Grace Beside Me

by Sue McPherson

  ‘Here and now there is no time to be looking back. We move forward, it’s much better to move forward. Just keep it simple, kid, go and “sit a while”, you cut ties with this drama, shake hands with the peace that surrounds you and allow the healing to begin. Missy, it’s time to get back to the land of the living.’ Pop holds my face in his big, callused, warm hands and says, ‘Grace beside you always.’

  ‘Bloody oath,’ Nan offers, ‘Grace be beside you always.’

  They are right of course, I can’t afford to be going on like this any longer. So, like Pop said, it’s time to step forward.

  Lola’s Forest

  The reserve named Lola’s Forest is about fifteen kilometres out of town, turning left off Ernie’s Way. Thankfully it is a pretty part of the world, where the powers that be decided to leave about a thousand acres of old bush to grow peacefully, living as it was meant to. Forest fire trails, nesting boxes and the odd rubbish bin are scattered within the forest. Two pit toilets have been put up on the southern side of the car park.

  Lola, the park’s namesake, is buried on the northern side on a small rise. She lies inside a little fence lined with rocks, under a plain headstone. This headstone is a much larger rock with a plaque on it saying ‘Lola, Queen of the Bush. Rest in Peace.’ It is a much-loved part of our community. Yeah, you get the odd clowns who want to throw parties out there, drink and smoke yandi, but even they are finding it hard now. ‘Friends of Lola’, who include many families who live both in and out of town, look after the forest. If there is the slightest whisper of a party out at the reserve it is usually stopped long before it gathers enough momentum to reach the rest of the town.

  This beautiful reserve is named after an equally beautiful lady named Lola. She was a Koorie girl. Nan knew Lola years ago when Nan was a little girl. Lola was very old back then. Nan said Lola didn’t know exactly how old she was. But given the things she had seen and experienced, Nan and the Aunts Nora, Nell and Min agreed old Lola must have been in her nineties when she was finally laid to rest. They believe she was one of the last traditional people in this area. All of the aunts remember her speaking the Wiradjuri language to them when they were young. She was a bush queen, and she knew the bush inside and out. She understood what the birds were saying, who was walking through the scrub looking for tucker and who was walking through the scrub up to no good. Lola knew what week a particular plant was going to bear fruit. And she had big conversations with Elders who had passed many years previously.

  And she had met Ned Kelly.

  As the story goes Lola lived in this same bush all of her life. Somewhere along the line Ned and his mob became known to her. Three or four times Ned and his brothers camped out with Lola and her parents here in the bush. Lola said to Nan that they were good boys, they talked too much sometimes, but they had respect. Nan said Lola liked Ned, because he gave her a pair of baby pink silk gloves and a proper lady’s hat with a pretty gold pin in the shape of a feather. I know this to be true because it was given to Nan when Lola died. Nan keeps the hat and its pin together with one of the silk gloves in an old Akubra hat box up on her wardrobe. One of the gloves went missing long before Nan was born, but everything else was well looked after. We get them down every now and then just for Nan to remember old Lola and the rest of us try and make connections to the past. On one particular day we had the hat with its pin and the glove out on the kitchen table. There was Pop, Nan, Dad and me all sitting around talking:

  ‘Fancy, Pop … this hat here was given to old Lola by Ned … Kelly,’ I say as I gently touch the rim.

  ‘Nothing fancy about it, Missy. Always got to remember, don’t you put people up on pedestals. Not Oprah, not Stevie Wonder, not even Ned Kelly. There’s no one any better than you, my girl.’

  ‘Not even you, Pop?’

  ‘Dare I say it, not even me.’ Pop giggles.

  ‘Hey Nan, was Ned Kelly a goodie?’

  ‘Never met Ned, Fuzzy, so how do I know?’

  ‘I know that, Nan, but can’t you just have a go and answer the question? I’d like to know what you think.’

  ‘Well of course he was a goodie. He gave Old Aunt that there hat and a lovely pair of gloves. Must have been alright if he looked after old Lola like that,’ she says from her chair.

  Pop has a twinkle in his eye, he stretches out in his chair then says, ‘That might be right, but where did he get them from? Back then, gifts like these would have been pretty expensive and we know Ned didn’t work his butt off for a couple of months, save all his pennies then walk into the local shop and buy them over the counter.’

  Nan looked up quickly. ‘I know what you doin’ there, Pop, so don’t go makin’ out you’re Judge Judy or somethin’.’

  ‘So Pop, you reckon he’s a baddie?’

  ‘Even though I take the mickey out of poor Nan here, I reckon Ned was a bit of a bugger, a good bugger, but a bugger all the same.’ Pop chuckles.

  ‘He stole from the rich and gave to the poor. He must have been good,’ says Nan.

  ‘Some of those rich people he stole from were from Ireland, probably his own flesh and blood, truth be known. Many of these rich people came out here with nothing and worked hard to build up a comfortable living. Next thing you know some young Irish lad, with a chip on his shoulder the size of a butcher’s choppin’ block, comes along and starts demanding and taking trinkets, hats, gloves, money and horses that are not rightfully his.’ Pop fills the kettle.

  ‘I don’t reckon it matters where the lad come from.’ Dad is reading a book at the table but he’s listening too.

  Nan was up from the table looking in the cupboard for teacups and saucers. ‘Now Pop, you know some people get real uppity once they get a bit of money behind them. Them rich people probably made life hell for poor Ned and his family. And how about the police, rotten sods they were, we all know what they did.’

  ‘I know what you’re saying, Nan, but some of the police were Irish too, some of them didn’t care for the crown or the Church of England, just like Ned and his family. Can anyone make a decision on Ned Kelly without studying all the facts? You see plenty of tough boys around wearing Ned Kelly on their t-shirts. How many of them actually know his story? I’m just encouraging Fuzzy to look outside the circle. It’s going to be more beneficial to the girl if she looks at all sides. What you and I think may not be what the rest of Australia thinks.’

  ‘Well Dad, what do you think?’

  ‘I think Ned was alright because he stood up for those who were battling to stand on their own. He probably went about things the wrong way but then we weren’t around then, maybe that’s what you had to do.’

  ‘If that was the way, son, every man and his dog would have been stealing and killing.’

  ‘True. But what I’m saying is, if the police had it in for the family in a major way, how could they turn their lives around. Whatever they did, they’d hit trouble. The only option Ned had was to break the law and try to make his family comfortable.’

  Pop looks over to me. ‘Best thing to do, Fuzzy, is go and do some research on his story, study it from all angles. What did the police, other landowners, town people, politicians, what did they all have to say about Ned and his gang? What was his past, why was he stealing in the first place? When you’re finished you come back and tell us what you think. Was Ned Kelly a goodie or a baddie?

  ‘Now … where did you put the tea, old girl?’ says Pop looking in the cupboard.

  Hello Grace

  It’s about five-thirty in the morning. The air is crisp but that’s OK, as Nan and Pop say, ‘It’s the best part of the day.’ Pop drove the car into the car park area of Lola’s Forest. The three of us have made a decision to meet back here in two hours. Honestly it’s no big deal, we have been coming out here since … well, for me, since always. Nan and Pop know just about every inch of the reserve and I have a pretty good idea what is here also. I’ve walked or run through all of the trails. I know where Lola spent her last days, her f
amily camp and I can show you where the oldest trees are. We each pick a direction and off we go. Nan chooses to stay off the trail and walk into the bush itself. If I am quiet I can hear her nattering away, I guess to the trees, the birds, the dead. She’s totally at home in the bush. Pop … well he’s in trekking mode today by the looks of things. He walks off up the middle trail, looking around enjoying the peace. Me, I’m taking the southern trail. There’s a spot about a kilometre away that I like.

  Before I know it I am at my destination, a large rock speckled in moss right next to an old fallen stringy bark. I sit on the rock. It has a concave shape that fits my butt just nice. I find a stone beside me. Large enough to hold comfortably in both hands. I close my eyes and listen. My mind wanders all over the place. I refocus and try to bring it back to the bush. I wonder where Pop is … stop, focus. My head’s a bit itchy, shit, hope I don’t have moonas … stop, focus, Fuzzy … Never had moonas before … stop. One of those moona combs won’t go through my hair, I reckon I’m buggered, we’ll have to cut it all off … stop. Focus … I s’pose I could get a number one cut, that might work … stop, focus, focus, focus … Try again … Nothing.

  I open my eyes and look at my watch. Only five minutes have passed. I shift in my seat. I look down at the ground and see a great line of ants walking past the toes of my joggers. The line goes on forever. I close my eyes. The stone is smooth and cool, much the same as the rock I am sitting on. The coolness of the rock triggers something. I am dragged back to Ridgeway. It is swift. I am uncomfortable now. I don’t want to do this anymore. Tears trickle down my cheeks to my mouth. I let them fall … Slowly the anger emerges. It’s OK. I fight the urge to move away, I know it is better to feel the strong emotions that try to consume me. This is what Pop and Nan tell me to do. ‘Let the anger rise, Fuzzy, can’t move on until you give it a way out, it needs to get out, you need it to get out. You can’t move on until that happens.’

  I could easily throw the stone far into the bush … but I don’t. I don’t yell, or scream, I just sit and feel. It is so hard, allowing these horrible feelings to rise. I can see him close again. I can even smell Old Spice. My nose twitches and I close my eyes hard so I don’t see his face. The tears fall. I wipe them away. They fall some more … Now I am so pissed off. I hold the stone firmly in my hand and bring it down hard on the rock seat. Both rocks crash together. Birds squawk and fly off. Breathing in and out I start to rock backwards and forwards. I continue to do this until I feel the slightest release. The anger isn’t as strong, but it is still there. I could easily walk away, run away back to the car.

  I give myself a little time out and slowly I open my eyes. I wipe away tears. The great line of ants near my feet has moved on. They are nowhere to be seen. I glance at my watch. A good forty minutes have passed. I find this hard to believe. I stretch out. Rolling the smooth stone around in my hands, I look around then focus on the distant bush. The smells of decaying bark, leaves and dirt, eucalyptus, engulf me. I sob again and wipe away tears … A bird cries out sharply, I don’t know what type it is, maybe a king parrot, it is very close. There is the slightest rustle of fallen leaves and twigs behind me. I turn and see budgies cheerfully flying, darting around trees, under branches, following each other through the scrub. A small feather sweeps down to the ground. I pick it up, a keepsake. I want to smile, so I do. I now feel much lighter than when I first sat here. And then … calm … pure calm. I don’t understand what it is … it’s just pure calm … I know I am going to be OK. I just know. Head’s right … body’s right … Fuzzy’s going to be alright. I’ve never had this feeling before, yeah I’ve come close … but this.

  Warm clouds of energy move over each arm, my chest, all of me. What I am experiencing now is real and beautiful … freedom. This is what Pop and Nan have been talking about. I reckon the nearest thing I can relate it to is when you are swimming in a pool with a heap of people. You know how it is. Everyone is yelling and moving around and splashing, real noisy and chaotic. But once you hold your breath and duck down under the water the contrast is so peaceful. The world below is quiet, surreal.

  I don’t know how long this beautiful feeling stays with me but I sit there totally involved in its joy until it very slowly moves away. Like a gust of wind it is gone. Disoriented, I stand up and have a good look around. I stretch up high to the patches of blue above. I extend my body, the tips of my fingers a little higher than before until I can actually feel sweat under my arms and on my forehead. I return to the trail and spend a good half hour walking, looking for bush gems, counting different bird calls and smelling the raw bush air. I feel great. I breathe deeply, pick up some dirt and leaves from the forest floor. Slowly I let them fall through my fingers. This makes me laugh. I look up to the sky, close my eyes and give thanks.

  Another big stretch and a yawn, each time it feels like I am shedding a skin. Something catches my eye. I turn and catch a glimpse of Nan waving to me through the bush in the distance. She must have turned cold; she’s wearing a blanket around her shoulders. I wave back and slowly, with a big smile on my face, make my way back to Nan and Pop.

  At the car we are all half an hour late. We all talk about what we have experienced.

  ‘How did you go, Fuzzy?’ Nan is rummaging through a bundle of sticks she found on her walk.

  ‘Fantastic. I did it, it really happened. I did everything you guys have taught me over the years … but this time was different. I know what you mean now. I understand. I felt it.’ Tears are welling in my eyes.

  ‘What did you feel, Missy?’

  ‘The calm, Pop, I felt that pure calm and it just felt so … right.’

  ‘Yep, that’s it. You’ve done good, my girl,’ says Nan with a grin.

  ‘I was wondering though … What do we call it? That wave of calm, what is it?’

  ‘She’s called Grace, Fuzzy. You’ve just sat in the presence of Grace.’ Nan walks over and gives me a big hug, followed by Pop.

  ‘Grace beside me,’ I whisper as I wipe away a tear.

  ‘Grace beside you always,’ Pop says nodding.

  We gather our forest goodies, a stone, an old piece of gnarled branch fallen from a tree, Nan’s sticks and a few feathers. All bush offerings are put into a large shoe box and placed in the boot.

  ‘Nan, where’s the blanket you were wearing?’ I ask, looking around in the boot.

  ‘What blanket, Fuzzy? I didn’t bring one. Been wearin’ this what I got on the whole time.’

  ‘I saw you wave to me when I was in the bush. You had a blanket over your shoulders.’

  Pop stands beside the open passenger door waiting for Nan to get in.

  ‘Not me … I’ve been over the west side all this time. Probably Lola, she had a blanket over her shoulders. Told me she was gonna go across and see what you was doin’,’ says Nan before Pop closes her door.

  Justly Deserved

  Sergeant Rory came around to the house late this morning. Ridgeway had been found by tradesmen on the family property. The unoccupied farm residence and Ridgeway’s Land Cruiser were burnt to the ground. Ridgeway had locked himself inside an old meat house. His demise was caused by a single bullet to his temple. He was still holding the gun. A letter to his estranged wife and children was found in his crisp, blood-splattered shirt pocket.

  One of Nan’s favourite prayers floats into my head. Without a second thought I say the words:

  O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek

  to be consoled

  As to console

  To be understood as to understand

  To be loved as to love

  For it is in giving that we receive

  It is in pardoning that we are pardoned

  And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

  And, in the words of Ned Kelly, ‘Such is life.’

  Puddin’

  Christmas came around in a rush. It felt like one minute I was helping to hide chocolate eggs for kids at the Easter church serv
ice and the next minute I’m helping Nan prepare a whole heap of dried fruit for her famous Christmas pudding. Ever since I was tall enough to reach the table I was given the job of stirring the fruit into the brandy and popping a few old sixpences into the pudding. Now that I am older I also help Nan chop the fruit, sift the flour and crack the eggs.

  It’s a big deal making the puddin’ at our house. Three sixpences that have been boiled clean are all mixed into the bowl of goodies. Whoever is lucky enough to get a slice with a sixpence, that person will have good fortune for the following year. Everyone within earshot is called in to give the pudding a mix, get some good luck. As everyone wants their bit of ‘happy luck’ as Nan calls it for the following year, we tend to get a lot of people calling in when they know Nan is making a pudding.

  ‘Nan,’ I say while cutting dates into halves, sometimes quarters.

  ‘Mmm,’ she says opening a packet of sultanas.

  ‘How come you don’t have a recipe?’

  ‘Don’t need no recipe, got it up here,’ she says pointing to her head.

  ‘I reckon I should know how to make the pudding.’

  ‘Every year you help me make the puddin’, surely, child, you have a bit of an idea of what goes in it.’

  ‘Yeah, Nan, but I don’t know how much. Every year I start chopping the fruit until you say, yep, Fuzzy, that’s enough, put them in the bowl. What happens if you have a heart attack or you might decide to just drop dead one day.’

  ‘Here I’m thinking how well you growed up and now you stand there all uppity, wishin’ me dead.’

  ‘I don’t wish you dead, Nan, but I’m trying to make a point. If you don’t write down the recipe, I won’t know how much needs to go in the bowl. Imagine life without a proper pudding? Pop and Dad would be majorly pissed off.’