1.
Sam sat in the darkened granny flat, slightly removed from her grandfather who lay dying in the bed.
The old man’s breath was deep and even, more like a person meditating upon an imminent challenge than a person asleep.
She surveyed the room. A fading photo of Pops and Nanna on a doily on the mahogany chest, a black and white photo of their farm on the wall. A bar fridge below a lino bench that served as a meagre kitchenette, the door to a small bathroom next to it. In the centre, stained in a simpering light, was the bed with her grandfather in it, swathed in old bed linen her mother had found from somewhere, finding a rhythm to his finality.
She thought of her mum, Pops’ daughter, down in the house with her dad, taking time off from the vigil. She thought with a niggling pique of her brother, Nick, who had gone fishing with his mates rather than support his mother as his grandfather lay dying. He’d never been a family boy in Sam’s eyes.
She heard the old man cough, and looked up. Pops’ head had turned towards her, and his eyes were fixed upon her. A withered arm emerged from beneath the blanket and two spikes of fingers motioned for her to approach.
She said, ‘Me?’
The fingers shook. Sam drew in her chair , but the old man signalled for her to come nearer. Sam leant in, close to the fading wallpaper skin on the man’s sharpened cheeks. His breath was like soiled footwear. His voice was harsh but clear, like a tyre scrubbing a kerb.
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-three,’ she said.
‘You hear of Old Uncle Jack?’
‘Yes,’ she said. Pops’ older brother. She’d heard of him, but knew only one thing, that he was the family mystery. He’d disappeared as a young man, never to be heard of again. No one spoke about him, no one knew why he’d gone, or what happened to him.
A yellow nail tapped her forearm, and her grandfather said,
‘One night, bout your age, on a farm out of ‘Curry, me n’ Jack are out shootin’ – bunnies, foxes, roos – and some blue erupts, don’t remember over what. I grabbed a .22 and a shovel and forced the bugger into the scrub. Pointed the gun at him and told him to dig. Pussy was crying. I told him to lie down and I shot him. Covered him up, and drove back to the farm.’
A sinewy hand clasped Sam’s wrist and the old man’s head lifted just a bit, with great effort. ‘No one knows that,’ he said, “No one but me. And now you.’
The head collapsed on to the pillow and the eyes closed. The breath was stilted.
Sam frantically unwound the man’s fingers from her arm, and shoved her chair back into the shadows. Her breath quickened. She stared at the floor; unable to look at the man. What was this? A death bed confession? Some kind of wicked joke? Why put it on me?
She groped for memories of her grandfather, for signs that this might have been known before, that she was not the sole bearer of this information.
She had heard, before he and Nanna had met, he’d travelled between rural towns, picking up whatever jobs were going – she’d heard of slaughterhouse work, a postman, a shearer, a general do it all, but nothing definite. He’d met Nanna in Rockhampton, at a municipal ball. Settled there and worked on the port. Two kids, Uncle Ron first and then mum a few years later. Uncle Ron had died in a farm accident in his forties; a random bullet discharged from a great distance. Sam knew from old photographs that she had met him but was too young to remember.
One photo always made her mum tear up. ‘That’s Ron,’ she’d say, ‘he was such a spirit.’ A handsome young man stared out at the photographer, full of expectancy and potential.
Mum had moved to Brisbane to study, and met Dad, and then they moved to Sydney, where Sam and her two brothers had been born.
Pops and Nanna had been infrequent visitors, given the distance. Nanna was sweet. Sam recalled her thin bosom as the old lady read her bedtime stories. The times they visited, her parting words were, ‘Ignore the boogie men, little one, life is full of joy.’
Pops seemed eternally neat and relaxed, both of which he attributed to Nanna. Nanna would say, ‘Men need women, otherwise who knows what they’d do.’
Jesus. Her world spun. Did Nanna know about Old Uncle Jack? Did she know what he’d do – what he’d done – without a woman to neaten him up?
Was Pops one of the boogie men? Was Uncle Ron really an accident? Who, what else was there in this man’s past? How much did Mum know?
She looked at the figure on the bed. It rose again, and a long and low passage of air passed from its open jowls in a bitter expulsion of malevolence. Then it dropped back on to the pillow, and was still. She listened: his breathing had stopped.
She watched the pallor of passing emerge from within the dead man, like a cloud clearing shadows from a field.
Why had he lumbered her with this … this, what … memory? Or guilt? Why the need to let it out now? Why her? Why not tell a priest, or the police? Or did he need to confide in family, to keep the secret safe perhaps? But why me?
Sam turned to the door and shouted, ‘Mum, I think Pops has gone!’
She stepped out of the cabin, and the hot air smacked her cheeks, the sun bright in her eyes, and the sky blue above the splendid trees. Her mother appeared at the back door.
‘Did you call, Samantha?’ she said.
‘Pops has just died.’
2.
Sam leant against the side table littered with the remains of sandwiches and cold party pies, and said, ‘Mum?’
Her mother took a sip of tepid coffee from a white cup. ‘Yes dear?’
Sam fidgeted briefly with a red paper napkin and said, ‘How much did you know about Old Uncle Jack?’
The cup clattered slightly as her mother set it on to the saucer. ‘Uncle Jack? You mean Pops’ brother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why do you mention him?’
Sam set the napkin down and said, ‘Oh I don’t know, I was just thinking about him, now that Pops has passed away. That generation is finished, and I realise I know so little about him.’
‘Well, there was no real conclusion about what happened there. He kind of disappeared, long before I was born. Pops might have known something, maybe, but he never made it public if he did.’
An elderly lady took her mother’s hand and said, ‘So sorry about today, Dierdre.’
Sam watched the old lady’s fingers entwine about her mother’s wrist, and recalled Pops’ fingers about her own arm at his confession. Her mother said,
‘Oh thanks, Edith, but he had a good innings. I think he can be proud of what he’d done in his life.’
The old woman clung on, as if for stability.
‘He was such a nice fellow,’ she said. ‘You know, years ago, my brother was in a spot of trouble, and he helped out immensely.’
Sam looked through the white latticed windows of the reception room across the graveyard. The wind buffeted the bunches of flowers that lay against greying tombstones.
The old lady continued, ‘Of course he died soon after your father stepped in, but at least he passed with a clean conscience.’
She heard her mother laugh and say, ‘Well I hope it wasn’t Pops who helped him pass!’
The woman called Edith said, ‘Goodness, you’ve inherited your father’s sense of humour,’ and joined in the chuckle.
Sam stared at her mother.
The old lady grabbed the handles of her walker and said to Sam, ‘You must be the granddaughter.’
‘Samantha,’ said Sam, and grimaced politely.
‘I bet you’ll miss him, the old fellow. He had a good heart.’
She coughed and specks of white bread spattered on to Sam’s dress, landing like dandruff on her black dress. She watched as Edith wheeled herself towards the exit, the line of her underwear visible under her skirt.
‘That was Edith,’ said her mother. ‘A very longstanding acquaintance of Pops. I always suspected he once carried a torch for her.’ She set her cup and saucer on the sideboard next to a plate of collapsed sandwich triangles. ‘You never know everything about a person, do you?’
Sam drew a breath. The grated carrot fell out the triangle of white bread she picked off the plate. She squashed it to a thin ribbon of yeast, dry tomato and cheese.
‘What about Uncle Ron?’ she said.
‘Uncle Ron?’ said her mother. ‘My older brother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Goodness you are going through the family crypt,’ said her mother. ‘Funerals mustn’t be good for you.’
‘Was Pops around at the time he died?’
Her mother held her forearm. ‘Oh dear, Sam darling, let’s not drag up the past.’
An old man reached between them to place his coffee mug on to the sideboard.
‘Sorry to intrude,’ he said. His manner was formal, matched by his suit, tie and crimson cardigan. ‘Dierdre, you’re a stalwart,’ he said, and turned to Sam. ‘And you, young lady, are a fine example of the family.’
‘Ted, this is Samantha,’ said her mother, ‘and yes, she is a fine member of the family.’
Ted peered over his spectacles. ‘Old Ted, they call me,’ he said, ‘but I was young once you know.’
Sam stretched a smile across her cheeks. ‘I’m sure you were,’ she said.
‘Your grandfather taught me how to shoot,’ he said, ‘outback in Queensland, many years ago. He was a grand marksman in his time, could have won the Olympics if he’d ever entered. Taught your mother too.’
He turned to Sam’s mother. ‘Do you remember? On the farm out of Rocky, you shot rabbits none of us could see.’
Her mother giggled. ‘I’m sure you’re making that up,’ she said, and pressed a manicured hand on Ted’s forearm.
Ted turned to Sam. ‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘I’m old, but my memory’s intact. Your mum’s a cracker with a Twenty-two. Got bunnies we couldn’t even see, across the paddock. You should try it yourself, might have the family gene.’
Sam smiled politely at his repeated story of her mother and the invisible rabbits.
Old Ted wiped his hands on a pocket handkerchief and said, ‘Must dash, got another one to go to before the home closes. Sorry for your loss, Dierdre old girl.’
He tottered away as Sam’s mother said, ‘He couldn’t hit the side of a barn himself.’
‘I never knew you were into shooting,’ said Sam.
Her mother smiled. ‘We all have our little secrets.’ She stacked a few of the remaining unused napkins on the bench and poured a bundle of sandwiches on to another plate. ‘Just to be clear, Pops was most definitely in the farmhouse at the time of Ron’s accident. Ron and Pops often clashed. Pops felt Ron never trusted him for some reason. But that’s family I guess. I’d dragged him up there to help out at the farm for a spell. I always felt a twinge of guilt for what happened. I’m going for a refill.’
Sam watched her mother step through the dwindling crowd to the urn on the far side of the room, pausing to chat to various people on the way. What else don’t I know? she thought.
3.
Sam and her brother Nick strolled along the coastal path. The night air was mild and clear. Below them the muted rush of the sea on deep cliffs spat salt into the air. Lights from a boat blinked in the distance.
‘Tell me,’ said Sam, ‘Why didn’t you come to Pops’ funeral last week?’
Her brother stopped.
‘I had stuff to do.’
‘What, like fishing?’
‘We – my mates and I – had planned the trip weeks ago.’
‘You don’t think the funeral took priority?’
Nick looked out across the ocean. ‘He was old.’
Sam snorted. ‘Is that it? He was old? Like that’s a reason?’
Nick shrugged.
‘Oh, come on, Nick,’ said Sam. ‘He’s family, Mum’s dad. And you don’t go because he’s old?’
Nick strolled to the edge of the cliff. Back on the path Sam shouted, ‘So you’re just going to run away now?’
When he didn’t answer she strode over to him. ‘This is typical of you. We’re family, but it’s like you don’t want anything to do with us. What’s wrong with you. Nick? What’s wrong with us?’
Nick turned to her, his face dark in the shadow. He said, ‘You really want to know?’
‘Yes’ said Sam.
‘I didn’t go, because I didn’t want to honour the man’s memory.’
Sam stared at him, but could not discern his features. Was he being serious?
‘Why not?’ she asked.
Nick turned back to the dark sea.
‘Why not? Sam said.
He inhaled deeply and then emptied his lungs in a rush.
‘I’ll tell you why,’ he said. ‘Because he was a murderer.’
Sam blanched, and her breath tripped.
‘You might not know this,’ said Nick, still facing out to sea, ‘so it might be hard to hear. But I know sweet Pops murdered his brother Jack.
‘How do you know?’ said Sam.
‘Something in the story never made sense. Jack was always a mystery. So I researched it. Their two lives, the farms they worked on, dates and tales of his stories. I got him talking one night , and he told me about how he hated his older brother and then how what happens when a bullet rips through flesh at close range. It was disgusting.’ He turned to face Sam, who stood with both hands raised to her mouth.
‘Why didn’t you mention anything?’ she said.
Nick said, ‘I see you know too. Otherwise you’d have asked me if I could prove it.’
Sam nodded, relieved that she wasn’t the only one to carry the burden. ‘He told me,’ she said. ‘On his death bed.’
Nick snorted.
Sam reached out to touch him, but he stepped back and returned his gaze to the sea. Below them, the waves rocked against the cliff, carving a growl into the night.
‘It gets worse,’ he said.
‘How?’ said Sam.
‘You don’t wanna hear this.’
‘What?’
But Nick shook his head.
‘What?’ Sam said and shoved her brother’s arm. He swayed a bit, and shouted ‘Steady, girl, I’m on the edge here.’
She grabbed his shirt and pulled him close. ‘I’ve had one great secret this week,’ she said, ‘so don’t withhold the rest.’
His eyes drilled into her. She felt fear. He pulled away and said, ‘I’m the non-player in the family. Mum always says, come and join in, be part of us. Even you think it, don’t deny it. But I don’t, join in, be a part of you all. I stay away.’
Sam said, ‘Sorry, I did wonder why you went fishing instead of helping mum with Pops’ death, but I understand now.’
‘No, before that,’ said Nick. ‘Everyone thinks I’m the black sheep, the prodigal that left the home.’
Sam knew that was true. She waited, the breeze picking up on her cheek. She felt her sleeve was damp from the sea spray and shivered slightly.
Nick lifted his head and, in the tone of a prophet, announced, ‘It runs in the family. Do you know that? It’s in the blood, in the DNA. Our mother shot her brother Ron.’
Sam caught her breath, aghast at the words that were flung across the wind. ‘Like father like daughter. .. A crack shot … Enmity of some kind, what, I don’t know … But oh yes, I know. So I stay away. Stay away!’
The last phrase was a warning, to her, to the world, to stay away from their mother.
He turned his gaze to her, like a priest released from ecstasy. ‘Too much, little sister?’ Behind him, the night howled and groaned in the surf’s backless dark.
The words of old Ted at the wake whipped into her head. The cracker with a Twenty-two. The invisible bunnies. Surely not, not Mum.
‘How do you know?’ she said.
‘Pops told me,’ said her brother.
‘What?’
‘Or rather he didn’t. He meant to tell me the opposite, but got his story mixed up. He told me Mum was in the house with him and went out to investigate and he heard a gunshot.’ He leaned towards her. ‘It was the wrong way around. She should’ve investigated after the shot, yeah?’
‘But,’ said Sam, ‘she could have gone outside for any reason. Pop might have been mixed up. He was distraught from his son’s death.’
‘But he wasn’t,’ said Nick. ‘Or at least he knew he couldn’t be, because he’d done exactly the same thing himself.’
The wind had picked up, and Sam was unsure if she was hearing him correctly. She shouted over the howl. ‘Everything Pops said to me suggested he never got over Ron’s death.’
‘No,’ said Nick, ‘he never got over the fact that he’d taught his daughter his own evil, that he’d spawned a child of murder.’
Sam broiled at the accusation. ‘Mum’s been nothing but loving to us, patient with your absences, always caring for friends and family. How can you say such a thing?’ she screamed.
‘Because it’s true,’ said Nick.
‘What’s true is you’ve never fitted in. You never visit, you never call, you have no interest. You’re selfish!’
‘I stay away,’ said Nick, his voice now hoarse in the wind. ‘I don’t want to be tainted. I am not one of -’ His voice was swamped by a roar from far below.
Sam said, ‘Go on, say it, one of us. One of me, Mum, Dad, Pops, one of not you.’
Nick stood rock still, his shirt ruffled in the wind, his hair fluttering in the dark. Nick with his secrets and his accusations and his self-appointed sequestration from the family. Nick with his superstitions, his arrogance, his craven fear of his family.
A tremendous roar bellowed up from the bowels of the cliff, and the wind spat thick drops of seawater upon them. She lunged and hit Nick full in the chest. He toppled, and a voiceless scream was eaten by the night. She could not see where he fell; he plunged into the dark and was gone from sight.
She looked around. There was no one.
She strode along the path towards the car park. Brazen thoughts whirled in her mind. Had she known this? Had she chosen this location to admonish her brother, knowing what he knew, knowing what she had to do? Had she? Her mother would approve, no doubt, would understand. It’s a bloodline thing. She had kept the tradition alive.
It would be weeks before his disappearance would become known to the family. They might inquire sometime in the future, but more likely they’d say, ‘That’s Nick. He’s not really part of the family anymore.’
* * * * * * *
Photo by Paul Eneirhand via Unsplash
