Wool Away, Boy!

by Alan Blunt

  In the knowledge that good babblers were almost as rare as bunyips, while cranky snaggers fell out of trees like ripe mangoes, the boss intervened. ‘Whoa, Eagle! Hold your horses. Snowball will be okay. Ho Chi and the rep and myself will make an inspection as we return to the shed. I’ll see the porker gets a fair crack o’ the whip.’

  Most of the team watched as Dick fetched a seven-foot kangaroo-hide stock whip he’d plaited himself and went into action a few yards from where the white boar lay at ease. After warming up with a stockman’s crack and a few round-the-head ‘window-rattlers’, he announced each combination before he swung the ‘dreaded lash’: a couple of ‘Sydney flashes’ to begin, then left- and right-handed ‘tom thumbs’ went off like a string of crackers, followed by a battery of ‘Waterloo cannons’, a ‘drum roll with thunder claps’ and ‘one for the ladies’. As the echoes of the exhibition bounced off the shed and huts and died away, Snowball, wondering what all the fuss was about, rose indifferently and wandered a few steps in the direction of the bore drain.

  Dick tendered the whip to Ho Chi, and said sardonically, ‘Well, old chap, Snowball is on his feet and pointed in the right direction. I call that mission accomplished. Of course, you’re welcome to urge him on – but don’t apply the lash: that might bugger the cracker – and it would stir the cook … And that I won’t tolerate.’

  The little shearer was aware of the limits of his whip-cracking ability. Declining the opportunity to make a fool of himself, he marched for the shed, as straight-backed and recalcitrant as Napoleon in defeat.

  Snowball grunted his pleasure and turned back on hearing The Eagle yodelling ‘Piggy, pig, piggy, pig …’ as he tipped half a bucket of scraps into an old face-dish he had placed by the pig wallow.

  The next morning the team was chatting and chiacking over smoko, when three tame emus appeared pecking after grasshoppers and grubs along the green verge of the bore drain.

  ‘Can emus fly?’ the Rambling Pommy asked innocently, in his broad Yorkshire accent.

  ‘They can. Indeed they can!’ I declared solemnly. ‘But it’s a mighty rare event; one I’ve only been privileged to witness once or twice.’

  Experienced ringers regularly turned up at the shed at smoko time. Kelpie Tom, squatting on the flagstone floor stockman style with a pannikin of tea and a slab of brownie, contradicted me. ‘Not so, Presser! Up in my country, in the Basalt, nor-west o’ the Towers – where the dingoes gather in packs of a thousand or more for a moon-light howlin’ shebang – you’ll often see emus on the wing.’

  ‘But they don’t gain much elevation or distance,’ I argued, thinking the yarn might grow too ludicrous if left to Kelpie’s unbridled imagination – even for a Pommy’s digestion. ‘In fact, by my observation they’re short, fast, flat flyers, like giant quail.’

  ‘Right and wrong, Presser! Let me put you straight. Up in the Basalt country the chicks learn to fly or perish; and I’ve seen a grown bird, pursued by a mob of howlin’, blood-thirsty dingoes, fly a mile and perch thirty feet up in a bloodwood tree.’

  Jeff had entered and poured a mug of tea, and seated himself on the bale the ringer was squatting against while Kelpie enlarged on the flying ability of emus. ‘Now Jeff, the boss of the show, is a bloke who stretches the truth now and then – which does not qualify as lying. So I believe him when he tells me that he was up in a helicopter with a contract musterer, well above the treetops, when they viewed a daddy emu with twelve chicks flying south in a V formation at a thousand feet, pointing like a mob of wood-ducks. Of course, yer know it’s always the cock bird that looks after the emu chicks.’

  Jeff trickled hot tea down the back of Kelpie’s shirt. The lanky stockman squirmed. ‘I didn’t hear you announce yerself, Jeff. But what I say is ridgy-didge, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you say so, Kelpie, if you say so.’

  Fascinated, the Rambling Pommy asked, ‘How fast do they have to run to take off?’

  Ho Chi chipped in authoritatively. ‘An emu’s wings in flight have been scientifically recorded at over a thousand beats a minute – faster than a humming-bird’s. The ratio of wing span to body weight means an emu has got to have at least 980 wing beats per second and run at a ground speed of fifty miles an hour to lift off.’

  Kelpie had eased on to the floor, and now lay at full stretch on his back. Smoke and laconic speech issued from beneath his work-worn Akubra, which rested on his nose and shaded his eyes.

  ‘You are right but you are wrong, Chinaman,’ he returned dismissively. ‘Obviously you have never seen an emu attain flight. Any ornithologist worth his feathers knows that the emu, when alarmed, runs a few speedy steps to wind-up revs, pirouettes a la Dame Margot Fonteyn, then goes straight up like a helicopter.’

  ‘Do they attack people?’ the Pommy queried nervously.

  ‘They do not,’ Kelpie stated flatly. ‘But keep an eye peeled for low-flying emus. Like an ocean-going liner they are not agile at changing direction. If you hear them coming the best shot is to drop as flat as a lizard.’

  ‘Hear them coming?’ asked the puzzled Pommy.

  ‘My bloody oath! The wing beats of half a dozen emus howl like a Stuka dive bomber coming in for the kill.’

  Ho Chi butted in assertively, ‘You’re wrong about emus not attacking people. I’ve seen a pet male get very aggro, drumming and scratching and running right at me. If I hadn’t thrown my hat over his head and legged it I’d have lost an eye.’

  ‘That’s just it, Chinaman! If you had the guts to stare that bird down you would have called his bluff. In fact the only case I can recall of an emu hurting a human occurred up in the Basalt a few years back – and that was not the bird’s fault! A small boy, a city kid, was out riding on his own. The pony was an old hand with emus on the wing, and when he heard the terrifying howl of an approaching emu flight he dropped to his knees and lowered his head for safety. But the little fellow stood tall on the saddle to take a gander and see what the noise was about. A split second later he was run clean through by the bird’s beak and carried away, swingin’ an’ squealin’ like a porker on a Bengal lancer’s point.’

  The listeners twisted their smiles to frowns and choked their laughter, while Cyril sympathised: ‘Holy smoke! That’s bloody horrible. The poor little chap!’

  ‘Don’t make yourself too comfortable, Kelpie,’ Jeff interjected. ‘We’ve still got a thousand ewes and lambs to draft. Fact is, if you were as keen on toil as you are on talk we’d have half the mob through.’

  The ringer’s rangy frame rose in reluctant sections; his two red kelpie dogs, snoozing obediently in the corner, sensed his move and were instantly on four paws, ears pricked and eyes shining.

  ‘Another point worth noting, Rambler,’ Kelpie mentioned casually as he exited, ‘if you take a photo of an emu on the wing you’re as rich as Rockefeller. Photos of flying emus are rare as big-hearted bank managers.’

  The next morning an excited Rambling Pommy brought his Canon 35mm camera to the shed. After swallowing a quick smoko he commandeered a reluctant presser and an eager Fritzy to chase emus, and proudly led his team on a Boy’s Own magazine adventure to photograph flying emus.

  While the watchers in the wool room doubled up with laughter, the amazed tame emus ran and circled and dodged, always a step ahead of our yelling pursuit.

  I came back grinning sheepishly, while Cyril and Fritzy, despite failure, were winded but undaunted. ‘Did you see that?’ Fritzy shouted. ‘They had their little wings out; we nearly had them flying.’

  ‘We need to make them run faster. I need a horse!’ the Rambling Pommy declared in the manner of a man with a mission.

  ‘You need to howl like a pack of dingoes on the blood-trail,’ Kelpie put in vigorously. He hooked his thumbs in his belt, bushman style, arched his back and let rip a blood-curdling howl that turned the Pom pale and set the Kelpie dogs to howling mournfully in response. ‘You’ve got to scare ’em shitless! Bore it up ’em – so they know it’s FLY or DIE!’ />
  With his blood running hot, the Pom confronted Jeff. ‘Boss, can I borrow your saddle horse tomorrow morning?’

  The grazier was caught short. He felt the joke was getting out of hand and only with difficulty maintained a straight face. Sparring for time, he rubbed his chin and mulled a moment before replying, ‘Well – er, that’s fine, but I doubt any of my mounts would be hefty enough to carry you. You’re a big fella. What do you tip the scales at, son?’

  ‘I was fifteen stone when I did army training; and sixteen stone when I played front-row second division last season. I’m carrying a spot of lard, so I might be seventeen stone now. I stand six feet and one inch in my socks.’

  Jeff was still hesitating, when spurred by desperation and destiny Cyril added pointlessly, ‘I’ll turn twenty-one years of age on February the twenty-first, Boss. My mum wants me home for that occasion. I’m joining the army then.’

  ‘I’m sure she does,’ said Jeff, still clamping his jaws to prevent a mirth explosion. ‘Well, ah, we’ve established that your weight might be a problem, but first and foremost – can you ride?’

  ‘Ride!’ the Rambling Pommy exclaimed, stunned momentarily by what seemed a stupid question. I’ve done farm work all my life! I can drive any tractor you like to name. I’ve got an A-one in animal husbandry and a B-two in large acreage agriculture …’

  ‘Well, ah, I must say that’s impressive.’

  Kelpie’s lofty form loomed up beside Jeff. ‘We can’t disappoint the lad, Jeff,’ he said solemnly. ‘He’s come halfway around the world to see emus fly. In the mornin’ I’ll saddle Maisie, that old half-draught mare o’ mine. She could pack a piano.’

  Everyone who owned a camera brought it to the shed. They were mostly Box Brownies, but Kelpie, who sold photos to the North Queensland Register and other country newspapers, sported a 35mm job with a zoom lens, while Jeff carried his wife’s 8mm movie camera.

  On cue, the emus fossicked for tidbits along the bore drain. The Rambling Pommy was so excited he skipped smoko, swung into the saddle and jogged towards the target, with Fritzy trotting beside and the cameramen close behind.

  The Pom’s familiarity with the saddle surprised the onlookers, who were expecting him to go overboard quick smart, for Maisie was a sharp turner: she had served time droving and camp-drafting cattle, and was indignant at her rider’s poundage and being asked to muster emus. Like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza they made a ludicrous combination, the big mare dutifully rolling into a jog and the hefty Yorkshire lad posting in the saddle while faithful Fritzy ran beside.

  Coming onto the emus, the Pom and Fritzy yelled and howled with the zest of true believers. Their enthusiasm infected the apostates, and even Kelpie broke into a jog to keep up with the shouting, laughing and yipping chasers as he positioned for photographs.

  The emus swung into a swift trot towards the homestead, and the galloping goats and kids joined them. The mare followed closely with the Pom shouting and waving his hat, while the foot-sloggers snapped their photos and laughed their way back to the shed for a postponed smoko.

  24

  THE WHITE GODDESS

  Despite his misgivings Jeff was enjoying the joke until he glanced out the wool-room window and saw a car entering the homestead grounds 400 yards away. ‘Holy smoke!’ he exclaimed. ‘The wife is home! I wasn’t expecting her till the weekend.’ He swallowed his tea, grabbed his hat and said, ‘C’mon, Kelpie. We’ll leave the branding till later. I’ll take the ute and the dogs, you saddle up, and we’ll go and give Silent a hand to muster those two-tooth wethers.’

  Kelpie got to his feet with uncharacteristic speed. ‘Good thinkin’, Jeff!’ he said. Turning at the exit he offered a piece of missing information. ‘You fellas! Jane raised those three birds since they was chicks. My guess is she’ll take a dim view of a maniac she wouldn’t know from Darcy Dugan chasin’ them around – on my horse. I’ll see yer later.’

  A few minutes after shearing resumed, pounding hooves and a shout of ‘Whoa!’ announced a furious Yorkshire lad’s return. Raging through the loading doorway, he cut loose: ‘You’re a mob of bloody gormless idiots, that’s what you are. All matey with big Cyril to his face and taking the mick behind his back. And you’ve made me a fool in front of the Mrs. “Emus can’t fly, you silly boy,” says she.’

  He clumped half a dozen steps, swinging his head like an angry fighting bull in search of his tormentors. ‘Where’s that Kelpie fooker? Silly boy, huh! Ah’ll knock his bloody block off!’

  Sitting on a wool bale, I primed myself for an evasive roll off the far side, but was caught by the explosive speed of the front-rower’s charge. My twelve stone was folded as easily as a football into a huge right arm, carried three paces and hurled bouncing across the flagstone floor.

  The shearers had their heads down at work, while the rousies watched from the far side of the wool bins as Dick confronted the berserker. ‘Hold it! Hold it! Settle down!’ the overseer commanded. At arm’s length the giant dwarfed the overseer. ‘Shut up and step aside before I lose my rag and snot you,’ Cyril snarled, shoving a mauley as big as a leg of lamb under Dick’s nose.

  I got swiftly back on my feet, deciding on inconspicuous retreat, but when I saw an old mate about to be steam-rolled by a raging giant, I slipped up behind the Pom, aiming to king him with a right to the jaw. It better be a good’un, I thought, badly shaken by my bouncing on the flagstone floor. I was relieved to hear Dick call on his army experience to take command: ‘Attention, soldier! Attention!’ he roared. ‘Another word and you will earn three hours on the parade ground and confinement to barracks. UNDERSTAND?’

  Cyril had straightened his posture and was halfway through a salute before he realised what he was doing. He shook his head while muttering a volley of hostile Yorkshire profanity, but the impetus of his rage was broken.

  Dick stared him down and then grinned. ‘You’re on duty in five minutes, soldier. Grab a cuppa and some smoko and then go to your post.’

  A few minutes later I was by a wool-room window washing grit and gore from my abrasions in the hand basin, when a dusty Falcon sedan parked in the shade of a tree near the wool room. Having passed most of my working life in a womanless world of bush-camps, I enjoyed a serendipitous vision as the driver, a good-looker I reckoned to be in her late thirties, slipped swiftly from behind the wheel. She was wearing a floral summer frock and sandals. The boss’s wife, I assumed, as the woman stood for a moment taking in the scene, smoothing down her frock and brushing back some vagrant blonde hairs.

  Apparently satisfied with her appearance, she clamped on an aggressive frown which threatened retribution, and swung into a purposeful march towards the wool room. Her striding attitude changed my prospect, morphing her shapely calves and sandalled feet into a Roman centurion’s muscular foot-slog. I fear no man and very few women, I had often quipped, and this furious femme was definitely a candidate for the latter category. I ducked into a bin, yelled ‘Ducks on the pond,’ a traditional warning to show respect to women entering the shed, and began arming wool, leaving Dick to face the Wagnerian music.

  ‘Good morning, ma’am. Welcome home – and it’s a pleasure to see you.’

  ‘What the devil is this formality bit? The name is Jane – as you well know!’

  ‘Well … Ah, yes … Jane. Can I be of assistance?’

  ‘My God, Dick! What is this? My shearing shed, or Tom Fool’s restaurant? Can I be of assistance? What’s next – a wine list? Cut the bullshit! You know why I’m here. Galloping my emus and milking goats all over the place. Flying emus! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. And that poor lad, Cyril – comes all the way from Yorkshire to see our lovely country, only to be made a fool of by a mob of pathetic morons. Your men are way out of control, Dick. Way out of control!’

  ‘It was only a joke that got a bit over-cooked, Jane,’ Dick said, his confidence firming. ‘I promise you it’s all over now. All is well. A good bright wool clip; and I’m counting out over a thousa
nd shornies a day.’

  ‘Don’t try to change the subject, Dick. Like hell it’s all over! Where’s Jeff? And where is that gangling fool, Kelpie? He was a kid when he first came here fifteen years ago – and he’s grown backwards every year since. This shenanigan has got his brand all over it!’

  Dick was one of those men who enjoyed any exchange with a woman at long and medium range. At distance he was a dab operator, confident of his ability to oil rough waters and relieve and amuse dissatisfied moods with empathy and laughter; it was only when he was tested for prolonged periods at close range – through marriage or de facto relationships – that he discovered the companionship of ‘The Female of the Species’ to be unendurable.

  Within minutes Dick and Jane were enjoying each other’s company, laughing and chatting. They walked around to the shearing board, where her womanly presence instantly put a hold on the flow of banter and profanity. She nodded to the workers when she caught their eye, and chatted breezily to Ritzy – an old acquaintance – at the pen gate, before singling out a blushing but delighted Cyril for friendly attention. Observing Ho Chi Minh hitching his dungarees around to hide the gap left by his missing fly buttons, I recalled Lawson’s take on ladies in the shearing shed:

  ‘The ladies are coming,’ the super says

  To the shearers sweltering there,

  And ‘the ladies’ means in the shearing shed:

  ‘Don’t cut ’em too bad. Don’t swear.’

  The ghost of a pause in the shed’s rough heart,

  And lower is bowed each head;

  And nothing is heard, save a whispered word

  And the roar of the shearing shed.

  As she left, the boss’s wife called from the door, ‘Dick! Tell Kelpie that I want to see him quick smart! I’ll have his hide for boot laces! And I suspect Jeff was in on this, too.’ I considered making her acquaintance, but caution overruled desire and I didn’t emerge from the sheltering wool bin until I heard the Falcon drive away.