Wool Away, Boy!

by Alan Blunt

  The square meat-house was a few yards from the kitchen’s rear entrance. The upper sections of its walls were gauzed for fly-proofing and ventilation. Unexpectedly, the door was wide open. The white painted interior widened in view as I approached, but my steps faltered, and I tried to disbelieve the shocking horror my vision revealed. Jack was sideways to me, sitting on a kitchen chair, his shattered head lolling on his left shoulder. Hair and blood and pieces of his skull spattered the ceiling and gauze, and blood had soaked his shirt and trousers and dripped on to the floor. Half a bottle of beer was before him on the cutting bench, and the shotgun from the Austin Champ rested between his legs.

  I turned and ran.

  The shearers were emerging from the woolshed, pacing to make time for a feed and a rest before they bent their backs and pulled into gear again. I ran past the dog and halted the rep. ‘Hold it!’ I gasped. ‘The cook shot himself! He’s in the meat-house!’

  ‘Sh-shot himself! Sh-shot himself?’ Yabba stammered. ‘Waddaya mean?’ But I had run on to report to the overseer.

  Slow to comprehend my terrible news, Brian placed the tally book on a wool table, and queried quietly, ‘Shot himself? Is he dead?’

  ‘He’s dead, alright,’ I replied shakily.

  ‘My God! Tell Yabba not to let anyone disturb anything,’ Brian directed, and strode swiftly towards the nearby homestead to report to the owner and phone the authorities. I hurried reluctantly back to the scene of horror. Recalling the upset dog’s rush into the wool room, I pictured Jack fondling a farewell with Zulu before taking his final action: ‘You’re my good mate, the only one who understands.’

  I had spoken with Jack more than anyone else, yet I hadn’t understood. I hadn’t picked up at all on the man’s struggle with despair as he was overwhelmed by the pain of living, and the peace of eternal sleep beckoned. I couldn’t associate the lifeless, shattered corpse with the living, functioning being I had spoken with in the morning: a tired middle-aged man, yet retaining energy, memory, responsibility, care.

  I stood back, while Yabba, suffering none of my paralysing melancholy, took control. ‘No one goes into the meat-house until the police get here,’ he commanded. I wondered if the old digger had been desensitised to violent death in his youth as comrades and Japanese alike were butchered by machine-gun fire and shrapnel blasts, and cooked alive by flame throwers.

  Impelled by curiosity, the men looked into the death-room before they assembled in the kitchen and mess. Four hours of hard labour had run down their energy, but only a few chose to eat, particularly after someone surmised that the cook, in his madness, might have poisoned the meal for revenge.

  Yabba’s response was to load a plate with roast mutton and veggies. ‘As soon as the police and the doctor leave we’ll have a swarm,’ he informed between bites. ‘I told Brian that out of respect for the deceased there will be no more work today.’

  The police and doctor and ambulance arrived shortly, and Brian and Yabba gathered the dead man’s belongings under the watchful eye of the sergeant before they joined me in making statements. Without haste or delay the body was stretchered on to the ambulance and driven away.

  The overseer directed the rousies to clean up the dreadful remains in the meat-house. They refused. Yabba took up their case. ‘No bloody way, Brian! The boys won’t take it on, so it’s up to the station.’

  Brian addressed the meeting. He had arranged with the police for Jack’s earnings and possessions to be forwarded to his next of kin. The funeral would be at ten-thirty the next morning, and work would begin after dinner at 1pm.

  ‘We won’t work without a cook!’ Frankie objected. ‘What’s the score there?’

  ‘There’ll be no hold-up on that score,’ Brian explained. ‘We’ve arranged for the station to do the cooking. They’ll bring meat.’

  ‘We can work with that,’ Yabba said. ‘But we don’t want the meat-house used at all.’

  ‘I’ll pass that on,’ Brian said. ‘It should be no trouble.’

  The meeting closed, and the team headed for Cunnamulla, while station hands attended the grim reality of cleaning the remains of Jack’s shattered head from the gauze, wall and concrete floor. However, despite disinfectant, bucket, broom and hose the imprint of his personality remained to haunt the psyche of the team – and perhaps the vicinity – for years afterward, as the story was told and retold. The meat-house was never used again.

  The station cook arrived early the next morning to provide cereals and grilled chops and eggs at eight o’clock. After breakfast, the men shaved, shone their shoes and extracted ironed shirts and dry-cleaned trousers from the bottom of their ports.

  Yabba had me drive him to the police station before they joined the team at the cemetery. The police had discovered from evidence found in Jack’s wallet and a phone call to the Department of Repatriation in Brisbane that the deceased was a war veteran, classified as eighty per cent totally and permanently incapacitated.

  Beneath a pitiless climbing sun, men stood, heads bowed and hats in hand, as Yabba emotionally and emphatically farewelled a fellow World War II veteran. ‘Jack was eighty per cent TPI! Totally and permanently incapacitated! The doctors say Jack shouldn’t have been working. But Jack wanted to work! And a man’s got a right to work if he can do the job. Jack could do the job – and he didn’t want to bludge. He was in the front line when his country called him. His country – and his workmates – should have taken better care of him.’

  I had felt numb and unresponsive since discovering Jack’s body. I listened while God’s representative said a few worn words about honouring unsung heroes, and their guaranteed reward in the hereafter. The coffin was lowered, and the falling sods drummed Jack’s last post.

  If Frankie and Les felt burdened by the anxiety they had caused Jack over his last few days, they were determined not to reveal it. A few soft eyes, however, were disguised by coughs and sniffles to hide unmanly displays of emotion; and Scrubber hurried off among the tomb-stones, sobbing like the child he was. Terry followed him, offering commiseration, but Scrubber wheeled and turned him back. ‘Can’t a man go for a bloody piss?’ he blubbered.

  When the team assembled near the cars, their decision was predetermined. ‘They must be jokin’ if they think I’ll be on the board at one o’clock,’ Frankie snapped.

  Terry measured his words. ‘Our comrade died yesterday. We take a day off out of respect. That is today.’ By nods and monosyllables the decision was unanimous.

  Brian was waiting twenty yards away. Aware that the death of a workmate meant the team traditionally took the day of the funeral off, the overseer had anticipated the decision. Yet, he was anxious: the cost of the shearing was climbing daily, and the station had demanded a one o’clock start, which he doubted he could deliver.

  Fronting him with Terry, Yabba declared, ‘We’re taking the rest of the day off, Brian, in respect for Jack. It’s about all we can do for a workmate.’

  ‘You’ve already had a day off: midday yesterday till one o’clock today. That’s a day in my book. I’ll ring the bell at one o’clock. Tell them any employee who isn’t on the job will be in breach of the Award.’

  Ringing the bell was a matter of procedure, and meant the team might be illegally on strike if work didn’t begin. Although the Award made no allowance for time off in respect of death, a prosecution would be poor publicity for the company; and a wily defence advocate before a sympathetic magistrate might establish a precedent for custom over law. A magistrate might even grant exemption on the grounds that the team’s absence was the result of an ‘Act of God’. On the other hand, if the company sacked the team the Union might take it to court for illegal dismissal.

  Hard years battling bosses on the shearing boards and confronting army officers had nurtured Yabba’s scepticism of authority and his bush-lawyering skills. He was rocky-faced as he declared, ‘We are not on strike, Brian. But we are taking compassionate leave.’

  Rejoining the mourners, Ya
bba explained, ‘The boss is going to ring the bell at one o’clock. We’ll have a couple of drinks to pay our last respects to our workmate, and then we’ll all go back to the shed for dinner. We’ll have a swarm to endorse our decision, and wait on the board till after the boss rings the bell. This show could end up in court, so we don’t want to leave ’em room to claim we were at the pub when the bell rang.’

  They quietly raised their glasses in respect for the dead. There were no adverse comments when Yabba proposed, ‘Jack was a good cook, a good bloke and a brave soldier,’ for no one felt like lifting the lid on their sense of collective guilt.

  ‘Time to go, boys,’ Yabba said after a couple of beers. ‘We’ve got to give the cook a fair go.’

  The long weekend dragged. After lunch on Saturday Scrubber’s Beetle revved for town with the usual booze-heads aboard, while others killed time around the huts and shed, spine-bashing, playing cards, reading and catching up on personal chores such as writing letters and washing and mending clothes.

  The boozers were home for tea and an early night, but they saddled up for the Sunday morning session and didn’t return for lunch. After eating, I took advantage of a summer breeze. Lying in my swag-wrap on the ground in a shady spot, I stretched out reading.

  Scrubber turned up around two o’clock, half-shot and on the prod. He stood over me and niggled my ribs with his shoe, snarling, ‘Get up, yer know-all bastard!’

  ‘Piss off! Go back to the pub, Scrubber, before I smack your arse,’ I enunciated patiently. ‘You’re not big enough, you’re not good enough, and as per usual you’re as drunk as a skunk.’

  ‘And yer as weak as piss, Presser. Yer all mouth and no guts. Same as yer were in Goondiwindi. Get up, or I’ll kick yer!’

  Terry was sitting on his drum reading, a few yards away, and the dog was snoozing beside him. The row woke Zulu, and he sprang to all fours, alert and growling. Terry seized his collar as I rose swiftly. ‘If you insist, Scrubber. You go first – out under the pepperina tree.’

  ‘I’ll take the f—in’ slack out of you, yer big-noting bastard,’ Scrubber promised, and began to walk the plank over the bore drain. He was halfway across when I heaved him head-first in to the hot water with a leg throw, and jumped into knee-high water. ‘By crikey, Terry, it’s bloody hot!’ I called, laughing as I ducked the gurgling, struggling Scrubber for the third time.

  On his feet, Terry shouted, ‘For God’s sake, pull him out! The water’s too bloody hot! You’ll boil him before you drown him.’ In the excitement the raging dog broke loose to back up his master, and made a flying leap into the fray. Still laughing, I released Scrubber and grabbed the dog’s collar. Back on his feet, the tough little shearer was spluttering, gasping and cursing, but he tackled low and took me down, while the dog swam ashore. On top now, his berserker fury fuelled by vengeance, Scrubber pushed me to the bottom and held me there. Bigger and stronger and over confident, I had taken the combat lightly. Suddenly I realised I was on my back under muddy water, blind and breathless, and unable to find enough purchase in the soggy bottom to dislodge my assailant. I was close to panic when Terry splashed in and hauled Scrubber off.

  ‘Cripes! It is bloody hot,’ the big shearer cried. As he turned for the bank, Scrubber nailed him with a right swing before going after me. I had scrambled to my feet. Coughing muddy water and half-broiled, I measured Scrubber through blurred vision and punched viciously with both fists. Scrubber dropped, and I ducked him vengefully three or four times, while Terry wiped blood from his eye and shouted, ‘Drown the thankless little bastard!’

  We laughed in the shade of the pepperina tree and chiacked Scrubber as he scrambled out, belching water and nearly spent. He sat on the bank for a couple of minutes.

  ‘That should’ve sobered you up,’ I called. ‘Are you alright, you poor little chap?’

  ‘None the better for your asking, yer stupid c—,’ Scrubber spat out, and walked to his VW.

  Terry called, ‘I’ve got a mind to throw you back in the bore drain and wash your mouth out.’

  ‘You and what army? It took two of youse big bastards to beat one little bloke.’ He turned and put up his fists. ‘’Ave a go now, yer smart alecs! One at a time, I’ll take youse all on.’

  ‘Yer a glutton for punishment,’ I said, and laughed derisively as I strode purposefully towards Scrubber. The little shearer scrambled to safety behind the wheel of his V-Dub, reversed, revved up and charged. Terry and I jumped for cover behind the pepperina tree. Scrubber did a couple of victory wheelies and headed for Cunnamulla, shouting abuse and insults out the window, emphasised by the upturned finger.

  The Kahmoo shearing cut-out suddenly. Terry, Carl and Yabba shore fair tallies on Monday morning, while the learners and the grog-afflicted struggled in the low twenties. Scarcely exchanging a word, the team dolefully ate smoko in the wool room. Even Yabba didn’t care to raise a conversation. We had resumed shearing for only a few minutes when the bell pulled us up. I was lying on my back, reading while I waited for the wool to build up. I guessed a mechanical breakdown was the problem until Brian stood above me, grinning like a Golden Casket winner. ‘That’s the last bale, Presser,’ he declared. ‘The shed is finished. KAPUT! No press-up. Leave the wool in the bins – it’s all over, drover!’

  I was surprised it had lasted as long as it had. There had been more strife than you could poke a stick at, and tallies were a long way below par. ‘Fair dinkum, Brian?’ I asked, rising swiftly. ‘Are we sacked?’

  ‘No, the team is definitely not sacked,’ the overseer explained pleasantly. ‘I’ve been instructed to close the shed. If you report to the Charleville office it’s on the cards you’ll be placed next week.’

  I realised the term ‘sacked’ wasn’t used because the AWU might sue the station for compensation for wrongful dismissal; and a sympathetic magistrate, on hearing the team had followed accepted precedent in taking a day off in respect of an ex-digger’s death, might find in the Union’s favour. But UNGRA could split hairs and find an excuse for ‘closing the shed’ – if summonsed. Meanwhile, I would be glad to collar my cheque and roll my swag.

  15

  THE LAUGHING KIWI

  The Charleville ‘first half’ run finished prior to 30 June to convenience grazier’s tax returns. I enjoyed a brief break with family in Brisbane before driving north with my mate, the Laughing Kiwi, to join Richie Sack ’em Jack’s team for the ‘second half’ run. Richie’s final shed cut-out about fifty miles from Hughenden at five o’clock on an afternoon in December. Doug gave me a hand to press-up. Always as impatient as a hungry cattle dog penning up meat pies, he yelled, ‘C’mon! Shake a leg-iron, you convict bastard! They’ll drink all the piss before we get to town. We can shower at the pub. Let’s collar the cheques and hit the road.’

  After a few ales and a cafe feed, we phoned ‘Bullshit Bill’ to line up the next year’s employment, and said farewell to a few mates, lively barmaids and a couple of publicans who could be relied on for accommodation and a loan if we were ever short of a quid.

  We were aiming for a 5am take-off. Doug said, ‘You’ll be on deck at sparrow’s fart so dig me out at a quarter to five and we’ll just get in the car and go. I’ll fuel up and grab us a couple of pies at Longreach while you phone your mum. We’ll be having a beer with Jack by eight o’clock.’ He laughed, and added, ‘And tell Pat her favourite boarder will have snags and mashed spuds and peas; and don’t forget loads of gravy.’

  I grinned. Dad was at home, having finished a shearing run around Charleville. He and Doug were natural mates, while Mum had a sparky relationship with the young shearer. His dark curly locks, baby-faced smile, infectious warmth, respect for family convention and handiness with a tea towel seemed to bring out the maternal instinct in most females, but Mum was always wary of him, and her Catholic conscience compelled her to pray for his moral reconstruction. On ‘blue’ days she suspected he was an over-sexed Lothario, leading her son astray and urging him along the highwa
y to hell and damnation in an eternal afterlife.

  Driving to West End in fifteen hours was a game estimate, typical of Doug’s optimistic attitude. The 900-mile trek would include some 600 miles of dirt, or single-lane dagger-edged bitumen decorated with potholes. Canny travellers carried a tucker box and plenty of water because a seasonal storm could pickle your plans and maroon you for days – forcing you to camp rough roadside or in a pub if you were lucky. We had made it before, though, with the hammer down and a carton of longnecks, plus a bag of meat pies.

  We’d need the luck of the Irish as Queensland roads harvested 500 souls a year. Boozy lead-foots would drive over dirt tracks and through wash-outs and dust-clouds, out of which ambushing roos, bullocks and cattle trucks charged blindly, dealing chaos and death and destruction. The media dubbed the bush roads ‘crystal highways’ because of the fragments of a billion broken bottles and busted windscreens littering the roads and table drains.

  Heedless of the fearful statistics and fuelled by the optimistic adrenaline of youth, we drove flat-strap through Queensland’s killing fields under the auspices of the three Saint Christopher medals my mother had installed – one in the glove-box, one swinging on a leather boot lace off the choke, and another a permanent resident in my wallet.

  Walking back to the Western Hotel, our accommodation for the night, I was lost in thought of a joyous family reunion. I didn’t notice the Laughing Kiwi’s unusually sombre silence.

  Entering the pub, I stepped towards the stairs, but when my mate aimed for the bar I followed him and ordered a tomato juice. ‘What’s up, cobber?’ I demanded anxiously, as Doug gulped a double rum and started on a beer chaser.

  It was a bad omen. The Laughing Kiwi was habitually a happy beer drinker. On the surface he was a hard-working hedonist who shore sheep only to fund the good times, but on rare occasions he’d have a bout of the blues and his doppelganger would emerge and demand rum.