Love in the Age of Drought

by Fiona Higgins

  Toby kicked absently at the dirt. For a specialist in agronomy, he was making a good fist of psychology. ‘I’m rural through and through but as much as I love Jandowae I reckon it’s too small for you both,’ he concluded.

  I flushed red, speechless.

  Toby tipped his hat at me and climbed back into the ute.

  ‘Thanks for everything, Toby,’ I said, fighting the urge to cry.

  He wound down the window and waved at me. ‘I’ll be interested to see where you two end up,’ he called. ‘Good luck.’

  And then he was gone, speeding towards the harvester.

  The evening before our scheduled departure, I sat alone in the bungalow, suitcases scattered around me, tears coursing down my cheeks. In one hand, I clutched my First Prize Scones certificate from the Jandowae Show. In the other, a hand-embroidered quilt, made by a neighbour as a wedding gift. Why are we leaving at all? I wondered. As I looked from one hand to the other, I heard the crunching of gravel underfoot as Stuart made his way to the house.

  He opened the side door and tramped up the stairs through the kitchen. ‘Fi?’ he called. ‘Are you in here?’ I hurriedly dabbed at my eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ I called out, feigning brightness.

  The bedroom door swung open and Stu’s face dropped.

  ‘You’ve been crying.’ He crouched down next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. ‘What’s wrong?’ I wiped my nose with the back of my hand.

  ‘I’m probably just an emotional pregnant woman,’ I sniffled. Stuart stroked my hair. ‘Probably,’ he said. ‘But what’s up?’

  ‘I don’t want to leave,’ I wept into my hands, ‘I love Jandowae.’

  Stuart stared at me in surprise, his face a curious mix of sorrow and joy. He took both of my hands and drew them to his lips.

  ‘Do we really have to sell?’ I asked. ‘Can’t we come back after the baby’s born?’

  Stuart closed his eyes. After a long silence, he said, ‘Fi, I love you all the more for loving Jandowae, but I can’t be a farmer forever. You know that. You’ve known that from the moment you met me.’

  ‘But what if you had all the water you needed and the prices were good?’ I asked, grasping at straws. ‘Wouldn’t you feel differently then?’

  ‘That so rarely happens, Fi.’ He sat down on the floor next to me and pulled off his boots. Chunks of dried earth fell onto the linoleum. ‘And if it’s not the drought or the prices, it’s something else. You’ve seen it yourself, you’ve lived out here,’ he said. ‘There are farmers who’ll persist over decades, but I’m not one of them. I’ve tried to be principled with my farming practices, but it just hasn’t worked. I don’t want to get bigger, create an empire. And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life harping on about the same old problems.’ He reached out and touched my swollen belly.

  ‘Farming’s a great lifestyle for kids when they’re young,’ he continued. ‘But it can be a recipe for disaster when they’re older. You know, with the expectations parents have that they’ll take up the reins.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve seen too many 40-year-old farmers who can’t sign the chequebook because their father’s still controlling the purse strings. I don’t want to wake up in twenty years’ time begging our child to stay on the land to honour my work.’ He gazed at me, a restless yearning in his eyes. ‘And I don’t want us to be remembered for what we could have done. It’s time for something new, Fi.’

  I nodded, dejected. He was right. Taking my hand, he led me from the bedroom, down the stairs and outside. We sat by the water tank and watched the moon rise over the Bunya Mountains for one last time. The silvery shadows of the trees flickered in the light wind as we leant against each other in the darkness.

  I would miss Jandowae. I would miss the rosy sunsets brushed across the canvas of the horizon, the sudden screech of cockatoos in the morning, and the flat, scorched earth, humming with life beneath. I would miss the sun-parched people of the district, whose cheery salutations of ‘Howyagoin’ and ‘Seeeya’ had made me feel so welcome, despite my obvious foreignness.

  I would miss the serenity of Jandowae’s starry skies, the piercing silence before dawn, and the distant watchful presence of the Bunya Mountains. I would miss Stuart, in football shorts and a floppy hat, bringing me my coffee in the morning as I typed away on my laptop, connected to a server in Sydney. And I would miss the way he romanced me in quintessentially rural ways: a beautiful blue-tipped feather left on the doormat of the Danube, a ride on the back of the four-wheeler at sunset, a cotton flower plucked from the field and placed on my pillow.

  I had become deeply familiar with life on the land; I was part of the fabric of country Australia. I’d reached the point of being able to nonchalantly pick insects out of my morning coffee, or bat away dragonflies as I hung out the washing. When I lifted the lid of our toilet nowadays, I would coolly note the beady-eyed frogs staring up at me, before sitting down and boldly relieving myself. I’d started to get the hang of polite conversation with farmers, and found myself greeting a neighbour with the words, ‘G’day, Dave. Are you havin’ the same aphid problem as us?’ And miracle of miracles, I could understand Dave’s response. I’d even become part of the collective bush telegraph, receiving and sharing local wisdom. During a recent power outage in Jandowae, I’d called Becky to advise her of the source of the problem (‘It was Kevin from up the road, he drove his boom-spray into a power pole.’).

  I now anticipated the crazy blue heeler cattle dog that raced out of the Jandowae pub to chase my car as I drove to the local swimming pool. I would accelerate in preparation and arc wildly across the main street as it shot out to pursue me, literally barking mad. Once at the swimming pool, I would let myself in and leave $1.40 on the counter for the council managers when they clocked on; there were no lifeguards at this pool, and I didn’t care.

  I found myself waving indiscriminately at passing cars, accepting homemade delights from neighbours and baking scones for them in return, and chatting comfortably with thirteen-year-old sharp shooters who knew how to oil a rifle. I’d enjoyed the freedom that rural life afforded me – to walk naked to the washing line, to go to bed absurdly early, to run for miles before breakfast and yet still get to work on time. I’d embraced the simplicity of conversations across old kitchen benches, nodding knowingly as a neighbour observed, ‘Ants walkin’ up the wall means rain’s comin’.’ In short, I’d become a rural woman.

  What sort of existence would we lead in Sydney after the birth of our baby and beyond? I was used to the slower pace of life in Jandowae. The lazy Sunday afternoons, heat haze rising from the parched paddocks, not a breath of wind to relieve the narcoleptic shimmer. The exhilarating absence of any signs of life, disturbed only by crows calling their eerie ‘Mwauugh!’ from the swaying tops of lethargic trees. It was a far cry from city life, where the smells, sights, sounds and tastes of humanity oozed from every nook and cranny.

  Stuart squeezed my hand as the moon rose higher in the sky. We’re leaving the land, tomorrow. I stroked his palm, tracing its roughest patches, battle trophies of his long labour of love at Gebar. He and I would continue to live in this country, I knew, long after the physical signs of our existence had been erased.

  One month later, the 5.45 pm Manly ferry was jam-packed with the usual suspects – funds managers, lawyers, advertising executives – making their way home from the Sydney CBD after a long working week. Weary with fatigue, I waddled aboard The Freshwater and attempted to locate a seat among the mass of commuters. Finally, in a stroke of luck, I found myself a seat adjacent to the toilets. At 36 weeks pregnant, my need to urinate had increased proportionately to my ever-expanding belly.

  After back-to-back meetings, I was glad to rest my weary feet. I kicked off my shoes and closed my eyes, looking forward to a hot bath in our newly leased apartment. Just three days earlier, I’d found the perfect short-term rental, an apartment by the sea. I jumped at the sudden ringtone of my mobile phone; I must have been half asleep.
/>   ‘Fiona speaking,’ I answered.

  A short pause, a crackle, and then Stuart’s voice.

  ‘Babe?’ he asked. ‘How are you feeling?’

  I smiled. ‘I miss you terribly, but otherwise, I’m fine,’ I replied. ‘And I’ve found an apartment.’

  Stuart laughed. ‘I knew I could count on you,’ he said. ‘Listen, Fi,’ the line dropped out temporarily. ‘Fi, are you there? We’re driving over the border into Malawi. I’m just about to leave the hotel. I’ll be out of range for the next 48 hours. So I wanted to say I love you, and I’ll call you in two days.’ I nodded pensively.

  ‘All right,’ I replied. ‘Thanks for letting me know. I love you too.’

  The line went dead and I put my mobile phone back into my handbag. Our baby’s due in four weeks and distance still separates us.

  I stared out the ferry window at the sun setting behind the cityscape. It wasn’t the Bunya Mountains, but it was beautiful in its own way. I sighed, remembering the loveliness of a Jandowae sunset. I shifted in my seat and an odd feeling overcame me: an inkling of deep movement, a sensation of release. Probably nothing to worry about.

  Suddenly warmth swelled within and amniotic fluid gushed out of me. The wetness spread across my skirt and my seat, slowly leaking down my legs. But it’s too early for this. I looked around me: my fellow passengers were blissfully unaware, buried in books, newspapers, Blackberrys and iPods. Stu. Stu. Don’t be out of range.

  I dialled Stuart’s African mobile number and almost wept when he answered it.

  ‘I’m on the road, Fi,’ he said. ‘Is something wrong?’

  I cupped my hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Stu, my waters just broke,’ I whispered urgently. ‘The baby’s coming now.’ I detected the distant sound of an engine changing gears.

  ‘Turn the car around,’ commanded Stu.

  My eyes filled with tears. The man I loved was coming home.

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ he said. ‘Hold on, Fi.’

  And somehow or other, I did. Oliver Charles Higgins was born 36 hours later, by caesarean, with Stuart at my side. When the obstetrician placed Oliver on my chest, all writhing and snuffling in his vulnerability, I gazed down at him with instant recognition.

  So it was you in there, all along. Precious you.

  EPILOGUE

  A convoy of utes and cars arrived in a steady cavalcade from first light. Not unlike a funeral procession, I thought, but without all the black. Hundreds of locals were converging from miles around for the Gebar Clearing Sale, where all manner of domestic and farming equipment would be auctioned to the highest bidder. Six weeks earlier – exactly one year and one day after Oliver was born – Gebar had finally sold.

  The assembled farmers could barely contain their enthusiasm about the prospective bargains before them. They gathered in huddles, plotting their bids and shuffling from foot to foot in the cold. A group of elderly ladies – representatives of the local Country Women’s Association – began setting up long tables across the shed’s concrete floor. As the auction’s official caterers, they weren’t going to waste a rare fundraising opportunity. They opened boxes of corned beef and egg sandwiches, unwrapped homemade slices from greased baking paper and prepared steaming urns of tea, coffee and hot chocolate.

  Confined to the house by Oliver’s morning sleep, I missed the start of the bidding. Instead, I loitered behind the lace curtains of our bathroom, observing the action from a distance. The domestic items were first on the schedule. Sure enough, within five minutes, people began trickling out the back of the shed, staggering under the weight of their newly acquired wares. There goes the Soda Stream, the magazine rack, the television. I winced at the sight of a middle-aged farmer, fluffy earmuffs adorning his head, proudly carrying my purple Turkish cushions. After three seasons in Jandowae, they’d lost their firmness. Who knew where they’d end up? Briefly I imagined an old blue heeler curled up on their smooth mounds, enjoying a doggy Nirvana. There was something disconcerting about watching the relics of my former existence being ferried away in anonymous utes.

  Oliver awoke midmorning, crying out at the alien environment. I opened the bedroom door. ‘Mummy’s here,’ I called softly. At the sound of my voice, he stood up in his cot. Strands of feathery blond hair fell across blue eyes peering over the cot’s edge. Chortling with pleasure, he raised plump fists and waved them at me.

  I carried him outside to observe the auction from a closer vantage point. Treading the familiar path from the house to the shed, I stared at the fields beyond. In the six weeks since the sale, the new owner of Gebar had already sown a winter crop. In fact, he’d planted every last acre of arable land with wheat. Rows of green stretched across the farm, as far as the eye could see. While Stuart had always attempted to reconcile commercial realities with environmental values – rotating his crops, leaving paddocks fallow and not over-cropping – the new owner of Gebar appeared to have no such inclination. Gebar was now a mere jigsaw piece in a broader conglomerate of acreage. Like many smallholder farms, it had been swallowed up by a larger agenda of maximum production and economies of scale.

  Stuart had been an aberration, I reflected, in seeking to achieve the path of optimum, not maximum, production. He’d sought to farm both commercially and environmentally, but the culture of broadacre farming continued to favour those with a hard-nosed focus on production and expansion. While it saddened me that Stuart’s environmental approach held no currency at Gebar now, his efforts wouldn’t be wasted. He was continuing to use his experience for a broader good – sharing his practical skills overseas in the developing world. I nuzzled my nose into Oliver’s hair. ‘Your daddy’s a special farmer,’ I murmured.

  As we approached the group of people milling about the machinery beyond the shed, Oliver launched himself towards the ground. ‘Dat!’ he cried, wriggling free of my grasp and crawling through the muddy wheel tracks towards Stu’s shiny John Deere tractor. Pulling himself up at its front wheel hub – an enormous yellow disc more than twice his size – he turned to me and grinned.

  ‘Looks like the littl’un likes tractors,’ observed Merv Thomson, our neighbour to the north. ‘Pity you’ve sold, eh? He would’ve liked it out here.’ I nodded quietly, certain he was right.

  Retrieving Oliver, I loitered close to Merv and his wife Glenda, watching the bidders. The John Deere was the final listing of the day, the highest value item on the property. As the auctioneer worked the crowd, Stuart stood to one side, scuffing the ground with the heels of his boots. Within minutes, the price had cleared the reserve and bidding began to stall. ‘Do I have any other offers?’ the auctioneer asked, casting around for final signs of interest. No further signals were forthcoming. I looked over at Stuart; he’d spent 5,000 hours on that tractor over the course of his time at Gebar – almost two years of his life.

  ‘No more bids? Right, we’re done,’ the auctioneer concluded. ‘That’s it. All sold.’ He tipped his hat and strode away towards the shed.

  The crowd immediately began to dissipate. I watched, tears pooling behind my sunglasses, as Stuart went through the motions of exchanging pleasantries with fellow farmers. We’d lived a disjointed existence over the past twelve months, waiting for the farm to sell. Commuting from Sydney to rural Queensland every few weeks, Stuart had juggled the management of the farm with short bursts of overseas consultancy work, mostly in Africa. Despite the challenges of basing himself off-farm, he’d successfully planted two crops over the course of a year. Strong grain prices and decent rains had delivered a more profitable season than most, but Stuart’s commitment to sell the farm had never wavered.

  Despite Stuart’s absences, I’d embraced my newfound role as a mother and pursued my work in philanthropy on a flexible basis. I’d travelled up to Gebar when I could, but both Oliver and my work commitments made the journey difficult. When I did return, I felt the pangs of loss anew. Every room, every field, was infused with memories of our former life at Gebar.

&nb
sp; ‘So you’re staying in Sydney, then?’ asked Glenda suddenly.

  I dabbed at my cheeks. ‘Well, we’re weighing up our options,’ I replied. It was easy to hide behind city-speak. With the farm unsold, we’d been reluctant to deliberate too intently upon our future plans. A new life overseas, working in international development? Philanthropy in Sydney? Embracing a ‘greener’ agriculture elsewhere in rural Australia? Or some sort of combination of the three? Watching the auctioneer sign the paperwork, I knew that we could no longer evade the issue. It was time to determine the shape of our future.

  ‘Y’came out from the city, now you’re back there again,’ Glenda persisted. ‘You’ve come full circle, haven’t you?’

  I cocked my head. I knew what she meant, but to my mind, I hadn’t come full circle at all. My time in Jandowae had altered me irrevocably. I’d grown to appreciate a part of Australia that I’d never previously understood: the vital world of primary production and the communities which support it. I’d been privileged to take my place alongside the individuals in just one community – the hard working, generous people of Jandowae, with all their rough edges and soft hearts – and I was a better person for it. I’d returned to Sydney a milder, more expansive version of my former self. There was no going back to the brittle urban me – ever.

  ‘Well, I’m a hybrid now, Glenda,’ I smiled, hugging Oliver to my chest. ‘Half rural, half urban. We won’t stay in Sydney forever. And with Stu for a husband, who knows where we’ll end up?’

  As if reading my mind, Stuart suddenly glanced up from his conversation with a neighbour and, catching my eye, winked at me. In that simple gesture I knew that our future together was secure. One way or another, we’d be all right.