Land of Milk & Honey Read online

  For my very good friend Johannes Luettgen

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Dedication

  TODAY

  1947

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  1947–1948

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  EARLY SUMMER 1950

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Acknowledgment

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  TODAY

  Curiosity had attracted most of those who turned out for the auction of the property. Nosy parkers and rubberneckers out for an afternoon’s free entertainment. A small gaggle of men in suits were there to do their best to ensure the property realised at least a reasonable return, while the few who had turned out to bid were praying the place went for a song. A soft and warm autumn breeze sang through the branches of a stand of old macrocarpa.

  The owner of the farm, aging, if not truly old, observed the goings-on from the sideline—sullen, silent for the most part, and sunk in the knowledge that the sale was unlikely to let him off the financial hooks of those who held the mortgage. He wasn’t here from choice; the auction had been forced upon him. His flushed face and flabby bulk gave hint of a life of over-indulgence. Piggy, darting eyes, well sunk in fat, spoke of bad temper.

  Another man, also aging, presented in stark contrast to the other. Slim, straight of back, he also stood quietly on the edge of the small gathering, as far from the flabby individual as possible. With him were a young man and a young woman.

  ‘We’ve got used to you taking us to some strange places, Grandad,’ said the young woman. ‘But why here?’ She shivered, despite the warmth. ‘This place gives me the creeps.’

  ‘Yeah, Grandad,’ said the young man. ‘All the times we’ve stayed with you, we’ve never been out this way before.’

  ‘Indulge an old man,’ said their grandfather, without smiling.

  ‘Why? Something wrong with you? Losing your marbles at long last? Is that it?’

  ‘You’re not even old, Grandad,’ said his grand-daughter.

  ‘Depends on your definition of old,’ her brother grinned.

  ‘Just remind me to take you on for a set or two of tennis when we get home.’ This time the older man did smile.

  ‘That doesn’t count, because I always let you beat me,’ his grandson laughed. ‘Don’t want to put a dent in your ego and, besides, Grandma Maisie would be pissed off if you croaked from a heart attack if I really let you have it.’

  ‘Nonsense, you little chicken,’ said his grandfather. ‘Now shut up. The circus is about to start,’ and the grey eyes that had so often laughed at these two took on a hard glint.

  There were few bidders for this ragged remnant of a once-prosperous farm. The productive areas that had long ago formed part of the whole had been flogged off over the years. All that was left was a dilapidated old farmhouse, a few crumbling outbuildings, and somewhere around seventy hectares of swampy, neglected land. At best it might appeal to the owners of neighbouring farms anxious to add to the size of their own spreads.

  The pantomime played out in fewer than ten minutes. Open-mouthed and wide-eyed, the young man turned to his grandfather in sheer disbelief. ‘Why, Grandad? Why the hell have you bought this dump?’

  His sister smiled. ‘I think you can take your pick, Mack. Retirement hobby farm? Investment property? Change of lifestyle? Grandma Maisie will love it out here.’ She laughed.

  ‘She’ll be here all by herself,’ said her brother. ‘She’ll have shot Grandad first.’

  ‘Guess to your heart’s content,’ their grandfather grinned, giving each a quick hug. ‘Think I’d better go and sign a few papers and write a cheque.’

  ‘Well, there’s our inheritance gone,’ Mack shook his head. ‘Right down the gurgler. Sure the old memory’s OK these days, Grandad? Ever find yourself getting lost and forgetting things? Things like who you are?’

  ‘Why, Grandad?’ his granddaughter asked again, as the three of them wandered around the place the old man had just bought. ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘Give it away.’

  ‘Very kind of you, Grandad,’ said Mack. ‘But I don’t really want to be a farmer. Can I flog it off again? Nice of you to think of me, but cash would have been OK. Easier, too.’

  ‘You!’ his grandfather chuckled. ‘You want a farm? Cash? Damn well work for them.’ He turned to his granddaughter. ‘It’s mine for just as long as it takes to give it away. It’s going lock, stock and barrel to the wetlands people.’ He pointed. ‘Bush reserve up there…and down over there, see that ocean of flax? Swamp, wetland reserve. This block links the two. I’m giving it on the understanding that it be allowed to revert to bush, swamp, whatever.’

  ‘The house? Buildings?’

  ‘Will be gone just as soon as a bulldozer does a spot of longoverdue work.’ The hard grey eyes had lost any trace of humour.

  The young man looked into his grandfather’s eyes, a glimmer of a smile on his good-natured face. ‘I don’t think you’ve lost your memory, Grandad. I was just joking about that before. There’s something about this place, isn’t there? Why else did you bring Emma and me with you today? Yeah. There’s something about this place. You going to tell us?’

  The trio rounded a corner and the old man paused. ‘Milking shed…’ He sighed. ‘Well, once it was. Come on, you two. Let’s go. I’ve seen enough. More than enough.’ He turned to walk back towards the house. Their way was barred.

  ‘Long last, eh, Doc? Got what you wanted now? Reckon it took you a while. Guess you think you’ve done for me this time, Pongo.’ The speech was slurred, the fat red face bloated, blood-engorged, angry. He carried a bottle, punctuating his speech with frequent gulps. ‘What do you say to that? What’ve you been telling these two, eh? Telling them what you got up to down here all them years back? Bet you haven’t told ‘em the half of it. Bet you haven’t told ‘em the good bits.’ A sneer and a snarl.

  ‘Get out of the way, Pearson. In fact, get off the property. It’s my bloody property now!’ Each old man glared at the other.

  ‘Come on, Grandad,’ the girl took hold of her grandfather’s arm. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Yeah. Go on. Run for it, Pongo. You did it before, when you couldn’t take it. Now do it again,’ the fat man jeered.

  ‘You don’t speak to my grandfather like that!’

  ‘Forget it, Mack.’ Suddenly his grandfather laughed. ‘Leave him be. Come on you two.’ He pushed the grotesque, bottle-waving and blustering barrier to one side and the three of them left the place.

  1947

  …unto a land flowing with milk and honey…

  (Exodus 3:8)

  I

  The train stopped. The guard bustled along the aisle of the near-empty carriage, tapped the boy on the shoulder and said, ‘Come on lad, we’re here. This is it, so get a move on. Haven’t got all day.’

  ‘I must get my suitcase,’ said the boy.

  ‘It’s with the luggage in the guard’s van. Come on, now. You hop out and I’ll get it for you.’ A not unkindly voice. ‘Be careful getting out, lad. It’s quite a step. Hope for your sake someone turns up to meet you before too long.’ The man looked from the carriage window. ‘Don’t like the look of this weather and you’ll find next to no shelter here.’ He looked down into the boy’s pinched, pale and worried face. ‘Don’t you fret yourself, now. Reckon
someone will be along in a minute, if they’re not already here. Come on now, let’s be having you.’

  The guard was wrong. There was no one waiting for him. The place was deserted. He was right, however, about the weather. He was right, too, about the lack of shelter. There wasn’t much to the station. The structure was minimal—just about big enough to carry the name of the place—a name the boy couldn’t pronounce. The ‘station’ was just a rail-siding, with little more than a sealed strip and a bench propping up the name-bearing sign. Soon the boy was soaked. He took his reading glasses out of his pocket and put them on in the hope of seeing better and peered into the persistent rain.

  Time passed. He didn’t know how long he’d been waiting. An hour? Maybe more. He waited. There was nothing else he could do. On one side of the make-shift platform the railway line ran off into the rain as far as his eyes could see in either direction. On the other side of the platform a gravel road ran parallel to the rail track. There was no traffic on either rail or road. No sign of life whatsoever. No other building other than this ramshackle, skeletal station.

  He waited, huddling for shelter. Very soon even his heavy Harris tweed jacket was soaked through. Soon, too, the wetness on his cheeks wasn’t only from the falling rain.

  This boy was patient. He waited. Then, growing tired of inactivity, he picked up his case and walked off along the road into the foggy gloom. A hundred yards, maybe a little more. Maybe there was something else hiding in the fog. Turning to look back he could no longer see the bench. Alarmed at losing sight of this one cheerless but familiar feature so quickly, he retraced his steps and huddled down again. The late afternoon darkened and fear added to his sodden misery.

  ‘My word and you’ll be the lucky one, then,’ the woman in Wellington had said. ‘Milk and butter and cream and eggs! Fresh meat,’ the woman licked her lips, eyes glinting at the thought. She chuckled. ‘Put a bit of padding on those bones of yours in no time flat,’ and she had pinched his cheek. ‘Look in a mirror in a couple of months and you won’t know yourself…The lucky one, indeed.’

  ‘What about our Janice?’ he had asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Our Janice. My little sister. What about her, Miss?’

  ‘Goodness gracious me! Don’t you be bothering your head about your sister. She’ll be as right as rain wherever it is she’s going.’ The woman consulted a list. ‘Just er…not too sure at the moment…’

  ‘My father said…’ he began.

  The woman didn’t give him a chance. ‘Whatever it was your father said, boy, must have been said a long time ago and with little knowledge of the er…state of things…er…’ The chuckle was well gone. ‘Your sister will be fine.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘She’ll be fine. D’you hear me? D’you understand? Now, then, no more of this nonsense. There are them as would give eye-teeth for the chance you’re getting. A farmer’s life for you, young fellow-me-lad. You’ll be living off the fat of the land and the pig’s back, and don’t you forget to show how grateful you are!’

  The gloom faded still further into eerie darkness. Eventually the rain thinned into a chill and misty drizzle. The boy was shivering now and clutching to him the only thing of substance he had with him; his suitcase. Cold, wet, hungry and, increasingly, scared. Where was he? Where was this place that was no place at all? What was he to do if no one came? Had the train stopped in the wrong place? Would there be another train? Where would he go on another train if one came and stopped at this odd spot with a name he couldn’t read? His shivering grew into an involuntary shaking and his slight body was so convulsed he forced himself to stand, jumping up and down in an effort to get his body under some sort of control. It didn’t work and he slumped down again onto his suitcase.

  A noise? He started. What was it? An animal? At first a faint whine …then growing…A train? Something. Not an animal. It must be a train. He stood and peered in the direction of the sound. And then a light…lights. It was a vehicle, not a train. He stepped towards the approaching, still-distant light and the lights, now two of them, grew. Headlights. He began to wave.

  Heedless of any possible danger he moved from the platform and onto what he knew was the roadway. His waving became frantic, more frantic the closer the weaving headlights came. And they were weaving unsteadily, and not very quickly, towards where he stood. The vehicle, a truck, snaked to a stop.

  For a moment there was nothing other than the grumbling sound of an old and uncertain engine. The sound of a window being wound down and a head poked through. ‘You the boy?’ A rough voice.

  The boy, tentative now, approached and peered into the cab of the truck. The fumes of the old vehicle didn’t fully mask those of another unmistakable substance—beer. ‘Yes,’ he said, more uncertain. ‘I’m a boy.’

  ‘I can see you’re a bloody boy! What’s your name?’

  ‘Jake.’

  ‘That’s it, Dad. That’s him,’ another voice. ‘Sure as hell no one else around here.’ A rough laugh. ‘Looks half-drowned. Looks like a stinking skinned rabbit.’ More laughter.

  ‘Come on. Haven’t got all day—or all night.’ Another laugh. ‘Get your gear.’

  ‘I’ll just get my suitcase,’ said the boy.

  ‘Geez, Dad, right little pom we’ve got here. Listen to him. Can’t understand a word he says.’

  He collected his suitcase and returned to stand by the cab of the truck. For a moment nothing was said. And then he asked, ‘Please may I get in?’

  Loud laughter from inside. ‘No room,’ said the younger of the two. ‘You think we want a bloody drowned rat in here making us all wet?’

  ‘Up on the back, kid. That’s where you ride—not that you’ll have time to be riding anywhere. Get used to it,’ said the older man.

  ‘Chuck your bag in and climb up after it, Pommie,’ said the younger voice. Comfy enough for the likes of you. Even got an old dead ewe in there to rest on. Get to know her—you’ll be skinning her in the morning. Her and her dead lamb.’ Both voices laughed. ‘If you’re lucky you’ll get to eat her as well. First bit of decent meat you’ll have had for God knows how long.’ And the two of them continued to laugh as he struggled frantically to clamber onto the deck of the truck, worried even this cold comfort would take off without him. The driver, the older man, revved the engine a couple of times and their amusement grew as the boy became more desperate in his efforts. They fuelled their fun at his expense, passing between them and taking turns drinking from a bottle of beer.

  The drive was long, the road was rough, the driver was drunk and, after a moment of revulsion, the boy was thankful for the presence of the dead sheep. The first and only soft thing he’d found to cling to since arriving in this gloomy place. By leaning back into the carcass the worst jolts were partly absorbed. He spread his legs and clung into the sheep’s fleece.

  It was very dark. The only light came from the truck headlights, fitfully piercing the black distance. At least the rain had stopped.

  ‘What time do you call this, then? You’re late,’ snapped the woman.

  ‘This here’s the wife. Mrs Pearson to you, boy. I’m Mr Pearson. That’s what you’ll be calling us. Understand?’

  ‘You’re late,’ the woman said again.

  ‘You can blame him, Mum. Bloody train was late. It’s all his fault,’ and the young man winked at the older.

  ‘Don’t you swear in front of me,’ said the woman.

  ‘Sorry, Mum. But it’s all his fault. And you can call me Mr Pearson, too, kid. No one’s ever called me that before. Reckon there’s got to be a first time and I like the sound of it.’

  ‘Show him where he’s to bunk down, Darcy. Then bring him back to the kitchen. Mum and me, we’ll lay down the ins and outs of what he’s to do. Got the meal ready, woman? Could eat a bloody horse and chase the rider.’

  ‘Better see if he’s got dry things in that bag of his, son. Don’t want the little blighter sick on us the minute he gets here. God knows
what germs he’s brought with him so don’t you be going too close,’ said Mrs Pearson.

  ‘No fear of that, Mum.’ Darcy Pearson grinned. ‘Come on, kid.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jake, for no particular reason.

  ‘Thank you who?’

  ‘Thank you er…Mr Pearson.’

  ‘That’s better.’ Darcy grinned again. ‘Come on.’

  ‘And don’t be long if you want to eat,’ said his mother.

  The room was very small. Just big enough to hold the furnishings, though there were scant furnishings for it to hold. A bed and a box. The bed was half-size, little more than a child’s cot, with three or four old grey blankets tossed over a stained mattress. The wooden box might have been chair or table or cupboard. There was a small window, broken, over which a sugar sack had been nailed. The floor was almost whole—other than where floorboards had rotted. The walls and ceiling were of corrugated iron. There was one luxury—a naked light bulb. The room was well-ventilated. Wind whistled in through the holes in the floor as well as through the broken windowpane.

  Darcy Pearson stood in the doorway, his grin broader than ever. He was enjoying himself. He smoked. ‘You smoke?’ he asked Jake.

  ‘Yes I have…well, sometimes,’ said Jake.

  ‘Well don’t think you’re getting my smokes, Pom. How old are you?’

  ‘I’m fourteen,’ said Jake.

  ‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Darcy. ‘You don’t look it. How old do you reckon I am?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jake, standing by the bed and looking up into the face of the other. He shivered slightly, and not from the cold.

  ‘Seventeen. Well, just about,’ he leered, and did his best to blow smoke into Jake’s face. ‘Reckon I could wring your scrawny neck if I wanted. There’s not much of it.’ Darcy Pearson flexed a muscle, winked, and grinned some more. ‘There’d be no one to miss you and it might be fun to give it a try. The old lady said to get dry clothes on. Come on. Get ‘em out.’