The Stockmen

by Rachael Treasure

  Chapter 30

  Fresh spring winds bit into Rosie’s skin as she turned Oakwood into the icy blast. In the two months since Jim had been gone, Rosie hadn’t left the station. Instead, she had thrown herself into work, trying to keep the numbness at bay.

  She had begged Julian to come home and help her and, reluctantly, he’d packed his bags and returned.

  ‘It’s only short-term, mind you,’ he’d warned her after he’d dumped his bags at the foot of the stairs.

  Margaret had been genuinely sympathetic, but Rosie knew her mother was secretly relieved Jim was out of her life, though she now knew better than to point out that Jim wasn’t right for Rosie in the first place, as she would once have done. The power had shifted and it was Rosie who seemed to be in charge.

  Rosie stayed on in the men’s quarters and worked on her Jack Gleeson articles, trying to shut out the memory of Jim. She was determined to bury all the traumas of the past eight months and start afresh as the spring landscape came to life. She urged Oakwood into a trot towards home.

  As she neared the house, Rosie could hear the rev of Duncan’s sports car rising up through the bare limbs of the winter elms. She pulled Oakwood up at the front gate and saw Duncan in the passenger seat, his eyes creased with laughter as Margaret jerked and revved his car around the circular driveway. She was laughing too, and carving deep wheel-ruts in the lawn each time she turned the steering wheel too sharply and let the clutch out too quickly. Rosie stepped Oakwood onto the drive to flag them down. The car careened to a halt.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ Rosie said.

  ‘You sound just like I used to,’ said Margaret, almost falling out of the car.

  ‘I was going to teach your mother to drive the car,’ said a breathless Duncan, getting out of the passenger seat. ‘I thought a quick trip to the front grid would fix her … but we still haven’t got past first gear!’ Duncan put his arm around Margaret. ‘Still, I’ll make a Peter Brock of her yet!’

  Rosie rolled her eyes and smiled. Her mother and Duncan had been seeing each other since the night at the pub and she had never seen Margaret happier, or Duncan healthier – or better dressed. At first he had used the pretence of coming out to help edit the Jack Gleeson articles, but soon he was staying over most nights of the week.

  Now Duncan was there so often, Rosie hadn’t found the right time to confront her mother again on the subject of her real father. And with Jim gone, she felt she just couldn’t take any more shocks. For now, she had buried the questions deep inside herself, though sometimes, in the dark at night, she allowed herself to wonder. Did her father know about her? Was he thinking of her? What did he look like? Did she have sisters or brothers? Rosie glanced at her mother, looking so happy with Duncan. It couldn’t have been him, he was ‘new’ to the district and had only lived here fourteen years.

  ‘Come on, you two,’ Rosie said, jumping down from Oakwood. ‘There’s work to be done. You need to come and talk dogs with me.’

  Half an hour later, Rosie sat at the kitchen table with her papers spread out in front of her and her feet warm in a pair of ug boots. She looked up at Duncan.

  ‘It seems Kelpie had two main men in her life.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Gleeson joined Kelpie to Moss twice and then he fraternised some more with the landed gentry and got on to a sire which was by an imported pair of dogs. He was a dog called Caesar and he was Kelpie’s second boyfriend.’

  NARRIAH STATION, CIRCA 1878

  Jack was uncomfortable in the starched collar that buttoned tightly at his neck. But he and Mary were dining with property owner John Rich this night.

  While Mary chatted with Mr Rich, Jack copied her moves, picking up the silver cutlery between his rough hands. It had been a long time since he had needed such manners. He unfolded the starched napkin and laid it on his lap. He lifted the silver utensils to dish out steaming food onto fine china plates. But the friendly conversation, the warm red wine, and the crackling fire in the blackened grate soothed him. By the end of the night Jack was clasping a tiny crystal glass confidently between his large fingers as he and John Rich retired for port and cigars.

  In the wood-panelled smoking room, John Rich told how a black and tan dog called Brutus and a bitch called Jenny had recently come to the district.

  ‘It was Gilbert Elliot and Allen of Geraldra station, near Stockinbingal, who imported the two collies from Scotland,’ John announced, as if it was the latest news though Jack already knew of the dogs, as did all the stockmen in the district.

  ‘They joined on the ship … knotted tighter than the ship’s rigging. Even the highest of seas couldn’t untie the two. And not long after Jenny came to Geraldra she whelped a bonny litter. And the sire, Brutus … surely you’ve heard of his wins at the trials?’

  ‘Indeed I have,’ said Jack, nodding and feeling his cheeks burn red from the warmth of the port and the fire. The pups from that union were the very reason why Jack had pressed for a meeting with John Rich, and Mary, in her charming way, had orchestrated it. Rich strode over to pull a leather-bound scrapbook from the bookshelf and placed the book open on Jack’s lap. Then he pushed the lamp closer. Jack then read the account of Brutus’ win:

  The performance of this dog was something wonderful. Three sheep were let loose and taken outside in the ground and the dog upon word being given brought them into the ground and across through a crowd of people running here, there and everywhere in a manner which would confuse a human being, to the pen, without so much as a bark. So uncommonly well did this shepherd’s friend behave himself that the other competitors resigned all claim to the prize, and would not put their dogs upon trial.

  ‘Three pups!’ John declared, stumbling slightly from too much port as he returned the book to the shelf. ‘Three pups she had in the first litter: Nero, Laddie and Caesar.’

  Jack of course knew all this.

  ‘I want to put to you, my dear man,’ John continued, ‘that you join my Caesar to your Kelpie. It’s a cross that can’t fail. I have searched high and low in this district for a bitch of her class.’

  ‘Oh, she’s the one, all right!’ declared Jack. ‘If you’d said so earlier, Mr Rich, you could’ve saved yourself a meal and all that fancy port. If you’d requested this out in the paddock with just a stale biscuit and a pannikin of weak old tea, I would’ve agreed. In fact, you could say, you’ve read my mind!’

  John Rich laughed and came over to slap Jack on the back. The two men shook hands, and the mating deal between Kelpie and Caesar was done.

  Rosie shut the book. Regret welled up in her. She and Jim had been talking about which bloodlines to put over Dixie next time she came on heat. She would have to make the decision on her own now.

  Duncan, seeing Rosie’s face grow sad, urged her on with the story.

  ‘Well,’ Rosie continued, ‘one of the pups out of the Kelpie–Caesar litter looked so much like her mum, Jack called her “Young Kelpie”.’

  ‘Really? So that’s how the name was passed down,’ said Duncan. ‘And what’s Young Kelpie’s claim to fame?’

  WOLLONGOUGH STATION, CIRCA 1879

  ‘Oh, you’re the image of your mother,’ Jack said as he held up the solid little black and tan bitch. For a moment, squatting on the red Riverina ground, Jack was transported back to that misty, eerie night on the banks of the Glenelg River, when he had first tucked Kelpie into his coat.

  ‘You’d have to be Young Kelpie,’ he said, gently scratching the pup’s pink belly. Jack was sorely tempted to keep the little slut, but here he was, set to deliver her to Wollongough station on Humbug Creek. Jack’s brother-in-law, Charles King, was walking towards Jack now with a welcoming smile on his face.

  ‘You won’t regret giving her to me, Jack,’ he said.

  Jack felt a sadness clutch him as he passed the pup over. It was like handing Cooley’s lead rope to George Robertson-Patterson all over again, though he knew it was for the best. Charles King was a man
of standing and had the funds to trial Young Kelpie all over the countryside at the biggest events.

  Jack recalled how Launcelot Ryan had cracked open his best whisky when it was settled that his daughter Kate would marry into the King family. Now she lived in style and comfort – unlike her sister Mary. Jack looked at the scuffed toes of his boots with a frown. Sometimes, when he rode home after dark and found Mary asleep in the chair, he would search her pretty, sleeping face for signs that her passion for him was dying down, like the embers in the fire. She was a strong, patient, cheerful girl, but the constant work about the house, and the long hours of waiting for his return from the runs wore her down. On little money she had to keep food up to them, and all the clothes mended and clean. She was too proud to take the help her mother and sisters offered her.

  Jack looked at the well-dressed man before him. Handing Young Kelpie to Charles King would further the name of Jack’s line of kelpies. Unlike King, who toured the dog trial circuit, Jack preferred to work his dogs in a real environment, casting them out on the vast Yellow Box plains to bring in toey stragglers and strays. He gave Young Kelpie one last scratch behind the ear.

  ‘Make sure you train her well. And let’s hope she has some handy work for you at Forbes,’ Jack said.

  Margaret pushed two more steaming cups of tea towards Rosie and Duncan. Duncan looked up and Margaret gave him a grateful smile and patted him on the shoulder. Rosie put on the plummy voice of an old newsreel reader and began to read out an article.

  ‘ “Forbes pastoral and Agricultural Show,” ’ she said importantly. ‘ “At the trial of sheep-dogs to-day, there were seven entries including some of the best dogs in the colonies. After some severe tests the judges divided between Mr Charles King’s Kelpie and Mr C F Gibson’s Tweed. The latter dog was sent for specially from Tasmania to compete. Both dogs worked magnificently, and it is likely that the amount of first prize of 20 Guineas will be doubled, so that both owners will get equal money. Flockmasters came from distances of 150 miles to see the trial, and avowed it was the grandest contest they ever saw. The dogs worked one and three sheep respectively, and notwithstanding the continuous rain, some hundreds of people watched the trials for six hours with unflagging interest.” ’

  ‘Oh, jolly good,’ mimicked Duncan.

  Rosie looked up from the article.

  ‘That was the trial that essentially advertised how fantastic Jack’s lines were. Demand for the pups of Kelpie and Young Kelpie skyrocketed. King’s Kelpie was mated to old Moss several more times after that. Some of the famous pups out of that cross were Gibson’s Chester and Grand Flaneur.’

  Margaret seemed to have stopped listening, but Rosie didn’t notice. She continued as excitedly as Mr Seymour did when talking dogs.

  ‘Then there was King’s Red Jessie and MacPherson’s Robin. They were the best show and paddock dogs about and won trials all over.’ Duncan nodded encouragingly.

  ‘From what I can work out,’ Rosie said, ‘in the late 1890s there came two pups descended from Young Kelpie’s bloodlines, Barb and Coil. It says here: “Barb was a close working black dog that was good in the yard and Coil was owned by the Quinns.” He won at Sydney with a full 100 point score in each of his runs. And in the final he won with a broken leg set in splints. Mr Seymour goes all gushy when he talks about him. Calls him the “Immortal Coil”. So there you have it … the descendants of these dogs became the kelpies we know today.’

  ‘Speaking of Mr Seymour – you should go in and see him,’ Duncan said.

  ‘Yes,’ Margaret said. ‘Last time I dropped a meal in to him, he mentioned that he wanted to see you.’

  Rosie shuddered at the thought of going back to Mr Seymour’s house, and the memories of Jim that awaited her there.

  ‘Why would he want to see me?’

  ‘I think he has something for you,’ was all Duncan said.

  Rosie turned back to the history books and pretended to read. Since Jim had left, she’d had just two phone calls from him. She remembered her mother calling from the house late at night. The floor beneath her feet felt cold as she picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’

  She could hear music and people laughing and yelling in the background. Then a voice came on the line. It was Jim. He was singing ‘Uptown Girl’ in a slurred, drunken voice.

  ‘Where are you?’ she yelled.

  ‘I love you, Rosie Jones without-the-fecking-hyphen.’

  And then the line went dead.

  The next time he’d called, it was to apologise for the first call. There’d been awkward, painful gaps in their conversation. He wouldn’t say where he was. Only that he was working somewhere ‘up north’.

  ‘Come back,’ Rosie had pleaded.

  ‘No, Rosie. It just wouldn’t work.’

  When she hung up, she began to think that perhaps he was right, perhaps it wouldn’t work. History, she told herself. She had to stop thinking about him.

  Rosie sipped her tea and refocused on the books in front of her. Suddenly Julian burst through the door clutching an old file.

  ‘Look, look, look!’ he said. He swiped Rosie’s books and papers aside and set the file down.

  ‘What?’ chorused Margaret and Rosie.

  ‘Dad phoned and told me about it,’ he said. ‘Look!’

  Rosie stared at the official-looking documents. They said something about a water right.

  ‘So?’ said Rosie.

  ‘It means our family has a right to irrigate from the river. It’s not a big quota, not enough for crops, which is why it wasn’t ever used by Dad or Grandad, but it is enough water for a tree nursery!’

  ‘Really?’ said Rosie, suddenly realising what Julian was proposing.

  ‘Yes! I’ve been on the phone to Evan. He and his sister are doing some costings. It could mean we relocate his business out here and expand it!’

  ‘But I thought you were longing to go back to the city,’ Margaret said.

  ‘I was longing to go back to Evan, not the city. I’m loving being back on the farm. But I know Evan would love it here too. His business can’t grow any more where it is because of real-estate prices and a whole load of reasons. He says he’s prepared to move and go into a partnership with Highgrove in tree production. That’s if you’re prepared to have us. I mean once we’ve had a formal meeting and done the sums.’

  ‘Yes!’ chorused Rosie and Margaret loudly at once.

  ‘Of course we want you here,’ Margaret said, tears coming to her eyes.

  Rosie picked up the dusty file and sifted through the old documents as an image of greenhouses filled with healthy native plants sprang up in her mind. Suddenly, a new future on Highgrove station was starting to unfold. A future that included Julian and Evan. Her mum and Duncan. And herself and the animals.

  No Sam. No Jim. Just horses, dogs, sheep and cows, and now, trees.

  Chapter 31

  The phone and fax ran hot for a week as Margaret, Rosie, Evan and Julian worked furiously on getting plans in place for the proposed tree nursery. There was government red tape to gnaw through, banks to negotiate with, scientists’ brains to pick, and irrigation systems to cost.

  By Saturday morning, Rosie thought it was high time she had a break and left Julian and Evan to it. She decided to head into town to the ute muster and dog trial. And it was a good chance to face her demons by visiting Mr Seymour.

  Neville the ute backfired loudly as Rosie pulled up outside Mr Seymour’s house. She slammed the ute door and ran her hands over her new Wrangler jeans and tight-fitting Beccy Cole T-shirt which had ‘Storm in a D-Cup’ printed on it in pink. Her hair, still damp from the shower, hung in pretty blonde strands to her shoulderblades. She walked down the weedy path and steeled herself to go back inside the house where she had first seen Jim. Dixie, Gibbo and Diesel sat watching her from the back of the ute, their ears pricked.

  As she walked into the dim hallway a startled bark made Rosie jump and set her own dogs barking with exciteme
nt. A large black shape lumbered towards her, and as her eyes adjusted to the gloom she saw it was Bones, greeting her with a thrashing tail. Her heart skipped a beat. Was Jim here? She crouched beside Bones and scratched the back of his dome-like head while his back foot moved as if scratching the air. Emotion welled up in her as she ran her hands over his lumpy old body.

  ‘Hello?’ she called out in the empty sitting room. There was a clatter in the next room.

  ‘Ah, lass,’ said Mr Seymour as he shuffled in from the kitchen. There was no sign of Jim, and Rosie’s heart sank. ‘You’ve been a long time coming.’

  He strode over to the sideboard, pulled out a bottle of Tullamore Dew and picked up two glasses.

  Rosie perched on the edge of the sagging couch. Lazy Bones lay on a brown gritty rug in front of a hissing fire, licking at his splayed paws. He looked up at Rosie and slapped his tail slowly on the rug, raising small clouds of dust that danced in the light. On the piano, the cat watched her through narrow eyes.

  Mr Seymour raised his glass to Rosie.

  ‘Good health to you.’ He took a sip and gasped as the whisky warmed his throat. ‘I expected you weeks back. He left Bones here for you to collect … to remind you.’

  ‘Remind me?’ Rosie said. As if she needed reminding.

  ‘Yes. So you remember to keep good genes flowing through the blood of your dogs. Don’t just join your females to any old dog. He’s got to be special.’

  ‘Special,’ Rosie echoed as tears welled up in her eyes. Mr Seymour saw the colour drain from Rosie’s face.

  ‘He’s mad about you, you know. But he reckons you’re better off with your own kind,’ he said sympathetically.

  Rosie shook her head. If only Mr Seymour knew that she didn’t even belong with her ‘own kind’.

  ‘Where is he?’

  Mr Seymour shrugged. He offered to refill Rosie’s glass but she shook her head.