by Judy Nunn
Paul agreed. He hadn’t felt this alive in years, she was the best medicine in the world, he told her. And perhaps he was right. A full year had passed with little apparent deterioration in his condition. He certainly looked the same, no better, no worse, and if the daily task of living was becoming just that little bit harder, then no-one but Paul knew. Well, no-one but Paul and his old friend, Foong Lee.
On the times when his medication did little to control the pain, Paul visited Foong Lee who, finally, approved of the opium pipe.
‘On very rare occasions it can serve its purpose, I agree,’ he said to Paul and, through one of his many contacts, he arranged a moderate but regular supply. ‘No more than is necessary,’ he insisted. He even set aside the small downstairs den as Paul’s special room.
‘My home is yours, Paul,’ he said. The fact was, Foong Lee wanted to oversee Paul’s use of the drug. He did not wish his dear friend to spend the last precious months of his life in an addled state, not when he was as happy as he was. For, despite the pain, Foong Lee had never seen Paul Trewinnard so happy. Gone were the cynicism and discontent, to be replaced by an inner peace, and it was all because of Henrietta Galloway.
Paul had told Foong Lee everything, relying upon the man’s innate discretion, and Foong Lee was glad for his friend. The time would come when Paul would need to give in to his pain, and Foong Lee would be there to help him. In the meantime, every minute which belonged to Paul and Henrietta must be preserved. So Foong Lee monitored Paul’s use of opium.
On Kit’s tenth birthday Terence fetched the Browning semi-automatic .22 rifle, lessons were to begin in earnest. The boy had already been taught to handle an unloaded rifle, how to hold it and sight his target, now it was time for shooting practice.
Henrietta was exasperated. Surely it could wait until tomorrow, she thought. Surely the boy should be allowed to celebrate his birthday without having lessons forced upon him. Besides, it was a long weekend and Malcolm had come home from boarding school; he’d been in Adelaide for the past three months. Nellie had baked a cake and they were to have a special dinner. Jackie had even come home from the muster that morning to give the boy a present he’d made—he and Kit were firm friends.
Jackie’s gift was a woomera which he’d carved from rainbow tree wood and he gave it to Kit on the front verandah, with the family gathered around.
Kit was deeply impressed. ‘Hey, look Malcolm,’ he said, examining the design which was ornately carved into the heavy reddish wood. It was the work of a craftsman. ‘Gee,’ he said in breathless admiration.
‘I teach ’im throw spear good,’ Jackie said to Henrietta, proud of the reception his gift had received.
‘Not until he’s proficient with a rifle,’ Terence replied rather tightly, and that’s when he’d fetched the .22. ‘Just an hour’s practice, that’s all,’ he said in answer to Henrietta’s remonstrations. ‘There’ll be plenty of time to have a party and eat cake. Put the woomera down, son.’
Kit reluctantly left the woomera on the verandah and went with his father and brother to the horse yard by the stables where Terence lined the tin cans up on the far railing.
He hadn’t expected his youngest son to show much proficiency, Kit seemed inferior to Malcolm in every way, but as the barrel of the gun flailed about in the air, Terence couldn’t help feeling an intense irritation. The boy was useless.
‘Keep it steady, boy, keep it steady,’ he snapped.
Malcolm watched warily from the sidelines. He was nervous for his brother, if Kit made Dad angry he’d cop it for sure. He kept his fingers crossed, hoping Kit would get his eye in.
But the rifle was too cumbersome for Kit, it seemed a dead weight in his hands and, as he tried to concentrate on the sights, the barrel swayed about all over the place.
‘Can I try it on the railing, Dad?’ he asked. And Terence gave a taciturn nod.
Kit rested the barrel on the pole and focussed on the tins sitting atop the railings on the other side. The first tin was lined up in the rifle’s sights, he fired. It flew up into the air. He set his sights on the next one, steady as a rock. The rifle shot cracked and the second tin spun into the air. And the next. And the next. He took his time.
Terence watched in astonishment. The boy had an amazing eye, he was a natural, who would have thought it?
Malcolm watched, equally astonished, his nervousness having turned to envy. He couldn’t shoot like that when he’d started. Hell, he couldn’t shoot like that now and he’d been practising for nearly three years.
‘Good on you, son, well done,’ Terence said.
They were the words Malcolm always longed to hear, he had devoted his entire young life to earning those words from his father, and he couldn’t help feeling a stab of jealousy.
Kit too was surprised. Not only at the unaccustomed praise from his father, but at his own ability. He was going to enjoy target practice.
‘You’ll have to learn how to shoot without using the railings, though,’ Terence said.
‘Okay, Dad.’ Kit was only too willing to try. ‘What a beaut birthday, eh?’ he said to Malcolm as they started walking back to the house.
‘Yeah.’ Malcolm tried to return Kit’s grin, he didn’t want to spoil his brother’s day, but he could feel one of his moods coming on. He’d be back at boarding school next week. Not that he minded boarding school, he was one of the top footy players in his year and it made him a bit of a hero. But he hoped Kit’s marksmanship wouldn’t mean that, in his absence, his younger brother would become Dad’s favourite.
A month after Malcolm had returned to Adelaide, Kit had his first ‘live practice’.
‘One of those galahs,’ Terence said, pointing to the two pink-breasted Major Mitchells which sat close together on the branch of a lemon-scented gum.
They’d ridden several miles from the house and were in bushland. ‘Live practice,’ his father had announced when they’d tethered their horses, and Kit hadn’t been quite sure what that meant. Shooting targets out in the bush, he’d presumed, and no railing for a support. That was okay, he’d mastered the rifle now, practising for hours with the unloaded .22, placing his weight, positioning himself, it was all a matter of balance, he’d discovered.
Now, having loaded the rifle and handed it to him, his father was pointing at the birds and Kit realised he was supposed to shoot one of them. Like Malcolm used to do before he’d gone off to boarding school. Malcolm had often come home boasting about the number of birds he’d shot, and Kit had never understood why. He didn’t want to shoot birds, he liked birds. Besides, the Major Mitchells were a pair, what would the other one do without its mate?
‘Can’t we go back to the tin cans, Dad?’ he asked hopefully.
But Terence wasn’t listening. ‘Come on, line them up, you might even get both of them if you’re quick.’
Kit raised the rifle to his shoulder and sighted on the galah to the left. The stock felt perfectly balanced against his shoulder, his feet were firmly positioned, his torso balanced, it was an easy shot. But the birds were happily nuzzling each other and he didn’t want to kill them. He waved the barrel a little, as if he’d lost the centre of his balance, and pressed the trigger. The shot rang out and, with an indignant screech, the galahs took off.
‘Not to worry,’ Terence was prepared to be patient, it was the boy’s first time, ‘you’ll get the hang of it.’
They walked a little further into the bush and Terence told him to aim at a large black crow which sat patiently in a tree, a perfect target as it signalled to its mate with its plaintive cry. The same thing happened, the rifle barrel wavered, the bullet widely missed its mark and the crow flew off.
They tried several more times and Terence was becoming impatient. He took the rifle from his son and aimed it at a flock of large white birds which were roosting in a cedar. They were hanging upside down from its branches and screeching and playing the fool, the way only cockatoos could; the cedar looked like a Christmas tree decorated
with fake snow. ‘Now watch,’ he said. He chose his target amongst the flock, ‘Take your time, you see, easy does it,’ then he fired.
The cockatoo dropped to the ground like a stone. Kit walked over to where it lay. He loved the sulphur-crested cockatoos, they were the larrikins of the bush, they made him laugh. He looked down at the carcass of the bird, dead but still quivering. What a waste, he thought, you couldn’t eat it.
His father joined him. ‘Right, now you try,’ he said handing the rifle to Kit. ‘We’ll set up a railing for you, if you like.’ That’ll give the boy confidence he thought as he looked around for suitable logs and branches, he just needs to get his first shot in, that’s all.
But Kit remained looking down at the bird. Terence noticed his distraction. Christ alive, he thought, surely the boy wasn’t upset because a bird had been shot. He tried to curb his impatience.
‘They’re as bad as vermin in some parts,’ he said. ‘They have to be destroyed, they can put whole orchards out of business.’
‘We don’t have orchards.’
Terence looked sharply at his son, was the boy answering him back? He’d take no cheek, he’d belt the kid.
But the boy’s clear grey eyes held no hint of mischief, he was genuinely puzzled as to why they should kill birds which were harmless. ‘I’d shoot a dingo,’ he said, trying his hardest to be helpful. Dingoes killed the chooks, Kit knew that, and they could even cause trouble in the calving season if a calf was stranded and sickly.
‘You’ll shoot whatever I tell you to shoot, boy.’
Kit looked down at the bird, then back at his father. He was too frightened to say the words out loud, but he couldn’t kill unless it was necessary, something told him that he wouldn’t be able to do it.
The words were not required, his eyes said it all, and anger surged through Terence. How dare the boy defy him. With the back of his hand he struck his son across the face with all the force he could muster.
Kit fell sprawling on his back. For a moment he lay still and Terence was shocked to his senses. Jesus, had he killed the boy?
Then, groggily, Kit raised his head. The world was spinning and there were dots in front of his eyes.
‘Can you stand?’ his father asked.
He nodded and slowly hauled himself to his feet, staggering a little as he did so.
Terence was relieved, but he offered no help. The boy was all right and it was a lesson learned. ‘Get your horse,’ he said, ‘we’re going home.’
When they got back to Bullalalla, Henrietta was concerned to see a cut on Kit’s arm and there appeared to be a graze on the right side of his face.
‘What on earth happened?’ she asked as she inspected the arm.
‘I came off,’ he said, noticing the cut for the first time, he must have hit a rock when he fell.
Kit’s answer came automatically, it was simpler to say he’d fallen from his horse. Besides, if he told his mother the truth, he might cop it from Dad again.
Terence heard the lie and was thankful. He would defend to the death his right to strike his son, the boy was wilful and disobedient. But if Henrietta were to disagree with his form of discipline, he knew it would bring on a fit of rage and he tried to avoid that whenever possible. He knew that, if he were ever to hit Henrietta again, she would leave him.
‘Are you all right now?’
It was night. Kit was in bed, reading. Terence had been momentarily irritated, the boy always seemed to have his head in a book. And Kit, in turn, had frozen at the sight of his father silhouetted in the open door. The boy nodded.
Terence sat on the bed, he could see the fear on his son’s face. Perhaps it was a good thing that he’d instilled fear in the boy, but he hadn’t meant to hit him quite so hard.
‘That need not happen again, Kit,’ he said, ‘if you do as you’re told.’ Why did those unwavering grey eyes so unnerve him, Terence thought. The boy was frightened and yet he met his gaze, was it defiance? ‘We won’t shoot birds anymore,’ he said, not knowing quite why he said it.
‘Thanks, Dad.’ Kit replied gratefully. He had a feeling that in a strange way his father was saying he was sorry.
Damn his hide, Terence thought, the boy sounded as if he was accepting an apology. ‘But we’ll find a live target that you approve of,’ he said with a touch of sarcasm as he rose. ‘It’s time you learned how to kill.’
Terence had to rethink his assessment of his younger son. Kit was not a coward as he’d originally suspected, but he was wilful. Terence was grateful for the difference. Bravery could not be instilled in a coward, but discipline could be instilled in a wilful child. The boy would learn obedience.
The following weekend was the killing of the steers. Kit no longer found the process repugnant as he had at the age of six when he’d first been called upon to witness the slaughter. To the contrary, he appeared to find the efficiency of the exercise rather interesting and he would watch admiringly as the stockmen butchered the carcasses. But Terence decided that it was the killing of the steers which would present the ultimate test. One the boy would fail, and it would teach him a lesson.
The morning of the slaughter, he made the announcement. ‘You’ll kill one of the steers today.’
They were alone on the verandah, Terence had made sure of it, he would brook no argument from Henrietta.
Kit looked bewildered. Malcolm had never killed a steer. But then Malcolm had killed birds. He suddenly realised that this was his punishment. He thought about it for a second. The steer had to be shot anyway, it was food. And if he killed the steer it’d make Dad happy, and then maybe he could go back to taking shots at tin cans, he liked that.
‘Okay Dad,’ he said, aiming for a touch of bravado, trying to sound like Malcolm. I bet Malcolm’d love to shoot a steer, he thought.
‘Slaughter yards in an hour,’ his father said, ‘Jackie and the boys should be back by then.’
And Kit was left on his own, suddenly fearful at the prospect. What if he missed the vital spot? What if the steer died in agony? He was thankful that Jackie was home this weekend. Jackie’d help him, he’d tell him what to do.
An hour later, he reported to the slaughter yards with his .22. His father was nowhere in sight, and Kit waited there patiently until, a half an hour later, Jackie and the boys arrived, herding the steers. It was only then Terence appeared. He gave Jackie a nod, said nothing to Kit, and stood at the far end of the yard silently watching.
‘G’day, Kit,’ Jackie called, and Kit waved back. His heart was thumping wildly and he hoped no-one could tell how scared he was.
The first steer was positioned for the kill, its neck rope looped around the pole, its head held firmly in position. The man on the pulley was standing by, and Jackie mounted the railings with his .303.
‘Give the gun to Kit, Jackie,’ Terence called.
‘Sorry, boss?’ Jackie yelled back across the yard above the bellow of the terrified steer. He must have heard wrong.
‘I said give your rifle to Kit,’ Terence shouted, ‘Kit’s going to kill the first steer today.’
Jackie stared at the boss, was he joking? But the boss didn’t make jokes. The other two Aboriginal stockmen exchanged glances. Jackie looked at Kit, who was walking towards him, clutching his .22, ashen-faced with fear. The boss wasn’t joking.
‘I’ve never shot a .303,’ Kit said quietly to Jackie, trying to keep his voice steady.
‘.22 okay.’ Jackie leaned his .303 up against the railing and gave Kit a confident grin. ‘You be okay, Kit, you shoot real good.’ The boy did too, Jackie had seen him shooting tin cans. And a bullet through a steer’s skull was a lot easier than shooting tin cans at thirty paces. But the boy was frightened. It didn’t seem fair to Jackie that the boy should have to do something which made him frightened. Leaning over the railings, Jackie pressed his gnarled black thumb against the animal’s skull. ‘You get ’im here,’ he said. ‘You get ’im here, ’im feel no pain.’
Kit nodded, swall
owing nervously, and Jackie held the .22 as he climbed the railings to sit on top, the steer’s head directly below him. When the boy was in position, Jackie handed him the rifle.
‘I told you to give him the .303!’ From the far end of the yard Terence’s command was loud and clear.
‘.22 okay boss,’ Jackie called back. Was the boss crazy? Kit had never shot a .303, and he was little. A .303 kicked like a mule, it could break the boy’s shoulder. ‘.22 just as good,’ he called.
‘I said give him the .303.’
The boss sounded angry, Jackie knew he had no option. He cocked the .303 and exchanged rifles with Kit, but he held on to the .22. If the boy made a mess of things, and he probably would, then Jackie would finish the beast off quickly.
‘You hold ’im hard,’ he said to Kit, patting the stock of the rifle, ‘you hold ’im real hard, .303 ’im can hurt.’
Kit dug the stock into his shoulder as hard as he could, feeling Jackie’s hand firm against his back, bracing him. The gun was a dead weight in his hands, but he steadied himself, his stomach muscles tightening as he took aim at the steer’s head, the muzzle only inches away from the creature’s skull. He didn’t feel frightened anymore as he concentrated on the spot where Jackie had rested his thumb. Very gently, he curled his finger around the trigger.
Terence knew what would happen. The rifle was too heavy for the boy, the barrel would waver and he’d miss. He’d shoot the animal through its eye or its ear and he’d cop a sore shoulder in the process. It’d teach the boy a lesson. After today Kit’d be begging to shoot birds with his .22.
Through his sights, Kit could see the imprint of Jackie’s thumb, or at least he told himself he could. But the barrel was starting to sway, only slightly but enough, he couldn’t seem to hold the weight of the rifle steady. He leaned forwards and placed the muzzle directly against the animal’s skull, knowing as he did so that the stock was not firmly positioned into the crook of his arm. Too bad, he thought, and he pulled the trigger.
