IN THE COOL PRE-DAWN hours Sally managed to fall asleep after a fretful night perspiring in the hot little room, dreaming of Sean. But no sooner had she relaxed than she was jolted awake, not realising where she was or what was happening. It was sunrise, and a clanging sound was reverberating through every nerve in her body. Iron striking a large bell, then shouting. It was John Monroe.
‘Get up, you lazy black bitches. Rise and shine, shake a leg.’ Clang, clang clang.
Sally fell back on the pillow. Holy mackerel, was this the usual alarm clock?
Apparently so. Monroe could be heard in the kitchen, stoking the fuel stove, banging the metal hotplates and the oven door. Sally lay there wondering whether to get up and see to the boys, or wait till she was summoned. She had almost dropped back to sleep when there was a loud knock on her door and Monroe stuck his head inside. ‘How do you like your tea?’
‘Milky please. No sugar.’
She was sitting on the side of the bed, her hair brushed, when he appeared holding a mug of tea.
‘How’d you sleep?’
‘Not bad, but I’m not used to the heat at night.’
‘This is nothing. Wait till the Wet. Now, fried eggs, tomatoes, toast and baked beans. Sound all right?’
‘Er, yes. Fine. Thank you. I’ll be out shortly.’
‘When you’re ready rustle up those boys and send them in to wash. Breakfast will be ready soon.’
When she emerged, showered and dressed in a simple cotton sundress, no make-up or shoes, and headed towards the kitchen, she passed Ian walking gingerly, carefully carrying a cup of tea.
‘Morning, Ian. Is that for you?’
‘No. It’s for my mother. She likes to have tea in bed. She’s not too good in the mornings, says she feels sick.’
‘Oh dear. Where are Tommy and Martin?’
‘In bed.’
Sally found the two boys buried beneath a sheet on their beds. It was cooler on the verandah, and the breeze came through the flyscreen carrying the scent of flowers from the dewy garden. She looked at the other empty beds and decided she’d sleep out here too. She tickled the boys, who grunted and flung protesting arms and legs at her.
‘We’re too big for that,’ said Tommy.
She spotted some books by Tommy’s bed. ‘I’m glad you like reading.’
‘I love it.’
‘Why don’t you take it in turns to make up a story and tell it to each other every night?’
Marty was enthusiastic. Sally could see the idea appealed to the younger boys. She looked at her watch. ‘Off you go. Breakfast is nearly ready. And then school.’
John was at the dining table buttering a piece of toast and listening to the chatter from the wireless. ‘Morning news,’ he said.
‘Oh, what’s been going on in the world? I feel out of touch,’ said Sally, reaching for the teapot in its crocheted cosy. Her hands stilled as she realised the talk on the wireless was local, between all the stations.
‘Heard there’s a new governess at Barra Creek. Over.’
‘Yeah, wonder how long this one will last. Over.’
‘I saw her at Twin Rivers. Good sort. Big tits –’
‘John, turn that rubbish off, we don’t want to listen to that.’ Lorna appeared in the doorway in her dressing-gown, holding her cup.
Sally poured her tea as John turned to another frequency where cattle movements were being discussed. She was busting to hear the ‘rubbish’ but kept her eyes down. The boys giggled.
They walked over to the schoolhouse and the boys sat down at their desks, pulled out their work and showed Sally where they were up to. She had briefly studied the curriculum and saw how the lessons were organised. Each week the boys’ work was sent off in the mail to correspondence-school teachers, corrected, commented on and returned. Sally was surprised at the boys’ behaviour in the schoolroom. Gone was the chivvying, teasing, baiting and challenge to her authority. School work had to be done, they knew they needed to be at a certain standard before going to boarding school. There was friendly rivalry among students from other stations when they talked on the wireless about their achievements.
An hour passed and Ian looked up at her. ‘You’d better get the other kids up here or Mum will be mad.’
Sally went and looked down towards the camp. ‘You can’t go down there,’ advised Tommy.
‘You boys stay here. I’ll go and ask Lizzie from the kitchen to fetch them. Get on with your work.’
Lizzie and two young women were working in the outdoor dining area kneading great mounds of dough. Bread was baked every day, huge high white loaves that were sliced for the house and included, unsliced, in the camp’s rations. When Sally asked her where the other children were, Lizzie just stared at her.
‘You know, kids from camp. Boys, girls.’ She made a gesture with her hands showing their height.
Lizzie’s face cleared. ‘Big fella piccaninny. Longa readin’, talk ’em up proper way . . .’
‘Sally. I’ll deal with this.’ Lorna came in from the main kitchen. ‘You are not to speak pidgin. They understand plain English well enough.’ To Lizzie she said, ‘Send those camp kids up to school, quick smart.’
Looking sulky, Lizzie, who seemed to be in her thirties, dusted her floury hands on her apron and stomped off.
‘There’s a pile of clothes on a table in the laundry for the kids to change into. Make sure they wash themselves down properly,’ said Lorna.
Sally collected the shorts, dresses and shirts and returned to the schoolhouse and piled them on a bench near the hose attached to the water tank. She could hear shouting and squeals as skinny children appeared from all directions, racing each other to school. She supervised the washing process, recognising the little girl who’d been at the airstrip. She was only about five years old and she attached herself to Sally’s side with a proprietary smile.
By the time they were settled at desks with drawing paper and coloured pencils it was morning-tea time. Lizzie appeared at the schoolhouse with a tray of Anzac biscuits.
‘Missus say go down for johns,’ she said to Sally, then began handing out biscuits to the local children. The Monroe boys ran towards the house and Sally followed.
Morning tea was set out on the dining table. There was a large pot of tea, fresh scones on silver plates, jam and tinned cream, and flowered cups and saucers. John and Lorna helped themselves as the boys took their scones to their table where orange cordial was poured into tall glasses. Fifteen minutes later, the boys carried their plates and glasses to the kitchen and escaped outside.
‘What are you doing after smoko?’ Lorna asked John.
‘I’ve been telling that mob down at the camp that it’s time to clean up and make a new camp. The gundies can stay but not the rest of it. They never learn. It’s a bloody disgrace.’
‘It always is, dear,’ said Lorna, gathering the tea things. ‘I hope you gave them plenty of warning.’
John stomped from the room. ‘Fat lot of good that does.’
‘What’s a gundi, Lorna?’ said Sally. The Monroes had asked her to call them by their names.
‘It’s what they live in. Corrugated iron on a cement slab. Two rooms with a lean-to verandah. There’s a tap on the outside at one end of the verandah, and a communal lavatory and shower. Most of the old people still seem to prefer gunyahs – bough shelters or a sheet of iron propped up to keep the sun off them when they’re sitting or sleeping on the ground. They live, sleep and eat around the campfire and leave the mess there. It’s filthy.’
Sally excused herself and went back to the schoolhouse and settled her charges. While the Monroe boys tackled their arithmetic, she asked the older black children to show her how well they could read or write. It was a dismal response.
‘They just draw pictures, Miss,’ said Tommy.
Sally went through the supply cupboard and found some picture story books. ‘Do you fellows mind if I read these kids a story? You keep doing those sums.’
The boys shrugged. ‘They’re baby stories,’ said Ian.
Sally gathered the group of kids from the camp into a corner, sat down and began to softly read a story about a lost frog, holding up the book to show them the illustrations. The children were fascinated, their eyes wide as they listened. They giggled when Sally put on different voices, and jumped up to point at things in the illustrations. Sally glanced back to check on the boys and saw Marty leaning around his chair, following the story. When he caught her looking at him, he bent down, pretending to pick something up off the floor. Sally decided she’d try reading them a story that night.
It was three o’clock, and the boys were out playing while Sally helped the other children back into their camp clothes. They skipped away as she washed her hands and headed in for afternoon tea on the verandah with the Monroes. It was fruit cake this time. She came to learn that scones and biscuits were served for morning tea, and fruit cake or pikelets in the afternoon. Lunch had been substantial too. At least she wouldn’t go hungry.
Lorna was taking a nap. Sally had just come out of the kitchen when she heard screams. Shrieks and howls ripped through the torpid air, followed by the sound of tin and iron being crushed, and the low growl of an engine.
‘What on earth?’
She heard the boys yelling and the old truck revving up. ‘What’s going on? Where are you going?’ she asked as she ran outside.
Ian was behind the wheel, the other boys were standing in the tray holding onto the roof of the cabin. ‘Dad’s clearing out the camp.’
‘What? Wait for me.’ Sally pulled herself into the passenger seat, then Ian crashed the gear stick and set off over the paddock.
As the truck bounced over the mounds and ruts, they passed a line of trees and suddenly came upon a scene that shocked Sally. John Monroe was driving a big tractor with a grader blade attached in front and was roaring through the rough tin and bark shelters of the blacks’ camp. Dogs and children were running in circles, there were cooking pots, cans of food, clothes, piles of rubbish, broken branches, flattened tin and unidentifiable objects crumpled and tossed aside by the rattling old tractor.
The women were wailing, flailing their arms, clutching babies and trailing possessions. Some old men stood silently to one side. They’d seen it before, as had the others. But despite the notice to relocate the camp, they never did. It was a ritual repeated every couple of months when the boss decided the stench and mess had got out of hand.
‘Heck. What’s going on? The poor buggers,’ exclaimed Sally.
‘Mum says it stinks and it’s unhealthy, so Dad cleans it up. They always like their new place better.’
‘I bet they go over to the trees by the river,’ said Tommy. Marty didn’t say anything but wasn’t enjoying the spectacle the way his older brothers were.
‘I don’t want to watch this. Let’s go back,’ said Sally.
The boys protested vehemently. ‘Dad lets us watch it. Sometimes we ride on the tractor.’
Sally jumped out of the truck. ‘Well, I’m not staying. I’ll walk back.’
She trudged through the afternoon sun, disturbed by the brutishness of the exercise. Beneath the booming joviality John Monroe had a very tough side to him, she decided. On the other hand, the camp was squalid. She’d seen and smelled it, even at a distance. It puzzled her that the women could work in the house under the fussy eye of Lorna Monroe and yet were happy to lead their own lives amidst the incredible filth that was part whiteman’s trash of flour tins, rice sacks, bottles and cardboard boxes and part their own discarded half-eaten food, the chewed carcass of a wallaby the dogs hadn’t finished, tools, hunting spears and digging sticks, dilly bags and dishes. She supposed it was all replaceable but the invasiveness of Monroe’s actions troubled her.
Later, she saw Lorna alone, arranging a vase of silk flowers on a side table.
‘The boys took me down to where John was clearing up the blacks’ camp this afternoon.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘They weren’t prepared for it. It seemed so . . . sudden. I mean the whole lot was just turned over and almost buried,’ said Sally.
‘That’s the idea. When it gets to that point, we have to do something about it before we all get sick. By tomorrow they’ll have set up a new camp. At the last minute they’ll have saved their hunting gear, coolamons, bits and pieces. Or else they’ll make new ones. The lubras will be up here for new dresses. And no matter how much warning we give them, it makes no difference. I sometimes think they like to make a song and dance about it all. Now, how did you find the boys today?’
Sally dropped the subject of the camp. ‘They’re very good in school. Really seem to want to learn.’
‘They know their father will skin them alive if their marks aren’t good when it’s time to go away to school. He expects them to do well. And that means sports too.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not much help there,’ said Sally. ‘I was a bit disappointed that the big kids from the camp can’t read or write at all.’
‘Don’t worry too much. They just need to show up and keep out of mischief. They’ll figure out how to sign their name eventually, I suppose.’
Changing for dinner Sally found a dead snake amongst her shoes. She bit her tongue, determined not to squeal. She could tell the instant she clapped eyes on the way it was draped through her gold sandals that it was dead. She’d never seen a snake before and was thankful this one was quite small. She had no idea what type it was, so she steeled herself, swept it into a dustpan and carried it out onto the verandah and left it on Ian’s pillow. Being the oldest she figured he was the ringleader in their anti-governess campaign. While there she turned down the pristine white covers on the adjoining bed and left her book and dressing-gown on it.
None of the boys mentioned the snake, but Marty couldn’t resist giving her a sly grin as she sent them off to get ready for dinner.
Sally and Lorna had pre-dinner drinks on their own. John was nowhere to be seen and Lorna looked slightly distracted. When the boys came into the dining room, Sally asked her, ‘Shall we wait for dinner? Or should I eat with the boys?’
‘Yes, yes. Good idea. John is still down at the machinery shed. I’ll wait for him.’
Sally carried her plate to the boys’ table and pulled out a chair. They looked at her in surprise but went on eating. She noticed they had starched linen napkins on their laps and held their knives and forks in the prescribed manner. Lorna was a stickler for doing things the right way. As if to challenge Sally, Tommy leaned one elbow on the table, and Martin picked up a piece of meat in his fingers. Ian sent his peas and carrots spilling off his plate. Then Tommy knocked over his drink, splashing Milo over the white tablecloth. Martin giggled.
Sally slammed her knife and fork down with a bang. ‘Right. Enough. Leave the table. Take your dishes into the kitchen and put the food in the chook bucket.’
‘We haven’t finished,’ wailed Tommy.
‘Too bad,’ said Sally unsympathetically. ‘And there was a nice dessert too.’
‘What?’ cried Martin. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘Then don’t play with your food and try to stir me up,’ she said. ‘Think how much you’re going to enjoy breakfast.’
‘You’re mean,’ hissed Ian as he marched past her.
Sally finished her meal alone, wondering what had happened to John. Lorna seemed to make such a big deal about having dinner together.
Young Betsy hovered at the door. ‘You finished? Me clean up?’ she asked Sally.
The women were always anxious to clear away the dishes and clean up the kitchen so they could leave the house. Lorna made them wait until the meal was over and the two kitchen girls on duty would hang around in the garden, smoking or chewing tobacco. If there were visitors, or if John Monroe was in an ebullient mood, it could be a long wait.
‘What about the missus? The boss?’ asked Sally.
‘The missus got dinner in her room. The boss . . .’ she looked around and mimicked a drinking gesture to Sally.
Sally thought she’d better not probe in case Lorna could hear. ‘Then go ahead and clean up the kitchen, please, Betsy.’
She could hear the boys playing in the dark garden. The door to Lorna’s room was shut. Sally helped herself to another glass of rum and sat in a chair in the living room. For a moment she felt lonely, then decided to relish these moments alone.
The clock on the sideboard struck eight. Sally had dozed off. She jerked awake and saw a light had been turned on and the dining table was set for breakfast. The kitchen was neat, the dishes washed and put away, every surface wiped clean. She went outside and called the boys.
There was no answer. ‘If you don’t come now, there’ll be no treats and extra homework tomorrow,’ she threatened in a loud voice.
Martin came out of the gloom. ‘We’re just playing hide and seek.’
She smiled at him. ‘You blokes have an answer for everything. Come on, Martin, bedtime.’
He followed her along the verandah. ‘Can you please call me Marty? And you know what you said about a story . . .’
‘Course I do. What’s your favourite?’
‘That’s one of my favourites too. Do you have a copy? We could read some if you like.’
He rushed into the room that served as John’s study and Lorna’s sewing room and came back with the book.
‘Get ready for bed. Do you want to tell me where the others are hiding?’
‘Don’t say I told.’
She put her finger to her lips and he whispered, ‘In the tree near the chooks.’
Sally picked up a torch and strolled through the garden to the chook pen.
‘Nighty, night, chickens. Watch out for that big snake. I have a gun so I’ll fire up this tree here and scare him away. Might catch a bat or two as well.’ She lifted the black torch. ‘Looks like a couple of big ones up there in the branches.’
‘Hey! Watch out,’ cried Tommy. ‘It’s us.’ The leaves rustled.
‘One . . . two . . . ready . . . aim . . .’ Sally pretended to squint along the barrel of the torch. ‘Did you know I was the best pistol shot in the South Island of New Zealand?’
Tommy swung down from the tree. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded.
‘If I don’t see two boys in their pyjamas quick smart, you might be surprised what I’ll do.’
Tommy sprinted for the house and Ian climbed down and stood in front of her, his hands on his hips. ‘You think you’re so clever.’
‘Do I?’
They glared at each other, then suddenly heard John’s voice. ‘Where is everyone? Sally? What’s going on?’ His voice sounded tired, thick and not himself. Ian turned and bolted round the side of the house. Sally took the cue and hurried after him, sensing maybe it wasn’t a good time to run into John.
Marty was in bed with the book. Sally sat beside him and began to read. He sat up so he could see the illustrations.
‘Can you do voices? Like for Rat and Mole and Toad?’ he asked.
‘Let’s do it together. You be Mole and Rat and I’ll be Toad and the others.’
The older boys took no notice and pulled up their sheets, pretending not to listen. But both were quiet. At the end of the first chapter, Sally closed the book.
‘It’s late. More tomorrow. G’night, Marty.’
He waved at the other bed. ‘You sleeping out here too?’
‘Yes. That room is too hot. Goodnight, boys.’
There was a grunt from Ian. Tommy was asleep.
‘G’night, Miss,’ said Marty quietly.
Sally went into the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face. She stopped as she heard voices coming from Lorna’s room.
‘C’mon, Lorn . . .’ there was the thud of a boot, the unmistakable squeak of wire bed coils under the big inner-spring mattress. The only one in the house.
‘Go away, John. You’re drunk. Too drunk.’
‘Ya reckon? Move over, love. Just a little cuddle.’
‘Get out of my bed.’ Her words were low but ferocious, hissed between clenched teeth.
Sally tiptoed into her room to change as she heard gasps and grunts that sounded like a physical wrestle. She shut the door and lay in the dark as John Monroe forced himself on his unwilling wife, pounding and grunting until he groaned, gave a gasp, and started muttering to himself.
‘Don’t you dare go to sleep. Get out. Go to your own bed.’ Lorna’s tone was icy and she must have pushed him as there was a stumble before Sally heard him bang into the partition wall and stagger out to the far corner of the verandah where, Sally now realised, he slept.
She waited in a lather of perspiration as she heard Lorna go to the bathroom and wash herself. When the house was quiet save for John’s snoring, Sally crept to the back part of the verandah. She discovered the boys, well, Ian, she assumed, had pushed her bed away from theirs, leaving a big gap between the governess and her charges.
Grateful for the cool starched sheets and balmy breeze from the garden she settled on the bed, disturbed but sexually aroused, and thought of Sean. Had he thought of her? Suddenly she wished he was with her and she vowed to write to him tomorrow. The young woman who’d set off to conquer England without a backward glance now felt very, very lonely.
*
The following morning after showering and dressing, Sally went into the dining room where the boys had already started breakfast. John bellowed at Lizzie in the kitchen and strode in and took his place with a cheerful good morning. If he was embarrassed about the previous night, he didn’t show it. Lorna was still in bed. Her custom was to sleep in and let John organise the women to prepare breakfast. One of the boys would bring her a cup of tea, then she’d wait till the others had finished breakfast and emerge, neatly dressed with powder, lipstick and smoothed hair, and eat a small bowl of rolled oats followed by a piece of toast and fresh tea. It was Lorna’s time to herself, which was respected and never intruded upon unless it was important.
The static sound of the wireless, a modern version of the old pedal wireless, was coming from the living room, the boys were talking about something they were doing with their father that afternoon, and Sally sat at the table, eating cornflakes and tinned peaches.
‘What’s going on after school?’ she asked.
‘Boy stuff,’ said John Monroe, pouring himself a mug of tea. ‘Ridin’, shootin’, cowboy stuff.’
‘Sounds exciting. Can I come too?’
‘We’re going riding,’ said Ian.
‘I can ride,’ said Sally.
‘We’re going to get a killer,’ added Tommy.
Sally looked at John, who roared with laughter. ‘Not some outlaw on the run. A killer is a steer we knock on the head for house beef.’
The boys laughed. ‘Didn’t you know that?’ cried Marty.
John’s head swivelled over the laughter, alert to a call on the wireless. ‘That’s us being called in. Let’s see what’s up.’
He went into the living room and picked up the receiver. ‘Barra Creek here. Receiving on channel six. Over.’
Sally and the boys took no notice as they argued over what horse Sally could ride.
Monroe walked back in holding a piece of paper. ‘That was about you, Sally.’ He spoke quietly and looked slightly concerned.
‘More gossip?’ she sighed.
‘No. It was a telegram. From your parents in New Zealand.’
‘What! Is everything all right?’ Sally’s hand shook as she put her cup down.
‘They’re a bit worried. Wondering where you are. They tracked you down through Dalgety’s.’ He gave her a steady look.
‘Ooh, er. Did you run away?’ asked Tommy. All three boys were looking at her with wide eyes.
‘Of course not,’ said Sally briskly. ‘They haven’t got my letter yet, that’s all.’ John Monroe dropped a hand on her shoulder, sensing her discomfort. ‘Don’t worry, Sal. I’ll send a wire back. Tell ’em you’re with us, and we’re delighted to have you here too. Not to worry. Letter following, eh?’
Sally looked at him gratefully. ‘That would be nice. Thanks very much.’
Monroe glanced at the boys. ‘Stop your carry on and finish your breakfast. You don’t want to be late for school. Any trouble and you don’t come out with Fitzi and me this arvo.’
The boys put their napkins by their bread and butter plates as taught and left the table, pushing in their chairs. Tommy spoke up. ‘We’ll be having spare ribs tonight won’t we, Dad?’
‘Of course we bloody will! Killer night is spare ribs on the barbecue.’ He grinned at Sally. ‘One of the few times we eat fresh meat. Starting with the ribs tonight, steaks tomorrow and a roast the day after.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ she said. The boys had left the room when she turned back to John Monroe. ‘Thanks for sending the message to my parents. They tend to fuss a bit.’
‘Most parents would if their pretty young daughter was heading to England and ended up in Queensland’s Gulf country. You got any problems, you tell me, okay?’
Sally nodded, suddenly choked up at the unusually soft tone of his voice.
‘Lorna and me are real glad you’re here. I hope you’ll hang around, Sally. I know the boys can be a pain in the backside.’
‘Oh, no. They’re lovely. I really enjoy them,’ she said quickly. ‘They’re just trying it on. Testing me out. That’s natural.’
‘I’m glad you see it that way. Lorna keeps telling me it’s my fault they get out of hand. Learn it from me, she says. Ah, struth, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, I reckon. Most times, it’s just the grog or the boredom that gets to you up here. Keep busy, that’s the ticket.’ He went back into the living room to send the telegram and as he dictated it over the wireless, Sally realised everyone in the district would have heard the exchange and she’d be the cause for more gossip.
The boys were well behaved in school, nervous that if they played up they might not be allowed to go out riding.
Over afternoon tea Lorna handed round the plate of sliced fruit cake. ‘Sally, are you sure you want to go out with them? You don’t have to, you know.’
‘I want to! I’d love to go for a ride, and see a bit more of the station.’
‘We’re only going to the main home paddock,’ said Ian.
Sally had been told that the paddocks closest to the house were twenty and fifty acres. Barra Creek was over 240,000 acres, far bigger than anything in New Zealand.
‘Good, I won’t get lost then.’
‘If, by chance, you do get bushed remember there’s always a dead patch on the western side of quinine and ironwood trees. If it’s overcast and cloudy you can tell west because of the bare patch,’ said John casually.
The boys were anxious to get going and raced to change from their school shorts into their moleskins.
‘What do you have to wear to ride in?’ asked Lorna.
‘I bought some boy’s dungarees. But I don’t have any boots. I’m writing to my mother tonight to ask her to send some of my things over.’
‘There’s a pile of boots out by the laundry. There’ll be a pair to fit you,’ Lorna said in a tone that implied if you must.
Sally found the boys at the stables, saddling their horses. Ian helped Marty, but once he was in the saddle he looked perfectly at home on the pony.
‘So which is my horse?’ She had seen some good-looking horses around the station but when Ian pointed over his shoulder at the fifteen-hand black mare standing tethered to a tree, Sally wondered if she should back out.
‘That one. Dad saddled her.’ Sally stared at the strange bulky, high-backed stock saddle in some dismay. She was used to small, light hunting saddles. She adjusted the stirrups and attempted to make friends with the horse, but to no avail. This was a horse who had been ridden hard, treated rough and now in her golden years had been relegated to hack work. The mare was bored, tired, disinterested.
Once the boys were ready to ride out, Sally mounted, embarrassed at how clumsy she felt in the cumbersome saddle. The boys rode leaning back, legs straight and sticking forward in a manner that went against all the riding rules of British-equestrian-trained Sally.
Once clear of the yards, they broke into a canter and Sally followed, but she was slipping and sliding in the saddle. She couldn’t feel the horse with her legs, and her frustration and mounting fury were communicated to the animal, which pulled on the bit and strained against her commands. The boys glanced back at her struggling and, giggling, they galloped away.
They darted between trees and raced across the open ground before reaching an area covered in feather-tipped spear grass, young bloodwoods and to Sally’s amazement, huge red termite mounds. The boys kept changing direction, cutting around the ant hills and she realised they were trying to lose her. It was country like nothing she’d ever seen or imagined. She cursed as she kept losing her balance, furious at the stubborn horse and mad at the boys. She couldn’t see where they had gone so she kicked the horse with her heels and let the animal have her head.
It was wild country and Sally knew how easy it would be to become disoriented and lost. To her eyes, there were few landmarks. But the horse either knew the country or where the other horses had gone for soon Sally saw puffs of dust kicked up by the three horses cantering behind John Monroe’s truck.
She kicked the mare into a canter, trying to keep her balance on the slippery saddle, hanging onto the horse’s mane. As she got closer she saw the truck was nudging along half a dozen cattle with the boys spread out on the wings nosing them towards a stand of trees. A black stockman was standing in the tray of the truck, directing the boys, and near a large tree she spotted a ringer who had swung into the low branches. The truck stopped a little distance away and the boys jumped down and sat on the ground watching the cattle mill around under the trees. It was very quiet and still. Monroe got out of the truck, leaving the door open, and studied the cattle. Sally dismounted, watching the scene. The stockman in the back of the truck sat down and rolled himself a cigarette. Sally sat on the grass beside her horse like the boys.
They were there for about four or five minutes watching the cattle, which were standing quietly in the dappled light of the trees. Monroe, who’d been leaning against the truck, slowly lifted his arm, pointing, giving a signal. She heard the crack and saw a steer fall to its knees, the others running in a panic into the bauhinias. With the calm suddenly shattered John Monroe and the stockman ran forward, tying a rope around the dead beast as the marksman climbed out of the tree, a rifle slung across his back.
‘Get in and stick him,’ Monroe called and the stockman swiftly cut an incision at the jugular, then stabbed the knife down into the bullock’s heart.
The men began opening the hide and cleaning as they went. ‘Got to bleed him properly. Makes better meat,’ Monroe explained to her.
Leading her horse, Sally followed as the beast was tied to the rear of the truck and John Monroe got back behind the wheel and dragged the animal to a solid tree with low branches. They threw a rope over a branch and adjusted it so that when John moved the truck slowly forward it winched the beast on the other end of the rope off the ground by its haunches.
The stockman, whom she recognised now as Fitzi who also worked around the yards and garden, took a long-bladed knife and removed the hide. He then slit the belly, letting the guts spill out. John Monroe called to the boys to help and they pulled an old tarpaulin from the truck and threw it onto the ground.
Sally crinkled her nose as the grisly process of cutting away at the carcass continued with precision, and great sections of it were thrown onto the tarp.
Monroe glanced up and saw her. ‘How do you like your steak?’ he shouted.
‘Not moving on my plate, thanks. Why did you wait so long before shooting one?’ she asked.
‘You want the adrenalin to get out of their system. The calmer they are the more tender the meat. I don’t believe in killing ’em on the run. Wait till you taste this meat.’
‘I’ll wait till it’s cooked, thanks. I’ll see you back at the house.’
‘Can you find your way back?’ he shouted.
‘Yes.’ She was going to make a sarcastic comment about the boys but bit her tongue. Struggling to mount and stay as steady as possible in the saddle, knowing they were all watching her, Sally wheeled the horse about and trotted away, hoping she looked more confident than she felt.
On her own, she began to relax and enjoy the scenery. The thicket of trees and undergrowth lining the river was away to her left so she turned the horse in that direction, wondering if there was a track along the edge of the river.
She saw tyre marks in the grass that had made something of a track to follow and discovered it came out at a clearing where there was a wooden landing, big enough to hold two people, jutting into the river. A small wooden clinker-built boat with no cabin, but a seat, a tiller at the stern and an inboard diesel engine covered with a piece of canvas, was tied to the pylon near the landing.
The river looked cool and inviting. Sally dismounted, tethered the horse to a sapling and, breaking off a small twig, walked onto the landing and threw the twig into the water. It glided along in the current at a speed that surprised her. On the other side of the river she could see another landing. This must be the crossing Monroe had told her about. One day she’d like to explore over that side of the river. It looked less penetrable, though. A glossy green vine had climbed across the tree tops and the undergrowth around the landing was thick, smothered by the now uncontrollable Madagascar Rubber vine that was killing the natural vegetation. She wondered whether this might be a good place to fish. Perhaps this would be something she could do with the boys. Although, she’d only ever fished for trout with her father in a stream on their farm.
She turned around and froze mid step, her mind trying to come to terms with what she saw. There, stretched across the landing at the edge of the bank, was a crocodile. Motionless, it had scaly plates, a greyish brown, was about five feet long, with a horny snout and hooded ridges over mean, deep-set eyes.
Her head started to spin. There was no going forwards as it blocked her path, stepping backwards meant falling into the river, where, she had no doubt, more crocs lurked. A mere two yards separated them.
She remained frozen to the spot, aware its green eyes were watching her. The monster was simply waiting. Sally had only ever seen crocodiles in pictures and she had no knowledge of how they behaved. But she figured it would not be easily intimidated if she rushed at it. She felt like she was about to pass out then realised she’d been holding her breath. She gasped, drew a deep breath and yelled with all her might.
Her scream for help shocked the mare, who’d been dozing. Her head shot up as she pulled backwards, her back legs losing balance, scrabbling in the loose earth. The sudden action behind it startled the crocodile, which flicked its tail and was in the water in a movement so fast Sally scarcely registered it. She waited a few seconds then leapt along the landing in three strides, grabbed the horse’s dangling bridle, flung herself awkwardly into the saddle and kicked the horse, who was now thoroughly startled and so confused that she bolted for the homestead. Sally clung to the animal’s neck, her trembling arms communicating her fear to the horse.
The mare went straight to the stables and stopped at the gate. Almost crying with relief, Sally slid to the ground and patted the old nag she now regarded as her saviour.
She was hanging up the saddle after grooming the horse, keeping busy to calm her nerves, when she heard the truck heading back. She walked towards the house and saw it stop outside the flyscreened meat room. A cloud of black flies swarmed above the bright red chunks of beef. She turned away as the men carried it in to butcher it on the wooden bench.
The boys were excited about dinner, dancing up and down chanting, ‘Spare ribs, spare ribs.’
Sally didn’t think she could eat the meat after seeing it slaughtered and her stomach felt wobbly after her fright at the river. She hadn’t said anything, but after two glasses of rum, the smell of the meat sizzling over the open fire was tempting. On this occasion, manners were relaxed, and even Lorna picked up the fat ribs in her fingers to gnaw at the meat.
Sally chose her moment, fortified with rum, and announced casually, ‘I saw a croc at the river this afternoon. It came and sat beside me on the landing, where the boat is.’
‘Oh yeah, how big?’ asked Ian sceptically.
‘About as big as you,’ said Sally. ‘No, bigger.’
Lorna raised an eyebrow. ‘What were you doing at the river? Be careful walking down there please, Sally.’
‘Oh, I was riding and decided to take a look at the river.’
‘What did you do?’ asked Marty.
Sally shrugged. ‘Ah, I sent it packing into the river. Spooked that old mare though. I had to catch her. But no problem.’ She bit into her spare rib, which was delicious, enjoying the impressed looks from the two younger boys.
John thumped the outdoor table. ‘A ’gater, eh? Good for you, Sal. I thought you were having a bit of trouble with that old nag.’
‘It’s the saddle. I’ve never used a stock saddle before, it’s awful.’
‘Not if you’re sitting in it ten hours a day,’ he retorted.
‘I’ve written home and asked my mother to send my saddle over,’ said Sally.
‘Goodness me, there’re plenty of saddles about the place,’ said Lorna.
‘I’d like to do a lot more riding. With my saddle and a decent horse you fellows won’t catch me.’ Sally smiled and winked at the boys.
John Monroe studied her, but didn’t say anything. Instead he reached for another spare rib.
Sally sat on the edge of Marty’s bed when the three boys were in bed.
‘Tell us again, what happened when the croc sneaked up behind you on the landing,’ said Marty.
‘Well, I didn’t hear anything. But I just knew something was behind me, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up,’ Sally began. ‘And when I saw it I knew I’d have to jump in the river, in the boat, or charge it . . .’
Ian sniffed and rolled on his side with his back to her, but Sally knew he was listening as she embellished the tale until she saw Marty’s eyelids flicker and his breathing slow then steady as he went to sleep. She stood up and smoothed the sheet.
‘Night, Tommy. Night, Ian.’
Ian didn’t answer and she wasn’t sure if he was awake. But Tommy mumbled quietly, ‘That black mare is a stupid horse. Don’t ride her again, Sally.’
‘Okay. You tell me what’s a good horse,’ she said softly, ignoring his use of her first name.
Sally was very tired. She got into bed, noticing that it was still pushed down the verandah, leaving a long gap between her and the boys, and fell asleep almost immediately.