Jack was his name and he had all the trades. A man with a can of beer in one hand and a joint in the other, hanging round the oil drum fire with all the other blokes at a bush bash. Got along with everyone, all smiles and charm when he wanted. Nothing was ever his fault.
I put a hand to my face where that blow of his had landed. I can still feel the pain.
It’s a struggle getting through the laundry door with the washing basket. I peg the washing on the clothes hoist positioned too close to the lemon tree. I get a face full of sheet on my way to pick a lemon and another on my way back to the deck.
I pull on my Blundstones and head to the shed, ducking round the hoist and squelching on the spongy kikuyu that reaches to my ankles. The previous owner must have mowed on high. I’ll have to sh
