The Ellie Chronicles (20 page)

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.

THE NEXT DAY started early, like so many of them do. Right on dusk the night before I’d noticed a cow with a prolapsed rectum, so we moved her into the cattle yard. Before going out to the school bus I nicked into the yard with a sleepy and complaining Gavin.

Dad had taught me what to do with prolapsed rectums and uteruses but it wasn’t nice before breakfast. There was too much of it to push back in so I got a piece of poly pipe, about thirty centimetres, and drilled a hole halfway along it. Then I had the fun job of finding the actual hole in the cow, through all the maggoty mess of intestines.

‘Hope you wash your hands after this,’ Gavin mumbled.

Once I’d found the bum, with a bit of careful pushing and experimenting, I got the pipe in, up to the hole which I’d drilled. Gavin gave me the needle and the twine and I got stuck into my needlework. A bit different from the needlework all those elegant ladies had done in the nineteenth century. Basically I was tying the twine round and round the prolapsed part, using the hole in the pipe, until I could tie it off and let the cow go back to the paddock. After a while the prolapsed part would drop off, because I’d cut the circulation to it. And the twine would rot away too. The pipe would drop out and the cow could go on with her life, able to mix with her friends again without the embarrassment of poly pipe sticking out of her bum. In the meantime she’d have to poo through the pipe.

We only just made it to the bus but I didn’t dare miss another day of school. Gavin and I must have had the worst attendance records in Wirrawee. I didn’t like it for me, because I didn’t necessarily want to spend my whole life on the farm. I wanted to go to university, at some stage, and although I couldn’t begin to think how to manage it, I didn’t want to slam the door on the possibility. But I’d have to do a bloody lot of work and get some serious passes in some serious exams.

And I didn’t want Gavin to miss any more school, because he too was way behind. It wasn’t just the war. I don’t think he was the most academic person in the Wirrawee area, and being deaf made it harder because it took him longer to get the instructions. Plus he didn’t get as much information as other students. I got the sense that the teacher would give the class a five-minute speech about something, much of which Gavin would miss, and then she’d give Gavin a twenty-second summing up of his own. So he got about a tenth of what they got. I was too distracted by everything that was going on in my life, most lately of course Liberation, but I kept thinking I had to do something about Gavin and school. The trouble was that it kept getting pushed down the list of priorities.

Anyway, at least this day we arrived on time. I watched Gavin get off first, when we stopped at the primary school. He hated for me to wave to him or acknowledge him in any way. So he usually ignored me. This day though, our eyes met, and I smiled, and he even gave me a glimmer of a fraction of a tiny grin back. That was extremely rare.

I felt guilty that I hadn’t talked about school with him much lately. In the old days, from what he told me, on the rare occasions when he talked about the old days, he had a special aide in the classroom most of the time. Now the government couldn’t afford such luxuries and he was on his own, in a classroom of thirty-five kids. And apart from his naughty little mate Mark, he probably was on his own. He certainly sat on his own in the bus, but there were only eleven primary kids on our bus, and five of those went to Our Lady of Good Counsel, and four of the others were girls. I had a feeling the girls would be cautious of Gavin.

Our Lady of Good Counsel. Catholic schools always have such poetic names. In Stratton there was Saint Joseph the Worker, and Our Lady Help of Christians. In the city I saw a Catholic high school called Star of the Sea. And I went to Wirrawee High School. Why didn’t they rename it? ‘Place of Learning Among the Pines.’ ‘School of Wisdom and Enlightenment.’ ‘Saint Ellie the Irresolute.’

I saw Jess as soon as I arrived. It was my first day back since the raid on the guerilla camp and I could tell the moment Jess looked at me that she knew. She had a little secret smile. ‘Nice one, Ellie,’ she said offering me a Tic-Tac. ‘It’s true what they say about you.’

‘What do they say about me?’ I asked. I was off-balance.

I wasn’t sure these days if I still liked Jess, but I thought I probably didn’t.

‘Oh well, you know, all that stuff about you being such a war legend. I didn’t know how much of it was exaggerated. But you sure saved Homer’s ass.’

‘Well, Lee and Gavin managed to give a bit of help from time to time. So, who told you?’

‘Homer. But don’t worry, I’m safe with secrets.’ She pulled a newspaper clipping out of her pocket. It was already wearing away through being folded and unfolded, even though it was only a day old.

I guessed what it would be about.

Unconfirmed reports suggest that missing agricultural consultant Nick Greene has been rescued by the guerilla group calling itself Liberation. Greene, who had been accused of distributing Christian literature across the border, was taken hostage nearly two months ago, and grave fears were held for his safety.

Greene is a member of Cross-Country, a group committed to reconciliation between the two countries. A spokesperson for Cross-Country said only that ‘Greene’s circumstances had changed’, and a further statement would be made within forty-eight hours.

No comment could be obtained from Liberation, who are a notoriously secretive group. Greene is thought to be recuperating with family members in the Stratton–Wirrawee area.

I shrugged and gave it back to Jess. ‘Did you do the Legal Studies?’ I asked her.

She looked at me. ‘God, it’s true, you do have ice in your veins,’ she said.

It sounded like she was quoting someone else and I wondered who it was. Would Homer have said a thing like that about me? I didn’t have ice in my veins when it came to wondering what other people thought of me, but then I was a teenager after all.

I headed for my locker but just as I got there I ran into Ms Maxwell. She was our Year Coordinator these days and every day she looked more harassed. Her hair looked wilder and her face was thinner and her glasses were further and further down her nose. ‘Oh, Ellie,’ she said, ‘I’m so glad you still remember where your locker is.’

‘Ha-ha very funny, Ms Maxwell,’ I said.

‘Well, I need to talk to you about your attendance, Ellie. What about you come and see me at the staff room at recess?’

‘OK, Ms Maxwell,’ I said. Great start to the school day. As if a cow with a prolapsed rectum wasn’t enough. I wondered how Ms Maxwell would go stuffing a bit of poly pipe up a cow’s bum at seven o’clock in the morning.

The day didn’t get any better. We had double English, which was another reason I’d made an effort to get to school today. I don’t mind the occasional English lesson. This year we had Mrs Barlow. I’d had her in Year 7 for English and Year 8 for Social Studies. That’s another problem with a small school, you get the same teachers over and over again. Still, as you get higher up, things improve. Teachers treat you more like a friend, kids are nicer to each other, the atmosphere improves about a thousand . . . something. What do you measure school atmosphere in? Kilos? Metres? Degrees? I don’t know.

We’d been doing some quite good stuff in English, including literary archetypes and fantasy novels. Mrs Barlow is a bit of a fantasy freak. She’s always got some twelve hundred page epic under her arm. But this time I got the fatty end of the brisket. ‘Would have been better to stay home and hoe out the early thistles,’ I thought. ‘Would have been better to get involved in another border raid with Liberation. Would have been better to watch reruns of “The Nanny” on TV.’ Because for one hour and forty minutes all we did was listen to a taped interview with a guy called Joseph Campbell. Unbelievable.

I did all the things you do when you’re bored in class. Redecorated my folder. Wrote a letter to Fi. Kicked Homer when he made stupid remarks, which he still did with about the same frequency as he had in Year 8. For example: the guy on the tape is talking about mandalas, and how they represent harmony and balance within the self, so Homer deliberately hears it as Mandelas and announces that Nelson Mandela is so balanced he can sit on both ends of a seesaw at the same time. Like, not very funny, but probably better than listening to the tape.

At lunchtime I sat with Homer and Jess and Bronte. It was awkward having Bronte there because I wanted to talk more about Liberation, and even the raid to get Homer and Nick back. Sure I’d been extra cool with Jess, but that was showing off really. I did want to talk about it. It’s natural: after riding up to the gates of death on a four wheel motorbike and then racing away again, you want to go over and over it with anyone you can. But I couldn’t talk about it in front of Bronte, although for all I knew she could be a member of Liberation too. Watching her sitting there all calm and peaceful I realised how much I really did like her. Even if she was a year behind us at school she seemed as mature as anyone in my year. More mature than Homer, for a start.

I asked Jess about Jeremy, just to turn the tables a bit. I was pretty casual. ‘So, have you seen Jeremy Finley lately?’

She did go quite red. She leant back in her chair and fixed her strong eyes on me. ‘Oh, yes, at the weekend. Just for a barbecue. We should have asked you.’

It had already struck me that no-one was asking me to anything these days, I suppose because they were still nervous of me after Mum and Dad’s death. Maybe they thought I was too busy? I kind of hoped these were the reasons. I’d hate to think it was for anything more personal, like I had a bad dose of BO, or my sense of humour didn’t rate anymore, or I was too up myself.

‘So how’s Jeremy?’ I asked.

She’d got back her cool. ‘Sexy as ever.’ She laughed. ‘I’m making some progress. I’ll keep you posted.’

Bronte opened the lid of her lunchbox. It looked pretty interesting in there. Riceballs and something a bit sushi-ish, and silver beet and something light green. Not the typical contents of a Wirrawee lunchbox. ‘What’s that stuff?’ I asked, pointing to one of the vegetables.

‘Celeriac,’ she said.

‘Celeriac.’ Nice word. Up there with insouciance, tissue and alligator.

When the first bell rang I walked back with her. But as we arrived at the lockers I saw Ms Maxwell striding towards me. My heart suddenly sagged inside my chest.

‘Oh, Ms Maxwell,’ I said.

‘Ellie, you were meant to come and see me at recess.’

‘I’m sorry, Ms Maxwell, I clean forgot.’

‘Well, you can come and see me now, thank you.’

‘But Ms Maxwell, we’ve got Drama.’

‘I’m sure Mr Elliot can do without you for twenty minutes.’

I followed Ms Maxwell along the corridor, staring gloomily at her back. She wore one of those tailored suits, an olive green pattern that looked like wallpaper. It made her bum look big. One side of her bum was having a pillow fight with the other side.

In her office she settled herself comfortably at the desk. I settled uncomfortably on the other side. She checked a file then looked over her glasses at me. ‘Ellie, I know life has hardly been easy for you lately.’

She seemed to expect an answer so I nodded obediently. ‘Yes, Ms Maxwell,’ I said, not really thinking much, because people said stuff like that to me so often these days that it no longer had an impact.

‘And we have every sympathy for you, and every desire to help you.’

‘Yes, Ms Maxwell.’

‘But at the end of the day we have to operate within guidelines laid down by the Department.’

‘Yes, Ms Maxwell.’ Teachers mentioned the Department in the same way that priests mentioned God.

‘And, Ellie, I have to say that I can’t see how you are going to meet the Department’s minimum requirements for a pass.’

I sat there numbly. So much to deal with, and now this.

‘You’ve missed so many classes, you’re way behind on assignments, you’re scoring failing grades right across the board.’

I’d given up saying ‘Yes, Ms Maxwell.’

‘There is one thing. You can plead special circumstances. Certainly in your case there are a lot of special circumstances. There’s your wartime experiences – and of course nearly everyone can claim some kind of special circumstances as a result of the war – but more particularly there’s the death of your parents.’

I nodded.

She waited quite a while but I couldn’t think of anything to add. So she went on: ‘To tell you the truth, Ellie, I’m a traditionalist. Yes, if you put in for it, I have no doubt you’d get special consideration. But where does that leave you? You’d get a pass without earning it. You’d get a pass even though you don’t have the same knowledge other students have. And what happens next year, and the year after that? For how many years would you keep getting special consideration?’

She leaned forward and looked at me earnestly. ‘I know a lot of people would say I’m being hard on you. And I’m not saying you should “get over” your problems and “get on” with life. You can’t force that, believe me, I know. It will only happen when it happens. I am saying that if you can’t pass this year you should repeat the year, and see how you go the second time around. Better that than to get credit you haven’t earned, better that than to go on to university and have lecturers assume you know things you don’t.’