Only Killers and Thieves(23)

Out he came, reeling through the porch and into the dizzying sun, glancing over his shoulder as he hurried along the street, bundling into people and searching for Mother in the windows of each store. She wasn’t in any of them. He walked the length of the street and came back again, then found her hurrying along the courthouse path, head down, arms folded, hair unraveled from its pin. He went to meet her; she only noticed him waiting when they were almost face-to-face.

“Tommy? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing—where you been?”

“Church, like I told you.”

“I went to the church . . .” Tommy said, his voice trailing off. He looked beyond her to the courthouse, its thick black doors in a clean white wall, the little yard in front, the grooves of the wooden stocks rubbed so smooth they shone. He focused on Mother again. “What were you doing in there?”

“Nothing,” she said, touching her cheek.

“Why’d you go in, then?”

“For goodness’ sake, Tommy. I was just saying hello to an old friend.”

“What friend?”

“It’s none of your business. Come on, we’re going home.”

As they walked past the Bewley Hotel, the men at the railing leered. Filthy and ale-faced, Tommy saw how they stared at Mother. He read their whispers, the little comments they made. A voice called after them, “I’ve got a shilling you can make, love. Won’t take long. Put a smile on that pretty face.”

Thick laughter went up. Mother took hold of Tommy’s arm and pulled him close, dragging him along the street. When they reached Spruhl’s store, Tommy unhitched Jess and walked her clear of the rail, maneuvered the empty dray, and both of them climbed onto the bench. Tommy glanced back at the hotel. A couple of men had drifted down from the verandah and were idling along the road. One began humping the air. “Just ignore them, Tommy,” Mother whispered. He flicked the reins and they moved on. A glass bottle smashed behind them. Again Tommy turned. One of the men was waving, and on the verandah of Song’s Hardware Store, a slender figure withdrew from the railing and went inside through the door.





9



Billy made his shanghai with the rubber tubing, tying it between the fork of a broken blue-gum branch, and every day after chores the three of them practiced firing pebbles against the bunkhouse wall, taking aim at a target chalked with stone and tallying up their scores. Billy drew two start lines—one for him and Tommy, the other six feet closer to the wall—but theirs was the only mark Mary would use. She’d rather miss from a distance, she told them, than hit a bull’s-eye from close in.

Tommy was taking aim when Mary saw the horses: the rubber stretched full-length in his hand, quivering as he held it, one eye closed and the other sighting the target on the wall. She let out a yelp and started jumping up and down, shouting, “They’re coming, they’re coming, Arthur and Daddy’s home!”

“Quit it. I let you have your shot.”

“It’s them, Tommy,” Billy said. “Look here.”

He relaxed the rubber and turned. Two riders came slowly over the plain. Tommy handed Billy the catapult and they crossed to the far edge of the yard, calling for Mother as they went. She was hanging laundry on the line beside the house, poked her head around the corner to see, then finished hanging the last of it and came to join them only when the horses were nearly in.

“Well,” she said dryly, “let’s see, shall we. See what’s to become of us now.”

Father began waving. He bobbled about on his horse. Arthur followed behind him, and the difference between their riding could not have been more pronounced: Father swayed loose in the saddle, his shirt flapping open, his chest bare, the look of a man being carried, the horse leading the rider, not the other way around.

Mary returned his wave excitedly. Mother sighed and folded her arms.

It took Father two attempts to dismount, heaving himself upward, then an ungainly slide from saddle to ground. Arthur’s face was set tight, his beard barely concealing a scowl. He also dismounted, then stood beside his horse, the reins in his hand, as Father took off his hat and spread his arms.

“Hello, family! Daddy’s home!”

Mother muttered darkly under her breath. Mary ran to him and they embraced, Father spinning her, then stumbling, laughing, before setting her back on her feet.

“Well? Is this the only bloody welcome I get?”

Tommy glanced at the others. Billy stared blankly at Father. Mother sucked on her teeth. Father smoothed down his hair and Tommy saw yellow bruising around his left eye. And his shirt wasn’t just open; it was ripped at the armpit, flapping at the seam.

“So?” Billy asked. “What happened?”

“It’s obvious what happened,” Mother said. “He’s been on the grog.”

Father was grinning. He pulled Mary into his side and shrugged.

“Well?” Mother said.

“Well what?”

She flicked her hand up and down, meaning the state of him.

“A man’s allowed a bloody drink, Liza. After all we’ve been through.”

“But did you sell them?” Billy asked, and Father whirled in mock surprise.

“Shit, Arthur! The mob! We forgot the bloody mob!” He started laughing. Arthur managed a smile. Father said, “Of course I bloody sold them. But you might as well know, the state those buggers were in, all I could get was for boiling down.”