Darren Williams - Angel Rock

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 when Henry leapt up, but it didn’t come. The big man’s thighs caught the edge of the table and lifted it up and the chainsaw and the tools went banging and clattering to the floor. Henry didn’t even seem to notice. The storm Tom had unleashed, still smelling of soap and with his hair still damp, pulled his work boots back on and pounded out the front door. Tom watched him climb up into the truck and roar off down the road in a spray of gravel. He felt a cold flitter of fear down in his gut, even worse than the one he’d felt that afternoon – a flash of what might happen to anyone who got in Henry’s way maybe – but also the sure knowledge that this storm, as well as sweeping over Sonny, might well wheel round and break on him in turn.

‘Hey, Darcy! Darcy Steele! Goody-bloody-two-shoes! Show us your tits!’

The boys were much older than they, long-haired and pimply, and Grace Mather had been apprehensive when she’d first seen them appear, but Darcy just gave a breathy laugh and took in a lungful of air before responding.

‘Rack off, bastard arseholes!’ she shouted.

Grace nearly wet herself laughing, but it was nervous, wild laughter, more likely to end in dizziness than anything else. The boys stood by the side of the road for a while longer, one chopping at the long grass with a stick to make himself feel better, but then they walked on and disappeared down behind the Agricultural Hall.

‘They would have come for me if you hadn’t been here,’ said Darcy.

‘I didn’t stop them.’

‘Yes, you did. Pop’s your dad. That’s why they didn’t chase me. Because you’re here.’

Grace half shrugged, unconvinced. ‘Have they chased you before?’

‘Yeah. Heaps of times.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me? What did you do?’

‘I run. I’m faster than them.’

‘Have they ever caught you?’

‘Once.’

‘What happened?’

‘They wanted to see my tits, my fanny. I said they could if they showed me their dicks.’

Grace looked at her friend, her eyes wide.

‘Did they?’

‘One did. The other was too chicken. But I ran away before it was my turn. Ha!’

‘What did it look like?’ Grace whispered.

Darcy screwed up her face and grinned. ‘Remember that time we helped the nurse with all the kindie boys?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, it was like that. Like a grub. A pink grub. But …’

‘But what?’

‘Bigger … and hairy!’

Darcy laughed along with Grace. When they stopped they were racked with giggles until Darcy shouted Come on! and took off up the road. Grace followed. She seemed to be doing a lot of following lately, but even though she was older than Darcy by a few months it didn’t really bother her. Every Saturday Darcy always wanted to be doing things, never wanted to just sit and talk like they’d used to, but there was less and less to do in Angel Rock that they hadn’t already done and Darcy was becoming more and more restless. Lately Grace had been reading books and telling Darcy things that might interest her to try and keep her happy. Saturday last she’d told her all about Huck Finn and his raft and now Darcy wanted to build her own and float away down the river just like him.

They walked along to the sawmill as they’d planned and ducked through the hole in the fence. No one worked there on Saturdays any more. Tom Ferry collected sawdust for the butcher there some weekends but there was no sign of him. They wandered around through the stacks of timber looking for material, toiling in the hot morning sun for an hour until they had a pallet, various other odds and ends of wood, four empty oil drums, bits and pieces of rope and a torn scrap of red cloth that the timbermen nailed to the end of logs when they were carried on the roads.