Authors: John Marsden
The CWA were doing a sausage sizzle so we got our lunch from them. At least they didn’t charge me.
The auction started about ten minutes late, out the front. Jerry Parsons said to wait inside the house but I couldn’t, so I perched on the lowest branch of the old oak tree on the other side of the driveway, the tree I had spent so many hours in as a kid, and, with a hand on Homer’s head below me, tightly watched and listened as Mr Parsons started firing up the crowd.
I can’t remember everything he said, but there was a lot of stuff about this being a famous property, one of the best in the district, ‘lovingly developed and maintained by successive generations of the Linton family’, with improvements including ‘this gracious home behind me, which I’m sure you’ve all had a good chance to look through by now, and the very spacious machinery shed, along with the shearing shed which is one of the oldest in the district and has been recognised by the National Trust as being of historic significance, and most recently a fine new set of cattle yards which have just been completed’. He read a lot of that stuff off the brochure.
But eventually the time came. The knot in my stomach tightened. I really had no idea how many people might be bidding. Jerry Parsons said there were four people who’d had at least three looks at the place, and then of course there were some of the neighbours who would have only needed to see it once, if at all. But Jerry also said that there mightn’t be a single bid. ‘You just never know,’ he said. ‘I always tell people not to get their hopes up.’
A large part of me would have been quite happy to get no bids, and then I could stay on living here, but I knew that wasn’t a good idea. Besides, I’d made my mind up to leave, and I guess that meant I’d said goodbye to the place in my head. And my heart. Once you’ve done that it’s hard to go back.
‘Now it’s time for you to do what you’ve come here today to do,’ Mr Parsons shouted. He was getting good and worked up. ‘And that’s to put your hand up if you want to give yourself a chance of becoming the new owner of this magnificent property. The first new owner in nearly a century. A property like this only comes along about once in a century.’
‘That’s what he says every week,’ whispered Polly Addams, to my right, and a few people laughed. I kept my head down.
‘When you bid, bid good. Don’t be bashful about it.
Stick your hand up where we can see it. And now I’m asking for a bid to get me started. What’ll it be, ladies and gentlemen? How much will you give me for this wonderful property and all its improvements? Who’ll get me started? Come on now, is there a million? Will you say a million? There must be a million, surely?’
The suspense was terrible. Everyone was looking at the ground, except the kids, who were staring in every direction, hoping to see a hand wave. Maybe the adults were afraid to make eye contact with any of the auctioneer’s staff in case it was taken as a bid.
I didn’t see anyone move or hear anyone but then Jerry Parsons suddenly said, ‘Eight hundred is it? All right, I’ll take eight hundred, to get me started. It’s very low but I’ll take it. Now we’re here today to sell, ladies and gentlemen, so don’t be shy. Do I have eight fifty? Yes I do, to my right there.’
‘Nine hundred,’ someone near me yelled and we were away.
‘That was Mr Rodd,’ Homer whispered. My face burned. ‘No way!’ There was no way in the world I would sell the place to Mr Rodd!
But the auction was galloping and bids were coming from left, right and centre, literally. They raced to 1.2 million, then slowed down, until only three people were bidding, it seemed to me. It was very hard to tell what was happening. You must need eyes in the back of your head to be an auctioneer. Then one person dropped out and the bidding suddenly slowed to a dawdle. They started going up by $25,000 at a time, then by tens. ‘You’re going to be a millionaire,’ Homer muttered.
‘The bank takes most of it. Are your parents bidding?’
‘I’ve been watching them. Dad waved his hand a couple of times but they only saw him once, I think. It’s too rich for us now.’
We were up to 1.38 million. A man in a brown jacket and a blue tie was one of the bidders, and the other was a guy wearing a suit, on the far side of the crowd. I didn’t know either of them, but I suddenly realised Don Murray was standing next to the man in the suit, like he was advising him. I wondered then if the man was the plastic surgeon Don managed Blackwood Springs for. He’d have a few bob.
Jerry had told me that 1.5 million would be a good result, and to sell if we got 1.4, so it looked like the place was going to go.
Homer said suddenly, ‘I’m glad we’re not buying it. It would have felt weird. It’s your place. I’d feel bad trampling all over it.’
I didn’t answer because I didn’t know what to say to that. Finally I said, ‘I’m just glad Mr Rodd’s dropped out.’
The winner seemed to be 1.38. Jerry Parsons was waving his arm around like a badly balanced windmill, and saying, ‘I give you fair warning, if there’s no more bids I’m going to knock it down to the gentleman under the walnut tree, I’m selling for the first time, for the second time now, I’m going to sell it, fair warning, ladies and gentlemen, for the third time and sol–’
‘One point four,’called Mr Rodd.
The hammer stopped in midair. Mr Parsons looked at him and said, ‘Your timing’s pretty tight there, Max,’ then he went straight back into normal auctioneer mode, yelling, ‘I’ve got 1.4 now, ladies and gentlemen, that’s more like it, new bidder at one million four hundred thousand, and I’ll take fives, what about you sir, just another five thousand could be enough to secure this magnificent property, in prime condition but still plenty of room for improvement, it’d make a superb bed and breakfast or guesthouse . . .’ and on and on, but I felt the heat had gone out of it and Mr Rodd was going to get it. I felt sick. Could I withdraw the property from the auction just because I didn’t like Mr Rodd? But if I did, the move to town with Gavin would be delayed even further. Which was more important, Gavin or the property? I’d already answered that question.
I slipped down from the tree and walked away, not wanting to look at anyone, revolted by the thought of Mr Rodd walking through our house, sitting in our kitchen, sleeping in my parents’ bedroom. I felt like I’d swallowed a large amount of wet cow manure.
Taking a few more steps I reached the sundial and looked out across the garden to the paddocks beyond. I guess on most properties you have the kind of line that we had on ours, where the neat, civilised garden, full of hollyhocks and roses and hydrangeas, ends and the bare Australian countryside begins. It’s a bit funny really, the way the gardens are. The line is so definite. First one, then the other. Like you’re in a house, only one without walls, then suddenly you’re outside, facing the cracked ground and the yellow and brown grass and the slightly washed-out-looking gum trees and the ochrered cattle. For a moment I tried to ask my parents what I should do. I wanted a psychic vision: I begged them to appear from across the valley and float towards me, speaking words of wisdom ‘Let it be, let it be.’ Wait a minute, that wasn’t my parents. That was the song. But at the same time I realised I didn’t really need my parents because the answer was already in my own head. Courtesy of the Beatles. It would have been nice if my parents had appeared and said those words, sure, but I knew what I wanted them to say. ‘Let it be, let it go, let it pass, this phase of your life is over, face the next stage now, go on into the future.’
I became dimly aware that Jerry was still shouting away behind me. It seemed that the auction wasn’t over yet. I turned around and walked back to the edge of the arena. ‘One and a half,’ Mr Parsons yelled, ‘One and a half. Is there anything else you want to say to me? If there is, let’s hear it. I’m going to sell, I’m going to sell it, for the first time, for the second time, don’t walk away from here filled with regret, ladies and gentlemen, last chance, third time, fair warning, I’m selling’, and down came the hammer.
‘Sold for one and a half million dollars, and congratulations, you’ve acquired a very fine property, and thank you everybody for coming here today . . .’
As he wound up with a free ad for his next auction I looked around desperately. Where was Homer? Fi? Bronte? Lee? I couldn’t ask anyone else the big question: who’d bought the place? I’d feel too stupid. I started walking towards the house and then ran into Bronte. I clutched at her. ‘Who bought it? Who bought it?’
‘God, I don’t know, how would I know? I don’t know anyone’s names.’
‘Where’s Homer?’
‘I’m not sure. Wait, there’s Lee.’
Lee came over and I took both his hands with mine. ‘Who bought it, do you know?’
‘Yeah, it was the twins’ dad. Mr Young.’
‘Oh thank God. Are you sure?’
‘Yeah, that other guy, Rodd, he went for it pretty hard but Mr Young just kept nodding away like he didn’t care how much he paid for it, and eventually Rodd gave up.’
‘Oh that’s such a relief.’ I let go a little, let myself mould in with Lee, felt him tense against me before he too started to relax. A sudden delight ran through us both – I felt it as much in him as I did in myself. He hugged me. His passion, which had smouldered for so long, was ready to burst into wild flames and when it came to Lee I was totally combustible. ‘Hey, careful you two,’ Bronte said. ‘Here comes Homer.’
I grinned at her. ‘So?’
‘Well you know, the one you’re in love with? The one who’s in love with you?’
‘Homer? You’ve got to be kidding. Is that who you were talking about? Homer!’
I couldn’t believe the Scarlet Pimple had got it so wrong.
‘Bronte! Are you crazy? I’m in love with Lee!’
COURT OF PROTECTIVE SERVICES: JUDGEMENT IN THE MATTER OF LINTON V DEPARTMENT OF SOCIAL RESPONSIBILITY, HIS HONOUR JUDGE CULLEN PRESIDING.
The appellant in this matter asks for an order that would give her the guardianship of another even though she is herself under a guardianship order and even though she is a minor. Such an application raises obvious issues of maturity and responsibility, which the appellant has sought to answer in three ways. Firstly, she argues that her age is irrelevant and that the Court is entitled to consider her suitability on her merits. In making this argument she has relied considerably on
Grant v Breadsell,
where the High Court found that leaving a sixteen year old in charge of a crèche was not in itself proof of negligence, on
Ruppy v Dalby University,
where the university was compelled by the Supreme Court to admit a fourteen year old to its medical faculty, and, since the war, on two cases decided by this court, namely
Macalister
and
David,
where adoptions by under-age parents were permitted.
However, in
Macalister
the appellant was the aunt of the child, and in
David
the older brother of the fifteen-year-old mother who had died. Further, in the first of these cases the child was four months old; in the second, ten months.
Counsel for the present appellant makes much of the remarks by Justice O’Massey in
Grant v Breadsell
where that distinguished jurist said that ‘sometimes the age of a litigant can be the least relevant measure for assessing maturity, and indeed relying upon chronological age can amount to discrimination’. Further, in
David,
Justice Chen said she was satisfied that the seventeen-year-old brother showed considerably more maturity in court than the maternal grandparents, to whom the Department of Social Responsibility had originally granted custody, and that ‘there is no reason to suppose that age always confers wisdom; a sense of responsibility is not the exclusive province of those over the age of eighteen, and a judge is entitled to draw upon her own experience of life in recognising that youth alone does not prevent the practice of good parenting’.
Secondly, the appellant here argues that the new flexibility exercised by the courts since the war in such matters as these ought to be extended to her, and that the other options for the child who is the subject of these proceedings are of such poor standard as to entitle her to be considered the better alternative.
It is certainly true that a new creativity and flexibility has been needed by many courts if not all, since the war, and the decisions in
Macalister
and
David
reflect that. There were a great many orphans created by the war, and the sharp rises in the cost of living, along with the smaller amount of living space available to most people, have placed tremendous pressure on the adoption and fostering agencies. The courts have, in the view of this court at least, responded both appropriately and imaginatively. Although the various options provided by the State to children who cannot be placed in families might not, in the appellant’s view, be satisfactory, they nonetheless are subject to the most stringent regulations, they are frequently and regularly inspected, and they offer the great advantage that the children in their care are in a transparent situation where they are, it is hoped, free from abuse, whilst at the same time their physical and mental health are properly supported and monitored. There is much to be said for such arrangements, and it is unfair to the institutions concerned to be compared to the conditions of a different era. Oliver Twist and Little Orphan Annie are where they should be, on the fiction shelves of libraries, and not to be compared to the current conditions for State-managed children in this country.
Thirdly, the appellant asks the Court to take into account her unusual life experience, her remarkable range of abilities gathered from her farming background as well as her wartime activity, and her personal strengths and attributes. Further, she argues that the circumstances in which she and the child in this case met created a special bond which places her in a unique relationship to him and that this uniquely qualifies her to take on the role of parent to him.
The Court has heard from a number of witnesses, including General Eric Finley of the New Zealand Army, as to the character of Ellie Linton, and is in no doubt that she is an exceptional young woman who has carried herself with great distinction through the war and subsequently in coping with the appalling murder of her parents. Further her care of the child in this case has been to the best of her ability, and the Court is satisfied that the child has suffered no neglect at her hands. There is good reason to suppose that she has helped him in many ways, and that he may have been much worse off had she not devoted so much time and energy to his cause. The relationship between them, unusual as it is, and perhaps the kind of thing which is only found in times of special exigency such as war, appears to be a genuinely strong and loving one.