Only Killers and Thieves(101)
From his verandah the view stretches over the tops of the trees and across to the other side of the gully, the land undulating all around, rarely ever flat. White parakeets are squabbling in the treetops, hopping between the branches, screeching at each other—talking, he supposes—before one will take flight and another will follow and they’ll circle around and land again, and the argument will start up anew.
“Worse than us two,” he tells the dog. “Least you and me don’t fight over a seat.”
She doesn’t acknowledge him. Tess, he has named her, after the woman in the book. He watches her sleeping, or pretending to sleep, then turns his attention to the parakeets again. He never tires of them, the birds; on a morning the bush is alive with their singing, kookaburras and lyrebirds, whipbirds and bowerbirds, all of them at it, performing almost, competing to be heard.
He exhales one last draw, then crushes the cigarette in the soil bucket at the side of the bench, sips the coffee in his left hand. A skewed grip on the handle, thumb and forefingers only, but well practiced and firm. He swallows and sighs. He is never happier than sitting out here, looking over his land, listening to the birds and the distant cattle, his work done, a drink in his hand. This is his entertainment; this is his life. On an evening he’ll do the same, red wine instead of coffee, brandy maybe, sometimes a whiskey but not often; he’s never been able to stomach the taste of rum. He’ll sit through the twilight, watching the sun go down, watching the flying foxes, then stay on into the darkness, his face lit by the glow of a cigarette, Tess with her head in his lap or snoozing at his feet. When he’s finished he’ll go back inside and read a book before bed, filling his head with stories to keep away the dreams. That’s when the memories get him. They come for him still. Some nights he wakes sweating and horror-filled and gasping at the air, whirling on the room like the walls are closing in. He daren’t sleep again after that. So it’s back to the verandah, wait for the dawn.
Now he groans as he stands and shuffles to the rail. He has his father’s body, broad and tall, that same stiffness in his gait. He leans against the railing, drinks his coffee, scanning the gully east to west. Beside him, Tess stirs, lifts her head from the boards and pushes herself to her feet, stiff as him just about. She squeezes between his shins and the balustrades and restlessly circles his legs, then pauses looking west and snatches a couple of warning barks.
“You hear something?” he asks her, and Tess gives another volley in reply. “Alright, that’ll do. Don’t worry yourself. If it’s anyone it’ll only be Alf.”
He looks to the west but can’t see anything, no sign of Alf’s wagon behind the bushes and trees. No jangling sound, either, but the mail coach is two days overdue, and no one else ever comes.
Might have brought his Queenslanders. News from up north.
He drains the coffee and goes inside, leaving Tess standing guard at the rail. Through the little living room and into the kitchen, where he puts a pot of fresh water on the stove to boil, then digs around the sparse pantry and comes up with a crust of bread and a couple of slices of salted beef. He combines them in a sandwich and weighs the offering in his hand. It’s all there is—he’s never been much of a host. The store this afternoon, then. Get some supper in.
When the coffee is made he carries the two cups in his hands and the towel-wrapped sandwich wedged under his arm, and goes out onto the verandah again. Now the mail coach is visible, the old Cobb & Co. wagon coming slowly along the track, big wheels turning, a four-team of horses and Alf floating above the hedgerow, hunched on his box. No passengers today, no luggage on the roof—means he might stop and talk. Tess barks again and though he scowls at her, he knows why she’s upset.
“Ah, quit your whining. I’m not so bad these days. Besides, Alf’s the only bloody visitor we get.”
He hobbles down the steps and along the narrow footpath that leads through the long grass to the road, Tess right beside him, tight to his legs. There are gateposts, but no gate—he always intended hanging one, but found he had no need. He leans on one of the posts and watches Alf come. The coachman sees him and waves. With the coffees in his hands, he can only respond with a nod.
“Thought you’d forgotten us,” he says as the coach pulls up on the track.
“Had to do a run to Bendigo. Never like going out there.”
Alf ties off the reins, swivels on the box, clambers down. The horses are panting and covered in dust, and now that it’s stationary, the coach creaks like it breathes. Alf brushes himself down, removes his hat, scrubs his face, and comes up smiling. An old-looking man, if not exactly old. Long, graying hair and sunburned skin, lines around the eyes, but the eyes themselves still keen.
“Howya, young Robert?” he says warmly.
“Howya, Alf?” He holds up the coffees. “Time for a stop?”
“Glad of it. Been out since dawn. That trough got anything in?”
“Help yourself. Filled it yesterday. Just in case.”
“Ah, you’re a good man, a good man.”
While Alf unshackles the horses from the harness, Tess darts about excitedly, her tongue hanging, snapping the odd bark at their guest.
“He’s not brought you anything. Something for me, though, maybe?”
“Aye, there is,” Alf says, leading the horses to the trough. “Got a bundle of them Queenslanders for you in the back there. Still don’t know what you’re doing reading some other bugger’s news.”