Coming Rain (7 page)

Lew raised his head. ‘I almost forgot. We found a joey along the way. Would you like
to have it Miss Drysdale?'

Painter was staring at him. ‘Hold on now son.'

Lew turned and walked to the truck.

An explosion of dogs and dust. Jock and Clara's head mustering dog were whirling
into a fight. Snarling and high-pitched yelping. The dogs were spinning in the dust.
A great tumbling, shaking dogfight and some of the other mustering team ran in and
savaged Jock as the yelping continued. One of them had him by the hind leg and was
dragging the leg out. Another big dog was attacking his flank. Jock yelping and tumbling
in fright.

Clara rode Tom into them, bent low down on the neck of the horse and yelling to the
dogs, growling at some of them.
‘Get out of it King you blasted nuisance. Meg. Fleet,
get. Stop it Boofy you bloody pest.'

John Drysdale walked over to the fight and simply booted his blue dog out of it.
Jock ran, bleeding, carrying a back leg and yelping in pain, ears back and tail between
legs, to the shelter of the ground beneath the woolshed.

Her father was pointing at Clara's pack of circling, victorious dogs. ‘Why girl do
you carry so many dogs?' Raised his voice to her turned shoulder. ‘We don't need
all of them. Girl? Well we do not.'

She did not reply to her father.

Lew was holding the joey. It was still wrapped and roped in the grey woollen blanket.
Clara looked back at him as he crossed to where she was restoring order among the
pack. She had dismounted and let the reins trail. Lew watched as she pushed the riding
crop into the jodhpurs above her backside. It rode up like a flag as she bent.

Clara took a thin chain from a saddlebag and ran the chain through their collars
and clipped that back on itself through the woolshed yards. Speaking to each of the
dogs as she did this. ‘Sit down there King. Yes you the boss. That will do Sky. Good
girl Meg. Sit down Fleet. Behave yourself just now Boofy, you bloody fool of a dog.
Dee you darling.' Sometimes she just said their names. Jess and Bill. Swift and Don.

Each of the dogs showed their obedience to Clara as she chained them. The senior
dogs glancing at her with soft eyes and placing dignified chins on paws. The younger
dogs tending to abandon all restraint and, in a frenzy of subservience, roll on their
backs and wag their tails, desperately trying to lick her
hand. Bill, still young
enough to roll over and demonstrate his adoration by pissing all over himself.

Clara turned from the dogs and smiled up at Lew. Stood. ‘What?' She stepped forward
and uncovered the head of the young kangaroo as you would uncover the head of a baby.
Gave a chuckle of delight. ‘What have you got here?'

Lew was holding the blanket-covered bundle. ‘You will have to name it Miss Drysdale.
Especially now it belongs to you.'

Behind her the dogs, which had all stood, noses lifted and quivering, began to boom
and bark as the scent of the joey came over them. Clara turned her head. ‘Quiet,'
she growled. ‘King. Stop it.'

The dogs quieted and settled, watching Clara's every move, her every gesture. Tom
was walking back again, dragging the reins away from them. Pearl moving with him,
also backing away. Clara beamed as she examined the delicate head and face bones
of the terrified joey. ‘What a darling you are,' she whispered. ‘Sweetheart.' Two
fingers exposed the nose. The baby kangaroo was struggling in the blanket. Lew, smiling
too, reached to cover its eyes. ‘What do you think?' he asked, handing the bundle
to her. ‘Would you like to keep him?'

She took the joey and glanced at him. Put her hand into the blanket and felt between
its legs. ‘It's a her.' Wiped her hand on the blanket, blinked. ‘A girl. What happened?
How did you get her?' She laughed.

‘Last night,' Lew shrugged. ‘This one's mother jumped in front of the truck. You
see what she did to it.'

The men looked at the truck.

Clara frowned. ‘No.' Stroked the baby kangaroo between
the eyes. ‘I should call you
Mercy. But I think Gwen is better. Gwennie it is.'

Painter and John Drysdale came over and looked at the bundle in her arms. She held
it and showed it like her own child. ‘Meet Gwen, Dad; Gwen meet Dad. Mr Hayes have
you seen little Gwennie?'

‘Have I ever,' he said. Lew shot him a hard look.

Drysdale grumbled and patted Painter on the back. Spoke to Clara. ‘Better let the
boys settle in to their quarters. I killed a sheep for them. It's hanging in the
cool room.'

Painter was rolling a smoke. ‘Good good but we're right for tonight's dinner. I'm
making a soup,' he said and looked at Lew. ‘Any spuds, boss?'

‘There is a sack of potatoes. Some cabbage and onions,' he said. ‘I'll get Jimmy
to bring you some fresh bread. Fruit preserves. He has butter too, fresh made from
that little Jersey house cow. Velvet he calls her.'

‘Jimmy?' Painter asked. ‘Who is Jimmy?'

‘Jimmy Wong. He is old Chung's nephew, you remember Chung? Jimmy come down from Broome
when his uncle went home. Bloody good cook and gardener. General hand about the place.
Y'know.'

Painter nodded. ‘I liked old Chung. Used to be a miner too didn't he?'

‘He did. Found a small vein at Thompson's Find I believe, when it ran out he worked
for the old man. Started as a laundryman. Place ran a lot more head in those days
and the old man reckoned the blacks were useless around the place.' He glanced at
Clara. ‘Do you think, Clara, you could give us a moment?'

Lew saw a shadow pass over her face. She stared at her father and waited a moment
before she nodded. ‘Yes, of course. I beg your pardon.' She walked across to Lew
and held the bundle containing the baby kangaroo out to him. ‘Here, hand this up
to me would you please Mr McCleod? In a moment, once I'm up.' She retrieved Tom's
reins, stepped into the stirrup and swung into the saddle. ‘Righto.'

Lew passed the blanket carrying Gwen up to her. She nodded to him. Cradled the blanket.
‘Pearl's lead Mr McCleod?'

She took the lead from him and sat for a moment, looking at each of the men.

‘Excuse me Dad, Mr Hayes and Mr McCleod. I had better get back to the house. Thank
you for little Gwen here Mr McCleod, that was so thoughtful of you. Dad, I'll see
you at tea?' Kicked the gelding on. The left-behind dogs had stood and were watching
her; some of them whined. Clara turned in the saddle and spoke to the dogs. ‘That
will do. Quiet now. I'll be back for you.'

‘Hasn't really been herself since her mother,' Drysdale said. ‘Her mother would have
delighted for an armful of that joey you blokes brought here. They would have laughed
over it together. What to feed her. What hat to wear.' He shook his head. ‘I'll never
get over it. She explains things to the bloody dogs. I'll be back. Lord, as if the
dog knows. That will do?'

She had ridden away towards the homestead. The air was hot and bright. After a bit
it was as if she was floating above the ground.

‘A fine daughter Mr Drysdale.' Painter said. ‘You must be very proud.'

‘Capable,' Drysdale said, looked at Painter. ‘Image of her mother. Same school y'know,
those girls.'

Painter closed his eyes as Drysdale spoke again. ‘But too many dogs. She keeps too
many damn dogs.'

‘You probably right boss. Too many dogs.'

CHAPTER 12

The dingo bitch was standing beside the highway. Thin long white rectangles marked
the centre of the road. She looked west where the men had come from and then east
where they had gone.

Almost a photograph, a painting: a solitary dingo standing beside the metal road
that stretched into the shimmering distance. Heat waves in both directions made the
horizons indistinguishable. No clouds, the sky enclosing the land for as far as you
could see. Enclosing her. The enormous sun, sister, was the fire and the light, impossible
to look at. It would blind her, she knew.

She sniffed the road and placed a front paw on the hot metal stone. Raised it, took
it back, and studied the other side. Whined then and retreated into the run-off hollow
beside the road. She ignored the scattered detritus and crossed into the cover of
karrik bush. Began to trot in the direction the men and nyarnyee had gone. East to
moon rising, sun rising.

Fresh water springs along the way to the place her clan had
always gone to whelp.
Old hunting lines in the river courses and rocks; layers of dry caves and shelter.
A place to get water and meat and she would not have to cross the road. The demon
crows followed her.

CHAPTER 13

The shearers quarters, a pair of long corrugated-iron buildings joined by covered
breezeways, facing north and with wide verandas. The ceilings were high and the rooftops
had double hip gables with hinged skylights in every room to let the heat out, the
light in. Cedar lilac trees along the west side ensured shade in the summer afternoons
and later, when they shed their leaves, sun in winter.

Five dormitories ran off from the breezeways, each large enough to sleep eight. At
one end of the quarters a cookhouse, and at the other an ablutions block with hand-operated
Simac pumps, Baird showers, baths and washing tubs. Four galvanised and two wooden
scrub boards hanging along a wall. Cracked yellow blocks of Sunlight soap and pale
wooden duckboards.

Outside the washhouse, covered water tanks with galvanised pipes positioned from
the gutter lines to the top of the tank to catch winter rainfall. Clothes lines,
wire strung between poles, wooden pegs in a wire basket. About ten yards from the
back door of the washhouse, three narrow outhouses, also made of
corrugated iron,
whitewashed doors propped open to air and to indicate they were unoccupied. Inside
the long drops, a wooden seat with the pear-shaped hole cut into it. A spike to hold
squares of newsprint on one wall and a bucket of quicklime with a ladle on the other.
Graffiti on the walls written in pencil, blue and red raddle chalk sticks. Names
and initials. Comic figures of genitalia; women's breasts; the results of the 1947
Melbourne Cup. Hiraji, Fresh Boy, Red Fury. And: Go you grey bastard you 12 to 1.
£60 12 /- 6d. Somebody had written: I wish I was in Bendigo. Underneath: I wish I
was in Lana Turner. A path along the front, edged with white rocks. A hand-painted
sign: dunnys and an arrow.

They drove the truck up to the front of the quarters and got out. Painter walked
up the steps onto the veranda carrying his swag over his shoulder, canvas carry bag
in the other hand. Lew followed, also with his rolled swag on his shoulder. Both
wearing hats pushed back and identical in walk, the cast of their bodies. Painter's
leather-heeled boots on the boards. Lew, barefoot with bowyangs. Dust rising.

They found rooms opposite one other and unrolled the old kapok mattresses onto the
wire and iron bed frames. Returned to the truck and carried in two boxes of supplies
for the kitchen.

Painter had wrapped the kangaroo tail in a towel. He sniffed it and laid it across
a large butchers block in the corner of the cookhouse. Nodded and took a Green River
skinning knife from the box of supplies. Found a steel and began to sharpen the knife.
‘Smells good this tail Lew,' he said. ‘Better for a day. Sweeter the meat.'

He stopped sharpening the knife and cleaned the block
using white vinegar. Tested
the knife with his thumb, laid the tail out across the block and drew the blade along
the length of it. The skin lifted. Almost no fat, just dark red meat and white ridges
of bone; some cartilage. He ran his thumb along the underside of the skin and peeled
it back. Took a handful of the skin and pulled it from the tail meat. It came away
with a dry, tearing sound.

‘I need some flour and lard son. Salt and pepper.' He dropped the skin into a bucket
next to the block, wiped the blade clean. Took a meat cleaver and chopped through
the joint cartilage, separating the tail into eight pieces. ‘Always spare the tip
of a roo's tail for good luck.' Painter said. ‘Like the parson's nose on a chook.
Some call this the governor's cock.' Painter flashed him a smile, repeating what
he said, almost in explanation. ‘The governor's cock.' Wiped his hands. ‘The old
ticket of leave boys told me that story.'

‘You told me that before,' Lew said.

‘You want to get that underway?' Painter looked at a blue-green Metters Number One
stove. Next to it a large wooden box filled with kindling and three small blocks
of wood in a wall recess. ‘Need to cut some more wood too by the look of it.'

Lew found some newspaper in a cardboard box, screwed three or four sheets into loose
balls, fed them into the grate along with some kindling. Lit it and soon had the
fire going. He placed his hand on the stovetop, waited and took it off. Smoke began
seeping out of the chimney vent into the kitchen.

Painter was peeling onions. He looked at Lew with an expression asking what is it?

Lew checked the air-vent setting. Opened the stove's fire
door. Smoke billowed into
the kitchen and he quickly closed it.

Painter coughed. Wiped his eyes.

Lew opened the windows, ran outside and stepped up on the bonnet of the truck. Hauled
himself onto the corrugated-iron roof and disappeared.

When he got back to the kitchen, Painter had washed out the sink and filled it with
water from the tank. He dropped the onions in the water. The smoke had cleared and
the clean fire smell of the stove had begun to fill the room.

‘Birds' nests in the flues.'

Painter nodded to him as he continued preparing the food. ‘Bring in some more wood
son. And make sure that Coolgardie safe is cleaned out and set up.' Indicated with
his chin the square box with hessian sides on the bench near a window.