on the seat on top of his December issue of the Engineering Digest.
Chook Henderson was already reaching under the driver’s seat to slide it backwards. His belly just fitted nicely in behind the wheel. He wound down the window and held out his hand for the keys and Douglas gave them to him.
Just like that. It was as if his hand did it all by itself.
He stood with his mouth ajar, wondering.
Chook already had the engine running, had the thing in reverse, the hand-brake off. He had not needed to be shown the trick about reverse, how you had to push the little button down on the gearstick before you slid it across. It had taken Douglas a moment to work it out when he picked up the ute at the car pool. It was the kind of puzzle he liked, and he would have been happy to show Chook.
This Chook did not need to be shown anything. The only thing holding him up was the bloke from Head Office, standing there looking as if he’d just remembered he’d left the stove on.
He came around to the passenger’s side. Chook was pushing the newspapers to one side in a hospitable way. He saw the Engineering Digest and picked it up.
Temporal Variants in the Hydration of Portland Cement, he read, and tossed it on to the dashboard ledge.
Bit dry, eh, Doug?
He laughed a gusty laugh. Douglas wondered if he had made a joke. Dry. Hydration.
He laughed tentatively.
The Digest had seemed a good idea, back in Sydney. Catch up on a few back issues. Now he wished he had thought to put it in his bag. Over the years, he had found that it was hard to explain the attraction of the Engineering Digest to people. He had tried to tell them what was interesting about such things as the hydration of Portland Cement, but they had never seemed really convinced.
He stared out the side window. He did not know how you got to be a Chook Henderson. He had known them in the schoolyard. It seemed to come naturally to them. Perhaps it was something to do with your father, or whether you had brothers and sisters. Perhaps it was toilet training. He did not know how he had been toilet trained. It could be in the genes, or in the water. Iron in the pipes, something like that.
Whatever it was, it was too late for him now. He was good at working out the buttons on a gear stick and he knew a great deal about Portland Cement and other related subjects, but it seemed that he was no good with people. He had been told that more than once.
They left the shops behind, turned downhill and crossed the river. The bridge looked new, a simple job, pre-stressed concrete, three spans, he knew the type well. On the other side of the bridge there was a faded sign: Karakarook North. The road sloped around the hill along a ragged-looking street with no kerbing and guttering. The houses clung to the side of the hill, tilting on their foundations: blistered weatherboard places patched with stained fibro, the roofs rusting away, lattice unravelling from verandahs in long drooping strips, an old car up on bricks in every front yard.
Then without warning they were out of Karakarook, on a dirt road running between rounded paddocks with clumps of trees and lopsided corrugated iron sheds that sent long crooked shadows out over the ground.
Even at this early hour of the morning the air that came in the window was so dry that Douglas could feel the membranes on the inside of his nose drying out. He imagined them cracking like old leather. A horse lifted its head from a pink bath that lay tilted on the ground beside a fence and stared at him with drops of water falling off its whiskery mouth.
Chook drove much faster on the dirt than Douglas would have cared to. As well as being careful about the Blue Slip and the Vehicle Requisition Form, he was a cautious driver. He had never had an accident, never even had a parking ticket. Risks were not in his nature.
Chook was driving with his right hand and rolling a cigarette with his left. While he did it he was not driving any slower. It was not an
Chook Henderson was already reaching under the driver’s seat to slide it backwards. His belly just fitted nicely in behind the wheel. He wound down the window and held out his hand for the keys and Douglas gave them to him.
Just like that. It was as if his hand did it all by itself.
He stood with his mouth ajar, wondering.
Chook already had the engine running, had the thing in reverse, the hand-brake off. He had not needed to be shown the trick about reverse, how you had to push the little button down on the gearstick before you slid it across. It had taken Douglas a moment to work it out when he picked up the ute at the car pool. It was the kind of puzzle he liked, and he would have been happy to show Chook.
This Chook did not need to be shown anything. The only thing holding him up was the bloke from Head Office, standing there looking as if he’d just remembered he’d left the stove on.
He came around to the passenger’s side. Chook was pushing the newspapers to one side in a hospitable way. He saw the Engineering Digest and picked it up.
Temporal Variants in the Hydration of Portland Cement, he read, and tossed it on to the dashboard ledge.
Bit dry, eh, Doug?
He laughed a gusty laugh. Douglas wondered if he had made a joke. Dry. Hydration.
He laughed tentatively.
The Digest had seemed a good idea, back in Sydney. Catch up on a few back issues. Now he wished he had thought to put it in his bag. Over the years, he had found that it was hard to explain the attraction of the Engineering Digest to people. He had tried to tell them what was interesting about such things as the hydration of Portland Cement, but they had never seemed really convinced.
He stared out the side window. He did not know how you got to be a Chook Henderson. He had known them in the schoolyard. It seemed to come naturally to them. Perhaps it was something to do with your father, or whether you had brothers and sisters. Perhaps it was toilet training. He did not know how he had been toilet trained. It could be in the genes, or in the water. Iron in the pipes, something like that.
Whatever it was, it was too late for him now. He was good at working out the buttons on a gear stick and he knew a great deal about Portland Cement and other related subjects, but it seemed that he was no good with people. He had been told that more than once.
They left the shops behind, turned downhill and crossed the river. The bridge looked new, a simple job, pre-stressed concrete, three spans, he knew the type well. On the other side of the bridge there was a faded sign: Karakarook North. The road sloped around the hill along a ragged-looking street with no kerbing and guttering. The houses clung to the side of the hill, tilting on their foundations: blistered weatherboard places patched with stained fibro, the roofs rusting away, lattice unravelling from verandahs in long drooping strips, an old car up on bricks in every front yard.
Then without warning they were out of Karakarook, on a dirt road running between rounded paddocks with clumps of trees and lopsided corrugated iron sheds that sent long crooked shadows out over the ground.
Even at this early hour of the morning the air that came in the window was so dry that Douglas could feel the membranes on the inside of his nose drying out. He imagined them cracking like old leather. A horse lifted its head from a pink bath that lay tilted on the ground beside a fence and stared at him with drops of water falling off its whiskery mouth.
Chook drove much faster on the dirt than Douglas would have cared to. As well as being careful about the Blue Slip and the Vehicle Requisition Form, he was a cautious driver. He had never had an accident, never even had a parking ticket. Risks were not in his nature.
Chook was driving with his right hand and rolling a cigarette with his left. While he did it he was not driving any slower. It was not an
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