I’ve had a week of not enough work and too much time to think. ‘Next week will be better,’ I tell myself as I park in Dubbo’s main street, opposite the bank. The assistant manager, who can’t be much older than I am, suggests that rearranging my spending priorities could improve my bottom line.
‘I … spend all my money on rent, my business and my animals.’
He peers at my statement. ‘The stock feed, pharmaceuticals and farrier bills are significant.’
‘They’re essentials.’
‘Would it be possible to liquidate assets?’
‘What?’
‘Sell one or two of your animals.’
‘They’re not … worth anything.’
‘Then why do you keep them?’
A money box, a cube-shaped multistoreyed bank building, sits on the corner of the desk. I consider the tightly stacked miniature windows before responding. ‘Not all assets have monetary value.’
‘My animals are essential to my happiness.’
He sits back in his chair. ‘I see.’
‘My overdraft is only a thousand dollars. I … want to extend it.’
‘Again.’
‘Yes.’
Within an hour, I’m on the outskirts of Dubbo, pulling into the carpark of the café where I’ve arranged to meet Jamie Farquhar. Even though he’s the only customer here, he’s almost out of sight, hunched over a table next to the recycling bins. When I wave him to a table facing the park and river, he pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt.
‘Are you … worried about being seen?’ I ask. ‘We can sit … with our backs to the counter.’
‘Okay.’
‘Have you ordered? What would you like? I’ll buy it.’
By the time I put his coffee in front of him, Jamie is even more wide eyed and fidgety. ‘Dad’s sending me back to Sydney to live with Mum.’
‘You get on well with your mother, don’t you? She missed you when you were living with your dad.’
‘I’ll get better support down there.’ He wraps his hands around his cup. ‘I won’t have to wait so long to get help for my anxiety.’
‘It’s good that your parents look out for you.’
‘Mum will be banging on about me going to uni and getting qualified for something.’
‘Did you enjoy … working for your uncle? Being pushed around and bullied?’
A reluctant smile tugs at his mouth. ‘I hated every minute.’
‘For good reason. What would you like to do for a job?’
‘I want to be a chef, but Mum doesn’t think I have what it takes.’
My speech difficulties complicated school and university assessments, but my sisters never doubted that I would be a vet. Sinclair didn’t plan to be a vet, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a good one. I sip slowly, push thoughts of Sinclair away.
‘Your mum won’t want you to be disappointed if things don’t … work out. But given you wouldn’t be able to start uni until next year, maybe you could find … work in a restaurant? It’ll give you a chance to see whether you like it, and show your mum how committed you are.’
‘Besides cooking at home, I’ve got no experience.’
‘You’d probably wash dishes to start with, and clear tables. I can be a referee if that’d help, tell prospective employers you … worked long hours at the stud, you were honest and dependable. Did you learn anything about fat-to-muscle ratios and things like that? I guess a steak restaurant might value that kind of knowledge.’
He brightens. ‘Mum couldn’t object to me working.’
‘It’s better than playing computer games.’
‘She said you’d done me a favour by finding the files that I’d lost, and I should’ve stuck up for you more.’ He sips his coffee. ‘I don’t know what Uncle Douglas was talking about, but he had no right to go after you like that.’
‘It … wasn’t your fault.’ I nudge him with my elbow. ‘And now it’s over. What happened after I left the stud? Did you get yelled at too?’
He looks around, but we’re still the only customers. ‘Uncle Douglas knew Dad was at work, but he came over anyway. He said I had to stay away from you.’
‘He wouldn’t have … wanted me to pass anything on.’
Jamie spoons froth into his mouth. ‘He said he’d given us work, but we’d let him down. He was shouting, saying you’d made things up. I didn’t know what he was on about.’
I sip my coffee too. ‘What did he say I’d made up?’
‘He was really mad and talking really fast. He was ranting about PMS.’
‘When I got upset, he calmed down. He was probably scared that Mum would find out. They don’t get on too good.’
‘PMS is an acronym for premenstrual syndrome. Are you sure that’s … what Farquhar was ranting about?’
Jamie’s colour rises. ‘Reckon that’s why I remembered it.’
‘PMS could also be …’ I sit back in my chair. It’s possible. I carefully consider my words. ‘Jamie? Could your uncle have been talking about PMSG?’
Jamie’s eyes light up. ‘That’s the one!’
Pregnant Mare Serum Gonadotropin. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I was thinking the “G” must stand for “girl”, but I didn’t ask questions. What is it, anyway?’
‘Nothing important.’ Faking indifference, I take another sip of coffee. ‘Your uncle didn’t say anything else?’
‘He said you shouldn’t have seen what you did, but then he said there was nothing to find anyway.’
Was there nothing to find because, given time, traces of a hormone like PMSG are undetectable?
‘Like I said, it’s over.’
‘You’re not going to say anything, are you?’ Jamie is shaky again. ‘Dad says Uncle Douglas is family, so we have to see him at Christmas.’
‘Did you tell your father how your uncle treated you? How dismissive and unhelpful he was when you were at the stud?’
‘Dad said Uncle Douglas was doing me a favour giving me a job.’ He reaches for his coffee, but his hands are too unsteady to pick up the cup. ‘You won’t talk to him, will you? You can’t.’
‘I’ll keep quiet, I promise, and I think you should do the same. But you’re getting help in Sydney, aren’t you? Do you have a counsellor? You should tell them you were bullied at the stud.’
He nods and swallows. ‘Mum said I should do that too.’ After searching through his backpack, he pulls out a bus ticket. ‘No joke, Prim, I can’t wait to get out of this place.’
Long after Jamie has gone, I’m still at our table in the café.
‘Here you go, love.’ The café owner positions a toasted sandwich and a second coffee either side of my phone. ‘You’re looking a bit glum. Everything all right?’
I pull a smile from somewhere. ‘Just looking a few things up.’
In farms in Uruguay, Argentina, Iceland and other parts of the world, newly pregnant mares are farmed for their blood. After being herded into crushes, the horses are given—at best—a local anaesthetic before large-bore cannulas are inserted into their jugular veins. They ‘donate’ litres of blood each week for eight to twelve weeks and the blood is sold to pharmaceutical companies. Cattle, sheep, pig and goat producers use PMSG to stimulate oestrus and superovulation. Within days of weaning their last offspring, animals given PMSG can mate or be artificially inseminated; there are fewer ‘unproductive’ days in the animal’s life if she’s pregnant for most of it. If their stock gives birth within a short timeframe, it’s easier for farmers to predict workload. It’s more efficient.
I knew PMSG could be used to improve fertility in production animals, but its importation is illegal in most countries and synthetic substitutes are available. Did Farquhar use the product on his cattle?
After wrapping my toasted sandwich in a napkin, I close the screens on my phone. If Farquhar had got the drug into the country, it could have been given to his cattle. It would explain the spikes in fertility, but—
‘Not hungry after all, love?’
I jump a mile. ‘Oh! I’ll eat it later.’
‘Sorry to give you a scare.’
In later stages of pregnancy, when PMSG is no longer produced, many foals are systematically aborted and the mares impregnated again. If a mare is allowed to carry a foal to term, only the fillies will be kept. When a mare is too old or weak to become pregnant and to be bled, she’s sent to a knackery.
The exploitation of a species without regard to the health and welfare of that species is unethical, particularly when products like PSMG are available synthetically. Giving hormones to cattle with adequate shelter, feed and veterinary care is unnecessary.
Using PMSG is even worse than using the other hormones I’d suspected Farquhar had experimented with. Farquhar is wealthy and successful. He risked his own reputation and the reputation of his stud. The question I’ve asked myself for months, the question asked repeatedly in the inquiry, buzzes around in my mind.
Why would he take such a risk?