Daughter of Australia (20 page)

“It's not just the debt,” Will added. “Look, we're not war chasin' or fancy for diggin' trenches in Turkey, but it's the only way. Government's dividing crown land to the returning soldiers. Mum, holdin' a lease an' not payin' the taxes, has to be top of the list for cutting up the homestead. If she's got two sons back from the war, it's as good insurance as we got that we can keep it. At least if we want to sell the land, we get the profits before the government does.”

“Look, Will an' me been around this whole thing two, three times over and we got our plan,” said John. “Sulkin' ain't gonna pay the debts, so better start swallowin' it now.”

John turned to James. “You're part of this family, too, and Mum needs you.” He cocked his head at Tom. “Talk to him. It's the only way.”

 

Tom was still pissed when they curved the ring around the market, the price they got for the wheat not helping. Crops screwed a man one way or another. In drought, a man can't grow enough for profit; in the wet, a man grows too much and floods the market and drowns the price.

The
ding
of metal against metal vibrated up from the new railroad line near the center of town, grew louder as they walked. Tom was brooding, halted in mid-stride, twisting his lips. “Damn it. Should have fought for more money.” He turned on his heels. “I'm goin' back.”

James shoved his hands into his pockets. “He's not going to budge.”

“Then it's gonna feel bloody good kickin' him in the teeth.” As if to prove his point, he kicked a rock, spiraling it into the air. It wasn't the price of wheat that burned.

James finally asked, “Why you so hot to go to war?”

“Because I'm fuckin' stuck, mate! I've been on the same patch of dirt since I was born.” Tom rarely angered, but his face grew red, then balanced. “I love the land. I do. But scares me t'death to think of never leavin' it. Just birth an' death with only cows an' wheat an' a few girls to pass the time in between.” He looked at the horses and the old wagon, empty now of its cargo, his eyes bitter. “I'd leave in a heartbeat if it weren't for the money.”

They walked down the main street, heads low. The sun beat upon their backs, lines of sweat streaking their spines. The railroad shimmered ahead, the glare blurring the metal till it showed white. A row of Chinese swung the giant mallets above saucered hats. Their bodies, bone thin, pounded in synergy, one set raised, the other hammering, over and over again like the pistons of a steam engine. The sharp
ding
bit into the eardrum, throbbed into the foot's arch.

James felt Tom's weariness and the burden of Shelby debt as if it were his own. The hands of poverty tightened around his neck and squeezed with shame that he wasn't able to help the family that sheltered him. “Evict us. Shamus and me,” James blurted. “The land is sitting idle while you're paying taxes.”

Tom dismissed it without a pause. “Nothin' doing.”

“We've taken charity long enough. Rent the land or sell it. I'll drag Shamus off myself.”

Tom grew angry. “Doesn't matter, James! Nobody's rentin'; nobody's buyin'. Land's going to sit there whether your dad's there or not. Besides, with you gone, who'd run the stock? You're worth more than that bum piece of land, three times over.”

The men watched the Chinese hammer under the blistering heat. Tom rattled the loose change in his pockets. “I need a drink.”

“Me too.”

They stepped over the fresh rails, the ground undulating beneath their boots, and passed the co-op to the pub on the corner. Made of old steel drums, bolted, taped and welded together, the pub stunk with confined sweat and spilled beer and was filled with bushmen and farmers—one set coming from the east, the other from the west—converging around sharp liquor.

“Two whiskeys!” Tom ordered, scanned the crowded tin can. “There's Flanegan and Berkshire.” He raised his glass in greeting to the rough jackeroos from the Baratta Station.

The men grinned as they approached. “Wonderin' when we'd run into yer ugly mugs!” the giant Flanegan hollered, a trail of whiskey slurring his words.

“Don't sweet-talk us,” Tom sported. “Your girlfriend's gonna get jealous.”

They all shook hands, firm and worn palms slapping. Berkshire was quiet, but his smile was silly, his pupils bobbing in ale.

“Sell this mornin'?” Tom asked.

“Sell? Robbed more like it!” Flanegan growled. He was the biggest bloke in the county by a head, a fiery Irishman who held the shearing record for a hundred miles—a man famous for his limited talents: shearing, drinking and brawling.

Berkshire shrugged. “Bloke's got us by the balls.”

“Yeah.” Flanegan pursed his lips. “Where's yer brothers, Tom?”

Tom beat the ground with his boot. “Signin' up.”

“No shit!”

Tom swirled his drink until it splashed over the rim.

Flanegan eyed James. “Still livin' off the Shelby fat, eh, James-o?”

“Still drinking your baby's milk money, eh, Flanegan?” James poured the whiskey down his throat in one gulp.

“Damn right!” the man spit darkly. “Sittin' right along wiv yer dad.”

James slammed the empty glass onto the bar.

“Just jokin'!” Flanegan smacked James roughly on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over. “No worries, eh, James-o?” He hit him in the arm without restraint, his eyes violent above his cock-eyed grin. Flanegan wandered off.

James motioned for another drink, brought it to his lips, drank it empty.

Tom watched his friend. “Easy, mate. You're not a drinker.”

James ignored him, ordered a third. His arm still ached with Flanegan's punch and he absently ran his fingers over the spot. He watched the brown bottles of beer and whiskey poured along the bar, saw the bottle that had sat on Shamus's table. He rubbed the bruise harder and remembered the look on Shamus's face when he hit him, remembered the drunken gaze that looked no different from Flanegan's. The buzz of the pub bounced around his ears and he drank, closed his eyes to the pounding thoughts that grew louder and the memories more violent, drank still more. The throng of hammering from the railroad reverberated under the pub, the monotonous ting of metal throbbing his brain like an impending headache.

Flanegan stumbled back through the bar, splashing whiskey from his glass over Tom's sleeve. “Watch it!” Tom bellowed.

Flanegan slunk between Tom and James, dropping a heavy arm around each neck. “Two drinks fer my mates!” he hollered, his skin wet with sweat and alcohol.

“See those coolies workin' the line?” Flanegan slobbered. “Look like stinkin' women with those braids.” His lips were slick. “Hate coolies. Half a mind t'beat 'em wiv those mallets.”

James squeezed the glass in his fingers, thought it might crack. “Leave 'em be.”

“Whot's that?” Flanegan rattled his head, cocked his ear.

James met the drunk's gaze straight. “You don't beat a man for wanting a better life.”

Flanegan paused and then leaned his head back in hard laughter. He whistled and laughed again, so loudly that a few men turned and listened.

James looked at Flanegan through his own growing whiskey cloud. He looked at the sausage fingers, short and stubby as Shamus's. He tasted blood, his own blood, as he bit his lip with clenched teeth. All the good was leaving, like voices fading down a well, and in their place the flood of anger rose and gripped what it could for growth.

Flanegan raised his glass, his pupils dilated and unfocused in the dim light. “A toast!” he yelled in smeared, cutting speech. “To the coolie-lovin' mooch . . . may 'is dead mother be proud!”

James smashed his fist into Flanegan's broad nose before the glass touched his lips. The man's head stayed tilted with the blow, still stunned. Then his neck twisted, his eyes wild in disbelief. “Why, yeh son of a—”

James pulled back, belted another blow to his jaw. Flanegan fell through the men, the crowded bodies breaking his fall and thrusting him upright. James jumped at him, the skin across his knuckles breaking as he punched the bones of the man's face—as he punched Shamus, the drought, the charity, the debts, the deaths, the plow, the loss, the pity and the void. And Flanegan returned the blows, fist for fist, grunt for grunt, across tables and broken glass.

In a rush of adrenaline James heard Tom curse, “Aw, Christ!” Heard men hold him back and shout, “Leave 'em be. 'Tis a fair fight!” And then another voice: “Fair or not, get 'em outta here 'fore they break the place!”

Between punches, their bodies were shoved out into the sun, where they landed in the dust. James rose, but Flanegan kneed him in the side, sent him to the ground with stupefying pain, then raised him by the shirt collar and held him tight as he landed two pummels to the side of the head. The fighters grabbed at each other, their fists slipping in blood, but now unobstructed by the pub confines, Flanegan used his full strength. And with one final blow to the head, James didn't see the ground, just fell into blackness as his head bounced off of it.

“Roll up your coat and put it under his head,” John's voice echoed from a long tunnel.

James tried to open his eyes, but the right one sealed tight, the other opened a crack, the narrow slits of light instant intruders. His head felt as large as a watermelon.

James saw stars. Real stars that stretched and bounced, then doubled and blurred. He closed one eye, the other still glued shut, and the blackness spun in his head and the sour whiskey swirled in his stomach and tipped the earth. He rolled on scraps of hay till he nearly fell off the dray's boards. James threw up over the side, his bruised ribs tortured with each hurl.

“Sunshine's up,” said John from the driver's seat.

James rolled on his back, his head bouncing over the unweighted wagon, each thump an anvil to the skull.

“Sit up.” Tom pushed his shoulders from behind. “Look good in purple, James.”

James squinted and pressed his hand to his ribs. Tom grinned, a bloody handkerchief against a split lip, his nose crusted black at each nostril.

“What happened to you?” James croaked.

“Fell onto Flanegan's fist.” John chuckled.

Tom laughed, winced as the lip reopened. “Not gonna sit by while they make pulp outta my mate.”

James thought he might throw up again. “I can fight my own battles.”

John laughed. “Yeah, we can see that.”

“Good thing Tom's an idiot. He saved your arse,” Will added. “We come back from the office an' Tom's bleedin' like a busted pipe but got his arm around Flanegan and Berkshire, singin' their hearts out.”

Tom crooned with tone-deaf acumen:

He held his heart in mock sentiment and placed a hand on James's shoulder, and even in his pain James cracked a smile. “See! Irish can't stay mad when a drunk is singing to him. Even a drongo like Flanegan.” Tom stuffed the handkerchief deeper into his nostril.

Hours later, under a full moon, the wagon pulled into the homestead. James held his head between his hands, trying to keep it from exploding. John pulled up and looked at the lights in the window. “Here we go.”

The brothers dragged James toward the house. John pulled the door open with his foot and let it slam behind them. The children were at the table eating, their forks hovering in their fingers as James came into view. Gracie cried out. Mrs. Shelby spun from the stove, her mouth open before pinching closed. “Girls, go get some towels!” she ordered. The children sat dumb with staring.

“Out with you!” she hollered. “Scoot!”

The children knocked into one another as they fled.

John cleared his throat, hit James on the back. “Aw, Mum, should have seen James here. Took on the biggest bloke in the county! Brute causin' a load a trouble b'fore he stepped in.”

“Put him here.” Mrs. Shelby pulled out a chair and filled a pot of water, the boys fidgeting under her rare silence.

Will spoke up nervously. “Yeah, bloke had it comin'. Looks worse than James for sure.”

Mrs. Shelby pushed past them. The three brothers glanced at one another and waited.

“Go help the girls.” Mrs. Shelby knelt in front of James, picked up his chin and examined his face.

“He's orright, Mum,” Tom noted. “More blood than anything else.”

She whirled her head. “Get out! All of you!” Mrs. Shelby watched them leave. “Raised a bunch of idiots, I did.” She turned to James, began cleaning his cut cheek, applying pressure against the opening. “You proud of yourself?”