He wandered around for a while in the cold ashes and charred earth. ‘The surface is fine and powdery,’ he whispered to himself. ‘I can see footprints of my boots … in the fine sandy particles.’
Henry called his name after a while and directed him to a fire and told him to watch out for Flynn and fry up some eggs. Henry strode over to the largest group of men – a Commission gang – and squatted amongst them. He plucked a cigarette from his pocket and straightened it out with his fingers and then lit it.
Tom got the pan, eggs and bread from the truck and set to work. It was hot in the sun after the shade of the trees and the sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes and as he wiped it away with his forearm he grew more irritated. He saw Flynn wandering around the uprooted bole of a huge tree.
‘Go and sit in the shade!’ Tom shouted to him.
Flynn came over, trailing a stick through the dust. Tom could tell he was irritable as well. They’d both had to get up before the sun for the early start.
‘Watch me cook,’ he said, but this did not seem to excite Flynn much. Tom looked at his brother. He felt sorry for him and then that turned into a fierce surge of protectiveness that rolled up from his gut and swamped everything else.
‘Maybe tomorrow we can go fishing,’ he said, his voice sounding weak and strangled, as though Sonny was pinning him down again.
Flynn’s face lit up. ‘Yeah? Can we?’
‘Yep.’
‘Where?’
‘In the river. Where else, knucklehead?’
‘Will Dad let us?’
‘He’ll be asleep in the morning. We’ll go then. We’ll leave him a bloody note!’
Flynn giggled and seemed to cheer up a little and soon he was singing to himself and crawling around in the dirt under the truck to see what he could find.
The last time Henry had taken them fishing it had rained. It’s not too heavy, not really rain at all, he’d said. Tom had followed him into the paddock, through the barbed wire, his legs wet from the long, water-loaded grass, his mother behind them in the car with Flynn becoming smaller and smaller. He remembered that his mother had smoked a cigarette that day. The car was a black Holden Special and the smoke had curled out through the chromed window frame. Henry had a wicker fishing creel that hung at his waist from two old leather belts that he’d stitched together with oiled string. In their back yard at home Tom remembered Flynn, only two or three, standing in the basket and holding on to its greasy rim. Tom had carried the short bamboo pole Henry had made for him, an old Alvey reel attached to the bamboo with wire and window putty, and on his head he’d worn a battered old oilskin hat that had leaked cold rain down the back of his neck. He’d looked back before they’d reached the dark curve of trees at the far end of the paddock and seen his mother following at last, her head bowed, her bare feet white against the grass, she and Flynn just small dark shapes against the expanse of grass and trees, connected at the hands, arms like rigging between them, his mother helping Flynn, who’d still been mastering walking, over the rough ground. Flynn had had no hat at all and his thin hair when they’d caught up had been flat against his scalp and his little shirt wet. The river when they’d reached it had been dark, fast-flowing and overhung with willow. He remembered the sound of the water rippling through tree roots and black rocks. Henry had sworn that it was a special spot, shown to him by his own father, but they had not caught anything that day, and they had never been back.
After five minutes or so the eggs were nearly cooked. He looked over to where Henry was sitting. He was still talking. Tom called to him but he made no move. He peered at the eggs through the smoke that was suddenly wafting towards him. It got into his eyes and made them water and sting. He lifted the pan and saw that the eggs were exactly how Henry liked them; any longer and they would go hard and rubbery, the way he hated them. He looked around for Flynn but couldn’t see him. He swore under his breath – Bloody shit – and put the pan in the shade of the truck and then he walked over to Henry and tapped him on the shoulder, acutely aware of the clunky black shoes on his feet. Henry looked at him from the corner of his eye but made no move to come. Tom fidgeted and swore some more but this time silently and to himself. One or two of the other men looked up at him and then back to Henry, who was listening intently to an old-timer going on and on about something. Tom’s ears grew hot with frustration and embarrassment. Finally he turned away, shouting The bloody eggs are ready! just before he did. When he glanced back some of the men were grinning at him, turning their heads from him to Henry like dogs waiting for a stick to be thrown. He walked back to the truck, the sun burning his already hot neck. He heard Henry’s boots crunching through the dirt behind him, and then the soft padding sound they made through the ash.
‘Where’s Flynn?’ he demanded, when he’d caught up.
Tom jumped. He looked around but couldn’t see him. He looked under the truck but Flynn wasn’t there either. Just then they both heard a little boy’s moan coming from the far side of the truck. It was Flynn. He’d taken off his shoes and he was holding his arm with his other hand. His feet and arms were both covered in the crumbly dirt of the clearing. Henry reached him and took hold of his arm and brushed away the dirt. He asked him what the matter was but Flynn could only cry, his tears leaving trails down his dusty cheeks.
‘He’s burnt his arm,’ said Henry. ‘He’s gone too near one of these fires and tripped over into some ashes or something. Bloody hell, Tom! I told you to fucking look after him!’
Tom, stunned, opened his mouth to defend himself, but, before he could, Henry shot out his arm and caught him across the ear and the side of the head with his open palm. His ear rang for a moment and then he heard Flynn’s crying rise and rise until it was a high-pitched squeal. He saw Henry almost throw Flynn up into the truck and then he heard an order to fetch the pan. The blood was right up in his ears and his cheek was on fire under his hand. He heard laughing and he turned. The men – all the men – were watching. Some were laughing, their shoulders and bellies shaking. They were all looking at him, laughing at him. He picked up the pan and threw the eggs into the fire and then walked to the truck with his head down. Flynn was still bawling. His anger at all of them grew. His brother was burnt. That was nothing to laugh at – there was nothing funny about it. He felt like throwing the pan at their stupid faces, but, instead, he climbed up into the cab, tossed the pan on the floor, and slammed shut the door.
They roared off down the track. Henry said nothing else to him but swore a few more times under his breath. Flynn held his arm and cried big breathy sobs and looked miserable. Tom put his arm round his shoulders – but more for his own comfort than Flynn’s. They drove to the nearest town, a little place called Jack’s Mountain that had a general store, a post office, a hotel, a few dishevelled-looking houses. Henry found a tap at the side of the hotel and stuck Flynn’s arm under it. Flynn watched transfixed as his arm emerged from the dust and the damage could be seen. There were two long red marks, one above the other, beginning to puff out in blisters. Tom couldn’t look at Henry.
‘It’s not