While I live

CHAPTER 16

Two days later came the fortnightly cattle sales on the edge of Wirrawee.

I sat in the kitchen with the bills spread across the table. I jotted down the figures as I turned each new page. Later I’d MYOB all this in the computer but for now I just wanted a rough total so I knew how much I could spend. It was pretty frightening. Electricity, rent on the gas bottles, telephone, bolts for the cattle yards, worming tablets for Marmie, penicillin from the vet, a letter from Gavin’s school wanting the ‘voluntary’ fees, doctor’s bill for Gavin’s earache… By the end of it I figured I could afford about the rear end of one small steer.

But, I went anyway. Before the war there must have been six hundred to a thousand head yarded each fortnight at the Wirrawee cattle sales, now there were usually three hundred to six hundred. Today was a big day, just over eight hundred. I wanted steers and I didn’t care if they were in light condition. It was pretty obvious looking at them that, like most of the cattle in the district, they’d had setbacks but if they were well-boned and had length I thought we could fatten them up OK. I still had plenty of hay and some good feed left in the paddocks. If I got them at 220 to 230 kilos I could double that and sell them off at around 450 or so.

It was good being at the sales again. It made me feel that some things hadn’t changed. Sure the sun still rose every morning and set every night. I knew that. But the sun doing its thing didn’t impress me much. You could be rotting away in a prison cell and the sun would rise and set every day. What I really liked, and what meant the most to me, was that every second Thursday at the Wirrawee Saleyards, Barry Fitzgibbon would be up on the rails slapping his papers into his left hand and yelling, ‘As lovely a selection of yearlings as I’ve ever seen yarded at Wirrawee, ladies and gentlemen,’ and Morrie Cavendish’d be on his haunches smoking a rollie and whingeing about what a pack of dogs had done to his lambs, and Sal Grinaldi would be telling another terrible joke about someone having sex with donkeys or blondes changing light bulbs or an Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman playing golf.

The people at the sale were pretty nice to me. I hadn’t seen many of them since the funeral, and I’d been so out of it that day that I wasn’t sure who’d been there and who hadn’t. Before the war if something awful happened, like your parents getting killed, the whole district would rally around and visit every day, and help with everything from fixing your fences to getting in your lucerne. Now, there was plenty of sympathy but not much else, for the simple reason that so many people had suffered similar disasters and there just wasn’t enough lovin’ and carin’ to go around.

So an occasion like this was good because it gave everyone the chance to come up and ask how I was doing and to say they were thinking of me and could they help in any way. This made them feel better and didn’t do me any harm, so everyone was happy. And from some people it was nice, because it was genuine, but from others it didn’t mean an awful lot.

It was also a bit distracting because I needed to pay attention to the pens and the prices. And the prices were unbelievable. I got in early, tearing myself away from the well-wishers, and I bid while people were still arriving, which seemed like a good idea seeing how many cars were there already. I picked up twenty-four steers for $825 a head, which was expensive compared to prewar prices, but not bad the way things were now. It felt a little weird though, to think I had just spent twenty thousand bucks.

But soon $825 was looking cheap. By the time half the yarding was sold I was getting scared. A pen of cows went for $1550 a head. They were beauties, sure, but no better than the ones we were turning off regularly from our place before the war. I was determined that one day we would be known for quality cattle like these again.

I had my eye on a pen of twenty Poll Herefords. I thought I could make a quick profit on them. I was hoping to get them for $950, maybe a thousand. By then red-faced Jerry Parsons was doing the auctioneering. Like most people he’d returned from the war looking pretty thin but already he’d got his gut back and I must admit he looked more comfortable with it. He was in uniform. The R.M. Williams heavy check shirt and the R.M. Williams white moleskin trousers and the Akubra hat. His voice was sounding thinner and older but it was still strong.

He got to my Herefords and called for a bid at $900, and got it straight away, which was a bit of a shock. Normally no-one bids till the auctioneer’s forced to go down to, I don’t know, quite a bit less than the first price he asks for. I looked around to see who was bidding, and figured it was Don Murray, judging from his serious expression.

Then Mr Rundle came in with $925, Polly Addams went to $950 and Don Murray touched his glasses for $975. I was sweating. This had all happened in about twelve seconds and I hadn’t got a bid in yet. Jerry Parsons didn’t have to work too hard. Polly called $1000, Mr Rundle went to $1025, and Don offered $1050.

They hesitated a moment then. ‘Ten fifty, ten fifty,’ Jerry yelled, ‘dirt cheap, they’re an exceptional draft for the money, not much more than two dollars a kilo at this price.’

Pretty much none of that was true, but I asked him, ‘Take ten?’, and he nodded and I nodded back and suddenly I was in the bidding, starting at a level that was already way past what I wanted to pay. But I needed these cattle. I had to get some more stock so that further down the track, if everything went according to plan — and nothing else in my life was going to plan — I’d be able to make some impact on the huge loans from the bank.

‘At ten sixty,’ Jerry yelled, striking his hand with his rolled-up receipt book. ‘At ten sixty, and I’m taking tens.’

Mr Rundle shook his head, Polly gazed away across the car park as though she were trying to remember a dream she’d had about the Taj Mahal or wombats or mango ice-cream, but Don Murray didn’t hesitate. A quick nod and we were up to $1070.

I didn’t know Mr Murray too well. I’d barely seen him since I’d arrived at Simmons’ Reef, on a big quest to find my mother, what seemed like years ago, just as the war ended, and he’d been nice to me when I at last had the big reunion with Mum. I know Dad respected him and thought he had good judgement. He managed ‘Black-wood Springs’ for a plastic surgeon who lived in the city and only got to Wirrawee every three or four months.

Don was an old guy, with white hair and sharp blue eyes. He was a bit overweight. He was one of those people who gets dressed up for the sales, with the blazer and tie. But he looked really posh anyway, the way some people do no matter what they’re wearing. He wouldn’t like being beaten by a girl, I was sure of that.

I felt the sweat oozing out of my skin, somewhere around my eyebrows. ‘Oh well,’ I thought, ‘if he wants these cattle he’ll have to pay for them.’ I nodded again. ‘Ten eighty, ten eighty, ten eighty,’ Jerry went, ‘it’s against you, Don, ten eighty, it’s with Ellie Linton on my right.’

For the first time Mr Murray hesitated. I hoped we could quit there. I was never sure how much these auctions were to do with getting the right price for the stock and how much they were to do with power struggles. In the past I’d watched my father caught up in these little dramas, I’d stood by his side and felt his tension as he went hammer and tongs with one of his neighbours or someone from three hundred k’s away for a ram or a bull or a pen of calves.

Now I was in that position myself. It was harder than I’d expected. I was attacked by so many doubts. It seemed like Don Murray and I were the only two people at this sale who thought these cattle were worth $1080 each. In a few moments one of us would stand alone: the only person who thought he or she could turn a good profit on these twenty beasts.

I’d always liked the sales before; I wasn’t so sure that I liked them now. It was the ultimate test of my judgement and knowledge as a primary producer, and I was no way ready for it.

Don twitched his sunglasses and Jerry was away again. ‘At ten ninety, ten ninety, ten ninety, and they still represent great buying. You’ve all seen the market, ladies and gentlemen, and it’s got quite a way to run yet.’

Before I could think too much I nodded again. Eleven hundred bucks. At last Mr Murray turned away. What a relief. I’d paid far more than I wanted. I’d be buying armchairs for these beasts and hiring a nanny for them. But I still thought I could make it work.

I glanced down at Gavin. He looked as nervous as I felt. Then out of nowhere I heard another female voice.

‘Eleven ten,’ she called out clearly and firmly.

No need to look. I knew that voice. Polly Addams was back. Well, the good news was that someone else thought the Herefords were worth around twenty-two thousand dollars the lot.

That was the only good news though. I went right back into full sweat mode. My first instinct was to yell ‘No fair’, as though I deserved these cattle because I’d worked harder through the bidding than anyone else. My second instinct was to commit homicide, out of sheer frustration. I had the ultimate weapon right beside me too. I’m sure if I told Gavin to go and buzz that lady with an electric cattle prod he wouldn’t have stopped to ask questions.

Still, no time to think about that. I hunched up my shoulders. Could I make these cattle pay? It was a gamble, like so much of life on the land. If prices kept going up, OK, yes. If they went down much I would be wiped out. But I couldn’t run a property with no stock. And there weren’t many pens left at this sale. I gritted my teeth and nodded at Jerry again.

‘Eleven twenty,’ he called, on my behalf. ‘Eleven twenty, come on, Polly, what do you say, I’ll take fives. Yes, it’s against you now, Ellie, eleven twenty-five.’

Gavin tugged anxiously at my sleeve. ‘Lot of money,’ he said. He’d got that right. I’d long ago forgotten the idea of turning a quick profit on these steers. I nodded again, and so did Polly a moment later. I bid eleven forty, trying to look confident, but I knew this had to be my last go. If Polly wanted them for $1145, they were hers.

She stared straight back at Jerry. About an hour passed, or that’s what it felt like. I half hoped she’d bid again, so she could have them. Then she turned away and Jerry knocked them down to me.

‘See if you can find Jack Edgecombe,’ I said to Gavin, wiping my face with my hand. ‘Ask him if he can take forty-four head for us.’

Jack was an old-timer with a cattle truck. He attended the sales every fortnight, along with half a dozen other truckies hoping to pick up work. Jack had been moving stock for us since the invention of the internal combustion engine. I think Gavin would have loved to adopt him as a grandfather. Mind you, Gavin would have happily adopted anyone with a truck or a bulldozer. He ducked away through the legs of the crowd and disappeared towards the trucks.

In the end we had a bit more than forty-four head.

The second last pen of the day, fourteen cows in calf, looked reasonably cheap on the prices people were paying. I was watching the bidding and next to me was Mr Young. Turned out they were his cows. When the bidding stalled at $990 he whispered to me, ‘Look, Ellie, you could do worse than this lot. They’ve had an excellent bull over them, and they’re all good mothers. I’m only selling them because I’ve got to make more room for the stud.’

He was a good guy, someone I trusted. So I put my hand up just as Jerry was about to knock them down to Wingaree Pastoral Company and that turned out to be the winning bid, at a thousand bucks. I had fifty-eight more cattle than I’d had at the start of the day and I’d spent nearly sixty thousand dollars. Then there was Jack’s bill for bringing the stock out to my place, not to mention all the taxes and other excuses the auctioneers found for adding stuff to the bill.

I was still shaking when I got home.