Auntie Jean slipped into a coma shortly after I arrived and although the doctor was summoned and arrived within a couple of hours, she died later the following afternoon. I never got to meet my auntie, despite travelling all that way to meet her. The bitch escaped from my clutches, denying me the pleasure of ending her myself.
The funeral was held a few days later and Uncle Mick buried his wife down by the creek that crossed the property between the homestead and main road. It was a beautiful spot, nestled right under a Weeping Willow. I remember listening to the wind as it whistled through its leaves, the breeze strong enough to rustle the branches about.
But it wasn’t strong enough to drown out Uncle Mick’s weeping, the priest struggling himself to speak above the grieving man’s constant lamentation. I wanted to smack him in the back of the head at one point, his cries almost to the point of embarrassment. But I held back, wanting to give a good impression to the folks that had travelled to the farm for the funeral.
There were maybe a dozen solemn faces standing around the open hole me and George had dug. George was the man who picked me up from the station upon my arrival. He was also the foreman, having worked the farm for almost a decade.
I did my best, standing there, waiting for the ceremony to end. I kept my mind occupied throughout by listening to Eddie whistle. At first, I couldn’t make out the melody, despite recognizing it. It was a tune that didn’t hold fond memories for me. It tensed me as I listened to it, but although he whistled it a number of times, I just couldn’t place it.
It wasn’t until the priest finally finished his endless droning and the crowd peeled off and headed back to the main house that it finally hit me. It was that fucking tune Royce Packard always whistled. I was pretty sure it was called Fur Elise and I don’t know why he would be whistling it. It wasn’t a song that held any good feelings and yet he kept repeating it, over and over. That was until Loui told him to quit it.
5.
George Hamilton was a string-bean of a man, standing a few inches above six feet with a few strands of hair that he combed from one side of his head to the other. It was one of the worst comb-overs I’d ever seen and wanted nothing more than to grab them with both hands and rip them out.
But he was also a very friendly man, happy to teach me everything there was to know about dairy farming. Most people may have been grateful for the lessons, but to tell you the truth, I couldn’t care less. I wanted to knock Uncle Mick the second I had the chance, inherit the farm and make George my new head farmer, or whatever title they held. I just needed the patience to wait until I had my chance.
6.
A few days after Auntie Jean’s funeral, a car rolled down the road towards the main house. George and I were fixing a fence in one of the adjoining paddocks and saw the dust kicked up by the car as it scooted towards the house.
“There’s that damn lawyer. Was wonderin’ when he was gonna show up,” George said, clearing his throat then dropping a piece of phlegm near his boot. He returned his gaze at the string of wire I was holding up, coughing raspily in my ear. The man had no hygiene skills and I gagged as I looked down at his lung tissue now lying between us.
The Model T had reached the house and I saw Uncle Mick emerge, waiting on the stoop as the car stopped in front of him. A man wearing what looked like an old bowler hat got out, walked towards Uncle Mick and the pair shook as they came together. It was a great vantage point where we were working.
“What do you think he wants?” I asked, curious to know why my Uncle would summon his lawyer out in the middle of the week.
“Prolly to try and get him to sell again.” I paused, my ears pricking genuinely for the first time.
“Sell?” I asked, trying not to sound overly interested.
“Yup. That there is Ben Fordham. He’s been in cahoots with your uncle for years. Before my time here, anyway. But he’s also legal counsel for Jim Steinberg.”
“Who’s that?”
“Only the second biggest dairy farmer in the whole country. Steinberg Milk? That’s him.” George paused with the fence and fished a cigarette from his pocket. He offered me one but I waved it away, thanking him.
“And this Steinberg wants to buy the farm?” My curiosity was growing, enough for Eddie to temporarily pause whistling inside my head.
“Aha. Needs the land. This here farm is but a tiny blip when compared to the Steinberg’s. I used to work for them before here. I just couldn’t deal with their bureaucratic bullshit anymore.” But I was no longer listening, looking up the hill where Uncle Mick was herding the lawyer through the front door.
7.
It was about an hour later that we saw the dust trail kick up for the second time, this time as the old Ford headed back to the main road. I looked up and saw the man flash us a wave as he passed about 50 yards before us. I waved, looking at the moon-faced smile of the man behind the wheel.
“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
