Patrick wiped his nose on the back of his hand and said, ‘What?’
‘You know…misjudged.’
‘What?’
‘My…parenting skills.’
Patrick scowled at the choice of words, but let it go. ‘I can’t look you up on a computer,’ he said.
‘I know.’
They could hear the buzz of the loco from inside the house. Patrick smiled. ‘He wanted to do it.’
‘Yeah, nothing changes. Like when he first put it together… There’s me: Dad, can I have a go? In a minute, son, I gotta make sure it works.’
Patrick laughed.
‘Yer muck around, it’ll just blow up. And me: Dad…?’
‘Dad?’ Patrick sang.
‘Dad, can I have a go?’
‘Shut up, son.’
‘Y’muck around, it’ll just blow up.’
And from inside the house: ‘You two comin’ in or not?’
As they both tried to stop laughing.
33
AGAIN. ONE, TWO, three a.m. Hours of rolling from side to side, face down, sweating. Eyelids clenched. Face sore with the effort. Rug between his knees, no rug, window open, closed. Nothing. Just a clear, waking mind, and Charlie, buried at the bottom of the bed-sheets.
Come out, he said. I gotta make the bed.
Charlie, Megan echoed, coming into the room. I’ve got to leave in seven minutes and you’re still in your jarmas. Turning her gaze to Moy. He’s still in his pyjamas.
I know, dear, I’m trying.
Charlie, she shouted. Now! She removed his sheets. What happens if you’re late?
Charlie sat up. I don’t want to go.
You’re going. Fiddling with a pearl earring.
It’s boring.
So what?
Can’t I stay home?
Who’s gonna look after you?
He looked at his father.
I’ve got an afternoon shift, Moy said.
Till then?
No.
Till lunch?
No, Megan added, putting her hair in a tie. Now, get your stuff.
Charlie kept looking at his dad.
Well, maybe a few hours, Moy said.
Megan looked at him. He’s booked in for the day. We’ve still got to pay.
I know, but just for a few hours.
She shook her head. Fuck.
What?
After she was gone, Charlie sat on the lounge eating chips, kicking his feet in the beanbag and smiling. Thanks, Dad.
Eleven o’ clock, okay?
Twelve? Lunch? We can make omelettes.
Moy stood looking out the window. He studied the paling fence, coming away from its frame, hanging as if just about to fall, although it had been that way for years. The shed door moving in the breeze, catching in the grass. Walking out to the dining-lounge, he sat in George’s chair. An old recliner; the foot-rest broken years ago. It was covered with a towel that smelt of old farts.
After sitting for a few moments he said, ‘What’s the point?’
He stood up, walked into the laundry, found the spray-on cleaner and went into the bathroom. Then he set to the toilet, cleaning the bowl with a shit-flecked brush, wetting the sponge and wiping every square inch of ceramic. He flushed. Exchanged the sponge for a new one and started on the sink.
George stormed out of his room. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What’s it look like?’
‘You woke me.’ He stopped, staring. ‘I’m not gonna have this shit going on.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have yer?’
‘What?’
‘This is my place.’
Moy’s fingers were on the trigger of the spray bottle. ‘Our place,’ he said.
‘Bullshit…mine.’
‘If it’s yours, you clean it, buy your own food, drive yourself to the doctor.’
‘Been doin’ it for fifty years.’
‘Don’t,’ Patrick said, coming out of his room.
‘You’ll turn this into a nursing home,’ George shouted.
‘George,’ Patrick insisted.
‘Keep out of it.’
‘You don’t want a nursing home?’ Moy asked. ‘You want a hovel, you want—’
‘I don’t care about—’
‘Stop!’ Patrick called, stepping between them.
There was a short pause. ‘You two argue about everything. It’s not like anything’s that bad, is it?’
They both looked at him.
‘It’s not like anyone’s…gone.’
‘What’s it…four-twenty?’ George asked his son.
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
He shook his head and returned to his room. Moy looked at the boy. ‘It’s either this or stare at the ceiling.’
Patrick left him alone, stripped back to a few basic fears, confused about how he should carry on. Eventually he stood, went into the kitchen and made a coffee. Returning to his room, he sat down and started working. A flick of his hand and the coffee tumbled, spilling over a pile of manila folders containing reports and photos, statements and marked-up maps. Some of it flowed under the keyboard, and over the edge of the plank onto the carpet.