boy was nervous, even frantic around his father. So I told them like you said, Dad. I told them it was an old lead mine and that the tailings are all over the block. That the place is poison. That there’s lead in the well water. Just like I told the other people.
—And what happened? his dad growled. I think it worked. The old girl looked scared and the bloke with a pole up his arse stared at me without saying anything. Their names are Pet and Darl. I’ve heard them call each other that.
The boy’s dad laughed and then repeated to himself, Pet and Darl . . . Pet and Darl . . . bloody dickheads.
Then, dead quiet. The boy watched his father, trying hard not to tap his foot or do anything else that’d set the burly miner off.
Bastards, the drunken miner muttered. Bastards . . . sticking that eyesore there without so much as a by-your-leave. Who do they think they are? Squatters? The landed fucking gentry? He then started yelling again, punching a fist into a hand: No neighbors! No neighbors! No neighbors! The corellas, scratching at the dirt and eyeing the neighbor’s spread, squawked en masse and plumed into the air, settling on the other side of the fence.
Pet rang the real estate agent just to check about the abandoned “lead mine.” The voice hesitated only slightly on the other end: Don’t worry about it, the kid’s got a mental problem . . . He’s known in town for making up stories. Always being suspended from school. My daughter knows him . . . says he’s weird. Don’t worry, though. I think he’s harmless. Pet could tell the agent was clutching at straws.
The prospect of coexistence—even distantly—with a drunkard and a weird kid distracted them from the lead business. Darl did say, though, I should probably get the place tested. And Pet carried out a quick Internet search at a Batavia café, and found that there were in fact lead mines throughout the area, and that lead had been detected in local well water. Dogs had died from it. She insisted. He said, Well, we haven’t got any dogs and we haven’t got any small children . . . She could hear that he was becoming a farmer again.
But Pet wouldn’t let it go. She couldn’t. And as they stood in their donga looking out at a blood-red sunset, the drunk next door screaming across the distance, in ragged bursts that punctuated lulls in the fresh sea-breeze: No neighbors! No neighbors! No neighbors! she caught Darl’s eye twitching—a sign that he was reaching the end of his tolerance. He wasn’t a violent man, but still he had a temper. He’d give that drunken neighbor a run for his money, then there’d be real trouble. Pet felt it in her waters. Well, the town has been drinking the water for a hundred years, so I think we’ll survive, Darl said suddenly, and calmly. As if that was that, and there’d be no more talk about the matter. Gradually they both decided they couldn’t care less about the lead. Even if it were true, they’d live there. They had once been farmers. Back then, they had saturated their paddocks and animals in poison every year. What was the difference? Real estate agents will say anything. They remained proud of their purchase.
The donga had been there for a few weeks and workers were already laying the house-pad. The boy’s father was mumbling something about the next phase of the operation. The night before, he’d fired rifle shots into the air and played the stereo extra loud.
Funny thing was, the boy had watched the donga being set in place with a dull excitement—almost creeping skin—as the crane hoisted the donga from the semi-trailer. Overwidth, overlength. The cops were there—a car out front, a car behind the load. That’d cost them. And he’d watched in amazement as the ground was leveled for the pad. The boy liked how precise it all was. The old couple—Pet and Darl . . . he drawled their names sarcastically, mimicking his father—weren’t there much, but when they were he rode along the fence line on his motorbike, revving the shit out of the engine as per his dad’s instruction. Darl would watch him doing this for an age, and the boy thought he saw the old bloke shaking as if he were really angry once, but it might have been the easterly that had whipped in, hot and burning though it was only spring.
When the truck and workers and new owners were gone, the boy rode his trail bike up to a tear in the fence and wormed the bike through. He rode over to the mine, got off, and threw tailings at the crumpled and suffocated entry. Phase two of his dad’s plan to cleanse the district of invaders. Then he mounted up and raced down to the creek. He leant his head so far back he nearly fell off his bike—he was looking up at the sun through white gum leaves, the oil of the trees headier than dope. His dad was a smart man.
It was an “earthquake-proofed” house. A steel frame with single brick and plasterboard walls, built on a sand pad. The boy was fascinated. He rode over and asked the builders about it. Dad was at work and he was wagging school, so it would be okay. He was bored. Earthquake-proof, eh? We haven’t had an earthquake here, I don’t think, he said to them. A gnarled and bearded builder with tobacco stains around his mouth and moustache said: Well, some people like to be prepared, matey. The builder asked the boy to pass him his beer, cool in its foam holder. Yep, nothing like working in the bush, he said, no problem drinking on the job. He hacked and spat as he laughed.
The builder paused as he set a string for a new line of bricks, and said to the boy, who was rocking his bike back and forth so its wheels bit into the dirt, So you’ve been a bit of a bastard to my employers? The boy looked away and said: My dad doesn’t like neighbors.
Yeah, well, your dad’s being an arsehole. The boy shot a look back at the builder and sized up the opposition: the guy was built like a brick shithouse. Ten axe handles across. Sunburnt and milky-eyed with drink. But still sharp. The boy wanted to say something back, but hit the kick-start with his boot and throttled up, spewing sand all over the place as he raced back to the hole in the fence.
The boy stared at his dad spread-eagled on the couch, watching television. What are you staring at, you little bastard, his father half-asked him.
—Nothing. They’re putting the roof on the place next door.
Who gives a damn, his dad muttered, taking the boy by surprise. Dad looked strange. It worried the boy.
Darl and Pet were living in the donga, waiting for their house to be completed. It wouldn’t be long now. The summer had set in, and it was getting pretty hot even through the nights—they craved the ducted air-conditioning they’d had installed in their dream home. The power was through, and they’d made the massive outlay to have scheme water put on. Darl said, It’s not because of this bull about the quality of groundwater around here, just that it’s more reliable. It was late, and in the cramped space they were watching television, doing dishes and talking over the plans when there was a knock at the door. The husband called out, Who’s there?
—It’s me, from next door . . .
The couple looked at each other. Don’t open it, Pet said. Darl looked at her for slightly too long, then shook his head and went to open it. The boy was standing on the step shaking. His hair was slicked to his forehead with sweat. What’s happened? asked Darl. Pet was behind her husband’s shoulder now, and seeing the boy, pushed her way through and placed her hand on his arm. What’s wrong, son? What’s happened?
—It’s my dad. He’s sick. I mean he’s really sick. I think he needs a doctor and the phone isn’t working. I mean, Dad broke the phone when he got in from work.
Darl didn’t mind paying the extra for scheme water to be piped out to the place. Cost thousands, but peace of mind is peace of mind. Probably nothing wrong, but why go through the worry? The real estate agent’s sister—a nurse at the hospital—said tests showed there was nothing wrong with the groundwater.
