The Long Road Home, page 16
‘Sorry I wasn’t here. I went for a walk with the dogs. I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said as they made their way back to the kitchen. ‘Get the milk out, will you? And the biscuit barrel – there are some melting moments in there from Bev Shackleton next door.’
‘Yum,’ Rick said and did as he’d been asked, glad to be relieved of his useless hovering.
Seated back at the table, he watched her filling the kettle, her back to him. When he heard the water hitting the sink, he got up and went over. He reached past her and turned off the tap. She looked across at him, frowning slightly as if not sure who he was or how he happened to be there. He tried to gently prise the kettle from her grasp, but she suddenly pulled it tight to her, spilling water down her front, and wrapped both arms around it protectively.
She looked up at him with such a pained, helpless expression he could no longer do nothing. He wrapped his arms around her from behind and held her and the kettle. Gradually he felt the tightness leave her. Her shoulders wobbled and then shuddered violently, and hot tears spilt onto his bare arms. He laid his head against the side of her face.
‘It’s okay, Mum,’ he whispered, ‘let it out,’ choking on the lump in his throat. He thought he felt her nod.
Finally, his mother’s tears subsided and she became still again. He released her and moved back a little but stayed beside her. She put the kettle down in the sink and dragged a hanky from inside the sleeve of her jumper and stared out the window while she sniffled and dabbed at her tears and then blew her nose. She put the kettle on its stand and it began hissing to life.
Rick sat back down at the table and took the white lid off the ancient plastic biscuit barrel. He stared in at a mound of small yellow perfect little homemade biscuits joined together with white icing for a moment before putting his hand in. He wasn’t hungry, but wanted to stay busy.
‘Yum,’ he said again as he bit into the biscuit, while watching his mum who was still staring at the kettle. He noticed her shoulders were back and tight again and felt a bit mean at being relieved that that meant she wasn’t going to open up any further.
And then she turned around. Her mouth opened a little as if she was about to ask something. But she didn’t. Her chin wobbled. He rose in his chair to go to her. But she put her hand up to stop him and he sat back down.
‘Look at me. I’m a mess,’ she said, looking down at herself.
‘It’s okay, Mum. It’ll dry.’
‘Here you go,’ his mother finally said, as she put his mug in front of him with a thump. She returned to the bench and wiped it down and then stood with her back to the sink twisting the tea towel in her hands. Was she trying to keep busy like him or looking for the right words to speak?
‘Aren’t you having one?’
‘No. I’ve got too much to do.’
‘Like what? And, anyway, five minutes won’t hurt.’ Please, just sit down.
‘Yum,’ he said again, as the lemony icing in the centre joined the buttery richness in his mouth. He was on his second when his mother finally brought her own mug over and sat down in her usual place at the end closest to the sink and stove. She stared at the mug and sighed, wrapped her hands around it. But instead of lifting it to take a sip, she stayed as she was and looked up at him.
‘I don’t have a clue what to do, Rick,’ she said quietly. ‘He’s left us in the lurch. The stupid, pig-headed old fool,’ she added in barely more than a whisper. But while the words were a criticism, the tone was gentle.
‘You can talk to me, Mum. What can I do?’ he said quietly.
‘He didn’t tell you his plans, did he? I can’t believe he didn’t write anything down. I mean, well, he always said that, but I thought it was just …’ She removed a hand from her mug and waved it helplessly. Him being an arrogant arsehole?
‘He didn’t? Like, seriously?’ Rick had to tell himself to close his gaping mouth. He had often marvelled at how Joseph knew everything about every crop that had been planted in every paddock – the yield, protein rating. Everything – and could recall it when asked. If there was one thing Rick had admired about him, then that was it – his memory.
Rick looked back at his mother now twisting the tea towel in her hands again. He’d always seen her, thought of her, as strong. Now he saw what little substance there was. She’d truly been Joseph Peterson’s shadow. Now she was his widow. He’d always assumed his father had discussed everything with her. He’d pictured them doing just that while sitting up in bed at night together or late at the kitchen table.
Wow. Christ. His mother, to the best of his knowledge, had never set foot in a sheep yard or climbed into the cab of a tractor beyond taking a meal out or collecting the dishes.
‘It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay, Mum. I can take over.’
‘But you don’t know what he wanted.’
‘I’ll figure it out. I’ll learn.’
‘You don’t happen to have the passwords for the internet banking, do you?’ his mother now said, ignoring him.
‘No. Sorry.’ Jesus, can this get any worse? He’d thought she might have been doing the books behind the scenes with Joseph taking the credit there, too. But, no, clearly not. ‘What about the computer? Maybe he has everything on there.’
Rick’s mother shook her head. ‘No, nothing. I’ve checked. That password is on a slip of paper stuck to the side. I did Sudoko on there for a while, so … I might get back into that when things settle down.’
She’d said it in a relatively matter-of-fact tone. Was she coming unhinged? No, just terrified and trying to hold it back, he thought. She should be. Not only were they a huge ship without either a rudder or a captain, she was now hanging over the side and being dragged along. Christ. Selfish, controlling old bastard. Rick rubbed his hands over his face. Where the hell to start?
‘It’s okay, Rick. It will all be fine. I’m seeing Steve at the bank in the morning. I’m sure he’ll sort me out and help me organise a new password. And I’ve spoken to Jessica at the accountants.’
The accountant. How much must he have made off a man whose only contribution to preparing the taxes had apparently been the presentation of a large box of loose receipts, statements and other paperwork. That was the rumour. Rick used the same accountant, but at least he presented his figures on an Excel spreadsheet. It was strange that Joseph had never put his figures into a spreadsheet and fully embraced computing and all its many advantages yet had adopted GPS guidance for the tractors and header. Though maybe that was because that was something he could brag about with the neighbours.
‘Well, I guess all we need to worry about right now is getting through harvest in a few weeks,’ he said, more to himself. ‘We’ll need to organise someone to drive Dad’s header or a contractor.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she said and concentrated on sipping her tea.
‘Do you want me to make some calls?’
‘No, Warren Smith called offering. I’ll call him back.’
Rick felt the sting of rejection but pushed it aside. It’s not about me: she needs to do what’s right for her. But I have my answer, don’t I? She doesn’t want me to take over. She is. And she’s not going to be transferring any land, is she? He tried not to react to his disappointment. Was he disappointed not to be tied there, though? He could go away for a week or so, try out leaving, if he wasn’t needed.
‘Another biscuit?’ She picked up the plastic barrel and leant it towards him.
‘No thanks. What’s for lunch?’ he ventured, as something to say. For the first time he could ever remember, there were no cooking smells or sounds. It was usually a hot lunch in the Peterson house – meat and three veg presented in about six different ways rotated during the week, and then a roast on Sunday. Even Monday’s cold meat and salad meals were always accompanied with potatoes boiled on the stove and drizzled with butter.
‘I have no idea, Rick,’ Maureen said, wearily. ‘I haven’t given it any thought.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ Good for you, Mum, he thought. Perhaps she hadn’t enjoyed all the meal preparation all these years, after all, but had felt obligated.
‘There’s plenty of stuff in the fridge if you’re hungry. The neighbours and everyone have been dropping meals off left, right and centre,’ she said.
‘That’s good of them.’
‘Well, it’s the way it’s done, Rick.’
The return to stoicism was starting to feel oppressive again. He needed to get out of there. But he also didn’t want to leave her. ‘I’m thinking of visiting Ballarat. Before harvest,’ he said to ease the mood.
‘What? Why?’ Her head lifted suddenly and she was looking directly at him.
He had trouble reading her expression. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t go for long – just a change of scenery. And I’d definitely be back in time for harvest.’
‘What about the sheep?’
‘There’s plenty of feed at the moment, so it’s just a matter of keeping an eye on the water – making sure there’s plenty and it’s clean enough. You could call Warren.’ He hadn’t meant to sound prickly, but he might have a little.
‘But if you’re not here … and there’s a pipe leak or something …’
Ugh. ‘It’s okay, Mum, I won’t go anywhere. Actually, I’d better go and do a check of all the troughs now.’ Anything to get out of there – though he still hadn’t found out what he really wanted to know.
‘That’s a good idea.’
‘Would you like to come for a drive with me?’
‘No. I’m going to start sorting through your father’s clothes.’
‘There’s no rush for that, Mum.’
‘Well, there’s no point putting it off, either, is there?’
‘No, I suppose not. You need to do what’s right for you.’
‘Yes. I need to keep busy. I’ve got Matilda and Danni coming over later to help load everything into the car for the op shop.’
Rick shuddered at the thought of seeing someone else in the small town walking around dressed in his father’s clothing, but then reminded himself that like most farmers there was nothing distinctive about anything Joseph had worn. He’d always been in blue or brown for special occasions and khaki workwear the other ninety-five per cent of his time. Rick tried to push back the rising thought that he was being ousted from the folds of the family. But it grew.
His sisters had no interest and no involvement with the operation and hadn’t married farmers. The four of them were professionals – Matilda and her husband Matt were teachers and Danni and Owen were nurses. Maybe Maureen was going to ask them to run it with her – they’d be coming at it with about as much knowledge as Rick had right at the moment.
Rick said goodbye to his mother and got back into his vehicle, pleased to be away from the kitchen, where grief was being pushed down deep and not dealt with. She waved him off from the back step, which was a little unusual, he thought, as he waved back, having caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye while reversing. He’d check all was well with the sheep and head back home.
Rick slowed the ute as he passed the compound with the three large black and white kelpie-border-collie-cross dogs snoozing in the sun. His heart panged at seeing them like this. They had everything they needed – food, water, shelter and room to stretch their legs – but still every time he saw them, he longed to bring them inside. He loved dogs and wasn’t sure why he’d never bought his parents’ view that dogs were for working sheep and they belonged outside. Rick didn’t see why they couldn’t be pets too – what harm could it do? But his father had been firm all those years ago, and it was a popular position among farmers. None of his friends growing up or now had their dogs inside. It didn’t help that work dogs loved to roll in sheep shit and the decaying corpses of whatever animal they could find, the results of which were putrid.
After he’d split from Alice he’d half-seriously considered getting a house dog before deciding he couldn’t deal with the teasing his father would dish out about him having a wussy dog. And if he had to go away overnight there was no way his parents would take care of it.
He shoved the gear stick into first and carried on. After a few minutes he pulled up on the top of the main rise at the edge of the paddock to survey the large open space below him. The sheep were scattered around grazing, lambs in tow. He got the binoculars out of the glove box and scanned them more closely. There had been stock thefts lately in the district, so everyone was a bit on edge. Rick did a rough count. It was one thing he was good at that his father hadn’t been able to ridicule him for.
He knew the old man had pushed them through the raceway in the yards quickly in order to unseat Rick’s counting, but Rick always managed to keep up and come up with an accurate number.
Out there in the paddock he could tell by looking if twenty or so were missing. He reckoned everything seemed in order.
Rick drove over to the trough. He emptied it out and gave it a quick clean with the brush kept attached to the ute – more to give him something to do to feel useful than the trough being too grubby.
Back in the ute he found himself picking up his phone and bringing up his younger sister’s number. He and Matilda got along better than he did with his older sister Danni. He wasn’t as close as he’d have liked to be or thought he should be to either of them. He’d tried over the years, but had come to the conclusion that you could only do so much.
Anthea had said he couldn’t make someone bend to his wishes. Rick hadn’t wanted to chew up their time together and his money on things that weren’t directly relevant, but he thought it might have something to do with their birth order. No doubt Danni had got her nose out of joint when he’d arrived on the scene and she no longer had her parents’ undivided attention. Though that didn’t explain Matilda’s dislike of him … Rick-the-odd-one-out might as well have been the tagline to his life, he thought as he waited for the call to connect.
‘Hey, what’s up?’ Matilda said.
‘Hi. How are you?’
‘Okay. Doing okay, I guess, all things considered. What’s going on?’
‘You’re seeing Mum later today, right?’
‘Yep. Why?’
‘I’ve just left and she seemed … oh, I don’t know … sad.’
Rick had searched his mind for the right words to say without being disloyal to his mother. It wasn’t his place to tell anyone she’d fallen apart in front of him, or anything else for that matter. He needed her being upset at him like a hole in the head. And, anyway, when he’d left, that’s exactly how she’d been.
‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘What?’ Rick knew exactly what, but he sure as hell wasn’t digging his hole any deeper.
‘She’s just lost her husband of thirty-six years, who she adored and who was her entire world, Rick, of course she’s bloody going to be sad. He’s only been gone a week. She’s probably still in a state of shock. We all are. Well, I am.’
‘I know, but …’
‘Rick, just because you hated the old man doesn’t mean the rest of us aren’t upset. It might be business as usual for you, some kind of relief maybe, but it’s not for us! Are you being serious right now? Don’t be a heartless prick. Not now. Please.’
Jeez. Thanks a lot. But she was right. What would he know about grieving for a person he was glad was gone?
‘I’m sorry,’ Matilda said, breaking into his thoughts. ‘It’s just a lot to deal with.’
‘I know. I’m sorry, too. I don’t know what to say that’s right.’
‘No one does, Rick, that’s part of the problem,’ she said.
Ah, Rick thought, she’s referring to Matt. I’m being put into the all-men-are-dickheads pile because he’s said something insensitive.
‘I’ve got to go, but thanks for calling.’
‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’
‘Okay. Will do.’
While he was proving useless for moral support and buoying words, Rick Peterson was good with his hands and could fix or build practically anything with a roll of fencing wire and a pair of pliers. He’d been called on a couple of times by Matilda and Danni to do things around the house because their husbands were a bit useless – gifted in other areas Rick wasn’t aware of, apparently. Both couples had met at boarding school or uni, he couldn’t remember which. Joseph had been adamant about the girls being sent to private school for their last few years. Rick had heard his sisters say several times while swapping stories – always with pretentious accents, and he hoped tongue in cheek – that they were not only getting a good education but also being schooled in how to find a decent husband. Decent being more about the size of his bank account or earning capacity than the size of his heart and good character, as far as he could tell. Plenty of sons in the district and all those of the families the Petersons had always been close to had been sent to boarding school, too, before getting stuck into learning the ropes on the family farm and then set up on their own property or took over the management in time. Rick wished he’d got to go away – he might have never come back from the city if he had. It was another reason he figured he felt he didn’t fit into the family or his peer group. He didn’t have the same stories to swap.
Rick put his phone down and the vehicle back into gear and drove on. He was pleased to see how well the crops were doing. Would it turn out to be good enough for a bonus on his salary? No. I’m meant to be learning to be more assertive without getting angry and frustrated. I’ll ask when the time comes, he told himself firmly and nodded.
