by Simon King
“Reckon he sold?” I asked as I helped George collect the tools that were scattered around our work locale.” He paused to light another cigarette. When he finished chasing the tip with his match, he drew deep, coughed, cleared his lungs and launched more of his lung tissue into the tall grass.
“Doubt it. Mick mightn’t be the richest bloke around, but he’s no sell-out. This was his Daddy’s farm, and his Grandpa’s before that. If he was gonna sell, he would have done it long ago. There’s too much history here for him. Especially with Jeanie now resting over yonder.” He pointed towards where the willow was swaying in the slight breeze.
“Maybe now that she’s gone, he mightn’t want to remain here.”
We’d been slowly packing our gear into a couple of large buckets. George dropped the fencing chain into one and it clanged to the bottom. He rose, paused and stared at me.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Almost 20,” I said and he slowly began to nod.
“Never been in love, have ya? If you had, you’d understand.”
“You mean he doesn’t want to leave her?” I said, nodding my head towards the gravesite. “I get it. Just figured maybe the pain was too much for him.”
“They were a beautiful couple. Mick used to dote on Jeanie every moment they had together. I never saw him say or do a single bad thing towards his wife. Not even an innocent grumble. He loved her whole-heartedly. He won’t leave, kid.” I thought I understood, but to be honest, didn’t really care. That fucker was going to have himself an accident and then I would own this joint.
George and I finished packing our tools, then lifted the buckets onto our backs and slowly made our way back to the homestead’s main sheds. There were several, the main holding the bulk of the machinery and tools.
I didn’t feel like talking and it was good just to walk in silence. Apart from George occasionally belching, farting or spitting more of his lungs out, it was actually quite peaceful listening to the birds chirping their song in the trees around us. The occasional cow chimed in and it really did feel like a nice place to live.
I looked up as we neared the crest of the hill and saw Uncle Mick walking down towards Jean’s grave. He visited the spot multiple times a day, always carrying a flower or two from her garden. Of course, George didn’t hesitate to tell me how much she loved the garden, spending hours each day tending to it.
I’d never been much of a gardener myself, and I looked over to where the flowers were peaking over the fence. In all honesty, I couldn’t tell a flower and a weed apart, the concept not one I wanted to waste time on.
8.
Shortly after we finished the afternoon milking session and George dismissed me from my duties, I went to see Uncle Mick. I knocked on the door of the homestead a couple of times, but even when I called through the open door, got no response.
I went inside anyway, slowly walking to the kitchen, in case he really was there. I didn’t fancy being caught snooping, although I would have loved to. I wanted to know what he was up to, my curiosity eating away at me.
There were some papers lying on the table and just as I reached them, heard a banging on the door.
“Mick?” George called. I froze, considering my options. “Mick?” he repeated, tapping the side of the door again. I stood perfectly still, waiting for the fool to take the hint. He tapped one final time, grunted something, then turned and walked back down the steps.
I walked to the doorway and peered slowly around the corner. The horse and cart George used to ferry himself and the 3 other workers from town to here was waiting just outside the fence. I watched as George walked through the gate, climbed into the driver’s seat and slapped the horse with the reins. A few seconds later they disappeared from view, leaving me alone in the hallway of the home I was about to inherit.
9.
I didn’t want to risk getting caught intruding and so walked outside, first making sure Uncle Mick wasn’t approaching. If I knew right, he would be down with Jean, probably crying his eyes out as he sat on the ground next to her.
I was right on one account; he was down with his wife. Only, he wasn’t sitting on the ground. He’d dragged a chair down the hill, sitting beneath the tree in silence as he no doubt, reminisced about better times. He had his back to me, one hand resting on the iron fence surrounding his wife’s grave.
He didn’t hear me approach. As I crept along the dirt path, I spotted a piece of branch lying on the edge of the grass, a jagged end staring back at me. It was the perfect size, reminding me of the piece of timber my father had handed to me for Royce.
I paused next to it, looking down at the torn tendrils of splinters that were willing to reach for them. They reminded me of a picture I had once seen of a spear fisherman, the barbs of his weapon looking lethal. I looked up at the back of the man seated less than 20 yards ahead, wondering whether I could sneak up quick enough before he was aware of me.
“Jeanie always loved this spot,” Uncle Mick suddenly said. His voice tensed me up instantly, as if the guilt of my thoughts had somehow betrayed me. “You have a small creek running through your own property, don’t you?” He didn’t turn, but knew of my presence long before I made it known.
“Yes, I do,” I said, kicking the branch aside and continuing towards him.
10.
“Did you know this was where we were married? Right over there, where the creek licks the side of the hill.” He was pointing to a bare patch of ground, maybe 30 yards further along the water’s edge. There was another tree there, but I can’t tell you what sort. Like I said, plants weren’t my strong suit. “That tree there was planted by Jeanie’s father on our wedding day. It was almost symbolic for her.”
He patted for me to sit and I did, cross-legged on the grass beside him. He fell into a silence again, replaying the memory of his wedding day. As if to confirm this, he said, “27 years we were together, Harry. And they were the happiest of my life.” I could hear his voice break a little and began to feel sorry for him.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I offered, unsure of whether my words would make a difference. I doubt he even heard them, continuing his own conversation. Although his next question took me by complete surprise. I didn’t expect it, coming at me with such speed, it caught me off guard.
“How did my sister die, Harry? Did she suffer?” I shuffled uncomfortably, feeling my cheeks flush. “I know he killed her. Of that I have no doubt. I just want to know whether that prick made her suffer. Can you tell me that at least?”
He suddenly turned in his chair, looking down at me with eyes that bore right into my brain. I think I felt Eddie move a little, as if his gaze had penetrated my brother’s being somehow. I opened my mouth to speak, but wasn’t sure of the words that were supposed to come out. When none did, I snapped it shut again.
“Guess it don’t really matter. It’s been years and now he’s gone as well. Hopefully he met his own fate. Hopefully that bastard is lying dead in some hole. I hope the last thing that went through his mind was my beautiful sister smiling down at him from heaven, as his fat sorry arse dropped into hell.”
“She didn’t suffer,” I suddenly said. I still don’t know to this day why I told him. Something about that moment just made it right. “It was the morning of my 6th or 7th birthday. 6th, I think. My father had been drinking and he went upstairs to do his thing with her. When he was done, they came out of their room and,” I paused, reliving the moment in my own mind.
‘Don’t say it,” Eddie suddenly said.
“I’m sorry, I have to, Ed,” I replied. Mick looked at me in surprise, but I doubt he understood what I meant. I turned to him and continued. “I don’t quite remember what he told her to do, but I do remember her telling him no. She refused to do what he wanted and for that, he punched her in the face. My mum fell down the stairs and I think she broke her neck on the way down.”
I looked up at him and found his gaze staring over my shoulder. I think he was grateful
in some way to finally learn the truth about his sister. It gave him the kind of closure he needed. I thought that would be all the questions answered, but when he asked his next, wasn’t sure whether he was hinting at something more.
“Harry? Can I ask you another question?” I looked up at him, trying to decide whether this line of conversation would deceive me in some way. I slowly nodded, sure that he would ask where she was buried. Instead, he surprised me a second time. “Do you know where your father is?”
For a moment, I was positive he knew what I’d done. I was also sure he would call the police and turn me in. They would interrogate me until I spilt my guts, telling them about my father, Royce and the old whore. They would rush to my home, go to the spot where I buried them and dig the corpses up. They would then hang me from the nearest tree, executing me for the evil shit I did.
“No,” I lied. He looked at me for a moment longer, then slowly nodded his head. I think he knew I was lying. I think he knew that I killed him and that’s why he nodded. He didn’t need to hear the words from me. My eyes deceived me enough to tell the truth themselves and he knew how to read them.
“This farm will be yours one day, you know. You’re the only one that’s left. Please take care of it for me. And when my time finally comes, may I ask a single favour?” I nodded again, wondering whether he saw more in my eyes than I wanted to share.
“Yes,” I replied quietly.
“When my time comes, will you bury me next to my beloved Jeanie? Will you allow me to rest next to her for eternity?”.
11.
I don’t know why, but the rest of the chat we had after that request felt forced, like there was nothing else to discuss. Although Uncle Mick asked about my schooling, any friends I had and about my work at the mill, the questions didn’t feel like he was interested in the answers I gave. He felt more and more distant and by the time I rose to my feet, simply waved at me as I bid him a goodnight.
The sun had sunk below the distant horizon an hour before and as I began to climb the hill towards the homestead, watched a bright full moon slowly rise over the hill I was climbing. It felt biblical watching as it rose before me, like a giant lamp illuminating the path before me.
I turned one final time as I reached the crest, but Uncle Mick was hidden in the shadows of the willow. I continued past the house towards my own small shack, situated on the other side of the hill. There was enough distance between the buildings and as I dropped onto the bed with a thud a few minutes later, felt the relief of finally telling another soul about my unfortunate mother. Although her death had been held deep inside the darkest cellar of my mind for more than a decade, it was remarkably soothing to share it with him. It was as if her soul had finally been allowed to fly free from within the prison where I was forced to hide it.
12.
“Harry, wake up,” a voice cried to me, the tone reaching into my dream. It was still dark as I opened my eyes, the moonlight beaming through my open window. There was a face pressed against the glass and from the few threads of hair standing wildly on end on top of the head, I knew it was George. He tapped on the glass again, unaware he’d already woken me.
“One sec,” I cried out. That was when his tone changed again, growing more serious.
“Hurry.” I wasn’t sure why I needed to hurry. The cows weren’t going anywhere.
I slipped my pants on, then stomped into my boots. I ruffled my hair a little and slowly stepped towards the door, my bladder feeling full and ready to empty itself, whether I had my dick out or not.
“Hurry,” George repeated and this time the urgency hit home. I stepped out and George came around to meet me. “I need you to go down to where Jeanie is. Raul and Trent are waiting down there already. I have to ride back into town and get the police. I’m sorry, Harry. I really am,” he finished, not waiting for a response.
I watched as he hopped on his horse and kicked it into a gallop. I wasn’t sure what the issue was but knew that Uncle Mick must have meant a time period much closer when he asked me to bury him next to his wife.
I wasn’t expecting it to be the very next morning. How had he done it? I didn’t hear any gun shots, so assumed he probably hung himself. It was the only thing I could think of; the thing that made the most sense.
I continued down the path, making out a couple of vague shapes at the end of it. Neither was moving, but I could see the lit ends of cigarettes occasionally brightening, temporarily lighting their smoker’s faces in the darkness. I hurried a little, now anxious to be amongst the living. Walking that path that morning really felt as if the dead were reaching for me from beyond the shadows. The night was still active, the sun still a couple of hours from ending it.
13.
Uncle Mick hadn’t hung himself. He had been drinking a bottle of whiskey after I left. Probably had it hiding in his pocket as we sat and talked just a few hours before. When he’d finished it, he smashed it on the iron fence, then sliced his wrists with the remnants of the neck of the bottle. The holes he sliced into himself mustn’t have been bleeding out fast enough for him, slamming the razor-sharp neck into his throat.
It was still sticking out from his neck, his hand firmly grasping the bottle with one hand. He must have been kneeling before Jeanie’s grave and as he bled out, fallen across the iron fence, his legs on one side, his torso lying across his wife’s final resting place on the other, as if to cuddle up to her one final time.
By the time the policeman finally arrived, the sun was just starting to break through the clouds, a thin whisper of sunshine lighting up the willow above us. It didn’t take long for the cop to rule the death a suicide and although the body was removed for the doctor to do his thing, Uncle Mick was returned to the very same spot a couple of days later.
I kept my promise, burying him next to his beloved Jeanie. There was a second service in as many weeks and when it was done, was finally introduced to Ben Fordham. He shook my hand, then asked me to follow him up to the house where ‘official proceedings’ needed our attention.
There were only about a dozen or so people that attended and they remained around the gravesites to tell stories. George and his other 2 workers were there, filling the hole in as others stood around smoking cigarettes, watching as the dirt reclaimed one of their own.
14.
George had been right about one thing when we had seen Ben driving up to meet with Uncle Mick. He was there to try and convince him to sell. But there was a reason he’d been summoned, Uncle Mick asking for his presence as soon as was possible that day.
I know because the lawyer told me so. Once we were seated around the kitchen table, it didn’t take long for him to spill the beans on their previous meeting.
“He was a very generous man, your uncle,” he began, looking at me as if expecting some sort of mourning song. When he saw that none was coming, continued. “Looks like he was planning to end his life ahead of time. He called me up here a couple of days ago for this.” He held up a sealed envelope, a single word written across its front.
HARRY
“This was one of the easiest documents I’ve ever had to draw up, son. Do you know what this is?”
I didn’t much care for being called son by this Nancy-pants. He reminded me of one of those men that paraded around high and mighty, but in reality, went home to wear their girlfriend’s underwear while jerking off in the mirror.
I shook my head, although knew perfectly well what the envelope contained. It held my financial freedom.
“This is your Uncle’s will. Let me read it to you, because there’s really not much to it. Unless you can read?” I’m not sure why, but somehow it made it more fun to act dumb, if only to watch this prick sit a little taller in his chair.
I gestured for him to read it, a sly grin edging the side of his mouth. I listened as he read the single sentence I knew was coming.
“I, Michael Lewis Huntington, leave all of my worldly possessions, including all property, finances and other know
n or unknown holds, to my nephew, Harry Edward Lightman.” Ben looked up from the paper, appeared to frown a little, then handed the sheet of paper to me. “He wasn’t a rich man, Harry. Apart from the land you see, Michael had very little in the way of financial security. The past few years have been especially hard, particularly for dairy farmers.”
This fuck-stick was following a script I saw a mile away. He was leading me on, waiting for the perfect moment, then would deliver his own agenda as absently as he could. My patience was beginning to wear thin as I continued to watch his beady eyes stare at me. I could read the thoughts behind them, just as easily as I read the words on the page.
“How much is old Jimmy Steinberg offering? Must be a handsome sum the way you kept snapping at the bootheels of Mick. What’s in it for you? 5% commission? 10?”
I watched as every muscle in his face suddenly tensed, relax and tense again. His lips grew thin, their color momentarily disappearing as his tongue worked something inside his mouth. We sat silently for a few seconds as Ben tried to reassert his confidence, momentarily taken aback with my comment.
“Mr Steinberg’s offer is a generous sum of money for this property. You’d be wise to accept.” He sounded out the accept as if to deliver it via a shotgun. I could see he was rattled. I had interrupted his delivery, him trying to execute his lines like an actor on stage. He’d probably rehearsed the lines many times over. I imagined him in ladies’ underwear, standing in front of a giant mirror, one hand holding a play script while the other was down the front of his panties.
“I don’t need the whole spiel, Bennie-boy. Just tell me the fucken number so we can both move on.” This time he looked like his ears were going to burst into flames, the tips turning beet-red as his tongue worked overtime behind his lips. His face contorted a little, probably more from surprise than anything else.
