I leant back in my chair and stretched my back, then stood, stretched my arms to the ceiling and moved my head from side to side. I had been sitting for hours, typing my essay, due tomorrow.
It was the last day of Easter. Every now and again I could hear the revving of bikes as they headed out of town. The Bathurst bike races were famous, or if you prefer, infamous. This year there hadn’t been any trouble, thank goodness. When you are married to one of the local police it is a time of year that you dread.
The sun was shining and there was a light breeze. I decided I needed a walk to wake me up and clear my head. I walked down the backyard and stepped over the wobbly old wire fence.
Behind us was a council reserve, broken by a creek with a dribble of water at the bottom. I carefully navigated the side of the creek, stepped over the water, and clambered up the other side.
The land beyond was owned by the vegetable canning factory at the bottom of our street, but hadn’t been farmed for years. It stretched high over the edge of town. The grass was long, but it was too late in the year for snakes, so I enjoyed it whipping across my legs and whispering in the breeze.
I climbed to the top of the hill and paused to take in the view. A siren sounded in the distance. Police? Fire? Ambulance? I wondered. Perhaps some of the bikers had been involved in an accident riding out of town.
Another siren. It must a bad accident then … police and ambulance.
Another siren. I tried to identify the direction it was headed but the sound bounced around the valley making it impossible to tell.
Another siren. I just stood and listened.
Another siren. Perhaps it’s not an accident. There are too many sirens.
Another siren.
Another siren.
Another siren.
Another siren.
A cacophony of sirens, the sounds ringing through the valley, bouncing off the mountains.
I knew there was only one explanation.
A Signal One. Police officers needing immediate assistance.
Another siren.
There is a spot below my breastbone where I feel fear and anxiety. That spot clenched, my legs felt weak under me.
I stood for ages just listening. They were certainly headed out of town, and not in this direction.
I turned around and forced my legs to walk me back to the creek. Somehow I scrambled down and up, and over the fence. I walked inside and stood in the lounge room.
What do I do?
I would wait. If the phone rang, it would be my husband, to tell me what had happened. If a police car pulled up out the front, then that would be … that would be … not so good.
I sat in the chair by the window. I waited. There was no point in thinking about it, I told myself.
Just wait.
I got up and made a cup of coffee. I couldn’t drink it.
Just wait.
The afternoon wore on and the light began to fade.
Don’t think, just wait.
It grew dark. I waited.
I realised the house was in darkness, and if a car arrived, they might think I wasn’t home, and not knock on the door. I turned on the lounge room light. The curtains were still open.
I waited.
The phone rang.
It was my husband.
Two police had been shot and wounded just outside of town. The gunman was also shot. They had all been taken to hospital.
Relief, relief in waves, and concern, who was it? How badly were they injured?
He wouldn’t say.
Are you coming home now? I wanted to hold him in my arms, to cry, and hug and tell him how concerned I was, how frightened.
No, not yet. He had to go.
I sat a while longer, then walked out to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of wine.
My essay. Oh, I can’t do it now, I will have to apply for an extension.
Turned on the TV. Flicked around the News but there was nothing. Too soon I suppose.
Got out some records. My go-to when I am sad and lonely.
I rang his parents to let them know he was OK, in case they heard something. Then I rang mine.
What to do? I sat. I had another glass of wine. Another record.
What is happening? Where is he? How are they? When will he be home?
I cried. Useless, pointless tears. Another glass of wine.
I waited.
Eventually I went to bed.
I was woken by bright light shining into the room, a car was parked on the driveway, the motor running, voices, a car door slammed, a key fumbling in the lock.
He went straight to the bathroom while I lay in the dark. He came in and sat on the bed. I could see and smell that he was drunk.
How are they? Who was it?
He’s dead.
Dead? What? Who?
You don’t know him, he’s new, just a young bloke.
Oh my god. Oh my god.
And the other one?
Wounded, but should be OK.
And the shooter?
Wounded. Hope he bloody dies.
What happened?
I reached over to hold him, but he staggered off the bed, undressed in a fashion and dropped back into bed. He fell asleep immediately.
Dead. Just a young bloke. I didn’t know him.
I didn’t even know who the wounded officer was. How bad was he wounded? How did it happen?
The next morning he was up and gone before my alarm went.
But by then the news was on the radio. They named the dead officer, the injured one and the shooter. There wasn’t much more detail.
I rang my Tutor and asked for an extension for my Essay. She was very kind, very understanding, of course she knew that I was married to a policeman. She gave me two weeks. More than enough.
I didn’t feel like attending classes. I walked down the hill into town. I walked past the hospital. There were a couple of police cars out the front. There would be a guard or two on the shooter. There would be visitors for the other officer, if he was well enough.
I walked to my friends’ house. She lived with her mother in a lovely old home in town. They greeted me with concern and wanted to know what had happened, but of course I didn’t know any more than they did. Although it was only mid morning they felt coffee was not appropriate and gave me a large green ginger wine with ginger ale. We sat in the sun under the huge pear tree and speculated. But we didn’t really know anything.
It was a hot day, the day of the funeral. The Cathedral was packed, and others stood outside, those who just wanted to pay their respects but didn’t feel they belonged inside.
I cried. I cried for the young man whose life was taken at age 25. I cried for his parents, his wife and his two small children. I cried for his colleagues, for the wounded officer still in hospital. I cried for the Shooter’s family, some of whom I knew, because it was, after all, a country town. But most of all I cried because that widow sitting there could easily have been me.
We came out of the darkness of the Cathedral into the blinding light. My husband left my side to join the ranks of the Police. It was a funeral with full Police honours. The bagpipes, the slow hearse followed by the slow-marching Police.
I stood on my own by the side of the road. I caught the eye of another wife I was acquainted with, she stepped toward me, and we both broke down in sobs, hugging each other. She too, could have been burying her husband today. We stood there holding hands as the procession passed by. An old man on the other side of the road removed his hat and put it over his heart.
I didn’t see my husband again after that, I wasn’t sure where he had gone so I went home. I sat by the window with a glass of wine and reflected on the last few days. I felt drained, drained of emotion, drained of tears, full of grief. I thought we should stretch the budget and go out for dinner tonight, spend some time talking, share this experience to start to heal together.
I waited.
I sat in the sunroom for a while, in the late afternoon sun. Had a glass of wine. I dozed a little. It grew dark.
He should be home soon.
I waited.
I turned on the News and there was coverage of the funeral. I saw again the old man with the hat.
I waited.
Eventually I went to bed.
I was woken by bright light shining into the room, a car was parked on the driveway, the motor running, voices, a car door slammed, a key fumbling in the lock.
He went straight to the bathroom while I lay in the dark. He came in and sat on the bed. I could see and smell that he was drunk.
I reached over to hold him, but he staggered off the bed, undressed in a fashion and dropped back into bed. He fell sleep immediately.
The next morning, he was up and gone before my alarm went.
I finished my Essay.
Author: Deborah Drinkell
I am an older lady enjoying retirement in my small home near the sea in Tasmania. I live with my husband, a spaniel and an orange rescue cat. Our grandchildren and my stepdaughter are frequent visitors. I love gardening and spending time with my eclectic collection of wonderful female friends. In my working life, as a archivist/historian it was the stories of the ‘ordinary’ people that interested me the most. No one is really ‘ordinary’, everyone has a life woven with sorrow and joy, and occasionally profound experiences. The experiences of all these people add up to a history of place. This story is a true story, part of my story, one of those experiences that one doesn’t forget.
