Damien had sat alongside his grandfather, imitating his ritual of laying out newspaper on the ground as a tablecloth, pouring the steaming liquid, and sighing contentedly after the first sip. That day they finished putting the second-hand corrugated iron on what was to be Grandpa Tom’s workshop. The next day Damien had got in the way while Tom and a couple of mates positioned and then bolted lathes, pipe benders, welders and grinders onto the concrete floor.
Suddenly Damien opened his eyes wide and said what Jacqueline had been wondering while she listened to his story.
‘I reckon Grandpa was more an engineer than a farmer.’
‘But he was a farmer? Did he inherit the land from his father?’ Jacqueline asked.
‘No, the McAllister family farm was sold because there were too many sons. Grandpa bought his own block. Actually, I reckon he only bought it after the war. It would have been pretty cheap because it’s not the best dirt. Too sandy.’
‘If he didn’t want to be a farmer, surely he wouldn’t have bought land?’ Jacqueline offered.
‘Not necessarily,’ Damien said thoughtfully. ‘Back then it was something you could fall back on. You could run some sheep and do all right. Wool was up and so were fat lambs.
‘He probably needed somewhere to live and you could get five hundred acres with a house back then for not much more than a town block. Anyway, I think they had special loans for ex-servicemen, or something. Grandpa always kept working in town and only did the farming on weekends.
‘Shit! I can’t believe I never realised it before. Grandpa wasn’t meant to be a farmer, well not full-on anyway.’ Damien rubbed a hand back and forth through his hair, sighing deeply. ‘I can’t believe I never knew. And he hated sheep, just like me. They were always a pain in the arse, but a means to an end. Pretty spooky, don’t you think?’ he said.
‘Well, lots of traits are learned behaviour, but plenty of things can also be put down to mere coincidence. So what do you think this means to you?’ Jacqueline said.
Damien said thoughtfully, ‘Maybe that’s why sometimes I would rather be building something than dealing with bloody sheep.’
‘I think you have to be wary of taking these things too literally,’ Jacqueline cautioned. ‘Earlier you were telling me you now think you’re more like your father. Let’s talk about him.’
‘As far as I know, Dad left school early to help Grandpa on the farm. I don’t know why if everything was only part-time. Perhaps Dad was supposed to turn it full-time. Anyway, after a while, about a year or so, he went up north to drive tour buses for a mate in the Flinders Ranges.
‘Just quietly, I think he and Grandpa had a bit of a falling out, but I wouldn’t know the details. Grandpa would have been pretty strict, I reckon, and Dad and his brother Jack were notorious for their hard partying and rolling a couple of cars, so that could have been it.
‘I’ve heard Jack desperately wanted to go overseas but, because Dad had left, Grandpa made him stay. If you ask me, Uncle Jack’s always been a bit jealous of Dad. But at least he didn’t stuff his life up,’ Damien added quietly.
‘What do you mean?’ Jacqueline prompted.
‘Well he bloody went and got a girl pregnant, didn’t he? Mum,’ he said, becoming visibly angry.
‘Why does that make you angry?’ Jacqueline asked in a low, even tone.
‘Because they were never meant to be together, and it’s all my fault.’
Jacqueline’s heart lurched. ‘You can’t blame yourself for someone else’s mistakes. You had absolutely no means of influencing them. You weren’t even born,’ she said. While it was good Damien was finally talking openly, it seemed the wounds went deeper than she had previously thought. She would have to put the kid gloves back on and proceed extra carefully.
She took a deep breath and began slowly. ‘Why do you think your parents were not meant to be together?’
Damien leant down to put Squish back on the floor, and keeping his gaze down spoke so quietly Jacqueline had to lean forward to hear his words.
‘Because he was in love with someone else – his brother’s girlfriend, Janice,’ he said calmly. He looked back up at Jacqueline. ‘She could have been my mother,’ he said.
Jacqueline held his gaze and said quietly, ‘You’re being too hard on yourself. You can’t go getting caught up in what ifs.’
‘Can’t I?’ Damien asked.
Jacqueline noticed the hurt in his eyes, the slight quiver in his chin, and the single tear making its way slowly down his cheek. She remained silent, hoping he would continue, but also wary that time was running out – according to the desk clock her next patient was due to arrive in approximately twenty minutes. He couldn’t leave in this frame of mind and she certainly couldn’t interrupt him to phone Betty Joyce, who lived just across the street, to postpone.
‘You weren’t there. I heard the arguments,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s all my fault – Auntie Janice, Mum, Dad – everything.’ Damien’s shoulders sagged as if in defeat.
‘Now hang on,’ Jacqueline eased in carefully. ‘If, as you say, your father was in love with someone else, it was his choice to face his responsibility to you and your mother. His choice, not yours.
‘And how do you know your Auntie Janice isn’t perfectly happy? Have you ever asked her? A lot can happen in thirty years, as you well know. Guilt is a very destructive emotion, Damien, you have to move on from this.’
‘How?’
‘Well, by talking, for starters. Getting it all out of your head. Perhaps when you leave here you’ll feel like you’ve been released from some of these feelings. It might take longer because you’ve obviously been holding onto it all for so long.
‘And writing it down, say, in a letter of apology to someone you feel you’ve let down could also help. You don’t send it; it’s just a way of getting it out of your head. Some people find writing easier than talking.
‘Another way is writing each source of guilt or negative feeling on a card and then burning them one by one. Some people find physically destroying the cards very satisfying. Here, take some of these and give it a go,’ Jacqueline added, opening the bottom drawer of her desk and taking out a small stack of lined index cards.
‘I think now what you need to do is go away and think about what we’ve discussed today. It’s been pretty intense. Then come back to talk about anything else that comes up, or we’ll just continue on from here.
‘Also, you might find it useful to make some lists – not just of negatives. Here, take these.’
Damien took the sheets Jacqueline offered and flicked through them. Each had a different typed, bold heading at the top: ‘What makes me feel guilty?’ ‘What makes me sad?’ ‘What makes me happy?’ ‘What makes me angry?’
‘See how you go. Why don’t you come back Friday and we’ll discuss them then. How’s eleven-thirty for you?’ Jacqueline added quickly, before Damien had a chance to change his mind. In her experience, it was more successful to pin patients down and make bookings on the spot. They usually turned up for a booked appointment but were less likely to ring and book one after leaving.
Damien seemed slightly dazed, and Jacqueline wasn’t surprised after what had been raised in the session. She really didn’t want to send him on his way in such profound turmoil, but wouldn’t have a choice when her next patient turned up. But at least things had been wrapped up to a certain extent and he was being given a little time to collect himself before leaving.
Actually, Jacqueline was surprised at how calm he was. He’d agreed to the appointment, accepted her instructions while nodding intently, and was now picking up Squish in preparation for leaving. But she was still concerned. While a calm patient was preferable to a visibly upset one, Jacqueline was experienced enough to know that nothing was assured. This could just be the proverbial calm before the storm. She thought about how he’d been the day she and Ethel had turned up at his house. But with the progress he’d just made, a return to that state was pretty unlikely. All
she could do now was hope: hope he’d be okay, and hope he’d turn up Friday.
Half an hour later, Jacqueline sighed when Betty still hadn’t turned up for her appointment. ‘Must have forgotten,’ she groaned, feeling annoyed at the fact she’d hurried Damien when he might have been quite prepared to go on. And now her last appointment wasn’t for another hour. If Daryl Hanlon decides to show, she thought.
Jacqueline leant back into her chair, rested her heels on the rubbish bin under the desk and smiled as she thought about Damien’s interaction with the puppy.
‘And what sort of name is Squish anyway?’ she laughed. ‘Must remember to ask him next time.’ Well, odd name or not, the puppy had definitely made a big difference to Damien, which was all that mattered.
After all the stories she’d heard about ocker country blokes, if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she would never have believed Damien would be so doting on a pet.
Fate, she told herself, pure and simple.
After attacking a large bowl of creamy chicken pasta and downing a couple of glasses of wine, Jacqueline scanned the three available television channels while consulting the local guide. Nothing piqued her interest so she washed her dishes, cleaned her teeth, and slipped between the crisp, cool sheets.
She only managed twenty pages of the thriller she’d borrowed from the library before succumbing to the weight of her tugging eyelids and tumbling into a dream-filled sleep. She and Damien were walking hand in hand along a grassy trail worn bare with the many feet that had come over the years to check on their buried loved ones. They stopped in front of a grey granite boulder with flecks of mica twinkling in the afternoon sun.
When Jacqueline looked back up from reading the words stamped into the smooth rock face she realised Damien was in a dark grey suit and she in a long flowing white organza and silk wedding gown. Together they turned back from the tombstone to face more than a hundred people arranged in a semi-circle around them. They were all dressed in suits and smart dresses, and with heads bowed.
She thought she heard Damien mumble, ‘My fault, everything,’ and was about ask him what he meant when the heads lifted and everyone began clapping in an even beat. After surveying the expressionless faces and finding none she recognised, Jacqueline turned back to Damien only to find he’d moved away to join the crowd and she was now facing them alone.
Jacqueline woke hot and sticky in her pyjamas with sheets askew and Damien’s words, ‘My fault, everything,’ drumming in her ears.
Sitting up and wiping away the straggly hairs plastered to her damp forehead, she fought to understand the dream. After a few minutes all she knew for certain was that Damien had said he blamed himself for everything. The phrase tingled at the edge of her memory and she realised it was similar to something he’d said to her, when he’d spoken about his Auntie Janice.
Jacqueline concentrated so hard to bring his exact phrase to the surface she felt the tension in her brow and the beginnings of a headache. Forcing herself to give up and relax, she slumped back onto her pillows. Just as she did Damien’s words came to her, and this time they were clear: ‘Everything is my fault – Auntie Janice, Mum, Dad – everything.’ Dad, what about his dad? Shit. Surely he can’t think … but what else could he have meant?
Jacqueline realised she’d failed him by not having discussed his father’s death. Grief was probably the single biggest contributor to his depression. Hopefully getting so much else off his chest has helped, she told herself, but silently acknowledged she had no way of knowing how he’d really be once he’d analysed his revelations.
She sighed. All she could do was wait until Friday and hope he showed. While she hated the thought of him living with such profound guilt, it wasn’t like she could go driving out there to check on him. More images from the dream flashed in her mind and the tingle of yearning became a strong pulse between her legs.
My concern is purely professional, she scolded, shaking her head, and rolled over.
Chapter Fifteen
Damien felt guilty about slagging his mum off to Jacqueline. He hadn’t said anything he hadn’t meant or that wasn’t the truth, but he must have sounded an ungrateful bastard after everything his mother had done for him. He thought about his dad. Poor bloke, it wasn’t like life had been perfect when he was alive.
It was weird how you could feel bad for someone who was dead and no longer really mattered, but not for someone who could probably do with it. But then he reckoned his mum had had the chance to make things better, but had been too busy being so damn strong and completely in control of life. She’d be pissed off if she knew he thought otherwise.
And he really did feel sorry for his dad. He couldn’t help it. In Damien’s estimation he’d been dragged back from a carefree, nomadic life to become a slave to his father’s ambition, only to be given a life sentence by a woman and her fertility. A few years later he managed to escape the farm by …
‘Oh my God! Squish, you wouldn’t believe it!’
Luckily Damien was sitting down at the table and not in charge of some heavy, dangerous equipment. He found it hard to breathe with the realisation descending, crushing his chest. His dad was no more destined to be a farmer than his father before him!
‘Jesus.’ Suddenly Damien was up from the table and pacing in front of the window overlooking a thousand acres of original McAllister land.
He felt duped, conned, like never before. Even worse than the time he’d come across a death adder in the shed. He’d been about ten and it had taken him ages to get up the guts to get close enough to knock it on the head with a shovel. Thought he was going to shit himself, he was so scared. But when it was over he was so pleased with himself he even managed to pick it up and show his dad. How was he supposed to know it was already dead and that his father had left it there on purpose to scare the mice and birds away? They’d all laughed about it for years, and every time they did Damien had felt like a complete idiot. Just like now.
He slumped back into the carver chair Dean McAllister had always occupied at mealtimes, now for some reason feeling like some sort of a fraud. His body felt heavy, like he was in one of those lead coats people put on for X-rays. His head was spinning and he reckoned he could throw up if he let himself. But there were more important things to think about. Such as his life collapsing around him like a house of cards.
The familiar flush of anger mixed with humiliation rose inside him. He could picture his father up there beyond the clouds thinking him a complete fool for spending the last nine years dutifully carrying on with something he’d never given much of a shit about.
‘What an absolute fucking idiot I’ve been,’ he whispered. ‘They don’t get much dumber than me.’
Why didn’t his dad send him a sign?
I feel robbed, Damien thought. I’ve been carrying on the dreams of two generations that hadn’t even existed in the first place. And it isn’t like it’s been easy. Farming’s a mug’s game. And I’m the biggest bloody mug of all.
I’ve been a complete idiot my whole bloody life.
Suddenly everything seemed to slow and Damien began to feel even weirder. It was like he was having an out-of-body experience or something. The blood pounding in his ears slowed to become a dull thud. He felt himself get up and walk unsteadily through the house, only vaguely aware of where he was.
He was crouching down next to his bed and feeling underneath for the smooth wooden stock of the rifle. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t stop himself. He wasn’t sure it was really him doing it anyway. His fingers closed around the small cardboard box of bullets. It gave a dull clinking sound which meant it was nearly empty. Didn’t matter, he only needed one. But again, it wasn’t really him doing this, having these thoughts. Was it?
Damien became aware of movement nearby, and turned to see Squish beside him. He wanted to tell the dog to piss off, but he didn’t seem to have a voice. He frowned as he slowly realised he was sitting against the hard wooden edge of the bed, the butt
of the rifle propped on the floor between his bent legs. The muzzle, the dangerous end, pointed towards his left ear. It made sense. It was the only option.
He opened the box and took out a bullet, barely able to grip it in his shaking hands. They shook so hard he struggled to get the magazine out of the chamber, the bullet into it, and then the whole thing back in again. Somewhere in his addled mind he thought the fact that he’d managed to get the gun loaded was a sign. The steel was cold against his ear and the timber warm in his hands, except for the trigger against his finger. But that was warming up too.
Suddenly he was aware of Squish whining and trying to climb into his lap. He watched his hand pushing the dog away; he didn’t want Squish to see this. But the tiny dog persisted, jumping around yapping and scratching at Damien’s legs.
Slowly Damien felt the fog lift from his mind, the world around him return to normal. He felt like he’d just woken from a deep sleep or particularly vivid dream. He put the gun down, picked Squish up, and held him close. A single tear rolled down his cheek and got stuck in the stubble. The dog licked it off, and then the next, and the next after that. Damien kissed the dog. He buried his face in his fur and began to sob.
A short time later he unloaded the gun and shoved it and the box of bullets back under the bed as the tears continued to flow in hot streaks down his cheeks. He needed to get out of the house. This house his dad had built with his bare hands.
Stepping outside, Damien was surprised at how cool it was. The change had arrived and it looked like there might be a decent rain in it. Now he’d finished the stubble rolling it could piss down for as hard and long as it liked.
He walked past the ute in the carport and for a brief moment wanted to go and share everything with Jacqueline, and not just because she was his shrink. But deep down he knew he had to sort it all out on his own, it was the only way. For the first time in months he felt strong enough to cope – like he was going to be all right.
Wattle Creek Page 18