by Di Morrissey
But most nights after dinner, alone in his study, Phillip found it more and more difficult to fight off suffocating black moods. He knew his attitude to the boy should be different but could not bring himself to get too close for fear of opening the wounds that scarred his heart. The pain was easier to bear when he blamed the McBrides for the deaths of Barney and Enid. Increasingly though, the terrible thought seeped into his consciousness that he was responsible for killing both of them . . . that he had turned his back on his son and sent him to his death . . . that he had refused his wife’s dearest wish and she had simply given up and died. Atonement had not been achieved by bringing Richie to Amba as he had hoped. There was no release, no peace, no easing of pain.
He thought of the stern grim father he had scarcely known, how little he had known his own son, and now his grandson. History was repeating itself and he felt powerless to stop it.
The Sunday before Christmas, Sarah Pemberton dropped into the McBrides for morning tea after church. How much a part of Anglesea they’d become. She couldn’t imagine how they’d managed without them. She hoped they’d always be part of the place.
‘How are the Christmas preparations coming along, Gwen? I suppose you’re baking cakes for half the district again.’
Before Gwen could reply, Bob responded with more than the start of a smile, ‘Yep, got another truck-load of raisins coming this afternoon.’ They laughed and Bob went on with mock seriousness, ‘We’ve decided to go into business in the city . . . a cake shop. Gwen can be the breadwinner for a change.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ said Sarah shaking a finger at him. ‘And that was a lousy pun, Bob. By the way, this Christmas will be a bit different. The CWA ladies out our way are organising Christmas Eve carols by candlelight down on the common. I think it’s a great idea.’
‘So long as the weather holds, it will work,’ said Gwen flatly. ‘There’s no way everyone would fit into the community hall if it rained.’ Bob fiddled with the makings of a smoke and Sarah knew what they were both thinking.
‘You will come, won’t you?’ she said softly. ‘It will be a lovely family night. The kids love lighting the candles and singing the carols.’
Bob and Gwen looked at each other briefly. ‘O f course we’ll be there,’ said Bob with strength in his voice . ‘The whole McBride clan will be there in fine voice.’
Gwen smiled, relieved that the decision had not been for her to make.
It was a typical Australian December morning of promised warmth, burning blue sky, birds warbling and mottled sunlight beneath the scribbly gums — the kind of day that makes all good things seem possible.
Mr Richards was humming as he drove up the track to Anglesea. It was only a dirt track but it led to a home filled with love. The thought pleased him, even though it was his first visit since the deaths of Abby and Barney and he knew that it wouldn’t be the same without them.
He parked, stepped onto the verandah and was instantly ambushed by Brian and the twins who had been hiding behind the Malacca cane furniture. They led him down the hall as he called out, ‘Anybody home?’
Gwen was delighted to see him and came out of the kitchen wiping floured hands on her apron. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? Brian, go and find Dad and Kevin and tell them Mr Richards is here. Oh, it’s so good to see you again.’
Brian, with the twins in tow, bolted off. Mr Richards looked at Gwen. The delight of seeing him had given way to other feelings. Her eyes said it all and as she crumpled, he wrapped his arms around her. He let her cry, then led her to the kitchen where they sat at the table littered with the ingredients of mince pies.
Gwen wiped her eyes with the bottom of her apron. ‘Thanks for your letter,’ she said between sniffs, referring to the note he had written to them shortly after the news of Abby’s death had reached him. ‘ It was a great comfort. I still take it out and read it from time to time.’
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been back before this, but I’ve been outback working at a bit of this and a bit of that, looking up friends and so forth.’ He took his pipe from his waistcoat pocket and went about tapping and lighting it . ‘Bumped into Brother John from time to time. Funny bloke that fella. Still stirring up dust storms along the Birdsville track and back of Cloncurry with his motorbike. He asked me to give you all his love.’ He paused for a puff on the pipe, then asked quietly, ‘How’s the boy going?’
Gwen had to fight to keep control of her emotions as she told the story and tried to paint a positive picture of care and opportunities Richie had at Amba. Mr Richards listened, saying nothing, but nodding occasionally in acknowledgement of some detail. When she had finished, he took his pipe out and leaned towards her. ‘ But it still hurts, doesn’t it? Particularly at this time of year.’
Gwen nodded in agreement, afraid to say anything in fear of breaking down in tears. Then she found some strength. ‘Richie still has your train. Loves it. Mrs Anderson has told him about you.’
Mr Richards was delighted. ‘Well fancy that now. I reckon I ought to call in and say hello to the boy before I move on.’
‘You’re not stopping for Christmas?’
‘Well, I’ve got to see a few people up the track. A job for Brother John. But I could be back at Christmas if there’s room at the table.’
‘Of course there is,’ replied Gwen, brightening at the thought. ‘We’re having carols on the common on Christmas Eve. Just the local folk from properties but it should be lovely.’
‘Carols on the common. I like the sound of that. Sure, I’ll be there.’
It was late in the afternoon when Mrs Anderson announced to Phillip that Mr Richards was wanting to see him. He had just come in from helping move some sheep to another paddock and was taking his boots off on the back verandah.
Phillip was surprised at how delighted he was at the news. ‘Thank you, Mrs Anderson,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ And to her amazement he padded off in his socks to meet the visitor. ‘We’ll take tea in the library please,’ he called over his shoulder.
He greeted Mr Richards with warmth and escorted him inside, suddenly becoming self-conscious about the socks. ‘Been doing a little work with the sheep,’ he explained and Mr Richards smiled.
‘Honest toil, Mr Holten. And how have you been keeping?’
‘Please sit down. Light up if you want to. Well, I’ve been keeping all right, all things considered. No coughs or colds,’ said Phillip, trying to mask his evasiveness. ‘And you?’
‘Oh, for an old codger who can’t sit still, I’m making out all right.’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘Reckon someone up there keeps an eye on me.’
They exchanged views on the price of wool and livestock, the need for good summer rains to boost the pastures, and the prosperity the country as a whole was enjoying. Phillip was feeling more relaxed than he had been for ages when Mrs Anderson arrived with tea and Christmas cake.
‘I took the liberty of cutting the Christmas cake a little early, Mr Holten. Seeing as how Mr Richards is such a special visitor,’ explained Mrs Anderson. ‘I’ve just called out to young Richie to come in and join you for a piece of cake and to say hello. He’s just had another birthday, you know. He’s grown into such a lovely little boy, Mr Richards.’
Before Phillip had time to come to terms with the slight panic that swelled up inside him, the telephone rang in the hall. He leapt to his feet. ‘I’ll take it, Mrs Anderson.’
As he hurried from the room, Richie appeared at the French doors that opened from the library onto the verandah and stood there looking in, clutching his wooden toy train.
‘C’mon, luvy. My, look at you, been driving your train in the dirt again. Come here quick and I’ll dust you down and wipe your hands on my apron.’
Richie glanced at Mr Richards out of the corner of his eye as Mrs Anderson fussed. He caught a wink and a half-smile from Mr Richards.
‘There now,’ said Mrs Anderson. ‘Cleaned up for meeting Mr Richards and a piece of Christmas
cake.’
Richie turned to face the old man and looked directly at him, taking in the weathered face, shock of grey hair, beard and clear blue eyes. He gave a quick grin.
‘Well, young fella, last time I saw you you were a little bundle in a blanket. Now you’re almost a jackeroo,’ said Mr Richards lightly, looking the lad over. ‘ A h . . . he has Abby’s eyes and mouth but he’s got Barney’s strong forehead and jaw.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Richie politely as Mrs Anderson handed him a piece of cake, then he went and sat on the settee beside Mr Richards, his legs swinging. Between bites, he looked up at him. ‘You made my train, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, and I’m mighty pleased to see it’s still choofing along.’
‘It’s my favourite toy.’
‘Well I’d better choof along too and take Jim his cuppa and a bit of cake,’ chuckled Mrs Anderson. ‘You two can have a good old yarn together.’
‘When did you make it?’ asked Richie, running his hand over the train.
‘Before you were born. I gave it to your mum.’
‘She got killed you know. My daddy too.’
Mr Richards took his hand. ‘ Yes , I know,’ he said softly, then b rightened. ‘Now, what other favourite things do you have?’
The boy hesitated, then looked up into the old man’s eyes. In them he saw something that gave him courage, despite the trouble he’d been in for taking down the forbidden books in the library. He let go of the comforting hand and walked over to the bookcase, unlocked it and carefully selected a book. He stood holding it, a hand running slowly over the illustrated cover, then turned and walked back to the settee. ‘This.’
‘Seven Little Australians,’ said Mr Richards, reading the title. ‘And what makes this so special?’
Richie slowly turned the pages and as he did, Phillip came to the hall door. He saw instantly that the bookcase doors were open and that the two on the settee, their backs to him, were obviously looking at a book. He was stunned and confused, frozen to the spot.
‘I look at the pictures,’ explained Richie seriously. ‘This is my best picture. I love this picture.’ His lip trembled slightly as he looked at the black and white drawing of a large family happily together in a big lounge room.
‘Ah now, I’ve read this book. It’s about seven brothers and sisters in one family and they all love each very much.’
‘I’d like brothers and sisters.’
‘But you’ve got others you can love, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, I love Mrs A and Jim.’ He paused, ‘And I love Diet and Tucker.’ He paused again, thinking hard. ‘And I love lambs.’ But no matter how hard he tried, he knew this didn’t add up to a family like the one in the picture.
‘And you love your grandfather.’
Richie hesitated then said very slowly,
‘Y . . . es.’
‘He needs a lot of love from you, you know, Richie. When your dad got killed and your grandma died, he lost his family too.’
Richie didn’t have time to start to grapple with this concept before Phillip coughed and walked into the room. The boy quickly closed the book and was going to hide it behind his back when Phillip said pleasantly, ‘You can keep the book if you like, Richard.’
‘Really, Grandfather? Really keep it?’
‘Of course, but look after it, mind.’
Richie ran over quickly and surprised his grandfather with a hug, then ran out of the room calling for Mrs Anderson to tell her the news.
The two men returned to their tea and cake. ‘You’ve got a good lad there, Mr Holten. He’s coming along real fine.’
Phillip was deeply moved but he tried to be nonchalant. ‘ Well , thank you for those kind remarks. It’s a struggle of course with no real family around for support.’
They talked for another hour and Phillip was sorry when his guest announced he had to get on the road as he had a few hours’ drive ahead of him. ‘I hope you will drop by again. It’s a pleasure having a talk with you, Mr Richards.’
‘Well, I’ve promised to come back in a couple of days for the carols on the common,’ he said as Richie and Mrs Anderson came in . ‘Ah, here’s the young jackeroo come to say goodbye.’
Holding the train close to his chest with one hand, Richie extended his other to shake hands. ‘Thanks for making my train. I love my train too, you know.’
‘Now that’s a nice thought to take with me,’ said Mr Richards. Crouching down to be at the boy’s eye level, he spoke in a soft, confidential tone. ‘ You know what you do when you love something very much? You share it.’
‘Like give someone else a go with it?’ asked the boy cautiously.
‘Yeah, that’s the idea.’ Mr Richards leaned forward and whispered briefly in Richie’s ear, pulled back and winked. Richie smiled and tried to wink back.
At the evening meal Phillip was very relaxed. He had felt a warm feeling when Richie arrived for dinner and smiled as he carefully put the book on the table beside his plate. For the first time Phillip found it easy to make conversation with his grandson. They exchanged a few light remarks about Mr Richard’s beard and how he looked a bit like Santa Claus, speculated about what Santa might bring Richie for Christmas, commented on the quality of the Christmas cake, and agreed that another slice before bed was in order.
Afterwards, in the study, Phillip poured himself a scotch whiskey instead of his usual port wine. He was enjoying it while looking out of the open doors at the night sky when Mrs Anderson came in to say goodnight.
‘Before you go, Mrs Anderson, what are these carols on the common Mr Richards said he was coming back for?’
‘Oh, it’s the CWA ladies doing their bit to make Christmas Eve a little bit special this year. They’re having carols by candlelight. Everyone is invited.’
‘Thank you. Goodnight, Mrs Anderson,’
He settled down in his usual leather chair and was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice Richie’s small figure until he stood beside him. His hair was damp, slicked in place. His cotton dressing gown was pulled tightly around him by a silk cord with tassels. He held his beloved train.
Phillip looked at him in surprise. ‘You’ve come to say goodnight, have you?’ They normally said goodnight at the dinner table.
‘Mr Richards said you were sad because you lost your family,’ said Richie, pausing to take a deep breath. ‘Well, you’ve got me.’ He thrust the train into Phillip’s hand. ‘ You can have a go with it, Grandfather.’
Phillip took the battered and grubby train and lifted it up for closer examination, turning it over slowly in his hands. The hard lines of his face, the familiar set of his mouth, seemed to melt and he looked unsure and deeply moved. He could barely speak. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered hoarsely, putting the train on his lap and a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘ Thank you very much.’
As their eyes met, Phillip realised that the needs of this boy were also his own needs and he saw how he had been denying them all his life. ‘I think I’ll enjoy this very much tonight. I’ll give it back at breakfast if that’s all right with you.’
Richie smiled, relieved. It had taken a lot to give up his train, but he sensed the gesture had finally pleased the man he’d never been able to please.
At the McBrides’ everyone but Gwen was in bed. She finished wrapping some more Christmas presents and hid them at the back of the grocery cupboard on the top shelf. Then she went to the mantelpiece over the fireplace and reached behind an old tea caddy for an envelope, took out the single sheet of paper and sat down at the kitchen table. It was the pencilled note Mr Richards had sent them almost four years ago.
Dear Bob and Gwen,
The news of the great tragedy has only just reached me through my friend in the Bush Brotherhood. There are no words adequate enough to convey to you the sadness I feel at this time and the sympathy I want to send to all of you. But my prayers and thoughts are with you and I hope that they are of some help. The grief will last a long time a
nd no doubt you will often ask ‘Why?’
Brother John would explain it as ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away’. You were given Richie and Abby was taken.
And apart from always asking ‘Why?’, you may eventually blame yourselves for what happened or blame someone else. Well I reckon that won’t help much.
What will get you through this time of anguish is love. Remember the great love that Abby and Barney had for each other. Nurture it and share its memory, for when you pass on the love of those two fine people you keep them alive.
I’m sorry this is a bit of a scrawl but I’m writing by a campfire on the banks of the Cooper. There’s a big star overhead and when I look up I can see the Southern Cross. Abby used to say there was something special about that part of the sky.
With kindest respects,
Mr Richards.
Gwen folded the letter carefully and put it back behind the tea caddy then went out on the verandah and looked up at the night sky and found the Southern Cross.
‘Goodnight, Abby,’ she whispered.
A LOCAL FARMER TOOK HIS SLASHER TO THE COMmon to cut the grass; another ran an electricity extension from the community hall for strings of coloured lights in the pines by the creek; and a team of youngsters set out chairs and bales of hay in a semicircle. Ladies from the CWA prepared a table with a crochet cloth, flowers, candlesticks and a Bible. Back in the hall they worked on the scones, cakes and sandwiches for supper.
The Church of England minister arrived with a portable organ. It had been a magnificent but hot day and as the sun dipped, the little valley which cradled the common cooled and a soft breeze made it a welcome oasis for the rural families that began rolling up from all directions.
There were loud greetings and excited tumbling on the grassy slopes by the younger children. The teenage boys sat on post-and-rail fences or squatted in groups exchanging gossip and glances at teenage girls, all prettied up and giggly. The adults shook hands or hugged. The men exchanged views on the weather, prices, needs and prospects; women swapped notes on their preparations for Christmas. Everyone agreed that the CWA ladies had done themselves proud. It was going to be a great Christmas Eve. Mr Richards arrived and was given a small cheer by the McBride family.