He pumped the steering wheel again, but this time as if he were reminding himself of something. He rubbed his cheek, all sandpaper loud.
I did want to give it a bone.
I looked at his face, tired over with lines. I remembered him slumped on the ground under Tessa’s tree this morning. I wanted to push it all back inside me. Not just from that day but right back to the morning Mum left. Right back to when I could have made things right. Right down to not eating that cake.
‘Sorry, Dad.’
And I was. Real sorry.
Later, when we were finishing up the milking and the night was starting to dark up the sky, Philly came skidding into the shed. ‘Where’s Dad?’
Tim turned off the milking machine so we could hear. ‘What?’ he yelled.
‘It’s the police.’ Philly was shaking her little hands like she was going to take off for the moon.
That stopped us. We swapped our scared between us. We’d never seen real police, just the made-up ones in Homicide on the telly.
‘Where’s Dad?’ Philly whispered.
We all turned to look out into the rising night, trying to spot him.
‘Dad,’ we called.
He came charging in from the paddock through the holding yard as if he’d been waiting. ‘What?’
‘Police,’ we all hollered together like we’d rehearsed it.
His big hand reached out for the fence to steady himself. He dropped his head to watch his boot scuff at the mud, but not before we saw the same scared in him that was in us.
We waited, holding on to posts on our side, watching.
It only took a couple of beats before he straightened and closed the distance through the already milked cows between us. ‘Get the cups off Daisy and Tricksy.’ He flicked the words at Tim and me as he pushed past, all grown up and business again.
Tim and I looked at each other and took off after Dad and Philly.
Tessa stood by the police car with the two policemen. All three watched us charging towards them, Dad’s gumboots slamming against the ground.
‘Mr Jack McBride?’ asked the tall one as Dad got within distance.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Constable Michael McGuire,’ he said, ‘and this is Constable Steve Jones.’
‘You’ve come to the right place, then,’ Dad said. ‘Get on with it.’
‘Is there somewhere we can talk privately?’ said Constable McGuire, nodding at us like we shouldn’t be there. Dad nodded back as if the constable wasn’t half his age.
‘Get back up to the shed.’ He flung his arms at us. ‘Finish up that milking.’
Tessa shooed us away, trying to lead us back in the direction of the cowshed.
I folded my arms.
‘Git.’ Dad raised his hand as if he were going to belt me.
I planted my feet wide.
Tim grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and toppled me over, dragging me behind him. Tessa herded me from the rear, like I was a breakaway poddy calf. They didn’t let up all the way to the shed. I didn’t protest, but as soon as they loosened off I darted back down the track to the ute and hid.
Dad had his arms crossed and so did the two policemen, all of them legs apart. I strained to hear, but I was too far. The petrol tank was closer, but Philly had darted from behind me and snuck in there, with Tim fast on her heels.
I dashed over to join them, but there was no room and Tim shoved me away. He nearly gave us away by elbowing into the side of the petrol tank in the scuffle, which would have made a hell of a din with all that empty echo inside. Instead I ran to the side of the shed. I looked back and poked my tongue out. I was in way closer than him.
But it was too late. They were handing Dad a big thick envelope and shuffling their feet. The short one said how sorry he was. The tall one said nothing, all grim faced. Dad put out his hand, but it was only the short Jones one who shook it. The other turned away like Dad’s hand was so much dirt.
The police got into the car and drove away, idling down the track, like they were heading for a Sunday picnic.
Tim, Philly and I came out of our hiding places, not even bothering to disguise where we’d been. Dad was still watching the police car disappear down the track, hands at his hips. There was no breath in the air.
‘Get Tess,’ said Dad’s statue.
All three of us backed away. Not a word between us.
We got to the cowshed. Tim jerked his head, telling Tessa over the noise of the milking machine that Dad wanted to talk to us.
Tessa uncupped Daisy’s and Tricksy’s udders, Philly untied the leg ropes, I opened the bales so they could back out.
Tim opened the gate and we all shooed them into the holding yard to join the rest of the herd.
None of us stopped to let any of them into the paddock.
Tim turned off the machine and Tessa turned off the lights.
Tessa’s hand went to Philly’s. I took Philly’s other one. Tim went ahead.
She died of a burst appendix, Dad said, when we were back in the kitchen. They’d taken her to a hospital quick smart, but it was too late.
‘Who’s they?’ I asked.
Dad looked like I’d punched him and that reminded me of how he’d looked in the ute earlier when I found the scarf. I zipped my mouth up tight.
Tessa did this kind of animal noise. Philly got her thumb stuck in her mouth and crawled into Dad’s lap. Tim stabbed at the fire. I was patting Tessa on the back, but not putting any heat into it.
After a while we got to, ‘Does Aunty Peg know?’, ‘Did she cry?’ and ‘Reckon she’d like roses in the church for her funeral.’
There was too much empty space around us. The Mum space all empty but all filled in with the knowing she’d
