need to be busy.’
‘How can I be busy?’ he’d said.
Year after year, as the effects of the drought continued, the work that had consumed every hour of his life had decreased. His full-time stockmen had to be let go. There wasn’t the work or the money to pay them. He’d also had to do what many neighbouring pastoralists had been forced to do: gradually sell off his stock so he could pay even some of his bills.
He knew he’d let himself down. Let Angela down. The kids. Not just his own family. His ancestors. He’d always been conscious this was a fourth-generation property. It was on the homestead gatepost, under the Errigal nameplate: ‘Established 1887’. It wasn’t until he’d started on the family tree that he’d discovered they had been mispronouncing the station name. It was
Erra
-gull. Not Err-
rye
-gal. A mountain in Donegal, the home county of one of the original Gillespie cousins. A mountain he would soon see for himself.
All because of his doctor.
That afternoon Dr Mitchell had discussed the treatments available for his depression. He also gave him some medication to get him sleeping again, to help calm his anxious mind. He stressed how important it was that Nick get outside as often as he could, do some exercise every day. He also wanted him to think about talking to someone.
‘A psychiatrist?’ Nick said. ‘No, thanks.’
‘A psychologist,’ his doctor said. Not a local, but a good man from Adelaide who visited the area twice a month. Against all Nick’s instincts, hating the idea of it, telling Angela he was in Port Augusta meeting his lawyers – more lies – he had already had three sessions. It was helping, even if sometimes there was more silence in the room than conversation. Jim, the psychologist, had echoed his doctor’s advice. Stay active. Get outside. Eat properly. He’d suggested he find a new interest. Something to stop the despairing thoughts from taking over. Think of your brain like a radio, Jim had said. You’ve been stuck on a bad channel. A negative channel. You don’t have to listen to it any more. You can tune to different thoughts any time you want to. Or need to. That’s where a new interest will help. A hobby.
‘Like what?’ Nick had said. ‘Stamp collecting? We get three mail deliveries a week if we’re lucky.’
‘You have a computer and the internet out there, don’t you?’
Yes, Nick had said. It was an expensive satellite connection, but they did.
‘Have you ever thought of tracing your ancestors? Irish, aren’t you? Bet there’s a few good stories.’
The idea lodged in his mind. He’d thought about it over the next few days. He decided he wouldn’t start on it until he heard back from the mining company. They’d done tests on four other properties in the area, he knew. All four shared the same rock formations, geological signs to what might lie below. Over the years, there’d been lots of speculation about what could be there – uranium, gold, copper, diamonds. He had actually prayed that they would find something of value on Errigal. Angela didn’t know the extent of their financial problems. No one but he and his bank manager knew.
They owed nearly a million dollars.
He felt the sweat bead now, remembering what it had been like to hear that figure.
The crash in wool prices as well as the long drought had affected everyone in the area. But his neighbours had fared better. Not only because they were better graziers. It was luck as well. Their stations were on better land, with more water. Or they’d diversified. Or they had better management of feed, or stock levels. Better-quality wool, better profits. The variables were endless. The result was the same, though: when the rain did come, when wool prices started to rise again, his neighbours were ready. They’d scraped through. It was too late for him. He was in huge financial trouble.
He couldn’t talk about it with Angela. It wasn’t his way. He’d also made a decision
‘How can I be busy?’ he’d said.
Year after year, as the effects of the drought continued, the work that had consumed every hour of his life had decreased. His full-time stockmen had to be let go. There wasn’t the work or the money to pay them. He’d also had to do what many neighbouring pastoralists had been forced to do: gradually sell off his stock so he could pay even some of his bills.
He knew he’d let himself down. Let Angela down. The kids. Not just his own family. His ancestors. He’d always been conscious this was a fourth-generation property. It was on the homestead gatepost, under the Errigal nameplate: ‘Established 1887’. It wasn’t until he’d started on the family tree that he’d discovered they had been mispronouncing the station name. It was
Erra
-gull. Not Err-
rye
-gal. A mountain in Donegal, the home county of one of the original Gillespie cousins. A mountain he would soon see for himself.
All because of his doctor.
That afternoon Dr Mitchell had discussed the treatments available for his depression. He also gave him some medication to get him sleeping again, to help calm his anxious mind. He stressed how important it was that Nick get outside as often as he could, do some exercise every day. He also wanted him to think about talking to someone.
‘A psychiatrist?’ Nick said. ‘No, thanks.’
‘A psychologist,’ his doctor said. Not a local, but a good man from Adelaide who visited the area twice a month. Against all Nick’s instincts, hating the idea of it, telling Angela he was in Port Augusta meeting his lawyers – more lies – he had already had three sessions. It was helping, even if sometimes there was more silence in the room than conversation. Jim, the psychologist, had echoed his doctor’s advice. Stay active. Get outside. Eat properly. He’d suggested he find a new interest. Something to stop the despairing thoughts from taking over. Think of your brain like a radio, Jim had said. You’ve been stuck on a bad channel. A negative channel. You don’t have to listen to it any more. You can tune to different thoughts any time you want to. Or need to. That’s where a new interest will help. A hobby.
‘Like what?’ Nick had said. ‘Stamp collecting? We get three mail deliveries a week if we’re lucky.’
‘You have a computer and the internet out there, don’t you?’
Yes, Nick had said. It was an expensive satellite connection, but they did.
‘Have you ever thought of tracing your ancestors? Irish, aren’t you? Bet there’s a few good stories.’
The idea lodged in his mind. He’d thought about it over the next few days. He decided he wouldn’t start on it until he heard back from the mining company. They’d done tests on four other properties in the area, he knew. All four shared the same rock formations, geological signs to what might lie below. Over the years, there’d been lots of speculation about what could be there – uranium, gold, copper, diamonds. He had actually prayed that they would find something of value on Errigal. Angela didn’t know the extent of their financial problems. No one but he and his bank manager knew.
They owed nearly a million dollars.
He felt the sweat bead now, remembering what it had been like to hear that figure.
The crash in wool prices as well as the long drought had affected everyone in the area. But his neighbours had fared better. Not only because they were better graziers. It was luck as well. Their stations were on better land, with more water. Or they’d diversified. Or they had better management of feed, or stock levels. Better-quality wool, better profits. The variables were endless. The result was the same, though: when the rain did come, when wool prices started to rise again, his neighbours were ready. They’d scraped through. It was too late for him. He was in huge financial trouble.
He couldn’t talk about it with Angela. It wasn’t his way. He’d also made a decision
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