‘Mossy’s pups are due smack bang in the first week I start college. I’ll have to write to the uni and ask if there’s some kind of arrangement we can come to so I can keep my dogs on campus.’
‘Don’t be barmy. You won’t be needing them for three years! Just shoot ’em.’
‘Dave, I hope you’re joking,’ said Bec as she looked up from the calendar. ‘Because if you’re not I’m going to have to ring Annabelle and tell her about her cat.’
‘What about her cat?’
‘About how you ran over it. Deliberately.’
‘Was not deliberate. I didn’t know the stupid thing was sleeping under my tyre.’
‘Yes, well, deliberate or not, you could’ve at least told her so she could bury it. She’s still out there every night calling its name. And we all know it’s been chucked in the creek.’ Bec cupped her hands to her mouth and in a high-pitched voice sung, ‘Minteeeeee! Here puss puss … MINTEEE!’
‘Shut up.’ Dave threw a mutton chop at Bec. It hit her in the face with a meaty splat and landed on the floor.
‘You dirtbag!’ She lunged for the chop. Chair legs squawked on lino as she pushed around the table and ran at Dave. Armed with a glass of water, he fended her off as she began to smear the chop in his hair. Their laughter and screams rang throughout the quarters. Floorboards vibrated and thumped on the wooden stumps of the house as they chased each other around the room.
Puffing hard, Rebecca eventually yelled, ‘Stop!’ and they fell silent. She looked up at Dave, smeared in fat and dripping wet. She’d missed him since she’d been on the show circuit and now she was back she knew she’d miss his gawky presence in her life when she moved on to college. She’d miss these quarters and the paddocks, people and horses she’d come to know and love. The day when she had to leave was racing towards her. She would have to pack up her life into boxes and load them on the ute. She’d have to pat the stockhorses goodbye. And kiss the cheeks of the ever-oily machinery men – she was dreading kissing Jimbo – and hug Bob and his wife Marg.
The year had rushed by in a blur of blade trimming, chaff mixing and horn polishing. What had seemed like forever on the road in the midst of a sheep show season had come to an abrupt halt after the big win in the west. They had ceremoniously pinned the supreme champion ribbon in a glass cabinet in the ram shed and packed off the gold and garish trophy to the city, where it now had prime position in the entrance to the AR Company headquarters.
Just then the UHF sitting on the fridge crackled to life and the room was filled with Bob’s voice.
‘Rebecca, are you on channel?’
‘Ooops!’ said Bec as she picked up the handpiece. ‘Yes Bob.’
‘The company PR lady’s flying in any minute now for the photo shoot. Have you got Alf all groomed for his champion photo?’
‘Yep. He’s ready to roll.’
‘And how are you looking?’
‘Why?’ she asked cautiously.
‘The board of directors want you in the shot too, so you’d better meet her at the air strip. You can take my vehicle. Bring her here to my place when you get her.’
‘Err right,’ said Rebecca as she looked down at her chop-smeared front and wet T-shirt.
Dave laughed as she ran for the shower.
On the red dusty airstrip a breeze cooled her neck as it blew through her damp hair. Rebecca looked up to the sky and watched the tiny AR plane fly past and then bank in a sweeping circle to the right. The pilot was going to land from the southern end. Rebecca had driven along the length of the strip to make sure no stray cattle were about and tooted the horn at the large brush turkeys which strutted about in the long yellow grass.
The plane pulled up beside the four-wheel drive and Murray, the pilot, shut down the engine.
‘G’day Bec,’ he called as he undid the door and let the steps down.
‘Hey Muzz. Good flight?’
‘Yeah, not bad.’ He walked down from the step and said something to the woman inside before going to the back of the aircraft to get her baggage.
Rebecca watched as the tall thin woman stepped from the aircraft, her thick black high heels landing solidly on the dusty airstrip. She held a black leather briefcase in her hand and squinted around distastefully at the flat barren airstrip, then she marched to the Landcruiser.
‘Ellen Tinker,’ said the woman, and offered Bec a wet-fish handshake.
‘Rebecca Saunders. Nice to meet you. Welcome to Blue Plains.’
The woman said thank you with a cat’s bum mouth and turned away to fix her hair in the vehicle’s side mirror. On the way back to the cluster of houses and sheds, Bec concentrated on driving through every dusty pothole on the road she could find, and enjoyed seeing Ellen Tinker’s bouffed hair react with a bounce to each bump. When they neared the green oasis of the homestead she braked suddenly, the tyres spitting gravel, and came to a halt beneath a leafy jacaranda tree. Ellen Tinker cast her a cool look as Rebecca led her to the back doorstep. Tiger, the resident Jack Russell, dropped a woolly lamb leg which still had the hoof attached from his mouth, and ran to scratch at the woman’s shapely gym legs.
‘Git out of it, Tiger,’ came a voice from the doorway. It was Marg.
‘Hello, Miss Tinker,’ said Marg, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
‘Ms,’ Ellen Tinker corrected.
In the cool of the kitchen, under a humming ceiling fan, Ellen Tinker spread out her documents, took up a neat notebook and poised a polished timber pen.
‘I’m to compile the annual report. I’ve been instructed to interview you about the winning ram for a brief article.’
Rebecca sighed a little and spun a teaspoon around in her hands before she began. She wanted to tell her the truth about showing sheep. She wanted to say, while she loved doing it, some of it was a wank. So outdated. Run by outdated notions from outdated people in the wool industry, clinging onto tradition. Terrified of change. She wanted to say that visual assessment of sheep should be backed by science, and that the marketing advantages for the company did not cover the cost of sending her around with a team of well-groomed, overfed rams. But she knew that most of the company bigwigs knew this and shows were exactly that … put on for show.
Instead she gave what Ellen Tinker wanted. She talked about Alf and his superb characteristics as a sire and how, here on Blue Plains, performance of his offspring would be recorded in their very own progeny-testing program in conjunction with the CSIRO. The words flowed from her and even impressed Ellen Tinker, whose cat’s bum mouth relaxed just a bit as she scribbled notes with her flashy pen. On the periphery of the interview, Marg worked about the kitchen, putting biscuits on plates and pushing a jug of milk and a tin of sugar towards Ellen. Ellen sipped at her black coffee, narrowed her eyes a little from the heat of it and nodded, urging Rebecca to expand on the purpose of the ram trial.
What Rebecca really wanted to say to Ellen Tinker was, ‘I saw this cute guy who’d won the junior judging – Jeremy – with eyes to die for. We both got completely maggotted-drunk at the sheep bar … that always sounds funny, don’t you think? Sheep baaa … sheep bar … get it? Anyway, then we kissed outside the back of the showground toilets and ended up bonking in hay in the AR ram truck. He was short, like me, and skinny, but so cute. Oh. And I saw Charlie Lewis at Marananga Show, and he’s absolutely gorgeous and I think I lerve him. And I think he’s got the hots for me.’
But instead she told Ellen Tinker she’d had a wonderful two years with Blue Plains and her time as a jillaroo and stud ram manager had given her a fantastic grounding in agriculture which was her chosen career path.
After the not-so-probing interview, Ellen Tinker-the-Stinker took her camera and her cat’s bum mouth out into the afternoon sunlight to take a photo of Rebecca and Alf against the golden-green backdrop of a sleepy peppertree.
Sunlight mingled with Rebecca’s freshly washed hair and draped itself, golden and thick, across the soft wrinkled face of Alf’s broad nose.
Even Ellen Tinker whispered, ‘Lovely’, as she looked at the pretty young woman and the handsome ram through the camera’s viewfinder. She pressed the shutter button down and Rebecca the jillaroo and Alf the ram were captured forever wrapped in Blue Plains sunshine.
CHAPTER 15
In the darkness of the cluttered office Harry slammed down the receiver of the telephone.
‘Bloody bank managers.’ He clenched his fist and punched at the filing cabinet, then stood looking across the sprawl of papers on the desk. In his mind Harry again counted the months until the wool cheque arrived. Sinking down into the office chair, he calculated in his head the number of fattened steers he could sell and guestimated what the prime lambs could make. Hay sales would be minimal because he wanted to keep enough on hand should the winter be a tough one. He added it up over and over, figures spinning and tallying, until he was sure the amount was too small. It would barely satisfy the big-bellied bank manager. He thought of Rebecca and the words she had flung at him.
‘You’re going to lose the lot.’
He rubbed his forehead on the scratchy woollen sleeve of his jumper. Sighing, he stood and walked down the hallway to the kitchen. He poured boiling water into the teapot which had been left sitting on the edge of the stove from breakfast, and reached for a mug. He was about to go into the sunroom when Trudy burst through the kitchen door. In her arms she held an express parcel which she had just picked up from the mailbox.
‘Oh! Hello, Harry! I thought you’d be out on the farm. There’s a stack of bills here for you.’ She tossed them on the table in front of him and then reached for some scissors in the drawer. She hastily cut open the parcel and pulled out a large packet of neatly plastic-wrapped curtains.
‘At last!’ she said in a shrill voice. ‘Look!’ She held up the folded flowery package.
‘Curtains for the spare room! I ordered them by catalogue. I just love shopping by catalogue … It’s a new phenomenon for me! It’s a benefit of living in the bush. And I got $100 off the price. They’ll look fabulous after the painters have been in. I’ve chosen the softest yellow, so it can double as a nursery later on.’ She giggled at the thought of the possibility of a baby in her very new marriage.
‘Trudy,’ said Harry in a voice he knew was too stern. She put down the curtains suddenly and looked wide-eyed at her father-in-law. He made an effort to soften his voice, ‘Has Mick talked to you about money?’ In one fluid motion she slumped onto a kitchen chair and began to pout slightly.
‘I don’t mind you spending your teacher’s salary on things you like, but you don’t have to spend your money on this house. It’s in good enough shape.’
‘Pah! It’s positively crumbling! Besides Mum and Dad have paid for the curtains. They have an account at the store. They don’t mind a bit. Mum said, “Whatever makes you happy”. And what I buy isn’t just to please me! It’s for Michael and you, too. Besides, it makes my parents feel good, helping me out with paying for the renovations.’
Harry set down the teapot and cup as if preparing to speak. Trudy looked at him.
‘I’ve been keeping a surprise for you,’ Trudy said, ‘but I suppose I’ll have to tell you now.’
She paused.
‘I’ve ordered a computer for your birthday. For the farm. For your book work. It’s got email and internet connections and even a photo scanner. There’s loads of games on it that you can –’
‘Trudy!’ exploded Harry. ‘Do you think this is a bloody game? This … all this.’ His arm swept about the kitchen and pointed out the window. ‘This bloody farming is no game. We don’t have money to spend on landscaping and redecoration or extensions and …’
‘But …’ Harry held a hand up to silence Trudy. ‘I certainly don’t want your parents’ money creeping in and buying my house out from under my nose. It’s not their place to spend money on a home that doesn’t belong to them. I won’t have it.’
He stopped himself and fell silent, trying to gauge the reaction he might get. He expected tears. The clock ticked.
Then it was as if Trudy shed a skin. Harry watched the layer of her public persona peel away. Her pout and her girlish sulks dissolved and her face took on a coldness and harshness that even Harry flinched at. She rose to her feet.
‘Now you listen,’ she said in her most stinging teacher’s voice. ‘Michael sweats every day on this farm. He gets up at dawn and comes in late every night, so that I never see him. He barely gets a weekend off while I slave in here cooking your bloody meals for you. Do you think we’re doing all that for you? Do you?’ Her fierce eyes bored into Harry and her mouth twisted with months of built-up resentment.
‘Well, we’re not. We’re not working hard for you. We’re working hard for us. Michael and me. He’s slaving so he and I will have a future. He’s the eldest son. He’s entitled to the farm … and to the house. And what my parents and I do with our money is none of your bloody business. We’ve been looking at plans for premade cabins so we can get you into a house of your own down near the river, instead of crowding us out. Dad’s already contracted a builder. We’re in a new marriage, for godsake, and you don’t even realise you’re just hanging on and hanging about.
‘Michael and I have discussed this and we’ve decided he should be getting a salary from the farm account until you retire. A salary that reflects his hours and his responsibility, not just the pitiful handouts you give him when you feel like it.’
Harry stood stock-still in front of her as she spoke. His mouth was hanging open in disbelief. This had never happened to him before. A woman, a girl, had never spoken to him in this way. Even Rebecca and Frankie hadn’t crossed the boundaries that Trudy had just marched over. She was so certain. There was a selfishness, a viciousness in her that he hadn’t known before. He leaned towards her, across the table and gritted his teeth as he spoke.
‘If you get this house, Trudy. If you get this farm, it’ll be over my dead body.’
She glared back at him. ‘Fine.’ She leaned closer. ‘So be it.’
Just then they heard Mick open the back door and kick off his boots.
‘I’m back. Put the kettle on!’
Trudy’s eyes, locked in a stare with Harry, softened and swelled with tears. She slumped her body down on the chair and began sobbing, her head in her arms, tears falling over the plastic wrap of the new floral curtains.
‘How dare you pension me out of my own house and stick me in a log cabin. Ungrateful bitch.’
Harry swiped the teapot and mug from the surface of the table. As they fell with a crash to the floor he strode out the door, violently bumping shoulders with Mick on the way.
CHAPTER 16
The metal nozzle of the drench-gun clunked against Rebecca’s teeth and a shot of liquid burned in the back of her throat. She swallowed quickly, her eyes focused on the flamboyant crest of the agricultural college. It was embroidered in tight yellow stitches on the rugby top of the large man standing in front of her. She wouldn’t look up to meet his eye. Roughly he grabbed her face again and gave her another drench for good measure. Head back, eyes shut tight, she swallowed the vile tasting liquid and felt it burn as it slid into her stomach. She looked across at another first year girl who whispered to her, ‘I’ve been told it’s laxatives in vinegar!’
‘Bummer,’ said Rebecca.
‘You’re not wrong,’ said the dark-haired girl who managed to flash an unsure smile.
They huddled in two lines, males paired off with females in the student carparking area, while stockwhips and utes revved around them. A band of second year boys, the biggest and thickest of the rugby players, tied the legs of the first-year students together with bale twine.
Throughout the new students’ orientation week, rumour had spread on campus that the second and third year students were gearing up for a wild initiation ceremony. Word had buzzed around about what might be done to them. Based on previous years, it could be rough. Today was the day Rebecca and her peers would find out
.
That morning, when car horns sounded, men shouted and stockwhips cracked outside their dorm windows, Bec felt a wave of excitement and anticipation run through the first-year students. New to each other and new to the college, the students were half dreading, half looking forward to the event as tales from previous years became more and more stretched.
‘Feels like we’re being herded to the gas chamber,’ Rebecca said to the tall man standing next to her.
‘It’s probably the start of a drinking game … you know, like a boat race.’ He was trying to reassure her and himself that the ceremony would be fun.
A square-jawed student with eyebrows that ran across the top of his eyes in a thick dark line shoved Bec next to the man she’d just spoken to. He bent and tied their legs together with orange bale twine.
She looked down at her brown leg next to the bloke’s long skinny white leg. He was wearing a pair of faded Can’t-Tear-’Em shorts with a tear in them and the bristles of his hairy legs scratched against her skin.
‘Seeing as I’m tied to you, we’d better introduce ourselves,’ Bec said, looking up at him.
‘I’m Richard, but most people call me Dick. Dirt-track Dick.’
‘Hi Dick, I’m Rebecca but you can call me Bucket.’ They shook hands.
‘Where do you hail from Dick?’
‘The Territory.’
‘Oh!’ said Bec, widening her eyes as she thought of red dust and wide spaces.
‘Yeah,’ he continued, ‘the Australian Capital Territory,’ and then he laughed.
‘You mean Canberra?’
‘Mmm. Not the coolest place to come from when you’re an ag student.’ He was about to ask her where she was from but the square-jawed student shoved them roughly forwards.
The first years lolloped in a row, legs tied to their random partners, towards the college tennis courts. Some sung ‘Jake the peg diddle liddle liddle lum’ while others put arms around their partner’s waist and counted so their legs moved in time and the bale twine rubbed less. Others mooed like cows or let out long mournful ‘baaaas’ in response to the stockwhips and the heckling second- and third-year students.
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