Dear Banjo

by Sasha Wasley

  Hegney went on but Willow stopped hearing him. What? That last bit – that was her research. The dissertation she had done for her masters. She’d been just months from expanding it into a doctoral thesis. How the hell did Tom know about that? It hadn’t even been picked up by agricultural magazines. And then it hit her. Of course – Dad. Her father must have told the Forrests about it.

  Still, it was gratifying that the Forrests had picked up the strategy already. She had only done that research a year or two ago. She realised Hegney was still talking and locked back onto what he was saying.

  ‘ . . . so I’m pretty clued-up with the philosophy,’ he finished. He chuckled. ‘Philosophical farming. The stockmen’ll get a kick out of that.’

  Willow couldn’t help but think the stockmen had better be on board with her humane, low-stress cattle management methods or they’d find themselves quickly out of a job.

  ‘It sounds like we’re on the same page, Liam,’ she said. ‘I’m really glad. That’s going to make everything much smoother. I don’t want to rush things. I’m thinking we’ll roll it all out over the next five years or so. I’m working on a business plan and you’ll be the first to see it when it’s done.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  They arranged for her to look over the existing plans and accounts in the coming days. Willow declined dinner in the staff kitchen that night, claiming tiredness, but raided Jean’s stores for eggs and vegetables. Scratch that. The eggs were barn eggs but Willow knew the producer’s reputation. She took a few vegetables, spices and some rice, and made a species of nasi goreng. Things would be changing in the kitchen, too, she decided as she climbed into bed. She would add that to the business plan.

  She looked around at the bedroom. Each time she’d come home to visit over the past decade, she’d removed more of the childhood things that remained – her horseriding magazines, the collection of miniature glass animals, the files of schoolwork. The process had left her room bare and anonymous, like a guest room. Never mind, soon enough it would be full of Willow’s books and feeling like her own space again. Maybe she would even get a bedspread she liked and one or two pictures for the walls. This would be her room for good now, so she might as well make something of it. The single bed was an issue. She’d had a double in the apartment but wasn’t sure one would fit in here. Was Beth’s old room any bigger? But that would be weird, moving into her sister’s room. Beth’s room was still Beth’s room, even if she only stayed in it occasionally these days. Willow didn’t want Free’s room, destroyed as it was by her sister’s artistic endeavours over the past few years.

  The house really hasn’t changed much at all, Willow thought as she switched off the lamp. That was good. She liked it as it was, even though most people would probably consider the brown laminated benchtops and arched doorways hopelessly unfashionable. Those things comforted Willow. She touched the willow-tree pendant that her mother had given her, that she never removed, and exhaled slowly. She was home.

  There was nothing Willow would consider edible in the house, so she fetched some fruit from the station kitchen for breakfast. She ate in the homestead office, which was a little aluminium structure that had been tacked onto the side of the house. There, Willow worked on the staff management side of her plan. In the afternoon she would be riding out with the stockmen for a couple of hours to watch the start of muster. Hegney’s reconnoitring showed there were some weaners on the east of the property that needed breaking in, and she wanted to see how the stockmen drove them. They’d probably be on good behaviour with Willow around, but they’d show their true colours before too long. Willow didn’t particularly want to sack anyone, but she needed to know what she was up against when it came to changing the station culture.

  Before lunch, a vehicle arrived. Willow’s gut tightened. Was this her father – and Tom Forrest? She headed for the gravelled parking area out the front and caught sight of a tall man in an Akubra helping her father out of the car. Willow ran to help and the man looked up. It was Tom. Her heart gave a great thump. It had been so long. He was the same Tom – tall, with that strong jaw and dark-blond hair – but what was unfamiliar was his physical form. He’d become a man. He wasn’t the lean, lanky Tom who’d whipped her arse in the quad bike races. This was big, muscular Tom Forrest, twenty-eight years old, helping her frail father out of his 4WD. She stopped rather more suddenly than she’d planned to.

  Something else was different. Oh. No smile. Since when did Tom not wear a smile?

  ‘Jesus H Christ, Tom,’ her father was saying. ‘I appreciate it but let me walk into my own house without leaning on anyone else, would you? That’s what this stupid bloody stick is for, anyway.’ He noticed his daughter. ‘Willow, sweetheart. Bethie says you’re planning to cook vegetarian for me. I’m not dead yet. Don’t make me wish I was.’

  Tom couldn’t help a half-smile at that, but when he looked back at Willow it was gone. ‘Hi, Willow.’

  ‘Hi, Tom. Thanks for bringing Dad home.’

  ‘No problem. Come on, Barry. Let’s get inside. If you reckon you can do it without help, get a bloody move on.’

  Her father grumbled, shuffling towards the house, having left the maligned walking stick on the back seat of Tom’s vehicle. Willow took Barry’s arm, pretending it was pure affection but actually worried about his stability. Behind them, Tom carried her father’s things. She still felt sick with nerves. This first encounter with Tom was much harder than she’d expected. At least he seemed calm and cool – if a little unfriendly. She could live with that – it was drama and emotion that bugged her.

  ‘Stay for a cuppa, Tom,’ Barry said as they reached the kitchen.

  ‘Thanks, mate, but I’ve got a load of work waiting for me.’

  ‘You can stay for ten minutes,’ said Barry. ‘Don’t work so hard you forget to stop for a break every now and then. That’s what I did and look where that got me.’

  ‘Look, I’d love to but —’

  ‘Go on, have a cuppa with us,’ Willow said bravely.

  His blue eyes shot to her face and his brow creased momentarily before he looked away. ‘Okay, a quick one. Coffee, thanks.’

  Willow dug a jar of coffee and a couple of teabags out of an overhead cupboard. Her dad sank into a kitchen chair and Tom took the seat beside him. She attempted a couple of calming breaths, feeling Tom’s eyes on her as she filled the kettle at the sink. This was excruciating. Willow opened the instant coffee jar and sniffed. Jesus. She’d have to order in a coffee machine or one of those plunger things. City life had spoiled her for coffee.

  ‘Sugar?’ she asked Tom.

  ‘Just milk.’

  Well, this is delightfully uncomfortable.

  Willow made the drinks and joined them at the round pine table, unable to meet Tom’s eye for more than a split second at a time. He was completely different but she couldn’t work out why or how. Every time she stole a glance at his face, it was the same tanned skin and intelligent blue-eyed gaze. He even had the flattened patch of golden hair from wearing a hat – the same flat patch she’d always teased him about. But subtle changes seemed to have turned him into a different person altogether. A fine stubble on his cheeks; the broad strength of his shoulders; the timbre of his voice. And no smile.

  ‘Have you caught up with Hegney, love?’ her father asked.

  ‘Yes, we had a good talk yesterday. He seems pretty switched-on.’

  ‘And did you look over the quarter plan?’

  ‘I’ll do it today,’ she said. He didn’t need to know she’d be rewriting the quarter plan in the next week or so.

  ‘We’ll be catching up to you lot at Quintilla soon,’ Barry told Tom proudly. ‘Now Willow’s home, Paterson Downs is going to go to organic beef, too. That’s where the money is,’ he finished vaguely. Willow was well aware her father had never quite understood her passion for ethical farming but he did understand the higher meat prices for organic beef.

  She looked at Tom, who was nodding.
‘Is Quintilla certified organic?’ she asked.

  He barely glanced at her when he answered. ‘Not yet. Getting there. We’re probably eighteen months off.’

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ she said. ‘Congratulations.’

  Tom didn’t reply and she wondered if she’d sounded condescending. He hadn’t even commenced the academic studies she’d accomplished and yet Quintilla was beating Patersons in the race towards organic certification. That was something to be proud of. She was genuinely impressed. But considering she was the reason he’d never started his degree, she was aware her praise might not be particularly welcome.

  ‘Did you see Tuffie?’ her father wanted to know.

  ‘Of course. Hairy little bastard just about raided my pockets.’

  Her father laughed. ‘Still a greedy sod.’

  ‘I stopped in to see him again this morning,’ she said. ‘He dozed over my shoulder, just like old times.’ Willow checked Tom’s face, wondering why he had to be so stiff and reserved. He withdrew his eyes immediately and she sighed inwardly. Yeah, this was tough, but at least she was trying. Had Tom finally been infected with that ‘emotionless male’ syndrome that most of the graziers shared, the one that was so effective at suppressing communication? He’d seemed so far beyond that as a kid – sunny and buoyant, but also sensitive. He was always aware when something was wrong. Her thoughts threatened to wander towards that day of her mother’s funeral in her bedroom when he’d wept with her.

  No. She pulled away from the memory sharply and sipped her tea.

  Tom stood up. He had somehow finished most of his coffee and now deftly poured the rest down the sink.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’d better crack on. Thanks for the cuppa, Willow. Remember, we go into town a lot and there’s the heli if you need something. Don’t even hesitate to call if you need a hand.’ He looked at her briefly when he said that and she understood. If you need to get him some help, call for the Forrests’ helicopter. She was profoundly grateful and had to blink a couple of times to recover her tranquillity.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said.

  ‘We’re having a do next weekend,’ her father told Tom. ‘A bit of a celebration. Tell the family, won’t you?’ He looked at Willow. ‘What do you reckon, sweetheart? Saturday arvo, about five?’

  ‘Dad,’ she said gently, ‘you should be resting, taking it easy. Not hosting celebrations.’

  Tom backed her up. ‘Why don’t you give it a couple more weeks before you throw a party, mate?’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Barry declared. ‘Next weekend. Jean’ll put the food on. Spit roast. Your lot,’ he told Tom, ‘and the mob from Gundergin. Bring the whole crew if you want. Most of your crew’s related to ours anyway, so they’ll probably roll up even if we don’t invite them. And bring that bird you’re on with,’ he added. ‘The cook, isn’t she? She’s good fun.’

  Tom was seeing the station cook at Quintilla? Willow looked at him curiously but Tom, staring at the floor, didn’t appear to know what to say. Huh. So he had a girlfriend – big deal. The girlfriend was a good thing. He’d moved on, thank God.

  ‘I’ll let them all know,’ he said, his face neutral, and nodded at them both. ‘See you later.’ He took off.

  ‘Go see him off, Willow,’ said Barry. ‘He’ll understand if I don’t get up.’

  She did as he said, calling to Tom as he went to his vehicle. ‘Hey, Tom. Beth said there might be instructions from the doctor.’

  He stopped but didn’t even look at her as he replied. ‘It’s all in the front pocket of your dad’s bag. The doc said to call if you have any questions.’

  He got in and drove off without a backwards glance. She watched his car become a cloud of orange dust on the driveway and then made her way back inside.

  That had been tough. Tom had been so formal and cool. It was only when she was halfway through unpacking her father’s hospital bag that she realised the biggest change – Willow. Tom had called her Willow. Not Banjo.

  Weird. He’d called her Banjo for years – ever since he’d first coined the nickname when they were eleven and their teacher had forced the whole class to learn a verse per week of ‘The Man from Snowy River’ by Banjo Paterson. It was Tom’s name for her, his alone, and secretly she’d liked it. It felt like a private joke they shared.

  Looked like the time for private jokes with Tom was now well and truly over.

  Willow’s new mount was a palomino gelding called Peanut, stained red from the dust. Tuffie was too old to take part in musters these days. It had been years since Willow had been on a muster as well, and she was woefully out of condition. She made up her mind to get into the saddle every day, even for a short ride, to get herself back in shape.

  The muster experience, with Hegney’s three best stockmen, was – interesting. The men clearly understood the beasts and worked well as a team but they took an old-school approach that disappointed Willow. Willow had told Barry countless times about low-stress muster techniques, but the information clearly hadn’t trickled down. The twelve bullocks ended up in a yard, heaving and foaming from the experience, their eyes rolling. She even heard one of the stockmen wish they’d brought the bull-buggy to knock down the animals for easier capture. This was not at all what she had in mind.

  ‘What’s next?’ she asked Nico, the stockman in charge of the small team.

  ‘Worming and branding. Then we’ll take them up to join the herd on the western side of the property.’

  Willow didn’t mention the imminent switch to microchipping. She would speak to Hegney about the branding methods, but if the muster was anything to go by, they probably weren’t using the more humane methods she’d been pushing during visits home in the past ten years. Even if her father had told them about her low-stress cattle management ideas, nothing had been put into practice.

  ‘Do they have full run of the station?’ she asked. ‘Has Dad gated any pastures for resting?’

  ‘Full run, normally.’

  Huh. So Barry had introduced the Forrests to her pasture strategy but hadn’t used it on his own station. They discussed locations of year-round water sources as they headed back towards the homestead. It was so damn hard to plan without aerial views. Maybe next time Willow was in the city she could pick up a drone. If only she were on friendlier terms with the Forrests so she could take advantage of the helicopter.

  As they rode home, they passed the eastern gate and the hollow boab. It gave her an unexpected pang of sadness to see both. She tried to remember a time when she’d ridden out this way over the past decade and couldn’t think of a single instance. Was it possible she’d been avoiding this part of the station, where the Forrest property met Paterson Downs, and where she and Tom had regularly met and corresponded?

  Willow had loved riding Tuffie out to the hollow boab to search for messages from Tom. He was much better at leaving mail than her and she was hardly ever disappointed, even on the wettest days. A note, a silly story, a snack-sized pack of peanut M&M’s – her favourite – or, once, a drawing of her and Tuffie. She remembered that drawing in vivid detail. It was good. Tom had been quite a talented sketcher. In his drawing, she wore a long blue dress and her hair streamed behind her like a dark mane as she galloped past a peaked mountain on her gorgeous, hairy pony.

  ‘Seriously, Tom,’ she’d said. ‘You know I always wear a helmet. And since when do I ride in a dress? And that mountain – it looks like Switzerland. You should draw what you know.’

  But secretly she’d thought it was an extraordinary drawing and wished she were as pretty as he’d made her look on paper. She’d kept it. I wonder if it’s still somewhere in the house?

  Her mail to Tom had been much less interesting. Sometimes she’d been organised enough to put something together before she rode out there; usually just printing out an article or poem about kindness to animals or giving back to the planet. She blushed to remember it. She had been so dogmatic back then, and so determined Tom should be as committed to the humane farmi
ng vision as she was. Occasionally she left hand-drawn cartoons poking fun at something she’d seen or heard around Patersons, but nothing that took more than a few minutes to produce. Nothing like Tom’s long letters or detailed drawings, which were always sealed in ziplock bags. If she’d turned up with nothing to exchange for whatever wonderful gift Tom had deposited, then she let Tuffie graze while she looked for something interesting for him. A nut, or a beautiful rock. She’d left him a bunch of carved boab pods over the years. Once, she’d taken over an hour to etch the words Quintilla Downs in 10-metre letters into the red dirt with a fallen branch. She’d come up with the name for their dream superstation the night before.

  Willow was seized with an irrational urge to check the hollow boab for messages from Tom. Then she pulled a wry face and turned for the homestead. Not bloody likely.

  Apart from the short mustering job, Willow mostly worked from the house. She had the excuse that she was working on the certification plan and needed quiet time in the office. Actually, she wanted to keep an eye on her father and make sure he didn’t sneak out to the station kitchen for a quick pie. She didn’t quite trust he would stop working, either. At least he’d agreed to get around with his walking stick for now, and eat what she cooked. He was a good resource for her project, anyway; whenever she couldn’t find the information she needed on their farm computer systems, she slipped out and asked him about cattle counts, drafting dates or pasture conditions at Patersons. She was pleased with the progress she’d made on the plan, all the while looking after her father.

  Willow had been under the impression from Hegney that Patersons had moved partway towards her preferred pastoral practices. The reality was that little progress had been made. As she wrote it, her plan felt too radical, and she found herself pushing things back to the following year or even the year after so as not to overwhelm the staff. It was disappointing but she consoled herself with the thought that she would be so damn busy she’d hardly notice how long it took.