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ON THE ROOF
During my early primary school years, but using a modern parlance, I could neither confirm nor deny the existence of nuclear weapons in our household. I am using the evasive phraseology of visiting U.S. Navy warships as a parallel to the possible existence of a shotgun in our household at that time. In retrospect, perhaps my parents thought they had something worse than nuclear weapons in the house.
Dad always had a shot-gun for the duck-shooting season, but denied owning one. My parents were sensible enough to keep its possible existence, within our large house, a secret from me. A modern psychologist would have analysed me as being a child linked into obsession with cowboys and Indians; the American Indian of course. At that age there was no other type. The deeply dark-skinned man and his wife at the green-grocers were just people who spoke with a funny accent and moved their heads back and forth in a strange way. They did not wear feathers in their hair either
My only companion was a little fox terrier, which followed me everywhere, except inside. It knew my Mum’s rules. Its home was the kennel at the side of the house.
With our house isolated, semi-remote from the city, and surrounded by native bush; it was inevitable our lives would be touched by the wild-life nearby. Fantails frequently flew inside an open door, and panicked, unable to fly out through the large glass kitchen windows. Our desperate efforts to catch them under a towel, as they pounded fruitlessly against the glass, was to prevent them inflicting damage on themselves.
Near success was bad. That meant we only managed to grab some of the tail-feathers. To the unfortunate bird it meant loss of directional control, and even more erratic flight patterns foiling further well intended grasps. Eventually, capture success meant a tiny, partly plucked, semi-tailless, part fan-tail would be released back toward the native forest from which it had strayed. After some recalibration in its flight characteristics, the reconfigured bird would eventually reach its proper habitat.
Spiders blown in by ill-directed winds, quickly built webs, and were equally quickly destroyed by my fastidious Mum wielding her straw broom. The web constructor probably equally as quickly dispatched on the sharp edges of the broom. No unwelcome crawlies here. She was so brave; except when it came to wetas, that weird creature that looked like a cross between a cock-roach and a praying mantis. Their presence was heralded by her scream, a rapid rush to her side by my Dad, eyes following the line of her pointing finger; then followed the down-thump of a heavy boot accurately directed by my heroic Dad; who removed the crushed remains, using the hearth brush to sweep it into a fire shovel, and disposing it onto the compost heap. Actually my Dad never wore boots, except gumboots when required. He normally wore standard shoes, but heavy boots sounds far more dramatic.
Those were the minor disturbance to household routines. The major pests were possums. Dad, diligently cut off any over-hanging branches from forest trees which neared the roof of the house, in a pre-emptive action. Somehow, some would still manage to get on the roof and find, or force, a hole to crawl into the warm space between the roof and the ceiling.
That should not seem to be a threat as they were not inside the house. They were quiet during the day, sleeping safe and secure in the dark warm space. Possum sleep patterns are the reverse of humans; they emerge during the night hours. To my parents, trying to sleep, the sounds of scurrying possums above their head, urinating, defecating, mating and chasing each other was disconcerting, and caused sleep-deprivation of the worst kind. Therefore, invading possums had to be dealt with, and evicted as quickly as possible. Too many nights of interrupted sleep meant Dad was grumpy. Too many nights of possums urinating meant the liquid seeping through, left stains on a pristine white ceiling. That made Mum more volatile than open tins of petrol around cigarette smokers tossing away burning butts.
Searching for entry holes, and blocking them, had to be done carefully. Any possums trapped inside during their sleeping time meant they were trapped inside. It could be weeks before they eventually died, and the rotting carcasses made even worse problems of greater ceiling stains, and disgusting smells of rotting corpses permeating from above. Possum traps were impractical as the roof incline meant traps simply slipped off the roof, even if slightly touched by a curious possum. The clatter of the trap hitting the ground at night caused all within the house to suddenly levitate a metre or two above their bed in fright.
No. There was only one answer, a shotgun and a lot of patience. A rifle was impractical as the bullet from any missed shot would travel way beyond the property boundary, and could cause injury or death to an innocent party, or neighbours’ animals.
My Father was captain of the cowboys. He would deputise the best shot from his duck-shooting acquaintances, set him up in a comfortable chair outside, with a clear view of the roofline, and the deputy would wait until the possums emerged for their night-time frolics. It was necessary that a good moon was available to outline the silhouettes, with clear enough skies allowing the moonlight to have effect. Accuracy of shot was essential.
Hopefully, the possums would emerge early in the night, which they generally did. My Mother and I would be safely settled inside, often with my Father casually reading the evening newspaper. Outside, the shotgun-toting deputy sat, waiting for the intruders to emerge. The indication they had would be announced by a series of loud explosions from his discharging shotgun.
Once Dad was satisfied that no more shooting would occur, or on a summons from the shooter, we would emerge to inspect the results.
In most cases the corpses had fallen from the roof. A large axe would administer any coup-de-grace, where it was required. Some, which had not fallen, would be recovered the next day, either by using a looped rope tossed in the hope of it hooking over the corpse, or the use of a long ladder, and carefully recovering the corpse. The same ladder was used to locate and close off any further entry holes under the roof.
The first, and only time I witnessed the whole process, was when none of the deputies was available at short notice for the task, which had to be completed with some urgency. Important overseas guests were arriving to visit the farm with an eye to purchase it, and they would be staying for a few days. The need to be rid of the invaders before they arrived was critical. It could counter all the other efforts of re-wallpapering, and painting the house both in and out to present it in the most favourable light.
The gardens and lawns were in pristine condition. The rose gardens were resplendent in their many colours, and giving the greatest display I ever remembered.
It was just that several possums suddenly chose a roof invasion a few days before the guests’ arrival.
With Mum panicking about ceiling stains appearing, and Dad worried about the unsettling night-time noises, he decided to take matters into his own hands.
I watched in awe outside as the pre-possum shoot preparations were made before sunset. Extra chairs were placed to enable Mum and me to watch. She had prepared dinner to be ready as the sun was going down and it was eaten by the time the night’s cloak had overtaken the sun’s rays for the day. The night sky was mostly clear but the moon barely provided sufficient light for movement without a torch. Nevertheless, I sat proudly in my chair watching Dad sitting, cradling an open and unloaded double-barrel shotgun. The red-cased 12-bore shotgun cartridges sat within his easy reach in a shallow dish on a low table to his front.
Mum sat in her chair placed to Dad’s left and slightly behind his. Mine was to Mum’s left and furthest away from the deadly weapon.
While they chatted casually, my eyes stayed fixed on the dark outline of the roof. I’m sure I would’ve spotted the movement of a caterpillar over a roof ripple, had one moved. But such a concentrated effort by young eyes soon causes them to discover an apparent sand aggravation, which results in eyelids involuntarily closing, frequently, for a few brief seconds at a time. My terrier was sitting loyally at my feet.
It was during one of these longer eye-closures tha
t my sub-consciousness registered my Father’s words.
“Ahh. Here we go.”
I forced my eyes open and saw the dark outline of a possum on the top ridgeline of the roof. I desperately wanted to snatch a couple of shells from the tray, hand them over, and watch him blast away.
“You know,” he said, turning to my Mum. “My Father told me that when he was a youngster working on some farms in the backblocks, his employers often used to give employees possum meat in their sandwiches. He reckoned it wasn’t too bad, just a little bit strong to taste, and quite chewy.”
“Yes,” she replied. “I’d heard that. It didn’t matter how much you simmered it, it stayed chewy with a strong taste.”
I wanted to scream, “shoot, shoot,” but knew better not to.
The possum had moved off the ridge, a second appeared.
“Getting interesting now,” said my Father. “Any more?”
As if in response to his words, a third appeared. A few minutes passed, which seemed like hours to me, and there was no increase in the numbers; only the three now visible, all moving slowly around the roof.
He leaned forward, picked up two shells and loaded them into the twin barrels. Then, before closing the gun, he stood up and nodded in the direction of my Mother. She, in turn, stood and grabbed my arm to pull me back a couple of paces further behind and to the side, away from the shotgun.
Satisfied we were safely out of harms way, he closed the gun, and put the butt to his shoulder.
“Damn hard to sight them over the barrel in this light.”
“Do your best Darling. Just get rid of the nasty things.”
When the explosion of the shells from both barrels occurred, I jumped with fright. There was a yelp and scratching sounds from my terrier’s paws as he tried to get traction from a sitting start before fleeing toward his kennel. It seemed my ears rang and I had gone deaf. The possum on the top ridge had disappeared.
“Well done,” I barely heard my Mother.
The remaining two possums showed no reaction to the loud noise, or the disappearance of their friend and continued their slow movement. My Father had reloaded and was quickly ready for the second target.
Again the explosion rang in my ears but without my accompanying jump.
Again, a possum had been hit and its body rolled down the roof and onto the path by the house. My Father reloaded.
I aimed carefully along my arm with my imaginary shotgun and screamed “bang,” milli-seconds before the third double-barrel discharge. It had no effect on the third possum.
“Bugger it. I missed. Don’t do that again,” said my Father. “It put me off.”
He quickly reloaded. The shotgun exploded again, and the third body fell from the roof.
I wanted to run and examine the possum bodies. Mum held my arm tightly as my Father said, “We’ll leave that to clear up tomorrow, son. You can look at them in the daylight. Bedtime for you now though.”
After the shotgun and shells disappeared somewhere inside the house, my Father brought the chairs back inside. By then I was in bed, the excitement of the night and the next day’s possibilities prevented a quick fall into sleep.
Disappointment discovering the bodies already removed when I woke was soon replaced, watching the sudden influx of workers doing a final clean up around the yards, and painting surrounding fences before the arrival of the visitors. Even the large stones bordering each side of the lengthy metal driveway received a long overdue recoat of white paint.
My Father arranged an even harsher prune-back of nearby branches. Inside, my Mother had made sure any traces of cobwebs had gone, and the high ceiling was pristine white with no possum urine stains. The guest-room had received special attention. Fancy lace doilies sat on the backs of all the lounge chairs. A finely embroidered table cloth covered the length of the long wooden table and cork-board place-mats were set out. My Grandmother’s highly polished matching trio of precious multi-candle holding solid-silver candelabras were placed strategically along the lengthy table. It seemed all was ready for the important guests.
A-Day, for arrival day, came the next day after the last of the workers had packed up their equipment and departed. My
Mother’s early appointment at the hairdresser was followed with a seemingly endless mirror trial examination of which clothes to wear. Then came my turn; supervised by my Mother. My terrier had already been chained beside its kennel. Dad’s dogs were well locked away near the implement shed in their own kennels.
When the sound of car tyres on gravel announced the arrival of guests, my Mother licked her fingers and gave my eyebrows a last minute line straightening, and my hair an unnecessary miniscule adjustment to the parting. My Father was dressed pretty much normally, the way he did every day. We emerged from the house. The sky was grey and overcast.
A lady and a man emerged unaided from each side of the car. They were not wearing crowns or even flowing capes. I looked further down the driveway for another car carrying the important guests. My Mother and Father stepped forward, and handshakes, introductions and greetings were exchanged. Somewhere in there I too had been introduced, but I had been distracted by the sight of a black feral cat stalking a fantail flitting around the lower branches of a nearby tree. I wondered if it was a rescued fantail whose flight tail-feathers had been reconfigured during saving. I broke free from my Mother’s grip and ran toward the stalking cat.
“Bugger off you black mongrel bastard,” I screamed.
The startled cat scooted to the protection of the forest and disappeared. The fantail, unfazed by my action, continued flitting through the branches pursuing the small flying insects. I returned to the small group at the door, but could not understand the reason for the black looks of death from both my parents, or why my Mother’s sharp fingernails were suddenly pinching the skin on my back. When I reacted with a squeal, she stopped, and smiled at me in a strange way.
My Father and the man departed to look around the farm and out-buildings before the threatening ominous low clouds began to drop their contents. I had been confined to my boring bedroom with its new, plain, dull, cream-coloured, girly-style embossed wallpaper and flower patterned curtains. I preferred the previous wallpaper with its racing cars and rocket ships. I had been told threateningly to amuse myself re-reading the accumulated pile of comics. Though with honesty I could not say I read them, as I was too young, but the black and white drawings were examined with great detail. My Mother showed the lady through all the rooms around the house, except my room, and proudly revealed the massive amount of storage areas, and then the results of all her kitchen skills by showing off her filled preserving jars containing fruit from our own orchard.
The men returned from their exploration, and afternoon tea was presented. Light rain had begun. My Mother brought me a few sandwiches, and in appreciation of my excellent behaviour and quietness during that period, also brought a full selection of colouring pencils and crayons to colour in the boring black and white cartoon characters of the comics. The gloom outside quickly became dark enough for lights to be switched on. Night would follow soon anyway.
For a while I coloured some of the figures in the comics, but became disheartened that the large heads of the crayons forced me to go outside the lines too often. I looked around for somewhere to draw my own characters, and colour them in.
With the rumble of distant thunder, I knew there would be lightning at some stage. That sometimes meant we lost power and I was given my own battery torch. My Father would be talking in his office with the man guest; my Mother preparing dinner, and talking with lady guest. The rain was a little heavier and the wind had become noisy. I did not care. I was being left alone and got on with my new self-appointed task.
A voice soon summoned me to dinner. I was surprised that the guests laughed at me as I entered the room. While my Father looked skyward my Mother said, “Why do you do this?”
I was frog-marched into the bathroom hearing my Father say to the guests,
“He’s got a real craze about cowboys and Indians, especially putting on war-paint.”
The heavy use of soap and flannel, roughly applied to my face, must have finally removed my carefully applied war-paint before I received a painful flick to my ear, and I returned to sit at the table. The candelabras reflected the glow of the candles and would have looked good in a teepee.
While the others had soup in bowls, I drank mine from a cup. That was easier than the way I used to do it; slurping from the bowl.
My Mother removed the plates and disappeared into the kitchen. Soon after her voice called out, “Darling, can you carve the roast please?”
My Father excused himself, and headed off to the kitchen.
The man guest looked at me and smiled.
“Do you help your Dad on the farm?”
“Yeah. When they’re shearing or drafting stock.”
“Do you enjoy doing that?”
“Hell no. That knobbly sheep crap gets between your toes; and the bloody cattle, well they fart a lot, drop their runny steaming shit on the floor, and that stinks to buggery. But it’s warm to put your feet into.”
My Mother had quickly returned to the table seeing the guests laughing.
“Anything important I missed?”
“No, your young man was telling us about shearing.”
“Carving’s done,” my Father said re-entering the room.
My Mother returned to the kitchen. It was great, just like the changing of the guard by the soldiers at the fort.
The four grown-ups were talking about heads per acre and stuff, which was all quite stupid, as to be a successful farmer you need the whole sheep, not just the head. The rain and winds were really blowing a gale outside.
My Mother returned, served up the meat, and gave me lots of gravy over my vegetables and roast potato. All my food had been cut up into nice convenient spoon size lumps. Everyone started into the tasty dinner.
I watched the man as he put his hand to his head, and then stroke his hair. A few seconds later he repeated the movement and looked at his hand. On the third time he looked toward the ceiling just as a tiny trickle of water began falling steadily from above his seat. Just as he moved himself and his chair out of the way, a larger stream began pouring over the vegetables and extra slices of roast sitting on the silver serving plates.
My Mother squealed.
My Father uttered “Darn it.”
I yelled, “Bugger me; the roof’s pissing,” and the guests simply looked surprised as they moved back from the table.
Both parents rescued what they could of the dinner and transferred it to the kitchen, and the table was then quickly festooned with buckets to catch the offending streams. Once that was done my Mother looked at me.
“Well, it’s time for your bed anyway.”
I know I felt disheartened as she escorted me down the hallway, and switched on the light in my room. I was not expecting her scream, and quickly looked where her finger pointed, expecting to see a possum, or at least a ghastly weta.
“What have you done?” she screamed, and burst into tears.
She was pointing at the walls I had redecorated with my own drawings of cars, tanks and rocket ships. I had drawn teepees with Indians on a different wall. My soldiers’ fort was drawn on another wall. My Father and our guests came running down the hall in case my Mother needed help in fighting off an intruder.
After they had surveyed what had happened, the guests suggested that as it had been a long day, they too should retire early, and get a good night’s sleep.
I was quickly and roughly put into my pyjamas, and without even my usual goodnight kiss was threateningly told to go straight to sleep. I could still hear the voices as they talked outside the guest-room.
I heard the lady guest talking.
“I hope you don’t mind, but our bed is wet. There is a big flow of water pouring on it.”
Both my Mother and Father were apologizing, and helped them shift their suitcases into their own room where the guests would now sleep. Soon after that, the electricity went off and I watched the eerie glow of the torches, and shadows, as they played down the long hallway. It was fun but it did make me worry a little that maybe some ghosts were coming. I don’t know where my Mother and Father slept that night; probably in the fourth bedroom.
The guests left early the next morning, and never came back. My Father went to town to arrange for the tree that fell on
the power and phone lines to be removed. As it was now a beautiful sun-shining day, a builder checked out the roof.
Apparently the large holes in the roof had been caused by a badly aimed shotgun.
Having visitors is a lot of fun for me. Eventually we sold the farm about four years later. I do not know the details, as I was sent to stay with an aunty when the next lot of buyers arrived.