ELEVEN

When we all went over to the house for smoko the next day, the Pommie was in the garden hanging out some washing, so we went over there to eat the biscuits she’d left for us. Smoko was what we called the break we had in the morning. Bobbie reckoned it was because it was when people had a smoke. The Pommie said in England it was called elevenses because they had a break at eleven o’clock. Anyway, as she pegged the clothes onto the line she asked if I’d take her for another drive. She reckoned she needed to get used to the Old Rover. I looked at Bobbie to see what she thought. Bobbie shrugged and said it was a good idea. We all knew Liz needed the practice. I was just surprised she’d thought of it.

I asked the Pommie where she wanted to go, but she didn’t know. She didn’t know the station, so I said I’d take her to Simpson’s Dam to see the memorial to old Arthur. That watering hole was the furthest one from the station, so I reckoned it’d give her plenty of time to get used to driving the Old Rover. It was right on the western side of our land. There was a pointy grey stone over there with his name on it. It said:

In memory of Arthur Simpson

A decent man who worked hard

Died June 12 1930

After we’d had lunch and the Pommie had washed up, we went to get the Old Rover. I told her she needed to be a bit gentler with him—he was an old fella and he didn’t take kindly to being treated roughly. She smiled and nodded as she started his engine. She was concentrating real hard, finding the right gears and trying not to let the Old Rover skid on the sandy roads. When he did, she panicked a bit, like she thought she was going to crash. I told her not to brake—that just made it worse. After a while she started to relax a bit more.

The sun was real high in the sky and I was glad I had Greg’s hat. The Pommie had on a pair of sunnies, like the tourists in Alice Springs. I said she should wear a hat too, but she said she didn’t have one. I reckoned we’d have one she could use. I said I’d have a look when we got back to the station. The wind was cool as we drove along, but the Pommie didn’t go very fast, so when I touched the top of my hat, it felt real hot.

We had to turn off the road to Warlawurru onto a dirt track, which was bumpier, to get to Simpson’s Dam. There were bigger witchetty bushes and gum trees along the track, which gave a bit of shade. The Pommie didn’t like it, though. She slowed down for each and every little bump and hole in the road. I told her the Old Rover’s suspension was pretty tough, so she could speed up a bit, but she was scared she’d crash. We crawled along, zigzagging across the little dirt track as the Pommie did her best to drive round every little pebble and hole. Two wild horses came out of nowhere and crossed the road ahead of us. The Pommie stopped and said, “What was that?” Like she wasn’t sure if what she’d seen was real or not. I explained how there were a few wild horses in the desert. They’d escaped from stations over the years and roamed free. I told her they were a pain in the neck and we hated them—we shot them whenever we could. She didn’t get it, so I had to explain how they got in with the cattle sometimes during the muster and broke the fences and stuff. She was too busy looking at the road to really listen though.

Eventually, after almost an hour of crawling through the desert, we came out of the trees and bushes to a more open area. Below us was the dam—a kind of big hole in the desert, which was meant to be full of water. It wasn’t full, though, because of the drought. You could see a mark stretching all around the dam showing how high the water used to be, but it was much lower than that now. I guess it was like if a pond dried up and became a puddle—only bigger.

Arthur’s stone stuck up out of the ground next to the dam like a grey tooth. I pointed to it and told the Pommie to drive down there. She pulled up next to it and jumped out to have a proper look. She ran her hand over the top, like she was stroking Buzz. I told her how my great-granddad bought Timber Creek Station after Arthur died. Dad reckoned it had been a wild place back then. Not long before Arthur died, a bunch of whitefellas came out to the desert to kill all the Blackfellas. I think it was something to do with a Blackfella killing a gin-jockey.

The Pommie didn’t know what a gin-jockey was. It was kind of embarrassing explaining it to her. A gin-jockey was what we called whitefellas who rooted with black women. The Pommie opened her eyes wide and said she didn’t understand what the problem was. I guess she didn’t understand anything. I told her how being a gin-jockey was bad—kind of gross. She shook her head and said she thought the word gin-jockey was bad and gross. I nodded. I reckoned she understood what I meant, but I was wrong. She said it didn’t matter if you were black or white, people could be with whoever they wanted. I told her she didn’t get it. She said, “If you like Mick and Gil Smith, why can’t you like a black woman?” I shrugged. It’s just that Mick was Dad’s mate, so it was different with them.

Anyway, I carried on with my story and told her how when the whitefellas rode out into the desert to kill the Blackfellas, Arthur Simpson wouldn’t join in with them, so he had a hard time because of it. The Pommie said he sounded like a nice man. She wanted to know more, but I didn’t know anything else about it. She was real interested, so I told her she should ask Dad.

We had a little walk round the dam. The Pommie asked more questions about my family—stuff about how old Dad was when he took over the station from Granddad and if I was going to take it over one day. I said I reckoned I would. That’s when she asked what would have happened if Jonny was still alive. I shrugged and said I didn’t know. He’d probably have taken it over, but I reckon we’d have run it together. There was enough work for two fellas, easily.

When we came to a bloated carcass at the edge of the dam, covered in flies and stinking, the Pommie gasped, like she’d found a dead person. She wanted to know what had happened. I shrugged—cattle died, just like people. We hadn’t had much rain, so maybe that cow had got dehydrated. She took a photo of the carcass and we kept walking. That was when she asked me about the muster. She didn’t even know what a muster was, so I had to start right from the beginning. I said how it was the best thing about being a stockman, and how it only happened once a year. It was when we rounded all the cattle up at each of the dams and waterholes on the station, castrated some, branded them, and decided which ones to send to slaughter and which ones to keep. It was real important because it meant we made some money from the ones we sold.

On a station the size of Timber Creek, the muster took about a month. I told her how it was going to be my last one before I went to boarding school, and because I was thirteen, I’d get to camp out with the fellas, like Jonny did. I told her how I’d probably get to miss a bit of school because Dad would need me to help him and the fellas. It was real hard work—long hours and at the end everyone would be bushed. But it was exciting too—there was nothing better than chasing a big mob of cattle through the desert and taking them into the yards. She hadn’t a clue what I was talking about, so I told her how we used the utes and motorbikes to chase the cattle out of the desert, round them up and herd them together. That’s when she said, “And this will be the first muster without Jonny?” No one had ever come out and said it, even though we all must have thought it. I felt sick as I nodded, then she said, “So it’s your chance?” I didn’t know what to say. I nodded and looked at the sky. I said it was too hot. She agreed and we turned round and went back to the Old Rover.

The Pommie turned the key in the ignition and found first gear straightaway. She smiled at me and I could tell she was real pleased with herself. I smiled back and said she was getting better and that made her laugh. She said, “Driving lessons from a thirteen-year-old!”

I shrugged. It wasn’t my fault she couldn’t drive properly.

We were nearly back to the road that went from Timber Creek to Warlawurru when the radio buzzed and Dad’s voice came through. He wanted us to go out to Jaben Point to collect a new poddy calf. While the Pommie drove I picked up the little black receiver and spoke into it. I told him we were on our way. Instead of turning toward the station, I told the Pommie to keep heading south. She smiled and said, “This is exciting.”

When we got to where the fellas were working, they had the calf penned into one corner of the yard. Lloyd tipped his hat back when he saw me and the Pommie in the Old Rover. He said to Elliot, “Looks like the Pommie’s got herself an admirer.” Lloyd was OK normally, but sometimes I wished he’d rack off. I didn’t know what to say, but Liz did. She smiled and said she couldn’t find a better guide in the whole of the Northern Territory. I felt kind of tall then.

Anyway, we soon forgot about Lloyd when we saw the little calf. It was tottering around all lost and alone. Its mother was nearby but she was dead. We didn’t know what had killed her. Maybe having the calf was too much for her. The calf was weak and wobbly, just a few steps away from death, so it was easy to catch. It fell down, like sticks—as though it wanted to be caught. I reckoned it would probably die. Liz helped me lift the calf into the back of the Old Rover. She couldn’t believe how light he was. She said it was like lifting a polystyrene model, not a real calf. I knew what she meant. It was like he had nothing inside. I guess he didn’t. He was hours, rather than days old and he’d already been attacked by dingoes. They’d got at him from behind. He had wounds all over his rump. I told the Pommie to drive us back to the station while I stayed in the back of the Old Rover with the calf.

When we got to the station, we laid the calf on the ground, inside the pen. He was all frothy around his mouth, and his eyes were really wide. His tongue lolled out in the dirt, like he didn’t have the energy to be scared. Seeing him next to the others reminded me how little the newborns are—thin and weak like wet paper. The others towered over him like giants. They didn’t come too close, though. I reckoned they could smell death on him. Emily, Bobbie, and Sissy had come out of the house to see the new poddy. I sent Emily to mix up a bottle of calf milk and then asked Liz if she wanted to name the new calf—just to piss Emily off. I knew she’d already have a name picked out, something stupid like Adrian, probably. I didn’t expect the Pommie to come up with much better, but she said we should call him Dingo. I thought that was an OK name, for a Pommie.

Bobbie laughed when we told her he was called Dingo. She said the poor thing would never be able to forget his past. But I liked it because he’d survived the dingo attack—just. Emily got back with the milk, and Dingo just lay there in the dirt, his empty, brown body moving up and down as he breathed.

I showed Liz how you teach a calf to feed. I put a bit of milk on my fingers and then poked them into his mouth. I didn’t think she’d want to try, but she had a go. Once her fingers were in his mouth I told her that when he started to suck them, she should swap them for the bottle. Nothing happened the first time. I thought he might be too far gone to care any more about milk. She tried again, her fingers sticky with calf spit and milk. He just lay there, his mouth slightly open. I told her to wiggle her fingers a bit, just to remind him they were there. She kept saying, “Come on, Dingo,” like that’d make him live. She tried for a third time and I knew he’d worked it out when she yelped. They nip a bit when they latch on. She said it felt like he was biting her, so I quickly stuck the bottle into his mouth. And he drank.

I told Liz to build a shady area in one corner of the pen for him. We needed to leave him alone for a bit, to let him rest. I helped her find some bits of corrugated metal from one of the barns before taking Buzz for a run.

The Pommie and Emily wanted to stay with Dingo, so it was just me and Buzz—just how we liked it. No sheilas. It was a hot one, so we didn’t run too far together. I didn’t fancy having an asthma attack, so we slowed to a jog and then a walk. Buzz was real good, just going at my pace. When we came to a nice clear little spot by a dead, old tree I decided to sit down in the dirt. Buzz was just a couple of yards away from me, out of reach, chewing.

I picked at the dirt and felt the gritty ground crawl under my fingernails as I thought about the muster and how I was going to impress Dad and the other fellas. It reminded me of how it felt when we all had to pick up the dirt and throw it onto Jonny’s coffin. I looked up at the sky then and wondered if he could see me. I told him not to worry about us. I was going to make sure the muster was the best one ever. That was when Buzz folded down into the dirt with me. He sat by my side. Chewing. I felt so happy I wished the Pommie had been there with her camera, just so someone else knew about Buzz and me. There was a crow sat high above us in one of the dead tree’s empty branches. I looked up at it and hoped Jonny had seen us as I threw my arms round Buzz’s neck and breathed in his smell. He head-butted me twice, and the second time it really hurt, but it didn’t matter. I got up and shouted, “Come on, Buzz, this way!” as I ran out further into the desert with him by my side. I decided it was time we did some serious training.

I dunno what it’s like to land an aeroplane, or how it feels when you dive with sharks, but I reckon it’s probably a bit like the feeling you get when you teach a camel something new.

Being out in the open desert with Buzz felt good. As I ran with him, it was like my asthma had been a bad dream that I’d just woken up from—I could run forever. Buzz cantered along, like he always did, as though it was the easiest thing in the world. After a while I decided I’d better stop. As I walked around a bit, just thinking about what to do first with Buzz, he chewed some spinifex and sniffed around. I noticed him keeping an eye on me and so I wondered if he’d understand if I used my hands to tell him what to do. At first Buzz totally ignored me. I waved at him and tried beckoning him to come toward me with my arms, but he carried on chewing and when he’d finished, he dropped his neck so he could get another mouthful of grass.

When he looked up again at me I showed him the palm of my hand. Then I slowly bent down to the ground and placed my hand on the dirt. I dunno why I thought he’d understand that that meant he should kneel down, but I did. Buzz didn’t get it. He kept eating grass. I stood up again and this time I said, “Buzz, kneel down.” And repeated the movement. As soon as he heard his name, Buzz put his ears back. He knew I wanted him to do something, he just wasn’t sure what. So, I waited a minute or two and then did the same thing again. “Buzz. Kneel down.” I said the words in a way I hoped sounded serious. Buzz walked toward me then. I reckoned he thought that if he came a bit nearer, he might be able to work out what I wanted him to do.

I did it a few more times until he was standing right in front of me. I touched his nose and repeated the words, “Kneel down,” as I bent my knees. He flopped down into the dirt like a clumsy, broken old deckchair. He’d done it. Buzz had done it. I was so happy I threw my arms around his neck and shouted, “Yeah, Buzz! Yeah!” so loud in his ear he got spooked.

As he ran off I was a bit worried. I wasn’t sure if he was playing because he thought it was a game, or if he was really scared of me. I ran after him, like we did when we sometimes played tag. I didn’t want him to think kneeling down was a bad thing. The sun was in my eyes as I saw Buzz’s dark shape ahead of me. He threw his head back and kicked his legs, like he was the happiest he’d ever been. I called his name again, just to get him to slow down, and I couldn’t believe it when his legs eased off and he turned round to look at me. I knew he was saying something because then he blew a raspberry at me. I guess we both wanted to tell each other things. We just didn’t know how.

I told Buzz to kneel down a few more times and I reckon three times out of four he did as he was told, which was good enough for me. After all, I didn’t always do what I was told to. I lay down on the ground with Buzz next to me and stared at the sky.

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That night, when Mum got back from work, she went out with Liz to see Dingo and give him a shot of antibiotics. Mum didn’t like using the medicine; it was expensive. Liz must have persuaded her. Mum said the Pommie had really taken to the calf. After dinner Liz went back to check on Dingo again and to give him some more milk, like she knew what she was doing. I never thought she’d be bothered—Emily never was. Mum said she hoped Liz wouldn’t be too disappointed if Dingo was dead by the time she got up in the morning.