The Stockmen

by Rachael Treasure

  He was pulling a beer which he set before the crusty-mouthed regular slumped at the bar. Then he turned his lively brown eyes to her.

  ‘What’ll it be, darlin’?’

  ‘Um … I don’t know.’

  ‘Beer?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  ‘Ten-ounce?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  He held up two sizes of glasses.

  ‘Ten-ounce or a seven?’

  ‘The bigger one, thanks,’ Rosemary said.

  ‘Good choice, love.’ He winked in a friendly way as he handed it over.

  The beer in her hand felt icy cold. She raised it to her mouth and sipped at it. It tingled on the back of her throat. Then she gulped it down in one hit. The publican leant against the fridge, folded his arms in front of his broad chest and crossed his ankles. He tilted his head as he considered the strange girl in the brand-new clothes at his bar.

  ‘Another?’

  ‘Yes … thanks.’ She put her money forward.

  After he’d pulled her a beer he leant across the bar and offered her his hand.

  ‘James Dean,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘James Dean. That’s me. My real name’s Andrew Dean, but most people say I’m good-lookin’ enough to be James Dean.’ He smoothed back his imaginary fifties haircut. Then he gave her a cheeky smile, to make sure she knew he was joking.

  ‘Nice to meet you, James Dean,’ Rosemary said, shaking his hand firmly and smiling back at him.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Um.’ She paused. ‘Rosie. Rosie Jones.’

  ‘Very nice to meet you, Rosie Jones.’ The phone on the wall let out a shrill ring. “Scuse me … that’ll be my movie agent,’ he said with a wink, before bounding away to answer it.

  Rosie smiled at how easy it was. Rosie Jones, she repeated in her mind. The guy hadn’t even blinked. He hadn’t said, ‘Ah! Highgrove-Jones, from Highgrove station? You’re one of the Highgrove-Joneses, aren’t you?’ Instead James Dean had just met Rosie Jones. Plain old Rosie Jones. She downed the rest of the beer and burped a little, suddenly feeling a freedom she’d never experienced before.

  James Dean hung up the phone.

  ‘That was my love goddess – the missus. She was just ringing me to tell me there are no film offers yet.’

  ‘Oh?’

  James Dean shrugged. ‘Guess I’d better keep pulling beers for you,’ he said, picking up her glass. ‘Or can I get you something else? How about some square bear? You look like the kind of girl who’d drink a shed full of square bear.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rosie, not sure what she was ordering.

  When James Dean set the fizzing Bundaberg rum and Coke before her, Rosie felt another rush of freedom. Being Rosie Jones was fun. Much more fun than that boring old Rosemary Highgrove-Jones ever had. She gulped down the rum and Coke like a thirsty kid drinking cordial.

  It was getting dark outside the pub and Rosie had just put Tania Kernaghan’s ‘Boots ’N’ All’ on the jukebox for the ninth time in a row. Even the old drunk was starting to give Rosie sideways glances as she swivelled on her stool in time to the music.

  ‘My friend Beccy outrides the boys, leaves ’em in a cloud of dust,’ sang Rosie, almost in time with Tania. She swung her glass in the air and pretended to strum the guitar, sloshing rum and Coke on her new jeans.

  ‘She’s the best at being a bad influence and it’s rubbing off on me … Boots ’n’ all, boots ’n’ all! If you’re gonna do it throw your heart into it!’

  Her eyes filled with tears each time Tania sang, ‘Here she comes, down the aisle, in her long white satin gown, and the shiniest pair of Blunnies ever, she’s not mucking around!’

  Rosie sang the chorus that followed loudly, to control the lump in her throat. She thought of the wedding that would now never happen. When the jukebox at last fell silent, on the eleventh round of ‘Boots ’N’ All’, Rosie grappled in her rum-splattered handbag for another five-dollar note. James Dean moved over to her. He’d guessed she must’ve been Sam’s fiancée and his heart went out to her. Sam’s death, and Jillian’s, had been the talk of the town. James Dean had heard endless gossip about Sam’s final fling.

  As a publican, he hadn’t enjoyed Sam’s presence in his hotel. Sure, Sam dragged in his crowd of mates after stockhorse and sheepdog events and they put money over the bar, but they usually had a skinful and sparked trouble with the local workmen. And Sam, he was looking for either a fight or a woman, or both. James Dean was irked by Sam’s private-school voice and the condescending way he ordered drinks from the bartenders like they were servants.

  Now, James Dean looked at the drunken girl at the bar. He put his hand on hers and sought out her eyes.

  ‘Rosie darlin’, I tell you, I can’t serve you any more bevvies. I didn’t realise you’d be such a two-pot screamer. You’re tanked to your eyeballs.’

  ‘But, Buck Rogers, please …’

  ‘It’s time to go, mate.’

  ‘No!’ she slurred. ‘Who’s going to take me home?’

  Rosie fell into a sulky silence. James Dean shrugged, sat a fizzing glass of lemonade in front of her and moved away to serve his one other customer. Just then Duncan appeared carrying a cardboard box full of books and papers. Billy O’Rourke followed him in.

  ‘Good God, Rosemary!’ Duncan said when he saw her perched unsteadily at the bar. Her hair fell over her face as she grappled around in her Princess Charlotte handbag for her car keys, muttering to herself.

  ‘Stupid bloody handbag,’ she slurred. Then she threw the bag to the floor. When she saw Duncan standing in front of her, a beaming smile came to her face.

  ‘Dunks!’ She ran to him and flung her arms around his neck. ‘I’m sorry about what I said before, Dunks. Sorry. Sorry.’

  Duncan put his box down, took her arms from around his neck, and sat her back down on the stool.

  ‘Rosemary, I think I should drive you home,’ he said.

  ‘Rosie,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My name’s Rosie. Next article I write my by-line’s going to be Rosie Jones! No more of this hyphen bull!’

  Billy O’Rourke smiled.

  ‘That’s just what Duncan and I came in to talk to you about, Rosem–Rosie.’ Billy picked up the box and sat it on the bar, while he searched out her eyes.

  ‘We can’t let you do the market reports,’ he said, ‘it’s out of the question … but we have another cunning plan.’

  ‘So you’re giving me the sack! Ha! Mum will love that!’

  ‘No. Not the sack!’ Duncan shook his head.

  Billy put a hand on Rosie’s shoulder. Suddenly she felt like one of his young horses, calmed beneath his touch.

  ‘Remember I had a job for you?’ he asked. Rosie nodded. ‘I’ve been meaning to see you. But with the accident and everything …’ His voice trailed off for a moment. ‘I’m very sorry about what you’re going through.’

  Rosie nodded again.

  ‘But I need you now. Duncan and I want you to research something for us. We need you to set up a weekly series for the paper and help with a marketing campaign. You can do it from home … you need to take some time of your own, Rosie, to get over your grief.’

  ‘Grief,’ Rosie echoed, the image of Sam flashing into her alcohol-addled brain.

  ‘Yes,’ said Duncan. ‘You’ll love it. It’ll be a boost to the town. It involves going out to interview stockmen,’ he said enticingly. Rosie looked at him, a glimmer of interest on her face.

  ‘It’s Billy’s idea. We need you to research an Irish stockman by the name of Jack Gleeson who used to work around Casterton. Tell her about it, Bill.’

  Rosie looked up into the kind eyes of the stockman who stood before her. His legs were slightly bandy from a lifetime spent in the saddle. His hands were as brown as the leather reins he held daily. It was hard to tell his age, maybe late forties, but his summer-sky
eyes held a youthful energy.

  ‘Well, they reckon this Gleeson fella got himself a pup that he named Kelpie, and she’s the foundation bitch for the whole kelpie breed. It’s a bit of history that only a few people know about, but it’s worth celebrating and it could really kick-start something for this town.’

  He waited for Rosie to respond, but she just blinked her blue eyes slowly. Billy soldiered on.

  ‘The story goes he swapped his stockhorse for the pup on the river bank somewhere near here. We need you to research it and write it up.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ Rosie said suddenly.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Duncan.

  ‘Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks! You just want me out of the office!’

  ‘It needs doing, Rosem–Rosie, and I don’t have the time. Billy here’s been barking at me for ages to get on to it. It’s a perfect job for you.’

  ‘It’s a great idea!’ said James Dean. He sauntered up to them and leant both elbows on the bar.

  ‘Bill has the following in the dog world to get the nation’s largest kelpie auction up and running here in the town, based on this yarn. It’d have to give this whole place a boost and that sounds great to me. It might even mean a few more boozers coming in the door of this old dungheap,’ he said, looking around.

  ‘No offence, Neville!’ he called to the old man who was dozing at the bar. ‘Come on, Rosie. Get off your arse and do something for your town. If we all get behind Bill on this one, who knows where it could take us? National fame and fortune … even the big screen … you never know your luck.’

  ‘Well, what do you say, Rosie?’ asked Duncan.

  Rosie looked at the three men standing before her. Did she really want to take on something like this? She tried to process their request in her muddled brain. She didn’t know what she wanted to do in life now Sam was gone. But could she handle working from home? What did she know about kelpies? She was about to argue that she might not be the person for the job when suddenly the pub door opened. Billy’s red kelpie nosed his way in and trotted over to the bar.

  ‘Outside, Trevor!’ Billy said, but the dog wagged his tail and put his paws up on Rosie’s knees, begging for a pat.

  ‘What is this?’ she asked. ‘A scene out of Lassie or something?’ She picked up the dog’s front paws.

  ‘Come on, Trev. Let’s boogaloo till we puke!’ She began to dance.

  ‘Boots ’n’ all, boots ’n’ all, if you’re gonna do it, throw your heart into it. Everything you do, throw your heart into … Red dirt gum tree country, red dirt gum tree country. Boots ’n’ all.’

  Leaving Trevor to bark and bound around her feet, Rosie picked up the box of books and danced to the door. The men watched her from the bar as she and the dog danced out into the street.

  ‘I think you can take that as a yes,’ James Dean said with a wink to Duncan and Billy.

  ‘That’s if she remembers in the morning,’ Billy said, shaking his head.

  Chapter 6

  It was the first morning since the accident that Rosie Jones had woken without stinging thoughts of Sam’s death. Instead, she woke feeling excited, despite her hangover. History books and pamphlets were scattered over the bed. She reached out and picked up one of the books.

  ‘A Green and Pleasant Land,’ she read out loud. She picked up another. ‘Still Stands the Schoolhouse by the Road.’ She tried to remember what Duncan had told her about researching the Irish stockman and the sheepdog. Where should she start, she wondered?

  CODRINGTON, VICTORIA, 1861

  The tiny stockman’s hut stank of stale urine and of smoke from a now cold fireplace. Old Albert lay withered and shrunken between grimy sheets, his mouth hanging open and his eyes sunk deep into their sockets.

  ‘Good Lord Jesus. Is he gone already?’ said Jack to the Reverend Shinnick.

  ‘No, Jack,’ said the Reverend. ‘Go to him. But mind you wake him gently.’

  Jack moved slowly to the bed and tugged hesitantly on Albert’s sleeve. The old man gurgled phlegm in his throat and began to lick his dry lips as he awoke. He peered at the tall young man who stood at his bedside.

  ‘Ah, Jack … me boy.’

  ‘Albert. Can I do anything?’

  ‘Only bring me our sweet Mother Mary so I can go meet her Son in Heaven,’ said Albert. ‘I’ve had enough of this world.’

  Albert weakly patted the empty space on the bed beside him.

  ‘Even me little dog gave up on me.’ He began to cough.

  Jack stood waiting, not sure what to do or say. Then the old man spoke again.

  ‘Go out the back now, Jack. Go to the stable and pick yourself out what gear you need. Then ride the mare home. Her colt will follow.’

  ‘Your horses, Albert?’ said Jack, wide-eyed. He knew Albert’s prize stockhorse mare had thoroughbred bloodlines. A box crammed with coins and rumpled pound notes had been emptied to buy her. Then, after a good win at cards, old Albert had sent his mare to the best imported stallion in the district. And now he was offering Jack that very same mare, and the handsome colt that she suckled.

  ‘Take ’em, boy.’

  ‘But, Albert –’

  ‘Don’t be arguin’ with a dyin’ man, Jack,’ Albert wheezed. ‘You’ve got a gift. I’ve seen you with animals. It’s a rare thing. Don’t waste it by being a potato grower for your uncle James. That store he wants to open in Koroit – it’s not your dream, Jack. If you don’t go now, before you know it you’ll be servin’ fussy little ladies and sellin’ wine to old drunks like me. You’ll pine away inside.’

  Albert paused for breath.

  ‘So just take the mare on the road. Break her colt in as you go. Take to the road, Jack, it’s what you’re destined to do. Make a difference to this earth with your gifts – don’t waste ’em.’

  Jack felt the words of his old friend touch him deep inside. It was here that Jack held his frustration, a frustration he struggled with each day of his life on the farm with his kindly uncle and aunt, who had loved him and raised him as their own. Though he loved his family, Jack longed for the freedom to ride into the vast interior of this new country. Turning beasts on the run in the scrub, then calming the cattle to a steady walk along a track; a working dog leaning on his leg at night as he gazed into a campfire. This had always been his dream.

  He felt the old man’s hand reach out to touch his.

  ‘It’s time for me to sleep now, boy. Take good care of them horses for me. It’s your turn to be the stockman. Be the best you can.’

  ‘Goodbye, Albert,’ Jack said, tears spilling from his eyes. Then he turned and walked away.

  Outside in the sunshine, birds skittered about in the pear tree. Beneath the tree were two mounds of dirt. The grave for Albert was already dug and a cross made from palings was lying in the grass. The second mound was smaller, a miniature grave that bore no cross. Jack knew that underneath it lay the old man’s little terrier.

  He shook the chill of death from his shoulders and walked on into the stable, comforted by the smell of horses and leather. He ran his hands over the cool snaking twist of a stockwhip and well-oiled straps of a bridle. Under a sweat-crusted saddle blanket sat a magnificently crafted stock saddle. It was old and worn, rubbed smooth with work, lanolin and love. Jack had always dreamed of having a saddle like it. He opened the stable’s creaking back door and stepped into the stockyard. There the mare stood dozing, one hind hoof lifted slightly, her foal nuzzling at her teats. The mare, Bailey, was a deep chestnut with a flaxen mane. She was strong and stocky for a horse of her breeding and she had soft brown eyes that looked at Jack calmly. The bright-eyed colt, about three months old now, was a sleek, long-legged bay. The colt turned his head to Jack and watched him cautiously. Jack stood looking at the shining coats of the heavenly creatures, barely daring to believe they were his.

  Then Bailey whickered and took a step towards him, reaching out her neck to sniff at his shirtsleeve. She moved closer and leant her face to Jack’s chest. When Jack s
troked her strong neck he felt the excitement of possibility charge through him.

  ‘Oh, lass. Will we have some adventures together!’

  Rosie snapped out of her daydream and began to jot down some notes. As she did, she heard the clatter of hooves on cobbles and whinnying from outside her window. Climbing from her bed, she pulled back the curtains to see Julian and Sam’s father unloading Sam’s chestnut mare from the float. Even Rosie could see that she was heavily in foal. Gerald was holding Oakwood, who was looking anxiously around at his new surroundings. Chained to the back of the Chillcott-Clarks’ ute were three sleek, sharp kelpies, which Rosie recognised as Sam’s dogs. Two were black and tans, the other was an unusual blue and tan, the colour of campfire smoke. The sight of Sam’s animals sent a chill through Rosie. Surely Sam himself would soon step out from the stables or emerge from the horse float? Rosie spun the ring around on her finger, frowning as she watched Julian lug dog food and bags of chaff into the stables.

  ‘What is going on out there?’ she asked herself before she scrabbled in her cupboard for some clothes.

  Splashing cool water on her face seemed to ease her hangover a little as she searched for the strength to face Sam’s father. From the bathroom she heard her own father calling to her from downstairs. The impatience in his voice grated on her nerves.

  ‘Rosemary? Rosemary! You have a visitor.’

  ‘Coming!’ she yelled.

  Margaret Highgrove-Jones always insisted guests be ushered into either the northern sunroom, overlooking her herb garden, or the drawing room. No talking at the kitchen table for her. Unless, of course, the visitors were workmen or stock agents – they took their tea on the glassed-in back verandah.

  Rosie found Marcus Chillcott-Clark in the sunroom, perched on a white wicker chair. His face was grey and great shadows darkened his eyes. For Marcus, every day since his son’s death had been a walking, waking hell – but the nights were worse. In the darkness, lying next to his sobbing wife, he relived the call over and over again, the one asking him matter-of-factly to make his way to the Hamilton hospital.