by Susan Duncan
Most days I made vegetable or lamb shank soup for lunch and kept it on a slow simmer in a cast-iron pot over the heat from a bed of barely alive coals. Our old camping Furphy pot forgave, enhanced and enriched the simplest ingredients. After each use, I wiped, swizzled with water, oiled and then seasoned it again over low heat. Two crowd-sized cast-iron frying pans we’d hauled home from the US in our hand luggage in the early days of our marriage were treated with equal reverence.
Then, without warning, it rained like stink. All day, all night, all week. Puddles were so wide and deep that ducks took up residence in them. We huddled under the canvas awning – meant for shade from a hot sun – watching as our entire campsite sagged lower and, in odd spots, sank gently into the wet. Work on the road stopped. Chippy retreated to her bed in the tent, a bedraggled and accusing little doggie. How could you do this to me?
Bob rigged tarps. The wind spun. Water found new gaps to finger through. We bought more tarps, strung guy ropes from trees and fence posts until the site looked like a refugee camp. Still, the rain beat in. Across the hilltops and way into the blurry distance, black clouds kept rolling towards us like angry surf. Every so often, Bob raised a fist and punched the awning while I stood with a plastic bowl to catch the water for the washing up. Damp seeped into our beds, clothing and food supplies. It was miserable. I bit back a plea to escape to Pittwater. To admit even a small defeat this early in the project was like letting failure get a toehold. Instead, I invoked a golden rule for offshorers: don’t let the weather hold you back.
When skies finally cleared, we had a visit from a gangly Dutchman called Benny, with a thick accent and sharp blue eyes. ‘I’m your neighbour,’ he told us, holding out a gnarly hand to shake Bob’s. Then he pointed at a large green building way down in a green valley.
‘Ah,’ we said, nodding. ‘We wondered who lived there.’
‘Thought we’d never see another house from our deck because nobody would be crazy enough to build up here.’
‘Oh,’ I said, feeling his disappointment at a pure view spoiled. ‘Well, how about we plant a screen of trees along the fence line?’
‘Ah, we’ll get used to it.’
‘No, I insist. Got to keep the neighbours happy,’ I said. ‘So, been farming long?’
‘Retired four years ago. Funny, neh. I swore I’d never be a farmer like my father and brothers. Not even if someone offered me a million dollars. Then I retired from the roofing business. What was I going to do? Sit around all day? So my wife, Sini, and me, we bought this land. Funny, neh?’
As it happened, he had a few steers for sale. Was Bob interested? ‘We’ll take a look,’ Bob said, as if we could already tell the difference between a beast that might bring top dollar and one you wouldn’t waste time feeding.
We paddock-bashed our way in Benny’s ute to where his cows and calves were grazing on a hilltop. They were a mixture of long-lashed, cud-chewing, toffee-and-black beasts, languid in leg movement – as though their joints were made of elastic – with pretty faces. The calves, already old enough to ‘go to school’, as Benny said, glowed sleekly in the sunlight. Limousin and Angus. French and Scottish. ‘Molière. Flaubert. Camus. Sartre. MacDonald and MacDougal.’ The names rolled off my tongue. The men looked at me blankly.
‘Come for a drink on Friday night,’ Benny said after a while. ‘We can talk prices then. And maybe you shouldn’t give them names.’
‘You don’t name your cows?’ I asked, surprised. He seemed to have a close relationship with them.
‘We had a Sirloin once. She was good eating, too.’ His tone was ripe with approval. We banged our boots against the ute tread to shake off dirt and cow poo, and Benny dropped us back at our camp. ‘See you on Friday. About four o’clock,’ he said.
Two days later, in the rich afternoon light, we again cut across paddocks, this time in our own vehicle, opening and closing gates, dipping into and out of shallow waterways, grinding down steep inclines in first gear and climbing in second. Navigating by instinct when the house was out of sight.
In the paddock closest to Benny’s house, we drove slowly past his bull. A huge, low-slung, golden beast that could’ve tipped over the car if he’d had a mind to. He gave us a cursory glance, as if we weren’t worth much more, lowered a head that would look good stuffed and hung over a fireplace, and kept eating.
‘My father always told me never to turn my back on a bull,’ I said, dredging up the memory from what felt like prehistory. ‘He said it didn’t take much to set them off and they’d trample you rather than walk around you. Are you listening?’
Bob nodded: ‘You worry too much. I don’t take risks.’
‘It’s not about risks. It’s about experience. And neither of us has had much of that.’
Bob pulled up at the last gate. I climbed out to open it. Shut it behind me with extra care. I seemed to remember the sight of bulls jumping fences. Men running. But I couldn’t think whether it was a genuine childhood recollection or a conjured fantasy to suit the moment. It happened now, the worry I was mixing up imagination and facts.
Benny’s wife, Sini, came out to greet us. At her heels, a mid-size, tail-wagging, tongue-lolling, fluffy black-and-brown dog greeted us like long-lost friends.
‘Hello, new neighbours,’ she said, wrapping her arms around me. The dog jumped up, yipping softly. ‘Down! Get down!’
‘You’re Dutch, too,’ I replied, picking up her slight accent.
‘Yep. One of ten children. Benny’s one of ten, too.’
‘Lord,’ I said, unable to think of anything else.
‘What’s the dog’s name?’
‘Sam.’
‘He ok with other dogs? We’ve got Chippy in the car.’
‘He’s fine,’ Sini said in a way that made you feel nothing ever bothered her. I opened the door and lifted Chippy to the ground. She and Sam did a quick olfactory tango, then Chippy took off, following scents known only to her.
‘She doesn’t go far anymore,’ I told Sini. ‘She’s too old and arthritic. If there’s any dog food lying around, though, we should probably put it out of reach. She’s food obsessed. Hasn’t always been that way. Only for the last year or so.’
‘She might need worming,’ Sini suggested.
‘Nah. I’m always on top of all that. She’s just old and her head’s a bit funny these days.’
‘Whose isn’t?’ Sini said with feeling.
Around a table on a deck that gave views along the valley floor and up towards our home site, Benny and Bob went head to head like rug traders, factoring the cost of agent’s fees, trucking cattle to the saleyard and being at the whim of fluctuating market forces. By the second beer, it was shoulder-slapping and hand-shaking all around.
It was after dark when we headed home. Somewhere, I’m not sure whether it was in our paddock or Benny’s, we hit a neck-jarring bump. ‘Lucky it wasn’t a rock – the grass is too high to see them. Rocks roll utes.’
I swallowed. ‘Yeah. Lucky.’
The following week, Benny and Sini walked four gleaming, toffee-coloured Limousins – Flaubert, Molière, Camus, Sartre – and the two Black Angus – MacDonald and MacDougal – through the paddocks. A sedate group. Even-tempered. Friendly. Calm. Like huge, boofy-faced pets. Cattle farming. A cinch, I thought with a mental click of my fingers.
Long after Benny and Sini had gone home, Bob and I sat around the campfire with a glass of wine, staring into the flames. Less than twenty metres away, the newest additions to our family cropped knee-high kikuyu. Rip. Grind. Moving every so often with a soft, swishing sound.
‘It’s rather peaceful watching them,’ I said. ‘Nurturing new life feels good. Even if they are destined to end up on someone’s plate.’
‘This property could carry seventy head,’ Bob said.
‘Well, we’ve made a start. Better to go slowly, don’t you think? Until we know what we’re doing.’
‘Might give Foggy a call. Meet him at the saleyards on Monday.�
�
‘Of course. Why not?’
Foggy was propped on the top rail of one of the pens, a smile on his face, hat tilted forward. Impossibly clean again, amongst the slush. He dropped to the ground, shook hands. ‘Been watching you for a while. Wondered when you’d pick up on me.’
‘All good with you, Foggy?’ I asked.
‘Yeah. All good.’ We set off at a stroll, away from the auctioneer and the bidders. Checking out the pens of young animals. Limousins. Charolais. Herefords. Murray Greys. Angus. Brahmins. Plenty of crossbreeds.
‘What do you reckon?’ Bob asked.
‘Prices haven’t dropped,’ Foggy replied. ‘You’ll be paying top dollar.’
‘We’ve got the grass now,’ Bob said. ‘Might as well go for it.’
‘Steers only. If you’re not on site twenty-four seven, don’t even think about heifers. And bulls are a full-time job, too. Anything that looks like dairy is a no-go.’
‘Why?’
‘Bred for milk not meat. All bones, child-bearing hips, teats and udders. How many you after?’
‘Twenty?’ Bob said.
‘There go the new shoes,’ I quipped.
Foggy grinned: ‘Waste of money out here. You’re better off with a good set of gumboots. Cost you thirty bucks. Last you a lifetime.’
The bidding was fierce. Through narrowed eyes, Foggy picked out a field of four buyers, oozing the kind of farmer charm that goes hand in hand with big acreage and five generations learning the tricks of the trade. The right outfits, too. Blue jeans. Riding boots. Checked shirts. Expensive wet-weather gear. No Rates and Energy here. Serious money only. A bloke with a short back and sides, and jeans that accordioned around his ankles, kept raising the ante. We were outbid pen after pen.
‘He’s starting to get boring, Foggy. What’s he stocking? A whole farm?’
‘That bloke? He’s from Tamworth. He’s got a truck out back and he’s not going home without filling it.’
Just then, another fella who’d been a main player was knocked down as buyer of a pen of twelve. ‘Wasn’t bidding, mate,’ he called to the auctioneer, ‘they’re not mine.’
The auctioneer didn’t even blush. ‘Two dollars thirty-five, all steers, you want ’em or not?’
‘Just saying, I wasn’t bidding right then.’
‘So you’ll take ’em?’
He shrugged and nodded. Moved on to the next pen.
‘What was all that about?’ I whispered.
‘Auctioneer was running up another bloke and got caught out.’
‘But –’
‘It’s an old trick. A nod there, a nod here, a finger pointed over there – we can’t see if they’re genuine bidders,’ he said.
‘It’s dishonest.’ I said, outraged. ‘That man ended up with a pen of steers he doesn’t want.’
‘He’s got the right to say he won’t take ’em,’ Foggy said, unperturbed.
‘What happens then?’
‘It all goes round again.’
‘No ill feelings?’
‘Nah. The bloke just wanted the auctioneer to understand he was on to him. You watch, the prices’ll steady in the next pen.’
Just then, an antsy Brahmin bull kicked up a fuss. Snorting. Rearing. Pawing the ground. Blowing steam that looked like ropy smoke out of huge nostrils.
‘What happens if he jumps the fence?’ I asked nervously.
‘Don’t hang around to find out,’ Foggy said. The words were hardly out of his mouth before a human stampede erupted. The bull was on the run. Just like Pamplona. Men vaulted fences to get out of the way.
‘Jeez, Foggy, where’s he going to end up?’ I asked. We were pressed against rails in a laneway, far enough from the action to feel safe.
‘On his way to Taree for a cappuccino, probably,’ Foggy said, deadpan.
The excitement didn’t bring the prices down, though. ‘Get him,’ I urged when the same bidder who’d trumped us at three pens looked like doing the same at a fourth. Bob gave me a weird look coupled with raised eyebrows. Who knew I had such a competitive streak? All it took was a minuscule drop of Foggy’s good-looking chin and we parted with our hard-earned money for twenty-two steers on the back of a truckload of blind faith: that the rain would fall steadily and reliably for the two years it would take to fatten them for market, that the animals were strong, that prices would hold up, that the country wouldn’t suddenly turn vegetarian.
‘Riskier than putting a bet on the Melbourne Cup,’ I grumbled. ‘At least you know the odds before you back a horse.’
‘You’ve got to love gambling to be a farmer,’ Foggy said. ‘Keep your nerve. Know what you’re doing. Take the good seasons with the bad.’
‘You got a home to go to, Foggy, or are you up for adoption?’ I asked.
‘I’ll give you a hand, any time you need it. First off, those steers will need drenching. Show you how soon as you’re ready.’
Bob headed off to sign the paperwork. I went back to the ute to give Chippy a quick walk. Landowners. Farmers. Road builders. When things move, they move fast.
Daylight had faded to a wintry dusk when we saw headlights, heard the truck rattling along the dirt road, the roar of cattle over the din. We jumped in the ute and headed down the track to the yards. This was our first ever cattle delivery. We wanted it to go well.
Foggy had given us our orders. Keep the steers locked in the pens for three days, hand-feeding them morning and night. Make sure they have plenty of water. By the end of the third day they’ll come to you looking for food, quiet as lambs. Even the wildest steers, he said, gentled after a couple of days of tender loving care.
The truck backed up snugly against the race in the dark. The driver, waving a torch around, slid open the gate. The bawling sounded like throats were being cut. The driver cussed and prodded, yelled and pushed. One by one the cattle clattered into the yards. Then a blue steer, the last in the group, got the willies. He galloped down the race, screamed to a halt, turned around and took off back the way he’d come. Full pelt. At a stampede. Hitting his head against the sides, the back wall.
‘Loony bastard, that bugger,’ said the driver, unfazed. ‘Make sure you tell Foggy this one’s crazy. Reckon he’s blind into the bargain. Hasn’t got a fuckin’ clue which way he’s meant to be headed. Might ring Foggy meself. Bit of luck, I’ll interrupt his tea.’ He laughed, slapped his thigh. Kept at the steer with his prod, trying to get him in the pen before he killed himself. ‘Watch that blue bastard. He’s the kind of beast that’ll kick you in the head soon as you turn your back.’
When it was all over, the driver turned down the offer of a cuppa. He was headed home for his dinner and an early night. He slammed the back of the truck shut, checked the lock, swung into the driver’s seat. Ground into gear and headed out our gate. You could hear rattling and clanking over the whine of the engine all the way to the bitumen road.
We gave the steers a bale of lucerne. Wished them a peaceful night. Felt for our closest neighbours, who’d hear the relentless racket that weaners kick up when they’ve been taken from their mothers. As though there’s been a death in the family, which must be what it felt like.
In the morning, the yard was empty. Cattle-farming lesson number one: check gates are securely latched. After that, we had a paddock full of ferals. Couple of fence-jumpers, too, if you spooked them. ‘Two in my paddock this morning,’ Benny told us. A few days later: ‘Four in my paddock today. You’d better get their ear tags on soon, or they might never find their way home.’
While we played at being cattlemen, Norm sat like a smiling Buddha in the cabin of his excavator. A giant, clawed bucket suspended from a long metal arm scraped away a one-point-two-kilometre route from the front gate to the campsite. Wherever he could, he chucked in a bend. Norm was a master of compromise. ‘Like every bloke who’s been married a long time,’ he said without a hint of rancour.
By the end of a few weeks, neat pyramids of black soil were strung out like a necklac
e alongside the track. Loaded with tough, strong kikuyu runners, eventually they would form the basis of a green lawn around our new house, a perfect firebreak if the day ever came when that was all that stood between us and devastation.
We also had a stroke of luck. We discovered a disused gravel pit in a crevasse between the front and back paddocks. It meant free, on-site material for the road base. A saving of thousands of dollars.
18
ESTHER LOVED HEARING ABOUT THE CATTLE SALES, even if her interest was brief. It sparked memories of her childhood on eleven-and-a-half acres in Stintons Road, Donvale, on the rural outskirts of Melbourne. Bush country. Hilly. Valleys where fog and mist nestled lazily in flat white sheets until late morning. The ground carpeted with spider orchids. Green hoods. Pink fingers. Butterfly orchids. Bearded orchids. Snail orchids. Bachelor buttons. And pink and white heath. Echoes of Benbulla but more wintry than tropical.
‘Had a sort of purity in those days,’ Esther said. ‘All houses now, of course.’ She sounded wistful, sad.
I had my own memories of Donvale. Before it was destroyed in bushfires in 1962, there was a rough wattle-and-daub home that never quite kept out the bitter winter winds, no matter how often a lethal brew of mud and god knows what else – cow dung, probably – was jammed into the crevasses. The kitchen, small, with a simple table and four chairs where we kids were given a glass of Marchant’s lemonade on Friday evenings, had a rammed earth floor. Up a few steps there was a sitting room. At one end, a massive fireplace; at the other, a round formal dining table (lace tablecloth on Sundays) and chairs. A towering sideboard along one wall displayed the best crockery and cutlery. Inside it, Nan stored the treasured family Bible. It was a huge, heavy, gold-leafed tome, where she meticulously recorded births, deaths and marriages in the tradition of that era. A sword, souvenired from the war, hung on the wall alongside her husband Felix’s service medals. I recounted these memories to my mother.
