Jillaroo

by Rachael Treasure

  Bec felt a wave of pleasure wash over her. She hadn’t ever told him where she was working, so he must’ve been asking after her.

  ‘Yep. They put me in charge of the ram shed. I’m supposed to be in the pens now getting ready for the next judging class. I’ve been on the show-road for the past four months. It’s a bit of a pain in the sphincter – some of the people can be so crusty – but I’m seeing loads of country and meeting lots of nice people. Plus I keep getting distracted by these dog trials, but my boss says it’s all good publicity for the company.’

  She cringed as the image of the cute eighteen-year-old boy flashed into her head. Curly dark hair, slim limbs and a tiny, muscular backside. His name was Jeremy and she’d seduced him after he won the junior judging competition at the western region show. It had been a running joke around the show circuit that Rebecca had rolled in the hay with a toy boy. She could still see his dark puppy dog eyes as they lay together in the rich, clean-smelling straw of the ram truck, his blue ribbon draped across Rebecca’s naked body. Both of them giggling in fits. It had been one of the more vibrant memories of her months on the show trail.

  Rebecca’s days as a groom were sometimes long and monotonous. Feeding the rams, changing the bedding in their pens, washing out their water troughs, driving the truck for hours to the showgrounds which were mostly filled with stuffy old men with sheep. She spent entire days washing the faces of the rams and trimming them up with hand shears, then standing holding them for a crusty judge to look at. She also lugged water in heavy black drench drums from the truck to the rams. It was water from Blue Plains. Bob insisted the rams have the water they were used to. In some towns the rams turned their noses up at the strange smell and taste of the water, so she lugged drums daily.

  The team of rams, ten in all, were strong contenders at the shows and she’d become attached to their different personalities. She loved Alf most of all, not just because he was the most productive ram, both to look at and on paper, but because he was a complete sook. Each morning as the sun lifted above the horizon Alf would call out to Rebecca when she entered the truck. Alf was her pride and joy.

  She spent hours talking bloodlines and genetics with the men in the sheep pens. It often frustrated her that they were reluctant to take on the new sciences to measure the impact of genetics. She’d become part of the new generation of young merino breeders who were colliding with the old notions at shows. They used technology as a basis for their breeding, while the old generation clung to the traditions of the past hundred years. Some were also clinging to ‘old money’ and snobbery. It grated on Rebecca, but she tried to be every inch the diplomat for her company – to a point. Once she hit the bars after the shows, Rebecca really let her hair down and company diplomacy went out the window. It had been in a bar in a large town that, through a haze of rum, Rebecca had begun to notice the glint in the eye of the dark-haired eighteen-year-old, Jeremy. In the crush of the male crowd, the stock agents and farmers leered and cheered the budding romance on. The ‘romance’ turned out to be one night, but it brought a smile to Rebecca’s lips every time she saw another junior judging line-up of young boys in baggy moleskins.

  The thought of Jeremy, while standing here with Charlie Lewis looking raw and hunky, sparked a desire in Rebecca. She noticed the way the corner of Charlie’s mouth turned up slightly on one side in a gentle smile as he listened to her. He tilted his head to the side too, and ran his hand over the back of his neck as if massaging it. There were tiny laugh lines around his eyes and Rebecca wanted to reach out and touch them. She gazed into Charlie’s eyes so that she could give him the Look. She and Sally had practised it so many times in her bedroom mirror during school holidays at Waters Meeting. For hours they had talked about boys and strategies, developing plan As and plan Bs as they rode their horses beneath gum trees and across the mountains. By the time they were seventeen they believed they had truly mastered the art of seduction.

  ‘Well, I’d better be going,’ said Charlie.

  The Look fell from Bec’s face. ‘Oh,’ she said and almost laughed out loud at her obvious failure to deliver any kind of flirtatious message.

  ‘Dad’s over there. I can see him looking over. If I don’t go now, he’ll start whistling for me to come, just like you’d whistle Dags to you!’

  Bec looked over to see a big man talking in a group with his arms folded across his chest. He was looking in their direction now.

  ‘Yep. I’d better get back to the rams. I’ve stuffed around long enough with my dogs. I’ll catch up with you.’

  ‘Yep. Seeya. Maybe next time I’ll have my clothes off again.’ Charlie gave a slight wave and a big cheeky grin as he walked away.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Rebecca with an equally cheeky grin. As she watched him walk away, Bec’s mouth fell open and her eyes widened. Oh Lordy mamma! He was wearing Wranglers.

  ‘God take me to heaven now,’ she whispered as she watched his neat backside, clad in dark denim, move away. In an instant Charlie spun around and Bec had to suddenly compose herself, closing her gaping mouth shut.

  He called to her, ‘I might be going up to Springton next year with some machinery for Dad. We could be contracting out up that way during winter. Will you be about? We could go pubbing.’

  ‘We could. But I won’t be around. I’ll have left Blue Plains by February – I’m starting ag college at Tablelands Uni. Going to be a nerdy student for a few years. I’ve already delayed it for a year to muck around with sheep and dogs, so it’s about time I knuckled down.’

  ‘Oh.’ The disappointment showed in his voice and Bec was suddenly filled with excitement. He had the hots for her, she was sure.

  ‘Well, good luck.’ He paused. ‘We’ll catch you later.’

  She raised a hand to him and turned away. As she lobbed the heavy bag of biscuits into the truck her desire melted into disappointment and longing. She wished he could stay. She wished he’d come to the bar after the show and they could sit and drink and talk. Just talk. Make time to become friends before she ended up in a truck with him or in a swag somewhere. A huge sense of loneliness overcame her. She could have as many men as she liked, but still she felt a longing. Was it for her home? Or was it for a man like Charlie? Rebecca slammed the door of the truck. She didn’t have time for self-pity; glancing at her watch she saw how late it was.

  ‘No time to lust after boys, Dags!’ She clipped the dog to a chain under the truck, pushed his water bowl to him, then ran towards the shed. She was late for the finals of the fine-wool section.

  She didn’t see Charlie Lewis, leaning his tanned elbow out of his father’s grain truck, as he watched her, hair flying, jogging into the pavilion. He captured the vision in his mind. It sent a tingle down his spine. Then the smile from his face and eyes faded and he turned back to look grimly through the windscreen as he sat beside his father.

  In the sheep show pavilion Bec couldn’t shake off the image of Charlie’s shining green eyes, the gentle creases around them as he laughed. Absentmindedly, she stroked the soft white face of the ram which she held gently under the jowls. Goosebumps rose up her arms, even though the day was hot. She stood in the line-up of sheep as the judge in the super-white moleskins with clip-stud pockets looked over the sheep like a monkey looking for fleas.

  Bec shifted her weight to relieve her tired aching feet. She had been running up and down on concrete since five a.m. The green fake-grass surface of the indoor show ring offered little relief. All of a sudden Bec was just so sick of wandering. So sick of stud show people. She pictured Charlie’s Wrangler-clad butt again.

  I’m in lerv, came a sighing thought. Her conscience jumped in and sternly said, Keep your mind on the job, you slack tart.

  She felt herself standing straighter and taller and willing the young ram to stand tall too. The next thing she knew she was in the front of the line-up and a man in a tweed coat was walking towards her with a blue ribbon. People were clapping. Rebecca knew they were now in reach of
the championship.

  ‘Good on you, Alf,’ she said to the ram.

  CHAPTER 13

  Peter Maybury rubbed his itching eye with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of flour on his cheek. His dog, Henbury, swivelled on the kitchen tiles on his fluffy bottom, looking up desperately to his owner’s face, pleading for Peter to throw him some food.

  ‘Go away Henners, the gnocchi’s for Frankie. You’ve had your dinner.’ The dog licked his lips and whined. Frankie sat with her feet up on the couch, wine glass in one hand, letter in another, thin gold-rimmed glasses pushed to the end of her nose.

  ‘Just listen to this, Peter.’ She paraphrased another passage of Tom’s letter.

  ‘Trudy’s commissioned a landscape gardener and a builder for a ‘make-over’ of the homestead!’

  Frankie sighed and shook her head.

  ‘The farm must be doing well,’ said Peter.

  ‘It’s not being paid for by the farm! It’s Trudy’s father. He’s the one pouring the money in.’

  ‘Yes, I read somewhere he’s got the go-ahead from council to do an apartment development at Port Side. Things must be going well for him.’

  ‘Mmm, I saw that in the paper. Another waterfront highrise,’ said Frankie bitterly. ‘Shame about the sewerage killing the marine wildlife in the bay … but at least it’s funding his daughter’s happiness and her need for renovations.’

  Peter heard the edge in her voice. ‘More wine?’ he asked brightly.

  Frankie shook her head and continued, ‘There must be so many benefits being an only child. Trudy’s a very spoilt girl. It makes me wonder why I bothered to have three children and didn’t just stop at one. It would’ve saved so much trouble with Harry’s plans for the farm!’

  ‘Now, now, Frankie. Don’t be so cynical,’ said Peter gently. ‘Your children would be very hurt to hear you say that.’

  ‘It’s reality.’

  Peter looked at her blandly. He knew she had a hard streak. It was a practical, clinical and scientific approach to life, not the best prerequisites for being a mother. He suspected she berated herself constantly for leaving her children and for not being there for them now. He smiled sadly at her. In the months that they had been together, they had come to realise they really needed one another. Frankie needed to be softened and healed by Peter, and Peter, a dreamer, needed Frankie to steer him along in life. He’d been so lost since his marriage fell apart. Now, he decided, he had never been happier.

  Frankie looked up at him and saw the adoration in his eyes. She smiled at him and began to relax a little. ‘I’m sorry, Peter. It’s just, all these things Trudy is getting for nothing, after all the struggle the boys have gone through, barely getting a basic salary out of Harry. She just swans in and lives a luxurious life. How can she get away with such extravagance? Harry wouldn’t even let me paint the kitchen, even if I paid for it with my own money! I battled for years to get the extra sunroom put on, just so we could have a little light. I know I’m not the best homemaker, but I often think if I’d just been given a little bit more independence with the house the marriage could’ve worked. The place was so dark and depressing. No wonder Harry’s mother died an early death! Lack of vitamin D. If only I’d been able to feel like the house belonged to me.’

  Peter looked at her doubtfully. He knew she lived for her science and, house or no house, that meant the marriage was always doomed.

  Frankie sensed what Peter was thinking.

  ‘I’m sorry, you’re right. I think it’s just a case of pure jealousy.’

  ‘It’s understandable.’ They fell silent as Peter continued cooking in the kitchen and Frankie read on.

  Minutes later she groaned.

  ‘What?’ asked Peter as he stood up stiffly after peering into the tiny fridge.

  ‘Tom’s moved his gear out into the shearers’ quarters so Trudy can get on with her renovating and he doesn’t feel like he’s in the way.’

  Peter wrinkled his nose.

  ‘Those quarters are a mess!’ said Frankie. ‘Poor Tom.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a semi-permanent arrangement until the building is done,’ offered the flour-coated Peter.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so, but I worry so much about Tom. Kicked out of his own home.’

  ‘He’s an adult, Frankie. It must’ve been his decision. He’ll know what he’s doing.’

  ‘It’s all so, so … difficult. How on earth can Trudy stand living in the same house as her father-in-law has got me baffled! It drove me nuts when I was a newlywed and had to share the house with Harry’s dad, and I might add,’ said Frankie waving a glass in Peter’s direction, ‘Harry’s father was a … softer man. More considerate.’

  ‘It is a big house.’

  ‘Peter,’ said Frankie firmly and peered at him from across the top of her glasses, ‘that’s not the point.’

  ‘Now come on, Frankie, you’ve chosen to leave all those worries behind you.’

  ‘Yes. Yes I know, but it’s just … it’s just Tom. He must feel so alone. I wish I could phone him more often, but he’s never there. I only ever get Trudy or Harry and I can’t get a word out of Harry and I can’t get Trudy to shut up.’ Frankie sighed and continued to read the letter while Peter kneaded the floury lump in a large enamel bowl and swigged on his fingerprinted wineglass.

  ‘He says here the river’s in flood and they lost a few head of cattle on the river flats. The dogs are well and the horses are fat.’

  She fell silent as her eyes scanned over Tom’s letter.

  ‘Huh! Typical!’

  ‘What?’ said Peter as he ran his palms back and forth over the roll of dough.

  ‘He says his father won’t change his mind about Tom’s idea to get a centre pivot irrigator and put a dam in the hills. Bloody typical.’ Frankie continued. ‘He’s had a letter from Rebecca. She’s won a novice dog trial and took out a supreme championship ribbon with a Blue Plains ram at the wool expo.’ She looked up at Peter to explain. ‘That’s a big deal in sheep circles.’

  Peter peered under the lid of a steaming saucepan. ‘She must be doing well in her new job, then.’

  ‘Yes. I think she likes it and it’s made her settle down a bit and take on a bit of responsibility. She’ll have to get the hang of the self-discipline thing when she gets to uni.’

  ‘She’ll be okay.’ Peter said gently. ‘Don’t worry so much about her. She’ll be fine.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Frankie said to Peter. ‘I hope so,’ she repeated to herself and they both fell silent except for the rattle of the saucepan lid and the swoon of Neil Diamond singing softly on the stereo.

  ‘Oh bugger off, Henbury!’ said Peter suddenly. ‘He’s doing pooeys again.’

  Frankie hadn’t been used to a man calling farts ‘pooeys’, but she smiled as she put down Tom’s letter and sipped again on her wine. The cold flat wasn’t so cold now Peter was here each evening to warm it up with his kindness and muddle-headed cooking ability. She’d got used to the fact he kicked her out of the kitchen and bustled about in it with ‘delights’ and ‘delicacies’. She hadn’t been used to someone rubbing her feet tenderly or pushing her hair back out of her eyes. She was soaking up his sensitivity, his gentleness. At first it made her feel coarse and tough. She decided she’d had too many years as an on-farm vet, dagging around in overalls. Too many years suppressing her softness so she could stand strong against the backdrop of Harry and his mountains at Waters Meeting. The comfortable landscape of the city had allowed her to soften, to forget how hard it had been. Some nights, before Peter, she’d felt she missed the brash manliness of her husband, but now as she melted into the soft warmth of Peter she knew she was wrong to want the past again. She felt as though she had started to heal and that she was becoming herself again after all those wasted years. She felt love for Peter beginning to flow. But at night she still dreamed of the river. The river and her daughter. And Peter’s arms about her couldn’t stop the guilt and the fear she held for leaving her ch
ildren behind.

  CHAPTER 14

  Rebecca placed another trophy on the dusty windowsill of her bedroom and flicked away a dead blowfly.

  ‘Not another one!’ Dave stood in the doorway wearing Bundaberg Rum boxer shorts with polar bears all over them.

  ‘Moss. She won a novice trial.’

  ‘How’d Stubby go?’

  ‘She was all over the place – trialling’s not her thing. Dags is still my hero – we’ve now qualified for an open. Big show-off that he is.’

  ‘Takes after his owner,’ said Dave.

  Rebecca raised her middle finger at him. Dave responded by pushing his tongue down between his teeth and bottom lip and widening his eyes at her. She hurled a sandshoe at him. He ducked and ran down the hallway to the kitchen. From her pocket she pulled out an envelope and took three crisp $20 notes from it. She reached under her bed for a large Milo tin, then dropped the notes inside. The pile of colourful cash in there was mounting up. It was her college fund. Most of the money had come from the sale of pups, but after her successes at the trials she’d made good cash from service bookings for Dags. She was relieved when Moss at last came on heat. She had so many orders for pups she couldn’t keep up with supply. She joined Moss to Dags last week and was hopeful she’d have a large litter.

  Rebecca clamped the tin’s lid down and pushed it back under her bed. Then she stretched and wandered from her room into the kitchen. She tried to calculate what date the pups would be born.

  ‘Bugger,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ said Dave, as he stooped to light the gas grill.

  She stood flicking through the calendar on the wall. It was one of Dave’s booby-girl calendars. A thick black cross in texta marked the day when Rebecca started university. On the calendar, the blonde girl with breast implants pouted in her too-small bikini, as if sulking. It was as though the days were taking too long to pass and the booby-girl resented it.