Forked Creek – Chapter 5
After Dark
Adam declines the offer of a bed in the farmhouse. He prefers to set up his rooftop tent on the Nissan. It looks cosy, if basic.
After dinner, Oliver and I withdraw to the office to discuss the week’s deliveries to restaurants down in Mudgee, Orange and Bathurst. We also have an agent over in Sydney, who collects veggie boxes, eggs and dairy packs from us on Fridays, for distribution to urban households.
By selling to consumer ‘farm clubs’, not to wholesale, we get a fair price for our produce, while subscribers get top-quality, farm-fresh food. ‘Paddock to Plate’ resonates with ethical-minded Sydneysiders.
Later, business done, we wander up the hill to the campfire by the shearing shed. It’s a mild, still evening and everyone is sitting out under the stars.
Someone is singing an old Redgum song, ‘The Diamantina Drover’, softly but tunefully. The figures silhouetted against the flames, the faces fire-lit in ruddy chiaroscuro are a flickering tableau. Sparks rise into the night sky.
As we come closer, I realise that it’s Adam singing and playing guitar. Texas Dan is accompanying him on djembe and Elsa is filling in hesitantly on harmonica.
The quiet Chilean couple, Valentina and Carla, are snuggled up together, smiling and shooting shy glances at the musicians. Emmi is perched on a log, knees drawn up to her chin, watching with a half smile, eyes shining strangely in the firelight. A little Germanic pixie.
‘Alright, Marg? ’right, Ollie?’ London Dan greets us cheerily. The way he does everything.
He plunges his tattooed arm into the bucket of ice water and hands us each a dripping bottle of beer. I twist the cap off, clink with Oliver and let the cool liquid slip down my throat.
The joy of the moment. It almost takes my breath away. So happy and proud to be here, now, with these people.
I haven’t felt this good for a while. It’s easy to be consumed by the day-to-day, hour-to-hour stress and hard yakka of running a complex farming operation.
Then it’s back: the grief over Bella and Ferdi, the tight feeling in my chest when I think about the pigs, the threat they represent. This little enterprise is resilient in some ways, but so fragile in others. We operate on slim margins; I can see the day looming when I’ll have to go back to legal work. We really don’t need this.
Javier’s soft Spanish voice gradually impinges on my thoughts. He’s asking me something. I shake my head apologetically and ask him to repeat. We chat for a while about the tomato harvest. It’s going to be a good one. Rosa is all set up for a passata marathon.
It is, after all, only Monday, so most of the young folk drift off to bed by nine-thirty, leaving a few stragglers to tend the fire. Oliver yawns, stretches and bids the dwindling company adieu. He lopes off towards the house, the beam of the headlamp bouncing back and forth with his gait until he disappears round the corner of the shed.
Emmi seems to be giving Adam an ear bashing again. She is talking at him earnestly, quietly, gesticulating. He smiles and shakes his head, gazing into the dying glow of the embers. Well, I guess he’s old enough to look out for himself.
I say goodnight to the pair, reminding her pointedly that the layer hen A-frame shelter (aka ‘eggmobile’) and its five hundred feathered occupants will need moving to new grazing tomorrow. Emmi is in charge of setting up the Feathernet electric fencing before breakfast.
I wake from a vague, frustrating dream to find the dark bedroom stuffy and my hair a sweaty tangle. Twelve thirty-five a.m.
I wrap myself in my old towelling robe and shuffle out to the kitchen to pour a glass of water from the tap.
Outside the back door, the crickets are calling me into the warm night. I step outside, enjoying the breeze on my bare legs. Further away, in the dams and the swales, froglets are ticking and marsh frogs tocking.
Faint voices from over beyond the shearing shed. Laughter. A couple of night owls still at the campfire?
I wouldn’t mind company right now, so I pull on my workboots and take a torch. Threadbare dressing gown and Blundstones might not be a good look, but hey — who cares? I stomp up the hill, sweeping the ground with the torch beam, alert for snakes.
I find the fireplace dark and deserted. I’m about to head down to the big dam, listen to the frog chorus. Then Adam’s rooftop tent, next to the shearing shed, is suddenly illuminated from within. A soft feminine giggle; Adam’s deeper voice. Silhouettes through the canvas. I turn away – none of my business.
Quick footsteps come skipping.
A startled little ‘Oh,’ as Emmi rounds the corner of the shearing shed and almost collides with me. Then ‘Night, Marg!’ as she regains composure and strides off to the women’s yurt. Do I detect a triumphant sashay in those skinny little hips?
Emmi, Adam? Really?
Am I concerned for the naïve young woman? Disappointed that Adam turns out to be just another bloke, out for an opportunistic root?
Okay, so there may be a double standard in there, somewhere …
Or am I jealous?
Next week in ‘Forked Creek’:
Chapter 6: Under the Skin
Adam and Marg ask each other some awkward questions.