They soon caught up with the tail end of the sheep. Slow and plodding, the ewes were in no rush to join up with the main mob, whose leaders were already raising dust on the horizon. The sheep knew where they were headed. Shorn and put through the plunge dip, their paddock beckoned and they were in a hurry to reach it and leave the two-legged creatures behind.
Ahead, a crow hopped across the ground, purple-green flecking the black of the bird’s glossy plumage. The red dog scrabbled out from nearby undergrowth to tear after the creature who nonchalantly took to the air with a defiant caw. Ahead, the overseer and one of the jackeroos, the white-skinned red-headed Archie, walked their horses silently on either wing of the shorn ewes. The jackeroo, a coastal lad, had barely uttered a word in her presence since discovering she was coming along for the ride.
The need to be free of the homestead and the people within drove Eleanor outdoors at daylight and she’d wandered to the stables. Little convincing was required when Mr Goward arrived, suggesting she join them. Too much had been said in the sitting room the previous evening. Her inclination of returning early to Sydney postponed due to the stranger who’d placed his trust in her. Eleanor no longer felt ill at ease at having kept his return to consciousness a secret. If anything she felt justified, although the choice embraced both the thrill of the stranger’s confidence and a strong dose of anger towards her mother and uncle. There was, however, something else that made Eleanor rethink her leaving. She would be running away again. Coming so close on the heels of the Dante debacle, she could now recognise her tendency to flight and was determined to start addressing what could only be classed as a weakness. There was little place in the bush for such a flaw. Being home on River Run was a reminder of that.
Hilda broke into a trot as they moved towards the stragglers. The red dog dropped his head between muscled shoulders and growled at a recalcitrant ewe who’d turned around angrily to paw the dirt. The animals eyed each other. Neither gave ground. Then the dog took a step forward, breaking the impasse. The ewe turned and ran off, rejoining the single line of trailing sheep, who trotted along a track of brittle dirt bordered by inward curving grasses.
Across the grass country the red dog bounded left and right. Something stirred him. Now and then he turned in tight circles, stopping to sniff the air. The hairs rose along the ridge of a narrow back, the tip of his tail pointed towards the sky, and then whatever ailed him was forgotten and he turned back to the sheep and the steady task of keeping the animals moving.
The overseer’s dog was a constant pursuer, making Eleanor’s role redundant. She guessed Hilda understood the limited task set them, for when she next tried to coax some speed from the shrewd mare, she was totally ignored. While the two stockmen stayed on the opposite wings of the large mob, the dog followed the trampled path as the wind grew stronger. They were riding towards the west and the indecisive breeze, which began in the south before shifting direction, grew steady and strong.
A line of blue-grey cloud made bright by the sun’s rays bruised the morning sky. The formation lengthened and thickened until a screen of darkness tipped the trees on the horizon. If this was the beginning of a storm, it would be brief, Eleanor decided. Through the rain clouds streaks of light were visible, as if the sky attempted to pull apart the gathering moisture and step through the misty veil.
Further on, the overseer rode hard on the wing as a couple of hundred ewes bolted for nearby scrub. The red dog sprung after his master, racing low and fast. The animal soon blurred with the landscape, its progress marked by the arcing of the gathered sheep as they were speared back towards the mob. Mr Goward slowed, the job already done. A few minutes later, the animal was back in front of Eleanor, eyeing her briefly with disapproval before resuming his position at the rear of the mob.
The westerly wind grew stronger. It tugged at the grey cloud of dust, which lay coiled above the walking sheep, pulling the mass left and right until it smeared the mid-morning sky. The wind brought tears to Eleanor’s eyes, stinging her cheeks. She was sure that for all the red dog’s tenacity, he too was hunkering lower to the ground, seeking to escape the blast of air. Eleanor squinted her eyes and the world dwindled to a smudge of beiges and browns, indistinguishable shapes that formed themselves into a prone body that she’d laid her hands upon. Was it possible that the stranger had been awake when she’d moved the damp cloth across the broad chest, when she’d touched the hollow at the base of his neck? The thought caught Eleanor unawares. She drew Hilda to a standstill. The gale-flattened grasses grew silver-white beneath the sun, before clouds shadowed the land and a darkness crept from the west. The wind howled.
‘What’s the matter? We’ve been waiting at the gate.’
Eleanor opened one eye a little wider, burrowing chin to chest. The lanky youth was close enough to touch. She guessed she’d held them up by not pushing the sheep along faster, for the boy scowled and galloped off, his yells of get a move on, yah bastards carrying back to her on the wind. Her hat blew away with the next gust. The dog was gone. Eleanor tugged lightly on the reins, turning her back to the stinging wind. Even if she’d wanted to keep pace with the jackeroo, Hilda boycotted any thought of it by halting behind the first clump of trees. The wind whistled through the leaves. Smaller twigs began to break off to fall through the branches above. Leaves and dirt spun around them. Eleanor slid from the mare’s back, finding protection at the base of a tree. Here she crouched, her arms wrapped about her body, her forehead touching knees. The wind grew stronger, the swaying tree limbs creaking ominously overhead. The rain came. Sharp and cold, plastering her hair to face and neck.
She ran to open ground, already drenched, lying next to a fallen log.
‘There you are.’
It was the overseer. He’d found her. Mr Goward jumped from his horse and came to her.
A crackle of electricity bit through the air.
By her side instantly, he wedged his body next to hers, and wrapped an arm around Eleanor’s shoulders. Lightning continued to fizz around them. Eleanor cowered against the ground, feeling the length of the overseer’s body pressed against her side. The red dog appeared from nowhere to squeeze between Eleanor and the fallen timber. She peered over a flapping shirtsleeve as the world grew wild. Branches flew around them. A loud bang sounded. A wrenching crack. Then it was over. The wind dropped to the barest of zephyrs. The red dog walked a few feet away and shook himself dry. Rolled in the dirt. Lifted his leg and peed. Overhead, the clouds rumbled as the sun reappeared.
‘Bloody warrigal wind,’ Mr Goward stated, withdrawing his protective arm. ‘All show and no wet stuff.’
They sat up awkwardly. Eleanor did not want to move from the safety of the man and yet wondered why the overseer was not already on his feet, extending a hand, brusque and business-like. There was comfort in consistency, she decided, and yet for two days running now he’d literally come to her rescue. The thought barely entered her mind, then he was standing, clasping her hand in his and pulling her upright.
‘A warrigal wind,’ he repeated. ‘Some time since we’ve had one of those.’ He glanced at Eleanor before turning around abruptly. The red dog walked to his master’s side as if he’d been called.
Eleanor realised she was soaked through. The white of her bra showed beneath the beige of the long-sleeved shirt. Plucking the material away from her skin did little to help. She would have to wait for the sun to dry the fabric, which wouldn’t take very long.
A tree, only a couple of hundred yards away, had been stripped of branches on one side of its trunk. Another was split in half, struck by lightning. The cleaved side lay on the ground, as if carved off by a giant. ‘Isn’t that your dog’s name? Warrigal?’
The dog tilted its head, studying her.
‘They say his grandmother was part dingo.’ The overseer brushed the brim of his hat free of dirt. ‘He has the look of it and the temperament to match, so I named him Warrigal. It means wild animal to some, wild horse or dog. To me it’s anythi
ng that’s got a wild streak in it, that can’t be tamed. Like that young brother of yours.’ He studied her, waited for a response, an understanding. ‘Like that twister that just went through,’ he continued. ‘That there was a warrigal wind. A narrow storm, I reckon. Probably blew itself out within a mile. My great-uncle never did take to a warrigal wind.’
‘Why not?’
‘Here one minute, gone the next.’ To the east, stringy lines of blue cloud twisted against the sky. ‘A warrigal wind never really goes, that’s what he’d say. Once it comes to a place, it knows the way. It’s a sign of things to come.’
‘But we’ve had windstorms before, Mr Goward.’
The man tapped fingers against a thigh. ‘I think you better call me Hugh. We’ve just shared a patch of dirt and rescued a near-dead man after all.’ He looked at her directly, careful to keep his gaze away from her damp clothes.
‘And you helped me yesterday,’ Eleanor reminded him. The horses were grazing a few yards away. He whistled them up, but Hilda and the mare kept their heads down. ‘It seems like I’m always thanking you.’
‘Must be near forty years ago when that warrigal storm hit my great-uncle’s place,’ Hugh began, choosing to ignore her gratitude. ‘Watched it for days, he did. A dirty smudge on the horizon. He told me it was like a living thing. Sitting out there, biding its time, waiting and watching. Some days visible, others nowhere to be seen. A storm like that, well it gives a man the willies. But he’d seen it, my great-uncle, so when he wasn’t working he set himself up on the veranda in an old camp chair and waited. Waited ten days, give or take. His wife left him. Told him he was a nutter. Walked out and left the old man to fend for himself. Of course it came late one afternoon when he’d nodded off. Came out of nowhere, like something conjured up out of the ground. He’d seen plenty of storms before. The low spiral that spins up into the air, the thick column that sucks and spits as it passes by, and the rain, thick and pounding. But this one carried dirt like a man carries buckets of sand. Like a sheet it was and the wind, well, afterwards he said he’d never seen anything like it. Flattened the district. Blew the house flat. Him in it. But he survived.
‘A month later my great-aunt wrote him and said that she was sorry for not believing. That she was coming home. They say he ferreted out every sheet of iron he could find. Dragged half of it by hand across the ground, did his best to untwist it and then used bits of wire and rope to build a lean-to so his wife would return to a home, of sorts. Nearly busted himself with the making of it, he did. Then, after all of that, old Marge never made it. That warrigal storm came back to finish what it had begun. They found her dead, eight miles from the house. Caught fair in its path, thrown from her horse. A couple of years later the Archduke was murdered and then the war began. My great-uncle swore the storm started it all. As I said, it’s a sign of things to come.’
The sun was uncluttered by cloud, the land already drying.
‘So it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a wind like that. It’s nothing like what hit my great-uncle’s place, but it tells me something’s out there. That something’s coming. I’m not a superstitious man, but a warrigal storm …’
Eleanor thought of Robbie and the wounded man and figured the something had already been and gone. ‘Maybe it’s the rain, maybe it’s finally on its way,’ she suggested. ‘We could use some.’
‘That we could.’
They stood together companionably, Hugh rolling two cigarettes and lighting hers. Eleanor noticed the way he cupped a hand to protect the flame of the match. His nails were oval, and slightly dirty, his fingers long and strong. He smelt slightly of aftershave and soap and something else, he smelt of the earth, after rain. They smoked in silence, watching the twists of blue cloud disintegrating in the east, feeling the dry air against their skin. Ahead, the horses sank their teeth into the stubby grass. When nothing further could be coaxed from the butts they dropped the ends to the ground, grinding them out with the heel of their boots. They set off towards the grazing animals.
Hugh was the first to speak. ‘Any word on the patient?’
‘Nothing.’ The lie was starting to grow out of all proportion and Eleanor discovered that she was uncomfortable not sharing the truth with Hugh. ‘But yesterday his temperature was normal and there’s signs he’s close to waking.’
‘The sooner the better, I reckon. It must be pretty unsettling to have a total stranger in your home.’ He whistled and this time the horses acknowledged the call. The mare ambled towards them, Hilda reluctantly following. ‘Well, you better head home, Eleanor. I’ll go back and find young Archie. Put the sheep in their paddock. Get back to the shed.’
‘Archie’s the one that annoys Robbie.’ She tucked a length of matted hair behind an ear.
‘They annoy each other. Robbie has everything, although he’s too young to know it yet, while Archie comes from nothing. He’s got a chip on his shoulder that would have sunk the Titanic if the iceberg hadn’t got there first. But give him a couple of years and he’ll be fine. Takes a bit of doing, you know, to leave your childhood behind, to become a man.’
In the middle of the bush, surrounded by space and light, Eleanor discovered that she wanted to know more about Hugh Goward. This was a good man, a kind-hearted man, and he was integral to the family business, much to her stepfather’s annoyance. Which in some ways made being friends with him, which Eleanor knew they now were, even better. At a guess he was in his early forties, a young pup in Rex’s view. But he was far older than his age. In his company, at times she felt like a child.
‘Off you go,’ he said, when the horses finally drew level with them. ‘Rex will be back from town in a few hours and I’m sure you’ll want to be there when your sister arrives.’
Eleanor frowned, surely she’d misheard. ‘My sister? Lesley?’
‘She’s coming on the train today,’ Hugh explained, his words suddenly stilted upon noticing her surprise. When she didn’t reply he continued, ‘Rex said your mother organised it a few days ago.’
Eleanor knew she must have appeared stunned. She studied the grass, patches of red earth between the clumps.
‘You didn’t know?’ The overseer hooked a thumb in a trouser-pocket, fingers tapping the cloth. ‘She’s had a bit to deal with, your mother.’
Lesley was coming home. After all these years.
Grasping the reins, Hugh swung up into the saddle. The red dog hunkered down onto his back legs and then sprung onto his master’s lap. The mare snorted. ‘You be right?’ The easy comfort between them broken, the overseer appeared anxious to be gone.
‘Yes, of course,’ replied Eleanor, grabbing Hilda’s reins. The prospect of her sister’s return was beginning to release long-buried memories. ‘Sorry, you’ve thrown me a bit, Hugh. I had no idea Lesley was coming home.’
The man didn’t reply.
‘Has the shed quietened down a bit?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘I’ll tell you when Billy Wright and Lomax are given their walking orders. I’m yet to hear when the new men are due and who they’ll be, but firing a gun shearer is one thing, getting rid of the shed overseer …’ His mount snorted, shook its head impatiently. ‘And it’s only the second day of shearing.’
‘I always liked Mr Lomax. Billy I didn’t know very well.’
‘Billy’s a man’s man. Always has been.’ The overseer tugged on his nose. ‘Tell me, Eleanor, that conversation you overheard yesterday morning. Who was doing the talking?’
Hilda nibbled at her hair. ‘I didn’t see them. They were sitting on the other side of the rainwater tank but one of the men was older than the other, and he had a really faint voice.’
‘Donaldson from the Riverina. Throat cancer. I’ll keep an eye out.’
‘Can I ask you, do you think my mother has done the right thing by firing them?’
‘Wool is worth a pound a pound, Eleanor. Who knows how long this business in Korea will go on for. High prices like this don’t last foreve
r. We should swallow our pride, give the men involved a talking-to and then concentrate on getting the fleeces off and the wool to market.’ The overseer flicked the reins.
‘And the wounded stranger,’ Eleanor persisted. ‘He complicates things?’
‘Robbie’s part in it gives the rabble-rousers an edge to work with.’ He waited patiently as if expecting further questions. ‘I really have to go.’
But he didn’t go, at least not immediately. He sat astride his mount, one wrist resting atop the other, staring down at her so intently that Eleanor became immersed in the blue-green of his stare. Eventually he tipped his hat, gave a lazy smile. Eleanor smiled back. With a feeling bordering on regret, she watched Hugh ride away.
Retrieving a notebook from her shirt-pocket, Eleanor wrote down the story of the warrigal storm. When she’d finished, she thought of Jillian and Henrietta, sitting side-by-side in the typing pool, waiting for their tea-break and a longed-for cigarette. At this very moment, Eleanor wouldn’t have changed places with them for all the world.
Chapter Twenty-seven
In the sickroom Athena sat at the end of the bed, lifting her feet from the floor as Mrs Howell swept around her, before proceeding to dust the skirting boards. The air was tense. The nurse glanced briefly towards Eleanor when she appeared in the doorway and then back to the patient.
‘He’s awake. Not speaking but awake,’ Athena told her. ‘He woke last night. I’ve informed your parents.’
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