Love in the Age of Drought

by Fiona Higgins

  ‘It’s a tough world out here, babe,’ he said, slapping me on the shoulder. ‘Get used to it.’

  I stood, dejected, as Stuart sauntered back to the shed. Righteous anger began to percolate within me. Get used to it? I’m an animal-loving vegetarian, for God’s sake, and I’m supposed to take that sort of incident in my stride? I marched into the house and pulled on my sandshoes. Running had always been a stress-reliever for me in Sydney; a regular seaside jog was guaranteed to clear the head. Maybe it would work out here, too.

  I took off along the driveway and out onto the Warra–Marnhull Road. A signpost indicated that the township of Warra was located twenty kilometres away, a distant speck on the road stretching westwards. I increased my speed, arms and legs warming to the activity. The sun cast its golden light along a line of trees some two kilometres away. I’ll run to those trees.

  On both sides of the road the paddocks were planted with the same red crop I’d seen the night before. A mountain range dominated the eastern horizon, its crests a jagged outline against the sky. The hush of the late afternoon was broken only by my breathing and footfalls on the asphalt. Sweat collected in the small of my back and began to drip down my legs. With each step that I took, my irritation began to dissipate. I inhaled with exhilaration as I passed the tree-line target. I’ll run to that windmill instead.

  As the sun emblazoned its orange and yellow streaks across the west, I noticed a mob of grey kangaroos grazing at the roadside. Unused to the spectacle of wild kangaroos, I slowed to a trot and approached them cautiously. A giant male grey kangaroo, surrounded by five slighter females, stood up on his hind legs and fixed me with a hostile stare. His forelegs dangled from a muscular chest, razor-sharp claws protruding.

  ‘Hello, big fella,’ I called out, trying to sound relaxed.

  The kangaroo continued to eyeball me – deliberating, I feared, at what point he would attack. Then suddenly he was off, clearing the fence line with an enormous leap, pursued by his harem of females. They bounded within metres of a herd of grazing cattle, none of which appeared remotely interested in the passing mob.

  Approaching the old windmill, I heard footsteps behind me and Stu appeared at my side, perspiring and breathless.

  ‘I’m sorry about the frog, Fi,’ he panted. ‘I know it’s new for you out here. I should have been more understanding. Mind if I join you?’

  ‘Go ahead.’ I smiled, all anger extinguished. We turned to retrace the path home.

  I caught my breath at the sight of the eastern horizon. The first bright stars were emerging in the deepening azure, fairy lights suspended above the wooded green of the mountains.

  ‘It’s so beautiful, Stu,’ I murmured.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied, ‘the Bunya Mountains are hard to beat.’ We jogged in companionable silence.

  On our return route, the grey kangaroos were nowhere to be seen. But as we passed the herd of cattle, the peace was abruptly broken by Stu, who cupped his mouth and bellowed ‘G’booooorrn!’ I started at the noise; the cows immediately jerked their heads up from their pasture and stared in our direction.

  ‘G’boooooorn!’ Stuart called out, imperiously, a second time.

  ‘That’s “come on” in cow language,’ he puffed. I sniggered, convinced he was teasing me.

  ‘Really,’ said Stu, detecting my scepticism. ‘I learnt it out west when I went mustering as a teenager. It came in handy for my Honours year thesis on the duodenal protein supply in cattle grazing Setaria anceps and Aeschynomene americana.’ My eyes glazed over at the foreign terminology.

  ‘Are they plants?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, particular types of pastures,’ Stu replied. ‘And for the practical component of my thesis, I had to control a group of feisty Santa Gertrudis steers. That cattle call worked a treat for catching their attention.’ I glanced at the nearby herd, still doubtful.

  ‘Watch this,’ he said. Stu cupped his hands around his mouth and, this time issued a softer, less demanding ‘G’booooorn’. The call sounded as if he was addressing each and every member of the herd personally. To my surprise, this delicate ‘G’booorn’ prompted several cows to start trotting towards us. Soon others joined in and, before long, some twenty cattle were running alongside us, jostling to be closest to the fence.

  ‘Amazing.’ I laughed. ‘You’re the Cow Whisperer. Why don’t you run cattle on the farm now?’

  Stuart shook his head. ‘I’ll never run cattle again,’ he said, slowing to a walk.

  ‘In my first year out here, one of my cows had trouble calving,’ he explained. ‘I’d learnt about the theory of it at university, of course.’ He swatted absently at a mosquito circling us. ‘She was in terrible pain and groaning. I tried and tried, but I couldn’t get the calf out. The vet wasn’t around and after about eight hours of straining, the calf died. I just couldn’t save it.’ Stuart stared at the horizon.

  ‘Even though the calf was dead, it still wouldn’t budge,’ he continued, ‘so I had to physically dismember the calf inside her and pull it out in pieces.’ He grimaced at the painful memory. Oh my God.

  ‘After doing that, I still couldn’t get all of it out,’ he said softly. ‘The stress in the cow’s eyes was harrowing and she was bleeding internally. In the end, I had to shoot her. And it took something out of me, Fi.’

  He paused. ‘About two weeks later, I bought Hayley, my kelpie. I figured it was time to get a friend on the farm. And I sure needed a mate in the droughts that came along.’

  Stuart resumed his previous pace and I jogged alongside him in stunned silence. In the distance, a car turned into our path, high beam headlights illuminating the way. As the car approached, the cattle accompanying us pulled back into the field. The strength of the beam – even at a distance – blinded me. I’m like a rabbit in the headlights. I ran with my arms outstretched before my face, shielding my eyes. Long after the car had passed, the imprint of its headlights remained seared across my line of vision.

  Upon our return to the house, Stuart offered to cook a candlelit dinner, a suggestion I interpreted as a romantic overture.

  ‘Sit down and relax by the candles in the lounge room,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Saturday night at Gebar.’ I watched Stuart potter around the kitchen. ‘Gebar,’ I repeated, under my breath. It was only the second time I’d heard Stuart use the name of the farm. The word could have passed for a nightclub in Sydney.

  ‘Where did the name “Gebar” come from?’ I called out. ‘Is it German?’ Stuart laughed aloud.

  ‘Nothing as exotic as that, I’m afraid,’ he said, removing a packet of peas from the freezer. ‘One of the previous owners of the property was a couple called Graeme and Barbara. They joined their names together and created “Gebar”.’

  As Stuart prepared dinner, it became clear to me that the use of candlelight was not indicative of a special occasion. Instead, it was a routine part of his sophisticated pest management system. With no wire screens covering the bungalow’s doors and windows, Stuart had to be creative in managing the mardi gras of insects that flocked nightly towards the light. After firing up the hotplates on the stove, Stuart set the lounge room ablaze with candles so that all winged creatures left the kitchen and ensconced themselves on the lounge, television and coffee table. When the cooking was done, he switched the stovetop light on and plunged the rest of the house into shadow. Hey presto, instant insect party in the kitchen – and we were left alone to savour our meal.

  We retired early – way earlier than I’d ever considered going to bed in Sydney on a Saturday night. As I lay staring into the pitch black, I fought the negative chatter of a restless mind. I’ve moved to rural Australia and turned into a nanna. Stuart’s breathing became regular and within minutes, he was asleep. However, as I listened to the buzzing darkness, sleep evaded me. The bungalow’s empty spaces thrummed with nocturnal insect activity which brushed incessantly against the mosquito net covering our bed. The last time I slept under a mosquito net was in Indonesia. At least
I won’t get malaria out here. I tossed and turned for what seemed like hours. Finally, I resolved to get up, go to the toilet, have a glass of water, and begin my bedtime ritual from scratch.

  I groped my way to the bedroom door. Nothing was familiar; I couldn’t find the light switch and I couldn’t see my way. Why the hell does the toilet have to be outside? I edged my way through the kitchen and opened a door onto a landing. I recalled that there were three wooden stairs descending from this landing into a large, airy room which connected the interior of the house with the yard beyond. One … two … I stopped in my tracks, detecting an almost imperceptible movement inches from my feet.

  I’d never heard a snake slither across linoleum before, but instinctively I knew what it was. I stumbled backwards up the stairs and flattened myself against the wall. Groping to find the light switch, I snapped on the light and wailed.

  Stu emerged from the bedroom bleary-eyed. ‘What’s wrong now?’ he sighed.

  I waved a stiff hand at the intruder, a red-bellied black snake, coiled within metres of my feet.

  ‘Oh,’ said Stu, as if I’d just pointed out a kookaburra. It’s a poisonous snake, for God’s sake.

  He disappeared into the kitchen, returned with a long-handled broom and then proceeded to shepherd the snake out of the house.

  ‘Shoo, off you go,’ he urged, prodding it gingerly with the broom. Unbelievably, the snake responded to his gentle touch, slinking back outside and vanishing into the darkness. This green approach to snake management left me entirely unsatisfied, however.

  ‘Won’t the snake just come back inside, Stu? Can’t you get rid of it somehow?’ I pleaded.

  ‘No, it probably just got lost chasing green tree frogs,’ observed Stu, turning back towards the bedroom.

  ‘But what if I’d stepped on it?’ I appealed. ‘I could have died.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t,’ he replied. ‘And I tend to leave the black snakes alone. They’re pretty passive. They keep the more aggressive brown snakes at bay.’

  That shut me up: I was out of my depth in the serpentine behaviour department. I retreated to the bedroom, pulled on a pair of long pants, rolled myself into a ball and cowered under the sheets.

  The following morning, I groaned in disbelief as Stuart bounced out of bed at the sprightly hour of four-thirty. Is this what being a farmer’s girlfriend involves, I wondered, rubbing my eyes. ‘Stu,’ I croaked irritably, ‘Stu, what are you doing? It’s too early. And it’s Sunday.’

  Stuart pulled on a green work shirt, football shorts and a pair of Blundstones.

  ‘Well,’ he replied smugly, ‘you’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.’

  He sat down on the bed and prodded the pillow I’d pulled over my head.

  ‘Why don’t you get up and unpack your boxes?’ he prompted. ‘It’s a big job and you’ve got to start work tomorrow.’ The removal truck had arrived the same day I had; 23 boxes had been dumped on Stuart’s doorstep.

  I opened an eyelid. ‘All right, Pollyanna, I’m onto it.’ I wasn’t a morning person; having adult conversations before dawn was anathema to me.

  By 6.00 am, I needed a coffee. Surrounded by cardboard boxes, I was unsure of where the artefacts of my former Sydney existence were going to fit. It wasn’t merely an issue of space – more a matter of suitability. As I gazed around the dilapidated bungalow I now called home, it was clear that not all the trappings of my former life were transferable. Things that seemed perfectly sensible in Sydney – like funky bean bags and fine Italian macchiato glasses – were reduced to the nonsensical at Gebar. It was way too hot to contemplate sitting in a felt-covered beanbag and the macchiato glasses were preposterous next to a dusty old jar of instant coffee.

  Similarly, my first few days at Jandowae had taught me that many of my clothes, appropriate for Sydney circles, were now useless. A strictly utilitarian mode of fashion was the order of the day; delicate fabrics and ‘dry-clean only’ garments wouldn’t last long. My stylish high heels had to be replaced with no-nonsense flats and open-toed sandals. And where did I think I was going in that short, sequinned dress, anyway? Nowhere in public, that’s for sure, or I might be mistaken for a drag queen. There was nothing for it – I had to discard many of the items I’d paid good money to freight, in light of their ridiculous impracticality in country Queensland. Mounds of extraneous furnishings and clothing were shunted into anonymous green garbage bags; I’d have to find a local charity to donate the items to, or they’d end up at the Jandowae dump. As ruthless as I tried to be, however, I simply couldn’t bring myself to dispense with all the vestiges of my former life. My purple Turkish cushions looked ridiculous adorning Stu’s old cane chairs, but a slice of Sydney remained.

  Instead, I turned my attention to constructing my bookshelf. Thank God for my books, I reflected, they’re relevant anywhere. I descended to the area in which I’d encountered the red-bellied black snake the previous evening. It was an odd sort of room – the largest in the house, with two external entry points positioned directly opposite each other. An old dresser was pushed into one corner, next to an enormous bale of cotton wrapped in hessian. A table and two chairs were marooned in the centre of the room; a pile of documents, several coffee mugs and a calculator indicated that Stuart used this table for work.

  Adjacent to one of the external entry points, an expanse of white wall beckoned. Perfect for a bookcase. I proceeded to labour for hours with shelving insertion points and Allen keys. Finally, the bookshelf was ready to accommodate my prized volumes, collected over the course of a lifetime. An eclectic mix of classics, academic titles, poetry, Australiana and pulp fiction soon graced the shelves.

  Midmorning, I paused to inspect my handiwork. The day was heating up and the presence of two external doors did little to encourage airflow. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and hailed Stu, approaching the house from the shed.

  ‘Hey,’ he called. ‘How are things going?’ I gestured towards the bookshelf.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked.

  Stu walked to the bookshelf and ran his hand over its structure.

  ‘Mmm …’ he said, hesitating. An odd expression passed over his face.

  ‘Well, you won’t like this, Fi,’ he observed. ‘You’re going to have to get rid of your sex books.’

  I knew what he was referring to – my comprehensive array of materials mostly acquired during my undergraduate degree in Women’s Studies and Religious Studies.

  ‘Why?’ I asked defensively. ‘What’s wrong with them?’

  Stuart sighed and removed his hat. ‘You know I don’t object to them,’ he said, apologetic. ‘But they’re a bit racy for out here. I meet with contractors and neighbours in this room.’ He gestured toward the coffee mugs on the table. ‘Their eyes will pop out of their sockets with stuff like this.’ He pulled a copy of Linda Jaivin’s Eat Me from the shelf and waved it at me. I grimaced at the giant phallic banana gracing its cover.

  ‘But that book offers important insights into post-modern sexual politics,’ I protested.

  I scanned the offending titles. It wasn’t hard to believe that most of Stu’s neighbours would be unaware that The Kama Sutra was a significant piece of Hindu literature. How would they respond to The Literary Companion to Sex, The Art of Sexual Ecstasy and The Female Orgasm?

  ‘If the neighbours’ wives get wind of these books, Fi …’ Stuart trailed off, inviting me to imagine the ramifications. I contemplated what the Country Women’s Association might think of a woman who could identify the ‘Indrani’ position, but who couldn’t sauté an onion to save her life.

  ‘It’s censorship,’ I complained, plucking my controversial books from their shelves.

  ‘Just put them in the bedroom,’ soothed Stu. ‘And I’ll make you a coffee.’

  CHAPTER 8

  By Sunday afternoon, I was thoroughly disillusioned. My ‘virtual office’ was plagued by internet problems, a fine brown dust had settled over my newly unpacked belongings, and I was r
iddled with mosquito bites.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ consoled Stu. ‘The worst you can get from the mozzies out here is Ross River fever.’

  I stared at him, silently outraged. Since when was that an optimistic outcome? What was I thinking, coming out here at all? I’d voluntarily traded the lively buzz of coastal Sydney for the deserted, critter-infested landscape of rural Australia. Just as well I was in Love, with a capital ‘L’.

  ‘Hey,’ said Stuart, sensing my mood. ‘You’ve been cooped up indoors all weekend. Why don’t we have a look around Gebar before sunset? It’s cooling off now.’ I nodded and followed him to the door. ‘Hang on,’ said Stu, returning to the linen press and rummaging around, ‘we’ll need this.’ He waved a folded cotton bed sheet at me. I was beyond asking questions.

  Stuart took my hand and led me towards a four-wheel motorbike parked near the shed. He swung a leg effortlessly over the seat, slid forward and patted the remaining few centimetres behind him. I squeezed onto the seat and found the footrests, wrapping my hands around his waist.

  We lurched out onto the Warra–Marnhull Road and immediately turned left onto the Jandowae–Macalister Road, so named for the townships at either end.

  ‘This is Field 1,’ called Stu over the engine, waving at a field of cotton to our left. Pristine white flowers bobbed at the tops of luxuriant green plants. Stuart slowed the four-wheeler to a crawl, allowing me to inspect the plants more closely.

  ‘I’ve irrigated this field five times this season, using dam water and a little bore water,’ said Stu, explaining its lushness. ‘It’s the best cotton I’ve got. But there’s no water in the dams now and I’m not pumping any more from the bore. I took a bit of a gamble planting so much this year, but I figured this season had to be better than the last two. Problem is, if it doesn’t rain within the next month, the crop won’t stay green.’ I frowned, imagining this beauty shrivelling in the heat.