by Di Morrissey
Sally slammed her knife and fork down with a bang. ‘Right. Enough. Leave the table. Take your dishes into the kitchen and put the food in the chook bucket.’
‘We haven’t finished,’ wailed Tommy.
‘Too bad,’ said Sally unsympathetically. ‘And there was a nice dessert too.’
‘What?’ cried Martin. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘Then don’t play with your food and try to stir me up,’ she said. ‘Think how much you’re going to enjoy breakfast.’
‘You’re mean,’ hissed Ian as he marched past her.
Sally finished her meal alone, wondering what had happened to John. Lorna seemed to make such a big deal about having dinner together.
Young Betsy hovered at the door. ‘You finished? Me clean up?’ she asked Sally.
The women were always anxious to clear away the dishes and clean up the kitchen so they could leave the house. Lorna made them wait until the meal was over and the two kitchen girls on duty would hang around in the garden, smoking or chewing tobacco. If there were visitors, or if John Monroe was in an ebullient mood, it could be a long wait.
‘What about the missus? The boss?’ asked Sally.
‘The missus got dinner in her room. The boss . . .’ she looked around and mimicked a drinking gesture to Sally.
Sally thought she’d better not probe in case Lorna could hear. ‘Then go ahead and clean up the kitchen, please, Betsy.’
She could hear the boys playing in the dark garden. The door to Lorna’s room was shut. Sally helped herself to another glass of rum and sat in a chair in the living room. For a moment she felt lonely, then decided to relish these moments alone.
The clock on the sideboard struck eight. Sally had dozed off. She jerked awake and saw a light had been turned on and the dining table was set for breakfast. The kitchen was neat, the dishes washed and put away, every surface wiped clean. She went outside and called the boys.
There was no answer. ‘If you don’t come now, there’ll be no treats and extra homework tomorrow,’ she threatened in a loud voice.
Martin came out of the gloom. ‘We’re just playing hide and seek.’
She smiled at him. ‘You blokes have an answer for everything. Come on, Martin, bedtime.’
He followed her along the verandah. ‘Can you please call me Marty? And you know what you said about a story . . .’
‘Course I do. What’s your favourite?’
‘Wind in the Willows.’
‘That’s one of my favourites too. Do you have a copy? We could read some if you like.’
He rushed into the room that served as John’s study and Lorna’s sewing room and came back with the book.
‘Get ready for bed. Do you want to tell me where the others are hiding?’
‘Don’t say I told.’
She put her finger to her lips and he whispered, ‘In the tree near the chooks.’
Sally picked up a torch and strolled through the garden to the chook pen.
‘Nighty, night, chickens. Watch out for that big snake. I have a gun so I’ll fire up this tree here and scare him away. Might catch a bat or two as well.’ She lifted the black torch. ‘Looks like a couple of big ones up there in the branches.’
‘Hey! Watch out,’ cried Tommy. ‘It’s us.’ The leaves rustled.
‘One . . . two . . . ready . . . aim . . .’ Sally pretended to squint along the barrel of the torch. ‘Did you know I was the best pistol shot in the South Island of New Zealand?’
Tommy swung down from the tree. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded.
‘If I don’t see two boys in their pyjamas quick smart, you might be surprised what I’ll do.’
Tommy sprinted for the house and Ian climbed down and stood in front of her, his hands on his hips. ‘You think you’re so clever.’
‘Do I?’
They glared at each other, then suddenly heard John’s voice. ‘Where is everyone? Sally? What’s going on?’ His voice sounded tired, thick and not himself. Ian turned and bolted round the side of the house. Sally took the cue and hurried after him, sensing maybe it wasn’t a good time to run into John.
Marty was in bed with the book. Sally sat beside him and began to read. He sat up so he could see the illustrations.
‘Can you do voices? Like for Rat and Mole and Toad?’ he asked.
‘Let’s do it together. You be Mole and Rat and I’ll be Toad and the others.’
The older boys took no notice and pulled up their sheets, pretending not to listen. But both were quiet. At the end of the first chapter, Sally closed the book.
‘It’s late. More tomorrow. G’night, Marty.’
He waved at the other bed. ‘You sleeping out here too?’
‘Yes. That room is too hot. Goodnight, boys.’
There was a grunt from Ian. Tommy was asleep.
‘G’night, Miss,’ said Marty quietly.
Sally went into the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face. She stopped as she heard voices coming from Lorna’s room.
‘C’mon, Lorn . . .’ there was the thud of a boot, the unmistakable squeak of wire bed coils under the big inner-spring mattress. The only one in the house.
‘Go away, John. You’re drunk. Too drunk.’
‘Ya reckon? Move over, love. Just a little cuddle.’
‘Get out of my bed.’ Her words were low but ferocious, hissed between clenched teeth.
Sally tiptoed into her room to change as she heard gasps and grunts that sounded like a physical wrestle. She shut the door and lay in the dark as John Monroe forced himself on his unwilling wife, pounding and grunting until he groaned, gave a gasp, and started muttering to himself.
‘Don’t you dare go to sleep. Get out. Go to your own bed.’ Lorna’s tone was icy and she must have pushed him as there was a stumble before Sally heard him bang into the partition wall and stagger out to the far corner of the verandah where, Sally now realised, he slept.
She waited in a lather of perspiration as she heard Lorna go to the bathroom and wash herself. When the house was quiet save for John’s snoring, Sally crept to the back part of the verandah. She discovered the boys, well, Ian, she assumed, had pushed her bed away from theirs, leaving a big gap between the governess and her charges.
Grateful for the cool starched sheets and balmy breeze from the garden she settled on the bed, disturbed but sexually aroused, and thought of Sean. Had he thought of her? Suddenly she wished he was with her and she vowed to write to him tomorrow. The young woman who’d set off to conquer England without a backward glance now felt very, very lonely.
*
The following morning after showering and dressing, Sally went into the dining room where the boys had already started breakfast. John bellowed at Lizzie in the kitchen and strode in and took his place with a cheerful good morning. If he was embarrassed about the previous night, he didn’t show it. Lorna was still in bed. Her custom was to sleep in and let John organise the women to prepare breakfast. One of the boys would bring her a cup of tea, then she’d wait till the others had finished breakfast and emerge, neatly dressed with powder, lipstick and smoothed hair, and eat a small bowl of rolled oats followed by a piece of toast and fresh tea. It was Lorna’s time to herself, which was respected and never intruded upon unless it was important.
The static sound of the wireless, a modern version of the old pedal wireless, was coming from the living room, the boys were talking about something they were doing with their father that afternoon, and Sally sat at the table, eating cornflakes and tinned peaches.
‘What’s going on after school?’ she asked.
‘Boy stuff,’ said John Monroe, pouring himself a mug of tea. ‘Ridin’, shootin’, cowboy stuff.’
‘Sounds exciting. Can I come too?’
‘We’re going riding,’ said Ian.
‘I can ride,’ said Sally.
‘We’re going to get a killer,’ added Tommy.
Sally looked at John, who roared with laughter. ‘Not some outlaw on
the run. A killer is a steer we knock on the head for house beef.’
The boys laughed. ‘Didn’t you know that?’ cried Marty.
John’s head swivelled over the laughter, alert to a call on the wireless. ‘That’s us being called in. Let’s see what’s up.’
He went into the living room and picked up the receiver. ‘Barra Creek here. Receiving on channel six. Over.’
Sally and the boys took no notice as they argued over what horse Sally could ride.
Monroe walked back in holding a piece of paper. ‘That was about you, Sally.’ He spoke quietly and looked slightly concerned.
‘More gossip?’ she sighed.
‘No. It was a telegram. From your parents in New Zealand.’
‘What! Is everything all right?’ Sally’s hand shook as she put her cup down.
‘They’re a bit worried. Wondering where you are. They tracked you down through Dalgety’s.’ He gave her a steady look.
‘Ooh, er. Did you run away?’ asked Tommy. All three boys were looking at her with wide eyes.
‘Of course not,’ said Sally briskly. ‘They haven’t got my letter yet, that’s all.’ John Monroe dropped a hand on her shoulder, sensing her discomfort. ‘Don’t worry, Sal. I’ll send a wire back. Tell ’em you’re with us, and we’re delighted to have you here too. Not to worry. Letter following, eh?’
Sally looked at him gratefully. ‘That would be nice. Thanks very much.’
Monroe glanced at the boys. ‘Stop your carry on and finish your breakfast. You don’t want to be late for school. Any trouble and you don’t come out with Fitzi and me this arvo.’
The boys put their napkins by their bread and butter plates as taught and left the table, pushing in their chairs. Tommy spoke up. ‘We’ll be having spare ribs tonight won’t we, Dad?’
‘Of course we bloody will! Killer night is spare ribs on the barbecue.’ He grinned at Sally. ‘One of the few times we eat fresh meat. Starting with the ribs tonight, steaks tomorrow and a roast the day after.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ she said. The boys had left the room when she turned back to John Monroe. ‘Thanks for sending the message to my parents. They tend to fuss a bit.’
‘Most parents would if their pretty young daughter was heading to England and ended up in Queensland’s Gulf country. You got any problems, you tell me, okay?’
Sally nodded, suddenly choked up at the unusually soft tone of his voice.
‘Lorna and me are real glad you’re here. I hope you’ll hang around, Sally. I know the boys can be a pain in the backside.’
‘Oh, no. They’re lovely. I really enjoy them,’ she said quickly. ‘They’re just trying it on. Testing me out. That’s natural.’
‘I’m glad you see it that way. Lorna keeps telling me it’s my fault they get out of hand. Learn it from me, she says. Ah, struth, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, I reckon. Most times, it’s just the grog or the boredom that gets to you up here. Keep busy, that’s the ticket.’ He went back into the living room to send the telegram and as he dictated it over the wireless, Sally realised everyone in the district would have heard the exchange and she’d be the cause for more gossip.
The boys were well behaved in school, nervous that if they played up they might not be allowed to go out riding.
Over afternoon tea Lorna handed round the plate of sliced fruit cake. ‘Sally, are you sure you want to go out with them? You don’t have to, you know.’
‘I want to! I’d love to go for a ride, and see a bit more of the station.’
‘We’re only going to the main home paddock,’ said Ian.
Sally had been told that the paddocks closest to the house were twenty and fifty acres. Barra Creek was over 240,000 acres, far bigger than anything in New Zealand.
‘Good, I won’t get lost then.’
‘If, by chance, you do get bushed remember there’s always a dead patch on the western side of quinine and ironwood trees. If it’s overcast and cloudy you can tell west because of the bare patch,’ said John casually.
The boys were anxious to get going and raced to change from their school shorts into their moleskins.
‘What do you have to wear to ride in?’ asked Lorna.
‘I bought some boy’s dungarees. But I don’t have any boots. I’m writing to my mother tonight to ask her to send some of my things over.’
‘There’s a pile of boots out by the laundry. There’ll be a pair to fit you,’ Lorna said in a tone that implied if you must.
Sally found the boys at the stables, saddling their horses. Ian helped Marty, but once he was in the saddle he looked perfectly at home on the pony.
‘So which is my horse?’ She had seen some good-looking horses around the station but when Ian pointed over his shoulder at the fifteen-hand black mare standing tethered to a tree, Sally wondered if she should back out.
‘That one. Dad saddled her.’ Sally stared at the strange bulky, high-backed stock saddle in some dismay. She was used to small, light hunting saddles. She adjusted the stirrups and attempted to make friends with the horse, but to no avail. This was a horse who had been ridden hard, treated rough and now in her golden years had been relegated to hack work. The mare was bored, tired, disinterested.
Once the boys were ready to ride out, Sally mounted, embarrassed at how clumsy she felt in the cumbersome saddle. The boys rode leaning back, legs straight and sticking forward in a manner that went against all the riding rules of British-equestrian-trained Sally.
Once clear of the yards, they broke into a canter and Sally followed, but she was slipping and sliding in the saddle. She couldn’t feel the horse with her legs, and her frustration and mounting fury were communicated to the animal, which pulled on the bit and strained against her commands. The boys glanced back at her struggling and, giggling, they galloped away.
They darted between trees and raced across the open ground before reaching an area covered in feather-tipped spear grass, young bloodwoods and to Sally’s amazement, huge red termite mounds. The boys kept changing direction, cutting around the ant hills and she realised they were trying to lose her. It was country like nothing she’d ever seen or imagined. She cursed as she kept losing her balance, furious at the stubborn horse and mad at the boys. She couldn’t see where they had gone so she kicked the horse with her heels and let the animal have her head.
It was wild country and Sally knew how easy it would be to become disoriented and lost. To her eyes, there were few landmarks. But the horse either knew the country or where the other horses had gone for soon Sally saw puffs of dust kicked up by the three horses cantering behind John Monroe’s truck.
She kicked the mare into a canter, trying to keep her balance on the slippery saddle, hanging onto the horse’s mane. As she got closer she saw the truck was nudging along half a dozen cattle with the boys spread out on the wings nosing them towards a stand of trees. A black stockman was standing in the tray of the truck, directing the boys, and near a large tree she spotted a ringer who had swung into the low branches. The truck stopped a little distance away and the boys jumped down and sat on the ground watching the cattle mill around under the trees. It was very quiet and still. Monroe got out of the truck, leaving the door open, and studied the cattle. Sally dismounted, watching the scene. The stockman in the back of the truck sat down and rolled himself a cigarette. Sally sat on the grass beside her horse like the boys.
They were there for about four or five minutes watching the cattle, which were standing quietly in the dappled light of the trees. Monroe, who’d been leaning against the truck, slowly lifted his arm, pointing, giving a signal. She heard the crack and saw a steer fall to its knees, the others running in a panic into the bauhinias. With the calm suddenly shattered John Monroe and the stockman ran forward, tying a rope around the dead beast as the marksman climbed out of the tree, a rifle slung across his back.
‘Get in and stick him,’ Monroe called and the stockman swiftly cut an incision at the jugular, then stabbed the k
nife down into the bullock’s heart.
The men began opening the hide and cleaning as they went. ‘Got to bleed him properly. Makes better meat,’ Monroe explained to her.
Leading her horse, Sally followed as the beast was tied to the rear of the truck and John Monroe got back behind the wheel and dragged the animal to a solid tree with low branches. They threw a rope over a branch and adjusted it so that when John moved the truck slowly forward it winched the beast on the other end of the rope off the ground by its haunches.
The stockman, whom she recognised now as Fitzi who also worked around the yards and garden, took a long-bladed knife and removed the hide. He then slit the belly, letting the guts spill out. John Monroe called to the boys to help and they pulled an old tarpaulin from the truck and threw it onto the ground.
Sally crinkled her nose as the grisly process of cutting away at the carcass continued with precision, and great sections of it were thrown onto the tarp.
Monroe glanced up and saw her. ‘How do you like your steak?’ he shouted.
‘Not moving on my plate, thanks. Why did you wait so long before shooting one?’ she asked.
‘You want the adrenalin to get out of their system. The calmer they are the more tender the meat. I don’t believe in killing ’em on the run. Wait till you taste this meat.’
‘I’ll wait till it’s cooked, thanks. I’ll see you back at the house.’
‘Can you find your way back?’ he shouted.
‘Yes.’ She was going to make a sarcastic comment about the boys but bit her tongue. Struggling to mount and stay as steady as possible in the saddle, knowing they were all watching her, Sally wheeled the horse about and trotted away, hoping she looked more confident than she felt.
On her own, she began to relax and enjoy the scenery. The thicket of trees and undergrowth lining the river was away to her left so she turned the horse in that direction, wondering if there was a track along the edge of the river.
