Andrea's Secret

by John Kelly

5.

  1980

  On balance one would say, little had changed as 1980 came along. The public faces were different of course. Malcolm Fraser was Prime Minister now. The Olympic Games were due to be held in Moscow, but a USSR invasion of Afghanistan caused Malcolm Fraser to recommend that Australia follow the lead of the United States and boycott the games. The Australian Olympic Federation decided otherwise. The world's first 'test tube' baby was born in Melbourne and in August, Azaria Chamberlain, a nine-week old baby, disappeared at Ayer's Rock.

  It was in mid-March, and a thousand miles away from the events which saw the illegal separation of Andrea Steedman and her daughter six years earlier, that Gerard Martin, forty-eight years old, tall, thin, and slightly greying, sat in his tractor, defiant of the cold wind sweeping across the low rolling Victorian hills. He cast his eyes across the long raised mounds of earth, where he had just buried the seed potatoes for the next crop. His heart beat proudly, as he stared at the deep red potato soil for which the Baldargo area was famous, a soil that would produce a high quality yield in the spring. His confidence was brimming as he recalled the season just passed. Things were going well and the confidence of all the potato farmers throughout the region from Winter's Hill, Berry, and Walton was high. Good winter rains were expected, and in any event Lake Burra was full, as were the smaller reservoirs. It would be a bumper crop.

  As he admired his acreage, he was disappointed he didn't have more land to sow more crops. Across, the narrow valley, old George Kenny, now seventy-five, was doing the same in his field adjacent to the Martin's farm, admiring the view of his own holding, all the way to the distant pine trees low on the horizon. George had more land than Gerard, but he was old now. He still enjoyed the land, but he couldn't go on forever. Soon he would want to retire and sell off part, if not all his property, Gerard thought. Hopefully not too long down the track Gerard would gain access to at least some of the adjoining land and expand and diversify, grow oats maybe or something else, or perhaps just stick with what he knew best.

  George Kenny was thinking about retiring, putting his feet up and relaxing, although he always thought he was most relaxed when he was in the fields. But he knew his time in the fields was running out, and often looked to his finances. Yes, he could sell off some of the land, and supplement a comfortable retirement. The value of the land as a working property however, was less than he could obtain from the ever increasing army of city-dwellers, who were buying up small lots just so they could tell their friends at the Saturday night dinner party that they had a 'place in the country'. Estate agents were everywhere these days, always on the lookout for a small plot, preferably with off-highway access, a degree of privacy and perhaps a brook at the bottom, or a stream running through, bursting with trout or red fin. The sort of property the city-dweller could escape to, bring the caravan, and spend the weekend away from it all. George Kenny's land met all those conditions and he didn't mind the idea at all. City-dwellers were notorious for having big ideas, big plans but never enough time to implement them. Other farmers had set aside and cut off twenty acres here and there and sold them for twice the rate per acre that they would get if they sold the land to another grower. Then, the new owners would visit each weekend for a few months, bring their friends, lay about, maybe even plant something and see themselves however temporary, as men and women of the land. Then after a while the novelty would wear off. They would visit less often, find other things to do, neglect their plantings and just forget about it. There was always next weekend, next month, next holiday, next year, and anyway, what did it matter. To them the land was cheap, and it would appreciate over time. In years to come, natural population expansion would see it increase in value. George Kenny had seen it happen, had heard of it happening in other areas, in Gippsland, in the Western District, and up on the Murray. He knew it would be years before any of these would-be suburban farmers would ever apply for permits to actually do anything. In the meantime he would have his money, and to all intents and purposes, the land would never be touched. Well, not in his lifetime anyway. And so, despite the fact that he knew Gerard Martin had been eyeing off part of his property, 'the western paddock' they called it, the estate agent had told him that this section was the best section to cut adrift and sell off to the city-dwellers. George had given the local agent, Bill Jacobs, the nod, and all that was needed now, was a buyer.

  So, as the two men waved to each other that Saturday afternoon from across the fields, both had there eyes and their minds on the western paddock, each with a different expectation. George Kenny turned his tractor around and headed back to the shed and the house. Gerard did the same but headed in the opposite direction. As George returned to the shed, and the house, he saw the welcome sign of smoke billowing from the chimney. His wife Audrey had lit the fire and had dinner waiting. They ate early this pair. No airs and graces here. Their diet was meat and spuds. Whether it was chops, sausages, maybe lamb occasionally, it was always with spuds and a few slices of bread. Audrey had a way with spuds. Mash them, boil them, roast them, or go with oven baked in the casserole dish, Audrey had a way of making the humble spud, a treat other women could only dream about. George parked the tractor, and made his way inside.

  On the other side of the valley, Gerard Martin made his way back to the house. Gerard's family had been in the district three generations. His great grandfather had arrived in the district back in the eighteen forties, just one of hundreds of thousands fleeing a famine ridden Ireland and the dreaded blight. Great Grandpa brought with him little more than his knowledge of the potato, but that was enough. He bought a small plot, put his skills to work, passed on the knowledge and the family prospered such that one hundred and thirty years later, Gerard and each of his brothers had their own property. As Gerard motored up to the shed, his son Frank was replacing the spark plugs on his 1970 Valiant. The car had been a bit sluggish and Frank wanted to tune the old bomb before going off for the evening with his friends. There was a social at the football club that night and he needed the old bomb to be in good order for whatever eventuated. Gerard and his wife Maureen, would go to the football club social too. It was a family involvement, indeed a community involvement. Even those who detested football would join in the festivities.

  In earlier years, young Frank worked the land with his father, but farming was not his life's wish. He was a bright young man with a sharp mind, who saw opportunities where others did not. However, when it came to the daily grind of the farm, he was neither well disposed toward, nor gifted in any practical way to its needs. He was studying law at St. Michael's University College in Melbourne and was home for the weekend. Maureen was preparing the evening meal. Like Gerard, her side of the family was a product of the Irish Diaspora, and she too had a way with potatoes, but tonight's dinner was a slap up affair. She had spent most of the afternoon preparing the food for the one hundred or so expected at the social, and the boys could look after themselves for a change.

  Maureen smiled as the two men entered through the kitchen. "How's everything?" Maureen asked. "Fine," Gerard replied. "I've finished the field. I would have kept on going right into George Kenny's western paddock if the fence wasn't there," he said. "Well, you can help yourself in the kitchen tonight. I've been cooking all afternoon for the social," she said. "Sounds all right I suppose," Gerard replied with just a hint of disappointment. "Frank," she said turning her attention to her son, "you go and clean up before you do anything else. Your hands are full of grease. Don't put them down on anything until you get that muck off," she said. "Yes mum," Frank said and headed for the bathroom.

  Meanwhile at the Kenny's, some news awaited George as he walked in the house. "Bill Jacobs called. Wants you to call him back," Audrey said not even looking up from the table in the kitchen where she was reading a fashion magazine. "Did he say what he wanted?" George asked. "No, but I guess he's has some news on the western paddock for you," Audrey replied. George's heart rate jumped. He went into the hallway, picked
up the phone and dialled.

  "George, I have good news," the estate agent Bill Jacobs said. "I have a buyer for the western paddock. A young woman from Melbourne, looking for a secure investment. She wants forty acres, all of the paddock. She'll pay a thousand an acre and the cost of sub-dividing. She has no plans at the moment, just wants to hang on to it. What do you think?" George was thrilled. "Hang on Bill," he said, as he went back into the kitchen. "Forty Thousand for the western paddock, what do you reckon," he asked Audrey who was still perusing the fashions. Looking up to the ceiling from the kitchen table, Audrey thought for a moment, and said, "Gerry Martin won't be happy, but he couldn't pay that much. I think you should take it. It's our future we have to think about, not his." George returned to the phone.

  "I'm a bit worried about Gerard Martin, Bill. He won't be happy," he said. "I have an idea about that," Bill said. "I think I know a way you can sell the property and pacify Gerard at the same time." When Bill Jacobs had finished explaining what he meant, George was convinced. "We'll take it Bill. Do what you have to do," George said, and with that the deal was done.

  "You had better tell Gerry tonight at the social, after he's has a few," Audrey said with a sigh. "Do it gently, he'll be disappointed." George sat down at the table and thought about Gerard Martin. "Bill Jacobs said the buyer is a young woman looking for an investment. That suggests she's not going to do anything soon. He reckons there's a way we can sell the paddock and look after Gerry as well," he said.

  That evening the community gathered at the Mechanics hall for the social. Spirits were high among the football team. That afternoon they had beaten Walton in a practice match, by a healthy margin, and the classy little rover for the team, Jimmy Wilson said the results of the x-ray showed no bones broken. There were however, a few black eyes and bruises from the altercation in the centre. The fight broke out because Jimmy Wilson copped a boot in the face from a Walton ruckman who had more brawn than brains. Fights at the football were pretty much par for the course, and not only among the players. Every father of a football playing son was a proud man on Saturday afternoons, and never hesitated to demonstrate a willingness to back up the somewhat ambitious claims made with a physical heave ho or two. But winners are grinners and once the game was over and the crowd had dispersed, it was all behind them. At the social the band struck up a tune and the 'oldies' began to dance the quickstep. The players gathered at the bar to toast the day, the girls gathered at the other end of the hall and chatted away, hoping one or two of the boys would show some gumption and invite them to dance. It was a forlorn hope and soon the girls gave up their hopeless expectations and danced among themselves.

  It was later in the evening that George Kenny took Gerard Martin aside and broke the news. "The paddock, the western paddock, you've sold it?" Gerard asked, not wanting to believe what George had said. "It was a very good offer Gerry, not one that you could have matched, and I would never have asked you to. Audrey and I have to look to our remaining years. We need that money." George said. "I really wanted that land George. This is a bit of a blow you know," Gerard said. "Well now, I just might have a solution to the problem," George said. "What do you mean?" said Gerard.

  "It's like this. The woman who wants to buy the paddock is from the city. She is looking at an investment for the future. I'm betting that she doesn't plan on doing anything with it you see," he said.

  "So what does that mean to me?" Gerard asked.

  "Well now, as you know Gerry, the paddock goes over the hill from the road. The natural fall of the land conspires to keep it hidden from view. Almost half of it you can't even see from the road. What I'm suggesting to you, is that after the harvest in the spring, we remove a section of the fence and you can come in and sow the back half of the field. It won't be any of my business, and I don't think the owner will ever know, least not until she decides to do something with it. You could have several seasons growing crops on land you didn't pay a cent for. Do you see what I'm getting at Gerry?"

  Gerard stroked his face and thought the matter through.

  "Several seasons you think?" he said to George. "I think so. And even if it was only one or two, think of the profit without the interest payments," George replied. "Well, now I suppose that requires a bit of thought doesn't it? Gerard mused. "Just think it over, there's plenty of time to plan. But I think it can work," George added.

  "It wouldn't exactly be the honest thing to do though would it?" Gerard said with a moment's thought. "Gerry, I wouldn't be the one to say it would not. But think about it. You'd be filthy rich."

  The two men stood together facing each other but with both sets of eyes fixed to the floorboards. Slowly each raised his head until their eyes met, and wry smiles expanded across their faces. "Yes well," Gerard said, "with my boy Frank studying law, a little bit extra would be welcome. It would certainly come in handy, wouldn't it?" As the sheer simplicity of the plan dawned on Gerard Martin, a wicked grin spanned his face, and both he and George Kenny shook hands on the deal. Then, overtaken by this somewhat surreal moment of brilliance, both men gleefully tuned into the dancers on the floor, and began to move with the rhythm of the music. They swayed to the left, and swayed to the right, with as much finesse as those on the dance floor, but with less energy expended. Their finesse came with light-headedness, and mental relaxation, born of small achievements.

  6.