Robbie put on his serious face. ‘Yes, sir.’ But he was pretty sure that the older man was chuckling as he walked outside, nearly colliding with … ‘Dad.’
His father was leaning on his walking stick on the veranda, his hat tilted back slightly so that Robbie could see his bald patch. He didn’t look cranky, so Robbie gave his best grin and thought he saw the slight creasing at the corners of his father’s mouth that sometimes became a smile.
‘Robbie. I hope you’re not annoying Mr Goward?’
Robbie rolled his lips together. He knew from previous occasions that if he said no, no-one ever believed him.
‘He just came over for a talk, Mr Webber,’ the overseer explained, standing in the cottage doorway. ‘We were having a chat about shearing. I said we could use him in the shed after he’s finished his lessons, of course, if Mr Lomax’s agreeable.’
Colin ruffled his son’s hair and Robbie squirmed uncomfortably. ‘Well, if you can convince the Chinaman, Hugh,’ he gave his son a pointed look, ‘and he doesn’t cause any problems –’
‘I won’t, Dad, I promise,’ interrupted Robbie. He jumped from the veranda and began twisting the heels of his boots in the dirt. ‘One day I’m going to be just like Jackie Howe and shear hundreds and hundreds of sheep in one day.’
‘It took sixty years for a machine shearer to equal Jack’s blade-shearing record,’ Mr Goward reminded him, ‘so you better build yourself up a bit if you’ve a mind to be the next Bradman of the Board.’
Robbie beamed as his father and Mr Goward began to discuss the team. Some of the men they mentioned, Robbie recalled from last year. There was Fitzy the cook, and Dawson the butcher, and Mr Lomax the Chinaman, and the classer Spec Wilson. But most of the shearers, apart from Billy Wright, he couldn’t remember at all. Mr Goward went back inside the cottage, reappearing with the notebook from the kitchen table.
‘The Grazco’s man, Rickard, suggested Johnny Smithers,’ the overseer explained, ‘but I said we refused to have the drunk back. The man smuggled in grog last year and stirred up everyone.’
‘I remember,’ his father answered. ‘A dry shed is a dry shed. No excuses.’
‘Just what I told Rickard. Of course if you complain about a man invariably you’ll get someone worse. The bastards. Sorry, Robbie.’ He cleared his throat.
His father ruffled his hair again. ‘He’ll hear worse next week.’
‘Anyway, the new bloke is from out Riverina way. Don Donaldson. So we can only wait and see. Had cancer of the throat, but they say he can shear a bit. Might give Billy Wright a run for his money and break the highest tally record he’s held here for twenty years.’
‘As long as we’ve a full team, Hugh, that’s the main thing. We just have to hope that they all sign their agreements. We don’t need a replay of ’49.’
‘Anyone would think we owed them a living. Beats me. We need the sheep shorn and they get paid to do it. And I don’t see many other sheds putting on beef and mutton in the mess. You know we could do it ourselves,’ Mr Goward suggested. ‘Do the hiring and the firing without the Graziers’ Co-operative organising things on our behalf, without the union.’
‘Scabs? No. No, I’ll not take that path. Some of these shearers have been coming here for years. And there have been few problems.’
‘And some are a bit long in the tooth,’ the overseer countered. ‘I’m not saying they weren’t good in their time.’
‘As long as they keep pace with the average count per run. There’s been a massive growth in flock size and wool output over the last five years and the bush is suffering from a lack of labour.’
‘And the shearers and shed-hands know it,’ Mr Goward cut in.
Robbie watched as his father chewed the fleshy inside of his cheek. He never did take to being interrupted, and the overseer, as everyone knew, wasn’t too keen on being given orders. ‘Keep them happy, Hugh. That’s all that’s required. We have to get the wool off the sheep’s back and onto the auction floor with the minimum of fuss. And at the moment with the price of wool, we can pay what they want to a certain extent. Don’t forget, large profits make it difficult to justify any opposition to wage increases.’
‘But what happens when the price falls?’ the overseer queried. ‘They’ll still want their pot of gold and we won’t be able to deliver. It won’t be economically feasible.’
‘Let me worry about what’s economically sound for River Run.’ Colin’s tone never varied. ‘We’ve a good team. And as long as they think they’re receiving a fair go, which they are,’ he confirmed, ‘we’ll be right.’
‘The wethers have a lot of wool on them this year and there’s the odd ewe blown. They’ll complain. Argue for an increased rate for the trouble.’
‘Just get them to sign the agreements.’ His father was beginning to get impatient. ‘At least then they can’t bargain for conditions above what’s in the contract. The last thing any woolgrower needs is to pick a fight with their employees.’
Standing between the two men, Robbie was starting to get a crooked neck from looking up. He wondered why his father didn’t tell Mr Goward that he’d talked about this with his mother and that she’d already made a decision about such things. His mum and dad talked about everything and argued about everything, including the shearing team, and then they argued about arguing. No-one was meant to know that it was Robbie’s mother who really ran the property, but he reckoned that some people guessed the truth. After all it was his mother who spent time liaising with the Australian Workers Union, assisting them like other leading graziers to keep control over their members. And most days she was either studying the ledgers in the station office or driving around the run in an old beat-up truck, checking fences and their mobs of sheep, a colourful scarf tied under her chin to keep the dust from her hair and a battered hat on her head. Nope, Robbie figured every man on the station knew who really ran River Run. Rex said it didn’t have anything to do with Robbie’s father. Things had been done this way with his mother’s first husband as well. They’d married into the River family after all. They’d married a wife and landed a sheep station.
‘If the weather holds we’ll be finished in a month,’ Colin continued. ‘This heatwave will keep everyone’s heads down.’
The overseer didn’t look convinced, his mouth briefly puckering. ‘This hot, well, I’d be surprised if something didn’t blow up from the west. Settle the dust. It wouldn’t hurt none. Weather like this, it’s hard on man and beast.’
His father dipped his chin in agreement.
Robbie knew Mr Goward fought with one of the shearers last year. Rex reminded him recently when they’d been out fishing. The shearer had been thrown off the place, dumped on the main road with his swag and a busted nose. The union rep went off his block. Wrote a letter of complaint and everything, not that anyone took notice of that. No-one messed with Mr Goward’s fist.
‘Well, we’ll be yarding and drafting the first mob on Sunday and you can expect the men to start arriving from tomorrow on,’ Mr Goward explained. ‘Rex is collecting the food for the mess Sunday as well. I bet old Stavros is rubbing his hands together.’
‘He usually is at this time of the year,’ Colin granted. ‘You know Mrs Webber and I have talked about your ideas for the flock, Hugh, and although I’m not convinced I’ll tell Winslow when he’s here over the weekend.’
‘I appreciate you giving me a chance, Mr Webber.’
Colin grunted in reply.
With their business discussed, Robbie found himself keeping pace with his father. He wanted to run on ahead but instead he was forced to slow, as the cane made drag marks in the dirt.
‘Can I really work in the shed, Dad?’ asked Robbie, reaching down to give Bluey a scratch between the ears.
‘If you behave yourself.’ He gave his son a quick glance. ‘Your mother is going to have a say about the mess you made to her roses.’
Robbie had hoped that had been forgotten. ‘I didn’t mean to,’ he answ
ered, dropping his bottom lip.
‘How about trying not to upset her?’ At the back gate his father stopped. ‘You know what she’s like when it comes to those flowers of hers. Women like to keep things neat and nice, especially your mother. Alright?’
‘Okay,’ Robbie mumbled, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
‘And that pup of yours.’ His father nodded at the cattle dog. ‘You’ll keep him tied up, won’t you, over shearing. If he attacks any of the sheep I’ll have to put him down, Robbie. Damn stupid idea,’ he muttered as if Robbie weren’t present, ‘being given a cattle-pup when you live on a sheep run.’
‘Mr Pappas thought I’d like him,’ argued Robbie defensively.
‘Mr Pappas doesn’t know much about the bush or sheep. You know you really can’t keep him, son. Not here on a sheep stud.’
‘But –’
‘We’ll talk about it later.’
‘But –’ Robbie looked from the pup to his father and back again. He couldn’t bear to lose Bluey. The dog was his friend. He’d talk to his mother. Yes, that’s what he’d do. Usually when one of them said no, the other said yes. Mrs Howell once told Robbie it was because his parents were contrary. Robbie didn’t know what that meant, but the process usually worked. ‘Dad, you know the war in Korea?’
His father lifted the latch, closing the gate behind them. ‘Yes.’
‘Does Menzies –’
‘Mr Menzies,’ he corrected. ‘He’s our Prime Minister, you know.’
‘Well, does Mr Menzies think the communists will invade Australia?’
They walked across the lawn, avoiding the wet spots where the sprinklers had soaked the earth. ‘There’s no doubt that the communists have been a problem here in Australia for a while. You wouldn’t remember, but a couple of years ago we had to call in the army to break up a coal-mine strike. The Communist Party was to blame for that.’
‘The army?’ Robbie blanched. ‘Did they shoot the reds then, Dad?’
‘No.’ His father gave a chuckle. ‘At least, not that I know of. But men were jailed. It was quite a big thing at the time.’ They reached the first of the linked ponds and, with their path barred by Rex’s irrigation system, they detoured past a rockery, white trellis and a trailing vine. ‘You see, the communists don’t like capitalism and that’s people and businesses like us. They want to see businesses and governments run by the people. Shared. You understand, don’t you, son? They’d want to take over River Run.’
‘Live in the house and everything?’
‘Probably,’ his father responded vaguely.
Robbie couldn’t believe it. Communists living in his home. ‘So, if they invaded … You know if the communists did come here …’ But his father wasn’t listening, he was talking about class conflict and the working class struggle. Stuff that didn’t interest Robbie at all. A frog plopped into the brown-green water of the pond. When his father paused, Robbie spoke up. ‘Tell me again, Dad, about when that bloody German shot you in the leg.’
‘Seriously, Robbie, I’ve told you a hundred times,’ he chortled. ‘He got me here, here and here.’ He pointed to a number of places on his thigh.
Robbie couldn’t imagine being shot. His father was the bravest man he knew. ‘What was it really like at the war, Dad? What’s it like to kill a man?’
The cane made a scratching noise on the paving stones. His father’s face grew dark. Robbie was sorry he asked. ‘We don’t talk about it, remember?’
‘But, Dad –’
‘Go see your sister. Eleanor is home.’
Robbie knew when it was best to do what his father said. His skin was turning the funny grey colour that usually meant he’d soon go all quiet and sad. His mother said it was because of the war but as his father never wanted to talk about it, ever, Robbie guessed he’d never really know.
‘Off you go, Robbie. I’ll be in soon.’ His father sat heavily on a garden bench, his breaths long and leaden, the blue of his shirt darkened by sweat.
Robbie lingered for just a second and then ran towards the house. If the communists did come, he’d be ready.
Chapter Seven
Eleanor was sitting on the bed sketching the front of the homestead from memory when the bedroom door opened with such force that it slammed into the wall. Hurriedly gathering the contents of the satchel scattered across the chenille cover, she hid the papers beneath a pillow. Her young brother grinned at her, while a half-grown blue cattle dog padded into the room to sit by his feet.
‘Hello, Robbie. And this is?’
The dog tilted its head, eyeing her suspiciously.
‘Bluey.’
Eleanor smiled. ‘Very appropriate.’
‘I didn’t know you were coming home,’ Robbie commented.
He had the stocky build of his mother and the dark hair of his father. The eleven-year-old had grown. ‘It was a last-minute thing.’ Eleanor tucked a curly red tendril of hair behind her ear and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘So when did Mum start letting working dogs in the house? And a cattle-pup?’ She was surprised.
‘You won’t tell her, will you, Eleanor? He’s harmless and anyway he’s only a pup. Mr Pappas gave him to me last year. Dad said I couldn’t keep him. He said he’d chase after the sheep and kill them but,’ he shrugged, ‘I want to keep him, and Mum hasn’t said anything about him yet.’
Eleanor was surprised her mother hadn’t instantly got rid of the dog. She wondered if there was more of a battle of wills going on between her mother and stepfather than what she’d overheard earlier. ‘I won’t breathe a word, but you better keep him hidden.’ She curled her legs up on the bed. ‘What have you been up to?’
‘Not much.’ He went directly to the door leading out onto the balcony. In the distance the curve of the river was marked by a band of trees.
‘Hmm, that’s not what Rex told me.’
Robbie scuffed his foot on the carpet. ‘Well, I don’t like Archie.’
‘I was talking about Mum’s rose bushes.’
‘Oh. It was Garnet, sis. He made me do it.’
‘Really.’ Eleanor laughed. ‘Obviously Garnet doesn’t like flowers.’
‘Well, we have got an awful lot of them and they’re right in front of the hedge.’ Robbie shrugged. ‘I didn’t mean it.’
‘You’re not in trouble with me.’ Eleanor received a grin in reply.
‘It’s been pretty boring here.’ Robbie turned from the balcony to sit in a flowery barrel-backed chair, flinging a leg over one of the arms. The wood gave an alarming creak, which he didn’t seem to notice. ‘I don’t like Miss Hastings much and Mr Goward has been busy because of shearing.’
‘Rex tells me we start Monday.’
Robbie’s face brightened. ‘I’ll still have to do my lessons and everything but Dad always lets me finish early even if Mum gets annoyed and Mr Goward said I could be part of the team and help.’
Eleanor’s eyebrow lifted. ‘Really? Well, you will be busy.’
The boy touched the dog lightly with the toe of his boot and the pup rolled onto his back, wriggling happily on the carpet. ‘The men finished walking the first mob of sheep into the one-tree paddock this morning. There’s good feed there, but Mr Goward’s worried about the grass cutting out too soon when there’s another twenty thousand head that’s gotta come the same route. I wanted to muster with them yesterday but of course the old bag wouldn’t let me.’
‘And who is the old bag?’
‘The governess,’ Robbie explained. ‘Duck Face.’
Eleanor burst out laughing. ‘Duck Face?’
Robbie picked at the arm of the chair, not seeing the humour. Fact was fact, after all. ‘Is it hotter here than Sydney?’
‘Absolutely. It’s positively boiling. Anyway, what else has been happening?’
‘Well, Mum and Dad have been arguing. About shearing, about Mr Goward, about buying rams, about their friends coming to stay and about a new car. Dad wants to buy a Holden but I heard Mum say that they’r
e like arseholes, everyone has one.’
‘Robbie!’ Eleanor was shocked. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that.’
‘Like what?’ he asked innocently. ‘Anyway, Mum said 1949 and ’50 was the time to buy a new car, but she doesn’t want one of those anymore.’
‘Really? Why on earth not?’
Robbie’s smile grew so wide that nearly every tooth in his mouth became visible. ‘Because she wants to buy an aeroplane!’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘There’s money in wool,’ he announced, clearly imitating his parents. ‘And Mum says we could see where all the sheep are lots easier from the air, and we could check watering points. And planes could even help out at mustering time.’
‘A plane for mustering sheep, now I have heard it all.’ Eleanor was agog at such an idea. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked at the young boy’s changed expression. ‘Is something wrong?’
His face grew grave. ‘It’s the war.’
‘What war?’
Robbie swivelled in the chair, repositioning a leg. Crusty bits of mud fell from the hem of his trousers onto the carpet. In the stuffy room Eleanor began to decipher a mixture of scents, one minute something that resembled rotten meat, the next the familiar tang of horse hair and saddle-grease.
‘You know, sis, in Korea.’
Eleanor stifled a yawn. It had been a long day. ‘Oh, that war. Quite frankly I don’t think we should even be involved in it.’
‘It’s on the wireless and everything,’ Robbie went on passionately, ‘and Dad says that with the Russians involved that it could be another big war.’ His words tumbled over each other. ‘We only just stopped the Chinese, you know.’
‘Robbie, relax. It’s miles away from us. The other side of the world, really.’ Eleanor didn’t mean to sound dismissive, but the last thing she wanted to discuss was yet another war. It only seemed like yesterday since the last one ended.
‘But they’re shooting our men,’ he argued.
‘I know. I have read about it.’ She’d been pretty self-absorbed over the past few weeks but Eleanor was sure that the United Nations and the countries fighting under that banner would soon have the battle between north and south under control.
River Run Page 5
