Katie-from-next-door
His father’s rebuke was echoing in his ears. ‘They’re not here to get comfortable, son, they’re here to get fat.’ John knew that, but wanting the creatures to enjoy what life they had didn’t make him soft or a bad cattleman. There was nothing wrong with fresh hay and a molasses lick to help settle Ivy-May’s newest arrivals.
‘Hey, John, you done yet?’
He heard the shout as he saw the familiar figure making her way towards him. Katie O’Brien had been ducking under fences from the time she could walk and it showed as she negotiated the maze of cattle yards to reach him. Like John’s other mates from around town, she was good company and handy, but full of opinions. Unlike the boys, she had beauty, brains – and boobs.
‘Almost finished.’
Thud. The first hay bale landed on the rusting tray of the old truck.
Like his grandfather, John believed yard weaning produced the most manageable cattle. Getting to know newcomers and letting them become familiar with their environment before meeting the rest of the mob made a lot of sense. After branding, and particularly after the bloody de-horning process, he preferred to move the weaner steers to the small paddock beside the yards to monitor them. ‘A good cattleman identifies and deals with troublemakers quick smart,’ his granddad had told a young John. ‘And your only cost is time.’ That attitude had skipped a generation, so it was John’s responsibility to uphold his grandfather’s doctrine, which he intended to pass on to his own children. As far as his father was concerned, belligerent beasts were guaranteed to end up in an Ivy-May sausage before their time, with fence crawlers – those that continually broke out – the first to be butchered when the freezers needed filling.
‘What’s up your nose today?’ Katie asked.
‘Nothing. Why?’
Thud.
‘You look… I dunno, like you’re in a hurry.’ John lugged a third bale from the shed and threw it onto the ute tray.
Thud.
‘Not my favourite kind of day, I guess. Keen to hit the shower.’
‘You should have waited for me. I could’ve helped.’
‘I wanted it done early.’ De-horning wasn’t a difficult job, but it wasn’t nice work for either party, and now a hundred head of cattle were bunched in a corner, making a racket and eyeing John: the enemy, the cause of all their pain. A molasses treat and fresh hay was the least he could do. ‘Gotta get dressed for dinner.’
‘Dressed for dinner?’ Katie looked at her watch. ‘It’s four in the afternoon.’
‘I’ve worked up an appetite. I need food.’ Or was that just an excuse to hang around the kitchen while a certain cook prepared the evening meal? He removed his hat and wiped the yard dust from his eyes. ‘And I’m a mess.’
‘Cattle don’t care what you look like and the job’s gotta be done.’ Sometimes Katie sounded so much like his mother it was scary. ‘My dad would say the start of spring is late in the year to be de-horning, but better while they’re young and before it gets any hotter and the flies any thicker. You know that, right?’
Now she sounded like his father. ‘Of course I do, Katie. Doesn’t mean I have to like the job.’ With no time for talk, he climbed onto the tray to check he’d tied his molasses load tight, then hopped down and hauled himself up into the truck’s cab.
‘No one likes de-horning,’ Katie called over the start-up of the engine as she opened the gate. ‘But there is a bright side.’
John had known her his whole life. She had the same fire in the belly about land management as he did, and was forever going on about what if or imagine when, always with a silver lining thrown in. ‘There’s a bright side, Katie?’ John yelled, edging the truck past her and into the paddock. He watched in the rear-view mirror as she closed the heavy metal gate. Then he yanked on the handbrake and jumped out.
Ignoring his outstretched hand, Katie hoisted herself onto the truck and pushed the bales towards the edge, then attended to the ties on the plastic drum of molasses lick. ‘I’ll get to help out more often now school’s done.’
‘No more school bags, no more books, eh?’
‘And no more teachers and their dirty looks.’ She slapped her palms together, then wiped the sticky residue on her jeans. ‘These last two years without you on the bus were the worst, but now we’re both done with school we can get serious and start planting out the ridgeline. That’s the plan, right?’
‘Sure is.’
*
They both loved the ridgeline and Katie enjoyed riding any time of day, but in the early morning and at dusk the sprawling Basmorra plains were ablaze with fiery sunrises and sunsets. The Tate and O’Brien land, combined, stretched for hundreds of kilometres in every direction. One spot – the site of John’s great-great grandparents’ original homestead, not far from the Tate family plot with its crumbling headstones – was a favourite place and gave a perfect view of both current farmhouses. Every time they rode the ridgeline John would talk about his dream to build a new home for the next generation of Tates.
Katie looked forward to that. The ridgeline had served as a meeting place for her and John since they were kids. ‘See you on the ridges,’ he’d tell her on the way out of church on Sundays. After changing from their good clothes, they would each ride out on horseback and meet at the same spot. Following the fence, one horse trotting on either side, she and John would chat. When they ran out of conversation, usually gossip about the other kids in Sunday School, their mounts would shift into an easy canter and head for the north-west access gate where they’d race to the far side of Mount Hedlow and to the shady grove that provided a cool place for the horses. In summer, sticky from the sun’s heat and horse sweat, they’d strip down to their swimmers and swing off the rope, squealing before they bombed into the cool water of Candlebark Creek.
While Katie hadn’t missed Sunday church during her final school year, preparation for the exams had severely impacted on her spare time. She hoped to get back into a riding routine soon and into hanging out with John.
‘I know how to cheer you up.’ Katie dropped to the ground beside him as he swigged cordial from a plastic flask. ‘How about I see you on the ridges tomorrow? You haven’t suggested we ride up there for ages.’
‘You’ve been too busy studying.’
‘Not any more, so how about it?’
John shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ He pulled at sheaves of spiky grass, plucking them one by one in such a rhythmic fashion that Katie found herself silently chanting: He loves me, he loves me not. One day he’d confided that he thought his great-great-grandparents’ old home on the ridgeline the most romantic place on the property, despite a cyclone having flattened the buildings decades earlier.
‘We can check what’s left of the old house and plan how to reuse the timber. I reckon there’s stacks we can recycle.’
‘Maybe.’
Katie shoved his shoulder. ‘Can you say anything other than maybe, John Tate?’
‘Maybe.’ He cowered, readying himself for the thump he knew she’d deliver.
‘We are serious, aren’t we, John?’
‘You know me, Katie, I’m always serious, especially when it comes to recycling and responsible land and cattle management.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘But it’s my focus right now. I need to prove to Dad I’m ready. Ivy-May’s future is up to me and it’s great that you’re keen to help so, yeah, I reckon we have serious covered for now.’
‘I’m not your helper,’ she chided. ‘We’re partners. Two heads are always better than one. You’ll focus on what you’re good at, I’ll take care of the other bits, and some things we’ll do together, naturally.’
‘Naturally?’
‘I’ve already started a to-do list, in the order things need doing.’
‘Of course you have, Katie.’ His shoulder nudge almost pushed her over.
‘Quit that.’
‘You and your endless lists.’ John gulped more cordial.
‘A list is a plan in dot points and plans are important.’
Katie didn’t mind that John fell quiet. Mentioning his great-great-grandparents’ place often made him drift off. Most likely he was dreaming about the future and that made her happy. Looking across to the Tates’ current home, sitting like a crown on top of a small rise, Katie knew that one day the Ivy-May homestead, and all the land around it would be John’s and hers, and together they’d run the property the way they’d discussed on those long school bus rides.
In her first year of high school, after learning about her father’s failing health, Katie had muddled through schoolwork, concentrating on learning the skills she’d need in the future when her family property and Ivy-May, together, would be a magnificent country retreat. The place she and John had always imagined where fancy city folk would stay for weekends, enjoying purpose-built cabins, quaint, private, and dotted along the expansive creek that separated the two properties. The township of Candlebark Creek wasn’t so isolated that people wouldn’t make the trek, and it was small-town enough to attract city-dwellers for short breaks and special occasions.
‘It’ll be so romantic.’
‘What will?’ John asked, over a liquid belch.
Katie snatched the flask and replaced the lid. ‘That is so gross, John Tate.’
‘No. Gross are these clothes I’m wearing. So, K-K-K-Katie, my only plan right now is to go home and get out of them.’
‘Need a hand?’ she teased.
‘Some things I can manage on my own, but thanks.’
‘Of course you can. That’s the great thing about our partnership. We’ll play to our strengths, like all great teams do. Dad said teamwork is how the Candlebark Cowboys won last season. Have a goal and make it happen.’
John’s plans for Ivy-May might have been big and exciting, but Katie knew he also despaired of renovating history, even though at some point Ivy-May’s rooms would require refurbishing. Such a task took a special kind of person and Katie had an eye for design and colour, whereas John didn’t have a creative bone in his body, unless food was involved. His other love, after his Brahman cattle, was cooking. He was getting good at it too, with local and homegrown ingredients fuelling his passion. With John doing the cooking for the guests, once his parents had retired to a house in town, there’d be no hiring uninspired cooks, like Marjorie Tate had had to do yesterday.
Every passing year brought Katie’s and John’s plans closer, the concept so real she could taste the fancy dinners he would prepare while she escorted diners to tables in cosy corner nooks, either in the garden on warm nights or by open fires in winter. They’d set tables with gleaming white linen, shiny cutlery, and offer welcoming glasses of the finest sparkling wine. While Katie would manage the accommodation bookings, the admin and advertising, John would be in charge of the jackaroos they’d hire to do all the things they would be too busy for. There’d be no shortage of stock hands looking for work. Then, of course, there’d be the team of women Katie would need to clean the cabins, making sure they had the crispest sheets and freshest flowers, and that each room had crystal-clear windows so guests had the best view of Candlebark Creek.
How hard could it be?
For a few more years, until she and John could convince both parents they were old enough to take on the responsibility, and until they could work out where they’d get the money to build the extra accommodation, Katie would have to suffer Marjorie Tate’s idea of a B-and-B, which basically meant advertising three spare bedrooms in the Tates’ homestead. Despite its simplicity, guests seemed to enjoy the rambling old Queenslander with its shady veranda on all four sides. With the Tates’ ancestors having been the first to settle the area, Ivy-May had a wonderfully romantic history, and didn’t Marjorie like to make sure everyone remembered who had achieved what and when! One day, when Katie was Mrs John Tate, a fifth-generation owner of Ivy-May, she would do the same. But there’d be operational changes, like not making it family friendly. Not only did kids scream louder than the pigs, they were constantly pestering the old goat, scaring the horses, and chasing the chooks.
Katie didn’t dislike children – she and John would one day have their own, and she was certain that would make her naturally more tolerant – but there was no money in a family farmstay. The day her economics teacher had explained how some people have greater levels of disposable income than others, she had written his every word into her exercise book, then transferred it into her business planning notebook, the one with her and John’s names encased in a heart on the cover. The accommodation business she envisaged would attract wealthy couples seeking a romantic hideaway or a secret rendezvous. If a husband decided to have an affair, Katie would make sure he decided to have it at their B-and-B.
There wasn’t a lot of money to be made in the Tates’ simple homestay business, although the venture did provide an income to reduce the family’s financial burden, especially during drought, when many producers in the area were forced to buy in feed for their cattle. The Tates had been the first in the district to introduce Brahman cattle, while Katie’s family had struggled with the demands of less drought-tolerant breeds. Even though Katie would debate the merits of good breeding passionately with her father, she was a girl and O’Brien girls were supposed to be seen and not heard. Now done with school, and soon to turn eighteen, she’d be old enough to have her ideas taken seriously. Eighteen meant she’d also be old enough for John to love – really, truly, like the sneak-into-each-other’s-room type love some girls had talked about on the school bus.
John was still plucking grass spikes, twisting them between his fingers, when she leaned in and landed a peck on his cheek.
‘Hey!’ He shot her a curious glance. ‘What’s that for?’
‘Your dimple. You were grinning and it was there, so I kissed it.’
‘Well, don’t.’ His hand went to the one facial feature that had caused no end of ribbing from the guys at school. After years of trying to hide it, John had developed a slightly lopsided smile, which, to Katie, was even more adorable.
‘Why can’t I kiss you? I’m not a schoolgirl any more. You can kiss me back, like when you kissed me on New Year’s Eve.’ They’d kissed before then, too, and she knew John hadn’t minded when her goodbye peck ended up on his mouth. The way he’d grabbed a cushion from behind his back and covered his lap had told her as much. For a long time after that romantic goodnight he’d been a bit odd and they hadn’t kissed like that again, until last New Year’s Eve.
‘I was a bit drunk at the time, Katie, and, well, everyone kisses everyone at midnight.’
She whacked his arm. ‘You kissed everyone else the same?’
‘I didn’t say that. Not sure I recall who I kissed. I was, as I said, more than a little pissed. Hey, that’s a rhyme, give me a dime.’
‘You’ll get more than a dime talking like that, John Tate. I’m expecting a big birthday pash for my eighteenth.’
‘Is that so? Anyone I know? Hey, another rhyme.’ John protected his ribs in anticipation of the next playful punch. He knew her that well.
Within seconds of landing the blow, Katie was up and running, John in pursuit, calling, ‘You’ll be sorry for that, Katie O’Brien.’
‘Ooh, I’m so scared.’ She halted halfway up the hill as John’s mother called from the back veranda.
‘John, get that truck back to the shed. Your father wants you.’
‘Righty-ho, Mum. See ya, K-K-K-Katie.’
Watching the obedient son swagger back to the paddock where he’d left the truck loaded with the molasses lick, she smiled and mumbled softly, ‘Practise that pucker, John Tate.’
Katie headed home cross-paddock, stopping on the small footbridge the Tates had built to span a section of waterway that ran between both properties. John sure did drive her crazy some days. He was a lot like his dad – modest, caring and respectful – but Katie wished he would sometimes be a little bit bad. She tried telling herself the wait was half the fun, as were the furtive glances and her flirting, even though John would tease her by pretending he wasn’t interested in her that way. He was amusing and a challenge, and Katie needed both to make the mundane manageable.
Last summer she’d teased him with the new bikini she’d sewn together in a couple of hours. So skimpy were the two triangles of pink polka-dot fabric for the bra, and another two that tied together in bows over her hipbones, that he’d blushed when she’d stripped down after their ride. John Tate might be a good boy, but he couldn’t hold out for ever, and Katie was planning another big surprise. The special-occasion halter-neck dress she intended sewing would seal the deal. It was short, low-slung back and front, with an empire line so she could go braless. With the leftover fabric, she would fashion a bow for the clip that would hold back one side of the planned Farrah Fawcett hairstyle.
Something new to wear to the combined birthday bash had been Marjorie Tate’s idea. With this event an important milestone for them both, she’d reminded Katie that the outfit would feature in photographs she would look back on with her and John’s children and remember when he had popped the question in front of half the town. For several nights last week Katie and Marjorie had locked themselves away in Ivy-May’s office with the Simplicity catalogue, searching for the perfect paper pattern. Between now and then, however, Katie would need time in the sun to reduce the T-shirt tan lines around her neck and upper-arms. Farmer’s arms were not a good look with a halter-neck dress.
He won’t be able to keep his hands off me.