Forked Creek – Chapter 6
Under the Skin
I don’t have much to do with Adam for a couple of days. It suits me fine.
He checks the traps as soon as the sun is up, texts me a terse progress report, then takes himself off for the day. I know that he visits Glenda daily, and I assume he has other business to attend to in the area.
He shows up for evening meals, exchanges a few polite but non-committal words, then disappears in the direction of the orchard. No more music, no more beer; no more intense conversations round the campfire.
Emmi seems to have been given the brush-off. She sulks around the place with a face like a slapped arse.
I sense that group opinion has turned against the newcomer. Soft, sweet Javier is almost antagonistic when he and Adam come together. My young people look out for one another – even as they recognise each other’s failings.
Of all the WWOOFers, the two Dans seem most inclined to maintain the entente cordiale. They’re in charge of the cell grazing, which is in the outlying paddocks these warm autumn weeks, enriching the soil with dung. A couple of times I see them and Adam from afar, chatting and laughing. I think they admire him, respect his experience and knowledge.
On Thursday morning, Adam asks me to join him up at the orchard after breakfast.
‘One more night of free tucker for our little piggy friends, then I’ll start trapping and shooting.’
‘What happens to the carcasses? Can we use the meat?’
‘I wouldn’t – not in your position, as a livestock farmer.’
‘Why not? It seems an awful waste.’
‘I understand, really I do. Breaks my heart to see all that meat go to waste …’
‘But?’
‘But there’s a good chance these pigs are infected with brucellosis.’
‘Ah.’
‘If I just shoot them and we dispose of the carcasses without cutting – no real problem. But as soon as we start dressing carcasses, and worse still, butchering, we run the risk of cross-species infection.
‘Mostly your dogs and anyone handling the pigs – but sheep, goats, your neighbour’s cattle – they’re all at risk, in theory. It’s just not worth it. That’s my advice, anyhow.’
‘Okay, if that’s your advice, I’d be stupid not to take it.’
‘Glad you see it that way.’
I consider for a moment.
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Course,’ he smiles. ‘Fire away.’
‘Do you enjoy this job?’
‘Well … that is a question.’
‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’
’No, it’s okay … I look at it like this: I’m sort of helping to heal the land. Does that sound crazy?’
‘No, not crazy at all.’
‘This land, my ancestors’ country – my country – it’s been abused for two hundred years. Trashed.
‘We’ve got feral dogs, horses, cats, goats, pigs, rabbits, foxes, deer – you name it – eating up the land. Killing the native animals, taking away their food, their water, their homes.
‘So yeah, I guess I enjoy my job. I enjoy doing it. Even if it feels like I’m pissing into the wind most of the time.
‘It’s not that I hate the pigs, you understand. They’re just trying to live. It’s the people who brought ’em here, then let ’em go. Those are the ones. The ones …’
‘… that you hate?’
He nods. Turns away.
‘I’m sorry, Adam.’
He looks back at me, grins. ‘What in hell are you sorry about, Marg Jansen? Have you been letting pigs go in the bush?’
’No, but my ancestors would have been part of the problem. I may be a city lawyer, but I come from five generations of farmers.’
He shakes his head. ‘You aren’t to blame, Marg. I mean, look at me.’ He points to his face. ‘Do you see a black man?’
I shrug. He laughs at my embarrassment. ‘Come on! Have the guts to say it. Never mind all the PC bullshit. No, you don’t.’
I shake my head.
‘Half of my ancestors were white Europeans. Scottish, English and I-don’t-know-what. The ones I know of were decent men and women. Hard-working, honourable. I’m proud to be descended from them.
‘The ones further back, my great grandfathers and beyond … who knows? Maybe they were good men too. But maybe they weren’t, know what I’m saying?’
‘Yes.’
‘But anyway, I guess what I’m getting round to here is this: I can’t blame you. That would make me a hypocrite. If you’re to blame, because of your ancestry, so am I.’
‘Fair point.’
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘Are you mad at me because of Emmi?’
That one came out of left field.
‘I … wasn’t too impressed, put it that way.’
‘I thought so,’ he nods to himself.
‘And?’
’And nothing. Just wondered.’
And with that, he turns and saunters off up the paddock.
Infuriating just isn’t strong enough a word.
Next week in ‘Forked Creek’:
Chapter 7: The Prank
The little community of Forked Creek Farm is rocked by an act of spite.