Territory (29 page)

‘They're as bad as vermin in some parts,' he said. ‘They have to be destroyed, they can put whole orchards out of business.'

‘We don't have orchards.'

Terence looked sharply at his son, was the boy answering him back? He'd take no cheek, he'd belt the kid.

But the boy's clear grey eyes held no hint of mischief, he was genuinely puzzled as to why they should kill birds which were harmless. ‘I'd shoot a dingo,' he said, trying his hardest to be helpful. Dingoes killed the chooks, Kit knew that, and they could even cause trouble in the calving season if a calf was stranded and sickly.

‘You'll shoot whatever I tell you to shoot, boy.'

Kit looked down at the bird, then back at his father. He was too frightened to say the words out loud, but he couldn't kill unless it was necessary, something told him that he wouldn't be able to do it.

The words were not required, his eyes said it all, and anger surged through Terence. How dare the boy defy him. With the back of his hand he struck his son across the face with all the force he could muster.

Kit fell sprawling on his back. For a moment he lay still and Terence was shocked to his senses. Jesus, had he killed the boy?

Then, groggily, Kit raised his head. The world was spinning and there were dots in front of his eyes.

‘Can you stand?' his father asked.

He nodded and slowly hauled himself to his feet, staggering a little as he did so.

Terence was relieved, but he offered no help. The boy was all right and it was a lesson learned. ‘Get your horse,' he said, ‘we're going home.'

When they got back to Bullalalla, Henrietta was concerned to see a cut on Kit's arm and there appeared to be
a graze on the right side of his face.

‘What on earth happened?' she asked as she inspected the arm.

‘I came off,' he said, noticing the cut for the first time, he must have hit a rock when he fell.

Kit's answer came automatically, it was simpler to say he'd fallen from his horse. Besides, if he told his mother the truth, he might cop it from Dad again.

Terence heard the lie and was thankful. He would defend to the death his right to strike his son, the boy was wilful and disobedient. But if Henrietta were to disagree with his form of discipline, he knew it would bring on a fit of rage and he tried to avoid that whenever possible. He knew that, if he were ever to hit Henrietta again, she would leave him.

 

‘Are you all right now?'

It was night. Kit was in bed, reading. Terence had been momentarily irritated, the boy always seemed to have his head in a book. And Kit, in turn, had frozen at the sight of his father silhouetted in the open door. The boy nodded.

Terence sat on the bed, he could see the fear on his son's face. Perhaps it was a good thing that he'd instilled fear in the boy, but he hadn't meant to hit him quite so hard.

‘That need not happen again, Kit,' he said, ‘if you do as you're told.' Why did those unwavering grey eyes so unnerve him, Terence thought. The boy was frightened and yet he met his gaze, was it defiance? ‘We won't shoot birds anymore,' he said, not knowing quite why he said it.

‘Thanks, Dad.' Kit replied gratefully. He had a feeling that in a strange way his father was saying he was sorry.

Damn his hide, Terence thought, the boy sounded as if he was accepting an apology. ‘But we'll find a live target that you approve of,' he said with a touch of sarcasm as he rose. ‘It's time you learned how to kill.'

Terence had to rethink his assessment of his younger
son. Kit was not a coward as he'd originally suspected, but he was wilful. Terence was grateful for the difference. Bravery could not be instilled in a coward, but discipline could be instilled in a wilful child. The boy would learn obedience.

The following weekend was the killing of the steers. Kit no longer found the process repugnant as he had at the age of six when he'd first been called upon to witness the slaughter. To the contrary, he appeared to find the efficiency of the exercise rather interesting and he would watch admiringly as the stockmen butchered the carcasses. But Terence decided that it was the killing of the steers which would present the ultimate test. One the boy would fail, and it would teach him a lesson.

The morning of the slaughter, he made the announcement. ‘You'll kill one of the steers today.'

They were alone on the verandah, Terence had made sure of it, he would brook no argument from Henrietta.

Kit looked bewildered. Malcolm had never killed a steer. But then Malcolm had killed birds. He suddenly realised that this was his punishment. He thought about it for a second. The steer had to be shot anyway, it was food. And if he killed the steer it'd make Dad happy, and then maybe he could go back to taking shots at tin cans, he liked that.

‘Okay Dad,' he said, aiming for a touch of bravado, trying to sound like Malcolm. I bet Malcolm'd love to shoot a steer, he thought.

‘Slaughter yards in an hour,' his father said, ‘Jackie and the boys should be back by then.'

And Kit was left on his own, suddenly fearful at the prospect. What if he missed the vital spot? What if the steer died in agony? He was thankful that Jackie was home this weekend. Jackie'd help him, he'd tell him what to do.

An hour later, he reported to the slaughter yards with his .22. His father was nowhere in sight, and Kit waited there
patiently until, a half an hour later, Jackie and the boys arrived, herding the steers. It was only then Terence appeared. He gave Jackie a nod, said nothing to Kit, and stood at the far end of the yard silently watching.

‘G'day, Kit,' Jackie called, and Kit waved back. His heart was thumping wildly and he hoped no-one could tell how scared he was.

The first steer was positioned for the kill, its neck rope looped around the pole, its head held firmly in position. The man on the pulley was standing by, and Jackie mounted the railings with his .303.

‘Give the gun to Kit, Jackie,' Terence called.

‘Sorry, boss?' Jackie yelled back across the yard above the bellow of the terrified steer. He must have heard wrong.

‘I said give your rifle to Kit,' Terence shouted, ‘Kit's going to kill the first steer today.'

Jackie stared at the boss, was he joking? But the boss didn't make jokes. The other two Aboriginal stockmen exchanged glances. Jackie looked at Kit, who was walking towards him, clutching his .22, ashen-faced with fear. The boss wasn't joking.

‘I've never shot a .303,' Kit said quietly to Jackie, trying to keep his voice steady.

‘.22 okay.' Jackie leaned his .303 up against the railing and gave Kit a confident grin. ‘You be okay, Kit, you shoot real good.' The boy did too, Jackie had seen him shooting tin cans. And a bullet through a steer's skull was a lot easier than shooting tin cans at thirty paces. But the boy was frightened. It didn't seem fair to Jackie that the boy should have to do something which made him frightened. Leaning over the railings, Jackie pressed his gnarled black thumb against the animal's skull. ‘You get 'im here,' he said. ‘You get 'im here, 'im feel no pain.'

Kit nodded, swallowing nervously, and Jackie held the .22 as he climbed the railings to sit on top, the steer's head
directly below him. When the boy was in position, Jackie handed him the rifle.

‘I told you to give him the .303!' From the far end of the yard Terence's command was loud and clear.

‘.22 okay boss,' Jackie called back. Was the boss crazy? Kit had never shot a .303, and he was little. A .303 kicked like a mule, it could break the boy's shoulder. ‘.22 just as good,' he called.

‘I said give him the .303.'

The boss sounded angry, Jackie knew he had no option. He cocked the .303 and exchanged rifles with Kit, but he held on to the .22. If the boy made a mess of things, and he probably would, then Jackie would finish the beast off quickly.

‘You hold 'im hard,' he said to Kit, patting the stock of the rifle, ‘you hold 'im
real
hard, .303 'im can hurt.'

Kit dug the stock into his shoulder as hard as he could, feeling Jackie's hand firm against his back, bracing him. The gun was a dead weight in his hands, but he steadied himself, his stomach muscles tightening as he took aim at the steer's head, the muzzle only inches away from the creature's skull. He didn't feel frightened anymore as he concentrated on the spot where Jackie had rested his thumb. Very gently, he curled his finger around the trigger.

Terence knew what would happen. The rifle was too heavy for the boy, the barrel would waver and he'd miss. He'd shoot the animal through its eye or its ear and he'd cop a sore shoulder in the process. It'd teach the boy a lesson. After today Kit'd be begging to shoot birds with his .22.

Through his sights, Kit could see the imprint of Jackie's thumb, or at least he told himself he could. But the barrel was starting to sway, only slightly but enough, he couldn't seem to hold the weight of the rifle steady. He leaned forwards and placed the muzzle directly against the animal's skull, knowing as he did so that the stock was not
firmly positioned into the crook of his arm. Too bad, he thought, and he pulled the trigger.

The gun roared, the steer dropped to the ground, and Kit was thrown backwards, a searing pain in his shoulder.

Jackie held on to him, breaking his fall, and the next thing Kit knew he was sitting on the ground, his shoulder aching like hell. In a matter of seconds, Jackie had leapt over the railings and slit the steer's throat and, by the time Kit looked up, a little dizzily, the animal was hanging in the air by its hind legs, well and truly dead.

‘You okay Kit?' Jackie climbed back through the railings and squatted beside the boy, pulling aside his shirt and inspecting his shoulder. It appeared nothing was broken.

‘Yep,' Kit said and he struggled to his feet. Jeez it hurt.

Jackie gave the broadest of grins. ‘You kill 'im good, eh?' Then he yelled to Terence. ‘He kill 'im good, eh boss?'

‘Yes,' Terence called back, although he didn't appear too happy about it. ‘Well done.' And he walked away. He didn't bother examining his son's shoulder, if there was any real damage Jackie would have reported it.

Kit watched his father walk off, he'd expected a ‘good on you, son', maybe even a handshake, like his Dad did to Malcolm when he'd passed a test. But Jackie and his two mates gave him a round of applause and slapped him on the back which, although not helping the shoulder, did wonders for Kit's morale. He was a hero to them at least.

That night, at the dinner table, Kit couldn't raise his right arm. It hurt too much to try, so he left it dangling by his side and speared his food with his fork, left-handed.

‘What's the matter with your arm?' Henrietta asked and, without waiting for an answer, she was by his side opening his shirt. ‘My God, look at your shoulder! How did it happen?'

‘Kit shot the steer,' Nellie said, delivering a fresh jug of gravy. ‘Jackie said he done real good.'

‘Kit did what?' Henrietta directed the question at her
husband, but it was Nellie who once again answered.

‘He shot the steer,' she said proudly. ‘With a .303, what's more. Big gun for a little boy, Jackie said. You done real good, Kit.'

Kit smiled at Nellie, enjoying the praise, but a bit worried that his mum looked cranky. He hoped there wasn't going to be a blue. Although his parents argued rarely, when there
was
any form of disagreement, Kit could sense a tension between them which unnerved him.

Henrietta insisted on examining the shoulder there and then. It was already swollen and discoloured. ‘You're lucky it wasn't dislocated, or even broken,' she said. She didn't dare look at Terence, who continued to eat his meal, refusing to be unsettled by what he saw as Henrietta's overreaction.

‘We'll put some liniment on it after dinner,' she said, determined not to cause a scene in front of either Nellie or Kit. ‘You're going to have one hell of a sore shoulder for a while.'

‘Yep,' Kit said happily. That's good, he thought, there wasn't going to be a blue after all.

When she'd dressed the shoulder she sent Kit to bed, although he didn't want to go. ‘If you're not tired you can read a book,' she said, ‘now do as you're told, Kit.'

‘Okay.' she was a bit crabby tonight, he thought.

Whilst Nellie did the washing up, Henrietta fronted Terence in his study. ‘This will stop as of today,' she said, the anger she'd kept under control throughout dinner threatening to break out at any minute.

‘What?'

‘These ridiculous tests you keep setting for Kit. He doesn't like them and they're not healthy.'

‘What do you mean? The boy has to grow up, it comes with the territory.' Terence gave a derisive snort. ‘Jesus Christ, he shot the steer today without a qualm, and he can't bring himself to shoot a bird, I don't know what's the matter with the kid.'

‘He's not a chip off the old block, that's what's the matter with the kid!' She spat the words at him, Henrietta was as angry as she had ever been in her life.

Her anger so took him by surprise that Terence stared at her in bewilderment. What the hell was she talking about?

Henrietta fought to control her rage. She must try to make him see sense, angering him would serve no purpose. ‘Terence,' she said, keeping her voice as even as possible, ‘Malcolm has spent his whole life trying to emulate you.'

‘So? I tried to emulate my father …'

Exactly!
she wanted to scream.
And look at you!

‘… what's wrong with that?'

Everything!
‘Nothing, I suppose.' Dear God what was the point, she thought. ‘But Kit is not Malcolm, he's different. He doesn't want to do the things Malcolm does.' She wanted to say ‘half the time Malcolm doesn't want to do them either', but this was Kit's battle she was fighting now. ‘You can't treat both boys the same.'