CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT PAGE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Fiona Higgins has a background in corporate communications, Indonesian translation and non-profit management. She currently works as a philanthropy executive, advising individuals and agencies on social investment opportunities in Australia and Asia.

Love

in the age of

DROUGHT

FIONA HIGGINS

Pan Macmillan Australia

First published 2009 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

1 Market Street, Sydney

Copyright © Fiona Higgins 2009

The moral right of the author has been asserted

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

National Library of Australia

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Higgins, Fiona.

Love in the age of drought : a career girl, a cotton farmer and

an unlikely romance / Fiona Higgins.

ISBN: 978 1 4050 3909 3(pbk.)

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1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

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Fiona Higgins

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To the memory of my father

Ian Granville Collins

(1942 – 2008)

CHAPTER 1

‘Oh, God!’I gasped, as Qantas Flight 136 banked steeply between clouds. A routine flight from Sydney to Melbourne was yet again becoming an exercise in indignity. My neck flushed an angry scarlet as perspiration soaked through the armpits of my business shirt. In an attempt to calm myself, I double-checked the whereabouts of my nearest emergency exit.

My rapid breathing attracted the attention of the tall, 30-something man sitting next to me.

‘Is something wrong?’ he asked, with genuine concern.

‘Yes,’ I replied bluntly, ‘I hate flying.’

The plane pitched forward and I clutched at the armrest, inadvertently grasping the stranger’s forearm.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I muttered, releasing him, ‘I didn’t mean to do that. It’s completely irrational.’ I stared unseeingly out the window, attempting to calculate the likely remaining time of our ascent.

‘That’s all right,’ the stranger replied graciously. ‘You just grab my hand whenever you need to.’ I smiled, determined to maintain my composure.

‘I’m Scott,’ he said, extending his hand to shake mine.

‘I’m Fiona,’ I replied, returning the handshake with a brief, sweaty squeeze.

‘I can’t understand your fear of flying. Me, I just fall asleep on takeoff,’ he said. ‘Then again, I’m scared of snakes. Each to their own, I suppose.’

I turned back to the window, focusing on the swirling mist beyond. From my seat in the rear row of the aircraft, every bump and shudder seemed amplified. Three rows ahead, a baby began to wail.

‘So, are you heading to Melbourne for business or pleasure?’ Scott asked, apparently undeterred by my silence.

‘Business,’ I replied. ‘It’s a conference for a leadership program funded by my organisation.’

Scott nodded with interest. ‘What kind of leadership program? Like an MBA?’ he asked.

I glanced sideways at him. ‘Well, no, it’s a fairly unusual program,’ I said. ‘Its focus is ethics.’

‘Ethics,’ he repeated. ‘You mean, like choosing between right and wrong?’

‘Mmm,’ I stalled, trying to figure out how to explain it. ‘It’s more like choosing between two rights or two wrongs. You know, when things aren’t clear-cut and you have to choose between bad and worse. How do you decide?’

Scott looked confused. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

The plane finally, mercifully, emerged into clear blue sky. The seatbelt sign flashed off, signalling that the worst of the takeoff was now over. I sighed with relief.

A flight attendant appeared and began doling out refreshments. Coffee for Scott, water for me.

‘Okay, so here’s an example,’ I said. ‘Your neighbour’s house is on fire and there’s a child trapped inside. You’ve got children of your own, but you’re the only person on the scene. By the time the fire engine arrives, it’ll be too late.’ I unscrewed the bottle top and downed a mouthful of water. ‘Do you try to rescue the child, when it means risking your life and potentially leaving your own children parentless? Or do you live with the consequences of not intervening?’

Scott sipped his coffee in silence. ‘Tough,’ he said, at last. ‘I don’t know what I’d do.’

‘Well, that’s the realm of ethics,’ I replied. ‘And this leadership program tries to help people make better ethical decisions in their lives, whatever their line of work.’

I reclined in my chair and closed my eyes. I wasn’t quite prepared for in-depth philosophical deliberations at 39,000 feet.

‘But that would be a difficult skill to learn,’ Scott persisted. ‘How successful is this program in teaching ethics?’

‘Well, that’s exactly what I’m flying to Melbourne to find out,’ I replied. ‘I’ll be meeting some of the leadership participants at their ethics conference. That should give me a sense of the program’s success.’

Forty minutes later at the airport, I exchanged business cards with Scott from Surry Hills.

‘Thanks for keeping me occupied on the flight. And sorry I wasn’t much fun,’ I said, hailing a cab.

‘You were no trouble at all,’ Scott replied, opening the door for me.

As I climbed into the back seat and gave him a friendly wave, I marvelled at the generosity of complete strangers on aeroplanes.

Stepping out of the cab in downtown Fitzroy, I surveyed my lodgings for the next two days. Dozens of people, graduates of the leadership program, milled about the forecourt. I recognised a few familiar faces: a senior government bureaucrat, a high-profile lawyer, an award-winning journalist. I dumped my bags and hurried towards a seminar room. The first session of the ethics conference was about to begin.

Bending over a table searching for my name tag, I noticed a rough-looking hand reach out to clasp a tag bearing a recognisable name – Stuart Higgins. I recalled this name because of a web site which I’d chanced upon several weeks earlier. The site tracked the progress of a national radio program starring Stuart Higgins, a cotton farmer from Queensland, who had donated five acres of his property to the listeners of ABC Radio National. Entitled ‘Grow Your Own’, the program offered urban audiences the opportunity to be ‘virtual farmers’ for a season. While the listeners deliberated over the best way to grow ‘their’ five acres of cotton, Stuart facilitated lively radio debates about thorny issues such as water resource management, genetic modification and the use of synthetic pesticides.

When reviewing the site, I’d been surprised by this farmer’s courage in exposing his cotton farm to the scrutiny of a nation – to people just like me, the urban chardonnay set, who had little understanding of primary production and a predisposition to critique it. Rather than shying away from polarising discussions about agricultural practices, Stuart had actively volunteered his farm as their public testing ground. The program was enjoying considerable success, with thousands of listeners voting online to pursue particular farming techniques, often in direct contradiction to Stuart’s own practices.

As the ruddy hand retrieved the tag, I turned to address the bearer.

‘Hello Stuart,’ I said, ‘I really like your web site.’ I smiled up into a tanned face. The online photo didn’t do him justice; I hadn’t realised he’d be so attractive. Couldn’t I think of a better introduction?

Stuart Higgins looked at me with an expression that asked ‘Do I know you?’ then responded, ‘oh … right. Thanks.’ We walked towards the door of the seminar room.

‘I’m Fiona,’ I said, reaching out awkwardly to shake his hand. ‘I’ve never actually heard your radio program, because it’s broadcast when I’m at work. But I’ve had a good look at your web site and it’s fantastic. I used to be a web designer,’ I explained.

Stuart seemed baffled as I rabbited on about the site’s elegant information architecture, intuitive navigation and excellent image-to-text ratios. Sensing his bewilderment, I cut myself short.

‘Well, congratulations on “Grow Your Own”, anyway,’ I said. ‘It’s a great initiative. Enjoy the conference.’

I found a seat at the rear of the room next to a complete stranger. Stuart picked his way to the front, where a pretty young woman hailed him with an effusive hug. He sat down next to her, disappearing from view as the conference commenced.

In the subsequent break between seminars, I wandered about in the unfamiliar crowd. Everyone around me seemed to know each other. I clutched a cup of percolated coffee and, feeling self-conscious, randomly introduced myself to a small group of program participants standing nearby. Among this intimidating company of professionals, I felt inadequate. Like an agnostic at a Christian convention, I was evidently an outsider, not privy to the fellowship of the wider group.

At the end of the day, it was a relief to retreat to my hotel room for a brief respite before dinner. I curled up on the bed and closed my eyes, steeling myself for the long evening ahead. It had been a torrid couple of months and I didn’t feel like socialising at a black-tie function. In just twelve weeks, I’d resigned from a play-it-safe corporate communications job, leapt into a completely new role in the philanthropic sector and broken up with my partner of four years. But even as I boldly reconfigured my world, a niggling vulnerability remained. At nearly 28 years of age, I’d had several long-term relationships and, yet again, I’d been the one to initiate the breakup. It pained me to admit it, but a pattern was emerging.

Later that evening at the graduation dinner, I tottered around the function centre on too-high heels. At just under 175 centimetres, I didn’t need the height. But somehow those extra four centimetres bolstered my confidence. Engaged in an earnest discussion with the head of a welfare agency, I was surprised to find Stuart Higgins hovering at my elbow. My conversation partner promptly excused himself and rejoined the mass of people around us, all laughing, chatting and fiercely networking.

Leaning casually against a wall, Stuart motioned towards the throng. ‘Enjoying meeting all these fascinating people, Fiona?’

I beamed, grateful that he had remembered my name, and decided to risk radical honesty.

‘Well, actually, it’s a bit daunting,’ I admitted. ‘Everyone knows everyone else, they’re all high-achievers, and I’m just a lowly representative of the funding body.’ Stuart arched an eyebrow.

‘Lowly? You don’t strike me as that,’ he said.

‘Well, among medical specialists and managing directors, a program officer’s not particularly high in the food chain.’

Stuart cocked his head. ‘But I’m guessing your job title doesn’t necessarily reflect the complexity of what you do.’

I smiled, surprised by this observation.

‘Maybe you’ve even got the same problem as me,’ he continued, ‘with people having perceptions about you that aren’t based on reality. I get that all the time. When people in cities hear I’m a cotton farmer, they assume I’m an environmental vandal. If I had a dollar for the number of times people have said to me, “You’re a cotton farmer, you wreck the environment”, I’d have retired. It’s like telling them I’m a real estate agent or a used car salesman. They run a mile.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Maybe program officers have the same problem.’

‘Actually, I’ve got the opposite problem,’ I replied. ‘I’m involved in the funding decisions at my organisation – you know, who gets the grant dollars – so everyone wants to be my friend. I’ve learnt that in philanthropy, there’s no such thing as a free lunch or a genuine compliment.’

Stuart laughed aloud. The sound had a deep, rich quality; it was laughter that wrapped its arms around you.

‘You mean, you spend your day fending off people trying to get at your funds?’

‘Pretty much,’ I replied, ‘and identifying the best projects to support, for the greatest community benefit. It’s harder than you’d imagine.’

‘Well, who’d have thought giving money away would have its challenges?’ He laughed, but immediately checked his smile. ‘Then again, most people think farming’s a lot easier than it really is. That’s probably true for philanthropy, too. Things are always tougher than they look.’

I sipped at my champagne and cast a surreptitious glance at Stuart. His bronzed face and hands bore testament to his work outdoors. But there was clearly far more to him than met the eye.

‘Do you think you’ll always be a farmer?’ I asked abruptly.

‘Ah …’ Stuart sighed. ‘You don’t shy away from the big questions, do you?’

I felt suddenly embarrassed by my directness. ‘I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that.’

‘No worries. It’s refreshing,’ he said. ‘Well, to be honest, no. I’ve been farming for eleven years now. I don’t see myself out there forever. If I’d been born on the land, maybe it’d be different. But I’ve got no farming history in the family.’

‘That’s unusual, isn’t it?’ I asked. ‘Aren’t most people on the land because their parents were there before them?’

Stuart nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s the way it is for most farmers.’

I tried to visualise setting up a farm without the benefit of an inter-generational handover. ‘Then it must have been hard for you to start up as a farmer,’ I observed. ‘How did you do it?’

Stuart smiled. ‘Do you really want to hear this?’

I nodded.

‘Well,’ he started, ‘back in 1991, I was a city boy doing an Agricultural Science degree at the University of Queensland. After graduation, I needed some on-ground experience. So with financial help from my father, I bought a busted-up old grain property out west.’ Stuart hailed a passing waitress and took a soda water from her tray.

‘My training was in animal husbandry,’ he continued, ‘so after I’d found my feet, I set up a small feedlot of twenty steers. Funnily enough, what I’d learnt at university was all theory, no practice. On the first day, one of the steers jumped its pen and bolted. My profit for the venture trotted off into the distance, just like that.’ He snapped his fingers and laughed. ‘They sure didn’t teach us feedlot security at university,’ he said.

‘Two years of trial and error later, I was running out of water for the cattle and my back was against the wall. In the middle of the biggest drought in a century, I was forced to drill for bore water. Luckily, I found more than enough to keep watering the herd. So over the next couple of years, I turned a small-time cattle operation into an irrigated cotton farm. The rest is history,’ he concluded. ‘I’ve been growing cotton for eight years now.’

‘So you love farming then,’ I said, a statement rather than a question.

An uneasy look passed across Stuart’s face. ‘Well, only when it loves me back. Farming’s pretty arbitrary. Hard work doesn’t always guarantee a return. Since I started farming, we’ve had two of the worst droughts in the region’s recorded history. So I’m keeping my options open, because there’s only so much drought one farmer can take.’ He swallowed a mouthful of soda water.

I nodded sympathetically, but felt like a fraud. I didn’t understand Stuart’s world at all.

A childhood memory flashed into my mind of visiting a sheep station in northern Victoria; it was my sole experience of farming to date. On that occasion, I’d been introduced by Farmer Jim to a flock of lovely looking lambs. I’d taken a particular interest in one woolly specimen, Flossy, whom I’d cradled in my arms and fed bottled milk. The following day over a Sunday roast, Farmer Jim asked, ‘So, Fiona, how does Flossy taste?’ My five-year-old sensibilities were outraged and I promptly spurned all manner of meat. From that moment, I became the bane of my mother’s life as a vegetarian convert and since then, I hadn’t had much time for farmers at all.

Guiltily, I confessed. ‘I’ve got no farming experience, so it’s hard for me to imagine what it must be like for you. I mean, I’ve heard a lot about the drought in the media, but it’s never affected me directly.’

‘So, have you spent any time in rural Australia at all?’ Stuart asked.

‘Well,’ I replied, ‘I passed through quite a lot of it when I cycled around Australia three years ago.’

Stuart coughed into his soda water.

‘What, you rode a bicycle around Australia?’ he asked, incredulous.

‘Yes, it was a fundraising event,’ I explained.

‘Oh, now that makes so much more sense,’ he joked. ‘Tell me more.’

I smiled. ‘Well, I’d just returned from living in Indonesia for my final year of university, when the Asian economic crisis was at its worst. Millions of people were on the poverty line, children eating just one meal a day. When I got back to Australia, I was shocked by just how much we had. A cliché, but true.’ I glanced at Stuart, wondering if I should continue. He appeared to be listening intently.

‘I just couldn’t bring myself to resume a normal life without doing something about the poverty I’d seen,’ I explained. ‘So, being young and idealistic, I literally got on my bike and cycled 17,000 kilometres around Australia.’

Stuart gave a long, low whistle.

‘I had a small team with me,’ I added. ‘A support crew. Together, we raised about $100,000 for humanitarian programs. It wasn’t much, but it went a long way in Indonesia.’ I felt my face begin to flush under Stuart’s prolonged scrutiny. ‘So all up, I probably spent the best part of seven months out in rural Australia. I’ll never forget the hospitality of country towns along the way.’ I drained the last of my champagne and twirled the crystal flute between my fingertips.

‘Well, I take my hat off to you,’ Stuart said. ‘Not many people have that sort of gumption. And I can relate to your motivation – I do a bit of consulting in Asia on agricultural issues. I’ve seen farmers in Cambodia and Laos slogging their guts out on a half-acre plot, permanently in debt to some ruthless moneylender.’ He shook his head in frustration. ‘So when I hear myself complaining too much about the drought in Australia, I think about farmers in the developing world. Now that keeps me grounded, because in the end, that could’ve been me. It’s just an accident of birth that I’m an Australian farmer, not a Cambodian one.’

Stuart’s words echoed my own concerns; it was exactly the sort of sentiment that had prompted me to ride a bicycle around Australia. Throughout my life, the plight of those less fortunate had irrevocably altered my personal and professional choices. It was the reason I now worked in the non-profit sector and philanthropy, eschewing the money and glamour of corporate opportunities. But I’d never imagined I’d encounter such affinities in a farmer from country Queensland. I studied Stuart’s face with interest and momentarily, our eyes locked. The chatter all around us seemed to subside.

The moment was broken when a friend of Stuart’s loped up behind us and thumped him between the shoulderblades.

‘Kingo,’ Stuart’s voice carried a detectable note of disappointment. ‘Kingo, do you know Fiona?’ I smiled and extended my hand. Kingo returned the handshake warmly.

‘Are you doing the leadership program, Fiona?’ he asked.

‘No, but I’d like to be.’

‘It’s transformative,’ said Kingo enthusiastically. ‘If you ever end up on the program, you’ll never be the same.’

I withdrew to one side, allowing Kingo and Stuart the chance to talk alone.

As the pair chatted, I covertly watched Stuart Higgins. Impressively self-confident, he seemed to be a man unafraid of risk, comfortable in his own skin and unaccustomed to self-doubt. Just watching him made me smile. His irrepressible charisma made his frame seem even larger. Despite my heels, he towered over me. There was something very compelling about Stuart, but also something radically unfamiliar. I wondered briefly how he spent his Sunday mornings – a rogue thought that disconcerted me.

While Kingo and Stuart continued to talk, I moved to return to my table. Stuart called out to me, ‘Fiona, maybe we could have a dance later?’

‘I’d like that,’ I replied.

But before long, the function concluded. The lights were switched on, the music switched off, and guests began meandering towards the exits. As I headed for the door, Stuart, surrounded by friends, made his way towards me.

‘We’re going dancing downtown,’ he called. ‘Why don’t you come along?’ Something told me that Stuart’s friends would probably prefer a reunion unfettered by outsiders. But, reassured by the size of the departing group, I nodded.

We set out for a venue nearby, with Stuart striding ahead at a cracking pace. Impeded by my unwieldy heels, I dropped to the rear of the group and soon Stuart disappeared from view. As my feet began to blister, an inebriated middle-aged man sidled up to me.

‘Hi, I’m Joel,’ he slurred. ‘Why haven’t I seen you before?’

‘Because I’m not part of the program,’ I responded, edging away from him.

Joel wasn’t to be deterred. ‘Is your boyfriend on the program then?’ he asked.

I shook my head.

‘So, do you have a boyfriend?’ he persisted.

Weary of this unwanted attention, I decided to call an end to the evening.

‘I’m going back to the hotel,’ I announced to no-one in particular, wheeling about and heading away from the group.

Liberated, I removed my shoes and retraced my steps. I was confident that Stuart wouldn’t miss my absence in the company of old friends. Entering the foyer of the hotel and looking forward to the welcome relief of bed, I was dismayed to hear my name called by a genial-looking man seated on a lounge. I recognised Michael as a graduate of the program with whom I’d had an earlier exchange on the topic of Indonesia. Although it was past midnight, Michael was keen to continue the conversation. I fought fatigue as we stood in the foyer and discussed the Indonesia–Australia relationship in the wake of East Timor’s independence.

Suddenly, the foyer doors flew open and Stuart strode through them. He’s back early, I mused. Stuart approached us, greeted Michael politely and then stood to one side, waiting for the discussion to conclude. However, Michael was on a roll and several more minutes passed with me nodding mutely and Stuart loitering nearby. Eventually, Stuart’s patience wore thin. Michael was analysing Australia’s involvement in training the Indonesian military when Stuart interjected.

‘Excuse me, Fiona, can I have a word with you?’ he asked.

‘Oh, of course,’ I replied, a little stunned by his assertiveness.

‘Outside, perhaps?’ Stuart asked, gently placing his hand at my elbow. He fixed Michael with a piercing stare, at which point Michael bade us both good night, promising to continue our conversation in the morning.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,’ Stuart said, motioning towards the retreating figure of Michael.

‘That’s fine,’ I replied, wondering what on earth might be coming next. Inexplicably, my stomach dropped, mimicking the sensation of sudden descent in an aircraft.

Stuart released my elbow and turned to face me.

‘I was walking with my friends and looked around to check where you were, but I couldn’t see you. I kept walking for a while, trying to work out where you’d gone. Then I had the overwhelming desire to try to find you. I knew my friends wanted me to go out dancing, and everything was taking me in that direction, but it just didn’t feel right. I had to turn back to find you.’

I gazed at him, waiting.

‘I didn’t think I’d actually come across you in the foyer – that was pure luck – but when I did, I thought you should know that I’d tried to find you.’ He looked at me searchingly.

‘I find you intriguing, Fiona,’ he declared. I felt my face beginning to burn. Oh my God, what should I say?

‘Oh – right. Well … thanks.’ I cringed inwardly at this lame response. Stuart continued to stare at me.

‘Well, um, thanks again, and good night,’ I stammered.

‘Right, good night,’ replied Stuart, turning on his heel.

I climbed the stairs to my hotel room, tired and confused. What exactly was the significance of Stuart’s words? Too tired to think further on it, I collapsed into bed. It had been a big day.

The following morning, at the final session of the ethics conference, I scanned the room for Stuart’s face. I spotted him by the window and manoeuvred myself through the crowd. Taking a seat in a nearby row, I threw him a smile. Stuart returned it with a curt nod. Deflated, I wondered if he now regretted our late-night conversation.

As the conference concluded and the assembled group began to disperse, Stuart approached me, carrying a large duffle bag.

‘I’m off now,’ he said, motioning towards the hotel’s exit. ‘Good to meet you.’

I swallowed nervously and asked, ‘Do you ever get to Sydney, Stuart?’

‘Sometimes,’ he replied.

‘Well, if you’re ever planning a visit, let me know. Perhaps we could have a coffee and a catch-up?’ I said, feeling slightly foolish.

Stuart paused for what seemed an unbearably long period, before replying, ‘Yeah, we could.’

An uncomfortable silence followed. I began riffling through my briefcase for a business card. ‘Um … would you like my contact details?’ I asked.

Stuart shook his head. ‘I’ll find you,’ he said casually, sauntering away.

Didn’t even accept my card. That’s it then. With both my private and business numbers unlisted in the telephone directory, it would be almost impossible for Stuart Higgins to find me, even if he wanted to.

At work on Monday, I smiled at the sight of a giant multi-coloured bunch of roses delivered to my desk. ‘Someone thinks you’re nice,’ the secretary chimed. Fumbling to open the card, I caught my breath as I read the handwritten message: ‘Hope your flight home was smooth. Can I take you to dinner? Scott.’ Disappointment flooded me as I realised that the flowers were not from Stuart, but from the man on the plane. I winced, recalling how I’d grasped Scott’s forearm during my turbulent flight to Melbourne. I sank into my chair, screwed up the card, and tossed it into the bin.

CHAPTER 2

‘G’day,’ said a deep, familiar voice at the other end of the phone line. ‘Sorry to trouble you at work.’ My face flushed, but I tried to sound easygoing and relaxed. It had taken Stuart Higgins five days to track me down.

‘How did you find me?’ I asked.

‘Not in the telephone directory, that’s for sure,’ he said. ‘I had to convince the ethics program staff to do something very unethical. I got them to disclose your phone number at work.’

I laughed aloud, imagining Stuart sweet-talking the receptionist.

‘Now that would have taken some persuasion.’ I paused, desperately wanting to continue the conversation. ‘I’m sorry Stuart, I’m about to go into a meeting. Can I call you back later?’

We exchanged personal telephone numbers and I promised to contact him over the weekend.

The following Sunday afternoon, I summoned the courage to dial an unfamiliar telephone prefix for a location in rural Queensland. Stuart answered promptly and over the course of an hour we ranged over all manner of topics, not shying away from those usually reserved for family or long-time friends.

‘Why’d you study religion?’ Stuart asked after I revealed my two university majors, Religious Studies and Women’s Studies. ‘Did you want to be a priest?’ I grinned at the unlikely thought.

‘No, I’ve just always been fascinated by humanity’s spiritual dimension. Religion’s been with us since we started painting on cave walls; faith plays such an important role in the human psyche. Whether you believe in a God or not, you can’t dismiss the power of religion. It’s the driver of some of the most despicable human acts, and the most beautiful.’

‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘But what about you personally? Do you believe in God?’

I paused, conscious that Stuart probably resided in a Bible belt.

‘Yes, I do,’ I said. ‘But not a God who’s constrained by a single tradition. I don’t believe in God with a beard.’

Stuart chuckled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, for a long time I was a product of my Christian upbringing,’ I replied. ‘With all that classical imagery from Sunday School, I imagined God as some cranky old man with a long white beard, constantly calculating my demerit points.’ I hesitated, attempting to gauge Stuart’s response. His silence was difficult to interpret.

‘Over the years,’ I continued, ‘partly because of my university studies, partly because of life experience, my conception of God changed. I started to detect similarities between the world’s religions. The externals can be radically different, but the key principles are often the same. Like treating others as you’d like to be treated, the power of forgiveness, the centrality of love. And all of these religious paths seem concerned with one thing: release from human suffering.’

Stuart remained silent; I pressed on regardless.

‘So, when I recognised these common themes, I started to incorporate the wisdom of other traditions into the fundamentals of my faith. And that’s where I am today. Some in the Christian church would say it’s heresy – the worst kind of relativism, a sort of patchwork spirituality. But the fact of the matter is this – I believe in an expansive God.’ I stopped and drew breath, awaiting Stuart’s reaction.

He cleared his throat. ‘Well, I’m in unknown territory here, but I think I understand what you mean. The parts of other religions you’ve taken on, what’s an example?’

‘Well,’ I started, conscious of entering potentially sensitive terrain, ‘I’ve embraced the Buddhist precept of not killing any living being. It makes sense to me that we should avoid inflicting suffering wherever we can. And the way I live that out is by being a vegetarian.’

As I uttered the ‘V’ word, I imagined Stuart sitting down to enormous country meals of meat. ‘Of course, I don’t believe that everyone has to be a vegetarian,’ I added hurriedly. ‘It’s just that I look at all those polystyrene trays of beef in the supermarket and ask, “Would I be eating this if I had to kill it myself?” The answer, inevitably, is no.’

‘Good on you for sticking to what you believe in,’ replied Stuart. ‘If all consumers were as consistent as you, the world might be a different place.’

I felt relieved; Stuart didn’t think I was mad.

‘And what about you,’ I ventured. ‘Do you believe in God?’

‘I think I’m what they call an agnostic,’ he said. ‘If the great mystery’s out there, it’s never tapped me on the shoulder. But as a farmer, producing something from sun, water and earth is magical. The journey from a seed to a plant to a product is miraculous.’ The energy in Stuart’s voice was palpable. ‘I’m in constant awe of the plants I grow, so I guess that if I feel God anywhere, it’s in nature.’

I smiled, relating to his reverence for the natural world.

‘And since we’ve discussed religion,’ he said cheekily, ‘can we talk about sex and politics now, please?’

These styles of discussion played out over the next two weeks, each conversation an exhilarating exchange of opinions, personal insights and confidences. We didn’t always agree, but I enjoyed the respectful curiosity with which Stuart approached our points of difference.

At the conclusion of our second Sunday afternoon discussion, Stuart mentioned nonchalantly, ‘You know, I’ve got some radio work to do at the ABC in Sydney next week. Would you like to catch up on Wednesday night?’

Thrilled, I responded quickly. ‘Sure – how about a night at the theatre?’

I figured it was a safe option for a first date. Not too much talking required – we could always retreat to the theatre if the conversation dried up.

‘Sounds great,’ replied Stuart, ‘we don’t get much culture up here in Jandowae.’

At Kings Cross Station in Sydney the following week, I was all awkward smiles to Stuart’s easygoing offhandedness.

‘Hi,’ he said, shaking my hand firmly. Did the strength of his handshake mean he saw me as a friend, rather than a potential love interest?

‘How about a drink before the show?’ I suggested. ‘There’s a great little bar down the street, they serve fabulous caprioskas.’

‘Well, I’m not really a drinker,’ Stuart replied. ‘I usually prefer milkshakes to alcohol.’

Immediately I recalled an old television advertisement for a dairy company, in which two young farmers at a local dance outlast all the other beer-drinking men in attendance by consuming only milk. Was Stuart that sort of farmer?

‘Wholesome,’ I said. ‘Caprioskas are my favourite.’

Several drinks later, Stuart and I wandered up to the Stables Theatre for the performance that evening. The production – a satire called Black & Tran – playfully deconstructed stereotypes of Aboriginal and Vietnamese cultures. Ten minutes in, I wondered how politically conservative Stuart might be. When we laughed in the same places, I was relieved and delighted. It was good to sit close to him. As he leant back in his seat, I caught a whiff of masculine je ne sais quoi. The whole thing was mildly ridiculous – I felt like a schoolgirl, hormones raging, distracted by this muscular specimen of masculinity.

‘For God’s sake, pull yourself together,’ I muttered to myself, alone in the bathroom after the performance.

‘I’m starving,’ I declared, rejoining Stuart in the foyer.

‘Where I live, we’d say, “I could chew the arse out of a low-flying duck”,’ laughed Stuart. ‘Not in polite circles, of course.’

Chew the arse out of a … what? We walked a short way and into the first eatery we came across – a deserted Indian restaurant. We lingered over our meal, talking incessantly. When I checked my watch some hours later, it was already time for me to catch the last Manly ferry home.

‘Would you like me to come down with you to the wharf?’ Stuart asked. It was, I realised, a quintessentially rural gesture; a lady couldn’t be left to walk the streets alone. But this was metropolitan Sydney and, as much as I enjoyed Stuart’s company, I needed some space to process my thoughts.

‘No thanks, I’ll be fine,’ I replied. ‘But I appreciate the offer.’ I kicked at nothing in particular with the point of my high heel.

‘How will you get home?’ I asked.

‘Train,’ said Stuart. ‘I’ll just go back to Kings Cross Station. I’m staying with a friend from the ethics program. She’s letting me bunk on her lounge room floor tonight.’

An inexplicable wave of jealousy washed over me. Who was this woman and what had he shared with her? The intensity of this emotion left me tongue-tied.

Stuart filled the silence. ‘Thanks for the evening, it was great.’

I nodded, eyes trained on the pavement.

‘Well, goodnight,’ Stuart said.

He looked me in the eyes and then – oh please, please, please – kissed me in that most cordial of places: the no-man’s-land between lips and ear.

‘Thanks, Stuart,’ I said, concealing my disappointment.

I started to walk away. Is he gay, or just the consummate gentleman? I’d covered perhaps twenty metres when I heard rapid footfalls behind me and suddenly Stuart was at my side.

‘I had to chase you to give you this,’ he puffed, handing me my coat. ‘And to do this …’ He pulled me towards him and kissed me in no-man’s-land again.

‘Thank you,’ I laughed, this time feeling quietly elated. That second kiss, while carefully planted well away from my lips, left me with no doubt at all: Stuart wasn’t gay – he was just a rural gentleman.

I walked through the back streets of Kings Cross, trying to hail a taxi. I’d encountered all manner of other men in my dating forays; the urban artiste, the political animal, the drug-taking tradesman, the introverted IT guru, the surfie with a chip on his shoulder, the homosexual journalist who thought I could turn him to the other side. But never a rural gentleman.

Several weeks passed and Stuart and I continued to enjoy long Sunday afternoon conversations. But as time progressed, I found myself beginning to question the viability of our developing attachment. Our blossoming friendship was, after all, conducted mostly by telephone. Stuart was a man’s man living a rural life in country Queensland, and I was a woman with no understanding of agriculture and little desire to relinquish my comfortable existence in Sydney. The more I contemplated the prospect of romance burgeoning between us, the less convinced I was of its likelihood.

‘It’s like this,’ I explained to my girlfriend, Genevieve, over coffee. ‘We had one great evening together, but no kiss on the lips.’

Genevieve sighed. Since our university days, we had monitored each other’s romances with the dedication of sisters.

‘Gay?’ she asked knowingly.

‘Not likely,’ I responded. ‘He’s great to talk to on the telephone. Our conversations are actually very intimate for two people who hardly know each other.’

Genevieve’s eyes narrowed as she sipped her macchiato.

‘But I’m just not sure that it’s going anywhere in particular,’ I fretted, pushing a fudge brownie around the plate.

‘And where exactly do you want it to go?’

‘Well, it doesn’t really matter what I might want,’ I replied. ‘It’s never going to work. He’s a farmer, for God’s sake. From Queensland. It’s totally implausible. We’ll just end up being friends and nothing more.’

Genevieve stirred her coffee thoughtfully.

‘Well, you’re probably right, Fi,’ she concluded. ‘I can’t really see you joining the Queensland Country Women’s Association. So why don’t you just have a bit of fun with it for now?’

Not long after my coffee with Genevieve, Stuart clarified his intentions.

‘Fiona, I need to tell you something,’ he announced, at the end of yet another lengthy telephone discussion. ‘I don’t want to be friends with you.’

I paused, confused by his stern tone. Stuart cleared his throat. ‘What I mean is, I’m not interested in coming to Sydney for coffees. I don’t want to be your friend; I have enough friends already. Do you know what I mean?’

This declaration caught me by surprise. No flowery prose or affirmation of blossoming emotion – just a confirmation of what he wasn’t interested in.

I hesitated. ‘I think so.’

‘So, if you don’t object,’ he continued, ‘I’d like to fly with you to Adelaide next week.’

This bold suggestion startled me. I’d recently shared with Stuart my concerns about an upcoming interstate visit; a Friday morning business meeting in Adelaide, followed by a weekend reunion with old friends.

‘It’s ridiculous,’ I’d explained to him, ‘but I’m an anxious flyer and I start to get nervous about two weeks before a trip.’ Stuart had evidently concluded that a personal chaperone from Sydney to Adelaide would be an ideal solution to my problem.

‘That’s a really kind offer,’ I replied, ‘but I don’t think it’s a good idea …’

Stuart jumped into the void. ‘I won’t impinge on your time with your friends,’ he explained. ‘My aunt lives in Adelaide – I can stay with her. But we can travel down together and back again. I fly planes myself, so you might feel better if I explain what’s going on in the air.’

I blinked with surprise. ‘You’re a pilot?’

‘Not of jumbo jets.’ He laughed. ‘But I’ve been flying small aircraft for six years. I’m the president of my local aero club.’

I shook my head with the irony of it all. Murphy’s Law: the fearful flyer is dating a pilot.

‘You don’t know what you’re in for,’ I said. ‘I do very strange things in the air, like sweat and shake and call flight attendants to help me. You mightn’t enjoy it.’

‘We’ll get you right,’ Stuart laughed.

A fortnight later, I drove to Sydney airport for our second official date. It was all very surreal: meeting a farmer from Queensland for a therapeutic flight to Adelaide. I tried to steady my nerves and recalled Genevieve’s advice: just have a bit of fun with it. But flying and fun were two concepts I’d never previously associated with one another. Stuart waved to me across the terminal, ruggedly handsome in blue jeans and a well-fitting T-shirt. Maybe this type of phobia therapy would just do the trick.

Sadly, it didn’t. In the air, I regressed to my usual behaviour – flushing bright red, sweating and hyperventilating. But this time my standard shenanigans were interspersed with periods of calm. I listened closely to Stuart’s explanations of the relationship between airflow over the wing and lift, thermals, jet streams, wake turbulence and microbursts. Perhaps it was the effect of Stuart’s commonsense approach, or the incentive of not embarrassing myself in front of a man I wished to impress – whatever the reason, I managed better than on all previous flights.

Arriving at Adelaide airport, Stuart and I were greeted by his aunt, Suzanne, a stunning 50-something yoga instructor with intelligent eyes. After a round of introductions, I waved them off and headed toward the taxi stand.

‘Don’t forget, I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock tomorrow,’ Stuart called after me. During the flight, Stuart and I had agreed to meet the following morning for a bicycle ride around Adelaide. ‘It’s not exactly around Australia,’ he’d said, ‘but it’ll be pleasant enough.’

Later that day, at the conclusion of my business meetings, I made my way to the home of my friends. Jane and Jason had recently relocated from Sydney to the Adelaide Hills.

‘Well, Fi,’ said Jane, slinging an arm around my shoulders, ‘knowing what you’re like on aeroplanes, he’s a saint for flying with you. Invite him around tomorrow night. We need an introduction to the spunky farmer.’

The following morning, the spunky farmer arrived in his aunt’s car to collect me for our bicycle tour of Adelaide. Aunty Sue had begged and borrowed two bicycles for our use, both of which were too small. Setting off from her home in Bowden, my knees seemed to brush my ears with every rotation. We kept to bicycle tracks before deciding spontaneously to continue south to Glenelg for coffee. Unfortunately, I was wearing the wrong clothes for this expanded version of our bicycle tour, a full twenty-kilometre return trip. My loose jeans were causing me a problem, their excess material flapping dangerously close to the chain. I hitched them up feverishly, appalled by the thought of my pants being ripped off in front of an unsuspecting Stuart, riding behind me. After an interminable ten kilometres, we arrived at our seaside destination.

We cast our bikes aside onto the grass and lazed in the morning sunshine with our drinks. Young families congregated nearby, children were kicking footballs, throwing frisbees and playing on the sand. Perspiring profusely in the unforgiving sunshine, I knew I couldn’t be looking my finest. However, this did not seem to deter Stuart, who boldly leaned forward and kissed me on the lips.

I returned his kiss tentatively, too concerned about my sweatiness, coffee breath and the family-friendly environment around us. Perhaps it was the heat of the morning, the exertion of cycling, or my self-consciousness which inhibited the impact of our first kiss. It was sweet, it was lovely, but not the moment of ecstasy I’d imagined. We pulled away from each other awkwardly. Shortly afterwards, we mounted our bicycles and retraced our path. Our journey complete, Stuart dropped me back at Jane and Jason’s, promising to return later that evening.

I agonised over my choice of outfit for the evening.

‘These corduroy pants are too dowdy,’ I complained to Jane. ‘But I didn’t pack anything else.’

Jane looked me up and down. ‘Sweetie, you’d look fine in a potato sack. But come and raid my wardrobe if you’d like.’

We trawled through her clothes, sipping champagne and giggling like teenagers. Finally, I tried on a pair of boot-leg jeans and a close-fitted, caramel-coloured top.

‘He’ll like what he sees,’ said Jane.

At 7.30 pm, Stuart arrived, bottle of wine in hand. He smelt vaguely alpine and looked very appealing in a pale blue shirt. My stomach somersaulted as he kissed me lightly on the cheek.

We spent the evening enjoying the good food and company of Jane and Jason, who pulled out all stops in their quest to impress. Jane cooked delectable, multi-course vegetarian fare, and Jason plied us with his best vino from the Barossa Valley.

Halfway through our second bottle of shiraz, as we savoured Jane’s homemade sweet milk custard, Jason asked casually, ‘Cotton’s a very water-intensive crop. Should we really be growing it in a country as dry as Australia?’

I stiffened slightly. Please don’t call him an environmental vandal.

Stuart leaned back in his chair and smiled, apparently unruffled.

‘It’s something I struggle with. I try to use the water on my farm as efficiently as possible, but if you’re of the view that Australian agriculture shouldn’t touch our river systems at all, then we’re in for a long night.’

Jason patted his mouth with his serviette. ‘Well, that’s not a realistic position,’ he replied. ‘Obviously we have to use some of our water for agriculture. But crops like cotton just don’t suit our landscape, do they?’

Stuart shrugged. ‘As a matter of fact, cotton’s quite well suited to the Australian environment,’ he said. ‘It loves growing in hot, sunny climates. That’s why you don’t see much cotton growing in the tropics. Too wet most of the time.’

Jason folded his arms. ‘But given that Australia’s water resources are so limited, isn’t cotton a very unsuitable crop?’ I studied the mantelpiece behind Jane’s head, wondering where we were headed.

‘It’s a common viewpoint,’ Stuart replied, ‘but in my experience, there’s no such thing as an intrinsically bad crop. It’s not what you grow that matters so much, it’s how much water you take out of the system, and what sort of financial and social returns you generate in the process.’ Stuart glanced at me, perhaps for moral support. I smiled at him with as much confidence as I could muster.

‘This custard dessert,’ Stuart said suddenly, turning to Jane, ‘how much milk did you use to make it?’ Jane paused, mentally calculating.

‘Just over a litre,’ she replied.

‘Hmmm.’ Stuart nodded thoughtfully. ‘You know, the best Australian dairy farmers use about 500 litres of irrigation water to produce a litre of milk. That’s roughly equivalent to your daily household water usage.’

I gazed down at the creamy mass in my bowl. I’d never thought about custard in those terms before.

‘But interestingly enough, dairy farming is off the environmental radar when it comes to water use,’ Stuart continued, ‘despite the fact that it actually extracts more water from the Murray–Darling Basin than most other farming, including cotton. Maybe people just like the idea of black-and-white dairy cows grazing on green pastures. They don’t usually realise that they’re irrigated pastures.’ He twirled his dessert spoon with a flourish.

‘But surely you don’t want us to stop drinking milk?’ asked Jane in mock horror.

Stuart laughed. ‘No, I’m a big milk drinker myself. My point is that most agricultural industries use a lot of water, in different ways. But for some reason, certain commodities are singled out for greater scrutiny than others.’

‘But from what I’ve heard, Stuart,’ I ventured, feeling like a traitor, ‘more water’s been allocated to farming than Australia’s environment can actually sustain.’

‘You’re right, Fi,’ he replied, to my relief. ‘And where that’s happened, it’s a real problem that needs to be addressed. Governments are only now waking up to the over-allocation of water licences they practically threw at farmers 40 years ago. Problem is, they’ll have to find some way of recalling those licences, without causing major social upheaval. It’ll be a tough task – entire rural communities and economies depend on their ability to extract water.’

Stuart paused, rolling up his sleeves and pushing them above his elbows. ‘But in the meantime, the drought’s doing a pretty good job of regulating farmers’ use of water.’

‘So how bad is the drought where you are?’ asked Jason, topping up our wine glasses.

‘Well, since I started farming, we’ve had two of the worst droughts in the region’s history,’ Stuart replied. ‘And this year, we’ve only had half our average rainfall.’

‘How does your business handle that?’ asked Jane.

Stuart shrugged. ‘If the water’s not there, I can’t grow the crops – full stop.’ He pulled his chair closer to the table. ‘That’s something I wish people in cities understood about irrigators. There’s a perception that we keep sucking too much water out of the system, even in drought. But if the water’s not there, how can we? And in my case, I’m self-regulating.’

‘Self-regulating? How so?’ asked Jason, obviously sceptical.

‘Well, I’ve got an irrigation bore on my farm and a licence that allows me to pump 400 million litres of water a year from it,’ Stuart explained, ‘but last season, I chose to pump only half of my allocation.’

‘But why would you do that?’ I asked, confused. ‘I mean, if you’re permitted to pump much more?’

Stuart drained his glass of mineral water. ‘Because I know the underground aquifer is dropping,’ he replied, ‘and it’d be irresponsible to extract too much water from it. Governments can force farmers to cut back on their water allocation, but bureaucrats tend to lag a few years behind reality. I know what’s happening to the health of the aquifer right now, so I’ve taken the initiative to self-regulate, before the government tells me to.’

Stuart scraped up the last of his custard and pushed his dessert bowl to one side. ‘Because of this self-imposed cutback, I was hammered by drought last year. If I keep up the same approach this season, I’ll only have enough water to plant twenty per cent of my farm. Which means a break-even year, or worse. Whether it’s cotton in my fields, or some other crop, there’s only a finite amount of water. The challenge for me is – how long can I last between drinks?’

Jason nodded slowly, clearly unconvinced. An uneasy silence fell over the table.

‘So, what’s your shirt made out of, Jason?’ Stuart asked. Jason glanced down at his navy blue T-shirt.

‘Cotton,’ he replied, reddening slightly.

‘Is it 100 per cent cotton?’

‘I think so,’ said Jason.

‘Where’s this going, Farmer Stu?’ asked Jane, winking at me.

‘Well, to grow that 100 per cent cotton T-shirt on my farm, it takes about 1000 litres of water.’ He grinned at Jason. ‘So there’s 500 litres in your dessert bowl, mate, and 1000 litres on your back.’

Jason grunted and shifted in his seat.

‘We all make choices, producers and consumers,’ Stuart continued. ‘And as a producer, I do everything in my power to manage finite water resources effectively. I don’t make any of my management decisions lightly.’ Stuart’s face was earnest; I was gripped by his conviction.

‘Maybe we should all be choosing to wear hemp instead of cotton,’ I suggested.

‘Sure, everyone thinks hemp’s the easy solution,’ he replied. ‘And actually, I have a licence to grow it on my farm. But the market’s in its infancy in Australia and the last thing a farmer feels like doing in drought is gambling on something new. The adoption of hemp as a world fibre is trapped in what I call the “lively dinner conversation phase”. We get as far as what we’re doing right now – talking about it.’ He turned and fixed me with intense hazel eyes. Momentarily my concentration wavered.

‘I can pretty much guarantee that the next time you’re looking for a nice white business shirt, Fi, you won’t be scouring the shops to find it in hemp, will you?’ he challenged.

I shook my head, sheepishly.

‘No, it’ll be cotton for you, hands down,’ he continued, ‘which leads us back to the beginning of our discussion. As a farmer, I’m prepared to reassess what I produce, as long as you consumers consider what you consume. You can’t have one without the other. And in the meantime, I’m the most environmentally responsible cotton grower around.’

Jane raised her glass with a theatrical flourish. ‘And I say cheers to that.’ She laughed. ‘To producers, consumers, and mutual obligation.’

At the end of our evening, I offered to show Stuart out to his car. As we collected our coats, Jane whispered to me, ‘I’ll wait up to debrief!’ Smirking, I mouthed ‘okay’.

Closing the front door behind us, we picked our way along the narrow cobbled path across the garden. Our breath rose in steamy puffs around us. The night was still and dark; nothing stirred in the heavy mountain fog. Despite the icy chill closing in on us, my body thrummed with the warmth of wine.

‘You have interesting friends,’ Stuart said.

‘Thanks,’ I smiled, suddenly engulfed by an exquisite wave of anticipation.

The silence between us was electric.

The car was parked beneath a large beech tree. As we passed under its foliage, Stuart abruptly stopped and turned. He reached out, wrapped a hand around my waist and pinned me against the tree. Our faces centimetres apart, Stuart leant forward and pushed his lips and body against mine.

I pushed back.

Some time later, I floated back into the house in a romantic reverie. Our midmorning peck in the park, tentative and self-conscious, bore no resemblance whatsoever to what had unfolded between us, under that tree, in the icy Adelaide Hills air.

As I wandered indoors, I found a note from Jane on the kitchen bench.

I stayed up for 45 minutes. What on earth were you doing out there? He is white gold, girlfriend.

I woke the following morning on a dreamy high. But my starry-eyed musings were cut short by some sad news. My sister telephoned to tell me that our grandmother had died overnight. Grandma had been suffering from bowel cancer for some months. The day before I’d flown to Adelaide, I had sat by her bedside and recounted the tale of meeting a cotton farmer from Queensland.

‘He’s really special, Grandma,’ I said. ‘But we come from such different backgrounds.’ Grandma, an avid reader of romance novels all her life, smiled weakly at me.

‘But he sounds like a true country gentleman,’ she said.

Grandma’s death was a terrible loss, but also a blessed relief for her and her carers. In response to this unexpected turn of events, Stuart excelled himself in comforting me on the flight home from Adelaide. My usual phobic responses failed to materialise on this flight, numbed as I was by an unusual combination of swelling grief and heady infatuation. At Sydney airport, we bade our farewells. Stuart boarded a flight for Queensland, and I returned home to my Sydney apartment, and my grieving family.

CHAPTER 3

Two weeks after the trip to Adelaide, I received an unwieldy package in the mail, postmarked from Jandowae, Queensland. It was difficult to gauge the contents of the parcel by its odd proportions. Stuart and I had been officially seeing each other for just sixteen days and I was relishing the intense communications of early romance. Despite the tyranny of distance, we drank each other in. Each email, telephone call and letter was preceded by hours of delicious expectancy. The old maxim ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ was true for us; I felt like a woman in an historical romance pining for her distant suitor. And now, receiving a postal missive the day before seeing Stuart in Sydney again, I smiled in anticipation.

I tore at the seal and frowned, puzzled by a smattering of reddish-brown dust which fell from the newly gouged hole. Whatever it was, it had clearly been damaged in transit; something was broken inside. I tentatively pulled at the object and peeled back its tissue paper sheath. I stared, bewildered, at the revelation within: a pair of decrepit old boots. The boots had seen better days; their foul smell made me grimace. A pristine white envelope lay furled inside the ankle of the left boot. I opened the envelope and gazed dumbfounded at the first sentence:

Fiona, I am in love with you.

I gasped and put the letter down, reeling as the words sank in. In love with me? But we’d only been seeing each other for sixteen days. Inexplicable … impulsive … impossible! Was he deranged? I really liked Stuart – I liked him more with every interaction – but to roll out the ‘L’ word in just over a fortnight? It was unprecedented. Alarmed, I resumed reading. ‘Hey, welcome back …’ the letter continued. I smiled in spite of myself; Stuart had obviously anticipated my initial reaction. Steeling myself, I focused on his handwriting sloping across the page:

I am confident that my feelings are no shock to you, Fi. That is an unbelievably presumptuous statement, but I believe that in your heart you know I feel this way.

Now, I refuse to analyse this to death. What does love mean? How do I know I’m in love? Will you love me back? Why have I written it down, rather than just tell you directly? My response to these questions is instinct – it just feels right. But I need to clarify that simplistic response.

Fi, when something ‘feels right’ to me, it doesn’t necessarily ‘feel good’. Good is a part of it, obviously, but ‘right’ feels scary and vulnerable. It feels exciting and like hard work. It feels threatening and strong. Something inside and outside of me is driving this feeling. What I do know is that you are at this place with me.

I went for a walk down along the creek this morning, Fi. I saw something that made me think of our time together in Adelaide. As I stood looking up at the birds in the box trees, I noticed a galah crawl out of a hollowed-out tree and fly off. Two seconds later, her mate crawled out and flew off after her. I swear to you they had a smile on their beaks.

I laughed and thought back to our frosty evening in the Adelaide Hills; we had huddled in the crook of a tree for warmth. Our bodies pressed together, Stuart’s arms had shielded me against the rising mountain damp. If Jane had waited up that evening, she would have caught me with a ridiculous grin on my face. I imagined Stuart now, walking along a dry creek bed in rural Queensland, a world away from mountain mists, with no company but the galahs. A lifestyle that breeds contemplation, I reflected. And love letters, perhaps.

But never mind the galahs, back to you. I remember us talking in Sydney that night we went to the theatre. I have no doubt you will remember – we were talking about what would be the chance of finding ‘The One’ in life. I ran through the statistical probability of finding your soul mate in the world. It was some ridiculous figure, like one in a billion. Well, my reasoning was flawed on several counts.

The first flaw is scientific, in that finding a partner is not a random event like pulling numbered balls out of a hat or a name off a list. What was I thinking? We have emotions, we have experiences, we have forces I can’t comprehend – like love and beauty – all sitting in that hat, influencing the draw. The second flaw is the pretty common idea that finding ‘The One’ means finding perfection at the beginning of the relationship, then sharing perfect union throughout life.

I don’t believe that. I believe a soul mate is someone who challenges you, connects with you physically and mentally, while maintaining their sense of self. The only thing perfect in the relationship is each other’s commitment. Each day you are one step closer to … synergy.

Well, I better explain why there is a pair of old work boots sitting in front of you. I won’t ask you to start guessing.

Fi, these boots have been to so many places and worked so hard over the past eleven years. They were there when I first went out to the farm; when I was really green and didn’t know what I was in for. They were there when I harvested my first crop of cotton. They were there when I lost my beautiful kelpie, Hayley. She was my only companion on the farm for so long.

These boots have seen blood, sweat and tears, literally. By giving them to you, it puts you there with me. My experiences are a part of you now. While you may not know what those experiences are right now, they are inside you. When we talk about them in the future, we will just be drawing them out. As for the experiences we will share in the future – if you think these boots look well-worn, they’re nothing compared to what we will do together.

This feels so right.

I could hardly breathe; the rawness of Stuart’s emotion left me winded. The old boots before me lay transformed by the beauty of his words. I could love this man back.

But after only sixteen days? The rational, no-nonsense part of me fought to recapture some emotional ground. While Stuart’s open adoration was exhilarating, how could he be so convinced that it was Love, as opposed to other ‘L’ words, such as Like, Longing or Lust? Where did he think such wild declarations would lead, so early in our relationship, given the geographic distance between us? I’d seen friends endure long-distance romances; a challenge usually resulting in a breakup. Why did Stuart need to define us so rapidly as a couple – make that soul mates – when precedent predicted our relationship would never fly? I was used to taking things slowly and preserving boundaries in the early stages of relationships; Stuart’s resolute conviction made me nervous. It both delighted and petrified me. I couldn’t possibly reciprocate so soon. Could I?

Later that evening, I telephoned Genevieve and recounted the tale of ‘The Boots’.

‘Oooh, how romantic,’ crooned Genevieve, ‘he’s head over heels, Fi Fi.’

I poured myself a glass of pinot. ‘Yes, but love? He’s raving mad. How can he be so sure that it’s love? It’s lunacy.’

Genevieve went for the jugular. ‘Don’t pathologise him, Fi Fi, he just knows. Good on him for saying it upfront. The problem is you. How do you feel about him?’

I quaffed a mouthful of wine and chewed a stale water cracker. ‘Look, Gen, I broke up with Tim four months ago. I’m still raw. Does it all have to get serious so soon? I mean, he lives 1,500 kilometres away.’ My voice had assumed a mildly hysterical edge, and I knew it.

Genevieve clicked her tongue and soothed, ‘Fi, just tell him how you feel, in the nicest possible way. You’re obviously in no shape to throw yourself into the emotional deep end right now.’ She paused before continuing, ‘But watch it, Fi. You’ve always been a commitment-phobe. Don’t push him away completely.’

I lay awake that evening, ruminating on Genevieve’s words. She had a point. My studies in psychology had confirmed that ‘commitment-phobia’ – the fear of making a commitment to a partner – often emerges from a false set of beliefs about relationships, usually influenced by childhood trauma. A trigger event of some kind – such as divorce, abuse or death of a parent – shatters the child’s notion of lasting love.

My own childhood had been dominated by my father’s battle with degenerative multiple sclerosis. Diagnosed at just 24 years of age – two years after he married my mother – he endured a chronic progression of physical and neurological disability. It was worse than outright loss; it was death by degrees.

I grew up watching my mother deal with the fallout of my father’s illness. Over twenty years before he was permanently hospitalised, she somehow managed to tend an ailing spouse, raise three daughters and control our dwindling finances. She did all of this without the love, companionship, comfort and security that she’d always hoped marriage would bring. Instead, marriage had turned into a treadmill of caregiving.

Genevieve was right. Watching my mother’s battles had left me unconvinced of the lure of love and marriage. It was going to take more than a pair of boots to make me believe in the fairytale.

The next day, sitting cross-legged across from Stuart in a suburban Sydney park, I searched for words that would express my ambivalence, without trivialising Stuart’s heartfelt declaration or savaging his ego.

‘Thank you for writing such a beautiful letter,’ I began. Stuart waited silently, expectantly.

‘I can really relate to what you said … I’ve been overwhelmed by the beauty of the past few weeks. But …’ I paused, pink-cheeked, struggling for words. ‘I don’t know what to say back to you right now, Stuart.’ I reached for his hand, hoping to reassure him. ‘I’m not really sure what I’m feeling. I know it’s wonderfully positive. I love being with you and I want to keep seeing you. But I’m not sure it’s love, just yet.’ I gazed at the ground in discomfort.

Stuart studied my face. A child giggled on a swing and a bird chirped tunelessly from its perch on a telegraph pole. I winced, pained by Stuart’s expression and the awkward silence that followed.

Finally, Stuart said softly, ‘That’s okay. There’s no need to respond. It was just important for me to share with you how I feel.’

The noise from a nearby road, heavy with late-afternoon traffic, disturbed the peace of the park.

‘When a man knows, he knows. I don’t have to hear the same words back, but at least I’ve told you where I stand.’

I squeezed his hand, stroking his rough palm.

CHAPTER 4

There was nothing remotely pleasant about lying in a tent without walls in the Katherine Gorge, Northern Territory, during the wet season. The rhythmic breathing of my camping buddy, an amiable woman I had just met named Megan, mocked my own insomnia. On this third night of a week-long trek with eleven people I hardly knew, I lay exhausted in the heat. A thin inflatable mattress barely cushioned my aching joints from the earth beneath. As I stared into the darkness with open eyes, I reflected on my previous six months with Stuart.

Not long after Stuart’s boots arrived by mail, I received another item in the post – a letter of congratulations – advising me that I’d been successful in my application to participate in the ethical leadership program. I’d commenced the application process prior to meeting Stuart. But when I was actually offered a place, just weeks after we started seeing each other, I was unsure whether to accept.

Stuart had been visiting Sydney on a regular basis, combining his ‘Grow Your Own’ radio work with short stints in my seaside apartment. It was the only upside of the drought, as far as I could tell: with less to do on an arid farm, Stuart had more time on his hands. And I was relishing his company – did I really want to go away and ‘find myself’ on an ethical leadership program that would take me away for months?

‘Well, I fully support you doing it,’ Stuart said, without hesitation, when I told him the news of the offer. ‘But we’ll need to be aware of the stress it can place on relationships,’ he added.

As a graduate of the program, Stuart had witnessed firsthand the tension created by the long absences involved. On top of that, intense friendships frequently developed between participants, which were sometimes threatening for spouses and partners.

‘We’ll be okay,’ I said with conviction. ‘We’ll just need to keep communicating.’ Stuart nodded evenly.

‘Good idea in theory,’ he said. ‘But when I went through the program, I broke up with my girlfriend at the end of the first phase. It helped me realise pretty quickly that the relationship had no future.’

I frowned at this revelation. Did that occur for many others on the program?

‘I’m sure it would have happened anyway,’ he continued. ‘But the program’s intensity really does test relationships. One person’s going through an extreme set of experiences in exotic locations, while the other person’s back at home, oblivious.’

‘But you already know what I’m in for,’ I reasoned, ‘so it should be different for us. Maybe it’ll even bring us closer together.’

‘Maybe,’ he said, reaching for my hand. ‘Let’s hope so, Fi.’

It wasn’t until I was lying in three inches of water in the Katherine Gorge that I realised how naive my conviction had been. The program would require three months of my time, stretched across almost two years. Although I’d been out of contact with Stuart for only four days, it already felt like four months. In the preceding 72 hours I’d been introduced to eleven individuals who would become an integral part of my life for the duration of the program.

Apart from enduring the physical and mental extremities of this trek in the Katherine Gorge, I knew what else lay ahead. Together, we would be sent in small groups to remote Australian mine sites to live among miners and indigenous communities; we would travel to Asia to undertake research projects on ethical questions; and we would retreat from our ordinary lives to examine the wisdom of thinkers from Plato to Machiavelli. All of this in pursuit of one of life’s great ethical questions: how ought we to live? Just four days in, I was already navigating uncharted internal waters. Keeping Stuart in the communication loop was going to be challenging.

Stuart’s face seemed to hover above me in the darkness as I listened to the repetitive drip-dripping of rain sliding off the tarpaulin. The first six months of our relationship had been intoxicating and intense. Despite my incapacity to reciprocate with the ‘L’ word, we had grown increasingly close. For me, a defining moment had occurred three months after meeting Stuart, when I’d introduced him to my ailing father.

I’d been reluctant to take Stuart to the facility in which my father was permanently hospitalised. It was a decrepit, rambling building which smelt of disinfectant and disappointment. Some 40 individuals resided there, all of whom had been devastated by some cruel blow in life; a traumatic head injury, a neurological impairment of heredity, a massive stroke. These were forgotten people, whose acute needs prevented them from experiencing normal, adult life. Several MS patients with high care requirements, including my father, resided there. My hands trembled as I led Stuart towards my father’s cool, darkened room.

‘MS sufferers tend to be particularly affected by the heat,’ I explained.

I tightened my grip on Stuart’s forearm, fearing he might recoil at the sight of my father’s physical devastation.

We approached my father’s bedside; he lay on his side, legs pulled up in a foetal position. His thin white arms lay across his chest, hands curled inwards with spasticity. A bag of fluid, suspended above his head, was being fed directly through his abdominal wall.

‘He’s had trouble swallowing lately,’ I explained to Stuart weakly. ‘He can’t consume liquids orally now, so they inserted a stomach peg.’

A catheter drained dark urine into a bag strung discreetly at the foot of my father’s bed. He had lost the capacity to regulate his bowels long ago. Flakes of skin had fallen from his scalp and forehead onto his neck and shoulders; a symptom, perhaps, of rarely being wheeled outside to feel the sun’s rays. His nostrils flared as he sucked in air with a regular, snuffling grunt. His lips had peeled away into painful red cracks; a nurse had recently smeared zinc cream over these sores. It was a confronting scene for anyone.

My eyes filled with tears, as they always did, and I reached for my father’s hand. A proud man, a successful chartered accountant, reduced to this. Dad stirred at my touch and gnashed his teeth; his breathing became regular again and he continued sleeping. Almost 40 years had passed since Dad had been diagnosed with MS; the past ten had been marked by rapid physical and mental deterioration. In that period, he’d moved from a walking frame to a wheelchair to a bed, his cognitive function had declined and his verbal communication had all but ceased. It had been eighteen months since Dad had said a word to me; during my recent visits, he’d lain in a permanent half-sleep as I made inane conversation. It was clear he no longer recognised me. I came away from such visits despondent, powerless to help my father escape the limbo land of half-life.

‘Dad,’ I called quietly, stroking his forehead, ‘Dad, I’ve brought someone to meet you.’ I choked, struggling to articulate the words. How could I introduce a man I thought I might love, to the father I never really knew? Dad opened one eye and stared blankly at the wall. I cleared my throat.

‘Um, Dad,’ I said self-consciously, ‘I’d like to introduce you to Stuart Higgins.’ Stuart leant across the bed, picked up my father’s limp hand and grasped it, shaking it firmly.

‘Hello, Mr Collins,’ he said in a deferential tone that was appropriate for meeting a prospective father-in-law. ‘I’m Stuart Higgins. It’s a pleasure knowing your daughter.’

Tears began to slide down my cheeks. When was the last time someone shook Dad’s hand like a man? And spoke so respectfully to him?

As Stuart replaced Dad’s hand on the bed, I heard my father utter softly, ‘Stuart Higgins’. Shocked and unbelieving, I leant towards his face.

‘What did you say, Dad?’ I asked loudly, wondering if I had merely wished the words.

‘Stuart Higgins,’ he repeated. I turned to Stuart and crumbled.

‘He’s not spoken …’ I pressed my chest with my hands, my breath constricted. ‘You don’t understand what that …’ I buried my face in his shoulder.

‘Shhhh,’ Stuart soothed, stroking my hair. He pulled a tissue from his pocket and gently dabbed at my wet face. ‘I’ve brought something for your dad,’ he said. Retrieving a plastic bag from his backpack, he placed it on my father’s bed.

‘This is for you, Mr Collins,’ he announced, waving the item in front of my father’s line of vision. ‘I’m a cotton farmer from Jandowae in Queensland. That’s a small township on the Darling Downs.’ He tugged the item free of its wrapping. ‘I asked a friend of mine to sew this cushion cover for you. She’s good at that sort of thing, like most rural ladies.’ He held up the cushion, pointing to the cover on which the name ‘Ian Collins’ had been hand-stitched. ‘After my friend had finished embroidering it, I had to find something to stuff it with.’ He unbuttoned the cushion cover and removed a handful of ivory fluff. ‘These are cotton bolls,’ he explained, ‘the ripe seed pods of the cotton plant.’

The raw bolls in Stuart’s hand were unlike the cotton balls I routinely purchased from the supermarket. They were unprocessed, more natural than the bleached white ones I used to remove my makeup. Straight from the field, they appeared more fibrous, with small quantities of leaf litter caught among their lint. They exuded a sweet, earthy aroma that was entirely unfamiliar to me.

‘So, here’s a pillow stuffed with last season’s cotton from my farm, Mr Collins,’ Stuart said, pushing the bolls back into their cover. ‘I hope it’s comfortable for you.’ He gently propped the cushion under my father’s elbow. Dad shifted slightly, closed his eyes and exhaled deeply.

I’d always been sceptical of the notion of ‘The One’. But at that moment, my cynicism began to unravel.

So what the hell am I now doing in the Katherine Gorge, in the pouring rain, embarking on a personal journey of discovery without him? I reached out in the black wetness for my boots. Grasping them, I recalled Stuart’s parting words to me at the airport: ‘Whatever you do, look after your boots.’

I’d thrown my arms around him and said, ‘Of course I will. And I love you, Stu.’

It was the first time I’d told him that I loved him, just as I was leaving.

My companion Megan stirred briefly in her sleeping bag and whimpered. I’d need to do more than care for my boots, I reflected, to get through this journey intact.

A fortnight later, in a further phase of the program, I was posted to an aluminium refinery in Arnhem Land. I was joined by two others in my leadership group – Bernie, a policeman, and Hugh, a funds manager. We were an unlikely trio. Bernie was everything I’d ever imagined about the police force; a no-nonsense, straight-talking, bloke’s bloke. To Bernie, I was the caricature of a typical Humanities graduate; feisty, left-leaning and interested in the journey rather than the destination. Hugh, by contrast, seemed antithetical to the world of funds management in which he worked. A gentle, dreamy character with a passion for poetry and an incisive wit, Hugh delighted me with his sensitive observations about the world.

Together, we were charged with analysing the degree to which the mine was meeting its ethical obligations to its staff. As we went about interviewing a cross-section of mine workers, Bernie and I frequently disagreed.

‘You’re too touchy-feely with your interview technique,’ Bernie observed at the end of our first day. ‘I’ve interrogated hundreds of people in my time and I can tell you, trying to be their friend gets you nowhere.’ His tone was authoritative; I felt instantly diminished.

‘I’m trying to build trust,’ I ventured. Bernie rolled his eyes.

‘Building trust? That’s upstairs in the Bullshit Department, just above Haberdashery,’ he said.

In my verbal stoushes with Bernie, Hugh frequently came to my defence. One day over lunch, Bernie challenged me on the relevance of my undergraduate training.

‘Religious Studies might be interesting and all, but it won’t get you a job,’ he goaded, swigging his coffee. ‘And what the hell is “Women’s Studies”, anyway?’

I sighed. ‘It’s an interdisciplinary field that explores social definitions of femininity and masculinity, and how they shape identity, culture and institutions.’

Bernie sniggered and, eyebrows raised, appealed to Hugh.

‘Look, Bernie,’ Hugh said, glancing up from his sandwich, ‘the day the police force fixes its sexual harassment issues is the day we don’t need Women’s Studies.’

Hugh threw me a conspiratorial wink. I smiled back in gratitude.

My sense of time passing became distorted as we grappled with the ethical complexities of mining in ecologically and culturally sensitive territory. One moment we were interviewing bauxite miners about their environmental footprint, the next we were wandering barefoot with a group of Aboriginal children, finding bush tucker along the edge of the Arafura Sea. During this period, my contact with Stuart was limited to brief conversations on a public telephone adjacent to the miners’ mess hall. Six days into our assignment, unseasonably heavy rain delayed our schedule and I stole away to telephone Stuart once again. I cupped the mouthpiece and turned my back on the passing throng of miners, in an effort to preserve some privacy.

‘It’s really dry out here, Fi,’ Stuart said in an uncharacteristically monotone voice. ‘Bone dry. Dead.’ His flatness was detectable across the thousands of kilometres separating us. The clatter of breakfast dishes being cleared behind me was disconcerting.

‘I’m sorry,’ I began, apologising for the clamour.

‘Not your fault,’ he said, mistaking my meaning. ‘You can’t make it rain.’ Stuart’s low mood concerned me, but I didn’t know how to comfort him.

‘How’s the cotton looking?’ I asked.

‘Bad,’ replied Stuart. ‘I’m running out of water. It’s probably not going to make it.’

Just as he’d predicted at our dinner party in Adelaide four months previously, Stuart had planted a limited area of cotton, a mere one-fifth of his production capacity. With just enough water to plant, he’d gambled on receiving at least a small amount of rainfall over summer. But the rain he’d hoped for simply hadn’t materialised.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I offered again, troubled by Stuart’s silence. Our wordless pause became a yawning chasm.

‘I’m sorry too, Fi,’ he said finally. ‘And I miss you.’

‘I miss you too,’ I responded for the umpteenth time, one year later, sitting in a hotel room in Port Dickson, Malaysia.

An enormous bunch of roses had arrived for me at lunchtime, and this was my first opportunity to call Stuart to thank him. The telephone line crackled with interference, and I had no more than five minutes before my room companion would return.

‘Shared hotel rooms are for the dogs,’ I complained. ‘No bloody privacy.’

I had just spent three weeks in India as part of the Asia component of the ethical leadership program. During that time I’d researched corporate social responsibility practices at the Tata Group of companies, based in Mumbai. It had been an intense series of meetings and fieldwork and there had been little chance to make contact with Stuart. During this final week in Malaysia, I’d joined my program colleagues at a regional ethics conference. A tight timetable of activities saw us fraternising with well-known political commentators, journalists and government representatives from all over South-East Asia. While I enjoyed the exposure to new places and people, I was tired. The whirlwind of the past year hadn’t delivered any new answers to life’s big questions. The program’s activity was frenetic and I was struggling to make sense of it all.

‘Had any rain?’ I asked, wondering about the health of this year’s cotton crop.

‘A bit,’ replied Stu. ‘Nothing to write home about. It’s almost as bad as last year.’

The disconsolate tone in Stuart’s voice was something I’d grown accustomed to over the past twelve months. Although he was struggling valiantly against a deepening drought, it was affecting his mood; the self-assured Stuart Higgins I’d first met had lost his buoyancy.

While he worked hard to conserve every last drop of water, most of his arable land lay fallow in the heat. He staunchly refused, on environmental grounds, to use his entire bore allocation. But I was starting to question the wisdom of that choice. The financial burden of the drought was increasing and, from the photos he emailed me, I could see that a Jandowae summer was merciless. I imagined him out in the parched paddocks, sweat dripping down his nose and onto the thirsty earth.

‘But I’m keeping busy,’ Stuart continued. ‘I’m adding the finishing touches to my Uzbekistan report.’

In the month prior to my departure for India, Stuart had been offered a short-term consultancy opportunity in Central Asia. It took him to Uzbekistan to evaluate the efficiency of an irrigation system in Tashkent; he’d done similar work previously in South-East Asia. Even though it meant he was away for Christmas and for my departure to India, we both agreed that it was an opportunity he couldn’t refuse, given the relentless drought in Australia.

I admired his gumption for continuing to farm during the drought, and for attempting to generate off-farm income through work overseas.

‘Send me the report when you’ve finished,’ I said, ‘I’d love to read it.’ The telephone line beeped and dropped out temporarily.

‘I can hardly hear you,’ called Stuart. ‘Let’s leave it for another time.’

The line went dead. I replaced the handset and stared at it uneasily, until my room companion tapped on the door.

Several hours later, lying in the darkness as my colleague slept nearby, I fought an internal maelstrom. Stuart and I had been ‘together’ now for eighteen months, but we’d spent most of that time apart. While the long-distance nature of our relationship suited me exceptionally well for the first six months, at the eighteen-month mark, I was feeling disconnected.

Firstly, the logistics of the relationship were proving challenging. For Stuart, the process of travelling the 1,500 kilometres to Sydney was arduous – a three and a half hour drive, followed by a one and a half hour plane flight, and several hours of waiting in between. While he was valiant in his efforts to visit me, I was unable to reciprocate. With little flexibility in my job, I couldn’t just pop up to rural Queensland. In fact, I’d only managed to visit the farm once during the past eighteen months and even then, it was for the briefest of weekend visits. So Stuart traversed thousands of air miles to stay for extended periods in my apartment, often only seeing me between 6.30 pm and 6.30 am.

And then there was Hugh. I groaned and threw back the bedcovers in the Malay heat. Hugh, the financier-cum-philosopher with a beautiful mind and a mischievous smile. After our posting to Arnhem Land, our friendship had deepened. We shared a love of literature, an interest in microfinance, a passion for the outdoors and a sense of the ridiculous. As my sense of disconnection from Stuart deepened, Hugh began to fill the void with long walks, deep conversation and all-too-close encounters on the dance floor. My attraction to Hugh occurred by stealth, seamlessly. There was no physical infidelity, but enough emotional intimacy to signal danger. Inexplicably, I didn’t stop it – I could have avoided Hugh, but I didn’t want to. In fact, during our time in Malaysia, I actively sought to spend more time with him. What the hell was I doing?

I rolled over and gazed through slatted blinds out the window. The beach was dotted with a hundred small kerosene lamps. Within a few metres of my window, a woman selling roasted corn fanned the flames of her small grill, while a group of teenagers clustered around a guitar, singing Malay love songs. The neon lights of Port Dickson blinked in the distance. I knew exactly where Hugh was right now, reading the works of a Sufi mystic in bungalow 307. I imagined him turning the pages by torchlight. But where was Stuart? In a tiny rural town on the Darling Downs, engaged in an activity I knew nothing about. In many ways, I had more in common with Hugh. Like me, he was a city-dweller, who lived and worked in high-rise buildings and dreamed of making a difference.

But I love Stuart, don’t I? I tapped my feet restlessly beneath the sheets. There was nothing for it – I was wide awake and my mind ablaze. I reached for my torch, seized my diary and tore out a wad of double-sided sheets. I resolved to write two letters – one to Stuart and one to Hugh – neither of which I’d ever send. It was an old psychotherapy technique I’d used while attempting to overcome my fear of flying: write a letter, detail your dilemma, but never send it. Simply tear it up, burn it or otherwise dispose of it, thereby releasing all toxic emotions, so the theory went. Page after page poured from my pen, until I stopped, purged, after midnight. I carefully folded my letters and placed them in my diary. Exhausted, I slept soundly for the first time in weeks.

CHAPTER 5

Five months later in Sydney, returning home by ferry after a long day in the office, I dialled Stuart’s number on my mobile. His phone rang out. I was due to arrive at the wharf at 7.00 pm and, with Stuart staying at my apartment, I hoped he might drive down and collect me. He’d been in Sydney for almost a week with his ABC radio work; I knew he’d had a busy morning pre-recording a studio interview. I also knew that he’d planned to transform my concrete balcony into a leafy sanctuary of pot plants that afternoon.

‘We’ve got to get you some green out there,’ he’d said, inspecting the balcony’s bare tiling. ‘I’ll organise some shrubs and creepers, maybe even a few herbs. You won’t know yourself.’ Smiling at his zeal, I’d shaken my head. ‘But Stu,’ I’d protested, ‘I’m a black thumb. Being on my balcony is a death sentence for any plant. I just forget to water them.’ Stuart had taken my hands and smiled, ‘Well, this’ll be a good chance for you to turn over a new leaf.’

As the ferry chugged towards Manly, I redialled Stuart’s mobile number twice, to no avail. Unusual, I thought to myself, he must still be working on the balcony. I recalled our previous weekend together and smiled; Stuart had flown down to watch me graduate from the ethics program. The celebratory dinner had followed the format of those I’d attended in previous years, but this time I was one of those on the podium. I’d spoken with conviction about the benefits of the program; a lifelong network of trusted peers, a new framework for solving professional and personal dilemmas, and exposure to places and people I would never have otherwise encountered.

‘And perhaps most importantly,’ I’d declared to the audience in my concluding remarks, ‘my experiences on the program have highlighted that ethical failures often occur through simple acts of omission. Like turning a blind eye to social inequity, or failing to face issues that seem too complex.’ I gazed around the room. ‘In the Katherine Gorge, in Arnhem Land, Mumbai and Malaysia, I’ve learnt that sometimes, all it takes to be unethical is to just do nothing.’

As I strode from the stage, I caught Stuart’s eye. He winked at me, proud and relieved. I embraced my program colleagues, including Hugh, as we stood together for our graduation group photo. Finally it was over. After a challenging eighteen months, the demands of the program would no longer keep Stuart and I apart. We returned from the graduation buoyant with the prospect of a new epoch in our relationship.

As I put my key into the lock, pushed open the apartment door and called out ‘Stu?’ instinct told me that something was wrong. All was in darkness, except for the illuminated lights of my stereo – Stuart had obviously been playing music earlier in the day.

‘Stu?’ I called again, feeling my way along the wall.

Finding the light switch, I snapped on the lounge room lamp. Nothing out of the ordinary – newspapers spread across the coffee table, my mail propped up on the mantelpiece, cushions stacked neatly next to the lounge.

But no Stuart.

My eyes fell on a trail of paper near my bookcase. My diary – recording my eighteen months of travels – lay open on the carpet. Pamphlets, notes and photos I’d collected throughout the program lay scattered about. On top of the pile, face down and unfolded, was my letter to Hugh, penned five months previously.

‘Oh my God,’ I gasped, sinking to the floor. I scanned the letter’s chaotic contents, which were never meant to be read by Hugh, let alone Stuart.

‘No, please, no,’ I whispered, hoping against hope that Stuart hadn’t seen it.

My letter to Stuart, written on the very same evening as the letter to Hugh, lay untouched in the back of my diary.

As I picked anxiously at the papers strewn around me, I noticed a small, crumpled note cast to one side. My heart sank. Angry words were scrawled across it, in Stuart’s unmistakeable handwriting:

You are now free to act on your feelings for Hugh. You are not a nice person.

I slumped on the floor, rocking with pain.

Over the following weeks, I attempted to contact Stuart repeatedly. He flatly rejected all overtures, refusing to pick up his home or mobile phone. He ignored my numerous voicemail messages. Emails were left hanging in the ether, unacknowledged and unanswered. I sent flowers and gifts, wrote letters and poems and snivelled into his answering machine.

I vacillated between abject contrition (for hurting you so profoundly, for allowing my friendship with Hugh to become so intimate, for failing you so thoroughly), desperation (but I was disturbed by the growing distance between us … surely you felt that too?), and white-hot anger (why did you open my diary, anyway?). Irrespective of the tenor of my communications, Stuart ignored them all. He was systematically erasing me from his life.

Finally, a hollow resignation settled over me.

Weeks became months. The demands of work distracted me, during daylight hours, from the emotional turmoil that consumed me at night. Over and over again I played out in my mind the evening of my graduation from the ethics program. All it takes to be unethical is to just do nothing. How smugly triumphant I’d been, even at graduation, incapable of seeing my own inconsistencies. So much for gaining deeper self-awareness during the program; only now did I realise the extent of my own guilt by omission.

It was now clear that something deep within me had been corroding our relationship for months, something bigger than distance and drought. Stuart had sensed it, long before he discovered the fateful letter. Hugh had probably detected it, too. I’d been conscious of this thing – and its constricting, suffocating power – but I’d recoiled from inspecting it closely. It smarted under scrutiny; I wasn’t brave enough to excavate it. Instead, I stepped carefully around its edges, describing it to Stuart as ‘confusion’ and ‘ambivalence’. I even believed myself as I said those words. It wasn’t until after the conflagration of the breakup, with nowhere to hide and no-one to blame, that I finally came face to face with this thing.

One night, after months of no contact with Stuart or Hugh, I sat alone in my apartment, staring out the window at the Sydney skyline. As the sky darkened, I lit a candle and focused on the flame. Suspended in a meditative calm, I slipped beyond a sense of time. Eventually I closed my eyes and sank into the refuge of hypnotic half-sleep.

Suddenly, something rose like a black vapour next to me. It billowed into the figure of a man with a hat, comprised of millions of tiny dots swirling en masse. The dots emitted a grating, metallic sound as they whirled and bumped against each other.

The swarm of dots floated towards me. Desolation gripped me as the figure spread itself across my shoulders and chest. The force of its downward pressure constricted my breathing. I knew that the spectre was attempting to enter my body, to take up permanent lodgings. Opening my eyes in panic, I lashed out wildly at the shadow.

‘Get out! Get out of me! I’ve had enough!’ I flailed at the air around me.

I fell forward onto the carpet and sobbed. It was as though an internal plug had been pulled free. Years of loss flowed from me: my father’s ongoing suffering; the misery of my mother’s grief; the repetitive self-sabotage of my personal relationships. It all cascaded out of me, a flood of sadness unleashed by the worst loss of my life to date.

My tears eventually subsided. In that moment of catharsis, the swirling black mass retreated. In its place, a small point of light emerged, hovering like a star above me. I pulled myself up from the floor and found my diary in the bookcase. I tore a new sheet from its centre and sat down at my desk. It had been six months since my separation from Stuart. I resolved to pen one final letter to him. Unlike my previous missives, the letter contained no entreaties, reasoning, apologies or explanations. Instead, it was a letter of hope.

Stu, I’ve had an epiphany. I don’t expect you to believe me, and I don’t expect you to respond. But I had to tell you, because you unlocked this revelation. With a childhood attenuated by grief, I’ve spent most of my adult life cultivating distance in relationships. My fear of loss is irrational and powerful; it’s a little like my fear of flying. It has led me to undermine any chance of real love in my life.

Since the moment I realised you were The One, more than two years ago, I’ve been quietly terrified. Of loving you completely, only to potentially lose you. Predictable, but true. So instead of embracing our love, boots and all, I’ve stalled and vacillated under the banner of ‘confusion’ and ‘ambivalence’. I now know that it was fear of loss, not confusion, which prevented me from fully committing to you.

In a profound act of omission, I failed to face this fear. It has cost me our relationship, and the chance of true happiness together. The next time around, I won’t believe my own stories about ‘ambivalence’. I won’t withhold myself from love. Instead, despite the risk of loss, I’ll take action. Fear-defying, sweeping action.

During our relationship, you helped me overcome my fear of flying. By breaking up with me, you’ve helped me overcome my fear of loving and losing. My life – and my future relationships – will never be the same. Thank you for this gift, Stu.

For the first time ever, I’d laid bare the full extent of my flawed, wounded self. Unlike my Malaysia missives, I put this letter in an envelope, stamped it and sent it. And as I did so, I never expected to hear from Stuart again, however much I hoped I might.

The following week, I received a terse email:

So now you say an ‘epiphany’ has kicked in for you. Well, sadly, I had my own epiphany in your apartment on the afternoon I left. Mine was, I can’t continue like this.

You seemed confused all through the program – I’d even warned you to watch your friendship with Hugh. I’d given you time to work things out for yourself, but this only seemed to amplify your confused feelings. Instead of letting our commitment to each other see us through the difficult times, you chose to move further away from the relationship. When I read that letter to Hugh, I made a judgement call to leave and I stick by it. It was the right thing to do.

So where do we find ourselves now? Part of me wants to be forgiving and to take chances, but the other part wants to protect a badly damaged place in my heart. I am used to living life to the fullest, giving myself completely. That is my identity; that is who I am. Deep down you are used to protecting yourself from life and this has rubbed off on me. Who would have thought your approach was contagious, and mine wasn’t?

Yes, I now understand the reasons why you acted the way you did, and they are valid ones. But your demons have sapped my strength. You are not totally to blame for this: the drought has played a major part. But the end result is this: we have swapped roles. You may be ready to demonstrate your commitment, but I want to shut down and protect myself from future pain.

I can assure you of one thing, this whole bloody ordeal has changed me, and not into a better person. You have said to me countless times during our relationship that you ‘just honestly don’t know how you are feeling’. Part of me used to feel that was a cop out, but now it typifies my mental state. This relationship has taught me the lesson of self-doubt. I absolutely detest self-doubt and now I have to live with it. I am not happy about this at all. You at least have clarity now. I envy you.

It is raining, but not hard enough.

I re-read the email countless times; such words seemed alien coming from the Stuart I knew. Where was his trademark resilience and indefatigable optimism? I’d done more harm than I’d ever imagined. Although the tone of Stuart’s email frightened me, his bitter words demonstrated all I needed to know: he still cared. On some level, he had not forgotten about me or moved on. He was angry, deeply angry, but a kernel of hope remained.

There was no room for further discussion; it was time for me to walk the talk of my epiphany.

Three days after receiving his email, I picked up the telephone and dialled Stuart’s home number. His aloof tone crushed me.

‘Stuart,’ I stammered, ‘I won’t keep you long …’ I struggled to maintain my composure. ‘I’m coming up to Queensland.’ The distant sound of an engine whirred in the background.

‘Stuart?’ I persisted, ‘are you there?’

Stuart snorted an acknowledgement, somewhere on the continuum between distrust and disbelief.

‘I know I’ve done untold damage,’ I said. ‘And I know it’ll take time to rebuild trust. But I’m sure we can do it, if you’ll let me come.’ I paused, desperate for a response. ‘I’ll start packing tomorrow. It may take a few weeks to sort out with my work, but …’

Stuart interjected, ‘What, are you just going to come up for a weekend again?’ I reddened at his accusing tone, recalling the single weekend I’d spent on the farm in our entire relationship.

‘No,’ I replied, my voice catching. ‘For good.’

After a protracted silence, Stuart finally coughed. ‘Look, Fi, do what you want,’ he said. ‘If you come up here, there’s no guarantee it’ll work out for us. There’s every chance it won’t, with our track record. And your career will be over.’

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. In the 72 hours since receiving Stuart’s email, I’d wrestled with that unpalatable prospect. I’d invested years of time, energy and passion into my philanthropic career: was I really prepared to throw it all away? On the third day of deliberations, I’d arrived at my conclusion. The world would always need changing: true love wouldn’t always wait.

I cleared my throat. ‘It’s a risk I’m prepared to take,’ I replied. ‘We’ve only got one chance, Stu, and it’s now. I want to make it right. Please let me try.’ Tears rolled down my cheeks, dripping onto my blouse.

‘Why, Fi?’ Stuart asked, the pain in his voice palpable.

‘Because I love you, with all my heart,’ I replied softly. ‘And I do believe in the fairytale.’

‘Ballsy,’ said Genevieve over coffee the next week, when I revealed my plan to move to country Queensland. ‘That must’ve been some epiphany you had. About bloody time, too. But you do realise what you’ve gone and done?’ I nodded, my soy latte untouched before me.

‘He’d better believe you’re sorry,’ she continued. ‘This will destroy your career.’

‘I know,’ I said, deflated. ‘I’m going to talk to my employer this afternoon. If we can’t work something out, I guess I’ll be looking for a job in Jandowae.’ Genevieve arched an eyebrow.

‘Hmmm,’ she said, ‘maybe the Queensland Country Women’s Association needs a new president after all?’ I rolled my eyes and hailed a waiter for the bill.

Three hours later, I put to my CEO an outrageously ambitious proposal that the bulk of my Sydney-based job could actually be achieved from anywhere in Australia.

‘So take me through it again,’ said Geoffrey, absorbing my news with growing disquiet. ‘You’re moving to rural Queensland?’

I swallowed and nodded. ‘And you’d like to take your job with you?’ I nodded again, wincing at the audacity of it all. Geoffrey glanced heavenward, possibly appealing to the Powers That Be.

‘Well, it’s highly irregular,’ he said. ‘But if you’re determined to move, I suppose we can trial a satellite arrangement. After all, we’re a philanthropic foundation that claims to support people in the bush. I suppose that’s the least we can do.’ I beamed at Geoffrey and thanked him for his generosity.

‘But we’ll need to review it regularly,’ he cautioned. ‘We don’t want you twiddling your thumbs up there.’

Later that evening, I telephoned Stuart to convey the news of my reconfigured work arrangements.

‘You’re really serious,’ he muttered, confounded. ‘Well, I’d better sort out an office for you then. I’ll find you a building, but you’ve got to arrange the telecommunications. I refuse to deal with Telstra.’ The primary telecommunications provider in rural Australia was notoriously hit-and-miss with its customer support.

‘All right,’ I agreed, undeterred.

One month later, all was in order. I’d cancelled the lease on my beloved apartment, packed up my life into cardboard boxes and said farewell to my Sydney friends. Goodbye office with a harbour view, sayonara seaside apartment.

Destination: Jandowae.

CHAPTER 6

I’ve got too much baggage.

I stood alone at a bustling coach terminal in Brisbane city, awaiting a Greyhound bus. Three large suitcases and a backpack were balanced next to me, bearing tell-tale ‘Heavy, Use Your Knees!’ stickers slapped on them by surly airport staff in Sydney. I’d been awake since 5.00 am and craved a reclining seat on the four-hour bus journey ahead of me.

I opened a map collected from the coach terminal and studied it. Its highways and thoroughfares were almost entirely foreign. I recognised a few place names from my previous trip to Jandowae, some eighteen months earlier. But my vague recollections weren’t assisted by the fact that I’d completed both legs of that journey under cover of darkness – flying in on a Friday night and departing Sunday evening. At that time I’d been disinterested in the landscape flashing past my driver-side window – the road to Jandowae had simply been an unavoidable means to the end that was Stuart. When I’d stopped for a takeaway coffee at a 24-hour service station en route, I’d stared vacantly at the unremarkable terrain beyond the cafeteria window. I’d never imagined for a moment that one day I’d call it home.

My reverie was broken by the bus driver, wearing white knee-high socks and carefully pressed shorts, tapping me on the shoulder. ‘You on board the 490, luv?’ he asked. I nodded, motioning towards my luggage.

‘These are all mine, sorry,’ I said. The driver reached for a bag and theatrically staggered under its weight.

‘Strewth! S’pose it’s all shoes, ay? Women!’ He winked.

I smiled through gritted teeth and filed onto the bus.

As we waited to depart, I tried to ignore the country muzak assaulting my ears through the public audio system. Is that Dolly Parton or Linda Ronstadt? I leant forward to determine the whereabouts of the toilet – I’d be needing it, I guessed, at some point over the next 350 kilometres. Craning my neck, I glanced around at my fellow passengers. Seated across the aisle from me was a mousey boy of no more than sixteen years, poring over a pornographic magazine ineffectively concealed by a brown paper bag. Towards the front, a buxom young woman was already fast asleep, while her companion, a twenty-something man with heavily gelled hair, listened contemplatively to his iPod. An assortment of elderly passengers in the middle of the vehicle brought the median age on the coach to roughly 60 years.

Three rows behind me a muscular middle-aged man wearing a Jackie Howe singlet proceeded to bark into his mobile phone.

‘No, I said six o’clock,’ he insisted. ‘That’s six-oh-oh tonight. You need to pick me up.’ He ended the call with an exaggerated flourish.

Catching my eye as he jammed the phone back into his jeans pocket, he announced in disgust, ‘The missus.’ I nodded in an I-Should-Have-Known way and turned towards the front of the coach, avoiding further eye contact.

The coach pulled away from the kerb and the public announcement system crackled into life. The bus driver, coughing loudly to command attention, offered an energetic but almost unintelligible greeting: ‘Goodarvernoon ladiesngentlemen. Welcomeonboard the490servicetoDalby. Toiletsrlocated underthestairs. Pleasekeeptheairventsopen toensureoxygenis-circulated. Thanksnenjoythetrip.’

I reclined in my seat and closed my eyes. It had been a long journey for me to arrive at this point. What would it be like, living in a tiny rural town? How would a resolute city slicker like me adjust to life on a farm? During my previous trip to Jandowae, giddy with amore, I’d failed to fully appreciate the implications of Stuart’s vocation. I didn’t care for the machinery in Stuart’s shed and I didn’t stay long enough for an introduction. In fact, the greatest detail I could recall about the farm was the muted décor of Stuart’s bedroom. More importantly, would Stuart and I be able to rekindle our relationship on the farm? Or would it all end in humiliation, with me fleeing back to the city just weeks after my arrival?

‘’Scuz’me.’ I jumped at the voice in my ear and looked around, dazed. ‘D’ya know how long it is till we get to Oakey?’ asked the teenage boy across the aisle.

‘Ah, no, sorry,’ I mumbled.

The boy turned back to the window. His lurid magazine and brown paper bag were nowhere in sight; he’d obviously exhausted that entertainment option. I followed the boy’s gaze. A car had broken down just short of the turnoff to ‘Wacol’, the site of a notorious maximum-security prison.

Free of the city proper, we were gaining speed and heading west along the Ipswich Motorway. Mount Oxley and Sinnamon Park streaked past – newer suburbs of sprawling Greater Brisbane, partitioned behind high wooden boards that separated them from the busy freeway. Behind these walls, hundreds of almost identical houses crowded tiny blocks of land in family-friendly cul-de-sacs. Billboards advertised the availability of three-bedroom homes on an acre plot for just $275,000; it was a world away from the Sydney housing market.

Before long, we arrived in the satellite city of Ipswich, 44 kilometres west of Brisbane.

‘WelcometoIpswich, Queensland’soldestcity,’ intoned the bus driver as we made our way along the main street.

I was struck by the magnificent heritage architecture of the buildings that lined the thoroughfare. This was not the Ipswich I’d envisaged during the rise and fall of its famous daughter – protectionist politician Pauline Hanson – in the late 1990s.

‘CentreoftheuniverseforV8motorcarracing,’ added the bus driver. Several elderly passengers alighted at a coach terminal; the doors snapped shut and we resumed our journey west.

The road widened to four lanes out of Ipswich, presumably to accommodate the countless semi-trailers speeding past the coach. These oversized trucks carried all manner of equipment and machinery for mines, farms, earthworks and construction. Where I’m going, infrastructure is king. But I hardly know a tractor from a truck.

The coach veered onto the Warrego Highway, a 750-kilometre stretch of road connecting the coast to the south-western Queensland towns and cities of Gatton, Toowoomba, Oakey, Dalby, Chinchilla, Miles, Roma, Mitchell, Morven and Charleville. As the sun pursued its trajectory towards the western horizon, I squinted into the glare.

Speeding towards Gatton, I noticed billboards spruiking the virtues of home-grown products such as ‘Fourex Beer’ and ‘Big Dad’s Pies’. As we rolled into the Shire of Esk, an emu farm offered an incongruous spectacle at the highway’s edge. Mobs of sickly looking emus jostled for sparse tree shade beneath the relentless heat. A rusted sign near the hamlet of Marburg informed drivers that Darwin beckoned, a mere 3,414 kilometres up the road.

Twenty minutes later, the Golden Arches greeted us at Gatton, population 6,000, situated in the Lockyer Valley. ‘SaladbowlofSouth-East Queensland,’ announced the bus driver. ‘Primeagriculturalcountry, mostlyvegies.’ I peered out the window at crops growing just metres from the highway. A good reason to always wash your leafy greens.

As we left the Gatton precinct, careering towards Toowoomba, the ‘Sonshine Ranch’ gave me the first inkling of the strength of the Christian evangelical movement in the area. A sign at Browns Plains was more direct: ‘Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners. Read your Bible!’ Further along, a large signboard depicted an image of a Casper-the-friendly-ghost-like foetus floating in the ether, declaring ‘I’m innocent!’ Underneath, an anti-abortion directive rebuked: ‘No death penalties for babies. Protect life!’

Having navigated a steep ascent of the Toowoomba Range, famed for its beauty and fatal car accidents, we entered the city proper. At a time of ongoing drought, Toowoomba was a rare regional centre in Australia, in that it was actually growing in population. It was renowned for its agricultural fecundity, its annual flower festival and its well-heeled residents. The coach rumbled along broad, 50-kilometre-per-hour streets, lined with well-kept houses and gardens that belied the water restrictions in place. As we rounded a corner I caught sight of a tall African family queuing to access an ATM, a bolt of exoticism amid the monocultural neatness.

We broke free of Toowoomba’s suburbs and continued our journey westwards, beyond the Great Dividing Range. I gazed out at parched paddocks and herds of bony cattle congregating on treeless plains. About 50 kilometres west of Toowoomba we entered the Oakey precinct – a tiny outpost kept alive by an Army helicopter base. I peered up, but nothing graced the skies except a flock of galahs, pink wings ablaze in the late afternoon sun. The mousey sixteen year old alighted the bus at Oakey. He was greeted by a grandmotherly woman who, much to his chagrin, bombarded him with wet kisses in full view of the departing coach.

Our progress after Oakey was hampered by roadworks, overseen by tattooed council workers in reflective fluorescent vests. While the coach idled at various roadside blockades, I noticed birds of all varieties, perched on telegraph poles, basking in the setting sun, or strewn as feathered road kill across the asphalt. My stomach churned at the sight of a sulphur-crested cockatoo – its yellow crest the only identifiable feature – obliterated on the highway.

The sun was now low on the western horizon. In defence against its rays, the bus driver pulled a blind across the windscreen, partially obscuring his vision. I closed my eyes as a wave of anxiety washed over me. We’d been travelling for almost four hours: surely we were nearly there? ‘There’ being Dalby, an agricultural service centre located within a 30-minute drive of Jandowae. My new home.

Dalby’s proximity was heralded by enormous grain silos adjacent to the highway. I’d done my research pre-departure: Dalby counted itself among Queensland’s oldest towns, springing up in the mid-1800s near the Condamine River. In its earliest years, it had been a camping stop for bullock teams transporting wool to Ipswich. Nowadays, ‘The Dog Bowl’ bowling alley announced the eastern outskirts of the town.

The bus driver eased back on the accelerator. The coach rolled past three pubs, a police station, several 24-hour service stations, fast food outlets and the apparent locus of it all, the Dalby RSL. In the RSL’s car park a fishmonger had erected a makeshift advertisement on the roof of his four-wheel drive and locals were queuing to sample his catch. The tradition of fish on a Friday was alive and well in country Queensland, it seemed. The bus braked and slowed. Gripped by nerves, I popped a breath mint and hastily smoothed my hair.

As we pulled in to a service station, I fought the urge to retch into my handbag. Would Stuart be glad to see me? After a six-month break, would he be different to how I remembered? What would I say to him? I climbed down the stairs, collected my bags and stood alone at the terminus. For a late summer’s evening, the wind had a distinct chill about it. Where is he? I scanned the passing vehicles, searching for Stuart’s face.

Utility vehicles cruised the main street, bearing bullbars with bumper stickers such as ‘No fat chicks’, ‘I got rucked at the Meeandara B&S’ and ‘Every family needs a farmer’. Hottedup utes with giant aerials and spotlights (‘For pig shootin’, luv,’ a service station attendant explained) were outnumbered only by white four-wheel drives, ‘Baby on board’ signs stuck to their windows.

Baby, I’m bored. I sat down on one of my suitcases and resigned myself to a long wait.

Eventually, a banged-up ute pulled into the driveway, with Stuart behind the wheel. I struggled to control the ridiculous grin spreading across my face, before abandoning myself to it entirely.

‘Hello!’ I called out in excitement.

The driver’s door swung open and Stuart emerged, wearing a pair of old football shorts and a threadbare green work shirt. He’d obviously departed direct from the field, without so much as washing the dirt from his face. He walked towards me, holding my gaze.

‘So, the Greyhound didn’t do you in?’ he asked, his face impassive.

‘Almost,’ I replied, itching to throw my arms around him. Stuart kept his distance, stopping a metre away from me.

‘Let me get these,’ he said, scooping up my bags like sacks of chaff, and throwing them into the back of the ute. ‘Hop in,’ he commanded. I slid into the darkened cab and fastened my seatbelt.

Not the warmest of reunions, I reflected, swallowing a hard lump of disappointment. But give him time.

We pulled out of the service station and within three minutes had left Dalby proper, turning off the highway and tracking north-west. The silence was unnerving, but the uneven road was not conducive to small talk. As we negotiated the highway’s irregularities at a cracking speed of 110 kilometres per hour I braced myself, hands pressed against the ute’s roof. Some 25 kilometres from Dalby, we passed through the small hamlet of Jimbour, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it country siding. Sporting a school on the left and a verandah-cum-post office on the right, Jimbour’s only other fixture was a butcher, ominously offering ‘private kills’.

The night closed in on us, flat plains stretching to the horizon on either side of the highway. Empty fields were interspersed with paddocks planted with what appeared to be tall red corn. I glanced at Stu, keen to ask what type of crop this might be, but decided against it. His eyes were focused squarely on the road ahead. I’d foolishly fantasised about an ardent reunion, all hands and lips and heart. I turned back to the window, but could see nothing beyond the sweep of our headlights.

Out of the darkness a sign appeared, announcing the Cooranga Creek crossing. Not far beyond, we turned left onto the Warra–Marnhull Road. As we approached a sign advising us to ‘Watch Out for Trains’, Stuart inexplicably accelerated and I gripped the seat. Sensing my alarm, Stuart explained, ‘No trains on this line for ten years.’ Once over the railway line, the bitumen gave way to gravel. A sign granted permission for speeds of 100 kilometres an hour, yet Stuart slowed the ute. As we picked our way along a strip of grass-lined road, countless sets of animal eyes blinked beyond the bushes. ‘Don’t want to hit the roos,’ Stuart said.

In the distance, a signpost marked a four-way intersection. ‘Farm starts here,’ he said, pointing to the left. I strained my eyes in the darkness to detect a fence line, but could see nothing. Minutes later, a large silver shed and white tank appeared, looming over a small, dilapidated bungalow. The shed was a work of engineering splendour, proudly demonstrating Stuart’s fourteen years on the farm. Meanwhile, the ramshackle house bore testimony to his bachelorhood over the same period. Paint peeled from its weatherboard walls, wooden stumps had sunk into the alluvial soil, and elaborate cobwebs partially obscured the cracks and crannies in its frame.

We turned off the road and into the driveway. The ute’s engine sputtered into silence. I stepped out of the vehicle onto soft, yielding earth, and looked up. Unused to the absence of fluorescent street lighting, I gasped at the galaxy of stars overhead, brilliantly stark against the indigo blanket of surrounding night.

Stuart walked around the front of the ute and silently reached for me. The quiet, broken only by the chirruping of a cicada, enveloped us. The crisp night air was tinged with the scent of damp cotton flowers. Stuart held my face in his hands and pressed his forehead against mine, as if to physically expunge the mental anguish of the previous six months. I closed my eyes, breathing in his familiar smell. The knot of nerves in my stomach eased. I lay my head against his chest and listened to the rhythmic thud of his heart.

‘Welcome to “Gebar”, your new home,’ he murmured.

‘Thank you,’ I whispered.

Suddenly, Stuart scooped me up in his arms.

‘I’m carrying you over the threshold. Might as well do it right from the start,’ he declared. I giggled in protest as he staggered over uneven ground towards the front door.

‘There’s no use struggling, you’re on my turf now,’ he warned. The warmth in his voice spoke of a new start, of forgiveness. I wrapped my hands around his neck and leant into him, elated and relieved.

CHAPTER 7

I awoke early on Saturday morning, light filtering through horizontal blinds strung unevenly across the bedroom window.

‘Hello, sleeping beauty,’ said Stuart, leaning up onto his elbow, ‘I thought you’d never wake up.’ I blinked and smiled with rapid realisation.

‘I can’t believe I’m here,’ I said.

‘Neither can I,’ said Stu. ‘Thanks for coming.’ I nuzzled my head into his neck.

‘Thanks for having me back,’ I replied.

We lay in comfortable silence, Stuart caressing the curve of my back. Suddenly, Stuart’s phone beeped receipt of an SMS message.

‘That’ll be Roger, my offsider,’ said Stuart. ‘He’ll be here soon to start throwing out siphons. We’re getting ready to irrigate.’

I didn’t know what a siphon was, and I didn’t really care.

‘I’ll have to go, sorry Fi,’ said Stu, climbing out of bed and pulling on a pair of King Gees. ‘But first, I want to show you your office. I’ve been working on it for a month. Will you come and have a look?’ he asked.

‘Love to,’ I said, retrieving a pair of jeans and a shirt from my suitcase. I followed Stuart through the back of the house and outside.

Immediately after I’d altered my working arrangements in Sydney, Stuart had started organising my new office. He’d bulldozed a dilapidated garage some twenty metres from the house, poured gravel onto the site, and trucked in a sizeable kit building. Over the ensuing month, he’d installed air-conditioning, hung wooden Venetian blinds across the building’s three windows, polished the cork floor, and shipped in office furniture. I stared in admiration. The building’s blue corrugated iron walls brought to mind flowing water. A satellite dish was perched on its roof.

‘It’s beautiful, Stu,’ I said, impressed. ‘I’ll call it the Danube.’

Just as the famed Danube River was an important international waterway flowing through ten countries, I fancied that the satellite dish would enable my Danube to be a thriving hub on the world’s information superhighway. That was the theory, anyway.

‘Call it whatever you want,’ Stuart said. ‘It’s bloody nice in there. It’s the only place on the property that’s air-conditioned. You can expect regular visits from me.’

I spent most of Saturday pottering around the Danube. Despite my best efforts to organise telecommunications from Sydney, the satellite connection – my crucial lifeline to the outside world – wasn’t working properly. I telephoned Telstra and prepared for a long wait in the technical support queue. The tedious hold music was finally intercepted by a young customer service officer named Heath. As he guided me through a software installation problem, I suddenly became aware of a rumbling noise drawing nearer. It almost sounded like coffee percolating. It swiftly developed into an unbearable roar; the sliding door rattled with the force of it.

‘DO YOU MIND HOLDING, HEATH?’ I bellowed into the phone, unable to hear myself think, let alone listen to Heath’s instructions.

As I hurried to the door, all fell deathly silent. I stepped outside and surveyed the paddocks before me. A sea of white cotton flowers bobbed noiselessly, illuminated against the vivid green undergrowth. What on earth had caused that hellish racket?

I gazed towards the eastern boundary of the property. And then I detected something – black arrows swooping and weaving on the horizon. Crows, magpies, or …? The black arrows banked, wings glinting in the sun. I stood rooted to the spot as two military aircraft hurtled towards me, breaching the distance at mach 1, flying at no more than 400 feet. As they streaked above me, I instinctively crouched and covered my head. Their noisy wake hit roughly five seconds later and I clamped my hands over my ears. Within moments, the two aircraft screamed skywards in a breathtaking vertical lift.

Dazed, I scrambled to my feet to watch their departure.

‘Awesome, isn’t it?’ I was startled to find Stu at my elbow, studying the aircraft. ‘This area’s a training zone for F-111 pilots at Amberley,’ he explained. ‘They conduct mock bomb runs against the grain silos up the road. Those guys have just completed their mission.’

I shook my head, dumbfounded.

‘Not a bad show for rural Australia, is it?’ he asked, walking back towards the shed.

Marvelling at the surreal spectacle I’d just witnessed, I returned to the office and retrieved the telephone.

‘Sorry, Heath,’ I started, ‘um, where were we?’

But the line was dead. I’d kept Heath waiting too long. I slammed down the handset in frustration; I’d waited hours to access his help. Bloody Telstra. Taking a deep breath, I shut down my computer and resolved to call back tomorrow.

As I walked back to the house through the long grass, stifling heat enveloped me. The temperature gauge on the laundry wall had been rising all day; when I’d checked at lunchtime, it had been hovering around the 40-degree mark. Even in the late afternoon, the temperature was oppressive; my skin responded with prickles of perspiration. It reminded me of Indonesia, but without the humidity. I headed to the external bathroom, desperate to refresh myself. I leant over the basin, splashed tepid water onto my face, then slid open the toilet door.

All hell broke loose. Disturbed by my intrusion, a cacophony of green tree frogs croaked blue murder. I peered into the toilet bowl and was greeted by seven pairs of beady eyes, daring me to sit down. I shuddered. How was I supposed to use the toilet with them in there, staring up at me? As I attempted to retreat I realised that one of the frogs, tucked up in the railing above the sliding door, hadn’t moved quickly enough when I opened it. With its leg pinned in the guide rail, it was croaking its displeasure.

‘Oh, God,’ I murmured, distressed to see an animal in pain.

As I pushed the door further back, intending to release it, blood spurted across the floor, the toilet seat, the wall. A frog leg dropped from the railing above and fell with a thunk onto the floor before me. I screamed. It was Texas Chainsaw Massacre meets Jandowae – the one-legged frog limped up into the corner of the ceiling, a trail of blood streaming behind it. Roused by my screams, Stu emerged from the shed to find me in the toilet, hands over my mouth, fretting about the amputee. I looked at Stu with eyes brimming, appealing for assistance.

‘It’s a tough world out here, babe,’ he said, slapping me on the shoulder. ‘Get used to it.’

I stood, dejected, as Stuart sauntered back to the shed. Righteous anger began to percolate within me. Get used to it? I’m an animal-loving vegetarian, for God’s sake, and I’m supposed to take that sort of incident in my stride? I marched into the house and pulled on my sandshoes. Running had always been a stress-reliever for me in Sydney; a regular seaside jog was guaranteed to clear the head. Maybe it would work out here, too.

I took off along the driveway and out onto the Warra–Marnhull Road. A signpost indicated that the township of Warra was located twenty kilometres away, a distant speck on the road stretching westwards. I increased my speed, arms and legs warming to the activity. The sun cast its golden light along a line of trees some two kilometres away. I’ll run to those trees.

On both sides of the road the paddocks were planted with the same red crop I’d seen the night before. A mountain range dominated the eastern horizon, its crests a jagged outline against the sky. The hush of the late afternoon was broken only by my breathing and footfalls on the asphalt. Sweat collected in the small of my back and began to drip down my legs. With each step that I took, my irritation began to dissipate. I inhaled with exhilaration as I passed the tree-line target. I’ll run to that windmill instead.

As the sun emblazoned its orange and yellow streaks across the west, I noticed a mob of grey kangaroos grazing at the roadside. Unused to the spectacle of wild kangaroos, I slowed to a trot and approached them cautiously. A giant male grey kangaroo, surrounded by five slighter females, stood up on his hind legs and fixed me with a hostile stare. His forelegs dangled from a muscular chest, razor-sharp claws protruding.

‘Hello, big fella,’ I called out, trying to sound relaxed.

The kangaroo continued to eyeball me – deliberating, I feared, at what point he would attack. Then suddenly he was off, clearing the fence line with an enormous leap, pursued by his harem of females. They bounded within metres of a herd of grazing cattle, none of which appeared remotely interested in the passing mob.

Approaching the old windmill, I heard footsteps behind me and Stu appeared at my side, perspiring and breathless.

‘I’m sorry about the frog, Fi,’ he panted. ‘I know it’s new for you out here. I should have been more understanding. Mind if I join you?’

‘Go ahead.’ I smiled, all anger extinguished. We turned to retrace the path home.

I caught my breath at the sight of the eastern horizon. The first bright stars were emerging in the deepening azure, fairy lights suspended above the wooded green of the mountains.

‘It’s so beautiful, Stu,’ I murmured.

‘Yeah,’ he replied, ‘the Bunya Mountains are hard to beat.’ We jogged in companionable silence.

On our return route, the grey kangaroos were nowhere to be seen. But as we passed the herd of cattle, the peace was abruptly broken by Stu, who cupped his mouth and bellowed ‘G’booooorrn!’ I started at the noise; the cows immediately jerked their heads up from their pasture and stared in our direction.

‘G’boooooorn!’ Stuart called out, imperiously, a second time.

‘That’s “come on” in cow language,’ he puffed. I sniggered, convinced he was teasing me.

‘Really,’ said Stu, detecting my scepticism. ‘I learnt it out west when I went mustering as a teenager. It came in handy for my Honours year thesis on the duodenal protein supply in cattle grazing Setaria anceps and Aeschynomene americana.’ My eyes glazed over at the foreign terminology.

‘Are they plants?’ I asked.

‘Yes, particular types of pastures,’ Stu replied. ‘And for the practical component of my thesis, I had to control a group of feisty Santa Gertrudis steers. That cattle call worked a treat for catching their attention.’ I glanced at the nearby herd, still doubtful.

‘Watch this,’ he said. Stu cupped his hands around his mouth and, this time issued a softer, less demanding ‘G’booooorn’. The call sounded as if he was addressing each and every member of the herd personally. To my surprise, this delicate ‘G’booorn’ prompted several cows to start trotting towards us. Soon others joined in and, before long, some twenty cattle were running alongside us, jostling to be closest to the fence.

‘Amazing.’ I laughed. ‘You’re the Cow Whisperer. Why don’t you run cattle on the farm now?’

Stuart shook his head. ‘I’ll never run cattle again,’ he said, slowing to a walk.

‘In my first year out here, one of my cows had trouble calving,’ he explained. ‘I’d learnt about the theory of it at university, of course.’ He swatted absently at a mosquito circling us. ‘She was in terrible pain and groaning. I tried and tried, but I couldn’t get the calf out. The vet wasn’t around and after about eight hours of straining, the calf died. I just couldn’t save it.’ Stuart stared at the horizon.

‘Even though the calf was dead, it still wouldn’t budge,’ he continued, ‘so I had to physically dismember the calf inside her and pull it out in pieces.’ He grimaced at the painful memory. Oh my God.

‘After doing that, I still couldn’t get all of it out,’ he said softly. ‘The stress in the cow’s eyes was harrowing and she was bleeding internally. In the end, I had to shoot her. And it took something out of me, Fi.’

He paused. ‘About two weeks later, I bought Hayley, my kelpie. I figured it was time to get a friend on the farm. And I sure needed a mate in the droughts that came along.’

Stuart resumed his previous pace and I jogged alongside him in stunned silence. In the distance, a car turned into our path, high beam headlights illuminating the way. As the car approached, the cattle accompanying us pulled back into the field. The strength of the beam – even at a distance – blinded me. I’m like a rabbit in the headlights. I ran with my arms outstretched before my face, shielding my eyes. Long after the car had passed, the imprint of its headlights remained seared across my line of vision.

Upon our return to the house, Stuart offered to cook a candlelit dinner, a suggestion I interpreted as a romantic overture.

‘Sit down and relax by the candles in the lounge room,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Saturday night at Gebar.’ I watched Stuart potter around the kitchen. ‘Gebar,’ I repeated, under my breath. It was only the second time I’d heard Stuart use the name of the farm. The word could have passed for a nightclub in Sydney.

‘Where did the name “Gebar” come from?’ I called out. ‘Is it German?’ Stuart laughed aloud.

‘Nothing as exotic as that, I’m afraid,’ he said, removing a packet of peas from the freezer. ‘One of the previous owners of the property was a couple called Graeme and Barbara. They joined their names together and created “Gebar”.’

As Stuart prepared dinner, it became clear to me that the use of candlelight was not indicative of a special occasion. Instead, it was a routine part of his sophisticated pest management system. With no wire screens covering the bungalow’s doors and windows, Stuart had to be creative in managing the mardi gras of insects that flocked nightly towards the light. After firing up the hotplates on the stove, Stuart set the lounge room ablaze with candles so that all winged creatures left the kitchen and ensconced themselves on the lounge, television and coffee table. When the cooking was done, he switched the stovetop light on and plunged the rest of the house into shadow. Hey presto, instant insect party in the kitchen – and we were left alone to savour our meal.

We retired early – way earlier than I’d ever considered going to bed in Sydney on a Saturday night. As I lay staring into the pitch black, I fought the negative chatter of a restless mind. I’ve moved to rural Australia and turned into a nanna. Stuart’s breathing became regular and within minutes, he was asleep. However, as I listened to the buzzing darkness, sleep evaded me. The bungalow’s empty spaces thrummed with nocturnal insect activity which brushed incessantly against the mosquito net covering our bed. The last time I slept under a mosquito net was in Indonesia. At least I won’t get malaria out here. I tossed and turned for what seemed like hours. Finally, I resolved to get up, go to the toilet, have a glass of water, and begin my bedtime ritual from scratch.

I groped my way to the bedroom door. Nothing was familiar; I couldn’t find the light switch and I couldn’t see my way. Why the hell does the toilet have to be outside? I edged my way through the kitchen and opened a door onto a landing. I recalled that there were three wooden stairs descending from this landing into a large, airy room which connected the interior of the house with the yard beyond. One … two … I stopped in my tracks, detecting an almost imperceptible movement inches from my feet.

I’d never heard a snake slither across linoleum before, but instinctively I knew what it was. I stumbled backwards up the stairs and flattened myself against the wall. Groping to find the light switch, I snapped on the light and wailed.

Stu emerged from the bedroom bleary-eyed. ‘What’s wrong now?’ he sighed.

I waved a stiff hand at the intruder, a red-bellied black snake, coiled within metres of my feet.

‘Oh,’ said Stu, as if I’d just pointed out a kookaburra. It’s a poisonous snake, for God’s sake.

He disappeared into the kitchen, returned with a long-handled broom and then proceeded to shepherd the snake out of the house.

‘Shoo, off you go,’ he urged, prodding it gingerly with the broom. Unbelievably, the snake responded to his gentle touch, slinking back outside and vanishing into the darkness. This green approach to snake management left me entirely unsatisfied, however.

‘Won’t the snake just come back inside, Stu? Can’t you get rid of it somehow?’ I pleaded.

‘No, it probably just got lost chasing green tree frogs,’ observed Stu, turning back towards the bedroom.

‘But what if I’d stepped on it?’ I appealed. ‘I could have died.’

‘Well, you didn’t,’ he replied. ‘And I tend to leave the black snakes alone. They’re pretty passive. They keep the more aggressive brown snakes at bay.’

That shut me up: I was out of my depth in the serpentine behaviour department. I retreated to the bedroom, pulled on a pair of long pants, rolled myself into a ball and cowered under the sheets.

The following morning, I groaned in disbelief as Stuart bounced out of bed at the sprightly hour of four-thirty. Is this what being a farmer’s girlfriend involves, I wondered, rubbing my eyes. ‘Stu,’ I croaked irritably, ‘Stu, what are you doing? It’s too early. And it’s Sunday.’

Stuart pulled on a green work shirt, football shorts and a pair of Blundstones.

‘Well,’ he replied smugly, ‘you’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.’

He sat down on the bed and prodded the pillow I’d pulled over my head.

‘Why don’t you get up and unpack your boxes?’ he prompted. ‘It’s a big job and you’ve got to start work tomorrow.’ The removal truck had arrived the same day I had; 23 boxes had been dumped on Stuart’s doorstep.

I opened an eyelid. ‘All right, Pollyanna, I’m onto it.’ I wasn’t a morning person; having adult conversations before dawn was anathema to me.

By 6.00 am, I needed a coffee. Surrounded by cardboard boxes, I was unsure of where the artefacts of my former Sydney existence were going to fit. It wasn’t merely an issue of space – more a matter of suitability. As I gazed around the dilapidated bungalow I now called home, it was clear that not all the trappings of my former life were transferable. Things that seemed perfectly sensible in Sydney – like funky bean bags and fine Italian macchiato glasses – were reduced to the nonsensical at Gebar. It was way too hot to contemplate sitting in a felt-covered beanbag and the macchiato glasses were preposterous next to a dusty old jar of instant coffee.

Similarly, my first few days at Jandowae had taught me that many of my clothes, appropriate for Sydney circles, were now useless. A strictly utilitarian mode of fashion was the order of the day; delicate fabrics and ‘dry-clean only’ garments wouldn’t last long. My stylish high heels had to be replaced with no-nonsense flats and open-toed sandals. And where did I think I was going in that short, sequinned dress, anyway? Nowhere in public, that’s for sure, or I might be mistaken for a drag queen. There was nothing for it – I had to discard many of the items I’d paid good money to freight, in light of their ridiculous impracticality in country Queensland. Mounds of extraneous furnishings and clothing were shunted into anonymous green garbage bags; I’d have to find a local charity to donate the items to, or they’d end up at the Jandowae dump. As ruthless as I tried to be, however, I simply couldn’t bring myself to dispense with all the vestiges of my former life. My purple Turkish cushions looked ridiculous adorning Stu’s old cane chairs, but a slice of Sydney remained.

Instead, I turned my attention to constructing my bookshelf. Thank God for my books, I reflected, they’re relevant anywhere. I descended to the area in which I’d encountered the red-bellied black snake the previous evening. It was an odd sort of room – the largest in the house, with two external entry points positioned directly opposite each other. An old dresser was pushed into one corner, next to an enormous bale of cotton wrapped in hessian. A table and two chairs were marooned in the centre of the room; a pile of documents, several coffee mugs and a calculator indicated that Stuart used this table for work.

Adjacent to one of the external entry points, an expanse of white wall beckoned. Perfect for a bookcase. I proceeded to labour for hours with shelving insertion points and Allen keys. Finally, the bookshelf was ready to accommodate my prized volumes, collected over the course of a lifetime. An eclectic mix of classics, academic titles, poetry, Australiana and pulp fiction soon graced the shelves.

Midmorning, I paused to inspect my handiwork. The day was heating up and the presence of two external doors did little to encourage airflow. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and hailed Stu, approaching the house from the shed.

‘Hey,’ he called. ‘How are things going?’ I gestured towards the bookshelf.

‘What do you think?’ I asked.

Stu walked to the bookshelf and ran his hand over its structure.

‘Mmm …’ he said, hesitating. An odd expression passed over his face.

‘Well, you won’t like this, Fi,’ he observed. ‘You’re going to have to get rid of your sex books.’

I knew what he was referring to – my comprehensive array of materials mostly acquired during my undergraduate degree in Women’s Studies and Religious Studies.

‘Why?’ I asked defensively. ‘What’s wrong with them?’

Stuart sighed and removed his hat. ‘You know I don’t object to them,’ he said, apologetic. ‘But they’re a bit racy for out here. I meet with contractors and neighbours in this room.’ He gestured toward the coffee mugs on the table. ‘Their eyes will pop out of their sockets with stuff like this.’ He pulled a copy of Linda Jaivin’s Eat Me from the shelf and waved it at me. I grimaced at the giant phallic banana gracing its cover.

‘But that book offers important insights into post-modern sexual politics,’ I protested.

I scanned the offending titles. It wasn’t hard to believe that most of Stu’s neighbours would be unaware that The Kama Sutra was a significant piece of Hindu literature. How would they respond to The Literary Companion to Sex, The Art of Sexual Ecstasy and The Female Orgasm?

‘If the neighbours’ wives get wind of these books, Fi …’ Stuart trailed off, inviting me to imagine the ramifications. I contemplated what the Country Women’s Association might think of a woman who could identify the ‘Indrani’ position, but who couldn’t sauté an onion to save her life.

‘It’s censorship,’ I complained, plucking my controversial books from their shelves.

‘Just put them in the bedroom,’ soothed Stu. ‘And I’ll make you a coffee.’

CHAPTER 8

By Sunday afternoon, I was thoroughly disillusioned. My ‘virtual office’ was plagued by internet problems, a fine brown dust had settled over my newly unpacked belongings, and I was riddled with mosquito bites.

‘Don’t worry,’ consoled Stu. ‘The worst you can get from the mozzies out here is Ross River fever.’

I stared at him, silently outraged. Since when was that an optimistic outcome? What was I thinking, coming out here at all? I’d voluntarily traded the lively buzz of coastal Sydney for the deserted, critter-infested landscape of rural Australia. Just as well I was in Love, with a capital ‘L’.

‘Hey,’ said Stuart, sensing my mood. ‘You’ve been cooped up indoors all weekend. Why don’t we have a look around Gebar before sunset? It’s cooling off now.’ I nodded and followed him to the door. ‘Hang on,’ said Stu, returning to the linen press and rummaging around, ‘we’ll need this.’ He waved a folded cotton bed sheet at me. I was beyond asking questions.

Stuart took my hand and led me towards a four-wheel motorbike parked near the shed. He swung a leg effortlessly over the seat, slid forward and patted the remaining few centimetres behind him. I squeezed onto the seat and found the footrests, wrapping my hands around his waist.

We lurched out onto the Warra–Marnhull Road and immediately turned left onto the Jandowae–Macalister Road, so named for the townships at either end.

‘This is Field 1,’ called Stu over the engine, waving at a field of cotton to our left. Pristine white flowers bobbed at the tops of luxuriant green plants. Stuart slowed the four-wheeler to a crawl, allowing me to inspect the plants more closely.

‘I’ve irrigated this field five times this season, using dam water and a little bore water,’ said Stu, explaining its lushness. ‘It’s the best cotton I’ve got. But there’s no water in the dams now and I’m not pumping any more from the bore. I took a bit of a gamble planting so much this year, but I figured this season had to be better than the last two. Problem is, if it doesn’t rain within the next month, the crop won’t stay green.’ I frowned, imagining this beauty shrivelling in the heat.

‘But your licence allows you to pump more water out of the bore, doesn’t it?’ I asked. ‘I mean, if you really need to?’

‘Well, to my mind there’s a difference between what your water licence permits you to take, and what you should take,’ Stuart replied. ‘I’ve watched the signs over previous seasons as more of my neighbours have sunk bores and started pumping from the aquifer. Blind Freddy can see it’s dropping. So I’m giving the aquifer time to refresh itself. But I’m not stupid enough to expect that many others are doing the same.’ I shifted forward in the seat.

‘But why should you give up your water allocation for environmental reasons, when no-one else does?’ I asked.

We stopped near the end of the field and Stuart let the engine idle. He rubbed his jaw. ‘Well, it’s my choice, Fi. No-one’s putting a gun to my head. I just think it’s the right thing to do for the aquifer. Of course, it’s not the right thing to do for me financially. Water is money. And that’s why everyone else in the area is probably using their full water allocation. They’d all think I was crazy if they knew.’

Some would call it business suicide, I thought to myself. ‘So what makes you so different in your approach?’ I asked.

Stuart shrugged. ‘I don’t really know. I guess I’ve just always seen farming as something more than making money from natural resources. It’s a gift; you’re asking nature to do certain things for you. You can’t demand water from the earth just because the government’s given you a licence to extract it. You can wave your piece of rubber-stamped paper all you like, but if the aquifer’s dropping, you have to respond to that.’ He paused, staring out at the fields. ‘It’s the principle of the matter,’ he added.

Stuart kicked the four-wheeler into gear. If only others took such a principled approach, I reflected, perhaps Australia’s water crisis would ease.

We accelerated towards the southern boundaries of the property and two more paddocks flashed by.

‘That’s Field 5 and Field 6,’ shouted Stu. ‘They’re the most efficiently irrigated on my farm. Unlike the other fields, I don’t have to move water long distances, so it reduces evaporation and seepage.’

I noticed a series of white fibreglass pegs suspended in Field 5. ‘What’s that?’ I called, pointing towards the pegs. Stuart braked and steered the four-wheeler towards the staked-out area. We ground to a halt and he cut the engine.

‘That,’ he replied, ‘is a trial site for a new type of genetically modified cotton.’

Instinctively, I grimaced, surveying the plot warily. Apart from the pegs staking out the area, it was impossible to differentiate the genetically modified crop from the conventional cotton growing nearby. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

‘Currently the only GM cotton seed on the market is the one owned by Monsanto,’ Stuart continued. ‘You know, the company everyone loves to hate.’ He removed his hat and scanned the site. ‘The plants growing in there have been developed by another company, a Monsanto competitor. They’ve asked me to run a trial plot because of my research interests.’

‘And what’s been modified in those plants?’ I asked.

‘Well, they’ve been genetically manipulated to produce a toxin that kills the heliothis caterpillar, cotton’s worst enemy,’ he explained. ‘The plant’s a poisoned chalice – one bite and the toxin kicks in. But it’s so specific it doesn’t harm anything else.’

‘But how do you really know it’s safe to grow?’ I asked. ‘Couldn’t it contaminate the other plants?’ I’d read media stories about ‘Frankenfruit’.

Stuart folded his arms across his chest. ‘Well, it’s a tough one. I don’t want to sound condescending, but it’s easy to be reactionary about GM when you don’t work in agriculture. A lot of people talk about the precautionary principle and not taking any risks until you’re 100 per cent certain of the ramifications. Well, humans wouldn’t be where we are today without people taking risks.’ He paused, kicking the dirt from his boots.

‘I’ve had a good look at the science of GM cotton and it stacks up, as far as I can tell,’ he said.

‘How’s that?’ I asked, unconvinced.

‘Well, for example, when cotton pollinates, it’s such a heavy pollen that it can’t travel very far – it only ever moves about a metre from the pollination site,’ he said. ‘So we’ve put an enormous buffer zone in this site, well beyond the metre mark, which reduces the risk of contamination.’ I gazed at the GM plants, glossy leaves rippling in the breeze.

‘But there’d be other contamination risks apart from pollination, wouldn’t there?’ I asked. ‘I mean, the site’s right near a public road.’

Stuart nodded. ‘Yeah, and there’s a book six inches thick in my office about managing all sorts of risks on this site. The Office of Gene Technology is watching it like a hawk. I can’t even drive a tractor in there without telling them first,’ he said.

‘Guidelines are all very well,’ I said, ‘but is every farmer as thorough as you in observing them?’

‘I’d say so,’ he replied. ‘I mean, they’ve got a vested interest in making sure their land isn’t adversely impacted by GM, haven’t they? No farmer in their right mind wants to wake up one day with a disaster on their hands because they’ve ignored the protocols set down by the gene regulators.’

Suspicious that the profit imperative might overshadow individual responsibility, I fell quiet.

Stuart detected my cynicism. ‘Look, GM isn’t a panacea, Fi,’ he said. ‘But when it comes to cotton, GM seed does reduce pesticide usage – by about 80 per cent. Before I planted GM, I used to spray harsh chemicals twelve times a season for heliothis. Now I only spray three times a season, with chemicals that are much softer on the environment.’

‘Sounds like an ad for Monsanto,’ I said wryly.

Stuart grinned. ‘Maybe, but I reckon most conservation groups would be happy with that sort of outcome. Fewer nasty chemicals drifting around the environment, potentially contaminating the soil and waterways.’ He revved the engine of the four-wheeler and clicked it into gear.

‘The whole issue’s not as black and white as many people think,’ he called over his shoulder.

I remained dubious.

Wasn’t planting GM cotton to reduce pesticide usage a little like introducing the cane toad to control the cane beetle? The solution to the problem just becomes another problem?

As we accelerated away from the trial plot, I reflected on my ignorance of GM crops. While Stuart and I had discussed the issue in the abstract during the early months of our relationship, actually seeing a GM crop in the field was confronting. The truth was, I was afraid of genetic engineering and its unknown consequences for humanity. But my fear was largely reactive, based on media reports and hearsay. I’d never bothered to do the sort of due diligence that Stuart had. In deciding to plant GM cotton, Stuart had combed through the existing science, contacted experts in the field, weighed up the pros and cons, and finally arrived at an informed conclusion. By comparison, my own visceral reaction to GM was utterly uninformed.

Whichever way I looked at it, though, I still couldn’t shake my concerns. Stuart’s prudent approach to water resource management seemed somehow at odds with his acceptance of genetic engineering. How could someone so concerned about the environment be such an advocate of GM?

‘You’re awfully quiet back there,’ Stuart called over his shoulder.

‘I’m still thinking about GM,’ I said, leaning towards his ear. ‘And you know, it just doesn’t seem natural to me.’ Stuart’s laugh was audible over the engine.

‘Join the club. Most people have a pretty hardline reaction to it,’ he said. Slowing the four-wheeler, Stuart turned in my direction. ‘Well, Fi, if you’re anti-GM cotton, you’d better start identifying which clothing companies use organic cotton, because you’ll need to restock your wardrobe. And next time you go to the movies, you’d better check your popcorn isn’t cooked in GM cottonseed oil.’

‘I don’t like popcorn,’ I protested lamely.

‘But you might be partial to deep-fried chips,’ he replied. ‘And they’re often cooked in cottonseed oil. The thing is, if you’re against GM cotton, Fi, you’ll need to change the way you live. Just like you have by being a vegetarian.’

I mulled this over as we continued our journey, feeling mildly chastised. He was right, of course: I couldn’t just object to GM crops in theory. Either I accept GM cotton, or I change my consumption habits. Deep down I knew what my choice would be. Was I just taking the path of least resistance?

We drove along the border of Field 6 and took a sharp left turn, bouncing over long grass towards a fallow paddock.

‘This is Field 7,’ announced Stu, steering the four-wheeler across the dirt towards the field’s edge. ‘It doesn’t look very special, but this is where I first found water.’ Stuart shut down the engine and leant back in the seat, his right arm slung loosely across my leg.

‘It was my second year of farming and I was only 22,’ he recalled, looking around the paddock. ‘I had a small herd of cattle, but we were in drought. The worst drought in a century, so the records said. The Cooranga Creek wasn’t running, I’d nearly drained all my stock dams and the animals were struggling. I just had to find bore water to survive.’ He swatted at a fly buzzing near his ear, catching it deftly in his left hand.

‘I’d saved up $10,000 from cattle sales the year before. It was all I had in the bank. But being young, I was ready to take a punt.’ He laughed.

‘So I rang Col Markham, a local drilling contractor, and asked him to come out and sink four test holes for water. It was going to cost me $2,500 apiece and four was all I could afford.’ I imagined Stuart gambling his savings on the equivalent of four raffle tickets, with no guarantee of winning a prize.

‘I was down on my luck,’ Stu continued, ‘Col sank three holes, but found no water. I crossed my fingers as he drilled the fourth hole. I think I might’ve prayed.’ Stu stared out at the paddock. ‘He found nothing. Dry as a bone. I shook Col’s hand and wrote him a cheque for $10,000. I was ready to give up farming and go back to the city. I’d just spent my money making Gebar less valuable, because now I’d proven there was no water under it.’

I pictured Stuart, an idealistic 22-year-old, defeated by drought.

‘And what happened?’ I asked.

‘Well,’ said Stu, ‘Col felt sorry for me, a young bloke from the city having a go on the land. So he offered to drill me an extra hole for free. I asked him if he was for real. “I’m serious, mate,” he said. “An extra one for good luck. Now, where do you want it?”’

‘I’d picked four losers in a row and couldn’t decide. So I turned to my dog Hayley and joked, “Where do you think it should go, girl?” and right away, she jumped off the back of the ute and trotted over there.’ Stuart pointed towards a power pole jutting upright in the paddock.

‘She stopped about 80 metres in and did this enormous crap on the dirt,’ he laughed. ‘So I said to Col, “Have a go at drilling a hole out there, mate.” Col drove his rig over, sank a hole, and found water.’

Goosebumps tingled across the back of my neck and down my arms.

‘It was bloody amazing, some sort of doggy divination,’ Stuart murmured. ‘We hit a sub-artesian aquifer. My farm was instantly transformed.’ I squeezed him tightly around the waist, quiet with wonder. Stuart started the engine and turned towards the fallow paddock.

‘Thanks, Hayley,’ he called out.

We gained speed, tracking east towards the creek. The road ended at the southern reaches of a large dam, one of two water storages on the property. Stuart manoeuvred the four-wheeler along a narrow path hugging the dam wall. I reached out to touch the smooth leaves of the cotton plants growing to my left. Swallows darted among succulent green undergrowth, bees hummed jubilantly between gleaming white-and-pink flowers. Pockets of cool air eddied around us.

‘It seems fresher here,’ I said.

‘You’re right,’ called Stu. ‘It’s the evapo-transpiration effect through the cotton leaves, which makes everything cooler. I irrigated these plants from the bore last week and they’re busy sucking water from the soil, happy as anything.’

I dug my knees into Stuart’s thighs as we accelerated up an incline at the northern end of the dam.

‘Problem is,’ said Stu, surveying the empty dam before us, ‘if we don’t get rain soon, those plants will suffer.’ Colossal cracks zigzagged across the dried clay in the bottom of the dam and tufts of yellowed grass clung to the edges of a long-gone waterline.

‘This is the Lagoon Dam,’ said Stu quietly. ‘Try to picture thirteen football fields of water, five metres deep. That’s what it looks like when it’s full. I used the last of the water before Christmas. So let’s just hope it rains.’

We retraced our path and descended the bank to ground level, bouncing along a wallaby trail through scrub. We emerged at the eastern end of a large field backing onto a second dam.

‘This is the Pelican Dam,’ said Stu, as we peered into its arid interior. ‘Looks great when there’s water in it. The pelicans love it.’

The fields surrounding this dam were strikingly different to the earlier paddocks. Even to my untrained eye, it was clear that these cotton plants were struggling. Most had cast off their delicate flowers; the remaining buds clung to leathery, flaccid foliage. The field had taken on a bluish tinge, and the plants seemed to sag against one another.

‘That’s what drought does to a crop,’ Stu said. ‘But you know, I reckon there’s something else happening to those plants. Maybe a nutrient deficiency or a disease of some kind. The agronomist’s told me to relax and see if it improves. But he always says that.’

‘What’s an agronomist?’ I asked, unacquainted with the term.

‘Oh, sorry,’ said Stu. ‘I guess you’ve never met one?’ I shook my head.

‘Agronomists are the most important people a farmer knows. They’re basically crop doctors,’ he explained. ‘They inspect the field every few days, monitoring insects, weeds and moisture. You pay them to avert disaster.’

‘And your agronomist’s not worried about those plants?’ I asked, squinting at the wilting crop.

‘Well, he reckons it’s just the drought,’ Stuart replied. ‘But my hunch is, there’s something else going on.’

I wondered briefly who was right. A light breeze had sprung up and a tract of trees to the north caught my eye, their leaves glittering in the sun.

‘Over there,’ said Stu, following my gaze, ‘is Wilden’s Walk.’ Three years previously, Stuart had planted native trees across an area of some twelve hectares, under the direction of an environmentally conscious friend from the ethics program.

‘It’s a real wildlife corridor now,’ said Stu, pointing at a mob of kangaroos lazing in the late afternoon sunshine. ‘I copped a bit of flak when I first planted it, with farmer mates calling me a greenie.’

Stuart steered the four-wheeler off the embankment and we continued east through shrubby native country. I noticed an increasing number of spiny cacti-like plants hampering our passage.

‘What are they?’ I asked. ‘They look lethal.’ Stuart pulled up alongside a particularly large specimen and kicked at it with his boot.

‘Tiger pear,’ he said. ‘Shocking stuff. Hayley used to have a hard time with it. She’d limp in at night with needles stuck in her like a pin cushion.’ He patted me on the knee.

‘Don’t ever come through here unless you absolutely have to,’ he said. ‘I call it “Tiger Pear Alley”. But there’s something nearby I want to show you.’

Stuart shifted the four-wheeler into a lower gear as we lurched across rough terrain. Near the banks of the Cooranga Creek, Stuart cut the engine. The creek bed was parched, exposing the intricate root systems of enormous box trees lining its banks. Silty deposits marked the meandering of previous flows in languorous swirls. As we walked along the creek bed, kookaburras announced the impending sunset.

‘There,’ said Stu, pointing to a majestic old poplar box tree, charred from bushfires long past. ‘It’s been hollowed out by fire, and there’s plenty of room inside. When we broke up, I spent a lot of time just sitting in there, thinking.’ I winced at the mental image of Stuart brooding inside a burnt-out old tree.

‘I’m so sorry …’ I began.

‘Shhh,’ said Stu, ‘I didn’t bring you here for another apology. All that’s behind us now. You’ve shown me you’re sorry by moving up here.’ He led me towards the tree and urged, ‘Have a look inside.’ I approached the entrance and peered within. It was spacious enough for two, and its cool environs offered a perfect retreat for contemplation. Stuart took my hand and, ducking through the entrance, pulled me into the hollow trunk after him.

‘This tree knows everything about the last six months,’ he said. ‘So I think we’d better let it know we’re back together.’ I giggled as he slid his arms around me.

We kissed, our bodies pressed between walls of charcoal.

The sun slipped below the horizon and we returned to the four-wheeler, heading north towards a wild expanse of grass country. It was a vast, untouched area, dotted with shrubs that resembled miniature Christmas trees.

‘Who owns all that?’ I called to Stuart over the noise of the engine.

‘I do,’ yelled Stuart, ‘but I don’t plant crops on it. I just let nature do its thing in there. The box trees and she-oaks match up with the trees along Wilden’s Walk and the creek country. It’s good for the wildlife.’ On cue, a mob of galahs rose screeching from the grass, swirling like a fluttering sheet in the dying light.

I quietly considered how much profit Stuart had forfeited by making this environmentally conscious choice; judging by the size of the area, it was a considerable sum.

As if reading my mind, Stuart yelled over the engine, ‘Neighbours have been pushing me to plough it up for years. They think I’m mad. But my view is, you don’t have to farm every last acre of your land. In fact, I reckon as a farmer you shouldn’t. You’re a steward of the land.’

Sheltered from the wind behind Stuart’s broad back, I gazed at the grass country flashing past me. He plants GM cotton, but he won’t plough up all of his land. How many farmers out there are like Stu?

Stuart guided the four-wheeler over a drain in the road and we raced between paddocks, slowing near a V-shaped water channel.

‘This is a head-ditch. I use it to move water around the farm. And I’ve got one more thing to show you,’ he said, switching off the ignition.

Taking my hand, he helped me from the seat. We scrabbled halfway up the bank of the head-ditch and squatted on our haunches. Stuart unfolded the bed sheet he had taken from the house earlier and wrapped it around us, in defence against the circling mosquitoes.

‘Welcome to the Gebar Planetarium,’ Stuart said, gesturing skyward.

We lay back on the head-ditch, the earth our deck chairs, and awaited the Milky Way’s nightly revelation. Gradually, stars and satellites emerged in their orbits above us. The sky’s expanse awed me with its majesty; its vastness was both beautiful and disquieting. A shooting star streaked across the sky, its light extinguished with a final golden flash. Stuart’s hand found mine as we lay in wordless union, under a blanket of diamonds.

CHAPTER 9

‘Welcome to your new home!’ the stranger called brightly, tapping insistently on my office door.

I smiled, cradling the telephone between my ear and shoulder, hands gesticulating towards the mouthpiece. ‘I’m on the phone,’ I mouthed silently, in a friendly, just-a-moment way.

The stranger removed her hat, slid the door open and stepped into the room. ‘Don’t mind me, I’ll wait,’ she declared loudly.

I raised an eyebrow and hurriedly attempted to conclude the call.

‘I’m terribly sorry, Geoffrey,’ I stammered. ‘Can I call you back in ten minutes? Something’s come up.’ I replaced the handset and resisted the urge to shake the woman. It was my first Monday at Gebar and I’d been in my outback office for just under eight hours. Already I was working twice as hard to keep up appearances with my city-based colleagues.

I stood up from behind my desk to greet my unexpected visitor.

‘Hello,’ I said, my hand outstretched.

‘No need for that, luv,’ said the stranger dismissively. ‘Bit too formal for round’ ere. I’m Margot Schmidt.’ She announced her name with authority. ‘Stu’s probably told you all about me and Fred and the boys, Hans and David.’

‘Mmm,’ I stalled, entirely unacquainted with Margot and her extended family.

‘You talkin’ to Sydney then?’ she asked, nodding towards the telephone.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘a work call.’ Margot studied me with interest.

‘Yeah, Becky said you’ve got a job in Sydney. Accountant, aren’t ya? How long you gonna keep that up then?’

My mind reeled. Who was Becky? Why was she telling people I was an accountant? And what else was I supposed to do in Jandowae, if not work?

‘Um, for as long as possible,’ I replied, making a mental note to ask Stuart who Becky might be.

‘Well,’ said Margot, squaring her shoulders and smoothing the wide collar of her blouse, ‘I can’t stay long, I’m just on my way to a sausage sizzle.’

I cocked my head, unsure of how to respond to this announcement. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d heard the term ‘sausage sizzle’ used in polite conversation.

‘How do y’like your donger then?’ asked Margot, gazing about the office.

‘My … um … what?’ I asked, certain I had misheard her.

‘The donger,’ affirmed Margot, enunciating the word slowly. ‘Y’know, yer office. They’re called dongers.’

‘Oh right, the demountable,’ I faltered. ‘Yes, it’s very comfortable, thanks.’

‘So,’ continued Margot, rummaging in her bag, ‘I brought you these.’ She waved a box of yellow cylinders at me. Cigars? Bon-bons? Wrapping paper?

‘They’re drawer liners,’ she explained slowly, as though speaking to a simpleton. ‘You put them in your knickers drawer, or wherever mice are munchin’. They’re scented too. Lemon Surprise.’

I was agog at this revelation. Would I have to contend with rodents in the house, nibbling at my underwear?

‘That’s very kind of you, Margot,’ I said.

Margot waved a hand at me indifferently. ‘No worries, luv. What are you, 7-4-6?’

I paused. Was she speculating about my hips-waist-bust measurements?

‘Am I … seven-four-what?’ I asked.

‘Your phone number, luv,’ Margot explained, losing patience. ‘Everybody round here starts with 4-6-6-8-5. People know each other by their last three digits.’

I stared at Margot, flummoxed.

‘Well, anyway, if you need me, I’m on 0-1-4. Seeeeya!’ she shouted cheerily.

And then she was gone.

I sat in my office, staring dumbly at the sliding door. I slumped onto my elbows and rested my forehead in my hands. Is this culture shock? I was well-acquainted with its sense of disorientation, having experienced it during my year in Indonesia. After the adrenalin-induced excitement had subsided, the reality of what the hell I had done began to sink in.

‘Yes, culture shock,’ I muttered.

I had to pull myself together.

I picked up the handset and dialled my office number in Sydney.

‘Geoffrey,’ I said, ‘Sorry about that …’

Somehow I managed to hold the virtual office together for the remainder of my first week in the Danube. By Friday, however, the time difference between Sydney and rural Queensland – a mere one hour in summer – had started to feel like 25 years. It was as though time had slowed down, every passing hour indistinguishable from the last. My day was no longer dominated by regimented meeting schedules. Instead, time was punctuated only by the sun’s arc across the sky, the rhythmic buffeting of the wind against my office, and the incessant call of crows circling aloft.

Late on Friday afternoon, I looked up from my desk at the sound of an engine drawing closer. Are the F-111s back? The noise swelled to a throaty crescendo as a large John Deere tractor chugged within a metre of the Danube. A young man – Stu’s offsider, Roger – peered through my office window and hailed me with a cheesy grin. He gave me the thumbs up signal and continued on his way. As I watched him steer the tractor towards the shed, I couldn’t help but recall the view from my office window in Sydney. Glamorous women running for taxis in their Jimmy Choos, Japanese tourists overloaded with duty-free booty, ferries and recreational craft bobbing up and down on the harbour.

I shut down my computer for the week and automatically locked my filing cabinet. Against the potential intrusions of whom – or what – I didn’t really know. I switched on the answering machine and tidied the papers on my desk by rote. No Friday night drinks at a chic little bar for me tonight. As I headed to the house, I glanced back towards the Bunya Mountains, hazy purple in the light of the setting sun.

A gentle breeze rippled through the fields of ivory cotton flowers. The moon was rising; an evening star poked its tiny light through the fabric of the deepening sky. The challenges of my working week fell away, like bark peeling from a she-oak’s trunk. The residual concerns of my Sydney life subsided. Nothing moved in that hallowed space and nor did I, until the distant headlights of Stuart’s ute cast their light along the driveway.

Once I’d survived my first week at Gebar, it was time to spread my wings beyond the property. I awoke early on Saturday morning, ready to embark on a reconnaissance mission to Jandowae, population 750, eleven kilometres to the north. Maybe I’d even grab a coffee and something sticky from the bakery; this was a weekend treat guaranteed to perk me up. Despite the tender warmth of my reunion with Stu, the past seven days – replete with amputee frogs, snakes in the house and surprise visits from neighbours – had been intensely foreign. I craved something familiar, like my regular Saturday morning coffee at my local café in Sydney. Surely I could replicate that experience in Jandowae? I pulled on a pair of jeans and dabbed on some lipstick before setting off for the shed to collect my car. My two-door Festiva had arrived on a semi-trailer from Sydney the day before. I crossed paths with Stu, returning to the house for morning tea.

‘You look nice,’ he said. ‘But no-one really gets dressed up in town, you know.’

I glanced down at my jeans in bemusement. ‘Surely this isn’t too dressed up?’

Stuart appraised me from head to foot. ‘Well, it’s nicer than most,’ he replied. ‘King Gees and Blundstones are the uniform in Janders.’ He motioned towards the shed.

‘Why don’t you take my ute?’ he offered.

‘Why should I?’ I replied, puzzled.

‘Because you’ll stick out like dogs’ balls in that thing,’ he said, waving towards the Festiva. ‘It’s got “city chick” written all over it.’

Granted, I hadn’t seen many Ford Festivas among the enormous farm utilities in the area. But they can take me as I come.

Using Stuart’s hand-drawn map, I made it to the town centre. I parked outside a newsagency and, squaring my hat, set out along the main street. I’d googled the township of Jandowae before my move to Queensland and discovered that it was settled in the 1860s. Now as I wandered through the town centre, a number of historic buildings pointed to its early heritage; a bank built in 1913, a post office opened in 1924, a Memorial Hall constructed the following year (and now inexplicably painted a hot fuchsia pink).

I took in several other points of interest, including Athlone Cottage (feted as one of the earliest slab huts in the district), the Community and Cultural Centre (housing a small library and information centre), a mural depicting the Dingo Barrier Fence (apparently located somewhere nearby), a plaque marking the burial of a time capsule in 2003 (only 98 years to go) and a small timber mill situated on the incongruously named ‘Sydney Street’. A community notice board revealed that Jandowae had recently acquired the status of ‘Tidiest Town’ on the Darling Downs. Meanwhile, the latest achievement of the Jandowae State School had been its winning entry in the State Rock Eisteddfod: ‘Music, Milk and Moo Cows’.

Strolling between these local fixtures, I was disconcerted by the apparent absence of human life. It was clear that on this particular Saturday morning, I could fire a gun in the main street and not hit anyone. The sheer emptiness of Jandowae was both liberating and unsettling. Why had I worried about parking my car at a precise 45-degree angle to the kerb? Evidently I could park my vehicle anywhere, anytime, at any angle I chose, without fear of the parking police. After roughly fifteen minutes of exploring the main thoroughfare and its surrounds, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself. I’d traversed most of Jandowae, as far as I could tell.

I know – I’ll buy a newspaper. I walked back to the news-agency, removed my hat and stepped inside.

I nodded at the shopkeepers standing behind the counter.

‘Hello,’ said the woman, an expectant look on her face.

‘Hi,’ I replied, my smile guarded. ‘Do you have a copy of The Australian?’ I scanned the newspaper stand, which hosted a pile of copies of Queensland Country Life, several editions of The Toowoomba Chronicle and a dilapidated A4 folio entitled Jandowae News.

‘Sold out,’ grunted the man. ‘We only stock three copies. Steve Johnson took the last one, ’bout ten minutes ago.’

Was I supposed to know who Steve Johnson was?

‘Right,’ I replied. ‘I’d better buy a chocolate then.’

I opened a nearby refrigerator and selected Stu’s favourite, a chocolate-covered Turkish Delight. I placed it on the counter and asked, ‘How much?’

‘Why don’t you just put it on the account?’ the woman replied.

‘But I don’t have an account,’ I said.

The woman smiled knowingly. ‘No, but Stuart does. Take advantage of it.’ I paused, startled. The woman evidently knew exactly who I was.

For all its relaxed pace, Jandowae clearly boasted a strong tradition of rural surveillance.

‘Oh, right,’ I replied. ‘Well, I guess so. Um, I’m Fiona Collins,’ I said, stretching out my hand.

The woman grasped my hand and returned my smile. ‘I’m Jan and this is Bill. You’re up from Sydney, aren’t you? Becky told us you’d arrived last week. Said you were an accountant. How do you like Jandowae, then?’ I wondered again who on earth Becky might be.

‘Well, this is the first time I’ve been into town,’ I said. ‘So I’m just finding my feet … And, um, I’m not an accountant.’ I paused, contemplating how to explain the nature of my professional life without commencing a convoluted discussion.

‘Well,’ said Jan, chuckling, ‘the bush telegraph isn’t always right.’

I smiled at her infectious giggle.

‘Is there a bakery nearby, Jan?’ I asked, changing the subject.

She shook her head as Bill chimed in, ‘Nope, but you can get some bread up on the corner there.’ I gazed out the shop window in the direction of Bill’s wave. In the distance, I could detect a black-and-white sign marked ‘Café’. I hadn’t seen it on my earlier stroll, obscured as it was by an enormous tractor parked on the street. Promising.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Nice to meet you. I’ll see you around, no doubt.’ Bill and Jan waved in unison and I continued on my way.

At the café, I pushed open the door and was greeted by a young man with bright blue eyes, who closely resembled a cowboy.

‘Hi,’ he said with overt interest. ‘What are you after?’

I inspected the offerings on display: an assortment of meat pies, a battered savoy sausage and a bucket of hot chips.

‘A coffee,’ I said. ‘A latte. Do you stock soy milk?’ The cowboy tilted his head to one side, as if I’d spoken French. Parlez-vous anglais?

‘We’ve got instant coffee,’ he drawled. He seized a styrofoam cup and began spooning in the desiccated grains. ‘Milk and sugar?’ he asked.

‘Um, no. I think I’ll have a mineral water instead,’ I said, scanning the refrigerator.

As I removed a can from the top shelf, Cowboy commented, ‘S’pose it’s hotter here than down south?’ I froze. So, he knows all about me, too. I decided to take the bull by the proverbial horns.

‘Yes,’ I responded. ‘Who’s Becky?’ Cowboy appeared confused by the abrupt shift in conversation.

‘Becky …’ he repeated, trawling the recesses of his memory. ‘Yeah … I know,’ he announced triumphantly, ‘Becky is Joanie’s cousin.’

I stared at Cowboy for a moment. Who the hell is Joanie?

‘Thanks a lot,’ I said, backing towards the door. ‘See you later.’

I returned to Gebar and told Stu the ‘Six Degrees of Becky’ tale.

‘Becky, cousin of Joanie …’ said Stu, considering the matter. ‘You know, I think it all comes back to Rhonda. Joanie is Rhonda’s neighbour.’

I gazed heavenward and barked impatiently, ‘And who’s Rhonda?’

Stu threw an arm around my shoulders and said, ‘Rhonda’s your new best friend, Fi. She’s our cleaning lady. You’ll meet her soon enough. She usually comes with her husband, Carl. She’s been quizzing me about you for weeks. I haven’t told her much, but she’s obviously had a chat to Becky, who’s spoken to everyone in town about you.’

A cleaning lady? Fantastic. A potential comrade in the war against dust and creepy-crawlies.

‘Well,’ I said, mollified, ‘if Rhonda can get the frogs out of the toilet, I’ll tell her everything she wants to know.’

Later that evening, in an effort to compensate for the lack of soy lattes in the district, Stuart suggested we dine at a local pub.

‘Come on,’ he said, squeezing my hand, ‘it’ll be like our first rural date.’ Having been distinctly overdressed during my earlier reconnaissance mission, I resolved to adopt a ‘when in Rome’ policy. I donned a red gingham shirt (a going-away gift from Genevieve, which I’d sworn I’d never wear), some faded cargo pants, and a pair of Blundstones. There were three public bars in Jandowae, all of which sported official and unofficial names: The Jandowae Hotel, aka The Bottom Pub; the Exchange Hotel, aka The Middle Pub; and the Club Hotel, aka The Pink Pub.

‘We’re going to The Middle Pub,’ said Stu, ‘It’s not quite as rough as the others.’

Despite the fact that Stu was with me, the impact of my entrance at The Middle Pub was like a scene from a Hollywood Western. The stranger enters the saloon, the music stops, people turn and stare, and the bartender barks, ‘Whaddya want?’ My answer – ‘A Lemon, Lime and Bitters, thank you’ – just didn’t cut it. Asking about vegetarian counter meals didn’t help my cause either. Even though I was dressed in rural drag, I was clearly a stranger.

‘You up from Sydney then?’ asked a friendly waitress as she slapped down our orders – a 700-gram T-bone steak for Stu, a salad for me.

‘Yes,’ I confessed, beaten. ‘It’s my first week.’ The waitress reached out and patted my hand.

‘You’ll get used to it, luv,’ she said. ‘I moved out from Ipswich nine years ago and I’m still not considered a local.’

CHAPTER 10

The days rolled into weeks and, just as the waitress promised, I became increasingly acquainted with How Things Are Done Around Here. Late one Saturday morning, I realised that it would soon be Genevieve’s birthday and I hadn’t yet sent her a card.

‘I have to go into town,’ I announced to Stu. ‘I haven’t missed Gen’s birthday in ten years.’ Stu looked up from the farm journal he was reading.

‘Great,’ he replied. ‘Get me a Turkish Delight, will you? And a pack of D-cell batteries from the hardware store?’

As I pulled into the parking area outside the hardware store, I left the keys in the ignition and my iPod on the front seat – a mere month in Jandowae had taught me that no-one would be stealing anything from my car. And if they did, at least Becky would know the culprit.

I pushed the door open. The bell on the back of the door jangled in the silence.

‘Hello?’ I called out. No response from within.

‘Excuse me?’ I called, craning my neck and peering towards the back room, hoping to catch the attention of a staff member. My eye fell on a note on the counter: ‘Gone to lunch. Back 1.00 pm.’ Did they forget to lock the shop? I checked my watch; it had just gone midday. Next to the note, another sign of life, a two-dollar coin and a scrawled message beneath it: ‘Harry, I took a washer. Ta. Bob.’ Now wait a minute, I thought to myself. Surely we’re not operating on an honour system here?

I backed out of the store and walked around the corner to the newsagency.

‘Hi, Bill,’ I called, as the door swung inward. ‘How are you?’

‘Not too shabby,’ Bill replied. ‘How’s y’self?’

I glanced about the store. ‘Do you sell D-size batteries?’ I asked.

Bill shook his head. ‘Nuh, but the hardware store does.’

‘Mmm, I just popped in there,’ I said. ‘The door was open, but no-one seemed to be around.’

Bill chuckled and leant forward on the counter. ‘Yeah, Harry likes an early lunch with his missus,’ he said. ‘So just go back and take what you need, and leave a note for him. You can pay him next time you come to town.’

But I don’t even know Harry. How can he trust me?

‘Well, I’ll do that,’ I said, amazed. ‘But I need a birthday card first. I almost forgot my friend’s birthday in Sydney. She wouldn’t forgive me.’ Bill waved a hand towards a stand of greeting cards in the back corner.

‘They’re over there,’ he said.

The selection was limited; I chose a generic, slightly feminine card and walked back to the counter.

‘Do you sell stamps, Bill?’ I asked.

‘Nuh,’ he replied, ‘the post office does.’

I sighed; this was turning into a frustrating shopping mission.

‘But the post office doesn’t open until Monday, and I won’t be able to get back to town before late Monday afternoon,’ I complained. ‘So my card won’t go until Tuesday, which means I’ll miss her birthday.’

Bill sauntered over to the newspaper stand and collected a copy of The Australian.

‘Want one of these?’ he asked helpfully. ‘I ordered one ’specially for you.’

‘Thanks, Bill. That wouldn’t happen in Sydney.’ I smiled. ‘And a Turkish Delight, please.’

As he placed the items on the counter, Bill looked up casually. ‘Y’know, you don’t have to come to town to buy your stamps on Monday at all,’ he said. ‘The way Jim works round here is a bit different, I guess.’

‘Who’s Jim?’ I asked absently, digging around in my wallet for coins.

‘Jim’s the postman, y’duffer,’ Bill replied. ‘If you need a letter posted, just pop it in your letterbox and Jim’ll take it for you when he delivers your mail.’

I stopped digging and paid attention.

‘And if you don’t have any stamps just leave Jim some money and he’ll buy some for you. He’ll bring your change next time he comes by.’

I stared at Bill, agog. A postman who collects your mail and buys stamps for you? I marvelled at this level of service.

‘And you know,’ added Bill, ‘if you ever need a birthday card again, don’t bother making a special trip into town. Uses too much fuel, which is a bugger at these prices. Just give me a call and I’ll pick one out for you. I’ll give it to Jim on his postie run.’ Stunned by this generous offer, I thanked Bill for his advice.

The system worked a treat. On Monday morning, I left three unstamped letters in my mailbox – including Genevieve’s birthday card – with a note for Jim the Postie, enclosing ten dollars. Hi, Jim. Would you mind buying ten stamps and sending these letters in today’s post? Many thanks, Fiona. The mail was collected and delivered three times a week in Jandowae. On Wednesday morning, some 48 hours later, a white postal van pulled into the driveway and stopped in front of the Danube. Out hopped a man in a fluorescent vest.

‘G’day,’ he said, sliding my office door open. ‘I’m Jim. I posted your envelopes on Monday. Here’s the change for your stamps.’

I shook my head with admiration.

‘Jim, that’s fantastic,’ I gushed.

‘And here’s your mail for today,’ added Jim, tossing a pile of envelopes into the inbox on my desk. He stopped for a moment and glanced around my office.

‘I’ve been trying to guess for weeks what Stu had growing in this donger … thought it might have been hydroponics,’ he said with a sly grin. ‘Turns out it was a sheila from Sydney.’ I laughed aloud as Jim waved goodbye.

Later that day, I waxed lyrical to Stu about the postal system.

‘I can’t believe it,’ I enthused, ‘I mean, in Sydney, some posties get surly if you speak to them at all. Jim’s a breath of fresh air.’ Stuart looked thoughtful.

‘Yeah, it’s pretty good,’ he agreed. ‘But it does have its drawbacks. Remember how you sent a Valentine’s Day card last year addressed to “Spunky Higgins”? Well, Jim had a bit of fun with that. In fact, so did Peter the postmaster. They kept calling me “Spunky” until August.’ My laughter had a guilty edge – at that time, I’d had no idea of the lack of privacy in Jandowae, nor the power of the bush telegraph.

‘But overall,’ I said, ‘you’d have to say the benefits of rural life outweigh the disadvantages, wouldn’t you?’

‘Well, it has its moments,’ he said. ‘Let’s see how you feel in a year’s time.’

It was certainly clear that unlike the anonymity of the Big Smoke, where terrorists, sadomasochists and anarchists could melt unnoticed into a mass of surging humanity, citizens of Jandowae couldn’t change their underpants without someone noticing. This was driven home to me during a local barbecue, several days later.

‘Now, I’ve heard around the traps that you’re a vegetarian,’ said Joan, the hostess, with brusque efficiency. ‘So I’ve organised a lovely tuna quiche for you.’

‘Thanks, Joan,’ I replied, reluctant to advise her that I wasn’t the fish-eating variety of vegetarian.

Joan guided me towards a group of women standing near a manicured rose garden. Guests spilled out across a lawn kept absurdly verdant in defiance of the drought.

‘I’m determined to have my piece of green,’ said Joan. ‘A woman has to have a lawn out here, even if it does mean bucketing water from the shower. You should ask Stuart to put some turf down for you.’

I nodded politely. While I understood the psychological boost a lawn might offer against the relentless brown of the surrounding landscape, it wasn’t a priority in my current hierarchy of needs. I was flat out convincing Stuart to install wire screens on our windows to keep the wildlife at bay.

We approached a small gathering of mostly middle-aged ladies clasping Bacardi Breezers.

‘This is Fiona,’ Joan announced to the assembled group. ‘She’s just arrived from Sydney, so be nice.’ Then she fluttered away.

‘Hello,’ I said self-consciously, glancing about the group. I scanned the crowd for Stu, catching a glimpse of the back of his head among a group of farmers tossing steaks onto the barbecue.

A tall brunette turned to me and smiled. ‘Paul tells me you’ve been doing a bit of jogging along the Warra–Marnhull Road,’ she observed. ‘Like to keep fit, do you?’ I wondered who Paul was and why, if he’d seen me jogging, I hadn’t seen him.

‘Well, it’s such beautiful country around Gebar, it gives me good reason to get outside,’ I replied.

‘But what’s beautiful about Gebar?’ demanded a petite redhead. ‘I mean, you’re right on the corner there, with trucks going past all the time. That high-voltage powerline’s bang on your doorstep. And the house could do with a coat of paint.’

I gazed at her, mystified. Coming from Sydney, I’d never noticed a traffic problem or paid much heed to the transmission line near the property. And I was too busy admiring Gebar’s natural environment to be hung up on the paintwork.

A stocky blonde steered the conversation back on track. ‘Well, jogging ruined my ankle,’ she bemoaned, ‘and Darrell says it will never recover.’

It took me several minutes to determine that Darrell was the district’s physiotherapist and by then, it was too late – the conversation had bolted. Listening to the ebb and flow of the discussion, I tried to keep up as the talk ranged over little Matthew’s teething troubles, the reseeding of the school oval and one family’s poaching of another’s nanny. But when the topic turned to the difficulties of living with an uncommunicative farming husband, I fell silent, adrift in foreign territory.

‘I do the books in the morning and the cleaning in the afternoon. I pick up the kids from the school bus, then Ross turns around and expects me to help him move some machinery. And have his meal on the table by 6.30 pm,’ a short brunette named Shirl complained. The other ladies nodded sympathetically.

And I thought snakes in the house were bad.

The stocky blonde, Trudy, twisted the lid off a Bacardi Breezer. ‘But you know, Shirl, Ross is under a lot of pressure,’ she said. ‘The only thing our fellas can rely on is dinner on the table every night. Lord knows they can’t count on the weather.’

Shirl snapped a pretzel in two, nibbling on the smaller piece. ‘Yeah, there should’ve been some rain by now,’ she replied. ‘The cotton’s looking pretty sick. And when that happens, Ross just clams up. We haven’t had a proper conversation in a fortnight.’

Shirl caught my eye and leaned in towards me. ‘He just stops talking. One season he didn’t speak to me for a whole month,’ she confided, lowering her voice. ‘So I dragged him off to marriage counselling in Toowoomba. Can you believe it? Seeing a marriage counsellor about the drought!’ She shook her head, incredulous. ‘But that’s what you get when you marry a farmer. You know what it’s like.’

‘Mmm,’ I agreed, feeling like a con. What did I really know of how hard these women worked, or the mental health challenges of their drought-affected spouses? I hardly stepped out of the Danube during the day. And despite the nervous wait for rain, Stuart seemed to be coping remarkably well with the hiatus. I swallowed a mouthful of white wine and wondered, briefly, whether Stuart’s resilience would last. Dismissing that thought, I smiled at Shirl. ‘Well, speaking of farmers, I’d better find mine,’ I said, excusing myself.

But there was little conversational solace to be found by the barbecue. Groups of farmers stood about with their Fourex Gold beers, complaining about the fluctuating market and gossiping about machinery acquisitions. Their agricultural jargon was impenetrable to my untrained ears. ‘Johnno reckons it’ll be a three-bale year if those damn aphids don’t let up,’ said a wiry 60-something farmer, as I approached the group. With no sense of what that statement might mean, and Stu nowhere in sight, I resolved to keep walking. I ranged around the property until finally I discovered an external bathroom near the garage.

Closing the door behind me, I sank onto the toilet in semi-darkness. A suspect sound from the cistern caused me to consider, briefly, if I should have checked for frogs. My eye fell on a calendar plastered on the back of the bathroom door. Closer inspection revealed a ‘Babes and Boars’ theme. The month of March featured a blonde woman (Renee from Townsville) in knee-high white boots and a purple string bikini, cradling a slaughtered baby boar against her well-endowed bosom.

I flicked through the remaining months of the year, all featuring lurid photographs of women in various states of undress, alongside gory porcine carcasses. The calendar had the backing of a sporting shooters’ association, and marketed itself to men who appreciated ‘hot chicks and grunters’. Joan’s husband clearly counted himself among this group. I sat on the toilet imagining how I would feel if Stuart had a predilection for such calendars. Well, he does own a gun, I recalled.

Later that night, as we drove back to Gebar in the ute, I mentioned to Stu my encounter with the ‘Babes and Boars’ calendar.

‘What do you use your gun for?’ I asked.

Stuart paused before replying. ‘Well, in all honesty, I have shot a few wild pigs with it. And the odd feral cat.’

I recoiled at the thought of Stuart killing anything with a gun: it didn’t sit comfortably with my Buddhist-inspired avoidance of harming animals. But what had I hoped he might use it for – target practice?

‘Are you okay?’ asked Stuart, reaching over and grasping my knee.

‘I guess so,’ I replied. ‘I just didn’t realise you used your gun so much.’

‘I don’t actually use it very often at all,’ he said, ‘and I don’t use it for fun, that’s for sure. On a farm, a gun’s useful for pest management. Almost every farm’s got one. You can’t always just shoo the snakes out of the house,’ he said, casting a wry sidelong glance at me.

I smiled in spite of myself; he had struck my Achilles heel. Here I was, high and mighty about preserving animal life, but only recently I’d practically bayed for serpentine blood.

‘Well, if it makes you feel any better,’ he continued, ‘the gun’s locked away and you don’t have to see it. Not even Rhonda knows where it is.’ I yawned, resting my head against his shoulder as the ute bumped over the corrugations in the gravel road.

‘Who’s Rhonda, again?’ I asked, closing my eyes.

‘The cleaning lady, remember? You’ll meet her on Monday,’ said Stu, as I nodded off.

Early Monday morning as I stepped out of the shower, I heard an imperious rap on the door and a woman’s voice called out, ‘Who’s there?’

I hurriedly grabbed a towel from the rack. Shouldn’t I be the one asking that question?

‘Hello?’ called the same voice, nearer now. The sound of footsteps in the kitchen made me nervous; it had to be Rhonda, and she’d obviously let herself in. I squeezed the ends of my wet hair and wrapped a towel around myself.

‘Yes?’ I called out, sliding the bathroom door partially open.

A motherly looking woman in her early fifties was heaving a bucket, a mop and two brooms across the kitchen. A slim, tanned male of roughly the same age shuffled dutifully behind her, labouring under the weight of a box of detergent, wipes and brushes.

‘Well, this must be Fiona,’ the woman pronounced, waving at me. ‘I’m Rhonda and this is Carl. Let’s have a cuppa.’

‘Great, I’ll just put on a robe,’ I said.

It turned out that Rhonda and Carl were relative ‘newcomers’ to Jandowae, having moved from regional Victoria three years before. As retirees, they’d been attracted by Jandowae’s ‘$1 Block’ scheme – a population-building initiative of the local council to entice newcomers. Like other small country towns in rural Australia, Jandowae had been compromised by a reduction in government services, bank closures and prolonged drought. Its population was dwindling due to rising unemployment and mass relocations to larger regional centres. In an attempt to arrest this decline, the Jandowae Council developed a radical scheme to sell off 38 blocks of superfluous residential and industrial land for just one dollar each. At the time, sceptical locals speculated that they wouldn’t be able to give them away.

So the locals were surprised, and the council somewhat overwhelmed, when publicity about the initiative went gangbusters – Jandowae rapidly became a topic of conversation in New Zealand, Hong Kong, England and America. There were so many people – including Rhonda and Carl – wanting to buy a block that the council was forced to adopt a ballot system to manage the process. There was a condition, though, for all lucky winners; they had to build a house on their block within twelve months. The council hoped that young families, as well as people willing to start businesses and address critical skills shortages, would be attracted to life in Jandowae.

While Rhonda and Carl missed out in the ballot, they managed to acquire a modest tract of affordable land the following year, on which they proceeded to build a kit home. Carl, a painter by trade, had single-handedly put the whole home together over several years.

‘He’s not just a handyman,’ explained Rhonda, bursting with pride. ‘He’s the best sponge-maker in Jandowae, and an expert with Christmas lights. He wins prizes almost every year in the Jandowae Show and the Jandowae Christmas Lights competition.’

This was not the first time I’d heard locals speak of the importance of these two competitions – both seemed to involve as much rivalry and intrigue as any Olympic event.

‘So,’ sniffed Rhonda, the tenor of the conversation changing abruptly. ‘I s’pose you won’t be needing our services anymore.’ Confused, I stared from one to the other. What exactly did she mean? For a couple of years before my arrival, Rhonda, assisted by Carl, had been employed to clean Stu’s house.

‘Why’s that?’ I asked.

‘Well, I s’pose you’ll be doing all the cleaning now,’ Rhonda observed.

Of course, cleaning is the little woman’s job. I moved quickly to disabuse her.

‘Me? No, I’m working full-time up here,’ I explained. ‘I’ll have to fly to Sydney once a month and stay down there for a week at a time. So we’ll probably need you more often, actually.’ Rhonda looked relieved.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘you just let me know if there are particular ways you like things cleaned and organised.’ I imagined standing over Rhonda with a stock whip and demanding that the pillowcases be folded just so.

‘Thanks, Rhonda,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure you’ll do it beautifully.’

Over the ensuing weeks of regular cleaning visits, Rhonda attempted to galvanise my interest in the domestic arts.

‘Why don’t you put up some curtains?’ she appealed. ‘This place could do with something a little fancy.’ I glanced at the windows with indifference. We didn’t have any neighbours, I reasoned, so why did we need curtains?

‘It’s the Jandowae Show next month,’ Rhonda reminded me. ‘You could look at the arts and craft display for ideas.’ I muttered lamely about needing to complete an important work project.

Rhonda was insistent, however, and after days of badgering, I relented on the matter of curtains. Then the floodgates opened; not only did Rhonda string curtains across windows, she inserted drawer liners (aha!) in places that had never seen the light of day and installed mandatory rural items all over our house. These included a crocheted tea cosy and kitchen towel, doilies for vases and an oval-shaped glass dish for our toothbrushes. Stuart noticed the latter as we brushed our teeth one evening.

‘I’ll give Rhonda ten points for effort,’ he said, foam smeared around his mouth, ‘but that dish has got to go. We’ll never use it.’

I nodded. Our toothbrushes usually lived in the shower recess, and I wasn’t about to embrace the domestic goddess within. I surreptitiously stashed the offending dish under some tea-towels in a kitchen drawer, out of sight. But just one week later, the dish mysteriously reappeared on the bathroom vanity. Rhonda had clearly noticed its absence, located its whereabouts, and reinstated it to its rightful place of glory. I wondered what went through her mind as she rummaged through the house searching for it. I didn’t attempt to stash it elsewhere; Rhonda was sure to find it again.

After the dish incident, Rhonda promptly abandoned her campaign of domestic rehabilitation. Concerned that I had hurt her feelings, I resolved to attend the Jandowae Show that Saturday, where Carl would be exhibiting his prize-winning sponge cake.

‘Maybe I’ll see you there, Rhonda,’ I said.

‘Maybe, luv,’ she replied, and returned to her cleaning.

CHAPTER 11

The following weekend, I fulfilled my promise to attend the Jandowae Show. It was a scorcher of a Saturday morning and I was keen to get there early. Stuart was busy with machinery repairs, and by midmorning hadn’t finished the job. ‘I’ll meet you in there later,’ he transmitted from the two-way radio in his ute. Reluctantly I agreed, daunted by the prospect of attending the show alone. As I reversed out the driveway, the cotton bolls bobbed like pale fairy floss in the breeze.

I drove into town and was surprised by the number of cars queuing to enter the showground. Inside, despite the heat, punters were flocking in droves to carnival tents, produce stalls, sideshow alley games and food outlets. Several rides had been trucked in – dodgem cars and a whirling, spinning machine – and were overseen by tattooed men you wouldn’t trust your pet parrot with, let alone your children. Immediately upon arrival I sought out the produce hall, where Carl’s famous sponge was on show.

Entering the airy shed, I was dazzled by the array of farmers’ pride and joy on display, each vying for first prize in their respective categories. Canisters of grain, painstakingly washed, dried and presented in fetching country baskets; the first sheafs of wheat adorned with hand-woven ribbons; bundles of lucerne, cotton and barley, decorated with love by farmers’ wives.

As I admired a canister of red seeds, I felt a soft tap on my shoulder.

‘Hello, I’m Wilma,’ said a matronly woman in her fifties, hovering behind me. ‘We’re neighbours. Dave and me live just down the road from you. What do you think of Dave’s sorghum then?’ she asked, gesturing towards the canister I was inspecting.

‘Um, it’s a beautiful colour,’ I offered, uncertain about the criteria used to assess the quality of sorghum. In fact, I’d only just learnt what sorghum was – a summer grain crop planted in many Queensland regions, providing feed grain for the beef, dairy, pig and poultry industries.

‘I’ll say,’ Wilma agreed. ‘It’s a miracle really, with the heat we’ve had. It performs so much better than corn in marginal potassium soil.’ I nodded, feigning comprehension. She might as well have been speaking Spanish.

‘Do you want to come for dinner tomorrow night?’ Wilma asked suddenly. She tugged at her bag and retrieved a small notebook. ‘This is us,’ she said, writing the last three digits of her telephone number on a small piece of paper and thrusting it into my hand. ‘Why don’t you check with Stu and get back to me?’

‘Well, that sounds lovely …’ I said.

‘Good, then it’s set,’ Wilma smiled. ‘Tomorrow night at 7.30 pm. We’ll see you there.’ Where’s there again? But she had turned on her heel and was gone.

Wandering through the arts and crafts section, I took in a hitherto alien world of needlework, quilting, decoupage and flower arranging. I couldn’t fathom the sheer woman-hours involved. I moved on to the culinary section, seeking out Carl’s sponge cake entry. Accosted by the sight of perfectly formed scones, fluffy meringue pies, coconut-dusted lamingtons and giant Anzac biscuits, I started to ponder whether I was, in fact, only half a woman. And then there was Carl’s sponge cake, submitted with such care; hand-stencilled signage announced his entry in Division A, 17. Sponge Sandwich – jam filled – noticed. The note was pinned with mother-of-pearl clasps to the base of an antique cake stand. Admonished, I concluded I was a domestic disaster and exited the culinary section, defeated.

Outside the produce hall, I was confronted by a ‘Guess the Bull’s Weight’ competition. A giant mass of bovine flesh was incarcerated in a rusted cage, nostrils flaring. With a surge of concern, I stood staring at the bull: there was something piteous about the creature.

‘Yer takin’ a long time to decide,’ drawled the attendant. ‘What’s yer guess?’ I fished a two-dollar coin from my pocket and passed it to him.

‘Four hundred kilos,’ I announced, stabbing wildly at a figure. The attendant threw back his head and laughed outright.

‘Might as well’ve chucked your two bucks down the shitter, luv,’ he chuckled. ‘Yer only out by about 300 kilos.’

Chastened, I wandered off towards the sound of dogs barking. In contrast to the bull’s suspended animation, the dog-jumping competition was a blur of movement. I watched in amazement as all manner of working dogs – mostly kelpies, sheepdogs and blue heelers – attempted to scale ever higher targets. Dogs would dash full pelt at a tower of planks stacked on the back of a ute, only to falter, slip or simply run out of steam ten centimetres from the top. ‘Ohhhhhh,’ the crowd would collectively sigh as a dog slunk back to its owner, eyes downcast and tail between its legs. I gasped as an agile blue heeler plunged backwards, paws in the air, after failing to clear a two-metre height. ‘It’s all right,’ declared a male voice behind me, ‘the dogs love this sort of competition.’

I turned to see a man standing behind me who looked like the Lone Ranger. His wide-legged pants and tasselled long-sleeved shirt had been starched and ironed with military-style precision. His white Akubra sported a black leather trim and his clean-shaven jaw jutted with youthful confidence. ‘I’m Shane, judge of the rodeo,’ he grinned, extending his hand. ‘You seem a bit scared for the dogs. But they enjoy it, y’know. Just like bulls love rodeo.’ I smiled back, with little enthusiasm. You mean the bulls relish the electric jigger that makes them buck? Oh bollocks, Shane. I considered where this conversation might go. What on earth could a Buddhist-leaning vegetarian have in common with a rodeo judge?

I resisted the urge to bolt back to the arts and crafts display.

‘How long have you been involved in rodeo, Shane?’ I asked instead.

‘Since I was a little tacker,’ he said. ‘And I’ve always loved it. It’s just you against the beast.’

I couldn’t restrain myself. ‘But what about all the animal injuries and deaths in rodeo?’

Shane peered at me, puzzled.

‘But us cowboys really love our animals,’ he assured me. ‘Those bulls get treated real special, with a special diet, special lodgings. It’s more likely the humans that come a cropper.’ Shane glanced at his watch. ‘Damn!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m due back at the rodeo ring in ten minutes. Why don’t you come over and see for yourself? The heats are on until six o’clock.’

‘I’ll do that,’ I said.

Several hours later Stuart joined me, clearly fatigued.

‘Sorry it took me so long. I had to reset the heads on the picker,’ he said. I wasn’t sure what that entailed, but I reached out and massaged the back of his neck in sympathy.

‘You look tired,’ I said.

‘Not so tired I can’t eat three steak sandwiches,’ he replied. ‘Come on, let’s have a bite to eat and get some real bush culture.’

We made our way to the rodeo ring, stopping off to buy our snacks. My ice-cream began to melt as we picked our way around the ring, trying to find a seat. Finally, we squeezed into a tiny vacant space in the grandstand.

The crowd started cat-calling as soon as the stalls flew open. There was something utterly demented about a 70-kilogram man lowering himself onto an 850-kilogram angry bull. Competitors were allocated a bull by ballot and challenged to endure its bucking for more than eight seconds, one hand strapped tightly to the bull’s back.

‘Isn’t it terribly dangerous?’ I asked.

‘Yeah,’ Stuart said. ‘Riders get punctured lungs, broken bones, that sort of thing. But rodeo’s bush culture, Fi. It showcases the skills cattlemen have needed over the years.’

The spectacle was riveting; I guiltily recalled the anti-rodeo RSPCA literature I’d reviewed from the comfort of my Sydney office. Animal rights activists drew attention to the distress and injury caused to animals during just this kind of event. It couldn’t be justified as entertainment, they asserted.

‘But what about the animals?’ I asked.

‘Some of these bulls have bigger profiles than their riders,’ he replied. ‘There was one bull named Chainsaw: only nine people managed to ride him in his ten-year rodeo career. He was a real bucking bull; he’d leap into the air and do this big diagonal twist. You should’ve seen his swagger whenever he threw a rider.’

I flinched as a particularly frenzied bull leapt around the stadium. Its confident rider leant back and hitched his boots up onto the shoulders of the beast – apparently gaining more points for his effort. The crowd cheered and whistled in appreciation.

‘What do people like about watching this?’ I whispered.

‘Stop watching it, then.’ He chuckled, taking a quick snap of my horrified profile with his digital camera.

Months later, I’d look back at that photo and laugh. In it, I sat cringing – one hand partially covering my eyes, the other covered in melted ice-cream – in a sea of locals whooping with delight. It graphically conveyed how out of place I felt in those early weeks of my new life in Jandowae.

The following morning, in the pre-dawn chill, I was plagued by a nightmare involving a giant black python slithering unseen beneath my bed. I awoke with a start, wailing, ‘I need more light! I need more light!’ Heart palpitating, I reached for Stuart, but the bed was empty. He had already risen for the day; I could hear the faint whirring of a tractor engine in the distance. I rolled out of bed and pulled on my running shoes. A sunrise run would help banish the night shadows.

Jogging was fast becoming a daily pastime. There was something about the quality of the light in Jandowae which increasingly enticed me outdoors. When cycling around Australia six years previously, I’d detested the abrasive light of Queensland. Back then, as road trains roared past me with ‘Sunshine State’ emblazoned on their number plates, I’d squinted against the unbearable glare radiating off parched fields.

But Jandowae was introducing me to another kind of Queensland light. A soft light adorning an autumn morning, the muted haze of a late afternoon. The crystalline vapour of early evenings, turning the eucalypt foothills of the Bunya Mountains a warm, muddy chocolate. This was a light that could inspire art – it begged to be painted in watercolour. Not renowned for any artistic flair, I embraced the light by running. I inhaled its beauty with every breath.

‘Hi there,’ called Stu, as I returned from my run. ‘Wilma Wynnum telephoned for you earlier. She wanted to confirm dinner. I gather we’re going up there tonight?’

‘That’s right. I forgot to tell you, sorry. I’ll call her back,’ I said, reaching for the telephone. I dialled the digits scrawled on her note. She answered within two rings.

‘Hi Wilma, it’s Fiona,’ I said.

‘Well hello there! Dave and I are so looking forward to dinner tonight,’ she chirped, ‘but Becky tells me you’re a veg-o-tarian. So I thought I’d roast a chicken. Is that all right?’ I winced, preparing for another discussion about my finicky eating habits.

‘I’m afraid I don’t eat chicken,’ I said. A crestfallen silence ensued.

‘But I thought it was just red meat you didn’t eat?’ said Wilma.

‘It’s animals generally,’ I replied, ‘but I love anything with vegetables, cheese, eggs or tofu.’

Wilma paused. ‘What’s tarfoo?’ she asked. I gave a halfhearted explanation about soybean derivatives used as meat replacements.

‘Oh, so it tastes like chicken, does it?’ she asked.

‘Exactly,’ I said, deflecting the conversation. ‘Please don’t go to any trouble, I’d be happy with salad.’ With her menu plan in disarray, Wilma promptly ended the phone call.

Later that evening, as we approached our neighbours’ property in Stuart’s ute, bright spotlights illuminated their rustic homestead against the cavernous night sky. The long driveway bordered an enormous field of sorghum, all sagging and brown.

‘What’s wrong with that crop?’ I asked.

‘Didn’t make it through the drought,’ replied Stu. ‘Wasn’t enough rain early in the season. Dave did well in two of his fields, but ran out of water for the rest.’ Stuart wound down his window and looked at the plants.

‘He’ll just have to plough them back into the soil and hope for a better season next year,’ he observed. ‘Plenty of farmers doing that at the moment.’

We reached the end of the gravel driveway and pulled up alongside an elaborate rockery featuring hand-painted garden gnomes engaged in all manner of cheery activity. A tennis court, its net weathered and drooping, offered a hint of better, more sociable days before the drought.

As Stuart cut the engine, three blue heeler cattle dogs raced out of the shadows, barking at our windows. I cowered in the passenger seat while Stuart swung open his door, placed two fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. Responding immediately, the blue heelers flopped at Stu’s feet, belly up and tails wagging. For all their relaxed affability, they still kept a vigilant eye upon me, The Stranger, as I climbed out of the car.

The front door swung open and Wilma and Dave emerged. ‘Don’t mind the dogs,’ called Dave, all combed and scrubbed and wearing a blue-and-red chequered shirt. Wilma was clad in an apron and oven mitts. She waved at us in great round arcs, like a ground controller directing a jumbo jet to its terminal.

‘Hello!’ she called excitedly. ‘I’d better get back inside, or the ’taties will burn!’ The aroma of freshly applied hair spray hung in the air as she disappeared into the kitchen.

‘Come in,’ said Dave, ushering us towards the lounge room. We were barely seated before Wilma re-emerged, carrying a bulging photo album.

‘Dave will take you through this,’ she announced.

Assisted by Dave’s commentary, we spent the next half hour poring over important family snaps. There was son Larry’s TAFE graduation, daughter Thelma’s prize-winning painting at the Jandowae Show, grandson Ronald’s role as a shepherd in the Christmas pageant, and nephew Tom’s engagement to Christy. Dave turned the pages of the album like a priest with the Holy Book. Although he had scoured his hands and fingernails, telltale grease in the creases of his palms betrayed his labour in the fields.

‘And here’s my mum,’ he said, pointing to an image of a kindlylooking elderly woman, propped up on a daybed on the verandah.

‘She looks happy,’ I said, noticing her lively eyes.

‘Yeah, but three months after this was taken, she’d passed on,’ Dave said, wiping the corner of his eye with his flannelette cuff. ‘They tried to operate, but the cancer was everywhere.’ I nodded quietly, unaccustomed to sharing such intimacies – the love and loss of family life – so soon after meeting.

‘Come up to the table,’ Wilma commanded, placing a steaming casserole dish next to a stack of oven-fried potatoes and a bread basket. ‘That’s yours,’ she said to me, gesturing to a gigantic dish of roast vegetables. ‘All home-grown.’ An array of pumpkin, sweet potato, beetroot and cauliflower beckoned, drizzled with a cheese and parsley sauce. This was going to be the best meal I’d had all week.

We bowed our heads to say grace. The last time I’d said grace before dinner was in Indonesia, I recalled, where religion permeated daily life.

As we started our meals, Dave waved a brown bottle at me. ‘Ginger beer?’ he asked.

Craving a glass of pinot, I nodded politely. Dinner conversation ranged across local subjects, including inter-generational grievances played out across boundary fences, water disputes and rumours of gold deposits beneath neighbours’ paddocks. While such subjects were new to me, they weren’t totally inaccessible; at least I managed to ask sensible questions. Unsurprisingly, the lack of rain was a recurring theme.

‘I s’pose you must think Jandowae’s dreadfully ugly,’ said Wilma, passing me a bread roll. ‘But it looks real nice after rain.’

‘I’m sure it does,’ I replied. ‘But I think it’s beautiful, even without rain.’

Dave regarded me impassively. ‘Nothing beautiful about the drought, luv,’ he said. ‘Those crops you drove past on the way in, they break yer heart.’

I flushed, embarrassed by my insensitivity. I certainly hadn’t meant to trivialise the impact of the drought.

‘Yes,’ I responded, attempting to make amends, ‘it must be so difficult for you, watching your crops die.’

A moody silence settled over the table. Stuart made an ever-so-subtle shaking movement with his head; I’d evidently trampled over ‘no-go’ territory. I stared into my ginger beer.

‘But you’ve got some decent looking crops in those back paddocks, Dave,’ observed Stu, attempting to salvage the conversation.

‘Yeah, but the agronomist reckons we might get an outbreak of whitefly this season,’ said Dave, despondent. ‘And that’d be a bloody disaster, on top of the drought.’

Despite my previous faux pas, I summoned the courage to ask another question.

‘Dave,’ I ventured, ‘what’s whitefly?’

He looked at me blankly.

‘Weeelllll,’ Dave exhaled, rearranging the belt holding up his trousers with renewed energy, ‘it’s a very nasty kind of suckin’ pest. Y’see, you’ve got yer chewin’ pests and you’ve got yer suckin’ pests. Yer chewin’ pests just bite chunks out of a plant, but yer suckin’ pests put a proboscis into a plant and suck the sap right out.’ My eyes started to glaze over: what had I started?

‘They can do a lot of damage, ’specially on a small plant,’ he continued. ‘But with whitefly, the problem’s not how much sap they suck, it’s the sticky honeydew they spit out of their arse-holes.’

From family photos to sticky arseholes in less than an hour: I repressed a giggle. No-one else seemed remotely amused. ‘Y’see, whitefly function a bit like chooks,’ Dave resumed. ‘They don’t pee and poo, ’cause they don’t have two orifices. They just have one cloaca instead, and a sticky product comes spurtin’ out of it, a bit like honeydew.’ I considered myself fairly well-read, but I’d never encountered the term ‘cloaca’. The word certainly sounded like an orifice from which a sticky mass might be ejaculated. I glanced at Wilma, my litmus test on propriety. She was happily tucking in to her second helping of chicken casserole.

Dave continued apace. ‘So, whitefly put out their sticky honeydew all over yer crop, and that’s a concern. It makes yer cotton very difficult to gin.’

‘To gin?’ I asked, grappling with the use of this word as a verb.

Stuart intervened. ‘It’s the first step in processing cotton,’ he explained. ‘Once the crop is harvested off the field, you transport it to the ginning plant, where it’s put through an enormous threshing machine. The fibre gets separated from everything else in the cotton, like seeds, or leaves, or sticks. Then the quality of the fibre is assessed.’

Dave wrung his hands, itching to continue. ‘When they had a whitefly outbreak in Arizona a decade ago,’ he said, ‘they couldn’t get the cotton through the ginning machines at all, there was so much stickiness. It’s given Arizona cotton a bad name ever since.’ He paused dramatically and rapped the table with his knuckles for emphasis. ‘Ten years on, it still gets docked for quality, even when it’s not sticky. So we’re very nervous about stickiness,’ he concluded. I nodded gravely.

When the discussion about farm business had run its course and the meal was winding up, the conversation turned to me.

‘Won’t you feel sorry for Stu when you go back to Sydney for work?’ asked Wilma pointedly.

‘Well, no,’ I smiled. ‘He’s looked after himself pretty well for the last fourteen years. I’m sure he’ll be fine.’

‘Dunno about that,’ said Dave. ‘I’ve only been apart from Wilma for four nights in 28 years. And that was when she was in hospital having the kids.’

Wilma smoothed her apron. ‘What exactly is it that you do again?’ she asked. In Jandowae, it was clear that a woman’s place was not on a plane to Sydney.

I took a deep breath and replied, ‘I work in philanthropy.’ Wilma looked baffled; she was as unfamiliar with the term ‘philanthropy’ as I was with ‘cloaca’.

‘Well,’ she observed, ‘it’ll all have to stop when you get married and have children.’

I almost gagged on my apple pie. ‘Mmm,’ I replied, in a noncommittal tone. I glanced at Stu, who was studying the bread basket. I suppose that’s what people expect will happen.

Not long after Stu’s mandatory second helping of dessert, we bade our farewells and lumbered out into the night.

As we drove home in the ute, I recalled the last dinner party I’d attended prior to my departure from Sydney. It had been an elegant affair, with conversation ranging across topics from indigenous issues to industrial relations. While I’d enjoyed the intellectual repartee, there’d been a certain safety and distance in the abstract analysis of it all. With Wilma and Dave, there was nowhere to hide; they had opened their photo albums and their hearts, without recourse to theory. While I’d felt discomfited at times by Wilma’s personal probing, I respected her candour. In contrast to the affectation of some Sydney soirees, the sincerity of our hosts was unquestionable.

‘How was your night, Fi?’ asked Stu, as we pulled into our driveway. ‘Not too tough, I hope? Wilma had a bit of a chop at you.’

I smiled in the darkness. ‘It was the most unpretentious dinner party I’ve been to in years.’

After more than a month in my new rural abode, I returned to Sydney for my first work visit. I drank in the harbour view from my office, sniffed the seaside air, relished the countless varieties of coffees available from charming baristas on street corners and slept soundly at night with the reassuring white noise of distant traffic. Friends were variously horrified or amused by my tales of snakes, internet disconnections, power outages and local shindigs. My office colleagues were aghast at the prospect of me spending my entire working day alone in the Danube, which some scoffingly referred to as ‘The Tardis’.

‘Makes me feel just a tad dull and boring,’ observed a colleague one day over a sushi lunch. ‘The closest I’ve come to nature lately was waving a blowfly off my vanilla frappaccino outside Starbucks.’

I laughed and shook my head. ‘It all sounds more exotic and adventurous than it really is,’ I assured him. ‘The reality is, I stick out like dogs’ balls up there.’

My colleague almost choked on his nori roll.

‘Well, you’ve picked up the vernacular already,’ he said. ‘Soon you’ll blend right in.’

CHAPTER 12

As the weeks progressed, I settled into an increasingly comfortable rural routine. During office hours I was the picture of efficiency – fielding emails, conducting teleconferences, undertaking research, compiling presentations and analysing funding submissions. I was determined not to let my professionalism slip, and probably overcompensated by doing more than absolutely necessary. Thankfully, my employer seemed satisfied with the quality of my work in the Danube. And surprisingly, my colleagues began to take a real interest in my rural existence. In response, I started circulating weekly emails entitled ‘The Bush Telegraph’.

Outside of office hours, I felt a little like a character in a Slim Dusty song. I’d perfected the art of using the word ‘ay’ at the end of my sentences; ‘Nice day, ay?’ and ‘Big meal, ay?’ I was getting used to farmers’ hours – up at 4.45 am, yawning by 8.00 pm. I’d even become accustomed to chance encounters with wildlife, which occurred with alarming frequency when I was either naked in the bathroom or vulnerable on the toilet.

One evening in my second month at Jandowae, I sprinted from the toilet to inform Stu that a large scorpion-like creature had accosted me, fierce tail aloft, pincers poised to skewer. I screamed, hoisted my feet upwards and leaped over the predator. Stuart waited patiently as I breathlessly described the scorpion, then followed me out to the toilet.

He took the intruder in and, eyeing me dubiously, remarked, ‘It’s an earwig, babe.’

Jandowae was, apparently, a breeding ground for giant prehistoric earwigs that would not only comfortably devour your ear (or your wig), but would have a good go at any other bodily appendage. I flushed the toilet, carefully avoiding the scorpion-cum-earwig, and withdrew to our newly screened bedroom.

While I remained jittery about the critters in and around our home, I began to relax in other ways. I started to reassess, for example, my urban takeaway-and-frozen-meals approach to food preparation. Necessity was perhaps the mother of invention; the closest Thai takeaway outlet was some 150 kilometres away. Or maybe it was my sudden proximity to primary production. Watching crops growing in the fields prompted me to reconsider how items I’d previously taken for granted – such as bread, butter and milk – were actually produced.

Whatever the reason, I slowly became comfortable spending more time in the kitchen. I started with battles I knew I could win and began to dabble in biscuit-making. One Saturday morning with little else to do, I slaved over a batch of Anzac biscuits for Stuart’s morning tea. They emerged from the oven slightly overdone, but I was pleased with my effort. (‘Crunchy, but nice,’ Stuart remarked with a smile, washing one down with a glass of milk.) At other times – especially when neighbours planned to visit – my confidence ebbed and I resorted to packet cake mixes. Thus I created date loaves and fudge brownies that I blithely passed off as my own, either by omission (‘Oh no, it wasn’t that much of an effort …’) or outright untruth (‘It’s an old family recipe …’).

Aside from my newfound experimentation in the kitchen, Jandowae inspired a nascent desire to expand my running horizons. In my former existence, I’d been content with a three-kilometre beach jog at the end of my working day, usually as a prelude to a glass of pinot. In Jandowae, the vast unpopulated expanses impelled me to discover their secrets. There was something about the dark, alluvial plains – stretching for miles under a peacock blue sky – that caused me to abandon all sense of my running limitations.

My regular run to the windmill and back – an eight-kilometre east–west route – quickly became baseline. Soon I ran to Cronins Road, a ten-kilometre return route, and when that no longer presented a challenge, to Jeitzs Road, a further two kilometres away. And then one weekend, I decided to run to the next property along the Warra–Marnhull Road, making my journey an eighteen-kilometre round trip. The morning after that particularly ambitious run, I woke up as stiff as a plank; my hamstrings, quadriceps and calves had seized up with lactic acid.

By 3.00 pm, the pain had worsened. I popped several anti-inflammatory pills and telephoned Marie, who lived on a nearby property. The lively wife of one of Stuart’s farmer friends, Marie was one of the first in the district to call in and introduce herself after my arrival in Jandowae. Despite managing her farm’s accounts and keeping busy with four children, Marie somehow found the time to drop by the Danube on a regular basis. Within a matter of weeks, we’d become firm friends.

‘Marie,’ I said, as she picked up the receiver.

‘Fi, what’s wrong?’ she asked, detecting the edge in my voice.

‘I ran too far yesterday,’ I croaked down the telephone, ‘and everything hurts.’

Marie tut-tutted in sympathy. ‘Come and have a soak in my bath,’ she urged, ‘that’ll loosen your muscles.’ I’d caught sight of Marie’s luxurious bath during my frequent visits to her home for morning tea – it was deeper and wider than the ordinary variety, with strategically placed spa jets for weary backs and shoulders.

‘But what about the water, can you spare it?’ I asked. The week before, I’d been standing under the shower at Gebar when the water flow had sputtered suddenly, then dwindled to a trickle. The tank water for our home had simply run out: Stuart was forced to truck across 10,000 litres of precious water from a tank usually reserved for farm activities such as crop spraying. If it didn’t rain soon, we would have to buy water for home use from Dalby, some 50 kilometres away.

‘Never mind all that, Fi,’ said Marie. ‘The grey water goes onto the vegie patch. And I haven’t had a bath in months – it’s ’bout time the tub was used again.’

In Sydney, I’d never have contemplated driving to a friend’s home to ‘borrow’ her bath. But I cast aside all urban protocols and gratefully accepted Marie’s offer. In the age of drought, it was a generous gift.

Half an hour later I sank into blissful oblivion. I could hear the youngest of Marie’s four children playing with a train set outside the bathroom door. ‘I’ve left fresh towels out here,’ called Marie from beyond the door. ‘And will you stay for a cuppa and some chocolate slice when you’re finished?’ I smiled at Marie’s trademark hospitality. ‘Of course,’ I called back. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

While pushing the limits of my physical endurance on the ground, I had also started to carve out uncharted territory in the air. Since my arrival in Jandowae I’d staunchly avoided Stu’s invitations to join him at regular weekend activities at the Dalby aerodrome. One Sunday morning in autumn, however, as we lay dozing in bed, Stu rolled over and said, ‘Can I take you to morning tea at Jimbour House?’ I clapped my hands with delight and immediately agreed.

Jimbour House was a nearby property of historical significance, with a gracious homestead and garden, as well as a restaurant and cellar. An oasis of refinement and taste, it hosted arts festivals and opera concerts annually. It was a lifeline back to Sydney Me. There was a catch, however, to Stu’s offer.

‘Why don’t we fly there in the Cessna?’ he asked. ‘There’s a landing strip next to the homestead and we can fly from Dalby. It’ll only take ten minutes.’

My stomach fluttered at the prospect of flying in a small, single-engine aircraft, but I couldn’t resist Stu’s entreaties forever.

Two hours later, I reluctantly climbed into a tiny aircraft parked on the tarmac of Dalby aerodrome. While mechanically intact and conscientiously maintained, the physical appearance of this 1967 Cessna – known by its call sign VH-DBY – did not instil confidence. With chipped paint and small chunks missing out of what Stu described as ‘non-important parts of the body’, it was a fearful flyer’s Waterloo.

As I hoisted myself into the co-pilot’s seat, Stu leant over and tugged at the window beside me.

‘This has a tendency to fly open at 2,000 feet,’ he said. ‘Just shut it if it does.’ Was it too late to renege? I swallowed hard as Stu assisted me with my seatbelt and handed me a headset.

‘This’ll reduce the engine noise,’ he said, fitting the headset over my ears. ‘And it’ll allow us to talk to each other. You’ll be able to hear the other air traffic too.’

Adjusting his harness, Stu turned to me and said, ‘Now Fi, I’m not trying to scare you, but you need to know what to do in an emergency.’ He proceeded to explain the operation of the exits, the location of something known as an EPIRB (Emergency Position-Indicating Radio Beacon), and the procedure for emergency mustering once outside the aircraft.

He patted my leg reassuringly and said, ‘But we won’t need it. Are you ready to go?’

I nodded woodenly.

Stu turned the key in the engine, opened a small window to his left and called out, ‘Clear Prop!’ Apparently this was a truncated way of advising anyone within earshot to stay clear of the propeller. He then commenced a sequence of pre-takeoff checks, lightly touching the instruments and dials in front of him, confirming their status: ‘Trim, throttle, mixture, primer … fuel, fuses, flaps, instruments, switches … controls, harnesses and hatches, transponder.’

We taxied to the end of the runway and Stuart announced by radio: ‘Dalby traffic, this is Delta Bravo Yankee, Cessna 172 taxiing to runway 1-3, departing to the north for Jimbour Station 2500. Dalby traffic.’ My shaking knees were conveniently undetectable against the shuddering of the aircraft, poised to fly. Stu increased the throttle to a deafening roar and suddenly we were off, gaining speed along the tarmac. I felt every bump and yaw as we hurtled down the runway, reaching optimum momentum before finally lifting into the air. My shirt clung to my back and chest; I was drenched in sweat.

Once we were airborne, Stu adjusted his radio frequency, reiterated our position and destination and advised flightwatch of ‘2POB, requesting SAR at 0100 arrival Jimbour’. This was, Stu explained, a shortened method of saying, ‘We have two people on board. If you haven’t heard from me again by 1.00 am Greenwich Mean Time – 11.00 am in Queensland – please send out the Search and Rescue team.’ It was moderately reassuring that someone in Radar Land was watching us.

We ascended through 2,000 feet and circled above familiar territory. The trucks and cars on the Warrego Highway looked like children’s toys and the patchwork fields seemed so orderly. Only the empty dams, resembling parched volcanic craters when seen from above, bore witness to the devastation occurring for so many farmers below.

‘No-one’s got water,’ I said.

‘And from the colour of the crops, they’re cactus,’ Stu added.

The terracotta tones of the fields, so breathtaking from the air, were testament to the gradual decline on earth.

As we commenced our descent into the Jimbour landing strip, I stared at the fields below, wondering when the drought would break. Could it be possible that it wouldn’t break at all? It was a scenario that some climate change experts considered probable, with their predictions of increasingly extreme weather patterns. Stu guided the Cessna smoothly into land and we came to a halt at the edge of the airfield. As I stepped onto the wing strut and climbed to the ground, I beamed at Stu. It was the first time, in my vexed history of flight, that I’d momentarily forgotten I was airborne.

After the relentless heat of late summer, autumn brought fresh evenings and a discernible easing of the scorching midday sun. The green tree frogs migrated out of the toilet, seeking warmer climes in our shower recess and linen cupboard. Overcoming my initial revulsion at discovering bulging frogs perched on the soap or huddled among fresh sheets, I slowly developed the necessary skills to evict them. I became increasingly adept at catching these critters with one hand, striding to the door and lobbing them out of the house. ‘Not even a scream,’ called Stu one morning, clapping as I ejected three frogs from the shower with an over-arm bowling action. ‘Alert, but not alarmed. Very impressive.’

I remained mildly alarmed, however, when it came to navigating the South-East Queensland accent of the Jandowae locals. Although familiar with the broader, sometimes nasal tones of my regular acquaintances, I struggled occasionally with new introductions. This was slammed home to me one morning during a conversation with my local Ford dealer. I’d dropped my Festiva in for its 60,000-kilometre service the day before. Since my relocation to Jandowae, it had clocked up thousands of kilometres of arduous driving on gravel roads.

‘Sorry, luv,’ drawled Alan, the mechanic, ‘but yer gonna need new brake pads. They’re worn out ’cause of shitty drivin’.’

‘What do you mean?’ I barked defensively down the telephone. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my driving. What’s shitty about it?’

Alan coughed and repeated his words slowly. ‘CITY drivin’, ma’am,’ he said courteously. ‘Wear and tear caused by CITY drivin’.’

Humble pie duly consumed, I collected my car from Alan and his team of mechanics the following morning, my cheeks matching the colour of the Festiva.

Now that the summer mosquitoes had disappeared, Stuart and I took to hitting tennis balls in the grass country at sunset. One cool autumn evening, Stuart turned to me and challenged, ‘Bet you a hundred bucks you can’t catch this.’ He punched the ball into the air with his tennis racquet – impossibly high – and watched with smug satisfaction as I ran after it.

‘It’s a bet I can’t lose,’ Stuart goaded as I attempted to position myself beneath the plummeting ball.

We’d played this game many times before, and I was renowned for my ‘alligator snap’ catching technique, usually resulting in a dropped ball. On this occasion, however, I somehow managed to catch Stuart’s lob. Holding the ball aloft like a trophy, I leapt over a mound of dirt and laughed with glee.

Stuart narrowed his eyes. ‘Double or nothing,’ he called.

I gave him the thumbs-up signal. ‘You’re on!’ I yelled.

This time, Stuart hit the ball higher than ever before. The lob had a tad of top spin and a lateral trajectory – forcing me to run perilously close to a barbed-wire fence. In the final seconds of the ball’s plunge, I desperately stuck out one hand, slid alongside the fence, and miraculously caught the ball.

Stuart shook his head at me and smiled. ‘I’m not going again,’ he said. ‘That was an impressive catch. Two hundred dollars it is.’

I whooped and lifted my jersey over my head, veering across the paddock, arms outstretched like a soccer champion.

After my first return trip to Sydney, which I had embraced with gusto, my subsequent city sojourns began to lose their appeal. I started to notice things about the metropolis that I’d overlooked while living there. The cost of living was considerably higher, for example. Restaurant tabs which had previously left me unfazed now seemed equivalent to the GDP of Ecuador. Compared with a tiny portion of pistachio-glazed tofu on a big white plate for the unseemly Sydney sum of $39, how could I argue with a $6 counter meal in Jandowae, replete with coleslaw, three bread rolls, and all-you-can-eat potatoes?

Furthermore, I found the public transport experience in Sydney far more claustrophobic than I could previously recall. The empty solitude of Jandowae threw into stark relief the city’s masses of humanity, streaming across motorways in cars, off trains and onto buses. After the vast, unpeopled peace of the Jandowae plains, it seemed untenable to be herded into the bowels of the Manly ferry with several hundred other passengers every morning. The ferry would chug its way across Sydney Harbour, the monotony of the journey interrupted only by pre-recorded safety announcements (‘Life jackets are under your seats’) and irritating mobile phone ringtones. As fellow commuters fielded call after call, I would stare dejectedly out the portside window, resenting my newfound familiarity with Tony’s tour of Europe, Lucy’s squabble with Steve, and Brian’s bucks’ night at Bad Girls. In comparison to this urban jungle, my close encounters with the Jandowae wildlife paled into insignificance.

All was not bucolic simplicity at Jandowae, however. No autumn rains arrived to deliver the moisture that Stu’s crops so desperately needed. Harvest was fast approaching, and the crop had run out of water.

One evening, I awoke to an alien noise battering the house.

I grasped Stuart’s shoulder in the darkness and whispered, ‘What’s that?’

‘Rain on the roof,’ he slurred.

I lay awake, thrilled by the sound. Was the drought breaking at long last? But the next morning, the rain gauge indicated a total of just seventeen millimetres had fallen, pooling temporarily in tiny puddles before being sucked into the thirsty earth. As the clouds cleared and the sun’s rays again assaulted his parched crop, Stuart’s mood plummeted.

‘Something’s wrong with the cotton,’ Stu announced over breakfast one morning, several weeks before harvest. ‘Remember when you arrived at Gebar, I showed you the cotton down by the Pelican Dam?’ I nodded, recalling my first tour of the farm on Stu’s four-wheeler.

‘Well, those plants are even worse now,’ he said. ‘Something’s wrong with them, and it’s more than drought.’

I hesitated, spoon aloft, unsure of how to respond.

‘What do you think it might be?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I’ve racked my brains.’ He slumped onto his elbows, forehead in his hands.

I frowned; Stuart was always vigilant in monitoring the crops. It was unlike him to fail to detect the source of a problem.

‘I contacted the agronomist again to make sure that there are no bugs in there causing damage, and he’s assured me it’s all under control,’ he said. ‘So I’m stumped.’

Taking in the grim expression on Stuart’s face, I pushed my cereal bowl away. ‘Will you show me?’ I asked, reaching over and grasping his hand.

I pulled on an anorak as we walked towards the shed. Mounting the four-wheeler, we sped towards the fields in question.

‘Look,’ Stuart said, waving a hand at the cotton plants. ‘They’re in distress, and there’s nothing I can do about it.’

I caught my breath in surprise. The leaves on the cotton plants were fading to a speckled yellow and their growing tips – usually rigid and green – were withered and deformed. They looked like witches’ fingernails; ugly, warped and brittle.

‘I’ve got to get to the bottom of it,’ he vowed.

True to his word, after several days of painstaking research, Stuart identified the source of the problem. A contractor had failed to clean out residual chemical in his spray rig before mistakenly drenching Stuart’s fields with it. The chemical involved – 2,4-dichlorophenoxyacetic acid or ‘2,4-D’ – was a selective herbicide, toxic to broad-leafed plants.

‘It’s a hormone weedkiller absorbed through the leaves,’ Stu explained stonily, standing in the Danube’s doorway. ‘Even the tiniest amount causes significant damage.’

I was prepared for pestilence or plague – but human error?

‘You mean, the contractor didn’t clean out his machinery properly, then put weedkiller all over your cotton?’ I asked, outraged. Stuart nodded.

‘But how much damage has it caused?’ I fumed. Stuart stared out at the paddocks.

‘Put it this way, Fi,’ he said, ‘you work for twelve months in Sydney and you’re expecting a year’s worth of wages at the end of it. Then your computer crashes and your files just disappear. So your employer pays you 50 per cent of what you’re due. That’s how much damage is involved.’

Instinctively I stood up from my desk and walked towards Stuart, reaching out to comfort him. He shrugged me off and turned on his heel. ‘I have to fix something in the shed,’ he muttered.

I stood, forlorn, as he strode away. His shoulders were rounded, beaten by the burden of his discovery. I resisted the urge to pursue him, recognising his desire to be alone. I knew it was his usual coping mechanism, but it saddened me all the same. Prior to my arrival at Gebar, Stuart had dealt with all manner of crises by himself. Any comfort I could now offer was superfluous: there was nothing I could say or do to salvage the situation. I watched him retreat into the machinery shed. The Bunya Mountains stood sentinel in the distance, austere and shimmering in the midday heat.

It was a disappointing harvest. With the crop affected by water scarcity and spray damage, both the yield and the quality of the cotton were compromised. When the final truckload of cotton had been ginned, Stuart sat down at his desk to calculate his seasonal return. I hovered in the kitchen, agitated, awaiting the pronouncement. Hearing no sound from within, I peeped around his office door. Stuart was leaning back in his chair, staring out the window. ‘Well, we only just broke even, Fi,’ he said. ‘I knew it was coming, but it’s still disappointing.’

He chewed absently on the end of a pen. ‘Old farmers say you get three good years in every ten,’ he remarked, ‘but you just never know which three it’s going to be.’

I waited, motionless.

‘So, I figure that if I stay in farming until I’m 65 years old, I’ve only got nine decent years remaining in my working life,’ he said. ‘Just nine.’ He raked his hands over his scalp.

‘Who’d volunteer for this? You work your guts out and more often than not, through no fault of your own, it’s not rewarded.’ He stood up from the desk and picked up his hat.

‘It’s doing my head in. I’m going for a walk.’ He strode through the kitchen and out the back door.

Once again, I resisted the urge to follow him.

Later that evening, as we lay in bed, I cradled Stuart’s head in the crook of my arm.

‘There’s always next year,’ I whispered. Stuart grunted and rolled away from me.

After a long silence, he remarked, ‘Maybe there won’t be a next year.’ I pulled myself up onto my elbows, concerned.

‘What do you mean? Are you all right?’

Stuart sighed heavily and replied, ‘I’m just tired, Fi. I’m dog-tired.’ He tugged the sheet over his shoulders. ‘If you weren’t out here with me, I’d go crazy. You make the drought bearable.’

A few moments later, his breathing changed and his leg twitched as sleep overcame him. I lay awake, staring into the darkness, ruminating on Stuart’s words. His tone unsettled me.

Something moved in the ceiling above; my eyes turned towards the noise. It was a curious sound, like a cricket ball rolling across wood. Minutes later, the sound came from several directions, as if more than one ball was in motion.

‘Stu,’ I whispered, nudging him gently until he stirred. ‘Stu, what’s that noise?’

‘Probably a possum,’ he replied, groggy with fatigue, before falling back to sleep.

CHAPTER 13

It was an unremarkable Thursday morning in mid-autumn. At a quarter to seven, I groaned with confusion as an alarm clock – a hitherto unused item in our household – blared into life on the bedside table.

Startled, I slammed the clock into silence. I glanced over at Stuart’s side of the bed, which was empty. He must have set the alarm for some reason and forgotten to turn it off.

After several minutes of staring at the ceiling, I glanced again at the alarm clock. This time, I noticed a cream-coloured envelope attached to its rear. I opened it and unfolded a typed note:

Good morning, Fiona. At your leisure, please rise from the bed, get dressed (suggest long pants and boots). Make sure the birds are happy this morning, because today is a very happy day indeed.

What was Stuart up to? ‘Make sure the birds are happy’? Did he want to show me something interesting on the farm? Birds down by the creek, perhaps? I crawled out of bed and pottered about, washing my face, combing my hair and brushing my teeth. I pulled on a pair of long pants and a shirt, but couldn’t find my boots.

‘Must be outside,’ I muttered, heading towards the side door.

Locating my boots in the outside vestibule, I sat down on a nearby log to pull them on. As I tightened the shoelaces, my eyes fell on the birdbath, a few metres away. A note was attached to its rim, flapping in the breeze. ‘Make sure the birds are happy’… I immediately realised Stu wanted me to fill the birdbath with water and thus discover the note. I made my way over and found another message:

Your trusty chariot for the day is a white Mazda B2600 Bravo. It is waiting for you in the shed … bravo indeed!

Smiling, I dutifully made my way to the shed. As I approached the ute, I detected a third note stuck on the driver’s side mirror, which read:

Fiona, did you know there is a hidden treasure on Gebar watched over by the spirit of Hayley? To call Hayley, all you have to do is: Sit in the ute. Shut the door. Call ‘Get up! Get up!’ (You must do this twice because she never listens the first time). Then check in the rear-vision mirror to see she has jumped in the back. She will not come unless you have checked in the mirror.

Intent on complying with Stu’s instructions to summon ‘the spirit of Hayley’, I sat down in the ute, closed the driver’s door and, feeling a tad foolish, called ‘Get up! Get up!’ out of the open window. I then looked into the rear-vision mirror, expecting Stu to leap from a hidey hole.

Goosebumps prickled across my neck at the vision of a beautiful black-and-tan kelpie peering in at me. Startled, I swung around, then realised that the dog was captured in a photograph, stuck to the rear window of the cab and perfectly positioned at eye level. Another note was pinned below the photograph, penned by ‘Hayley’:

Good morning, Fiona. It is a beautiful day indeed. Sadly, I am only back at Gebar for this very short visit, on this very special day. But before I direct you to the hidden treasure, I’d like to show you a few things I loved doing during my life at Gebar.

Did Stu ever tell you it was me who found the bore water on the farm all those years ago? I’d love it if we could go back and have a quick look. Drive down to the south end of the farm, to the field with the power pole in it. That’s where the first borehole was drilled – thanks to me. Let’s go and have a look!

Tears sprang to my eyes as I recalled this story. I smiled at the photo of Hayley and started the engine. Traversing the route to the bore, I pulled over near a plastic drum. I climbed out of the ute and picked my way across the paddock towards the power pole. The dry dirt yielded beneath my boots, and I imagined Stu navigating this path in years gone by with Hayley at his heel. Attached to the bore was a fifth note, reading:

It doesn’t look like much now, but this is a pretty significant site! How times change.

One thing that will never change with time is the view of the stars from Gebar. Let’s go back to the spot where you last looked at them with Stu.

I remembered that evening well – my first night at the ‘Gebar Planetarium’, as Stu called it. I returned to the ute and followed the dirt road, anticipation building within me. On arrival, I found another upturned drum positioned on the head-ditch from which Stuart and I had star-gazed. Another note read:

There was only one aspect of living at Gebar that I didn’t like, and that was the bloody tiger pear along the creek. Stu and I used to race along there on the bike and ‘Whammo!’, tiger pear straight into my chest and feet. So I’d try and pull it out with my mouth, and ‘Whammo!’ again, straight into my gums.

So I reckon if you were going to protect a treasure from intruders, you’d hide it among the tiger pear along the creek. I’ll race you there!

I drove towards the eastern edge of the farm, manoeuvring the ute between the side of a paddock and a barbed-wire fence. Tiger pear plants dotted the landscape, their fleshy protuberances concealing hook-like barbs that, once embedded in flesh, were extremely difficult and painful to remove. I pictured the long-suffering Hayley limping along as she nursed countless barbs in the pads of her paws and in her mouth. Emerging onto a grassy clearway, my attention was drawn to another drum, and a note which read:

There is an arrow and a number written on the ground in pink paint. Step out the number of paces in the direction indicated. Keep your eyes open for more clues as you go. Remember, I am right with you, guiding you through the field.

I scoured the area for a hint of pink and found the number ‘100’ painted on a bare patch of dirt. An arrow directed me behind a grassy tussock and towards the creek. I strode forwards, carefully counting out my steps (One, two, three...) and watching for flashes of pink. I imagined Hayley bounding along the path ahead of me, scouting the terrain. The path took me through patches of tiger pear (32, 33, 34…), clambering over a barbed-wire fence (66, 67, 68…) and along the creek’s tree-lined edge (81, 82, 83…).

The country took on a very familiar feel. In just twenty more steps, I knew that I would encounter the Hollow Log, the burnt-out tree trunk that had witnessed Stuart’s turmoil after our breakup and, later, our happy reunion. I approached its charred entrance, expecting Stuart to emerge from within. But its shadowy recesses were empty. Attached to the trunk was a final note:

My time at Gebar is over now, Fiona. I have enjoyed being on the farm for one last time, showing you around. May your life be fulfilling.

One last thing … to unlock the goodness in the hidden treasure, you must be asked a question. Sit down, look into the Hollow Log, think of the future and wait for that question …

I crouched down on an old tree stump and peered into the Hollow Log. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I noticed a small, pen-like torch hung from a nail hammered into the trunk. It cast a pale sphere of light inside the fire-blackened hollow. Illuminated within the orb was a solitaire diamond ring, hung upon a second nail, sparkling against the charred background.

My eyes filled with tears as I sensed Stuart behind me. He wrapped his arms around my waist and leant over my shoulder.

‘Fiona Collins, will you marry me?’ he asked. I whirled around and launched myself at him.

‘Yes, I will!’ I exclaimed.

Holding my left hand, Stuart reached into the Hollow Log and retrieved the ring. He gently slipped it onto my finger, clasped my wet face in his hands and kissed me.

We quickly decided that a long engagement was unnecessary. We hoped to avoid a prolonged hullabaloo and, in defiance of the expectations of friends and family, resolved to have a winter wedding. The date was set for July, just eleven weeks after our engagement. This development was greeted with pointed questions including, ‘Why the rush?’, ‘Are you pregnant?’ and ‘Don’t you want a spring wedding, at the very least?’ Flouting the convention of being married in the bride’s home town, we settled on a wedding in a country church in the township of Cambooya, population 1,400, about an hour’s drive from Jandowae.

I soon discovered that as low-key as one might attempt to make a wedding in rural Australia, matrimonial fervour was easily ignited. As the bush telegraph got wind of our engagement, we were inundated with attention. People I hadn’t met developed an intense interest in our impending nuptials, offering advice and assistance on everything from stationery – ‘You must match your envelopes to your invitations’, to honeymoons – ‘Noumea is nice, much nicer than Fiji’, to wedding gowns – ‘You’ll regret it if you don’t have a train, I’ve regretted it all my life’.

Unexpected gifts with explanatory notes were routinely left on our doorstep, including a delicately crocheted yellow coathanger; To hang your gown on; the yellow won’t mark the white fabric; large mixing bowls, You’ll need them once you’re married, believe me; and an embroidered blue box, For storing your garter in after you’ve thrown it to the crowd. There was no way in Hades that I’d be wearing a garter – let alone throwing it to anyone – on my wedding day. I doubted, too, that matrimony would reveal any latent culinary aptitude in me. And as for white weddings, I didn’t have the heart to impart the news that my dress was the subtlest shade of blue. But I wasn’t going to let any of this dampen the flames of friendship in the district.

A more overt rocking of the traditional boat occurred, however, with our choice of minister for the church ceremony. I was thrilled when my friend and mentor from the ethics program, The Reverend Dorothy McRae-McMahon, offered to fly up to country Queensland to officiate at the ceremony. A retired minister of the Uniting Church in Australia, Dorothy was well known for her advocacy on human rights issues. Before my move to Queensland, we’d spent countless hours in coffee shops discussing sex discrimination, the rights of impoverished Third World workers and the needs of the homeless on Sydney’s streets. While Stuart and I thought it made perfect sense that we should be married by someone we loved and respected, we first had to seek the blessing of the congregation of the Uniting Church of Cambooya.

‘I’m from Sydney,’ I explained to a member of the church council over the telephone. ‘I’m sure that your minister would do a wonderful job. But it would mean the world to us if we could be married by our friend who is a retired minister in the Uniting Church. She’ll fly up for the day and, with your permission, conduct the ceremony. Would that be possible?’ The councillor paused.

‘That shouldn’t be a problem at all,’ came the gracious response. ‘Understandable really. And it’s nice to have our church used for weddings. Doesn’t happen very often ’round here. Who’s the minister you have in mind?’

I cleared my throat. ‘The Reverend Dorothy McRae-McMahon.’ A telling silence ensued.

‘Well,’ came the cooler response, ‘I think you’ll have to write a letter to Council about that . Not everyone will agree, you know.’

Aside from Dorothy’s vocal activism on social justice issues, she had come out as a lesbian in the 1990s. It turned out that the Uniting Church of Cambooya, like many other churches, wasn’t at all united on the issue of homosexuals in the ministry. Our request prompted prolonged and vexatious debate within the congregation. I could only imagine the polarising conversations taking place over morning tea after Sunday service.

Finally, after several letters, telephone conversations, visits to the church and a meeting with the resident minister for the greater Drayton parish, the congregation agreed to our request. I was relieved that broad-mindedness had prevailed and sent an effusive letter of thanks and an invitation to the ceremony to all members of the congregation.

In the weeks that followed, we spent hours with Dorothy weighing up the nature of our marriage ceremony and the language of our vows.

‘Fi and I have come a long way,’ said Stu during one of these sessions. ‘Things were really fragile at the beginning. It was bloody hard; a farmer in one place and a city girl thousands of kilometres away.’ He shook his head, remembering the challenges. ‘It was like trying to cultivate a tiny plant in a glasshouse – it took a while for the roots to take.’ I smiled at the metaphor. ‘But our relationship’s grown into something really solid,’ he continued, ‘despite a few attempts to chop it down.’

Dorothy nodded, recognising Stuart’s reference to our breakup. She’d seen me regularly during those painful months of separation, offering comfort and counsel as I dealt with the loss.

‘Our relationship’s evolved through all of that,’ I added, ‘and we’re ready for the next step. Of course, it’s a risk and it won’t be perfect. But no-one has a perfect relationship.’

Stuart looked at me with hopeful eyes.

‘But maybe we’ll get close to perfect imperfection,’ he said, smiling. ‘That’s my aspiration for our marriage.’

CHAPTER 14

Winter loomed and the season turned, delivering sub-zero nights and morning frosts. Three weeks before our Big Day, Stuart was offered a short-term agricultural consultancy contract in Mozambique.

‘I’d really like to do it, Fi, if that’s okay with you,’ he said. The project involved assessing the irrigation efficiency of rice farms across several provinces in Mozambique.

‘Rice isn’t my crop of choice, of course. In fact, I know bugger all about it,’ he laughed. ‘But I could make a big difference on the irrigation side, improving systems and getting a better return for small growers. Don’t worry, I’ll be back for the wedding.’

I saw the light in his eyes and naturally agreed – here was another opportunity for him to contribute to the developing world, while diversifying his income. I wasn’t about to morph into Bridezilla and refuse to let him go.

Almost no rain had fallen for more than six months. But on the morning of Stuart’s return from Mozambique, just two days before our wedding, the heavens opened and the first substantial rain fell since my arrival in Jandowae. I was already in Toowoomba, welcoming wedding guests arriving from Sydney, when Stuart telephoned. ‘I’m on my way from the airport, but I can’t stop to see you. I’ve got to get out to Gebar to start pumping,’ he said, urgency in his voice. ‘It’s Murphy’s Law of Drought, Fi. It doesn’t rain properly for a year, then two days before our wedding, when I have to be somewhere else, it starts bucketing down.’

The unexpected deluge was of biblical proportions. The creek had risen, burst its banks and the farm was awash. When Stuart called again a few hours later, I could hear the distant throbbing of a motor driving a pump, sucking millions of litres of water from the overflowing creek. Stuart couldn’t neglect such a rare opportunity to harvest water, even for his own wedding.

‘I’ll make it to the ceremony, I promise,’ he assured me. ‘Bloody hell, it’s like the farm’s the Other Woman. Whatever she demands, she gets,’ he laughed.

And indeed I was jealous – not of Stuart’s focus on Gebar, but of his freedom to be there and to relish the soaking rain. I knew where I’d rather be.

Later that day, Stuart emailed me some photographs of Gebar taken after the rain. The transformation was incomprehensible. A small lake encircled the Danube and all manner of creatures – including a rat and a wallaby – were swimming around the property. Stuart had positioned walls of sandbags around my office, to prevent it from floating away. The bush telegraph was running hot with tales of who had received the most rain, whose head-ditches had blown out, and whose machinery was bogged.

‘You and Stu should get married more often,’ Marie gushed down the telephone, ‘because that’s what I reckon caused it.’ Her excitement was contagious.

‘Well, whatever caused it,’ I said, ‘I’m so glad the drought’s broken.’

‘I wish,’ Marie replied, with characteristic directness. ‘It’s not that easy, Fi. To break a drought, you need soaking rain over a season.’

‘Oh,’ I said, deflated, ‘I thought maybe …’

‘I’m not trying to be negative,’ Marie interjected, ‘but it was a freak storm. A lot of it just washed away. And some people hardly got any, poor buggers. You’re either under it, or you’re not.’

I sighed at my naivety.

‘But don’t get me wrong, any rain’s better than none,’ she continued. ‘And I reckon it’s a great sign for your wedding.’

I smiled to myself. In Sydney and cities everywhere, brides prayed for sunshine on their wedding day. In rural Australia, a wet wedding was a propitious omen for a lifetime of happiness.

Despite the rain and mist preceding it, our wedding day was bathed in gentle winter sunlight. A light breeze played at my hair as I stepped out of the car, lifting the edges of my silk gown above the damp earth. I climbed the rickety stairs of Cambooya Uniting Church and paused to embrace my mother, on whose arm I had chosen to walk down the aisle. She stood erect, her head approaching my shoulders, a purple fascinator dangling in her hair. She stood in the place where my father should have been, just as she had done all of my life.

I squeezed her hand and we stepped together onto the strip of well-worn red carpet. The happy faces of family and friends lined the pews, each casting an invisible, emotional imprint upon me as I passed. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes as I approached the altar. Dorothy McRae-McMahon, in ruby-and-white ministerial robes, smiled at me, encouraging me on. Stuart towered next to her, eyes glistening.

Together at the altar, we lit candles in honour of those who could not be present. The first candle was for my father, alone in his bed, thousands of kilometres away. The second was for my grandmother, who had heard about Stuart just days before she died. The third was for Stuart’s grandmother, who continued to endure powerfully in his memory although she had passed away years earlier. The candles radiated the warmth of those whom we had loved and lost. The late afternoon light danced through the rustic stained glass windows as Dorothy announced our hopes for our marriage:

Marriage is a daring adventure, a lifelong commitment between two people, and a grand statement of hope in the face of human realities.

Marriage is the celebration of the ordinary: day by day, moment by moment, moving in authentic life together and honouring the raw truth in each other.

Marriage is a step in a journey already begun: a different, bolder walking together, built on the rock of its vows, moving secure in daily kindnesses, binding in its love, yet freeing for passionate life, calling each other on in ways beyond imagining, towards an ending not yet formed.

Marriage is a relationship in which neither takes life from the other, but through love and grace, a new life is formed between them which is deeper and more creative than each living alone.

In the place of a traditional sermon, Dorothy delivered a personal reflection on our nuptials.

‘I have known Fiona for several years and I have watched the beginnings of love develop between her and Stuart, like a tiny seed that begins to break open and bloom into growth,’ she began.

‘A seed that started to grow, I suspect, almost in spite of Fiona, in the centre of other agendas and assumed priorities,’ Dorothy smiled knowingly at me.

‘But there it was, in both its vulnerability and its promise – such a mixture of frailty and strength as it grew.’

‘Over the years as a member of the clergy,’ she observed, ‘I’ve watched many people fall in love and marry. So I found it very interesting to see that the love between these two people, whose capacity to reflect on the nature of life and love is so well developed, could have such fragile beginnings. There were so many things that needed to be explored, examined and discussed.’

Laughter rippled through our guests; they knew us too well.

‘In other words,’ continued Dorothy, ‘this love was tested at every point, before it could decide whether it really lived or died. I watched this love; I watched it begin to grow like a bud, ready for opening.’ She gazed around the room.

‘The only way to see if this love would live and blossom was in fact to move into it, to determine whether or not the future could be seen.’ Dorothy looked at me directly, acknowledging the leap of faith I had taken in moving to country Queensland.

‘One of the reasons why marriage is important,’ she continued, ‘is that it is the moment when you decide not whether you will stay together, but how you will stay together, in what manner you will stay together. You resolve that the decision is made and the commitment is there – no more discussion.’ I squeezed Stuart’s hand.

‘For Stuart and Fiona, their relationship has been carefully cultivated over the past few years, like a precious plant within a glasshouse. By taking this step of marriage, they are choosing to take their relationship outside the protection of the glasshouse.’ Stuart nodded, his face sober, perhaps imagining tempests ahead.

‘Some people, of course, stay inside the glasshouse throughout their marriage,’ Dorothy continued. ‘They sit there, and externally it all looks very beautiful, sometimes perfect, but something’s lacking.’ She smiled at the assembled guests.

‘When you decide to step outside the glasshouse into life, something very important happens. You live with the sort of freedom and passion which produces a very hard-won joy in a relationship, rather than something that just sits there within its own boundaries, fences protecting it.’ Dorothy’s words reverberated within the weatherboard walls of the church.

‘You let your love live. You let it live. In ways that may be quite unpredictable, even if it costs you. Fiona and Stuart know it’s a risk. To love someone else in a way that is truly open and giving and adult, is to risk the path of pain.’

At that moment in our country church, every fibre of my being hummed with a deep, visceral comprehension of what it meant for one person to deeply love another. Lifting my veil, Stuart kissed me and then raised my left hand to the cheering applause of family and friends. I floated down the aisle and out onto the yellowed lawn, to be showered in rose petals and the good wishes of those closest to me. The soft petals fell into my bodice, down my back and onto the wilted lawn, their colours making a vibrant statement of hope and fecundity in the face of drought and despair.

Later that evening, as the last of our wedding guests retired, Stuart and I drove to a nearby bed and breakfast to spend our first night together as a married couple.

‘I’m not really sure what it’s like,’ confessed Stu, as I rested my head on his shoulder, ‘but it comes with good local recommendations. They have a special honeymoon package. I’ve already got the key.’

We opened the door to a bungalow overlooking undulating pastoral land. A handwritten note stood against a bouquet of flowers cut from the owners’ garden: ‘Congratulations, Fiona and Stuart. Champagne is next to the spa. Best wishes, Yvonne and Gary.’ The prospect of a soothing soak in the spa appealed. It had been a long, emotional day, and we were blissfully fatigued.

I filled the tub to its brim and we derobed, sinking with relief into the warm water. Stuart pushed the spa button and jets of air spurted from below. As I basked in the depths, I suddenly noticed something dark swirling among the bubbles. I sat up and peered at these black clumps, which were increasing at an alarming rate.

‘Oh my God!’ yelled Stu, slamming off the spa, grabbing my hands and yanking me out of the water. We stood, naked and shivering at the edge of the bath, as hundreds of tufts of human hair floated to the surface.

‘I’m so sorry. That’s disgusting,’ said Stu, repulsed. I stared, speechless, at the hairy maelstrom. ‘That hair must’ve been collecting in the spa mechanism for months,’ he said. ‘It’s obviously been a slow year for this establishment.’

The following morning, having barely recovered from the spa incident, we were awoken by an imperious rap on the door at seven-thirty. I stumbled out of bed and opened the door to Gary, a 50-something farmer and co-owner of the B&B.

‘Yvonne’s been cooking you two breakfast,’ Gary said sternly. ‘She wants to know when you’re comin’ over to the house.’

I blinked in disbelief. For crying out loud, Gary, we’re newlyweds. Do you think Yvonne’s breakfast is on our minds right now? I politely responded that we’d be over in half an hour.

I returned to the bedroom and pulled a face at Stu, who had overheard the interaction.

‘Hair in the spa, and people barking at you the morning after your wedding,’ he despaired. ‘Bloody rural Queensland.’

CHAPTER 15

The post-nuptial dust settled and life at Gebar returned to its predictable seasonal routine. Taking advantage of the pre-wedding rain, Stuart planted a small crop of late-season wheat. It was an opportunistic winter sideline that he hoped would generate some much-needed cash flow. In so doing, he had taken a punt on receiving follow-up winter rain, conserving the dam water for a potentially more profitable summer crop. I watched with interest from the Danube window as the wheat’s green tips began to spear skywards.

My interest quickly turned to concern, however, as these tender shoots began to attract an unhealthy level of interest from raucous flocks of pink galahs. I took to running out of the Danube intermittently during my workday, a human scarecrow dedicated to deterring their persistent advances. I figured that such irregular physical activity was roughly equivalent to walking to the photocopier in the Sydney office, minus all the arm-flapping.

Soon I altered my after-work jogging schedule in the name of wheat security. Instead of my usual jog to the windmill and back, I took to running to the north-eastern perimeter of the property, where I would do my best to fluster a mob of kangaroos enjoying sunset canapés care of Stu’s wheat crop. It was too much for the roos to resist the succulent strips of green, rippling in the field. My guerrilla tactics involved dropping to the ground and crawling on my belly, advancing as close as possible without attracting the mob’s attention. When the roos inevitably sensed my presence, temporarily pausing from their smorgasbord to sniff the air inquisitively, I leapt from behind a head-ditch with a loud ‘Yaaaaaaaaaaahhh!’ This spectacle put the roos off their wheat for no more than ten minutes, but it was the principle of the matter. It was my small contribution to the integrated pest management of Stu’s crop.

‘What’s “integrated pest management”?’ I’d asked, intrigued, when Stuart dropped the term over dinner the previous week. He’d been considering the feasibility of planting another cotton crop in the coming spring, as well as the types of management techniques he might use.

‘It’s a method of pest control that only uses harsher pesticides as an absolute last resort,’ he replied, passing me a bread roll.

‘So what do you use instead?’ I asked.

‘A bunch of complementary tools and biological controls,’ he replied, ‘like spraying an organic virus to kill the heliothis in your crop.’

I blew on a spoonful of soup, made with home-grown vegetables delivered earlier that day by a kindly neighbour, Libby. She’d plucked them from her garden and dropped them off in a box, lingering on the Danube’s verandah for a chat.

‘Do the softer options always work?’ I asked, wondering if using an organic virus was like burning citronella candles to ward off mosquitoes – natural, but often ineffective.

‘Not always,’ Stuart replied. ‘Take last year for instance. The soft options didn’t control the thrips and the army worms.’

Whatever a ‘thrip’ was, I assumed it was bad. And just the term ‘army worm’ brought to mind guerrilla warfare.

‘So are you thinking of using harder chemicals this season instead?’ I asked, picking at the crumbs of my bread roll. Stuart sighed, clearly frustrated.

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘To be honest Fi, I’m not even sure that I should be planting cotton at all.’ Surprised, I waited. Stuart proceeded to butter another bread roll in silence.

‘Will you plant a different crop then?’ I asked finally, speculating that sorghum might be a better choice this season.

‘No, it’s all the same really,’ he muttered. ‘Doesn’t matter what the crop is, there’s always a water problem.’ He pushed his soup bowl away from him with a force that propelled the spoon onto the floor. I stiffened; his tone reminded me of his despair in autumn, pre-harvest, when the cotton crop had been accidentally sprayed with weedkiller.

‘There’s some water in the dams from the wedding rain,’ he continued, ‘but not enough to guarantee full production. If more rain doesn’t come this summer, I’m just not sure I’ve got it in me to keep farming.’ I stared at him, searching for something to say.

‘Won’t you just plant enough crop for the water you do have?’ I asked, recalling a tried-and-tested strategy he’d adopted in previous seasons.

‘Yeah, I’ll probably do that again,’ he said. ‘But it takes the same amount of time, effort and management to set up all the equipment to plant ten acres of crop as it does for 1000 acres, Fi.’ He shook his head with resignation. ‘It’s hard to feel optimistic when there’s so much work ahead for so little return.’

Instinctively, I reached for his hand across the table and grasped it tightly, willing him to persevere. His talk of abandoning farming frightened me. Not because I doubted his capacity to dust himself off and move forward, but because I was far less fazed by the challenges of rural existence than I’d previously been. As strange as my Sydney friends might consider it, I was enjoying being a farmer’s wife.

After a protracted silence, Stuart leant down and retrieved the fallen spoon from the floor. ‘All right, Fi,’ he said. ‘Let’s give cotton one more go.’

Something rolled across the ceiling above us; Stuart glanced up with irritation. We had endured weeks of disturbed nights throughout winter listening to this very noise.

‘That’s it,’ said Stu, ‘I’m going up there.’ He grabbed a torch from the kitchen bench and tucked it under his arm. Placing a stool on top of a chair, he carefully positioned himself beneath the manhole. ‘I should have oiled my rifle,’ he said.

I blanched. ‘If it’s a possum,’ I said, ‘can’t we just catch it and relocate it?’

Stuart didn’t answer and hoisted himself up into the roof. He emerged five minutes later, covered in cobwebs and holding three knobbly spheres in his hands.

‘Potatoes,’ he declared triumphantly, tossing the spheres into the kitchen sink. I looked at him with incomprehension, attempting to fathom a connection. As he washed his hands, I contemplated the impossible: Are there potatoes growing in our roof?

‘It’s the rats,’ he announced. ‘They’ve been taking potatoes out of the pantry, carrying them up into the roof and rolling them across the ceiling into their nests. That’s the sound we’re hearing at night – potatoes rolling. There’s at least a dozen up there. I’ll get the rest later.’ My jaw dropped. So that was why we’d been going through so many potatoes.

‘How have they carried them all that way?’ I asked, gobsmacked by the notion of potato-sequestering rats.

‘They’re big rats, babe,’ replied Stu. ‘Strong enough to carry potatoes in their snouts.’

I sat down, weak at the knees. ‘How do we get rid of them?’ I asked.

‘You’d rather not know,’ he said. ‘Just leave it to me.’

Before Stuart could make good on this ominous undertaking, just days later the sound of our potato-snatchers was replaced by mewing, snarling and scratching.

‘I think it’s a cat, Stu,’ I whispered, listening from the bed below.

Stuart grunted dismissively. ‘It’s a cat, but not as you know it,’ he said. ‘Feral cats aren’t like the domestic variety, you know. But at least the rats will bugger off now.’

It was true; the midnight cricket balls ceased. Several nights later, on my way to the toilet, I slid open the side door and caught sight of the cat in question.

It was mid-pounce, accosting a small, rodent-like creature near the birdbath. It flattened itself against the grass and fixed me with glinting green eyes. Tail swishing, it grasped the squirming animal in its mammoth jaws and, with a leonine growl, ferried the critter away.

‘The cat’s enormous,’ I reported to Stu on my return to the bedroom. ‘I think it had a rat in its mouth.’

‘Well, it’d better leave the roof soon,’ he replied, ‘or I’ll help it leave this world.’

October was a windy month. I regularly awoke before dawn to hear the sound of air rushing around the bungalow’s eaves. With no rain since July, the opportunistic wheat crop had all but failed. The welcome rain of our wedding seemed a distant memory.

‘These winds could blow a dog off its chain,’ said Stu over breakfast one morning. ‘We’ll have to plant straight after we irrigate. I hope we don’t get a cold snap. The soil temperature’s got to be at least fourteen degrees for the cotton seeds to germinate.’

I sipped at my coffee, digesting this information. I’d never seen a cotton crop planted on Gebar before. With my very limited understanding of agriculture, I’d presumed that it would all be fairly straightforward, a bit like tending the pot plants on my Sydney balcony. You plant a seed, you water it, the seed grows into a plant, you harvest it. As I learnt more about Stuart’s pre-planting activities, I realised how ignorant I’d been.

‘Soil test results are good,’ Stuart continued. ‘We’ve got the right balance of nitrogen and phosphorus out there. Potassium and zinc levels are good too.’

‘I never knew dirt could be so interesting,’ I laughed. ‘So, how close are we to planting now?’

‘I’ve got one more irrigation,’ Stuart replied. ‘Then we’ll plant in a week’s time.’ He pushed his chair back and picked up his hat. ‘So I’ll catch you later.’

‘Can I come with you?’ I asked. ‘I’ve never seen irrigation in action.’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘And if you’re really keen, you can start some siphons for me.’

We drove to the Pelican Dam in the ute. Cranking open a series of gates in the dam, Stuart released a tide of precious water into a head-ditch at the top of Field 2. Propped across the head-ditch were countless black polythene pipes, their ends pointing skywards like bayonets along a trench wall.

‘Come on,’ Stuart called, motioning towards the head-ditch.

He walked ahead of me, carefully balancing on the side of the embankment. Leaning against the incline, he lifted one end of a siphon, cupped his hand over its end and started the flow of water with three swift jerks. He then threw the siphon’s end over the bank and gravity did the rest, water gushing into the field.

Try as I might, I couldn’t replicate his seamless, sweeping action. Each siphon was more than four metres long, as thick as my arm, malleable and unwieldy. After my tenth unsuccessful attempt, my biceps were burning and my white shirt was muddied with silty water.

‘It’s all right, babe,’ Stuart said, patting me on the shoulder, ‘this is one skill you don’t have to master. Even Roger can’t always get it right.’ I sighed, defeated. Farming was a hell of a lot harder than I’d imagined.

Stuart dropped me back at the house and returned to the field. Sliding open the side door of the bungalow, I stumbled over a cardboard box obstructing my path. Our lovely neighbour Libby had been at it again, picking vegetables from her garden and packaging them up for our enjoyment. This was the fourth box she’d left me in the same number of months. I rummaged through the box and discovered a jar of homemade strawberry jam.

With a flash of inspiration, I seized the jam and marched into the kitchen. While I’d just demonstrated that I was useless at siphon-starting, I had a plan. I couldn’t contribute to the physical labour of planting over the coming week, but surely I could make some decent morning tea? I retrieved my grandmother’s scone tray from its storage box in the pantry. Grandma had been the queen of scone-making. When she’d given me her scone tray, just months before she died, I’d been baffled yet touched. Since then, stuffed in the bottom of the pantry between the picnic rug and the wine cooler, it had never seen the light of day. Now I gazed at its smooth silver surface with newfound enthusiasm.

The following week, I watched from the Danube as an enormous planting rig, some eight metres wide, patrolled the fields. In one rolling motion, it sliced grooves in the moist soil with shiny metal discs, dropped seeds into these furrows at a specific rate, covered them with soil, then pressed the dirt back into place. The rig left no evidence of its presence bar the tyre tracks in the field. As the hours ticked over, Stuart feverishly checked the planter for seed blockages, ferried supplies between the shed and the rig, replenished the planter with mixtures of water and fertiliser, and monitored the number of seeds being shunted into the earth.

‘Why can’t you just use more seeds than you need?’ I asked over morning tea, offering Stu a scone. I’d used a ‘never fail’ scones recipe I’d found on the internet, requiring just three basic ingredients (one of which, to my astonishment, was a can of lemonade).

‘Because if all the seeds actually take,’ he explained, ‘the canopy will be too thick and the plants will out-compete each other. Then you’ll have a real problem. Ideally you should plant somewhere between eight and fifteen seeds per metre. I reckon the right number is twelve.’ I nodded, awed by the precision involved.

‘Hey, these scones are great,’ remarked Stu, licking a dollop of cream from his fingers. ‘You’ve really come a long way in the baking department.’

I flushed with quiet pride. A year ago, I would have accused him of being sexist. But just nine months in rural Australia had taught me to look beyond my own stereotypes and political correctness. Rather than dismissing Stuart’s praise as patronising, I now recognised the value of rural skills such as home-making and baking. For many drought-affected farmers, the home-based labours of their wives – diligent, unbidden and gracious – leant a welcome predictability, and a softness of touch, to an otherwise bleak and arbitrary universe. This first batch of scones was a modest, but nevertheless important, contribution to life at Gebar.

Later that evening, when the planter had completed its final pass, Stuart returned from the paddock and roamed the house, fidgety and irritable.

‘Everything all right?’ I asked, anxious that something had gone awry late in the working day. Stuart shrugged.

‘I’m fine. It’s just a nervous time, Fi,’ he said. ‘Planting’s over and now we have to wait and see if the seeds come up.’

I wondered how long this process might take, or if sometimes they never came up at all.

CHAPTER 16

Aweek later, on my way from the house to the Danube one morning, I was greeted by millions of emerald-green pinpricks marching across the brown earth. Lining the paddocks in military formation, the seedlings had literally sprouted overnight. The nervous wait was over. Stuart bounced into the Danube at morning tea time.

‘Good strike rate for the cotton, Fi. What do you think of my cotyledons?’ he asked, with an impish wink.

‘Your what?’ I replied, smiling at his energy.

‘Cotyledons,’ he repeated. ‘That’s what’s out there in the paddock. They’re the first leaves of the plants.’

I gazed out the window, admiring the vista. ‘Well, they’re just beautiful,’ I replied.

Stuart grinned like a schoolboy. ‘Come over to the house,’ he said. ‘I’ll make you a coffee.’

I laughed at his liveliness. ‘Okay, I’ll just go to the bathroom and be right there.’

Smiling to myself, I walked to the laundry. The farmer has a spring in his step again.

I opened the laundry door, lifted the toilet lid and screamed. A red-bellied black snake was coiled in the toilet bowl, half immersed in water, beady eyes boggling and head weaving. I leapt a metre backwards, mind racing. It closely resembled the snake that Stu had shooed out of the house when I’d first arrived at Gebar. There were two possibilities: the snake would disappear under the water, or the snake would slide out of the bowl. Horrified by the prospect of the latter, I tiptoed up to the toilet seat and slammed the lid shut.

‘Stuuuuuuuuu!’ I wailed, adrenalin coursing through my body, ‘there’s a black snake in the toilet!’ Stuart shuffled out of the house, coffee cup in hand, and casually lifted the lid. The bowl was empty.

‘It was there! I swear!’ I urged, panicking.

‘Well, it’s probably gone back down into the S-bend. Must be living in the septic, chasing the frogs. Can’t hurt you – it’s probably more frightened than you. Don’t worry about it.’

Don’t worry about it? Visions of unseemly snake bites haunted me. How would I stabilise a venom-punctured buttock, for God’s sake? Or more to the point, how would someone else stabilise it for me? Unlike my first black snake experience at Gebar, I was in no mood to be appeased. There was simply no scope for human–serpentine coexistence. The snake had to die. It was thoroughly in keeping with my new, radically pragmatic interpretation of Buddhist philosophy. Inflict no suffering on any living being; unless it might bite your bum.

‘Stu, you have to get rid of it,’ I declared. ‘And I mean get rid of it for good.’ The desperation in my voice was unbecoming but I didn’t care. ‘I won’t be able to go to the toilet unless I know it’s not down there. And I’m not prepared to urinate on the lawn,’ I said, anticipating his response. Stuart rolled his eyes and summoned Roger on the two-way.

‘Sorry, mate,’ he intoned into the UHF radio. ‘We’ve had a bit of an incident in the toilet. I need your help.’

Stuart and Roger spent the next four hours attempting to locate the snake – removing the lid of the septic, blocking the S-bend and pouring hot water down the air vent to literally flush the snake out. It was a tense saga which I watched from the safe distance of the Danube’s verandah. Finally Roger, wielding a giant pair of pliers, caught hold of the wriggling snake by its tail and bludgeoned it to death. Amid the blood and water splattered about the laundry, Roger inspected the lifeless snake.

‘Y’know, it doesn’t look like the one I’ve seen around,’ Roger called out to me. ‘Too small. Might be a baby of the bigger mother.’

I blanched at the prospect of an irate mummy snake, seeking revenge for her offspring’s demise.

Later that evening as we lay in bed, the light of the full moon blazed through the slats of our blinds. I considered my predicament. There were doubtless hundreds of snakes on the farm; I couldn’t have them all killed. But that toilet-inhabiting black snake had engendered a primal repulsion in me. So much for the animal-loving vegetarian; rural Australia was turning me into a hypocrite.

‘Stu,’ I whispered, sensing that he was still awake, ‘will the snakes get worse in summer?’ Stuart threw back the sheet and wound an arm around my waist.

‘No, they’re pretty bad all year round,’ he goaded. Stuart hissed, waving his other arm in the air like a viper poised to strike. I squealed and rolled out of his grasp. As we wrestled and laughed, Stuart suddenly stopped and sat up. An audible hissing sound was emanating from the ceiling.

‘It’s not another snake, is it?’ I asked.

‘No,’ said Stu. ‘That bloody feral cat’s still up there.’

The hissing morphed into a distinctly feline miaow.

‘Howling at the bloody moon,’ said Stu in disgust, ‘I’m going up there right now.’ With a steely glint in his eyes, he pulled on a pair of football shorts.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked, scrambling out of bed and tugging at his arm as he strode towards the kitchen.

‘We don’t negotiate with feral cats,’ he said resolutely. ‘Hasta la vista, kitty.’ He disappeared downstairs and returned with a .22-calibre rifle.

‘But it’s just a cat,’ I pleaded. ‘And it’s done us a favour by controlling the rats.’

In my previous Sydney life, cats were part of the fabric of city living: curled up on beds, lazing in courtyards, perched on fences.

‘It’s a feral pest,’ said Stu sternly. ‘It preys on native wildlife. Much worse than the snake you had us kill this morning.’ I grimaced at the reminder.

Stu retraced his steps, ignoring my entreaties, and hoisted himself up into the roof. After several minutes of scanning, he pinpointed the cat in the sights of his rifle.

I clung to his leg from the stool below. ‘Don’t do it!’ I protested. I held my breath, awaiting an explosive crack. Mercifully, Stuart’s resolve wavered.

‘All right,’ he conceded, ‘I’ll stay the execution.’

As he lowered his gun, I hugged him around the knees with gratitude. Unfortunately this unbalanced his careful distribution of weight. Suddenly he swung wildly out of the manhole and crashed into the adjoining wall, planting his left buttock through the plasterboard. Giant cracks instantly criss-crossed down the panel to the floorboards.

‘That’s it,’ muttered Stu, extracting his buttock from the crater. ‘No more chances for that cat.’

Pests of the non-feline variety became a regular topic of conversation in the weeks that followed. The cotton crop grew at an exponential rate, its tiny linear tips developing into miniature leafy plants. I started to look forward to the regular visits of Stuart’s new agronomist, Toby Leroy. Due to the previous season’s debacle with the spray contractor, Stuart had lost confidence in the agronomist charged with monitoring that crop. He’d advised Stuart to watch and wait one too many times, as the crop withered in the field. So Stuart had made a fresh start this season with Toby, an old football mate, who came with glowing references in agronomy. Toby now checked the crop twice a week and, despite a heavy workload, was never too busy to stop by my office.

‘It’s the good, the bad and the ugly,’ Toby explained to me one afternoon as we stood outside the Danube, admiring the crop. ‘We don’t have the thrips and army worms like last year, which is good,’ he affirmed, ‘and the ladybird population’s strong, which is great because they eat the aphids.’ Toby shuffled through a copy of Gebar’s integrated pest management plan.

‘And why are aphids bad?’ I asked, feeling a little like a kindergarten student.

‘Well, they suck the sap out of the plants,’ he replied. Instantly my mind flashed back to Dave Wynnum’s early dinner lesson on ‘chewin’ pests and suckin’ pests’. So aphids are suckers.

‘Looks like the flea beetles are more of a worry this season, though,’ Toby continued, jotting a few notes on his clipboard. ‘So I’ll keep an eye on things and talk to Stu about hitting them with a bit of chemical next week, if things turn nasty.’ He motioned towards the hazy horizon as he walked towards his ute.

‘Lookin’ pretty ugly yonder,’ he commented. ‘You might have to batten down the hatches.’ And with a wave, he was gone.

By late afternoon, the haze had turned into something more ominous.

‘Is it about to rain, Stu?’ I asked, as the wind whipped gravel from the driveway against the Danube’s walls.

‘Close your windows,’ commanded Stu through the wire screen door. ‘There’s a dust storm coming.’ He ran towards the house.

I stared out the window. A menacing grey cloud was whirling down the Jandowae–Macalister Road towards us, no more than a kilometre away.

I slammed shut the Danube’s windows and door and raced into the house. Just as I was closing the laundry door, the vortex hit.

‘Come inside,’ bellowed Stu over the roaring wind.

We stood at the kitchen window, watching the cotton crop vanish beneath the cloud of dust. This must be what a hurricane feels like, I thought.

The next morning, Stuart inspected the damage in the field. Hot winds of up to 70 kilometres an hour had flattened the tiny cotton plants. Minute abrasions, caused by fine sand particles, had turned their previously light foliage a deeper, patchy green.

‘The effect’s similar to a fan-forced oven,’ Stuart said, standing bereft at the field’s edge. ‘The plants got sand-blasted.’

‘Will they be all right?’ I asked, expecting the worst.

‘Some of them are dead,’ he confirmed. ‘But the plants left behind will try to compensate by growing bigger and producing more cotton on the bush.’ He bent down and stroked the leaves of a battered cotton plant, the way a father might rub his child’s bruised shin.

‘So I’ve got to take extra care of these survivors now,’ he said.

For the first time in my life, I fully comprehended the truly arbitrary nature of farming. Before moving to rural Queensland, the vicissitudes of the weather had affected me only in so far as my fashion choices were concerned. Looks like rain, I’ll wear black pants. While I’d recognised that Australian farmers struggled against adverse climatic events, it all seemed very unreal. Their plight bore no connection to my reality. Just another farmer on the news, harping on about flood, fire or drought.

In fact, I’d tended to view farmers’ predicaments as a function of personal choice: They choose to work with nature, so why are they surprised when the elements misbehave? I even theorised that they brought it upon themselves: If they stopped sucking the rivers dry, maybe the weather would be kinder to them. It took a late spring dust storm in Jandowae for me to understand the devastating cumulative effect of arbitrary meteorological events on farmers. And in particular, their effect on my farmer, who struggled so valiantly to respect the natural resources with which he worked. Stu’s buoyancy had only just started to return. He didn’t deserve another setback.

Under Stuart’s care in the weeks that followed, the cotton plants slowly recuperated from the dust storm’s assault. Eventually, they began sprouting bud-like squares at their growing points, a precursor to flowers. As I jogged alongside Field 5 one morning, Toby the agronomist popped his head up from among the plants.

‘Hooroo!’ he called. ‘Just countin’ the bugs down here.’ He picked his way towards me, carefully shimmying between the plants to avoid trampling them.

‘The insects love these squares,’ he explained. ‘They’re the flower buds that’ll turn into cotton bolls eventually, and they’re chock-full of nutrients.’

He peeled back a square and peered at its innards with an implement that resembled a fine-tipped pencil.

‘What exactly are you looking for?’ I asked, impressed by the delicacy of his efforts.

‘Heliothis caterpillar eggs,’ he said, squinting into the square. ‘This is a non-GM field, so I have to take extra care to monitor the insect levels. If a heliothis takes just one bite out of a square, the plant will abort it. Plants can handle some damage by grubs, but there’s a critical point where we just have to spray ’em with a pesticide.’

Toby paused, perusing his clipboard.

‘Still, there are plenty of good bugs in the crop today,’ he continued. ‘So no need to take that sort of action just yet.’

I gestured towards the Danube in the distance. ‘Well, I’d better get back there, Toby. It’s almost time for me to start work.’

He chuckled. ‘Not a big commute,’ he said. ‘It’s amazing you can do your Sydney job from here. Technology, ay?’ He waved me off. ‘See ya in two days, when I’ll check it all again.’

As I jogged back along the border of Field 5, I contemplated the unpredictability of the non-GM approach. Checking the crop every second day for insects was certainly labour intensive; it would be so much easier to minimise the uncertainties of nature by simply planting GM cotton. But could the predictability delivered by GM in the short term be reconciled with the uncertain impacts of manipulating the gene pool in the longer term? It was an ethical quandary I still hadn’t resolved.

CHAPTER 17

The summer heat was upon us again and I reconciled myself to long days of searing temperatures and fly-swatting. In a personal stand against climate change, I resolved to avoid using the air-conditioner in the Danube. Thus by ten-thirty most mornings, sweat droplets glistened along my lip and forehead as I tapped away frenetically at my laptop. Open windows offered no respite from the tyranny of heat. By noon, my face had flushed a deep crimson.

One particularly blistering day, as the Danube’s corrugated frame creaked and groaned in protest, Stuart strode in from the paddock. His face was plastered with white zinc and his shirt was wet against his chest. He wrenched the Danube’s screen door open with a flourish and pointed to the wall behind me.

‘Turn on the air-conditioning, you nutter,’ he ordered, ‘or you’ll boil your bloody brain.’

My two-week boycott of air-conditioning was officially over; my environmental idealism dismantled by the heat.

By mid-December, small white flowers had started to appear at the base of the cotton plants, multiplying in number every couple of days. The bees followed the flowers, their cheery buzzing drifting through the Danube’s windows. When pollination occurred, turning the white petals a throaty pink, Toby began to focus his attention on moisture levels in the soil.

‘We’d better start irrigating next week,’ he announced one Friday morning, standing with Stuart in the shade of the Danube’s verandah. ‘The plants aren’t increasing their uptake of moisture from the soil anymore, so it’s definitely time.’

Toby grinned at me. ‘Now the fun starts, Fi. Prepare to lose your husband over the next eight weeks,’ he said. ‘Unless we get rain, Stu will be irrigating every eight to ten days until harvest.’

I’d never experienced the full brunt of Stuart’s gruelling summer irrigation schedule. When I’d arrived in Jandowae the year before, I’d caught only the tail-end of it. ‘So do you get a break over that period at all?’ I asked Stuart.

He shook his head.

‘Not really, once I start irrigating the cotton plants, I can’t stop,’ he replied.

‘A bit like a demanding wife,’ Toby joked, sauntering towards his ute. ‘You’ve just got to keep giving her what she needs.’ He climbed behind the wheel and saluted us with a breezy wave.

As Toby’s ute disappeared down the driveway, Stuart wrapped an arm around my shoulders. ‘I’ll be irrigating at night to reduce evaporation and keep out of the heat,’ he said. ‘So you might like to think about finding something else to do of an evening.’

I already had an idea.

Three evenings later, while Stuart slopped around in ankle-deep mud, starting siphons and checking water flows, I drove into Jandowae to try my hand at a favourite local pastime. It was Becky who’d first told me about the Jandowae Line Dancers, when I’d bumped into her at the post office one day.

‘You should come along,’ she’d urged, with all the zeal of a religious convert. ‘Newcomers are always welcome. We don’t take things too seriously. You’ll fit right in.’

The sessions were conducted in a small church hall under the direction of Ellen Schwarz, secretary to the local doctor. Now wouldn’t she know some local secrets?

I arrived for my first session in good time; 6.25 pm for a 6.30 pm start. Ellen was hovering at the front of the class; Becky was nowhere to be seen. At least 30 minutes passed as the necessary technology (an old tape player) was assembled, and a playlist identified as we courteously awaited latecomers.

‘Becky’s running late because Ben’s mother’s not well,’ advised a woman in her seventies at the back of the class.

The other members of the group nodded sympathetically, while I attempted to restrain my impatience. My preferred policy of ‘Never mind Becky and start the bloody class ’, an unshakeable vestige of my former Sydney existence, was patently unacceptable in Jandowae.

Becky eventually arrived and we moved into position; three lines of four women, all facing Ellen. I took my place towards the centre of the assembled group, with someone to watch on all sides. I’d never line danced before, but I’d seen a snippet of it in a documentary on the US state of Texas. The first bars of a song blared through the tinny tape player; I limbered up in anticipation. Ensconced between two Jandowae matrons, I shuffled along clumsily to a Country and Western version of the Macarena. Mimicking the actions of those around me, I hooked my thumbs in my jeans and tilted my head under the weight of an imaginary Akubra.

It was immediately clear that I was in the company of professionals. The moves involved complex, multi-step combinations, which everyone around me performed with solemn precision.

‘Thanks a bunch, Becky,’ I muttered under my breath.

‘We’ve been line dancing together every week for fifteen years,’ explained a member of the group during a brief intermission. ‘We’ve memorised over 200 routines and won a few regional and state competitions in our time, you know.’

I didn’t doubt it. These ladies were serious line dancers. Too serious, I reflected, as we ambled along to a lively country tune featuring the upbeat chorus, ‘He drank tequila, and she talked dirty in Spanish’. It was a catchy little number: the routine cried out for a bit of spice. Unable to curtail my enthusiasm, I wiggled my hips and hummed with gusto. This chutzpah was met with loud tut-tutting from a woman directly behind me. I flushed with embarrassment and immediately fell into line, literally, with those on either side of me.

Several hours later, as I wound my way home along dark rural roads, I smiled to myself, recalling the good women of Jandowae shuffling en masse. Such activities clearly offered a vital opportunity for isolated rural ladies to socialise, exercise and transcend the doldrums of drought. The group’s sorority, forged over one and a half decades, was as impressive as its competition record. But in my heart of hearts I knew I had neither the temperament nor the time to persist as a regular participant. My line dancing career was over before it had even started. Perhaps I was still too city, after all. At least I had my running, I reasoned, as I followed the road home to Gebar.

Summer days and nights slipped into weeks, punctuated by Stuart’s unrelenting irrigation timetable. Tantalising storm clouds routinely gathered at the end of long hot days, but rain rarely fell. The flowers on the cotton crop turned into small green bolls, bulging with life-to-be. In between irrigations, Stuart was busy: ploughing between cotton rows to manage the weeds, monitoring the presence of predators and pests, and taking sap tests to ensure the right nutrients were reaching the plants.

Despite Stuart’s best ecological efforts in the non-GM fields, the heliothis grubs persisted. He’d sprayed the crop with an organic virus on several occasions, but finally Toby recommended the use of a synthetic pesticide.

‘Toby’s counted nine heliothis grubs per metre in those fields and the threshold is two,’ said Stu one evening, poring over Toby’s field notes. ‘At these levels, they’re eating the profit. The heat’s made the organic virus ineffective, so we can’t rely on that option anymore.’ He sighed, tucking Toby’s report into a manila folder.

‘So I’ll have to use a harder chemical, Fi. I don’t really want to, but we’ve got to stop them,’ he said. ‘At least it’s selective in its action and won’t knock out all the good guys, like the ants and the spiders.’

I recoiled at the prospect of hordes of grubs marching through Stuart’s crop, consuming his hard-won profit. The battle had clearly escalated beyond the capacity of Stuart’s environmentally conscious pest management approach: now it was time for the heavy artillery.

When the midsummer national holiday of Australia Day rolled around, Stuart had two more irrigations to complete.

‘What do you want to do for Australia Day?’ he asked, calculating his next scheduled irrigation. ‘Looks like I’ll be free for the day.’

For some weeks, the local newspaper had been promoting several dinky-di opportunities to celebrate our Australian heritage in Jandowae. Options included a family-friendly sausage sizzle, a community bash featuring three-legged races, and a Ned Kelly re-enactment starring local schoolchildren. Ultimately we didn’t have to choose between them: three days before Australia Day, storm clouds gathered in Jandowae’s skies.

When the first rain fell, I was startled by the loudness of its rhythmic pitter-patter on the galvanised roof of the Danube. As the droplets struck the earth, they released all manner of pungent aromas from long-dry crannies. I slid open my office window and inhaled the smell of moistened soil. The small wooden verandah beyond my office turned a honey colour in the wet and the paddocks seemed to arch and stretch to meet the rain. Birds flew low, a foot above the soil, twittering with renewed vigour, eager to catch unlucky worms wriggling through the newly wet topsoil. Green tree frogs, delighting in the influx of fresh water, began their cacophonous croaking in the water tank. As the rain fell heavier, my heart grew lighter in the knowledge that Stu would be elated, the earth’s thirst would be appeased temporarily, and all would be right with the world.

That evening, my delight turned to concern as an electrical storm blew in from the west and the rain intensified.

‘I’ll just go out and check the pumps,’ called Stu over the howling gale, pulling a Driza Bone over his head and mounting the four-wheeler. I followed him to the door and pressed my face against the wire screen. Visibility was almost nonexistent as the rain beat against the house from all angles.

‘Be careful!’ I called in vain, my voice drowned out by the storm.

As the four-wheeler vanished into the whirling vortex, forked lightning speared the ground within metres of the house. It was a tempest of Shakespearean proportions; I stood transfixed at the door until rain soaked through my nightdress.

The rapidity of the rainfall over the next 24 hours caused serious erosion and damage around the farm. I suddenly understood the aphorism ‘It never rains, but it pours’; almost 100 millimetres fell. Stuart was out in the maelstrom at all hours, patching up broken infrastructure. Overall, however, the rain was a long-awaited blessing.

It was a very happy Australia Day indeed. Forgoing other patriotic activities, we splashed and skylarked in the creek like truant schoolchildren. It was a far cry from ferry races and festivities on Sydney Harbour. Scrabbling up the bank of the flooded creek at sunset, I gazed at the box tree branches arching over the banks, mirrored in the swollen waterhole. Suddenly I was filled with a newfound appreciation for Australian bush poetry and the likes of Banjo Paterson. My heart hummed with the beauty of the bush.

I smiled down at Stu, floating on his back with arms outstretched. ‘This is the most authentic Australia Day I’ve ever had,’ I said.

CHAPTER 18

After the Australia Day deluge, Stuart’s farm activities were delayed by ten days of enforced drying out. In the interim, there were other distractions for Stuart, including watching me take my place as a rural Queensland representative in the Commonwealth Games Baton Relay. Several months earlier, I’d received a letter advising me that I had been nominated as a Commonwealth Games Baton Relay runner. The letter outlined that ‘the Queen’s Baton’ (which, as far as I was concerned, sounded like a dubious establishment in Sydney’s Kings Cross), would arrive in Sydney in late January, before heading north to Queensland. My nomination attracted the attention of The Dalby Herald (third cousin thrice-removed of The Sydney Morning Herald) and an article was published under the headline ‘Games Honour for Jandowae Woman’. This headline suggested that I was now a full-blown local; I was chuffed to realise I’d acquired such status in just under one year.

On day nine of the Commonwealth Games Baton Relay, we drove to nearby Wondai (population 1,500). Upon arrival in the town centre, I received a military-style briefing from Jess, an excitable ‘Communications Host’ seconded to the relay from her day job as a financial officer in Perth. Jess pumped me with a vast amount of important information, such as how to hold the baton (up, not down), what to do with my ‘thumb wetsuit’ (fitted with a sensor so that 71 light bulbs on the baton, one for each country of the Commonwealth, glowed at every exchange between runners) and how to smile and wave at the same time (difficult, but possible). She also described the workings of a special ‘BatonCam’, a real-time camera embedded in the baton, bound to ensure that every stumble or fall by runners was mercilessly streamed to millions of viewers.

I was the second of five runners in the Wondai leg; the first being Sandra, a local high school student. Sandra reluctantly passed me the baton only after a police escort shouted ‘Stop, Sandra, stop!’

I set out on my 400 metres of glory, wondering who might have nominated me for this privilege. Feeling vaguely hypocritical, I pondered how many Queen’s Baton runners had voted ‘Yes’ in the 1999 referendum on an Australian Republic. I traversed a slight gradient, navigated a roundabout and waved enthusiastically at locals standing on the side of the road. In all likelihood they were thinking, ‘Who is that woman and why haven’t we seen her around Wondai?’ Within moments, I sighted the next Baton Relay runner. What will happen if I just keep running?

The answer to this question was revealed by ‘Tiny’, a 190-centimetre giant of a man driving the minibus which collected runners on completion of their leg. As I boarded the bus, I remarked on the fitness of my ‘security escort runners’, Sally and Nick, who had stuck alarmingly close to me during my run. In hushed tones, Tiny advised me: ‘Well, you know, they’re part of the TRG – the Tactical Response Group.’

Further discussion revealed that Tiny was not joking, and that at least one spectator had directly experienced the TRG’s hyper-vigilance. During the previous leg of the baton’s journey, Sally and Nick – ever-alert to possible breaches of security – crash-tackled an over-enthusiastic rural onlooker who had the gall to throw confetti over a relay runner. No such excitement on the Wondai leg. Having farewelled the baton on its journey to Kingaroy, Stuart and I returned to the big wet at Gebar.

As the paddocks drained, Stuart started servicing his equipment. A cotton picker, a module builder and a boll buggy were put through their paces. While I understood the function of the cotton picker, I needed an ‘Agriculture for Dummies’ briefing on the other two items.

‘A module builder is what we dump the cotton into when we harvest it, Fi,’ Stuart explained, pointing to a semi-trailer sized receptacle. ‘And that big basket on wheels over there is a boll buggy. It transfers the cotton from the picker into the module builder.’

While this machinery was only used for a short, intensive period each year, reliability was crucial. Stuart spent days checking hydraulic lines, seals, oil levels and grease nipples, as well as evicting birds, mice and wasps from nests made in the machines. ‘Preparation is everything,’ explained Stu, ‘because if any of this gear breaks down during harvest, there’s only one mechanic in town.’

It was survival of the organised.

There were some things, however, which couldn’t be anticipated. In mid-February, Stuart’s offsider of seven years tendered his resignation.

‘I’m goin’ overseas to drive headers in Europe,’ Roger advised, ‘and when I get back, I wanna work in the mines.’

This decision seemed to be increasingly common for young men in the district. Despite the drought, Dalby was enjoying an economic renewal prompted by a mining boom. Its population had increased by ten per cent in just twelve months. Fuelled by coalmining and methane gas extraction, power stations were springing up like mushrooms after rain. It was possible for a young worker to be paid a salary of up to $100,000 in the mines. By comparison, the agricultural jobs market just didn’t stack up.

With a short time until harvest, Stuart was left with the difficult task of recruiting Roger’s replacement in the middle of an Australia-wide agricultural skills shortage.

‘No-one will want the job,’ he despaired. ‘I just can’t compete with the mines.’

‘Well, we can only try,’ I replied. ‘Why don’t you let me write you a job description and we can send it through to Dalby Agricultural College? Maybe there’ll be a young graduate looking for some practical experience.’

Stuart’s smile was half-hearted. ‘Thanks, Fi,’ he said, ‘that’d be great.’

The following day I faxed off a carefully crafted job description, offering all manner of appealing perks – flexible working hours, accommodation, mobile phone and fuel card, plus a generous hourly rate of pay.

‘Let’s see how that goes,’ I said confidently.

Not one person applied for the job. Irrespective of Stuart’s human resources problem, the season marched on. He irrigated the crop for the last time, using water held in storage from the Australia Day rain.

‘It’s great we got that rain in late January,’ I commented, perched on a head-ditch as I watched the now-familiar sight of water surging along furrows in the field.

‘Yeah, funny how it works though,’ Stuart said, adjusting a siphon, ‘if I’d known we’d get this much rain, I would have planted more crop. But I was gun-shy after last year. So I took what I thought was a responsible, risk-averse approach.’

I surveyed the small area of cotton growing in the paddocks before us. The bolls on the plants, previously tight prisms of green, had begun to open. To my dismay, a flock of cockatoos suddenly swooped from the trees along the creek to chew at the cotton bolls.

‘Don’t worry, Fi,’ remarked Stu, observing the birds with admirable stoicism. ‘They won’t do nearly as much damage as heliothis grubs.’

I marvelled at Stuart’s patience. The cockatoos were cackling with satisfaction as they tore at the seeds of his precious cotton bolls, leaving the lint strewn across the ground. I almost volunteered to fetch his rifle and dispense with the pests myself. But I remembered his leniency with our roof-inhabiting feral cat, which had been miraculously quiet in recent months. Perhaps if you waited long enough for nature, I reasoned, it sorted itself out.

‘Well,’ I said hopefully, ‘maybe the cockatoos will just disappear in good time, like the feral cat did.’ An odd look passed over Stuart’s face.

‘What?’ I asked, unable to read his expression.

Clearly discomfited, Stuart suddenly blurted, ‘It didn’t leave of its own accord.’

I stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘I waited until you went to Sydney,’ Stuart confessed, ‘and then I took it out.’

‘Where did you take it?’ I asked.

He flinched. ‘I took it out permanently, with my rifle.’

I gaped at him. ‘How could you have pretended that the cat simply left of its own volition?’

Stuart shrugged. ‘I never said that,’ he replied. ‘You wanted to believe it, babe.’

Suppressing the inkling of a smile, he turned back to his siphons.

Despite the incursions of cockatoos, the bolls continued to ripen. As they slowly split open, exposing the pearly lint within, the rest of the plants began to twist and droop.

‘That’s normal,’ Stuart assured me over dinner several days later. ‘It means the bolls are pulling the nutrients out of the leaves. The plants start to droop because the cotton’s so heavy.’

I collected the dinner plates and stacked them in the sink.

‘So at this point in the season, you actually want the cotton plants to look wilted like that?’ I asked.

Stuart nodded.

I exhaled with relief; I couldn’t bear something else going wrong.

Later that evening as I washed the dishes, I glanced up through the kitchen window and squinted. Was that flames I detected in the distance?

‘Stu!’ I called urgently. ‘Something’s on fire in the paddock!’

Stuart sauntered over to the sink, peered through the window and replied, ‘Hmmm, let’s go have a look.’

I sat rigid in the ute as we sped towards the flames. We don’t need a fire to devastate the harvest. I strained to see the source of the problem: a large piece of machinery appeared to be on fire in the field.

Stuart took his foot off the accelerator as we drew nearer. I gaped, confused, at a most peculiar sight. A backhoe was parked on the edge of a paddock, its forks raised three metres above the ground. In the forks, an old iron-clawed bath was suspended over two 44-gallon drums in which fires were burning.

‘I wanted to say sorry about the feral cat,’ said Stu. ‘And it’s twelve months today since you arrived in Jandowae. I know how you miss your Sydney bath, so I’ve organised one for you.’

I smiled, amazed. Since my relocation to Gebar I’d bemoaned the absence of a bath; the best I could do was to sit in ankle-deep water on the floor of our shower recess, or use Marie’s spa in an emergency.

‘Your tub, madam,’ said Stu, helping me out of the ute. He climbed behind the controls of the backhoe, and lowered the bath to the ground.

‘Hop in!’ he called. ‘Don’t mind the noise.’

As Stuart idled the engine, I removed my clothes and cast them aside. I clambered over the backhoe and gingerly stepped into the bath, wedged in its forks. I sank into the blissfully deep, warm water. Rose petals floated on the surface and clung to my exposed skin. I couldn’t imagine where Stuart had sourced the roses, such an extravagant treat. I reclined, grinning with delight. Stuart raised the backhoe forks into the air and repositioned the bath over the fire drums.

‘Happy first anniversary in Jandowae, Fi,’ he called. ‘I’ll leave you here to relax for half an hour.’

Suspended above the heat of the flames, I gazed out at the cotton in the surrounding fields. The moon had risen in the east, casting a silvery veil over the crop. I rubbed soap over my body and floated beneath the stars. A year ago, this sky had unnerved me. The cavernous night, uninterrupted by the neon signage of urban living, had seemed both beautiful and petrifying.

So many things had seemed alien in the weeks following my arrival in Jandowae. My sense of insecurity had been amplified by Stuart’s habit of not locking the doors to Gebar. In my previous security-conscious urban existence, I’d carried at least eight keys jangling around in my handbag at any one time – for security doors, windows, the garage, the car, even the letterbox. By contrast, Stuart had lost the keys to our front door long ago and didn’t care to replace them. Our house was routinely left unsecured, whether we were popping out to the Jandowae shops or embarking upon an interstate trip. This was life in the bush – a trusting, open life, with which I had been thoroughly unfamiliar.

One year on, I’d relaxed. Indeed, I’d even found myself becoming frustrated when visiting Sydney, irritated by the need for security grilles, intercoms and car alarms. This laissez-faire rural attitude had led me to leave hotel doors open, lose the security pass for my Sydney office, misplace my credit card in department stores and leave my laptop on the ferry (it was handed in to lost and found). It wasn’t that I’d become scatterbrained; I’d simply stopped fixating on the minutiae of personal security.

Now, floating alone in a rural paddock, suspended several metres in the air, I realised I’d never felt safer in my life.

Two weeks after my backhoe bath, Stuart defoliated the crop – causing the leaves to shrivel up and fall away – in the final step before harvest. It was as if autumn had occurred overnight.

‘What did you use to make the leaves drop off?’ I asked as Stuart and I hung out a load of washing together.

‘A chemical that triggers the cotton to throw off its leaves,’ he replied, pegging a green work shirt on the line. ‘The only thing that can stuff us up now is rain.’ He followed my gaze to the clouds scurrying across the sky. ‘Sounds picky, but we definitely don’t want rain when we’re about to harvest.’

I retrieved a pair of jeans from the basket. ‘Not even just a little bit of rain to settle the dust down?’ A month of baking heat after Australia Day had seen the relentless dryness return.

Stuart shook his head. ‘The cotton needs to be bleached white by the sun, Fi, which gives it a lustre,’ he replied. ‘If it rains, the cotton turns into a sodden, grey-coloured lump that’s difficult to gin. Obviously we won’t be paid as much for that kind of cotton.’

I glanced at the sky, willing the weather to hold.

‘But you wouldn’t have done this washing if you thought it was going to rain.’ Stu smiled. ‘So let’s just stay optimistic, okay?’

Optimism was in short supply, however, when twenty millimetres of rain fell early the next morning, the day before harvest. I stared in quiet disbelief as fat droplets of water splashed brown dust onto the pristine white bolls hanging lowest to the ground. Mercifully, however, the rain stopped several hours later and the clouds cleared into a bright, sunny afternoon.

‘That’ll give the bolls the opportunity to dry out,’ said Stu, relief in his voice. ‘But we’ll have to wait another two or three days to harvest, when the ground’s dry enough again to put the heavy machinery back into the field.’ He ran his hand across his forehead.

‘The biggest impact of that rain is actually more psychological than financial,’ he observed. ‘So close to harvest, a three-day wait feels like an eternity.’

CHAPTER 19

The ground duly dried out and harvest was upon us. I climbed to the top of the module builder, in which the harvested cotton would be compacted for transport to the gin, and watched the activity unfold. Stu’s farmhand had already gone overseas and, in his absence, two short-term picking contractors had been brought on board. A stream of dust along the road announced the arrival of Toby, who pulled up alongside the module builder.

‘I’ve just popped in to give Stu some moral support,’ he called from below. ‘Can I join you?’

‘Yes, please,’ I called back to him. ‘You can tell me what’s happening out there.’

In the field before us a contractor was driving the cotton picker between rows. Stuart was carefully monitoring the process from the paddock’s edge to ensure that all of the cotton was peeled from the lowest parts of the bush.

‘It’s partly financial, partly farmer’s pride,’ explained Toby. ‘If other farmers drive past and notice you’ve left cotton on the bush, you feel embarrassed. ’Cause they won’t hesitate to talk about the money you’ve left behind in the field.’

I eyed the low-hanging bolls; it would be easy for the picker to pass right over the top of them. No wonder Stu was scrutinising the job so closely.

‘The bottom stuff’s the best,’ said Toby. ‘It’s the most mature, so it holds the most cotton. We’ve got a saying in agronomy – the bottom’s for dough and the top’s for show.’

Before long, the boll buggy was making its way from the field towards the module builder. We climbed down and stood to one side as the buggy deposited its precious cargo, before returning again to the field for its next load.

‘I’ll go and have a word to the driver,’ said Toby, climbing back into his ute.

I waved him off and scaled the ladder once more, peering into the depths of the module builder. The thirteen tonnes of cotton below resembled giant florets of cauliflower.

I watched in awe as the other contractor operated an enormous hydraulic ram to compact the last of the cotton. Once complete, a colossal brick of white cotton was left standing upright on the dirt. Stuart pulled up alongside me in his ute.

‘Watch this,’ he said. ‘It’s the best bit of the season.’

With the help of the contractor, Stuart dragged a yellow tarpaulin over the mound and tied a label to one corner with a flourish.

‘That’s called “tagging the module” and I’ve just transferred ownership to the merchant,’ he declared, patting the block with satisfaction.

‘We’ll find out about the quality of the cotton once it’s ginned over the next few days,’ he added.

A week later, harvest was over.

‘How do you feel?’ I asked Stuart, relieved that last-minute rain hadn’t hampered the operation.

Stuart grunted. ‘Well, the classing report indicates that the quality of the cotton is actually quite good,’ he said. ‘But the cotton market has dropped and unfortunately, I didn’t sell enough in advance when the price was higher.’

I sighed. Between poor yields in one season and poor prices the next, it was hard to stay positive.

The following week, after an intense period of work in Sydney, I returned to Gebar with relief. I was rapidly losing all patience with my city sojourns and couldn’t get back to the farm fast enough. How times had changed.

The day after my return, Stuart walked into the Danube and sat on the edge of the lounge, picking at the palms of his hands. He smelt of grease and WD-40.

‘I’m going away this weekend with my dad,’ he announced.

‘Oh?’ I replied, unsure what this might involve.

Stuart and his father had been business partners since he first acquired the farm. While their relationship was good, it had rarely extended to whole weekends away together.

‘We thought we might drive up north and see what kind of properties are on the market. Dad’s looking to buy a seaside shack for his retirement,’ Stu explained.

‘Sounds great,’ I said.

‘I’d ask you to come, but we’ll be talking business …’ He trailed off with an apologetic shrug.

‘Not at all,’ I replied, sensing something was afoot. Stuart obviously needed to be alone with his father; it was not the time to press him for further information.

‘You just do what you need to do,’ I said.

One week later, Stuart disappeared for three days with his father. I imagined them fishing and cooking outdoors in tiny seaside hamlets, laughing together by a roaring fire, or sitting in comfortable silence as they traversed miles of rural roads. I didn’t expect to hear from Stuart at all and hoped that he’d return refreshed from the break.

I was bringing in the washing early Sunday evening when I heard the familiar rumble of Stu’s ute. It sped along the Warra–Marnhull Road, turned into our driveway and rolled to a stop beside the house.

The driver’s door opened and Stuart stepped out. He strode across the grass towards me.

‘How was your trip?’ I smiled, unpegging a pair of football shorts.

Without a word, Stuart enveloped me in a crushing embrace. He lifted me off my feet, holding me so tightly I could hardly breathe.

‘I love you,’ he murmured into my hair.

I pulled away from him and searched his face. What had prompted this intensity?

‘Is something wrong?’ I asked.

Stuart released me and stared at the ground. His distant, wounded expression brought to mind an injured animal.

‘What’s the matter, Stu?’ I asked with alarm. ‘Did you fight with your father?’ Stuart shook his head, unable to speak. I reached out and touched his cheek.

‘Look over there, Fi,’ he said softly, pointing towards the eastern horizon.

The moon had risen over the Bunyas, a giant ball of orange reflecting the fiery western sunset. A solitary star hung above the mountains, suspended in the bush stillness. We stood in silence for several minutes. Eventually, Stuart cleared his throat.

‘My weekend away …’ he began, ‘… it wasn’t just about father–son bonding.’

I frowned, a pit of anxiety in my stomach.

Stuart rubbed his hands over his eyes.

‘We’re going to sell the farm,’ he declared. I blinked, struggling to comprehend his words.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘You’re a fantastic farmer.’

Stuart sighed. ‘Remember when we first met you wanted to know if I’d always be a farmer?’

I nodded, recalling that glamorous evening in Melbourne. At the time, with no understanding of Stuart’s vocation, it had seemed a natural question to ask.

‘Well, I told you then I wouldn’t be a farmer forever. The business isn’t working out as we’d hoped, Fi. Dad and I went through the figures over the past five years and it just doesn’t add up. Too much risk for such an unpredictable return. I could try to improve the situation by expanding and getting better economies of scale. You know, buying more country, planting more crop. But I’m not that sort of farmer; I don’t want to get bigger. I won’t even plough up my own grass country.’ He stared unhappily towards the eastern horizon.

‘If I loved farming that much,’ he continued, ‘we could just stay here and wait for those three good years in ten. But the drought’s taken so much out of me that even when it rains, I’m like a beaten dog. I’m just waiting for the next whipping.’ He looked at me with weary eyes. ‘And that’s no way to live.’

I nodded robotically, shell-shocked. I knew that the past two years had been difficult, but I hadn’t imagined it would come to this. ‘Every year I hope it’ll get better, but it just doesn’t seem to happen,’ Stu continued. ‘There’s an old saying in agriculture – what’s a farmer thinking about when he’s harvesting this season’s crop? How good next year’s crop will be.’ He looked up at the evening’s first stars, distant and pale. ‘There’s a fine line between courage and stupidity, Fi. Enough is enough.’ He closed his eyes.

I sat silently by the water tank. The faint high-pitched whine of mosquitoes intruded upon my racing thoughts. Certainly the impetus for change had been building, season after season. Stuart had battled the worst droughts in the district’s history, two unrewarding cotton harvests, the devastating incident with the spray contractor, his right-hand man leaving him, the economic pressures of ‘environmental’ farming and the vicissitudes of the price index. For all these reasons and more, Stuart’s confidence in agriculture had been steadily eroded.

‘But what will you do, Stu?’ I asked, uncertain of the kind of life he might envisage outside of agriculture. ‘What will we do?’

Stuart stared in the direction of the Bunyas.

‘Maybe I can focus more on my international work,’ he said. ‘Half of the world’s workforce is farmers, Fi, and they’re mostly in developing countries. My experience base in Australia has proved valuable overseas before. Surely I can be of use somewhere in the world?’

I reached for Stuart’s hand, my mind reeling. We sat together, hands clasped, attempting to imagine a future beyond the farm.

Less than six weeks later, Gebar was on the market. It was midautumn and the bite in the midday sun had weakened. As auction day loomed, I fought an overwhelming sense of melancholy by increasing my jogging mileage. I ran in the late afternoons, relishing the rustling sound of wallabies in the nearby undergrowth. Night would close in and my eyes would fail me, yet an imperceptible pull would guide me homewards. Where will I be, if not here? This was my home now.

One evening during a long training run, I was startled by a massive bolt of green and white light illuminating the clouds above me. I stood transfixed, my breath creating small vapour puffs in the still night air. Eerily, the bright trail of light streaked westwards, comet-like, before vanishing into the surrounding blackness. I marvelled at the sky, wondering if I alone had seen the spectacle. Ancient cultures would have interpreted it as an omen of some kind. What might that light mean, for Stuart and me?

CHAPTER 20

The days grew shorter and cooler and the autumn sunshine was replaced by the chill winds of winter. Weekly advertisements were placed in rural newspapers, announcing the prospective auction of Gebar. No rain had fallen for six months and Stuart was functioning in maintenance mode. In the absence of planting rain, the district’s farmers had been unable to sow their regular winter crops. While Stuart had retained some water from the January deluge, he was reluctant to compromise his supplies.

‘The water’s worth more to a potential buyer in the dam, rather than on the fields right now,’ he explained to me over breakfast one morning. ‘With water in the dam, the new owners will be able to plant a summer crop. Most of our neighbours aren’t so fortunate.’ He thumbed the pages of an old farm journal.

‘Well, let’s hope the water in the Pelican Dam attracts a buyer,’ I replied, with forced optimism. I scanned Stuart’s face. Lines had appeared across his forehead and his eyes were heavy from sleepless nights. Having made the difficult decision to leave the land, Stuart had hoped for a quick, easy sale. Now he faced the daunting prospect of awaiting an elusive buyer, in a time of desperate drought. Please let there be a buyer soon. Not for my sake, but for Stuart’s.

The weeks collapsed into each other. Stuart spent hours in the shed, tinkering with infrastructure in endless preparation for the moment he might receive a phone call from the real estate agent. The call never came. As an antidote to hopelessness, I oriented my jogging schedule towards a tangible goal – the completion of a half-marathon. I’d been running regularly along rural roads for more than a year; distances that initially intimidated me now seemed eminently achievable. I registered for the Gold Coast Half-Marathon, due to occur in the week prior to Gebar’s auction, and committed myself to an arduous training regime.

The day before the event, on the eve of our first wedding anniversary, we threw our bags into the ute and drove five hours to our destination.

‘It’s a pretty unusual way to be spending your first wedding anniversary,’ said Stu, glancing sidewards at me as he drove. ‘I’m proud of you Fi, you’ve put in a big effort.’

I smiled, recalling our wedding day. I could almost feel the soft sunshine on my skin and the rose petals cascading over me. One year on, the farm was for sale. I’d never dreamed that we’d be selling the farm in our first year of marriage.

‘Good to see you’re still smiling,’ Stuart remarked. ‘Being a farmer’s wife must be pretty stressful, I reckon. Selling a farm is even worse. I’ve been worried you might leave me for some metrosexual management guru in Sydney.’

I snorted dismissively, but could tell he was only half-joking.

When we next stopped at traffic lights, I leant across the front seat of the ute and wrapped my hands around his neck.

‘I’ll never leave you,’ I said, looking into his eyes. ‘And the smell of WD-40 beats moisturiser on a man, any day.’

As Stuart leant forward to kiss me, the driver behind us leant on his horn.

The following morning I awoke at five o’clock in a friend’s unit on the Gold Coast.

‘Happy anniversary,’ called Stuart from the kitchen. Offering me two slices of toast, he unleashed his pre-race pep talk, courtesy of the iconic Australian film Gallipoli.

‘What are your legs?’ he barked.

‘Steel springs,’ I replied, repressing a smile.

‘How fast can you run?’ he said.

‘Faster than a leopard!’

Thirty minutes later, I stepped out into the pre-dawn chill and headed towards the starting line at Southport. With a number plastered across my chest and a microchip in my sneaker, I joined 4,000 other crazies in the 21-kilometre half marathon.

The starter’s gun fired and we were off, jostling for space in the bottleneck. My goal for the race was to keep to a steady pace of twelve kilometres per hour (or ‘five-minute ks’ as the pros called it). The first thirteen kilometres were relatively easy – I was high on endorphins and the camaraderie of running in a pack of thousands. At the fourteen-kilometre mark, however, I hit the wall (a phenomenon mysteriously referred to as ‘bonking’ by professional runners) – my legs felt heavy and I began to slow down. Sheer mental fortitude kept me going for the last seven kilometres, and I crossed the line with an official time of 1:45:10. While the record for the female half marathon in my age group was 1:13:20, I was thrilled to have achieved my goal.

‘You’ve got a marathon in you, for sure,’ enthused Stu as we left the Gold Coast, victorious.

‘That might be a tad ambitious,’ I said, struggling to envisage completing two half-marathons back-to-back. ‘But I’ll think about it.’

We drove in comfortable silence. The high-rise apartments and man-made canals of the Gold Coast soon gave way to undulating coastal hinterland. Within two hours, we were travelling the familiar, underpopulated plains of the greater west.

As we passed Jondaryan, marking the halfway point in our return journey, Stuart turned to me and asked, ‘Fi, can we talk?’ I frowned apprehensively. Stuart never sought permission to start a conversation.

‘We’ve had our first anniversary,’ he said, ‘so maybe it’s time we think about the future.’

I grimaced, anticipating what was coming next. He wasn’t referring to any post-farm plan; he had something else altogether in mind. He meant having a baby. Somehow I hoped that my silence might dissuade him from the topic. Did I honestly think he’d forget about this?

With my eyes trained on the passing landscape, I recalled our lengthy deliberations a year earlier when composing our wedding vows. During our pre-marital sessions with Dorothy, the topic of children had naturally been canvassed. But our responses to the prospect of parenting had differed radically. While I could picture a perfectly satisfying life without the patter of tiny feet, Stuart had always hoped to have children. After debating whether or not to include a reference to children in our wedding ceremony, we’d arrived at a compromise:

The love that is born among Fiona and Stuart may lead to new life in children and a safe place for their learning and growing.

Or it may simply enlarge the life of each and emerge as creativity, spreading out into the life of the community, in love for the world and its diverse peoples, modelling grace and justice.

In reaching that compromise, I’d hesitantly agreed that some time after our wedding, despite my indifference, we would actively try to have children. For Stuart, this seemed to be the most natural thing in the world. Since moving to Jandowae I’d witnessed his formidable talent for relating to children. In fact, Stuart was considered a father figure to countless ankle-biters in the district. Parents regularly dropped their offspring in to Gebar for quality time with Uncle Stu. He kept them entertained for hours with frisbees, cricket, yabbying, kite-flying, treasure-hunting and story-telling. One family in the district even named their son after Stuart. It was all very effortless and endearing: Stuart simply loved children.

By contrast, I’d always been uncomfortable around them. Unlike most women I knew, my biological clock had never started chiming. I didn’t feel all mushy inside at the sight of a baby flipping food over its shoulder. Children, it seemed to me, were noisy, messy, unpredictable creatures.

Further, a range of more serious concerns plagued me about child-rearing. Philosophically, I worried about the vast number of parentless children dotted all over the globe. Why have one of your own? Why not adopt an orphan instead? I was suspicious, too, of the environmental consequences of parenting. Why should I add to the world’s ever-increasing population burden, or contribute to the global load of nappies in landfill?

With Stuart, I’d always been completely upfront about my concerns. He knew I was deeply uncomfortable about the potential repercussions of having a baby. Ultimately, however, he was prepared to feel the fear and do it anyway. And I’d agreed that I would at least try to have a baby post-marriage. But a cold, dark part of me questioned whether this was fundamentally dishonest. I’d desperately hoped that somehow my feelings would miraculously shift and I might start wanting to have a baby.

Now, one year on, I realised that nothing had changed for me since our weeks of pre-marriage soul-searching.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Stuart, reaching for my hand.

‘I’m still ambivalent about having children.’

I winced; the last time I’d used the ‘a’ word, our relationship had imploded. Stuart nodded, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

We continued our journey in silence. We’re grappling with drought, the farm is on the market, and we don’t know what we’ll do when it sells. Why bring a baby into the mix?

But I knew that the issue couldn’t be avoided. While I refused to feign enthusiasm about parenting, I was a woman of my word. A year ago, I’d vowed that we would try to have a baby. So try we would.

The farm was passed in at auction. Few potential buyers inspected the property and fewer still placed a serious bid. Locally, there was little optimism. The winter rains, so vital for planting, had never arrived. The district’s farmers now faced the crippling reality of missing an entire season’s production. Globally, commodity markets and the cotton price had slumped to record lows. Confidence in agriculture was plunging, and the world was absorbed in global warming debates.

Despite the fact that Gebar boasted water in one of its dams, this wasn’t enough to entice bidders. Stuart shook the auctioneer’s hand and straightened his hat. We returned home to Gebar, mute with disappointment. In the subsequent weeks, several potential buyers circled like carrion birds, hoping to seize a bargain. But Stuart stood firm on a minimum price; he wasn’t about to raffle off the last fifteen years of his life.

‘It might take a long time to sell Gebar, Fi,’ he murmured unhappily.

Somewhere deep inside me, a window in my heart opened and a little bird sang of reprieve.

Four weeks later, I sat in a doctor’s surgery in Brisbane, shuffling through pamphlets about infertility treatments, pregnancy-related ailments and hereditary foetal illnesses. I knew that I suffered from a reproductive health problem known as ‘polycystic ovarian syndrome’ (PCOS), a condition in which cysts in the ovaries interfere with normal ovulation and menstruation. I’d been diagnosed at eighteen years of age when my erratic menstrual cycle just wouldn’t settle down. At the time, when the specialist advised that the condition would probably impede my fertility, the idea of falling pregnant had been hypothetical.

I cast aside a brochure entitled ‘Keeping Your Pelvic Floor Intact’ and squeezed my eyes shut. My heart was battering in my chest. A door swung open and a 40-something woman wearing a white coat emerged.

‘Fiona?’ she called, in a disinterested tone.

I sprang up like a startled cat and hurried into her office. After taking my medical history and conducting a physical examination, the specialist confirmed that it would be impossible for me to fall pregnant naturally. As she rattled on about assistive technologies, I wondered whether I just wasn’t biologically cut out for having children.

‘We’ll try you on clomiphene as a first step. It’s taken as a tablet; the success rate is 22 per cent per cycle,’ she said. ‘Of course, multiple births are a risk. About fourteen per cent of clomiphene pregnancies are twins. Less than one per cent are triplets.’

I tried to remain calm as she advised me of the possible side effects of treatment. Abdominal bloating, hot flushes, visual disturbance. All of these paled into insignificance compared with the prospect of having triplets.

In the last days of winter, I closed my eyes and popped the first of five pills I was to take over the same number of days. I didn’t feel good about it, but I didn’t raise these feelings with Stuart. We’d talked ad nauseam about the subject; he knew where I stood, and vice versa. I’d agreed to try to fall pregnant; he’d agreed to accept the outcome either way. There was nothing to be gained from further discussion. It was time to see what life would deliver us.

It was after I swallowed my fifth pill over breakfast that Stuart made a surprising announcement. ‘I’m not growing cotton again,’ he declared.

I paused, confused. The farm hadn’t sold at auction – surely it was business as usual until it did?

‘But it’s almost time to plant,’ I replied, ‘and you’re a cotton farmer.’

Stuart shook his head. ‘I’m not a cotton farmer anymore,’ he said. ‘The farm’s for sale. World cotton prices are the lowest I’ve ever seen. And now the government’s cut my bore water allocation by 30 per cent. Rumour has it there’ll be more restrictions on pumping from the Cooranga Creek.’ He brandished a letter from the Department of Natural Resources that had arrived earlier that week. ‘I’ve been restricting my bore usage for years, and now the government’s only just catching up. Problem is, this letter will make Gebar more difficult to sell. Water security is a major issue for buyers.’

He glowered at the memo. ‘I’ve reached my limit. I’m not growing cotton this season.’ The flint-like edge in his voice had returned.

‘But what will you grow instead?’ I asked, half-expecting him to declare that he’d be leaving the whole farm fallow.

‘Sorghum,’ he replied. ‘It’s an easier crop to manage than cotton. Lower inputs, lower risk. And usually the return is lower, but the price is at an all-time high this season. So it’s an attractive proposition, especially with an inexperienced workman.’

After the search for a replacement farmhand had been abandoned six months previously, a young, casual worker had finally been recommended by a neighbour. With no other staffing prospects in sight, Stuart had been forced to pay higher wages for less experience.

I studied Stuart’s face. ‘How will you feel, not growing cotton?’ I asked.

‘Ambivalent,’ he replied, ‘but I know it’s the right thing to do.’

I can relate to that.

CHAPTER 21

In early October Stuart planted a crop of sorghum – the first time he hadn’t planted cotton in a decade – and I ran my first marathon. After my successful half-marathon experience three months earlier, I’d decided to push myself to the limits of endurance training. After all, I reasoned, if the fertility drugs worked, I might never have an opportunity to run a marathon again. Apart from the prospect of possible pregnancy, another important motivator was my father, whose condition had worsened in recent months. Prior to his diagnosis of multiple sclerosis, my father had loved all forms of sport, especially cricket and running. As he fought off a series of respiratory infections in Sydney, I was powerless to assist from rural Australia. Thus I decided to use my marathon entry as an opportunity to raise funds for MS research.

On a cold spring morning, I stood at the starting line of the Melbourne Marathon, glancing around at my fellow competitors and feeling a little out of place. Unlike the throng around me, I was not tanned, gaunt and sporting a singlet from a previous race. I was fresh marathon meat – and I wasn’t entirely confident that I could run the 42 kilometres.

The starting gun fired and I commenced my run at a steady pace, rehydrating regularly at drink stations. The course from Frankston was mostly flat, spanning semi-rural areas and windswept beachside suburbs before tracking through unremarkable outer suburbs towards the Melbourne CBD. Kilometre after kilometre stretched before me; my calves and hamstrings began to tighten as I pushed through the fatigue barrier. At the 25-kilometre mark, I imagined my father, tall and lean, running alongside me. This image spurred me on.

With just three kilometres to go, I turned into St Kilda Road and picked up my pace. I ran the final kilometres, goosebumps prickling across my legs and arms. As I accelerated towards the finish line, I heard a voice declare over a public announcement system ‘… and Fiona Higgins of Jandowae is finishing strongly!’ I galloped over the finish line and looked up at the timekeeper: 3:40:24. I scoured the crowd for Stuart and found him, lunging over a guide rail and waving, eyes shining with pride. I’d completed a marathon, for Dad and for me. No more running now.

The following day, I kissed Stu goodbye at Melbourne airport and flew to Hervey Bay, Queensland, for a well-earned rest. I’d planned to spend a relaxing week on the beach with my mother while Stu irrigated the sorghum crop. Over the next seven days, we enjoyed long walks and conversation, read books and laughed over card games. My physical recovery from the marathon was slow. My heart was beating faster, and a little higher in my chest. My internal thermostat seemed awry – one minute I felt chilly and searched for a cardigan, the next moment I was perspiring with heat. Perhaps I was marginally dehydrated and my core body temperature was skewed. Or perhaps I’m pregnant.

Under the guise of ‘future research’, I quizzed my mother on all manner of topics related to pregnancy. Did she get morning sickness while pregnant? Yes, relieved by nibbling breadsticks. Did she drink wine? Yes, but only one glass with dinner. How did she know she was pregnant in the first place? I needed to sleep all the time. Did she exercise during pregnancy? Not really, exercise wasn’t so important back then. How did she know she wanted to have children? Well, we never really thought about it in those days, we just did it. I absorbed the information like a sponge.

At the end of our week together, I waved my mother off at the airport with tears in my eyes. How much more do you appreciate your own mother with the looming prospect of becoming one yourself?

‘I love you, Mum,’ I said, hugging her tightly to me. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.’

With a quizzical smile, she gave me a final, comforting squeeze. If she suspected anything, she didn’t say so.

I began the long journey home alone.

Immediately after my arrival at Gebar, I bolted to the bathroom and pulled a pregnancy kit from the drawer. Stuart was nowhere to be seen and I closeted myself in the toilet. I deftly caught an enormous green tree frog loitering beneath the seat, and pitched it out onto the lawn. Retreating again to the toilet, I followed the directions on the kit then waited nervously for the results to develop. A faint line wavered fleetingly across the positive axis, then turned into a clear negative. Puzzled, I re-read the instructions to ensure that I had taken the test correctly, and resolved to re-test the next morning.

Over the next three days I re-tested daily. There was still no sign of my period, but on each occasion, a negative result emerged. Apparently, I was neither pregnant nor menstruating – what was going on? I phoned my specialist.

‘Hmmm,’ she mused. ‘Come in and see me.’

The following afternoon in Brisbane, the specialist inspected my uterus by ultrasound.

‘Well, not much action in there,’ she said finally, gazing at the black-and-white screen before her.

She turned to me and remarked, ‘You don’t look pregnant. Do you feel pregnant? Are your breasts sore?’ I shook my head.

‘Well,’ she said, standing up from her screen. ‘It might be an ectopic pregnancy. That’s an egg that implants in the fallopian tube instead of the uterus. That’s another risk of clomiphene.’ She helped me up from the table.

‘So we’ll take some blood tests, and I’ll request an urgent delivery on the results.’

Confused and afraid, I left the hospital and headed back to my hotel room. I was due to depart the following day for a series of work meetings in Sydney. I could get further help there if I needed it.

Later that evening as I lay alone watching a re-run of I Love Lucy on cable TV, my mobile phone rang. I recognised the number – the specialist. My stomach clenched with nerves; just three hours had passed since the blood sample had been taken.

‘The results are back, Fiona,’ she exclaimed, triumphant. ‘You’re pregnant!’

I listened quietly, disbelievingly, as she explained that the levels of a particular hormone in my blood – human chorionic gonadotropin – were high enough to support a positive, viable pregnancy.

‘Right … um, so … it’s not an ectopic pregnancy?’ I stammered.

‘Well, it all looks pretty normal to me,’ she said. ‘Congratulations!’

I put down the phone, sat on the edge of the bed and stared vacantly at the floor, smiling as tears filled my eyes. This was it: the moment that I had sought to avoid for so many years. My life as an unfettered individual was now over. What a miracle. What a fright. I sat motionless on the edge of the bed for minutes. Finally, I picked up the telephone and dialled Stuart’s mobile number.

How will I break the news? I wondered. This wasn’t the moment I’d imagined; we weren’t even face to face. His phone rang once and automatically clicked over to voicemail; I left a message asking him to call me back. I stood up and began to pace around the room. Despite my anxiety, there was something exquisite in the solitary knowledge of my pregnancy. I walked to the bathroom, pulled up my T-shirt and inspected my belly. Its flat, muscular tone gave no hint of pregnancy.

The phone rang; it was Stu. I answered it and blurted, ‘I’m pregnant.’ There was an audible intake of breath at the other end and a prolonged pause.

‘Wow,’ he said, at last. ‘Oh, Fi … I have goosebumps.’

I smiled and recounted my conversation with the specialist. Despite Stuart’s obvious pleasure in my news, the telling of it felt anticlimactic. Like so many other pivotal points in our relationship, we were in different places, experiencing the moment separately.

‘Fi, I’m so sorry we’re not together,’ Stu said, detecting my mood, ‘but we’ll celebrate properly when you get home.’

‘Okay,’ I said, blotting my eyes with a tissue. I wasn’t clear why the tears were falling – joy, fear, being apart from Stu – and I didn’t want to talk about it right then.

In the hazy week that followed in Sydney, I wandered through the Babies and Parenting section of countless bookstores. Stuart had warned me to avoid overloading myself with competing information sources, but I devoured a range of seminal pregnancy texts. I also discovered a pregnancy calculator on the internet which advised me that I was already six weeks pregnant and my due date was June 18. Only 34 weeks and four days to go. Oh. My. God.

‘Are you all right, Fi Fi?’ Genevieve asked, peering over her sunglasses as we sipped coffee in the Sydney sunshine.

‘I’m fine …’ I said, fidgeting with a serviette.

‘Hmmm.’ She studied me carefully. ‘Sure you are. Come on, out with it. What’s going on?’ I cleared my throat.

‘I’m pregnant,’ I said. ‘And I’m starting to suspect I don’t have a maternal bone in my body.’ Tears sprang to my eyes, threatening to spill down my cheeks.

‘Oh daaaarling,’ Genevieve purred, jumping up from her chair to embrace me. ‘I’m so haaaappy for you. But what’s wrong? Are the hormones getting to you?’ I snivelled into my serviette.

‘Maybe they are. Or maybe I should never have agreed to have this baby. I don’t want to slow down. I don’t want things to change. I don’t want to be just a mummy for the rest of my life.’ I was mildly hysterical, and I knew it.

Genevieve clicked her tongue. ‘Honey, you won’t just be a mummy,’ she said. ‘You’ll be a yummy mummy.’

I rolled my eyes.

‘Gen, this is no time for jokes,’ I said. ‘If how I’m feeling now is anything to go by, I’ll be the worst mother in the world.’

Genevieve sighed, her patience exhausted. ‘Oh Jeeeesus, Fi, pull yourself together. I don’t know anything about pregnancy, but I’m sure the thoughts and feelings you’re having aren’t entirely abnormal.’ She sipped at her macchiato and surveyed me sternly.

‘Let’s face it,’ she continued. ‘You’re just a control freak who’s outside your comfort zone. Pregnancy is beyond your control, and you don’t like it. But just because it’s uncomfortable and you’re not feeling all ga-ga about the baby right now doesn’t mean you’ll be a bad mother. The good feelings will come, Fi. They’ll come. Just give yourself a bit of time and space to let them happen.’

I nodded quietly. Her words made sense.

As we paid the bill and prepared to leave, Genevieve turned to me.

‘One last thing, Fi,’ she said. ‘This reminds me of another time in your life when you were completely out of your depth, when you decided to hang it all and move to Jandowae. You put your career on the line and you left your cosy city world, when there was every chance it wasn’t going to work out with Stu. Even I thought you were insane, and that’s really saying something.’ She poked me in the ribs with her index finger.

‘Well, that’s worked out just fine, hasn’t it?’ she smiled. ‘You’re definitely ready to face your fears. You’ve done it before, and you’ll do it again.’ She blew me a kiss, swivelled on her kitten heels and was gone.

I turned Genevieve’s comments over in my mind throughout the remainder of my stay in Sydney. Was I really ready to face my fears? Even the deepest, most intractable ones?

One week later, driving back to Jandowae from Brisbane, I pulled over at the Toowoomba aerodrome to watch a small aircraft taxi and take off over the range. As it climbed through clouds, I recalled many such flights under Stuart’s calm captaincy. Prior to life in Jandowae I could never have contemplated taking to the skies in a small, single-engine Cessna. Am I ready to combat my fears? I started the engine and drove into the aerodrome, pulling up outside the office. A middle-aged woman greeted me from behind the desk.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I’d like to book a flying lesson for next week.’

‘How’s 8.00 am next Thursday?’

‘Perfect.’ I smiled.

The following Thursday morning was grey and misty. I threw an anxious glance at the low-lying cloud overhead, but gritted my teeth. I am ready to face my fears. I was greeted at the Toowoomba aerodrome by a genial, 50-something flying instructor named Graeme.

‘Can we fly in these conditions?’ I asked, eyeing the windsock flapping haphazardly near the runway.

‘Sure we can,’ Graeme said. ‘Probably a few bumps on takeoff, but nothing to worry about.’

A part of me was desperate to disclose my fear of flying, my potted history of quaking and shaking on 767s, and my pregnancy. But this time the rational part of me prevailed; I needed to focus on learning to fly. I refused to distract myself or Graeme with a pre-takeoff workshop of my psychological history.

‘Righto, I’ll just do a few pre-flight checks,’ announced Graeme, gesturing towards a PA-28 Tomahawk.

As I had seen Stuart do so many times before, Graeme proceeded to check the fuel for water content. He lowered the flaps manually, inspected the tyres and ensured that the stall warning vent and the static air vent weren’t blocked. He ran his hand over the propeller, feeling for stone chips, then checked that the fuel drain of the carburettor was in order, the oil level was sufficient and the ailerons were working. Finally, he tested the elevators, waggled the rudder and measured the fuel level with a dipstick.

This routine was reassuringly familiar, until Graeme gestured towards the pilot’s seat and said, ‘Righto, captain, in you climb.’

Accustomed to my usual seat on the right-hand side of the cockpit, my stomach began to churn. I lowered myself into the pilot’s seat.

‘Now, what I’m going to get you to do is taxi and then take off,’ said Graeme.

‘When you taxi, you’ll be using your foot pedals for steering. But when we’re in the air, you’ll be using the control stick to steer with your hands. Remember: feet for the ground, hands for the air,’ he intoned.

I swallowed hard. What the hell had I gotten myself into? Starting the engine, Graeme demonstrated how to taxi the plane, using his feet to manoeuvre the machine straight down the middle of the taxiway.

‘Now you try,’ he said.

I tentatively touched the foot pedals, at which the plane veered wildly to the left. Keeping the plane centred on the runway was a lot harder than it appeared. How did 747 pilots control their massive machines?

After zigzagging my way to the end of the runway, I listened as Graeme explained the takeoff procedure.

‘Right, don’t worry about the taxiing. Takes a bit of getting used to,’ he said. ‘Now I’m going to get you to accelerate to 60 knots then ease back on the controls. We’ll lift off and head east.’

There was nothing like necessity to focus the mind. I’m not nervous, I’m excited. As the Tomahawk hurtled down the runway, I pulled back at the 60-knot point and suddenly, we were airborne. I let out an involuntary yelp – it was a little bumpy and I couldn’t believe that I was behind the controls.

My half-hour lesson proceeded without incident, despite my nerves. Somehow I was able to attend to Graeme’s instructions on applying aileron and rudder coordination for basic turns, how to climb and descend, gliding and flap usage, situational awareness (listening to, and talking to, other aeroplanes), and lining up for landing. The only thing I didn’t do was land the plane myself. At the end of the lesson, I was elated. While I had no illusions about the extent of my aptitude after only one lesson – clearly, Graeme had been in control throughout the flight – I’d achieved something which would have been impossible for me just eighteen months previously.

Climbing down from the cockpit, I accepted Graeme’s invitation for a cup of tea with the Darling Downs Aeroclub team. I sat around with Rod the mechanic, Phil the flight instructor and Bob the maintenance man, nodding sagely as they talked shop. Internally, I was celebrating a major victory.

If I could do it with flying, I could do it with a baby.

CHAPTER 22

The vista from the Danube’s window looked different this summer, my third in Jandowae. The white fairy bolls of cotton had been replaced by yellow arrows of sorghum, pressing skywards as they ripened under the unforgiving sun. My belly was swelling, too, with the first visible signs of the mystery within. Inexplicably, my previous anxieties about babies and motherhood seemed to be diminishing in proportion to my expanding girth.

In mid-December, Stuart and I travelled to Brisbane for a routine obstetric appointment. I attempted to retain some kind of dignity as I lay spread-eagled with a blanket over my knees. At the end of her investigations, the specialist printed out a black-and-white ultrasound image and thrust it towards me.

‘Looking good,’ she smiled.

I accepted the image politely and studied it. An amorphous globule floated, tadpole-like, against my uterine wall. According to the printout, the tadpole was ten centimetres long.

‘Have a peek here,’ the doctor invited, pointing to the screen in front of her. I turned onto my side and there it was, plain to see: a mass of rapidly developing cells with a tiny head and a newly beating heart. Stuart squeezed my hand. Somewhere deep within me, a cold, hard plug shifted, almost imperceptibly.

On the return journey from Brisbane the next day, I stared out the window, contemplating the wonder of it all. There is a being growing inside of me. A someone. Stuart talked intermittently about matters which seemed entirely trivial.

As we neared the main street of Toowoomba, Stuart pulled over on the side of the road and let the Festiva’s engine idle. ‘I’ve got to pick up my ute from the mechanic,’ he reminded me. ‘We’ll have to return in separate cars. Are you all right to drive by yourself, do you think?’

‘Of course,’ I replied.

After collecting his ute, Stuart drove ahead. I tailed him in the Festiva, some twenty metres behind, grateful for the opportunity to be alone. My mind returned to the marvel I had seen on the ultrasound screen. Who are you, in there? Who will you become?

Almost two hours later, we turned onto the Warra–Marnhull Road. I glanced at the farm in the distance, golden sorghum reflecting the sun’s midday glare. Dust and pebbles flew from the gravel up onto the windscreen as I followed Stuart’s ute. Navigating a small speed hump, I accelerated through a series of soft ridges. The wheels of the Festiva seemed to slide a little, then the car lurched to the right. Disconcerted, I attempted to correct my steering. I wrenched at the wheel and felt the tyres spinning through more powdery dirt.

Suddenly, I was careering out of control towards a barbed-wire fence. The car spun a full 180 degrees. The seconds seemed to pass in slow motion as I was thrown against the steering wheel. I watched in dread as wooden fence posts loomed closer. Oh God, little one.

I shielded my face as the Festiva came to rest in a ditch, barbed wire just centimetres from my window. Somehow I had managed to avoid contact with the fence. There were no injuries, no damage – just one stalled engine and adrenalin surging through my body. Metres ahead of me, Stuart slammed on his brakes and reversed.

‘I’m okay,’ I called, as he leapt from his ute.

Opening my door, Stuart pulled me from my seat and into his arms.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘What happened?’ I faltered.

‘You lost control on the loose gravel,’ he said, releasing me. ‘These things happen bloody fast. Easy to do when the roads are so dry.’

I leant against Stuart and rubbed my abdomen. I need to stay focused, for both of us.

News of my pregnancy travelled fast in the district and I found myself regularly entertaining locals over endless cups of tea. In the course of such sittings, I summoned the courage to experiment beyond my ‘never fail’ lemonade scones formula. These more complex scone recipes called for buttermilk, baking soda and other ingredients which, to my mind, were utterly exotic.

After sampling a particularly tasty batch, Stuart leant back in his chair and observed, ‘You know, it’s the Jandowae Show in a couple of weeks. You should enter your scones in the culinary competition.’

I rolled my eyes in disbelief.

‘You have got to be kidding me,’ I said. ‘I saw the scones section at last year’s show. There are women in Jandowae with 40 years of scone-making experience. The Queensland Country Women’s Association would chew me up and spit me out.’ Stuart laughed, undeterred by my ranting.

‘But it’d be fun,’ he said. ‘And they’d like you for trying. You know, brownie points for the city girl. You don’t have to take it seriously. You should just have a go.’

Two weeks later, I blushed as I handed in my registration as a bona fide entrant in Section 5 Class 1 (‘Plain Scones’) at the Jandowae & District Show.

‘Good luck next Saturday, and take one of these,’ urged a middle-aged woman accepting entries. She waved an Official Show Manual at me, replete with a comprehensive list of ‘Hints and Tips’ for entrants in the cooking competitions.

I pored over its contents in the car park. Eggs should weigh approximately two ounces. If your butter is hard to cream, add one tablespoon of boiling water. If using a fan-forced oven, cook at approximately twenty degrees below recommended heat.

Back home, I thrust the booklet at Stu. ‘Just look what you’ve got me into,’ I whined. ‘It’s the egg and butter Gestapo. How much is an ounce, anyway?’

Sensing my alarm, Stuart said, ‘Look, I know an insider within the Country Women’s Association. I’ll call her for help.’

He picked up the telephone and dialled Delcie Welsh. Twenty minutes later, the fax machine spat out two pages of helpful pointers. Delcie’s fine cursive writing set out the specifications of a perfect scone:

Size should be medium (not small or large), approximately 1.5 – 2 inches in diameter. Scones should not touch each other during cooking. A fine, light texture is very important. There should be no cracks or wire-cooler marks on the base of the scone. Brush top with milk prior to cooking. Brush flour off cooked scone with dry pastry brush, for presentation.

Delcie also addressed one of my chief concerns, namely, the demoralising fact that my otherwise appetising scones routinely emerged from the oven as Leaning Towers of Pisa. She advised: Tilting scones may be due to cutter dragging down – make sure it is very sharp and well-floured. This was a revelation: I had certainly never contemplated flouring my cutter before. Upon inspection, I realised that my scone-cutter – a sentimental acquisition from my grandmother – was blunt indeed. Maybe that was the root of the problem. Two days before the show, I drove to Dalby and purchased a spanking new, razor-sharp cutter. It sliced through dough effortlessly. The following morning, I dropped in six freshly baked scones to the Jandowae showground for judging.

On Show Day, Stuart and I arrived early. Entering the produce hall, I was once again dazzled by the diversity of rural produce on display. We approached the Perishable Culinary section and quickly found the plain scones, adjacent to the more famous Queensland pumpkin variety. I located my plate of scones, wrapped in plastic, at the very end of the display. No ribbon or notification was attached.

‘Just as I thought, they were no good,’ I said, deflated.

Then I noticed a corner of white cardboard, poking out from underneath the plate.

‘Hang on …’ I said, lifting the plate to read the certificate beneath:

Jandowae & District Show Society. First Prize. Awarded to Fiona Higgins, for Plain Scones. Section 5, Class 1, Category 1. Judge: M.J. Bell.

Stuart whooped with delight. Recovering his composure, he proceeded to take photographs of the prize-winning batch.

‘That’ll set the cat among the pigeons, babe. A city girl defeats the country entrants,’ he said, bubbling with pride.

An elderly woman hovering nearby sidled up to me. ‘Oh, you’re Fiona?’ she asked. She was wearing a name tag and obviously held an officiating function at the show.

‘Congratulations,’ she said, beaming. Glancing over her shoulder, she leant in towards me. ‘Bessie Jones won almost every other baking category, except Plain Scones,’ she whispered. ‘Bit of a turnaround. Haven’t seen that for years.’

She patted me on the back and wandered away. Briefly, I wondered what price I might pay for toppling a local fixture in the scone-making stakes.

‘Quick, let’s get out of here before Bessie comes stalking,’ said Stu smugly.

As we drove home in the ute, I turned to Stu and smiled. ‘So, does that make me a true-blue Jandowae local?’ I asked.

Stuart chuckled, shaking his head. ‘If you won the competition annually for the next twenty years, maybe,’ he replied.

As the season turned, the baby began stirring within my womb. An almost imperceptible fluttering became a series of distinct kicks. My body started to ripen, my previous angles and edges softening into generous curves. My pregnant body became a glorious work of art, unfurling in delicate detail. As the sorghum slowly turned a burnished red, I felt deeply connected to the farm in a way I’d never been before. I too was a medium of nature, a receptacle of life itself.

By my sixth month of pregnancy, however, my heightened sensuality waned. My swollen belly moved beyond a delightfully rounded state, and began to impede ordinary activities. Sitting down at a desk proved challenging, as did ironing shirts and driving cars. As my impending motherhood became more obvious, the radical honesty of Jandowae locals began to grate.

‘Coooorrr, you’re not as streamlined as you used to be,’ observed Geoff, a patron at the local pool in which I’d been swimming throughout my pregnancy.

I’m profoundly aware of my body’s changes, thanks Geoff, without you having to point them out. I hauled myself out of the pool and removed my swimming cap.

‘If you think you’re tired now,’ he added, ‘just wait till the little tacker’s on the ground in six months’ time. Then you’ll be knackered.’

Leaning heavily against the handrails to catch my breath, I nodded politely at a 60-something woman making her way towards the pool. As she stepped into the water alongside me, she reached out and patted my protrusion in a friendly, isn’t-that-nice way. Does pregnancy automatically confer the right to invade a woman’s personal space?

‘My daughter reckons raspberry tea helped her,’ she confided. ‘Her little boy slipped out real easy.’

Dismayed by that mental image, I beat a hasty retreat to the change room.

Sydney was no better. As the resident pregnant woman in the office, I felt like a dancing bear in the circus. I routinely sidestepped well-intentioned discussions about the benefits of fit balls, kinesiology, pan flutes or doulas in facilitating labour.

‘Have you chosen a name for the baby?’ a middle-aged woman asked, as I stood in a supermarket queue.

‘Not yet,’ I lied. Although Stuart and I had developed a short-list of names, I had little desire to discuss them with a stranger in Bi-Lo.

‘Well, do you know if it’s a girl or a boy?’ she persisted.

I shrugged evasively. It’s fifty-fifty, lady.

‘Looks like a girl to me,’ the woman assessed, eyeing my girth. ‘You’re certainly a wide load.’

I refrained from accosting her with a carrot, collected my shopping bags and waddled out of the store.

CHAPTER 23

‘How was Sydney?’ Stuart asked, pulling himself out from underneath a tractor. ‘Did you arrange everything we talked about?’

It was the beginning of my seventh month of pregnancy and I’d returned from work in Sydney just in time for the sorghum harvest.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘We’re all set up for a Sydney birth.’

In recent weeks an obstetric visit had revealed a complication in my pregnancy. According to a pelvic ultrasound, I was affected by a condition called placenta praevia, where a portion of the placenta grows over the cervix.

‘If the condition doesn’t resolve itself naturally towards full term,’ the obstetrician had advised, ‘you’ll need to have a caesarean.’

Returning to Jandowae from that appointment, Stuart had been resolute.

‘That settles it,’ he declared. ‘You’ll need to be in a city hospital for a caesarean, especially if it turns out to be an emergency caesarean. That’s a major abdominal operation, you know.’ I flinched at the thought. I’d never been to hospital, let alone had an operation.

‘There’s no neo-natal intensive care facility at Dalby or Toowoomba,’ Stu continued. ‘If anything goes wrong, that’s a 400-kilometre drive.’ I stared uneasily at the road ahead, digesting this information. The statistics on rural health, including obstetric outcomes, were sobering.

‘I guess we’d better have the baby in Brisbane then,’ I said. Stuart reached over and squeezed my hand.

‘Well, if you have to be in Brisbane, you might as well be in Sydney,’ he said. ‘I’m guessing it’d be nicer for you to be close to your mum around the time of the birth.’ I was delighted by this suggestion.

‘So how’s harvest shaping up?’ I asked, eyeing the mechanical disarray spread across the shed.

‘I’ve had a few breakdowns,’ Stuart muttered, hoisting himself upright and dusting off his football shorts. ‘And I’ve got some news,’ he announced, pulling me towards him and planting a lingering kiss on my lips.

‘I missed you,’ he added.

‘I missed you, too,’ I replied. ‘But what’s your news? A buyer for the farm?’

Stuart shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘I’ve been offered some work in Zambia.’

I leant heavily against the tractor; the weight of my bulge was starting to fatigue me. Just the time to head to Africa.

‘When will you go?’ I asked.

‘Not long after harvest,’ Stuart replied.

I attempted to calculate the proximity of Stu’s departure to the impending birth.

‘And when will you get back?’ I asked. Stuart pulled out a pocket diary and flicked through its pages.

‘May 29,’ he said. ‘Which gives us three weeks until you’re due.’

If everything goes according to plan, that is.

In the days that followed, I spent every waking moment organising our move. Stuart’s departure to Zambia would coincide with my thirty-third week of pregnancy. As flying was not recommended after the thirty-fourth week, we agreed that I would leave Jandowae with Stuart and make my way to Sydney. Once there, I’d wait out the remaining six weeks of pregnancy and find us somewhere to live in the months after the birth. All being well, Stuart would return during my thirty-seventh week of pregnancy, in time for us to catch our breath before the baby’s arrival.

‘Find us a short-term rental, if you can,’ said Stu over dinner one evening. ‘With any luck the farm will sell after harvest, then we’ll be able to plan our next steps. If the farm doesn’t sell quickly, we’ll renew the lease. I can keep coming up here to the farm every couple of weeks while you stay in Sydney. Now that’d be a role reversal, wouldn’t it?’ he said, smiling.

I had my reservations: having a baby in Sydney was one thing, living there was quite another. What if it took forever for the farm to sell?

‘Hey,’ murmured Stu, sensing my concern. ‘Trust me, babe. It’ll be okay.’

On the final day of the sorghum harvest, I stood on the Danube’s verandah watching the header combing the fields, shearing the heads of sorghum in its path like a giant lawn-mower. Is this the last time I’ll ever witness a harvest? I wiped my eyes with palms covered in fine sorghum particles. A trail of dust in the distance announced a vistor; a familiar ute drove up the driveway.

‘G’day,’ called Toby, pulling up outside the Danube. ‘Just thought I’d stick my beak in at the harvest. The crop looks pretty good, given how dry it’s been.’

He climbed out of the ute and tipped his hat at me.

‘Turns out sorghum’s the new white gold, Toby,’ I said.

‘Who’d have thought it?’ he replied. ‘This time last year we were watching the cotton being brought in, remember?’

I nodded.

‘There’s no doubt about farming – it keeps you guessing,’ he chuckled. He looked out at the header, humming in the distance.

‘How’re you doing, anyway?’ he asked, glancing sideways at my stomach.

‘A bit tired, frankly,’ I replied.

‘Yeah, I know all about it,’ he said. ‘The missus has been through it four times before.’ He continued to follow the header in the field.

A wave of emotion overcame me. Would I never stand side by side with Toby and survey these paddocks again? I dabbed surreptitiously at my cheeks.

‘I hear you’re having the baby in Sydney,’ he said. The bush telegraph strikes again. ‘Understandable, really,’ he continued, squinting against the heat haze. ‘O’course, I’ll be sorry to see you leave,’ he said. ‘I’ve known Stu for goin’ on ten years now. He was single for so long, I figured he was queer,’ he laughed. ‘Most of the farmers out here are salt of the earth, and they really add flavour to our community,’ he continued, thrusting his hands into his pockets. ‘But Stu’s sugar, y’know? He’s a very different type of flavour. He’s not a farmer’s son who’s just going to do things a certain way out of habit or tradition.’

I smiled. ‘So it won’t surprise you to hear he’s heading to Africa next week?’ I asked.

Toby chuckled. ‘No surprises there. That’s our Stu. He’s a bit mysterious. People often don’t know where he is, then he’ll pop up in places like Cambodia or Uzbekistan. There’s nothing predictable about Stu.’ Toby wiped the sweat from his brow and replaced his hat. ‘Three years back, when Stu told me about Princess Fiona, I knew you had to be a pretty special lady,’ he said, grinning, ‘because Stu was never going to end up with a farmer’s daughter from down the road.’

He turned and faced me. ‘The two of you are a bit different, you suit each other. You’re both prepared to go out on a limb to give something back to the world. So Africa’s no surprise,’ he said.

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.

‘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.

Acknowledgements

My single largest debt of gratitude lies with my friend Virginia Lloyd, who first suggested I had a book in me. Beyond that initial prompting, she offered and delivered comprehensive editorial support with ceaseless good humour and uncompromising professionalism. Without her expert assistance at every stage of the process, Love in the Age of Drought simply wouldn’t be what it is today.

I am grateful to Alexandra Craig and her team at Pan Macmillan, particularly Joel Naoum, for their steady guidance and timely intervention during the evolution of this book.

Throughout my life, my family has believed in me; this book is no exception. I am thankful to my mother, Lesley Collins, and my sisters, Melissa Attia and Amanda Collins, for their ever-ready encouragement and candid feedback at important points in the process. Special thanks are due to Amanda for her editorial review of several drafts of this work and, in particular, for her forensic treatment of the final version.

The final (final!) version of this book also underwent the expert review of my friend Jodie Thomson, with generous support from Peter Kerr. I am extremely grateful to them both.

For their feedback on the cover artwork at various stages of its development thanks are due to Debra Reed, Genevieve Freeman, Georgia Hume, Duncan Trevor-Wilson, Alice Chen, Beverley Higgins, John Attia and Sarah Bramwell.

I’d like to thank the people who appear in this book, many of whom are dear friends and all of whom are real. Some names have been changed for the usual reasons, some have not. But you know who you are and I feel fortunate to know you. In Jandowae and Sydney, I am indebted to you all for your friendship, trust and encouragement.

Sincere thanks to Geoffrey White and the Vincent Fairfax Family Foundation, the extended Fairfax family and ‘Team Cambooya’ for supporting me professionally as I relocated to country Queensland. Early ‘Bush Telegraph’ exchanges with many of my Sydney-based colleagues, in particular Peter Roach and John Fairfax, served as inspiration for this book.

Further thanks are due to Elaine and Michael Malouf, whose café – Fusion Point in Manly – functioned regularly as a surrogate writer’s retreat, particularly in the latter stages of this book’s compilation. In a similar vein, an honourable mention goes to Hotel Tjampuhan, Ubud.

Finally, Love in the Age of Drought would not exist but for the generosity of my husband, Stuart, who agreed that I should write it. By consistently asking difficult questions, he helped me to create a public story from our intensely private journey. Stu, your unfailing love makes me strive to be a better person. This book is for you.

And as a postscript … thank you, Oliver Charles, for being such a prodigious sleeper, thus enabling me to write. I love you with all of my heart and look forward to giving you this book one day, when you’re old enough. It will give you an insight into our lives, and particularly your father, before you were born.

Author’s note

I only spent three summers in Jandowae. Not a lifetime, but long enough to begin to understand the difficulties faced by farming families Australia-wide.

Many rural Australians don’t have any other choice available to them apart from continuing to struggle against the difficulties of remote living in an age of drought, or flood, or fire.

In my philanthropic career, I have encountered many charitable agencies doing excellent work in rural and regional Australia.

One standout national organisation is the Foundation for Rural and Regional Renewal, which assists individuals, families and communities in rural Australia through a range of grassroots initiatives that build capacity and resilience. For further information, see www.frrr.org.au or telephone 1800 170 020.