by Joy Rhoades
When she came over the rise, the creek was less and less, a trench edged with myalls and red gums, a string of smaller and smaller water holes linked by the sandy bed. A white chook stopped and jerked a look at her as she passed. At the open gate, Kate checked that the snake waddy was in place and thought of her father. A habit he had taught her: keep your tools handy and maintained; you never know when you’ll need them. She had her usual scan along the fence support for the sapphire too.
Greenwich the rooster came out to meet her, his gait officious, his eyes black under a dusty red comb. Kate put the egg basket on the ground and tipped the bucket of scraps out in front of him. He looked at her, then began picking his way through them.
As Kate went to the laying boxes, the clucking went up. Perhaps she’d unsettled them, so she called, ‘Here, chookie, chookie, chookie.’ In the first box, a black Napoleon hen sat on a bed of dirty hay, its wary eyes on her, its red comb set to one side. ‘Chookie, chookie, chookie,’ she sang again as she slid her hand under the hen to feel for eggs, its feathers soft and warm, the straw prickly underneath. The hen clucked, flapping her wings, and refused to move. Kate sang over and over as she groped about. Her fingers found the warmth of one egg. ‘No babies for you, chookie. Not now,’ Kate said, and felt sorry for the hen. She put the egg in the wire basket and slid her hand back in to check, just in case, for the sapphire. She moved on to the next laying box, but the clucking from the end of the chook run was even louder than before.
She had her hand on an egg under another ruffled hen when frantic screeches exploded. She stood straight up, egg in her palm, as a chook leapt past her towards the gate. Wary, Kate grabbed the basket and backed away. It had to be a snake or fox or goanna, with this sort of row. At the gate, she took the snake waddy and held it in front of her. Somewhere near the house, Gunner barked. The screeching continued and Kate took a step back. Then it came out of the second box in a blur, a black snake, six feet long or more, as thick as her wrist. It dropped, writhing towards the ground, coming for the gate, and her in front of it.
‘Kate!’ Jack’s voice. ‘Get out! Get out!’ he called, and she backed away behind him, out of the gate as he snatched the waddy.
Puck bailed up the snake in the corner of the chook run and attacked, rushing it, trying to get his teeth into its backbone. Trapped, the snake rose up, surging forwards. Jack moved with Puck, each trying to get a clear strike, but the snake arched into the air and surged again, driving them back.
Kate heard banging in the dust. It was Luca on the outside, hitting the wooden corner post of the chook run with a lump of wood. The snake whipped about towards that noise, and Puck went in. He bit hard below the snake’s head and held on, moving with the snake as it heaved its body about, trying to get a hold on the dog. Puck shook the snake viciously from side to side. As it weakened, Puck released his grip for a second and bit again, breaking its back. The snake thrashed, each time less than the last, as Puck held on.
His face set, Jack took to the snake, pounding and hitting it, again and again bringing the waddy down until its flesh began to break from its body.
‘Jack! It’s dead!’ Kate shouted, but he went on. She came into the chook run behind him. ‘Jack!’
He hit and hit. Pieces of snakeskin and blood sprayed over them. Jack landed a wayward blow on Puck, yet his expression didn’t change. He kept on at what was left, hitting the rest of the body, his arm coming down over and over with vengeance in his posture, spits and scraps of snake splattering onto his shirt.
‘Jack! Stop!’ Kate shouted and took his arm. He slowed, breathing heavily. His arm dropped, still gripping the waddy, his eyes on the mess of snake in front of him. Expressionless, he went slowly to the open gate and returned the waddy to its place on the fence, pieces of flayed snakeskin and flesh still sticking to the wire.
He walked by Kate and Luca, giving the Italian a hard look as he passed.
Luca helped Kate back to the house. She took in the comfort of him beside her, the feel of his arm under hers, his familiar smell.
She stopped short, his face inches from hers.
‘All right?’ he said, concerned. She withdrew her arm, her hands shaking, and looked about to be sure Jack had not seen them.
In the kitchen, Luca sat her down and laid his hand over her shaking fingers on the table. Then he left her, the gauze door banging behind him. Kate went to her room, still trembling. She had the oddest urge to crawl under the thin sheets of her bed, to hide like a child. Soon after, she heard the shower go on, then off again. A few minutes later there was a knock on her door.
‘Kate?’
Jack came in, neat and tidy. She stood up. ‘I’m going into town,’ he said. ‘I’ll have some grub with Biggsy. Don’t wait for me.’
From the window, Kate watched him drive off in Tony Biggs’s Humber, going too fast.
Late that night, she woke to a noise in her room.
‘Kate?’ Jack’s voice came thick out of the darkness. With a crash he knocked something over, and for a second she worried he’d wake her father. Boots squeaked on a floorboard, a belt buckle jangled and hit the floor. Then his fingers found her forehead. ‘Gotcha.’ He laughed, the bedsprings creaking at the extra weight as he levered himself in beside her, naked, his skin cold against her warmth, the smell of stale beer and cigarettes about him. When he pushed his tongue into her ear, she moved her head away and felt him laughing into her hair. Rolling onto his back, he surprised her, pulling her on top of him. She lay on his chest, smooth and hard under her as he pushed open her legs. She didn’t want him, with her grief so fresh, yet it was her duty. She moved to help but kneed him instead.
‘Jesus,’ he said, laughing again. ‘Welcome home to you too.’
He kissed her, with his hand on a breast through her nightgown. ‘Get it off,’ he said, tugging at the material. She sat astride him and felt him harden. His fingers went to her bare nipple, squeezing it until she gasped. Pulling her to him, he pushed one leg between hers, took her in his arms and rolled her onto her back. His tongue sought hers, and he inched into her, gently at first, then harder. With each thrust, his breath filled her mouth, his smell of beer and cigarettes and sweat all around her. He came, clutching her neck, holding her down onto the bed, his shadow across the ceiling above her.
Lying still on top of her, his heart beat into her chest, his sweaty weight pinning her as he dripped from between her legs. Under him, she struggled to breathe and tried to move, to free her ribs.
With a sigh of exertion, he rolled off her onto his back, one arm across her belly. ‘Bloody hell, Kate. I’m out of condition.’
It was the first time she’d heard him sound like himself. She pulled the sheet up over her breasts, and he laughed at her modesty and put his hands behind his head. Swivelling onto her side, she propped herself up on one arm to look at him.
‘What’s up? Spit it out,’ he said.
‘Are you … Are you all right?’
‘Right as rain.’ He shifted his eyes back to the ceiling. ‘Never been better. You?’
‘Same,’ Kate said. A lie for a lie.
He hauled the covers up and over the two of them, and rolled onto his stomach, his face away from her. His breathing grew regular, his smooth back rising and falling under her fingertips.
But she was wide awake and she wasn’t thinking about Jack. Her father. The snake, today. Luca. Her mind was overfull. She lay, listening to Jack’s even breaths in the darkness, trying to empty her head. But Luca kept coming back into her mind, with his broad back and narrow hips, that nose and his pale eyes. He unsettled her. Bastard. The swearing, even in her head, didn’t make her feel any better. She thought of him just over the hill, wondering if he lay awake as she did.
CHAPTER 33
Whilst perhaps not so park-like as described by our first explorers, much of Australia’s plains country is nonetheless blessed with both earth ripe for grazing stock and men determined to do it.
THE WOOLGROW
ER’S COMPANION, 1906
The next day, the drive in from Amiens was fast and silent, Jack still pre-occupied with a lingering hangover and Kate with her thoughts of the funeral. Before she was ready, they’d reached town. Along each side of the church, the wattle trees were in bloom, fluffy yellow flowers on long sprays. Jack stopped the truck in front, and she heard Grimes scramble out of the truck tray. Jack stretched, putting one arm along the back of the seat behind her. He didn’t touch her and somehow she wished he would.
‘You orright?’ he said. ‘All be over soon enough.’
Grimes appeared at Kate’s door and opened it for her, so he could get in.
‘We’ll get over to Tuites now,’ Jack said to her.
To help get her father’s coffin. She knew. She felt the morning sun on her face and was glad to be out in the spring air. It would be warm today, for September, but the trees in the Amiens garden would shade the mourners. Luca and Vittorio were tidying it now and Ed would drive them in soon for the service. She hoped the reverend would let the POWs into the church, but she had other things to worry about. Pick your battles, her father would have said.
She had always liked this church; it was so plain that it was pretty. Her mother’s funeral had been there. ‘She does the prayin for both of us,’ her father used to say.
One of the last times Kate was there with her father, she was getting married. She’d stood on those steps in her mother’s wedding dress, shaking at the prospect of having all the eyes in the church on her. ‘Every girl is beautiful on her wedding day,’ her mother had said. Kate was terrified anyway. Her father had misunderstood her fear. ‘You’re doin the right thing, Katie,’ he’d said. ‘A girl must have a family.’
She herself had no doubts. Kate had taken the arm her father offered to help her up the church steps. She’d been surprised again when he – a man embarrassed by any show of affection – had placed his hand over hers. He’d left it there all the way up the aisle too. In case she tried to do a runner? She smiled at the thought, then recalled the hug he’d given her the day before his death and she swallowed, so glad he’d done it.
The church interior was mostly cold and dark. The stained-glass windows filtered the sunshine into one tunnel of light, which fell just to the right of the altar. Kate wanted to fix it, to centre that bright blue circle.
‘Kate, my dear.’
Reverend Popliss appeared, familiar in his long black robe. A leather belt round his middle disappeared beneath a slight paunch. Popeless and hopeless: her father had thought him both.
‘Let’s get started, shall we?’ Popliss rested his hands together in front of him, long slender fingers interlaced. ‘I like to run the family through things. It’s quite straightforward.’ The reverend turned and walked towards the altar. Kate had to move fast to keep up.
He veered off to the right towards a door at the end of the transept, and looked at his watch. ‘Your father’s coffin will be placed here in the apse.’ He gestured with one of his hands at a long sturdy plinth in front of the altar. ‘You’ll be seated in the front pew there’ – he walked and pointed – ‘with Jack. Excellent that he’s home. Mr Nettiford, one of our church aldermen, will sit with you in case there’s anything you need. You know Mr Nettiford?’
She did and was glad she’d paid their account.
‘Fortunately Mrs Binchey is back from Tamworth, so we’ll have the organ.’
Kate inhaled. She wished it were anyone else.
‘Now. The service. No communion, of course. You’ve chosen the hymns. “Oh God, Our Help” is nice but the 23rd Psalm is more appropriate.’ He waved at the hymn board behind him, and sure enough the 23rd Psalm was already listed.
Kate opened her mouth, then shut it.
‘I expect something of a turnout, even with all our boys away. People remember …’ He swung round, his robe a sailboat coming about. ‘Now, the POWs: I won’t have them, they’re Catholics. I’m certain their pope doesn’t allow that sort of thing anyway.’
‘No?’ Kate was disappointed. Her father strongly supported the POW Scheme; it was one of the last lucid decisions he made. She could hear her father’s voice in her head: So what do we get for our guinea then?
Kate had no strength to argue. Luca and Vittorio would have to stay outside. Daisy would have been with them if she were there. Daisy. Dear Daisy. She hoped she was all right. It was hard to imagine the gangly girl big with pregnancy.
‘A reminder about the eulogy. We try to keep them short and emphasise the departed’s most admirable traits. You’ve told Jack? I’m glad he’s home, for your sake of course, and that we’re able to have a family member deliver it. Any questions? No? Excellent. Quick cup of tea with Mrs Popliss, perhaps?’ The reverend headed for the side door.
‘I’d like to deliver the eulogy,’ Kate said, weakly.
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’ His voice took on a stern edge. ‘You feel composed now. Believe me, come the time, you’ll be overcome. I know what’s best.’
‘Thank you. But I would like to do it.’
A sweat bead ran down his forehead from his hairline. Popliss came back to her and took her hands in his own spindly fingers. So close to him, she could smell that peculiar old-man smell. Her father had it as well – a mix of age and masculinity, the body winding down to stillness.
‘I understand, Kate, dear, that you were very close to your father. Still, I can’t allow you to do this.’ He patted her caged hands.
The church door banged.
‘Jack,’ the reverend said with relief. ‘My condolences. You’ll do the eulogy of course?’
Jack’s face did not change, and he turned his khaki slouch hat round in his hands as he stood in the aisle.
‘Good. Good. I’ll leave you two to have some time to yourselves. You’re welcome to that cup of tea, if you hurry. The Tuites should be here’ – he checked his watch – ‘shortly.’
‘They’re outside,’ Jack said.
His head down, the minister left, and the cool silence of the church was between them.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ Kate said, and stretched up to kiss Jack’s cheek. ‘For this, and for the wake.’
‘No worries. Oh, and Biggsy’ll bring a keg out. It’s orright. It’s a gift. Most unlike im, I said.’ Jack grinned absent-mindedly, glancing round the church.
‘I want to do the eulogy.’
‘Yeah?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Bit of a turn-up for the books, a sheila doing it.’
‘I think I can, though. I’ll be all right.’
‘Yeah, well, give em what for. No bloody apologies, orright? And nothing about your father’s screw loose, either. Let’s get out of here with our heads high.’
Kate said nothing.
‘If it turns out you can’t talk then I can say a few words.’ He turned. ‘I better give the Tuites a hand.’ The door banged after him.
Kate went to her pew and sat to open her handbag and unfold her handwritten pages. She began reading out loud, softly, starting at random in the middle. ‘Some of you knew and …’ Her voice faltered as it hit her that she must stand and speak in front of people.
She forced herself to breathe slowly, slowly. She thought of her childhood and of her father, of the thrill of a special treat, an early-morning ride with him. She closed her eyes to see the dawn sun, a red sliver on the horizon as the day overtook the night, the horses, anxious to be off, stamping under their tightened girth straps, their breath clear in the morning cold. Noise in the church brought her back. She could hear people arriving, filling the pews behind her. Not just people; Jack. He and the Tuites set her father’s coffin in front of the altar. Her eyes rested on the coffin, the eulogy limp in her hands. Mr Nettiford nodded at her gently as he sat next to her. Kate wondered if his wife were at the back. Jack sat on her other side, squeezing her hand briefly.
‘The first hymn is the 23rd Psalm,’ Popliss intoned. The organ swelled to life and the congregation stood with the noise of
people, shuffling, clearing throats.
As she stood, she glanced towards the back. The church was full, with so many people her father had known.
‘The Lord’s my shepherd …’
Kate could hear her father. More bloody sheep.
The service proceeded, and she tried to concentrate on the reverend’s words. But as Popliss said pretty much the same thing at every church service, she could not take them in. She looked at the coffin behind the minister. With knots in the wood grain, it was plain, perfect for her father. On top was a wreath of flowers Meg’s mother had made: a circle of eucalypts and red flares of bottlebrush. She saw Reverend Popliss catch Jack’s eye. The eulogy was approaching. Kate hoped she would be able to speak.
‘Let us pray.’ Stillness descended. ‘Merciful God. We submit Mr Ralph Stimson, our friend, our neighbour, a member of our flock, to your safekeeping. Let us learn from his time with us of the nature of your wisdom through his good works in the district.’
It occurred to Kate, a little late, that perhaps the reverend’s usual funeral service might not be suitable. Good works? Her father had never believed in charity. God helps those who help themselves.
‘Let us hear a few words about our friend.’ Popliss nodded at Jack, who just leaned back in the pew and crossed his arms. He was not going anywhere. But neither was Kate. She could not get up.
Popliss looked a little alarmed, if only for a moment. ‘Let me speak to you about our friend Ralph Stimson. A gentleman, his word was his bond.’ There was some shuffling in the congregation, and Kate stiffened. There were people sitting behind her for whom Ralph Stimson’s word was not his bond; they were owed money.
Kate managed to get up though her hands were shaking. ‘Reverend Popeless,’ she croaked. Damn. Popliss, not Popeless.
‘A man for whom his family —’ the minister continued.
‘Reverend Popliss.’ Kate took the one short step up to the altar, careful in her unfamiliar heels, and the reverend stopped, his lips pursed. Kate turned to face the mourners. With all the pews filled, men stood along the walls and behind the last row. People were staring. She mustn’t cry. Kate opened her mouth to speak, yet no words came.