by Judy Nunn
He said nothing as he strode on ahead, and she had to jog to keep up with him. He said nothing as he crossed the verandah and entered the front door, and he was still silent as she followed him through the house and into the kitchen.
The female clan was present. Charlotte seated at the table, Nellie preparing the evening meal, and Margaret loitering. Charlotte was invariably to be found in the kitchen at this time of day, it was her favourite place. When she was not out working the property, she enjoyed sitting and chatting to Nellie as she cooked. It was unusual for Margaret to be present, however; as a rule she would still be ensconced in her office in the late afternoon. But today, recognising the storm about to ensue, Margaret had determined not to miss the action.
She gave Nellie a meaningful nod. Nellie took one look at Terence’s face, stopped chopping her vegetables and left. She didn’t glance at Henrietta as she went, although she wanted to. The young missus was in trouble, she knew it. Nellie liked the young missus and she wished she could have helped, but there was nothing she could do.
‘Terence …’ Why was he behaving like this, Henrietta thought, it was silly.
But he ignored her. ‘Henrietta has decided to join you and Jackie tomorrow when you ride out for the kill,’ he said to Charlotte. Henrietta said nothing, but the surprise in her eyes was evident.
Charlotte held her brother’s gaze, she knew he was lying. Why would Henrietta want to ride out for the kill? But, after a moment or so, she shrugged her agreement, it was time Henrietta’s horsemanship was put to the test. And the fortnightly ride out to the home paddock to bring in the two steers for homestead consumption was an easy one.
‘She’s ready enough,’ Charlotte smiled encouragingly at Henrietta, ‘she’s had a good teacher.’
Henrietta returned her sister-in-law’s smile. Charlotte had indeed been a good teacher. No natural horsewoman, it had taken Henrietta a whole two months and all of Charlotte’s considerable skill to help her overcome her innate fear. For the past few weeks, however, she’d felt comfortable riding both of the two placid house ponies.
‘They don’t frighten me anymore, Charlotte,’ she’d proudly announced.
‘They’re not meant to,’ Charlotte had laughed, ‘why do you think they’re called Fast Asleep and Seldom Awake?’ Fast and Seldom were not actually as lazy as their names suggested, it was rather that they were good-natured horses, docile and tolerant of beginners.
‘I’ll look forward to going with you tomorrow, Charlotte,’ Henrietta now said, determined to show courage in the face of Terence’s rather daunting announcement. ‘I’ll ride Seldom.’
‘No you won’t,’ Terence corrected her, ‘you’ll ride Florian.’
Margaret had taken over the vegetables upon Nellie’s departure and had been feigning indifference at the proceedings. Now she stopped attacking the carrots and looked sharply at her son.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Charlotte said dismissively, ‘she can’t ride Florian.’
Henrietta looked from one to the other, a little confused. She knew Florian by sight, a big bay which Terence often rode, a much bigger horse than she was accustomed to riding.
‘Why do you want me to ride Florian?’ she asked.
‘It’s time you moved on from the house ponies,’ Terence said. Charlotte was about to interrupt, but he cut her short. ‘She has to learn some time, Charlotte.’ Then he turned back to Henrietta. ‘It’s sometimes better to learn the hard way. Don’t you agree, Henrietta?’
His eyes drilled into hers but she didn’t glance away. She’d seen that look before, just as she’d heard those words before, and they’d shocked her at the time. She held his gaze and, as she did, the images flashed through her mind. The day he’d insisted she watch the slaughter of the steers.
‘It’s humane,’ he’d promised her, ‘and you need to learn, my darling, we need to toughen you up.’
It had made sense, she’d supposed. But as she’d stood by the slaughter yard and watched the stockman standing beside the pulley system, chains at the ready, and the other stockman’s hands firm upon the rope about the beast’s neck, and as she’d seen the rolling white eyeballs of the terrified steer, she’d wanted desperately to look away.
‘Watch,’ Terence had quietly ordered as he stood beside her, ‘watch and learn.’
So she’d dutifully watched as the Aboriginal stockmen, a team of three, went about their work. The man with the rope looped it around a fence post and held the beast’s head firmly in position whilst Jackie straddled the poles of the yard and, from above, pressed the muzzle of his .303 against the steer’s skull. An explosion followed, then everything happened in a matter of seconds.
In the instant following the shot, the ropes about the steer’s neck had been released allowing it to fall, and the moment it did, the man beside the pulley system was shackling the chains to the animal’s hind legs. Simultaneously, the rifle had vanished from Jackie’s hands and a butcher’s knife had appeared in its place. As he’d jumped from the railings, he’d moved so fast that Henrietta hadn’t even seen him take the knife from its sheath attached to his belt. Before the beast’s head had touched the dust of the slaughter yard, its throat had been cut. That much Henrietta had seen only too clearly. With one swift, backhand motion Jackie had sliced through the animal’s jugular as if it was butter and, as the carcass was hoisted into the air, blood had gushed like water from a broken downpipe. Never before had Henrietta seen so much blood. And the eye of the dead steer seemed to gaze directly at her through the thick, red stream which had once been its life’s force. She’d felt sickened by the sight, dismayed by the efficiency which had so swiftly deprived such a strong and magnificent animal of its existence.
Somewhere, behind her shock, commonsense told her that this apparently barbarous act was a necessary part of survival here in the outback, and she’d turned to Terence, expecting him to tell her so by way of support. That’s when she’d seen the look in his eyes. He had known she would be sickened, she suddenly realised, and he had relished her horror and revulsion. He didn’t even try to hide the fact.
‘It’s sometimes better to learn the hard way, Henrietta,’ he’d said. And when she hadn’t answered, he’d raised his voice so that the others could hear. ‘It could be worse, you know. When they make a kill in the bush, they shoot the steer through the lungs so it can still walk. They’re clever like that, the blacks. Then they herd it towards the nearest trees—could be a mile away—so that they can butcher it in the shade. The skill is in the timing of course. You have to keep the animal mobile while its lungs fill with blood, you can’t allow it to lie down and die until you’re ready.’
She hadn’t looked at him after that, but stood resolutely through the slaughter of the second steer, aware this time of what to expect, disguising her revulsion, refusing to allow him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
‘Well done, Henrietta.’ He’d congratulated her as though she’d passed some form of test, the tone of his voice quite warm and friendly, the look which had so chilled her no longer in his eyes. ‘It comes with the territory, my dear,’ he’d smiled. Then he’d walked off towards the house and Henrietta had remained, still stunned and bewildered, watching Jackie’s two helpers skin and gut the carcasses which were to be hung in the meatroom for butchering the following day.
‘Jackie don’ kill no animal like that, missus.’ The voice had been right beside her and Henrietta had turned, startled, to see the coal-black face of Jackie Yoorunga. Never before in her life had Henrietta met a person as black as Jackie, and she was still a little fearful in his presence.
‘Like what, Jackie?’ she’d asked.
‘That bush way the boss say. Shoot ’im in chest, make ’im walk. Some black fella kill that way. Not Jackie. Jackie give ’im animal no pain. Not ’im, not ’im.’ He’d pointed to the carcasses of the two steers. ‘No pain ’im there.’
Henrietta had never seen Jackie so animated and the realisation struck her that the
man was aware of the distress she had felt in witnessing the killing. This coal-black man, so foreign to her, so efficient in the dispatching of large animals, was more sympathetic to her feelings than her own husband.
‘Jackie take ’im breath away,’ the Aborigine insisted. He gestured once again towards the carcasses, ‘’im big, strong fella. Live fella.’ He held out his hand. ‘Then Jackie take ’im breath away.’ He snatched at the air and it was the act of a magician, one second his hand had been there, in front of her eyes, and then it had gone. ‘No more breath,’ he said, ‘’im dead fella. But ’im feel no pain. No pain, missus.’
‘I know, Jackie,’ she’d said. ‘Thank you.’
It had been that day which had initiated the friendship between Henrietta and Jackie Yoorunga. But it had also been that day which had sown the first seeds of doubt in young Henrietta Galloway’s mind. She would never forget the look in her husband’s eyes, the sadistic pleasure he’d derived from his power to shock her. And yet he’d been proud of her when she’d passed the test. Had he expected her to burst into tears, she’d wondered.
And now she saw the same look, there was no mistaking it. Only this time she sensed there was a punishment intended. Because of Bernie. Well if Terence was searching for her weakness, he would not find it today, Henrietta thought. Nor tomorrow.
‘I’ll ride Florian,’ she said.
Florian was not a mean-spirited horse, Jackie Yoorunga would have no mean-spirited horses at Bullalalla station, and he trotted along beside the other three obediently enough. But Henrietta recalled Charlotte’s advice. ‘When he takes off, hold onto his mane and sit tight,’ she’d said. ‘He doesn’t like to be left behind and you’ll never be able to hold him.’
Jackie had been surprised to see Henrietta on Florian. The missus would never control that horse, Jackie thought. That was a good horse but that was a stubborn horse. Took the bit between his teeth, needed a bloody good rider to control him. Jackie would have said something but he was further surprised to see Terence on The Baron. What was the young boss doing here? The young boss never rode out on the kill. So Jackie held his tongue, it was not his place to tell the young boss Galloway which horse his wife should ride.
It was seven in the morning and a pleasant day, the sun yet minus its sting. All four of them wore hats, however; it would not be long before the heat would make itself felt. Henrietta wore khaki trousers and a sleeveless cotton top, but she carried a full-sleeved shirt for protection later.
They travelled at a leisurely pace, Jackie and Charlotte taking their horses slowly, allowing them time to warm up.
Riding close beside Henrietta, Terence seemed in excellent humour.
‘I’ll take you up there, my darling,’ he said pointing to the far-off escarpment, ‘just like I promised I would. And I’ll show you waterfalls like you’ve never seen.’
She gazed at the distant rocky ridges which looked for all the world like the walls of an ancient city. ‘That won’t be very difficult, Terence,’ she replied, ‘I’ve never seen a waterfall in the whole of my life.’
‘You want to though, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then all the more reason for today’s ride.’ He leaned forward and patted Florian’s neck. ‘Once you’ve mastered a strong horse and when you can take a hard day’s riding, I’ll show you a whole new world.’ His smile was so affectionate that Henrietta wondered whether perhaps she’d been wrong. Perhaps today wasn’t intended as some sort of punishment. She started to relax, just a little, and enjoy her surroundings.
They rode through the open forests and woodlands, the air thick with the smell of cypress pine, and they crossed the low-lying swamp ground, not long since flooded during the wet, where termite mounds towered like giant tombstones. Riding with Charlotte, Henrietta had seen the magnetic termite mounds on numerous occasions, but she never ceased to marvel at them. Aligned, as their name suggested, on a north-south axis, they towered ten feet and higher, and were so prolific that in parts the landscape looked like one massive burial ground.
After an hour’s easy ride, they came to the home paddock, several square miles of fenced off woodlands and grassy plain where cattle grazed, unperturbed, and Henrietta realised that this would be where the test began.
Jackie and Charlotte conferred and, the selection of the steers having been made, it was time to cut them from the rest of the herd. Charlotte gave Henrietta a warning glance, and the race was on.
As Charlotte and Jackie took off, there was no stopping Florian, he was after them like a bullet. Just as Charlotte had predicted, Henrietta found it impossible to hold him back and within seconds she gave up trying. She leaned over the horse’s neck, grabbed clumps of his mane in her fists and clung on as best she could. But for a relatively big animal, Florian was extremely agile. He ducked and weaved like a stock pony and within seconds Henrietta had lost her stirrups. Another sharp turn and she was gone.
The ground came up and hit her so quickly that she barely knew what had happened. But somehow, instinctively, she’d clutched the end of the reins as she fell, perhaps recalling Jackie’s advice in her early riding lessons. ‘Never lose ’im,’ he’d said as he’d helped her mount Seldom Awake. ‘Long walk home, missus.’
Henrietta struggled to her knees, a little shaken and winded, but pleasantly surprised to find that nothing was broken or sprained. She was even more surprised, however, to find Florian quivering beside her, apparently more unnerved by the incident than she was. She felt sorry for the animal. He hadn’t intended to throw her.
‘Sorry, Florian,’ she said and she patted his neck.
Several hundred yards away, across the grassy plain, Charlotte and Jackie had cut the two steers from the herd and were turning them towards the track which led through the woodlands.
As The Baron trotted up to stand beside Florian, Terence’s expression was one of approval.
‘Well done,’ he said, and he meant it. She had control of the situation and she was comforting the horse, it was an excellent sign.
Henrietta’s own reaction was a mixture of annoyance at her husband’s apparent lack of concern and pride in her own lack of fear. But to her astonishment, and before she had time to question her actions, she found herself once more mounting Florian.
If she’d expected Terence to stop her she was destined for disappointment. He simply watched as Florian, having seen the other horses at work, wheeled on the spot and took off again, Henrietta once more leaning forward, clutching his mane, clinging on for dear life, and cursing her foolhardy bravado.
Florian galloped as if it was a race he must win, his tail streaming behind him, his mane flicking her cruelly in the eyes as he strove to overtake the others. He crossed the plain in minutes and suddenly they were in the woodlands. Charlotte’s and Jackie’s horses were only a hundred yards ahead, moving at a leisurely pace, droving the two steers along the bush track, but Florian decided on the short cut. He seemed to be revelling in it. He dodged and weaved between the trees—they might have been flags in a gymkhana event—and he faltered for only one second at a log which lay in his path. But in that second Henrietta was lost. She lurched forward and, as Florian jumped, she saw the log beneath her. She started to fall, reaching her hand out along the horse’s neck, the ground spinning dizzyingly towards her and, as if in slow motion, she felt the bridle between her fingers, then the reins. She clutched at them and held on with all her strength to lessen the impact of the fall, but as she did she checked the animal’s stride. In the instant she hit the ground Florian stumbled and she felt his hoof catch her in the leg. He staggered, recovered his balance and the reins were ripped from her hand.
Hearing the commotion, Charlotte and Jackie had turned and seen Henrietta fall. Jackie rounded up Florian, the horse was prancing about, nervous and badly shaken. Charlotte cantered up to Henrietta who was sitting on the ground rubbing her shoulder.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked as she dismounted.
&
nbsp; Henrietta’s shoulder was hurting like hell. ‘I think so.’
‘That doesn’t look too good.’ Charlotte pointed at the lower right leg of Henrietta’s khaki trousers where the material appeared to be tucked inside the fleshy part of her calf. A red stain was seeping through. Charlotte gently rolled up the trouser leg and eased the material out of the deep crescent-shaped gash into which it had been wedged.
‘You held him on too short a rein,’ she said. ‘He was trying to get clear of you and you checked his stride.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Henrietta was grateful for Charlotte’s business-like manner. She was in a slight state of shock, she realised, any sympathy and she might start crying.
‘It’ll need a bit of stitching.’ Charlotte respected Henrietta. For a beginner, and an English one at that, the girl had a lot of guts. ‘I’ll give you a ride back to the house,’ she said, gently helping Henrietta to her feet, ‘Jackie can look after Florian.’
‘What’s happened?’ Terence said as he rode up to them. ‘Another fall?’
‘Quite a nasty one,’ Charlotte nodded, ‘she’s going to need stitches.’
‘It’s my fault,’ Henrietta hastily added, parroting Charlotte’s words, ‘I held him too short and checked his stride.’
‘That won’t do,’ Terence said. ‘He could have fallen and broken his knees, quickest way to ruin a horse.’ He didn’t say it in anger, just mild criticism, but Charlotte flashed him a reproving glance and even Jackie looked surprised. ‘It’s a valuable lesson learned, Henrietta,’ Terence continued affably enough, ignoring his sister’s disapproval. ‘It’s why we ride with a long rein, after all.’ He looked at Charlotte and the edge of criticism was back in his voice. ‘I’d have thought Charlotte would’ve taught you that.’
Charlotte ignored the comment. ‘I’m taking her back to the house,’ she said. Smug bastard, she thought.
‘No, I’m fine, thank you, Charlotte,’ Henrietta heard herself say. ‘I’ll ride Florian back.’
