A note from the author:
You might get the impression from the last few posts that I've put up that this novel is all drama and depression, but believe me, that is not the intention. I am drawing close to having a final version of a full first draft of the novel, and the past couple of weeks have chronicled the tying up of loose ends. I guess in many ways it is quite a morbid novel, but I want this to be matched by a sense of optimism and wonder, almost whimsy- an acceptance that this is what life is, and that drama and death are OK. They are all a part of life. So while it's been heavy going of late, there is quite a lot of light in what has already been written (pre-blog) to balance out the darkness being written now.
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Hordes of young people from right across the globe set upon the world searching for life, and in order to find and fulfil this life they needed money, work. My family was among the first in the area to welcome these young travellers- backpackers as they came to be known- with the promise of food, board and a small wage to cover other expenses in exchange for their time working on the farm. For the first few years these backpackers were put up in any of the spare rooms they had available, and they usually had between 2 and 4 staying at any one time, until some bright spark had the idea to set up a business of her own accommodating, feeding and drinking these youth on an old tobacco farm out of town, finding them work on local farms and orchards and ferrying them to and from work as required. It took a lot of the obligation off the host farms, and strong bonds were developed between the locals, the hostel owners and the backpackers so there was never any real shortage of workers or locals. It all worked together so harmoniously, and with the application of mechanised cropping any extra hands the farmers could find were worth their weight in gold.
Indeed, Olive’s return turned out to be rather serendipitous for my family, for it wasn’t long before she was called upon to practically run the farm. Firstly, her grandfather- my brother- was headed into the twilight years of his life and could no longer match his offspring for strength or endurance. Sure he was still mentally all over it and surprisingly spry for his age, but the energy required to maintain and run a farm was now beyond him. As he said, just like his father had said before him, ‘Energy is a commodity that is wasted on the young’.
And then came the news that Phillip had cancer of the prostate. The shock of the diagnosis and the debilitating effects of the radiation and chemotherapy had rendered his input into the physical running of the almost negligible. He was forced into lying around the house while Beth and Olive took command of the valley. Of course he still maintained executive control of all major decisions, but was no longer able or allowed by his wife and doctor to get out there amongst the dirt, mud and sweat.
Cooped up in the house, in the bed, all day every day sunk Phillip into a deep funk. He was overcome by a feeling of utter uselessness. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the handiwork and judgement of his family- he had learned well before now to do so implicitly- but more the fact that it was his own body that was conspiring to render him utterly useless. The tasks he had undertaken for thirty prosperous years, the running, diversifying and progressing of the farm, all that was known to him in life, was swept out from under his feet. It chewed him up, digested him, and shat him out. He sank into a deep depression. He had always believed that he would be out there running the show right up until his final dying day, and the realisation hit that that fateful day may not be too far away at all.
Only that, thankfully, it wasn’t. The early intervention, the profound doses of chemistry and physics had succeeded in their aim. Relief flooded the valley. Within eighteen months he had reasserted himself as patriarch and regained much of his former strength of an ox, and with it his sense of pride. He was able to put the whole cancer business behind him and recommence his grand and perpetual plans pertaining to the diversification and expansion of his kingdom.
Phillip sat himself back on his throne. He was the strongman, Olive a devil with the numbers, his father still full of ideas and his wife and mother right there beside them keeping them going- The Fantastic Five. Together they set the trends that others in the district imitated, but couldn’t match. The Spring’s forged ahead, ensuring their product remained at a level far above their contemporaries; seeking perfection with a zeal approaching obsession. In this way they could ensure they always captured the high end of the market. And being the first to fill the hole, they could breed loyalty in their produce and set their own price, at least until the market became inundated with imitations. And when the market became saturated and the winds of trade switched, they would be right there waiting to switch tack.
In the course of working and running the farm they naturally worked shoulder to shoulder with the seasonal backpackers that flooded the region. And in the course of this work Olive formed an especially close relationship with one particular backpacker- Ignatio- from Brazil. At first it was just a meeting of eyes across the rows of cauliflowers, then a series of moments in the truck driving across the paddocks, and then a fully blown summer fling. I don’t think either of them took it overly seriously, after all she was settled here and he was but an itinerant farm labourer. He was staying for a couple of weeks, which got extended to a month, then a couple, then a full season, and eventually a year until his working visa ran out.
After Iggy left Olive was glum. She was still just as busy as ever, but it became harder and harder to make her smile, let alone laugh. Until one day she decided that the time was right for her to travel. She booked a one-way flight for Sao Paulo in a couple of months, and from that moment until she left she was restored to her former self.
She returned a few months later with Iggy on her arm, engaged, in love. They set up their lives in the Monroe’s old house for the time being, until they could afford to buy a 10-acre corner of the farm- a place Iggy could also call home- and build their very own house and start their very own family.
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