Free Steeplechase by Krissy Kneen Page B

been disturbed by a human hand.
    Raphael’s here.
    She said it just to scare me. And of course it has worked. I stare out of the window for a long time. I hear the hiss of onions hitting hot oil, smell the wonderful rich redness of dinner being prepared. I stare until the darkness steals the edges of the trees, making them shadows among shadows, and still the hairs all stand to attention on my neck. At some point I flinch as my mother suddenly turns back to stare at the television, as if whatever was outside has moved on.
    â€˜He’s gone now.’ The words are past my lips before I can stop them. When I turn around Emily is there behind me. She must have crept back into the room without me noticing. She shakes her head and I feel suddenly ashamed.
    Emily goes to set the table and I help her. This is our job. We take our own places and wait for Oma to arrive with the bowl of food.
    Emily stares at me unblinking. Just as I am about to ask her who she was talking about, she picks up her knife and grips it with her fist, the tip pointing menacingly down towards the placemat.
    â€˜Did you see anything?’ she asks, then answers herself with a sly smile. ‘Of course not. You didn’t see him at all.’
    Mother pulls the chair out and sits at the table with us. This is rare, but not completely unheard of. Sometimes her world and ours intersect by sheer luck. Mostly it is Oma’s job to lead her here and when she joins us she is confused, staring from one daughter to the other as if wondering who we might be. Today she just sits, resting her fingers lightly on her knife and fork, looking down at her placemat. When our grandmother brings the bowl and ladles pasta and sauce onto her plate she continues to stare until Oma lifts her elbow and directs her fork. I watch as she twirls it in the pasta. She chews, smiling vaguely, swallows. I serve myself. Plenty of garlic today, which is how I like it.
    A thump and a rustle. I glance out of the window. Wallabies. Only wallabies, but when I look back towards Emily, she grins knowingly. I stare hard into my bowl, ignoring the prickle on my neck, ignoring the rustle and thump, and continue to eat until my plate is empty.

Stretching
    One more canvas. John is here to help but he is less than helpful. It is important that the canvas is stretched as tight as possible and John is young and big with it, although most of his bulk is free from muscle, but he is erratic in his efforts.
    He starts the project with his usual jovial enthusiasm.
    â€˜I work on paper mostly, or pre-stretched canvases when I’m painting.’
    â€˜Stretching is part of the art,’ I tell him but I am not sure he believes me. I assumed that a boy would have stronger hands than mine but his hands are small for such a large person. Strange that I have never noticed this. I have noticed the way he uses them, the gentleness, hands like a girl, soft and often smelling like soap. He is a hand washer. This is something else I have noticed. Now I see how the stretcher looks too big for him. He is awkward with it. He fumbles with the handle, strains with the heft of it. I hold the frame in one hand and the staple gun in the other and watch him juggle the one tool awkwardly. His fingers slip on the thick fabric. One section is nicely taut, another too loose. There is a wave in the canvas that is visible without holding the thing up to the light.
    â€˜What’s wrong with the pre-stretched ones?’
    â€˜Not tight enough. They use inferior wood. The finish is not as I want it. The canvas is not the best quality.’
    â€˜But the expensive ones. Surely you could just get some expensive ones.’
    â€˜To get the quality I want I would have to spend more than I have. We’ll just unpick this one and start again.’
    â€˜Yes, I suppose so.’ But he looks unhappy with this decision. He watches me use the flat edge of a screwdriver to lever the staples out of the wood; his