Bookmark Days

by Scot Gardner

  Nan looked as thought she was going to insist, and then she changed her mind. ‘Okay, love.’

  I found him in the lounge. He was looking out into the paddocks as if he was pondering crop rotation, but I knew better. His fingers had curled into fists and he’d positioned himself on the exact opposite side of the house to where the Carringtons had parked.

  ‘Hoppy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We have visitors.’

  ‘I’m not here.’

  ‘Hoppy, please . . .’

  He turned. His cheeks were wet with tears. ‘I’m not here!’

  He looked to the paddocks again, wiped his face on his sleeve and sniffed hard. For a minute, he was like my little brother, all bruised and fragile because he’d fallen off the bike.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll let them know.’

  I left the room quietly. I kept hoping he’d call me back, but he never did.

  Chooka was staring out the kitchen window. ‘Whose car is that?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s the neighbours. Come and say hello. They won’t bite.’

  He held my hand. We walked into the yard. I tried to focus on the buzz of happiness that had been in my bones five minutes before, but it was covered in dust swirled up by the old man and his ghosts.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘He reckons he’s not home.’

  The flywire door slammed. We all looked.

  Hoppy dragged his hat on as he walked across the compound. His eyes were raw, lips tight. He stopped on the edge of the circle and nodded to Les Senior.

  ‘Hello Eddie,’ Senior said. ‘Glad you could join us.’

  He stood in front of my grandfather. I could see little bubbles of sweat on his brow. He couldn’t find a comfortable place for his hands. ‘I’ve come to say sorry. Sorry for everything.’

  Hoppy nodded once more. He looked cornered, frightened, on the verge of tears again. ‘You . . . you don’t need to do this.’

  ‘But I do,’ Les said. ‘Somebody has to.’ He took a wrapped gift from his jacket pocket. ‘Open it.’

  Hoppy peeled the paper away to reveal a small axe. He turned the thing in his hands and started shaking. He was shaking and then he was laughing aloud.

  ‘I’m supposed to bury it, right?’ he said.

  Senior smiled. ‘You got it,’ he said, and slapped Hoppy’s arm.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ I said. ‘What’s the joke?’

  ‘It’s a hatchet,’ Hoppy explained. ‘Old saying. Bury the hatchet. End to the fighting.’

  They shook hands. Hoppy was still laughing. He put his arm on the old man’s shoulder and they fell into a brief and awkward backslapping hug.

  ‘Avril?’ Hoppy said. ‘Grab us a shovel, will you, love.’

  We buried the hatchet in a shallow grave beside the stockyards. The nannas held hands and cried quietly. Nathaniel sat on the top rail and I sat beside him. Our knees touched and stuck like magnets.

  ‘Do you think it’ll grow?’ Les Junior said.

  ‘The soil’s pretty good,’ Hoppy said. ‘Bit of rain and we’ll see a flaming paddock full of hatchets.’

  ‘New cash crop,’ Les Senior suggested. ‘Probably a market for them in New York or somewhere.’

  Chooka watched the men with a puzzled look on his face. When they were done stomping the dirt back into place, he climbed the stock rail and sat next to me. ‘If it doesn’t grow,’ he whispered, ‘I’m going to dig it up.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ I whispered back. ‘Dig it up and they’ll start fighting again.’

  We had another barbecue that night. The men opened the box of beer and sat around on plastic chairs while the women made salads and chatted in the kitchen. Nathaniel and I moved between the two groups, held hands and played games with Chooka. Were we adults or kids? Did we fit with the women or the men? Were we Stantons and Carringtons? All of the above.

  ‘Where did your nickname come from, Hoppy?’ Nathaniel asked.

  My grandad had a smile on his face, a genuine smile. ‘Had it since I was a kid.’

  ‘My uncle Reg gave it to him,’ Les Senior said.

  ‘That’s right. He did too,’ Hoppy agreed.

  ‘In the thirties we were . . . I don’t know, eight or ten years old or something, Eddie and I used to do a bit of ferreting. Well, a lot of ferreting, actually. Tons of rabbits around in those days. I carried the ferrets and the nets, Eddie carried the dead rabbits. We caught so many bunnies one time that Eddie couldn’t carry them all. He had them slung over his shoulders and hanging off his belt and everything.’

  ‘Reg reckoned I’d turned into a rabbit,’ my grandad continued. ‘Thought Hoppy was a good name for a rabbit and it stuck.’

  ‘I didn’t know that story,’ I said.

  ‘Neither did I,’ my dad said.

  ‘I owe you a special apology,’ Nathaniel’s grandad said to me.

  ‘Me? What for?’

  ‘For the other night. I lost my temper. There are no excuses.’

  ‘Apology accepted,’ I said. I squeezed the back of his hand. It was as simple as that.

  His other hand closed over the top and he squeezed me back. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘While we’re at it,’ Hoppy said, ‘I’d like to say sorry to the boy. Sorry for chewing you out about the fence. You were being an absolute gentleman and I acted like a pig-headed fool.’

  ‘No worries, Hoppy. Was my fault anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that. I was trying to make allowances for your bloodline.’

  There was a moment of brittle silence, then the old men laughed. We all joined in and the world seemed a little smaller, the past a little closer. Nathaniel squeezed my hand and it was the future that made me want to sing. It felt like the first day of the rest of my life.

  CHAPTER 25

  Hey Katie,

  Thanks for the (extremely long) email and the pictures. It took about two hours to download but there you were – all big smiles and cool sunnies. I admit that Jacob does look nice in board shorts. I’m so jealous of you guys being able to jump on a train and go to the beach. On our planet that translates to ‘jump on the quad and go to the big dam’. Doesn’t have quite the same appeal.

  It seems so totally ironic that the only time in your ENTIRE LIFE (well, it feels that way) that you don’t have an official boyfriend (or six), I have! (not six . . . just one). I do understand what you wrote about ‘just having fun’ with Jacob, though. Love comes in a million shapes and sizes.

  Me? School work and farm work have crowded in around me and Nathaniel. We spend a maximum of one hour on the phone per day (our rules) and we’re allowed to stay over at each other’s places on Saturday nights (their rules). We’re harvesting at the moment so there’s also the added bonus time on the two-way radios in the tractors. We talked for about five extra hours today. Yum!

  If I had a camera, I’d send you a picture of us together but I don’t so the picture will have to be in words . . .

  We’re by the creek, in the shade of one of the big old rivergums. Our towels are side by side and Nathaniel’s wearing his football shorts and nothing else. I’m wearing your bikini top (I promise I’ll post it next time we’re in town) and my new boardies. He’s lying on his back with his hands behind his head. I’m on my side, my head on his chest and my hand over his belly button (man, talk about ticklish!). I’m grinning my head off. It’s another perfect bookmark day.

  Love you,

  Av

  ABOUT

  THE

  AUTHOR

  Scot Gardner lives in the mountains in eastern Victoria with his wife and growing family. A friend once described him as being ‘about as romantic as a bucket of pool chemicals’. This book is part of a lifelong quest to prove his friend wrong.

 

 

 
his book with friends