Big River, Little Fish

by Belinda Jeffrey

  The sheep’s feet skitter and pedal on the timber slatted floor and she bleats as Murray holds her front legs high, as if she has arms, and settles her back legs between his own. He holds her deftly, quickly. Reaching above him, he takes the shears and runs them through the fleece and over the contours of her body in even, measured strokes. The fleece peels away like mandarin skin and all that’s left of the sheep is the fruit of her body covered in thin fluffy pith.

  Murray sends the sheep through the shoot outside and he’s back at the pen inside to grab another animal. He whistles to Tom, who runs forward and takes the fleece to the table, skirting it across the slats, good side down, like Murray said. He rakes his fingers over the wool for burrs and muck and dag, throwing it onto the floor. There’s a whistle again and Tom sees three more fleece on the other stands waiting to be picked up. It’s like bloody reading. You conquer one word and there’s just more waiting. Neverending lines of them.

  Beside Murray, five other men repeat the procedure, taking a sheep, shearing the fleece and grabbing the next sheep. There they go, sheep by sheep, one after the other. Shirts rolled up to the elbows the men work without stopping. Sweat beading on their foreheads, running down their shirts. Their faces shining, small tufts of wool sticking to their skin. Burrs of wool spreading across the floor and floating in the air like dandelions. It’s an earthy, oily smell that warms the room and, no matter how fast he goes, Tom can’t keep up. He has fleece on the table, a pile on the floor beside the bales. He runs across the room with the broom to make a clearing through the mess for the next lot of sheep. One sheep needs tar put onto her chest, just below her neck, and Tom slops it onto the floor in the process. Murray rings the bell – an old cast-iron-pot lid suspended from the roof – for morning tea and the last sheep of the morning are shunted outside, the motors grind to a halt and the men stretch their backs. They drink from their waterskins as Tom clears what he can on the floor with the broom. It’s five minutes outside in the fresh air before getting back to it.

  As Tom walks outside, he sees Larry leaning on the fence beside the shed. He nods his head and Tom runs over.

  ‘No way you can get this done on your own,’ he says before Tom speaks. ‘I figured I should come and do my bit.’

  Tom smiles. He wipes his face with the edge of his shirt.

  ‘Can’t shear,’ he says, spitting on the ground beside him.

  ‘Roustie?’

  ‘I’ll take my pay in food and board,’ he says, walking towards the shed.

  By lunchtime, there’s no Oliver, no classer. A mounting pile of fleece on the floor. Larry is a godsend and he and Tom manage the job easily between them. Tom has nothing to compare to, no way of judging how good a job they’re doing relative to other years, but from where he stands, broom in hand around the stands, it seems to be going pretty well.

  There are three empty stands where unused shears hang in the empty stalls. Murray clangs the pot lid and the men stand up, shoo their last sheep and take a drink. Murray lets the water run over his face and rubs his skin with his hands.

  Mrs Guthrie and Hannah are outside under the large gum tree just back from the sheep pens. There’s a rug spread out on the grass. Sandwiches, tea, scones. A handful of fruit. Mrs Guthrie leans up against the tree fanning herself with a gum-swatch.

  ‘Sorry boys,’ she says. ‘Only sangers today. Rabbit stew for dinner.’

  ‘Thanks missus,’ Murray says. The other blokes nod without looking up. Grabbing handfuls of food they make their way back to the shed where they crouch down on the ground with their backs against the corrugated iron.

  ‘We had to lug the food down ourselves,’ Hannah says, walking over to Tom.

  ‘Damn car wouldn’t start,’ Mrs Guthrie says.

  Tom and Hannah walk away from the group to sit by a tree. No one can hear them talk here.

  ‘Useless thing, that car.’ Hannah sits herself down beside him. The edge of her shirt touches his skin. He can almost feel her warmth. His mouth goes dry and it’s hard to swallow.

  Hannah sighs. ‘How are we going to get to the dance?’

  ‘Jeez,’ Tom says. ‘I clean forgot about that.’

  ‘I had my dress ready days ago,’ she says, leaning closer.

  ‘I could take a look at it,’ he says swallowing the last of the bread, ‘’cept I can’t leave here.’

  Hannah slumps forward, resting her head on her palms and propping her elbows on her raised knees.

  ‘I told Biscuit I’d be there,’ Tom says.

  Hannah leans back against the tree.

  Tom looks over to the rug. Murray pours the thermos of tea into a cup and Mrs Guthrie is still fanning herself.

  ‘Your mum okay?’

  ‘Just tired. Says the baby’s heavy.’

  ‘You think about it much. The baby?’

  Murray walks back inside the shed and Tom hears the bell ring again. He stands up.

  ‘Pretty gross if you ask me.’

  ‘Jimbo looking after Doc?’

  Hannah stands, her hands held behind her against the tree. ‘I think he loves that roo more than you,’ she smiles. ‘You should see him up there with his rabbits and his stew. Like he’s cooking up a banquet,’ she laughs.

  ‘Don’t worry about the car. I’ll find a way to get us there,’ he says before he’s off towards the shed. He turns, at the door, and waves as Hannah joins her mum. She doesn’t look quite real as Tom watches her. The edges of her dress flapping in the breeze. The sun catching hold of the outline of her body, her hair coloured honey on the tips. Sometimes, some days, Tom thinks, she does not look plain enough to be real.

  It’s not long before sundown when Oliver appears over the crest of the hill, walking awkwardly with his leg stuck out. Another man walks beside him. His stride is strong and assured and Oliver has to half-skip each second step to keep up with him.

  ‘Classer,’ Oliver says breathlessly, removing his hat as he hobbles in the doorway. He stands beside Tom at the fleecing table and the classer walks in. He sniffs and adjusts his hat, takes out his pencil and licks the end. He looks around the shed and nods towards Tom at the table, who moves out of the way, dragging a pile of sweepings with him.

  Murray looks up, wipes his face with the back of his forearm and nods at Oliver, but he’s quick about getting back to the sheep at hand. The motors grind away and the classer walks about the table, the sound of his boots clicking on the timber floor.

  ‘Told you I’d find one,’ Oliver whispers to Tom.

  Tom looks up to find his pa smiling. He’s pleased with himself and Tom’s glad. He rushes to the shearing boards and takes more fleece.

  ‘Do what I can now,’ the classer says. ‘Be back in the morning. Expect my pay soon as I’m done.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ Oliver says, stepping forward to shake his hand. The classer takes it and glances over his shoulder to the shearers working furiously through the pen of sheep. One shorn, another waiting. His nose wrinkles and his mouth puckers just slightly and he sniffs again. He straightens himself and turns back to the table and Tom hates him then for the look he gives Murray and the others. Like they aren’t anything at all no matter they’ve been shearing non-stop all day.

  Tom notices his pa looking nervous, as if after succeeding in getting the classer here, he’s not at all sure what to do next. Tom hands him the broom and he busies himself with the fleeces.

  Oliver notices Larry busy with another broom. ‘Oliver,’ he says holding out his hand.

  Larry stops, briefly. ‘Larry Donahue.’

  ‘He’s boarding with us,’ Tom says.

  ‘Is that where you disappeared to then?’ Tom says to Murray, walking beside him away from the shearing shed up to the house. They stop on the rise of the hill and Murray looks back down towards the shearing shed and the river, creeping up inch by inch towards them. ‘Other s
hearing jobs?’

  Murray shrugs. ‘Yeah. That and other stuff.’

  ‘They your brothers?’ Tom points to the other five men walking up to the shed.

  ‘We been together a long time.’

  ‘My pa says you knew my mum. Lil. Did you?’ The wind blows against Tom’s face. He looks at Murray who’s staring down at the water. He sighs.

  ‘Everyone knows things about me. You can all see things I can’t. Things back there and no one says anything. I want to know,’ Tom says, throwing his waterskin on the ground.

  ‘You be late for the dance.’

  ‘I wanna know.’

  ‘Once you know some things, you can’t go on seeing like they weren’t there anymore. Knowing changes things.’

  ‘You said everything changes.’

  Murray sits down with his knees drawn up to his chest. The wind drags through his hair and the grass rustles around his ankles. The sun is nothing more than a lick of colour left in the sky. Tom sits down beside him.

  ‘There were so many things I wanted to tell your mum,’ Murray says. ‘I had feelings. But some words never get out. The day I left before you were born I promised I’d be there when she needed. She said you were weeks away from coming. An’ I even thought–’

  Tom is quiet. A lump swells in his throat.

  ‘First time I talked about her since then,’ Murray tugs at his shirtsleeves. ‘When I came back an’ I found you ... I got no words for that.’

  ‘She ever see my dad again?’

  Murray nods. ‘One time,’ he says. ‘Then he gone, too.’

  ‘Why have you never told me before?’

  ‘Why don’t you read and write? Some things just hard.’

  Mabel, the Guthries’ car, is a simple girl and it doesn’t take long for Tom to drain the oil, clean the spark plugs and get her running again. Tom closes the bonnet with a dull thunk, leaving the engine running.

  He washes out in the shed, quickly, the water like ice on his skin as he slaps the rag over the top half of his body, under his arms, and over his face. He soaps the rest of his body and steps out of the metal tub, shivering. He reaches for his towel and rubs his hair dry before putting on his good clothes, which Mrs Cath pressed for him during the day.

  He has trouble with the tie and Murray, Tim and the others laugh at him attempting to fix it straight. ‘You sure you won’t come?’ Tom says to Murray.

  ‘We’re good here,’ he says. ‘We can make our own fun.’

  ‘Blacks don’t go dancing,’ Jimbo says from the doorway.

  Larry clears his throat. ‘You think I could get a lift in with you?’ he asks Tom, looking at the ground.

  Oliver, sitting on the bed polishing his shoes with an old brush, stops and looks up. ‘Sure,’ he says.

  ‘Mrs Guthrie going with you?’ Jimbo asks.

  Oliver looks back at his shoes, rubbing the brush across them one last time. He puts them on and leaves.

  ‘Jimbo can look after Mrs Cath,’ Oliver says. ‘We don’t have to stay long. You’ll see. Do you good to get out. I’ll bring you straight back. Just say the word.’

  Mrs Guthrie fiddles with her fingers.

  ‘Wouldn’t be right. Going without you,’ Tom says.

  ‘Go on, Mum,’ Hannah says.

  Mrs Guthrie sighs and flaps her hands down against her legs. ‘Well,’ she says, flustered. ‘I’m only staying for a cuppa.’

  Oliver twiddles with the dials on the radio in the car and there’s a snippet of music before it’s overpowered by static. He clicks the knob and it’s quiet.

  Tom sits in the backseat with Larry on the other side and Hannah in the middle. She sits close to Tom and he imagines what it would be like to hold her hand. Her hair tickles his check and he holds himself still, so that he doesn’t break contact and lose the feeling.

  His pa has a smile about him and there’s something comforting about this moment, this picture. All of them together. Only thing that doesn’t feel right is Larry. Strange that he’s there at all. Even stranger he wants to go to the dance. Tom can’t imagine him around a group of people, much less dancing. He’s quiet, looking out through the window, which throws back his own faded reflection. He runs his hand through his hair and pats it down carefully, smooths his moustache and beard. People, Tom thinks, always surprise you.

  ‘I’m going to make sure you dance with Biscuit,’ Hannah whispers into his ear. Her breath is sweet and warm. She pulls away and her hand rests on his arm.

  Oliver pulls over and cuts the engine. The carpark beside the hall is flooded, just a thick line of sandbags the only barrier between Old Mother. Cars are parked up and down the main street, in side streets. People have come from all over. Tom opens the door. He leaves the door open for Hannah to climb out before closing it. She smooths the ruffles of her skirt and reties the ribbon in her hair. Tom hears her shoes clipping on the road as she makes for the hall.

  ‘Who’s driving the ferry?’ Tom says, noticing the ferry halfway across the river.

  ‘Swanson,’ Oliver says, helping Mrs Guthrie step out of the car. She leans against the side of the car as Oliver closes her door.

  ‘Can’t afford to have it idle,’ Oliver adds.

  ‘I really don’t know about this,’ Mrs Guthrie says, hanging back beside the car. ‘You know how people talk. Look at me,’ she says.

  Tom walks down to the edge of the river, watching as the ferry hits the bank and Swanson opens the gate to let three cars out.

  ‘Hey there,’ Swanson calls and Tom waves back. ‘Your pa handy?’

  Oliver has heard Swanson and waves. ‘Just wait here, Kate. I’ll be back,’ he says, moving to stand beside Tom.

  ‘Bloody dangerous out here tonight,’ Swanson calls. ‘Hour ago the cables pulled tight as buggery and the wheel spun and the ferry stopped dead. Hit a bloody tree tangled in three sheets of corrugated iron.’

  Oliver stands with his hands on his hips. He looks down at the ground and sighs, then looks up and nods.

  ‘Kingston was down here earlier saying it’s time we shut her down. Heard about Blanchtown?’

  Oliver shakes his head. He glances back to Kate who’s still at the car.

  ‘Shut it down already.’

  ‘Can’t afford to do that,’ Oliver says.

  ‘Yeah,’ Swanson calls back.

  ‘I’ll see you in a bit,’ Oliver says before walking back to the car.

  ‘You’ve got every right to enjoy yourself,’ he says to Kate.

  The hall is packed with people. A band plays on the stage and streamers hang in loops all around the edge of the ceiling. Despite the river, everyone’s out enjoying themselves. Women dressed in their fur stoles and marcasite jewellery. Sawdust on the floor and couples rounding the room like a carousel. Oliver seats Kate in a chair at the back of the hall and goes searching for a cup of tea.

  Tom scans the crowd, catching sight of Hannah on the other side of the room standing with Biscuit.

  Mrs Guthrie follows Tom’s gaze. ‘Girls are complicated, Tom,’ she says.

  Tom sits down beside her.

  ‘Let me tell you a secret, Tom. Girls like boys that take a chance. If a girl thinks she won’t be dancing with a particular boy, but he walks over to her, as cool as you like, and he takes a chance on her, she’ll say, “yes”. And then it’s up to you and the music, Tom.’ Mrs Guthrie looks down to her stomach. She wriggles on her chair to get comfortable.

  ‘I’m really sorry about my lessons,’ Tom says. He’s suddenly aware he’s never apologised about running out on her. And her time being wasted like it has.

  ‘It’s all right, Tom.’

  Tom sighs.

  ‘Go on,’ Mrs Guthrie says. ‘Now’s your chance.’ She points across the room.

  The music has Tom feeling warm. He stands, skirts the danci
ng couples, walking towards Hannah. He passes his pa with two glasses of cordial, his leg dragging a line through the sawdust.

  Tom sees Miss Pinny across the room, seated on a chair, her back rigid. She has red lipstick on and her hands are firmly clasped in her lap. He almost loses his confidence, then. Just seeing her can make him feel small and useless. And it’s strange that he can row with Hannah in a canoe, he can share his cliff hang with her, drive with her on Harley, and sit so close to her in the car he just might stop breathing, and yet asking her to dance has his legs trembling and sweat bleeding through his shirt.

  He’s almost beside her when Harry comes in through the side door. Like a magnet her head turns towards him. A smile spreads across her face and she looks at Tom. Tom can almost feel her heart pounding. She skips over to Harry and Biscuit is left there. Alone. Her cheeks flush bright pink as she looks up at Tom.

  Tom holds out his hand and swallows. ‘Want to dance?’

  Tom holds her awkwardly. Her hand flutters on his shoulder. He dances, though, and after a few steps, he feels confident. The music dictates what he does, how he moves. Biscuit’s hands relax and she smiles. She stops blushing after a while and there’s just a smile on her face. One song. Another. Another. And all that time, Tom thinks as they part to fetch a drink, he didn’t think of Hannah.

  It’s crowded by the servery and Tom takes two glasses of cordial and pushes through the crowd of people back towards Biscuit. The smell of powder and perfume is heavy around him. Fur brushes his face, taffeta rustles everywhere. Tom nods towards the door and Biscuit follows him outside.

  Tom can breathe outside, the river brings a cold breeze, though the smell of fish and mud is strong. Old Mother isn’t lashing the levee banks tonight. Not at the moment, anyway. She’s quiet. Almost calm.

  Tom and Biscuit walk around to the side of the hall and he wonders where Hannah and Harry are. He half wants to find them. And part of him hopes he doesn’t.

  Tom stops at the back of the hall, he turns to find Biscuit behind him, she pulls a loose strand of hair away from her face and smiles slightly. She takes a glass from Tom and sips, following him to find a patch of dry ground. Away from the hall and cars, somewhere they can sit.