Henry fixed him with his most charmless stare. ‘No need. We live a hundred metres apart.’
Alex couldn’t argue with the logic. Henry put his arm around Cate’s shoulder. For once he kept it there and guided her out to the car. She leaned against him. She was allowed to; he felt great. He helped her into the ute. This was probably going to hurt tomorrow. Had she learned nothing? She wound down the window and let the night air kiss her face. ‘Goodnight, Australia! Goodnight, Greg Norman! Good dog! Don’t worry about the eye! You can hardly tell!’
Henry leaned across her and wound up the window-microphone to the world.
‘I’m sure it won’t affect your game . . .’ She cracked the tinny Marty had handed her on the way out. ‘Hey! Who loves “Khe Sanh”? I could sing the shit out of “Khe Sanh” right now!’
Henry may have been grinning. She had no idea. Too much hair.
Cate had a few minutes to sober up on the way home, but she chose not to use them.
‘Who the crapping bloody hell are you, Henry Weirdy Beardy?’ She played with the radio. ‘Where are you from? Come to that, where are you going?’ She gave up on the radio; apparently it was hard to tune in awesome Powderfinger songs when it wasn’t on. ‘And, more importantly, who was dumb enough to shoot you? I’m guessing drugs. Or a woman with reeeeally long hair. Called Bambi.’ She fossicked for any food that might be hiding in the glove box. ‘Leave her alone, man – she’s no good for you.’
Mercifully, they were home. Henry turned off the ute and came around to her door, while she waited for the world to stop moving for a second. He carefully helped her out. She was suddenly self-conscious in the face of his quiet observation, which seemed kind of intense now it was lit by starlight, with no one there to watch them. She looked up at him, regarding her in return, letting his eyes fall over her dark-blonde hair in the moonlight, as if he didn’t dare to look away.
‘Thanks,’ she whispered.
He nodded, and was just turning to take her to her door when she swung her hand around and smashed it unexpectedly on the car.
‘Yeeooow!’ Oh, it seriously hurt. It sobered her up a treat for a few long excruciating seconds. She shook her hand in front of her as if she could shake out the pain. Henry snatched her panicked hand in his and held it to his mouth. He kissed it better with his warm lips and soft beard. She stopped yelling. And moving. And breathing. His hand felt amazing. His mouth felt even better, and heat rushed from it, up her arm to her face.
If he realised he was being weird, he worked it out only after it was too late. He froze, his hazel eyes intent upon her and his mouth still on her skin. The silence that fell was joined by complete stillness, which was good because it gave her time to remind herself to breathe. Finally, he straightened up and gently released her hand.
She gulped. ‘Lucky I didn’t bump my arse,’ she offered.
Henry opened the door, staring down at Mac the whole time. Mac was gazing from one of them to the other. He didn’t want to miss a thing.
‘I’m sorry. Goodnight. You’ll be a bit sore in the morning,’ Henry said. ‘Set your alarm – the shearers will be here at seven.’ He was gone. Mac glanced back at her, disappointed.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she complained. ‘I just met a dog with a five handicap.’
CHAPTER 12
The next morning was waaay too early. The sun crept into Cate’s room just after six a.m., happy to see her looking so well. She pulled the pillow over her face to snatch a little more blessed darkness, and wondered if her alarm was about to go off. Then she decided she didn’t want her alarm to go off because it was bound to be loud. She debated the problem with herself for a few moments. Then she noticed that she could smell coffee. Real coffee. Someone was in the house. She glanced at her watch. Too early to be the shearers, and too unlikely. There was a knock at the door.
‘Hang on,’ she grumbled. She rolled out of bed and pulled on some clothes, then struggled to the door and opened it. A mug of hot coffee was sitting on a tray on the floor, next to two slices of Vegemite toast. There was a God. Good old Moses. She slid down the hallway wall and gulped it there and then.
‘Cate! Cate! Wake up! There are bikies outside, and they say they want a cup of tea.’
Cate groaned because her hangover was starting early, and Brigit was right in her face, too close and horribly loud.
‘Wha—’
‘Bikies – they’re outside, and they want come in. Can you go talk to them?’
This was typical of Brigit. She was one of those free spirits who had to talk to people, had to share that drink, or that joint, or that story about that great place. Then they had to offer random people a lift or a hug. Now it was schoolies, and Brigit had been out nightly sharing the love big time, and three blokes on bikes were driving Harleys slowly around their cabin in the Dunsborough caravan park. Bang bang bang.
‘What kind of bikies?’ Cate was still drunk, and still confused.
‘Big hairy ones?’
‘What the fuck, Bridge?’ Bang bang bang bang.
‘They gave me a few joints and a lift home.’
They were calling out with pseudo-friendly voices and laughing among themselves.
‘Hey, Bridgee, how about a cup of tea? It’s not too late. Bridgeeeeeee. Cup of teeaaaa?’ It was spooky as hell, and Cate wished she hadn’t just hung her underwear in the tree to dry. Bang bang bang bang.
‘And now they want tea?’
‘Yeah, but I suspect that’s a EUPHEMISM.’ She was using her fingers to make pissed air quotation marks.
‘You think?’ There was laughter from outside, and Cate began to suspect that the bikies might be drunk, too.
Madonna, who had passed out so hard that Cate hadn’t thought she was going to come around until uni started, staggered out, and she looked mad.
‘What the fuck, you guys?! I am sooo hungover – stop banging! STOP BANGING! Okay?’ The girls looked at her. ‘Wait . . . who’s banging?’
‘Well,’ Cate explained, ‘it appears that we have some gentlemen callers – or bikies, if you will – who, from what I can ascertain, would like to come in for a cup of tea, and who would then like to make sweet love to Brigit.’
Brigit threw up, but it was okay, she was holding the box of dinner cereal. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled.
Madonna was not happy. ‘Bikies! What? Bikies – Jeez, Bridge! What were you thinking?’
‘Hey, girls! Put the kettle on!’
‘Hey, boys! Fuck off!’ Cate slammed the door shut, and began to push the tiny pine kitchen table against it. That should hold them.
‘Holy shit, we’re going to be bikies’ molls, aren’t we?’ Madonna was getting the picture.
Cate found her phone and began dialling the police. She imagined the caravan-park management would be there any minute, but it probably wouldn’t hurt.
‘I don’t want to be a bikie’s moll! I want to go to university and study journalism, and date a doctor!’ Madonna ran to the window. ‘GO AWAY! We are not going to be bikies’ molls!’ She appeared to have forgotten her headache. ‘AND I have a HEADACHE!’
Laughter.
Amid the action, Cate realised Brigit had disappeared. What the hell? She ran to the bedroom and found her, comfortably passed out on Cate’s bed, holding a warm bottle of beer as a weapon, waiting faithfully for Cate to sort out her latest mess.
In the next room Cate could hear Madonna try again. ‘We went to PRIVATE SCHOOL!’
Cate made it to the sheds on time; Henry had packed the sheep into the shed, ready to go. The shearers had arrived at the shed, and Marty and Dave were grinning from ear to ear.
‘How’s the head?’
She formed a queasy smile. ‘Not bad,’ she lied, taking in deep breaths of the warm, greasy smell of the shed. It was one of the best smells in the world. Lanolin, sweat and dust.
‘Get home okay?’ Dave pressed. ‘Alex Bernard seemed keen to make sure you were home in bed – safe and sound.’
She pulled a face. ‘You men and your gossip. Now. Where are those teeny-tiny sheep of ours?’
‘It wasn’t Alex Bernard who took her home,’ crowed Marty with a wink in Henry’s direction, then yanked his own chain and got to work.
They toiled steadily, shearing cleanly and consistently, grading the fleeces, sweeping up, grabbing the next one. Cate busied herself in the yards for most of the morning, moving up the mobs to be shorn and moving in the next mob. When they were on top of crowd control, Henry took up his spot shearing. He leaned over and stretched out every muscle in his huge frame, then pushed through the saloon doors in search of his first victim. He looked like he was moving even faster than the day before. He hadn’t spoken to her all day; he had given her a brief smile from across the backs of sixty-odd dusty sheep, then left the shed to bring in the next lot.
They were nearing the end of the day when Alf called her over.
‘Who’s Henry?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘He’s working here for a while. Other than that, I don’t know.’
‘Well, he’s a good worker, but he’s not a shearer, I can tell you that much.’
Cate smiled. ‘He’s doing okay, though?’
‘Ah, yeah, he’s doing okay, for a new boy.’
‘How long do you think you’ll be here?’ she asked.
Alf looked dismissive. ‘We should finish tomorrow, with any luck. You reckon you’ve only got twelve hundred total?’
Cate nodded.
‘Well, then, if we work fast tomorrow, we’ll get it done. Two shearers plus Henry?’ He appeared to do a mental calculation. ‘No worries.’
Wow. They didn’t muck around.
Cate went out to bring the next mob through the yards. She was going to have to take a mob out soon, to make space, and she wanted to have some ready to go. She glanced at the clock; they’d be stopping for lunch in half an hour. She stepped over the greasy old railings of the yards, pushing sheep up, chuffing gently to move them through to yards closer to the shearing stands, closing off the yards behind them with small chains so they couldn’t push back.
The sun seemed all the brighter after the gloom of the shed, and the sheep were kicking up grey dust. Alf had mentioned she could spray the yards down with water from the tank, but she figured she could put up with it for a couple of days if the sheep could. She swallowed quickly, convulsively, to try to keep the dust out of her throat, and started bringing them up to the shed.
‘Yip! Yip! Yip! Yeeharr!’ She clapped and shouted, and the sheep scattered away from her, one or two dashing through the gate. She walked back down the line of sheep to move them again, watching the first few make the dash to their friends, taking the rest of the mob with them. She glanced up at the shed window to see Henry watching her, smiling.
‘You really do like sheep,’ he called.
‘How much am I paying you to stand around?’ she returned.
‘Nothing.’ He grinned.
‘Well, I’m glad I’m getting value for money.’ She couldn’t tell, but it kind of looked like he winked, then he was gone. She finished penning them up and jumped in the ute to get the next mob. Mac sat next to her in the cab and they glanced at each other conspiratorially; she wouldn’t tell anyone if he didn’t.
The next mob were hiding in a dam, and Cate had to drive around looking for them for a while, with Mac smiling and panting happily beside her. Eventually, she spotted them and chased them out of the near-empty dam on foot, then drove down the race to the shed. It took over an hour, but she found she liked sitting in the old ute with Mac, slowly rolling after the sheep as they pattered along the hard dirt, moving and changing direction, occasionally stopping to crop any weeds they could find.
She tuned the radio a couple of times, but it wasn’t keen to cooperate, unless she wanted good times and great hits, and even then the sound was hissing and fuzzy because the antenna had been ripped off the bonnet long ago. She turned it off and began to hum. She was slowly coming down the rise, towards the group of sheds and the little brick house in a stand of mallee trees, when she found that Perth, and her parents, seemed a long way away. She glanced in the rear-view mirror, at her dusty face and dirty hair, and smiled. Her mother wouldn’t recognise her now, and her father would never believe it. They were such neat people who lived such well-ordered lives. And Cate had envied them that at times; that they knew who they were, and where they belonged. She hung her elbow out of the window of the ute, just to see how it felt. And it felt pretty good.
She made it back to the shed just as the boys were finishing lunch. She heard them fire up again as she shut the gate on the next mob. She could hear Henry moving the sheep in the shed, and the clanking of the gates above the metallic whirring of the shears.
Henry. Strange guy. Good worker. She put her head down and kept moving sheep for the rest of the day, taking another mob out after the shearing team left at three, then heading home to wash black dust from her face, her hair, and even her nose. She stood in the shower, watching it sluice away.
It was a cooler morning the following day, when she got to the shed early and began pushing the sheep through, ready for the shearers to arrive. The shed was tidy, but she added some bottles of water to the fridge and a couple of packets of biscuits to the smoko table, then she heard the sound of cars up the drive, and the shearers were there.
‘Morning, Cate!’ Dave greeted her. ‘Your man coming shooting with Marty and me?’
‘Huh?’
‘Henry. He said he’d come shooting this week over at Kel Riordan’s place.’
Cate shrugged. She didn’t know Henry had been actually talking to other human beings; it seemed unlikely.
‘Shooting what?’
‘Bloody foxes mostly. Their numbers are breeding up, but we’ll take as many rabbits as we see as well. We’re not fussy.’
‘Oh, okay, then I guess he is. He’s not my man, so we don’t tell each other stuff.’
Dave nodded at her slowly, like he knew a secret and he was terrible at keeping secrets. ‘Anyway, don’t you need a licence or something?’
‘All taken care of.’
Whatever. Boys shooting guns. Figured Henry would be into it. She made her way through the warm, woolly bodies and down the ramp to bring in the next mob of sheep as she heard the shears clank to life.
They worked hard all day, moving sheep through the shed. Cate took another mob up the race and the boys started on the last of the wethers. Henry was on a shearing stand, but he’d been back and forth, helping to keep the shearers supplied with sheep while she was gone. He didn’t talk much, but the shearers seemed to have warmed to him, and she heard various shooting anecdotes flying across the boards as she penned up another mob. Finally, they were getting low on customers. She went out to see to the gates for the final mob to go back to the paddock and she returned just as they were packing away. The shearing was done. Henry gave the boys a carton and Cate went inside to call Ida.
‘Hey, Aunty Ida!’ she yelled and her aunt laughed.
‘What a lovely sound to hear down the phone line, dear,’ she said. ‘Have you got some good news for me?’
Cate took hold of herself. It wasn’t that big a deal. ‘Oh, I’m just calling to say we’ve finished shearing. Forty bales!’
There was a shout from the other end of the line. ‘And you did it all, dear. Well done! Just back on the farm and running it like she’s never been away,’ she marvelled.
Cate smiled, and allowed herself to feel pride well up in her heart. She had done something. She had taken responsibility for something, and she had seen it through. She closed her eyes and finished her report to Ida. It was a good feeling.
After she hung up, she tied back her sweaty hair in a ponytail, changed her boots for thongs and left the house open to the hopeful breeze. She could hear the sheep bleating occasionally in the distance, comparing haircuts. They would settle down soon; the sun was leaving, and pulling the softest blanket over the farm
to keep them safe for the night.
She wandered through the sheds and past the bush. She didn’t know where Henry was; he had barely spoken to her all day. She wasn’t surprised. He liked to be busy, and he liked to be ignored; she was happy to give the man his space – until there was a spider in the toilet, then it was going to be all hands on deck. Mac snuffled about, cocking his leg here and there, checking that the rabbit holes weren’t currently occupied. They heard some mountain ducks calling to each other at the dam and slowly wandered down to have a look. The light was failing now and they were probably settling in to sleep.
She pulled up a seat on Henry’s lounge to watch them.
‘I wondered where you were.’ Henry had walked up noiselessly behind her.
She jumped. ‘Oh! Just waiting for the ducks to go to sleep,’ she murmured.
He sat beside her. ‘Tired?’
‘Yeah. You?’
‘Sore. I’m not used to shearing.’
‘What did you used to do – before?’
‘Not shearing.’ He looked at her sideways, and leaned forward to inspect the water more closely. ‘I don’t talk about it,’ he said quietly. She didn’t press him; it was none of her business. The light was nearly gone. And they sat in silence and watched the mountain ducks fall asleep.
CHAPTER 13
Cate was settling in to the house rather well. She was getting to know its quirks, and she was getting used to being organised with her grocery shop, which she usually did on a Friday, so that she could see actual people and wear a jaunty scarf and lipstick. She was also getting to know some of the faces of the local farmers, mostly the women who came in. Their husbands were always hard to prise past the front gate unless they needed a part for a machine, and they suspected the co-op, Narrogin or another farmer had it. She kind of enjoyed Fridays, and she always called Aunty Ida that night to fill her in on the local news. Ida had been in Perth for a week, and it looked like she’d stay there for a while. Her doctor was keen for her to recover close to hospital in case she should need it, and even as Cate spoke to her she could sense a tiredness or a discomfort to which Ida never referred.
The Drifter Page 9
