Terrified, Rosie lay on a camp bed, a scratchy blanket covering her naked body. The hut swirled through the flood, bashing against trees and nudging the upturned bloated bodies of cows and horses. Rosie was wet all over, and shivering. But even as she panicked that she would be washed away, she could feel the warmth of a hand moving over her body. A man was above her, sliding his fingers into her own dampness. She was heavy with tiredness and drunk with desire. She breathed deeply, panting almost like a dog. In the darkness of the flooding hut, with rain sliding down inside the rough-cut walls, Rosie looked up to see Sam’s face hovering above her. She tried to cry out, but she couldn’t speak. Sam was smiling at her but his smile was savage, and the pleasure of his touch turned to jolts of pain as he began to jab his fingers into her. She tried to struggle, but her arms were so heavy she could barely lift them from the bed. She couldn’t move. There was nothing she could do but cry silently as Sam invaded her whole soul.
When she gave up struggling, she opened her eyes and saw Jim moving above her. He was kissing her, riding her in waves as rain thrashed on the roof. Again, desire flooded her soul. She pulled Jim close and sunk her face into the warmth of his neck. But when she looked up she saw another man’s face. The light brown stubble on his face was rough, his blond hair soft, his eyes the same blue as Jim’s. He was calling out as he pushed himself into her rhythmically.
‘Mary,’ he said over and over. ‘Mary.’
LAKE COWAL WEST, CIRCA 1880
Jack woke with a start and moved away from Mary. His body was slick with sweat. His head pounded. The rough sheets on which he lay were sodden. Sitting up, he felt a wave of nausea take hold of him. He clasped his hand over his pounding heart and tried to control the panic rising within him. He looked at Mary, sleeping beside him. Moonlight slipped through the cracks in the hut walls and shone on her hair, which spread softly over the pillow. She stirred a little but didn’t wake.
Jack swung his legs over the side of the bed and shakily stood up. He quietly lifted the latch of the hut door and stepped outside. Shuffling over to the trough in the horse yard, he splashed water on his sweating face. The coldness made him start, but it seemed to relieve the fever momentarily. Then he began to shake again with cold. He looked up at the moon that had risen high in the sky above the Lake Cowal West homestead. The lamps had been extinguished and every soul in the homestead was asleep.
‘Oh, Lord. Am I being punished for what I have done?’ he said.
He ran his fingers through his sodden hair. He thought back to the long nights of pleading with Mary. He had barely got started with building a tank and a hut on his forty-acre run before the restlessness began to stir in him again. His irritability grew. By the time he began to build a chock-and-log boundary fence around his land, he would wake at night in panic. As the fence grew longer, and turned at the corners, and then was sealed with a gate, Jack thought he would asphyxiate. For a while Mary’s touch soothed him, calmed him, sheltered him. But she knew it wouldn’t last. And, finally, it was Mary who had said, ‘Let’s move on.’ Sad though she was to leave her family, Mary was a young wife in a new marriage and she loved Jack. She would do all that she could to support him and his dreams. She would walk away from her homestead that was never built. She would walk with Jack Gleeson to the ends of the earth.
When Jack told the Ryans that he had accepted a position at Lake Cowal station, further north beyond West Wyalong, Launcelot Ryan had slammed down his plate of food and walked out of the house. The door banged angrily behind him. But Jack had followed his father-in-law with a grim look of determination on his face. Standing in the dust the two men squared up to each other.
‘I knew you wouldn’t do right by our Mary,’ spat Ryan.
‘We’ll have a better life than if we stay and rot on forty acres of good-for-nothing scrub.’
Ryan looked at Jack with furious eyes and shook his head at the tall young man who stood before him.
‘Our Mary will be back to us before a few years have passed … of that I’m sure.’
Jack stood proud, but he tucked the words into his heart and carried them about for months afterwards. In the nights they came back to him, like a black omen. But their first year of marriage was a happy time. They had some new pups coming on that showed excellent promise, and Mary helped him with their training. The strong bloodlines of Kelpie, Moss and Caesar were definitely carrying through. The glory days of Kelpie and Moss were slipping by though. Kelpie, worn out from long years of work and whelping, was showing her age. Her muzzle was now grey, her eyes cloudy, and she got about the place like old Idle who had died years before. She was even refusing to leave Mary’s side when Jack called her … even if Jack wanted her for her company alone. Kelpie was arthritic now, stiff in her hips, and her front legs bowed out, while her back dipped down. She panted heavily in the summer heat and shivered in the cold of winter.
The day they loaded up the dray to leave for Lake Cowal, Kelpie sulked in the shadows.
‘It’s as if she’s saying she’s had enough of my moving about,’ said Jack sadly. He whistled her again but Kelpie looked away from him, guilty for not obeying. She continued to lie in the shade of her kennel, even though she wasn’t chained.
‘Come on, Kelpie, old girl,’ Jack pleaded.
The end of her tail flickered to life, but instead of trotting to him, she crawled deeper into her kennel and sighed.
‘Oh, Jack,’ said Mary. ‘She’s not long for this world.’
Tears came to Jack’s eyes as he thought of the journey he and Kelpie had shared. She had been the start of all he had created. She was his best mate. Mary put her arms around Jack.
‘Get her from the kennel, Jack. She can ride up on the dray with me. Look, I’ve even stitched an old horse blanket for her.’
Crouching down, Jack coaxed Kelpie from her darkened den. He scooped her up in his arms and set her down on the blanket. Her tail was jammed between her legs and several times she tried to leap off the seat of the dray and make her way back to the kennel.
‘Stay, Kelpie,’ Jack said firmly.
‘Perhaps she should,’ said Mary gently.
‘Stay?’
‘Tim Garry offered to have her. You know that, Jack.’
‘I know.’ Jack sighed, thinking of his good friend at Ungarie who had been shocked to see how quickly Kelpie had aged.
‘We could drop her off on the way,’ Mary said, tears coming to her eyes.
Jack swallowed. He knew Mary was right. The poor old bitch would find the journey hard. Tim had offered a kennel lined with wool and promised to give her good tucker from his very own table. She would have peace and quiet and comfort in her final days. As Jack flicked the reins on the rump of the horse and the dray jerked forward with a start, he held back tears. Last year he had lost his old mare, Bailey. He had found her lying dead by the dam. He had stroked her cold chestnut muzzle and cut a lock of her flaxen mane. Now he knew Kelpie would be next.
‘Ungarie it is, then,’ he said, then fell silent.
As the dray rocked over the rutted road Jack thought back to the painful goodbye he’d said to Moss, just a week before. Charles King, the man who had worked Young Kelpie so skilfully in the trials, was now at Gainbill near Lake Cargelligo. He had offered to keep Moss and stand him as a stud dog. Such was the reputation of Moss and Young Kelpie pups, the demand had spread across the countryside for their bloodlines. Rather than drag Moss about and spread his genes haphazardly with other station dogs, Jack knew it was best to keep him in one place, so that his bloodlines could be traced and recorded on paper as King’s Kelpies. It was something King was fastidious about.
Charles had seen the pain in Jack’s eyes when he stroked the black dog’s ears for the last time. He had put a hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder.
‘I’ll write to tell you what good pups he throws, Jack. He’ll be in the best care.’
Jack knew both Charles King and Tim Garry were men of their word. He knew it wa
s best that both his precious old dogs be given an easier life. But the pain of the era ending shot through him. His hand came to rest on Kelpie’s lean back as she lay between Mary and him on the seat of the dray. Kelpie rested her head on Jack’s lap and looked up into his eyes with her soulful brown ones. It was as if she knew. Mary, in turn, placed her hand on Jack’s in an offer of comfort.
Jack swiped away a tear as he looked up at the night sky over Lake Cowal West. He missed both Kelpie and Moss so much. The work on Lake Cowal hadn’t been as rewarding as he’d hoped. And now, with this fever sending cold shudders through his body, he longed for a place that was familiar and comfortable, and to have his old friends and family about him. Sitting by the trough, his temperature running from hot to cold, he now craved Mary’s warmth.
As he climbed back into bed, heavy-hearted, he knew that he wouldn’t be working tomorrow, such were the aches of his joints.
‘Dear God, make me well again,’ he murmured as he pulled his young wife to him and curled his body around hers.
Chapter 33
In the morning, waking from her strange dream, Rosie longed for Jim’s comfort. She sat up in the bed in the men’s quarters and tried to shake the feeling of doom from her.
A little later, in the homestead, Rosie settled down to the computer with her notes spread about her as her fingers flew over the keys, reconstructing the story of Jack Gleeson and how it had all begun, the kelpie line, on the banks of the Glenelg River. A swap of a horse for a pup one misty night at midnight. One man’s passion that grew as rivers of bloodlines intermingled and a flood of good stock dogs began to flow from the Western District of Victoria up into the Riverina country of New South Wales and beyond.
The sound of the phone ringing broke Rosie’s train of thought.
A while later, Margaret popped her head around the door. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you before, but there’s a message for you. From Billy O’Rourke. He’s coming to see you this morning.’
For the first time in months, Margaret’s voice sounded tight. She glanced at her watch. ‘He’ll be here soon. Meet him in the yards if you don’t mind.’
In the yards Rosie showed Billy the style of each dog, casting them out individually around a small mob of weaners. Never did she shout or lose her cool. The dogs, waiting their turn, sat quietly on their short chains, straining and quivering.
‘Jim’s trained you well,’ Billy said.
‘Don’t you mean trained the dogs well?’
‘No. He’s trained you well. Most of it’s in the handling. These dogs have got the natural herding ability in their genes already. And you must have natural stockmanship in your genes too, that’s why, with Jim’s training, you’ve got so far so fast. Some people take years to learn and others, they just never get it.’
Rosie felt the warmth of Billy’s praise as she raised her hand. ‘Sit,’ she said to the blue and tan female, Jess.
‘That’s your pup for Dubbo,’ Billy said, nodding at Jess. ‘She’s showing good natural paddock style. Tie her up, and we’ll work on the other four. I’ll show you what they need for the auction.’
‘Should I start with the easy-natured ones?’ Rosie pointed to the big blue and tan male. ‘Chester’s as arrogant as anything and can be a real pain.’
‘You’ve gotta have one like him to learn from,’ Billy said. ‘Start with him while you’ve got the energy. After him, the other pups will seem easy.’
As she picked up a piece of poly pipe and cast Chester around the mob, Rosie vowed she would stand up to him, but soon he cut into the sheep and forced them far too hard.
‘Settle him,’ Billy coached.
Rosie steeled herself. She heard Jim’s voice saying ‘Get some grunt about you girl!’. Within seconds she was towering over Chester, blocking him with her body. She rolled him over so he lay beneath her in the dust.
‘I’m not taking any of your crap, Chester,’ she growled at him through gritted teeth as she grabbed his jowls with her fingers like teeth. ‘You listen to me.’
He wagged his tail meekly at her and looked away, as if ashamed of himself. When she let him back up for work, he shook himself as if shaking respect for her back into place. Then he herded the sheep steadily and dropped to his belly when she whistled a stop.
‘That’s better!’ coached Billy from the yard’s edge. ‘Now open the race gate and I’ll show you how to get him backing and barking on command.’
Later, when she worked Clyde, the stocky red and tan dog, he threw himself onto the backs of the sheep. Billy had shown her with Chester how to use the lead to call the dog back to her.
‘Push, push, push,’ she said again and Clyde flew up the race again, his big paws splaying over the sheep’s wool as he let out deep throaty barks.
Next, Rosie worked Clyde’s brother, Coil, who was a little more steady and shy.
‘Let him get up on the first sheep, then let him straight back down so he feels he’s got an escape route. Make sure he feels safe every time,’ said Billy.
Soon Coil was padding up and down the sheep’s backs and barking on command.
Lastly, Rosie took the runt pup, Sally, into the yard. She was a lively little black and tan with eyes like buttons. She slunk low at Rosie’s heels and waited for the command. Rosie whistled and cast her round to the left. She zoned in quite close and bustled the sheep forward into the race. Within minutes, Billy and Rosie had Sally backing the race.
‘We’ll have to work on her bark. She’s not natural at it. But I think she’s had enough for now. Short sharp lessons are all they can handle.’
Billy scooped up Sally and scratched her behind her ears, then plonked her into Rosie’s arms.
‘You should be really proud of yourself,’ Billy said. ‘You’ve done a great job on them. They’re a little rough in places, but we’ll work on it. We’ve got plenty of time. And remember, I’m here to help. You can call me any time.’
Letting Billy’s praise sink in, Rosie put Sally’s paw to her nose and inhaled. She had discovered dogs’ paws smelt like fresh-cut lawn on a summer’s day. She sighed with relief.
‘Thank God you think they’re okay. I thought I’d been neglecting them.’
‘You’ve done well,’ Billy said. ‘But they’ll need constant work. Now I’d better get out of your way. Margaret said you were working on the articles before I interrupted you.’
‘Oh, it’s okay. I’ve got all the information. It’s just a matter of writing them up. The only trouble is, I don’t know how to finish the series. I haven’t found a book yet that tells me where Jack and Mary ended up.’
‘Keep digging and you’ll find out,’ Billy said.
As the sun began to dry off the green flush of spring and the days grew warmer, Rosie spent most of her nights writing the Jack Gleeson articles, and her days out in the paddocks of Highgrove. Evan had moved in and the greenhouses were up. It was now a matter of laying the irrigation pipes. When Rosie wasn’t working on the farm, she was working her kelpies. Billy had set up a small trial course and from it she had learned the importance of clear commands and the use of her voice and her body language. These were all techniques Jim had begun teaching her before he left. Billy would often call over in the evening, and together they handled Sassy’s foal. He showed Rosie that training horses was similar to training dogs. It was all about pressure and then reward. Steady, quiet, gentle stockmen skills, that she practised and practised.
When Julian worked alongside her in the yards and paddocks, even he began to ask how he could get more out of his own dog.
‘Come on, sis,’ he said, ‘share your trade secrets.’
‘It’s no secret. Buy a decent dog to start with,’ she teased, as his floppy-eared, shaggy collie lay panting in the shade.
She was so glad Julian was home to stay. He and Evan had helped her draw up a business plan to convert the ram sheds into a business growing housed superfine wool. If the old silos could be filled with grain in a good season, the gross
margin for the labour-intensive wool-growing enterprise far outweighed the traditional grazing methods on Highgrove.
Despite the energy that sustained her by day, Rosie collapsed exhausted into bed in the quarters each night. Some nights she dreamed of Jim, but his features became blurred with the ghostly face of Jack Gleeson, and Rosie woke feeling empty and confused, as if Jim had never been there at all. For company and comfort, Bones slept on the mat beside her bed. She came to enjoy the sound of his gentle snoring, and when she felt alone she reached down to stroke his silky ears. Sometimes it seemed to Rosie that the old dog was her only evidence that Jim had once been real.
One hot December night, Rosie had just finished another good draft on Jack and was about to switch off the light, when there was a knock on the door.
‘You awake, sis?’
Julian sauntered into the room. Rosie knew he’d come to offer her some comfort. Tomorrow was the anniversary of Sam’s death.
‘You okay?’ he said.
‘Yep. Really I am,’ she said, putting her papers down. ‘It seems like it all happened in a different life.’
Julian stood at the foot of the bed.
‘Do you miss him?’
‘I hardly think about him any more. Though I’m ashamed to say it.’
‘It’s okay. Sam was never right for you. You probably would’ve been divorced within a year.’
‘Or shagging his shearers,’ she joked.
Julian smirked for a moment.
‘And do you miss Jim?’ he asked.
‘Jim?’ Rosie bit her lip and nodded. ‘Every minute.’
‘What about Dad? Do you miss him?’
The Stockmen Page 25