by Derek Hansen
He left Jimmy glaring down the road after him as he headed for the post office. Billy collected Rodney’s cheque, cashed it and went straight to the supermarket. He completed his shopping without incident and wandered over to the RSL club for a glass or two to settle the dust before making the trip home. There were a couple of deadbeats watching the horse-racing on television and a few blokes standing around the bar having a beer before lunch. As he ordered a schooner he spotted the graziers from Carinda by an open window, talking to Peter from the stock and station, and decided to join them. Peter was on his lunch break.
‘G’day, Billy,’ said Peter. ‘These blokes have just been telling me how Jimmy gave you the third degree.’
Billy shook Peter’s hand.
‘Third degree’s about right.’
‘I dunno what drives that bloke,’ said Peter. ‘He’s got half the town convinced you’ve got that woman set up in a love nest.’
‘I wouldn’t know a love nest if I fell in one.’
‘Want me to tell him to back off?’
‘Do you think it would do any good?’
‘Probably not.’
Billy sipped his beer thoughtfully.
‘I don’t know whether to feel pissed off or flattered,’ he said. ‘What was the woman like?’
‘I’d feel flattered if I was you,’ said Peter. ‘That woman had real class. If you ever had a love nest, she’s the one you’d want sitting on the eggs.’
Laughter ended the conversation and they got down to the serious business of discussing the likelihood of rain, how Collarenebri had got a brief downpour that missed everywhere else, and how long the wool prices would hold up. Billy always took note of other people’s opinions because it was more information to help him make his decisions. He quit the pub after buying Peter a middy. The blokes from Carinda declined because they didn’t want to get involved in a shout where everyone started buying rounds. He stopped at the Imperial bottle shop for a slab of VB and one of Tooheys Old and set off back home.
Linda had been on his mind when he’d pulled into Walgett and he was thinking about her as he left. Jimmy’s speculation and gossip had gone beyond the point of containment and he just had to hope that the rumours would die in time through lack of nourishment. But it wouldn’t take much to keep them alive or revive them, and he had to make that patently clear to Linda. Walgett was out of bounds if she wanted her presence kept secret. Collarenebri and Brewarrina were probably off limits too. Maybe she’d still get by up at the Ridge because of all the tourists passing through, but not before people started forgetting about her. So where did that leave her besides a prisoner in her own home? And how was she going to get her mail and supplies? He worried about her need for secrecy and the possible reasons behind it. But there was another matter that also troubled him, stemming from the comment Peter had made in the pub about a love nest. It wasn’t something he wanted to think about, but it just wouldn’t leave him alone.
Rodney banged on Linda’s door on the dot of seven o’clock and scared the daylights out of her. She hadn’t seen another living soul for two weeks and had grown accustomed to the fact that the only sounds she’d hear apart from the birds and the wind were those she made herself. She’d risen early and was preparing to undercoat walls newly stripped of wallpaper. Rodney’s knock had come with the suddenness of a shot from a cannon.
She found him standing on the kitchen doorstep with a shovel over his shoulder, keeping his shotgun company, and a heavy hexagonal crowbar and mattock in his other hand. He didn’t appear to have changed his clothes since she last saw him, or his attitude towards her.
‘I’ve come to do your gar-den,’ he said. His jaw worked furiously and the muscles in his face refused to be still. Linda found it less disconcerting to look him straight in the eye.
‘Gun-na do the pot-ted dog fird.’
‘What?’
‘The pot-ted dog.’ He raised his voice as though volume and anger would somehow aid comprehension. ‘Got-ta get rid of the mid-dle toe.’
‘Middle toe?’
‘Yed. Ped-ly the yel-low mid-dle toe. Roo-win the pot-ted dog if you led it.’
‘Show me,’ said Linda. She hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.
Rodney threw down his shotgun and tools and led her straight to the leopardwood. He pointed to the mistletoe that had taken hold of it, clearly frustrated by her lack of comprehension.
‘Mistletoe!’ said Linda.
‘Thad what I daid. Mid-dle toe.’
‘And the tree’s a spotted dog.’
‘Yed.’
‘Billy said it was a leopardwood.’
‘All-wade been a pot-ted dog to me.’
‘Okay, get rid of the mistletoe,’ said Linda. ‘Want a hand?’
‘All-wade work alone.’
‘Okay. Let me know if you want a cup of tea or anything.’
Rodney ignored her. He was already trying to work out the best way of tackling the mistletoe. Linda went back inside and watched him briefly through the kitchen window. On the one hand she resented his intrusion into her little world, but, in a funny way, it wasn’t unpleasant having someone there. His frustration had been obvious and she realised she’d have to work harder to get used to his staccato up-and-down speech and strange pronunciations. She wondered if it was frustration that triggered the mood swings Billy had warned her about. The line of thought terminated abruptly when she walked back into the living room and saw the magnitude of the task ahead of her. She wanted the painting finished and the blinds hung before she invited Billy over. As had happened so often in her life, proving her competency had become an issue with her. She poured undercoat into the tray and dipped the roller in, smiling to herself when she remembered the encouragement she used to give her students.
‘A masterpiece begins with a single brush stroke,’ she said out loud, and pushed the roller up the wall.
Shortly after ten she stopped to make a cup of tea and take a break. She’d managed to paint the living room and one of the bedrooms, although the corners and edges still needed cutting in by brush. Nevertheless, she was pleased with the start she’d made. After removing the fleece from the roller and soaking it in a bucket of water, she wandered around to the front of the house to see how Rodney was getting on digging the garden. The longer she watched her neighbour swinging the mattock, the more she appreciated how difficult the ground was to dig and how much strength there was in the little man’s arms and upper body. She realised digging the garden would’ve worn her out in minutes and she could only stand and admire Rodney’s application, willing to concede that Billy’s idea wasn’t so stupid after all.
‘Want to break now for a cup of tea?’ she called.
Rodney spun around with his mattock poised mid-swing and glared at her from beneath his battered Akubra. His face was streaked with sweat and dirt.
‘Bar-tid!’ he screamed. ‘Bitch! Hoo-wah, bar-tid, bitch!’
Linda’s jaw dropped and she stood momentarily stunned. What had she said to provoke him? But for Billy’s warning about his turns, she’d have been convinced Rodney was about to turn the mattock on her. She retreated to the kitchen, not sure what to do next. Hiding until he’d calmed down seemed a good option. Instead, she decided to take her courage in both hands and face up to her neighbour. If Rodney had to get used to her, she had to get used to him. She made two cups of tea and put both on a tray along with milk, sugar and a plate of chocolate-coated biscuits. The biscuits were her indulgence, kept in the fridge and eaten one at a time as a reward for hard work. Filled with trepidation, she carried the tray out onto the front veranda. But she needn’t have worried. Rodney had calmed down and was sitting in the shade on the top step. He also seemed in need of a break.
‘Bar-tid, hoo-wah, bitch,’ he said as she passed him his cup but the sting had gone out of his invective.
‘Milk and sugar?’ said Linda.
He ignored the milk but took two heaped teaspoons of sugar.
&
nbsp; ‘Biscuit?’ She offered him the plate and instantly realised her mistake. Rodney took one look at the chocolate coating the biscuits, took the entire plate and began hoeing into them. Oh well, she thought, he’d earned them. Rodney’s never-still face reflected the conflicts raging inside his head but slowly the fire and anger in his eyes subsided.
‘Put-tin the vege-ta-ble gar-den he-yah,’ said Rodney between mouthfuls. He pointed towards the absorption trenches. ‘Roded and ger-ran-i-um around the ver-an-da.’
‘Sounds great. I love roses.’
His demeanour had changed so much she wondered whether the bastard, whore, bitch bit was directed at her or the unyielding soil. Maybe it was the effort that brought it on. Maybe it was stress. She smiled at her strange, tormented neighbour and the mistrust with which he regarded her wavered momentarily.
‘You won’t tell anyone I’m here, will you, Rodney?’
‘Bil-ly told me not to tell an-y-one.’ His eyes blazed. ‘I’m not an id-i-ot, Lin-da. Dum people think I am, but I’m not.’
‘I’m sure you’re not.’
‘I’ll tell you who id an id-i-ot.’
‘Who?’
‘Bil-ly id,’ he said angrily. ‘And you, you’re not much mar-ter.’
Chapter Six
Billy was as close to anger as he’d ever been since he’d left Sydney. He dealt with it by sitting down on the eastern veranda with his feet up on the rail, a mug of tea by his side and his tobacco pouch in his lap. He had to choose between the rifle and the phone, and his preference for the rifle was what really made him sit down and think things through.
While he was out spraying the day before, he’d found a campsite where pig shooters had trespassed onto his property with their dogs. He didn’t mind that. They’d lit a fire to cook by and sit around, and he didn’t mind that either, because they clearly knew what they were doing and had doused and covered the ashes. They’d drawn water from a tap to a watering trough to cook with and wash themselves, and he had no problem with that either. Billy didn’t mind pig hunters coming onto his property and killing a few pigs, as long as they knew what they were doing, respected his property and livestock and asked first. But these guys hadn’t asked permission and that irritated him, though he didn’t really mind so long as they observed his other conditions. But they hadn’t. They’d killed a pig but apparently wild boar wasn’t to their taste. They could have shot a grey kangaroo and cut a feed out of it, but hadn’t bothered. Instead, they’d slaughtered one of his sheep and that was unforgivable.
The bastards knew exactly what they were doing and had shown absolute contempt for him. He’d found the branch where they’d strung the sheep up and cut its throat so it would bleed to death. He’d found the bloody fleece and its shape told him whoever had skinned the beast was expert with a knife, probably a butcher by trade or at least someone who’d worked in a slaughterhouse. The hunter had probably butchered the carcass into hind and forequarters, cut the ribs into racks and taken the back straps so it could fit into their eskies. This was no thoughtless opportunism; it indicated a clear intention to live off the land at other people’s expense. Billy knew the type. They stole diesel from unattended homesteads, robbed vegetable gardens and killed stock for meat. His inclination was to track them down, which wouldn’t be hard given the unusual tyre pattern on their four-wheel drive, demand compensation and order them off his property. He’d done it before with other shooters, even gone as far as waving his Ruger semi-automatic around to convince them of his seriousness. It occurred to him that the businesslike approach of these hunters probably meant he’d have to go the extra step and squeeze off a couple of rounds. But, in his anger, he didn’t mind that, didn’t mind that at all.
Billy made himself another mug of tea and rolled another cigarette, deliberately stalling. He needed time to calm down, to regain control and get the incident into its true perspective. He wanted to frighten, not kill or injure, and he was aware how easily the situation could blow up. If one of the hunters caught a bullet there’d be an investigation and, even though he knew the local cops would be sympathetic to a point, they’d want to know why he hadn’t called them so they could deal with it. And he’d wind up in precisely the situation he was trying to avoid.
He examined other options. The four-wheel drive was heading west. He could just forget about it and let the hunters become someone else’s problem. But that wasn’t his way and they had killed one of his sheep. He figured he’d track the four-wheel drive through the scrub on his trail bike, then thought better of it. The hunters would hear the bike coming a mile off and that would alert them, either send them packing or put them on guard. On the other hand, they wouldn’t hear him coming if he took the mare. The idea began to appeal to him. The mare was due some exercise and he could tether it a kilometre or so back from their campsite once he’d located it. He rolled another smoke, liking the way his thoughts were heading.
The lousy jacks were back at the kelpie’s food bowl. Billy liked them because of their strong sense of community. If there were twelve birds in the family and twelve pellets of dog food, you could pretty well guarantee every bird would get its share. A wedge-tailed eagle hovered about half a kilometre away. They always came around lambing time, when they could peck the eyes out of the newborn and the weaklings, and rip into the dying before the pigs came to clean up. Bleeding hearts reckoned that eagles, ravens and crows were carrion eaters and only attacked or killed live lambs that were sick, but Billy wasn’t so sure. Few things made him as angry as the sight of the big birds ripping into a lamb carcass. Every year he dropped a few with his shotgun, but that didn’t stop them coming back.
He’d made his decision by the time he drained the dregs of his tea. His anger had subsided and he’d come to accept that settling a dispute with rifles was something best avoided. Sneaking into their camp while they were sleeping and stealing their four-wheel drive was a much better option. The keys would be in the ignition because the hunters would have no reason to remove them. He always left his keys in the ute except when he went into town, and even there he left them in the ignition as often as not. Who was there to steal their four-wheel drive out in the bush? Their dogs would probably make a bit of a racket but they’d be tied up for the night. As for getting the mare home, he’d tether her to the bumper and she could just trot along behind.
The beauty of his plan was that the hunters would have no choice but to follow the tracks of their four-wheel drive to the homestead, where they could buy the ignition key back off him. It would be a fair old walk carrying their gear and he didn’t expect much fuss from them when they finally arrived. They’d know exactly why he’d taken their four-wheel drive and, as well as being hot, tired and thirsty, they’d be burdened by their guilt. Billy figured fifty dollars for the ewe, and fifty for the trouble they’d put him through and for not calling the police. He’d also remind them of the rules and let them know he’d be contacting every station between Walgett and White Cliffs and putting them on the lookout. One way or another, he was determined to send the hunters packing back to Sydney, or wherever they came from, with their tails between their legs.
He wandered into the kitchen to wash his mug and stack it on the draining board, making a mental list of things he needed to take. The Ruger was at the top of his list, followed by oats for the mare, torch, knife, sandwiches, tea, sugar, a billy and matches. He decided to tie up the kelpie so she didn’t follow, then thought better of it. It wouldn’t harm to have the kelpie keep an eye on the mare when he went off on foot.
Billy was well into his preparations when the phone rang. He stared at it, trying to guess who the call could be from and the reason for it. Maybe the hunters had moved on to another property and killed another sheep. Maybe one of his neighbours was ringing to alert him to their presence. The phone didn’t ring often, but when it did there was always a good reason. He picked up the handset.
‘Billy Dwyer.
‘Billy, hi, it’s Linda.’
‘You remember me. Your tenant?’
‘I’m sorry, Linda, I was expecting a call from someone else.’
‘Is this a bad time?’
‘Not at all.’ It had been a week since Billy had made the trip to Walgett and he still hadn’t rung to warn her about the gossip. He’d meant to, but was deterred by the comment about the love nest. What if she laughed at the absurdity of it? After all, she was a sophisticated city woman and he was just a hick. What if she didn’t laugh and interpreted his warning as a cheap try-on? Even now he lacked the confidence to raise it. He decided to duck the issue and stick to the immediate problem. ‘I was just thinking of you,’ he said.
‘Thinking of me?’
‘Yeah. I’ve got this problem with some pig shooters trespassing on my property. They slaughtered one of my sheep.’
‘And that made you think of me?’
‘Of course.’
Linda started laughing.
‘What’s funny?’ said Billy. ‘If I called the police and they decided to come out, how long do you think your presence here would stay a secret?’
‘I’m sorry, Billy, it’s just that I couldn’t quite see the connection.’
‘It’s because of you that I’ve decided to go after them myself.’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
Billy thought the line had dropped out when the phone went silent.
‘Hello? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m still here. What time do you think you’ll be back?’
‘Dunno. Why?’
‘I’ve finished painting and hanging blinds. I rang to invite you over for dinner so you could see the results.’
Over for dinner? Billy froze, torn between an obligation to deal with the pig shooters and the unexpected opportunity to spend an evening with Linda.
‘Hello, Billy? You still there?’
‘Yeah, I’m still here.’ In the overall scheme of things, what was the loss of one more sheep? Between pulpy kidney, worms, flystrike, cold winds and poisonous weeds, there was no shortage of ways sheep could — and did — die on him. He decided the pig shooters could wait. All the same, he hated to think of them getting away with their thieving. ‘What time would you like me to come?’
