Tim Saunders - This Farming Life

Who was that? I asked.

Dad put the phone down and picked up his cup of coffee. It steamed pleasingly.

Scam artist, he replied.

The corners of his wide grin curled around his mug.

What do you mean?

He plonked the mug back on the table, coffee slopped over the sides.

Well, he reckoned there was a problem with our windows.

Mum sighed. We often got these calls, scammers who tell you there is something wrong with your computer and ask for your passwords.

So, I asked him which windows exactly, he continued. And he said the one on the computer. Thats when I knew he was conning me.

Hows that?

I told him computers have screens, not windows.

Dad cracked up laughing. He lifted his mug, a perfect ring of coffee stained the table. The aroma of slightly burnt toast permeated the warm air.

Thats another year done, said Dad as he smeared Marmite over the toast. Crumbs jumped ship as thick melted butter oozed onto the round plate. Mum slipped a coaster under Dads mug before he put it back on the table.

Who knows what summer will bring, he added.

Mark had the newspaper smoothed out over the table in front of him. I glanced over his shoulder at headlines about new taxes, compliance regulations, climate change and an approaching tropical cyclone spinning its way down the Pacific. I also glimpsed something about talking cars. Toast crumbs gathered in the creases of newsprint.

Kathrin sat back in her chair, Dads three-legged cat curled on her knee. Sam looked hopefully in through the window, the glass fogged as he panted. Morning tea was all very good, but there was work to be done. A working dogs life revolves around sheep and mustering and ceaseless running.

Wed better get the ewes in for shearing, I said as I drained my cup, the black dregs of coffee swirled in the bottom. And select a couple of sheep for the barbecue.

Yip, its that time of year again, said Mark.

A knock on the door rattled like dags in the sun.

Who would that be? wondered Dad, his mug halfway to his lips.

I shrugged. We werent expecting visitors. The three-legged cat stretched his claws and raised spiky hackles.

The man on the doorstep beamed as brightly as his polished shoes. He stood amongst the collection of gumboots scattered across the terrace.

Gday, Tim, said the bank manager as he thrust out his hand. Just wondered how you were getting on with that budget.

I grinned as the world spun to face another summer.

Youre a hard man to get hold of, I said.

My laughter startled the sheep.

Mr C is gone after the holidays. The new teacher says he has gone to a school in town. She wears a woollen jersey covered in a thick mat of dog hair. I like her immediately.

I wait for Jono to turn up, push his empty desk closer to mine. We havent seen each other over the holidays, Ive spent all summer playing cricket with Mark and hooning round the farm on my flash new bike. I cant wait to show it to Jono.

But Jono never arrives. At lunchtime I ask the new teacher where he is, maybe something is wrong. But she doesnt know who Im talking about, his name isnt on the roll.

I tell Mum when I get home, as I pull my lunchbox out of my bag. Its empty except for some crusts that have curled into dry claws in the heat. Pieces of pink luncheon stick to their edges.

They moved over the summer, says Mum.

Shes made banana cake, a sweet yellow smell hangs over the kitchen.

Moved?

Yes, replies Mum. His parents were sharemilkers. They come and go all the time. Here, have some cake. You must be starving.

Later I unpack my homework onto my bed. The painting Jono did for my birthday is blu-tacked by my bed, greasy splodges seep through the corners. The painted yellow sun has faded, but the green man still waves at me. Stars cling to his big face. I wonder what it would be like to never settle in one place, to blow like the red petals that scatter the bottom of the picture.

That night I hear a sheep coughing under the macrocarpas, the cries of circling plovers, and the call of ghosts on the wind.

Farming often feels like a solitary endeavour, and it is easy to feel isolated out where the land meets the sky. The same can be said about writing a book. But at the end of the day, Im lucky to have the support of family and friends who help me in more ways than they can ever imagine.

Ive changed a few names in the book and merged some characters to make my story a bit more coherent, because real life seldom runs in a straight line.

Thank you to the team at Allen & Unwin, especially Jenny, for recognising a story worth telling. Thanks also to Leanne, Megan and Erena for getting this show on the road. Barbara, my editor, you taught me so much. And Emily, you took such awesome photos.

Massive thanks to Mum, Dad, Mark and Derryn for being part of my story, and for agreeing to appear in my book. Also to Oskar and Momo, because life without animals would be unbearable.

But my biggest heartfelt gratitude goes to Kathrin, who keeps me going when Im ready to chuck the whole thing away, for being true to who she is, and for changing the way we think one idea at a time.

Dad and I stood on the riverbank, sheep and cattle scattered haphazardly over the paddocks below us. The roua River trickled behind our vantage point, its meandering channel marked the eastern boundary of the farm. The westerly that stirred Dads wild hair glistened with salt from the not-so-distant Tasman Sea.

Straight fences criss-crossed the land, freshly mown hay the colour of buttered toast dried in rows, silhouettes of shelterbelt trees threw shadows that competed for space on the naked skyline. I turned to Dad, his grey eyes stared out at the farm he had lived on for all of his 80 years. Deep chasms furrowed his face, tributaries of personal history chiselled into his skin like a braided river.

My brother, Mark, was ploughing a paddock near where we stood, impossibly straight lines of rich brown soil turned up their bellies behind his tractor as it crawled slowly westwards. I watched his progress as the sun continued its predictable curve above us, resurrecting life that had lain dormant over the winter months. Grass was growing again, newly weaned lambs chased each other as they explored their independence. Fledgling magpies took their first flights, their wings mottled grey and ungainly as they launched themselves from tall macrocarpas. Hawks stood sentry on ttara fence posts, the whiff of fresh roadkill on their breaths.

Your great-great-grandfather built this stopbank, said Dad. He leant on a gate and absent-mindedly flicked dry lichen from the split timber. It flaked to the ground. That wasnt an easy feat back in 1906, when he first purchased this land.

I tried to imagine what the farm looked like back then, back when it was untamed, undeveloped, wild. I could see the red roof of the woolshed in the distance, the farm homestead nestled in the tight clump of trees next to it. The woolshed had been built in 1898, using mata cut and milled on the property by a tycoon who sold the land after declaring the roua River would never be controlled.

Your great-great-grandfather proved him wrong, said Dad. He drained the swamps, cleared the massive stumps the sawmillers had left behind. He developed all of this into productive farmland.

Dad waved his hands towards the open paddocks. I listened to the silent call of extinct birds that haunted the wind. Gate hinges creaked; Marks tractor blew a puff of black smoke into the air. It hung there for a few moments, surprised to be free, then dispersed into the azure sky.