with a few prize Merinos and two dogs
and the story goes
that he met Miss Lizzy Beacher
in town one day
when he was asking directions to the barber.
‘I wanted a neat trim haircut
and I ended up with a wife.
Best advice I ever got!’
They had lots of kids
and all of them worked on this farm
just like we do now,
and we always will.
The farmhouse
When I was ten years old
Dad and me built the verandah
around this old place that’s stood here
for a hundred years
and we used hardwood from the forest
just like Great-grandpa did.
Dad and me worked for weeks,
coating the floorboards in oil,
breathing in the strong smell
mixing with the timber.
Before I stained the last board,
in the far corner by the drainpipe,
Dad got a long sharp nail
and said,
‘Scrape our names,
yours and mine,
deep in the grain, with the date.
Your kids, Jake,
my grandkids,
will know what we’ve built was for them.’
Daybreak
Every morning I’m up at daybreak.
I go out to the verandah,
pull my boots on
and walk down to the chook shed.
The frost hard grass crackles under my feet.
I unlock the gate to the shed
and walk across the dusty floor,
messy with straw and wild grass stalks,
to collect the eggs, still warm,
from the raised nests along the wall.
The hens scatter,
clucking and fussing in the dirt.
Once I saw a two-metre red-belly black snake
curled in the corner of the shed,
near the water trough.
I backed out quickly and ran to tell Dad.
He reached for the shovel
we always keep on the verandah.
We buried the snake behind the shed.
I made a little white cross with a bad rhyme:
Here lies a snake, black and red,
came looking for eggs, now he’s dead.
Bread
Sometimes, late in the afternoon,
Mum and I cook in the kitchen.
When I was young she taught me
how to knead the dough for bread.
I love rolling the firm ball in my hands,
sprinkling the flour,
adding the rainwater,
kneading on the big wooden table.
I stack the small-cut logs in the firebox
to make it good and hot,
ready for the loaves.
We got an electric stove years ago
but Mum never cooks bread in that.
‘No smoke, no flavour,’ she says.
Three times a week
we fire up the Early Kooka
to make bread.
And just before dinner
she tears bits off a still-warm loaf,
steaming in her hands.
I get the crust,
smothered in butter
melting in the soft flesh.
The wolf story
Ever since I can remember,
my dad has talked about the wolf.
From the age of five
I’d sit beside him on the back step.
We’d look across the paddocks of sheep
into the forest shimmering in the afternoon heat,
watching,
the two of us sure the wolf would come
if we sat here long enough.
As night fell,
I’d ask him to tell me,
once more,
about when he saw the wolf.
If the wolf wouldn’t show
at least we could talk about him.
In the gathering dark
I’d hang on every word,
listening to Dad’s deep voice
tell me
the wolf story.
The wolf at Wolli Creek
‘I was twenty years old
when I saw the wolf at Wolli Creek.
I was fishing for trout at Mercer Bend
where the water runs deep and brown,
with bubbles rising to the surface.
I heard a branch snap upstream.
His head was large and noble.
His ears, bigger than any dog’s,
pricked, waiting for a sound.
I stood shock still as he came down to the creek,
not taking his eyes from me.
As he approached, the forest hushed.
The tips of his fur were lighter in colour
and it gave him a ghostly appearance.
His paws sank deep into the wet sand as he drank,
his long tongue lapping the water.’
‘What next, Dad? What happened?’
‘We stared at each other, eye to eye.
It seemed so long, Jake,
but it was probably only a few seconds.
Then he turned and ran into the bushes.
I never saw him again.
But I think of him out there,
maybe with a mate, and a litter.
Wolves don’t live in Australia,
so they say.’
Jake’s shed
Dad and I built the chook shed
when I was twelve.
We worked for two days
sawing the heavy posts,
coating them with sump oil.
Dad taught me how to set them level.
I loved hammering the wire,
bending the nails to hold each end tight,
bashing away without a care.
It didn’t seem like work at all.
Even though it was made of scrap iron
and chicken wire,
we knew it’d stand forever
because of the effort we put in;
the care we took to get everything right.
Mum painted the chook shed door
a rich green,
as a background,
and with her fine art brushes
she drew our old farmhouse
with smoke rising from the chimney,
hens and chickens pecking in the grass.
‘To make them feel at home,’ she said.
And if you look really closely,
in the corner of the painting,
peeking from behind the house,
you can see a wolf:
a grey wolf.
When Mum finished,
she winked at me.
‘For your father, Jake.’
THREE
Holidays
Jake: the school bus
I walk up the bumpy winding driveway,
jump our wooden double gate
and wait for the bus.
It’s late, as usual.
The clouds roll in over the hills,
cockatoos screech in the dead trees
and the wind blows cold through my jacket.
I chuck a few rocks
at the Eggs for Sale sign
I made ages ago.
We’ve had two buyers in three years.
Nobody drives down this road except us,
the Hardings
and the school bus.
It rattles down the road
and squeaks to a stop
with the front door already open.
I hop on,
say hello to Peter and Lucy in the front seat
and sit behind them.
Every morning it’s the same –
before the bus moves
Peter turns and starts talking.
‘Today is the last day of school.
Next week I’m g
onna ride me bike every day
and maybe Dad’ll loan me his gun
and I’ll go shooting.
You wanna come?
We can get a wild pig,
or maybe a fox.
Whaddya reckon, Jake?’
On and on until the bus pulls into school.
Lucy: the Trobriands
I read a book a week.
I don’t care what sort of book.
As long as old Mrs Bains lets me loan it,
I’ll read it.
Today I finished a book
about these islands in the South Pacific,
with palm trees and coconuts
and sandy beaches and canoes
and all the heavenly things you’d expect.
But on this island they have a celebration:
a Yam Festival.
It goes for two months,
and all the islanders have sex with each other,
whether they’re married or not.
And the young women form gangs
and they rape the men.
No kidding.
Five of them hold him down,
and one jumps on top.
The writer didn’t say what the men think of this,
other than they’re all a bit scared
to walk alone during the festival.
Now I’m reading this in the library
and I start laughing out loud
about these big strong island men
afraid to walk along a beach or through the forest
because a bunch of young girls like me
might jump out and rape them.
At the end of the festival,
they all go back to being married couples
and the young women
return to working in the village,
waiting for a husband.
Everyone gets married in the Trobriands.
And everyone goes crazy for two months a year.
Jake: in class
Coomuya Central School has seven teachers
for classes Prep to Year Twelve.
Which means sometimes Peter, Lucy and me
are in the same class
even though we’re at different levels.
Mrs Clarke roams around each desk,
hands behind her back,
grinding her teeth as we work.
The rule is you put your hand up
if you don’t understand anything.
Simple.
As soon as we start Maths,
Peter raises his hand.
Mrs Clarke explains it once again,
leaning down to write the formula
on his workbook.
She circles the classroom,
the click of her heels loud on the timber floor,
until Peter calls,
‘But, Miss . . .?’
his hand held high.
This goes on all morning.
It’s perfect.
Those of us who want to work, do it.
Those who want to doodle on their books
can draw for as long as they want.
Peter is the most popular kid in class,
for all the wrong reasons.
Lucy: the library
Stupid old Mrs Bains only lets us
take out three books over the holidays.
It’s nowhere near enough.
So, every day this week
I’ve picked a book I want
and taken it to the back corner of the library,
well away from Bains and her hawkeyes.
I settle on the beanbag,
acting like I’m absorbed in the book,
but really I’m waiting for her phone to ring.
Bains has this weird habit
of closing her eyes when she talks on the phone.
I reckon she’s deaf
and her fuzzy old brain thinks
that if her eyes are shut
then her ears will be open.
I don’t know and I don’t care.
But when she’s talking, she can’t see me.
I sneak open the back window,
place the book on the ledge
and head out of the library.
I race around the back and pick up the book.
My long-term loan.
Jake: last day of term
The last day of school
before the winter holidays.
Mrs Clarke is chirpier than usual.
She gets the class to read aloud
from this book about an old bloke
who thinks he’s in a Prisoner of War camp.
We all laugh when he hides under the bed
‘cursing the Japs’
as the nurses spend hours searching the grounds.
Everyone in class wants Mrs Clarke to read,
but she insists we do.
The book goes round from desk to desk,
one page each . . .
Peter reads so slowly.
Everyone stares out the window
at the cleaner emptying bins,
at the Primary kids playing cricket,
at the cows in a distant paddock,
as we try to follow the story . . .
one painful, mispronounced word at a time.
Mrs Clarke thanks Peter for his effort
and asks me to take over.
I’m eager to see if the old fellow escapes the home.
I cross the fingers of my left hand
as thanks to Mum for teaching me to read,
so I won’t be shamed
like Peter Harding
staring straight at the chalkboard.
Lucy: disgust
I hate it when Clarkie does that.
I reckon it’s payback
for all the questions he asks in Maths.
Peter can’t read for nothing.
She shouldn’t make him.
Everyone in class lounging around,
groaning
or looking out the window,
listening to him stammer over simple words,
all because he got genes from Dad
who wouldn’t know what a book is for.
I’ve seen him rip out pages
to use as fire-starters
for our old woodstove in the kitchen.
At home I hide my books
under the wardrobe in my room
and read them late at night,
while the dogs bark
and Dad opens another bottle.
Dad says,
‘You don’t need books, girl.
To be smart, all you need is what’s up here.’
And he taps his head
with a nicotine finger.
He means a brain,
but I so want to say,
‘What? Dirty hair?’
Lucy: three weeks
I’m thinking of nothing but holidays
as I walk out the school gate
to wait for the bus.
Three weeks away from this place,
reading books by Wolli Creek
and dreaming of places I’d like to go.
The creek is far enough away
so I don’t hear Dad shouting at Mum,
or hear Peter whining, bored,
or the dogs growling over leftover bones,
and the constant bark of talkback radio
and know-all announcers raving on
about the economy
and refugees,
the unemployed,
the Aborigines,
and on and on
and Dad hanging around outside,
smoking rollies,
saying, ‘He’s right, you know!’
to every stupid thing he hears.
I’d like to pitch a tent beside Wolli Creek
and live there,
listening to the gentle sound
of clear water bubbling over rocks.
Lucy: on holidays
On the bus home, br />
Nathan Stokes,
a seat behind us,
mocks Peter’s reading,
mimicks his words,
stuttering,
looking for an audience.
Peter’s hands are shaking
and I’m not sure if he’s going to cry
or start screaming,
and either way
I don’t want to be part of this crap.
So, I turn and face Stokes.
I don’t say anything.
I just give him a killer look
until even Nathan Stokes
is not sure if it’s worth the effort of going on.
I see him searching for help.
He’s about to try his luck,
so I lean in close
and slap him hard across the face.
The slap echoes down the bus
and no one moves until our stop.
I pick up my bag,
saunter down the aisle
and step off onto the road.
When the bus turns,
Nathan calls after Peter,
‘You wait, Harding.
You can’t always hide behind your sister.’
Big, strong Peter
gives Nathan the finger
as I stroll up our long dirt driveway,
on holidays.
Jake: on holidays
I skirt the western boundary
with Patch bounding ahead
chasing the swallows
and barking at the clouds.
Spud ambles beside me,
tongue out, tail wagging.
I check the fence,
feel the tension in the wire,
the strength of the posts,
firm in the ground.
I remember working the post-hole digger,
hoping there were no rocks underneath
as we dug into the brown soil.
It took two weeks last winter,
with the winds ripping down the valley.
Sometimes I imagine
I can still feel the cracks in my hands,
deep and hard.
Patch drops a stick at my feet
and jumps away,
eyes flashing between me
and the lure of the prize.
I fling the stick
and sit against the post.
Spud nuzzles his head into my chest,
wanting to be scratched behind his ears.
I rub my hands deep into his fur.