Chapter 8: It's a Science

By 3am the party had peaked and was starting its inevitable decay into hazy memory and intestinal regret. The energy and spirit that had seemed so boundless only an hour before were waning as the dazzling array of synthetic materials started to lose their effects.

The police had come and gone, advising that the stereo be turned down to a tolerable level on threat of confiscation, and for the empty bottles and silver goon bags to be cleared from the sidewalk on threat of fines. Those remaining out the front half-heartedly yet dutifully picked up litter while Alby saw to the stereo. In any event the efforts of the police were merely token. People had already disappeared into the night, making use of the taxi rank around the corner, and the once packed house was now reduced to the usual suspects, occupants, sleepers and one or two unlikely novices.

            Karl had received a series of drunken messages from Leigh that started out abusive, then apologetic, then upset, then pining for his return. Despite the best efforts of his friends to convince him otherwise, Karl was determined to go to her. Piers got in the taxi alongside him, telling the others that he would try his best to convince Karl that he was making a foolish mistake, even though everyone knew words would be futile.

Yoshi and Marshall remained behind on the veranda, unwilling to commit to their beds while there was still the threat of new and exciting experiences to be had. They sat on the railing with their backs to the street talking to Alby and Zach who were sprawled out across one of the couches.

The other band members and a few other artists of ill repute were huddled on the chairs on the other side of the veranda dissecting, analysing, tearing apart all of the nuances of the gig; the writing, playing, sequencing. Alby and Zach chose not to participate in the ritual of aggrandisement and passive-aggressive pleas for affirmation, preferring to remain quietly confident in their own abilities and performances. This wasn’t the right occasion for such discussions.

Instead they engaged their guests in discussion of their own vocation. Yoshi and Marshall found themselves in the unforseen position of being novelties in a crowd of creativity, those impossibly cool and charismatic kids who dictate the fashions, slang and aesthetics of the near future. They were a portal to a completely alien way of thinking- one of logic and method above style and intuition.

            Yoshi and Marshall got caught up telling stories of their world- of lab coats, cells and genes. While their progress was nearly identical Yoshi was three years the elder, having worked as a research assistant prior to starting his thesis. Marshall had gone straight from high school into uni, into Honours, and then, against his intentions, straight into a PhD. In any event they were now working together researching prostate cancer.

            While their work was clear in their own minds, it was an altogether different prospect to explain their work to people outside their field. They had often heard it said that the biggest challenge facing scientists is not so much the research itself but trying to communicate that research to a lay audience, and this was an idiom they knew to be true. Their world of research was often so insular that talking about it in terms of the bigger picture was a strenuous form of intellectual gymnastics, and the inherent jargon made it nigh on impossible for novices to completely wrap their heads around.

            “So, what is it that you do?” Zach asked.

            “Umm, we’re medical researchers.”

            “Prostate cancer.”

            Zach sat up in his chair suddenly more interested in the direction of the conversation.

            “Oh yeah, I remember Piers saying something like that.”

            “Yeah? Well, we try to see what causes the cancer in the first place. The genes involved and stuff like that.”

            “Ha! That’s awesome.” Zach leant forward. “How do you do even that?”

            “Well, we use special mice and cells that lack certain genes we think may be involved in cancer.”

“Wait, doesn’t each cell have the same genes? Aren’t all our genetics different from each other?”

Yoshi shifted in his seat. “Yeah they are, but only a very small percentage of genes are different between you and me- just enough to make us different. And yes each cell in the body has the same genes, but the way organs perform their jobs, the way the stomach is different to the liver say, is by different sub-sets of genes being turned on and off in each cell type.”

“Huh. So how do you examine these genes?”

            Marshall took over. “By deleting specific genes we can compare the results with what we see in normal cells, and from that maybe find new ways of treating the cancer.”

            “Wait, what do you mean by ‘deleting genes’?” Zach’s interest had been piqued.

            Marshall rubbed his palms on his jeans. “Well, there are ways of deleting specific genes in specific tissues in mice, and in cells in a dish.”

“Holy shit!”

“I use mice that have had our gene of interest deleted. We got them in from a lab in the US,” said Yoshi.

“And I silence the gene in individual cells by adding things that stop that specific gene from being made,” Marshall continued.

“Fuck me! So you silence genes?” exclaimed Zach. “You silence motherfucking genes! That is so fucking cool! You must be fucking geniuses!” exclaimed Zach. He slumped back into the couch wide eyed and gobsmacked.

            Marshall shook his head. “This guy is,” he motioned toward Yoshi. “I’m still having a hard time getting my head around it all.”

            “Nah. Don’t be modest. You both are.” Alby stated matter-of-factly.

            Yoshi and Marshall stared at the ground embarrassed. Piers and Zach shook their heads in wonder.

            “Honestly, it’s just like following a recipe. Mix this with that, add this to that. Incubate for 30 minutes. Serve,” Marshall said after a pause. “The theory is a whole lot more complex than doing the actual work.”

            “Yeah, the lab work is the easy part,” confirmed Yoshi.

            Both Alby and Zach looked incredulous, unsure if this was an unusual joke. “Fuck…” was all either of them could say.

            The conversation paused for a while as each participant caught onto his own tangent of thought- Yoshi pondering the ethics of killing mice in the name of science; Zach marvelling at the ability of man to play god; Marshall hoping his explanations had been sufficiently succinct yet thorough; and Alby bubbling with excitement at the genius before him. A moth fluttered in ascending circles above their heads before tapping rhythmically against the suspended bulb, unable to reach that one thing eluding it.

Alby was first to break from his reverie. He looked at each of his companions in turn and declared that he was off to the toilet and whether anyone wanted another beer. All accepted, grateful for the break in the silence. Alby stood and squeezed between Marshall and Zach to make his way inside.

            “I can’t believe you silenced a gene,” Zach muttered.

            As Alby got to the door the two girls emerged, their brows glistened with tiny beads of sweat as they hugged Alby and congratulated him on his star turn earlier in the night. He giggled bashfully and thanked them before excusing himself. The girls surveyed the scenes around them looking for something to excite their mood and, spying Zach, made a beeline in his direction. It is unlikely that they even noticed the two other guys trying desperately not to stare at them.

            Zach was the golden boy of the scene. He was an athletic five foot eleven, although appeared taller by the assuredness with which he carried himself. His startlingly blue eyes, slightly hidden by unruly blonde tufts falling wherever they saw fit, possessed their own gravity. Most of the girls within the tight-knit scene held a flame for Zach and were unapologetically jealous of his girlfriend Donna. In their eyes his biggest flaw was that he adored her with a faultless loyalty, but even Donna had to acknowledge that she had to play second fiddle to Alby in Zach’s estimation.

Zach was the solid to Alby’s fluid. Ever reliable, unflappable and stable compared to his excitable and eccentric companion. Which isn’t to say that Zach was bereft of charisma or dynamism, or even that Alby lacked control or depth, but that the two accentuated each other’s qualities perfectly. Zach possessed the rare ability to bring Alby back to earth when needed, while Alby egged Zach on, excited him and devised crazy schemes for the two of them to cultivate together. They were inseparable. A week without seeing each other was too much to bear. They would be cast into a pit of despair and depression, bored and listless. They even took to listening to cassettes of each other’s voice when falling asleep, and not entirely with irony.

            “Hey Zach, why would you abandon us on the dancefloor like that?” reproached the brunette.

            “Everyone left. No one will dance with us”, said the redhead, a Kiwi accent tainting her speech.

            “I’m sorry. Alby dragged me away and wouldn’t let me leave. He tied me up so I couldn’t escape.”

            “Kinky.”

“Lucky you.”

            “Where are you tied?” The redhead leant over him to try to gain a better look behind the sofa, mischievously pressing her shelved cleavage against the side of his face. The boys looked at each other knowingly and smiled.

            “Aww, poor baby. Is Alby being controlling again? We’ll save you,” said the brunette, stepping around Zach’s legs and crouching down to get a better view from the other side. “Aww, you’re not tied at all!”

            “Why would you lie to us?” the redhead grabbed at his bicep, trying to pull his arm up.

            Zach curled his hand tightly around the bamboo strut running along the base of the couch as the short brunette tried to prise his hand open, her straight black hair brushing his thighs. The girls struggled against him, which only served to strengthen his resolve to hold on. Unable to budge his arm the girls dug their nails into the fleshy underparts of his elbow and wrist, before threatening to attack his one true weakness- his ribs. They weren’t about to play fair. Zach started to hyperventilate at the mere mention of being tickled and even before they started he was writhing in panic. The girls wanted their revenge for the heartache he’d imposed on them by not being single. It wasn’t that Donna wasn’t good enough for him, but rather that she was. And it annoyed the hell out of them. No one likes an over-achiever, even if they are one of your best friends.

            Zach retaliated by biting at any flesh that strayed too close to his mouth. The three writhed and grunted with effort and pain until finally Zach forfeited, releasing his grip on the rail in order to defend himself.

Once they had backed away, Zach brought his arm around in front of his face to inspect the damage. Rows of pink crescents were pressed into his skin, the odd one spotting with blood. He rubbed at them with his good hand and showed the damage to his assailants. They bit their lips and smirked as they inspected the marks on their own arms and shoulders.

            Marshall and Yoshi leaned against the banister throughout, polishing off the dregs in their bottles and shouting encouragement to whoever appeared to be losing at that particular moment. Once the saga had died down and they’d composed themselves Zach introduced them to the girls.

            “Hazel, Pilar, this is Yoshi and Marshall. Yoshi, Marshall, Hazel, Pilar.”

            Greetings and handshakes were made all around.

            “You guys really throw the greatest parties,” Marshall said with all sincerity.

            “Yeah, we like to think of ourselves as events managers. The boys give us a theme and a list of supplies, and we disregard it all and do whatever the hell we want. They really wouldn’t be as good otherwise.” Pilar stated this as fact.

            “So you’re to thank, then. Seriously, you guys really go nuts. It’s great,” praised Yoshi.

“Truly, it’s a gift.” Hazel curtsied her thanks; her red bangs shimmering against the side of her face as she allowed a coquettish smile.

            Despite everyone’s best efforts there was the general anxiety and awkwardness to their exchange that accompanies all introductions between new parties. The girls tried to be whimsical and amusing, while the boys just tried to not come across as nerds.

             “So, you’ve enjoyed yourselves, then? You haven’t found us too vapid?” asked Zach.

            “Oh, quite the opposite. It’s good to be around people that are so carefree for a change. A lot of the people we hang around are way too serious and almost always talking about business. It makes a nice change,” reassured Marshall.

            “Oh, some of us are always talking about business.” Zach tilted his head towards the group on the other side of the veranda. “And we all have our stressors. Anyway, it’s just a relief. I thought you would find us dull. Intellectually.”

            “No, not at all. You seem to always have something interesting to say.”

“So, what do you guys do?” Yoshi asked of the girls, trying to engage with them and keep them around to assess his prospects.

            “Oh, we’ve sort of chopped and changed over the years. We started out in the same performance classes as Zach and Alby. That’s how we know all these guys” said Pilar.

            “I dropped out after the first year,” said Hazel. “I decided the performance and directorial stuff wasn’t really my thing so moved into writing. I knew I wanted to do something creative; it just took some time to figure out what. I’ve always written stuff for my own amusement, and I really enjoyed the scriptwriting and devising aspects of the course, so I decided I’d try to make a go of that. I’m working freelance right now- trying to sell my stuff off to newspapers, magazines, literary journals. I’ve also started work on a novel, but it’s not yet at the point where I’ll tell anyone what it’s about, let alone let them read it.”

“I didn’t even know you had started!” Alby harrumphed into his chest as he passed around the beers and reclaimed his seat.

“Would we have read anything you’ve done?”

            “Haha, I doubt it. Not unless you read highbrow literary journals, the Christchurch street press, or trash and fashion mags?”

            “Can’t say that I do. Not that I can speak for Yoshi…”

            Everyone looked at Yoshi, who twiddled his thumbs and whistled out of the corner of his mouth. The others giggled.

            “So, what’s your story then?” Marshall turned to Pilar.

            “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I did uni with these guys, then was part of Zach’s theatre company. I’ve changed direction a bit since then though. I now design clothes for a store in Northbridge with a few friends. I also dabble in graphic design when I’m not cutting, sewing or tending to customers. I’ve decided I’m more about the aesthetics and process than the show.”

            “She made my codpiece!” Zach tapped at his bulbous crotch.

            “Ooo, fon-se. It really brings out your eyes, daaahling”, said Yoshi in his best exaggerated fashionista accent, gaining laughs from his peers and initiating a feeling of acceptance amongst the cool kids. A shiver of pride tickled up his neck.

            “Ja, ze sparkles reeeally accentuate the girth of your phallus and ze pertness of your balls,” Hazel said.

            Zach athletically bent and lunged, flaunting his crotch, thrusting it into his friends’ faces in turn. Pilar reached around his waist to caress his buttocks and simulated fellatio as he thrust at her. The others collapsed in hysterics.

             “So, what do you two get up to, then?” asked Hazel.

            Marshall stood with his fists clenched on his hips and head tilted to the sky. “We’re scientists!” he exclaimed in his best superhero voice.

            “Wow, I wasn’t expecting that!”

            “That’s… umm… intense.”

            Yoshi smiled humbly. “Not really. We’re just normal people. Honestly.”

            “Go on. Tell them what you do, Yoshi,” said Zach.

            “Well… we silence genes,” he said, embarrassed. He was scared of intimidating them and causing the conversation to fracture. He shared a nervous glance with Marshall.

            “Isn’t that the most awesome thing you’ve ever heard!” said Zach, clearly pleased to have been able to share in this revelation and help the boys along in their quest to keep the girls entertained. He rubbed his hands on his thighs and leaned back into the couch.

            “Yeah. That’s something, alright,” agreed the girls, shifting back in their chairs.

            “So, how do you do that? Do you ‘Shoosh!’ at them or something?” Pilar put her index finger to her pursed lips and scowling intently at the imaginary gene between them. She laughed as if seeking validation that what she had said was in fact funny and not just a trick of her mind.

            “Well that works too, but don’t tell anyone, it’s our secret. Everyone would be doing that if they knew how easy it was. Us nerds like to make things sound more complicated than they actually are to validate our own self-declared genius.” Yoshi smiled at the indulgent tittering of Marshall, before repeating his friend’s story from fifteen minutes previous. As Yoshi explained the science Marshall felt a sense of relief and a certain pride at having accurately explained their work. It reassured him that he wasn’t a fraud, but actually belonged amongst such esteemed company.

They sat in a cluster on the front porch watching the eastern horizon for the first signs of sunrise. They had swaddled themselves in blankets and robes from indoors and sat around sucking on a raspberry hookah. Donna stretched out across the couch to lean her head on Zach’s chest, while Pilar flirted with Alby on the other. Yoshi sat in the rocking chair with an unlit cigarette dangling abjectly from his lips and staring over the back of his head at the stars. Hazel and Marshall sat awkwardly alongside each other surreptitiously making eye contact.

            “So, what type of writer are you? What do you write about?” Marshall asked staring at the floor.

            “Oh, I dunno. Whatever’s on my mind at that particular moment, I guess.”

            “So you draw on your own experience, then. Cool, cool.” He grimaced at his stilted delivery.

            “I try messing around with style and structure quite a lot. I get bored writing the same way all the time. There’s no challenge to it. Like, in the past I’ve written realism, stream of conscious, hyper-descriptive, entirely in quotations,” she stopped a moment to remember herself, looking down at her fingers. “I suppose I just hate being tied down.”

            “So basically, you’re a wanker.”

            “Basically. I acknowledge it’s really quite self-indulgent. But I guess sooner or later I’ll have to tie myself to a particular style- my own personal style.”

            Alby sat up, captured by the direction he perceived the conversation to be headed. “She’s the biggest wanker you’re ever likely to meet.”

            “Yeah, like this!” Donna furiously pumped her fist up and down over Zach’s crotch as he tilted his head back, closed his eyes and moaned over and over “oh yes, yes, yes.” Alby and Pilar joined in the flurry of movement until at the right time Zach lurched into mock ecstasy and the three others mimed jizz flying all around the place- at his face and around the veranda. Zach wiped sweat from his brow and blew air out through his cheeks. “Woah.”

            Yoshi chuckled to himself as he lit his cigarette, concentrating on the first blue-grey tendrils rising from its end. “Well, that was unexpected.” He looked at Marshall and pointed towards Hazel with his cigarette. “You might be onto something, there.”

            Marshall laughed nervously, not entirely sure how he should take the comment. Hazel just smiled past them angelically. From the corner of her eye she caught Alby giving her the thumbs-up as he mouthed the words “Go. For. It.”

            Hazel glowered at him and, slumping back into the couch, crossed her arms and blushed a crimson to match her hair. Alby giggled, sparks bursting from his eyes. He was enjoying this scene- two of his friends being lovey on the couch, and another eyeing off someone new. And it was all happening right in front of his face. He wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass without throwing the odd banana skin.

Marshall timidly resumed his line of questioning. “So, ahh, what are you writing now?”

            “Short stories you mean?” She eyed him warily.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Umm, well I’m trying my hand at Noir, trying to fiddle around with the conventions a bit. Make it a bit more contemporary.”

            “Hahaha. See? Wanker!” Alby guffawed. Hazel shot him daggers, setting him off on a second burst of laughter.

            “So how are you doing that?”

            She cleared her throat, her eyes shifting back and forth. “It’s hard to say. It’s something that’s so ingrained in people’s minds that you have to be careful not to try too much for fear of coming off as a hack. I’m trying to be subtle. For instance I’m playing around with gender roles; instead of having a stereotypical private dick I’ve got a private cunt.”

Alby howled with laughter. Hazel and Marshall tried their best to ignore him.

“And I’m trying to turn the criminals into characters the reader has some sort of sympathy for. The story isn’t going to be black and white, but more greyscale.”

Alby clutched at his eyes. “It burns! The jizz, it burns.”

            Marshall failed to stifle a laugh at Alby’s antics. “Sounds, uh, interesting…” he nodded encouragingly.

            “Maybe,” she shrugged “I don’t feel I’ve got a particularly good handle on it yet. I certainly wouldn’t be about to send it out.” She spoke just as much with her hands as with her voice; gesticulating wildly to emphasise her thoughts. “I’ll probably abandon it and try something else. I’m not in a hurry. I have heaps of time to refine my style.” She sighed and played with the rim of her glass.

            “Aww, I’m sure it’s not as bad as you say,” Marshall encouraged. An awkward silence fell over them, and they diverted their focus to the sounds of Donna making her wine glass hum. “So, ah, who’s style do you like?”

            “Oh god, make it stop.” Pilar rolled her eyes.

            “Well, I’m kinda all over the place. Where to start… The classics- You read them and realise they’re classics for a reason. At the moment I’m reading a lot of magical realism. Marquez, deBerniers, Murakami.”

            “Murakami writes Japanese mystical stuff right? I think I might have read something. From memory I enjoyed it.”

            “It’s probably him then. I like all his stuff, though sometimes it feels like he doesn’t know how to finish a story. They sort of just peter out. Still, casting first stones and all that…”

“Stop…” Pilar and Alby had their hands clasped over their ears and were rocking back and forth as if in pain.

“Maybe I could borrow some books some time?”

“Oh you should!” Hazel exclaimed, ignoring her antagonists. “And F. Scott Fitzgerald. And Tim Winton. And Hunter S. Thompson. All classics.”

“I love Hunter S. Thompson!”

“How good is he!” she gushed. “He’s such an icon. Although I can’t stand it when other writers rip off his style. No one thinks they’re clever and they just come off as hacks. It really pisses me off. Try and come up with a voice of your own you useless fucks!” she yelled into the ether. The others fell back in raucous laughter.

Marshall was captivated by her passion. He was used to people keeping their thoughts and feelings bottled up, but here was a woman so overt in her opinions and prepared to express her thoughts without fear of judgement. It was inspiring to be around someone so free and open.

Pilar shook her head. “The one thing you’ll have to learn is to avoid talking to Hazel about anything remotely connected with writing. Once she gets on a roll, there’s no stopping her.”

“Apparently.”

“And the one thing you’ll have to learn about Pilar,” said Hazel chiming in, “is that she’s not the hardened cynic she portrays, but a frightened little girl scared of getting what she wants.”

“Ooo, cutting.” Pilar fidgeted, her veneer cracking ever so slightly.

Chapter 7: Plotting the Future

The men awoke with the sun, made tea on the embers of the fire and set out to inspect exactly what they had bought into. They retraced their steps back down the creek to the first set of survey points and started out across the flats. The markers stretched through the bush to the top of the ridge and down into the base of the gully beyond. They ducked and weaved their way along the boundary, stopping now and then to uncatch their clothing from the spiky Banksia and Zamia bushes that made them itch and scratch at their skin.

Each farm consisted of a patchwork of Teatrees, paperbarks, Jarrah, Marri, Blackboys, Banksia and even a small copse of stringy Karri in the far gullies, while the soil itself spanned the spectrum from grey sand on the flats and rocky ironstone up on the ridge. Certainly, the sheer size and abundance of the trees suggested that the soil would prove fertile and ensure the success of their crops. The experienced farmers in the group were certain they could make something of it.

            They made their way along the floor of the back gullies, walking slightly up the gradient until the gully morphed into the neighbouring ridge. They continued downhill once more on the other side, marching across the back of the six lots before turning again and tracing their way back towards the creek. After crossing the drying creekbed they followed the markers round the other half of the allotments before returning to the camp for a late lunch where they declared that the land didn’t look too bad, and that the division of land was fair and equitable.

            We arranged ourselves in a circle and discussed over a cup of tea exactly how the land was to be allocated. The contracts the parents had signed specified that this wasn’t to happen until at least 25 acres had been cleared from each block, but in light of the beastly situation the Scheme had placed us in it was unanimously agreed that the land would be balloted off now, and everyone would pitch in to clear sufficient space on each block in turn.

Each block was assigned a number, and each number written on a piece of paper and placed into the broad hat of one of the Kelly’s. The patriarch of each family- in descending age order- drew a tab from the hat bearing the number of their slice of Paradise. Bill Munroe, at 40 years of age, was the first up, drawing number 4. Then Roger Craig (35) drew 1, the bachelor Matthew Elliot (34) number 5, Dad (28) number 2, and Robert Enfield (23) finally drew number 3 out of the hat. The Craig’s, Enfield’s and Elliot would be in a row along the Southern side of the creek, with the Munroe’s and us on the North. There were mock complaints and grumblings about the procedure and verdict, a keeping up of appearances, but they were accompanied by glints and wily grins.

            With this the inaugural meeting of the new Group Settlement community of Karabup was adjourned. The Foremen bid us farewell, promising to return within the week with the first batch of building materials. They rode off at a trot back to their respective families, homes and lives, leaving us alone for the first time amongst the silence of the bush. No sound save for the wind dancing across the leaves in the canopy could be heard. We were utterly alone in a foreign wilderness; completely isolated and cut off from the rest of the world. The silence and stillness were overwhelming. Each of us were hypnotised by our own thoughts and reveries as we set out in our familial directions to select our home sites amongst the scrub.

True to their word the Kelly’s returned with carts piled high with timber beams and slats. Whips cracked and bullocks groaned as they lumbered forward with their cargo. Those still up on the hill meandered down to welcome them in, intrigued- our first external interaction in seven days. In that time we had set with gusto into the task of clearing sites for our new homes a safe distance from the winter mudflats.

The men had managed to carve out of the bush clearings 30 square feet in size on each selection with crosscut saws and axes. As they directed their power into the tree trunks, the smaller of us were set the task of collecting the smaller broken and fallen arms of the knotted gums for firewood, loading them onto the loose and rattling old cart until we could no longer reach the top. We built a woodpile against the side of the hall, and started clearing the innumerable rocks that littered the ground into easily accessible piles to be dealt with once everything had settled down.

The men took care of the larger limbs and trunks, hauling them from the site of their execution, down the slopes and into windrows by the creek ready to be split and cut into fence-posts and stakes. Meanwhile the women prepared all our meals and drinks, helped us with our tasks, made sure the smallest of us didn’t get ourselves into trouble, and chased snakes and lizards away from the stock and larders.

            The men quickly found out that the local jarrah and marri were a far cry from the oak and birch they were used to back home. The knotted and gnarled wood was astonishingly hard, and heaving a great axe into it caused vibrations of refined energy to pulse through the handle, into the hands, up the arms and into the core, jangling the organs and stinging the bones of those who wielded the power. And to add to the insult, each terrible swing only ate an inch further into the trunk. It did not seem proportionate to the amount of effort expended. Hands were transformed into a collection of weeping blisters, the skin peeling from their palms, and the muscles of their arms, shoulders and chests throbbing from the exertion and jarring pain.

            However by the end of the week they could look back with pride at their efforts and the freshly cleared sites scattered around the valley. Upon their return, the Kelly’s were surprised by the progress we had made and admired the work ethic of this seemingly soft and rag-tag mob of Poms. They remarked that even rough-necked Aussies such as themselves would struggle to achieve this much over the same period of time.

The Kelly’s led their cart around to each property to drop off the required building materials, and by night fall we were all gathered around the bonfire watching the kangaroo stew steaming above the flames and the potatoes roasting in the coals. The air buzzed with the tired but excited energy of the people and the cloud of mosquitoes diving onto any unprotected patches of skin.

            We all awoke at first light and, after a breakfast of porridge and charred buttered toast, set out to the Craig’s property to erect the first Karabup house. Holes had already been dug at the four corners of the clearing in preparation for the erection of the outer pillars. A thick Jarrah log was positioned over each hole and four ropes were lashed around the top. With a man on each rope they hauled the log upright in an arc and slipped the base into the hole with a dull thud. It stood there at a jaunty angle pointing above the morning sun. They carefully manipulated the pole to stand perfectly erect and the soil was poured back in around the base with shovels and compacted with the flat ends of 6-foot crowbars until set like concrete. Within an hour all four soldiers stood sentry at the corners of the house warding off any bad luck or pessimism that may have been stalking through the scrub. The only thing possessing our hearts was a rampant and buoyant optimism; a feeling that we could, together, create something truly unique and amazing.

It was another month before the finishing touches could be laid onto the outer shell of the last house, and with it the physical manifestation of the community was complete. 5 identical, rudimentary, 4-walled houses with roofs of shimmering corrugated iron stood around the valley, secreted from each other by the scrub but for the wood-smoke winding upwards from the chimneys. A flat veranda covered each front porch from where anybody with some free time could gaze out into the scrub contemplate their lot in life. Inside, each was partitioned into 6 rooms sprouting off of a central hallway. They weren’t flashy, but they were functional. In another fortnight gutters were affixed to the edges of the roof and pipes fed into new rainwater tanks perched against each house, but until the rains started again we would have to rely on weekly raids to the reservoir a few valley’s over. Ours was a simple life, but one that we embraced with opened arms and the passion of the soul.

While the men were up on the hills clearing the land and fencing off the selections, the women took it upon themselves to move everything from the hall and temporary humpies into the relevant houses. Up until this point we had conducted everything as a community. Now had come the time to partition ourselves off from our neighbours.

            The Kelly brothers came and went on a regular basis. They owned a farm a few miles to the east and had young families of their own to look after, and had taken on the job of looking after us as a way of supplementing their incomes. Every time they came they brought with them extra supplies, correspondence, furnishings, building materials and treats for us little ones. They fast became our closest allies. We were their ‘Groupies’, and they could always be depended upon to lend a helping hand, whether prompted or not. I’m pretty sure a lot of us would have walked off the land a lot earlier if it weren’t for their help.

The Kelly’s showed the men how to strip the bark from the jarrah logs drying by the creek, and then how to divide the timber into 6-foot fence posts using sledgehammers and steel wedges to split the logs along their grain. As they were split the green posts were laid out to dry under the summer sun for a couple of weeks and prevent them from rotting and splintering once they were embedded in the ground.

While the Kelly’s, Dad, Bob Enfield and Matt Elliot put their backs into splitting the posts, the two elder patriarchs Bill Monroe and Roger Craig took their teenage boys Danny and Oscar and Josh out into the scrub to dig holes seven paces apart like perforations along the seam of the hill in which the fence-posts would stand. They dug for a fortnight, slowly tracing out the borders of each property until each was delineated from the next like a sheet of postage stamps.

As they lay the Jarrah posts out alongside the holes it quickly became apparent that they only had about half the number of posts that they needed. As a compromise they made the diplomatic decision to instead fence off about a third of each farm so that each family would have a safe enclosed area in which to keep the stock. Thicker, heavier posts were placed at the junction of fences where the holes had been dug in deeper. These would act as levers, preventing the fence from being torn from the ground as tension was added to the wire. Gates were also suspended from these strainer posts to allow the easy movement of stock between paddocks. The rest of the fences would have to wait until more trees had been felled in the process of clearing the land.

            With the sheep and cattle safely enclosed and the boundaries of each farm etched into the valley the men stood face to face with the daunting task of clearing the bush. When looked upon as a whole it appeared overwhelming. A thousand acres of sunburnt rocky ground covered completely with the spikes of blackboy, zamia and Banksia and shaded by a continuous canopy of Jarrah and Redgum with trunks were so fat that four men together couldn’t warp their arms around their base. Instead of charging straight in, they started with the low-lying scrub along the banks of the creek. The general opinion was that if they could just clear a little bit of arable land, then they could start growing crops and get a little bit of money trickling in. They would worry about the daunting hardwoods when the time came.

And so the men slashed away at the shrubs around the creek bed, their arms and legs getting scratched and lashed by the prickly and brittle bushes. Heavy chains were connected between teams of horses that were led in parallel across the plain to tear the Teatrees from the grey, sandy earth. After helping to remove the Teatrees, the horses were hitched to ploughs to churn up the soil and release the small flora. Only a handful of paperbarks and scrawny gums persisted, too strong to be merely ripped from the ground; symbols of the power of the native earth.

Not long into the clearing process it dawned on someone- I don’t know who- that it would be easier to clear the land if they burnt the forest first, thereby removing the smaller shrubs and plants that would otherwise get in their way. They stood around thinking, berating themselves, until someone started laughing at his naivety and they all joined in the chorus, disrupting a gaggle of Kookaburras in the trees behind. They could hardly burn out the bush now that they’d spent all that time and energy fencing it off- the fences would be destroyed. They spat, cursed and laughed at their folly, then turned back to their horses and axes, shrugging, and kept on tearing at the scrub.

Teatree skeletons were heaped into windrows next to the creek, and one still, late autumn afternoon they were set alight to glow orange against the sunset and release their sweet incense to the wind. Twigs and branches of the twisted shrubs crackled and flared as the flames licked at their skin. The snap and pop of bursting kindling continued its hypnotic rhythm throughout the evening and into the night. That evening the sun burnt crimson through the smoke, and the sky was alive with intense slathers of reds, oranges and purples. Everyone sat in wonder around the fires and smiled in wonder at the perfection of the night.

We all took the afternoon off from our regular duties to gather around the fires. As we watched the sun dip beneath the hanging heads of the trees the entire community converged on the plain to sit around toasting bread, making tea and roasting potatoes in the coals. We sang the songs of home into the night, our faces hot from the fire and our backs chilled by the plunging night. Mr Monroe brought his banjo down from his house and provided the backing track, before Mr Craig squeezed the strains of Northern songs from his bagpipes under the magnificent expanse of the Southern sky. For once the hills echoed with the voices of the living. We felt like we must be the last surviving inhabitants of the world.

Between Here and the Sky- Chapter 6: Bright Young Things

As was customary, the show was merely the start of the night. It was well established amongst members of the cultural fringe that the house Alby shared with his co-conspirator Zach was the lens that focussed the light. All the bright young things- the actors, the dancers, the directors, the comedians and the visual artists- were drawn like moths to the flame. Parties would become events and events would become legends and the most important and vital thing one could ever be doing at the time was to be there. Mythologies would be shared and recounted on the street. The minutiae would flourish for years until they were firmly embedded within the cultural grain.

You couldn’t pause to capture a moment, nor merely let it all flow over you. Every moment had to be experienced in all its intensity. If you were dancing you had to commit every ounce of energy and sweat into each movement. If you were in conversation you had to focus on every syllable breathed, examine it, turn it over to catch every possible meaning no matter how unintentional, and return in kind. As though if you missed a second you would never gain the insights into life offered to you; forever keening forward to inhale the faintest wisps and glimpses of truth and immortality. Follow tangents right to their end, take the cue and run with another. Perfection could be glimpsed at such times, and hearts would find their meter in the dry chill of the night.

The band returned to stage to unplug and pack their instruments and the scientists headed backstage at Alby’s insistence to lay claim to the remainder of the rider. Realising their laziness they helped the band lug their gear and load it into the back of the van.

“You guys are all coming to the party right? Piers, would you mind driving the van to mine?”

“Absolutely. But I am a bit drunk…”

“So are we,” Zach pumped the air triumphantly.

“I’m OK. I can drive,” Yoshi offered and Alby threw him the keys. “Righto, who wants a lift?”

Karl called shotgun, leaving other two to clamber over the instruments and nestle awkwardly amongst the haphazardly packed equipment. Alby, Zach and a couple other band members hailed a taxi as Karl slid the door of the van shut behind the squished silhouettes of Marshall and Piers. As the van lurched out of its bay a synth dislodged itself and slipped across the top of a snare box, angling down and narrowly missing Piers’ groin.

“Fucking Asian drivers!”

“Piss off, whitey.”

He wrestled the unfamiliar vehicle into the drive-through to pick up a carton of beer. Money was exchanged between the front and back of the van via contorted arms and fingers; boxes dug into ribs. They stopped at a servo and Karl ran inside to grab an assortment of pies and sausage rolls from the bain-marie, which he distributed judiciously around the van. The recorded sounds of the songs they had just seen burst from the stereo as they ate and drove across the flat back of the city to the next suburb.

They crept between the lines of cars, inching past the great colonial veranda of the house sagging into a smile under the weight of time. Humanity overflowed through the front door to congregate on the veranda, in the yard, against the side of the house, or in the fig tree amongst the wild oats and sedge of the front yard. A jumble of cars sprawling out across the verge and lawn blocked the driveway. They gave up on the idea of unloading that night, instead turning into a side street and parking beneath the comparative safety of a streetlight. The sheer number of cars encircling the block was a clear indicator that the party was already in full swing. Piers inverted then cracked the lids off four Coopers Green and passed them around the van.

They locked up and walked up the street to the beat of the reverberating bass drum and walked self-consciously up the path bisecting the weeds and up the faded red concrete steps to the weathered timber porch. They felt as though the eyes of those amongst the weeds, in the tree and on the veranda were all turned upon them. One or two recognised Piers as Alby’s brother and payed no more attention, but the rest remained in a state of aloof permafrost until Alby emerged from the hallway.

In the mere minutes since he’d arrived home he had managed to deck himself out in reflective silver pants, a tasselled brown leather vest and a sequined racoon hat atop his head, a renewed glow on his face. He clapped his hands and beamed a bright toothy smile at the newcomers, rushing up and hugging each in turn as they rose to the veranda and introducing them to anyone within range; an ADHD kid on red cordial.

“This is my big brother Piers. Man, I haven’t seen you in ages! How’s work going? You joined the circus yet? We’ll get you doing flips and shit later. The flaming hoops are all set up waiting to be lit.” He barely paused for breath. “Everyone, this guy, Yoshi, is great! Shoosh, everyone, I’m introducing. They’re cool. Yoshi’s cool. The cool geeks. I mean that in the most sincere kind of way, man. And this here is Marshall.”

“And this… sorry man, I’ve seen you around before. What’s your name again?”

“Karl. I was at Piers’ party a couple of months ago.” Karl extended his hand, but found himself being encased in a bear hug instead.

“Ah, great man. Karl. Put your beer in the washing machine out the back. Yeah!” And he bounded off down the stairs with his goofy giant grin to find the next thing that sparkled and burst and clawed at his attention. Someone said something to him and he bent forward from the waist like a pair of scissors until his nose almost hit his knees, and clapped his hands together to the rhythm of his own laughter at what you would swear was the funniest thing he had ever heard- a manic angel amongst mortals.

Marshall, Yoshi, Piers and Karl ventured through the throng of loose-limbed dancing youths to deposit their drinks in the laundry. The fraying wooden boards creaked and vibrated from the sensation of movement, and reverberated to the thunder emanating from the sub-woofers bolted firmly through the floor. The unholy menagerie flailed and swayed to the incessant beat, screaming out the choruses, inventing dance-moves, punching the air and grabbed at each other, moving in patterns and shapes against the strobing lights and beneath the glittering mirror ball as god’s shining people.

The boys leaned against a wall and watched, spiriting snacks from the laminated kitchen table and steeling themselves for the onslaught of things to come. Piers started talking to Zach, who was adorned in a shining silver vest and leather chaps as though he and Alby had swapped components of each others outfit, except Zach’s featured the inexplicable addition of a multicolour sequined codpiece. Zach bummed a cigarette from Yoshi and they exchanged pleasantries and laughter over his choice of attire.

Marshall scanned the room picking out occasional familiar faces from the incestuous local nightlife, however most remained foreign. The vast majority of the revellers shared that slightly skewed sensibility and demeanour favoured by artisans the world over who exude that indescribable joie de vivre that comes from creative instinct and having the freedom to explore the more obscure avenues and alleyways of life. They flailed unabashed on the dance floor, uncaring of watching eyes. Debauchery perfumed the air.

            Marshall leaned his back against the wall trying to appear nonchalant and relaxed. The nervous grin imprinted upon his face giving him away. He half involved himself in conversation while the other half watched the girls spinning and jumping in the next room. There was a different atmosphere to any other party he’d ever attended- the music louder, the people more delirious and the electricity of the room crackling and threatening to ignite the shreds of wallpaper hanging curled off the walls and incinerate them all.

He was wooed by the willingness of these beautifully imperfect people to let go of their inhibitions and behave like overexcited children. He was equally nervous and ecstatic at the direction the night had taken, unsure of whether he should run away in fear or join the flailing masses. He wanted to obtain even just a trace of their spirit, but instead remained rooted to the spot, an imprint against the wall, a gawking compromise.

            A nuggetty guy sporting a beret and a waxed moustache marched in from the back yard brandishing a broken off table leg and holding a toy megaphone to his mouth shouting what he figured to be a rousing speech at his cabal of friends on the dancefloor, who punched the air and joined his chants proclaiming the need to revolt against the bourgeois aristocracy of the front lawn. Judging the frenzy, the megaphone man pointed down the hallway with the table leg and barked his orders for attack. The onlookers watched and laughed as the revolutionary forces ran off down the corridor towards their fated foe, eyes gleaming with the thrill of the game.

            Those not involved followed closely to watch the pitched battle unfold outside. Combatants fought in slow motion, puffing their cheeks and swinging exaggeratedly at one another. The targets of the attack- a circle of their friends that had been quietly chatting a moment earlier- were all too eager to play along, exaggerating their facial expressions and reactions to coincide with the slow moving fists directed at their faces and bellies. Those holding back on the veranda laughed and pointed at the highlights.

Megaphone man reached out slowly to grab at a young woman’s breast, only to have her counter with a slow knee to the groin. As he fell she prised the megaphone from his hand and held it aloft in triumph, only to have someone else- a traitor within her own army- tackle her around the midriff, hoist her over his shoulder and bodyslam her into the grass in glorious slow motion.

Taking his lede, all the combatants started fighting with whoever was closest, whether friend or foe, with the aim of claiming the symbolic megaphone as their own. The bodies of the defeated formed a pile in the centre of the yard, until only two remained standing, both with one hand clutching the prize. His fist arced slowly towards her cheek as her fore- and middle fingers extended towards his eyes. They timed their movements to connect at precisely the same time, and both tumbled theatrically on top of the groaning pile of corpses. The megaphone spilled out onto the grass out of reach.

The onlookers cheered and applauded as the participants unpicked themselves from the tangle of limbs and staggered to their feet to take their bows. They jostled and bumped each other with spirit and a couple of friends started to wrestle, legs, arms and bodies clashing and thrashing as they tried to pin each other to the ground. Others stood around laughing and cheering their champion.

Occasionally Marshall would escape on drink-finding missions through the ranks of the crazed young things, the back of his mind willing them to engage him in their world. He would cast furtive glances across the floor, trying to catch the flicker of an eye and an opening into their world- the manic, idyllic world of fervent youth. Smiles would flash across the room, but Marshall couldn’t determine whether these were directed at him, at others, or just thrown into the general milieu of delirium sparked by a cocktail of alcohol, drugs and adrenaline. In the end he would always err on the side of fear. He put his head down and shuffled through to the laundry room.

As he fished a couple of bottles out of the ice in the washing machine a pair of pretty young things accosted him as an object for their own entertainment while they waited for the toilet. Visually, they were the antithesis of each other. One tall with long wavy red hair, her figure accentuated by a black and white bodice over the top of her shirt; the other short, brown and square, an Andean peasant in a floral vintage dress.

“Guys have to pee out the back. Don’t be thinking you can just push in,” said the brunette.

“Oh sorry, I’m just getting drinks. It’s all yours.” He was flustered at the accusation at first, holding up three bottles as evidence, before he realised from their smiles that they were just messing with him. He felt his cheeks start to glow.

“I should think so. A gentleman should know his place.”

“Oh…” Marshall scuffed his right heel against the concrete in mock shame. “Can’t I go in with you? I’ll just pee between your legs. It’ll be both fun and efficient.”

Both girls laughed, delighted by the boldness of this new face before them, and his willingness, without much persuasion, to play along and build upon their own little games of imagination.

“Oh, we were already going to do that anyway,” said the redhead. “She has incredible aim.”

“Yeah, just open them up and away I go. I could piss through the eye of a needle.”

They all laughed, but as the moment arrived for Marshall to introduce himself the toilet door suddenly opened. Zach appeared in the doorway, his lips and cheeks smeared with a particularly vibrant shade of red. He stopped abruptly and widened his eyes at the small group around the door. His eyes darted about as he tried to close the door behind him, but the girls protested with squeals as they chocked the door open with their feet and shoulders. He tried desperately to assure them that nothing untoward was happening, that he had naturally just used the toilet, but the truth wasn’t obscured for long, as the brunette bob of his girlfriend Donna peeked through the gap. The girls shrieked and fell laughing against the wall as Zach stood sheepish, sprung, and Donna tried as demurely and naturally as possible to readjust her cream shirt, and tried to rub lipstick from her boyfriends face. Realising that he was sprung Zach tacked right. He clasped Donna’s hand firmly and drew her towards him, catching her with his free arm, dipping her low, and planting his lips passionately to hers as though drawing the last of the air from her lungs. He declared loudly and clearly “Cheers, love” before exaggeratedly wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

A cheer swelled from the onlookers. Donna’s face deepened to the colour of her lipstick. She punched Zach’s arm playfully, yet still with enough force to be taken seriously, and dragged him away from the throng. Buoyed by his success Zach offered up his free hand for a high-five, declaring unabashed, and with a sense of drama and finality “We so totally just had sex!”

Marshall accepted the raised palm with a newly opened beer as the girls stumbled past him into the bathroom. “Sorry, there’s not enough room in here for you as well,” said the brunette as she paused while closing the door.

“Awwww, no fair”, he whined, “I guess I’ll have to go outside, then.” He grabbed another beer to replace the one donated to Zach, twisting the lid off and tossing it in the sink as the door clicked shut. He negotiated the step into the living area. To the right Zach was already in the kitchen laughing with a couple of comedians and pouring undefinable mixers into two large plastic tumblers, one for himself and one for Donna, who by now had returned to her clan on the dance floor.

A circle had formed, and members were taking it in turns to see who could spin the greatest number of times in one movement. Each attempt brought machine gun bursts of laughter from the other participants as they staggered and fell from the inadvisable union of alcohol and inertia. One particularly tall and gangly guy, upon completing two-and-a-half turns, set off at a perilous angle through a gap in the circle, between a couple of singing girls and, despite caterwauling franticly to remain upright, lost his battle with gravity and plunged headlong towards the doorframe. Inexplicably, a stray beach ball lodged between his head and the lintel, saving his skull from being split down the middle. A mixture of gasps and roars of delight erupted from all onlookers.

Marshall grinned and bent down to help the bewildered fool back to his feet. The other twirlers, by now howling maniacally and with tears welling in their eyes, flocked over to rub his head for luck. He kicked abstractly at the beachball and flushed with embarrassment, restoring his cheeks from their pallor. Marshall raised his beer towards the receding back and negotiated his own way back down the hall, past the bedrooms and outside to the veranda.

Marshall returned to the circle into which his friends had merged, which was now engaged in the serious political discourse of reaffirmation of ideology. They were glad to be in the company of other, like-minded individuals, but each privately knew they lacked the tangible conviction to back up their words. It would serve as all inebriated political discussions do, as a means of saying, “Look here. I share your beliefs. Please like me. I want to belong.” Karl looked across at Marshall and rolled his eyes. While they both agreed with much of what was being said, they couldn’t find it within themselves to take it seriously. They had talked at length about these themes before and come to the conclusion that no ideology holds all the keys to nirvana. Each has its merits, but the vast cacophony of mankind rendered each individual ideology redundant. There was no accounting for personal beliefs.

Marshall smiled distractedly at Karl’s sardonic contribution to the false debate. His mind was elsewhere, enchanted by its brief foray into the inner sanctum of the artists; relieved that he hadn’t been shunned, that his presence hadn’t given brought about muted whispers from the local hierarchy. He caught himself wondering what it must be like to be one of them; to be a creative force, a contributor to this tight-nit little community. He imagined their lives different, more exciting, more complete. He desired to possess what they possessed.

Between Here and the Sky- Chapter 5: Group Settlement

The inevitable unforeseen problems started with the breaking of an axle barely an hour out of Mount Barker, near the top of the ascent out of town where a few generations later vineyards and wineries would dominate the landscape. A couple of the men rode back to town to procure another axle, while those left behind unloaded the cart and removed the splintered remnants. The sun rose towards its zenith, bringing the hot wind from the desert to sweep up the dust from the road.

We huddled beneath redgum trees on the roadside out of the sun and wind and passed around flagons of water propped inside cardboard boxes insulated with newspaper. We rolled our sleeves and cuffs up above our elbows and knees in a vain attempt at cooling off. Some men even removed their shirts and lay on the wagons sunning their pasty white chests. Our local guides warned us against this practise, but their advice fell on deaf ears.

During the day the skin of our arms, legs, chests, backs, faces and necks developed a soft pink hue that by nightfall had deepened to crimson. Suddenly our folly and arrogance was realised and the thick long sleeves, pants, boots and slouch hats of the locals no longer seemed like such a strange decision. They smiled and cracked wise, taunting and slapping unaware red backs with calloused palms. Finally one took pity on us and unwrapped the severed green frond of an aloe vera plant and offered it around the circle. The sap cooled our skin for a moment, but nothing of any consequence could be done to alleviate it- even rinsing the days dust off in the cool water of a waterhole only offered temporary relief.

            By the morning our pain was audible. The mere sensation of blankets against red and blistered skin caused the sucking of air through gritted teeth. Rolling out of bed excised yelps from our throats, while putting on sensible full-length clothing brought even the most stoic of men to the brink of sobs. Bloody fissures had formed on our lips and our hot skin gained the wrinkled texture of soft leather. Mr Monroe even suffered the indignity of a red and blistered scalp. He took to swaddling his raw crown with dampened rags, and drizzling water over the bandages every hour. All in all it was an elaborate form of torture.

            We nursed our burns and licked our sore egos as the days drifted slowly by. Much of the excitement of the previous few days had dissipated and we sat quietly watching the progress of the monotonous forest with dull eyes. Hill merged into hill, all covered with the same mix of Redgum, Banksia and blackboy. At first these tall trees weeping their characteristic red sap captivated us, but after hours and days of the same landscape and the constant scourge of blood-sucking ticks we soon grew bored and cantankerous at the tedium. It wasn’t until the afternoon of the 7^th day that the Redgums receded. The trees grew sparser, and the undergrowth denser until we were completely closed in by tea-tree scrub pressing in to watch us pass. Deep wheel ruts criss-crossed the road in testament to the treacherously swampy nature of the region in winter. As the sun drifted towards the west, mosquitoes rained down on us whenever the breeze dropped from the stagnant pools littering the roots of the scratchy shrubs.

We spent the night with a community of farmers next to Lake Muir. They had settled here a few of years earlier as a pilot group to the Group Settlement Scheme. As we ate the lovely stews of rabbit and kangaroo they had prepared us for dinner, our parents discussed the hardships of the country, questioning and gleaning information, handy hints and recipes from those with the experience. Every now and then after we had been put to bed we would be woken by the exclamations and astonished laughs of our parents as they talked well into the night, taking on the enormity of what they now faced until the fire turned into coals flickering against the blue of a moonlit night.

We woke again at dawn to eat toast and bacon cooked by our hosts over the reawakened coals. We said our goodbyes, climbed back aboard the carts and set off with frantic waves back at our disappearing new friends. Within an hour the vegetation began to soar again, even higher than before. Jarrah trees threw themselves towards the sun. Their skin looked like it had been coated with mud as they burst through the ground, and had now dried into a rippling grey crust. Their canopies formed a vaulted archway high above, predicting our advance. These rich, pink hardwoods sheltered us from the worst of the sun, maintaining a pleasant temperature within their shade.

Our guides regaled us with new stories of the bush- the perfect grain of the wood a perfect building material, but at the expense of hundreds of axe heads and handles- their density making them slow to cut, and the blades quick to blunten. However while the locals trembled at the knowledge of life with these trees, to us they were a source of beauty. We marvelled at their breadth and towering heights, each greater even than the mightiest oak back home.

Finally, after days on end marching up and down forested hills we arrived at the end of the road. Our caravan drove down the main street of town, past the grizzled, tanned and bitter faces of the locals. Their shoulders were broad and square, too much weight sat around their necks and chests and with each lumbering step they looked like even the slightest nudge would be enough to tip them off kilter and topple them sideways into the dust. We couldn’t help but watch and giggle to ourselves at the sight of these strange, unbalanced, savage men.

We pulled up around the back of the Manjimup Hotel at the far end of the street. It was one of a dozen such hotels in town, but as the first established (before even a general store, if local lore were to be believed) it earned the right to co-opt the name of the town as its own. In fact, many locals argued that it worked the other way around- that the town earned the right to name itself after the pub.

We left the carts and wagons- still loaded- tied lazily to the railings as the weary horses were led to the stables where they would be tended back to vitality. Their job done, the guides joined the local men at the bar for a raucous night of beer, swearing, singing and brawling before returning to their homes the next morning bleary eyed and weak stomached.

The rest of us dragged ourselves upstairs to our rooms to wash the week’s dust from our bodies and peel vast swathes of deadened skin from our slowly healing wounds, before reconvening in the dining room to eat our dinners in silence. Barely a word was uttered through the fog of exhaustion. Heads nodded and lungs sighed. I fell asleep in my chair; my parents having to carry my limp bones up to bed, before turning in for the night themselves, welcoming a proper bed instead of the thin mats they had to contend with throughout the migration. I was not the only one to sleep heavily past dawn, immune to the boisterous sounds emanating from downstairs.

When we descended the stairs for breakfast the next morning we were informed that we would be setting out on the last leg of our journey in an hour or so. My parents smiled and hugged each other and a general buzz whipped through the dining room. It was to be a ten-mile trek along a trail only recently cut through the virgin forest. Manjimup was already established as a pivotal timber-milling town, its occupants having already cleared vast swathes of the forest, leaving behind pastureland in an ever-expanding circle from the town.

It was the state governments plan, through its puppet Midland Railway Company, to populate the area and establish the region as the state’s breadbasket, to provide the state’s growing population with meat, milk, vegetables, fruits and grains. They advertised extensively throughout England for young men and families such as my own willing to transplant their lives and bring their Anglo culture with them to form the nucleus of these new regional communities.

Families who signed up to the Scheme were allocated to Group Settlements, each under the guidance of a Foreman. Twelve families were assigned to each newly surveyed cluster of land, thus creating new little slices of the Motherland. Each man or family would receive a 160-acre parcel of land, the stipulation being that each had to clear at least 25 acres of forest from their block in order to be given the rights to buy the land using low interest loans provided by the government. As an added incentive, each migrant would receive a small herd of sheep and cows, tools and machinery to clear the land, seed to start crops and brand new houses in which to live. And if all went to plan each family would quickly settle into their new life and start producing goods for sale back to the state and thereby pay back their loan.

After hastily throwing down breakfast we climbed aboard our carts for the last time and, under the guidance of our new Foremen- the local Kelly brothers, set out for Paradise. At first we passed quickly through the gentle roll of farmland as workers in the fields tilled the soil, then past loggers wielding mighty cross-saws and axes, and even past a small mill as we neared the edge of the cleared land. The giant circular saw screeched terribly as it passed through the heart of a ten-foot jarrah trunk.

The road slowly narrowed and the forest encroached ever closer until we were travelling along the floor of an improbable chasm formed by the variegated trunks souring above. The Karri stood fat and bold alongside the track inspiring awe in those who passed. Patches of white, grey, yellow and pink pastels showed beneath the long tendrils of silvery skin peeling off via forces unseen. Our necks craned upwards in reverence, tracing the parallel lines of their unfeasibly straight trunks tapering infinitesimally in their ascent, only to burst outwards in a paused explosion of verdant foliage between here and the sky. We fell silent, speaking only in whispers for fear of other, invisible, ears hearing.

The air hung rich and musty as axles squeaked, bullwhips cracked, cattle complained and distant axes thudded rhythmically into the heart of the trees. Even the broad and burly local Foremen quietened to listen to the conversations of the wind tussling the canopy and the crisp crack of twigs snapped by startled kangaroos as they bounded away in a panic.

The be-creeked gullies grew ever cooler, darker and damper. No wind could penetrate the lid of the canopy, rendering the gullies ripe with decades of stale composting air. Mosses and ferns grew from the rotting logs littering the floor and decomposition was accelerated by the clinging dampness. Armies of insects flitted amongst the detritus scavenging whatever they could find. Our skin prickled with electricity as we breathed in decades of life and death, each humbled by the likelihood that we amongst the very first people to have ever trodden this earth. This place somehow felt familiar, yet simultaneously foreign and mystical. We felt separated from the rest of humanity yet somehow soothed, alone in creation. There was something profoundly spiritual about this place that penetrated your bones and soul.

The men began to whisper amongst themselves, getting excited by what possibly lay in store. “Look at the size of these trees!” “If they can grow that big, just imagine how good the soil is!” “It must be better than anything back home.” “Were going to be rolling in it!” They relaxed and started to have some fun, figuring that life would be a doddle from here on in.

Our new Foremen, younger and more vivacious than the grizzled men that had led us to Manjimup, took us young ones under their wings. They showed us how to rub the fuzzy leaves from the shrubs lining our path between our hands and, with a few drops of water, create a frothing pile of bubbles. Delighted, we proceeded to strip entire branches of their leaves, lathering them furiously between our palms and creating ridiculous quantities of froth and foam, which we pressed to our faces as bubbly white beards and moustaches in imitation of our elders.

The adults too got involved, and Dad in particular spent a lot of his time walking alongside our cart idly making froth and decorating the horses’ manes with Mohawks of fine white bubbles. The men had this curious man pegged as a simpleton, a little touched perhaps. They whispered and joked amongst themselves, and even took wagers on how long he would last once we reached our new home and the real work began. Dad’s hands, which in England had been the hardened and cracked brown leather hands of a farmer and labourer, had become soft and pink through the sedentary weeks spent cooped up in the hull of the ship. And all this constant lathering couldn’t be helping his cause. Still, while the guides mocked him behind his back, we knew that our father was a lot stronger than he looked. In our eyes he was a man of action, a hero. Nothing could ever hold him back. We had no doubt that he would thrive in this our Paradise.

Our carts, in single file, continued down, down, down the steep track into deep rippling valley. The sun was obscured by the trees so we had no reference for how far or how long we had been descending. Our necks grew tired from the constant craning upwards, and vertigo from watching countless identical trunks pass by into infinity.

Eventually we reached the banks of the warbling river that had carved the valley out of the landscape over millennia. The still water was stained into a yellow-brown tea by the tannins leached from the branches and leaves of the overhanging shrubs hanging precariously from the muddy banks.

Dad bent down and took a small handful of the cold water and sipped, and proclaimed it to be perfectly pure, defying its murky colour. He grabbed a long stick and, clinging to the branch of a ‘soap-bush’, leant out over the waters to test its depth. The waters swallowed the entire stick at the same time the willowy limb cracked. Dad lost his balance and plunged headlong into the frigid pool to the rapturous howls of delight of those on the shore. He came up spluttering and flailing for the riverbank until he quickly regained his composure and planted his feet into the sludgy mud lining the bottom of the river. He wiped the water from his face and looked wide-eyed and stunned at the gaggle pointing and laughing at him.

The men united in helping drag Dad up the slippery clay of the riverbank and slapped him heartily on the back as Ma rummaged through our belongings in search of a change of clothes. He sheepishly took the proffered towel, clothes and boots and trudged away into the bush to change, his feet squelching with every step. The rest of us continued our laughter until he re-emerged from the undergrowth; pride wounded, but spirit intact.

Composure regained, we followed the bumpy track upstream until we stumbled across a set of stony rapids. The water cascaded over the glistening rocks from the top pool to the bottom. As it churned and bounced down the rapids the saponin leached from the undergrowth swelled into mounds of foam that swirled with the currents and eddies around the lower pool, forming abstract patterns and swirls on the surface of the deep, dark water.

We diverted up a side creek and, if we could have surveyed the landscape from between the trees, out onto a wallowing plain. The hills retreated on either side, leaving in their wake a broad and marshy flat littered with prickly shrubs and Paperbarks. The air smelt of minty tea. The hill slopes stood in submission a safe distance away from the water, creating the illusion that we were placed at the very centre of a giant’s saucer. The ghostly giants that had guided our path dispersed to the slopes of the hills, surrendering like shy and meek children in the face of something new. We were perched in an enclave hidden away from the rest of the world. This was our oasis, our prison, our Paradise.

A clearing opened up in front of us and a lone building, nothing more than four walls, a roof and a rainwater tank, emerged from the afternoon shadows, tentatively making its presence known. About 3 acres of bush had been hacked away around it. A couple dozen cattle and sheep were milling around within a crudely fenced enclosure. Little wooden pickets with coloured ribbon tied around the ends dotted the clearing and off into the bush in all directions, demarcating the borders of each selection, each parcel of land. They stretched away from the creek and up the slopes of the enclosing hills. The creek itself bisected the valley in half, creating two rows of farms staring at one another across the brook.

Once the initial awe and reverence of the tranquillity wore off, the realisation of the enormity of the task started to sink in. Disgruntled rumblings arose amongst the group and broke as a wave through every head. This was not the scene that had been promised. Our families hadn’t uprooted our lives, transported us to the nether regions of the globe and isolated ourselves from all that we knew just to be plonked in the middle of a wild and untamed wilderness. The posters and pamphlets and salesmen of the Scheme had assured us that we would arrive to the splendour of ready-made farms; that we could walk straight onto them and continue our farming traditions with an absolute minimum of fuss. We had all walked blindly into a trap and the shock that hit us bubbled over into rage.

The Foremen, being the visible and tangible incarnation of the Scheme, were the natural targets for our collective anger, however it seemed that they too had walked unknowingly into the trap. They had just been given instruction to guide us to the settlement, having already been here to erect the shed and deliver the stock. They didn’t know what the authorities had promised, and all that had not been delivered. They had no way of knowing the intricacies of the contracts drafted by the company and signed by the participants. They were equally as naïve, and equally incensed at being at the coalface and the focus of the blame. All they could do was offer their own personal assistance, and a voice to lobby the company on behalf of the people.

It was clear from their reactions that they were indeed as innocent as us, so there was no point in continuing to protest. What good would it do to ostracise those that were in the best position to help our present situation? The flames of our frustrations were quieted into coals smouldering beneath the surface where they could burn in preparedness for an encounter with those that were to blame.

Everybody, even us kids, pitched in to help unload the wagons and deliver the myriad crates of furniture, crockery, kerosene lamps, clothes, and water inside. The shed was nothing more than a large open room, with a kitchen tacked onto the end as if it were an oversight. A long-drop toilet was stationed a safe distance away uphill. With no other candidate, it was unanimously decreed that the building would serve as the town hall; the epicentre and visible soul of our community- Group Settlement #79 (Karabup).

By the time the sun had dipped into the canopies of the trees lining the crest of the hill beyond the river, the lives of each family had been unloaded into the hall. The horses had been tethered and fed, and a small amount of hay was distributed amongst the sheep and cows. Dead wood had been collected from the fringes of the clearing and made into a pile alongside the first flickering flames of a campfire, its orange glow rebounding off the encircling scrub. We shared our first meal as a town. We ate, played and laughed together into the night, suspending the uneasiness over the false promises and establishing the tight bonds of community that comes through shared experience.