Coming Rain by Stephen Daisley Page A

Turned off the shearing gear and slowly stood up. Wiped
the sweat off his face and neck with a towel and looked at Drysdale with a smile
and a look as if to say, please don’t mention your fucking dead wife boss.
    An almost silence descended on the shed. Still the clatter of sheep’s feet in the
catching pens; the lost blaring for each other, the calls and response of sheep in
the tally-out pens. The Bentall generator humming in the engine room and the sweet
running of the belts and air whistling through the rafters.
    ‘I know Judith would normally bring it,’ Drysdale said, speaking louder than usual.
‘First smoko of the first morning. Bit of a tradition. Like Christmas. Or Easter.’
He walked down the board. ‘Things she would do now not done, see. Notice it more.’
The sound of his boots heavy on the wooden floorboards and he continued to speak.
‘I just wanted to say sorry how we haven’t been ourselves lately. No pikelets. No
Judith; no rain neither. Hah.’ He tried to smile.
    ‘It’s fine boss.’
    Drysdale nodded to Lew, who still gripped the hogget between his knees. Put his hands
on hips and watched as he passed him and said, ‘Thank you young man.’
    This old bloke is not right in the head, Lew thought. Can’t stop remembering. Repeating
the need for rain like it’s a prayer and apologising for her being dead. Bringing
smoko on the first morning of shearing and saying sorry she died and could not help
it. Jesus wept. Painter would hate this.
    Painter waited and accompanied Drysdale until they reached the Ferrier press and
placed the basket on a wool bale. The tea kettle on the floor.
    Lew heard Drysdale say cups in the basket and saw Painter nod as the old man took
off his hat and say something else while looking to his left to the open sliding
door of the load landing. His hair was thinning and the top of his head a stark,
shining white.
    They walked outside onto the landing and Lew continued to watch as Painter took a
smoke from the tin and he and the old man spoke to each other. Then another sound;
it was high above them and they both looked up. A faraway drone and in the sky a
plane. Small as a pen.
    ‘Probably going to Sydney.’ Drysdale’s voice raised. ‘Or Perth. You know Perth? She
came from Perth. Went to that Claremont school there, Methodist Ladies. Like Clara.’
    ‘Yeah boss I know Perth. Mostly East Perth, but. Never been to Claremont.’ Painter
put the cigarette in his mouth, cupped his hands around the match and lit the smoke.
The tobacco tin still held between the knuckles of his fingers.
    Lew pushed the unshorn hogget back in the catching pen and wiped his face on a towel.
He walked towards the wool press and the morning smoko basket.
    Dogs were barking way out in a paddock and he saw Clara on horseback pass through
a red screen of dust in the sheep yards. She was riding Tom and her team of dogs
were working a large mob of sheep into the holding paddock. The sounds of her way-back
and stop whistles. Fleet running so fast his back legs looked like they were going
round behind his ears. Dee, sprinting to the head and turning them as sure and certain
as she was. Good girl now. The surly hoggets veered back towards the shed. Clara
dismounted and, holding the reins of her horse and the gate in one hand and a hat
in the other, she ushered the mob into the outer yard. As they ran past her, some
of the young sheep leapt into the air.
    Lew heard her calling to the dogs: stop down there Fleet that will do. Stay Queen.
Bring them on King. That will do Fleet. By God Dee good work girl. Down. Down. Beside
me now. Speak up the Boof. And Boofy barking and running in circles to push up the
lagging animals. Red dust rising around them all. She remounted once the gate was
closed and pulled the head of the gelding around.
    Drysdale put his hat on and turned his face away from them. ‘Clara come here please,
will you girl?’
    Clara with a gloved hand held to her ear and head cocked to one