must learn how to defend yourself. Besides,’ he added with a devilish wink, ‘what the old man doesn’t know won’t hurt him.’
I didn’t want this to be my last memory of Samuel. I wanted to cling to those moments of passion we’d shared in the rose-scented darkness . . . but the ghostly face had stolen those memories, somehow claimed them as its own. At that moment, I felt bereft, shaken. Poppa’s gentle world of prayer and quiet devotion seemed very distant to me; meanwhile, the world of war and of young men leaving to take up guns and kill each other, and of newspapers full of maps and lists of the dead and missing – that world was suddenly very near.
I joined Samuel in the clearing. Tall ironbarks cast shadows on the grass, their leaves shivering in the morning air, while thebirds – whip-birds, whistlers, kookaburras, lorikeets – sang up the sun. I breathed the peppery scent of yellow-buttons, the tangy-green sharpness of eucalyptus, and the sweet full-bodied perfume of roses . . . and decided that Samuel was right.
He placed the revolver in my hand, taking care to point it toward the edge of the clearing. ‘Rest your forefinger along the top of the trigger guard, and hold the grip firm. Brace it with your other hand like this, and keep your arms straight.’
The weapon was large and weighty, too cumbersome to hold as he’d shown me. A powdery metallic aroma lifted off it, tinged with cloves and sweat, ugly and out of place in the gentle flower-scented morning. I tried to thrust it back into Samuel’s hands, but he shook his head.
‘No, no . . . keep it pointed outwards. You see that tree over there?’
‘I can’t, Samuel.’
‘Here – ’ He moved behind me and enclosed me in his arms, sliding his fingers over mine. ‘You’re holding it like a dead rat . . . You need to grip it with confidence, claim it as part of your body. An extension of your arm.’
I shuddered. ‘It’s too heavy. I can’t point it properly.’
Samuel adjusted his position. His body was warm against my back, his chest solid, his arms strong and reassuring.
‘Hold it tight with both hands, then pull back the hammer with your thumb . . . here, like so, until it clicks into place.’
The lesson was a waste of time. I knew I’d never point a weapon at another living soul, let alone fire off a deadly shot, not even to save my own life. My father might be elderly and set in his ways, but he was also – apart from Samuel – the wisest man I knew. ‘Liebling,’ he so often said, ‘each time we kill even the smallest of God’s creatures, we fray away our own connection to the divine.’
But as I snuggled in the luxury of Samuel’s nearness, the merits of such a lesson became clear to me. Samuel’s shirt was fragrant with the fresh sweat that clung to his skin, and thescent of his hair pomade obscured the oily reek of the weapon. Being close to him made me feel all tingly and loose-limbed. I peeked at him, admiring his slanted eyes, his high broad cheekbones, his full mouth, intoxicating at close range. I found myself swaying closer, pressing my bottom into him, remembering the sweet softness of his lips –
‘Pay attention,’ he said gruffly.
I pouted.
That made him sigh, and he shook his head, his brows knotted. ‘You do realise who we’re at war against, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then you know that anyone the government considers a security risk to the country will be interned. It happened in the last war, and my guess is that it will happen again in this one. If your father is put in prison because of his nationality, then you’ll be alone. You must know how to protect yourself. So pay attention now. See if you can plant a bullet in the trunk of that old tree over there.’
The weapon bucked in my hands, its deafening whip-crack report making my ears ring. I lowered it, shaking.
I missed, of course. On purpose, because then Samuel must instruct me again how to press back
I didn’t want this to be my last memory of Samuel. I wanted to cling to those moments of passion we’d shared in the rose-scented darkness . . . but the ghostly face had stolen those memories, somehow claimed them as its own. At that moment, I felt bereft, shaken. Poppa’s gentle world of prayer and quiet devotion seemed very distant to me; meanwhile, the world of war and of young men leaving to take up guns and kill each other, and of newspapers full of maps and lists of the dead and missing – that world was suddenly very near.
I joined Samuel in the clearing. Tall ironbarks cast shadows on the grass, their leaves shivering in the morning air, while thebirds – whip-birds, whistlers, kookaburras, lorikeets – sang up the sun. I breathed the peppery scent of yellow-buttons, the tangy-green sharpness of eucalyptus, and the sweet full-bodied perfume of roses . . . and decided that Samuel was right.
He placed the revolver in my hand, taking care to point it toward the edge of the clearing. ‘Rest your forefinger along the top of the trigger guard, and hold the grip firm. Brace it with your other hand like this, and keep your arms straight.’
The weapon was large and weighty, too cumbersome to hold as he’d shown me. A powdery metallic aroma lifted off it, tinged with cloves and sweat, ugly and out of place in the gentle flower-scented morning. I tried to thrust it back into Samuel’s hands, but he shook his head.
‘No, no . . . keep it pointed outwards. You see that tree over there?’
‘I can’t, Samuel.’
‘Here – ’ He moved behind me and enclosed me in his arms, sliding his fingers over mine. ‘You’re holding it like a dead rat . . . You need to grip it with confidence, claim it as part of your body. An extension of your arm.’
I shuddered. ‘It’s too heavy. I can’t point it properly.’
Samuel adjusted his position. His body was warm against my back, his chest solid, his arms strong and reassuring.
‘Hold it tight with both hands, then pull back the hammer with your thumb . . . here, like so, until it clicks into place.’
The lesson was a waste of time. I knew I’d never point a weapon at another living soul, let alone fire off a deadly shot, not even to save my own life. My father might be elderly and set in his ways, but he was also – apart from Samuel – the wisest man I knew. ‘Liebling,’ he so often said, ‘each time we kill even the smallest of God’s creatures, we fray away our own connection to the divine.’
But as I snuggled in the luxury of Samuel’s nearness, the merits of such a lesson became clear to me. Samuel’s shirt was fragrant with the fresh sweat that clung to his skin, and thescent of his hair pomade obscured the oily reek of the weapon. Being close to him made me feel all tingly and loose-limbed. I peeked at him, admiring his slanted eyes, his high broad cheekbones, his full mouth, intoxicating at close range. I found myself swaying closer, pressing my bottom into him, remembering the sweet softness of his lips –
‘Pay attention,’ he said gruffly.
I pouted.
That made him sigh, and he shook his head, his brows knotted. ‘You do realise who we’re at war against, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then you know that anyone the government considers a security risk to the country will be interned. It happened in the last war, and my guess is that it will happen again in this one. If your father is put in prison because of his nationality, then you’ll be alone. You must know how to protect yourself. So pay attention now. See if you can plant a bullet in the trunk of that old tree over there.’
The weapon bucked in my hands, its deafening whip-crack report making my ears ring. I lowered it, shaking.
I missed, of course. On purpose, because then Samuel must instruct me again how to press back
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