In no time at all Meggie found herself similarly clad, loaned fromAnne until Luke could be persuaded to buy her new clothes. It washumiliating to have to explain that she was allowed no money, butat least having to endure this attenuated her embarrassment overwearing so little. 

   “Well, you certainly decorate my shorts better than I do,” saidAnne. She went on with her breezy lecture. “Luddie will bring youfirewood; you’re not to cut your own or drag it up the steps. I wishwe had electricity like the places closer in to Dunny, but the governmentis slower than a wet week. Maybe next year the line willreach as far as Himmelhoch, but until then it’s the awful old fuelstove, I’m afraid. But you wait, Meggie! The minute they give us power we’ll have an electric stove, electriclights and a refrigerator.” 

   “I’m used to doing without them.” 

   “Yes, but where you come from the heat is dry. This is far, farworse. I’m just frightened that your health will suffer. It often doesin women who weren’t born and brought up here; something todo with the blood. We’re on the same latitude south as Bombayand Rangoon are north, you know; not fit country for man or beastunless born to it.” She smiled. 

   “Oh, it’s nice having you already!You and I are going to have a wonderful time! Do you like reading?Luddie and I have a passion for it.”Meggie’s face lit up. 

   “Oh, yes!” 

   “Splendid! You’ll be too content to miss that big handsomehusband of yours.”Meggie didn’t answer. Miss Luke? Was he handsome? Shethought that if she never saw him again she would be perfectlyhappy. Except that he was her husband, that the law said she hadto make her life with him. She had gone into it with her eyes open;she had no one to blame save herself. And perhaps as the moneycame in and the station in Western Queensland became a reality,there would be time for Luke and her to live together, settle down,know each other, get along. 

   He wasn’t a bad man, or unlikable; it was just that he had beenalone so long he didn’t know how to share himself with someoneelse. And he was a simple man, ruthlessly single of purpose, untormented.What he desired was a concrete thing, even if a dream; itwas a positive reward which would surely come as the result ofunremitting work, grinding sacrifice. For that one had to respecthim. Not for a moment did she think he would use the money togive himself luxuries; he had meant what he said. It would stay inthe bank.The trouble was he didn’t have the time or the inclination tounderstand a woman, he didn’t seem to know a woman was different,needed things he didn’t need as he needed things she didn’t. Well, it could be worse. He mighthave put her to work for someone far colder and less consideratethan Anne Mueller. On top of this hill she wouldn’t come to anyharm. But oh, it was so far from Drogheda! 

   That last thought came again after they finished touring thehouse, and stood together on the living room veranda looking outacross Himmelhoch. The great fields of cane (one couldn’t callthem paddocks, since they were small enough to encompass withthe eyes) plumed lushly in the wind, a restlessly sparkling andpolished-by-rain green, falling away in a long slope to the jungle cladbanks of a great river, wider by far than the Barwon. Beyondthe river the cane lands rose again, squares of poisonous green interspersedwith bloody fallow fields, until at the foot of a vastmountain the cultivation stopped, and the jungle took over. Behindthe cone of mountain, farther away, other peaks reared and diedpurple into the distance. The sky was a richer, denser blue thanGilly skies, puffed with white billows of thick cloud, and the colorof the whole was vivid, intense. 

   “That’s Mount Bartle Frere,” said Anne, pointing to the isolatedpeak. 

   “Six thousand feet straight up out of a sea-level plain. Theysay it’s solid tin, but there’s no hope of mining it for the jungle.”On the heavy, idle wind came a strong, sickening stench Meggiehadn’t stopped trying to get out of her nostrils since stepping offthe train. Like decay, only not like decay; unbearably sweet, all pervasive,a tangible presence which never seemed to diminish nomatter how hard the breeze blew. 

   “What you can smell is molasses,” said Anne as she noticedMeggie’s flaring nose; she lit a tailor-made Ardath cigarette. 

   “It’s disgusting.” 

   “I know. That’s why I smoke. But to a certain extent you get usedto it, though unlike most smells it never quite disappears. Day in and day out, the molasses is always there.”    “What are the buildings on the river with the black chimney?” 

   “That’s the mill. It processes the cane into raw sugar. What’s leftover, the dry remnants of the cane minus its sugar content, is calledbagasse. Both raw sugar and bagasse are sent south to Sydney forfurther refining. Out of raw sugar they get molasses, treacle, goldensyrup, brown sugar, white sugar and liquid glucose. The bagasseis made into fibrous building board like Masonite. Nothing iswasted, absolutely nothing. That’s why even in this Depressiongrowing cane is still a very profitable business.”Arne Swenson was six feet two inches tall, exactly Luke’s height,and just as handsome. His bare body was coated a dark goldenbrown by perpetual exposure to the sun, his thatch of bright yellowhair curled all over his head; the fine Swedish features were so likeLuke’s in type that it was easy to see how much Norse blood hadpercolated into the veins of the Scots and Irish.Luke had abandoned his moleskins and white shirt in favor ofshorts. With Arne he climbed into an ancient, wheezing model-Tutility truck and headed for where the gang was cutting out byGoondi. The second-hand bicycle he had bought lay in the utility’stray along with his case, and he was dying to begin work. 

   The other men had been cutting since dawn and didn’t lift theirheads when Arne appeared from the direction of the barracks, Lukein tow. The cutting uniform consisted of shorts, boots with thickwoolen socks, and canvas hats. Eyes narrowing, Luke stared at thetoiling men, who were a peculiar sight. Coal-black dirt coveredthem from head to foot, with sweat making bright pink streaksdown chests, arms, backs. 

   “Soot and muck from the cane,” Arne explained. “We have toburn it before we can cut it.” He bent down to pick up two instruments, gave one to Luke andkept one. 

   “This is a cane knife,” he said, hefting his. “With this youcut the cane. Very easy if you know how.” He grinned, proceedingto demonstrate and making it look far easier than it probably was.Luke looked at the deadly thing he gripped, which was not at alllike a West Indian machete. It widened into a large triangle insteadof tapering to a point, and had a wicked hook like a rooster’s spurat one of the two blade ends. 

   “A machete is too small for North Queensland cane,” Arne said,finished his demonstration. 

   “This is the right toy, you’ll find. Keepit sharp, and good luck.”Off he went to his own section, leaving Luke standing undecidedfor a moment. Then, shrugging, he started work. Within minuteshe understood why they left it to slaves and to races not sophisticatedenough to know there were easier ways to make a living; likeshearing, he thought with wry humor. Bend, hack, straighten, clutchthe unwieldy topheavy bunch securely, slide its length through thehands, whack off the leaves, drop it in a tidy heap, go to the nextcluster of stems, bend, hack, straighten, hack, add it to the heap…. 

   The cane was alive with vermin: rats, bandicoots, cockroaches,toads, spiders, snakes, wasps, flies and bees. Everything that couldbite viciously or sting unbearably was well represented. For thatreason the cutters burned the cane first, preferring the filth ofworking charred crops to the depredations of green, living cane.Even so they were stung, bitten and cut. If it hadn’t been for theboots Luke’s feet would have been worse off than his hands, butno cutter ever wore gloves. They slowed a man down, and timewas money in this game. Besides, gloves were sissy.At sundown Arne called a halt, and came to see how Luke hadfared. 

   “Hey, mate not bad!” he shouted, thumping Luke on the back.“Five tons; not bad for a first day!”It was not a long walk back to the barracks, but tropical nightfell so suddenly it was dark as they arrived. Before going insidethey collected naked in a communal shower, then, towels aroundtheir waists, they trooped into the barracks, where whichever cutteron cook duty that week had mountains of whatever was his specialtyready on the table. Today it was steak and potatoes, damper breadand jam roly-poly; the men fell on it and wolfed every last particledown, ravenous.Two rows of iron pallets faced each other down either side of along room made of corrugated iron; sighing and cursing the canewith an originality a bullocky might have envied, the men floppednaked on top of unbleached sheets, drew their mosquito nets downfrom the rings and within moments were asleep, vague shapes undergauzy tents.Arne detained Luke. 

   “Let me see your hands.” He inspected thebleeding cuts, the blisters, the stings.              “Bluebag them first, then usethis ointment. And if you take my advice you’ll rub coconut oil intothem every night of your life. You’ve got big hands, so if your backcan take it you’ll make a good cutter. In a week you’ll harden, youwon’t be so sore.”Every muscle in Luke’s splendid body had its own separate ache;he was conscious of nothing but a vast, crucifying pain. Handswrapped and anointed, he stretched himself on his allotted bed,pulled down his mosquito net and closed his eyes on a world oflittle suffocating holes. Had he dreamed what he was in for hewould never have wasted his essence on Meggie; she had becomea withered, unwanted and unwelcome idea in the back of his mind,shelved. He knew he would never have anything for her while hecut the cane.It took him the predicted week to harden, and attain the eightton-a-day minimum Arne demanded of his gang members. 

   Then he settled down to becoming better than Arne.He wanted the biggest share of the money, maybe a partnership.But most of all he wanted to see that same look that came intoevery face for Arne directed at himself; Arne was something of agod, for he was the best cutter in Queensland, and that probablymeant he was the best cutter in the world. When they went into atown on Saturday night the local men couldn’t buy Arne enoughrums and beers, and the local women whirred about him likehummingbirds. There were many similarities between Arne andLuke. They were both vain and enjoyed evoking intense femaleadmiration, but admiration was as far as it went. They had nothingto give to women; they gave it all to the cane. 

   For Luke the work had a beauty and a pain he seemed to havebeen waiting all his life to feel. To bend and straighten and bendin that ritual rhythm was to participate in some mystery beyondthe scope of ordinary men. For, as watching Arne taught him, todo this superbly was to be a top member of the most elite band ofworkingmen in the world; he could bear himself with pride nomatter where he was, knowing that almost every man he met wouldnever last a day in a cane field. The King of England was no betterthan he, and the King of England would admire him if he knewhim. He could look with pity and contempt on doctors, lawyers,pen-pushers, cockies. To cut sugar the money-hungry white man’sway—that was the greatest achievement.He would sit on the edge of his cot feeling the ribbed, cordedmuscles of his arm swell, look at the horny, scarred palms of hishands, the tanned length of his beautifully structured legs, andsmile. A man who could do this and not only survive but like itwas a man. He wondered if the King of England could say as much.