Demons

by Wayne Macauley

  Cass didn’t mind Dale’s obsession—she had obsessions of her own, currently for collecting fashion eyeware—and the upside was that every weekend when the weather was warm they would take one of Dale’s cars out of the enormous garage he’d had specially built and go for a drive in the country. No child, fit or flawed, could ever outdo the satisfaction to be got from seeing the envy on the faces of the people they passed. They did the gourmet trails mostly—east, north, south-west, wherever—and arranged the day around morning tea at a café, bakery or tearooms, lunch at a winery, some more wineries and tastings in the afternoon, then a farmgate stop for fresh produce on the way home. Pretty soon this weekend ritual marked the passage of their lives. The garage filled with cars, the cellar with wine, the pantry with produce, the spare rooms with stuff. They began to wonder—separately at first, then quietly, by small steps, together—if this was it, their lives? Professionally they were both at the top of the tree, materially they had everything they could want.

  But spiritually? said Hannah. Everyone sort of rocked back in their chairs. Yes, said Adam, exactly. He took a sip of wine.

  Then, he continued, coming back one day from a drive to the Yarra Valley in their new vintage Chevrolet convertible, Dale slowed down on a straight stretch of road near Coldstream and pulled onto the verge. What are you doing? asked Cass. Dale pointed at the paddock to their left.

  It was a Sunday in autumn, about four o’clock in the afternoon, the sun was low and the light was starting to change. It was doing that thing it does where it fades from the sky but picks out the things on the ground until they seem almost to glow—it’s a beautiful time that, isn’t it?

  The verge was wide, beside it a grassy culvert then a barbed-wire fence. There were plenty of new wineries dotted along that road but this part was still old farmland and now, at milking time, what Dale was pointing at was a herd of black-and-white cows making their way up the rise towards the milking shed next to an old farmhouse tucked in behind some trees.

  Dale and Cass got out of the car, leaned on it and watched. There was something unearthly about the scene. Time had slowed, they were on the moon and those cows were weightless, floating towards the shed on a gentle solar breeze. They could see the farmer standing up there, the cows floating towards him; behind the herd a dog swept back and forth across the grass like a scythe. There was nothing sharp or violent about it, the dog didn’t even bark, it too was gliding, like on the moon, or underwater. There was a golden sheen on everything, the black hides of the cows, the clear earth around the shed, the shed itself, the farmer’s shoulders. Clouds of golden insects rose up out of the grass as the cows passed and in the wake of the scything dog.

  As Dale and Cass watched all this an otherworldly calm descended on them. Their lives seemed concentrated and distilled. Cass moved her hand to his and held it like she was saying: Do you feel it too? He squeezed it lightly like he was saying: Yes. Ahead of them, along the road, on top of the wire fence, three ravens sat watching. They too felt the calm. I want that, said Dale. Cass knew exactly what he meant. Dale thought he saw the farmer wave his hand and he raised his hand too. Let’s go up, he said.

  It was the sort of road—more a track, really—on which Dale, under any other circumstances, wouldn’t be seen dead driving his new Chevrolet convertible. It was rutted with tractor tyres and the chassis scraping along the rise in the middle. But an idea or a feeling towards an idea had taken hold of Cass and Dale and silently they both agreed that a few scrapes on the undercarriage were a small price to pay to discover where this feeling might take them.

  When they got to the top of the track the farmer wasn’t there but they could hear the mooing and bellowing and the clatter of hooves inside the shed. The milking had started. Dale closed the Chevrolet’s roof. They got out and went to the door—not a door, really, more an opening through which the cows had trooped. Everything in there was the opposite of what they’d felt outside; it was busy, noisy, cows lurching and moaning, metal gates clanking, the farmer whistling and shouting, the dog barking and music blaring from a tinny radio hanging above on a wire. The farmer was getting what must have been about twenty of the herd individually into the corrals on the big milking carousel—the others were penned in a concrete yard at the far end, waiting their turn. While the dog barked—routinely, and less frequently now—the farmer, an old guy in his seventies, went around to each cow and attached the milking cups to their udders, oblivious to the two well-dressed professionals from the city standing in the doorway of his shed. Or so it seemed. Hello there! he said, from the other side of the carousel, and he walked around towards them. Can I help you with something?

  It was an odd sight, said Adam, the two city types standing either side of a cow pat, their flash car in the yard, while the farmer approached in his gumboots and waterproof pants and filthy flannel shirt. The dog came round the other side, its ears up, curious.

  We were watching from the road, said Dale—I saw you, said the farmer—and we couldn’t help coming up for a look. They’re so beautiful, said Cass, and they look so calm and peaceful from a distance. Mostly they are, said the farmer, but they get a bit cranky sometimes—don’t we all? Everyone smiled. My name’s Gus, said the farmer. Dale and Cass, said Dale. That’s a beautiful-looking vehicle, said Gus, pointing at the Chevrolet. I collect them, said Dale. The farmer let out a breathy whistle. It’s a hobby, said Dale. An expensive hobby, said Cass. They all smiled again. Does it hurt the cows? asked Cass. The farmer looked around. No, he said, it becomes habit after a while. Do you ever milk them by hand? asked Cass. Oh no, said the farmer, we haven’t done that in a long time, but you can, sure, with the placid ones. Bess there is as gentle as a kitten. Can I try? asked Cass. Both Dale and the farmer looked at her, surprised. Sure, said the farmer: why not?

  With the dog at his heels, Gus moved to the pen, opened the gate and pushed a couple of cows aside until he got a hand on what even Cass and Dale, urban amateurs, could see was the most placid of the group. Pushing her gently by the back of the head (Dale remembered the principal at school doing this, when he was taking kids to the office), Gus guided Bess onto the open concrete area. Just hang on to her for a couple of minutes, said Gus, while I get the next lot in. He parked Bess beside Cass and showed her how to put a hand on the cow’s neck to steady her, then he went back to the carousel and started unhooking the others and shooing them into the paddock. Then one by one he hooked the next lot up.

  Bess didn’t move. Cass could feel the warmth of her body through the hide and the occasional twitch of a muscle deep under the skin. The odour coming off her—of grass and straw and milk and piss and shit and something else that she couldn’t help somehow thinking was old timber—made her reel at first but soon became a pleasant thing, like nature talking, the same as the picture from the roadside of the herd making their way up the paddock in the gloaming. Subtly Cass patted Bess’s hide, but so subtly that if you weren’t looking for it you wouldn’t have seen it. Bess turned her head, one big eye bulging.

  All right, said Gus, wiping his hands on his shirt and picking up an old milk crate on the way over, so what brings you people out here today? He put the crate down. Bess shuffled on the concrete. Are you sightseeing? We had lunch in a winery up near Healesville, said Dale, and now we’re on our way home. You live in the city? said Gus, kicking the milk crate into place. In the city, yeah, said Dale. And what do
you do for a crust? asked Gus. Well, said Dale, I’m in information technology, Cass does human resources. Stressful work, yeah? said Gus. Most times, said Dale. Sometimes the city looks like one big ball of stress to me, said Gus. Whenever I go there—and I try to avoid it if I can—I feel like a hundred strangers are whacking me with sticks. No, I couldn’t live in the city, he said, but hats off to those who can.

  The whole time Gus was talking he was tapping the milk crate with his foot, this way and that, nudging it into position. Bess seemed to know what was coming, a memory somewhere deep in her genes, and she grew a little skittish. Cass said nothing, but gave all her concentration to the hand stroking Bess’s neck. She was calming the cow down, but also herself. Little by little Bess’s hooves stopped shuffling and Cass’s excitement—where did that come from? what was its source?—began to subside.

  All right, said Gus, sit down, let her get used to you first, I’ll get a bucket, wait a sec. Cass sat on the milk crate, spread her knees and put her hands on Bess’s side. Dale stood above her. Cass let him take in the picture of her like that, sitting on the milk crate, her legs spread, her hands on the cow, before she looked up and smiled. They smiled at each other, and both knew it was the kind of smile they’d not felt in a very long time.

  Gus put a blue plastic bucket under the cow. All right, he said, you’ve probably seen how they do it in the movies—I mean, it’s not rocket science. You get a teat in each hand, aim at the bucket, then squeeze and pull down. Cass did what Gus said. That’s right, he said, squeeze and pull, keep going, it’ll start in a minute, I need to get this other lot off the machine, keep going, it’ll start soon. Gus left them there—Cass squeezing and pulling Bess’s teats, Dale watching—while he disconnected the cows already milked, herded them out into the paddock and brought the new ones in. Cass and Dale were left alone. The background sounds seemed to fade—the clatter of hooves, the clanking of gates, the cows moaning, the machine humming, Gus whistling and calling, the radio on the wire—until all Cass could hear were Bess’s hooves shifting, her tail flapping, the squeezing, like when you wring your hands together, flesh on flesh, her own breathing, and now, finally, the sound of a squirt of milk hitting the bottom of the bucket.

  It felt miraculous at first, then somehow ordinary. Once Bess had let the milk down—and Cass could actually feel her relax—the milking seemed to manage itself. The tiniest squeeze, the slightest movement of the wrist, and out shot the stream of white liquid. Cass glanced up once at Dale and smiled—a girlish smile of the kind he’d not seen since they were, in fact, boy and girl—then gave herself over to it. She leaned her forehead against Bess’s side, for a while she even closed her eyes so she could listen more closely to the sound as it now was of liquid squirting into liquid. She aimed one teat slightly sideways so that it squirted at her hand. She did the same to the other, so that now as she milked she felt the milk softening her skin, letting her fingers slip easily up and down over the teats. This seemed to relax Bess even more. The bucket now had a couple of centimetres of milk in the bottom, the squirting sound had gone from high to low, the milk seemed to be pouring out of Bess with Cass barely moving her hands.

  That’s the way, said Gus, coming over. Look at you, you’re an old hand. And to Dale: She looks like she’s been doing it for years. Good girl, he said, to Bess, stroking her rump, good girl. Cass looked up at the farmer and in that moment Gus saw like Dale not a woman but a girl. Good on you, he said, that’s a good litre or more there now. Let me get you something to put it in.

  Gus went back to the house. Dale wandered over to the carousel to watch the other cows being milked, then moved to the doorway at the far end of the shed and looked out across the farm. Cass stopped milking for a moment and watched him. The machinery hummed. She lifted her milky hands to her face, smelled them, then rubbed the milk into her skin. She closed her eyes and kept rubbing. It was like at the bathroom mirror in the morning except here there weren’t the usual smells of soap and product but milk, grass, cowshit, cowhide, concrete. Cass rubbed until she felt the milk going in then opened her eyes and stared down at the bucket.

  Gus came back with a big glass jar, the kind you might buy olives or pickles in. He stood next to Cass and unscrewed the lid. Give us the bucket, he said, you can take it home in this, it’ll last a while if you keep it in the fridge. Cass handed up the bucket, Gus put the jar on the ground and poured the milk into it. Cass got up off the milk crate and, before moving away, wiped her hands a couple of times on Bess’s side. The hide was warm and seemed to shiver. Dale? she said. Gus screwed the lid on the jar.

  Outside the sky had darkened, a few pink clouds and a soft glow in the west. Cass was carrying the jar. Thank you, she said. She slid into the passenger seat and Gus closed the door. Cass wound down the window. That was lovely, she said. No problems, said Gus. Thanks, said Dale, leaning down and looking across. Safe driving, said Gus. The tyres crunched on the gravel. Dale flicked the lights on. Cass turned to watch Gus walking back towards the milking shed and then, when she couldn’t turn any more, she swung around and looked out the front where the headlights were throwing a tunnel of white onto the darkening road.

  Shit, said Marshall. What’s going to happen? said Megan. Something’s going to happen, said Hannah. Good stuff, said Evan. All right, said Adam: so.

  The following Sunday afternoon, just as the cows were heading up the hill, Gus saw Cass and Dale’s Chevrolet making its way along the drive. We hope you don’t mind, said Cass, getting out, but it was so wonderful, last week, we haven’t stopped talking about it. Can Dale have a go this time? Sure, said Gus, come in. They went inside while Gus got the first of the herd into the carousel then, like before, led Bess with a hand on her neck towards them. She seemed to know what was required and stopped still without twitching. The bucket’s over there, said Gus, you know what to do. Let me get the rest of these up. He crossed to the door on the far side and went out where the cows were gathering; Cass and Dale could hear him whistling to the dog and the clump and clatter of the cows’ hooves. Bess didn’t move. Cass kicked the milk crate over then went and got the bucket. She put it down under Bess’s udder and laid a hand on her side. All right, she said, relax. If you’re relaxed, she’s relaxed, and if she’s relaxed she’ll do it for you. Dale wiped his hands on his jeans and started milking.

  After a while Gus came over to see how they were getting on. Good on you, he said. Then he and Cass watched while Dale pulled down on the teats and the milk fired into the bucket.

  Next Sunday, when the car pulled up in the yard, it was only Dale who got out. Cass’s not feeling well, he said, but I thought I’d come anyway. Gus hesitated this time before he led him into the shed. Stay here, said Dale, when Gus started to walk away, I want to make sure I’m doing it right. Gus stood and watched while Dale pulled down on the teats. Bess shuffled on the concrete; Dale adjusted the bucket. Then the pulling resumed. Dale looked up at Gus who, shifting and distracted, said he needed to go and deal with the cows.

  The next Sunday Cass was feeling better and they both took it in turns to milk Bess. While Cass was milking Dale cornered Gus. Did he make a living? Had he thought about running other animals? A vineyard? Did he have a wife? Kids? Gus answered each one but after a while he began to feel uncomfortable, he had a lot of things to do, he said, and while he appreciated their visits and their interest in the farm he was actually a very busy man, ru
nning the whole thing on his own, working seven days a week.

  The next Sunday they made an offer. They didn’t go straight into it. After talking about it during the week they agreed they would have to play their cards carefully if they weren’t to lose Gus’s friendship. They arrived a bit earlier, around lunchtime. Dale started by saying they were sorry for having already taken up so much of Gus’s valuable time—as nine-to-five city people their Sunday was a day of rest and they hadn’t yet grasped that for a farmer Sunday is like any other day and that there is always work to be done. So, said Dale, as you can see, we haven’t come winery-hopping but have put on our work clothes and are here to help out: you only have to tell us what to do.

  Gus was taken aback by this offer, naturally, but he couldn’t send them away. He thanked them and gave them some simple chores, like cleaning out the old shed. Cass and Dale made two piles, one big, one small, the first with things that in their opinion had no imaginable use, the second with things that looked like junk but which Gus might like to keep. The light turned, the sky faded to pink, the insects came out, the birds started roosting, the cows pushed their way into the yard while the dog swept the ground behind them. Cass and Dale stopped and poured themselves a cup of tea from their thermos and took a biscuit each from the bag. Gus came over. Well! he said. Behind them one of the cows was bellowing. All three realised it was Bess.

  Cass did the milking this time while Dale talked. He let Gus understand that he and Cass had fallen in love not just with Bess and the milking but the whole thing, the farm, the lifestyle and everything that went with it; they had, furthermore, come to see Gus as a friend. This was the basis of their offer, which by any measure, said Dale, was over-generous. He quoted a figure. We want to buy the farm from you, he said. This offer is for everything: land, house, sheds, machinery, livestock. It is generous, Gus, very generous; I don’t think we need to haggle.