Fresh Fields

by Peter Kocan

Clem came back across the creek.

  “Somethin’s come through that fence just lately,” he said. “One of old Angus’s prize bulls or somethin’.” That’ll send him off his head. He’ll prob’ly accuse Coles of pinchin’ it, and want to take him to court. He’s a great one for takin’ people to court, old Angus. Or threatenin’ to, anyway.”

  They remounted and rode up out of the gully and along the steep slopes. There they discovered what had come through the gap in the fence. A mob of eight Wondina cattle was grazing along a hillside. Clem decided to drive them to the nearest connecting gate between the two properties and put them through.

  The dogs at last had some proper work to do. When Clem called “Bring ’em up! Bring ’em up!,” Tess went streaking off to nip and dodge at their heels. Dolly worked more calmly, her ears pricked in Clem’s direction to hear instructions. Clem had said that normally you wouldn’t work another man’s dog, in case you confused it about who it was supposed to obey. But it didn’t apply to Dolly: “If she was gonna get confused she’d’ve died o’ confusion long ago.” Coles, he said, was hopeless at working a dog. He always lost his temper and bellowed a lot of contradictory commands. “Dolly’s the brains o’ the outfit, when she’s workin’ with Coles.”

  They did a miniature cattle-drove with the eight steers and it tested the youth’s new riding skills on the rough hillsides. He had to turn the mare this way and that, making feints to discourage a steer when it tried to break back or to one side. Gypsy was surer-footed than she seemed.

  “Well, we’ve prob’ly saved Coles a bit o’ aggravation,” Clem said when they had finally put the steers through a gate and back onto Wondina.

  They rode on to a river. It was a real river, wide and deep-looking, and formed a boundary of the property. Clem declared it was time for a cuppa. They dismounted near the bank, beside a big warren of what Clem said were wombat holes. Clem filled the billy from the river while the youth gathered bits of stick and leaf. They weren’t very dry, but Clem said that didn’t matter. He would demonstrate a bushman’s trick of making a fire out of damp materials. He built the sticks and leaves into a pile, then reached into his saddlebag and with a flourish drew out half-a-dozen little cubes in red paper. They were Little Demon Fire Starters that people used to light barbecues in their backyards.

  “What were you expectin’?” Clem asked, seeing the youth’s face.

  “Dunno exactly. Maybe that you’d rub two wombats together or something.”

  They boiled their billy and made tea and sat on the bank and watched the water flowing past. Clem rolled three of his thin cigarettes and lit one of them. He remarked that there were interesting caves up-river. They were called the Abernathy Caves because an escaped convict called Abernathy had discovered them way back in the early days and used them as a hide-out. “We can go and have a look at ’em sometime, if ya like,” said Clem. “Not today though. It’s a bit far.” They stayed silent for a quarter of an hour, sipping tea, the cigarette smoke wafting up, the dogs settled beside them and the horses standing nearby with their reins on the ground.

  “Would you like to have your own property?” the youth asked.

  “Be nice, wouldn’t it,” Clem replied, lighting the third of the cigarettes.

  “Do you think you might one day?”

  “Nah, mate. It don’t work that way. Not for the workers. The squatters and bosses have got the system all tied up. You get born into ya property, or ya somehow get rich enough to be a Pitt Street cocky, like Jimson thought he wanted to be.”

  “Reckon you could make a go of Dunkeld if it was yours?”

  “Make a go of any place if I set me mind to it.” He blew a long slow stream of smoke. “Ah well, we ain’t done that bad I s’pose, me and Glad. We got the house paid off. Means we always got a roof over our heads, anyway.”

  “Where’s your house?”

  “In Burrawah. You’ll have to come and see it sometime. It ain’t too grand, but we’re doin’ it up gradual like. Well, Gladys is, mostly. Glad likes to have things nice. It was a struggle at times, keepin’ the payments goin’.” But we done it. We’re boss in our own house, me and Glad. We’ve got our own roof to put over our heads, and that’s what we always said we’d have, no matter how long it took.”

  The youth tried to picture the Curreys’ house in Burrawah. He imagined a storybook cottage with a green picket fence, flowers at the front, a crooked chimney, a brass knocker on the door and all neat as a pin. It was nice to think they’d got a place like that, that they’d achieved their dream.

  “And what about you?” Clem asked, emptying the dregs of the billy and scuffing dirt over the remains of the fire. “How are ya likin’ life in the bush?”

  “I didn’t much, at first. But I’m liking it alright now.”

  “Takin’ to it like a duck to water, I’d say,” said Clem as they remounted. “Fair dinkum. Ya doin’ real well.”

  The youth felt as if someone had pinned a medal on him.

  They looked at the sheep in Pies and Clem declared they were putting on condition and that it was a good thing to have had a bit of a ride out to see them. “Better than potterin’, eh?” he said. The youth agreed, even though his backside felt rubbed raw. They left Pies and turned toward home. They would return a different way, Clem said, so the youth could see more of the property. “Might be able to show ya a wedge-tailed eagle, if we’re lucky.”

  The ground rose steeply again. They got back up to where they could see the country spread out and the hills going away in the distance. The river was right down below them now. They came towards a cliff edge and Clem pointed. A great brown bird was gliding up in their direction. You could see its wings flexing and tilting as the bird controlled its approach. Tess ran to the edge of the cliff and barked at it. Then the bird disappeared below their line of sight. “That’s the wedge-tail,” Clem called above the brisk wind that was blowing. “There’s a pair of ’em live on a ledge there.”

  When they got to a more sheltered spot they boiled the billy again and ate the sandwiches Gladys had made. From where they were they could see the cluster of buildings on the ridge. The youth could make out Gladys’s washing flapping on the line. They felt cold, even with their coats on. They decided to go back the shortest way and have a good warm beside the kitchen stove.

  As they came up the ridge towards the shearing shed they saw Mr. Coles’s blue ute. He came from round the corner of the shed as they rode up.

  “Hello Clem,” he said. He didn’t acknowledge the youth.

  “How ya goin’?” said Clem, leaning forward on the horse in his relaxed way. “How’s the missus?”

  “She’s good, thanks.”

  “Good.”

  “I notice there hasn’t been much done under the shed.”

  “The diggin’ out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” said Clem calmly, “it wasn’t worth the time and effort. The ground’s so hard we could’ve hacked away for six months and hardly made a dent in it.”

  “So you decided not to do what I’d specifically asked you to do.”

  “I made a judgement about the best use o’ time and energy.”

  “We need to discuss this,” Mr. Coles said.

  “Righto,” said Clem. He swung off the horse and handed the reins to the youth. “Just tie him up in front o’ the house for me, mate, will ya.”

  The youth took both horses across and tethered them to the front fence. Gladys came out with a worried expression on her face and said there was a cuppa on. They went inside and could see through the window to where Clem and Mr. Coles were talking. They couldn’t hear the words but Mr. Coles’s voice sounded quite loud and he was waving his hands. Clem stood in his usual relaxed way, his thumbs hooked into his coat pockets. The youth thought how perfectly the two men’s postures summed them up.

  “What d’you think
will happen?” the youth asked Gladys.

  “I dunno. But Clem won’t put up with too much silly rot. He wouldn’t take it from Izzard, so I don’t s’pose he will from Coles either.”

  The youth sat and sipped his tea and a couple of minutes later he saw the blue ute go past the front window, with Dolly in the back. Clem came in and sat down to the big mug of tea Gladys set in front of him. He slowly stirred his usual three spoons of sugar into it.

  “What’d he have to say, Clem?” Gladys asked.

  “A few different things,” Clem replied. “The main one I s’pose was that he reckons he can’t have someone on the place who won’t follow instructions.”

  “And?”

  “He said I was sacked.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said I quit.”

  “Good,” said Gladys emphatically. But the youth was watching her face just then and he saw a haggard look go across it.

  “We’ll be alright,” Clem told her.

  “Course we will.”

  “We got the house now, free and clear. That’s the main thing. At least we’ll never be without a roof over our heads again.”

  “That’s for sure!” said Gladys firmly.

  “He said we might as well go straightaway and he’ll pay us the fortnight in lieu o’ notice.”

  “Sooner the better,” Gladys agreed. But again the haggard look went across her face.

  The youth sat silently, wondering whether the sacking included him too.

  The curreys left the next day, their few belongings piled into the back seat of their wheezing old Austin. The youth was outside the tractor shed when they drove along the road to where it went over the crest of the hill. The Austin stopped and Clem got out and began walking down. The youth went up to meet him.

  “I thought ya might like to have these,” Clem said. “I found ’em when I was gettin’ me gear packed.” He held out an old pair of spurs. “They’re broken and you can’t really wear ’em, but I thought ya might just want ’em anyhow.”

  The youth didn’t know what to say. He took the old spurs and nodded his thanks.

  They went up to the car so he could say goodbye to Gladys. She patted him on the hand and gave him a serious look.

  “Listen,” she said. “I just want to tell you somethin’ before we go. The bush is alright for the ones who are born to it, or the ones who aren’t too prone to broodin’ and worryin’ all the time. But it isn’t the place for you. Specially not here. It won’t do a boy like you an ounce o’ good, bein’ here. You need to be where there’s people, and people your own age, so you can come out o’ yourself a bit, not stuck in a tin shed on your own. Do you understand what I’m sayin’?”

  “Um, I think so,” the youth murmured.

  “I’m talkin’ to you the way your mother would, that’s all. And I know Clem agrees with me.”

  “Yeah mate,” said Clem earnestly. “Glad’s bein’ fair dinkum with ya.”

  “Thanks,” the youth said, nodding to them both.

  Clem reached across and they shook hands. Then he put the car into gear, and the youth stood back.

  “You’ll be welcome for a cuppa tea any time,” Gladys said. “Ask at the store and they’ll tell you where the house is. You can’t miss it.”

  They drove off and were quickly out of sight below the crest. A minute later the car reappeared, much smaller in the distance, climbing the rough track that led to the front gate of the property.

  MRS. COLES had come home but the youth hardly saw her. Her mother had come to stay, to help her cope. The old lady was about eighty and very talkative. She would come into the kitchen when the youth was sitting under “The Banks of the Burracoola” eating his meal. She would perch on a stool and talk about the daily news from the radio. The old lady loved the news and whenever she heard the fanfare of music that introduced the hourly bulletin she’d shout, “Turn it up! Turn it up! There’s the news! Turn it up!”

  The youth had no interest in current affairs, but the old lady didn’t mind. She would talk to him about the state of the world. Her favourite idea was that something was always a “conundrum.” It might be a particular person, or the government, or the international situation. “That’s their conundrum,” she’d say, after a long chatter about the ins and outs of some event or conflict. Or, “There’s a conundrum for you!” she’d exclaim, wagging a finger. The youth hadn’t been sure at first what the word conundrum meant, but he heard it so often from the old lady, and in so many connections, that he began to wonder how he’d ever got by without it.

  The old lady was more interesting when she got away from the news and talked about the old days. She reckoned people had Gone Soft since her time: “They’ll go to pieces nowadays, quick as a wink! Never did in my time! We always knew how to kick on!” And she didn’t seem to sympathise much with her daughter’s problems. One day the youth heard her shout to Mr. Coles: “You should put a rocket under that woman! Smarten her up! She’ll never kick on at this rate!”

  It had been awful having to leave the neat room in the shearers’ quarters and come back to the dank tractor shed. The youth had thought of asking if he could keep on sleeping at the quarters. It was only a few minutes ride away, and it wouldn’t stop him doing his chores or being on time for his meals. But Mr. Coles had been curt and remote with him since the Curreys left, and the youth couldn’t get the courage up to mention it. He hadn’t been sleeping properly because of being afraid of the rats. He had tried to seal up the crevices of the little room with wood and bits of hessian, but didn’t feel confident that it was secure. He would’ve liked to have Dolly in the room with him at night, as protection, but she was kept on the chain most of the time now and the youth didn’t dare interfere.

  The darkness fell early in the evening. Once he’d had his meal at the house, and had been talked at by the old lady, there was nothing to do but sit in the shed and try to feel contemptuous of the rustlings and scurryings. He had not thought about Diestl the whole time he was with Clem and Gladys, but now he summoned him up a lot. He would spend time every evening slumped on the camp bed, his back against the wall, staring blankly in front of him, imagining the weight of the Schmeisser crooked in his right elbow. There was a scene where Diestl is holed up in the basement of a wrecked house. Enemy paratroopers have dropped all around and he must wait till they have gone away. In that scene Diestl too has to listen to the sounds of rats in the darkness, rats that have grown bold because of all the dead—or maybe even the living—bodies they’ve fed on lately.

  As always, the Diestl mood would fragment after a while and he’d have to let it slip off. The sense of steely contempt would evaporate and he’d feel lost and helpless. That’s when he needed to turn to the photos of Grace Kelly in his magazine. He’d look wistfully into her eyes and trace the shape of her lips or eyebrows with his finger. He’d whisper to her and imagine her whispering back. He’d get under the blankets and create a cocoon of warmth, and begin to kiss and cuddle his pillow and imagine Sweetheart responding. The youth didn’t know what lovemaking was supposed to be like, exactly, but for him it meant feeling so safe in Sweetheart’s arms that you could tell her everything you felt and yearned for, no matter how desperate or dirty it sounded, and she would understand.

  If he was lucky, a spell in the Diestl mood and a session of cuddling with Sweetheart would leave him tired enough to go to sleep.

  In the mornings he made the milking the last of his chores, then took the bucket of milk to the house and put it on the sink in the kitchen with a cloth over it. Then he’d sit down to the breakfast that was laid for him. As often as not the old lady would come in and talk at him about that day’s news. She always got up very early and by breakfast time had heard at least a couple of the hourly bulletins.

  After breakfast the youth went out to what had become his main work, chopping the serrated
tussock out of the nearby paddocks. He wasn’t sure whether he’d been put on this work because Mr. Coles understood how big a threat the tussock was or just as a way to keep him busy and out of sight. He’d wondered whether he might be put back to digging out under the shearing shed, but that topic was not mentioned again. Mr. Coles hardly spoke an unnecessary word to the youth now, except once or twice when the business with Clem was obviously rankling in his mind.

  “Currey’s a damn fool, you know. He had a good position here and he threw it away. Just threw it away! He’s not a young man anymore, and he’s getting a reputation in the district as a troublemaker. He won’t find it easy to get another job. I think he’ll rue the day he cut himself off with me.”

  The tussock-chopping was done with a long-handled hoe. You had to chop into the ground at the base of each clump of tussock tendrils, then lift the whole thing out of the ground. You could have the smaller tussocks out of the ground with a single quick chop, but bigger ones might take two or three chops around the base, then some levering before they came up. A big tussock could be as high as your thigh. The idea was to be methodical and have a strategy. You didn’t just wander at random, chopping on a whim. You needed to work along a front, gradually whittling away, slowly pushing the line back to a fence and so having the paddock cleared, at least for the time being.

  The tussock wasn’t uniformly spread. In some places there were just a few here and there, like the first outriders of the horde. In other places they’d be beginning to group themselves enough to start dominating the ground. And in some areas, where they’d met no resistance and there’d been plenty of time to dig in, they were a dense mass completely covering the ground and not allowing a single blade of grass to survive.

  You got into a sort of war mentality. Skirmishing with the outriders wasn’t so bad. The heavier concentrations were harder work. You could chop all day before you saw much effect. That’s when you got the sense of it being like a war. But it was when you gazed across the main body of the tussock hordes, saw them stretching away in a solid mass, felt them advancing on you with the silent intensity of all their straining and reaching, that you got a sort of watery sensation in your stomach. That’s when you knew you didn’t have the strength to prevail.