John Marsden - While I live

‘You’d soon find out if you tried to castrate a calf with your teeth,’ I said.

I wandered lonely as a cloud along the escarpment overlooking the house. I’d wanted to bury my parents up here, but the priest said it would break twenty-seven different laws and then some. So now they were in the old cemetery behind St Matthew’s. I thought of their cold damaged bodies lying in that cold ground and shuddered. I’d been there a few times and put flowers on the grave and done all that stuff. I’d hoped I’d have some mystical experience when I was there, feel their spirits, hear them talking to me, get a bit of advice about the price I should ask for the twenty steers, or at least get a sense of peace, whatever, but so far I’d been sadly disappointed. I didn’t feel anything. Just devastated and depressed, and I could feel that anywhere. Didn’t need to go to the cemetery for it.

Gavin hated going there. The first time he’d come as far as the gate and the other times he wouldn’t even get out of the car.

I wondered how long it would take Gavin to realise that I’d snuck out the back door and come up this hill. He was more than ever my little shadow these days. I understood why. I was his last link to security, his last hope of a relatively normal life. I understood that but it didn’t necessarily make it easier to bear. A lot of the time it didn’t bother me, but sometimes it was just too much, too relentless, too suffocating, every sentence starting with the words ‘I want’, and I’d turn on him and, snap, ‘Leave me alone! Give me a break! Go find something else to do.’

Then sooner or later — usually sooner — I’d be racked by guilt and start imagining Gavin scarred for life and how it was all my fault. Sometimes even that wasn’t enough to send me looking for him to make it up to him though. And I think he was pretty scarred anyway.

I sat on a rock with my arms around my knees and gazed at the farm. I could see Fi’s window, with the curtain drawn. She’d still be in bed. Talk about slack. She’d never make a farmer, even if she did eventually learn the difference between a sheep and a cow.

I was actually up on the escarpment because I was trying to come to terms with the idea that I wouldn’t be a farmer for long myself. Yesterday I’d had an interview with Mr Sayle. He was a lawyer in Wirrawee. I didn’t know him very well. Fi’s mother used to do our legal work but when she moved to the city Dad had to find someone new, and he chose Mr Sayle.

I’d had a message asking me to see him, so off I’d gone, like a good Ellie. I left Gavin in the Wirrawee Library, which to his disgust was so crowded that they’d closed the waiting list for the computers, and I’d gone into Mr Sayle’s office, across the road.

My first shock was to find that his receptionist was Mrs Samuels, who used to deliver the mail to our place and various other farms. More importantly, she was the one who’d recognised me in a prison camp during the war. As a result she had caused me huge problems. I’d been in Camp 23 under a false name, knowing that if the guards found out my true identity, I’d be tied to the front of a missile launcher while enemy soldiers queued up to press the ‘Fire’ button.

Mrs Samuels hadn’t meant any harm but she’d nearly cost me my life, by accidentally yelling out my real name. Since the war she’d been embarrassed every time she saw me so our conversations tended to be short and sweet. It was the same with this one.

‘Hi, Mrs Samuels.’

‘Oh, Ellie! Hi. Hi. Lovely to see you. Mr Sayle won’t be long.’

Red-faced she went back to her desk, hunching over a knitting pattern book like it was the Dead Sea Scrolls.

‘OK, thanks.’

I was relieved to be able to sit down and pick up a very old Bulletin magazine, from before the war, and start reading that.

Mr Sayle didn’t look like a solicitor, more like a bulldozer driver. He was big, filling the doorway, and dressed in clothes that could have been made by King Gee, even if he did wear a tie. He was balding, with a few strands of hair carefully plastered across the big bald area. He didn’t even look at me.

‘Mrs Samuels, call the Council, will you, and see what’s happening about the planning application. You’re Ellie. Come in, Ellie.’

I was glad he’d told me who I was. It’s always a relief to know who you are.

Three minutes after I’d started the conversation with him the door opened a few centimetres and Gavin slipped in. That’s what I mean about having a shadow.

Mr Sayle just ignored him and within the next few minutes I pretty much forgot he was there. Mr Sayle seemed like a nice enough guy, but he didn’t muck around. First he explained that he was the executor for my parents’ estate, then he explained what that meant, and then he told me that under my parents’ wills I was the sole heir.

Then he told me I was bankrupt. Broke. No money. He wasn’t quite that tactless, but he was blunt.

‘Ellie, I’ve been through the books, and talked to the bank, and I’m afraid your financial position is very poor indeed. Beyond recovery, I have to say. As you know, a lot of savings were lost during the war, and the government is still negotiating to get some of that money back, but I think it would be unrealistic to put much faith in that. So once the war finished, your father had to start from a position of virtually no funds, and in the meantime he entered into a number of financial obligations that assumed there would be a long-term improvement in his situation.’

Gavin yawned and stretched and pressed against me. Mr Sayle riffled through the papers in his folder.

‘Those obligations included a loan from the bank, to establish a poultry business. That loan was secured by a mortgage on the property. Then there was a second loan, secured by mortgaging various goods and chattels, to purchase cattle, and as well as those commitments to the bank, he entered into three leases totalling a thousand dollars a week with parties whom I gather had been granted pieces of land from your original property.’

He glanced at me from over the top of his reading glasses. ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ I said, feeling a little dizzy. I hadn’t realised the rents Dad agreed to pay those people were so high. No wonder he’d seemed stressed. No wonder he was always complaining about money. ‘What’s a mortgage?’ I asked. I’d heard the word often enough but I’d never bothered to find out what it meant.

‘It means that if you can’t pay back a loan, you hand over some property instead,’ he said. ‘In your case the agreement was that the farm, the part of it you still own, would be given to the bank if the money could not be repaid.’

My head seemed to ring as though I had concussion. I sat there gaping at him. ‘You’re saying I might lose the land and the house?’ I asked. ‘Everything?’

‘I’m saying you will lose it, yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

He glanced at me again and when I didn’t reply he kept talking from his notes.

‘Now, I gather the principal assets consist of the land with improvements, including the main house, machinery shed, shearing shed and various other outbuildings, three motor vehicles, two tractors, an ATV, three motorbikes, one in poor condition, approximately sixty head of cattle, and sundry other livestock, tools, and equipment. As well, there’s just under eight thousand dollars in various bank accounts, and a small portfolio of shares, which at this stage do not have much value, as a result of the war. We can’t factor them into the equation but they may eventually prove to be worth something again.’

He looked up, and waited for me to speak.

‘What’s he saying?’ Gavin asked me. He was kneeling on the coffee table, virtually in my lap now, looking intently into my face. He’d sensed the tension in me, and at the same time he’d obviously decided Mr Sayle was too much of a challenge to lip-read. If he wanted to keep up to the mark he’d have to rely on me.