The Shearing Gun (20 page)

Initially I was ashamed, thinking that he thought I was filthy—and not in a good way—but then he blushed and admitted he actually enjoyed it. At first I thought he was taking the mickey, but then he explained, and I realized he was telling the truth. Growing up they’d always had a housekeeper. While he was studying, he’d lived at home and on hospital rotation, he’d slept and ate at the hospital. This was like a new experience to Elliot. It was a fun game, and I was more than happy for him to experiment with housework at my place. He told me he enjoyed the instantaneous results of his labor. I had to think about that one for a while—but I think I understood. Doctoring was a long-term effort. Rarely would he be able to see an immediate change. He usually had to wait for the medicine to work or the healing to be completed.

His latest efforts at being house-proud meant he was attempting to bake. Jimmie had e-mailed me a couple of recipes, and Elliot was trying them. He wasn’t very good at it, but then again, I had been spoiled for years by Jimmie’s masterpieces.

Now we were making plans for Elliot to see me “in action,” so to speak.

“We start at seven, with smoko around nine thirty and lunch at twelve,” I told him, and he agreed to come sometime during the morning—depending on when he surfaced from sleep.

At ten to seven on Saturday morning, I was pulling up at the fence near the shearing shed, ready to start the day. There were sheep in their hundreds penned up and ready to go. Middy and his rousies would bring the rest in as the day progressed. We had about two-and-a-half thousand to get through over the following two days.

I climbed out of my vehicle and yelled in vain at Buck. He’d already spotted Dancer, and the two of them were doing their meet-and-greet routine. If Dancer was here, it meant Middy was inside. I nodded to the others who had already arrived, and mentally catalogued them. Shearing was a rather small pond, and I knew almost everyone who worked the area. Middy had put together his own team—he had his two sisters, two brothers, a cousin, and an uncle helping today. The young lads who were on the broom were probably nephews or cousins. Some farmers simply employed a company to do their sheep. The company would provide their own classers and roustabouts. Others, like Middy, filled the team with his own family.

I worked with both.

I spoke with the floor boss, found my station, and set up my gear. Shearers provided their own hand pieces and combs, so I plugged into the motor above my station and tested it. The shearing piece motors hung from wide boards above our heads with a long metal arm hanging down that had a kink in it two-thirds of the way. The shearing handpiece is similar to the hair trimmer a barber might use and slots into the end of the arm that provides its power. Also hanging down from the motor was a knotted string, dirty and stained from years of grease, that turned the motor on and off. While shearing you concentrated on the animal in front of you and simply felt around for the string to yank. One yank and you were on, another yank and you were off.

Middy swung by to make sure everyone was set up and ready.

“Hey, Hank. Thanks for c-c-coming again this year. Will you be beating the total th-this time?”

In every single shed in the country—or at least every one that I’d been in—there was a wall where the best shearing scores were recorded. Middy’s shed had records all the way back to 1958. I’d been trying to beat the 1999 top score for three years.

“Hell, yes,” I answered. “I’m feeling good about today. Hey, now listen, Mid. Doc Elliot said he was going to swing by this morning and find out what a real shearing shed in action looks like. The guy is a total citified wanker. Can you believe he’d never collected eggs straight from a nest before? Can Di give him a bit of a hand? Show him how things work?”

Middy was already frowning at a shed hand across the room but answered, “No problem, Hank. I’ll keep an eye out for him. Di will surely love to show him around.”

The clock on the wall was ticking, counting down the minutes until we started. I changed into my special shearing shoes—the ones that didn’t catch on the teeth of my comb or hurt the animal if I needed to hold it still with my foot—stripped off my jumper so I was in my singlet, and chucked my watch in my bag. I stretched my back, knowing it was about to be punished, and glanced into my pen. Behind each shearing station was an individual pen that held about twenty-five sheep with a double-hinged gate. We were paid per animal, so the floor boss would be keeping a tally. There would be a shed hand responsible for letting the sheep from the outside into the pens and letting the boss know the number.

Di was doing the final check of the tables. She would be responsible for cleaning the fleeces of bad wool and dags, then rating each fleece so all the top-class fleeces were together. She would work two tables at the same time with a bit of help from Middy’s other younger sister, Denny. Denny would collect each fleece as they came off the sheep and throw them on the table, dirty side down. The table was an oval shape made from bars of steel and swiveled on a central leg so the classer wouldn’t need to walk around.

The entire fleece would be sorted into different bales for packaging—fleeces, dags, bellies, and so on. Two young boys of about thirteen were on the brooms. They started in the crappiest job, but in six years they’d be in my spot. The first part of the fleece that came off was the belly—it went in a separate bale and would need to be whisked away from under the shearer’s feet as soon as it came off. Then the shearer would take the rest of the fleece off, keeping it as one complete piece. Once the fleece dropped, Denny would have about twenty seconds to gather it while the shearer pushed the newly shorn animal out the exit chute and collected the next victim from the pen. The broom boy would then sweep the wooden floor clear of any loose wool before the shearer returned.

It sounded simple—until you realized you had five shearers, all working at different rates, two broom boys, and one shed hand gathering the fleeces. The floor boss picked up the slack when needed, but everyone would be going hammer-and-tongs.

I shook hands with Rooster, who would be on one side of me, took a mouthful of water from my drink bottle, and watched as Pete Adamson and his twin brother Shawn marched into their pens and pulled out the first sheep at 7:28 a.m. I didn’t hurry for my pen. Denny was young and wouldn’t be able to keep up with five fleeces coming off at the same time—best to give the others a head start. I watched Pete for a minute, then barreled into my own pen. I grabbed the nearest sheep, fisting a handful of wool on its neck to keep it still while I grabbed a front leg, tipped it up, and sat it on its rump. It was funny to note that these were older ewes, and they seemed to remember what this shearing business was all about. They hardly struggled.

Walking backward I dragged my ewe into position, then tucked her head under one arm, and picked up my piece. It was monotony. I’d sheared over two hundred fifty thousand sheep in my lifetime, and the motions had become pure instinct. I turned on the motor and I was off.

I hardly noticed the passage of time. Years of shearing had taught me to be efficient and quick. I was working hard but conserving my energy for later. The shed would get hot, and I still had hours to go. I worked—and thought about Elliot. I wondered how long he would be staying around Dumbleyung. He had signed a contract with Doc Larsen to be here at least a year, but his government contract only required him to work in a rural area. He had the option of trying out another place next year if he wanted.

And where would that leave me?

Alone, probably. I had to grin to myself, since I calculated that I’d had more sex with Elliot in the previous six weeks than I’d had in the three years since I’d moved to Dumbleyung. And I had to say, the extra sex was infinitely preferable over the long dry spells. I removed another fleece and thought about Doc Larsen’s insinuation that there were more gay guys in town. Who?

Another fleece, and I thought about the guys in town and decided who I would “do” if I had the chance. Another fleece gone, and my list of do-able guys was pitifully short. Two of them were married, only three were single, and one I’d have to double-check if he was legal yet.

Another fleece, and I realized that having Elliot as a lover was a pretty good deal. He was cute, funny, sexy, open, smart, and a genuinely nice guy. I was lucky. It was like I’d struck gold while drilling for coal.

“Smoko!”

The call startled me, and I looked up from the ewe I was doing to see that 9:30 a.m. had arrived. I finished my animal, pushed her into the outside pen, and stretched. By the smell of the food wafting my way, Middy’s mum had been cooking, overpowering the smells of grease and sheep shit. I joined Rooster at the trough and scoured my hands with soap and a scrubbing brush.

“Doing good, huh, Hank?” he said.

“What?”

“You,” he nodded. “Usually I can nearly keep up with you within about five-to-ten sheep an hour. I reckon you outstripped me by at least twenty per hour this morning.”

I had?

I checked with the floor boss and I was staggered. How the hell had I done so many sheep without noticing? Most shearers were expected to average twenty-five an hour. I could do thirty-five, forty if I hustled. I had just completed ninety-five in two hours without realizing.

After filling my gut with jam-and-cream scones, blueberry muffins, and two cups of coffee, we were back at it.

I slipped into the zone again, my thoughts jumping back to Elliot. What would make him want to stick around for a bit longer than his contracted year? Money was obviously not an issue with him. It sounded like his mother had more than enough, so she could tempt him home with money, if that’s what he wanted. He’d told me what he was earning. It made me drool, but at the same time, I knew the doctors in Katanning must be making triple. Those in the city? At least ten times more.

The location of the town was nothing to entice him with either. He’d chosen Dumbleyung because it sent a huge middle finger of contempt to his mother. But how long would that feeling last? Revenge got stale very quickly.

The workload of being a doctor was crazy-arsed busy as well. I was sure there were other jobs that wouldn’t take as much of his time as being our town’s doctor, but there was nothing I could do about that. I couldn’t offer to ease the burden of his load if he would just stick around a bit longer.

He’d told me he was lonely. Maybe I should introduce him to a few more of my mates around the district. An extended circle of friends could make a difference to his happiness. But a lot of what we talked about—and where we did it—involved farming.

I guess that left me with… me. Would a closeted, secret love affair with a tall—perhaps sexy if I could flatter myself—woolly-headed farmer appeal enough to make Elliot want to stay? Was the sex enough? Did I need to do more? Did I need to make more of an effort? Did I need to be romantic? Did guys buy other guys flowers? Perhaps I could offer to service his car for him for free? Was that romantic?

He seemed to really like my chooks. What if I bought him a couple of hens and let them live at my place?

I mentally slapped myself in the head as I grabbed the next ewe out of the pen and pulled her into place. Chooks? Shit. I was a total romantic there! And did I really think that giving the man two chooks would make him want to stay in a backward town that wasn’t even in the middle of Woop-woop? Hell, Dumbleyung was so far away from the city lights of Melbourne, that it was southwest of Woop-woop.

Maybe the city lights would be the key. If I could arrange myself enough, we could spend every second weekend in Perth. Elliot was on call for 50 percent of the weekends. Perhaps I could ditch a couple of shearing jobs and go to the city with him. Of course that would hurt my back pocket—a day of shearing was about $600 once I deducted my expenses. Nice pay, but it was seasonal. I needed to put enough away for later in the year. So a weekend away could lose me $1200 in pay. A trip to the city would be about $150 in petrol, at least, plus meals and accommodation….

“Hank!”

I looked up in surprise as Middy called my name. A shearing shed was noisy from the motors, the sheep, and the general sound of work. I tucked the half-shorn wether between my legs and stood up so Middy could speak in my ear without shouting. He had a smile on his face that I couldn’t decipher. I swiped at the sweat on my forehead and waited for him to speak.

“Your boyfriend’s here.”

Immediately I brightened and looked around to find Elliot. He was grinning like a kid on the farm tour again. His eyes were locked firmly on me and my answering smile was radiant. I waved acknowledgement, and he seemed to understand that I couldn’t stop to come and see him. He was chatting with the floor boss, who was making sure he didn’t get in Di’s way. I glanced at the clock on the wall, and it was still another forty minutes until lunch.

Middy spoke again. “Don’t worry. I’ll l-look after him. I’m headed out now to b-bring in the next lot of sheep, and he can help me.”

“Thanks, mate. Take Buck with you. He listens to Elliot some of the time.”

Middy nodded and strode off toward my boyfr—
Oh, fuck! Middy had called him my boyfriend, and I knew exactly what and who he meant. I hadn’t even denied it!

Feeling a little dizzy, I bent over my sheep and attacked its wool with the clippers. Did Middy know? Did Middy suspect? Did Middy suspect but
now
know for sure? If I brought up the subject, would it be obvious? Should I just ignore it?

My head was whirling and my gut beginning to ache from worry. I cut fleece after fleece, shoving the snowy white, naked animals out of the shed. I ran through scenarios in my head. Should I tell Elliot? Should I confess the truth to Middy? Should I pretend it never happened? What would Middy say if he knew the truth? What would he do? If he suspected now, how come he was still talking to me and being nice to Elliot? If people knew, would they shun Elliot? Would they prefer to be sick rather than to go to a gay doctor?

The sudden cessation of noise had me looking at the clock in surprise. It was past midday, and the others had shut down. Four more blows and the fleece fell off the sheep. I stood him up on wobbly legs and nudged him toward the outside chute so Denny could collect the fleece. Mrs. MacDonald had an urn set up, boiling away in the corner, and was setting out sandwiches, homemade sausage rolls, and miniature quiches. There was ice water set out with cups ready, a plate of fruit, more scones with cream, and what looked to be apple pie, but was probably rhubarb, if I remembered from last year.