Read Online The Road from Coorain by Jill Ker Conway - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jill Ker Conway
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my size could drink. Angus was a member of the same board my father sat on, and often we would take lunch or dinner together at one of the two rickety hotels which faced one another on Main Street. If Angus had enjoyed more than enough beer before or during lunch, he was likely to take me back to the milk bar and buy out the entire stock of chocolates just for the fun of watching my expression.
He was the archetypal Scot, short, stocky, peppery in manner, loyal and warmhearted to his friends, and a formidable enemy.His sense of humor was legendary. In our household, we all remembered with glee overhearing his voice on the telephone to the local store in Ivanhoe, an institution which exploited its monopoly position to overcharge shamelessly. “Is that Ned Kelly and Company,” Angus said, naming Australia’s most famous armed bandit. “What are you going to rob me most for today?” Our telephone lines were often tangled with those of other stations, but we children always hoped we would pick up the phone and overhear that familiar voice from Clare, Angus’s vast family property, fifty miles to the west. He often stopped a night with us on the way back from Hillston, and that was always a special time. Knowing how much our parents liked and admired him, we adopted him as an honorary uncle, and were eager to sit while he talked about life and the bush, using pungent and vivid language that was always memorable. I liked to watch his face when he told a story. A gingery mustache, which partially concealed his mouth, would give a telltale wiggle as he, otherwise deadpan, told some ridiculous tall story. His deep-set brown eyes literally sparkled with mirth, and his laughter was wholehearted and satisfying. His sense of fun was particularly appealing to children, whom he always treated as though they were his exact contemporaries.
All in all, what might on the surface appear like a lonely childhood, especially after the departure of my brothers, was one filled with interest, stimulation, and friends. It lacked other children, and I was seven before I even laid eyes on another female child. Yet this world gave me most of what we need in life, and gave it generously. I had the total attention of both my parents, and was secure in the knowledge of being loved. Better still, I knew that my capacity for work was valued and that my contributions to the work of the property really mattered. It was a comprehensible world. One saw visible results from one’s labors, and the lesson of my mother’s garden was a permanent instruction about the way human beings can transform their environment. My memories of falling asleep at night are to thecomfortable sound of my parents’ voices, voices which conveyed in their tones the message that these two people loved and trusted one another. After the windmill was built, I would wake in the morning as the early dawn wind began to turn the sails to the familiar clinking sound of the pump working. Magpies used to perch on the windmill’s stand and sing every morning at first light. This sound would mingle in my waking with the early morning smell of flowers in the garden. It was an idyllic world.
4.
DROUGHT
A FTER THE GREAT rain of 1939, the rainfall declined noticeably in each successive year. In 1940, the slight fall was of no consequence because our major worry was that the accumulation of growth on the land would produce serious bushfires. These did occur on land quite close to us, but my father’s foresight in getting cattle to eat down the high grass preserved Coorain from that danger.
In 1941, the only rain of the year was a damp cold rain with high wind which came during the lambing season in May and June and carried off many ewes and their newborn lambs. After that there were no significant rainfalls for five years. The unfolding of a drought of these dimensions has a slow and inexorable quality. The weather perpetually holds out hope. Storm clouds gather. Thunder rolls by. But
He was the archetypal Scot, short, stocky, peppery in manner, loyal and warmhearted to his friends, and a formidable enemy.His sense of humor was legendary. In our household, we all remembered with glee overhearing his voice on the telephone to the local store in Ivanhoe, an institution which exploited its monopoly position to overcharge shamelessly. “Is that Ned Kelly and Company,” Angus said, naming Australia’s most famous armed bandit. “What are you going to rob me most for today?” Our telephone lines were often tangled with those of other stations, but we children always hoped we would pick up the phone and overhear that familiar voice from Clare, Angus’s vast family property, fifty miles to the west. He often stopped a night with us on the way back from Hillston, and that was always a special time. Knowing how much our parents liked and admired him, we adopted him as an honorary uncle, and were eager to sit while he talked about life and the bush, using pungent and vivid language that was always memorable. I liked to watch his face when he told a story. A gingery mustache, which partially concealed his mouth, would give a telltale wiggle as he, otherwise deadpan, told some ridiculous tall story. His deep-set brown eyes literally sparkled with mirth, and his laughter was wholehearted and satisfying. His sense of fun was particularly appealing to children, whom he always treated as though they were his exact contemporaries.
All in all, what might on the surface appear like a lonely childhood, especially after the departure of my brothers, was one filled with interest, stimulation, and friends. It lacked other children, and I was seven before I even laid eyes on another female child. Yet this world gave me most of what we need in life, and gave it generously. I had the total attention of both my parents, and was secure in the knowledge of being loved. Better still, I knew that my capacity for work was valued and that my contributions to the work of the property really mattered. It was a comprehensible world. One saw visible results from one’s labors, and the lesson of my mother’s garden was a permanent instruction about the way human beings can transform their environment. My memories of falling asleep at night are to thecomfortable sound of my parents’ voices, voices which conveyed in their tones the message that these two people loved and trusted one another. After the windmill was built, I would wake in the morning as the early dawn wind began to turn the sails to the familiar clinking sound of the pump working. Magpies used to perch on the windmill’s stand and sing every morning at first light. This sound would mingle in my waking with the early morning smell of flowers in the garden. It was an idyllic world.
4.
DROUGHT
A FTER THE GREAT rain of 1939, the rainfall declined noticeably in each successive year. In 1940, the slight fall was of no consequence because our major worry was that the accumulation of growth on the land would produce serious bushfires. These did occur on land quite close to us, but my father’s foresight in getting cattle to eat down the high grass preserved Coorain from that danger.
In 1941, the only rain of the year was a damp cold rain with high wind which came during the lambing season in May and June and carried off many ewes and their newborn lambs. After that there were no significant rainfalls for five years. The unfolding of a drought of these dimensions has a slow and inexorable quality. The weather perpetually holds out hope. Storm clouds gather. Thunder rolls by. But
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