‘I’m trying to relax,’ Ruby said. ‘Bossy, please be a good cow.’ She squeezed again, harder.
Bossy flicked her tail, and Ruby flinched. ‘I think she’s getting fed up with me, May,’ she said. ‘You’d better do it.’
‘Not on your life,’ said May. ‘You have to learn.’
Ruby wanted to kick aside the silly little milking stool and run away, but she gritted her teeth and tried again. At last she produced a trickle of milk.
‘Better,’ May said. ‘Try to get a rhythm going, like marching. Left, right, left, right.’
After a while the milk came a little faster, and then faster still.
‘You’re good!’ said Bee, who had just finished milking Minnie. ‘It took me at least three goes before I got the hang of it.’
‘Yes, not too bad for a townie,’ May said, with her slight smile.
Ruby glowed with pride. Not too bad for a townie! From May that was real praise. She helped May pour milk into a can and carry it out to the roadside platform to be collected by the Farmers Union truck. Then she set off up the hill, carrying a billy full of still-warm milk for the house.
I can milk a cow, she thought. I, Ruby Quinlan, can milk a cow! What would Marjorie Mack think of that?
Halfway up the hill she stopped, put down the billy, and looked back over the cow paddock. The sun was fully risen now. Shining through swirls of mist, its rays fell on the dew-soaked pasture so that the spiky grass glittered like diamonds.
‘Bee, it’s like fairyland,’ Ruby said in wonder. ‘I wish Dad could see it. He told me this was a lovely place, but I didn’t believe him.’
‘Of course it’s a lovely place,’ Bee told her. ‘It’s our home.’
‘It’s not my home,’ Ruby said. ‘I miss my real home. But I’ll always remember this morning.’
She stood and looked for a little longer. Then she picked up the billy, and she and Bee followed May up the hill.
Later that morning Uncle James returned from the town. He drove in every Saturday to collect the mail and buy a few groceries at the general store. When he put the mail on the kitchen table, Ruby pounced on it. To her disappointment there was nothing from Marjorie or any of her other friends, but at the bottom of the pile there was something even better: a fat envelope with Dad’s writing on it.
Mother snatched it up before Ruby could touch it. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said to Uncle James and Aunt Vera. ‘This is from Harry, and I must read it in private.’
‘What about me?’ protested Ruby. ‘Can’t I read it too?’
‘A lot of it will be to do with Dad’s business, and you don’t need to know about that,’ Mother said.
‘I don’t care! I just want to know what Dad says, even if it is boring.’
‘I’m sorry, Ruby, but this letter is addressed to me. I’ll tell you later if your father has any news.’
‘Not fair!’ grumbled Ruby. But Mother was unmoved. She went to her room, taking the letter with her. Ruby was left in the kitchen with Bee, who was reading ‘Nut Nook News’ in the Mail’s Possum’s Pages, and Aunt Vera, who was reading about the results of a knitting contest in the women’s section.
Ruby waited for ten minutes, and then she knocked on her mother’s bedroom door and opened it.
Mother was lying on her bed in semi-darkness. Ruby released the blind so that it flew up with a clatter, filling the room with sudden light. ‘Did Dad say anything about me in the letter?’ she asked, bouncing on the end of the bed. ‘How is he? Has he got a job yet? Where is he living?’ But when Mother lifted her head from the pillow, Ruby was shocked to see that she’d been crying. She stopped bouncing. ‘Mother, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, Ruby, really. I just have a headache. Leave me alone, please.’ Mother sat up, quickly gathering together the pages of the letter.
‘Is it the letter from Dad that’s upset you?’ Ruby said. ‘Is that it? Are you missing Dad?’
‘That’s it. Please go, Ruby. I’ll be all right in a moment.’
‘Have you taken a powder for your head? Shall I get you one? Or a cup of tea?’
Mother turned away. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank you, but I don’t want anything. Pull the blind down again, please. The light hurts my eyes.’
Ruby drew down the blind. As she left the room, she heard her mother’s weak voice. ‘Everything is all right, Ruby, really. Dad doesn’t have a job yet, but he’s . . . he’s doing his best to find one. He sends you his love.’
Ruby was relieved to know that Dad was all right, but she felt scared and cold. What was wrong with Mother? There was nothing certain about her anymore. It was as if she was drifting away, becoming fainter, blurring at the edges. She must be missing Dad really badly, Ruby decided. Maybe she’s missing him even more than I am. But there was something else, too, something she couldn’t put her finger on.
Something has happened, she thought. I’m sure of it. And Mother’s not telling me.
‘OH, Baxter!’ said Ruby under her breath. ‘Where are you? Oh, you bad dog!’
Baxter’s kennel, an old tea-chest, was empty. His chain lay on the ground, and at its end was the proof of Baxter’s badness. He’d worked his head out of his collar and escaped – again.
Ruby wondered how long he’d been running free. She’d been up since half past five to help with the milking, and he was on his chain then. Breakfast had been at seven o’clock sharp, as usual, even though it was a Sunday, and on Uncle James’s orders Ruby never released Baxter until after breakfast. But now . . . where on earth was he?
Ruby walked around the farmyard calling, ‘Baxter! Baxter!’, but softly so that Uncle James wouldn’t hear.
There was no Baxter; and she was late feeding the chooks. Trying not to worry about her little dog, Ruby went to the grain shed and quickly scooped wheat into a bucket. She let herself into the chook yard, as usual feeling just a little bit nervous as the mass of feathery bodies surged towards her.
‘Shoo!’ she said. ‘Shoo!’ As she moved forward, scattering handfuls of wheat and keeping as far away as possible from the rooster, she saw something flicker in the stand of pine trees. When she heard an excited yipping, she put down the bucket and ran.
‘Baxter!’ she shouted. ‘Baxter, come here!’
A low-hanging branch moved, and Baxter’s face appeared, framed by pine needles. Ruby always knew when he’d done something bad, because he looked guilty. He looked very guilty now.
Ruby’s spirits sank. ‘Oh, Baxter,’ she said. ‘What have you done? Oh, no!’
A short distance away was the body of a Plymouth Rock hen.
Ruby stood and looked at the dead chook. At first she felt numb. Then she began to panic. If Uncle James found out, he would shoot Baxter.
As if he too realised the trouble he was in, Baxter whined and looked up at Ruby with sorrowful eyes.
‘Baxter,’ Ruby said,‘you did a bad, bad thing, and I’m really cross with you – I can’t tell you how cross. But I won’t let Uncle James shoot you, I promise. He’ll have to shoot me first. I’ll . . . I’ll get rid of the chook. I’ll hide it. I’ll bury it. If anybody asks me why there are only five stripy chooks now, I’ll make something up. I’ve never told a big lie before, but I’m sure I can do it if I have to.’
She found a stout stick and with shaking hands she began to scratch a hole in the ground. Baxter lay down and watched, his head on his paws.
The earth was dry and very hard. As Ruby scratched away, she hoped with all her might that nobody else had been near the chook yard this morning. ‘Please don’t let anybody have seen what Baxter did, and especially not Uncle James,’ she prayed. ‘Please, please, please!’
After about five minutes of digging, Ruby decided that the hole was deep enough. Just the thought of touching the dead chook made her shudder, but she made herself pick it up.
To her surprise, the feathers were very soft. The chook’s eyes were closed, filmed with a grey sort of skin, and its head was floppy, the beak a little
open. It looked almost as if it was asleep.
Feeling sad for the chook now, Ruby stroked the fine silky feathers. ‘Poor thing,’ she said. ‘I’m really sorry.’
She put the body in the shallow grave she’d made, and covered it gently with pine needles and then with dirt.
Taking Baxter back to his kennel, she put him on the chain again, tightening his collar.
‘Shush,’ she said, when he began to whimper. ‘You’re in so much trouble.’
She gave him a hug, and then she went back to the chook yard to collect the eggs.
Aunt Flora was standing at the kitchen table, making bread from dough set to rise the night before.
‘Bother!’ Ruby said, under her breath. Although she wasn’t afraid of Aunt Flora any more, she usually tried to keep out of her way. She was tired of being told how ‘young gerruls’ ought to behave. As quietly as she could, she put the eggs on the dresser.
‘Ruby!’
Ruby groaned. ‘Yes, Aunt Flora?’
‘I see you have been to the fowl yard, and I wish to speak with you.’ The old woman didn’t stop kneading the bread dough. ‘Unless I’m much mistaken, we have a pressing problem with your wee dog.’
‘Baxter?’
‘Do you have another beastie tucked away somewhere?’
‘No, Aunt Flora.’
‘Very well, then. We are talking about Baxter, who must be the worst-behaved dog I have ever come across. Tell me, has he ever had any sort of training?’
‘Of course he has! He can roll over and beg.’
‘Both highly questionable skills,’ Aunt Flora said, pursing her lips. ‘Although the begging may come in useful. As you know, Baxter has endeared himself to James by tearing up his towel. Since then he has dug up various parts of the garden and uprooted half a dozen cauliflower seedlings. He has destroyed several clothes pegs. He regularly frightens the cats out of their wits. And this morning – correct me if I’m wrong – he killed one of our best fowls.’
Ruby caught her breath. Oh my hat, she thought. How does Aunt Flora know about that?
‘When I went for my early morning stroll,’ Aunt Flora said, working away at the dough, ‘I spied a hole under the fowl-yard fence. Not far away was a dead hen. Your wee dog was in the fowl yard too, and I observed that he had a very dirty face.’
‘He likes digging,’ Ruby whispered. How could she possibly get Baxter out of this scrape?
‘James’s patience is limited,’ Aunt Flora continued. ‘He has taken in this dog – who is, I am sure, a perfectly nice dog – as a matter of charity. The problem is that perfectly nice town dogs, when let loose in the country, can be a great menace.’
Ruby swallowed. ‘If you tell Uncle James about . . . about the chook,’ she said, ‘he’ll take Baxter out and shoot him.’
‘Correct,’ said Aunt Flora. ‘There’s no place on a farm for a dog that misbehaves.’ She floured her dough, turned it over, and thumped it down. ‘Where is the body now?’ she asked. ‘I presume you didn’t leave it in plain view?’
‘I buried it. Not very deep, though, because the dirt was so hard.’
‘I see,’ Aunt Flora said. ‘Well now. We can leave the fowl there, and risk it being scratched up by one of its sisters. Or we can turn this sad event to our advantage.’
‘Advantage?’
‘Indeed, yes. As far as I’m concerned, that fowl died very recently as the result of an unfortunate accident. And if we prepare her for the pot, there will be happy faces around the table at Sunday dinner.’ She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘We have plenty of time. Vera plans to go to church this morning, and no doubt James and the bairns will go with her. You, however, will stay behind. You will be helping me.’
Ruby looked at her, astonished. Aunt Flora was what Dad would call ‘a good egg’! She could hardly believe her luck. ‘Thank you, Aunt Flora.’
‘No need to thank me. We’ve saved Baxter, for the time being. But he’s not the only problem around here.’
Ruby flinched as Aunt Flora’s eyes bored into her. Now what?
‘You and May should be friends, but you are about as close as your dog and that scruffy old cat he keeps trying to kill. Gaf is its name, I believe.’ She spread a damp tea towel over the bread dough. ‘What’s going on?’
Ruby didn’t want to talk about May. ‘We get along all right,’ she said.
‘No, you don’t. And then there’s your mother. She’s not coping.’
‘She’s missing Dad.’
Aunt Flora shook her head. ‘It’s more than that. She’s not built for heavy weather, that one. You and I are a pair: we’ll not sink in rough seas. But your mother’s different. Keep an eye on her.’
‘Yes, Aunt Flora.’ Ruby turned to leave, but the old woman called her back. ‘You’re not off the hook yet, lassie. Fill the stockpot with water and put it on to boil. It’s time you learned how to dress a bird for the table.’
‘Dress . . . a bird?’
‘Dear Lord above, these town children know nothing.’ Aunt Flora shook her head. ‘You don’t have to dress it up in frilly drawers and put a pinny on it. I’m talking about plucking and gutting and the proper use of a sharp knife. Get along, now, and bring that murdered fowl to me before anybody finds out what we’re up to.’
With lots of potatoes and onions and boiled cabbage, there was just enough roast chicken to go around. Uncle James enjoyed it so much that he asked for a second helping, but to Ruby it tasted like earth and feathers. She noticed with a stab of worry that Mother asked for only the smallest portion, and then ate hardly any of it.
‘I wonder why the chook died,’ Bee said. ‘None of them were sick, Ruby, were they?’
‘Who cares?’ said Walter. ‘I can’t remember when we last had chicken for Sunday dinner.’
‘I hope it didn’t have fowl pest,’ said May.
‘Nonsense,’ Aunt Flora said. ‘I had a good look at that bird before I set Ruby to plucking it, and there was not a thing wrong with it. I’d say it died of fright. Maybe it saw a fox. Maybe a pine cone dropped on its head.’
‘I’ve got the wishbone!’ Bee cried, holding it up. ‘Pull it with me, Ruby?’
Ruby gripped one half of the bone with her little finger. As she did, she remembered sharing the wishbone with Dad, last Christmas. A lifetime ago.
There was a crack as the two halves of the bone snapped apart.
‘I win!’ Ruby said.
‘Lucky!’ said Bee. ‘Close your eyes and make a wish!’
Oh, there’s so much to wish for, Ruby thought. I wish Baxter would stay out of trouble. I wish May and I could be friends. I wish I knew where Dad was, and I wish Mother would stop being sad. Most of all, I wish Mother and Dad and I could all be together again, just like we used to be.
‘Well?’ said May.
I’m going to wish for all those things, Ruby decided. Why not?
She closed her eyes . . .
My great-grandfather on my father’s side was a farmer in Somerset, England. In 1856 he emigrated to South Australia, making his home in a beautiful place called Eden Valley. One of his nine children was my grandfather. He was a farmer, too, and so was my father. My brother and I grew up on the family farm. Its paddocks and orchards, its gum trees and its winding creek were our playground.
I loved the little local school I went to for seven years, but when I was twelve I had to leave home to go to a different school. Unlike Ruby, who moves from the city to the country, I moved from the country to the city. I live in the city now, but I still think of Eden Valley as home.
I was born and grew up in Italy, a beautiful country to visit, but also a difficult country to live in for new generations.
In 2006, I packed up my suitcase and I left Italy with the man I love. We bet on Australia. I didn’t know much about Australia before coming – I was just looking for new opportunities, I guess.
And I liked it right from the beginning! Australian people are resourceful, open-minded and always
with a smile on their faces. I think all Australians keep in their blood a bit of the pioneer heritage, regardless of their own birthplace.
Here I began a new life and now I’m doing what I always dreamed of: I illustrate stories. Here is the place where I’d like to live and to grow up my children, in a country that doesn’t fear the future.
The Great Depression caused poverty and unemployment all over Australia, but life could be a bit easier for country people.
Farmers were used to surviving bad seasons. They grew their own fruit and vegetables, kept chickens for eggs and cows for milk, and trapped rabbits for their meat and skins. Women baked bread, bottled fruit, and sewed and mended clothes. Men were experts at everything from fixing broken-down cars to curing a sick animal.
But life was still hard. Most farms had no mains electricity, water or sewage. Baths were a weekly event. Water was precious, and very often the whole family used the same bathwater, the cleanest person in first, the dirtiest in last.
Quite a few people had cars, but many still rode horses or travelled in horse-drawn buggies. If schoolchildren needed to go to a sporting event in another town, they were packed onto the back of a farmer’s truck. No seatbelts then!
Country towns were busy centres, with a general store, a school, a church, a pub, a town hall or institute, and a motor garage that sometimes doubled as a blacksmith’s shop for shoeing horses. A doctor from a larger town might give weekly consultations, using somebody’s front room as his surgery.
Church attendance, school activities and sporting competitions brought families together. Neighbours were willing to help each other, and a strong sense of community helped country people through the worst times.
An Aussie Icon
In 1921 an artist named James Bancks created a comic strip, ‘Us Fellers’, for the ‘Sunbeams’ pages of the Sydney Sunday Sun. It described the adventures of a cheeky red-headed boy called Ginger Meggs, and because it helped to lift people’s spirits it was especially popular during the years of the Depression.
Ruby and the Country Cousins Page 5