Published: 24 Oct 2016

With his mother gone and in need of supplies, Esca was at last forced to face his past and believed he was ready to do so, even if uncertain what his reception would be. If his mother blamed him for his father’s demise, it was possible others would also, as socially Stella Brody was held in high esteem, even if his father had not been. If so how could he convince anyone of his innocence? What people may perceive could be his leaving without provocation and his father’s despair taking him to the brink of suicide then beyond, followed by the continuing grief of his mother. Maybe only the quality of his father’s teaching would be renowned, not the cruelty to his child.

Once again Esca cast his mind back to his brother Jack. Had his brother also been treated badly? Esca was quite young at the time of his brother’s departure but could remember nights when there was shouting and the sound of Jack sobbing to sleep. He cast his thoughts to those troubled days but there was nothing to recall only that Jack also absconded in the darkness of night. Esca had gone to his bed that night to wake without a brother. Had that also been Jack’s fault?

Esca lingered at the High School fence for some time. Beyond the freshly washed windows sat rows of silent pupils. Eyes glued to chalked blackboards, while the occasional squeak of metal chair leg on wooden floor boards, or drop of pen or ruler, echoed through the clinker board walls. A flood of memory and a measure of sadness prevailed, even a hint of jealousy but was as quickly discarded with the anxiety of how he would be received by his once school friends.

Across the yard the figure of Albert the school’s Janitor stooped his half-cast frame while collecting litter, still mumbling, as was his habit, about the untidy nature of children, while shaking his head in lengthy protest.

Albert Nibbing seemed to have been the school Janitor forever. Esca remembered the now old man from before he entered into his high school years. He waved to the dark man without receiving recognition. How could he? Esca’s time away had filled out his frame and turned his then boyish face into that of a handsome young man. Besides Albert was somewhat short sighted and Esca’s gesture may have been considered nothing more than the movement of a tree branch in the breeze.

Moving on towards Main Street he passed many houses displaying ‘for sale’ signage. The town was dying. Even along the main street this was obvious, with its many closed shops and a general lack of patronage.

Reaching the IGA Supermarket Esca entered and had soon collected his meagre needs. Taking them to the check-out he was immediately challenged by the shop owner.

“Esca Brody.” Lennard Kenny, the proprietor declared in a loud voice while pricing the lad’s purchases, without once removing his disapproving gaze from Esca’s face. The odium flowed freely from the man, his eyes narrowing into two hateful slits.

“Good morning Mr. Kenny.” Esca greeted, ignoring the Grocer’s attitude.

“You’ve a nerve showing your face back in this town after what you did to your father and the chemist incident!” Kenny barked across his serving counter, “and your poor mother, she was devastated.” He continued pricing Esca’s shopping, his aggression rising with each beep of the cash register. In truth Kenny hadn’t regard for Kevin Brody; quite the opposite but did have respect for Esca’s mother. Maybe more than that, she was a good looking woman who attracted his fancy.

“You don’t mind taking my money.” Esca barked at the Grocer as a lump of hurt built in his throat. Kenny shook his head in silent protest.

Once the transaction was completed Kenny moved away from the register without further comment, in pretence to attend to a woman who appeared to be having difficulty in choosing which tin of dessert fruit she should purchase.

“May I be of assistance Mrs. Martin,” The Grocer asked, his voice taking on the all friendly attitude that was grossly over marketed of Country Life.

“Thank you Mr. Kenny.” Esca acknowledged sarcastically and left the store.

“Hey Brody!”

Esca recognised the voice from somewhere behind as he returned to the pavement. He turned.

“Terry Smith!” He greeted on encountering his first friendly face.

“Brody what are you doing back in town?” Smith asked faking a right hook to his midriff. Esca flinched away from the pretended blow before offering his hand.

“I live here.” Esca answered obviously.

“Yea but you left in a hurry, we thought it was because of that problem at the chemist.” Smith declared.

“What problem, Mr. Kenny also mentioned that?”

“The break in with Tomo and his lot,”

Tom Harris, ‘Tomo’ was the kid who was always in trouble, or at best the instigator of trouble, leading many of the town’s children into strife, much of which was more annoyance than destructive but he did have a leaning towards petty theft. Some said it was the slight tinge of aboriginal blood in him, believing that all property was communal. Others declared he was just bad business.

As for the chemist incident, Tomo broke into the establishment in the middle of the night looking for some drug used for colds and flu under the false belief it was narcotic. The joke of the matter, he could have purchased the same medicine over the counter for a few dollars and was set up for a lark by two of the high school boys from down his street. Tomo made such a commotion he set off almost every dog in town as well as the shop’s alarm and to worsen his problem locked himself in the shop, knocking over a pile of boxes blocking his escape.

“It wasn’t me mate, I did know he was up to something, he always was but nothing more than that.” Esca protested.

“Anyway you’re back.” Smith obviously observed. “Are you staying or just passing through?” He asked.

“I don’t know, mum’s leaving and the house is for sale. I suppose until it sells.”

“Fat chance for that, half the town is up for sale.” Smith declared.

“Where’s everyone?” Esca asked.

“Tomo is in the lock up – got twelve months for breaking into the chemist, then another for the supermarket job the week he was released. Wayne left town, bunged up Sarah Carter and scooted, Phil Warner has some job on a property across the river, Dave is in town and me; I can’t find work so I’m on the dole.”

“Me too,” Esca concurred, “what about John Rush?”

“Rush? He’s gone bonko, lives naked in the scrub somewhere near your place, only comes into town in the dead of night to steal food from his parents.”

“He always was strange.” Esca agreed.

“Sorry about your father.” Smith sympathised.

“Everyone blames me.”

“Don’t sweat mate, we knew what he was like with that whip of his.” Smith declared.

“How did you know about that?”

“My brother Larry was a mate with your Jack before he left. Jack told him everything; even showed him the whip marks – come on I’m off to the pub for a few coldies. I think Dave will be there.” Smith stated attempting to drag Esca along with his excitement.

“Sorry mate, I don’t think I could face that lot yet, maybe in a few days.” Esca answered gently moving away from his friend’s grasp of his arm.

“Suit yourself – see ya.”

The encounter with Terry Smith lightened Esca’s mood. At least there was one person in town who didn’t blame him for his father’s demise, even if on his return from shopping the older generation passed him by without a glance. Esca returned their snub with a smile and a good morning, more out of sarcasm than the need to communicate. Smith’s report of John Rush did amuse Esca, keeping a smile on his face for some time.

The Rush family lived close by Esca and their house backed onto the same section of scrub that abutted Butcher’s hill and skirted the hill towards the Cemetery. So if it were true that Rush had gone feral, he could remain in the thick scrub for a life time without being spotted by the so called more concerning, gentle folk about town.

The lad’s father, before it closed, was the manager of the Timber Mill, while his mother was a Primary School teacher at the local school. As for John Rush himself, he was a talented lad who, if nurtured well, could have become most academic but was pushed too far against his grain.

On his way home Esca encountered Meg Hartnett, a long time friend to his mother; a women who as a lad he could not appreciate. The woman lacked humour on any level and was quick to criticise. She had many dislikes, most of all being children, aborigines and foreigners. The latter she often declared were welcome if they looked Anglo-Saxon, were Catholic and wore western style clothing. She declared that eastern dress frightened her and a multitude of unknown horrors hid below a Jalabiya or Thawbs, concealing so much nakedness and unwashed sexually depraved flesh. As for children, to her they were all smelly dirty little creatures without even a dash of proper manners.

“Good morning Mrs Hartnett.” Esca greeted as he passed. She paused.

“Esca Brody you have a cheek returning to this town.” The old woman sneered through rich red painted lips, while her eyes, cold and grey, peered judgmentally over her oversized glasses that, like those worn by Dame Edna Everage, developed wings at the edges.

“I have to live somewhere Mrs. Hartnett.”

With his answer the woman placed her nose high into the breeze and went about her business.

Esca watched as Meg Hartnett continued towards the shops. He was coming to realise the town had changed. It was less tolerant than he remembered, even becoming introverted, displaying a vicious streak, which he had not encountered before leaving for the city. Maybe it was his paranoia and the town was always that way, he could not say. Or was it brought on by the spiralling recession.

Back home, away from people Esca commenced to feel happier. He opened a beer and once again began to explore the house. It was strange to see it so empty. The old kitchen furnishings remained as did that of his bedroom. His mother only took the better quality furnishings, not needing much with Jenny. She had also left him cooking utensils and bedding and in his mother’s room the old iron bed that belonged to his grand parents, what else remained was to go with the sale of the house, or to anyone in need; or to the tip.

Outside the garden was rundown. Weeds grew in abundance in the once proud vegetable garden, where some hardy carrots struggled into seed, split and dry through lack of attention, while once immaculately trimmed shrubs had lost their shape becoming leggy.

Upside down in a corner of the yard was Dopey’s kennel, with its broken flooring and rusting iron roof it appeared most dejected. Esca righted the kennel and sadly smiled “Poor Dopey,” he sighed, imagining the lumbering animal bounding towards him in happy abandonment.

“Maybe I’ll get myself another and call it Dopey Two.” The idea died as quickly as it had formed. If the house sold, it would be most difficult travelling with an animal, especially one the size of a Labrador.

In the opposing corner of the yard was the oversized shed, once his father’s pride. Esca approached finding the door locked. ‘Where was the key?’ he thought. It once hung on a hook in the kitchen beside the refrigerator. One single key, shiny and alone as the shed then possessed the property’s only locked door. A time before Tomo Harris and his mates turned the town’s trust into a rush towards Watson’s Hardware store for locks and bolts.

Esca lifted himself onto his toes to peer through the dirty cracked side window but his vision was blocked by a stack of boxes and a curtain of cob webbing.

Once back in the kitchen he searched for the key. It was no longer on its hook, even the hook had gone. His searching ended with a loud knocking to the front door. Esca answered the door to be greeted by a well dressed young man holding a black vinyl bound book. ‘Undertaker’ he thought, no salesman,’ he corrected with a grin.

“Good morning, you must be Esca Brody?” The young man declared in a bubbling voice. His eyes sparkling with his own importance; his smooth boyish face smiling under a mop of curly black hair, topping a slender frame that appeared even more so by the oversized shirt collar controlling the fall of narrow black tie. Even his trousers were comical, falling straight from his slender hips, passing his non-existing buttocks to halt drastically eight centimetres above his shoes, displaying a pair of electric blue socks.

“That’s me but I’m not buying anything.” Esca answered quizzically.

“I’m James Wallace from the Wallace Estate Agency. Your mother has instructed my father to sell the property and I wanted to look over the property before advertising.” The younger Wallace declared, casting his gaze past Esca into the bowels of the house. He presented Esca with his father’s business card.

“Go for it.” Esca offered stepping away from the stranger’s entry.

Esca followed the young man as he took measurements and wrote copious amounts of information onto the pages of his black fake leather book. He asked many question, which Esca could or could not answer until at last they arrived in the yard and the shed.

“The yard’s somewhat untidy.” The young man commented, while once again writing in his book. Esca didn’t answer.

“What’s in there?” The young Wallace asked pointing his posh shiny fountain pen at the locked shed door.

“I wouldn’t have a clue.” Esca answered truthfully.

“Could you open it for me?” Wallace asked authoritatively, fiddling with the lock.

“I don’t have the key.” Esca declared.

“Doesn’t really matter, I suppose it would be cleared and pulled down anyway.” The lad suggested adding even more lines of words into his book.

“Guess so.” Esca agreed.

“Right Mr. Brody I think I have everything.” The younger Wallace declared, in an attempt to seem sophisticated and more advanced in years.

“Mr. Brody was my father and he is in the cemetery.” Esca corrected, feeling somewhat irritated with the lad’s attitude.

The youthful Agent’s Assistant smiled nervously nodded his head, returned his posh pen back into his shirt pocket and left without speaking further.

That afternoon found Esca sitting alone atop of Butcher’s Hill. Below, bathed in sunlight was his home town. Way off to the north a storm was developing while to his back was the town’s grave yard. There were buried his Grandfather, his Grandmother and now his father. He felt melancholy for his father’s death, for all the good times, mostly when he and Jack were very young. Their father was different then. He taught them things. How to fish, even took them both hunting rabbits and when one was shot and Esca cried; it was his father who comforted him.

What went wrong? Was it erroneous for a child to wish for its father’s love? Esca turned to face the cemetery, some where down there lay his father’s body. Was his present sadness for his father’s death or for his father’s rejection? There was movement close by the grave yard fence and Esca caught a glimpse of a young man apparently naked. ‘Must be John Rush?’ He surmised and smiled as the naked form disappeared into the scrub. “He must get scratched balls.” Esca chuckled. The thought took away his sadness while thinking of all that unprotected skin dashing through the undergrowth. ‘Snakes, I hate snakes and that scrub is crawling with them.’ He shuddered at the thought.

Towards the base of the hill fronting the town Esca noticed the shape of a man climbing the slope. Once close he recognised the climber to be Henry Davidson, whose property was directly below the hill and a number of houses along the street from his own.

“Good Afternoon Mr. Davidson.” Esca greeted as the climber drew near. The old grey headed man was short of breath and wheezed loudly from the laborious walk up the steep slope of the hill. His tall lean frame had appeared stick insect like as he advanced, while his tattered dark working suit betrayed him more as a tramp than a retired business man.

“I thought it was you young Esca, I’d heard you had returned.” Davidson came to where Esca was seated, his vision on the Grave Yard beyond.

“Your dad’s down there.” Davidson said reverently, nodding towards the Cemetery.

“So is my Grandfather.” Esca answered incidentally, as if doing so would give him the belonging he so badly craved.

“I knew your Grandfather, he was a fine fellow.” Davidson assured.

“He died before I was born.” Esca added.

“Mind you he did have his bad points; your dad and uncle could have vouched for that.”

“How well did you know my father?” Esca asked.

“Well enough, he was a fine teacher.”

“Everyone blames my leaving for his death.” Esca sighed and stretched his legs, feeling the dying rays of sunlight warm through the material of his jeans.

“They will get over it in time; there’s a storm coming.” Davidson pointed towards the gathering clouds. “Don’t think we’ll get rain out of it.” He added somewhat despondently.

“Did you know my brother Jack?” Esca asked.

“Yes and your dad treated him badly as well, he arrived at my house one night bruised and bleeding. My Mary patched his wounds as best she could. He left town the following day.” Davidson paused, “You know I was the one who found your father,” the old man continued his voice soft and respectful.

“How did he die?”

“Suppose you should know, it was up here on Butcher’s Hill; He placed his shot gun barrels in his mouth and released both cartridges. You know he shot the dog first, I buried it over there under those stones.”

Esca felt overcome and cold. He was seated at the very spot where his father had taken his life. His face pallid as Davidson continued.

“I know it may be hard son but don’t hate your father too much, he was a very sick man who would have done so sooner or later even if you hadn’t left town.” The old man sat silently with Esca for some time without divulging further. It was up to the lad if he wished for more information, while Esca couldn’t find the questions. Eventually he stood bid Esca good day and once again descended the hill towards the town.

Esca remained on Butcher’s Hill long after Davidson departed. Twilight turned into darkness. Slowly shining rooves gave way to dark shapes, and then as if by magic, illumination as the street lighting came on. His thoughts returned to the city and it continuous ribbon of car lights, the sounds of impatience at every corner, people pushing past each other hurrying for appointments or pleasure. Esca smiled at the sight below, three car lights in a row, then nothing for some time. In this town it was home for dinner, then some television and bed – yet apparently contented, or was that the mask worn to hide the monotony and their boredom, brought on by an otherwise mundane existence?

Esca’s thoughts turned to Ian and his continuous search for sexual hedonistic pleasure. “He wouldn’t find it here.” He chuckled at the notion of Ian living in the country. “I guess that goes for me too.” He added, realising his future celibacy and the need for care in keeping his sexuality private.

The afternoon’s storm, as the old man predicted, had not developed further, leaving nothing but stars and a cool breeze. Esca brooded for a time until he could brood no more. He would overcome the town’s resentment and once again become part of the community. Maybe become a pillar of society. Unlike his father he would leave behind only kind memories. Maybe he would marry and have children – lots, treating them gently, breaking the continuation of maltreatment. He soon laughed upon the idea. It would be difficult to marry when he wasn’t interested in girls, even finding conversation with the fairer sex somewhat of a burden, with their silly giggles and secretes and need to paint their face until they appeared more like porcelain dolls than human.

Esca was still seated on Butcher’s Hill when the lights before him dulled and the sun once more commenced to warm his back. As if a bronzed statue he had sat through the night his mind racing from past to future, from his father’s demise to his mother’s departure from town, both in their way rejecting his need for their love. He also thought of his brother Jack, developing a strong urge to find him. Somewhere out there in the huge expanse of the country was Jack; but where?

That night with help from the old man’s words Esca buried his father’s cruelty but remained without forgiveness, deciding he would not accept blame. Slowly rising from the cold stone of his seat, he stretched his limbs then descended down the slope of Butcher’s Hill to an early morning’s bed, remaining there until late that afternoon, while the kind words spoken by Henry Davidson built determination in him to remain in town, becoming steadfast in resolve, he would survive.

Gary would appreciate your thoughts on his story. Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net

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