Morality Tale
I sat there for some time, looking at the dead-straight horizon, thinking we had better build a fence. Not that I wanted to ruin the view out to the river, or separate myself from the little town. Most people had shown us their nice side; a welcome that one expected in the country. We adored the view and liked the people. Jason, now—Jason was suspicious. Always was, never trusted a welcome or a kind word or something done out of the kindness of someone’s heart. No. He had to wait, I knew, for them to prove themselves.
The story of how I proved myself? Sorry—it would take too long. Jason’s the one for sagas and chronicles, not me. Just let me say it included cooking. It did concern cooking. Yeah, lots of cooking of stews and cakes. And puddings and roasts and ah, proving … proving sourdough bread. That, yes, because Jason needed things and people to prove themselves.
And something would happen, I felt it. An occasion would arise for the townsfolk to demonstrate trustworthiness, or some such long word. It was inevitable. Seemed inevitable in Jason’s life, anyway. He told stories of when he lived on the outskirts of a small wheatbelt town, where his trailer was stolen. Each time he told the story, the trailer was newer, the thieves more daring, the length of time it took the cops to find it longer. And there was the story of the lost cockatiel or lorikeet or whatever it was. That one fluttered around a long time. In all stories, there was the moral of character demonstrated, of decency and reliability and honesty proven. Jason was the teller of the ultimate ‘boy who did not cry wolf’ story. The meaningful story with no twist in the tail. I had heard them all a dozen times each, believe me.
Laughing about it did not take away the fact we needed to throw up a fence. Something sturdy but good-looking. Something that didn’t say a straight-up ‘go away’. Something that would keep stray goats out. Get it? Look—I didn’t know whose goats they were. Jason didn’t know. But the hydrangeas were gone, and so were the geraniums and anything else that survived the summer drought, like that westringia. Anything I put in the ground in an effort to make it feel like home. You know, shrubs. Vibrant viburnum, or something. Like what that woman says on Gardening Australia.
I had spotted them twice, those goats, those sure-footed creatures, through the front bedroom window. They sure-footed their way right up to the veranda, munching everything in their path, along my path. Running out flapping and snapping a tea towel did nothing to stop the horned wall-eyed devils coming back, and come back they did, leaving hardly anything behind.
The street runs along the river. It’s beautiful. All the houses on this end have a fence; the cliché white picket, metal cyclone diamonds, ancient grey jarrah stalwart, leaning-in asbestos. And of course the ColorBond beauties in Woodland Grey, Classic Cream, and Manor Red. I’d rather have ten thousand goats than one of those.
But I knew why they were there. I knew now.
‘Bound to be someone knows …’
‘Knows, Jason?’
‘Knows who owns the goats, Olivia,’ Jason mumbled past a sideways mouthful of sausage and mash. ‘Bound to be.’
‘Well—a good talking to, I think, Jason.’
‘Hmm. A quiet word might do it, if we ever found who.’
‘Could be anyone.’
Turned out to be Forrest Brown. Yes, he of the permanently-crossed Popeye arms, who looked threatening and don’t-mess-with me, even at a great distance. Forrest Brown leaned one of those arms over his turned-down ute window late one evening. I was throwing cooled water from boiled eggs on the stunted basil in a pot near the door.
‘Hey there, Olivia. Someone said something about me goats. You gotta complaint or somethin’?’
So word had reached him. I came down to the letterbox. ‘Hello.’ Nice as I could, see? That’s the way, Jason reckoned. ‘Yeah … I mean no. They um … ate my flowers, I’m afraid. Uh … that’s all. That’s all.’
‘Them’s goats, innit?’ He laughed, the gurgling humour never reaching his face. ‘S’what they do.’ His eyes said So what are you gonna do about it?
I smiled. ‘Was wondering what I should do.’
Forrest looked past me. ‘Looks like the problem’s gone. No flowers that I can see.’
I looked back too. ‘I guess. But if … I mean …’
‘You have a nice evening, now.’ He winked and roared down along the river bank.
The only thing Jason could say, spoon full of prunes and custard raised almost to his mouth, was, ‘Told ya.’
What had he told me?
Anyway, walking into the pub for a counter meal on Friday night was a bit of a downer, because I heard, just as we entered, a blast of boisterous laughter after someone said something like, ‘And she couldn’t say nuttin’ else, because there were no flowers to speak of, were there?’
‘Clever that, Forrest!’
‘Someone said they want a fence!’ More laughter. ‘A fence!’
Another wave of loud merriment started, and stopped abruptly when Jason and I walked closer. There were polite smiles all around.
‘Shall we … um … find a table?’ Jason pulled me to one side when I was rearing to go up and straighten things out.
‘Straighten things out? You’re not an iron, Ol. You’re not a steaming Kambrook!’
I did not enjoy the chicken parmi. Not one bit. I looked down at my plate and up at Jason.
He was downing his third middy. ‘Not a patch on yours, Ol, these lamb shanks.’
I gave a hmmm.
‘Guess you’ll have to forget about flowers.’ He gave a lopsided grimace and walked to the bar where, to my surprise—you could also call it dismay, while you’re at it—he joined in when someone told a joke and he haw-hawed with all the rest. Someone slapped him on the back.
‘You’re not a bad sort, Jace.’
‘He can take a joke, this one.’
And before you knew it he was in with the crowd. One of them. A mate. The dude.
He didn’t look such a dude on Wednesday after work, when he ran out before his shower to grab some clean clothes off the line. His checked shirts, weekend jeans, rugby jumper and long socks were all eaten away. Clean away. Clean away to a horizontal line as straight as the view from the front window.
‘Ol! Olivia. Olivia!’
Yeah, well. It wasn’t funny now. Jeans bitten off to the groin join. Socks footless. Sweater hardly recognizable. Shreddy as a teddy. As high as those goats could bite, those clothes were chewed. There were even some crotchless undies swinging there, tattered. Nibbled. Pecked, bitten and gnawed.
He yelled. ‘We gotta … I gotta … Hell!’
‘A quiet word might do it, Jace.’ I called his words back out to him from the back door.
And whaddayaknow, Forrest Brown drove past, knotty elbow out the window, cool as you please.
‘Hey! Hey Forrest! Hey!’ Jason ran after that ute. ‘One thing having no geraniums, mate … but this …!’ He waved, whined, blue in the face, and dangled those ruined jeans under his good mate’s nose as he slowed and turned his head.
‘It’s what goats do, mate.’ But Forrest’s face turned Manor Red.
So there you go. Wasn’t a week gone by before it happened. I came back from my new job behind the counter at the chemist’s, ringing up people’s purchases, selling cough mixture, adhesive muscle tape, asthma inhalers, gastro-stop and all that. And there, to about chest height, or perhaps a little more—yeah, a foot or so more—straight as the horizon, was this fence. Right around the yard. All the way and back. And two standard iceberg roses in pots. A line of geraniums on either side of the path.
‘What happened?’
Jason laughed at my question. ‘I told ya.’
‘What did you tell me?’ What did he mean? No idea. He never ‘told’ anything—to anyone, least of all me. Anything except long morality tales, that is. Fairy tales about people behaving nicely. Happy ever afters.
‘Did you put up that fence, Jason?’ I twisted my thumb over my shoulder as I walked up the path, closing the well-hung gate behind me. ‘Did you plant me a new garden?’ I asked even though it was unlikely as.
‘Nah. No.’ He shook his head. ‘Surprise of my life, that.’ He looked at a row of little shrubs and scratched the back of his head.
Turned out it was Forrest Brown, and a few of the pub mates. They threw up that fence in an afternoon, six of them, all one hundred and seventy-five metres of pretty, distressed, preloved pickets. Just the right weather-worn grey to set off the newly-planted shrubs—white geraniums. Imagine that. Just the right height, too. Could still see the river from the veranda.
Jason stood there with a tinnie in his hand, beaming from ear to ear. ‘See what happens when you …’
‘Ja-son!’
‘What? What? No more goats, Ol, jus’ what you wanted. No? Because … because, you see Forrest knows that being nice …’
‘Spare me the happy-ever-after morality tale, will you? Let me enjoy the moment.’
And yeah, he brought me a cold one down to the middle of the path. The path with geraniums up and down it. He could tell the story at the pub. Fifteen times if he liked. Probably would, too.
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© Rosanne Dingli 2025