THE ORCHIDS STAYED IN the centre of the dining table for two weeks. Small, delicate and exotic, the flowers were a rare specimen in the surroundings of Barra Creek. Lorna did her work around the house as usual, though she took a long nap each afternoon. Sally spent a lot more time with the children in the schoolhouse ‘catching up’ for, despite Lorna’s good intentions, the work schedules Sally had left for the boys were only half done.
Now the Monroe boys and the black children, including little Alice, busily applied themselves to school work as a welcome distraction from thinking about Marty. Sally was taken with the drawings done by Frankie and Ginger, but most of all she was impressed with a composition Tommy had written. He always wrote good ‘stories’ but he was quick and sloppy. Sally wanted him to pay attention to what he’d been told to write about and to mind his handwriting, spelling and grammar. This little story had been dashed off but it captured the scene and mood of fishing down at the river quite wonderfully.
‘Tommy, this is such a good composition. I feel I want to rush down to the river and throw a line in.’
‘Why don’t we?’ He grinned and the black kids jumped up and cheered in agreement.
‘Why’s he writing about that? We had to write about an event that changed history or our lives,’ sniffed Ian.
‘Here, read how he has cleverly brought that in. Ignore the spelling and punctuation,’ said Sally. She decided to encourage Tommy with his writing. He had real flair. ‘You both need to read more. I’m going to arrange to get some good books sent from the library.’
‘We have enough to read for school,’ moaned Ian.
But Tommy was all for it. ‘Dad has a library of books but we’re not allowed to touch them.’
Sally had seen the books in John’s office area but never paid much attention to them. ‘What sort of books?’
‘Old-fashioned, smelly books for old people,’ scoffed Ian.
‘I’ll check them out tonight,’ said Sally.
‘When we feed ’em up goaties?’ asked Frankie, causing an immediate eruption in the class. The little herd of goats had become household pets, and loved attention and being hand fed. They were locked up at night in a pen with a small shelter next to the home stables. Fitzi was helping make a billy cart with a harness for the goats so the children could ride in it. He’d also spent time putting chicken wire around the garden fences to keep the goats away from Lorna’s flowers and vegetables.
John Monroe had scoffed at Sally when she said she was trying to teach one of the black kids to read and write. ‘He only needs to sign his name to a bit of paper occasionally. Don’t waste your time.’
Ginger, with his dark skin and shock of yellow hair, was bright and keen and the same age as Marty, as near as they could estimate, and had always wanted to do what Marty did. He seemed to be putting in a special effort now so Sally encouraged him and with great concentration he gripped the pencil, his tongue poking from the corner of his mouth, as he laboriously scratched out the letters that spelled his name.
After lunch Sally and the boys followed Fitzi and the camp kids down to the yards where Rob was breaking in the big stallion. The horse had been left alone since the brumby rush that had killed Marty. It looked wild eyed, its apprehension covered up with aggressive head movements and pawing at the ground. Being confined had not calmed him, if anything it had made him more determined to break free.
Ian was besotted with the beautiful horse, but John Monroe refused to have anything to do with it. ‘Sell it, get rid of it,’ he told Rob.
‘It has the makings of a good stockhorse,’ said Rob.
‘Bullshit. It’s a mad horse, a jinxed horse.’ He strode away from the yards leaving no doubt that he blamed the horse for the stampede that felled Marty.
Snowy hovered. ‘Give him to me, I’ll get him working.’
Ian ran at him. ‘No! Leave him!’ He’d seen Snowy beat a horse until it cowered.
Rob stepped in quickly. ‘Calm down, Ian. No one’s going near that stallion but me.’
‘He’s my horse. I want him.’ Ian seemed close to tears. Rob threw Sally a look and she put her arm around Ian’s shoulders.
‘It’s okay. Let Rob break him in. He’ll do a good job. Then the horse will treat you well when you’re strong enough to ride him.’ Sally knew the slim boy would not be capable of controlling such a big horse for a while.
Ian nodded. ‘Yeah. Rob’s the best. Sally, will you tell Dad? Please?’
‘Tell him what?’
‘That he’s my horse. He didn’t hurt Marty. He was just . . . doing what a wild stallion does. He wanted his mares to be free. Isn’t that right?’
Sally was struck by the pleading in Ian’s eyes and voice. She saw how much this horse meant to him. For this young boy it was a link with his brother; unlike his father he didn’t blame the horse.
‘Yes. Yes, you’re right. I’ll talk to him.’
Rob and Sally exchanged a glance over Ian’s head. Each knew what the other was thinking: this could turn into yet another cause for friction between Monroe and his eldest son. Sally decided to ask Rob for his advice on how to handle the situation. There was no question Rob should tame the big stallion. It suddenly struck her how quickly her rapport with Rob was re-established and her time with the charming Doctor Lee seemed remote and unreal.
They decided to start breaking in the horse the following morning when Monroe was out checking on the bore runners and would be gone overnight. Sally would give the class a break to watch Rob work with the stallion and they’d make up the school time later.
They trailed down to the yards, even the black children’s exuberance was subdued. It crossed Sally’s mind that it felt as if they were going to church, or maybe to the theatre to see a serious opera. Rob had assembled his gear and was laying out his mouthing bits, ropes and a secret mixture he kept in an old jar. He would rub it on cotton cloth wound around a mouthing bit to cool the gums. He squatted on his haunches and rolled a cigarette while studying the stallion.
Sally crouched beside him. ‘He’s a beautiful animal, Rob.’
‘I was thinking how different it is with humans. You can pick a good horse by his looks and movement, but it’s hard to see a person’s pedigree.’
‘I suppose it’s something inside humans that’s not immediately obvious.’
‘Where’re your spurs and whip?’ asked Ian.
‘I’m not here to be cruel, break his spirit. Like Sally teaches you things at school, I’m going to educate this fella, make him a smart horse.’ Rob’s eyes didn’t move from the horse. He was absorbing the way his legs and feet moved, which side he seemed to favour, the language spoken in the movement of his ears, the flare of nostrils, mouth action and head movements.
Sally had seen horses roughly and cruelly broken-in that would always carry bad habits and a resentful attitude, but Rob’s technique was different. He could see the potential of this horse. Ian sensed it too and wanted the stallion very badly.
‘How long is it going to take?’ Ian asked.
‘As long as it takes.’ Then after a few minutes Rob added, ‘I’m tuning in to his wavelength, getting to know what he’s thinking.’
‘Ah, how can you do that?’ Sally asked. She wasn’t sure if he was leading Ian on or really meant it.
After a few moments, Rob asked Ian, ‘So what do you reckon he’s thinking? See how he paces up and down, keeps looking back at the hills, nods his head and tosses his mane.’
‘He looks like he wants to get out of there.’
‘That’s for sure. He’s frustrated, he’s worried about his herd. His whole world has been reduced to the small space in the yard, with strange creatures around him. He’s scared of us but he won’t show it.’
‘Will he fight though?’ asked Sally.
‘Wouldn’t you after what’s happened?’
‘Yes. I would.’
Rob finished his cigarette but seemed to drift off into a world of his own so Sally and Ian moved away.
‘I reckon we make ourselves comfortable and sit it out, eh?’
They watched in silence as Rob picked up his plaited cotton lasso, deftly dropped it over the horse’s neck, flipped it over his head and, moving the horse anti-clockwise, gave a light pull so the loop was under his throat. He then stepped in front of the stallion turning him clockwise, threw a half-hitch over his nose and pulled it taut, which pulled up the horse. He made eye contact with the wary animal and immediately had the horse’s full attention. There was fear and defiance but neither came to the fore as the man and horse locked eyes.
Rob spoke softly. ‘See, I’ve got you, old boy. So I’m going to lead you, gently, but you get the message, right?’
He then relaxed the pressure on the horse’s nose and took several steps backwards and sideways, never breaking eye contact, letting the animal inspect him. He passed the rope to his left hand and slowly but surely approached the horse, who suddenly swung to the side. Rob increased the pressure on the rope slightly, bringing him back to face him. The horse reared, but Rob seemed to be expecting it and merely released all pressure on the rope so the animal didn’t roll and fall.
Facing each other again, the stallion glared balefully at Rob, and Sally realised that he knew that by staring into Rob’s eyes he may be able to puzzle out what this man was thinking. Rob advanced slowly, stopped, and held out the back of his hand for the horse to smell, his eyes still not wavering from those of the horse.
The horse sniffed and Rob ran his little finger up the side of the stallion’s head then slipped his palm over one eye and closed it, retaining firm pressure on the rope in his left hand. He closed the horse’s eye a few times then stepped back and let the stallion absorb what had transpired.
Moments passed as they studied each other and Rob repeated the process twice more. On the third time he rubbed behind an ear. Gently he worked the rope loose from under the throat, widening the noose, and then stepped back, until he was standing several paces away but in front of the horse, maintaining eye contact. He lifted the noose and, instinctively as it went over the eyes, the stallion ducked and the rope dropped off. Rob broke eye contact and the stallion stepped away as Rob slowly wound up the rope and left the yard.
‘Is that it?’ asked Sally.
‘For today. He won’t be so fearful tomorrow. He knows I’m boss, but I won’t hurt him. He’ll be less worried when I take him around the yard tomorrow and we’ll do a little more mouthing, put on a bridle.’
Ian left to find Tommy, and Sally helped Rob release the stallion back into the main yard. Walking back to the stables Rob gave a wry grin. ‘So, how was Darwin? You look decidedly happier.’
‘It was good for me, just what the doctor ordered.’ She laughed inwardly. ‘The Tsourises looked after me really well. I met a few people, socialised, went to the pictures, a couple of dances. But it’s not the most glamorous place for a holiday.’
‘I like the ocean myself, Surfers or up the Cape.’
‘Me too. I adored Surfers. I’m nervous swimming too far north, though. Too many nasties.’
‘Maybe we could do that sometime. Go to the coast. I’d like to see you in one of those two-piece jobs.’
Sally laughed. ‘The new thing is a bikini . . . though my mother would shoot me if I wore one.’
‘Let’s go for a swim tomorrow, it’s so hot.’
‘I’m too scared. What if there are more big crocs around?’
‘We’ll be okay at the old swimming hole. We’ll take the piccaninnies with us and chuck them in first, see if it’s safe.’
‘Rob! You’re joking!’
‘I am. But the old people told me that if you have to swim in a croc-infested river, splash in first and put an old woman behind you, by the time the croc is alerted to the noise, he’ll grab the old one at the rear and you’ll get over.’
‘Even if it isn’t true, that’s a terrible story. Crocodiles are the biggest problem about living by the river, beautiful as it is.’
They reached the stables, which were deserted in the hot afternoon. Suddenly Rob spun around and swept Sally into his arms behind the lean-to shelter, kissing her long and hard.
She responded instantly to his scorching mouth and felt her legs go weak as she pressed against him.
‘I missed you,’ he murmured as they drew apart. ‘I thought you might find some bloke over in the big smoke and not come back.’
‘In a week?’ teased Sally. ‘And Darwin’s scarcely the big smoke.’
‘It must be lonely for you here. Lorna’s a bit out of it these days.’
Sally felt a rush of emotion – guilt over her attraction to Hal, the fact she’d secretly tried to meet Sean in Darwin, disloyalty to Rob. Yet there had never been anything between them but friendship and now this powerful physical attraction. ‘I would be, if it wasn’t for you. You’re my best friend up here.’
He held her tightly to him. ‘Can we be more than friends? Seems like we’ve jumped a barrier or two.’
She didn’t answer but lifted her face to be kissed as his hands ran along her back, over her firm buttocks and drew her hips into his. Then they grinned at each other.
‘So what are we going to do about this?’ asked Sally.
‘Leave it to me. We’ll have to be careful that John or Lorna don’t notice anything different.’
‘Do you feel different?’
He laughed. ‘Yes, I do.’ Then he grew serious. ‘I promise not to hurt you, Sally. Hurt your feelings or do the wrong thing. I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage or anything. I was knocked over by you the first time I saw you. I tried hard not to show it.’
Sally recalled the dishevelled man she’d first seen. ‘I thought I was getting in the way and you hated having me around.’
‘Sally, I’m glad we’re friends.’
‘Me too.’ She kissed him quickly. ‘I’d better get back to the boys. If you see the rest of the kids send them up to the school, please.’
All was quiet in the schoolhouse save for the scratching of a pen, the scrape of Frankie’s coloured chalk as he drew on the board and the heavy breathing of a cattle dog under a desk. Sally was checking their homework before it went off in that week’s bag of work to the correspondence school. She glanced at her watch, it was almost time to finish for the day. Then there was an eruption of noise, laughter, shouting, a car horn blowing.
‘What the dickens?’ Sally ran to the door.
The women were running from the house, Fitzi and two stockmen were in the yard on horseback having ridden up from the front gate. They were followed by John Monroe, who swerved the Land Rover up to the house and jumped out, calling Lorna.
‘What’s going on?’ called Sally.
Fitzi was closest to her and he shouted, ‘Mizta Charlie Chan come. Got him van, plenny good tings!’
The black children raced off before she could dismiss them. ‘Who on earth is Charlie Chan?’
‘He’s the hawker man. He comes round all the stations twice a year selling things,’ said Ian. ‘Can we go now? I want to see what he’s got.’
‘What sort of things does he sell?’ Sally’s curiosity was piqued and the idea of a travelling salesman was appealing.
‘All kinds of things. Ask Mum.’ Tommy and Ian were racing towards the house to raid their piggy banks.
Lorna was getting into the Land Rover. ‘Come on, Sally, let’s go shopping.’
‘I don’t have any cash on me.’
‘Don’t worry about that, just pick out what you want,’ called John Monroe so Sally jumped in the back with the boys who were clutching their pocket money.
The old hawker had parked his big truck, covered with a canvas awning and piled with bags and boxes on the side and top, near the home stables but close enough to the blacks’ camp for them to see he was there.
‘My God, look at those old girls run,’ said John. ‘Never stir themselves any other time.’
Sally laughed at the sight of the women, the plump, the skinny, those with a piccaninny on their back, kids and dogs chasing at their heels, all hurrying as fast as they could to the van where a short man was rolling up the canvas sides of the truck. The boys rushed over to him as Lorna, John and Sally greeted him.
‘G’day, Charlie. Thought you wouldn’t get here before the Wet,’ said John.
‘No fear, Mister Monroe, I wouldn’t miss you out. How do, Miz Monroe.’
‘Hello, Charlie. This is our governess, Miss Mitchell.’
Sally nodded and gave him a big smile, unsure whether to shake hands as neither of the Monroes had. Charlie was a mixture of Aboriginal, Chinese, European and Afghan. He had wrinkled olive skin, narrow bright black eyes, a high forehead and a long dark pigtail.
Lorna said to Sally, ‘Charlie is carrying on an old family tradition. His father and grandfather were Afghan camel traders. They travelled all around the Territory and north selling to the stations, prospectors, outstations, missions, everywhere. It used to be the only way we could get things sometimes.’
‘Me more modern but,’ laughed Charlie. ‘I hated them camels when I was a kid.’
‘So what do you have to show us, Charlie?’ Lorna was businesslike; she was ready to stock up on her store supplies. The black men hovered, but the women were pulling things from the truck as the kids squealed and jumped around them. Soon some of the stockmen came over to join them. The word of Charlie’s arrival had been spreading for some time as he’d driven along the track to Barra Creek.
It was a small riot of a bargain bazaar as items were spread on the ground. The men wanted to see whips, belts, holsters, boots, hats, smelly hair cream, scarves, buckles and fancy satin Western shirts. Lorna put aside work shirts, pants, some baby nappies and cleaning utensils along with dresses and blouses for the women. The boys were pulling out toys and books, paints and crayons, slingshots and a badminton set. John Monroe stocked up on bullets, rope, snake oil and nails. Sally found a bright red nail polish, a couple of books and a fancy plaited leather belt.
Charlie nodded approval at the belt. ‘That a good belt that one. Made by old fella Jack at Brindley Station. His eyes are goin’ and hands are shaky. He won’t be makin’ many more like that one.’
A voice behind her whispered, ‘How about a silver buckle to go with it?’ Rob held out the buckle engraved with a prancing horse. ‘A present for you.’
‘Hey, thank you, Rob.’ Sally wanted to hug him but was aware Lorna was watching them.
‘’Scuse me, I gotta fix up them girls or they’ll have every bit of cloth unrolled,’ said Charlie, heading into the melee at the back of the truck. The women had grabbed bolts of bright red and yellow cloth and Charlie was kept busy cutting off lengths for them. Others were buying colourful patterned dresses.
Lorna and Sally shook their heads. ‘They like the colours of the dresses,’ said Lorna, ‘never mind that big fat Daisy has bought an XSW.’
‘But she can’t wear it!’ exclaimed Sally.
‘Oh, she’ll find a way. They can sew a very basic running stitch, big over and under. You’ve seen some of their frocks – a hole for the head and stitched up the sides. Sometimes they’ll go to the trouble of adding a big gusset in the sides. So long as they like the colour they’re happy.’
Lizzie was elated and held up her red material. ‘Make ’em plenny corroboree dress. Got ’em lachtik, fix ’em up good.’
‘What’s lachtik?’ asked Sally.
‘They buy wide elastic, put it round their waist and tuck the fabric into it. Hey presto, a skirt. They’ll tear a strip off one side and tie it round their hair.’
That evening there was much laughter from the blacks’ camp as everyone shared their booty. In the homestead Sally took out her silver buckle and turned it over in her hands, touched by Rob’s gesture. She decided next time she went away she’d have something engraved on it to remind her of Barra Creek. Then it struck her, where would she wear a stockman’s leather belt with a big silver buckle? It was so unlike the conservative gear and subdued accessories she was allowed to wear for Hunt events. She’d ask Rob to attach the buckle to her belt tomorrow.
The following afternoon, after school had been out for an hour or so, Sally went looking for the boys to go for a ride. She wandered down to the stables and asked Rob if he’d seen them.
‘They’ve gone hunting with Frankie and Ginger and the lubras. They’re having a corroboree tonight.’
‘What for?’
‘Ask Fitzi. It’s a bit of a party.’
‘I hear them singing some nights,’ said Sally. ‘It’s kind of mournful.’
‘I’ll take you down, if you like. After the boys are in bed.’
‘Should I tell Lorna?’
‘Why not? But she’s never been interested. It’s not a special ceremony or anything.’
‘Right. See you later then.’
Lorna sipped a soft drink as they gathered before dinner. Rob and John were deep in conversation about station matters. The boys were in the kitchen talking to Lizzie. The nanny goat had been milked and there had been a discussion about how to make goat’s cheese.
‘Rob says the camp blacks are doing a corroboree tonight. He’s going to take me down to watch,’ Sally told Lorna.
‘Sally, I wish you wouldn’t. Has Rob checked it out with Fitzi? Sometimes it’s not appropriate for women to watch. Why on earth do you want to go down there anyway?’
Sally hesitated. ‘Rob thought I might be interested.’
Lorna gave her a sharp look. ‘You make your own decisions, Sally.’ Pointedly she changed the subject. ‘Have you heard from your nice doctor in Darwin?’
‘Heavens no. Now come on, Lorna,’ she cajoled. ‘You don’t want me to move to Darwin, do you?’ Sally kept her voice low so Rob, across the room, didn’t hear.
Lorna’s lips twitched in a near smile. ‘I doubt that will happen. You’re meant for better things. Though we don’t want to lose you just yet.’
‘I’m not going anywhere, Lorna. I love it here with you, the boys . . .’
‘And?’ Lorna glanced towards Rob.
‘C’mon, Lorna, we’re mates. Good friends. There isn’t a lot of company my own age around here. Unless you count some of the stockmen or the runners . . .’
Lorna held up her hand. ‘Very well, I take your point. Sally, when you’re out here, and lonely, you don’t want to build more into something than is there.’
Sally leaned over and touched Lorna’s arm. ‘I understand what you’re saying. Really I do.’
Lorna looked relieved. ‘That’s good then because I have to go to Cairns. They’re a bit worried about my condition. The doctor wants me on hand to monitor me.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, that’s sensible, much safer,’ said Sally, wondering how she’d manage on her own for so long. John had got out of hand when Lorna was down in Sydney. ‘When will John go over?’
‘Heavens, I don’t expect him to leave. I’ll be all right.’ But her face looked tight and sad.
‘The baby is the most important thing,’ said Sally softly. ‘Don’t worry, everything here will be fine.’
‘I hope so. I know what happens when I leave. I trust you, Sally. You know what I mean.’ She rose and rang the bell for Lizzie to serve.
Sally knew what she meant. Her responsibility was Ian and Tommy. Lorna couldn’t bring herself to mention how one boy had been lost. Not that she blamed Sally. She didn’t have to, Sally still blamed herself in some ways for Marty’s death. She glanced across the room and caught Rob’s eye. He’d heard Lorna’s last remark. Thank God he was there. Life at Barra Creek would be much more difficult without his company.
By bedtime the boys had heard that Rob was taking Sally down to the corroboree and wanted to go as well.
‘You know your mother has forbidden you to go near the blacks’ camp. It’s a no-go area.’
‘She doesn’t like you going there either,’ countered Ian.
‘Yes, but Rob is watching out for me. I’ll just stay in the background.’
‘He can look after us too,’ said Tommy.
‘Come on, you chaps. I’ve never seen real Aborigine dancing. I’ve seen Frankie and Ginger showing you at the back of the schoolhouse, but that’s all.’
‘All right then,’ laughed Tommy. ‘We’ll put on our own corroboree!’
Trailing towels, the two boys rushed along the verandah and dragged from under a bed a didgeridoo and clap sticks. Ian perched cross legged on the floor and started playing the long, hollow pipe Fitzi had made from a straight tree branch. Tommy played the clap sticks, banging the small cigar-shaped sticks together, swaying to their rhythm. Then he began to dance. Sally had seen him do this in wild spurts before, but tonight the boys performed with great seriousness, conscious that the third member of their group was missing. Marty had always kept to the beat by clapping and slapping his thighs.
Sally marvelled at the nimble movements of Tommy’s slim body, lithe one minute, jerky the next as he imitated the bush creatures, the warrior and the hunter. He was depicting a story that came to a conclusion as the hunter closed in on his prey. The didge music got louder and as the hunter raised his spear Lorna stepped out onto the verandah.
‘Just stop that rubbish, this instant!’
Shocked into silence, Ian tried to hide the didgeridoo, Tommy stopped dancing and Sally stepped forward and took the clap sticks from him.
‘Okay, that’s enough, finish getting ready for bed.’ She pushed the sticks into her pocket.
‘Sally, don’t let them do that. I will not have them behaving like wild native bush boys. Ian, give me that thing.’
‘Aw, Mum, it’s special.’ He tried to hide the didgeridoo that was almost as tall as Tommy. ‘It’s not mine anyway.’
‘Then all the more reason why you shouldn’t have it.’
‘It’s Fitzi’s favourite,’ cried Tommy.
‘No it’s not. It’s Rob’s,’ said Ian, hoping that might make it more valuable.
Lorna took the musical instrument. ‘It’s firewood now. Off you go to the bathroom.’ She turned to Sally. ‘I’m putting this in the fire. It’s hard enough trying to stop them growing up like little heathens, allowing this sort of behaviour doesn’t help. You are to oversee their manners as much as their school work.’
‘Yes, Lorna. I’m sorry. They wanted to go down to the corroboree. Of course I told them it was out of the question.’
‘Why can’t they listen to proper music or learn the piano?’ sighed Lorna. ‘They’ll be at such a disadvantage when they go to school next year.’
From what Lorna had told Sally, most of the boys from the country were just like Tommy and Ian; she doubted they’d be misfits.
‘I won’t go down to the corroboree then.’
Lorna’s anger had dissipated slightly. ‘Go, as long as Rob stays with you. These things go on all night, I’ll expect you back at a reasonable time. Then you won’t need to go near that camp again. When I’m away I want to know I can trust you.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m still going to burn this thing,’ said Lorna.
The boys flung Sally a desperate look, but her expression silenced their moans at losing the didgeridoo. Sally hoped Fitzi would make another one that was just as good.
Once the boys were settled in bed Rob and Sally drove in his ute towards the camp. As they came close they saw the glow of the campfires and a smoky cloud of dust in the yellow light. There was a lot of movement from swaying dancers and an occasional leaping figure.
Rob walked ahead and Fitzi materialised beside them, though for a moment Sally didn’t recognise him. He and the other men wore loincloths that looked to Sally like nappies; the men called them cockrags. Some wore old shorts, their bare chests daubed with thick white markings. Their hair was caked with grey ash and mud, and some wore elaborate headdresses. The women wore their new skirts sewn up as Lorna had described along with strips of material around their heads. Their bare breasts and faces were also painted with ochre. They sat on the ground, singing and playing the clap sticks.
Fitzi showed them where to sit and crouched beside them.
‘What story this one?’ asked Rob.
‘Dis longa time, good chory, how camel men come ’ere.’
‘The Afghans?’
‘Dem good people. Camel go everywhere, carry every ting.’
‘Like the hawkers?’ said Sally.
‘Dat be one. Dem come round in motor car now. No more camel chop.’ He nodded at the dancers. ‘Dere be camel in dat dance.’
Sally immediately recognised the two dancers pretending to be a camel. ‘I wish I could follow the whole story. They’re wonderful mimics.’
Fitzi returned to the group and she and Rob became absorbed in the saga being played out on the dirt stage. It was difficult to recognise the same slow lubras and stockmen, the blacks who sat down around the station, as these energetic, exuberant performers. It was mesmerising, the singing and rhythmic clapping hypnotic. Sally had no idea how much time had passed when Rob nudged her.
‘We should make a move soon. It’s been nearly two hours.’
‘Righto.’ Sally stood and as she turned she froze. Across the edge of the fire she saw the weird and creepy figure of the strange old man the boys called Mr Stinky. His wrinkled skin, cut with initiation and ceremonial scars, looked saggy, his yellow hair through the fire haze looked to be ablaze and his eyes glowed like red embers. He was staring directly at Sally, a slight smile on his face. Beside him stood two young girls of about twelve. Rob caught her involuntary shudder.
‘What’s up?’
‘That old man, Mr Stinky. Those girls with him. Surely he’s not going to . . . take them away with him.’
‘Looks like it. It’s the custom, Sal. He teaches them.’
‘It’s disgusting, they must hate it.’
‘He must be pretty good, apparently the girls don’t want to leave him when he brings them back to camp.’
‘I don’t understand it.’
Rob was about to say something, but changed his mind and turned away. ‘We’d better get back, Lorna is probably sitting on the verandah waiting for us.’
Rob grinned. ‘Let’s not rock the boat. Besides she’ll be gone for a couple of weeks.’ He leaned down and kissed Sally. ‘And then who’s going to keep tabs on us?’
Sally laughed and relaxed, the glimpse of the old man forgotten. ‘The boys, John, Fitzi. We’ll have eyes on us the whole time if you ask me!’
When they drove up to the homestead all was in darkness; everything was peaceful. The moon was blurry bright and Rob glanced up at the night sky. ‘Looks like the Wet will start early. Didn’t have much of a wet season last year. It would be good if we got a decent one this year.’
‘Ugh, I hate rain.’
‘This isn’t rain, it’s an upended river.’ He drew her to him and they stood in the garden, arms entwined around each other.
‘Thanks for taking me down tonight. It was really interesting. Listen, you can still hear them.’
‘Don’t expect the women to turn up on the dot tomorrow morning. G’night, Sal.’ He kissed her softly on the lips. But the gentle kiss quickly became a rush of passion.
When they drew apart, Rob shook his head. ‘My God, Sally, you run me over like a steam train. I can’t believe what you do to me. You’re a dangerous woman.’
Sally felt the same, amazed at how her body surged at his touch. ‘We seem to have some sort of electrical current between us.’
They leaned closer, their lips touching again. ‘So what are we going to do about it?’ whispered Rob. ‘Up to you . . .’
In answer, Sally tightened her arms and kissed him harder, giving him all the answer he needed.
He took her hand. ‘Come and say goodnight to Jasper,’ and began to lead her away from the house.
‘Who’s Jasper?’ she whispered.
‘The stallion. He’s the colour of jasper. That’s what I call him anyway.’
‘But he’s still pretty wild, won’t he get upset?’
‘I don’t intrude. He knows me now. I just stand and let him know I’m there, speak softly to him. I go every night.’
They stood in the pale moonlight watching the horse standing almost motionless in the yard. His head was inclined to the side, ears twitching, his tail flicking. He watched Rob approach the fence.
Rob hung over the rails and called softly. ‘Just checking on you, mate. Hope the corroboree didn’t scare you. I brought a friend. She thinks you’re a pretty handsome fellow. I told her you’re going to be one heck of a smart horse when we’ve finished training you. Isn’t that right?’
Sally smiled at Rob’s crooning, soothing voice, like a father talking a child to sleep. The stallion took a few tentative steps forward then stopped, nostrils flaring, head erect.
‘He smells you, something different. He’s wary.’
Sally picked up Rob’s calm, gentle tone. ‘I just wanted to see you were okay too. I suppose you miss your herd. But they might join you some time.’
The horse listened but would come no closer. They watched him for a few more minutes then Rob took Sally’s hand. He led her into the shed next to the stable and flicked on his lighter.
‘Careful, this place is full of hay,’ said Sally.
‘It’s okay.’ He lit a small kerosene lantern that hung on a wire from a door. In the small circle of yellow light Sally watched as he pulled down a couple of clean horse blankets and lay them over a pile of loose straw. ‘It’s not wildly comfortable and not very romantic but . . .’ He held out his arms with a shy half smile. Sally willingly surrendered to his embrace and, giggling quietly, they settled onto the makeshift bed.
It was hard to leave. Sally wanted to sleep in Rob’s arms, despite the occasional prick of hay, but they knew they’d better go. He kissed her quickly and silently under the willow tree and waited till she was tiptoeing along the verandah before turning and heading to the room he sometimes used at the end of the single men’s quarters. No one stirred.
Sally lay on top of her bed feeling flushed with sensations of love and being loved. The physical pleasure they’d shared had been exhilarating, but she’d seen another side to Rob in their whispers and knew how he had been creeping under her skin for many weeks leading to this moment. For the rest of her life, the smell of straw always brought back memories of this sensuous warm night with him.