The Woolgrower's Companion

by Joy Rhoades

  ‘He says we’ve stopped paying the mortgage. That we owe the bank money. A lot of money.’

  ‘Shush.’ Her father shook his head, his eyes on the trees. ‘That’s a whip bird.’

  Kate waited. There was a long bird call, broken into longer and longer pieces, with a sharp crack-like whistle at the end.

  ‘There it is,’ he said. ‘Ya hear it?’ Her father went back to his book.

  ‘Addison says you – we – we owe money, Dad.’

  Frowning, her father lowered the book and looked at Kate.

  ‘He says they’ll sell us up. That we’ll have to leave Amiens.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  Kate inhaled. He never swore at her. ‘But is it true? Did we forget to pay the bank when the wool cheques came in?’

  When his face hardened, she glanced away, afraid she’d lose her nerve. ‘Mr – Mr Addison says. He says it’s the overdraft.’

  She heard the wicker of his chair squeak as he shifted in his seat. ‘Did you buy something, Dad? With the overdraft money?’

  ‘Jesus.’ Her father stood up so suddenly he overturned the draughts board, sending the pieces flying across the verandah. Kate gasped, and her eyes went to the black and white checkers rolling across the timber floorboards. She dropped down on her knees to pick up the pieces.

  ‘Money’s safer with us than in the bloody bank!’

  Checkers cupped in her hands, she looked up at him. ‘Where’s the overdraft money? They’ll take the place if we don’t pay it back.’

  ‘Let em try.’ He shook the book at her then threw it hard. It hit the homestead wall with a bang and he stalked into the house.

  Kate sat back on the floor, looking at the checkers in her hands. With shaking fingers, she gathered the others, laying them onto the board. She picked up her father’s book but it tore in two, its spine split.

  Later, when her father had turned in, Kate had calmed down and she took the time to think. She made a mug of tea, and got herself into her room, passing a curled up Peng in the hall. On her bed, cross-legged, with the tea in her hands, Kate went over what Addison had said. She had to find some money.

  Kate knew they had £5 hidden in the storeroom. It had been there for years. Her father had started to squirrel other things away in recent years too – mostly supplies, like nails, inner tubes, and tins of sump oil – and he sometimes forgot he’d bought them, or where they were. But the £5 was different. That money was for dire circumstances. And if Addison was right, £5 would be a drop in the bucket.

  What could she do? She felt her mother’s absence keenly, as she had every day in the two years since she’d passed away. But now her old insistence that Kate not learn about the running of the place was making things very difficult for her. She cursed her own ignorance.

  What could she do? She must write to Jack. Shameful as it was, maybe he could ask his family if they could borrow some money. She’d never met them but had the impression they were well off. She felt a pang. Here she was, wanting him to ask his people for money, while he was away, transferred to the fighting in the islands for all she knew. She suspected, Jack being Jack, he would not want to ask them for money.

  But maybe her father had not spent the overdraft money, given how much he hated banks? Maybe he’d taken that overdraft money out and hidden it? She’d search for it, that was for sure, in case her father had it planted somewhere on Amiens.

  What else had Addison said? ‘If you have a pot of gold?’ She had her little engagement ring and her wedding ring. The engagement ring had been her mother’s, a tiny green sapphire, much loved by Kate. She had no other jewellery except her pearls.

  The pearls. They were a single strand, graduating from a tiny orb near the clasp to the size of a large pea in the middle, a gift to Kate on her eighteenth birthday. Her parents had brought the pearls back from Sydney, maybe to take their minds off her mother’s health. As Kate unwrapped them, her mother had said, ‘Rub them across your teeth.’

  ‘Against my teeth?’

  ‘You’ll feel roughness. If they glide smoothly, they’re not real pearls.’

  Kate had tried it and wrinkled her nose. They felt sandy.

  ‘See? Real,’ her mother said.

  ‘Easier than draggin a bloody ram across y’teeth,’ her father had complained.

  ‘He’s whinging about the cost,’ her mother had explained. ‘They weren’t as much as Minute Man anyway, Ralph.’

  Kate smiled bleakly at the memory, wondering what their prize ram had cost. She went to her wardrobe to get the pearls. Behind her jumpers, she found the box, its carved wood ridged under her fingers. She took it down and felt about on the shelf in case her father had stashed money there. She got nothing but dusty fingers.

  The jewellery box was dark-brown polished wood, carved with leaves and flowers and held shut by a small brass clasp shaped like a snail. When she opened the lid, a faint smell of sandalwood escaped.

  The box held only a necklace of glass beads, her baby charm bracelet, and the chamois case of her pearls, tied off with cord, the name McGintey’s Jewellers printed in black Edwardian script on the case. Her parents had spoken of meeting Mr McGintey himself, of his kindness in helping them choose these pearls.

  Kate undid the drawstring and tipped the pearls onto the bedspread. They were pretty, with a soft creamy luminescence. She hoped they were valuable as well. But how would she sell them? She couldn’t in Longhope without letting the whole town know they were in trouble.

  Mr McGintey. That was it. She would go to Sydney, where she’d never been, to see the jeweller. To sell her pearls. Although another memento of her mother would be lost, Kate had no choice. If they were worth half a good ram, that was something. If only it were possible to see Jack too, find a way to get out to the suburb of Kogarah, from central Sydney. But the Army was strict – no visits, and leave rare, and only if requested long in advance.

  The kitchen was empty. Sunday was Daisy’s morning off and Kate was glad she was alone. She hadn’t slept well and she’d woken before dawn, worried about her trip to Sydney.

  A dog barked and through the kitchen’s gauze door she could see Rusty looking at her from the other side of the fence.

  ‘Morning,’ she said. The dog whined a little. It was funny; the other two, Gunner and Puck, stayed away from the house paddock. They were more interested in work.

  Rusty barked again.

  ‘No tucker now. Bottinella’ll feed you tonight.’

  Ed had organised this. Ed had Bottinella feeding the chooks too, and he’d probably feed the poddy lambs come lambing. It was all he was good for. Young as he was, Ed already had a knack for seeing who did what best. He even got along with Grimes.

  Rusty rolled over, begging for his belly to be rubbed.

  ‘Not now.’ She shook her head at the dog. She didn’t want to be caught in her jarmies and dressing gown traipsing across what was left of the lawn. Something on the step outside caught her eye. It was a tin bucket, a bucket piled with sweet-smelling passionfruit, smooth green orbs against the metal’s grey. Kate glanced about for any sign of the giver. Only the dog moved, watching her in the hope that she might relent and come out to pat him.

  Kate held the gauze door open with her foot and leaned down, her nostrils filling with the scent of the ripe fruit. Clutching her dressing gown closed with one hand, she picked up the bucket. The only passionfruit vines were on the fences at the single men’s quarters.

  It must have been Canali. Conflicted, Kate stifled a flush of pleasure at the thought of him leaving these for her. But she put her face close to the fruit, letting the aroma fill her head with its sweetness.

  Harry appeared in the kitchen the next day, after school, his white-blond hair as wiry as ever, his shirt untucked, and his shorts in need of a wash. Kate had her joddies on, though, ready for the garden later, and she was up on a chair, searching the top cupboards.

  ‘Whatcha lookin for?’ Harry said, dropping himself on a chair at the en
d of the table.

  ‘I’m just cleaning.’ But she got down. ‘How was the first day of school?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘What’s for homework?’

  ‘Readin.’ He reached into his school case (her old school case) and tossed a thin book along the table. Our Kings and Queens was printed below the stern face of Elizabeth I.

  ‘That old battle-axe got beat with the ugly stick, eh.’

  Kate hoped Harry was talking about Elizabeth I, not Bomber.

  ‘Why don’t you read to me?’

  ‘Nuh. Where’s your pop?’ he asked, looking out along the verandah to the draughts board.

  ‘I don’t think he’ll want to play today.’

  Harry was disappointed. ‘Where’s Daisy? She’s not bad at draughts, eh. Her pop learned her. She used t’beat him, she reckons,’ he said.

  ‘Daisy’s working. And taught. Her pop – father – taught her. Not learned.’

  He scraped his chair as he reached forward for a biscuit. Kate worried Harry’s noise would annoy her father.

  ‘I have to go to Sydney. But you’ll do your homework while I’m gone, won’t you?’

  Harry groaned so loudly Kate thought it wise to get him outside. ‘Want to go and see Minute Man? He’s in the ram paddock.’

  ‘Orright. Grimesy’s gettin im in t’morra mornin, y’know. Old Minute Man. Into the yards. See his condition ahead of joinin.’

  They walked together across the house paddock, Gunner and Rusty doing reconnaissance circles about them, glad of the run. On the other side of the fence, a big roo bounded off in a smooth movement, each jump a couple of yards in length, the tip of his long tail held high. Kate’s father reckoned hopping was more efficient than running on all fours; that it took less feed.

  ‘We better keep an eye out for that young ram, Basil,’ Kate warned Harry. Basil was in the house paddock, and he kept himself far away from the house. Which was good. ‘Jack was tree’d by a ram once. He’s quick on his feet. Got up the trunk just before the ram got him!’

  ‘He a townie?’

  Kate smiled as they walked. Harry clearly no longer considered himself a townie. ‘He was. He’s a Perth boy.’

  ‘So where’d he learn stock work?’ Harry asked.

  ‘He never liked the city. Left when he was sixteen for South Australia. Became a jackaroo.’

  ‘Y’know what I heard, but?’ Harry said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘He’s a bit of a bastard, your Jack.’

  ‘Harry! No swearing.’ She suspected Grimes had told Harry that. He and Jack rubbed each other up the wrong way. Jack rubbed a lot of people up the wrong way. She loved him, but he was prickly.

  ‘I heard other stuff too. ’Bout y’pop.’

  ‘Don’t listen to gossip, Harry.’

  ‘’E dammed the creek, eh, your dad. Stopped it up. And them graziers went bust cos of it.’

  Kate looked off towards the woolshed.

  ‘Your pop bought em up then, real cheap, those bits of dirt. Got a lotta good country for nothin, he did.’

  ‘You shouldn’t believe all you hear,’ Kate said, her eyes still on the woolshed. But Harry had bits of the story right. The dam accounted for her father’s reputation. A neighbour, Mr Garrier, another soldier settler like her father, went down the drain in ’23 and had to walk off his place. Her father had quick-sticks put in a bid for Garrier’s block. In the middle of a drought, he got it for a song.

  As soon as the transfer of Garrier’s block had come through, her father hired a couple of local men to dam the creek. That pretty much cut off reliable water from the Drummonds on Bellwood, and below them the Bincheys who’d been on Ferngrove for donkey’s years. The Drummonds and the Bincheys got up in arms over the dam and there was even talk of solicitors. Luckily, nothing came of it. Then Mr Drummond went under in the ’29 drought. Old Mr Binchey lasted longer. He lost his place in ’39. But the district laid all the blame with her father. He didn’t care; by then, he had the dam for all his places.

  In the next paddock, Minute Man came up the hill towards them.

  ‘He’s big, eh?’ Harry said. Close to two hundred and fifty pounds, the ram had two thick cowls of wool that hung from his neck, draped down across his front legs.

  Harry climbed up on the gate with the ram thirty feet or so beyond on the other side of the fence, watching them. ‘Why’s he called Minute Man?’

  Was he taking the mickey out of her? ‘He gets the job done quickly.’

  ‘What job?’

  She turned to explain, and he was grinning at her.

  Rusty went under the fence and into the paddock towards the ram. Gunner, smarter, stayed put with them.

  ‘Rusty’s a dumb bastard,’ Harry said, smiling. He loved the pup.

  ‘Yes. No swearing.’

  Minute Man moved from a slow amble to trot towards the dog in its paddock. Rusty didn’t retreat even when the ram picked up speed, the cowls of wool about his neck flopping with each stride. About four feet from Rusty, the ram pulled up, stomped his feet and put his head down to challenge the dog. At this, Rusty backed away enough to turn and run to scramble over the gate. Harry laughed.

  His paddock cleared, Minute Man moved towards Kate and Harry. Up close, the short hair on his muzzle was pale against the dirty grey of his fleece. His wrinkly horns curled round his ears, then turned out.

  Harry stretched his hand over the fence, and Minute Man came right up to him. The ram lifted his head, and the boy scratched his chin and then his ears.

  ‘C’mon,’ Kate said. ‘I have to get back to my jobs.’

  He followed reluctantly, and they walked across the open expanse of the paddock towards the house.

  ‘Crikey. It’s Baaa-sil.’

  ‘No swearing, and don’t muck about.’

  ‘Not kiddin.’

  The young ram Basil was coming at them across the house paddock, only forty or so yards out. At four months, he was only half the size of Minute Man. His horns were big enough, though, and she and Harry were too far from the fence or the trees to make a run for it.

  The ram broke into a gallop. Kate moved in front of Harry. ‘Stay behind me, all right?’ The ram pulled up twenty feet out and dropped his head to charge. What had Elizabeth Fleming said? Sit on them?

  ‘Walk when I do, Harry.’ She heard her voice quaver but she went straight at the ram. When he lowered his head further to charge, that gave her a chance to cover the last feet at a run. She got into his blind spot, grabbed his head, one hand on the top, the other under the muzzle, then twisted hard towards his tail. The ram dropped his head to save his neck and then Kate pushed on his hind saddle. She gasped in surprise when his back legs went down. She kept his head twisted as he fell, then dropped herself on top of him with all her weight. There she sat, Basil under her, stuck, thrashing his legs.

  ‘Crikey! You’re a bloody shearer!’

  ‘Cut it out, Harry,’ she said. ‘No swearing.’ But he couldn’t help himself and whooped and cheered. Gunner re-appeared, barking, now he was not needed, darting in and out. Coward. ‘Harry. Get to the fence. Take Gunner.’

  The boy dragged the dog off by the collar. He hooted from the safety of the other side of the fence. Kate wished he’d be quiet. Someone approached behind her. Thank goodness. Basil heard it too and struggled more, thrashing his legs until he threw her off.

  ‘Va via!’ Canali shouted, clapping his hands at the ram. He shouted again, waving his arms, warding off the animal, who moved away.

  Canali offered Kate his hand and she reached to take it, then thought better of it, and she scrambled to her feet on her own.

  ‘Signora chase his sheep?’ he muttered, shaking his head.

  Kate smiled, dusted off her jodhpurs. ‘Basil chased me.’

  ‘Sì,’ Canali said, with a shrug. What ram wouldn’t? he seemed to say.

  Kate laughed and he smiled back, pleased he’d made her laugh. With Harry ahead of them, they walked
back towards the homestead gate in silence. She said nothing about the passionfruit, too shy to thank him, and still shaken.

  Inside the garden, with a quick smile for her, he took the shovel from the bed, to clear its trench. She was near the steps when he spoke to her.

  ‘She is beautiful,’ he said, conversationally. ‘Very beautiful.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Kate coloured.

  It was his turn to be embarrassed. ‘No, no. This.’ He waved an arm about.

  Amiens. He meant Amiens.

  ‘Beautiful but not the water,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But we have the dam.’

  He shifted dirt from the trench. ‘Signora. You no afraid me.’ It was a plea.

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ Kate said quickly. Too quickly.

  ‘Good. This is good,’ he said. It occurred to Kate he was so different from the other POW, who seemed to struggle with everything. Canali was interesting. And in the Greek god box.

  But with something like panic, Kate turned and went to the house at a clip. She was a married woman.

  In the kitchen, Daisy set a big mug of tea in front of Kate.

  Harry jumped around the table, yelling, wrestling a make-believe ram. ‘She twisted is head and she got im in the guts!’

  ‘Not true, Harry. And not so loud,’ Kate said, shaken, holding onto her mug for comfort. But the noise brought her father out of his office. Kate hoped he was all right.

  ‘You shoulda seen it, boss. She grabbed im in the privates.’

  ‘Not true,’ Kate repeated.

  ‘Where’s the draughts board, Kate? What have y’done with it?’

  ‘Outside, Dad. On the table. Where it lives.’ Then they were gone, onto the verandah to play.

  Kate sat, comforted by the quick plip-plop of Daisy moving about the kitchen, the snippets of the Kate-wrestles-ram story floating in from Harry on the verandah.

  ‘Y’orright, Missus?’ Daisy asked, looking hard at Kate. ‘Ya real white.’

  Daisy cracked a smile. Kate laughed and it struck her that, for a few minutes, she’d forgotten about the bank.