Chapter 7

Richard invited his parents to the graduation ceremony and they drove to Gatton on Thursday, 1 December. The ceremony ran from about 10 to 11, before it became really hot. Andy and Sybil then helped Richard load his accumulated detritus into their (new) Ford Falcon and a few things into the (rusting) Jeep.

“It’s done well over these three years,” Andy remarked.

“Yes. I’ve had no major problems: plugs, belts, shocks, tyres, wiper blades, but nothing large.”

“Well, it’s little over two hours to Southport; we’ll stop for lunch in Minden.” As there were two vehicles, Richard and his Jeep followed his parents in the Ford.

Over lunch, however, Andy broached the question of the future.

“Well, I’ll be in Southport until the end of the year ... or even the New Year. Then I’m off to Alpha. The acreage near Mitchell will lie fallow, though I may visit it. I’m busy for two years. So, either December 1962 or January 1963 will see me trying to take the first steps there. I’ve not yet worked out a full plan, but I think that clearing a drive off the Warrego and a plot for a house will be first. Then, building a house. One of the things I want to do over the next few weeks is write a plan ... and a budget.”

“Yes. A budget is just a spending plan.”

“Right now I’ve just under five hundred in the bank. I’ll have under two thousand in two years. Nearly 10% of that will go for the house and another 10% for fencing. I’m hoping to get some initial stock for under a thousand and survive the first year.”

Sybil, who’d been largely silent, gasped.

“No, mum. We don’t know about that land. The stock might all die. Or contract blackleg or blue-tongue. The water might get contaminated upstream. There are more ways to fail than to succeed.”

“We’ve got some we could invest,” Andy said.

“Subsidizing the failure? Foolish way to burn your dosh.”

“We’ve dosh we were going to burn.”

“Be serious!”

“No. When Cat was about six we started a savings account for her ... uh...”

“For her trousseau and a sort of dowry,” Sybil said.

“Right. Anyway, hardly any of that was spent. We could give it to you. Or lend it to you. Or invest it in you. It’s about a thousand pounds and earning 6%. In two years it’d be just under eleven hundred.”

“That’s a lot! What about you? Won’t you be – uh – stepping down at some point?”

“We have made separate provisions. In fact, we should go into some detail. I’m over 50 and your mother ... Oh, women’s ages! ... your mother is over 35.”

“‘Thirty-five is a very attractive age. London society is full of women of the very highest birth who have, of their own free choice, remained thirty-five for years,’ as Lady Bracknell says.”

“Yes. Anyway, while you’re in Southport we’ll go over the things you should know.”

Richard looked at Sybil. “And how was your trip to America?”

“Very strange. I met Eddie’s mother and his father and his father’s current...”

Richard interrupted her. “Current?”

“Yes. Carleton has been married three or four times. It seems to be fashionable to turn in one’s spouse for a newer model every few years, like an automobile. I doubt whether Eddie’s current stepmother is thirty. Not more than a few years your senior.

“They live in an enormous home with a swimming pool right by a golf course. There were about three dozen at the ceremony, but well over a hundred at the reception. I felt quite dowdy and embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?”

“The young women were wearing hardly anything! The dresses began halfway down their breasts and the hems were at least eight inches above their knees!”

“What was Cat’s dress like?”

“Oh! She refused to be all in white. She had a dress from some company in Beverley Hills. It was quite lovely. A sort of peachy pink. We’ve lots of pictures. There were two young men playing guitars. Don and Phil. They played and sang. ‘Bye bye love’ and ‘Cathy’s clown’ and two or three others. No ‘Here comes the bride’ nor Mendelssohn. Anyway, Eddie is going to work for the production company in New York for the next year or so and then for something called the distribution end in London for the next year. So they’ve a company flat on Fifth Avenue. Cat wrote me that it’s ‘just a few streets north of the corner of the Park,’ whatever that means.”

“Sounds very swish,” Richard said. Andy remained quiet. Richard made a mental note to talk to his dad about it.

“Finish your coffee,” Andy said. “We won’t be home for an hour or so.”

It was a subdued Christmas. Andy and Sybil had, effectively, “lost” their daughter and Richard his sister. Though no one stated it, they each recognized they’d never see Cat again. They’d received a strange, rather barren Christmas card of a black-and-white-photo with a great deal of snow from “MoMA,” signed by “Cat and Ed,” and a raft of (largely useless) gifts. But Sybil had hoped for a long narrative, a letter recalling the past months.

Andy had gone over documents and statements with Richard and – to Richard’s surprise – took him to the Ford dealership and bought him a bright red 1960 F-100 ute with four-wheel drive and four headlights, trading in his well-worn and rusty Jeep.

Richard was overwhelmed. “Consider it a reward for three years’ work. You know, I worry about you,” his father said, “I’ve had visions of a major breakdown three or five hundred miles from a garage and no telephone in sight.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Oh? You’ve driven from Alpha to Tambo via Jericho and Blackall, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“How far is it?”

“Near 200 miles.”

“And outside of the two towns did you see any houses?”

“No. OK. You’re right. And thank you.”

“Wait till you see the insurance you’ll be paying!” They both laughed.

“I’d like to leave very early on the second.”

“Early?”

“I thought I’d go the longer way, north and then west. I’ll try to overnight around Biloela. Up the Burnett. That’s over 400 miles.”

“And the road’ll be sloppy.”

“But only 300 more the next day.”

“Don’t drive too fast. Don’t be overconfident.”

Richard bought gifts for his parents as well as for Janey and the baby; some work clothes, new boots, socks and underwear rounded out his shopping. He also bought a case of bottled water and filled his gas can as well as checking the radiator and gas tank. He packed everything on New Year’s Day and was off just after six on Monday. He stopped on the Sunshine Coast before nine to fill his tank and his stomach. A few hours later he stopped to drain his bladder and just past one he had lunch after crossing the Burnett.

He pulled into the first place he saw in Biloela. It was just past four. He had a beer, checked his oil and water and decided to gas up in the morning. He washed up, had chops and bread. And another beer. And went to sleep.

Richard tanked up at the Caltex on Dawson Highway after breakfast and was soon back on the Burnett. He stopped for early lunch in Emerald, topped up his fuel and was in Alpha by three and at the gate to Lamorbey twenty minutes later.

Home to home in two days, he thought.

Richard was welcomed by everyone and duly admired the nearly-year-old Joyce and the second guest cabin. He spent the rest of January riding fences. And the year really sped past. He made sure to talk to his parents every week or so and made friends with two of the young women working around the wash house and the kitchens. He also spent yet more time talking to some of the boned workmen, especially Caleb and James.

On several work trips Caleb showed Richard how to read the many signs of the brush; on other trips James pointed out what was edible and what was poisonous. Neither seemed to care that he was tupping young lubras. Ferd was now formally engaged (better him than me, Richard thought).

“You know what that is?” asked James, pointing to some shrubs.

“Acacias.”

“Gundabluie. it produces wattle seed. Witchety grubs there.” He walked over and poked at the roots with a stick, exposing a number of fat, white moth larvae. He picked one up, shook of the dirt and popped it into his mouth. “Sweet.” And picked up another. “You?”

Richard took it and ate it. It didn’t taste bad at all. Another lesson. [Grubs may be eaten raw or roasted in ashes. Wattle seed, beaten from the pods, is dry ground to make a sort of flour.]

Frequently, in the evening, Richard sat with the aborigine stockmen as they told stories, many of the Dreamtime. He had told of his purchase “far south” and one day Caleb told him that he had received a message from Amos for “Holli-man.”

“Amos lives on my station.”

“He says all is well and he will see you later.”

“When?”

“He did not say.”

The next day Richard mentioned the message to Al. “Dammed if’n I know how they do it. Bush telegraph. Mulga wire. Every band I’ve seen has one or two boned men who can do it. But you’re damned.”

“Damned?”