passengers Olive lost her grip on Jack’s hand. ‘Do you really think so?’ She ran up the gangway and with a little shoving manoeuvred to the stern of the ferry.
‘Anything’s possible!’ The toes of Jack’s boots jutted over the end of the wharf.
‘Yes, Jack Manning,’ Olive cried out. ‘Yes, I’ll marry you!’
The water lengthened between them as the ferry motored away, a belch of smoke and a churn of grey-speckled foam signalling the beginning of the harbour crossing. Jack watched Olive grow tiny with distance, her hand aloft in an excited wave.
Chapter 4
The Granite Belt, Southern Qld, 1965
D ropping his hand over the side of the bed Scrubber scrabbled on the floor for his dentures. Dog padded across the floorboards, picked the teeth up in his mouth and dropped them in his master’s outstretched hand. It was a hard business this rising, Scrubber thought as he jabbed the unwieldy teeth into place. It took time for his spine to gather the strength needed to participate with the rest of his body.
Once clothed, Scrubber lit the gas stove for the last time, his fingers delving in the mess drawer. He scattered screwdrivers, spanners and redundant salad servers onto the sink. Outside the wind howled mercilessly, rattling broken weatherboard and aged glass.
‘Go your hardest,’ Scrubber mumbled, stabbing a hole in his belt with a metal kitchen skewer and tightening the leather another notch. By the time the kettle boiled and the tea leaves had steeped good and long, his saddle bags were packed. Supplies, camp oven and billy were about the extent of his needs. What the heck: he threw in a change of clothes. On the sink was a length of rubber tubing, the sawn-off ends smoothed by sandpaper. Scrubber swished it under the tap, dried it on the front of his shirt and rotated it into the hole in his neck. Though he doubted at his age the hole would close over, habit and the slightest improvement in his speech ensured the morning ritual continued. Now he was starting to feel a semblance of his old self.
The black tea made Scrubber’s gums ache and his bowels excitable, a familiar bodily state signifying the survival of another night. In celebration of the event he mushed up two slices of toast smeared with a near inch of Vegemite. Dog tilted his head, gobbled up his own share of toast, and washed it down with a bowl of water. If his Veronica were alive, Scrubber knew she’d be telling him to sit down and eat, to steady up a bit. Well, having spent his life either upright or horizontal he wasn’t changing now, not even for the whisper of a long-dead woman who’d argued that being pleasantly plump never killed anyone. It did Veronica. She was plain fat.
Now the leaving day was upon him, Scrubber opened the wardrobe. A mangle of clothes that were too big for him and a couple of Veronica’s floral dresses sat in a heap on the floor. He kicked the long-unused items to one side, pausing to give one of her scarfs a sniff. It was a mottled yellow affair and it still smelt of strawberries. Veronica’s signature scent was, in Scrubber’s mind, lolly water. Made from hard candy, he reckoned. However, he stuffed the scarf in his pocket before hesitating at the tin box, which was now revealed in the bottom of the wardrobe. He eyeballed the box for long minutes, his hands reaching out once, twice, before finally making a lunge for it and sitting the box on the end of his rumpled bed.
‘What ya reckon?’
Dog cocked his head sideways.
‘Hmm, figured as much.’ Scrubber eyed the box off a bit, scratched his stubbly chin; eyed it off some more. It was a business this repaying of an old debt. Dog, two front paws on the sagging bed frame, lowered his whiskered muzzle to the sheets and whined. With a glance heavenwards Scrubber raised the latch, the hinge flicking open easily. He took it as a sign and lifted the yellowing newspaper to reveal a leather draw-string pouch. He always was one for good serviceable items, the
‘Anything’s possible!’ The toes of Jack’s boots jutted over the end of the wharf.
‘Yes, Jack Manning,’ Olive cried out. ‘Yes, I’ll marry you!’
The water lengthened between them as the ferry motored away, a belch of smoke and a churn of grey-speckled foam signalling the beginning of the harbour crossing. Jack watched Olive grow tiny with distance, her hand aloft in an excited wave.
Chapter 4
The Granite Belt, Southern Qld, 1965
D ropping his hand over the side of the bed Scrubber scrabbled on the floor for his dentures. Dog padded across the floorboards, picked the teeth up in his mouth and dropped them in his master’s outstretched hand. It was a hard business this rising, Scrubber thought as he jabbed the unwieldy teeth into place. It took time for his spine to gather the strength needed to participate with the rest of his body.
Once clothed, Scrubber lit the gas stove for the last time, his fingers delving in the mess drawer. He scattered screwdrivers, spanners and redundant salad servers onto the sink. Outside the wind howled mercilessly, rattling broken weatherboard and aged glass.
‘Go your hardest,’ Scrubber mumbled, stabbing a hole in his belt with a metal kitchen skewer and tightening the leather another notch. By the time the kettle boiled and the tea leaves had steeped good and long, his saddle bags were packed. Supplies, camp oven and billy were about the extent of his needs. What the heck: he threw in a change of clothes. On the sink was a length of rubber tubing, the sawn-off ends smoothed by sandpaper. Scrubber swished it under the tap, dried it on the front of his shirt and rotated it into the hole in his neck. Though he doubted at his age the hole would close over, habit and the slightest improvement in his speech ensured the morning ritual continued. Now he was starting to feel a semblance of his old self.
The black tea made Scrubber’s gums ache and his bowels excitable, a familiar bodily state signifying the survival of another night. In celebration of the event he mushed up two slices of toast smeared with a near inch of Vegemite. Dog tilted his head, gobbled up his own share of toast, and washed it down with a bowl of water. If his Veronica were alive, Scrubber knew she’d be telling him to sit down and eat, to steady up a bit. Well, having spent his life either upright or horizontal he wasn’t changing now, not even for the whisper of a long-dead woman who’d argued that being pleasantly plump never killed anyone. It did Veronica. She was plain fat.
Now the leaving day was upon him, Scrubber opened the wardrobe. A mangle of clothes that were too big for him and a couple of Veronica’s floral dresses sat in a heap on the floor. He kicked the long-unused items to one side, pausing to give one of her scarfs a sniff. It was a mottled yellow affair and it still smelt of strawberries. Veronica’s signature scent was, in Scrubber’s mind, lolly water. Made from hard candy, he reckoned. However, he stuffed the scarf in his pocket before hesitating at the tin box, which was now revealed in the bottom of the wardrobe. He eyeballed the box for long minutes, his hands reaching out once, twice, before finally making a lunge for it and sitting the box on the end of his rumpled bed.
‘What ya reckon?’
Dog cocked his head sideways.
‘Hmm, figured as much.’ Scrubber eyed the box off a bit, scratched his stubbly chin; eyed it off some more. It was a business this repaying of an old debt. Dog, two front paws on the sagging bed frame, lowered his whiskered muzzle to the sheets and whined. With a glance heavenwards Scrubber raised the latch, the hinge flicking open easily. He took it as a sign and lifted the yellowing newspaper to reveal a leather draw-string pouch. He always was one for good serviceable items, the
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