FIVE

SIDNEY CAHILL

He was outside in the shed, thick in the air the smell of marijuana and plastic. The forgotten radio blaring. He hadn’t turned it off, lost in the rhythm of his work.

There was an art to what he did. The process long and complicated. He washed his hands three times, careful to rinse them free of soap. Cut the buds carefully and placed them in little plastic bags. He used a vacuum sealer his father had ordered to suck the air out. Then he stuffed them deep within empty jars they’d bought over the summer. Tomato paste jars, hundreds of them, all then packed into boxes and stowed in the boot of his father’s old Commodore. It wouldn’t stand up to much scrutiny but Melbourne apparently wanted it done this way. Sidney didn’t know why and if his father knew, he’d never explained. The Cahills did this work their end and got paid a little extra. To his father, it was worth it. Put a dollop of tomato paste over the whole lot to hide what was left of the smell. Fool the dogs.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. It was the middle of Victoria in the middle of autumn, but the shed had a climate controller for the plants and hydroponic lights dangling from the ceiling. Constant humidity at 70 per cent. He took a moment, found a beer in the bar fridge and sat down on the old red couch, staring in despair at the dope still to be packed in bottles. He sipped his beer, wished for a fan. His wife was nowhere to be seen.

But his father was standing in the doorway. No telling how long he’d been there. He edged his way in slowly, like a snail, making a show of it. The fluorescent light above shone off his dome. He soon stood before his son, arms outstretched. ‘Thought you might want to at least try to look busy before I came in.’

‘You know I’ve been working, Dad. Look in the boot.’

‘Just you out here?’

‘Brendan worked all day.’

‘Your little one alright?’

‘Yeah, she’s alright.’

‘She with her mum?’

Sidney nodded.

‘Good that. You two alright?’

‘Yeah, why?’

His father rocked back on his heels. ‘You two sometimes get into it a bit.’

‘No more than you and Mum.’

‘You gotta teach a woman where her place is, mate. Your mum and I get into it but she knows when I put my foot down, that’s all there is.’

‘Dad . . .’

‘You gotta listen to ’em for a bit just to let them know you’ve heard ’em, you know, make them feel important. But then you gotta do what’s right. Without leadership a marriage will falter. Believe me.’

Sidney wasn’t sure how he felt about all that.

‘You got another beer?’ his father asked. He sat down on the couch and waited to be served. Sidney retrieved another can from the fridge. His father cracked it open, took a swig. He shuffled an empty milk crate from beside the couch to out in front of him and plonked his booted feet upon it and leaned back. His father, it seemed, was always comfortable, no matter where he was. The same comfort Sidney felt whenever he was at Boolarra.