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Authors: Joy Dettman
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option to buy written into the contract, along with a purchase price well below the value of the building, business and stock. They also wanted a no fault escape clause added to the lease.
The agent called the following day. The Wallis couple were interested in another property in Mortlake. Their offer was only good until tomorrow at ten.
‘Tell them to buy in Mortlake,’ Jenny said. She couldn’t inflict that Wallis woman or her bantam rooster mate on Woody Creek.
R EST I N P EACE
B ernie had given up going to work, and with no porridge and cream, no eggs and bacon to get out of bed for, he was rarely out before Days of Our Lives. Joss Palmer, his brother-in-law foreman, ran the mill, and one Friday in April, he phoned Maisy, who shook Bernie awake at ten.
‘Who’s dead?’
‘No one. Sam O’Brien cut half of his fingers off,’ she said.
‘Shit!’ Bernie replied.
The saws were silent when he got down there. Old Sam was sitting on a log nursing his towel-wrapped hand, but otherwise looking happy enough. Bernie wasn’t. Macdonald’s had a good record; their equipment was modern and accidents rare.
‘How the bloody hell did it happen?’
A few had seen those fingers fly. A few told what they’d seen. A few stood back smoking, maybe thinking what Bernie was thinking, that a bloke, three months away from retirement, might donate a couple of knuckles from his left hand for a decent compo payout.
And there was no money being made with a dozen and a half men standing around blowing smoke and expecting to be paid today. He wrote a cheque for the wages bill, then drove the victim and two of his three missing knuckles down to the hospital.
It was seven o’clock before they returned to town, and neither Bernie nor his passenger sober. They hadn’t spent the entire day at the Farmer’s Arms. After dropping Sam off at the hospital, Bernie had driven down to the Holden place to test-drive a new ute. He’d taken it for a spin out to the tombstone place to find out how much longer Dawny’s grave would be without a stone, and while waiting for an answer, he picked up a brochure – because it was there.
He could have gone home. He should have gone home. Old Sam could have caught the bus. Instead Bernie went to the hotel for a beer and a counter lunch – a beautiful wedge of meat pie and a pile of mashed potatoes – where, after a second beer, he’d decided to order a new ute, white – and let the bastards laugh about that.
If old Sam hadn’t needed a painkiller when the hospital turned him loose, Bernie might have driven home sober, but by four, Sam was suffering for his compo payout, so they’d called into the Farmer’s Arms where Bernie ordered two whiskies. One never being enough for old Sam, he’d paid for two more. Bernie paid for the next two, pleased to have a drinker at his side. Sometime later they’d started looking at the pictures in that brochure then old Sam, as he was apt to do after a few whiskies, started offering a bit of good advice.
Maisy waited dinner. Bernie couldn’t rightly say what it was – nor could anyone else. He tested a forkful – and it tasted as bad as it looked.
Maisy wanted to know where he’d been till this time of night.
‘I ordered a tombstone,’ he said.
‘For old Sam? Jessica told me it was only his hand.’
‘He’ll be able to afford to pay for his own bloody tombstone,’ Bernie said. ‘I’m having my name put on it.’
‘You’re not dead yet,’ Maisy said.
‘It’s for your granddaughter,’ he said.
Maisy stopped shovelling whatever it was they were shovelling. ‘It’s too late to put your name on anything to do with her, and Jenny will already have ordered one.’
‘Then you’d better tell her or she’ll end up with one at each end.’
‘You tell her. You ordered it.’
‘She’d spit in my bloody eye and blind me.’
‘If she does, you deserve it.’
‘I’ll drive you around there.’
‘As if I’d get into a car with
The agent called the following day. The Wallis couple were interested in another property in Mortlake. Their offer was only good until tomorrow at ten.
‘Tell them to buy in Mortlake,’ Jenny said. She couldn’t inflict that Wallis woman or her bantam rooster mate on Woody Creek.
R EST I N P EACE
B ernie had given up going to work, and with no porridge and cream, no eggs and bacon to get out of bed for, he was rarely out before Days of Our Lives. Joss Palmer, his brother-in-law foreman, ran the mill, and one Friday in April, he phoned Maisy, who shook Bernie awake at ten.
‘Who’s dead?’
‘No one. Sam O’Brien cut half of his fingers off,’ she said.
‘Shit!’ Bernie replied.
The saws were silent when he got down there. Old Sam was sitting on a log nursing his towel-wrapped hand, but otherwise looking happy enough. Bernie wasn’t. Macdonald’s had a good record; their equipment was modern and accidents rare.
‘How the bloody hell did it happen?’
A few had seen those fingers fly. A few told what they’d seen. A few stood back smoking, maybe thinking what Bernie was thinking, that a bloke, three months away from retirement, might donate a couple of knuckles from his left hand for a decent compo payout.
And there was no money being made with a dozen and a half men standing around blowing smoke and expecting to be paid today. He wrote a cheque for the wages bill, then drove the victim and two of his three missing knuckles down to the hospital.
It was seven o’clock before they returned to town, and neither Bernie nor his passenger sober. They hadn’t spent the entire day at the Farmer’s Arms. After dropping Sam off at the hospital, Bernie had driven down to the Holden place to test-drive a new ute. He’d taken it for a spin out to the tombstone place to find out how much longer Dawny’s grave would be without a stone, and while waiting for an answer, he picked up a brochure – because it was there.
He could have gone home. He should have gone home. Old Sam could have caught the bus. Instead Bernie went to the hotel for a beer and a counter lunch – a beautiful wedge of meat pie and a pile of mashed potatoes – where, after a second beer, he’d decided to order a new ute, white – and let the bastards laugh about that.
If old Sam hadn’t needed a painkiller when the hospital turned him loose, Bernie might have driven home sober, but by four, Sam was suffering for his compo payout, so they’d called into the Farmer’s Arms where Bernie ordered two whiskies. One never being enough for old Sam, he’d paid for two more. Bernie paid for the next two, pleased to have a drinker at his side. Sometime later they’d started looking at the pictures in that brochure then old Sam, as he was apt to do after a few whiskies, started offering a bit of good advice.
Maisy waited dinner. Bernie couldn’t rightly say what it was – nor could anyone else. He tested a forkful – and it tasted as bad as it looked.
Maisy wanted to know where he’d been till this time of night.
‘I ordered a tombstone,’ he said.
‘For old Sam? Jessica told me it was only his hand.’
‘He’ll be able to afford to pay for his own bloody tombstone,’ Bernie said. ‘I’m having my name put on it.’
‘You’re not dead yet,’ Maisy said.
‘It’s for your granddaughter,’ he said.
Maisy stopped shovelling whatever it was they were shovelling. ‘It’s too late to put your name on anything to do with her, and Jenny will already have ordered one.’
‘Then you’d better tell her or she’ll end up with one at each end.’
‘You tell her. You ordered it.’
‘She’d spit in my bloody eye and blind me.’
‘If she does, you deserve it.’
‘I’ll drive you around there.’
‘As if I’d get into a car with
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