On the way home, she barely took in the beauty of the land from the air. The rocky red ridges, the deep channels carved by the wet, the swathes of outback scrub and the tiny marks of humanity in the form of fences, windmills, water troughs and roads. All she saw was the image of Elsie and Jake, until it was supplanted by the memory of Dwaine’s red-raw ugly penis being shoved in her face when she was just a little girl.
Tara gulped back tears. Did Elsie really know what she was doing to herself? Tara knew that men who used women stole fragments of a girl’s spirit, and she knew it would be a long journey through life before those fragments could be called back. Elsie had chosen the hard path.
Thirty-five
Tara stood in her bra and undies, looking in her cupboard for something to wear.
‘Old Mother Hubbard. What to do?’ she said, glancing down to Marbles, who lay farting and feathering the smell through the air with his happy tail, gazing up at her through opaque eyes. He was glad to be let out of the dog runs on Tara’s return from the cleanskin camp and was making the most of the air conditioning. Tara looked back to the empty wire coat hangers. She couldn’t go to see Mrs Cloudhead in her dusty, stinky, stand-up-by-themselves jeans. Her other ‘good’ pair were now so huge on her she looked like she had an elephant’s arse, all saggy and baggy. Twitching her nose in thought, she opened up Elsie’s narrow cupboard. Elsie and Gracie had done a little internet shopping last week, which had given Tara the idea for the guitar. Elsie’s cupboard, after she’d used up her entire pay cheque, now had more clothes than it could handle.
‘Too small, too small, too small,’ Tara said as she flicked through the clothes on the hangers. Eventually she found a blue-and-white-striped singlet-style stretchy maxi dress. ‘What the heck?’ she said. She dragged the dress from the hanger and slipped it over her head, tugging it down over her curves. She giggled at herself in the mirror. On Elsie the stripes ran straight around her body. On Tara they wavered and curved up and over and around all her jiggly bits. The low-cut V revealed the long line between her breasts. She bent forwards in the mirror.
‘Hello, ladies,’ she said to her bosoms. She tugged the dress up, then brushed out her long deep red and golden curls, rummaging her fingers through them. She did a take-the-piss pout to herself. It would have to do. Then she slipped on her thongs, stepped onto the verandah, slamming the screen door of her bedroom, and breathed in the fragrance of the softening day. It was heaven out here this evening.
‘Stay,’ she said to Marbles and then giggled. He’d fallen asleep. Poor blind, deaf old dog. She skipped down the steps and made a beeline for the back gate of the big boss’s homestead, out of bounds for ringers like her unless expressly invited.
Through the glass sliding door, Tara could see Skye Simpson sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. She had hair like Sarah Jones — a neat conservative blonde bob — and she was wearing a burnt-orange linen dress and a short string of big chunky pearls around her neck, with a matching bracelet. When she glanced up on Tara’s gentle knock, she revealed pink cheeks and bright blue eyes framed by lashings of mascara. In front of her were paint and fabric swatches and a scattering of home design magazines. Skye gestured to Tara to come in.
The house was heading back to its original state of chaos now she and Angus were home. Angus was on the couch, watching some god-awful violent cartoon that shattered the house with energetic turmoil. He was surrounded by chip packets and half-empty glasses of cordial along with his cricket bat and more tennis balls than the Australian Open warm-up. With a lovely smile and sliding over in her little black flats, Skye reached up to give Tara a hug.
‘Oh, Tara! It is Tara, isn’t it?’ she asked.
Tara nodded.
‘I can’t thank you enough. The changes you made to the house while I was away were amazing. I’m so grateful. I was dreading coming home. But you. You made it easier.’ She kept hold of Tara’s hand. ‘Angus, honey,’ she yelled over her shoulder, ‘turn it down! Turn it down and come meet Tara!’
‘Is she another newbie?’ the young boy asked, not glancing up from the television.
Tara looked at the boy. Something within her fired. A memory from her childhood seared through her system. Of the adults ignoring her because of that ugly violent betraying lying screen that flashed disturbing messages night and day into her home. Her mother had been transfixed by it. Some days Tara believed it was TV that had killed her and kept them poor. She walked over to the lounge area, picked up the remote from the floor, and turned off the TV. The silence and stillness enveloped the room and shocked the boy from his rudeness. He turned to look at Tara with his wide green eyes. She stared back at him.
‘Hello, Angus. I’m Tara.’
‘H-hello,’ he stammered.
Tara winked at Skye. ‘See this tub?’ she asked, picking up a red toy bucket. ‘I’m going to put it over here and you’re going to see how many of your tennis balls you can get in it. I’ve been given the job of helping your mum get this house all nice for Christmas and for when you leave for boarding school. So part of my job is to give you a job. So quick sticks.’
‘I’m not a little kid. I’m in Grade Seven next year.’
‘I know. You’re a young man. That’s why you are starting to help your mighty fine mum. Because . . .’ she picked up a tennis ball and lobbed it into the bucket ‘. . . you are so . . .’ she lobbed another ball in the bucket ‘. . . grown . . .’ another ball ‘. . . up. Tara three. Angus . . . nil.’ She turned her back and smiled at Skye.
The boy was on his feet, grabbing up a ball. He threw and missed.
Tara swung about, cocked an eyebrow and passed him a ball. ‘Here, have another go.’
‘Yessss,’ he said and pumped the air when the ball landed in its target. He continued.
She went over to Skye, who was standing in the kitchen looking as dumbfounded as if Nanny McPhee had just arrived in her house.
‘How on earth did you learn to handle children like that?’ Skye rasped in a whisper so Angus wouldn’t hear.
‘I read a book about it once,’ Tara said. ‘Now . . . colours. Let’s see.’ She picked up the paint charts and tossed them away. ‘You don’t want them. Least not to start. Let’s start with a clean slate of nice warm creams on your walls.’
It took Tara less than an hour to find out what Skye Simpson liked best of all. She liked: the colours blue, purple and green; soft cushions; horses; leafy plants; Mexican-style gardens and living areas; sweet potatoes; rocks; ice blocks with flowers in them; and Rod Stewart. As Skye spoke about wonderful things she hadn’t even thought about in years, Tara had mapped out the entire house in terms of decorative colour schemes. She then wrote down all of the family’s birthdays and worked out their ideal sleeping positions, guided by their feng shui energetics.
‘Luckily for you, Mr Simpson is an earth sign too so you can both face east for sleep. It’ll be easy to do in that space once we drag the bed around. You’ll notice the change in your energy levels and sleep patterns right away. I promise you. Angus’s health and behaviour will improve too. His bed position was way wrong!’
‘Tara — you’re amazing. Where on earth did you learn about feng shui so comprehensively? And what are you doing here?’ She said here, as if Goldsborough was the ends of the earth.
Tara chose very early to be like Gwinnie Smith, and not her own mother . . . always reading, always enquiring, always creating, always finding the best of a situation. Books had arrived in front of her like stepping stones. Each precious one had gradually and slowly extended her path forwards. Sometimes it would take a long time for the next stone of information to be discovered and laid, but as the months and years passed, Tara at last felt she was on her way — particularly at a moment such as this, when all her skills were coming together. She was enjoying seeing Mrs Simpson, who really was a nice woman, begin to find relief.
Tara smiled at her. ‘Let’s just say I had a lot of dark energy to dispel in my home,’ sh
e said. ‘I studied feng shui night and day and made the house what I could so that my human luck would change.’
‘And did it?’ Skye asked.
‘I think today it just did,’ she said, smiling at Skye. ‘Thank you so much for giving me this opportunity.’
After the initial cleaning and furniture moving, Skye invited Tara to stay for dinner. Mrs B had flown out that afternoon with Gracie so it was ‘help yourself in the kitchen’ anyway. Tara was glad to stay. Not only was the bedroom at the quarters lonely without Elsie, she also couldn’t leave Marbles in for company as his farts stank as bad as Culvert when the wind blew a northeasterly.
At the homestead Tara and Skye had taken ‘before photos’ of Angus grinning with his swirl of mess around him. Then they had gone into each room to record the former chaos. Three hours later they had taken ‘after shots’ of the rooms once Tara had rearranged furniture, coordinated bedding and cushions, and placed ornaments. Skye was already uploading the transformation photos to the computer.
‘Once it’s painted, it’ll look even better,’ Skye said joyfully as she pressed send on an email to her cluster of friends. ‘Michael will be happy too. There’re only a few inexpensive items on the list to get.’
The table was set, a small vase at its centre filled with soft curving gum leaves and white blossoms that looked like ballerina skirts, when Mr Simpson kicked off his boots and came through the door.
‘Wow!’ he said when he surveyed the room. Before he could wash the dust from himself, Angus was dragging his dad by the arm for a house tour.
When they both came back into the family room, Michael Simpson was beaming.
‘She’s a genius, Michael,’ Skye said, going over to him and kissing him on the cheek. ‘Thank you for lending her to me. Can I keep her?’
‘She’s not a stray puppy,’ he said, still smiling, ‘but she is a genius. Tara, what you’ve done is amazing.’
‘They don’t call me a cleaning cowgirl for nothing,’ she said with a grin. ‘And to be honest, I am actually a bit of a stray. Just ask anyone in Culvert.’
‘Let’s open some champagne,’ Skye said elatedly.
During dinner, Tara joined in on the conversation. At the abattoir house they’d never sat at a table for dinner, but she’d learned manners from books. She drew some lively and funny conversation out of Angus, which his parents could hardly believe, so that soon they were all laughing as they ate their simple but comforting meal of marinated station steak and salad. She felt so relaxed with the nice, if slightly uptight, couple and their spoiled only child that it was after ten before they cleared the dessert plates away.
‘Gosh, Angus, it is way, way past your bedtime!’
‘Muuum!’
‘Yes!’ Michael said. ‘And I’m meant to be up again in the middle of the night to help Crack unload the cleanskins when he gets back to camp.’
Tara’s eyes widened. She’d got so engrossed with ‘fenging’ the homestead that she’d forgotten the huge day she’d had.
‘I’ll get up! I’ll help!’ she said. ‘In fact, why don’t you stay in bed? I’ll take the two-way to my room.’
‘It’s fine, Tara,’ Simmo said.
Skye turned to her husband. ‘Oh, stay in bed, darling. Tara wants us to try the new position.’
Michael looked at her, shocked. She sniggered.
‘She’s talking about the bed,’ Tara said, giggling too.
Michael reached for his wife’s hand. ‘These are the wild cleanskins coming in,’ he said. ‘The cattle will be stirry, and it’s a particularly dark night.’ He pursed his lips.
‘It’s as simple as backing the truck up to the ramp, sliding the gate and letting them down into the yard,’ Tara said. ‘I’ll be fine!’ She wanted to mention she’d had experience with unloading stock many, many times for Dwaine at the abattoir house, but she didn’t want to bring that part of her life into the conversation now. Today represented a whole new phase for her: at last, she felt free of Culvert and the misery of her childhood. Today was the start of a new chapter.
‘OK, Tara,’ Simmo said. ‘Go for your life.’
Thirty-six
It felt as if Tara’s head had barely hit the pillow when the two-way radio beside the bed crackled to life. She glanced at the clock. It was almost one o’clock in the morning.
‘Goldsborough Base, you got a copy?’ came the static sound of Gordon’s voice.
‘Yes, Crack,’ Tara said into the receiver, ‘Goldsborough Base receiving.’
Today on the muster it had been the first time she’d used a walkie-talkie and she felt like she was in a movie. She wanted to be silly with the thing, but she knew it was an important tool on the station and the staff used it with the utmost respect, except for the occasional amusing dig at someone. It took all her willpower not to muck about with Crack now. He’d be tired. The last thing he needed was a cheeky young ringer mucking about.
‘String Bean? That you? Over.’
‘Yes, sir. Boss Simmo said I’m your midnight ringer.’ She paused, then added, ‘Over,’ grinning at herself for using radio lingo.
‘I’m at the two-mile gate just getting onto Watson’s track. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. These little beasties are doing a merry dance in the back. Think one might be down. Over.’
‘OK. See you over at the yards. Over,’ she said. For the first time in her life she felt she was truly on the path. She’d had plenty of experience unloading crazy dangerous animals at the abattoir house so it was another chance to show Gordon she was good at things. She straddled Marbles, who she’d felt too guilty moving so had left him sleeping between Elsie’s and her beds, and hastily dressed, shoving her hair up in a ponytail. She thought of Amos briefly, wondering if he had got her letter. There’d been nothing back from him in the mail. Maybe he wasn’t the type to move anything forwards with her, not without Zac and Elsie to make it a party of four. She flicked on the verandah light, went into the rec room to find a torch, then made her way to the yards. Maybe Elsie was right? Was she too young to be fixated on just one man?
The night was chilly and incredibly still. Tara could hear the rattle and the rumble of the stock truck and see the lights sweeping the landscape. Soon Crack was reversing the rig to the loading ramp, with Tara’s guidance, standing in a place so he could see her in the side mirrors, making hand signals under the light of her torch.
Crack smiled at her skill. She’d obviously done that before. He’d had many a ringer just stand there, or flap their hands, not knowing how to guide a truck backwards or a vehicle onto a tow ball. Tara was an old hand, he could tell. He felt the gentle bump of the crate against the big rubber-coated loading ramp uprights, then he killed the engine.
He got out of the truck, bringing with him a length of poly pipe, and, bandy-legged, strode towards Tara with a grin on his face. She was shining the torch up under her eyes, saying, ‘I come in peace,’ in a spooky voice. ‘Take me to your leader.’
He gave her a friendly shove. Tara had already set the yard gates up, and Michael had earlier put a bale in the feeder, so it was a simple matter of lifting the steel pin, drawing back the big sliding doors and waiting for one of the animals in the truck to step off, setting in motion a flow of cattle. The first cow came cautiously, snorting hot breath from her nose, staring blindly at the small dark gap between the ramp and the truck, then she stepped and rattled down the ramp, casting her head low, every sense in her on fire. The rest came rushing and clattering through the door, bumping and bunting, Crack doing his best to slow their push and speed by waving his poly pipe in front of their noses through gaps in the rail. Tara shone her torch through the lower railing of the truck; the smell of fresh dung was pungent. The bulls’ impressive horns caught the light like clashing swords.
When all of the moving beasts had spilled from the truck, Tara could see one remained. A cow was down. She was in poor condition, and judging from the way she was covered in manure, lying on her side, heaving with
breath but not making an effort to get up, she was a goner. Good for nothing but the dogs. Poor old girl.
For a moment Tara was transported back to the grimness of the abattoir, where animals not as fortunate as these had been handled all their lives by coarse rough men with no place in their hearts for their charges. Since she’d been on Goldsborough she’d seen how Crack came down like a tonne of bricks on anyone who didn’t handle an animal with the utmost understanding and care. The wild cattle were different, of course, dangerous, but even so the crew had to be respectful and kind to them with Crack as a leader.
‘There is one down, Crack,’ she said.
‘Thought she was too weak to truck, but I wanted to give her a chance. Sorry, darlin’,’ he said as he saw the black dull eye of the cow in the beam of Tara’s torch. He rolled a gate shut on the rest of the herd, now safely in the yard, and hauled himself up into the cab, grabbing the rifle and filling the five-shot magazine.
‘You OK with this? You don’t mind holding a light for me?’ he asked Tara.
‘Seen it a thousand times. No one sheltered me from it when I was little. I just send them away with a blessing. It’s all we can ever do.’
Crack looked at her in the darkness, her face illuminated only by a sliver of moonlight and the glow of the torch. There was something so deep about this girl, so old, worldly and wise that she took his breath away sometimes.
‘I don’t want you comin’ in with me,’ Crack said as he entered the loading ramp and went to the back of the truck. ‘She could be faking it a bit and take to you, so climb up and shine the torch down, there’s a good lass.’
Good lass. His praise rang in her ears and her young heart fluttered as she hauled herself up the side of the truck. Holding onto the cross railing, Tara shone the torch down on the head of the beast. She heard the safety switch click. Gordon muttered a few gentle words to the cow. She didn’t move at all when he put the gun to her head and pulled the trigger. Three shots rang out in the night. Just to be sure.
Cleanskin Cowgirls Page 23