Читать книгу Down a Country Lane - Gary Blinco - Страница 12

CHAPTER FOUR

‘Let us, then, be up and doing.

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labour and to wait’.

H. Longfellow

The next day the family rose early to prepare for their first trip to town since coming to the farm. After breakfast Norm harnessed the old bally horse into the wagon, a task that always included some cursing and swearing, depending on his mood and the degree of co-operation from the horse. At last they all climbed aboard the wagon, scrubbed up and dressed as well as Grace could manage given her reduced circumstances, and set off for town. As the old horse reluctantly moved off down the narrow lane Norm grunted unhappily.

‘I can’t see the point in me goin’ to town’, he grumbled. ‘I haven’t got two bob to spend. I could use the time better here; there are a million things to be done. You and the kids could go without me and do the shopping.’

‘Stop whinging’, Grace implored. ‘I can’t control the old horse, you know that. Besides, I told you but you weren’t listenin’ as usual. The child endowment is due; the cheque will be at Mum’s place, thank God. You need a break and a few beers or something; you’re turning into an old grump. We need some tucker and I’m going to ask Dad to help us buy a Tilly of some kind.’

Norm exploded again. ‘Bullshit you are!’ he said. ‘Your old man thinks I’m a big enough failure as it is for running off with his precious daughter, forcing her to make babies every year and making her live in a bloody tent. I wouldn’t ask him for a cork if I was dyin’ from the shits.’ He hit the poor old horse with the whip as it inclined its head to see what was causing all the ruckus. Grace’s father had worked on large cattle properties for most of his life and he had been a manager on several holdings at different times over the years. He was accustomed to giving orders, a practice that did not sit too well with Norm.

‘Don’t take it out on the poor bloody old horse’ Grace scolded. ‘It might drop dead. You said yourself it’s rooted.’ She was a practical though not always compassionate person. The children laughed aloud at the last comment, chorusing the ‘swear’ word. ‘The old horse is rooted, the old horse is rooted’, until their mother pinned them with a steely gaze.

‘Anyway’, Norm continued, ignoring her remark and the children as he hit the horse again. ‘Your father is as poor as a church-mouse himself, despite being full of piss and wind. He’s counting on us to give him free vegies when we get a crop the old bastard, he told me so.’

Grace tossed her head impatiently and shot him a look of exasperation, but she did not trust herself to speak as a surge of anger clutched her heart. He sometimes tried her patience. It was all very well to have his dreams, but when the hard reality arrived he began to weaken and look for cover.

They crossed the gully near the broken bridge and creaked along the two vague wheel tracks that passed for a road. Norm liked the lane that meandered along under the canopy of gum and box trees, and he felt the anger and frustration begin to ebb away as the serenity of the bush closed about him. It somehow gave him a feeling of comfort being covered by the archway of trees that grew on each side of the road and joined overhead, like they were holding hands to form a protective shield above the travellers. He enjoyed what he regarded as the good-natured bantering with his wife as the lazy old horse dragged the wagon along the rough track. The older kids, in a world of their own, played and talked loudly in the back of the vehicle. The baby stared from one parent to the other; eager to be part of their attention as his little mind absorbed the wealth of information around him.

These bush roads had no official names so the locals improvised and named them after the families who lived beside them. There was King’s lane, Simmon’s lane, Caldicott’s lane, Anderson’s road and numerous others. In the distance, really only about two miles, was the ‘Main Road’ that did have a proper, if obscure name. This road linked Millmerran, Clifton and the city of Warwick. These towns were mere whistle-stops, but to the children they were major destinations, clouded in mystery and worthy of many whispered fantasies. They knew nothing of the world at large and the nearby cities were as mysterious to them as foreign countries were to the adults.

The creeks were named in much the same way as the roads. The Grasstree Creek always took the honour of its true title with some reverence. After all, it was the major stream and very important to the survival of the local stock. It was even more important to the newcomers if their enterprise was to survive. But the subordinate ‘feeder gullies’ had no real identity. Thus Simmon’s gully, King’s gully and so on, became the colloquially accepted names for the local waterways.

King’s gully was important, as attested by the wreckage of the crude wooden bridge that had once spanned it. Past travellers once had to cross this bridge to get to the old farm and a few other properties deeper in the scrub beyond the creek. Several years earlier a truck carting gravel had collapsed the bridge and the local council decided not to rebuild it. They made a crossing that forded the gully as a replacement and this worked well enough in the dry weather but confined the family to the farm when the gully was in flood. The wreckage of the bridge lay rotting sadly beside the new road, but it was serviceable enough to provide a walkway when the gully flooded during heavy rain.

More important was the ‘big bridge’ that spanned the Grasstree Creek just down from the house at the end of the pump hole. The road passed by the front gate of the farm, crossed the big bridge and then became what they came to call ‘Crane’s lane’. The Cranes were not the most important farmers in the area; indeed, they were almost as poor as the newcomers. But the bridge and the road, by association, gave them cult status to the children who assumed that everything beyond the bridge belonged to the Cranes.

A few weeks after they arrived on the farm a car passed by the front gate and hesitated near the bridge, the occasion drawing howls of excitement from the children. The car’s occupants were most likely lost or just touring aimlessly, but it was rare to see a car in the bush. The entire family wandered down to the gate to wave and stare and the travellers stopped for a yarn, even though they were complete strangers. It could be very lonely in the bush.

Norm called a halt to give the old horse a drink at a roadside water trough about halfway to Millmerran. As the old horse drank deeply from the trough of tepid water the older kids were noisily climbing the bank of the public dam that supplied water to the trough.

The robust discussions had continued for hours on whether or not to ask Grace’s father for help in getting a utility. She argued that such a vehicle would have a multitude of purposes and that Norm’s resistance was ill founded and pointless. A vehicle would retire the old horse, power the irrigation pump, provide transport to market the crop and generally save their souls. She faced him earnestly in the rocking wagon that creaked and moved about as the old horse drank noisily at the trough. Her eyes were bright with urgent excitement as she counted off the logical benefits on her fingers.

Norm was weakening as he usually did. ‘At least if I owed the old turd something, other than his daughter’s honour’, he said resignedly. ‘He might feel obliged to be nice to me. But I still say he wouldn’t have two coins to rub together in his pocket.’

Grace was trying to round up the kids who were wandering away from the watering point at the roadside chasing after a flock of squawking happy-families. These were scrawny, mangy birds that were riddled with lice, or so Norm said. At last the children were back aboard the wagon. Trevor, the eldest boy aged about eleven, complained loudly that he was just about to catch ‘a friggin’ duck’, on the dam before he was so rudely interrupted. His mother swiped at him in an absent- minded way for swearing.

Norm kicked the old horse away from the water trough and it defecated loudly, like a form of symbolic protest, drawing a ripple of giggles from the children. Grace returned to the discussion, shaking her head impatiently. ‘You are such a negative prick sometimes’, she said. ‘We don’t need his money, besides, as you say he hasn’t got any. But we do need his support. Your sanctimonious parents put us on the farm; mine at least can keep us there. Dad has the house and his pension; he will guarantee us so we can get a Tilly or something similar, like an old truck. And we won’t let him down in paying for it as we sell the crops.’

She glared at her husband, daring him to disagree. Norm smiled and shook his head as he encouraged the old horse to move off on the last stage of the journey. ‘Off you go, you poor old bugger’, he laughed. ‘Your mother has just retired you to the cannery. Pity, I had you in mind for a good stew next winter.’

Grace’s parents lived in small brown worker’s cottage on the fringe of the town. The street past the house had not been sealed with tar like the rest of the streets, and as a result the neighbourhood took on a rustic appearance. But they had electricity connected and supplemented the rainwater tanks by drawing extra water for the garden from a small public dam near the house. Norm eased the old horse to a halt in front of the house as Grace’s parents emerged from the small cottage, surprised to see the visitors.

‘It’s good to see you love’, Grace’s mother said, speaking in the wavering voice that old ladies sometimes adopt. ‘We have often planned to go and visit you, but we don’t have any transport and we are not too sure how to get to your little farm.’ Thank God, Norm added smugly in his head as he helped his wife down from the wagon. Norm shook the proffered hand of his father-in-law sullenly as the old man pierced him with a searching look.

‘Well young feller’, he said demandingly as Norm tried not to stare at the old man’s ears that looked like saucers on the sides of his head, with great red sunspots on the edges. ‘How is it all going?’ All eyes turned to Norm and he squirmed as he searched for a suitable response. ‘We’re gettin’ there’, he said, settling for a non-committal reply. ‘There’s a bloody lot to be done, but we all pitch in.’ His father-in-law nodded slowly, his small stooped frame and his deadpan expression giving little away. The old man turned to the children. ‘And what about you lot, me beauties. Do you like living in the bush?’

The children gathered around their grandfather shyly, the few weeks in the bush without any contact outside their own family adding to their shyness. ‘Ah the bush is the best place in the world to live’, the old man said without waiting for their reply. ‘Come with me and I’ll find some boiled lollies and you can tell me all about the place.’ Grace embraced her mother eagerly, the contact reminding her how lonely she had been for adult female company. Her mother was a short, plump woman who looked as if she had just stepped out of a child’s storybook. Her wrinkled but animated face smacked of kindness and concern as she led them into the house.

‘Leave the horse and wagon where it is for now Norm’, she said kindly. ‘Let’s go and getta cuppa tea and some tucker, you must be starvin’ after the long trip.’ Grace and her husband followed the old lady into the simple but comfortable cottage. Norm wondered how his wife would broach the subject of the help they had come to enlist, but for now the promise of tea and food leapt to the front of his mind as he realised he was very hungry.

Grace raised the subject of their need for a vehicle as they dined on cold mutton between slabs of warm fresh bread, washed down with mugs of sweet dark tea. Norm watched his in-laws from the corner of his eye as he picked at the mutton leg-bone for the last of the meat. He was pleased that the old man resisted the urge to gloat now that they had finally approached him for assistance. The old bloke had been rather miffed by the fact that he had not been involved in the purchase of the farm, and he now seemed pleased to help in any way he could. ‘Of course I will help, Grace’, he said enthusiastically. ‘All you ever had to do was ask. I ain’t got much dough, but I can guarantee you alright – my name is still good around here.’

He turned to Norm who wondered at the implications of the last comment but decided not to read too much into it. ‘I hope you might let an old man who knows a bloody lot about farming and the bush come out and help sometimes’, he said, his old eyes dancing with expectation. Norm suddenly became very interested in the bottom of his teacup. ‘Shit yes’, he said. ‘Once we get a bit better set up. I can use all the help I can get.’ His father-in-law smiled, content with the reply and ignoring the obvious put off.

Grace’s father knew of an old ex-military truck that was available, and the owner was a keen collector and breeder of draught horses. A trade would be possible with the old horse and the wagon, with the balance paid off over time. After a day of wheeling and dealing they returned home in a four- wheel drive army surplus Blitz truck. It was drab olive green in colour and had huge wheels. The cabin seemed to be miles off the ground to the small boy as his grandfather helped him aboard. The child shook with excitement as he contemplated the ride home in this wonderful machine.

‘Up you go little chap’, the old man said kindly. ‘You’ll soon be big enough to drive this machine and help your father make a quid for a change.’ The old man grinned and his small grey eyes twinkled with mischief through his thick white lashes as he turned to his daughter.

‘Just keep paying for the truck every month Grace’, he said. ‘Let me know if I can help, after all, you’re still our daughter.’ Grace smiled and kissed her parents before climbing into the truck. Norm grunted at the last comment and nodded grudgingly to his parents-in-law as he started the truck’s powerful engine. ‘Old bastard’, he said quietly. ‘Still our daughter despite being married to that prick he means.’ Grace squeezed his hand as she waved to her parents through the windscreen of the truck, her mother short and plump, her father tall, lean and stooped, both of them totally grey. ‘He didn’t mean it that way love’, she said smiling. ‘They like you well enough.’

‘Balls they do,’ Norm spat. ‘But who gives a root anyway, the truck will get us out of the shit for a while. I don’t know how I’ll find the bloody payments to keep it for long though.’ His wife shot him a quick glance, but shut his comment out of her mind and smiled at her small son.

Sitting in the cabin with his now cheerful parents the boy grinned happily through the rear window at the other children who rode on the splintery wooden boards of the carrying tray. They energetically pilfered the grocery boxes on the way home, taking advantage of their parent’s good humour on the day. They were all in fine spirits as they rolled home in such style, the fifteen miles that had seemed like an epic journey in the wagon reduced to little more than a pleasant drive in the new vehicle.

The old horse and wagon were gone forever, having formed part payment on the truck. The nostalgic new owner apparently remembered the days of his own youth when his family farmed with draught horses. He now bred the large animals as a hobby and the old horse joined his stud as a sire. ‘At least the bloody nag will get his old grub in a few times before he dies’, Norm laughed, suddenly thinking aloud as he had an image of the old horse.

‘Is that all you ever think of?’ Grace scolded, smiling herself and feeling sad at the loss of the old horse, but pleased that he would have a better life in the future.

The truck was undoubtedly pretty old; probably army surplus even before the war, but it seemed like a limousine to Norm. Now he had a source of power for the irrigation pump, transport to sell the crop and some comfort that he could get to town over the sticky black soil roads when it rained. The first crop promised well and Grace looked with delight upon the harvest. She gathered beautiful green beans and plump red tomatoes with pride and hope. Norm worked enthusiastically for long hours gathering the crop, washing the vegetables in the bathtub and preparing them for market. Some of the produce of the farm began to supplement their diet of camp pie, damper and baked hares, the remainder they sold door-to- door in Millmerran from the back of the truck.

Unfortunately, as he expected, Norm did not keep the Blitz for too long. The farm was not yet producing any real cash flow and the original owners came for it one sad and painful morning after waiting months for the promised payments to flow. Norm had simply put the payment commitment out of his mind, content to use the truck for as long as he could.

Grace cried bitter tears when they lost the Blitz. She cried for Norm, for her parents and for her children as their bright future disappeared behind the dark clouds she saw on the horizon of their lives. At least her father was not required to support the guarantees he had provided because Blitz trucks were in great demand. The owner said he would be able to find another buyer, one with money, to take up the commitment on the truck.

But the horse and wagon were lost and they were back to square one, only in a worse position without the old horse. Norm did not seem concerned, chatting quietly with the owner of the truck and waving aside the apologies offered over the repossession. ‘Not your fault mate’, he assured. ‘Just my bloody bad luck.’ The man looked at Norm closely and a sad puzzled look fell across his face. He shook Norm’s hand before climbing into the truck and starting the engine.

‘We’ll be alright’ Norm said to Grace and the collection of children as the owner left in the truck. ‘We have a few quid to pick up for the stuff I took to the factory the other day, and we’ll get something a bit smaller.’

Just like that Grace thought, her disappointment and anger churning in her stomach. But she was grateful that they had the first crop harvested and sold before they lost the truck, this at least provided some consolation for the loss. A few days before Norm had taken a load of surplus stock to the butter factory, which also operated a retail store. Bulk selling fetched a lower price, but it was better to accept a reduced return because the crop would spoil quickly if left in the field. And he was conscious of the fact that he may soon lose their transport – the letters of demand from the owner were becoming more urgent and insistent.

Grace was not aware that he had made no payments on the truck, trusting him to be the responsible head of the house and the business manager. The little money they earned he was ploughing back into the farm, or secretly putting aside hoping that he would be able to keep the truck until the first crop was ready to market. He had always managed to put things out of his mind that caused him concern, almost like a child who chooses not to face reality. He thought the truck was too big for their needs anyway, and he was happy to keep it and the money he was making until he could find a smaller, more practical unit. He reasoned that the horse and wagon were a fair rental for the use of the truck and his conscience was clear.

The family sat at their evening meal of camp pie and assorted vegetables, their silence an indication of the pain they felt over the events of the day. The kerosene lamp sputtering in the centre of the table dimly lighted the house. The soft yellow light merged into darkness in the corners of the room, the gloom matching the heaviness in their hearts. Grace was quiet and detached, her eyes red from crying over the loss of the truck.

Only Norm maintained a bright mood, but he complained as he faced his third meal of camp pie in a row. ‘Shit I’m gettin’ sick of this stuff’, he growled sullenly. ‘It’s made from old cows and horses you know.’ He looked around the table defiantly. The children ignored his complaint, hungrily devouring the pink salty meat that looked a bit like the wartime English ‘Spam’. They had worked hard all day and any food was welcome, and the fresh vegetables provided variety as they tried to drive the emotional void from their bellies along with their hunger. Cutlery clicked loudly on plates as the simple but hearty meal was dispatched to empty stomachs.

Grace glared at him across the table. ‘You would do well to be more concerned about the position we are now in without the truck, we’ll be back on the bloody reserve if we are not careful.’ She blew her nose loudly and sobbed. The children turned to their father, waiting for the solution and optimism he always managed to provide. Norm grinned at his concerned family, and then he laughed.

‘Cheer up you mob for Christ’s sake’, he said. ‘I have a plan to get another unit, a smaller one this time, the old truck was too bloody big anyway. I’ll walk into town tamorra and find something that’s more suitable for our needs.’

His wife stared at him. ‘What with, bloody bottle tops?’ Norm laughed as he rose from the table and moved to the back of her chair to massage her neck affectionately. She pushed him away. ‘No touching, it always gets me into trouble.’ Norm laughed and she forced a smile, she could never resist him for long. ‘I’ve got a few quid put aside - don’t worry. I’ll have another vehicle this time tamorra, trust me.’ Grace stared at him in astonishment, suddenly realising why they had lost the Blitz.

‘You bastard!’ She said hotly. ‘You didn’t pay any payments did you? You’ve been salting the money away, you irresponsible turd.’

Norm laughed. ‘Stop whinging’, he said. ‘We got good value for the old horse and your old man’s off the hook. And anyway, that old bastard who owns the truck has more money than he deserves, he’s as greasy as a butcher’s prick you know. Besides, the truck is better now than when we got it. I did a good bit of work on it.’ His conscience thus cleared by his rationalisation he grinned encouragingly at his family in turn. The children became excited, forgetting the loss of the truck. Grace simply shook her head, too tired to argue. But she made a mental note to take over as business manager as soon as he found another vehicle.

Norm set out on foot for Millmerran before his family had left their beds the next day, determined to surprise them with a new vehicle on his return. As he walked briskly along the series of country lanes that took him the fifteen miles to town, he reflected on the last few months on the farm. He felt he had only begun to live when he became the master of his own place, despite his frequent complaints to his wife. The farm possessed his every thought and he was determined to make it a success. He was a simple man who asked very little of life, and he felt that the world owed him whatever happiness he could glean from his smallholding, God knew he had waited long enough for it. He could cope with any setback, he thought, as long as he had the love and support of his family, everyone else could go to buggery.

His parents came to his rescue again and supplemented the money he had obtained from his first crop, and of course the money he had neglected to pay off the truck. As he had promised, he was able to buy another vehicle that day. He found a small and battered 1924 Willies Overland utility, but it was in good enough condition for his purpose. An elderly lady, whose husband had recently died, leaving her with no further use for the unit, had owned the utility. It would do the job and he was able to pay cash after exercising some charm in negotiating a price with the widow. It was the one possession, apart from the farm, that he was destined to have for a long time.

The farm continued to produce well in the early days and the seasons were kind. Norm had surrendered the financial management of the farm to Grace, and she and the children sold the crops door to door from the back of the small utility. Norm could never quite bring himself to take on the demeaning task of the vegetable run, but Grace loved it and made many friends from it over the years. In time it became her only real social outlet. Norm preferred to stay at his father’s place and sit around and yarn, or do odd jobs for his mother until his wife and children returned around lunchtime. After each run his mother prepared a beautiful lunch of crunchy potato pie with an assortment of vegetables; followed by ‘Blancmange’ or ‘Spotted Dog’. The latter was a type of rice pudding with sultanas. Sometimes they even had the luxury of tinned fruit. The half-starved children loved those lunches.

Grace always hoped that the money from the run would be enough to buy the food and other supplies they needed on the farm, with enough left over to buy seed for the next crop. The farm income usually covered their basic needs, but in the early days it provided for little else. Grace developed a good business head and she took notes as she did the ‘vegie-run’, as she called it, thus giving the process some degree of legitimate business status. People told her what sort of vegetables they preferred to buy and she planned the crops accordingly. She soon learned that a wide variety was more important than quantity. Unwittingly, she was into a rough form of business risk management because of her research and planning.

Apart from providing transport the Overland utility acted as a tractor at times, dragging harrows over the rich dark soil to prepare the vegetable garden, or pulling a tired old plough Norm had scrounged from a neighbour. To power the irrigation pump Norm jacked up one of the rear wheels and connected a long leather belt between the tyre of the utility and the drive wheel of the pump. The old Willies grunted away for hours in low gear, a rear wheel raised like a dog peeing against a tree, the radiator steaming, and the pump clanging as it forced the precious water into the irrigation lines.

Somehow the youngest boy always took comfort at the sight and sound of this improvised irrigation system. He would lie awake in bed at night for hours listening to the hiss of the spray lines, the grunting and clanging of the Tilly and the pump. Amid these sounds he could hear his father’s deep smoker’s cough, his glowing cigarette showing his progress as he moved around in the darkness adjusting the spray lines.

Norm always watered the garden at night, he said it saved burning the plants and used less water. If night watering suited Norm it also pleased the mosquitoes, for they came in their marauding millions in the summer and reduced the family’s lives to misery. There were no fly screens or mosquito nets, and it was too hot to hide under the bedclothes in order to escape the torment inflicted on them by these insects.

Sometimes Norm filled a kerosene tin with sticks, grass and cow manure that he set on fire. With this concoction burning well and issuing thick clouds of pungent smoke, he took it into every hot, humid room of the house to smoke out the mosquitoes. This remedy worked, although the cure was almost as bad for the children as it was for the mosquitoes. The insects soon recovered however, and returned to attack them anew. Red itchy bites and long hot sleepless nights were the worst times for Grace. The children cried in pain and tiredness as they sweated in their beds, the air hung heavy and still about the house, filled with the incessant whine of mosquitoes and she longed for the dawn.

The misery, however, was soon forgotten as the wonderful cool moonlit nights of autumn approached and her life on the farm became filled with the pleasure of the bush and the enjoyment of her children. Their life was not lavish, indeed it was spartan and impoverished, but she was blissfully happy most of the time. The years seemed to Grace to pass so quickly as she lived almost exclusively for her family, her life affording her few other pleasures.

The youngest boy became an active member of the workforce, his schooling like the others more or less ignored in favour of the work on the farm. He learned easily and fast, taking a keen interest in all that happened around him, his inquisitive mind recording the events and storing the emotions that filled the days at Eastville.

Now the boy sat quietly on the half wall of the verandah, perched on the rail like a bird as he stared out at the bush, his small brow creased in thought. It was just on dusk and a beautiful red sunset mottled the western sky above the line of tall gums along the creek. A playful ‘whirly-wind’ twisted across the bare fields, frolicking with scraps of paper and leaves as it progressed until it disappeared in the thick scrub that still skirted the farm.

The boy was worried. Pluto, the large blue cattle dog that supplemented the collection of pet cats on the place had become over zealous in his duties and had taken to attacking and biting visitors to the property. This was not good for business, given that most visitors were also customers in search of vegetables or poultry. The boy recalled his parent’s quiet conversation as they lay in bed the night before. The overcrowding of the house had forced him into a trundle bunk in his parent’s room for the time being. This made him privy to their whispered discussions each night when they thought he was asleep, not to mention the more physical aspects of their nightlife.

‘That bloody dog has gotta go’, Norm said quietly when he had extinguished the kerosene lamp. ‘It bit old Charlie Crane this arvo. I asked him to come by tamorra and knock it off for me.’

‘That’s a bit drastic, but I suppose you’re right’, Grace said uncertainly. ‘It is getting out of hand. It breaks the chain if we tie it up, and I know people are scared to come here at the moment. The boy will be heartbroken but’, she added. ‘He worships the bloody thing.’

Norm sighed in the darkness. ‘I know’, he said. ‘But we have no choice, besides the dog is gettin’ on a bit. I don’t think it’s too well anyway, that’s prob’ly why it’s so cranky with strangers.’

‘Well you better let me take the kids for a drive or somethin’, so they don’t know’, Grace said quietly. There was silence for a minute, and then Norm cleared his throat.

‘We can’t hide the world from them’, he said at last. ‘I think it’s better that they know what’s goin’ on. They will have to make decisions like this themselves in time.’ The boy stared towards the bare iron roof in silence; he could see pinpricks of moonlight through the nail holes. He was thinking of the old dog and trying to grasp the meaning of his parent’s conversation. ‘Charlie will be along tamorra arvo with his pea rifle, we’ll take the mongrel up the paddock a bit and fix it up. It’s a shame, but I have no choice, the boy will soon get over it.’

‘I suppose you know best’, Grace said gently. ‘Let’s get to sleep, I don’t feel like any funny business tonight.’ Norm laughed softly. ‘Wait until you are asked you conceited little bitch’, he said, snuggling close to her back.

As soon as the word ‘rifle’ had been mentioned the boy understood the gist of the discussion. There were no guns on the farm, but a neighbour often came to shoot ducks on the creek. The boy knew only too well the power of a gun. Tears welled up in his eyes as he thought of the old dog. He often sat against the wall of the house, away from the wind and in the warm sunlight with the old dog’s mangy head in his lap. The blue cattle dog was old, filthy dirty and smelly, but the boy had somehow bonded with the creature.

It would lie for hours with its large head on his knees, its watery, hooded eyes locked on his face affectionately and its mouth gaping wetly as it breathed foully into his face. The old muzzle was grey and mottled with the scars of many battles, and the once proudly pointed ears now drooped over the brooding eyes. The boy wondered how he might save the old dog, but could come up with no concrete plan. If he crept out and released the animal it would not leave the farm, except to savage any stock it could find, but it would soon return and be in a worse position because of its sins. He knew he was too small to run away with the animal so his dilemma increased, as did his grief. At last he fell asleep, listening to the old house creak as it cooled in the night and settled on its stumps. He slept, exhausted, his small untidy head buried in his tear soaked pillow.

Now he sat on the rail, somehow resolved to the situation, watching the shadows on the back lawn lengthen then disappear as the long summer twilight fell across the farm. Suddenly he heard the old dog begin to bark loudly, throwing itself furiously against the extent of its rattling chain, punctuating the loud angry barks with deep-throated growls. The boy watched as a battered old utility lurched down the lane. He knew then that Charlie Crane had arrived and provided the reason for the dog’s sudden agitation.

Sliding quickly from the top of the half wall the boy ran to the rear of the house where the dog was chained to the corner of the small shed. Norm had constructed a makeshift kennel for the animal, in better days for the dog, from half of an old water tank. Norm had now untethered the animal and struggled to control the brute with the heavy chain gathered to form a shortened lead as the dog lurched towards Charlie, its fangs bared in anger.

‘It’s a wild bastard Normie’; Charlie called in his deep resonant voice. ‘But we’ll soon take the fight out of him.’ Norm looked unhappy, his resolve wavering now that the time for action had arrived. His family stood in a half circle around Charlie’s utility; all quiet and ashen faced. The small boy in the centre and a few paces ahead of the rest, but quiet as he watched the proceedings.

Norm beckoned to his eldest son. ‘You hop up in the back of the Tilly, Trevor’ he called. ‘Keep the chain short and get a good hold on Pluto.’ Trevor obeyed silently, his face grave. Norm made to climb into the front of the utility to join Charlie who had gained the driver’s seat and started the noisy engine. ‘Anyone else want to come?’ Norm asked quietly as he paused before entering the utility. No one moved and most shook their heads sadly.

‘I wanter come Dad’, the small boy said suddenly, moving towards the utility. Norm nodded and waved the child to climb up with his brother. ‘Are you sure darlin’? Do you know what Daddy has to do?’ Grace cried, her voice wavering with the concern she felt.

The boy was already in the back of the vehicle. ‘Yes’, he said firmly, his face tight. ‘I wanna say g’bye to Pluto.’ The vehicle moved noisily up the lane, and then passed via a makeshift wire gate into the bush paddock next door, following a narrow track deeper into the brigalow scrub. After travelling several hundred metres, Charlie left the track and scrub and bashed through the thick undergrowth. He brought the utility to a halt beside a deep melon hole in a small natural clearing. Norm described these natural depressions in the bush as ‘melon holes’, but the boy soon learned, to his disappointment, that they had nothing to do with melons. He never really found out the basis of the name, but accepted the term as he accepted most things.

The old dog had lost its anger and sat quietly on the rough tray of the vehicle. Its great head rested on its paws as it looked at the two boys standing above, their backs against the cabin of the utility. Trevor had not spoken and he remained quiet as he climbed down from the tray body, dragging the old dog with him. He led the animal to the edge of the melon hole and squatted beside it, roughly rubbing the creature’s head in the manner that it so enjoyed. The boy watched from his position as he stood with his back supported against the cabin. Trevor sat quietly beside the old dog as they both stared ahead into the bush that grew dim in the gathering dusk.

Charlie crept quietly to a position behind the animal, as it lay under Trevor’s hands, apparently asleep. The muzzle of the pea rifle edged towards the dog’s head, then the weapon bucked, the noise shattering the still of the deepening twilight as the boy’s hand filled his mouth. The dog’s body stiffened, twitched slightly and was still. At the sound of the shot Trevor gave way to tears. Pitiful sobs racked his body as he detached the chain from the dead animal’s neck and scrambled back onto the tray of the utility. He put his arm around his younger brother and cried loudly. The small boy stood quietly, his eyes were wet with tears and his hand was still in his mouth, but he made no sound. He peered around his brother’s shoulder to watch Charlie roll the dog’s body into the melon hole and kick a few clods of dirt and leaves over the corpse.

Charlie resumed his seat in the vehicle without looking at the boys and sent the old unit lurching through the scrub, retracing their tracks. Norm had succumbed to his aversion to hard decisions and the slaughter of animals. He remained in the vehicle the whole time, loath for his children to see his own wet eyes. The boy continued to stare at the only part of the dead dog now visible from its rough internment, the large blue-grey head. He watched as the image receded from sight in the gathering gloom and the scrub closed in, obliterating the clearing, the melon hole and the dog. ‘Goodbye Pluto’, he thought simply. ‘Goodbye.’

The years slipped by and Norm chased his dream relentlessly, the first few crops were good and he could see a brighter future somewhere over the horizon, a little out of sight but not out of reach. Sometimes he appeared almost unconscious of the outside world around him, content to let someone else deal with the business of driving the broader community as the years passed. His own pleasures were few and simple. His wife, his kids, the farm, a rare beer or rum and his constant smoke. Whatever he was to achieve in the future, he thought, would be realised through his family as he watched them grow.

In his obtuse way he was committed only to the land and the future of his offspring, nothing else mattered. He believed that the small farm would provide a solid platform to springboard them all into their own lives, and that he would be able to increase his farming output enough to support their needs. Sometimes he imagined what it would be like, in the distant future, to greet his grandchildren to the farm, but for the time being he could contemplate no other life than the one he now enjoyed.