Fresh Fields (6 page)

The table in the kitchen had a meal laid out on it under a clean tea-towel. There was a portion of shepherd's pie with peas and carrots and cauliflower, some jelly and custard, and a pot of tea. The thought suddenly came to the youth:
What if she's poisoned it?
But then he reflected that it was a case of eat it or go hungry, and he told himself that a bullet either has your name on it or it doesn't.

So he sat under “The Banks of the Burracoola” and ate the food and listened to a vague murmur of conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Coles as they ate somewhere further inside the house. Mrs. Coles's voice sounded plaintive and Mr. Coles's sounded as if he was trying to jolly her along, but there didn't seem to be anything really wrong. He heard Mr. Coles call her Clare. That fitted with the initials C.T.C. on the sign in the dunny. Once or twice Mr. Coles called her “Clarey” in a fond voice. “Scary” was more like it, the youth thought, and began to giggle softly. Then he got a mental picture of her rushing in with an axe, and that helped him stop giggling. When he'd finished eating he went back across to the shed and sat patting the collie dog until Mr. Coles came over.

The afternoon dragged by. The youth was losing the last of his alertness and beginning to feel clammy and unwell again. He wanted to ask if he could go into his room and lie down, but couldn't pluck up the nerve. He wished he could just curl up in a corner like Dolly. When the evening dark began to come on, Mr. Coles went back to the house and left the youth to do the feeding.

The youth racked his brain to remember the exact routine, and the amounts, and hoped he was doing it fairly right. The difficult part was feeding the pigs in their big enclosure down in the corner of the home paddock. There were five of them, large and black, and they came bustling and oinking to the fence as soon as he approached. They would not wait for him to pour the food into their trough, but shoved their snouts up and jostled the bucket as he tried to get it over the railing. The big snouts came very close to his hands and he was afraid of being savaged. The jostling, and his fear, made it hard to pour the mush cleanly. Most of it ended up on the pigs' backs or on the ground. The youth had never been this close to pigs before and it shocked him how big and pushy and frightening they were. The pigs made him understand Mr. Coles's habit of yelling at things. The youth felt like bellowing at the blasted brutes and swines to stop their damned bloody nonsense.

Feeding the horses and cows was much nicer. He would fetch a sweet-smelling bale of hay from the stack, cut the wire that held it together, break the bale up into several bits and then spread them so that the three horses and two cows could all have a nibble without crowding each other too much. The youth was also a bit scared of the horses and cows at first, in case they might bite or kick, but none of them seemed to want to do anything bad. One of the horses was enormous, some kind of draughthorse. It approached and sniffed at the youth. Mr. Coles had told him you can tell if a horse is in a bad mood by seeing whether its ears are laid back. This horse's ears were upright. He lifted his hand carefully, ready to snatch it away if he had to. The horse stood calmly while he stroked its nose. The breath from the big nostrils was warm on his hand.

After a few moments the horse backed gently off and went to join the others at the hay.

“You there, lad?” Mr. Coles called from near the shed.

“Yes.”

“Shower at the house, lad, before dinner. You'll need to step lively. It's almost on the table.”

The youth fetched his towel and went across. Mr. Coles showed him through to a bathroom. It was lovely being under the hot water, feeling the long day's cold and damp being soothed away. There was a cake of flowery-smelling soap and he lathered himself up with it. But then the hot water began to give out and he had to rinse himself off as quickly as he could. He dried himself and dressed and opened the bathroom door. Mrs. Coles was standing there with a mop in her hand. She gave him a dark intense look and strode past him into the bathroom and began running the mop across the floor in angry swipes. The youth went out to the kitchen.

He could hear Mr. Coles telling Mrs. Coles that she needn't mop the bathroom. Mrs. Coles's voice came back angry and sharp. Then Mr. Coles said he'd mop it himself if she wanted it mopped, and that she should sit down and relax. Again came the sharp and angry voice: “Scrubbing! That's what it needs! Scrubbing from top to bottom! Will you do that? Will you? No! What do you care if the house is
filthy
?” Her voice had gone shrill and Mr. Coles's voice became very soft and soothing. The youth thought he heard low sobbing. He finished eating and left the house.

The drizzle ran down the window of his room and the dampness of mud and rain seemed to penetrate everything. The youth sat on the rickety camp bed with one of the blankets round his shoulders and his back against the wall. He thought of his room at the Miami and how nice it would feel to be there now, lying back cosy and warm on his bed with magazines to read. He had only brought one of his magazines with him. It had been hard leaving the others behind, but he'd had to pare his things down to what would fit in the little bag.

He fished the magazine out. It was a copy of
Home Weekly
with a picture of Grace Kelly on the cover and a story inside called “Monaco's Fashion Queen.” The article was all about the clothes Grace Kelly wore to balls and banquets. The youth wasn't very interested in the clothes, but he really liked looking at Grace Kelly. He loved the cool, poised way she gazed out of a photo at you. She was sort of remote, and yet gave the impression of being friendly and sensible too.

For a long time he examined the photos of Grace Kelly in her ball-gowns and diamond tiaras, and gazed into the blue eyes in the cover photo. Her poised self-containedness made him feel a bit more poised and self-contained himself. The youth had learnt that there were times when he needed a different kind of consolation from the sort Diestl gave. This other kind came from pictures of certain women, and from Grace Kelly more than anyone. He had a secret name for her. He thought of her as Sweetheart.

The youth lay down with the blankets and his greatcoat over him. He tried to ignore the rat-like scufflings he could hear in the shed. He drifted to sleep thinking of a lovely blue-eyed woman it was utterly safe to be with and who understood all your yearnings. At some point in the night he imagined that he heard voices, and the dogs barking, and a car engine starting up.

“How ya goin'?” said a voice behind him. The youth had just stumbled out of his room, afraid that it was quite late in the morning and that he had overslept and was going to be in trouble. He looked around and saw a man sitting on a horse. The man had a battered leathery overcoat on and was leaning forward on the horse's neck. He looked completely relaxed, as though the horse was as comfortable to him as a sofa.

“Clem Currey's the name,” drawled the man, holding out his hand.

The youth shook hands and said who he was.

“Yeah, Coles said ya came day before yesterdee.”

“Yes.”

“How ya findin' it?”

“Alright,” said the youth. He wondered if Clem was from the neighbouring property. “Do you know what the time is, please?” he asked.

“'Bout half past eight,” Clem replied.

Shit, thought the youth. “I'd better go,” he said, pointing across at the house.

“Nobody there,” said Clem. “They're in town.”

“Sorry?”

“Coles's missus went crackers durin' the night. He had to take her in to get her seen to. Might not be back for a coupla days.”

The youth looked blank.

“It ain't the first time it's happened. It's just a matter of gettin' her into town so the doctor can give her a needle or somethin' to settle her down. Anyway, Coles rang me up and said to let ya know they was gone and that ya to come to my place for ya meals and that.”

“Um, okay,” said the youth, trying to take it all in.

“If ya want to go and do ya feedin', I'll do the milkin', and then we'll go.”

So the youth fed the animals while Clem milked the two cows in the milking yard just across from the shed.

“Ya can ride Gypsy, if ya like,” said Clem. “Do ya ride, at all?”

“I never have,” the youth replied.

“Ah well, ya might as well have a go, if ya like.”

Clem got a bridle from the saddle room and went across to where the three horses were at the hay the youth had just put out for them. He went to slip the bridle on the big one that looked like a draughthorse. It took a little time because the horse kept turning away whenever he lifted the bridle towards her.

“She's a cunnin' old bugger,” said Clem. “She's twenty-two years old and knows all the tricks.”

Clem got the bridle on her and tethered her outside the saddle room. He combed her back a little, and explained that it was to make sure there were no burrs under the saddle to make her sore. Then he saddled her. He showed the youth how she took a deep breath just as he went to tighten the strap under her belly.

“I told ya she knows all the tricks,” said Clem. “And fair enough, I s'pose. I'm not keen on havin' me belt too tight, either.”

When the mare was saddled and ready, Clem said that they might as well get moving. The youth went to his room and put on his new boots and hat and threw his greatcoat over his shoulder. Back outside, the mare looked enormous.

“Don't be scared of her,” said Clem. “She's cunnin', but she won't get outa hand. All this old girl wants is a quiet life.”

The youth wasn't convinced.

“I'll give ya a leg-up,” said Clem.

The youth found himself on the mare's back and for a moment thought he would pitch straight over the other side, but he got a desperate grip on the saddle and on the mane. He swayed there trying to get his balance. The ground looked a long way down.

“I'd better lead her, if ya like,” said Clem. “That'll let ya have ya hands free to hang on till ya find ya balance.”

So Clem walked ahead, leading his own horse and Gypsy, and the youth clung to the mane with both hands, bobbing and swaying and trying to grip with his knees. They paused beside the barking dogs and Clem let Dolly off her chain. Then they went slowly towards the gate out of the home paddock.

After only a few moments in the saddle the youth's hands and knees ached from the effort of trying to grip and stay upright. The lurch of the mare's movement began to make him feel seasick. He told himself that if he could make it to the gate he'd be okay. Meanwhile, Clem was explaining the art of falling off horses.

“The trick's to hit the ground in a relaxed frame o' mind. And to try not to fall under the hooves if possible, 'cos the horse might sprain a fetlock when he's steppin' on ya. Apart from that, it's as easy as fallin' off a log. In fact it's a fair bit easier, 'cos a log usually won't start buckin'.”

They reached the gate and went through.

“Well,” said Clem, looking up at the youth, “I reckon ya must be a born horseman. Ya sure ya never rode before?”

The youth nodded.

“Well, that's amazin',” Clem said, and swung himself onto his own horse with a single fluid motion. “I'll keep on leadin' Gypsy, if ya like. Just gettin' ya balance is enough to learn at the moment. Handlin' the reins can come later.”

They rode slowly through another paddock towards the next gate. At times the old mare slowed so much that she was hardly moving.

“Ya need to let her know who's boss,” said Clem.

“I think she already knows,” replied the youth grimly.

“Give her a bit of a spur with ya heels,” Clem advised.

The youth tried but could not relax the grip of his knees enough to get any purchase for a spurring motion.

“Never mind,” said Clem. “There's no hurry. Ya doin' real well. A lot of blokes woulda fallen off by now.”

The youth fell off.

“That was good,” said Clem when the youth had confirmed he was okay. “Ya hit the ground
relaxed
, like I said.”

The youth got up and brushed himself off and after several attempts managed to get back into the saddle. They rode on.

“That was real good,” Clem said. “Gettin' straight back on like that. It shows her she can't bluff ya. That's the main thing. Same with those pigs. I noticed ya was lookin' a bit dubious when ya was feedin' 'em.”

“I'm worried they might bite,” said the youth. “
Do
they bite?”

“They can do,” replied Clem.

“Mr. Coles told me about a farmer who got eaten by his pigs. He had a heart attack while he was in the pen with them. All that was found of him later was his wrist-watch. Is that true?”

“Nah,” said Clem.

“It isn't?”

“Nah.”

“That's a relief, then.”

“It was a
pocket
-watch,” said Clem.

They came to the top of a long rise and saw the country spread out. There were steep slopes and shadowed gullies, and rows of hills stretching into the distance, looking more purplish-blue the further away they went. There was a lot of old felled timber on the hillsides and it showed stark and white. Great shadows of clouds moved across the landscape. The youth felt the same kind of exhilaration as when he'd looked at the grandeur of the mountains from the train. But then he had to refocus on just keeping upright in the saddle.

On a long bare ridge stretching below them was a group of buildings. There was a small house with a windmill whirling beside it, and another narrower structure nearby, and further along what the youth recognised as a shearing shed with a set of yards. They went through a last gate and plodded down the long ridge. A couple of dogs tethered near the house began to bark.