Coming Rain by Stephen Daisley Page B

side to hear what
her father was saying. The dogs still working back and forth. Her lead dog King bounding
over the backs of the mob to free a bottleneck at the inner yard gate, biting the
reluctant faces of sheep, terrorising them.
    She waved to indicate she understood and rode Tom to the bottom of the landing and,
again, dismounted. She was covered in dust, her face thick with it. Two clean lines
of sweat ran from beneath her hat in front of her ears and across her jawline. Her
father was speaking to her and she nodded.
    ‘Dad. Yes Dad,’ she said. Glancing at Lew, the dogs and ground; at her father’s feet;
Lew again. He counted. There were at least four times she looked at him and he at
her.
    Clara was shaking her head. ‘I beg your pardon?’ She put both hands on the pommel
and, with a single swift motion, leapt up into the saddle; pulled the gelding’s head
up to walk back and come around to the off side. Whistled her dogs and did not look
back as she rode towards the homestead.
    ‘I’ll take the Rover,’ Drysdale said. ‘Clara seems a little terse with me.’ He spoke
then to their silence. ‘She is just a young girl Mr Hayes. Not getting any shed hands
to help you blokes? Like the old days. Even the way I speak to her seems to annoy
her. Hard without her mother.’
    Painter shrugged. Smoke trickling out his nose.
    He ignored Painter and looked at Lew. ‘And by the way young fella, that dingo you
saw last night came back. We found what she left of a ram hogget out in a southern
holding paddock.’
    ‘Bitch?’
    ‘Yep, old Abraham tracked her. Reckons she is in pup too. Probably why she come so
close.’ He raised his hand, nodded and walked down the woolshed steps. ‘He’ll persuade
her to move on, don’t you worry about that. No more mutton for her.’
    ‘Good good. Pups too.’
    ‘For the best.’ Drysdale said as he walked towards where he had parked the Land Rover.
    After a few moments they heard the vehicle start and the whine of the differential
as he backed out, changed gears and drove away.
    Painter threw out the dregs of his tea.
    ‘You press out a few bales mate, I’ll sweep the board and start to sort this lot
out.’
    Lew was looking out the door towards the homestead. He turned away from the door
and stepped up into the wool-filled shed.
    Painter crossed to the sorting table and began throwing fleeces and skirting the
wool. Testing the strength and colour and crimp. Working quickly to catch up. As
he finished the skirt he rolled the fleece into a ball and carried it to the first
of a line of bins along one wall of the shed. Returned to the table and threw the
next fleece onto the table and began to skirt that. He moved along the edge of the
fleece, removing the soiled wool and throwing it into the pieces bin. Ancient skills.
    Lew took the fleeces from the bin Painter was filling and pushed these into the bale
press. Filled one side, then the other. Climbed onto the press, jumped into the wool
and stamped down the edges on both halves. He inserted three metal pins into one
half to hold the wool in place and, using a pulley, raised that until it was upside
down and swung it over onto the bottom half of the press. He took two metal bars
with gear teeth along one side; eye bolts at one end and hooks at the other. Connected
them to each side of the bale top and, using wire ropes, attached these to a ratchet
with a long wooden handle. He began to tighten this, gradually pulling the heavy
lid of the bale down to meet the bottom half.
    ‘Pins,’ Painter shouted from the sorting table. ‘Don’t press the bloody pins son.’
    Lew stopped. ‘Jesus.’ He clicked the handle into safe and dipped his head to look.
The fear of all wool pressers was to press the forgotten pins. But they came out
easily enough, with only a slight bow in them. He had stopped pressing in time. ‘Thanks
mate.’
    Painter raised one hand, said nothing and didn’t look back. Kept working.
    A flock of white cockatoos