Jillaroo

by Rachael Treasure

  ‘I can’t find the hole,’ said Frankie.

  ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right box?’ Peter looked into her eyes and they both spluttered and wheezed at the innuendo.

  ‘Here. Let me try,’ and Peter eventually turned the lock and reached for the mail. He flipped through the envelopes. ‘Bill, bill, bill … ahhhh,’ he waggled an envelope in the air, ‘this one looks interesting.’

  Frankie saw the light from the street lamp glitter on the golden-edged envelope. She frowned.

  ‘Here,’ Peter handed it to her.

  The large envelope was white and heavy, and the extravagant, swirly gold writing made her name, Dr Frances Saunders, seem so incredibly pompous. Her finger slipped beneath the golden seal and a chocolate heart wrapped in golden foil fell to the ground. Peter stooped to pick it up, his eyes on Frankie’s puzzled face as she unfolded the crisp paper.

  ‘Wedding? My son? Oh my God. My son is getting married.’

  ‘Why, that’s great,’ said Peter enthusiastically.

  ‘No. You don’t understand. They didn’t even ring me. I didn’t even know. I don’t even know the girl. I’ve never laid eyes on her. Oh my God.’ She raised her hand to her mouth. Peter gently put an arm around her and ushered her into the unit building and inside the lift.

  While she sat on the couch he placed a steaming cup of tea in her hands and sat down beside her, oblivious to the squelchy fart sounds the couch made. Frankie stared at the steam as tears welled up in her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Peter. I’m sorry. It’s just such a shock. You know. He’s my eldest boy. You know, Michael – Mick. He blames me. He thinks I should be home with his father. That’s why he didn’t ring.’

  ‘Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay. It’s okay.’ He took the cup from her hand and placed it on the coffee table. Then he took her in his arms. He wrapped his hand around the back of her head as she buried her face into his chest.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Peter as he reached for the wedding invitation which lay on the coffee table, ‘It says here, Dr Frances Saunders and partner. If you like, I mean, if you think it will help, I can come with you. I don’t actually have to go to the wedding if you don’t want. We could, you know, travel up as friends. Make it a bit of a holiday. I’ll just come along for the ride.’

  She wasn’t sure if it was to shut Peter up or to show gratitude for his gentleness, but Frankie tilted her face up to his and placed her lips on his mouth.

  CHAPTER 9

  Tom sat back in his saddle and swore under his breath while he watched his father yank the ute into reverse.

  ‘Get your useless dog out of the way,’ bellowed Harry as he backed the ute quickly to the area where the sheep were breaking out of the mob.

  Tom hated stock work with his father. Five of his father’s dogs trotted wide of the mob in a group, too afraid to do any real work, yet too afraid to not work. Bessie, the little dog Rebecca had bred for Tom, hesitated at Harry’s threatening voice but stood her ground on the other side of the mob looking and waiting for Tom’s command. The gate was still a few hundred yards away and Harry was trying to drive the sheep along the fence with the ute and his dogs. Too much pressure and the sheep would break and run south up a steep hill. Those that weren’t trying to bust out of the mob were knotting themselves up in circles and spinning in a huge whirling pool while Harry tooted the horn and ‘haaa’ed’.

  Tom shifted his weight in the saddle so that Hank, his stretchy chestnut, moved forward, ears flickering back and forwards at the commotion. Tom licked the dust from his lips and whistled Bessie in, so that she cantered in a wide arc around the mob and fell in behind Hank’s hooves.

  Ever since they were little Bec and Tom had watched stock-flow with their grandad. He’d even set up lessons for them in the yard. He’d pull a raddle out of his pocket and grab one of the five sheep which stood huddled in the corner and mark big slashes of red crayon on its nose. Then he’d pick out two other sheep and mark them with a blue raddle. His dancing collie dogs drove the five sheep to him as he walked in long-legged steps around the yard. Once marked, the movement of the stock was obvious to Bec and Tom as Grandad pointed out the flow pattern.

  ‘See! See!’ Grandad said. ‘That red raddled fella there, he’s your lead sheep. He’s the one you look for when you move a mob … There’ll be him and a few of his mates actin’ as leaders … They’ll take them blue followin’ fellas through any gate you choose, if you can spot ’em and get your dogs to work ’em right.’

  Tom frowned at his father’s form in the ute. Grandad may have set time aside to teach his grandchildren stockmanship, but he never got close enough to his son to influence him. Tom remembered what it was like, sitting at the big table in the kitchen as the clock ticked above them. Grandfather at the head and Harry seated down the other end. There was always tension at the table. Grandad would say things like, ‘Tom, tell your father you can come with me tomorrow to the hut’ or ‘Tom, tell your father the Holden is due for a service.’ He said it even when Harry was sitting right there in front of him. He used his grandchildren to speak to his own son. No wonder we’re all so screwed up, thought Tom bitterly as he watched his father now.

  After their grandfather died, Tom and Bec took on a lot of the stock work in their school holidays. Tom could almost see Harry seethe with envy when they brought a mob in. There was no yelling, no revving of utes, no flogging of dogs. The sheep seemed to drift along as Tom and Bec rode slowly nearby, their horses on a loose rein. They talked easily between themselves, Bec rambling excitedly about stock-breeding programs they could try or new crops they could sow.

  ‘As if,’ they’d chorus. They’d look at each other and laugh, both trying to survive the constraints of their father. Bec’s dogs so far had been their only victory in changing how things were run on the farm.

  Her kelpies had such refined instincts that they naturally brought the sheep towards her. Tom and Rebecca simply rode towards the front and flank of a mob along the fence and the dogs did the rest, herding the sheep forwards. If the mob broke out to run too fast, Bessie instinctively cast to the front of the mob to gently block them. She hovered a long way off so the lead sheep weren’t spun around in circles. Then she would glance from the stock to Tom, waiting for her next command.

  That’s what Bessie had been doing today, but Harry just didn’t get it. He was so different from Grandad. As Tom grew older, he saw more of Harry in his brother Mick. Mick rarely did any of the stock work now. He preferred to tinker in the machinery shed, servicing vehicles and ordering spare parts out of dog-eared oil-stained manuals. That was of course before Trudy came on the scene. Now he’d sometimes head off for long weekends away to visit Trudy’s parents. Each time he returned, he was more and more distant. Now that they had ended their Friday night ritual at Dirty’s pub, Tom barely spoke to Mick. Sometimes they’d have a chat about the farm, but Mick would only occasionally talk about his relationship with Trudy.

  ‘You gotta grow up sometime,’ Mick said. ‘She’s a good sort, once you get to know her.’ When Tom’s face remained blank, Mick ploughed on. ‘She cooks me good tucker and besides, her old man’s loaded.’ Mick had been joking at the time, but Tom could tell there was an element of truth in it. Trudy was a devoted little rich girl, wanting to play the role of farmer’s wife in a grand mansion.

  Suddenly Hank pulled a little on the bit, turned his long head towards the road and pointed his ears forwards. Tom followed the gelding’s gaze. It was Trudy. She was zipping down the hill in her red Laser, going far too fast and throwing out clouds of dust and tiny stones. When she drove past the mob she tooted the horn and waved from the window. Tom smiled to himself as the leaders in the mob propped and looked at the little red car which blared Celine Dion from its CD player. He pictured his dad in the ute cab, getting redder in the face and swearing. He’d say something like, ‘Stupid bloody bitch,’ and his veins would pop out on his neck.

  She drove through the gate and then got ou
t to close it.

  ‘Leave it open!’ yelled Harry from a few hundred metres away. Celine sung out over the paddocks – heartbroken again. Trudy put a hand to her ear and mimed a ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t shut it! Don’t – shut – it!’ called Harry.

  ‘Okay!’ smiled a bouncing Trudy as she ran to shut the gate. Satisfied she’d done the right thing, she waved again, like someone departing on a world cruise, jumped into her Laser and roared off down towards the homestead.

  ‘Bloody oath,’ said Tom. There’d be a seething silence tonight at dinner, he just knew it.

  By the time they’d opened the gate and finally got the spinning mob through and down the big hill to the river flats, the sun had sunk below a silent blue mountain. Hank knew his working day was almost done so he sung out a shuddering whinny to Rebecca’s horse, which trotted up and down the home paddock fence calling out for her mate.

  Every time Rebecca wrote to Tom or spoke to him on the phone she asked, ‘How’s Stinky?’

  Frankie had saved the well-bred mare several years ago. An old bloke down the valley had bred her on his place but couldn’t afford the vet bills after the mare staked herself on a steel dropper. He was about to shoot her when Frankie showed up in her cluttered veterinary four-wheel drive and put a proposal to him. The old man had been drinking hard at the time but Frankie knew his watery eyes weren’t from the grog. She treated the mare herself at great expense. And thanks to Rebecca’s dedication in cleaning the oozing wound, the mare had survived. The deal was Rebecca could keep the horse, and the next foal she had, if she had one, would be sent back down the valley to the old man. She was registered as Australian stockhorse Beaufront Ink Jet. Of course, once under Rebecca’s ownership, the name Ink Jet evolved into Stink Jet and then later Stinky. Rebecca’s mother shook her head each time she heard Rebecca call her Stinky. It didn’t do the mare justice. She was a tough little animal, stocky and solid with a nice temperament for a mare.

  Tom watched her now as he led a de-saddled Hank to the gate. Stinky’s well-formed muscles shone under her black coat in smooth hunks. The rich grass which grew on Waters Meeting river flats kept her in good condition – almost too good. She could be a bit pushy to ride. She arched her neck and sniffed at the impression the saddle blanket had left on Hank’s sloping back.

  ‘Hey beautiful,’ said Tom gently as he stretched his hand out and laid it on her neck.

  ‘Bec might be home to see you soon, girl. She might be coming home for the big “W”. That’d be good, wouldn’t it?’ The mare’s thick mane lay in tangled whirls against her neck. ‘We’ll have to clean you up a bit before she gets here, hey Stinker.’

  On his way back to the little wooden saddle shed, which leaned like a lazy man against the old stone stable, he passed the workshop and glanced in.

  There in the ute cab behind darkened glass sat Mick with an almost strangled expression of pleasure on his face. From where Tom walked he could see Trudy’s legs behind the opened ute door and her head bobbing up and down over Mick’s lap. Slowly Mick rolled his head forward and opened his eyes, eventually registering, with a sudden shock, that someone was watching. When he saw it was Tom, his face relaxed again and he winked.

  Tom bowed his head, embarrassed, and hurried past to put his saddle away. He swore under his breath and then whistled up Bessie who was busy herding the chooks back to their pen for the evening.

  Later in the warm kitchen, Tom looked at Trudy as she fluffed around the room as though she was in the running for the 1950s farm-wife of the year award. Scattered on the table were bridal magazines, their pages marked with yellow and pink sticky notes. The phone book lay open at F for Florists.

  F for Flock off, thought Tom as he stared at her coldly.

  Still, she prattled on. ‘Of course my mum and dad can’t understand why I would want a wedding in the bush. They can’t even understand why I love the bush and want to live out here in the middle of woop woop. They want the reception at Dad’s club in the city and the wedding in the church where they got married. They’ve offered to pay for everything, so I suppose I can’t have it all my way. And it’s not like Michael and I can afford it. Dad has picked out the MC already. He’s a QC, you see. Don’t you think that’s funny, Tom, an MC who’s a QC, UC?’

  Tom knew Trudy was prattling on deliberately. He knew she put on an airhead act when it suited her. Tom likened it to his bitch, Bessie. She used similar tactics when she wanted to get away with something. He wondered if he should tell Trudy his theory now.

  But before Tom could speak, Harry walked into the kitchen bringing with him the smell of cheap shampoo. He glanced at Trudy and sighed. Trudy stopped fluffing and fell silent. Harry picked up a copy of the Rural Weekly and walked through to the lounge room and its whispering wood heater, which had been brought to life earlier by Tom. He made a point of closing the door loudly.

  ‘He’s still mad at me over that gate thingy this afternoon,’ whispered Trudy, leaning towards Tom as if confiding in him. She sighed and peered cautiously into the wood stove.

  ‘But I’ll get the hang of this place … and this family … soon,’ she said through gritted teeth. Then she spoke again in her sugary voice, ‘Tom, will you be a darling and call Michael, the meat loaf is nearly ready.’

  ‘That’ll be two meat loaves you’ve stuffed in your mouth today then, Trudy,’ said Tom as he ducked quickly out of the kitchen door. ‘You won’t fit into your wedding dress at the rate you’re going.’

  He left Trudy standing by the stove in chook-print oven mitts, her mouth open and her eyes wide.

  ‘Bastards,’ she said as she kicked the cat away.

  CHAPTER 10

  Rebecca, Dave and Annabelle were just putting their head-torches on and choosing their golf clubs when the screen door announced the late arrival of another potential player.

  ‘What on earth are you up to? Or shouldn’t I ask?’ came the voice of Alastair Gibson. His presence in the jackeroo quarters stopped the would-be cane toad golfers in their tracks. The sight of him in the doorway was unusual. No. More than unusual. Neither Bec nor Dave had ever seen the manager in the building. Sure he’d come to the step on occasions, but never inside. He looked down at his boots and kicked them off, momentarily self-conscious.

  ‘Flew in this morning with some international guests for the weekend. Bob’s taken them to the pub for the evening. God help them. So I thought I’d drop in to see you.’

  Rebecca cast her eye over the chaotic kitchen where dirty plates, mugs and beer bottles lounged about on top of bare-breasted girls in Dave’s filth magazines. The mess was spread as though a wind had blown it across the floor into the lounge room. It had become a ritual that Annabelle would come for dinner Friday nights, bonk Dave to Rage all Saturday morning, and then spend the afternoon cleaning up around his reclining form as he watched TV.

  Bec often felt the guilt rise and would offer to help, gingerly scrubbing at the splatters in the toilet, but she drew the line at putting blue ducks in the loo and sitting mushroom-shaped stinky things on the cistern.

  Now, with Alastair in their midst, she wished she had been just a little more houseproud.

  ‘We’re … err … um,’ said Rebecca as she leaned the golf club against the chair.

  ‘We’re … er …’ added Dave, ‘going golfing. Except we’re not using balls. Just cane toads.’

  ‘Oh I see!’ laughed Alastair. ‘Suppose you’re doing a good deed for the environment … It’s amazing the little buggers have spread their way so far inland. This year’s the first I’ve seen so many of them on Blue Plains. Do you mind if I postpone your match for just a few minutes. I wanted to talk to Rebecca.’

  ‘Sure! No worries!’ said Dave over-enthusiastically, looking around at Annabelle and Rebecca. His head torch, switched on, shone a beam of light wherever he looked, like an overzealous theatre spotlighter.

  Rebecca dragged the elastic straps of her torch from her head and coughed a little at Dave.
‘Would you like a beer, Mr Gibson?’ she asked.

  ‘Please call me Alastair, and yes please, I would love a beer.’

  ‘Um. Take a seat,’ said Dave as he scooped up piles of newspapers from the couch and kicked cans and plastic coke bottles across the floor into the corner.

  ‘Oh I won’t be staying long. Just wanted to put a proposal to Rebecca.’

  ‘Well, we’ll get out of your hair.’ Annabelle smiled brightly. ‘Come on, Dave. Feel like a round?’ She glanced at Dave and added almost too quickly, ‘… of golf.’

  Taking up their clubs, the screen door wheezed and then coughed shut as they went out into the thick evening air.

  Bec handed Alastair his stubby. ‘I’d offer you a glass, but …’ She motioned to the line-up of glasses on the sink. ‘I can wash one for you if you like.’

  ‘No. No. It’s already in a glass,’ said Alastair holding up his bottle with a smile as he sat at the kitchen table.

  Bec took his lead and sat across from him, sipping on her cold beer and looking at him over the clutter of tomato sauce bottles, half-eaten bags of bread, Black and Gold soy sauce, Vegemite jars and small towers of plastic salt and pepper containers.

  ‘Bob told me you handed in your resignation this afternoon.’

  ‘Yes. That’s right,’ said Bec. ‘I hope it wasn’t taken the wrong way. I love it here. I do. It’s just my brother is getting married after Christmas, so I have to travel home that way anyway. Then I’ve enrolled at Tablelands University to do a business and farm management degree. It starts in March. I thought I’d give you plenty of notice by letting you know before Christmas.’

  ‘Sure. Sure you have. It’s just, you’ve been such a good employee. One of our best. Even though you’re one of our youngest, you show a lot of initiative and the company can see you’re an asset.’