Hill of Grace by Stephen Orr

Author:Stephen Orr
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC000000
ISBN: 9781862549876
Publisher: Wakefield Press
Published: 2004-11-15T05:00:00+00:00

Nathan excused himself early. William, feeling more than ever in charge, threw a few mulga logs on the fire and asked where he was going.

‘Walking.’

‘We haven’t finished here.’

William was aware that small stirrings could cause an avalanche; he was interested to see if he could keep the momentum going. ‘I was going to ask if anyone wanted to stay on . . . we’ve more than enough.’

Seymour bit his finger nails and looked over to Mary. She smiled at William. ‘We should get the children home,’ passing the ball to Catherine Heinz. ‘Yes, it’s too cold to have them out late.’

And William, looking back at Nathan. ‘Go on then.’

Curt. Nathan feeling the need to explain himself. ‘Mr Drummond said he’d like some . . . yeast.’

No reply.

Standing, disappearing up the side of the house. Passing Joseph and Ellen sitting on the front porch, under galvanised iron rusted through, patchwork sun settling on their hair and face. ‘See y’ Joe, Ellen,’ Nathan mumbled, jumping his great-grandfather’s picket-less side fence and heading up Langmeil Road.

Nathan could smell chimneys smoking – burning eucalyptus and melaleuca, ti-tree and old shingles salvaged from deserted cottages. He floated in a snowdome past rusted mangles and crankshafts displayed on the porches of ironstone cottages with sage and rosemary in pots. Quaint, he thought. But if that’s what people wanted. Like the Davy Clarke Singers, always choosing the pretend over the real.

Back on William’s porch, Joseph sat with his hands in his lap. Ellen was turned into him, holding his hands and looking into his eyes, lost on the High Eden Ridge – on hills of green velvet pulled tight, clumps of gum trees where their parents’ parents hadn’t reached with sharpened axes. Ellen looked at the whiskers growing out of her husband’s nose and said, ‘Joseph, what do you want?’

He turned to her and replied, ‘I want you to listen.’

‘I do.’

‘Me first, mother second.’

‘Joseph, if we accept their help – ’ ‘Charity.’

‘No. If we accept their help we can’t say, Oh good, you’ll babysit, but you’ll have to let them stay up, no baths, no smacking Chas if he pees in the hallway.’

She smiled. Joseph leaned forward. ‘How much longer?’

She shrugged. ‘When we’ve saved enough.’

‘How much do we need?’

He knew she thought it was his fault. Low-skilled worker. They’d warned her; and when she’d shared this with him he’d said, ‘And yet, if I was a chicken boner, a Lutheran chicken boner . . .’

She released his hands and leaned back, watching a shunt in the distance pulling grape bins towards Seppelt’s. ‘It’s really about William, isn’t it?’

He used his hands to express his disgust. ‘It’s about how your dad allows William . . . have either of them asked me, you, but when it comes down to his . . . play, “Oh, I’m sorry, I wouldn’t force them to do it.”’

‘Fine, I’ll tell them: church okay, Mr Apocalypse . . .’

He shrugged. ‘He’s a nut case.’

‘Eccentric.’

‘Nut case.’

‘When they grow up they’ll look back and laugh.’

‘Maybe.’

When they got home that night Mary started saying the same thing.

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