by Tony Parsons
There were a lot of spectators watching the practice session because the word had got around that a Sydney first-grader, and a fast bowler to boot, would be taking part. The crowd included ex-team members, schoolboys and cricket fans. Wally was telling all and sundry that Rod was belittling the team by merely rolling his arm over and that Jim was playing up to him by missing easy balls.
‘That’s rubbish,’ Don said angrily. ‘Jim was being beaten for pace. Rod doesn’t have anything to prove. He didn’t ask to come and join us. Anyway, you wouldn’t expect someone who hadn’t played for a while to bowl too fast first-up.’
Osborne was having none of that. ‘For the last four weeks, all I’ve heard is what a great sportsman Rod was. But he never went on and proved it, did he? He chickened out.
He’s got a lot to prove to me. I’d like to bat next, Don. Let Cameron bowl to me,’ he said with a smirk.
‘All right, Wally, go and have a dig,’ Don said with resignation.
Rod watched as Wally replaced Jim at the batting crease. He bowled him a straight-up-and-down ball at medium pace and Wally belted it halfway down the ground. It was a good clean hit and Rod nodded again in appreciation. His suspicion that Osborne was out to show him up was confirmed by the comment that carried from the batsman back to where Rod was standing at the bowling crease – ‘Condescending bastard. I’ll give him roll his arm over.’
Rod took the ball, looked down the pitch at Wally and then walked back and measured out a run that was about ten yards longer than where he’d been bowling from. He took a small piece of white plastic from a trouser pocket and dropped it on the ground to mark his run. The chatter around the ground dropped to a whisper and then ceased altogether as Rod turned and faced down the wicket.
Rod took a couple of short steps and then came gliding in. The pace of his run accelerated as he neared the bowling crease. His first ball was past Wally before he’d lifted his bat. Rod’s next ball jumped and hit him on the top of his left thigh, which hurt like hell. The next cannonball jammed his finger against the handle of his bat and caused him so much distress that he dropped the bat and reeled away from the crease. After a few moments, he recovered and picked up his bat, but the pain in his finger was so great that he had difficulty holding it firmly. Eventually he took block, with rage coursing through him and a determination to thrash the next ball, no matter what.
Down at his bowling mark Rod stood calmly waiting for Wally to resume his position. His run-in off the longer mark was nothing like he had shown while bowling to Jim. It was fast, balanced and full of menace. Rod’s next delivery reared up and went screaming past Wally’s head. The following delivery knocked two stumps out of the ground and drove one of them as far as the fence that surrounded the oval.
It was clear to everyone that Wally was out of his class. Wally knew it too. He had never faced a bowler of such pace and he was now afraid of what could happen to him if he stayed out on the wicket. Blood was seeping from his batting glove so he had a good excuse to give it away. ‘This pitch is too rough to handle fast bowling. In fact, it’s bloody dangerous. I’ll have to get my finger looked at,’ he growled as he walked off.
‘You complained when Rod bowled medium pacers and now you’re complaining because he’s been too fast for you to handle. There’s no satisfying you, Wally. Go and have that finger attended to,’ Don Steele said. If it had been any other member of the team, he would have asked someone to go with him but he didn’t feel like doing that for Wally. Don realised it was uncharitable of him, but Wally was being a pain in the neck and he deserved what he’d got.
Wally vacated the scene quickly and by a circuitous route that allowed him to give Rod a wide berth. As soon as he’d left the ground, conversation resumed again. ‘You’d think it was Lindwall bowling. Crikey, his action is Lindwall’s to a tee,’ David Parmenter whispered to Jim.
‘Rod told me he’s a has-been,’ Jim said. ‘I couldn’t play him off a short run when he was only fooling about so no wonder Wally had trouble when he bowled off his long run. And cricket was supposed to be Rod’s second sport!’
‘Why did Wally have to open his big mouth and make a fool of himself?’ David asked of nobody in particular.
Wally was seething inwardly as he walked off the ground, looking at the men gathered around Rod, thanking him for practising with them. He had boasted about what he’d do to Cameron’s bowling and he’d been made to eat his words. Yet, even in his rage, he was cricketer enough to acknowledge Cameron’s ability. ‘Christ, but couldn’t the mongrel bowl,’ he muttered to himself. Wally’s love of cricket – perhaps the only thing he really loved – allowed him to pay grudging admiration to the only bowler who had ever really frightened him.
After he had visited the Mudgee District Hospital to have his finger stitched up, Wally stopped at the pub for a bottle of whisky and then headed for the home of the young widow who needed money enough to cater for his special needs. When Wally left her, she was sore and sorry but two hundred dollars better off. She wondered, and not for the first time, if it was worth it, but she couldn’t earn that kind of money doing anything else. And Wally’s wife had gained herself a reprieve this time.
The next morning Rod had a wool pack, the first wool of the two-bale line, in the press when Dan walked into the shed.
‘I heard you had a brush with Wally yesterday,’ Dan said without preamble.
‘You could say that,’ Rod replied curtly. He didn’t want to talk about what had happened.
Dan tamped his pipe and looked at his big classer. ‘Jim reckons you’re still pretty good. Pretty fast, I mean. Too fast for Wally,’ he said with a chuckle.
‘If I’d known Osborne was going to be there, I wouldn’t have gone,’ Rod said. He’d had a bad feeling about the fellow from the moment he set eyes on him. Perhaps it was because he had trained himself to be a keen observer of people. It was an essential skill for a writer.
‘Yeah, well… I don’t know about Wally. I thought he was all right but occasionally I have my doubts,’ Dan admitted.
‘Let’s forget it, Dan. Let’s get this first bale pressed and then I’ll work on finishing the second,’ Rod said. ‘I reckon it should go about two hundred and five pounds. You can brand it Extra Superfine E.’
Dan was impressed by Rod’s precision; the bale weighed in at two hundred and six pounds.
When the second bale was finished, Jim also came down to look at it. ‘I can’t find a single off-type staple here. This is absolutely amazing! These two bales are the best I’ve ever seen here in the Mattai shed.’
If Rod was flattered, he didn’t show it. ‘Now you’ve got seven bales to take to Sydney, Jim,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Put a tarp over them so they don’t draw any moisture here or on the trip. It can rain inches while you’re driving from one side of Sydney to the other. We don’t want to risk this wool getting damp.’ His work at Mattai was finished.
‘Will you come up to the house when you’re ready, Rod?’ Dan said. ‘I’ll fix you up with your money. I suppose you want to get away this afternoon?’
‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to wait and leave early tomorrow morning. I never fancy driving into Sydney towards evening. I can stay in town tonight if it’s too much trouble,’ Rod said, hoping that the real reason he wanted to stay the extra night was not obvious to the men.
‘That’s okay with me. Please have dinner with us and stay the night,’ Dan offered graciously. ‘We’re certainly in no hurry to see you go. You did a great job, Rod. I couldn’t fault you. We’ll see you tonight.’
‘I think Beth wants to show me her dogs. She left some sheep in the yards,’ Rod said.
Dan laughed. ‘I knew you wouldn’t get away without Beth showing you her dogs. They’re great station dogs. They’ll go all day in the paddock and still want to help you draft in the evening. Anyway, thanks again.’
As Rod walked up the track to the cottage, he saw Beth riding towards the shed. She had taken th
e last shorn mob away and was now keen to show Rod what her dogs could do. Rod admired the way Beth sat a horse – she seemed part of it. He smiled up at her before she dismounted and she gazed back at him a little shyly from beneath her wide-brimmed grey stetson. The hat had seen better days but looked just right on Beth.
‘Bring on them dawgs,’ Rod said, affecting his best bushman’s accent.
‘You don’t have to look at them, Rod.’
‘I know that but I really want to. I’ve seen heaps of sheepdogs in my travels and heard lots of yarns about them. Even wrote down some of them. And speaking of kelpies, which I know you will be, the story of their origin is really fascinating. I’ve often thought I’d like to write a novel about it. It’s amazing that kelpies materialised, so to speak, at exactly the time when we – I mean Australian woolgrowers – needed them, when the old shepherding system was being phased out and sheep were being released into huge paddocks enclosed by wire fences.’
‘Crikey, you aren’t just a burly woolclasser,’ Beth said mischievously.
Rod wagged a finger at her teasingly. ‘Now, now, Miss Stafford, when you’ve travelled about the bush as much as I have, you’ll realise how many stories and lies have been told about sheepdogs. And I don’t go about with my ears blocked. My main beef is that most stock dogs don’t get looked after very well.’
‘I know; it’s really terrible. You must have seen a lot of dogs in your travels. Well, I’ve got kelpies and Jim’s dogs are a cross of kelpie and border collie. I like the kelpies because they’re so willing and so good everywhere. The border collie is a bit easier to teach for trial work but I wouldn’t swap my kelpies for borders. No way. This older dog is Troy and the younger one is Trump. Troy is just settling down nicely because he’s had a fair amount of work. Kelpies thrive on work. Trump can work three sheep but he’s a bit too keen yet and inclined to come on to his sheep a bit quick,’ Beth explained.
Rod nodded. The two dogs in question were leggy red-and-tans with agate-coloured eyes that were never still. He suspected that if he got the chance to know Beth better, he would get to hear a great deal more about kelpies and sheepdogs generally. Beth’s interest and love of the dogs was apparent from the way she spoke about them and demonstrated their abilities for the next half-hour.
‘Of course, I’m only quite new at the trialling business even though I started when I was fourteen. I don’t really get many opportunities here because there are only a couple of local trials a year. There are lots of trials further afield but Dad kicks up a fuss if I mention going away. He was the same about Bella and her riding. Dad used to imagine we’d have blokes chasing after us everywhere we went and we wouldn’t be able to focus on more important things.’
‘He was right about that,’ Rod said.
‘So you think the same?’ she asked.
‘I didn’t say that. I said he was right about blokes wanting to chase after you. You and Bella would be two of the best-looking girls around, so why wouldn’t you be chased?’ Rod smiled.
‘I thought Dad could have trusted us a little more, that’s all,’ Beth said, frowning.
‘That’s fathers for you.’
Rod was probably right about that but Beth was more keen to discover whether Rod was at all interested in getting to know her better – whether their wonderful night out and the special kiss they’d shared was just a one-off. She climbed onto the top rail of the yard and looked at Rod. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t be interested in coming back here for our local trial, would you?’ she asked.
‘That suggests a lack of interest on my part,’ Rod said.
‘I thought it might be too much to hope that you’d be interested enough in sheepdogs to make the trip all the way back here,’ Beth said, blushing.
‘Well, I’m interested enough in the handler to come back. The trial would be a bonus.’
Beth’s heart skipped a beat as she looked him straight in the eye. ‘Do you really mean that?’
‘I never say anything I don’t mean,’ he said. ‘And, if I come, I’ll stay in Mudgee, not here.’
‘Because of Dad?’ she asked.
‘Well, we can’t be sure that Dan will welcome me back as your friend – for want of a better word,’ Rod said. ‘Anyway, why don’t we just see what happens? I’ll definitely give it my best shot to come back here for the trial.’
‘That’s good enough for me,’ Beth said as she climbed down off the rail. ‘It’s at Cudgee and there’ll be burnt meat for lunch and dinner and scones and other things in between. It should be about a week or two after our wool sale.’
‘Ah, that could decide whether or not I make it,’ he said.
‘Rod!’ she protested.
‘Only joking. You’d better go and feed your dogs before dinner. Your father has invited me so I’ll wander up soon,’ he said. He took a quick look around, saw that they were on their own and, holding both her arms, pulled her close to him and kissed her. Beth couldn’t bring herself to back away, so he kissed her again. She felt his body hard against her as his strong arms embraced her. At this moment, she couldn’t imagine anywhere she’d rather be, or anyone she’d prefer to be with, ever.
Holding hands, they walked across to where she had tethered her horse. He stood and watched her admiringly as she swung into the saddle. It was poetry in motion.
Beth looked down at him and smiled. Her heart was singing. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said softly.
‘There’ll be trouble if you don’t,’ he said, smiling back.
Beth put her gelding into a canter and rode away down the track to the homestead. She thought that today might just be the start of a new life for her. She couldn’t say for sure, but she had a good feeling Rod truly liked her. Oh, what a lovely day it had been. And there was still dinner to come.
Dan was in a good mood over dinner. It was always a relief to get shearing out of the way and he was particularly jovial because this had been one of the best shearings they’d ever had at Mattai. He had two whiskies and poured out a generous glass for Rod and Jim.
Dorothy had cooked a beef roast, which she thought would be a nice change from the interminable menu of mutton Rod would have had during shearing time. All through the meal, she watched Beth and Rod. It was blatantly obvious that they were attracted to one another. Whatever it was between them might not have progressed very far but their eyes were a dead giveaway. And she couldn’t be happier about it. Dorothy had made it her business to talk with Rod whenever the chance arose, and she was aware that he’d been with other women. He had told her that one of the secrets to being a successful writer was understanding women. Dorothy was sure he’d done more than talk with them, though. This didn’t concern her greatly; he was obviously sincere as well as charming and she thought he would be great for Beth. Yes, he was a bit older than her daughter, ten years older, but that was a minor consideration. What mattered most was the rapport between them.
Towards the close of the evening, just as Rod was reluctantly thinking of leaving, the phone rang in the kitchen. Dorothy went to answer it and soon came back into the lounge. ‘It’s for you, Dan. It’s Sergeant McDonald,’ she said, a puzzled look on her face. McDonald was the second-ranking officer at Mudgee Police Station.
Dan left the room and was gone for several minutes. Everyone was quiet, alone with their own thoughts. When Dan returned, it seemed his face had aged. He sagged into his large lounge chair and held his head in his hands.
‘Whatever is it?’ Dorothy asked. ‘Is it bad news?’
Dan lifted his head, shaking it slowly from side to side in disbelief. ‘The very worst there could be. It’s the McLeods. Hector’s dead. Flora and Dougal too. The three of them are gone. A truck collided with their car on the Lithgow hill,’ Dan said, his voice catching.
‘Dad, no,’ Beth said, white with shock. Hector had been like an uncle to her for as long as she could remember, always taking time to discuss her dogs and her other interests. The news was just too much to bear.
‘It’s true, Beth. Lithgow police rang Mudgee and told them,’ Dan said.
‘Oh, Dad,’ Beth gasped, absolutely stricken. Through her tears, she saw her mother get up and walk across to her father. She sat on the arm of his big chair and hugged him tightly. If anyone knew what he felt about Hector McLeod, it was Mum, Beth thought.
Beth looked across to where Rod sat and saw that he looked as stunned as her father.
‘Perhaps I should leave you people in peace. Is there anything I can do for you before I go?’ Rod asked.
‘It’s all right, Rod. Stay, please,’ Dan said. ‘Jeez, this is just a tragedy, a bloody tragedy. Hector was one of the best men in the whole damned country. Killed with his family by some half-asleep truck driver.’
‘Shhh, dear. We don’t know what happened,’ Dorothy said soothingly. ‘Did the police give you any details?’
‘Only that it was misty and the road was wet. It wouldn’t have been Hector’s fault. Hector wasn’t like that. He didn’t make mistakes,’ Dan said vehemently.
When Rod was finally able to excuse himself, just before Dan poured another whisky, Beth accompanied him to the back gate. ‘I’m so very sorry about the McLeods. I know what a terrible loss this must be for you all, for the whole community,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Rod. Now you take care,’ Beth said.
‘Beth, I’m so sorry to be leaving you at this sad time. Don’t allow anyone else to move in while I’m gone, will you?’ Rod said in a serious voice.
‘Rod, there won’t be anyone else.’ She held her face up to him and he kissed her tenderly. ‘Can I write to you?’ she asked, once they’d broken away from each other.
‘I’ll give you my mother’s address and phone number and the same for my sister, June. They’ll know how to get in touch with me,’ Rod said, stroking her hair.