When one moves interstate from one’s original upbringing, deserting one’s family and friends for life, one finds that others begin to fill the niches of one’s past almost automatically.
The vacancies get filled, like it or not.
Brothers abounded among footy teammates (where else), sisters from disinterested colleagues (we don’t get on), a mother from a suitable English woman who employed my stepson and even a school thug substitute appeared from nowhere.
But if anyone was a substitute for my father (who is still my father, I might add), it was Brendan.
If there was ever a kind word to be said in a rather — let’s say — robust rural community complete with family members living either side of us exchanging insults, blows and finally restraining orders, then everyone had many kind words about Brendan.
Amid my often cynical social media postings, if there was one that caused people to phone and ask if I was okay, it was banging a picture of Brendan online with a jolly good essay extolling his virtues.
Brendan not only filled that instinctive fatherly role (he only had daughters), keeping me ticking over between my regretfully scant trips back to see my bona fide parents, but he held a key rural role as well.
He was the local general storekeeper, petrol bowser operator, walking phone directory (keeping numbers almost from memory) and connections man — through him one could get a mechanic, a trusser, a roofer and even a JP when needed.
And when Hans, the German postmaster up the road who threatened to burn down his lover’s house, only to turn white when said house actually did burn down (boy, we laughed), died from the shock of his prophecy (he insisted) or crime (we maintained), Brendan then became postmaster.
He was a tough codger, nearing 80 years, cockney accent with ‘w’ replacing the ‘r’ in most words, perpetual burgundy jumper and check shirt collar poking through.
He once had Hollywood weirdo Willem Dafoe shoot a movie scene inside the shop (I was washing my sock drawer that day), once got broken into to have every expensive item and all cash cleaned out and then suffered the ignominy of his trusted and popular employee swindling the Post Office of over $80,000 (only for him to forgive her).
He helped me cut my farming teeth and his charge sheet on my patch was endless:
Invited me to my first blade-castration (my eyes still water as I type this), dropped everything to come and tinker on my blasted-useless-son-of-a-dog-why-can-I-only-afford-a Fergie 28 tractor (and he got it started every time).
He loaned me some rippers (no, really, they were quite good), a disk, a spreader and when I offered him my final shedfull of hay to say thanks for everything, he didn’t stop: gifting me in return two of the finest young Hereford steers, which earned me a nice grand half a year later.
Two telling things wrap up that decade of my life blessed by this generous man:
He met my parents when they visited; and the septuagenarians seem to have a telepathic understanding while us Gen-Xers have only mastered passive aggression.
My father stood to shake his hand with neither prompting the other. The warmth between them said ‘How’s he doing?’ and ‘Oh, I’ve got him under control’.
Then Mother knew to stay seated and exchange the mutual British cheek peck, and for some reason this all warmed me to tears.
*
Brendan phoned me last month. There’s a spot of gravel in his voice now. It’s faint. The ‘w’ comes thwew pwetty thick still.
I had loaned him my rather large million-dollar zero-pivot lawn mower since I was downsizing, before I left the area and forgot all about it.
“I want to buy that mower fwom you. After all these years, and with a few wepairs, can I send you a couple of thousand?”
He then heard a very long silence down the line until my heart skipped finally in the right direction (I owed money everywhere) and I didn’t waste a breath.
“It’s yours, Brendan.”
And in the aftermath of explaining to him exactly why it was now his ... the choking finally forced me stop speaking.
My eyes water anew as I type.
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