The Last Mile Home

by Di Morrissey

  But instinctively Richie knew he was missing out. There was some other world where people went and he longed to find the secret door to it. He watched Mrs Anderson put the book away. ‘What did you do at Christmas when you were little like me?’ he pestered.

  At first Mrs Anderson prattled on cheerfully about her brothers and sisters and how they’d played jolly games together and what fun they’d had on Christmas morning with their stockings filled with sweets and silly toys. But seeing Richie’s wistful eyes and sensing his hungry heart made her catch her breath and she ended limply, ‘Well it wasn’t all fun and games. We didn’t have much money and times were hard. Bread and dripping days they were. Now, you’re the lucky one, living in such a grand place. And later you’ll go off to the best school and become a clever fellow so you can read all the books in the world. Maybe even write one!’ However, her words had a hollow ring and Richie didn’t look at all convinced that he was better off.

  Mrs Anderson tucked him in and kissed his cheek. ‘Happy Christmas, Richie.’

  In the silence beneath the cool white sheets, the little boy hugged his pillow. Like moving pictures beneath his tightly squeezed eyelids, he watched the scenes from the books glimpsed in the library unreel before him. And saw himself, laughing, in every one.

  Perhaps whatever angels or dancing reindeer sped across that sleeping moonlit countryside, they could be forgiven for bypassing the big house. For no light glowed, no welcome candle called. It was not a house that invited visitors. It seemed to withdraw into itself, shielding itself from the outside world . . . remembering. For while the shadowy grand house was never a joyous or sunny place, there was once a family within.

  1953

  THE SUN SLANTED ACROSS THE LEVEL GREEN PADdock where the freshly cut grass served as cricket oval for the Graziers versus Townies quarterly match. From a distance, the white figures were placed like chessmen on a rough baize cloth fringed by the colours of motorcars, trucks and horses, and the bright patterned clothes of wives, girlfriends and children. The spectators sat on rugs and blankets, perched on car bonnets or held umbrellas to shield the last of the sun’s heat. Trees drooped in the breathless air and all seemed as tranquil as an oil painting entitled ‘Summer’s Afternoon’. The occasional flurry of activity when a whacking sixer headed for the roughly marked boundary caused attention to refocus on the game and produced a round of polite applause.

  The doctor bowled out the last man and clinched the match for the Townies. As the two teams left the field, Phillip Holten met his tall son striding towards him.

  ‘Well done, Barney. Good game.’ He shook his son’s hand formally.

  ‘Thanks. Good game even if we lost.’

  ‘Play to win but enjoy the game. It is how one plays the game after all,’ said Phillip Holten as he turned to congratulate the other player walking beside him.

  Barnard Holten wiped a hand across his damp brow and then rubbed it dry down the side of his cream flannels as he strode to the small group of women near the Holtens’ car. His mother hadn’t come: she didn’t like sitting in the sun for any length of time and avoided his polo matches for the same reason.

  The women, still chatting about the match, eyed the handsome young man as he and his father opened the boot of their car. Phillip Holten was tall and solidly built, and if it hadn’t been for the wind and sunburned face, his features would have looked more patrician than the Roman nose, arched brows and firmly defined mouth already were.

  Barnard, at twenty-four, was taller than his father, more fine-boned, with grey-green eyes; and where his father had a russet tint to his thick head of hair, Barney, as he was known, had sun-streaked brown hair. While his father was considered somewhat dour, Barney had a ready smile and mischievous eyes. Many a girl in the district was smitten by him, and as his father’s property, Amba, was one of the best wool producers in the area, he was definitely a good catch.

  Players and spectators stood outside the makeshift tearoom where women dispensed cups of tea through a counter window. Everyone helped themselves from plates of homemade cakes, biscuits, scones and pikelets while they discussed the finer points of the match and made social arrangements for the evening. The talk soon drifted to the record wool prices and some wondered how long this boom was going to last.

  ‘Wool’s here to stay, Frank. Country’d be bust without the wool industry.’

  ‘The world will always need wool.’

  ‘Can’t produce enough of it, mate.’

  The optimists were in the majority and the mood was buoyant. While no one would openly admit their wool cheques were the biggest they’d ever imagined, being paid just over a pound per pound, they did laconically agree that they’d done all right this year.

  The district was prosperous and there was plenty of employment. The wool revenue flowed into new equipment, new fences, higher wages and more cattle, or overseas travel and home improvements.

  Barney carried his cup inside to where two ladies were washing up, large aprons tied over their skirts and blouses.

  ‘Thanks, Barney. How’s your mother?’

  ‘She’s doing all right thanks, Mrs Graham. How’s your family?’

  ‘They’re very well indeed,’ came the quick response. Especially her twenty-year-old daughter. ‘Are you going to the woolshed dance at the Frenchams tonight?’

  ‘I haven’t decided. I suppose so. Nice to see you, Mrs Andrews.’ He nodded to the two women and escaped.

  ‘Such a lovely boy. Not a bit like his father.’

  ‘Gets his looks from his mother, I suppose. Enid must have been very pretty when she was young.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking so much of his looks. It’s the personality. Barney seems more down to earth.’

  ‘He’s not a snob like his father, you mean,’ said Mrs Andrews bluntly.

  ‘It’s not snobbery so much. Phillip Holten just seems such a cold sort of a fellow. Barney is a bit warmer, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I do. Surprising he’s like that really. I don’t think life at Amba is a barrel of laughs.’ Bettina Andrews wiped her hands and untied her apron. ‘I hear it’s a pretty miserable household. Not that I want to gossip of course.’

  Barney and his father drove home in near silence after exchanging a few pleasantries about the match.

  ‘I was thinking I might go down for the Royal Easter Show this year,’ said Barney casually as they turned off the familiar bush road and headed up the dirt track past the first of Amba’s paddocks.

  ‘Waste of time and money,’ grumbled his father. Everyone they knew went to the annual agricultural show in Sydney but Phillip Holten steadfastly went against the trend. He hated the socialising and the camaraderie of the bushies let loose in the big smoke. He was a loner and he ran his business his way and detested anyone knowing what he bought, what he planned or what he sold.

  ‘It’s good to see what’s new. Maybe we could pick up a good ram or two, mix with other people,’ said Barney.

  ‘That’s what I said — waste time and spend money. You’re better off doing what we did today. You can learn from some of the older and wiser woolgrowers in the area, and you saw other young people there. Stick to your own, Barnard.’

  Barney didn’t answer. He thought the old established woolgrowers in the district that his father was referring to were conservative, not only in their politics, but in their thinking and attitudes. Something new had to be well proven before they’d take it on board. And as for the young people, there had been a few daughters from prosperous families at the match as it had been a social game, but he knew them all and none struck him as special. Barney was aware that every mother in the area had him lined up to put his feet under their dining room table beside their daughter. He knew his life was mapped out and, being the only child, that his future lay in the footsteps of his father.

  They turned into the driveway leading past the home gardens and Phillip drove the car under the carport at the side of the front entrance. Barney got
out and bounded around the side of the gracious verandah to the rose garden and neat flowerbeds surrounded by tall herbaceous borders and pruned shrubs.

  His mother’s straw hat was visible as she bent low, clipping, pruning and cutting off dead flower heads. Her constant companions, two white noisy and active Pomeranian dogs, began leaping and yelping at the sight of the familiar interloper into their mistress’s territory.

  Enid Holten looked up as Barney waved and headed to the wing where his bedroom, bathroom and small sitting room gave him his own privacy. His mother lifted a pair of secateurs vaguely in his direction and went back to her pruning.

  Once inside his bedroom, Barney pulled off his sweaty cream pants and shirt, grabbed a clean towel off the wooden towel rail and stepped under the shower. He felt his tense muscles relax as the needles of spray bounced off the back of his neck.

  He stayed in the shower longer than normal without feeling guilty about being extravagant with the water. He finally turned off the taps, wrapped the towel around his waist and padded into his bedroom to find clean clothes. He was grateful for his own area where he could relax and feel he was free to do as he wished. While all decisions were made by Phillip Holten, Enid had quietly suggested the wing addition for Barney might be a nice idea. Seeing he worked such long hard hours on the property.

  Starting from holidays from boarding school, Barney had worked his way in stages through every part of the place, learning how it was run. He now had his own responsibilities, but his father made the decisions and would do so until he either retired or dropped dead at the helm. It was the way of the land. The thought of following any other path in life simply never entered Phillip’s head. His life and his son’s life were mapped out.

  After showering and changing, Barney went to the kitchen in search of Mrs Anderson, the housekeeper.

  ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’

  ‘I would have thought you’d had your fill after the match. Didn’t the ladies’ committee give you afternoon tea?’ she smiled as she filled the electric jug.

  ‘Yep. But that was an hour or more ago.’

  ‘I’ll make a pot, maybe your mother would like a cup too. I’ll bring it out to the verandah.’

  ‘Dad in the study?’

  ‘Yes. He doesn’t want to be disturbed.’

  Barney nodded. His father always took to his study at sunset; he wouldn’t appear now until dinner. Barney took an apple as he went out of the kitchen door and through to the gardens once more. He found his mother inspecting the new growth on the hydrangeas against the shady wall of the bedroom wing. The two white bullets charged him as if they’d never seen him before and his mother turned around.

  ‘Hello, dear. Good game?’

  ‘Yes, despite the fact we lost. Close though. Mrs Anderson is making tea. Be ready on the verandah if you want a cup.’

  Enid scooped up her two dogs whose fuzz-ball tails twitched in pleasure as they gazed at her adoringly. ‘Hear that? Tea. Maybe we can wangle a biscuit or two for you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, eh? Maybe even a Monte Carlo . . . num num!’ She nuzzled their shiny black button noses; then, with her garden gloves and secateurs protruding from the pocket of her skirt and a dog tucked under each arm, she headed for the house.

  Barney trailed after her with a bemused expression. He was used to his taciturn mother bursting into baby talk with Tucker and Diet. One dog was a piggy eater who loved his tucker, the other a picky eater who ate little, hence the names. Visitors observing the reserved and somewhat vague Mrs Holten with her dogs had to restrain their surprise and amusement. Barney had never been any trouble and with home help she’d scarcely had to lift a finger. Now her only child was grown she devoted herself to the dogs. Even Barney conceded she seemed to care for the dogs more than people.

  Barney had been away at boarding school when his mother had acquired the dogs so he was unsure how she had managed to get his father’s approval for Phillip Holten detested his wife’s playthings. He didn’t consider them real dogs and wouldn’t allow them near the working dogs. He had told her they would be taken by a fox or a dingo but so far they had survived for years by rarely leaving the house or the side of their mistress. They slept in a large washing basket in the laundry and, as soon as they heard movement in the kitchen in the morning, they waited patiently on the doormat for Mrs Anderson to let them in. They then scurried down the hall to the master bedroom and waited outside the door until Phillip Holten opened the door and stumbled across them on his way to the bathroom. They then leapt onto the twin bed occupied by Enid where they were petted and whispered to until Mrs Anderson brought tea and toast. Each was given tidbits of toast and then let out into the garden from the bedroom side door.

  Enid was careful to keep them out of her husband’s way, and he simply refused to see them, speak to them or acknowledge their presence unless they irritated him more than normal. Generally he acted as though they were invisible, though Mrs Anderson had once come upon him stepping out of the library as the dogs trailed past the door in search of Enid. He’d given a swift kick with his boot and caught Diet between the back legs and sent her screeching down the hall. Mrs Anderson turned away and busied herself with the pile of ironing she was carrying, and pretended not to see the incident or his expression of grim satisfaction.

  That evening, Barney came into the sitting room where his parents were having a pre-dinner sherry. His father was seated in the leather armchair that had belonged to his grandfather and his mother was seated on the sofa with Diet and Tucker on either side of her, their snouts resting on her lap as they eyed the Sao biscuit smeared with Peck’s Paste which she was nibbling. Barney was dressed in dark grey slacks, a pale blue dress shirt and his Kings School old boys’ tie. His hair was slicked down in place, the Brylcreem making it look darker than normal. His shoes were, as usual, highly polished. Phillip Holten had taught him that a man maintained a certain standard no matter where he was or what he was doing and that was epitomised by shined shoes. Even before setting out for a day’s hard and dirty work around Amba, the riding boots had to be polished. A small wooden box with a flip-up lid was kept by the back door and it was a ritual before breakfast for Barney to take out the Kiwi polish, smear it on the boots on his feet with a rag from the box, take the brush, close the lid and rest his foot on its lid as he buffed the wrinkled leather to a shine.

  ‘Dad, Mum, I’m going over to the Frenchams’ for that woolshed dance tonight. It’s turned into quite a big do.’

  ‘Be a long drive back . . . late, I assume. I trust you’ll drive with due caution. And not imbibe too much, with that in mind,’ said his father, looking around the corner of the Land newspaper.

  ‘I thought I’d stay over. Most are. There’s a big breakfast on in the morning. I’ll take my swag.’

  ‘That sounds like a lot of trouble,’ said his mother, snapping a cracker in half and giving a bit to each dog.

  ‘It should be rather fun. It’s an organised thing; you know, a committee and everyone pitching in,’ said Barney, thinking of all the other families involved. Phillip and Enid rarely attended social gatherings.

  ‘Don’t forget we have to get ready for shearing soon. Start mustering on Monday.’ His father turned back to his newspaper.

  ‘Well, cheerio then.’

  His father didn’t answer and his mother was murmuring to the dogs.

  ‘Bye, Mother.’

  His mother didn’t look up. ‘Oh. Goodbye, Barney. Don’t grab, Tucker, there’s a good boy,’ she admonished the dog, reaching for another biscuit as Barney left the room.

  He threw his swag and knapsack with a change of casual clothes into the back of the Holden utility and drove through the last of the day’s sun. He passed the black soil cultivation paddocks and drove out along the red clay road to the turnoff to the Pembertons’ farm next door, which was marked by a rusting milk urn nailed to a post with Anglesea painted on it. He drove on through a stand of grey gums screening a small seldom-used timber
mill, past the line of sheoaks marching along the banks of the creek bed, over the broad cement ford that became a floodway in heavy rains, until, three miles on, the dirt road hit the bitumen. After an hour and four mailboxes, he turned into the Frenchams’ property.

  The light had faded, the watercolours of the sunset running across the pale canvas of the sky. By the time he arrived at the gates of the Frenchams’ homestead, lights were beaming into the twilight, the band could be heard tuning up and headlights from cars bounced from the woolshed to the house as food, grog, visitors, last-minute extra tables, chairs and gear were ferried between the buildings.

  Further out on the deserted highway, coming from the direction of Glen Innes, an early model Buick, towing a trailer, its engine rattling roughly, turned onto the dirt road heading towards Anglesea, the Pembertons’ property.

  The wide-bodied car, approaching twenty years of age, with deep seats now almost springless but sinkably comfortable, seemed ready to burst at the seams. Inside was a crush of people, a dog, parcels, laughter and singing. The Buick meandered on steadily, its headlights glancing off the unfamiliar terrain. Bob McBride drove with an arm hanging out of the window, patting the driver’s door like a jockey urging on a thoroughbred.

  ‘Come on, Betsy, we’re nearly there. You can make it.’

  The twin girls on the back seat were bouncing and singing, ‘Zippety doo da, zippety ay, my oh my what a wonderful day . . .’

  ‘It’s not day, it’s night,’ came a fourteen-year-old boy’s know-it-all voice.

  ‘Hush, Kev, let them sing. I’d rather that than the “how-much-longer” whine,’ came a young woman’s placatory murmur.

  ‘Come on, count the mailboxes,’ called the cheerful mother. ‘Only four they said.’