Patch drops his new toy at my feet, again.
The three of us in the sunshine,
on holidays.
Lucy: dinner
It’s the last time
I do anything for my stupid brother.
He didn’t have to tell everyone what I did,
and bullshit about
how he was going to hit Stokes himself,
if I hadn’t done it first.
Sure, Superman, sure.
And all the time he’s talking
I know Dad’s watching me,
waiting for the chance . . .
‘So, your sister can fight back, Peter?’
I shovel in the food,
quick as it’ll go.
I just want out of here.
And Peter says,
‘I would have punched him, Dad.
Not just a slap.’
I bite down hard on my food
to keep from reaching across the table
to shut him up myself.
‘Only girls slap, Dad.’
I can’t take it anymore.
‘Yeah, and only boys are cowards with fists.’
As soon as the words are out,
I know I’ve said too much.
I carry my plate to the sink, to rinse,
sure his eyes haven’t left me.
I hear him get up
and slowly walk around the table
to stand behind me.
He says,
‘These hands work this farm, girl.’
He’s waiting.
If I turn to face him he’ll hit me,
so I wash my plate,
keeping my head down,
my shoulders stiff,
hands shaking under the flow of the water.
He says,
‘She’s not so tough now, Peter.’
Peter
My dad, he gets angry sometimes.
I don’t know what for.
Maybe it’s because of the farm
and not having no money and stuff.
Or maybe it’s ’cause he wishes
he was a truckie,
which was his job before he met Mum.
He was just driving through town,
delivering stuff.
When he told me that
he snapped his fingers and said,
‘Like that, from truckie to farmer.’
And he clicked his fingers again
to prove how quick things change.
Then he goes quiet for a real long time
as if he’s back driving across the country,
with no one around and nothing to worry about.
I try and cheer him up by telling him
I’ve made the cricket team at school,
and asking about the farm
and whether we should plant some crops
and hope for better luck this year.
I reckon I’ll be a farmer one day.
Only I’ll try and not get too angry,
even if we don’t make money
or have much to do way out here.
Jake: chasing ghosts
This morning I boil the eggs,
and wait for Mum and Dad
to come in from the bottom paddock.
Dad chucks his hat on the table
and wipes his sleeve across his forehead.
He swears under his breath.
Another sheep is dead.
I put the toast on his plate
and an egg in the cup, ready.
Mum sets the old kettle on the stove.
‘Second sheep this week, Jake.
If this keeps up,
there’ll be no shearing this season.
None.’
‘It’s a fox, Dad.’
‘No way, Jake.
The sheep was ripped to bits.
Foxes eat their fill and leave.
This animal’s bigger.
I followed his paw prints down to the creek.
He’s a smart animal, this wolf.’
I don’t answer.
I know Dad and his endless search for the wolf.
‘Are we spotlighting tonight, Dad?’
He sighs.
‘I spend my days burying sheep
and my nights chasing ghosts.’
Jake: spotlighting
Patch and Spud jump on the ute
as Dad loads his gun,
flicks on the safety switch
and carefully places it along the rack
behind the seat.
I climb on the back
and grip the spotlight on the roof.
My knees press into the old mattress
wedged against the cabin
so the bumping and shaking
over the paddocks won’t toss me.
Dad starts the engine
and the dogs start barking.
It’s a clear crisp night with hundreds of stars
and I can smell the smoke
from the Hardings’ fireplace.
Dad drives slowly and keeps to the tracks,
his hands tugging the wheel
to miss the potholes.
The ute bounces along
as I direct the spotlight,
this way and that.
Its murderous stare
stabs deep into the scrub.
We both see something
reflecting from the bush,
glinting in the beam.
Dad reaches for the rifle,
eyes never leaving the light,
until he sees it’s a kangaroo
dazzled by the brightness.
Dad could take him out with one shot.
Patch and Spud bark,
but their leads hold firm.
The roo bounds through the bush
and Dad drives on.
Jake: midnight
After an hour of searching
and rattling over sheep tracks
Dad parks by the creek
and kills the engine.
I let Patch and Spud off their leads.
They jump from the ute
and dash for the creek,
tails flipping like wild antennae.
Dad and I sit on the warm bonnet
as we unwrap the sandwiches.
He pours tea into the tin mugs
and we look up at the stars.
‘I used to count them
when I was your age, Jake.
I could never keep tally.
There’s just too many.’
‘Like possums, rabbits and roos,’ I reply.
‘Lucky they live here.
Harding would use them for target practice.’
Dad has no time for the Hardings
and their farm with overgrown weeds
and stock that run wild,
knocking down fences
and fouling the creek.
Dad never kills anything,
except foxes and snakes.
Foxes kill sheep.
Snakes kill people.
So Dad kills foxes and snakes.
Simple as that.
But here we are spotlighting,
gun loaded,
hunting.
‘If it’s really the wolf, Dad,
what are you going to do if we see it?’
‘What do you want me to do, Jake?
Let it kill my sheep?’
‘I couldn’t pull the trigger,’ I say,
‘not if it’s really a wolf. I mean,
they don’t live . . .’
Dad interrupts. ‘Yeah, I know.
They don’t live in Australia.
So, maybe all the more reason to shoot it.’
‘You’d kill it?
To prove it’s here? That’s crazy.’
Dad slides off the bonnet
and packs the esky,
screwing the lid on the thermos so tight
I can hear the thread scraping.
‘I don’t know,
Jake.
Let’s find the bloody thing first.’
‘What do we do then?’
Dad ignores my question,
chucks the esky in the back,
whistles for the dogs
and starts the engine.
He winds down the window.
‘You coming?
Or staying out here with the wolf?’
Lucy: Christmas
It was Christmas Day
last year
and we were in the back yard
after lunch.
For the first time
in a long while
he hadn’t raised his voice all day
or complained about the food
or said anything nasty to me.
He was sitting under the tree
polishing his gun
and taking pot shots
at the shed
and Peter’s drawings.
A kookaburra landed on a branch
a few metres above him
and let out a thrilling laugh
that seemed to echo off the hills
and fill the valley.
I was so happy watching the bird
and marvelling at its noise,
I didn’t see Dad raise the gun
and fire.
All I saw
was the bird fall at his feet.
He looked at me and said,
‘He’s not laughing now.’
I’ve never heard the valley so quiet.
The moment after he killed the bird.
Dead quiet.
When he went inside,
I walked across to the kookaburra,
picked it up and
took its body behind the shed.
I dug a deep grave
and buried him
where the dogs can’t get him.
FOUR
Lonesome howl
Jake: the lonesome howl
It’s a lonesome howl,
echoing across the valley.
I jump out of bed,
eager,
opening the window wide
so I can lean out into the chill night.
Darkness.
The gum tree scratches against the window.
The faint light of the moon
reflects off the iron of the chook shed
and another howl floats across the valley,
long and lonely.
It’s so mournful I can feel it on my skin.
He’s searching for a mate,
marking his territory.
I close my eyes.
He’s high on Beaumont Hill,
his head cocked arrow-straight at the moon
as he lets loose this deep wail
over the forest
and the winter paddocks.
Both of us, the wolf and me,
under a half moon,
waiting for a reply that never comes.
Lucy: wild dog
Years ago, Grandma told me
the story of the dog turned wild.
I was at school when it happened.
One of our dogs, Shadow,
was sleeping under the stairs
when Dad walked down
and trod on his tail.
Shadow woke in fright
and bit Dad on the leg
and wouldn’t let go.
Grandma was smiling
as she told me about Dad shouting,
lashing out at the dog,
but Shadow locked onto his leg
growling,
as if possessed by ancient blood.
Grandma said Dad beat that dog
over and over across his back
until he let go,
growling still,
circling him in the dirt.
Shadow was boss of the yard
until Dad fled inside and got the gun.
He raced back outside,
swearing, calling the dog’s name
and trying to load the gun,
all at the same time.
Shadow was too quick.
He ran across the paddocks.
Dad chased him for hours
and never got close.
Grandma told me she loved that dog
and she was sure Dad heard Shadow’s howls
and remembered being defeated
in his own back yard.
Lucy: my friend
I hear the howl
and close my book.
My friend, the wild dog.
He’s up on Beaumont Hill, I reckon,
looking for a mate,
or just howling because he can.
He’s not scared of anything
because he’s the boss
and every other animal hears that call
and keeps out of his way.
Like at school,
when Jim Bradley swaggers across the oval.
Everyone moves aside
because he’s bigger and meaner
and he likes to fight.
We all just back off
and let Jim go where he wants.
It’s no skin off my nose.
He can bully all he likes,
so long as he leaves me alone.
Only Jim Bradley is not like the wild dog.
He’s not nearly as smart.
There’s the call again.
I go to my window
and see the heavy clouds over Beaumont Hill.
I’d like to be up there now,
looking down on everything
in the forest night,
where no one can touch you.
Jake: breakfast
‘I’d rather he howled all night
than ripped apart my sheep.’
That’s what Dad says in the morning
while we eat breakfast on the verandah,
looking up at the dark clouds
covering the rocky hills
‘I haven’t heard him for ages, Dad.’
‘Me neither. But now we know he’s still around.
I’d hoped he’d move north for winter.’
‘What, like a surfie wolf?’
Mum chuckles into her toast.
‘Very funny, Jake.
I don’t care what he does,
as long as I have the same number of sheep
each morning.’
Dad tosses the tea-leaves into the garden
and goes inside.
I shiver, pull my jacket tight
and watch the chickens pecking at the scraps.
One day, I’ll find the wolf.
Face to face,
we’ll see each other across Wolli Creek
and he’ll know I’ve been waiting,
searching for him all my life.
I’ll hold out my hand,
tell him I understand his howl
echoing through the night.
Then he’ll be my wolf.
Lucy: breakfast
Dad walks into the kitchen,
carrying his .22 and a box of bullets.
He drags out his chair
and starts loading the magazine,
looking up,
waiting for someone to ask where he’s going.
I finish my cereal and stand to leave.
‘Your wild dog better watch out, Lucy.
I’ve had enough of that mangy animal
keeping me awake.
Today he’s dead.’
I wash my bowl in the sink
and imagine Dad scrambling up Beaumont Hill,
searching and swearing.
He’s got as much chance of finding the dog
as he has of finding a job.
As I walk out, I say,
‘Yeah. Good luck.’
He sits at the table
snapping the magazine into the rifle
and yells after me,
‘Nothing to do with luck.
He’s dead. You mar
k my words.’
I walk into the back yard
where Mum is hanging the washing.
She looks up as he shouts some more,
then suddenly becomes real interested
in the wet clothes in the basket.
Anything to avoid my eyes.
Mum and me,
sometimes we go for days
not looking at each other.
Peter
Dad’s gonna kill the wild dog today.
No worries.
I reckon the dog deserves it,
howling all night
like a ghost.
I’m not scared or nothing.
I just don’t like being woke up.
Dad polishes his cool gun
and I wanna go with him.
I got good eyes
and I reckon I could spot the dog
a mile away, easy.
I could point and let Dad have a free shot.
I was gonna ask,
but he was in one of his moods
and Mum said I shouldn’t.
She didn’t want me chasing Dad all over the hills,
getting in his way when he’s got his gun.
She don’t know nothing.
I’d help.
I’d find that wild dog.
Lucy: bad luck
I don’t remember when it started.
Honest.
One day I was a normal kid,
chasing the chooks,
chucking rocks at the crows,
running about the farm
without a care . . .
The next?
I was bad luck.
I was the cause of the drought,
the bushfire,
the floods.
He was stuck here because of me.
Wasting his life.
Every day he laid into me
with his words,
as though blaming someone else
made it easier for him.
And what he said stung
like a nest of bull ants,
but I’ll tell you what hurt more.
Every day while this was going on,
Mum did nothing to stop him.
She kept cooking,
mopping the floor,
hanging the washing.
She seemed to work harder,
to keep quieter,
as I got older.
Maybe she thought the same as him?
That I’d brought them both bad luck,