Fire in Summer

by JH Fletcher

  He despised them all. With these people it always came down to arithmetic: how much the land would yield, how much each acre would fetch at sale. None of them understood that the land was important for its own sake; their unawareness gave him strength.

  He heard other things, too. One day he returned from the pub. He waited until they were in bed, then said to Kath, ‘Someone was talking about you …’

  In her silence heard guilt. ‘Saying what?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘You and some bloke.’

  It had been no more than a word out of turn from someone who’d got his tongue around too many beers. Hedley had stared at the speaker, who would have clawed back his remark had it been possible. In the man’s expression he had read truth.

  ‘Who said such a wicked thing?’ Jagged-voiced, Kath’s question beat against him. ‘I hope you told him where to get off, that’s all…’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he told her.

  ‘Don’t you believe me?’

  He watched her weeping. ‘I said it doesn’t matter.’

  For the first time he took her gently, with consideration and gratitude. Their shared knowledge of her guilt had delivered her, finally and forever, into his hand.

  Hedley went to work. One evening Benjamin spoke to him in the shearing shed before they headed back to the house.

  ‘What you reckon about Wilf?’

  Motes of dust spiralled in the sunlight slanting through the gaps in the shed’s corrugated walls. Somewhere a mouse scurried.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He done a good job while you were away.’

  Hedley sensed that this was not a casual chat, but a conversation upon which the future itself might turn. ‘You know what he’s like, though.’

  Benjamin was prepared to stick up for his younger son. ‘Couldn’t have managed without him, with you off at the war.’ Obviously that memory still rankled. ‘Reckon he’s come real good.’

  ‘That’s okay, then.’ The shed floor was littered with bibs and bobs of wool from the last shearing. Hedley took a broom and brushed them up automatically while he thought. ‘Still likes a drink, does he?’

  ‘No harm in that.’

  He’d heard that Wilf liked to fight when he’d had a few. ‘Long as he can handle it.’ Casually he asked, ‘What’s he planning to do? Now I’m back?’

  A breeze blew through the shed, bringing with it the smell of sheep.

  ‘Same as now, I suppose.’

  ‘And later?’

  Benjamin, who had brought up the subject, felt hemmed in. It made him tetchy. ‘Later than what?’

  ‘When you call it a day?’

  ‘Don’t you worry your head none about that. It won’t be for a bloody long time yet.’ But wheezed most painfully as he said it, and scowled, resting his hand against the shed wall.

  ‘All I’m saying, there’s not enough work for three.’

  That night, for the first time since his return, Hedley opened up to Kath. Only a crack, but a start.

  ‘I reckon the old man wants Wilf to stick around.’

  She, too, had got out of the habit of talking. Now she looked at him uncertainly. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  Her stupidity angered him. ‘Next thing, he’ll be talking about leaving him half the farm.’

  Sacrilege, to divide the land.

  ‘He’d never do that.’

  Hedley was not so sure. ‘Can’t see the nose in front of your face, that’s your trouble.’

  The next evening he suggested to Wilf that they should have a drink together, down at the local. Wilf was guarded. ‘The Central’s my pub, in town.’

  ‘Let’s go there, then.’

  Wilf tried to work out what Hedley was thinking. ‘What for?’

  ‘Thought it would be good to have a couple of pots with my brother.’ Hedley smiled. ‘Don’t have to, you’d rather not.’

  Which turned the key in the lock, as he had thought it would. They went, propped their boots on the rail, had a drink or three, taking it easy, taking it slow. They went back, the best of mates. A couple of days later, they did it again; no pushing, no questions, everything as slow and easy as before.

  ‘Still seeing that Dulcie?’

  Wilf grinned, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Yeah …’

  Dulcie Sweet. More blokes than hot dinners, people said.

  A big brother smile. ‘Keen on her, are you?’

  But Wilf, despite good-natured prodding, was unwilling to reveal more. No handle, there.

  The next day a family row gave Hedley an opening. Benjamin had been forced to slow down after his turn at the end of 1944. Every day since, he’d sworn he was coming good, but it hadn’t happened; he could still shoulder only half his old workload and it made him mad. He took it out on everybody and everything. That evening it was Wilf’s turn and Wilf, threatened by Hedley’s return, couldn’t hack it. Five minutes of Benjamin’s rubbish and he blew his stack. There was a regular yelling match, the two men hurling abuse, while Hedley kept his lip buttoned, and watched.

  Eventually Wilf, beside himself with fury, flung himself out of the house.

  ‘I don’t reckon he’s changed that much.’ Hedley probed for an opening.

  To anyone who cared Benjamin’s breath would have been painful to hear. ‘I’ve been relying on your brother for five years. Ever since you pissed off to the war.’

  ‘It’s you I worry about.’

  Benjamin had seen off one of his sons, was more than willing to sort out the other one. ‘Don’t give me that crap! My land’s all either of you care about. You’re not laying a finger on it, you hear me? You’ll get your share when I’m ready to give it to you, not before.’

  Hedley felt the blood contract in his face. ‘My share?’

  Benjamin laughed, furious yet triumphant. ‘You didn’t think you’d get the lot, shoving off the way you did?’

  Hedley flung discretion over his shoulder. ‘That’s why I did it!’ Then he was still, as his father was still. The air charged with fury, they stared at each other.

  Benjamin said, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You reckon Kath would have looked at me twice if I hadn’t told her I was joining the army?’

  The words hung in the silent room.

  ‘You married her for the land?’

  ‘Of course it was for the land!’ But seeing his father’s expression, he decided evasive action was needed. ‘Not only for that, of course —’

  Too late.

  ‘You beat the band. My bloody oath you do.’

  ‘You were pleased enough about it at the time.’ Fury made Hedley reckless. ‘You saying you’d have married Ma if she hadn’t had an acre to her name?’

  ‘You leave your mother out of it!’

  ‘All I’m saying —’

  ‘Not another word!’

  Bloody hell.

  A wounded man seeking sanctuary, Hedley took his troubles into the paddocks. It was dark, without wind. Like shadows, the ranges rose behind the house. He stared across the valley. No lights anywhere. Sheep called throatily; somewhere a fox barked under the stars. All around he could sense the growth of wheat and barley, lupins and peas and clover.

  Warren land. This was what had kept him alive through the years of torment. It meant more to him than wife and child, more than himself. It was the sole purpose of his existence. Now his father was talking the ultimate sacrilege, of dividing the land between Wilf and himself. He parted the growing stalks of wheat, reached with cupped hands to lift a clod of earth to his nose. Reverently he breathed its essence, a mixture of moisture and heat.

  No way would he surrender his claim. Every grain of dust was his, or would be. He would share none of it.

  He went looking for Wilf, hauled him off to the pub. He dumped him in a corner, out of the way of the mob at the bar. He shouted a couple of beers, came back with a brimming glass in each hand and got to work.

&nbs
p; ‘Cheers.’ Down the hatch it went, barely touching the sides.

  ‘Another?’

  After a while Hedley said, ‘You don’t handle him right.’

  Wilf was not about to let the brother shove his oar in. ‘Keep your beak out of it, okay?’

  Except that Wilf himself couldn’t keep off the subject. He slurped the last of his beer, went to get them another refill. ‘I reckon he’s had it,’ he said when he came back. ‘That turn, as he calls it, was really a heart attack. Ma told me so herself. The way he runs on, he’s setting himself up for another one. Then what?’

  A thoughtful silence.

  ‘Maybe you should have a word with him?’ Hedley wondered.

  Four beers out of the starting gate, Wilf was willing to be guided. ‘Reckon I should?’

  ‘Help to clear the air, wouldn’t it? Especially after what he’s been saying.’ Hedley very solicitous of his brother’s interests. ‘I mean, you’ve the right to know where you stand.’

  ‘Saying what?’ Wilf’s voice and eyes dangerous.

  ‘You don’t want to take any notice of that.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Forget it.’ Hedley smiled tolerantly, anxious to soothe. ‘Doesn’t mean a thing.’

  ‘What?’

  Hedley wouldn’t say; eventually did, all the same, by which time Wilf was as mad as a Territory buffalo.

  ‘He said thank God I’m back and we can get some real work done around the place at last.’

  Silence, then, in the corner of the jovial bar.

  ‘Four years I’ve put up with his crap.’ Wilf’s fingers were white around his glass. ‘Worked my butt off. He told me so himself. Dunno how I’d have managed without you: that’s what he said. Not a year ago.’

  ‘Had to, didn’t he? Couldn’t have you doing a runner, not at that stage.’

  Wilf was cut to the quick by the thought that Benjamin might have been using him. ‘The bastard …’

  Another beer; Wilf stood up so suddenly he sent the table skidding on the stone slab floor.

  ‘I’m going to sort this out.’

  ‘Nothing rash, mind,’ Hedley urged him. ‘Handle him softly. Right?’

  Wilf’s teeth were white scars in his flushed face. ‘Softly …’

  They went back while Hedley continued to counsel caution. Until Wilf was ready to turn on him, too.

  ‘Clear the air. That’s what you said.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘What I’m going to do.’

  No point trying to talk him out of it. ‘Please yourself.’

  ‘Damn right.’

  They drove up the hill to the farm. Hedley put the car in the shed while Wilf high-tailed it into the house. Where eventually, whistling beneath his breath, Hedley followed.

  In the living room, behind the closed door, a shouting match to shake the rafters.

  Kath glared angrily at her husband as he came into the kitchen. ‘What you been saying to him?’

  ‘Me? Nothing.’

  ‘Then why’s he so riled up?’

  ‘You know what Wilf’s like when he’s had a pot or two.’

  She eyed him scornfully. ‘Yeah. Right.’

  In the back room the shouting continued unabated. Until at last, like a pig out of a starting gate, Wilf came bursting through the door.

  ‘I’m out of here.’

  ‘Where you going?’ Hedley asked.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ And was gone.

  ‘What on earth?’ Kath said.

  ‘I’ll find out,’ Hedley said.

  Eyes squeezed shut in his wine-red face, Benjamin was lying back in his chair. His breath whistled like a gale in the rafters.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Hedley demanded.

  Benjamin opened his eyes. ‘Don’t you bloody start.’

  ‘All I said —’

  ‘Started yelling, soon as he come through the door. Wanted to know where he stood. Stood where? I asked him. Over the farm, he said. What’s going to happen about the farm? Steady on, I said, I’m not dead yet.’ He looked up at Hedley. ‘Know what he said?’

  Hedley shook his head, delight hidden behind a show of concern.

  ‘A bit bloody late by then, he told me. I want to know now.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said I didn’t want to talk about it. It’s my bloody place. I’ll do what I want with it.’

  ‘Too right,’ Hedley said.

  ‘Then he took off. Dunno what your mother will say.’

  ‘She’ll get used to it.’

  She didn’t. Worse, she blamed Hedley, who was the very picture of injured innocence. ‘What did I do?’

  ‘Everything was sweet until you came back.’

  Hedley pounced at once. ‘Maybe you’d have preferred it if I hadn’t. Wished I’d died over there, like all the other blokes. That what you’re saying?’

  Emily swayed as though he’d hit her, resting the flat of her hand on the wall. ‘You know I wish no such thing.’

  ‘Is it my fault Wilf drinks too much?’

  She would not answer. She left him and went silently into her bedroom, leaving upon the air the residue of her pain.

  Much Hedley cared about that. What mattered was that he had regained the ground he had lost earlier. All that remained now was to put the finishing touches to his good work.

  18

  KATH

  1945–1946

  Next day Wilf still hadn’t come back. In the house the atmosphere was like a pestilence. Kath took refuge with Walter in the orchard.

  The apricots were ready. She picked the fruit and handed them to the boy, who put them in the wicker basket they had brought with them. The sun was hot, there was a constant buzz of bees and flies, the apricot-scented air was as drowsy as wine, yet even here the fury that had ignited between the three men cast its shadow.

  Yet Kath was not unduly troubled. It was unpleasant while it lasted, but fights over land were common in the mid-north. In the long run there could be only one result. Benjamin held the land now, but in the end Hedley would take it from him. Benjamin would fight, as old men always fought, and would lose, as old men always lost; the old had to give way to the young. As for Wilf … Hedley’s hunger was greater; Hedley would prevail. Wilf had no chance. All the same, as a daughter-in-law, Kath knew better than to say anything. She had her own acres, but Warren land was Warren business.

  They had cleared two trees when Emily came to give her a hand. One look at her and Kath knew she was troubled by the quarrel; she, too, was of the land and knew how these things worked, but it was not easy when your own children were involved.

  For several minutes they worked in silence, gaining comfort from each other’s company. Eventually Emily said, ‘I hate it so much.’ Yet was resigned, accepting the inevitable.

  ‘Blokes always fight,’ Kath said. ‘They’re too dumb to sort out their differences any other way.’

  ‘Right,’ said Emily.

  They grinned at each other, a subversive, two-woman army. Whooping Red Indian-style through the long grass, Walter tripped on a fallen branch, came down with a crash. Wails replaced whoops. Kath gathered him into the comfort of her arms.

  ‘Wait till it’s your turn,’ she told him.

  Not something they needed to worry about at the moment. Unlike the problem of Wilf.

  ‘You reckon he’ll be back?’ she asked Emily.

  ‘I expected him last night. Now … I don’t know.’

  ‘Where would he have gone?’

  ‘One of his mates, I suppose …’

  Neither of them said what both were thinking. Dulcie Sweet … Not much of a prospect, but stranger things had happened.

  Dulcie, at the door of the cottage she shared with her parents and six brothers; Wilf, glaring at her with blazing eyes.

  ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘Had a row with the old man.’

  ‘That all?’

  Rows were endemic in the Sweet household.
Dulcie had won her share of black eyes in her time; handed them out, too. Flattened her kid brother Lukey with a frying pan, once: rows were no big deal. All the same, what affected Wilf might affect her, too, she supposed. ‘What was it about?’

  ‘Told Hedley I was no bloody good …’

  ‘Words …’ Dulcie was scornful.

  ‘I worked my butt off …’

  ‘Words don’t matter. It’s what people do that counts. You go right back and make it up with him.’

  ‘Do that, I’ll end up killing him.’

  Dulcie saw that he meant it. ‘Best stay here tonight, then. Only thing, we got no room in the house.’

  ‘I’ll sleep in the shed.’

  ‘Right. I reckon there’s some straw in there.’ They went to inspect. Sure enough, there were a couple of bales.

  ‘Spread them around a bit, you’ll be right. Might be a few bugs, mind.’ Bugs, like rows, were of little significance in Dulcie’s life.

  Wilf laughed, watching her from the corner of his eye. ‘Going to tuck me up, later?’

  ‘You’ll be lucky …’

  But an hour later did so, slipping silently out of the cottage noisy with snores and into the straw-rustling darkness of the shed. Checking to make sure he hadn’t pinched it, she said.

  Wilf pulled her down, unresisting, beside him. ‘Couple other things you might like to check, while you’re here.’

  ‘What makes you think I’d be interested?’

  ‘Never can tell till you try.’

  Which, in the noisy straw, they did. She seemed interested, sure enough.

  He said, ‘I’d like to kiss every inch of you …’

  ‘No-one’s stopping you.’

  The ripe woman smell of her flesh. The slick rubbery-firmness of her body. Upon which he browsed, inch by inch, feeling himself as tall as a tree. Until, sighing, back arching, she drew him in again.

  Afterwards … ‘What would your Old Man say?’

  ‘Who gives a stuff?’ She traced his eyebrow, lingeringly. ‘It’s your bloke you need to worry about.’

  ‘Too late for that. Hedley says —’

  Always bloody Hedley. Who’d proved he wasn’t so smart, hadn’t he? She wanted to say something about Kath and her antics during the war, thought better of it. ‘Watch out for him. Hedley ain’t no mate of yours.’