Under The Harvest Moon. Gary Blinco

close, offering his hand as the children stood back and watched curiously. ‘I’m Noel Brinkley,’ the dark man said, shouting a little above the noise of the tractor and peering keenly at Hale. ‘I’m here to start sewing up the bags. Just thought I’d say g’day so you’d know what was going on.’

      Hale nodded nervously. ‘Alan Hale,’ he said, accepting Brinkley’s hand firmly. ‘Pleased to meet you. Just go ahead. I’ll catch up with you after a few more turns. It’ll be dinner time by then.’ Brinkley nodded, his bright green eyes locking with those of the younger man. Noel Brinkley would have been about forty or so, but well preserved and fit looking for his age.

      Hale returned to the operator’s seat of the tractor, seeking refuge in the noise of the machinery, feeling somehow intimidated by the quiet man he had just met. Brinkley nodded again, peering reflectively at the younger man before moving away. He motioned his offspring to join him as he returned to the first row of open wheat bags near the edge of the paddock.

      Brinkley and the eldest of his sons threaded large stainless steel sewing needles with lengths of straw-coloured twine, drawn from hanks that they had fastened around their waists like a belt. Then they began sewing the bags, closing the tops with rows of neat stitches. There was a certain pride in the way they worked, like a master tailor creating a fashion masterpiece, rather than men stitching up wheat bags. They rolled the newly sewn bags behind them as they advanced along the rows, arranging them neatly like soldiers on parade. The remaining children played happily about on the bags, until the heat of the day drove them to the nearby Grasstree Creek to swim in the cool waters.

      The wheatfield covered about one hundred acres, sprawling away to meet the thick scrub on two sides, where the wall of tall trees bordered the paddock like a giant hedge. Brinkley squinted through the glare across at the tree line, remembering how this field had once looked just like that scrub, a mere two years ago. He had helped clear this paddock, and a lot more besides, to make way for the crops. He hated removing the majestic trees, but the post-war world needed food, and one could not eat trees. A wide belt of trees marked the passage of the Grasstree Creek that ran along the eastern side of the paddock. The northern end backed onto the lane where his old truck now stood.

      Brinkley’s own small holding could be seen across the lane, nestled in a bend of the creek with the summer sun reflecting in a silver sheen from the corrugated iron roof. The lane passed along the edge of the paddock, crossed a crude wooden bridge over the creek, then it meandered through a patch of thick scrub before emerging in another, larger field on the far side of the stream. His fifteen-acre farm seemed out of place as it nestled among the huge holdings of the Symons’s empire.

      He had acquired the small farm ten years before, now he never wanted to live anywhere else, or to do anything other than farm his land and do a few odd jobs about the district. His place was too small to grow wheat; he stuck to growing vegetables of various varieties that he sold to the local farming community or in the nearby township. ‘The salad bowl of the Downs’, the neighbours sometimes called his place, filling him with a quiet smug pride.

      The small income from the vegetable crop was supplemented with a fairly generous child endowment payment from the government, due to his large family. He also picked up a few pounds from any piecemeal work he could find about the area. He had little interest in making any real money and he would walk off a job if he became tired of it, or if someone upset him. His ability to do most things as a handyman stood him in good stead and he was always in demand. The locals said if it needs fixing or building, Brinkley could probably do it, if he wanted to. But they had all learned never to threaten his independence, or he would refuse to help every time, even when he needed the money.

      He liked the simplicity of his life and was sometimes blind to the hardships that it imposed on his family, because their living conditions were primitive by the standards of the day. His cottage had none of the mod cons of his neighbours’ homes. There was no running water, electricity or septic systems for him. But he did not have to maintain the house or prepare the meals and nurture his large brood, as did his long- suffering wife.

      As long as there was a good meal on the table at night he was contented to sit near the old radio and listen to his favourite program, or read a magazine by the sputtering kerosene lamp on his bedside table. It never occurred to him that there was an element of selfishness in his attitude. His children did not even attend school on a regular basis and his wife saw to their education by correspondence, adding another burden to her already overloaded existence.

      Brinkley and the boy worked steadily and quietly in the heat, oblivious to the streams of sweat that ran down their faces and washed moist channels through the build-up of grime on their skin, or the flies that swarmed about them in a hovering black cloud. They moved easily along the rows of bags, working with a steady, almost mechanical action as they advanced. The man’s hands moved with deft precision, using short economical movements as he sewed. A quick hitch of the twine and an ear appeared at the edge of the bag. Then twelve neat stitches seemed to glide easily in and out of the opening, followed by another quick hitch and another ear. Two stitches down the side of the bag to tie off, a twist of the long stainless steel needle to cut the twine; then the bag rolled back to join its tightly sealed neighbours.

      He reached for another length of twine and rethreaded his needle, almost before the last bag had stopped moving. The process looked like one single, fluid movement to Hale who watched from the corner of his eye as he decanted another load from the harvester. The boy lacked his father’s deftness and speed, but between them they had sewn about three hundred bags, and it was only about one in the afternoon. The man and the boy worked under a swarm of small sticky bush flies that grew in plague proportions during the summer, the insects covered their hats and rested as a squirming mass on their backs. Hale had not learned to ignore the flies as the locals had and he swatted and cursed the pests in a state of constant agitation.

      Hale looked across at the creek through the shimmering heat haze that rose in waves from the field and beyond, distorting the distant landscape into twisted silver images that seemed somehow ghostly and surreal. The pale green leaves of the gums along the creek glistened in the bright sunlight, the outline of the trees losing itself as it merged into the bright summer sky. Beaten by the fierce midday heat the birds had retired from the paddock and now sat quietly in the trees, apart from the occasional sharp screech from a cockatoo or a galah. They waited for the cool of the afternoon before they would feed again.

      Hale watched the procession of children returning noisily and wetly from the creek, their eerie silhouettes appearing through the heatwaves like developing photographs. He envied them their cool independence; too young yet to feel the burden of toil or perish that was imposed upon adults. A thin woman with three smaller children in tow crawled through the fence near the lane and approached carrying a picnic basket.

      ‘Here comes the wife with some tucker,’ Brinkley said.

      ‘You better join us for dinner, she’ll have made enough for us all.’

      ‘I’ll join you,’ Hale said slowly, ‘but I got me own tucker, thanks.’ He went to the toolbox of the tractor and returned with a battered metal lunchbox. ‘I might bludge a cuppa tea but.’ The woman flopped on a freshly sewn bag, fanning herself with her hat as she stared at Brinkley.

      ‘Yer bloody spoiled today, you old bastard,’ she said good naturedly, a wry smile tugging at the lines around her mouth.

      Her face had been beautiful once but the years of toil and worry had taken their toll, now only her eyes retained the promise of what had been.

      ‘You won’t get fresh tucker when you move to the next paddock, it kills me walking in this heat.’

      ‘Better meet me family,’ Brinkley told Hale, ignoring his wife’s complaint with practised ease. ‘That whingeing old bat is the missus; name’s Sarah I think, we never bother. The kids call her Mar, an’ I call her what I like.’ Hale nodded, grinning a little at the introduction, envying the closeness as Sarah looked at him and smiled tiredly. ‘This is Edward, works and