He didn’t answer or if he did I couldn’t hear him because a plane passed over low down but rising, heading east.
‘I’d have flown up if I’d known there was a service,’ I said.
‘There isn’t. The planes run supplies and equipment and manpower to the big properties and freight out the produce. It’s the only way to do business out here in woop-woop.’
Globalisation, I thought. ‘And what do you do out here in woop-woop, Kevin?’
‘Bugger-all. I was in the bank but it closed down.’
I was beginning to get an idea of the shape of things. Kevin lit another cigarette and blew the smoke out with a beer-laden breath. He was still fit-looking but wouldn’t be for long if he went on the way he was going. His fingers were heavily nicotine-stained. ‘I understand you used to be a pretty good footballer.’
He snorted his derision. ‘Yeah, back when the town wasn’t just geriatrics and women. It’s time to go, man.’
‘What keeps you here then?’
He didn’t answer. He smoked his cigarette down to the filter, butted it and went to sleep, or pretended to. I drove on hoping the road would take me all the way to Jacko’s place. After a few kilometres I passed the entrance to one of the big properties Kevin had referred to. The gate was an impressive wrought iron structure set in solid brick pillars with a high cyclone fence running away for a hundred metres on either side. The sign over the gate read Western Holdings Pty Ltd and carried a website address. A flagpole with a blue and yellow flag hanging limply in the still air sprouted just inside. The road leading from the gate was tarred, with garden beds on both sides. In the far distance the fading sunlight bounced off gleaming roofs.
The road climbed suddenly and from the crest I got a good view of the Western Holdings property. It seemed to go on forever and to be very orderly with dams and irrigation channels and sheds at regular intervals. I saw cows and big paddocks with crops I couldn’t identify and several pieces of heavy machinery. Whatever they produced there was on a large scale and capital intensive.
I opened my mouth to ask Kevin about it but he let out a snore. My eyes flicked to the fuel gauge, which was hovering just above empty. I deliberately steered into a pothole and let the Pajero bounce. Kevin jerked awake and swore.
‘What the fuck…’
‘We’re almost out of fuel. How much further is it?’
He peered through the dusty windshield. ‘Have you passed the Yank place?’
‘If you mean Western Holdings, yes.’
‘That’s what I mean. Five thousand fucking acres making money hand over fist. Dad’s crummy little dirt patch is about two k’s off. When you cross a scummy little creek you’re almost there.’
‘You don’t like the farm?’
‘I used to, when it was a farm. I loved it.’
The gauge read empty. To take my mind off it I said, ‘Tell me about it, Kevin.’
But his eyes were riveted on the gauge. ‘Dad’ll tell you all about it. And he’ll tell you about his insane idea to save the fucking world.’
I couldn’t help making unfavourable comparisons between Jacko’s farm and the Western Holdings outfit. Jacko’s fences needed repair, his main track needed grading and his sheds were sway-backed. The farmhouse had once been a handsome, broad-verandahed building sheltered by spreading eucalypts but it wore a shabby defeated air created by peeling paint, faded brickwork and rusted iron. A battered ute stood under a makeshift canvas shelter and I pulled up beside it.
Kevin Brown jumped down and strode off towards the house without a word. The fuel gauge had flopped below empty and the motor died before I could turn it off. I climbed down and stretched. The Pajero was air-conditioned and comfortable but I’d driven for more hours than my mature limbs cared for. I stood in the long shadows cast by some spindly trees and worked my shoulders.
‘Left shoulder still a bit stiff, eh? I remember when you dislocated it in a dumper.’
I turned to see Jacko Brown standing a few paces away. His soft feet had made him a good boxer and a great jungle fighter.
‘Jacko,’ I said. ‘So this is what you traded in a contract with the Balmain Tigers for?’
We shook hands. His was as hard and rough as a mallee root. ‘This is it. A thousand acres.’
‘You’re behind the times, mate. It’s hectares now.’
‘Yeah, I keep forgetting. Great to see you, Cliff. Where’s Kevin?’
‘He took off inside.’ I reached into the 4WD for my bag. ‘I hope you’ve got some fuel here. I’ve used the last drop.’
‘Of course. Gallons.’
‘Litres.’
He laughed. ‘Fuck you. Come in and have a shower and a scotch.’
I shouldered the bag and we walked across the scruffy grass to the house. ‘I heard you went dry.’
‘I did, but I got some in for you.’
The temperature dropped welcomingly inside the house. I took off my sunglasses and adjusted to the reduced light. There was a broad passageway with rooms off to either side. The floor was polished hardwood but dusty. The carpet runner was frayed. We went through to a kitchen and sunroom stretching the width of the house at the back. The kitchen held a combustion stove, a big old-fashioned refrigerator and a microwave oven, plus a long pine table and chairs. Three pine dressers, antiques. The furniture in the sunroom was cane, old and with sun-faded cushions.
Jacko opened the back door and pointed. ‘Shower’s out there. I’ll just have a word with Kevin, then we can have a drink.’
The washhouse, combining a bathroom and laundry, was a fibro outhouse ten paces away. To shower you stood in a claw hammer bath. You hung your towel on a nail on the door. I showered quickly in cold water, dried off, changed my shirt and went back to the house. Jacko put ice in a bowl, got two glasses and a bottle of soda water, and put them on the low table in the sunroom.
‘Kevin’s shot through,’ he said. ‘Dunno where. I was going to give him a drink. I know he gets on it in town. Did you have any trouble with him?’
‘Not with him. A mate of his named Jimmy had a go.’
‘Did you hurt him?’
‘Not really. He’ll have a stiff neck and a bruised beer gut for a bit.’
‘Say when.’ He poured a solid slug of Johnny Walker red over ice. He put ice in his own glass and topped it with soda water. He handed me the drink. ‘Cheers.’
We sat and I drank and felt the whisky slide down my throat and lubricate my bones. As soon as we’d both had a swallow Jacko got to the point.
‘I’m trying to start a community bank,’ he said. ‘It’s the only way we’re going to survive out here. They’ve done it in other places and we can do it here, I reckon. Do you know anything about community banks, Cliff?’
‘I read something about one in Bendigo or somewhere but I was skimming. Safe to say I know nothing about them.’
I was treated to a half hour rundown on the theory and practice of community banking and the benefits it could bring to a depressed rural area. Typical of Jacko, he knew his subject. I remembered how he read up on farm management before he quit the big smoke.
I finished my drink about the time he finished talking. ‘You’ve got it by the balls,’ I said.
‘Internet. Marvellous thing. You on it?’
I shook my head.
‘That’s right. I tried to find your website. How can you conduct a business without being online?’
‘I manage. So what’s the problem? Not enough takers? You want me to scare people into coming in with you?’
The enthusiasm that had been in his voice ebbed away. ‘No, ‘course not. The problem is there’s someone trying to stop me.’
‘Stop you how?’
‘You name it-threatening notes and phone calls, sabotage of equipment, killing stock, spreading rumours…’
‘Like what?’
‘Like that I was drunk when Shirl got killed. Like that I molested Debbie and that’s why she left.’
Debbie was Jacko’s daughter, who I knew had gone to Adelaide. I didn’t know why. ‘That’s ridiculous. Who’d believe that?’