Chapter 17: A Quieting Knack

            One summer’s day Margie left Karabup for life in the big smoke, and while she would return each season it was clear that her life was now elsewhere. She would talk of life huddled shoulder to shoulder with countless others, of indoor plumbing and new-fangled gadgets that made life so much easier. She would share stories of her classmates, her friends in the dorm, and of the lengths they would go to in order to break curfew and go out on the town. She insisted that she never took part in such behaviour, but the glint in her eye belied the innocent façade she presented to our parents. Still, they bought it (or at least chose to) and I suppose there is no harm in that. Men would always be attracted to a girl as mischievous as Margie.

            She did come home one winter with a certain young man in tow for the dreaded meeting of the parents. He was tall and gangly, with a mop of blonde hair that just would not cooperate, no matter how much Brylcream was combed between the strands. He was like the pet emu in the chook yard- the sort that lives in a state of jangled nerves, who apologise for every slight whether real or imagined. My family tried to make him feel welcome, waving away his apologies and reassuring him that his actions and words were indeed appropriate, but after a while it all felt somehow forced. There was that lingering feeling that Margie could do better. They left deflated; a void had opened up between them and it was clear to Margie that their relationship wouldn’t last, regardless of how pig-headed and obstinate she could be.

            Two years after first leaving the farm Margie graduated from teacher’s college and moved to her first posting in another Groupie community about 40 miles south. As happens in life, the children are raised to the best of the family and community’s ability, and then when the time comes they spread their wings and take those first faltering flaps and leave the nest for good. And while she would return from time to time, there would forever be that rift separating her old life from the new.

            Unsurpringly, Margie integrated into her new community with ease. It was after all a world she was used to and comfortable with. She delved into her teaching with the gusto of those not yet cynical. In her first year she groomed eleven kids between the ages of 6 and 15 towards life after childhood. She also fell in love with and married a fellow Groupie by the name of Martin Calloway. He earned his living from a hundred head of dairy cows, and every morning and evening Margie would pitch in with the milking. She was forever running between the school, the dairy and the house, while Martin spent his days clearing trees from the back paddocks and slashing the bracken that threatened to over-run the paddocks, poison the cattle and taint the milk. Theirs was a life of hard work and simple pleasures deep amongst the Karri, and it wasn’t long before their first bub was on the way.

            While Margie was off getting educated, Albert stayed back to work the farm. He never really excelled in any scholastic capacity, but what he lacked in book-smarts he more than made up with farm-smarts. It was as if he possessed an instinctual understanding of the earth. He somehow knew when the season would break, when was the best time to plant, and when it was best to leave a paddock to fallow. He was also in possession of a quieting knack with the animals. Tearaway horses were brought to him, and within a couple of days they were as placid as a house cow.

            Albert left the school when he was 15 to devote himself to the farm. Dad and Ma wouldn’t let him to leave before this age, believing in the benefits of a proper education. But still, before this they relented to his will and gifted him a small patch of the side paddock to call his own. Growing up he was an awkward kid and never the type to do things by the book, which often set him at odds with his teachers and parents, even though his unorthodox methods often resulted in the same conclusions. Even his plans for his first patch of earth came out of leftfield. Instead of treading the well-worn path with potatoes or onions, he convinced Dad to invest in seeds for tobacco. He had got wind of a rumour that nobody else took particularly seriously- that a cigarette company had approached the council with a proposal to set up a tobacco shed in the region. Now whether due to the brashness of youth or through some divine inspiration, he decided that if indeed these rumours were true it was best to get in ahead of the pack. If things didn’t work out, he could simply blame it on his youth and notch it up to experience.

            But any thoughts of the risks were soon put to rest. Albert’s patch of tobacco outgrew the bracken, their leaves unfurling like the pages of a broadsheet on a lazy Sunday morning. Every day after school he would walk amongst his crop, and with each passing day ever less of him was visible, until only his slouch hat could be seen above the praising green leaves. He tended them as he would his children; removing any weeds that dared attempt drink their water; crushing any slugs, snails or insects that tried to make a snack of his plants.

            Across the course of the season the tobacco shed gained council approval and building proceeded with haste. And while the factory wasn’t completed in time for harvest, the company behind the venture set up a tent on the farm and walked Albert, and anybody else who was interested, through the process of picking, stacking and drying the leaves. So impressed were they by this young kids efforts that they made him a priority grower for the following seasons, working for a wage plus commission, and paid him to liaise with other prospective growers in the region and advise them on the best methods with which to grow the tobacco. By the end of the season he had become something of a local legend.

            With Albert’s success every other farmer in the region rushed to get their own tobacco crops in the ground, but not even the most experienced farmer could match him. In light of Albert’s triumphant debut Dad gave him reign over the entire side paddock. But despite the extra land, he still only planted half his paddock into tobacco, leaving the rest- that which had been planted the year before- to be divided up between several other crops like beetroot, broccoli, turnip, Brussels’ sprouts and even a short row of rice down by the water’s edge. The sizes of these crops wouldn’t be commercially viable, but I’m sure that wasn’t his aim. He approached them diligently and scientifically; working out the precise conditions required for each. When confronted as to why he would do such a thing he merely shrugged and replied “why not.”

In effect Albert was sacrificing his short-term profits for long-term knowledge and experience. Whenever the popular crops failed, Albert always seemed to be one step ahead, as if having foreseen it, already focussing on what, to him, logically came next. He never seemed to be caught unawares by droughts or pests or rot, and if he did there was always some contingency in place.

It was no surprise to anyone that Albert had bought and started working on his very own farm by the time he was twenty. Matthew Elliot had sold up and moved to a nearby community to take over the running of his new wife’s father’s farm, and the two Groupie families that had taken up the land since had found the land so infertile and inhospitable that they had defaulted on their loans and moved away to the city in search of an easier life.

Dad had stumped up much of the money to get Albert started, and as a gesture of pride, love and goodwill told him unequivocally that not a cent was to be re-payed either now or in the future. Albert continued to work with Dad on the original farm, as well as setting up his own home at the far end of the dam. They effectively formed a business partnership. On paper it was split 50:50, but in reality Dad stood aside and allowed his son to take over the management of the farm- the crop selection and where and when they would be planted. Dad had learnt a thing or two over the years about deferring to the wisdom of his superiors, even if the inspiration behind such wisdom was beyond his comprehension. He knew when he was bested and took the hint with grace and integrity.

At about this time a new family of groupies settled on the farm beyond the narrow band of scrubby jarrah at the back of Albert’s. Their name was Moriarty; an Irish family of 7 that had been removed from their farm near the south coast that had been acquired by the government for the establishment of a mineral sand mine. They had reportedly had some success with their dairy farm on the saltbush flats, and now had to prove themselves all over again in a different environment. They had managed to either convince or force the Midland Railway Company to pay for their resettlement and the droving of their dairy cows the hundred miles to their new home. Their new block already had a house established in the lee of a ridge, and although it was perhaps too small to comfortably fit all seven of them, they made do and straight away started building an extension onto the back of the shack.

To make himself known to the newcomers Albert wandered over the back fence and through the bush to their house. He was greeted behind the workshed by the bark and snarl of a wolfhound. He stopped in his tracks and raised his hands in a gesture of submission and with a low voice started talking to it; to calm it down and convince it he was not a threat. The dog stopped barking but continued its stooped approach, teeth bared. Albert slowly, guardedly stretched out the back of his hand. Snout came within 6 inches of knuckles when suddenly the dog yelped and scampered off towards the shed with its tail bent between its legs. Albert gave a start, stood and scratched his forehead in bewilderment and relief.

A laugh peeled out from the young apple orchard behind the shed. Albert jerked his head around and caught a flash of flax through the new leaves. A short bullish young woman in a summer dress (despite the greyness of the day) strode out of the thicket; her head tilted back in laughter. He stood there, culpable and lost for words. Instead of introducing himself he merely shook her proffered hand while she introduced herself- Sarah Moriarty, daughter of the proprietor. She looked at him quizzically, confused by his silence.

He finally regained some form of composure and introduced himself- Albert Spring, from over the fence. She invited him in for a cup of tea while they waited for her father and brothers to return from inspecting the fences. He sat and made small talk with the matriarch for what seemed an interminable time, constantly fiddling and taking hurried glances around the kitchen for an escape or a chance glance of Sarah through the open doors as she walked about the house conducting normal house duties. He was captured by her ease of movement and innate confidence- his antithesis.

There in that foreign environment his mind began to wonder to thoughts hitherto untapped- of the future outside of work, of love, a wife, children. He was surprised by this sudden change in his train of thought and tried to shake it out of his head and concentrate on the conversation he was supposed to be involved in, but the thoughts kept coming to him. Even once Mr Moriarty and his teenaged sons had returned and engaged Albert in talk of his farm, his stock, his crops, his machinery these thoughts kept gnawing away at him. He resolved then and there that this girl, Sarah Moriarty, would be his wife.

It took 18 months to convince her, but he got there in the end. Albert used any chance or excuse he could to go over to the Moriarty’s, generally on the pretence of learning how some new tractor or diesel-powered crosscut saw worked. He would be there when the engines of these new machines were dissembled to learn how they worked, and apply this newfound knowledge to purchase his own new machinery. And all the while he kept his eyes peeled for any glimpses of Sarah. He would engineer himself into circumstances where he could talk to her one-on-one and his heart would race in anticipation of their meetings.

For her part, Sarah noticed Albert’s infatuation right from the off. She didn’t mind the attention and even kind of enjoyed the feelings his attentions stirred up in her. Something about this young man- so in tune with the earth and yet so at odds with the rest of humanity- captivated her, and despite her best efforts, she found herself also looking forward to the fleeting moments they would share. She brimmed with life and excitement, in possession of a passionate temper that could quickly give way to sorrow. She was not adept at keeping her emotions hidden; everything was writ large in her face and body.

And so it was that after all their unspoken and surreptitious courting it was Sarah who made the bold move of stating her attraction and intentions towards him. She pushed him into an apple tree and fair threw herself at him. What else was there for Albert to do but go along for the ride?

As devout Irish Catholics, the Moriarty’s insisted that Albert would have to convert to Catholicism before any marriage could take place. Despite his family’s initial doubts and criticism of this proposal, Albert duly accepted the terms without any real conviction other than it was what had to be done in order for his happiness to be complete.

They were married two months later in the little church in Sarah’s settlement in a ceremony attended by most from the surrounding communities. The church overflowed with loved one’s and onlookers curious about the union between the small, tempestuous Irish girl and the stocky, graceless Pom.

After the ceremony and the crying and fussing of the mother’s-in-law everyone migrated across to the Moriarty’s place for a dinner catered by the disparate dishes brought along by well-meaning wives. They ate and drank and after nightfall the barely coherent groom and his moonshine-fired bride clambered into their buggy and trailed spent paint tins, lit firecrackers and a scarecrow depicting them hung by the neck with rope over the ridge and into the matrimonial night.

Chapter 16: Foam Heart

Yoshi picked up the white foam heart and gave it a squeeze. Clutching it in his hand he crossed the corridor and stuck his head through the door of the office opposite. Spying Marshall sitting there with a furrowed brow and the frayed end of a pencil bouncing between his teeth, Yoshi gauged the weight of the heart and sidearmed it at his target. It flashed past Marshall’s back and thudded into the filing cabinet behind. He turned around confused, but not surprised. He raised an eyebrow at his attacker and removed the buds from his ears. He tapped the spacebar.

            “What’s going on?”

            “Got surgery. You said you wanted to sit in?” Yoshi moved towards him and bent to pick up his heart but Marshall blocked him with his chair, spinning around to stamp his foot down on the ball.

            “You going now?”

            Yoshi stood back up. “I’ve got everything ready, yeah.”

            “Can you give a second? I wanna get this sentence right.” Marshall extended his hand and picked up the heart and showed it to Yoshi. “Thanks.” He put it behind his monitor. Yoshi backed slowly out of the room keeping his eyes trained on his friend all the way. Marshall put the buds back in and turned back to the screen. He unpaused his music and tilted his forehead at the text before of him, bathed in the vacuum of noise.

KLF4 binds Cyclin D2. G1/S arrest. KLF4 up at 18h; PC3 and MPP. cc w/draw imp for C.

            He played around with his notes, expanding, contracting, typing, deleting, cutting, inserting, until he was happy with the progression and cadence of the sentence. Finally, after 5 minutes of piercing thought he re-read what he had written.

As the transcription factor KLF4 directly binds the Cyclin D2 promoter to suppress cell cycle progression at the G1/S boundary (Klaewsongkram et al. 2007), increased KLF4 protein within 18 hours of the addition of Phenrododiol to both murine prostate cancer primary cultures and the PC-3 cell line indicates the imperative for cell cycle withdrawal in prostatic tumorigeneisis (Figure 5.4B and C).

Marshall leaned back and wrapped his hands around the back of his head. He saved the document, locked his computer and went to look for Yoshi. He found him loitering over Leigh’s shoulder reading the latest edition of the West.

“Hey Leigh. You ready Yoshi?”

“Hey Mar.” She waved, but didn’t look up from her paper.

“Yeah.” Yoshi stretched up to his full height, such as it was, and stretched, yawned. “Let’s get going.” He picked up his sterilised toolkit from his desk, while Marshall grabbed the rope of the esky and followed close behind.

Yoshi swiped his card against the sensor and opened the door into the gowning room. They pulled blue plastic booties on over the top of their shoes and slipped their arms into scrubs, tying them blind behind their backs. They proceeded through the ante-side of the airlock and into the animal facility to render themselves anonymous behind duck-billed facemasks and surgical gloves.

Marshall started up the bio-cabinet and doused the cold steel with jets of ethanol, wiping the surface dry with a paper towel. Yoshi inspected the cardboard tags on the front of the Perspex boxes, pulled one down from the stack and placed it in the bio-cabinet. He removed the lid and snatched at the tail of an unsuspecting mouse. Lifting it from the cage and onto his sleeve he checked it for signs of injury or weakness, letting it move around on his arm with its tail held between his fingers, gentle yet firm. Judging it to be healthy he set it back into its cage, picked up a littermate by its tail and repeated the process for each mouse. He moved with all the skill afforded by years of practice. Content he placed the cage in a carry box and selected another from the stack. He inspected the animals in kind and added the second cage to the box. Marshall watched intently from the side.

Yoshi placed the box onto a trolley and cleaned up after himself with ethanol, keeping it all as sterile as possible for the next person. Yoshi removed the aluminium mouse barrier from its slots in front of the door, pushed the trolley through and replaced the gate.

They took the mice to the lab and Yoshi set up his implements- forceps, scissors, scalpel, pins, board, scales, saline, paper towels, ethanol- before grabbing the tail of the nearest mouse. He clucked softly at the mouse as he let it relax on his sleeve; it nestled into the crook of his arm. When Yoshi prized it away from the fabric of his sleeve it flattened itself out and flew like superman. When it was lowered onto a metal grill it instinctively gripped tight to the wire and pulled against the force fixing its tail. The ball of Yoshi’s thumb came down onto the back of its neck before it even had time to contemplate its situation. Yoshi pulled the tail straight backwards and rolled his thumb over the neck until his palm faced away. Vertebrae dislocating cracked dully. It all happened so fast. Yoshi, expressionless, pinched the neck to make sure it was properly broken. Both men turned away so as not to watch the convulsive death rattle.

Once it stopped kicking, Yoshi weighed the mouse, announced the readout for Marshall to record in the red notebook, and sprayed its torso with ethanol. He cut off the tail with scissors, then through the skin halfway up its back and tore the skin from the lower half of the body before pinning the animal to the board. He peeled away the fat pads and connective tissue of the abdomen and delicately removed the prostate. After rinsing with saline and weighing it Yoshi cut it in two, placing one piece in a plastic tube and dropping it into the dewar of liquid nitrogen, and mounting the other in a mould of Vectashield and freezing it over a boat of isopentane sailing on a sea of nitrogen.

The ritual was repeated for each animal. For the last two Yoshi offered Marshall the opportunity to gain some experience.

“Guess I’d better learn sometime- pad the CV and all that.”

They switched places- Marshall onto the stool and Yoshi looking on from the side. Marshall replicated Yoshi’s movements as best he could. He felt the crack of the neck, pinched the scruff and felt for the separation of the vertebrae. Feeling no bumps he released the tail. The body twitched a few times, legs kicking frantically at the air, before settling motionless atop the wire mesh.

“That really gives me the creeps, how it keeps kicking.”

“Yeah. I still find it disconcerting. It’s even worse when you manage to unnerve yourself.”

“What. You psyche yourself out?”

“Oh from time to time. Everyone loses their nerve sometimes. It can be weeks before you can do it again. You can’t plan for it. It just happens. I’ve had to get one of the tech’s to step in for me before.”

“Shit. I guess it goes to show that Chinks have feelings too.”

“Still, it’s the best way. The quicker, the better. The mouse doesn’t have time to get unnecessarily stressed. The faster and less handling the better. Sod my feelings.”

“I guess so…”

Marshall adjusted the eyepieces and the torches on the dissecting microscope. Yoshi sat by and instructed him through the surgery and extraction.

“So how are things going with Hazel?”

“Yeah, pretty good.”

“Just pretty good?”

Marshall smiled.

“Your head’s been in the fucking clouds these past few weeks.”

“Has it?”

“Yep. She’s got quite a hold on you, hasn’t she?”

“I guess so. She is pretty great.”

“I’ll say. If you fuck it up I will personally smash you. She’s smokin’.”

Marshall laughed. “I’ll bear that in mind, then.”

“Make sure you do.”

Marshall maneuvered the forceps to expose the posterior of the prostate. Both he and Yoshi held their breath as he lowered the scissors. The sharpened tips trembled lightly. Tentatively he snipped first the vas deferens, ureters and urethra before removing the prostate itself, slicing it in two with a scalpel.

“I’ve got a couple of old breeders that should probably be culled. Do you want to start up an old-age primary?”

“Mmm. I guess I should. Do you have any spare digest medium?”

“In the coolroom. In the yellow rack I think. It’s a couple of weeks old, though,” said Yoshi.

“Meh. It’ll be fine.” Marshall waved a dismissive hand at him. “If you want to go get them I’ll stay and get everything set up.”

“Sure.”

“Have fun.”

“You too.”

Chapter 15: A Drying Habit

When my awareness crystallized I found a community flooded by misery and slipping further into poverty. Several new families had moved into the area- British immigrants like the rest of us. They had been allotted farms immediately upstream, or even on the hills behind those of the first arrivals.

From conversations overheard I came to appreciate that cutting down the forest that so inconsiderately encroached on their land was just the start of a long, drawn out spectacle. Stumps left behind stood out like pockmarks across the hills and had to be torn out by teams of horses, or blown up with dynamite to unplug them from the hard-packed earth. More than one person had lost fingers to detonators igniting while they were setting them up beneath the stumps.

Insufferable quantities of hefty rusty rocks had littered the hills. Teams of surly teens roamed the hillsides scouring the earth for rocks and wood to hurl onto the back of the cart. The bearing-sized nodules that covered the rocks punctured their hands, eliciting howls of pain that echoed down the gullies. Great windrows of scrap wood and vast mounds of orange rock were piled into the corners of the paddocks. The teens’ scowls cast shadows across the valley and their parents suggested they sleep amongst the young crops to encourage the storm clouds to form and the rains to fall.

Much of the land had been cleared of the old growth forest, leaving me isolated on the slope of a fast balding hill. But the task of clearing the land had been no guarantor of prosperity. The slopes into which the regimental Jarrah, Marri and Karri had once been moored were now littered with the green and rust of blankets of bracken. While once they had been kept at bay by the voracious thirst of the trees that sheltered them, now they were exposed to the sun and quickly spread to cover every attainable piece of land. The farmers had to apply a continuous regime of slashing and burning just to maintain small portions of land clear of its' virulent grasp, but the spores were kicked along by the stiff breezes funneling up the valley, and before too long any land that was not rigorously maintained was inundated by curled fronds poking their heads out of the damp earth and unfurling their bipennate fronds- green on top, rust coloured spores underneath- to bask in the warm sunlight.

On the evidence of the trees that originally blanketed the valley, the crops sown during those first years were high intensity, high yield crops like wheat and barley. However, against all their prophecies, the soil that had so successfully accommodated such vast and strong trees was in fact incredibly infertile. The slow turnover of leaf-litter and compost coupled with the high winter rainfall had, over the course of centuries, leeched the soil of most of its nutrients and minerals. The startling Karri tree had over the course of thousands of years evolved to cope with the particular conditions and soil found only in this isolated pocket of the world. While they grow so majestic and true here, it is only because of their perfect adaptation to the environment. It is an ecosystem rare and beautiful.

The summer heat caught them all unawares. They had experienced a few months of it when they first arrived, but didn’t realise exactly how unrelenting it could be. The incessant heat and scant respite caused grown and battle hardened men to weep openly. From November to April they skulked about their farms, avoiding the worst of the day by staying inside under the pretext of paperwork. Any hard yakka was saved for the early mornings or evenings to avoid the devil east wind that choreographed willie-willies across the stages of the hills and baked any remaining moisture out of the soil and transformed the paddocks into little more than orange ripples of bull-dust.

If they ran out of paperwork the men would leave their wives sweltering in front of the slow-combustion stoves, while they themselves mooched around the sheds sharpening axes and saws and tending to water tanks on the off chance they could get away with falling in. Inevitably, as evening approached the Fremantle Doctor crept its way up from the Indian Ocean, bringing sweet relief and cheering even the most furious matriarch toiling away in their box ovens. Under this zephyr Oscar Monroe and the irrepressible Felicity Craig conducted an illicit affair in the Karri grove, one that would climax with shotguns retrieved from under beds and aimed squarely at the boy’s melon, a wedding, and the first-born child of Karabup, all by the time the land had recommenced its drying habit.

The first summer crops of pumpkins and corn had suffered in the heat. With the start of the heat the rainwater tanks that had filled during the winter were drained at an alarming rate by the kitchens, laundries and gardens. The creek, which had flooded its narrow banks and drowned the flats over winter, reverted to its lazy trickle- a poor source of water for the wilting crops.

The executive decision was made to sacrifice first half, then another half of the crops to ensure that the harvest wouldn’t be a complete waste of time and effort. In the end only enough was produced to share amongst each other, with little left over to sell at the markets. With each trip into town they would spend beyond their profits on flour, sugar, salt, carrots, potatoes and beef to allow them to scrape through.

Crop after crop failed, and the Groupies were left with scarcely enough food to feed themselves, let alone their stock. Mr Enfield forfeited his loans and moved off the land, to be replaced by the next saps chancing their hand. Times were hard. Crops of wheat, barley and cotton all failed. They would sprout, but never take. The soil simply couldn’t support them. Some success was founded growing potatoes and onions, but while the cool wet winters and springs were almost perfect for these, the bone-dry summers and autumn turned everything brown, the hot easterlies scorching everything down to the roots. This dichotomy, so extreme when compared to home, was the hardest of all with which to cope.

While the heat was hard to cope with, it was the availability of water that was undoubtedly the single greatest problem they faced. In the late autumn there was rain enough to soak the ground and run off the slopes to goad the creek into running again, and in winter the creek flowed freely and spread its wings to waterlog the plain. The potato seedlings that had been bought with what little money they had been given by the government were cut adrift out in the giant puddles, leaving the community with little choice but to let them rot into the soil.

By the time October rolled around the rains stopped, the floodplain receded, and the mud divided up into fragile porcelain plates. By the end of November the creek was nothing more than a disconnected series of stagnant, brackish pools, drying to sand that would bluster about in the wind that blew through the seasonal canyon. The season would break towards the end of April, but the creek would not start flowing again until the rains started to fall with any form of regularity. So between December and May the community had to survive on what water they could reserve in their tanks. This meant no water for commercial crops, bath water saved and recycled onto the household vegetables, and water hauled in from the reservoir near town to keep the stock from perishing.

To combat this, the community started digging broad holes in the silt of the floodplain. They piled the dust, then clay up on the edges of the holes like the arms and back of a sofa. The stubborn sun baked the clay into bone.

True to plan the holes collected the water that ran over the banks of the river and the community set about preparing and planting their crops for the spring and summer. But even though they now had a more bountiful source of water, by January the dams had all but dried up and they were left to pick up the pieces of another broken crop.

The families stood around scratching their heads once more until the Kelly brothers suggested they bring in outside help to drill down to the water table and affix diesel-powered pumps to the bores to propel the artesian water up to the concrete tanks that would be built on top of the ridges. That way the water could be gravity fed back down the hill to irrigate the crops and fill the troughs for the stock. And so it was that the summer project was devised and set in motion.

A couple of water diviners located the likely intersections of underground streams and drilling equipment was brought in at considerable expense to all involved. While the drilling crew set about their task, the groupies began building the concrete tanks and digging trenches and laying pipes to connect everything together. After a couple of weeks the drilling crew had packed up and left having sunk a bore on each property, each with its own diesel pump. Most of the piping had been laid, but the tanks were still some way from completion. In fact it took a couple of solid months before all the tanks were properly set and corrugated iron roofs were placed over the top to prevent it all from spiriting away.

The first rumbling of stale air out the end of the pipe into the Monroe’s tank was greeted with a holding of their collective breath as they all stood craning forward waiting for the water to flow. Hearts thumped harder as the rumbling grew louder. It echoed around the concrete cavern like a stone in a pot, until a spray of mist, then a trickle, then a choking burst. As water slapped the bottom of the tank for the first time a cheer rose from among the assembled throng. The pipe continued to spew forth the minerally water like the pulse from some far off underground heart.

The bores were a revelation to the farms. For the first time the Groupies had a reliable source of water all year round. But as the scale of the farming and cropping increased, so too did the demand for the water, and it soon became apparent that the artesian water level was receding and it was probably unsustainable to continue pumping water at the current rate.

            And so it was that my Dad proposed the idea of building a levee and flooding the plain. Like all issues that affected the entire community the issue was taken to a group meeting. There, all the arguments both for and against filtered up the hill towards me on the evening breeze. It was early April and the winter rains had started with a fine mist. It was hardly a break in the season, but it was enough to see the first hints of green breaking through the dust. It had been a particularly harsh summer, following on from a somewhat weak winter. So the topic of water was fresh in everybody’s mind, and the will to do something proactive was strong.

It was eventually decided that there would be no harm in getting a surveyor in to see how much land would be lost, how much water could be stored, and even if there would be enough water flowing down the creek in winter to ensure there would still be water left by the end of summer. A week later the surveyor came from town with his theodolite, sticks and plumb-bobs. His assistant carried a long black and white ruler across the land, pausing at times and carefully moving his stick an inch this way, an inch that, gesticulating all the while in some secret language to his boss bent over the tripod further down the valley. The two of them traipsed across the land, up the banks of the hills and into the creekbed. Sheep and cows clustered around them at a safe distance, curiously watching these two strange men and their even stranger implements, until they got bored and wandered off to sit under trees and chew their cud.

The surveyors consulted with the farmers over afternoon tea. They couldn’t see any reason why a dam couldn’t be built. Yes they would lose land, but in return they would gain a ready store of fresh water for irrigation. They discovered that under the sand of the plain was a layer of clay that should prevent the water from draining away. The recommendation they put forward was for a dam wall up to 6 feet high to be built on the creek about mid-way along the selection of the most downstream selections- the Craig’s and the Spring’s. An overflow channel was suggested for the Craig’s side of the wall and a trapdoor at the base of the wall in case the dam ever needed to be drained and dredged, or flash flooding ever threatened the integrity of the wall.

After much debate, the community unanimously agreed to the plan and the damming of the creek began in earnest. A concrete slab was laid along the line of the levee around a scaffold of steel rods. A plate of iron was inserted in front of a hole in the concrete wall, and a pulley mechanism constructed with which to winch the trapdoor up and down as needed.

While the concrete for the wall was being poured the trapdoor remained open to feed the lower reaches of the creek, then once the levee had been reinforced by clay dredged from the base of the brook the trapdoor was lowered and water began to pool behind. The flow of water gradually diminished with the passing of winter, then ceased by the end of spring, but there had already been enough water collected in the preceding months to allow the farmers to irrigate their crops, and come the end of summer shallow pools of water still persisted against the harsh sun. When the season finally broke in April and winter tightened its grip on the land the levee kept filling until, in the middle of September, the first tickle of water spilled across the overflow. The community gathered, bonfires were lit, beer flowed steadily and together they danced and sang the night away safe in the knowledge that summer would produce bountiful crops of maize, hops and Lucerne.

Except it didn’t. While the water lapped eagerly at its wall throughout the summer, the paddocks and crops were stripped clean by a cloud of locusts that feasted for 3 days before continuing their trail of destruction towards the west. Barely a patch of green remained on the ground, and once more the valley was coated in a layer of dust. What remained of the crops were tended to half-heartedly and harvested for chicken feed a few weeks later. The optimism that had electrified the community just weeks before was nothing more than a bittersweet memory.

During the first few years of the Group Settlement of Karabup, the mothers had to find time in their hectic schedules to teach their kids reading, ‘riting and ‘rithmatic. While their kids were getting the hang of the basics, there was only so much free time in which to sit down and actually explain things, and only so much they themselves could actually teach them. It wasn’t long before the mothers began to get impatient with this arrangement, and started petitioning the government to at least provide them with a teacher, if not a school building as well.

The government responded in a manner predictable of a government- with all these communities springing up throughout the South-West, and only so many teachers being certified every year, there were simply not enough teachers to go around. The government would palm the issue off to a committee to discuss what to do, with the committee set to inform the government of its decision in 6 months time.

Discontent simmered. They felt betrayed by the government once more. Not only had they been supplied with only the bare essentials for life upon their arrival, but now they felt abandoned by the people that put them in this situation in the first place. They felt as though they were second-class citizens and that their children were now being neglected by the state. As much as they petitioned, the government just kept replying that they had chosen to be in this situation, and would just have to accept the consequences of their decisions. The community was furious, but with the government holding all the cards, they had no option but to continue trying to do the best by their children as they could.

But those in Karabup weren’t the only ones dissatisfied with the lack of opportunities given them by the government. By now there were nearly a dozen similar group settlements dotted throughout the forests in that region alone, and each was trying to get the basic services delivered to them. Until then each group had felt very protective about their own community, as if it was them against the world. But now, in the face of being abandoned by the very scheme for which they had given up their lives back in England, it was decided that the best way through this mess was to band together for the greater good.

A district meeting was organised and representatives from each group settlement arrived in Manjimup one Saturday morning. In all, about 60 parents, some with children in tow, a couple of shire councillors, a representative of the Midland Railway Company, and the local Member of Parliament were congregated in the town hall waiting for proceedings to start. Mr Monroe rose from his seat and got things underway, inviting representatives from each community the opportunity to speak before the local politicians took the stage and questions were opened up to the floor.

A rare and beautiful thing happened– there was unanimous support for the proposal- and everybody wondered why they went through all the trouble of organising the meeting, the speakers and the representatives when the result turned out to be so decisive. In fact things went even beyond their hopes. Not only was it agreed that a school covering grade 1 through to 10 should be set up in Karabup to service the surrounding communities, but that there should be a second school set up in a settlement 5 miles away. There was even the proposal of scholarships for eager students to board in town and complete their education there. The local government representative was in full support, and agreed to table these proposals at the sitting of government the next week.

Guilt over their handling of the Group Settlement Scheme must have gotten to the government, as plans for the construction of three schools and the provision of electricity to each settlement was approved, and construction began post haste. By the end of the year Karabup had a school, a teacher, electricity, and even a railway siding from town to a bush block just to the west. Paradise was now opened up to the outside world.

A merchant from town saw an entrepreneurial opportunity and opened a store next to the school and hall. Now the 9 families that presently made up the settlement of Karabup need only travel a few minutes on horse to gather food and supplies, rather than take a day to fill orders in town. Sure there were still some things that a small store couldn’t afford to stock that required a trip into town, but now the staples could be easily sourced from close to home.

Chapter 14: Aligning the Moral Compass

They met up at a cafe on Beaufort Street, not so much for its proximity to them both as for the unfettered supply of coffee from Donna, who for her own part couldn’t decide whether it was better to fuss over them or to give them space to talk. In the end she did neither- spying intently from behind the gleaming red La Marzocco and repeatedly wiping down tables close enough to catch snippets of conversations. Her hands, usually so reliable at the rituals of coffee making behaved as though they were controlled by some external force, spilling coffee grounds all over the counter and burning the milk in the stainless steel jug.

For the first half hour conversation between Marshall and Hazel was hesitant and stilted. Much of their time was spent on topics that had been covered extensively on that previous Friday night but had then been lost in the haze of alcohol and time. But as the caffeine kicked in their conversation began to flow freely, their body language relaxed and smiles progressed from forced to natural. Fresh and exciting tangents were followed as words spilled like rivers from their mouths. Unconscious cues emanated from their bodies- leaning in, playing with hair, legs crossed towards each other. Facial expressions freed up and their reactions became more animated; more true. They found commonality in music and politics and self-effacing stories, but with just enough point of difference to make it interesting.

The clock ticked over to 6 o’clock and Donna started packing up the chairs and tables from the footpath. When Hazel suggested that they get out of her way and allow her to close up in peace Donna tried to assure them that they could stay as long as they liked, but didn’t force the issue when they insisted that they leave. She was tempted to get them to wait for her to lock up, but stopped herself short so as not to be a third-wheel. So she bid them adieu, locked the front door and counted the day’s takings before slinging her satchel over her shoulder and catching a lift home from Zach. In the car she filled Zach and Alby in on all that she had seen and heard.

Marshall walked Hazel back to her house via a pizzeria. Vegetarian with anchovies- a shared love of salty, slimy fish. They ate as they walked, and once they had finished, fingers still slippery from grease and spit, he nervously took her hand. They both flushed hot and pink. Feet striking concrete coordinated a rhythm.

Once home they joined the others in the lounge, propping themselves up on an under-stuffed beanbag. Between scenes on the TV the others glanced secretively at the newcomer and shared conspiratorial and knowing winks. Everyone was acutely aware of the situation. At the start of the credits Hazel smuggled him off to her room to avoid the inevitable grilling, the interrogation, the debased innuendo and the downright filthiness. They could wait. For now she would protect him. She knew all too well that once they were on a roll there was no way of stopping them and how intimidating they could be. Running would only delay the inevitable, but right now it was preferable. She could at least keep him cosseted and warn him of the dangers ahead.

She shuddered at the distant memory of what it was like to be an alien amongst them. They had always been a tight-nit group, even before Hazel had appeared on the scene. Suffering through the suspicious looks and interrogating questioning was an inevitable rite of passage, some test that must be passed before full membership could be granted. She knew they meant well, but like a cat with a mouse they were bound to go too far.

They kissed for a while on the bed- he mindful of being a gentleman, she of acting like a lady- both trying to prove to themselves, despite past indiscretions, that their moral compasses were properly aligned. Improper thoughts were rejected and they afforded each other the greatest amount of dignity and respect. They would try to remain wholesome until they were both ready to confirm this as an official relationship. Never mind that they’d already fucked, they would wait until they knew each other better before ‘taking it to the next level’.

These intentions lasted the best part of a week. One more date to be precise. They necked and groped in the dark of the driveway for what felt like minutes but turned out to be hours. With lust clouding their morals Hazel dashed inside to gather a change of clothes for work the next day and they sped through the back streets of North Perth to Marshall’s bed.

The next morning, as Hazel was pulling her apron over her head at work Donna grinned at her from the coffee pen and mouthed ‘Did you have sex?’ And there was no point in denying it. She blushed and Donna lost her mind.

As their relationship progressed Marshall learned to adjust to the frenetic pace of their collective humour. Theirs was an uncontrollable instinct to be constantly switched on, rising to meet each other’s manic energy. The room would buzz and crackle with energy. From the outset Marshall was comfortable enough to deal with individuals on their own merits. He found he could tune into their frequencies and be relied upon for genuine flashes of insight into their problems, and he became their go-to guy for all questions science. But whenever they were all together the trajectory rose and the tangents grew ever stranger and Marshall struggled to keep up. They catalysed mayhem- laughter, whimsy, unsubtle innuendo, scathing put-downs and ironically bigoted banter. Something new and exciting always had to be happening. Absurdist games, running memes and jokes were initiated, lost, and then called back upon when the inspiration hit.

Marshall often felt an outlier to their conversations, as though he was the butt of their jokes. Every now and then Hazel would look at him with a concerned expression and place her hand on his arm and let him know, without need for words, that everything was all right and he was indeed safe. That he didn’t need to get every joke, that even she didn’t get some of the jokes, and that indeed there were times when nobody save the person speaking had any idea of what they were on about. And that was all a part of the game- to see how far they could stretch a story, see how obscure a leap they could make without everyone else halting and thinking ‘no, that’s a leap too far. I’m not willing to play along with that’.

As time went by Marshall managed to ingratiate himself into the group. He found a new confidence in his own wit and started to develop his own niche within the group from where he could shoot off barbs, come-backs and improvised creations of his own. He felt honoured that they called upon his company and opinions, and he began to count them as friends of his own, not just of Hazel’s.

He also learned that even within such a tight-knit group there were sub-groups. Each configuration of members had its own unique chemistry and hierarchy. In particular the combination of Hazel, Donna and Pilar left him shaking his head in baffled wonder. The three of them together created something that neither he, nor, he later determined, anybody else could ever fathom. In another age they would have been burned as witches. Now they merely burned.

Chapter 13: Life on the most unexpected scale

In the days before she left the valley for the city, Margie left me the pages of the meticulous chronicle she had kept of the history of our hidden valley, burying them at my feet- a grand monument to the people who transformed the landscape to eek out there lives in its loam. From its pages I discovered the story of my death and the effects of it on my family and the community. I think the best way of telling you the story is to start from the beginning, from where I left off. And for the most part I will rely on the voice of my sister. She was the one that was there, so she is the best one to tell it.

Dad was up on the hill, as he was every day, helping Mr Monroe clear his land. All of the men did this, moving from one property to the next while we waited for the crops to grow. Those of us not of age spent our days learning to read and write and helping our mother around the house- doing chores and staying out of the way.

One morning Albert and Henry disappeared. Mum and I couldn’t find them anywhere. Not even by Cooee-ing. Before they went missing I had been sure they were up to mischief. That something was going on. I often wonder, to the point of convincing myself it’s true, that I somehow knew what they were planning. But I am sure that I was just being an over-suspicious kid. Still there is something that nags at my mind. That if Mum had listened to me, or if I had been more adamant, things would have turned out differently. Or even that I should have watched over them more closely, or been more of a ‘good’ big sister. I know I shouldn’t blame myself, but I can’t shake the feeling that I am in some way responsible. Then again, everyone else in the community, Ma and Dad included, probably feel that they are the ones responsible, too. Especially poor Albert.

Anyway, it turns out that Albert and Henry had wandered off into the bush trying to reach the men who were working there. Dad says that the first he knew of it was seeing Henry standing there, in the bush, right beneath where the tree was falling. As far as I know, Dad was the only one to see him.

Mr Enfield and Mr Monroe were running away from the tree they had just felled, while the rest were milling around talking or eating lunch by the fire. Dad doesn’t know why he looked up when he did. He’d witnessed a hundred or more falling trees over the previous months. But he did look. He says the image of Henry standing there is burned into his mind, and that now, almost a decade later, he still wakes in the night to dreams in which his son is standing there beneath the falling tree.

Dad let out a shout- Mr Craig likens it to a curdling, cracking scream- heard way above the sound of the crashing tree. The men looked at him, standing there like a statue, staring towards the fallen eucalypt. He recoiled from the shock and charged off into the bush, shouting Henry’s name to the wind. Mr Craig says that the rest of them look around at each other confused. They thought Dad had lost his mind. They had seen him engrossed by the soap trees on the first journey in here, and that impression of Dad had stuck with them. To them it seemed like it would only be a matter of time before he lost his mind out here in the middle of nowhere.

They followed him, more curious than concerned. Dad was trying to lift a thick bough through sheer force of will. One by one they saw the small, thin frame pinned under the bough. With mouths open in horror they lent their shoulders, their chests, their legs to the effort, heaving at the monumental bough with all of their might to lift the mere inches required for Henry to be dragged clear.

No one noticed Albert until Henry was pulled clear. Only his head was visible above the log he had been hiding behind. He had turned white and his arms hung limp, in shock. Mr Craig doesn’t know how Albert’s legs were holding him upright. He came over slowly, tentatively. Mr Elliot intercepted him and prevented him from seeing the worst, but even now Albert cannot speak about what he saw. It’s as though those few moments have been completely erased from his memory.

Everyone there knew straight away that there was no chance of saving Henry’s life. Dad cradled and rocked him in his arms as he wept, and the men slumped against fallen tree trunks, holding their hats, holding their faces in their hands, or just staring off into the distance. As Dad kneeled in the dirt cradling his son the men came one by one to pay their condolences with a soft hand on the shoulder, before dispersing to pack away their equipment and prepare the cart, leaving him there to spend those final moments with his son in peace.

When the time came they huddled around my father, offering their sympathy and taking Henry’s body and placing it on top of a layer of shirts they had spread out over the deck of the cart. They made their way down the well-worn path towards the creek in silence. Mr Elliot held onto Albert as Dad held fast to Henry’s shoulder.

Back at the house, Ma and I had searched for the boys in all the usual places around the house. I heard the creak of the axles of the convoy before I could see it. I called Mum and we walked up the track towards the noise.

As they emerged from the bush, something about their demeanour told Ma what had happened. She dropped the apron from her hand into the mud and sprinted towards the bleak procession. I had never before seen her run, and I’m sure I’ve never seen her run since. It was a physical expression borne of fear and anguish. A mother’s intuition told her the worst; she already knew the outcome.

I cantered behind, still confused. I must have known something wasn’t right from her extreme reactions and the ashen faces appearing out of the undergrowth, however my child’s mind didn’t yet realise the full extent of this event.

The horses and carts stopped as Mum neared. The sad eyes of the men set upon my mother and they watched in mournful silence as she hurried past. No one said a word, but tears stung even the severest face.

She started sobbing. Great suffocating sobs escaped her throat, but she didn’t slow down. She collapsed against the wheel of the cart. Dad was huddled over the benign shape of their son. His eyes to meet those of his wife and they shared a moment laden with all of the misery in the world. Dad lowered Henry into Mum’s shaking arms, stepped down from the dray and held her tight. The broken heart of the world passed between their bodies as they cried; together, yet further apart than they had ever been before. They were their own universes of sorrow lamenting their cursed lot.

Mr Elliot lowered Albert from his horse and sent him towards me. Albert’s face was white and slippery streaks outlined his cheeks. He ran to me and buried his head in my armpit. I held him under my arm as I watched at our parents. It was at that moment I became aware of the world, and learned exactly what pain is.

Henry’s body was laid out on the table in preparation for its last rites. His wounds were cleaned-, the water stained forever red in the bucket- and his body clothed in his Sunday best. Once the adults had finished hiding his wounds as best they could, Albert and I were paraded past to pay our final respects. Albert, silent, placed his palm to Henry’s forehead in a simple act of grief and horror. Tears erupted around the room and Albert hid his in the crook of his arm, turning into the lap of our mother beside him. Something in Albert had broken and he would never be the same. I whispered my goodbye still numb with shock before rushing quickly out of the suffocating air of the room.

The whole community staged a silent vigil in their homes giving us time as a family to grieve. In bed Dad drank the tears of his wife and pleaded with the almighty that this act might soothe their pain and return the world to how it had been. The soft sobs of his wife coiled alongside him must have burned his heart to ashes. He must have felt powerless to soothe her broken heart.

So that is how I died.

But I was not buried in the anonymity of the cemetery in town, but on the slope of the ridge above the house in a humble mound overlooking the valley.

Albert was apparently the one to suggest a tree as a tombstone. He reasoned that as it was the death of a tree that took my life along with it, so it should be a tree that should find a new life in me and become my memorial. My resurrection. So, a week after my body was returned to the earth, my family took a morning off to traverse the ridge to the gully beyond to select a suitable memorial.

Amongst the grove of patina-skinned Karri, with the sickly sweet scent of Boronia saturating their pores, they retreated into their own worlds. With heads bowed and minds reflective they scoured the muddy floor in search of the perfect specimen.

            Mum called out through the undergrowth. She was obscured behind mossy logs and creepers. At her feet stood, unassumingly, a tender seedling. It was exposed, vulnerable in the heavy grey clay, on the fringe of an animal path along the foot of the gully. It appeared as though one errant footfall would put paid to its fight for survival. It trembled softly with the weight of eight feet sinking slowly into its mud as hey all craned in for a better look.

            With a decisive grunt Dad plunged the shovel into the grey clay. He repeated this ritual on each side of the sapling to loosen the hold of the earth before lifting it free from its bed. He placed it in a bucket and the four of them sidled back up the ridge lost in their own worlds. The usual incessant banter and nonsense was suppressed. Even Margie and Albert reached a truce in their sibling bickering.

            Dad placed the bucket alongside the mound that harboured my remains and etched out a divot directly above my heart. Gently he fondled the stem and leaves being careful not to damage its delicate frame. He wiped mud from its feet and lowered it into the earth. Together they all knelt and gently tamped the cool earth. Their fingers caressed the course dirt, burying their hands and turning the loam over in wonder. They wondered how they had never noticed its potency. Some mystic life-forced flowed through it. It gave life on the most unexpected scale. It connected us together, the tie that binds, the glue that holds.

            In their own time they rose to their feet and wiped the grit from their palms and from under their nails, embarrassed by the cloying spirituality of their actions. They stood in stoic silence as if waiting for some unforeseen magic to occur. Then as if ashamed by its failure, turned and sat on the semi-hollow husk of a log at the perimeter of the clearing.