‘Eyes front,’ Artie whispered. ‘You’re perving on the boss’s daughter, fella. Not allowed.’
Alex dragged his eyes away. Then he looked back, he couldn’t help himself. She was looking at him. He smiled at her. She tossed her head and stuck her nose in the air.
‘Serves you right, fella. Come on, in you get. Time you met the others.’
As they drove away he asked, ‘Is that Maddie?’
‘Madison. And yes it is. And no you can’t. Jeff would shoot the first man here who even thought about it.’
Too late!
He looked around with interest. From the air the ground looked like endless brown sand. But it wasn’t. Brown grass, a foot tall, grew as far as he could see. ‘Much goodness in this grass?’ he asked Artie over the roar of the Land Rover engine and the wind whistling in his ears.
‘Surprisingly good. We have good water here too.’
‘Where?’ He hadn’t seen any.
‘Artesian. We have bore holes every few miles. There’s plenty of water.’
‘Does it ever go green?’
Artie laughed. ‘Sure. Every five years when we get good rains.’
Every five years! And his mother thought they were on the edge.
They skirted the main house and drove to a rambling complex about 300 yards away. Cattle yards, sheds, barns, workshops, a silo and a large bunkhouse formed a square. ‘Here you go.’
His heart sank. It looked basic and dirty and hot. The bunkhouse was built of cement blocks and had a corrugated iron roof. A wide verandah ran around two sides. Artie saw his look. ‘Jeff converted old stables. It’s much better inside.’
Several men were sitting on the verandah, tilting back in their chairs, their feet on the railing. As Alex reached into the Land Rover to get his suitcase one of them called, ‘Who’s that, Art?’
‘New hand.’
‘Looks a bit wet behind the ears.’ The others laughed.
Alex flushed with embarrassment but walked onto the verandah with his hand outstretched. ‘I survived a flight with Jeff.’ He grinned at the man who had spoken. ‘Name’s Alex Theron.’
The man laughed, kicked his feet off the railing and rose slowly. He stood several inches taller than Alex. His good-humoured face was long and thin, like the rest of him. ‘That’s more than I can say for most of us then. Jeff scares us shitless in that plane of his.’ He shook Alex’s hand. ‘Welcome, Alex Theron. I’m Bob.’ He waved his hand at the other two. ‘This ugly bastard is Pat and that ugly bastard is Willie. Pat’s Irish but don’t hold it against him—he’s likely to take your head off.’ Alex shook hands with a burly blond man who he guessed to be about thirty and whose pale blue eyes and wide smile belied any inclination to tear anyone’s head off, and then a small, wiry, slightly older man who, when he smiled a welcome, revealed two front teeth of gold.
‘Done any riding?’ Willie asked. His gold teeth flashed.
‘Yeah. My folks have a farm near Shakawe. I helped Pa drive a few times.’
‘Thank Christ for that. Last youngster Jeff brought out here thought a horse was something you draped clothes on. Done any branding?’
‘A bit.’
‘Well hey, man, welcome to Carter’s Crazy Crowd.’
‘Show him his bed,’ Artie said. ‘I’ve got to talk to the boss.’
‘Come and have a beer,’ Pat invited, then added, worried, ‘you do drink beer don’t you?’
‘I’ve had a bit. Not much.’
‘How old are you, sonny?’ Bob asked.
‘Sixteen.’
‘Sweet sixteen and never been laid,’ Willie sang. He had a good voice.
Alex began to relax.
‘You’ll meet the rest of the motley crew tonight. I guess you’ll start work tomorrow. We’re branding. Shitty bloody job but someone has to do it. Fucking hot out there, wear a hat. Well come on, boyo, come on. A man could die of thirst talking to you out here.’ Pat shoved him through the door and into an armchair. ‘Sit.’ Alex had no option.
He was in what was obviously the general recreation room. Two refrigerators were side by side and, when Pat opened one, he saw it was groaning with beer bottles. ‘Beer’s in here,’ Pat told him unnecessarily. ‘Cokes and sissy drinks in this one.’ He banged his hand against the closed door of the other. Cabinets next to the refrigerators held glasses, plates, cups, bowls, and cutlery. A table tennis table was at the far end, a pool table in the middle. Several dart boards were near the door and, judging by the holes in the wall, the inside of the door and on the floor, no-one took the game seriously. There were even holes in the ceiling.
At the other end, scattered in comfortable array, a variety of armchairs and settees and, in front of the refrigerators, a long wooden table for dining. With gingham red and white curtains and matching tablecloth, it was surprisingly homely.
Pat handed him a bottle. ‘We don’t use glasses. Beer gets too bloody warm. Come and see your room. You can settle in later. We’re going for a swim.’
He was hauled out of the chair by Pat who appeared to get people to do what he wanted by physically pushing and pulling them around.
As bedrooms went, it wasn’t much. A bed, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers. ‘We decorate our own rooms if we want. You can buy stuff at the store in town. Some of us don’t bother, we live in the main room anyway. Here, find something to wear and grab a towel.’ Pat opened his suitcase, rummaged around, found a pair of swimming shorts, threw a towel at him from on top of the chest of drawers and looked as if he was prepared to undress him if necessary.
‘Where’s the bathroom?’ Alex found the manhandling disconcerting.
‘Down the hall. Hurry up, boyo. We’ll wait for you on the verandah.’
The bathroom contained four showers, two toilets and two sinks. It had a cement floor but the walls were lined with square white tiles. Alex took a leak, changed into his swimming shorts, collected up his beer and joined the others on the verandah. Pat looked at him. ‘Jesus, boyo you can’t ride like that.’
‘We ride?’
‘Yeah, down to the waterhole.’
‘Sorry.’ He returned to his room, pulled his jeans on over his swimmers, put his boots back on and rejoined them on the verandah.
‘You about ready now?’ Pat asked heavily with good humoured sarcasm.
Willie walked four horses up to the verandah. ‘This one’s yours.’
The mare pranced sideways, tossing her head. Alex was a good rider and he knew a bit about horses. This one was trouble. The men were testing him. As he steadied himself to swing into the saddle she turned her head and snapped at his arse but he was ready for her and whipped up his elbow, jabbing her on the side of the face. The mare snorted and skittered sideways but he swung onto her and shoved his foot firmly into the other stirrup. ‘What’s her name?’ he called, staying on easily as she churned in circles.
‘Nightmare,’ Bob called back. ‘Stick with her, kid.’
‘Okay, Nightmare,’ he said through his teeth. ‘Let’s see what you’re made of.’
Willie ran and opened a gate and the mare shot from standing to a full galloping run within three seconds. ‘At least she doesn’t buck,’ he shouted back as he gripped his knees tightly and turned his toes inwards. He gave the mare her head.
Alex could never remember the details of that ride. Nightmare galloped at full stretch. Unfamiliar country whipped past unnoticed as he concentrated on using all his skill as a horseman just to stay on her back. He prayed she knew where she was going. After ten minutes he felt her tiring and, several minutes later she slowed to a canter, then a trot, and finally came to a trembling stop. He leaned over and patted her shivering neck. ‘Good girl, Nightmare, good girl.’ The horse bucked and Alex flew through the air and landed on his back.
When the dust cleared and the ringing in his ears stopped, he looked up and saw Nightmare cantering home. He climbed off the ground, dusting his jeans. He was grinning from ear to ear. ‘Okay, Nightmare. Strike o
ne to you.’
The walk back took him fifty minutes. Bob, Willie and Pat were on the verandah, waving their beer bottles at him. ‘Where’d ya go?’ Bob yelled.
He limped up to the verandah. He tried dignity. ‘Just for a ride.’
The men laughed uproariously. He tried bluster. ‘To Johannesburg.’
The men roared. He tried humour. ‘And back again.’
‘You’re okay, kid,’ Willie slapped his back. Dust billowed out.
Pat wiped his eyes. ‘At least she doesn’t buck,’ he mimicked. ‘Here, boyo, have a beer, you’ve earned it.’
Alex took a swig. They had put cold coffee in the bottle.
SEVEN
By the time the other men arrived—tired, dirty, in a noisy confusion of faces and names—Alex felt at home. Artie had come back and given him a tour of the yards and sheds, explaining his job as they went. ‘You’ll be with Pat and the other new fella, Kel. You’ll meet him later. Funny sort of bugger, doesn’t say much. Young. Close to your age I’d say. Maybe you can get him to talk. Bit surly but maybe he’s shy.’ ‘Where is he from?’ Alex was pleased to know there was another person his own age around.
‘Gaberones. His father is a friend of Jeff’s. I don’t think Kel likes it here. Jeff took him on as a favour but the kid is useless. Still . . .’ Artie shrugged, ‘. . . maybe he’ll come right.’
Nightmare was eating oats from a trough. ‘Hear you’ve met her.’ Artie grinned. ‘You did the right thing, young fella: let her have her head. But she’ll always buck, considers it her duty.’
‘Has anyone ridden her?’ Alex admired the horse. Relaxed and with no rider in sight to make her eyes turn mean, she was a beautiful animal. Russet red hair rippled and shone, flowing over powerful muscles.
Artie laughed. ‘Ride her? Never. Most of them don’t make it out of the yard. That young Kel, he lasted exactly two seconds. Nightmare pitched him onto the verandah. Didn’t take too kindly to it neither. Some of the others had to hold him back. He was going to take a stick to her.’
Kel was one of the last to arrive back. Alex shook his hand and looked at him. He was a big boy, as tall as Alex and just as strongly built. At a time when men wore their hair cut short back and sides, Kel’s hair straggled to his collar. He had a high-bridged nose and, looking completely out of place, a tiny, baby-shaped mouth. His eyes never quite met Alex’s. He looked Alex up and down. ‘I hear you’re coming out with us tomorrow.’
‘That’s right.’ Alex tried to lock eyes with him. There was something shifty in the way he would not make contact.
‘Try to stay out of our way then. We’re busy.’ He turned and walked through to the bedroom section.
Alex flushed bright red. ‘Don’t worry about him,’ Willie said. ‘Couple of weeks ago he didn’t know one end of a branding iron from the other.’
‘Still doesn’t,’ Pat growled. ‘I’d like to shove one up his arse, cheeky little brat.’
Willie laughed at Pat. ‘The kid thinks his shit don’t stink,’ he told Alex. ‘His father owns a couple of businesses in Gabs and one of his uncles is big time on the Joint Advisory Council. Seems Kel got some girl into trouble and his daddy sent him here till the dust settles. Kid’s got a French fry the size of a baseball bat on his shoulder, he’s a pain in the arse.’
Kel avoided Alex’s company for the rest of the evening. In fact, he ignored everyone, preferring to sit on his own, reading.
The men turned in early. Most of them would be up at four. ‘Must write to Mum and Pa,’ Alex thought as he got into bed. ‘I’ll get some writing things in town on Saturday.’ He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
It was still dark when Pat, in his unique manner, woke him the next morning. ‘Up, boyo, work’s awaiting.’ He pulled back the sheet, grabbed his arm, forced him to sit, pulled him to his feet and propelled him to the bathroom. Alex was getting used to this although it was a bit much first thing in the morning.
Breakfast was whatever the men wanted to make of it. It just kept rolling out of the kitchen and being thumped on the table by a cheerful-looking black man who took it upon himself to sample everything and raise his eyes in appreciation. Toast piled high on plates. Great platters of bacon, swimming in grease. Fried eggs gone hard from being kept warm in the oven. Fried onion and tomatoes mixed together with chilli pepper. Baked beans. Sausages, crisp and split open. Last night’s leftover vegetables, roughly formed into pancakes and fried golden brown. Steaks cooked to leathery slabs. Pots of coffee. Jugs of milk.
‘Dig in,’ Pat advised, shovelling more baked beans onto Alex’s plate. ‘Lunch is a long way off.’
Outside, dawn broke with a chorus of song. Weaver birds, swallows, doves and starlings competed with chattering guineafowl on the ground. It was desert country so the nights were cool but, as soon as the sun broke over the rim of the earth, it promised another scorcher. ‘Got a hat?’ Pat picked one at random from a peg near the door and rammed it onto Alex’s head.
They rode six miles to where the cattle were penned. For as long as he lived, Alex would remember the beauty of that harsh land. Softened by early light, long shadows of grey covered the sepia coloured grass which sparkled with moisture. Filmy fingers of pink cloud lingered in the sky. The horizon was as sharp as a lithograph. Trees stood out like black holes against the pale blue sky. The air was sweet and cool, with the smell of soft dew. Riding alongside the other men, hearing the creak of leather and the steady rhythm of hooves, Alex felt his life was just beginning.
Riding back at sunset, covered with ash and dust and manure, sticky with perspiration, back breaking from bending, both feet on fire in boots which threatened to suffocate, arms burned crimson from the sun, eyes stinging as sweat ran freely, Alex believed his life was over.
He’d branded before. He knew it wouldn’t be easy. But he had never worked so hard, for so long, in such suffocating flying sand, in air so desiccated it hurt to breathe, in heat which bore relentlessly down so his whole body was on fire. To help keep cool the men regularly threw themselves, boots and all, into a cut down water tank. But ten minutes later their clothes were dry. The water in the tank grew so warm it was like having a hot bath.
He worked alongside Pat and Kel. Pat grunted and groaned his way through the day, occasionally breaking out with ‘Jesus, mother of Mary,’ which didn’t make a lot of sense although Alex was too hot and tired to say so. He quickly grew to hate the dumb, stubborn, fractious cattle. Kel sneaked off too often to the water tank, leaving Pat and Alex to bear the brunt of the work. At one stage, just before their half-hour lunch break, Pat called, ‘Where the hell are you going this time?’
‘To get wet.’
‘Get back here.’
‘Stick it up your arse.’
Pat shook his head and muttered to Alex, ‘Bastard! Bloody bludging asshole. Jesus, mother of Mary.’
Alex made a beeline for the beer fridge as soon as he got back to the bunkhouse. Pat headed him off. ‘Drink the sissy stuff first. Get some liquid inside you. You’ll get as pissed as a fart otherwise.’ He shoved two bottles of lemonade at Alex.
He could have sworn the first one sizzled all the way down.
Artie came in and pinned up next week’s roster. None of the men was expected to work more than three days straight before having two days off.
‘It’s different in the winter,’ Willie explained. ‘There’s not so many of us and the weather is great.’
‘Why doesn’t Jeff use blacks?’
‘Oh he uses them. Just not for branding. They’re hopeless at it.’
‘My Pa uses them.’
‘How many head does your Pa have?’
‘Around 600.’
‘Jeff’s got more than 6,000.’
‘How many have been branded so far?’
‘A thousand.’
Shit!
No-one worked Sunday. Alex was rostered on for Saturday and, by the end of the day, felt he could never muster the energy to go into Gha
nzi. Pat had other ideas and Alex simply lacked the strength to fob him off. They drove in a convoy of four Land Rovers.
It was light enough to see the town when they drove in. Not that there was much to see; one wide dusty street, rutted and practically deserted, a general store and several other buildings enjoyed as much space as they needed. Overcrowding was definitely not a problem. The hotel, the Kalahari Arms, was in the centre of town, its solid brick walls giving it an air of permanence.
The bar was busy with men who, on Saturday evenings, drank as hard as they worked. ‘How’s it going, kid?’ Jeff Carter bought him a beer and slapped it in front of him.
Alex had seen nothing of him since the day he arrived. ‘Bloody hard work,’ he replied.
Jeff laughed. ‘Artie tells me you’re doing okay.’
‘Pat is good to work with.’
‘He’s a permanent.’ Jeff looked over to where Pat was chatting up a tiny African woman. ‘Good man. Got a background of course, most of the permanents do.’
Alex wondered why Jeff was telling him this. He felt uncomfortable, as though he were spying on Pat without his knowledge.
‘Killed a man in Ireland.’ Jeff saw his look. ‘Ask him. He doesn’t try to hide it.’
Alex looked across the room to Pat. He saw Kel saunter over and say something to him. Pat shook his head.
Willie joined Alex and Jeff. All three of them could sense trouble brewing. The woman was backing away from Pat and Kel uneasily.
‘He’s a pain in the arse that Kel,’ Willie said. ‘Always riding Pat. Someone should warn him off, Pat’ll tear his liver out if he gets mad.’
‘He’s okay,’ Jeff said. ‘Bit mixed up maybe, but he comes from a good family.’
‘Mixed up,’ Willie scoffed. ‘He goes out of his way to get up your nose, like he was morally obliged to do so. I’m telling you, boss, someone is going to teach that little shit a lesson one day. It can’t come soon enough for me.’
Edge of the Rain Page 8