Jillaroo

by Rachael Treasure

  Locked in the high mesh of the tennis court, Bec watched a ute roar up to the fence. A boy with a shock of blond hair pulled the cord of the pump unit on the ute’s flat tray so the motor grumbled into life. Water spluttered out of the hose nozzle in a high-powered jet. It hit Rebecca in cold stinging blasts. When she looked about at the huddling group she saw they were all splattered and speckled in red dye.

  A small girl with straight blonde hair tied in a navy bow cried out, ‘Oh! This is my good shirt!’ She held out the front of her floral blouse and shook her ribboned ponytail.

  ‘Get over it,’ said a boy from the centre of the huddle.

  The sun-bleached ends of Bec’s wavy hair soaked up the dye in an instant and her hair turned a pinky red.

  As the rabble of second and third year students unlocked the gates, the crowd of first years collectively sighed with relief.

  ‘That wasn’t too bad,’ said Dick. ‘Suppose it’s time to go to the bar.’

  ‘The laxatives were a bit rough,’ said Bec.

  But as they emerged from the tennis courts, they found the ceremony was far from over.

  ‘This is like frigging Lord of the Flies,’ said Bec, as they were herded onto the football oval and made to sit in a group on the short, damp grass.

  Before them stood a bathful of stinking, slopping pig manure, and the man with the dark eyebrow yelled the rules of the obstacle course.

  The course had been built from black plastic and hay bales and inside the tunnel, on the warm plastic surface, lay a smeared scattering of sheep’s offal, collected that morning from the abattoir.

  The dark-haired girl leaned towards Rebecca and whispered, ‘I heard they’ve pissed and crapped in that.’

  ‘Gross,’ Rebecca said.

  They dragged each pair, one at a time, and took them to the start of the course. Rebecca and Dick were fourth in line. After they were dunked in the bath of pig manure, they were dragged to the entrance of the black plastic tunnel. A boy pushed them down to the ground. On all fours, crawling in pairs, they squelched their way through the stinking offal. Some girls retched, others cried.

  Rebecca thought back to the times she’d done a kill on Blue Plains and dragged the heavy offal into the bucket. She pictured Miss Oink and held her breath. This was all part of ag college, Bec tried to reassure herself.

  As she emerged from the other end of the tunnel she looked back towards the group of first years. A handful of the boys were trying to wrestle away from their captors. They were quickly swamped by second- and third-year boys and roughly tied with thick ropes to the circular fence of the oval. Then they were smeared with thick watery flour.

  Stockwhips continued to crack around them. The chants, badgering and bullying, spiralled upwards as each pair were systematically force-fed pies filled with cat food and warm beers mixed with dog food.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ whispered the girl with the short dark hair to Bec. Both stood covered in the gritty green slime of pig manure, shivering a little, trying to lay low. Trying not to stand out so they wouldn’t get picked on.

  ‘Out of control,’ said Bec.

  Dirt-track Dick repeatedly asked, ‘Are you all right?’ and Rebecca repeatedly answered, ‘Sure,’ but wondered if she was.

  The faces of her young peers swum around her. She could tell some of the girls weren’t standing up to the ceremony at all well and a few were crying uncontrollably.

  ‘I’d heard college was rough. But this is way off the scale,’ she said to Dick. She shook her head. ‘I’ve had enough of this.’

  She stooped to undo the twine with cold and shaking hands.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Dick nervously. ‘Don’t attract attention. Who knows what they’ll do to us.’

  ‘Stuff this for a joke.’ She undid the twine and stood upright and proud. She began to walk towards the college dorms on the hillside. A tall young man wearing a college jumper stepped in front of her.

  ‘Just where do you think you’re going, big tits?’

  ‘Piss off,’ she said. He grabbed her arms and shoved her back towards the group. ‘The ceremony hasn’t finished yet.’

  ‘Get your hands off me.’ Rebecca wrenched herself free of his grip.

  ‘Oooo! We’ve got a tough one here,’ he said to the other students who began to gather round.

  ‘Get out of my way.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere, big tits,’ the tall boy said, standing over her and folding his arms across his chest. In one quick movement she kneed him hard in the crotch and he doubled over. Agony twisted his face.

  She pushed past him and strode off towards the dorms.

  The crowd of shocked and cold first years cheered loudly as they watched Rebecca walk away. Their cheers were drowned out with cracking whips as the second and third years sought control.

  But Rebecca had shifted the power slightly. Silently the first year students began to stoop and untie the twine around their ankles. They ignored the rough yells and bustles of their captors and silently, en masse, freed themselves and walked away.

  In the row of shower bays, Rebecca stood shivering in her filthy clothes with her hand under the stream of water.

  ‘They’ve turned the hot water off!’ Her words echoed around the large, empty bathroom.

  Bec peeled the stinking clothes from her reddened skin and threw them into the rubbish bin. She gasped as she stepped under the blast of cold water. Bits of grime ran down her skin and into the gurgling plug hole. She scrubbed her body with soap as hard and as fast as she could but found the water unbearably cold. She stood away from the jet of water and tried to shampoo her hair. She was surprised she didn’t feel like crying. She just felt an anger settle in her. An anger towards the ringleaders of the group. An anger towards the men.

  As she tugged at her hair, the girls’ bathroom began to fill with the chatter of the female students as they filed in from the oval. They recounted their ordeal and swore at the coldness of the running water. The smell of pig poo mingled with the perfume of soaps and shampoos.

  On cool red tiles, Rebecca stood shivering in her towel and combed her still gritty hair in the mirror.

  The dark-haired girl came out of the shower bay, wrapped in a blue towel. Her square-set shoulders were white and slim.

  ‘Ahh, the revolution leader!’ she said when she saw Rebecca. ‘We all walked away after you left. Thanks for that.’

  ‘Well, stuffed if I was taking any more of that bullcrap.’

  ‘Don’t you mean pigcrap?’

  Rebecca laughed as the girl muttered on, ‘Pack of mongrels. There’s a group of girls going to the principal to complain. Apparently it’s the worst initiation ceremony ever. Heads will roll over this one.’

  ‘Other things will roll too … I wonder when the laxatives will kick in,’ said Bec.

  ‘Did you know we’ve got a bus tour to a piggery in the morning?’ said the girl. ‘Can you believe that!’

  Bec laughed and held her arm up to her nose. ‘I can still smell pig poo in the pores of my skin.’

  ‘Better flush it out with rum then! Come on, let’s get dressed and get going to the bar. They’re having $2 rums and I think we’d better get schlammered so we can get over the trauma of it all!’

  She turned and walked to the door of the bathroom. ‘I’m Gabs by the way. Short for Gabrielle. But most people call me Scabs.’

  They smiled into each other’s eyes and shook hands.

  ‘Rebecca. Bucket. I’ll meet you in the common room in half an hour.’

  On the bus the next day with a pounding head and a gurgling stomach, Rebecca sat in a daze. She barely remembered the night before. She had never been so drunk, nor so terribly hungover. She remembered swinging Dirt-track Dick around by the arm with Gabs on the dance floor. And she vaguely recalled trying to steal one of the college buses with a large pretty-faced girl called Emma so they wouldn’t have to go on the tour. But there they all were on the bus now. Emma was sitting, pale-fa
ced, her forehead pressed against the cool window of the bus, staring out to the paddocks whirring past. Dick was up the back with some newfound mates still carrying on as if they were drunk. The mood of the first years was forced though. They were trying to put the memory of yesterday’s bullying behind them.

  Despite this morning’s shower before the tour, Rebecca could still smell pig manure, and her stomach burned. Gabs hung her elbows over the back of Rebecca’s seat and continued her husky monologue. She’d strained her voice last night from singing loudly to every song which came on the jukebox.

  ‘They’re having a full inquiry this week. They’ll be hauling us all into the principal’s office to identify the ringleaders from photos in last year’s yearbook. And they’re going to expel the main bullies from the uni. Serves them bloody right. Karen, you know that short fat girl from block D, she was carted off to hospital last night. She’s really crook from the pig poo. And there’s a couple of girls who’ve packed up and left the course for good. It even made the local news. The staff are crapped off to the max.’

  ‘Speaking of crap …’ said Rebecca, clinging to her stomach.

  ‘Stop the bus again!’ called out Gabs to the lecturer driving the bus.

  ‘Yes!’ called Emma suddenly. ‘Can we stop the bus again?’

  As the driver shifted down a gear, making the bus sway, Gabs rubbed Rebecca on the top of the head. Rebecca looked up at her and they smiled at one another. After a hellish day and their first night out together on the Bundy, they’d bonded. Friends.

  Ag college can’t get any worse than this, Rebecca thought as she grabbed for the roll of toilet paper in her rucksack and made her way off the bus.

  CHAPTER 17

  ‘There’s an email message here for you,’ called Charlotte from the reception desk as she chewed on the end of a pen. Frankie walked briskly down the corridor.

  ‘For me?’ She frowned. She never got emails.

  ‘Looks like it’s from your son.’

  ‘My son?’

  ‘Tom.’

  Charlotte stood and offered her the chair. The text flashed up on the screen. Frankie smiled when she saw it and she began to read:

  Hi Mum! Tom here. Guess what!??? Waters Meeting has made it to the modern world and we now have a computer with access to the internet and email. Of course telecommunications still can’t conquer these mountains so the line does drop out a lot and it’s still fairly costly and slow. (You’d better close your mouth, because I know your jaw would’ve dropped by now.) Of course Dad didn’t pay for the computer. It’s a Turdy-funded project, at least it’s funded by her parents. But it’s great. It means I can converse with the wild child who is currently educating herself at ag college. She’s got email there too, so I’ve included her address at the top. (She’ll get this message as well.) You should drop her a line before she drops out. I think the grog monster is eating up a lot of her study time. (She’ll love reading that!)

  I’m still living in the quarters. It’s not so cold now we’re heading into spring. But it’s still colder than ever inside the homestead. There’s a very frosty war going on in there between Dad and Mick and Turdy. I think it all started over some curtains. Turdy’s parents have installed a prefabricated log cabin amongst the gums in the horse paddock – they say it’s for them when they come to stay, but Turdy let it slip that it’s the retirement village for old farts like Dad. Needless to say the ripples have turned into tidalwaves. I often go in for a surf by saying stuff like, ‘I’ll move into the cabin!’ Stony silence and glares are the usual replies. Don’t mind me. I’m just the log, jammed in the river with all the water rushing past. Shearers’ quarters are fine for me. It’s just not very private at shearing time. Oh well. Enough of my woes. Email us back soon … By the way … this is a shared address … so keep it clean. Don’t want to upset Turdy-girl.

  Lots of love, Tom

  PS Bess and Stinky say hello, as does Hank.

  PPS I’ve been sneaking over here during my sleepless nights and have been putting all the financial records onto a great agricultural business program. Dad hasn’t got a clue. I even sneak Bess in and she lies on my feet to keep them warm. No doubt Turdy will notice dog hairs any day now. Needless to say the books do not look any better, even on a computer screen!

  PPPS This message will self-destruct in 30 seconds.

  Frankie read the message again and smiled.

  ‘Good news?’ asked Charlotte as she hung a handful of new cat collars on silver hooks.

  ‘Not really. I’m just so glad to hear from him in this way. Glad he’s using a computer.’

  ‘Email’s great, isn’t it?’ Charlotte reached into the box for some more collars.

  ‘Tom’s such a clever lad,’ said Frankie, staring at the words on the screen. ‘He’s never had a computer lesson in his life, and here he is mastering it in a matter of weeks.’

  ‘A shame he’s never got off the farm much to come and see you in the city,’ said Charlotte, as she thought of the day he’d sauntered in here looking for his mother. All shy and farmerish. Blond and gorgeous.

  ‘Mmmm,’ said Frankie and she felt herself stiffen. Was it her fault her son was trapped? Too afraid of life outside the comfort of the mountains? Too afraid to tell his father he was leaving? Frankie couldn’t help but blame herself. She knew Tom had an artistic brilliance that was untapped. It seemed to brew beneath the surface of his quiet character. It bubbled there, a frustration that never came out. She was sure that’s what brought on his moods. Lord knows where the artistic talent came from. The teachers at school had recognised it, and urged Frankie to encourage her son. But it had all got too hard. It was so hard juggling the job and the kids and Harry’s silent yet somehow violent moods.

  She remembered the day she’d suggested sending Tom in on the bus to after-hours art classes. Harry had looked at her as if she were half mad. He’d muttered, ‘Stupid bloody woman,’ and stomped off. Frankie knew Harry wasn’t going to let his sons chase their dreams. Harry had himself been forbidden a life of dream-chasing away from the farm. He was damned if he would let his boys have the chance.

  Charlotte’s voice jolted Frankie to the present. ‘Why hasn’t he ever left the farm?’

  ‘Not sure, Charlotte. Not sure …’

  She really didn’t want to answer Charlotte’s question. Then she cursed herself for not facing the truth. What could she say? That her son was so dominated by his father that he was too afraid to leave? That Harry had never paid Tom much of a wage for his work so he always used the excuse that he never had any money? Frankie felt a vast distance from Tom. A distance so great that she barely knew him – her own son. All she knew was that he was the child she had hurt the most when she drove away from the homestead, putting her job first, her career in front of her kids, escaping her husband and the difficult life of domesticity in that huge, dark, isolated house. She sighed and looked at her watch.

  ‘What time was that cat coming in for its stitch removal?’

  Charlotte looked up from where she squatted on the reception floor. ‘Three. There’s still time for you to type back a quick message and send it. I’ll show you how.’

  ‘That’d be great, Charlotte. Thank you.’

  As Charlotte leaned across her and took over the mouse, Frankie tried to picture the computer in the dark office at Waters Meeting. It would be jammed in between the piles of old newspapers and phone books. She imagined Harry circling it suspiciously and growling at it like an aggressive dog. She found herself smiling at the image.

  When Charlotte moved away from the screen Frankie straightened her back and began to type, ‘To my darling son, Tom. I’ve been so worried about you.’ She sat. Looked at the words she had written, then reached for the mouse and wiped the screen blank. Instead she typed, ‘Hi Tom, Mum here. Cat coming in now, will write again soon. Mum XXX.’

  Frankie hit ‘send’ and walked out of the reception area into the surgery. Feeling cold, she pulled her white coat ar
ound her and shivered a little. The steel of the surgical instruments were ice on her fingertips and it made her feel even colder. She longed for the phone to ring. For Peter’s warm voice to melt the coldness that had settled around her heart. She heard the door of the surgery open and a cat meow. Her next appointment had arrived.

  CHAPTER 18

  As she stood behind the leggy Holstein cow, Rebecca felt the wave of its muscle contractions move tightly along her arm until a waft of methane and cow manure escaped and bubbled close to her ear.

  ‘I hate being short sometimes,’ she said to the lecturer. The quiet Holstein cow hung her head in the crush and braced herself against Rebecca’s arm as she felt along the warm slimy wall of the cow’s bowel. The cow flicked her tail so that it made high-pitched ‘tings’ against the metal of the crush.

  ‘Now can you feel along the base of the bowel wall until you find a firm area?’ asked Ross Harman as he leaned on the crush. ‘What you’re feeling through the bowel is the reproductive tract. Do you think you’ve located the cervix?’

  Rebecca’s fingertips ran over the firm rippled surface of the cervix. ‘Yes. I think so.’

  ‘If you slide your hand to the left and right you can feel the horns of the uterus. This is how we can determine if the cow is pregnant. Feel it.’

  Rebecca bit her bottom lip as she concentrated on what her fingertips felt inside the cow.

  The crowd of students watched from the fence with long rubber gloves in hand, waiting for their turn.

  ‘I think I’ve found both.’

  ‘Good. Now scoop the cervix up gently with your hand and have a practice with the AI gun.’

  Gabs was standing by with the dummy-straws of semen and she loaded the slim silver gun as they’d learned in the lecture hall. She handed it to Rebecca who inserted its tip into the vagina of the cow.