Can you believe it, they actually said grace, and what’s more amazing is that I said grace with them. I didn’t feel like a hypocrite, not at all. Another odd fact – this is the first time I’ve ever been inside the house of one of my clients. I have seen the inside of their sheds and even a few offices stuck on the side of houses, but it’s the first time I’ve entered the holy of holies. I’ve broken bread with my breadmakers. How the other half live, eh. I’ve performed like a clown for them, I’ve saved their harvests, I’ve purified their polluted seed, I’ve pulled faces behind their backs at their children. I’ve rubbed the heads of their overexcited sheepdogs.
I chose one of the side dishes. And there were many. I went to dose up the potato salad but ended up going for the coleslaw – it was so thick and slushy and stinky that I thought a bit of my side mixed in with it would go unnoticed. And as they started vomiting when the plum pudding was being tucked into, and the brandy vapours were emanating, I couldn’t help laughing out loud and saying, That must be hundred per cent proof, that brandy!
None of them has ever appreciated my sense of humour as you, my family, do!
I wonder, will we, all dead, read each other’s letters over the shoulders of those who find them? Will they be opened or lost? And the time zones … we’ll all be out of kilter. I’ll go first, and then maybe I’ll take my first journey out of Western Australia and flit from Paris to London to Cincinnati and read each of your letters over your living shoulders as you write them. Maybe I’ll see your victims die, then you posting your letters and finishing your letter-writing days. It’s putridly funny. We’re too old for this! I am going to drive my rig the 20 k’s into town, post my letter in a box that won’t be cleared for two days, then drive back to the scene of my Christmas extravaganza, consume a healthy dose of coleslaw (as you know, I’ve hated coleslaw all my life), and die in my truck cabin. Bliss.
It just struck me that you too might have thought me a clown of a man. Laughed at my little deaths, my failures. You’ve had such potent lives. Maybe you’ll live shiny and bright lives still, well into your eighties and nineties and all laugh yourselves silly over this, my last letter. The note of a loser. Maybe with diamonds around your neck or a new Zegna suit, listening to the great tenor and soprano duetting, or shaking the hand of a flavour-of-the-month stockcar driver, or accepting your businessman of the year award, you’ll laugh even louder deep in your psyches, into what constitutes your real selves, the selves you’ve kept hidden from me since we were kids. Maybe I’ve always been your buffoon, your way of feeling better about yourselves. But seriously, I only say this now because this letter will remain unsigned. This, my last will and testament, won’t even be witnessed by me.
Yours, as always …
OLD GROWTH
You’ve got to be joking, mate! You set that lot alight without so much as a water truck nearby? Hasn’t rained for eight months, what did you expect it would do?
She’ll be right, he said, as the flames climbed trees, latching onto their dead parts and kissing the lush canopy, leaping across to tree after tree. Torches. From the broad-based water-loving flooded gums through a band of York gums and jam trees, over the granite outcrop with its rare orchids, up into the magnificent wandoos that held the sunset cold and warm at once in their powdery barks, exploding through the undergrowth as flash pursued by smoke and shadow.
Well, it’s a sorry sight. What would Rita have said? She’ll be turning in her grave – hate to say it so soon after your loss, but she would have thrown herself in front of the burner to stop it!
Nah, you shouldn’t say a bloody word. Keep your mouth shut. In-a-fucking-ppropriate.
Others arrived in cars to see what was going on. This was no mere seasonal burning-off of stubble, but a conflagration.
*
When Rita passed away, he decided the bush would have to go as well. He never liked it – it was her obsession because her mother, being Swedish, was always talking about great conifer forests under snow, and the bush shimmering in the heat strangely brought her closer to her long dead mother. A clean slate, he said to himself. I’m only fifty and I could have another thirty or more years up my sleeve. Too long to be alone. Would have left the place years ago and moved to the city where there’s some action – a social life. But no, the damned bush had Rita by the throat. Wandering around up there, listening to the birds and doing those appalling sketches. Fucking ironic, it was – she wasn’t born in the country and I was. Live here as long as I have and you get sick of it. Sick of paddocks. Sick of bush. I take no notice of any of it, outside wanting to change the scenery. I’ve worked hard. She wanted her ashes spread through that mess, now her ashes are mingling with its ashes. She’ll be here forever. She can’t complain.
He had worked hard. But in town now, for the last few years, running the hardware store. No more outdoors stuff unless it was sport. Left school at fourteen and went fencing. Ruined his back. It’s a shit life, country life. Labouring, it’s shit. He was spending as much time down in the city as he could. Even when Rita was fading, he was out and about. Doing God knows what. She couldn’t have cared less anyway. He was sure of that. Always on about the bloody bush bush bush; he came a distant second. He would say to her, What is it about the place – is it bloody Tutankhamen’s Tomb or something?
In order to get the best price for the land, he’d need to clear it anyway. They were right next to prime cropping country – and he was sure he could sell the land to the neighbouring farmer, and the house with a few acres to another buyer, as the property was on two titles. At least two-thirds of the bush was good for cropping – just that bloody outcrop and stony bit that wasn’t worth much. But you could run sheep over it; sure you could. And the fire would burn out the poison bush. Bloody poison bush – must have been the only patch of it left in the district. Bloody embarrassing, cockies goin’ on about it every time they came into the shop. How would they know? Just guesswork. Uncleared bush sure to have some poison bush in there, they’d ramble on. Wouldn’t like our sheep gettin’ into it.
Nah, bugger the bush … he could see himself buying a riverside unit in the city and living the good life for years. He would meet a nice city lady with city-lady-like tastes. She would like glass and chrome and evening wine cruises on the Swan. He’d read advertisements saying much like this in the Sunday paper. Likes a good time. Up for anything. A hardy gent I can knock the edges off. A rough diamond. Yeah, he was in demand – a catch, or would be if he could get a good price for his property and business. This went round and round in his head until he almost self-combusted.
But he was well aware that if he cleared it with a bulldozer, he’d be in breach of government regulations – one hectare per year was all they allowed without a special permit, which he knew he wouldn’t get. He had about fifty hectares of bush, and he wasn’t going to wait a few years. To his mates he ranted about what private property actually meant, and who were they to tell him, and so on, but inside he was altogether calmer and knew exactly what was what. He considered himself one step ahead of most people, so he decided when late autumn came around he’d apply for a burning order to thin out the undergrowth – a fire hazard – and for permission to cut a bit of firewood. The fact that there were plenty of dead and fallen trees for him to select wood from, as he always had, was a minor technicality. Through the law he would make his life much easier.
*
What are you doing back here? I thought I told you to get lost. I won’t have any of that ‘Rita would have been shocked’ rubbish. It’s my life. Not yours. And not hers. He picked at his teeth with his penknife and then spat close to the boot of his erstwhile mate. Some of the spit still hung from his unshaved face, salt-and-pepper whiskers. He let it hang. Wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction of wiping it off.
Come to check up on you, mate. We’ve had smoke across the valley for days now. Surely that undergrowth’s burnt out by now. What are you doing? Making wigwams around the trees? I reckon you�
��re trying to burn those flooded gums right out. Kill them off. Not a bird to be heard now. We’ve got one of Rita’s paintings of red-capped robins down here hanging on our bedroom wall. Brightens our day to see it.
Mind your own business and get off my property before I call the cops.
Okay, mate. Well, is it okay if I take a few photos of those big floodies before they go? Hundreds of years old, I reckon. Anne would like them. She was Rita’s best friend, for God’s sake, you can’t begrudge her that. And what’s more, if I’d been in town when you started your bushfire, I’d’ve been out here with the rest of the brigade getting it under control. You’re not popular with the crew at the moment – having them out all bloody day mopping up your mess. And Joe Johnson is pissed at you for burning down his fence – lucky the sheep didn’t go up in the blaze. Fire jumped the bloody firebreak.
They think I am some kind of arsonist, silly bastards. He considered refusing, but almost liked the idea of charred memories added to the bedroom wall. He’d never taken to Anne. A busty woman. Always sticking her tits in your face. Looked like she enjoyed it too much. Okay. Take a few photos with your pathetic little gadget – doesn’t even look like a proper camera – and bugger off. Oh, and as for his fucking fence, if he wants to buy the place when it’s nice and sorted he’d better mind his Ps and Qs. Shit wood-post fence anyway. I remember when I was fencing years back he said, No, I can do it myself cheaper and better. Better! What a joke. Plenty of others’ll want to buy this place. It’ll go for a mint. Rita used to rant on about the beautiful woodlands – well, under under those trees is the only new cropping dirt left in the district. He studied a broken nail, chewed it, and spat at the ground again, this time succeeding in expelling the lot, which landed on the toe of the other man’s boot. Now, you go take your photos, arsehole.
*
When he got the call from the environment people about what he was up to, he was confident. Spoken to you mob already and got permission. Just making it fire-safe and collecting a bit of firewood. You know what a risk fire is around here during summer. I was doing my civic duty clearing the place up.
And sure enough, that was a potent argument. When asked if he had killed off any old-growth trees, he said, Well, a few with dead wood in them did catch alight – as you’d expect – and I’ve finished them off with the chainsaw, but that’s it.
He then put into action the second part of his plan for legal immunity. Of course, I still have the right to get my firewood sorted, and I am going to clear a patch of regrowth trees. Yes, yes, all with trunks less than three inches diameter. I know what I’m doing. He felt indescribable satisfaction on hanging up after: Okay, Mr …. you seem to know what you’re doing. Sorry, we’ve had a complaint. We have to respond, you understand. We’ll leave you to it. He and Rita had never had children, but he imagined it was the kind of feeling you got on seeing a child being born. That night at a city pub, he raged about the triumph of property. The embers glowing across the devastated bush realm had neighbours watching on nervously.
*
For Anne, it seemed Rita was still with her. She could remember their conversation as if it had just happened.
So, Rita, what do you think? Should we tell someone? I mean, someone official?
I don’t think so, Anne. People will just come here to catch a peek and will kill it off with curiosity. Best kept quiet. I’m not even going to mention it to the Footy Fan.
They laughed until they cried. They called Rita’s husband the Footy Fan because he would go on and on and on about the damned footy. Women could never play football, he’d say to them. When Anne and Rita were young and their husbands were courting them, they went into the city to catch a movie while the blokes watched a match at the oval. They were both Demons fans from childhood – their fathers’ teams – but Rita’s hubby said they were rubbish and the worst team in the league and that he’d be buggered if a wife of his went and watched them play. One such afternoon, instead of taking in a movie, the girlfriends just sat in the Perth Gardens and found themselves watching a couple of young boys kicking a footy around with their dads. They asked if they could join in. Mind a couple of old girls having a kick? they asked. No problem, the boys and their dads said, without even laughing much. They learnt to kick and handpass a ball and had a great time. Anyway.
Doesn’t the Footy Fan ever come up here? said Anne, trying to control the laughter now.
Not really – once or twice a year. Does the firebreaks around the block, which get a little wider every time! And saws up some dead wood on the edges for the fire. Never goes into the centre, though. He’s a darl, really, Anne. Just comes from a different planet. He was always ambitious – you know, wanted a big hardware chain, to become shire president; now he’s got this bug about living in the city. Couldn’t think of anything worse!
The crowds! Hey, remember when the Footy Fan ran for election and …
Enough, girlfriend! It’s my hubby you’re talking about. It was embarrassing, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t say so. Anyways.
Any chance we could see it – the creature – again, Rita? I’d really love to – it’s beautiful and frightening at once. Otherworldly, sort of. You see it all the time – I envy you.
It’s used to me – not scared. It is beautiful. I’ve been so close I could almost have touched it. But we can’t afford to draw too much attention.
Why didn’t you try?
To touch it? Never; it’s got nowhere else to hide. If I startle it, it’ll be out there and run down in a paddock and either fed to the pigs or strung up on a fence, or if whoever does it in has enough nous, and that’s unlikely, they’ll sniff something odd about it and take it to a museum to be stuffed and gawked over.
Funny though, every few years someone claims to have seen it. You’re always on edge.
So are you!
Yeah, true, true.
Everyone thinks they’re lying. Nobody wants to be known as a crank. Not good to be a crank around here! The Footy Fan always says, Bloody idiots, see a big cat and go to pieces. Okay by me, he says, I always sell more ammo whenever there’s a bloody sighting.
Charming, I don’t think.
Yeah, and it looks nothing like a cat!
*
When the follow-up phone call came from the department, he was annoyed. Really annoyed. What now? Photos? What photos? I’ve been doing as I should, nothing more. It’s a duty. A service. Photos show what?
That bastard. He’s gone and dobbed me in. After all the years of being best mates. I’ll call him over to have it out with the prick, straightaway.
*
Best mate? You told me years back I bored you stupid and that you thought Anne was a bad influence on Rita! You’re always carping on about Anne. Saying she always looked like she was enjoying things when there was nothing to enjoy. Sanctimonious, a phoney, a fraud, and a do-gooder; you called her all of those things and much worse over the years. And mate, if you ever mention the size of my wife’s breasts again, footy match or no footy match – and I doubt we’ll be sharing any of those in the near future – I’ll pop you one on the snout.
You threatening me? I’ll have you in court, you shit. What the fuck did you have to go and do that for? Dobbing me in. Dobbing in a mate. And anyway, whatever you say, and whatever photos you have, I say it was an accident. Fire just ran away. Everyone knows how easy it is these days. I blame your Anne’s bloody global warming.
It was Rita’s bloody global warming as well, mate.
Well, you can be there when they ‘confront’ me with the evidence, mate. Have enough guts to stand by your photos!
Not my photos, mate!
What do you mean they’re not your photos? Then whose are they? Anne’s? When was she there? You don’t know? Well, you better both turn up … And wipe that supercilious look off your ugly mug. You need nose-hair clippers, you’re growing a fucking forest in there.
*
Mates? They’d stopped going to footy matches yonks back. C
ouldn’t stand each other really. Never could. It was a friendship by default. His so-called ‘mate’ said that Anne had him by the balls, that he was going all greenie and limp fishlike. All black on the inside. Yeah, mate, charred black from your fire, he would have said later. But no one thought he’d do it. Rita believed the bush had a caveat on it, that it was safe for seventy years. How did she get it wrong? Unique old-growth wandoo bushland – never grazed, never picked for timber. Maybe it had been burnt by the Aborigines. Maybe it wasn’t old growth to them. Rita would bug people in town with all her ‘native’ stuff.
They had to keep on seeing Rita when she got ill – that is, they had to go to the house. Anne would walk her slowly down to the bush, and along their secret trails (the Footy Fan would say to his erstwhile mate, Dunno what they do in there, and dig him in the ribs, and they’d share a few stubbies in front of the box). They kept visiting right up to the funeral. Couldn’t deny Rita that. Anne would hold her head real close to Rita’s and they’d whisper away non-stop. What were you talking about? Nothing. Nothing, really.
*
Anne’s photos of the living creature and the bush before it was burnt out ended up on the front page of the newspaper. And not just the local paper. And not just the Perth paper. Papers all over the world. Anne hadn’t shown her husband – he was taken aback as much as anyone. Why didn’t you tell me? he asked. Too close to the enemy camp, she told him.
Anne had said nothing driving to the department office in the neighbouring town. She wept every now and again and he couldn’t get through to her. Couldn’t console her. And he didn’t really want to. We shouldn’t have dobbed the old bugger in, he said. He’s been … my mate – all my life. He’s a bit of a head case, but he’s just suffering since Rita died. It’s a grief reaction. Anne said nothing.
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