Down a Country Lane. Gary Blinco
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gathered around their grandfather shyly, the few weeks in the bush without any contact outside their own family adding to their shyness. ‘Ah the bush is the best place in the world to live’, the old man said without waiting for their reply. ‘Come with me and I’ll find some boiled lollies and you can tell me all about the place.’ Grace embraced her mother eagerly, the contact reminding her how lonely she had been for adult female company. Her mother was a short, plump woman who looked as if she had just stepped out of a child’s storybook. Her wrinkled but animated face smacked of kindness and concern as she led them into the house.
‘Leave the horse and wagon where it is for now Norm’, she said kindly. ‘Let’s go and getta cuppa tea and some tucker, you must be starvin’ after the long trip.’ Grace and her husband followed the old lady into the simple but comfortable cottage. Norm wondered how his wife would broach the subject of the help they had come to enlist, but for now the promise of tea and food leapt to the front of his mind as he realised he was very hungry.
Grace raised the subject of their need for a vehicle as they dined on cold mutton between slabs of warm fresh bread, washed down with mugs of sweet dark tea. Norm watched his in-laws from the corner of his eye as he picked at the mutton leg-bone for the last of the meat. He was pleased that the old man resisted the urge to gloat now that they had finally approached him for assistance. The old bloke had been rather miffed by the fact that he had not been involved in the purchase of the farm, and he now seemed pleased to help in any way he could. ‘Of course I will help, Grace’, he said enthusiastically. ‘All you ever had to do was ask. I ain’t got much dough, but I can guarantee you alright – my name is still good around here.’
He turned to Norm who wondered at the implications of the last comment but decided not to read too much into it. ‘I hope you might let an old man who knows a bloody lot about farming and the bush come out and help sometimes’, he said, his old eyes dancing with expectation. Norm suddenly became very interested in the bottom of his teacup. ‘Shit yes’, he said. ‘Once we get a bit better set up. I can use all the help I can get.’ His father-in-law smiled, content with the reply and ignoring the obvious put off.
Grace’s father knew of an old ex-military truck that was available, and the owner was a keen collector and breeder of draught horses. A trade would be possible with the old horse and the wagon, with the balance paid off over time. After a day of wheeling and dealing they returned home in a four- wheel drive army surplus Blitz truck. It was drab olive green in colour and had huge wheels. The cabin seemed to be miles off the ground to the small boy as his grandfather helped him aboard. The child shook with excitement as he contemplated the ride home in this wonderful machine.
‘Up you go little chap’, the old man said kindly. ‘You’ll soon be big enough to drive this machine and help your father make a quid for a change.’ The old man grinned and his small grey eyes twinkled with mischief through his thick white lashes as he turned to his daughter.
‘Just keep paying for the truck every month Grace’, he said. ‘Let me know if I can help, after all, you’re still our daughter.’ Grace smiled and kissed her parents before climbing into the truck. Norm grunted at the last comment and nodded grudgingly to his parents-in-law as he started the truck’s powerful engine. ‘Old bastard’, he said quietly. ‘Still our daughter despite being married to that prick he means.’ Grace squeezed his hand as she waved to her parents through the windscreen of the truck, her mother short and plump, her father tall, lean and stooped, both of them totally grey. ‘He didn’t mean it that way love’, she said smiling. ‘They like you well enough.’
‘Balls they do,’ Norm spat. ‘But who gives a root anyway, the truck will get us out of the shit for a while. I don’t know how I’ll find the bloody payments to keep it for long though.’ His wife shot him a quick glance, but shut his comment out of her mind and smiled at her small son.
Sitting in the cabin with his now cheerful parents the boy grinned happily through the rear window at the other children who rode on the splintery wooden boards of the carrying tray. They energetically pilfered the grocery boxes on the way home, taking advantage of their parent’s good humour on the day. They were all in fine spirits as they rolled home in such style, the fifteen miles that had seemed like an epic journey in the wagon reduced to little more than a pleasant drive in the new vehicle.
The old horse and wagon were gone forever, having formed part payment on the truck. The nostalgic new owner apparently remembered the days of his own youth when his family farmed with draught horses. He now bred the large animals as a hobby and the old horse joined his stud as a sire. ‘At least the bloody nag will get his old grub in a few times before he dies’, Norm laughed, suddenly thinking aloud as he had an image of the old horse.
‘Is that all you ever think of?’ Grace scolded, smiling herself and feeling sad at the loss of the old horse, but pleased that he would have a better life in the future.
The truck was undoubtedly pretty old; probably army surplus even before the war, but it seemed like a limousine to Norm. Now he had a source of power for the irrigation pump, transport to sell the crop and some comfort that he could get to town over the sticky black soil roads when it rained. The first crop promised well and Grace looked with delight upon the harvest. She gathered beautiful green beans and plump red tomatoes with pride and hope. Norm worked enthusiastically for long hours gathering the crop, washing the vegetables in the bathtub and preparing them for market. Some of the produce of the farm began to supplement their diet of camp pie, damper and baked hares, the remainder they sold door-to- door in Millmerran from the back of the truck.
Unfortunately, as he expected, Norm did not keep the Blitz for too long. The farm was not yet producing any real cash flow and the original owners came for it one sad and painful morning after waiting months for the promised payments to flow. Norm had simply put the payment commitment out of his mind, content to use the truck for as long as he could.
Grace cried bitter tears when they lost the Blitz. She cried for Norm, for her parents and for her children as their bright future disappeared behind the dark clouds she saw on the horizon of their lives. At least her father was not required to support the guarantees he had provided because Blitz trucks were in great demand. The owner said he would be able to find another buyer, one with money, to take up the commitment on the truck.
But the horse and wagon were lost and they were back to square one, only in a worse position without the old horse. Norm did not seem concerned, chatting quietly with the owner of the truck and waving aside the apologies offered over the repossession. ‘Not your fault mate’, he assured. ‘Just my bloody bad luck.’ The man looked at Norm closely and a sad puzzled look fell across his face. He shook Norm’s hand before climbing into the truck and starting the engine.
‘We’ll be alright’ Norm said to Grace and the collection of children as the owner left in the truck. ‘We have a few quid to pick up for the stuff I took to the factory the other day, and we’ll get something a bit smaller.’
Just like that Grace thought, her disappointment and anger churning in her stomach. But she was grateful that they had the first crop harvested and sold before they lost the truck, this at least provided some consolation for the loss. A few days before Norm had taken a load of surplus stock to the butter factory, which also operated a retail store. Bulk selling fetched a lower price, but it was better to accept a reduced return because the crop would spoil quickly if left in the field. And he was conscious of the fact that he may soon lose their transport – the letters of demand from the owner were becoming more urgent and insistent.
Grace was not aware that he had made no payments on the truck, trusting him to be the responsible head of the house and the business manager. The little money they earned he was ploughing back into the farm, or secretly putting aside hoping that he would be able to keep the truck until the first crop was ready to market. He had always managed to put things out of his mind that caused him concern, almost like a child who chooses not to face reality. He thought the truck was too big for their needs anyway, and he was happy to keep it and the money he was making until he could find a smaller, more practical unit. He