by Tony Parsons
First thing after breakfast on Saturday, Jim drove down to the shed to see what was happening. He found Rod hard at work with the wool table drawn up alongside the big stack of superfine wool. Some of the wool was piled on the table and Rod was sorting it into two heaps, one a great deal larger than the other, on the sheet-covered floor.
‘How long have you been at it?’ Jim asked by way of greeting.
‘I got up at about five-thirty, had a cup of tea and some toast and then got stuck into it. It takes a fair while. If you come back later this arvo, you’ll get a better idea of what the line is going to look like,’ Rod said.
‘I’ve got a fair idea already,’ Jim grinned. ‘You can’t stand here all morning on a bit of toast. I’ll bring you back a drink of tea and some scones. I can recommend the scones.’
‘That sounds pretty good, but I don’t expect the cook to trot over here with smoko for me. And I don’t want to keep knocking off. Cookie will have lunch for the fellows who are staying so I’ll be right there. I’ll keep going until the light gives out. Light is very important when you’re handling superfine wool, but you’d be aware of that, wouldn’t you?’
Jim was fascinated by how businesslike and focused Rod was and, despite his protestations, returned an hour or so later with a teapot, scones and pikelets.
‘Mum threw on some food, anyway,’ Jim explained.
Rod couldn’t get it down fast enough. ‘That was delicious, thanks so much.’ He then returned to the wool table. Jim watched him sorting for a little while. Rod’s great hands moved swiftly as they skirted out small runners of stronger wool. These were thrown onto the smaller heap to one side of him.
‘I’ll come back at smoko this arvo and see how you’re going and I’ll bring some more tucker. I’m off to town now. Mudgee.’ He turned to go, hesitated and came back to stand on the other side of the wool table. ‘Was it you who played rugby for University?’
Rod looked up briefly and nodded.
‘And did you also play first-grade cricket in Sydney?’
‘I did.’
‘I thought it had to be you. Have you played any cricket lately?’
‘Only the odd charity game. Why?’
‘I’ve been wondering if you’d like to come to one of our practice sessions. We sometimes have them on a Saturday morning before the season kicks off,’ Jim said. ‘You might be able to help us. We’re playing a touring Indian team in a few weeks. It’s nothing like a Test side but there are some handy players in it.’
‘I’m sure you’ve got some good players in the Mudgee team and no doubt you’d have some ex-GPS fellows. They’d be well coached, Jim,’ Rod said, not looking up from his sorting.
‘I believe you were very good and very fast, and a fair batsman, too. When Dad mentioned your name it rang a bell. I remembered there were rumours when you were playing rugby that you might be going to League. You were the biggest thing around at the time so it was huge news. A couple of my mates told me how good you were at cricket as well. One of them reckoned you were as fast as Lindwall,’ Jim said, his eyes shining with admiration.
‘Your mate was very kind. I couldn’t bend the ball like Lindy could. Maybe it would have come if I’d gone on but it’s ancient history now. And I was never going to League. At any rate, I’ve got your wool to go through every weekend I’m here. Your father is paying me top dollar so he wouldn’t be keen on me taking time off to attend one of your sessions,’ Rod said, still focusing on the wool.
‘I thought we might be able to arrange it after cut-out,’ Jim urged.
It was on the tip of Rod’s tongue to turn Jim down flat, but there was as close to a plea in Jim’s voice as a grown man could stoop to and it was transparently clear that Jim loved his cricket. Rod’s own love of the game he had turned his back on surfaced at that moment. It wouldn’t hurt him to bowl a few overs at the nets.
‘Okay, we’ll see what happens after cut-out,’ Rod said.
‘Thanks a lot, Rod,’ Jim said.
‘You must be a sporting fanatic to remember my past deeds,’ Rod said with a smile.
‘I suppose I am. I keep a lot of facts and figures in my head, especially about cricket. I’d give a lot to be a top player but Dad says there’s no big money in sport. I’m very keen on stud breeding and superfine wool, but if I wasn’t on Mattai, I’d like to play cricket full-time.’
‘Your dad’s right. There’s no big money in sport. Maybe there will be in the future but what you’ve got here is real and it’s something of substance. To be a top sportsman, you need to concentrate on sport to the exclusion of everything else, and when your career is over – and it doesn’t last very long – you need a father who’s got a job or a property to other you. You’ve got the best of both worlds here with a property and being able to play cricket at weekends. You can go on playing cricket at that level for a fair while,’ Rod said.
‘Why did you give it all up?’ Jim asked.
‘Well, let’s just say I had my reasons,’ Rod said. ‘Now, I’d better pick up the pace with this wool. Let’s talk cricket another time.’
‘Okay, Rod. I’ll see you this arvo,’ Jim said. He couldn’t wait to tell the rest of his cricket team that Rod had agreed to join them at a practice session.
Rod could remember very well the moment he gave up his chance to play sport professionally. The Rugby League talent scout and the famous coach had been sitting together watching a Rugby Union match. The League coach almost never watched Union, but he’d been persuaded on this occasion by the prospect of finding a colossal new talent. The two men were sitting on a hard bench in a cold grandstand, a familiar scenario for them. University was playing Gordon and the forward exchanges were fairly torrid. University had the putin on the 25-yard line. The ball came out to the half-back, who passed it to the big lock looming up outside of him. In an amazing burst of speed for such a big man, the lock accelerated through a small gap and was left with only Gordon’s crash-tackling full-back to beat.
‘Watch this,’ the talent scout muttered out of the side of his mouth. He’d been watching the tall lock on and off for the whole season, and was aware that he had a few surprises up his sleeve.
The Gordon custodian expected the University lock to step off his right foot, which was what his coach had warned him he would do. ‘Watch Cameron’s step,’ he’d been drilled. ‘He has a very big step off his right foot.’ The full-back went into action and just as he left the ground, Cameron stepped off his left foot into clear space, ran a few yards and put the ball down for a try. Yards away, the Gordon full-back lay sprawled on the ground.
‘I watched Cameron practising that left-foot step at training. He sidestepped through chairs,’ the talent scout said. ‘He’s bigger and faster than any other lock I’ve seen, and he’d be a sensation in League. Another Raper for sure.’
‘But can he cover the ground like Raper?’ the coach asked. ‘Cameron’s a big bloke and League is a fast game.’
‘Maybe he’ll show you before this game is over,’ the scout said. It was his job to unearth promising players, of either code. Rod Cameron was the best prospect he had seen for a long time. He possessed three vital ingredients for success – pace for his size, power and brains. His sidestep was fantastic, and he had now demonstrated that he could do it equally well off either foot. This made him twice as dangerous in attack. To the scout’s way of thinking, this showed how much Cameron had worked on his game and it suggested a real dedication.
Late in the game the Gordon right-winger, a flier, made a clean break and cleared out down the sideline. The University full-back was groggy from a tackle and clearly was not going to collect the winger. Ten yards out from the try line, the winger reckoned he was home and the scores would be level. That was all he remembered. Cameron’s tackle carried him to the fence and put him out of action for the remainder of the game.
The talent scout slapped his thigh with evident satisfaction. ‘Now what do you reckon?’ he asked the coach.
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‘I reckon we ought to talk to him real quick.’
Rod had agreed to meet with the two men the following day at Doyle’s restaurant. Over a meal of seafood, the talent scout and the coach had sought to convince him that he should abandon Union to play League.
Rod listened to them but didn’t say much. The proposition was reasonable enough for someone who wanted to go on playing football, but he had a very different career path mapped out in his mind.
‘We heard you’re interested in becoming a journalist after you leave university. We could probably arrange for you to become a sports journalist. There’s no doubt that you’ll play for Australia in two or three years and that should be a plus for a newspaper. You play first-grade cricket, too, don’t you?’ the coach asked.
Rod nodded. He could have told them that he was keener on cricket than football, but what was the point? Sport was all right but it wasn’t the way he wanted to go.
‘Look, it’s no good me beating about the bush. The fact is that I won’t be playing football – Union or League – after this season. And I won’t be playing cricket either. Not regularly, anyway. I’ve got other fish to fry,’ Rod said as he disposed of his last morsel of snapper.
The two men looked at him aghast. ‘You’re giving it away?’ the scout asked. Nobody with that amount of talent gave up football.
‘That’s right. A few more games to help Uni and I’m finished. I want to do a woolclassing course after I finish.’
‘Woolclassing? How is that related to your Arts degree?’ The coach scratched his head in bewilderment.
‘It isn’t. Just accept that I’ve got my reasons,’ Rod said firmly. ‘I won’t have time to play sport and there’s no money in it, anyway. I realise you’ve made me a reasonable offer, but I need more money than football can give me. I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I can’t accept your offer,’ Rod said. He’d had enough of this conversation, but he’d been shouted a good lunch so he reckoned he’d have to do the decent thing and sit it out. The two men were simple fellows who lived and breathed Rugby League and couldn’t imagine a life beyond it.
‘If you give us a bit of time we might be able to come up with a better offer,’ the coach said.
‘It wouldn’t make any difference,’ Rod said flatly.
There wasn’t any argument the League men could raise and they knew it. Rod had paid them the courtesy of listening to their offer and he had turned it down flat. To them, it seemed a terrible waste of a colossal talent.
Rod got up and put out his hand. ‘I’ve got a taxi coming at two. Thank you for the lunch and for the great offer. It’s just not for me.’
And that had been that. At season’s end, football had seen no more of Rod Cameron. Nor was much more seen of him on the cricket grounds around Sydney. But there were people who remembered him and the star he might have been had he chosen to follow a sporting career. Jim Stafford was one of them.
By mid-afternoon, the pile of sorted wool had grown considerably. The big stack had looked very even before Rod began to resort it but the new stack now looked even better. There didn’t seem to be a single staple out of place.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ Dan said later that afternoon. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you could get all that lower stuff from your first stack.’
‘What do you think? Is it better or worse than last year’s top line?’ Rod asked.
‘It’s a beautiful line,’ Dan said thoughtfully. ‘I wouldn’t like to compare it with the wool of other years, though. We had some very fine wool some years, what with the rabbits and dry times. The staple was thinner in those days.’ Dan was very conservative and not apt to be generous in his praise of anything, even his own wool.
‘If you’re happy, you can carry some of this stuff over and put it in the press. Don’t drop any and make sure there’s no dirt or mud on your boots. We want it just over bale weight so it won’t need much tramping. There’s not quite a bale there but there will be by morning,’ Rod said.
At dinner that night, Dan said to his family, ‘That Cameron is an absolute gun.’
‘He sure does know wool,’ Jim replied. ‘He’s got an eye like a hawk.’
‘He must read a lot, too,’ Dorothy suggested. ‘I’ve noticed his cottage light on quite late at nights. Dan, we’ll take smoko up in the morning – Beth and I.’
Dan gave his wife a penetrating look. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Curiosity, dear. It seems that Beth and I are the only two people in the Half Moon who haven’t met this man. It’s a good opportunity for Beth to see the wool, too. It will be invaluable for her woolclassing studies, don’t forget. By rights we should have had Rod to dinner tonight. Classers like to feel they’re something special.’
‘All right, all right. Put some extra tucker in for us’ cause we’re going to press the first bale of that top line in the morning,’ Dan instructed. ‘We don’t want our classer feeling as if he’s not special!’
Rod had wool flying through the air left, right and centre when Dan and Jim walked into the shed the next morning. The top line had come up appreciably and Rod told the men there was more than enough to make up the first bale. Dan and Jim suggested it would be lucky to go bale weight, but it ended up weighing 205 pounds, or five pounds over official bale weight. Dan whistled as he adjusted the scales. He’d been wrong and the classer had been right.
‘You’re a damned good judge, Rod. What are you going to brand it?’
‘I think Extra Super AAAA will do nicely. We’ll use a different description if your older ewes produce something better than this stuff.’
‘That’ll be hard,’ Dan said.
‘You never know,’ Rod replied. ‘Older sheep often give the illusion of greater fineness even if they don’t actually test as fine. You might have noticed that in the past. Sometimes it’s because they don’t have the same degree of grease – or guts, if you like – in their wool as younger sheep.’
They had just finished branding the bale when Dorothy and Beth walked into the wool room carrying the morning smoko. They put a wool pack across a bale and laid the tray and teapot on it.
‘Righto, we’ll wash our hands and be with you in a tick. Smoko, Rod,’ Dan called.
They were all sitting on bales when Rod walked into the room. ‘Rod, this is my wife and over there is my daughter, Beth. Beth is doing a woolclassing course,’ Dan explained.
The two women looked at the tall, powerfully built man who came and stood beside Dan. The only topic of conversation all week had been this man’s ability as a classer. Except for Dan’s passing reference to Rod’s size, only Bella had honed in on his appearance. The man they now saw was inches taller than Dan and Jim, and he had shoulders about the same width as a bale of wool. His dark eyes always seemed to be focused directly on the object of his attention. Jim would tell them that Rod was ‘a Keith Miller type, only bigger’, which was about the biggest compliment he could pay. He certainly had a compelling presence and neither woman was disappointed by what she saw.
Rod shook hands with Dorothy and then with Beth. Her hand was lost in his firm grasp. He looked at Beth with interest. She was the most gorgeous-looking girl he had ever met – very like her sister but marginally taller and a shade curvier. Her hair was dark and lustrous like Bella’s and her eyes were a sparkling hazel-brown while Bella’s were a darker brown.
Face to face with her father’s new classer, Beth was completely lost for words. She’d never had any trouble talking with people before, but Rod presented as a very different kind of person. She’d never seen a man like him. He looked as if he could do anything, handle any situation, and she was temporarily mesmerised. As they all ate their scones and drank their tea, she kept stealing glances at him out of the corner of her eye and decided he had to be married. No man of his appearance and charisma could still be single.
Dorothy sensed that Rod had made an immediate impression on her daughter. Why wouldn’t he? Dorothy had a good idea of what was going through h
er daughter’s mind – was he already married?
Rod was tucking into his second scone and enjoying it. A few feet away was the most beautiful young woman he had ever met – and he’d met a few. She was dressed in jeans and a cornflower-blue shirt, slightly open at the neck, but the casualness of her outfit failed utterly to conceal the lines of her body, which he considered to be quite sensational. Even in work clothes he reckoned Beth Stafford was a knockout.
‘Where is your family, Mr Cameron?’ Dorothy asked, pouring him some more tea.
‘Call me Rod, please. I don’t have a family, Mrs Stafford, if you mean a wife and kids. I have my mother and my sister. Mum lives at Terrigal on the Central Coast and my sister is at Yass. I run a few sheep at Yass. I’ve been building them up over the years. I like the coast, too, so I don’t stay away from Terrigal for too long.’
‘So you’re not just a wool man?’ Dan asked.
‘No, I’m not. I’ve actually registered a merino stud,’ Rod said.
‘What blood?’ Dan’s interest was piqued. There was more to Rod than he had realised.
‘Mostly Merryville.’
‘Is that so? Do you like them?’
‘The best of them are very good,’ Rod said.
Now that Dorothy had established that Rod was a bachelor, she realised it was time to act. ‘You’ll come and have dinner with us tonight, won’t you?’ she asked with a smile that would have melted ice. ‘Old Les used to stay with us and we thought you might, too.’
‘So long as it’s not too much trouble for you, Mrs Stafford. I’d be pleased to come to dinner. I’ll look forward to it,’ he replied.
‘Seven o’clock,’ Dorothy said.
Rod nodded his agreement. He was very keen to see more of Beth, despite the initial shyness she was displaying.
