Chapter 15: Hunter, Father, Brother.
Happy hour under the Kurrajong on top of the hill.
With all the focus being on the shed build, we weren’t doing much exploring, apart from when we had to go searching for firewood. We did however make a habit of going up the hill to watch the sunset most evenings, usually with bevvies, snacks, a few friends and dogs. One afternoon when we were up there, one of Josh’s boys found a memorial site on the side of the hill: a brass plate embedded in a concrete and traprock mound, inscribed with the words “Hunter, Father, Brother,” and the man’s name, along with an image of two rifles crossed. Around the memorial, empty beer and bourbon bottles lay, some cloudy with dirt, others looking quite new.
I have an aversion to guns these days, but I do understand the appeal of shooting. When we were kids on holiday in the country, we used to set up all the expired tins of baked beans belonging to our Uncles and shoot at them with a rifle. There is a photo of Uncle Stan resting (or banging) his head on the verandah post while my sister-in-law, LJ takes aim. My brother stands in the background, waiting his turn, looking happy. Uncle Stan looks like he’s had just about enough of visitors for one holiday.
I also understand the need for guns in certain situations in the bush, like when you come across a recently hit kangaroo that is in pain. That said, I would rather not have anything to do with them myself now. There was something about the plaque’s commemoration of hunting on our block that irked me, but I figured, it was done now, and the people involved had moved on. Rest in Peace Hunter, Father, Brother.
I thought no more of it, (other than to wonder at the order of the nouns that memorialised his life) until I received a phone call a month or so later from a man who explained he was the godfather to the Hunter, Father, Brother’s two sons.
‘Oh yes?’ I said, momentarily thrown by the word Godfather.
He went on to explain, that he and the boys had a yearly tradition whereby they visited the memorial, watched the sun go down and had a few drinks. (And presumably, remembered HFB fondly.)
It wasn’t a big deal, he continued. The previous owner of our block had given him permission, and the owner before him (which turned out to be Jim, our neighbour) had had no problem with it either. They’d be in and out in under three hours. So, how did I feel about letting them continue this important ritual that meant so much to the boys?
How did I feel? Not great, to be honest. I asked him if they would be shooting and he said they usually did, you know, as a salute to HFB. I told him I’d think about it and took his number. By the time I was telling Smash about the phone call, I realised I had the shits. My voice had the strident tone usually brought on banks, private school funding or politicians who don’t answer the question they’ve been asked. I didn’t want shooters on our block, but I felt guilty about potentially robbing HFB’s boys of some connection with their father.
Smash however, wasn’t so conflicted. ‘No way! Once would be fine but not every year.’
It was decided, I would ring back The Godfather and tell him they could come once more, to pay their respects and take the plaque away when they went. (And hopefully the thirty odd empty bottles.) And if there was any shooting to be done, it was to be into the sky, not aimed at wildlife.
There was silence on the phone, then The Godfather made a clicking noise with his tongue, as if he was considering my offer.
Annoyed, I added: ‘Actually, we’d rather there was no shooting at all.’
‘I’ll tell you something,’ he said. ‘There are a lot of wild pigs on that block. You’re going to have a big problem if you don’t keep their numbers down.’
I was a bit taken aback. One moment we were getting dewy eyed about the boys’ tradition, the next we were off piggin’? Now, I was even more motivated to get the plaque off the block and see the end of any visits from shooters. I ignored his warning and we settled on a date for the ritual, extraction and clean-up.
They arrived in a large utility with cages and an all-terrain buggy in the back. In the cages, hunting dogs crouched, not sure what breed, just big and uncuddly looking. The Godfather approached us, smiling, holding out a gigantic paw for Smash, and only Smash to shake. He got straight to the point. Were we aware, he wanted to know, of the damage one adult pig could do to the native bush? We weren’t. He went on to describe it in vivid detail, making it sound like the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan. Rather than roll my eyes, I looked over to the boys, intending to give them a maternal smile. They stood leaning against the ute, glaring back at me. The Godfather then made us an offer. He and the boys would be happy to come and cull the wild pigs at no expense to us.
We assured him we’d never seen pigs on the block.
He chuckled. ‘I tell you; you never see them until it’s too late.’
Oh FFS, I was thinking by this point. Just piss off. Even if we did have pigs, this guy, with his condescending attitude made me want to protect them. I reiterated our desire for no shooting, and he shrugged then generously conceded it was ‘our choice’ but in a way that sounded like it was a bad one. Then he just stood there, waiting for I don’t know what, nodding silently, like our former Prime Minister, Tony Abbott did once when he was lost for words for 28 seconds on national television and his barely concealed rage at the reporter was ridiculed by most of the nation. Only this didn’t seem ridiculous, it seemed menacing. I took a step back.
Smash asked him if he was alright, as in, ‘You right, mate?’ in that Aussie way that really means ‘I don’t care if you’re right, mate; I want you to stop whatever you’re doing.’
They finally got the message, and after getting the buggy off the ute, drove it and the ute up the hill. We heard no shooting, and about an hour later, the convoy returned. They drove past slowly, reverently and without saying goodbye.
The second they were out of sight, I got in our four-wheel drive and went up the hill to the memorial site. They’d dug out the concrete and plaque and taken everything away except for the bottles. I collected the rubbish up and put it in the back of the car, then returned to the spot, looking west. Sun high in the sky, bleaching the landscape of colour. A carpet of orange dust floated above Nundubbermere Road, perhaps left by The Family on their departure. Such a magnificent view, no wonder they’d chosen it. I heard a rustling behind me, and thinking of pigs, turned quickly, but it was just two wallabies bouncing along the track. I wondered about the wild pigs and whether they really were a big problem on our block and what we would do if they were. All I knew about pigs was that they were smarter than dogs and when you picked up a piglet, it squealed. I had no idea if feral pigs were aggressive or territorial, or protective of their young. I decided to read up on them and talk to the locals at some point.
I have to say though, right then, looking at the crumbled, red earth where the plaque had been, all I cared about was that another chunk of concrete and metal had been removed from our block, and along with it, any bad juju associated with The Godfather and his cranky godsons.
Circa 1975. LJ, my brother, Lex and Great Uncle Stan enduring his family visitors.
