A story of confronting life’s choices and amidst despair, finding hope from the most unexpected corner.
The last time I held the brass casing of a single bullet, it had my name on it. I turn the key in the lock of mum’s cupboard, open the door and grasp the rifle. With a single bullet in my hand, I walk outside into the backyard. Father’s strength ripples through my forearm as I snap open the bolt. I load the single bullet and push that thought away. The danger is gone but it is a vivid reminder of what temptation would cost those I love.
Father’s old rifle is heavy. Its crack once meant another intruding rabbit, fox or dingo were gone. His death still haunts me and I’m not convinced it was an accident. After all these years, our last argument still burns. He could be hard, rock hard like the ironstone under my feet, unyielding, making you work and sweat for the smallest progress.
A memory rushes back and I see myself with him as he taught me how to load the weapon. His sun-browned arms were wrapped around me. His breath was warm as he whispered instructions to slide the bullet into the chamber, snap the bolt and hold the stock against my shoulder to aim. Steady, and with a gentle squeeze of the trigger, I sent the old tin flying into the dust.
I wish he were here now as I wipe my sweaty palm and re-grip the rifle. The last sunrays fade over the fields. Their red-yellow glow outlines the lone cluster of trees, decrepit fences and the scrub dotting the red dirt. The smell of the cattle wafts on the evening air and a soft bellow from the cattle in the pen drifts across.
I enter the yard and pause, bracing against the ache that rises when I see the old family kelpie tied to the post. Rufus whimpers. Each breath is raspy and laboured. His chest swells slowly and deflates. His black coat with the white patch under his chin, once glossy, has dulled.
His head lolls. Through the slit of his eye, we meet. The sedatives have done their work. Does he understand?
I snap the bolt shut. The metallic click echoes softly. I take a deep breath as his eyes glaze over and his body sighs, already surrendering. My finger shakes as I touch the metal trigger. Rufus became a burden, replacing the companion he used to be for Mother.
Only I have the courage to confront what others deny. Now, it’s time for him to leave. The sun disappears behind the distant hill. The church bells drift across the plains. They could not save Father and will not deliver salvation to Mother. Muscle memory guides my hand as I cross myself. I shoulder the rifle and press the barrel towards the dog’s forehead, grip the stock and pull the trigger.
‘Tom, do not do anything rash,’ my older sister, Sarah, says when I describe what I found here.
‘Rash? The poor dog couldn’t keep his food down. He threw up over Mother,’ I snap back and grip the phone harder.
She switches to her solicitor’s voice: sharp and interrogating. I defend myself, explaining that I gave him the pain relief, but he wouldn’t eat. Instead, he fought me to put anything in his mouth.
I glance at Rufus. A dark stain mars the fur on his forehead. A trickle of blood marks the ground beneath him. I check my work boots for red splatters dotting the cover of dust. The cancer had spread too far. Sarah insists I should have called the vet but the vet had already told me Rufus would soon die. She had her chance to save Rufus. I did it my way: quick and painless.
Sarah recalls how her kids loved the dog, and how much comfort he gave Mother. But I saw his suffering.
‘It was nice that you gave Mother your children’s dog for companionship after Father died. But he got old and was in pain. You had the chance to do something but you didn’t.’
She is being so difficult with everything. We weren’t always close but we’ve always supported each other. I helped her through her divorce and starting her legal practice; she helped me through my incident and rescuing Dad’s farm. But now, I carry the burden of Mother and the farm, alone.
‘Yes, Sarah, I’ll explain it to Mother. If she understands or remembers is another matter.’ I look at the body, with foam clinging to its mouth. It is time to bury Rufus alongside the wilting flowers in Mother’s garden.
She argues that I should tell my nephew and niece what I have done.
‘You need to introduce your children to the realities of farm life. Tell them the truth. I need to go, bye!’
The farm that our father built no longer exists. The small patch of a garden, that my mother pretends she looks after, is deteriorating like her. It has withered while I have been away. We tried to escape this relentless heat, this dry and its misery. But I couldn’t truly escape. A short holiday, with Annie to the coast, provided a glimpse of water, useless water, but it reminded me of what it looks like. She did her best to distract me, but the memories of the drought were refreshed with each question from the inquisitive city dwellers. They were trying to be nice, Annie would remind me, when I snapped at their one too many questions. My wife has the understanding and patience of a saint. She nursed me back from darkness once, and she keeps watch so I don’t fall again.
A warm breeze flows from the direction of home where Annie and the kids are safe. I won’t see them for another three days until Mother’s carer returns. We all need respite from our demons – our responsibilities.
I dig beside the vegetable patch. Sweat drips as I lower Rufus into the earth. His muzzle rests on his chest. I should have dug a larger hole.
I snap a photo on my phone and send it to my sister. She and her children can mark the grave later.
At the old water-trough, I wash my hands clean and return the spade to the corrugated shed wall. I’ve no tears for the animal yet, I drag my feet towards the house where the television blares.
Slapping my jeans free of dust, I enter the house and place the rifle back into the cupboard. I turn the key in the lock. A memory flashes of how close I came. How did Simmo know to walk into the shed at that precise moment, while my finger rested on the trigger? I replace the key on top of the tall, slim cupboard. A testament to Dad’s carpentry skills. I stare at it, thinking of him, of our fights and the good times. He would have turned 75 this year. Mother is 70 but looks and moves like she is 90.
‘Mother, turn the TV down,’ I call out. I grab the remote control and reduce the volume. She admonishes me at the top of her croaky voice.
‘There’s mail on the table. You open the blasted letters,’ she yells and then mutters.
‘Rufus died – I buried him,’ I tell her.
She nods and sinks her shoulders into the armchair. The TV news steals her attention. The camera captures another farm under stress, the man – his face weathered and feelings fenced in. A woman is beside him; his arm draped across her shoulders while she rubs his arm. Their checkered shirts are pushed hard against each other. Beyond them, machinery sits idle, while they tell their all too familiar story.
Voices seep through the microphone of the TV reporter. The farmer, his sleeves rolled to his elbow, turns, pointing to the dry dam and the bore pump whirring away sending water down the trough to water the animals. He mentions how much they have invested in the farm but that their bank balance will soon be dry, like the riverbed.
‘The new technology is helping us survive until the rains come but we can’t outsmart nature,’ he says and glances away.
The reporter quizzes the farmer on how long they can hold on. Wearing silence like armour, he stares at the camera.
‘As long as it takes. I’m not giving this up without a fight.’
She clutches his arm and confirms, ‘We’ll find a way.’
If Dad had listened to me, we could have improved things. Sarah fought the bank to keep the farm but Dad never wanted to change his ways. What was it all for?
As the couple turn away, the camera captures the solitude of the place and their heads bump together in a secret conversation, like ones Annie and I have had.
The reporter, his youthful face centred on the screen, summarises the scene and signs off, closing with an awkward smile.
‘Mother, something to drink?’
‘Tea!’ She yells, frustrated, as if I should know what she wants.
‘Please!’ I respond. I’m a little harsh towards the old, frail woman Mum has become. She is crumbling before me and has lapses in memory or heartbreaking shifts in personality. I visit as often as I can.
In the refrigerator, I find two of the meals the carer had for cooked Mum earlier in the week. Beside the fridge is the dog’s dry food. Mum tells me she’s been feeding Rufus.
I wipe up the dog’s spilled food from the floor. Minutes ago he was frothing, whining and shaking on the floor beside the metal bowl filled with food.
The kettle whistles. I make her tea in her favourite china cup, and my coffee in a thick ceramic mug.
She is growing thinner by the week. I am here one day later than planned. The meals look untouched.
‘Mum have you eaten today?’
‘A piece of bread. I wasn’t hungry.’
‘Mother, I am worried. You are not eating properly. Did you enjoy the lasagna Annie made you? Why are there still meals the carer left for you?’
‘I didn’t want it. I gave it to Rufus.’ Why do I bother? She is impossible!
I put down my mug of hot coffee. I rip open the envelopes. A letter from the accountant warns me the finances are looking increasingly bad. Tell me something I don’t know, and the animals aren’t likely to bring much at the market. I don’t even know if we can afford to pay Will and his boy to continue running the farm. And I am not sinking another cent into this place.
The second envelope is a bank statement that I put with the accountant’s happy news. A sip of the coffee burns my upper lip. I hold the next envelope, afraid to open it at the fear of more grim news.
Sarah and I have argued about Mother. Mum insists she wants to stay in the house till the end. Sarah, as Mum’s favourite, supports her decision and reminds me she beat the bank. It only bought us time. Mum is fast approaching the need for round-the-clock care. The part-time carer can’t give her the care she needs. Sarah doesn’t understand how difficult it is finding care out here. Sarah is too busy, and too far away, to help. I’m doing all I can.
‘Mother, it’s time for your tablets.’
‘Yes, yes. Don’t forget my nerve tablets, my nerves are bad.’
‘Seriously? Your nerves!’
She turns the television up louder. I place the tablets and a glass of water on the small rectangular side table, that Dad lovingly restored for her. She gags a little swallowing each tablet.
She refused to pay for the vet, so I took Rufus myself, to be diagnosed. She won’t even see the doctor for herself, instead, denying there is a problem. The crinkles in her face are more pronounced than ever, the thin lines have become shallow crevasses flowing from her eyes to her jawline. They remind me of the craggy mountain and the gullies that once were carved by the frequent waters but are now dry and cracked. If need be, I will again make the hard decision.
I want to go home. After I dropped Annie at our home this morning it was another three hours to get here. It’s been a hard day driving around the farm checking on the animals and doing what Will’s note told me needed to be done.
She points the remote at the TV. I snatch it away before she can increase the volume. It is more useless comments from the local MP, who is reminding us how tough it is out here and how he needs our support to send him back to Canberra to ‘fight the good fight’ for rural people against the government. Funny, when he was in power nothing much seemed to improve. Now, he taunts us with his platitudes, instead of support, while we are ground deeper into the dirt. He seems more interested in his mining mates, than the farmers he says he supports.
The noises of the animals, demanding to be fed, intensify over the TV sounds.
I rip open the last of the envelopes. It is three pages of tightly typed paragraphs. The subject jumps out at me. My heart skips several beats at the news. It is a chance to sell the farm. Line after line I scan looking for the amount they’re willing to pay. It has to be enough to get out of here, out of this mess.
My gut sinks. Instead, it is a three way sale. Mr Johnson – old-man Johnson will surely sell up, he’s ill and his kids have all moved away, vowing never to return. He still frightens me, after what I did all those years ago – a prank with his prize mare that went wrong. But I will call him.
And Simmo next door. He has to be up for this. The last time we had a beer at the Imperial in town, he was complaining about how much harder it’s become to make a living.
The soft bellows from the shed grow into a demanding chorus. I am disrupting their routine. Will has trained them to expect feeding time. Outside at the pen, I pull the levers and drag the feed into the feeding area. The sun has gone and the first twinkle of stars break through from the black-blue above. It is Dad telling me it’s good news. I call Sarah.
‘Sarah, it’s Tom! I’ve got a letter – it solves our problems, a mining company wants to buy Dad’s farm.’
I explain to Sarah the offer and conditions of the sale and that I will call Matty White, my real-estate mate, in the morning, to get his opinion on what we can push the company for on a sale price.
‘What? What do you mean you told them no!’
She tells me that while I was away, a broker called and her response was no
‘What the hell – why?’
‘We’re the third generation, I’m not sure we can just give over the farm to a mining company that will destroy the land.’
‘Destroy the land, have you seen the land? The climate has destroyed the land. It is as dry as a bone – again – and it’s not getting better.’
‘Stop being so dramatic – there’s been droughts and then it rains, it’s a cycle, it’ll turn again.’
‘Dramatic! Each drought is getting longer and harder to survive. I’m living this every day. I can barely manage my own land through the weather. Dad didn’t make the changes, not like Simmo’s dad next door.’
‘Look, you’re a good farmer, you can get the farm through this. You need to do it for Mum, otherwise she needs to move and at her age—’
‘She can move in with you.’
‘Not likely. I can’t keep her here, there’s not enough room and who will look after her when I go to work? I need to look after my business. It’s turned into a 24/7 monster.’
‘You’re making money. Unlike the farms. Mum needs to go into an aged care home.’
‘Never, she said she’d rather die at home than go into one of those.’
‘Well, that’s exactly what’s going to happen. She doesn’t eat, she fed the dog the food Annie and the carer cooked for her. If you won’t have her, and I can’t have her, she needs to go into a home. Bye!’
Returning inside, I take a container and heat the meal before placing it and a glass of water on the table in front of Mum.
‘Rufus? I put him out the back and feed him. He doesn’t need your food,’ I tell her as I leave. She tells me to say hello to Simmo’s parents. They’ve been dead for years.
Simmo has always been like a big brother to me. His place is only a half-hour away via the shortcut we made between the two farms. He told me to come over. My headlights bounce over the tracks, highlighting the odd rabbit and ‘roo that bolt across in front of the car. I gun the diesel hard to get up the mound after going down into the gulley – it was deeper than I remember.
I play out the conversation as I follow the sweep of the spotlights to avoid hitting any wildlife.
Simmo stands before me, beer in hand telling me it’s great to see me. For years he lurked in the shadows of his father; a real hard man of the land but now he’s his own man.
Surely, if I tell him I’m ready to sell, it will help him. Dad’s farm is in the middle of the three. I need to sell for us all to profit. I stop at the stairs to his house.
On his wooden veranda, with a beer in hand, we dance around with small-talk, agreeing farm life is tough and how we need the rains. He mentions no-one is coming to save us and that we need to rely on each other.
I pass him the piece of paper containing the miner’s offer.
‘Someone, has come to save us, Simmo.’
He returns it and tells me he’s not interested. I grip the can harder. It crinkles a little in the silence between us. I was certain he would sell. I try again. He puts his hand on my shoulder and says he’s sorry. He promised his younger brother, and he’d made a vow to his father not to sell.
‘But you fought him to modernise the farm to keep it viable, and you won. Surely the vow doesn’t make sense, now?’
‘Look, Tom, it’s complicated. Gabby’s dad wanted to buy the farm after Dad died. I said no, after all that effort and money. And now that Gabby and I have made it our home, I just can’t. I can’t turn around and say yes to the miners.’
Darkness descends on me, like a curtain closing a show, followed by a flash of anger.
‘But Simmo? This gives us all options for a better life. Wouldn’t Gabby want that for you and the boys?’
‘Mr Johnson will never agree to sell. He still hates you.’
‘Leave that to me. I need you Simmo. I need you on this – I don’t know how else I can go on, with Mum as bad as she is.
He asks about Sarah. I lie and tell him she is open to hearing the miner’s offer.
‘I heard she said no.’
‘That was to that wanker broker who wants everyone to sell their farm. This is different.’
‘Sorry, mate. Sorry – it has to be no.’
‘Even if old-man Johnson says yes?’
We go back and forth, every suggestion I put forward he blocks back, like he would when we played cricket at school. He was always good at defending his wicket.
‘I’m sorry, Tom.’
My chin quivers a fraction. I swallow the last of my beer. Simmo offers me another.
‘No, I need to get back to Mum. Please, mate, think about it.’
‘I have. I’ve spoken to Gabby about it, and sorry, mate, we’re staying.’
I crush the can in my hand. He reaches out to take it from me, before he tells me to take care and opens the door to where Gabby and his boys will be waiting inside.
A well of despair again threatens to drag me down into its blackness. It’s a slower drive back to Mum’s. Approaching her house, the defeat crushes me. I want to call Annie, maybe she can talk to Gabby. The houselights of Mum’s place prick the black ahead. I have to go in there again, and look at her slowly dying in that chair of hers.
I stop the ute. With the engine off, the soft metallic pings of it cooling, sound in the evening. Light pours from the house. I close my eyes and take three deep breaths to banish this feeling. There’s no alcohol in the house, not even cooking sherry. I might go back to Simmo’s and show him how serious I am. I hesitate, and then throw open the door. Mum’s head is on her chest. Shit, she’s dead!
‘Mum!’ I yell over the TV. She doesn’t move, doesn’t complain to me.
‘Mum!’ I shake her.
‘What!’ She tries to focus on me. ‘What the hell do you want?’
I tell her she fell asleep and it’s time to go to bed. She asks about Rufus and tells me to make sure to he doesn’t make a mess on the carpet. I’ll remind her in the morning. She gets herself ready for bed. I help her topple onto the sheets.
I call Annie, describe Mother’s condition and explain the situation with Simmo and the miner’s offer. A tear slides down my cheek. She says that she will call Gabby in the morning. And like the wife on the TV, says together we will get through this. I need to trust her. But I can’t put her through this again. I can’t go through this hell another day.
I message Simmo, asking him to reconsider. What can I suggest that might change his mind?
Another deep breath. I turn off the TV. The cattle are quiet. Rufus is buried in the garden.
I turn the key in the cupboard lock, open the door and clutch the rifle. With a single bullet in my hand, I walk out the back. With each step closer to the shed, I grow exhausted of all of this. The way ahead is pitch black. I jag my foot on the ground. No-one will get to me this time.
There’s a flash of light across the sky, briefly silhouetting the shed, which helps me find my way. Mother won’t come out here, she won’t find me, that is if she remembers I’m here. Either Will or the carer will find me. The phone connections can be dicey here, so Annie won’t think much of it, before it’s too late.
My fingers shake as I place the bullet into the chamber but finally, I snap the bolt closed. Maybe I should drive back to Simmo’s? It could change his mind.
In the shed, I sit on the bench. I rest my head against the corrugated iron. I send a message to Annie saying how much I love her and wish her a good night. I wipe my sweaty palm and re-grip the rifle. Another flash of light comes from the sky into the shed. I position the rifle.
Another flash of light. From the corner of my eye, a message flashes on my phone. Simmo says there may be a way. A crack of thunder reverberates. Pings hit the metal roof, slowly, but then accelerate until the rain hammers hard and sweeps across the ground.
My phone rings. It’s Annie. She’s spoken to Gabby.
‘I told you, we’d get through this together.’
This was an entry in the Hope Prize short story competition with themes of celebrating the themes of hope, courage and resilience.
