After a moment Henry pushed through the saloon doors on his own run and dragged out his next victim. He pulled the cord, and spent the rest of the day shearing.
Cate came and went, moving sheep in and out of the shed. The shearers’ day ended at three. They cracked beers as they tidied up, turned up the music on the little radio hanging from a baling hook near the sink and made plans for dinner at the pub.
‘You comin’, blondie?’ Dave asked. ‘Me missus will probably be there.’
Cate paused. ‘Yeah, okay. I’ll see you there.’ She glanced at Henry, who was sweeping up stray wool.
‘How about your boyfriend?’
Henry stopped sweeping and gripped the broom like he might send it through Dave’s eye.
‘Henry will come if he wants to. And he’s not my anything.’
Dave nodded. ‘Right, then what’s he doing here?’
‘He works here.’
Dave looked again at Henry’s dark face. ‘Doing what – killing people?’
‘Not professionally.’
Henry began his sweeping again. His torso was soaked with sweat and he was moving slowly. He’d had to bend down a long way to reach the sheep; Cate bet his back was aching. Some of the guys were ready to go. They’d done a good day; the current tally made them think they’d get it knocked over in another couple of days. Easy.
She took Mac and opened a few gates in the yards so the sheep could have a bit of movement overnight and access to a trough. Then she took the shorn mob up the race on foot; they were only going a kilometre or so, and she fancied a walk in the fresh air. She followed behind them, feeling the afternoon sun on her back, watching them leap in excitement at their new light bodies. Eventually, they reached their paddock and ran inside, heading straight for the trough for a well-earned drink.
She crouched to pat Mac and turned for home, pulling Ida’s hat lower over her eyes as the sun dropped. The farm stretched out around her, a huge patchwork of greys, dull browns and soft golds. It was stitched together by the sharp black star-picket fence posts, and the faded grey jam posts her great-grandfather had dug into the ground. The race was wide, and it headed up to the hill in front of her, making a right turn on the horizon at the timber patch, where the sheep had slowed to enjoy the shade on the way down to the shed. She could see Henry’s dam, and the pig dam, surrounded by jam trees and York gums. Near the old chookyard she could see the graveyard of all the vehicles that had died there: the Sunshine Harvester, the old disc plough, and an old orange truck she remembered from her childhood that had a metal hand on a lever sticking out of the window instead of an indicator. Wild oats were growing around the rusty rims and tangling in the chains and levers of the machines. Dust had filled the gaps, and more weeds had grown and died behind the empty cabins. Down behind Cate now were the sheds, a small town of their own. There were a couple of machinery sheds, the hay shed, the shearing shed, the workshop, the domed roof of the Nissen Hut, four tall grain silos, the low fertiliser shed and the old house. Their metal roofs shone in the late-afternoon light.
The ute was coming. She moved to the side of the race. It was Henry, and he was smiling.
‘Thought you might like a ride back,’ he said. ‘I’ve tidied up the shed.’
She grabbed Mac, climbed in, and looked across at him.
‘Well, your mood’s picked up,’ she observed.
He looked bashful. ‘Yeah, sorry. I can be a grumpy bastard sometimes. I’m over it. Let’s go to the pub.’
‘One condition,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘You have a bath. You need hot water on that back – and I’ve got Radox. Though I’m not sure if that’s an actual help or psychological.’
‘Does it smell of girls?’
‘God, no.’
He rolled his woolly head left, then right, like the Terminator working out which of his stabbing weapons has gone on the blink. His hazel eyes were on her like she was his next target.
‘Deal.’
When they got home she ran the bath as hot as she thought he could take and grabbed a couple of towels. He hovered awkwardly on the verandah with Mac. She added Radox and went to fetch him. He was sitting on the top step looking at the garden, a bag of clothes next to him.
‘Uh, help yourself,’ she said.
He turned slowly, his eyes regarding her.
‘It’s, um, second on the right.’
He stood up. Close to her, taller than her. Focus on the weirdness, she told herself. Focus on the beard, and the creepy hair habitat, and the suspicious wound in his back. Okay. Great eyes. Great eyes. She patted Mac, who was well below eye level, and gestured almost frantically with her other arm. ‘Go on,’ she insisted.
She heard the screen door, then walked to the kitchen and poured herself a white wine the size of her head. She bloody well deserved it. Four hundred and sixty sheep shorn, and no one had died. Maybe Dave had come close. She could hear Henry splashing about in the bath. Once or twice she thought she heard him groan. Weird.
The Windstorm pub wasn’t dressy usually, and midweek with the local shearing team was no exception. Cate put on jeans and a silk tank top, brushed her hair, and fiddled about with a bit of makeup for the hell of it. She was still pale, despite the hours in the sheep yards, and her long butterscotch hair was pulled back into a high ponytail. It was a night out. Not a great night out, but she was out of that scene now. This would be very pleasant. She wondered what shearers talked about. Sheep? Footy? She pulled on her sandals and checked the mirror. Someone had once told her that her eyes were the exact colour of the sky after rain. She had been pretty stoned, but she had assumed he meant blue. She studied them for a moment, because it still surprised her to find she looked the same, even after what had happened. Her eyes were just as blue as the sky after rain. She sighed. Fine.
After a while she heard him get out of the bath. Slowly. She was leaving her room when he came out of the bathroom with his shirt off, smelling warm and fantastic.
He had washed his hair and pulled it back into a kind of ponytail. He had cheekbones, and a pretty great mouth. He held a bunch of clothes at his chest, exactly at the point she imagined there might be an entry wound, if she thought about such things. He slowly manoeuvred past her, sidling along for a few long moments in case they touched. She realised she was breathing too deeply, and saw his chest rise and fall at the same speed. She swallowed, to give her voice warning that she was going to need it.
‘All okay?’ she asked.
He looked with interest at her pale neck, where her pulse was bouncing around like she was about to get bitten. She heard him take in a deep breath. ‘Yeah, thanks, that was great. My back’s aching from bending over.’
She nodded because her mouth refused to work.
‘Your sheep are too short,’ he complained with a tired grin.
‘I’ll get them to stand on their tippy-toes tomorrow,’ she promised him.
His hand came up and rubbed the back of his bare neck, and he looked at her throat again.
‘It’s fine,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s go to the pub.’
CHAPTER 11
The pub was heaving when they arrived; there were at least ten people inside. It was an old colonial-style building, with a sagging verandah holding up a wraparound balcony with white decorative metal fretwork, like almost every pub in the wheatbelt. Inside it was a little lived-in, with the unmistakable scent of stale beer in the worn carpet, the football memorabilia on the walls and well-worn beer towels sopping up the drinks that got away. At the foot of the bar, Cate noticed a curly-tailed dog lying on his side, flicking his ears politely to let the drinkers know he was participating in the conversation. She leaned down to pat him.
‘Ah, Greg’s made a new friend,’ the barmaid announced.
‘Greg’s a good name for a dog,’ Cate said, and the girl and Greg both smiled.
‘His full name’s Greg Norman – like the golfer,’ she explained.
Greg wag
ged his tail by way of introduction.
Cate looked at his face. ‘What happened to his eye?’ she asked. It was pure white.
‘Golf ball.’
Cate held out her hand. ‘I’m Cate.’
The barmaid was reaching for fresh glasses, but she quickly shook her hand. ‘Michelle,’ she said.
Greg Norman inspected his testicles and lay down again to dream about the US Open.
About four locals were propped up at the bar, watching the TV, nursing their beers. There was a table of older farmers by the window, working their way through a jug, and there were a few cheerful blokes Cate recognised as the shearers. They were sitting near the doorway to the lounge with a couple of baskets of chips. She quickly glanced past them, convinced, for a moment, she would spot the jukebox that played ‘Khe Sanh’. It had to be there somewhere. It was practically the national anthem for drunk people.
‘Cate! Henry!’ Kiwi Dave and Marty greeted them, as if Cate couldn’t have spotted them in the crowd. Cate raised her hand and approached them as Henry went to the bar.
‘How’re you going after your first day on the job?’ asked Marty. ‘Pull up all right?’
She nodded, taking a seat beside him. ‘Yes thanks. I’ll probably feel it tomorrow. There’s a lot of bending over and pushing stuff around, isn’t there?’ Marty nodded sagely, and smiled. He was missing a tooth, which Cate was told had been kicked out by a sheep. She wasn’t sure it was true. His hair was blond and messy, pushed back on a strange angle and forgotten, forming a small corner at the side of his head, and his forearms were deeply tanned and decorated with a number of tattoos.
‘Good workout, though. You’ll thank us when you’re in your skinny jeans back in Perth.’
Henry arrived with a jug of beer and a few glasses, and put them on the table, then took a seat next to Cate.
‘Help yourself, boys,’ he said, and they cheerfully complied. He handed Cate a glass of beer, too.
‘Keep practising,’ he murmured. ‘You’re drinking with the shearers now.’ His eyes were alight with amusement.
She clinked her glass to his and took a sip. Fairly awful.
He raised his brows and leaned closer. She could feel his warmth along her body.
‘Again,’ he whispered.
Her pulse jumped. She took another sip. Slightly awful.
Dave and Marty watched them with great interest.
‘We don’t see you in here much, mate,’ offered Marty. ‘Not one for talking?’
Henry smiled. ‘Not mostly. I like to keep to myself.’
‘Where are you staying?’
He hesitated. Maybe he didn’t want to make things awkward for her.
‘He’s in the old house on Ida’s place,’ she offered. ‘He works for us.’
He flicked her a glance. Dave looked surprised. ‘Shit, I thought you were kidding.’
He assessed Henry, in his dark jeans and a T-shirt that stretched happily across the expanse of his chest. ‘You don’t look like a farmhand,’ he told him.
Henry stood up slowly, his height dwarfing the table for a moment, and headed for the bar once more.
‘He’s kind of a swagman,’ Cate offered by way of explanation.
Marty looked amazed. ‘A swagman? Hey, Henry!’ he called. ‘Are you sure you’re a swagman? I thought you pricks were supposed to be jolly?’
Henry gave him a sobering glance, and paid for a couple more jugs.
The other two members of the shearing team arrived soon after, and the next hour or so was a very jovial respite from the solitude of the farm. The boys trotted out their favourite stories, and Sarah appeared and joined in the conversation. Henry seemed to relax, although he was never far from Cate’s side, as if he suspected the evening could easily turn. She finished her beer. Had another.
Sarah swung around to face the bar. ‘Hey, Michelle!’ she announced to the bar in general. ‘Can you chuck over some salt and vinegar?’
‘How many?’
‘Four should do it.’ Michelle lobbed four small packets of chips, which Sarah caught expertly and tore open in moments. ‘Netball champion,’ she explained. ‘Doesn’t work as well for drinks.’
Cate watched Dave describing a fishing trip to Geraldton he’d been on. He was skinny, with dark curly hair and a short beard. He was smiling again, and his face held a kindness Cate had seen in the shed. He was a patient man and a careful shearer. He swore happily to his mates all day long, and when he cursed the sheep, he did it as if they were old friends. He also appeared to like beer.
‘There he goes again talking about fishing! I hate fishing – so boring!’ Sarah shoved another couple of chips into her mouth. ‘But I bet I’ve got another fishing trip in my future.’ She was grinning, and Cate suspected she didn’t mind too much. She gave herself another dose of beer and chips, and settled in for a chat.
Cate began to feel great. Maybe too great. One or two farmers came over to talk and drink more beer, and they had themselves the makings of a small midweek-celebrating-one-day-of-shearing-with-no-fatalities party.
‘So – what do you say?’
‘Huh?’ She was making friends with her most recent beer and a very nice farmer called Alex. He had been named after his great-uncle who’d died skiing in New Zealand forty years earlier, and had just asked her a question she hadn’t quite caught. He was looking hopeful, so she was sure it had been a question. ‘I’m sorry, what?’ She glanced around to find Henry, who was staring at her from across the table. How had he got over there?
‘So, would you like to go out some time?’
He was very cute, Alex, and wholesome. He deserved to be happy; he deserved good seasons and bouncy lambs . . .
‘Yeah, sure, okay.’
Alex beamed, and Henry put down his glass.
‘What would you like to do?’
Henry tried to fold his arms, only they didn’t seem keen to cooperate.
Cate waved her hand magnanimously. ‘Whatever, you decide.’ Was this still beer? She took another sip, happily saluting Henry with her glass from the other side of the table. This was turning into an excellent night.
‘Hey, Cate, how would you feel about helping out at the school library sometime?’ Sarah asked. ‘I was hoping to get a few things done with a couple of the girls, and it could be a good chance for you to meet them.’
‘Sounds fantastic,’ she said.
Sarah grinned at her.
After a while Alex’s attention was taken away by talk of seeding, and in-depth discussions of the weather, the machinery and the crops they were planning on putting in. Henry was there again, next to her. He loomed above her, then leaned on the bar next to her so that they could speak.
‘You realise you just agreed to a date with Alex?’ Henry said quietly.
‘Did I? Is he the nice boy with the eyes and the curly fringe?’
Henry’s shoulders drooped and he gritted his teeth. ‘Strangely enough, I didn’t notice.’
‘Oh, well, I’m sure he’s very nice. I’ve had a few, but if he was a shocker – or a ranga – I’m sure my instincts for self-preservation would’ve kicked in. Anyway, if it was such a shocking idea, why didn’t you stop me?’
‘You didn’t tell me to keep you away from the locals. I assumed you’d know you were fresh meat.’
‘Ha! Don’t talk to me about being meat.’ She stared hard at his chest. ‘What’s with all the muscles?’
‘I like protein.’
‘You must freaking love it.’ She swallowed whatever was in her glass, gazing blearily at his bicep, where she could see the hint of a blue vein winding its way back to his heart. ‘I’m developing a taste for it myself.’ She held out her glass again, and someone, anyone, filled it up. ‘Bring on date night!’ she declared.
Cate had to admit, there were a few things she liked about being in the country. She liked the dogs and the chooks, and she liked the wide, empty paddocks. She also liked the vast majority of the people she found, which she
really hadn’t been expecting. As she sat on her bar stool, loving the world, she listed off on both hands all the wonderful and amazing people she had come into contact with since her arrival.
It was so nice, she decided, that they didn’t know she was a complete screw-up, and most of them – with the exception of Deirdre Broderick, who looked like she suspected – thought she was a normal grown-up who liked to be helpful. She glanced around the mix of people in the pub, from the scruffy to the scruffier, to the sort of clean and tidy, and decided she liked the pub. It wasn’t going to become her second home – way too much football memorabilia and compulsory beer for that – but she could imagine Uncle Jack dropping in with a mate for a drink and a chat, and she liked the way that felt.
The other gratifying thing about being in the country was the wide range of offers she received for a lift home, mostly from people drunker than she was. She had the good sense to refuse them all, although she suspected Henry was on some sort of weirdy-beardy security detail and he wasn’t about to let that happen anyway. She wondered how many he’d had. He looked fine, but he was big, so he could probably have a few beers before the fun even registered in his brain. Beer. Who knew?
‘Are the cops around?’ she heard someone ask. She thought it was possibly Tim, who was there with Alex.
‘Nah, Kev just texted. He’s at Wickepin.’ A handful of farmers headed to their utes and drove off into the night.
Henry turned to her. ‘Come on,’ he murmured. ‘We’ve got shearing in the morning.’
She nodded. Oh, yes. So we did. Do.
Alex was hovering around. ‘I can drive you home if you like,’ he offered again.
The Drifter Page 8