Only Killers and Thieves(6)

*

He was woken by Billy kicking, fighting in his sleep. Tommy shoved him, rolled onto his back, and lay listening to the tick and yawl of the scrubs outside, and the catch in Billy’s throat when he breathed. The bed wasn’t wide enough to lie like this—his shoulder dug into Billy’s spine—but Tommy liked watching the stars through the gaps in the shingle roof. Sometimes there’d be a faller, and he would make a wish, but he never got to see one fall the whole way. The width of a crack and that was all. Like a match being struck in the sky.

He shivered, reached for the blankets, felt his nightshirt clinging damp against his skin. Though the night was cool, he’d been sweating; might have been dreaming himself, maybe. When they’d first come to bed, Billy had accused him of dobbing to Father about them having been up in those trees. But Mary had been listening from her cot across the room, so they lay in sullen silence in the dark, until both fell asleep and they were at it again, arguing in their dreams.

Tommy swung out his feet and stood, crossed the room to Mary’s cot. She was huddled in her blankets, her mouth hanging open, spittle running from the corner of her lips. He smiled and turned away, paced up and down, rubbing himself briskly, trying to get warm. He paused by the doorway curtain. A faint light framed its edge: the fire was burning still. He pulled back the curtain, went into the other room, and stopped just past the threshold. Though the fire was glowing, it was candlelight he had seen. Father was at the table, a bottle at his elbow, a glass in his hand, his pocket notebook open before him, the little red pencil resting in the fold.

Father looked up slowly. The light from the tallow candle flickered on his face. One half in darkness, the other in flame. He peered at Tommy a long time.

“What is it, son?”

“Billy’s kicking about.”

“So kick him back.”

“I did.” Tommy’s eyes went to the hearth and again he shivered. “Thought I might use the fire awhile.”

“You sick or anything?”

“I don’t think so.”

Father gestured grandly toward the fireplace. Tommy came around the table and stood with his back to the embers, waiting for the warmth, avoiding Father’s stare. Father poured himself a drink and sipped it, offered the glass to Tommy; Tommy shook his head.

“Help if you’ve a fever.”

“I’m not sick, I said.”

Father nodded slowly, lips pursed, head rocking up and down. The fire spat and hissed. “You know,” he said, “it felt earlier there was something you and Billy might be keeping to yourselves.”

“Only that we were up in them trees. We knew it wasn’t allowed.”

“Nothing else happened?”

“Like what?”

“Anything. You two have been off all night.”

Tommy shook his head. A quick little burst side to side. Father sniffed and drank again, hesitated, then drained the glass. “Ah, it’s not your fault. This ain’t no place to live, raise a family. I shouldn’t have to warn my own children off the bloody neighbor’s land.”

“Weren’t you friends once? You and Sullivan?”

Father drew himself tall, scraped his palms over the tabletop.

“Working for a bloke doesn’t make him your mate, Tommy. The opposite, in fact. That was a long time ago anyway, lots of things have changed.”

Tommy was about to respond when Father leaned on his elbow and pointed at him, continued, “A man shouldn’t answer to anyone. He makes his own way in the world. You understand what I’m telling you? Being a wage slave ain’t much better than being a blackfella, you’re both some other bugger’s boy. What you want is your freedom. Don’t give it away, Tommy. Not for any price.”

He wagged his finger, then dropped it, rapped his knuckles twice on the wood. He closed the little notebook, laying one hand on top while the other poured a drink. Thoughtfully he sipped it. Staring into the candle flame.

“How bad is it?” Tommy asked quietly.

“There’s a drought. The cattle’s starving. How bad d’you reckon it is?”

“Will we be alright, though?”

Father looked up then. His eyes softened and his mouth pulled tight in a grimace, and he breathed out heavily through his nose. “Aye, we’ll be alright.”

“But they’re starving, you just said.”

Father reached for Tommy’s arm, pulled him close, then cupped the back of his neck and dragged him down until the two of them were butting heads. Tommy could smell the rum. He squatted awkwardly in the embrace, as Father brought his other hand around and slapped him on the cheek.

“You know I love you, Tommy. That I’ll look after you, all of you, keep you safe. You make a decision you think is for the best and it’s too late when you realize it’s not. I’m bloody trying, though, eh. Doing the best I can. All I need from you and your brother is to help with the work and do what you’re told, and we’ll get ourselves out of this mess. Reckon you can do that for me? Can you do that, son?”

“Yes.”

“Good lad,” Father said, patting his cheek again. “Proud of you. Good lad.”

He released him. Tommy retreated to the fire. Father saw off his drink and pushed himself to his feet. The chair scraped on the boards. He picked up his notebook and wedged it into his shirt-breast pocket, then moved unsteadily around the table, holding the chair backs as he went. The candle flame wavered in the disturbed air. The wick was almost drowned. Father lunged across the open space to his bedroom, paused at the curtain, and said, “Busy day tomorrow. Don’t be late turning in.”