The Stockmen

by Rachael Treasure

  By the time they strolled back across the lawn towards the other tennis players, Dubbo and Rosie were talking comfortably. They had even agreed on a time for him to come and look at Dixie’s pups working. He’d insisted Sam’s kelpie bloodlines were too good to just give away, but Rosie said, ‘Don’t worry about it. I don’t want money for them!’

  Margaret smiled warmly at the sight of them. Plans bubbled in her head as she tried to recall the size of Dubbo’s family landholding. She knew it was large. Enough to get Gerald out of trouble, she thought. When Rosie delivered the tray to the table, she noticed her mother smirking at her.

  ‘Thanks,’ Rosie said abruptly to Dubbo. She immediately moved away from him and slumped down in a chair as far away from Margaret as she could get. Dubbo, bewildered, cast a hurt look in Rosie’s direction.

  Just then Jim trotted around the corner of the homestead on his gangly colt. The colt shied a little at the clutter of people and furniture on the normally bare lawn, but Jim kept him calm enough to ride right over to Rosie. The guests looked up, startled by the sudden presence of a dancing young horse and tall stockman in their midst. A warm feeling rushed through Rosie. She was so glad to see Jim, especially here. He had clearly come to seek her out.

  ‘It’s your mare, Rosie,’ he said, his thick Irish accent cutting through the polite burble of guests. ‘I think she’s about to foal. And it looks as if she’ll have a hard time of it.’

  Rosie’s eyes grew wide with excitement and urgency.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said as she leapt from the chair and raced towards the stables. Jim wheeled the colt around and followed her.

  ‘Rosemary,’ called her mother, ‘you have to play another game in the roster!’

  But Rosie was gone.

  Later under the glow of the stable light, Jim and Rosie looked down at the foal.

  ‘Oh, he’s a beauty,’ said Jim, beaming like a proud father. He was cradling the colt to steady him as he stood for the first time. Then he let go, and the chestnut foal tottered on his pointy little hooves. He craned his neck, stretched out his pretty head with the white blaze and sought out a drink. Sassy snorted contentedly as she ate, while the foal wrapped his muzzle over her teat and suckled.

  ‘Have you thought of a name for him?’ Jim asked.

  ‘I think I’d like to call him Morrison,’ Rosie said softly. ‘You know, after Van.’

  ‘Ah, one of Ireland’s greatest musos. But have you thought long enough on it … are you sure you don’t want to call him Sinead?’ Jim looked at her cheekily.

  ‘Nah … he’s got too much hair. Morrison will do.’

  ‘Bono?’ Jim suggested.

  ‘No! Not U2!’

  ‘What do you mean not me too?’

  ‘No! Not U2. Oh just give up, Jim. It’s Morrison,’ Rosie said, frowning at him. Was he flirting with her?

  ‘You could go Scandinavian and call him Bjork.’

  ‘It’s Morrison!’ Rosie crossed her arms in a pretence of frustration.

  ‘Just trying to help,’ Jim said sheepishly. Rosie fell silent.

  ‘And what about the other little ’uns?’ Jim said, inclining his head to indicate the stable next door where Dixie lay in a straw nest suckling her tiny, squirming offspring.

  ‘I just can’t think at the moment.’

  ‘Are you going to get them registered with the Kelpie Council?’

  Rosie shrugged.

  ‘You’d be able to get papers for all these animals. You could set up a stud, for both the stockhorses and the kelpies. Get some return for them. That’s what I’d be doing if they were mine.’

  ‘Who’d want to buy working dogs and horses from me? I don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘You’ll never find out if you don’t have a go … and besides, the genes in these beauties will give you all you ever need to know. You just have to learn how to read them. Good animals teach their handlers. What do you reckon?’

  Rosie looked at Jim. There under the warm glow of the stable light, surrounded by the sweet smell of hay and horses, she just wanted to kiss him. She had to kiss him. She stood up on her toes, shut her eyes tight and put her lips to his. She felt him kiss her back, at first tentatively, then with rising passion. He pulled her closer to him and she felt his whole body responding to her. But just as suddenly, he pulled away.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rosie,’ he said. ‘You’re a gorgeous girl, but … I don’t know.’

  Rosie felt embarrassment flush her cheeks red.

  ‘Oh God. I’m sorry. I thought you …’

  ‘No! I mean yes. I do find you attractive.’ He ran his hand through his hair and looked shyly away. ‘You’re gorgeous. It’s just, I want to stick around on this place, so I’m near Ronnie Seymour and can lend him a hand now and then. And if your father found out I was carrying on with his daughter … well … I don’t want to lose my job.’

  Rosie smiled and stepped forward, ready to tell him that Gerald wasn’t really her dad, but Jim kept talking.

  ‘I mean, let’s face it. You’re too posh for me. Common is what the Poms call people like me back home. So I know what you’re up to. You’re not serious, are you? You’re just looking to have a bit of fun with the hired help.’

  His words stung Rosie. Anger rose up in her.

  ‘You think I’m a bored little rich girl, don’t you? But you don’t know the first thing about me! You’ve got it wrong, Jim Mahony. You’ve got it so wrong!’

  ‘Hey,’ soothed Jim, ‘I didn’t mean to –’

  ‘Never mind. Forget it,’ Rosie said, backing away from him. ‘Just forget it.’ She flew out of the stables and back across the courtyard into the house.

  Chapter 17

  WARROCK HOMESTEAD

  A sprawling garden swept around the Warrock homestead, isolating it from the work buildings. At the wrought-iron gateway into the garden, Jack hesitated. It was as if the green land of England had been transplanted and, against all odds, carefully maintained beneath the harsh Australian sun.

  ‘Should’ve worn my Sunday best,’ he said, smoothing down his dusty jacket and tugging on his sleeves. He thought of his uncle and aunt and how they would chastise him for meeting Mr Robertson in such a state. His boots were scuffed and dirt lay etched in the lines of his hands. The gravel of the driveway crunched underfoot as Jack and Archie rounded the hedge that lined the tennis court. From behind its leafy wall, Jack could hear the giggle of women on the court and the shouts of young men. Strolling ladies in white dresses shone against the greenness of the garden like sulphur-crested cockatoos, accompanied by young men proud as wood pigeons in their woven waistcoats, straw boaters and ties. Not far from the court, a handful of guests lounged in the shade of a Moreton Bay Fig tree, like lions after a big feed.

  When George Robertson saw Archie he excused himself from his guests and strode over. Jack immediately recognised him from the races. He was a short man with white skin as iridescent as a trout’s belly. His long lean nose ended with a crooked tweak and the bridge of it was flanked by small, narrow black eyes.

  ‘How is it with the shearing, Archie?’ he asked.

  ‘All is fine, Mr Robertson,’ Archie said. ‘We have more to shear thanks to the honesty and vigilance of Mr Gleeson here. He mustered a sizeable mob on Dunrobin’s run and brought them back across the river for us.’

  ‘Ah, Mr Gleeson,’ said George Robertson. Lines creased his high forehead when he lifted his brows and surveyed Jack’s face. ‘We have met before, I believe, at the Crossing Place race days. I saw you ride to victory on more than one occasion. A shame we didn’t have a place for you here on Warrock. A fine horseman you seemed to be.’

  ‘When I see your magnificent station and your remarkable collie dogs, I can’t help but think it was a shame I could not find employ here, sir.’

  Mr Robertson turned to Archie.

  ‘Make sure Mr Gleeson is well fed and comfortable for the night before he returns to his pastures on Dunrobin.’

&nb
sp; ‘Aye. That I will.’

  A young lady’s voice rang out from where the guests sat in the shade.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t the bushranger!’ She ran towards Jack, her skirts swishing and the locket around her neck thudding gently on her breast. Her dark hair was looped up in ribbons and her cheeks shone from her exertions on the court. ‘We saw you on the road a few months back … on our way to the races.’

  George Robertson was frowning at the young lady and looking at Jack as if he might bring trouble.

  ‘Oh, Uncle George,’ giggled the girl when she saw his stern face, ‘he’s not really a bushranger – I was just teasing. Won’t you bring him over so we can hear what adventures he’s had? We’re all frightfully bored with tennis … some stories will jolly us along.’

  With an elegant toss of her skirts, she turned away, assuming the men would follow her command.

  ‘That, Mr Gleeson,’ said Mr Robertson wearily, ‘is my nephew’s fiancée. I’m afraid we must do as she pleases.’

  ‘Er, excuse me,’ said Archie uncomfortably, ‘I’ve been away from the shed too long. I’ll meet you at the dinner hut on sundown, Jack. Take your horse to the blacksmith before you come.’

  ‘Thank you, I will. See you there.’ Jack felt torn. He would rather be surrounded by shearers in their lanolin-soaked dungarees than in the thick of the well-dressed ladies and gents beside the tennis court. But he pulled himself up tall and strode over, mustering as much Irish pride as he could.

  Beside the smooth trunk of the Moreton Bay Fig, Jack glanced about the party of men and women before settling his eyes on George Robertson, who sat amongst them as if commanding the whole occasion. Jack cleared his throat before he spoke.

  ‘Mr Robertson, may I know how you came across such fine working dogs as the two collies in your kennels?’

  George Robertson sipped at his tea, then set his cup down on an ornate cane table before he spoke.

  ‘Well, Mr Gleeson, where shall I begin?’

  He had the long fine fingers of a craftsman. And like the wood he turned, his hands seemed polished and smooth. He picked up a tiny fork and sliced through a fat wedge of sponge cake.

  ‘They are from none other than Mr Richard Rutherford’s kennels of Sutherlandshire, Scotland. A man with an exceptional eye for dogs. Ah, Scotland! How I miss the bite of the fresh sea air and the salty tang on my tongue! In the early mornings we would run his dogs along the sand and they’d dance by the seashore in the gleaming wet kelp. Barking, bounding and growling at each other like a wolf pack … but when their master whistled they would abruptly give up their play and come to heel like well-behaved children. Mr Rutherford had a way with the dogs.’

  ‘Sutherlandshire?’ inquired one of the young men who lay on the grass. ‘Is that where they burn kelp for iodine?’

  ‘Indeed it is, William. I can still smell it.’ George Robertson sucked in a breath through his long nose as if to prove that he could. ‘Bonnie Scotland!’

  ‘Aye!’ said William, raising a bottle of ale to the air.

  ‘You, Mr Gleeson,’ said Mr Robertson, ‘you are of Irish blood, are you not?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  One of the young men muttered and a few of the girls stifled giggles. Jack felt his Irish blood rush to his cheeks as he felt the judgement of the group fall upon him.

  ‘Well, you make the best of what you are given,’ said Mr Robertson, a smile playing at the corner of his crooked mouth. Before Jack could think of anything else to say, a buggy drawn by a team of dapple-greys drove into the sprawling greenness of the garden.

  ‘Oh, it’s George,’ exclaimed the young girl as she ran towards the buggy.

  ‘My nephew, George Robertson-Patterson Junior,’ Mr Robertson explained to Jack.

  Jack looked over to see a finely dressed young man stepping down from the buggy. He greeted the girl with a smile and a kiss on the hand. She danced about him like a puppy, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. The other men rose and walked over to greet him.

  ‘Well,’ said Jack, ‘it’s time I headed back to the men’s quarters.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mr Robertson. ‘I thank you again for returning my stock.’

  ‘A pleasure, sir.’

  There was a silence between them for a moment before Jack blurted out his request.

  ‘May I be so bold as to ask if I could buy the black and tan female pup that is housed in the kennels, Mr Robertson?’

  Robertson’s eyebrows drew down over his eyes in a stern frown. He placed a heavy hand on Jack’s shoulder and began to speak in a lowered voice.

  ‘Jack, my good man. You must realise that as a gentleman establishing my own empire within this land, I’ve invested much time and money in bringing those bloodlines from the far shores of northern Scotland. No bitch pup of mine is for sale, nor will be for sale. I may consider parting with a few males, but of the creatures born, all are promised to gentlemen friends of mine.’ George Robertson held out his hand. ‘Good evening, Jack.’

  Jack took his hand and shook it, but he had taken Mr Robertson’s snub, too, and there was tension in his grip.

  In the morning, bleary-eyed from a late night beside the fire with Archie and the shearers, Jack began to saddle Bailey. Dark clouds had rumbled in from the west at midnight and so by morning the rain came in steady sheets and a wind blew the red gums about wildly. Archie had warned Jack off asking Mr Robertson again about buying the pup.

  ‘The answer will still be no, Jack,’ he said with conviction. ‘I know him, and he won’t budge on any decision he’s already made. You can see from this place how determined the man is. But if I come by a good dog, I’ll bring it to you. I know which shepherd’s hut you’re at now, so I’ll be sure to stop by.’

  Jack thanked him, but his heart was low as he swung up into the saddle in the pouring rain. He could still see the face of the little black and tan pup with the floppy ears. The one that had looked him in the eye and pounced so playfully on his boots. She was the only dog he wanted.

  ‘Come on, Idle, you useless codger, we best get back to our own sheep.’

  The dog yawned before gingerly stepping out into the pouring rain.

  ‘Mind crossing that river on the way home,’ said Archie from beneath the shelter of the shearers’ quarters’ verandah. ‘Keep your wits about you and beware of the kelpie spirit.’

  ‘The what?’ said Jack.

  ‘The kelpie spirit. We have them back home in Scotland. On dark stormy nights they come out … looming in the mist, in the shape of a giant horse. After you see one, someone is sure to drown. They are a warning, Jack, so be mindful of where your horse places her feet in that river.’

  ‘The kelpie spirit?’ Jack said.

  ‘Oh she’s a warning, Jack. Look out for her.’

  ‘You Scots and your superstitions!’ Jack said, with laughter in his voice.

  ‘You Irishmen and your scepticism,’ said Archie in the same tone, and they both laughed before Jack rode away with his collar up and his face turned away from the rain.

  Chapter 18

  Confused and embarrassed by Jim’s rejection after their kiss, Rosie ran along the dark hallway.

  ‘Bugger!’ she said as she tripped over the croquet mallets left by her mother’s guests. She could see a square of light on the carpet from the kitchen’s open door. The smell of something burning drifted upwards to the ceiling.

  In the kitchen Margaret was wearing her robe and pouring herself a drink from a bottle of gin. A frittata was bubbling and charring black under the grill.

  ‘What are you doing, Mum?’ Rosie said as she grabbed the frying pan and switched off the grill.

  ‘It’s your father’s supper,’ Margaret said absently. Rosie tossed the hot pan into the sink where it hissed beneath the tap. She tore the bottle from Margaret’s grip.

  Margaret slipped her hand into her pocket and took out a plastic container. She pulled off the lid and tipped tablets out onto the table, pushing them
into piles with her index finger.

  ‘Mum? What are you doing?’ Rosie repeated.

  ‘What does it matter? My life is over.’

  Margaret was shaking.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Your father is leaving me.’

  ‘Leaving you? Why?’

  Margaret turned to her, her eyes strange. ‘Why don’t you ask your precious aunt?’

  ‘What?’ Rosie asked, shocked.

  ‘She’s always wanted him for herself.’

  Rosie tried to take in what her mother was saying. Giddy and Gerald? At first it seemed absurd. So absurd that Rosie wanted to laugh. But then memories of Giddy and Gerald together flashed into her head. Like last Christmas, when Gerald had kissed Giddy so warmly and laughed so loudly. He’d wanted her to stay. He’d held her hand. That very same day he’d changed from being silent and surly to whistling and happy. And then there was Margaret’s frostiness towards her sister. It was always there … that feeling of bitterness between them.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Rosie said, still struggling to grasp this latest development.

  Margaret knocked her forehead on the table gently and began to laugh hysterically.

  ‘Am I sure? Do you think I’d have slept with a shearer if I hadn’t found Giddy and Gerald together? What do you take me for?’

  Do you think I’d have slept with a shearer? The words echoed in Rosie’s head. She backed away as the pieces started falling into place. Margaret finding the lovers together, all those years ago, then taking her revenge. A fling with a shearer. A shearer. Her father. Rosie couldn’t breathe. She began to stumble down the dark hall. She could still hear her mother yelling in the kitchen, her voice echoing about the house.

  ‘There’s never been a divorce in the Highgrove-Jones family,’ Margaret ranted. ‘Never! Ha! Now look! After all these years, Gerald’s running off with my sister!’

  Rosie ran on to the front verandah in time to see Gerald pulling away in her grandfather’s old Mercedes. In the glow of the verandah light she could see he was staring straight ahead, his face set like stone. He didn’t see her. He just drove off, the tail-lights, like narrow red eyes, getting further and further away.