STELLAR CHARLIE CALLOWAY Following the assessment of her physical condition and suggested treatments by the course leader, Bec Grinnell left the reception area of the Health Retreat to make her way to the villa assigned for eight days. The first surprise was the sight of three apparently tame grey kangaroos grazing on the close cut grass outside the swimming pool. The roos scarcely looked up, but a joey’s tiny head popped out of mum’s pouch for a couple of seconds. She could appreciate how tourists adored such a picture of this iconic animal. But for Bec, unfettered kangaroos that ran rampant brought back memories of her father, a farmer currently doing it very tough on the land. A few months ago a stolid buck, all if six foot, kicked out and made to grapple with him. Such was the desperate competition for scraps of comestibles between his own stock and starving kangaroos that the buck lashed out, raking his chest, his shirt shredded. He’d locked down a couple of paddocks to prevent any cattle from grazing there in order to cultivate feed for his breeders. So dry was the baked soil during the drought that this special area kicked up dust. With a lack of rainfall needed to sustain both soil and pasture for the dairy cows, he was forced to sell them off rather than sell the farm. Whenever obliged to cull numbers of his best breeders, Herbie Grinnell fell into sullen depression. He took the loss personally, for he knew the personality of each cow. When roving his fields, he’d always sense the cattle staring at him. Particularly painful was the day when a portion of his stock was sold. Toward the usual milking time the herd would wend its own plodding way to the sheds. He’d head them off, coax them into changing direction while staying patient because they blindly followed the afternoon ritual, so that some still blundered forward. Eventually, he would drive them toward the truck that would whisk them off to the slaughterhouse. Barely could he hold back shudders and tears. It was as if the cows sensed their fate, for their very countenance appeared to droop, lowing with such aching hearts. His final memory of his too trusting cattle was to glimpse their heads above the tail-end of the truck, all staring back at him, resigned to his betrayal. Yet it was imperative that he should sell his best breeders before he sold his land, however dry-rotted, dusty, unproductive. Dad was not a fan of nineteen year-old Charlie Calloway, apparently ‘on the way up’ according to media reports ‘That young tearaway should leave his ego in the bloody locker-room,’ he’d mumble. He always dreaded the bull-necked Charlie dropping in to see Bec, often unexpected too. ‘He’s a noisy bugger,’ recounting Charlie’s lightfooting up and down the stairs, as if doing step-training for his precious quads. ‘Doesn’t know his limitations,’ muttered Dad. ‘A bloody reckless yahoo!’ Perhaps it was due to the transcendence of Charlie’s limitations that attracted Bec in the first place. Hanging above her bed-head, a super-enlarged coloured photo of Charlie. Long blonde curls flying behind him, he was captured in what was described as ‘the ‘classic pose of crashing the pack’: namely, taking off from a long lead with the left knee bent at 45 degrees, right leg trailing on an extended diagonal, smashing down on broad shoulders, jolting heads forwards on toppling bodies.
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