Alice’s favourite month had come around again. April meant the bush run and her birthday; this year she’d be turning twenty. A few days before they planned to leave, she ran in the pack ponies from Brigalow, the Arab colt along with them. She noticed with concern that one of the hairy little workhorses had lost a great deal of condition, and on closer inspection, discovered an enormous abscess inside his mouth. She lanced it and gave him a penicillin needle, but the pony was in poor shape.
The result of this was that Alice was able to bring along her solid chestnut Bingley in his place. Even though he’d never carried a packsaddle, he was such a compliant animal that she had no doubt he’d rise to the occasion. She was pleased with this development, as with all the work she’d been putting into Desert Rose she’d been conscious of neglecting her faithful old gelding. It would have felt like adding insult to injury had she excluded him from the bush run as well.
At the close of the bush run the previous year, her grandfather had announced that his aged bay Snoopy wouldn’t be coming on the expedition again; the rugged terrain of the national park was beginning to prove too difficult for the old trooper. Now that Jeremy had Carmen, Alice assumed that her grandfather would be riding Rita. However, the day that they began the shoeing, the old man asked her to shoe up old Snoopy.
In answer to her look of surprise, he said, ‘Yes, I know. Old Snoop was meant to be out to pasture before now. But somehow I’d feel like a right hypocrite if I left him behind. I’m a bloody sight more broken down than he is. We’ll battle along together.’
Once most of the preparations had been made, Alice sewed a long calico case for a thin rectangular piece of soft foam. This she inserted into her grandfather’s swag without his knowledge. She also packed some hot-water bottles. So far it had been an unusually cold April and the nights had been chilly: she knew that her grandfather’s stiff old body would protest against long days in the saddle and nights of sleeping on the ground. As she made these preparations, Alice’s usual joyful anticipation of the trip was disturbed by an uncomfortable inkling that this bush run would be her grandfather’s last.
As they set out, Jeremy was almost as excited as the other two. He told himself that the thrill of the hunt was the main attraction for him. To some extent this was true: the daily stalking of shy mobs of young cattle hidden in hollows and up gullies was constantly stimulating. But without admitting it to anyone, Jeremy was also anticipating spending time in the wilderness with the two people he’d come to care about more than almost anyone else in the world.
This year, as a mark of respect to them, he joined in wholeheartedly with their traditional evening pursuits. He was a lively participant in cards and quietly tolerated the bush poetry. When they got yarning, he added to Sam’s stories with wildly exaggerated tales of his own.
As it turned out, they were lucky with the weather. They had a week of mild, balmy autumn days and nights. The bush was a picture, abundant with new life after the summer rain. The gums, bauhinias, wilgas and yellow jack trees were dense with bright new leaves and tipped with warm colour. Little bubbling springs seemed to have been born in all the gullies, and crystal water was welling up from what appeared to be solid red rock. The animals and birds all seemed to be in a hurry, flirting, talkative and busy as they made the most of the last warm weather.
The quietest of last year’s weaners had been selected for the national park; they had made good use of the abundance of soft grasses and were shiny, well covered, and large for their age. All Alice’s work with them the previous year was clearly paying off. Upon discovery, they were mostly compliant and happy to join with the main mob. They respected the dogs, and some of them even appeared out of the bush of their own accord, joining the mass of slow-moving bodies. Several larger animals that had been missed on previous years had joined the mobs of quiet youngsters and allowed themselves to be collected at last. This was an unexpected bonus and Sam was pleased.
‘I’ll never again call what you do with those weaners and dogs “fooling around”, Ali. You have my word on that.’
On the third evening, after Jeremy and Sam had exchanged some yarns, Alice ceremoniously produced a battered volume, her eyes shining in the firelight.
‘I hope that’s not what I think it is,’ Jeremy said warily. He was lying back against his pack, his feet towards the fire.
‘Now, Jeremy, you’ve grown to love Henry and Banjo.’ Alice looked at him coaxingly.
‘Did I say that? Sam, have you ever heard me say that?’ Jeremy objected.
‘Didn’t need to, mate,’ Sam chuckled.
‘Jeez, thanks for the back-up.’
‘And it’s time for you to get to know Jane too,’ Alice said decisively.
‘Now, hang on a minute.’ Jeremy pushed himself upright. ‘Depressed alcoholic poets are one thing, but poncy English fellas in tights and mobs of lovely ladies in castles or some blooming thing, now that’s something else altogether. That’s asking too much of a man.’
Sam looked at him with sympathy. ‘This’ll be my second time, mate. It’s actually not as bad as you think.’
Alice was indignant.‘I listen to all your tall stories.’
‘Dumb dog that I am, thought you liked ’em!’ Jeremy sounded genuinely hurt.
‘And I do!’ Alice exclaimed. ‘You’re a natural at yarning. But how do you know you won’t like Pride and Prejudice?’
‘Call it a gut feeling. Righto, you win. But don’t wake me up if I go to sleep.’
After half an hour of listening to Alice’s soft voice describing the faraway world of the Bennets and Longbourn, Jeremy found himself lying on his back again, his arms folded, looking at the stars, his heart throbbing with happiness. If Jane Austen was the worst thing about his life at the present time, things weren’t half bad.