Jack gently slipped the halter over the foal’s head and told him, ‘It won’t be long till you’ll be carryin’ your fair share.’ The colt dropped his head and shook the halter, but he would soon take to being led from the mare.
Jack thought of the long hours ahead of him on the road. There’d be plenty of time to dream up a name for the colt.
He led Bailey out of the stalls, the colt following them. He turned away from the sea-breeze that was rushing in off the grey water, and walked along the road that headed north. He didn’t look back.
Chapter 9
The sound of the horses moving about their stalls woke Rosie at dawn. She stretched and stood, thinking only of the animals, ready to go, not bothering to wash or change. Not wanting to face her mother or the truth. There was no sign of Julian. He must have slept in, Rosie concluded.
In the stable Oakwood stood as still as a queen’s guard horse as she reached up and struggled to put the bridle over his ears. He waited patiently while she heaved the stock saddle on to his back. So far so good, thought Rosie, as she tugged the girth up a notch. But out in the courtyard he was a different creature. He danced on his hooves, and each time Rosie put pressure on his bit, he tossed his head.
‘Stand still!’ she cried in frustration as Oakwood turned in circles. She had a fine sweat on her brow from nerves. She stood for a moment, taking deep, slow breaths, trying to calm down. Then she took a firm grip on the reins.
‘Stand up,’ she said in a commanding voice. This time Oakwood stood. She clambered up into the saddle and was relieved to feel the horse relax. His slim neck seemed to stretch out forever in front of her and his ears flickered back and forwards as he looked about the courtyard. She felt a long way off the ground. Sassy, now in a yard behind the stable, trotted anxiously up and down the fence and whinnied to him. Rosie felt Oakwood shudder beneath her as he let out a loud reply.
‘Oh, come on!’ she said, ‘It’s not that bad!’
She had let the dogs out before saddling Oakwood and they were now sniffing about the courtyard. The largest black and tan, Diesel, was leisurely lifting his leg on Margaret’s pot-plants and the smoky-coloured bitch, Dixie, was pooping in the middle of the yard.
Rosie watched them, feeling almost smug. Anger towards her mother began to bubble up again. All those years of being bossed and berated by Margaret, who pretended to be Mrs Perfect – but it was all a lie. Her mother had lied to her! Well, she was going to live out her dreams from now on, no matter what her mother thought. Rosie used her feelings to steel her nerves as she urged Oakwood forward, through the archway, past the shearing shed and then on beyond the yards.
‘Dogs! Come behind!’ she called out like a true stockman. Then she set off on the lower track, which she knew would eventually lead her to where the river rolled out from the hills.
She had been on the horse for just half an hour when the dogs caught scent of the sheep. Rosie saw them sniff at the wind and then crouch down and move in a slink, rather than a trot. In the distance she spotted the sheep drinking at the dam in the morning light. The dogs crouched, their ears pricked. They stalked forward.
‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘Come, dogs.’
But they ignored her. The youngest dog, Gibbo, was quivering with excitement. As they neared, a sheep lifted its head from the water and sprang back, startling the rest of the mob. They began to move nervously away from the dogs. Gibbo took off like a whippet, running full pelt at the sheep. Diesel cast out and around, while Dixie, slower and full of pups, cantered to the other side of the mob.
‘No! Dogs! Come here! Diesel! Gibbo! Gibbo! Dixie! Come! Bugger you!’
The dogs took no notice. With youthful exuberance, Gibbo cut a few sheep out of the mob and ran them hard, snapping at their faces, while Diesel and Dixie did their best to work the whole lot into a mob. They ran them round in circles towards Rosie, pushing them closer and closer to the dam.
‘Leave them!’ Rosie yelled.
But the dogs would not. Soon sheep were up-ended in the dam, their legs and hooves flailing in the air like beetles on their backs. Rosie instinctively kicked Oakwood to a trot, but he was no kid’s pony, so the feeling of her boots in his sides jolted him straight into a canter. Rosie careened awkwardly in the saddle as they headed towards the dam, screaming at the dogs as she went.
‘Come behind!’ she screeched. She hardly recognised the voice as hers. Her heart raced as Oakwood cantered up and over the dam bank. Like the brilliant campdraft horse he was, he skidded to a perfect halt at the water’s edge. Rosie felt air rushing around her as she flew over his neck. Still clutching the reins, she fell down and down as if in slow motion. At last, cold water splashed around her as her backside hit the muddy bottom of the dam with a jarring thud that shocked the air from her lungs. Sheep thrashed all about her as the dogs worked hard to bring the mob to Rosie. Gasping, she dropped the reins. She grappled for a stick floating on the muddy surface and waved it angrily at the dogs.
‘Sit! Sit! Sit!’ Hearing the fury in her voice, each dog sat. The sheep on the edge of the dam seemed to calm. Rosie stood puffing, her breasts rising and falling beneath her wet teddy bear T-shirt. Her tracky-dacks, brown with mud and smeared with sheep manure, sagged below her bum. Oakwood had waded into the dam up to his knees and was pawing at the water. Rosie grunted with effort as she hauled heavy wet sheep to their feet so they could totter to dry ground. The movement of the waterlogged sheep again sparked Gibbo to rush in at the mob, but this time Rosie ran at him waving the stick.
‘Sit, you little bugger! Sit!’
Gibbo backed off a few paces, glancing nervously at her, and slowly put his backside on the ground, though he continued to stare intensely at the sheep.
By the time she had collected Oakwood from the dam and convinced the dogs to come away from the sheep, Rosie was exhausted. A sharp pain was rising in her right bum-cheek, probably from landing on a rock. She sat on the dam’s bank and looked at her mud-caked hands. With a jolt she realised Sam’s engagement ring was gone. She waded back into the dam, scrabbling through the silt and mud, looking for the gleam of sapphire and gold. Sobs rose in her throat.
‘Oh, no! Oh, Sam!’
When Rosie at last gave up searching for the ring, she stood up in the middle of the dam. Arms outstretched, she let out a long frustrated wail that made the dogs flatten their ears and look away. Then she flung herself backwards into the water, as if she was being baptised.
As she sunk beneath the vile-smelling dam water, Rosie wished she would drown. She held her breath and shut her eyes and listened to the thud of her heart. But when her lungs felt as if they would burst, she surfaced again, to see the three dogs sitting on the dam bank anxiously watching for her. From the dam’s edge they whined and barked at her, as if begging her to come out.
‘Okay, okay,’ she said sadly. ‘I get the message.’
She waded out, crouched down and hugged the dogs to her.
Chapter 10
Back at the homestead yards, still wet and muddy from the dam, Rosie took up a shovel at the dog kennels and flung open all the gates. The wooden slats were heaped up with piles of dog droppings that had dried white in the sun. In one of the pens, Julian’s shaggy collie dog leapt up and down and barked loudly at Sam’s dogs who trotted around nearby. Rosie scraped the blade of the shovel along the grating, trying not to breathe in the smell. Then she unwound a hose and sprayed the grating clean. The dogs hovered about, sniffing, squatting and lifting legs in the sheepyards until Rosie called them over. She asked each dog to ‘hop up’ the way she’d seen Sam do when he put his dogs away. Diesel and Dixie obliged, but Gibbo hung back. Rosie crouched and held out her hand.
‘Gibbo, come.’ He hung his head and ambled up to her. ‘Don’t hurry or anything,’ she said, scratching behind his ears. She lifted him into the kennel, shut the gate and turned back towards the stables. It was then she felt the dread settle over her. She’d have to go into the house at some point. Sooner or lat
er she’d have to face her parents … or at least, face her mother and the man who was no longer her father. God, she thought, what did she call him from now on? She shut her eyes and again held back tears.
In the kitchen, Margaret was crashing about with pots and pans. Normally she’d prepare her weekly Meals on Wheels for the elderly in the district with an air of precision. But today she had tossed the too-pink slices of roast lamb and undercooked vegetables on to the plates and roughly covered them in aluminium foil. Rosie noticed how unsteadily her mother stacked the meals in a wicker basket. When Margaret looked up and saw her daughter, caked in mud and manure, wearing the same clothes she’d had on yesterday, she burst into tears. Her hands were shaking as she groped in her handbag and pulled out her car keys.
‘I’m going to town,’ she said defiantly.
Rosie shook her head and sighed. Her anger towards her mother now mingled with pity. Suddenly she felt like the parent.
‘Not like that you’re not.’
Margaret turned her back to Rosie and leant on the bench.
‘I have to get the meals in on time,’ she said in a shaky voice.
‘Will you stop pretending like nothing’s happened?’ Rosie yelled. ‘We have to talk about this!’
But just as she let her anger fly, Rosie noticed the little jar of pills by the kitchen sink, and the bottle of whisky beside them. Oh God, she thought, she wasn’t going to get any sense out of her mother now. She sighed and heard herself saying, ‘I’ll drive you, Mum. Just give me a chance to have a shower.’
But there was an edge to her voice, a bitterness that Margaret had never heard before.
Margaret stared vacantly ahead as they drove towards Casterton in the Pajero. Rosie willed herself to speak gently.
‘So, how did it happen?’
Her mother kept her eyes on the road.
‘It was a long time ago,’ she said.
‘Yes, Mum. Twenty-three years ago, actually,’ Rosie said sarcastically.
‘Don’t be angry with me, Rose. Your father’s so angry with me. I couldn’t bear it if you were too.’
‘My father. Mum, Gerald is not my father – not any more, according to you!’
Margaret winced and shifted in her seat, trapped in the moving vehicle.
‘Please. Please don’t be angry.’
‘Surely I have a right to know who my own father is?’ cried Rosie, thumping the steering wheel.
‘I know this is a big shock,’ Margaret said. ‘But now’s not the time. At the moment, it’s important to keep our family together. It’s important to keep your father happy. I know you need to know.’ She put her hand on Rosie’s knee, her first offer of comfort. ‘We will talk about this, I promise. But not now. I can’t deal with it right now. Please understand.’
Rosie glanced at the mud that was drying beneath her fingernails and longed to be back in the stables with the dogs and horses. She pushed in a cassette of The Corrs and turned it up loud, signifying to her mother that the subject was now closed – for the moment. She stared at the countryside that was rushing past them. The leaves of messmates hung limply, dulled by dust from the road. Roadside grasses waved as the vehicle sped by. She didn’t want to think any more about her own life. She wanted to escape to Jack Gleeson’s world. Would he have travelled this road, Rosie wondered? Would Jack Gleeson have ridden past that very same old tree, the one with the gnarled dead branch that speared through its own living leafy growth? She tried to imagine Jack riding along the road into Casterton.
COBB & CO COACH TRACK TO GLENELG, MID-1860S
Early one Friday afternoon in late February, on the rutted track next to the Wannon River, Jack caught up to a coach that was making slow progress. He rode alongside the vehicle and saw gloved hands waving to him from inside. A young woman’s voice called out, ‘Declare you are not a bushranger, sir, for I fear we might all faint!’ Then there was a peal of giggles, followed by the stern, scolding voice of their chaperone.
‘And how can I be sure it’s not you who might rob me blind, young lady?’ Jack called out to the passengers hidden behind the heavy curtains that swayed in the coach windows. He rode past the carriage so he was level with the driver. The colt tugged a little on the lead rope as he shied from the creaking, rattling coach. Jack admired the muscular backs of the bay four-horse team that pulled the coach over the difficult ground.
‘Good day to you, sir,’ said the driver, sitting straight as a gun barrel in his seat. He held the reins with precision and Jack noted that his neatly groomed beard was trimmed exactly to meet the edges of his starched collar and tie. The man was not much older than Jack, but his long English nose and neat suit made him seem more mature. Beside him sat a boy of about sixteen who eyed Jack cautiously. The boy was in no mood to joke about bushrangers. For him, bushrangers were a reality that caused him daily anguish in his job. His hand was resting beside him under a coarse woollen travel rug and Jack was certain his fingers were wrapped about a pistol.
‘G’day to you, sirs. I’m Jack Gleeson,’ he said, tipping his stockman’s hat. ‘I’m headed for the Crossing Place in search of station work.’
‘Ah! Another man with dreams of adventure journeying to the wild west! You’re bound to find your work, Mr Gleeson … and your adventures.’ The driver smiled at him, sizing up the fine-looking man on the fine-looking mare.
‘I’m Thomas Cawker. I’d shake your hand, but I daren’t let go of the reins, for I have precious cargo on board.’ He winked.
‘So I saw when I rode by,’ said Jack with a smile.
‘A party of ladies bound for the three-day meet at the Casterton Races. They are the daughters and nieces of a fine gent from Geelong, who’ll ride out and meet us there.’
‘It sounds like I’ve timed my arrival right,’ said Jack.
‘Are you a racing man, Mr Gleeson?’
‘Well, I’d like to be. The old stockman who owned this mare said she has won her share and her colt is sired by a very fine thoroughbred.’
‘Yes, I can see his blood is rich with quality – which is more than I can say for your dog!’
Jack looked at the old dog that followed him, his head and tongue hanging low, his eyelids sagging down to reveal the pink flesh that surrounded his cloudy eyeballs.
‘Ah yes, the dog. Idle’s his name. He was a gift from an old widow I did some work for along the way.’
‘She mustn’t have been too happy with your work,’ laughed Cawker.
Jack looked sceptically at the black dog with the greying muzzle and arthritic legs. He’d accepted the dog out of politeness, but also knew he’d need at least one working dog if he were to get a job on the big run stations further west.
‘I’ve had to carry him most of the way! It looks as if he’s not keen to take on the life of a drover’s dog.’ Jack chuckled to himself and shook his head. ‘I must be getting in the habit of taking on dead men’s animals! One day I’m going to choose the best dog myself … not an old scoundrel like him! And with a name like Idle, I suspect I’ll be lucky to get any work out of him.’
‘And what have you named your colt? Surely Quality suits him well.’
The colt was now used to the road and led beside the mare easily. His feathery foal’s tail was growing nicely and his hindquarters were filling out with sleek sinewy muscles.
‘I’ve named him Cooley, after a story my aunt used to tell me. The Cattle Raid of Cooley. But an English gent such as yourself may not know the legend.’
‘Can’t say that I do,’ said Cawker.
Jack had found on his travels that his Irish heritage was looked down upon by many that he met. This Englishman seemed accepting enough though. His days as a coachman must’ve taught him to read a fellow traveller’s intention with a glance. Jack himself was careful with the company he chose on the road. He tended to keep to himself, or to his own kind. Some of his fellow Irishmen had told him he was mad to leave the civilised area of Koroit for the uncertainty of the interior. They
warned him away from the wild towns where men fought bare-knuckled in the streets and drank until they fell into the mire. It was a place few decent single women would choose to be, the travellers would say, eyeing the handsome young man. Then the stories would unfold – men who copulated with pigs and Godfearing churchmen who shared their beds with boys; attacks from natives and gruesome butcherings beside campfires; bodies of blackfellas strung in trees; the stench emanated by corpses in the hot scrub, and the swarms of flies as thick as mud, with buzzing wings loud as the north wind. But Jack had ignored the stories. Nothing would turn him back. He was headed west to find the great sheep and cattle runs that he had dreamed of.
Some nights, with his heart in his mouth, he gestured to passing Aborigines to join him by his campfire and together they shared food. Surely better to share with them than be speared, he thought. With time, Jack came to love the smell of kangaroo fur singeing in licking yellow flames as the skin bubbled and spat. The native men tore at fresh-cooked flesh with teeth as bright and white as stars. But in the mornings the men’s smiles would disappear, replaced by a wariness in their solemn eyes. They were men at war. They would pick up their belongings and walk quietly along the track with Jack for a time, as if protecting him. Then they would slip into the scrub and out of his sight.
Jack turned back to Cawker.
‘How far until you deliver your precious cargo, Mr Cawker?’
‘For us, with the road the way it is, another three hours – we’ll arrive before dark, so there’ll be no need for young Ted here to light the lanterns. But you, sir, on your pretty mount, you’ll arrive long before us.’
‘Could you suggest some lodgings for me and my horses when I get there?’
The Stockmen Page 8