Coming Rain

by Stephen Daisley

  She took the joey and glanced at him. Put her hand into the blanket and felt between its legs. ‘It’s a her.’ Wiped her hand on the blanket, blinked. ‘A girl. What happened? How did you get her?’ She laughed.

  ‘Last night,’ Lew shrugged. ‘This one’s mother jumped in front of the truck. You see what she did to it.’

  The men looked at the truck.

  Clara frowned. ‘No.’ Stroked the baby kangaroo between the eyes. ‘I should call you Mercy. But I think Gwen is better. Gwennie it is.’

  Painter and John Drysdale came over and looked at the bundle in her arms. She held it and showed it like her own child. ‘Meet Gwen, Dad; Gwen meet Dad. Mr Hayes have you seen little Gwennie?’

  ‘Have I ever,’ he said. Lew shot him a hard look.

  Drysdale grumbled and patted Painter on the back. Spoke to Clara. ‘Better let the boys settle in to their quarters. I killed a sheep for them. It’s hanging in the cool room.’

  Painter was rolling a smoke. ‘Good good but we’re right for tonight’s dinner. I’m making a soup,’ he said and looked at Lew. ‘Any spuds, boss?’

  ‘There is a sack of potatoes. Some cabbage and onions,’ he said. ‘I’ll get Jimmy to bring you some fresh bread. Fruit preserves. He has butter too, fresh made from that little Jersey house cow. Velvet he calls her.’

  ‘Jimmy?’ Painter asked. ‘Who is Jimmy?’

  ‘Jimmy Wong. He is old Chung’s nephew, you remember Chung? Jimmy come down from Broome when his uncle went home. Bloody good cook and gardener. General hand about the place. Y’know.’

  Painter nodded. ‘I liked old Chung. Used to be a miner too didn’t he?’

  ‘He did. Found a small vein at Thompson’s Find I believe, when it ran out he worked for the old man. Started as a laundryman. Place ran a lot more head in those days and the old man reckoned the blacks were useless around the place.’ He glanced at Clara. ‘Do you think, Clara, you could give us a moment?’

  Lew saw a shadow pass over her face. She stared at her father and waited a moment before she nodded. ‘Yes, of course. I beg your pardon.’ She walked across to Lew and held the bundle containing the baby kangaroo out to him. ‘Here, hand this up to me would you please Mr McCleod? In a moment, once I’m up.’ She retrieved Tom’s reins, stepped into the stirrup and swung into the saddle. ‘Righto.’

  Lew passed the blanket carrying Gwen up to her. She nodded to him. Cradled the blanket. ‘Pearl’s lead Mr McCleod?’

  She took the lead from him and sat for a moment, looking at each of the men.

  ‘Excuse me Dad, Mr Hayes and Mr McCleod. I had better get back to the house. Thank you for little Gwen here Mr McCleod, that was so thoughtful of you. Dad, I’ll see you at tea?’ Kicked the gelding on. The left-behind dogs had stood and were watching her; some of them whined. Clara turned in the saddle and spoke to the dogs. ‘That will do. Quiet now. I’ll be back for you.’

  ‘Hasn’t really been herself since her mother,’ Drysdale said. ‘Her mother would have delighted for an armful of that joey you blokes brought here. They would have laughed over it together. What to feed her. What hat to wear.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll never get over it. She explains things to the bloody dogs. I’ll be back. Lord, as if the dog knows. That will do?’

  She had ridden away towards the homestead. The air was hot and bright. After a bit it was as if she was floating above the ground.

  ‘A fine daughter Mr Drysdale.’ Painter said. ‘You must be very proud.’

  ‘Capable,’ Drysdale said, looked at Painter. ‘Image of her mother. Same school y’know, those girls.’

  Painter closed his eyes as Drysdale spoke again. ‘But too many dogs. She keeps too many damn dogs.’

  ‘You probably right boss. Too many dogs.’

  CHAPTER 12

  The dingo bitch was standing beside the highway. Thin long white rectangles marked the centre of the road. She looked west where the men had come from and then east where they had gone.

  Almost a photograph, a painting: a solitary dingo standing beside the metal road that stretched into the shimmering distance. Heat waves in both directions made the horizons indistinguishable. No clouds, the sky enclosing the land for as far as you could see. Enclosing her. The enormous sun, sister, was the fire and the light, impossible to look at. It would blind her, she knew.

  She sniffed the road and placed a front paw on the hot metal stone. Raised it, took it back, and studied the other side. Whined then and retreated into the run-off hollow beside the road. She ignored the scattered detritus and crossed into the cover of karrik bush. Began to trot in the direction the men and nyarnyee had gone. East to moon rising, sun rising.

  Fresh water springs along the way to the place her clan had always gone to whelp. Old hunting lines in the river courses and rocks; layers of dry caves and shelter. A place to get water and meat and she would not have to cross the road. The demon crows followed her.

  CHAPTER 13

  The shearers quarters, a pair of long corrugated-iron buildings joined by covered breezeways, facing north and with wide verandas. The ceilings were high and the rooftops had double hip gables with hinged skylights in every room to let the heat out, the light in. Cedar lilac trees along the west side ensured shade in the summer afternoons and later, when they shed their leaves, sun in winter.

  Five dormitories ran off from the breezeways, each large enough to sleep eight. At one end of the quarters a cookhouse, and at the other an ablutions block with hand-operated Simac pumps, Baird showers, baths and washing tubs. Four galvanised and two wooden scrub boards hanging along a wall. Cracked yellow blocks of Sunlight soap and pale wooden duckboards.

  Outside the washhouse, covered water tanks with galvanised pipes positioned from the gutter lines to the top of the tank to catch winter rainfall. Clothes lines, wire strung between poles, wooden pegs in a wire basket. About ten yards from the back door of the washhouse, three narrow outhouses, also made of corrugated iron, whitewashed doors propped open to air and to indicate they were unoccupied. Inside the long drops, a wooden seat with the pear-shaped hole cut into it. A spike to hold squares of newsprint on one wall and a bucket of quicklime with a ladle on the other. Graffiti on the walls written in pencil, blue and red raddle chalk sticks. Names and initials. Comic figures of genitalia; women’s breasts; the results of the 1947 Melbourne Cup. Hiraji, Fresh Boy, Red Fury. And: Go you grey bastard you 12 to 1. £60 12 /- 6d. Somebody had written: I wish I was in Bendigo. Underneath: I wish I was in Lana Turner. A path along the front, edged with white rocks. A hand-painted sign: dunnys and an arrow.

  They drove the truck up to the front of the quarters and got out. Painter walked up the steps onto the veranda carrying his swag over his shoulder, canvas carry bag in the other hand. Lew followed, also with his rolled swag on his shoulder. Both wearing hats pushed back and identical in walk, the cast of their bodies. Painter’s leather-heeled boots on the boards. Lew, barefoot with bowyangs. Dust rising.

  They found rooms opposite one other and unrolled the old kapok mattresses onto the wire and iron bed frames. Returned to the truck and carried in two boxes of supplies for the kitchen.

  Painter had wrapped the kangaroo tail in a towel. He sniffed it and laid it across a large butchers block in the corner of the cookhouse. Nodded and took a Green River skinning knife from the box of supplies. Found a steel and began to sharpen t
he knife. ‘Smells good this tail Lew,’ he said. ‘Better for a day. Sweeter the meat.’

  He stopped sharpening the knife and cleaned the block using white vinegar. Tested the knife with his thumb, laid the tail out across the block and drew the blade along the length of it. The skin lifted. Almost no fat, just dark red meat and white ridges of bone; some cartilage. He ran his thumb along the underside of the skin and peeled it back. Took a handful of the skin and pulled it from the tail meat. It came away with a dry, tearing sound.

  ‘I need some flour and lard son. Salt and pepper.’ He dropped the skin into a bucket next to the block, wiped the blade clean. Took a meat cleaver and chopped through the joint cartilage, separating the tail into eight pieces. ‘Always spare the tip of a roo’s tail for good luck.’ Painter said. ‘Like the parson’s nose on a chook. Some call this the governor’s cock.’ Painter flashed him a smile, repeating what he said, almost in explanation. ‘The governor’s cock.’ Wiped his hands. ‘The old ticket of leave boys told me that story.’

  ‘You told me that before,’ Lew said.

  ‘You want to get that underway?’ Painter looked at a blue-green Metters Number One stove. Next to it a large wooden box filled with kindling and three small blocks of wood in a wall recess. ‘Need to cut some more wood too by the look of it.’

  Lew found some newspaper in a cardboard box, screwed three or four sheets into loose balls, fed them into the grate along with some kindling. Lit it and soon had the fire going. He placed his hand on the stovetop, waited and took it off. Smoke began seeping out of the chimney vent into the kitchen.

  Painter was peeling onions. He looked at Lew with an expression asking what is it?

  Lew checked the air-vent setting. Opened the stove’s fire door. Smoke billowed into the kitchen and he quickly closed it.

  Painter coughed. Wiped his eyes.

  Lew opened the windows, ran outside and stepped up on the bonnet of the truck. Hauled himself onto the corrugated-iron roof and disappeared.

  When he got back to the kitchen, Painter had washed out the sink and filled it with water from the tank. He dropped the onions in the water. The smoke had cleared and the clean fire smell of the stove had begun to fill the room.

  ‘Birds’ nests in the flues.’

  Painter nodded to him as he continued preparing the food. ‘Bring in some more wood son. And make sure that Coolgardie safe is cleaned out and set up.’ Indicated with his chin the square box with hessian sides on the bench near a window.

  Lew picked up the safe and took it out onto the veranda. Gathered some water from the tank and poured it into the flat galvanised tray on top of the safe. He soaked strips of cotton and laid these down the sides over the hessian-covered wire mesh. Carried the Coolgardie safe to the shaded south corner of the veranda, and stood it where it would have best access to any breeze.

  He found the woodpile and began to split the larger blocks. The steady rise and fall of the axe; the clean snap of the blade and the split. How, he often thought, he was the only one ever to have seen the pattern of the wood. The axe rose and fell, chips flew, and the smell of the dormant resin came up from the split eucalyptus. His shoulders worked and he felt the ache and pressure across his back from the spinal connective muscles. He had once spent eleven and six on a copy of Gray’s Anatomy from a secondhand bookshop in Claremont. The fine line drawings fascinated but the names meant nothing. Splenius capitas; lumbodorsal fascia. Words that excluded, and he became content with you are just a shearer, you idiot, what do you expect? Keep going, Painter had laughed at him, saying don’t worry mate, it’ll be all right in the morning.

  After about twenty minutes he stopped. Sweat was running freely and there was enough firewood for now. He gathered up an armful and carried it towards the cookhouse.

  The smell of frying onions and meat as Lew came in. He took the wood to the stove, bent and stacked the split blocks neatly in the wall recess. Checked the stove, added another two lengths and closed the firebox.

  Painter replaced the lid of the camp oven and lifted it to the top of the stove. ‘That’s just the go son, fry the tail meat and onions first. Bring it to the boil and about an hour, we’ll be right. Don’t forget plenty of salt.’ He bent and checked the fire in the wood stove. ‘Two hours better.’ Crossed back to the water tank and filled a kettle, placed it next to the camp oven on the stovetop. Lew handed him a tin. Tea written on the side in paint.

  Someone with an accent called out hey roo in there, a gentle knocking on the kitchen door as it swung open. A small man with baggy blue shorts, a white singlet, cropped black hair and a big smile stepped into the room. He was carrying a bloodstained flour sack, a wire basket of eggs and a cut-down wooden box containing loaves of bread and jars of peaches, red peeled plums in water. Light of the Age Water White American Kerosene stencilled in blue letters on the side of the box.

  He started laughing. ‘Gidday,’ he said to Painter, ‘mate.’

  They both stared at him. After a minute, Painter nodded. ‘You must be Jimmy.’

  ‘Yeah mate. Jimmy Wong.’ Laughed as if everything he heard was hilarious. ‘I come from Malaya, Perak State. Jungle Jim, Ipoh, you know it? To Broome. Then Uncle Chung he goes home to family in Ipoh and I come here.’

  They continued to look at him. Painter seemed to be frozen, his hands still.

  ‘Mr John sent me over with this supplies.’ He laughed yet again. ‘You know Ipoh? Mining town. Tin. Big dredges.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Lew said, his hands in the flour sack. Brought out one hand full of kidneys, a lamb’s liver in the other.

  ‘You know Ipoh?’ Jimmy repeated, stared at Painter, a smile frozen on his face.

  ‘No. I don’t know Ipoh,’ Painter said. ‘No.’ He had not taken his eyes off Jimmy.

  Jimmy laughed. ‘Good good.’

  ‘Go on keep laughing,’ Painter said and pointed at him. ‘Like you got no fuckin’ brains. Ask me if I know Ipoh again, go on you chink cunt.’

  ‘Hold on now mate,’ Lew said and stepped forward. ‘Cut it out.’

  Jimmy stopped laughing, stared at the bread and box of fruit preserves for a few moments. His chin lifted. ‘I won’t ask again OK?’

  Painter nodded. ‘Good. Well we cleared that up then.’ A smile lifted his top lip. He waited a moment, put his knuckles flat on the table and bowed his head. ‘Here we all are then. Never mind eh Jimmy? You can’t help it.’ He held his broken nose between his fingers and sniffed. Felt about between his eyes. Put a thumb against what was left of his left nostril and blew green snot out onto the floor.

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  Jimmy looked at the floor. His face contorted. Then he looked up at Lew and waved his hand in a farewell or denial gesture.

  Painter was grim faced. He winked. ‘I’m getting on a bit.’

  ‘I go now. Dinner for Mr John, Miss Clara. See you.’

  Lew raised a hand and stepped forward. ‘Righto Jimmy,’ he said. ‘Thanks mate.’ Look at me not at him. Pointed an index finger to the side of his head.

  Jimmy turned away quickly. ‘OK, OK. I bring you more tomorrow. Cook. Okey dokey.’

  They were quiet as they heard his feet on the outside veranda and the rattle of a bicycle.

  Lew stepped to the kitchen window and watched as Jimmy rode up the looping gravel track that led to the trees surrounding the homestead. He c
ould see the terracotta tiles of the roof. Long trails of wisteria vines and two redbrick chimneys. Jimmy was standing up and leaning forward as he pedalled. His white singlet and baggy blue shorts, Bombay bloomers. Brown sandals on his feet.

  ‘This bread is still warm,’ Painter said. ‘There’s butter too.’ He was standing with his back to Lew at the table, holding a loaf. ‘Fresh-made butter this bloke.’

  Lew turned from the window. ‘How come you had a go at Jimmy there mate?’

  Painter was spreading the butter on a slice with the same butchers knife he had cut the bread with. Concentrating on his task. Ate the buttered bread. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Painter,’ Lew said.

  ‘He is a fuckin’ Celestial son.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Chinese.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Painter said. ‘Laughs instead of saying what he thinks.’

  ‘Jesus cut it out mate. That’s not our go.’

  Painter was quiet for a bit as he continued to eat the bread. Because he had no teeth, he had to tear the crusts off. ‘When I was a kid, son.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When I was a kid in North Perth, I did some runnin’ for Baldy Reid, bread delivery bloke. He had the Loftus and Walcott streets run.’

  Lew, staring at him.

  Painter continued to speak. ‘Horse and cart. Paddy was the name of the horse and old Baldy’d be talking to the housewives with his white shirtsleeves rolled up. It was morning missus hello good morning. There I was running about like a blue arse fly, dodging the number 38 tram coming down Loftus Street while he was talking to the wives with his folded arms, calling out orders to me from the side of he’s mouth…one of white and half of brown and how’s the baby Mrs Jones? Big smile he had. Not too many teeth.’