The Woolgrower's Companion

by Joy Rhoades

  The train was already at the station, two passenger cars and more than a dozen cattle wagons, full of stock, being transported to feed the troops. Kate was jealous of the cattle owners, the graziers on properties out west, properties big enough to get the contracts to supply the Army.

  Grimes brought the vehicle to a stop under one of the three surviving pepperina trees and Kate inhaled. She gathered her things and pulled at the door handle but couldn’t move it. Then Canali was out, his pale-green eyes and dark face only inches from hers through the open window. He was so close she could smell him and she shrank back in fear. But his smell stayed with her, sweat and soap and charcoal ash. He yanked the door open and held it for her. Kate didn’t look at him. She clutched her things and walked straight past, angry with herself for feeling his attraction even while she knew what he’d done to Rusty.

  ‘Arrivederci, Signora.’

  She kept walking, through the smoke and steam of the engine and the braying of its thirsty cattle. She had to get Canali off the place. For everyone’s sake, even her own.

  Onboard, she felt relief. When the train drew away, she watched the Longhope station shed grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the dirt of the horizon.

  The corridor ran the length of one side of the empty train carriage. Each of its wooden pull-up windows was dropped open for the heat. Dust motes, almost as thick as the smoke they’d come out of, whirled about in shafts of broken sunlight. Off the corridor to the left were small cubicles holding bench seats facing each other across a narrow space.

  The seat numbers were painted in gold on the wood panelling. She found her seat, 8B. After brushing the film of red dust off the brown leather of the bench seats, she sat, and got out her father’s 1941 journal from her bag. At random, she started to read.

  22 February. Up at 96 degrees today early on. We had 10 points in the house paddock late. May use Minute Man on the maiden ewes. Need to consider next year if we’d use him again on their offspring. MM’s progeny supposed to grow pretty quick, so worth the inbreeding problems? The weaners in Donnybrook couldn’t find the trough. Grimes shifted them from the south-east corner up towards the windmill.

  Kate flipped forwards in the journal.

  2 October. 85 degrees. No rain. Boys cleared up the woolshed ahead of shearing next month. Finnegan crew booked for the 9th. Ordered the wool bale bags from Babbin, on the shearing overdraft. Bought in 100 lambs from Riley to replace them lost. Janice saw Dr King. Killed a snake in the chook pen.

  October ’41 must have been when her mother first got sick. She sighed, for her mum and also because she’d not found what she was looking for, the price her father paid for Minute Man. Frustrated, she switched the journal for the Army POW file.

  According to the first form, Bottinella was twenty-three and married. He had been a clerk, then conscripted at seventeen in a village in Lombardy. North Italy was written in ink in brackets next to the typed Lombardy. He’d been a mess hand in the Army. But he didn’t last long, as he was captured six months later in North Africa, in January ’41. It looked like he’d had time in a POW camp in Egypt, then was shipped out to Sydney in May the same year. She could see he’d been in the POW camp at Hay since, for almost four years. Whatever had happened to him, Bottinella was skittish; that was for sure.

  She turned with a frown to the next form, headed Sergeant Luca Canali. He was twenty-four and, like Bottinella, from Lombardy. He’d been conscripted in ’39, and then captured in El Alamein in November ’42. El Alamein was a big victory for the Allies in North Africa, Jack had told her.

  She ran a finger down the page and then stopped. Tobruk. He’d been with the Axis forces through their siege of Tobruk in ’41. So it could have been him. Canali could have shot Jack’s hand. Kate knew it probably wasn’t. Then again the time and the place were right, and she’d seen what he’d done to the poor dog. Bastard is what Jack would have said, and worse.

  She read on. After capture at El Alamein, Canali was shipped to India. From the form, he claimed he was tortured there as a suspected Fascist. It looked like he’d even lodged a complaint with the Red Cross. Then he’d been shipped out to Sydney a year ago. The box marked English was ticked, with a handwritten note: Some. Taught by a guard at Hay POW Camp. She scanned the carbon copy again. There was little to hint at Canali’s violence. And nothing to hint at a wife.

  With the rocking of the train and the heat, she was drowsy and she dozed. When she woke, she turned to the journal this time.

  Her father had bought Minute Man sometime in early ’41. And joining was always in April. Odds on, they’d bought the ram a month or so before that, to settle him in. Kate went back to the February entries in the journal.

  1 February. 89 degrees. 12 points. Drafted the weaners from the ewes. Marking tomorrow.

  She scanned the entries, day after day, the life of the property rolling before her. Finally, she found it.

  14 February. Babbin delivered MM today. Flighty but time to settle him in yet. Told Babbin at 80 guineas the ram better sire only twins and triplets and nothing else and every one with superfine, as well.

  ‘Half a ram,’ her father had said, complaining about the cost of the pearls. Now at least she knew what the pearls were worth new. They must have cost about forty guineas, that extravagance explained only by the uninterrupted run of good seasons that preceded the purchase.

  Forty guineas. If only she had five hundred sets of new pearls, she could pay back the mortgage. And Mr McGintey would never give her all of the forty, as the pearls were second-hand now. Still, at least she’d have something to give to Addison.

  She dropped her head back against the seat, rocked by the gentle swaying of the train. Outside, the plains of the tablelands were gone, replaced by steep hills and narrow valleys with thickly set timber and an occasional tree fern, living remnants of the ancient origins of the land. She rifled around in her bag to find her sandwiches. Daisy had them wrapped in grease-proof paper inside a paper bag. Kate lifted one side of bread off the mutton and sniffed. The butter had melted in the heat. Despite the soon-stale bread and runny butter, the mutton was still good, earthy and moist with a shake of salt on it.

  Kate shifted to The Woolgrower’s Companion, but found it hard to concentrate on breeding and joining, so tried composing sentences in her head for Mr McGintey. She dozed again, but in the late afternoon dusk, as the train approached the outskirts of Sydney, Kate was wide awake, watching as dots of houses here and there became huddles and the huddles joined up, until all she could see were buildings, no matter where she looked. She couldn’t believe it and kept her nose to the window as the streets and suburbs went on and on, and even as the train slowed into Central Station.

  Nervous, she spilled all her things on the carriage floor. Scrambling to pick them up, she worried the train might leave with her still on it. But she was also afraid to get out onto a platform teeming with people, more people than she’d ever seen, even at the annual agricultural show in Armidale.

  Above the crowd, over the platform, was a huge poster, thirty feet high or more. A young woman was drawn in front of a bright Australian flag, billowing red, white and blue behind her. She wore a factory apron, her short, neat hair peeking out from under a scarf, her hand clenched into a fist. Change over to a Victory Job! Contact your National Service Office Now!

  Only Kate seemed to notice. Everyone was going somewhere – Army people in their khakis; older men – civilians – in suits; Air Force bods; the AAMWS ladies in khaki; and VAs in their sky-blue uniforms. A soldier was making his way through the crowd when he stopped and dropped his duffel bag, his face split into a wide smile to greet the young lady smiling back at him. He scooped her into his arms, lifting her off her feet, kissing her so hard Kate looked away, embarrassed. The girl’s laughter floated across to her, and Kate envied them.

  CHAPTER 10

  When a drought is visited upon a district, the prudent woolgrower shall not stand by whilst his flock suffer
s distress but rather shall set his plan early, revisit it often and act quickly throughout, until the coming of rain brings blessed relief to man and beast.

  THE WOOLGROWER’S COMPANION, 1906

  After an hour in the queue at Central Station, Kate got in a taxi. She didn’t mind the long wait, relieved to be away from all the people.

  The elderly cab driver scrutinised her in the rear-view mirror. ‘Where y’goin, love?’

  ‘Potts Point. The Country Women’s Association Hostel.’

  ‘Righty-ho.’ He steered the big black Ford into the stream of traffic, mostly civilian, with an occasional Army staff car or truck. The footpaths were full of people. Where did they all live?

  ‘What can I get for yez?’

  ‘Pardon?’ She looked at his eyes in the mirror appraising her.

  ‘Potatoes. Even peas, if you goin posh. Anythin y’like, if ya got the money. Nylons, even. On the quiet, of course.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Kate said.

  ‘This is Elizabeth Street. Streets signs all gone, of course, for the Japs. Where y’up from?’

  ‘Longhope.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘The Tablelands. North of Armidale.’

  ‘In the sticks, eh? Near Woop Woop. First time ere? I’ll take y’down Crown Street. Bedda view, eh.’

  They went over a rise, and there it was, the harbour, a stretch of bright blue water between tall buildings. She’d seen the sea once before, when she was eight. Her parents had taken her on a rare trip, to Port Macquarie, and she remembered the salt foam of strong waves that sucked her off her feet.

  ‘It’s so blue,’ she said. ‘And big.’

  ‘She’s big, orright. Finest natural harbour in the world, the guide books say. But them Yanks’ll tell ya New York Harbor’s twenty times the size.’ He shook his head.

  Kate half-listened, agog at the height of the buildings and the magic of the water. Across the other side, yellow sandstone cliffs and green bushland hugged bottle-blue coves and white sand beaches.

  ‘The bridge,’ she cried. Its broad steel spans stretched from west of Circular Quay all the way to Kirribilli on the north shore.

  ‘Ah, the coat hanger. She’s somethin – twelve hundred yards across.’ He pulled up in front of what looked like an office building. ‘And here we are, love.’ It was very big, with five or so storeys. A sign with the CWA emblem hung above the wide steps and double doors through which a river of young women in the VA uniform ebbed and flowed.

  He drove off, leaving her all alone on the busy footpath with her suitcase and bag at her feet.

  The next morning, even after some tea and toast, Kate was weary. A saggy bed, a noisy city and her nerves had made for a sleepless night. Sydney was a city of servicemen carousing, men going to pubs, in pubs, leaving pubs. Then came the rubbish trucks, with bottles smashing and the clang of empty kegs. Kate missed Amiens and its gentle noise, the kookaburra chorus, and the rabble and squawk of the galahs. She thought of Daisy and her father, hoping they were all right.

  She found her bus, and was relieved, about a half hour later, to get off at the Double Bay stop. It looked very smart. At one end, the street was all large houses, each set back from the road, their arched verandahs and mowed lawns shaded by neat palms. On the other side of her, expensive-looking shops competed for the residents’ money. She was conscious of the worn gloves in her hands. There were no less than two jewellers there, one with a sign that read: H.K.J. McGintey & Sons. Fine Jewellery and Chattels, in gold script on shiny black paint.

  She gathered her wits and looked in the windows. Her mother had told her years before that McGintey’s sold only these beautiful things, no colanders or tea towels, tablecloths or wooden spoons. Now the proof was in front of her, and Kate grew more nervous.

  Mr McGintey turned out to be little and round with glasses on a serious face. He greeted her with an odd sideways dip of his head. When it happened a second time, Kate knew; he had palsy. At the back of the shop, Mr McGintey made his way up a staircase. Kate followed, her eyes on his polished shoes. His office was lined with the same wood panelling as the beautiful shop windows. There was even a grandfather clock by the door; Kate had only seen them in books.

  A large mahogany partner’s desk sat in front of two enormous windows, each drinking in the blues and greens of Sydney Harbour. The desk was empty, except for a silver-framed photo of a serious young man with very dark hair, in Army uniform. The man almost had a bit of Canali about him. Kate looked away. Beside the photo was a dark-blue fountain pen standing in its own holder, a small silver bell and a little silver tray of metal tweezers. She clasped her shabby hands in her lap and looked across the desk.

  Mr Harold Kenneth John McGintey was a much smaller man than his name had suggested. Kate had some difficulty seeing much of him at all behind the big desk. He reminded her of an elderly wombat, low to the ground and slow moving.

  She had come up with and discarded many openings on the train, and she still had no words for him. But Mr McGintey was unperturbed by the mute young woman.

  They sat in silence until Mr McGintey reached for the small bell located in the corner of his desk. He rang it efficiently, restored it to its place and waited. A discreet tap at the door preceded the arrival of a biggish lady, bearing tea on a tray.

  The lady might have been big but she was swish. She wore a lovely twinset, mulberry-coloured, and her hair was pulled tightly into a long-ways bun at the back of her head. She smiled at Kate, and with pale hands she put the teapot and a tea strainer, along with two fine china teacups – the same pretty blue pattern as in the show case downstairs – in front of Mr McGintey. An exotic, aromatic scent filled the air and Kate savoured it. Was it the lady’s perfume?

  ‘Some tea, Mrs Dowd?’ Mr McGintey asked with a nod, his head twisting sideways a little.

  It was the tea. Kate smiled a yes. That tea could smell so sweet!

  The tea was delicious, a wonderful and curious flavour, familiar but unusual, like honey from a hive near stringybark gums.

  They drank in silence but Kate’s concern built with each sip. What if she could not bring herself to say anything? She cleared her throat to speak. Mr McGintey must have seen the terror on her face, for he smiled in encouragement. Still she couldn’t say anything.

  ‘More tea, Mrs Dowd?’ The teapot was in mid-air, lid rattling gently.

  ‘No. Thank you, Mr McGintey.’

  He withdrew his watch from a waistcoat pocket and wound it carefully.

  ‘You have jewellery to sell, Mrs Dowd?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, relieved that he’d guessed.

  ‘Please show me.’ He reached into a desk drawer and brought forth first a jeweller’s monocle, wrapped in a soft cloth, and then a small square velvet-lined tray. Kate’s hands shook as she passed the soft chamois case over to him, conscious of her hands, her wrists tanned to the colour of tea.

  He dropped the strand of pearls onto the tray.

  ‘My parents bought them here. At McGintey’s.’

  He nodded, neither in agreement nor denial, just an acknowledgement that she had spoken. She watched as he examined them, carefully working his way, pearl by pearl, along the strand from one end to the other. From time to time, he cleared his throat.

  Nervous, Kate tried to sit still. The ticking of the grandfather clock was loud behind them.

  ‘I can offer you fifteen guineas, Mrs Dowd,’ he said, looking up at her. The monocle remained in his right eye so he took on the appearance of a demonic wombat now, its face dominated and distorted by the monster eye.

  ‘Fifteen, Mr McGintey?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said and began putting the pearls back in their case.

  ‘But my parents paid more than forty for them new.’

  He shrugged. ‘These are second-hand. We could give you a cheque now. Or you could try the Cross, of course, if you need the money more …’ he searched for the right word and looked up from the pearl case to her eyes ‘�
� more urgently.’

  ‘The Cross?’

  He nudged the tray towards her. ‘Kings Cross, Mrs Dowd. The pawnbrokers there. You could always go to a pawnbroker.’

  Kate thought about drab Kings Cross and what she had seen of it from the bus on the way that morning. And she knew she could not expect much from anyone for the pearls.

  ‘Fifteen will do.’

  He took out a small book with a dark-green cover marked INVOICES and began to write, his hand a spidery record of their bargain. ‘Nothing else to sell, Mrs Dowd?’

  ‘No.’

  He smiled then as he wrote, animated for the first time. ‘I was rather hoping you’d brought the sapphire.’

  ‘Sapphire?’

  ‘The one your father bought for you. If you didn’t want to sell it, we could cut it for you.’ But when she said nothing, he looked up from the invoice book. His eyes widened in alarm. ‘You didn’t know? I should not have said anything.’

  Kate forced a laugh. ‘He’s dropped big hints about a sapphire. So it’s true?’

  Mr McGintey exhaled, his face relaxing. ‘Yes. He wanted a rough stone, a yellow, on the big side and of exceptional quality. But it had to be uncut. Quite unusual.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ She forced another smile.

  ‘Customers want certainty, Mrs Dowd. They want the secrets of their stones unlocked. I suggested he buy a cut stone as they’re easier to come by at that size. But he insisted uncut would be better for you. Safer, he said.’

  Kate felt a sob rise in her throat. She didn’t understand why on earth her father would buy a stone, but she did understand that he wanted to look after her.

  Mr McGintey tore the invoice from the book. She forced another smile, still trying hard not to cry at her father’s concern for her, no matter how muddled his efforts. ‘How … how big is the sapphire?’

  ‘Just over thirty carats, roughly.’

  ‘What was it worth?’

  He laughed nervously. ‘Well, I couldn’t tell you what he paid.’