Painter opened his tobacco tin and took a cigarette he had rolled earlier. Put it in his mouth and lit it. ‘You’ll be right boss.’ Painter looked at his wristwatch. ‘We better get back to work but. Last run and bills to pay.’
Drysdale turned to go then stopped and raised a finger as if he had just remembered something else. ‘I heard back from Abraham Smith. He’s camped outside of Gungurra in that bashed-up blue Vauxhall of his. Said he would clean up that female dingo today.’
‘Righto boss.’
‘And I’ll send Clara down tomorrow to help in the shed. She is a capable girl. Can throw a full wool fleece, she was shown how.’
Painter said nothing as he reached his stand and wiped his face with a towel. He stepped forward and opened the catching-pen door.
‘Hello there my lovely,’ he said to the sheep. ‘I’m here to cut your stupid fucking head off.’
CHAPTER 23
When she had cleaned his wound she stood and circled him, pissed and returned to the remains of her kill. He rose and touched his wounded leg to the ground, put weight on it and lifted it again. He hopped to where she had pissed and smelled the ground. Tried to urinate and almost fell over as he lifted his sound back leg. She paused from the chewing of ribs and watched him. This almost male almost fool of a young dog falling over himself attempting to piss where she had pissed.
She ignored him and went back to eating. He came to her and put his needy muzzle close to her mouth. She paused and watched him, her lips began to curl, she growled and the hair on her back rose.
His long pup tongue licked out towards her as he whimpered.
She waited and then she stopped growling. Something in her relaxed and after a while she stood up. He lay at her feet. Belly flat in the ground. Back leg extended, the shot leg. The only movement short, nervous wags of his tail.
She closed her mouth and moved a few feet away to place her paw on the shank of the back leg of the mutton and begin to chew on the gristle. Looked at him to accept her invitation. The adolescent dingo rose and began to eat the ribs of the hogget she had left him. His sharp glances to check for her approval as he was stripping away shreds of dark red meat with his middle teeth. It was not so long since his milk teeth had fallen out. She did not care about that. Her approval came in the form of ignoring him. Allowing him to eat. Allowing him to remain.
It was later that afternoon when he came to where she was sleeping and woke her by making a whining noise and licking at her nose again. It was as he would have woken his mother.
She growled at him, showed her teeth. He backed away and after a moment his tail lifted, he pushed a front leg towards her. Another front leg and he turned his snout and made a feinting motion. Lifted his backside in the air, still favouring his wounded leg, but now he dipped his head, raised it, panting. Flirtatious. Made a playful advance, licked at her face with a long tongue. Retreated and gave a pup bark.
She raised her nose and ignored him, a mother’s tolerance as he tumbled and fooled. He yelped, putting too much weight on his injured leg and her head turned quickly towards him. His attention changed then. He lay and began to slowly lick at the torn pads of his other feet.
It was not long after this they heard the sounds of a motor. The youngster’s tail shot between his legs and he crawled to the shelter of a blue bush. The motor was revving and she heard the crack and graunch of a door opening.
The bitch looked up and the sky had already turned black. She had not heard the shot.
CHAPTER 24
‘Son.’ Painter called out to Lew, who was filling the Ferrier press with rolled fleeces.
‘Yeah?’
‘Goin’ back to the cookhouse to get our lunch. Be back soon, all right?’
Lew climbed into the press, began pushing wool into the corners with his feet. ‘Painter?’
Painter paused. ‘Yep?’
‘You ever been in love mate?’
‘What?’
‘Been in love, y’know?’ Lew kept pressing down on the wool, looking at his feet as he did this. ‘Ever been in love?’
‘You still thinking about that Maureen at the beach? The war widow?’
‘No. Not really. I was thinking about how old man Drysdale doesn’t know what’s what with his wife dying. He must have loved her a lot. Y’know?’
Painter looked at him. ‘I been in love,’ he said.
‘Any good?’
Painter wiped his mouth and face. Sniffed. His hands touching his pockets, searching for the tobacco tin. ‘No.’
Lew stood still in the wool press and looked at Painter. ‘No good?’
‘No.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure. We better eat.’
‘Yep.’ Lew stood in the press.
‘You keep working. I’ll be back soon.’ Painter turned and walked out the shed.
When he returned he was carrying a large billycan in one hand and a teapot in the other. Two mugs hung from his fingers. Three enamel plates with high sides, spoons and a brown paper bag with slices of bread balanced on his forearms.
Lew was standing in the doorway, taking some fresh air. More wool bales, pressed, sewn and stencilled, stacked up against a wall. A curved bale hook protruded. ‘What is it?’ He nodded to the billy.
‘The rest of the roo-tail soup.’ Painter said. ‘It’s turned into more of a stew now, thickened up good. Jimmy made some dumplings to go with it.’
‘Clara’s pretty fond of that little joey I give her,’ Lew said.
Painter looked at him. ‘And we are eatin’ Mum’s tail. In here. What did she call it again?’
‘Gwen.’ Lew studied Painter for a moment. ‘Would you eat Gwen?’
‘Would I eat the nyarnyee Gwen?’
‘Yeah.’
Painter laughed. ‘For breakfast.’ He was looking for somewhere to put the utensils he was holding. ‘With eggs. You know I shore for a landowner once who used to give his kids a pet lamb to raise when they born. The children give them names like Snowy or Topsy, y’know? Round July August. Orphaned lambs y’know?’
Lew nodded.
‘And the kids would raise up the lamb. Name them, feed ’em with a bottle.’ Painter put the billy, plates and cups on a wool bale. ‘You see how those lambs shake their tails when the kids feed ’em a bottle?’
Lew laughed. ‘I have.’
‘And then come Christmas time this boss would make sure the family, the kids eat the pet lamb for lunch.’
‘The Christmas lunch? Turn it up Painter,’ Lew said.
‘Yep. The pet lamb with the darling name and the little waggling tail for lunch. Merry Christmas kids. We eatin’ Snowy with the potatoes and mint sauce. Topsy’s good with a bit of gravy.’ Painter began to spoon the stew into the plates. Lumps of meat on the bone and potato, carrots. ‘The boss said not to get attached to the meat on the table.’ He sat on the bale, touched his forehead, closed his eyes and whispered grace, picked up a spoon and ate. Made a noise of appreciation. Took a slice of buttered bread. ‘That Jimmy can make a decent loaf, I’ll give him that; butter too.’
Lew was silent. He did not know what to say and his mouth felt as broken as the day Maureen O’Reilly had asked him his name and her mother called out to her, who is it?
Painter look
ed up at Lew and then indicated the plate on which he had piled the kangaroo-tail stew. ‘It’s good son. Eat.’ He picked up a tail joint and sucked the meat from the bone.
Lew lifted his spoon and began to eat. Thought he’d be all right.
Painter nodded. ‘That landowner had a terrible temper but.’
Lew poured them both a mug of tea. ‘He did?’
‘I saw him in the shed once with a dog that took a hen. It wasn’t the first time this dog had chicken for Sunday dinner if you know what I mean.’
Lew nodded. ‘They reckon once a dog gets a taste for chooks they can’t stop.’
‘Well this boss cocky, he dragged the dog in. Had him on a short chain and he took to hitting the dog on the head with the body of the dead chook, y’know? I’ll stop you, he said to the poor bloody dog.’
Lew sipped his tea as Painter continued.
‘He was holding the dead chook by the feet and he kept hitting the dog over the head with the body of the hen. Y’know?’ Painter drank his tea and between waving his hand back and forth in imitation. ‘Feathers started flying. He must have hit this poor dog two hundred times. And between each blow he would say, Don’t. Eat. The fuckin’. Chooks.’
Lew was staring a few feet in front and nodding. He was smiling too because it seemed funny and he knew this was what Painter wanted from him. Him smiling at the story.
‘He just kept hitting it. Blood and feathers, chook guts all over the dog’s head. In the end all he was holding was two wrinkly little feet. You know the chook feet son? Got the claws on the end.’
‘Yeah Painter, I know what chook feet look like.’
Painter drank his tea, laughed and made an affirming noise. Wiped his mouth and chin with a hand. ‘Anyway, that’s the same bloke who made his kids eat their pet lambs for Christmas dinner. Snowy and Topsy.’
‘Same bloke?’
Painter nodded. ‘Same bloke.’
‘Who was it killed the lambs? Cut their throats?’
Painter looked up at him. ‘Oh he did, cut them up too. Their mum put them in the oven. Roast pumpkin, potatoes. She made the mint sauce. ’
‘Jesus Painter.’
‘I know son. You wouldn’t wear this cunt as a brooch would you?’
‘How did the kids turn out?’
Painter gathered the plates and spoons. Laid them on top of each other. Shrugged. ‘Dunno. Who gives a fuck how they turned out? But that dog didn’t take any more chooks, I heard that.’
CHAPTER 25
Blood streaming down her face she ran. The shot had grazed her skull just in front of the ears and the young dog ran with her. He couldn’t keep up but was doing his best on three legs. In his effort he was whining between every breath, every bounding leap to stay near her. Another shot; passing over them. It cut through the bush and, as it struck the wood, the dogs careered away at right angles. Yet another shot. This one landing about ten yards behind them. A fizzing smack as it hit the ground.
She did not know that when she was first hit she had simply sprinted at full speed for two hundred yards and dropped. Rolled over. Jumped and spun around as if bitten on the face by a snake. Threw herself over in a circle and then began to run again.
Old man Abraham Smith watched.
Children, he thought, sometimes children somersault when a heavy calibre takes them. They like scattering birds. He wiped his face with one hand. Seen a lubra do the same thing, shot through the head yet run like that bitch there, covered the hundred yards before she dropped, did a performance at the end.
The young dog heard him clearing his throat and remembered the terrifying sound and the sense of him. The hot smell of the shooting and the death of all his known family and he ran again for his life.
Abraham raised his chin to lift his white beard over his forearm and leaned across the roof of the blue car. Thumbed back the brim of his hat. His elbows braced. Aimed and squeezed off another shot. This shot passed over them. He opened and closed the bolt. He fired again, lowering his sights; the shot fell short and then they were gone. Again he opened the bolt of the Lee Enfield .303 to extract the spent shell casing. Removed the magazine and closed the bolt on an empty chamber. Put the magazine in his pocket.
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.
Coming Rain Page 10
