The sight unnerved him. Perhaps it wasn’t George Robertson’s nephew at all, but an angry George Robertson himself, come to blast Jack with a shotgun for conspiring to steal a pup from him. The figure didn’t speak as it slowly approached, splashing silver drops of water from its hooves. Jack thought maybe he was dreaming and he was about to wake up in his hut. But then a voice came from the shadowy figure.
‘Gleeson?’
‘Indeed,’ said Jack lightly, hiding the fact he was as nervous as a fox in a lair with the hounds bolting by.
‘I would’ve said six nights’ time, if I’d known it would be a night such as this,’ said Robertson-Patterson as he rode up. He was wearing a fine woollen coat and warm gloves.
‘I see you haven’t changed your mind,’ he went on, his eyes roving over Cooley who was now sniffing gingerly at Robertson’s horse.
‘And you?’ asked Jack, seeing no sign of the pup.
Robertson-Patterson undid the top button of his coat and out popped the little black and tan head of the pup. Even in the darkness, Jack immediately recognised her beady brown intelligent eyes and floppy ears. Robertson dropped his reins, reached in and pulled the pup out.
‘I’ll be a tad less warm on my journey home without her,’ he laughed.
Jack took the pup in his cold hands and felt the puppy warmth of her. He scooped her inside his own coat and she nestled down against his chest. Then, with a wave of sadness washing over him, he handed Cooley’s lead rope to Robertson-Patterson. Sensing Jack’s regret, Robertson-Patterson offered a little comfort.
‘I’ll be sure he has a fine life. It’s a fair swap.’
‘That we shall see,’ said Jack, still not fully trusting his decision.
Robertson-Patterson cleared his throat.
‘And now, Mr Gleeson, might I ask that you move on quickly from this place? The sooner you are gone from the district, the safer your future with that pup.’
‘It’s time for me to take to the road anyway. I never plan on staying too long in one place.’
‘Good luck to you,’ Robertson-Patterson said, turning his horse and Cooley away.
‘And to you,’ said Jack.
Jack watched the man and two horses become shadows as they splashed away across the river. He thought of Albert as he took a last look at Cooley’s rounded bay rump and black feathery tail disappearing from view. Then he pulled the tubby little pup from his coat. She was heavy and solid.
‘Hello, Miss,’ he said to her, and she wagged her tail and flicked her tongue out to lick at the misty air. ‘What’s a name for you then?’
Jack thought of George Robertson at the tennis party, and the images he had conjured of Sutherlandshire and the dog breeder with his dogs, dancing in the kelp on the beaches of Scotland. Then he thought of Archie, the Warrock overseer, who had warned him of the kelpie water spirit, a horse-like shape that looms from the mist to warn men of drownings. So here, down by the river, just after midnight, Jack Gleeson slid from his horse. He squatted with the pup in his hands. He cupped his hand into the cold water and sprinkled some drops of the Glenelg River over the broad brow of the little pup.
‘I christen you Kelpie,’ he said with a smile.
Then, with the pup tucked safely in his coat, Jack Gleeson mounted his horse and rode away into the mist, back towards the warmth of his hut.
Chapter 20
Jim and Rosie arrived back at the stables, drenched and shivering. Their icy, stinging fingers fumbled with wet, stiff girth straps as they hurried to unsaddle the horses.
At last the horses were bedded down in the stalls for the night. Jim stood close to Rosie outside the stable door, holding her hands and looking down at her.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, smiling at him, but shaking from the cold.
The rain hung in the courtyard floodlights like a sheer sheet of gauze. It fell not in thick heavy drops, but in a heavy mist that landed on the tin roof of the stable in a comforting shush. It had been dry for so long that Rosie felt excitement course through her as water clattered in the downpipes and beat gently on the windows of the stables. It washed a calmness through her. She turned her face up to Jim. He looked so irresistible with the curling tips of his wet hair oozing raindrops on to his tanned cheeks. His shirt clung to his body and his dark eyelashes framed his eyes, eyes that held within them the sky of sunny days. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him hard, her tongue sliding into the warmth of his mouth. Soon all there was for Rosie was the sound of the rain and the warmth of Jim’s kiss.
She took Jim’s large hands in her own.
‘Come on,’ she said as led him towards the men’s quarters and into the tiny bathroom. She turned the shower on full blast. ‘I need your body heat, so you’ll have to take all your clothes off to warm me up,’ she said cheekily.
‘Oh, will I now?’
In the haze of warm steam, kissing him, she began to peel off his wet clothes, revealing smooth golden skin that rarely saw the sun. She ran her cold fingertips over his broad shoulders and kneaded the muscles in his strong arms. She kissed him down his neck and over his chest. Jim undid the buckle of his belt and peeled off his jeans. Soon they stood naked, each of them gasping as they stepped into the shower. The hot water blasted their freezing skin. Their limbs slithered together in a wet, warming embrace as they kissed over and over. Jim rubbed soap over Rosie’s body so that she glistened in a soft white lather of bubbles.
‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said.
‘The bed, let’s go to the bed,’ she said, pulling her mouth away from his. They dried each other with scratchy clean towels, their skin reddened by the hot water. She lay on the bed, her eyes locked with Jim’s.
‘I wanted to do this the first time I saw you here, in this very bed,’ said Jim.
Rosie pulled him down with her and they started kissing again, long and deep, and trailing fingertips over each other’s skin. Jim explored her body leisurely. Rosie felt she would burst with desire. The rain outside beat down and she was swept along with the comforting sound. Their lingering kisses began to build in momentum, and soon their passion was coursing through them like water through the dry creekbeds that tonight had come to life.
So intense was their need for each other, they didn’t have time for first-night nerves or shyness. Rosie arched her back and writhed beneath Jim, longing to feel him inside her. The roar of the storm was like a freight train rattling over the stables and the homestead. Deafening thunder rumbled and shook the tin on the roof and vibrated through their bodies. For a split second, lightning illuminated the room. The bright flashes revealed the lovers riding each other wildly, both possessed by a kind of madness. The air was charged with an energy from the storm and it took Jim and Rosie to another place. They were no longer in this world, or of this time. Exhilarated beyond belief, they forgot all else. All they knew at this moment was each other and the passion and power of nature around them. Nothing else mattered.
In the morning, the sun sulked behind a thick grey wall of cloud that shrouded everything in a dull light. Gum leaves drooped luxuriously as rain slithered down to their tips and fell in thick drops to the ground below. Fat kookaburras dropped down from fence posts and pulled worms from the dampened soil. With their feathers ruffled to keep out the rain, the birds looked like plump ladies in fur coats, dining out in their finest. On the short pasture, where the grass seemed to have begun to green overnight, parrots strutted about picking up insects. They drank fresh rainwater from clear puddles in the paddocks and tiptoed in the rain as if dancing. Their iridescent green and red feathers were now washed clean with fresh rainwater and they brought dabs of glorious colour to the dark grey day.
Inside the quarters, Jim and Rosie were missing nature’s show. No sunlight had crept through the window to wake them. The darkness of the day had left them peacefully slumbering in each other’s arms well past dawn and their seven o’clock deadline to rise.
A little later, Rosie stirred to the sound of the phone as it rang and rang. The outside bell echoed round the empty courtyard. Rosie kissed Jim’s shoulder. He smiled sleepily.
‘Can’t you just leave it for your mam?’
‘I need to check on her anyway.’
Rosie slipped out of bed and pulled on her clothes. As the phone rang on and on, she began to worry. Where was her mother?
As Rosie ran into the house, the phone stopped.
‘Typical,’ she said, thinking of Jim and the warmth of his bed.
The kitchen was empty. Dirty dishes were piled up on the sink, and the table was scattered with half-empty coffee cups. The lavender her mother had picked last week was drooping downwards in the vase.
‘Mum?’ called Rosie. There was no answer. In the hallway she called out again, this time more loudly. ‘Mum!’ But the huge house lay silent. Walking up the stairs and along the hallway, right to the end, she knocked gingerly on her parents’ bedroom door. Clothes were falling out of the large blackwood cupboard as if it had suddenly sneezed. The gold clock on the mantelpiece above the fireplace chimed importantly to itself. Rosie saw her mother, lying beneath a rumpled doona on the bed.
‘Mum?’ she said, stepping forward. Beside the bed were a scattering of her mother’s prescription tablets. Rosie’s heart leapt in fear. Gingerly, she lifted up the doona and peered beneath it.
Margaret looked out at her, puffy-eyed and pale.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said in a husky voice. ‘But I’m okay. I haven’t done anything silly. Just drunk a little too much.’ Then the phone began to ring again. ‘Would you get that for me, darling?’
‘Sure.’ Rosie patted her mother’s shoulder before she turned away.
‘Rosie. I’m sorry,’ Margaret said quietly, but Rosie had already thudded back along the hallway. She was just about to run downstairs when she noticed a note under her bedroom door. She picked it up, the phone still ringing insistently. Rosie quickly scanned Gerald’s tidy writing.
‘Dear Rosie, You and Jim will have to manage on your own for a few days. I’ll call you soon. I’m sorry.’
He’d signed the note with a G, and an X to mark a kiss. Not allowing herself to feel the stab of pain at Gerald’s leaving, Rosie stuffed his note in her pocket and ran downstairs to answer the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that you, Margaret?’ came a man’s voice on the other end.
‘No. It’s Rosie.’
‘Ah, Rosie. It’s Marcus Chillcott-Clark here.’
‘Hi. How are you?’
‘Look, I just wanted to make sure you’ve got the fax from the bureau.’
‘The fax?’
‘There’s a flood warning. A big one. I’m just on my way out now to move the stock. Your father needs to do the same. We’ll catch up another time? Bye then,’ and he hung up.
Rosie stood in the quarters, dripping from the heavy rain. Jim’s face lit up when he saw her.
‘Hello again,’ he said.
‘This fax has just come through,’ she said, holding it out to him. ‘They’ve had one hundred and fifty millimetres upstream overnight. They’re warning that a flash flood’s on the way. There’s stock all along the river paddocks. What should we do?’
‘How much time do we have after that amount of rain?’ Jim asked, taking the fax from her. Rosie shook her head.
‘I don’t know. I’ve never –’
‘Would your mam know?’
Rosie shook her head, feeling angry with herself and Margaret for being so ignorant.
‘Have you got a number for Gerald? He’ll be able to tell us.’
Rosie shrugged. ‘He just left me a note saying he’d call. But I’ll try Giddy’s and meet you back here.’
She turned and ran.
‘Shite,’ said Jim as he got up and began to pull on his clothes. He didn’t need this kind of drama in his life. But Jim had been in big floods in the Kimberley river country. He had seen bloated cattle left hanging from fences in piles of flood debris, terror frozen on their faces. He wasn’t about to let it happen to the cattle that now grazed the Highgrove river flats. Not if he could help it. He gathered up his coat and hat and went into the stables. Soon Rosie was back by his side.
‘Couldn’t reach him,’ she said.
‘And your mam? Have you told her what’s happening?’
‘She was asleep. But I wrote her a note,’ she said, buckling the throat lash of Oakwood’s bridle.
‘We’ll have to hurry, just in case,’ Jim said. ‘You take the vehicle and move the weaner ewes off the front river paddocks. Put them up round the sheds here for the time being. Stick to the tracks, mind. I’ll shift the wethers from the back run country onto the big hill.’
‘And the cows and calves?’ Rosie asked. ‘They’re all on the other side of the river on Cattleyard Swamp, aren’t they?’
Jim frowned, thinking.
‘We’ll have to get across to open the gate to let them into the bush run. Otherwise they’ll go under for sure. It’ll be too boggy for the ute. I’ll lead Oakwood out there and meet you at Murphy’s gate.’
‘Right,’ said Rosie, trying to picture Murphy’s gate in her mind and wishing she’d paid more attention to the paddock names.
Jim tugged the surcingle tightly round the belly of his mare. He strapped two leather saddlebags onto the brassy rings of his saddle. He was in the habit of taking the saddlebags everywhere, even on the smallest of jobs. They were neatly packed with emergency rations, matches, paper, tea, sugar, sweets and a small first-aid kit. The Western District seemed so tame to him after his years in the red, rugged country of north-western Australia, but he still felt compelled to take his saddlebags with him.
Unlatching the stable door, he led the horses out into the rain, his mare and Oakwood following him with their ears flattened back as they felt the first cold drops land on their warm dry rumps.
Chapter 21
As Rosie roared away in the ute towards the front paddocks, the dogs cantering behind, she vowed she would do a good job for Jim and for the sake of the stock.
Diesel and Gibbo cast out perfectly around the mob on the river flats. Jim had taught her to work her dogs using their natural instinct to pull the mob towards her. She drove slowly towards the gate, knowing she could rely on the dogs to guide the sheep to her.
After shutting the gates around the house paddocks, Rosie drove quickly along the track, the fat tyres of the ute splashing mud up over the doors. The windscreen wipers smeared brown droplets over the glass and Rosie leant forward trying to see where she was going as the ute bounced, bumped and fish-tailed along the track. At last she saw Jim waiting at the gate with the two horses. She got out and ran to him. When they pulled the horses up at the river bank, Rosie sucked in a breath. The river looked sinister. White froth tinged with brown gathered beside the swirling eddies and clung to the tangled heaps of bark, sticks and branches at the river’s edge. In the centre of the river, water surged forward as if it was boiling over. Further downstream, rapids roared over rocks in the shallows and threw up white spray. Rosie sat back in her saddle in fear when she saw it. Steam rose from their hot horses as Jim and Rosie surveyed the scene.
‘Where do you think we should cross?’ Rosie yelled through the rain.
She had been out to the ford before, on picnics, when the river had gleamed and was still; she had launched her body into its comfort and coolness in summer heat. But the prospect of crossing the river in flood terrified her. On the other side, the cows were stranded on low rises in the marshes, bellowing at their calves. The calves gambolled in the shallows of the rising water, lifting their little tails and kicking out their hind legs. They seemed unaware of the danger they were in. The cows trotted after them, lowing urgently.
‘It’s not so bad here at the ford,’ said Jim, his mare dancing on the slippery rocks and mud at the river’s edge. ‘The horses will be fine. I’ve crossed worse than this in the Ki
mberley.’ He stretched out a cold reddened hand and touched Rosie’s face. ‘Trust your horse. He’ll carry you through.’
‘And the dogs?’ she asked.
‘Current’s too strong. We’ll have to give them a lift.’
He whistled the dogs to him. ‘Hop up,’ he said, and Thommo and Daisy leapt up to sit at the front and rear of his saddle. His mare flattened her ears back as she felt the dogs land on her, but she stood still.
‘See if your dogs will do the same,’ he said.
Rosie patted her leg and said, ‘Hop up.’ Diesel and Gibbo ignored her.
‘Say it like you mean it, girl!’ said Jim. ‘We don’t have time to waste.’
‘Hop up,’ she commanded in a voice that didn’t seem like her own. Diesel instantly leapt up and settled himself at the front of the saddle. Sam had clearly trained him to do that. Gibbo whined and hesitated. He put his paws gingerly on Rosie’s foot in the stirrup and tucked his tail between his legs. She reached down, spilling rain from the brim of her hat onto the ground, hauled up the lanky dog and draped him over Oakwood’s rump. Oakwood gave a small buck at the sensation, then settled.
‘Right?’ said Jim.
Rosie nodded, swallowing the fear down into the pit of her stomach. Following Jim on his mare, Oakwood ambled into the river as if he was on a pony club trail ride. Then his ears shot forward in excitement and he snorted as he felt the current racing past his legs. Branches skidded by over the rocks and Jim’s mare shied a little, but he talked to her and gently urged her forward, giving her time to find her footing. As they moved deeper into the river, the current swept past with terrifying strength. The horses grunted with effort, trying to keep their footing on the round river rocks that lay unseen beneath the frothing rapids. The water rose to Oakwood’s chest and Rosie could see the tail of Jim’s mare being swept sideways downstream by the current. Sticks and leaves were catching in it. Icy cold water soaked into her boots and rose up her jeans, but just when she thought they must be swept away, the water level began to drop and the horses seemed to walk more freely.
The Stockmen Page 15