Fresh Fields by Peter Kocan Page B

He went outside with his purchases in a brown paper bag and stood by the truck. He resisted the urge to peek at the photos of Sweetheart again. Better to wait till he was back in his room. The sun was out and there was a cool wind blowing the clouds across the sky. He looked at the dwellings that lined the strip of dirt road in both directions. They were more like shacks than proper houses, all broken down and crumby. The Currey place couldn’t be any of those. It must be somewhere further along, he figured, or a bit out of sight among trees. If he’d had a moment alone with the storekeeper he’d have asked about it, but hadn’t wanted to with Mr. Coles there. The youth had been mulling over an idea for a couple of weeks. Burrawah was a fair way from Dunkeld if you were driving, because you had to go in the other direction first to reach the main gate of the property and get onto the public road. But if you were going across country on horseback it was hardly any distance at all. Maybe, he thought, he could saddle up old Gypsy one Sunday and ride over to the Currey place and drop in on them. He imagined himself arriving and casually hitching the mare to their front fence, then greeting them like a real Horseman who thinks nothing of riding rough country to say g’day to his friends.
    Then he saw Clem. He’d appeared from one of the run-down shacks and was standing under a gnarled gum tree at the back. The youth was about to call out and wave, but something made him pause. Then Gladys came out of the shack and said something. Clem made a sharp gesture with his hand and Gladys made the same gesture to him and then turned impatiently away. At the shack door she turned and said something else, and again Clem made the abrupt gesture, and Gladys went in. They weren’t in a happy mood, that was obvious. The youth thought Clem might turn his head at any moment and look across to the general store and see him standing there. But Clem was looking at the ground, like a man with the weight of the world on him. The youth stepped out of sight behind the truck, just in case.
    The mental picture of the storybook cottage was gone, and the youth knew he wouldn’t be riding over to say g’day.
    He felt depressed after that, but he got by. He knew he had plenty on his side to keep him going. He had Sweetheart and he had Diestl. And as he waged his war against the tussock hordes out in the paddocks, he had the example of King Harold and the brave Anglo-Saxons always before him.
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    ONE EVENING the youth was going across to the house for his meal. He saw the light of a torch down near the bottom of the home paddock, near the pig enclosure. Mr. Coles was trying to pull up a length of heavy steel cable that had been lying half-buried in the grass for a long time. The youth had often noticed the length of cable and supposed it was from the days of the bulldozer. He could hear Mr. Coles grumbling at the brute of a thing to “Come up! Come up, blast you!” It was just like Mr. Coles, the youth reflected, to decide that some task had to be done right that minute and then to bluster away at it. The pigs were aroused and were grunting and oinking loudly.
    He was sitting in the kitchen, eating, when Mr. Coles came bursting in.
    â€œWhat the hell have you been doing to those pigs?” he yelled. “You’ve cut the beggars to pieces!”
    The youth was too surprised and frightened to speak. He just sat with his mouth half-full and looked up blankly.
    â€œI’m calling the police!” Mr. Coles continued. “Don’t think I won’t!”
    The old lady came in and asked what on earth the matter was.
    â€œHe’s mutilated those pigs!”
    â€œWhat do you mean by ‘mutilated’ them?”
    â€œHe’s cut them to pieces! I’m getting the police in!”
    â€œYou’re not doing any such thing until we know what on earth has happened,” the old lady said