While I live

CHAPTER 4

I wandered lonely as a cloud along the escarpment overlooking the house. I’d wanted to bury my parents up here, but the priest said it would break twenty-seven different laws and then some. So now they were in the old cemetery behind St Matthew’s. I thought of their cold damaged bodies lying in that cold ground and shuddered. I’d been there a few times and put flowers on the grave and done all that stuff. I’d hoped I’d have some mystical experience when I was there, feel their spirits, hear them talking to me, get a bit of advice about the price I should ask for the twenty steers, or at least get a sense of peace, whatever, but so far I’d been sadly disappointed. I didn’t feel anything. Just devastated and depressed, and I could feel that anywhere. Didn’t need to go to the cemetery for it.

Gavin hated going there. The first time he’d come as far as the gate and the other times he wouldn’t even get out of the car.

I wondered how long it would take Gavin to realise that I’d snuck out the back door and come up this hill. He was more than ever my little shadow these days. I understood why. I was his last link to security, his last hope of a relatively normal life. I understood that but it didn’t necessarily make it easier to bear. A lot of the time it didn’t bother me, but sometimes it was just too much, too relentless, too suffocating, every sentence starting with the words ‘I want’, and I’d turn on him and, snap, ‘Leave me alone! Give me a break! Go find something else to do.’

Then sooner or later — usually sooner — I’d be racked by guilt and start imagining Gavin scarred for life and how it was all my fault. Sometimes even that wasn’t enough to send me looking for him to make it up to him though. And I think he was pretty scarred anyway.

I sat on a rock with my arms around my knees and gazed at the farm. I could see Fi’s window, with the curtain drawn. She’d still be in bed. Talk about slack. She’d never make a farmer, even if she did eventually learn the difference between a sheep and a cow.

I was actually up on the escarpment because I was trying to come to terms with the idea that I wouldn’t be a farmer for long myself. Yesterday I’d had an interview with Mr Sayle. He was a lawyer in Wirrawee. I didn’t know him very well. Fi’s mother used to do our legal work but when she moved to the city Dad had to find someone new, and he chose Mr Sayle.

I’d had a message asking me to see him, so off I’d gone, like a good Ellie. I left Gavin in the Wirrawee Library, which to his disgust was so crowded that they’d closed the waiting list for the computers, and I’d gone into Mr Sayle’s office, across the road.

My first shock was to find that his receptionist was Mrs Samuels, who used to deliver the mail to our place and various other farms. More importantly, she was the one who’d recognised me in a prison camp during the war. As a result she had caused me huge problems. I’d been in Camp 23 under a false name, knowing that if the guards found out my true identity, I’d be tied to the front of a missile launcher while enemy soldiers queued up to press the ‘Fire’ button.

Mrs Samuels hadn’t meant any harm but she’d nearly cost me my life, by accidentally yelling out my real name. Since the war she’d been embarrassed every time she saw me so our conversations tended to be short and sweet. It was the same with this one.

‘Hi, Mrs Samuels.’

‘Oh, Ellie! Hi. Hi. Lovely to see you. Mr Sayle won’t be long.’

Red-faced she went back to her desk, hunching over a knitting pattern book like it was the Dead Sea Scrolls.

‘OK, thanks.’

I was relieved to be able to sit down and pick up a very old Bulletin magazine, from before the war, and start reading that.

Mr Sayle didn’t look like a solicitor, more like a bulldozer driver. He was big, filling the doorway, and dressed in clothes that could have been made by King Gee, even if he did wear a tie. He was balding, with a few strands of hair carefully plastered across the big bald area. He didn’t even look at me.

‘Mrs Samuels, call the Council, will you, and see what’s happening about the planning application. You’re Ellie. Come in, Ellie.’

I was glad he’d told me who I was. It’s always a relief to know who you are.

Three minutes after I’d started the conversation with him the door opened a few centimetres and Gavin slipped in. That’s what I mean about having a shadow.

Mr Sayle just ignored him and within the next few minutes I pretty much forgot he was there. Mr Sayle seemed like a nice enough guy, but he didn’t muck around. First he explained that he was the executor for my parents’ estate, then he explained what that meant, and then he told me that under my parents’ wills I was the sole heir.

Then he told me I was bankrupt. Broke. No money. He wasn’t quite that tactless, but he was blunt.

‘Ellie, I’ve been through the books, and talked to the bank, and I’m afraid your financial position is very poor indeed. Beyond recovery, I have to say. As you know, a lot of savings were lost during the war, and the government is still negotiating to get some of that money back, but I think it would be unrealistic to put much faith in that. So once the war finished, your father had to start from a position of virtually no funds, and in the meantime he entered into a number of financial obligations that assumed there would be a long-term improvement in his situation.’

Gavin yawned and stretched and pressed against me. Mr Sayle riffled through the papers in his folder.

‘Those obligations included a loan from the bank, to establish a poultry business. That loan was secured by a mortgage on the property. Then there was a second loan, secured by mortgaging various goods and chattels, to purchase cattle, and as well as those commitments to the bank, he entered into three leases totalling a thousand dollars a week with parties whom I gather had been granted pieces of land from your original property.’

He glanced at me from over the top of his reading glasses. ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ I said, feeling a little dizzy. I hadn’t realised the rents Dad agreed to pay those people were so high. No wonder he’d seemed stressed. No wonder he was always complaining about money. ‘What’s a mortgage?’ I asked. I’d heard the word often enough but I’d never bothered to find out what it meant.

‘It means that if you can’t pay back a loan, you hand over some property instead,’ he said. ‘In your case the agreement was that the farm, the part of it you still own, would be given to the bank if the money could not be repaid.’

My head seemed to ring as though I had concussion. I sat there gaping at him. ‘You’re saying I might lose the land and the house?’ I asked. ‘Everything?’

‘I’m saying you will lose it, yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

He glanced at me again and when I didn’t reply he kept talking from his notes.

‘Now, I gather the principal assets consist of the land with improvements, including the main house, machinery shed, shearing shed and various other outbuildings, three motor vehicles, two tractors, an ATV, three motorbikes, one in poor condition, approximately sixty head of cattle, and sundry other livestock, tools, and equipment. As well, there’s just under eight thousand dollars in various bank accounts, and a small portfolio of shares, which at this stage do not have much value, as a result of the war. We can’t factor them into the equation but they may eventually prove to be worth something again.’

He looked up, and waited for me to speak.

‘What’s he saying?’ Gavin asked me. He was kneeling on the coffee table, virtually in my lap now, looking intently into my face. He’d sensed the tension in me, and at the same time he’d obviously decided Mr Sayle was too much of a challenge to lip-read. If he wanted to keep up to the mark he’d have to rely on me.

‘He’s saying we’ve got no money,’ I said bitterly. ‘He’s saying we’re going to lose the farm and everything. That we’ll have to find somewhere else to live.’

‘Believe me, Ellie,’ Mr Sayle said, ‘I am very unhappy about this. I’ve looked at the figures from every direction, and thought and thought about how we can achieve a better result. But there’s nothing else for it, I’m afraid. And you won’t be left with nothing, not by any means. Land is in great demand, although unfortunately there’s not much money around to pay for it.’

‘So how much money would I get?’ I asked, forcing the words out.

Gavin gave an angry sob and shook me by the shoulders when I said it.

‘Well, the valuer has given me a rough estimate and he thinks the property should fetch around four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The various vehicles and equipment, probably eighty to a hundred thousand dollars. The cattle, a hundred and eighty thousand.’

It sounded like a lot to me. But it was hard to concentrate, with Gavin clutching me and gazing up into my face, trying to pick up every word I said.

‘So, say seven hundred and twenty thousand when we add in the money in the bank accounts. Out of that have to come various expenses associated with the winding up of the estate, including the funerals and my costs, the repayments to the bank, the costs and penalties involved with the premature termination of the leases, the costs of advertising and selling the property and chattels. So after all that there should still be about a hundred and sixty thousand which will come to you.’

He beamed at me. ‘Not a bad outcome really.’

‘That’s easy for you to say.’

He wiped the smile off his face immediately. It was like a screensaver disappearing.

‘So if I wanted to keep the place going, what would I have to do?’ I asked.

For the first time Gavin turned and looked at Mr Sayle.

Mr Sayle grimaced. ‘Well, it’s just not feasible. You’d have to generate more income than is possible. There’s the thousand dollars a week to cover the lease payments, plus seven hundred and thirty dollars a week to the bank. These payments had been made by your father up to the end of this month, which is next Tuesday. Plus of course there’s also the normal running expenses of a property of this size. That would be everything from fuel to seed to pesticides to tractor parts to the food for your table and the clothes on your back. You and the youngster here. I’ve heard about him.’

Sitting on the escarpment and looking down at the house now, I could see the youngster emerge into the courtyard. He picked up a stick, which triggered instant excitement in Marmie, the new border collie. I assumed he was going to throw it for her. It was a game that could keep both of them amused for hours. ‘He’s such a kid still,’ I thought, looking down at him.

He marched out of the courtyard, Marmie following eagerly. Instead of throwing the stick he carried it across his shoulder. Without a glance to left or right he went on down into the gully. The first yellow flowers of the broom infestation were already starting to show through. Gavin tossed the stick aside. Marmie reared back in excitement then pounced on it. But to her disappointment, and even though she paraded it right in front of him, Gavin ignored her.

‘What is he doing?’ I wondered.

He went to the fenceline, rolled up his sleeves, and to my utter astonishment pulled out a broom plant, then another and another and another.

I nearly fell over and rolled all the way to the bottom of the escarpment. Instead I watched with my mouth open as he pulled out plant after plant. He worked steadily and methodically. It was the perfect time to pull out broom, before it flowered and set its seeds, but also because the ground was soft. Pulling it out was the best treatment. Chemicals were expensive and toxic. Slashing caused it to come back the next year with three or four stalks that were much harder to pull, but in some places slashing was the only option. I couldn’t get a slasher into this gully, though.

The thing about broom is that it spreads so quickly and takes over so much good pasture. Dad had always been trying to persuade Gavin and me to join his anti-broom campaign, but without much success, because it’s pretty boring work.

‘Oh, Dad,’ I whispered in my head, ‘come back and I’ll pull out broom forever. I’ll be your broom princess.’

I’d never really been his princess of anything, but I’d been his mate, his offsider, his advisor, his daughter.

After twenty minutes I couldn’t stand it any longer. I walked down the hill. Gavin was so absorbed that he didn’t see me coming but Marmie suddenly noticed me and came cavorting over to say hello. Empty-mouthed. She’d given up on the stick.

Gavin straightened up then. I’d noticed before how aware he was of any change in the environment. Although he had his back to Marmie he seemed to sense that she was reacting to something.

He took a glance at me and went back to work. That didn’t surprise me. He’d hardly spoken to me the night before. He was furious that I’d given in to Mr Sayle.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked him. That was a waste of time as he had his back to me again.

I shrugged and found my own line of broom parallel to his and started pulling those out. After a while I almost forgot he was there. I got into a rhythm, the way you do. I reduced the boredom by counting the number of plants. I reached my first hundred in four or five minutes.

I was halfway to my second when suddenly I was attacked. A wild little whirling dervish was whipping me with a long broom plant. I backed off, defending myself with my hands, trying to grab the plant and pull it away.

‘Gavin, what is this all about?’

‘You’re stupid,’ he yelled. ‘You’re pathetic.’ His eyes were full of tears.

I screamed back. ‘What do you think? That I want to sell the place? You know I love it here. It’s my home. I thought we’d always be here. I feel as bad as you do. Worse.’

‘No you don’t! You’re not even fighting! You don’t care! You’re pathetic!’

He started ripping broom out of the ground, not caring whether he was getting the roots or not, sobbing as he did it. Suddenly he stopped and turned on me again. ‘You’re a coward! You don’t have guts!’

‘It’s not a matter of guts! It’s common sense. It’s money. What would you know about it?’

‘Dad wouldn’t give in.’

I started to answer, then realised with a shock that he was talking about my father. Occasionally he had called him ‘Dad’, but it always seemed like an accident. It took me a moment to recover, then all I could say was, ‘He would when things were this bad,’ which sounded pretty weak even to me.

I walked away and went down to the lagoon. I stood there looking out over the water. This had been my father’s dream. To the horror of my grandfather he’d resurrected this area, taking it out of production and turning it over to trees and native plants and birds. It was as though my father had brought life back to this tired and over-grazed area, as though the breeze that stirred the long green reeds was my father’s breath. I felt then what I hadn’t felt in the cemetery, like he was alive again, that maybe he hadn’t died after all.

My shadow was beside me and he put an arm around my leg as Marmie wandered along the edge of the water, in it up to her knees, sniffing for nests in the undergrowth.

‘Gavin, we’d need to make two thousand bucks a week,’ I said to him. ‘That’s so much money.’

He didn’t answer.

‘There’s eight thousand in the bank. That’d only keep us going for a month.’

He frowned up at me.

‘I don’t know the first thing about money,’ I said. ‘Not a damn thing. Every time we play Monopoly I lose.’

He looked away.

‘There’s a hundred cents in the dollar, that’s about all I know,’ I told the back of his neck, which couldn’t hear me.

He looked around at me again, impatiently.

I held him at arm’s length and spoke straight into his face. ‘Gavin, do you understand that we could end up losing everything? At the moment we’d have enough to get a little house in Wirrawee and keep us fed and clothed. Doing what you want, we could end up sleeping in dumpbins.’

He shook his head and hit me on the arm. He was strong enough; he really hurt.

‘Fight,’ he said. ‘If you fight, you win or you lose. If you don’t fight, you lose.’

I stood there gazing at the lagoon, my mind in an agony of indecision. Finally I turned to him.

‘We’d both have to work like we’ve never worked before,’ I said. ‘If you’re going to pull up broom for ten minutes and then get sick of it, well, say so now, so I know where we are. We’re going to have to work before we go to school and work when we get home. You can forget about sleepovers with your mates and birthday parties and blue-light discos. You can forget about weekends and school holidays. You can forget about your social life. We can’t afford to employ anyone. We’ll have to do it on our own.’

He gazed at me with his face and jaw set in the bulldog glare I knew so well. Then he marched away over the rise. I followed him, thinking we were heading home. But I got it wrong again. He swung left, back into the gully, and we both started pulling up more broom.