The House on the Hill

by Susan Duncan

  We heard it at the same time. Crashing through undergrowth up ahead. The Good Samaritan darted off into the darkness. I stood at my post. In a few minutes, the group returned triumphant.

  ‘Two back in the paddock. One to go,’ Bob said.

  Richard’s truck appeared in the distance. ‘Mate, mate,’ he said, shaking his head in apology. ‘Can’t find the other one. Least it’s not dead on the road.’

  ‘Jenny recording the game?’ Eric asked. Richard nodded, sheepishly.

  We all searched a while longer, our torchlight flashing eerily over scrubby strips of roadside land. Trouble was, there was no way of knowing where the steer had parted company with the truck. Could be wandering the streets of Wingham by now, looking for a warm bed. We were dead lucky, we all agreed, that the others had fallen out so close to home and we’d found them before they’d caused an accident. To keep searching was probably pointless. Time to go home. See what the morning dealt.

  ‘Let’s finish that drink,’ I said to Eric and Robyn. The Good Samaritan waved goodbye. Richard said he’d keep looking all the way home.

  We’d just sat down when the phone rang again. ‘Relfie called Jenny. Thought one of our cows was on the road. Reckon it must be your bloke.’

  ‘We’re on our way,’ Bob said. There was excitement now. A tangible sense that things might turn out ok. Eric and Robyn took off. We followed. At the gate to Richard’s property, Jenny waved us down.

  ‘Steer’s up ahead,’ she explained. ‘Richard, Eric and Robyn, Dan, too – I think you met him – and Dan’s father, Bill, they reckon they’ll get him into our paddock.’

  ‘Fingers crossed,’ I said.

  We heard voices, then the steer was so close you could smell him. But Richard’s thoroughbred, a normally sweet-tempered, affectionate mare that had done well at country race meetings, spooked. Reared up, snorted, whinnied loudly. The steer threw back his shoulders, raised his head and, a poofteenth away from lock-up, bolted. Bob chased. Robyn passed him at a flat-out sprint. Eric on her heels. Trying to head him off before he hit the bridge and crossed into no-man’s-land – or that’s how it felt.

  No one quite knew why, but the steer crashed through a barbed-wire fence instead, and kept going until he pulled up in the middle of Richard’s best breeding herd. Safety in numbers perhaps. Whatever the reason, when luck shines on you you don’t question it. We gathered, victorious, at Richard’s front gate.

  ‘Now, Richard,’ I said. I felt Jenny stiffen beside me, probably thinking ignorant newbies like us didn’t understand that the potential for stuff-ups in farming was limitless and I was about to make a complaint. ‘When we moved to the country, we were looking for a quiet life …’ Laughter. Mostly relieved. Every kind of tragedy, the kind that might make headlines on the ABC’s rural report, had been averted. We stood around for a while, chatting in the cold night air.

  ‘Wish I’d seen your face at the abs, mate.’ Eric said. ‘Bet you let loose with a few choice words, eh?’

  Richard, a man who takes his time even though his words are few, waggled his head, still feeling the shock: ‘Nah. I was speechless. I thought, gee, what’s happened here? I couldn’t believe it.’ Another headshake. ‘Just couldn’t believe it.’

  The group stood around in a circle by the side of the road, the way people gather after a church service to meet and greet. They discussed cattle prices, rain, foxes, a dodgy gearbox in the tractor, Richard losing a couple of calves for no reason anyone could fathom. Relfie, who was multi-skilled like most farmers and who’d worked on our house in between showing his stud cattle at agricultural shows, was – like Richard – immune to the cold in shorts, work boots and a windcheater. Jenny was wrapped in a horse blanket she’d grabbed on her way out to help with the round-up. The rest of us, dressed for indoors and heated cars, stamped the ground occasionally, rubbed our hands to get the blood circulating.

  ‘Well,’ Bob said after a decent interval, ‘we’re off home before our feet go numb.’

  ‘Yeah. Right. See ya!’ Eric said.

  ‘Thanks for all your help,’ Bob added.

  ‘Right. See ya!’ Richard said.

  We drove off. No one else moved.

  ‘What do you think went wrong with the cattle prod?’ I asked on the way home.

  ‘Stuck the dead batteries back in instead of the new ones.’

  Three months later, after the bruising on the steers had faded, Richard transported the cattle to market. They were heavier and prices had picked up. ‘Did us a favour,’ Bob said, slapping him on the back. ‘Made us a fortune. Owe you big-time.’

  Esther sparked up when I told her about the runaway steers. ‘Will you have a horse at the farm?’ she asked. Before I could reply, she continued: ‘We had a cunning draught horse called Old Bob. Got it into my head to ride him one day. Had to climb on his head so I could wriggle down his neck and onto his back. Of course I ended up facing the wrong way. Old Bob promptly bolted for the apple orchard. Knocked me off under a tree. Mum saw the whole thing. Stood there shouting that I’d be the death of her. Her!’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He died. Old age. Your grandfather –’ She saw my face, broke off. Held up her hand in a stop sign. ‘Alright, alright. I know. No need to say anything.’ She patted the air with her hand, as if to press down unseen turbulence. ‘Anyway, it was winter. He was a big horse and no one felt like digging for too long in the hard ground, so they cut off his legs and piled them on top.’

  ‘Yetch. But you’ve told me that story before.’

  She thumbed her nose at me. ‘Are you going to breed?’ she asked.

  ‘Nope. All steers.’

  ‘Pity. Calves are beautiful little creatures. What a woman wouldn’t give for their eyelashes. Cows make good mothers. Well, not all of them. We had a cow once that refused to have anything to do with her calf. Hand-fed it until it was time to be butchered.’

  ‘Your pet calf! Off to the abattoir?’

  ‘No. Your grandfather shot her. Butchered her himself.’ The hand signal again. ‘I know, I know. Anyway. You’d better get used to sending them to market.’ She paused. Thought for a while. Sighed heavily in a way that indicated a bout of emotional blackmail coming up. ‘I’ll never see the farm, will I?’ She sounded sad. Resigned. As if I’d abandoned her forever.

  ‘Of course you will.’

  ‘No. I’m aware I’m fading.’

  I laughed inwardly. ‘Well, you’re not twenty-one anymore, but with a mattress in the back of the ute and a bottle of whisky for company, you can lie down all the way. You’ll make it.’

  ‘Is that legal?’

  ‘Of course not!’ And we laughed.

  She said, ‘I’ve always enjoyed breaking rules. Of course, you were such a goody-two-shoes.’

  ‘I was terrified of you.’

  ‘Were you really?’ she asked, her eyes brightening at the thought.

  ‘Yeah. But not anymore.’

  ‘No – now I’m terrified of you.’

  ‘About time.’ And we laughed again. ‘See you in a couple of weeks. We’re off to Benbulla tomorrow.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll go there for good one day?’ Esther asked, her voice serious.

  I thought of a squillion evasive answers, opted for truth. ‘If anyone had told me I’d ever leave Pittwater I would have laughed in their face. Not now.’

  Esther nodded, fiddled with her rings. And that’s where we left it.

  28

  OUR FIRST DAY BACK AT THE FARM was wild and windy. The noise was like a crashing surf, rising and falling with each new gust. We worked through the turmoil, building a vegetable garden with raised beds inside a netting tent to keep out marauders, such as rabbits, bats and birds. Late in the afternoon, when soil saved from our road building had been weeded and raked into two wide beds, I sat on the tractor wheel guard, holding two shovels, and we went in search of cow poo to add to the mix.

  Cattle have a habit of camping in one – usua
lly shady – spot for days, even weeks, so they were easy pickings, although Bob handled the fresh stuff, which turned my stomach. I sought out respectable, innocuous dried pats. When the tractor bucket was filled, we made our way back. It was almost beer o’clock, knock-off time. While I went off to prepare some nibbles, Bob dug in the manure. At sunset the wind dropped, as if a switch had been flicked and the volume turned down. We watched, entranced, as daylight crescendoed from pale insipidness into a roaring red furnace that set the distant mountains on fire. All of it framed and contained – or so it felt – within the walls of our home. It was an affront when my mobile phone went off. No caller ID. I debated answering it. Bob nudged me into action: ‘Might be important. You never know.’

  ‘Hello?’ I said.

  ‘Susan?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘It’s Chris. Esther’s doctor. She’s very, very ill.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ I said before I could stop myself, feeling an unexpected surge of grief.

  ‘She’s refusing to go to hospital,’ he continued.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I asked.

  ‘Her pulse rate is dangerously low. Her heart and kidneys are failing. We need to get her into hospital, quickly.’

  Why, I thought? If all her vital organs were failing, what difference would it make? ‘Well, Chris, she has a right to choose whether or not she gets treatment, and she’s been telling me for months that she’s had enough and she’s ready to die. It’s her choice.’

  ‘It’s a very, very painful way to die. An awful way to die. I’d like to call an ambulance and get proper medical attention.’

  ‘No one should be in pain. I’ll give her a call and get back to you, ok?’ I disconnected and turned to Bob. ‘Esther’s crook. Really crook this time. Chris reckons she’s dying.’ I called her number.

  ‘Hello,’ Esther said, sounding chirpy.

  ‘How are you?’ I asked, feeling my way. ‘I just had a call from Chris and he told me you’re not too flash.’

  ‘I’m alright. I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. I’m not in any pain. I’m quite happy and comfortable. And I’m ready to die if that’s what’s going on.’

  ‘Chris wants you to go to hospital.’

  ‘What for? There’s nothing they can do for me. I told you, I’m quite happy and not in any pain.’ I felt a wave of relief. For her or for me? I wasn’t sure.

  ‘I’ll drive back to Pittwater tonight. We can talk all this through in the morning.’ I saw Bob raise his eyebrows, shake his head no.

  ‘As you wish,’ she said, as though we were talking about taking milk and sugar in a cup of tea. I ended the call.

  ‘Esther’s dying. I’ve got to go.’

  His voice was soft and calm. ‘It’s too late to set off now, and a few hours won’t make any difference. Wait till the morning and we’ll go together.’

  ‘Chris says she’s really, really bad. Her heart and kidneys have packed up.’

  ‘Don’t worry, your mother’s a tough old bird. We’ll leave very early. Trust me, this is a better, safer way.’ He reached for my hand. I sank down beside him.

  Sometime during the night, I woke. Moonlight flooded the landscape, ghostly and beautiful. How hard, I thought, to think of leaving the physical world forever. It occurred to me that I could not imagine life without the presence of my mother. There would be a hole, dug over sixty years and more, growing deeper with time. Time. It didn’t heal all wounds. No matter what the experts said. It merely dried the edges into scabs.

  Bob drove along the Pacific Highway in silence. We hit a light drizzle on the outskirts of Sydney. Maybe it would move north, I thought. Maybe the weather forecasters had got it wrong and we’d get a welcome drenching.

  We parked the car, walked in the back entrance to assisted living. Up a few tiled steps to her door. I took a deep breath. Knocked.

  ‘Come in if you’re good-looking.’

  Her legs were tree stumps, her feet footballs. ‘You don’t look crash hot,’ I said. Understatement. Duncan-style.

  Bob kissed her cheek. ‘Good to see you, Esther,’ he said in a sunny tone.

  My mother waved us towards the red leather chairs, as if she were hosting a salon for acolytes. ‘I feel pretty good,’ she said. ‘There’s no pain, and I’ve told you I’m ready to go. I won’t be alone up there. Your father’s waiting for me, and so is John.’

  There was another tap at the door. Chris arrived, shook our hands, felt Esther’s pulse. ‘Ready for hospital yet?’ he asked.

  ‘No! I’m perfectly happy where I am, thank you.’ She smiled around the room. Incredibly, she seemed nonchalant. Airy-fairy.

  Chris asked a few more questions. In the end, he said, ‘You need a pacemaker, Esther. Think about it and let me know. But don’t take too long.’ Pacemaker. The word hung in the air like the promise of a reprieve from death row. My heart sank. Here we go again, I thought, another bloody horror round of hospitals. She’d pushed her luck and beaten the odds once. It was impossible to believe she’d pull off a miracle a second time.

  ‘Nah. I’m not dying or anything. I’ll be fine,’ she said. I held back a sigh of relief. Puzzled over the words: I’m not dying or anything.

  I realised later that in her nursing experience she’d never seen death without pain. And there was no pain. In her opinion, death was way, way off.

  ‘Do you need anything?’ I asked.

  ‘No, Denise will be in shortly. She’ll see to everything. She’s like a daughter to me, you know.’ Nothing changes, I thought, swallowing a scream, holding back tears. And now it’s too late. But anger helped. It wiped out sadness, even compassion. Gave off an energy all of its own.

  Outside, I asked Bob, ‘Do you think she has any idea what’s really going on?’ He shrugged, grimaced slightly, as though the workings of my mother’s mind were her own affair and trying to suss the subtext was a fool’s errand. We barely spoke going home. In the tinny, I said, ‘Nothing quite makes sense. I can’t believe she’s going to take the noble path. She’s not built that way. She’ll call an ambulance at the eleventh hour. I’d stake my life on it.’

  ‘Probably,’ Bob agreed.

  The night-duty carer, Larry, a good-hearted, funny, larrikin offshorer – the sort of bloke who always had a lead role in Scotland Island theatrical productions and whose idea of comedy veered towards risqué but stopped well short of filthy – called at around eight o’clock in the evening.

  ‘Your mum wants an ambulance and it’s on the way,’ he said.

  ‘Ok, I’ll come over now. Thanks, Larry.’

  ‘I’m fond of the old girl, you know. She’s quite a wit.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I put the phone back in the cradle.

  ‘It had to be the pacemaker word,’ I said to Bob. ‘Soon as Chris said it, I thought, Oh shit. She’ll have a go. Not sure whether I’m impressed or depressed.’

  ‘Told you she was tough.’

  Esther lay on a stretcher in the ambulance. Larry stood outside the rear doors. ‘She looked shockin’,’ he said. ‘Said she was in terrible pain.’

  ‘Thanks, Larry. She adores you, you know. Can’t remember how many times she’s told me the python story.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Meant to be a bit of fun. Liven things up. Your mum understood that. Not many of the others did, though.’

  ‘Yeah. She’s a one-off, my mother.’ I said something flippant to the paramedic. I can’t remember the words. Shades of my mother, never far from the surface. Whatever it was, he took it the wrong way and bit my head off. Not many people, I thought, could or would understand the forces that drove the relationship between us. I didn’t understand them myself. ‘Thanks again, Larry. See you on the water.’ He gave me a hug. Went back to his duties.

  ‘We don’t need a siren for this one,’ said the paramedic. ‘We’ll take it nice and slow.’

  ‘Yeah. Good on you.’

  In emergency, I presented myself to the triage nurse. ‘No paperwork yet. Take a
seat and I’ll call you,’ she said. A few minutes later, people coming and going, she called me over and handed me a clipboard. ‘Fill these in, please, and they’ll let you through as soon as your mother is stabilised.’

  In a corner, the television flickered. Mute. A mother with a young child flipped through a children’s book, talking softly about fish and dolphins. The child had overheated red cheeks and glassy eyes, and tried hard to concentrate.

  ‘Sorry, Sue,’ my mother said in a small, apologetic voice.

  ‘What for?’ I asked, not understanding. I stood by her bed. ‘I know you’re busy and I hate being a nuisance.’ The nurses looked at me oddly. I let it go through to the keeper. If she wanted to make out I was the bad guy, well, maybe I was and always had been. There were format questions – age, living arrangements, medical history – all leading up to the ultimate question: do you want your mother to be hooked up to life support if necessary?

  Esther leapt in before I could reply: ‘I’m ready to go. I’ve had enough.’ The doctor looked relieved. The nurses let out long breaths and smiled. The electronics were unplugged and wheeled away. The beeping, squealing and clock-like ticking ceased. She was comfortable and smiling.

  ‘I used to be a nurse,’ she said. I opened my mouth, closed it. Tiny white lies didn’t really matter. Not on the final lap.

  ‘We’ll make sure you’re comfortable and never in any pain,’ said the doctor, a dark-haired young man with a South African accent. He had the gentlest touch as he inserted a cannula in my mother’s swollen hand. Stroking, soothing, making small jokes. ‘Let’s get a catheter sorted and we’ll find you a bed in one of the wards.’

  ‘She’s been here before,’ I told him. ‘The resident heart specialist saw her last time. That’s when she had a triple bypass and a heart valve replacement.’