The bark cutters, p.8
The Bark Cutters, page 8
‘What happened?’ Sarah asked her brother when he appeared from the far side of the sheep yards on his motorbike.
‘There’s no power at the cook house to boil water for the men’s tea. Clayton really has the shits about it because he had a cake in the oven as well.’ Cameron got off his bike, put the stand down, and continued. ‘The board blew. Grandfather told Dad to upgrade the board last year. Dad ignored the suggestion, reckoning on another twelve months out of the old girl. The ten grand allocated for the upgrade went toward purchasing panels so we could enlarge the cattle yards. Other than that, well, they’re arguing about it. Nothing new there.’
They watched as Anthony reversed the trailer to the door of the shed, both their father and grandfather standing angrily to one side as a shed hand unrolled a power cord and tried to plug it into the generator; the lead was a good foot too short.
‘Better give Ant a hand,’ Cameron said aloud, walking over to where Anthony was reversing the trailer again in order to get closer to the shed. At the angle Anthony was forced to reverse, the trailer was partially jack-knifed.
‘Dad, Clayton’s mad about the power,’ Sarah said meekly as she approached her grandfather and father. Both men were frowning, the deep furrows between their eyes reminiscent of angry twins.
‘I’ll go see him once we’re up and running. Unhook her when you’re set up, Anthony.’ Ronald walked towards the Toyota. ‘I’ll have to go and calm Clayton.’
‘Righto.’
‘Watch out that doesn’t spring back on you, mate,’ Cameron yelled out as Anthony undid the tow-hitch. A second later Anthony was lying flat on his back, the trailer having sprung to one side once it had been disconnected from the Toyota.
‘Shit.’ Cameron was by Anthony’s side in a second. ‘Anything busted?’
‘No, nothing.’ Anthony rubbed his shin roughly as he squinted through the pain of the impact.
‘Anthony, are you all right? Are you hurt? We better get him to the house, Dad.’ Sarah dropped to her knees, touching Anthony’s face in concern.
‘I haven’t got a temperature, you know,’ he complained, pushing her arm away. ‘I’m not an invalid.’ Some of the shearers were sniggering in the background. ‘I’m all right, Sarah.’ He rubbed his hand down the side of his calf muscle to gingerly check the surrounding area.
‘Fine.’ Sarah took a step back, watching as her father and brother pulled Anthony up off the ground. Anthony’s eyes found hers. For just a moment Sarah thought she saw something fleeting cross his face, then just as quickly his expression changed again and he threw her a cocky smile. Frowning, Sarah turned from him and began walking away from the woolshed.
‘Well, Cameron,’ Angus called out gruffly, ‘you’re not part of the local rescue team. Hook that generator up and get the shed going.’
‘You were bloody lucky that didn’t break your leg in two,’ Ronald said. ‘Jump in the Toyota with me, Anthony, and we’ll go put some ice on that,’ he suggested as the generator kicked over and the comforting whirr of the shears echoed from deep inside the woolshed.
Ronald watched his father in the driver’s side mirror, the image of him decreasing in size, his bulky form leaning nonchalantly on the side of his Land Cruiser, the muzzle of his dog, Shrapnel, resting in the crook of his arm. ‘Fucking old master and bloody commander,’ Ronald muttered. A simple nod of approval was beyond the old bastard. How hard would it have been? No-one was badly injured, the shearers were going again and by nightfall the ewes would be back in their paddock.
‘Right then, we’ll get you that ice and then all that is left to do is calm the cook, call the electrician and hope to hell he makes it out here in the next hour or so, otherwise Clayton will probably bugger off.’
‘Pretty much a normal day then, Ronald,’ Anthony grinned.
‘Pretty much. Sarah, do you want a lift?’ he called out to his daughter as he slowed his vehicle on the road leading from the woolshed.
‘Hop in,’ Anthony agreed.
‘I’d rather walk, thanks.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Ronald wasn’t much in the mood for surly women.
Sarah trudged on up the road, shutting her eyes against the flying grit. She was hardly going to sit in the same vehicle with Anthony after the way he had just spoken to her.
‘You’ll have to go back you know, girl.’
It was her grandfather, driving at a snail’s pace beside her.
‘Men, particularly young men, don’t take too kindly to being fussed over.’
‘I didn’t fuss over him.’
Angus lifted his forefinger for silence. The only Gordon that ever interrupted him was young Sarah and he admired her for that. ‘They don’t take kindly to being fussed over in front of anyone who could give them a hard time about it later. And those shearers will give Anthony a hard time about it. He works for me, remember, and you’re my granddaughter.’
‘But …’
‘Don’t argue. Secretly we like the fussing. Just make sure you go back to the shed this afternoon.’
‘Why?’
Angus lifted his eyes skyward. ‘Because otherwise you’ll be surly with Anthony for the next week. Then you’ll get surly with your mother. Then Sue will complain more than usual, your father and I will argue …’
‘Again.’ Sarah smiled.
Angus stopped his vehicle. ‘Yes, again, and Anthony will ask your brother what’s going on and he’ll come to me. And we are running a business here, not an agony aunt column.’
‘Grandfather,’ Sarah hesitated, resting her arms on the open window of the passenger door, ‘I wanted to ask you …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I heard something the other morning. Mum and Dad were arguing. It was something about Cameron. It sounded strange, like they had this secret they were keeping from everybody.’ She hesitated. ‘Even you.’
‘Ridiculous. Your mother has a fixation regarding Cameron. Everyone knows that.’
‘But –’
‘You don’t want to pay attention to her.’
‘But –’
‘I have to attend to a few things.’
Sarah was left standing in a cloud of dust.
Shearing was finished. The team had already packed up and were enjoying a well-earned beer. Some of the men, lining up empty tins at the end of the lanolin-smoothed board, were playing bowls; others were cleaning and packing away the metal combs they used for shearing. Cameron was urging the men to join him at the closest village, Wangallon Town. Few needed convincing. Sarah sat quietly on a large wool bale, enjoying the smell of wool, manure and powdery soil trampled ceaselessly by yarded sheep. The men talked and laughed, spun stories and mostly ignored her, not quite sure how to include the boss’s granddaughter. Sarah observed their easy banter for a few more minutes before leaving the shed to cross the wooden fences of the sheep yards. Scuffing the dirt with her boots, she muttered angrily under her breath. She had gone back as her grandfather had ordered and Anthony was nowhere to be seen.
‘Where you off to?’ Cameron grinned, his battered army green jeep shuddering as it idled to a stop next to her.
‘Jump in,’ Anthony called, opening the door for her. Sarah smiled – maybe her grandfather was right.
Back at the house, Cameron coerced their parents into agreement. Tonight they were off to the pub.
Sarah spent the night in the ladies bar, drinking lemonade. Cameron sat cross-legged on the corner counter that separated the bar itself from the public drinking area and the ladies lounge. He occasionally slipped her a rum and coke, watching over her, entertaining everyone with his stories and jokes. Between Sarah and the shearers in the public bar, Cameron held court while Anthony jumped the bar, deciding he would help pull beers during the evening.
‘Tell us another one, Cameron,’ one of the shearers enthused, a schooner of beer in hand.
‘Well …’ Cameron scratched his head, his face widening into a mischievous grin. He skolled his rum and coke and, within minutes, the young barmaid, all heaving bosom and bottle-blonde hair, was holding another one towards him.
‘There you go, Cameron,’ she sighed, her free hand coming to rest on his thigh. ‘I never charge my special customers.’
Cameron pinched her cheek playfully, the soft skin yielding easily under his touch as it had only last weekend.
‘That’s enough, Lottie,’ the publican bellowed, as he tucked a pristine white shirt into skinny-legged cowboy jeans. ‘There are a few other blokes here that need some attention.’
With a quick smile at Cameron, Lottie moved to collect empty glasses from along the bar.
‘You’re not wrong there,’ one of the patrons yelled from the opposite end of the bar, holding up his empty schooner glass. ‘A little service wouldn’t go astray.’
‘No soliciting allowed at this pub,’ another boomed. ‘Now what about that joke?’
‘What do blondes and cow shit have in common?’ Cameron called loudly across the crowded bar.
The barmaid narrowed her eyes.
‘The older they get, the easier they are to pick up.’
The bar erupted into bellows of laughter. Lottie stared hard at Cameron and poked her tongue out at Sarah, who was doubled up in mirth. Instantly Cameron slipped off the bar to give the girl a quick hug. She grudgingly responded, eventually pushing at him a little with her well padded hips.
‘Oh, Lottie, I wasn’t referring to you, my bonnie lass,’ he said softly, putting on a very poor Scottish accent. Then, more loudly, ‘I was talking about real blondes.’
‘Oh, get away. I would rather spend my time with Anthony.’
‘Sorry.’ Anthony gave an apologetic grin and took his elbows off the bar as she approached him. ‘I’m too busy working for the Gordons to have any spare time for romancing.’ Plus, he was hardly going to cut Cameron’s lunch.
‘Really?’ Lottie responded, her grey eyes crinkling up under a thoughtful frown as she threw Sarah another kiss-of-death stare. ‘Suppose that depends on your definition of working.’
The bar erupted again into bellows of laughter.
‘She’s got you there, Anthony,’ Cameron nodded towards his sister.
Sarah took a gulp of her drink. She could feel her face heating up under the room’s scrutiny.
‘Less travel involved,’ one of the shearers commented. ‘And you know what they say about the end of the rainbow.’ He sniggered into his schooner glass.
‘All right, all right, enough speculation on my sister’s list of suitors. We should be discussing mine.’ Cameron quickly diverted the conversation to himself and away from Sarah, whose face was now the colour of a tomato.
Lorna Sutton, forty years of age with the fatty folds of an overfed pig, knew breeding. The Scot, well, he was breeding. They said he came from just over the border from England, had been raised near Sir Malcolm himself in a fine manor house and, upon the loss of his family in a terrible fire, come to start anew in Australia. Wasn’t it just God himself bringing the man to her door and she with a learned daughter? Lorna crossed herself in thanks, her pudgy fingers patting dry her sweating chest with the bed linen.
‘Well?’
The man’s voice startled her from her daydreams.
Lorna rolled off the bed. Kneeling on the floor she positioned herself between his thighs. What about his money? She’d not been able to find out where he kept it. Not that she felt the temptation to steal it, mind. She was not a thief. It was just that she believed she would feel so much better if it was safe. A hand pulled her head harder towards him, twisting his fingers through her hair. Grimacing, Lorna did as she was bidden, sucking harder until he gripped her head tightly between his palms, before pushing her sprawling to the floor.
Wiping her lips and chin, Lorna scurried into a shift, before pouring water into the porcelain basin on the washstand.
‘Nothing else has come to hand?’ Matthew Reynolds asked as he wrung out the wash cloth in the cool water and swiped roughly at his body.
Lorna shook her head, no.
He splashed water beneath each hairy armpit and then rubbed his member vigorously.
‘Well, stupid or not, the man’s got money. You keep him here, Lorna. Make sure he takes up with that lass of yours. If he’s gonna be a-spending his money, in Ridge Gully it will be.’ Matthew Reynolds pulled his clothes on, placed some coins on the bed in his spare room and walked out.
Closing the door quietly, Lorna began to wash carefully, lifting the folds of her skin to remove all traces of his scent. So, she had lain with him for that. He knew as much about the Scot as she did, and he too wanted his money. Well, her intent remained firm. Mr Gordon would take up with her Rose; the girl had the looks and was untouched, unlike her mother, Lorna giggled to herself. But that was all she could be expected to do. After all, she had a daughter to marry off and her own comforts to be thinking of. Stepping into her dress, Lorna smiled demurely at her surroundings. The nice wooden bedhead with the carved ball posts, the matching washstand, even a marginally fine wardrobe and the bedspread. She ran pudgy fingers over the patchwork of green, blues and reds. Oh, she so liked fine things. Lorna snatched up the coins and counted them twice. She’d be needing to purchase a few items if she were to pass as somewhat gentrified.
‘Nice,’ Lorna commented as her daughter descended from the two-horse dray like a lady. The girl’s brown wool dress, relieved with tuffs of white at collar and wrist, displayed a rather large gold brooch with intricate filigree work, a green stone flashing at its centre.
Rose immediately noticed her mother’s pointed interest in the jewel. ‘A birthday gift from Sir Malcolm, Mama. He says I may stay until his return from the Parliament; six weeks, Mama, although I may return sooner.’
‘Hmm, and what of your resigning and returning here to me?’ Lorna queried, her arms bulging at the seams of her tightly fitted bodice. ‘You read my letter?’ She surveyed the slim-waisted, ample-chested fifteen-year-old she had created.
‘I shall marry for both position and love, Mama, and my best chances for both remain with Sir Malcolm.’ Rose observed with some distaste the deepening stains around the arm holes of her mother’s dress.
‘What’s this? You think I’d be happy with a jumped-up gardener or overseer? Your best chance is currently holed up here, a Scottish gentleman if you don’t mind, with his manservant. So leave your airs and graces in that cart and come inside and ready yourself to make his acquaintance. This is our chance, for both of us and I’m not having your if you please airs ruining my plans.’
Rose gave her mother her best look of disdain and addressed the red-faced driver of the cart, one of the many staff employed by Sir Malcolm Wiley. ‘Would you kindly carry my baggage inside the house, please?’
The man reached around from where he had been adjusting one of the horse’s harnesses and with a bemused expression, lifted the two leather and fabric bags, dumping them unceremoniously in the dirt. ‘This ain’t the estate now, Miss.’
Rose looked dismally at her mother as the dray rolled away.
‘Now if you’ve spare coin, I’ll be needing that,’ Lorna puffed as she helped her daughter drag her belongings into the two-bedroom timber cottage. ‘I’ve been a bit poorly myself and unable to take in the laundry as usual.’
‘I had planned …’ Rose began.
‘Leave the planning to me. I’ve purchased a few essentials, but we will be needing brandy. Every person knows these gentlemen prefer it to the rough rum the common folk drink. And you and I will be sharing my room.’
‘Actually,’ Rose begged to differ, dusting one of the kitchen chairs with a tea-towel before sitting, ‘Sir Malcolm drinks …’
Lorna plopped down on Rose’s trunk, mopping her brow with a handkerchief retrieved from the folds of her ample bosom. ‘Brandy, Rose. This is a house of gentrified females. Now, the money, if you please.’
Rose handed over a drawstring bag with a sigh. ‘What if I don’t like him?’
Lorna pursed her lips together until her face was drawn into a series of small circles. ‘You’ll like him, Rose.’
Hamish, discovering himself dumbstruck in the company of womenfolk, immersed himself in dinner. Their rather plain meal of mutton, damper and glasses of sherry was enlivened with a highly seasoned parrot pie. Lee’s contribution certainly appeared to intrigue his dining companions, for a good part of their meal was taken up with exclamations of delight. Hamish found Rose’s intricate rendering of her daily routine charming, and the minute details of the running of Sir Malcolm’s household allowed him the luxury of listening rather than having to add to the conversation. By the end of dinner he envied the lifestyle Rose’s employer enjoyed.
‘With such knowledge, Mr Gordon, you can appreciate my Rose would have the capabilities to manage any sized household and, of course, she is used to staff; a most important qualification these days.’
‘Indeed,’ Hamish agreed amiably, patting his moustache with a linen napkin. It appeared one’s staff were a major consideration in any household.
‘And you, Mr Gordon. Was your estate very large?’
‘Large enough to demand staff, Mrs Sutton,’ Hamish answered smoothly.
‘Why, of course,’ his hostess smiled coyly, her head tilting coquettishly to one side. ‘More tea?’
‘Thank you, no.’
‘Perhaps then a stroll would be in order. Certainly it is a usual occurrence in this household.’ Lorna fetched her daughter’s shawl. The evening had gone remarkably well. Having purchased three stemmed glasses and some new linen, her small dining table now emanated a more gentrified air. A little light fingering led to three sets of cutlery and a rather nice sterling silver bowl care of Mr Reynolds’ fine house. It was surprising the type of impression one could conjure with a little enterprise.
