The Last Mile Home

by Di Morrissey

  Barney found Keith Pemberton by the machinery shed, then dismounted and shook Keith’s hand.

  ‘G’day, Mr Pemberton. Dad tell you I was coming over?’

  ‘Yeah, he rang a while ago. You made good time.’

  ‘I took the shortcut across the ridge and along the creek,’ said Barney.

  ‘So, you want to talk to McBride. He seems a good worker, good references, affable bloke. Decent shearer, I hear. I’ve hired my team and frankly I don’t want to rock the boat by taking on an outsider. Some outfits get a bit narky.’

  ‘Well, that suits us if he’s available — we could do with another hand in the shed . . . that is if it doesn’t interfere with what he’s doing for you.’

  ‘I’ve hired him long term so we can work something out for a couple of weeks during shearing. He’s settled in with his family. Quite a crew of them.’ The grazier pushed back his hat and smiled. ‘It’s like Muldoon’s picnic down at the old house now.’

  ‘I ran into a girl down by the creek, suppose she was one of them. I didn’t get a chance to talk to her. Took off like a scared rabbit,’ grinned Barney. ‘Pretty she was, too.’

  ‘Not like the girls to run away from you, Barn,’ replied Keith Pemberton with a half-smile. ‘That was probably the oldest girl. Sarah had them all up for tea. Anyway, you’ll find McBride — Bob — down at the boundary dam. He reckons he can fix that dicky pump. Tell him you’ve spoken to me. Give my regards to your father.’

  Barney thanked him, remounted his horse and went to the dam close to the boundary with Amba.

  Barney greeted Bob McBride, who once again was oil-stained and wielding a spanner. ‘I’m not officially a mechanic, but you always seem to catch me at it, don’t you?’ he said, grinning.

  Briefly, Barney explained that he’d spoken to Keith Pemberton, who’d cleared the way for the Holtens to offer McBride some shearing if he was interested.

  Bob McBride straightened up. ‘Well yeah, that’d be good. I’m a better shearer than I am mechanic. When do you need me?’

  ‘More or less straightaway. We’ve almost finished mustering. The other three fellows are arriving tomorrow night.’

  ‘I’ll finish up the urgent stuff here tomorrow then. How many you got?’

  ‘Ten thousand. That’s why we’d appreciate another hand. And seeing as you’re right next door, it could work out well. Of course, you’re welcome to stay in the shearers’ quarters with the others if—’

  ‘Not likely. Not when I can sleep in my own bed.’ He paused then smiled. ‘Besides, the tribe would miss me.’

  ‘Well, that’s settled then.’ Barney held out his hand. ‘You’ll meet my father when you come over. By the way, how many in the tribe?’

  Bob McBride acknowledged Barney’s grin with a big smile. ‘Enough . . . enough to give every day a few laughs.’

  At the end of the day, after he’d cleaned up, McBride found Pemberton and thanked him for the opportunity to do some shearing.

  ‘I’ll still keep an eye on things here, never fear. So will Gwen. Holten seems a nice young fellow. He’s the oldest son, I take it?’ McBride knew the tradition of the owner’s eldest son working beside his father.

  ‘No, the only one,’ replied Pemberton.

  ‘No girls?’

  ‘No.’

  McBride took the hint and didn’t pry further.

  ‘By the way,’ said Pemberton, changing the subject, ‘do your girls want some fowls? Ran into a bloke in town who had a crate of chickens.’

  ‘They’d like that for sure. The eggs would be handy too. Gwen bakes stuff.’

  ‘Send someone up to collect them then. Mrs Pemberton has them round the back of the kitchen somewhere.’

  McBride ambled back to the cottage where smoke was rising from the chimney. The smell of a freshly baked cake wafted from the kitchen, and the twins were taking turns pushing young Brian on the newly erected swing under the mulberry tree. Abby was sitting on the back steps with her chin in her hands, watching them.

  ‘Howdy, gang. Where’s Kev?’

  ‘Chopping kindling for Mum,’ said Abby. ‘You look pleased with yourself, Dad.’

  ‘Move over.’ He squeezed onto the old weather-etched wooden step beside her and dropped an arm about her shoulders. ‘Like it here? I know there’s not much for you to do, work like, but help your mum for a bit and I’m sure something will come along.’ He gave her a slight squeeze.

  Abby smiled fondly at him. ‘It is nice here. Mum really likes it. Once the kids are in school, I’ll start looking around. Don’t worry about me, Dad.’

  ‘You’re a good girl, Ab. You always go along with things. Don’t always put yourself last though, luv. You have to think of yourself occasionally.’

  ‘I will if I need to, Dad.’

  ‘So what did you do today then?’

  ‘I went exploring. Went up the creek a bit. There’s a nice swimming hole . . .’ Abby stopped, cringing inside a little as she imagined that boy, or rather man, sitting on his horse and watching her antics. What a baby, what a silly fool he must think her. Then, as she thought about it, she realised he ’d probably been spying on her. Hoping she was going skinny-dipping she supposed.

  ‘Hey, what are you thinking about, sweetie? You look mad as a hornet. You got a problem?’

  ‘Oh no. I saw a fellow go by on a horse while I was down there. He gave me a bit of start that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, that’d be Barney Holten. He came over to see me actually.’

  Abby bristled. ‘What for? Who is he?’

  ‘His dad runs Amba next door. They’ve offered me some shearing work. Pay’11 be good. Haven’t told your mum yet.’

  ‘What about your job here at Anglesea?’ Abby looked worried at the thought.

  ‘Don’t worry, luv. Mr Pemberton has given me the okay to work at Amba until shearing is finished. Very good of him.’

  ‘He’s figured out you’re a good man to keep about the place, Dad,’ said Abby affectionately. She knew her father could turn his hand to all manner of work and he’d just been a bit unlucky with the way so many of the jobs had tailed off, forcing the family to keep on the move. She admired her mother so much for the stoic and good-humoured way she supported their father. The way she stuck by him no matter what and rarely complained. Wherever they were, there was a loving, happy and stable environment. She hoped that one day she would find a husband who would inspire such loyalty and devotion.

  Bob McBride got to his feet. ‘I’d better go find your mother and tell her the news. Something smells good, eh?’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘By the way, we’ve got a bunch of fowls to add to the family. You’ll have to help me build a chook pen, okay?’

  Abby clapped her hands together. ‘Oh great, the kids will love that.’

  Bob McBride turned indoors, a contented man.

  THE SHEARING SHED WAS EIGHTY YEARS OLD. Great grey walls of rough timber supported a high, peaked, rusting corrugated-iron roof. Inside, the floorboards had a patina of age, oil, and hard use. Smooth pillars of tree trunks supported the soaring roof. The board had four shearing stands, a small pen with bat-wing doors behind each. Chutes ran into the outside pens. The big solid wool-classing tables smelled of lanolin, and the wool press was an antique contraption but it did the job of compacting the wool into hessian packs.

  The shed was high enough off the ground to push sheep beneath it in case of rain during shearing. Most of the year it was empty and unused, except by nesting swallows and sparrows. But now it throbbed with life and energy. Voices rang out over the buzz of the shears and the bleating and rattle of hooves as shorn sheep were pushed down the chute to stand dazed and denuded in the pen. It was hard and sweaty work.

  The metallic clanging of an iron bar on a plough disc brought the activity to a standstill. As each sheep was finished, the shearers straightened and headed to their quarters for a lunch prepared by the team’s cook.

  Bob McBride stretched and rubbed his back as he walked to
the enamel dish of water outside the quarters. He washed his hands, face and arms with the Solvol soap, took off his old sweat-stained felt hat, held it under the water, then plonked it on his head. The water ran down the sinews of his neck, making dark stains on his navy singlet. Refreshed, he joined the others at the long bare table. Despite the heat, a steaming shepherd’s pie, pumpkin and peas were heaped onto plates and liberally doused with gravy. Thick slices of bread and butter mopped up the plates as the cook brought out tinned peaches and custard. The men lit up cigarettes as the large tin pot of tea was passed around to refill mugs.

  Barney Holten appeared and poured himself a mug of the tea. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re a rouseabout short in there. That boy you organised didn’t show,’ announced one of the men.

  ‘Yeah, we need a kid in there to give a bit of a hand. Any chance of digging one up? Like by tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ promised Barney.

  As the men headed back to the shearing, Barney fell into step beside Bob McBride. ‘You haven’t got a strapping son in your family, have you?’ asked Barney.

  ‘To work in the shed?’

  Barney nodded.

  McBride flicked his cigarette into the dust. ‘No, but I do have a hardworking daughter though. Abby has worked in sheds before. She’d be happy to take it on if the blokes don’t mind.’

  Barney hesitated. He didn’t know anyone else who could come at such short notice. If she’d worked in a shearing shed before, she wouldn’t be fazed by the men and would know what to do. The last thing they wanted was a useless girl around the place. ‘Righto, I’ll ask her if she’s interested.’

  Abby took the utility truck to the Pembertons’ and a couple of sacks to put the fowls in, and Kevin went along to lend a hand.

  Mrs Pemberton led them down to where the birds were in temporary residence in a small pen. ‘They’re mostly bantams, a few Australorps and a couple of roosters,’ she said, pointing to the mixed group peering anxiously through the wire mesh.

  ‘What’s that big brown thing?’ asked Kevin.

  ‘Oh, that’s a bronzewing turkey. He’s still only a teenager but he’s five times the size of his little mother. Apparently he was hatched by that white bantam. From what I’ve observed, she doesn’t want a thing to do with the great big freaky son she’s produced,’ laughed Sarah Pemberton. ‘When you’re done, come and have a cool drink.’

  Kevin squeezed into the pen and eagerly cornered each bird as it shrieked and fluttered. Abby tied their feet together, dropping them into the bag. ‘Why bother tying their legs, Abby? It’s not far back to our place,’ said Kevin, pouncing gleefully on the last rooster. ‘Gotcha,’ he hissed triumphantly.

  ‘The spurs on their legs could rip into each other if they fight or panic,’ explained Abby. ‘This is safer.’

  A short time later, Abby and Kevin appeared at the Pembertons’ kitchen door and were invited inside, where glasses of cordial and slices of fruitcake were set on the table. ‘Help yourselves. So, are you settled in all right down there?’

  ‘Yes thanks, Mrs Pemberton. We really like it here,’ said Abby with genuine warmth. ‘The kids start school next week and I’ll be looking for work. You don’t know of anything going in town, do you?’

  ‘No, dear. But I’m sure you won’t have too much trouble.’ She was thinking what a pleasant girl Abby was. ‘What sort of work are you looking for?’

  ‘Anything really. I’ve done a lot of different things.’

  ‘You saving up for a trip overseas, or just your nest-egg?’

  ‘Oh gosh no, nothing like that. I just want to help out at home. I’ve never thought of travelling overseas,’ said Abby. Then, in case she was thought unsophisticated, she added quickly and brightly, ‘Maybe one day after I’m married.’

  ‘A honeymoon trip,’ smiled Sarah.

  ‘Yes. That would be lovely.’ Abby suddenly noticed Kevin surreptitiously reaching for another slice of cake. ‘Kev, ask Mrs Pemberton if you can have a second piece!’

  Kevin snatched his hand away in embarrassment as Abby and Mrs Pemberton laughed.

  ‘It is awfully nice cake,’ said Abby.

  ‘It’s a bought one, I’m afraid. I didn’t have time to bake this week — not that I’m much of a baker. Help yourself, Kevin. Now, do you have chicken feed? No? Well, take some of our grain with you to get your lot settled in.’

  Back at home in the makeshift chicken coop, they untied the sacks and began taking out the chooks, cutting the string around their feet. As Abby held an irate rooster, Kevin struggled with his blunt knife to cut the string. Then suddenly let out a cry. The turkey had wiggled his way out of the bag and, with a nasal squeak, had spread his magnificent wings, taking flight despite his bound legs.

  ‘Oh dear, watch the others, Kev, I’ll get the turkey.’ Abby took off after the wildly flapping bird that was cruising at an altitude of three feet above ground level. About every ten yards the turkey made crash landings but just as Abby reached out to grab it, it made another floundering takeoff.

  ‘Come back, Tom Turkey, you stupid creature!’ shouted Abby in frustration.

  Across the paddock the turkey hiccupped from ground to air with Abby in stumbling pursuit. She was desperate to catch the poor creature, afraid if it got away it would never survive with the handicap of its feet tied together.

  Then into its shuddering flight-path loomed the small dam and the turkey landed in it with a skidding splash. Flapping its wings, the turkey just managed to stay afloat, but as it became waterlogged, under it went.

  Abby reached the edge of the dam on the run and launched herself with a magnificent bellyflop onto the spot where the bird had landed. Wildly reaching under the muddy water, she felt the bird and hauled it to the surface, staggering to her feet in the murky shallows.

  ‘Got you, you crazy bird!’

  Tucking the dripping turkey beneath her arm, she struggled from the water. Her cotton slacks and blouse were soaked and glued to her body; her ponytail dripped over her shoulder, and when she rubbed the water from her eyes, it left a muddy streak down her face.

  As she trudged from the dam, the sound of an approaching car made her pause. As it drew up to her, she stopped and saw Barney Holten grinning through the windscreen.

  He leaned out of the window. ‘That was a good catch.’

  ‘How come every time I get in the water you’re spying on me?’ she demanded.

  ‘I’ve never spied on you . . . I just saw you taking off across the paddock here . . .’ Barney suddenly stopped and flushed. ‘When I saw you on the track by the creek, I just assumed you’d been swimming. I didn’t actually see you in the water.’

  ‘Assumed?’ said Abby archly.

  ‘Well yes, you were coming from the direction of the swimming hole and your hair was wet. Or were you diving for birds then too?’

  Abby looked down, realising she had misjudged him.

  ‘Er, do you mind if I ask how come the turkey was in the dam?’ he asked.

  Abby smiled slightly. ‘It was the one that nearly got away. Its feet are tied up because I just got it from the Pembertons. It actually thinks it’s a bantam,’ she grinned.

  ‘And a duck,’ said Barney, flashing a big smile. ‘Look, you’re Abigail, aren’t you? I was coming over to see you. I spoke to your father a little while ago. I’m Barney Holten from Amba.’

  ‘I know. Dad’s shearing for you.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Well, we’re short a rousebout in the shed and your father suggested you might be interested in the job. You know, sweeping up the boards, the locks and bags, the loose wool, helping with the fleeces, getting the sheep into the pens and . . .’

  ‘I know what’s involved,’ said Abby. ‘I’ve worked around sheds before.’

  ‘So would you be interested? I need someone to start as soon as possible. I’ll pay you the same as the other fellow who’s helping.’

  Abby was uncomfortable at be
ing offered a job while she stood there dirty, wet and clutching a bedraggled turkey, but she knew it would be good money for at least two weeks.

  ‘All right, I’ll get cleaned up and be over this afternoon.’

  ‘No need to rush, the day is about finished. Start first thing tomorrow. And good luck with that turkey, hope he lasts till Christmas!’ Chuckling, Barney drove off.

  Abby watched the car disappear in a cloud of dust, then headed back to the coop where Kevin and the twins were scattering grain amongst the still ruffled chooks.

  Abby turned up early the next morning dressed appropriately in old overalls and boots, her hair tied back and no lipstick on. Her father introduced her to the men and, without any fuss, she set to work sweeping up and running around with the red antiseptic paint to dab on the occasional cut from a careless nick with a blade. She knew how to be unobtrusive, quick and quiet. She was used to handling sheep and when she was told to put another dozen from the yard into the pen, she did so without drama.

  She sat quietly next to her dad at morning tea, tucking into the sweet tea and lamingtons. Later, she helped the wool presser and asked the wool classer about the different wools and properties he’d worked. At the end of the day, driving home with her father, she was exhausted.

  When they arrived at the house, Gwen was there to greet them. ‘The chip heater is going like a steam train. Off you go and have a good old soak, Abby.’

  ‘Oh, lovely. Thanks, Mum.’

  ‘How’d she do?’ asked Gwen, slipping her arm around her husband’s waist.

  ‘Good. She’s a great little worker. Doesn’t make any fuss. The blokes said she was a nice kid. She’ll be fine. Now, what about a bit of a back-rub? I always forget shearing is another word for backache.’

  Over the next ten days, Barney worked close to the shed, branding, bringing in sheep and sending out the finished ones to other paddocks. The shed was his responsibility, although his father did come down once to inspect some of the fleeces. He asked the wool classer several questions, nodded curtly to the men, who glanced cautiously at him, then left.