Guardian Nurse (9 page)

‘Yes, indeed, he’s his father’s own son.’

Frances glanced at
Burn
at that, but she did not say anything. She thought it, though. She thought: Where does his mother ...
and Burn West’s wife
...
come in? She could not help feeling troubled over it; critical, too, of the high self-estimation in which West held himself; appalled at the total exclusion of the other origin of small Jason. The woman, she had always sensed, came somewhat closer to the child. Law upheld that principle. Most people felt it. Frances believed she did. There had been psychology courses during her teacher’s training, welfare lectures in her nursing years, and she remembered acutely that most of the accent had been placed on the mother’s role, even a
mother considered less a mother in some eyes.

Burn
West’s eyes?

They decided not to hurry with Jason. On Burn’s suggestion they agreed to let him come to the books himself. They spent that afternoon examining the wheat crop, for harvest time was now not very far ahead, and in four weeks, more, less, barn doors would be opening, headers chugging out, then the iron print of tractors biting deep into the ground.

The next few months,
Burn
explained as Jason and France sat in the station jeep beside him, Jason’s little leg straight out in front, belonged to the wheatmen. Wool, fat lambs, dairy, rice, wine might abound in this growing Utopia, but right now wheat only was king, the coronation was fast approaching, and it was time to look over the scene, particularly check the moisture content of the crop, for stripping, if not done at the right moment, might produce a grain at more moisture level than the authorities allowed. Burn had his own portable Baldwin meter with him. He said he intended collecting samples and testing them on the spot.

Wheat was a flush crop, he went on. Millions of bushels could appear across the country almost overnight. It was also unpredictable. Ten years ago drought had reduced the harvest drastically, but this year the problem was not the amount but the disciplining of the amount. Many of the stations ... not West of the River, West had other irons in the fire, more eggs in the basket ... had sown their biggest acreage for years. If the weather held, and it looked like holding, there might be a record of millions of bushels.
And too much.
Even though here there were the most
modern
and best equipped grain terminals in existence, importers who knew the markets had issued a warning and there still could be not room enough.

‘It’s an incredible jigsaw,’
Burn
sighed, running the jeep down a thin channel between crops. ‘I thank a wise father continually for advising more than the golden grain.’

‘And yet the world is hungry..
.’

‘Key men haven’t reached a solution to that yet
,’
he said gravely. He pulled up, got out. Frances watched as he got to work with his moisture meter. First he collected samples, then he tested them.

When he came back to the jeep he shrugged, ‘It’s reaching thirteen. That’s too much. But it will be all right by the time the grain elevators are ready.’

‘How will the authorities know? Surely a portable machine like this wouldn’t be used in bulk handling?’

‘The silo operators are equipped with hygrometers, which measure moisture. If a wheat farmer wants to argue, an operator has only to stand one of the hygrometers in a sample bag and that’s it. But don’t think’ ... a grin ... ‘it’s a pitched battle. Once the harvest begins tempers simmer down and differences disappear.’

‘And wheat is king?’

‘Wheat is king.’

Burn
now left the fields and went miles in from the direction of the river to show his passengers the irrigation scheme. The water of life, he called it. They were shown a section of the Murrumbidgee’s irrigation area’s main canal, which extended some ninety miles from the Berembed Weir. ‘During winter,’
Burn
explained, ‘the main water supply is drained to permit maintenance to be carried out.’

‘You wouldn’t need water in the winter, I suppose.’

‘Mainly.
I
never need it,’ he said gratefully. ‘But ah,
what a difference it’s made to the overall Riverina. When the fruit harvest is on I’ll have to take you and the sonno to a Yanco orchard to see just how big and beautiful a peach can grow. Grapes for drying, too. Every other crop you can dream of.’

He showed Frances the Dethridge meter that measured the water supplied to a block.

‘Does anyone cheat?’ she asked.

‘Pirates are not unknown,’ he smiled, ‘landowners who try to stop their meters recording by jamming a stick through the wheel to prevent it rotating.’

The jeep was winding its way to the road again now, but not, noted Frances, the road back to West of the River. She seemed to recognise the route, though, and when Burn indicated Seven Fields, his boyhood home, she remembered this man waving a lazy arm in its direction on the occasion of her first journey here.

When they got to the gate she got out without being prompted and opened up, waiting for the car to pass through to shut the gate again.

‘You’re catching on,’ he praised.

‘I’m not that much of a townie,’ she defended, though ... later ... she wished she could have claimed that privilege of ‘townie’.

The young McKinneys who were leasing Seven Fields came out of the old homestead to greet them. Susan McKinney (a pleasant-faced woman with several children hanging on to her as they looked shyly at the adults but eagerly at Jason) wanted to serve tea at once, but
Burn
refused, saying he wanted to go to Great Rock as well this afternoon. But at least Susan brought out lemonade and while the men conferred had a few words with Frances. The boy and girl were intrigued with Jason’s leg, especially when he allowed them to write their names on it.

‘Can I have a plaster on my leg?’ appealed Ian McKinney of his mother. Susan McKinney, getting in as much as she could in the practised way of the countrywoman, brushed him aside with, ‘Only a broken leg can have plaster.’

Fortunately his father caught him on the way to the ladder propped against the barn, had a few words which he also directed above Ian’s head to Ian’s mother.

‘Well,’ accepted Susan McKinney, ‘I expect I deserved that. Kids! Tell me, how are you going with yours?’

‘Slowly. We’ve received our first correspondence lesson.’

‘Good. Later on perhaps the three can get together.’

‘I’d like that. Children do better with a little competition. Are there small ones, too, at Great Rock?’

‘No, a reluctant old bachelor is running it for
Burn
, and by reluctant I mean that he’s tired of the land. He’s only hanging on until
Burn
finds a replacement, a fine family home at Great Rock. Much later, so more convenient than this one.’ Susan sounded wistful.

‘Why didn’t you take it in preference to Seven Fields?’

‘It wasn’t available for lease. For some reason Burn was keeping it. He may change his mind after Matt Gibson gets out. Matt lives in the lodge and doesn’t use the homestead. Such a waste
!’

Susan was the happy informative type, and it occurred to Frances that here, anyway, she could probe without appearing to be probing and probably receive answers—answers she often felt she could do with. But the memory of
Burn
West’s scornful face as he had anticipated just this stopped her, and at that moment Burn returned to the jeep, waved goodbye to the
McKinneys and moved down the drive again. Once more there was the gate ritual, and then some twenty miles further the ritual again, but this time the drive into Great Rock.

There
was
a big rock beside the homestead, in fact the house almost touched it. It was a comfortable house, and though the gardens were not attended, it had a promise of beauty once things were put in order.

When he pulled up, Burn West stayed where he was a long moment, just looking at the house. Then, rather to Frances’ surprise, for he had not spoken to Jason at Seven Fields regarding the property, he turned and said a lit
tl
e tentatively ... tentative? Burn West? ... ‘Well, sonno, what do you think of that?’

Jason was tired; after all, he had seen quite a lot this afternoon. He did not say ‘Nothing’... thank goodness he seemed to be getting over that ... but he still said actually nothing. He just sat and didn’t reply.

Burn began drawing his attention to the house. To the rock behind it. To little things about it that he magnified to endeavour to interest and intrigue the little boy. Then, rather abruptly, he got out of the jeep, took Jason up in his arms and carried him to the house.

For a few moments Frances remained where she was, puzzled at Burn West’s eagerness ... one could almost say
anxiety
...
for the child to see the house.

‘Look, Jason,’ she could hear
Burn
’s voice, ‘this is a fine verandah. On a summer’s day you
can ...’ The
voice drifted off as Burn bore the child inside.

Frances got out of the jeep and followed them in. She followed the direction of Burn’s voice, still pointing out, still acclaiming, while Jason...

While Jason barely nodded sleepily in his arms.

‘Jason, wake up
!’
The man’s voice was crisp, almost
sharp and peremptory, and, incensed, Frances stepped
forward.

‘Mr. West, he’s had enough today.’

‘I want him to look round.’

‘Some other time,’ she protested.

‘Now.’

‘The child is tired. Why is it so important?’

‘Because
—
’ Sudden awareness of the unreasonable attitude he was taking silenced
Burn
West. He looked at the little boy, though not with impatience any more but—disappointment?

Disappointment? Why was it so important for the child to enthuse now when he hadn’t been expected to enthuse before?

‘Take him back to the jeep. I’ll see Gibson and then we’ll hit home.’ West turned abruptly and went out of the house.

‘Do you think you can walk back, Jason?’ Frances asked. The little boy had been sitting all afternoon and might feel cramped.

Yes.’ Jason was already on his feet and moving off. As he proceeded slowly he did take an interest in the house, and Frances wished that West could have seen it. He drew Frances’ attention to several things about it, looked back at it as they emerged. She decided she would tell
Burn
this, but
Burn
West when he came brought Matt Gibson with him, and after the introductions ‘hit home’ as he had said he would. And one look at his face told Frances this was no time to assure him that his son had found interest in the property after all, an interest that apparen
tl
y was very much desired by West.

Jason, too, must have been discouraged by his father’s expression. He leaned closer to Frances and presently slept, not even waking when she got out to
open the West gate then shut it again.

When they came to the homestead Frances asked
Burn
to carry the boy straight to bed.

Frances started lessons the next morning. She set them out formally on the little desk, pretended not to hear Jason’s muttered ‘Nothing’, that, in his nervous tension, he had decided to adopt again, and even rang a little bell indicating that class had begun.—What, she thought, secretly as nervous as Jason was, if Jason ignored it, which was quite likely with Jason, and she had to call in Burn? For a few moments she thought it was going to happen like that, for Jason remained stubbornly where he was as though he had not seen any arranged desk, heard any bell, then ... compulsively she knew, and her heart went out to the hungry little boy ... he shuffled laboriously over.

She started at once on the manual, not giving him time for any second thoughts, and from then on she knew there would be no stopping Jason West any more; he almost starved for information. They were both a little breathless by the time Mrs. Campbell brought in sandwiches and milk at eleven o’clock. Jason openly resented the interruption, but Frances wisely insisted on the break, then ten minutes of rest.

The hour and a half to lunch went on wings. The child positively devoured everything he was offered. He was a natural scholar, and the years that had been deprived him had only whetted his appetite for when the miracle could begin. But wisely Frances still determined to go slowly. For all that she felt certain that the desire to lea
rn
would persist in Jason she had no intention of risking a diminution through offering too much too soon. Also, the child was not strong yet. When his face dropped as she not only closed the books but put them away as the lunch bell rang, she forestalled any argument with: ‘That’s how it is at proper school, Jason, only morning lessons until you get to a higher grade.’