The Woolgrower's Companion

by Joy Rhoades

  ‘It’s important, Mr McGintey, that I know.’ She surprised herself.

  His face grew serious. ‘About £6,000.’

  Kate gasped. Was this the overdraft money? A small farm could be had for less than that.

  ‘He paid cash, you know, Mrs Dowd. Quite took us by surprise. We’d not seen that amount before.’

  ‘And second-hand, Mr McGintey? What would the stone be worth? About the same as new? It’s never been … worn, as it were.’

  He looked at her with new respect. ‘That’s right. They don’t fluctuate too much in value, uncut stones.’

  ‘What does it look like?’ There were sapphire mines around Longhope, so she’d seen a few. ‘Like the one in my ring?’

  ‘No, no, my dear.’ The old man laughed. ‘It’s bigger, about the size of a hen’s egg, I recall, and rough, of course. Uncut. Here, I’ll show you.’ He shuffled to the cabinet at the side of the room and used a key on a chain from his pocket to open it.

  ‘Sapphires,’ he said, tipping the contents of another soft chamois bag onto the tray between them. Seven stones tumbled across the velvet, rough with jagged edges and unusual colours, some dark greens and dark blues, and even one of a pale honey colour. They varied; the smallest, a blue, was grape-like, and the biggest, a green one, the size of a small bird’s egg.

  ‘These are washed, of course. Rinsed to get the dirt off.’ Mr McGintey picked through the stones with his tweezers.

  ‘Here you are,’ he said, holding up the honey-coloured stone. ‘This is a yellow, the same colour as your father bought. This one’s smaller, of course. And yellows are among the rarest.’

  He passed the tweezers to her, and Kate peered at the gem. It looked just like a smoky pebble or smoothed broken glass. It was about the size of a sheep’s eye and on one edge it was smooth, like a piece of quartz rolled over and over for an age in a running creek.

  Kate held the sapphire up. Shafts of deep yellow light ran through it, the colour of sunlight. When she set it back down, it became a pebble like the others.

  She stared at the stone. ‘It could be anywhere,’ she said.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Dowd?’

  ‘Anywhere,’ she repeated, unconcerned with the odd look the old man gave her. ‘It could be anywhere on Amiens.’

  CHAPTER 11

  A ewe separated from its lamb in the yards or elsewhere shall seek tirelessly to return to it.

  THE WOOLGROWER’S COMPANION, 1906

  Friday in Sydney dragged for Kate, as she killed time waiting for the train home on Saturday, made all the worse knowing that Jack was only a matter of miles away at the Army camp at Kogarah. But he might as well have been on Mars: no leave, that was clear. With all these hours to fill, in the end she’d taken herself off on foot to the Royal Botanic Gardens, and had spent the day there, trying to looking at roses and shrubs, thinking how much her mother would have enjoyed it. But her thoughts returned again and again to Amiens, Canali and the sapphire.

  By the time the train pulled into Longhope station on the Saturday afternoon, Kate was itching to get off, ready well before it would come to a stop under its dirty blanket of smoke and steam. She was anxious about what might have happened while she was away, keen to ask her father about the sapphire.

  First things first. Something had to be done about Canali. She pushed at a bobby pin escaping from her hair, then searched her handbag for the war bonds flyer a VA had pressed on her at the CWA hostel. Folding the flyer to have the writing on the inside, she put it on top of her handbag and scanned outside for Grimes’s distinctive blue shirt. It looked like he’d come to collect her alone, thankfully.

  She got down into the remains of steam and smoke, and Grimes nodded a greeting at her from under his eyebrows.

  ‘All well at Amiens?’ she asked as they walked towards the truck.

  ‘I reckon. Not seen mucha y’father. An he gimme no cheque this week.’

  ‘For the pay?’ That wasn’t good. ‘No problem with Canali?’

  ‘No. The pay’s the ruddy thing. The men are spittin chips.’

  Kate opened her mouth and shut it. Payday was the day before, Friday. The men would have had no drinking money last night, and that would be all round the district by now. Grimes must know about her father. She buried the thought.

  ‘I’ll get the money.’ As she climbed into the truck, she prayed there was still enough in the bank. The pearl cheque would take days to clear and they needed the wages now. In the confines of the car, she noticed that the smell of pipe smoke hung about him.

  ‘I’d like to drop in to the POW Control Centre on the way, please.’

  He looked across at her, curious. She rifled in her handbag and then flashed the folded paper at him. ‘Captain Rook wanted Dad to sign some form, and I forgot before I left.’

  Grimes grunted. She was relieved when he turned off the main road towards the Control Centre. It was housed in what had been the Longhope Amateur Dramatics Society Hall but was now given over to the Army for the Rural Employment Scheme. Grimes stopped the truck inside the yard, in front of the hall, a corrugated iron shed. Kate went in between the two large rolling doors open across the front, towards the voices from the office box at the back of the shed.

  She tapped on the half-open door and went in. The second he saw her, Captain Rook was on his feet, a smile across his ruddy face. ‘Mrs Dowd,’ he said, stubbing his cigarette into a dirty ashtray on the desk. A little ceiling fan turned, squeaking on each revolution, shifting what seemed like hot air about. Maybe she was just nervous.

  Corporal Oil was slower to get up, taking the opportunity to check her out. Behind him was a large colour poster of a Japanese soldier stepping across a map into the brown empty north of Australia.

  ‘What can we do for you, Mrs Dowd?’ the captain asked, still smiling. He motioned for Kate to sit down, pulling out the only spare chair, the one next to Oil.

  ‘It’s about our POW, Canali. He has to be replaced,’ she said.

  Oil raised his ginger eyebrows. He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. He was so close to Kate she could smell him. Sweat and stale cigarette smoke.

  ‘Canali giving you trouble?’ Captain Rook swung round in his chair and pulled open the filing cabinet behind him. Its top was crammed with papers.

  ‘He killed one of our work dogs. Beat it to death.’

  ‘Not a dog lover then?’ Oil said.

  ‘The dog had to be put down. It’s how he did it.’

  The captain frowned and shifted the ashtray. ‘Is he the gun rider chappy? The bloke that gave your manager curry on the first day?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘How’s your father find him otherwise? And the manager – Grimes, is it? What do they think of this fella?’

  Kate knew what he was asking; why was she raising this, and not her father or Grimes? When she said nothing, he changed tack. ‘Does he do his work? Is he cooperative?’

  ‘He’s … he’s opinionated.’

  ‘Opinionated,’ Oil repeated, nodding slowly.

  ‘I want him off. He’s slow too. Mr Grimes says he’s a bludger.’

  The captain stood up and pulled a small book with a bright green cover off the top of the filing cabinet. ‘Problem is,’ he said, flipping through the book, ‘it doesn’t sound like he breached a regulation.’

  ‘But you must have to take him off, if we ask?’

  ‘Aw, we can take im off orright. Can take im off today. But we can’t put nothin back,’ Oil said.

  Captain Rook frowned. ‘The corporal’s right. Until he breaks one of the rules of assignment —’

  ‘Or commits a crime,’ Oil added, officious.

  ‘— you’d be down a man. You’d be in the queue with the rest of the district for the next allotment of POWs. If there is one.’

  The ceiling fan squeaked in the stuffy silence of the office. Kate knew they could not cope on Amiens without Canali. Not now, with her father unwell.

&
nbsp; ‘I say, Mrs Dowd,’ Captain Rook began slowly, ‘I say we keep an eye on him. You, and us too here at the CC. If there’s a problem, a reg breach, we’ll get him off the place. If you want.’

  Kate looked away, angry she had no choices. She got up.

  ‘I got some mail for your bods that I’ll give you too.’ Captain Rook extracted two letters from the mass on top of the cabinet.

  Oil got up as well, shaking his head. ‘A man that’ll beat an animal to death? Got a nasty streak.’

  The captain came out from behind his desk. ‘You watch him, all right?’

  Kate nodded, grateful for the captain’s kindness. But she was stuck with Canali.

  ‘You still got y’form,’ Grimes pointed out as she got into the truck with the war bonds flyer in her hand.

  ‘What? Oh, he said he didn’t need it after all.’ She pushed the flyer down into her handbag as the truck moved off. ‘He did give me some mail for the POWs, though. If you can deliver them when we get home.’ The POWs’ letters sat on her lap. The one on top was for Canali. She eyed it on the quiet. It was a small envelope on thin paper, greyish in colour, and the name and the return address on the top were written in a clear, firm hand. Another Canali: a Giuseppe. His father? It was postmarked July 1944. It had taken eight months to reach him.

  They were nearing the Amiens homestead when Grimes spoke. ‘Give the old man a message, will you? Need to buy feed. Grain. Joinin’s next month and there’s no feed on the ground in Riflebutt.’

  This worried Kate a bit, because when her father was well, he’d complain that Grimes was good at spending other people’s money. Kate did know that they built up the ewes before joining, to get them into good condition. That increased the number to fall pregnant. But when? Was it too soon to start buying grain?

  ‘Let the old man know. We’ll do the rams too. The rest’ll keep on with the branches we cuttin.’

  ‘I’ll ask him now, and get you the cheque for the wages.’

  Grimes frowned as she got out of the truck. She knew why. This grain business wasn’t a request: it was a statement. He didn’t like her putting the brakes on him.

  Inside, there was no sign of Daisy. Kate grabbed the cheque-book from the drawer en route to the office. She tapped and went in, having to step over a pile of books. Her father was lying on the divan, a lump, an old blanket pulled up above his ears.

  ‘Hullo, Dad.’ He shifted a little, under the blanket, and she patted him. Was he cold in the middle of summer? Three dirty plates sat on the desk. Poor Daisy probably hadn’t been able to get in here.

  ‘Sydney was all right, Dad, but Mr Grimes wants to talk to you about buying grain ahead of joining.’ Kate opened the cheque-book on the desk and leaned over to write out the cheque. ‘Also, do we need to buy grain now for the ewes and the rams?’

  That did it. The blanket dropped away as he sat up awkwardly, with hair awry, and his shirt crumpled.

  ‘You all right, Dad? Did you hurt yourself?’

  ‘What you say? Grain?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Mr Grimes says we need to buy grain now.’

  ‘Have Janice talk to him,’ he said and lay back down again.

  She leaned down to kiss his cheek, the stubble scratching her face. A sour smell reached her and she wondered if he’d had a bath while she was away. That worried Kate. Now was not the time to ask him about the sapphire. She turned to go, then she remembered the wages cheque.

  ‘Dad, I need you to sign for the pay.’ She put the cheque-book beside his head on the divan, inches from his eyes.

  He grunted and, still lying down, he took the pen and tried to sign.

  ‘You’ll have to sit up, Dad.’

  He did sit up, as carefully as before, and signed in wobbly scrawl. Kate decided it would have to do as he lay down again and pulled the blanket up over his head. She stacked the dirty plates and took them back to the kitchen, stepping over the books at the door, careful to keep the plates away from her good dress and the cheque. Grimes would have to take it to the bank on Monday. She’d go with him to see Mr Addison and deposit the other cheque, for the pearls.

  Kate delivered the cheque to Grimes, and told him, to no comment, that her father would think about the grain.

  Back inside, she unpacked, put her dirty clothes in the laundry and tidied more books off the floor in the sitting room, all the while keeping an eye out for the sapphire. She was in the kitchen, making a cup of tea, when she heard someone in the laundry.

  ‘Daisy? That you? I’m back.’

  Daisy was scrubbing something in the tub.

  ‘You all right, Daisy?’

  Still with her back to her, the girl nodded.

  ‘Do you want a drink of water?’ Kate asked. Daisy shook her head.

  ‘I brought you something from Sydney. You want to see it?’

  More scrubbing.

  ‘I’ll get it. Come into the kitchen.’ Kate went to her bedroom to get the presents, one for Daisy and one for Harry, hoping Daisy might be in the kitchen by the time she got back. Still there was no Daisy.

  ‘Look,’ Kate called out, ‘I hope you like it.’ She set the brown-paper packages on the kitchen table, however there was no movement from the laundry, and no sign anywhere of Harry either. Kate shook her head, starting to feel like she was the only sane person left on Amiens. She took a hand towel and one of the packages and went into the laundry. Daisy was still at the tub.

  ‘Come on,’ Kate said, holding out the towel in one hand and the package in the other. ‘Dry your hands. That can wait.’

  The girl turned, keeping her eyes down. She took the towel to dry her hands, and Kate realised that Daisy was crying. When she rubbed her arm, Kate noticed dark welts on the girl’s skin, bruises round her wrists.

  She took Daisy’s arms in alarm. ‘What happened?’

  Daisy pulled them away, her head down. She started to cry again.

  ‘Who did this? Canali?’

  Daisy shook her head and wiped her nose. ‘Can’t tell, Missus.’ Her voice was thick with tears. Kate led her into the kitchen.

  Why would she not say? Could it have been Grimes? Or Ed? Kate could hardly believe him capable of it. ‘Tell me who it was.’

  Daisy shook her head again. Kate felt sure it was Ed she was protecting.

  She patted the girl on the shoulder awkwardly. ‘C’mon, Dais.’

  Her tears continued to fall, the drips making neat dark circles on the brown paper. She sat there, her fingers on the package. After a bit she started to open it, unwrapping the paper from a small spoon. Its handle was extra-large, in the shape of a shield, and drawn on it was Sydney Harbour Bridge.

  Harry appeared on the other side of the gauze door and came in, school case in one hand, something little and wooden in the other. Even in the midst of her worry about Daisy, Kate was surprised to find she’d missed him. ‘Hullo, Harry. You all right?’

  He shrugged, not looking at her.

  She’d not seen him since Rusty died. ‘What you got there?’ she asked, reaching for his hand.

  ‘Nothin.’ He held whatever it was against his shirt so she couldn’t see all of it. It looked like a carved animal, a couple of inches high, in red gum wood.

  ‘Sydney’s big. And the new Harbour Bridge is too. Enormous,’ Kate said.

  ‘I seen it already.’

  ‘I have seen it already,’ Kate said. ‘Really?’

  ‘You callin me a liar?’

  Not Harry as well. Kate was glad she rarely went away. Everyone seemed to go off the rails.

  Harry put the wooden thing on the table and walked it along with his fingers. A dog, a carved dog, just like Rusty.

  ‘That’s good. Did you make it?’

  ‘Nuh.’

  ‘Bottinella do it?’

  ‘Nuh.’

  ‘I brought you a present too,’ Kate said.

  ‘Is it one o’ them?’ Harry pointed to the spoon.

  ‘Yes.’

  Harry frowned, took the
still-wrapped package and went out. Daisy left too with her spoon in one hand.

  Kate sat down in the quiet kitchen, her head full, full of worry about her father, about Canali, the bank. Harry.

  Turning her worries over and over produced no answers. She wanted to be by herself, away from people, get out of the house for a bit. Visit the chooks – that’s what she’d do. She’d look for eggs and even hunt around in the chook run for the sapphire.

  CHAPTER 12

  Droughts are perhaps the harshest of times for a man wanting to make an honest living as a woolgrower.

  THE WOOLGROWER’S COMPANION, 1906

  Kate picked her way along the track up the little hill that separated the house and the chook run. The run was a fenced enclosure, with eight feet of chicken wire (six above ground, two below for the snakes and the foxes) and one gate. The four wooden laying boxes inside were made from truck part boxes, each up on stilts again to keep out predators.

  A black chook strutted towards Kate. ‘No scraps. Sorry, old girl,’ she said. The chook stalked off again. The gate that served as the entrance to the run was pulled back on itself, open for the day. Bottinella looked after the chooks now. He fed them the scraps every morning, let them out for the day and locked them up on dusk, to be safe from the goannas, foxes and dingoes. Kate checked for the snake waddy. It was where it should be, hanging on the fence by the open gate. About four feet long, it was made of No. 8 wire doubled over and twisted together.

  She walked round the fence, looking for somewhere her father might have hidden the sapphire. Would he have wrapped it in something? Newspaper? She tried to remember the weight of the stones Mr McGintey had shown her, their feel in her hand.

  Inside the run, she searched each of the four egg boxes. In the last box, she disturbed a clucky black-and-white hen and got one egg for her trouble, and that was all. No sapphire. She savoured the quietness there, just her and the chooks. And at least the chooks were predictable.

  She made her way reluctantly back to the house, with the egg, watching where she put her feet as she walked. ‘A snake never means to kill you,’ her father used to say. ‘He’s just shirty when you step on him.’