The Art of Being A McCartney

Butter Yellow Parchment

Theresa is 16. Our darling Paul was 14 years, 4months and 14 days old

"Mary's dead....??" The mare held my weight. I was leaning two hands against her side just trying to stay upright. The retained heat from our ride moving from her body through into my hands. Seconds flew by as my eyes closed then reluctantly opened again to see my mothers lips move.

"Yes dear"

Mum's words echoed around me and I pounced. This couldn't possibly be true! I had so much to do with, and for, Mary. So much to say. So many miles to travel in life with her.

"But I have to meet her! I was going to see her in person and say thank-you and give her a big hug... oh fuck, those poor boys"

"Language Theresa" Mother dragged me from the mares side and wrapped me in her arms tight.

Daddy went bush after he received the telegram, its butter yellow parchment fluttered gracefully to the kitchen floor, and there, it remained.

I imagine he lifted his trusty Akubra off the nail on the hallway wall, pressed it deep on his head and strode purposely, with his back ramrod straight, from the house. The old Honda then kicked over and flogged hard as it wheeled out of the shed, down the rutted road that led to the north of the property. I think he may have gone to the gorge....

All I saw was dust, thick choking red dust.

Therefore, it was mother that broke the news. Tenderly spoken as I curry-combed my horse after a ride out along the razorback of the gorge. Where beautiful towering sandstone cliffs form a spectacle of steep-sided rock which narrow and widen inconsistently all along the way. Colours light to dark, showing eons of time etched through the mighty wall in waves.

That same gorge that daddy most likely was now riding into. Albeit, a hundred feet below where I had drawn on the mare's rein and watched the sulphur crested cockatoos flocking across the expanse of blue overhead. Squawking and flapping so close together they seemed to make a blanket of white as they banked north east only to spread miles wide over the cloudless azure sky as they turned to wing true north.

He loves that boulder- strewn creek that leads to our 'secret' ever so deep freshwater pools.

His thinking place. His heaven on earth.

"Sorry Ma" We both had tears glistening and threatening a cloud burst in our eyes as she helped me place the mare in the paddock. Woodenly, and somewhat blind to everything around me, I lifted the stock saddle to place it in its spot in the tack room, bridle raised higher still, to the peg on the wall above. Mary was part of us, certainly part of me and I felt all those feelings you're supposed to feel even though I've never laid eyes on her...

Oh yes I did.. when I was first born.......

"She wasn't feeling well in her last letter remember?" We made the kitchen, me slumping into a chair, mother sitting with her usual grace. I don't recall passing the homesteads dilapidated garden gate, touching fingers to the strands of dry grass that stuck out into my path as I walked... nor felt the screen door whack against my back as it slammed shut behind me. Come to think of it I must have climbed the stairs to get into the house, yet nothing tallied in those moments bar the wave of a butter yellow parchment as mummy sat with dejection at the kitchen table, the sad news in her hand.

A pile of spuds sat half peeled, forgotten. Now they were turning brown in the afternoon heat. "Do you want me to fetch the envelope from my shoe box?"

"No darling, it's all right. Jim must be having a hard time of it... and yes those boys too, so young to be without"