by Vanda Symon
‘What did she want to see you about?’ I asked.
‘TB, of all things. She said she was working on a story on tuberculosis in cattle for her journalism course. Can’t see myself why she thought that would be an interesting story – it bores the shit out of me, if you don’t mind my saying. But she wanted to know how all the regulations worked and what we had to do to keep the ministry on side. I was quite happy to show her all the certification and forms we have to fill in; took her over to the office and also for a look around the farm. We didn’t get too far because she was carrying the youngster. Angel loved the cows, got very excited.’
Once he got going, Trev was a little difficult to shut up. It was no wonder his right-hand man, Cole, was so quiet – he didn’t have a hope of getting a word in.
‘Why do you think she chose to come to your farm, Trev?’ I didn’t think he’d be fazed by directness. I was right.
‘Because of Cole, I imagine. Being Lockie’s mate and all, I suppose you pick on who you know. Would that be right, mate?’ He nudged Cole with his elbow.
‘Yeah, she did ask if I thought Trev would mind. I said he’d be glad to help.’
That made perfect sense. Make use of the resources at hand. It was always easier to talk to someone friendly than to have to cold call.
‘Do you want to come over to the office and see the bits and pieces I showed her?’ Trev asked. With a guiding hand on my back, he directed me towards the house. ‘Then I can show you where we went on the farm. Come on, I’ll make you a cuppa. You want one, Cole?’
‘No thanks, I’d better finish that tractor,’ he said. ‘Take care, Sam.’ Then he disappeared around the corner of the shed.
‘He’s taking it really badly, you know, about Gaby. Lockie’s his best mate and he’s got a real soft spot for the girl. Doesn’t say much, but I can tell he’s hurting. So if there’s anything I can do to help, you know, finding her killer, just ask. Cole’s a good bloke; he’s like a son to me. I don’t like to see him so cut up.’
For all his affection for alcohol and lechery – his hand was still in the small of my back, slightly lower than was called for – I found it very hard not to like him.
‘He’s been a great support for Lockie. God knows Lockie needs him. It’s good of you to give him the time off work,’ I said, and stopped to pat the rather portly tabby cat that had appeared from the garden to greet us. The action also served to get Trev’s hand away from the vicinity of my bottom.
‘Off you go, Horse,’ Trev said, and shooed him away.
‘Horse? That pudding with legs is named Horse?’ I couldn’t help but laugh. Horse was the name of the most formidable fictional farm cat on the planet. I had been brought up with the Footrot Flats cartoons, as had generations of Kiwis. We all knew that Horse was not to be messed with and would happily take on and take down anything from dogs, wild pigs, and feral goats to humans of any level of scariness who dared cross his turf. Horse was a legend; this critter was a pat-and-tickle-seeking marshmallow.
Trev’s face broke into a grin. ‘Yeah. He doesn’t live up to the standards of his namesake, that’s for bloody sure. The only way he’d kill a mouse is if he accidentally sat on it. The vermin are pretty safe around here.’
He stumbled slightly as he went up the steps and had to lean into the wall to regain his balance.
‘You right, Trev?’ I asked. It was a bit early in the day for him to have been on the turps, though I couldn’t smell any alcohol on his breath. As well as the stumble, I’d noticed his hands were a bit shaky again. Maybe it was just age and decrepitude.
‘Yeah, yeah, caught my toes on the step. These boots are a bit big.’ He kicked the gumboots off onto the porch and then held the front door open for me.
The farmhouse looked about 1930s’ vintage, with plenty of exposed timber beams in its high-stud ceilings. Doors, windows and architraves had also been left unpainted to show the wood in all its warm glory. The décor was surprisingly feminine. Janice Ray’s touch was evident in the details: a coat stand by the front door with a collection of old-style hats, a hall table displaying an antique miniature sewing machine and a collection of thimbles. There were fresh-cut flowers in a vase on the kitchen table. It was all very American Country.
‘Janice still teaching at the college?’ I asked, as Trev put the kettle on.
‘Yeah, I don’t think she’ll ever retire – she loves it too much.’
I couldn’t understand how anyone could love teaching a classroom of hormonal teenagers. I wouldn’t have the patience for it and was pretty sure I’d end up in front of the disciplinary council for throttling the little buggers. I sat down at the table and savoured the delicious aroma that wafted through the room, its source an enormous hunk of meat roasting in the oven.
‘You’ll be a popular boy when she gets home,’ I said.
‘Eh?’
‘Putting the dinner on. Janice will be pleased to see that.’
‘Friday night ritual is the roast. The meat is easy enough to bung in. Janice deals with the vegetables when she gets home. I’d be in big trouble if I didn’t have it cooking.’ Trev poured the tea and brought over my mug. He hadn’t asked me how I had it, so I was interested to see what he thought the standard mix was.
‘Come down to the office,’ he said, and I followed him back down the hall and into his den.
‘Not a technophobe, then.’ As well as a fax machine, which nowadays was a bit of a rarity and a nod to the old school, there was the latest model computer with an enormous screen, and a colour laser printer and scanner. ‘You do actually use it, don’t you?’
‘Just goes to show you can teach an old dog new tricks,’ he said, and gave me a wink. ‘Farming is such a tight business these days, you’ve got to give yourself every advantage you can to keep profitable. I made it a policy years ago to keep up with the technology. I record all of the herd statistics, as well as business accounts in the thing. We’ve even got one of those tablets to use out on the farm. Just bring it back, hook into the network and download the information. Makes everything very easy. I tell you, I can’t understand why the other old buggers are scared of the things. And the internet is great to stay in touch with the girls and the grandkiddies.’
I looked up at the photos on the wall as I took a sip of my tea – and cringed: he’d put sugar in it. The beaming faces of his four daughters looked back at me. There was no son for this farmer. Small wonder he was so fond of Cole. I’d gone through school with Colleen, his eldest girl. She’d gone on to university and studied to become a lawyer. In fact, all his girls had gone through university. Felicity, the youngest, was still at Otago, finishing her physiotherapy degree. He’d have been proud of their achievements, but who would take over the farm when he retired? Mind you, he struck me as the kind of old bugger who’d only hang up his gumboots when they chucked them into the coffin with him.
He was very fond of his cattle too. Interspersed among the family portraits were photos of his prize beasts. Trev was a breeder of Angus cattle, magnificent black hunks of walking steak. These must have been his stud cattle, sporting names like Romeo, Casanova, Samson and Raphael. It was all I could do not to snigger.
‘Here’s the TB information I showed Gaby,’ Trev said as he plonked a folder full of material onto the desk. I had a premonition of being there for the rest of the afternoon.
‘Oh,’ I said, sighing as I turned the front cover. ‘Could you possibly give me the condensed version?’ I had gleaned some of the basics of TB control when I read Gaby’s notes, but it would be good to hear it from the horse’s mouth.
‘It’s all a load of bureaucratic crap, really. I mean, I can understand them wanting to be careful about TB and protect our export potential, but at the end of the day, it all comes down to more work for us cockies.’
‘Bit of a sore point, I take it?’
‘You just get sick of it. There’s Health and Safety crap, Accident Compensation Corporation crap, Inland Revenue crap, Goods a
nd Services Tax crap, Ministry for Primary Industries crap … this is just more of the same. Crap. We don’t get paid to do it – in fact, like most of their great ideas, we carry the cost.’
Welcome to the world of compliance. I could sense this conversation would get us nowhere fast, so ushered him back to the point. ‘So how does the system work, then? Can you give me the rundown?’
‘Oh yeah, sorry. Got a bit carried away. Basically, every animal over one month old has to have an identification ear tag, particularly when it leaves the farm. You’re a farming girl, aren’t you? You’d know all about ear tags.’
I knew about ear tags, alright. Dad had made me help him when it came to tagging the calves. It was my second-most hated task, only outgunned by docking the tails off the lambs. I always had a soft spot for the baby animals.
‘Yeah, seen it done, but I didn’t pay much attention to what was on them.’ I shuddered, even while acknowledging that my concern for the animals’ welfare and comfort was a bit stupid, given that I’d had my own ears pierced voluntarily.
‘Herd number, individual number and a bar code. Also, your herd gets a classification according to the testing and risk of infection. Of course, we have to pay for the MAF guy to come and do that.’
I got the feeling Trev didn’t like to dole out money unless absolutely necessary, or for the latest gadget.
‘How often does that happen?’ I asked, as I put down the tea mug I had politely if unenthusiastically drained.
‘We’re low risk, so the animals are checked by the works at slaughter. So for now I don’t have to pay. But if one of my beasts gets infected by some bloody possum or deer, then we have to go through all the testing rigmarole again.’
Possums were the scourge of this country. Introduced from Australia for their fur, they took to our climate with great enthusiasm and proliferated beyond all expectation and ability to control. Consequently, they destroyed our native bush habitat for our birds, preyed on their eggs in nests and were carriers of bovine TB. Cattle were inherently nosey beasts, and oddly enough, if a sick or dying possum wandered out onto pasture, the cattle would come over for a look, a sniff and a lick. Most New Zealanders hated them. The only good possum was a dead possum. Nothing pleased me more than seeing one splatted as roadkill.
‘So you’d do a bit of control then, would you?’
‘Too bloody right. Traps and poison for the buggers. Bloody nuisance.’ An expensive nuisance.
‘So basically, each head of cattle has to be identifiable from birth to slaughter?’
‘Yup. There are exceptions, but I won’t lumber you with those.’
‘Thanks – no need to tell me what a bore paperwork is. You should see how much we have to do in the police. Mind you, as you said, they have to keep tabs on it if too high levels of TB could affect overseas trade and drop meat prices. So it’s in your best interests, I suppose. Does the disease cross over into humans?’
‘Nah,’ he said, and shook his head. ‘Not nowadays. Well, only rarely. Now the milk’s pasteurised and they’re very careful at the slaughterhouse. The problem’s more about being competitive in overseas markets. So, like you said, this whole TB business is a necessary evil – just another expense to complicate our lives.’ He slapped his hand down on the folder. ‘As usual, it’s the farmers who have to carry the cost. We always do.’
‘Yeah, but you’d be the first to complain if prices took a tumble, wouldn’t you? And you’d feel really bad if some oversight on your farm caused everyone to be penalised. Export markets can be fickle things.’
‘True, true. I guess we all have to protect our livelihoods as best we can.’
I could see Trev look off into the distance, pondering that one. I tried to lighten the tone.
‘It’s just as well the government didn’t bring in that cow-fart tax they were proposing – you’d have been in the shit!’
Trev burst out with his characteristic chortle. ‘You got that right, girl, you got that right. Thank Christ, they saw sense on that one. We’d have been the laughing stock of the world. How the hell do you count cow farts?’
I couldn’t resist. ‘It would certainly be a pretty stink job.’ Trev doubled over, cackling, and for a minute I was worried he was going to wet himself.
‘Christ, you’re a dag, girl.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment. I can’t say I’ve been compared to the back end of a sheep before – well, not to my face, anyway.’
He laughed again. ‘Come on, Sam, we’ll have a look outside. I’ll take you where I took Gaby the other day.’ And, once again, his hand took up its customary position.
‘Oh, that’s right…’ The sight of one of his framed photographs, of a rather magnificent bull named Romeo, reminded me. ‘I hear you had some beasts stolen last night.’
‘Yeah, rotten bastards. That really pisses me off.’ He must have been upset by it, because he dropped the hand.
‘How many did they take?’ I asked.
‘Five. Had near to a hundred head down in the roadside paddock. The bastards cut the padlock on the gate and just helped themselves. I don’t know where people get off doing things like that. Farming’s tough enough without some sod stealing your profits. And they got one of my stud boys – Jesus, I don’t know how the hell I’ll replace him.’
‘One of these guys in the photos?’
‘Yeah, this big boy. Bloody bastards.’ He tapped on the picture of Samson.
‘Ouch. Are you insured? How much would he be worth?’
Trev looked close to tears. ‘A bomb, especially that boy. Irreplaceable. Big demand for his semen – it’s been exported all over the world. But it’s not just the money. That’s my whole breeding programme thrown out of whack. I’ve spent years working on the bloodlines – damned good ones too. He was descended from all these boys, right back to Casanova here. Imported him specially from England. No, Samson was a star, and a bloody nice-natured bull too.’
I gave him a pat on the shoulder. ‘You didn’t hear or see anything?’
‘No, the gate’s out of sight from the house, behind the hill. Come out, I’ll show you.’
We walked out of the house and across the gravelled yard, then paused at the top of the driveway that wound away before us.
‘They were in that paddock,’ he said, and pointed down to our right. ‘The gate’s around the other side of that hill.’ The pasture stretched out, extending smoothly down to the road. It was pretty lush. We’d had a wet summer, so both hills and plains were dressed in verdant green, and a recent week of hard-out rain had created a surge in grass growth. The paddock extended around the base of the hill that rose up to the house and sheds. The hill was partially covered in shelter trees, poplars and eucalypts, so any noise from the nocturnal visitors would have been well and truly shielded.
I wondered how the hell they got them into the truck? I’d never known a cattle beast to voluntarily climb into one before.
‘Where’s your cattle race?’ I asked.
‘Unfortunately for me, there’s an old one in that paddock, down from the original farmhouse. It’s not one I use because it’s a bit rickety. So they wouldn’t have had any trouble getting them into a truck. Bastards.’
‘But they only took five?’ It seemed to me that wasn’t a lot of stock for the effort. If the thieves were going to bring a truck big enough to fit five beasts, you’d think they’d fill it to capacity. It would have to be a sizeable vehicle; it certainly wasn’t a trailer job.
‘Five too many,’ Trev said. ‘Must have been taking them for meat, I reckon. Otherwise they would have taken more.’ He stood there, hands in pockets, his usual amiable expression absent from his face. ‘We haven’t had rustling here since the mill closed. Then I could kind of wear it because people were suffering and had to find any way they could to feed their families. But things are good in the town now. The works are busy, there’s no bloody reason for anyone to steal. It pisses me off. If I find the bastards, I’ll show them ju
st how pissed off I am.’
‘You know bloody well you can’t take the law into your own hands. Let us deal with it, Trev. Deal with it yourself, and the thieves would probably turn around and sue you for damages. And win them.’
He muttered something indecipherable to that, then perked up at the sight of a red-coloured vehicle slowing down on the road and about to turn into the drive. His face broke back into a grin.
‘That’s Janice. I haven’t told her about the cattle yet. She won’t be amused.’ He added that last sentence with a distinct plum in his mouth.
‘Ohhhh,’ I said, with one in mine. ‘I’d better be off, then. Thanks for your help, Trev. I hope you didn’t mind me asking about Gaby’s visit, but I thought if I followed her footsteps, so to speak, something might pop up to give us some clues.’
‘That’s OK, I understand where you’re coming from. If I were Lockie, I’d be trying everything to find out what happened to my wife. I’m rather partial to my old bird, really.’
So, the lechery was a big front? He seemed very good at it.
By the time we’d walked over to the ute, Janice’s car had crested the hill to the yard. She gave me a cheery wave as she drove past to the garage. Trev held the door open for me.
‘Just yell if there’s anything else we can do for you,’ he said as he pushed the door shut.
‘Thanks, Trev, I hope they catch up with the rustlers quickly.’
‘Your guys better find them before I do,’ he said with a wink. ‘Anyway, I’m not taking any chances on a return visit. I’ve shifted the herd across to the other side. There’s no gate onto the road there, and no race. If they want them, they’ll have to work for their supper.’
I was certain that if the thieves wanted steak on their menu, it would take more than that to stop them.
32
I now knew a lot more than I cared to about the niceties of bovine TB, but I still couldn’t fathom why Gaby would choose it as a subject worth writing about. It was topical for our area, but it was pretty technical, and I sure as hell wouldn’t have classed it as human interest.