LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

      Flynn giggled. The man looked down at him and Flynn stopped.

      ‘I may have something,’ said Ellie Gunn, walking back towards the kitchen. Tom and his brother stayed where they were. The man looked from side to side as if watching out for something and then he looked down at them again.

      ‘What’s yer name then?’ he asked Flynn, in a voice rough as ironbark.

      ‘Flynn,’ said Flynn. ‘What’s yours?’

      ‘Ah … Billy,’ said the man, as if he didn’t have need of it very often. He nodded, said the name again, but softly this time: ‘Billy.’

      Tom’s mother returned with something wrapped in foil and something in a brown paper bag. He could smell what was in the foil – cold chicken – and his mouth began to water.

      ‘This is all I’ve got handy, I’m afraid,’ said his mother, passing the man the food.

      ‘Bless you, missus,’ he said, taking it. He nodded to her, nodded to the boys, then turned and walked down the path and through the gate, closing it carefully behind him.

      ‘What was he, Mum?’ asked Flynn, after he’d walked away.

      ‘A tramp. A swaggie. That’s what he was.’ She picked up her son and swung him back and forth. ‘You be a good boy for your brother now and I’ll be here when you wake up.’

      ‘All right.’

      Tom watched her walk out to the car and climb in, then reverse back out into the road. She just sat there for a few moments then, looking forward. Tom peered up the road but he couldn’t see the swaggie. His mother looked their way after a while and waved, then put the car into gear and moved off. Tom waved goodbye and walked out to the gate to watch her go. The car rolled away down the long straight then disappeared round the bend. He walked out onto the road and looked both ways but there was no sign of the tramp. He ran around to the side of the house and stopped at the corner and leant into the cool boards. There he was, walking diagonally across the cow paddock next to the house. As Tom watched, the man threw a chicken bone over his shoulder, and a few strides later he looked back towards the house. Tom ducked back and waited for what seemed like whole minutes before edging along the boards again and peeking around the corner. Too late. The man had gone. Up into the trees maybe.

      He walked down into the back yard and watched the trees a little longer and then he turned and went inside. Flynn was back on the couch with his thumb in his mouth, his eyes already closing. Tom went and sat down in the cane chair out front. He put his chin in his hand and before he knew it he was dreaming of his mother putting out washing on a long, long line.

      When Tom woke the sunset was reflected in the eastern sky before him and a great cloud of birds was wheeling around over the river. Henry Gunn was walking up the path with the chainsaw resting on his shoulder, his clothes and boots coated with sawdust, his forehead pale where his hat kept the sun off. As he passed through the door he ruffled his stepson’s hair. Along the inside of his forearm Tom saw the long jagged scar where a chainsaw had kicked out of a tree once and caught him. The scars where the stitches had been were nearly an inch wide and looked as though someone had laced up the skin like a boot. Henry stopped just inside the doorway and asked him where his mother was. Tom told him and Henry scowled and headed for the bathroom.

      Tom made tea while Henry washed away the stink and dirt of his day’s work. When the food was ready Tom piled up their three plates with sausages, mashed potatoes, peas. Henry came in and sat down and started to eat. He never made them say grace like their mother did. Tom and Flynn followed suit and tucked in. In between mouthfuls Henry said: ‘I need you for the snigging tomorrow, Tom. They’re closing off the coupe where I got all those good logs last week and Bloody John broke his arm today.’

      Tom’s heart sank. Ordinarily he would have been interested in the details of a broken arm but not on a Friday, not when Henry wanted him to work on a Saturday.

      ‘What about Flynn?’ he spluttered, his mouth full.

      ‘What about him?’

      ‘Mum’s got to work tomorrow.’

      ‘Ah. Mrs Clark’ll have to look after ’im.’

      Tom waited a few moments. ‘No, Mrs Clark can’t. She’s got to go to Laurence tomorrow.’

      Henry threw his fork down on the table. ‘Blast!’ he shouted. Flynn jumped.

      ‘I’ll look after him,’ said Tom. ‘He could help me bag the sawdust.’

      ‘No, you’re helping me.’

      Tom could feel his whole Saturday slipping away. ‘But what about Mr Riley?’

      ‘He can wait a day for his bloody sawdust can’t he!’

      ‘But –’

      ‘Christ Jesus, Tom, no more! I can’t afford to pay some bastard, and I need to get those bloody logs out!’

      Tom didn’t say any more and they continued to eat in silence. He couldn’t think of any more cards to play, not without his mother there. Flynn started to giggle and spit mashed potato down the front of his shirt.

      ‘Flynn!’ shouted Tom. ‘What are you doing?’

      ‘He can come too,’ said Henry, chewing and staring at Flynn. ‘He’ll be all right in the cab.’

      Tom looked from his stepfather to Flynn and back again, but he bit his lip and said no more. When they had eaten and the table was cleared Henry fetched the chainsaw from the front verandah and sat it on the table under the light. He fitted the sharpening jig to the arm and proceeded to put the edge back onto each tooth in the chain. Flynn settled on the couch in front of the television and put his thumb in his mouth as before.

      ‘Make sure Flynn has his bath before he goes to bed,’ Henry muttered, his mind on what he was doing.

      ‘Yep.’

      As Tom washed the dishes he fumed and thought of Sonny Steele again. Another question began to form in his mind but this one had a much more dangerous shape than the one he’d asked Sonny. When he finished the dishes he turned round and watched Henry sharpen the blades for a while. Every so often Henry’s hand would slow down and his chin would dip and his eyelids droop and then he would catch himself and shake his head and continue. Tom felt a little light-headed, but then he took a deep breath, held it for three, asked his question straight after.

      ‘Henry?’

      ‘Mmmm?’

      ‘What’s a whore?’

      Henry didn’t answer immediately but looked up at him sharply with his full attention, the chainsaw, the file in his hand forgotten.

      ‘Where’d you hear that?’

      Tom gulped. He couldn’t lie to Henry when his eyes were like that, his voice so low and blunt.

      ‘Sonny.’

      ‘Steele? What – he call you that or something?’ Henry’s forehead rippled into deep furrows. Tom could see a few spots where he hadn’t rinsed the soap off properly.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Then why’d he say it?’

      Tom didn’t answer.

      ‘Answer me, or so help me!’

      ‘I don’t know why he said it!’

      ‘Repeat to me – exactly – what the little cunt said. Exactly.’

      Tom tried to swallow the lump in his throat. He felt a bit dizzy, and reckless, as if he were about to unleash something as furious and unstoppable as a storm from the tip of his tongue.

      ‘Mum,’ he whispered. ‘He said: your mother’s a whore. That’s what he said.’

      He braced himself for a belting

Скачать книгу