Taking over the family farm carried both rights and responsibilities – neither of which he wanted. He knew how much the farm meant to his father, but couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t just hand over the farm to Claire and Simon when the time was right. Or why he didn’t seem to understand that farming wasn’t for everyone. Jim saw the farm as Harry’s birthright. Harry saw it as his burden. A burden he had no interest in carrying.
They’d reached a sort of stalemate. Jim had many years of running the farm ahead of him, so for now he grudgingly allowed Harry to carry on chasing what Jim clearly considered to be ridiculous dreams. But Harry knew that things would come to a head again, that Jim would want Harry to come back and start learning the way of the land so he could eventually take over. Until then, Harry hoped the issues would somehow magically resolve. His father’s refusal to support his career choice or show any sort of acceptance or approval meant that weeks between visits quickly became months, sometimes nearly a year. Harry wasn’t proud of how he’d distanced himself from his mum and sister over the years, but it was difficult knowing his father disapproved of his career choice despite the fact he’d proven his father wrong and made a very successful career out of acting and singing.
Harry’s mum worked hard to keep the peace between father and son, wanting to be loyal to her husband but also supportive of her son’s career. While she tried not to show her exuberance about it in front of Jim, she was Harry’s proudest supporter. A stay-at-home mum with no formal qualifications, Jenny was, however, a proficient seamstress. Over the years her quilting hobby had turned into a full-time successful small business. Twice a week she drove into Beechworth to run workshops for locals, but the rest of the time she stayed home and sewed, having turned Claire’s old bedroom into a studio and lined the walls with shelves full of colourful fabric. Her designs were sought after and some of her pieces hung in prominent places around the town, including the hospital.
The entrance to the farm was up ahead and Harry flicked on the indicator and eased his foot off the accelerator. His gaze was immediately drawn to the ancient gum tree that had stood as a lonely sentinel in the front yard for as long as he could remember. The old tyre that usually swung lazily from the lowest horizontal branch was missing, a frayed piece of rope all that remained. When had it broken?
He drove slowly up the driveway, staring at the farmhouse in surprise. The old tin roof was in desperate need of repair, the red paint faded and peeling. A sheet of plywood replaced a panel of glass beside the front door. Everything was rundown, bordering on derelict. Had the house looked this bad last time he visited? Alarm spiralled down into his stomach, settled in and threatened to make itself at home. Something had to be wrong. His father was usually meticulous about keeping the entrance to the property and driveway free of weeds, and his mum was an excellent housekeeper. Harry didn’t know another woman who washed windows as often as his mum.
He braked suddenly when he saw movement in his peripheral vision before realising what it was. Digby was tearing across the paddock to greet him. Harry stared in amazement. How did he know who it was? He wouldn’t have recognised the hire car. Harry left it idling and jumped out, holding his arms wide.
‘Digby!’
The dog threw himself at Harry and knocked him to the ground. At thirteen, no one had told Digby he was old. Harry sat on his butt laughing while Digby climbed onto his lap and covered his face with wet slobbery kisses. He ruffled his ears and hugged him tight, remembering the day his father had brought the tiny, sleeping puppy home. Harry had thought he was a stuffed toy. He remembered the joy he’d felt when his father passed Digby to him and wished him happy birthday. It had been the best day of his young life. Whenever Harry came home for the school holidays, Digby was waiting there. He never seemed to be upset with Harry for going away, although his mum said he always pined for a day or two when he left.
Their wrestling session over, Digby jumped into the car and sat behind the wheel, tongue lolling to one side. Harry shoved him lovingly onto the passenger seat and wound down the window. Digby thrust his head out and smiled a toothy smile as Harry took off with a spin of tyres. Moments later, he pulled up out the front of the house. His mum usually came bursting through the front door with a wide grin, but he was greeted with nothing but silence. Weird. Like Digby, she would have seen or heard the car come through the gate. Harry glanced at the shed. Both cars were there, and Claire’s car was out the front of her place, but there was no sign of anyone. Not even Simon or the kids. Harry got out of the car, grabbed his bag from the back seat and hoisted it on his shoulder. Overhead, a magpie screeched and Digby barked but there was no sound of a human.
‘Where is everyone, mate?’ he asked.
Digby looked at him with wise old eyes. Harry ruffled his ears again and the dog wagged his plumed tail and pressed himself into Harry’s leg.
‘Mum? Claire?’ he called out.
No answer.
‘Dad?’
He heard a muffled shout from somewhere inside the house. Another shout rang out and Harry bolted for the house and yanked open the flyscreen kitchen door.
‘I’m home,’ he called out.
‘Thank God you’re here, Harry,’ Claire shouted back. ‘We’re in the bathroom.’
Fear curdled in his gut as he raced down the dark hall. He froze in the doorway of the bathroom and stared at the scene in front of him. His mum and Claire stared back wearing matching expressions – fatigue mixed with fear. Between them, his father sat on the toilet with his pants and jocks around his ankles and an odd expression on his face. His usually short-cropped hair had thinned further since the last time he’d been home. It looked as though they’d been trying to help him stand.
The bag Harry had anchored on his shoulder slipped and fell with a thud onto the floor as shock sucked the breath from his lungs. He gripped the doorframe and willed his shaking legs to steady.
‘What the hell’s going on?’
His father, who usually had a dark tan and deep lines in his face that spoke of a lifetime working outside, was pale. His eyes were unfocused and glassy like he was drugged or drunk or something. Had he had a stroke?
Claire spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Just help us get him off the toilet.’
‘I’ll call an ambulance.’ Harry stepped back and pulled his phone from his pocket.
‘No!’ Claire snapped. ‘He doesn’t need an ambulance. He needs to get to bed.’
Harry stared at her. ‘How long’s he been sitting here?’
‘Half an hour or so, probably,’ his mum said.
Harry heard hesitancy in her voice. He’d never seen her look so sad or upset. She’d aged ten years since he last saw her, new lines etched around her eyes and mouth. He longed to pull her into a hug, but right now he needed answers.
‘I was over at Claire’s preparing the food for the community dinner,’ his mum went on. ‘When I came home, I couldn’t find your dad. I eventually heard him in here.’
‘What do you mean you couldn’t find him? What’s wrong with him?’ Harry asked. Jim’s eyes were glassy, his jowls loose, dark circles under both eyes. This couldn’t be his father.
His mum and sister exchanged a look before Claire straightened and squared her shoulders. ‘Just help me lift him off the loo, Harry, so I can get him tidied up. Mum, go and put the kettle on. We’ll put Dad into bed.’
They worked in silence and managed to get their father off the toilet. ‘He’s lost so much weight,’ Harry whispered.
‘I know.’
Harry raised his eyebrows in question but Claire simply shook her head and mouthed ‘later’.
Once Jim was in bed resting, they gathered around the kitchen table. While Jenny and Claire sipped tea, Harry nursed an ice-cold beer and the threat of a massive migraine.
‘I’m sorry you had to see him this way, darling,’ Jenny said, her fingers twisting around a scrap of material lying on the table.
‘How long has he been sick, Mum?
’
She shrugged. ‘A few months.’
‘A few months?’ He only realised he’d raised his voice when Claire kicked him under the table.
‘He never got over that flu,’ Jenny said.
Harry frowned. ‘But that was back in June. Are you saying he’s been sick for six months?’
She smoothed the material against the table as though trying to iron out the creases she’d caused. She refused to meet his gaze. ‘On and off,’ she mumbled eventually. ‘He has good and bad days.’
‘What do the doctors say is wrong with him?’
‘They don’t know,’ Claire said.
He turned to her. ‘What do you mean they don’t know? What tests has he had?’
‘Every test under the sun,’ she snapped.
His frown deepened. It was unlike Claire to be tetchy.
‘Drop the tone, Harry, we’ve been doing the best we can.’
He tried to gather his scattered thoughts. ‘Forgive my tone, Claire, but you’re telling me Dad’s been sick for six months, no one knows what’s wrong with him and this is the first I’m hearing about it? How’s that supposed to make me feel?’
‘You’re not always that easy to contact. Besides, Dad didn’t want us to tell you.’
‘Why?’
‘He said you wouldn’t be interested.’
Irritation bubbled in his gut. ‘We might not agree on everything, but I’d still want to know that he was sick.’
Claire held up her hand and met his gaze. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger. He told me not to tell you.’
Harry glanced at his mum and silently cursed himself for arguing with his sister. Jenny looked terrible, like she’d forgotten how to take care of herself. Her favourite quote was ‘On a bad day, put on some lipstick and pull yourself together,’ but today her lips were pale and drawn. Lines of exhaustion splayed out around the edges of her eyes and she looked old.
‘Can we please not talk about this now? It’s not going to help your father get better,’ she said.
Harry pushed his chair back, walked over to the fridge and pulled out another beer. He opened the lid with a hard twist and took a long swig, welcoming the river of cold as it ran down his throat. He took the bottle back to the table and sat again. ‘I’m sorry, Mum, Claire. I just don’t get it. The doctors must know something. What have they told you?’
‘He’s booked in for more tests in the new year,’ Jenny said. ‘Then we might get answers.’
‘What kind of tests has he had so far?’
Jenny stood and went to the sink to rinse her cup. When she faced him again, tears glistened behind her glasses.
‘Blood tests, X-rays, ultrasounds, a CT scan, a lumbar puncture and an MRI.’ She used her fingers to list them.
None of the tests had come back with a result? How was that possible? The sooner Harry took charge and made some calls, the sooner they’d get the answers they needed.
‘Every single blood test has come back clear,’ Claire said, as though reading his mind. ‘And we’ve done everything and called everyone.’ Her hands went to the necklace at her throat and she slid the small charm back and forward along the chain with so much force Harry was surprised it didn’t snap off. ‘He’s seeing a neurologist on the fourth of January for an electro-something-or-other.’
Harry looked at his older sister again – really looked at her – and for the first time noticed streaks of grey in her chocolate brown hair that he was positive weren’t there last time he was home. Guilt burrowed in his annoyance with her. It wasn’t her fault their father was sick.
‘Go back to the beginning,’ Harry said. ‘Six months ago, he had the flu – that’s why you couldn’t come to Sydney for the show. Is it all related to that?’
‘He’s had this cough he can’t get rid of,’ Jenny said. ‘It’s worse when he eats. He has trouble swallowing so he hasn’t been eating much.’
Harry recalled his father’s bony frame when he’d helped get him to bed. He’d always been a stocky man. ‘How much weight has he lost?’
Jenny looked to Claire for clarification. She shrugged. ‘Twenty, maybe thirty kilos.’
His jaw dropped. ‘Thirty kilograms? In six months?’
‘Maybe not that much,’ Jenny hurriedly added. ‘I’ve been mushing up all his food, but it takes him so long to eat it, sometimes he falls asleep before he’s had a chance to finish it.’
‘Along with the swallowing troubles, I noticed something else was wrong because his voice had changed,’ Claire said. ‘That’s when I convinced Mum to ask the GP to run more tests.’
‘He thought he had a cancer in his throat or oesophagus because of all the trouble he was having swallowing,’ Jenny said.
Harry let that sink in. ‘But it’s not cancer?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
What a relief. But it didn’t change how worried he was. ‘I still can’t believe you didn’t call me. How could you keep this to yourself, Claire? I thought we were close.’
‘Like I said, Dad didn’t want us to tell you and I didn’t want to bother you until we knew something,’ Claire said.
‘In November he had a gastrogram –’ Jenny said.
‘Gastroscopy,’ Claire corrected her.
‘Gastroscopy – but it came back clear. No cancer. But he got worse. It’s got to the point some days he can’t swallow a glass of water.’
‘What happened today?’ Harry asked. ‘Why couldn’t he get off the toilet? And what’s with the outdoor plastic chair in the shower?’
‘He’s become so weak,’ Jenny said. ‘He has no energy and no strength in his muscles. Some days he can’t stand up. Other days he’s okay and gets a few jobs done outside before he gets tired and comes in for a rest. He needs the chair because he can’t stand up for very long in the shower. He gets too dizzy.’
Something was evidently very, very wrong with his father, so why hadn’t the doctors figured it out? And was he doing the right thing letting Claire and his mum talk him out of calling the ambulance?
Harry turned to Claire again. ‘He looked spaced out before when we put him to bed, as though he didn’t know I was there. Is he taking medication or something that would make him like that?’
‘That’s only been in the last day or so and it only seems to happen when he’s really tired. He looks at you but doesn’t respond. It usually only lasts a few seconds. He’s better after he’s had a rest. Honestly, you’ve seen him at his worst today. I promise you, he’s not normally this bad. Thank God for the cricket. He spends hours staring at the telly. And thank God Australia’s finally winning and it’s kept him in the one place. At least we know he’s safe.’
Harry shuddered. What would have happened if he’d been out on the tractor or quad bike when he was like that? ‘Does he know something’s wrong with him?’
His mum nodded. ‘That’s the hardest part. You know your dad. He’s not one to show emotions.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ he mumbled. Unlike Harry, who didn’t have a problem expressing his feelings, his father’s silence had always been an issue for him. He never knew what Jim was thinking or feeling.
‘On the one hand he was pleased when the tests came back clear or negative,’ Jenny went on. ‘Then he’d get angry and cry.’
Harry eyebrows rose in surprise. He couldn’t remember ever seeing his father cry.
‘He keeps saying, “Jenny, I can’t believe I feel this sick and there’s nothing wrong with me.” He’s been very depressed about it all.’
Harry stood and paced around the kitchen. ‘I’m going to call the doctor and speak to him myself.’
‘Let’s get through Christmas first, darling, then you can come with me to the appointment in the New Year. I’m sure your dad will be much better by then.’
He paused and looked at his mother. ‘I’m not waiting until then, Mum. First thing after Christmas I’m making an appointment. We have to find the underlying cause. There has to be an explanation. A test
they haven’t done. Something they haven’t thought of. You know, like on that TV show House when the crazy doctor with the walking stick works it out and they realise the answer has been staring at them in the face all the time. Perhaps there’s a chemical or something in the shed that’s been poisoning him or a bug in his blood he’s picked up from the soil.’
He was clutching at straws, but he could see by the look on their faces they’d asked all the same questions and come up blank every time too. Everyone was silent, as though talking about it had drained the life out of them. Harry glanced from his mum to his sister, then his gaze flitted around the small kitchen into the living room. Only then did he realise there was no sign of Christmas. Usually a real tree stood in the corner, boughs laden with decorations – over the years he’d teased his mum relentlessly about how overboard she went. Worry dug into him like a burr and refused to budge.
He shot out of his chair and flung open the kitchen window. It was still mid-thirties outside and not much less than that inside. The house needed fresh air.
Jenny pursed her lips. ‘What are you doing?’
‘It’s a sauna in here, Mum. Maybe that’s why Dad’s sick.’
She shook her head and reached past him to close the window. ‘He gets too cold these days and prefers me to keep the house warm.’
It was definitely warm, but there was no point taking his anger and confusion out on his mum. Instead, he drew her into a hug and kissed the top of her head tenderly. ‘I’m sorry.’
She melted in his arms and he battled the sudden urge to cry.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
One More Song Page 7
