It was spring and the wildflowers were out, covering the country with white and pink, the green leaves of the trees standing out against the deep red of the earth.
Tim had thought something was a little odd when he’d first walked in through the front door—the mat was a little crooked. He had stood at the door for a while, casting around, making sure he couldn’t see anyone. Nothing else seemed to be out of place—the floor still had the sweep marks of the leaf broom he used, and there wasn’t any noise. Even so, a little sense of worry had itched at the back of his neck and he’d kept his hand on his gun, watching, waiting.
That was how it had to be out here—always watchful and mistrusting.
He had taken a small step inside the hut and stood still again. Then another. And another.
Then he had smelled him. A stink so bad it had made him want to throw up. It wasn’t him; a fox can’t smell its own scent. There was someone inside. Inside his house.
Quietly he had backed out of the hut and went around the back where there was a slit in the tin. Tim had peered through and had seen James Bell crouched behind the wall in the bedroom. He had slowly cocked his gun and fired it into the dirt at James’s feet.
Tim smiled as he remembered the terrible scream the man had made and the dust that had ballooned up into his face. Rotten bastard, trying to get in and steal his gold. He wouldn’t try that again!
James Bell had taken off before he had got back around to the other side of the house, running out into the bush, not stopping to look behind him. Tim hadn’t bothered to chase him.
He stood still in the darkness, listening for a stick cracking or any tiny noise that wasn’t the bush. All the while reliving the memory of James Bell. Chief had stopped growling, he realised. There couldn’t be any danger or he’d still be on guard. He started to walk again, lost in memories.
Those were the good old days. Anyone could fire a gun and no one got upset. Except the fella you were firing at! People could protect their property however they wanted to. He gave a little satisfied grunt. James had never come back to bother him. In fact, not too many people had after word had got out.
Tim brushed his fingers over a broombush and felt moisture on his hands. He looked up and assessed the moon again. Going to be a dew tonight, he thought.
Chief gave a bark and bounded out of sight. It was then Tim realised where he was.
He stood still, not wanting to go any further. But somehow his feet continued to walk of their own accord. They took him closer to Pammy, Kenneth and Kelly.
The ache started in his heart once more. The one he’d felt when he’d heard the ghostly tunes from the piano. His mouth opened slightly, wanting to apologise again; but what was the point? The twins had been gone for fifty-three years, while Kelly, fifty-two. He’d apologised every time he came. Didn’t make any difference. They were still in the ground. His regret didn’t bring them back.
The wire that held the rough handmade wooden crosses together glinted in the gentle light of the moon and distracted Tim from the deteriorated fabric of the teddy bear and the faded plastic flowers he’d bought once on a whim.
Everything about these graves spoke of neglect and disinterest. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. He chose to remember his children in his heart rather than sit and stare forlornly at their graves.
He wanted to remember Kenneth’s wicked giggle and the way he’d followed Tim around, wanting to be just like his dad. His favourite saying had been: ‘Dad, don’t walk so fast, I can’t keep up with you.’ Tim had always slowed down and taken his hand. Walked him back to his mother or to somewhere safe.
Pammy had idolised her twin brother—he was five minutes older and she followed him everywhere. Which was why when Kenneth had toddled out into the bush at age four she’d followed. It was also why, when Kenneth had peered over the edge of a mine shaft, she had too, and it was why they’d in fallen together.
Born together and died together. The family of five had suddenly been reduced to three.
Marianne’s ready smile had been replaced by deep lines and grief etched across her lovely face. Tim had worked harder to forget the pain. Kelly had tried so hard to bring her parents back, to get their attention.
Tim ran his hands over his head as he squatted in front of the graves.
‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘God, I’m so sorry.’
How it had come to be that not eight months later a king brown had been found curled up in Kelly’s makeshift cot, the child dead inside, no one would ever know. But Kelly hadn’t been the first child to die from a snakebite and she wouldn’t be the last—the houses weren’t snake proof by any stretch of the imagination. The shack they’d lived in then hadn’t even had doors on it.
Three to two.
Two empty shells.
Marianne had wept and stormed, furious with Tim for bringing them out here, into the heat and flies, in the search for gold. Was gold more precious than his family? she’d screamed at him.
Tim hadn’t known how to answer. He’d always thought not, but hadn’t his actions proved it was?
Had he ever thought the precious mineral could cost him his family? Never. Not once. And it hadn’t been just his children. It had ended up being his wife too, but not in a way he had ever dreamed possible.
Chapter 13
Dave straightened his
