And then, home to the station, to find Mal edgy, sullen, difficult. And now, this.
Kath rinsed off the soap, dried herself, brushed out her hair, coiled it up in a neat knot on top of her head and began to dress. Royce knew what he was doing, she told herself, he understood the boy better than Mal had any right to expect. He would either say sufficient to send Mal on his way, knowing that he would be welcomed without question if he chose to return, or he would bring him back home, which was what she wanted.
Or did she? A sulky, suspicious face at breakfast, a grumbler, someone who criticised, by look or gesture, if not in words, everything that she and Roy did? But if Royce explained, spoke to him, perhaps Mal would see sense, behave better.
Kath checked her appearance in the mirror before remembering that Royce would not be back before nightfall, if then. She was used to his being away from the station for weeks at a time at musters, but she always missed him. But even so . . . food had to be prepared, hands fed, orders given.
Kath went swiftly along the corridor and out into the yard. In the aboriginals’ quarters the workers were stirring. Someone had lit a fire in the kitchen – probably Lin Ho, the Chinese cook – and the pleasant smell of woodsmoke came to her nostrils.
Kath went into the kitchen and took her big white apron off the hook on the back of the door. She put it on, tied the strings in a big bow behind, and smiled at the cook, who was slicing ham with a wicked-looking knife.
‘Mornin’, Lin Ho,’ she said. ‘The Boss has gone out for an early ride, with Mal. They may be some time, but we’ll get breakfast for everyone else. Can you slice some bacon off the joint whilst I cut bread?’
‘Sure, Missie Kath,’ Lin Ho said readily. ‘Heered Mal go off, I did, t’ought the Boss ’ud foller. They take tucker?’
‘Sure. Bread and cheese and lemon barley water,’ Kath said. Trust Lin Ho to know how things really stood. ‘Oh . . . when Jim comes in, I’d like a word.’
Mal rode on into the morning, only remembering the tucker he could have taken when the morning was well advanced, the sun beaming down from a blue and cloudless sky. Still, he’d gone without food before – often. And though a drink would have been welcome, he knew how to wait – he always had. So he rode on, now and then leaning forward to pat Sandy’s neck, coming to terms with the fact that he would have to sell the horse in order to pay for a train ticket to – to wherever he decided to go.
He was actually pretty thirsty when he heard the horse behind him. Or rather, Sandy did. For a mile or two now, Sandy had kept glancing back and now, for the first time, Mal followed suit, to see, in a small cloud of dust, a rider following him.
Someone from the Magellan? But it seemed unlikely, because if there had been any pursuit – and I am stealing a horse, in a way, Mal reminded himself guiltily – they could have caught him up at any time. And the rider, unidentifiable in the cloud of smoky dust which hung around him and his mount as it hung around Mal and Sandy, was making no attempt to overtake.
I wonder if he’s got water? Mal asked himself, and reined in his mount. It seemed silly, in country as vast and unpeopled as this, to ride along the same trail in single file when they could so easily ride two abreast. He raised a hand and the man behind acknowledged his greeting, then kicked his horse into a trot.
It was Royce, dusty but smiling.
‘Mal! G’day,’ he said, for all the world as though they had met by chance in the street . . . as indeed they had, in a way. ‘Goin’ far?’
It sounded silly saying ‘Yes, as far as I can – I’m running away’, so Mal didn’t say it. Instead he just muttered, ‘You know, I guess,’ and continued to stare along the track ahead between Sandy’s pricked chestnut ears.
‘We-ell, your mother seemed to think you was leavin’, takin’ time away. Goin’ walkabout, in fact.’
Now why didn’t I think of that? That makes it sound perfectly natural and right, Mal thought crossly. Lots of people go walkabout, why not me? Except you’re leaving people in the lurch, his conscience reminded him meanly. You didn’t tell anyone – even the wildest aborigine would announce his intentions, tell the Boss!
‘That right, Mal?’ Royce asked gently. ‘You goin’ walkabout?’
‘Kinda,’ Mal growled. ‘I – I should’ve said, I guess. But I don’t reckon Mam’ll worry. Not now.’
It was said more nastily than he had meant it, but Royce merely shook his head.
‘No, Mal, your mother isn’t small-minded enough to discount your feelings just because she’s happy. And she is happy, feller. As I am. You wouldn’t want it different?’
‘We-ell, no . . . but it’s time I left,’ Mal said. His voice cracked and he hastened on. ‘I’m eighteen years old; I shouldn’t be livin’ at home still.’
‘Your work’s at home,’ Royce said gently after a moment. ‘You’re a good worker, Mal. We’ll miss you.’
It was acceptance, acknowledgement of his right to do as he pleased, and it was as welcome, suddenly, as a fist in the face. Mal blinked and felt the colour rush into his cheeks. They would miss him – not half as much as he would miss them. Not just Mam and the twins but Tink, Soljer, Canny, even Lin Ho, the cook. It’s about time I said what I feel, he thought, trying to swallow the great lump which had risen up in his throat. A picture of the homestead at sunset had come into his head. The sky, streaked with red and gold, the roofs black against the flaming colours, the horses moving quietly into the paddock and his mother, the twins at her skirt, standing in the kitchen doorway, ready to serve the evening meal as soon as the last man had dismounted and cleaned himself up.
‘Yeah. But Mam used to turn to me, Roy. She needed me. She don’t need me no more.’
It was out, the truth. The reason, which he hadn’t even acknowledged to himself, why he was running away. Because running away it was, not the adult, sensible, thought-out walkabout which Royce had called it. He was fleeing blindly from a situation which he could no longer control, from the woman he loved but wanted to keep as just his mother, denying her femininity, her prettiness and charm. She should be celibate, content with his company, deny all her natural urges. She was a mother, not a woman!
‘That ain’t so, Mal. She does need you – but not in quite the same way. Still, if you feel it’s time you moved on . . . least I can do is ride to the railroad with you, buy your ticket to – to wherever you’re bound. And take Sandy home with me, of course.’ He paused, then turned and began to fiddle around in his saddle bag. Speaking without looking up, he added, ‘What were you goin’ to do with Sandy, by the way?’
‘I ain’t got no money.’ Mal tried to sound neither sulky nor apologetic but suspected that he sounded both. ‘I – I meant to sell him to buy me a ticket to . . . to wherever I wanted to go.’
‘I see.’ Royce turned in his saddle and held out a chunk of bread and some cheese. ‘Feel like some tucker? Or would you rather drink first?’
The bottle was sticking up out of the saddlebag. Mal’s mouth had been dry for what felt like hours but at the mere sight of the bottle saliva rushed to his mouth. He swallowed. ‘Umm . . . I could do with a wet.’
Royce handed the bottle over and pulled out another. He uncorked it and took a couple of big swallows. Mal followed suit eagerly, then wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of a hand.
‘Phew . . . that was good – thanks, Royce. I didn’t stop for tucker. Tell the truth I was just anxious to get away before – before I began to think better of it.’
‘Put the bottle in your saddlebag . . .’ Royce began, then realised that Mal was riding bareback. ‘. . . Oh, sorry. Hand it over and tell me when you could do with another gargle. Now look, old feller, I’ve been thinkin’ as I rode, and I believe I’ve a solution, of sorts. Bread an’ cheese?’
Mal thanked him and sank his teeth into freshly baked bread and a ripe piece of cheese. It was good! ‘What kinda solution?’ he said thickly, through his mouthful. ‘I don’t want to hurt Mam, but –’
‘Exactly. So hear me out, feller! As I was ridin’, I remembered my Uncle Josh. You’ve heered me tellin’ the twins ‘bout their Uncle Josh?’
‘The feller who owns the Wandina?’ Mal asked. ‘He’s old, but he taught you lots . . . you told me when Mam and I first come to the Magellan.’
‘That’s him. Did I ever tell you how old Josh actually is?’
‘Nope. But old, you said.’
‘Too right. He’s eighty-two. He’s spry, mind, but he’s gettin’ so he can’t manage the place no more. He’d ha’ been all right but one of his musterers went walkabout at the start of the dry and his head stockman was gored by a bull in the wet and hasn’t come out of hospital yet. When he does – if he does – there’s no sayin’ he’ll go back to the Wandina.’
‘So?’ Mal said. He felt sorry for the old chap but didn’t see that it had anything to do with him, unless Royce meant that he’d let them down by his walkabout as much as the musterer had?
‘So Uncle Josh could use a responsible standin head stockman.’
‘Oh!’
‘Well, you’d be paid, so you’d have money in your pocket. I’ve always added extra money to your mother’s wage-packet because of the work you did, but I knew that weren’t fair . . . you’d be paid right by me, too, now, if you decide to come back to the Magellan.’
He looked sideways at Mal and they both grinned, then laughed aloud. It was a fact that sons of station owners got everything they needed – or everything their parents thought they needed – bought for them, but rarely handled cash. It was a sore point with many lads other than Mal.
‘What d’you think? Could you live with that? Me payin’ you a proper wage, I mean. Only Mal, I think of you as my successor, you know. You an’ the twins. ‘Cept they may not take to the life like you have. What d’you say? Us? Or Uncle Josh?’
‘Or the road,’ Mal reminded him, but his heart wasn’t in it. The thought of being a head stockman, even on a temporary basis, was heady stuff. He’d shared the job with Jim many a time, at a muster you were your own boss more or less, but to be officially in charge . . .
Royce ate the last of his own bread and cheese and stuffed the greaseproof paper which Kath had wrapped round it back in his saddlebag. Then he turned towards his stepson once more.
‘Don’t talk through your hat, Mal,’ he said kindly. ‘This is a chance for you and you know it. The Wandina’s a bonza station but it’s slippin’. If you bring it back up again it’ll be the sort of experience I couldn’t give you, not on the Magellan. Gonna grab it wi’ both hands?’
There could be only one answer to that and Mal knew it. He could feel a grin beginning.
‘Aw, but Roy, would he want me? I’m only just eighteen, I ain’t related . . .’
‘You’re my stepson and I’ll vouch for you,’ Royce said. ‘You’ll come back from time to time, feller? Your mother – she’ll miss you, but not so bad if she knows where you are and what you’re doin’. If you keep in touch.’
‘Whenever I can I’ll come on over,’ Mal said eagerly. He was afire with enthusiasm now, not caring at all if he showed it. ‘When do I go? How far is it? Can I borrow Sandy . . . or buy him? I’ll pay you for him with my first wages.’
‘You can take Sandy as a present,’ Royce said calmly. ‘I told your mother I might not be home tonight. If you’re game, we’ll ride on over right away. We’ll have to sleep out a coupla nights – got a bedroll?’
‘Nope. Never thought,’ Mal muttered. Some adventurer he was turning out to be! ‘Well, if we went back to the Magellan . . .’
‘Good on you,’ Royce said at once. ‘Say goodbye to Kath and the kids, the hands, your pals . . . make it official. Tell you what, we’ll say you an’ me rode into Mungana to telegraph to Uncle Josh that you were coming. How’s that sound?’
‘Far-fetched,’ Mal said, but he grinned as he spoke. ‘Reckon they’ll all ha’ guessed. But it don’t matter.’ He gave a subdued whoop and kicked his horse into a gallop. ‘I’m movin’ on!’ he shouted. ‘I’m movin’ on!’
A week later, it was all settled. Royce and Mal rode over to the Wandina – it took two days – and Mal met Josh Walenski for the first time and as Royce had anticipated, they got along just fine.
Uncle Josh was a thin spider of a man with a small, merry face, long, thin arms and legs and almost no hair. But despite his years and his hard life – for he had run the station alone since his early twenties, when he had first come to the outback – he was still able to ride his horses, help with his musters and keep his finger on the pulse of the Wandina.
But for how long? The question vexed him, but as he said, it had to be faced. Now that he was over eighty he could not go on, could not continue to raise, rear and eventually sell the thousands of cattle which passed through the Wandina every year, not unless he had proper help. ‘If only Gumbo hadn’t gone walkabout . . . or if old Wally was here,’ he said sadly when the three of them settled down to a meal that first evening. ‘But without them things are gettin’ out of hand. The men do as they’re told but they can’t always see danger . . . and I don’t get the best men, not now Mrs Forbes has passed on. It’s always the same, they came for the good tucker and good livin’ standards, and the women came for the clothes an’ the house-things. Now Mrs Forbes ain’t here, the tucker ain’t so good an’ the clothes are store-bought rubbish. Tain’t the same, see?’
Mal saw all too clearly. Good workers could pick and choose, and they picked the stations where they were well looked after, where the food was good and varied and the clothing decent. They didn’t mind hard work, but they wanted a decent leisure time, and the women liked schooling for the kids and decent clothing, too.
Royce had explained to Mal earlier what the set-up had been at the Wandina. Mrs Forbes, who had been his uncle’s cook and housekeeper for many, many years, had just about kept the place running. Everyone thought the pair would marry, but they never had and so far as anyone knew, there had never been anything between them but friendship and the trust which old friends feel one for another. Mrs Forbes’s death, earlier in the year, had been a great blow and since then the men had done their best to feed themselves, run the homestead and see to the stock, though Maisie, one of the aboriginal woman, worked in the house now.