Chapter 9: Gone Bush

The men were up on the hill above the Monroe’s place next door. Over the autumn and into the winter they had churned up the flats and ploughed fertilizer through the grey earth. We had bought seeds and had planted the first crops of onions and potatoes, and while they were content to slowly dig their way into the soil and reach, yawning, into the sunlight, our attention turned to the imposing hardwoods as the rains hit with the full fury of winter.

While the older kids- the teens- were expected to pitch in with the men, those of us still snapping at legs were restricted to the homes. The ridge was a place for grown-ups. We would grumble and grizzle against the injustice of it all every morning as Dad ate his toast and drank his black, bitter tea. We assured him we wouldn’t get in the way. We would help. We could stack broken limbs, chase rabbits, or just watch quietly from the sidelines. We wouldn’t get bored, we wouldn’t be a nuisance. We would be saints, angels. We wouldn’t raise so much as an eyebrow out of place. If only he would let us follow him.

And every morning Dad would pat us on the head and tell us “Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Once you’ve grown enough to reach my nipples.” And we’d stand, Dad, Margie, Albert and I, with our backs to the wall as Mum sized us up to check if, during the night, we had miraculously grown enough. And every morning would end the same- with Dad lifting us up in turn to kiss us goodbye. He’d pick up his tucker box and thermos and whistle off on his horse. We would watch and listen as he disappeared once more into the bush.

So we had to stay around the house, helping in the garden and the kitchen, and tend to the sheep and chickens scratching around the house. In the mornings we would tend to our chores and the reading and writing lessons Ma assigned us. The afternoons however were practically our own. We would make mud pies in the garden, or try to control nature by damming the creek with whatever we had at our disposal- rocks and sticks as foundations, broken reeds, mud and slime to fill the inevitable cracks and crevices. As our wall rose, so too did the weight of the water behind its barrier. It rose faster than we could build, flowing over the top and dislodging our reinforcements until we had to concede an altogether inglorious defeat. But rather than wallow, immediately started plotting the build of a bigger and better dam as soon as the creek dried up over summer. Ma would watch us through the kitchen window and smile to herself at our antics.

All day we would listen to the distant thunder of sharpened metal biting into wood and the rhythmic whir of steel teeth eating back and forth through dense-grained timber. They served as sirens- calling to us, luring us. And we’d pause in whatever we were doing and wish that we were all grown up and able to go with our father to do the things that we most wished to do. To lift and grunt and heave and thrust and swing and sweat. We wished to be men. The monotonous thuds rolling through the bush resonated inside us until they were too strong for us to ignore.

One morning in the height of that first winter Albert and I were sitting in the middle of the chook pen simultaneously terrifying the hens, trying to bathe the chicks, and preparing mud pies to feed to the sheep, or, if we were sneaky enough, Margie. Before long the hills began to reverberate with that heavenly score drifting down on the cold westerly wind. Every now and then the earth shuddered with the shock of a great jarrah or marri separating from its stump and crashing into the mud below.

Albert looked around before leaning in to whisper something in my ear. He suggested we go exploring. See what the men got up to when they were out of our sight. It could be a reconnaissance mission. I retorted that we weren’t allowed. That Mum, or worse Dad, would have our hides if they found out. We were used to being scolded by Mum, but Dad was an entirely different proposition. If you got bellowed at by Dad you knew you were in trouble.

Nevertheless, it didn’t take much for Albert to convince me of the merits of his plan. He was older, persuasive, and quite naturally I looked up to him as someone wiser than I. He knew that I was just as curious as him and that all he had to do was to keep at me and eventually I would cave.

We knew we would have to slip away quietly, but would also need supplies. Albert used his cunning to concoct a plan. I would distract Mum, while Albert would slip into the kitchen and procure some biscuits and cake. Our biggest challenge would probably be distracting Margie and throwing her off the scent or else she could ruin our plans quick smart.

As if by intuition, Margie squinted at us from her swing beneath the gnarled Redgum tree. Her eyes bored into us, stripping us bare. She watched us suspiciously, waiting for us to slip up and give away whatever treachery we plotted, looking for any evidence at all so she could run inside and tell Mum that we were up to no good.

Acting like nothing was wrong, we stalked around the woodpile searching for the perfectly shaped weapons to take with us in case we were ambushed in the forest. We leant our rifles and pistols against the chicken-wire fence and stood whispering, trying to concoct a plan to distract Margie, but when we looked over to the swing she was gone, the wooden seat gently rocking back and forth from the bough.

We cursed her out a bit, called her names like dummy, pest and loser. We knew she’d try to wreck our plans. She always tried to wreck our plans. But we decided to go ahead with it anyway. After all, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

As the butterflies set to flight in my stomach I circled the long way around the house so as not to arouse any undue suspicion. My heart pounded in my chest and my breathing got faster and shallower until I was nearly panting. My skin flushed and my palms started to sweat. I knew I was doing something very bad. Lying to Mum was about as bad as it could get. A crime punishable by the words: just wait until your father gets home.

I took a deep breath, trying to still my heart and compose myself, and turned the corner of the house and stepped up onto the veranda. I practised my tummy-ache face, and pushed the door open.

Damn. Margie stood directly in front of me, waiting. She folded her arms across her chest and glared at me accusingly. The baubles in her plaits dangled either side of her face staring at me like a second pair of all-seeing, all-knowing eyes. Oh, why couldn’t she have confronted Albert? Why did it always have to be me?

“Wodarya up to,” she hissed more as a declaration of guilt than a question.

“Nothin’. I gotta sore tummy an’ needa see Mum.” I wanted to boldly push past her, but my legs were rooted to the spot under the intensity of her glare. I swallowed hard, hoping she would buy the lie.

“Do not.”

“I dooooo! Lemme past”, I whined.

“Don’t believe you. I seen you two running ‘round the yard. You’re up to somethin’.” She paused as if summing up her options. “I’m gonna to tell Ma.” She turned on her heels and marched through the kitchen, down the hall and into Mum and Dad’s bedroom to where our mother was folding washing. “Maaaa! Albert and Henry are up to somethin’. Henry sez he’s got a tummy ache, but I reckon he’s lyin’.”

“Oh why are you so suspicious all the time, Margie?” Ma sighed. “Come here Henry.” She ushered me past Margie, who refused to give up any room, bumping me with her shoulder as I squeezed past. “What’s wrong?” She placed the back of her hand against my forehead.

“I don’t feel well. My tummy hurts.” I put on my best hangdog expression. My tummy gurgled. So this is what it’s like to lie?

“Hmmm, you don’t feel hot…” Margie grinned at me menacingly and I shot her a look of hatred. “When did the pain start?”

“A while ago.” I said. “I didn’t want to disturb you.” *gurgle, gurgle* At this rate I would give myself a real tummy ache from the stress.

“Hmmm. You should always let me know if you feel unwell.”

“But he’s fakin’ it!” Margie implored.

“That’s enough, Margie. Here, take your clothes to your room. Now, Henry. Have you done poo’s today?”

Margie huffed out of the room with clothes in arms as I put some thought into the question.

“Ummm. Can’t remember. Ahhh, no?”

“Hmmm. That might be it. How ‘bout you go to the toilet and see if you can do poo? Okay?”

I nodded, trying not to giggle at Mum saying ‘poo’. I bit my lip, embarrassed, and left the room quietly. My mind returned to the final goal and whether Albert had enough time to get in and out with supplies. I panicked and made a bid for more time, turning back to Ma and Dad’s room.

“Ma? Thanks. I love you.” I flashed her my most charming and innocent smile. As I look back on it, it could seem to an outsider that I didn’t mean it; that I was just stalling for time. And I guess I would have to concede that in part this is true, but I know that I actually did mean it. Here was a woman that would love me unconditionally forever. And I would love her the same. And even then I knew that I would remember this moment forever.

“Awww, come here.” She held her arms wide and I came to her, hiding myself in her bosom. “I love you, too.” She hugged me for what felt like too long, intensifying my guilt at firstly the lie, and secondly the fact that I was about to betray her trust. My tummy gurgled and I could hear the sound reverberate off the walls. Tears of shame welled in my eyes. I swallowed the bitter pill. As she let me go and wiped a tear from her own eye I knew I would never feel this bad again in my life.

“Go do poos.” She had a smile on her face as broad as all of the oceans of the world.

I left the house quickly, suffocating on the guilt trapped between the walls and roof. I needed air. I ran to the chook shed and leant with my backs against its slats. I tried to steady my heart and breathe normally, but I could only suck air in short, sharp bursts, panting like a dog. I felt my head go light and the world start to spin and blur. All the light in the world condensed into a solitary point before my eyes and then there was nothing.

I came to with Albert shaking my shoulder.

“What are you doin? I’ve got supplies. Let’s go.”

I blinked against the slow jolt of consciousness. My brain pounded against the sides of my skull as if it were trying to escape. I couldn’t make sense of what was happening. All my thoughts were muddled. I sat up and leaned against the chook shed. My fingers moved to my temples and I groaned.

“What’s goin’ on,” I croaked.

“Wodya mean ‘What’s goin’ on’? We’re goin’ bush. I’ve got the supplies.” He lifted a hessian sack as proof.

“Oh. Yeah.” I rubbed my face.

“Come on. Get up. What were ya doin’ sleep’n in chook poo for?”

“Huh?” I looked down. My entire left side was caked in muck. I smelt like the long-drop. “Awww, shoot.”

“No, shit.” He giggled at his subversive use of a swear word and I joined in weakly, not wanting to look square.

I slowly got up leant against the wall and started wiping muck from my clothes. A sour taste coated the insides of my mouth. I needed water.

“Hurry up, would ya! Do you want us to get caught, or somethin’?”

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’. I just need a drink.” I staggered to the water tank and took a long drink from the tap.

My bowels started to groan and I remembered the lie. The guilt rose again and acid rose up into the back of my throat and my breakfast sprayed out of my mouth and over the leg of the tank-stand. A feeling of relief flooded over me as I glibly accepted the punishment for my sins.

My insides tried to turn themselves inside out. I rushed to the toilet, dropped my pants and aimed my bottom towards the hole as fast as I could. I launched a fluid line and groaned in pain and relief. I grinned at the irony of taking Mum’s advice, albeit unwillingly.

Albert hissed something at me from outside and I responded with a moan. He resorted to throwing rocks at the dunny. The musty air inside the bathroom rang as he took to throwing stones against the iron sheeting.

Once I was certain that I’d evacuated all that there was to possibly evacuate I emerged, beaten, from the loo. Albert stopped mid-throw and dropped his stone.

“Jeez, you look awful!”

“Mmmnngmm”

“You gonna be ‘right?”

“Hhhgn. Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe we should wait till tomorrow. You look really awful.”

“Nah. I’ll be fine. C’mon. Let’s go.” I walked back towards the chook shed as confidently as I could manage and Albert trotted to catch up. I didn’t want to appear to be some kind of sissy, especially with so much at stake. My legs wobbled like cold custard, but I kept up my stoic pace.

“You sure?”

“Yeah sure.”

“K then.”

        We picked up our supplies and our guns and headed up the hill away from home. We hadn’t specified a route, but were led through the bush by the sound of the axes marking time ahead of us. We picked our way between the trees, giving a wide berth to the prickly leaves of the Banksia and long spines of the Blackboy, and the ticks we knew to be hiding within their foliage.

            The canopy pressed down on us like ominous green clouds gathering for the apocalypse. Knotted brown arms grappled at us as we passed. We’d been in the bush before, but never without our parents, and this loneliness bred a menace feeling that clung to our skin and pervaded our pores. The silence sounded so much denser when we were alone.

            As we clambered over rusty ironstone outcrops any noise amongst the leaf litter became the quick-snap slither of unseen snakes. Each crackle would stop us in our tracks and thrust our hearts into our throats- never mind that it was winter and any self-respecting reptile would be burrowed up somewhere safe and dry. We felt certain that the incessant throbbing in our chests would bring them sliding from the rocks to sink their glistening fangs into our flesh. Our skin crawled. We took to whistling to still our hearts and divert our attention away from such fear.

            We were men, doing manly things, so we had to act like men- we couldn’t just abandon our plans because we were scared. And after all that I’d been through- the lying, the fainting, the vomiting, the diarrhoea - there was no way I would conceding defeat. I’d already invested too much in this plan. Besides, if we retreated we would get into trouble for disappearing. We both thought it better to get in trouble for something we actually did rather than something we set out to do and failed.

            So on when trudged, picking our way through the undergrowth, led ever onwards by the woodsmen’s song. Albert visibly shivered as a cool and calm breeze washed our skin. We held the sour breath of the bush in our lungs.

            We reached the bluntened razor of the ridge above where our house would be amongst the knotted gums below. Sap of the deepest red seeped from a wound in the side of a broad Marri formed a sluggish river coursing through the crevices of the brittle brown bark. A small bug lay embedded within the red amber, suspended in the very moment of death. I prodded at it for a while with a twig, pulling fine threads of tree-blood from the wound into a web. Curious, I pressed a finger into the goo, coating it with the tacky red gum. I tried wiping it off on my pants, but only succeeded in spreading a thick smear. And still my finger was coated. Before long my hands and face were coated also. Once it touched a surface, it stayed there. Albert swore at me and delved into the sack to grab a handful of biscuits.

            “Here you go. Lunch.”

            “Tah.” I gave up on cleaning my hands and took the offered biscuits, being careful not to taint my food.

            “We’re ‘bout half way, I reckon.”

            “Mmmhmm.”

            “Be there in half and hour.”

            I allowed Albert his commentary, but I was more concerned with keeping the sap out of my food. I sucked crumbs from my palms and watched two lines of ants marching in and out of their home next to my foot.

The throb and whine from the workers intensified as we picked our way along the ridge. Each thwack bounced between the trees, raising the alarm of the advance of man. They shook and whispered, agitated. Every component of the bush could sense the danger and realised the threat to its survival- that eventually it would be their turn to meet the sharpened splice.

            Normally our focus would have been pulled by any number of things and we would have forgotten all about our plans, but on this particular occasion we were relentless. It was our mission, our destiny, to meet up with the men, and we weren’t going to let any old stray roo or balled-up echidna distract us from our objective.

            We drew closer and the rhythm grew louder. It was as though a symphony was being composed. The clamour of the axes and saws provided the counterpoint to the trills and chatter of the bird and the swishes of the wind dancing through the leaves. It sang to us and sent waves of chills crashing up and down our spines.

            We knew we must have been close when we came across evidence of the men’s activity. Bands of bark had been stripped from the trunks to expose their flesh. The leaves at the tips of the branches were withering brown; the wounds wept with the blood of giants. We poked at the glistening beads of eucalyptus and revelled in its heavenly scent.

            Finally we caught sight of the men. They swung their axes with power and precision and their singlets were stained a deeper blue around their collars, chests and armpits where the sweat ran in torrents. Two axemen worked each tree, their swings staggered to maximise efficiency and each impact of forged steel sent shards of red flying through the air. Other pairs stood on opposite sides of a tree, each bracing against the push of the other as they grunted into their sweet, whirring cadence. Flecks of pulpy red mud were spat from the wound with each pass of the saw. Our nostrils burned with the rich, sticky scent of freshly cut wood hanging in the heavy air beneath the canopy.

            We watched from afar, each daring the other to be first to emerge from the shadows. We had come to join the men, but were scared of those final steps into their realm. We crouched behind a rotting and mossy log and waited, watching, but we couldn’t just crouch there all day amongst the rot and bugs. I was the one who finally succumbed. A combination of Albert’s goading, my desire to be a man, and sheer bloody-mindedness lifted me. My Legs drifted of their own volition as if on clouds. I would like to say I strode purposefully into the clearing, but I was more like a mouse assessing the safety of a room. I placed each foot carefully, trying not to break any spring-loaded sticks lest they give away my position. Albert hissed something at me, his head peering over the log, urging me on with a stiff wave of his hand. I looked ahead apprehensively, caught between my desire to stay out of trouble and my desire to prove myself. I hesitated mid-stride. Caught in the glare of a million eyes.

            “TIM-BURRRRRRRR!” The war-cry. I looked up. Most of the men had already adjourned to the far side of the clearing, while Matt Elliot and Bob Enfield scampered away in running crouches from their tools at the base of the tilting tree. The Jarrah twitched on its stump and its arrow point wavered ever-so-slightly from its aim towards the sun. It lost its precarious balance and gained its terrible momentum.

            It all happened so slowly, yet even now I am unsure of the exact order of events. I was paused between steps, the tree was barely moving, merely reclining, slowly easing towards the floor. Time slowed to less than a crawl. The air gasped. The canopy traced a prefect arc through the sky, scything through the limbs of its neighbours. It swept towards the ground in its rolling arc, Matt Elliot and Bob Enfield scurried away, my eyes aligned with my father’s. His face instantly turned ashen, his mouth open, his eyes dying. I don’t know how long we were locked like that, but in that terrible instance we were rooted in terror. Our eyes remained locked. I didn’t bother looking up. I knew what was coming. And then it came.

Chapter 8: It's a Science

By 3am the party had peaked and was starting its inevitable decay into hazy memory and intestinal regret. The energy and spirit that had seemed so boundless only an hour before were waning as the dazzling array of synthetic materials started to lose their effects.

The police had come and gone, advising that the stereo be turned down to a tolerable level on threat of confiscation, and for the empty bottles and silver goon bags to be cleared from the sidewalk on threat of fines. Those remaining out the front half-heartedly yet dutifully picked up litter while Alby saw to the stereo. In any event the efforts of the police were merely token. People had already disappeared into the night, making use of the taxi rank around the corner, and the once packed house was now reduced to the usual suspects, occupants, sleepers and one or two unlikely novices.

            Karl had received a series of drunken messages from Leigh that started out abusive, then apologetic, then upset, then pining for his return. Despite the best efforts of his friends to convince him otherwise, Karl was determined to go to her. Piers got in the taxi alongside him, telling the others that he would try his best to convince Karl that he was making a foolish mistake, even though everyone knew words would be futile.

Yoshi and Marshall remained behind on the veranda, unwilling to commit to their beds while there was still the threat of new and exciting experiences to be had. They sat on the railing with their backs to the street talking to Alby and Zach who were sprawled out across one of the couches.

The other band members and a few other artists of ill repute were huddled on the chairs on the other side of the veranda dissecting, analysing, tearing apart all of the nuances of the gig; the writing, playing, sequencing. Alby and Zach chose not to participate in the ritual of aggrandisement and passive-aggressive pleas for affirmation, preferring to remain quietly confident in their own abilities and performances. This wasn’t the right occasion for such discussions.

Instead they engaged their guests in discussion of their own vocation. Yoshi and Marshall found themselves in the unforseen position of being novelties in a crowd of creativity, those impossibly cool and charismatic kids who dictate the fashions, slang and aesthetics of the near future. They were a portal to a completely alien way of thinking- one of logic and method above style and intuition.

            Yoshi and Marshall got caught up telling stories of their world- of lab coats, cells and genes. While their progress was nearly identical Yoshi was three years the elder, having worked as a research assistant prior to starting his thesis. Marshall had gone straight from high school into uni, into Honours, and then, against his intentions, straight into a PhD. In any event they were now working together researching prostate cancer.

            While their work was clear in their own minds, it was an altogether different prospect to explain their work to people outside their field. They had often heard it said that the biggest challenge facing scientists is not so much the research itself but trying to communicate that research to a lay audience, and this was an idiom they knew to be true. Their world of research was often so insular that talking about it in terms of the bigger picture was a strenuous form of intellectual gymnastics, and the inherent jargon made it nigh on impossible for novices to completely wrap their heads around.

            “So, what is it that you do?” Zach asked.

            “Umm, we’re medical researchers.”

            “Prostate cancer.”

            Zach sat up in his chair suddenly more interested in the direction of the conversation.

            “Oh yeah, I remember Piers saying something like that.”

            “Yeah? Well, we try to see what causes the cancer in the first place. The genes involved and stuff like that.”

            “Ha! That’s awesome.” Zach leant forward. “How do you do even that?”

            “Well, we use special mice and cells that lack certain genes we think may be involved in cancer.”

“Wait, doesn’t each cell have the same genes? Aren’t all our genetics different from each other?”

Yoshi shifted in his seat. “Yeah they are, but only a very small percentage of genes are different between you and me- just enough to make us different. And yes each cell in the body has the same genes, but the way organs perform their jobs, the way the stomach is different to the liver say, is by different sub-sets of genes being turned on and off in each cell type.”

“Huh. So how do you examine these genes?”

            Marshall took over. “By deleting specific genes we can compare the results with what we see in normal cells, and from that maybe find new ways of treating the cancer.”

            “Wait, what do you mean by ‘deleting genes’?” Zach’s interest had been piqued.

            Marshall rubbed his palms on his jeans. “Well, there are ways of deleting specific genes in specific tissues in mice, and in cells in a dish.”

“Holy shit!”

“I use mice that have had our gene of interest deleted. We got them in from a lab in the US,” said Yoshi.

“And I silence the gene in individual cells by adding things that stop that specific gene from being made,” Marshall continued.

“Fuck me! So you silence genes?” exclaimed Zach. “You silence motherfucking genes! That is so fucking cool! You must be fucking geniuses!” exclaimed Zach. He slumped back into the couch wide eyed and gobsmacked.

            Marshall shook his head. “This guy is,” he motioned toward Yoshi. “I’m still having a hard time getting my head around it all.”

            “Nah. Don’t be modest. You both are.” Alby stated matter-of-factly.

            Yoshi and Marshall stared at the ground embarrassed. Piers and Zach shook their heads in wonder.

            “Honestly, it’s just like following a recipe. Mix this with that, add this to that. Incubate for 30 minutes. Serve,” Marshall said after a pause. “The theory is a whole lot more complex than doing the actual work.”

            “Yeah, the lab work is the easy part,” confirmed Yoshi.

            Both Alby and Zach looked incredulous, unsure if this was an unusual joke. “Fuck…” was all either of them could say.

            The conversation paused for a while as each participant caught onto his own tangent of thought- Yoshi pondering the ethics of killing mice in the name of science; Zach marvelling at the ability of man to play god; Marshall hoping his explanations had been sufficiently succinct yet thorough; and Alby bubbling with excitement at the genius before him. A moth fluttered in ascending circles above their heads before tapping rhythmically against the suspended bulb, unable to reach that one thing eluding it.

Alby was first to break from his reverie. He looked at each of his companions in turn and declared that he was off to the toilet and whether anyone wanted another beer. All accepted, grateful for the break in the silence. Alby stood and squeezed between Marshall and Zach to make his way inside.

            “I can’t believe you silenced a gene,” Zach muttered.

            As Alby got to the door the two girls emerged, their brows glistened with tiny beads of sweat as they hugged Alby and congratulated him on his star turn earlier in the night. He giggled bashfully and thanked them before excusing himself. The girls surveyed the scenes around them looking for something to excite their mood and, spying Zach, made a beeline in his direction. It is unlikely that they even noticed the two other guys trying desperately not to stare at them.

            Zach was the golden boy of the scene. He was an athletic five foot eleven, although appeared taller by the assuredness with which he carried himself. His startlingly blue eyes, slightly hidden by unruly blonde tufts falling wherever they saw fit, possessed their own gravity. Most of the girls within the tight-knit scene held a flame for Zach and were unapologetically jealous of his girlfriend Donna. In their eyes his biggest flaw was that he adored her with a faultless loyalty, but even Donna had to acknowledge that she had to play second fiddle to Alby in Zach’s estimation.

Zach was the solid to Alby’s fluid. Ever reliable, unflappable and stable compared to his excitable and eccentric companion. Which isn’t to say that Zach was bereft of charisma or dynamism, or even that Alby lacked control or depth, but that the two accentuated each other’s qualities perfectly. Zach possessed the rare ability to bring Alby back to earth when needed, while Alby egged Zach on, excited him and devised crazy schemes for the two of them to cultivate together. They were inseparable. A week without seeing each other was too much to bear. They would be cast into a pit of despair and depression, bored and listless. They even took to listening to cassettes of each other’s voice when falling asleep, and not entirely with irony.

            “Hey Zach, why would you abandon us on the dancefloor like that?” reproached the brunette.

            “Everyone left. No one will dance with us”, said the redhead, a Kiwi accent tainting her speech.

            “I’m sorry. Alby dragged me away and wouldn’t let me leave. He tied me up so I couldn’t escape.”

            “Kinky.”

“Lucky you.”

            “Where are you tied?” The redhead leant over him to try to gain a better look behind the sofa, mischievously pressing her shelved cleavage against the side of his face. The boys looked at each other knowingly and smiled.

            “Aww, poor baby. Is Alby being controlling again? We’ll save you,” said the brunette, stepping around Zach’s legs and crouching down to get a better view from the other side. “Aww, you’re not tied at all!”

            “Why would you lie to us?” the redhead grabbed at his bicep, trying to pull his arm up.

            Zach curled his hand tightly around the bamboo strut running along the base of the couch as the short brunette tried to prise his hand open, her straight black hair brushing his thighs. The girls struggled against him, which only served to strengthen his resolve to hold on. Unable to budge his arm the girls dug their nails into the fleshy underparts of his elbow and wrist, before threatening to attack his one true weakness- his ribs. They weren’t about to play fair. Zach started to hyperventilate at the mere mention of being tickled and even before they started he was writhing in panic. The girls wanted their revenge for the heartache he’d imposed on them by not being single. It wasn’t that Donna wasn’t good enough for him, but rather that she was. And it annoyed the hell out of them. No one likes an over-achiever, even if they are one of your best friends.

            Zach retaliated by biting at any flesh that strayed too close to his mouth. The three writhed and grunted with effort and pain until finally Zach forfeited, releasing his grip on the rail in order to defend himself.

Once they had backed away, Zach brought his arm around in front of his face to inspect the damage. Rows of pink crescents were pressed into his skin, the odd one spotting with blood. He rubbed at them with his good hand and showed the damage to his assailants. They bit their lips and smirked as they inspected the marks on their own arms and shoulders.

            Marshall and Yoshi leaned against the banister throughout, polishing off the dregs in their bottles and shouting encouragement to whoever appeared to be losing at that particular moment. Once the saga had died down and they’d composed themselves Zach introduced them to the girls.

            “Hazel, Pilar, this is Yoshi and Marshall. Yoshi, Marshall, Hazel, Pilar.”

            Greetings and handshakes were made all around.

            “You guys really throw the greatest parties,” Marshall said with all sincerity.

            “Yeah, we like to think of ourselves as events managers. The boys give us a theme and a list of supplies, and we disregard it all and do whatever the hell we want. They really wouldn’t be as good otherwise.” Pilar stated this as fact.

            “So you’re to thank, then. Seriously, you guys really go nuts. It’s great,” praised Yoshi.

“Truly, it’s a gift.” Hazel curtsied her thanks; her red bangs shimmering against the side of her face as she allowed a coquettish smile.

            Despite everyone’s best efforts there was the general anxiety and awkwardness to their exchange that accompanies all introductions between new parties. The girls tried to be whimsical and amusing, while the boys just tried to not come across as nerds.

             “So, you’ve enjoyed yourselves, then? You haven’t found us too vapid?” asked Zach.

            “Oh, quite the opposite. It’s good to be around people that are so carefree for a change. A lot of the people we hang around are way too serious and almost always talking about business. It makes a nice change,” reassured Marshall.

            “Oh, some of us are always talking about business.” Zach tilted his head towards the group on the other side of the veranda. “And we all have our stressors. Anyway, it’s just a relief. I thought you would find us dull. Intellectually.”

            “No, not at all. You seem to always have something interesting to say.”

“So, what do you guys do?” Yoshi asked of the girls, trying to engage with them and keep them around to assess his prospects.

            “Oh, we’ve sort of chopped and changed over the years. We started out in the same performance classes as Zach and Alby. That’s how we know all these guys” said Pilar.

            “I dropped out after the first year,” said Hazel. “I decided the performance and directorial stuff wasn’t really my thing so moved into writing. I knew I wanted to do something creative; it just took some time to figure out what. I’ve always written stuff for my own amusement, and I really enjoyed the scriptwriting and devising aspects of the course, so I decided I’d try to make a go of that. I’m working freelance right now- trying to sell my stuff off to newspapers, magazines, literary journals. I’ve also started work on a novel, but it’s not yet at the point where I’ll tell anyone what it’s about, let alone let them read it.”

“I didn’t even know you had started!” Alby harrumphed into his chest as he passed around the beers and reclaimed his seat.

“Would we have read anything you’ve done?”

            “Haha, I doubt it. Not unless you read highbrow literary journals, the Christchurch street press, or trash and fashion mags?”

            “Can’t say that I do. Not that I can speak for Yoshi…”

            Everyone looked at Yoshi, who twiddled his thumbs and whistled out of the corner of his mouth. The others giggled.

            “So, what’s your story then?” Marshall turned to Pilar.

            “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I did uni with these guys, then was part of Zach’s theatre company. I’ve changed direction a bit since then though. I now design clothes for a store in Northbridge with a few friends. I also dabble in graphic design when I’m not cutting, sewing or tending to customers. I’ve decided I’m more about the aesthetics and process than the show.”

            “She made my codpiece!” Zach tapped at his bulbous crotch.

            “Ooo, fon-se. It really brings out your eyes, daaahling”, said Yoshi in his best exaggerated fashionista accent, gaining laughs from his peers and initiating a feeling of acceptance amongst the cool kids. A shiver of pride tickled up his neck.

            “Ja, ze sparkles reeeally accentuate the girth of your phallus and ze pertness of your balls,” Hazel said.

            Zach athletically bent and lunged, flaunting his crotch, thrusting it into his friends’ faces in turn. Pilar reached around his waist to caress his buttocks and simulated fellatio as he thrust at her. The others collapsed in hysterics.

             “So, what do you two get up to, then?” asked Hazel.

            Marshall stood with his fists clenched on his hips and head tilted to the sky. “We’re scientists!” he exclaimed in his best superhero voice.

            “Wow, I wasn’t expecting that!”

            “That’s… umm… intense.”

            Yoshi smiled humbly. “Not really. We’re just normal people. Honestly.”

            “Go on. Tell them what you do, Yoshi,” said Zach.

            “Well… we silence genes,” he said, embarrassed. He was scared of intimidating them and causing the conversation to fracture. He shared a nervous glance with Marshall.

            “Isn’t that the most awesome thing you’ve ever heard!” said Zach, clearly pleased to have been able to share in this revelation and help the boys along in their quest to keep the girls entertained. He rubbed his hands on his thighs and leaned back into the couch.

            “Yeah. That’s something, alright,” agreed the girls, shifting back in their chairs.

            “So, how do you do that? Do you ‘Shoosh!’ at them or something?” Pilar put her index finger to her pursed lips and scowling intently at the imaginary gene between them. She laughed as if seeking validation that what she had said was in fact funny and not just a trick of her mind.

            “Well that works too, but don’t tell anyone, it’s our secret. Everyone would be doing that if they knew how easy it was. Us nerds like to make things sound more complicated than they actually are to validate our own self-declared genius.” Yoshi smiled at the indulgent tittering of Marshall, before repeating his friend’s story from fifteen minutes previous. As Yoshi explained the science Marshall felt a sense of relief and a certain pride at having accurately explained their work. It reassured him that he wasn’t a fraud, but actually belonged amongst such esteemed company.

They sat in a cluster on the front porch watching the eastern horizon for the first signs of sunrise. They had swaddled themselves in blankets and robes from indoors and sat around sucking on a raspberry hookah. Donna stretched out across the couch to lean her head on Zach’s chest, while Pilar flirted with Alby on the other. Yoshi sat in the rocking chair with an unlit cigarette dangling abjectly from his lips and staring over the back of his head at the stars. Hazel and Marshall sat awkwardly alongside each other surreptitiously making eye contact.

            “So, what type of writer are you? What do you write about?” Marshall asked staring at the floor.

            “Oh, I dunno. Whatever’s on my mind at that particular moment, I guess.”

            “So you draw on your own experience, then. Cool, cool.” He grimaced at his stilted delivery.

            “I try messing around with style and structure quite a lot. I get bored writing the same way all the time. There’s no challenge to it. Like, in the past I’ve written realism, stream of conscious, hyper-descriptive, entirely in quotations,” she stopped a moment to remember herself, looking down at her fingers. “I suppose I just hate being tied down.”

            “So basically, you’re a wanker.”

            “Basically. I acknowledge it’s really quite self-indulgent. But I guess sooner or later I’ll have to tie myself to a particular style- my own personal style.”

            Alby sat up, captured by the direction he perceived the conversation to be headed. “She’s the biggest wanker you’re ever likely to meet.”

            “Yeah, like this!” Donna furiously pumped her fist up and down over Zach’s crotch as he tilted his head back, closed his eyes and moaned over and over “oh yes, yes, yes.” Alby and Pilar joined in the flurry of movement until at the right time Zach lurched into mock ecstasy and the three others mimed jizz flying all around the place- at his face and around the veranda. Zach wiped sweat from his brow and blew air out through his cheeks. “Woah.”

            Yoshi chuckled to himself as he lit his cigarette, concentrating on the first blue-grey tendrils rising from its end. “Well, that was unexpected.” He looked at Marshall and pointed towards Hazel with his cigarette. “You might be onto something, there.”

            Marshall laughed nervously, not entirely sure how he should take the comment. Hazel just smiled past them angelically. From the corner of her eye she caught Alby giving her the thumbs-up as he mouthed the words “Go. For. It.”

            Hazel glowered at him and, slumping back into the couch, crossed her arms and blushed a crimson to match her hair. Alby giggled, sparks bursting from his eyes. He was enjoying this scene- two of his friends being lovey on the couch, and another eyeing off someone new. And it was all happening right in front of his face. He wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass without throwing the odd banana skin.

Marshall timidly resumed his line of questioning. “So, ahh, what are you writing now?”

            “Short stories you mean?” She eyed him warily.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Umm, well I’m trying my hand at Noir, trying to fiddle around with the conventions a bit. Make it a bit more contemporary.”

            “Hahaha. See? Wanker!” Alby guffawed. Hazel shot him daggers, setting him off on a second burst of laughter.

            “So how are you doing that?”

            She cleared her throat, her eyes shifting back and forth. “It’s hard to say. It’s something that’s so ingrained in people’s minds that you have to be careful not to try too much for fear of coming off as a hack. I’m trying to be subtle. For instance I’m playing around with gender roles; instead of having a stereotypical private dick I’ve got a private cunt.”

Alby howled with laughter. Hazel and Marshall tried their best to ignore him.

“And I’m trying to turn the criminals into characters the reader has some sort of sympathy for. The story isn’t going to be black and white, but more greyscale.”

Alby clutched at his eyes. “It burns! The jizz, it burns.”

            Marshall failed to stifle a laugh at Alby’s antics. “Sounds, uh, interesting…” he nodded encouragingly.

            “Maybe,” she shrugged “I don’t feel I’ve got a particularly good handle on it yet. I certainly wouldn’t be about to send it out.” She spoke just as much with her hands as with her voice; gesticulating wildly to emphasise her thoughts. “I’ll probably abandon it and try something else. I’m not in a hurry. I have heaps of time to refine my style.” She sighed and played with the rim of her glass.

            “Aww, I’m sure it’s not as bad as you say,” Marshall encouraged. An awkward silence fell over them, and they diverted their focus to the sounds of Donna making her wine glass hum. “So, ah, who’s style do you like?”

            “Oh god, make it stop.” Pilar rolled her eyes.

            “Well, I’m kinda all over the place. Where to start… The classics- You read them and realise they’re classics for a reason. At the moment I’m reading a lot of magical realism. Marquez, deBerniers, Murakami.”

            “Murakami writes Japanese mystical stuff right? I think I might have read something. From memory I enjoyed it.”

            “It’s probably him then. I like all his stuff, though sometimes it feels like he doesn’t know how to finish a story. They sort of just peter out. Still, casting first stones and all that…”

“Stop…” Pilar and Alby had their hands clasped over their ears and were rocking back and forth as if in pain.

“Maybe I could borrow some books some time?”

“Oh you should!” Hazel exclaimed, ignoring her antagonists. “And F. Scott Fitzgerald. And Tim Winton. And Hunter S. Thompson. All classics.”

“I love Hunter S. Thompson!”

“How good is he!” she gushed. “He’s such an icon. Although I can’t stand it when other writers rip off his style. No one thinks they’re clever and they just come off as hacks. It really pisses me off. Try and come up with a voice of your own you useless fucks!” she yelled into the ether. The others fell back in raucous laughter.

Marshall was captivated by her passion. He was used to people keeping their thoughts and feelings bottled up, but here was a woman so overt in her opinions and prepared to express her thoughts without fear of judgement. It was inspiring to be around someone so free and open.

Pilar shook her head. “The one thing you’ll have to learn is to avoid talking to Hazel about anything remotely connected with writing. Once she gets on a roll, there’s no stopping her.”

“Apparently.”

“And the one thing you’ll have to learn about Pilar,” said Hazel chiming in, “is that she’s not the hardened cynic she portrays, but a frightened little girl scared of getting what she wants.”

“Ooo, cutting.” Pilar fidgeted, her veneer cracking ever so slightly.

Chapter 7: Plotting the Future

The men awoke with the sun, made tea on the embers of the fire and set out to inspect exactly what they had bought into. They retraced their steps back down the creek to the first set of survey points and started out across the flats. The markers stretched through the bush to the top of the ridge and down into the base of the gully beyond. They ducked and weaved their way along the boundary, stopping now and then to uncatch their clothing from the spiky Banksia and Zamia bushes that made them itch and scratch at their skin.

Each farm consisted of a patchwork of Teatrees, paperbarks, Jarrah, Marri, Blackboys, Banksia and even a small copse of stringy Karri in the far gullies, while the soil itself spanned the spectrum from grey sand on the flats and rocky ironstone up on the ridge. Certainly, the sheer size and abundance of the trees suggested that the soil would prove fertile and ensure the success of their crops. The experienced farmers in the group were certain they could make something of it.

            They made their way along the floor of the back gullies, walking slightly up the gradient until the gully morphed into the neighbouring ridge. They continued downhill once more on the other side, marching across the back of the six lots before turning again and tracing their way back towards the creek. After crossing the drying creekbed they followed the markers round the other half of the allotments before returning to the camp for a late lunch where they declared that the land didn’t look too bad, and that the division of land was fair and equitable.

            We arranged ourselves in a circle and discussed over a cup of tea exactly how the land was to be allocated. The contracts the parents had signed specified that this wasn’t to happen until at least 25 acres had been cleared from each block, but in light of the beastly situation the Scheme had placed us in it was unanimously agreed that the land would be balloted off now, and everyone would pitch in to clear sufficient space on each block in turn.

Each block was assigned a number, and each number written on a piece of paper and placed into the broad hat of one of the Kelly’s. The patriarch of each family- in descending age order- drew a tab from the hat bearing the number of their slice of Paradise. Bill Munroe, at 40 years of age, was the first up, drawing number 4. Then Roger Craig (35) drew 1, the bachelor Matthew Elliot (34) number 5, Dad (28) number 2, and Robert Enfield (23) finally drew number 3 out of the hat. The Craig’s, Enfield’s and Elliot would be in a row along the Southern side of the creek, with the Munroe’s and us on the North. There were mock complaints and grumblings about the procedure and verdict, a keeping up of appearances, but they were accompanied by glints and wily grins.

            With this the inaugural meeting of the new Group Settlement community of Karabup was adjourned. The Foremen bid us farewell, promising to return within the week with the first batch of building materials. They rode off at a trot back to their respective families, homes and lives, leaving us alone for the first time amongst the silence of the bush. No sound save for the wind dancing across the leaves in the canopy could be heard. We were utterly alone in a foreign wilderness; completely isolated and cut off from the rest of the world. The silence and stillness were overwhelming. Each of us were hypnotised by our own thoughts and reveries as we set out in our familial directions to select our home sites amongst the scrub.

True to their word the Kelly’s returned with carts piled high with timber beams and slats. Whips cracked and bullocks groaned as they lumbered forward with their cargo. Those still up on the hill meandered down to welcome them in, intrigued- our first external interaction in seven days. In that time we had set with gusto into the task of clearing sites for our new homes a safe distance from the winter mudflats.

The men had managed to carve out of the bush clearings 30 square feet in size on each selection with crosscut saws and axes. As they directed their power into the tree trunks, the smaller of us were set the task of collecting the smaller broken and fallen arms of the knotted gums for firewood, loading them onto the loose and rattling old cart until we could no longer reach the top. We built a woodpile against the side of the hall, and started clearing the innumerable rocks that littered the ground into easily accessible piles to be dealt with once everything had settled down.

The men took care of the larger limbs and trunks, hauling them from the site of their execution, down the slopes and into windrows by the creek ready to be split and cut into fence-posts and stakes. Meanwhile the women prepared all our meals and drinks, helped us with our tasks, made sure the smallest of us didn’t get ourselves into trouble, and chased snakes and lizards away from the stock and larders.

            The men quickly found out that the local jarrah and marri were a far cry from the oak and birch they were used to back home. The knotted and gnarled wood was astonishingly hard, and heaving a great axe into it caused vibrations of refined energy to pulse through the handle, into the hands, up the arms and into the core, jangling the organs and stinging the bones of those who wielded the power. And to add to the insult, each terrible swing only ate an inch further into the trunk. It did not seem proportionate to the amount of effort expended. Hands were transformed into a collection of weeping blisters, the skin peeling from their palms, and the muscles of their arms, shoulders and chests throbbing from the exertion and jarring pain.

            However by the end of the week they could look back with pride at their efforts and the freshly cleared sites scattered around the valley. Upon their return, the Kelly’s were surprised by the progress we had made and admired the work ethic of this seemingly soft and rag-tag mob of Poms. They remarked that even rough-necked Aussies such as themselves would struggle to achieve this much over the same period of time.

The Kelly’s led their cart around to each property to drop off the required building materials, and by night fall we were all gathered around the bonfire watching the kangaroo stew steaming above the flames and the potatoes roasting in the coals. The air buzzed with the tired but excited energy of the people and the cloud of mosquitoes diving onto any unprotected patches of skin.

            We all awoke at first light and, after a breakfast of porridge and charred buttered toast, set out to the Craig’s property to erect the first Karabup house. Holes had already been dug at the four corners of the clearing in preparation for the erection of the outer pillars. A thick Jarrah log was positioned over each hole and four ropes were lashed around the top. With a man on each rope they hauled the log upright in an arc and slipped the base into the hole with a dull thud. It stood there at a jaunty angle pointing above the morning sun. They carefully manipulated the pole to stand perfectly erect and the soil was poured back in around the base with shovels and compacted with the flat ends of 6-foot crowbars until set like concrete. Within an hour all four soldiers stood sentry at the corners of the house warding off any bad luck or pessimism that may have been stalking through the scrub. The only thing possessing our hearts was a rampant and buoyant optimism; a feeling that we could, together, create something truly unique and amazing.

It was another month before the finishing touches could be laid onto the outer shell of the last house, and with it the physical manifestation of the community was complete. 5 identical, rudimentary, 4-walled houses with roofs of shimmering corrugated iron stood around the valley, secreted from each other by the scrub but for the wood-smoke winding upwards from the chimneys. A flat veranda covered each front porch from where anybody with some free time could gaze out into the scrub contemplate their lot in life. Inside, each was partitioned into 6 rooms sprouting off of a central hallway. They weren’t flashy, but they were functional. In another fortnight gutters were affixed to the edges of the roof and pipes fed into new rainwater tanks perched against each house, but until the rains started again we would have to rely on weekly raids to the reservoir a few valley’s over. Ours was a simple life, but one that we embraced with opened arms and the passion of the soul.

While the men were up on the hills clearing the land and fencing off the selections, the women took it upon themselves to move everything from the hall and temporary humpies into the relevant houses. Up until this point we had conducted everything as a community. Now had come the time to partition ourselves off from our neighbours.

            The Kelly brothers came and went on a regular basis. They owned a farm a few miles to the east and had young families of their own to look after, and had taken on the job of looking after us as a way of supplementing their incomes. Every time they came they brought with them extra supplies, correspondence, furnishings, building materials and treats for us little ones. They fast became our closest allies. We were their ‘Groupies’, and they could always be depended upon to lend a helping hand, whether prompted or not. I’m pretty sure a lot of us would have walked off the land a lot earlier if it weren’t for their help.

The Kelly’s showed the men how to strip the bark from the jarrah logs drying by the creek, and then how to divide the timber into 6-foot fence posts using sledgehammers and steel wedges to split the logs along their grain. As they were split the green posts were laid out to dry under the summer sun for a couple of weeks and prevent them from rotting and splintering once they were embedded in the ground.

While the Kelly’s, Dad, Bob Enfield and Matt Elliot put their backs into splitting the posts, the two elder patriarchs Bill Monroe and Roger Craig took their teenage boys Danny and Oscar and Josh out into the scrub to dig holes seven paces apart like perforations along the seam of the hill in which the fence-posts would stand. They dug for a fortnight, slowly tracing out the borders of each property until each was delineated from the next like a sheet of postage stamps.

As they lay the Jarrah posts out alongside the holes it quickly became apparent that they only had about half the number of posts that they needed. As a compromise they made the diplomatic decision to instead fence off about a third of each farm so that each family would have a safe enclosed area in which to keep the stock. Thicker, heavier posts were placed at the junction of fences where the holes had been dug in deeper. These would act as levers, preventing the fence from being torn from the ground as tension was added to the wire. Gates were also suspended from these strainer posts to allow the easy movement of stock between paddocks. The rest of the fences would have to wait until more trees had been felled in the process of clearing the land.

            With the sheep and cattle safely enclosed and the boundaries of each farm etched into the valley the men stood face to face with the daunting task of clearing the bush. When looked upon as a whole it appeared overwhelming. A thousand acres of sunburnt rocky ground covered completely with the spikes of blackboy, zamia and Banksia and shaded by a continuous canopy of Jarrah and Redgum with trunks were so fat that four men together couldn’t warp their arms around their base. Instead of charging straight in, they started with the low-lying scrub along the banks of the creek. The general opinion was that if they could just clear a little bit of arable land, then they could start growing crops and get a little bit of money trickling in. They would worry about the daunting hardwoods when the time came.

And so the men slashed away at the shrubs around the creek bed, their arms and legs getting scratched and lashed by the prickly and brittle bushes. Heavy chains were connected between teams of horses that were led in parallel across the plain to tear the Teatrees from the grey, sandy earth. After helping to remove the Teatrees, the horses were hitched to ploughs to churn up the soil and release the small flora. Only a handful of paperbarks and scrawny gums persisted, too strong to be merely ripped from the ground; symbols of the power of the native earth.

Not long into the clearing process it dawned on someone- I don’t know who- that it would be easier to clear the land if they burnt the forest first, thereby removing the smaller shrubs and plants that would otherwise get in their way. They stood around thinking, berating themselves, until someone started laughing at his naivety and they all joined in the chorus, disrupting a gaggle of Kookaburras in the trees behind. They could hardly burn out the bush now that they’d spent all that time and energy fencing it off- the fences would be destroyed. They spat, cursed and laughed at their folly, then turned back to their horses and axes, shrugging, and kept on tearing at the scrub.

Teatree skeletons were heaped into windrows next to the creek, and one still, late autumn afternoon they were set alight to glow orange against the sunset and release their sweet incense to the wind. Twigs and branches of the twisted shrubs crackled and flared as the flames licked at their skin. The snap and pop of bursting kindling continued its hypnotic rhythm throughout the evening and into the night. That evening the sun burnt crimson through the smoke, and the sky was alive with intense slathers of reds, oranges and purples. Everyone sat in wonder around the fires and smiled in wonder at the perfection of the night.

We all took the afternoon off from our regular duties to gather around the fires. As we watched the sun dip beneath the hanging heads of the trees the entire community converged on the plain to sit around toasting bread, making tea and roasting potatoes in the coals. We sang the songs of home into the night, our faces hot from the fire and our backs chilled by the plunging night. Mr Monroe brought his banjo down from his house and provided the backing track, before Mr Craig squeezed the strains of Northern songs from his bagpipes under the magnificent expanse of the Southern sky. For once the hills echoed with the voices of the living. We felt like we must be the last surviving inhabitants of the world.