The Great Plains (26 page)

April, 1935 – The Plains, Southern Queensland

Marcus Todd wiped at the sweat on his brow and heaved the length of cypress pine onto the dray. The horses, Margery and Dot, shifted the weight on their feet and the wagon inched back and forth. The animals had been flighty since midday. They'd snorted and whinnied while walking the river track and even Marcus had been inclined to look over his shoulder at the green-brown water although he was at a loss as to what he expected to see. A weak afternoon sun straggled through the ridge. It would soon be nearing dark and Marcus was feeling all of his forty years. His back ached and he knew that if he did have complete feeling in his legs instead of intermittent numbness, that he would be in need of a swig of rum to ease the pain at the end of the day. Johnny Turk had aimed well at Gallipoli, cutting his legs with shrapnel so that what was left of them appeared like a half-eaten apple. Flossy told him that he'd been lucky, that he'd come home, and of course she was right, but that didn't stop Marcus waking in the night to dream of the dead.

Scanning the dense trees that ringed out from the recently cut stump, he leant against the wagon's wheel. His hand fell on the head of the sheep whose throat had just been cut and he rubbed the woolly skull absently as blood dripped from the lowered tail-board onto the dirt beneath. Two rifle shots sounded. Margery, an uppity mare at the best of times, nickered loudly. The sound echoed through the ridge and was answered by a male voice. Marcus's only child, Will, came running back through the trees towards his father. He darted through the tree trunks, jumping clumps of spiky grass and scaring bush quail, which fluttered noisily from the grass into the air. At twenty years of age, he was sandy-haired and slight of build, with tight muscles that bunched like apples on his forearms and thighs. Marcus couldn't help it but every time he looked at the boy he was reminded of the last night he and Flossy had shared before he'd left for Sydney and the troopship that changed his life. He loved his boy but Will was like the demarcation line between before and after. Nothing had been the same since.

Will arrived out of breath and held up the rabbits for inspection.

‘What are you doing shooting them, Will? We can't afford to be wasting ammunition, and especially when we've got a sheep. When will we eat them?' Marcus climbed into the dray.

Will threw the rabbits in the rear of the wagon and sat beside his father, cradling the carbine rifle in his lap. ‘You said it would be a cool night and I had them in my sights.'

‘We have traps for a reason,' he countered, ‘and it's not especially smart drawing attention to us being here.'

‘It's our land,' Will replied.

Marcus pointed to the sheep in the rear of the dray.

‘It'll be fine, Dad. Anyway, I figured that we could hang the rabbits with the sheep overnight and cook them up for lunch. Better still, let's mince them up with the sheep's heart, salt the intestines and make us some rabbit sausages.'

‘Not a bad idea.' Marcus flicked the reins, the horses jolted forward and began to navigate the rutted track out of the ridge. ‘We'll be as fat as fools.'

The afternoon sun angled down through the trees as wallabies and kangaroos lifted their heads to see who disturbed the peace. There was the sound of kookaburras in the distance and a glimpse of fluffy clouds through the foliage above. Marcus expected rain. His left hand had a habit of getting the tremors when a change of weather approached. He wasn't sure what caused it although he was almost certain the affliction only came after the war. Still, it was as good an indication as any when it came to rain.

Flossy had been hinting at a built-in copper to do the washing for years and the structure was nearing completion. Once it was finished the bricked-in copper and the washer-woman, as Flossy pointed out, would both be protected from the weather. There was a flue to carry away the smoke from the fire, which heated the water beneath, and a pipe that ran from the rainwater tank into the wash-house. Will thought the whole thing was pretty flash, but then he'd never seen a washing machine or an electric light for that matter. Just as well, Marcus figured, otherwise there would be a whole heap of improvements being asked for, ones that they couldn't afford.

The trees grew sparser as the dray reached the edge of the sandy ridge. Marcus glanced over his shoulder at the dead sheep and checked the road ahead.

‘There's no-one here, Dad.'

Marcus halted the dray and, stepping into the cart, dragged a couple of hessian bags over the carcass. Returning to his seat he turned the horses to the right and directed them to the dirt road that led towards their home. The horses picked up speed. There were nose-bags filled with chaff waiting for them in the stables and Margery and Dot were always gluttons for a feed. This track ran parallel to the Condamine River. The waterway couldn't be seen from the road. It lay a half mile away, meandering lazily to the west. To the east of the river, through the trees and scrub that bordered the road, they glimpsed a flat expanse of open country, a treeless plain stretching away to some hills that were best viewed on a cold winter's day when the haze and heat weren't distorting their shape.

‘What I'd give to own some of that soil.'

‘You'll crick your neck if you keep staring at it,' Marcus told his boy.

‘But don't you ever wish we owned some of that country, Dad?'

The Todd block contained a mixed bag of earth, some scrubby and heavily timbered, with only a small portion of it suitable for cropping. ‘I'm more concerned with hanging on to what we've already got.'

Ahead they could see the turn-off to their boundary gate. A man on horseback waited.

‘Who's that?' Will asked.

‘No idea.' Marcus urged the now fractious mares onwards. ‘I'll do the talking.'

The stranger was big-boned. He pushed the brim of his hat clear of his face, crossed his wrists and contemplated the dray and its occupants. Red-haired with a rusty moustache, he was clearly unimpressed. Margery and Dot backed up nervously. Marcus noted the coil of stiff rope hanging down from the man's saddle and the rifle holstered by his side.

‘I'm Wes Kirkland, the manager of Condamine Station.'

‘Marcus Todd, and this here is my son, Will,' he offered affably.

The man grunted. ‘Tough year?'

‘Hard enough.'

‘Well, it's a hard country. Must be difficult on these smaller blocks?'

‘We do all right,' Marcus replied.

‘Have you been out getting supplies?' Wes cocked his head at the dray.

‘Cutting timber,' Will answered quickly.

‘I see.' Wes crossed his arms.

‘I'd ask you in for a cuppa but we've still got the milking to do,' Marcus replied.

‘That's all right, it's not a social visit,' Wes explained. ‘I'll come straight to the point. I'd like to buy your farm, Mr Todd.'

‘Because of the river crossing? Look, I had an agreement some years ago with the last overseer. He could use the crossing as long as he came down the river from the direction of Riverview and stayed off my land. Your big mobs of sheep would eat me out if you brought them this way.'

Wes leant forward in the saddle. ‘You had an agreement? With Hugh Hocking?'

‘Yes, sir, good man he was too. Dreadful thing that snake bite.'

‘Yeah,' Wes agreed, ‘dreadful.'

‘Anyway I know there's not been much of a need to use the crossing recently, what with the dry weather and the low water, but if you want to renegotiate, I'd be happy to talk. They say there's a good run coming after all the rain in the mountains and you'll be needing to move your mobs pretty quickly with shearing coming up.'

Wes tilted his head. ‘So Hocking compensated you?'

‘Man can't live by bread alone, Mr Kirkland,' Marcus grinned.

‘I guess you've got a point. And what about my offer to buy you out?'

‘Not interested, but thank you.' Marcus clapped Will on the shoulder. ‘The farm will belong to my boy one of these days, Mr Kirkland. I have to think of my family.'

‘I'd make it worth your while,' Wes persevered.

‘No thanks.'

Reluctantly Wes turned his horse toward home. He may not have succeeded in buying the property but he could get access to the crossing if it were needed. Edmund would be pleased to hear that news. He turned once to look over his shoulder as the dray trundled away. At least he knew how Hocking had managed to steal the sheep and get them away so quickly. Having met Marcus Todd, Wes figured that at some time in the future he'd get his hands on their lump of dirt. There was always a positive to be found in every situation.

April, 1935 – The Plains, Southern Queensland

Father and son passed through the boundary gate to their property with its wooden sign noting the name, The Plains.

‘Have you ever seen that Mr Kirkland before, Father?'

‘No, Will. I've heard of him though. The word is he's a tough man.'

‘With a funny accent.'

‘He's American, like Hocking was. You probably don't remember him?'

‘Not really. Do you think he'd give us a lot of money if we sold out, Father?'

‘Sold out and went where and did what?' Marcus countered. ‘You're just like your mother.'

‘I was only asking.'

‘Well don't and don't breathe a word of this to her. You know how upset she gets, especially with the condition she's in.'

‘It was probably his sheep we killed.'

‘Probably,' Marcus agreed.

They passed a row of orange trees, five in all, which lined one side of the potholed track. Ahead the iron roof of the homestead appeared. Square and built from hand-hewn pine, it was lined with tongue and groove boards and sat on three-foot-high stumps on a narrow ridge that, to date, had kept out the waters from the Condamine in times of flood. It wasn't much to look at from the outside but Marcus was mighty pleased with it. It had a narrow bull-nosed verandah and three rooms inside and a second-hand wood-burning stove that had cost him a pretty penny in the days when he had money.

On his return from the war, he and Flossy had built it themselves when the government had offered the soldier-settler block. Marcus had been keen to have a go at a new life. He couldn't imagine going back to milking cows on the outskirts of Toowoomba, not after what he'd seen abroad. So they moved to this area in the south-west of the Darling Downs and took up the block a mile from the Condamine River. The house sat on cleared land in an area that was sparsely populated. Other ex-soldiers who'd settled in the region had come and gone, most had gone broke, but the Todds were still there. Marcus knew he was past trying something new and at least The Plains was his. He had a house and a windmill and stables, a wheat paddock and twenty milking cows, and he had his family. With much of the country still gripped by depression, Marcus considered himself to be blessed, although Flossy would never be quite as content.

‘Do you think Mum will be annoyed about the sheep?'

Behind them the lifeless animal wobbled on the boards. ‘Too late now,' Marcus muttered. ‘Just remember though, Will, this is a one-off. I don't believe in steal–'

‘We didn't steal it, Dad, we found it on our land.'

Marcus sighed. ‘That depends on your point of view.'

‘Rabbits, old boiler hens, a dead calf and a bush turkey – that's all we've eaten these past eighteen months.'

‘I know, son, I know.'

The dray rolled past the neat chook run and stables and stopped outside the house. Behind them the trees closed in, concealing the fertile rolling plains beyond and encircling the house block with thick timber and scrub.

Will hefted the sheep over his shoulder and carried the ewe to the edge of the sloping verandah. Marcus passed his son a knife and the boy began to skin the animal. He made a single cut from neck to belly, before branching just below the udder region. Will then loosened the skin as much as possible on the hind legs before cutting right around and separating the skin from the leg at the hock. He finished skinning the hind legs by pulling down on the hide while ‘fisting' with the other hand, and then proceeded to skin the remainder.

Their dog, Perch, appeared from nowhere to grab at one of the hind legs. ‘Get out of it, you mongrel,' Will yelled. Perch bared his teeth and growled. Will growled back. The dog cocked his head to one side and sat in the dirt, one eye on the fresh kill, the other on the boy.

‘Don't blaspheme, Will.'

‘Marcus?' Flossy appeared around the side of the house, a pile of wood in her arms. Dressed in a calf-skimming skirt, thick wool stockings and a sweater, she looked chilled. Perch trotted to her side.

‘I told you not to be doing heavy work,' Marcus admonished. He kissed her cheek and, taking the cut lengths of timber, dumped them on the verandah.

His wife placed a protective hand across her belly and gave a forced smile. ‘Let's not get too excited. A sheep?' She watched her son attach the ewe's hocks to the W-shaped hook, which in turn was attached to a block and tackle. The sheep rose into the air to swing from the end of the verandah. ‘It's not that I'm not grateful,' Flossy told them, ‘but should you be stealing them, Marcus?'

‘It was by itself, wandering down near the river,' Marcus replied. ‘Get us a bucket, will you, love?'

‘On our land,' Will added. ‘Anyway we reckon it belongs to that American, you know Mr Wade, and he's got thousands. He'd hardly miss one.' He sliced open the carcass.

‘And that's supposed to make me feel better?' Flossy went into the house and returned with an iron bucket.

‘Stealing a sheep hasn't been a hanging offence for quite a while, Floss,' Marcus said lightly. Taking the bucket, he collected the heart, kidneys, intestines and liver as Will finished gutting the animal. The rest of the innards fell with a splat on the hide spread on the dirt beneath. ‘Besides, a man can only live on rabbits, cabbage and potatoes for so long.'

‘I don't know, Marcus. Things aren't that bad.'

Will wiped bloody hands on filthy trousers. ‘A bit of dripping on bread would go down a treat, Mum.'

Flossy still looked doubtful.

‘I'll dig us a nice big hole, drop the evidence in it and cover it over.' Marcus dragged the length of timber from the rear of the dray and let it drop on the ground. ‘Come late winter I'll buy us a mulberry tree. Best fertiliser in the world, sheep's guts.'

‘And dead dogs,' Will added. All three of them turned as one to stare at the line of orange trees. There was a dog apiece under each one. Some had succumbed to snake bite or broken limbs, others had died of old age. Perch gave a whine.

‘It's a fine memorial,' Flossy agreed, taking the bucket from her husband.

The thick stench of butchered meat permeated the air.

‘Lamb's fry for dinner, eh, love?' Marcus suggested.

Will cracked the sheep's head with an axe. ‘You want the brains, Mum?'

Flossy looked at the bloody contents of the bucket and clutched her stomach. ‘I think I'm going to be sick.'

Father and son busied themselves as Flossy dry-retched over the side of the verandah.

‘You dig the hole for the skin and guts, Will. I'll get the cows in before it gets dark. I want the mulberry outside the kitchen window,' Marcus stipulated as he whistled to Perch to follow him.

Marcus followed the track out towards the stables and then verged westward to the paddock that adjoined the yards at the back of the shed. Perch followed at his heels, weaving backwards and forwards, occasionally jumping up on his hind legs to nip affectionately at Marcus's swinging hands. Slipping through the wire fence, they walked out across winter dry grass and a sprinkling of seasonal herbage to where the cows grazed. Marcus turned to the dog. ‘Bring them in, boy.'

Perch pelted off at full speed. Rounding the mob, he startled some younger cows into movement before settling at the rear of the herd. Once the milkers were gathered together and heading towards Marcus, Perch gave a bark.

‘Hurry it up then,' Marcus replied, a smile coming to his lips. They were running late today. There was only an hour of sunlight left. Already the sparsely timbered field was layered in shadows and as it took anything from ten to twenty minutes to milk each cow, they would be working in the dark. Helpfully, his girls were already trundling towards him, led by Sissy, the eldest of the herd. Marcus called the Jerseys in as they grew closer, naming each one of them, comforted by the twice-daily routine. Sissy stopped for her usual pat as she entered the main enclosure and Marcus rubbed her back affectionately as she continued on into a smaller yard. ‘Good girl,' Marcus murmured, leading her into the milking stall and tethering her to the wall. Sissy was as reliable as a clock. The other cows straggled in. There were always a couple of uncooperative young ones lagging behind and he shooed them in with Perch's help until the milking herd was gathered. Then, one by one, he directed the cows into a stall.

There were six pens built against the rear of the stables with a lean-to for a roof. Years ago he envisaged a separate building with a cement floor for easier cleaning, but they never made enough money. Marcus's dreams included a motor for mechanical milking, a covered milking-shed that would hold fifty cows, and a milk-room for storage. Instead they relied on the services of a refrigerated milk truck that drove past the farm twice daily en route to the milk factory. Their old refrigerated truck had broken down last year and neither Will nor Marcus had the know-how or the money to fix it.

Will came through a side gate carrying two buckets of water. ‘I started the hole but I figured I'd finish it in the dark.' He waited as Marcus tethered the milkers and then both men began scrubbing the cows' udders with a brush and water, before drying each one with a towel.

Dragging the milking stools from the corners of the first two stalls, they positioned them next to their respective cows and sat clean buckets on the ground. Perch walked the length of the stands, stopping to sniff at each cow, and then returned to where Sissy stood. An upturned forty-four gallon drum sat next to the railing. Perch sprang up to sit on the top of it, settling himself like a roosting hen as Marcus and Will almost simultaneously took hold of a teat in each hand and began squeezing their fingers progressively from the udder end to the tip. The stripping action increased in pace and milk squirted into the buckets on the ground.

‘The feed's cutting out, Dad.'

Sissy gave a low moo and Marcus paused in the milking to give her a pat. ‘We've done well to last this long, even if we are down to an average of four gallons a cow, a day.' That was the worst of their business. Unable to produce and store sufficient silage that would last them year round like some of the bigger producers, the Todds' dairy production was seasonal in order to take in the best of the feed on a yearly basis. Consequently, long hot summers with little rain and cold winters equalled little or no milk production. With the pail full of Sissy's rich milk, Marcus emptied the contents into one of the ten gallon galvanised tin cans that were lined up against the railings outside the yard. Across the flat a light shone from inside the house. He wondered how Flossy was.

‘If we could get a contract with one of the butter companies we'd make more money.' Will emptied his pail as Marcus began to wash down Sissy's udder. Once finished he opened a gate for her to return to the paddock. The old cow walked out obediently.

‘It won't ever happen, not when we can't be assured of good feed twelve months of the year.' Marcus moved to the next stall and began milking. ‘How's your mother?'

‘I told her not to help, that we could manage,' Will answered. He leant forward, his head resting against the side of the cow he milked. ‘Will she be all right?'

‘Sure, sure she will.'

‘What if the baby doesn't come again?'

Marcus gave too hard a tug on the teat and the cow he was milking kicked out, knocking over the bucket and spilling the precious milk in the dirt. ‘Damn it.'

‘I just thought that maybe she should stop trying.' Will busied himself with the next milker as the light faded and the stalls grew dark. When he'd finished, he fetched two kerosene lamps from the stable, lit them and hung them on hooks on the wall. ‘I was thinking that I might try to find some work, Dad.'

Marcus turned to his son. ‘What about the dairy?'

‘Well, they're not producing as much, you said it yourself. And wouldn't it be better if there was a bit of extra money coming in, you know maybe even enough to get the truck repaired? And what about Mum? She could buy a new dress or something.'

‘Where is she going to wear it?' Marcus asked.

Will emptied his bucket. Milk sloshed down into the tin canister. ‘Maybe church?'

Flossy had not been near their local church for ten years. Instead she'd taken to reading the Bible every Sunday, for most of the day. That wasn't a worry really except that on the odd occasion Marcus had heard his wife repeating sections from the good book out loud, when she thought no-one was around. He never had gone much on people talking to themselves. His mother used to say it was the first sign of madness.

‘What about another Bible then, Dad? She's nearly worn the old one out,' suggested Will. ‘Or one of those religious tracts that we used to read in Sunday school?'

Marcus wasn't of a mind to be encouraging Flossy's religious fervor. He knew his wife looked for answers when there were none to be found. ‘I don't know that you'll find much work around here, son. Things are pretty tight. There are still men walking the country looking for jobs. There was a tramp on the road yesterday when I collected the empty milk canisters. He offered to help me load them in return for food. I gave him short shrift. He had a shifty look about him.'