The Lost Man(76)
‘Xander, listen, about yesterday –’
‘Finished. Better.’ Xander pulled the tie tight and stepped away. He looked over at Bub, who was staring at Cameron’s painting. ‘Hey, do you think the painting might upset people today? With that story about the stockman wandering off?’
‘No-one believes that shit,’ Bub said, not turning around. He took a sip of his beer and pointed the bottle neck at the grave. ‘He raped an Aboriginal girl and got himself killed for it, everyone knows that. Don’t know why he gets so much bloody glory.’
‘Is that true?’ Xander said, looking to Nathan, who shook his head. It was true there were plenty of white blokes who had done all that, and worse, but not in this case. He opened his mouth but was cut short by a noise outside.
Bub turned to the window. ‘It’s here,’ he said.
Nathan and Xander joined him at the glass. Out on the driveway, the funeral director’s black four-wheel drive was pulling up. It had been modified to carry six-foot-long cargo in the back. The vehicle may have been shiny when it set off from St Helens, but the journey had branded it with the same grit and grime as everything else. At the homestead fence, Ilse stood watching its arrival, flanked on either side by her daughters’ small figures. Together, they looked like a flock of birds, all in black, the edges of their skirts catching feather-like in the wind.
Far beyond them, Nathan could just make out a distant billow of dust. The neighbours were arriving.
The service was brisk and to the point, conducted by a chaplain from St Helens who at least seemed to understand that however much Cameron Bright might be missed, it didn’t make the sun any less hot. The freshly turned soil around the grave was already dry and flaky, and the shade of the gum tree wasn’t enough for those sweltering in their once-a-year outfits. Nathan stood in his shirtsleeves and his fancy knotted tie and looked around the crowd with a strangely detached interest.
There were maybe forty there, he counted, as they all fidgeted in their town clothes and best hats. A good turnout. Excellent, in fact. He hadn’t seen most of them in years but he recognised about two-thirds. Old Tom, young Tom, Kylie from the service station – with a couple of kids in tow now – and Geoff who used to be her boyfriend and now looked to be her husband. That dickhead engineer who’d been based out at Atherton for years – Nathan couldn’t remember his name, there were so many dickheads over at Atherton. Steve from the clinic, of course. No Glenn, but no surprise there.
Nathan had phoned the police station that morning and been diverted again. Sergeant McKenna was still clearing up from that tour bus spill in the north. Did Nathan want to leave another message? ‘Just ask him to call me,’ he’d said finally, and hung up.
Nathan didn’t know the chaplain, and from the generalised phrases he was leaning on, felt sure the guy had never actually met Cameron. Nathan mostly tuned out the service and stared at his neighbours, taking in the greying hair and the extra kilos. Most of them stared back, curious and with a slightly bewildered air, like they’d almost forgotten that he really existed.
Liz nearly made it through. The dreadful keening started in her throat as the chaplain neared the end, and grew to an eerie crescendo by the time Sophie and Lo were invited forward to plant a small sapling at the head of the grave. Liz’s shoulders heaved and her cries were muffled as she buried her face in her sleeve. Harry whispered something, taking her arm and attempting to lead her away, but she shook him off violently.
Lo, eyes wide and trowel quivering in her hand, took one look and started to wail herself, followed quickly by Sophie. Ilse took a swift step forward, scooping them close to her and ushering them towards the house.
‘But what about the tree?’ Lo’s voice floated back, high-pitched through her sobs. ‘We’re supposed to plant the tree.’
Without a word, Liz picked up the discarded trowel and dropped to her knees. She dug, hard and fast, stabbing the blade into the loose soil as the dust flew up and clung to the dark fabric of her dress. Her grief was the raw and messy kind, and Nathan could see people glancing away, uncomfortable. The act of memorial had taken a voyeuristic turn and eventually he couldn’t stand it any longer. He stepped forward, picked up the other trowel and dug with her. As soon as the hole was big enough, Liz grabbed the sapling and shoved it in, covering it loosely with the grainy earth. It wouldn’t survive, Nathan thought – it wasn’t deep enough – but at least it was done. He stood up and helped Liz towards the house, ignoring the gawping eyes of his neighbours as they watched him leave.
Chapter 29
An hour later, Liz had been tucked up in her darkened bedroom with a mild sedative supplied by Steve, and Nathan found himself standing alone by the lounge room door. The room was fuller than he had ever seen it and despite the heat, some of the crowd had spilled into the hall and out onto the verandah. They left a self-conscious clearing around Cameron’s painting though, Nathan noticed.
‘At least no-one’s touching it.’ Nathan heard the voice by his side. Ilse was looking past him at the picture.
‘I thought we should take it down.’
She frowned. ‘No, not at his funeral. People would ask about it. It’s Cam’s legacy. He would’ve wanted it there for everyone to see.’ There was a faint note in her tone he couldn’t quite make out over the noise.