say that to Mrs Amery?’

  ‘She is a teacher.’

  ‘And so’s Aiden,’ Trevor growled, looking up.

  ‘He’s not qualified.’

  Aiden slapped the back of his brother’s head. ‘Concentrate.’

  ‘You could get the sack for doing that.’

  ‘So I am a teacher?’

  ‘No … sort of, I suppose.’

  ‘Time to work.’ He opened his brother’s exercise book. ‘All of that information summarised … go.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Don’t be so rude.’

  Trevor came up with a total but decided it couldn’t be right. He started entering the numbers again. Could feel his father looking at him, thinking of words, waiting, returning to his letter. He knew he was probably sorry, somehow, but would never say it. Hadn’t said a word during the drive home; hadn’t even looked at him the rest of the evening; hadn’t acknowledged him all morning.

  I’m the one who should be pissed off, he thought, glancing up at him, watching his clumsy fingers crushing the paper. I’m the one waiting for an apology.

  Their eyes met. He shook his head but Murray wouldn’t be drawn. You old misery, he thought. It’d never occur to you, would it? Just to say it? No, son, she’s not so bad. A bit different, don’t you think? But her heart’s in the
right place.

  ‘Prehistory was before stuff was written down,’ Aiden read, running a finger beneath each of his brother’s words.

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Before anything was written down.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘No, it’s not. And here … it should be n,e,a—’

  ‘Rubbish! Neolithic: n, e, o …’ He looked at Trevor, who confirmed the spelling.

  ‘See,’ Harry said. ‘And you’re meant to be the teacher.’

  ‘Harry!’ Murray barked. ‘Don’t be such a smart arse.’

  ‘I’m not, but anyone knows …’

  ‘Your brother’s agreed to help you.’

  Not agreed, Harry thought. It’s because he can’t hack school.

  Aiden took a deep breath. ‘I never said I’s the world’s best speller.’ He laid a worksheet in front of his brother. ‘Right, answer these questions. Full sentences.’

  Harry started reading. ‘You’re meant to explain.’

  ‘You’re smart. Work it out.’

  Murray watched his son working. What, he wanted to ask, are you hoping to achieve? The money’s already gone. Stop fiddling with figures. Get a new bull and let’s start again.

  ‘Full sentences,’ Aiden said.

  ‘They are.’

  Murray noticed his son’s hand, and the pile of receipts. This woman, he thought. The ultimate distraction. You’d rather be with her and her Buddha, wouldn’t you? You really think she’s gonna come and live with you? Pull on a pair of boots and walk through all that shit? Then he said, ‘She started it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He can drink. He’s my grandson.’

  Trevor had recognised this streak, but it was nowhere near as bad as his father’s arrogance. ‘She didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘She’s just used to speaking her mind.’

  The boys were listening. Harry had written the words, History is … but all he really knew was that Murray hated Gaby. ‘You can’t do that,’ he said to his brother.

  ‘What?’ Aiden replied, grabbing the mouse and minimising the screen.

  ‘He’s looking at utes,’ he said. He took the mouse, maximised the screen and revealed a page of rolls bars, spotlights and fat tyres. ‘See. If he’s meant to be teaching me …’

  ‘I was just getting a few prices,’ Aiden said.

  ‘New utes?’ Trevor asked.

  ‘Second-hand, doesn’t matter.’ He reclaimed the mouse and got rid of the page.

  ‘That was the agreement,’ Trevor said. ‘You’re meant to be helping your brother.’

  Aiden looked at Harry, who just raised an eyebrow, and continued working. Chris came in with a bunch of white chrysanthemums. He went into the kitchen, filled a vase and placed the flowers in the middle of the table. Murray said, ‘Are you completely stupid?’

  ‘Mum said to bring ’em in.’

  He stood, took the flowers and threw them in the bin. Then he returned, sat down and continued the letter.

  ‘They were nice,’ Chris said.

  ‘What are chrysanthemums for?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Trevor said. Aiden and Harry were listening but neither turned their head.

  ‘Ridiculous?’ Murray glared at his son accusingly.

  ‘They’re just flowers.’ He turned to Chris. ‘That was a nice thought.’

  ‘Mum said …’

  ‘I know.’

  Aiden knew; Harry knew. They’d harvested Fay’s chrysanthemums every May, bringing in the variously coloured bunches, placing them in vases around the house in preparation for Mother’s Day. There were more on the Sunday morning, in another vase, on the tray beside the burnt toast and undercooked bacon. But this year they’d forgotten, or not bothered. The flowers had still opened, of course, which proved that nothing was that different; that their mother would still have wanted chrysanthemums.

  Harry stood, went to the bin and retrieved them. Put them in the vase on the table and faced his pop. ‘They’re just flowers,’ he repeated. ‘Mum liked them.’

  Murray shook his head, dropped his letter and went outside for a smoke.

  ‘What should I do?’ Chris asked.

  ‘Go cut the rest,’ Trevor said. ‘Bring them inside.’

  He went out to his mum. Harry returned to his lesson and Aiden to his notes. Trevor said, ‘What’s the point?’ He piled the receipts into the box. The boys ignored him. Harry asked Aiden if Homo had a capital h and he replied, ‘You should know.’

  But Trevor didn’t hear. He threw the calculator in the box and sat back. Then he went out to his shed, closing the door and shutting out nearly all the light and noise. He stood in the near-dark for a few moments, but even now he could hear voices: Fay asking her brother why he put the flowers in the bin; Murray asking Chris why he was such an idiot; Aiden coming out and telling them all to be quiet; the door to Murray’s sleep-out slamming; Fay telling Chris not to mind him, to come and help her pick the rest of the flowers.

  He pulled the string and the light popped on. Shadows, long and angular, from the lumps of wood left lying around the shed; the softness of sawdust and shavings under his feet; the consolation of freshly oiled tools moving yellow light around the room. He sat down, picked up Harry’s lumpy hand and studied it. Compared it to the photos; lifted it and looked at it from every angle. Then he picked up a piece of fine sandpaper and started working between the fingers and around the knuckles.

  The photos showed fine hairs, but how could you sculpt them? You could stick something on but that would look stupid. You could even gloss the fingernails but then you’d be left with some sort of … curiosity. Something Harry would give to his sons, as they examined it, and laughed, and put it in the bin with all the other junk they were throwing away. Before Harry said, No, you better keep it … he spent months working on that.

  Meanwhile, Murray was walking down the hill at the front of the house. He stopped and stepped on his cigarette and continued. Through the bullock bush and spinifex; his laces collecting burrs and seeds. He arrived at the graveyard: four generations of Wilkies asleep in the shade of a sheoak. The small mounds of earth were covered in a carpet of pine needles. There was an old broom that had been there since he was a child. He picked it up and used it to clear the graves.

  A cast-iron fence around the plot was rusting and flaking. One of its panels had broken from the concrete and someone had wired it in place. Nothing more permanent. Screwing, bolting and welding were for the living. The graves had been cleared of weeds. This was Chris’s job, every few weeks, coming down with his hoe to take care of the grass. One of the headstones had cracked. Murray had repaired it with mortar.

  IN THE ARMS OF GOD

  MARY WILKIE

  WIFE OF BILL

  MOTHER OF MORRIS AND JOHN

  A no-nonsense inscription; written by Morris on the back of an envelope and sent to the mason in Port Augusta. Then the drive to town to pick it up, to wrap it in a blanket and put it in the boot; to place it in a wheelbarrow and push it, on a hot day, down the hill. The good son checking his slab was dry, fetching his mum and carrying her through the little filigree gate. Prayers (although there’d already been a service) and silence; bowed heads, as the concrete started to dry, as Mary was permanently anchored into Wilkie soil. Morris avoiding tears, happy his mum no longer had to worry about his brother. Sad that John’s plot would stay empty until Jesus came to gather the faithful.

  Although perhaps he already had him. Perhaps the stranger was right. In the words of the letters he’d helped Bill write to the army.

  Late night and kerosene lamps, and Bill saying, ‘We’ll go right to the top. Monash. Leave the address, we’ll find that out later. Start off by saying how you’re writing on behalf of me and Mary and how you fought with Private John Wilkie. His number was 2419387. Write that down.’

  Bill watched as the stranger started scribbling.

  ‘Then tell him
what you saw—about John’s mental condition. His shaking and crying and screaming. Go on.’

  The stranger wrote. ‘Slow down,’ he said.

  ‘And say we want an inquiry, with doctors, psychiatrists, experts. Tell him how we want John’s name cleared.’

  The stranger stopped and looked up. ‘Bill, I’ll write your letter but I need time.’

  ‘If you do it tonight I’ll take it to town tomorrow.’

  In the end, the stranger stayed for weeks, helping Bill and Morrie with the muster and Mary with her vegetables and flowers. Every few nights Bill would say to him: ‘Perhaps we need to write another letter’ or ‘Perhaps we need to go to Melbourne to see them.’ But the stranger would always say, No, they won’t listen to us, although he did suggest they contact their local MP.

  But now, Bill too was asleep in the arms of the Lord, and it’d been years since he’d worried about his lost son.

  WILLIAM JAMES WILKIE

  ‘LISTEN TO ME, LORD, AND ANSWER ME,

  FOR I AM HELPLESS AND WEAK’

  (PS. 86)

  Murray knelt down and ran a finger across the faint letters on the headstone: W I L L I A M … Then turned to Morrie and Mary and the bit of land the whole family would at last be forced to share.

  Then there was Carelyn, still in her urn, surrounded by a pile of rocks at the base of the tree. Trevor hadn’t worked out what he wanted to do. Scatter her between the graves or in the park near the house where she’d grown up in Adelaide (she’d mentioned it, but they’d never thought there was any rush deciding).

  But the spot beside Mary would always be left vacant. She’d told them that one day he’d be found and brought home to sleep in the sand.

  18

  Trevor rose at four. He was showered and dressed before the sun was up. He closed the door to his boys’ and aunt’s rooms and sat down to a breakfast of hot porridge. After a few minutes he stood, opened a drawer in the tallboy and sorted through the junk: cards, receipts, handkerchiefs and two Mother’s Day cards. He studied Harry’s: block letters, glitter, a cotton-ball flower he’d made in the secret cave beneath his bed. HAPPY MOTHERS DAY. There was a small hand-made envelope stuck to the card, labelled: COUPONS. He pulled out a pile of cardboard disks and read: