Dimple showed him around the property. Ken asked questions, and tapped details of his answers into a tablet. He seemed impressed, noting that the farm was in good order, showing the benefits of Dimple having implemented simple innovations and practical solutions. Dimple tried to ask him personal things about his family and where he grew up, but Ken made a point of avoiding those sort of revelations. When they were done, Dimple took him up to the house, where Ruthie was waiting for them with tea and biscuits. They shot the breeze about the reach of the drought, and about families and farming in a general sense.
‘Why is Mr Oliver interested in our place?’ Ruthie asked, refilling Lidcombe’s tea.
‘I don’t know the workings of Mr Oliver’s mind,’ Ken said. ‘But I know he’s always on the market for good, safe country. I think, and I don’t know this for sure, he’s looking to focus on your area as part of his next agglomeration.’
‘Agglomeration?’
‘He likes to buy several properties in one area and eventually turn them into one operation.’
‘Are you visiting other properties while you’re in the area?’
‘For a property inspection? Not this trip. But we’ve got some things on the boil.’
They finished their tea and Lidcombe stood, thanked them, shook their hands, and placed a business card on the table. They walked him out to his car, their manners guiding them through their emotions.
As they waved him off, Ruthie said, ‘Well, I feel dirty. How about you?’
‘Yeah, same. But we knew that.’
‘Doesn’t make it any better.’
‘The boys are thinking about coming home for the weekend.’ Ruthie said this as she helped Dimple feed out the hay. The bales were soft and difficult to handle. They’d obviously been made quickly and a little carelessly to meet what must have been a lucrative order from Dimple. But they couldn’t complain. They were lucky to have it. Hay was still scarce.
‘Really? Both of them? This weekend?’ Dimple stopped rolling out the round bales to ask.
‘Late Friday night.’
‘Oh, wow. Can’t wait to see them.’ He continued rolling. The cows were pushing in behind them, the greedier ones rushing to feed at the hay as it came out of the bale.
‘Me too. J told me out of the blue. They just decided.’
‘You haven’t told them anything about our discussions?’
‘No. Not directly. I might have said there might be changes coming, or something like that.’
Dimple pushed a blast of air out past his lips. ‘Sounds like you told them. Is that why they’re coming?’
‘I didn’t tell him, so that’s not why they’re coming.’
‘When they do hear, they won’t believe it.’
‘I don’t suppose they will. But if it goes ahead, they’ll have to know eventually.’
‘I’m waiting for Lidcome to put something on paper. So there still isn’t much to know.’
It would be good to have the boys around, Ruthie thought, even though it would only be for two nights. Their presence would break up the stalemate between husband and wife. It would be nice to have someone else in the house to talk to.
‘Let’s not involve them, please. It’s complicated enough as it is.’
‘J’s very perceptive, so I can’t give you any guarantees.’
‘You haven’t organised this? Got them up here to rally support?’
‘No. Have you?’
‘Don’t be pathetic. I didn’t even know they were coming.’ The hay had run out, so Dimple started to go back to the tractor. Ruthie stopped him. ‘I would like to talk to the boys about this. It’s important. It’s the place they grew up in. One of them might want to end up here. We can’t just ring them and tell them we sold it.’
Dimple climbed up into the tractor. ‘I think it’s a bad idea, but I know I won’t be able to stop you.’
She was hanging clothes on the line when J rang to say the weekend visit was off. He had to work, and Finnie had a party he couldn’t miss. She covered her disappointment. They didn’t get to see the boys much anymore — they had so much going on in their lives that parents didn’t fit in anywhere. She consoled herself that it was probably a good thing the boys weren’t around. Otherwise they would be drawn into the tussle about the farm and the future.
The forecast indicated a high likelihood of wild winds, with potential downpours and a risk of flooding. This got a laugh out of Dimple. He knew they would most likely be right about the wild winds, but the downpours and flooding were fanciful. By the time the system got to him, it would just be a day-and-a-half of gales. Which was a pity, because it was the perfect time for another fall. It would be the follow-up rain that planting a crop or growing a good body of grass needed. But he couldn’t raise any form of optimism that this would happen. He was resigned to the reality that it would never rain properly again. It was the best form of self-protection. If you did not hope, you could not be disappointed.
His phone rang. It was Finnie. Dimple moved to where he knew the signal was strongest.
‘Hi there.’
‘Hi, Dad. What are you up to?’
Dimple related what he’d been doing, and then described the stupidity of the forecast. ‘You can’t make it this weekend?’
‘No, sorry. Too much on.’
Finnie told him how work was going, and then said, ‘Are you thinking about selling the place, Dad?’
‘Mum said something?’
‘Not really. I kind of worked it out.’
‘Sorry, mate. I wanted to tell you, but it’s really something me and your mum have had to work out together.’
‘So it’s true?’
‘We’ve got an offer we just have to consider. It’s too good to just say, “No, thanks. I never planned to sell up.” Sometimes you’ve got to face reality.’
‘I know, and I understand. I need to let you know that it’s all right by me and J. He’ll tell you for himself. But if, somehow, you didn’t sell, that would be great, too. You know what I mean?’
‘I know what you mean, mate. It’s not set in stone yet. I’ll just have to let you know how it pans out.’
‘Okay. Good luck with it. Talk soon. See you, Dad.’
Dimple thought about saying, ‘Love you,’ but it was too late. Finnie was gone, back to his city life and his friends and his whatever. It must have been a difficult call to make: for Finnie to let his father know he supported the sale of the family farm, but hoped it wouldn’t happen, without letting either opinion come across as an attempt at influence. He didn’t deserve that kind of consideration from Finnie. He had spent too many years being inadequately considerate of him.
It amazed and gratified him to find out that his son didn’t hold a grudge. He would have understood if he did, but Finnie seemed capable of overcoming the past. So, no matter how bad it got, there were things unearned to be thankful for.
A bronzewing in a tree somewhere sent out one hooting note and then another, and continued with regular insistence, giving no sense it ever planned to stop. It sounded like it had been calibrated to keep time, to remind everyone that the minutes were ticking past. He wanted to yell out and tell it to shut up, but he knew the futility of the gesture would make him feel worse.
Dimple drove through the grass paddocks to see how much feed the rain had brought. The paddocks, empty of stock, had a weird end-of-days feel. Where was everybody?
Kangaroos had moved in mobs to pick at the green shoots. They fed in crouched groups, hardly bothering to look up as he went past. There was only just enough growth for the fine mouths of the roos to nip at. On the edge of a gully, a wombat joined them, equally unconcerned by Dimple. He knew that was a wombat thing: you never saw them until they were ill, old, or really hungry, when they seemed to stop worrying about humans. Then you could either find them in the garden
or the evidence of them in parcels of square poop.
He drove on, acknowledging to himself that the farm was never empty — it was just empty of his animals.
Eleven
‘Mrs Travers, it’s Ken Lidcombe, Mr Oliver’s agent.’
‘Oh, hi, Ken. What can I do for you?’
‘Is your husband around?’
Ruthie did her best to keep the annoyance out of her voice. ‘I’m an equal partner in this business, Mr Lidcombe. I’m sure you can tell me whatever it is you wanted to share with my husband.’
‘Yes. Of course.’ The line went silent. Then she guessed Mr Lidcombe felt like he was cornered. ‘Ah, let’s see. Mr Oliver would like to confirm an offer to buy your property along the lines that have been discussed.’
‘Righto.’ Ruthie swallowed heavily. It was real, and now she wished it wasn’t.
‘But he would like to do it in person. He wishes to come to your place to sign the papers and shake on the deal.’
‘I’ll let Dimple know.’
‘Thank you. Could you get him to call me, please? If that’s okay?’
‘I will.’
Ruthie sat down and held her head in her hands. It was time to be strong. The next stage took courage. She had told herself that many times. But she did not feel very brave. She felt stupid.
When she told Dimple the news, he gave her nothing, saying only, ‘I’ll give him a call.’
She listened to him talking to Ken, setting up the visit. Why did Wally want to come here? It was as good a time as any to see the place, she supposed. And there would be some triumphalism — she had no doubt about that. Perhaps she could absent herself, rather than suffer the insufferable.
‘On Monday, mid-morning? How does that sound?’ Dimple was confirming with her.
‘Fine. I’ll make biscuits.’ She said this playfully, not feeling it.
‘It’s big money.’
‘I know.’
‘It creates a future for us, for you and for the boys.’
‘I know.’
‘Well, be happy about it then.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘We need to think where we’re going to live.’
‘We?’
‘I was hoping.’
‘Me too.’
‘Good.’
He left the room.
The truck of hay arrived midafternoon. Dimple didn’t dare to think how many more there would have to be and where the hay would come from. The driver was a good-natured bloke who had just driven from the other end of the state, and would return there when he’d left Dimple’s place. Like his fellow drivers, he made it sound like no big thing. Dimple guessed he was glad to have the work.
Dimple unloaded the hay bales and placed them neatly in the shed, packed tightly, the front faces flat and square to the ground. The truck and its driver were gone as soon as Dimple had signed for the load. He walked over to the hayshed and examined the contents. At least they now had a couple of weeks of feed for the cows, no matter what the weather did. It was pretty good quality, too: wheaten and green, without too many spikey heads.
Once they sold up, he might not have to feed out hay, load and unload it, ever again. If he didn’t have the belief to keep this place going, could he really saddle up to buy another farm? It made no sense. Perhaps he would just follow Ruthie around on her adventures. He pushed the shed gate shut and laughed at himself. Trailing around after Ruthie while she spent time with girlfriends and did her best with boyfriends would have to be one of his worst ideas ever. And he’d had a few.
But what else could he do? Work for other people? Help out friends? Take up golf? All of it seemed dreary. The only thing he wanted to do, that he could think of, was lie down. Not even sleep. Just lie down and shut his eyes. With no reason to get up. Ever. That was his ambition.
In the next paddock, the cows were watching him, calling out. They had already been fed, but he thought their point was a reasonable one. How could he stack so much hay and not give them any? But the calls were half-hearted. They would move away from the fence in a minute when they realised he wasn’t going to give in.
When the time came to sell them, he would miss them. When you only had 70 cows, you got to know them individually: the bullies, the nervy, the unflappable, and the fussy. He knew the cows that were always at the gate, ready to run through it whenever they got the chance. What they thought they were running to, he didn’t know, but you had to respect an optimist. Optimism was all you ever really had. It was a truth of farming. You had to get up in the morning knowing that, someday soon, things would be better. He felt like he had lost that ability. Which was a little like losing the ability to live.
Ruthie trawled through real-estate sites. She checked locations in towns, as well as in the big city, that she thought might be nice to live in. She decided that the best approach would be rent a house in Fresh Well until they worked out what they both wanted to do. Then they could choose the farm and the houses that they liked, however that worked out. There was a small local house on the hill, Federation-style, that was available for rent. It looked neat and well cared for, and had a nice little garden. She put in a declaration of interest, and she got a response from the website that someone would contact her soon. Luckily, in Fresh Well, not having a rental history didn’t matter. But none of it seemed real: she and Dimple living in town only a few metres from other families, being able to walk to the shops and the main street, not having anywhere to go to get away from people, receiving visits from Finnie and J in town. It was a dream. A very bad one.
Twelve
Monday was clear and warm, but it was still spring, so Ruthie did not turn on the air-conditioner for their guests. They arrived in the largest four-wheel-drive Ruthie had ever seen, a king cab that was more like a small truck. Dimple went out to greet them. They got out of their monster machine, excited like men attending the picnic races. The trip had obviously been fun. There were three of them: Wally, Ken, and a young man from Ken’s office. Everyone shook hands, and Wally bent to kiss Ruthie on the cheek. She did not stop or evade him, and was quickly ashamed of herself.
‘Nice-looking place,’ Wally said, standing back, reminding them it was his first visit. ‘And green at least. I love these little farms.’
Ruthie had to stop thoughts of jamming her heel down on top of his cowboy-booted foot.
They went into the kitchen and took seats around the bench while Ruthie served tea, coffee, and biscuits. The friendly ceremony went against her instincts, but she had agreed with Dimple that it was a big occasion with a lot of money involved, so they had to do their best to make sure everything went smoothly and amicably. After all, they had accepted the offer, so they could hardly carry on like they were unhappy with what was happening — even if that was what they felt.
Ken had a briefcase that Ruthie thought looked far too expensive for a rural real-estate agent, but everything to do with Wally was expensive. She saw that he wore a top-of-the-range brand-name watch. She knew his cheeks were puffed out as a result of his unending good life. How did his wife feel about him? And those Asian women? Now he was smiling and laughing and telling jolly anecdotes, in their kitchen, like an old friend.
What had she and Dimple done? It wasn’t too late. She could tell them the deal was off, call Dimple out of the room and make him see how wrong they were. But he knew. Dimple knew exactly what he was doing and why. And she had agreed with him. There was nothing wrong with wanting more from life, demanding more, and this was the price. She could endure it. In a couple of hours it would be done, and Wally would be gone, and they could begin the process of moving on. She squeezed the edge of the benchtop tightly with both hands.
Wally was looking at the ceiling, saying casually, ‘We’d probably knock this house down and build something a bit larger, a little more generous. But, that said, I don’t wor
ry about houses much.’
Ruthie gripped the bench.
‘We’ll put a young manager on down here, and he can run the farms we put together. He’ll have a lot of infrastructure to get built in a fairly short time.’ Wally grimaced to show the weight of the amount of work to be done. ‘We’ll be spending a lot of cash, so it will be good for the local communities.’
Dimple didn’t need anyone to tell him what was going on. He had expected it. It might as well have been in the contract. He had taken time to think it through. Whatever they did, he would be ready for it, and nothing would make him crack. Again, he set his jaw and made a pleasant face.
‘I mean, there’s nothing wrong with the things you’ve got here,’ Wally went on, ‘but from what Ken says, it’s not laid out in the most efficient way. We’ll move fence lines, roads, and silos — and, of course, we’ll increase the size of those silos tenfold — so everything is streamlined: the sort of thing you wouldn’t have been able to do on your budget. This is what I mean by having sufficient capital to make the right business decisions. By the time we’re finished here, this place will be twice as profitable.’
‘Perhaps we’d better do the paperwork?’ Ken suggested.
Was he aware how obnoxious his client was, Ruthie wondered. Probably not. If you worked with someone like Wally, you had to accept everything about him, or at least tell yourself you did.
‘Okay. Let’s make it official,’ Dimple said, and gave no hint that there was anything else in the world he would rather do.
Ken opened his briefcase and took out some contracts. Then he proceeded to go through the details. Ruthie listened to the amount they were offering, and knew again that a gigantic sum like this could buy almost anyone.
She and Dimple signed, and then Wally signed, and Ken witnessed both sets of signatures. They all shook hands again.
‘We’ll need you to get rid of those old cows as soon as possible. I know it’s not in the contract, and you’ve got two months to get out, but the sooner they’re gone, the better. We need the grass to grow and to get some better genetics in here ASAP,’ Wally said.
Small Mercies Page 14
