Cooran Station

It stood as it always had; resolute, stalwart, in that old-fashioned way that modern buildings often failed to master. In forsaking the boring, square lines of function, he thought, modern architecture had also lost longevity and confidence.
He put the suitcase down and flexed his aching hand, remembering.
He hadn't seen this place for years, and it comforted him to stand across the rails from the platform and see the bright white of the paint, feel the solid reassurance of the timber-work.
So many chapters of his life were defined by this little station, this momentary yet vital stop on the long line between North and South.

Here was the memory of milk churns, cream churns, crates of fruit, groceries, bags of fertilizer. And suitcases. Here was where he had welcomed or fare-welled so many, where he had climbed aboard, or stood and waved as family, friends, or lovers had rolled away, both North and South.

Here was his memory of newspapers, telling of world events, and of gossips telling of local ones. This had been shelter from storms, shade from the summer sun, a sanctuary from the bullies, and later, a late-night lovers tryst.

As the Westering sun illumined the distant clouds, dwarfing this place that held so much, he picked up the case, smiled a fond farewell to this touch-stone of his life and walked toward the town....
his travelling days were done.

Orange Cafe

 Orange Cafe

This haven, a centre of the The World.

A place where things are shinier than home, and yet the patina of use makes them comfortable, and warm.

Neutral ground. New generations find a space for their future, and yet rub shoulders with Establishment Elders in quiet conversation. 

An acknowledged camaraderie of comfort and familiarity. 

Deceptively cool, with shadowed calm, and a touch of Laminate and Chrome,

Wrapped in the strength of History.

Right here in our town. 

The Holiday (EDIT)

Part 1

The place was a hulk, truth be told. It had been a house, back when his Grandfather had drawn the farm in the Land Lottery; when they had parceled up the huge landholdings for the soldiers returning from the Great War. It was a relic of the bigger property, a managers' house, fallen into disuse well before. Grandfather had built his own house and this had remained empty. Gradually, in typical country practicality, it was simply called "The Other House".

After Grandfather died, his father had upgraded machinery, and needing extra storage, knocked out the inner walls of the building and turned it, as nearly as possible, into a shed. It was not terribly practical, with steps and narrow doorways, but it served its purpose, in a pinch. Any excess hay stored there was always known as "Other House Hay", to differentiate it,  because it tended to be of lesser quality. It was used only sporadically, when seasons were exceptionally good. Looking at it today, it showed its age, sagging in the weary way old houses do. Still solid, but unhappy with the long years and no respite.

This was a good season. In thirty-odd years since taking over from his father, Tom had rarely seen the place looking so good. The livestock were glossy, content to laze in paddocks of green, and crops were well above average. The hay crop had yielded so well that both the big shed and the Other House were full of fresh-baled hay, enough for their needs and more, for the rest of the year. Tom felt content and allowed himself a smile as he tipped his hat back on his head and watched the last of the bales going into the old house. He leaned his tall, spare frame against the tractor's rear wheel, a half-smile on his face. Could this be the year? He barely dared hope, but the thought, the notion, was there.

He walked over to to where the men were waiting, shook hands and organised their payment. He could have baled and loaded it himself, but a crop this big was a lot of work, and he felt he could afford to bring the contractors to save his aging bones. With a final wave, he climbed up on the tractor and drove back to the main house. The thought nudged at the back of his mind.

Emily was in the garden, tending her peas. This time of year was busy for her as the garden tended to try and get out of control. Her thin hands, toughened by daily labour, wound the tendrils of the peas deftly into the wires while her eyes roamed across the garden beds, noting a curled leaf, a snail, a tell-tale chewed plant from an invading grasshopper. Her garden was her domain, and she managed it with a quiet efficiency. Those that upset the neat progress of her plants were dealt with summarily.

Hearing the tractor approaching, she straightened, plucked the snail from under its hiding place, twisted the curled leaf from a tomato plant, and tossing the snail over the fence to her hens, made a mental note to come back later, grasshopper hunting. Dusting her hands on her apron, she headed for the kitchen to make tea.

Washing his hands at the tap on the corner of the house, Tom allowed the water to run as he lathered the sliver of soap kept there. Normally such a waste would have been unthinkable, but the tanks were full, and more rain was coming, so he indulged himself, smiling at this little extravagance. Then, hanging his hat on the peg by the door, leaving his boots on the top step, he walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

"How's it going?" asked Emily, bringing the teapot and sitting down opposite him, cups and plates already waiting on the wooden table top. "All done", said Tom, as she poured the tea. "They've just put the last of it into the Other House. The shed and the house are both full to the brim. I gave Harvey a few bales for himself, I had no room for them anyway."
She nodded and sipped her tea. "Well that's good. Looks like we will be right for the year." He nodded, dunked a biscuit, and chewed thoughtfully. "Is the garden still  doing well?" he asked.
"Yes... a little too well. I've got snails and grasshoppers. Not badly, but a few are turning up." He grunted quietly, and then the thought came back, stronger this time."Em...I've been thinking...do you reckon you could get Sophia to come and look after the house for a while?" He looked across to gauge her reaction; "For a fortnight or so?" he added. She was puzzled, and looked back at him with a frown. "I suppose I could ask. Why?"

 He leaned back in the chair, bracing both hands on the table edge, and took a deep breath; "Well, it's like this... and it's just an idea right now, but I thought...well.. maybe you and I could have a holiday. Just us."

Emily calmly and quietly placed her cup on the table, then looked up at him. "And how are you going to make that work?" She had been married to him for a long time and was not afraid to challenge him. He was a cautious man, and this was an unusual proposal. They had not been away from the property together for any extended time since the children had moved away. A sudden thought made her ask; "Is everything alright? Are you alright?"

He smiled then, and held up both hands "Yes, yes, everything's fine. I'm fine. I just thought you'd like a holiday!"
"Well of course I would, but where...how?"
"Oh well," he replied, "I thought maybe we could go to the coast, drop in on the kids for a day or three..."
She interrupted; "But how, Tom? Do you think the season is that good?"
He grew serious. "Yes, I do." He leaned forward and gestured toward the outside,"Look Em, the big shed is full to bursting. Even if Winter is really hard this year, we will have enough for our needs. If I sell half of the Other House hay, even with the lower prices we're bound to have, that will pay for a fortnight away, and we will still have hay in the Other House to see us through. I think we deserve a break. Get Sophia to mind the house. She can have the garden produce as payment. She'll love it."
Emily looked at him steadily, not quite daring to hope; "And who will look after the farm?"
He had expected this question, and was ready.
"Well", said Tom, "If we wait until Henry's boys next door are home from college, they can keep an eye on things, and I'll pay them something when I get back. C'mon Em! It's been years, and God knows you could do with a rest!"
She smiled a little shakily, and picked up her empty cup. "All right, I'll look into it, but no promises!"
Her eyes were shining as she poured more tea.

Part 2

Emily made plans. They would have to wait a couple of months before Henry's boys came home, and Tom had to sell the hay before they could leave. That didn't mean she couldn't plan, though! Brochures came and prices were discussed. Clothes were considered, then dispatched to oblivion; new clothes would have to be bought. Emily felt the excitement growing. She had never regretted the life she had chosen, and would make the same choice again, but holidays were a rare luxury on a small farm. This would be the first vacation in over ten years. She was determined to enjoy it. The garden pests trespassed at their peril.

Tom was equally determined to make everything go smoothly. This was too good an opportunity to miss. He and Em had worked hard and it was time they allowed themselves to relax. The farm was in his blood, and he had always accepted the seven-day-a-week responsibility, but Emily had been a town girl. She had surrendered social life, weekends, regular holidays and a career, to become a farmer's wife. She had adapted, worked alongside him, juggled children and farm work, taken a job in town when times were tight, and had planted her garden to help make ends meet. The children had made it clear they wanted no part of life on the land, so it was just the two of them. She had missed so much, he thought, and here was his chance to pay some of that back.

Tom drove over and called on Joe Thompson. Tom had bought a bull from Joe some years before. Joe had been doing it tough. It was a bad time to be in beef, and Tom had gambled on grain that year. The bull was well past his prime, and Tom didn't really need a bull, but Joe needed a leg up. Tom bought the bull, kept him for a season, then quietly retired him.

Joe was doing better now. Tom made the offer; half of the "Other House" hay, to be collected as required, but bought at slightly above market price. Joe recognized the symmetry....this was how you repaid kindnesses without having to feel indebted. This was how small farmers kept their pride.
The handshake was firm. They looked each other in the eye. Tom felt good.
With that settled, it was only a few more weeks and the adventure would begin....

Part 3

The repeated beeping of a motorbike horn, mingled with the revving engine, woke Tom from a deep sleep. It was black in the bedroom, and he was momentarily disoriented. Fumbling for the light, he looked at the clock; 3.45 a.m.. What the Hell was going on?
Emily awoke. "What's wrong?" she mumbled. "Dunno" said Tom, and lunged for the window, where a light was flashing across the glass.
Lifting the frame, he saw a trail bike with a dark figure astride. "Tom!" came a voice, "It's me, Luke. The Other House is on fire!"
Tom puzzled for a moment. Luke. That was Henry's boy, home from college. Then; A fire? Hell! The hay! He reeled back into the room, "The hay's on fire! Bloody Hell! I've gotta go!" Dragging on clothing, he raced outside.

Luke waited, revving the bike. "We saw the light from our place. Dad and Sam are coming with a pump and the water truck. I'll meet you there!" and he was gone, racing the bike into the night. Throwing a pump and a coil of hose into the ute, Tom raced after him, calculating. The Other House was a mile away, behind his house, so he could not have seen the light of the flames. A breeze was blowing the smoke away, towards Henry's place. Henry's instincts would have made him investigate, and, seeing the flames, he would have reacted immediately. The unwritten rules of farm etiquette allowed him to cut the boundary fence and drive straight across to assist in preventing a disaster. Nobody allowed a neighbour to suffer....
"Oh God....All that hay..."

  It was too late by far when he arrived. Henry and his sons had started pouring water into the flames, and the smell of smoke, wet hay and fire permeated the air. Hay fires are different to to normal fires. They start slowly, insidiously. Their gradual formation is a combination of heat from compressed green vegetation, lack of ventilation, and the presence of the hay itself, an excellent fuel. When hay is stored correctly, these risks are minimised, but the Other house had minimal ventilation, with narrow doorways and small windows. Once the hay combusted, it was impossible to stop.

They tried. Nobody could deny that they tried. They poured every drop of water into the inferno. They ran; dragging individual bales to safety, fighting the smoke, yelling to each other. The flames raged on, consuming, driving them back with its heat, until finally all they could do was stand and watch, as the whole building roared in flames that would consume everything and take two days to finally die. Somewhere in the depths of it all, Emily came. She stood beside Tom, weeping softly. She knew what this meant. She understood their loss. He put his arm around her and felt her sag against him, lost for strength. She had no more to give. Her hope had been stripped away.

Part 4

As dawn broke, shedding further light on the destruction, he sent Henry and his boys back to the house with Emily for breakfast. Emily welcomed the distraction, the chance to do something that took her thoughts away from the disappointment of the night.It was the least they could do for their neighbours. Henry paused as he walked past, clasped Tom's shoulder and murmured "I'm sorry, Tom."  Tom nodded his appreciation. Emily would cook bacon and eggs for them. They had failed, but they had tried, and they knew Tom and Emily would do the same for them.
Tom watched them go, and only when they were out of sight did he allow himself the great wracking sob that he held inside. He dropped to his knees before the still burning wreckage of his dream, and cried sooty tears of grief. The sobs robbed him of sound and tears blinded him, streaking his face.

Finally he sat back on his heels and regarded the ruin that had promised so much, but now only guaranteed hardship. He looked, thought, then gritted his teeth. Finally he spoke; "You can take what you want, you bastard, but you won't stop me now."
He rose deliberately, dusted his knees, and turned toward his ute. They could not afford to take the holiday now. The hay was gone, plus the reserve if times were hard. All farmers know that a good summer is almost always followed by a harsh winter, but he would not be beaten.

He would send Em, alone. She deserved this. He would find a way. He could stay here, this was his life, but she deserved better. She deserved to relax, to see the children, the grandchildren. She deserved to walk on the beach, to shop, drink some wine, and to rest, just rest. He would make it work somehow. He would not let this beat him....
He reached the ute, the fire still smoldering behind him.
Let it burn, he thought. It would not dictate his life.
He started the engine and drove toward the house.

THE END

For My Father

THIS MAN

This Man, father of my existence.

This Influence that persists until I die.

This Shadow, so embedded that 

Not one breath can be taken

Without reminder of his 

Presence.

This Figure, filling the doorways of memory.

Casting shadows of benign, irrevocable authority

On lives, actions, our very thoughts.

This Form, larger than Life 

When we were

 Young.

Strong and reassuring

Yet lumbering, stolid, and heavy.

A gait that spelled Certainty

of Purpose and intent

when we were 

Older.

This Rock, to be leaned upon,

Drawn upon, relied upon for Strength.

This Person, font of quiet wisdom

and Measured words.

This Partner for 

Life.

This Devotion, Patience,

 Deep Well of Understanding.

This Hero, benchmark for Life,

Who never aimed for, but

Became Iconic through his

Modesty.

This Paragon of Manhood,

Marriage, Loyalty, Commitment.

This Larger than Life man, who

Was really Just a Man, but

The Best that he could

Be.

This Father, my Father, our Father.

And Father to so many. He lived this example;

Kindness, Wisdom, and his Time

This is for him, from Us

All of Us,

Family.

True Valentine

The sun was full in his face as he reached both hands toward her, pushing her hair back from each cheekbone, until he cupped her face. Through the glare, he could see half of her smile, one eye shining, the other lost in the glory of the afternoon sun. Reaching further, his fingers reached the top of her neck, and he pulled her toward him.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this." he said, watching her mouth.
Her lips twitched nervously, "Do what?"
He kissed her, tightly, unmoving in his intensity. It was not a kiss of lust, or passion, or even romance. It seemed to hold all the pent up emotions of the last five years; his grief and anger at losing her, the longing, the loneliness, the despair and resignation, all of it was in the tight grip of his hands on her face, the pressure of his closed lips on hers, the tension in his arms.

She reacted to this intensity for a moment, then leaned into him in an unspoken understanding, and pushed him slightly onto his heels as she molded her body into his and returned the fervour of his kiss. Reaching around his waist, she pulled him close, as much to reassure him as to feel his closeness. She felt his pent-up memories and tried to convey her understanding.

For a long moment they remained frozen, locked in a private world of recollection; longings, regrets and aspirations. When he finally released her, she was crying silently, the tears reaching down her cheeks.
"I'm sorry," he said wiping them away, "Please don't cry." She shook her head, never taking her eyes from his. "I need to do this," she said, and sniffed, then smiled. "I think it's all the tears I made you cry, come back to haunt me. I'm sorry I went away."
He smiled then, his first smile in a long time; "I'm glad you came back."

He hugged her close, felt her hold him tightly, then felt her relax into him, the tension leaving her at last. "It's good to have you home", he said.

BRANDO

He looked at the road streaming toward him. The white lines and blacktop disappeared like magic under the hood of the F 100, a mesmerizing and exciting phenomenon. Then, turning his gaze to the window, he watched the countryside flicking past, and the stately progress of the distant, blue-shrouded mountains.
This, he thought, must surely be the best place to be, in the whole world.
If there were better options he certainly couldn't think of them.
He also couldn't stop grinning.

He finally turned his head from the view and looked across at Shane, who drove with eyes focused on the road, one hand gripping the wheel just a little off Top Dead Center.
Sensing his gaze, Shane turned and grinned back at him. "Good to be gone again, hey buddy?" he said, raising his voice slightly over the noise of the wind, the road, and the engine.

Brando didn't answer. He didn't need to. He just grinned a little wider, if that were possible, and turned back to the window.
Yep, he thought, This is surely the best place in the world....

The Holiday

Part 1

The place was a hulk, really, all truth be told. It had once been a house, back when his Grandfather had first drawn the place in the Land Lottery; back when they had parceled up the huge landholdings to provide land for the soldiers returning from the Great War. It had been a remnant of the the bigger property, a manager's house, fallen into disuse well before the land divisions had occurred. Grandfather had built his own house, and the original house had remained empty.

Eventually, with the advent of better machinery and techniques, there had been need for a storage shed, and a new timber and iron hay-shed had been built toward the back of the property. The old house had continued to remain empty, except for keeping the detritus of everyday life dry and out of the way. Eventually, in country practicality,  it had become known as the "Other House".

After Grandfather died, his Father had upgraded machinery, and needing the extra storage, had knocked out the inner walls of the building and turned it, as nearly as possible, into another shed. It was not terribly practical, with its steps and narrow doorways, but it served its purpose, in a pinch.
Even so, whenever excess hay was stored there, it was always known as "Other House Hay", because it tended to be the lesser quality hay that was kept there, and it was only used sporadically, when seasons were exceptionally good. Looking at it today, it showed its age, sagging in the weary way that old houses can, still solid, but unhappy with the long years and no respite.

This was a good season. In the thirty-odd years since taking over from his father, Tom had rarely seen the place looking so good. The livestock were glossy and fat, content to laze in paddocks of green, and the crops had been well above average. The lucerne crop had yielded so well that both the big shed and the Other House were full of fresh baled hay, enough for their needs and more, for the rest of the year. He felt content, and allowed himself a smile as he tipped his hat back on his head and looked at the last of the hay going into the old house. Could this be the year? He barely dared hope, but the thought, the notion, was there.

He walked over to where the men were standing, having finished the last of the unloading, shook hands and organised their payment. He could have baled and loaded it himself, and until recently, with the help of neighbours, he had. But a crop this big was a lot of work and he felt he could afford to get the contractors to come in and save his aging bones. With a final wave, he climbed up on the tractor and drove back to the main house. The thought nudged at the back of his mind.

Emily was in the garden, tending the peas. This time of year was busy for her, as her garden tended to try and get out of control. Her thin hands, toughened with daily work, worked the tendrils of the peas deftly into the wires, and her eyes roamed across the garden beds, noting a curled leaf, a snail, or a tell-tale chewed leaf from an invading grasshopper. Her garden was her domain, and she managed it with a quiet, firm efficiency. Those that upset the neat progress of her plants were dealt with summarily.

Hearing the tractor coming from the paddock, she straightened, plucked the snail from under it's hiding place, twisted the curled leaf from the tomato plant, and, tossing the snail over the fence to her hens, made a mental note to come back later and go grasshopper hunting. Dusting her hands on her apron, she made for the kitchen to make tea.

Washing his hands at the tap on the corner of the house, Tom allowed himself the luxury of letting the water run as he lathered the sliver of soap kept there for just that purpose. Normally such a waste would have been unthinkable, but the tanks were full, with more rain coming, so he indulged himself, smiling at this little extravagance. Then, hanging his hat on the peg by the door, leaving his boots on the top step, he walked into the kitchen and sat down.

"How's it going?" asked Emily, bringing over the teapot and sitting down at the table, cups and plates already waiting. "All done", said Tom "They've just put the last of it into the Other House, both the shed and the house are full to the brim. I gave Harvey a few bales to take for himself. I had no room for them anyway." She nodded and sipped her tea. "Well that's good. Looks like we will be right for the year." He nodded, dunked a biscuit, and chewed thoughtfully. "Is the garden still doing well?" "Yes... a little too well. I've got snails and grasshoppers. Not badly, but a few are turning up" He grunted quietly, and then the thought came back, stronger this time. "Em...I've been thinking... Do you reckon you could get Sophia to come and look after the house for a while?" He looked across to gauge her reaction, "For a fortnight or so?", he added. She was puzzled, and looked back with a frown, "I suppose so. I could ask. But why?"

There was nothing for it but to spill it all out. He leaned back in the chair, bracing both hands on the table's edge and took a deep breath; "Well, it's like this...and it's just an idea right now, but I thought, well, maybe you and I could have a holiday, just us two."
Emily calmly and quietly placed her cup on the table, never taking her eyes off it, then looked up at him and said "And how are you going to make that work?" She had been married to him for a long time, and was not afraid to challenge him on some issues. He was a cautious man, and this was an unusual proposal. They had not been away from the property together for more than a few days since the children had grown up and moved away. A sudden thought made her ask "Is everything all right? Are you all right?"

He smiled then, and held up both hands"Yes,yes, everything's fine. I'm fine. I just thought you'd like a holiday!"
"Well of course I would, but where...how?"
"Oh well, I thought maybe we could go to the coast and see the ocean, maybe drop in on the kids for a day or three..."
"But how, Tom? Do you think the season is that good?"
He grew serious. "Yes, I do. Look Em, the big shed is full to bursting. Even if winter is really hard this year, that shed will have plenty for our needs, and if I sell half of the Other House hay, even with the lower prices we're bound to have, that will pay for a fortnight away, and we will still have half of he Other House hay as back-up. I think we deserve a break. Get Sophia to mind the house, she can have the vegetable garden produce as payment, she'll love it."
Emily looked at him steadily, not quite daring to hope; "And who'll look after the farm?"
"Well if we wait until Henry's boys next door are home from college, they can keep an eye on things, and I'll pay them something when we get back. C'mon Em, it's been years, and God knows you could do with a rest!"
She smiled a little shakily, and picked up her empty cup. "All right, you talked me into it." Her eyes were shining as she poured more tea.

Emily made plans. They would have to wait a couple of months before Henry's sons came home, and besides, Tom needed to sell the hay before they could leave. But that didn't mean she couldn't plan. Brochures came in the mail, prices were discussed, clothes were dragged out of storage, considered, then dispatched to oblivion. New clothes would have to be bought. Emily felt the excitement grow. She had never regretted the life she had chosen, and would make the same choice again, if asked, but holidays were a rare luxury on a small farm, and this was the first one in over ten years. She was determined to enjoy it. The garden pests trespassed at their peril.

Tom, on the other hand, was equally determined to make everything go smoothly. This was too good an opportunity to miss. He and Emily had worked hard, it was time they allowed themselves to relax. The farm was in his blood, and he had always accepted the 7 day a week responsibility, but Emily had been a town girl. She had given up her social life, weekends, regular holidays, and a career, to become a farmer's wife. She had adapted, worked alongside him, juggled children and farm work, taken a job in town when times were tight, and had planted her garden and helped even more on the farm when the children had grown up and made it obvious that they wanted no part of life on the land. She had missed so much, and here was his chance to pay some of it back.

Tom called on Joe Thompson. Tom had bought a bull from Joe, some years ago; a bull well past his prime, one that Tom didn't really need. Joe was doing it tough at the time, it was a bad time for beef, and Tom had gambled on grain. Joe needed a leg up, so Tom bought the bull, kept him for a season, then quietly retired him.

 Joe was doing better now, so Tom approached him with half of the Other House hay, to be collected as required, at slightly above market price. Joe recognised the symmetry and agreed... this was how you repaid kindnesses without having to feel indebted. This was how small farmers kept their pride.
The handshake was firm and fervent. They looked each other in the eye. Tom felt good.

A few weeks more, and the adventure would begin....

Part 2

The "Beep Beep" of the motorbike horn, repeated over and over, mingled with the revving engine, woke Tom from a deep sleep. It was black in the bedroom, and he was momentarily disoriented. Fumbling for the light, he took in the display of the bedside clock; 3.45 in the morning. What the Hell was going on?
Emily awoke at the same time, reaching for the bedside light, "What's wrong?" she mumbled. "Dunno" said Tom, and lunged for the window, where a light had begun flashing across the glass.
Lifting the glass, he saw a trail-bike with a dark figure astride. "Tom!" came a voice, "It's me, Luke.
The Other House is on fire!"
Tom struggled for a moment. Luke, that was Henry's boy, home from college. A fire? Hell!! The Hay!! He reeled back into the bedroom, "The hay's on fire! Bloody Hell! I've gotta go"
Dragging on jeans, he raced outside.

Luke waited, revving the bike. "We saw the light from our place, Dad and Sam are coming with a pump and the water truck. I'll meet you there!" and he was gone, racing the bike into the night.
Throwing the pump and a coil of hose into the ute, Tom raced after him, calculating all the while. The Other House was a mile from the house, and behind it, so he could not have seen the light of the flames. The breeze blew gently away from the main house, so Henry, his neighbour on that side, would smell the smoke, and his farmer's instinct would have made him investigate. The unwritten rules of farm etiquette allowed Henry to cut the boundary fence and drive straight across to assist in preventing a disaster. Nobody allowed a neighbour to suffer....
"Oh God...All that Hay.."

It was too late by far when he got there. Henry and his sons had started pouring water into the fire, and the smell of smoke, wet hay, and fire permeated the air. Hay fires are different to normal fires. Hay fires start slowly, insidiously. Their gradual formation is a combination of heat from compressed green vegetation, lack of ventilation, and the presence of hay, a wonderful fuel. When hay is stored correctly, these risks are minimised, but the Other House had hard-to-ventilate rooms, narrow doorways, and small windows. Once the hay combusted, it was impossible to stop.

They tried, no-one could say otherwise. They poured every drop of water into the house. They ran around, dragging individual bales to safety, fighting the smoke, yelling instructions. The flames raged on, consuming the house, driving the men back with its heat, until finally all they could do was stand and watch as the the whole house roared in flames, flames that would consume it all, and take two days to finally die away. Somewhere, in the depths of it all, Emily came, and stood beside Tom, weeping softly. She knew what this meant, she understood their loss. He put his arm around her and felt her sag against him, lost for strength. She had no more to give, and her hope had been taken away.

As dawn broke, he sent Henry and his boys back to his house for breakfast. It was the least he could do. Emily left with them, to cook bacon and eggs for the rescuers who had failed, but who knew that Tom and Emily would do the same for them. Tom watched them go, and only when they were out of sight did he allow himself the great wracking sob that he had held inside. He dropped to his knees before the smoking ruin of his hopeful, happy dream, and cried sooty, smoky tears of grief. The sobs robbed him of any sound, and the tears blinded him, streaking his face, washing the dirt and fire residue from his skin.

Finally, he sat back on his heels and regarded the ruin that had promised him a holiday, but now guaranteed only hardship. He looked, thought, and slowly gritted his teeth. Finally he spoke, slowly, softly; "You can take what you want, you bastard, but you won't stop me now"
He rose deliberately, dusted his knees, and turned toward his ute. They couldn't afford to go now, the hay was gone, plus the reserve if times were hard. Everyone knew that a good summer was almost always followed by a harsh winter. But he would not be stopped.

He would send Em, alone. She deserved this break. He would find a way to pay for her holiday. He could stay here, this was his life, but she deserved better. To relax, to see the children and grandchildren, to walk on the beach, to shop, to drink some wine and rest, just rest. He would make it work somehow. He would not let this beat him...
He reached the ute,the fire smouldering behind him. Let it burn, it would not dictate his life.
 He started the engine and drove toward the house.

THE END

Full Moon

He mumbled his thanks as she put the plate before him, and waited until she was seated with her food as well. They ate in companionable silence, each focusing on their thoughts and only occasionally speaking aloud. "I need to go to the fabric shop tomorrow. I need more edging for the craft ladies"
"Well that's fine. I need to get oil for the tractor. We can go together."
"Mmhhm", she said.
By the time he was finishing the peas, scooping them up with his fork, he realised he had forgotten to tell her. "I'm going for a ride after dinner, up to the top of the Rise."
She looked up from her plate for a moment, "Is everything alright?"
He grinned slightly, "Yes, don't worry. It's a full moon, and a clear sky. I'll take the gelding."
"As long as you're alright." and she held his gaze for a moment before returning to slicing the chicken breast with her delicate, deft movements.

Standing in the doorway, shrugging on his coat against the cool night, he turned, "I'll only be an hour or so." She looked him in the eye, but spoke calmly, "Ok. Be careful, you're riding at night."
"When am I ever not careful?"
She huffed with derision; "Too often to count!", but she reached out and squeezed his arm before he left.

Walking out of the stable a few minutes later, he didn't hold the gelding's reins. Trooper knew the score, and ambled quietly behind him, once reaching out and nudging the old man's shoulder in a friendly, gentle reminder that he was there. The reins were looped over his neck, and he was saddled, ready to go. The old man stopped half way along the railing, and the horse took a few more steps, before stopping. Once he would have swung himself up and settled into the saddle, but age and stiffness meant that it was easier to climb up from a box these days. The gelding stood patiently as he slowly climbed aboard, then took a minute to settle himself.
 "Walk on!"
The pair moved into the night.

The Moon had cleared the low hills to his right by the time he reached the track up to the Rise, the highest point on the property. The Autumn sky was so clear, and the moon at its full so bright, that the stars were drowned in its brilliance, and it cast shadows as sharp as paper silhouettes as man and horse moved seamlessly from a walk to a smooth and comfortable canter, the white clay of the track almost shining in the moonlight.

They reached the top of the Rise as the moon was halfway up the sky, dominating the night like a compelling presence, but man and horse had no eyes for it. As they crested the hill they were met with the view the old man had come to see. Across the distance between their vantage and the horizon spread a sea of light... city lights. Trooper was blowing, not hard, but enough to give him the excuse to rest, to stop and take in the blanket of illumination under the silver sky. He sat, looking, mapping in his mind the places that once were there but no longer existed. Over there, by the top of that hill, that was O'Brien's place, they had sold years ago. That block of lights which must be an industrial area, that was McIlroy's, who had no choice but to sell when the bank foreclosed. There on the valley floor, that was Joy's old place. Martin Joy had committed suicide after his wife died, and he couldn't fight the developers any more. That had been a hard time, he remembered. He had become depressed himself. He and Martin had grown up together, had helped each other with stock work, harvest, planting, fire and flood. If Martin couldn't cope, how could he?

Trooper had slowed his breathing, and he felt the horse settle under him, felt him cock one back foot as he relaxed. His ears, he noted, had splayed as he went into the semi-doze that horses can adopt at short notice. Trooper was calm and half-asleep. The old man envied him, the ability to forget everything and just accept the surroundings. He closed his eyes, and, as he was wont to do in times of stress, he remembered his father.

It was here, on top of the Rise, that his father had prepared him to take on the inheritance he had always wanted. The difference was, they had not faced this way, but inward, looking over the property, on a Summer afternoon over forty years before.
"You know that I'm about ready to give up doing this, don't you?" his father had said, "A lot of men hang on too long, and leave a mess behind when they go suddenly. I don't want that for you."
That was how his father had been, matter of fact, but also considerate and forward looking.

Suddenly he flinched, and Trooper, startled, gave a jump. Unconsciously the old man calmed him and stared across the lights...forward looking...his father was forward looking.
He had forgotten the rest of his parent's advice, for all these years, he had forgotten, and now they suddenly held an importance that he had never realised.
His father had sat on an ugly, grey, half-Clydesdale with massive feet and a broad back. He was clumsy and wilful, but he would go all day, and then some...and he adored his owner. His father looked down from his massive mount and said; "You know, this place is not the same as when I got it. Things have changed, and not all of it is my doing. You can make sure some things stay the same, and sometimes you need to, but other things are beyond your control." He had paused then, and looked solemn. "I made a few mistakes, and you will too, but if you don't let the mistakes take you over, you will be alright."
"And one more thing....some things you can't control, and sometimes the best you can do is try and manage them."

"You know what, Troop?" The gelding's ears flicked around, "We're gonna be alright." The old man leaned around, guiding the horse,"Let's head home."
When they reached the flat, he let the horse have his head. He knew he shouldn't, as letting a horse loose heading for home was asking for trouble, but he was exhilarated, and wanted to let it out. He leaned forward in the stirrups and dropped the reins along his neck, felt the horse gather beneath him, then unleash the power, as his ears flattened, and his body dropped into the gallop. The gelding let him know that he still had it, and when he finally pulled him up, just shy of the laneway, they were both exhausted and panting. Walking up to the box, Trooper stopped to let him slide off. The old man limped into the stable, took off his tack, walked him, brushed him, rugged him, and headed toward the light in the house, where Amy waited for him.

Amy would smell the horse sweat and scold him for being a fool, but he would hold her and tell her that it was all right. They would last another season, and then, if they couldn't change it, they would manage. They would always manage. Somehow.