Ammonia Plains 1
Ammonia Plains
by Janice Williams
A thin southerly wind threw spitting rain at Laurie’s windshield. He turned the ute wipers
on. And off. And on. It was frustrating rain. Too light, even on Intermittent. Too squiffy to
fill tanks. Too lean to help the crops.
How’d he manage without his two-days-a-week piggery job? With his wife’s work in
town it upgraded the farm finances from parlous to break-even. Small sheep cockies
operate like that. The wolf may be at the door, but at least he isn’t climbing down the
chimney.
A white car was parked among the trees beside the road. Laurie watched in the rear
view mirror as it pulled out behind. Funny, police doing random checks on a quiet country
road before eight o’clock? Well, old Lizzie wouldn’t get booked for speeding! Roadworthy
maybe, if they were picky.
The driver cruised by and signalled him over. A rain-jacketed figure emerged. Damn,
Gabber Cox! He’d known Gabriel since primary school. A tail-bearer, hence the corruption of
his name. The sort who gave wedgies, and punched little boys (like small skinny Laurie,) on
the arm. The Force was police heaven to Gabber. On the whole, the local police were good
blokes. But Gabber was a byword.
(‘D’ya hear Clarrie got a canary for a crack at the edge of his windscreen?’
‘That’s tough. Generally they just tell you to replace it. Who gave it to him?’
‘Gabber Cox.’
‘Oh. Right.’)
Gabber leaned in at Laurie’s window like a drinker at the bar.
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‘Gabriel,’ Laurie greeted him amiably. (Don’t rile him by saying Gabber.) ‘You’re
keen, doing open road checks today.’
Gabber shoved a breathalyser at him. ‘Blow!’
Laurie drew a deep breath and blew. Likely Gabber would keep him blowing until he
passed out. The machine beeped. Gabber growled, ‘Licence.’
Laurie fished his wallet from the glove box. Gabber took the licence and waddled to
the police car. Possibly to do his paperwork in the dry, but Laurie could tell how it looked,
parked behind a police car. (‘Saw you being booked on the Clydesdale Road last week,
Laurie.’) He’d bet anything Gabber was hoping for a spectator.
Laurie climbed out and ambled over. He leaned against Gabber’s door as if yarning
with a mate. ‘So how’s life, Gabriel?’ The drizzle was heavier. He was getting wet. But he
wouldn’t play Gabber’s Victim game.
Gabber finished his log and returned the licence. ‘Now, roadworthy,’ he grinned.
Laurie’s heart sank. They both knew about farmers’ utes: in the last stage of on-road use
before becoming paddock bombs. Laurie hoped to replace Lizzie if the wool payment
allowed. In the meantime he needed her. But she’d be off the road in a wink if Gabber
wanted to be nasty – and he generally did.
A passing cloud saved Laurie. The drizzle became a solid downpour, and Gabber was
not as keen as all that. He waved Laurie off, like brushing a fly. ‘We’ll leave it for now. I’m
sure I’ll see you around.’ Cats at mouse holes are more compassionate.
Laurie rattled off, singing ‘It’s raining, it’s pouring, Gabber is snoring.’ He might be
wet and cold, but water would be running into the tanks, and Lizzie had lived to chug
another day. Kindly, kindly sky! It would clear this afternoon, but perhaps Gabber wouldn’t
be around.
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The windscreen fogged up. He wound the window down, shivering. This was stupid;
he must replace Lizzie! Could he wheedle the bank to extend his overdraft? He imagined
cruising past Gabber in a brand-new model with working heater (being careful not to exceed
the speed limit, of course.) He’d give a friendly wave. But the overdraft already produced
sleepless nights. He sighed, and turned into Max Claridge’s piggery. Pneumonia Plains, the
locals called it. It was really Ross Plains, but its windswept flat was the coldest place in the
district. Plenty of room for the smell to waft around.
Max called to him from the breeding sows’ shed. ‘In here, Laurie.’
Laurie slammed Lizzie’s door, the only way to close it, and walked into the birthing
suite. Pungent smell of Pig hit him like a fist. He’d never learn to appreciate it as Max did.
(‘Pig, I love the smell,’ he told Laurie once. ‘It smells like money.’)
‘Over here, Laurie. Number Fifty-Nine’s giving birth. By gum, how’d you get that wet
walking from your ute?’
‘Gabber Cox stopped me.’
‘What, today?’ Max snorted, a skill he honed from the pigs. He set a new piglet by
the sow.
‘Yeah. That cloudburst just saved Lizzie from getting a canary.’
Max stood, stretching his great bulk. He was rather like a prize boar himself. He
made Laurie look slightly taller than Mickey Mouse. ‘Eleven pink piglets suckling from their
mother’ he beamed. ‘Lovely! Times like this, I’d rather not think of bacon.’
Laurie understood. Farmers needed to be objective about food production. It was
what they did. But newborn life is not an objective thing. Max gazed in affection, as if he had
fathered the piglets. ‘Real nice,’ he muttered. Then, ‘Oh, well, this won’t sluice out the
sheds. C’mon.’
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A pinprick of doubt jabbed Laurie. ‘In a minute. I may have forgotten Lizzie’s lights.
Lovely to find the battery flat!’ He jogged outside, the damp-laden southerly chilling him
afresh after the sow’s warmth. No, the lights were off, Lizzie was safe. Now for the sluicing.
‘Where’ll I start, Max?’ he shouted. Where was Max, anyway? He opened the first
shed. ‘Max? Are you there?’ He walked to the next shed.
The ammonia-laden wind carried a distant hail. ‘Effluent pond, Laurie.’
Why was Max down there? It was a horrible hole, even on a fine day. Only a
swinophile like Max could tolerate it. Laurie leaned into the wind, tramping through soggy
weeds. The block wanted mowing. He’d get to it when the weather cleared. Funny, Max’s
sheds were almost suitable for humans (with head colds!) But he never saw the outside
appearance.
‘Flamin’ pump’s blocked, Laurie.’
Max was positioning the Crane, a metal beam with a chain-and-hook attachment
that operated from the tractor. Max was a bit of an inventor. Take the pump setup, which
was his take on the pontoons in the D-Day landing. A lightweight (Laurie) could walk via a
sort of jetty to the pump platform on the effluent pond, the whole affair being supported on
four-gallon drums. The lightweight (Laurie) then released the pump for Max to lift with the
Crane. Then the lightweight (Laurie) turkey-trotted back over the swaying jetty. It was a
dodgy setup, and needed scrapping. But Max’s priority was pedigree breeding stock.
Laurie glanced at the drums. Was he imagining it, or were they listing to one side? A
closer look showed where the alkaline brew had rusted them along the tide line. Not good!
He stepped delicately onto the jetty. Gentle steam arose, demanding tiny shallow panting.
Holding your breath only led to a noxious gasp. Reaching the pump, he knelt to investigate.
Perhaps it would be something easy. He…
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‘Ahh!’ The platform tilted crazily, and Laurie grabbed the pump. He couldn’t believe
it. (Yes, he could.) The rusting drums were collapsing. Like the Titanic, the watertight
compartments were filling. The good ship Effluent Pump was sinking.
‘Laurie! Hang on!’ yelled Max. (Yeah, right!) Laurie clung desperately, but like the
Titanic the pump was fated for Greek tragedy disaster. The platform lurched, dumping
Laurie in the witch’s brew. Let him not go under!
He did a panicky backward-butterfly stroke to get clear. (Please, God, don’t let the
platform fall on me. What could be worse than drowning in pig shit?)
His prayer was answered. The intact drums held. The platform resettled. His feet
found the bottom, no longer sculling in revolting soup. Teetering, heart pounding, he tried
to keep his head clear of the surface.
‘Laurie, are you alright?’ called Max. (Max, you’ve this annoying habit of asking inane
questions. No, I’m immersed in pig excrement, trying not to pass out from the fumes. Ladies
once used ammonia smelling salts for fainting, but this is ridiculous.)
There was one tiny gleam of comfort. The pond was pleasantly warm, the warmest
he’d felt all day. But he couldn’t stand indefinitely in a swine spa. He tried a step.
Impossible! His boots were full of gunk. He was anchored calf-deep in sludge.
‘Stay there, Laurie.’ (Okay!) ‘I’ll get you.’ Max moved the tractor to the point nearest
him. The crane came down. ‘Grab it, now!’
Laurie reached up, making waves. He tipped his face back to avoid the splash. He
snatched the chain, clinging for dear life.
‘Hang on, Laurie!’ (What a good idea!) His arms stretched as Max raised the bar, like
being part of a tug-of-war. The middle part. Then his feet sucked out of his boots, and he
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was dangling like a caught fish. ‘Don’t let go!’ (Right-oh, Max.) He swayed horribly. Then
Max landed a sodden heap of Laurie onto the bank.
‘Laurie, are you alright?’ (Never better, mate.) ‘I’m so sorry, cobber. What an awful
thing. And what Occ. Health and Safety would say, I can’t think.’
In spite of the cold and shock, and his disgusting condition, Laurie began to laugh.
Imagine the OH&S bloke walking in on the mess!
‘Don’t stand laughing,’ yammered Max. ‘Get up to the house and strip off. Have a
shower, and I’ll get a hot drink and some clothes…’
There was the rub. Max was a mountain of a man. Whippet-like Laurie would fall out
of his clothes. Laurie’s laughter turned off like a tap.
‘I’ll have to go home and change.’ He pulled a face. ‘If I shower here, I couldn’t face
putting these awful clothes back on. I’d sooner go home naked.’ Could he? It spoke volumes
that he even considered it. No, he’d die of hypothermia. Even his present ensemble gave
some protection from the bitter day.
Max tried to think of a better idea. ‘I could put your clothes through the washer…’
No, that wouldn’t work. Laurie was a walking green-green algae culture. Any wife would
have a fit, even one married to Max, for better, for worse, in sweetness and in stench.
‘Anyway, you can’t drive home in your ute. That muck would soak into the upholstery and
you’d never lose the smell.’ That, thought Laurie, must be a measure of his objectionableness. Max hardly noticed eau-de-porcine as a rule. ‘Take my motor bike from the garage.
Meantime, I’ll make coffee.’
Laurie picked his way to the garage and back, teeth chattering. Urine-softened feet
found every stone and prickle. No wonder Max’s coffee tasted better than anything a classy
barista could produce.
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‘Thanks, mate. That’s ripper!’
But Max was lumbering across the yard. ‘Got an idea.’
Laurie tensed. Max’s ideas could be perilous. Look where he was now! But nothing
prepared him for an icy blast from Max’s hose.
‘Max! Stop it, you sod!’
‘Just hosing you down a bit, mate.’
‘Cut it out! It’s freezing!’
Max turned off the high power spray. ‘Any better?’
‘NO!’ The drenching had stirred up the miasma, and spread goo everywhere it had
not reached – face, ears, hair. From half-set minestrone, Laurie was an oozing consommé.
‘Wait.’ Max disappeared into the garage. ‘Got another idea.’
‘Another hosing, and I’ll shoot you!’
Max returned with a torn raincoat. ‘It might keep the wind off, Burn it when you get
home.’
The coat reached Laurie’s ankles. Max hooted. ‘Sorry. You look like a flasher with no
dress sense.’ Even Laurie grinned.
‘Go into Mensworld,’ instructed Max, ‘Fit yourself out with work clothes and boots,
and book it to me.’
‘Come on, Max,’ protested Laurie. ‘I don’t buy work clothes at Mensworld. I go to the
op shop.’
‘You’ll do as I say. How’d I feel if I had the police dredging the effluent pond for your
corpse? See you tomorrow.’
Laurie kick-started the bike painfully with bare feet. The wind stung his eyes and
made his nose run. It drove through soggy clothes, giving new meaning to ‘wind chill factor’.
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It got under the coat, sweeping it out like a Superman cape. The further he rode, the
warmer seemed the effluent pond. The day couldn’t get worse.
A white car pulled out from a stand of trees. Damn, Gabber! And he was barefoot,
helmetless, with his licence in the ute. Well, if Gabber overstepped the line, he wouldn’t
take it. The worm would turn and savage the bastard. He dismounted and strode, clingwrapped into the raincoat, like a gunslinger approaching a showdown.
Gabber stared, a grin bulging his jowls. Green slime glistened over the apparition
that was Laurie. His hair was blow-waved back with stiff effluent gel. He was the original
Creature from the Green Lagoon.
‘Laurie Wilson! I know you’re not a snappy dresser, but…’ He gave back as Laurie
stepped into his personal olfactory space.
‘Gab, I want to express on behalf of the district,’ (he grabbed Gabber’s hand in a
crushing shake,) ‘our gratitude for your commitment to road safety. Where would we be
without you?’ He threw his arms around Gabber in a fervent but seemly man-hug.
‘Geddoff! Leggo, you stinking mongrel!’ Gabber thrust him away, revolted. At that
perfect moment a car came by, containing two local women. They waved in delight, and
Laurie returned it energetically. Couldn’t be better! The joke would be all over the district by
nightfall.
Gabber snatched an old towel from his car and scrubbed at his uniform, working the
odour further in. ‘Go! Get out of my sight. Watch your back in future. I’ll be after you.’
Laurie kicked the motor bike into life and roared off, no longer bothered by the cold.
His cape streamed out heroically. Let vindictive Gabber watch out for him! Present
satisfaction was worth it. He chuckled all the way home, nearly forgetting to clear his mail
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box at the turnoff. The letters were awkward to hold while riding the bike, but one was from
the wool buyer. Pay day!
The dogs greeted him with rapture. He smelt better than a ‘roo carcass. He stripped
off, standing nude in the yard as the dogs fawned about him and rolled in his clothes.
Opening the wool statement, he whistled in surprise. As much as that? When was it ever
more than expected? The venture into superfine was paying off.
In imagination he began spending. First thing of course was the overdraft, that
bottomless pit. But next – a new ute! Lizzie would go into honourable retirement, and he
would drive around (within the speed limit!) in an all-extras job straight off the showroom
floor. Let Gabber cop him then! On the whole, it hadn’t been a bad day. The wool statement
was good. The prospect of the ute was better. But best of all was the encounter with
Gabber.
Still reading the wool statement, he walked inside stark naked towards his longawaited shower. He did not even notice his startled teenage daughter, home on a
curriculum day.
©Janice Williams