Everything in its right place

by Tobias McCorkell

  ‘Nah,’ I said. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, just be brave,’ he said, giving me a little post-pep talk grin.

  When we pulled out of Nagambie, all I could do was concentrate on the road ahead as it flashed by beneath the tyres. Endless black tar. Endless blank, flat land. All the way out into the sticks.

  Queenie was standing on the back porch when we pulled down the long dirt and gravel drive. I followed Dad across the lawn and under the Hills hoist.

  ‘Mum, ya shouldn’t be out here,’ he said.

  It felt like forty degrees, the sun perched right on top of us.My undies were soaked through, like I was carrying a cup of water between my legs. When it got hot like this in the bush, I swear you could hear the grass and the brush. The leaves and blades all creaked and squeaked in the sunshine, their dim sounds punctuated by the groans of passing blowflies that snapped in your ear from time to time.

  Queenie swished a hand in front of her face. ‘I’m fine, Robert. Hello, Ford. Come here.’ Her voice was all raspy, her face more gaunt than it’d ever been. The skin that had once billowed out with her fat now hung in loose, ropey folds around her neck and off her arms; it was noticeable, too, under her apron and dress.

  When I gave her a hug, I looked down at her bunions before closing my eyes. I could smell meat and roast potatoes and gravy and burning wood.

  ‘Come inside, the both of you,’ she said, and Dad and I followed her through the fly-strips.

  ‘Mum, I told you not to go to any trouble,’ said Dad, noticing the roaring stove in the kitchen.

  ‘That’s what I said, too. I told her, but she won’t listen to anyone.’ Aunt Val was seated at the table, and it seemed difficult to believe her hungry eyes. If Queenie hadn’t cooked, Val would’ve been put out.

  ‘It’s no trouble. Now, just sit,’ said Queenie.

  ‘No, look, Mum, you just sit down. Please. I can serve up. It’s no bother.’ Dad took the damp cloth from his mother’s hands and opened the cast-iron door of the stove, reaching in to extract the pan filled with potatoes.

  ‘Be careful, Robert.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Be careful, though.’

  ‘Mum, please just sit down.’

  ‘You’ll burn yourself,’ said Queenie, shaking her head and walking to her seat at the table.

  Noonie believed that being smothered like this was what’d had the unfortunate effect on Dad’s personality and sexual proclivities. But that hadn’t stopped her from smothering me in the exact same way.

  As Dad dished out the roast spuds, I had to admit that a small measure of respect for Queenie had seeped into me. Her son was a colossal disappointment to her, no doubt, but she seemed to love him all the same. She’d made such an effort to keep things on track for people, and even though she was dying, she was still trying to provide.

  I’d once asked Mum if she believed Queenie regretted choosing Dad from the orphanage. I’d pictured rows of babies in cribs, like in the nursery at the hospital; future parents simply walked in and selected one, like taking a puppy from the pound. I wasn’t clear on the whole process. Mum had said she didn’t know. ‘Maybe,’ she’d said. ‘Probably.’

  I felt certain Queenie had her regrets. And I’d often thought about who my dad would’ve been if she’d made another choice, or if baby Alex had lived. But that wasn’t how it worked, and everything, really, was as it should be, as it needed to be. My life was this father and his decisions and my feelings and my choices and Mum’s baggage and a cast of supportive grandparents and everyone’s confusion and outrage.

  ‘Have some gravy, Ford,’ said Queenie. ‘The spuds go better with gravy.’

  I picked up the gravy boat and added a liberal dose of the heavy brown sauce to my plate.

  At dusk, feeling overstuffed and tired, I trudged out into the heat and followed the channels to the back of the property.

  In the past year, more houses had gone up. The development was beginning to take shape, and I could picture how things would look when it was complete.

  I walked out through the vacant lots to the tree line that marked the end of the clearing and took a seat. I sat for a long time, waiting for the cool change to come through with the wind.

  When it did, I walked back to the house. My head was empty. I searched the channels for yabbies lurking below the surface, but I couldn’t see a single one. All around me was the noise of crickets. It was Christmas Eve and kind of beautiful, really. I’d never had Christmas Eve away from home before. Looking up to the Southern Cross, just beginning to appear in the sky, it didn’t seem so bad. Maybe I was just growing up. I could handle it.

  Lying on the fold-out that night, I didn’t bother rearranging the photographs of Alex. I knew this would be the last time I spent the night there.

  I wasn’t drunk and I couldn’t sleep. I just lay there staring up at the ceiling. The horses embossed onto the fireplace screen remained fixed in their strong poses for all time, standing stoically in the bronze goldfield landscape and glinting in the moonlight.

  In the morning, I pulled on my jeans and left the lounge. The wireless was coming through from the kitchen, and I walked in to find Dad and Queenie talking by the unlit stove.

  ‘Morning,’ I said. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  ‘Merry Christmas, Ford,’ said Queenie.

  ‘Morning, Mr Motor. Would ya like some breakfast or should we do presents first?’

  ‘Oh, I dunno. It’s up to you, I suppose. I don’t mind.’

  It dawned on me that there wasn’t a Christmas tree or any decoration in Queenie’s house. Dad had piled parcels onto the dining table, but that was all. There had been no talk of attending Church the night before either. It was eerie, in a way.

  We waited a moment for Aunt Val to join us, then we sat around opening gifts and drinking tea. It wasn’t hot yet, but I noticed bubbles forming in the lino from the heat. They would balloon as the day warmed and then flatten out at night. In the mornings they reminded me of lanced blisters.

  Val had given me a Myer gift card, which surprised her because Dad had bought it on her behalf. She had no idea what she was giving or receiving and made the swapping of presents seem like a terrifying foreign ritual. I had to wonder if it’d ever been done here before or was solely for my benefit. The sisters shared almost nothing in common – there was no bond, no spirit of generosity or mirth.

  ‘Thanks, Auntie Val,’ I said.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She made no move to hug or kiss me. She didn’t even smile.

  ‘Well, Merry Christmas, ey,’ I said, distributing the gifts to her and Queenie that Mum had packed in my bag: tins of posh biscuits and nice soap.

  When it was over, Queenie asked if I’d go over to Glenda’s place and say Merry Christmas on her behalf. She gave me a box of Roses chocolates she’d kept in the fridge overnight, and I went out into the morning sun and across the plains that separated the houses by a kilometre or so.

  I gave Glenda the present and relayed the message, and she called her daughters to the door to say hello. ‘Girls, get out here! Ford’s here from next door. Come say Merry Christmas!’

  I could hear Kirsten and Rachel stomping through the house and the TV blaring in the front room. Francis wouldn’t be getting off the couch – not for me, anyway. Only an act of God could move the man.

  ‘How is she, Ford?’ Glenda asked, as we waited for her daughters.

  ‘Oh, ya know. Okay, I think.’

  Why did people ask these questions when they knew you would lie?

  ‘Hey, Ford,’ said Rach.

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  She was a lot bigger than I remembered, a lot bustier and big-boned, like she’d taken shape in a new direction. Not that I could judge.

  ‘Hello, Ford,’ said Kirsten. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  ‘Hey. Yeah, Merry Christmas.’

  Kirsten was the one I’d hacked the agapanthus down with.She’d been a shy kid, and I remembered her little face peering at
me from behind the brush when Callum had lost his nut and gone apeshit at me for doing in his flowers. But she seemed more smiley now, more open or something. I’d always liked her.

  ‘Well, I better get back,’ I said. ‘Hope I see you soon.’ I waved goodbye, retreating from their front porch, the Merry Christmases falling on my back.

  The day after Boxing Day, before Dad and I returned to the city, we drove out with Queenie to the cemetery in the maroon Merc that Callum had bought, and I watched, uselessly, as my father cleaned the granite grave with a wet rag until the flecks of grey and white shone in the bright sun.

  When we were about to leave, Queenie walked up to the grave, getting very close to it and stooping over it to speak. ‘I’ll be with you soon,’ she said, patting the headstone.

  I thought of Will lying on my bathroom floor, my fingers brushing his forehead, pushing back his hair. He’d texted me just before Christmas to say he was off on a family holiday to Europe. I wondered then if he’d ever spent time in the country as a boy. Was this something we shared in common? Something he understood?

  We all touched people, were touched by them, and then they died. And then we followed. But people’s love affairs, their true feelings, were known only to them. I found it difficult to fathom that Queenie and Callum might’ve had a great romance that changed and shaped her. And I didn’t know of the love between my mother and father, had no way of measuring or evaluating it. Couldn’t grasp that between Dad and Ken, or Dad and Craig. Didn’t know if love existed between Milly and Joel, or just the baby that would come and, I assumed, shatter their lives. I wondered if love would ever come in and announce itself to me. Maybe I was numb to it. If I was, I didn’t want to be. I loved Ellie, I convinced myself. And maybe I did Will, too. Maybe.

  We drove back into town past the life-size fibreglass cow sculptures, and the lake, and the SPC factory. It was thirty-eight degrees and the air was dry and dead and my grandmother was coughing in the front seat. She’d die before the summer was out and the heat was beginning to ease off.

  Queenie’s Funeral

  In February, I went back to Shepparton for Queenie’s funeral. Only this time, I drove up with Pop, Noonie and Mum. We piled into the car on a Wednesday morning and set off along the highway and through Nagambie and out into the flat land.

  I didn’t know what to expect. This was the first time in my memory that the two sides of my family would be gathered together, and it gave me a sinking feeling because I couldn’t recall having a mother and father at the same time, two people who weren’t separated by distance and decisions.

  When we came to the church in town, my father and Craig were standing on the front steps ushering people inside. There were a lot in attendance: country folk loosely connected to the McCullens in one way or another, people who had ties to Queenie and Callum from their peach orchard days.

  ‘Ah, there he is,’ Noonie said, ‘the favourite son.’ She laughed.

  ‘Mum,’ said Mum.

  ‘Who’s that other fella, Ford?’ asked Noonie. ‘Don’t tell me that’s him.’

  ‘Ah, yeah,’ I said, awkwardly. ‘That’s Craig.’

  Noonie tutted. ‘Suppose he did the arranging.’ She giggled.

  She wasn’t wrong: Craig had arranged the funeral.

  ‘At a discount, of course,’ she added, giggling still.

  It was odd to think that Craig might’ve prepped the body.

  We hopped out of the car. Pop walked to the rear and opened the boot for me. I took out my violin. What a great gig.

  ‘Awright, see you later, I guess,’ I said, turning to walk into the church with Mum.

  We’d agreed that Pop and Noonie would look for a parking space and join the congregation later, finding a seat at the back of the church. I was still unclear why they’d wanted to come at all, but a familiar rhetoric of duty and honour and ‘the past’ and ‘family’ had been espoused.

  ‘Mr Motor,’ said Dad, as we approached. ‘Deidre, how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, Robert. How are you feeling?’ Surprisingly, Mum planted a kiss on Dad’s cheek. I’d never seen them touch, and it made me very uncomfortable.

  ‘This is Craig,’ Dad said, gesturing to the other side of the entranceway where Craig was welcoming more people into the church.

  This was all so open and strange. Had Craig even met Queenie before? He stepped forward to say hello to me. ‘Rascal. Looking forward to hearing that thing.’ He grinned.

  I shook the violin case at him and rolled my eyes.

  ‘This is Deidre, Ford’s mum,’ Dad said.

  Craig turned to Mum. In the most formal manner, he nodded, using so much of his torso that it was almost a bow.

  ‘Hello,’ said Mum. Turning to Dad, she asked, ‘Where do you want us to sit?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’ He walked us down the aisle, past what must have been a hundred people filling the pews. In the back I was startled to see Joel and Milly; they’d obviously accompanied Craig, but still, what were they doing at my grandmother’s funeral? I could see Milly’s swollen belly even though she was sitting down. Joel gave me a nod as I walked by. I only stared back, confused.

  I recognised lots of faces, but I couldn’t put a name to most of them. Glenda was there, with Rachel and Kirsten and even Francis, whom I’d never seen out of context before. He looked funny being in the world. I couldn’t get over how many people had showed up to see Queenie off. It was a stark contrast to Nan’s funeral. The cynic in me decided they were all here to make claims on the will – who knew what the property development was worth now.

  Mum and I sat in the pew beside Aunt Val, who was looking typically stern and hungry. I imagined she’d starve without her roasts.

  Like most funerals, the service was memorable only to the bereaved. I remember only that Craig did not sit with Mum, Dad and me, that Dad made the eulogy, and that before the coffin was taken out to the hearse I had to play my violin to the hundred-strong in attendance. Perhaps this was what Noonie and Pop had really come to see. I’d never played solo to so many before, and my fingers were slick with anxious sweat as they traversed the strings, my palm sliding back and forth along the neck. If only Moose and the other boys had ridden off with it for good, before everything about my life in Coburg had begun to change so utterly and intolerably. Only eighteen months ago, I realised.

  My shirt bunched up awkwardly around my shoulder where the violin rested, fixed beneath my chin. My neck hurt, straining to keep the instrument in place. How long could a person go on doing the things they disliked most? How many hours had I accumulated practising this silly task?

  I forgot my audience as I ran the bow over the strings, hoping this would be the last time I had to perform. One last time for Queenie, I thought. She’d bought the thing, after all.

  After we’d travelled out to the cemetery, where the granite top of Callum’s grave had been removed, and watched Queenie’s coffin lowered on top of her husband, we found ourselves in a community centre on the outskirts of town for the wake.

  The hall was crowded with people, all in clusters talking quietly and hovering around the tables of catered food. The triangle sandwiches and sushi rolls looked depressingly small on top of the wide white oval trays. There was something eerie about the ordinariness of that food – how no matter the circumstances, people just ate. Aunt Val’s plate was loaded high with cucumber sandwiches and a thick slab of lemon slice, and she nibbled away in silence in a plastic chair at one end of the room, where Glenda was trying to initiate conversation. But Val didn’t need cheering up. She had her food.

  I stood with Noonie and Pop and Mum in our own little circle away from everybody.

  ‘Ford, who’s that young man?’ Noonie asked, pointing across the room to Joel, who was standing between Craig and Milly and screwing his nose up at the sushi.

  ‘That’s Joel. Craig’s son.’

  ‘And the young lady?’

  ‘I dunno. His girlfriend, I think.’

 
‘She’s heavily pregnant.’

  ‘Ah-huh.’

  ‘Are they married?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Hmm. A few more queue-cutters looking to get their grubby hands on the McCullen fortune, no doubt.’

  ‘Well, actually, Joel’s pretty nice,’ I said. ‘I really doubt it.’

  ‘Oh, please. They look like they could use it, the pair of them.And as for that Craig, my goodness —’

  ‘Mum, look, this really isn’t the time or place,’ said Mum.

  ‘Well, really,’ said Noonie, ‘what other angle could there be? Don’t tell me he actually sees something in Robert of all people. I don’t really know how they operate, anyhow.’ She shuddered. ‘But just look at the man – fat, balding, a consummate liar, and twice bankrupt. And he’ll go it again, let me assure you, once he has Mummy’s money to play with. It’ll be gone in a fortnight. He always had to big-note himself, fancies himself a real mover and shaker.’ She laughed. ‘If Queenie had any sense at all, she’ll have left it to Ford. At least the boy’ll make use of it. Heck, it’s what he’s owed, after all.’ After a pause, she added, ‘Just look at them.’

  Dad had joined Joel, Craig and Milly at the catering table, and they were smiling together, talking.

  ‘No shame,’ said Noonie. ‘That man has no shame.’

  ‘Mum! Please.’

  ‘Why? I’m supposed to just keep my mouth shut? Somebody has to speak the truth and tell it like it is. So, here I go, I’m not ashamed: I hate that man. And what’s more, I hate his kind, the way they think they can parade about and we’re all meant to stand by and accept it. Well, not me. No, that —’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, woman! Shut up!’ Pop was practically screaming between clenched teeth. I’d never seen him so angry before. He was seething.

  And seeing this, something inside me dropped away. I couldn’t take it anymore. I burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ cried Pop. ‘What are you crying for?’