Working man's hands by Steve Smith

‘She just doesn’t get it, just doesn’t understand. She doesn’t listen.’

He slapped the horse’s rump, stroked it and watched how it was impossible to make a mark or change the hair’s direction. Autumn had arrived; leaves dotted the ground and floated down the stream just beyond the wooden fence. The overcast sky dulled every colour, but threatened no rain. The chill was not enough to make him fasten his green coat. He heard the gates in the distance and the sound of a car.

‘You listen. You listen to me, Sugarbelle, and we get along just fine. Why can’t she listen? Things would be great. She used to listen. It wasn’t that long ago. She listened and everything was fine. Just fine.’

He put his forehead to the side of the horse’s stomach; he inhaled the distinctive smell: so earthy, so real and so … solid. He lifted his head, took a cap from the inside of his jacket and put it on. He felt the muscles inside the beast and watched the powerful legs and the occasional stamp of hoof. The large eye glanced at him, wondering what his next move would be. The stream had picked up speed for the winter, relentless in its motion and consistent in its noise. A spider ran up the damp fence post, over the top and out of sight; a single bird called out from a tree across the water. He removed the cap, put it back inside his coat and turned to the silent visitor.

His daughter, Joanne, took two steps and stopped. He looked at the gap between them. She offered a smile and looked at her father’s muddy boots. He followed her gaze.

‘You always liked me to have clean boots, didn’t you?’

‘You can tell a lot about someone by looking at their shoes.’

He stamped his foot, knocking a lump of mud to the floor. He trod on it. She stuffed her hands in her jean pockets.

He kept his head down, but looked up. The stud under her bottom lip always took his attention for too long. Green hair and ripped clothes only happened in his wife’s drama programmes or to other people’s children. He looked at his hands and found her watching them too.

‘These hands have had a tough life, Joanne.’

‘I know they have, Dad.’

‘Gone through a lot, have these hands.’

She nodded.

‘I remember when I was a lad. Think I was about … fourteen. They used to say I had girl’s hands. My dad said that. He told me these hands weren’t for working.’

‘They certainly have worked, Dad.’

‘They have … they have. I look at my hands sometimes and I’m proud. I’m proud of being a working man and my working man’s hands. At some point they changed … I can’t remember when.’

She nodded.

‘Sometimes? Sometimes I wish I still had girl’s hands. Girl’s hands like my dad said. Soft and smooth.’ He laughed. ‘If you saw my hands, you wouldn’t know whether they belonged to a girl or a boy. Now look … calloused and old. Working man’s hands.’

‘Dad … I’ve got to go. I’m going. Won’t you say goodbye?’

‘Working man’s hands.’

He was turning them, looking at the palms and the worn knuckles, over and over.

‘Josh is here. He’s loading my bags and I’m going, Dad. I’m going with Josh.’

He looked at her battered old boots: the height of fashion. He looked at her face, pensive and stubborn; he saw himself there, past the nose stud and the heavy make-up.

‘Has your mother put the tea on?’

‘No, Dad. Mum’s crying.’

‘Is she?’

‘She wants you to come in; you’ve been out here with Sugarbelle for hours, doing nothing. She wants you to be there when I go, Dad. Will you come in?’

‘I can’t just leave Sugarbelle here, can I?’

She looked around the empty field, fenced on all sides.

‘She might get away.’

‘Don’t be silly, Dad.’

Joanne walked forward, stroked the horse’s neck and tickled its nose. The horse shook its head, like a thousand times before.

‘Show me your hands, Joanne.’

She stood in front of her father and held out her hands. She turned them over. He looked at the fingers, reddened by the cold, a silver ring on each digit.

‘Will you come in with me, Dad?’

He smiled. ‘You’ve got working man’s hands too. Just like me. Just like my father.’

She looked at her hands. ‘Let’s go in together. See Josh before we go. I’d really like your blessing. We’d really like your blessing.’

She stepped forward, he stepped back. His back touched the horse. It watched them from the corner of its eye.

‘Dad.’ She stepped forward again and made a grab for his hands. He twisted and moved away. She stood where he had been; he watched the twinkling lights of the farm house fighting against the descending gloom. ‘Dad?’

She stood, working her top teeth against the stud, rubbing her forefingers against her thumbs.

He heard her turn and listened to each step hit the ground; he heard the gate click and close. A while later, the sound of a car starting broke the silence. He heard the car move across the gravel stones, the sound of the front gates opening and closing behind it. The car moved off into the cold night. The light at the front of the house went out and plunged him into near darkness. The horse shuddered and moved. He took it by the reins and led it towards the gate in silence.

He slipped the bolt across the stable door.

‘There, Sugarbelle. You’ll be nice and safe in there, my little lady. I’ll see you in the morning.’