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.