As
Phillip grew older and approached the age at which his father had left school,
the question arose as to what path in life he himself would follow. Just as his
father had done before him, Albert granted his own son a patch of dirt to do
with it whatever he wished. Phillip tended to it with the utmost care and
diligence, and while things didn’t quite come as naturally as they had to his
father, he compensated for this with graft, effort and the sheer force of his
will.
For their part, Albert and Dad were
absolutely chuffed that their life’s work would continue long after they no
longer had the strength to do so themselves. Three generations toiled side by
side towards a common goal, and a dynasty was propelled through the cycles of
seeding, irrigating, fertilizing, tending, spraying and harvesting.
Now
that life was running exactly how they had always wished, Albert and Sarah
slowly grew restless. They had all this land, their crops were consistently
successful, their animals routinely achieved top price at the markets, and
their personal lives were going gangbusters. Sarah was secretary of the local
branch of the Country Women’s Association- or as Dad and Albert referred to it,
the Chin-Waggers Association- and a jams and preserves judge at the Manjimup
Show, and Albert, despite his natural shyness, was an influential member of the
State Farmers Federation and a district football umpire. While he didn’t talk
much, people who knew something of his history would sit up and pay attention
whenever he did have something to say, and would carefully consider his words
because he had so obviously considered his own.
And so it is through this prism of
success that Albert and Sarah grew bored. They decided that something needed to
change. And given that they still lived in Mr Elliot’s original Groupie house-
just basic timber, weatherboard and rusting corrugated iron- they decided that
building a new house was just the sort of project they needed to prevent them
from growing fat and contented.
They began preparations in earnest,
enlisting the services of an architect and surveyor. They chose a spot on top
of the ridge just around a fold in the hill from the cottage with views across
the lake to the front, the bush to the back, and down the valley to Dad and
Ma’s house. The house itself would be dug into the crest of the ridge, with the
excavated earth to be compacted and transformed into the walls. Floor to
ceiling glass windows would capture the best of the winter sun and the veranda
would shield them during the burning months and provide spectacular views of
approaching summer storms. The framework would be of exposed jarrah salvaged
from the farm, and the roof would be a gently sloping vegetable patch.
Sarah took charge of the project while
Albert concentrated on the farm, allowing her to make the most of her
organisational and managerial skills. She was in contact with the architect
every couple of days with new tweaks and changes, and when the builders were
on-site she rolled up her sleeves and pitched in with her own hands to build
the bricks and erect the pillars and pour the concrete and put up the tank and
guttering. Friends and neighbours noticed the new vitality and energy that
overcame her- the flushed cheeks, the effervescent smile, the new lease on
life.
The pad was rapidly dug into the slope
and the earth compacted into cubes and stacked one on top of the other to
reshape the hill. Finally the roof was laid out on top of a concrete and mesh
slab with square holes cut through to allow the natural light to filter through
into each of the rooms. Soil was shovelled on top and beds mapped out for
vegetables and flowers. Plumbing and electricity were connected; the kitchen
and bathroom were kitted out.
Nine months after the first clod was
removed, Sarah, Albert and Phillip moved into the cool and musty air of their
new home, moving their existing furniture, bedding and appliances on the back
of the Bedford truck across the hill. Sarah stood on the threshold and directed
her men like a drill sergeant- “That goes there”, “Move that in here”, “put
that down over there”. She knew where she wanted everything and the best way to
get it all done in the shortest possible time. It was all overseen with
military precision. The change revitalised them- the build itself kept them
busy, and the transformation of the space into a home filled them with a
feeling of absolute contentment.
Once everything had settled into its new
shape and the cooking smells melded into the walls to give off their lived-in
smells Albert and Sarah started to pester my parents about rebuilding and moving
themselves. The original Groupie shack, despite the continual maintenance and
love that Mum and Dad put into it, was now looking well past its use-by-date, and
to my brother and sister-in-law’s eyes the only logical conclusion to this was
that they start again.
But to our parents this was nought but
the vague notion of a new generation. They saw no real reason to leave their
existing home regardless of the physical appearance it may present to an
outsider. Together they had celebrated, mourned, toiled and loved within its
humble confines. All their memories were papered into its cracks and flaws. So
there they stayed, surrounded by their precious memories until frail and
beloved in their old age they would die within 2 weeks of each other through
pneumonia and heartbreak.
By
the time they were settled in their new abode, protected from the chill of winter
and heat of summer by the insulating earthen walls, Phillip has started
courting the eldest daughter of another influential farming family from a
district on the other side of the shire. They first met at the traditional
barbeque after the annual meeting of the shire branch of the Farmer’s
Federation. The State President Mr Heathcliffe tended to the sausages and
steaks while the Shire President Mr Blakers served as his general. Beer flowed
easily from the iced esky’s and in time honoured tradition scarcely a scrap of
meat escaped the blackening tongue of the fire and the dogs went home well fed
and comatose.
Phillip
had only recently begun to associate with the farmers from the neighbouring
communities under his own steam. His father had challenged him to get to know
what was happening on farms outside of his own cloistered little world, to call
on neighbours and foster his own relationships with them rather than merely
treading along idly in his father’s footprints.
He
had ventured across to the familiar homes of the Monroe’s and Mayfield’s to get
a handle on the idea and technique of talking with farmers about the weather,
their crops, their land, their habits and their ideas. It was a tradition
intended not just to spy on what the competitors were up to, but also to foster
a sense of community and an exchange of wisdom. Phillip listened intently to
what his elders had to say, sifting for any grains of advice that his father
and grandfather had either omitted or had not thought of before.
As with everything else he did, he was
intensely focussed on all that was said and done so as not to miss out on
anything. He naturally assumed the position of student, presupposing that his
peers knew more about the topic that he did, and tried to absorb as much as
possible so that he could put into practise all that he learnt. Sensing this
naivety, his hosts, rather than using the occasion for opportunism, were
actually more helpful and less guarded than they otherwise would have been with
his father or grandfather. Here was a young man trying to live up to the
reputation of his ancestors, living in their long shadows and searching for his
own patch of light, and so they were empathetic towards him based on his clear
earnestness and enthusiasm.
Now that he felt that he had learnt as
much as he could from the Monroe’s and Mayfield’s Phillip felt it his duty to
approach those farmers whom the Spring’s as a whole respected. He had met Mr Scott
a few times before at similar events and the Manjimup Royal Show, and knew of
his respected stature in the Farmer’s Federation and the basics such as where
he was based and what he grew. So while his father was off acting as lieutenant
to Mr Blakers and his grandfathers were larking about with old Mr Monroe, he
summonsed all his courage to go up and join in Mr Scott’s conversation with his
son Rodney, Oscar Monroe and old Henry Kelly. It was time to be an independent
man.
Even though everyone knew exactly who he
was, Phillip waited for a break in the conversation to make his introduction,
and as duty dictates started up a new thread in the conversation, asking about
the health of the poddy calves considering the early and cold start to winter.
As with all conversations of this nature it was interspersed with much
grunting, contemplation of the sky and prophesising that this would be the year
that their respective districts would collapse into ruin. It was never in the
farmers lot to be optimistic; no matter how good the weather or prices there
would always be something to grizzle about.
The conversation drifted from stock to
weather to crops, and through it remained fluid, with other farmers joining or
leaving the huddle, Phillip remained the ever-present at Mr Scott’s side. As
the cold wind again began to blow, Mr Scott’s eldest daughter Beth came up to
him to ask him something or other on behalf of her mother. While she waited for
a break in the conversation she scrutinised the interesting looking if not
handsome young man at her father’s side. She watched the minimal yet succinct
movements of his already rough and tanned hands, as though all his energies
were invested in ensuring that his every movement suited the tone of the
conversation perfectly so that no charge of indifference of misunderstanding
could be levelled at him. She admired his all-too-apparent earnestness and his
overwhelming desire to be welcomed into the company he was keeping; the way he
presented himself as a proper young gentleman.
Phillip noticed her presence, but tried
to focus instead on the topic at hand so as not to be distracted, or worse- to
come across as other men his age were wont to. But try as he might his eye kept
wandering to her deep black eyes, her strong cheekbones, her distinctly
feminine figure accentuated by a red belt cinched around her waist, and her
casual, almost flippant, stance. She smiled an introduction towards him and he
forced a smile and nodded in reply. A distant rumble sounded deep in his
stomach.
At this nod, Mr Scott looked from the
young Mr Spring to his daughter, and acted as though he had only just noticed her
presence at his side. He introduced the pair, and instinctively Phillip offered
out his rigid hand. Miss Scott stifled a laugh and extended her hand to meet
his. She shook his hand with the force of a farmer; the corners of her mouth
curled into an involuntary smirk.
She persuaded him that he was pursuing
her without ever letting on that it was her directing their relationship. She
guided him through their first conversations, their first romantic touch and
their first kiss behind the town hall on the night of the lunar eclipse.
Phillip was of the age that it was now
expected of him to attend the farmers and town meetings and contribute to the
running of the district. He put his name forward and was elected into various
committees, so he was able to manoeuvre himself into positions of familiarity
with Mr Scott. Beth on the other hand always had to find some excuse to go with
her father to town, usually on the pretext of wanting to meet up with old
high-school friends in town. Beth had recently finished her end of school
exams, and was intending to move to the city and start her nurses training. Her
parents had conceded to this on the proviso that she take a year off between
school and college to work on the family farm. While she had initially
begrudged this compromise, in her new situation it seemed almost serendipitous.
Her father would drop her off at a
friend’s house, where she would stay for a time before leaving to walk to the
town hall in time for the end of the meeting and the chance of again seeing
Phillip. Once the meeting had adjourned there she would be waiting, and Phillip
would try to disguise his eagerness to run straight to her by joining her
father in conversation with whatever first (after Beth) came to mind as they
descended the granite stairs together. Mr Scott pretended not to notice the
plot.
As things developed between them Phillip
would call upon the Scott house and they would appear together around town and
at parties, and it transformed from an open secret to an open knowledge that
Phillip Spring and Bethany Scott were an item. They were married a year after
their meeting. The wedding was greeted with excitement throughout the Shire-
the merging of two farming dynasties. A better match of breeding and spirit
couldn’t be imagined.
A month before the wedding Phillip had
moved back down the hill to the old Elliot cottage to prepare it as their new
marital home. He furnished the house with new sofas, a new bed, new sideboards
and new tables, and got a good deal on a refurbished slow-combustion stove. All
this activity was conducted with precedence given to function rather than any
matching colour or pattern scheme or finer touch, and upon moving into what
would be her new home Beth set about rearranging those items she could salvage
and ordering new furnishings with more tasteful and soft floral upholstery.
Phillip accepted this in much the same spirit as he would throughout their
lifetime together- with self-deprecation and gentle mockery of the roles of
husband and wife within their marriage.
Phillip and his groomsmen readied
themselves first at the old Elliot cottage, then put the finishing touches on
up at the new house. Sarah fussed around them, making them take off their
shirts so that she could iron them properly, and darning a small rip in the
seat of one of the groomsmen’s trousers while he stood to the side awkwardly
covering his front. When all was completed to her satisfaction she stood back
and looked at them in turn, before settling her eyes on Phillip and bursting
into tears. The men stood awkwardly scuffing their feet, taken aback by this
sudden display of emotion from one considered so hard-as-nails. Up until that
day Phillip had only seen his mother cry twice before in his life- at her
sister’s funeral, and when she accidently spilled the mutton stew from the
stove after a particularly long and sweaty day in the shearing shed. And each
time he had been lost for words.
But what surprised everyone even more was
that she did so without hiding her face, without fear. She bawled openly and
proudly, and enveloped her son in a vice-like hug that threatened to collapse
his ribcage. The groomsmen averted their eyes and shuffled off to the next room
as Albert wandered upon the scene. Immediately summing up the situation he
smiled to himself and followed the boys from the room.
Once Sarah had finished dressing her
husband she loaded him into the drivers seat of the FJ Falcon and plonked
herself in the passenger’s seat. As they headed off down the driveway Sarah
bellowed final instructions out the window like a drill sergeant on the parade
ground. Her words were lost to the wind and the crunch of gravel under the
wheels, however the congregation had turned their heads in her direction so she
felt that she had made her point and the car drove on.
Phillip Spring and Bethany Scott were
married in the little Anglican Church nestled amongst the oak and weeping
willows in the bride’s hometown. From what I’ve heard it was a joyous family
affair, as all weddings should be. The immediate and extended families were all
there, along with notable members of the community and a few select school friends.
Phillip apparently had a barely contained and permanent grin on his lips from
the moment his bride appeared through the glass-paned doors between the foyer
and the aisle dressed in white lace, right through until the exhaust pipe of
the lipstick-smeared Datsun shot the potato clear through the window of the
town hall.