The Bark Cutters (47 page)

The life of the woolshed reached out to Sarah in an engulfing sweep of wool and manure. It was early, men were bellowing out in the yards, penning the sheep for the day's work. The smell of chemicals filled the soft breeze with an acrid odour. It was a cold morning, cold enough for the sheep to shiver under the icy breath of winter when once, freshly shorn, they were moved from small pens directly outside the shearing shed to a larger yard that fed into a long race. Pushed along the race in single file, they were coaxed with the aid of the dogs to proceed up a steel-reinforced ramp, part of the mobile plunge dipper hired for the duration of shearing. At the top of the ramp, the sheep would halt, before a quick push by hand sent them stepping off and down into a trough filled with a mixture of water and dip used for lice prevention. Immersed, they swam forwards, emerging to clamber out the other end, shaking and shivering before being let out to graze in a nearby paddock. Sarah remembered the old days, when a dug-out cement-lined trench was used for this very job. The dip had been filled in for years now. She vaguely recalled a visitor to the shed losing sight of their toddler and managing to catch the child before he fell in.

Renovated by her great-grandfather Hamish, the woolshed was a cavernous building. It rested on five-foot-tall foundations, allowing sheep to be yarded underneath, as well as in adjoining yards, spreading out around it like an intricately designed spider web. A large beam ran the length of the long board from which kerosene lamps once hung; today electric lighting and fans were
secured to it. Beneath, on the lanolin-smoothed board, twenty-six stands for twenty-six shearers lay ready for action, ready to remove the soft rolling wool from the animals that continued to be Wangallon's life blood.

A long fluorescent light hung next to a skylight. How her great-grandfather would marvel if he could see the changes of this century, Sarah thought. The wool press was now electric, a shiny metal monster that was at odds with the age of the shed. Gone was the timber press of the old days, gone the need to stand in the red bin treading the wool down as if treading grapes. Even the hessian wool packs were part of history, replaced with a synthetic substitute. The risk of contamination, however, had not altered. Sarah glanced around the shed and saw that the old place was spotless. With the tests they did these days, cigarette butts, packets, discarded food wrappings and plain dirt were the last things you wanted an inspector to find. A clean clip was essential. The animals themselves had enough to contend with, what with the dust and burrs of a succession of bad seasons matting their wool and dulling fibre strength and quality.

‘Here already?' Colin took a battered red notebook from the classer's table, looking her up and down as if surveying some alien creature.

‘And you're still here,' Sarah replied stiffly, hands on hips.

‘Actually, thanks to you, I've lost my job. Managed to hook up with the team for shearing though.'

‘How surprising.' Her condescending tone succeeded for once in getting rid of him. A grim smile formed on her lips as he walked away. Knowing Colin, he would have spun the shearing team a few stories about her so she would have to make sure she didn't do or say anything to give anyone ammunition.

Anthony touched the brim of his hat as he walked past her to the engine room. Twenty-six shearers of varying ages followed him. Some nodded, some ignored her, and some grinned. Sarah
smiled at them all evenly. At the rear of the blue-singleted procession, one of the men elbowed another in the ribs, glancing briefly over his shoulder towards her. She knew what they were thinking. She was the last Gordon left on the place, and they wouldn't expect her to stay.

‘Didn't think we'd see you back here.' Colin had reappeared, and spoke slowly into her ear, lingering over the words as he casually rolled a cigarette.

‘Likewise.'

‘They reckon the old fella will kick it. What a way to go. No family around either when it happened, well, apart from Anthony.'

Sarah kept her hands shoved in the pockets of her moleskins. What he wanted was a reaction, any reaction, to gain the admiration of men he would never equal.

He pulled a half-squashed box of matches from the pocket of his jeans and lit his cigarette.

The hum of the electric engine carried across loudly to where they faced each other. The shearers walked in unison to their respective pens and, each dragging out a sheep, began the day almost simultaneously. Colin took a long drag, blowing the smoke directly into her face, before dropping it on the boards and putting it out with a prolonged twisting movement of his heel. Then he carefully used the toe of his boot to push it through the floorboards. ‘They say Anthony will be left the lot.' The electric shears bashed out each word. ‘Well, it's the only thing the old fella could've done. He can't leave it to a female.' He spat the last word from his mouth as if it was a fly, pulling the red tally book from his shirt pocket. ‘Besides, your family doesn't exactly have a track record of sticking it out. Tell you what,' he said with a lopsided grin, opening the small book and chewing on the stub of a pencil, ‘we could have a bet on this …'

‘Bet on something you can win, Colin,' Sarah found herself answering.

He shrugged, tobacco smoke hugging his face like a fog. He watched the girl walk away. One thing was for sure: if she did stay Anthony was going to have his work cut out if she was ever boss.

At smoko Sarah drove back to the homestead. She felt the need to talk to Mrs Jamieson and with Australia eleven hours in front she hoped it was not too late to telephone her.

‘Lass, it is good to hear from you.'

As they talked, Sarah could imagine Mrs Jamieson sitting on her worn sofa, a cardigan pulled around her shoulders, one hand smoothing the apron over her knees. Briefly Sarah described her grandfather's accident as she sat at the kitchen table, her hand gripping a mug of coffee. Though he was off the critical list and talking there was a long road ahead of him.

‘I am sorry, dear. Your father spoke very highly of him. Still, he's not beaten and I warrant there are a few years left in him yet. Tell me, have you spoken to your young man? Anthony, wasn't it?'

‘How is Jim? Have you seen him?' It was easier to ignore Mrs Jamieson's questions. ‘Do you think I could ring him?' How she would love to talk to him now. She stirred her coffee absently, resting the spoon on the table.

‘He's gone to Edinburgh, lass.'

‘He knows. Does he know, Mrs Jamieson?' Sarah asked breathlessly, almost forgetting to swallow the mouthful of coffee as a feeling of exhilaration surged through her body.

Mrs Jamieson pursed her lips together. ‘No lass, he doesn't.'

‘Oh.'

The girl's voice was flat. Quite frankly Mrs Jamieson thought it was for the better. ‘Now, how's Anthony?'

Swallowing the lump rising in her throat, Sarah took another
gulp of coffee, the hot beverage burning her throat. ‘Things are a bit different now I'm back at Wangallon. He's resigned.'

‘And you've told him not to?' Mrs Jamieson clucked hopefully into the telephone.

‘Of course. It's just that things are difficult, what with Grandfather's will.'

‘I'm not surprised. I would imagine his plans will be buggered up somewhat if Anthony leaves.'

‘I hadn't thought of that.' Sarah pushed her coffee aside, giving the conversation her full attention. ‘I figure Anthony has decided that this inheritance thing just won't work; especially the bit about me having to live here for five years and –'

‘If he leaves it will solve all your problems, lass.'

That's right, Wangallon would be hers if she stayed. ‘There would be no conditions, no …'

Mrs Jamieson cleared her throat. ‘No Anthony,' she reminded her. ‘Do you care for him?'

‘That's not really the issue, Mrs Jamieson.'

‘Well, Sarah, why don't you enlighten me?'

Sarah thought back to the day by the creek following Cameron's death. ‘It was after Cameron's funeral. I knew there was something between us, however he never asked me out. Then suddenly, when I told him I was leaving Wangallon, he asked me to stay. And much later, at the races, I turned him down again.'

‘So you believe his feelings must have changed towards you because of that one incident?'

‘That and pressure from my grandfather and Wangallon.' Sarah rubbed her face tiredly. ‘I think Anthony was pretending to care for me at one stage because he knew of Grandfather's plans, and thought it would make things a whole lot easier.'

‘You know what you're saying? That you do care for him but you're scared that your feelings won't be reciprocated.'

‘No, I'm not.'

Mrs Jamieson almost laughed aloud. It sounded like that Anthony boy had morals and if her intuition was correct, affection for Sarah. ‘So, he must be leaving the property because he can't stand being there a moment longer and can't bear the thought of being in close proximity to you because he dislikes you so much.' Mrs Jamieson could almost hear Sarah's mind ticking over across the miles of telephone line. ‘Don't you think you have known Anthony long enough to know where his mind is at? It seems to me the only person who doesn't know what they want is you. Now listen, I have to go, I have guests arriving. Just consider one thing for me. How would you feel if you never saw Anthony again? Think about that, and take care of yourself, lass.'

Hanging up the telephone, she patted down her hair and exchanged her stained apron for a fresh one. There was an American couple arriving shortly and there was dinner to prepare and fresh produce to be ordered. Yet she hovered between the immediate concerns of her daily life and the burdened young lass on the other side of the world. It was time for the Gordon men to take responsibility for their actions, she decided, picking up the telephone. She had done it once before and there was nothing to stop her from doing it again. ‘I'm after a telephone number. In Australia, it's a hospital.'

Working on one side of a wool table, Sarah kept her thoughts to herself as she skirted the burry ends off each fleece spread out over the table's surface. As each fleece was thrown high in the air to land perfectly in a spray of grit and dust, she grasped the edge of the fleece, tearing at the soft wool, removing burr, manure, urine stain and any other vegetable matter caught down the underside of the sheep. These pieces she threw into a large wire cage to be baled later. With each fleece skirted, the sides and
corners were then thrown inwards so it could be gathered and rolled over to expose its creamy underside. With the soft white staple exposed she then assisted a grinning, flannel-shirted Pete with the classing. Each fleece was examined and then categorised according to staple length, colour and fineness before being carried to the respective bins lining one wall of the shed.

At smoko, Anthony appeared from bringing in another mob of sheep and assumed his position with the rest of the men, sprawled on the wooden floor of the shed, their backs propped up by the shed wall. The cook, having provided egg sandwiches and tack-hard Anzac biscuits, returned to collect what was left before their break finished.

‘Finished with the tea?' he grunted, waving the large white enamel teapot at no-one in particular.

‘I'll have another,' Anthony lifted his battered tin mug, waiting for the teapot to be walked the five steps in his direction. He should really have got off his arse and helped himself but Corker the cook was such a drama queen when he wasn't swilling rum, that Anthony rather liked the idea of being waited on by him.

‘Sugar?' Corker asked politely, after depositing the almost tar-black contents into Anthony's mug. Anthony caught his sly grin, made more ominous by two missing front teeth and an unsavoury wave of onion breath. ‘Thanks, but I'm sweet enough.'

‘Rissoles and toast, and it was burnt,' one of the team called out from where he lay prone on the floor. ‘Not much of a cook if you ask me.'