‘Used to be a separate station. The trees gave it its name, of course, and I suppose no one thought to change it when it became part of Churinga.’
‘Everything out here sounds musical.’ Jenny sighed. The smell of the baked earth was strong, the sound of the birds and crickets harmonious with their surroundings.
‘The Abos have a musical language. You should hear them jabbering on when they get together for a corroboree. Most of the places out here are called by their Abo names, except for a few which reminded the original squatters of homes back in Europe.’
‘That’s true all over Australia,’ Jenny said with a smile. ‘Tassie’s littered with them.’
They rode side by side through the pastures. ‘Have you travelled a lot, Jenny?’ he said finally.
‘A fair bit. When I left the foster home at Waluna, I went to art college. Then after I’d finished, I travelled with Diane through Europe and Africa for a year to study the history of art.’ She thought fondly of Diane’s flowing caftans and outlandish jewellery. ‘Diane fell in love with all things exotic after we went to Marrakesh but I loved Paris best. Montmatre, the Left Bank, the Seine, the Louvre.’
He must have heard the wistfulness in her voice. ‘Do you wish you could go back?’
‘Sometimes. Maybe I will some day, but it wouldn’t be the same. Things never are. The people we knew back then would have moved on, things would have changed. Besides I’m older now, perhaps less careless of the dangers.’
‘Nothing in Paris could be as dangerous as the Tiger snakes you get out here surely,’ he said thoughtfully.
Jenny thought of the rat-infested lodgings she and Diane shared, and the lecherous, Frenchmen who thought all young girls were there to be seduced. ‘There are snakes everywhere,’ she said bluntly. ‘Not all of them crawl on their bellies.’
‘Cynic,’ he teased.
She laughed. ‘That’s what travelling does for you. Perhaps I’ll take my chances here. There are worse places to live, but at least you know what to watch out for.’
‘I’ll remember that.’ He gathered up the reins. ‘Come on. I’m going to show you my favourite place. It’s similar to where we went the other day, but on the other side of the mountain. It’s not far now, and I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.’
They galloped over the endless plains, through the timber, past the sentinels of blasted trees, and on towards the shimmering blue of the distant mountains. Spidery fingers of acid green traced a web through the grass – evidence of the bore head water that must drain into the pastures somewhere up ahead.
Her joints ached, and her limbs trembled, and as much as she was enjoying the ride, Jenny looked forward to getting off for a rest.
‘Almost there,’ Brett shouted about half an hour later.
Jenny saw that the leaves were fat and green on the trees and the grass verdant, startling against the surrounding mirror-bright silver. The thought of water made her urge the mare on until they reached the shade of the outlying trees. Sliding down from the saddle, she took off her hat and wiped away the sweat. Flies buzzed around her, settling, darting, drinking the moisture on her face and arms.
Brett took the reins of both horses and led the way through the thick scrub. The heat beneath the canopy of trees reminded her of Queensland, damp, humid, buzzing with insect life. Sweat drenched her clothes and ran down her face as she followed closely behind him. Would this walk never come to an end? she wondered.
Then suddenly they were in a clearing of pure, golden light, where the sound of a waterfall cooled the heat of the day. Brett stood aside and she gasped. It was an oasis, hidden in the folds of the mountain. Trees, verdant and lush, bent their fronds to the wide pool which lay still and clear at their feet. Tumbled, jumbled rocks sprouted flowers and vines which trailed, picture book bright, down crevices and along fissures. Birds, disturbed by their presence, flew in an agitated cloud above their heads. Bright scarlet and blue rosellas swooped with green and yellow parakeets. Tiny finches, sparrows and starlings fluttered and called as they flew from perch to perch. It was as if the world consisted only of birds. They swooped and dived in their hundreds before settling, bright-eyed and inquisitive, to watch the intruders.
Jenny laughed with the sheer joy of it, and the sound caused a flutter of wings as a flock of cockatoos flew out of the trees above them.
‘I told you it was special,’ he said, smiling with pleasure.
‘I never thought such a place could exist out here. Not in this wilderness.’
‘You don’t have to whisper,’ he said with a smile. ‘The birds will soon get used to us.’ He caught her arm. ‘Look. There in the mud bank.’
Jenny followed his pointing finger. Crayfish claws were visible in the slimy grey mud, dozens of them. ‘Yabbies,’ she exclaimed. ‘We’ll have to take some back for supper.’
‘Later,’ he said firmly. ‘What we could both do with now is a swim.’
Her spirits fell. The water looked so inviting in that clear pool, but to swim fully clothed would take away the pleasure. ‘You should have warned me. I didn’t bring anything to wear,’ she protested.
Brett grinned, and like a conjurer, pulled something from his saddle bag and threw it across. It was lurid orange with purple flowers dotted all over the nylon ruching. ‘It’s Ma’s. I expect it’s a bit big, but it’s the best I could do.’
Jenny looked at it. It was enormous and hopelessly old-fashioned, but if she tied the straps together at the back, and used her trouser belt to cinch in the waist, it would do. But to be on the safe side, she’d keep her underwear on.
When she’d finally tied and belted and tucked the vast costume around herself, she hesitated before stepping out from the bushes. She was barefoot and although her little toe was covered with a plaster it was still obvious – she always dreaded it when people commented on it and asked questions. It was something the nuns had believed to be the sign of the Devil, and although she knew better now, she was still ashamed of it.
The heat and the sound of the water was too enticing. Jenny took off her locket and peeked from behind the bushes. Brett was already in the water. He was wearing black trunks that showed off his muscular legs, flat stomach and broad chest to perfection. As he floated on his back, the sunlight glinted on his dark hair, turning it almost blue.
Jenny hutched the straps over her shoulders. Ma was blessed with a comfortable bosom, and no amount of tying and hitching could disguise the fact that Jenny had rather less to cover. She dived into the water and surfaced quickly. It was freezing, taking her breath away. But as she broke through the clear green depths into the sunlight, she realised Simone’s costume had filled with water, and was ballooning around her like an inflatable life-jacket.
What the hell? she thought as she floated luxuriously. I’m decent enough, and this water’s wonderful after those showers.
She watched as Brett struck out with clean, sure strokes to the other side of the pool where a small waterfall plunged through creepers and down the rocks. He swam beneath it then stood in the shallows, the water tumbling over his head. He gave a whoop of delight, sending the birds into startled flight.
Jenny laughed with him, and as she felt the costume sink further and further, decided she’d rather swim in her underwear than drown. Unfastening the belt, she pulled it off. It landed with a soggy plop on to an overhanging rock, and she kicked out and swam free. Diving into the cool depths after having swum back and forth for several minutes, she resurfaced on the far side where the rocks lay in great slabs beside the trees, and hauled herself out.
She lay there, gasping with the cold and the effort, basking in the warm caress of the dappled sun and the stones. The sound of Brett’s splashing and the birds’ chattering began to fade as weariness from the long ride took over. Her eyelids grew heavy and with feline pleasure she fell asleep.
‘Jenny … Jenny.’
His voice came from far away. It was almost a lullaby in tune with the orchestra of bird
s and water.
‘Jenny, wake up. It’s time to eat.’
She reluctantly opened her eyes and found herself mirrored in clear grey that was flecked with blue and gold. Like precious opals, they gleamed with fire. She sat up, confused by the things she read there, and shook out her wet hair to cover her embarrassment. ‘Have I been asleep long?’ she asked quickly.
‘Drifted off a bit there. You looked so peaceful – seemed a shame to wake you.’ His voice was different, as if he was having difficulty breathing, but before she could analyse it he became brisk. ‘Come on. Ma’s packed us another picnic and there’ll be hell to pay if we don’t eat this one.’
He held out his hand, and as she grasped it, pulled her to her feet. They were closer now, the warmth of their bodies mingling in the dappled sunlight. She noticed how his eyes had darkened, felt the tremor of his fingers, heard the catch of breath.
‘Mind your step,’ he said gruffly as he released her hand and turned away. ‘It’s slippery.’
Jenny dragged herself back from the spell he’d woven and followed him through the undergrowth. Common sense told her she’d misread his signals. He was merely being polite to his boss, showing off his Churinga, pleased with her reaction to it. But a small, insistent voice niggled deep in her subconscious. She’d thought he was going to kiss her – and she’d been disappointed when he hadn’t.
As she stumbled into the grassy clearing on the other side of the pool, she realised with horror that her wet underwear was transparent. Grabbing her shirt, she dived into the bushes and covered herself quickly. Hot with embarrassment, she chided herself for being a fool. No wonder there’d been a change in him, seeing her like that, as good as naked, stretched out on that bloody rock. It wasn’t surprising he hadn’t bothered to wake her. Must have got a real eyeful.
She fastened the buttons, tucked the shirt into her trousers and pulled on socks to hide her toe. As reason returned, she acknowledged that at least he’d been a gentleman about it. Most red-blooded males would have jumped her – but, with her being his boss, he’d obviously decided discretion was better.
But how to face him again? How to brazen it out and act as if nothing had happened? She took a deep breath and stepped out of the bushes. Nothing had happened, and if he didn’t say anything then neither would she.
Brett had his back to her as he laid out the picnic on the rocks. There was chicken and ham, damper bread, cheese, tomatoes and a large bottle of homemade lemonade as well as beer and a flask of tea.
Jenny avoided eye contact and tucked in. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was and the chicken was delicious. Brett was either unaware of her earlier discomfort or had decided nothing had happened to merit comment. He spoke only of Churinga.
She listened as he told her about wool and sheep auctions, and about the problems of transport and finding reliable men to work the place. The minutes slipped past with no mention of the swim and she began to relax and enjoy his company.
When the sun dipped behind the trees they fished out a dozen yabbies to take back for supper and made their way back to the homestead. Jenny was bone weary, and yet it was a satisfying feeling – one that came after a pleasant day and exercise. As they approached the home paddock, she looked forward to a good night’s sleep.
With the horses unsaddled, rubbed down and fed and watered, she and Brett leaned on the fence as the world softly descended into night. A canopy of stars covered the earth, so bright and clear she felt she could reach out and touch the Southern Cross. Take it in her palm and hold it close. ‘It’s been a wonderful day, Brett. Thanks. I’ve seen some beautiful sights today.’
He looked down at her, mouth twitching, eyes glittering with humour. ‘So have I,’ he said, and he loped away towards the bunkhouse before she could think of a cutting reply.
Chapter Eleven
As the shearing season was in full swing and the mobs had arrived from the smaller stations to be shorn, Brett had little time to spare so Jenny would take off with her sketchbook and spend hours capturing the essence of this red earth country. Their evening rides out into the pastures were cool and leisurely after the heat of the day, and as the weeks went by she came to look forward to them and was disappointed when Brett’s work made them impossible.
The days were full of noise and bustle. More than four hundred thousand sheep needed to be sent up the ramps to be shorn before the shearers could move on to the next shed. She watched the animals skitter down the ramps where they were grasped by strong brown hands and dipped. Those same hands plunged syringes down their throats, drenching them of intestinal parasites before releasing them into the pens where Brett and the stockmen divided the wethers from the breeding rams, the lambs from their ewes.
Castration of the male lambs was swift and bloody, the slaughter of the sheep past their wool prime inevitable, their carcasses fit only for the tannery or the knacker’s yard. Life at Churinga was harsh, there was no room for sentiment. Even the cats which slunk between barns and pens were lean and predatory, each one a practised, cunning killer. Never handfed or petted, they were expected to keep the property clear of vermin. As Brett had said, everything on Churinga had to earn its keep.
When Jenny rode out with the stockmen and listened to their stories she began to understand the enormity of what Matilda had taken on. The size of the property meant the men took it in turn to patrol the pastures, their rifles and stock whips always to hand. They would sleep in the fields guarding the sheep, shooting rabbits that ate the grass and dingoes and rooks hunting the lambs. Wild pigs, black and hairy and as big as a cow, could create havoc in a tightly packed feeding mob and the men were extra vigilant if they knew one was around. One thrust of those long curved tusks and a man could be ripped in half.
Jenny soon got used to being in the saddle for hours on end and even began to learn how to use the impossibly long and heavy stock whip the men seemed able to flick so effortlessly over the sheep. She became immune to the dust lifted by thousands of Merino feet and the swarms of flies that drifted in black clouds, waiting to settle on shitty back-sides, as she followed the mob to winter pasture. Her skin glowed from the sun and her hands grew calloused. She fell into bed at night and didn’t stir until the cookhouse clanger rang in another day.
Ripper, whose creamy paws, chest and eyebrows had been reddened by the dust, followed her everywhere with adoring eyes and lolling tongue. He seemed to know he wasn’t expected to work like the other Kelpies but watched over them all the same, his canine grin revealing a certain superiority.
A month passed, then half another. The shearers were packing up and moving on. The bustle of the yard and wool-shed died to a murmur and Brett travelled with the trucks to ensure the wool transportation went smoothly.
Jenny felt peace descend, stillness creep over the quiet stock pens and empty home pastures. Simone and Stan would be leaving tomorrow. Life was about to change once again – returning, perhaps, to the isolation Matilda must have experienced.
She thought wistfully of the unread diaries, and of the green dress in the trunk. The enticing music of the past was growing louder as the days passed, and she knew she would soon have to return to that world. Return to the haunting but familiar threads of a life she was only just beginning to understand.
The kitchen was sweltering, the temperature way up to a hundred and ten, and as Jenny sweated over dinner she admired Simone’s tenacity. To cook in this heat deserved a medal, but to do it every day for such vast numbers of men was worthy of sainthood.
Dinner was to be eaten at ten when the day was done and with it the fierce heat. Jenny was dressed in a cotton shift and low-heeled shoes when her guests arrived promptly at nine-thirty.
Simone was tethered into bright yellow cotton, her face for once made up, her hair in tight curls. Stan, who could never look anything but a shearer with his elongated arms and hunched back, was unusually smart in an ill-fitting suit and water-slicked hair. He shuffled his feet, looking sheepish and uncomforta
ble out of his usual singlet and flannels.
Jenny led them through the kitchen, where the aroma of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding wafted from the oven, and out on to the back porch. The French windows of the extension had been flung open, the chairs pulled outside into the cool evening. She’d spent most of the day polishing and dusting, sweeping the verandah and arranging great bowls of wild flowers on the small tables she’d set beside the chairs. The kitchen table was outside as well. It was hardly recognisable beneath white linen and fine china. Silver glittered in the moonlight, and a vase of wild lilies stood between the candlesticks she’d unearthed from the back of the kitchen cupboard.
Simone stood and looked at everything, eyes wide with pleasure. Jenny watched as she wonderingly touched the napkins and the silver cutlery. Perhaps she’d gone too far. These were poor working people, as rough and resilient as the land they worked, not go-getters from Sydney.
‘Jenny.’ It was a sigh of pleasure. ‘Thank you for making dinner so special. You don’t know how much I’ve wanted to sit down at a real nice table with flowers and silver and candles. I’ll always remember this.’
‘I was worried you’d think I was showing off,’ she admitted. ‘I got a bit carried away when I found all this locked in the cupboards. If it makes you uncomfortable, I can always put some of it back.’
Simone turned horrified eyes on her. ‘Don’t you flamin’ dare. I’m just Ma to most people. They forget me when they’ve got full bellies. This is the nicest thing anybody’s done for me in years.’ She poked Stan in the ribs. ‘And that goes for you too, mate.’
Jenny poured sherry.
Simone eased her bulk into an overstuffed chair and sipped her Amontillado with relish. ‘This is something I’ll remember for a long time,’ she said wistfully. ‘Living on the road does have its drawbacks.’
Stan sat on the edge of the couch, his long arms dangling between his knees as he looked around. ‘You made it nice, Mrs Sanders.’