“Maybe now that she’s gone, he mightn’t want to remain here.”
We’d been slowly packing our gear into a couple of large buckets. George dropped the fencing chain into one and it clanged to the bottom. He rose, paused and stared at me.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Almost 20,” I said and he slowly began to nod.
“Never been in love, have ya? If you had, you’d understand.”
“You mean he doesn’t want to leave her?” I said, nodding my head towards the gravesite. “I get it. Just figured maybe the pain was too much for him.”
“They were a beautiful couple. Mick used to dote on Jeanie every moment they had together. I never saw him say or do a single bad thing towards his wife. Not even an innocent grumble. He loved her whole-heartedly. He won’t leave, kid.” I thought I understood, but to be honest, didn’t really care. That fucker was going to have himself an accident and then I would own this joint.
George and I finished packing our tools, then lifted the buckets onto our backs and slowly made our way back to the homestead’s main sheds. There were several, the main holding the bulk of the machinery and tools.
I didn’t feel like talking and it was good just to walk in silence. Apart from George occasionally belching, farting or spitting more of his lungs out, it was actually quite peaceful listening to the birds chirping their song in the trees around us. The occasional cow chimed in and it really did feel like a nice place to live.
I looked up as we neared the crest of the hill and saw Uncle Mick walking down towards Jean’s grave. He visited the spot multiple times a day, always carrying a flower or two from her garden. Of course, George didn’t hesitate to tell me how much she loved the garden, spending hours each day tending to it.
I’d never been much of a gardener myself, and I looked over to where the flowers were peaking over the fence. In all honesty, I couldn’t tell a flower and a weed apart, the concept not one I wanted to waste time on.
8.
Shortly after we finished the afternoon milking session and George dismissed me from my duties, I went to see Uncle Mick. I knocked on the door of the homestead a couple of times, but even when I called through the open door, got no response.
I went inside anyway, slowly walking to the kitchen, in case he really was there. I didn’t fancy being caught snooping, although I would have loved to. I wanted to know what he was up to, my curiosity eating away at me.
There were some papers lying on the table and just as I reached them, heard a banging on the door.
“Mick?” George called. I froze, considering my options. “Mick?” he repeated, tapping the side of the door again. I stood perfectly still, waiting for the fool to take the hint. He tapped one final time, grunted something, then turned and walked back down the steps.
I walked to the doorway and peered slowly around the corner. The horse and cart George used to ferry himself and the 3 other workers from town to here was waiting just outside the fence. I watched as George walked through the gate, climbed into the driver’s seat and slapped the horse with the reins. A few seconds later they disappeared from view, leaving me alone in the hallway of the home I was about to inherit.
9.
I didn’t want to risk getting caught intruding and so walked outside, first making sure Uncle Mick wasn’t approaching. If I knew right, he would be down with Jean, probably crying his eyes out as he sat on the ground next to her.
I was right on one account; he was down with his wife. Only, he wasn’t sitting on the ground. He’d dragged a chair down the hill, sitting beneath the tree in silence as he no doubt, reminisced about better times. He had his back to me, one hand resting on the iron fence surrounding his wife’s grave.
He didn’t hear me approach. As I crept along the dirt path, I spotted a piece of branch lying on the edge of the grass, a jagged end staring back at me. It was the perfect size, reminding me of the piece of timber my father had handed to me for Royce.
I paused next to it, looking down at the torn tendrils of splinters that were willing to reach for them. They reminded me of a picture I had once seen of a spear fisherman, the barbs of his weapon looking lethal. I looked up at the back of the man seated less than 20 yards ahead, wondering whether I could sneak up quick enough before he was aware of me.
“Jeanie always loved this spot,” Uncle Mick suddenly said. His voice tensed me up instantly, as if the guilt of my thoughts had somehow betrayed me. “You have a small creek running through your own property, don’t you?” He didn’t turn, but knew of my presence long before I made it known.
“Yes, I do,” I said, kicking the branch aside and continuing towards him.
10.
“Did you know this was where we were married? Right over there, where the creek licks the side of the hill.” He was pointing to a bare patch of ground, maybe 30 yards further along the water’s edge. There was another tree there, but I can’t tell you what sort. Like I said, plants weren’t my strong suit. “That tree there was planted by Jeanie’s father on our wedding day. It was almost symbolic for her.”
He patted for me to sit and I did, cross-legged on the grass beside him. He fell into a silence again, replaying the memory of his wedding
