One Boy Missing(55)

Another long pause.

‘No, it’s sensible,’ George said. ‘No point payin’ for that place when there’s room here.’

Patrick re-emerged from the house and returned to the trailer. He stood with his arms out, waiting for more slats. George loaded him up with another two. ‘How you coping?’

‘Fine.’

‘Can you manage three?’

‘Two’ll do,’ Moy said.

‘He can manage three,’ George insisted, taking another plank and placing it in the boy’s arms. ‘It’ll make the job quicker, won’t it, Patrick?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Off you go.’

Moy followed him in with his first load of boxes. ‘If there’s anything George says that you’re not happy about, you tell him… or me.’

‘I can carry three.’

‘Not just that. Anything. Sometimes he’s pig-headed.’

‘I’m okay.’

Moy unloaded and returned to the trailer. ‘That toilet of yours,’ he said to his father.

‘What?’

‘How often do you clean it?’

‘Often enough.’

‘Books?’ He loaded another four boxes onto the sack truck.

‘The lounge. There’s plenty of room on my shelves. What’s wrong with my toilet?’

‘Listen, you’ve got to—’

‘No one’s ever got sick from a toilet.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s just those dirty bastards coughing all over you in the shops. Or those fuckin’ Asians, not washing their hands after they have a bog.’

‘You haven’t even got soap.’

‘Listen, I’ve been quite happy here these last thirty years.’

‘Okay.’

‘Doing things my way.’

‘Sorry.’

Patrick re-emerged and they fell silent. George loaded him with the last three slats. ‘See, hardly heavy now, are they?’ He looked at his son.

‘No.’ The boy turned and walked off.

‘As long as you don’t mind if I…standardise things,’ Moy said.

‘Standardise?’

‘Like soap, clean towels.’

Patrick looked back at them.

‘Go about your business,’ George called, returning to his son. ‘I don’t care if you have fresh towels every morning, and flowers, and ironed hankies…just don’t go on about it.’

Patrick came out and took a heavy box from George, carried it a few metres up the driveway and stopped to rest. When he picked it up it slipped from his fingers and fell with the muffled tinkle of breaking glass. He looked at George, but the old man hadn’t noticed. He picked it up again, climbed the three steps onto the verandah and dropped it again, knocking over a pot of petunias. It broke and the seedlings scattered across the concrete. He put the box down.

‘What are you up to?’ George said, hobbling up the drive onto the verandah, followed by his son. He stood looking at the small plants, the shards of broken pot and the soil. ‘Bloody hell.’ He bent over and picked up a petunia.

‘I didn’t mean to,’ Patrick said.

‘How did you manage…?’

‘He didn’t mean to, Dad.’

George looked at the small figure, his hands clenched. ‘If it was too heavy, you should’ve said.’

‘I was going okay until I tripped.’

George shook his head and collected the seedlings in his palm before dropping them in disgust.

Patrick waited for him to explode. ‘I can help fix it. I saw some pots out the back.’

‘What’s the good of that? Once the air gets to them roots…’

‘I’ll buy you another punnet,’ Moy said.

George took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘Right, inside. You can wash up.’

‘He didn’t mean to,’ Moy repeated.

But George just glared at the boy. ‘Now.’

AFTER LUNCH, WITH the trailer unpacked and both bedrooms full of boxes, Moy went to the shed and found another pot and a pair of old trowels. With Patrick’s help he scraped the soil from the tiles and filled the pot. As they worked he said, ‘You know, he will come good.’

Patrick just looked at him, unsure. ‘I didn’t mean to do it.’

‘Of course not. Old people just explode, like volcanoes.’

They soaked the soil with water from a bucket. ‘If he gives you trouble just think: you poor old man, I understand. Then walk away, wait an hour or so, go back and see how he’s going.’

‘Does that work?’

‘Mostly. Sometimes he needs a day or two.’

Moy made a hole with his finger, planted the first petunia and compacted the soil. ‘Go on.’ He handed one to Patrick, who repeated the process.