property, mate!’ Harold had shouted. ‘That’s not what we’ve been told,’ the man had said. ‘I’m taking my orders from Stuart Morrissey.’ He told his workers to keep going; the trees crashed down.
Harold had driven back to the farmhouse and rung Stuart. They had argued furiously. By the time Harold hung up, he’d realised he could only stop the bulldozers by going back with his shotgun and taking the law into his own hands. He wished he had. Daily he’d watched while the fences went up, the greenhouses were built, and then the water tanks had arrived and were filled with water trucked in from outside the district. Who had pockets deep enough to finance this? Not Stewie. Stewie’s own money was never spent on anyone except himself.
Once the Cage was finished, they had planted one crop in the open, which they had covered with netting, and presumably others in the greenhouses. Unlike his desolate harvest, these unnaturally irrigated crops had flourished. Away to Harold’s right was the wide access road the bulldozers had cut the first day they had come in. It ran along his fence line, connecting the Cage to the Coolemon Road, an all-weather gravel road that served as one of Yaralla’s boundaries. The gate between this private road and the public highway was always kept locked. It was something else for which Harold had no key. Despite this, other people came and went along this private road regularly. He often saw them late in the evenings, speeding against the horizon in their four-wheel-drives. Stewie had never told him what they did inside. When Harold asked his brother questions, he received threats in reply.
The little Harold knew about what went on inside the Cage he had found out by eavesdropping. Once this would have disturbed him, but Stewie had given him no other choice. These days he was glad to find out any little detail however he did it. It was this subterfuge that had allowed him to link Natalie Edwards to Stuart in the first place.
Less than a week ago, he had looked into his living room to see three unannounced visitors sitting there: Stuart, an older man with glasses and a middle-aged woman with artificially fair hair. Both these people had been strangers to him. All three were drinking his whisky, talking. It was late afternoon and the curtains had been drawn against the western sun. Seated in the shadows, they hadn’t noticed him, had kept talking.
‘Well, Jerome,’ the woman said, ‘from what we’ve seen today, we’re all ready to go. Everything’s come along nicely. Mind you, it’s a god-forsaken spot. Why would anyone want to live here?’
‘It’s the best place for it, Nattie,’ Stuart said. ‘How many people are going to see it on that boundary? The property next door’s run by a manager for some agribusiness. He won’t care.’
‘Stuart’s right. It’s a good spot. It’s working better than I’d hoped.’ Jerome spoke with a guttural accent Harold didn’t recognise. ‘We’ll sign the contracts in the next few days at the latest and then I’ll send the staff out to harvest. I want it all shipped to Jo’burg before the end of the month. They’ll find a location for the testing over there. Once we’ve signed, I’ll courier them their copy of the contract. But first I have to let the old man know we’re on schedule.’
‘Your people will have to get a wriggle on, mate, if we’re going to meet that deadline,’ Stuart said.
‘I’ve already got the shipping lined up,’ Nattie said. ‘When I told them they were dealing with Natalie Edwards, they sat up and paid attention. They’ll move quickly.’
‘My people will do it anyway, don’t you worry,’ Jerome replied. ‘I want to replant with a new round of crops as soon as we can. We have to move this program along. The whole setup here took too much time.’
‘Who’s that?’
Nattie spoke. She had seen Harold standing in the doorway.
‘That’s Harry,’ Stuart had replied, frowning.
‘How
Harold had driven back to the farmhouse and rung Stuart. They had argued furiously. By the time Harold hung up, he’d realised he could only stop the bulldozers by going back with his shotgun and taking the law into his own hands. He wished he had. Daily he’d watched while the fences went up, the greenhouses were built, and then the water tanks had arrived and were filled with water trucked in from outside the district. Who had pockets deep enough to finance this? Not Stewie. Stewie’s own money was never spent on anyone except himself.
Once the Cage was finished, they had planted one crop in the open, which they had covered with netting, and presumably others in the greenhouses. Unlike his desolate harvest, these unnaturally irrigated crops had flourished. Away to Harold’s right was the wide access road the bulldozers had cut the first day they had come in. It ran along his fence line, connecting the Cage to the Coolemon Road, an all-weather gravel road that served as one of Yaralla’s boundaries. The gate between this private road and the public highway was always kept locked. It was something else for which Harold had no key. Despite this, other people came and went along this private road regularly. He often saw them late in the evenings, speeding against the horizon in their four-wheel-drives. Stewie had never told him what they did inside. When Harold asked his brother questions, he received threats in reply.
The little Harold knew about what went on inside the Cage he had found out by eavesdropping. Once this would have disturbed him, but Stewie had given him no other choice. These days he was glad to find out any little detail however he did it. It was this subterfuge that had allowed him to link Natalie Edwards to Stuart in the first place.
Less than a week ago, he had looked into his living room to see three unannounced visitors sitting there: Stuart, an older man with glasses and a middle-aged woman with artificially fair hair. Both these people had been strangers to him. All three were drinking his whisky, talking. It was late afternoon and the curtains had been drawn against the western sun. Seated in the shadows, they hadn’t noticed him, had kept talking.
‘Well, Jerome,’ the woman said, ‘from what we’ve seen today, we’re all ready to go. Everything’s come along nicely. Mind you, it’s a god-forsaken spot. Why would anyone want to live here?’
‘It’s the best place for it, Nattie,’ Stuart said. ‘How many people are going to see it on that boundary? The property next door’s run by a manager for some agribusiness. He won’t care.’
‘Stuart’s right. It’s a good spot. It’s working better than I’d hoped.’ Jerome spoke with a guttural accent Harold didn’t recognise. ‘We’ll sign the contracts in the next few days at the latest and then I’ll send the staff out to harvest. I want it all shipped to Jo’burg before the end of the month. They’ll find a location for the testing over there. Once we’ve signed, I’ll courier them their copy of the contract. But first I have to let the old man know we’re on schedule.’
‘Your people will have to get a wriggle on, mate, if we’re going to meet that deadline,’ Stuart said.
‘I’ve already got the shipping lined up,’ Nattie said. ‘When I told them they were dealing with Natalie Edwards, they sat up and paid attention. They’ll move quickly.’
‘My people will do it anyway, don’t you worry,’ Jerome replied. ‘I want to replant with a new round of crops as soon as we can. We have to move this program along. The whole setup here took too much time.’
‘Who’s that?’
Nattie spoke. She had seen Harold standing in the doorway.
‘That’s Harry,’ Stuart had replied, frowning.
‘How
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