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 20: Icecream and Flowers

The tattered vinyl stuck to the sweat on Marshall’s back. The air hung sour with the stench of the thousand passengers that had braved the bus over the course of the day. It had been a scorcher. Those who weren’t hiding away under air conditioning were at the beach, and those not at the beach roasted like spit-pigs in the shade. The doctor had arrived as regular as clockwork, but it had been so weak that the city remained suffocated beneath the stagnant heat. Black cliffs cloaked the sun ominously just off the coast and wet the air until it threatened to burst apart.

All the windows were open and the ancient air conditioning was chugging and shaking overhead but still the air inside the bus was clammy. Rivulets of sweat ran down faces, backs and legs. His mouth hung limply open like a magpie on a hot day. Marshall leant forward to peel his shirt from the vinyl, the two surfaces eliciting a disgusting muted rip.

Businesses drifted by through the haze as the bus crept slowly through the Mount Lawley snarl. Water from the air conditioner smeared down the bus windows, splashing through an open window onto the seat beneath and down onto the floor until it was transformed into a river that flowed backwards as the bus cleared the congestion. The disgruntled mob hurriedly lifted their bags beyond the streams.

Marshall hit the button and the bus slowed to a standstill. He swung his satchel over his shoulder and water flicked onto the seat next to him. The middle-aged woman looked at him with venom and Marshall shrugged an apology that was probably rejected, but he was already down the steps and out onto the footpath. He judged the speed of the oncoming cars and dashed behind the bus to the median strip, then on to the other side of the road. A van blew its horn.

He strode quickly along the footpath, his gaze flitting absently between passing cars, shop windows and the path ahead. The glass doors of the supermarket swished open and he was hit by a refrigerated blast. He opened his mouth to taste the air as it rushed past his teeth. He headed straight to the freezer section at the back, smiling as goosebumps coated his bared arms and legs. After mulling the options he selected a tub of triple choc swirl, then opened the fridge door adjacent and pulled out a large glass bottle of ginger beer. With his cargo chilling his armpits he took up a place at the end of the cue. As an after thought he picked out a posy of carnations.

The teenager who served him was suitably surly and the lack of even a glimmer of conversation suited him fine. He accepted his change and receipt, declined a bag and walked out the door, awkwardly stuffing the icecream and drink into his satchel with the flowers tucked under his arm.

He crossed the road again, more carefully this time, and followed the zigzag paving through the community centre and the car park beyond. Thunder growled in the distance and the sky half-heartedly spat down infrequent marble-sized drops. He stepped up his pace, but by the time he reached the house the rain had retreated as though god had only sneezed.

One side of a conversation drifted through Hazel’s window. Pilar was sprawled out on the tattered couch beneath the awning, Naomi Klein in her hands and bottle of white on the table, sans glass. She smiled ruefully over the top of the book.

“Hey. How you doin'?”

“Mmm. OK. That looks intimidating.”

“Yeah, it’s a big’n.”

”How is she?” he asked, concerned.

“Dunno. She sounds pretty upset.”

“Hmmm.” They both looked at the bricks forming the outside of Hazel’s bedroom wall. “It sucks.”

“Yeah. Poor thing.”

They sighed and grimaced smiles; Marshall continued to the door and Pilar returned to the sentence indicated by her finger. The door was swung wide open to allow what breeze there was to trickle in and cool the house, even if only imagined. He knocked softly on Hazel’s door and opened it enough to stick his head through. Tissues were strewn across the unmade bed and clothes formed discrete piles throughout the room. A stiff green suitcase was open on the bed with an assortment of clothes already thrown in. She waved distractedly at him with her free hand and kept listening to the phone. Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks stained with tears, but at least for now their flow had halted.

“I know, but I want to be there.... Can you book it for me...? I don’t have a credit card.... Can we sort that out when I get there...? Yes, I do.... I know.... When’s the next flight... Can you check...? Sure. Call me back.... Ta.... Bye.”

She breathed heavily and held her phone up to her forehead. Marshall moved towards her and pulled her close, holding her for a few moments as she composed herself and lost herself in the safety of his embrace.

“Hi. Sorry about all this.” She sniffed and wiped her cheeks “I’m a mess.”

“No. It’s OK. I understand.” He offered the flowers towards her.

She accepted them with a laugh. “Oh Marshall. You shouldn’t have.” Fresh tears began to build.

“I thought you could do with them.”

“It’s sweet.”

“How is he?”

“He’s in the hospital. They’ve rushed him into surgery. His heart gave out- just like that- at work. Luckily he was harnessed in coz he fell off the roof. He was just dangling there. Anne says they had a bit of trouble getting him down.”

They chuckled perversely. “I bet. C’mon. I also got you these.” He held up the icecream and ginger beer.

Hazel sniffed and wiped her nose as Marshall led her into the kitchen where he got a couple of spoons out of the cutlery drawer and glasses from the cupboard above. Hazel made a successful grab for the icecream and ripped the lid off, while Marshall cracked ice into the tumblers.

“Should we offer some to Pilar?”

Hazel screwed up her face and started towards the veranda.

“Pee-lar! Do you want some icecream and ginger?”

“Aww. I’ll have some icecream...”

Marshall hunted around for another spoon, but could only find a clean fork. “Ah, the joys of shared living.”

Hazel sat down next to Pilar and plunged her spoon into the tub. Marshall offered Pilar the spoon and she took it from him once she’d pulled her dress underneath her bum.

“Are you sure you don’t want any ginger?”

“Nah, I’m ‘right” She put down the tome and lifted the wine bottle to her lips and took a healthy swig. A trail of condensation ran down the green-black glass and dripped from her lip to her chin. She snorted and wiped it away.

Once they were all comfortable and the icecream had down its first circuit Marshall spoke. “So, are you gonna go back to Christchurch?”

“Yeah. For a bit. My sister’s looking into flights for me. She’s gonna call back when she’s done.”

“When are you wanting to go?”

“As soon as possible, really. Tomorrow?”

“Wow. That soon?”

“Yeah.”

They sat looking at the table, trying to take it all in and slukking on their dessert. Marshall alternated between thoughts of what exactly there was for him to do while she was gone, and feeling guilty about his own selfishness thinking of his own immediate future rather than that of his lover. He felt ashamed, but the thoughts persisted, swimming on through his selfish guilt.

“So how long do you think you’ll be gone?” Pilar finally asked.

“Oh. I haven’t really thought about it. A couple of weeks? It all depends on how Dad is. A few weeks, a month? Fuck knows.”

“Do you want us to do anything while you’re away?” Pilar didn’t have anything specifically in mind, but the thought of sitting there without at least trying to help in some tangible way appalled her. She had to say something to back up the embrace she buried her friend within.

“No no.”

“We’ll make sure we call every day, and look after Marshall for you. Look at him, the poor delicate soul.

Marshall put on his best hangdog expression. “I’ll miss you.”

“Aww, poor thing,” Pilar extended her hand toward him, beckoning him towards them. He leant over the table and put his arm around them. The tears redoubled down Hazel’s face, and the other two had to look away to prevent themselves falling prey to the emotion. 

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 18: At The Scotsman