Leave Taking Read online

  graze Trigger

  who is rolled next to me too.

  ‘Woof!’ he gives a throaty startled bark,

  and then I hear the motorbike.

  Another day starts,

  another day closer to leaving.

  Today I’m too lazy to cook my own breakfast,

  not eggs and sausages, just toast

  cooked in the toaster in the kitchen.

  After breakfast

  I want to set my tent up

  near the old truck.

  Pa’s old truck,

  across from the hayshed.

  Left there the last time its engine roared

  to life. Not sure when that was,

  but I can ask Pa;

  he knows all about the farm

  history stretching

  way back.

  ‘Good job,’ Dad says

  as he looks in the machinery shed

  at my sorting.

  ‘Reckon those boxes will sell well at the clearing sale.’

  I smile. I can still smile.

  ‘Is Pa coming soon?’ I ask.

  Dad looks at my tent already packed up

  and asks instead,

  ‘Where to next?’

  ‘Down by the old truck,’ I say.

  Dad nods and adds, ‘It is a good time for Pa

  to come then. He can tell you all about that truck.

  He will be here soon.’

  Suddenly it seems too quiet now.

  Just me in the family,

  no one to play with. I even miss Leah’s jokes,

  her little tricks … especially her April Fools’ jokes.

  She loved teasing me at breakfast.

  Once she tricked me by saying, ‘We have new breakfast cereal that is

  both crunchy and soft.’

  ‘Rubbish, how can that be?’ I’d asked,

  not knowing she’d carefully cut up marshmallows

  and mixed them with cornflakes.

  ‘Ha! Big April fool!’ she’d squealed when I’d helped

  myself to a big bowl of her special joke mixture.

  I don’t want my friends around yet.

  They ask silly questions,

  think I might get sick like Leah,

  or they might catch the sickness.

  I know they don’t know what to say

  or their words come out all wrong

  and sharp.

  I don’t know what to say either,

  so no one says anything

  and they keep away from me.

  Only Emmy and Jaxon try,

  as if they have rehearsed a speech

  for a school play.

  ‘Are you sad?’ they ask.

  ‘What do you do by yourself now?’ they ask.

  Silly questions.

  Of course I’m sad.

  Of course I’m lonely.

  Then Emmy brought me grapes

  in her lunch box

  and made an ‘I’m sorry’ card.

  That helped a lot.

  But there is so much

  inside me that hurts,

  so doing this map of goodbye

  makes me feel

  a bit more like the Toby

  I was when I was a big brother.

  I put all my gear into a trolley I’ve made.

  Pull it along the dirt track

  into the hayshed paddock,

  over to the old rusted truck.

  The truck was red once.

  Still has Pa’s farm name on the side

  and a cool lever you can lift as an indicator

  like a rod with a hand on the end.

  I climb into the driver’s seat, even though

  the leather is ripped and there are probably

  mice or spiders.

  Trigger jumps up wanting to see in,

  wanting to be a cattle dog

  on a ute tray.

  The truck door groans and squeaks

  as I push it open again.

  I think about the big step out the door

  onto the ground,

  then look in the door pocket,

  find pieces of paper

  Leah wrote on for our last game here.

  ‘To’ and ‘From’ pieces of paper

  to make bus tickets:

  ‘From our farm to market’

  ‘From our farm to town’

  ‘From our farm to the moon’.

  Silly Leah,

  as if our truck could fly!

  It wouldn’t even go on a road now.

  The tyres are worn out, ripped,

  the tray is rusted and wild oats are growing

  up through the wooden slats.

  I push myself from the driver’s seat,

  back down to the long grass,

  close the truck door.

  I squirt water from my water bottle

  on the windscreen, write my name

  on the muddy dust,

  then crookedly write

  ‘To the moon’.

  I find a clear, grassy area to pitch my tent.

  I hammer in the pegs. Tie the ropes.

  Set up my sleeping-bag,

  make a little fire pit.

  Now for exploring and saying goodbye.

  Ha! Tilly and Shelley are here too,

  wanting me to poke and prod around;

  maybe I might disturb more mice, so the

  cats get ready to hunt.

  Trigger ignores them and goes sniffing,

  digging, chasing.

  There goes a hare!

  There goes Trigger!

  Will there be places for Trigger

  to run on our next farm?

  I look in my tent for my camera,

  well, it’s Leah’s.

  She loved taking photos.

  I snap the truck from all angles.

  It’s a mystery

  and I make my own history for it.

  But it feels too sad using Leah’s camera.

  I’ll only use it for the truck.

  I can draw the rest on the map.

  Maybe the truck took Pa’s prize Jersey cows

  to the Royal Show; I know he had prize cows.

  Maybe it carted square bales

  to another farm for hungry cattle,

  maybe it took Grandma and my dad

  along with Pa on market days

  and Grandma went shopping, bought

  a new dressing table, or a new bed for Dad.

  Ha! Pa had better hurry and tell me the real history.

  I’m hungry again.

  I call, ‘Trigger!’

  He’s a long way off.

  ‘TTTriGGGer,’ I yell.

  Then I see someone walking down

  the dirt track

  and Trigger is jumping up,

  wagging his tail furiously.

  ‘Pa!’ I shout.

  ‘Pa! Over here!’

  And I can’t help it,

  tears trickle down again.

  I don’t wait but charge off

  to meet him.

  The cats aren’t interested;

  they lie in the sun.

  ‘How’s my boy?’ yells Pa as we get closer.

  And the tears become

  a tiny waterfall.

  I’m crying and running

  and hiccuping

  all mixed into one.

  Trigger stops jumping and stands still.

  It’s like he doesn’t know me;

  how could he? All my sadness

  for Leah
is turning me into a stranger.

  ‘That’s it Toby, let it go,’ and Pa is hugging me tight.

  And I’m sure Pa is crying too.

  I know that crying gives me a headache

  and the reddest eyes ever.

  But it’s like a big lump in my chest

  is free.

  ‘Why did Leah have to die, Pa?’ I ask.

  Silly, stupid question.

  ‘Why Leah? Will I get cancer too?’

  ‘Ah! Come on over to the truck,

  we’re nearly there,

  we’ll have a seat on this old log.

  Come on, here’s a handkerchief,

  let’s mop up and then we can talk.’

  Trigger recognises me again

  and comes, tail wagging,

  putting his head in my lap.

  Pa doesn’t say anything for a while, not until

  I’ve stopped hiccuping.

  ‘It’s good to let all that grief out,’ he says.

  ‘It’s going to take a long time to build a family again.’

  I don’t really know what Pa means, but I nod.

  ‘And one way your mum and dad

  have worked out their sadness

  is to shift to a new farm.

  Smaller, a new district,

  but it will help.

  A new baby coming will help too.

  ‘None of us want to forget Leah,

  and wish she was here

  every single moment

  of every day.

  We can’t bring her back,

  but we can live for her.’

  I’m warm with Pa’s arms still around me

  and his words are like

  a bedtime story:

  they sound right, feel right,

  but I still don’t understand them

  and I’m still angry.

  Angry that Leah died.

  ‘Why couldn’t they give her more chemo?’ I ask.

  ‘Because her little body had had enough.

  Oh Toby, she is at peace now. Truly.’

  We sit for a while longer

  then the cats come close,

  chasing each other,

  too close to Trigger.

  He likes his personal space,

  as Mum calls it. So he snaps at Shelley

  and Shelley spits back.

  Then there are growls, wailings,

  and Pa and I jump up.

  ‘Enough!’ shouts Pa, and the animals stop immediately.

  ‘Just a bit of fun,’ I say.

  ‘The cats do like Trigger,

  not sure Trigger likes them though.’

  Pa is looking inside my tent.

  ‘Looks snug.

  I like your cooking pit too.

  Will I fill the billy for a cup of tea?

  I have our lunch here.’

  And Pa pulls a big brown bag

  out of his coat pocket.

  ‘Chops, some bananas to fry, tomatoes

  and a potato to cut up for chips.’

  ‘Yum,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll just get some more sticks and leaves.’

  And together Pa and I find offcuts

  and branches

  of old wood to build our fire.

  There are always handy things lying around

  on a farm.

  The smoke smells like eucalyptus

  and the fire begins to bank into some coals.

  ‘Where’s that hotplate?’ asks Pa.

  We rub it down with a little container of oil

  that Pa has in his parcel.

  Then we begin peeling the potato,

  slicing it into small flat chips and setting

  them cooking,

  next frying the chops,

  and while all that is sizzling away,

  putting tea and gumleaves

  into the billy of water.

  Trigger is watching us, sniffing the air,

  making little growls of joy. The cats have

  gone back to exploring the hay bales.

  They are poking in the small gaps between the

  ends of bales, using their paws to prod.

  ‘Like dry fishing for mice,’ laughs Pa

  as he watches them.

  ‘Help me pull that log closer to the fire.

  I know you want to find out some more

  about the old red truck, and we have time

  before lunch.’

  Pa stirs the fire a bit, moves the hotplate a bit

  and he starts talking.

  ‘That truck was second-hand

  when I bought it.

  We needed a truck to cart bales

  from the paddock to the hayshed.

  The bales were small in those days.

  It also had a crate we could put on

  the back of the tray

  to take pigs and calves to market.’

  ‘Pigs!’ I say.

  ‘Yes, all the milk was separated into cream

  for the factory and the leftover milk fed the pigs.

  Look behind us,

  there are some of the old pig sties

  I built with my father, your great-grandfather.

  No need for pigs now. The milk tanker takes

  whole milk, all the day’s milk.’

  I’m thinking. ‘Will you miss this farm then,

  when the O’Briens take it on?’

  ‘Yes and no. I have memories,

  good memories that no farm sale

  can take away.

  It’s time to let someone else have a go.

  And that’s tricky Toby,

  knowing when to leave.

  It’s very hard. But afterwards you know it’s right.

  I’m sure the sale of the farm and the shift will feel right sooner than you think.

  But back to my story …

  ‘You know once upon a time this truck,

  before I bought it,

  carted fish from the city market

  to our town,

  so it’s had lots of adventures.

  But eventually

  it needed too much repair work

  and I needed a bigger truck.

  That was just before your dad

  came back to work the farm with your mum.

  Before you and Leah were born.

  We left it here near the hayshed,

  thinking we’d get it fixed up,

  use it again,

  but we never did.

  ‘Oh! I think our lunch is cooked. Plates?’ asks Pa.

  And I look in my backpack.

  I find plates, mugs, knives, forks.

  ‘And I have salt, a little bit of homemade sauce,

  a towel and some milk,’ says Pa.

  Pa lifts the hotplate and settles it on some grass.

  He dishes out the meal.

  Sets aside a small chop for Trigger.

  ‘It has to cool first.

  Patience Trigger,’ he says.

  Then the blue wrens flitter nearby.

  Pa throws a tiny scrap.

  A magpie comes, then its mate.

  ‘If we’re not careful

  we’ll have all sorts of wildlife around us,

  and we don’t want the unwelcome visitor

  you had yesterday.’

  Pa gives me a wink.

  ‘Ah! Trigger, your lunch is cool enough to eat now

  and the cats can have my scraps. Do you want

  to take these pieces to Shelley and Tilly?’ asks Pa.

  I like how my pa knows the cats’ names.
/>
  Leah would have liked it too.

  ‘Time for a mug of tea.’ Pa stirs

  the gumleaves with a twig,

  puts the lid back on and swings the whole

  billy around and around.

  ‘Takes practice, that does,’ he laughs.

  ‘Let me show you some of the features

  of the truck,’

  suggests Pa,

  as we wipe the plates on the grass

  and pour the rest of the billy tea over them.

  ‘You know about the signals?’

  I nod and work them.

  Then Pa explains all the different knobs.

  ‘No computer programming in this.

  Made it easier for us to do repairs

  so far out from town.

  Guess this will go in the clearing

  sale too?’

  I nod.

  ‘Good. Someone might love doing up

  this old truck.’

  ‘I’m going back to the house now Toby.

  Leave you to your goodbyes.’

  Funny, even Pa knows about my secret plan.

  ‘What about you?’ I blurt out,

  suddenly sad again.

  ‘Oh, I said my goodbyes

  to this place years ago

  when your grandma and I left for retirement.

  It’s your turn now.’

  I wave as Pa turns back once more

  before the track curves

  and the shelter trees we planted

  hide him from sight.

  I climb into the truck cabin again and try

  to remember the purpose of the knobs

  and the meaning

  of the dials on the dashboard.

  Then I climb back out and say,

  ‘Goodbye red truck.’

  Tonight it will be special to sleep nearby

  and think about pigs grunting

  and fish, silver as ice,

  packed on the back of the old red truck.

  On Memorial Hill

  The days are running out before the clearing sale,

  before the bonfire

  and before all our family and friends

  come to say goodbye.

  I have one last place I want to pitch my tent.

  Leah and I made up a name for it:

  Memorial Hill.

  On a flatland farm, a little hill is exciting,

  means we can run up, slide down

  on old, squashed cardboard boxes.

  Memorial Hill is right at the back of our house,

  near the old outside toilet,

  where the bantams are now.

  And over the fence is the dam

  that used to provide water for the garden.

  So Dad reckons that the dirt

  was dumped there to make a hill

  when the earth was scooped out

  for the dam.

  The hill is where Leah and I made little graves