‘You can’t trust the communists.’ Robbie said the word slowly, for emphasis. ‘You know one lot of Koreans invaded the other lot,’ he told her knowingly. ‘And Dad says that Mr Menzies –’
‘Bloody old Menzies,’ Eleanor scoffed. ‘He’s got half the country scared witless about the threat from communist regimes and the other half complaining about all the immigrants he’s allowing into the country. The Italians are more threat to us than the reds.’
Robbie’s eyes widened. ‘Even Mr Pappas who owns the store?’ He hadn’t counted on the Italians attacking as well.
‘No, not old Stavros. He’s Greek.’ An unwelcome image of Dante came to her. ‘By the way, he gave me these to give to you.’ Eleanor handed him the bag of lollies.
‘You didn’t eat any, did you?’ He began sucking on one of the sweets.
Eleanor crossed her heart. ‘Of course not.’ From beneath the pillow she selected a couple of American western comic books, handing them over. ‘Don’t show anyone those, will you?’
‘Wow, thanks.’ He examined the covers. One of them was called The Outsider, and depicted a big-hatted man on horseback carrying a rifle. In the distance was a figure crouched behind rocks, watching his approach. ‘I bet that’s a Winchester,’ Robbie said. ‘It sure looks like one. Dad took me to the flicks last year in Sydney and we saw Jimmy Stewart in Winchester ’73. That’s the rifle that won the West. Did you know that?’
‘No, I can’t say that I did,’ Eleanor said.
‘Well that figures, you being a girl and all. Did you know that the only comics Mum lets me read is Ginger Meggs when Dad’s finished with the paper and they make me listen to The Argonauts on the wireless?’ He rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘But I’ve kept all the comics you’ve given me, Eleanor. I keep them hidden. Have you had more stories made into comics?’
Eleanor was desperate to share what Dante had done. ‘A couple. And I did write something, a book actually,’ she paused for just a moment, ‘but a friend stole it and printed it under his name. I’ll never forgive him for doing that.’
‘But that’s just wrong.’ Robbie’s face turned indignant.
‘Yes it is, but there’s nothing I can do about it.’ Eleanor plucked at the bedcover. ‘Don’t tell anyone, will you, Robbie. Promise me? I don’t want to make a fuss about it and you know that Mum and Uncle Colin hate my writing. They don’t know I still do it,’ she confided. ‘I only told you because, well, I just wanted to.’
‘Don’t you worry, I won’t tell anyone. Cross my heart.’ Robbie spat on his palm, extending a hand to his sister. ‘Come on. You have to do the same thing. Then we have a pact. I won’t tell on you if you don’t tell on me.’
How disgusting, she thought, but reluctantly Eleanor spat on her palm and they shook hands.
He slipped the comics down his shirt. ‘Anyway, you could write something else. A bush story. How about me and Garnet?’ he asked hopefully. ‘Or Bluey.’
The canine lifted its head.
‘Maybe I could,’ Eleanor replied thoughtfully. ‘We’ll see.’
‘You know I don’t think Mum and Dad really hate your writing.’
‘Sure they do. We’re a conservative bush family. It’s bad enough I’m still single and have decided to work in Sydney, but the descendant of Frederick Barnaby River writing comics and short novels … I’d never hear the end of it. It’s better if everyone thinks it was just a stage I was going through.’
‘Right,’ Robbie agreed, although he didn’t, not really. ‘You don’t like my dad much, do you?’
Eleanor answered carefully. ‘He’s your dad and you love him, but he’s not my dad. You understand, don’t you?’
Robbie knew his half-sister missed her father. He could see it in Eleanor’s face. When she talked about him her eyes grew large and watery. But that wasn’t the only thing he knew. He’d figured out a lot of things. He wasn’t a kid. But some of the stuff he knew, Robbie didn’t like. He got angry when he heard people talking about his family like it was their business. Like they knew stuff. His dad was Eleanor’s father’s brother and most people, even Rex, thought that the marriage had been a bad idea. Sweeny Hall, who owned the village garage, once said that Robbie’s father was a money-grabber. Although Mrs Howell said not to believe anything the man said on account of him looking at life through the bottom of an empty beer bottle. Then there were the jackeroos like Archie, but he wouldn’t think about him, at least not right now. ‘Well, I think your writing is neat.’
The loud crunch of gravel coincided with a car’s engine. Sister and brother exchanged looks.
‘Mum’s friends are here,’ Robbie announced. He rushed out into the hallway, shutting the door in Bluey’s face. Eleanor listened to the pad of his feet, to the opening and closing of a door and then he was back in her room, panting.
‘It’s the Winslows. In a big flash car. And the woman,’ Robbie took a gulp of air, ‘Mrs Winslow, well she’s got a dead dog wrapped around her shoulders.’
‘She has a what?’
‘A dead dog, sis.’ Robbie’s eyes were bright. ‘You can see its head and everything.’
Eleanor felt like a kid again. Intrigued, she followed Robbie into the hall, tiptoeing along the passageway to the staircase. At the landing they dropped to their knees and peered down the stairs, to where the Winslows were being greeted by their mother and Colin. Eleanor caught a glimpse of the angular woman, a narrow fur draped nonchalantly around her shoulders, the head of the unfortunate creature trailing over a shoulder and down her back. The Winslows were ushered into the sitting room amidst an enthusiastic greeting. Behind them, Rex stared at the luggage, two medium-sized trunks and a travelling bag and, lifting the first trunk, trudged towards the staircase. Eleanor felt warm puffs of air on her arm. The cattle-pup was crouched beside them.
‘Told you,’ Robbie whispered.
‘It’s a fox fur,’ Eleanor explained, ‘not a dog, Robbie.’ Although she wondered at the need to make such an entrance, especially in this heat.
‘Do I look like a bellboy?’ Rex muttered, dropping the trunk on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. ‘If a man’s employed as a gardener, then he should be a goddamn gardener, I’m saying, I’m just saying.’ He walked back to the remaining baggage.
The unmistakable signature on the Louis Vuitton trunk attracted Eleanor immediately. Tapping Robbie on the shoulder, they backed out of sight, returning to the bedroom as Rex plodded up the staircase. They listened while their mother gave the gardener instructions as to which room the Winslows were to be sleeping in.
His shoulders against the wood of the door, Robbie whispered, ‘If Mum finds me, she’ll tan my backside because of the roses and probably lock me in my bedroom.’
That wasn’t to be the worst of it. The cattle-pup lifted his leg and peed on the carved chair leg as he spoke.
‘Good heavens.’ Eleanor didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as the pup sniffed his mark, and sat back on the carpet.
Robbie wasn’t taking any chances. He was out on the balcony in seconds, Eleanor following. ‘Hang on, Robbie, I’m sure –’
A knock sounded on the door.
‘Eleanor, are you in there?’
‘Coming, Mum. Go,’ she mouthed to her brother.
Robbie ran the length of the building, the cattle-pup on his heels. At the corner of the house, the limbs of a tall tree angled across the balcony. Balancing on the balustrade he reached out and grabbed one of the thicker branches. Eleanor winced at the thought of the drop to the ground as Robbie swung forward to grasp another branch. He was partially concealed by the leafy boughs when he whistled. The pup squeezed through the wrought iron and jumped into the tree. Leaves shook violently. Eleanor turned to find her mother standing in the middle of the room.
‘What on earth are you looking at?’
‘Just getting some fresh air.’
‘I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to chat more, Eleanor, before everyone arrived. I’ve told Mr
s Howell to make up a tray for your dinner.’ Georgia checked her reflection in the dresser mirror. The coral silk calf-length dress with its full skirt and cinched waist gave shape to her otherwise portly figure. ‘I should have purchased something new. I forgot how fashionable Margaret can be.’
‘You mean infamous,’ Eleanor clarified.
‘Come now, Elly, Mrs Winslow is a guest under our roof. Are you going to tell me why you’ve arrived home unannounced? Has something happened?’
‘No. I just wanted a break, that’s all.’
‘Well, if you’re sure nothing’s wrong. You make sure you get a good night’s sleep. I can’t have you poorly with the Winslows here. And if you see that brother of yours, tell him I expect him to stay in his bedroom tonight, seen and not heard.’
‘Oh, has he done something wrong?’ asked Eleanor innocently.
‘This is Robbie we’re talking about.’ Her mother’s eyebrows squirrelled together to form a thin unbroken line. ‘And he’s just at that age. This afternoon it was my rose bushes, this morning it was tadpoles in the governess’s satchel. A week ago, frogs in the poor woman’s bed. And there are tinned goods missing from the pantry. That’s all we need, for Mrs Howell to go on the warpath. You may well laugh, Eleanor, but when you finally marry and have children of your own, you’ll realise that they can be somewhat of a chore at times.’ Her attention was drawn to the wet spot on the carpet at the base of the chair. ‘What is that?’
Eleanor winced as her mother bent down, touching the dampness. ‘I have no idea.’
Georgia sniffed her fingers, her nose wrinkling. ‘That smells like –’
‘Oh,’ Eleanor said dismissively, ‘it couldn’t possibly be.’
Her mother looked at her suspiciously. ‘Couldn’t possibly be what?’ Georgia’s glance moved from the discoloured carpet to the balcony. ‘I’d ask you what happened but I don’t think you’d tell me, would you?’
Eleanor gave an enigmatic smile.
‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Have a nice evening.’ Once her mother had left, Eleanor looked out over the rear of the garden. Robbie was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter Eight
The pocketknife sliced cleanly through the inner tube. Robbie tested the spring of the rubber from the old tyre and then, tongue stuck out between his lips in concentration, tied it to one of the forked branches and then the leather pouch of the shanghai. Standing, he placed a small stone in the pouch, aimed the shanghai at a magpie perched in a tree a few yards from the machinery shed, pulled the rubber back and fired. The stone hit the bird in the chest, dropping it to the ground. Garnet, tethered to the same tree, backed up in fright as the cattle-pup meandered over to sniff the dead bird. Satisfied with his handiwork, Robbie tucked the shanghai in his back pocket, picked up a coil of rope, slinging it over his shoulder, and walked past the row of rabbit traps hanging from a peg on the wall.
‘Stay,’ he ordered the dog. With a whimper, Bluey lay down in the cool of the building.
At the rear of the shed there was a clear view of the jackeroos’ quarters. The oblong building sat unevenly on stumps that over time had begun to sink into the ground. This gradual movement was altering the structure of the house so that the boards at the bottom twisted in places while the fascia holding the gutters on the roof were beginning to droop. The building was to have repair work done on it during the winter, but until that happened only four bunk-rooms at the end of the building were usable, the doors on the remaining three either impossible to open or difficult to close.
Through the line of washing strung untidily between two leaning poles, Archie and another jackeroo, Stew, were sitting at a table on the veranda playing cards, while Murph was working on a rawhide stockwhip. The senior jackeroo was cutting strands of kangaroo hide from a skin, stopping between each length to sharpen the knife on a whetstone. There was another jackeroo, a pie-faced boy from way out west who looked perpetually hungry, but he wasn’t about. The men called him Wormy, as if the nickname might account for his skinny frame. Three other jackeroos had the weekend off. It was some time since the rooms were filled with twelve young men. War and the after-effects had taken its toll, which, for the most part, Robbie didn’t mind. He liked it best when there weren’t a lot of young blokes working on the property, treating him like a kid and laughing at him when they felt inclined. They always arrived quiet and polite, but most of the time it didn’t take them very long to get all puffed up with self-importance and knowledge that Rex said took a lifetime to learn.
‘They’re smart,’ announced Archie, peering over the top of the cards he held. ‘Blokes like us, well, we’re at the bottom of the rung.’
‘Of course they are,’ Murph answered from his seat on the veranda. ‘If they weren’t smart they wouldn’t own a big spread like this.’
Archie selected a card from the deck on the table. ‘My dad says the bush was made by the squatters placing their boots on the back of the little man’s neck.’
‘Well,’ Murph examined a length of leather cut from the hide, ‘if he thinks that, why’d he send you out here? And why’d you agree to come? Exactly,’ he continued answering the question on Archie’s behalf. ‘So you’d learn something from them.’
Archie slammed the card down on the table.
Stew, a rough looking, scruffily shaved individual, steadied the surface with his hand. ‘Go easy, mate.’
Murph spat on the sharpening stone, placed the blade on the spittle-wet rock and began to rotate the flat of the blade. ‘Getting ahead in life is about being smart, not being a smartarse.’
Archie didn’t reply.
‘Look at the shearers, making a fortune they are with the current boom,’ Murph explained. ‘There’s smarts on both sides if you ask me. In ’47 they complained at every turn. They demanded specific terms and more pay, thinking that Mrs Webber would agree simply because labour was short after the war and she needed to get the shearing done. They were taking advantage and they won. The Boss did agree.’
‘So the shearers were smarter?’ Archie asked with interest.
Murph ignored him. ‘Trouble is, it happened all over the country. So the growers realised they had to protect themselves and their income by making sure workers weren’t overpaid. A wool allowance was introduced that attracted more labour to the industry. That reduced the bargaining power of the established shed-hands and shearers and such-like.’
Archie sighed. ‘And? What’s that to me?’
‘Well, your father sent you here to learn something, didn’t he? You just did,’ he answered with a grin. ‘The moral of the story, Archie, is don’t be a smartarse, don’t take advantage of people and never ask for more than the job’s worth, or what you’re capable of.’
‘You’re just full of knowledge, aren’t you?’ replied Archie gruffly.
‘Are you playing cards or what?’ Stew asked. ‘It’ll be dark in half an hour.’
‘A word of advice, Archie. Leave Robbie alone,’ Murph stated. ‘If there’s a choice between you and him when it comes to getting marching orders, it won’t be Robbie Webber that goes.’
‘Don’t bet on it. The little bugger will be off to boarding school soon. After all, they all get sent to Sydney for their education.’
Murph gave an irritated sigh. ‘Keep your mouth shut and yourself busy, Archie, and if we’re lucky we might all get a bonus when the clip’s sold.’
‘Fat chance,’ Archie replied.
Keeping an eye on the jackeroos, Robbie made a quick dash across open ground to the ablutions block. Twenty yards away were the outhouses, two narrow buildings made of corrugated iron. One door was propped open, the other closed. A pile of clothes sat in the dirt outside. Robbie squashed his body flat against the wall of the building as the whitewashed door of the other long-drop swung open and Wormy appeared. Hitching his trousers up, the youngest of the jackeroos scraped a boot on the ground, removing a square of paper stuck to the heel. The jackeroo watched the
piece of paper as the breeze lifted it and the fragment of toilet paper began to top and tail over the bare ground in the wind. Wormy gathered the pile of washing and walked into the ablutions block. A tap was turned on and water ran loudly into one of the deep tubs.
‘Argh! Bloody cray-bobs!’ Wormy said loudly from inside the building.
Robbie guessed Archie must have left the cray in one of the tubs until he was ready to cook them. Creeping around the building to where the rainwater tank stood on stumps, he paused a moment and then continued on to a straggly tree suffering from die-back. The tree provided a clear view of anyone heading towards the showers or outhouses. More importantly, it also gave a person a head start if they had to make a run for it.
The tree was easy enough to climb. With half the branches near dead and bare of leaves, Robbie made quick work of it. Shifting his bottom across a long limb, he tied the rope to the branch. In his pocket was a small handful of dried sheep manure. The pellets made excellent ammunition and he loaded a couple in the pouch of the shanghai and waited.
‘What’s the go keeping them bloody things in the wash-tub, eh?’ asked Wormy when he met Archie at the door to the showers and laundry. He held a wooden washboard and Sunlight soap.
‘Don’t get your knickers twisted, Wormy.’ Archie moved the towel he carried from one shoulder to another. ‘I’ll have a wash and then cook them up. Everyone likes a bit of cray. It’ll go down real well with a piece of fresh bread before we tuck into some chops for tea.’
Wormy retreated back inside the building, returning with a basket of washing under one arm. ‘I don’t eat those filthy things, you know that. They’re bottom-dwellers. Sifting through mud. Living off carcasses and stuff. You can have the lot of them.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Archie clutched a pair of shorts in his hand. He walked inside the block to have a shower while Wormy hung his work clothes on the line.
‘Don’t use all the bloody hot water,’ Stew yelled. Struggling with his boots, he sat them on the floor and then, rounding the corner of the veranda, he disappeared from sight.
River Run Page 6
