Hill of Grace
Page 35
Lunch came and went but Bluma was nowhere to be seen, busy next door sewing Arthur’s pants.
William Miller believed in the end of the world.
When Bluma came home late from church the next morning, William was still thinking about it. As she told him about how she’d been publicly welcomed back, he couldn’t help but feel, still, that they were all wrong. Standing beside him as he continued harvesting, she said, ‘Come in for lunch, I have a surprise.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Come on.’
‘Later.’
As she walked back to the house he watched her go and realised he was all alone. No one was with him on the Hill of Grace and no one was with him now. His choices were simple, as simple as snow falling, landing on your arm but melting before you could touch it. He heard Bluma behind him again.
He turned to see his son standing beside a freshly picked vine. Nathan smiled and said, ‘G’day, Dad.’
William saw a new man before him, fatter and wind-blown, whiskers growing where they hadn’t before, a grin full of optimism and a confident new tone. He looked at Bluma, and then back at Nathan, grasping secateurs as sharp as the day Anthelm had bought them. In the distance someone started hammering, and a woman’s voice called out for firewood. A honey-eater flapped its wings as a twig broke beneath its weight and Edna came outside with a wash-basket of Bruno’s singlets.
Author’s Note
I would like to thank my wife, Catherine, for helping give me time to write. Also, my sons Eamon and Henry, who help keep me in touch with reality. Thanks to Michael Bollen, Gina Inverarity and Ryan Paine for their thoughtful and detailed editing, and to the rest of the team at Wakefield Press. Thanks to my agents Rose Creswell and Annette Hughes who have promoted my work here and overseas. Also, Stephanie, Barbara and many others at the SA Writers’ Centre who continue to help and encourage writing in South Australia.
Finally, I would like to acknowledge Noris Ioannou’s book, Barossa Journeys: Into a Valley of Tradition (Paringa Press, 1997).
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