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The Inheritors
The Inheritors
The Inheritors
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The Inheritors

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An illegitimate Greg Elliot inherits an Australia steeped in conservatism.
From his early days in suburban Port Melbourne, we follow him to a farm in Northeast Victoria, and from there to a promising career as an Airline Pilot based in Sydney. A simple accident occasions the loss of his airline pilot license, but a significant inheritance from previously unknown grandparents facilitates an alternative career in business.
Ultimately, on-going research leads to a revision in the medical standards for commercial pilots, and takes him back to his first love – aviation. He re-enters that field at a time of profound change in the structure of Australia’s regional airline services, and his passion for the industry is passed on to his younger daughter, Glenys, and she too inherits more than a simple love of flying.
Set against a background of agriculture, aviation and industry, their journey reflects the subtle changes in Australian community standards, values, and attitudes that commenced with post-war development and industrial expansion...

LanguageEnglish
PublisherReadOnTime BV
Release dateDec 13, 2011
ISBN9781742840826
The Inheritors

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    The Inheritors - Lee Blatchford

    PROLOGUE

    Gregory David Elliot was a bastard, and at the time – the first half of the 20th century – it was unforgivable for a child to be born out of wedlock in a still very conservative Australia.

    In the years immediately preceding World War Two, his mother had taught at the one-roomed Primary School at Jindaline, an Upper Murray settlement nestling at the foot of the Great Dividing Range. At twenty-two years of age – city-bred, and away from home for the first time in her life – Julie Cochrane had fallen for twenty-six-year-old, persistent and single-minded Len Elliot, the only son of a local farmer.

    Tragically, Len and his small two-stroke motorcycle collided with a very large kangaroo shortly before he and Julie were to be married. Even worse, Len died two days later from head injuries – the kangaroo had been killed instantly –– and fully aware that she was now in deep trouble, Julie returned to Melbourne.

    On learning that she was pregnant, however, her bigoted father refused to hear more, and immediately disowned her. In a rage, he ordered her from the house and forbade her return, which put Julie into a state of shock, and reduced her mother to tears.

    In defiant desperation, Julie found a little terrace house at a rental she could afford in Port Melbourne. She bought herself a cheap wedding ring, changed her name to Elliot, and as a recently widowed Mrs Elliot sought and gained a teaching post at the Graham Street Primary School in that suburb.

    Her home was within walking distance of the school, and she settled into forging a new life for herself and her soon-to-be-born child. During the succeeding war-ravaged years, she established herself as a respected member of the teaching staff at school, and a well-regarded neighbour in the street.

    There were suitors, of course, but their advances were gently refused. She had become a loner; life was not easy, but she had strength of character and was determined to prove to her unforgiving father that – fallen woman though she might be – she could, and would, succeed on her own…

    Part One

    GREGORY

    Chapter One

    ________________

    World War Two was over.

    The Yanks had gone from the Missions to Seamen building on the Port Melbourne foreshore, and from the North Port Football Ground. The refugees from Java, whose bare-breasted women created quite a stir when first billeted at the Methodist Church Hall in Graham Street; a stir that – until they covered up – occasioned a short-lived surge in Sunday School attendances had also departed, no doubt due to the infamous White Australia policy of the times. Rationing, too, was coming to an end; the air-raid shelters built in public parklands – and mercifully used for nothing more than illicit assignations or as public toilets – had been filled in.

    At eight years of age, Greg Elliot was unusually small. But he was good-natured, skinny, with deep-blue eyes contrasting with a shock of unruly blonde hair. Invariably, he wore a mischievous grin that highlighted the absence of one front tooth, but that said he differed very little from other lads of similar vintage.

    It was early summer, and Greg – together with Ronnie Hellings, his best mate from across the road – made his regular after-school venture to the beach. Two years older than Greg, Ronnie was considered to be the senior partner in the duo, a role encouraged by their respective mothers and accepted, although grudgingly, by Greg.

    The west-bound sun was still high in the sky when the two friends emerged from the dressing shed and dropped towels, clothes, and shoes onto the sand in a tidy-looking mess, as only boys can. From there they ran the short distance to the water’s edge, then waded out to join others on the first sandbar.

    For some fifteen minutes, they engaged in the frenetic splashing and high-pitched babble of the group, then sat, water up to their necks, to watch the tug James Patterson churn its way toward the mouth of the Yarra River.

    ‘What’s goin’ on, Greg? D’yer know yet?’‘Nope. I’m sure she’s crook, but. She was cryin’ when I got home from school. I s’pose she’ll tell me when I get home, but I reckon she’s lost her job. She said somethin’ about givin' up the house, soon.’

    ‘Shit,’ said his mate, sagely, and then added. ‘Mum ’ll miss yous.’

    Uncharacteristically subdued, they sat in silence, watching until the tug disappeared from their view when it entered the mouth of the river.

    Ronnie sighed, and stood up, ‘Let’s go up the pier...’

    They splashed their way back to the shore, and ran along the hard, wet sand at the water’s edge. On reaching Princes Pier, they climbed the timbers to the decking, walked the considerable distance out to the security gates that barred further progress, and sat, legs dangling over the edge, staring down to the clear blue water almost ten feet below.

    Their usually minimal patience was rewarded by the sight of a school of small mullet that emerged from beneath the pier, and then, shying at the sunlight, scurried back to the safety of the shadows. The still grinning boys then glanced up to see four teenage bodies swimming from the beach to a small-boat landing located directly below them – flashes of bright fabric and a bathing cap indicated that the lead swimmer was a girl.

    Ignoring the two boys, the group climbed from the water to the landing. The girl removed the cap, and shook her jet-black hair loose. It made a striking contrast to the red of her two-piece swimsuit, something of which she was well aware. ‘You bastards thought you’d fuckin’ beat me, didn’cha?’ she said.

    The boys’ laughing responses were lost to Greg as Ronnie whispered. ‘Jeez! I never heard a girl swear like that before.’

    The group disappeared from view as it made its way in under the pier, climbing on cross-timbers toward a small maintenance platform located some thirty-odd feet in under the pier, and quite out of view from the beach.

    Ronnie whispered again, ‘Let’s go down, and listen some more!’

    He raced back along the pier to a set of steps that led down to the boat landing, Greg in hot pursuit. Together, they crouched behind a large wooden pile, where the teenagers on the maintenance platform could not see them.

    Provocatively, the girl leaned against the timbers of the pier, hands behind her head, shoulders back, and breasts thrust forward. ‘Well?’ she challenged. ‘Do I get the friggin’ cigarettes, or not?’

    Ronnie, excited, nudged Greg.

    ‘Yeah, Shirl,’ answered one of her companions. ‘Just as soon as we're back on the beach.’

    ‘Awright. I’ll strip for yous, but that’s all. I want more than a few bloody smokes for a root.’

    ‘Gawd,’ Ronnie said in a whispered exclamation. ‘It’s her! I heard the big kids talkin’ at school,’ he went on. ‘Gordon’ll be wild when he finds out I’ve seen her do it before him!’

    Gordon was Ronnie's older brother.

    ‘Do what?’

    Ronnie glared at Greg with all the superiority of his extra two years. ‘Strip, stupid,’ he hissed. ‘Shut up. And watch!’

    With no apparent movement, the girl removed the top of the two-piece, exposing her young, developing breasts. Slowly, she moved her hands over them, lightly caressing the pale skin that highlighted the dark of her nipples, and the rest of her sun-tanned young body.

    The teenage boys watched in strangled silence, no one prepared to break the spell.

    Ronnie, too, appeared to be holding his breath, and Greg felt the heat of a flush spread over his own face.

    Savouring the effect on her companions, the girl smiled quietly to herself, then quickly slipped the rest of her costume off. ‘Awright, you pricks,’ she said, standing naked before them. ‘You've got the good look what you wanted, and now it’s your turn to strip. Who’s gonna be first?’

    At that point, Greg, straining to get a better view, lost his balance. The girl saw the movement and screamed, ‘Jesus! Get that little bastard outta here!’

    In a flash the boys on the platform swung around, and with extraordinary, quite unexpected speed, crossed back to the boat landing.

    ‘Shit!’ exclaimed Ronnie, and turned to run, but Greg, still scrambling to his feet, was caught. The biggest of the teenagers picked him up, snarled, ‘Bugger off, you bloody little perv,’ and effortlessly hurled him from the landing.

    Ronnie was halfway up the steps to the pier when Greg, in mid-air, cried out. He stopped in his tracks, turned, took it all in a flash, and shrilled, ‘He can’t bloody swim!’

    Shocked, the three teenagers stared in disbelief.

    ‘He can’t swim,’ Ronnie yelled again. ‘Really! He bloody can’t!’

    ‘Shit!’ said the lad who had thrown Greg in, and immediately dived from the landing. His two mates exchanged quick glances, and followed him into the water.

    That same afternoon, Julie Elliot sat in the sitting room of her tiny house and wept.

    She had never felt so utterly alone. This – thing – that had been so insidious in its approach had manifested itself some several months before when she occasionally felt tired after a day she would normally have taken in her stride. In a most subtle way, occasionally gave way to constantly, and then tired, in turn, surrendered to weary.

    She consulted a local general practitioner – there had been tests – and only that day had heard the verdict. The moment she saw the doctor’s face, she knew.

    ‘It’s called leukaemia, Julie,’ he said gently. ‘Acute Myeloid Leukaemia...’

    As the full realisation hit her, disbelief, frustration, anger, and bitterness flooded over her in waves.

    God!

    Only two to three months?

    She wouldn’t even make her thirty-third birthday!

    Still in a daze, Julie sat and wrote to the one real friend she felt she had, Ethel Young. She had boarded with the middle-aged widow when teaching at Jindaline, and they’d kept in touch ever since.

    It was far from the best letter Julie Elliot had ever written, but in terms of what was to become of her young son, certainly the most important!

    Greg hit the water hard, but kept his eyes open and his mouth closed as he continued down. So far his only attempts to swim had been a dog paddle from the shore to the first sandbar.

    Twisting around, he looked up to where he could see sunlight shimmering above him. Without thinking, he commenced to dog paddle – upward toward the sunlight and surface – and then a pounding commenced in his head and chest.

    Convinced his lungs would soon burst, he vaguely heard – saw – something enter the water, and continue down past him.

    Manfully, Greg paddled on, literally willing himself up to the light above. Just as he thought he would have to open his mouth, he surfaced, and drew a mighty breath of air.

    Continuing to dog paddle he sucked in more air, and looked around just as the big lad who’d thrown him off the pier surfaced alongside him. ‘You okay, kid?’

    Conserving his hard won breath, Greg gulped. ‘Yeah.’

    The other two lads surfaced alongside them, as the first continued his queries. ‘You wanna swim in, or climb back on the pier?’

    Not really knowing why, Greg gasped. ‘Swim in.’

    Turning to his companions, the big lad said. ‘You two go back to Shirl. I’ll stay with the kid ’til he’s okay.’

    He watched Greg’s slow progress with the dog paddle. ‘Wanna try sidestroke?’

    Greg, gulping again, replied. ‘Awright.’

    ‘Okay. Turn on your side, like this – bottom arm out, and back. Now kick! Watch me. Top arm paddle – bottom arm – yeah, that’s it – you’re right – just take your time!’

    By the time Greg reached the shallow water he’d become quite proficient in the sidestroke, and was actually enjoying the experience. Together, they waded the rest of the way, and he thanked the teenager for staying with him. The bigger lad responded with an apology for throwing him off the pier.

    ‘Sorry about upsettin’ Shirley,’ Greg said, blushing as the memory of it all returned.

    Laughing at his discomfort, his companion walked away. ‘Don’t worry about it, kid,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘She’ll do it again. She can’t get enough, that one!’

    Greg wasn't really sure what he meant. They were never to meet again, but somehow he knew he would always regard that bigger boy as a friend.

    Ronnie was waiting for Greg on the beach. In silence, they walked to the pile of clothes, and gathered them up. Ron was feeling his responsibility, and clearly unsettled.

    Later, as they left the dressing shed, and commenced the walk home, he finally broke his silence. ‘You okay, Greg? I mean you got no marks, or nothin’? I don’t think we’ll tell anyone about the girl strippin’, an’ you gettin’ thrown in an’ all.’

    ‘If ya like.’

    They walked on in silence, each with his own thoughts. For Greg, the memory of the slow smile on the girl’s face as she removed her bathing costume would haunt him for years. But he was simply an eight-year-old boy who had, admittedly not yet close up, seen a naked female for the first time in his life. And she could swear, too; that had impressed Ronnie!

    That big kid said she couldn’t get enough. Again he wondered about that. Enough what? Her tits were real nice, but. He'd liked the look of them. It had been a good day in a way. His mum ’d be pleased that he’d finally learned to swim. Well, almost!

    And when he said a laconic, ‘See ya,’ to his mate, the eight-year-old Greg Elliot had absolutely no idea that this was the day on which he became a tit man.

    Several days later, seated at the kitchen table in her home in Jindaline, Ethel Young read Julie’s letter yet again: Acute myeloid leukaemia …can’t be treated …what will become of Greg?

    Unmoving – unhurried – Ethel read it through once more. It was not simply a letter; it was a cry for help from a lonely, frightened, girl.

    A cup of tea grew cold and she pushed it aside.

    Ethel was no highly educated intellectual, but she was a perceptive, practical lady blessed with a natural ability to reduce most problems and situations to bare essentials. She sat quietly, thinking – firstly about what the letter had said and then about what it hadn’t said.

    She sighed, and moving with that inherent grace of most large people, added wood to the stove, made another pot of tea, and picked up the letter again. She sat, staring at it with unseeing eyes, and some of Julie’s other letters flashed before her – such as the one she’d written when her father rejected her.

    She sipped the fresh tea and the practical side of her nature clicked into gear – Julie was going to die. And, clearly, soon!

    Just as clear was her prime concern – her son.

    What would become of the boy? Ethel knew, from Julie’s past experience, that his grandparents in Melbourne would be of no help.

    Could she take the child? She read the letter again, and concluded this was what Julie was asking. Objectively, she thought about that. If she were an eight-year-old boy who had just lost his sole-parent mother, would she be likely to find happiness with an elderly, oversized widow like herself?

    There was but one answer to that! Yet the prime, indeed only, consideration was what would be best for the boy? His grandparents were the only family he had.

    Good grief! Grandparents.

    On his father’s side!

    Ethel poured herself yet another cup of tea, and reviewed her thoughts once more to be sure that she was correct.

    There was just the one small problem. Someone – and clearly that someone was herself – had to inform Josh and Mary Elliot that they had an eight-year-old grandson in Melbourne.

    Whose mother was dying!

    Chapter Two

    ________________

    Eight years on, the skinny runt from Port Melbourne had gone.

    When Greg Elliot swung down from the bus that brought him back to Jindaline from the High School at Corryong, he stood chatting with three fellow students who’d travelled with him. Now one hundred and eighty-two centimetres tall, and blessed with broad shoulders and lean hips, he was still fair-haired, and his deep-blue eyes were set wide above a straight nose and strong jaw.

    From the corner of his eye he saw their neighbour, Sherry Shaw, drive up and park in front of the little Jindaline General Store and Post Office. He said a quick goodbye to his friends, and crossed the road to greet her. ‘Hi, Sherry. Can I help with anything?’

    Her daughter Jan tugged at Greg’s sleeve, and Sherry smiled. ‘No, thanks Greg,’ she answered. ‘Just keep an eye on Jan, please, while I collect the mail and pick up a few things.’

    Sherry reached back into the vehicle for her purse, and then glanced along the dusty, empty street. The air was hot and still; the dry, deserted look reflected the harsh conditions.

    She sighed, and stepped lightly into the store.

    Greg then sat with Jan in the shade of the general store’s verandah, to wait for the coach from Albury. That his neighbours’ daughter had a crush on him was something of which he was well aware, and it caused him no embarrassment.

    ‘Will the coach be long now, Greg?’

    ‘Not long now, kitten. It’ll be good to see Ron again, won’t it?’

    Ron Hellings had left school, and now worked as an apprentice motor mechanic in the service garage of a Port Melbourne vehicle manufacturer. Encouraged by both families, the boys had kept in touch. They corresponded regularly, and in recent years Ron – as he now preferred to be called – had regularly spent a week on the farm during the May and September school holidays. He’d been able to continue that practice this year, the week taken as part of his annual leave.

    Greg thought Ron had been fortunate to be selected as an apprentice; it seemed to be a good job with good prospects. Of late, though, he’d been giving thought to his own future. He was good academically, and had a gift for operating anything mechanical. He loved the open-air environment, and revelled in the hard work to be found on a farm – and working with his grandfather had broadened his outlook as well as his shoulders.

    Accepted by his peers and regarded well by his elders, he had no fixed ideas on what he wanted to do, but held very firm views on what he didn’t. Not for him an office desk and a pen forever in his hand! Next year he would finish at High School, and would matriculate. It was not over-confidence on his part, but matter-of-fact acceptance that if he worked hard enough, he would succeed. It was what he would do later that was foremost in his mind, but his grandfather would be horrified if he even suspected that he wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to spend the rest of his life on the farm.

    Jan’s next question broke in on his thoughts. ‘Will Ron be different now he’s got a job?’

    ‘He was working last May. Don’t you remember?’

    At that point, the coach from Albury appeared around the bend in the road, and in no time at all he was greeting his friend. Or rather was he waiting for Ron to disentangle himself from Jan, she having leapt into his arms, welcoming him like a brother!

    Ron Hellings was neither as tall as Greg, nor as well developed, but his hands and wrists had great strength. Eventually, he put Jan down, and turned to Greg. With a grin as infectious as ever, and in the knowledge that it irked his mate to be reminded of the two-year difference in their ages, he greeted him. ‘G’day, kid.’

    Greg grinned back. ‘Likewise,’ was his laconic answer. ‘Just the one case?’

    They strolled to the utility, where Sherry was waiting. Greg effortlessly swung Ron’s case into the rear, and the four of them piled into the cabin for the trip home, Jan – very happily – sitting on Greg’s knee.

    That night the two friends talked late. Greg was thirsty for information on what it was like to work for a living. How much did Ron get paid? Did he keep the money he earned? Did he give some to his mother? What did he spend his money on?

    Ron, who had finished his schooling at the South Melbourne Technical School, wanted to know what High School was like. Were there many girls? Did any of them do it?

    ‘Jeez,’ he said. ‘Have you tried to make it with any of them yet?’

    Greg knew what he was talking about, of course, all country kids do. But he was a bit taken aback by Ron’s apparent obsession with sex, and his seeming lack of interest in almost everything else. His friend scrambled out of bed, rummaged around in his case, and passed him a copy of Man magazine. ‘Here,’ Ron said. ‘Get a load of this, mate.’

    Pictures of near-naked, young women abounded, and Greg – feeling very much like the original boy from the bush – had to concede that he was unaware that such a magazine existed.

    For the next week they had a great time driving both the ute and the Farmall tractor around, and helping Josh with the work on the farm. Ron overhauled the single-cylinder, three horse-power Westinghouse-Roseberry engine on the motorised cross-cut saw, but driving was the area in which Greg could more than hold his own.

    The time passed all to quickly, and Ron was due to return home. Before he left, he invited Greg to spend a week in Melbourne, with him, at sometime in the future. But in the privacy of his room later that night, Greg had the funny feeling that his mate’s two years in the work force had widened the difference in their ages. Idly, he turned the pages of the copy of Man magazine that Ron had left with him and, for the first time in his life, felt just a little unsettled.

    Josh Elliot felt the years catching up on him. He and Mary had married late, and now, at sixty-one, he no longer breezed through the work as he used to. It was time to cut the grass that they would first let dry, rake into windrows, press into bales, and store as reserves of stock feed. Cup of tea in hand, he sat on the verandah talking with Mary.

    ‘It’s a good year for hay, love,’ he said. ‘I’ll be able to start after lunch, I reckon. Greg can rake it all at the weekend, and Henry and Bill will give me a hand with the press. Then we’ll do theirs.’

    Overnight drizzle had made the pasture too wet for an early start, but the weather was clearing rapidly. Mary worried about her husband – Josh just wouldn’t admit he found the going harder each year – and Sherry Shaw had told her that she and Bill were equally concerned for Bill’s father, Henry.

    ‘Sounds good, dear,’ she said. ‘But getting it into the shed will be the worst, don’t you think?’

    ‘Not so bad, this year,’ he replied. ‘That new bale-loader young Bill bought will be a godsend, I reckon. The best we’ve ever had it...’

    Abruptly, he changed the subject. He’d sensed a change in his grandson. Nothing he could put a finger on, but there was something, of that he was sure. ‘What do you make of Greg, Mary?’

    Knowing full well what he meant, Mary nevertheless stalled for time. ‘In what way, dear?’

    ‘He seems distant. No! Not distant. Sort of gone down a rabbit burrow, and dragged it in after him. I’m just not sure. Something’s bothering him, I reckon. He doesn’t talk like he used to.’

    Mary detected despair in his voice. ‘Perhaps he’s worried about the future, Josh. Things like leaving school, and what he’ll do with himself.’

    ‘He’ll run this place, of course.’

    ‘He may not want to, Josh. Have you considered that?’

    ‘Come off it, Mary, he loves it! And he knows that someday it’ll all be his.’

    ‘That’s not the point. He might not be ready to take it on yet. Or in a year or so!’

    ‘You’re talking rot, love,’ Josh snorted. ‘He’s as ready and able as anyone could be to run a place like this.’

    ‘Now listen to me, Josh Elliot,’ Mary snapped. ‘Being able, and being ready, are not the same thing. Think back a few years. You moved around a bit before you settled down with me, and had quite a reputation before I took you in hand. And our Len wasn’t anxious to tie himself down too early, either.’

    Not waiting for a response, she asked. ‘Why should Greg be any different? What gives you the right to expect him to be different?’ Her eyes moistening, Mary ploughed on. ‘It’s not his fault his father isn’t here to take over ahead of him, as should be the case.’

    On seeing the hurt, Josh realised the effort it must have been for her to speak in such terms. He took her hand in his. ‘Sorry, darl. I guess I didn’t give it enough thought. What do you suggest I do?’

    ‘Nothing for the moment, dear. But when the question does come up, just accept the fact that your grandson might want to grow up at the same pace, and in the same way, that you and others have.’

    Suddenly the sun broke through, and for the first time that morning the breeze stirred the leaves on the trees surrounding the home.

    Mary gathered up the cups. ‘I think I’ll make an early lunch, and then you’ll probably be able to start the mowing.’

    Josh heaved himself to his feet. His arm around her waist, they walked toward the kitchen. Grinning broadly, he slapped her bottom. ‘About that reputation, young lady,’ he said. ‘You know there was once a time when you didn’t seem to mind it much at all!’

    That same night, on the adjoining property, Henry Shaw tossed and turned, unable either to sleep, or get comfortable. There’d been another disagreement that afternoon. Henry knew what the problem was, of course, and was annoyed with himself for not facing up to it.

    Just before Elsie died, they’d decided to hand the place over to Bill, but with the shock of her passing, he’d deferred. Bill had then married, followed a year or so later by the arrival of young Jan, and he’d again deferred.

    It was long past the time to let go, to let Bill have his head. He hadn’t been fair, holding on for so long, but it wasn’t easy to accept the fact that he was getting old. He resolved to hand over, in practical terms, at Christmas. And having finally come to grips with his dilemma, Henry Shaw then enjoyed the best sleep he’d had all week!

    And at the other end of the Shaw’s home, Bill Shaw, too, was having a restless night.

    Unable to sleep either, Sherry put out her hand. ‘What’s the problem, darl? You’re not stewing about Dad again, are you?’

    ‘Yeah,’ he answered, his voice rasping in the dark. ‘We’ve got to sort it out, love. The row over the bale-loader is the last bloody straw. Christ! I only bought the bloody thing to stop him having a heart attack lumpin’ hay!’

    Sherry squeezed her husband’s hand. ‘I really think he’s getting around to it, Bill. Please don’t end up in a fight for the sake of another month, or so, and we don’t want to ruin Christmas, either, especially as it’s our turn to have everyone here.’

    ‘Yeah,’ her husband answered, only half-listening. ‘Okay.’

    Sherry surreptitiously unbuttoned the pyjama coat she wore as a nightdress, and wriggled out of it. Bill always wore the pants, and she the coat, each claiming the saving on the shared pyjamas.

    ‘You’re right about Christmas,’ Bill muttered. ‘I’ll give him until March, but we’ve got to sort it out before the start of the new financial year.’ Turning toward her, he went on. ‘Clever little bugger, aren’t you? Always bloody right. It’s no wonder I love you so much!’

    Sherry moved closer, lightly ran her hand down over his chest, and tugged at the cord on his pyjama pants. ‘I’m not sure you do, Bill Shaw,’ she murmured. ‘Convince me!’

    Chapter Three

    __________________

    Rachel Morrissey was the only daughter of the owner and licensee of a dilapidated hotel located on the outskirts of Corryong. The turnover was insufficient to justify a rebuild of the aging building, and the time was fast approaching when the licence would be cancelled due to the poor condition of the premises. Added to which, Morrissey was fast becoming his own best customer.

    While his daughter did not rate highly on his list of priorities, Doug Morrissey had done what he considered his best to raise his only child since his wife walked out. He was happy enough to think she had done well at High School, and to hear of her stated intention to begin training as a nurse the following year. In fact, he openly looked forward to her departure.

    But he’d also failed to notice that his teenage daughter was developing into a very attractive young woman, and would have been surprised – maybe even shocked – to see some of the material she’d been studying during her matriculation year.

    Rachel’s best friend Maureen, who lived on a local farm, stayed at least one night each week at the hotel where they were totally unsupervised. Maureen frequently joined Rachel in extra curricular activities, and they were, in fact, planning something special for the annual Speech Night that marked the approaching close of the school year.

    ‘I think Greg Elliot, Maurs,’ Rachel said. ‘It’s not his last year, but he’s better looking than most of this year’s matric lot!’

    ‘What if he doesn’t agree?’

    ‘He will,’ responded a confident Rachel. ‘He won’t be able to resist. I’ll ask him tomorrow,’ she added, ‘and don’t worry about Dad. He doesn’t care what I do.’

    ‘Well, I don’t know, Greg,’ said Josh Elliot two days later. ‘What do you reckon, love?’

    Mary, looking at her husband, could see only that he seemed very tired. ‘I think it’s a good idea, Josh. It would save us having to drive in, and as Greg says, next year is the big one as far as he’s concerned. It’s very good of Mr Morrissey to offer out-of-town students a room at the hotel, don’t you think?’

    ‘Yeah. I suppose you’re right.’ Josh turned to Greg. ‘You’re sure you won’t mind if we don’t go, mate?’

    ‘Yeah, Granddad, I’m sure.’

    ‘This is your room, Greg,’ Rachel said a week later. She smiled brightly, and added. ‘The bathroom’s down the corridor, and Maureen and I are just next door if you need anything.’

    Slightly puzzled, Greg asked. ‘Where are the others?’

    Rachel’s lip curled in amusement. ‘Jesus! You didn’t swallow that yourself, did you? We only wanted you, darling. Don’t you like the idea of spending a night with us?’

    Feeling a bit of an idiot, he answered. ‘Sure I do.’ And then he remembered Ron’s recent query: Do any of them do it?

    He looked at the two girls with a new, and fast quickening, interest…

    The presentation of awards had gone as well as any such function ever does. The surprise of the night was Rachel Morrissey gaining an award for biology. That occasioned giggling among the senior girls, culminating in a severe frown from the headmistress.

    Greg was awarded a prize for best all round academic achievement in Leaving Certificate Studies: a copy of Flynn of the Inland, and the choice pleased him. The evening concluded with the local Member of Parliament giving a highlight address that sounded – something not entirely unexpected – more like the opening of a campaign for his own re-election than inspiration for students about to leave their school days behind them.

    It was around ten o’clock when Greg and the two girls arrived back at the hotel, where Doug Morrissey was holding court with some of his regular late-drinkers. Rachel let her father know they were home.

    ‘They’re all good stayers,’ she whispered to Maureen as she rejoined them. ‘We’ll be right until midnight at least.’

    They walked quietly along the dingy corridor, paused at the door to Greg’s room, and Rachel spoke casually, ‘Leave your blazer and tie, Greg. Come in for a chat. It’s early yet.’

    Moments later, with a heightened sense of excitement, Greg tapped lightly on the door of their room, and Maureen let him in. His gaze revealed more faded, water-stained wallpaper before latching onto Rachel, lounging on a sagging double bed, idly flicking through the pages of a magazine, and then his ears registered the very firm click as Maureen locked the door behind him.

    He again thought Rachel’s casual air feigned as she glanced up and patted the bed beside her. ‘Sit here, Greg,’ she invited. ‘There’s some good reading in these. Have you seen them before?’

    He was confronted with a copy of Man magazine, open at a series of photographs of a beautiful girl in varying stages of undress. He reddened, and his discomfort increased when Maureen knelt behind him on the bed and looked over his shoulder.

    Rachel laughed. ‘I think he’s embarrassed, Maurs, don’t you?’

    Before he could reply, Maureen began to nibble his left ear.

    God! He’d not been this close to girls before. They’re softer, rounder, when you get near. Smell good, too! His mouth was dry. Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded.

    Rachel laughed again, and turned to Maureen, who was still nibbling his ear. ‘Do you agree, Maurs?’

    Momentarily, the girl left his ear alone. ‘I’m sure of it,’ she answered.

    ‘You know, Maureen looks lovely in the nude, Greg,’ Rachel said. ‘Every bit as good as this girl in the magazine. Would you believe that?’

    He twisted his head around to look at the smiling girl behind him. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I reckon I would.’

    ‘Come around here, Maurs,’ Rachel commanded. ‘Where we can see you.’

    A dutiful Maureen obeyed, stood before them, and her tongue flicked lightly across her lips.

    ‘You can’t begin to imagine what she’s like, Greg. Beautiful, and very sexy!’

    Greg squirmed, acutely conscious of his excitement. Rachel smiled, and put a hand on his leg. ‘Aren’t you comfortable, dear?’ Again she turned to Maureen. ‘You’re cruel, Maurs, teasing the poor boy this way.’

    Rachel stroked Greg’s leg, her hand moving higher. ‘She’ll do whatever I want her to, darl,’ she murmured. ‘Would you like me to ask her something? Like strip for us?’

    Greg was gone. Wherever these girls led, he’d follow – he nodded – but Rachel shook her head. ‘No, Greg,’ she said. Her hand slid further up his leg. ‘Not like that. Ask me nicely. Out loud. And say, Please, Rachel.’

    His voice hoarse with excitement, Greg did as she asked and then, with a slow smile, Maureen immediately began to remove her clothing…

    ‘I told you she was beautiful, didn’t I?’ Rachel said when her friend stood naked before them. ‘Her tits are gorgeous, don’t you think?’

    But for one brief moment, a surprised Greg couldn’t tear his gaze away from the triangular thatch of pubic hair in front of him. There’d been no suggestion of pubic hair in the Man magazine’s photos! Slowly, he raised his head, and looked at the girl’s breasts.

    ‘Would you like to feel them, dear?’

    Maureen sat on the bed beside him, and Greg put out a tentative hand, then squirmed in his seat as his now very erect penis strained against his trousers. Rachel put her hand on it. ‘I think you’d be more comfortable without your own clothes, don’t you?’ she murmured and, kneeling, began to remove his shoes and socks.

    ‘Good. Now stand up, darling.’

    He again did as he was told, and she began to tug at his belt. ‘Come and help, Maureen. I’m sure you’d both enjoy that.’

    The two girls, one fully clothed, the other not at all, stripped him, and admired the result. Still on her knees, Rachel leaned back and giggled. ‘My God! You are well endowed, aren’t you?’

    Suddenly proud of his throbbing manhood, Greg boldly looked back at her. In a conversational tone, Rachel asked. ‘Do you jack off, Greg?’

    He reddened, and her lip curled in derision. ‘I thought so.’ She fondled his erect penis and testicles, glanced at her friend, and murmured. ‘Of course size isn’t everything, Maurs.’

    She stood up – somewhat reluctantly Greg thought – adopted an almost clinical air, and continued. ‘According to the information I have, the performance of a penis should be gauged not so much by its length, but by how far it spurts! And that’s just what you’re going to find out, Maureen?’

    ‘Can I play with him first? Please, Rachel?’

    ‘Yes, dear,’ was the response.’ But with a quick glance at the clock on the dressing table, she added. ‘Not for long, though…’

    Gently, Maureen pushed Greg back on the bed. Breathing heavily, she lay beside him. The feel of her naked flesh against his sent an unbelievable ripple of excitement right through him. Rachel, seated alongside them, licked her lips and watched their hands roam over each other. Maureen gently eased his head back, lowered a breast on to Greg’s mouth, and the two girls smiled as his virgin tongue responded.

    Rachel put his left hand between Maureen’s legs, and he felt the moist heat with his fingertips. The naked girl then kissed him – hard and long – and wet!

    Greg had never even imagined anything like this. Jesus! Her tongue was in his mouth! Instinctively, he rolled her over, easing himself to a position on top. Frowning, Rachel spoke sharply. ‘Finish him, Maureen. Now!’

    ‘Sorry, Greg,’ Maureen whispered in his ear, ‘but this might help.’ She rolled him back, off herself, and slowly – quite skilfully – commenced to masturbate him.

    For Greg, it was just too much; he ejaculated almost immediately, semen flying high, and wide.

    Rachel giggled in delight. ‘I think that answers the question, Maurs. You really are a gem!’ She found a handkerchief, and began to wipe her skirt. ‘I certainly won’t sit so close again. I’m impressed, Greg. Really impressed!’

    Puppy-like, Maureen asked. ‘Did I do good, Rachel?’

    ‘Do well, Maurs,’ Rachel corrected her, ‘not good.’ And then she smiled. ‘Yes, dear. You did very well, indeed.’

    She rose to her feet, moved to the door, and Maureen handed Greg his clothes. A still smiling Rachel unlocked the door, had a quick look along the corridor, and held it open. Clearly he was expected to leave.

    ‘Goodnight, Greg,’ she said. ‘It’s all over, my sweet.’ As he walked past her, she giggled, and added. ‘Enjoy the memories, and I’m sure you’ll come again.’

    She locked the door behind him, and Maureen sighed. ‘He’s lovely, Rachel. Are we really going to have him back?’

    Rachel was caustic. ‘Don’t be dumb, dear, it doesn’t become you.’ Her expression softened, and unbuttoning her blouse she, more gently, went on. ‘Don’t fret, darl. You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my turn!’

    Summarily dismissed, a still naked Greg scampered back to his shabby little room, and slipped between the cold sheets on the lumpy, narrow, hotel bed. Aware that he’d been used in some way, he could not have cared less. Jesus! Girls have hair around it! And her tits were something else. What’s with Rachel anyway? One of Ron’s comments came to mind. Some girls are queer, mate. Sorta like poofs.

    One night didn’t prove a thing, but he wondered if Rachel wasn’t just a little bit bent. Poor Ron. So on himself about women and sex. If he knew how much ground he’d made up in one night, he’d have a fit! But of one thing he was absolutely sure. He didn’t envy Ron the city anymore.

    No way!

    In the early part of the following weekend, Greg helped Josh clean and service the hay making equipment before they put it away for another year. As they worked, he chatted on constantly. Josh hadn’t found him so communicative in weeks.

    Mary noticed it, too. Neither knew what prompted the change but they were both pleased it had occurred. For whatever reason!

    After lunch on Sunday, the three of them sat on the verandah, looking out at the sheep that grazed on the creek flat. It was a restful sight, a feeling shared by each of them. Ignoring his wife’s warning frown, Josh waded in. ‘How do you see the future for this place, mate?’

    Greg was aware it was these occasions that put him ahead of his friends in farm management – he was a generation ahead of most of them. ‘I think we’re going to have to change, Granddad,’ he said. ‘We can’t go on the way we are now.’

    Mary hid a smile. That wasn’t what Josh expected! She looked at her grandson with interest as Greg went on.

    ‘It seems to me that each year we decide how much income we want, and then stock the place to a level we believe will get it. I reckon we should plan better! I also think we should carry peak stock levels at all times, and diversify.’

    ‘Diversify?’

    ‘Yeah, Granddad. We should maximise income, and establish cash reserves against a bad year. Much as we build up our holdings of grass hay.’

    Mary noticed Josh was over his initial surprise, and now listening intently.

    ‘We could start by running a few cattle, and build up the numbers over the next few years,’ Greg said. ‘There’s a future in beef, I reckon. Not that we should get out of sheep, far from it, but the wool price won’t hold forever. We’d increase our income by running sheep and cattle in parallel.’

    ‘Where would we get the feed, son? Have you given any thought to that?’

    ‘If we were to super the hills, we could carry more stock up there. And we should bale more grass from the flats than we do. A lot of our feed is wasted.’

    ‘Those bloody hills are too steep to super. You know that, mate.’

    Greg looked his grandfather straight in the eye. ‘Maybe we could get it spread by air,’ he suggested evenly. ‘I’ve heard that some blokes in Albury have modified two Tiger Moths for spreading super. I reckon it’s a proposition, Granddad. Well worth a look, and it won’t cost us anything to check it out!’

    Quite deliberately, Mary Elliot did not raise the matter of Greg’s comments, she knew her husband too well for that. She waited and, as expected, he sought her views as they readied for bed. ‘Well it was rather a surprise,’ she answered tactfully. ‘What did you think?’

    Josh grinned. ‘I’m taking it under advisement, love. Too much meat in it to ignore, and no pun intended! He’s a thinker all right. Back to his normal self again, too.’

    Mary went to sleep happy; apparently Josh thought Greg was right.

    In bed that night, Greg finished reading Flynn of the Inland. The book had made a deep impression on him; made him aware of the vastness of the Australian continent, and the part that aviation now played in its development.

    He put it down, and gazed thoughtfully at the model aircraft suspended from the ceiling. A Tiger Moth, Granddad had told him years before. He wondered what his grandfather thought of his suggestion that they spread super on the hills by air? Very little more had been said, but he felt he’d scored a point or two.

    Grandma had given him a wink, and that was a good sign!

    He yawned, and reached to extinguish the lamp. Tomorrow would begin the last week of the school year.

    Roll on Christmas, and then for his last year at school!

    The final week at school went more easily, if not quickly. Staff and students alike relaxed, and Greg was disappointed when he passed Rachel and Maureen in the main corridor one morning. Neither spoke. Rachel, in fact, had turned her head away. He was sure Maureen had been about to smile, but a nudge from her friend put paid to that.

    The last day of the school year finally arrived, and an announcement was made during the lunch break that bus travellers would be permitted to leave early. Shortly after, Maureen surprised Greg in the main corridor. ‘See you before you go?’

    ‘Sure. Where’s Rachel?’

    As she walked on, she called over her shoulder, ‘Albury. An interview.’

    Half an hour before bus departure time, they met again. Maureen spoke first. ‘Let’s walk a bit,’ she said. ‘It’ll be more private.’

    Together, they strolled toward the sports ground.

    ‘I’m sorry about the other day, Greg. Rachel said we should ignore you. Did you enjoy speech night?’

    ‘What do you reckon? You’re beautiful, Maurs.’

    She laughed. ‘You strip pretty well, yourself.’

    ‘What was it all about?’

    ‘Rachel’s into mail order dirty books. Jesus, she spends some money on them. She gets her kicks out of playing God, sort of. Wants to know all about sex, but doesn’t want to fuck anyone. Our efforts are tame, compared with the stuff in the books.’ She laughed, and added, ‘You should see some of the pictures!’

    ‘Where does she get it? The money, I mean. Not that it matters, really.’

    ‘Knocks it off from the bar, would you believe? She’s clever, and takes just a small amount each day.’ She made a face. ‘Old Doug probably puts it down to his own drinking.’

    ‘Is she queer?’

    Maureen laughed at that. ‘I had no doubts until the other night,’ she said, ‘but now I’m not so sure.’

    ‘Why?’

    ‘You! She was busting to get at you while I was stripping; you should have seen her face when she knelt in front of you! She’s never laid so much as a finger on any of the blokes we’ve had in the past, but at one point I thought she was going to suck your cock.’

    They turned back toward the waiting school buses. ‘How about you, Maurs,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you a just little bit bent?’

    ‘No, I’m not queer. I love sex though; the sort of thing we did with you. I’ve learned a lot with Rachel, and I admit I’ve slept with her at least once a week.’ She smiled wickedly. ‘She’s very good with her tongue you know.’

    They sat on a seat near the bus parking area. ‘Are you still a virgin, Greg?’

    He answered honestly.

    ‘Me too,’ she confessed. ‘I’ve sucked, but not fucked.’

    ‘Have you? Really?’

    ‘Yes. But I chickened out, and whipped it out of my mouth just in time...’

    She giggled as the memory flooded back. ‘It went all over my face. Rachel was real mad! We’d been reading about oral sex and I was supposed to suck the guy off, swallow it, and tell her what it was like. Are you shocked?’

    The buses were beginning to load, and he twisted in his seat. ‘Not any more. I think I grew up a bit, last week.’

    ‘You’re getting horny, Greg.’

    It was a statement more than a question, and he nodded. With another wicked smile, she murmured, ‘Yeah. I’m ringing wet, myself.’

    They rose, and commenced the short walk to the buses, Greg thinking how matter of fact she was.

    ‘Rachel will be gone next year,’ Maureen went on. ‘I’m going to have to repeat Matric. I’ve done too much homework of the wrong sort this last six months.’

    She stopped, and put a hand on his arm. ‘Did you want me the other night?’

    ‘Did I ever! I think about you now whenever I jerk off.’

    She smiled at that, as though pleased, and they walked on. When they reached her bus, she paused and whispered, so only he could hear. ‘About that oral bit, Greg. I think I’d like to try it again – with you. Maybe next year?’

    Later, content with his thoughts, and looking forward to the New Year, he sat quietly at the rear of the school bus. Life, he concluded, was pretty good.

    And getting a whole lot better every day.

    Chapter Four

    _________________

    A typically Australian Christmas Day dawned fine and hot, with a clear, blue sky.

    The feed on the hills had dried to brown, and the blue-green gums that bordered the gravel roads were already wearing light coats of dust. Greg could almost sense the subtle preparations of the bush for the onslaught of the heat that would continue well into March.

    Around mid-morning, they packed gifts and food to take to the Shaws, and to Mary’s surprise, Josh did not get the Chevrolet sedan out, but insisted on using the ute.

    Bill and Henry welcomed them, and helped carry everything to the big kitchen where Sherry and Jan had Christmas dinner well under way. After glancing at his watch, Bill suggested it was time to pick up Ethel Young.

    Christmas with the Elliots and the Shaws had become a regular thing for Ethel ever since she’d been instrumental in bringing Greg and his mother back to Jindaline – although that first Christmas was one they all preferred to forget, Julie having died soon after.

    ‘Well, I dunno, Bill,’ said Josh. ‘I thought Greg might like to do that in the ute. It’s about time he took it somewhere on his own...’

    Mary interrupted. ‘Is that wise, dear? I mean he doesn’t yet have a licence.’

    ‘Who the hell’s gonna ask him for his licence around here?’ Josh growled. ‘He can get to Ethel’s ’round the back way. The responsibility will do him good.’

    Greg looked at his grandmother. ‘I’ll be careful, Grandma.’

    Mary retired defeated, but Jan said, ‘Can I come with you, Greg? Please, Daddy. Can I go with Greg?’

    ‘It’s okay with me, pet,’ Bill answered.

    Bill’s assent to his daughter’s request was not lost on Greg. To be so entrusted was the best present he received that year!

    Later, Christmas dinner – lunch – over, the ladies cleared the table and washed the dishes.

    For their part, the men adjourned to the verandah to sit and talk until the women rejoined them. Greg brought extra chairs, and Henry actually offered Ethel his old rocker.

    Bill glanced at Sherry, eyebrows raised, at this quite remarkable occurrence. When all were seated, Henry cleared his throat, and announced that he had something to say. ‘I reckon this is a good time to get something off me bloody mind,’ he said. ‘In a year or so, I expect I’ll wanna start takin’ things easy, like.’

    Apprehensive, they all sat quietly, clearly wondering what to expect. Henry grinned to himself; it was proving easier than he’d expected. He turned to Bill. ‘But I reckon I’ll quit while I’m ahead. You can run the place from here on, son. The bloody accountants will want extra time to tidy up, but it’s yours and Sherry’s as of now. Happy Christmas to you both, you’ve earned it.’

    For a moment no one spoke. But then, as Henry’s statement sank in, everyone began to speak at once, and then trailed into yet another silence.

    It was Ethel Young who first tried again. ‘Well, Bill,’ she said. ‘A new broom, perhaps? Can we expect changes?’

    ‘I dunno, Ethel. But I might add some cattle...’

    ‘Cattle! Bloody cattle!’ Bill’s white-faced father was on his feet in a flash. ‘Over my dead body, mate! Jesus! Every bloody one of the bastards ’ll eat a bale o’ hay a day, an’ I never seen one you could shear yet!’ Exasperated, he turned to his old friend. ‘Aw shit, Josh. You tell ’im!’

    ‘You did say the place is his to run from today, mate. Anyway, I’m thinking of doing the same...’

    Mary broke in. ‘Now, Josh.’

    ‘Let me finish, love. It was Greg’s idea, really. But I think they’re right, Henry.’

    Bill Shaw glanced at Greg, respect in his eyes.

    ‘Shit!’ muttered Henry. ‘It’s a bloody conspiracy!’ He turned to Ethel. ‘Why don’t you and I take Josh and Mary inside, and beat the hell out of ‘em at cards?’

    Bill was all curiosity. ‘Just what did you suggest to Josh, Greg?’

    Sherry objected. ‘That’s rude, Bill.’

    ‘I don’t mind, Sherry...’

    He outlined his thoughts, and Bill was impressed. ‘I agree with you about the two enterprises, increasing the stock levels, and creating cash reserves,’ he said. ‘But I hadn’t thought of spreading super on the hills from the air. How did you get on to that?’

    ‘There’s a model of a Tiger Moth in my room. Granddad said my dad made it, and I’ve been reading Aircraft magazine every month, lately.’

    ‘Is it economical, Greg?’ Sherry asked. ‘I’ve always thought of aeroplanes as being very expensive.’

    ‘I really don’t know, Sherry. The New Zealanders have been at it for a while. It’s a big industry over there. A couple of blokes have started up at Albury, and I want Granddad to get in touch with them. It’s the only way we’ll find out, I think.’

    ‘Well if Josh doesn’t do it, I will,’ Bill said. ‘I’ll talk to him tomorrow, mate, and we’ll see if I can get those blokes to come up. Between us, there’s about a thousand acres of hill-country that’s too steep to spread any other way. They could tell us what we’ll need, give us an estimate, and we can do the sums. It’ll be a hell of an increase in our carrying capacity if you’re right, Greg. I’ll make sure they come up before the holidays are over; I’d like you in on the discussion.’

    Chapter Five

    ________________

    In the shelter of a long, open shed erected on the grassed paddock that then passed as the Albury aerodrome, a man of some thirty years crawled out from beneath a Tiger Moth, and spoke to his business partner. ‘Try it now, sport. I reckon that’s got it right.’

    John Hemming reached into the little bi-plane’s cockpit, and moved the super-phosphate shut-off control back and forth, returned it to the closed position. He then moved it back and forth twice more. ‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘She’ll do. It’s not sticking now.’

    Mac Russell put his tools away, and glanced at his watch. ‘Time for a grog, mate. Then we can hope the phone starts ringin’ tomorrow.’

    He called to their one employee, Les Allen, who was greasing the steering and front-end of a war-surplus weapon carrier. ‘You finished, Les? We’re going for a beer.’

    The three of them walked toward a battered utility, and as they passed a small maintenance hangar, Mac said. ‘See you tomorrow, Curly.’

    Another youngish man in green, oil-stained overalls, working on the engine of an Auster light aircraft, looked up. ‘I’ll do those tail-skids in the morning, Mac,’ he called. ‘Then you’ll be ready to roll.’

    Curly Thomas – ex RAAF aircraft engineer, and now civil-licensed – had married a local girl and been optimistic enough to set up his own aircraft maintenance workshop in Albury, and this decision had convinced the two pilots to establish their business there.

    In the back bar of The Globe Hotel the trio, all showered and freshened up, sat together on a bench, each quietly sipping and enjoying a long, cold beer. It had been a hard three days, cleaning their two aircraft, and converting them back from a crop-spaying rig to super-phosphate fertiliser spreading.

    ‘We didn’t go too bad on the grubs, you know,’ Mac said. ‘Much better than I expected for a first year. If we get a reasonable amount of super to spread, we might break-even, or maybe make a little quid.’

    ‘You mean I might get paid?’ asked a grinning Les Allen.

    ‘Shit no!’ chimed in John. ‘No one said we’re goin’ that well.’

    All three laughed. Mac was the boss, and his two colleagues accepted that. He went to the bar, and bought three more beers. He handed each of them a £5 note. ‘Will that hold yous?’ he asked. ‘The bloody Oil Company wants a payment by the end of the month, and we should give Curly a draw as well.’

    By mutual agreement it was Bill who made the contact with Murray Valley Air Spraying and Spreading later that same night. Mac Russell took the call, readily agreed to make the trip up to Jindaline next day, and they arranged to meet at Josh Elliot’s property.

    Bill and Henry arrived early. Mary had already prepared morning tea, and they sat around the kitchen table. ‘Do you really reckon it’ll work, Josh?’

    ‘I’m not sure, Henry. I accept what Greg says about it being possible to spread the hill-country, but we don’t know what the cost will be…’

    The discussion broke off when they heard the sound of a vehicle in the yard. ‘Like me to go?’ Greg asked, and Josh nodded.

    ‘Pretty well to time,’ observed Bill. ‘I like that.’

    In the yard, Greg’s curious gaze registered the travel-stained, battered utility with a contrasting clean windscreen. The driver stepped out, grinned, and said. ‘This the Elliot’s?’ The grin was infectious, and Greg grinned back. ‘Yeah. My name’s Greg.’

    ’Mac Russell,’ said the visitor, sticking out his hand. Falling in beside Greg as he led the way to the house, the pilot asked. ‘You’re thinking of superin’ the hills?’

    ‘Yeah. We reckon we’d like to, but we need to know a lot more about it.’

    In the kitchen Greg made introductions, commencing with Mary, who asked, ‘Milk and sugar, Mr Russell?’

    ‘Mac, please, Mrs Elliot. Milk, no sugar, thanks.’

    Hands were shaken all round. Mac sat at the table, next to Greg, who quietly noted his clean and neat, but obviously well worn, sports-trousers and shirt. His equally worn shoes were clean, too.

    ‘Don’t look much like a bloody pilot to me,’ muttered Henry.

    Mac Russell laughed, easy and good-natured. ‘What exactly did you expect, Mr Shaw?’

    Henry grinned back at him; he’d already taken a liking to the younger man. ‘I don’t rightly know, son.’

    Mary passed around a plate of fresh, buttered scones.

    ‘What can you tell us, Mac?’ asked Josh.

    The pilot put down his cup. ‘Do you mind telling me how you got on to us?’

    Bill answered him. ‘It was Greg’s idea, Mac. Josh and I decided to follow through.’

    With a quick glance at Greg, Mac explained. ‘Well, the super season is just about to start. We’ve been spraying for grubs in oat crops out west, and sprayed weeds before that.’

    Silent, but very interested in the discussion, Mary poured more tea.

    ‘It’ll cost you seven pounds ten shillings a ton to spread,’ Mac said, ‘and normal spread’s a bag to the acre. We’d like the super on hand before we start, and for you to put us up while we’re here if you wouldn’t mind. Does that about cover it?’

    ‘How long does it take, Mac?’ Greg asked.

    ‘We’ll pick a strip today, if you like. I’d expect to site it so we can put out about three ton an hour with each aircraft. It’ll be up to you to get it to the strip on your trucks, but we’ll bring a loader and driver. It’s not

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