Chapter 9: Gone Bush

The men were up on the hill above the Monroe’s place next door. Over the autumn and into the winter they had churned up the flats and ploughed fertilizer through the grey earth. We had bought seeds and had planted the first crops of onions and potatoes, and while they were content to slowly dig their way into the soil and reach, yawning, into the sunlight, our attention turned to the imposing hardwoods as the rains hit with the full fury of winter.

While the older kids- the teens- were expected to pitch in with the men, those of us still snapping at legs were restricted to the homes. The ridge was a place for grown-ups. We would grumble and grizzle against the injustice of it all every morning as Dad ate his toast and drank his black, bitter tea. We assured him we wouldn’t get in the way. We would help. We could stack broken limbs, chase rabbits, or just watch quietly from the sidelines. We wouldn’t get bored, we wouldn’t be a nuisance. We would be saints, angels. We wouldn’t raise so much as an eyebrow out of place. If only he would let us follow him.

And every morning Dad would pat us on the head and tell us “Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Once you’ve grown enough to reach my nipples.” And we’d stand, Dad, Margie, Albert and I, with our backs to the wall as Mum sized us up to check if, during the night, we had miraculously grown enough. And every morning would end the same- with Dad lifting us up in turn to kiss us goodbye. He’d pick up his tucker box and thermos and whistle off on his horse. We would watch and listen as he disappeared once more into the bush.

So we had to stay around the house, helping in the garden and the kitchen, and tend to the sheep and chickens scratching around the house. In the mornings we would tend to our chores and the reading and writing lessons Ma assigned us. The afternoons however were practically our own. We would make mud pies in the garden, or try to control nature by damming the creek with whatever we had at our disposal- rocks and sticks as foundations, broken reeds, mud and slime to fill the inevitable cracks and crevices. As our wall rose, so too did the weight of the water behind its barrier. It rose faster than we could build, flowing over the top and dislodging our reinforcements until we had to concede an altogether inglorious defeat. But rather than wallow, immediately started plotting the build of a bigger and better dam as soon as the creek dried up over summer. Ma would watch us through the kitchen window and smile to herself at our antics.

All day we would listen to the distant thunder of sharpened metal biting into wood and the rhythmic whir of steel teeth eating back and forth through dense-grained timber. They served as sirens- calling to us, luring us. And we’d pause in whatever we were doing and wish that we were all grown up and able to go with our father to do the things that we most wished to do. To lift and grunt and heave and thrust and swing and sweat. We wished to be men. The monotonous thuds rolling through the bush resonated inside us until they were too strong for us to ignore.

One morning in the height of that first winter Albert and I were sitting in the middle of the chook pen simultaneously terrifying the hens, trying to bathe the chicks, and preparing mud pies to feed to the sheep, or, if we were sneaky enough, Margie. Before long the hills began to reverberate with that heavenly score drifting down on the cold westerly wind. Every now and then the earth shuddered with the shock of a great jarrah or marri separating from its stump and crashing into the mud below.

Albert looked around before leaning in to whisper something in my ear. He suggested we go exploring. See what the men got up to when they were out of our sight. It could be a reconnaissance mission. I retorted that we weren’t allowed. That Mum, or worse Dad, would have our hides if they found out. We were used to being scolded by Mum, but Dad was an entirely different proposition. If you got bellowed at by Dad you knew you were in trouble.

Nevertheless, it didn’t take much for Albert to convince me of the merits of his plan. He was older, persuasive, and quite naturally I looked up to him as someone wiser than I. He knew that I was just as curious as him and that all he had to do was to keep at me and eventually I would cave.

We knew we would have to slip away quietly, but would also need supplies. Albert used his cunning to concoct a plan. I would distract Mum, while Albert would slip into the kitchen and procure some biscuits and cake. Our biggest challenge would probably be distracting Margie and throwing her off the scent or else she could ruin our plans quick smart.

As if by intuition, Margie squinted at us from her swing beneath the gnarled Redgum tree. Her eyes bored into us, stripping us bare. She watched us suspiciously, waiting for us to slip up and give away whatever treachery we plotted, looking for any evidence at all so she could run inside and tell Mum that we were up to no good.

Acting like nothing was wrong, we stalked around the woodpile searching for the perfectly shaped weapons to take with us in case we were ambushed in the forest. We leant our rifles and pistols against the chicken-wire fence and stood whispering, trying to concoct a plan to distract Margie, but when we looked over to the swing she was gone, the wooden seat gently rocking back and forth from the bough.

We cursed her out a bit, called her names like dummy, pest and loser. We knew she’d try to wreck our plans. She always tried to wreck our plans. But we decided to go ahead with it anyway. After all, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

As the butterflies set to flight in my stomach I circled the long way around the house so as not to arouse any undue suspicion. My heart pounded in my chest and my breathing got faster and shallower until I was nearly panting. My skin flushed and my palms started to sweat. I knew I was doing something very bad. Lying to Mum was about as bad as it could get. A crime punishable by the words: just wait until your father gets home.

I took a deep breath, trying to still my heart and compose myself, and turned the corner of the house and stepped up onto the veranda. I practised my tummy-ache face, and pushed the door open.

Damn. Margie stood directly in front of me, waiting. She folded her arms across her chest and glared at me accusingly. The baubles in her plaits dangled either side of her face staring at me like a second pair of all-seeing, all-knowing eyes. Oh, why couldn’t she have confronted Albert? Why did it always have to be me?

“Wodarya up to,” she hissed more as a declaration of guilt than a question.

“Nothin’. I gotta sore tummy an’ needa see Mum.” I wanted to boldly push past her, but my legs were rooted to the spot under the intensity of her glare. I swallowed hard, hoping she would buy the lie.

“Do not.”

“I dooooo! Lemme past”, I whined.

“Don’t believe you. I seen you two running ‘round the yard. You’re up to somethin’.” She paused as if summing up her options. “I’m gonna to tell Ma.” She turned on her heels and marched through the kitchen, down the hall and into Mum and Dad’s bedroom to where our mother was folding washing. “Maaaa! Albert and Henry are up to somethin’. Henry sez he’s got a tummy ache, but I reckon he’s lyin’.”

“Oh why are you so suspicious all the time, Margie?” Ma sighed. “Come here Henry.” She ushered me past Margie, who refused to give up any room, bumping me with her shoulder as I squeezed past. “What’s wrong?” She placed the back of her hand against my forehead.

“I don’t feel well. My tummy hurts.” I put on my best hangdog expression. My tummy gurgled. So this is what it’s like to lie?

“Hmmm, you don’t feel hot…” Margie grinned at me menacingly and I shot her a look of hatred. “When did the pain start?”

“A while ago.” I said. “I didn’t want to disturb you.” *gurgle, gurgle* At this rate I would give myself a real tummy ache from the stress.

“Hmmm. You should always let me know if you feel unwell.”

“But he’s fakin’ it!” Margie implored.

“That’s enough, Margie. Here, take your clothes to your room. Now, Henry. Have you done poo’s today?”

Margie huffed out of the room with clothes in arms as I put some thought into the question.

“Ummm. Can’t remember. Ahhh, no?”

“Hmmm. That might be it. How ‘bout you go to the toilet and see if you can do poo? Okay?”

I nodded, trying not to giggle at Mum saying ‘poo’. I bit my lip, embarrassed, and left the room quietly. My mind returned to the final goal and whether Albert had enough time to get in and out with supplies. I panicked and made a bid for more time, turning back to Ma and Dad’s room.

“Ma? Thanks. I love you.” I flashed her my most charming and innocent smile. As I look back on it, it could seem to an outsider that I didn’t mean it; that I was just stalling for time. And I guess I would have to concede that in part this is true, but I know that I actually did mean it. Here was a woman that would love me unconditionally forever. And I would love her the same. And even then I knew that I would remember this moment forever.

“Awww, come here.” She held her arms wide and I came to her, hiding myself in her bosom. “I love you, too.” She hugged me for what felt like too long, intensifying my guilt at firstly the lie, and secondly the fact that I was about to betray her trust. My tummy gurgled and I could hear the sound reverberate off the walls. Tears of shame welled in my eyes. I swallowed the bitter pill. As she let me go and wiped a tear from her own eye I knew I would never feel this bad again in my life.

“Go do poos.” She had a smile on her face as broad as all of the oceans of the world.

I left the house quickly, suffocating on the guilt trapped between the walls and roof. I needed air. I ran to the chook shed and leant with my backs against its slats. I tried to steady my heart and breathe normally, but I could only suck air in short, sharp bursts, panting like a dog. I felt my head go light and the world start to spin and blur. All the light in the world condensed into a solitary point before my eyes and then there was nothing.

I came to with Albert shaking my shoulder.

“What are you doin? I’ve got supplies. Let’s go.”

I blinked against the slow jolt of consciousness. My brain pounded against the sides of my skull as if it were trying to escape. I couldn’t make sense of what was happening. All my thoughts were muddled. I sat up and leaned against the chook shed. My fingers moved to my temples and I groaned.

“What’s goin’ on,” I croaked.

“Wodya mean ‘What’s goin’ on’? We’re goin’ bush. I’ve got the supplies.” He lifted a hessian sack as proof.

“Oh. Yeah.” I rubbed my face.

“Come on. Get up. What were ya doin’ sleep’n in chook poo for?”

“Huh?” I looked down. My entire left side was caked in muck. I smelt like the long-drop. “Awww, shoot.”

“No, shit.” He giggled at his subversive use of a swear word and I joined in weakly, not wanting to look square.

I slowly got up leant against the wall and started wiping muck from my clothes. A sour taste coated the insides of my mouth. I needed water.

“Hurry up, would ya! Do you want us to get caught, or somethin’?”

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’. I just need a drink.” I staggered to the water tank and took a long drink from the tap.

My bowels started to groan and I remembered the lie. The guilt rose again and acid rose up into the back of my throat and my breakfast sprayed out of my mouth and over the leg of the tank-stand. A feeling of relief flooded over me as I glibly accepted the punishment for my sins.

My insides tried to turn themselves inside out. I rushed to the toilet, dropped my pants and aimed my bottom towards the hole as fast as I could. I launched a fluid line and groaned in pain and relief. I grinned at the irony of taking Mum’s advice, albeit unwillingly.

Albert hissed something at me from outside and I responded with a moan. He resorted to throwing rocks at the dunny. The musty air inside the bathroom rang as he took to throwing stones against the iron sheeting.

Once I was certain that I’d evacuated all that there was to possibly evacuate I emerged, beaten, from the loo. Albert stopped mid-throw and dropped his stone.

“Jeez, you look awful!”

“Mmmnngmm”

“You gonna be ‘right?”

“Hhhgn. Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe we should wait till tomorrow. You look really awful.”

“Nah. I’ll be fine. C’mon. Let’s go.” I walked back towards the chook shed as confidently as I could manage and Albert trotted to catch up. I didn’t want to appear to be some kind of sissy, especially with so much at stake. My legs wobbled like cold custard, but I kept up my stoic pace.

“You sure?”

“Yeah sure.”

“K then.”

        We picked up our supplies and our guns and headed up the hill away from home. We hadn’t specified a route, but were led through the bush by the sound of the axes marking time ahead of us. We picked our way between the trees, giving a wide berth to the prickly leaves of the Banksia and long spines of the Blackboy, and the ticks we knew to be hiding within their foliage.

            The canopy pressed down on us like ominous green clouds gathering for the apocalypse. Knotted brown arms grappled at us as we passed. We’d been in the bush before, but never without our parents, and this loneliness bred a menace feeling that clung to our skin and pervaded our pores. The silence sounded so much denser when we were alone.

            As we clambered over rusty ironstone outcrops any noise amongst the leaf litter became the quick-snap slither of unseen snakes. Each crackle would stop us in our tracks and thrust our hearts into our throats- never mind that it was winter and any self-respecting reptile would be burrowed up somewhere safe and dry. We felt certain that the incessant throbbing in our chests would bring them sliding from the rocks to sink their glistening fangs into our flesh. Our skin crawled. We took to whistling to still our hearts and divert our attention away from such fear.

            We were men, doing manly things, so we had to act like men- we couldn’t just abandon our plans because we were scared. And after all that I’d been through- the lying, the fainting, the vomiting, the diarrhoea - there was no way I would conceding defeat. I’d already invested too much in this plan. Besides, if we retreated we would get into trouble for disappearing. We both thought it better to get in trouble for something we actually did rather than something we set out to do and failed.

            So on when trudged, picking our way through the undergrowth, led ever onwards by the woodsmen’s song. Albert visibly shivered as a cool and calm breeze washed our skin. We held the sour breath of the bush in our lungs.

            We reached the bluntened razor of the ridge above where our house would be amongst the knotted gums below. Sap of the deepest red seeped from a wound in the side of a broad Marri formed a sluggish river coursing through the crevices of the brittle brown bark. A small bug lay embedded within the red amber, suspended in the very moment of death. I prodded at it for a while with a twig, pulling fine threads of tree-blood from the wound into a web. Curious, I pressed a finger into the goo, coating it with the tacky red gum. I tried wiping it off on my pants, but only succeeded in spreading a thick smear. And still my finger was coated. Before long my hands and face were coated also. Once it touched a surface, it stayed there. Albert swore at me and delved into the sack to grab a handful of biscuits.

            “Here you go. Lunch.”

            “Tah.” I gave up on cleaning my hands and took the offered biscuits, being careful not to taint my food.

            “We’re ‘bout half way, I reckon.”

            “Mmmhmm.”

            “Be there in half and hour.”

            I allowed Albert his commentary, but I was more concerned with keeping the sap out of my food. I sucked crumbs from my palms and watched two lines of ants marching in and out of their home next to my foot.

The throb and whine from the workers intensified as we picked our way along the ridge. Each thwack bounced between the trees, raising the alarm of the advance of man. They shook and whispered, agitated. Every component of the bush could sense the danger and realised the threat to its survival- that eventually it would be their turn to meet the sharpened splice.

            Normally our focus would have been pulled by any number of things and we would have forgotten all about our plans, but on this particular occasion we were relentless. It was our mission, our destiny, to meet up with the men, and we weren’t going to let any old stray roo or balled-up echidna distract us from our objective.

            We drew closer and the rhythm grew louder. It was as though a symphony was being composed. The clamour of the axes and saws provided the counterpoint to the trills and chatter of the bird and the swishes of the wind dancing through the leaves. It sang to us and sent waves of chills crashing up and down our spines.

            We knew we must have been close when we came across evidence of the men’s activity. Bands of bark had been stripped from the trunks to expose their flesh. The leaves at the tips of the branches were withering brown; the wounds wept with the blood of giants. We poked at the glistening beads of eucalyptus and revelled in its heavenly scent.

            Finally we caught sight of the men. They swung their axes with power and precision and their singlets were stained a deeper blue around their collars, chests and armpits where the sweat ran in torrents. Two axemen worked each tree, their swings staggered to maximise efficiency and each impact of forged steel sent shards of red flying through the air. Other pairs stood on opposite sides of a tree, each bracing against the push of the other as they grunted into their sweet, whirring cadence. Flecks of pulpy red mud were spat from the wound with each pass of the saw. Our nostrils burned with the rich, sticky scent of freshly cut wood hanging in the heavy air beneath the canopy.

            We watched from afar, each daring the other to be first to emerge from the shadows. We had come to join the men, but were scared of those final steps into their realm. We crouched behind a rotting and mossy log and waited, watching, but we couldn’t just crouch there all day amongst the rot and bugs. I was the one who finally succumbed. A combination of Albert’s goading, my desire to be a man, and sheer bloody-mindedness lifted me. My Legs drifted of their own volition as if on clouds. I would like to say I strode purposefully into the clearing, but I was more like a mouse assessing the safety of a room. I placed each foot carefully, trying not to break any spring-loaded sticks lest they give away my position. Albert hissed something at me, his head peering over the log, urging me on with a stiff wave of his hand. I looked ahead apprehensively, caught between my desire to stay out of trouble and my desire to prove myself. I hesitated mid-stride. Caught in the glare of a million eyes.

            “TIM-BURRRRRRRR!” The war-cry. I looked up. Most of the men had already adjourned to the far side of the clearing, while Matt Elliot and Bob Enfield scampered away in running crouches from their tools at the base of the tilting tree. The Jarrah twitched on its stump and its arrow point wavered ever-so-slightly from its aim towards the sun. It lost its precarious balance and gained its terrible momentum.

            It all happened so slowly, yet even now I am unsure of the exact order of events. I was paused between steps, the tree was barely moving, merely reclining, slowly easing towards the floor. Time slowed to less than a crawl. The air gasped. The canopy traced a prefect arc through the sky, scything through the limbs of its neighbours. It swept towards the ground in its rolling arc, Matt Elliot and Bob Enfield scurried away, my eyes aligned with my father’s. His face instantly turned ashen, his mouth open, his eyes dying. I don’t know how long we were locked like that, but in that terrible instance we were rooted in terror. Our eyes remained locked. I didn’t bother looking up. I knew what was coming. And then it came.