Shearers' Motel (11 page)

The catching-up didn't take long. A silence fell in the kitchen and he concentrated on getting the toasted sandwiches right. He made them in his big steel frying pan over the wood stove. Lenny grabbed the sharpening steel
and whisked an edge onto his chef's knives to fill in the time. ‘Blunt as arseholes, as usual, Cookie,' he derided. ‘I don't know what we're going to do with you, I really don't.'

The sandwiches were ready, dripping with butter, oozing with cheese, tomato, and sliced ham.

‘Here we go.'

‘Splendid.'

‘You're a beaudy.'

‘Thes's what we've got you for, Cookie,' said Louella.

With the kitchen empty he took the pressure lamp down from its hook over the sink and walked out to the cook's room, a separate detached building in the dark, where Sadie slept in a cardboard box on a nest made of dusty jute sacking, occasionally snorting and snapping, chasing poultry in her dreams.

He set his alarm for quarter to five, stretched out on his saggy bed, and listened to the silence.

Two-thirty in the morning and he found himself wide awake. It was the second week of shearing at Gograndli Station. He went outside. Everything was changed from the stark, negative impressions of daytime. Bright moonlight shone between buildings. The deadly nightshade in the walkway outside the kitchen door had a silvery stiffness. Cobwebs shone in shadows. Windows were blank. The galvanised roofing of the shearers' quarters seemed frosted. Fretworked tree shadows in the yards and the holding paddocks were transparent as air. There did not seem to be any trees nearby when the sun was at its height. Now they declared themselves, a spectral forest. Back across the river no light shone from Gograndli homestead. The tension of the waking world was relaxed. Wagtails and magpies stirred, ducks whooshed overhead, emus stalked the saltbush plain with emerald eyes. Dark shapes of night stood separate from each other in a gathering ground-mist. The red gums on the riverbank were stately, the coolabahs on the floodplain shifted informally closer. Now they joined ranks with everything. A spirit breathed.

He walked around the huts and stood over the old
dump with its shattered glass, ruptured water tank, and rusted motor parts, his bootlaces dragging in the dirt, his beltless trousers held up by one hand. Generations of broken beer bottles shone in piles as he pissed on them.

Over his shoulder were the huts. Inside the huts were a dozen sleepers. He had the feeling that nothing on earth could wake them at this hour. They were felled in rows, two by two, arranged on metal beds, their heads against the back wall and their feet pointing towards the doors. They were all the same now, felled into the stillness between the noisy movements of their lives. The depth of night had dropped them like a scythe, their wakefulness mown by a blade of silvery photons whetted on moonrock.

At four he woke again. There was a different quality to the light. The moon was low, angled through the louvres on the ruined wash-house wall. Its light no longer called to mind comparisons with day, reversals of familiarity, pale images and recompenses of waking reality. Now a magnetic lowness was in the air. A mood of violent attraction and unaccustomed dread had the man sitting up, throwing back his sleeping bag, sitting on the steps of his room and lacing his boots. Shadows were elongated, prowlike, fixed, clawed, slammed, hooked on the ground. It was the dream hour, a time bewildering to consciousness. He lit the fire in the stove and stared at the flames. Outside a visual gravity tugged the mind lower than ever it went. Suicide hour. Death hour. Hour of departure. From here to the edge of the world wasn't far. It lay past a steep, eroded cliffline north of the river's meander, where the wagtails and magpies went silent, and only sheep bleated, lost souls endlessly stressed, asking what next. Out from that edge stars would declare themselves after moonset. Another hour and the sky would lighten, galah- and corella-pink would flush the east, morning sun like a trumpet blast would stream down the plain, etching the shoddy coolabahs and the mournfully decaying red gums in pitiless light.

But not yet. There was still this cold, brooding stillness
of the low-angled moonlight. He passed along the row between the huts with an armload of wood. Inky shadows stood at the shearers' doors. Their dogs chained to the stumps watched him, and went back to sleep. Sadie was asleep on her sack. He made a mug of tea and sat on the mess-room steps and waited. This was his time.

Up at five and dressed by torchlight. Stumbled from the cook's room into the night air to check the stars, then into the kitchen quietly, hearing the scuttle of mice. Groped around for matches. Banged into the table in the dark. Jumped back from the whoosh of the gas lamp as the kitchen filled with light.

Took a quick look round: everything cleaned and ready from the night before — sink, tea-towels, implements. Washed hands, and thought if only the kitchen could be quiet like this all day. But didn't stand there dreaming. Filled the kettle, started waking properly — time already ticking away. Carried the gas lamp through to the mess, balancing it on a corner of the dining table, watching light fall on the shining surface. Angled the lamp and knelt at the fridges, groping past Tooheys cans waiting to roll to the floor, removing a bag of chops, a packet of bacon, a dozen eggs, a couple of tomatoes, a string of sausages, a plate of liver and heart from the previous night's kill, a leftover tin of corn. Carried the armload back to the kitchen and spread it out.

Looked like too much breakfast, but thought ahead — about the day's two smokos, side dishes for dinner, and of
plates of spreads and cold leftovers to be stacked in the fridges to divert the team from attacking more important foodstuffs outside meal hours. Thought about rule of economy: control the stores but don't be miserly; do the balancing act; be a magician; stretch time and money. Thought about the next day, Thursday — orders day. Checked the cereal packets: Corn Flakes, Vita Brits, Rice Bubbles. Hardly touched.

Didn't think of anything else.

The hotplate was smoking ready, so tipped the sausages on, pricked them and rolled them, and laid out strips of bacon. Checked the clock. Twenty-five past five — just under an hour to the breakfast bell. Still pitch dark outside.

Everything hissing away quietly.

Carried a jug of hot water out the back, over to the cook's room for a shave by torchlight. Indulged in the luxury of a warm wash and emerged after five minutes with hair combed, face glowing, dog at his heels. First touch of morning along the horizon — faint light breaking over the saltbush plains. Shriek of corellas overhead, stir of wagtails in the ruin of the old chimney. Crows flapping about in the river red gums. Saw the deadness of the river in the gloom. Had barely had time to glance at it since the shed started.

Back in the kitchen, and what was this on the table? The chops. Forgot all about them. Too late now to include them, so made rapid mental revision of dinner-time menu and attended to the hotplate. Cut bacon into smaller pieces. Halved the sausages. Heaped up the liver and heart. Turned the tomato, flipped the fritters, set up the warming dish and transferred things over. Spooned Billy Tea into huge teapot. Gas up under kettle. Lit griller for toast and made time-check. Quarter past six. Oil into frying pan, eggs on the side ready, started making toast. Concentrated on the toast. Didn't burn the toast. Wrapped it in greaseproof when ready, and kept it warm.

Grabbed the cowbell and headed for the door of the mess. Opposite in the dim laneway were the doorways of
the shearers' rooms. Hour of peace. Someone talking in his sleep. Dogs snuffling under the floorboards. Sadie scraping in the tip. Pity to shatter the quiet — but did so — and then sped around the back to the boiler room and tugged the generator to life. Sprinted back to the kitchen, flicked off the gas light, made a quick clean-up and wipe-down of the table, washed hands, switched on the radio (‘Teardrops') and minutes later the first arrival appeared, yawning and clutching his plate.

‘Morning, mate. What have we got?'

‘Almost everything,' was the over-the-shoulder reply, as eggs spat in the pan. ‘How many?'

‘Just the one.'

Here they all came now: Arnie, Harold, Cal, Lenny. Watched Lenny's eyes as he searched for chops and couldn't find them. He was about to say something when he lifted the lid from the liver and heart.

‘Offal. How about that.' Lenny had a craving for iron. (Hard living took it out of him.)

He used to throw heart to the dogs until Lenny stopped him.

Fried eggs for all, and in minutes the original dozen was gone. The men tramped through to the dining table and without words made high protein input for a day on Gograndli wethers.

‘Tea?' someone called.

On its way.

 

He carried the teapot through to the mess-room and poured a cup for himself. Back in the kitchen leant on the bench, sipped tea and surveyed what was left: breakfast items transforming themselves in the mind's eye into smoko items. But he didn't meddle with anything yet. Who was still to come? A bunch of passing acquaintances. Mack, a presser, who never ate eggs but liked everything else. Skye, a rouseabout: usually just coffee and toast. Jeff, a classer, definitely a late sleeper, his egg a cert for sandwich fillings. Last would come Louella, the second rousie, yawning and rubbing her dark Maori eyes way
past breakfast cut-off time (seven sharp), beguiling the cook with her smile. It was still the same with her. Each time he saw Louella he thought he would never see her again. Harold always said, ‘That's it'. But next day she'd be back on the board again.

A minute before seven. Morning filling the windows. A glimpse of trees advancing from the horizon with bars of smoky sunlight coming through like notes of a trumpet blast. The shearers sliding their plates into the sink.

‘Tah, mate.'

‘No worries.'

They were away to the shed.

Action. Cleared space on the table for sandwich boxes, but waited — ‘Morning, Skye', ‘Lou, you awake?' — before grabbing the leftovers. Wondered why most women were no good first thing.

‘No egg, thanks,' from Mack, last taker for liver and heart.

Started making the smoko. Transformed the leftovers into spreads. Laid out slices of cold mutton on white-sliced sandwich bread with mustard-pickle. Buttered last night's fresh-baked gingerbread loaf. Whipped jam onto three halved bread rolls making six scone-like portions. Stacked forearm-long row of triangled sandwiches into greaseproof-lined plastic box. Feeling of satisfaction: breakfast barely over, and morning smoko in the bag already.

Stood at the door throwing scraps of leftover heart to Sadie, who almost backflipped catching it.

Mentally searched for a gap in the day, a space to step through. But couldn't imagine one.

At seven-thirty caught a special sound against the constant noise of bleating sheep and yapping dogs: chug of the engine from the shed, shearing starting for the day, the first bellies dropping to the board, the rousies still dashing over. There was Louella shortcutting up to the kitchen door:

‘Hey, Cookie, y'got en apple?'

Course he had.

In the kitchen rolled up sleeves, tied on apron, and
dived into the washing-up. Thought of nothing at all. Just felt the wall of tiredness behind his eyes like an illness that wouldn't go away.

Peaceful in the quarters, though. A coffee and a cigarette on the steps in the sun would be good, gazing out over the low-lit plain, daydreaming, stealing a moment from the best time of day, leafing through a particular book. He thought about stepping out there later, taking a walk to the billabong, seeing what was where in the light-and sheep-altered riverscape. An hour midafternoon? But this was shearers' cooking. He was run off his feet. Day smashed dreams into fragments, leaving them as fibrous dry bark, hot stones, curled dry leaves in the sun. The carcase hung in the meat house ready for cutting down before the morning's heat began. And something else to do first. Make bread.

White-sliced came twice a week and tasted like nothing (was useful only as a platform for sandwich fillings). So while sunlight reached for the gauze of the meat house, he strapped on the apron of his trade, and started baking. Word about his bread had spread. Old Jake, at Leopardwood, had taken a green plastic garbage bag full of his dinner rolls to Queensland. ‘These'll keep me going, Cookie.' His bread was being eaten at Brinard, the northernmost shed in Australia.

He washed his hands, and then, armed with chopper, meat-saw and meat-knife, attacked the sheep carcase. No gambrel here at Gograndli, only an S-hook through the tail-bone. Made horizontal saw-cuts, removed carcase in sections, sawed down spine, aligned ribs, whacked into chops. Off with the shanks. Trimmed flap. Lugged the meat back into the quarters and stacked the left-hand fridge. Washed hands again. Threw bones and flap into the stock pot. Sluiced out meat house with boiling water. Washed hands once more, thinking about hygiene, the closed cycle of disease in sheds. Vomiting and diarrhoea happened. Harold went out behind the huts the night before last and brought up his meal. Nobody else was sick, and Harold was fine in the morning.

Checked time: nine-thirteen. Lit gas under kettle, and remembered the bread: kneaded with controlled patience for five minutes, air sacs in the dough popping like bubblegum, then gathered the smoko boxes up and stepped outside.

Walked the narrow track above the riverbank with sunlight on his back and into the long, dark, earth-floored wool bay with its part-open corrugated iron sides.

Shadowy there in the shed (the shearers often complained), so watched step on wobbly planks. (Mack put a nail through his foot on Friday. It wasn't healing.) Took a quick look round. Din of compressor, shouts of the men on the board as they grabbed the last sheep of the run. Last dashes of rousies, last arm-swipes of classer, last lunge of presser's arms as the plate drove down into the Stevlon and there was no hideous accident. Then turned and arranged the smoko items on a pressed bale.

Headed back to the kitchen for the teapot. Kettle not quite boiled — stared at it hard, swearing. Back in the shed the shearers were waiting, biting on quartered oranges, inspecting the sandwich fillings. Personal service as the cook poured.

‘Strong enough?'

‘Looks bloody good.'

The rousies still on the run. They'd get smoko pickings only. A brief word from Harold: ‘Everything okay in the kitchen?'

‘It's a breeze.'

Harold a cunning overseer, offering help with washing-up, suggesting he'd send a rousie to fetch smokos. Cook's pride at stake. Refused all that. Aim always to work for larger teams on contract. Make the quid. Pass any test. Climb the ladder of Alastair Crown's contracting services.

Asked around about private stores. Not much wanted. Some would head into town Friday night, others all the way back to the Hill. Tobacco for one, beer for another. All wanted metho for yolk boils. Mack had a lump in his groin the size of an emu egg and was pulling the pin. Harold had to find a new presser, and then another man
said he'd catch a ride with Mack, so he needed another shearer too. ‘Keep this under your hat. I don't want Winston on the phone to Alastair.'

Back in the kitchen, the whole morning's effort a thing of the past. Massive involvement and expenditure of devotion gone as if it had never been. Human work, so particular, so unrelenting, passing over the landscape of individuality like cloud shadow.

He looked to the rest of the day. Lit oven for bread. Added matches to stores list. Thought more about stores: prowled kitchen, inspected fridges, added further items to list. Margarine, tomatoes, cabbage, broccoli, Alfoil, cordial, sliced bread, UHT milk, cream, tinned fruit. Wrote down: metho, tobacco, cig papers, beer. It was a Wednesday, shed would last another two weeks. Brown sugar for apple crumble and peanuts for
boboetie
— Boer meatloaf (consumed by Maoris on banks of Australian inland river). Minimum quantity of sliced bread. Pinned list to wall. What was missing? The most urgent item never got written down. Like defining the essence of anything. Work. Place. Life.

Brushed egg yolk over risen rolls, and into the oven with them. Mentally rehearsed dinner menu. Grabbed the broom and swept the place out. Squirted Spray'N'Wipe on surfaces, scrubbed down with Chux. Realigned condiments on dining table and emptied dented baked bean tin used as ashtray, dislodging a yellow cigarette butt stuck there for days.

Payoff from previous night's preparation: peeled potatoes ready to go. Tea-time pumpkin ready. Exhalation of breath. Still only ten a.m. — time stretching. Lazy thoughts inspired by crusty smell filling kitchen.

Whipped rolls from oven. Tipped onto cooling rack. Tossed aside apron.

Stepped from the kitchen and strolled back to shed taking more leisurely look at river this time. River always drawing the eye. River possessed by the eye.

Thoughts of the cook: something forgotten again — the dinner-time pudding. Remembered Lenny arriving
halfway through the job at Leopardwood Downs, eyeing pineapple rings in the salad: ‘That all the pudding you got, Cookie?' He hated him for that. Then started to like him. Now they were mates. Here at Gograndli, Lenny ate nothing but pudding at midday. That was his thing at present. One and a half tins of chilled fruit, an opened carton of UHT cream, dish of red jelly, half a bread and butter pudding (made with mixed fruit), Spotted Dog on the side. Thought about custard to make at last minute.

Spotted Dog was made with flour, spices, dripping and sugar, studded with currants and boiled in a tea-towel like Christmas pudding. It was eaten hot with cream and custard or spread with butter and eaten cold at smoko.

Put the hotplate on to warm, and ambled outside. Couldn't believe it was true. Biggest chunk of the day's work done, and remaining chores clear in the mind: get dinner, make afternoon smoko, check ‘donk', do washing-up, put two legs of mutton in oven for tea, deliver afternoon smoko to shed. Go for walk? Lie down? Read? Flake?

Could think of that now. The escape into another dimension.

With ten minutes to spare he grabbed pile of washing from cook's room, strolled round to laundry, did cold-water wash, noticing, as the view across bare dirt to two-doored dunny came closer, that new toilet rolls were needed. Back in kitchen added items to list, washed hands, turned up gas under hotplate, put potatoes on, opened peas, took salad items from fridge, returned to hotplate — a blackened Barbecues Galore steel plate on four legs, with drip hole for fat, leading down into piece of galvanized pipe sealed at one end.