The Deed

by Susannah Begbie

Genres: Family Life; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

'Now that's the way to bury your old man ... he sank into his Jason recliner, wincing. A burial: a body wrapped in handwoven cloth, women dancing and wailing. Too much, in Tom's opinion, but at least they were mourning. To hell with that, at least they showed up.'

Tom Edwards is dying, and cranky. He's made his peace with the dying part. But he'd bet his property - the whole ten thousand acres of it - that there'd be no wailing at his funeral. His kids wouldn't be able to chop down a tree, let alone build a coffin to bury him in.

Then Tom has an idea ...

Christine is furious, David ashen-faced, and Sophie distracted. Only Jenny listens carefully as Vince Barton, of Barton & Sons, reads their father's will. Either they build his coffin - in four days - or they lose their inheritance. All of it.

A perceptive and unforgettable debut novel, The Deed explores the messy, sometimes volatile, complications that only the best and worst of family can bring. Sometimes greed can be good.

Release date: May 1, 2024

Publisher: Hachette Australia

Print pages: 352

Sample

Jenny was woken by her breathing. Short and shallow, barely making it to her lungs. When she sat up the weight was there, a lead ball in the middle of her chest. So she knew. Something was wrong. Badly wrong.

When she stepped outside the light was dawning, a pale, almost translucent blue. She got in the ute and turned the ignition. It was a shame to disrupt the hush, but she had no choice.

He was tired when she visited last. He looked thin, but she couldn’t say it. When she left, he was standing in the front yard, Nell by his side. He was strong and tall in the sunlight and Jenny told herself he was fine.

She drove slowly. Carefully. She pulled off the highway onto Coorong Road and crept along Main Street. Coorong was dead at this time of the morning. No cars, no streetlights, no people. Jenny would have enjoyed it without the weight. She took a breath in, like she’d been taught, and slowly let it go. It didn’t help. Counsellors knew about anxiety, but they weren’t much use when it came to premonitions.

The stock route had a name now. Wangara Road. It was a big name for a few kilometres of gravel. Ellersley took up most of one side, which wasn’t saying much. As Jenny’s ute rattled over the grid and hit the dirt track, the sun tipped over the ridge. She followed the track to the homestead, spitting up eddies of dust, and killed the ignition a few metres from the house, rolling down to the yard.

Her boots crunched loudly on the gravel. It sounded more like a tip truck emptying than a person walking.

She unlatched the gate and continued warily up the concrete path. The screen door was jammed half open, and thick silence was pouring out of the house.

Jenny clomped up the steps and leaned in.

‘Hi Dad, it’s me.’ It was the first time she’d spoken that morning and it came out croaky. She cleared her throat and tried again. Louder.

‘Dad? You here?’ Her father scoffed at the idea he was going deaf, but he hated to be caught off guard.

Jenny scraped the screen door wide open and stepped into the porch.

‘Dad?’ Her voice collapsed in front of her, knocked down flat. She crossed the cracked lino and stood at the hallway entry, not ready to cross the threshold. The air smelled stale and trapped, like any old man’s house, but there was something else. Something foul. A hostile presence, telling her to get out. She would have obeyed, would have run, if it were any other house. But it wasn’t. It was Ellersley. It was her dad, and she was the only one there. She had to keep going.

Jenny stepped across the metal strip pinning the carpet edge and paused for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dim. She went slowly, cautiously.

Three steps in she found the crumpled body of her dead father.

‘Now that’s the way to bury your old man.’

Tom Edwards smacked the side of the telly, rattling the dinner plate on top. The fuzzy lines dispersed, leaving one transecting the screen. It was the best he’d get. He could see the people, at least.

‘Look at them. The whole bloody tribe must be there.’

He sank into his Jason recliner, wincing. He put the telly on for company during dinner. He couldn’t eat much, but it was easier if he was distracted from the bloating.

The program was part way through, but it didn’t matter. The documentaries were all the same. That bloody half whisper of some English bloke who thinks he’s discovered a lost civilisation.

Tom stabbed a fork into his lamb chop, sawed an edge off and started chewing.

It was all bullshit. Those people weren’t lost. They didn’t need some foreigner sniffing around them like a hungry dog. They sure as hell didn’t need their lives broadcast to the rest of the world.

He extracted a piece of gnawed meat from his mouth, inspected it, and put it back on the plate. Six months ago, he’d butchered this one himself. Now he was hardly fit to swallow it. He couldn’t taste it anyway. Nothing had taste now, not even a homegrown hogget.

I should turn the bloody thing off, he thought irritably. But once he was settled with a meal on his lap it was hard work to haul himself up again.

The scene changed; a body wrapped in red cloth, and women dancing and wailing. A whole lot of carry-on. Too much, in Tom’s opinion, but at least they were mourning. At least they showed up. It was more than he could say for his tribe.

Where were his kids? A lump growing in their father’s belly and his limbs wasting away, and where the hell were they?

He’d been losing strength for a few months, but he hadn’t paid much attention. The lump though, the lump was serious. It was growing at a rapid pace. And the weight had been falling off him just as fast. He knew he didn’t have long to go. A month, maybe.

And he would bet on his property – the whole ten thousand acres – that when he died there would be no king’s robe wrapped around his body. No handwoven mat to keep him safe in his grave. His kids couldn’t get it together to chop down a tree, let alone build a coffin to bury him in.

Tom watched as two men lowered the corpse into a shallow pit. It was a serious moment, and Tom meant no disrespect, but he found himself smiling. It wasn’t the documentary. It was the thought. It was the most entertaining idea he’d had in a long time.

Tom pulled the side lever on his recliner and rocked himself up. He switched off the TV and took his plate to the kitchen, most of the food still on it.

Maybe it could be done and maybe it couldn’t. He’d never know unless he tried. It might prod them hard enough to open their eyes. Even if it didn’t, it would give him a laugh, and bloody hell he could do with it.

One month left, or thereabouts, and four children to wake up.

Tom Edwards was going to enjoy himself.

He was lying on the bedroom floor in his old-man pyjamas, face down and buckled over, one arm splayed out on the rose-patterned carpet. A trail of blood and shit streaked down his legs, and a tarry stench leapt up at her. Jenny blocked her nostrils and stood her ground. She breathed softly, letting go of the tightness in her chest and waited for the stillness to arrive.

When the stillness came, Jenny didn’t have to make the decisions. Somehow a path of action opened before her. She knew where to put her thoughts and her feet; what to do with her hands.

Now, for example, she knew it was time to do a site survey.

A wobbling track of excrement led Jenny down the hall to the bathroom. It was a long way for a dying man to walk. She could see him though, determined not to be caught out. Not even by death. She imagined him stubbornly putting his slippers on and his shoulders back, walking down the hallway to use the toilet like a civilised person. How he got back was a different question altogether. The thought of her father too weak to walk was beyond Jenny’s imagining.

The smell was sickening. It was as rotten as roadkill. Worse. It filled her nostrils, becoming stronger and fouler with each step closer to the bathroom. Jenny pulled a man’s handkerchief from the pocket of her dress, held it to her nose and pushed open the bathroom door.

He hadn’t used the toilet like a civilised person. He had used the bath instead. Splattered black tar was spread far and wide on the wall tiles, the floor, the cracked porcelain. There was a puddle of bright red jellied blood in the bottom of the old claw-foot tub. Jenny looked down at the congealed mass, and then up at the flecked tiles above the bath. She shook her head with wonder. How did it get all the way up there? It didn’t quite make the showerhead, but it wasn’t far off.

First things first. She tied her hair back from her face, folded the handkerchief into a triangle to cover her nose and mouth, and knotted it behind her head. She tucked her Liberty dress into her large cotton briefs and pushed the window above the handbasin wide open.

The ledge under the mirror held her father’s few toiletries. Shaving kit, a black plastic comb, a toothbrush. The end of a tube of toothpaste in a cracked mug. Jenny gathered it together and took it through to the laundry sink.

There was a hose curled up in the geranium bed by the back door. Jenny attached it to the garden tap and turned the pressure right up. Doubling the end of the hose back on itself, she dragged it into the house. Once she was through the bathroom door, she released the kink and water shot out.

She started with the excrement clogging up the bath; rusty bore water shooting into the faeces and red jelly, flushing and flushing until the plughole was no longer blocked.

Pressing her thumb hard on the end of the hose, she directed a high-pressure spray to the walls, starting at the top and washing down, lifting the black splatters off the tiles. When the bulk of the material had been washed away, she kinked the hose and clumped back through the laundry to chuck it outside.

Now for the real work. Jenny didn’t mind. Real work was just fine. It had a solid surface, well-defined edges. You knew where you were with work. It was everything else in life that was the problem.

She pulled a bucket down from the shelf and turned the hot tap on. She half-filled it with steaming water and added a generous dose of A-grade hospital bleach. A second bucket with clean water for rinsing, rubber gloves, scrubbing brush and a car sponge and she was ready to go.

Scrubbing was first. Jenny worked methodically with the brush, scouring each tile and the grout in between. Ledges and edges, the mirror, the cistern, the iron claws; nothing was missed.

Her cotton-clad bottom wobbled hard as she scrubbed, but she was unconcerned. There would be no ridicule. The only other person in the house was dead. She covered the same area again with the sponge, and then rinsed it off with hot water and a rag. As she reached the end of the tiles she backed out on her hands and knees into the hallway. She stood up, stretched her back and smiled appreciatively.

‘Time for a break, Jen. What do you think?’

She knew there was more to do, but a person couldn’t work without a break. It had been an early start that morning, so she had plenty of time.

She untucked her dress and headed down the hallway to the kitchen, making a brief stop at her father’s room to straighten him out. The last thing she wanted was her father’s body stiffening up in that awkward position. He’d hate it if anyone saw him like that. She rolled him onto his back, stretched out his legs and placed his arms by his sides, patting his chest gently before she left the room.

The kitchen was cool, and the rainwater clear. Jenny leaned back against the bench, glass in hand, and considered the next stage of the job.

It wasn’t going to be as satisfying, trying to lift the stains from the carpet. But bleach could give surprising results. She drank her last mouthful, gave the glass a quick rinse and went back to the hallway.

She started at the bathroom end, methodically scanning the carpet for blood and faeces. She applied a diluted bleach solution to each spot, rubbing gently to remove any solid matter. In this way, on her hands and knees, she shuffled towards her father’s bedroom. She could feel the pressure growing in her chest and it was getting hard to take a proper breath.

‘It’s only natural to feel anxious,’ she could hear Dr Phil saying to a talk-show guest. ‘Death is very stressful.’

But it wasn’t death that concerned her. A dead body was fine. The trouble was what came next. Once she had finished cleaning her father there would be nothing left to do. Not a single thing that could reasonably excuse her from calling Christine.

His body was already stiff and cold. It was a good thing she had straightened him out.

Jenny undressed him and laid him gently on a towel. She sponged the loose, dry skin, all the way from his bony forehead to his hooked toes and patted it gently dry. She spoke to him quietly as she worked, and he listened. It had been a long time since he had listened so kindly.

She dressed her father in fresh pyjamas, made his bed with clean sheets, and, with great care, lifted him into it. It wasn’t hard to carry him. He was so thin. So light.

She washed the carpet he had been lying on, bundled the soiled clothes and linen into a plastic bag and put it in the hall. She went back in, one last time, to close his eyes, then came out and closed the bedroom door. It was done.

What Jenny most wanted, then, was to leave her father and her family home in peace. To pick up the garbage bag and walk out, closing the screen door behind her. To leave him there in his clean pyjamas, so he could keep on sleeping forever and ever, Amen.

But she knew it wouldn’t work. It would come back to bite her sooner or later. Probably sooner, given that it was summer. Bodies don’t hold out that long in the heat.

It was a dreadful thing, but the time had come. She had to ring Christine and set the disturbance in motion.

‘What’s dead?’ Christine was distracted. Nicholas was due at cricket, and he was complaining because he couldn’t find his gear. She put her hand over the mouthpiece and glared at him.

‘For goodness’ sake, Nicholas, look in your wardrobe. Third shelf. Clean whites. Claudia! Claudia! You’re coming too, so get down here.’

She tuned in to the phone again. ‘Look, Jennifer, this really isn’t the best time. Can we talk about it later?’

Not long after she married Stephen Minehan, cardiologist-intraining, Christine had taken to using her siblings’ full names. It was more dignified, and besides, those were the names they were baptised with. They should be used. Christine felt the same way about Nicholas and Claudia. The last thing she needed in her household was a ‘Nick’ or a ‘Claudy’. The thought of it made her shudder.

‘Move, Claudia – I’m not joking. In the car.’

Christine knew how to do volume. It was part of her skill set. She had learned it by bellowing across the paddocks as a child, but it was highly transferable. She could raise a family member from the far corner of their two-storey home with no effort.

Christine put on the dishwasher as she spoke, and a gentle beep was followed by the vigorous sound of water slushing.

‘I’m sorry, Jennifer, was that dead or Dad?’ She pressed the phone against her ear to seal off the background noise.

‘Dad’s dead?’ Christine paused to listen properly. ‘I see. Dad’s dead.’ She was processing the information. ‘Well, that’s both words, really, isn’t it?’

Christine’s response was not immediately sympathetic, but she didn’t want to be late. Nicholas’s coach was strict about punctuality.

‘All right, what have you done so far? Called the police? Dr Briggs? How about David and Sophie?’ Christine reached for her handbag, checking for the essentials. Wallet, mobile, lipstick.

Christine paused. ‘You’ve cleaned up a bit? Our father has died, and you have “cleaned up a bit”. For goodness’ sake, Jennifer. How long have you been there?’

Christine placed her hand over the mouthpiece to snap instructions at her children, both standing helplessly before her. ‘In the car, go. We’re still going. Go!’

‘Oh,’ she said into the receiver. ‘You thought I might do it. All of it, no doubt. From six hundred kilometres away. Yes, I see. Fine. No, Jennifer, you just stay where you are, and I’ll get onto it. Jennifer? Are you still there? Hold it together. This is not the time to fall apart. All you have to do is stay there and I’ll sort it out.’

Christine hung up, opened her compact mirror and applied a fresh layer of lipstick, considering the day’s program as she worked. Alterations were required. Significant alterations. She snapped the mirror shut.

First job – Stephen. He had started doing a Saturday list for procedures. It suited his clientele. Heart attack–prone patients didn’t like their work schedules interrupted. Christine punched in the number of his consulting rooms.

‘Nicola, it’s Christine.’ Christine tapped a staccato rhythm on the marble benchtop and waited for Nicola to respond. There was always a delay.

‘Yes, of course you should put me through.’ The ten-second music loop started, and Christine tapped faster.

‘Scrubbed? Fine. Yes, you can take a message. Write this down. My father has died. I will drop Nicholas at cricket now and bring Claudia to the rooms where she will sit in the waiting room until Stephen finishes in theatre. He will then take Claudia to pick Nicholas up from Jonathon’s house where I will arrange for him to go after cricket. I’m going to Ellersley. I’ll phone from the road to make further arrangements.’ Christine could hear hurried scratching at the end of the phone.

‘Have you got that? Fine. Goodbye.’

Nicola was one of Stephen’s more annoying receptionists. Snippy and smart. Way too quick with the hold button. She needed to be pulled into line.

The kids were waiting in the car, so Christine kept moving. She dashed up the stairs to her bedroom and packed an overnight bag. Old clothes for work, a suit for the funeral and her toiletries. She carried it down to the garage, switching off lights as she went, and set the security alarm on her way out.

An hour later Nicholas was batting in the practice nets, Claudia was sitting in Stephen’s waiting room with her iPad and Christine was on the highway. She had even achieved a three-minute conversation with Stephen between procedures. Now it was time to get to work.

First, she dialled triple zero. She was quite aware this would not be classified as an emergency, but triple zero was the most efficient option. The recorded voice listed the choices of ambulance, fire and police, and Christine paused, hoping for another option. A capable woman, maybe. Now that would be a service worth offering. Perhaps she would suggest it to the NSW Emergency Services.

‘Police please.’ Although it wasn’t exactly what she wanted, Christine was aware of the value of courtesy.

‘Good morning, Officer. My name is Christine Minehan, I’m calling from St Ives in Sydney. My father, Thomas Edwards, has passed away. He is at the family property, Ellersley, near Coorong. Currently my older sister, Jennifer, is at the house. She’s understandably distressed and feels unable to make the call herself.’

The officer who answered gave Christine a lecture regarding the use of emergency services, then put her through to the Coorong Police Station. It rang and rang, and Christine was preparing a message when the phone was picked up. Christine shifted from irritated to polite, introduced herself to the Coorong police officer and explained the situation. Officer Greaves was surprisingly helpful. He said he would get out to Ellersley straight away. Christine doubted it, but at least the intention was there.

The tag on her windscreen beeped as she hit the motorway, and she instructed her phone to call the Coorong Medical Practice.

Dr Briggs was old now, but that had its advantages. He took the time to answer Christine’s call, and he didn’t hesitate in offering to meet the police at Ellersley. The patients could wait, he said. If he was gone long enough some of them might get sick, which would be a nice change.

Christine didn’t bother ringing the solicitor. No one at Mindle, Seifort & Sloane would be working on the weekend. Lawyers in the country played golf on Saturdays, or plucked the deadheads off their roses.

The limit changed to 110 and Christine increased speed. Next on her list was David.

David was as hopeless as ever. It had nothing to do with their father’s death. Semi-commitment was the way he worked. There was no such thing as ‘yes’ or ‘no’ with David. He was the master of maybe. But he agreed to return to Ellersley, at Christine’s firm suggestion, which was something. Not just for the funeral, but today, or if that proved impossible, tomorrow.

Christine adjusted the climate control before making the final call. Fury was, if not inevitable, highly likely. Cool air would be required.

Sophie’s phone rang out. Once. Twice. Three times. Christine left a message for her to call back and punched the button on her steering wheel to hang up. It was ridiculous to own a phone and never answer it.

Sophie had to start living in the real world. They were the adults now.

Jenny knew she was meant to stay at Ellersley. She knew it would look odd, suspicious even, if she left. She knew the police were on their way and she knew what the rules were because Christine had made it quite plain that she had to stay put, but she still couldn’t do it.

It was too hard to breathe. She did try. For twelve minutes and thirty-five seconds. She counted on the digital clock on the desk. Then her arms hoisted her up from the wicker chair and her legs walked out before she’d even realised they were moving. She left a note tucked between the flaking frame and the netting of the flyscreen door.

Dear Officer,

I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.

Yours sincerely,

Jenny Edwards

It wasn’t the right thing to do; she knew that. But it was polite. And it was true.

She broke into a trot as she crossed the yard, the garbage bag banging against her leg. She chucked it on the back, started the ute and made her getaway.

The police would be fine without her. It was probably better she wasn’t there. Otherwise, they’d be pawing through the bag of bloody clothes with their plastic gloves, making a mess after she’d tidied everything up so nicely. It was much better for them to inspect the place without her.

It was a lovely, clear run home. There was enough time to drop the bag at the tip and still get back in time for morning tea.

The ute rattled into the drive and Jenny killed the ignition. She hurried up the steps onto the verandah, kicked off her boots and opened the back door. Ten twenty-five. Jenny smiled. She’d made it.

She padded across the kitchen lino and switched the kettle on. Humming quietly she rinsed out the teapot and reached for the plastic canister. Making tea, that was her job now. It had nothing to do with officers or sisters or being told to wait, just wait, for who knows how long.

Jenny got her morning mug and a packet of Iced Vovos, and when the tea was poured took her refreshments to the rocking chair in the lounge room. She held the mug between her palms and took a sip. Ah, yes. Yes, indeed. She closed her eyes and rocked gently.

Just as she was drifting off the telephone rang, jolting her eyes open. It gave her a nasty shock. It always did. Such a startling clanging; and it would go on and on until she picked up. That was before Matthew installed the answering machine. It was unsettling to hear his voice announce, ‘We are unable to come to the phone right now’, but it was so much better than opening a direct line to the unknown.

Jenny let it go to the machine the first time, but Christine’s message was sufficiently severe to make her answer on the second.

It was a mixed blessing, hearing that Chris couldn’t reach Sophie. On the one hand, it took the focus off Jenny’s speedy desertion of the farm. There was the other hand, however. It was holding a dreadful task. Christine was pu. . .