‘Oh my God! Oh my God!’ whispered Rosie as she ran into the bedroom, her hand to her mouth. Jim Mahony had just seen her doing the clean and jerk in her undies. How embarrassing! She fell face first onto the bed and groaned.
In the shearing shed, out the back on the grating, Jim had set up the panels and foot-paring machine and dragged the compressor over to the work area. A red pup, just a few months old, trailed him about the shed on padding paws that seemed too big for its body. Gerald was in the experting room, sharpening the blades of the parers. He shouted to Jim from where he stood.
‘I really should’ve got a contractor in to do them.’
‘Not to worry,’ called Jim. ‘We’ll get them done. If your daughter keeps the sheep up to me, we’ll have them trimmed up in no time.’
‘Are you certain you don’t want me to hang about for the day?’ Gerald asked. ‘Rose isn’t all that experienced. And the dogs … they aren’t exactly hers, so they can get in the way.’
‘She’ll be fine,’ Jim called back.
Gerald shook his head and sighed. He just wanted out. Since Sam’s death, Margaret’s pill popping and preaching had hit overdrive. Yet still she insisted on carrying on as if nothing was wrong. She was already planning her Christmas list for this year. Gerald felt panic creeping into his soul. Earlier that morning, he had stared at the piles of manual cashbooks in the office that dated back to the early 1900s, fearing his would be the generation that spent the lot. Lost the lot. He’d seen it happening around him as the wool prices crashed, the rain failed to fall and the grand old gum trees on the property began to die. He imagined his own end … from heart attack, a farm accident or even by his own desperate hand. He longed to pass things over to Julian. But Julian was gone. And now he was stuck here. Stuck in a life he never wanted. Should he phone Giddy again? he wondered. She would know what to do. Gerald carried the parers over to the machine and attached them to the compressor. Jim’s voice broke his train of thought.
‘Have you got a portable handpiece?’ he asked. ‘I could give any daggy ones a crutch on their way through if you like.’
‘Yes, good idea. The porta-shears are up at the workshop. I’ll grab them.’
Normally Gerald would’ve sent the workman to get them but he needed this one to stay. At first Gerald had been furious at Margaret for making a decision behind his back. ‘You know we can’t afford him!’ he had yelled at her.
But Jim had agreed to a lesser wage if he could have the weekends for dog trialling. And so here he was … another stockman. Gerald removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes, before walking from the shed.
A moment later, Rosie, still chewing on a piece of Vegemite toast, ran into the shearing shed with Diesel and Gibbo at her heels.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said to Jim, not looking at him.
‘Thought you were up early this morning, doing your exercises,’ he teased.
Rosie glanced up to see his eyes glinting. ‘At least you’ve managed to put some clothes on this time,’ he went on.
Rosie’s shyness began to turn to irritation.
‘Shall we get to work?’ she asked coolly.
‘By all means, but first, could you stop your dog trying to mount my dog?’
Rosie turned, red-faced, to see Diesel humping away at Jim’s young male pup.
‘Diesel! Come here!’ she said, but Diesel ignored her.
Outside the shearing shed, Jim had two dogs tied up to a fence on short chains. They were handsome-looking kelpies, a bitch and a dog. From under the shade of the work ute an old black dog with grey paws ambled out, his tail wagging low and slow.
‘Ah, here he is,’ said Jim fondly to the old dog. The red pup gambolled up and licked at the dog’s greying muzzle. The pair of young dogs sat tall, staring beseechingly at Jim to let them off for work. Rosie trailed behind him, embarrassed at having to work with someone so obviously competent.
‘We won’t be needing this many dogs,’ Jim said to her. ‘I’ll leave mine tied up and you can work yours, if you like. Bones … the old dog, Lazy Bones, he won’t be offering his services today anyway, will you, mate?’ He stooped to scratch the dog’s ears.
‘He was retired before he even started, but an old bloke gave him to me when I first came to Australia and I wouldn’t be without him as a mate. And his main purpose in life is to remind me not to baulk at paying good money for good genes. If you want a top dog, you need to study a pup’s bloodlines. Now Bones, he’s got any manner of nonworking lines in him. Not like this little fella.’
Jim scooped up the pup and held it like a baby, scratching at its belly.
‘This little one is by that bitch and dog, Daisy and Thommo, and their bloodlines go back to the best. Even at this young age, I can see he’s got it. He’s working already, although he’s too small for the likes of those big wethers. He’s likely to get skittled.’ Rosie watched the way Jim’s strong tanned fingers travelled up and down the pink belly of the little red pup. His Irish accent made everything he said seem wonderful. Rosie swallowed. Jim, seeing Rosie’s glazed eyes, bent and clipped the pup to another short chain and stroked him firmly down the back.
‘I’m sorry. I’m rattling on about dogs again. A bad habit of mine. Sorry to bore you.’
‘No! No, really. I’m really interested,’ Rosie said. ‘Why don’t you use your dogs? I’ll tie mine up.’
‘No, no. I insist. I’ve got a dog trial on this weekend. It’d be good not to let them do too much rough forcing work beforehand. Thommo can go a bit psycho and Daisy, she sometimes bites a bit hard when she’s revved up.’
Before Rosie could protest, Jim began to walk away. She called Diesel and Gibbo to her and followed Jim around the side of the shed to where the sheep were yarded. Her heart beat fast. She was so scared about working the dogs in front of Jim that she felt her back trickle with sweat.
‘Gibbo’s only young,’ she said as she climbed the fence. ‘He’s a bit deaf.’
‘Dogs have at least forty times better hearing than us so I don’t believe for a second he’s deaf,’ Jim said with a wink.
‘The dogs aren’t really mine. They don’t really work for me.’
‘Come on. They’ll be just fine,’ said Jim.
But the dogs weren’t just fine. Gibbo singled sheep out and chased them to the fence. Diesel kept running to the front of the mob and blocked the entranceway to the shed. Heat prickled under Rosie’s collar and frustration showed on her reddened face. Her voice began to rise.
‘Diesel! Diesel! DIEEEEE … SEL!’ she yelled.
Jim stood back with his arms folded and watched the chaos. Gibbo was the worst. He ran backwards and forwards, barking and forcing the mob onto the rail, cutting one out and racing it to a fence with a crash.
‘Gibbo! Gibbo! Sit!’ Rosie shouted. But in the high excitement of sheep bustling, leaping and running, Gibbo ignored her.
‘They don’t always work well,’ she said to Jim, feeling humiliated.
‘Do you mind?’ he asked, stepping forward. ‘Your father will blame me if we don’t get the job done. And it’ll come out of my wage if we have sheep with their necks broken.’
Rosie backed away and leant on the rail of the yards. One minute Jim was standing still. The next he was dancing about in the dust, clapping his hands and putting his hands high in the air in front of Gibbo. He set his body square on to the young dog and matched his every move, so that Gibbo had no choice but to look away from the sheep and up to the tall man who had so much presence.
The moment Gibbo glanced at Jim, Jim praised him. Soon Gibbo was coming to Jim and sitting when he asked. Much to Rosie’s annoyance, Jim’s voice never even got above normal speaking level. It remained calm and firm.
Diesel, too, was now aware of Jim’s presence in the yard.
‘Diesel, come behind,’ Jim said, followed by a shrill whistle. Diesel obeyed and soon the sheep were flowing into the shed and the dogs were trotting at Jim’s heels.
‘
I can get them working like that when other people aren’t around,’ said Rosie furiously as she slid the old gates shut in the shed.
‘I’ve no doubt you can,’ said Jim gently, but with a smile on his face.
For hours Rosie worked by Jim’s side, burning with humiliation. The rhythmic hiss of the pneumatic foot parers and the shutting on and off of the air compressor left little room for conversation. In the smaller, more confined race, Diesel and Gibbo worked the sheep well from outside the rails, barking each time the next sheep was due up into the cradle. Though Rosie was still sulking over the morning’s disastrous dog display, she couldn’t help notice the flex of Jim’s muscles as he tipped the cradle over and began to trim the hooves of yet another sheep. He worked with intensity, allowing Rosie to study his profile. His hair was fair and clipped short. His skin was honey-brown and his square, clean-shaven jaw gave him a strong, masculine look. Although there was a toughness about Jim, his eyes conveyed a gentle kindness that came from within. Rosie tried not to let her eyes travel to him too often, but it was hard. She attempted to focus her attention instead on the stubborn sheep that propped and wouldn’t run up the race.
At morning smoko, Jim switched off the compressor and the noise died down to silence but for the sound of hooves on grating and the panting of the dogs.
‘Thanks for your help, Rosemary,’ he said, looking directly into her eyes.
‘Rosie.’
‘Sorry. Rosie.’
He walked away from her towards the washstand in the corner of the shed. Rosie wished they could talk. She wanted to know where he was from. Obviously he was Irish, but what was he doing out here? How had he learned his Australian stockman skills? She wanted to ask him personal questions, too, like … did he have a girlfriend? Instead she followed him across the shed and asked, ‘How did you get the dogs to work for you like that?’
Jim’s face warmed with a smile.
‘It’s all about how you are as a person, Rosie – it’s nothing to do with the dogs. In life, if you let people or animals give you crap, that’s just what they’ll do. Or if you demand things of people or animals, they’ll eventually switch off. But if you get a bit of grunt about you and ask for respect … people and animals will do anything for you, willingly and with joy. So get a bit of grunt about you, girl! And I don’t mean by yelling. I mean grunt … from in here.’
He tapped at her stomach, before turning to wash his hands.
‘Grunt?’ Rosie frowned and her hand moved to her stomach. She didn’t understand.
‘It’s all about communication,’ Jim said. Suddenly he turned to her and stood, eyes wide, yelling, ‘Rosie! ROSIE! ROS-IEEEE!’
She jumped at the harshness of his voice and took a step back, confused.
‘See?’ he said. ‘You’re confused and confronted. That’s what you were doing to Diesel out there in the yard before. You were yelling his name but not asking him to do anything. How’s he supposed to know what you want? You need to be clear with your communication, be direct but not demanding. And use your body language to show him what you want. What if I was to say, “Rosie. Come here to me”?’ He opened his arms up to her and inclined his head enticingly.
When he said the words again they sounded like melted butter. ‘Rosie. Come here to me.’ Soft, inviting and delicious. Rosie’s wide blue eyes looked willingly into his.
‘Rosie. Come here.’ He urged her again with his eyes and with the lightness of his voice. Instinctively she took a step towards him and instantly his words danced with warmth and praise as he said, ‘Rosie! Good girl!’
Rosie couldn’t help but smile. She felt a warmth for Jim rush over her.
‘See? It’s just the same for dogs. Clear communication. Say the dog’s name without the anger, then state the command with a tone that asks, not demands. Then praise. Not just with your voice, but with your energy. Got it? It’s all about being a good boss.’
Demonstration over, Jim turned his back on her and began to scrub his arms in the sink. The warmth Rosie felt for him suddenly dissolved into resentment. He wouldn’t suck her in with his gorgeous body, good looks and, above all, his accent. He had just called her over to him like he’d call a dog. Rosie bet he had seduced a million women with his blue eyes and Irish lilt. He was just like Sam, good-looking and able to get anything he wanted. She’d had enough of Jim Mahony. She was about to excuse herself and let another batch of sheep out of the footbath when her mother walked into the shed. She was carrying a giant wicker basket in the crook of her arm.
‘Smoko!’ Margaret sang out. She put the basket on the woolshed table and proceeded to lay out a cloth. On it she placed a thermos, cups, milk and sugar. Then she uncovered a plate of steaming sausage rolls. Scones, biscuits and cake followed.
‘Mum? You never bring smoko to the shed.’
Margaret glanced in Jim’s direction.
‘Don’t be silly, darling. Of course I do.’
Jim ambled towards her with a towel slung over his shoulder.
‘Mmm. This looks wonderful, Mrs Highgrove-Jones!’
‘Do start then,’ Margaret said, offering him a sausage roll.
‘Shall I throw up now or later?’ Rosie muttered as she walked away.
Chapter 15
Rosie stared at the dark wood of the dining table as her parents ate their dinner in silence.
After the meal, Gerald stood up and stalked out of the room. Her mother watched him go and threw down her napkin angrily.
‘Thanks for the meal,’ she said through gritted teeth as she began to clear the plates. ‘Now that Jim’s got everything under control, you’re free to come with me to town, Rosemary. And you can help me get ready for my end-of-season tennis party. I’ve ordered the meats from the butcher in Hamilton and then it’s just a matter of calling into the bakery … then doing the flowers … I’ve rung Ida and she’ll come in to clean tomorrow while we’re out.’
Rosie felt the fury rise up in her. How could her mother keep pretending everything was normal, after all that had happened?
‘Perhaps I could ring Sage,’ Margaret went on. ‘She could give you a trim, Rose, and I’m due for my eyelash tint.’
Rosie was about to tell her mother what she could do with her eyelash tint when the bell rang outside the back verandah.
‘I’ll go,’ Rosie said, desperate to escape the stuffy dining room and her mother’s pretence.
Jim, dressed neatly and scrubbed for town, was standing with his back to the door. He turned when he heard Rosie open it.
‘Ah! It’s you! I thought it’d be the maid. Or do you double as the stockman and the maid here?’
‘What do you want?’ asked Rosie icily.
He sensed her mood and smiled at her gently.
‘I was just wanting to see your father – I’m off to town. Old Mr Seymour wanted some things doing at his house, so I’m ducking in there to help out. If you could let him know.’
‘You don’t have to report your every move to my parents,’ Rosie said, folding her arms and narrowing her eyes at him. ‘They won’t, for example, need to know every time you fart.’
‘Won’t they now? Well, that’s good to know. Thank you. I’ve had some of your baked beans in the quarters for tea so I expect I’d be reporting in fairly regularly after that. I’ll make sure I replace your supply though. Seems you’ll be needing them. You sound a bit bound up to me.’ He turned away, but before he got to his ute he stopped and looked at her.
‘Ah. The other thing I meant to tell you before I went … I think your bitch is about to whelp.’
Rosie’s mouth hung open as she watched Jim drive off. Bitch? Whelping?
‘Dixie!’ she cried out. Her mind flew into a panic. She pulled on some boots at the back doorstep and ran over to the dog kennels, cursing Jim as she went. He could’ve offered to stay and help.
In the dusky light she could see the other dogs chewing the mutton that Jim had just butchered for them. Dixie was scratching and whining in t
he end kennel. Hanging on the gate was a plastic shopping bag. Rosie untied it and looked inside. There was a book, Every Dog, and a torn piece of newspaper marked the section on whelping bitches. Rosie undid the kennel and dragged Dixie out by the collar. Her pupils were wide and frightened and her pink tongue hung out further than Rosie had ever seen before.
‘Come on, girl. We’ll get you settled.’
In the stable, installed on some old hessian bags and a thick layer of straw, Dixie scratched at her bedding. She circled around and around and then lay down to whine and pant. She licked at her flank and then moved around some more. Panting. Always panting. Rosie sat cross-legged under the glow of the naked bulb that hung from the old beams of the stable. She read the book intently, occasionally putting it down to inspect Dixie’s rear end.
When she saw the first pup arrive, Rosie gasped in amazement. The bitch strained and licked quickly at the tiny head that was emerging. Rosie placed her fingers on the warm slippery bulge and gave a gentle pull. Out slithered a sac, filled to capacity with a kelpie pup. Rosie tore at the tough membrane, as Jim’s book had instructed, and the little black pup began to squirm, gasping in air. It looked more like a rat than a kelpie. Rosie smiled with delight as Dixie licked the pup, rolling it over and over and chewing gently at the umbilical cord. Within minutes the pup was blindly but instinctively searching for Dixie’s warmth and a teat to drink from. Rosie checked her watch. It was now a matter of waiting for the next pup to arrive, according to the book.
‘Good girl, Dixie. Good girl.’ Rosie stroked Dixie’s silver back and the dog seemed to find comfort in her touch. The excitement of seeing a tiny kelpie pup born made Rosie think of what she’d read recently about the dogs on Warrock station. Did people get as excited back then about the birth of a litter?
The Stockmen Page 11