by Joy Rhoades
‘Do you remember where?’
He shook his head slowly.
‘We have to find it, Dad. We have to. For the overdraft.’
He sat back, his head up now, and squinted at her in surprise. ‘There’s no overdraft.’
‘You spent the overdraft on the sapphire, Dad. Truly.’
Squinting still, he shook his head at her, his neck going pink as he got angry. ‘There’s no overdraft,’ he said again.
‘Not now. There’s almost none left. We’re broke.’
‘Bullshit.’ He stood straight up, knocking over the mug of tea. ‘Bullshit,’ he said again. The tea spilled across the table, and steam flared from it as it leaked towards Kate and off the table in front of her father.
She grabbed a tea towel, mopped at the spilled tea, trying to dam the rest of the liquid on the table top. But as she leaned across the table, he did so too and with his face right next to hers he shouted, ‘What overdraft?’
She gasped and pulled back, and he shouted again. ‘I never used an overdraft in me life. As if I’d spend borrowed money on a bloody sapphire. Ridiculous!’ He slammed the door after him.
Kate gripped her mug, hearing her own uneven breaths.
Later, when she was calmer, she got up, her thoughts all on her father. He was more and more forgetful. He had used the overdraft. Often, when he was starting out. Her parents had discussed it now and then. And she’d bet her last shilling that he’d used it to buy the sapphire, in his mixed-up way, even if he couldn’t remember it now. She shook her head. She rinsed the cups, out of habit, and set them to dry, the clatter of the china against the metal drainer loud in the house.
In her room, knowing she had little hope of sleep, she took a brush to her knotty hair – so knotty, she was sick of it. As she tugged at the mess, she was just glad they would muster the cattle the next day, though stopping the bank was like holding back the tide.
CHAPTER 21
The noble beast grazes into the wind. A prudent woolgrower will muster in the same direction for more than fair success.
THE WOOLGROWER’S COMPANION, 1906
In the gloom before daybreak, Kate made for the yards; the only sounds were Gunner panting along beside her and the call of a whip bird. She liked to be up early and out in the quiet paddocks, but today she was too nervous about the muster. She wanted to justify Ed’s faith in having her ride with them.
Over the rise, she could see the horsemen already in the yards: Ed, Grimes, Johnno, Spinks and Canali, all mounted, towering above Vittorio on the ground. Damn, they were early. She hurried to reach them, nodding a greeting as she took the reins from Vittorio. A quick double-check of Ben’s girth strap, and then she pulled herself up while they waited in silence. Ed coiled his stock whip and hooked it on his saddle.
‘Orright, you blokes,’ Ed said, settling himself into the saddle on Dodd. ‘This mob hasn’t been mustered in a bit. Keep sharp, eh? They’ll be toey.’
‘Toey?’ Canali asked. Under him, Mustard moved sideways. Canali settled him with some pressure from his knees. ‘What is toey?’
‘Toey? Riled up, mate.’
Canali looked blank.
‘Angry,’ Kate said, quietly. Not exactly but that would do.
‘Enough of the bloody nattering,’ Grimes said from behind her and Kate flushed. Grimes might defer to Ed on cattle, but he didn’t do so happily. And he certainly didn’t want Kate there today.
‘They’d smell us fore they see us, so we’ll come in upwind of em. But no noise, eh? With the scrub on one side and the gully on the other, we gotta form em up into a mob quick, an get em moving towards the end of the paddock and the yards. Orright?’
In the silence that followed, Kate tried to ignore her nerves. She concentrated on the familiar warmth of Ben’s flanks through her joddies.
‘Spinks, Johnno: you take the fence line closest to the Box Ridge scrub. That’s where most of em’ll be. Canali, you’re at the back of the mob, behind Spinks, to get any breakaways. Grimesy, you got the other flank, orright?’
The manager nodded.
‘What do we want? Heifers?’ Kate asked, and Grimes laughed.
‘No, Mrs D. We take what’s there, eh. You stay up behind Grimes and Canali. Every horse helps drive em. Be on ya toes, eh?’
‘Toes, toey,’ Canali repeated, and Kate wondered if he was teasing her.
‘A handful willa gone wild. We gotta shoot em, the ones we can’t get in.’ Ed whistled high and hard and the dogs bounded off ahead of the horses.
The ride out was almost silent, apart from the occasional whistle from Ed. Despite her nerves, Kate could not help but feel euphoric. Amiens at first light was at its most beautiful, fog lining the creek beds like blankets yet to be thrown off and white dew softening the pasture that would be yellow again by mid-morning. But it wasn’t only what she could see of these gentle hills: she was pleased to be working with the men. She just hoped she didn’t make a mess of it.
Before the gate into Deadman’s, Ed whistled the dogs in behind him and stood up in his stirrups. He ran his eyes back and forth across the paddock and then stopped, peering intently at one spot. Kate followed his line of sight. She could see only bush and scrub and black wattle trunks. No cattle.
Ed motioned the riders through the gate. Spinks and Johnno moved off to the right, Grimes to the left, and Canali stayed put; so did Kate. They moved forwards slowly, but Kate had no sight of the cattle and she was having trouble keeping Ben in line.
About a third of the way into the paddock, she saw a flash of movement on the left in the gully, and then it was gone. The elders among these cattle were wily and Kate didn’t get clear sight of the herd until further up the paddock. Then, the mob must have smelt the riders behind them, because Kate heard cattle moving.
With only half a mile fence to fence, Kate saw her first animal. A young Hereford shot up out of the gully, dirt-brown with slashes of white on her face, chest and underbelly. She dived past Grimes to break back and escape the circle of riders. Grimes rode hard to turn her and she moved away, eyes wide, snorting in fear, back towards Spinks. Kate watched, awestruck, as Spinks and Ned moved as one, stepping sideways, blocking the Hereford from getting away. The heifer baulked, pulling back before lumbering up the paddock with the dogs at her heels. Kate watched her go, relieved. The heifer was big – Kate had forgotten, accustomed as she was to sheep – almost as tall as Ben, and with such weight and power.
But the heifer was not alone. Kate heard hoof beats that swelled to a force she felt in the ground, even on Ben. Instinctively she pulled him up as cattle burst out of the creek bed, jumping fallen trees, braying and galloping. Ed didn’t hesitate. Cracking his whip, pushing Dodd alongside the leaders, he rounded them away from the scrub and forced them instead up the paddock. Spinks moved in tandem with Ed, driving the lines of stock, the kelpies working the mob, nipping at the heels to move them on.
Kate stayed in formation, relieved the men had the mob going north, towards the gate and the yards. A steer loomed out of the gully close by Canali and Mustard reared, almost unseating him. Kate gasped as Canali leaned into Mustard’s back, gripping hard, and horse and rider came back to the ground as one. As the steer came towards Kate and Ben, Canali went after it, pulling Mustard around to block its path, but it kept on coming at her, not fifty yards out. Canali and Mustard got ahead of the steer again and wheeled to face it. This time the animal veered off the other side, and with a crash of timber reached the safety of the gully. A line of white sweat ran across Mustard’s flank, and Canali moved his stock horse slowly back to position.
Sweat darkened his shirt, rings visible under his arms and down the middle of his back.
He turned, grinning at her. ‘OK, Signora?’
Caught looking, she snapped her eyes away.
Ahead of them, the mob was moving, perhaps all of their four hundred cattle, a few bulls at the front, some bullocks, heifers, calves. A wave of dust above and following them, a mass of braying, lost calves
and unhappy mothers. The riders and dogs moved behind them, waiting for a breakaway that might lead the others back.
Near the gate, Ed rode into the mob again, pushing the leader cattle through so the others would follow. A lone bullock broke back down the fence line and came on straight at Kate and Ben. Kate froze but Ben went forwards and blocked the bullock, turning it back toward the mob.
Ed nodded at her, and she leaned down to pat Ben’s neck hard to thank him.
Dirty and thirsty after mustering, Kate walked across the dead lawn to the house, the last rays of the late-afternoon sun hot on her back. Her hands were reins-chafed and she was bottom-sore from the long day in the saddle, but she was glad she’d done it. Before the war, a girl would never have been allowed near a muster. It had been quite something, to see Johnno and Spinks in action on horseback.
On the verandah, her father was stretched out in a squatter’s chair, one booted foot up, jutting out on its extension rest.
‘Hullo, Dad,’ she called but he said nothing. A rifle crack echoed across the house paddock, and her father got up, alarmed. He went to the edge of the verandah, looking out. ‘What’s that?’
‘It’s all right, Dad. It’s just Ed. They’re shooting the ones too wily to be mustered.’
‘You muster today?’
‘Yes. Remember, Dad? We’re selling the cattle to the Army.’
At the second rifle crack, his fear shifted to annoyance. ‘They bloody shootin em?’
‘There were only a handful. Ed says they’re wily from too long without a muster.’
He frowned. ‘How many head they get in?’
‘Right on the four hundred, Grimes reckons. Three pounds a head. That’ll help. But it’s a drop —’ She stopped, not wanting to remind him of all the money they owed. ‘We got the cattle into the yards for the night; watered them, quietened them down. We’ll drive them in at first light tomorrow to the cattle train.’ Kate sat herself on the verandah steps to pull off her riding boots.
‘You ride with the boys, did ya?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
His face clouded. ‘Ya not to do it again. Ya hear me? Ya not workin in the paddocks with em.’
Kate opened her mouth but shut it when he went inside. Damn. Ed would have to do without her tomorrow, but after that with some luck her father might forget about this ban.
‘Not garden today, Signora. Not light.’ Canali was at the gate.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Too late today. Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow,’ he repeated, leaning on the gate’s cross-piece. ‘You find her?’
‘The sapphire? No, not yet.’
‘I look too.’
‘Thanks,’ Kate said. ‘A good muster today.’
Canali eyed the runner bean on the other side of the fence. He coiled a tendril back around its string trellis. ‘These Johnno and Spinks, they ride the cows good.’
‘Muster. Muster the cows.’ She laughed. Kate knew the Aboriginal stockmen could ride, really ride. She hadn’t realised Canali would muster so well too. It had been something to see, all right.
‘You muster before, Signora?’
‘No. Never.’
‘Ah, you ride good, I see.’ Canali winked.
Kate couldn’t stifle a smile. ‘I’ve always loved to ride. But my mother didn’t approve of me working in the paddocks. Still, I liked the muster. Fast and exciting. And scary. The bee’s knees, really.’
‘What is bee’s nose?’ he asked, touching his own.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’s not something you need to know.’
He nodded, pulling the gate shut behind him. ‘Cheerio, Signora.’
The boys must have taught him that. ‘Cheerio, Luca,’ she called after him.
He stopped and turned back, a smile on his face at her use of his Christian name. They stood there, grinning at each other, until Luca’s face clouded and he strode away without looking back.
Kate sat in Dr King’s waiting room, trying to read the one Women’s Weekly. The room was no-nonsense and dated now, reflecting the military training Dr King had had as a young medic in the First War. The crisp white walls were bare of pictures and the smell of Dettol and linseed oil hung about. The simple leather couch on which she sat was worn but polished. Perhaps as a token to patients’ peace of mind, one potted plant sat in the corner, a spikey mother-in-law’s tongue.
The other patient in the waiting room coughed raggedly. Kate had said hello when she arrived; it was Mrs Tuite, the mother of the Tuite boys and wife of the local undertaker and part-time roo shooter. She was as tiny as her boys were tall and lanky.
The faint noise of the ABC wireless played at the receptionist’s desk.
‘… But that isn’t the fault of rationing. We can’t …’
Kate knew the rationing spiel now by heart, she’d heard it so often. Her reverie was broken by that hacking cough. ‘Sorry, dearie,’ Mrs Tuite said, her bony hand over her mouth. She reached into her bag for a packet of cigarettes, lit one and drew deeply.
A weary young mother came into the waiting room with a baby in her arms. The child was one of Barrel’s grandchildren – Barrel who operated the switchboard for the telephone exchange. The baby, six or seven months old, had an overlarge bonnet on. Kate smiled at the infant, but she looked back blankly.
Comparing her travails to a sick child or a terrible cough, Kate was starting to feel like a fraud. She wasn’t sick, and she’d received the cheque from the Army for the cattle; that had made her feel better about everything. The Army Procurement people were efficient, all right; she got the money not long after Ed and Grimes delivered the cattle.
She’d give the cheque to Addison on 2 April, the first working day of the next month, as Emma had suggested. Just maybe, that might save them again from the bank for a bit.
‘Mrs Dowd.’ Dr King appeared at his surgery door and looked at her over his half glasses.
She followed him in.
‘Now then, young Kate, what can I do for you? With Jack away, no point in worrying about a baby, you know.’
‘Yes. I mean, no …’
For a doctor, he didn’t listen much. It was a bit of a joke among the locals. You had to work hard to get a word in edge-ways with Dr King. He was in his fifties, not much different from her father’s age, and the only doctor in the town.
‘I’m not here for that,’ she said.
‘No?’ He sat back in his chair. ‘How’s your father, anyhow?’
‘Actually, it’s about Dad.’
‘You hear the Americans have gone into Iwo Jima? That should cheer him up. But what is it? Headaches giving him curry again?’
For some ridiculous reason, tears came to her eyes. She tried to speak but was afraid she’d really cry.
The doctor reached into his pocket. He held a clean folded handkerchief out to her, smiling a little. ‘Handkerchief, courtesy of my better half.’
She wiped her tears.
‘So let’s chat about what your father’s doing. You say yes or no. How about that?’
Kate wiped her nose.
‘How’s he about the house? Is he forgetful? Losing things?’
‘Yes. Sometimes.’
‘Does he think you take his things? Hide them?’
She looked at him, amazed. ‘Yes.’
‘Does he get stuck on things? Keep on about them?’
‘A bit.’
‘How’s his temperament now?’
‘He still gets angry. Often now, very angry. Over little things.’
‘Working in the paddocks?’
‘Not really. He spends most of his time in the office.’
‘Doing the books?’
She shook her head slowly. ‘He’s not paying the bills or anything.’
He frowned. ‘But is he still managing the men, running the place and so on?’
‘No.’ Kate dropped her head and looked at her hands in her lap.
‘Ah. But you’ve got a manager.’
The doctor took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. ‘The men like your father who served in the First War, they carry it with them. Some, the lucky ones, got more furlough, got some breaks from the front. But your father wasn’t one of them. Oh, he was lucky all right: he didn’t get hit. But that meant he never got pulled back from the front, not much anyhow. And living like that, under fire for years, seeing what they saw, doing what they had to do, does damage, I believe. Gives them migraines, flashbacks, mood swings, all the things we’ve seen over the years in your father.’
‘But why’s he getting worse?’
He frowned. ‘I’ll tell you now, there’s other Bones’d disagree, but the original damage and their symptoms? I reckon that they age a man before his time, can make him soft in the head. Then you put another blow on top of that – your mother passing away – and that shock can trigger a downturn.’
Kate breathed in deeply. ‘But he got better. A bit. Eventually. Not now, though. What can I do?’
He sighed. ‘You need to look after him.’
‘But you mean he won’t get better this time?’
When the doctor shook his head slowly, tears came into Kate’s eyes again. ‘Never say never. But they don’t tend to, once they’ve gone down that way. He’s not physical, though, with you, is he? Violent?’
‘Violent? No.’
‘Good. War’ll be over eventually. For now, keep him healthy. Daily Vegemite is what I’d suggest. Here, I’ll write you a script so you can get an extra ration card for it.’ He scribbled on his prescription notepad. ‘But otherwise, grin and bear it is needed for now, I’m afraid, till Jack’s home to help.’
Kate sat, the prescription in a limp hand. Home to help? Jack wouldn’t be home for months. And even then he wanted them to move away, once the war was over.
Dr King made a note in the file on his desk before snapping it shut. ‘Righto then, young Kate. Best of British to you and your father.’
On the trip back, and later at home as she swept and weeded and cooked, she thought about what Dr King had said. Her father would always be like this, maybe worse. That got to her, so she forced herself to do more jobs and to try to think about other things – rams and grain and joining and the drought, even.