by Greg McLean
‘What yer smiling at?’
‘Kiwi are ya?’
‘And that’s funny because?’ The man waits for an answer, hands hanging half-clenched now by his side. Mick doesn’t say anything. ‘Well, kud? Ya gonna make a sheep joke?’
‘Um, no.’
Laughter booms from the steps. A big man in a taut chequered shirt that barely contains his gut chuckles at them from the darkness. ‘You’ve heard ’em all before, Cutter. You think our new jackaroo’s brought some new ones for you?’
Cutter looks up, then gives a sidelong grin. ‘Better than listening to the same shut from you every time, ya pruck.’ Mick finally relaxes but as Cutter passes him the smile drops again. ‘Be seeing you, boy,’ he says and walks over to the horse under the tree.
‘Michael, is it?’ the station manager, Blackall, says as Mick shakes his hand.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Here two seconds and already you broke our two rules.’
Mick stares at him.
‘Ya don’t make comment about where a man’s from. You get a blank slate when ya come here. Your colour, your past, none of it matters anymore, ’cause we’re all equals on the station. Even the abbos. Or “ubbos” as Cutter’d say – though only I’m allowed to point that out.’
Mick doesn’t share the smile. ‘And the other one, sir?’
‘Ya don’t touch another man’s fucken horse,’ Cutter calls out, as he mounts the horse in one fluid motion and digs his heels in. The big body of the steed and its rider disappear into the dark.
Blackall claps Mick on the back and nearly knocks him over. ‘Alright then, let’s show you ’round and see who else you can piss off.’
They jump in a banged-up jeep for a quick run-round and though Mick tries to take in the workings of the property and his expected responsibilities, the different paddocks and buildings become a blur.
‘Farm’s been in my family four generations now,’ Blackall tells him. ‘Free settlers who come over with the gold rush in the 1890s. While everyone worked themselves to death down in Kalgoorlie and the lucky few struck it big, me great-grand-pop instead bought farming land on the cheap up here. When the gold towns went bust all that was left was sheep. They say this nation’s built on the back of ’em and I don’t deny it. Wool was at its peak a decade ago and it’s been tough since, but that’ll turn around. It always does. Rest of the world might go to hell – wars overseas, commies trying to spread their influence, protesting bludgers trying to bring down the government – but those are city problems. There’ll always be the land. And the work don’t stop.’
Mick nods, dazed by the scope of the place as they head back towards the buildings.
‘So Old Tommo at the abbo camp vouched for you,’ Blackall says as they slow before the shearing shed. The jeep’s headlights barely penetrate the corral of empty holding pens. Sheep could be hiding in the shadows. ‘He used to be my head shooter, before Cutter that is. Tommo ever tell you that? Good man, for a boong.’ Mick looks away but Blackall doesn’t see. ‘How long you live with the blackies then?’
‘A while.’
Blackall glances at him. ‘It’s alright, son. Heard you had troubles there. Can’t have been easy being the only white fella. Like I said, ya get a blank slate. No one else needs to know.’
Mick nods.
‘Why they took you in’s your own business. You asked to come here. That’s good. All I’m concerned with. Hard work has a way of focusing a man, gives him structure.’
‘That’s the idea.’
Blackall smiles. ‘Abbo reserve’s no way to find your place in the world, right? Boongs just want to drink all day and fight. Well, we’ll put you on the straight and narrow. Or you’ll die trying.’ He laughs at Mick’s reaction. ‘Just yanking ya. Shit, son. You have been sheltered. The boys’ll have fun with you. Don’t take any crap’s my advice. If we can’t give you direction here, no one can.’ There’s movement at the homestead on the hill above and Blackall checks his watch. ‘Looks like they’re in. Timed it well for dinner.’
A pack of station hands trot down to the stables, laughing and wiping their brows after the day’s work. Their silhouettes look monstrous against the sky, like half-men, half-horses. When the jeep pulls alongside, one saunters over. ‘This the other freshie?’ the man says, looking Mick over. ‘Skinny bugger.’
‘All yours, Cunningham,’ Blackall says. ‘The station overseer,’ he explains to Mick. ‘Your new boss. Now, get outta my jeep. The missus’ll be expecting me.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Mick says and grabs his bag.
‘“Sir.” See, Cunningham? That’s respect for you. Think this one’ll do well.’
The overseer’s still looking sceptically at Mick’s thin arms and legs. ‘Oh, we respect you, ya fat bastard,’ the man says to Blackall. ‘We just don’t say it outright.’
Blackall laughs and claps Mick on the back, jolting him out of the jeep. Which was maybe his aim. He’s left with his bag in the dirt and Cunningham looking down at him.
‘You’re in late, jack. Expected you to be this morning.’
‘The train didn’t arrive —’
‘Now that you are here you can muck out the stables, then have dinner. How’s that sound?’ It’s not a question. Mick nods. ‘Nothing’s free in this life, jack.’
The other men laugh as they stable their horses and leave him ankle deep in shit, gagging at the smell as he shovels. Then when he tromps into the mess hall halfway through dinner they rail at his stink and yell at him to wash again. He comes back in later angry and shamefaced, but at least he’s now accepted into the group and every man shakes his hand in a blur of faces and names.
‘Tall fella, aren’t ya?’ one of the men says, a young Aboriginal stockman called Mercer. ‘So, know how to play 500, bruther? Ya got any money?’ He frowns when Mick shakes his head. ‘You just have to watch tonight, then. Wait till you get paid. Then I take it.’
And Mick sits and laughs and listens to the stories of the men of the station, and so begins his first night in the world.
The first couple of weeks are much the same as the muckraking of the stables: he and the other new jackaroo Opey racing around performing whichever low-heeled task Cunningham gives them, whether it’s mustering the sheep in never-ending cycles from paddock to paddock, or the mind-numbing tasks of drafting wethers from ewes, or tagging or inoculating, or holding the sheep for castrating. Mercer even has them watch once while he slaughters a sheep for the week’s food – as they’ll be required to do it when it’s their turn – and Mick stands watching, heart thumping.
He does as best he can at the physical jobs, but his malnourished legs, still recovering even now from the polio so many years ago, occasionally betray him and a sheep gets past, or he suddenly collapses to his knees beneath the strain of a grain sack. He tries to hide it but a couple of times Cunningham or one of the station hands notice and look at him with the same eye they pass over the herd, weeding out the weak.
Still, after a few weeks he’s allowed his own horse – a small chestnut mare that tries to buck him until he clamps his spurs to its ribcage and it finally settles, whinnying in defeat – and he feels the freedom of racing on its thick back over the uneven ground of the sloping paddocks, just as he had at the camp. The horse is sure-footed and confident, but Opey’s is a little clumsier, finding every rabbit hole and stump it can, nearly laming itself and its rider every time. Not that Opey seems to mind, wearing a dumb grin whenever he’s on its back.
There’s something likeable about the other trainee station hand, who’d arrived from another local farm. His open, trusting face is like a child’s. Not the smartest kangaroo in the park, but he tries hard.
The other workers at the station are older, comfortable in their skins and jobs and abilities, a world above the young jackaroos. Mick doesn’t understand most of their jokes and just smiles and laughs when they do. Sometimes they catch him out. But he keeps turning up night after night, doing his b
est to follow the conversation, even cracking a funny himself when he can, and after a while they go easier on him.
He’s soon given his own station knife, too, and that’s when he really feels accepted: a thin utility blade with the station’s brand on it and his own initials – MT – notched into the handle. He can feel the grooves when he holds it in his hand and a swell of pride overtakes him. He carries it everywhere.
Even better, he only sees Cutter’s hunched back at dinner those first weeks – when the man’s even there, that is, and not out riding the boundaries – sitting with Cunningham and the senior stockmen on the far table. The closest Mick comes to running into him is early one morning when he gets up and sees Cutter crossing the dawn sky to the stables on his way to cull the roos down the south end. Barely realising he’s doing it, Mick hangs back in his quarters until Cutter’s saddled his horse and left. Bustling out, Opey nearly bumps into him. ‘Too cold for you outside, precious?’ he says, pushing Mick out into the chill.
‘Just getting used to fresh air again, after a night of your farting.’
The other jackaroo frowns. ‘It’s Friar’s stew. I don’t know what the hell he puts in it.’
‘Fucken manure, by the smell of it.’
‘Tastes a bit like that too,’ Opey says, and they both grin.
Things go well for a while and there’s none of the problems Mick had back at the camp. Even his legs start getting stronger with the exercise. When the end of the first month rolls around he gets his first pay and there’s talk of heading to town and its big pub. He hangs back, securing the horses on the off-chance the convoy of cars might leave without him. As if he’d be that lucky. Since when’d lady luck ever been on his side? The bitch.
When he gets back to the jackaroos’ quarters he finds that Opey’s taken first bath, but as Mick’s walking down the corridor he can see the bathroom door ajar, shadows breaking against the wall. The sound of voices.
‘Gimme the docker.’ It’s the station’s rabbiter, Jock, a lean ferret of a man, eyes like sunken pits. When out mustering, Mick’d often see him with his back against a tree, rolling a cigarette, never looking up let alone returning a wave. There were two groups amongst the station hands: those Mick stayed up with playing 500 – Mercer and Simpson and the others – and then Jock and his mob who’d head off to Cunningham’s bungalow near the shearing sheds and drink contraband alcohol. Mick steered clear of that lot: didn’t need the trouble, not this fucken early.
Apart from a few barbs Jock and his boys usually ignored the jackaroos.
As he rounds the doorway Mick sees something in Jock’s hands as he bends over: one of those sheep elastrators, with rusted forceps. The green elastic ring stretches as he pulls the handles together.
‘Balls or cock?’ someone asks: the station’s mechanic, Pete, with his rotting grinning teeth, another of Jock’s mob. And then one of the big backs crowding the room moves aside and Mick sees Opey naked and white and wet, floundering on the floor, trying to kick clear of the circle of men holding him down.
‘Sheep’s revenge, Opium,’ Jock says in the boy’s face. ‘Payback. Which one you think you can do without?’ He lowers the tool and releases it, making Opey yelp.
‘Oi,’ Mick says. ‘What the fuck you doing?’
Rodge, the station’s dozer driver, holds Opey’s fat legs as the boy’s ringed genitals flop like wet fruit. The huge man looks up and narrows his eyes. His shoulders are vast, forearms like bricks, and he’s holding the struggling jackaroo down with no effort. ‘Your first payday too, isn’t it, jack?’ he says, and lets Opey go and comes at him.
Mick steps back, instinctively reaches for the knife in the small of his back. Rodge engulfs him in his vice grip. ‘Fucken pull a pig-stick on me, boy?’ he growls and slams him on the hard tiles beside Opey. Mick whoomps air then kicks out.
‘Get the fuck away from me!’ he manages, before Jock whirls onto him and clamps a shit and dirt-crusted hand over his mouth. Pete lets Opey scuttle away and grabs Mick’s arms.
Mick manages to loosen a hand and strikes out wildly. It’s like hitting slabs of meat. The men laugh and pin him down again. The stone floor pushes cold through him. His heart thuds up out his throat.
‘Kid’s a fighter,’ Pete says. ‘Have to keep an eye on him.’
Jock gets in Mick’s face. ‘Maybe this’ll bring him inta line.’ He holds the elastrator up. ‘Get his pants, Rodge.’
Hefty hands yank his trousers down. Cold air on him. Then the steel lowers and Mick surges up at him, against the hold, eyes blazing with such hate and defiance that Jock momentarily falters. Then he grins and leans in close.
‘Nah, cool off Jock.’ Rodge laughs. ‘Reckon he’ll be needing his workings tonight. With the girlies at the pub.’
Jock pauses, fetid breath in Mick’s face. ‘Reckon you’re right, Rodge the Dodge. First payday, boys. You know what that means?’
Mick kicks free and pulls his pants up, tucking himself away. His balls have shrivelled up inside him.
The men stand around grinning. ‘Just a bit a’ foreplay.’ Jock smiles at him. ‘You’ll see. Makes you value what you got. Now finish your bath and get into your cleans. Then we’ll make men of you.’ Laughing, they start to clear the room.
‘You like looking at our bits so much maybe you should scrub us, Jock,’ Mick says from the floor and looks up at him square.
The rabbiter stares at him from the doorway. Mick doesn’t waver, though his balls are still hiding in his gut.
‘You watch yourself, kid,’ Rodge says. ‘Or we will take ’em.’
Jock just barks a laugh, shakes his head. ‘You got a tongue on ya, don’t ya, ya little smartarse?’ he says. ‘Maybe I should dock that next time.’ He snips his fingers across his lips and heads off down the hall with the others. Their voices fade like a passing storm.
‘Shit, Mick,’ Opey’s saying, staring down at himself. ‘Shit.’
Mick pulls out the knife and kneels beside him. Just as well farm life’s got him used to the sight. He snips the ring around Opey’s sack and the sorry bloke grabs a towel to cover himself as Mick stands, a little unsteady. ‘Cunts. They coulda least have put you back in the bath.’
‘What the fuck was that about – foreplay?’ Opey asks, breathing hard with fear and draining adrenaline. ‘We gotta go to Blackall.’
Mick kicks him in the leg. ‘Don’t be a woman. Finish your bath and go to dinner like nothing happened. Never show these bastards anything. Never show anyone anything.’
‘Thanks, Micky,’ Opey says and hauls his fat arse up. Mick cops another display of the boy’s hairy lowhangers between his legs.
‘Christ, maybe they shoulda finished the job,’ he says, turning from the spectacle. ‘Like the fucken Herefords out in the paddock. Will you put those away?’ He heads back to his cot to sit down, wincing at the pain in his legs. Wonders if his own babymakers will ever trust him again.
At dinner Mick can sense Jock and his boys grinning at them, but he just sits at the long table and fills his bowl. Opey does the same though he concentrates hard not to spill anything with his trembling hands. Soon the smiles fade and the rabbiter loses interest. ‘See?’ Mick says quietly. ‘Don’t give ’em the satisfaction.’ Opey nods.
Jock goes back to feeding bits of steak to his prized rabbiting dog, Bullet – a sleek greyhound fixed to his side every chance it gets – and soon forgets about the prank. But Mick stares throughout the meal, eyes boring into the rabbiter’s scrawny back. Then he realises what he’s doing and glances around to make sure no one’s seen.
Cutter’s watching him from the far table. Mick looks away.
As the others head out to the cars Mick gets up and follows as casually as he can. Maybe he imagines it, but when he steals a glance back as he ducks through the door, Cutter’s still locked onto him. Like Mick’s a target in his scope.
In the back seat of the last car, Friar, the station’s cook, hands him a beer. ‘Git some a’ this up
ya,’ he says. There might be no drinking on the station, but evidently once off it’s hell for leather. Mick stares at the bottle. He’d done his best to avoid it in the camp, but the others are watching and he has no choice. He chokes as they take off into the night.
The cook’s gut overspills onto Mick’s leg. The fat bugger smells of sweat even showered and shaved. Mick can feel his own shirt sticking to his back. Opey’s not much smaller than the cook – Baitlayer Tuck, some of them call him – and it’s like being sandwiched between two mounds of yeasting dough.
‘Nearly had us some prairie oysters tonight, I hear,’ Mercer shouts from the front over the roar of the engine. His oversized teeth catch the light of the dashboard.
‘What’s that?’ Mick asks.
‘Yer balls, boy,’ Simpson, another station hand, laughs and hits the steering wheel. The car lurches in the dirt. ‘Or you forgotten already?’
‘Coulda cooked up a nice stew,’ Friar says. ‘Though wouldn’t a’ gone as far as ram balls there, I’m guessin’.’ He nods over at Opey. The jackaroo takes a swig of beer to hide his reddening cheeks.
‘So, all ready?’ Simpson says.
‘For what?’ Opey asks and the men in the front laugh and change the subject.
They head west through Nildon towards Wills, sitting smack bang on the Goldfields Highway itself, while Simpson tells them about these two sisters who used to work at the pub near his old station. He rooted one right after the other and they’d gone after him with broken bottles when they found out. Mick laughs, but then the town’s lights crop up out of the darkness ahead and his tension returns.
They head for a large pumping Victorian with drinkers lining the open windows and cars clumped outside – the Great Northern – and slow at the sight of a police car stationed across the road to catch anyone drinking out on the street. Mercer sees Mick’s apprehension and mistakes it. ‘Fucken snufflers,’ he says. ‘Wallopers’re always looking for easy pickings. You’re eighteen, right, big fella? Certainly pass for it.’
Mick nods but is more concerned with the nightmare faces baying with laughter in the windows of the pub, and as the others get out he sits nursing the bottle between his legs.