started spraying around the shedsâcoating every weed, every blade of grass with herbicide. Heâd stop, prime the pump, and start again, following fence lines, in and around Fayâs garden.
At one point, Carelyn stuck her head out of the door and called, âWatch the washing.â
Trevor, following behind, just mumbled, âThereâs not a breath of wind.â
Chris appeared from the house wearing his spaghetti singlet and boxer shorts and started singing The Battle of Britain theme. He conducted with his right hand as his head flew about in incomplete orbits. Finding the exact centre of the compound, he came to attention, saluted and started marching around the perimeter. Each step was in time with the music. He stopped, turned and was off again. Stopped, turned, marched.
Harry smiled at his father. Trevor just raised his eyebrows. âGo on, get on with it.â
âShouldnât we tell Aunty Fay?â
âNo.â
He continued along the fence line, saying, âDad, whatâs gonna happen to Uncle Chris?â
âHeâll get tired â¦â
âNo ⦠later? Will we have to look after him?â
âWe already do.â
âNo ⦠by ourselves?â
Trevor saw heâd missed a spot, but he didnât say anything. It wasnât like you could get it all. Or, for that matter, stop it re-growing. No matter how careful you were the weeds would win. âMaybe there will be somewhere he can go,â he said.
âWhere?â Harry asked, pumping with the palm of his hand.
âA home.â
âA nursing home?â
âNo, some sort of ⦠well, perhaps a nursing home.â
Harry wasnât happy. âBut theyâre for old people.â
âNot always. Just people who need ⦠nursing. Hence the name, numbat.â He knocked on his sonâs head. â Nursing home.â
Chris stopped and waited.
âWhatâs wrong?â Trevor called.
And then thrust his arm out. â Sieg Heil! â
They had to stop themselves from laughing.
Chris was hot; he took off his singlet and stood at ease. Then, having received some sort of order, was off again, this time launching into a vocalise of the Colonel Bogey March .
Harry continued. The herbicide was running out; it was frothing, drifting in the chemical breeze. âIf he needs a home, we should start looking,â he said.
âWhy?â
âAunty Fay â¦â He didnât really know how to say it.
Trevor took a moment and said, âI suppose youâre right.â
âAre you gonna look?â
âSoon.â
This didnât seem the least bit sensible to Harry. âDonât they have waiting lists?â he asked, finishing the poison.
As they marched back to the shed, Chris stopped and waited silently. Then he said, âFall out.â He walked towards the house, wiping his red flesh with his singlet, drying his armpits and the skin that formed a pouch between his belly and pubic triangle.
âWe could always look after him,â Harry said.
âWe could.â
âWill we?â
âThatâs up to Pop, and Mum.â
They arrived back in the shed and Harry unscrewed the top of the spray-pack. Trevor handed him the measuring cylinder. âThis time weâll do twice as much.â
Harry was opening the poison. âI could do more, to help him.â
âWeâll see. A lot could happen. He might need more help than we can give him.â He looked up and saw the yellow sheets hanging on the line.
Harry was just about to measure the herbicide when he heard the back door open. âHarry, time for your lesson,â Carelyn called.
âMum!â he complained, loudly.
âNow.â
2
Aiden Wilkie, seventeen, summer-tanned and red-nosed, waited for the singing to finish. The organ huffed and McIlwain, the chemistry teacher, switched it off. Brother Adlam stood and
Cassandra Zara, Lucinda Lane
Angela B. Macala-Guajardo