Before Shooting Season

You wera bit soft. We all knew, but no’ne eva said. An’ in those few days before shootin’ season you were laughin’ again and you were ‘right and she worried less. Always made ya eat twice your size every night, more when she was happy. Workin’ boys, she said. You boys gotta eat. She made sweets then, custard and pie and I’d wolf it down and dig in for seconds. Get it intaya, he’d say. You’d be sittin’ there tryin’ ta shovel it onta to my plate when he wasn’t looking, when she’d be at the sink an couldn’t see. Never wanted to hurt ‘er feelin’s. He was hard on ya, always was so it wasn’t different then.

I rememba there was still the nip of cold in the air but it didn’t stop us kicking a bit after tea, him watchin' out the window. Ya drop punt was better’n mine and he hated ya for it. Shouldda been me, the burly one he said. But skill was nuthin’ if ya couldn’t hold it inna brawl, he reckoned. Get ya face packed in, he said, if they put ya on the field.

Ya couldn’t shoot a roo save yaself, he said, even if it was bout ta kick ya in the guts. The spot lights on the front of the truck had the tray dark those nights, us sittin’ in the back there with the gear in the season. Couldn’t see ya face but I knew ya wouldn’t look out. You’d hear the shots and he’d be pissed at ya for sittin’ there flinchin’. He showed you how to aim, watched ya jolt right back as the shotty kicked back on ya shoulda. Nah. He made ya come along every time, though he said your shot was shit. Wasn’t that night though. Not that one. Not the one we found ya.

(Image: Karl Edwin Scullin)