The Grass Castle

by Karen Viggers

  It was a beautiful form of romance—Daphne sees that now. Back then, it took some time for her to appreciate it. Initially, she had resented his presence. But his was such a gentle and furtive way of slipping beneath her skin. From her thanks and gratitude grew the first stirrings of affection, and from there came awareness of the bright light in his eyes when he looked at her, followed, eventually, by the desire for his approval and his touch. It was a masterful breaking in, like her father’s skilful handling of a young horse.

  ‘Well that’s lovely for you,’ she says to Abby, hiding these recollections of Doug which must surely be glowing in her eyes. ‘Do you mind if I ask what he does for a living?’

  ‘He’s a journalist,’ Abby says. ‘Very smart.’

  Daphne smiles. ‘I’m sure you’ll run rings around him.’

  ‘I doubt it. He’s streets ahead on general knowledge.’

  ‘That’s his job, isn’t it? To know a little about many things. Or at least to appear as if he does.’

  Abby looks glum. ‘He pulls it off well.’

  ‘So long as he’s nice,’ Daphne says. ‘That matters more.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose he’s nice.’

  ‘That’s good then, isn’t it?’ Daphne sees the nervous jitter in the girl’s hands as she grips the steering wheel.

  ‘He’s very keen,’ Abby says, suddenly miserable.

  Love’s supposed to make you happy, Daphne thinks. But she knows the fear that can roil in your belly when infatuation first strikes, the tussle between lust and decency, the terror that this might be the forever you’ve been looking for, and for which you are suddenly and completely unprepared. She learned this herself with Doug when she was a girl becoming a woman. ‘So long as he’s good to you,’ she says gently.

  ‘Yes, he’s good to me.’ Abby looks away, one of her fingers twisting a hank of hair into a curl.

  Daphne wants to tell the girl that love will work itself out in time, but she’s not sure how much she should impose her opinions, so she says nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry to burden you with this,’ Abby says. ‘Being with you reminds me of my Gran. I feel like I can tell you things.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re talking to me,’ Daphne says.

  ‘Have you ever felt like this?’ Abby’s lips tremble as she combs her fingers through her hair.

  ‘Like what, dear? I’m no mind-reader. You’ll have to tell me.’

  ‘I really like him,’ Abby says. ‘But I don’t want him too close. I want to stay safe.’

  Daphne understands. She sees the anxiety in Abby’s face and she wishes she could convey that everything will be all right, that Abby’s terror will pass and that something softer and gentler will take its place, something longer lasting that will survive highs and lows and troubles, and metamorphose into real love. ‘Nothing’s safe, is it?’ she says finally. ‘Not even walking down the street to the shops. Anything could happen. And some of it might be good.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  The quiet smile that spreads on Abby’s lips tells Daphne she has hit the spot.

  They drive into the park at last, through the forest and then across undulating flats to the car park at the end of the road. Abby cuts the engine and they sit for a moment in the new silence while soft fists of wind buffet the windows and gusts of swirling air sift through the trees—tall cypresses and pines, a pair of oaks, all out of place in this valley of grass and gum trees.

  ‘This is where the tracking station used to be.’ Daphne waves towards the concrete slabs beyond the parking area. ‘There were several buildings and an enormous dish. When the space race was over they were taken down. It’s hard to believe they were here, isn’t it?’

  Abby gazes out on the empty area where the buildings once stood. ‘I knew about the space program being here, but I find it hard to imagine. If it wasn’t for the concrete and all these introduced trees there’d be nothing here. No evidence. Was your family still living here then?’

  ‘The government started buying up land in the early sixties just before the space program took off,’ Daphne says. ‘We had to let go of this country so we moved further south onto one of the other runs. There were no choices for landholders back then. If the government wanted your property you had to give it up.’

  Abby’s face puckers thoughtfully, as if she’s trying to put herself back in that era. ‘The space race must have been exciting. Man on the moon and all that. Don’t you think it was amazing? Considering how basic technology was back then?’

  Daphne has mixed feelings about that time. ‘Some people were quite taken with it,’ she says. ‘And I suppose there was a definite atmosphere round the place. Lots of new faces. Security gates. Enormous trucks. The satellite dishes. We were quite overrun, like an invasion. Up till then this place was ignored, even though it’s only an hour from Canberra. Then suddenly we were the centre of everything. But I can’t deny how proud and excited we were when they announced our dish was going to be involved in the moon landing. Everyone went to the local school to watch because none of us had a TV.’ She laughs. ‘Funny, isn’t it! The dish could see the moon but there was no TV reception in the mountains.’

  She remembers all the cars and trucks lined up outside the little schoolhouse. ‘We had to crowd into a single room,’ she says. ‘All squashed in like sardines, trying to see the screen. It was a terrible blurry picture by today’s standards, but there he was, Neil Armstrong, stepping onto the surface of the moon.’

  Daphne is surprised by the warm glow that accompanies her recollections. Generally she feels only the conflicting emotions of that period—the anger and resentment that their world had been taken over by foreigners and out-of-towners who had never shown any prior interest in the place. But she sees now that her memories are also embedded in an aura of nostalgia. She had forgotten the good bits. Yes, land was taken over and families were forced to move away, but there had also been local pride, a certain status that had come with being involved in the moonwalk. Afterwards, they thought they could go back to living as they had before. The dishes and buildings were dismantled. All the workers and officials disappeared. But the space program marked the beginning of the end.

  ‘We didn’t realise what would happen when it was over,’ she says. ‘We thought we’d be left alone again. But once the government had their hooks in, they began to take over the region. There was talk of a national park. If a property came up for sale, the government resumed the lease. Farmers who’d lived here for generations were pushed out. And there was worse to come. They didn’t just move people off the land, they rubbed them out. Once the park was declared, most of the buildings were knocked down. People’s homes, farm infrastructure—if they weren’t old enough to be historic, down they came. People were trying to make new lives in places they didn’t want to be—in towns and cities—and when they came back to look at what used to be theirs, everything was gone. Perfectly good homes demolished. It was a slap in the face. People were already upset at leaving their properties. Then the way the government scrubbed everything—well, it bred a lot of anger and resentment.’

  Daphne remembers her neighbour crying on her shoulder. The hurt of it! There was no consolation to be had. It was an appalling way to treat people. The government thought money and resettlement was enough, but they didn’t understand people’s bond with the land. They didn’t care. All these years and Daphne still feels the despair.

  ‘Doug and I stayed as long as we could,’ she says. ‘But by the early seventies almost everyone was gone. Families that my family had known for generations—they all left. A whole community, gone. The government kept telling us that sooner or later we’d have to go too. Not in so many words, mind you, but the message was clear. People gave in to it. Some were getting old and they thought they should take what they could and get out. Saw the writing on the wall. Then time was up for Doug and me too. We were the only ones left—empty land all around us. There was so much pre
ssure to leave, and in the end, we had to give in. It was bullying. We had no rights.’

  Daphne remembers packing up. They sold their tractors and machinery, equipment accumulated over decades, the animals. The horses were advertised in the paper and they went quickly: Doug’s favourite grey gelding, the brood-mares, Daphne’s staid bay mare. The cattle went to market—the cows and heifers, the old Angus bull. It broke Doug’s heart to truck them out. He couldn’t face going to see them off. It was the last time the yards were used. Not long after that, they were pulled down—almost as soon as Daphne and Doug stepped off the place.

  They sold most of Doug’s tools at a garage sale—all he kept was a basic kit, his favourites, set on doing some woodwork and repairs in his new garage at the Queanbeyan home. He hated leaving his old farm shed. It was a solid dark wooden structure with big posts cut from mountain-gum logs, and rough-cut beams and slabs for walls. His shed had been his cave—a quiet retreat, sheltered from the wind, with a dirt floor beaten hard from decades of use, and a heavy wooden bench he’d made himself years ago. He’d made furniture in that shed, mended things, pulled apart engines and put them back together again. He’d fixed and serviced pumps, cars, trucks, chainsaws, mowers. He’d worked there in the company of his dogs, always heelers, which he preferred with the cattle. He liked kelpies too, but they were lighter-framed and softer, better for sheep; they tended to get knocked about by the larger, more aggressive stock.

  At last they had to leave. On that final day, they walked up the valley together, said their silent goodbyes to the mountains and the trees. They could come back and visit, but they knew it would never be the same. Daphne wandered through the homestead one last time—it would soon become a ranger’s residence—then she went in search of Doug. She found him in the shed, crumpled on the floor, weeping harsh wretched sobs that no man should ever have to cry. It broke him, the wrench of leaving the place—just as it had broken the others who’d departed before them, torn from their land. Doug had wanted to stay till he died. He would never be a city man, would never adjust to the crush of the suburbs.

  Daphne feels the familiar weight of loss settling upon her, and she looks out of the window to mask the sudden press of grief that fills her chest. Doug had been a good man, a good husband, but there were layers to him she hadn’t known about till they moved to the city. On the farm, their lives were busy and their days were shaped by meaningful activity, all tied up with their rural existence. Doug was never a big talker, but in the evenings they found things to say to each other. Sometimes they played cards: five hundred, canasta, gin rummy. They were easy in each other’s company. But it was different when they shifted to the suburbs.

  Daphne didn’t see it happening at first—she was so caught up in her own sadness over leaving the farm. At their new home, Doug seemed to live in the shed, fiddling with a mower he’d vowed to fix, the old dog lurking around his legs. Then he started to roam the streets, gone for hours, walking and not eating. Daphne noticed his silences at night, his cheeks hollowing out, the dull emptiness in his eyes. Talk contracted to short grunts and muffled answers. Daphne tried to draw him out with stories and reminiscences, but soon it was apparent that he had more time and affection for the dog, which demanded nothing of him and accepted his silences and withdrawal. Daphne was hurt.

  The dog was a rusty old red heeler called Prince with a torn ear from one of his numerous fights. He was never a pretty hound, but Doug loved him in a rough manly way, and the dog was Doug’s devoted shadow, following him wherever he went—from room to room (the first dog they had ever allowed in the house) and into the shed. A few weeks after they moved to Queanbeyan, Doug developed his first urban habit, which was to feed the magpies, scattering a handful of Prince’s dog food on the driveway. He shouted when the old dog hauled itself to its feet hoping to chase the birds and hunt down the pieces of kibble. Instead, Doug sent the dog to its dusty pile of hessian sacks in the shed with a pointed disciplinary finger. But those were the only times Doug needed to raise his voice at Prince. They were mates, buddies with an unspoken mutual loyalty. Daphne saw it in the dog’s eyes and in Doug’s quiet hand, resting on the dog’s head in the evenings when the TV was on.

  Over time Daphne came to see the dog as a competitor for her husband’s attention, but she also realised Prince was a gift. The dog kept Doug in touch with the world, even as Doug’s inner hermit tightened its grip. Then disaster. A lump appeared under the dog’s tail. Daphne noticed it when Prince was cleaning up his meal of dog food, tail erect and wagging as he pushed the bowl around with his tongue, trying to extract flavour from the metal. She showed the lump to Doug and wanted to take the dog to the vet, but Doug was intent on ignoring it.

  The lump grew. It swelled and began to bulge and Daphne was worried about it. Eventually she persuaded Doug to visit the vet. It was a big step for him to pay money to have an animal seen to. They’d never used vets on the property—out there the cure for illness had always been a bullet. But he made an exception for the dog—his old mate—put him in the car and drove him to the local vet clinic. Prince sat like royalty on the front seat, his tongue lolling with delight.

  Doug came home sullen and angry, the dog trotting miserably at his heels, uncertain of his master’s mood. The vet said Prince had developed an anal tumour, seen only in male dogs that hadn’t been desexed. The recommendation was to do surgery to remove the lump and Prince’s testicles at the same time. The operation would cost two hundred dollars. Doug refused, outraged. Two hundred dollars to knacker a dog and cut out a lump! He’d spent twenty-five dollars of good money already just to hear this rubbish. Fancy castrating a dog at Prince’s age! Doug wouldn’t hear of it. He wouldn’t do it to himself so he wouldn’t do it to his dog. He didn’t want to see Prince turn soft and fat like a backyard pet.

  After that, Doug hid from the fact that the lump was growing by burying himself in full-scale denial. Daphne knew the dog needed veterinary attention, but she was afraid to raise the topic. She agreed that the cost of the surgery was exorbitant, but she knew Doug needed the dog, so she was prepared to pay to keep Prince alive. It was difficult to convince Doug, however. She tried to pick her moments, but he brushed her off, pointing out that the dog was still eating and enjoying its walks, so it must be all right. But the cancer was insidious. The lump slowly swelled until one morning Daphne saw the dog licking at its rear end. When she peered beneath its tail she saw blood and muck dripping from what had now become a grossly distended mass. She showed it to Doug, but his solution was to give the dog a rest from his morning walk so the wound could heal.

  That was it for Daphne. When Doug disappeared down the street, she shoved the dog in the car and drove to the vet clinic without an appointment. In the waiting room, the receptionist berated her for not phoning first. Then she peered at the lump, crinkled her nose with distaste and went out the back to speak to the vet. They slotted Prince in between the scheduled clients, and Daphne was humbly grateful. She thanked the vet for seeing her, but was unprepared for his blunt assessment. He said Prince should have been operated on weeks ago. He could have saved the dog’s life if his advice had been followed and the lump had been removed when it first appeared. Now it was too late. The lump was invasive. It was a mess. Inoperable.

  With trembling hands and undisguised tears, Daphne paid the bill, unable to meet the receptionist’s eyes. When she arrived home, Doug was sitting on the doorstep, hell and fury burning in his eyes—he knew where she’d been. Daphne tried to ignore him and opened the car door to let the old dog out. Poor Prince attempted to leap out like a pup, but his limbs were slow and heavy with arthritis, and he fell to the driveway with a sickening thump. Daphne heard herself whimpering as she stroked the old dog’s head then turned to wipe blood from the seat and tried to wave away the rotten stench of the tumour.

  An argument ensued—the worst of their marriage. Doug was furious. How dare she spend more money on the dog, and for what outcome? Another twenty-five dolla
rs, no doubt, and they were no better off. Daphne tried to tell him what the vet had said, that Prince could have had another few good years if Doug had listened to the initial advice and paid for the surgery. But Doug wasn’t having it. ‘It’s my dog anyway, and I’ll decide what happens to it.’

  His yells brought the neighbours out into the street to see what was going on. Daphne dragged the dog inside to be sure Doug would follow. Then she gave Doug a dressing down. She told him she didn’t want the dog to suffer. Reminded him that Prince was a friend, not an old sick cow on the farm that could be left to die somewhere up the valley out of sight.

  Something broke in Doug then, like a string snapping. He bent down to stroke the ears of the bewildered old dog where it lay on the lino between them. Then he lifted Prince in his arms and took him back out to the car.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Daphne asked, teary, following him outside. ‘Where are you going?’

  He walked past her back into the house and came out with a long brown vinyl bag which Daphne knew contained the gun. ‘I’m going to fix things,’ he said, laying the gun on the floor in the back of the car. ‘Something I should have done a while ago.’