River Run

by Alexander, Nicole

  ‘Improving. It takes some practice to count large numbers.’

  The three of them reached a yard where another jackeroo was killing time by throwing stones at a goanna as it ran up a tree. The boy turned on their approach and, as if wary of reprimand, hung back, uncertain. He was a slight lad, almost concave in the middle. Eleanor thought he looked like he needed a few decent meals. A mob of some forty rams huddled in the opposite corner to where the boy loitered. The animals grew still on their approach, lifting their heads with curiosity, the odd one stamping their hoofs in the crumbly dirt.

  ‘Culls,’ the overseer told Eleanor. ‘Your stepfather wants them all to get their throats cut.’

  A truck was parked at the end of a loading ramp and another jackeroo was doing some repairs where a board had come loose from the side of the ramp.

  Mr Goward took a step forward, hands on hips. ‘The thing is, there are a couple here that, in my mind, should stay.’

  Eleanor glanced at the two jackeroos. They were both skinny boys, tall and gawky, yet to grow into their skins. One of them, Archie, scuffed at the dirt with a dusty boot and whispered something to his companion. ‘Why are you telling me?’ she asked.

  ‘Because you might learn something. Interested?’

  Eleanor shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Keep an eye out, rams are pretty unpredictable at times.’

  They walked through the mob, spreading apart so that the rams ran back between them, a few eager ones came first and then the rest ran forward. Eleanor kept her back to the rails and her eyes on the rushing bodies. Once the sheep were bunched at the opposite end, the overseer studied the mob before directing the jackeroos to catch specific animals so that he could inspect them. The boys came forward, hoping to push the animal in question tightly within the packed mob or against the wooden fence so he’d be easier to catch, but the rams were wily, sulky creatures. They’d spin and duck or race away at the last moment.

  ‘Why don’t you run them up the drafting race?’ asked Eleanor as Archie made a grab for a ram and, losing his grip, fell flat on his face in the yard. ‘It’d be easier and quicker.’

  Mr Goward’s arms were folded across a broad chest. His blue-green eyes were clear and bright. ‘Patience, Eleanor.’ He pointed at one of the jackeroos. ‘Wormy, why don’t you see if you can do a better job than your mate? Archie’s too busy doing nose-plants in the dirt.’

  Wormy nodded. Dirt crusted his skin where it mixed with sweat.

  ‘On the fence,’ the overseer pointed. The boy made a dive and missed, Archie rushed in, reached for a hind leg and, misjudging, stumbled and nearly fell. ‘What are you trying to do? Cripple him?’ yelled Mr Goward. ‘You never, ever, grab a sheep by its leg. A man would do better with a broomstick and a bucket for staff,’ he muttered.

  ‘I gather these two are new,’ Eleanor remarked. There was a lot of running, puffing and sliding around in the dirt going on, and not a lot to show for it.

  The man by her side gave a brief, almost mischievous grin. ‘First year. It’s all part of the training, Eleanor. Young men should be quick on their feet. Quick and agile, otherwise they’re just being lazy.’ Mr Goward took his time rolling a cigarette as the jackeroos leant against the timber railings catching their breath.

  ‘Could I have one please?’ she requested. Passing her the freshly made cigarette, he rolled another and then lit both.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Eleanor. She was absolutely dying for a hit of nicotine, but one exhalation of the strong tobacco made her cough and wheeze.

  ‘A Webber smoking roll-your-owns,’ he smiled, pretending to ignore Eleanor’s splutterings. ‘I’m impressed. Now, as for your query regarding the drafting race,’ he took a puff and gesturing to catch the jackeroos’ attention, pointed out another ram, ‘I don’t believe in letting genetic improvements take precedence over the constitution of an animal.’

  Eleanor had no idea what he meant, and said so.

  ‘I’m all for scientific advancement but I like to see an animal moving about, its frame and general condition.’ He shook his head as the wrong animal was caught. ‘Blocked up in a drafting race should never be the only method of inspection.’

  He took another drag of the cigarette and then ground the butt into the dirt with his boot. ‘I’m old-fashioned I guess, Eleanor, it’s the way I was taught. But I believe that there’s a lot more to ram selection than just numbers and it’s worth remembering that there’ll probably never be a ram bred that won’t be helped by a ewe when it comes to progeny.’ Mr Goward pointed to a long-nosed ram. ‘That’s one of them,’ he yelled.

  The jackeroos were slow to move. Finally, impatience struck and the overseer ran into the mob, caught the animal and was on his knees inspecting it before the jackeroos reached his side. ‘Now, this animal,’ he explained, barely missing a breath as Eleanor joined him, ‘hasn’t done as well as the others, granted.’

  The ram in question was in poor condition compared to the rest of the mob.

  ‘But look at this.’ Mr Goward carefully parted the fleece. ‘Beautiful colour, lustrous and soft skin.’ He gestured to the jackeroos. ‘Pull him out and give him a feed of lucerne hay. And that one as well.’ Once again the overseer was in the mob, tackling another ram. Now she understood why the knees of his trousers were always worn.

  ‘He’s no oil painting,’ Eleanor remarked as the jackeroos shepherded the chosen two away.

  ‘Agreed, but perfect rams rarely improve the gene pool. Look at Uardry 0.1. Superb animal and he earned himself a place on the shilling coin. Produced good, useful ewes but few outstanding sires.’

  ‘I can’t imagine the breeders would like to hear that,’ remarked Eleanor, as the overseer dusted the dirt from his clothes.

  ‘They’d probably agree, although from a reputation viewpoint they wouldn’t say it aloud.’

  They walked back towards the gate, where the remaining rams huddled. With the jackeroos having been given new tasks, Wormy went to fetch the lucerne while Archie stomped off. Eleanor was sure he heard the boy swear as he jumped the railings.

  The irritated rams packed in close together at their approach and then suddenly a number broke from the mob and rushed forward. One ram caught Eleanor on the left side of her body as he jumped, spinning her off-balance. She landed heavily in the dirt, unable to catch her breath. For a moment there was only the heat of the ground, the pound of hoofs and a need for oxygen that wouldn’t come. Then the dusty atmosphere cleared, the air rushed into starved lungs and Eleanor was propped against the railings, supported by the overseer as he probed her body.

  ‘You’re alright, nothing broken,’ he confirmed. ‘Knocked the wind out of you, that’s all. It could have been a lot worse.’ Mr Goward continued to hold her, the spread of his hot hands on her abdomen and back. His tone was efficient, calming, but his expression was one of concern.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she finally replied, her voice a little shaky. ‘Really, I’m okay.’ Her hair had come loose and she tucked it behind an ear. With the movement, Mr Goward immediately released her. Heat was replaced by coolness where his hands rested and Eleanor gripped the timber fence to steady her balance. A slight headache was beginning to take hold, however, other than that, now she’d regained her equilibrium, Eleanor felt fine – fine except for the awkwardness of having been rescued, literally carried to safety, by River Run’s overseer.

  He opened a gate and waited for the rams to walk out. Once the yard was empty he retrieved her hat, bashing it back into shape from its recent trampling and brushing the dirt from it.

  ‘Thank you.’ Eleanor accepted it, tucking her hair up beneath the crown, embarrassed to have caused such a scene.

  ‘Uncooperative and bad-tempered, rams are.’ Mr Goward led the way as they walked back through the yards towards the shed. ‘You were lucky.’

  ‘I should have been quicker on my feet,’ admitted Eleanor. ‘I wouldn’t pass muster as a first-year jackeroo.’

  The man’s loo
k was one of disbelief. ‘Sure you would.’

  The din of the woolshed rose as they drew closer. ‘So why aren’t you Stud Master?’ The directness of Eleanor’s question surprised even her, but it seemed pretty obvious Hugh Goward should have the role. The departure of Mr Sullivan, the last outsider to have held the position, occurred five years after her father’s passing. Her stepfather’s assumption of the role raised some eyebrows in an industry where major studs always employed a dedicated expert to the position. And after what she’d just witnessed, it appeared that Colin wasn’t quite as passionate about sheep as the man beside her.

  ‘You are direct, aren’t you?’

  Eleanor felt her cheeks redden. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. Actually your mother offered me the position two years ago. I didn’t feel I was ready for it. It’s one thing to be fully involved in the running of the operation, quite another to be given a title and have your name on the catalogue come sale time.’ He hesitated. ‘I take the view I’m still learning, will be all my life.’

  ‘No doubt,’ she said carefully, ‘it helps to have everyone’s support,’ alluding to her stepfather.

  ‘Well, yes,’ he admitted, ‘there’s that too.’

  Eleanor persevered, ‘And what about now?’

  The overseer opened the last gate leading from the yards and she walked on ahead, the red dog rushing to greet them.

  ‘Now,’ he admitted, ‘if it were offered again, I’d be inclined to accept. It’s the right time I think. Don’t get me wrong, Eleanor, I didn’t show you that selection process to plug my cause.’ The dog placed a paw possessively on the toe of his boot and barked.

  Eleanor wasn’t so sure about that. She figured that’s exactly why he’d done it. The last person she wanted to have doubts about was their overseer, but even Rex wasn’t too keen on Hugh Goward taking a step up the pastoral ladder.

  ‘It was more a case of sharing knowledge. You seem like a capable woman. I just thought you’d be interested.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by a warning shout inside the woolshed, as a yell went up for the first-aid box. They entered the vast woolshed to the refrain of duck on the pond as soon as Eleanor was spotted by the men. Subjected to the stares and mutterings of those who didn’t take kindly to a woman in their domain, Eleanor did her best to hide her discomfort as a shearer, clutching a filthy rag to a bloodied arm, leant against one of the wool tables. Biting his lip, he grimaced and looked away as Mr Goward probed the jagged wound. A couple of the wool rollers and one of the rouseabouts drifted past to see the injury and then returned to their tasks.

  ‘Nasty one,’ the overseer pronounced. ‘What do you want to do with it, Johnny? Sew it up here?’

  A fleece was thrown, flung some four feet into the air. It settled perfectly on the table. Instantly the wool rollers began trimming the edges of twigs, burrs and dags.

  ‘We might get out of everyone’s way.’ Mr Goward directed the shearer from the belly of the shed down to the ground level where the men were busy feeding armfuls of fleeces into the wool press. Johnny leant against a new bale as the presser stencilled River Run on the side.

  ‘It was me own fault. Daydreaming. Lost me grip, I did.’

  ‘Nurse Pappas is at the house,’ suggested Eleanor.

  The man didn’t acknowledge her. ‘What cha think?’ he asked the overseer. The cut ran the length of his forearm, the skin puckered in places, slicing the figure of a woman tattooed on his arm. ‘Look at my beautiful girl, she cheered me up she did, seeing her every morning, now she looks like my wife.’

  Mr Goward replied it was up to Johnny to make the decision as to who would do the stitching, however, there was a nurse up at the big house and if he’d not had a recent tetanus shot he’d have to see a doctor sooner rather than later.

  ‘Sooner have Billy stitch me up, I reckon,’ the shearer answered. ‘Once saw him sew up a ewe’s guts, pushed it back inside of her and everything and she survived. And I don’t need no tetanus. Had one last year when I cut me finger off chopping the head off an old boiler hen.’ Lifting his left hand, he showed the stub of an index finger.

  ‘Fair enough,’ the overseer said.

  Billy Wright was sent for and a taffy-haired gnome of a man trundled down the board. The man’s progress was slow, for although the board was wide, it was an obstacle course of men, tar-boys and animals. Shearers dragged sheep through the swinging doors of the catching-pens opposite their stands and, sitting them upright between bent legs, began to shear. Others, having finished shearing, pushed the sheep out of their chute to the tally pen. The picker-ups gathered fleeces and moved at the trot to the waiting tables, flinging them high in the air to land perfectly.

  The taffy-haired wool roller finally reached Billy Wright’s stand and waited patiently for the shearer to finish his sheep. Billy pushed the ewe down the chute and straightened slowly, a few words were exchanged and then Billy followed the wool roller back through the bowels of the shed, along the board, past the wool tables and down the three steps to ground level.

  ‘Sew you up good as new, mate,’ Billy said confidently to his pale friend when he saw the jagged cut. He stretched his arms out and shook his hands, as if limbering up. When they fell back to his sides, tattoos of naked ladies and anchors twisted and bulged where the muscles bunched.

  Water was poured over both the wound and the surgeon’s hands and then a liberal dose of disinfectant followed, straight from the bottle. The shearer yelped, his face screwing up in pain. Billy Wright rubbed his palms together and then rifled through the first-aid supplies before settling on thick black cotton and a large needle. ‘Tools of a master craftsman,’ he said loudly, although it took him four goes to thread the needle before he could begin, his hands were shaking so much. ‘That be the worst of a dry shed,’ he explained.

  ‘You better have the rest of the day off,’ the overseer suggested to the injured shearer.

  ‘What, and let the likes of that bloke from down the Riverina get his numbers up on me? No fear, a bit of a gash never hurt a man.’

  Billy bit the cotton and then, in quiet concentration, tied a knot in the end, his tongue poking out between thin, dry lips.

  Eleanor wondered if the man from down Riverina way was the troublemaker she’d overheard earlier; the shearer who’d arrived at the village in the battered taxi. ‘Think I’ll leave you to it,’ she said to no-one in particular.

  ‘This’ll hurt,’ Billy advised his patient with undisguised satisfaction. ‘Like I said. Times are when a dry shed’s not all it’s cracked up to be.’ He gave a cackle of a laugh that was quickly drowned by the noise of the shed.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  It wasn’t her intention to visit the shearers’ quarters but the conversation Eleanor overheard at smoko worried her and the sight of the blue truck parked at the door to the kitchen meant that Rex would be within. The building was of corrugated iron and timber. Two long structures were joined by a covered breezeway and bordered by wide verandas. The five rooms held six men apiece, while Fitzy slept in the sixth, next to the cookhouse, which tagged the end of the building.

  The flyscreen door to the mess kitchen was partially open and thick black flies were following myriad scents; smoke from the wood-burning oven, the smell of freshly slaughtered meat, kerosene, something cooking and something burning. The something burning had been tossed out on the flat near the steps she now stood on. An indistinguishable mass that may have once been a cake.

  Fitzy and Rex were standing around a large wooden table, in the centre of which was a mound of meat. They appeared to be arguing about the cuts of mutton as the cook gathered up handfuls of chops, throwing them into a cast-iron boiler. In a corner of the room Dawson was chopping meat on a large butcher’s block. The cook pointed to the leg of mutton held in a bear-like grip by Dawson, who quickly dropped the thick meaty end of it on the table, his black skin glistening with sweat.

  Eleanor entered the furnace of a kit
chen, shutting the gauze door firmly. The men turned towards her.

  ‘How you going, girl?’ asked Rex.

  ‘Good, thanks.’

  ‘Pleased you’re here I am, Eleanor. Helps having another set of eyes about the place.’ Fitzy dragged a rickety chair across the uneven timber floor, his stomach wobbling, and set it down for her at the end of the table. ‘Take a load off.’

  Boxes and bags of supplies were stacked along a wall-length cabinet yet to be unpacked and stored in the pantry. Through the door leading into the mess where the men ate, a long table lined with bench seats filled the room. Bottles of tomato sauce, black sauce, salt and pepper sat at intervals along the length of the table top.

  ‘Chops and onion gravy for lunch, if you want a change from the old boiler’s tucker at the big house, Eleanor.’

  ‘Thanks, Fitzy, but for me it’s a bit hot for a cooked lunch.’

  One at a time the cook removed two large square cake tins from the twin ovens bordering the fire-box, shutting the cast-iron doors with a boot-kick, and set them on wire racks to cool.

  Dawson cleaned the block with vinegar and helped himself to the enamel teapot warming on the stove, poured tea into a chipped mug. He addressed Eleanor. ‘I heard Goward was trying to give you a lesson in the finer points of sheep breeding.’

  The cook wiped greasy hands across a blue apron. ‘Made her follow him into the yards, he did.’

  ‘Actually it was quite interesting,’ admitted Eleanor, feeling as if her insides were beginning to cook. She wondered how Fitzy coped with the continual warmth from the oven, especially in this heatwave.

  ‘Diplomacy,’ Rex said, his tone almost fatherly. ‘The girl gets it from her mother.’

  ‘We ain’t seen her,’ Fitzy told Eleanor, beginning to butter slices of bread. ‘Usually she’s down every day, after smoko, has a cuppa with me, half an egg sanger, then she goes and checks the shed, has a yarn to the classer, says g’day to the men. They appreciate it too, knowing she’s there but keeping out of things. And the first day. Well it’s tradition. She’s the boss after all, no offence meant, lass.’