Someone had handed Frankie a paper serviette and she stood in a daze dabbing at the dripping champagne which pooled in dark patches on her silk jacket. Frankie’s lip began to quiver. She turned and buried her face in Peter’s chest. He put his arms around her protectively.
‘It’s not your mother you should be blaming, Rebecca,’ Peter said quietly. Then he ushered her away.
As Rebecca stood in the city park with a cold fear running through her, Trudy walked towards her. ‘Wedding cake?’ she asked, holding the plate in front of her.
CHAPTER 28
Harry Saunders’ gut ached with a stabbing pain, but he still felt the need to eat something. In the kitchen he looked into the tins with jagged edges which cluttered the tabletop. Green fluffy tufts of mould sprouted around red smears of baked bean sauce. Angrily he pushed the tins from the table with one sweep of his arm. The clatter of cans on the slate floor no longer sent the ginger cat flying for the door. The cat had long ago retreated to the safety of the wood heap and lived there on a lean diet of skinks, mice and birds.
‘Where’s that bloody Tom?’ Harry threw open the window and screamed through it. ‘Where the hell are you, boy?’ His voice echoed around the hills.
Harry staggered to the kitchen bench and poured another shot of whiskey into a coffee cup.
‘Lazy bugger,’ he mumbled.
On the porch by the laundry, Harry looked for the bucket of eggs or some sheep meat wrapped in cloth or a box of groceries. There was still nothing there. Nothing. Harry looked up towards the mountain and squinted before shutting the door and going back inside the kitchen.
At the hut, Tom fed Bessie a hunk of mutton neck which she took gently from his hands.
‘Good girl, Bess,’ he said, and watched her trot over to chew on it under the old tank stand. From a hessian bag he tipped some oats into the old tyre with a plough share base, which served as Hank’s feed bin. Hank whickered and walked up to the bin.
Inside the hut Tom neatly stacked splintery hunks of split wood by the fire. He shook out his swag sheet and then rolled it up tightly in the canvas and left it on the sagging camp bed. Then he took up the old broken-handled broom and swept the floor clean. A large hand-felled tree trunk stood in the middle of the room as a main support post. Carved in its smooth wood in old-fashioned lettering were the initials of his great-great-grandfather and the year he had carved his name there – ALS 1901. Archibald Lewis Saunders. Beneath that in a deeper cut were carved his grandfather’s initials – DJS 1945. Douglas John Saunders. Tom ran his fingertips across the letters and said their names aloud. Nowhere on the post could he find his father’s initials.
From his leather pouch he took out his knife and carved his own initials below those of his grandfather. TJS. Thomas John Saunders. Then he carved the year. He sat back and looked at the initials, trying to picture the dead men moving about the hut.
When Tom at last stepped outside onto the verandah, a thick mist was rolling in. A chilly wind blew the damp cloud wailing through the cracks in the hut. The loose tin on the roof which covered the old shingles banged angrily. Perhaps, he thought, the front might bring rain to the low country. Something to break the drought.
He saddled Hank and called Bess to the heels of his horse. In the mist they descended from the mountain. During the long ride down, he could see nothing of the valley below, the mist was so thick.
Harry came to the back door again at dusk. This time he found Bessie. She sat beating her tail against the concrete step and whining. Harry looked out across the yellow and brown dusty ground. At the trough where the tap leaked, Hank was tearing at the short tufts of green grass with his teeth. Bessie trotted down the path and leapt over the gate, disappearing into the garage. Without bothering to put on his boots Harry shuffled along the cracking concrete path in his socks to the gate. He trod over the dusty ground. Burrs stuck to his socks.
At the garage entrance Bessie sat and barked once at him. Harry’s car was parked in there. On the dusty bonnet sat a box of groceries. A stick of celery sprouted from between Black and Gold pasta, white sugar and Dalgety’s tea bags. An old saucepan full of eggs and a hessian bag with a leg of lamb were placed beside the box. Harry was about to gather up the groceries when, in the dimness of the garage, he saw a side of lamb hanging from the beams, wrapped in a dark cloth.
‘What’s wrong with using the killing shed, boy?’ snorted Harry. ‘Lazy bugger,’ he slurred.
He moved into the garage and was about to cut the sheep down when he realised the cloth was an oilskin coat. Sticking out from the coat were two legs. Tom’s boots, swinging in midair. From the cuffs of the coat white hands hung limply. Dirt under fingernails, dead white. Harry stepped backwards, almost falling against the car. He turned his head up to the beams, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream.
Tom’s head was bowed down. Tom’s face, blue with bulging eyes, staring. His expression was still. So still. His lips, thin blue lines. When Harry backed away from the body he saw lettering scrawled in red raddle on the roof of the car.
‘Will this make you see, Dad?’ The lettering screamed.
As Harry ran back towards the house, guttural sounds came hurtling from his throat and echoed in the hills. He slammed the door and shut out the world.
In the stillness of the evening Bessie trotted inside the garage and looked up at Tom. She sniffed at the air nervously then backed away a little and sat beneath Tom’s feet. She sighed and began to lick at a grass seed which was caught in her flank.
By the trough Hank shook away a fly with the twitch of his skin and ambled to the garage to nibble and pull at the celery top which stuck out from the box. He rested his back hoof and dozed there. Near Tom.
CHAPTER 29
Rebecca was sitting her agricultural economics exam. She had a pen behind her ear and was frowning as she tapped at her calculator, trying to work out wool futures earnings. The supervisor walked between the rows of desks and bent to whisper in her ear. He asked her to put down her calculator and pen and step outside. She looked up at him in disbelief. At first she thought they were accusing her of cheating, but the sympathetic look in his eyes told her something was horribly wrong. A few students glanced up at her as she slipped quietly through the door. Others kept writing.
Outside Ross put an arm in the small of her back and ushered her towards the college principal. Grey curls framed his red face. He was frowning. Charlie stood a little way off on the brick pathway. He edged closer to the principal. Rebecca looked from the principal to Charlie.
‘Rebecca, I’ve got some bad news for you,’ the principal said gently. He reached out a pink hand and gripped her shoulder softly.
‘It’s your brother, Tom.’
Before the principal could say the words, Bec knew Tom was dead. She knew. All the breath, all the life, was hit out of her. As her body crumpled, she cried out. It wasn’t a scream, just a moan, an agonised moan.
Charlie stepped in front of the principal and gathered Rebecca up into a hug. The sound of her grief nearly crushed him. He knew it would. When the principal had rung to ask for his help and told him the news, Charlie’s first reaction had been anguish for Bec. How could he protect her from something like this?
In Charlie’s arms Bec’s mind raced. Then a panic rushed in. Her knees felt as though they would give away under her and she thought she was going to be sick.
‘Why? How? Oh my god …’
Charlie whispered the details to her, the words stinging. ‘Killed himself.’ ‘Suicide’. ‘Yesterday.’ Words pieced together to shape a horrific new reality in Bec’s mind. As she absorbed the news, she felt hate and anger towards her father rush in. She gritted her teeth and wailed through them, her eyes clenched tight.
Charlie put his hand on her head and held her to his chest as he half-carried her away. Ross walked with them, his gentle hand on Bec’s back. The principal walked slowly behind. His face grim. A piece of paper clenched tightly between his fingers.
——
In Rebecca’s bedroom, Charlie made her lie down and pulled the doona up over her shoulders. He drew the curtains and shut out the sun. He lay beside her for a time and stroked her hair. He said he would take care of everything.
Rebecca shook. When the phone rang Charlie kissed her gently on the head and left the room, closing the door behind him.
In the dimness of their bedroom she rolled over and screamed into a pillow until she felt the nausea rise in her. She tried to lie still and quiet and her eyes blurred as she stared at the glowing green digits of the alarm clock. Outside the room she heard Charlie on the phone speaking quickly and quietly. As soon as she heard him say goodbye and hung up, the phone rang again.
When he finally came back to her into the room, she was asleep; asleep in her Tom-less world.
CHAPTER 30
As the mourners slowly moved away from the graveside, Harry shuffled along in their silent wake. He stood in the shadow of the church, on the fringe of the small crowd. His watery eyes scanned the mourners. He was looking for Rebecca. First he saw Frankie. Her auburn hair was blowing wildly in the wind. She seemed to lean into its chilling force. Harry watched as Peter put his arm around her and led her away from the grave towards the parked cars.
In the crowd he saw Mick walking up the hill carrying his son, Danny. Mick lifted the child closer to his face and pressed his mouth against Danny’s soft ruddy cheek as he walked. Trudy clung to the crook of Mick’s arm with her tiny perfect hands, and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.
Beyond the small crowd Harry finally saw Rebecca, standing, looking out across the dry paddock beyond the church. He held his breath. A tall young man with dark hair stood next to her and kept his hand in the small of her back. When she turned and faced the crowd Harry saw her distraught face stained with tears. Twisted in pain.
She was so beautiful, he thought. So much like Tom. In her hand she held tightly onto a kangaroo leather lead. The lead was clipped onto Bess’s collar. The dog stood quietly beside her and sometimes leaned on Rebecca’s leg and sniffed at the crowd, searching for Tom.
As Harry stood and looked at Rebecca he suddenly felt the crush of what he had done. He had taken his anger out on his family. He had destroyed the weakest of them. Poor Tom. Poor, quiet, caring Tom. Harry felt his mouth twist as the full force of reality hit him. Through tears he stared at his daughter, her strength almost crushed, leaning into the tall, young man.
Harry swallowed. He would make it right, he thought. He decided there, standing in scuffed boots in the dandelions beside crooked old gravestones, that he would pull himself and his property together. He wouldn’t punish his children any more. He turned and began to walk away towards town.
In the chilly afternoon light, the mourners turned their backs on the sandstone church and dispersed in the wind. They climbed silently into their cars and utes, stuffing hankies and tissues back into pockets; some feeling glad they were alive and could feel the sting of the wind, some feeling shaken that death was so close, taking a young life. The people in the cars and utes formed a slow-moving line along the winding gravel road towards the pub.
As Charlie opened the door of the pub and ushered Rebecca through, Bessie pulled on the lead.
‘Alright. Alright,’ Bec said to the dog and unclipped the leash. Bessie sneezed, then trotted to the barstool where Tom had always sat. The dog sunk down alongside the wooden foot rail beneath the bar and lay with her head on her paws. She occasionally raised her muzzle to accept offerings of crusts from sandwiches and pastry from fat sausage rolls.
Rebecca and Frankie stood in silence amidst the crowd holding clattery cups of tea in their hands. Charlie and Peter hovered near and talked to the guests and family members. In the corner of the pub Trudy shushed Danny and held him on her hip as he screamed.
By the time Dirty’s wife had cleared away empty sandwich plates and teacups the hushed voices of the funeral-goers had begun returning to normal. Beer flowed through the lines and into pint glasses. People began to chat and warm themselves with alcohol. The chill of death, especially suicide, was too much to endure for long. They tried to shrug it off by lifting glasses of beer to the air and toasting the life of Tom.
Outside the pub, on the verandah, Harry sat on a rough-carved log listening to the rising voices inside.
When Dirty’s wife tried to whisk his empty teacup away, he held onto it with both hands. She folded her arms across her bosom and looked down at him with pursed lips. ‘Not drinking today, Harry?’
She snorted air quickly from her nostrils. ‘I’ll get you another cup of tea.’
His eyes followed her gratefully.
Inside at the bar, the rum and coke warmed Rebecca. She sat on Tom’s stool and felt the sadness of him run through her. She could feel him in her soul and realised all of a sudden that he was with her, and would always be. Dirty put another full glass down in front of her and she smiled at him softly and looked to the end of the bar where Charlie and Mick leaned, with elbows bent on the bar top, talking. From behind her she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Peter.
‘We’re going upstairs to our room. Your mother needs to lie down.’
‘Thanks,’ she said to him. Bec slipped off the stool to hug her mother. When she felt Frankie’s arms about her, emotion welled up in her throat again and tears rolled from her eyes.
‘Was it our fault?’ Bec said into Frankie’s soft, sweet smelling hair.
‘I don’t know,’ Frankie said and began to cry again. Peter led her away as she sobbed, the drinkers stepping out of their way and sadly watching the mother of the dead boy being ushered from the room.
Bec pushed through the crowd and walked out onto the verandah. In the cool air she was shocked to find it was dusk and the sun was now only just managing to light up the tops of the mountains above the river. The wind had died down and the world was now still. Cockatoos swung on the powerlines and called out in wild screeches. She wrapped her arm around the smooth worn verandah post and leaned her head against it.
‘Hello, Bec.’ She heard the voice and knew it was him. Spinning around she saw her father, sitting still in the dark shadow of the verandah. He was hunched over, his hair now a shock of grey. His skin seemed to hang from him. Hollows in his cheeks, bags under his eyes. Weepy eyes, like an old dog. Clothes too big for his body. Rebecca could barely recognise the man she knew as her father. She hadn’t seen him in the crowd at the funeral. He looked like an old-timer who spent the final days of his life sitting on pub benches. He was trying hard to look into her eyes.
He stood up, walked towards her and put his arms around her. They stood, like that, in silence for a time. Rebecca was rigid with hate. She stood coldly in his arms. Then Harry began to shake. His body shivering. He stepped back and wiped his red eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
‘I blame myself,’ he said, and then walked away into the blue dusk to the far end of the parked cars.
‘So you should,’ Rebecca said coldly as she watched his headlights beam across gums. Her eyes followed the lights until they disappeared around the bend in the road.
When Charlie found Rebecca she was sitting in the dark down by the river bend near the pub. She was cradling her knees in her arms, rocking back and forwards and crying, almost wailing.
He used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe away the tears and spittle from her face and held her in his arms. ‘Shhhh. Shhhh. Shhhh,’ he said.
CHAPTER 31
In the motel room Charlie handed Rebecca a bowl of Weetbix and she took it without looking up at him. From the cloud over the weather map on the TV, almost the whole east coast was awash with rain. She unfolded her legs on the bed, stood up and carried the cereal bowl over to the window. She stood there watching the rain fall in heavy sheets. Water clunked noisily in a down pipe outside and cars sprayed up roaring gushes of water as they drove past the motel.
Charlie came over to her.
‘Eat up. It’s going to be a big day, and a big night.’<
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‘Tom’s sent us some rain. The river will be flooding at home. I hope Inky and Hank aren’t trapped in the river flat paddocks.’
Charlie frowned at her then took the bowl from her hand and placed it on the breakfast tray. He put his arms about her and pulled her close. He talked in whispers above her head.
‘Come on, Bec. It’s our graduation day. Don’t be sad. Tom will be with you. Let’s just have fun today. See all our mates, have a drink. I’m not saying let go of your grief. I’m just saying put it aside. Just for today. Then you might feel like getting on with it.’
She pulled away from him. ‘Getting on with what?’ she asked angrily, then she dashed into the bathroom and shut the door hard. She stood under the shower and let hot jets of water sting her reddened skin. She had counted the days, weeks and then months as they moved away from Tom’s last day on this earth. She had tried to piece together his thoughts, his moods. She pictured him there in the hut alone, and she cried every time she thought of Hank and Ink Jet at Waters Meeting with no Tom there to love them.
In the shower Rebecca thought back over the last two months. They were a blur. She could barely remember what had filled up her days. All she could remember was the grief … the unbearable pain of grief. She recalled sitting the last of her exams with her peers, despite Ross’s offer to postpone them. She sat at the desk, writing her answers, with a lump in her throat, on the verge of tears. She couldn’t remember what subjects she sat for, nor the answers she had scrawled in the booklets before the supervisor had said, ‘Time’s up.’
After her last exam, she packed her books in boxes and sold her furniture to a second-year student. She hugged Gabs, Emma, Dick and Paddy goodbye, tied all her dogs onto the back of the ute, this time adding a chain for Bessie. Then she kissed Charlie.
‘I’ve just got to go for a while, just until graduation.’ She couldn’t bear to see the hurt in Charlie’s eyes, so she drove away quickly without looking back.
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