Kookaburra Dawn

by Amanda Doyle

  ‘What a lovely idea!’ Rennie was intrigued.

  ‘Lovely, so long as the kookaburra agrees to co-operate. If he didn’t, the spirits would take the huff and refuse to light the fire any more, and we’d all have to be content with eternal twilight.’

  ‘Do they really believe that?’

  ‘They’re a very superstitious people, Renata. There’s a reason for everything in the aboriginal mind, even for the things we may take for granted, and they find their explanations as logical as we find them quaint. The piccaninnies aren’t supposed to mimic the kookaburra, because it will bring bad luck. And if they do, legend has it that an extra tooth will grow on top of the others, to show that they’ve mocked the harbinger of dawn, and threatened the world with the possibility of darkness for ever.’

  ‘What a load of responsibility for those poor kookaburras, then!’ Rennie smiled at the mere idea. ‘What are they like, Chad? To look at, I mean?’

  ‘They’re brown and white, quite big birds, with a strong beak that can snap up a frog or break a small snake’s back at a single flip. They are the largest of the kingfisher tribe, in fact, Renata. I’m surprised you haven’t seen one. You must get Magda to point one out for you,’ he suggested quite kindly, before he went striding away into the dawn which those kookaburras had so recently laughed into existence; and Rennie, feeling curiously deflated, went back to her bed to wait for the kindly aboriginal spirits to get their sun-fire burning just a little bit more brightly, before she got up to face another day at Barrindilloo.

  The morning passed uneventfully.

  Nellie and Mayra giggled and chattered as they flitted about their household tasks, like a couple of gay budgerigars in the brightly-coloured cotton overalls which they wore. Later, they sat in the dappling of shade on the back veranda, peeling vegetables together for the next meal, while Elspeth took advantage of temporary peace in the kitchen region to bake some bread.

  The appetizing, yeasty smell assailed Rennie’s nostrils as she saw Magda safely installed at the transceiver-set for the school-of-the-air session, and walked out on to the side veranda beyond.

  Already Magda had been twiddling the knobs as Rennie left her side, timing herself in to receive her morning lessons from Base; she was able to deal with the complete routine all by herself now, calling up, answering her call-in sign, replying to the teacher’s questions along with the other country pupils scattered throughout the vast interior of the Australian continent.

  Each base covered a wide area, each call-sign represented a little lonely bush-pupil, who-because of this wonderful medium of cancelling those incredible distances—was lonely no longer! Instead, all the children had become part and parcel of one big school ‘family’, able to work and learn co-operatively, and to participate in the daily chatter that preceded the school session. This was known locally as the ‘cockatoo’, and corresponded to the adult free-for-all of airborne gossip, appropriately dubbed the ‘galah session’, after those garrulous parrots with their soft pink-and-grey plumage and their love of noisy interchange.

  Magda’s high treble, making her own eager contribution to the morning yabber, reached Rennie’s ears as she went down the steps and walked somewhat aimlessly in the direction of the stockyards.

  From there she could hear the sound of hammering, which meant that one or another of the men must be around. And that, in its turn, meant that Rennie herself might find someone with whom to talk. Elspeth would not welcome interruptions with her bread-making this morning, and Nellie and Mayra needed but the smallest pretext to stop work altogether when they were spoken to, standing together, leaning on their brooms with those dazzling white, wide smiles, or nudging each other with their skinny, dusky arms and dissolving into fits of giggles. Their domestic attacks on the house were sporadic enough, one felt, without contributing to their inefficiency, and yet they were a lovable, friendly pair who had already won a place in Rennie’s reluctant heart. Who could resist those beaming black eyes, those wonderful water-melon grins?

  The hammerer turned out to be Murtie. He was mending a slip-rail, sinking an old horseshoe into the strainer-post to form a slot, and as Rennie approached he put down the hammer, pushed back his hat, and wiped the beads of sweat from his wrinkled brow.

  ‘G’day, Renata.’

  The old man eyed the young woman before him with marked appreciation, took in the beautiful cut of putty-coloured linen shorts and shirt with their saddle-stitched pockets, the ridiculous proportions of Rennie’s floppy, outsized beach-hat, the slender shapeliness of her long brown legs, and the sheer loveliness of that pale curtain of hair that fell straight about her shoulders. Even the way she removed her sun-glasses to smile at him before replacing them and climbing on to the top rail at his side held a certain fascination for Murtie, which he wasn’t slow to show. There was an elegance about Renata’s every action of which she seemed to be entirely unaware, and her smile just now had been almost hesitant, deprecating, as she said humbly,

  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting you, Murtie, coming to watch like this?’

  ‘Course you aren’t, Renata! Haven’t I told you often enough just ter come along ter Murtie if you’re at a loose end, eh?’ He wiped his bare forearm over his forehead again. ‘By crikey, I could use a pint right now! This heat’s a fair cow!’

  ‘A pity there isn’t a pub just around that corner.’ Rennie smiled again, and waved desultorily in the general direction of the harness-shed.

  ‘Maybe it’s just as well there isn’t,’ he told her frankly. ‘Reckon when I get on the beer, I like ter make it a decent bender, Renata—a dinkum occasion, like. That ole poet knew ’is onions when ’e said, “The track o’ life is dry enough, an’ crossed with many a rut; but oh! we’ll find it rougher still when all the pubs is shut.” I like me pubs, I must admit, now and then.’

  He grinned, and his sun-seamed face went into a thousand wrinkles, his dark eyes, merry with fun, almost disappearing beneath his beetling brows.

  How typical of Murtie to produce an appropriate verse at the drop of a hat, thought Rennie, amused. He was forever quoting his beloved ‘poets’, and had confessed to possessing only six books in his bachelor hut, all of them in verse. The selection included Shakespeare, and it was odd to hear snippets of Hamlet or Richard the Second rolling glibly off the tongue of this sagging-breeched, dusty-booted old Outbacker, repeated in his slow, nasal drawl which somehow yet managed to imbue each line with the dignity and expression it deserved.

  ‘Reckon I never wanted any other books but them,’ he had told her, slightly sheepishly. ‘You get ter know them books like you was born with ’em. They get ter be your mates. When I finish the last one, I go back over ’em all again in turn, from start ter finish, an’ it’s just like meetin’ an old friend.’

  ‘Where are the pubs that you go to, when you do go for an—a—er—bender, Murtie?’ asked Rennie now, settling herself more comfortably on the bleached fence-rail.

  ‘Well, I’m not much of a one fer towns, and that’s the truth, Renata. I might go once a year, maybe, an’ then it’s to Meridian.’ He gave the horseshoe a final swat with the hammer, and then threw the tool back amongst its fellows in a greasy black bag at his feet. ‘My next chance’ll most likely be at our own race meetin’, here at Barrindilloo, but it’ll all depend on how me luck’s holdin’ out, whether I have a bit of a blinder or not, see. I’m not one o’ them booze-artists who can’t do without the stuff,’ he was at pains to emphasize. ‘If me bettin’s goin’ dead sweet, I’ll probably just settle fer the odd pint or two. If she’s crook, I’ll maybe decide ter have a bit of a blinder with some of the boys. It depends,’ he temporized.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a race meeting here, Murtie. When is it? Where do you hold it?’

  ‘Barrindilloo has one o’ the best race meetin’s in the land, I reckon, Renata. It might not be the biggest, but it’s one o’ the best,’ he insisted with pride. ‘Gen’rlly we hold it just after The Cup, because we’re still
in the mood for a spot of hide-crackin’, see. But this year, Chad put it off a month or two, seein’ that you an’ Magda was comin’ just about that time. Reckon ’e thought ’e’d have enough on ’is plate gettin’ Magda settled down first.’

  ‘So when is it likely to be, and where do you have it?’

  ‘Three weeks, maybe, from now. That’s about the latest Chad’ll chance it before the weather might break. We hold it in the same place every year, about fifteen mile from the homestead, out at the Yogill Bore. We’ve got a permanent site out there, ablutions an’ the lot, see. An’ tents galore. Everybody camps, an’ we cart out enough tucker an’ booze for a two-day meetin’. The place is swarmin’ with visitors, then, Renata, just as busy as Pitt Street, I reckon. They come from all over—the cities, the other stations, the other States. All them girls—’

  He picked up the tool-bag, shaking his head as he stooped once more to retrieve the two spare horseshoes which he had not used, and began to amble away in the direction of the blacksmith’s shop.

  ‘What girls?’ asked Rennie attentively, finding that she had to hurry to keep up, in spite of Murtie’s advanced years and slightly rheumatic gait.

  ‘All them city sheilas, they come swarmin’ up here like bees to a sugarbag.’ He placed the tool-kit carefully back on its shelf, turned, and grinned pensively. ‘Reckon it’s Chad they’re after. ’E takes ’em out in the city, see, an’ they think they’ve got it made, so they all come up here at race-time, ter see can they get the hobbles on ’im fer good, but so far ’e’s given ’em the slip. Mind you, they don’t sing out about why they’ve come. They bring an escort, or maybe a party of four or six, so they can pair off fer dancin’ an’ the like, but most of the eye-flutterin’ is in Chad’s direction, fer all that!’

  ‘Are they very pretty, those girls?’ Rennie wanted to know, and somehow found that she was almost holding her breath for the answer, just as though it really mattered.

  ‘A proper eyeful, some of ’em,’ Murtie told her with enthusiasm. ‘But none of ’em will ever manage ter crack the stockwhip when Chad’s around, yer can bet on that! ’E treats ’is women like ’e treats them horses ’e breaks in, I reckon, sort of careless-particular. ’E likes ’em with a bit of spirit, an’ ’e enjoys taxin’ them and bringin’ them ter heel, but ’e hasn’t ever picked one out fer keeps, Renata, not yet.’

  The arrogant brute, thought Rennie waspishly. She could just imagine him playing those lovely, hopeful girls fast and loose, stringing them along with that casually charming manner he could adopt, when all the time it was just a game to him. Serve him right if he got his fingers burnt one day, and one of those pretty creatures succeeded in shattering that marble heart of his right into a thousand wounded little pieces!

  Worry began to niggle inside her again. Worry for Magda.

  What if Chad never took a wife, not ever? What if he went on through life, playing around with those lovely girls without ever settling down to marriage at all? That would mean that Magda would only have Elspeth and Nellie and Mayra. No proper mother-figure at all, really, to take the place of the one she had lost, and the one whom Rennie herself had now, in part, become.

  She sighed. It was difficult to know what to do for the best, it really was!

  Just lately Rennie had begun to admit, with silent reluctance, that Magda had blossomed and thriven in this country atmosphere. She had acquired a new poise and self-confidence, evident in the assured way in which she now manipulated the transceiver-set, participated so enthusiastically in the morning programme, laughed and joked with the jackeroos and station hands, shadowing Chad with determined devotion whenever possible, but reverting willingly enough to the company of Elspeth and the others when he wasn’t there.

  The homestead routine was pleasantly varied, interesting enough to keep the child preoccupied, repetitive enough to impart a feeling of security. Each morning, the School of the Air. Each afternoon, correspondence lessons which were sent out in the mail and returned when completed, and which Rennie herself usually supervised in a happy, relaxed atmosphere at one corner of the veranda. In between times, there were heaps of exciting outdoor occupations with Chad—those activities in which Rennie herself had never been invited to share—fishing, swimming, picnicking, bird-watching, and lately, riding a small, quiet chestnut pony which Chad had had brought over, especially for Magda, from one of his other places.

  Rennie felt genuine pangs of jealousy as she watched Chad giving Magda her riding lessons from her unseen vantage point on the lawn beyond the shrubbery.

  Not that Rennie was envious of the lessons. She didn’t need those. It was the riding itself which she coveted!

  Rennie loved horse-riding. She was an accomplished equestrienne, in fact—had ridden to hounds back in England on various occasions, and seldom missed the White City Trials, if she could help it.

  And here she was, having to stand here, forlornly watching her favourite occupation in progress down there at the yards, knowing quite well that she would not be welcomed if she went one step further than this spot on the lawn, from where she had a clear view of Chad’s tall, sunburnt figure, in the tight, faded moleskins, wide hat and dusty boots, putting the small pupil through her paces again and again with patient and characteristic thoroughness.

  He hadn’t invited Rennie. And he wasn’t likely to!

  And even if he had, she had left her hacking-jacket and breeches, her polished boots and hard-topped hat, back there in the flat in London. To Rennie it was as important to look nice as it was to ride correctly—part of her professional pride and training, she supposed—and all she had with her here was a pair of denim jeans, which she had thought might be handy on the beach on a windy day, or for yachting, perhaps, in the inky, sunlit water of Sydney Harbour.

  She sighed once more, as she followed Murtie out of the gloom of the blacksmith’s shop and into the hot sunlight, pulled up short behind him as a figure on horseback came into sight around the side of the distant shearing-shed.

  ‘Look, Murtie! Who can it be?’

  Rennie pointed excitedly. One did not expect to see a complete stranger appear out of nowhere, out here in a lonely and remote place such as Barrindilloo.

  This particular stranger was a girl—a very, very beautiful girl, at that—and she seemed to know exactly where she was going. She couldn’t be a stranger after all, even though Rennie herself had never seen her before.

  Murtie put back his head so that the angle of the brim of his battered felt shaded his eyes from the glare, and squinted at the far-off, approaching rider.

  ‘That’ll be Leith Mindon,’ he told her, chuckling. ‘One o’ them sheilas that’d like ter hobble Chad fer keeps. She’s a good sort, though, Leith. If I was layin’ bets, she’d be odds-on favourite.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rennie, in her turn, screwed up her eyes and viewed the approach of the newcomer with increased interest.

  ‘Her an’ ’er dad’ll be out at the outstation next ter Barrindilloo,’ Murtie vouchsafed. ‘Often, when they’re as near as that, Leith’ll borrow one o’ the spares an’ ride over on the off-chance of havin’ a yarn with Chad. ’Ullo there, Leith! How’s tricks?’

  ‘Not so bad, Murtie. And you?’

  The girl drew her horse to a standstill beside them, and leaned forward to pat the animal’s sweat-roughed neck.

  She was a slim, well-proportioned girl, with short-cropped, deep auburn curls, an entrancingly tilted nose, and attractively spaced eyes a shade darker than Rennie’s own sherry-coloured ones. The curls clustered damply at the nape of her slender neck as she removed the pith helmet with its green fly-veil, and Rennie couldn’t help noticing that the hand which now held the topee against the rider’s knee was small, well-kept, with nicely shaped and manicured nails, adorned with glistening coral-pearl varnish.

  A pretty girl, no doubt about it—and feminine, every inch of her, right down to those shining coral fingertips.

  Leith swung down to the ground in a single gracef
ul movement, and smiled in a friendly way at Rennie.

  ‘You must be the girl who brought Neil’s daughter home from England,’ she said, eyeing Rennie with unconcealed curiosity. ‘I couldn’t resist riding over to have a look at you when I found myself so near. We’ve all been dying to meet you, and to see Magda, too. After all, it takes a pretty earth-shaking event to make Chad postpone his race meeting, and that’s just what he did when he heard you two were arriving round about that time.’

  ‘Funny, we was just talkin’ about that, Renata and me, at the very split second you came around the woolshed, Leith. I was tellin’ Renata it’ll probably be three weeks termorrer. You’ll be there, of course?’

  ‘Of course, Murtie,’ agreed Leith, as though that were a foregone conclusion, which indeed it probably was! ‘And it is to be in three weeks’ time, because Chad called up to tell me so the other evening. Is he about, by any chance?’

  Murtie scratched his chin.

  ‘Reckon you ain’t goin’ ter be in luck today, Leith. I saw Chad ridin’ out around sun-up with ’is tucker-bag and pint-pot aboard. There’s no sayin’ when ’e’ll be back.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, anyway,’ replied Leith equably. ‘It was really Renata and Magda I came over to see. I’ll go up to the homestead and beg some lunch from Elspeth, if you’ll be kind enough to invite me, Renata? Be a dear and take Blinker for me, will you, Murt? He’s a slow old bag of bones, but he was the only spare available this morning.’

  She relinquished her bridle to the waiting Murtie, and turned towards the homestead, and Rennie walked along by her side, reflecting that she and Chad must know and like each other very well, if he went to the bother of calling her up in the evening, when he came in so hot and tired and dusty after a heavy day out on the property.