“Acting like none of you’s never had a bloody nightmare before.”
Grumbling around him. Tommy ate his oats. At the head of the table Cal Burns stood and began doling out jobs for the day:yardwork, stockwork, repairs, errands to be run. One by one they received their instructions, gathered their breakfast thingsand left, until only Tommy, Burns, and a stockman called Alan Ames remained.
“McBride,” Burns snapped, “you and your blackboy can finish that fencing. Most useless pair of bastards I ever hired. I wantthat paddock done by Sunday, understand?”
The paddock was miles of fencing, impossible in that time. Tommy shrugged and nodded, and Burns spluttered, “Look at him nodding,dumb as a bloody mule.”
Ames laughed. Tommy drained his tea. Picked up his mug and bowl.
“And I don’t want no cockeyed fence line on account of that gammy hand.”
“Hand’s fine,” Tommy said, standing, a quick glance at Burns. “So’s the fence.”
“Bugger me, it speaks, Cal,” Ames said. “Thought he was crippled and mute.”
At the servery Tommy pocketed a hunk of leftover bread, then when he came outside found that his bedroll and clothes had beenscattered throughout the yard, payback for disturbing them all last night. Sniggering, the men watched him chase his thingsdown and ball them into a bundle that he carried to the stables, where Beau’s big gray head was already hanging expectantlyover the door of his stall.
“Don’t,” Tommy warned him. “I’ve took enough shit this morning as it is.”
The horse nickered doubtfully. Tommy petted him and briefly rested his brow on his neck, then saddled him, tied up the bundle,and led him back outside. A few of the men were still lingering; Tommy took off at a gallop, before they started up again.
Arthur was mounted and waiting on the track by the native workers’ camp, the little village of tents and shelters in whichthey ate and slept: chewing on a long grass stalk, hair wild and unkempt, beard to his chest, and frail even at this distance,drowned by his baggy work clothes.
“What time d’you call this?” he hollered, when Tommy came in range.
“I was late waking.”
“Oh yeah? How d’you manage that in a bunkhouse full of men?”
Tommy drew up alongside him. “Give it a rest—you ready?”
Arthur noticed the bundled clothes and bedroll. “Planning a trip?”
“Just looking after what’s mine.”
“Any reason?”
“Nope.”
Arthur eyed him carefully. “You sure about that, Tommy?”
“I just told you, didn’t I?”
Arthur turned away, blew out the grass stalk through the gap from his missing front tooth, then set off without another word. After a moment Tommy caught him up and the two of them rode in silence, west through swaying grassland, side by side together, as it had been these past five years. Ruefully Tommy glanced across at his old friend. He might still have had a brother out there, wherever Billy was these days, but in reality Arthur was the closest thing to family that Tommy had left. But the silences between them were getting longer, and louder; Tommy hid how things still affected him, lied about his dreams. He was ashamed, was the truth of it. No doubt Arthur could tell. The old man knew him better than probably anyone—yet look how he kept his distance, how far apart they rode.
“You’ve not even asked where we’re headed,” Tommy called over, an attempt at a joke, since they’d done the same work threeweeks straight.
“Mate, it’s written all over your miserable face.”
Their tools were where they’d left them, by the fence line, near the creek, scattered beside the final post they’d drivenyesterday. Despite the many days they’d been at this, the paddock was still barely half done, a long seam of metal cuttingthrough the grass heads where there should have been none. The thing gave Tommy shivers. Made him think of cheese wire. Ofslicing something off.
“Burns says he wants it finished by Sunday.”
“Wants what finished by Sunday?”
“The paddock.”
Arthur laughed. “Bloke’s taking the piss.”
“Well, that’s what he said this morning.”
“He’s only fucking with you, Tommy.”
Better, Tommy figured, to let Arthur believe that. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
They got to work. Pacing out the next fence post, checking the alignment, marking the spot. Tommy softened the ground withthe pickax while Arthur carried the post across. He stuck the point in the broken soil and asked if Tommy wanted to hit orhold first.
“Either way.”
“Just choose one.”
“You choose.”
“Fine.”
Arthur dragged the sledgehammer over, a broad snake track carved in the dirt, took off his shirt and hung it over the nearest section of wire, his body scarred and bald and lean, waited for Tommy to do the same.
“You ain’t wrapping up your hands?”
“Get on with it,” Tommy said, kneeling with his head lowered and arms extended, as if in prayer to the post. He waved offa fly impatiently. Arthur set his feet apart.
“Last chance. I won’t spare you.”
“Get on with it, I said.”
Arthur sighed, hefted the sledgehammer, swung, and a shudder ran through Tommy to his boots. The hollow crack caromed acrossthe fields, birds scattering from the red gums, sheep lifting their heads. Arthur snatched a breath and wound up another swingand Tommy bit down hard and bore it, the post nudging through his stinging hands, into the hardened earth.
Come midday they’d put in another nine fence posts and tacked between each three lengths of wire so taut they pinged. Bothmen now bare-skinned and glistening—quietly, Tommy had relented, wrapped his shirt around his hands. They called time on themorning and stood clicking out their backs and loosening their joints, squinting into a high hard sun. Tommy put on his shirtagain, Arthur left his on the wire, and wearily they trudged across a bare earth clearing to the creek bank, sat down beneaththeir usual tree. Leaning against the trunk, they divvied up their food and ate in silence, then closed their
