by Jean Devanny
“Not always. Before the war they were hard to get, and during the war we had the devil’s own job. Had to pay unprecedented wages to get them—” He stopped and looked at her. They both smiled. She nodded wisely.
“Yes, just so. I see. Plenty of men since the war, aren’t there? They are ‘quiet,’ satisfied with the findings of the Court. You pay them what you like. If those you have are dissatisfied you say (she extended her arm and declaimed), ‘Get thee gone, Satan! Another man is here to take your place.’ I am afraid you will have to look for some other cause than the union officials’ perfidy to account for your good time now. That would help, of course, but it is not everything. Suppose the men had a strong union with straight officials at a time when men were scarce. What would you do then?”
“We should be what they are now—helpless,” he answered promptly. “But never mind that now. Let’s hope that time never comes. After all, the more we have to pay our men the less we have for ourselves, you know. There is only a certain amount of money in the wool cut.”
“Rank selfishness, Barry. That is an awful sentiment. Why—”
But he had leapt up on to the narrow platform surrounding the shed and was holding out a hand to help her up. She forgot all about the shearers and their due as he hauled her up beside him. Youth and Life and Love were theirs. For the instant they were lonely humans amid a sea of sheep. A quick surge together, a kiss, and then he turned quickly to the shed door while she stood laughing for sheer joy. Their love passages always made her joyous; just filled her with glamorous delight. Him they sobered, shook to the depths.
They entered the shed. The engine-room came first, in which they did not tarry, and then the classers’-room. Here the broad benches were piled high with golden fleeces which the classers, also Maoris, were sorting into various grades. Each grade was to be made into bales. Margaret stood by and watched the deft fingers of the men while Barry explained everything to her. How fine the lambs’ wool was, just faintly tinted with amber. Then she stood at the door to the long shearing shed proper. Sixteen men were on the boards. The clippers moved over the sprawling bodies with incredible swiftness. Too noisy to talk there. Barry gestured to her to watch a special man, second down the row from her. A champion, Margaret guessed at once, by the extraordinary rapidity with which his sheep disappeared down the slide. His blades ran over the animal smooth as silk, just like a caress, and no slightest drop of blood did he draw. Barry’s eyes glistened to watch him. A fleece was barely off; the picker-up, a young brown girl, snatched at it in the approved manner; the man, as the clippers slid off the bare pelt, with one backward kick sent the animal flying down the shute, stepped forward into the pen of waiting sheep, grabbed one, and with one step was back on the boards. His hand went up, pulled the rope that started the machine, and in a minute from the time his clippers left one animal he was half-way through another.
“Oh! the skill of him!” Margaret exclaimed beneath her breath. Barry told her afterwards that this man’s regular workday was three hundred and twenty to the average two-fifty.
The man next her had an accident. A young man, inexperienced. His “fleeco,” waiting his fleece, took hold and pulled gently. Some hitch the girl could not understand; the blade slipped and ripped right down the animal’s leg, tearing away a lump of flesh. Margaret shuddered violently and thrust her finger into her mouth to stifle a scream. The sheep plunged; the shearer yelled “Tar!” The tar-boy rushed up and smeared hot tar upon the wound.
Messenger took his wife outside. She tried to compose herself. “That was awful, yet nobody took any notice. Does it often happen?”
“No,” Messenger lied. “The boy is just learning. The tar doesn’t hurt, you know.”
“No, of course not.” Sarcastically. “Hot tar on an open wound would not hurt! Why do you allow it, anyhow?”
“Allow it, my dear? There is nothing else to do. If blood got about, the fleeces would be messed up. There’s no time to be wiping up blood. Those men are paid by the hundred.”
“Yes, that’s it. So that they can make money the poor sheep don’t matter. If you paid these men good wages and let them take their time they wouldn’t be cruel.”
“No, Margaret,” he answered gently. “That is not all the cause. The fleece is at its best for a short time only, and must come off at that time. It can’t come off until the cold weather is over, and must come off before the hot weather sets in.”
One day it rained. Messenger told the girl, as they lay in bed listening to the downpour upon the roof, of the setback this would be to the shearing. “Can’t work on wet sheep. It will take three days to dry the wool after the rain has ceased. That is, unless it blows hard and the sun shines strongly.”
Jimmy Tutaki came in while the two were breakfasting. Since the night of his dramatic proposal Barry had, of course, been little in Tutaki’s company. Margaret had not, therefore, yet become really acquainted with the Maori. A few casual meetings, that was all. She had felt no interest in him, though Messenger often recounted to her his exploits.
“Jolly hard luck,” he said, as he dropped into an easy-chair beside the fire. “Another two days would have seen the cut out.”
“Yes. Mightn’t last, though. If it takes up we had better run the sheep round Baldy. There is always a wind up there.”
Baldy was a hill rising out of the homestead paddock. After rain the sheep would sometimes be driven up this hill and round and round it so that the sharp winds would dry their wool quickly.
“All right. Hone Reki is pretty bad with grease boils. I don’t know how he works with them.”
“Is he treating them right?”
“No. He is particularly stupid. I told him that he might lose his legs if he didn’t keep the ulcers clean, but one might as well hold one’s tongue.”
“I will see him immediately after breakfast.”
“Lose his legs! How dreadful! What are grease boils?” asked Margaret.
“They are running sores, or ulcers which the shearers get on their legs and arms, usually through shearing wet sheep. But we have had no wet sheep so far, so Hone must have got a scratch on his leg from a thistle in the wool and the grease got in it. If the blood is out of order these sores get frightful. Hone is a boozer. His blood is always out of order.”
Margaret frowned. “Industry is not so wonderful, after all,” she said discontentedly. “What will you say to the man, Barry?”
He smiled at her. “I shall insist that he clean himself up and go to see a doctor. He is really half-witted, isn’t he, Jimmy?”
“Well, hardly that. More of a brutal type, I should say. Too low to care much one way or the other. Funny, that, you know. He is always drunk, and regularly beats his wife, but with the animals he is as gentle as a lamb. His horse—did you know he had a horse?—his horse loves him like a human. Dashed funny, I think, the different types of men.”
“What do the shearers do on wet days?” asked the girl.
“Play cards and sit about. Perhaps dance, if anyone among them can play the mouth-organ or accordion. If the rain continues for long some may go home to the pa or wherever they live. The wool cut is always finished with a dance in the shed, you know. How about a haka at the dance, Jimmy? Mrs. Messenger hasn’t seen anything of that sort yet.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt it can be arranged. I’ll speak to the Chief about it. Do you dance, Mrs. Messenger?”
“No. Oh, no. But I’ll love to go and watch. Do you dance, Barry?”
“Sure, a little. We’ll have to teach you, ay, Jimmy?”
“Yes, you’ve plenty of time to learn to waltz before the cut out if you start now. Shift the table back, Messenger, and give it a go. I’ll whistle.”
Margaret jumped up gleefully. “Oh, that would be lovely! But I am not at all graceful, Barry. Who taught you?”
“Jimmy and I were taught at college. Come on. Now you whistle, Jimmy.”
And so Margaret learned to dance.
Her days were o
ne long lesson in one thing or another. She learned to know Tutaki and to respect and like him as well as Barry himself did. She learned that Barry was not an angel, after all, and doubtless taught him the same regarding herself.
CHAPTER VIII
Margaret rode gaily along the public highroad one fine morning in February of the next year. She was on her way to visit a farmer’s wife, one Mrs. Roderick, who had called on her shortly after her marriage, and whose visit she had not yet returned. She was aware that she was remiss in not having done so, but the truth was that she had taken an unreasoning dislike to the lady at first meeting.
Many people had called on the young Mrs. Messenger; neighbours from far and near, and mostly she had liked them. With two or three girls of her own age she had become quite friendly, and these she often entertained at her home for days together.
She had found it the most natural thing in the world for her to play the lady. At Christmas time she had had her whole family to stay with her for a fortnight. How proud she had been! Of her husband; of his possessions, which were now also her own; of her own great good fortune. Oh, yes, Margaret soon began to think less of such things as wages and workers. Now, in her allusions to the station employees, like Barry himself, she spoke of our “hands.”
Gaily she rode along the highroad on her “decent” horse. Like Barry again, she preferred a horse to automobile. By now she could drive a car fairly safely herself (Barry had bought her a flash little Austin), but usually the automobiles were brought into requisition only for pleasure-seeking when long distances were to be covered, such as the acceptance of an invitation to distant farms or stations or visits to Taihape.
The paddocks stretching out on either side of her, up “over the hills and far away,” were now parched to the hue of ripe corn. The summer had been a dry one, and the animals had suffered much from thirst. The girl knew that the sheep had not had a drink for two months. They had subsisted on the heavy dews of night. The cattle had to be regularly driven many miles to the river, which was now merely a trickle running among huge boulders.
In her mind Margaret had by this time come to think that Industry was horrible. But her thoughts could not but be gay on this fine morning with the upland air so fresh despite the hottest month of the year. She forgot about the woman she was to visit until she arrived at the big gates barring her approach to the Roderick home, some seven miles from her own place. She reined in and called to a youth who was digging in a nearby paddock to come and open the gates for her. He dropped his spade and slouched over.
“Is Mrs. Roderick at home, do you know?” she asked him, secretly hoping for a reply in the negative. But he only grinned vacuously up at her from under tousled, carroty hair.
With a shock she realised that he was an idiot. “Oh!” she exclaimed involuntarily. “I’m sorry,” then urged her horse on up the broad gravelled roadway which led to the Roderick front door.
A child playing about saw her coming and straightway ran inside, as a consequence of which Mrs. Roderick was at the front door to meet her.
Margaret dismounted hurriedly. “That boy!” she cried. “He is mad, isn’t he? He sent cold shivers down my back.”
“Yes, he’s an idiot,” was the cheerful answer. “But he can work all right if you put the fear of God into him. We don’t have to pay him much, being a loony. His people were glad for us to take him at any price. But never mind him. Come inside. I was wondering why you had not called before.”
Margaret followed her hostess indoors, wishing to goodness that she had ridden right past the gates. She felt upset. She had felt so happy, then all at once had come to her a glimpse of a lost soul. That ill-formed face, as though it had been arrested in its prenatal growth and come into the world half-formed. “He should have been killed at birth!” she declared vehemently. “It is a crime to allow him to live. He is a hideous blotch on the face of nature.”
“Maybe, but he’s got a pair of useful, if ugly, hands, and we don’t have to bother about him at all. He just sleeps, eats and works.”
Margaret shuddered. Her unreasoning dislike of the woman crowded thick upon her. “That seems to me to be a terrible way to look at things,” she said. “That is not the point of view at all. There is more to it than just thinking that he eats and sleeps and works. Don’t you know that all organisms seek to perpetuate themselves? This man will have the instinct to breed like you and me. Far worse than you and I, as the lower the mentality the stronger and more ungovernable will be the animal instincts. He is better dead. He is an animal.”
“What is the matter with you?” asked the other curiously. “Don’t you know that there are plenty of idiots and defectives working on farms? Why are you worrying about him?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He gave me a shock. I have never seen an idiot before. I was feeling so happy. The morning was so beautiful, and then I saw his face. It was like a glimpse of hell out of heaven. I am going to have a child, and I have been thinking quite a lot about life lately.”
“Oh, now, is that it?” Mrs. Roderick eyed her thoughtfully. “You don’t show it. How many months?”
“Nearly four.”
“Have you felt the child?”
“Oh, yes. This last month.”
“I’m jolly glad of that.”
“Why?” Margaret was surprised.
“You noticing that boy so much might have affected the child if you had not quickened. As it is, it is all right.”
Margaret felt her lips stiffen with fright. She gulped. “Are you sure?” she whispered.
“Yes, quite sure. Now, for goodness’ sake forget it, and we’ll have a cup of tea.”
Just a side glance at Mrs. Roderick. Not a typical farmer’s wife at all. Not plain, bluff, unsecretive, like the typical farmer’s wife whom intelligent, well-read Margaret laughed at even while she loved.
She appeared to be in early middle age; was tall, thin and extremely agile in her movements. Her bustered yellow hair stood out from her head in beautiful, crisp frizz. Her eyes were yellow, too, like her hair. They were small, and their expression bore a remarkable resemblance to that of a suspicious cat. Altogether there was a feline grace about her.
She had five children, the four eldest of whom went to school. The youngest, five years old, hung about her skirts all the time she entertained Margaret. They talked as women will, the girl trying her best to overcome her instinctive dislike for the other, until Mrs. Roderick offered to show her around the place.
They went out by the back door, and were at once confronted by a high board fence upon which were pinned out a number of animal skins. Margaret walked up to them and fingered them curiously. “Why, what beautiful skins! I never thought that rabbit-skins were beautiful like this. They’re yellow. And look here! What lovely markings!—” She stopped and dropped her hands, starting back. “They’re not rabbits at all! They’re cats—cats!”
“Yes, they’re cats. Aren’t they lovely? I’ve got a hobby for collecting cat-skins. This country is overrun with wild cats, you know. I bred one lot, just to shoot for the skins, but Roddy (Roddy was her husband) objected to me doing that, so now I just shoot wild ones. I go out with the gun for a whole day sometimes and get quite a bag. I’ll show you my collection when we go in again.”
“Oh, no, thanks. Oh, no, I would rather not see them, thank you,” said Margaret faintly. She felt sick. Shooting cats! A woman! Just for a hobby! Oh, vile! She remembered that Barry had told her that the wild cats helped to keep the rabbits down, and also the weasels. Not even the excuse that they were destructive. Margaret was not particularly fond of cats, but she was particularly tenderhearted. She thought of a woman skinning cats. She braced herself. “No, Mrs. Roderick, I couldn’t admire your skins. Please let us go and look at the yards.” Then, thinking that this woman was her hostess, she added lamely: “I love cats. I would sooner die than shoot one.”
“Oh, all right. Everyone to his taste. You’ll learn sense as you grow older.”
&
nbsp; How glad the girl was to escape from the place. As she cantered away from the gates she vowed: “Never again. Never again.” No wonder she had instinctively disliked the woman. Funny types, as Tutaki had said. His remark came back to her. And all the funny types seemed to be congregated in that corner of the world.
Poor Inexperience, tapping the well of Life! How could it know that the “funny types” to youth are all other types than its own?
Her spirits began to rise again. Now and again from rises on the road she caught glimpses of a distant flock of sheep being mobilised ready for the drive into the dipping pools. The mellow afternoon was at its hottest, but the atmosphere was never oppressive on the uplands. She dawdled along singing snatches of song. She wondered what time Barry would be back home from the cattle mustering he had gone out to that morning. He had spoken of a projected visit to several small towns at a distance and to the town of Wanganui, some two hundred and fifty miles away, in search of “store” cattle. He wanted her to go with him.
She was slouching in her saddle, smiling dreamily, when her attention was arrested by a faint whining noise. She sat up straight and looked around. A small copse of stunted birch trees stood in the paddock about a hundred yards to one side of her, left there to provide shade for the cattle, and half-way between this copse and the road a dog was crawling along the ground, heading towards her. She drew rein, amazed, and stared at it. It was hurt, obviously. Its hind legs were lying straight out behind it. It clawed itself forward for a foot or two, then stopped and whined painfully. Some steers stood among the trees, watching the dog interestedly. One huge steer had ventured near to it, nose almost touching the ground, eyes staring.
Margaret ordinarily was terrified at the steers, but now, realising the dog’s hurt, she was off her horse and through the fence in a twinkling, without a thought of possible danger to herself.
The poor creature raised its head at her approach and feebly wagged its tail. She stopped. She thought her blood had frozen in her veins. Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. For its eye-sockets were empty and blood streamed from a gash in its head down over its nose and dyed the yellow grass. Its body was a ghastly mass of clotted blood and raw wounds, as though pieces had been literally hacked out of it, and its hind legs were broken. She knew that they were broken because of the twisted way they lay. She brushed her hand over her eyes. Was it a nightmare? How came it about, if not? Was that thing there real—on that sunny day? On her own property, too. Real enough. Then, how? The steers? Impossible, for the horns would have tossed and killed, perhaps trampled and broken bones; but this horrific maltreatment! —
