He remembers seeing a Thylacine, in the glade, staring. For maybe a minute it lingers before it quietly moves off into the bush. There are other stories. Bullocks crushed when the jinker’s brakes fail; several near misses, as behemoths fall the wrong way, mateship and his lifelong love of the bush.
But now, the sandwiches are mostly eaten, some lamingtons remain and I see coconut crumbs caught in the spider web below the buffet. Late afternoon sunlight picks out the delicate patterns. Empty cans of Grandpa’s favourite beer now sit along the top of the piano, at the edge of the stage and on table tops around the Hall. Queen Elizabeth looks down inscrutably.
A collection of near-new Akubras perch above rheumy old faces, long white beards and sun-darkened arms. They are over on the mainland for the send-off. We hear the old stories, slight variations but much laughter and banter.
An evening chill wafts into the Hall and the mob start to drift toward farewells. Commitments are being made for future catch-ups, and contact details are being updated as we three start to collect rubbish, plates and glasses. It is a fitting goodbye, an occasion he would approve.
Julie, Rob and I are in the kitchen. The mood remains reflective. It takes Rob to say “Do you remember Grandpa talking about …” and the floodgates open. We are individually back in his bed, our early morning ritual, a black jelly bean, from his stash, and a story before breakfast and school.
A timber cutter, working a Tarkine timber coupe early last century– tall tales of derry-do, monster trees crashing to earth, near misses, runaway bullock drays, wildlife, sometimes gentle reminisce – a boiling billy, lunch beside burbling streams, catching giant yabbies for dinner. We fall into these stories effortlessly.
He leaves Tassie and comes to live with us after Mum and Dad are killed in the car accident. Over the years, holiday camping and bushwalks are anticipated escapades and he effectively instils our lifelong love for the bush.
We all remember the trip on the ferry from Melbourne to Devonport. We drive to the little settlement of Marrawah, out from Stanley, on Tassie’s northwest tip. We visit his old two-room cottage, gravity now slowly drawing it earthward. We visit the cemetery, weeding and placing flowers on Grandma’s grave. There are a few moist eyes but as we drive into the Tarkine, an almost youthful exuberance arrives.
None of us will ever forget that last trip. Now some twenty years ago, it continues to resonate. I take many bits and pieces from his stories to entertain my own children.
We are now in the solicitor’s office. Just her and us three grandkids. She hands each of us a sealed envelope and reads his Will. The envelopes have identical copies of a Land Title. We now share five hundred hectares of wilderness in the northern Tarkine, next to the Montagu Swamp Forest reserve. There is a hand-drawn map defining his treasure’s boundary.