Leave Taking

by Lorraine Marwood

  as she spoons mixture into muffin pans.

  I haven’t told anyone

  but they all seem to know.

  ‘And the camping? Where are you tonight?’

  ‘Good,’ I mumble. ‘Nearly done.’

  ‘Memorial Hill,’ is all I say in answer

  to her last question.

  ‘Good,’ Mum echoes, ‘then you can start packing

  again.’

  Packing! I nearly choke.

  ‘I know it’s hard Toby, but it has to be done.

  I have put some cardboard boxes in your bedroom.

  You only packed your old toys before.

  Just about everything has to be packed now.

  You might find something to put

  in the clearing sale in two days’ time.

  When you sort your things out.’

  Mum smiles and hugs me.

  ‘And Toby, will you help me with Leah’s things?

  I want to take her pencils, her little diaries,

  some of her toys. You will know what to keep

  better than me. Dad will help too. All together.’

  Mum stops and tries to wipe her eyes

  with floury fingers.

  ‘Sorry Toby,’ and Mum runs for the bathroom.

  I can hear her crying and the water running

  as she washes her hands.

  ‘Okay Mum,’ I call to her.

  ‘I have to feed the chooks,

  see the new chicks.

  Be back later.’

  Too much happening.

  Too much.

  But I go out again,

  talk to Trigger,

  think about Leah,

  maybe sort some more bits and pieces for Dad

  after I’ve done the chooks.

  Pa waves from the machinery shed

  when he sees me.

  He’s helping Dad sort out machinery.

  After all,

  some of it is Pa’s very old stuff.

  Already Pa and Dad have begun

  to set up auction lots around

  the back of the machinery shed.

  And this afternoon they are using the tractor

  to pull the red

  truck closer too.

  The bonfire has grown.

  It’s tall and wide.

  Dad is putting thick logs

  a bit of a way off, but still near the bonfire,

  for seats.

  He is finding more rubbish

  as he and Pa work in the machinery shed.

  A big BBQ is set up, ready for when

  we have dinner on our last night on the farm.

  There will be family and friends

  from all around.

  Coming to say goodbye,

  wish us well,

  remember Leah too,

  chat about the times we’ve had here.

  Last time we had a crowd it was after the funeral.

  Well, there will be lots of people here

  for the clearing sale,

  but they might be mainly strangers, buyers

  and perhaps stickybeaks too.

  Too hard to talk then,

  but later,

  when it’s time for the last goodbye,

  Jaxon might like to jump on the trampoline

  with me, or look at the bantam chicks …

  I have to go and sit in my tent.

  Everything is moving too fast now,

  goodbyes will be shortened. Our time here

  is quickly ending. A new farm, a new home;

  smaller without Leah.

  Different.

  Sad, but I remember

  what Pa said: To live is to remember Leah.

  And I wipe my tears;

  they just keep coming

  without me even noticing sometimes.

  Trigger licks my face, brings his favourite stick

  for me to throw, nudges and nudges until I say:

  ‘Alright Trigger, here, fetch.’

  And he fetches and begs for me to throw

  it again and again, until I’m smiling

  at the way he scoops up the stick and charges back.

  Then, just like that, Trigger has had enough

  and lies down.

  I think I’ll lie down too

  for a bit.

  There’s a shower of gumnuts

  on the roof of my tent.

  I wake up and it’s late afternoon.

  I can’t work out where

  I am, but remember it will be time to hose

  down the cow yard soon.

  I race over to the back door,

  pull on my boots.

  Both the cats and Trigger follow me

  to the cowshed.

  Pa’s ute is gone.

  There are only a few rows of cows

  left to be milked.

  Dad waves as he fetches another lot of cows

  to line up.

  I wait until the yard is empty,

  pull up the backing gate.

  Drag the thick hose right up to the end

  of the concrete

  and begin.

  I remember again Leah taking turns with this job;

  she always helped, especially with the calves.

  I know on the next farm

  we will only have cattle and sheep,

  no dairy cows.

  Different again.

  Things change.

  So much.

  I know this now.

  Mum, Dad and Pa are going through

  the clearing sale lists

  printed out from the computer.

  We’ve had our dinner

  and I’m helping to dry the dishes.

  ‘Toby, are you still sleeping in your tent tonight?’

  asks Mum.

  I nod.

  ‘Could be noisy under those sugar gums,’ she adds.

  ‘That’s fine.’ I smother a yawn. I’m so tired,

  so tired.

  Mum hugs me, wet tea towel and all. Kisses me.

  Dad and Pa say goodnight as I take my torch,

  push open the back door

  and see Trigger waiting.

  Outside the sky is like a Christmas pageant,

  all that silver starlight.

  I point the torch ahead

  and catch the sudden thick flight

  of an owl.

  I hear the echo of a car on the road,

  paddocks away. The wind stirs

  the sugar gum leaves and the gumnuts plink

  in a sudden, drumming flurry.

  I put my torch down, fling my arms out wide,

  look up to the sky and try to give this moment

  one huge final hug.

  ‘Goodbye farm night.’ Then I pick up

  my torch again, crawl into my tent,

  my sleeping-bag.

  Trigger crawls in too.

  I listen to the night sounds

  as if it’s my own private concert,

  until my tiredness

  blots everything out.

  It’s clearing sale day.

  Dad gets the cows in earlier than usual.

  They grumble. Really.

  Flick tails, butt one another,

  charge in a different direction

  to the motorbike.

  Trigger knows everything is out of order

  and barks. He’s not a working dog; even though he’s a kelpie,

  he failed his working-dog trial.

  Some dogs don’t make the grade,

  Dad had said, and I begged him to keep Trigger,

  my dog, my farm dog.

  I’d pleaded and Dad had given in.

  Of course, even the cows know

  he’s not a working dog and take no notice,

  moo louder.

  Last night Dad said, ‘The auctioneers will be here

  early.

  I’ll need your help Toby.

  Pa will come too.’

  Even before I r
oll the hose back up

  from washing the yard, the first ute

  arrives, then another.

  The local CWA ladies

  are catering and will use

  the kitchen to prepare sandwiches.

  All the power points in the machinery shed

  are in use with the auctioneer’s computers

  and electronic equipment.

  Little trestle tables spring up with labels

  like registration, payment, enquiries.

  There are clipboards, pens and brochures

  typed up by the auctioneering company.

  I sigh as I read the list of

  all our goods, then watch as a man

  puts lot numbers in front

  of each pile of equipment or box.

  ‘Tom Elliot’s my name,’ he says and shakes

  my hand.

  Pa is directing utes and cars

  to the house paddock to park.

  I see people I know. I half-wave,

  half-hide.

  ‘Here Toby,’ Dad calls.

  And I help place more boxes

  from the machinery shed

  in rows wide enough for people

  to walk between.

  Smaller items are in the machinery shed,

  bigger items are outside.

  There are so many boxes.

  Soon there are more people

  than dairy cows.

  ‘There’s the O’Brien family,’ says Dad

  and waves.

  The auctioneer gets up on

  the back of the old red truck.

  ‘Hope he doesn’t fall through,’

  I mutter.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it’s

  time to begin the sale of a lifetime,

  of a generation …’

  I block my ears, go to my tree house,

  climb till I am invisible behind

  gumleaves.

  I have my own secret place

  to watch as the auctioneer

  raises his voice and that man,

  Tom Elliot, stands beside him

  and scans the crowd for bids.

  ‘Sold! Going, going! Sold!’

  The words are repeated, the crowd moves

  along the rows. Then slowly

  utes back up, load their goods

  and empty spaces appear.

  People sit on hay bales

  with mugs of tea, plates of sandwiches

  and cakes.

  Trigger whines for me to come down,

  but I can’t, not yet.

  Pa waves once, Mum looks for me,

  waves too, then the auctioneer

  points to the old red truck he is standing on.

  Bidding starts. ‘Sold!’ he shouts,

  and someone brings in a bigger truck

  with its own mini-crane and the old red truck

  is winched onto the buyer’s vehicle.

  ‘Goodbye, goodbye,’ I whisper,

  and I let my head rest

  on my folded arms.

  Strangers and friends mill around

  Dad, Pa and Mum, then the dust drifts

  again as cars, utes, trucks leave,

  piggybacking parts of our life.

  ‘Oh Leah,’ I whisper, ‘it’s sad

  but you would have liked spying

  on it all from up here.’

  Goodbye Deep Well Farm

  Pa is here early the next morning.

  He’s brought more chairs, and a table.

  Then he keeps working in the machinery shed.

  I go and help.

  ‘Lots of bits and pieces that people didn’t want

  have been left behind,’ he laughs.

  ‘Pa,’ I ask, ‘how did you get used to leaving?’

  ‘Hmm, I suppose your grandma and I

  knew it was coming.

  It gave us more time to do some travelling,

  some hobbies.

  We were happy here and happy

  when your dad and mum

  took over the work.

  Perhaps I would have liked you or Leah

  to take over too. But things change.

  The O’Briens and their extended family will look

  after the farm.’

  ‘Will you come to our new farm?’ I ask.

  ‘It won’t have milking cows.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll have to stay a few nights then,

  it’s a long way away.

  Closer to your mum’s family.

  That will be good.

  The cats, chooks and of course Trigger

  will go with you,

  and some of your dad’s beef cattle,

  so not everything has been sold.

  And the tractors will go too.’

  I nod. It’s beginning to sound a little bit exciting.

  Cousins I hardly know to meet,

  a new school, new farm.

  ‘But will we forget Leah?’ I blurt out.

  And the tears spring again.

  ‘Of course not, Toby.

  Listen, Leah is here in our hearts

  and up here in our memories.

  And on every special occasion

  we’ll remember her.’ And Pa holds me tight.

  ‘Come on, we’ve earned some morning tea

  and I hear that your mum has had a big baking day.’

  We put our boots at the back door,

  wash our hands,

  and Pa always combs his hair as well.

  We help Mum with the coffee,

  pile biscuits on plates.

  ‘Not too many,’ says Mum. ‘We’ll need some for tonight.’

  ‘Lots coming?’ asks Pa.

  ‘Not sure, but expect a few. It’s the final goodbye

  really.’

  ‘That will be hard,’ says Pa.

  Mum nods.

  We eat in silence, then Pa goes back to the shed

  and I help Mum cut up carrots,

  cabbage, celery, tomatoes, radishes.

  ‘Salads for our BBQ tonight,’ explains Mum.

  ‘Are you happy to see some of your friends Toby?’

  Mum looks at me closely.

  I nod. I know it will be part of my goodbyes.

  ‘At least there will be a huge bonfire

  and Uncle Samuel will bring his guitar,’ I say.

  Then Mum gives me a hug.

  I remember the last time Uncle Samuel came to

  our farm. Leah was in bed recovering

  from her latest round of chemo

  and Uncle Samuel sang to her, even made up

  little jingles about Shelley and Tilly.

  That made Leah laugh. We all heard that

  laughter and I try to recall it now, but all

  I hear are the funny songs Uncle Samuel loves

  making up.

  ‘We’ll never forget Leah.

  Never,’ says Mum as if she is also remembering

  Leah’s laugh.

  ‘I think Dad will be glad to have his brother here too,’ adds Mum.

  ‘Uncle Samuel always gets a party going

  with his singing.’

  I don’t want to see Mum cry,

  so I hug right back, even though

  it’s getting hard to hug her properly,

  and then I go to my room.

  I unfold the map of ‘Leave Taking’.

  It’s getting a bit of farm dirt on it

  and I like that. I have said goodbye

  to almost every marked spot,

  but there is one place left to go.

  I roll up the map, tuck it into

  my pocket and head around the back way

  to go outside.

  I just have time before some early neighbours

  arrive to help out. I know there will be lots

  of hugs and tears and cups of tea, coffee,

  soft drinks, eating and storytelling.

  Trigger has been dozing by his kennel and

 
he jumps up and follows me.

  I wave to Dad putting some more stumps

  onto the bonfire and keep walking

  until I reach the oldest shed on the farm.

  Pa called it the old black smithy shed.

  Dad was going to knock it over with the

  front-end loader, but I yelled and spluttered

  and carried on, so he just shrugged his

  shoulders and said, ‘Alright son, maybe the O’Brien

  family might restore it. Who knows?’

  Pa said he could remember an old workman using

  that shed when he was a boy.

  ‘Always something breaking on a farm,

  so it was handy to fix something yourself

  or fashion a new part. Can’t do that these days.’

  This was one of Leah’s favourite spots, even though

  we had to make big stomping noises as we went

  near it just in case

  a snake or a rat was inside.

  And we mainly went in winter. Such treasure,

  Leah had said as we found old shrunken leather straps

  from bridles and huge padded harnesses to put on the

  Clydesdale horses that pulled the ploughs

  before Great Grandpa had tractors.

  Leah really liked the horseshoes

  she found; some on nails on the wall,

  others under layers of dirt on the earthen floor.

  I know what I am looking for and I reach up

  to take the smallest of all the horseshoes.

  For a pony maybe or a magical tiny horse,

  Leah had said. I will pack this with the gumnuts

  and the map.

  We’d made up games of cooking and feasts and

  wishing potions,

  leaning over the bricked furnace, thinking

  of the fierce heat and the sweat and the hammering.

  Leah had gathered lots of horseshoe nails

  in an old tin pot. But I leave those

  for the next family.

  Trigger is scratching in the corner.

  ‘Come away,’ I order. ‘No time to chase anything

  now, we have to get back home. Tidy up.’

  I go outside; already the sun is sinking.

  Pa said he would wash down the yard for me tonight.

  ‘Goodbye old black smithy shed,’ I say.

  Dad lights the bonfire.

  It roars like a wild dragon.

  People move back until the lick of flame

  becomes less hungry.

  Then the huge tree stumps

  Dad has placed at the bottom,

  with more at the top of the bonfire,

  begin slow-burning.

  I think of the box of Leah’s drawings

  and know that she’d like the ashes

  left here.

  The BBQ is already sizzling sausages,

  hamburgers, chops.

  Uncle Samuel is in charge.

  He has a striped apron

  on, a chef’s hat and is waving

  a huge pair of BBQ tongs.

  He calls, ‘Toby, has your mum got

  any more onions?

  Need more plates too.’

  Then my friend Emmy comes over