‘Manners, please!’ Bec said as she swung a leg over the bike. She again thought of her father. He would be horrified to know Bec had been feeding offal to pigs, but as Bec had learned, rules and regulations didn’t really apply out here. She loved the wildness of the place and the people who insisted on pushing the boundaries.
Revving the bike, Rebecca headed back past the machinery shed to the dogs which were housed in concrete-based kennels surrounded by high mesh wire. Stubby, Dags and Mossy and her pup wagged their tails frantically and whined in excitement, jumping and clawing at the wire. Bec turned on the hose, refilled the old drench-drums with water and scooped out brown dog biscuits from an old tin garbage can into the array of dog dishes. Some were made of old hub caps, others from retired and rusted plough discs. She said a silent prayer for her dogs, hoping Bob would remember to feed them and give them water while she was away. She ached at leaving her dogs but there was no way she could take them with her this weekend to the Dust-raisers B&S ball. Slipping her hand through the wire cage she scratched behind Stubby’s silky ear. Next to her, Mouse, the last of Stubby’s six pups, jumped up and down.
‘Calm down, Mouse.’
Rebecca’s dogs had become quite a talking point in the district. She’d had no trouble selling Mossy’s pups for good money, but she’d hung on to Mouse, her favourite in the litter, to train her up and sell her for bigger money as a started dog.
‘Like my nails, Mouse?’ Bec smiled into the rich brown eyes of the dog. ‘Na, didn’t think you did. Now you be a good girl while I’m away.’
She started the bike and rode towards the jackeroos’ quarters. The B&S ball tonight would be a blast.
‘Yeah baby, yeah!’ she cried as she gave the bike some extra throttle and threw out some dust in a perfect fishtail.
The screen door on the verandah slammed behind her and Rebecca kicked off her boots. In the kitchen Dave, the jackeroo who now shared the quarters with her, was at the sink. He stood in holey footy socks and was sloshing red cordial into a beer glass which they’d stolen from the pub. He turned the tap, filled the glass and then held it up to the light.
‘Errrrk! Plenty of wrigglers.’ As he gulped loudly his Adam’s apple danced up and down in his throat.
When Rebecca had first arrived at Blue Plains, she’d pictured herself bunking down in the quarters with a tall, dark, excessively muscled jackeroo with wonderful culinary skills, domestic awareness and an array of conversation topics. Instead she got Dave. Red-haired, freckled, skinny and with the largest repertoire of blonde jokes Rebecca had ever thought possible.
Dave shuffled to the kitchen table. He smothered tomato sauce onto a slice of white bread and shoved it into his mouth.
‘When are we heading off?’ he asked, still chewing.
‘As soon as we’re ready,’ Rebecca said, swigging on a glass of water. The day had been hot.
‘You’re keen to get a bit, judging by those nails,’ Dave said, reaching for another slice of bread. ‘You planning on breaking the drought tonight.’
‘Na … I’m just aiming to get on the fizz with my friends. My best mate Sal might be coming up from uni for the weekend.’
‘She is! Is she a looker?’
‘A stunner. A bit flat-chested and nonblonde for you, though, Dave-shmave.’
‘Oh I’m not fussed!’
‘No, I realised that after you picked up the publican’s wife … and that woman with the prickly chin.’
‘That’s all crap,’ said Dave, waving a butter knife at her.
‘Tis not!’
‘Tis so! She didn’t have a prickly chin … just hairy legs.’
‘Awwwh! Gross me out! I’m going to get frocked-up!’ She walked out of the room.
In the shower the red dust on Bec’s face turned to tiny rivulets of brown which trickled over the curves of her body. Bubbles of shampoo ran down her back. Her arms and shoulders were golden brown from wearing singlets in the sun. As she scrubbed her scalp she noticed the lean muscles in her upper arms rise to a defined shape. The work on Blue Plains was hard. Harder than home where her dad had breathed down her neck all day and sent her away from the yards and sheds. In the short time she had been here she had learned so much, not least of all about her own stamina. She was expected to do everything Dave did. From lifting heavy mineral lick-blocks for the sheep onto the ute, to banging steel droppers into the rocky ground.
The skin had cracked on her fingers so tiny webs of dirt remained even after she’d scrubbed them. Calluses formed on her palms, and she picked at them absent-mindedly.
Her firm muscles and strength, the curves on her small frame and long curls of straw-coloured hair drew men’s eyes to her. Bec, oblivious to this, treated all men like her brothers. She looked up at them openly with her big blue eyes and unknowingly melted hearts.
As she stretched out the foreign-looking nails to the bottle of conditioner Bec began her best Rod Stewart parody of ‘Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?’ She watched the red nails slide over her soapy skin and smiled.
Later Rebecca stood in the kitchen in her short red dress. Dave looked up and gave a low wolf whistle.
‘Cheers, buddy,’ she said as she cracked open a beer, raised it to him and drank. She leaned against the fridge, which was covered with every B&S and rural pub sticker imaginable. It stood as the legacy of those jackeroos who had gone before them. Hundreds of dollars spent on hard nights of drinking.
‘Suppose we’d better get to and collect another sticker for this little baby.’ Rebecca patted the fridge.
‘You bet,’ said Dave.
Through red dust they lugged swags, bags and eskys and threw them under the tarp of the Subaru ute which was parked beneath a peppertree. Turning the ignition key the cassette player came to life and Shania Twain blared from the speakers.
Using his stubby as a microphone, Dave sung along. Rebecca looked over to him and smiled. She would miss all this. Her enrolment at Tabledowns University had come through. The crisp letter signifying the beginning of another phase of her life had arrived last month in the drum which served as a mailbox.
Tonight the white forty-four stood alone by the grid as the sun sunk lower towards the flat horizon of Blue Plains Station. She thought about stopping to peer into its dark and rusted interior, but she knew Bob had picked up the twice-weekly mail yesterday.
To Bec the mailbox was a lifeline with Waters Meeting. Some days she found small, roughly sealed envelopes from Tom. She tried to find more information within the looped ink about the farm and its future. But Tom skimmed the surface, writing only of rain and harvests and of shearings and crutchings. There was virtually no mention of Harry in the letters, though Tom often wrote about Mick’s girlfriend, Trudy. How she’d tried to cook them a roast in the temperamental wood stove, or taken it upon herself to iron and fold his undies, or how she just generally annoyed the crap out of him. Tom often speculated why Mick had given up his womanising since he met Trudy. Why he had chosen her. Tom surmised she was so efficient at getting her own way that it was easiest for Mick to go along with her rather than endure her pouting, silent moods.
Rebecca read between the lines and knew Mick needed someone stronger than himself, and it sounded like Trudy was stronger, in her own way. Rebecca believed Mick wanted the comfort of someone who bossed him, organised him and, most of all, mothered him.
After reading Tom’s letters she’d fold them, put them back in the envelope and place them neatly in a shoebox. The box was filling fast. Not so much with Tom’s letters, but mostly with letters from her mother. Frankie wrote in big messy scrawls as she rushed here and there about the city. She’d mentioned a man named Peter a few times in her disjointed letters and Rebecca could tell that Peter was at long last a welcome distraction from her mother’s obsession with her veterinary work. Even though she loved to receive letters from her family, on mail days Rebecca was filled with a sense of unease. She knew why, but found it hard to admit it to herself. She was always hoping
for a letter from her father. One that said, ‘Come back.’
Dave’s voice snapped her out of her daydreams.
‘Wanna get a dim sim from the roadhouse?’ he asked.
‘Yeah sure. And a square bear from the pub!’ she said with a smile. They sped along a blue-grey road as the sun lit the land and turned it golden.
It was almost midnight but Rebecca had no idea of the time, nor did she care. Leaning on her Subaru she slipped off her black shoes and threw them into the tray of her ute. Rummaging in her bag she found some red football socks and her work boots.
‘Ahhh! That’s better.’ She stomped on the ground, pushing her heel into her boot.
A small distance away by the fence line, a scruffy-haired lad stood enjoying a lengthy piss.
‘Hurry up, Johnno,’ Rebecca called to him. He burped and farted as he zipped up the fly of his dinner suit trousers.
‘Must get more rum,’ he slurred and slung an arm about her neck. They set off across the bare paddock on Wilmot Station, stumbling on rocks and kicking piles of dried sheep pellets. Laughing. Flirting.
Ahead of them the shearing shed shook with loud music. The lights splayed out, illuminating the fringes of the party scene. People were dotted about amidst stockyards, portaloos, refrigerated trucks and food marquees.
Behind them the sky was ink black with an icing-sugar sprinkling of stars. Bec looked up at it as Johnno swung her round and put his wet rum lips to her mouth. She tilted her head back and held her plastic blue cup in her hand, enjoying the sensation of his tongue inside her mouth. He smelt of sweat and grog. He leaned a little too firmly on her and they both swayed backwards and laughed. Her eyes shone and a broad smile glowed on her face.
‘What was your name again?’ he asked her.
As they climbed the steep ramp of the shed and walked onto the grating, Rebecca was filled with a buzz of excitement. The crowd was thick. Boozey blokes in dinner suits sloshed rum. Girls in coloured dresses laughed and screamed, their hair hanging in sticky strands, wet with rum and coke.
A red-faced fat boy ran forward. Rebecca saw him squeeze a container of food dye into his mouth and swig on a yellow plastic cupful of beer. He ran at Johnno, grabbed him by the arms and spat smatterings of red dye over Johnno’s face.
‘Arnie! You dirt-bag!’ and Johnno was off pursuing his attacker through the crowd.
‘When the food dye comes out, you know the party’s really started,’ came a voice from behind her.
It was Sally, her fingers spread around four plastic cups of rum.
‘Good lordie-mama, Sal, you look smashed!’
‘Not used to so much grog,’ Sally slurred.
‘Crap! From what I gather from your letters you’ve been drinking and doing naughty things with boys all the time!’
‘Na! Not since I failed a subject in first semester. I’ve really pulled my finger out. No grog. Minimal boys. And dedication to the pursuit of excellence!’
‘Well I’m so bloody glad you’re not pursuing excellence now. Thanks for coming up to see me. It’s so good to see my bestest buddy.’
‘Well it has been nearly a year! And since I’m only here for the weekend, we’d better get on with it,’ said Sally as she handed Rebecca two cups of rum. With a cup in each hand above their heads they bullied their way through the rowdy drinkers. In the thick of the crowd Rebecca felt the cold splash of rum across her face and chest. It soaked into her dress and trickled down her cleavage. Her hair formed in ringlets around her face, some sticking in sugary strands to her skin. She quickly gulped down a rum, tossed the cup away and wiped her face with the back of her hand.
When she looked back at Sally she laughed out loud. Sally’s bare shoulders were smattered with blue food dye and her face was dotted with reds and yellows.
‘The bastards got me,’ Sally laughed.
Despite the smatterings of dye, Sally still managed to look good. Her tall slim figure in a black dress stood out in the crowd. Her short hair slicked back highlighted her long slim neck. As she stood there, wiping beer and dye from her eyes, a boy bit her on the neck.
‘Ahh!’ Sally screamed and batted him away. He danced off into the crowd.
‘Shall we?’ Sally yelled to Rebecca.
They moved into the sea of jumping, sweating bodies dancing maniacally beneath bright lights in front of a band.
Blokes in black trousers, stained white shirts and an assortment of wayward-looking bow ties swung Bec and Sally about roughly.
The long-haired drummer thumped on his gleaming black and silver drum kit as the guitarists pounded out a Lee Kernaghan number.
Beneath flashing coloured lights, Bec let out a ‘wooeeeEEE’ of excitement and felt the thump of the drums inside her body. Guitars twanged, harmonicas sung and the vocalist ‘Hey-uped’ in true country style. When the chorus came the dancers slung their arms around each other’s waists and turned their heads to the rafters and corrugated-iron roof, singing till their throats hurt:
We’re all members of the Outback Club.
She don’t back down and she don’t give up.
She’s living in the land she loves.
Born and raised she’s a member of the
Outback Club.
In the haze of alcohol, Bec was certain Lee Kernaghan had written the song just for her. She sung along as hard as she could.
She rides the boundary fences with the blokes.
She’s a match for any man alive when she
works a mob …
The next thing Bec knew, Johnno’s lips were on hers and his tongue was sliding into her mouth. She felt the weight of his body against hers. His dark hair fell across his blue eyes which shone wickedly in the lights.
Then, in an instant he was gone again. Whisked away by his mates. Drunk and unconcerned, Rebecca continued to dance with Sally in front of the fleshy brick wall of security staff. A line of men with blank faces, low brows and arms folded across their chests.
Crouching down in the crowd on a slippery floor awash with rum, sheep shit and plastic cups, Bec and Sal decided to tie a bouncer’s shoelaces together. They had just about succeeded when Dave arrived, jumping up and down like a Masai warrior. He yelled at the band.
‘Play some Barnsey! Khe Sanh! Play Khe Saaaanh! Chisel! Play some Chisel ya bastards!’
He turned to Sally and Bec and said, ‘Haven’t picked up yet?’ Rebecca rolled her eyes and waggled her head in the direction of the shearing board.
Johnno was up there with Arnie, the fat boy. Arnie was leaning over Johnno, pretending he was on the long blow in a mock demonstration of shearing. His imaginary handpiece jiggered in his hand as he finished taking the wool from Johnno’s tail. With two hands on Johnno’s buttocks Arnie pushed Johno-the-imaginary-ram headfirst down the count-out pen slide which dropped away underneath the shed. He disappeared with a clatter down the chute, his Red Wing boots and dinner-suit-clad legs the last thing seen by the crowd of onlookers.
Rebecca decided to search for him beneath the shed. She was feeling pumped. She wanted to taste him again. Whoever he was. She left Sal and Dave on the crowded dance floor.
At the wide sliding door at the top of the shed’s ramp she felt the cool night air on her skin. The ramp, normally used to funnel the sheep up into the shed, had become an area for impromptu stunt work. There was a crowd of guys out on the slatted surface holding onto a shopping trolley. Their eyes looked up towards the edge of the roof above the ramp.
‘Carn Basil! Do it! Come on!’ they shouted collectively from the top of the ramp.
Following the boys’ eyes Bec looked up and saw in a halo of light against the night sky a naked young man. He was wearing a red plastic bucket on his head and standing on top of the guttering. The light cast shadows over his tall, muscled frame. He flexed a few comical muscleman poses to build the drama of his stunt. If Sal had been there, Bec thought, she would’ve said out loud, ‘He’s got a big wanger!’ But Bec tried not to look at the white dangling penis
which was framed by a deep shadow of hair. Instead she cast her eyes over his shoulders and strong arms, in particular his huge hands and square jaw. She licked her lips and felt a tingle of desire run through her. He had a damn good body.
‘Jump Basil, jump!’ The boys began to grunt like gorillas. ‘Ooogh, Ooogh Ooogh!’
The young man took a slight run-up on the creaking corrugated-iron roof, launched himself into the air and landed with a clatter in the shopping trolley. The silver metal trolley leapt to life like a startled horse and scuttered down the ramp until its wheels hit the slats of wood which were nailed across the ramp. It flipped and lay on its side, wheels still spinning. The stunt man sprawled at Rebecca’s feet. For a moment he was still. Then he looked up at her.
His bucket helmet was skewed to the side. In the spotlight his eyes shone. Startling green eyes with a fringe of long dark lashes.
‘Shopping trolleys are very, very unforgiving,’ he slurred. He dropped his bucket-enclosed head on the ground with a clunk and pretended to pass out.
Bec smiled down at him as his mates clustered around cheering, laughing, clapping and whooping. They grabbed him by his arms and stood him up. He wobbled a bit, leaned left and then took a staggering step to the right as he nearly toppled down the ramp. With a broad brown hand and a flash of gritted white teeth he flicked the metal handle of the bucket from under his chin and swiped the bucket off his head to reveal short-cropped black hair. Tossing the bucket on the ground, he flung out his arms to push his friends back.
‘Excuse me, men, I have business to attend to,’ he slurred. He made his way towards Bec.
‘I think I love you.’ His green eyes twinkled. The cluster of boys whooped again and slapped him on his bare-skinned back.
‘Charlie Lewis,’ he said holding out his hand. ‘Better known as Basil round these parts.’ Rebecca took his hand in hers and shook it firmly, her eyes smiling into his.
‘Rebecca Saunders,’ she replied.
‘Ooops!’ he said and quickly cupped both hands over his pubic area. ‘Forgot I was starkers!’ He crouched down and grinned up at her. Suddenly Charlie’s mates converged on him, picked him up and carried him off down the ramp into the yards and away into the night. Laughing, Rebecca watched them go.
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