In My Father's Shadow
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"Fifteen is a challenging age for a boy, and Joshua is coming to terms with his identity, his friendships, his sexuality and his faith, while he also deals with his parents’ separation and his father’s illness.
A chance encounter on his uncle’s farm with a stranger his own age starts Josh on a journey to unravel a dark family secret, a journey that opens the complex and sometimes tragic adult world into which he is growing." Set in contemporary South Australia, In My Father's Shadow was my first foray into self-publishing after the initial manuscript was rejected by a couple of publishers. I could have pursued traditional publishing further, but I was driven by curiosity and a desire to get this novel into the world. In My Father's Shadow was first published in 2015 on Amazon as an ebook and print. Cover design was the result of a photo and text adjusted in Photoshop. |
The inspiration for the novel came from multiple sources:
- several friends who have faced the challenge of non-binary sexuality and gender issues in our community
- working with students in a religion-based school
- a news item regarding unsolved murders in South Australia
- my background as a country kid
In My Father's Shadow has been republished in 2025 by Millswood Books.
Print copies at $25 each plus postage can be ordered directly from me by emailing [email protected]. I will provide an invoice with details for payment and, upon payment, I will send you the books you order. Depending on the printer, the turnaround is usually 2-3 weeks.
ebook and print versions can be ordered from various publishers via this link: https://books2read.com/u/mYkzvo
Alternatively, you can purchase the book as an ebook or order a print copy from Amazon by following the link below:
IN MY FATHER'S SHADOW
- several friends who have faced the challenge of non-binary sexuality and gender issues in our community
- working with students in a religion-based school
- a news item regarding unsolved murders in South Australia
- my background as a country kid
In My Father's Shadow has been republished in 2025 by Millswood Books.
Print copies at $25 each plus postage can be ordered directly from me by emailing [email protected]. I will provide an invoice with details for payment and, upon payment, I will send you the books you order. Depending on the printer, the turnaround is usually 2-3 weeks.
ebook and print versions can be ordered from various publishers via this link: https://books2read.com/u/mYkzvo
Alternatively, you can purchase the book as an ebook or order a print copy from Amazon by following the link below:
IN MY FATHER'S SHADOW
Sample chapter
One
I don’t know why Dad never comes to the farm. Mum and my sister Elle come when they can, but Dad refuses. He grew up on the farm, left when he was fifteen, and never came back. He won’t tell me why, just shakes his head, and says, ‘I promised I’d never go back.’ So, here I am, on my uncle’s motorbike, scanning the fence for holes where rabbits get in. Sunshine floods across the landscape, soaks up the winter dew and evaporates my tiredness. Rain clouds are retreating south toward the lakes. Sharp green paddocks and stone skeletons of abandoned farms flicker between erratic lines of grey-green mallee.
At the west gate, I leave my morning task, rattle over a cattle grid and accelerate toward a gap in the scrub. I drop speed to weave between the trees, branches slapping my head and shoulders, until I climb an embankment that opens over a gypsum quarry. Ruts criss-cross the floor. The cliffs sparkle white. I grin and plunge down a run. The quarry echoes to the two-stroke engine, screaming into the power band, as I charge cliffs, dying as I slide to standstills. Twice, I stall; once, I bail as the bike topples sideways. Blue smoke drifts through the bushes. I’m pumped. I love this rush, the fun. I ride out of the quarry half an hour later, satisfied, and putter along the narrow track to the gate. I don’t understand why Dad wouldn’t enjoy being here.
With time to kill before heading back to the house, I head north toward the rising hills and a thicker scrub wall, noting three rabbit-runs through the boundary fence Uncle Ian will have to repair. The north paddock is virgin bush, land my grandfather never cleared, and this is the first time I’ve ventured to the back of my uncle’s property. I angle through the gate, where the ragged mallee thickens and dark yakka bushes sprout brown-gold spears, and a grey rabbit bounds into the undergrowth, white tail bobbing through the tangled twigs and leaves. I almost give chase, but I relent and let the bike pop along at walking pace until the earthy yellow face of a sandhill appears. I cruise into a lush green clearing and consider my options. Straight up the sandy face would be the biggest challenge, but I decide to skirt the sand and follow the green verge to the top.
The hill is the highest vantage point in a deceptively rising countryside. From the apex I can see kilometres in every direction: dark bush and open paddocks, the glittering iron of isolated shed roofs on neighbouring farms. The sandhill sits in a long ridge of hills sweeping west, before falling into a broad shallow valley, where the Adelaide to Melbourne highway whispers with traffic.
I rock the bike, pull in the clutch, and freewheel down the grassy slope. At the base, I release the clutch and, with a throttle twist, spin the rear wheel and snake toward the track, until a flash of white makes me brake sharply. I scan the scrub and I spot a figure flitting through the trees, someone in a white top. ‘Hey!’ I call. The figure doesn’t stop. I crank the bike over, revving to turn quickly, and burst back into the clearing, racing along the tree line to where I saw the apparition. ‘Hey!’ I yell again, and slide to a standstill. ‘Hey!’ Nothing moves. I’m alone.
When I return to the farmhouse, I mention the encounter in the north paddock to Uncle Ian, who’s locking the shed, and he says he will look into it with the neighbouring farmers at the Murray Bridge market. I go inside, forgetting to stop the screen door from banging, answer Aunt Theresa who calls to me from the kitchen to go easy on the door, and check my phone on its charger. There’s a text from Tara. I reply., ‘all gd, u? soz msd msg’ and wait for her reply, but the phone doesn’t buzz, so I head for the kitchen to get a banana. I tap another message, ‘Miss u,’ but I hesitate before sending it. Tara and I are good friends, but we’re not going out and I don’t want her to misinterpret my message. As I peel the banana, my phone buzzes. Tara. I read her response;
‘miss u 2 xx.’
Nice. That makes me feel good. As I eat the banana, I think about the stranger in the north paddock. My uncle wants me to move sheep from one paddock to another tomorrow, so I’ll get a chance to go back to the sandhill. Right now, I’m hungry and Aunt Theresa is calling us to dinner.
*
Chips races toward me, black and white coat flowing in the wind. Metres from the motorbike, the Border Collie launches and lands squarely across the tank and my lap. I grunt at the impact, laugh, and ruffle his ears. He licks my face. ‘Yuck!’ I say. ‘Good one!’ and I scowl, but Chips’ tongue lolls from his jaws in a supercilious canine grin. I love how dogs smile. I want a dog, but Mum says the cat is enough responsibility. Chunk is Elle’s cat. He’s a big, soft tabby, who spends most days cleaning himself, when he’s not eating tuna or sleeping on Elle’s bed. The only smile I’ve ever seen on him is self-satisfaction when he’s being petted.
The scraggly sheep herd is meandering toward the middle of the next paddock from the gateway Chips is expertly steering them through. Dog aboard, I ride to the gate and close it. ‘So, where to?’ I ask, and Chips cocks his head attentively. ‘Okay, let’s you and I check out the north paddock.’ Soft thunder ripples across the western sky. I look up at the rain clouds drifting in. ‘And we better hurry.’
I charge through the open gate, onto the bush track, emerging in the clearing at the sandhill as thunder rolls across the countryside. As I stop, Chips leaps from the bike and eagerly sniffs the earth. ‘Anyone been here?’ I ask. He gathers scents, weaving back and forth, returning to interesting odours before skirting wider, and I smile at his efforts to piece together a canine puzzle, until he abruptly stops and pricks his ears. ‘What is it?’ I ask. Chips stares at the side of the hill, lowers his tail, back-pedals several paces, turns warily, and skulks with flattened ears toward the track. ‘Chips!’ I call, ‘Chips!’ but he doesn’t falter in his retreat.
Unnerved by the dog’s action, I look at the hillside. A boy in faded denim jeans and a white t-shirt, with long blond hair - someone near my age – is walking along the face of the hill. He reaches the edge of the sand and sinks to a sitting position. Fascinated to see a person out here, I climb toward him, hoping he will look up, but he doesn’t. ‘Hi!’ I yell, advancing, but he doesn’t respond. ‘Hello?’ I venture, puzzled by his failure to hear my first call. This time, he turns, so I say, ‘Hi. My name’s Josh.’ The fair-haired boy rises, and he stares at me – an unnerving stare – but I go on. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Peter Lawson,’ the stranger answers cautiously.
‘You live near here?’
‘I do – well, I mean I used to,’ he says, and a serious expression darkens his handsome face. ‘My family moved away years ago. You?’
‘This is my uncle’s property,’ I explain, feigning authority. Thunder echoes across the valley.
‘Seriously cool wheels,’ Peter says.
I glance back at the Suzuki. ‘It’s okay. You got a bike?’
‘No.’
‘How did you get out here?’
‘Walked.’
‘Oh,’ I say, lamely. ‘Whose farm are you staying on?’
‘No one’s,’ he replies. ‘I just hang out here.’
‘I saw you yesterday.’
‘Did you?’ he asks. ‘I’m surprised.’
His reply bemuses me. ‘Why?’
‘People don’t usually see me.’
‘You’re pretty easy to spot with that white t-shirt.’
He glances down at his t-shirt. ‘Yeah, I expect so. It’s not exactly a cool t-shirt.’ He laughs and shrugs as he says, ‘Crazy, really. It’s the only one I’ve got.’
‘So, where do your parents live?’
He pauses, as if pondering a difficult problem, and says, ‘I think they’re dead.’
‘I don’t understand.’ I actually don’t understand.
‘It’s complicated,’ he says. Lightning flashes, and he looks up at the grey sky. ‘And today is not a good time to talk about it. See that?’ He points at a looming thundercloud. ‘That one’s going to chuck it down. You better cruise.’
‘Yeah, guess you’re right. And I better find Chips,’ I say. ‘You going to be out here again this week?’
‘I’m here all the time,’ he says.
‘Might see you then.’
‘Sure. That would be very cool.’ And he turns to leave.
‘I’ll see you later,’ I promise.
Peter turns back to me, grinning, and says, ‘It’s a deal. And your dog’s waiting for you at the gate.’ He winks and walks toward the scrub.
‘How do you know that?’ I ask, but he doesn’t answer. That’s when I notice the dark, rust-coloured stain across the shoulders and down the middle of his t-shirt, but as he disappears into the mallee the first heavy raindrops tap my shoulder. I jog to my motorbike and head along the track, searching for Chips, and find him waiting at the gate, tail wagging, exactly as Peter said he would be.
The storm is worse than I anticipate. Halfway to the farmhouse, the dark sky dumps a furious downpour, turning the track into a slippery quagmire, but I wrestle with the bike and the mud and make it home to a serious scolding from Aunt Theresa. She whisks me inside, strips my clothes, orders me to sit beside the roaring fire, and brings me a steaming mug of mushroom soup and a dressing gown. Thunder booms across the roof, and lightning sends everything into shadowy relief. When Uncle Ian retreats from the shed, his black hair slicked to his head by the rain, I tell him of my meeting.
‘He said his name is Peter Lawson?’ Uncle Ian asks. When I nod, he shakes his head. ‘Not possible.’
‘How come?’ I ask.
Uncle Ian calls Aunt Theresa into the room, so she comes, wiping flour from her hands with a green tea towel. ‘Theresa, listen to this,’ he says. ‘Josh says he was talking this afternoon to a lad in the north paddock – to Peter Lawson.’
The revelation seems lost on her. ‘So?’
‘Peter Lawson,’ Uncle Ian repeats. ‘That was the name of the Lawson boy who was killed when we were at school.’
Aunt Theresa turns to me. ‘How old was this boy?’
‘About my age, I guess. I didn’t ask.’
‘Who is he staying with?’ Uncle Ian asks.
‘He didn’t say.’
‘Maybe the Lawsons had other children?’ Aunt Theresa suggests, as she walks back to her kitchen.
‘More likely a grandson or grandnephew,’ says Uncle Ian. He pauses to stare into the log fire, before saying, ‘I’ve got animals to check on. I’ll be in the big shed,’ and he rises, and heads for the door.
Alone, I contemplate the odd conversation. Aunt Theresa wasn’t overly concerned with my encounter, but Uncle Ian was uncomfortable, and that makes me curious as to why he would react like that. I go to my room, the one that was Dad’s room when he was a boy, and I text Tara: ‘u there?’ I change into a fresh pair of grey cargo pants and a green t-shirt. The temperature has dropped, so I slip the dressing gown over my clothes and check my phone. No Tara. I’m keen to tell her about Peter Lawson. Actually, I just want to talk to her, if I’m honest, but she’s obviously doing something. I’ll text her later. The rain is drumming on the corrugated iron roof and it’s cosy. I disconnect my iPad from its charger, drop onto my bed and trawl through YouTube clips. I feel sleep gathering around me.
*
‘I spoke to Terry Kennedy and Jack Thomas,’ Uncle Ian informs me, as he moves to the back of the trailer. ‘There’s no one staying with them. Whoever you saw isn’t a local.’ He closes the trailer gate with a clang and slots the bolt into place. ‘I might go out to the north paddock this afternoon to make sure we don’t have spotlighters sneaking around, or campers where they shouldn’t be.’ I half-listen as my uncle climbs into the driver’s seat. The bleating sheep and lowing cattle, the stench of animal urine, sweat, dust, rotting hay, and cigarette smoke are muted by the thump of the cab door. A collage of utes, trucks, ramps, rails, fences and farmers slips across the windscreen as Uncle Ian reverses, turns and drives out of the market grounds.
Minutes later, we’re crossing the old bridge over the River Murray. Between the flashing steel pylons and girders, I watch a speedboat towing two skiers across the murky green water. I used to love going to the market, seeing all the animals, and listening to the auctioneer’s banter and staccato calling, but lately I’ve developed a strong distaste for it. Apart from the squalor of the concrete and iron maze for herding the livestock, I don’t like seeing the animals’ terrified eyes. And I hate knowing that, while some are destined for new farms and new lives, others will be slaughtered, skinned, hung, carved up, minced. I know why it happens, and I love servings of hot tender roast lamb and steak, so I doubt I’ll ever be a vegan, but lately I struggle with the idea of killing living creatures.
Aunt Theresa is waiting with her loaded shopping trolley at the Tailem Bend Foodland. The community comes to life on market days – farming people making weekly contact, buying from the main street shops, paying bills. Men sidle into the pub, women into the coffee shop, and kids scramble over the concrete-secured railway engine and chase each other through the pipe maze in the park playground. Older boys are kicking a Sherrin on the lawn between the pine trees, the yellow ball spiralling through the light grey sky. A black and tan Kelpie barks monotonously in the rear of a rusty cream Falcon ute. The only other time the town is this busy is on Saturdays when local football and netball teams play on their home grounds.
It rains in the afternoon. Uncle Ian forgets about going to the north paddock and works on his tractor in the shed, preparing it for ploughing after the rain passes. I check my phone for messages, but there’s nothing. Aunt Theresa is whipping up her cooking storm in the kitchen, so I head for the lounge room where a crackling fire and the couch are comfortable, and the television is company. If I was home on a day like this, I’d retreat to my laptop and get onto an app to have some laughs or play on Steam.
Fifteen minutes of daytime television and I’m bored. I consider retrieving my iPad from the bedroom and streaming Netflix, but I can’t be bothered and the web connection on the farm is ordinary, so I sift through books stacked in a compact bookshelf and select one. It’s a Matthew Reilly novel, The Four Legendary Kingdoms. Eight pages in, getting interested in Jack West Jr’s latest predicament, my phone buzzes. I check it, hoping it’s Tara, but it’s Dad.
‘Hi Josh. How are you? Interested in going into town on the weekend?’
I smile at his message. I’ve tried teaching him how to text, but he insists on spelling everything correctly. I reply, ‘Kk’ and get back to my book, but I’ve lost the mood, so I retrieve my iPad and tap a lyric about Tara. I read it, delete and add words to alter the rhyme and rhythm, hum a possible tune to go with the words, but it sucks. I delete it all and start again. And I delete that as well.
‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Aunt Theresa stands in the doorway, chequered apron wrapped around her belly and a cake tin in her hand.
‘Just wondering about things,’ I say.
‘What are you typing? Not being nosy, I mean.’
‘Just a song. It didn’t work.’
‘You write songs, Joshua?’
I like that she is interested. ‘Sometimes. When I’m playing around on my guitar, or on Garageband.’
She sits beside me and sees the opened novel. ‘One of Ian’s books - you like reading?’
‘Lately,’ I reply. ‘I didn’t for a couple of years. Books bored me.’
‘Reading’s a good thing. I read a lot. It can get pretty dull some days on this farm,’ she confesses. ‘I like biographies or mysteries. Do you read any?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Pity. Still, I guess Ian wouldn’t mind you borrowing his books.’
I appreciate the gesture, but I have other thoughts spinning through my mind, so I seize the opportunity. ‘Aunt Theresa?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you know Dad when he was my age?’
She glances at the fireplace where the embers glow golden red. ‘I went to the same school,’ she tells me. ‘But I was only in Year Six when Alex left. Ian was a year ahead. Your Dad is three years older than Ian.’
‘Did Uncle Ian ever say why Dad left the farm? Like the real reason he left?’
I see her weighing in her mind what she should say and that means there is a story, but all she does say is, ‘Not much has ever been said. All I know is what most people know. Your grandfather never mentioned your dad when I was going out with Ian, but that was seven years after Alex left. Ian only used to say that Alex was living in the city.’
‘But have you ever asked Uncle Ian why Dad never comes to visit?’
‘Yes,’ she says.
‘And?’ I ask expectantly.
‘I don’t know any more than you know, Joshua. I don’t even think Ian knows why. No one talks about it. Ian would love Alex to visit. As far as brothers go, they are close. We always see Alex when we come to Adelaide. I’m sure Ian thought things would change after your grandfather passed away, but that hasn’t been the case.’
‘It’s just doesn’t seem right that Dad doesn’t come here. And it doesn’t make sense,’ I say, disappointed the mystery remains unravelled.
Aunt Theresa’s arm encircles my shoulders. ‘Lots of things don’t make sense, Joshua. Your dad has his reasons, I’m sure.’
I accept the free hug because it feels good to relax into her warmth and softness, like I used to as a small child with Mum. Still, the whole situation with Dad puzzles me. I really want an answer. The rain is annoying. I have one more day before I go home and get ready for Term Two. I only hope that tomorrow the weather lets me make one more trip to the north paddock.
*
‘Hey!’ I call. Peter stands beside a broad yakka, immersed in the dappled grey-green shadows of the thin tree canopy, watching me approach on the motorcycle, but when I stop he stays in the shadows. He’s wearing the same faded jeans and white t-shirt. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be here again,’ I say.
‘I’m always here,’ he says casually.
‘Why?’ I lean the bike onto its stand, careful to check that it won’t slip over on the damp earth.
‘No reason. Just am. How come you always come out here?’ he asks.
‘I like it. It’s good to be out here alone. I like the view from the top of the hill.’
Peter smiles, and I like the warmth in his smile. He is a handsome guy. ‘Cool. I like it too,’ he says. ‘I used to hang out here all the time. I’d pretend I was a bird, like an eagle, or a hawk, and I’d stand on top of that hill, and I’d look over the whole countryside.’
His confession strikes a chord. Standing on the hill does feel special, being able to see over everything. I notice an unusual mark on the hairline above his left eye. ‘You’ve hurt yourself.’
Peter’s left hand moves up toward the dark blemish, but he hesitates and lowers it, saying, ‘It’s nothing. When do you go home?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘What time?’
‘By bus. It goes around 8am.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘In the city. And you?’
‘I don’t.’
His answer intrigues me. ‘You want to explain that?’ I ask.
‘No,’ Peter replies, and he grins cheekily. ‘I seriously don’t think you’d understand.’
‘Try me,’ I tell him cockily, sensing a tease afoot, but a sudden queasiness in my gut warns me I made a mistake.
‘Cool,’ he says, and he slowly studies me, as if deciding something. He nods and says, ‘I want to ask you something.’
‘Yeah, sure. What?’
He moves closer, leans in conspiratorially, and pauses too long for my comfort, before asking, ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’
‘What?’ I mumble, moronically, but in that moment I get a closer look at the mark on Peter’s head. It’s a hole, encrusted with dark scabs.
‘Ghosts.’ Peter repeats. ‘You know, like dead people. Spooky things. Woooooooo.’
‘What sort of question is that?’ I ask, stepping back. ‘Of course I don’t believe in ghosts. Who does?’
Peter laughs quietly, as if he’s confirmed something, and he straightens to say, ‘I didn’t think you did.’
‘Hey!’ I complain indignantly. ‘You don’t know what I think. For all you know I might believe in all sorts of stuff.’
‘Sure you do,’ he says. ‘Bet you believe in God too.’
‘I do.’ I actually do.
Peter throws his arms up lightly in amused frustration. ‘Figures.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I challenge. ‘Don’t you believe in God?’
‘Oh, serious?’ he retorts, and he sighs heavily before saying, ‘You have no idea, do you? Like you just don’t dig any of this.’
‘Any of what?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does matter,’ I insist. ‘Why don’t you answer any of my questions straight out?’
Peter starts walking up the slope. ‘Come to the top of the hill, and I’ll show you something,’ he says. I don’t feel good about any of this, but I follow because I can’t fight my curiosity. Peter waits at the crest, blue eyes and smiling face. ‘You’re no athlete, are you?’ he remarks as I reach him.
‘I play sport,’ I tell him defensively. ‘Basketball. Some football. What do you play?’
‘I used to play footy. I was a pretty neat centre, actually.’ He sniggers. ‘I loved playing that game. I proved myself.’
‘But you don’t play anymore?’
‘Can’t.’
‘How come?’
Peter’s smile fades and his eyes take in the panoramic geography beneath the drifting grey cloud mosaic. A beam of sunlight slants through the clouds and turns a distant patch of scrub golden. ‘Do you really believe in God?’ he asks.
He is really frustrating me. ‘You just did it again,’ I accuse.
‘What?’
‘You didn’t answer my question. You just messed with me. I hate that.’
Peter gazes at me, apologetically, and says, ‘Hey, I’m sorry, mate, okay? Really. I just can’t get used to what’s happening here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You.’
‘Me?’ What are you going on about?’
‘What do you think happens to people when they die?’ he asks.
‘They get buried or burned,’ I bluntly reply because I’m agitated by his weird behaviour. His questions are like the ones Tara and I often ask each other – you know, How did we get here? Is there a god? Why is the world full of cruelty? – and I enjoy discussing them with her, but this stranger is posing questions only close friends ask.
‘Do they?’ he queries. ‘You know, I used to think that. And I used to think they went to Heaven. I used to totally believe in God, mate.’
‘And now you don’t?’
‘I don’t know any more. Like, I want to believe, but how can I when everything has to be like this?’
‘You say some weird stuff,’ I tell him.
He grins. ‘Yeah. I do, don’t I? You know, I wouldn’t have said anything like this once upon a time, but you’re the first person in ages I’ve even been able to speak to and I like it.’
How do I respond to that? I keep my eyes on the horizon, watching grey rain streak across the distant range. I’ve never felt so uncomfortable with anyone before, so vulnerable. I wish I wasn’t here.
‘I asked you if you believe in ghosts,’ Peter finally says. I look at him and he’s staring straight at me again, waiting for my answer. ‘Do you?’
‘No,’ I reply firmly. ‘I don’t.’
‘Why not?’
His piercing blue eyes slice into my thoughts. I blink to clear them, and I say, ‘Because if ghosts exist, then God can’t.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘A teacher in our religion classes,’ I tell him. ‘She said that there are no such things as ghosts. The only spirits are angels that God sends as messengers.’
Peter smiles bitterly. ‘Josh?’ he says quietly. ‘You’re way cool, mate. You know that? You are something else. I like you.’ He holds out his right hand in offering, so I reciprocate – and recoil as a cold sharp shiver flashes through my arm when my fingers pass straight through his hand. I jerk back, horrified. ‘You okay?’ he asks.
I go to answer, but no words come. Fear floods my legs. And I’m running. Somehow, I start the Suzuki, gun the bike, almost topple sideways as I snake out of the clearing, and race blindly for home. I can’t stop shaking. Oh my God. I’ve touched a ghost. I’ve touched a ghost. Oh God, I have touched a ghost! And no one is ever going to believe me.
*
The first person I try to tell when I get back to the farmhouse is Tara. I text, ‘ring me – urgent’ and I think about texting Dave and Coby, but they will definitely laugh at me. No point ringing Mum or Dad. I wait, hoping, praying, but Tara doesn’t reply. I consider talking to Uncle Ian and Aunt Theresa, but how do you say to an adult, ‘Hey, I’ve just seen a ghost in your top paddock. Is he meant to be there?’ Seriously, how can I do that? I use the iPad to search on ghosts and end up reading and watching a whole range of accounts by people claiming to have seen them, and other people showing how to discredit anyone who thinks they’ve seen a ghost. Nothing makes me feel better about what I experienced on the sandhill. And I have no one to talk to about it.
The evening meal comes and goes, I go to my room, pack for the trip home, and go to bed, unable to shift Peter Lawson from my thoughts. My hand tingles with the memory of the moment I reached for his hand. I expect to dream about ghosts. As it turns out, I sleep fine, to be woken by Aunt Theresa for a warm breakfast of eggs and bacon.
By mid-morning, goodbyes done, my bags are in the Holden and Uncle Ian is driving me into Murray Bridge. I check my phone – still no Tara. As we approach the bus depot, I ask Uncle Ian, ‘How did Peter Lawson die?’
Uncle Ian glances left, as he flicks the indicator to turn into the bus depot, and says, ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Curiosity. It just seems weird that the boy I met out in the north paddock has the same name.’
‘Yes,’ he agrees. ‘It is weird, as you put it.’ He shifts down through the gears and stops. ‘He was shot.’
The answer astonishes me. ‘Where?’
‘Do you mean where, as in the wound, or where, as in the place?’
‘Both.’
‘I was only twelve when it happened,’ Uncle Ian begins, ‘but plenty of people talked about it for years after. I don’t know about the wound, but the body was found in the north paddock.’
‘Where I saw the new Peter Lawson?’
‘Probably,’ he confirms. ‘My guess is the boy you saw is a relative who’s come to look at that place. What’s strange is no one in the district knows who he is or where he’s staying. The Lawson family moved out of the district years ago.’
If only you knew the truth, I think. I’m bursting to tell him what happened to me, but telling him I met a ghost – well, it just doesn’t seem a story Uncle Ian will believe. Instead, I ask, ‘Who found the body?’
Uncle Ian climbs out of the ute and reaches into the tray to collect my bags. As he hoists them, he says, ‘Your grandfather. After he came across the grave, he decided to leave the north paddock alone. That’s why it’s still scrub. He was a religious man, Joshua, and he figured God wanted that place left alone when he found young Peter Lawson, so he did exactly that. And he made me promise to leave it untouched when I inherited the farm. So, I have. Let’s get you checked in.’
Half an hour later, the bus is barrelling along the freeway and the scenery scrolls past my window: the verdant Mount Lofty Ranges, dotted with dark green trees, remnants of old gum forests and European stands, crumbling lines of grey Cornish stone walls, built by hopeful pioneers in the nineteenth century who believed the land they enclosed would be theirs forever. The freeway, a tarmac grey twin river flowing to and from the heart of the capital city, where people still huddle against the ocean like refugees too afraid to go inland and too afraid to let go of their heritage, carries me toward unanswered questions. Who can I tell what I discovered in the north paddock of my uncle’s farm? How can I tell anyone?
I don’t know why Dad never comes to the farm. Mum and my sister Elle come when they can, but Dad refuses. He grew up on the farm, left when he was fifteen, and never came back. He won’t tell me why, just shakes his head, and says, ‘I promised I’d never go back.’ So, here I am, on my uncle’s motorbike, scanning the fence for holes where rabbits get in. Sunshine floods across the landscape, soaks up the winter dew and evaporates my tiredness. Rain clouds are retreating south toward the lakes. Sharp green paddocks and stone skeletons of abandoned farms flicker between erratic lines of grey-green mallee.
At the west gate, I leave my morning task, rattle over a cattle grid and accelerate toward a gap in the scrub. I drop speed to weave between the trees, branches slapping my head and shoulders, until I climb an embankment that opens over a gypsum quarry. Ruts criss-cross the floor. The cliffs sparkle white. I grin and plunge down a run. The quarry echoes to the two-stroke engine, screaming into the power band, as I charge cliffs, dying as I slide to standstills. Twice, I stall; once, I bail as the bike topples sideways. Blue smoke drifts through the bushes. I’m pumped. I love this rush, the fun. I ride out of the quarry half an hour later, satisfied, and putter along the narrow track to the gate. I don’t understand why Dad wouldn’t enjoy being here.
With time to kill before heading back to the house, I head north toward the rising hills and a thicker scrub wall, noting three rabbit-runs through the boundary fence Uncle Ian will have to repair. The north paddock is virgin bush, land my grandfather never cleared, and this is the first time I’ve ventured to the back of my uncle’s property. I angle through the gate, where the ragged mallee thickens and dark yakka bushes sprout brown-gold spears, and a grey rabbit bounds into the undergrowth, white tail bobbing through the tangled twigs and leaves. I almost give chase, but I relent and let the bike pop along at walking pace until the earthy yellow face of a sandhill appears. I cruise into a lush green clearing and consider my options. Straight up the sandy face would be the biggest challenge, but I decide to skirt the sand and follow the green verge to the top.
The hill is the highest vantage point in a deceptively rising countryside. From the apex I can see kilometres in every direction: dark bush and open paddocks, the glittering iron of isolated shed roofs on neighbouring farms. The sandhill sits in a long ridge of hills sweeping west, before falling into a broad shallow valley, where the Adelaide to Melbourne highway whispers with traffic.
I rock the bike, pull in the clutch, and freewheel down the grassy slope. At the base, I release the clutch and, with a throttle twist, spin the rear wheel and snake toward the track, until a flash of white makes me brake sharply. I scan the scrub and I spot a figure flitting through the trees, someone in a white top. ‘Hey!’ I call. The figure doesn’t stop. I crank the bike over, revving to turn quickly, and burst back into the clearing, racing along the tree line to where I saw the apparition. ‘Hey!’ I yell again, and slide to a standstill. ‘Hey!’ Nothing moves. I’m alone.
When I return to the farmhouse, I mention the encounter in the north paddock to Uncle Ian, who’s locking the shed, and he says he will look into it with the neighbouring farmers at the Murray Bridge market. I go inside, forgetting to stop the screen door from banging, answer Aunt Theresa who calls to me from the kitchen to go easy on the door, and check my phone on its charger. There’s a text from Tara. I reply., ‘all gd, u? soz msd msg’ and wait for her reply, but the phone doesn’t buzz, so I head for the kitchen to get a banana. I tap another message, ‘Miss u,’ but I hesitate before sending it. Tara and I are good friends, but we’re not going out and I don’t want her to misinterpret my message. As I peel the banana, my phone buzzes. Tara. I read her response;
‘miss u 2 xx.’
Nice. That makes me feel good. As I eat the banana, I think about the stranger in the north paddock. My uncle wants me to move sheep from one paddock to another tomorrow, so I’ll get a chance to go back to the sandhill. Right now, I’m hungry and Aunt Theresa is calling us to dinner.
*
Chips races toward me, black and white coat flowing in the wind. Metres from the motorbike, the Border Collie launches and lands squarely across the tank and my lap. I grunt at the impact, laugh, and ruffle his ears. He licks my face. ‘Yuck!’ I say. ‘Good one!’ and I scowl, but Chips’ tongue lolls from his jaws in a supercilious canine grin. I love how dogs smile. I want a dog, but Mum says the cat is enough responsibility. Chunk is Elle’s cat. He’s a big, soft tabby, who spends most days cleaning himself, when he’s not eating tuna or sleeping on Elle’s bed. The only smile I’ve ever seen on him is self-satisfaction when he’s being petted.
The scraggly sheep herd is meandering toward the middle of the next paddock from the gateway Chips is expertly steering them through. Dog aboard, I ride to the gate and close it. ‘So, where to?’ I ask, and Chips cocks his head attentively. ‘Okay, let’s you and I check out the north paddock.’ Soft thunder ripples across the western sky. I look up at the rain clouds drifting in. ‘And we better hurry.’
I charge through the open gate, onto the bush track, emerging in the clearing at the sandhill as thunder rolls across the countryside. As I stop, Chips leaps from the bike and eagerly sniffs the earth. ‘Anyone been here?’ I ask. He gathers scents, weaving back and forth, returning to interesting odours before skirting wider, and I smile at his efforts to piece together a canine puzzle, until he abruptly stops and pricks his ears. ‘What is it?’ I ask. Chips stares at the side of the hill, lowers his tail, back-pedals several paces, turns warily, and skulks with flattened ears toward the track. ‘Chips!’ I call, ‘Chips!’ but he doesn’t falter in his retreat.
Unnerved by the dog’s action, I look at the hillside. A boy in faded denim jeans and a white t-shirt, with long blond hair - someone near my age – is walking along the face of the hill. He reaches the edge of the sand and sinks to a sitting position. Fascinated to see a person out here, I climb toward him, hoping he will look up, but he doesn’t. ‘Hi!’ I yell, advancing, but he doesn’t respond. ‘Hello?’ I venture, puzzled by his failure to hear my first call. This time, he turns, so I say, ‘Hi. My name’s Josh.’ The fair-haired boy rises, and he stares at me – an unnerving stare – but I go on. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Peter Lawson,’ the stranger answers cautiously.
‘You live near here?’
‘I do – well, I mean I used to,’ he says, and a serious expression darkens his handsome face. ‘My family moved away years ago. You?’
‘This is my uncle’s property,’ I explain, feigning authority. Thunder echoes across the valley.
‘Seriously cool wheels,’ Peter says.
I glance back at the Suzuki. ‘It’s okay. You got a bike?’
‘No.’
‘How did you get out here?’
‘Walked.’
‘Oh,’ I say, lamely. ‘Whose farm are you staying on?’
‘No one’s,’ he replies. ‘I just hang out here.’
‘I saw you yesterday.’
‘Did you?’ he asks. ‘I’m surprised.’
His reply bemuses me. ‘Why?’
‘People don’t usually see me.’
‘You’re pretty easy to spot with that white t-shirt.’
He glances down at his t-shirt. ‘Yeah, I expect so. It’s not exactly a cool t-shirt.’ He laughs and shrugs as he says, ‘Crazy, really. It’s the only one I’ve got.’
‘So, where do your parents live?’
He pauses, as if pondering a difficult problem, and says, ‘I think they’re dead.’
‘I don’t understand.’ I actually don’t understand.
‘It’s complicated,’ he says. Lightning flashes, and he looks up at the grey sky. ‘And today is not a good time to talk about it. See that?’ He points at a looming thundercloud. ‘That one’s going to chuck it down. You better cruise.’
‘Yeah, guess you’re right. And I better find Chips,’ I say. ‘You going to be out here again this week?’
‘I’m here all the time,’ he says.
‘Might see you then.’
‘Sure. That would be very cool.’ And he turns to leave.
‘I’ll see you later,’ I promise.
Peter turns back to me, grinning, and says, ‘It’s a deal. And your dog’s waiting for you at the gate.’ He winks and walks toward the scrub.
‘How do you know that?’ I ask, but he doesn’t answer. That’s when I notice the dark, rust-coloured stain across the shoulders and down the middle of his t-shirt, but as he disappears into the mallee the first heavy raindrops tap my shoulder. I jog to my motorbike and head along the track, searching for Chips, and find him waiting at the gate, tail wagging, exactly as Peter said he would be.
The storm is worse than I anticipate. Halfway to the farmhouse, the dark sky dumps a furious downpour, turning the track into a slippery quagmire, but I wrestle with the bike and the mud and make it home to a serious scolding from Aunt Theresa. She whisks me inside, strips my clothes, orders me to sit beside the roaring fire, and brings me a steaming mug of mushroom soup and a dressing gown. Thunder booms across the roof, and lightning sends everything into shadowy relief. When Uncle Ian retreats from the shed, his black hair slicked to his head by the rain, I tell him of my meeting.
‘He said his name is Peter Lawson?’ Uncle Ian asks. When I nod, he shakes his head. ‘Not possible.’
‘How come?’ I ask.
Uncle Ian calls Aunt Theresa into the room, so she comes, wiping flour from her hands with a green tea towel. ‘Theresa, listen to this,’ he says. ‘Josh says he was talking this afternoon to a lad in the north paddock – to Peter Lawson.’
The revelation seems lost on her. ‘So?’
‘Peter Lawson,’ Uncle Ian repeats. ‘That was the name of the Lawson boy who was killed when we were at school.’
Aunt Theresa turns to me. ‘How old was this boy?’
‘About my age, I guess. I didn’t ask.’
‘Who is he staying with?’ Uncle Ian asks.
‘He didn’t say.’
‘Maybe the Lawsons had other children?’ Aunt Theresa suggests, as she walks back to her kitchen.
‘More likely a grandson or grandnephew,’ says Uncle Ian. He pauses to stare into the log fire, before saying, ‘I’ve got animals to check on. I’ll be in the big shed,’ and he rises, and heads for the door.
Alone, I contemplate the odd conversation. Aunt Theresa wasn’t overly concerned with my encounter, but Uncle Ian was uncomfortable, and that makes me curious as to why he would react like that. I go to my room, the one that was Dad’s room when he was a boy, and I text Tara: ‘u there?’ I change into a fresh pair of grey cargo pants and a green t-shirt. The temperature has dropped, so I slip the dressing gown over my clothes and check my phone. No Tara. I’m keen to tell her about Peter Lawson. Actually, I just want to talk to her, if I’m honest, but she’s obviously doing something. I’ll text her later. The rain is drumming on the corrugated iron roof and it’s cosy. I disconnect my iPad from its charger, drop onto my bed and trawl through YouTube clips. I feel sleep gathering around me.
*
‘I spoke to Terry Kennedy and Jack Thomas,’ Uncle Ian informs me, as he moves to the back of the trailer. ‘There’s no one staying with them. Whoever you saw isn’t a local.’ He closes the trailer gate with a clang and slots the bolt into place. ‘I might go out to the north paddock this afternoon to make sure we don’t have spotlighters sneaking around, or campers where they shouldn’t be.’ I half-listen as my uncle climbs into the driver’s seat. The bleating sheep and lowing cattle, the stench of animal urine, sweat, dust, rotting hay, and cigarette smoke are muted by the thump of the cab door. A collage of utes, trucks, ramps, rails, fences and farmers slips across the windscreen as Uncle Ian reverses, turns and drives out of the market grounds.
Minutes later, we’re crossing the old bridge over the River Murray. Between the flashing steel pylons and girders, I watch a speedboat towing two skiers across the murky green water. I used to love going to the market, seeing all the animals, and listening to the auctioneer’s banter and staccato calling, but lately I’ve developed a strong distaste for it. Apart from the squalor of the concrete and iron maze for herding the livestock, I don’t like seeing the animals’ terrified eyes. And I hate knowing that, while some are destined for new farms and new lives, others will be slaughtered, skinned, hung, carved up, minced. I know why it happens, and I love servings of hot tender roast lamb and steak, so I doubt I’ll ever be a vegan, but lately I struggle with the idea of killing living creatures.
Aunt Theresa is waiting with her loaded shopping trolley at the Tailem Bend Foodland. The community comes to life on market days – farming people making weekly contact, buying from the main street shops, paying bills. Men sidle into the pub, women into the coffee shop, and kids scramble over the concrete-secured railway engine and chase each other through the pipe maze in the park playground. Older boys are kicking a Sherrin on the lawn between the pine trees, the yellow ball spiralling through the light grey sky. A black and tan Kelpie barks monotonously in the rear of a rusty cream Falcon ute. The only other time the town is this busy is on Saturdays when local football and netball teams play on their home grounds.
It rains in the afternoon. Uncle Ian forgets about going to the north paddock and works on his tractor in the shed, preparing it for ploughing after the rain passes. I check my phone for messages, but there’s nothing. Aunt Theresa is whipping up her cooking storm in the kitchen, so I head for the lounge room where a crackling fire and the couch are comfortable, and the television is company. If I was home on a day like this, I’d retreat to my laptop and get onto an app to have some laughs or play on Steam.
Fifteen minutes of daytime television and I’m bored. I consider retrieving my iPad from the bedroom and streaming Netflix, but I can’t be bothered and the web connection on the farm is ordinary, so I sift through books stacked in a compact bookshelf and select one. It’s a Matthew Reilly novel, The Four Legendary Kingdoms. Eight pages in, getting interested in Jack West Jr’s latest predicament, my phone buzzes. I check it, hoping it’s Tara, but it’s Dad.
‘Hi Josh. How are you? Interested in going into town on the weekend?’
I smile at his message. I’ve tried teaching him how to text, but he insists on spelling everything correctly. I reply, ‘Kk’ and get back to my book, but I’ve lost the mood, so I retrieve my iPad and tap a lyric about Tara. I read it, delete and add words to alter the rhyme and rhythm, hum a possible tune to go with the words, but it sucks. I delete it all and start again. And I delete that as well.
‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Aunt Theresa stands in the doorway, chequered apron wrapped around her belly and a cake tin in her hand.
‘Just wondering about things,’ I say.
‘What are you typing? Not being nosy, I mean.’
‘Just a song. It didn’t work.’
‘You write songs, Joshua?’
I like that she is interested. ‘Sometimes. When I’m playing around on my guitar, or on Garageband.’
She sits beside me and sees the opened novel. ‘One of Ian’s books - you like reading?’
‘Lately,’ I reply. ‘I didn’t for a couple of years. Books bored me.’
‘Reading’s a good thing. I read a lot. It can get pretty dull some days on this farm,’ she confesses. ‘I like biographies or mysteries. Do you read any?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Pity. Still, I guess Ian wouldn’t mind you borrowing his books.’
I appreciate the gesture, but I have other thoughts spinning through my mind, so I seize the opportunity. ‘Aunt Theresa?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you know Dad when he was my age?’
She glances at the fireplace where the embers glow golden red. ‘I went to the same school,’ she tells me. ‘But I was only in Year Six when Alex left. Ian was a year ahead. Your Dad is three years older than Ian.’
‘Did Uncle Ian ever say why Dad left the farm? Like the real reason he left?’
I see her weighing in her mind what she should say and that means there is a story, but all she does say is, ‘Not much has ever been said. All I know is what most people know. Your grandfather never mentioned your dad when I was going out with Ian, but that was seven years after Alex left. Ian only used to say that Alex was living in the city.’
‘But have you ever asked Uncle Ian why Dad never comes to visit?’
‘Yes,’ she says.
‘And?’ I ask expectantly.
‘I don’t know any more than you know, Joshua. I don’t even think Ian knows why. No one talks about it. Ian would love Alex to visit. As far as brothers go, they are close. We always see Alex when we come to Adelaide. I’m sure Ian thought things would change after your grandfather passed away, but that hasn’t been the case.’
‘It’s just doesn’t seem right that Dad doesn’t come here. And it doesn’t make sense,’ I say, disappointed the mystery remains unravelled.
Aunt Theresa’s arm encircles my shoulders. ‘Lots of things don’t make sense, Joshua. Your dad has his reasons, I’m sure.’
I accept the free hug because it feels good to relax into her warmth and softness, like I used to as a small child with Mum. Still, the whole situation with Dad puzzles me. I really want an answer. The rain is annoying. I have one more day before I go home and get ready for Term Two. I only hope that tomorrow the weather lets me make one more trip to the north paddock.
*
‘Hey!’ I call. Peter stands beside a broad yakka, immersed in the dappled grey-green shadows of the thin tree canopy, watching me approach on the motorcycle, but when I stop he stays in the shadows. He’s wearing the same faded jeans and white t-shirt. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be here again,’ I say.
‘I’m always here,’ he says casually.
‘Why?’ I lean the bike onto its stand, careful to check that it won’t slip over on the damp earth.
‘No reason. Just am. How come you always come out here?’ he asks.
‘I like it. It’s good to be out here alone. I like the view from the top of the hill.’
Peter smiles, and I like the warmth in his smile. He is a handsome guy. ‘Cool. I like it too,’ he says. ‘I used to hang out here all the time. I’d pretend I was a bird, like an eagle, or a hawk, and I’d stand on top of that hill, and I’d look over the whole countryside.’
His confession strikes a chord. Standing on the hill does feel special, being able to see over everything. I notice an unusual mark on the hairline above his left eye. ‘You’ve hurt yourself.’
Peter’s left hand moves up toward the dark blemish, but he hesitates and lowers it, saying, ‘It’s nothing. When do you go home?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘What time?’
‘By bus. It goes around 8am.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘In the city. And you?’
‘I don’t.’
His answer intrigues me. ‘You want to explain that?’ I ask.
‘No,’ Peter replies, and he grins cheekily. ‘I seriously don’t think you’d understand.’
‘Try me,’ I tell him cockily, sensing a tease afoot, but a sudden queasiness in my gut warns me I made a mistake.
‘Cool,’ he says, and he slowly studies me, as if deciding something. He nods and says, ‘I want to ask you something.’
‘Yeah, sure. What?’
He moves closer, leans in conspiratorially, and pauses too long for my comfort, before asking, ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’
‘What?’ I mumble, moronically, but in that moment I get a closer look at the mark on Peter’s head. It’s a hole, encrusted with dark scabs.
‘Ghosts.’ Peter repeats. ‘You know, like dead people. Spooky things. Woooooooo.’
‘What sort of question is that?’ I ask, stepping back. ‘Of course I don’t believe in ghosts. Who does?’
Peter laughs quietly, as if he’s confirmed something, and he straightens to say, ‘I didn’t think you did.’
‘Hey!’ I complain indignantly. ‘You don’t know what I think. For all you know I might believe in all sorts of stuff.’
‘Sure you do,’ he says. ‘Bet you believe in God too.’
‘I do.’ I actually do.
Peter throws his arms up lightly in amused frustration. ‘Figures.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I challenge. ‘Don’t you believe in God?’
‘Oh, serious?’ he retorts, and he sighs heavily before saying, ‘You have no idea, do you? Like you just don’t dig any of this.’
‘Any of what?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does matter,’ I insist. ‘Why don’t you answer any of my questions straight out?’
Peter starts walking up the slope. ‘Come to the top of the hill, and I’ll show you something,’ he says. I don’t feel good about any of this, but I follow because I can’t fight my curiosity. Peter waits at the crest, blue eyes and smiling face. ‘You’re no athlete, are you?’ he remarks as I reach him.
‘I play sport,’ I tell him defensively. ‘Basketball. Some football. What do you play?’
‘I used to play footy. I was a pretty neat centre, actually.’ He sniggers. ‘I loved playing that game. I proved myself.’
‘But you don’t play anymore?’
‘Can’t.’
‘How come?’
Peter’s smile fades and his eyes take in the panoramic geography beneath the drifting grey cloud mosaic. A beam of sunlight slants through the clouds and turns a distant patch of scrub golden. ‘Do you really believe in God?’ he asks.
He is really frustrating me. ‘You just did it again,’ I accuse.
‘What?’
‘You didn’t answer my question. You just messed with me. I hate that.’
Peter gazes at me, apologetically, and says, ‘Hey, I’m sorry, mate, okay? Really. I just can’t get used to what’s happening here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You.’
‘Me?’ What are you going on about?’
‘What do you think happens to people when they die?’ he asks.
‘They get buried or burned,’ I bluntly reply because I’m agitated by his weird behaviour. His questions are like the ones Tara and I often ask each other – you know, How did we get here? Is there a god? Why is the world full of cruelty? – and I enjoy discussing them with her, but this stranger is posing questions only close friends ask.
‘Do they?’ he queries. ‘You know, I used to think that. And I used to think they went to Heaven. I used to totally believe in God, mate.’
‘And now you don’t?’
‘I don’t know any more. Like, I want to believe, but how can I when everything has to be like this?’
‘You say some weird stuff,’ I tell him.
He grins. ‘Yeah. I do, don’t I? You know, I wouldn’t have said anything like this once upon a time, but you’re the first person in ages I’ve even been able to speak to and I like it.’
How do I respond to that? I keep my eyes on the horizon, watching grey rain streak across the distant range. I’ve never felt so uncomfortable with anyone before, so vulnerable. I wish I wasn’t here.
‘I asked you if you believe in ghosts,’ Peter finally says. I look at him and he’s staring straight at me again, waiting for my answer. ‘Do you?’
‘No,’ I reply firmly. ‘I don’t.’
‘Why not?’
His piercing blue eyes slice into my thoughts. I blink to clear them, and I say, ‘Because if ghosts exist, then God can’t.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘A teacher in our religion classes,’ I tell him. ‘She said that there are no such things as ghosts. The only spirits are angels that God sends as messengers.’
Peter smiles bitterly. ‘Josh?’ he says quietly. ‘You’re way cool, mate. You know that? You are something else. I like you.’ He holds out his right hand in offering, so I reciprocate – and recoil as a cold sharp shiver flashes through my arm when my fingers pass straight through his hand. I jerk back, horrified. ‘You okay?’ he asks.
I go to answer, but no words come. Fear floods my legs. And I’m running. Somehow, I start the Suzuki, gun the bike, almost topple sideways as I snake out of the clearing, and race blindly for home. I can’t stop shaking. Oh my God. I’ve touched a ghost. I’ve touched a ghost. Oh God, I have touched a ghost! And no one is ever going to believe me.
*
The first person I try to tell when I get back to the farmhouse is Tara. I text, ‘ring me – urgent’ and I think about texting Dave and Coby, but they will definitely laugh at me. No point ringing Mum or Dad. I wait, hoping, praying, but Tara doesn’t reply. I consider talking to Uncle Ian and Aunt Theresa, but how do you say to an adult, ‘Hey, I’ve just seen a ghost in your top paddock. Is he meant to be there?’ Seriously, how can I do that? I use the iPad to search on ghosts and end up reading and watching a whole range of accounts by people claiming to have seen them, and other people showing how to discredit anyone who thinks they’ve seen a ghost. Nothing makes me feel better about what I experienced on the sandhill. And I have no one to talk to about it.
The evening meal comes and goes, I go to my room, pack for the trip home, and go to bed, unable to shift Peter Lawson from my thoughts. My hand tingles with the memory of the moment I reached for his hand. I expect to dream about ghosts. As it turns out, I sleep fine, to be woken by Aunt Theresa for a warm breakfast of eggs and bacon.
By mid-morning, goodbyes done, my bags are in the Holden and Uncle Ian is driving me into Murray Bridge. I check my phone – still no Tara. As we approach the bus depot, I ask Uncle Ian, ‘How did Peter Lawson die?’
Uncle Ian glances left, as he flicks the indicator to turn into the bus depot, and says, ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Curiosity. It just seems weird that the boy I met out in the north paddock has the same name.’
‘Yes,’ he agrees. ‘It is weird, as you put it.’ He shifts down through the gears and stops. ‘He was shot.’
The answer astonishes me. ‘Where?’
‘Do you mean where, as in the wound, or where, as in the place?’
‘Both.’
‘I was only twelve when it happened,’ Uncle Ian begins, ‘but plenty of people talked about it for years after. I don’t know about the wound, but the body was found in the north paddock.’
‘Where I saw the new Peter Lawson?’
‘Probably,’ he confirms. ‘My guess is the boy you saw is a relative who’s come to look at that place. What’s strange is no one in the district knows who he is or where he’s staying. The Lawson family moved out of the district years ago.’
If only you knew the truth, I think. I’m bursting to tell him what happened to me, but telling him I met a ghost – well, it just doesn’t seem a story Uncle Ian will believe. Instead, I ask, ‘Who found the body?’
Uncle Ian climbs out of the ute and reaches into the tray to collect my bags. As he hoists them, he says, ‘Your grandfather. After he came across the grave, he decided to leave the north paddock alone. That’s why it’s still scrub. He was a religious man, Joshua, and he figured God wanted that place left alone when he found young Peter Lawson, so he did exactly that. And he made me promise to leave it untouched when I inherited the farm. So, I have. Let’s get you checked in.’
Half an hour later, the bus is barrelling along the freeway and the scenery scrolls past my window: the verdant Mount Lofty Ranges, dotted with dark green trees, remnants of old gum forests and European stands, crumbling lines of grey Cornish stone walls, built by hopeful pioneers in the nineteenth century who believed the land they enclosed would be theirs forever. The freeway, a tarmac grey twin river flowing to and from the heart of the capital city, where people still huddle against the ocean like refugees too afraid to go inland and too afraid to let go of their heritage, carries me toward unanswered questions. Who can I tell what I discovered in the north paddock of my uncle’s farm? How can I tell anyone?