Clay Gully

by Sally van Gent

  When I’m finished it’s time to put on the pheromone ties. For every tree I have to move the ladder around and climb up and down four times to place them correctly. After completing the first row my legs are aching. Suddenly it occurs to me this would be an ideal job for my tall friend. Because of his height he doesn’t need to use the ladder at all, so the job takes him a fraction of the time it would have taken me. We are both happy.

  It’s spring again, and a pair of pink and grey galahs has taken up residence in the nesting box nearest to the house. Although parrots don’t make proper nests, the more richly coloured male brings token sprigs of gum leaf to his partner inside. They’re a loving couple who sit on top of the box rubbing their beaks together and preening each other. I can tell the eggs have hatched when I hear high-pitched twittering coming from inside the box.

  One lunchtime the little inspection door on the front is wide open. I don’t like to disturb the birds but I’m concerned that their babies may now be exposed to danger. I climb up the ladder to close it and almost fall off in shock at the sight of the two large grey, featherless birds inside. They are quite hideous, but I suppose their parents must love them. A little later their heads appear at the hole and I can see they have turned pink. I miss their maiden flight and don’t see them for a while. Their parents will have taken them to join the flock’s group nursery in the paddock over the road.

  The orchard is filled with fragrant pink and white flowers. Best of all, the re-grafted Bramleys have a mass of blossom, delicately scented and edged with a stunning deep cherry pink. This is going to be a good year. I shall have to do some serious thinning, but I don’t care. Then one morning, well past the time when the weather bureau issues frost warnings, I wake to find the front paddock crisp and white. I hurry down to the orchard where I check the blossom for damage. The yellow pollen has gone but that may be because the bees have already taken it.

  A week later, tiny apples appear on the trees in the upper rows. In the centre of the orchard the petals have dropped but no fruit has formed. It seems a frosty wind has scythed through the middle rows wiping out all the flowers in its path. It isn’t going to be such a large crop after all.

  I can’t decide whether to mulch the trees or not. A layer of straw would reduce evaporation, but it would also prevent light showers from penetrating the soil. As the spring wears on and rain becomes less frequent, I decide to go ahead. It takes me several days to arrange the straw in a thick layer around each tree. Then we take a short break and spend a weekend at the beach.

  When I return, the straw is no longer where I left it but is now scattered all over the orchard. Only the bottom two rows appear undisturbed. It’s there that I find our resident family of choughs. The birds are methodically working their way down the rows, each one tossing straw into the air like a chicken in its search for the insects beneath. I put it all back in place again, but this time I weight it down with twigs and branches which I drag out of the bush. At this point the choughs seem to lose interest and decide to leave it alone.

  Late in the afternoon there’s a sudden storm with wild winds and I’m glad I fastened down the straw. Branches are breaking off the gum trees as I hurry into the house. Under the verandah by the back door, there’s a small round bird huddled against the wall. It’s a button quail. When it doesn’t attempt to move away I realise that not only does it need shelter, but is also exhausted. It huddles beside the door until the storm is over and then disappears. A few weeks later, walking in the bush, I see another quail crossing my path. It’s followed by a trail of chicks so tiny I can scarcely believe they are real.

  I hear a sudden squeal of pain from the back garden and Reuben, our terrier-cross, comes rushing into the house. The young dog is bleeding profusely from his left ear. A neat V-shaped cut has removed its pointed tip. When I run outside I am just in time to see a blue-tongue lizard march purposefully off into the undergrowth. Reuben won’t mess with one again.

  If we are to have a crop this year I must find a way to protect the trees before the lorikeets arrive. A nearby orchard is completely enclosed by an enormous tent-like net. I don’t think that would be of use here. Besides being too expensive to erect, it would exclude the kangaroos which have always grazed in this paddock in the evenings. In addition, birds could become entangled in the net if they squeezed under its lower edges. I can’t imagine myself going down to the orchard every morning to pull out the dead rosellas. Although on paper we own the land, I know we’re temporary custodians and have responsibility to do no harm to its plants or wildlife.

  It seems best to make a separate net for each tree. After buying the material, I drag it into the spare bedroom where I join the sides together using my old sewing machine. It is weeks of work. Finally I’m ready to cover the first tree, but it’s much more difficult than I had imagined. Little spurs catch in the netting and it isn’t until most of the apples have been knocked off that I finally succeed.

  Eventually I learn to spread the material in a circle on the grass and take hold of its centre before climbing up the ladder. Making sure this point is at the top of the tree, I give a few quick tugs and the net falls like a neat curtain all around. Then I fasten it tightly to the trunk with a large bow, which looks rather silly but is easily undone when there is a need to examine the apples. Now birds can’t enter the net from below, and at harvest time any windfalls will be saved from falling to the ground. Soon I become an expert and all alone can net even the largest tree in a few minutes.

  At twilight a storm suddenly comes from nowhere. One moment all is calm and at the next a wild violent wind is bending the gum trees and dislodging branches. There is thunder and through the window I see shards of lightning fork across the sky. In a moment driving rain is beating down on the roof. In front of the house I have stacked bags of lime and fertiliser, all that the orchard will need for the next two years. They’re covered by a tarpaulin which is held down by a heavy wooden pallet.

  As I watch the storm through the window, I see the pallet fly up into the air as if it is weightless, and I know my bags will be ruined. Without further thought I dash outside and find myself wading through a torrent of water flowing through the yard. I have to fight against its strength to force open the side gate. Battling with the wind I catch hold of the tarpaulin before it can blow away, and grasping it in both hands throw myself on top of the pile of bags.

  There I lie spread-eagled with the tarpaulin beneath me. The rain that beats down on my skin is needle-sharp and I wonder what I’m doing there. By now I’m completely soaked anyway, so I decide to stay until the rain eases. Fortunately the storm moves on as quickly as it arrived, and after replacing the missing pallet on top of the only slightly wet bags, I make for the house and a hot shower.

  Every few days I have to spray the entire orchard against apple scab, a fungal disease that can ruin a whole crop. I don’t want to use chemicals to control it, so after some research I decide on an organic lime mixture. I need to cover every apple and both sides of each leaf. With 300 trees to spray it’s a slow and fairly exhausting process.

  Lime is corrosive and I know I have to wash out the tank and hoses thoroughly. When I have done that at the end of the first morning’s spray, I turn my attention to the paintwork, for my red tractor is now a snowy white. I rub and rub, but no matter how hard I try I can’t make any impression on the coating of lime, which has baked hard in the sun. None of my soaps and cleaners has any effect, and even a forceful jet from a spray gun does nothing. Finally I drive the tractor back into the shed in despair.

  When I take another look at it the next morning, I notice there’s no lime around the fill cap where a little diesel has spilled. I don heavy rubber gloves and start working on the paint with a diesel-soaked cloth. Little by little the lime dissolves away. Every morning for a whole week I attack another area until finally I have my beautiful red tractor back again. Next time, before I begin to spray, I wipe diesel all over the paintwork.

  I have
a problem with my right shoulder. Repeated spraying has made it stiff and sore. The days are warm and humid, ideal for the development of apple scab, so I have no choice but to continue. Nick changes the spraying arrangements and spends several days in the shed working on the new equipment.

  Until now I’ve used a hand-held spray gun. Instead, he fastens nozzles onto a piece of steel attached vertically to the side of the carryall, the platform attached to the back of the tractor that I use to carry the spray tank. This boom is as tall as the apple trees. It can be lowered by removing two screws so the tractor can still fit in the shed. Now all I have to do is sit comfortably on the tractor and crawl slowly along the rows.

  In the early morning this works brilliantly, but as often as not a light breeze springs up. When the wind swings around I’m unable to move away from the lime as it blows towards me. By the time I have finished I look like a snowman. Wet weather gear protects my body, but by ten o’clock the plastic suit is making me so hot that it’s wetter inside than out, and rivulets of perspiration are running down my legs. Although I wear a beanie to protect my hair, the lime burns the skin on the side of my face. My son makes me a hood from a garbage bag and a plastic visor. It protects me from the lime but after a while it becomes unbearably hot.

  The spaces between the rows are wide enough to allow the tractor through, but now the trees are netted I need to drive carefully. Twice the screws on the side of the carryall become caught in a net, and I have to back up and waste time disentangling them. By the time I have finished and stood for half an hour in the hot sun cleaning the tank, I’m completely exhausted and long to put my sweat-soaked body under the shower.

  Relieved that the work is finished, I finally drive the tractor into the shed. With a sickening crunch, the still vertical boom smashes into the metal above the doorway and comes crashing down in two pieces. After all Nick’s hard work, I can hardly bear to go into the house and break the news.

  The following season I decide that shoulder or no shoulder I can’t go through this again, and will return to spraying the trees by hand. Nick adds an electric opener to the heavy roller door on the shed, so it opens easily with the press of a button. Amazingly, after this is installed my shoulder pain disappears and despite the hand spraying it doesn’t return all season.

  We’ve had a late night, so when I hear the alarm I crawl out of bed only half awake. As I pull open the bedroom curtain, I’m bemused to find myself looking deeply into the eyes of a white horse. For a moment she watches me with friendly interest, before she turns away and begins to eat the weeds in the front garden.

  Not long afterwards, as I’m walking up the hill to check the levels in the top dam, I come face to face with a peacock. It must be a female since it doesn’t have the male’s beautiful long tail feathers. After glancing casually at me, she disappears back into the bush and I never see her again.

  Christmas morning, there’s a cow happily grazing in the orchard. This land was once part of a dairy farm, and she looks contented. She’s a Hereford, having the typical reddish brown body and white curly hair on her face. How she comes to be here I have no idea. As far as I’m aware none of the neighbours has a cow. I am supposed to collect my mother to take her to church for the Christmas morning service, but before I do that I go in search of a rope.

  The cow isn’t especially afraid of me. I’m able to move quite close to her before she decides she doesn’t want to be caught, and takes off at a gallop down the road. I run back to the house and phone the police because I’m afraid she may be hit by a car. My elderly mother, who is late for church, doesn’t think much of my excuse that I was trying to catch a cow.

  Oliebollen

  This recipe will make about ten lovely crisp, fruit-filled doughnuts, traditionally eaten by the Dutch at New Year.

  250 millilitres milk

  ½ packet dried yeast

  1 teaspoon caster sugar

  ½ egg lightly beaten

  250 grams flour

  1 cooking apple, diced into small pieces

  20 grams candied citrus peel

  50 grams raisins

  pinch salt

  oil for deep frying

  Heat the milk until just lukewarm. Place the yeast in a small bowl and pour over a little of the warm milk. Stir until yeast has dissolved, then add the sugar. Put the flour into a bowl and make a depression in the centre. Pour in the yeast mixture and add the remaining milk and beaten egg. Stir well.

  Add the chopped apple, peel, raisins and salt. Beat the mixture well. Cover the bowl with a damp cloth and leave to rise in a warm place for about an hour or until the mixture has doubled in size.

  Heat the oil. Using two metal spoons form the mixture into balls and slip them into the oil a few at a time. Turn occasionally with a slotted spoon. Remove them from the oil when they are a rich brown in colour and put them onto paper towel to drain. Dust with caster sugar.

  Appelflappen

  This recipe, another favourite at New Year, will make about ten Dutch apple fritters.

  ½ cup self-raising flour

  pinch salt

  ½ cup milk

  ¼ cup water

  1 lightly beaten egg

  2 dessert apples

  1 teaspoon caster sugar

  ground cinnamon

  oil for deep frying

  Sift the flour and salt into a bowl and work in the milk, water and egg. Beat until smooth. Leave to stand for about 30 minutes. Beat again. Peel and core the apples and cut them into 1-centimetre rings.

  Heat the oil in a deep pan. Using tongs, dip the apple slices into the batter and put them into the hot oil a few at a time. Turn once or twice with a slatted spoon. Remove when nicely browned, checking that the apple inside is cooked.

  Drain on paper towel and sprinkle with a mixture of sugar and ground cinnamon. Serve hot.

  One day, about to spray a tree, I notice a stick insect on the branch in front of me. It is pale brown and spectacularly long. I have seen these rather comical creatures before, though not in the orchard, and nothing like the size of this giant. Capping my hands around its body, I carefully move it to a tree which has already been sprayed. I’m delighted to have such an interesting animal in the orchard. It only later occurs to me that despite its size, this is not a predator. At this moment it is probably having a hearty lunch of apple leaves. Never mind, how much damage can just one stick insect do?

  I normally keep a close watch on the trees so I can deal with any pests as soon as they appear, and before they can spread through the orchard. Occasionally I use pyrethrum, but only when really necessary. In the early spring woolly apple aphids attack the tender bark of the branches. They suck the sap and cause swollen galls to form. Their white cotton-wool appearance makes them easy to spot and I wash them off with soapy water. If I do nothing for a few days, ladybirds suddenly appear on the infested trees to guzzle on them. Their efforts alone, though appreciated, will not be enough to control the pest. Nevertheless I take care to leave enough aphids to make it worthwhile for the ladybirds to remain.

  Sometimes when the ants are active there’s a larger infestation. The aphids exude honeydew and the ants treat them like miniature cows, milking them for their sweet liquid. They move their tiny herd around the tree, protecting them from predators and seeking out the best places for them to feed.

  As summer wears on the temperature rises rapidly, and I have to stop spraying by eleven in the morning or the leaves will burn. So now in order to finish before the forecasted rain, I return to the orchard in the evening. The weather is perfect, with not a breath of wind disturbing the fine mist. The coolness of the night is a welcome relief after the unrelenting heat of the day. Stars fill the sky and above me I can make out the constellation of Orion. After an hour I become bored and turn on my radio, listening to the songs of the sixties as I work, and soon I am dancing to Diana Ross in the moonlight.

  One afternoon, on hearing voices, I look up from my weeding in time to see a family with two
young children and a bouncy border collie walking along the side of the dam. When they reach the top paddock and begin to throw a stick for the dog, I approach them.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I ask politely.

  The woman shakes her head briefly and they make to walk on. When I explain that although this may look like open bush it is actually private land, they seem rather offended.

  Next day an inspection reveals that the wire on the fence nearest to the recently built houses has rusted. Parts of it are sagging and easily broached. It’s time to fix it. Nick buys star posts, strainers and new wire, and with Nat’s help, erects a firm new fence. A few days later I spot a young man jogging across the block with a small brown dog at his heels. Examining the new fence I notice that one of the posts has now been deliberately pushed over. Obviously it’s impossible to stop really determined trespassers.

  Actually, I have mixed feelings about them. As a child in Yorkshire I wandered freely through the fields, climbing over dry-stone walls erected centuries ago. Often there was a little stile, whilst an ancient ‘right of way’ permitted access to anyone. In summer, families picnicked wherever they wished, setting out checked tablecloths on the grass. As long as they closed the gates after themselves farmers were normally tolerant.