John Marsden - Circle of fight

But eventually the time came. The knot in my stomach tightened. I really had no idea how many people might be bidding. Jerry Parsons said there were four people who’d had at least three looks at the place, and then of course there were some of the neighbours who would have only needed to see it once, if at all. But Jerry also said that there mightn’t be a single bid. ‘You just never know,’ he said. ‘I always tell people not to get their hopes up.’

A large part of me would have been quite happy to get no bids, and then I could stay on living here, but I knew that wasn’t a good idea. Besides, I’d made my mind up to leave, and I guess that meant I’d said goodbye to the place in my head. And my heart. Once you’ve done that it’s hard to go back.

‘Now it’s time for you to do what you’ve come here today to do,’ Mr Parsons shouted. He was getting good and worked up. ‘And that’s to put your hand up if you want to give yourself a chance of becoming the new owner of this magnificent property. The first new owner in nearly a century. A property like this only comes along about once in a century.’

‘That’s what he says every week,’ whispered Polly Addams, to my right, and a few people laughed. I kept my head down.

‘When you bid, bid good. Don’t be bashful about it.

Stick your hand up where we can see it. And now I’m asking for a bid to get me started. What’ll it be, ladies and gentlemen? How much will you give me for this wonderful property and all its improvements? Who’ll get me started? Come on now, is there a million? Will you say a million? There must be a million, surely?’

The suspense was terrible. Everyone was looking at the ground, except the kids, who were staring in every direction, hoping to see a hand wave. Maybe the adults were afraid to make eye contact with any of the auctioneer’s staff in case it was taken as a bid.

I didn’t see anyone move or hear anyone but then Jerry Parsons suddenly said, ‘Eight hundred is it? All right, I’ll take eight hundred, to get me started. It’s very low but I’ll take it. Now we’re here today to sell, ladies and gentlemen, so don’t be shy. Do I have eight fifty? Yes I do, to my right there.’

‘Nine hundred,’ someone near me yelled and we were away.

‘That was Mr Rodd,’ Homer whispered. My face burned. ‘No way!’ There was no way in the world I would sell the place to Mr Rodd!

But the auction was galloping and bids were coming from left, right and centre, literally. They raced to 1.2 million, then slowed down, until only three people were bidding, it seemed to me. It was very hard to tell what was happening. You must need eyes in the back of your head to be an auctioneer. Then one person dropped out and the bidding suddenly slowed to a dawdle. They started going up by $25,000 at a time, then by tens. ‘You’re going to be a millionaire,’ Homer muttered.

‘The bank takes most of it. Are your parents bidding?’

‘I’ve been watching them. Dad waved his hand a couple of times but they only saw him once, I think. It’s too rich for us now.’

We were up to 1.38 million. A man in a brown jacket and a blue tie was one of the bidders, and the other was a guy wearing a suit, on the far side of the crowd. I didn’t know either of them, but I suddenly realised Don Murray was standing next to the man in the suit, like he was advising him. I wondered then if the man was the plastic surgeon Don managed Blackwood Springs for. He’d have a few bob.

Jerry had told me that 1.5 million would be a good result, and to sell if we got 1.4, so it looked like the place was going to go.

Homer said suddenly, ‘I’m glad we’re not buying it. It would have felt weird. It’s your place. I’d feel bad trampling all over it.’

I didn’t answer because I didn’t know what to say to that. Finally I said, ‘I’m just glad Mr Rodd’s dropped out.’

The winner seemed to be 1.38. Jerry Parsons was waving his arm around like a badly balanced windmill, and saying, ‘I give you fair warning, if there’s no more bids I’m going to knock it down to the gentleman under the walnut tree, I’m selling for the first time, for the second time now, I’m going to sell it, fair warning, ladies and gentlemen, for the third time and sol-’

‘One point four,’called Mr Rodd.

The hammer stopped in midair. Mr Parsons looked at him and said, ‘Your timing’s pretty tight there, Max,’ then he went straight back into normal auctioneer mode, yelling, ‘I’ve got 1.4 now, ladies and gentlemen, that’s more like it, new bidder at one million four hundred thousand, and I’ll take fives, what about you sir, just another five thousand could be enough to secure this magnificent property, in prime condition but still plenty of room for improvement, it’d make a superb bed and breakfast or guesthouse…’ and on and on, but I felt the heat had gone out of it and Mr Rodd was going to get it. I felt sick. Could I withdraw the property from the auction just because I didn’t like Mr Rodd? But if I did, the move to town with Gavin would be delayed even further. Which was more important, Gavin or the property? I’d already answered that question.

I slipped down from the tree and walked away, not wanting to look at anyone, revolted by the thought of Mr Rodd walking through our house, sitting in our kitchen, sleeping in my parents’ bedroom. I felt like I’d swallowed a large amount of wet cow manure.

Taking a few more steps I reached the sundial and looked out across the garden to the paddocks beyond. I guess on most properties you have the kind of line that we had on ours, where the neat, civilised garden, full of hollyhocks and roses and hydrangeas, ends and the bare Australian countryside begins. It’s a bit funny really, the way the gardens are. The line is so definite. First one, then the other. Like you’re in a house, only one without walls, then suddenly you’re outside, facing the cracked ground and the yellow and brown grass and the slightly washed-out-looking gum trees and the ochrered cattle. For a moment I tried to ask my parents what I should do. I wanted a psychic vision: I begged them to appear from across the valley and float towards me, speaking words of wisdom ‘Let it be, let it be.’ Wait a minute, that wasn’t my parents. That was the song. But at the same time I realised I didn’t really need my parents because the answer was already in my own head. Courtesy of the Beatles. It would have been nice if my parents had appeared and said those words, sure, but I knew what I wanted them to say. ‘Let it be, let it go, let it pass, this phase of your life is over, face the next stage now, go on into the future.’

I became dimly aware that Jerry was still shouting away behind me. It seemed that the auction wasn’t over yet. I turned around and walked back to the edge of the arena. ‘One and a half,’ Mr Parsons yelled, ‘One and a half. Is there anything else you want to say to me? If there is, let’s hear it. I’m going to sell, I’m going to sell it, for the first time, for the second time, don’t walk away from here filled with regret, ladies and gentlemen, last chance, third time, fair warning, I’m selling’, and down came the hammer.

‘Sold for one and a half million dollars, and congratulations, you’ve acquired a very fine property, and thank you everybody for coming here today…’

As he wound up with a free ad for his next auction I looked around desperately. Where was Homer? Fi? Bronte? Lee? I couldn’t ask anyone else the big question: who’d bought the place? I’d feel too stupid. I started walking towards the house and then ran into Bronte. I clutched at her. ‘Who bought it? Who bought it?’

‘God, I don’t know, how would I know? I don’t know anyone’s names.’