He shut the laundry door and swept the porch with three quick sweeps, then lent the broom against a cobweb-covered wall.
Walking to the yard he sung out, ‘G’up, g’up, g’up.’
Hank raised his head with hay still protruding from his mouth and Ink Jet began to stroll over from the trough, her head hanging low to the ground but her ears pricked forward.
Walking towards the black mare Harry said softly, ‘Whey girl. Whey Stinky.’ He ran his hand over her neck and dust rose from her coat.
Hanging the reins over her neck he pulled the bit into her mouth and looped the bridle over her neat black ears which flickered nervously. It had been almost a year since she’d been handled. She flinched slightly when Harry threw the crusty, stiff stock saddle on her back, but she stood when he tightened the girth.
He sat heavily in the saddle as he rode towards the river, feeling the quick step of the mare. He felt his muscles and his heart ache. It had been years since he’d been on a horse. It had been years since he’d allowed any feeling at all – since before Frankie left … since the day his father died. Harry felt the ghosts of his family members all about him. They breathed down his shirt collar in the draughty hallway and they banged things in the machinery shed when his back was turned. Sometimes in the still of the morning he thought they were all dead. Not just Tom. All of them. Mick, Frankie, Rebecca, all gone to dust. It took him months to shake the madness of his son’s death from his head. But during the cold winter, once the alcohol had dissipated from his system, he had begun to stand a little taller. To put his life back on some sort of slow steady track. Somehow he thought he would make it up to Tom.
He crossed the flowing river. Winter snowmelt further up in the mountain range had brought it to life. Rain had brought a luminous green tinge to the valley, but there hadn’t been follow-up showers. The grass seed and clover burr had shot out green hopeful stems, but bitter frosts and winds were beginning to kill off the hopes of spring.
Along the track, ducking below recently cracked and sagging branches, Harry rode, trying to get the feeling of his son. He looked for some sign of Tom, who had travelled this track months before. Perhaps the faded wrapper of something dropped accidentally from his horse as he rode. He saw nothing but a scattering of leaves in the dry understory of rain-starved bush. On the slopes the trees thickened and grew taller, leafier. On the rise they thinned out and the landscape became twisted with chilled, windblown snowgums.
Harry looked about for red hides and listened for the crack of sticks in the bush. Since Tom had turned them out in the bush, hoping they’d survive the drought, the breeding cows would’ve wandered far into the gullies in search of food. They could even have already taken themselves up to the high country run in search of the fresh green pick that would be emerging from beneath the melting snow. The cows were the only herd left on the property since the drought. It would be a hard job to find them and even harder to gather them without a dog. Harry sighed. After Tom’s funeral Rebecca had taken Bessie, the only dog left on the place.
Rightly so, thought Harry. Rightly so. He recalled with shame the day he’d taken the gun in a drunken rage and shot all the dogs on their chains. He shook from his head the hideous memory of Mardy lying bleeding in the dust. He had to be strong and make amends. He tried to concentrate on where the cattle might be. They wouldn’t be on this side of the ridge, not after such a severe drought. His father had told him that. The old man’s voice filled his head now.
‘In a good season, you’ll find them on the north-facing slope if anywhere. But if it’s been dry, head down into the gullies towards Heaven’s Leap. You’ll find them there.’
‘Don’t question me, boy,’ his father had always said. Harry thought back to when he was a young child. Trying hard not to cry when his father had sat him high on a huge cob horse. His father had laughed.
‘Can’t see much cattleman in you, boy.’ His father had been hard. So hard. Sometimes Harry felt a lump rise to his throat when he thought that his father loved his old dog and horses more than his only child. As a young man Harry had battled the cocktail of emotions for his father – admiration, love, hatred and despair all rolled into one confused mess. With agonising guilt Harry realised he had repeated the pattern with his children. No wonder Tom had been crushed. If only his father had taught him how to love. Harry spat and rode on.
He planned to camp the night in the hut and then get an early start on the plain. It could take him weeks to find the cattle. Harry stretched in the saddle and felt the muscles tingle along his spine and his hips crack with pain. He now wished he had packed a flask of whiskey. But he knew he had to dry out. Had to keep things going.
He thought of his children as he rode. They normally gathered the run. Tom and Rebecca. They were the stockmen, so much like his dad, thought Harry. His dad, the old bastard.
Half a kilometre before Harry reached the hut, fat drops of rain plopped onto his hat brim and soaked into Ink Jet’s coat, forming tiny rivers which trickled down her legs to her fetlocks. Through a sheet of rain he saw the hut. He could see smoke from the chimney. Tom had lit the fire.
When he rode closer he saw it wasn’t smoke at all. Just mountain mist.
After she was unsaddled, Ink Jet backed her tail into the wall of the shed and let the rain fall on her. She held her ears back as the rain landed on the dry patch where the saddle had been.
Harry threw down the saddle onto the verandah and took off his hat and coat, hanging them on a nail. The door was neatly latched with a chain and piece of wire. Tom had looped it securely. Harry’s wet, reddened hands trembled as he struggled with the wire. His breath came in short gasps.
As he entered the hut it was so dark he couldn’t see much at first. Then he noticed something hanging from the low beams in the corner. A dark shape. His heart skipped a beat and he clung to the door.
It was just an old sack. An old hessian bag with some salt for the cattle. It hung on a wire hook. Tom must’ve hung it there.
So dark were the rain clouds outside, Harry lit a candle and sat it on top of the black, cold potbelly stove.
‘Good boy,’ he said as he noticed the neatly piled kindling, wood and newspaper.
‘You were such a good boy.’ Harry put his hand over his eyes as he remembered how much Tom had done to try to please him. How much he had tried to fit in as the farmer’s son. How much he had given up … that gift of art. The gift passed down from Harry’s mother. Suffering silently. Both of them. If only Harry had said he loved him. If only he’d said it once to his child.
Squatting at the already set fire, Harry felt tempted not to light it. Tom’s hands had placed the sticks there, just like that. But a chill ran down his spine and he flicked the match so it fizzed and burned. The stove woke, sighed and began to murmur and then to roar.
In the corner of the room was Tom’s swag, rolled neat and covered with a fine layer of dust. Harry ran his fingers along the straps, then quickly undid the buckles and rolled it out. Stripping down to his underwear, Harry flipped back the canvas and climbed into the swag. He pulled the cold dirty sheets and grey gritty blanket over his shoulders. He was arranging the crumpled pillow when he felt something beneath his hand. He pulled out a threadbare, furless teddy bear. Its glass eyes caught the flicker from the candle which stood on an old tea-chest by the bed. Shocked, Harry put the bear back inside the pillowcase.
As he lay his head there and breathed in the smells of Tom, an aching belly wail came from his open mouth. He shut his eyes and saw the little boy, running towards him in the sheep yards, dragging the teddy in the dust. Harry’s shuddering wails crept up through the shingles and through the tin and merged with the mountain wind which whipped the trees and moaned through the night.
In the morning, barely comforted by the cool light, Harry stooped to put on his boots and grabbed the post to steady himself. His fingertips dipped into the grooves of newly carved wood. Peering at the post in the dimness of the hut he saw th
e last marks Tom had left in this life. The last marks, except for the angry red slashes on the roof of the car. Through a fresh welling of tears Harry stared at the initials until finally he saw what he needed to do.
He went out in the dawn and set about saddling the horse to muster the cattle so he could bring them to the lowlands for drenching before he sent them back to the plains with a bull.
Behind him the hut seemed to sigh over his shoulder. It should have been Harry who had died next in this line of cattlemen. Not Tom. History was out of whack.
CHAPTER 34
Rebecca was in Mrs Lewis’s kitchen handing her the mail when the call came through.
‘Bec! Dad! Fire! The header’s sparked a fire!’
The panic in Charlie’s voice scared her. In an instant she grabbed the radio handpiece. Mrs Lewis rushed forward and stood by her side.
‘Got you, Charlie, I’ll call the brigade.’
‘Hurry,’ was all he said.
She switched channels and put the handpiece to her mouth. ‘Yarella base. Yarella base, are you on channel?’
‘Receiving,’ came the voice of Mrs Chapel.
‘This is Parkside base. We’ve got a fire in the crop on the eastern road. We need trucks urgently.’
‘Just a sec, I think Bill’s in the machinery shed.’
Bec gritted her teeth and impatiently said off the airwaves, ‘Hell.’
Mrs Lewis folded her arms across her chest. Within seconds Bill Chapel was on channel, talking from the two-way in his ute.
‘Rebecca, I got all that … We’ll be with you as soon as possible.’
‘Roger that. Switching to channel nine now,’ Rebecca said, hooking up the handpiece and turning the channel dial. She glanced at Mrs Lewis. ‘Charlie’s got a water tank on the ute and three spray packs. We’d better get going and help him. He’ll need a driver.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Lewis backing away, ‘I don’t normally go to fires. Someone needs to stay by the phone.’
‘But Mr Lewis is away on the contracting job! Charlie’ll need us! They can reach us by radio.’
In her kitchen, Mrs Lewis stood her ground.
‘Fine, let the crops burn. Just make sure you’ve packed the sandwiches,’ said Rebecca quietly before running from the house. She pulled on her boots and roared away in the Toyota.
On the horizon she could see a huge, black, billowing cloud rising up in a column into a blue sky. As she neared the paddock, orange flames spread out in a dancing line beneath a curtain of black and grey smoke. There was Charlie, hopelessly spraying at the flames with a backpack. The stubble crackled and roared as wind fanned the flames towards the unharvested crop. She parked the ute where she thought it would be safe and ran towards Charlie’s vehicle with the spray unit. She felt the hot wind gust around her face, blowing her hair across her eyes.
‘Oh my God!’ she said when she realised the huge heading machine that had started the fire could burn if the wind swung round.
‘The header!’ she screamed at Charlie and ran over the rough-surfaced paddock as fast as she could. In the cab she lifted the comb before driving the machine quickly over the paddock. Once she’d parked it next to the ute, she again ran towards Charlie’s vehicle which had the water tank and pump on the back.
‘I’ll drive!’ she yelled as she ran. Charlie followed. He dumped the heavy plastic backpack onto the tray of the ute and ripped at the pump’s starter cord. Leaping on the tray he banged on the roof as a signal for Bec to drive to the edge of the fire’s front. Holding the nozzle firmly he sprayed a jet of water onto the fire, where the flames instantly died down to reveal a swathe of blackened, scorched ground.
They edged their way along the front but Bec could see they were losing the battle. The fire was spreading to the north and racing to the east. By the time two of the brigade trucks rolled in, a lot of the crop was burning. But as several more trucks arrived, Rebecca was flooded with relief. The radio in the cab was alive with urgent voices.
‘There’s a bore five hundred metres from the gate to the east. You can refill there,’ came one voice.
‘We’ve just arrived, Charlie. Where do you need us?’ came another voice. Rebecca grabbed for the handpiece.
‘We need a truck on that northern side,’ said Bec into the radio. ‘There’s a track there. We can stop it there.’
Men in orange overalls clambered over the backs of the trucks and started jets of water from hoses. Others drove up in farm utes and began to bash at the fringes of the fire with wet bags.
When the water ran out in the tank on Charlie’s ute a man volunteered to drive it to the bore to refill it. Gratefully, Bec jumped from the ute and she and Charlie slung on the heavy water backpacks. They worked side by side, squirting water at the line of crackling flame that danced forward frighteningly fast with every gust of wind. Flame licked at the yellow stubble, burned it orange and then left a wake of smouldering blackness. Willy-willys spun madly across where the fire had been and picked up fine slivers of black grass which disintegrated and smeared on their sweating faces. Charlie looked at Bec. She knew he was about to ask if she was okay.
‘This is the hottest date I’ve ever been on,’ she joked, trying to allay any concerns he may have for her. Charlie’s face relaxed a little and a smile came to his lips. They felt they were winning a little now help was here.
Suddenly the warm breeze swung around and, before Bec and Charlie could run, smoke swamped them. Bec felt tears streaming down her face. Both of them ran, trying to find air. Clean air somewhere. All around was a haze. They made their way through the smoke towards a red truck.
‘Need a lift?’ said a cheeky voice and Rebecca and Charlie gratefully leapt on board.
‘You alright, love?’ asked a tubby man with an upturned nose.
‘Yep,’ said Bec. ‘Fine.’ She pressed her fingertips into her stinging eyes.
The truck moved steadily along the front as the tubby man pointed a blast of water at the snaking line of flames. As Bec clung to a rail on the truck’s side, she could see that at least eight trucks were all battling at the fringes of the fire.
‘Thank God. I think the wind’s dropping,’ said Charlie as he watched. It was now swinging back across the flames which settled the fire to a slow trickle across the stubble. In the distance, a tractor from the Chapels’ property was hurtling down the road with a cultivator hitched to the back. Bec watched it coming. As it drove into the crop the driver of the big Deutz tractor dropped a few revs before lowering the cultivator to the ground. It drove ahead of the flames, turning the red earth into a broad firebreak.
With the wind changing and then finally falling still, the panic amidst the men lulled. The flames died down and trucks lumbered around, mopping up spots which still smoked.
As the haze began to clear the trucks eventually congregated on the fringes of the blackened earth. The firefighters, some sitting on the edge of flat tray utes, others leaning from the backs of the fire trucks, gathered to take stock of how much had burned and who had turned out to fight the blaze. With the panic over, the gathering evolved from an emergency into a social event. Charlie, still shocked by the suddenness of the fire, was taking in the moment. ‘It could’ve been a lot worse,’ the men told him. He was enjoying the taunts and the rough comfort offered by the men.
But his demeanour changed when Mr Lewis drove into the paddock and along the stretch of blackened earth.
‘’Bout time you showed up,’ joked Mr Chapel.
Mr Lewis stepped from the vehicle looking red-faced and worried. ‘How much crop did we lose?’ he asked Charlie.
‘I’d say a couple of hundred hectares.’
‘Stop panicking,’ said Mr Chapel, ‘it could’ve been worse.’ Mr Chapel slapped a hand on top of Charlie’s shoulder.
‘These two young ’uns did good for you, mate. No need for you to come rushing home.’
‘No need, was there, Bill?’ said Mr Lewis with a smile as he turned towards his vehicle
. He pulled a slab of beer across the bench seat.
‘Well, you old devil,’ said Bill Chapel happily.
Mr Lewis tore at the beer box and pulled out the plastic-wrapped six packs. He handed each man a cold brown stubby. When he handed Rebecca a beer he kept his face straight. Not even a smile. She felt the sting – she was not supposed to be here. Charlie noticed his father’s disapproval. He moved closer to her and wiped at the smudges of soot which covered her face.
‘Thanks for moving the header, Bec,’ he said so his father could hear. ‘If you hadn’t, we would’ve lost it and much more of the crop.’
She smiled back and sipped the froth away from the lip of the bottle.
Rebecca was swigging on her second beer when a car tossed up dust along the strip of red road. In the passenger seat, sunk down low like a child, sat Mrs Lewis, while Marjorie Chapel drove. When the car stopped, the women got out and, without a word, pulled thermoses and a basketful of sandwiches from the car boot. The two ladies trod carefully through the unburned wheat stubble and handed around the sandwiches.
Rebecca was sitting on the edge of the ute dangling her legs and talking dogs to one of the men when Mrs Lewis offered her a sandwich. She wiped some beer from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, took the white bread between black fingers and said, ‘Oh! Thank you very much.’
Mrs Lewis’s silence and dark look said it all. Rebecca pushed back her cap and ran her fingers through her smoky smelling hair.
Stuff it, she thought.
In the shower that night, as Charlie rubbed a face washer roughly over the back of Rebecca’s neck, she said, ‘This … me … being here. At your place. It just isn’t working, is it?’
Charlie’s stopped scrubbing. When she turned to look at his face and saw the hurt in his eyes, all she could do was hold him.
CHAPTER 35
From inside the carport Charlie watched. He liked the way she smoothed her strong tanned hands and fingers over the ears and faces of each dog. A tinge of jealousy perhaps. She would never leave her dogs, thought Charlie bitterly.
Jillaroo Page 23