Coming Rain (13 page)

Said nothing.

CHAPTER 26

Jimmy Wong had been to the cookhouse. He had prepared an evening meal. A back leg
of lamb was roasting in the oven and he had peeled a pot of potatoes and covered
them in cold water. Another pot of cabbage and a bowl of skinned and segmented pumpkin.
Gravy and mint sauce made.

They smelled the roast when they entered the quarters and Painter was standing in
the doorway of the kitchen shaking his head when they heard the rattle of Jimmy's
bicycle. Turned to see his wide smiling face.

‘Mr Lew, Mr Painter.' He sat on his bike holding the veranda support post. His accent
was still strong but they were getting used to how he spoke. ‘Mr John asked me to
do this.'

‘Thanks Jimmy. Good on you.' Lew said.

Jimmy pushed himself off the veranda and turned the bike. Rode away calling out
hoo
roo
and not looking back as he rode towards the homestead.
Cooooeee
, and his laughter.

Painter and Lew were covered in sweat and the greasy raw
lanolin of shorn wool. Sheep
shit and blood. They entered the cookhouse, noted Jimmy's preparations. Painter took
the pot of potatoes and put them on the stove to boil. He turned to Lew. ‘You can
wash up first mate, if you like.'

Lew nodded and walked to the washhouse. It smelled of artesian water and damp walls.
He filled the Baird shower tub from the tank. Took off his clothes and stepped into
the tub. Cranked the Simac pump and stood under the shower for a moment. When he
was wet he used a block of soap to lather himself. Pumped on the wooden handle again
and rinsed off. Twice more. He got out of the tub and began to dry his shoulders
and face.

He was still naked when Painter came in and began getting undressed. Lew looked up
and went back to drying himself as Painter filled another tub and threw his blue
singlet, padded trousers and underwear in a pile.

Lew dressed in a pair of shorts and a cotton vest, an open shirt. He picked up his
dirty work clothes and put them in the copper. ‘You want me to wash your gear mate?
I'm doin' mine.'

Painter was standing in the tub, wet from the first shower bucket. He was lathering
himself with soap. Crossing his arms, knees lifted, eyes closed. ‘Yeah mate, thanks
for that. My turn tomorrow.'

‘Righto.' Lew gathered up the pile of clothing and carried it to the copper. He poured
in three buckets of water and lit a fire in the grate; used an old knife to peel
thin flakes off a block of yellow soap and dropped them on top of the wool-greasy
clothes.

Painter rinsed off and got out of the shower. Dried and changed into clean clothes.
Rubbed antiseptic cream under his
arms. Stained swabs of brown iodine on the cuts
on his hands and arms. He too was wearing shorts. Then as usual he pulled on a clean
Jackie Howe. Sandshoes, no laces, wet towel over his shoulder. ‘I'll check dinner
son. Put that pumpkin in.'

Lew raised his hand as Painter left and stirred the clothes with a wooden paddle
for a while. As the water came to the boil, he took one or two steaming garments
at a time and sloshed them into a bucket. Took them to the sink and scrubbed them
on a wooden corrugated washboard. He rinsed them in a bucket of clean cold water
and fed them through a hand mangle. Carried them outside to the clothes line and
pegged out the damp clothes on the wire. He found the prop pole, and raised the line
up in the middle. Secured the bottom of the pole. The wind took the clothing and
he saw their trouser legs blowing out to the west. The easterlies coming in. They
would be dry by morning.

CHAPTER 27

The bitch ran, looked back and saw the young red dog running behind her. He was plainly
exhausted and his face strained as he tried to keep up with her. She stopped and
circled him. He came, slobbering over to her, licking at her face. She snapped at
him to quiet. He lay down, panting on the ground. His whole body heaving with the
exertion. The skin over his ribs, his frame lifting and falling. She too was gasping
and her tongue was hanging, long, out the side of her mouth, she whined a yip yip
with every breath and with the pain in her chest and for the danger to her whelp.
His stupidity.

Then they heard the revving motor crashing and the car as it began to smash through
the scrub towards them. The shooter banging on the outside of his door as he drove,
trying to flush them into view.

The dingo bitch immediately sprinted away from the noise, yelping at the youngster
to follow. Her sense of smell had been thrown out by the desperate flight; blood
was streaming into her eyes. But she could still hear clearly and she ran from the
terrible
sound. Heard the yipping as the adolescent caught up and began running with
her.

Tearing as fast as they could through the undergrowth, they came to a dry creek bed
with banks about four feet high. She dashed into the creek, ran along the gravel
bed for about ten feet and leapt up an embankment into the bushes on the other side.
The young dog, following her, also tried to scramble up the bank but rolled back,
his shot leg failing him. He tumbled as the car came crashing over the creek and
bellied itself on the lip.

The shooter, howling now, was opening the door of his car. He began to point a rifle
but he fell; the rifle fired and the shot went harmlessly into the air.

The bitch stood on the top of the embankment and yelped at the adolescent. He ran
at the bank and threw himself up at it, his front legs clawing and his neck straining
to get up. The one good back leg scratching frantically in the dirt. She reached
down with her mouth and took him by the scruff, bit down hard and pulled him up.
They fell together and rolled over in a tumble of legs. She was first to stand, waited
for him to right himself and turned to look back the way they had come as they began
to run through the brush.

Abraham Smith watched where they had run to. He sat in his car, rifle across both
knees. Drivers door open and he had one foot on the ground.

It was getting dark and the shadow of the moon was rising in the east.

CHAPTER 28

It was just after morning smoko the next day when Painter smiled and raised his hand
as Clara came into the shed and walked to the board. He reconnected his handpiece
to the down-rod. Drizzled oil on the comb and cutter.

‘Miss Drysdale.'

‘Mr Hayes.'

They both looked at Lew. He raised a hand and opened the catching-pen door. ‘Miss
Drysdale.'

‘Mr McCleod.'

Lew caught hold of the nose of a wether hogget, twisted it down onto its backside,
took both its front feet and dragged it out onto the board. He gripped it firmly
between his knees, reached up and pulled the cord to connect the handpiece to the
running motor, caught it up and began to shear. Took off the belly wool, tossed it
into the board at her feet. Cleaned both legs and made three more short blows around
the crutch along the back legs. Stepped forward and shore the throat, the head, the
face and
around the ears; across the poll and, turning the animal, began to sweep
the handpiece up the flank and along its spine.

Painter watched him, took a few minutes, rolled a cigarette and said nothing.

Lew looked up from the long blow and said nothing.

Painter lit the smoke and then he too opened the catching-pen door.

Clara bent and scooped up the belly wool and threw it into the appropriate bale.
She took a straw broom and began to clean away the offcuts coming from the sheep.
Bent in attendance to the fleece as it came from the body of the hogget Lew was shearing.
‘No second cuts Mr McCleod,' she whispered to him. ‘Good work.'

He smelled white gardenias and he held his breath and looked at her mouth, which
was smiling at him as she folded the fleece back and reached beneath the hogget's
rump, freeing the bottom knot, to allow him access to the final blow. He nodded to
her in thanks.

She walked the board between the men, retrieving belly wool, face wool, eye wigs.
Sweeping dags and pizzle wool to one side. Bending to roll and gather up the wool.
Sometimes she said, there you are, as the white fleece floated above and settled
onto the classing table.

Lew was standing, paused with one hand on the catching-pen door. He was looking at
her as he wiped sweat off his face with a towel.

‘Mr McCleod?' She frowned.

‘Yes?'

‘Are you feeling well? You are staring.'

‘My name is Lewis. Yes. You can…if you want to. Call me that.'

She looked at him. He was whip thin, strong and capable. He moved like a cat when
he shore. Certain hands. Wet black hair and smiling mouth. She nodded, whispered,
‘That's all right.'

He nodded. ‘Thank you.'

‘Not in front of Dad though,' she said. ‘My name is Clara.'

‘Clara.' Lew dipped his head in agreement. ‘No. Of course not.'

They stared at each other.

Painter glanced over at them as he changed a cutter on his handpiece. He oiled the
new cutter and stepped into the catching pen. Yelled to the sheep there: ‘Hello.'
Began dragging one of them out.

‘Woolaway Miss Drysdale.'

‘Oh.' She broke off from Lew and ran to pull the wool away from Painter's heels.
‘Sorry Mr Hayes.'

CHAPTER 29

The work went on. Dust rising up and blowing into the shed and the heat of the sun
on the corrugated-iron roof come radiating inside. If you looked outside to the north
the world was divided into two slabs of colour. Red and blue. The land and the sky.
No clouds. No rain. Red land and blue sky.

Sweat arrived in veins, river-lines from the two shearers' ever-moving forearms and
backs and shoulders. Strong necks and set jaws, blinking eyes and bodies never stopping.
They were soaked with sweat, dripping.

Long white cobwebs blowing back and forth in the dark wooden rafters of the woolshed.
You don't stop. No matter what, you don't stop working here.

Forever enclosed by tracks on the corrugated-iron walls, the black stencilled letters
and names, spoor of other gangs, other pressers who had worked here. Their passing
marks, like pissing on a tree. Station and farm names: Jindy Stn 1935 F/W 1200. R
Horrocks Bellys & Pieces; I shore 250 Tobruk; 60 bales of
Glenburgh wool 1939;
Jack Sorensen shore here. Wawoon and Gungurra. Carrington Homestead here. 79 H GRDC
2860. Spion Kop, JJS 300 strg wool lmb. Bimbjy Stn.

CHAPTER 30

The dingo continued in a rough northeast pattern. The last shot had ricocheted away,
smashing through the scrub. She still heard the old man cursing, heard the frustration
and felt as if they would be safe from him. His howl of lament. His unhappiness meant
safety. Almost victory.

The red dog was beginning to founder and she knew that she too was at the limit of
her strength. They would have to stop soon to rest. They needed water. Blood, fat,
meat. She slowed their escape to a steady trot but was determined to keep going for
as long as they could.

They continued to travel, running on nothing but memories of themselves and themselves
running until the young red dog simply stopped and staggered. He began to dry retch.
His back arched, his body began heaving. Staggered again, this time backwards as
if to sit, and fell over onto one side. Lay still and panted, legs straight out.
One of his feet twitched. Drooling
slime coming from his mouth. She returned to where
he was lying and sniffed at him, licked his dry nose once. His eyes followed her,
blinked and he then looked away to where they were running to. Away from her. She
waited and then lay down near him. After a minute she lowered her chin onto her paws.
Ears always cocked to the south. To where the shooter would come if he was going
to.

It was quiet; the sounds of the still country began to return to her. The birds and
nearby the noise of a lizard in the leaf litter and crunch of torn bark shredding
from ancient gums. Wind come up out of the desert. Night coming also. Her head had
stopped bleeding.

She looked over to the young dog and he had closed his eyes. His ribbed chest was
moving in and out and she could see the sand grains and small sticks being disturbed
in front of his nostrils. Quick breathing. His almost complete exhaustion was obvious.
Death for him, close.

CHAPTER 31

They finished shearing the next day just before lunch. Drysdale came and turned off
the generator. It was late afternoon and the interior became empty and still. A long
silence where there had been nothing but noise and movement. Lew noticed Painter
speaking with the old man and them both looking at him and at Clara.

The swishing noise as Clara continued to sweep the board, ensuring everything was
tidy and left as it should be.

John Drysdale stepped away from where he was speaking to Painter. ‘You go back to
the house please, girl,' he said and pointed at her. ‘Good. Thank you.'

By the tone of his voice both Lew and Clara knew this matter was not to be questioned.
Once again, she was being dismissed from their company.

‘Go on now. Take your dogs.'

She shot a frowning look at her father, leaned the broom against the wall and left
the shed.

CHAPTER 32

The dingo stood and felt the giddiness, the ground whirling before her. She waited
until it stopped. Took three steps, again waited. She needed to hunt and this need
was as great as that to mate and to suckle; it was as if she breathed. Without glancing
back at the young dog she put her nose to the ground and at first walked, then trotted
into the long yellow grass. Soon she was invisible.

As her mother had taught her to hunt she now hunted. Mostly it was patience and listening.
Stilling to become as the moving land, the earth, the smoke bush. Yate trees and
gimlet, salmon gums, ghost and white gums wandoo. The hushing of her heart and quiet
breathing and to wait and then to attack. Nothing else. It was nearly dark, but not
to her.