(If youre interested in the accompanying narrative, the images in this series are best viewed in order, 1-5.)
The son stands in the back paddock, inspecting his fathers old Hillman Husky. Since his father passed away, all those years ago, the cars body had rusted largely unnoticed under a canopy of gum trees, whilst birds had nested in the torn padding of the rear seat. How his father had loved tinkering with that car. Hed had a workshop under the house, where a crackling radio spoke to him from far away. Whilst he tinkered, hed hum tunes whose names hed long since forgotten, while his tools hung on painted shadows and old nails waited in jars to one day be straightened.
Theyd spoken once or twice of together restoring the car to its former glory, but had never got around to embarking on the shared project. The son kicks a tyre lightly with lingering regret. He recalls watching his father in his workshop, how his work-thickened fingers would rake through an old frying pan filled with a lifetimes harvest of nuts and bolts, springs and washers, odds and ends. How his searchings left little furrows like a plough turning fertile soil. Sometimes when his father found the right part for the job, hed hold it in his fist and for an instant hed breathe in the smell of a tractor that ran on kerosene or hear the throaty rumble of an old car with leather seats.
Hands in pockets, the son turns and walks purposefully across the paddock back towards his mothers house and makes his way down to his fathers workshop. He rummages around in the lopsided drawers and finally finds what he's searching for a worn copy of the 1956-1965 Hillman Husky Workshop Manual
. He smiles as he notices his fathers oily thumbprint on the cover and makes a promise to himself, but mostly to his father, that he really will finally restore that Hillman Husky.