‘She’s in bed,’ Annie had answered solemnly. ‘She and Tim found Monnie in the bottom paddock tonight. She had passed away,’ Annie added softly, her eyes flicking to Ben whose face contorted before he started softly crying yet again.
Peter had watched Annie get out of her chair and pull Ben up into a cuddle before turning his dark, expressionless eyes to Tim. ‘How’d she die?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Tim said, unable to decide if it was the pain of reliving the experience or his anger at his father’s unyielding frigidity that was the cause of his current difficulty in swallowing. ‘But I’ll be going down there in the morning to bury her. I might get more of an idea, then, about how she died.’
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ Peter said, scooping a forkful of mashed potato and shoving it into his mouth before chewing with gusto.
Tim watched small waves roll towards him and wondered whether it was normal for a family to be silent and ambivalent in the face of such aching sadness. He gently tugged at the line and reeled it in to find its bare hooks dancing in the breeze, which he knew to be from the sea’s movement rather than any fish. He picked a few writhing gents from the bucket of sawdust and threaded them onto the hooks, instantly reminded of Monnie’s burial.
It had been the crack of dawn when he had wandered from the warm house into the mist, his and Peter’s breathing meeting the chill air like clouds of smoke as he had started the motorbike and Peter had groaningly climbed up onto the tractor. Tim had taken an alternative route to Monnie’s body, zigzagging the bike across the paddocks and along the fences to check they were secure, their red kelpies bounding and barking behind, their tails waving like flags the whole time, despite the morose weather and circumstances. The distant sound of the tractor’s steady grumble provided reliable insight into Peter’s rate of progress.
At the crest of the hill, Tim had stopped the bike and gazed down at the tractor groaning slowly but surely towards the copse of trees he knew to be surrounding Monnie’s body. He had gunned the bike and made his way down the hill, preparing for the reality that Monnie was likely to have been opened up and ripped at by foxes and carrion feeding birds. When he could finally see her in the distance, lying exactly as he and Rachel had left her, he looked skywards in a prayer of thanks to a god he did not normally believe in.
Their hands in the pockets of their jackets, Tim and Peter had circled Monnie’s wet, bloated corpse. Scanned for a clue, any clue, no matter how minuscule, that would tell them how she had died.
Tim’s beanie provided extra warmth, as likely did Peter’s tattered Akubra, but it wasn’t enough and occasionally they each took their hands from their pockets and blew into them, or stamped their feet and slapped at the sides of their arms.
Having worked their way entirely around her body, Peter eventually poked the toe of his steel-capped boot at Monnie’s mouth. He grunted and knelt on the damp grass. Tugged at her lip, once thick and soft as velvet, now as solid as old rubber. ‘There it is. Look at this,’ he said, pointing.
Tim bent and peered at where Peter’s gnarly finger indicated two swollen punctures inside her lip. ‘It would have been a brown, a mighty big one to make these holes,’ he said. ‘She was probably grazing. Even though he would have pumped a swag of venom into her she’d have died pretty slowly. A bit of pain in it, too, I’d wager.’
Tim’s fist had immediately balled in response to Peter’s clumsy heartlessness. ‘Just be careful what you say to Rachel,’ he had told him. ‘She’s having a hard enough time taking this in as it is. Come on, let’s bury Monnie,’ Tim had said heading for the shovel they had loaded onto the tractor.
‘Nah. We’ll take her back and cut her up for the dogs,’ Peter had said.
Tim had stood and stared incredulously at this cold-centred being who was his father. Farmers survived by being pragmatic about these matters — he knew that — but this was the beloved pet of his only daughter. Didn’t that count for anything?
‘Nah — we’ll bury her dad. It’ll be important for Rachel to be able to visit her grave.’
Peter had looked at him as he would have an alien, and had finally sighed with resignation. ‘Pity. She would have fed them for a year. Anyway, we’ll have to push her over there,’ he said pointing about 50 metres to the east before pulling himself up onto the tractor. ‘We can’t dig a hole here. There’re too many bloody tree roots.’
The tractor’s growls and harsh scraping of the frontend loader as it dug Monnie’s huge grave cut through the grey dawn’s silence. Tim had stood on the edge of the deepening cavern and watched the terrain gradually reveal its layers. With Peter at its helm the tractor finally grumbled towards Monnie’s body, eventually reversing and forwarding several times in a series of blundering attempts to scoop her into the bucket. Finally, she lay in there belly up, her head crammed to the side, her hooves waving in the air on the end of legs bouncing as stiff as fence posts as the tractor made its way over the bumps and hillocks to her grave. Tim had swallowed his anguish as he watched this once proud and beautiful creature, her golden mane and tail now matted with twigs and leaves, being carried to her final resting place as though no one had ever cared.
He recalled how his fists had been clenched deep in the pockets of his jacket; how his sense of powerlessness had propelled him again towards silent prayer for Monnie and Rachel; how he had watched as, without reverence or ceremony, Peter had revved the front-end loader to the point that its roar sent the birds fleeing from the trees; how the scoop had dropped Monnie’s huge body into the hole and the surprisingly dull thud as she had fallen. How, as large scoops of pebbly dirt had pattered hollowly onto her belly, he knew that never before had he felt such aching sadness — not for himself, but for his sister.
Once done, Peter had turned the tractor around and headed back to the house, its grumbling gradually fading into the distance. Tim had smoothed her grave’s surface before placing a generous heap of fresh wattle and wild daisies in the centre. Later, he would tell Rachel about the dignified air of Monnie’s burial. ‘Thank you, Tim. Monnie deserved that,’ she said, sitting up and hugging him, her tears wet on his neck.
A sharp tug on the fishing line instantly brought his thoughts back to the gulf before him, the chill of the sand on his bare feet. He stomped his legs and tweaked the unresponsive fishing line. ‘I dunno, Rach. What are we going to do?’ he murmured, recalling the telephone call the social worker, Lauren Quayle, had made to their mother on Friday. The old man had already left to start working on the fences, the plan being that Tim would join him once he had dropped Ben at school. Rachel was in bed after Annie had agreed to allow her another day off from school. And Tim was about to storm into Ben’s bedroom to give him a hurry-up because they were running late.
Annie had started at the landline’s shrilling by her side when she was boiling the kettle for a cup of tea. And within a second of picking it up, she had blanched a deathly grey. Just as suddenly her face had reverted to the hardness that Tim knew from experience meant she was digging her heels in. ‘Yes, Lauren … No, I haven’t. Rachel’s horse has just died of snakebite. She is terribly upset … Yes, that’s right … I’ll make the appointment once she’s back on her feet again.’ There had been a lengthy pause followed by, ‘Yes, I understand. Very well. I’ll make the appointment this morning, but I won’t be dragging her off to see the doctor until next week … Yes, very well.’ Annie had almost thrown the handset back onto the phone as she had wordlessly cleared her throat.
‘What was that about?’ Tim said.
‘She says if I don’t take Rachel to the doctor she will apply for a court order, which means they can put Rachel in foster care. And she will be ringing Dr Shepherd this afternoon to check that I have made the appointment. Lordy me. The nerve of the girl.’ Tim remembered feeling a combination of relief at knowing something was happening at last and worry over foster care with strangers possibly being the final blow for his sister.
He also knew a visit to
the doctor, or even talking to a counsellor, would not be a panacea for Rachel’s problems. Someone needed to get to the root of it all. Shanksie’s words, about how Trevor Carson had been sniffing around Rachel at the party, echoed menacingly in his ears and the vision of Shanksie’s supercilious sneer as he had said them burned like hot needles into his brain. Tim’s jaw tightened, his fishing line squealing at the speed with which he reeled it in. His rods in one hand and the bucket in the other he ran through the dunes to his ute.
During the drive to his destination, Tim reflected on how little he really knew about Trevor Carson, given he had only spoken to him a few times and always at the footy club. Trevor played in a different grade to him so there was no reason for them to know each other well. But from the times they had spoken, Trevor had impressed him as a decent sort of bloke. He just wanted to know for certain.
Tim knew that Trevor Carson lived in a rundown settler’s cottage halfway along Hart Lane, a narrow road behind the main street. He also knew from local gossip that Trevor’s mother had shot through when Trevor was only two. Rumour had it that Trevor and his dad hadn’t heard a word from or about her since that day. And even though the police had no reason to suspect foul play, the general feeling was that her sudden disappearance remained a bit of a mystery. Because of that, Tim felt sorry for Trevor. He knew what it was like to have your family history crammed with more secrets and lies than with facts and people. But having your mum shoot through before you’ve even learned to speak? Now, that had to leave a gaping black hole just waiting all your life to be filled.
Tim parked his ute in front of Trevor’s house and walked through the low wire-mesh gate held permanently open by a mat of overgrown couch grass. He picked his way through more couch to the old, wire screen door at the front, which rattled when he knocked. The screen door screeched as opened it to then knock on the buckled panelboard door — of the sort usually confined to internal use. In response to his repeated knocks, footsteps thudded towards him from inside, eventually producing Mr Carson who opened the door with a half-smile, his stained tee-shirt straining over his belly. ‘G’day, Tim. What can I do for you, mate?’
‘Is Trevor home for a quick word?’ Tim asked as benignly as he could manage, putting on his best everyday face.
‘Sure. Come in, Tim.’ Mr Carson lifted triple chins and called, ‘Trev, Tim Hooper’s here to see you. He won’t be long,’ he rasped at Tim, before lumbering back towards the frenetic commentary of a horse race on the radio, leaving Tim to stand alone on the bare boards inside the front door and look around at the bleak empty walls of the passage.
‘G’day, Hoops. Down here.’ Trevor suddenly appeared in greasy overalls from the opposite end of the house, beckoning with one arm. Tim made his way along the dim passage into the laundry, which smelled of urine and seemed to double as a tool shed, and took a deep breath when he finally stepped out into the sunshine flooding the weeds flourishing in the backyard. The open front doors of a multi-coloured galvanised iron shed framed Trevor’s Subaru, its bonnet raised, its shiny duco twinkling in direct contrast to its surroundings.
Trevor lay down on the driver’s seat and disappeared beneath the steering console. ‘I need to get this done before I go to work this arvo. Mind if I keep on it while we talk? So, what is it, mate?’ he said, wrestling with some wiring. ‘Is there something wrong at the footy club?’
‘No, Trev. It’s about my sister and what happened Saturday night.’
‘Yeah, that was pretty gruesome. How is she?’ he said.
Tim cut to the chase. ‘Just wondering if you know who gave her the grog and the ekkies.’
‘No, mate. Don’t know shit. Sorry.’
To Tim, the casualness of Trevor’s tone was excessive and made him sound dodgy. He wished Trevor would come out from under the cover of the console and talk to him face to face.
‘Goons and ekkies are both pretty easy to get though,’ Trevor added.
‘I didn’t say it was a goon,’ Tim told him.
‘Nah. But everyone knows that it was … did you ask Rachel?’ he said finally pulling out and facing Tim wearing a problem-solving frown.
‘She’s not saying a word. She won’t even tell the doctors. The welfare has been sniffing around as well and she won’t tell them. No one knows but her and the dickhead who gave it to her.’
Trevor’s brown eyes widened for a nanosecond.
Tim stepped closer. ‘I saw you with her on the school oval, mate. What was that all about?’
Trevor shuffled on the spot where he stood. Pulled a greasy rag from his back pocket and rolled it in his hands. ‘Look, Tim. She begged me for it. I got the goon for her like she asked … but I had nothing to do with the ekkies. And I was at the school because I wanted to apologise for giving her the grog and causing this trouble. I know now it was a bloody gross mistake on my part.’ His brow furrowed.
Tim reached out and grabbed a handful of Trevor’s overalls. ‘I know you’re only just 18 yourself, but she’s a kid, Trev. I don’t care how much she begs. In future, if she takes any illicit or illegal substances again you will be the first person I think of. And I will be round here in a flash. Get it?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I get it,’ Trevor said, pulling his head to one side.
‘Just stay away from her,’ Tim spat, before pushing Trevor away.
Tim stalked the length of the Carsons’ weed-infested driveway, fuming over the consequences of Trevor’s stupidity for his sister and his family. He started the ignition, sat and listened for a moment to the calming purr of his ute and pondered his persistent doubt over Trevor’s claim he had nothing to do with the drugs. Trevor’s innocent demeanour, his burning concern, almost had Tim convinced, but there was something extra — and it was not just the lingering mystery of the drugs. A sixth sense gnawed at him. Things had happened that Trevor was not giving up. Tim pressed his foot down on the accelerator and roared away from the grim household that he intended to ensure his sister never had anything to do with again.
Next morning Tim woke to his own thoughts: the memory of Dr Sandhurst’s blush as they had spoken on the beach, her orange nail polish as her toe had poked at the sand. Release was exquisite and took next to no time.
‘I have to work at Laurie’s again today,’ he announced later, when he stepped into the family room.
Peter’s dark eyes flicked up. His thin lips tightened. ‘Thanks for the warning,’ he said.
‘Laurie only messaged me late last night. He’s getting panicky about Prime’s job.’
‘Yeah? Well I’m getting panicky about the fences and the harvesting and tagging the new cattle,’ Peter said.
‘Maybe you should buy in some help,’ Tim said.
Peter’s eyes turned to points of steel. He blew out the side of his mouth. ‘Yeah. Why don’t I get a few blokes in? Then I could watch daytime television every day with your mother.’
Annie put her mug down and glared at Peter over the kitchen bench. ‘Don’t bring me into it. You know I never watch daytime television. What are you going on about?’ she said.
‘You could if you wanted. That’s the point,’ Peter said. ‘I can’t run this bloody farm on me own, but that’s what’s happening lately. We need to sort it and quick.’ He stood and pushed his chair back with such force it fell with a clatter to the floor. ‘I’ll be fencing all day. Won’t be back for lunch,’ he said striding towards the back door.
‘I won’t be home either, remember,’ Annie called after him. ‘I have to shop and I’m working at St Vinnies all day.’
The screen door slammed, followed by the roar of the motorbike.
Annie sighed and shook her head. ‘I’ll drop Ben off at school before I do the shopping, love. You go to Laurie’s,’ she said softly.
‘Okay. Thanks, Mum. Did you ring Doc Shepherd and make Rachel’s appointment?’ he reminded her, opening the fridge door and selecting an apple.
Annie shook her head as she dumped dishes into the suds. ‘I’ll
do it today. I want to be sure Rachel is up to it. I’ve told that Lauren Quayle person to take me to court if she wants. I’m doing what I think is best for my daughter. She’ll probably tell me off next, for leaving Rachel alone all day. But I know she’ll be fine here alone. There’s plenty of food and she has the number at St Vinnies. I can be home in 10 minutes if she needs me.’
Tim and Laurie thrashed around all morning, worked through morning tea and had Prime’s window frames finished by lunchtime. ‘Call over to Johnno’s and get me some wood primer would you, please Tim? Then you can shoot through and give your old man a hand with the fencing,’ Laurie said as they stood the last frame up against the long, stone wall.
Johnno’s was in Smith Street, a few doors up from Laurie’s. A sheetmetal construction on a concrete slab the size of a footy oval, Johnno’s sold everything from tacks to fence posts, kitchen sinks to toilet bowls, and everything in between. Tim sauntered in to find the space behind the checkout was empty and finally located Johnno stacking shelves in the plumbing aisle.
‘G’day, Johnno. Just picking up some wood primer for Laurie,’ he called to the snowy-haired third-generation owner.
‘Put it on Laurie’s account. I’ll sign for it,’ he told Johnno minutes later at the checkout. He looked around. ‘I haven’t seen Trevor about. Where is he today?’ he asked, signing the docket.
‘Poor bastard rang in this morning, sick as a dog. Said he had food poisoning. Trev’s guts are made of iron. Can’t imagine what would give him the runs. Anyway, he must be bad ’cause Trev’s never taken a day off in the entire time he’s worked here. Can’t afford to. Doesn’t get paid for ’em,’ he added.
It was on the tip of Tim’s tongue to mention Trevor was fit and well yesterday when he’d seen him at his house, but realised Johnno would know, because Trevor was on his way to work that afternoon. Trevor’s gut ache must have come on suddenly, he thought conclusively.
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