by Stephen Orr
22
Surprisingly, Murray was the most nervous. Sitting in reception, pressing the folded margins of a piece of paper, looking at his son. ‘Very generous of you.’
‘What choice have I got?’
Seeing how the bank had called them in at short notice, asking them to bring their accounts. ‘It won’t hurt giving them a day off,’ Trevor said. ‘Even Bill’s getting stroppy.’
‘They coulda kept on.’
‘It’s my call.’
Murray looked at him, as if this was further proof of his incompetence.
Trevor thought it best. Higgs and a man named Ackroyd had been working on each other—something about the way Higgs always gave orders when it was Bill who was meant to say what needed doing. There’d been heated words, and then nothing, for three or four days; just a do it this way or not like that. Then Ackroyd had looked at Higgs the wrong way and Higgs had told him to fuck off and Ackroyd had said you get fucked and it had nearly come to fists. Bill had told them to stop acting like pricks and Trevor, sitting, watching, wondered how they’d make another four weeks.
‘More lost money,’ Murray whispered, loosening his tie.
‘Either I’m running it or I’m not,’ Trevor said. ‘Which is it?’
‘Won’t be any better tomorrow.’
Trevor guessed it could always be worse: a mother in frayed track pants and an old boob-tube, a cellulite midriff and pierced belly button, or what could be seen of it. ‘Bush pig,’ he whispered.
Murray looked at her. ‘Fuckin’ disgrace.’ And her four children: shoeless, mop-haired, writing on withdrawal slips, screwing them up and throwing them at each other. ‘Oi, cut it out.’ The mother turned to him. ‘They should be sittin’ down,’ he said, and she replied, ‘You should be minding your own business.’
One of the children, a boy in long pants and a singlet, smiled at him and raised his finger.
‘You think that’s okay?’ he asked the mother, but she just turned and walked off with a teller. The kids trailed after her, the boy slapping his arse.
‘Maybe I should go fishing,’ Trevor said.
‘Maybe you should.’
‘It’d be a lot more fun.’
‘Well, if you don’t wanna be there.’
‘You know what you’re doin’, you tell ’em.’
No response.
‘That way it gets done right, eh?’
Murray shrugged. ‘Wait till you’re nearing eighty.’
‘Eighty? Seventy-five. How’s that nearing eighty? You’re experienced. They’ll listen to you.’
He shook his head. ‘Why you so contrary these days?’
‘You’re the one tellin’ me—’
‘Cos it’s costin’ us so much bloody money.’
Trevor was sick of arguing. ‘All I’m sayin’, if you’re not happy—’
‘I’m happy! Fine. Give ’em an extra day off. Just stop goin’ on about it.’ He leaned forward, studying the carpet. ‘I agree … it was needed, especially with Bob’s back.’ Strained, as he’d lifted a calf, dropping it, breaking its leg. Trevor telling him to put it aside for fresh meat.
Trevor just looked at him, wondering, waiting for the caveat.
They were greeted by a dark-suited twenty-something and taken into an office. Sat down on the wrong side of the desk. The loans officer (and assistant manager) offered them a coffee and apologised for dragging them in at such short notice. ‘I’ve just been looking at your loan,’ he said. ‘About a year ago we agreed we’d have a review, but we must have let it slip.’
‘We were waiting to hear,’ Trevor said.
‘Well, that’s my fault.’
They both looked at Murray, but he didn’t move. He was wondering if this kid knew anything, and how the bank had the nerve to make them sit and listen to him. ‘You local?’ he asked.
‘No,’ the young man replied. ‘But eight years of rural finance. Farms. We keep ’em all going.’ He smiled.
‘Keep ours going?’
‘I hope.’
Murray just looked at him. ‘I’ve done some sums.’ And laid his piece of paper on the desk. It was covered with figures in rows and columns, ruled off, added up, one number subtracted from another. Some of the calculations had been crossed out and rewritten and other parts were just scribble. ‘Here,’ he said, indicating, ‘is what I reckon we’ll earn this year. And here, this is what it will cost us.’ He used his finger to highlight the numbers. ‘As you can see, there’s a bit of a gap, which is where the bank comes into it.’
The young man studied the numbers, tried to make sense of them, shifted the paper, picked it up and held it close to his face. ‘We gotta get you a copy of MYOB.’
‘What’s that?’ he asked, as though this boy was planning some sort of trick.
‘Business software.’
‘That’s clear enough, isn’t it?’
‘No, it’s not, Dad,’ Trevor said. He looked at the assistant manager. ‘We tried, but all the details are kept in a shoebox … his shoebox.’
Murray glared at him. He wanted to ask who he was really with.
‘So, this figure here, this is the shortfall?’ the young man asked.
Murray looked. ‘Yes.’
‘Fifty-eight thousand … this year?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that’s because …?’
‘Prices are down. After seven years of drought the animals are in poor condition.’
‘Well, for a start,’ the officer explained, ‘I’m not exactly sure how you came up with this figure of fifty-eight thousand.’
Murray couldn’t see the problem. ‘Money in and money out, and that’s what’s missing.’
‘Right.’ He studied his screen and sighed. ‘It’s not just that amount. It’s the sixty-two thousand last year, the thirty-eight the year before, and going back, twenty-six, seventeen … Then there’s the interest.’
Murray shrugged. ‘Like I said, we’re in the middle of a drought.’
‘I understand that. But it’s the overall level of debt. You’re in a position that’s probably not … viable.’
Viable? Viable? ‘What do you mean?’
The officer sat back in his chair, suddenly philosophical, as if he were a doctor telling them about a malignant tumour. ‘Even if it rained tomorrow and kept raining and there was all the grass the animals could eat … and they put on weight and you started making money, and this column shrank and this one grew …’ He referred to Murray’s scribble. ‘There’s just so much debt. The interest is killing you. That’s all you’re paying … interest.’
Silence.
Trevor wanted to say it: My thoughts exactly. What are we working for? Why are we killing ourselves? ‘Only ones smiling are the shareholders,’ he said.
‘They’ll always make money. Problem is … Bundeena. If you were a café or shop you would’ve closed years ago.’
‘Well, we’re not a shop,’ Murray growled. He tapped the desk, his sums. ‘It’s simple. You give us that, we keep going. Everyone gets a roast, we keep our farm.’
‘And if you were us, Murray, would you keep forking over?’
‘Too bloody right I would.’
The officer folded his arms. Now he was studying Murray’s face, his flaring nostrils and his fingers clawing at the desk. ‘Another five years, then you decide to walk away. And we’re left with the debt.’
‘Things’ll come good, they always do.’
‘Things are different now. We’re a business. We manage risk.’
Murray had no response. He knew the figures didn’t lie. ‘Fifty-eight thousand,’ he said. ‘Another two years.’
‘It won’t be up to me.’
‘Who then?’
‘The big boss.’
He couldn’t take this silliness any more. ‘Who the hell’s the big boss?’
Trevor could hear it even if Murray couldn’t. The young man, he thought, was doing a decent job of telling them. ‘We’ve had an offer to sell to an equity
firm,’ he said, without meaning to.
Murray turned on him. ‘Leave this to me.’
‘No.’ He looked at the officer. ‘It’s a decent offer. It’d keep you guys happy and solve our problems, but …’ He turned to his father.
‘A hundred and seventeen years,’ he said to him.
‘So what?’
‘Over my dead body.’
‘It will be.’ He picked up the sheet of figures. ‘Then Aiden can have a go, and Harry, and we can all kill ourselves, and be bloody miserable till Judgement Day.’
Murray was silent. ‘It’s how we live,’ he said.
‘Bullshit.’
Murray turned to the young man. ‘Don’t the government give you money to write off debt?’
‘I want you to—’
‘They do! Or if you lot could stop charging interest for a year. What did you make last year? Five billion? Why can’t you give us a break? Two years? We can draw up some sort of plan.’ He took a pen from his pocket. ‘You got a bit of paper?’
‘That was pretty bloody disappointing,’ Murray said, sitting with his arms crossed, as they drove through Port Augusta.
Trevor didn’t respond.
‘You had to bring it up then?’
‘It was relevant.’
‘Relevant? While I’m tryin’ to get more money?’
A roundabout, and more grey roads, as Trevor retreated further into his own world.
‘We’re meant to be a family,’ Murray said.
‘Meant to be.’
‘It’s our place. You got given it, your kids will—’
‘I got given it? When? I’m just workin’ for you.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Well, hand it over. Where’s the deed? Under your bed?’
Murray guessed there was no point arguing. ‘What I mean is … the only way we can move on …’
Quiet. The indicator. A small Gemini roaring past.
‘We can’t move on, Dad.’
‘Don’t be so dramatic.’
‘They’re just lettin’ us stay cos they wouldn’t get nothin’ if they sold it.’
‘Bullshit. It’s been worse.’
Lives, crumbling, but the land still yielding. Murray could see it—every minute of every day for the last hundred years. The small and big tragedies. Bill arriving home from town, placing Mary’s packages on the bench and saying, ‘Next time we’ll get someone to drop ’em off.’
Mary looking at him. ‘Why?’
‘No reason.’ Although there was—the stares, as he walked down the main street of Port Augusta, whispers, Bill Wilkie, wasn’t his boy on the Cowards’ List?
Bill saying, ‘I’ve heard.’
‘What?’
‘They’re willing to meet us.’ Calling for the stranger, going to the sleep-out, finding a freshly made bed, and a note.
I’m sorry, but I’ve never been to no war. They said in town about John—I needed work. Seeing how your farm was so big. I been stupid. I know. I wish you all the best with John. Your good people. I made up a name—I hope you can forgive me.
Sitting on the bed for a full five minutes. Noticing a box of John’s old books the stranger had been looking through. And on top of this, three- and four-year-old newspapers with references to John’s battalion underlined.
Trevor pulled into Gaby’s drive. She was quickly at the door, waving, struggling with a case she’d packed for her next stay. He got out and helped her. Murray remained in the car, watching as his son kissed her lips.
Back at the muster the next morning, Gaby helped Harry make scones. He spent ten minutes mixing the eggs and sugar until there was a froth of almost-dissolved crystals. Then he placed the bowl on the table and asked, ‘Ready?’.
She looked at the mixture. ‘Will that be enough for fifteen people?’
‘I suppose.’
Fay, who’d come with them earlier that morning, walked over, looked in the bowl and said, ‘That’ll be fine.’ She tried to smile at Gaby. ‘As long as it looks like food they’ll eat it.’
She returned to her spot beside the fire, splayed her legs and rubbed her scaly thighs and knees. She watched Gaby working and noticed how she was never quite sure—what to use, how to mix, where to find what she wanted. She saw how she handed the flour to Harry before putting her arm around his shoulder. ‘About half of that, I reckon.’ Before looking over. ‘What do you think, Fay?’
‘No, all of it. There’s fifteen people.’
Harry tipped all of the flour into the mixture. He looked at Gaby. ‘What next?’
She handed him the milk. ‘You tip slowly as I mix.’
Fay watched how they’d become a unit. How they worked without speaking; seemed to rely on each other; how he’d accepted her, for now. ‘I used to enter my scones in the land competitions,’ she called.
‘Sorry?’ Gaby replied, looking up.
‘The CWA. Years ago, before I lost interest. They were a bunch of old chooks, really.’ She stopped to remember. ‘Sultana cake. Sultanas evenly spaced. Fifteen-inch tin. No rack marks, top or bottom. Golden brown exterior. Shouldn’t crumble down your chin.’
Gaby stopped for a moment. ‘You must think we’re a pair of amateurs.’
‘No, that’s the thing. They all had something up their arse.’
She almost laughed, sharing the moment with Harry, who said, ‘Aunty Fay!’
Fay looked over at the men. The untucked shirts, half-beards and greasy hair. Ripped jeans and crushed boots. And Murray, ear-tagging the calves, telling Aiden what to do. ‘It’s just a cake, isn’t it?’ she said, and Gaby and Harry looked at her. ‘Just something you eat.’
Harry tasted the mixture. ‘Is it ready?’
‘A few more lumps.’
‘You’ll never get them all,’ Fay said. She watched her brother stand and straighten his back. ‘I used to be camp cook,’ she said.
‘Really?’ Gaby replied.
‘First few years after I arrived. Of course, it was a bigger crew back then—you could have eighteen men at a time. And I had Chris running around bothering them.’ She focused on her brother’s stony face and remembered Chris having a go at the vaccinating, accidentally injecting himself, crying and screaming as he watched his arms turn red. As Murray said: ‘It’ll pass.’
Her. ‘Should we get him to a doctor?’
‘No, it’ll pass. What, I gotta drive him to town again?’
She was still watching her brother. ‘That job nearly killed me,’ she said. ‘I had four big roasting ovens and they were going all day. The men had to have meat and veg. I started at four and finished at nine. Then they’d want something before bed.’
Gaby couldn’t see the frail old thing slaving away all day. ‘Quite a job,’ she said.
‘Yes, for no pay.’
‘And why did you stop?’
‘My brother said I wasn’t keeping up.’ She remembered the men waiting for their tea at 8 pm, looking at her, decent enough not to say anything. ‘He sacked me,’ she said.
‘No?’
‘As much as you can be sacked, by your own family.’
And again, she could hear him, on the phone to the stock agent, asking if he knew any decent camp cooks, and pronto, today, tomorrow—as theirs had just walked out on them.
‘I don’t know what they’re gonna think of our scones,’ Gaby said, looking at Harry.
‘We should start.’
She sprinkled flour on the chopping board and spread it with her fingers. Took the lump of dough from the bowl and slapped it down. ‘Off you go,’ she said, messing his hair.
He knew what was expected. Started kneading the dough, rolling, flattening and ripping off chunks that he formed into scone-sized balls. ‘Okay?’ he asked.
‘Good.’
Fay looked at the way she dressed. The boots that weren’t suited to a farm; the horse-riding pants, although there wasn’t a horse for miles; the vest, with its sewn panels, fresh from someone’s needlework class. Still,
she guessed, these habits could be changed. Would be. If she ended up staying at Bundeena things would be different.
‘Righto,’ she heard Murray call, and looked to see him picking up a calf, load it across his shoulders and walk from the yard.
He came towards them, watching Gaby, smiling, saying, ‘Fresh meat.’ He knelt down, put the calf on the ground, took a knife from his belt and cut its throat.
Gaby turned away. ‘Jesus.’ She almost stumbled and fell. Harry held her.
Murray sliced through the trachea. He waited as blood drained from the artery and the calf kicked a few times, stilled, kicked again, and relaxed.
‘Not there,’ Fay said to her brother. ‘You’ll bring in the flies.’
But he wasn’t listening. He was watching Gaby, and the way she walked away, her head low, her groans accompanied by Harry’s fussing.
Part Three
2006
23
‘Harry!’
Trevor walked the perimeter of the compound searching for his son. It had been hours since anyone had seen him. ‘Where are yer?’ He looked through the sheds, his carving nook, the veggies, Fay’s garden. ‘Harry!’ The native pines, the branches of every tree, the crew hut, even inside the old tank. Then he went back to the house and looked through every room. His bed was made. He searched for a clue—a game, a letter, a toy. Then back out to the living room. ‘Stuffed if I know,’ he said to Aiden and Fay, sitting at the dining-room table.
‘Is his bike there?’ Aiden asked.
‘Yes.’
‘He’s probably off diggin’ for wombats.’
‘He knows better.’
‘He’s a shit-head.’
He went out to the front porch and sat on the edge of the verandah, scanning the desert, trying to think of a hiding spot.
‘Harry!’
The country had returned to desert. After the road trains had left, the crew rolled up their swags and driven off, life had returned to its usual drudge of jobs to be tackled and avoided. Then there was Christmas, and a circle of bodies sitting in the same spots saying the same things, giving the same gifts. Roast pork. Apple sauce. Tissue crowns.
Chris had distributed the gifts. He’d given everyone his usual coat-hanger in a crocheted cover. They’d all given their well-rehearsed thank you. ‘That’s great, Chris, I needed a new one.’
