Chapter 23: A Fickle Mistress

The weather is not something that can ever be planned for, at least not when its accuracy is required months in advance. An ideal year would consist of a warm-to-hot summer, interspersed with occasional summer storms and the odd cool day, gradually cooling across autumn until consistent showers set in from early May and continue through waves of cool to moderate temperatures until the start of October, before slowly warming and drying until the end of year. Of course within this pattern the weeks when the farmer wants it to remain dry it must remain dry, and the weeks that the farmer wants it to be cool and wet it must be so.

The weather is a fickle mistress. A winter may break early in April and send all and sundry out into their paddocks to plant their potatoes and onions in the hope of being able to fit that extra crop swing in before the rains end, only to have the rain clear up and stay away in any reasonable quantities for the remainder of the year and prevent any of the crops from flourishing; while in other years it may stay dry and hot right up until mid-May and then rain incessantly for 5 months, burying everything in mud and rotting the crops in the ground.

            A couple of years after Phillip and Beth were married the rain started falling early, and right on cue all the farmers took to their fields on their tractors to prepare for and plant their winter crops. However the rain just continue, it got heavier and heavier. It rained until the ground simply couldn’t hold any more water and rivulets started to scar the flesh of the hills. As the rain intensified the scars deepened and widened, sweeping sections of the crops downhill into the dam. Cows, calves, ewes and lambs got caught in the mud and the shallows of the waterholes, and their distressed bellows and bleats rang up to out of the valleys throughout the day and night.

My roots kept me safe on the side of the hill, spreading deep and wide to cling to the earth. I watched steadfast and immovable, unable to help, for all appearances a passive observer.

            While our valley lost a lot of its crops during this winter, as a mere upstream tributary we were protected from the worst. With the accumulation of waters from the many valleys just like ours the river transformed from its idyll into a swollen torrent. The river broke its banks and rose all the way up to within a couple of feet of the bottom of the dam wall. The force of its torrent picked up rotting logs from the forest floor, uprooted ancient elders and cleared the undergrowth from around its banks. Others died from the waterlogging over the following months. Farms lining the river were washed out, flocks were lost (although in one instance an entire herd was found a week later about 10 miles downstream), houses, sheds, machinery and bridges were damaged or destroyed, The one thing to be thankful for was that there was no loss of human life.

            The cleanup was a long and arduous task. Debris had to be cleared and mud transferred from the flats back up to the slopes. Those farmers that escaped largely unaffected pitched in with their time and machinery to lend a hand. The damage was so extensive in a couple of areas closer to the coast that some simply walked away from their farms, while others were claimed in the following months by depression.

Not long after the flood the Mayfield’s sold up to finance their buying of a larger farm closer to the limestone coast, where they would be amongst the first wave of farmers to transform their rolling pastures into vineyards, creating a dynasty of their own and a considerable fortune in the process. The Mayfield block had long been a thing of envy for my family, containing as it did the greatest area and quality of arable land in the valley. The hill rose steeply from the water’s edge to a crest, and then receded slowly towards the north- a fertile slope that caught the best of the sun. The rockier southern incline had long been established as an orchard containing varieties of apples, pears and nectarines that provided a great source of fruit for the kitchen table, as well as being a nice little extra money-spinner.

Only a couple of weeks after they had bought the Mayfield’s farm, Phillip and Beth announced to the family that they were expecting a child. They had known this information for several weeks and had successfully managed to keep it hidden, but now that the truth was out the cause of Phillip’s recent vagueness and Beth’s coy smile were only too apparent, and their mothers in particular berated themselves in private for not having put the pieces together before now, while simultaneously implying that they had known all along.

Of course everyone was overjoyed at the news. They had been married a couple of years and whispers had begun in the bedrooms and studies of their families as to why they hadn’t conceived by now, so the news caused a palpable ripple of relief across their faces. The grandmother’s set to work crocheting little boots, gloves, pants and jumpers, erring on the side of yellow since the sex of the little one was not yet known.

When she did arrive, little Olive was possibly the most doted upon baby in the world. Both grandmother’s would visit daily and developed something of a rivalry, which Beth tried to mediate by dressing Olive in clothes made by the two elders on alternate days. Meanwhile Dad, Albert and the Moriarty’s never tired of slapping Phillip on the back with a sly wink and bringing up stories of when Phillip was a wee one. Not one of them could disguise their pride.

The years following Olive’s birth were a time of great change for Karabup. The roads into the district were widened, and some of them sealed to give better access for the logging companies whose bulldozers, loaders and trucks cut their way deeper into the forest. With the improved infrastructure the school bus also extended a spur from the schools in Manjimup along the highway that serviced the districts and forests behind Karabup. The arrival of the bus heralded the closure of the school. Its two teachers were transferred to town, leaving the small wooden building to serve as the local children’s playgroup, before also being moved into town many years later as a historical relic of the failed Group Settlement Scheme.

The local store would battle on for another decade, but would eventually succumb to the greater range of goods available in town. The post office continued to receive and distribute the local mail for 20 more years until the postmistress Ms Giacomo finally died of old age. And so for all intents and purposes- other than for the local’s themselves- the district of Karabup was lost from the postal chain and so too the maps. The road signs notifying travellers of its existence still pointed the way from the highway and the old postcode remained, but these were now merely relics of an age lost but for the memory of a few.

Society was changing fast and hordes of young people from right across the globe set upon the world searching for some other meaning in life, and in order to find and fulfil this quest they needed money, work. My family welcomed in these young travellers- backpackers as they came to be known- with the promise of food, board and a small wage in exchange for their time working on the farm. For the first few years these backpackers, usually between 2 and 4 at a time, were put up in any of the spare rooms either in the house or the uninhabited cottages, until some bright spark had the idea to set up a business of her own accommodating, feeding and drinking these youth on an old tobacco farm out of town, finding them work on local farms and ferrying them to and from work as required. It took a lot of the obligation off the host farms, and strong bonds were developed between the locals, the hostel owners and the backpackers so that there was never any real shortage of workers or locals. So long as everybody treated each other well and with the right spirit, everything worked harmoniously.

From an early age Olive displayed tendencies not at all like those of a normal little girl. As soon as she could toddle she would follow her father around the yard and as he left the house in the mornings with the backpackers she would stand there, hands pressed against the wooden slats of the front gate, wailing. As a child she would prefer to sit for hours digging amongst the chook shit rather than play inside with the dolls that her grand- and great-grandparents insisted on buying her, and which sat barely noticed in a box of similar such toys in the lounge room.

Given Olive’s proclivity for hands-on work, by the time she had started school Beth had put her in charge of looking after the chooks and a small patch of the veggie garden. Just like her father and grandfather before her, Olive took to her tasks with verve. No sooner had she jumped off the school bus, ridden her bike down the track and dumped her bag in the corner of the kitchen, than she would be outside in the mud scratching away at the dirt pulling out the smallest of weed sprouts or searching for earthworms, so that by the time it came to clean up she would be caked in a heavy layer of drying mud. Phillip and Beth would joke at night about how this daughter of theirs seemed to think that it was the chickens that were her parents and not them at all.

Chapter 21: Dynasties

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.

Chapter 19: Ghosts

No one was really sure just how, but Albert and Sarah managed to live an extremely contented and harmonious life together. Some people theorise that this came about through Sarah beating down on Albert, with him just accepting all her decisions and declarations out of fear of incurring her wrath if he were to do otherwise, but I think there was more to it than this. From my observations they were truly and mutually in love. Yes she was often impetuous and prone to outbursts of anger, but she would always return once she’d cooled off, apologise and concede ground that allowed them broker a compromise that suited them both. And Albert allowed her these flurries of emotion because he knew that in the end she would calm down and be able to approach the problem rationally and with commonsense. Each was the central figure in the other’s life. They drank of each other emotionally, spiritually and physically and yet their thirst was never quenched.

In June the year after they were married, two significant events occurred. The first: the birth of a son, Phillip. While their love confounded everyone, the fast following of a child surprised no one. The second event, while no less momentous, had a rather negating effect on the jubilation caused by the first. War had broken out in Europe the year before, and as a colony Australia had swiftly followed the emperor into battle. France had fallen to the Germans, and Albert, along with Pat and Eamonn Moriarty, Josh Craig, and Arthur Kelly, enlisted with the AIF to fulfil their duty and save their motherlands from the Nazi scourge. All five of them were enlisted into the 9^th Division and hurriedly packaged off into ships to undergoing arms and combat training in Egypt. Pat, Josh and Arthur never returned.

            Two and a half years after signing up Albert returned. He would come to me, unable to sleep; a silhouette against the blue-black sky, haunted by ghosts unknown. He backed even further into his own mind. There were things he would not talk about; things he would rather consign to the dustbin of his mind than to bring up. Sarah offered an open dialogue, but never forced the issue, allowing him to instead work through his demons at his own pace, at night, with me.

            Some nights he would stay for hours, standing, sitting, leaning against my naked skin. Often he would fall asleep amongst the rocks and bracken that sheltered my roots, waking to the soft padding of kangaroos heading down to the dam to quench their thirst.

            Many of the stories he told do not bear repeating, and nothing would be gained from me doing so in detail. It is perhaps suffice to say that Albert saw and went through things that no person should ever have the indignity or misfortune to go through. He survived shrapnel wounds and a bullet graze, but worse than these the mental scars of bombs exploding in the darkness all around, not knowing where the next one would land, where the next bullet would come from, the slow and protracted deaths of his mates in the trenches alongside him, and the constant gnawing thought that he could be the next one to go. He held his brother-in-law in his arms as blood bubbled from the hole in his lung. Hell populated his nightmares; ghosts of comrades stalked his dreams. If he didn’t sleep he didn’t have to confront them and explain to them how he had managed to survive and yet they had not.

            In public he and Eamonn would tell their stories of the siege of Tobruk, laughing at the comedy of Lord Haw-Haw, who extolled the virtues of surrender on their longevity and his derogatory dubbing of them as ‘Rats’, a tag which was immediately taken on as a badge of honour. They played chicken against each other as the Messerschmitt’s buzzed and fired on them with machine guns. They won the first major battle of the war for the Allies at El Alamein. They adopted stories of self-deprecating bravado as their truth, leaving their mythology unchallenged for fear of either appearing cowardly or causing offense.

Eamonn managed to successfully hide behind, or even find belief within, these tales and reacclimatise into everyday life. Yes he suffered as any man would have suffered, but he managed to disguise his pain from others, or else drown it with beer when things all became a little too much for him. While Albert also tried to hide, his veneer of triumph was much less convincing and people took to avoiding any reference- direct or not- to the war while he was around, preferring instead to limit the scope of their conversations strictly to farming, weather and the future.

But life continued, as it always does, in its own intractable way, and as they say, time heals all wounds. The scars would always bear testament to his pain, but through the slow and turbulent cycles of bleeding, clotting, infection, inflammation, suppuration, contraction, and remodelling Albert’s mind was gradually brought back from the brink of madness. The busyness of running the farm, loving his wife and getting to know his son diverted his focus from his memories and greatly aided his recovery.

And while he kept visiting my lonely vista across the dam, these visits became less frequent and less volatile. Around others there would always be that invisible wall blocking off any intrusion into his crippled psyche, but alone with me on the tender slope he could let it all go free without fear of judgement or recrimination.

In time Albert managed to reinstate some sort of routine back into his life. Scraping together his wages from the war and taking out a loan from the bank, he first bought the diesel tractor he had always wanted, and then bought the Craig’s farm when they left the valley out of grief for their lost son.

He set to work tidying up his three farms- slashing back the bracken, ploughing fertilizer and ash into the topsoil, replacing fenceposts that had started to rot- until the farms were restored to their past glory. And with the energy and distraction of this work, his sleep, his relationships and his general demeanour improved. Life was restored to something akin to what it had been like before the war.

Across this new decade, with its new and exciting opportunities, the land sprang back to life at Albert’s touch. No other farmer in the district was able to match the Spring’s produce- the sweetness of the corn, the richness of the tobacco, the yield of the spuds. Most contented themselves with one maybe two different crops with some sheep or cattle to supplement their income if times got tough (and they were always tough), however my father and brother would often have seven or eight crops, plus sheep and cattle, growing simultaneously and still be able to harvest just as much as anybody else. Nobody knew how they did it and it aggravated and awed them in equal measure.

Dad and Albert’s success was such that within just seven more years they had paid off the loan for the Craig’s farm, re-mortgaged it and bought the farm abandoned by Bob Enfield all those years before, which had since been run by a succession of English and Greek immigrants. In addition to the original block next to the dam wall they now owned the entire southern bank. Itinerant workers now had to be brought in from town, some of whom were put up in the old houses of the Craig’s and Mr Enfield, to help conduct the day-to-day activities that so much land demanded.

Unfortunately, while the addition of workers lightened their daily workload, it also had the unforeseen effect of reducing the efficiency of the yield. The overall size of the harvest was larger, however when this was averaged out over the total area being used it was quite a bit less than when Dad and Albert were doing all the work themselves. The quality of the produce also slipped back towards the pack. It was as if the extra hands diluted the magic in Albert’s fingers.

Even so, the profits kept on rolling in, and the extra time the use of workers afforded them gave them more time to spend with the family. Just as his father had done with him, Albert taught his son the ins and outs of running the farm- matching crops to soils, the art of fallow, improving the soil with fertilizer, ash and mulch, work in the shearing shed, the cattle yards.

From the time Phillip was 7 or 8 he would help his father mark the calves. He would help round the cows up into the stockyards and man the gate as Albert tried to separate the cows from their calves; chasing the stock around the larger yards in circles and yelling at Phillip to either close the gate in the face of a cow or keep it open to allow a calf to pass. As they moved the animals through the yards from the larger pens to the smaller ones, they gradually sieved the calves from the cows until they were left with a pen full of cows and a pen full of calves. By now father and son would be covered either in a fine layer of brown dust or thick black mud depending on the days weather. It was tough and dirty work, but theirs was a real sense of achievement at morning tea when all the stock had been separated. Phillip would spend the rest of the day making sure there was a constant supply of calves to be fed into the race, keenly watching the measured movements of his father and grandfather, and throwing lumps of wood for the cattle dogs to fetch. Working as a team Albert and Dad split the tasks of earmarking, tagging, injecting and neutering according to who was closer to what at that particular time.

As the years went by Phillip gradually took over more and more of the workload and responsibility from his grandfather. Dad was getting on in years, and the tough physical work of the stockyard was becoming a little much for his frame to handle. He also recognised the day for what it was- an opportunity for father and son to work together, to teach and learn and to develop the bonds that bind family together. And so he would head out to the crops and attend to whatever odd jobs needed doing with the pumps, pipes, plants and fences.

With the yards now the domain of father and apprentice son, Phillip took charge of the injections syringes and passing implements between the wooden railings to his father on top of the roles he had always played. Before too long he was also getting into the race with the calves, sliding his thin frame between the ribs of two poddy calves and pinning them against the wooden railings so as they couldn’t move about as his father rummaged around behind them with the Burdizzo’s.

It came to be a time of year that Phillip looked forward to with excitement- of getting out into the paddocks on the cold and wet winter’s mornings to chase cows and wrestle calves. Come evening they would come splashing into the house, drenched to the bone, bruises disguised beneath a layer of mud, only to be unceremoniously marched back outside at knifepoint to take off their ruined clothes and wash at least some of that mud off under the water tank before daring to set foot in Sarah’s house once more. But once they had, a scalding hot shower and a rich mutton stew would be awaiting them and all would be forgiven. On this day more than any other day of the year a real kinship developed between father and son, and the day became just as much about time spent together as about marking the calves.

But while everything was so perfect with the family they had, try as they might Albert and Sarah were unable to have another child. They could conceive without too much trouble, but a series of miscarriages crippled Sarah emotionally. With each passing pregnancy the pain of loss grew heavier, accumulating in weight until her mind could no longer move beyond its innate inertia. She would stay inside for weeks; neither visiting nor being visited. Her bed became her hideout. At night Albert would rock her to sleep as she gently sobbed in his arms. Ghosts sat upon on both their shoulders. 

Chapter 17: A Quieting Knack

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 15: A Drying Habit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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