‘Just watch me.’ And then he grinned, sly and malicious.
Why had she let things go on this long? She could feel her heart breaking into tiny pieces. Her eyes strayed to the wedding photo above the bed on the wall. He’d been so charming and loving back then. When had it all changed? When had he decided she wasn’t what he wanted any more?
And now their marriage was over, and he didn’t give a damn.
‘You will be fighting me the whole way, Shon Murphy. You have no right to this property. No right at all. It was left to me.’
‘Yeah well, what about all the work I’ve done on the place? I’ve a right to a part of it and I’ll be having it. I need the money for me half-share in the pub.’
He was going into business with Joanne? ‘You were planning this all along, weren’t you? Living here, rooting her and just waiting for your chance.’
He refused to look at her.
Poor Joanne. Tammy was shocked that she could actually feel sympathy for the duped woman. She probably thought she was getting a god. In reality she was getting the devil’s spawn.
‘Well, go on,’ she said, battling to keep her voice steady. He was never going to know just how much she was hurting. ‘You’ve been threatening to leave for long enough. Just get the hell out of here.’ She turned and walked back up the passage, through the kitchen, and out the back door. Kept on walking until she could see neither him, his ute nor the property.
She glanced up at McCauley’s Hill. A glint of glass flashed in the sun, catching her eye. The old bastard was up there on his verandah, probably observing all this through the scope on his rifle. He’d be having a ball, watching and laughing. She wished with all her heart that she could go up there, be with family. But that was never to be.
She had no family. No one. Not any more.
Up on his hill Joe shifted forwards in his rocking chair. A movement in the grass made him swing his gun towards the east. A whole pocket of bloody rabbits had burrowed out the side of the hill below the house. Little shits. He envisaged blowing up their holes with dynamite. That’d do the trick. Plug up the ends of the burrows bar one, shove a few sticks in and bang! Bloody beautiful. Rabbit parts flying everywhere. But it wouldn’t do his hill no good either. No good at all. He was having enough trouble with erosion as it was, what with the crumbling soil structure and the rabbits undermining it all.
Nope. Maybe he could gas ’em? Only problem was the last time he did that he’d nearly gassed himself. Somehow the stuff had come up through his shower drain hole; the greywater must’ve been running into a rabbit burrow. He’d had to sleep out in the shed in his swag for a week, waiting for the smell to disappear. Bugger that for a joke. He could try baiting them but he had the bloody dogs and they’d eat anything.
Joe sighed, reached down to fondle the ears of the old dog at his feet. Boots shuffled in, obviously loving the feel of his owner’s hand.
So, thought Joe, I’m back to the gun.
A bit of grey fluff bobbed up and Joe was quick to bring the scope of the .22 rifle up to his eye. The barrel wobbled as the old man tried to get his balance. ‘Bloody rocking chair,’ he muttered. He should build himself a rail around the verandah, then he could rest the gun on it. He settled himself, concentrating on the grey smudge moving in his gun sight. He slowly breathed out, increasing the pressure on the trigger as all the air left his lungs.
Bang!
The dogs jumped. Joe jumped. And the bunny ran on, unmarked and more determined than ever to make it to his burrow and safety.
Fuck it!
The old man brought the rifle scope back to his eye to have another go but his attention was caught by a glimpse of blue, moving at a cracking pace, heading north. It was the girl. She reminded him of a good horse. She had long thoroughbred-like strides, head held high to the sun’s rays. A hand coming up every now and then to wipe the eyes. Mmm . . .
At the sound of a ute he swung the scope back towards Montmorency Downs. It was that prick Murphy, coming down the drive in his twin-cab. Why he needed a twin-cab, Joe didn’t know. It wasn’t as if he’d produced any little buggers. Fancy mixing McCauley blood with that Irish scum’s. Where the hell was the girl’s brain the day she’d married that bloke? Most likely down south. That lot of Murphys always were a showy bunch, strutting here and there like bloody cockerels. The angle of their dangle was pretty huge according to local folklore.
Murphy’s ute seemed to hover at the front gate. There was a buggy in the back. That’d be right. Off to have a game of golf, leaving the girl to deal with all that irrigation water he could see pooling in the channel. She was obviously about to start watering the place and it was a big job on your own. Shon Murphy was a miserable bloody bastard to leave her to it.
Funny thing was Murphy hadn’t always been like that. When the girl’s grandparents had been alive, Murphy had pitched in right beside Tammy. At the time Joe had been thinking maybe he was wrong about the bloke. But then had come the accident eight years ago and the fight to save the place from the creditors. Tom must’ve been running pretty close to the wire to keep Mae in the style to which she’d become accustomed. Joe snorted. It was that air of entitlement she carried around with her. She’d always thought she was better than anybody else, him and his brother included.
According to the stock agent her grandparents had left Tammy the place wholus bolus and that had pissed Murphy right off. Something to do with his name not being on the title when he reckoned he’d earned it. That was back in the days when Joe was still puttering around up the bush, cutting firewood and ripping a few posts, while other men his age opted for the local bowling green. Old habits died hard in a bushman. He’d camp away most of the week, coming back to the house – and Nellie – on weekends.
He hadn’t wanted to know what was going on down at the bottom of the hill, but Nellie had been right onto it, drawing the stock agent out over scones and jam and cups of tea. Ah, she’d had the way of it, Nellie, to get people to talk without them even knowing they were doing it.
A bit like his own mother, Daphne.
Despite the fact he tried to push it away, Daphne’s voice replayed in his head, as it had done countless times over the years, ‘Oh, Joseph, you’re breaking our hearts! Make up with Tom. You’re both married now.’
His parents, and also he suspected his brother, hadn’t realised Mae Rouget had been with him first. They had assumed the rift was because Tom had got married, breaking their brothers’ bond, and despite his mother’s heckling, Joe’s pride would never let him tell otherwise.
He heaved a sigh. It was a bit late for recriminations. They were all gone now.
Joe adjusted the gun scope a bit more, focusing in on the rear seat and tub tray of the ute. Sheesh! There was more than golf clubs in the back. Suitcases, big striped plastic bags; much more than was necessary for a trip away. Fishing rods, a bar fridge, a leather chair, and was that a mattress shoved in the side, flapping around like Rolf Harris’s wobble board?
‘Good God, is the man leaving?’ Joe muttered to Boots and Digger. He leaned down again and fondled the first pair of ears that came within reach.
He trained the scope back south. Sure enough the blue blur was disappearing over the other side of the hill, following the trail of power lines towards the massive irrigation weir of Lake Grace. A couple more loping, sure strides and one more swipe of a hand and the neat figure was gone. Over the horizon and out of sight.
Meanwhile the vehicle was still hovering at the Montmorency Downs gateway, and then it was moving, turning right towards town, slowly sneaking along the road past the hardwood post and wire boundary fence erected after the awful accident years before that killed young Patty O’Hara. Terrible mess that one. Joe shuddered, turned his attention back to the vehicle.
The ute was moving idly along as though its driver had all the time in the world. Then Joe saw the camera. The ba
stard was taking photos. What the –?
A few minutes ticked by, more photos, and then the engine noise changed as the driver cranked the ute up a gear and took off.
‘Good riddance to scum,’ Joe muttered to his dogs. Below him two tails thumped their agreement.
After Shon had left, all was quiet around the valley. So the old man decided to swing his scope around, towards the scrub that hunkered down on the edge of his property.
He spotted something wandering in his paddock. It moved fast, then slow. Fast then slow, running then dropping into the grass. The person – because that’s what Joe decided it was – moved closer and closer, skulking around the perimeter of his sheds. Then he couldn’t see the bugger, much and all as he tried. Joe didn’t want to leave the verandah because up here he had the chance of a good shot. Though he didn’t want to hit ’em. Just scare the bastard, whoever it was.
Why the hell couldn’t people just leave an old man alone? He didn’t do nothin’ to nobody so why should they come botherin’ him? But they had, over the years. And he could imagine why. ‘Mad old Joe McCauley’ they called him. He knew that and guessed it had become a bit of a dare to sneak onto the place, say you’d been there and not been shot.
A flutter of blue and red caught his attention.
There it was again. Joe leaned forwards in the chair, squinting his rheumy eyes to bring the material into focus. It was somewhere near the barn, moving fast. He scanned the ramshackle cluster of outbuildings sitting beyond the more modern machinery shed. A glimpse down near the old stable between the corrugated iron walls and the wood shed.
He shifted the rifle in his lap. Squinted down the barrel – and brought that wee scrap of colour up and into focus.
It was that dratted kid again. Surely he’d seen all there was to see in them sheds. What was the little shit doin’ here? All an old man wanted was a bit of peace and privacy.
‘Get outta there, you little bastard! Get outta me sheds before I come tan your measly little hide black an’ blue!’
The scrap of colour didn’t move, but stayed crouched down near the ground, drawing something in the dirt with his fingers.
The old man rocked forwards with the rifle and kept the kid in his sights until a flash of grey out to his right caught the attention of both man and dog. Boots took off running from the verandah, barking, eyes set on his quarry, a bobbing white tail.
‘Stay behind. Stay behind!’ the old man roared again. The dog halted.
‘Get behind I say!’ The dog took one last look then skulked back under the rickety verandah steps. Not happy.
The old man sat back into his chair. ‘You’re not destroying me afternoon’s entertainment in one go. We’ll have a bit of fun first.’ He brought the rifle back to his eye, wishing he’d already put that rail up on the verandah.
The scrap had moved again, skirting around behind the decaying pig sheds. ‘Comin’ round to see what’s set you off, I’ll bet,’ he muttered to the sulking dog.
He moved the gun, keeping his sight on the blue and red moving towards him. ‘Whaddaya want? A fuckin’ invitation ta piss off?’ he yelled. The kid couldn’t miss hearing that one. But the blue and red kept sliding towards him. Towards the old verandah. Darting behind any structure that was close.
Suddenly the wisp of grey fur popped back up from the grass and took off, tail bobbing. The dog moved fast, darting out from behind the steps. The kid came in low and hard from the opposite direction. The bunny sat up and assessed his diminishing options.
The gun boomed.
The bunny danced.
The scrap was more red than blue.
The gun report rolled around the valley, hitting trees and scrub, rumbling across the paddocks and hills until it was gone. Long gone.
Until it was nothing.
And the old man was falling. Down and down.
His last coherent thought: What the fuck’ve I done?
Chapter 12
Where was Billy? The kid should have been here helping him; instead he’d run off somewhere a couple of hours ago and Travis hadn’t seen him since. He held the spirit level up against the corner post he was putting into the ground. It needed to be a bit more to the left. Shit. Would he never get the darn thing straight? He swiped at his brow with his arm. He was sweating enough from digging the hole, now he was soaked from trying to get the fence in line. He pulled his shirt from out of the waistband of his jeans and hauled it over his head. He flung it at the ute and missed. Bugger it! Where was that bloody kid?
He knew Billy wasn’t at Tammy’s ’cause he’d just seen her marching up and over the hill, ramrod straight, steaming along like an express train. Something obviously had her gander up again today.
Trav couldn’t say when he’d learned to read people’s body language so well. Maybe it came from a childhood trying to gauge the mood and temperament of his old man. Knowing when to dodge a blow, or a sideswipe of a hand. Or maybe it was all the time he’d spent on his own in the scrub, reading the trees, the tracks, the sign, the moods of animals and the bush itself.
It hadn’t helped him read Katrina though. Trav’s shoulders slumped. Right from the start he’d been attracted to her free spirit, the way she flitted like a beautiful butterfly to this and that, drawing people to her like a welcoming light on a dark wintry night. She’d been so different to him. What did they say? Opposites attract? That sure had been the case with him and his former wife. She’d brought out a part of his personality he hadn’t known existed. Fostered a more lighthearted side that had helped him realise there was bright colour in the world, not just grey and white.
Funny how you could read people who didn’t matter so much, but not the ones you loved. Could he have done something if he had known what was running through Kat’s head? Oh, he could have tried, bent himself in all directions, prostrated himself even in an effort to make her stay when she realised that babies meant responsibility. But it wouldn’t have worked. She would still have left. It just might have taken a little longer. More time for Billy to grow up and realise what was missing from his life when she finally did piss off.
Trav pushed at the big stringybark post. All this surmising was getting him nowhere. He’d hopefully have a load of cattle coming next week, that’s if he got this bloody post and stay-set fixed up before the Lake Grace mountain cattle sales.
In reality, he could have put any new stock he bought up the back. He had five hundred acres after all, but he wanted to eat out the paddocks around the house first. Make the place a bit more firesafe. And he needed the weaners to keep things ticking over. Buying in and growing out beef cattle made his share of the funds that kept his mother in her nursing home. She was comfortable there and it also meant his wage was then free to support himself and Billy.
Belaren was formally his mother Diane’s property. A place she and his father had tried to farm when Trav was little. They’d eked out a living but his old man had worked up the bush as a dog trapper to make ends meet. Then his dad had inherited his own family’s property, north of Yunta. So they’d all upped and moved to South Australia, putting Belaren in the hands of a caretaker. All he could remember of that time was his mother crying, forever crying, as she moved from her beloved mountains of blue and grey bush to an outback flatland of red dirt. From lush green improved pastures to silver bindi-eye saltbush. From purple chocolate orchids to pink onion weed. From a twenty-six inch average annual rainfall to just eight reluctant inches. From pure and fresh underground water thirty feet below the surface to seventy feet and saline.
He and his older brother, on the other hand, had loved it. An old square functional house built of local stone, outbuildings to match, devoid of all mod cons like mains power and a washing machine, plonked in the middle of eighty-two thousand acres. Sheer bliss for two bush boys and, in appreciation, they went feral, fleeing at the slightest excuse from their School of the Air less
ons.
And his father? Well, after the euphoria of being back where he belonged wore off, he slowly drank himself into a stupor. Wasn’t much else to do, except make sure the livestock had enough water and feed, which the two boys did for him, and then muster a couple of times a year. Oh, and slaughter the odd sheep. He could still picture the old man on one particular occasion, bottle in one hand, knife in the other, a wether hung from the back of the ute, blood pouring from a slit throat. He and his brother had thought it hilarious, watching their father trying to drunkenly butcher the carcass. His mother, silently observing from the desolate and bare verandah, had just turned and walked back inside.
His old man wasn’t interested in newfangled ways of farming, of improving the land and its capacity to run stock. He wasn’t interested in anything beyond the bottom of the bottle. And his mother had worn the whole job like a martyr, until he, Travis, was twelve. Danny, his brother, six years older, had finished with school early and was bumming around the station, trying to keep the place ticking over and showing a liking for alcohol too.
Then his mother walked. Towing Travis along, she piled luggage into the old Holden Kingswood and drove out the front gate. Before leaving she’d given Danny an ultimatum: stay or go, his choice. He chose to remain with their father.
Diane never returned to a mangy life of marital abuse. She’d moved to Burra, rented a house and put Trav into school. Worked her butt off to provide a living for the two of them. And later on she’d taken in Billy for him . . .
Thank goodness he’d finally been able to bring her back to where she belonged, the place she had always called home. The sanctity of Lake Grace.
He lined up the level against the side of the post again. The bubble centred dead true to the middle. Gotcha, ya bastard. Trav smiled in grim satisfaction. Now for the stay-set.
He was just straining up some wires when a small pair of hands appeared out of thin air to pass him a pair of pliers.
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