FOLLOW THE MORNING STAR (56 page)

The woman beside Queenie raised her hand and spoke up. ‘When are they going to realise people like us are valuable? People in the cities and on the coast haven’t a clue what goes on out here. It’s people on the land who keep the rural industries going through the good times and the bad, and worse times are coming, rain or no rain, no matter what they predict. We’re doing it tough and we don’t want handouts, but we need some support to help us get through. Good graziers are being forced to walk off their properties.’ This was given a round of applause and she sat down.

‘How long since you’ve had rain over here?’ Queenie whispered to her.

The woman looked despondent. ‘Going on three years. But it’s not just the drought, it’s been one thing after another. Couldn’t give our place away at the moment. Not that it’s been mismanaged,’ she added.

‘I understand — I’m on the land too,’ said Queenie.

‘Where’re you from?’

‘Tingulla Station. Queenie Hamilton.’ She
held out her hand. The other woman took it and Queenie felt the roughness of work hardened hands.

‘Tingulla, eh? Well, you’re surviving all right.’

Queenie nodded. ‘For the moment. But I’ve done it tough too in one way or another.’

The other woman suddenly recalled the tragedy of the death of Queenie’s parents, her husband Warwick, and some family feud over Tingulla. She looked apologetic. ‘I know you have. Everyone knows of the Hanlons. Say, didn’t TR have a bad accident some time back, how’s he going?’

‘Slowly,’ answered Queenie.

‘By the way, I’m Marion Siddins. My husband Gordon couldn’t make it, he’s a bit crook. Not that this meeting seems to be achieving anything. It’s aways the same. I think I’ll go for a coffee.’

As yet another querulous speaker stood to give his views, Queenie rose and followed her. ‘Me too, I was going to eat at the Swagman Motel, would you care to join me? I’d like the company.’

Marion Siddins smiled at her and Queenie saw she must have been a pretty woman in her youth. She guessed Marion was only in her early fifties but a hard life on the land had aged her skin, and her hair was streaked with grey and had been left to its own devices. Queenie had no doubt a trip to the hairdresser in town would be a rare luxury.

Over coffee and cake they talked of the wool industry and how the present slump had affected so many.

‘You know, it’s crazy when you think of it, that we sit back and rely so much on “them” — the big wheels of politics and industry,’ said Marion. ‘We little people should get in there . . . if only we could. I tell you what, when I look at some of the money going to waste it makes me want to spit chips. If I had the money I’d be buying up old machinery, and getting that going.’

‘Old machinery that’s still functional is hard to find,’ sighed Queenie. ‘I know, I’ve been looking.’

‘Well, I tell you what, there’s a 1903 carding machine made in Birmingham and an American spinning machine sitting in a disused woolshed on a bloke’s property that I know down near Grenfell. I bet that could still turn out skeins of wool at a decent old rate. The pure fibre too, no nylon in it.’

Queenie was immediately interested and asked for more details. An idea was beginning to take shape in her head. If she could buy those machines and move them up near the fellmongery and tannery, they’d be able to use scoured wool to produce knitting yarn at a competitive price. They could use the yarn for their own knitwear as well as sell it to home knitters.

The talk then turned to shared experiences and funny anecdotes of life on the land. Queenie could tell this proud woman was avoiding talking about the harsher reality of her situation for fear of being seen as a whinger. She did discover that Gordon Siddins had been raised on Amaroo, their property, and they’d only had one child, a son, killed in a car crash four years ago.

‘We never thought we’d have kids, and along he came. Bloody beaut kid he was . . . worked with his dad, intended to keep the place going after we’d gone. Break his heart to see what’s happened to it.’ She changed the subject and Queenie insisted they have a second cup of coffee.

‘So are you off in the morning too?’ asked Queenie.

‘Yes, I’ve stocked up from the store, done what business I could. We didn’t even bother trying to sell our wool, put it in storage. But thought I’d come to the meeting, to see what’s going on. I don’t like leaving Gordon alone. He’s not well and he’s nearly killed himself shearing what sheep we’ve got left.’

‘Marion, could I come out and see your place? It’s not much of a detour and I’d like to see for myself how bad the drought’s been. Perhaps we women of the west could put our heads together and come up with an idea or two.’

‘Amaroo isn’t a pretty sight these days, but if you want to . . .’ Marion Siddins shrugged.

They met early the next morning and Queenie followed Marion in her old utility truck. Cocooned in the cool interior of her LandCruiser, Queenie listened to the strains of ‘Swan Lake’ as the scorched landscape rolled past in a never-ending expanse of heat, dust and scattered limp vegetation.

Forty minutes later they came to the fences of Amaroo and the grid that marked the entrance to the property. The circular fan windmill was motionless. Even if there had
been a breath of wind to turn it, there was no water to pump. The wells were dry. Three gates later Queenie saw the roof of the homestead glaring in the relentless sun. She parked behind Marion and as she climbed from the car the side door opened and Gordon Siddins came to welcome them.

He was a brawny, russet-haired man with a shy smile and tired eyes. ‘Lo, Mum,’ he said as he greeted Marion, who introduced Queenie as a new friend she’d met in town.

They went into the kitchen and Marion made tea as they talked. It was Gordon who explained he suffered from organophosphate poisoning brought on by the backliner sprays and sheep dips — the very products used in carrying on his business. This debilitating illness drained his energy and meant he could only work a few hours a day.

Marion cut in, ‘It’s like leptospirosis, it’s a work-related health hazard. Farmers should have been told about it and provided with masks or protective clothing. It’s terrible to watch him trying to struggle on alone.’

‘Not alone,’ said Gordon quietly. ‘She’s worked with me in the shed, bringing in the sheep, dealing with the fleeces, classing and baling. She does a man’s job, plus looks after everything around the house.’

There was resignation and defeat in his voice that spoke of a proud, strong man who no longer had the physical ability to do his job and had to stand by and see his wife slave like a navvy. Yet the obvious affection between them and the caring and loving attention
Marion showed towards her husband touched Queenie. ‘You have no help here?’ she asked gently.

‘Had four blokes full-time and got down to one fellow running the shed, but paying him kept pushing us even further backwards,’ said Gordon.

Later Marion took Queenie around the property. She took her rifle and put it behind the driver’s seat. ‘I have the unpleasant chore of shooting the sheep,’ she said matter-off-actly. But it was obvious the task affected her deeply. ‘We’ve bred these sheep and watched them grow into good animals and now they’re starving to death. We’re down to three thousand sheep and can’t afford to handfeed them. But what upsets me most is that Gordon feels he’s failed me, when he hasn’t at all.’

Marion pulled the truck over by a small dry dam where two thin sheep lay by its edge. Weakly they lifted their heads, the eyeless sockets in their heads seeping wounds. The crows had done their terrible work.

Silently Marion took the rifle and quickly fired a bullet into each skull. Queenie came up to her as she stood, the rifle held limply by her side, staring down at the two worthless carcasses, a tear running down her face.

‘Blasted crows,’ sniffed Marion. ‘It’s a bloody dreadful way to die. I generally come out early in the morning before the crows get to the weak ones.’

They stood in silent grief for a moment, then Marion sighed. ‘Sometimes I think it’d be easier to walk away from all this, but the
thought of going over the grid for the last time is really impossible to contemplate. They’ll have to carry me off in a box first. Anyway, we don’t know anything else.’

Queenie nodded, she understood perfectly.

Marion continued, ‘People who’ve never been on the land don’t understand. All they know is the romantic side of it from the movies and the poems. The people in the cities don’t know what it’s really like. There’s no romance here.’ She turned back to the truck. ‘I’d like to show you something.’

They drove towards a small red hillock where a stark, sticklike sentinel of a dead tree was etched against the blue. They got out and walked towards the tree.

‘This is my special place,’ said Marion. ‘It generally gives me strength to come here, now I feel like one of them.’

‘Who’s that?’ asked Queenie gently.

‘The pioneer women who went before us. How they had to battle, and so often on their own.’

They’d come to a small grave marked by a bleached wooden cross which Marion had wired back together. On a rock at its base were etched the words
Lucas Fogarty. Died 1902. Aged six years.

Both women stood, humbled before the little epitaph. ‘I don’t know anything about him or the family,’ said Marion. ‘But I felt I should look after it for his mother.’ She reached out and patted the little cross and they got back in the truck.

‘So you’ve still got your wool stored here?’ asked Queenie above the rattle of the engine.

‘Yes, we were hoping the price might go up. After throwing money at us the bank won’t talk to us now. The interest rates crippled us. Even the bank knows if they took this place it’d be an albatross. If they’d just help the owners to carry on we’d all get through and probably make a go of it.’

‘What if you sold this clip and had an ongoing private sale deal . . . would that change their mind about helping with the debt?’ asked Queenie.

‘Possibly. But no one would take a chance on a place like this in this economic climate.’

‘I would.’

‘What for? We don’t want charity.’ Marion’s chin lifted.

‘That’s why I’d be prepared to invest in you. You’re fighters and you’re honest. Look, Marion, this wool project I told you about last night means I need wool of various qualities, not just superfine merino. Especially if we got those spinning and carding machines you mentioned up and running. If I was to give you a letter of agreement that I’ll contract to buy your wool, starting with what you’ve got stockpiled now, would that help you out?’

‘I reckon it would,’ said Marion slowly. ‘Why are you doing this? You’re taking a risk.’

‘I don’t think so,’ smiled Queenie. ‘Everyone needs a hand along the way. Let’s just say we’re helping each other in the tradition of country women — in memory of a little boy called Lucas.’

A tear and the light of hope shone in Marion’s eyes. ‘On that understanding, I accept. We won’t let you down, Queenie.’

Toffee streaked along the now posted and well-worn track beside the river as Saskia, Jenni and Angus all watched with binoculars. Angus checked the stopwatch and gave the girls a thumbs-up signal.

Mick rode back towards them grinning broadly. ‘How was that?’

‘Excellent, you got a bit more out of him and that’s doing damned well,’ said Angus. ‘What do you think?’

‘Number one. He’s a beauty,’ enthused Mick. ‘You done a good job, Sas.’

‘Thanks, but can he beat Ambrosia?’

Mick unbuckled his helmet and pulled it off, shaking his mass of dark curls. ‘Mmm, well now, that’s a big question, ain’t it?’

‘Yes, it is, Mick, so what do you think?’ persisted Jenni impatiently.

Mick fussed with his helmet, then looked up. ‘It’ll be close,’ he finally decided.

Seeing the girls’ faces, Angus stepped in smoothly. ‘It’ll depend on the jockey. And we know who’s got the better jockey, right?’

‘You bet,’ said Saskia, her confidence restored.

Later as she helped unsaddle and brush Toffee down, Mick asked Saskia to explain in detail what Toffee’s problem had been and he listened intently as she told him of his cornering and crowding phobia.

Mick chewed his lip. ‘He seems good now,
but how is he in a proper race with other horses and a different course?’

‘He ran a barrier trial last week and did just fine,’ revealed Saskia. ‘Only had an apprentice on board, so we didn’t push him. Angus has been taking him all over the place and Toffee is getting very confident about racing again.’

‘I’m goin’ to have to tell Tango. When are we gonna spring that little surprise?’ said Mick with a worried expression.

‘Leave it to me, Mick, I’ll handle it. I’ll explain I talked you into doing this.’ ‘We ain’t doin’ anything wrong, but I feel a bit uncomfortable.’

‘Why? Don’t worry. This is just a challenge between Tango and me. He doesn’t think I know enough about horses and I know I have a lot to learn, but I want to prove I at least have what it takes to be given a go on my own merit,’ said Saskia with a determined lift of her chin that made Mick smile.

‘You’re just like your mumma. Righto, Sas. I’ll be with Angus, he’s a nice bloke, straight too. We’re going to run Toffee round a few other courses in the next coupla days.’