SNADGER SMITH

Chapter 1

1.
A heavy fog descended over the valley that morning and covered the rolling hills like a thick white blanket on a massive bed. The dense haze had resisted the sun's attempts to penetrate to the ground until rays of light finally burst their way through, creating a scene reminiscent of a religious masterpiece. As the countryside began to thaw the steam rose, smouldering like a discarded campfire on a river bank.

A mob of Western-Grey Kangaroos had been sheltering in trees overnight and were slowly making their way down the sloping terrain. They weren't in any hurry, just inching their way forward as they grazed on new spring grasses, their backs steaming in unison with the land. The valley was so still and peaceful, the silence only occasionally broken by the screech of galahs and the haunting calls of crows in the distance. It was a perfect setting and perfect theatre for the burial of my old mate, Snadger Smith.

We left the car park and walked through the cemetery's rustic iron gates following fresh shoe impressions left on the icy grass, the ground so cold it penetrated through my shoes and up into my lower legs. Headstones were covered in frost on their exposed sides, although the outlines of peoples epitaphs were still visible through the white vale. They contained the usual phrases, such as; In Loving Memory, Rest In Peace, Dearly Beloved and The Last Resting Place. I've never really understood how a decomposing corpse could be described as resting or in peace, but I understand the sentiment.

One of the graves caught my eye, the last resting place 🤣 of Dicky Perkins or Richard Charles Perkins as his stone was marked. He was the local butcher when I was growing up and I don't think there is a butcher shop in town these days, not since the supermarket was built. I suppose that's called progress? I looked forward to going into to Dicky's Meats with dad, particularly on a Saturday after we shut the garage and he was always happy to see us. Dad and Dicky didn't stop yapping the whole time we were there, mostly about footy, horses or cars. It was an old fashioned butcher shop that had sawdust on the floor, a couple of carcasses hanging on hooks, the unmistakable smell of raw meat and fat and it was also a bit chilly. The temperature didn't seem to faze Dicky, as he always wore shorts under his butchers apron. Once inside the door I couldn't help myself and slid on the sawdust until dad grabbed me by the scruff of the neck to end my fun.

What I enjoyed more than anything was watching the bloke cutting up meat with the bandsaw. It was like the blade was travelling at a million miles an hour and it made a high pitched zinging noise as it effortlessly sliced through meat and bones with one push. Of course Dicky didn't stop talking during the whole process, although his concentration on the job at hand didn't seem to diminish. His hands moved so quickly as he skilfully manipulated and cut the carcass, one slip could have easily ended in disaster. There were some obvious signs he hadn't always been at the top of his game, because two of his fingers and a thumb weren't quite as long as they should have been.

The grave next to Dickey's was old Les Pearson, a bloke who used to run a garage at the opposite end of town to dad's. It was well known that Les was a bit of a gambler and apparently that's how he got his nickname of Punter Pearson. You have to hand it country folk they knew how to deal out the most appropriate nicknames and, although some of them weren't all that kind, most stuck like glue. There were times when I didn't even know people's actual names, because you never heard them called anything else but they're appellative. I mean you knew that wasn't their actual name, but it didn't seem to matter because it became their identity.

Although Punter's garage was open from eight to four the locals knew you didn't go down there between midday and one o'clock. That was because the proprietor was up the pub putting on his daily bets and having a few quiet sevens. I guess it would have confused some out-of-towners who happened to drive in for fuel, although old Sid was generally sitting on his veranda next door giving them the heads up. They'd either have to wait or just drive on depending how desperate they were at the time.