The Bush Undertaker Makes Amends
“Drat
that darned bird!”
The old man kicked the rough blanket off the bunk, sat
up on it, upended his boots to shake out any scorpions or spiders and pulled
them on over his old, threadbare socks.
“Tink tink; tink tink tink.”
The bird’s silvery chime rang loudly through the quiet
bush morning, having woken the old man again as it had done for several weeks
since nesting in a nearby gum tree.
“Five Bob,” called the old man, opening the door of
the slab-and-bark hut and looking out at the ever familiar scene of the barren
creek, the sheep-yards and the line of low ridges whose bare brown tops were
now flushed in golden light as the sun heaved itself over the horizon for
another baking hot, summer’s day. The old sheep-dog rose from the hollow it had
scratched in the dust beside the hut and walked over to its master.
“I’ll put the billy on while we go and check on them
sheep and then we’ll get a bit o’ breakfast.”
Together the old man and Five Bob climbed the summit
of the nearest rise to cast an eye over their flock. Seeing no signs of attacks
by wild dogs, he whistled Five Bob and they walked back to the hut where the
billy was just singing to the boil. After throwing in a handful of tea leaves
and stirring the brew with a gum twig, the old man located a battered enamel
bowl containing the remains of the previous day’s meal. He carved himself a
slice of the cold, salted beef, pulled off an ear of stale damper and chewed
them as best he could with his few remaining teeth, moistening the mixture with
sips of hot tea. Five Bob sat patiently by and was periodically rewarded with
lumps of meat or bread which he ate with equal relish.
After the meal they set off for their morning round,
checking the yard fencing and looking for any stray sheep that might have
wandered off along the creek or into the bush. By the time they returned to the
hut the morning was far advanced and the sun was blazing down, baking the already
tinder dry bush. Sitting down on a rock the old man pulled some strands of
tobacco and a small square of old newspaper out of a sweat stained pouch.
Rolling himself a thin cigarette, which he lit with a twig from the fire, he
sat back in the shade to enjoy the smoke. In the distance a moving black speck
caught his eye.
“There’s someone comin’ over the ridge, could be a man
on a ‘orse. Comin’ from the direction o’ town.” The old man sat and watched as
horse and rider approached over the low ridges.
“Funny looking cove,” he soliloquized. “Don’t look like
no one I’ve seen afore. Looks more like
some dandy new chum from the old days.
“Strewth!”
said the old man suddenly unable to believe his eyes, “It’s a woman, a woman
out ‘ere on a ‘orse, ‘aint seen that fer many’s a year.”
The old man continued to stare in disbelief as a woman,
neither young nor old, in well fitting, clean moleskins and chequered shirt
reined in the horse, dismounted and walked over towards him shaking her short
brown hair from underneath her hat, pulling off her leather riding gloves and holding
out her hand.
“They told me in town that I’d find you still here,
and I’m very pleased to meet you at last. My name’s Katharine Throssell, what’s
yours? Lawson didn’t give you a name.”
Gingerly, the old man took the dainty, well-manicured
hand into his gnarled and dirty one. Reassured by the firm warm grip he raised
his hat to scratch his head. “No one’s asked me name for years and years. The
folks at the big ‘ouse calls me ‘atter’. Guess I must a’ ‘ad one but I just forget.”
“Lawson calls
you the ‘old man’, but I think he also calls you ‘the hatter’ so if you don’t
mind I’ll call you Mr Hatter?”
“S’good a name as any I’spose, Miss.”
“Actually, it’s Mrs.”
The old dog came over and sniffed Mrs Throssell’s
clean, new boots. “Is this really Five Bob, he must be very old now?”
“No Missus, the old Five Bob were bitten by a
blacksnake an’ I ‘ad to shoot ‘im. One o’ the cockies gave me this’n as a puppy
and ‘e looked like Five Bob so I called ‘im that too.”
“Well Mr Hatter, you must be wondering what brings me
here. Do you remember digging up the bones of an Aboriginal? It was Christmas,
some years ago.”
The old man scratched his grizzled head and stared off
into the distance, screwing his eyes up as he searched his fading memories. “I reckon
that were the Christmas I found old Brummy in the bush, all dried up and chewed
by that gohanna.” A smile creased his face and his eyes twinkled. “Yer right, I
did dig up a black fella’s grave. I’ve prob’ly still got that sack o’ bones
somewhere about the place. Guess I felt like a bit a’ comp’ny after puttin’
Brummy away. Would yer like t’ see ‘im?” The old man pulled himself to his feet
and went rooting about at the rear of the hut returning with an old gunny sack which
he held aloft like a trophy.
“I
am sorry to say this Mr Hatter, but what you did, digging the Aboriginal up,
was not right and I’ve come to help you bury him again.”
“It were just a bit o’ fun Missus and ‘e don’t mind,
‘e’s long gorn.”
“You’ve separated him from his country Mr Hatter and
there are those who say that his soul can’t rest until he’s back there. Also,
you don’t want to be remembered forever as the old man who desecrated a grave.
This way you can be part of a new story.”
“Don’t know ‘bout no story Missus. There were no one ‘ere
but me, Brummy and the dead black fella and they couldn’t tell no one.”
“Yes, but did you tell anyone, Mr Hatter?”
“I mighta done Missus. It were a long time ago mind. I
were at the pub in town with a few bob left from a cheque. There was this bloke
from the city, said ‘e were a writer, kept on about ‘ow ‘e were looking for a
place where there were southern poets. ‘E was talkin’ to everyone and buyin’
drinks. ‘E could’nt hold ‘is drink. First ‘e were laughin’, then cryin’, then ‘e
took a swing at me. Said it were me shout and tried to thump me when I said I’d
run through the money I ‘ad. The landlord took ‘im away, told me not to worry,
that ‘e were always like that and it meant nothin’.”
“That sounds like Lawson. Well Mr Hatter he made you
famous. Here I’ll show you.” She walked over to the horse, reached into a
saddle bag and brought out a book. Turning to a well-thumbed page she pointed
to it. “There, do you see?”
“Sorry missus, never learnt to read.”
“Well it’s called ‘The Bush Undertaker”, would you
like me to read it to you?” Without waiting for an answer she began – “Five
Bob...”
The old man sat in silence and listened as the words
of the story brought back the memory of that blazing hot Christmas when he had
dug up the old grave, had found the dead Brummy in the bush with the remains of
a bottle of rum and had shot the big goanna that had been chewing on him.
“Yair, I reckon ‘e got it mostly right. Lawson did yer
say ‘is name was Missus?”
“Yes Mr Hatter. He was a famous writer, although he
was a mite too fond of a drink and he’s dead now. Anyway you’ll be forever
remembered as the man who dug up an Aboriginal, unless we go and put him back
in his country. It should only take a couple of hours and then we can have
something to eat. What do you say?”
“Well I don’t sees no ‘arm in it. I buried old Brummy
and mebbee its time the old black went back underground too. I’ll grab me
shovel.” Returning with the shovel and the sack of bones over his shoulder the
old man prepared to set off.
“Just a minute Mr Hatter, It might be better if you
ride and I’ll walk.”
“Never bin much
struck with ‘orses missus. Fell orf one when I were a kid, down in the Snowy,
chasin’ brumbies.”
“Well you sit on him and I’ll lead, just tell me where
to go.”
Before he had time to protest two surprisingly strong
hands had helped push him up onto the horse’s back. Mrs Throssell set off with a
lithe, easy stride which soon covered the three miles to the spur running out
from the main ridge where there was a stand of gum trees. As they approached the trees a bird song rang
loudly.
“Tink tink; tink tink tink.”
“Oh!
A bellbird, how lovely.”
“Bell bird!! – that’s a blasted good name for it as it
wakes me like a darned alarm clock.”
There was a strong peal of feminine laughter. “The
bellbird alarm clock, I love it. I must write that down later.”
In amongst the trees they stopped and Mrs Throssell helped
the old man dismount. He kicked the litter and leaves about looking for traces
of digging that the seasons had long obliterated. Then reached for the shovel
and dug it into the ground.
“It’s ‘ere Missus, this is where I dug ‘im up.” He
started to dig. It was hot and the sweat soon stood out on his brow and ran
down inside his already stained shirt.
“Take a breather Mr Hatter, I’ll take a turn. I’ve
turned over enough vegetable patches to know how to use a shovel.” She took the
shovel in her gloved hands, placed her foot on the blade and began to dig.
“I think its deep enough,” announced Mrs Throssell stepping
out from the new grave. The old man retrieved the sack and untied the cord
around the neck. He placed it on the ground, opened it and gently they removed
the bones and arranged them in the grave, placing the skull last. From her
saddle bag Mrs Throssell produced two small boomerangs. She sat cross legged on
the ground beside the grave and began clicking the boomerangs together as she
chanted an Aboriginal song. The old man removed his hat and stood beside her,
moved by the ancient, unfamiliar sounds.
“That
song wasn’t from his tribe and those kylies are not from his country, but I
hope he’ll understand.”
“Where d’ye learn the black fella talk Missus?”
“I spent some time on an outback station and one of
the Aboriginal girls there sang it to my son.”
“Jeez, Missus yer got a kid and yer let a gin sing to ‘im?”
“My kerlonial oath I do,” said Mrs Throssell laughing.
“Her name is Coonardoo and her family have lived on that land for generations.”
The sun was well down in the western sky as they
finished filling the grave and re-arranging the leaf litter on top to blend in
with bush. Then the old man remounted the horse and they set off back for the
hut. He turned in the saddle to take a last look at the grave. A lone, black
cockatoo lifted from its perch in one of the trees and flew off towards the setting
sun. By the time they reached the hut the shadows had started to lengthen.
“It’s too late for me to ride back to town now, Mr
Hatter. So if it’s all right with you we’ll have a bite to eat and I’ll bed
down here for the night.” She saw the startled look on his face and chuckled.
“Don’t worry Mr Hatter I’ve come prepared and I won’t be any trouble to you or
your stores.”
The old man watched her open the saddle bags and pull
out a parcel containing several pounds of freshly salted meat, a bag of flour
and a tin of butter. Reaching in again she pulled out a bottle of rum. “I think
we deserve a drink after today’s work,” she said, “and to toast the soul of the
departed.”
After they had eaten and Five Bob had dealt with the
leftovers they sat outside in the still warmth of the summer evening. The old
man rolled a thin cigarette and offered it to Mrs Throssell.
“I gave up smoking when I was pregnant, but I don’t
suppose one will hurt out here.” She took the cigarette, lit it with an ember
from the fire and drew in a lungful of the acrid smoke which caught her throat.
“That’s a pretty rough mixture Mr Hatter,” she
spluttered. “What with the smoke and the rum I’m going to sound like a parched
drover in the morning.” She laughed and the sound floated musically on the
evening air. She took a last drag of the cigarette, flicked the butt into the
fire and took the taste away with a final swig of rum.
“Time to turn in.”
Mrs Throssell laid her saddle on the ground and
unrolled a blanket. The old man watched in amazement. He had never seen a women
prepare to camp out as if she was a drover.
“Don’t look so surprised Mr Hatter, I’ve slept in the
open with a saddle for a pillow many times when mustering sheep and cattle. One
night here won’t do me any harm.”
“You can sleep in the ‘ut,” said the old man. “You can
‘ave me bunk, I can rig up a blanket for privacy, or I can sleep out ‘ere.”
“I’ll be fine
here Mr Hatter. I’ll bank up the fire, the smoke will keep the bugs away and
two-day old sweaty, smoky clothes won’t completely destroy my femininity.”
The old man watched Mrs Throssell roll herself into
her blanket, then wished her good night and went into the hut. Sitting on the edge
of the bunk he pulled off his boots and lay back staring at the roof bark. He
thought of Mrs Throssell sleeping beside the fire.
“Danged if I ever saw a woman other than a gin do that.
It’s not natcheral for a woman to be ridin’ all alone through the bush like a
drover, talkin’ ‘bout musterin’ cattle an’ livin’ on a station surrounded by
blacks. Queer sort of bloke she must ‘ave to let ‘er do that.” His thoughts
trailed off and he fell asleep listening to the familiar sounds of the night time
bush.
Some hours later he woke with a start to the sound of
a loud rustling outside the hut like a large animal scurrying about. Heaving
himself off the bunk he snatched up his shotgun, hoping he had remembered to
re-load it. The rustling outside continued and then stopped. There was a momentary
silence, then a startled scream followed by an oath in a female but very unladylike,
voice.
“Bloody
hell!!!”
The old man kicked open the door. Outside in the
moonlight Mrs Throssell was sitting bolt upright only feet away from the
biggest goanna he had ever seen, its neck raised and staring at her. He raised
the gun.
“Don’t shoot
him,” she said, remaining as still as she could. For what seemed like an age,
but was in reality only a few seconds, the goanna continued to stare at her and
then, with a bobbing movement of its head, stalked slowly off into the bush and
was swallowed up by the darkness. Five Bob, who had been hiding around the back
of the hut, slunk up to the old man and licked his hand as if to apologise for
his cowardice.
Mrs Throssell pulled the blanket up around her
shoulders, reached for a stick and stirred up the embers until they crackled
and flared reassuringly. “Do you know I felt as if it was trying to say
something,” she said as the old man sat down on the door step of the hut and cradled
the shotgun on his knees. “I didn’t feel that it wanted to do me any harm but
there was something in its eyes that was very old … and very far away … wanting
to move on. I think it’s gone for good.” She paused. “Just listen to me,
chattering away like an excited schoolgirl. It’ll be dawn soon. I’m going to put
the billy on. I don’t feel like sleeping after that.”
The old man nodded, put the shot gun away and they sat
beside the fire drinking tea and watching the sunrise.
As soon as the sun was clear of the horizon Mrs
Throssell saddled the horse and prepared to mount. “Well Mr Hatter, thank you
for your hospitality and for helping me to put the old Aborigine’s bones back
where they came from. That’s a much better end to the story.”
“So long Missus, ‘ave a safe ride back t’ town.” They
shook hands.
One foot in the stirrup, a lithe push upwards and Mrs
Throssell was astride the horse’s back and kicking it into a trot.
“Tink tink; tink tink tink,” rang the bellbird.
“He’s late this morning, your bellbird alarm clock,”
she called back over her shoulder and then continued,
“The silver-voiced bell-birds, the darlings of
daytime!
They sing in
September their songs of the May-time.”
The voice faded
away into the bush, the horse and rider were swallowed up into the distance and
silence settled back over the ancient land which has witnessed many weird and
mysterious things. The old man sat down with his dog and wondered what else the
new day would bring.
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