River Run

by Alexander, Nicole

  Rex frowned. ‘I weren’t no gun,’ he said seriously, ‘but I was good, real good.’

  Mr Pappas reappeared carrying three large brown paper bags, his black hair falling across a ridged brow. Rex opened the passenger door and the shopkeeper slid the groceries along the bench seat. ‘That be all then, Rex?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it, mate.’

  ‘Here you go.’ Mr Pappas handed Eleanor a white paper bag. ‘Boiled lollies for young Robbie.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Pappas.’

  ‘Keep them hidden if I was you, Miss Eleanor,’ Rex advised. ‘Your mother’s not in a real good mood on account of young Robbie destroying two of her rose bushes, and the new governess is on the warpath again.’

  ‘Another one, Rex?’ queried Eleanor.

  The older man scratched furiously behind an ear. ‘Number eight by my reckoning. Yup, eight governesses in three years. Impressive by any standard.’

  When had Robbie not been in trouble? ‘I’m glad to hear your family has joined you, Mr Pappas.’ Eleanor opened the packet and took one of the lollies for herself. The sweet was chewy, a sugary jube.

  ‘It’s wonderful. Very wonderful. I am a lucky man. Now don’t forget, my Athena she would make you a beautiful frock. You come and see Athena.’

  ‘I will,’ Eleanor promised, climbing into the truck.

  ‘And I see you, Rex, for the shearing order. Sunday?’

  ‘Sounds good. Sunday it is,’ he confirmed, before shifting the gearstick on the column of the steering wheel. ‘First stop the station master’s office,’ he said to Eleanor, as the truck crawled down the road, ‘then River Run.’

  ‘We’re starting shearing later than usual, aren’t we?’

  ‘It’s the overseer. Talked your mother into shearing now.’ Rex tapped the side of his nose. ‘Got a plan, he has. Wants the ewes joined earlier this year to bring the lambing forward. I’ve seen him, you know, in the yards. Hour after hour he’ll go through a mob. Looking, always a-looking. Writes everything in his notebook. Brings the same mob back in a couple of months later and, blow-me-down, does the exact same thing again. Last November he brought in a new classer, Nevin. Took him to the yards to go through a mob. Didn’t ask. Didn’t tell no-one about it. But the Boss, well, she lets him have the run of the place.’

  They were soon outside the railway station and Rex was quick to open the door. A few minutes later the suitcase landed with a thud in the tray of the truck.

  ‘Hugh wants to split the flock up a bit more,’ continued Rex as he put his foot on the accelerator. A spray of gravel spun up as they turned left and then right, heading swiftly out of the village. ‘Divvy up the stud ewes. That means more fences and more paddocks. Course the only reason the Boss has given him the okay is because he’s gone back to your grandfather’s ways. The wethers and rams have been out on the western edge of the run since the middle of last year, hardening up on Old Man saltbush. Toughen them up. Grow them out, he says. And your mother agrees. Well, if it was good enough for your grandfather … He’s all about improving the flock.’ The road quickly altered from the packed, relatively smooth dirt of the street to a potholed single lane.

  ‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’ replied Eleanor.

  ‘In the bush a man does well not to have delusions of grandeur. I don’t see a shingle hanging above Hugh’s door saying Stud Master.’ Rex blew his nose on a piece of rag.

  ‘If Mr Goward’s ideas are good,’ Eleanor reasoned, ‘why not?’

  ‘We’re doing fine. And with wool worth a pound a pound, I can’t see the point. If it ain’t broke, you don’t fix it.’

  ‘I thought you were friends?’

  ‘I’m not saying we aren’t.’

  Eleanor decided not to pursue the topic. Instead she shuffled across the cracked leather upholstery until she found a more comfortable spot. The wireless soon replaced the need for conversation and Eleanor settled back contentedly, turning her face into the harsh, hot wind.

  Chapter Three

  Robbie shadowed the sheep trail leading from the woolshed to the river. Large blowflies followed his progress, swarming and settling on the carcass strapped to the horse’s back. The insects hovered and buzzed, and were soon joined by hundreds of small black flies, so that one hand was fully employed swooshing them from his eyes and mouth. The earth was well-trodden along the route and Garnet, an ancient horse who’d seen finer days, bobbed his head continuously, one minute snuffling the grass, the next eyeing their destination. The cattle-pup, blue and squat, kept its distance. Twice he’d been yelled at for nipping at the horse’s heels and on each occasion he’d growled and yapped in response like a sulky child. Robbie glanced at the stubborn dog, barely six months of age. He should have tied the animal up before leaving the stables. Even in this heat the pig-headed heeler followed. Occasionally horse and rider veered from their path to halt under spreading trees. It was then that the dog approached warily to sit close by, one eye on his master, the other on the horse, his nose snuffling at the stench of the rotten meat.

  Under cover of a half-dead tree, which held the stick-fused home of an eagle’s nest, Robbie turned Garnet to survey the direction they’d come. He squinted against the glare. The country looked deserted. There were no iron roofs between treetops, no screech of the governess and no prowling staff. Satisfied they were alone, Robbie urged the horse into a trot. The gelding reluctantly obeyed, swishing his tail and letting out a neigh that sounded like a sigh. Behind, the dog kept pace, short legs powering through the dirt, pink tongue hanging. The land rose and fell in gentle waves, the sweep of brittle grass bending in the hot wind. With each rise the line of dense trees marking the river grew closer, as did the scent of sheep carried on a lifting wind.

  A box-like structure was visible in the distance. Diverting from the trodden path, Robbie stopped at the timber framework with its wire-netting sides and roof. The door to the trap was open. Bleached bones and feathers lay on the ground. Pocketknife in hand, he cut the twine binding the stinking meat to the horse as the flies rose in protest. The sheep’s hind-quarter fell in the dirt and the horse jolted at the thud. The cattle-pup was into it immediately, teeth tearing and paws plying the decaying flesh.

  ‘Get out of it, Bluey!’ yelled Robbie, lifting the sheep’s remains and tossing it into the wire pen. The flies followed. Then Robbie himself. Above him a central round opening was edged by long pieces of dangling wire. The bastards could get in, he thought, but they won’t get out. Crows, how he hated them. Robbie shut the door, wiring it securely, and then resumed the journey.

  ‘Not long now, mate,’ he said softly as the haphazard line of timber grew more distinct. Robbie patted the bulging saddlebag, briefly resting his hand on the contents as the land began to slope down towards the river. He looked back at the dog, gave an encouraging whistle and then horse and rider picked their way cautiously across the rough ground. The afternoon sunlight was flickering through branches as the woody plants thickened, the closer they drew to the waterway.

  Next to the river, in a clearing ringed by timber, Robbie dismounted. Leaving Garnet to graze, he slung the saddlebag over a shoulder and walked to the base of a wide-girthed tree, rifle in hand. Once free of the horse, the dog came running to sniff at his moleskin trousers and whine for attention. Giving the animal an absent pat, Robbie craned his neck. The towering canopy obliterated the sky.

  ‘Go for a swim, Bluey,’ he suggested to the panting animal, tying a rope to the rifle and knotting it at his waist. The bark was slippery beneath his boots, but gnarly enough to provide some grip, and with a concentrated effort he grasped the limb closest to the ground and hoisted himself upwards. The rifle swung in the air, bashing against the tree as he clambered, goanna-like, through the boughs, finally reaching the makeshift platform, two planks of wood wedged among concealing branches. He pulled the rifle up and dropped the saddlebag on the boards.

  There was a hollow in the trunk and the partially rotted timber provided an excellent
hidey-hole. Robbie checked the contents of the crevice and unpacked the saddlebag. It had taken a bit of sneaking about to get to the pantry this time. He was sure that Mrs Howell was on to him and the housekeeper was right fidgety about her tinned goods. His mother said it was on account of the last war when the tin shortage had led to Heinz stopping supplies to Australian shoppers. The cook had a thing for Heinz spaghetti and soups and Robbie’s father often remarked that he wished he had shares in the company. Aggie Howell might eat more tinned food than all of the household put together, but she also had enough of the stuff stored away to last a year.

  Robbie removed the four tins from the saddlebag, secreting the food in the hollowed portion of the trunk. Lastly he took a tin-opener from his pocket, wedging it inside the tree as well. He now had eleven tins of food and a waterbag. He reckoned on the supply lasting him a week based on the fact that if there was fighting to be done, on those days he’d be hungrier. The problem, of course, was if he had to feed more than himself. Robbie peered through the leaves, snapping some smaller branches that were obstructing the view of the homestead. Part of the second storey was just visible through the trees, its location marked by a curl of smoke hanging above the kitchen chimney.

  He swivelled in the opposite direction. This new angle took in the rich river flats and the sprawling plains that angled away into the distance like a shimmering inland sea. Below, steep-sided banks lined a river stretching deep and wide, its surface busy with long-legged waders and numerous ducks. White, beige, black and blue contrasted with brown water as birds dived and fluttered and splashed. Lifting the rifle, Robbie aimed at a black duck. They were good eating, but better target practice. He took a breath, noticing how calmly this particular bird floated on the water. He placed a finger lightly on the trigger.

  A great commotion of squawking fowls and flapping wings arose as the cattle-pup barrelled into the water, barking with delight. Within seconds the river was empty, save for the dog swimming happily in circles. The animal bobbed and lapped at the cool liquid and Robbie grinned as he lowered the rifle. Bluey swam back to the bank, shook himself and then rolled in the sand.

  Across the waterway, tufts of white crossed Robbie’s field of vision as sheep fed into the wind. If the communists came from this direction, Robbie knew he’d have them in his sights long before they reached the river. And it made sense that they would approach from this direction. Boats would bring them to the north of Australia and then they’d march south following the quickest route. Hell, he’d just thought of something. The communists might even join up with those Islamic Indonesians that his father said were fighting for their own state. An attack on two fronts. Jiminy Cricket. He needed more supplies.

  Robbie rubbed at his chin, sure he could feel a stubby hair. It didn’t matter how many of the enemy there were. When the moment came he’d be ready. As sentry, his warning shots would give the family time to prepare for the attack. Best of all, the reds wouldn’t be able to see him up here. Although he really needed another lookout. One of his sisters, Eleanor, drew pictures and wrote stories. Robbie knew from the time he’d spent in the tree that a man could get easily bored waiting to be attacked, but as Elly was in Sydney and his dad was a crack shot and had already been to war, the decision was easy.

  Slinging the empty saddlebag over his shoulder, Robbie lowered the rifle and climbed slowly down the tree. The dog was wriggling in the dirt, four legs pointed to the sky. He called to the horse and the animal stared back. Robbie called again and gave a low whistle. The gelding didn’t budge.

  ‘I should send you to a cannery.’ Robbie ruffled Garnet’s mane affectionately, before sliding the rifle in its holster. Further along the river he had a couple of cray-bob traps which he’d laced with rabbit meat and it was in this direction he now headed. He led Garnet along the sandy riverbank, Bluey padding by his side as the edge of the waterway gradually flattened and smoothed. During a flood this was one of the safer places to cross. A wire was permanently strung taut across the waterway and tied between two stout trees. The life-line glistened in the afternoon light as Robbie imagined men swimming their horses across the river in flood, stringing a rope over the wire and tying it to the saddle so neither horse nor rider would get washed away.

  Beneath overhanging trees the submerged traps were still tied securely to sticks wedged in the dirt, but as he grew closer Robbie could see that one of the traps had been dragged from the water and cut open.

  ‘Crikey.’ Whoever had stolen his crays had busted the wire to get at the catch. There were footprints in the sand but they extended only to the trap and then headed back towards the river. Robbie tipped his wide-brimmed hat to the back of his head. The thief who had taken his crays came from across the water. He scanned the opposite bank, frowning in concentration. The trees threw shadowy shapes on the surface, but nothing moved on the other side. At the water’s edge, the pup growled.

  ‘You see something out there, dog?’

  The animal took a step closer to the river. Robbie kicked at the empty trap and then fished out the remaining one. Seven cray-bobs tumbled around inside and one by one he grabbed their slimy bodies, carefully avoiding their nippers, and dropped them into the saddlebag. Overhead the wedge of sky between the trees was white with summer light. Garnet shook his head, long mane swishing. The cattle-pup barked. ‘I know, I know,’ Robbie said unenthusiastically, ‘time to head back.’

  The grassy plain spread out wide and flat. The sun was getting lower. Robbie scowled at the lingering heat ruining the last few hours of daylight, noticing a spiral of darkness in the distance. It sat far out on the horizon. A dirty tinge silhouetted by a tawny sky before it slowly faded from sight.

  Chapter Four

  River Run. A spread of acreage stretching from the soft undulations and distant promontories of the east to the flat grassy plains of the west. It was a land of far horizons. Of patchy, fragile dirt made green with rain. Of great tracks of open grass country dissected by floodplains, red earth, belts of timber and clumps of saltbush far to the west. Here the soil was fertile, but poor rainfall and high temperatures made it a battle to realise pastoral potential. But they were still here, Eleanor mused. Eighty years on. The world was altered, especially since the end of the Second World War, but some things would never change. The bush was one of those things. You could leave it, but the land would never leave you. Leaning against the seat, Eleanor’s head vibrated in time with the rickety progress of the truck. She closed her eyes, tiredness and emotion clouding her thoughts.

  Everyone had warned her to stay away from Dante. She’d met the Italian immigrant, ten years her senior, at the Artists and Models Ball at Sydney’s Trocadero Club. He’d been to all the places she’d dreamt about: Paris, Rome, Milan, London, and he was an artist, a very attractive artist. As a woman raised in a prosperous landed family, Eleanor was confident in her judgement of people. And here was this sophisticated intellectual with his enquiring eyes and gentlemanly ways, rendered homeless and penniless by war. Of course, were she not instantly smitten, Eleanor may have eventually noted the inconsistencies: the lack of detail offered regarding his background, the interest shown in her scribblings, a quickness to anger when she was not forthcoming in discussing her work and the man’s insistence that their weekly trysts be accompanied by wine. Wine she invariably purchased. Never, not once, did she listen to her friends when they warned, he can’t be trusted. Why would she listen to them? Eleanor had been deeply in love. The very concept of taking advantage of another, in order to survive, was not a world she understood.

  Her cheeks grew hot at the thought of the last night she and Dante had shared. It was a month to the day and the images of his swarthy skin entwined in crisp sheets continued to haunt her. Forget him, she scolded, forget him.

  A leather folio lay across Eleanor’s lap. Inside were glossy cover sketches and partially finished manuscripts. She wondered why she’d ever attempted to write a novella set in inner Sydney, but then she was a keen
observer of life, a quality instilled in her by a bush childhood. And the challenge of making the asphalt come alive intrigued Eleanor. In hindsight, however, she would have been better off sticking to the comic book stories that sold steadily at newsagents and train stations. She’d written the novel on spec, hoping and praying that one of the Sydney publishers would buy the manuscript. And they had, from Dante.

  ‘Problems?’ asked Rex.

  ‘I guess turning up unannounced makes it pretty obvious,’ Eleanor answered.

  ‘Nothing’s ever as bad as it seems, so my mother told me.’

  Then why did she feel so miserable? ‘Do you believe that, Rex?’

  The gardener gave a chuckle. ‘Nup. But you’re home now.’

  He was right, and the sense of home was tangible. Every tree, every ramp, every dirt track, every paddock carried with it a memory, of horses and motor-bikes, of scraped knees and motherless lambs, of shooting pigs and trapping crows. However, homecomings were bittersweet for it was here on her family’s land that she felt closest to her dad and here that his loss hit the hardest.

  The rushing air was a blur of browns and beige and grey. Trees thinned and thickened. The land opened and closed about them revealing stubby bushes with birds made listless by heat, sheep gathering along the bore drains to drink, and kangaroos lying in the shade of trees. Then the wildlife disappeared as the sides of the track grew dense with timber, the only thing visible the red shimmer of the unfurling road. They rattled over a stock-ramp. Behind them a cloud of dust filled the rear-view mirror. It felt longer than the year it had been since her last trip home.

  ‘Twenty miles to go,’ Rex said cheerfully. He’d spent most of the trip humming along to country and western tunes on the wireless. ‘You’d notice the country’s looking a bit barren. The rabbits have been real bad. Got us some new traps from Newcastle that will keep Robbie busy, but he’ll have to be quick.’