'Decent of you,' Craig managed.
'Catch you round.' Ben was about to walk away then stopped. 'Don't suppose you want to have a beer one night? Might see you down the pub tonight, hey?'
'Yeah, maybe.'
Ben disappeared into the crowd and Craig finished his breakfast, unnerved by the encounter.
'Sale-o, sale-o,' called the auctioneer. 'We're starting the sale now. Thanks to all the vendors who have put in these magnificent animals. Now what am I bid for this line of Angus steers? Start at six hundred, I got six hundred, six hundred now. Six fifty, the bid is with you, sir.' He pointed to a man in a green shirt. 'Six fifty now. Can you find seven hundred? Yes sir, seven hundred. For seven hundred dollars I sell.' The auctioneer clapped his hands together and yelled, 'Sold to Hyland Butchers.' Forgetting about Ben, Craig followed the sale, making notes of all the abattoirs, feedlotters and private buyers that bought at today's market. He'd have quite a list to check out when he returned to Pirie.
Gemma felt a surge of excitement when she saw the first shearer's car arrive. It pulled up at the quarters and she saw a woman get out – the cook. Gemma left the sheep yards where she'd been classing the wethers into fleece types and went to get her settled in. Soon there were several cars parked by the sheds. There were four shearers, a classer, three rousies, a presser to press the wool into bales and a pennerupperer. By five o'clock the sheep were in the shed, the bedrooms at the quarters full and the shearers were up in the shed hanging over catching pens, looking at the sheep to be shorn.
Gemma made her way up into the shed to say hello to everyone. Some of the guys that were shearing had shorn many times at Billbinya so it was like greeting old friends. They were a motley-looking lot – three older men who were losing their hair or going grey and one young learner. The roustabouts were two young girls who looked like they could give back as good as they got and an older woman whose partner was Buster, the second-fastest shearer in the shed. The presser and the penner-upperer seemed as if they belonged in a heavy rock band, with their long hair and goatees.
'Sheep look good, Gemma,' said Kenny, the owner of the contract business and a shearer himself. 'Boys should get their one fifty a day. Should make for a two-week shed. Ya reckon?'
'Sounds right to me, Kenny,' Gemma replied. 'That works out at about three thousand a week, give or take. There's six thousand wethers all up.'
After the inspection of the sheep and shed was finished, the shearers set up their handpieces, comb and cutter containers, and radio ready for the morning, then headed off to the quarters. Gemma, Bulla, Garry and Jack made plans for the next day. Jack was bringing the sheep in from the outlying paddocks to the holding paddocks, which could take all day depending on how far he had to come. Once the sheep were in the holding paddocks, it would be easy for them to be moved into the holding pens the next morning to drain out for the next day's shearing. Garry was doing plant maintenance, so he'd be around the shed to help if needed. Bulla and Gemma would be working in the yards, back-lining the sheep as they came out of the shed then taking them away.
As the stockmen headed off to their house, Gemma went over to the sheep yards. She started up the fire-fighting pump, whose tank had been filled with water, and started to wet them down. Even though it was winter, the earth was dry and dusty. The constant stream of sheep through the yards during the lamb marking had powdered up the manure and dirt and made the dust extremely fine. The hose throbbed under her hands and the mud splashed up into her face. Tomorrow the yards would be muddy, but working in mud was preferable to the red dust. When the working area was wet she turned off the engine and walked over to the shed to lug out four kegs of the lice treatment. Setting them up on the work table inside the covered yards, near the race, she made sure the applicators were in working condition and set at the right dosage. She then walked through all the yards and checked the chains on the gates to make sure they couldn't come open and the sheep escape or get boxed up with another mob.
Up in the shed, Gemma once again went through everything that was needed. Checking the wool press, she made sure an empty butt was in the press, ready for the first fleece off tomorrow. The bale fasteners and wool packs were close by and the presser would be able to reach them easily. The bale hooks for shifting the large cumbersome bales around were hanging on the press and the stencils that stated what was in each bale were hanging on the wall. Her footsteps were muffled on the wooden floor and the shed was silent except for the occasional cough of a sheep and the clicking of their hoofs on the grating.
Gemma looked at the bench, making sure the emery papers were alongside the grinder. That was how shearers ground their combs and cutters every night to make them sharp for the next day. She tested the chains on all the swinging doors to make sure the sheep couldn't get out of the catching pens. There had been times during previous shearings when a shearer or rousie hadn't chained the gate and during the night the sheep had pushed through the doors and ended up on the board. When the doors of the shed had been opened in the morning, they had been greeted with droppings all over the floor, the wool in chaos and bewildered-looking sheep.
Gemma was leaving nothing to chance. This was her first shearing by herself and she was determined there wouldn't be any stuff-ups while she was in charge.
As she walked towards her house Gemma could hear the raucous noise of talking and laughter coming from the shearers' quarters. Looking at her empty house, she made a snap decision. Heading towards the dog kennels, she let off two dogs who danced happily around her feet, licking at her hands. Stopping to fondle their heads and ears she talked to them quietly and then headed to the house for her sneakers. In the twilight, she ran with the dogs at her heels. She ran until she could see no more, then turned and headed towards home.
The next morning, Gemma was at the yards and shed by 6 am, checking that nothing was amiss. The wind was starting to pick up and she was grateful she'd wet the yards down the night before. Her dogs were whining on the end of their chains, waiting to be let off, but they would stay chained until the yard work was about to start. The shearing shed had come to life with noise and action. The team was always chirpy and keen at the start of a shed but by the time the end drew near, the chat and cheek had disappeared as everyone just wanted to finish. Gemma could hear all the shearers giving a rousie a hard time. Apparently she'd been caught with a farmhand in a compromising position at the last shed and the men were paying her out.
Bulla and Garry arrived and Gemma realised that Jack must have already left. His bike was gone from the shed and the gates in the holding paddocks were open, waiting for the sheep to be brought in. Gemma hadn't heard him leave and was surprised he'd got going earlier than her. Still, at least she knew the sheep were on their way – they could be hard to shift in the wind.
They walked into the shed in time to see the first sheep dragged from its pen and handpiece picked up, and hear the whirr of the machine kick into gear. Watching Kenny open up the belly and throw it onto the board for the rousies to pick up, Gemma felt overwhelmed with a strange mix of exhilaration, sadness and anticipation. Here was her main income. This was her harvest. How would it go? Would she make the money she needed to pay Adam's parents and still have some left over for the running of Billbinya? She prayed silently that this shearing would be a successful one.
* * *
Jess had called in to work on Monday but there wasn't any pressing business. She'd returned a couple of phone calls and answered some emails that were important, and left it at that, determined to spend the rest of the day concentrating on Gemma's books.
As she sipped a cup of coffee at her kitchen table on Tuesday morning with Gemma's files spread out in front of her, she felt very concerned. Noted on a pad beside her were a list of questions to ask Gemma. Once again she flicked through the bank statements of the last year. From the reports she'd printed out from Gemma's computer before she left Billbinya, she could see where the money had been spent and the source of income recei
ved but there was something very obvious missing. Jess went to the September bank statement once more and checked the amounts debited from the Billbinya bank account. Gemma had told her that the payment to Adam's parents came out in September as one large payment. Once Adam had authorised the amount he had rung the bank to organise a transfer of funds.
It seemed to Jess that last year's payment hadn't been made, yet she was sure that if that was the case, Gemma would have heard about it from either Adam or his parents. So if it had been paid, it hadn't come from the Billbinya bank account.
Jess picked up the phone to call Gemma, knowing she'd get the answering machine.
'Hi, gorgeous, how's the shearing going? Can you give me a call at lunchtime? Speak soon. Seeya!'
There wasn't much more Jess could do until Gemma called her back. Picking up her phone again she dialled Brad's number but she hung up before it began to ring. She really wanted to know why he'd been so rude to Gemma. Whenever she had talked to him about her friend during the time they had been together Brad had always seemed genuinely interested, encouraging her to share her concerns. But, she had to admit, he wasn't always so attentive. He'd been late for a few parties that Jess had held and more than once had had too much to drink and made a fool of himself. Not wanting to lose him, she hadn't said anything, but Saturday night was the final straw. Jess couldn't put up with someone who was so rude and self-obsessed. He hadn't rung to say sorry, and if he hadn't rung by now he wasn't likely to.
Stuff him, she thought, throwing her pen on the table. It was time to finish it with Brad. Picking up the phone before she could change her mind she rang Brad's mobile.
'Hi, babe, how's it going?' said Brad.
Jess was incredulous. How could he act normal after Saturday night and then not calling for three days?
'Hello,' Jess replied. 'How's things?'
'Pretty good. I'm heading out to Polkmans to check out their wheat crops for any disease. What are you up to?'
'I'm, uh . . .' Jess faltered. Had she imagined what had happened on Saturday night? Her resolve kicked in. In what she hoped was a steady voice she replied, 'I'm just ringing to say I don't think we should see each other anymore. I was appalled by your behaviour on Saturday night. You not only offended my friend – my oldest friend,' Jess emphasised, 'but you offended me as well. You made a fool out of yourself in front of Ben who, considering you work in the same industry, could be classed as your colleague. So that's it, Brad. Finished.' Taking a deep breath she waited to hear what he'd say. Silence. 'Brad?'
'Your loss, babe. Catch ya round,' and Jess was listening to dead air.
You've got to be kidding me! she thought. How can a relationship of eight months be over just like that? Jess stared at the table for a while, feeling a bit lost. But after a few moments she tossed her head. 'Well, stuff you, buddy. It's your loss not mine,' she said aloud. She started reading through Billbinya's financials for the past year, compiled by the accountant, and brushed away a tear.
Chapter 20
Dave and Craig were making plans to head out to Billbinya.
'We'll head off first thing in the morning,' Dave decided. There didn't seem to be much point in keeping Craig undercover since Ben had identified him at the sale yards.
'I'll ring Gemma today and tee it up with her. We might call in and see a couple of other families on the way. I've got some questions for Sam and Kylie Smith. They seem to have been to Billbinya more than anyone in the last year or so.'
Craig nodded, still smarting from yesterday's failure. Dave clapped him on the shoulder as he walked past, knowing his friend was feeling down.
'Don't worry, mate. You can still go to the sales; no one will know you in Adelaide. It will probably take time to filter through here as well.'
'Dave, you heard of Jess Rawlings?'
'Nup, should I have?'
'Maybe. Remember how I told you I saw Gemma Sinclair and a friend at the Jewel on Friday night?'
Dave nodded.
'Well, the friend was a girl called Jess Rawlings who lives here in Pirie.'
'Why don't you ask around about her? I don't know if she is going to make any difference to our inquiries though, do you?'
'I didn't think so at first, but the barmaid told me Jess works in a bank. I've been thinking about that. I don't know what her job is, but it might be worth finding out.'
'Yep, good thinking. Banking, hiding money . . . yeah, definitely worth following up. What's she like?'
Craig was lost suddenly in the green eyes and stunning smile.
'Um, tall and skinny with red hair. Amazing green eyes.'
'Must have been up close and personal to check the eyes out, mate!' Dave joked. 'Good detective work.'
'Yeah, yeah.'
Dave was about to leave the room, but stopped at the door. 'Out of interest, let's do some more criminal checks. Let's check Adam and Gemma, the stockies – Ned Jones and Ben Daylee and they've got another partner in that office . . . Bert Hawkins, I think? This Jess Rawlings and all of the interviewees. Let's see if we come up with something there.' He went into his office and picked up his phone. Dialling Billbinya's number he thought over what Craig had just told him. If Adam and Gemma had inside knowledge from a friend in banking, it would be easy to hide money that was coming in from stolen stock and bring it back into the system as legal money.
'Gemma, Dave Burrows here from the stock squad. It's, ah, Tuesday morning. My partner and I'd like to come out and see you tomorrow. If you don't get this message until after hours my hotel number is on the card I left with you the other day. We'll probably be out first thing in the morning.' Dave hung up, and sat staring at the phone blankly. It was amazing how little snippets of information could bring down a huge operation. Adam . . . large station . . . plane . . . Jess . . . banking . . . money. There's got to be something there, he thought. We've just got to find it.
Gemma watched in awe as the shearers flew through the sheep. Her dog Scoota sat quietly at her feet, watching intently in case a wether tried to make a getaway.
The shearers made hard work look so simple. Gemma's dad had told her once that a good shearer was one who made it look easy. Kenny hardly raised a sweat. He dragged a new sheep out from the catching pen and opened up the belly. Throwing it on the floor he then proceeded to the crutch and onto the side of the sheep, where the long blows started. One of the rousies, Paula, who was working the flat blade paddle, swept up the belly and threw it into a wool butt. Manoeuvring the paddle next to the sheep's rump, she expertly swept out the crutch and then went on to the next shearer.
Kenny's sheep hadn't moved out of position. He held it firmly between his legs, putting on small amounts of pressure when the sheep moved to let it know who was in charge. Jamie, one of the younger, less experienced shearers, found the big wethers hard work. They struggled and didn't like sitting on their rear. Whenever he accidentally loosened his grip, the wethers took full advantage, thumping their hind legs on the board and throwing their heads, ending up on their backs with Jamie swearing.
Lisa, the young blonde rousie whom the shearers had been teasing, swooped down on the fleece that had been left on the floor. She jiggled the wool around on the board until she found the legs, scooped it up in her arms and ran to the wool table. She flicked her wrists and the fleece flew up into the air, landing perfectly flat on the wool table, where Jackie skirted it quickly and decided which line it belonged in. The little pieces of wool that didn't stay attached to the fleece floated onto the floor like soft snowflakes. Paula scraped her paddle across the floor, sweeping up all the excess wool.
The radio was blaring and the engine that drove all the handpieces was humming loudly. Kenny bent over and said something to Jamie that Gemma couldn't hear, but all the shearers burst out laughing and Jamie, already red in the face from exertion, looked up and gave a mouthful of cheek back. Kenny laughed, clapped him on the back and went to grab another sheep.
Lisa danced across the board, in her short s
horts that showed off her tanned legs, a tank top that left nothing to the imagination, and sandshoes. Her blonde ponytail was swinging to the rhythm of her body. She sang along to the radio, picking up fleeces, sweeping up locks and never standing still. The golden rule in the shed was never, ever stop to lean on the paddle.
Gemma watched the other members of the team – the third rousie, the presser and the pennerupperer. Those three were different from the rest. They were younger by quite a few years and had a sullen air about them. To Gemma they looked like unsavoury individuals, but she also knew it was hard to get people to work in shearing sheds and the rural industry full stop. It was hard, tiring work and it seemed that people were shying away from the industry. The money offered to shearers, farm employees and station managers didn't seem to be as good as the mines, and many young people were heading to where the big money was. Gemma supposed that Kenny couldn't be picky when it came to getting a team together. The important thing was, the shed seemed to be running like a well-oiled machine so Gemma, singing the words to one of her favourite songs that was on the radio, bounced outside to the yards. She went to the count-out pens to let the wethers out so she could back-line them. As they ran from the dimness under the shed they were suddenly blinded by the bright sunlight and stopped, piling up on top of one another until their eyes adjusted and they could see the open gate heading into the yards. Gemma's reaction was similar, her eyes responding to the iridescent whiteness of their bodies now the wool had gone. It made her blink a couple of times until her eyes adjusted to the brilliance of the skin.
Red Dust Page 14
