by Peter Kocan
He could hear Mr. Coles telling Mrs. Coles that she needn’t mop the bathroom. Mrs. Coles’s voice came back angry and sharp. Then Mr. Coles said he’d mop it himself if she wanted it mopped, and that she should sit down and relax. Again came the sharp and angry voice: “Scrubbing! That’s what it needs! Scrubbing from top to bottom! Will you do that? Will you? No! What do you care if the house is filthy?” Her voice had gone shrill and Mr. Coles’s voice became very soft and soothing. The youth thought he heard low sobbing. He finished eating and left the house.
The drizzle ran down the window of his room and the dampness of mud and rain seemed to penetrate everything. The youth sat on the rickety camp bed with one of the blankets round his shoulders and his back against the wall. He thought of his room at the Miami and how nice it would feel to be there now, lying back cosy and warm on his bed with magazines to read. He had only brought one of his magazines with him. It had been hard leaving the others behind, but he’d had to pare his things down to what would fit in the little bag.
He fished the magazine out. It was a copy of Home Weekly with a picture of Grace Kelly on the cover and a story inside called “Monaco’s Fashion Queen.” The article was all about the clothes Grace Kelly wore to balls and banquets. The youth wasn’t very interested in the clothes, but he really liked looking at Grace Kelly. He loved the cool, poised way she gazed out of a photo at you. She was sort of remote, and yet gave the impression of being friendly and sensible too.
For a long time he examined the photos of Grace Kelly in her ball-gowns and diamond tiaras, and gazed into the blue eyes in the cover photo. Her poised self-containedness made him feel a bit more poised and self-contained himself. The youth had learnt that there were times when he needed a different kind of consolation from the sort Diestl gave. This other kind came from pictures of certain women, and from Grace Kelly more than anyone. He had a secret name for her. He thought of her as Sweetheart.
The youth lay down with the blankets and his greatcoat over him. He tried to ignore the rat-like scufflings he could hear in the shed. He drifted to sleep thinking of a lovely blue-eyed woman it was utterly safe to be with and who understood all your yearnings. At some point in the night he imagined that he heard voices, and the dogs barking, and a car engine starting up.
3. HORSEMAN
“How ya goin’?” said a voice behind him.The youth had just stumbled out of his room, afraid that it was quite late in the morning and that he had overslept and was going to be in trouble. He looked around and saw a man sitting on a horse. The man had a battered leathery overcoat on and was leaning forward on the horse’s neck. He looked completely relaxed, as though the horse was as comfortable to him as a sofa.
“Clem Currey’s the name,” drawled the man, holding out his hand.
The youth shook hands and said who he was.
“Yeah, Coles said ya came day before yesterdee.”
“Yes.”
“How ya findin’ it?”
“Alright,” said the youth. He wondered if Clem was from the neighbouring property. “Do you know what the time is, please?” he asked.
“’Bout half past eight,” Clem replied.
Shit, thought the youth. “I’d better go,” he said, pointing across at the house.
“Nobody there,” said Clem. “They’re in town.”
“Sorry?”
“Coles’s missus went crackers durin’ the night. He had to take her in to get her seen to. Might not be back for a coupla days.”
The youth looked blank.
“It ain’t the first time it’s happened. It’s just a matter of gettin’ her into town so the doctor can give her a needle or somethin’ to settle her down. Anyway, Coles rang me up and said to let ya know they was gone and that ya to come to my place for ya meals and that.”
“Um, okay,” said the youth, trying to take it all in.
“If ya want to go and do ya feedin’, I’ll do the milkin’, and then we’ll go.”
So the youth fed the animals while Clem milked the two cows in the milking yard just across from the shed.
“Ya can ride Gypsy, if ya like,” said Clem. “Do ya ride, at all?”
“I never have,” the youth replied.
“Ah well, ya might as well have a go, if ya like.”
Clem got a bridle from the saddle room and went across to where the three horses were at the hay the youth had just put out for them. He went to slip the bridle on the big one that looked like a draughthorse. It took a little time because the horse kept turning away whenever he lifted the bridle towards her.
“She’s a cunnin’ old bugger,” said Clem. “She’s twenty-two years old and knows all the tricks.”
Clem got the bridle on her and tethered her outside the saddle room. He combed her back a little, and explained that it was to make sure there were no burrs under the saddle to make her sore. Then he saddled her. He showed the youth how she took a deep breath just as he went to tighten the strap under her belly.
“I told ya she knows all the tricks,” said Clem. “And fair enough, I s’pose. I’m not keen on havin’ me belt too tight, either.”
When the mare was saddled and ready, Clem said that they might as well get moving. The youth went to his room and put on his new boots and hat and threw his greatcoat over his shoulder. Back outside, the mare looked enormous.
“Don’t be scared of her,” said Clem. “She’s cunnin’, but she won’t get outa hand. All this old girl wants is a quiet life.”
The youth wasn’t convinced.
“I’ll give ya a leg-up,” said Clem.
The youth found himself on the mare’s back and for a moment thought he would pitch straight over the other side, but he got a desperate grip on the saddle and on the mane. He swayed there trying to get his balance. The ground looked a long way down.
“I’d better lead her, if ya like,” said Clem. “That’ll let ya have ya hands free to hang on till ya find ya balance.”
So Clem walked ahead, leading his own horse and Gypsy, and the youth clung to the mane with both hands, bobbing and swaying and trying to grip with his knees. They paused beside the barking dogs and Clem let Dolly off her chain. Then they went slowly towards the gate out of the home paddock.
After only a few moments in the saddle the youth’s hands and knees ached from the effort of trying to grip and stay upright. The lurch of the mare’s movement began to make him feel seasick. He told himself that if he could make it to the gate he’d be okay. Meanwhile, Clem was explaining the art of falling off horses.
“The trick’s to hit the ground in a relaxed frame o’ mind. And to try not to fall under the hooves if possible, ’cos the horse might sprain a fetlock when he’s steppin’ on ya. Apart from that, it’s as easy as fallin’ off a log. In fact it’s a fair bit easier, ’cos a log usually won’t start buckin’.”
They reached the gate and went through.
“Well,” said Clem, looking up at the youth, “I reckon ya must be a born horseman. Ya sure ya never rode before?”
The youth nodded.
“Well, that’s amazin’,” Clem said, and swung himself onto his own horse with a single fluid motion. “I’ll keep on leadin’ Gypsy, if ya like. Just gettin’ ya balance is enough to learn at the moment. Handlin’ the reins can come later.”
They rode slowly through another paddock towards the next gate. At times the old mare slowed so much that she was hardly moving.
“Ya need to let her know who’s boss,” said Clem.
“I think she already knows,” replied the youth grimly.
“Give her a bit of a spur with ya heels,” Clem advised.
The youth tried but could not relax the grip of his knees enough to get any purchase for a spurring motion.
“Never mind,” said Clem. “There’s no hurry. Ya doin’ real well. A lot of blokes woulda fallen off by now
.”
The youth fell off.
“That was good,” said Clem when the youth had confirmed he was okay. “Ya hit the ground relaxed, like I said.”
The youth got up and brushed himself off and after several attempts managed to get back into the saddle. They rode on.
“That was real good,” Clem said. “Gettin’ straight back on like that. It shows her she can’t bluff ya. That’s the main thing. Same with those pigs. I noticed ya was lookin’ a bit dubious when ya was feedin’ ’em.”
“I’m worried they might bite,” said the youth. “Do they bite?”
“They can do,” replied Clem.
“Mr. Coles told me about a farmer who got eaten by his pigs. He had a heart attack while he was in the pen with them. All that was found of him later was his wrist-watch. Is that true?”
“Nah,” said Clem.
“It isn’t?”
“Nah.”
“That’s a relief, then.”
“It was a pocket-watch,” said Clem.
They came to the top of a long rise and saw the country spread out. There were steep slopes and shadowed gullies, and rows of hills stretching into the distance, looking more purplish-blue the further away they went. There was a lot of old felled timber on the hillsides and it showed stark and white. Great shadows of clouds moved across the landscape. The youth felt the same kind of exhilaration as when he’d looked at the grandeur of the mountains from the train. But then he had to refocus on just keeping upright in the saddle.
On a long bare ridge stretching below them was a group of buildings. There was a small house with a windmill whirling beside it, and another narrower structure nearby, and further along what the youth recognised as a shearing shed with a set of yards. They went through a last gate and plodded down the long ridge. A couple of dogs tethered near the house began to bark.
“Gladys said she’d have a bit of late breakfast ready for ya,” Clem said, “and a good strong cuppa tea.”
They came up to the front fence of the house and Clem languidly swung down off his horse and looped the reins of both horses over the fence. The youth sat for a few moments trying to untense and unclench himself enough to slide off. But as soon as he tried to move he found his muscles wouldn’t obey him and he lost his grip and fell in a heap at the mare’s feet. She lowered her head and gave him a look, as if to say: Another point on the board for me.
A woman in a yellow flowery apron came out of the flyscreen door onto the verandah.
“There’s a cuppa tea made,” she said. “I saw youse comin’.”
“Thanks love,” said Clem.
The youth got up off the ground and followed Clem in at the gate.
Gladys Currey held her hand out to the youth and said, “Pleased to meet you.” They shook hands and she led the way inside.
It was a stark place with bare floorboards and hardly any furniture. Gladys poured them a cup of tea and then set to stirring something in a saucepan on the stove. Clem told her that the youth had just had his first ride on a horse and was doing real well, having got the measure of old Gypsy. Gladys gave the impression of being quietly pleased and impressed by this, as though she hadn’t just seen the youth in a heap on the ground. She asked him a bit about himself. Where was he from? Did he have any brothers and sisters? The youth sat on an unsteady chair and answered while he tried to get his aching muscles to untense. Gladys served up baked beans on toast for him. She and Clem began talking about Mr. and Mrs. Coles and when they might be back from town.
The youth was able to observe them while he ate. He realised that they were probably quite old. Clem’s hair—when you saw him without his hat—was almost white. It was hard to judge the age of grown-ups, but the youth decided Clem must be at least forty, and Gladys much the same. They both looked worn and threadbare, like the stony ridge they lived on and like the meagre dwelling with floorboards unsoftened by any mat or rug. It dawned on the youth that the Curreys were very poor.
CLEM WAS saying something to Gladys about “digging out” under the shearing shed. The youth did not know what this meant. Gladys asked Clem what he reckoned about it, and Clem replied that the stuff would be hard as a rock, but that they’d better have a go if it was what Coles wanted.
“He’s the boss, I s’pose,” Clem concluded, in a resigned tone.
“Yeah,” said Gladys, in the same tone. “You probably better have a go at it, if that’s what he said to do.”
The youth could tell how conscious they were of not being their own masters in life. He realised that the Curreys weren’t next-door neighbours but employees on the place, like himself.
“Well,” said Clem after a while, “we might as well do a bit, if ya like.”
“Okay,” said the youth at once, to show he’d go along with whatever Clem thought best.
He had cottoned on to the way Clem never told him to do anything. It was always put as an idea, as something you could do if you liked. Clem hated bossing anyone about. Putting it as an idea left a person with a bit of dignity, as though they were doing the thing because they felt like it, or to lend a mate a hand, not just because of being a mug battler with no choice.
They got a pick-axe and a shovel and went along to the shearing shed. Clem explained that they were to dig out a layer of earth from under the shed. This layer of earth was rich with all the years of sheep droppings that had fallen through the slat floors of the holding-pens above. This enriched earth made good fertiliser. Anyway, said Clem, Coles wanted it done.
They got under the shed. It was too low a space to stand upright in, so they bent on their knees. This meant they were trying to use the pick-axe and shovel from unnatural postures which didn’t allow any swing or purchase. The earth felt damp and cold but was packed so hard that trying to break it up was like trying to break up concrete. After a few minutes Clem said it was time for a “blow.” They came out from under the shed and sat with their backs against one of the yard fences and Clem rolled a smoke.
The youth learnt that the Curreys had been on Dunkeld ever since Mr. Coles had come to manage it for the rich city businessman. Clem had been working on another property in the district and had a run-in with the owner, a Mr. Izzard, and had chucked the job in. Because of that he’d been available when Coles was looking for a station hand. “Coles and old Angus Izzard weren’t too keen on each other from the first day they met,” said Clem. “Too much alike, I s’pose. So my havin’ had a run-in with Izzard was a recommendation as far as Coles was concerned.”
The youth asked about Mrs. Coles. Had she always been peculiar?
“Mad as a cut snake from the start,” said Clem. “But I had nothin’ against her till I saw the airs and graces she put on, specially with Gladys. Gladys took her measure quick smart.”
When he’d finished his smoke Clem said that they could have another bit of a go, if they liked. So they went back under the shed and tried to break up a little more of the packed earth. Again they quickly became exhausted in the cramped space. They came out and Clem rolled another smoke. Dolly came and sat with them and the youth stroked her head and soft coat. The youth said what a nice dog she seemed. “Yeah,” said Clem, “she’s a real good little workin’ dog.” Then he added grimly: “She’s clever enough that even belongin’ to Coles hasn’t ruined her.”
They forced themselves to go back under the shed for another stint, and when they stopped for their next break Clem was in the mood to tell the story of the bulldozer.
“When Jimson bought Dunkeld he had this grand vision of bein’ a big-time grazier and one o’ the landed gentry, and Coles egged him on. Jimson had never been closer to the bush than Pitt Street, and didn’t know a sheep-run from a hole in the ground, so he gave Coles a free hand to do whatever he thought best to improve the place. Coles kept sayin’ that in five years he’d have it lookin’ like a park. That was the big thing, to have it lo
okin’ like a park.
“Well one day Coles went out and bought this bloody great Caterpillar, this bulldozer, that the shire council was gettin’ rid of because it was a clapped-out piece o’ junk. But Coles paid top price for it—thousands and thousands of Jimson’s money—and had it trucked to the property as if it was God’s gift to the place. The idea was that the dozer would clear all the felled timber that’d been lyin’ around on the slopes for the last sixty-odd years. But the dozer never did a proper day’s work of clearin’ because it was forever breakin’ down, and Coles was forever forkin’ out Jimson’s money to pay for new parts and for specialist mechanics to come out. Of course, it was a lucky thing that the dozer was a dud, otherwise somebody woulda got killed when it rolled over, seein’ as how most of the property is too steep and treacherous for any dozer to operate on.
“Well, Jimson might not have known the first thing about the bush, but he knew about money and he knew that Coles was wastin’ heaps of it. Now Coles isn’t the kind of bloke who’ll admit he’s made a galah of himself, so he keeps insistin’ that the Caterpillar’s a great investment and it’ll be a real goer as soon as a few little problems are sorted out.
“So this day Jimson drives up from the city in one of his flash Eye-tie cars. A Maserati, I think it was, one o’ them racin’ cars that’s worth its weight in friggin’ diamonds. And he’s got his new girlfriend with him that he wants to impress, and she’s a fashion model or somethin’, done up to the nines. Anyway, after they have lunch, Coles decides to show Jimson and the girlfriend how good the dozer is so he jumps on and starts her up and goes roarin’ around the home paddock, churnin’ the ground to buggery. I seen this meself, because me and Gladys happened to be drivin’ past along the top of the hill just then, on our way to town. Suddenly the controls jam on the dozer, like they was always doin’, and it’s headin’ towards where the Maserati’s parked. Well, I s’pose the whole thing only took about ten seconds, but I can see it now like it was happenin’ in slow motion. Coles is wrestlin’ with the levers and shoutin’ at the dozer at the top of his voice that it’s a bastard swine of a thing. Jimson is jumpin’ up and down and yellin’ and wavin’ his arms like he’s got a goanna up his trousers. The girlfriend is leanin’ into the car to get somethin’, and she looks up and starts screamin’ and scramblin’ to get out. And Mrs. Coles is at the side o’ the house doin’ a sorta mad shriek. And the dogs are all barkin’ too.
