face.
—I’ve changed my mind!
But he wasn’t talking to me. The lights went quickly out, and hidden men appeared from behind walls and fences.
—Come on, said Ford.
He was quick on the feet; I hadn’t seen him move like this before. He charged out the front gate of the fort, past my tepee. I couldn’t keep up; my leg didn’t like the broken ground. Danny still played but the song, the rhythm, was breaking up the further Ford strode from the fort. He was on the small hills now, marching over them. I was passed by the crew and stuntmen, the horses and, now, the trucks pulling generators and huge propellers - the wind machines - and men clinging, hanging from the backs and sides of the trucks. I could feel the dirt, between the wood and the meat of my leg, scouring, cutting.
I knew he’d stopped because the music became music again. Dust settled; so did the noise. I could see Ford, over the heads and hats of the men who’d gone in front of me.
I stopped, and I was angry. But I watched. The resolve, whatever it was I’d pulled together, had blown away. Ford had me where he wanted me, in the middle of red nowhere. I didn’t even have an accordion to squeeze and hide behind.
The music stopped.
He didn’t shout, but I heard him.
—Here.
Another voice took the word.
—Here!
Ford turned, a half-circle. He pointed.
—And here.
—Here! Let’s go!
Ford marched off the chosen hill. This time I waited. I didn’t want to move.
—I think Pappy would like a word with you.
Meta Sterne was beside me.
—Are you quite alright? she asked.
She took off her big-brimmed hat, so she could look up at all of me.
—I’ll be grand, I told her.
—The heat?
—Yeah.
Ford stopped at the bottom of the hill. The cactus guy unfolded two canvas chairs and put them side by side, backs to the hill. I saw Ford speak to Danny Borzage, and Danny turned and walked towards me. I saw his fingers, and heard that poxy bit of a song, The Bold Henry Smart .
And now I moved. I met him halfway, keeping an eye on the ground I’d have to cover. I went straight for him, through him; I made him and his squeezebox get out of my way.
Ford didn’t turn. But I saw his fury in the stiffness of his shoulders and neck. As I came up behind him I could see his white handkerchief. He was chewing it, sucking it up like a piece of very white spaghetti. I sat beside him. Most of the hankie was in his mouth. A corner of it, a fat rat’s tail, sat on his chin.
Meta Sterne was beside him now and, for a while - a few long seconds - I wasn’t there. It was her and him. Her wide hat brim made shade for both of them as she stood beside him, and slowly pulled the handkerchief from his mouth. It began to dry in the heat; I could see the steam lift from it. She picked up her blanket, flicked it open, and was sitting on it before it had properly settled, just beside Ford’s feet.
—Ready, Meta? he said.
—All set, she answered.
Her hat darkened the paper on her lap. It was like she was putting her hand into a cave to write.
—Lil, I said.
—What?
The name had just dropped in front of me.
—I had a sister called Lil.
I wasn’t really talking to them. I just needed to hear it.
—She in the story? said Ford.
—She was my sister.
I searched for the pebbled notebook. Trousers, jacket - I had more pockets than I’d ever owned. I found it, inside my jacket. The words were there, the names. They were all there. I looked at the last one I’d written. GRACIE. I waited till my hand, my arm, stopped shaking. Then I wrote the new name. LIL.
I tried to see her. I tried to see all of them. But I couldn’t. I could feel them and - I thought I did - I heard them. Their cries and whines. But no more names dropped for me. GRACIE. LIL. Just the two. There’d been others - lots of them. I could make up a number - ten, eleven, seventeen. Any big number would have been right, and useless. I was the only one who’d lived.
I didn’t know that. It
—I’ve changed my mind!
But he wasn’t talking to me. The lights went quickly out, and hidden men appeared from behind walls and fences.
—Come on, said Ford.
He was quick on the feet; I hadn’t seen him move like this before. He charged out the front gate of the fort, past my tepee. I couldn’t keep up; my leg didn’t like the broken ground. Danny still played but the song, the rhythm, was breaking up the further Ford strode from the fort. He was on the small hills now, marching over them. I was passed by the crew and stuntmen, the horses and, now, the trucks pulling generators and huge propellers - the wind machines - and men clinging, hanging from the backs and sides of the trucks. I could feel the dirt, between the wood and the meat of my leg, scouring, cutting.
I knew he’d stopped because the music became music again. Dust settled; so did the noise. I could see Ford, over the heads and hats of the men who’d gone in front of me.
I stopped, and I was angry. But I watched. The resolve, whatever it was I’d pulled together, had blown away. Ford had me where he wanted me, in the middle of red nowhere. I didn’t even have an accordion to squeeze and hide behind.
The music stopped.
He didn’t shout, but I heard him.
—Here.
Another voice took the word.
—Here!
Ford turned, a half-circle. He pointed.
—And here.
—Here! Let’s go!
Ford marched off the chosen hill. This time I waited. I didn’t want to move.
—I think Pappy would like a word with you.
Meta Sterne was beside me.
—Are you quite alright? she asked.
She took off her big-brimmed hat, so she could look up at all of me.
—I’ll be grand, I told her.
—The heat?
—Yeah.
Ford stopped at the bottom of the hill. The cactus guy unfolded two canvas chairs and put them side by side, backs to the hill. I saw Ford speak to Danny Borzage, and Danny turned and walked towards me. I saw his fingers, and heard that poxy bit of a song, The Bold Henry Smart .
And now I moved. I met him halfway, keeping an eye on the ground I’d have to cover. I went straight for him, through him; I made him and his squeezebox get out of my way.
Ford didn’t turn. But I saw his fury in the stiffness of his shoulders and neck. As I came up behind him I could see his white handkerchief. He was chewing it, sucking it up like a piece of very white spaghetti. I sat beside him. Most of the hankie was in his mouth. A corner of it, a fat rat’s tail, sat on his chin.
Meta Sterne was beside him now and, for a while - a few long seconds - I wasn’t there. It was her and him. Her wide hat brim made shade for both of them as she stood beside him, and slowly pulled the handkerchief from his mouth. It began to dry in the heat; I could see the steam lift from it. She picked up her blanket, flicked it open, and was sitting on it before it had properly settled, just beside Ford’s feet.
—Ready, Meta? he said.
—All set, she answered.
Her hat darkened the paper on her lap. It was like she was putting her hand into a cave to write.
—Lil, I said.
—What?
The name had just dropped in front of me.
—I had a sister called Lil.
I wasn’t really talking to them. I just needed to hear it.
—She in the story? said Ford.
—She was my sister.
I searched for the pebbled notebook. Trousers, jacket - I had more pockets than I’d ever owned. I found it, inside my jacket. The words were there, the names. They were all there. I looked at the last one I’d written. GRACIE. I waited till my hand, my arm, stopped shaking. Then I wrote the new name. LIL.
I tried to see her. I tried to see all of them. But I couldn’t. I could feel them and - I thought I did - I heard them. Their cries and whines. But no more names dropped for me. GRACIE. LIL. Just the two. There’d been others - lots of them. I could make up a number - ten, eleven, seventeen. Any big number would have been right, and useless. I was the only one who’d lived.
I didn’t know that. It
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