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“Now is as good a time to say this.” Ryan sat back and glared my way. “When we’re all here, as well as with guests.”
“Say what?”
“The sheep we buried today were not Merinos.”
Stacey frowned, her eyes darting between us. “What were they?”
Mum added a glare for me as well.
“Judging by their shape and of what I saw at the saleyards last year,” Ryan said, “they were Aussie Whites.”
Oh.That.
Australian Whites were an up and coming breed of sheep fetching way more than Merinos at the saleyards. They were proving to be a great all-rounder for drought-affected farms for their meat and the quality of their wool, and thus were in high demand.
I licked my lips. “Ryan, I took a chance on a sale recently—”
“A gamble, you mean?” Ryan shot back.
“No, I made a business decision and bought some Aussie Whites for a great price about two months ago,” I ground out.
“A decision that you never consulted with the rest of the family who are also stakeholders in this business.”
I put down my cutlery and glanced around the table. “No, I didn’t. Because I had to decide there and then.”
“There’s a lot of hope riding on that breed, but …” Stacey frowned. “I don’t know, Tom. We’ve always been woolgrowers, not primarily meat sheep.”
“Just because we’ve been doing things a certain way for more than one hundred and fifty years doesn’t mean we can’t adapt.” I paused and then couldn’t help myself. “In fact, if we’re making every decision about the farm wondering ‘what would the original James Turner do?’, then we are going to lose this place, and soon.”
A chill settled in the dining room despite the roaring fire. Ryan’s face was thunderous. Mum had paled. Amanda scowled, but Stacey, to her credit, was thoughtful.
“I believe it’s the Australian Whites that will save the farm, not the wool clip.” I held up my hands. “I’m not saying we don’t shear the sheep or abandon the clip this year. I’m not saying that at all. What I’m saying is I don’t think we’re going to get the amount for the wool that we need to keep the bank away. There’s been talk on the group chat with some of the southern stations, and the wool prices they have been getting haven’t been as good as they’d hoped.”
Ryan snorted. “But everyone does that. Plays down what they earned—”
“No, Ryan.” Mum’s tone was sharp. “I’ve heard the same thing in the Ladies Auxiliary branch meetings.”
“But scuttlebutt over tea isn’t data—” Ryan tried again, but Mum placed her hand on the table and he immediately became silent.
“Some of the best data is collected over ginger snaps and tea.” She cut her gaze to me, her face sad. “Everyone is saying wool prices are not good, despite what the industry forecast report said from the government.”
“If we get a low micron rating on our wool, we will be okay. We need to produce finer-fibred wool. As fine as we can.” I cut a nervous glance to Pete, Ainslee and then Rosie, who were watching our family spectacle with great interest and continued, “But the Whites and Babydolls for the hobby farmers are what are getting the higher prices at the saleyards.”
“The sheep I moved from the creek paddock to the holding yard this week were looking good,” Stacey said. “Some of the ewes let me get up close and check them out.”
I exhaled slowly. “That’s great to hear. I was going to start random checks this week myself.”
Rosie piped up. “You talked about getting Whites at the end of high school.”
I was surprised she’d remembered. “Yeah, there was chatter about them even back then.”
“There’s always chatter about new breeds.” Ryan rolled his eyes. “Once it was Dorpers, and even mini-sheep, and goats. Whites, and Babydolls that everyone says hobby farmers want, will be the same.”
I sighed. “Ryan, I genuinely believe Whites are the future for us. I bought good breeders. We just need to get a good price at the sales.”
“Hadgood breeders. You buried three today. How many did you buy?”
“There were fifty-seven head from memory.”
