The Hands by Stephen Orr Page B

don’t really care, Mrs Lawrence.
    Aiden …
    I’m nearly old enough to leave school.
    What would that achieve?
    I could help Dad.
    You’ll be able to help him soon enough. But if you neglect—
    So what?
    Aiden pressed backspace and his words (some he’d spent days sweating over) disappeared. When he was finished and the screen was blank he looked at Mrs Lawrence and said, That’s what I think of Biology.
    You’ll have to do it all again, she said.
    No, I won’t.
    He looked up at the Brother, pulling his undies from his arse.
    I can keep failing, and they can keep nagging, he explained. Eventually they’ll get sick of it and let me leave.
    He looked at a few small stars floating above his desk. Leaned forward, opened his window and called out, ‘What’s up, Bro?’ Then shot back behind the curtain.
    Harry was still sitting at his classroom computer. Carelyn had made him dress for school, as she had Aiden, every day of his primary school years: his SOTA polo shirt, navy pants, socks and shoes. Lessons wouldn’t begin until teeth were brushed and hair combed. And the background was always carefully controlled. No ironing piles or unwanted television. Chris was kept outside, mostly, and Murray was banned from singing or playing music.
    It was morning assembly and Harry’s year level (sisters from another station, a boy half an hour from Port Augusta, another from a wheat-sheep farm on the Eyre Peninsula) was running the assembly. Harry had taken charge. The others (he told his parents) weren’t good for much. The sisters were always in their pyjamas, sucking ice-blocks, despite the fact that Mrs Lawrence was always on at them. The other boys just seemed to stare at the webcam and occasionally nod. Murray thought they were all inbred.
    One of the sisters was having a birthday. Harry led them in a round of Happy Birthday and said, ‘So, Shakina, could you tell us what gifts you got?’
    The little girl smiled into the frame that contained their five faces. ‘What?’
    â€˜What gifts did you get?’ Mrs Lawrence repeated.
    â€˜Oh … Mum’s made me a dress, and a couple of CDs, and Aleisha,’ and her sister sat forward so her head took up the whole frame, ‘she got me a thirty dollar gift card.’
    â€˜Are you having a party?’ Harry asked.
    â€˜No.’
    Then he read out his weekly quiz: the questions Carelyn helped him write every Wednesday night. ‘Number one,’ he said, as the others scrambled for their books and a pen. ‘What is the second-biggest city in Queensland?’
    The sisters looked at each other but the boys just stared at the screen.
    â€˜Well, what’s the biggest?’ he asked, and Shakina said, ‘Perth.’
    He turned and looked at his mum, sitting only a few inches away. She rolled her eyes and said, ‘Don’t tell them. Move on.’
    â€˜Number two,’ he continued. ‘List the highest common factors of 24.’
    Silence, again.
    After the quiz they shared their news (Shakina’s dad due an operation on his knee, the latest from Australian Idol ), then he closed the assembly and Mrs Lawrence played a clip of the national anthem (complete with sheep flocks, a one-legged Aborigine and a Bondi lifesaver with a tattoo of the Queen).
    Later, after a morning tea of Fay’s re-warmed scones, Chris joined Harry at the computer. It was the weekly ‘Meet My Family’ session. Harry had worked through each member of his family three, four times, always avoiding his cousin, until one day Carelyn said, ‘What about Chris?’
    Mrs Lawrence got things started. ‘Mr George … perhaps you could tell us about some of the jobs you do at Bundeena?’
    Chris just looked at Harry.
    â€˜Go on,’ Harry said. ‘They just want to know a bit about you.’
    â€˜Well,’ Chris began, hesitating, ‘I help out around the