them. They cost around twenty thousand dollars but they were useful. Or so Dad said. When it comes to guys and gadgets I’m always a bit suspicious. But it’s true that a 300 kilogram beast can lose twenty of those kilos after twelve hours in the yards, and at the same time it’s compulsory to yard them for twelve hours before sending them in to be sold, so you do need to know what’s going on in terms of their weight.
I’d spend twelve hours in the yards myself if I thought it’d knock twenty kilos off me.
I explained all this to Gavin as we worked, in the same way that Dad had always explained stuff to me. Gavin did seem like one of those kids who had a genuine interest in farming. By God he was good that day too. He stuck to his guns. He’d said he was going to work – not in so many words but near enough – and he did. He never complained once, hardly ever got distracted, only took a break when I did, and – this is the mark of the true worker, I reckon – started anticipating.
Dad always said there were three types of workers. The ones who stood there saying ‘Is there anything I can do?’, and did nothing. Most of our city guests were like that. The ones who said ‘Tell me what you want done and I’ll do it’, and did. Most of our workers over the years had been like that. And the ones who didn’t say anything but were always a jump or two ahead of you. When you were changing a flat tyre and you took the old one off and turned to pick up the new one they’d already have it in their hands, and they’d move in and put it on from your left while you were still turning round to the right.
Dad reckoned one of those was worth two of the second type and five of the first type.
And there were quite a few times when Gavin was like that. I’d be on my knees and I’d reach behind me for the ratchet wrench to tighten a nut, and he’d come in from the other side and be doing it while I was still wondering where I’d put the bloody thing.
I think I had my first glimmerings of the possibility of happiness that day. It wasn’t the free light-hearted happiness I’d known as a child, because I’d never have that again. From now on any good feelings were going to be under-shaded by the awfulness of what had happened. My personal castle was always going to have a big dark basement. Guess it already did, after the war, and losing my grandmother and Robyn and Corrie and Chris and the others. But the basement had got a hell of a lot bigger recently. Maybe that day I had the first faint awareness that I could still live in the castle. It hadn’t been totally demolished.
It got dark early of course, and we were both pleased to call it a day and stagger back to the house. I’d had plenty of hard days on the farm, but it was different now, because before it had all been just physical. I’d do the different jobs, sure, but Dad decided the important stuff. I’d be responsible for doing each of my jobs properly, but I didn’t have the feeling of responsibility for the whole thing, the big picture. I didn’t have the mental weight, back then.
Just as I flopped down in front of the TV, having put away a kilo of Fi’s pasta, and made a few admiring remarks about the way she’d cleaned up the house, I heard a car outside. I was so jumpy that I lifted a metre out of the chair. Of course if the gunmen returned they wouldn’t be likely to drive straight up to the house, but sometimes your mind doesn’t function very calmly.
It turned out to be Homer, but not ‘Homer alone’, as I said to Fi, adding, ‘Hey, good name for a movie.’ That was my best joke of the year, which gives some idea of how badly things were going. But I was seriously annoyed when I saw that he’d brought a bunch of people. It wasn’t just that I was still in a severe state of shatter over what had happened to my parents, but as well I was exhausted from the day’s work, I was stressing over how I could tell Mr Sayle that maybe I
I’d spend twelve hours in the yards myself if I thought it’d knock twenty kilos off me.
I explained all this to Gavin as we worked, in the same way that Dad had always explained stuff to me. Gavin did seem like one of those kids who had a genuine interest in farming. By God he was good that day too. He stuck to his guns. He’d said he was going to work – not in so many words but near enough – and he did. He never complained once, hardly ever got distracted, only took a break when I did, and – this is the mark of the true worker, I reckon – started anticipating.
Dad always said there were three types of workers. The ones who stood there saying ‘Is there anything I can do?’, and did nothing. Most of our city guests were like that. The ones who said ‘Tell me what you want done and I’ll do it’, and did. Most of our workers over the years had been like that. And the ones who didn’t say anything but were always a jump or two ahead of you. When you were changing a flat tyre and you took the old one off and turned to pick up the new one they’d already have it in their hands, and they’d move in and put it on from your left while you were still turning round to the right.
Dad reckoned one of those was worth two of the second type and five of the first type.
And there were quite a few times when Gavin was like that. I’d be on my knees and I’d reach behind me for the ratchet wrench to tighten a nut, and he’d come in from the other side and be doing it while I was still wondering where I’d put the bloody thing.
I think I had my first glimmerings of the possibility of happiness that day. It wasn’t the free light-hearted happiness I’d known as a child, because I’d never have that again. From now on any good feelings were going to be under-shaded by the awfulness of what had happened. My personal castle was always going to have a big dark basement. Guess it already did, after the war, and losing my grandmother and Robyn and Corrie and Chris and the others. But the basement had got a hell of a lot bigger recently. Maybe that day I had the first faint awareness that I could still live in the castle. It hadn’t been totally demolished.
It got dark early of course, and we were both pleased to call it a day and stagger back to the house. I’d had plenty of hard days on the farm, but it was different now, because before it had all been just physical. I’d do the different jobs, sure, but Dad decided the important stuff. I’d be responsible for doing each of my jobs properly, but I didn’t have the feeling of responsibility for the whole thing, the big picture. I didn’t have the mental weight, back then.
Just as I flopped down in front of the TV, having put away a kilo of Fi’s pasta, and made a few admiring remarks about the way she’d cleaned up the house, I heard a car outside. I was so jumpy that I lifted a metre out of the chair. Of course if the gunmen returned they wouldn’t be likely to drive straight up to the house, but sometimes your mind doesn’t function very calmly.
It turned out to be Homer, but not ‘Homer alone’, as I said to Fi, adding, ‘Hey, good name for a movie.’ That was my best joke of the year, which gives some idea of how badly things were going. But I was seriously annoyed when I saw that he’d brought a bunch of people. It wasn’t just that I was still in a severe state of shatter over what had happened to my parents, but as well I was exhausted from the day’s work, I was stressing over how I could tell Mr Sayle that maybe I
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