Coming Rain (12 page)

‘Pins,' Painter shouted from the sorting table. ‘Don't press the bloody pins son.'

Lew stopped. ‘Jesus.' He clicked the handle into safe and dipped his head to look.
The fear of all wool pressers was to press the forgotten pins. But they came out
easily enough, with only a slight bow in them. He had stopped pressing in time. ‘Thanks
mate.'

Painter raised one hand, said nothing and didn't look back. Kept working.

A flock of white cockatoos flew across the open loading door, between the shed and
the track leading to the homestead. Lew could see where she had ridden to and he
kept looking over in that direction.

CHAPTER 22

It was around midday when Drysdale returned to the shed. He looked at the stacked
fleeces in the bins and the two piles of belly wool and pieces in other bins. The
already-pressed bales, piled high at one end of the shed. He nodded. ‘You done well
boys, thank you.'

‘Would you like a cup of tea boss?' Painter said. ‘There must be another cup somewhere.'
He stood and looked towards the machine room.

‘No no,' Drysdale said. He cleared his throat and scratched his shoulder. ‘We have
been a bit stretched.'

Painter nodded. ‘Righto boss, we can wait for the cheque.'

‘Cheque's good. It's not that.' Drysdale frowned and touched his burnt face, the
tips of his fingers palping the remains of the white zinc ointment. He was staring
at the floorboards and it seemed like a long time before he spoke. ‘Y'know,' he said.
‘If you lose a finger, with a saw or an axe, they reckon you can save it if you wrap
it up in cobwebs and put it back on the stump.'

‘What?' Lew glanced at Painter.

‘I heard that too,' Painter said and nodded at Lew. ‘The old spider webs got magic
in them no worries.'

‘The grass fires in the bush are tricky bloody things boys.' Drysdale's fingers exploring
the edges of the scars. ‘Don't ever underestimate them. No. Do you think it's true
about the missing fingers?'

‘Never know boss.'

Drysdale smiled, touching his burnt face. ‘Could be, you think?'

‘Could be.' Painter looked at the old man like he wished he would shut up.

Lew remembered his mother saying how she hoped her grief would cure her; it only
made her helpless. His father asking what she wanted and she said you, and he said
I can't promise you that. It makes you helpless, grief. ‘It's all right boss,' he
said. ‘Don't worry.'

Painter opened his tobacco tin and took a cigarette he had rolled earlier. Put it
in his mouth and lit it. ‘You'll be right boss.' Painter looked at his wristwatch.
‘We better get back to work but. Last run and bills to pay.'

Drysdale turned to go then stopped and raised a finger as if he had just remembered
something else. ‘I heard back from Abraham Smith. He's camped outside of Gungurra
in that bashed-up blue Vauxhall of his. Said he would clean up that female dingo
today.'

‘Righto boss.'

‘And I'll send Clara down tomorrow to help in the shed. She is a capable girl. Can
throw a full wool fleece, she was shown how.'

Painter said nothing as he reached his stand and wiped his face with a towel. He
stepped forward and opened the catching-pen door.

‘Hello there my lovely,' he said to the sheep. ‘I'm here to cut your stupid fucking
head off.'

CHAPTER 23

When she had cleaned his wound she stood and circled him, pissed and returned to
the remains of her kill. He rose and touched his wounded leg to the ground, put weight
on it and lifted it again. He hopped to where she had pissed and smelled the ground.
Tried to urinate and almost fell over as he lifted his sound back leg. She paused
from the chewing of ribs and watched him. This almost male almost fool of a young
dog falling over himself attempting to piss where she had pissed.

She ignored him and went back to eating. He came to her and put his needy muzzle
close to her mouth. She paused and watched him, her lips began to curl, she growled
and the hair on her back rose.

His long pup tongue licked out towards her as he whimpered.

She waited and then she stopped growling. Something in her relaxed and after a while
she stood up. He lay at her feet. Belly flat in the ground. Back leg extended, the
shot leg. The only movement short, nervous wags of his tail.

She closed her mouth and moved a few feet away to place
her paw on the shank of the
back leg of the mutton and begin to chew on the gristle. Looked at him to accept
her invitation. The adolescent dingo rose and began to eat the ribs of the hogget
she had left him. His sharp glances to check for her approval as he was stripping
away shreds of dark red meat with his middle teeth. It was not so long since his
milk teeth had fallen out. She did not care about that. Her approval came in the
form of ignoring him. Allowing him to eat. Allowing him to remain.

It was later that afternoon when he came to where she was sleeping and woke her by
making a whining noise and licking at her nose again. It was as he would have woken
his mother.

She growled at him, showed her teeth. He backed away and after a moment his tail
lifted, he pushed a front leg towards her. Another front leg and he turned his snout
and made a feinting motion. Lifted his backside in the air, still favouring his wounded
leg, but now he dipped his head, raised it, panting. Flirtatious. Made a playful
advance, licked at her face with a long tongue. Retreated and gave a pup bark.

She raised her nose and ignored him, a mother's tolerance as he tumbled and fooled.
He yelped, putting too much weight on his injured leg and her head turned quickly
towards him. His attention changed then. He lay and began to slowly lick at the torn
pads of his other feet.

It was not long after this they heard the sounds of a motor. The youngster's tail
shot between his legs and he crawled to the shelter of a blue bush. The motor was
revving and she heard the crack and graunch of a door opening.

The bitch looked up and the sky had already turned black. She had not heard the shot.

CHAPTER 24

‘Son.' Painter called out to Lew, who was filling the Ferrier press with rolled fleeces.

‘Yeah?'

‘Goin' back to the cookhouse to get our lunch. Be back soon, all right?'

Lew climbed into the press, began pushing wool into the corners with his feet. ‘Painter?'

Painter paused. ‘Yep?'

‘You ever been in love mate?'

‘What?'

‘Been in love, y'know?' Lew kept pressing down on the wool, looking at his feet as
he did this. ‘Ever been in love?'

‘You still thinking about that Maureen at the beach? The war widow?'

‘No. Not really. I was thinking about how old man Drysdale doesn't know what's what
with his wife dying. He must have loved her a lot. Y'know?'

Painter looked at him. ‘I been in love,' he said.

‘Any good?'

Painter wiped his mouth and face. Sniffed. His hands touching his pockets, searching
for the tobacco tin. ‘No.'

Lew stood still in the wool press and looked at Painter. ‘No good?'

‘No.'

‘Sure?'

‘Sure. We better eat.'

‘Yep.' Lew stood in the press.

‘You keep working. I'll be back soon.' Painter turned and walked out the shed.

When he returned he was carrying a large billycan in one hand and a teapot in the
other. Two mugs hung from his fingers. Three enamel plates with high sides, spoons
and a brown paper bag with slices of bread balanced on his forearms.

Lew was standing in the doorway, taking some fresh air. More wool bales, pressed,
sewn and stencilled, stacked up against a wall. A curved bale hook protruded. ‘What
is it?' He nodded to the billy.

‘The rest of the roo-tail soup.' Painter said. ‘It's turned into more of a stew now,
thickened up good. Jimmy made some dumplings to go with it.'

‘Clara's pretty fond of that little joey I give her,' Lew said.

Painter looked at him. ‘And we are eatin' Mum's tail. In here. What did she call
it again?'

‘Gwen.' Lew studied Painter for a moment. ‘Would you eat Gwen?'

‘Would I eat the nyarnyee Gwen?'

‘Yeah.'

Painter laughed. ‘For breakfast.' He was looking for somewhere to put the utensils
he was holding. ‘With eggs. You know I shore for a landowner once who used to give
his kids a pet lamb to raise when they born. The children give them names like Snowy
or Topsy, y'know? Round July August. Orphaned lambs y'know?'

Lew nodded.

‘And the kids would raise up the lamb. Name them, feed 'em with a bottle.' Painter
put the billy, plates and cups on a wool bale. ‘You see how those lambs shake their
tails when the kids feed 'em a bottle?'

Lew laughed. ‘I have.'

‘And then come Christmas time this boss would make sure the family, the kids eat
the pet lamb for lunch.'

‘The Christmas lunch? Turn it up Painter,' Lew said.

‘Yep. The pet lamb with the darling name and the little waggling tail for lunch.
Merry Christmas kids. We eatin' Snowy with the potatoes and mint sauce. Topsy's good
with a bit of gravy.' Painter began to spoon the stew into the plates. Lumps of meat
on the bone and potato, carrots. ‘The boss said not to get attached to the meat on
the table.' He sat on the bale, touched his forehead, closed his eyes and whispered
grace, picked up a spoon and ate. Made a noise of appreciation. Took a slice of buttered
bread. ‘That Jimmy can make a decent loaf, I'll give him that; butter too.'

Lew was silent. He did not know what to say and his mouth felt as broken as the day
Maureen O'Reilly had asked him his name and her mother called out to her, who is
it?

Painter looked up at Lew and then indicated the plate on which he had piled the kangaroo-tail
stew. ‘It's good son. Eat.' He picked up a tail joint and sucked the meat from the
bone.

Lew lifted his spoon and began to eat. Thought he'd be all right.

Painter nodded. ‘That landowner had a terrible temper but.'

Lew poured them both a mug of tea. ‘He did?'

‘I saw him in the shed once with a dog that took a hen. It wasn't the first time
this dog had chicken for Sunday dinner if you know what I mean.'

Lew nodded. ‘They reckon once a dog gets a taste for chooks they can't stop.'

‘Well this boss cocky, he dragged the dog in. Had him on a short chain and he took
to hitting the dog on the head with the body of the dead chook, y'know? I'll stop
you, he said to the poor bloody dog.'

Lew sipped his tea as Painter continued.

‘He was holding the dead chook by the feet and he kept hitting the dog over the head
with the body of the hen. Y'know?' Painter drank his tea and between waving his hand
back and forth in imitation. ‘Feathers started flying. He must have hit this poor
dog two hundred times. And between each blow he would say, Don't. Eat. The fuckin'.
Chooks.'

Lew was staring a few feet in front and nodding. He was smiling too because it seemed
funny and he knew this was what Painter wanted from him. Him smiling at the story.

‘He just kept hitting it. Blood and feathers, chook guts all over the dog's head.
In the end all he was holding was two wrinkly little feet. You know the chook feet
son? Got the claws on the end.'

‘Yeah Painter, I know what chook feet look like.'

Painter drank his tea, laughed and made an affirming noise. Wiped his mouth and chin
with a hand. ‘Anyway, that's the same bloke who made his kids eat their pet lambs
for Christmas dinner. Snowy and Topsy.'

‘Same bloke?'

Painter nodded. ‘Same bloke.'

‘Who was it killed the lambs? Cut their throats?'

Painter looked up at him. ‘Oh he did, cut them up too. Their mum put them in the
oven. Roast pumpkin, potatoes. She made the mint sauce. '

‘Jesus Painter.'

‘I know son. You wouldn't wear this cunt as a brooch would you?'

‘How did the kids turn out?'

Painter gathered the plates and spoons. Laid them on top of each other. Shrugged.
‘Dunno. Who gives a fuck how they turned out? But that dog didn't take any more chooks,
I heard that.'

CHAPTER 25

Blood streaming down her face she ran. The shot had grazed her skull just in front
of the ears and the young dog ran with her. He couldn't keep up but was doing his
best on three legs. In his effort he was whining between every breath, every bounding
leap to stay near her. Another shot; passing over them. It cut through the bush and,
as it struck the wood, the dogs careered away at right angles. Yet another shot.
This one landing about ten yards behind them. A fizzing smack as it hit the ground.

She did not know that when she was first hit she had simply sprinted at full speed
for two hundred yards and dropped. Rolled over. Jumped and spun around as if bitten
on the face by a snake. Threw herself over in a circle and then began to run again.

Old man Abraham Smith watched.

Children, he thought, sometimes children somersault when a heavy calibre takes them.
They like scattering birds. He wiped his face with one hand. Seen a lubra do the
same thing, shot
through the head yet run like that bitch there, covered the hundred
yards before she dropped, did a performance at the end.

The young dog heard him clearing his throat and remembered the terrifying sound and
the sense of him. The hot smell of the shooting and the death of all his known family
and he ran again for his life.

Abraham raised his chin to lift his white beard over his forearm and leaned across
the roof of the blue car. Thumbed back the brim of his hat. His elbows braced. Aimed
and squeezed off another shot. This shot passed over them. He opened and closed the
bolt. He fired again, lowering his sights; the shot fell short and then they were
gone. Again he opened the bolt of the Lee Enfield .303 to extract the spent shell
casing. Removed the magazine and closed the bolt on an empty chamber. Put the magazine
in his pocket.