by Sasha Wasley
The victory over Hegney was not particularly sweet. Although Barry was relieved and heaped praise on her, she kept catching Hegney with that same sceptical look on his face. He wandered around talking to the stockmen and making remarks she couldn’t quite hear, which provoked loud laughter from the other blokes. Maybe it was paranoia but she couldn’t shake the feeling he was talking about her.
She fixed the payroll situation, much to the delight of the staff. Some of them had a good chunk of money come into their pay envelopes or bank accounts that week. It didn’t help her reputation as a manager. She hadn’t told anyone it had been Hegney’s mistake – she refused to be that unprofessional – so the error probably looked like her fault. She spoke to their accountant, who notified the tax office, and they managed to avoid a fine by virtue of voluntarily admitting the mistake and attempting to bring all staff payments up to date as quickly as possible. It wasn’t much fun being known as the station that had underpaid its staff, but at least everyone knew they were paying properly now.
Later in the month, while the stockmen were out driving the Brahmans to pasture, her father called her into the house. He looked serious as he indicated a kitchen chair. Willow sat.
‘We need to have a talk, sweetheart.’
Her thoughts flew to his heart. Had the doctor called with more bad test results? But he sat down beside her heavily and said, ‘Hegney showed me the books.’
She stared blankly. ‘The books?’
‘The outgoings. Willow, it’s not sustainable.’
In an instant, she knew what Hegney had done. He’d complained about the increased costs since Willow’s arrival. Probably without the context of her certification plan, too. Fury wound up inside her. How dare he? Not only had he endangered Barry by frightening him with half-the-story financials, he’d gone behind her back and involved her father, as though she were some sort of naughty teenager running around with her parents’ credit card.
‘Let me guess,’ she said, the bitterness spilling out in her voice. ‘Hegney says we’re haemorrhaging money?’
‘What’s going on? It never costs this much to run the station. The last couple of months have been – ridiculous.’
‘Did you incorporate Hegney’s payroll skills into that ridiculous figure?’
Her father’s frown deepened. ‘I’m fully aware of Hegney’s mistake, Willow. I’m more interested in finding out why the feed and consumables and kitchen costs are so high recently.’
Willow hesitated. ‘It’s hard to explain without pulling up the whole business plan, Dad.’ She fiddled with the corner of her father’s crossword-puzzle book, her anxiety growing. ‘You know it’s going to cost more to run an organic facility.’
‘How much more?’ He still wore those deep creases on his brow. ‘There’s only so much money in the kitty. The station can’t keep paying out more and more without it affecting the business overall.’
The discussion, despite her efforts to keep her composure, sometimes bordered on an argument. It also went on for a long time. Hours. Free appeared once to get a drink of water, observed their heated discussion and opened her mouth to join in, then changed her mind and returned to her bedroom studio. Against Willow’s instincts, she had to show her father the certification plan. He wouldn’t accept the quarter plan without understanding the bigger picture; there were simply too many outlays for Barry Paterson to cope with. He settled down a little when he saw the whole plan, including projected profits, but he was still bewildered by why she wanted to change certain things. She had to go into stupid amounts of detail, explaining theories and methods that were far too complex for one conversation – it was years’ worth of study condensed into a short quarrel. What annoyed her the most was that he didn’t even need to know all this stuff.
At the end of it Barry sat back in his chair with a perturbed expression, not speaking.
Willow’s heart sank. He didn’t trust her, after all. He trusted Hegney more than he trusted her. Free re-emerged and switched on the television, asking what they were having for dinner, and it occurred to Willow that she was not only the station manager – and not even a trusted or respected station manager – but also the housemaid, cook and chief dogsbody at home. Free and her father relaxed in front of a loud replay of their latest talent show, delightedly rehashing each act. During an ad break, Free wandered into the kitchen for a banana. Willow was up to her elbows in mincemeat, breathing in the stink of raw meat while making rissoles she wouldn’t even be eating – she couldn’t take any more.
‘I thought that damn show was finished? You said the final was weeks ago.’
Free was startled. ‘That was a different show. This one’s got all these people who come on the show and sing, and then they get put in teams to form, like, bands or singing groups. Each week they have to —’
‘I really don’t care,’ Willow snapped, and the shocked look on Free’s face gave her a giant pang of guilt. Her phone beeped and she washed her hands, avoiding her sister’s eye. It was a message from Tom.
Pick you up just before 5.
‘What the hell?’ she muttered.
‘What’s wrong?’ Free peered over her shoulder at Willow’s phone screen. ‘Oh, I saw that on the calendar. You’ve got something on in town, right? Six-thirty?’
Willow remembered. The Department of Conservation talk on watercourses. She wondered if she could cancel without annoying Tom but realised she’d be better off out of the house tonight. As little as she wanted to go out, she couldn’t be around Barry while she felt backed into a corner like this.
‘How about I finish those?’ Free offered unexpectedly. ‘I think I can handle rissoles. What else were you going to make? Salad? Veggies?’
‘Either. And Dad loves a potato with his dinner.’
‘I think I can make potatoes.’ Free looked excited at the prospect of doing something as important as making dinner. Her cooking repertoire didn’t usually stretch beyond reheating or packet mixes.
Willow headed to her bedroom to change, leaving Free to fumble through on her own.
Willow changed into a fresh T-shirt and shorts, but when Tom arrived to collect her he was in a smarter outfit than her. She wavered.
‘Is this thing a bit formal?’
He ran his eyes over her outfit. ‘You look fine.’
‘Maybe I should put on long pants. Or a skirt.’
‘I don’t think it matters,’ he said, but Willow had made up her mind. She dashed back to her room and changed into a basic summer dress – not too formal, not too scruffy. Then she seized her tablet and raced out, calling a goodbye to her father and sister. By the time she got to the car, Tom was already waiting for her, engine running. She jumped in and buckled up before sitting back with a sigh.
‘You seem stressed,’ he said as they headed for the main road.
‘Bitch of a day.’
‘What’s going on?’
She considered telling him. Nope. ‘Let’s not talk about it,’ she said. ‘I need to take my mind off things.’
A small frown crossed his face but he obliged her, telling her a story about two of his youngest station hands who’d staged a rap battle for the Quintilla team’s entertainment. It made her laugh but she couldn’t shake that horrible uneasy feeling. Quentin Dale’s words about her father not being able to resist taking over the station’s management floated back to her. If she had been doing all the same things Barry had ever done, she had no doubt he’d be happy to step back and let her get on with it. But these changes were confusing for him. He didn’t fully understand a lot of what she was doing. What would happen if he really dug his heels in now and put a stop to the certification process in favour of maintaining normal station operation? She would be left running a conventional meat-production facility for her seriously ill father – trapped doing something she was deeply opposed to. The panic rose again and she felt like her lungs were being squeezed by a giant invisible hand.
‘Banjo? You with me?’
>
‘Huh? Oh, sorry!’ She hadn’t heard a word he’d said for several minutes. ‘I’m so rude.’
‘I can’t believe you aren’t interested in my gently humorous tales of cattle station life.’
She smiled. ‘They’re my favourite type of stories, but I’ve got a head full of work at the moment.’
‘I see.’ He paused. ‘How’s the Brahman herd going?’
She was able to report positively on the Brahmans, which lifted her spirits slightly. They talked farming for the rest of the drive and Tom succeeded in taking her mind off her worries, at least superficially. She didn’t expect much from the watercourses talk but it turned out the presenter was a true expert and Willow was fascinated by the science, especially the statistics on how Herne River had changed in the past fifty years. She tapped out pages of notes and came up with some half-formed ideas to improve the health of their section of the river – the part that flowed through Paterson Downs.
‘Well, that was pretty interesting, in my opinion,’ Tom declared as they left the civic centre. ‘But I’m starving. Where do you want to go for dinner?’
‘Oh, that’s right, we’re eating in town, aren’t we? Hmm.’ She considered. ‘Might be best if you pick somewhere. I’ve only tried the Mount Clair Resort since I’ve been home, for the awards night. The vegetarian choices there weren’t very broad, if I remember rightly.’
‘Damn city snobbery,’ he said with a smile, and she shoved him. ‘Well, there’s the pubs, but I was thinking I might take you to The Sawmill at the old timber mills. It’s a pretty nice restaurant in there and they’ve got a much more modern menu than the pubs in town.’
‘That sounds good,’ she said as they climbed into the car.
Willow was impressed by The Sawmill. Tall glass windows and sleek, modern furniture overlooked the watery expanse of the Herne River catchment. This place was pretty classy, for Mount Clair. She checked the menu on display while they waited to be seated.
‘I’m buying.’
‘No, it’s okay,’ she tried.
‘I’m buying,’ he said and she didn’t argue again. The first thing he did when they had a table was order a bottle of red wine and, when it arrived, pour her a glass. ‘You look like you need a drink.’
‘It wouldn’t go astray, but I don’t mind driving if you want to have a couple.’
‘No, I’ll drive. I can have a small glass or two with a meal and still be fine. You guzzle however much you want.’
‘Guzzle! I shall sip.’ She sipped to demonstrate. ‘I’ll only guzzle when you’re not looking.’
Tom grinned. Willow selected a pumpkin gnocchi and Tom a vegetable and fish tempura. As soon as the waiter left, Willow told him her river-health ideas. He thought they sounded good and said it was a pity the Westons were on the other side of the river not giving a damn about its health. During a lull in the conversation, Tom gave her a pensive look.
‘So, you going to tell me what’s going on?’
Willow knew exactly what he meant but she vacillated. This was her problem to grapple with. And yet, maybe Tom would have some insights – or at least some sympathy. She only hesitated a moment longer before blurting the whole story out to him. His face darkened when she explained how Hegney had gone behind her back to tell Barry about the costs and show him the quarter’s outgoings.
‘Son of a . . .’ He didn’t finish, shaking his head. ‘Hegney’s probably scrambling to save face after his stuff-up with payroll. But he’s totally undermined your authority with this move. And your dad won’t have a clue about the certification process, or your methodology, I suppose.’
‘Exactly. I was trying to give him a crash course this afternoon but there’s so much science behind it all and the deeper I got into explaining, the more confusing it got for him. Dad knows what he knows. I thought he trusted me but now he seems to be doubting and questioning everything. And what’s worse, I could see the stress on his face. I know what he’s like. He likes everything to chug along at a steady pace. Change doesn’t suit him. God —’ She stopped and gave a big sigh, suddenly close to tears. ‘I wish Mum was here. She’d make him step back and let me get on with it.’ Her voice cracked and the tears spilled.
Tom’s eyes clouded with concern. He took her hand. ‘Hell, Banjo. I’m sorry.’
‘Ugh,’ she laughed, sniffing and wiping her eyes. ‘What sort of a farmer am I, crying into my red wine?’
‘A bloody good farmer,’ he said without a trace of humour. ‘An innovative, intelligent, groundbreaking farmer.’
She smiled gratefully and sniffed again. The waiter arrived with their food so she hid her face by pretending to arrange her napkin on her lap until they were left alone once more, and then they ate.
‘This is good,’ she said, indicating her gnocchi. ‘Try it.’ She speared one and dropped it on his plate.
‘Thanks. Mine’s good, too.’ He served her a piece of asparagus tempura.
‘Yum,’ she agreed, crunching. ‘I’ll definitely come back here.’
‘We’ll come back for our next date,’ he joked.
She laughed, a little surprised. He topped up her wine and she relaxed back to enjoy the meal. It hadn’t solved anything, telling Tom what was going on, but she did feel better now that she’d unburdened herself. There weren’t many people to whom she could have said that about her mother, either. She thanked her lucky stars for Tom’s friendship. And the fact that he’d cracked a joke about their next date suggested that the complicated nightmare of crossed lines was behind them.
They finished eating and he topped up her wine again while she chatted about farming, her sisters, and watercourses. Tom talked her into dessert, so they ordered cheesecake and two forks and shared it off the plate.
‘It’s getting late,’ she said, noticing the time. ‘We’ve got a long drive back home. Should we get going?’
‘Yep. I fancy a coffee but I’ll order it takeaway for the drive. You want one?’
She thought about her difficulty sleeping over the last couple of weeks and declined. Tom ordered his coffee and paid, and then they got into the car and headed along the Herne River Road towards home. She was warm and sleepy with all the good food and wine, and the 4WD cab was full of the pleasant scents of Tom’s aftershave and coffee. She rested her head back on the car seat and gazed out at the road before them in silence, feeling content.
‘Want to come out and check the bores and dams in the heli this weekend?’ he asked.
‘Yes, that’d be good.’
He glanced at her. ‘You wandering off to the land of nod?’
‘Trying not to,’ she laughed.
‘It’s the passenger’s duty to entertain the driver, you know that?’
‘Okay. Shall I sing or dance?’
‘Tell me a story from your undergraduate days.’
Willow considered. ‘Do you want a glory days story or a loser story?’
‘Both,’ he said without hesitation.
‘Right. This is my loser story.’ She wriggled around slightly to find a more comfortable position, half-facing Tom. ‘First-year uni. I’d arrived in Perth before semester began so I kind of knew my way around, but this happened right at the start of term so I was still working out where my lecture halls and tutorial rooms were. I had a tutorial for Biodynamics 101 and it was supposed to be in Building B, Room 212. I found Building B, which was way across the other side of campus so I was already running a few minutes late when I got there. Then I scurried up and down the halls until I finally found the room I was looking for, burst in and discovered everyone sitting down already, deep in discussion. I was mortified to be late for my first class so I rushed in and set myself up and then prepared to join in, hoping I hadn’t pissed off the tutor. Everyone was looking at me funny and I didn’t recognise any faces, but I was too flustered to think very hard about it.
‘Your name? the tutor asked me, and I told him and he frowned down at his list for a minute before writing something on it.
I could have died. I figured he was writing a note on the roll that I’d been late to my very first class. The discussion resumed and they were talking about pastoral this and verdant that, lambs and milkmaids. I was totally bewildered. Had I missed something about how biodynamics worked? It took me a good ten minutes to work out I’d stumbled into a class on nineteenth-century romantic poetry.’
Tom burst out laughing. ‘Bullshit!’ he said. ‘You did not.’
‘I did,’ she grinned. ‘I honestly did.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I sat there and pretended to be fascinated by nineteenth-century poetry for ninety minutes.’
He laughed even harder. ‘Poor Banjo. Always too proud to admit a mistake.’
‘Later I realised what I’d thought was Building B on my timetable was actually Building 8.’ She sighed at the memory. ‘I also realised I’m quite fond of Keats.’
He sipped his coffee, still chuckling intermittently. ‘Okay, now tell me your glory days tale.’
‘So this was in second year. Cattle Grazing 201. The lecturer brought us out to to the university’s working farm, which is on the outskirts of Perth. We’d taken a bus there for a field trip to learn about pasture plants. But when we got into the paddocks there was a calving heifer, struggling to birth her calf. The lecturer was a botany expert but not big on animal husbandry, so he sent some of my classmates to track down a vet or at least some vet students in the farmhouse.
‘The calf was stuck. The heifer kept contracting, pushing, but it would slip back in. I’d seen dystocia before, plenty of times. I was pretty sure there was a leg tangled. I waited for the vet students as long as I could but I could see her suffering and in the end I couldn’t stand it. I had a tanktop under my farm overalls so I whipped off the sleeves, knotted them round my waist, and got in there. The other kids’ eyes almost popped out of their heads and the lecturer was freaking, demanding to know what the hell I was doing. I was standing there, shoulder-deep in labouring cow, trying to explain I’d been raised on a cattle station. Then I found the problem – a leg folded the wrong way, just as I thought, put all my strength into it and brought it around the right way, and a minute later we had a healthy bull calf on the grass in front of us. I was covered in blood and goo and shit, but I got a round of applause.’