‘Phew, we’re not late. I was thinking we might be pushing it,’ Walter said as they turned off the main road onto a corrugated potholed driveway. This part of the journey seemed to go on forever and Erica thought her bones might be shaken loose on the ruts despite Walter navigating it at practically a crawl. Finally, a brick house appeared ahead and they were greeted by a barking blue heeler. It was still barking and showing its teeth, hair on its hackles raised, when Walter had turned off the engine. Erica looked at her boss with big questioning eyes.
‘We’ll just wait a sec. Edith is here – well, she should be – so she’ll call the dog off. Hopefully,’ he said.
Suddenly they heard the squeal of rusty hinges and then the slap of a wooden screen door and a woman’s voice shout: ‘Bruce! Come out of it. And sit down!’ Erica felt a little sad for the dog as it shrank and then slunk off to settle in the sun against the edge of the verandah in a hollowed-out patch of dirt, looking dejected. Having been distracted by the dog, it was only at the last moment Erica remembered her compendium and reached back into the car to grab it after they’d exited.
As they walked towards Bruce, the blue cattle dog flapped its tail and writhed a little, trying to get closer. Erica experienced a mix of longing to offer comfort and fear at how he might react.
‘Good dog. You’re a good dog,’ she said as they passed. A part of her heart stayed with him and she was sad thinking how different a farm dog’s life might be from that of a city dog like Daphne – also a working dog breed.
They shook hands and Erica was introduced and then they made their way inside and straight into the kitchen. They sat at one end of an enormous table. The other end seemed reserved for bills, newspapers and assorted paperwork. Erica accepted the offer of a cup of tea after Walter had. She smiled, nodded and quietly said thank you when a mug was placed in front of her, and again when a plate of Arnott’s YoYo biscuits was put down. She hoped she wouldn’t offend by not eating anything.
‘Sorry, can’t bring myself to bake. These were Milton’s favourites anyway. It’s funny how you crave the opposite to what you were raised with. His mother was one of the best cooks in the district – won with biscuits, cakes – clean sweep at the local shows most years. Even the Royal Adelaide Show. But oh no, would rather a bikkie from a packet was my Milton. Bless him. I was the same with handmade clothes by my mother, too, back in the day,’ she added with a shrug. She dragged a crumpled floral handkerchief from inside her sleeve, dabbed her red eyes and blew her nose softly.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ Erica said, just in case she hadn’t said it earlier when they’d arrived. She was sure she had.
‘Thank you, dear. Sorry Aiden isn’t here – my son – he’s meant to be.’
They sat through two cups of tea – the second of which Walter got for them – and stories from their long marriage spanning droughts, floods, bushfires, mouse plagues, good years and the occasional brilliant season. Finally Edith told of how they were meant to retire at the end of the year, invest in a caravan and grey-nomad their way around Australia. The edge to Edith’s voice during that part of the conversation told Erica she felt let down. Ripped off. In how many ways? she wondered.
Was Edith the sort to rant and rave and beg for what she wanted, or one to silently hope and wait for her turn? And what might she have desired? New clothes, an outing to wear them to, a kitchen renovation perhaps. In this space, no major updating had occurred probably since their marriage, forty years before. Perhaps the kids as adults – or Edith – had given the place a lick of paint or two. But not a lot more. Was sitting here a constant and depressing reminder of her place and lack of status and power?
They had three kids – one son and two daughters – and seven grandkids. These details Erica had learnt along the way, as well as the fact Milton had loved history and had been on the museum committee and had appeared in one of the videos Erica had watched the other week during her visit.
She had in front of her a photo of him – brought in by Edith for them to take to put on display at the service, so she didn’t forget later – but still she couldn’t place him in the clip. Of course he might have looked much younger in the video, because from memory she thought they’d been made a couple of decades before, when that part of the museum’s display was set up.
Eventually Erica was going through her notes and confirming the details of the upcoming service. A few minutes later they were out on the verandah saying goodbye. This process seemed to take ages, as if Edith didn’t want them to leave. Was she unsteady on her feet? There was a walker nearby. Erica wondered if it had been Milton’s or was Edith’s and she didn’t want to use it due to vanity or some other reason.
‘Hello there,’ Erica said, bending down to pat the dog who had appeared beside her, having practically crawled across the dirt. As he rolled onto his back, exposing his belly for her to rub, she realised with surprise, at seeing the prominent nipples, that he, Bruce, was in fact a she. Huh?
‘Get out of it, Bruce!’ a booming male voice shouted.
Erica, still stooped over the dog, turned and looked towards the sound. A tall dark angry-looking man of around forty in khaki work wear with an Akubra on his head strode on long legs towards them.
‘Bruce is fine. Really. Not causing any trouble,’ Erica said, standing up.
‘Aiden, these are the people from the funeral home,’ Edith Barrow said. ‘You were supposed to be here earlier.’
Aiden Barrow glared at his mother.
‘Hi, Aiden, Walter Crossley and Erica Cunningham from Crossley Funerals,’ Walter said, interrupting the stretching silence. He extended his hand. ‘Sorry for your loss.’
‘Yes. Sorry. I’m Erica,’ she said, feeling suddenly disconcerted under the brooding gaze.
He shook her hand loosely and briefly. ‘Bloody dog,’ he muttered.
‘We were just going over the details for the service, if there’s anything particular you wanted to include,’ Walter said.
‘Nope,’ was Aiden’s response. Again, his brusque tone caused Erica to cringe.
‘Right. Well, we’d better be off, then, if there’s nothing else we can do, Edith?’ Walter said. ‘Call if you think of anything,’ he added, and they made their way back to the car.
‘You could find a home for the dog,’ Aiden shouted.
‘Sorry?’ Walter said, turning back around. He and Erica looked at Bruce, back in her dirt hole, curled up and looking warily at Aiden. Erica’s heart lurched.
‘The dog. It needs to go,’ Aiden said.
‘Aiden,’ his mother warned.
‘I’m serious, Mum. It’s either now or when you go into town.’
‘Yes, please, Walter, if you know of anyone who needs a dog. She’s not bad with sheep,’ Edith pleaded, her eyes doing more of the work than her words or tone.
‘Mum, that’s crap. She’s too nippy for sheep. It’s a bloody stupid useless mutt. Dad was too soft. Should have got out the gun years ago.’
Erica just managed to catch her gasp in time. She’d heard – from where, she couldn’t remember – that farmers put down injured and unwanted dogs by shooting them. Sometimes for a transgression as minor as not coming quickly enough when called. Perhaps it was Michelle. Daphne had been a rescue. Perhaps she’d come direct from a farm rather than via an organisation. Erica couldn’t remember. Or perhaps Michelle had learnt her history. A shard of memory tugged at Erica’s frazzled brain.
‘I’ll take him, er, her,’ Walter said suddenly. ‘You said Bruce, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah. Stupid dog. Stupid name. For a bitch.’
Again Erica cringed at the venom. She longed to leap into the car and lock the doors.
‘Does she have any things? Bedding?’ Walter said, looking around.
‘Nope. Dad used a forty-four-gallon drum and some old wheat sacks, but I’ll be keeping them.’
Suddenly Bruce was sitting to attention between Walter and Erica, her tail sweeping the dirt below in a smooth rhythmic back and forth motion. The dog looked from one to the other, just like Daphne, Michelle’s dog, did when begging for treats or to go for a walk. How lucky is that dog compared to this one? Erica thought.
‘Um. Okay,’ Walter said, looking anything but sure. ‘Guess we’ll just take the dog then.’ He looked at the dog then to the car and back again.
‘Up to you, but I’ve got stuff to do. Mum?’ Aiden said.
‘Bye, Aiden. We’ll see you Thursday,’ Walter called, a moment too late. The screen door had already slapped shut.
‘Please take Bruce with you,’ Edith said, suddenly grasping Walter’s hand in both of hers. ‘I’ve got to go. Thanks. For everything. And you, Erica. See you both on Thursday.’