tap. When Flynn became impatient he pulled his arm out from under the water but soon afterwards the pain would return and he would put his arm back under again. A dog came and sniffed them both and a kid on a bike rode past and nearly steered into a post looking at them.
‘Look at him, Flynn. Nearly crashed into the post,’ said Tom. Flynn giggled.
The wife of the publican came out to look at Flynn’s arm. She tut-tutted and then took him inside. When he came out he had a bright white bandage on his arm and a glass of Coke with a straw in it. She had a glass for Tom as well and a plate of sandwiches. They climbed up into the truck and sat amidst the curled and sun-yellowed racing guides, the dried and miniaturised orange peel, the crushed red Marlboro packets, the smell of sawdust and hot oil. They ate their sandwiches, washed them down with their Cokes, burped. Tom began to think the day might finally be looking up.
Soon Flynn was sound asleep, his mouth open and his head back against the wine-red seat, the band of burnt, freckled skin across his nose and cheeks vivid against the smooth white skin of his neck. Tom sat and listened. He could hear the hotel noises: shouting, laughing, tinny music. The sounds seemed strangely comforting. A breeze filtering down through the trees fanned him through the open window. He put his head back and fell asleep beside his brother and soon he was dreaming. He dreamt he fell off the deck of a great ship and sank down through the sea, the sun disappearing, miles and miles of black elbow-room opening up all around.
Henry woke them by thudding on the door of the truck, right where Tom’s head rested. He looked up, his thoughts in a muddle, but not so much that he couldn’t see that Henry was good and drunk. He looked out the window at the street. It was much later in the day. Where before there had only been their one truck in the street there were now half a dozen. It seemed work was over for the timbermen for the week. They sat out on the verandah of the hotel, leant against the doorposts and spat into the dust. The boy on the bike was back, but keeping his distance on the other side of the street.
‘Mr McKinnon’s going to take you home,’ said Henry. ‘I’m stayin’ on for a bit longer.’ He turned and went back into the hotel after mumbling something about waiting by the truck. Tom rubbed his face, shook Flynn, then climbed down from the truck’s cab. Flynn followed at his own pace, muttering to himself.
‘You sleep a lot,’ Tom told him.
‘Do I?’
‘Yep, you do.’
‘Well, so do you.’
‘Not as much as you. How’s your arm?’
‘Good,’ said Flynn, as though there were nothing wrong with it.
‘You hungry?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What do you want to eat?’
‘Bacon.’
‘Oh yeah. Bacon’d be good.’
He took Flynn to the tap and let him drink and then he took a few mouthfuls himself. They wandered down to Artie McKinnon’s truck to wait. Tom could see Henry inside the hotel. He was laughing and holding up his empty glass and pointing to it. Being inside there obviously put him in a much better mood. Tom looked at the golden glasses of beer in the hands of the men and tried to imagine how cold they were, colder than ice maybe, from the way water dripped from them like it did from trees in the rain. He swore to Flynn he would go in there when he was old enough and drink twenty of them at once but Flynn seemed unimpressed.
Three or four men were drinking quietly in the shade of the hotel’s southern wall, admiring an axe one held, when the boys walked by. Tom recognised a few from the clearing.
‘Henry’s boy,’ one said, as if Tom were hard of hearing.
‘Doesn’t treat him good,’ said a second.
‘Maybe it’s not your business.’
‘Maybe not, but he’ll be six feet under, Henry doesn’t watch out.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Henry’ll let go a log on him, way he charges about, bull at a gate.’
‘Henry has a good boy there,’ said the first man.
‘Yep, he’s a good boy. Not his boy though.’
‘No?’
‘No. That’s Alex Ferry’s boy.’
‘You don’t say?’
‘That little un’s Henry’s.’
‘Ah.’
‘Henry should watch out, all I’m saying,’ repeated the second man.
The first man sang out to Tom, ‘Come here a minute, son!’
Tom thought about ignoring him but then he turned and walked over, his head down, Flynn trailing behind.
‘How’s the little feller’s arm?’
‘It’s all right.’
The man was old and stocky with a small red nose and big ears. The deep, crinkled skin around his eyes made him look like a coolie he’d seen once in a book.
‘Your old man, he’s all right.’
Tom nodded and looked at the gaiters over the man’s socks.
‘We’re all a bit rough and ready but our barks are worse than our bites. You follow?’
Tom nodded.
‘Good boy. Hey, here’s something for ya.’
The man pulled something from his pocket and palmed it before Tom could see what it was.
‘What is it?’
‘Don’t want to guess?’
‘No.’
‘No, I suppose you’re gettin’ too old to be guessing.’
The man held the object out to Tom in his palm and Tom picked it up. It was a harmonica, about three inches long and silver.
‘I can’t take this.’
‘You go ahead. You’re a good boy, helping your – helping old Henry. I want you to have it. I’ve got plenty.’
‘Take it, kid,’ said the second man. ‘Anything to stop him playin’ it.’
Tom was about to protest a little more when the man’s attention was caught by another of his mates. One of their number, a huge man with black chops, was stumbling about in the vacant land next to the hotel. A building had once stood where he tottered but had burnt to the ground long ago, charred stumps the only evidence of its dimensions. The man leant to the side and then his leg gave way on him and he fell into the long grass. The men laughed and began to pelt him with small stones from the side of the road and anything else they could lay their hands on.
‘Thanks then,’ said Tom.
The man glanced at him and grinned and raised his hand, gave a slight nod, his eyes concealed almost completely now by the folds of skin around them. He turned to his mate, pointed to the tool he held in his hands, said: ‘Yeah, she’s a good axe that.’
Tom walked on, turning the harmonica over in his hands. Flynn held out his hand to look and after a while Tom gave it to him.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a harmonica.’
‘What’s it for?’
‘It’s to make music. You blow through the front there.’
Flynn put his lips to the instrument and blew and then laughed at the sound he made and then began to make it again and again.
‘What do the words say?’
‘The Miniature Boomerang. Albert’s System. Tangent Tempered Reeds,’