by Stephen Orr
He threw down the hose, walked out onto the porch and sat on a pile of old crates. Then he took off his boots and threw them up towards the house. ‘It’s not true,’ he called, but Murray had gone.
He’d asked his mother about the letter, and the nuns. Is it true?
Who told you that nonsense?
Uncle Murray.
Nuns, he reckons?
Yes.
Well, there was no letter. As if I’d even think about it.
And she’d held him close.
You just be careful. Murray is a troublemaker.
You never wrote askin’ if they’d take me?
No. I love you. I’d rather chop off my own legs.
But he wasn’t convinced. Perhaps she had written something, and changed her mind? This, in the end, was Murray’s curse. To plant seeds. To play with the truth. To muddy the turkey- nest water. Perhaps, he wondered, it was just his way of amusing himself. Or perhaps some people were just rotten?
He looked in the crates. Milk cartons. Bottles. Old newspapers and magazines.
The thought occurred to him.
He went back in, found the cigarette on the floor, and studied the tip.
Too late. It had died.
Then he noticed the matches on the ledge. He picked them up, went out, struck one and held it to the old newspapers. It only took a few seconds for them to catch, a minute for them to make a small fire in the junk. He stood back watching, waiting, smiling. The flames licked the wooden porch. The uprights and lengths supporting the iron roof caught. Within a minute most of the hut was alight. He clenched his fists with excitement, feeling the heat on his face, and liking it. Soon there was enough fire to make a decent amount of smoke. There was no wind so it moved up and dispersed. Still, he guessed, there’d be enough to find Murray’s nostrils.
The front walls and main roof beams were burning. He looked up at the house but no one had noticed, yet. Turned to the fire. Beautiful. Burning his face. But he didn’t move. It was a pleasant pain. The pain of Murray, still alive, crying out for help, but succumbing.
The front wall collapsed and, with it, the roof. As the dry wood met the wet a plume of smoke rose from the ruin. The fire was burning the remaining walls. Now there was a roar, crackling. The heat drove him a few steps back.
Murray was first, running down the hill. He stopped and looked at him. ‘What happened?’
‘I burnt it down.’
‘You … idiot.’ He glared at him. ‘Get the hose.’
‘No.’
‘Go on!’
‘No.’
Murray grabbed the hose and pulled what remained of it from the fire. The nozzle had burnt off and water was spraying from the stub. He trained it on the fire but there was no point. Most of the shack had gone and what remained fell into the hot core.
By now the rest of the family was standing behind them. ‘What happened?’ Trevor asked.
Murray pointed to his nephew. ‘He burnt it down.’
Chris just smiled at them.
‘Why?’ Harry asked.
‘Cos he wouldn’t help me,’ Chris said.
Murray dropped the hose. He looked at his sister. ‘See, I told you, he’s gettin’ worse.’
‘Chris,’ she called.
‘He’s gonna kill the lot of us … he’ll do it again, when we’re all asleep.’
24
Days passed, with Chris locked in his room, Fay bringing him meals, finding a time when it was clear (of Murray) and ushering him into the shower. She asked him why he did it but he only replied, ‘Because Murray wouldn’t help me.’
This got her worried. Despite everything, there was always a certain logic to Chris’s behaviour: he danced naked because he loved music; he marched because he was a soldier; he ironed and folded handkerchiefs because he’d been taught this was the proper thing to do. But burning down the crew quarters? There was no logic to that.
There was a table near the steps at the bottom of the hill. Trevor was sitting on an old seat, Harry standing beside him. He’d just finished mixing plaster of paris, pouring it into a tray of leaf-shaped moulds and adding magnets. He was wiping his hands on a rag and explaining the leaves he’d been studying in science. He said, ‘See, this is the venation.’
Aiden came storming down from the house. He jumped three, four steps at a time. Then he stood staring at his father. ‘You got something to tell us?’
Trevor looked confused.
‘About Gaby?’
‘What are you talking about?’
Harry could feel the volcano rumbling. He lowered his head and started popping the mostly set fridge magnets from their moulds.
‘I’ve just been taking to James,’ Aiden said, hands on hips, eyes on fire.
‘James who?’
‘Banville. He was in my Year Eight English class … remember?’
‘No. Why would I remember?’
‘His mum used to work at the pharmacy … with Gaby.’
Trevor stopped to remember. Took a deep breath and said, ‘No.’
‘Well, she remembers you.’
He stood. ‘We should take this stuff in now, Harry.’ He started gathering the bowl of dried plaster, the moulds, the bag of powder.
‘So, James says, My mum reckons your dad used to come in and take Gaby out for lunch.’
‘So?’ He had the gear, and stepped away from the table.
‘Says, That was at least three years ago.’
He shook his head. ‘She reckons? Bullshit.’
‘Then James says, I didn’t know your mum had been dead that long.’
Harry looked at his brother, then his father.
‘So, you know what I told James?’ Aiden asked.
Silence.
‘The December before last. That’s when we had our accident.’ He seemed to relax. It was as though he was glad it was out, and done with.
Trevor was lost for words. A year, two, three—it was too big a gap to explain. ‘I don’t know where she got three years.’
‘That’s what she said.’
‘It was only after the accident.’
‘Was it?’
‘Yes.’
Harry put down his bits and pieces. Now he wasn’t so sure.
Aiden was relaxed. ‘How could you do that to Mum?’
‘What … we had a few coffees?’ He clung to the hope of an explanation. ‘Mum knew her for years. I’d known her for years. The three of us would go out. We went to her place a few times. Then, if I was in town …’
Aiden waited. ‘James’s mum didn’t say that. She said it was always just you and Gaby.’
Harry was staring at the plaster splattered across the table.
‘You wanna believe that bullshit?’
Aiden turned and walked off, moving slowly up the steps.
‘Who the hell is this mother anyway?’
Harry didn’t know where to look or what to say.
Trevor took a deep breath. ‘Some of these women … they’re determined to make trouble,’ he said, with almost no conviction.
Harry looked at him then back down at the table.
He’d had enough. He turned and walked away. Into the desert. The emptiness he wished would open up and swallow him.
When Harry went into his room his brother was lying on a mess of shirts, his hands behind his head, his thoughts caught up in the webs that covered the pressed-tin ceiling and the single, naked globe. He sat on his own bed, on his hands, looking at his brother.
‘What?’ Aiden asked. He turned towards the wall.
Harry took a moment. ‘I don’t believe it’s true.’
‘Believe what you want.’
‘Dad wouldn’t have …’
Silence.
Aiden was forensically examining the last few years. He was trying to remember how often his father had kissed his mother; how often he’d gone to town for business; how often he’d said: I’ll be back Tuesday.
Fine … I’ll call you tonight.
Don’t worry, I’ll call you. I’m stayin’ with Sid.
Sid Porter, the stock agent. Or perhaps: Smithy’ll give me a room at the pub. With what he owes me …
He tried to remember, but couldn’t. Still, he thought, he must have offered some explanation, and his mother must have accepted it.
‘Dad’s always got business,’ Harry said.
No reply.
‘He has to go see people.’
Aiden turned and looked at him. ‘Are you completely bloody stupid?’ Again, the wall.
Harry lay down on his bed. Stretched out and put his hands behind his head, like his brother. ‘Maybe they were just friends back then?’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘Why not?’
‘That’s not how it works. When you’re married you don’t hang around with other women.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because people will think …’
There was a wait, and the sound of Chris in his room watching television, singing a theme tune.
‘I don’t see why …’ Harry was trying to form thoughts, words. ‘If they just went out for coffee?’
‘They didn’t just go out for coffee.’
He was juggling words; whether he should even say them. So, Dad went to Gaby’s place? So, Dad stayed at Gaby’s place? And he knew, if he’d stayed, there were other words. ‘Why would Dad lie to us?’
No reply.
‘He’s never lied to us before.’
Aiden sat up. ‘You reckon?’
‘No.’
‘That’s a little naïve, brother.’
‘He wouldn’t.’
‘No? A kangaroo, remember? That’s what jumped out in front of us. That’s why we swerved. That’s why we had the accident.’
Harry studied his brother’s face.
‘Well, I was lookin’ and I didn’t see no kangaroo.’
‘You couldn’t see from the back.’
‘I could. I did. He was falling asleep, then he woke up.’ He could see it, as clear as anything: his father’s head slowly dropping; a start, a jerk, grabbing and pulling at the wheel; the feel of the car lifting, the tumble, the paint, the screams, the certificates, the impact, the dust, the crushing, the silence.
‘You shouldn’t say it if you don’t know it,’ Harry said.
‘There was no kangaroo.’
‘Dad says there was.’
‘Dad says, Dad says … He didn’t deny he’d been in the chemist.’
‘So?’
Harry took another moment; juggled more thoughts, more words. ‘So what if he did fall asleep? Doesn’t change anything.’
‘It changes what he said.’
‘Mum’s still dead.’
‘Yeah, and it’s his fault.’
‘Why? That could’ve happened to anyone.’
‘But it didn’t. It happened to him, and he said it was a kangaroo.’
This, Harry realised, was something he couldn’t argue with. Like the thought of a man, and a woman, getting about together.
‘Maybe Mum knew about Gaby?’
Aiden was still dissecting memories. He wanted to recall words, any words, between his parents. He tested and rejected every explanation. Maybe Mrs Banville had a grudge against his dad? ‘Dad kept her pretty well hidden,’ he said. ‘You don’t remember ever going there?’
‘No.’
‘The pharmacy? Anywhere?’
‘No.’
Chicken for lunch. Dressed and roasted, sitting in the middle of the lunch table. All of the Wilkie men except Trevor sat waiting.
‘What’s wrong with you two?’ Murray asked his grandsons.
Aiden looked at him. ‘Nothing.’
He wasn’t happy with this. ‘Usually can never shut you two up. You’re not even arguing.’
‘There’s nothing to argue about,’ Harry said.
‘That doesn’t stop you.’
Fay brought a pile of plates. Laid each in its spot before picking up a knife and starting to carve. Gave everyone a wing or leg and white meat. ‘Where’s your father?’ she asked Aiden.
He shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
Murray studied his face. He could tell it had something to do with Trevor. Something he’d forbidden them to do; somewhere he wouldn’t take them; or perhaps something to do with the girlfriend. ‘When did you last see him?’ he asked.
‘Earlier.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘He was helping me with my fridge magnets,’ Harry said.
Murray looked at him. ‘And then?’
He shrugged.
‘God, you two are a lot of help.’
Both boys reclaimed their vacant stare. Murray looked from one to the other. ‘I don’t know what’s going on.’
‘Nothing,’ Aiden said.
‘What, did he growl at yers?’
‘No.’
Fay approached with a tray of honey-brown chips. She used a spatula to serve them.
‘Salt?’ Murray said, without looking at her.
She went into the kitchen, returned with the salt and almost threw it down in front of him. ‘Please,’ she said.
‘I said please.’
‘You did not.’
Harry picked up the sauce bottle and started covering his food in a trail of red.
‘Not so much,’ Murray said.
He kept going.
‘Not so much.’
And stopped. ‘That’s how much I always have.’
‘It’s too much. Sauce is for taste; it’s not part of the meal.’
Aiden stared at him.
‘What?’ Murray asked.
‘What does that mean?’
‘What?’
‘It’s not part of the meal.’
‘It means you don’t use half a bottle.’
‘He always does that.’
‘Well, he’s gotta cut back.’
Fay walked into the hallway and knocked on the door to her son’s room. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Lunch.’
‘Not here,’ Murray said.
She returned to the dining room. ‘Don’t be stupid, Murray.’
‘He can stay in his room.’
‘It’s been three days.’
‘I don’t care.’
They all heard the door opening and Chris asking, ‘Can I come out now?’
Fay turned to him. ‘Come on.’
Chris entered the room. Murray stood up and thundered, ‘Get back in there!’
‘Murray,’ Fay said.
‘Go on.’
‘He can’t stay in there forever.’
‘Pop,’ Aiden said.
Murray looked at him. ‘Thank you.’ His hand was up, his finger pointing to the room. ‘Go on,’ he said.
Chris retreated into semi-darkness. Fay walked over to the table, gathered cutlery and one of the meals and took it in to her son. When she returned she looked at her brother. ‘It’s not just him, is it, Murray?’
He was picking at his chips.
‘He told me how you been workin’ on him.’
He didn’t reply; wouldn’t look up.
‘Tellin’ him how hopeless he is …’
‘He burnt down a building.’
‘After so many years of it? Miracle he didn’t do something worse.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about.’ He picked up a drumstick and started ripping at the meat. ‘This is hard,’ he said, looking at Harry.
Harry didn’t respond.
‘You gotta kill ’em quick. Before they know what’s going on.’
‘I did kill it quick.’
Fay sat down and they all started eating. Aiden turned to Murray. ‘One chop and it was dead,’ he said. ‘He can’t do it any quicker than that.’
‘I was just sayin’.’
‘You should know the facts.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Why accuse him of something …’
You’ve always, always hated Chris, he wanted to say. But couldn’t.
Instead, he managed, ‘Don’t worry, Aunt, he can come out and help me after lunch.’
Fay smiled at him. ‘What are you doing?’
‘There’s some welding.’
‘He can stay in his room,’ Murray said.
‘That’s cruel,’ Aiden replied.
Murray flared. ‘When you start runnin’ the place you can decide.’
‘You don’t run the place. Dad does.’ He lifted his head and straightened his shoulders. ‘It’s cruel.’
Murray slammed his fist on the table. ‘Cruel? Who’s the one burnt down—?’
‘Because you treat him like a dog.’
Murray was fuming, his shoulder and neck muscles trembling, his heart racing.
‘You wanna send me to my room?’ Aiden asked. ‘I’ll save you the trouble.’ He stood, gathered his meal and went into his bedroom.
There was silence. Harry studied his plate: the chips, the sauce, the lumps of grease and flesh. Although he hadn’t eaten much he didn’t feel hungry.
Murray started on a wing. ‘I don’t want you to end up like that,’ he said to Harry.
‘How?’
‘Disrespectful.’
Harry refused to look at him. There was so much to say but no way to say it. There was no point arguing, and there was no way of escaping. He looked up and his dad was standing in the doorway.
‘Come on,’ Fay said to him. ‘Your lunch is getting cold.’
Trevor sat down and looked at Harry, but he wouldn’t look back.
‘Where you been?’ Murray asked.
‘Out.’
‘Where?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘Eat up,’ Fay insisted.
He ate some white meat, but felt like he had to chew it for hours.
‘It’s a bit tough,’ Murray said.
‘It’s fine.’
‘I said to Harry, you gotta kill ’em quick.’
‘It’s fine,’ Trevor repeated, looking at his son. ‘You did a good job.’
Harry still didn’t look at him, or answer.
‘Harry?’
‘Thanks.’
They continued, faces down, the sound of cutlery, and Murray’s clunking jaw.
‘I can help you with maths after lunch,’ Trevor said to his son.
‘I’ve finished it.’
‘Good.’
Silence.
‘There’s dessert,’ Fay said.
Trevor smiled at her. ‘Thanks, Aunt.’ He sliced off more meat, cutting it in half, quarters, eighths, before eating it. Before looking at Harry. ‘You okay?’
