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He wasn’t there to meet me when the school bus brought me home
Mum says he is in heaven now: a kennel in the stars
And in his dreams he’s with me still; my name lives in his heart
But I would rather have my dog beside me in the sun
Running through the paddocks, chasing chickens, having fun
I know he would have told me, if he could, about his fate
That dog, he was my friend, he was my loyal, furry mate.
‘Crap,’ muttered Joey.
‘You think my poem’s crap, Uncle Joey?’
‘No, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘The opposite. Dad, I’m gonna need that apron.’ What he really needed was an excuse to go hang out by himself for a moment so he could pull himself together. Maybe the gas tank on Mooball could do him a favour and blow up. Or Daisy could cause a ruckus by pointing out the no-meat sausages had been cooked with the same tongs that had touched the pork ones.
His dad passed him the apron and he made a theatrical show of mopping his eyes and blowing his nose and generally carrying on like a clown until Amy was giggling. Blinking heck. You thought you were about to have a delicious feed and then you had your heart ripped out.
His mum got up from her camp chair and came around the table. ‘Amy, my lamb, that poem is a blue-ribbon contender.’
Amy sank her teeth into a baked potato dripping with cheese. ‘I know, right?’
His mum’s hands rested on his shoulders and she pressed her cheek to his. ‘You truly okay?’ she whispered in his ear.
He patted her hand. Of course he was. ‘Right as rain, Patty Cake,’ he said.
He looked up and Felicity was scowling at him like he was shit on her shoe again. Seriously, what had got her goat? He helped himself to another snag. ‘Any onions, Dad?’
‘Of course there’s onions, son.’
Well, okay then. He snaffled the bowl his dad was holding out and ladled some onto his plate.
Patty made her way back to her chair. ‘All this poetry has put me in mind of something. Kirsty, I wonder if you’d like to be involved in the festival? We can always use volunteers.’
Kirsty’s knife and fork froze in a holding pattern over her plate. ‘That’s … um, well. The festival’s not on for a while, is it? I’ll probably be gone.’
‘Middle of October. Will you still be here, then?’ Patty was a freight train with no brakes when she wanted to be.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘I’ll pencil you in.’
‘Uhuh,’ Kirsty said weakly, spearing a chunk of sausage on her fork. As if the gesture were a signal, the sleepy dog on her lap bolted upright and nearly upended the paint trestle they were sitting on.
Amid the screams and laughter and floating apricot curls, Joey took a bite of his snag sanger. He’d had worse days than a cook-up in a sunny paddock, his family all around him, a woman he was feeling a little warm and mushy for sitting beside him.
Truth be told … he couldn’t remember if he’d ever had better.
He looked over at his dad to offer up his mug of water for a toast to a happy day, but his dad wasn’t smiling. He was standing up …no, he wastryingto stand up … but the flush that had been in his face earlier had been replaced by pallor.
‘Dad?’ he said, but idiot Gus was still scrabbling over one end of the bench seat and the noise everyone was making meant he wasn’t heard. Launching himself towards his father, Joey tried again. ‘Dad,’ he said, but louder this time.
Loud enough to silence everyone.
Loud enough so everyone turned just as Robbo Miles, father of six, grandfather of one, toppled from his chair and collapsed to the grass.
