John Marsden - While I live

‘Why’d you chuck the food at me?’ I asked.

He shrugged. His face started to darken, to close over. He thought he was in for nothing but a nagging.

‘It was a pretty good throw,’ I said, teasing him.

He almost smiled.

‘You’re getting a bit of muscle.’

No reaction.

‘You are quite handy to have around.’

No reaction.

‘You’re good with the stock.’

He frowned. ‘What?’

‘The stock. The cattle.’

‘Oh.’

‘You’re a good fighter. Brave.’

No expression.

‘Not bad on a motorbike. Bit dangerous sometimes.’

‘You can’t talk.’

‘Oh! Excuse me!’

Period of silence. During it I heard something Gavin couldn’t hear. Lee’s footsteps coming softly along the corridor. My bedroom was at the end of the corridor. Already he had passed the other rooms.

I said to Gavin, ‘Are you sad about Lee going?’

He shrugged. Trust Gavin not to admit to anything like feelings or emotions.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t say the truth in the kitchen,’ I said.

Lee’s footsteps stopped outside my door.

‘What truth?’ Gavin asked.

There was a light knock on the door and the handle turned.

‘Well, there’s a bit more to it than smashing up the motorbike,’ I said.

The door opened a little.

‘Ellie?’ Lee asked.

‘Like what?’ Gavin said.

The door closed again and the footsteps went away. Gavin sensed that I’d been distracted. He stiffened a little, lifted himself up on his elbow and looked towards the door. Perhaps he had felt the draught of air. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘Nothing.’

I waited till he’d lain back down. I traced the worry lines on his forehead with the tip of my index finger. I remembered the words on a postcard my grandmother had sent me from Paris once. I think it was by a writer called Gide. ‘To be loved is nothing; it is to be preferred that I desire.’

‘You’re the most important person in my life,’ I said.

He didn’t say anything.

‘You’re my brother,’ I said.

He didn’t say anything.

‘I love you, you little ratbag,’ I said.

He smiled, snuggled down in the bed, and closed his eyes. I think he was asleep within fifteen seconds. I turned off the light.

Two days later came the fortnightly cattle sales on the edge of Wirrawee.

I sat in the kitchen with the bills spread across the table. I jotted down the figures as I turned each new page. Later I’d MYOB all this in the computer but for now I just wanted a rough total so I knew how much I could spend. It was pretty frightening. Electricity, rent on the gas bottles, telephone, bolts for the cattle yards, worming tablets for Marmie, penicillin from the vet, a letter from Gavin’s school wanting the ‘voluntary’ fees, doctor’s bill for Gavin’s earache… By the end of it I figured I could afford about the rear end of one small steer.

But, I went anyway. Before the war there must have been six hundred to a thousand head yarded each fortnight at the Wirrawee cattle sales, now there were usually three hundred to six hundred. Today was a big day, just over eight hundred. I wanted steers and I didn’t care if they were in light condition. It was pretty obvious looking at them that, like most of the cattle in the district, they’d had setbacks but if they were well-boned and had length I thought we could fatten them up OK. I still had plenty of hay and some good feed left in the paddocks. If I got them at 220 to 230 kilos I could double that and sell them off at around 450 or so.

It was good being at the sales again. It made me feel that some things hadn’t changed. Sure the sun still rose every morning and set every night. I knew that. But the sun doing its thing didn’t impress me much. You could be rotting away in a prison cell and the sun would rise and set every day. What I really liked, and what meant the most to me, was that every second Thursday at the Wirrawee Saleyards, Barry Fitzgibbon would be up on the rails slapping his papers into his left hand and yelling, ‘As lovely a selection of yearlings as I’ve ever seen yarded at Wirrawee, ladies and gentlemen,’ and Morrie Cavendish’d be on his haunches smoking a rollie and whingeing about what a pack of dogs had done to his lambs, and Sal Grinaldi would be telling another terrible joke about someone having sex with donkeys or blondes changing light bulbs or an Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman playing golf.

The people at the sale were pretty nice to me. I hadn’t seen many of them since the funeral, and I’d been so out of it that day that I wasn’t sure who’d been there and who hadn’t. Before the war if something awful happened, like your parents getting killed, the whole district would rally around and visit every day, and help with everything from fixing your fences to getting in your lucerne. Now, there was plenty of sympathy but not much else, for the simple reason that so many people had suffered similar disasters and there just wasn’t enough lovin’ and carin’ to go around.

So an occasion like this was good because it gave everyone the chance to come up and ask how I was doing and to say they were thinking of me and could they help in any way. This made them feel better and didn’t do me any harm, so everyone was happy. And from some people it was nice, because it was genuine, but from others it didn’t mean an awful lot.

It was also a bit distracting because I needed to pay attention to the pens and the prices. And the prices were unbelievable. I got in early, tearing myself away from the well-wishers, and I bid while people were still arriving, which seemed like a good idea seeing how many cars were there already. I picked up twenty-four steers for $825 a head, which was expensive compared to prewar prices, but not bad the way things were now. It felt a little weird though, to think I had just spent twenty thousand bucks.

But soon $825 was looking cheap. By the time half the yarding was sold I was getting scared. A pen of cows went for $1550 a head. They were beauties, sure, but no better than the ones we were turning off regularly from our place before the war. I was determined that one day we would be known for quality cattle like these again.

I had my eye on a pen of twenty Poll Herefords. I thought I could make a quick profit on them. I was hoping to get them for $950, maybe a thousand. By then red-faced Jerry Parsons was doing the auctioneering. Like most people he’d returned from the war looking pretty thin but already he’d got his gut back and I must admit he looked more comfortable with it. He was in uniform. The R.M. Williams heavy check shirt and the R.M. Williams white moleskin trousers and the Akubra hat. His voice was sounding thinner and older but it was still strong.

He got to my Herefords and called for a bid at $900, and got it straight away, which was a bit of a shock. Normally no-one bids till the auctioneer’s forced to go down to, I don’t know, quite a bit less than the first price he asks for. I looked around to see who was bidding, and figured it was Don Murray, judging from his serious expression.

Then Mr Rundle came in with $925, Polly Addams went to $950 and Don Murray touched his glasses for $975. I was sweating. This had all happened in about twelve seconds and I hadn’t got a bid in yet. Jerry Parsons didn’t have to work too hard. Polly called $1000, Mr Rundle went to $1025, and Don offered $1050.

They hesitated a moment then. ‘Ten fifty, ten fifty,’ Jerry yelled, ‘dirt cheap, they’re an exceptional draft for the money, not much more than two dollars a kilo at this price.’

Pretty much none of that was true, but I asked him, ‘Take ten?’, and he nodded and I nodded back and suddenly I was in the bidding, starting at a level that was already way past what I wanted to pay. But I needed these cattle. I had to get some more stock so that further down the track, if everything went according to plan — and nothing else in my life was going to plan — I’d be able to make some impact on the huge loans from the bank.