One Boy Missing(42)
‘Is that why you came home?’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘I can tell you one thing, you’ll never drag me out of here.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Once is enough. This is all we’ve got to show for a hundred years of killing ourselves. Land. Only a little bit, I know, but enough for some grass and weeds.’
‘Dad.’
‘You’ll never drag me out of here.’
Moy knew these words were raw. He could still remember the swearing and kicked walls from thirty years before; his father pacing the empty rooms of their farm house. Although he couldn’t remember what he said, he guessed it was along the same lines: land, and history, lost; banks as a sort of cancer that ate into honest people’s lives; relief, at least, that his ancestors weren’t around to see it. He could remember the moving van and the boxes of books and toys, and worst of all, the empty sheds and yards.
And then, attempting to convince his dad that it was time to go. ‘It’ll be great, won’t it, walking into town?’
‘Yeah…’
‘Come on then. The movers will need us to open the new place.’
Moy knew how hard it was for his dad. The actual moment of leaving. ‘Dad?’
‘Christ, son, they’ll wait.’
Back in the kitchen, Moy said, ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’ve made a decision. I’m gonna move in with you.’
George wasn’t sure. ‘You never said anything about this.’
‘I’m saying it now.’
Patrick looked at Moy with a sort of does this include me? expression.
‘Easy done,’ Moy said, looking at both of them. ‘There’s no lease and I’ll be saving a hundred and eighty a week. We can use that for a gardener, or to get the place painted.’
‘You don’t want to.’
‘There’s only one lot of dishes to clean, one afternoon lost vacuuming.’
‘But you don’t want to.’
‘Why not? I can put up with you. I have for forty-two years.’
George just stared at him. ‘Maybe I’m not so sure.’
‘You gotta decide.’
‘I got things how I like them.’
‘So? We can work around you. Like Dad and Dave.’ He looked at the boy. ‘What do you think, Patrick?’
‘Good.’ He turned to George. ‘I can help you with your crosswords.’
‘So that’s the plan,’ Moy continued. ‘I pack up my few things, hire a trailer. Few of the fellas at work will help. There’s plenty of space if we clear out the bedrooms.’
‘They’re full of my stuff.’
‘Stuff you don’t use. A bike machine you haven’t sat on for thirty years. There’s plenty of room to store your stuff in the shed.’
‘What if I don’t want it in the shed?’
‘What if you don’t want to go to a nursing home?’
George sat up. ‘Don’t play your bloody detective tricks on me.’
There was a long pause as they stared at each other, as Patrick scribbled letters across the page.
‘I’m not useless,’ George said.
‘I didn’t say you were.’
‘I can still look after myself.’
‘Didn’t say you couldn’t.’
Another long pause.
‘Well?’ Moy asked.
‘I get the last say.’
‘Of course.’
Moy smiled, convincing himself as much as anyone.
HALF AN HOUR later the three of them walked down Ayr Street. George stopped to rest on his walking stick. Moy was beside him, his hand near but not touching his father’s arm. Patrick walked behind them carrying a string bag with George’s few groceries.
‘So, Patrick,’ George said, ‘what’s happened to your parents?’
‘Dad, you remember the story, about the laneway?’ Moy asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s Patrick.’
‘So what was that all about, Patrick?’
‘Dad.’
‘What?’ He couldn’t see the problem. ‘Best thing’s to talk about it.’
‘Dad.’
‘Some fella givin’ you a hard time, was he, Patrick?’
Patrick stopped. The two men walked a few steps before they realised. They turned to him. ‘You okay, Patrick?’ Moy asked.
George just stared at him, studying his eyes, his small ears and freckled nose. ‘He’s okay,’ he said.
‘Patrick?’
‘Come on, boy.’
‘Dad.’
‘What?’ He shook his head, turned and hobbled on.
‘Come on,’ Moy said to Patrick. ‘He takes a while to get used to.’
They continued and Moy returned to his father’s elbow.