‘James Dean at your service, madam,’ he said elegantly to Margaret. ‘You are beautiful enough to be Rosie’s mother.’ He helped Margaret up onto the bar stool. Then, leaping over the bar, he poured a scotch on the rocks and presented it to her with a flourish, and reached over to shake hands enthusiastically with Julian and Evan.
‘Any friends of Rosie and Jim are friends of mine,’ he said warmly. ‘And now, trusty boozers, you must meet the lovely, large-bosomed Princess Amanda.’ He flung open the swinging door to the kitchen and the smell of sizzling steak drifted into the bar.
‘Mands! Come and meet Rosie’s rellies,’ he yelled in his own ocker voice. Amanda emerged, grinning, with a book tucked under her arm.
‘Oh hi, guys! God, Rosie, we haven’t seen you for ages. Must be busy on the farm.’ Then she remembered what she was carrying and held up the book, Puppetry of the Penis.
‘Look what I found in the outside dunny!’
A few drinkers looked over and whooped in delight. James Dean held up his hands as if surrendering.
‘If I’m to crack the big time in entertainment, I need to be multi-skilled. It’s good to have a wide repertoire.’
Amanda put the book down in front of Rosie.
‘Check out the “KFC”, Rosie. You’ll never eat chicken again!’
Listening, Margaret tipped her scotch back with conviction.
‘That’ll tickle your bits,’ James Dean said, setting her up with another scotch straight away, then darting up and down the bar pulling beers for the boys and sloshing together a rum and Coke for Rosie. As she smudged the condensation from the chilled glass, Rosie sensed most of the girls were staring at them, stunned to see Sam’s ex and Mrs Highgrove-Jones at the bar. No one approached them. The girls stared at Evan and Julian too, but it was Jim and Rosie their eyes settled upon. Rosie felt her cheeks burn red. She wondered what they were thinking. Did they think it was too soon after Sam for her to be out with someone else? She tipped back her rum. Stuff them, she thought ruefully.
Because it was a long weekend, the pub was unusually full and a raucous crowd was already primed by an afternoon of drinking. Lee Kernaghan tunes were belting out from the jukebox and a group of shearers were clustered about the pool table, swilling beer and taking haphazard shots at the black. Rosie recognised a few of them as former Highgrove station regulars. They watched Margaret with amazement as she perched at the bar with her handbag in the crook of her arm and a scotch in her hand. Her eyes darted to them warily and she shifted her weight so she had her back to them. She began to ask Evan the questions that had been burning inside her during their drive to town.
‘So,’ she asked, ‘how did you meet my son?’
Rosie and Jim leant forward to hear Evan’s answer.
He pulled up a stool and sat beside Margaret.
‘With all due respect, Margaret, before you sentence me, I’ll have you know you’re not a patch on my Italian grandparents! Wait till you meet my nonna,’ he said warmly. He put on the voice of an old lady and began gesticulating wildly.
‘Evan! Why you not married? There is good Italian girls about here, no? You beautiful boy. You need wife!’ He grabbed his own cheeks and pinched them.
Rosie laughed. Cute and funny, she thought.
‘Jules and I were in the same class at school. We were friends. Good friends. But nothing … you know. I took care of him, country bumpkin that he is, shielded him a bit. You probably know he found boarding school hard at times. Then when I met up with him again in Melbourne recently, I finally figured out that … that we’re meant to be together.’ Evan’s deep brown eyes smiled into Margaret’s. ‘And we got together. And he became involved in my family business. And your son, well, he’s perfect.’
Margaret nodded and smiled.
‘I know he’s perfect. He’s my boy.’ She looked at Julian, reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘And I’ve never seen him look happier.’ She turned back to the bar and held up her glass. ‘Now where’s that barman? Goodness me, he’s slack.’
Rosie and Julian looked at one another and pulled ‘Can you believe it?’ faces. After all that had happened, maybe her mother was finally letting go, thought Rosie. She looked up into Jim’s eyes and smiled. Then she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Your shout,’ she said.
Just then, Dubbo burst through the door of the pub with a group of Sam’s old mates. His eyes scanned the crowd and fell on Rosie.
‘Hi!’ he said enthusiastically, walking up to her. ‘Great to see you out and about. You look well!’ He gave her a warm kiss on her cheek and squeezed her arm. ‘Bottom pub’s just closed, so we thought we’d rock up here.’
Dubbo looked at Jim with a quick nod of acknowledgement. He’d been drinking, Rosie thought. His eyes were shining yet he seemed lost without Sam by his side, egging him on to be the larrikin. He had lost a lot of weight in the months since the accident.
‘Have you still got a pup for me?’ Dubbo asked.
‘What are you after?’ Rosie asked.
‘An all-rounder.’
‘They all say that,’ said Jim to Rosie. Dubbo glanced at him.
‘All right. One that’s more paddocky.’
‘I’ve got one for you,’ said Rosie. ‘But for the right price.’
‘What happened to giving me one? They’re Sam’s pups, after all.’
Rosie felt the sting of his comment, but before she could retaliate her mother was cutting in, drunk already.
‘David, darling!’ She kissed him on both cheeks.
‘Mrs Highgrove-Jones?’ Dubbo was stunned to see her there. ‘Having a night on the town with Rosie and your stockman, are you?’
‘Yes! And Julian’s home again. Have you met Jim Mahony? He’s our manager, alongside Rosie, that is. And have you met Evan, my son’s … Evan, my … Evan,’ she finished unsteadily.
Evan nodded at Dubbo.
‘I’ve not met Jim, but I’ve heard all about him,’ Dubbo said.
Dubbo and Jim were the same height, but Jim was fitter and stronger. As they shook hands, an image of two male dogs growling with their hackles spiked flashed into Rosie’s mind.
‘Jim’s absolutely rescued our Rosie,’ Margaret continued. ‘We’re so grateful. He’s kept the farm going these past few months, haven’t you, Jim?’
‘Is that so?’ said Dubbo suspiciously.
‘Well, Rosie’s put in the hard yards too. She’s a tough lass,’ Jim said.
A red-faced, red-haired shearer suddenly came lurching over and put his arm round Margaret’s shoulders.
‘Hallo, Mrs H-J,’ he said with boozy breath. ‘Remember me?’
Margaret looked at him through narrowed eyes, her face showing no recognition at all.
‘Carrots,’ he said. ‘Was a shearer on your place in the late seventies … up to 1980. Was with Billy O’Rourke’s team before we all got the sack. Remember?’ he asked again.
Margaret flinched and flushed red. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I remember.’
‘That the daughter all grown up?’ Carrots went on, nodding towards Rosie. ‘She’s a looker. She’s a chip off the old block.’ Then he began to laugh and dug a finger in her rib. ‘Eh? Don’t you think so, Margie darlin’?’
‘Nice to see you again, Carrots,’ said Margaret firmly, turning her back on him and sipping on her scotch, her cheeks still flame-red.
Jim put a hand on the shearer’s broad back.
‘Carrots!’ he said warmly. ‘How would you be? Looks like Damo’s waiting for you to play your shot.’ He nodded towards the pool table where the blokes were leaning on their cues and watching the exchange.
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ said Carrots, ambling away.
My god, Rosie thought in horror, could that man be my father? She downed her drink. When she turned around Jim and Dubbo both jumped in to offer her another. She held up her hands. Then she sighed, as if giving in. ‘Yes, please. I’ll have two drinks.’
&nbs
p; It was nearly closing time. Dubbo, Margaret, Evan and Julian, Jim and Rosie had their arms slung about each other’s necks as they sang Tania Kernaghan’s ‘Lasso You’ at the top of their voices. They were all on the pub’s tiny dance floor, hips swaying, pretending to swing their imaginary lassoes high above their heads.
‘How’s it feel to get wrangled?’ Rosie sang, moving slinkily to the music. ‘Heart’s in a tangle.’
Dubbo sidled up to her and put his hands on her slim hips, trying to look deep into her eyes. He was singing, ‘I’m not going to hurt you, we’d be too good together.’
Rosie politely tried to extricate herself from his grip, but Dubbo pulled her closer. She wrestled free from him and danced in front of Jim. ‘This was bound to happen … you’re too cute under your stetson.’ And Jim cast a smile at her that made her melt.
Singing ‘Bup, bup’ in deep baritones, Evan and Julian bounced up and down pretending to be backing singers as Margaret spun around in a drunken world of her own.
As Rosie sang the last line of the song loudly, ‘My heart’s made up its mind … lasso you’, Dubbo again grabbed her and whirled her away from Jim.
‘Let me go!’ Rosie flashed Dubbo an angry look and tried to shake off his strong grip.
‘You heard her,’ yelled Jim.
The next thing Rosie knew, Jim had swung a punch. Dubbo’s head snapped back as Jim’s fist hit his cheek. Then Jim grabbed at Dubbo, pushing him into the tables and chairs, scattering people. The song ended and was replaced by a chant of ‘Fight, fight, fight’ from the crowd. Dubbo flew back at Jim and they grappled with each other, landing solidly on the floor.
‘Stop it!’ yelled Rosie.
Diving into the ruckus, James Dean, Evan and Julian prised the two men apart and told them to settle. Rosie cast Jim a hurt, angry glance, then turned and pushed her way through the crowd.
In the Ladies’, Rosie leant her forehead against the mirror and shut her eyes for a moment. She felt so drunk. She opened her eyes again and saw her reflection. There she was in her Wrangler jeans, her tight, checked shirt that was highlighting her blue eyes, and her blonde hair no longer bobbed and neat but growing to her shoulders. She started to wonder about the girl in the mirror. Was that really her? Then she heard people coming in so she dashed into a cubicle and locked the door.
‘Snobby cow actually turns out to be a slut,’ said a girl’s voice. ‘Getting it on with the workman! Who’d have thought she’d be up for that?’
‘Yeah. Maybe her mother’s shagging the staff too? Gang bang with the gardener!’ another slurred. Both girls giggled. Rosie heard the slam of a cubicle door as one of the girls went into the toilet next to her.
‘Don’t you miss him?’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘Bloody Sam, you idiot. You could always count on getting one off him after a big night like this.’
‘Huh? Oh, yeah. I wouldn’t mind getting one off that stockman Miss Highclass-hyphen is on with. He’s a looker, and have you heard his voice? Dee-licious! I’d do him.’
‘He must do anyone if he’s doing her.’
The toilet flushed, the taps ran for a moment, the door slammed and the girls’ voices trailed away.
By the time Rosie went back out to the bar Amanda was pulling down the blinds and clearing away the glasses.
‘Alas, dear patrons,’ said James Dean as he stood on a chair, ‘last drinks.’
He ducked for cover as the drinkers flung coasters at him.
‘Princess Amanda needs her beauty sleep!’ he called to them. ‘And if you don’t leave in the next ten minutes, I’ll give you my own penis puppetry creation … new and innovative … yes, it’s my interpretation of the half-shot possum!’
He began to mime undoing his fly, causing most of his patrons to run screaming from the pub in mock horror. Rosie walked out into the cold night air, holding back tears.
Chapter 27
Too tense to sleep, Duncan Pellmet was watching the shopping channel and worrying about his burgeoning waistline. His wife had taken the all-in-one gym equipment, along with their fitball and Red, the Irish setter. At least she’d left Derek, Duncan mused, running his fingers over the Jack Russell’s soft ears. Derek bared his teeth in response, annoyed at being disturbed. Duncan sighed. He couldn’t decide which he missed more – his wife or the setter. He had recently seen both on the Gold Coast, at their daughter’s graduation in Brisbane. His wife had looked bronzed, lean and lizard-like in a hibiscus print suit, her new man on her arm. The dog had looked fat.
When the phone rang, Duncan answered it full of hope. It might be his wife. Perhaps she wanted to come back? Instead, it was Rosie.
‘Duncs … can you please rev up your phallic symbol and come down to the pub? We need a lift home. It’s an emergency.’
‘Rosie Jones,’ said Duncan tiredly. ‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘Because my mum’s here with me and she needs a gentleman like you to take her home.’
‘Margaret Highgrove-Jones at the pub? Don’t give me that, Rosie …’
Suddenly Margaret’s voice was on the line.
‘Duncan, darling,’ she purred. ‘Won’t you please help a lady in distress?’
Duncan stood tall and sucked in his belly. ‘I’ll be right there, Margaret … you can count on me.’
Duncan’s sports car idled nosily outside the pub, setting all the town dogs barking.
‘It’s a two-seater, you dork,’ Julian said to Rosie. ‘We can’t all fit in there! I thought you said Duncan’s car was long and huge.’
As they all peered into the car Carrots staggered up, put his big hand on the bonnet and proceeded to vomit into the gutter in the gleam of the headlights.
‘Ah. I see why they call him Carrots,’ said Julian.
‘I assumed it was because of his red hair,’ said Evan.
‘Carrots all round,’ Margaret said.
God. Please don’t let him be my father, Rosie prayed. The night had started out so well, and now it was all falling to pieces. Jim stood nearby, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, a stern expression on his face. Rosie just wanted to get away from the crowd.
‘Can’t we all pile in?’ she begged.
‘I know,’ Julian said. ‘Duncan can drive the Pajero. We’ll all fit in that.’
But before they knew it, Duncan had helped Margaret into the passenger seat of his car. Then, like a suave man from Miami Vice, he flicked his collar up and slid into the squelchy leather of the driver’s seat. With a throb and a rev, they were gone into the night.
‘Mum?’ Rosie said, flabbergasted. She shivered in the cold night air. Part of her wished that Jim would put his arms around her, but she was still angry at him too. Dubbo was in the crowd outside the pub, glancing over at them every now and then, nursing his swelling eye.
‘So now what?’ Evan asked. ‘Can’t we get a taxi?’
‘A taxi? In Casterton?’ said Julian. ‘There’s only one cabbie in town and it’s past his bedtime.’
‘I don’t know about you, but I’m going to bunk down at Ronnie Seymour’s place,’ said Jim. ‘He’s probably still up watching Austar. It’s not luxury accommodation, by any stretch, but it’ll do me. Not sure if it’ll be up to standard for some.’ Jim cast Rosie a look as if to imply it wouldn’t suit her.
Rosie thought of the dingy old cottage she had visited with her mother that day, and the senile old man who lived there. She shivered in the cold. This was her only option, aside from following Dubbo to a party somewhere, and she didn’t want to do that.
‘Can we come with you?’ Julian asked.
‘Sure,’ said Jim. ‘It’s up that way.’
Rosie began to walk. She was desperate to get away from the rowdy crowd hanging around outside the pub. She felt as if all the girls were talking about her, and she could sense Dubbo was psyching himself up to confront Jim again.
With Evan and Julian a little way behind them, Jim reached out for her hand.
&
nbsp; ‘Are you still mad at me?’ he asked.
‘What was with you in there?’
‘Come on, Rosie. It’s a cultural thing. Get pissed and punch your mate, drink with him later. All my Irish mates do it!’
‘You’re far from Dubbo’s mate, and you know it. He was being harmless. And I don’t need you to defend me, anyway.’
‘But he’s a prize dickhead, the way he gets about.’
‘There’s no need to act like a bloody thug in public though!’ Rosie said angrily.
‘Ah, that’s just the problem, isn’t it?’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘That we’re in public. You’re ashamed of me.’
Rosie stopped in her tracks, shocked. ‘That’s just not true!’
Jim shrugged, pulled his coat over his shoulders and strode off up the street, leaving Rosie to trail reluctantly behind.
‘Hello?’ Jim sang out in Ronnie Seymour’s hallway. The sound of the greyhound racing replays greeted them and the television’s cool blue light flickered on the walls.
In the chair in the corner of the room, Mr Seymour dozed. His cat sat on top of an old piano, looking at them with untrusting eyes. Julian, Evan and Rosie stood looking at the old man.
‘Ronnie?’ said Jim.
Mr Seymour’s eyes shot open. He sat up in his chair and frowned at them. His wispy grey eyebrows were pulled down over his hazy reddened eyes. Then, in an instant, his posture changed.
‘Ah, it’s you, Jim,’ he said, leaping up from his chair, his face no longer sagging. ‘Had a big one at the pub and now you’re too pissed to drive back to Highgrove, eh?’
Jim introduced Julian, Rosie and Evan.
‘Nice to meet you all. But I believe I’ve met the pretty lass. A while back now.’
Rosie frowned at the old man, amazed to see him standing, let alone making sense. He smiled at her.
‘Yes! I know. You were thinkin’ I was a daft, senile, rude old man. I’m not actually daft and senile, but I’ll agree, I am rude, and as for old … well I’m certainly that.’ He looked at Rosie’s questioning eyes.
The Stockmen Page 20