Taking Tom Murray Home

by Tim Slee

  The police aren’t happy with Mum’s speech. They say she was giving Mixed Messages and that her speech was bordering on an Incitement To Riot. But Alasdair is here and he points out that to his knowledge there’s no law against quoting Henry Lawson and he’d like to see them arrest someone for doing it. The police officer says it’s all about context and who the hell is Alasdair anyway so Alasdair has to explain who he is and go off and talk to the police while Mum talks to reporters and Jenny and me get sent into town to buy an ice cream to get us out of her hair.

  We hear that the video of Mum reading the poem was on the seven o’clock news on the ABC and then she’s on the radio soon enough. About eight o’clock more and more people start parking around the showground and Mr Garrett says they’re all dairy farmers who’ve seen the news and are coming in to show their support. At first the police try to turn them away but people just park their cars on the side of the road and walk in, so the police give up and open the showground gates again and soon it’s like a circus has rolled into town – there are tables and stalls and tents and people pouring beer from kegs in the back of utes and about a half-dozen bonfires going and kids everywhere running around. It’s mad.

  Mum gets a roll of white cotton from I don’t know where and she set us kids to chopping it into metre-long lengths and a bit further down she has people with paint and brushes painting slogans on the flags and Deb and Ben are supervising people putting them on poles.

  ‘What are we doing this for?’ Jenny whines after a while when she gets sick of cutting up linen.

  ‘You’ll see tomorrow,’ Mum says. ‘Just keep cutting until we run out of cloth, or poles, or paint.’

  Then she looks at me, looking at me properly for the first time that evening. ‘Jack Murray, what the hell have you done to your face?’

  ‘I did check him! Why do you think he has a bandaid on it?’ Jenny is saying.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Mum says to me, really angry, peeling back the plaster.

  ‘I tried,’ I say, ‘but you were talking to reporters!’

  ‘If I can’t trust you both with things like this, I’m going to send you up to Uncle Leo and you can wait for me there.’

  ‘I checked him!’ Jenny insists. ‘I put disinfectant on and it wasn’t bleeding any more and it wasn’t deep, so I put on a bandaid! What the hell else am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Do not use that tone with me, Jenny Murray,’ Mum says, going all calm, so you know there’s a storm brewing. But Jenny doesn’t see it, or doesn’t care.

  ‘He’s the one keeps hurting himself, but you’re blaming me! If you weren’t so damn busy talking to your stupid police and reporters –’

  And that’s when Mum slaps her. Right across the face. It’s not hard, but it’s sharp and loud enough a few people hear it and turn around. Deb and Ben are closest, and look at us, worried. It’s the first time she ever slapped either of us, and I just stand there, shocked.

  Jenny glares back at her. ‘Go ahead! Hit me again if it makes you feel better! I can’t feel it anyway!’

  Mum holds a hand up to her mouth, like she’s the one who’s been slapped, and Jenny keeps standing there, like she’s daring her, staring her down, until Mum turns away and walks off toward the washrooms, her arms wrapped around herself.

  I want to go after Mum, but I see Mrs Alberti running after her, so I stay put.

  ‘Wow,’ I say.

  Now Jenny glares at me, ‘Shut up! It’s your fault.’

  ‘She hit you,’ I say. ‘She never ever . . .’

  Deb comes over, ‘You OK, honey?’ she says to Jenny. ‘You want to sit with us a moment?’

  Jenny looks at her, says nothing.

  ‘I can make you a cup of tea,’ Deb says.

  ‘I don’t want your stupid tea,’ Jenny says and walks off in the opposite direction to Mum, going I don’t know where.

  ‘O-K. How about you, Jack?’ Deb says. ‘Tea?’

  ‘I should check on Mum,’ I say, looking over to the ladies’ washrooms.

  ‘I’d give her a moment,’ she says, looking over there too. ‘Your mum is under incredible pressure.’

  ‘That’s no excuse for slapping Jen,’ I say. ‘She didn’t do anything. She should have slapped me if she was upset about my stupid face.’

  Deb puts her arm around my shoulders and walks me toward their campsite. ‘I know, it’s not OK, what she did. But it’s not about you, or Jen. It’s your dad, the farm, the debt, the funeral, the police, the media . . .’

  ‘We could have just buried Dad in Yardley and I don’t know . . . got on with our lives,’ I say. ‘Like normal people. Not this stupid funeral thing.’

  She sits me down in one of their camp chairs. Ben is there, but he’s quiet. Just puts the kettle on the burner and sits down.

  ‘Most people would have done that,’ Deb says. ‘Your mum isn’t most people. She wants your dad’s death to mean something.’

  ‘And what about us?’ I ask her. ‘Did she ask what we want?’

  The whole thing with Jenny and Mum just makes me more determined than ever to find out what really happened to Dad. Karsi didn’t buy my theory the bank man murdered Dad and he isn’t buying my new idea Dad’s death might have been faked. He’s standing by his police car doing his teeth using water in a cup when I tell him my theory.

  ‘I don’t know a soft way to say this, Jack, but I investigated the scene,’ he says. ‘Wasn’t any mystery about it. Your dad lit the fire, your dad died in the fire. You can spend your whole life asking how or why, but it will still come down to that.’

  ‘OK.’

  I must sound a bit disappointed. ‘Look,’ he says, softening a bit. ‘These are all fair questions. We asked ourselves some of these things. But we found a body in there and we even asked ourselves, that person we found in your house, was it your dad or could it be someone else?’

  ‘Was he . . . was he burned real bad?’ I ask.

  ‘He was. A burning roof fell on him. But we figure he was dead by then already,’ he says, wincing.

  ‘Then how do you know that it was him?’ I ask. ‘Maybe it was someone else?’

  ‘We know,’ he says.

  ‘Did you do fingerprints or DNA?’ I ask. ‘It could have been an animal.’

  ‘You watch too much TV, mate,’ he says. ‘Seriously. A man tells the world he’s going to burn down his house, the house burns down, the man goes missing, a dead man is found inside the burned-down house . . . we don’t need DNA.’

  ‘Dental records?’ I ask.

  ‘No, we didn’t check his teeth,’ Karsi says. ‘Or take a hair sample. Dr Watson did the post-mortem, he ID’d your dad, he signed the death certificate. He’s known your dad since before you were born.’ He does the squatting-down thing again. ‘Your dad died in the fire he set in his own house,’ he says. ‘I figure the fire went faster than he expected. He was running out when his heart gave up on him, and that was just bad luck. I’m sorry, Jack, but that’s what happened.’ He spits out his toothpaste and gives me his serious look, ‘I thought you were going to leave your dad’s death with me?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How about this then, how about you try to work out who’s setting all these fires and get back to me with your ideas on that?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Right then, detective. Get to it.’ He bends down to look in his side mirror and starts picking his teeth with a toothpick, so I know we’re done.

  Yeah, I’m not leaving anything with Karsi. I’ve seen this show. It’s the one where the local cops completely mess up the investigation because they’re lazy or dumb or think they know everything. The police find a body but they don’t check DNA, don’t check dental records, can’t get fingerprints? It could have been a damn roo or a dog or a sheep they found in there.

  I have to get a look inside that coffin.

  Mum takes Jenny for a long walk after that and it could go two ways, knowing Jenny. Either she comes back, says nothing,
and then runs away in the night and joins the navy (don’t ask me, she’s the one says all the time that’s what she’s going to do one day), or she’ll work it out with Mum and they’ll be fine.

  I’m watching for signs when they get back, but they’re not easy to read. So when we go over to the washrooms to get ready for bed, I ask her.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what?’ she says, making like nothing has happened.

  ‘Did she say sorry?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And are you two OK now?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, all right?’ she says and stops. ‘Just do everyone a favour and try not to burn yourself, cut yourself or break any damn bones until we get to Melbourne, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘We’ve got enough problems without your stupid . . .’

  ‘I said OK, all right?’

  ‘All right then.’ She reaches out and shoves me so hard I nearly fall over. ‘I fuckin’ love you, you bloody idiot. You know that, right?’

  I get my balance. ‘Wouldn’t know it, the way you’ve been lately,’ I tell her. Then I realise how that sounds and I reach out like a zombie and do a zombie voice, ‘Go on, giff me hug.’

  She flips me a finger and runs off. ‘Hug this.’

  Jenny and I pass out in seconds in our sleeping bags after all the drama. There isn’t any trouble during the night even though there were plenty of people who never even went to bed, just stayed up drinking. I mean trouble with banks or such, but I hear there was a little punch-up and the police pulled over a man who tried to drive home drunk and hit a fence. Mr Garrett says that probably happens a few times a week in Colac, so it’s no biggie.

  We get some cereal and then Mr Garrett goes around yelling at people to get up and plenty of them aren’t in the mood, but eventually he and Coach Don bully them into action.

  Mum sets people to work painting more signs while Mr Garrett and Jenny start getting Danny Boy ready, and Alasdair shows us how to fix our signs to the milk cart, rather than having to hold them or just hang them off the sides. He also shows us not to make them too small and how you needed fewer words and bigger letters. Jenny and Ben make us all Milo.

  ‘Done a few demonstrations in your time then?’ Mum asks Alasdair when we’re done.

  ‘You mean funeral processions,’ he says, tipping his mug at her.

  ‘Of course. Done a few funeral processions in your time?’

  ‘Lawyers are either right-wing nuts or left-wing nuts,’ he shrugs. ‘I guess I’m the left-wing, public-defender, hopeless-cause kind of nut.’

  ‘Not hopeless, surely,’ Mum says.

  ‘Oh, I’ll get you to Melbourne,’ he says. ‘But whether it will make any difference . . .’

  ‘Every flood starts with single raindrop,’ Mum says.

  ‘Actually, I think the saying is, the first raindrop doesn’t feel responsible for the flood,’ Alasdair replies.

  ‘I like mine better,’ Mum says. ‘Besides, we’ve got real insurance now, don’t we, Jenny?’ She gives Jenny a nudge.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Got your PayPal thing happening, get us all the way to Melbourne, right? Maybe even help a bit with the costs of the funeral.’

  ‘Oh yeah. For sure now,’ Jenny says, taking the praise. If she’s still mad at Mum, she’s decided not to let it show.

  ‘I heard something about that,’ Alasdair says. ‘Crowdfunding, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jenny says, like it’s no big deal, but I know she’s busting to tell it.

  ‘How much now?’ he asks.

  ‘Let me check,’ she says, pulling out her phone. ‘I mean, it seems like every time I check, it’s . . . No!’

  Mum sighs, ‘It was a mistake, right?’

  Jenny looks up at her, a bit pale. ‘Thirty-eight thousand,’ she says and looks at her phone again, ‘eight hundred and fifty.’

  ‘Thirty-eight thousand . . . dollars?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Yeah, since,’ she looks a bit shifty, ‘I put some pictures of our house and the video of your poem and . . .’

  ‘And what?’ Mum asks.

  ‘A . . . picture . . . of Dad and me,’ she says. ‘I said all the money goes to the funeral and trying to help us get the farm back again.’

  ‘We can’t . . .’ Mum says and then I can tell she thinks twice. ‘We can’t just take money from strangers.’

  That’s not what she was going to say, I bet. I bet she was going to say, ‘We can’t buy back the farm.’ I bet even sixty-eight thousand isn’t enough for that.

  ‘That’s taxable, as income,’ Alasdair says. ‘By the way.’

  ‘We pay tax on it?’ Mum says. ‘Even when we’re bankrupt?’

  ‘If you’re bankrupt, your debtors can seize it. Did you declare yourselves bankrupt?’ he asks, frowning.

  ‘Not officially. We’ve got nothing but debts – we’ve got no money. The bank foreclosed on the farm,’ she says. ‘That’s what this is all . . .’

  ‘I need to set up a trust fund for you,’ Alasdair says. ‘In the kids’ names. Not connected to your dairy business. Move the money there straight away and we need to make sure any other donations get moved to the trust fund, not to your personal accounts.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ Mum says.

  ‘Perfectly legal, as long as the money goes straight from the crowdfunding account that’s in your daughter’s name,’ he says. ‘Otherwise you might as well give it directly to the bank or the tax department.’

  ‘Won’t all that mean fees?’

  ‘I can set it up for you,’ he says. ‘Gratis. Or, well, it costs a couple hundred in State duties – one-off fees. You’ll have to pay those. Or if you don’t want me involved, I can recommend someone.’

  Mum sucks on her teeth. That means ‘maybe probably yes’. ‘I’ll think on it,’ she says.

  ‘Don’t think too long,’ Alasdair says. ‘It helps that the fundraiser is in your daughter’s name, not yours, but if your creditors get a sniff there’s serious money floating around, they’ll get it locked up tight and argue about it later.’ He looks at Jenny, ‘And that is serious money starting to roll in there. You told people you’re going to use the money to “help with the funeral and buy back the farm”? Were those your exact words?’

  Jenny thinks for a moment. ‘No, I wrote “help with the funeral and help us make a new start”.’

  ‘OK, that’s good. Keep it general like that. If you get too specific and you use the money for anything else, people can get angry, even sue you for misusing the money.’ He must realise he sounds really serious, so he smiles and tries to make a joke. ‘No buying ice cream and lollies with it, OK?’

  There’s a big hold-up when we’re all trying to get out of the showground because the Colac police try to say we don’t have a permit to march down the street, but the media and cameras are already there and between Alasdair and Sergeant Karsi and Coach Don and a man from the local Farmers First branch someone manages to talk the police into letting us get on our way and it’s like being royalty, with people and signs waving and the horse clopping and Mum up front like the Queen of Colac.

  ‘Just sit up the back, you two, and hold your sign,’ Mum says as I jump up onto the seat beside her.

  ‘No, why?’ I complain.

  ‘Mine or his?’ Jenny says. ‘Mine’s better.’

  ‘As if,’ I say. So we end up each holding our own sign which means we don’t have a hand to hold on to the milk cart with and we keep falling over every time Danny Boy has to pull up suddenly because of the people in front.

  There are tons of police this time, more than you would see at a footy match at the MCG even.

  ‘Look at Darth Vader over there,’ Coach Don says, and waves to a policeman dressed all in black, with black sunglasses on, standing with his hand on his belt. ‘Thinks a fifty-year-old dairy farmer’s wife is going to overthrow the government.’ Mum shoots him a look. ‘Not that you couldn’t, if y
ou wanted to,’ he says. He lifts his fist in the air like Mum did the night before. ‘People Power, Dawny!’ he says with a grin. She smacks him on the shoulder.

  People see him doing it and it’s freaky because all down the side of the main street people start lifting their fists in the air as we pass them, not cheering, just standing there quiet with their fists raised. Geraldine is in a ute behind us, standing in the back taking photos, and I bet she gets some good ones.

  Karsi comes walking back towards us as we get near the end of the main street. ‘You just keep going,’ he says. ‘Head out on the highway. We’ll turn people around and get them back to their cars, then anyone who wants to be part of the convoy into Geelong can join us.’

  ‘I reckon most of them will,’ Mr Garrett says. ‘If they’re good as their word from last night.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ says Karsi. ‘Oaths sworn by drunken farmers . . .’

  ‘Are you even allowed to drive your car and wear your uniform when you’re on holiday?’ I ask Karsi.

  He looks down at his shirt and dark pants. ‘I don’t have a choice, didn’t bring any other clothes.’

  ‘Impersonating a police officer,’ Coach Don says.

  ‘Har,’ Karsi says as he walks off again. ‘Watch out I don’t defect your stupid cart after all.’

  Mum decides she wants to sit up back for the first bit, try to have a sleep if she can. She swaps with Jen, but there’s no real way for her to get comfortable on Jen’s swag because she’s either too tall to lie down crossways behind the coffin or too wide to lie down beside it. So she bunches it up and sticks it under her bum and sits with her back up against the side of the milk cart next to me.

  ‘You want to play Spotto?’ she asks.

  ‘No thanks,’ I tell her.

  She nods, closes her eyes, her head nodding with the sway of the milk cart. She looks tired.

  ‘How did you meet Dad?’ I ask her. I already know, but she loves telling it. ‘You met him at a palace, right?’

  Her eyes are still closed, but she smiles. ‘The Palais. Magic Dirt gig. Before they became big.’

  ‘I never heard of them.’