The Great Plains (32 page)

June, 1935 – Riverview Road, Southern Queensland

It took time for the lead weight in Marcus's stomach to ease. All his life he'd prided his ability to survive without reverting to any type of shenanigans. He'd been a paperboy, picked oranges for board and keep until his fingers bled, and finally ended up milking cows for a pittance, before the government stepped in and gave him the farm. Of course it was all well and good to walk on the right side of the road when there was only yourself to look after, but marriage and babies was something else. Marcus remembered his father toiling in the bottle factory until his fingers were so bent he could barely hold a knife. At the memory, he unexpectedly felt a newfound respect for the man who believed in an honest day's wage and espoused the importance of each generation improving on the next. So far there hadn't been a whole lot of progress in that regard. He tried to content himself with the supplies they were returning with and at the thought of being able to give his wife a length of ribbon. It wasn't a new blouse or a dress but it was a start, and with the nails he could finish erecting the wall for the wash-room. He wasn't much of a religious man, not since the war, for he figured what with the killing he'd done that he didn't deserve the ear of the Lord, but as the wagon rolled along, Marcus prayed for forgiveness.

They travelled down the road some ten miles, bypassing the turn-off to the dairy.

‘Where are we going?'

Will was still annoyed, Marcus's own father hadn't been one for argumentative children so he pressed his lips together until they came to a crossroads with a large painted sign. ‘Now, we better find you a job.' On the right was the entrance to Condamine Station.

‘Here?' Will asked.

‘Why not? Haven't we discussed that a big pastoralist was the best option, lad?' Marcus twitched the reins and the horses walked up the slight incline. ‘We know they've got money and a lot of it. They purchased the property before the outbreak of the war and very soon they were making that wool into cloth for uniforms. Yep, I reckon that these are the people you should be asking for work.'

Will's fingers gripped the dray's seat. ‘But aren't they a bit flash to be asking for a job? Especially when that Mr Kirkland wants to buy our land?'

‘Meaning what?' Marcus replied. ‘If you start thinking that somebody is better than you, sooner or later everyone will be believing it. Besides, I'm figuring we'll be speaking to the head stockman, Evan Crawley. He's not a bad cove. I dealt with him a few times when he wanted to use our crossing after Hocking died. Now that Mr Kirkland himself has paid us a visit, I'm figuring we can renegotiate.'

The country spread out before them in a sweep of golden pasture that glistened and swayed in the breeze. To the east were the hills Marcus could see from near his own land. At this spot they were the palest of blue, small and somehow uninspiring when compared with the land mass that spread out from its base. The dray rolled up another slight incline. There wasn't a tree in sight.

‘Look, Dad.' Puffs of whiteness, dust, swirled in the air.

‘Something's on the move,' Marcus agreed as the dray levelled out. On their right an arrow-head formation of sheep came into view. Starkly white against the grassland, they were being walked into the distance away from the clutch of buildings that were now visible. The mob tailed out across the curve of the plains, an endless multitude of steadily plodding animals heading back to their paddock. On the left, another mob were being brought in. Five men on horseback and a handful of dogs were strung out at the rear. Will made out wide-brimmed hats and flapping coat-tails and the bobbing of dogs as they ran through the grass. There was whistling and laughing and the familiar tone of a dog being reprimanded.

Will turned to his father. ‘Should we try and catch up with them?'

‘No, son, we'll head on up to the house and introduce ourselves.'

The clutch of dwellings that they had first seen from afar morphed into a small village. There was a water tower among the numerous outbuildings that edged out on either side of the road like waiting attendants. Long squat bunkhouses faced off opposite five small houses where two women hung washing on clotheslines. Smoke billowed from chimneys and a man up a windmill waved as they passed.

Will noted a building with a sign saying ‘Station Store'. ‘Gee, Dad, they have their own shop.'

Marcus kept his eyes on the road ahead. It did a man no good to be too impressed with the success of another. ‘Well, they were here before the railway went through, Will, and the squatter they purchased it from had been here sixty years before that. I imagine a big place like this needs to be fairly self-sufficient.'

The stone homestead rose up from amidst the bustle. Situated among sprawling gardens, Marcus noted the groves of orange and lemon trees that had been planted to one side of the building while the other side was mainly lawn, native trees and what appeared to be rose bushes.

‘They sure have had a lot of dead dogs,' Will commented.

There was a white paling fence enclosing the homestead within which birds darted through a sprinkler watering the lawn. Marcus and Will were about to open the gate and walk towards the front door with its wide porch and white pillars when a man appeared from behind a shrub, clasping a pair of pruning shears.

‘Deliveries to the station store, mate, or around the back if it's for the big house.'

Marcus held out his hand. ‘I'm Marcus Todd from The Plains and this is my son, Will. We were hoping to talk to someone about –' He noticed the man was missing an arm and dropped his own.

‘Present from Fitz,' the man explained, ‘and a reminder of why a man's right bonkers to volunteer for a war. Who are you after then?'

‘My boy here, Will, is looking for work.'

The man rested the shears against his shoulder. ‘Kirkland's the one you need to be speaking to. I don't like your chances. He runs a tight ship but you never know your luck. Be straight with him and he might give the young fella a go. Cross him and you'll live to regret it.'

‘Oh.' Father and son exchanged looks. ‘Thanks. Where do we find him?'

‘About now he'll be finishing his rounds. Head round the back and you should catch up with him on the road to the shearing shed.'

‘Much obliged,' Marcus replied.

The shearing shed was a mile from the rear of the homestead. Clouds of dust hung in the sky as the mob of sheep that they had seen earlier drew closer to the sheep-yards. The men on horseback cooed and yelled as the sheep headed towards the yards. The corrugated iron roof of the shed was glary in the winter light. The structure seemed to fill Marcus's field of vision and he marvelled at the size of the enterprise that he'd had the nerve to enter. He'd lived in the district for just on seventeen years and his thoughts rarely strayed to what others might be capable of accomplishing. Sure, he was friends with some of the owners of the other dairy farms, such as Jenkins next door, but The Plains was the smallest dairy in the district and he was the last of the soldier-settlers. Marcus had been too busy just trying to survive.

‘I don't know nothing about sheep, Dad,' Will said nervously, turning to look at the wire and timber chook run.

‘You know how to kill them, skin them and cut 'em down, that's a start.'

Ahead, two black stockmen crossed the road to a timber hut. Outside a farrier busied himself shoeing a horse. The Aboriginals were tall and lean, the farrier leaner. There were water troughs and a set of stables at least four times the size of the one at The Plains, while a fenced-off paddock a little further on held a baker's dozen of dairy cows.

‘Maybe I could get a job looking after the cattle.'

‘Maybe.' There was the hum of an engine in the distance. The barking of dogs grew louder. Marcus turned to look at a covered sty where pigs were kept as the dray jolted to a sudden stop.

Wes Kirkland sat astride his horse, directly in their path.

‘Where'd he come from?' Will murmured.

Ignoring the boy Marcus flicked the reins, driving the horses forward until they were at speaking distance. The manager walked his mount towards them. Marcus quickly began to explain to Mr Kirkland why they were on Condamine Station, uncomfortably aware that the American was quite amused that they had the audacity to be asking him for a job.

‘What can you do, boy? Do you know about sheep, horses, mending fences, mustering or dogs? Can you ride, shoot and crap on the run if I tell you to?' Wes Kirkland spoke with a drawl that was all hard edges and strung-out words.

‘I k-know about dogs and milking cows and –'

The overseer pulled the brim of his hat back over his face. ‘You're dairy farmers. Cow-herders. I ain't got much of a need for a boy who knows nothing but cow-shit and milk buckets.'

Will scowled. ‘I can ride, a-and I can shoot a rabbit at sixty paces on the run and I can –'

Marcus placed a calming hand on his son's shoulder.

‘A real world-beater,' the man replied. His mount, a steely grey, nickered as if in agreement.

‘We'd be appreciative if you could give him a go. He's a hard worker,' Marcus said politely.

‘Times are tough, mister.'

‘Not as tough as they are for some,' Marcus replied pointedly.

The man burst out laughing. ‘Nuggety little cow-herders, the pair of you. Coming in here after turning down my offer to buy your place.' Wes rubbed his chin. There was an advantage to be had with this arrangement. ‘All right, I'll give your boy a go. Three-month trial. Be here at dusk on Sunday, find the leading hand Evan, and he'll set you up with supplies and a bunk. You can help bring the last mob in for shearing and then we've got thousands of sheep that need to be walked back to their respective paddocks.'

Will nodded enthusiastically. ‘Thank you, Mr Kirkland.'

‘Don't thank me, not yet.' He tugged the reins, and horse and rider turned to face Marcus. ‘In return I'll be wanting access to your river crossing.'

‘A flat fee per crossing is the easiest,' Marcus told him.

Wes smoothed his moustache with dirt-rimmed nails. ‘You're not quite understanding the terms of your boy's employment. He can have a job here but in return I want access to that crossing. No access. No job.'

‘But –'

‘Take it or leave it, Todd. I don't need to take this boy on. I'm betting he'll be more of a hindrance than a help.'

‘Fine, fine. Have the access then.' Marcus looked at his son. ‘But it's for the length of time that my boy works here and no more than one year.'

‘Well then, lad, it looks like your father has worked out your terms of employment. If you're capable and you're worth keeping on, you'll be here for a year. No longer.'

‘Mr Kirkland,' Will called after him as he rode away, ‘I'll be needing a horse.'

‘That figures,' the man replied.

That night, after milking, they celebrated. Flossy had stewed more brains and served them with a brandy-laced sauce of fresh butter and cream. The bacon was thick and crispy on the side of their plates and there were potatoes and a nip of brandy each to toast their good fortune. Flossy kept fondling the ribbon in her hair and smiling, and Will hiccupped until Marcus made him drink a glass of rainwater upside down. The boy gurgled and choked and half the water went on the floor, but it took his mind off the hiccups as his father said it would. They finished off scraping their plates clean with chunks of bread and then Flossy made cups of tea for everyone.

‘Do you get to come home and visit once in a while?' Flossy passed her son the tea and took up her place in the rocking chair while the men shared the sagging sofa.

‘Not for a bit, Mum.'

‘Let's see if he meets with Mr Kirkland's approval by the end of the month.' Marcus gathered up the moist shreds of tobacco from the tin in his pocket and, rolling them in a slip of paper, lit the smoke. He sighed theatrically and then rose to pour more brandy.