Peter Carey - Illywhacker

I am making Stu O'Hagen sound like a pig-ignorant bastard, and it is not fair to the man. If I look back on my life I can hear myself saying similar things every day. We all did it, and it has been our loss.

The Werribee Rain Shadow kept Stu amused for the last hour of the afternoon. He kept up a steady niggling stream of witticisms and the boy with the stolen ears worked silently with the colour slowly rising from beneath his frayed collar. It was not the son he was attacking. It was his wife's ears, I swear it, that drove him crazy.

When Goose decided to join in the baiting, Goog stood slowly and walked to where his brother was working. He waited for his brother to finish the sapling he was felling and then dropped the young boy with one round-house punch. Goog fell on top of him, pummelling him around the head. Stu walked over, watched them for a moment, and then kicked them until they stopped.

"All right," he yelled, "you can get off of him. Goose, you can do the chooks and pigs and when you're finished you can do the milking. Goog, you can prepare the meal."

Goog kicked a blunt boot sulkily into the broken soil. "How do you mean, prepare it?"

"God help me," his father yelled. "When they were telling you about shadows of rain, didn't they tell you what 'prepare' means? Prepare it. Prepare it."

"It means get ready," Goog said quietly, his face burning red. "I know that."

"Well, for Christ's sake, do it."

The two boys walked off, Goog in the rear, still red-faced, muttering threats at his brother who looked back continually over his shoulder. Stu and I watched them go down the eroded gully and climb the fence on the other side. "They're good boys," Stu said.

Goose, seeing Goog was gaining on him, began to run towards the sheds and Goog, having half-heartedly thrown a rock in his direction, trudged unhappily towards the house with long ungainly stride, all boots and wobbly ankles.

"Wife's staying at her sister's," Stu said, looking at me carefully for any sign I might not believe him. His pale eyes looked frightened.

I tried to think of something comforting to say, but it evaded me.

"No dancing tonight," Stu said. His mouth quivered. He turned abruptly and began packing the thermos and files into a hessian bag. He picked up the axes, looked at the sky, and then put them down again. Then he fussed around covering them with bark.

"Might as well leave them,"' he said, but his accusing eyes were not concerned with either rain or axes.

"How about a run in the car," I said, "before tea?"

"Directly," he said, fussing about with the bark.

I was always offended by what I understood to be the Irish sense of the word "directly" which did not mean, as it appeared to, something that would be done in a direct manner, immediately, without delay, but rather the opposite – it would be done indirectly, after taking time, having a smoke, wandering about, having a piss down the back and then approaching the object under discussion along a meandering sort of a path. It meant maybe. Or later.

But the meanders on this afternoon were shorter than I had feared and after Stu had satisfied himself that Goose was attending to the animals and after he had glanced with satisfaction at the eroded hillside in the south and the box-thorns in the east, we began to walk towards the T Model while the yellow dog threw itself hysterically against its chain.

As we passed the crooked front fence of the little cottage, Goog came out, holding a leg of mutton like a club.

"Dad."

Stu sighed. "Have you prepared that yet?"

"I dunno," said Goog.

In four angry strides Stu was through the front gate and on to the veranda. He snatched the leg of lamb from his cringing son. He swung it in the air and belted it so hard against the veranda post that the whole house shook and a wooden bench, heavily loaded with lifeless flower pots, collapsed and spilt dry red earth and dead vegetation at his feet.

He swung the mutton again, and again. The veranda post quivered and then fell. It landed on the ground at my feet with a single rusty six-inch nail pointing at the sky.

"There," Stu said, handing the leg of mutton back to his son, "it's prepared."

A hundred evicted maggots writhed amongst the dry red earth on the veranda floor. Stu stomped on them with his boot and made a half-hearted attempt to kick them off the veranda.

"Now," he said, "cut up the spuds."

I was never a fussy eater, but I did not care for maggots. I took a few steps towards the car and spat. It felt like I had a maggot stuck in my throat.

"You're staying for a feed," Stu said as we resumed our walk towards the car. "I've got a few bottles in the house."

"Kind of you," I said.

The storm was coining down like a boarding-house shower: water all round the hills on the edges and dry in the middle. I was inclined to grant Goog some credit for his Rain Shadow, and saw that I would be able to do my demonstration in the dry.

"Now," I said, "you'll be wanting a drive. Have you ever driven an auto before?" The biggest job was always to persuade a farmer that he actually needed a car, but once that was done he would normally buy the car he drove first. (I wasn't too worried about his remarks about the Dodge which cost two hundred pounds more than the T Model.) So I did not do what the Yanks at Ford said you should do which was to go round the car, starting with the radiator, and point out the features in a methodical way. My first objective was to get the customer behind the wheel.

Stu, however, did not appear to be listening. He was looking back over his shoulder where he found, as he'd suspected, that his son's attention was taken up with the car and not the spuds. Goog stood on the veranda with the leg of mutton still grasped in his bony hand.

"Go on," the father bellowed, "get on with it before I come and give you a clout across the ear-hole."

Goog disappeared into the house.

"Have you driven an auto before?" I asked.

"They're good boys," Stu said, "but they never batched before."

"Have you ever driven an auto before?"

"Not a lot in it, is there?" he said, not wanting to look at me.

"You'd need a few lessons."

"Lessons. Everybody wants me to have bloody lessons," Stu said and I did not ask him whether it was dancing lessons that he had on his mind. "Patrick Hare tells me there's nothing to it. I'm not a boy. I'll get the hang of it without any lessons. You charge for them, do you?"

"Only three pounds."

Stu nodded bitterly. "That's right," he said.

We were now circling the car, but not in the manner recommended by Ford.

"That's three quid I wouldn't consider," he said, scratching his balls, "if I was going to consider making a purchase at all", he paused, "of a Ford."

"It's a useful machine," I said, "and very reliable."

Now we were back at the radiator and Stu was nodding his head towards the car. It took me a moment to realize that my customer wanted to see the contents of the engine compartment.

"Show us its innards," he said.

"I think you'd be making a mistake," I said, "to skimp on the lessons." But I did what he asked me and opened it up.

He looked over the engine like a man checking something as familiar as the contents of his own suitcase: toothbrush, trousers, two shirts, etc. It was O'Hagen's weakness that he could not stand to make a fool of himself so he tried to give the impression that he knew what was what with a motor and was suspicious that some vital part might be missing.

When he let me know he was satisfied I closed the compartment.

"All right," he said. He took in his belt a notch and jutted his chin. "Start her up."

The sun emerged from a keyhole in the clouds and bathed the weathered whiskered face. Goog and Goose came out on to the veranda where they stood, silently, side by side, staring at the gleaming car whose radiator was suddenly full of golden light.