Hearing Lance's name, Tricksy nudged the boy, who walked unbidden to the kitchen.
"What a day," thought Greg. "The worst and the best. Sally's gone. Lance is communicating at last."
He felt absolutely drained. Not normally a drinker, he had taken a bottle of gin to bed. Now he felt the after effects of the unaccustomed alcohol he had drunk the night before. He wished Sally was here to share the thrill of Lance communicating. Should he phone her?
"That would be stupid," said a voice in his head. "You need to see a lawyer, boy, and fast."
He set about feeding the chickens. They got mash in the morning. He heated the water to make the mash. Greg felt eyes upon him, Lance and Tricksy's. He turned and said, "Coming with me, guys?"
There was no response from either watcher.
"Tricksy, would you please ask Lance if he is coming to feed the chooks?"
"Tricksy says yes."
The response was immediate, the voice high but firm.
"So Lance can only communicate through a third person," thought Greg. "I'll add Mr Weatherall to the list of things to do today."
He got some dog biscuits from where they were kept in the laundry. The three working dogs needed some meat today. Greg went to the chest freezer against the laundry wall and took out some frozen bones. Tricksy looked hopeful.
"No, not for you, Tricksy. Too cold. Later."
Tricksy knew later. It was like 'Wait'. Greg was her pack leader. Tricksy had been upset when she smelled that Sally had been mating outside the pack. Every time she growled to warn Sally about her disloyalty, Greg spoke sharply to her. It was as if Greg didn't care about the woman, only about his son, so Tricksy devoted her attention to guarding Lance, and training him. Maybe there would be another female in the pack soon.
Lance picked up the egg basket. It was early but sometimes there were early morning eggs to be picked up. There was none that day. The hens were already out and about. Sally must have let them out before she left. The thought brought tears to his eyes. Lance didn't notice. He seemed unaffected by Greg's distress; in fact, he was so unconcerned that it seemed as if his mother had never existed.
He fed the dogs, which were chained to their kennels. He looked at Nell. It was probably time for the bitch box. The dogs couldn't reach her but she would unsettle them. "A job for tonight," he thought.
There was a toot of a horn. "Bugger," he thought. "Today of all days, I don't need people."
"SO, SALLY'S GONE. DO you think it's permanent?" asked Bryce Tomlinson, the Stock Agent.
"Yeah."
"Hard to talk about, eh?"
"Yeah."
"Look, I'm an Advisor. Although I work for Farms Unlimited, I also work for you. Can I give you some business advice?"
"S'pose."
"Put today in a diary. Your farm diary if you don't keep a personal one. Tell the story of what happened yesterday and today. In two years you're going to rely on that if you don't want to get taken to the cleaners."
"Why?"
"Because in two years from today, Sally is entitled to receive half of everything. Matrimonial Property Act. You need to go to the Courthouse in Grantville and register a separation. If you don't she'll have half of your income as well."
Bryce knew that Greg was a good stockman, that he checked his stock every day and would keep a farm diary. Bryce would put a summary of today in his diary too.
"Today. Go to the Courthouse today. Your stock are fine. A holiday today won't hurt them."
"Sounds like a plan." Greg did not want to finalise matters. Left alone, he would have delayed and procrastinated, and in the end might have done nothing. But if Sally was gone forever - the tears came again - he had to protect the farm. And Lance. Greg wiped his hand over his face. Bryce looked away. It was not on to watch a good man cry.
"Where's the boy?"
"In the lounge. Playing with his bulldozer."
"You'll lose him to the Welfare if you don't get a house keeper."
Greg was aghast. Lance was a huge problem but Greg loved him with a passion. It had never occurred to him that the State could intervene if someone thought the boy was being neglected. Suddenly, he remembered the fuss over firearms, and how the police had taken them away. Now if he had to kill an animal, he had to cut its throat, or call on Bryce to shoot it next time he called in.
"Tricksy looks after him," said Greg. Then he realised how stupid that sounded. "I mean, in the lounge. Tricksy is with him. She would let me know if there's a problem."
Bryce knew what Greg had meant.
"Look," he said. "You're shearing next week. How the Hell are you going to cope with that?"
"Dunno," said Greg. "Get someone in from Te Kouka, I guess."
"Can I make a suggestion?"
"Sure. Anything, Bryce."
""I'll check with the Office, see if we have a housekeeper looking for work, or a farmhand to release you might be better."
SHE TURNED UP THE NEXT day.
"Hi. I'm Ashleigh. Bryce told me you were looking for a housekeeper and farm hand. Wives do it all for nothing, but you'll have to pay me going rates. No overtime but seasonal hours. No funny business."
She stood about five foot six. She looked like a schoolgirl but was broad in the shoulders. She wore a khaki shirt and khaki shorts. Her boots were scuffed but clean, with solid farm socks turned down over the tops of the boots to keep dirt out. Her blue eyes drew one's attention: calm and honest, nothing hidden. Quite disconcerting. Greg pulled himself together.
"Hello Ashleigh. I think you've wasted your time. I'm not sure how this is going to work out," said Greg. "You see, I can't afford to pay you."
Ashleigh had been informed by Bryce. She glossed over Greg's concerns. "Where do I put my kit? "
"Then there's the boy. He's eight but a right handful. Might send you screaming off to town."
"What shall I call you?"
"Greg. I'm Greg Somerville, just Greg. There's no accommodation. Only the old cottage." Greg fell silent, looking at the ground.
"Is that it there?" asked Ashleigh. "Let's take a look."
The cottage was a small house that had been built for farm labour when wages were cheaper than machinery. Usually, these cottages were free of charge and all found, with a wage on top. Greg's cottage was about fifty metres from Greg's house, with a hedge on three sides. The fourth side overlooked the hillsides and the groves of cabbage trees, te kouka, that gave the place its name.
"It's got a coal range for hot water, I'm afraid. Not really suitable for a young lady."
"Don't be sexist. I'll decide what's suitable for me, thank you."
"It probably stinks. I haven't been in it for a while. Went to Grantville yesterday and decided I didn't want any help."
"And Merry Christmas to you, too" said Ashleigh, using a term that meant tit for tat, or the same to you.
Sally had kept the house clean. It smelled of Jeye's Fluid, which not only disinfected but also kept spiders away,
"It'll do. Do I have the job?"
Greg knew he should ask for qualifications, training, experience, a myriad of small details that by and large, he felt, got in the way of one's gut instinct. He really couldn't afford farm help, but if he could, he wanted a man, not a young girl.
"You haven't met the boy yet," he cautioned. "Do you know anything about autism?"
"I know there are five different kinds," said Ashleigh. "I looked it up after Bryce talked to me. I can't remember them, but Uncle Bryce thought your son had classic autism."
"Kanner's Syndrome," said Greg. "Lance lives in his own little world. He is wired differently. He can't express himself to humans, has his own language for speaking with unreal things like toys. Everything is done his way, the same every day. Except for clothes. He makes you guess what he wants and screams if you can't find out. He keeps everything in strict order and God help the person who mixes things up. He has no emotions, and doesn't feel hot or cold. His tantrums are really something to behold!"
"Is there progress?" asked Ashleigh, taking Greg by surprise. "This was one sharp young lady," Greg thought. He didn't like her. Way too personal and pushy.
"Yes. Incredible progress." This wasn't what he wanted to say. He should be telling her to mind her own business. "Yesterday, Sally left with my neighbour. Lance seemed unaffected. Then he started to speak. I couldn't believe it. Not directly. He spoke through Tricksy, my German Shepherd bitch."
"Is he clever inside or is he damaged?"
"It's hard to say." Greg couldn't stop himself engaging with Ashleigh. He had no-one to talk to about Lance except Mr Weatherall and Sally.
"He reads so he can't be without intelligence. But he comes across as stupid because he has no fear and often gets into dangerous situations. And people who can't talk are automatically regarded as morons."
"Perhaps not talking is a defence mechanism. Say nothing you can't be blamed."
Greg's barriers were dropping. He made one last attempt at chasing Ashleigh away. "Come and meet him. Then you can go back to town and find a proper job."
5.
Bryce Tomlinson called in to see how the shearing was going. Bryce was a large man with sparse dark hair. He was tall and strong and ten kilos overweight, a laughing jolly figure who was liked by everyone. Bryce was renowned for getting things done and for his integrity. He had warned the shearing gang boss about Sally's departure but wanted to be there at the start because shearers are strange people who would just walk out if everything wasn't just to their liking.
Greg sheared his sheep in January. In theory this late start to the operation meant the summer heat matted the wool and made the fleeces too sticky. Perhaps because Te Kouka Flats Farm was in the hills, January heat did not seem to affect Greg's clip. The shearing gang was due after Christmas. Somebody, usually the farmer's wife, had to supply food and drink in great quantities. Without a wife, Greg was a little handicapped but with Bryce's niece Ashleigh there to help out all should be well.
Sheep have to have their rear ends tidied up in a process called dagging. This stops fly strike if done regularly, and is usually done before shearing. Shearers don't like working with sheep with dirty bums. They are paid piece work so anything slowing them down upsets them. The dags are bought by the wool merchants separately from the bales of fleeces.
Greg was very surprised when Ashley told him she and Greg would dag the sheep before the shearers came. That would be a huge load off his mind.
"Let's do the dagging. You yard the sheep while I get a handset ready," said Ashleigh. Bryce called in, also ready to dag. He, his niece Ashleigh and Greg worked through the day. Not all of the sheep had to be dagged, only the dirty ones. The shearers would clean up the woolly but nearly clean ones as the sheep were de-fleeced. It had been a dry spring and early summer, meaning little diarrhoea or scouring, so the job was not too big and not too onerous. Bryce stayed for the day, slipping away from time to time to meet up with some farmers on other farms. For such a large man carrying a lot of extra weight he had surprising energy and stamina.
Greg need not have worried. The shearing was a success. The sheep were dry, meaning they had been standing in the yards since the day before and thus would not pee or crap on the shearers. The day was cloudy and cool. Ashleigh supplied mountains of home baking and urns of tea and coffee. Greg was more relaxed than anyone could remember, fitting in smoothly with the shearers by bringing up sheep into the pens at the right time so that everything flowed along without a hiccup. As a result, the gang finished early, and all had good tallies.
The gang had its own rouseabouts - general hands who picked up the shorn wool, swept, handled any problems, brought water to the sweating shearers and generally kept things moving. Although she could shear, Ashleigh helped in the shed, working as a fleece-oh and general rousie, with Lance at her heels. Lance loved the cry "Fleece oh!" and the way Ashleigh rushed to pick up a fleece and throw on the sorting table for the sorter and the presser.
The two rousies offered to help with the tucker at smokos and the lunch break, a concession to Sally's departure and a mark of respect for Greg and Ashleigh as battlers. This was the first time Greg had allowed Lance into the shed during shearing. Lance was fascinated with the routine of dragging the sheep from the pen door to the shearing platform, the precise holding and rolling of the sheep so the handpiece could clip the wool, and the release of the sheep through the yard door into the yard reserved for the shorn sheep.
There were four shearers in the four bays. Old Jim took a shine to Lance. He would nod and smile and wink at Lance, but he got no response in return. Back in the shed after lunch in the house, before the overhead power shaft was started up, Old Jim grabbed Lance, rolled him over as if to shear him, then held the back of the handpiece to his body. Before Ashleigh could protest, Lance shrieked with laughter. Ashleigh was amazed. Lance was interacting.
"You're next," said Old Jim. He grabbed Ashleigh and started to do the same to her. Suddenly Lance flew at him with the full force of his eight year old body, pummelling Old Jim with his fists.
"No. No." He pulled Old Jim's arm away. "No Ashleigh. No cut."
Right at that moment the power shaft started up. Ashleigh was safe enough, even with the shaft running. The handpiece was motionless. Old Jim pulled Ashleigh to her feet.
"Just joking, little man," said Old Jim.
"He doesn't do jokes," said Ashleigh, who was used to the rough and tumble of the shearing shed. "But he seemed to enjoy your joke."
"Sorry, Lass. Got a bit carried away. You're no longer Bryce's little niece. Apologies."
"No, I'm a big girl now," said Ashleigh, smiling and winning the hearts of the other shearers who had gathered round, unsure of how to react. "Try to cop a feel again and I'll flatten you."
Everyone laughed as the joke turned on Old Jim. He grinned, held out his hand for a handshake. When Ashleigh shook his hand, the incident was regarded as over. No harm done. What goes on in the shed stays in the shed.
After the shearers had gone, Bryce and Ashleigh and Greg relaxed over a beer or two.
"You set me up," said Greg with a laugh. "A niece who couldn't get a job on her own!"
"I did all right," said Ashleigh. "I did the food and helped in the shed and babysat Lance. Don't expect me to do your dirty laundry as well!"
"All right? This ungrateful bastard doesn't deserve you," said Bryce. "You were amazing."
"Don't sound surprised," said Greg. "You really were amazing. I suppose that means I'll have to put up with you in the meantime."
"And pay me wages," retorted Ashleigh. "Now, I want to be paid by the hour for housekeeping. Ten hours. And rousing. Ten hours. And baby sitting with danger money, ten hours. That’s thirty hours a day!"
They all laughed. A feeling of goodwill spread among them.
"How is he?" asked Bryce.
"Sleeping like a baby," said Greg. "I don't think he has had so much fun in his life."
He opened three more bottles of beer and put one in front of each person's glass. Then he said in a light tone, "Ashleigh, what were you saying last night about the dairy flats."
"You're using the dairy flats for your house cow and to fatten up the heifers. You also run Drysdale sheep, which have horns and don't fetch a high price. In fact, the Sheep Breeders Association no longer list the breed."
"Which means?" asked Greg, quite aggressively because he knew what was coming next.
"Which means in this country, you should raise a meat breed," said Bryce. "What about MeatMasters? Or South Suffolk. They would be ideal here."
"The dairy flats could be used when feed is scarce over summer," said Ashleigh. "The cost of a dairy conversion means only the banks would get rich.
"You and your uncle have been talking behind my back!" said Greg, pretending to be affronted. "Ganging up on me!"
"How do you feel about changing your breed?" asked Bryce.
"I've thought about it on and off for a long time," said Greg. "I bo
ught the Drysdales with the farm. They produce a wool no-one wants any more, except for the computer industry. The wool is non-static, so makes good mats and rugs for under computer desks but there's no money in it."
"You need to sell the Drysdales and buy South Suffolks. They do well in country like this", said Ashleigh. "And how about goats?"
"What? Goats?" said Greg incredulously. For him, goats were dog tucker, nothing more.
"Yes," Ashleigh replied. "There is a very strong market for goats' cheese. You could use the old cow bails and sheds, and set up making boutique cheese."
"I'd be able to sell the Drysdales, I think," said Bryce. "They are a heritage breed, and someone breeding alpacas will buy them. The two fibres go well together, making a stronger thread that sheds water. Fashion overcoats for a huge price."
Bryce got three more small bottles of beer from the fridge and placed one bottle in front of Ashleigh and Greg.
"I think you're on to something," he said. "But I still think MeatMaster sheep is the way to go. They are a meat sheep, and meat is the way of the future, not wool. Alpacas are a brilliant idea for fibre. They will do well here, both for their fibre and for stud and breeding. Goats are relatively cheap, and you can use the fibre from Angoras."
"Sure. The only problem is, I've hired a farmhand I can't afford, I've got to give half of the farm to my ex-wife when she becomes ex, and my farm is not worth much as equity for a loan." Greg sounded a little bitter, but it might have been the beer talking. "Bryce, you can't drive home. You're drunk. Ring your wife and tell her you're staying the night. You can sleep here, and Ashleigh can sleep in her cottage."
They were all tired and food had made them sleepy. It had been a good shearing, one of which they would be proud in future years. For now, all they wanted was to go to bed and sleep, even though it would not be dark before ten o'clock.
BRYCE LEFT THE NEXT morning, determined to finance Greg's plans before the man's enthusiasm died. Farms Unlimited backed his judgement and offered Greg development capital for a goats' milk farm, and stock conversion. Although farm prices had risen astronomically over the past ten years, smaller farms that were on marginal country in remote areas still commanded only low values. However, with a loan using his equity in the farm as collateral and with Farm Futures capital, Greg was able to convert his farm to dairy and goat dairy. The new milking shed would take cows on one side and goats on the other.
Farm Kill Page 5