He drafted three new prawning contracts and volunteered for the unpleasant job of cleaning the mortar off the old bricks for the school. He painted Solly’s house for him and went on to start the vegetable garden.
These acts were in no way intended to curry favour or gain friendship (in fact they were some sort of substitute for wrath) but they succeeded in spite of that. The islanders took to him: not only was he educated but he was also prepared to work at the nastiest jobs side by side with them, he could tell funny stories, he didn’t flirt with their wives, and he’d negotiated the best damn prawn contracts they’d ever had.
It is doubtful if Vincent noticed this. He was not accustomed to being liked and would have never expected it on Upward Island.
Given his skills, it’s natural enough that he should have been co-opted as an assistant to the council. But that he should be elected formally to the council after only two months is an indication of the popularity he had begun to enjoy. Again, it is doubtful if he saw it.
On the night after his election to the council he sat on the verandah with Solly and looked out at the approaching night, a night that was still foreign to him and full of things he neither liked nor understood.
Solly was a big man. The stomach that bulged beneath his white singlet betrayed his love of beer, just as the muscular forearms attested to his years as a waterside worker. The great muscled calves that protruded from his rolled-up trousers were the legs of a young man, but the creased black face and the curly greying hair betrayed his age. It was a face that could show, almost simultaneously, the dignity of a judge and the bright-eyed recklessness of a born larrikin.
He sat on the verandah of his high-stilted house, one big blue hand around a beer bottle, the other around a glass which he filled and passed to Vincent. The hand which took the glass was now calloused and tough. The arm, never thick, was now wiry and hard, tatooed with knicks and scratches and dusty with mortar. A flea made its way through the hairs and dust on the arm. Vincent saw it and knocked it off. It wasn’t worth killing them. There were too many.
As the darkness finally shrouded the garden a great clamour began in the hen house.
“Bloody python,” said Solly.
“I’ll go.” Vincent stood up. He didn’t want to go. He hadn’t gone yet, but it was about time he went.
“I’ll go.” Solly picked up a shotgun and walked off into the dark. Vincent sipped his beer and knew that next time he’d have to go.
There was a shot and Solly came back holding the remains of a python in one hand and a dead chicken in the other.
“Too late,” he grinned, “snake got him first.”
He sat down, leaving the dead bird on the floor, and the snake draped across the railing.
“Now you’re on the council,” he said, “we’re going to have to do something to get your hands in shape.”
“Ah, they’re all right. The blisters have all gone.” Vincent wondered what blisters had to do with the council.
“I wasn’t talking about blisters, Mr. Economics. I was discussing the matter of your hands.” Solly chuckled. His white teeth flashed in the light from the kitchen window. “You’re going to have to take some medicine.”
Vincent was used to being teased. He had faced poisonous grasshoppers, threatened cyclones and dozens of other tricks they liked to play on him. He didn’t know what this was about, but he’d find out soon enough.
“What medicine is that, Sol?”
“Why,” laughed Solly, “little pills, of course. You need a few little pills now you’re on the council. We can’t have you sitting on the council with the wrong-coloured hands.”
Vincent couldn’t believe what he was hearing. They’d never discussed the blue hands. His mind had been full of it. Not a day had gone by when the blue hands hadn’t caused him pain. But he had avoided mentioning them for fear of touching so nasty a wound.
“Eupholon?” He said it. The word.
“For a smart boy you’re very slow. Sure, that’s what they call it.”
Vincent’s scalp prickled. He had said the name. How did he know the name? They knew about him. It was a trap. Now it would be the time for justice to be done. They would force him to take the poison he’d given them.
There was a silence.
“Solly, you know where I worked before?”
“Sure, you was the great Economics man.”
“I mean what company?”
“Sure, you worked for Mr. Farrow.” Solly’s voice was calm, but Vincent’s ears were ringing in the silence between the words.
“How you know that, Solly?”
“Oh, you got a lady friend who reckons you’re a bad fella. She wrote us a letter. Three pages. Boy, what you do to her, eh?” He laughed again. “She’s a very angry lady, that one.”
“Anita.”
“I forget her name,” he waved an arm, dismissing it. “Some name like that.”
In the corner of his eye, Vincent saw the headless python twitch.
“That why you want me to take the pills?”
“Christ no.” Solly roared with laughter, a great whooping laugh that slid from a wheezing treble to deepest bass. “Christ no, you crazy bastard.” He stood up and came and sat by Vincent on the step, hugging him. “You crazy Economics bastard, no.” He wiped his eyes with a large blue hand. “Oh shit. You are what they call a one-off model. You know what that means?”
“What?” Vincent was numb, almost beyond speech.
“It means you are fucking unique. I love you.”
Vincent was very confused. He slapped at a few mosquitoes and tried to puzzle it out. Every shred of fact that his life was based on seemed as insubstantial as fairy floss. “You don’t care I sent the pills here?”
“Care!” the laughter came again. “To put it properly to you, we are fucking delighted you sent the pills here. Everything is fine. Why should we be mad with you?”
“The blue hands…”
“You are not only crazy,” said Solly affectionately. “You are also nine-tenths blind. Don’t you notice anything about the blue hands?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re bloody blind. All the best men got blue hands. All the bravest men. We’re bloody proud of these hands. You got blue hands on Upward, Vincent, you got respect. How come you can live here so long and not notice that? We had to beat that damn guard to get these hands, Vincent. When the time came to kick out Farrow, everyone knows who’s got the guts to do it, because we’re the only ones that’s got the hands.”
“So I’ve got to have blue hands, to be on the council?”
“You got it. You got perfect understanding.”
“OK,” Vincent grinned. He felt as light as air. He poured himself another beer. He wanted to get drunk and sing songs. He didn’t dwell on the idea of the blue hands. That was nothing. All he said was, “Where do I get the pills?”
Solly scratched his head. “Well, I suppose there must be some up at the warehouse. You better go up and take a look.”
Vincent started laughing then, laughing with pure joy and relief. The more he thought about it, the funnier it was and the more he laughed. And Solly, sitting beside him, laughed too.
I imagine the pair of them hooting and cackling into the dark tropical night, a dead chicken at their feet, a headless python twitching on the railing. Not surprisingly, they were laughing about different things.
Late the next morning Vincent set off to walk to the warehouse. He felt marvellous. In the kitchen he cut himself some sandwiches and on the dusty road he found a long stick. He walked the three-mile track with a light heart, delighting in the long seas of golden grass, finding beauty in the muddy mangrove shoreline and its heat- hazed horizon.
Vincent in white shorts with his cut lunch and walking stick like a tourist off to visit Greek ruins.
The warehouse shone silver in the harsh midday sun. There was something written on the side. As he came up the last steep slope he finally made it out: someone had painted a blue hand on the longest side of the building and
