Land of Milk & Honey
For my very good friend Johannes Luettgen
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Dedication
TODAY
1947
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
1947–1948
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
EARLY SUMMER 1950
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Acknowledgment
Copyright
About the Publisher
Curiosity had attracted most of those who turned out for the auction of the property. Nosy parkers and rubberneckers out for an afternoon’s free entertainment. A small gaggle of men in suits were there to do their best to ensure the property realised at least a reasonable return, while the few who had turned out to bid were praying the place went for a song. A soft and warm autumn breeze sang through the branches of a stand of old macrocarpa.
The owner of the farm, aging, if not truly old, observed the goings-on from the sideline—sullen, silent for the most part, and sunk in the knowledge that the sale was unlikely to let him off the financial hooks of those who held the mortgage. He wasn’t here from choice; the auction had been forced upon him. His flushed face and flabby bulk gave hint of a life of over-indulgence. Piggy, darting eyes, well sunk in fat, spoke of bad temper.
Another man, also aging, presented in stark contrast to the other. Slim, straight of back, he also stood quietly on the edge of the small gathering, as far from the flabby individual as possible. With him were a young man and a young woman.
‘We’ve got used to you taking us to some strange places, Grandad,’ said the young woman. ‘But why here?’ She shivered, despite the warmth. ‘This place gives me the creeps.’
‘Yeah, Grandad,’ said the young man. ‘All the times we’ve stayed with you, we’ve never been out this way before.’
‘Indulge an old man,’ said their grandfather, without smiling.
‘Why? Something wrong with you? Losing your marbles at long last? Is that it?’
‘You’re not even old, Grandad,’ said his grand-daughter.
‘Depends on your definition of old,’ her brother grinned.
‘Just remind me to take you on for a set or two of tennis when we get home.’ This time the older man did smile.
‘That doesn’t count, because I always let you beat me,’ his grandson laughed. ‘Don’t want to put a dent in your ego and, besides, Grandma Maisie would be pissed off if you croaked from a heart attack if I really let you have it.’
‘Nonsense, you little chicken,’ said his grandfather. ‘Now shut up. The circus is about to start,’ and the grey eyes that had so often laughed at these two took on a hard glint.
There were few bidders for this ragged remnant of a once-prosperous farm. The productive areas that had long ago formed part of the whole had been flogged off over the years. All that was left was a dilapidated old farmhouse, a few crumbling outbuildings, and somewhere around seventy hectares of swampy, neglected land. At best it might appeal to the owners of neighbouring farms anxious to add to the size of their own spreads.
The pantomime played out in fewer than ten minutes. Open-mouthed and wide-eyed, the young man turned to his grandfather in sheer disbelief. ‘Why, Grandad? Why the hell have you bought this dump?’
His sister smiled. ‘I think you can take your pick, Mack. Retirement hobby farm? Investment property? Change of lifestyle? Grandma Maisie will love it out here.’ She laughed.
‘She’ll be here all by herself,’ said her brother. ‘She’ll have shot Grandad first.’
‘Guess to your heart’s content,’ their grandfather grinned, giving each a quick hug. ‘Think I’d better go and sign a few papers and write a cheque.’
‘Well, there’s our inheritance gone,’ Mack shook his head. ‘Right down the gurgler. Sure the old memory’s OK these days, Grandad? Ever find yourself getting lost and forgetting things? Things like who you are?’
‘Why, Grandad?’ his granddaughter asked again, as the three of them wandered around the place the old man had just bought. ‘What are you going to do with it?’
‘Give it away.’
‘Very kind of you, Grandad,’ said Mack. ‘But I don’t really want to be a farmer. Can I flog it off again? Nice of you to think of me, but cash would have been OK. Easier, too.’
‘You!’ his grandfather chuckled.
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