by Alison Lloyd
‘Hey! You want me to stay, do you?’ Jem sat down. He scooped the puppy into his lap. The mother didn’t seem to mind. Jem leaned back into a mound of straw. The puppy wasn’t a newborn – maybe a couple of months old, Jem guessed. He stroked it and smelt its rich, furry smell. It was the same good smell as the Old Girl. Jem squeezed his eyes shut against his tears. The puppy sighed. Jem tucked the blanket around them both. He could feel the puppy breathing in and out against his belly. The warmth of the mother lay over his feet.
Jem wasn’t alone anymore and he wasn’t so cold.
‘Puppy,’ he whispered, ‘I’m going to beat the Captain, somehow.’
He fell asleep.
3
Jem woke up next morning to puppy breath on his face.
‘Ugh, stink!’ he grumbled.
The puppy perked its ears and looked extremely pleased. Nose-to-tail it was about as long as Jem’s arm. But it still had a roly-poly tummy and big puppy paws, which it plonked on Jem’s hair. ‘Ouch!’ Jem got his hair loose.
He had his first day of work at the station ahead of him. The best thing for him to do was knuckle down, earn his money, and wait for his chance against the Captain.
The stable door opened. An arm of light reached for them. Jem saw the puppy’s fur was the colour of brown sugar and cream.
The overseer came in. ‘You’re in here?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jem. ‘I was cold.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Mr Blain shrugged. He pointed to the wall. ‘Get me the old saddle. That damn outlaw took the good one yesterday. The master is going to ride the chestnut to Bungendore after breakfast,’ he explained. ‘He’s written a report about the bushranger. He’ll send it to the government in Sydney.’
Jem took the heavy saddle down. He noticed that the leather girth strap, which went under the horse’s belly, was worn and stretched. Jem helped as he was told. But he thought about how the strap would break if it was stretched enough – and how the Captain would tumble off his high horse. He would like to be there to see it happen.
That was the beginning of Jem ‘learning the ropes’, as Mr Blain put it. What Jem actually learnt was horse manure: how to shovel it, lug it, scrub it away, then feed the horses to make a new pile of it. On the quiet, he fiddled with the girth strap, rubbing it thinner and thinner.
He had the horses and the dogs for company. The pup thought Jem’s job was a big game. She jumped on the shovel and bit the handle every time Jem lowered it. After a few days, the shovel had a lot of chew marks. The puppy chewed plenty of poo too. She also adored water. When Jem didn’t watch out, she knocked the water bucket over trying to climb into it. Then the stable floor got wet as well as pooey.
She was fun, but Jem missed his dad and his home. And the Old Girl.
Quite often, the boy Alfie came past and waved. He sometimes hung around the yard, until his mother called him. Jem ignored him. Alfie seemed to be part of Captain Ross’s house, like Mr Blain, and Jem didn’t want to talk to him.
The Captain came back from Bungendore, without losing his clothes this time. He didn’t say anything about the bushranger. Jem thought the outlaw must be a long way off by now.
As he returned to the main house, Captain Ross dropped a riding glove at the stable door. Jem saw it there, lying in the muck. One finger was curled up, like the glove was beckoning. Jem decided to ignore it. The Captain could come back and get his own glove. If he couldn’t look after his stuff, then he owned too much of it.
The puppy saw it too. She picked it up with her needle-sharp teeth and shook it so the fingers slapped around her face.
Jem laughed. Daisy put her head over her stall and snorted.
‘Go girl!’ Jem said, leaning on his shovel.
The pup stood on the glove and clamped her teeth around a button. Pop! It came off. She bounced across the stable floor, found it, and slurped it up with her pink tongue. End of button, thought Jem.
She did the same thing all over again for the second button. Except this time it came off, bounced on her bottom, and she chased her tail in circles trying to find it.
Jem laughed and laughed, like he hadn’t done since coming to Ross Vale. Until he realised that the Captain and Mr Blain were in the doorway, watching him.
The Captain frowned at Jem. ‘I hired you to work, not –’
‘Play,’ Jem waited for him to say.
But the puppy ran over to the Captain with his glove in her mouth. She sat down, ears up, tail beating, inviting him to join in.
The Captain focused on the glove. ‘What the deuce!’ he said angrily. He bent down to take his glove, but of course the puppy sank her teeth in harder and pulled.
The overseer stepped forward and picked her up. ‘Let me deal with it, sir,’ he said.
Mr Blain prised the glove out of her mouth. It was only slightly torn.
‘In the river,’ said the Captain. ‘Tomorrow.’
Jem thought it was a waste to chuck away a glove like that, only because it had been in a dog’s mouth.
The Captain turned to Jem. ‘You should respect other people’s property. I’m not having convict habits here.’ He pulled a face, as if Jem were a sheep rotten with scab. ‘You will work closer to the house, where Mrs Goods will keep an eye on you,’ he said. ‘In the scullery. You can share a bed with her son, instead of lying in the straw like an animal.’
Jem hated the Captain telling him what to do. He didn’t want to leave the dogs and horses. He didn’t want someone else to work in the stable and find the worn strap before it broke and tipped the Captain off his horse. He certainly didn’t want to work in the scullery. The scullery was the outhouse where the pots were scrubbed and stored. It should be the job of a scullery maid. But Ross Vale didn’t have many women.
Mrs Goods was not impressed either when Jem went to the kitchen. She crossed her arms.
‘What was the man thinking?’ she said. ‘I ask for a girl, so he brings me another boy. Really!’
When everyone had eaten that night, Mrs Goods lifted a kettle of hot water off the stove. ‘Follow me,’ she told Jem.
The scullery was a roof and a few boards around a splintery bench, with an iron tub and a wire brush. Beside the tub were piles and piles of dirty plates and pots.
‘The blue-and-white dinner service is from China. The silver is English,’ Mrs Goods said, in a respectful voice, like she was introducing the Queen. ‘If any of them is not spotless, you’ll do the lot again.’
Five plates later, Jem heaved a sigh. The wind blew through gaps in the boards and froze his wet knuckles. He had another fifty things to wash. Horse crap he could handle, but not fancy china.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said.
‘Don’t say that so loud!’
Jem looked around. Alfie stood at the scullery door. ‘The Captain won’t stand for swearing.’
‘The Captain doesn’t own my voice, does he?’ Jem replied. He turned his back on Alfie and scrubbed a handful of spikey cutlery.
He scrubbed too hard and dropped a fork on his big toe. It hurt. Worse, because it landed on the dirt floor, he had to wash it again.
‘Fork it!’ he said.
Alfie laughed. ‘I haven’t heard that one before.’
‘Nobody can say it’s swearing then, can they?’
Alfie grinned. He had a big smile, to match his nose, and big crooked teeth. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Twenty miles away, near Bungendore,’ Jem answered.
‘You’re not a convict then.’ Alfie looked relieved. ‘Ma won’t let me hang about with convicts. She thinks they’re bad. But now you’re here I can talk to you.’
Jem didn’t tell Alfie that his dad had been a ‘government man’. Or that Jem was not keen to talk. Alfie would get that message soon enough.
But when Jem didn’t reply, Alfie reached for the cloth at the end of the bench. He picked up one of the wet dishes and swirled the cloth over it.
Jem didn’t think he wanted help from Alfie. He t
hought Alfie might be a bit wet, a bit of a mother’s boy. ‘Did your ma tell you to help me?’ he asked.
Alfie shook his head. ‘I thought, if we get this done, you can join in lessons at night.’
Jem didn’t want to join Mrs Goods’ lessons.
‘We’re reading The Life of Nelson,’ said Alfie enthusiastically.
‘Yeah?’ said Jem. He’d never read anything.
‘You know – Horatio Nelson, hero of the British navy – cannons, cutlasses, fighting the Frenchies. “England expects that every man shall do his duty!” ’ Alfie saluted. ‘That stuff. It’s good. So I came to help you get done quick.’
Nelson sounded all right, thought Jem. Shame it was a book. Maybe Alfie might be all right too. He was the first person at the Station to do something good for Jem.
‘How about this then?’ Jem challenged Alfie: ‘We’ll play slaps.’ It was a game Jem played with his dad – you had to whack the other person’s hands without them getting yours.
‘With these,’ said Jem. He picked up two big metal spoons. ‘First to ten hits wins. If I win, you scrub the pots.’
Alfie got a spoon and weighed it in his hand. ‘If I win, you help with my project,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’ said Jem.
‘A secret,’ said Alfie.
Jem wondered about Alfie’s secret. But he didn’t expect to lose. He was bigger and stronger than Alfie.
‘Deal,’ he said.
‘Right. Spare no quarter!’ said Alfie.
Jem and Alfie went at each other hard and fast. Jem’s blows were harder, but Alfie’s were faster. At the end, both of them had bleeding knuckles. Neither of them admitted they hurt.
The score was 10-8, in Alfie’s favour. Jem had to admit that Alfie was not a soppy mama’s boy.
Alfie held out his right hand to Jem. ‘Mates?’ he offered.
Jem wasn’t sure. The only real mate he’d had till now was his dad, who wasn’t like Alfie at all. His dad was hardened and grey, like the wood slabs of their hut. He talked about as much as the boards did, especially compared to Alfie. But Jem was in a new place now. He’d lost the company of the animals, and maybe he needed a new mate if he was going to get his own back against the Captain. He held out his stinging hand.
‘Mates,’ he agreed.
‘Huzzah!’ said Alfie, and they shook on it.
Then Jem tackled the pots. He still hated washing up, but it wasn’t so bad having Alfie there, rattling on about Nelson and navy battles.
4
Next morning Alfie was fidgety as a foal. Mrs Goods wanted them to go across the paddocks and pick up firewood, so Jem hitched Daisy to the cart. He called for the pup in the stable, to take her along, but she didn’t show up. He hoped she wasn’t stuck somewhere again.
Out in the paddocks, Jem loaded up enough dry timber for a week. Alfie didn’t pick up one single branch. Instead he mucked about collecting a stack of dried cowpats.
‘How about you pull your weight, Alfie.’ Jem was annoyed.
‘Teamwork,’ said Alfie. ‘We need these too.’
‘What for?’ Jem wasn’t going to eat damper cooked in them.
Alfie grinned. ‘You’ll see. I’ve got something to show you – my project.’ He pointed to a big hill, covered in bush, a mile or two away. ‘Up there, on the neighbour’s land. But first –’
He put his fingers to his lips and whistled like a bird. The same bird call replied from down by the creek.
‘Must be a lyrebird there,’ Jem said.
Alfie just laughed. A minute later he said, ‘Here comes your lyrebird.’
An Aboriginal boy walked towards them. He was wearing half a dirty blanket pinned together at the shoulder with a bone, galah feathers in his hair, and nothing else except a smile.
‘This is Tommy,’ Alfie said. ‘My other friend. The bird call is our secret signal. Tommy knows a lot of interesting things. The Captain made him live in the scullery for a while so he speaks English, as well as his language. Tommy, this is my mate, Jem.’
Jem had met Aborigines before, in Bungendore and when they helped his dad wash sheep. His dad said there used to be lots more of them in the early days when he’d first come to the Maneroo. Jem didn’t know Tommy though. They looked at each other. Jem was not quick to make friends; maybe Tommy wasn’t either.
‘You gone deaf, Mr Alfie?’ Tommy said. ‘Every time I whistle – nothing.’
‘It’s my mother,’ said Alfie. ‘She’s been worried about William Westwood, the bushranger on the loose. She wouldn’t let me go out by myself. Tell him, Jem, about the stickup.’
Jem explained briefly, while Tommy walked along with them.
‘You should have seen him in his smalls!’
Alfie laughed. But Tommy didn’t see what was so funny. Probably, Jem thought, because he didn’t wear underwear himself.
At the bottom of the hill, Alfie began to look over his shoulder all the time, as if the bushranger was after them.
‘We’ve got to leave Daisy here,’ he said. He tied the horse to a wattle and scooped up the cowpats. Then he lowered his voice. ‘You mustn’t let anyone know we’ve gone past the Captain’s land. It’s trespassing.’
Jem did not care whose land it was if it wasn’t his. But it clearly bothered Alfie, so he must have a good reason for coming here, Jem thought.
Jem followed the other boys up. The bush got thicker. The hill got steeper and rockier. Jem puffed to keep up. Tommy loped along in front. Jem wished Tommy wasn’t there. He didn’t like being the latecomer, the tag-along of the group.
Near the top, a crown of rocks stood out above the trees. Jem craned his neck. The rocks were angled over the boys’ heads – too high and too steep to climb.
‘This way,’ said Tommy, looking back at Jem. Alfie crawled first into a big bush with a lot of scratchy twigs.
The branches flicked back in Jem’s face. This had better be worth it, he thought.
At the end of a wallaby track, a big kettle on a rope hung down the rock face. The kettle had a hole in the bottom, and no lid. Jem looked up through the rusty hole to the blue sky.
‘Good thing no one wants a cup of tea,’ he said.
A ladder also leaned against the rock. It was a pretty strange ladder – not one single piece of wood was sawed square or straight. Bent nails stuck out in painful places.
‘We made it on our own,’ said Alfie, obviously proud. ‘I mean – it’s not tiptop, cos it was the first thing I made, and nobody else knew so I couldn’t ask for help, but, well. . .’ Alfie stopped. He looked at Jem. ‘What do you reckon?’
Jem reckoned it was all a bit crazy. ‘Does it work?’ He examined the ladder doubtfully.
‘Of course.’ Alfie dumped the cow pats in the kettle. Then he climbed up the ladder like he’d done it a hundred times before.
So did Tommy. At the top he called, ‘Come on.’
Jem didn’t like Tommy telling him what to do. But because he wasn’t going to be beaten, he climbed up too – carefully, watching for nails. The ladder ended at a rock platform, nestled into the crown.
‘Welcome to our fort,’ said Alfie. ‘Now we can pull up the drawbridge.’ Alfie heaved on a piece of rope tied to the top rung of the ladder. Once the ladder was up, nobody else could get in.
Smart, thought Jem.
That wasn’t the only contraption Alfie had made in his project. In the middle was a strange two-ended sling, on a post. It looked like a catapault. There was also a goongee, a shelter built like the Aboriginal ones with sheets of bark.
‘Tommy showed me how to do that,’ Alfie said.
‘Easy.’ Tommy shrugged.
Jem thought it must have taken Alfie and Tommy days or weeks to do all this. Jem had helped his dad knock up sheep pens and other things. But he had never seen, or even thought of, anything like this.
Jem sniffed. Despite the breeze, the place had a slight pong about it. That was because of a man-high pile of cowpats on one side. When Jem s
aw that, he laughed.
‘Alfie,’ he said. ‘You’ve built yourselves a giant crock of sh–’
‘You don’t need to bloody swear,’ said Alfie. He crossed his arms and turned his face away.
Tommy touched Jem on the arm. ‘You make him feel bad, maybe,’ he said softly.
Jem had to admit Tommy was most likely right, and Alfie’s fort was too good to be sneered at.
‘Crock of gold, Alf,’ he said, as an apology. ‘I meant crock of gold. You could keep a stash of loot here, if you were a bushranger. This place is trumps.’
‘We can make it even better,’ said Alfie. ‘We can build fortifications.’
Jem and Tommy looked at him blankly. Alfie knew a lot of book words.
‘Fortifications are things like walls and watchtowers,’ Alfie explained. ‘We can move these loose stones to make shooting slits.’
‘Sounds all right,’ agreed Jem. He was beginning to like Alfie’s enthusiasm.
Tommy nodded. ‘Do what you think, Mr Alfie.’
Jem and Tommy helped Alfie heave and push, until they had created a ‘battlement’. That’s what Alfie called it. It was a line of stones along the top rock, with narrow gaps between them. The boys lay on their stomachs and peered out.
Tommy had his head to one side, like he was listening.
‘I can hear a yarraman, I reckon.’
‘What’s he mean?’ Jem said to Alfie.
‘A horse,’ said Alfie. ‘Must’ve been Daisy. I can’t see anyone else out there.’
Alfie’s fort was a great lookout. In front Jem could see along the green line of the creek to Ross Vale. Past that he thought he could see the shimmer of Lake George, in the direction of Bungendore and his dad’s hut near Long Swamp. Behind them, southwards, was a dark ridge of mountainous bush, where white people never went.
‘This is like a crow’s nest,’ Alfie said happily. ‘We could be Nelson’s crew. Or a troop of British soldiers, defending our position.’
Tommy was quietly singing in his own language.
Jem took a deep breath of wind and wattle and wide space. It was way better up here than stuck in the Captain’s scullery.