Hunting Fishing Mates Beer...

When my Sister dropped my Grandfather's stockwhip off the side of his boat and it sank to the bottom of the Lake he didn't even get that angry about it. I had fantasies for years of being the one to find and return it to Grandpa, and could even imagine the look on his face when he saw it again; like a lost stockwhip was so meaningful or something. I know how silly that sounds. Even to me. And I wrote it. Just then.

I don't know why She insisted on bringing the whip with us on the boat in the first place, actually, was she expecting to round us up some fish or something? To be fair, I suppose we all liked receiving His good favour, and liked carrying it around for him, because he just might need it at Any moment, you know; like if Peter were to suddenly charge us into a barbed wire fence or something.

It could have happened...

We were always asking Grandpa about different types of fish or rabbit traps and what to do with the baby joeys that you find in the dead mother's pouches. He was a bit of a Man's man- hunting, fishing, mates, beer. After a successful outing they would line the Cleaning table with skinned Thumpers and plucked ducks- and after fishing the ground would be so thick with scales around the men's feet that it looked like they were standing in a giant pile of toe-nail clippings.

Where did all those men come from anyway? They don't seem to take any notice of us as we run around their feet, swinging plastic bags full of hot roe and fish eyes at each other. They don't see us there, either, sitting in the speed boat that never gets used, dissecting the discarded fish heads- relieving them of their gills- or see us peeling their eyes back, like layers of onions, until there is only a tiny ball of jelly left. This isn't cruel or barbaric; it's all done in the name of science. I'm going to be a vet one day remember, and may have to perform eye surgery on a much loved fish one day. I don't know what my Sister's excuses are; maybe they just thought it was funny chasing people around with bagfuls of guts.

After most of the mess has been cleaned up by one or other of the men's dogs they sit around for hours, drinking longnecks of VB that they then stack against the back wall of the outhouse. We sneak the dregs, sometimes- unluckily-getting a mouthful of cigarette juice in the process. I have no doubt that everyone but the children and my Mother would have been off their heads drunk on nights like this- nights like when my Uncle pulled a shotgun on my Grandfather and my Cousin, who aged about nine, bravely put herself between the gun and her Grandfather- who she regarded as her father.

I don't even know at the moment if that story is even true, it sounds so surreal and far away. Maybe it happened but I wasn't there, which is in fact more likely to be the case. I like to take on other people's stories as mine, in case you haven't noticed yet, especially if they're any good...

But even though our Grandfather was raising my Cousin like a daughter- and in fact raising her better and with more love and kindness than he raised his own daughters, by all accounts- he always seemed to have time for a cuddle with all of us other grandkids- we all felt special when we were with him, and even though he had his favourite, no one ever felt unloved.

We all got to have a turn sitting with him in his rocking chair and have a go at wearing his soft tweed cap, and at carrying the stockwhip around the paddock. Or on the boat. Except for right at the end, when he forgot about everything, I think he knew that he had made us all feel loved and special- so that even when we discovered-as adults- that he wasn't always one of the nicest of men, and that he wasn't a particularly good father or husband, that we will always be able to think of him as the loving Grandfather we knew- and remember him that way.

And who knows; maybe one day I'll remember my Grandmother fondly as well.

Unless she's immortal. Or I die first.

She made nice soup.

I tried.