picked out another. The night was quiet. Just him and the smell of cut grass in the fresh air. And maybe the faint memory of a smile from a dark-haired girl with vibrant-blue eyes. A girl who made him think of Peta.
8
INDI drove the big yellow loader through the gap in the bin doors, tipping her four-tonne bucket and emptying the load of wheat into the deep grid. The wheat then went up elevators, across conveyor belts and into the four massive overhead cells over by the railway line. Later tonight she’d be up there, pressing the lever that would let the grain down the shoot and into the train wagons. She liked being up so high, where she could see out over Hyden and all the surrounding land. A little community bordered by paddocks and native bush. Her town. She almost felt like the lord mayor standing up that high and watching over it. Protecting it.
People she’d known her whole life were up and moving to the city, and it saddened her to watch the place shrink and struggle. The decline of the footy club hurt the most. The tourism was great but tourists didn’t make a close-knit community. They couldn’t bring back the social aspect that the town was once known for – but Indi could. She had grand plans to restore the social events and the fundraisers, to revive a time when the whole town turned out for game day and stayed until late, when young and old shared stories. The world was obsessed with social networking, but it was of the wrong kind. You can’t connect with people over electrical devices – working side-by-side and building up a real relationship, a real friendship, that’s how it’s done. Her mum always said that too many people wanted to know what was happening on the other side of the world instead of focusing on what was going on right beside them. More and more people couldn’t be bothered to step outside their homes and get to know their neighbours. Instead they’d sit on the internet or watch TV. And so the spirit of Hyden was fading.
‘Real life is right outside your front door,’ Lizzy would always say, and in those final months Indi realised just how right her mum was. Lizzy made time for people, and they adored her for it. She had such passion for life and for the town. Indi just hoped she had the strength to carry on the tradition.
Stopping the loader at the grid, Indi realised she was almost done. A few more loads should do it. She clicked the loader into reverse and backed into the bin with practised ease, then spun around and headed back to the massive stack of wheat. She’d been at this repetitive task for the past eight hours, but she loved working with machinery. It came from growing up with a dad who had trucks, loaders and utes for work. This was a job she enjoyed doing, where she only had to worry about herself and not what the rest of the crew were doing. Hopefully they were still cleaning up the open bulkhead. On second thoughts they had probably knocked off and were just waiting for the train to arrive. She wasn’t looking forward to it: the train was due in at eight and it was already running late. But on the upside, if she got this last cell full, then she’d have time to duck down to footy training while she waited for the train to arrive.
After a few more loads, the red light stayed on and her job was done. She parked the loader inside the huge bin and quickly filled in the logbook. She climbed out and paused as she admired the inside of the huge bin. It was massive – large concrete walls and a high pointed tin roof. It could hold forty-six thousand tonnes of grain. Just below the point of the roof was a walkway and the large conveyor belt, which fed the grain into the bin at harvest time. Being up there wasn’t a job for the vertically challenged. Indi loved it, besides the dust. The grain, especially bullock barley and oats, spread its itch dust everywhere; it coated your lungs and the inside of your nose.
Working casually for Co-operative Bulk Handling had
8
INDI drove the big yellow loader through the gap in the bin doors, tipping her four-tonne bucket and emptying the load of wheat into the deep grid. The wheat then went up elevators, across conveyor belts and into the four massive overhead cells over by the railway line. Later tonight she’d be up there, pressing the lever that would let the grain down the shoot and into the train wagons. She liked being up so high, where she could see out over Hyden and all the surrounding land. A little community bordered by paddocks and native bush. Her town. She almost felt like the lord mayor standing up that high and watching over it. Protecting it.
People she’d known her whole life were up and moving to the city, and it saddened her to watch the place shrink and struggle. The decline of the footy club hurt the most. The tourism was great but tourists didn’t make a close-knit community. They couldn’t bring back the social aspect that the town was once known for – but Indi could. She had grand plans to restore the social events and the fundraisers, to revive a time when the whole town turned out for game day and stayed until late, when young and old shared stories. The world was obsessed with social networking, but it was of the wrong kind. You can’t connect with people over electrical devices – working side-by-side and building up a real relationship, a real friendship, that’s how it’s done. Her mum always said that too many people wanted to know what was happening on the other side of the world instead of focusing on what was going on right beside them. More and more people couldn’t be bothered to step outside their homes and get to know their neighbours. Instead they’d sit on the internet or watch TV. And so the spirit of Hyden was fading.
‘Real life is right outside your front door,’ Lizzy would always say, and in those final months Indi realised just how right her mum was. Lizzy made time for people, and they adored her for it. She had such passion for life and for the town. Indi just hoped she had the strength to carry on the tradition.
Stopping the loader at the grid, Indi realised she was almost done. A few more loads should do it. She clicked the loader into reverse and backed into the bin with practised ease, then spun around and headed back to the massive stack of wheat. She’d been at this repetitive task for the past eight hours, but she loved working with machinery. It came from growing up with a dad who had trucks, loaders and utes for work. This was a job she enjoyed doing, where she only had to worry about herself and not what the rest of the crew were doing. Hopefully they were still cleaning up the open bulkhead. On second thoughts they had probably knocked off and were just waiting for the train to arrive. She wasn’t looking forward to it: the train was due in at eight and it was already running late. But on the upside, if she got this last cell full, then she’d have time to duck down to footy training while she waited for the train to arrive.
After a few more loads, the red light stayed on and her job was done. She parked the loader inside the huge bin and quickly filled in the logbook. She climbed out and paused as she admired the inside of the huge bin. It was massive – large concrete walls and a high pointed tin roof. It could hold forty-six thousand tonnes of grain. Just below the point of the roof was a walkway and the large conveyor belt, which fed the grain into the bin at harvest time. Being up there wasn’t a job for the vertically challenged. Indi loved it, besides the dust. The grain, especially bullock barley and oats, spread its itch dust everywhere; it coated your lungs and the inside of your nose.
Working casually for Co-operative Bulk Handling had
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