He Called Me Son (The Blountmere Street Series Book 1)

by Barbara Arnold

  ‘I need to bring some more things from the house. I couldn’t carry it all at once, but Tony will help me.’

  I reddened. I wasn’t aware she knew my name.

  ‘I’m Gaylene,’ the girl smiled easily as we began crossing the paddock back to the homestead. A tingling sensation reached the roots of my hair and made me want to itch my scalp.

  ‘You didn’t mind me asking you to help, did you?’ she enquired.

  ‘No … course not.’ I tried to keep my voice low for fear it would squeak, as it sometimes did lately.

  ‘Mum said the shearers aren’t to be trusted and to ask you.’

  I couldn’t imagine the Missus trusting me. Trust wasn’t a word Downston would have used when it came to me or Joe. He’d threatened us to keep well away from his kids. I looked around to check Downston’s whereabouts. I didn’t see him and guessed that he was in the homestead kitchen wolfing back his tucker. I hoped so.

  ‘You’re from England, aren’t you?’ Gaylene half skipped beside me. Although I gazed straight ahead, I was conscious of the orange and yellow skirt swishing beside me and, by comparison, the state of my shirt. How out of place this butterfly girl must be in the Downstons’ front parlour, and not just because the colours clashed.

  ‘You must miss your home and family.’

  ‘A bit.’ I quickened the pace so that she couldn’t see the absurd tears that had sprung from nowhere.

  ‘Have you got any brothers and sisters?’ Gaylene skipped a little faster to keep up with me.

  ‘A sister.’ I hoped she wouldn’t ask about Mum, although perhaps she already knew she was dead. I didn’t know what I’d say if she mentioned The Old Man. ‘My sister’s name’s Angela,’ I said.

  ‘Does she live in England?’

  ‘She lives in London.’

  ‘Do you hear from her?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ I lied. ‘Look, we ought to hurry. The blokes’ll go crook if they have to wait too long.’

  At the homestead, I kept out of view behind the washing hanging on the line in the Missus’ vege garden while Gaylene collected the rest of the stuff. The Missus’ vegetables were yellow and stunted. I doubted the homestead garden would yield much that was edible, not like Joe’s thriving plants in the garden at the back of our quarters.

  On the way back to the woolshed, Gaylene seemed to understand my reluctance to talk about myself. She chatted about boarding school, her teachers, and friends.

  I wanted to catch every word she spoke in my hands and let them out a little at a time so that they would last.

  ‘Mum says you’re to come to the homestead at lunchtime for the next few days to help me carry everything over to the woolshed. Will that be all right?’

  It was more than all right.

  After a day’s shearing, the shearers settled for the evening in their quarters. One played a mouth organ, while the other sang. The sound drifted into our hut and Fergus said, ‘To be sure, grog oils the vocal cords. You don’t want to be joining them?’ Fergus himself looked as if he would like to join them, for the beer, if not the singing.

  ‘Not me. It stinks of sweat and farting in there,’ Joe replied.

  I recalled Mrs Dibble saying “fart” was a terrible word. She had only just managed to bring it to her lips, and then she had whispered it and blushed. She said you should say “windy” instead, and that it was all right for men to do “windies”. Women shouldn’t do them at all. It was funny I should remember that. At least it proved that I could bring some things I thought I’d forgotten to the front of my brain, even if others had evaporated.

  ‘Anyway, it ain’t right they’re allowed booze,’ Joe continued.

  ‘They’re shearers, and good shearers are worth the whole of the Emerald Isle. To be sure, it wouldn’t do to go upsetting them. For the time being, though, it’s safer not to go too near them when they’re like this.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘He means they’ve a liking for young boys, my word they have.’ Murray joined the conversation

  ‘The dirty … ’

  ‘Settle down, Ginger. You’re safe enough here.’

  Fergus arched his back. ‘By the saints, a day hauling sheep around plays havoc with the nether regions.’ He massaged his back and down to his legs. ‘Tell me, Tony, was that young Miss Downston with you walking across the paddock to the homestead?’

  ‘Blimey I must be going blind. I never saw you and that Gay Whatsername together.’ Joe’s interest seemed to make his freckles protrude.

  ‘She couldn’t get all the stuff to the woolshed in one go, so she asked me to help her.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘What’s she say?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Honestly, Tone, why d’you play your cards so close to your chest?’

  ‘We didn’t say much, that’s all. Anyway, what about you and Paul Downston? Why have you been toadying up to him lately?’

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘See, you’re doing the same. There must be a reason.’

  ‘The Paul Downstons of this world have their uses, that’s all.’

  The day was another of burnished sunshine as Gaylene and I walked through the paddock on our way to the woolshed with the lunchtime tucker. Suddenly, Gaylene stopped. ‘I made some scones for Mum this morning,’ she said. ‘I’ve brought one each for us. We’ll have to eat them before we get there, or the men will want to know where theirs are.’ We crept behind a flax bush and Gaylene delved into her basket and brought out a tin. It reminded me of Candlewax’s ointment tin, but when she took the lid off, it smelt of homemade baking. Gaylene offered me a scone. I took one and bit into it. Jam and cream squelched from the middle in a red and white frill.

  ‘Cream!’ I had only tasted cream once before – at Fred and Lori’s wedding. It was special for trifles and knickerbocker glories. Mrs Dibble made scones, but only ever with jam in them.

  ‘Your mother would go mad if she knew you’d brought me one of these.’ I pulled the scone apart and licked the jam and cream from each side. I let it settle on my tongue, trying to keep it from melting. When the jam and cream were gone, I began nibbling round the edges of the scone.

  ‘Actually, she suggested it.’

  ‘You mean she told you to bring me a scone with cream?’

  ‘She’s not that bad. She just seems fierce because she can’t smile or talk much. She had a stroke, you see, just after I was born. It affected her speech, but she likes you, honestly.’ Gaylene ran her tongue along her lower lip to lick off the jam. I found her lip-licking almost irresistible. When she had finished, she brushed crumbs from her skirt.

  ‘Mum finds looking after the house and all the cooking too much, especially at shearing time. When I’m on my school holidays I help her, even though she usually has a girl from the township. They don’t always stay, but there’s always more that need work, or … ’ she stopped abruptly. I was pretty sure she was going to say that there were always orphans from England, like me.

  A few weeks ago, Elsie suddenly disappeared. Murray said she’d probably been packed off because she was in the family way. It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened to one of the scullery maids, he said.

  ‘Mum said you were very bright, and she wanted to keep on teaching you. But Dad wouldn’t let her. You know what he’s like. It’s not easy for her, although he spoils me.’

  I hoped that didn’t mean he did the same things to her that he’d done to Elsie.

  If Downston were to catch us together he’d kill me, but when Gaylene ran her tongue over her top lip again, what Downston thought didn’t seem to matter.

  ‘Do you mind not going to school? I mean, would you like to?’ She asked.

  ‘I’ve been to school.’ I didn’t want Gaylene to think I’d had no education at all. ‘In London I went to Blountmere Street Junior School. Angela goes to Grigham.’ I left out Road and Secondary School, because I wanted it
to sound posh. Of course I had no idea what school Angela went to or if, like me, she didn’t go to school at all. It was more likely she was at work now.

  ‘So you were sent here instead. Do you like it?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s all right.’ I knew I should sound more positive, but Gaylene didn’t appear to notice.

  ‘Come on, we’d better get this over to the men, or we’ll be in trouble.’ The butterfly girl flitted from behind the flax.

  The heat of the day lingered into the evening and Joe lent on his hoe, surveying a row of lettuces in his garden. Joe’s garden was so established, it seemed as if it had always been there.

  ‘You’re still having a lot to do with Paul Downston,’ I said. How Joe could be pals with Paul was beyond my understanding, especially after all he’d said when Paul had all but knocked out my teeth. Anyway, Joe hated arrogant, stuck up people.

  ‘Not really.’ Joe began hoeing. ‘At any rate he’s coming round to my way of thinking.’

  Every successive day, the ground became drier and harder and the mountains had practically disappeared into the distance. Wool bales filled the shed, piled to the roof. The shearers had said that another day should do it. The one with more hair on his body than his head, who for some reason was known as Curly, slurred that the Boss was sitting on a goldmine. He called me Rousie, and said wool was fetching a high price, and to make sure the Boss gave me a bonus.

  ‘You think about it, Rousie. Clever bloke like you should be able to persuade the Boss,’ he said, hardly moving his mouth.

  But Gaylene Downston was all I could think about. Some days, Blountmere Street, like the mountains, seemed to have receded from view.

  With only one day left to carry the men’s tucker together, Gaylene and I lingered over our time walking across the paddock from the homestead.

  ‘I often wonder what you do over there in your quarters,’ Gaylene said, the wind blowing her skirt into a swirl of colour.

  ‘Joe reads his seed packets and books about gardening.’ I left out his recent obsession with studying form. ‘Murray messes around cleaning up and reading the paper, and Fergus and I read anything Fergus brings back from the library. Mainly…’ All at once, I wanted to measure the distance our friendship had come. ‘Mainly, we read poetry. We like to read it aloud.’ I waited for her response.

  ‘Who’s your favourite poet?’ She didn’t look surprised, or seem to think it was sissy.

  ‘I don’t know if I’ve got one particular favourite. I like some of the First World War poets, but then I like Browning and well … lots of others as well.’ I hoped I didn’t sound a show off. ‘I don’t know much about it. I just like reading it and listening to Fergus read it.’

  ‘Will you read some to me?’

  I didn’t know if I’d get the opportunity, but I replied, ‘If you want me to.’

  I was still thinking about reading Gaylene Downston poetry as I passed the shearers’ quarters on my way from the long drop that evening. At first, I didn’t see Curley propped against the doorway. As I passed, he caught hold of my arm. ‘Where you going, boy?’ he asked. ‘Pretty, with all that hair.’ He ran his hand up my neck. At the same time, he pushed me through the door and into the shearer’s quarters. I tried to pull away from him.

  ‘I’ve got to go. I … ’

  ‘Not so fast.’ Curly pulled me towards him. ‘Much too pretty to go to waste. Get that bonus, did you?’

  ‘Get off me.’ I struggled to free myself, but he easily overpowered me. ‘Get him off me,’ I urged the other shearer who was in his usual propped position on his bunk. But his mouth curled into a lazy smile.

  ‘Come to me, pretty boy,’ Curley drawled. His breath was rank, the hair on his body was sticky with sweat and lanolin.

  ‘Joe! Fergus! Murray! Help me,’ I yelled.

  ‘They won’t hear yer.’ Curley’s breath came in short spurts.

  ‘Get off me. Get your hands off me.’

  But Curly had a strong grip .

  ‘Help me,’ I implored the other shearer, but he stayed where he was, still smiling.

  Suddenly a hard slap caused the shearer’s head to slump forward. He sagged to his knees, making a gurgling sound in his throat.

  I hadn’t realized Murray had entered the hut, or that he was so strong and at the same time agile.

  ‘I’ll kill you if you lay a hand on the boy again.’ Murray dragged the shearer to a bunk and flung him on to it.

  ‘You’d better watch yer mate!’ Murray ordered the other shearer. ‘And make sure you keep your own filthy hands off both the boys.’ Murray’s anger made his voice sound strange.

  ‘You threatening me?’ The other shearer sneered.

  ‘I’m telling you, keep away from them or I swear I’ll murder the two of you’s. Come on, boy, let’s get away from this place.’ Murray practically carried me out and into the freshest air I’d ever breathed.

  To my relief, the shearers packed up and left the next day.

  Murray and Fergus were busy with the clean up, leaving Joe and me alone in our quarters.

  Joe pulled his orphanage suitcase from under the bed. He struggled with the rusty catches, opened it, and pulled out the handkerchief he’d found on the quay at Wellington when we’d first arrived. It was marked with an H in one corner. He lifted the sacking from the window and checked to make sure Fergus and Murray weren’t around. Then he unfolded the handkerchief and placed a five pound note into it. ‘Keep your mouth shut about this,’ he warned me.

  ‘Where did you get it from?’

  ‘Somebody.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It don’t matter. Someone who got into a bit of trouble.’

  ‘Come on, Joe, we never keep secrets from each other.’ It wasn’t true. I hadn’t told him about Curley. Murray said it was best kept between the two of us. That was where I intended to keep it. The shame flamed inside me like a burnt-off paddock, leaving me feeling blackened and ugly.

  ‘I told you he’d come in handy one day, didn’t I?’

  ‘Paul Downston? You got the money from Paul Downston. How?’

  ‘I found out he’d got himself into a bit of trouble.’

  ‘What sort of trouble?”

  ‘If you really want to know, when we were staying at the homestead, I had a bit of a nosey. You’ve got to take your chances when you can. Anyhow, I came across a few things that pointed to the fact the Boss’ boy had got himself into a bit of strife with a girl.’ Joe winked.

  ‘How come the Missus didn’t find out when she cleaned his room?’

  ‘He had the evidence hidden like the blinkin’ Crown Jewels, but I had this feeling, like I do with the gee gees.’

  ‘So that’s why you’ve been … ’

  ‘Toadying to him? Too right. I wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole otherwise.’

  ‘So why did he give you the money?’

  ‘Use your loaf.’ Joe tapped his head with his forefinger. ‘I told him I’d grass on him to his old man if he didn’t give me a tenner.’

  ‘Ten pounds!’ The Gang might have threatened to squeal on a kid for some of Old Boy Barker’s special mix, even a packet of fags, but ten pounds!

  ‘Where did he get the money?’

  ‘I don’t care where he got it, though I reckon it came from the same place as the cash to pay the girl off: his uncle on the West Coast.’

  Joe rummaged in his pocket and brought out another five pound note. ‘Here’s your half.’ He handed it to me. ‘Share and share alike. A fiver each.’

  ‘But it’s blackmail.’

  ‘D’you want it, or don’t you?’

  I took the money and stuffed it in my pocket. When the time was right, I’d still ask the Boss for a bonus. I deserved it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I felt round my chin for the hairs that had begun growing on it. I wondered whether I should ask Murray if I could borrow his razor. Joe said he couldn’t see any bum fuzz and not to be so daft. ‘Since you’ve becom
e keen on that Gay Whatsername, you’ve done nothing but worry about your looks,’ he said.

  It wasn’t only what I looked like that concerned me. Without warning, my voice could alternate from a growl to a squeak. Fergus said I was becoming a man, and laughed.

  One blazing day followed another, and we all had our Sunday bath outside behind the bushes. Joe was, as usual, the last to have his. When he finished, he poured the remainder of the water onto his garden where the scum left a grey residue.

  ‘Are you going to help me or stand there stroking your chin all night? What’re you trying to do? Rub hairs on to it, or get rid of the ones you reckon you’ve already got?’

  Due to Joe’s philosophy to “waste not, want not”, the garden wasn’t only vibrant with colour but crammed with vegetable plants; healthy ones at that. Hardly a drop of liquid in our quarters went to waste. If I didn’t watch over my cup of tea, even before I’d taken the first sip, Joe had the cup in his hand to throw over some plant or the other. I had to admit, Joe’s veges improved the nightly boil-up. Ang and I used to make shuddery sounds and refuse to eat the vegetables Mum put on our plates.

  ‘The veges’ll be good for Christmas,’ Joe scraped the ladle along the bottom of the bath, causing me to grit my teeth. ‘It’ll be here soon,’ he continued. ‘We’ll have to get Murray to tell us what’s in the shops. It’ll be no good asking Fergus. He’ll be knocking them back at the The Travellers.’

  ‘Why d’you want to know?’ I asked. We never took any notice of Christmas. There didn’t seem much point when it was like any other day, except that in this upside down land, it was in the summer. ‘There aren’t many shops in the township, Fergus says.’

  Joe swiped at a fly. ‘Don’t matter. They’ll be something, and now we’ve got some dough, we can buy presents. I told you having a bit behind you would make a difference, didn’t I?’

  ‘But we’re not allowed off the farm.’

  ‘We’ll have to ask Murray to get them for us.’

  ‘That’s daft. Murray and Fergus are the only people we’ll be buying presents for, except something for each other.’