Journey’s End

Chapter 4-1

Chapter 4

Kim woke to find Abbey braiding her hair. ‘Mum, stay still.’ The little girl bit her bottom lip in concentration. Tangles of golden pillow-mussed ringlets framed her face. She looked like an angel in the soft morning light. ‘What were those noises coming from under the floor last night?’

‘I think we must be sharing the house with a wombat,’ said Kim.

‘Can we call it Mothball, like the one in the book?’

It seemed like yesterday that Abbey was perched on Connor’s knee, listening to him read Diary Of A Wombat. Kim closed her eyes. Life was divided firmly into two parts – before and after Connor’s death. She referenced each memory this way. Trouble was, the after-Connor ones were multiplying in an untidy jumble, while the precious before memories remained finite and frozen in time.

‘Can we go exploring?’ asked Abbey.

‘After lunch,’ said Kim. ‘A man’s coming this morning to talk about selling the house.’

‘I don’t want to sell it,’ said Abbey. ‘Neither does Percy.’ She jumped up and took the toy poodle from the windowsill. ‘We want to live here with Mothball, and get a pony, and grow carrots.’

‘Live here?’ asked Kim in astonishment. ‘What about the outside bathroom and the spiders in the toilet? What about school and your friends?’ Abbey shrugged and ran from the room in her pyjamas.

Kim sank back on the pillow. In daylight, Connor’s absence wasn’t so overwhelming. She’d slept unusually well in spite of the wombat. Bad dreams, so often her night-time companions, had not found her here. She stretched. What was the estate agent’s name again? Stan? No – Ben. Ben Steele. He’d be there at ten. She got up and made a face as she caught sight of herself in the wardrobe mirror. Wearing yesterday’s clothes and with a crooked crown of unfinished plaits. She’d better tidy herself up but, first, coffee. What time was it anyway? She went into the kitchen and looked at her phone. Dead. Oh well, it couldn’t be too late. She never slept in.

Kim checked there was water in the kettle and put it on the stove. Dead. Great. She went outside and took in a lungful of pure mountain air. It was a glorious morning, ringing with bellbirds. Curious wallabies watched her from the overgrown paddock below the dam. A shy half-grown joey dived for its mother’s pouch, gangly legs and tail jutting out at crazy angles. Above the trees an eagle traced lazy loops in the sky. The sound of an axe on wood echoed round the hills. Jake must have been up at the crack of dawn. Abbey appeared from nowhere, and together they followed the noise down to the shed.

Jake and his trusty tomahawk were attacking a little log with gusto. ‘Yes!’ he cried, proudly glancing at his mother. She applauded as the timber fell in half. Jake punched the air in triumph and started on another log. Hard to believe this was the same boy who would barely leave his computer games back in Sydney.

‘Can we light the fire?’ he asked.

‘In the stove – yes,’ she said. ‘How else will I get my coffee? But not in the fireplace. We’ll do that tonight.’

An approaching thrum sounded on the road below, grew quiet then loud again. Clouds of white corellas burst from the treetops as a red land cruiser made its way up the track. Kim combed her hair with her fingers. She would have liked a coffee first. Darn the estate agent for being so early.

The car bumped to a halt beside the shed. A tall, well-built man emerged, dressed in immaculate cricket whites, with thick fair hair tapering neatly to his collar, and a wide, friendly smile. He extended his hand. ‘Ben Steele, from Steele & Son, Estate Agents.’

Kim stepped back, a little shaken. Ben Steele bore a disturbing resemblance to her late husband. It wasn’t so much the shape of his face – too narrow for Connor’s. But the likeness was there in his bright blue eyes, the set of his mouth, the jut of his chin. It was there in his square shoulders and loose-limbed walk.

Jake took a swing at a new log. He dropped the tomahawk as it bounced off the hardwood, barely missing his leg.

‘Watch it, mate.’ Ben strode forward and picked up the little axe. He wet his forefinger and ran it down the blade. ‘Blunt as Old Nick.’

‘That’s good,’ said Kim.

‘It might sound odd, but a blunt axe is more dangerous than a sharp one,’ said Ben. ‘A honed blade bites into the wood and stays there. A blunt one glances off. What’s your name, son?’

‘Jake.’

‘You hit someone with a tomahawk, Jake, even by accident, even if nobody’s badly hurt, you don’t deserve to own one.’ He spun it in the air, deftly caught it, then ran his hand down the handle.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Jake.

‘Testing the wedge is fixed in tight and the haft isn’t cracked.’ He swung it in mid-air and gave an approving nod. ‘Once it’s sharpened, you’ll have yourself a handy little axe. That’s an old blade, though. It needs looking after. Rust-proof the head by coating it in some oil after you use it. And whatever you do, never leave it in the rain.’

Jake was hanging on Ben’s every word and nodding furiously. Kim was surprised he wasn’t taking notes. Her son was clearly hungry for male mentoring, and she felt a surge of gratitude towards this man; this Connor look-alike – at once familiar and strange.

‘Are you going to play cricket after this?’ asked Jake.

‘Sure am.’

‘What are you?’

‘Fast bowler-s***h-wicketkeeper.’

‘I played cricket last year,’ said Jake. ‘I wanted a turn at wicket keeping, but the coach said I need to learn to concentrate more.’

‘Got to listen to your coach,’ said Ben. ‘Do you bat? bowl?’

‘I’m practising to be a spinner, but I’m not very good yet. I never get a go. I’m always put way out in the field. It really bugs me, but my coach says I’m too slow. That a batsman has time to make a sandwich while he waits for the ball.’

‘That’s a mongrel thing to say,’ said Ben. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t listen to him after all.’ He bowled an imaginary ball with easy grace, his arm strong and steady.

‘Don’t want to play again this year if I never get a turn.’ Jake picked up a stone and bowled it. ‘It’s not fair. I love cricket.’

Jake loved cricket? It was the first she’d heard of it. In fact, this whole conversation had taken her by surprise. Kim hadn’t paid much attention last year when Jake joined Stuart’s cricket team. Daisy always took the boys and dropped them home. To be honest, she’d thought it was just a phase. She thought Stuart had talked Jake into it and her son was a reluctant recruit. Aussie Rules was the only sport for Connor. She’d assumed Jake would follow suit. Even though he’d told her the game reminded him too much of his dad. Even though he wouldn’t even watch it on TV.

‘Pity you don’t play for Tingo, champ. We’re on the lookout for a spinner. I could guarantee you plenty of match practice.’ He gave the tomahawk a final twirl and handed it back.

‘You don’t think Jake’s too young to use that?’ asked Kim.

‘No way,’ said Ben. ‘How old are you, champ? Eleven? Twelve?’

‘Just turned twelve.’

‘I was chopping wood for my whole family at eight.’ Ben managed to keep a straight face. ‘But you need someone to teach you how to do it right. How about your dad?’

Jake turned his back and took a swing at a log.

Kim touched Ben’s tanned forearm and took him aside. ‘I’m . . . I’m a widow.’ It was her standard response when people asked about her husband, and was usually effective in silencing further questions. This time it didn’t work.

Ben glanced up to where Abbey was making daisy chains and bouquets of waratahs. ‘That’s a tough break,’ he said. ‘Must be hard, trying to raise two kids by yourself. How long ... I mean ... when did you lose him?’

Kim wasn’t used to talking about it. But instead of being annoyed at Ben’s audacity, she found herself opening up. ‘Connor died two years ago. And yes, it is hard without him. Sometimes it’s impossible.’

Kim saw admiration, not sympathy on Ben’s face. A refreshing change. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help, just ask,’ he said.

With a final chop Jake split the little log and held up one half to show Ben. ‘You look a bit like my dad,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t he, Mum?’

Kim felt her cheeks flame.

‘Great work, champ.’ Ben gave Jake the thumbs up. ‘Now, down to business.’ He turned back to Kim. ‘Is there vehicle access to the back blocks?’

‘A few tracks,’ she said. ‘They’re pretty overgrown. Too rough for my car, even when it’s running properly, which it isn’t. But yours would manage.’

‘Can I come?’ asked Jake.

Abbey ran over. ‘And me?’

Ben opened the back door of the twin cab. ‘Hop in, kids.’ He turned to Kim with a grin. There was that touch of Connor again, the slightly crooked mouth, the boyish charm. She found it impossible not to smile back.

It was a grand tour. Surprising, to see how swiftly nature was reclaiming the land. Clumps of wattle, tea-tree and eucalyptus saplings had sprung up all through the unstocked pasture. Weeds too. Camphor laurel, lantana and privet. Wallabies and a mob of forester kangaroos bounded away from the car. ‘Cheeky buggers,’ said Ben. ‘What a waste of good grass.’

‘Look,’ said Kim. Three horses stood atop a hill to their right. Proud heads raised, still as statues. Dark figures framed by blue sky. Kim held her breath, captivated by the sight. In a blink they were gone. Had she imagined them?

‘Brumbies,’ said Ben. ‘They must have crossed out of the park. That’s what happens when you let a run go wild. It’s a magnet for every pest about.’

They followed the winding track uphill along the property’s western boundary, pitching and sliding into the worst ruts. Lush weed-free pastures stretched beyond the boundary fence, a stark contrast to the neglected, overgrown paddocks of Journey’s End. ‘My place,’ said Ben, gesturing to it. ‘Granite Hills. We’re neighbours.’

They left the paddocks behind them, and started up a steep timbered ridge. She’d forgotten how magnificent these forests truly were. Towering stands of tallowwood and blue gum gave way to subtropical rainforest as they climbed. A profusion of tree ferns and bangalow palms. The broad, buttressed trunks of yellow carabeen, red cedar and black booyong – giants that had never felt the axe-man’s bite. Elkhorns and bird’s nest ferns graced the upper branches. Kim exhaled. What a privilege to see part of the rare Gondwanan rainforests of eastern Australia that had remained unchanged for millions of years.

It took half an hour to reach the northern boundary, where Kim’s property joined Tarringtops National Park. Ben stopped the car and they got out to admire the view. Journey’s End stretched out before them. The valley’s broad green axis. Winding Cedar Creek, which threaded through the little township of Tingo after leaving her land. The fingers of forest reaching out from the foothills.

‘That’s our house,’ said Kim

Abbey stood on tiptoe for a better view. ‘It looks so small.’

‘What about over there?’ Jake pointed to the east, where slopes of emerald green lay dotted with cottonwool sheep. ‘Is that ours too?’

Ben shook his head. ‘That’s She-Oak Springs. Belongs to a friend of mine, Geoff Masters, your neighbour on the other side. He runs fine wool merinos and a few coloured sheep to keep his wife happy. Top little property. Shows how good this land can be when you look after it.’ Kim didn’t miss the mild censure in his voice. ‘Come on,’ said Ben. ‘Let’s have a look at that creek frontage.’

Afterwards, she and Ben stood on the verandah watching Jake tempt a friendly blue-tongue lizard with bits of ripe banana. Abbey ran after some rabbits. They vanished under a pile of rusty corrugated iron in what was once the garden. The only plants still flourishing were the waratahs, spectacular in a profusion of showy red blooms.

Ben gestured towards the forested hillside, topped by a sky of brilliant blue. Then south to where the creek meandered between blue gums. ‘That’s a view to die for. Buyers will love it.’ He picked at the flaking paint of the verandah rail. ‘But I have to be frank, Kim, there’s a hell of a lot needs doing.’

‘I want to sell Journey’s End as is,’ she said. ‘I’m flexible on price.’

Ben fixed her with his unsettling blue eyes. ‘You need to fix this house up, or knock it down. It won’t sell as is in this market. And as for the land, I could hardly give it away. Your paddocks need new fences. They’re thick with regrowth, overrun with rabbits and roos. The place needs a lot of work before it would sell as a grazing run.’ Kim’s face fell and Ben’s expression softened. ‘Nice timber, though, and plenty of it: blackbutt, tallowwood, blue gum. Hard to find old stands of quality wood these days – outside of parks that is. It’d be worth a lot to the right contractor.’