by Tony Parsons
‘Does Billy like his swing?’ he asked Karen.
‘Oh, yes, he loves it,’ she replied.
‘I want you both to know that if you’ve got a problem, you’re not to hesitate to come and discuss it with me,’ Ian told them. ‘If you’ve got any suggestions, bring them to me too.’
He turned to Jim. ‘I’d like you to come and see me when you can, Jim. I’m keen to know the ins and outs of the stud business. When I get settled in, I’d like you and Karen to come and have dinner with me. Thanks for the great smoko, Karen,’ Ian said as he stood up. ‘Perhaps Billy and I could have a swing before I go?’
Karen looked down at her small son. ‘Would you like that, Billy?’ she asked.
‘Mmm,’ he answered, nodding his head until his golden curls shook.
Ian and the little boy went outside and across to the swing. Billy launched himself at the seat with undisguised eagerness and was trying to get some momentum up before Ian even got to him.
‘Here we go, Billy,’ Ian said with boyish enthusiasm.
As the swing came back he remembered fondly the words of the ‘Road-Song of the Bandar-Log’ from Kipling’s Jungle Book and repeated them for Billy:
Here we go in a flung festoon,
Half-way up to the jealous moon!
Don’t you envy our pranceful bands?
Don’t you wish you had extra hands?
Billy squealed with laughter at the strange words and asked to be pushed higher. Ian was sad when his time was up. He had to coax the little boy, who took his hand, back to the bungalow.
On his return trip to the homestead, Ian called in at the manager’s residence. Leo had his leg up and was reading a newspaper.
‘I’ve had an idea. I want to install a swimming pool,’ Ian said without preamble.
‘You’ve already got a decent swimming pool,’ Leo said.
‘At the homestead, yes, but I want to install one for the staff. This is a very hot place and, unlike the coast, we don’t have beaches and the river’s not suitable for swimming. I want the pool for Jim and Karen and for Billy and for anyone else who wants to use it. I think it would do a lot for morale. We can appoint someone to be responsible for its maintenance. We can afford it, can’t we?’ he asked.
‘I have no doubt we can afford it. What kind of pool do you have in mind?’
‘The Murrays had a relatively inexpensive pool with concrete surrounds. I’d like a shade shed down one side. Will you get some quotes for me?’ Ian asked.
‘Sure. It would give me something to do while I’m out of action,’ Leo said.
‘Good show,’ Ian said, pleased.
When Leo rang through to the homestead to say that Judy was back, Ian immediately invited them down for an afternoon cuppa.
‘You might have told me he was so good-looking,’ Judy complained to her husband later.
‘What’s that got to do with anything? The most important thing about a man is how he behaves, not how he looks,’ Leo said.
‘Leo, you’ve been with sheep and cattle far too long. Don’t you realise what effect Ian is going to have on the women of this district?’ Judy said.
‘From what I’ve gauged of him so far, Ian isn’t the slightest bit interested in women. He’s got his mind on other things.’
‘Oh, how little you know about women!’ Judy exclaimed. ‘Do you honestly believe that Ian Richardson – young, good-looking, unattached and the owner of Kanimbla, not to mention some great mansion in England – will be allowed to get away with being single? Not on your life!’
The next day, Judy gave Ian morning smoko on the bungalow’s back verandah. Leo had departed with Jim so she’d asked if Ian would like to see some of her paintings. Judy was an attractive woman with dark, curly hair that was showing some grey, and warm, brown eyes that could light up a room. Ian enjoyed her cheerful nature and her sense of humour.
‘I like your paintings, Mrs Blake. I really do. The later impasto ones are the best I’ve seen since I came to Australia,’ he told her.
‘Do you think so? I’ve been experimenting quite a lot,’ Judy said.
‘It shows,’ Ian said.
‘Who is your favourite artist?’ she asked.
‘Oh, Turner, by a mile,’ he said.
‘I suppose I should ask you why,’ Judy said.
‘Because he aimed for the stars. He sought to paint what nobody else had painted, to take painting to a new dimension.’
Judy nodded. She didn’t often have a conversation like this at home.
‘Turner did for painting what Shelley did for the English language, if you know what I mean,’ Ian added.
‘I know what you mean,’ replied Judy, who had once been a teacher of secondary school English.
‘Leo told me that you were eventually hoping to go to Cambridge University,’ she said.
‘That was my intention … ’
‘So Kanimbla doesn’t appeal to you?’
‘It’s too early to tell.’
‘But not to the same extent as Cambridge?’ Judy probed.
‘I’m committed to Kanimbla until I’m twenty-one. It’s what my father wanted, and I promised my grandfather. I’m doing a science degree, or at least part of one, by correspondence. That way I’ve got a leg in both camps, so to speak.’
‘Well, I hope you can manage. It sounds like a bit of a juggling act.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
Judy had no doubt that Ian’s best would be very good indeed. She was also more inclined now to her husband’s view that Ian would have little time for romance. There were going to be some very disappointed young women in the district.
Chapter Eight
It was several weeks since Ian’s arrival and he had spent many hours crisscrossing Kanimbla with Major and Gus – the kelpie had already become a constant companion. Lyndhurst would have fitted many times over into Kanimbla’s horse paddock and it was taking Ian some time to come to terms with the size of the property. He felt responsible, as owner of the property, for understanding how it was run, and his mind was full of all the new details he was trying to retain each day. To a boy brought up in the lush Cambridgeshire countryside, Kanimbla was, in many respects, forbidding country. There was the heat, the droughts, the snakes and the dingoes … and that was just for starters. He’d also driven into town and had a long look around, chatting to Larry Phillips at the hotel and getting a feel for life in Murrawee.
To say that Fiona McDonald was surprised to hear Ian Richardson’s voice on the phone one evening was the understatement of the year. When she’d recovered from the shock, she realised he was inviting her over to Kanimbla to discuss something. Her mind raced. What on Earth could it be?
‘Why not bring a horse and we can take a ride along the river road. Maybe have smoko,’ Ian added.
‘That would be lovely,’ Fiona answered.
Fiona McDonald had thought quite a lot about the young man she’d met at Helen Donovan’s store. Despite her looks and her background, Fiona had never had what she would describe as a boyfriend. None of the boys who’d taken her to films and parties had ever lingered in her memory. The hazel-eyed young man she’d met in Murrawee, however, had made a deep impression. The news that he was actually the new owner of Kanimbla accentuated his appeal. She was thrilled when he rang, and wondered if his call signalled an interest in her.
And so, the next morning, she found herself riding down the river road beside Ian. At the picnic spot, they sat on one of the log benches overlooking the river and Ian produced a flask of hot tea and some of Mrs Heatley’s homemade biscuits. Gus sat close to Ian, and he shared his biscuit with the dog.
Fiona turned to Ian, and took a deep breath, ‘So what is this mysterious thing you wanted to discuss?’
Ian met her gaze and cleared his throat. Fiona McDonald was the first girl his own age he had met since coming to Kanimbla. He wanted to start making friends, and she seemed the obvious first choice. More to the point, Fiona had been away at
boarding school in Sydney and would have a useful opinion on the decay of the township. Ian knew he would need some allies if he was going to achieve anything, and Fiona seemed the perfect candidate. However, he found himself shaken up by Fiona in a way that he had not expected. She was more beautiful than he remembered – tall and slim in her jeans and shirt. He forced himself to concentrate on the purpose of their meeting.
‘Well, I’ve had a good look around Murrawee, and it seems to me that certain improvements could be made to ensure the district’s prospects.’
‘What do you mean?’ Fiona was puzzled. He looked so young, yet he spoke in such a formal, almost old-fashioned way.
‘Well, I know I haven’t been here long, but I can’t help noticing that Murrawee seems to be losing businesses to bigger towns. It’s a real shame.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Fiona agreed. This was a subject dear to her heart, and she forgot her nervousness for a moment as she spoke her mind. ‘We’ve still got a policeman but no doctor and little chance of getting one. If it wasn’t for the doctors with overseas qualifications who are willing to work in rural areas, even some of the bigger towns wouldn’t have a doctor.’
‘I’ve been thinking about this a bit, Fiona. Maybe it’s because I’ve lived in a country where village life is still pretty much alive and well, but the shock of seeing this town slowly dying made me wonder if it’s not too late to do something. I wondered what changes might get people interested in their community again, and thought I’d ask you, seeing you’re the kind of young person that needs to be encouraged to stay.’
Fiona looked away, momentarily embarrassed by his gaze. She sensed he was attracted to her. She also felt pleased and flattered that he’d asked for her opinion, and tried hard to think of an appropriate answer. ‘It would be great if there was more to do, more to attract visitors maybe. I don’t know. Maybe a lovely park where people can stop for a picnic, or a playground for kids. Or even somewhere nice to stay. The gymkhana is very popular, and brings lots of people to town; perhaps we could have a sheepdog trial as well.’
‘What a great idea, Fiona. Kanimbla could certainly help with that; we’ve got the sheep and the manpower.’
Fiona felt pleased that she had been able to suggest an idea that Ian liked. Later, when she stood by her vehicle and horse float ready to leave, she thanked him for a very nice morning. Did she imagine that his hand stayed closed around hers for longer than might be expected for a cordial farewell? It was something for her to think about.
That evening, Lachie McDonald sat with his daughter on the verandah of his property, Nelanji, as they enjoyed a drink. Lachie had had a busy couple of days and the two, who’d become much closer since Maisie had died, hadn’t had a chance to catch up for a couple of days.
‘I had a lovely morning with Ian, Dad,’ she said. ‘We went down to the picnic place beside the river and had smoko while we talked. Ian wanted my views on Murrawee.’
‘What do you mean “views”?’ Lachie asked.
‘He’s interested in what it’s like for us, living here,’ she explained. ‘He seems so quiet, but his mind is racing all the time. Mrs Blake told me that he won all sorts of prizes at school. His father and mother were both scientists. Maybe he sees something that he thinks is not right and he wants to do something about it.’
Lachie leaned back in his chair and looked at his daughter. She looked especially happy today, happier than he’d seen her in a long while. ‘But what do you think of him?’ he asked.
Fiona blushed, ‘Well, I think he’s very sweet. He’s trying hard but he doesn’t seem to fit in at Kanimbla.’
‘But do you like him?’ Lachie persisted.
Fiona wondered what her father was driving at. ‘Yes, I like him. How could you not like him? He’s very well educated, has lovely manners and a cute sense of humour. Besides which he’s very nice-looking …’
‘And he owns Kanimbla,’ Lachie added.
Fiona ignored her father’s comment. ‘Anyway, I hardly know him, and he won’t be interested in a country girl.’
‘Why wouldn’t he be interested in a girl like you?’ her father asked. ‘I’ll bet there are plenty of young blokes who think you’re pretty special. Anyway, Ian’s made the first move, hasn’t he?’
And, remembering the way he had looked at her, she had to admit to herself that this was true.
Chapter Nine
‘If you take two more steps to your right, there’ll be bits of your legs strewn all over the paddock,’ Leigh Metcalfe said sharply.
Ian came to an abrupt halt beside the fence that led upwards from the river. They were on a faint pad leading away into the timbered infinity of the Kanimbla river paddock. He glanced across at Leigh and was met by a look that was at once a cross between a grin and a frown. Leigh pointed towards the ground and Ian could just make out an almost invisible length of line stretched tautly across the pad.
‘If you hit that cord, it pulls the trigger of the getter-gun. That’s it there, just to your right at the end of the log. It fires a shotgun cartridge and it’s set at about chest height for a dog. There’s another couple of them in this paddock. That’s why I left Shelley at home. A bloke needs to know where he’s planted them or he could be in big trouble,’ Leigh explained.
‘How do sheep and cattle manage? Don’t they run into them?’ Ian asked.
‘There are no sheep in this paddock. It’s a kind of buffer zone. When I’m using the getter-guns, Leo musters the cattle into the next paddock. That way I can leave the guns and not have to worry about them. The roos and emus set them off, and so do the pigs. If I hear them go off, I come over and investigate.’
‘So how exactly do they work?’ Ian was fascinated.
Leigh explained that the guns were quite simple and involved a length of galvanised steel pipe, a nail for the firing pin and a shotgun cartridge. ‘You don’t get as many dogs with these as you do with ordinary traps. Ten-Eighty poison is still the most effective agent of all, but it’s a real bugger. I don’t like using it because it kills more than just the dogs. But graziers hate dingoes so much that, in their eyes, the end justifies the means. It’s easy to get that way when you have to destroy sheep that have had their guts torn out. It’s hard enough to make a living in the bush without dogs ripping up your sheep.’
‘Steel traps seem awfully cruel,’ Ian remarked to Leigh. ‘Surely science can devise a trap that doesn’t cause as much pain and suffering.’
‘Steel traps have been allowed up to now because of the damage that dingoes cause and because the grazier mob have exerted so much influence. But things are changing and some people are beginning to object. I can see the day when steel traps will be banned, so we’ll have to come up with an alternative soon.’
‘What about shooting?’ Ian asked.
‘That’s one option, but you have to see a dog to shoot it, and a lot of the time dingoes are only about at night. They’re not as easy to spotlight as roos. If they’re in tall grass, it’s almost impossible to see them,’ Leigh explained.
‘Can’t the numbers of dogs ever be reduced?’
‘That depends on a lot of things. It depends on the type of country, for starters. Then there’s the fact that in the old days, dingoes used to have only one litter a year. But now they’re starting to interbreed with domestic dogs and the cross-bitches can have two litters a year, so that’s adding to the numbers. Also, the cattle producers don’t tend to be as diligent about getting rid of the dogs as the old sheepmen. Some of them seem to think that dingoes aren’t a problem. That’s until they check out their calving percentages. If there’s a shortage of game, dingoes aren’t averse to tackling calves. We’ve lost several calves here,’ Leigh said. And before Ian could formulate another question, he sped on, ‘I reckon some graziers are their own worst enemies. A big percentage of them never tie up their dogs. They’re simply bad dog keepers. Some people should never be allowed to own one dog, let alone a heap of them. Then there’s the sh
ooters who lose their pea-brained biting dogs in the bush. I doubt we’ll ever rid the country of wild dogs. There’s too much rough country and too many national parks where dogs can breed up. The best we can do is to keep the numbers down – even that takes a lot of effort. Dogs and sheep simply can’t exist together.’
‘So how did you learn so much about dingoes?’ Ian asked.
‘By living with an old dogger. I went bush so I could write about the country – something Lawson did – and I ran into this old dogger and ended up camping with him for more than a year. Camped pretty damned rough, I can tell you, but I loved it.’
Ian gazed into the paddock of yellow grass and rough-barked timber. From a distance he heard the bellowing of a cow. Closer, there were crows cawing. He wondered whether there were any dingoes around now.
‘You wouldn’t see one of the yellow mongrels even if it was only a hundred yards away,’ Leigh said as if reading Ian’s thoughts. ‘But if we had Shelley with us, you’d know if there was one about. He’s never wrong. I never saw a dog that hates dingoes as much as Shelley. The hair on his back bristles when he smells a dog, and when he gets close, his lip curls.’ Leigh paused. ‘Well, you seen enough? If you have, we’ll head back to the house and have a feed.’
‘Mr Blake tells me that you’re quite an authority on native birds,’ Ian said as they wandered back.
‘Yeah, well, I know a bit about them. Made it my business to learn what I could. Australia’s got more parrots than any other country – between fifty and sixty species. Africa has only about a quarter of that. I became interested in cockies when I first read that some varieties were either endangered or had actually become extinct. The poor buggers have taken a hammering since they stuck the Union Jack up at Port Jackson – every mad bugger with a rifle used cockies for target practice in the old days. Not that you’d think so when you look at the numbers of white cockies along this river now. Other species, especially those that aren’t widespread, haven’t been so lucky. Then there’s the numbers that are smuggled out of the country because they’re worth a bundle overseas. A lot of them die in the process – awful,’ Leigh said.
