by Patrick Ford
The harvest lasted two weeks. It remained hot and dry throughout, ideal harvest conditions. They were able to work almost around the clock. It was a very good crop, and would have been better than the previous one, except for some damage caused by a late frost.
Two days after the harvest ended, Susan woke Jack just at daylight. The kookaburras had completed their laughing start to the day. The air filled with the lovely songs of magpies and butcherbirds. Susan came from their bathroom, pale, smiling, radiant. “Jack, get up,” she said, “We need to go to the thinking place.”
Jack had been dreaming a mosaic of the past, of VC and bayonets, parade grounds and dark jungle, and the old days of rugby and beer drinking at Robb College. He was momentarily confused. “Ok, sweetheart, after breakfast.”
“Right now, Jack Riordan, out you get before I throw a bucket of water over you!” In early December, it was already growing hot and sweaty; a bucket of cold water would be very welcome.
“What on earth has gotten into you? It’s only five-thirty.” Comprehension suddenly dawned. “You’re not?”
“I hope that little episode in the bathroom wasn’t the result of your mother’s roast lamb dinner. I think you are going to be a father again, Colonel.”
Jacqui and Patrick were still asleep. Jack knocked on his mother’s door. She wasn’t there, but out in her garden as usual, before the sun climbed into the sky, scorching them all. He found her picking flowers. She did this each morning. She so loved to have fresh flowers in the house. She had told Jack and Denni, “When we came to Ballinrobe, we had very little in the way of luxuries. The one thing we could have free was my flowers. Paddy so liked them. I have done this every day I have been here. In the early days, when things were tough, it was all we had to sustain us.”
“Mum, can you keep an eye on the children, please?” said Jack. “Susan and I have a little task to complete. We shouldn’t be more than an hour.” Helen saw them drive away in Paddy’s old 1956 Land Rover. She smiled to herself. She knew where they were going.
The morning chorus was fading as they approached the thinking place. They climbed from the vehicle and sat together on the picnic blanket. “Jack,” said Susan, “I think this may be a little Canadian baby. Let us offer up her spirit to the land here in this special place.” They made love there, as they had done before for both of their children, offering their spirits to the land, for to Jack, and now Susan, there were unbreakable ties to this land his father and grandfather had tamed. Once again, the mynahs swarmed into the nearby trees, chattering and squabbling between themselves.
“They are arguing amongst themselves for the privilege of welcoming the newcomer,” Jack said.
Back at the homestead, Helen welcomed them. “Well,” she said, “Is it what I think it is?” Susan smiled and nodded. “Sometime in July you will have another little best friend.”
Helen smiled. “I’m so glad, Jacqui, Mummy is going to grow a new baby in her tummy for us.”
Jacqui was overjoyed. She ran to her mother and placed her hand on her stomach. “She’s not kicking yet. I hope she will like us all.”
Susan said, “How do you know it will be a baby girl, Poppins?”
“Because I want a sister, and Patrick‘s no good with dolls. He keeps trying to pull their heads off.”
The post-harvest party took place as usual, and before they knew it, Christmas was upon them. Soon it would be a new decade. Christmas was the traditional Ballinrobe affair, and they welcomed in the new decade with enthusiasm. They did not know how difficult the next seven years would be.
Chapter 20
Decisions, Decisions
Because of the two massive crops of wheat grown in Australia, the government took action to limit the amount growers could market. Agriculture in Australia at this time was heavily regulated, almost socialist in nature. Because of the great depression, wheat farmers had demanded private grain merchants be removed from the production chain. Farmers blamed these agents for their poor wheat prices. They blamed the middleman for profiteering at the expense of farmers.
Farmers demanded control of their product, and the result was the birth of the Australian Wheat Board. Over the years, this monopoly did nothing to foster efficiencies in the growing of wheat. Good quality grain received little more in price than poor quality grain. When the pressure was on from an increase in supply the reaction was to restrict that supply instead of taking innovative steps to increase demand. Earlier, the wool industry had faced similar issues, and yet another bureaucracy emerged to control the price of wool. History and Economics teach that you cannot outperform the market in the end, and both these programs would fail spectacularly. However, that was in the future.
Jack faced a wheat quota of only 60% of the wheat he had grown in the last two seasons. What could he do? The obvious answer was that he could reduce the area of wheat he grew, but producing wheat was the most productive use of his land. In the family and staff discussions that followed, the subject stood tall.
“How many really good years do we get?” Ollie asked. “I reckon it would only be two in ten. That means the odds are that it will be a fair while before we see the likes of the last two years again.”
Jack said, “What you are saying in effect is that we may not reach our quotas in the near future?”
“That’s right, Boss. The whole quotas thing may never be used. Remember it’s a government plan. The people who dreamed it up have probably never been near a wheat farm. You know the old saying, if you want something stuffed up properly, get the government to do it!” Susan thought the same. She had seen the same problem with subsidised industries in the USA, with farmers paid not to grow crops, and millions of gallons of milk dumped in the ocean.
“Okay,” said Jack. “Maybe we should grow the same this year, but put up a few more silos to hold anything we can’t deliver. If a lot of farmers reduce their plantings, there might be too little grain and a better price.” They decided to do that.
Next, they discussed the cattle. Jack reminded them that cattle prices had been high for a long time. Would prices fall?
Ollie was his usual cynical self. “There was a bloke in the paper the other day saying cattle would be good for at least five years. The Yanks can’t get enough of our old cow meat for their hamburgers, and the Japs are buying our good meat. That makes me suspicious. When these so called experts start making predictions like that, it’s time to go in the opposite direction.”
Jack was undecided. He was inclined to believe the ‘experts’ in this case. He decided to put the cattle decision on the back burner for the time being.
Cattle prices continued to rise. As the year ended, Ollie’s predictions were to come true, at least about the wheat quotas. The year had been a dry one. Some of the cows did not have calves. The wheat crop was a poor one—1970 was not a year to remember fondly if you were a farmer. The wheat quota scheme, first deferred, soon quietly disappeared into history and would never resurface.
The strong cattle market had a marked effect on the wool industry. As it became more profitable to breed cattle, graziers everywhere began to offload their sheep and buy cattle. Sheep became cheaper and cheaper, cattle became dearer and dearer. With the reduction in the national sheep flock, there was a commensurate reduction in wool production. World prices rose.
Australia was responsible for 80% of the world’s high quality wool exports and the rising prices deferred the collapse of the marketing scheme first introduced in the 1950s. It would last until 1989 before collapsing with disastrous results. The biggest victims were the wool producers, the very people the scheme purported to help.
Jack decided to take advantage of the situation. He sold about half the cows, keeping only the younger ones, and bought some sheep at a very low price. Once again, wool was on the agenda at Ballinrobe. However, he could not bear to part with his best cows. He was to be pleased with this decision, but not for a long time.
The year was not all bad. On July 25, G
enevieve Helen Riordan made her appearance. Jacqui was ecstatic, Susan relieved, Helen overjoyed, and Jack proud. This year, too, Jacqui had begun to attend school. A school bus took her to and from Goondiwindi each day. She loved school. She was very advanced with her reading as Susan had spent so much time with her as a baby, and she made many little friends. There was a constant stream of weekend visitors, for the town children loved to visit the farm. Jacqui, with her band of sisters had more or less eliminated Patrick from her games of dolls and babies. He was now coming up on two years of age and had formed a strong attachment to his father. As much as possible, Jack took him with him as he moved around the farm.
Jack, having sold cows, continued to purchase cattle to fatten. This took him to Roma, where he took the opportunity to meet with his RSM, Andy McGuire. The Bushmen’s Rifles was still functioning as a training battalion with Jack confirmed as its CO. The annual camps in August were successful again, but Jack had to face some problems to do with his army service. The nature of the war in Vietnam was changing. Despite the heavy bombing of the north, the war was going badly for the Americans. In November 1968, the bombing ended. More than nine hundred US aircraft had been lost.
At home and abroad, the world was sick of the killing. The anti-war demonstrations continued. In America, young men who refused to take part were being dragged to military prisons or fleeing to Canada by various means and living under false names. It would be a long time before they could return without prosecution. The United States was a nation torn by internal strife. Without support, the politicians were hamstrung. The war would drag on for another three and a half years; many thousands of young men would die unnecessarily.
The new President, Richard Nixon, had to admit the war was lost. He talked of a withdrawal with honour, but honour had long gone from this conflict. Jack had known this in 1967. In Australia, the people had reacted in a similar fashion. The calls for the withdrawal of the troops became louder and more frequent. The last of them came home in September 1971. More than five hundred young Australians died in this useless conflict. Nevertheless, the most shameful thing, as Jack saw it, was the poor treatment of the returning troops. When he had returned as early as 1967, he was forced to wear civilian clothes lest public opinion was upset. This practice continued. Eventually the returning conscripts were brought in during the middle of the night, and sent on leave, pending immediate discharge.
Earlier, the more radical of the anti-war groups attacked some troops. Buckets of pig’s blood were thrown, and they were called baby killers. They were even made unwelcome by the RSL, the organisation of returned war veterans. The government and the army’s high command did little to help.
Jack was incensed. These men had been sent to do a job by their government. They did that job with remarkable skill, courage, and professionalism. Now they were outcasts in the society that had sent them. Many did not react well; there were suicides, broken marriages, depression, mental breakdowns. Society largely ignored them. The newspapers, that at first had lauded them, and then condemned them, now ignored them. It was a sad blight on the Australian people. It was not until 1987 that their contribution to the nation was formally recognised.
Army HQ informed Jack that the 1970 camps of the Bushmen’s Rifles would be their last. There was no longer the need for trained infantrymen. In Brisbane, in December 1970, the regiment was officially disbanded, their colours struck and sent to the Australian War Memorial for storage. Their work was at an end. Jack was out of a military job. He was only twenty-four years old. He discussed his future with his superiors. They could only offer him an occasional role as a trainer, or perhaps as a liaison officer with American troops. In the meantime, he would remain on active reserve. He thought about it for a while, talked to Susan at length, and then with great sadness, resigned his commission.
Chapter 21
The Difficult Years
At the end of 1973, the cattle market teetered on the edge. Jack further reduced his cow numbers to 100, down from 300 four years before. He still ran some sheep, for the reserve price scheme guaranteed a reasonable price for his wool. His main goal during the early seventies was to grow more and more cereal grains. Seasons were not kind. Drought or semi-drought conditions persisted through the first five years. Jack still fattened steers during the winter, although seasonal conditions did not favour him. He and Susan went to Roma frequently. Chris McGuire had resigned from the army at the same time as Jack. He had remained in Roma for both he and his wife Liz had good jobs and were making a good life there. They had a daughter now and had named her Susan.
Jack and Susan had fond memories of their visits to Roma. Susan constantly produced the try the bed first strategy. Jack could not get over how loving, how sensual, how responsive she was. They still experienced that charge when they touched. It had happened the first night they met, long ago in his Aunt’s house in Armidale. They had loved each other from that moment and their love had never diminished. Indeed, it had grown every day. It showed in their children. There was Jacqui, their love child, now twelve years old and about to go away to boarding school in Brisbane. Patrick was nine years old. He had mastered the horses, had learned to drive the old Land Rover, and had become a marksman like his father. If only Paddy could see him, thought Jack, how proud he would be.
Jack still kept the old Land Rover, now twenty-one years old. It rarely ventured off Ballinrobe. Jack could look at it and still see Paddy in the driver’s seat. “C’mon, mate,” he would say, “Let’s see if we can get a roo for the dogs.” Jack kept the vehicle in a closed garage and maintained it in as new condition. He would never sell it. There were a couple of new Land Rovers at Ballinrobe now. They were bigger, had more creature comforts. They were more powerful and carried more, but Jack loved the simple, rugged design of his old vehicle. It had all you needed and nothing you did not want. It was a reminder of simpler times.
Then there was Genevieve, seven, the darling of Ballinrobe. She was tall for her age, but looked like a clone of Susan. Jack’s heart would turn over every time he looked into those eyes, exact copies of Susan’s. He could refuse her nothing.
If Genevieve was the darling, Helen, now in her sixty-second year, was Queen of the homestead. She and Susan had always loved one another, and were happy to share the house. Helen had her own self-contained quarters. As time went on, Susan became tightly woven into the business side of the farm. She ran the office, paid the wages, and monitored the expenditure with the efficiency of a Scrooge. Along with this, she had been a full time mother. In these circumstances, Helen was glad to be housekeeper and live-in Granny.
Jack reflected on the last seven years. In late 1972, the voters had thrown out the conservative government that had thrown so many into the hell that had been Vietnam. Instead, they chose the opposition socialist government. This was to have a devastating effect on the economy. This government lasted only three years before the voters kicked it out, but the damage it had inflicted on the economy would take more than ten years to repair.
Like all big spending socialist governments, it lavished money on social and political reform, areas where there was no economic return. The effect was to be an increase in inflation, gradually rising, and then accelerating until in one year it reached twenty-two percent. People with savings on fixed interest lost heavily, but the most severe effect was on farmers. Unlike on most businesses that can pass on their costs, Australian farmers had little control over the prices they received. Consequently, they were faced with diminishing income and rapidly rising expenses.
The worst however was yet to come.
At the beginning of 1974, the Japanese froze all meat imports and repudiated those contracts where shipments were not on the water. The cattle market collapsed. Jack had sold weaners in September of 1973 for a local record sale price of one hundred fifty dollars. In September of 1974, the next generation of weaners sold for twenty-five dollars. Many cattlemen went bankrupt. The market did not recover until mid-1978. Prices
for their inputs more than doubled in this time. At the height of the inflationary period, many suppliers would not even print prices in their catalogues, because before the month was out, they were well out of date.
* * * *
Jack called a crisis meeting. Ollie was there. His role had become one of advisor and mentor to Ken and the young casual staff Jack used at harvest time. Jack was now free of his military commitments, and available to work full time on the farm. Mick was pensioned off and remained in his cottage. “The only way I’ll leave here is in a box,” he said. He was a constant presence in the garden.
Jack began by asking for ideas. Susan said she thought a low cattle market might provide opportunity. “What do you mean by that?” asked Helen.
“Well, if these prices are the lowest ever, surely they will increase in the future. If we buy cattle now and can hold them for a year or so, there might be a good profit to be made.”
“Where are we going to put them?” said Ollie, “We are fully stocked as it is.”
Jack was pensive. “Susan’s right,” he said. “Think about it. Last year we sold weaners for $150. Now we can buy them for $20. If we bought those twenty-dollar weaners now, they could be worth $150 or more in a few years. The only gamble would be the weather. If we have a series of drought years, we could be caught with our pants down.”
“I can see that,” said Ollie, “but you still haven’t told me where we are going to put them.”
“Well,” said Jack, “we can sell the sheep. That will make a bit of room.”
“Yeah...but only a bit. We’d need to buy at least five hundred weaners to make it worthwhile. There’s no way they could fit in here.”
“How about two thousand? Then we can make a killing.”
