Part 1 by Peter Ness

Author:Peter Ness [Ness, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Peter Ness
Published: 2018-10-31T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13: Snake Day

The next day, at the Bus Stop, near the Henton’s: Tuesday, September 18th, 1973

An old gasoline fridge marked the intersection where we got on and off the school bus. Stepping out of the bus, I dropped my bag onto the gravel road wearily. My eyes flicked up to the name of our farm, newly painted in bright blue on an old fridge door perched on the side of the road: J.K. & J.J. Hani — Cassiopeia Ranch. The word Cassiopeia was in cursive. Yep! It looked cool. I’d done a great job.

On the other side of the road an old hollow and partly rusting 44-gallon drum hung from a pole, the last word painted by a small child: A.J. & R.J. Hani — Cassiopeia. Thick, dry, blue cursive paint oozed down the side, indented by little fingerprints. What can I say? It wasn’t so good but hey, don’t blame me. I chuckled to myself as Jo trounced past and picked up her bike. Then I lined my grey school shorts pockets with a few nifty pebbles of the right shape, flat-sided so they skimmed water but small enough to fit in my pocket. My blue shirt had a food stain under the pocket.

‘Darn! Mom’ll be pissed.’

An old rusty drum belonging to the enemy camp swung in the breeze off the side of a tree: J.J. & D.J. Henton — Baracuta Holdings. Several gaping holes rusted in its side were gouged by fresh metal marks. It is amazing what a few large stones can do. I tossed one at it. Thud! It crashed into the drum which bounced and clanged, then settled down.

My hand ripped open the white fridge door now. I kept it raised in the air hesitantly, checking for an errant tiger snake coiled ready to lash out at anything infringing on its new home. I hate snakes. Don’t you? But, the fear of getting bitten is often worse than the bite. There were none. There never were, but one can never be too careful. The Australia Post mail sat on a shelf. Pulling it out, I tossed the ream into my school bag. Clunk! I slammed the fridge door shut.

‘All these people have a “J” somewhere in their name and some have it twice! How bizarre is that?’ I said. Bending down I picked up a rock and hurled it hard at the Henton’s mail box. It missed and bounced, ricocheting off of a tree, whistling past my sister Jo’s legs. Her head flicked around and her death rays hit me, ripping, into my exposed flesh.

‘Hurry up and get your bike Heni,’ Jo grated, climbing ungainly onto hers. She wore the standard grey school skirt with a white shirt and long white socks.

My eyes flicked back across to our fridge and then at the square mail box stuck on top of a star-shaped iron dropper hammered into the ground through an old car tire, with the words W.J. & J.S. Thomas — Norlinga Estate written on it in red.

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