The Hands Read Free Page B

approached the lectern. ‘Brother Giles left Mercy in 1971,’ he read, using his right hand to settle his glasses on his nose. ‘He’d helped redevelop school facilities and was always a positive presence …’
    Aiden stretched his long, brown legs and compared them to the boy (a local, the son of a cop) sitting next to him: pale-skinned, none of the scars or discolourations of real life. And the Brother, completely removed from reality: ‘He’d been a member of the Mercy staff since the early days …’
    He guessed he had to be here, had to suffer, but felt that some good should come of it: book-keeping, letter-writing, physical education, even what passed for agriculture (a flock of sheep, a few calves, a few pigs). But not this.
    â€˜During these years two more Brothers passed on …’
    He could see there was strength in his legs and he felt he was wasting it. He could see his dad digging a hole for a fence post, and his brother, trying to help him, although there were only a few jobs he was good for. Anyway, Harry had seven years of his own bullshit to wade through. Education in the ether: webcams and the faces of distant teachers, their lips refusing to synchronise with their words. King Henry the Fifth, Pontius Pilate, salmon swimming upstream, the importance of an opposable thumb, Mozart dead at thirty-five. Three times a day, despite what really needed doing around Bundeena. As he heard his father light the welder.
    Now, Aiden, which of these is not a mammal …
    Or, a long, hot afternoon, and 300 head to castrate. Looking at his mother, eyes pleading: ‘I’ll do twice as much tomorrow.’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Dad will be going for hours.’
    As the baby (the pest, Harry-shit-arse) cried in the corner and Aunty Fay peeled potatoes. ‘No, Aiden, Bill’s helpin’ … they’re nearly done.’
    â€˜Catholic laity began to assume responsibility for schools from various religious orders …’
    He saw Mrs Dale pointing to his un-tucked shirt. He fixed it; just enough to keep her quiet.
    â€˜Examination results were invariably good: Latin, Classics, Geometry …’
    He looked down at the school-crested carpet, discoloured by the light from the stained-glass windows. Noticed the dozen or so pairs of boots, and his were the most polished; legs, and his were the longest; hands (some clutching hymnals), and his were the strongest—and most frustrated (squeezing, rubbing, tapping). Then he looked through a window with the word ‘Eucharist’ in gold along the bottom. A leadlight showed a long table, chokers with disciples, each with their own pink beard. There was a white-whiskered Jesus, too old, too fat for Messiah-as-Catholic-school-leadlight.
    It is, he thought, staring at him. Father Christmas. What year? I must have been eight or nine.
    It was the same face: high forehead, and eyelids that covered most of his eyes; a small mouth, few words, dented chin.
    It is, he thought.
    An hour’s journey in the family car: him, Shit-for-breath, Trevor, Carelyn and Murray. He could remember stopping at the siding and getting out and waiting, his parents refusing to tell him why they were there. Remember wearing his new Akubra, a clean shirt and too-tight moleskins coming up above his gristly ankles. Murray grinning. ‘They used to do this when I was a kid.’
    â€˜What’s that, Pop?’
    â€˜Wait and see.’
    Then the train: a pair of locos pulling a long, silver slug. The Indian Pacific stopping at Bundeena siding (the first time in twenty years, Murray pointed out, as the train slowed towards them). It stopped and waited and hissed. Then, Father Christmas descended the six steps from the front loco.
    He could still see him in the leadlight, reaching for his chalice.
    He was back in the desert. Harry was crying (because Santa had asked to hold him, to give him a small gift