In the Shade of the Shady Tree. John Kinsella
was leveled for the pad. The boy liked how precise it all was. The old couple—Pet and Darl . . . he drawled their names sarcastically, mimicking his father—weren’t there much, but when they were he rode along the fence line on his motorbike, revving the shit out of the engine as per his dad’s instruction. Darl would watch him doing this for an age, and the boy thought he saw the old bloke shaking as if he were really angry once, but it might have been the easterly that had whipped in, hot and burning though it was only spring.
When the truck and workers and new owners were gone, the boy rode his trail bike up to a tear in the fence and wormed the bike through. He rode over to the mine, got off, and threw tailings at the crumpled and suffocated entry. Phase two of his dad’s plan to cleanse the district of invaders. Then he mounted up and raced down to the creek. He leant his head so far back he nearly fell off his bike—he was looking up at the sun through white gum leaves, the oil of the trees headier than dope. His dad was a smart man.
It was an “earthquake-proofed” house. A steel frame with single brick and plasterboard walls, built on a sand pad. The boy was fascinated. He rode over and asked the builders about it. Dad was at work and he was wagging school, so it would be okay. He was bored. Earthquake-proof, eh? We haven’t had an earthquake here, I don’t think, he said to them. A gnarled and bearded builder with tobacco stains around his mouth and moustache said: Well, some people like to be prepared, matey. The builder asked the boy to pass him his beer, cool in its foam holder. Yep, nothing like working in the bush, he said, no problem drinking on the job. He hacked and spat as he laughed.
The builder paused as he set a string for a new line of bricks, and said to the boy, who was rocking his bike back and forth so its wheels bit into the dirt, So you’ve been a bit of a bastard to my employers? The boy looked away and said: My dad doesn’t like neighbors.
Yeah, well, your dad’s being an arsehole. The boy shot a look back at the builder and sized up the opposition: the guy was built like a brick shithouse. Ten axe handles across. Sunburnt and milky-eyed with drink. But still sharp. The boy wanted to say something back, but hit the kick-start with his boot and throttled up, spewing sand all over the place as he raced back to the hole in the fence.
The boy stared at his dad spread-eagled on the couch, watching television. What are you staring at, you little bastard, his father half-asked him.
—Nothing. They’re putting the roof on the place next door.
Who gives a damn, his dad muttered, taking the boy by surprise. Dad looked strange. It worried the boy.
Darl and Pet were living in the donga, waiting for their house to be completed. It wouldn’t be long now. The summer had set in, and it was getting pretty hot even through the nights—they craved the ducted air-conditioning they’d had installed in their dream home. The power was through, and they’d made the massive outlay to have scheme water put on. Darl said, It’s not because of this bull about the quality of groundwater around here, just that it’s more reliable. It was late, and in the cramped space they were watching television, doing dishes and talking over the plans when there was a knock at the door. The husband called out, Who’s there?
—It’s me, from next door . . .
The couple looked at each other. Don’t open it, Pet said. Darl looked at her for slightly too long, then shook his head and went to open it. The boy was standing on the step shaking. His hair was slicked to his forehead with sweat. What’s happened? asked Darl. Pet was behind her husband’s shoulder now, and seeing the boy, pushed her way through and placed her hand on his arm. What’s wrong, son? What’s happened?
—It’s my dad. He’s sick. I mean he’s really sick. I think he needs a doctor and the phone isn’t working. I mean, Dad broke the phone when he got in from work.
Darl didn’t mind paying the extra for scheme water to be piped out to the place. Cost thousands, but peace of mind is peace of mind. Probably nothing wrong, but why go through the worry? The real estate agent’s sister—a nurse at the hospital—said tests showed there was nothing wrong with the groundwater. That’s what the real estate agent reckoned. But what the hell. And when Darl suggested to the boy’s dad he connect his place to the scheme for a few thousand, the ex-drunk surprisingly said yes. I can taste the bloody water now, he mumbled—when we ran out of rainwater, the well water tasted pretty bad, didn’t it, boy?
—Yes, Dad.
His dad stared at his boots and then added, Nothing wrong with it, though—just that my taste buds are shot, like my liver.
Darl spent a lot of time at the old lead mine. Sometimes the boy would come over on his trail bike. He’d dismount and they’d squat near each other without saying a word. It smelt strong, even heady up there in the heat . . . assaying the lead tailings, listening to the pasture crackle with the dryness, watching oddly colored sunsets. Sometimes Darl would ask after the boy’s dad. Oh, he’s okay, the boy would say. He keeps saying his liver’s shot and that’s why he got sick. When one of his mates rings and tries to get Dad to go out on the piss, he just says, can’t mate, doc says my liver’s shot.
After a while, Darl and the boy would hear Pet calling up from the new house—or the “mansion,” as the boy called it: Hey, boys, come down and have something to eat and drink.
It was as if they were the only people in the world. It would always be like that.
There’s a right and a wrong way of doing things, Harold said.
Jenny thought, The right way is usually the wrong way. And if it weren’t for the kids . . . She bit her lip, as always.
But Dad, Jim said, those caves are amazing. You should come up and see them. Kangaroos shelter in there during the heat of the day. They are full of white sand that’s crumbled from the limestone walls. On top, it’s all iron-rock and gravel, with heaps of quartz chips. And the scrub up there is impenetrable. It’s all needle tree and dead-finish bushes. And in front of the caves there are great zamia palms. You can see right out across the sandplain paddocks to the ocean.
Harold cut him off, his pained expression saying he’d already been too patient. That’s not the point, Jim, it’s not our land. Even this isn’t our land. Three months we’ve got, before we have to move back to town. Without the cheap rent, I’d be lucky to cover the renovations at home.
Jim ruminated. His mother held her tongue, as she was expected to do. Eventually she said, It will be interesting catching the school bus into Geraldton, Jim. I guess you’ll know a few of the kids.
Not really, said Jim. Most of the upper-school students from out here board at the hostel. But he sparked up, ignoring his father’s impatience, and said, There’s also a canyon where water runs fast when it rains. Must be some springs down there, because there are clusters of red river-gums. I’ll examine it closer tomorrow and take my field notebook.
You’ll do no such thing, Jim, said Harold, banging the table ineffectually with the flat of his hand. You stay around this house and go no further.
Jim glanced up at his father with disdain. Old dickhead, he thought. He smiled at his mother and went on eating dinner with exaggerated manners, annoying and pleasing his father at once, who hoped he’d controlled his son.
Susan, Jim’s sister, sat opposite, eating slowly and deliberately. She feared the bus, and didn’t like this old asbestos, tin-roofed house that was their temporary home. She would be starting high school with the new term, and thought it pretty shoddy that this extra stress was added to her life. Her father didn’t bother her too much; she barely thought him worth registering. And she didn’t do much that could annoy him. She was a polite young lady. That was all that mattered.
The household’s main problem was Harold being home most of the time. He’d taken his long-service leave and spent his days sitting