The White Earth

by Andrew McGahan

  The old man nodded. ‘When they divided all that land, they didn’t bother about which bits were good and which bits weren’t. The Lands Department just cut it up into squares and sold it off, no questions asked. Most of the farms were fine, but a few, like your father’s…Family after family just went bust on them.’

  ‘Then why did Dad buy it?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He didn’t know what he was doing. He wasn’t a farmer. But for some reason he wanted to be one. So he buried himself in debt to raise the money, then went looking for a property. The banks are to blame too, of course. They’d lend money to any idiot, back then.’

  ‘But if our farm was no good…’

  ‘Your father couldn’t see that. It was a bumper year when he went looking. Perfect rain, perfect weather. The wheat was two tons to the acre. And so he finds this piece of land that’s for sale, smack in the middle of the Kuran Plains, the best grain-growing region in the state, and it looks wonderful, he can’t believe the owner wants to sell so cheap … You see what I mean?’

  William thought of his father’s gentle, smiling face, and the way he had been so happy with his little property, and so baffled at its failure.

  ‘Why didn’t someone tell him?’

  ‘Who? The fellow who was selling? The banks? Why would they?’

  William felt his face growing hot with shame.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him?’

  ‘By the time I heard about it, it was all signed and sealed. They were doomed on that farm, your parents, fire or no fire. Some people are just doomed, period. Your dad without a clue, and your mother … well, you know your own mother.’

  William could hear the unspoken thoughts behind his uncle’s words. But nothing was ever supposed to be said about his mother’s condition. Not out loud.

  ‘The thing is, people like your parents, sometimes they hunger for a piece of land, because they’ve never had anything of their own before, and they think a few hundred acres will make all the difference. But nine times out of ten it’s a disaster.’

  The shame in William finally turned to anger. How could his uncle talk this way? ‘Is your farm making money?’ he demanded, seeking to wound back.

  The old man laughed. ‘It makes money, boy. I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Then why don’t you fix up the House?’

  Something flashed in his uncle’s eyes. ‘That House would just be rubble by now if it wasn’t for me!’ Then it faded, and he sighed. ‘But you’re talking about millions of dollars there, to fix it up properly. Once, maybe, I could have done it. I certainly planned to.’ The old man dwelt on some regretful memory, then waved it away. ‘I could have been rich years ago, if that was what I wanted. I was rich. But buying this place was never about money.’

  ‘What was it about then?’

  His uncle spread his arms to the surrounding hills. ‘It was about everything I’ve been saying to you. About knowing where you belong and taking responsibility for that place. This is where I belong. It’s where I was raised. I was taught all about it by my father, and he spent most of his life here too. But you now…’ He paused to regard William again.‘You don’t know anything because your father didn’t know anything in his turn. But the important thing is you’re still young. You can still learn, if there’s someone to teach you.’

  It was that searching, testing look that William had felt before. But there was something expectant in it too, something hopeful.

  ‘I’m old, Will. I have no family, no children to raise. What will happen to all this when I’m gone? What will happen to the House, to the property, to this water hole here? Lately I’ve been wondering. Then I see a fire out on the plains and discover I’ve got a great-nephew. A boy with McIvor blood in his veins. A boy who might have what this place needs.’

  Again, William felt that his uncle could see right through to the centre of him,probing his heart for some vital quality. And although William had no idea what it was, or if it was there inside him, he finally grasped what his uncle was offering, if it could be found.

  ‘Do you understand me, Will? Do you understand what I’m looking for?’

  ‘I think so,’ he said.

  ‘You think so?’ The old man’s gaze held a moment longer, and then wandered away, brooding and dissatisfied.‘You think so…’

  The moment was over. The day seemed to have grown colder. A wind stirred in the trees and ruffled the surface of the pool, and leaves spiralled down to land on the black water.

  His uncle glanced up. ‘Not a cloud in sight,’ he said, resigned. ‘This is as much water as we’ll see in the pool this year. Come summer, it’ll be barely half the size.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s time we headed home.’

  They packed up and walked back to the utility. William gazed about at the surrounding hills. It was the same country, the grass and scrub and leaning fences, but it was as if a whole new colour had swept across the property. For the first time in his life, William drank in the sight of a land that one day, somehow, unbelievably, might be his own.

  ‘I’ll be away for the next week or two,’ the old man said.‘On business. You want to know where my money goes? On more important things than fixing up the House, that’s where. But think about what I’ve said. And when I get back, if you’re ready, I’ll show you what my real work is all about.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  BY THAT NIGHT, DESPITE ALL THE REVELATIONS OF THE DAY, William’s mood had darkened strangely. He found that he was thinking about his father. Cold thoughts,and cruel. In just one afternoon, his uncle had shown him so much. But in all the years of William’s childhood, his own father had never told him anything about drifting continents, or about people who lived and died in earlier years, or about rivers that flowed away to far ends of the earth. His father should have known these things, but he hadn’t. Worst of all, he had never sat William on his knee, pointed out across the wheat fields, and promised, One day, son, all this will be yours.

  Like John McIvor just had.

  Then there was his mother. William told her about his afternoon and about what he had seen,but he could tell she wasn’t really interested in the station. Not the hills or the trees or the grass, or the men from the national park. (He made no mention of the water hole.) It was only when, hesitantly, he reported the final conversation with his uncle that attention lit in her eyes.

  ‘Tell me exactly,’ she commanded,‘what did he say?’

  ‘He…he said he didn’t know what would happen to the station, after he died.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Nothing…’ For what had seemed so certain when William had first heard it, didn’t seem so certain when he came to retell it. And so instead of a statement, he found he only had a question to ask.‘What is going to happen?’

  His mother chewed a ragged fingernail. They were sitting in the dimness of their living room, the little heater blowing warm air on their legs. She hadn’t changed out of her bathrobe from the morning, and her hair was mussed and tangled from sleeping on the couch.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said tensely.‘Your uncle told me we can stay here until Christmas at least. So that he can get to know us. Get to know you. But after that … It depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Remember how I told you to do what you’re uncle asks?’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘There’s a reason for that. Because you’re right. One day — maybe not so far away — your uncle is going to die. He’s an old man. And he needs someone to leave all this to.’ She searched hopefully in him, smiling as she finally said it out loud. ‘It might be us. It might be you.’

  It was true then. He hadn’t misunderstood. The great prize really had been offered to him. William felt oddly disappointed. He realised that this was because his news was no surprise to his mother. Instead she might have been waiting for it, impatient even that it was so long in coming. Had she known all along? Was this the only reason that she had brought
them to the House — to tender William to his uncle? And was that a bad thing anyway? Surely she only wanted what was best for them both. But he remembered the way his uncle had spoken of her. People like that sometimes hunger for a piece of land. It had made her sound hateful. And watching his mother now, seeing the eagerness in her, William felt an ugly sense of confirmation.

  ‘You mean, if Uncle John likes me, we can stay?’

  She nodded, reaching out to stroke his cheek. ‘If it all works out, we can stay forever.’ Her fingers felt hot against his skin.‘What do you think? Do you like it here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s important that you do, Will.’

  Her hands lingered on him, and he fought the urge to pull away. A touch from her was a rare thing, but now the fervour was unsettling.

  ‘Do you want to stay?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve got nowhere else to go, sweetheart. Look, this has been hard for me too. We’ve got no money, I can’t work, you know that. We’d never have another place of our own.’

  William looked away, unseeing. He felt the future sway coldly in front of him, and a terrible weight of responsibility settle.

  She wasn’t finished. ‘You can’t be a little boy about this. I know you don’t like the House, but that isn’t the point. You think I like it either? But if your uncle left it to you, we could do what we liked. This property is worth a lot of money — we could sell it and move away to somewhere nice.’ She was solicitous now, stroking his hair.‘It all depends on you, honey. Your uncle doesn’t care about me. It’s you he’s interested in. Do you see?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You’ll have to grow up fast. You have to do this for me.’

  ‘I will.’

  But he was relieved when her hand finally dropped away.

  His uncle left the next day, driving off in the utility. William had no idea where he was going — but at least some things were clear now. The way his uncle had appeared from nowhere after the fire, the hushed conversations with William’s mother, the doctor’s visit, the summons to watch the shooting stars. It was all for the one reason — the old man was alone in the world and needed someone to follow after him. And yet, again, William felt a suspicion that it wasn’t that simple at all. His uncle had used the word might, so the station was not a gift that would be simply handed over. It was something that William had yet to earn, and he had until Christmas, it seemed, to do so. And if he failed … What then? The more William thought about it, the more overwhelming it seemed. His mother had made it clear that it was all up to him — but it wasn’t his fault that his father had died and that they had nowhere else to go. Those were adult problems. And it was one thing to promise to stop being a child. How did you actually do it?

  For the next few days William loitered about the House, gnawed by inadequacy. It didn’t help that he found himself under the watchful eyes of Mrs Griffith. Now that his uncle was gone, the housekeeper patrolled the hallways with a special vigilance, wrapped in her cardigans. There was nobody to contest her authority, it was her House again, just as it must have been years ago when the place was abandoned and only she remained, a forgotten caretaker — before William’s uncle arrived and stole it from her. And if she resented the old man’s presence, then what would she think of his nephew, a mere boy, becoming her lord and master? No … William could read it in her frowns and cold hostility. She wanted him to go away. She wanted his uncle to go away too, or to die. Even then, the House would never really be hers. But she would be alone once more.

  Dinners were the worst times, when William and his mother confronted the old woman over the grimy tablecloth. The meals were eaten in heavy silence as always, but William could feel undercurrents in it now, the swirl of hidden motives and threats. And one night finally, he had to face Mrs Griffith alone. His mother was suffering one of her headaches and had no appetite. William wasn’t hungry either, but his mother, stretched upon the couch with a wet towel across her brow, waved away his objections. So he crept through the darkness and came to the table, where the housekeeper waited.

  ‘Mum’s sick,’ he told her.

  The old woman glared briefly at the third plate, where pale slices of roast beef waited with mashed potato and vegetables. ‘And what about you?’

  William sat down at his place, aware more acutely than ever of her gaze on him. They ate without speaking for a time. But for once Mrs Griffith could not keep silent.

  ‘Your mother’s often sick, isn’t she?’

  William stared at his food.

  ‘Sickly, the both of you. What is it you’re supposed to have?’

  ‘Glandular fever.’

  ‘Ha!’ She worked at the meat with her knife and fork. ‘Don’t think I don’t know about it. Or about those pills Dr Moffat gave your mother. I know what they’re for.’

  William tasted cold potato like ash in his mouth.

  ‘She was always that way, even as a girl.’

  He glanced up in surprise, caught the malice in the old woman’s smile.

  ‘Oh yes. I knew your mother’s family. Everyone in Powell knew them. White trash, down there in the caravan park. Not that I ever met your grandfather. A drinker, they said. And worse besides. The police knew him plenty, I’ll tell you that.’Mrs Griffith was relishing some private memory.‘And Veronica — she was a dirty little thing. Thin as a scarecrow. Hungry, I suppose. Took after her father too. How she wanted those pretty dresses in the shops. No wonder there was trouble. Stealing! But anyone could tell there was something not right about her, even back then. She was always a little touched, a little…’

  The housekeeper searched for a word, and William was staring at his plate again, frozen. Crazy, she was going to say that his mother was crazy.

  The old woman shrugged.‘God knows how she made a catch of your father. He could have done better. Either way, her type never changes. Now she’s gone and found another man, hasn’t she, with a big House, up on a hill.’

  It was enough. William shoved back his plate.

  ‘You haven’t finished, boy.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘All right. Go on then.’ But as William rose, she grabbed his arm and held him. ‘It’ll never happen, you know. You’ll make a mistake. And your uncle will see what sort of child you are, and what sort of family you come from.’

  William wrenched his arm free and fled outside, into the night.

  Lies, it was all lies. The appalling old monster, she was trying to hurt him, that was all, to scare him away. He looked up to the sky, where the stars blazed, the air freezing on the red flush of his face. His anger cooled, and was replaced by a piercing loneliness. Lies or not, it didn’t matter. Nothing was the same any more. His uncle’s tantalising promise … everything had become twisted by it. The memories of his father, the actions of his mother, and now the housekeeper’s hatred unveiled. And there were months yet of the old man’s probing and testing to come. Mrs Griffith might be right, he might make too many mistakes, his uncle might decide he was unworthy after all. It was too much. It was unfair. He was only a boy.

  Grow up, he heard again.

  William turned to the House. It loomed grey beneath the stars. He stared up at the ivy-covered walls and the sagging line of the roof and the two great wings reaching out. He studied the deep archways of the doors,the wide sweep of the verandahs, the shadows of the windows on the second storey. And there in the darkness, amidst his fears and shame, it seemed that something did change and grow older inside him. His doubts faded away, and he felt an odd sensation of expansion. It was the House, calling to him. And the House didn’t lie. It was solid stone, it was permanent and unchanging. It had the sort of strength that he could never possess… Except that he could.

  The realisation shook him. He thought of the dark hallways within, and suddenly it was as if he could see through them, to panels of polished wood. He thought of chandeliers sparkling from the ceilings. He thought of flames raging in great fireplaces. And
dwelling on these visions, he could see an image of himself as an adult, a man,moving through those golden hallways. Tall and assured and invulnerable. Alone in the House. His own House.

  The sense of expansion widened, thrilling in a deep, physical way, as if ownership was something that enlarged the veins and enriched the blood. For there was not only the House, there was Kuran Station as well, a sleeping giant of a thing, native and alive and half wild. His mother had said they could sell the property if they wanted. But she hadn’t even seen it. William had. He had felt the reality of it, earth and rock swelling beneath his feet, he had smelled it, and listened to the silence of it. If it was his, he would be able to walk the hills just as his uncle did, knowing them, having learnt all the stories and secrets that there were to learn, a master of wisdom inaccessible to anyone else. The power of that! The certainty of that!

  William suddenly felt a need to shout or laugh or run. It didn’t matter what the housekeeper said. It didn’t matter about his mother. It didn’t matter that everything depended on him alone. For in that moment, he made up his mind. He did want the station. And whatever it took, he would show his uncle he was worthy.

  Chapter Fifteen

  AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-FOUR, JOHN MCIVOR HAD KNOWN FEW women. Indeed, there had been only one romantic interest in his life so far, and she had remained a stranger to him, right up until the day she banished John and his father from her presence. Was he still in love with Elizabeth White? All John knew was that no woman he’d met since was comparable to her. They were either too frivolous or too coarse, their conversation bored him or their broad accents grated in his ear. They had, to sum it up, no stature. They stirred nothing inside him to match the memory, so repressed he was barely aware of it, of a girl curled in a cane chair, white curtains billowing gently behind her.

  Harriet Fisher changed all that.

  She was the daughter of Oliver Fisher, who was the owner of the sawmill for which John and Dudley and the rest of their gang cut timber. Oliver was a self-made man of some wealth, fifty-five years old and with the stocky frame of a labourer who had served his own time felling trees in the forests. Now he lived in an impressive residence halfway between the Hoops and Powell, on the main road. It was Oliver who had plucked John from unemployment back in 1933. However, he had never introduced any of his workers to his daughter. In honour of his wife, who had died some years before, he had raised Harriet for finer company than timber-getters.