After (12 page)

My favourite way to keep the memories buried was to watch road rage. Nothing like red faces, screamed abuse and raised fists to take your mind off your own problems. But here, at Marrook, I was caged in with nothing to distract me. That heavy grey feeling that had filled me since Nic died grew thicker and darker here. I had to fight it off before it wiped me out.

Eyes closed, I tried to push everything back down, but that made every sound louder.

My breath.

My heartbeat.

Frogs croaking in the distance.

The dogs, no longer barking, but pulling on their chains.

The whistle of the wind through the cypress branches.

Twigs snapped and a ripping, grinding, munching sound came closer.

The memories of Nic crept closer too.

Fear bunched inside me.

A sheep bleated.

I was up and running down the ramp and along the gravel road towards the house before my brain realised the ripping and grinding was just a grazing sheep. In the blackness, I tripped again, but this time kept my balance. When I reached the house, I crept inside, guts icy and heart galloping. As soon as I reached my room, I dragged my bags from the cupboard and started packing my stuff.

‘Callum?’ said Nan.

The door eased open.

The last thing I wanted to do was talk, especially to her. ‘What?’

Her eyes were red. ‘Your grandfather and I need to talk to you.’

‘No point.’ I shoved my windcheaters into the bag. ‘I’m leaving.’

‘So I see. But we’d still like to talk to you,’ said Nan.

‘I have nothing to say, especially to you.’

Nan nodded. ‘Then you can just listen. Family room? Or shall we talk up here?’

The need to know the truth was stronger than my hatred for her. I stopped packing. ‘Family room.’

Grandpa sat in his recliner watching the footy, his face white. He turned off the TV when I entered the room.

‘Sit down, Callum,’ said Nan.

I perched on the edge of the lounge.

Nan sat at the other end, hands clasped in her lap. ‘Would you like to ask us anything?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing at all?’ asked Nan.

I stared straight at her. ‘What was the deal with Mum’s stuff in the driveway?’

Nan rubbed her chin. ‘After your mother left, your grandfather said he’d disposed of her belongings. Then you arrived and things started appearing—the coat, the bike—’

‘I said I’d taken care of it, not disposed of it,’ said Grandpa, his voice flat.

My grandmother snorted.

‘Can you two stop acting like little kids and just answer the question? What did she do?’

‘She broke our trust. Lied.’ Nan sounded hard. ‘And she humiliated us. Callum, your mother—’

‘Pat.’ Grandpa cut her off. ‘It’s not our place.’

‘Then whose place is it? She should have told him. But instead, she’s dumped him here, just as I said she would, and we’re—’

‘Stop it!’ I yelled. ‘Mum didn’t want to send me here, but after what I did...’

I slumped against the arm of the lounge.

‘Callum, your mo—’

‘For God’s sake, Pat, leave it.’ Grandpa pushed the footrest into his recliner. It closed with a bang. ‘Can’t you see what this is doing to the kid?’

‘What about us?’ Nan screeched. ‘What about what this has done to us? Our family? She shamed us, James. Humiliated us.’

‘What’s so humiliating about Callum?’

‘Mum left because she was pregnant with me, didn’t she?’ I asked, my voice soft.

Nan crumpled. ‘She was only 17. She could have been anything—’

‘And I ruined it.’

‘No, you didn’t ruin anything,’ said Grandpa. ‘She chose you. She wanted you. Even when—’

‘Even when what?’ I asked.

Grandpa sighed.

‘Callum, you should be talking to her about this.’

‘She’ll just tell me more lies.’

‘Then it’s time she told you the truth,’ said Nan. She smoothed her jumper. ‘Damn this. I’ll phone her.’

‘No! Grandpa, you tell me.’ I shifted in my seat to face him. ‘Please? You’ll tell me the truth. And it’s not like I haven’t figured stuff out myself, and after what Jack Frewen said—’

‘Jack Frewen told you things?’ Grandpa eyes widened. ‘He wouldn’t.’

‘Why? Because he’s such a great kid?’ I shook my head. ‘He said Mum tried to trap Woosher.’

Nan gasped.

‘That little—’ Grandpa stood up.

‘Woosher is my dad, isn’t he?’

‘Maeve needs to tell you. I’ll make the call in the office.’

After he left, Nan and I sat in silence. My heart beat faster than the ticking clock. Nan twisted the hem of her jumper. ‘Callum, when your mother was—’

‘Just forget it.’

‘Hear me out.’ She lifted her chin. ‘Today people are very open about teenage pregnancy, single mothers, that sort of thing. But back then it was, well, shameful. Girls from good families didn’t get pregnant. Especially ones from good Catholic families.’

‘What about the boy? The father?’

Nan stared at her hands folded in her lap.

‘Don’t tell me. It was different for them,’ I said, a bitter taste filling my mouth. ‘So Mum was a skank and Woosher was a hero.’

Nan’s sighed. ‘You’re so like her.’

‘I don’t look like her. Or you and Grandpa. I have her eyes, your eyes. And I think my hands are shaped like Grandpa’s, but the rest of me...’

‘Your personality is like hers. But you look more like him.’

‘Woosher?’

Nan nodded. ‘Woosher was tall and athletic like you. But you walk like your grandfather—very straight. Woosher slouched.’

‘Is that why you hate me? Because I remind you of him?’

She hung her head. ‘I ... You remind me of her leaving.’

‘Callum.’ Grandpa stood in the doorway holding the phone. ‘Maeve would like to talk to you.’

The floor heaved like the ocean. ‘I can’t.’

‘Yes, you can.’ Grandpa placed the phone in my lap.

I could hear Mum, her voice tinny and distant. ‘Hey, CJ, talk to me. Please.’

I picked up the phone as though it was a ticking bomb. ‘Hello.’

She sniffed. ‘I’m sorry. I should have told you the truth, but I couldn’t. Everything was...’ Her words rushed at me. ‘I thought it was better this way.’ She blew her nose. ‘I was just trying to protect you, CJ.’

‘Protect me from what?’

‘Well, he ... I couldn’t tell you.’

‘What? That you got pregnant and were kicked out of home?’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘Then how was it?’

‘Every girl from Winter Creek to Millington wanted to be Woosher’s girlfriend. He was two years older than me, a footy star and gorg—’

‘So Woosher is my father?’

She sniffed. ‘Yes, Woosher—Brett Wishart. He’s your dad.’

A buzzing sound filled my head. ‘And he wasn’t from Perth?’

‘No, he was from Winter Creek, like me.’ I could hear her swallow. ‘When Brett started hanging around ... well, I fell for him. You know, in love. Everything was fantastic. When he was drafted to Essendon, I found out I was pregnant. I was so excited. I thought we’d be a family. Be happy.’ I heard the floorboards creak. She was pacing. ‘When I told Mum and Dad I was following him to Melbourne, they told me if I left, I couldn’t come back. And you know the rest.’

‘No, actually I don’t. I know a heap of lies, like he was from Perth ... Did he even play the guitar?’

Mum kind of grunted.

‘Okay. And did he really take me out on his surfboard at Anglesea? Did he feed the ducks with me?’

‘CJ, I...’

‘Did he love me?’

‘Mum and Dad were right,’ she whispered. ‘He didn’t love me.’

‘Did. He. Love. Me?’ I asked again.

She cleared her throat.

‘Is that why you told me he was dead?’

‘He is dead.’

‘Now. He wasn’t then. He was alive when you were telling me that pack of lies.’

‘CJ, how could I tell you he left both of us? That he never wanted to even see you?’

Christos says the truth sets you free. That’s a pile of bull. The truth had just made me angry. ‘Great tradition we’ve got going isn’t it? Your parents dump you. Woosher dumps you and me. Now you’ve dumped me.’

‘I didn’t dump you. We’ve talked about this.’

‘No—you talked. I listened. You dumped me.’

‘After Nic di—’

‘Don’t say his name.’ I screamed.

‘Callum,’ Grandpa reached for my arm.

I tossed the phone on the lounge and sprinted from the room. I heard Grandpa say, ‘Give him time, Maeve.’

Brass monkey weather out here,’ said Grandpa. In the dark I could see the rug over his arm and the mugs in his hands.

‘What?’

‘Brass monkey weather. Cold enough to freeze ... ah, doesn’t matter.’

I rolled my eyes and took the blanket, then a mug.

‘Milo. One and a half sugars, right?’

I nodded.

Grandpa sat down on the cold grass beside me and leant against the mural wall. ‘Quiet out here with the girls roosting,’ he said, nodding at the chook house. He sipped his Milo. ‘Perfect.’

The heat from the mug warmed my hands. I could smell chocolate, but the drink tasted bitter. ‘How long have you and Nan had separate bedrooms?’

Grandpa sighed. ‘Since your ... since Maeve left.’

‘Nan kicked her out, didn’t she? You wanted her to stay.’

A sheep’s bleat was answered by a lamb’s thin cry.

‘Don’t just blame your grandmother. I could have chased Maeve, should have. But I didn’t.’ Grandpa sipped his Milo. ‘Callum, your mum—’

‘I don’t want to talk about her.’

‘Fair enough.’ Grandpa straightened his legs. His boots rested against the chicken wire. ‘You know, it’s not what happens to us that shapes us, Callum, it’s how we deal with that stuff that makes us who we are.’

‘What if stuff happens because a person is shit?’

‘Cut that out,’ snapped Grandpa. ‘Your mother is not—’

‘Not her. Me.’ I stood and emptied the Milo on the grass. ‘I’m going to bed.’

Voices. Harsh, cold voices echoed off the tiles and drummed inside my head. The room was blinding white. I staggered, searching for a way out, but faceless people blocked my path. I dropped on all fours. A pool of red seeped across the white tiles and between my fingers. It trickled down a stainless steel drain.

A siren wailed.

‘Callum.’

My body was being shaken.

‘Wake up. You’re dreaming.’

I forced my eyes open. Grandpa, wearing PJs, stood over me. Nan was tying her dressing gown cord in the doorway.

‘What’s going on?’ I said.

‘You were screaming,’ said Grandpa. ‘What were you dreaming about?’

My cheeks felt wet—I tasted salt. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Nan, walking into the room.

‘Yeah.’ I fake-yawned and at the same time, wiped my face.

‘Callum, talk to us,’ said Grandpa.

I shook my head. ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’ I pulled the doona up. ‘Honest, I’m good.’

‘If you’re sure,’ said Grandpa.

‘Night.’ I closed my eyes and rolled onto my side, listening to Grandpa walk back to his room.

Nan didn’t leave.

‘I’m okay,’ I said, eyes still shut.

‘I’m not,’ said Nan, coming towards the bed. ‘Your grandfather would have chased her to the ends of the earth, Callum, but I wouldn’t let him. I was too proud.’ She scoffed. ‘Look where that got me. No daughter, my husband barely talks to me and my grandson ... well, I’m a stranger to you.’

I rolled onto my back.

‘Nan ... I’m sorry.’

‘You don’t have anything to be sorry for.’

‘But I do,’ I stared out the window at stars brighter than I’d ever seen. ‘You think Mum’s bad, but I’m worse.’

‘Callum, there’s nothing that can’t be forgiven.’

I wanted to believe her.

She patted my shoulder. ‘I hope you sleep better.’

‘Thanks.’

I stared out the window at those bright stars for a long time after she left.

I lay under the doona, enjoying the warmth. Outside the sky was clear and blue. A honeyeater chattered as it flitted through the banksia’s branches.

I felt good. Light. Then I rolled over, and it all crashed in on me.

Mum. Woosher. Nic.

I struggled out of bed, my legs like lumps of concrete, chucked a windcheater over my pyjamas and shuffled down the hall.

By the time I reached the kitchen, I felt like I’d run a marathon.

Nan stood at the bench, beating eggs in a glass mixing bowl.

‘Hey, Nan.’ I grabbed the orange juice from the fridge.

She stopped whisking. ‘Did you sleep okay, after your dream?’

I squirmed at the memory. ‘Yeah,’

‘Good.’ She lifted the bowl. ‘Scrambled eggs for breakfast.’

The last thing I wanted to do was eat. ‘Sounds okay.’

Nan took a cast-iron frypan from a cupboard, placed it on the stove and lit the gas. The knob of butter she dropped into the pan sizzled. Once it melted, she poured the beaten eggs into the pan. ‘You can cook the toast.’

‘Where’s Grandpa?’ I asked.

‘I’ve been checking the ewes,’ he said, walking through the door. ‘Busy night—not many left to lamb now.’ He peered over Nan’s shoulder. ‘Scrambled eggs? What’s the occasion?’

‘No occasion—I just felt like making Callum a hot breakfast.’

Grandpa raised his eyebrows. ‘Well don’t cook too much. We’re going out to lunch, remember?’

‘Where?’ I asked.

Nan glared at Grandpa. ‘You didn’t tell him?’

Grandpa shrugged. ‘We had a committee meeting and—’

Nan’s sigh was massive. ‘You forgot.’

‘Where are we going?’ I said.

The toast popped.

‘The Frewens’ place,’ said Nan and Grandpa together.

‘Great.’ I dumped the toast on the chopping board and stalked from the room.

I leant against the sliding doors of the games room at Frewen’s house. The driving rain battering the glass chilled my back. Frewen leant across the pool table, lining up his shot. His sister Beth tried to balance a pool cue on the tip of her finger. Frewen drew back his cue and hit her in the ribs.

‘You suck, Jack,’ she said, catching the cue before it hit the slate.

Frewen sniggered and took his shot.

Emma, Frewen’s youngest sister who I’d met at Marrook, sat staring outside at the pool. ‘Wish we could go swimming,’ she said.

‘Are you serious?’ said Frewen. ‘It’s pouring, you loser. And it’s winter.’

Emma shrugged. ‘I like swimming.’

‘Idiot,’ said Frewen, as the ball slammed into the pocket.

‘Leave her alone, Jack,’ said Beth.

‘Yeah,’ said Emma, ‘Mum said you had to be nice or you couldn’t stay with Klay tonight.’

We had no school tomorrow because the teachers had a meeting in Millington.

‘I’d be at Klay’s now, except for him,’ said Frewen, glaring at me. He stalked around the table for his next shot. He leant across the table. The cue was pointed at my chest.

I eased past to the cabinet along the wall. Trophies and framed photos of football and cricket teams lined the shelves behind the glass doors. The engraved brass plates on the cricket trophies read Hat Trick, Most Runs in a Season, Premiership Captain. The footy trophies were for best and fairest, league goal kicker, Winter Creek and league best and fairest. They were all Paul Frewen’s trophies.

Pool balls clunked behind me and Emma whined about being bored.

‘I’m bored. I want to swim,’ whined Frewen, copying Emma.

‘Stop showing off, Jack,’ said Beth.

‘Why would I show off? No one here to impress.’

I moved to the far side of the cabinet. There were three Winter Creek Football Club best and fairest trophies engraved with Jack’s name and the medal I’d seen him holding in the photo at the newspaper office.

‘Jack didn’t win any trophies until Luke Bennett had the accident,’ said Beth.

Frewen threw his cue onto the table. ‘Shut up, Beth, you freak.’

Beth shrugged. ‘Truth hurts, Jack.’ She moved Frewen’s pool cue so she could take her shot.

‘At least I’ve won a trophy,’ snarled Frewen.

‘Only because Luke has a head injury,’ said Beth, lining up the purple ball and taking her shot. The purple ball rolled towards the pocket.

Frewen snatched it from the table and drew back his hand as if to chuck the pool ball at his sister.

‘Muuumm,’ bellowed Emma.

She sprinted from the room, arms above her head. ‘Jack’s gonna throw a ball at Beth.’

I laughed. Frewen shifted his aim to me.

‘Miss and you smash the trophy cabinet,’ I said.

‘I won’t miss,’ he hissed, throwing the ball.

I ducked. Glass shattered.

‘Nice shot.’ I picked up the gold footy player at my feet.

‘Jack, what’s going on?’ screeched Deborah, standing in the doorway, her eyes as round as the pool balls.

‘He was being a psycho. As usual,’ said Beth.

Frewen looked at his feet. ‘It was an accident.’

‘Beth, take Callum to the lounge room,’ said Deborah.

I followed Beth up the hall.

‘That loser has ruined everything,’ hissed Frewen. ‘No way will we get Marrook, now he’s turned up.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ snapped his mother.

‘We’ll start marking the lambs in the last week of the holidays then,’ said Paul Frewen, standing by the Subaru with Grandpa. ‘Mine first, then yours.’ Paul lowered his voice. ‘Will Callum still be here? Save us hiring Miffo.’

Grandpa glanced at me. ‘I’ll let you know.’

I climbed into the car, pretending I hadn’t heard.

Grandpa opened the car door for Nan, then walked around to the driver’s side. ‘Thanks for lunch, Deborah.’

‘Pleasure, Jim.’

‘Yeah, thanks. It was great,’ I said through the open window. Only it wasn’t great. Not even Emma’s chatter brightened the mood after Frewen smashed the trophy cabinet. Deborah sent Frewen to his room after he cleaned up the glass. She took him a plate of roast beef and vegetables, but Paul wouldn’t let her take Jack dessert. He didn’t budge when Deborah pleaded that pavlova was Jack’s favourite.

Nan waved goodbye as Grandpa drove away.

The minute we were on the road, Nan turned around in her seat to face me. ‘Did you provoke Jack?’

‘No,’ I said, staring out the window.

‘What happened?’ Grandpa watched me through the rear view mirror.

‘I dunno. Jack went off when Beth said he only won trophies because Luke couldn’t play sport now.’

‘Jack’s under pressure to live up to his father’s reputation,’ said Nan.

‘So? That doesn’t mean he has to be a jerk.’ I stared out the window, watching lambs skip up dam banks.

Grandpa parked the Subaru by the garage. ‘Better go round the ewes again.’

‘I’ll come,’ I said.

‘Got the hang of those gates now?’ asked Grandpa, after I opened and shut the first one.

‘Under control.’

He nodded and eased the ute forward. Lambs skittered around a fallen tree branch, their tails wiggling.

‘How come you drive faster round the other sheep than you do when you check the lambs?’ I asked.

‘Couple of reasons,’ said Grandpa, scanning the paddock. ‘Don’t want to stir up the ewes too much, and lambs don’t have much car sense.’

I nodded. ‘What are we looking for?’

‘Problems—orphaned or rejected lambs, ewes having trouble lambing.’

Grandpa steered the ute to where two crows hopped around something. The crows cawed and flew away. A flat and bloodied lamb lay on the grass. Grandpa swore. He climbed out of the ute and threw the body in the back.

‘What happened?’

‘Fox. We have a big fox shoot around here before lambing, but we always miss a couple.’

We drove, or crawled, in silence. A question sat on my tongue. ‘Grandpa, today...’ I said finally.

‘Hmmm?’

‘Well ... today, after Frewen smashed the glass door, he said something to Deborah—’

‘What’s he said about Maeve this time?’ said Grandpa.

‘It wasn’t about Maeve. He was ... Jack said—’

‘Spit it out, Callum.’

‘Frewen said that I’d wrecked everything. That now I’d turned up they’d never get Marrook.’ The words rushed from me.

Grandpa hit the brakes. ‘What?’

I repeated it, slower this time.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Grandpa, his eyes fierce.

‘Yeah. Deborah told him to keep his voice down.’ I hung my head. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘I’m glad you told me.’ Grandpa gripped the steering wheel and half-laughed, half-scoffed. ‘It all makes sense—Paul going on and on about wills and succession planning. Do you know, he even asked me what I was going to do with Marrook when I retired and I still didn’t realise what he was up to.’ Grandpa wound down the window. The wind was icy.

I shifted in my seat. ‘I don’t mean to be dumb, but what’s the succession thing?’

‘Succession planning?’

I nodded.

‘It’s a legal plan, like a will, only it deals with who in the family is going to take over the property. It’s designed to make changeovers smooth and stop fights when there’s more than one child.’

‘So what’s it matter to Paul? He’s not family, is he?’

‘Paul’s empire building, Callum.’ Grandpa drove towards the back of the woolshed and stopped at the double gate. After I’d opened and shut the gates, he continued talking.

‘Paul’s dad had a small sheep farm on the other side of town—fat lambs and wool. Did okay, but it certainly wasn’t one of the big wool producers around here, not like us or the Darwells.’

Grandpa steered across a ploughed paddock towards a hilly one lined with gum trees.

‘Paul’s always been a competitive bugger,’ said Grandpa. ‘As soon as his father died, Paul sold the farm and bought land around here. I even sold him a couple of our blocks. He has about 600 hectares now.’

‘Sounds pretty big to me,’ I said.

‘Not big enough, apparently,’ said Grandpa, parking on the flat top of the hill.

To our left were the purple mountains I could see from my bedroom window and straight ahead, way off in the distance, pine trees and a cluster of tin roofs.

Grandpa pulled on the handbrake and turned off the key. ‘I want to show you something.’

He led me towards a bundle of rocks and bricks that looked like a collapsed chimney. Grandpa pointed out places in the distance. The pines and roofs were Winter Creek. The grey, twisting ribbon was the highway. ‘Millington’s over that rise. Coast is that way,’ he said. ‘And see the squiggle of trees—that’s Winter Creek—the creek itself.’

‘Imagine looking at that view every morning,’ I said.

‘I used to.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This is where I grew up. Mum and Dad lived here. So did Dad’s parents.’ He pointed to a patch of gum trees. ‘The old woolshed and machinery sheds were there.’