Chapter 2

“Eventually he managed to solve the flooding problem but by then he was starting to run out of spare cash and so it’s just been left.”

“He was going to turn it into a tourist attraction at one point,” Dolores studied a spider crawling up a wall, “this country is known for having the dumbest tourist attractions, you’ll drive a hundred and fifty kays out of your way to see a big pineapple or a big car on top of a pole and wonder why the fuck you bothered.”

She leaned on the bannister and stared down at the next level.

“But maybe you’ve got a use for it.”

I didn’t have a use for it, but I was unnerved by the hairy spider inching its way towards her.

“Spider,” I pointed.

“Oh don’t worry about him,” she reached up and let the spider crawl onto her hand, “this is Horace the Horrible, this is his house,” our eyes met and she grinned.

“Sorry, we’re used to them here. The big ones will give you a nasty bite but they’re harmless, it’s the little buggers you got to worry about.”

And that was my first insight into Dolores, and considering my arachnophobia I was pretty taken by her ease around wild creatures and that supposition would only be strengthened over the next few weeks. Stan certainly wasn’t exaggerating when he said he couldn’t run the farm without her, she had a natural affinity with horses and cattle that had to be seen to be believed. She could drive a mob of cattle through a gateway without breaking a sweat. It took me six weeks to get used to the rocking gait of a horse and yet she never made me feel awkward. She had the patience of a saint as she lunged a horse with me trying hard to stay in the saddle. I fell off more than once but in true Danish spirit I got back on again and eventually I felt confident enough to ride on my own. My mother was amazed when I sent a video clip of me riding a horse, but now I have to do some paperwork so it’s time to save this document and get on with it.

Okay I am back and it’s been a hectic week. We had a steady stream of visitors and a rodeo, and that is a good start to this next part of the story of how Forbes Rest went from a failing cattle ranch to a thriving holiday farm.

This is cattle country and if you’re not running cattle then you’ll find it hard to make money, it’s not for want of trying but Gunnar was always battling the odds and as I mentioned earlier, the money he threw into Gunnar’s Folly had put a serious dent into the finances. This was put into perspective by Gunnar’s lawyer who came out to see me a couple of weeks after my arrival. Dawn is a thirty-something, vivacious redhead who moved from Melbourne to Toowoomba just to put some distance between herself and her ex husband.

“On paper you’re making a profit but Gunnar’s eyes were always bigger than his stomach. The drought has sent quite a few farmers to the wall, he’s only managed to stave off the inevitable by borrowing against his equity. This house was part of that.”

“So I could lose the lot,” I stared out at the endless horizon.

“If you keep going the way you are then it’s only a matter of time.”

“So, what do you suggest?”

“You can always sell up,” she propped on her palm, “or you can do something entirely different with this place.”

“You’re not that far from town, and you’ve got plenty of land. I’d suggest putting Gunnar’s Folly to good use, you’d need to sell off quite a substantial proportion of your cattle and juggle the figures but you could turn this into a hotel.”

“A hotel,” I stared at her, “we’re an hour out of town, a town that is so small I doubt it appears on Trip Advisor.”

“Hear me out,” she straightened up.

“You have horses and plenty of cattle, you turn this into a holiday farm. There’s nothing like it in this part of the country, and that’s your main selling point, Gunnar’s Folly could be turned into accommodation and because you keep some of the cattle you’ve got some extra income, but your main income comes from tourists who want a taste of the outback without the drama of camping under the bloody stars. You can have air conditioning, wi-fi and all the mod cons inside but step outside and you’re on a cattle station, it’s a winning combination.”

“I’ve always hated that bloody saying,” she smiled, “whenever someone says that to me I always think they’re on the back foot trying to sell me a shitty deal and they think that repeating the same word twice turns it into a positive,” she leaned back in the chair.

She had more to say of course over the course of the rest of the day and that night but by the time I drove her into town the next day, the idea had taken root because for all his crazy apocalyptic dreams, my biological father had actually laid the foundations for something more uplifting. Gunnar’s Folly was still unfinished inside, but the basic wiring had been completed and it wouldn’t take much to turn it into a motel.

It took the better part of six weeks to bring me around but my mind was made up when I had what they call a blue with one of the women in town. A blue I learned is an Australian name for a fight or an argument, funny name I know but at the time I was furious. It started when I let some of Dolores’ people move onto the property, we had a couple of smaller sheds that been retro-fitted to make them into bungalows. Word got around town that I was letting Aboriginal people onto my land and one afternoon when I was outside one of the leading lights from the Country Women’s Association turned up to lecture me on the rights and wrongs of living here.

Now I’ve got nothing against the organisation, met me be crystal clear. They do a lot of fine work for charity but like any organisation from any part of the political spectrum, there are a few bad apples lurking around. Jean was one of those apples, a portly middle-aged woman in a white dress with red polka dots. I thought she was taking her time about welcoming me because she took a picnic hamper from the back of her 4WD but I caught the disdainful look in her eyes when she saw Dolores and two of the women rubbing liniment onto a horse. I thought nothing of the look until she had a foot over the threshold of my door and then she took one last look over her shoulder and whispered in a conspiratorial tone.

“I don’t mean to rain on your parade, dear. I know you Scandinavian types are big on equality and all that and God knows I think they’re people just the same as you and I, but you really need to keep them off your land. They’ll rob you blind before you can say I’ve been robbed.”

I froze as I looked into her eyes, I suppose I was waiting for the punchline, maybe this was more of the Aussie humour I was struggling to understand but this woman was serious and I swallowed as I tried to think of a comeback line.

“They’re my friends,” I finally managed.

“If you say so, dear but don’t say I didn’t warn you. People have been talking in town and I’d hate you to find you’d been shut out of our social circles.”

If it’s one thing I can’t stand it’s paternalism, it’s bad enough coming from a man but when it comes from a woman I just see red.

“Maybe I don’t want those kinds of friends,” I took one step to the right, effectively blocking her path, “these are my friends and if you or these other people don’t like it then I suggest you take your picnic hamper and go back home.”

Jean blinked then took a step forward and stopped. I wasn’t budging and she tried one last time to get around me but it was to no avail as I took a step to the left.

“Racism is such an ugly word,” I continued, “but if you’re talking about theft let’s talk about good old fashioned land theft. This land actually belonged to them and so I see no problem letting them live on my land because this land actually belongs to all of us, black or white,” I took a step forward and stared into her eyes.

“You have three seconds to apologise or I’ll have my friends escort you to your car and follow you back to the road.”

Jean blushed and she took a step back over the threshold, nearly tripping over it.

“I’ve never been spoken to like that before.”

“A shame,” I replied, “perhaps you might have turned out differently.”

I fixed my eyes on Dolores who had stopped rubbing liniment and was leaning on the fence post.

“Dolores,” I called out, “would you be so kind as to see Jean off our land?”

Dolores didn’t budge for a few seconds.

“Is everything all right?”

“She seems to have forgotten her manners,” I replied and then closed the door behind me.

“No worries,” Dolores bent down and lifting the wire, eased herself through the gap, “always ready to lend a hand.”

“This isn’t over, not by a long shot,” Jean raised her voice, “you wait till I tell the other women.”

“I don’t care what you tell them,” I followed her down the stairs, “but don’t forget to tell them all about my military training and my tour of duty in Afghanistan.”

As they say in English, it was a cheap shot and probably a veiled threat but I wanted to make it clear that I wasn’t about to be bullied by some woman in an overpriced dress. I think Stan summed it up perfectly when he came out of the toilet in time to see her getting back into her car.

“You can’t make a silk purse out of a pig’s ear but she still lives in hope.”

I had to smile at that statement because it’s what they say in the UK as well. Stan however was a little more cautious about my stance on letting First Australians live on the land.

“They’ve lived here off and on for years, Gunnar was always open minded but he was fighting a losing battle with the townies. Some of those people live in a bubble and they’re quite happy living that way.”

“So, what are you saying, that I should change my mind?”

“Not at all,” he ran a hand through his hair, “I’m kinda enjoying the show but don’t expect to be the next local hero, just keep things in perspective.”

Dolores was also in agreement although she looked quite pleased at being asked to escort Jean off the property.

“What you need to do is get quotes from some of the tradies in town.”

A tradie is the Australian way of saying tradesman or workman, usually a carpenter, plumber or one of the other trades and her reasoning was perfectly sound. Some of them might be in agreement with Jean but if there was a chance of earning money then idealogical objections tend to be put on the back burner and that’s the advice I took on board.

My way of defying convention however was somewhat unconventional when I invited Dolores to inspect one of the spare bedrooms. The main house has six bedrooms that are almost as big as the main sitting room in my parents’ house. Stan used one and I had the other, but that left four more rooms just lying empty. I couldn’t even use one as a study because Gunnar had an actual study next door to his bedroom.

“What do you think?” I leaned against the door jamb.

“Of what?” Dolores looked around, “this was mum’s old room.”

“Is she likely to come back and claim it?”

“She’s gone to the other world,” Dolores replied, “it was cancer but after she was gone I stayed here for a few weeks before I moved to the dorm,” she plucked at the duvet.

“She even picked this out.”

“Do you want to sleep here instead.”

“In here?” Dolores eyed me, “after what Jean said?”

“She doesn’t live here, I do and if I want to give you a room then I will. Stan has one room but the other rooms are all empty.”

Dolores sat on the bed somewhat gingerly.

“And electric light,” I glanced up at the light globe dangling from the ceiling.

“My mum spent her last day in this bed,” she looked around the room, “the traditions of my people forbid us from moving into a place once inhabited by our ancestors.”

“So, take another bedroom then,” I glanced over my shoulder, “there are other rooms.”

“I am not a traditional,” she replied, “perhaps I should but I never saw the value of the old ways, the spirits of the Dreamtime never protected us against the coming of the white man. All we were left with was the Dreaming.”

“If it bothers you then take another room,” I repeated myself, “I am trying to send out a message to people out there that all are welcome here, not just people with white skins. Jean thinks she can cow me into submission but I had to fight the Taliban, I am not so easily scared off.”

“What was it like?” Dolores patted the duvet, “in Afghanistan?”

“It was,” I paused as I approached the bed, “not what I expected,” I sat down.

“I was like many people, thinking that it was a black and white issue, they were evil and we were on the side of good but war doesn’t trade in such subtleties, everything is shades of grey. I came home with PTSD and took an early discharge from the army,” I leaned back on my palms and stared at a picture on the wall that showed Nyhavn in glorious colour.

“I was within sight of that place there,” I stared at the picture, “when a car backfired and I threw myself to the ground. The most embarrassing part about it all was the fact that the Queen’s guard were marching past on their way to relieve the guards at the palace. They do it every day at the same time and there are always lots of tourists lining the street taking pictures. I’m sure at least one or two of them have pictures of me throwing myself to the ground.”