The Never Boys (3 page)

‘I suppose you want to be paid?' she asked, locking the shed behind them. She counted out his money: three hundred and four dollars. ‘There's more tomorrow if you're interested.'

‘Hey?'

‘The job. It's yours if you want it.'

Counting the fifty-buck bills, he paused. Then, thinking better of it, he slid the wad into his boot before she could take it back again.

‘Hayden gave you a good report,' the General explained. ‘I don't believe a word of it but I still need a fourth rouseabout.'

Always quick with the compliments, wasn't she? But he was too tired to fight. ‘For how long?'

‘Six days. You can stay up in the shearers' quarters
if you like. I'll provide you with clean sheets. Lunch is still free but you'll have to buy and cook your own breakfast and tea.'

At three hundred bucks a day, he rocked on his feet. Eighteen hundred dollars! A bus ticket plus a fortune. What a deal.

In the distance, though, a siren wailed along the Sturt Highway.

‘I guessed as much,' she said.

 

Two semi-trailers heavied the main street of Truro, dragging the night sky behind them. Population four hundred, it was a typical highway town: a petrol and pee stop for travellers. Beer and burgers for the locals. At the furthest end, squat among the eucalypts, a country parish welcomed the same souls every Sunday morning, while further out, dusty family farms drifted with sons and daughters leaving for the city.

After the last truck blustered by, Dean crossed the highway on his way to a roadhouse. He was at the right place. A young couple sat in a booth with a tagged red and blue plastic bag at their feet and a baby girl bottle-feeding in their arms. No doubt she'd sleep all the way to Sydney.

The baby girl wasn't the only one hungry.
Thankfully, the roadhouse was open for meals and questions. ‘Hey, does the bus to Sydney stop here?'

Restocking the serviette dispensers, the counter lady pointed with a nod. ‘Right out front.'

‘How much is a ticket?'

She fluttered a laugh. ‘No good asking me. You have to go to Nuri for that.'

‘Nuri? Is he working tonight?'

The counter lady smiled. ‘Nuri's a town, not a man. Nuriootpa. It's the next one along. You probably passed through it on your way here.'

An elderly couple parked right by the front door. They threw open their arms to hug the young couple before cooing at the baby.

‘Do you know if I can buy a ticket from the bus driver then?'

‘You could try, but you won't have any luck tonight, tomorrow or the weekend for that matter.'

‘Why?'

‘All the drivers are on strike. There's no service until Monday — at least.'

Dean hovered like a mongrel dog. After news of the bus strike, he'd sat in the roadhouse for another hour, eating dry sandwiches but not tasting them. Motorists came and left, only interested in paying for their petrol, not in questions from hitchhikers. He only left when the counter lady started wiping his table.

Outside, he watched her through the glass door, counting the till. Tens. Twenties. Fifties. All that money —

A car's headlights spooked him back into the night.

Shambling along Truro's main street, his first priority was finding a bed. He hadn't slept in one for four days and had showered once. Renting a hotel room was a possibility, but too expensive. And Sydney was an expensive city. No, there was a second option, but one he dreaded.

Music helped pinpoint the Kaesler homestead in the darkness. Electronic music. Pulsing so loud that it was heard a hillside away. Spotted by a floodlight from the old coach-house, a teenage girl danced on a large, elevated water tank. She was pushing herself so hard it was almost as if she wanted to shake her body inside out.

He waited until the song's last few thumps before switching off the power.

The girl stopped with fright. ‘Hello? Hayden?'

‘No. It's Dean. Dean Mason.'

‘Who?'

‘I worked for the General today. As a rousie. Is she around?'

No answer.

‘Hello?'

Another light suddenly flashed in his eyes.

‘Mum's in town,' the girl answered from a safe distance. She'd circled him. A towel was in her left hand; a mobile in her right. He didn't know if she was about to call the police or throw the phone at him. ‘She's due home any minute though.'

‘Are you Zara — her daughter?'

‘When I choose to be. Why?'

‘I was expecting someone — younger.'

‘Fatter maybe?'

He flinched.

She was no longer the same eleven-year-old in the family portraits with a greyhound muzzle and doughy cheeks. She was sixteen, maybe seventeen, and gorgeous. She had vivid, brown eyes, ponytailed blonde hair and perfectly tanned skin. A green, tight sleeveless top rounded over her curves and a pair of low-cut ivy shorts revealed a flat, toned stomach. Her legs were long and trim. On one left toe was a gold ring inset with jade that matched her earrings.

‘Sorry I creeped you out,' he said, running a hand over his butchered hair. ‘Er, with the music. It looks like fun.'

‘Beats homework,' she said, wiping her face with the towel while secretly thumbing the police number. ‘Now, why do you want to see Mum?'

‘I was hoping, maybe — y'know, that I could crash up at the shearers' quarters for the night?'

‘They're abandoned. No one uses them anymore. Besides they'd only be for workers.'

‘Yeah, well, that's also what I want to speak to the General about.'

She shouldered her towel. ‘That's probably not a good idea. If you're who I think you are, Mum's still pretty mad at you. She's doorknocking the district now, trying to find your replacement.'

‘Oh,' he said, slightly off-guard. ‘Okay. Do you mind then if I wait for her? I still want to talk to her.'

‘If you've got a death wish — sure.'

She packed away the stereo, then hurried inside. A lock snapped down. He retreated to the corral, sat against a railing and changed the batteries in his Walkman. He needed music. In the silence every chirp and phone call was amplified.

‘— Just then — To talk to you — He's asking if he can stay the night and have his job back — I know. That's what I told him but he still wants to see you in person — Can't you tell him that yourself? —
Mum
— That's not fair —
Okay
. Bye.'

The back door rolled open and Dean pretended to stop his Walkman. She approached and bluntly told him, ‘Mum said no.'

‘No to staying? Or no to the job?'

‘Both.'

He paused mid-stand. ‘Did she say why?'

‘Yes, but believe me, you don't want to know.'

‘Can I ring her?' he pushed, taking a step towards the homestead.

She blocked his way, mobile still in hand. ‘Maybe come back tomorrow, when she's not in such a filthy mood.'

‘But where am I supposed to stay?'

‘There's a bed and breakfast in town; a couple of places in Nuri.'

Great. That name again.

‘Cheers,' he said half-heartedly then turned on his Walkman for real this time. He offered a weak farewell then slunk into the blackness.

He didn't get far. A torch discovered him crunching across a paddock. ‘Wait!' It was her. ‘Truro's that way.'

‘I'm heading to Sydney.'

‘Tonight?'

‘I can't afford to stay anywhere. I might as well keep moving.'

‘But the next town's forty-odd kilometres away.'

He shrugged. He'd already travelled three thousand.

Dumbfounded, she watched him leave a second time, training her torch on him until he was a blur. She clicked it off, turned towards the homestead, then softened.

‘Come back,' she yelled. ‘Dean?'

She strobed the paddock until, a few moments later, she caught him. Eyes down, he looked sheepish, almost pitiful.

‘You can stay.'

‘But the General —'

‘— won't find out. Tonight anyway.'

‘I don't want to get you in trouble.'

‘Too late. C'mon.'

It was a quiet walk back to the homestead, Zara keeping one-step ahead. ‘Here,' she said, offering him the torch. ‘I'll meet you up at the quarters in a sec.'

She hurried inside, leaving him aching with gratitude. Finally, someone cared.

He crossed the creek's flat bridge to the opposite bank, where two buildings comprised the shearers' quarters. The first was the actual sleeping area: four small bedrooms in a row, each fixed with a single door and window that opened into a courtyard. The second was the bigger building, shaped like an “L”. Just by its size, he guessed it contained a common room plus a kitchen. From the outside it appeared deserted just as Zara had said. He knocked anyway. Warn the ghosts, his nan used to say.

The front door was unlocked. Whiffs of stale coffee and aftershave thinned in the warm air he brought inside with him. Someone had lived there recently, adding to his discomfort, like he was intruding or even being watched. His hand spidered for the light switch. Found it. Turned it on —

And jumped as three angry faces lunged for him!

Tumbling backwards, he tripped and fell on his
tailbone. There were faces all round him. Dozens and dozens of them. They were dead. All beheaded, empty-eyed, moaning and — stuck with feathers?

‘What are you doing?' Zara asked from the doorway, holding an armful of linen.

‘I thought — the faces — it was dark —'

‘They're masks,' she said.

He stared up at the collection of old world headdresses hanging from the walls. They were crafted of wood or clay, wigged with straw, beaded with shells or pierced with bone. Their style was clearly Papua New Guinean. Plenty of clues backed up his guess. Above an unused fireplace were dozens of framed black and white photos of Port Moresby, volcanoes, World War II wrecks, mudmen, reef fishers, mummies, longhouses, salvage boats, cocoa pods, wigmen and trucks bogged in rainforests. Behind him, on a separate wall, was a display of exotic butterflies. He recognised the giant green one and read its plaque: Cape York Birdwing.

‘That one's my favourite,' she said.

He could tell. One was tattooed on the nape of her neck.

‘What is this place?' he asked, lifting a mask.

‘It used to be the mess hall. But when Old Clive moved in, he turned it into a lounge room.
Everything you see is his. It feels like a museum, doesn't it?'

‘Someone's living here?'

She answered with a puzzled look. ‘The shearers didn't tell you?'

‘Tell me what?'

‘Do you want to know now or in the morning?'

‘What's the difference?'

‘I'd pick the morning if I was you.'

He regretted it immediately. ‘No, tell me now. Save me worrying.'

‘This
was
Old Clive's place until last week.'

‘Why? Did he leave?'

‘That's one way of putting it.'

‘He's dead?!'

She nodded.

‘Where —?'

‘Do you
really
want to know?'

‘
Here
?'

‘Not
here
here, but in the kitchen. Mum found his body sitting at the table, still holding the newspaper. The shearers reckon the stories bored him to death.'

He glanced through the far doorway at a long wooden table and chair. ‘I should've picked the morning, right?'

‘I warned you,' she said, heading for the door.
‘The phone's here if you need it. It's still connected. The number for the main house is on speed dial one. Emergency's on speed dial two. Remember that, because you'll need it when Mum finds out I've let you stay.'

Then she showed him the courtyard. They'd walked halfway across when he stopped. ‘Wait here. I forgot the torch.' He went back to the lounge room, took the phone off the hook then caught up with her by the washing line.

‘So now that Clive's gone, none of the shearers stay here?'

‘It's got nothing to do with his death. Most are locals. Usually the only blow-ins are rousies like you.'

His room for the night was fairly basic: one crusty bed, one dresser, one lamp, one mosquito coil, one alarm clock, one mousetrap and — maybe — one ghost. Zara dropped his sheets and towel on the mattress then handed him an almost empty can of flyspray and the key. She wasn't staying.

‘Thanks. Really,' he said. ‘I owe you big time.'

‘Just bury my body when Mum's finished with me in the morning.'

From the doorway, he watched her fade into the trees then reappear at the homestead. When the
screen door closed behind her, he did likewise. He threw the bolt, tossed a sheet over the sunken mattress then flopped into its softness. No more dirt beds for him. He caught himself dozing just in time to remove his sweaty, cramped boots and undress. It should have been easy for him to fall back asleep. Except maybe for that annoying unknown scratching on the metal roof. Or what sounded uncannily like an old man's footsteps pacing the courtyard.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Lightly at first, then more insistent.

‘Waitaminute,' Dean mumbled, pulling on his jeans.

It was Zara, dressed in a blue school uniform. Too early for butterflies, it seemed. ‘You better wake up. Mum's on her way.'

‘Good or bad?'

‘Worse. Just agree with everything she says, okay?'

‘Great,' he yawned.

She handed him a pile of men's clothes. ‘I thought you might need these. A Kiwi shearer left them behind after he shot through. There's a shower in the main quarters. Probably some food in the —'

‘Zara! Get to school — now!'

The General replaced her at the doorway. There was no welcome back. ‘Why haven't you had the decency to come and see me this morning?'

‘I just woke up.'

‘It's a quarter-past seven!'

He looked at her dumbly.

‘The shearing starts in fifteen minutes!'

‘Are you —?'

‘Do you want this job or not?'

‘Yes — yes, I do.'

‘Then listen up: you've used all your chances, mate. Make one mistake and you're gone. No pay. No food. No coming back. And to make sure you don't quit on me again, I'm holding your money until the end of next week. Got it?'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘What?'

‘Yes!'

‘Then why are you standing here? Get showered. You're starting to stink.'

Wounded, he grabbed the towel, a set of clothes then pushed past her and slammed the back door. Hag!

The L-shaped building smelt of apricot jam. Its bathroom was standard: a sink, mirror, toilet and showerhead poised above a green bathtub. Stripping off, he stepped in the last of these and scorched off grass stains, sweat and lanolin. Instinctively, he reached for the soap and scrubbed his chest before pausing, horrified. Turning it over, he realised it was
Clive's. He'd been lathering it on his own skin hours before his death. Grey hairs and scales of skin were stuck to the cake, and fingerprints were still on its sides.

Dean dropped it cold.

‘Hello?' he asked, padding into the kitchen as a horse whickered outside. Daylight slid over a mantelpiece of spice jars and teapots, and an old cast-iron stove squatted next to a microwave, fridge and pantry. In the centre of the room was that long wooden table, scratched and dented by a century of knives and forks, and still set on it were one dinner plate smeared with tomato sauce, an open newspaper and a drinking glass ringed by orange pulp. Up close, he could see a lip print smudged on the rim.

Breakfast could wait too.

‘I'm docking your pay!' the General snapped, pointing to her watch as he ran past.

For the first time, he was glad to join the boys. Even though the General owned the property, the workers ruled the shed. After a cold shoulder from the head shearer for the first hour — ‘Don't be late again' — he got his first good news: ‘Give Adam a hand outside, would you.' It meant being away from the headache of clippers, but not the foulness of
sheep. Along one side of the shed was a narrow corridor of metal rails called a “race”, where shorn sheep entered one end and exited the other. It was his job to zap them with chemicals to protect them from lice and worms, while standing further along, Adam branded them with the Kaesler insignia.

About twenty minutes into the job — trouble. Shearers started cursing as the shed's generator whined to a stop. Rousies ran outside to check connections as the men tried kick-starting it again.

‘Dean! Get in here!'

He found the head shearer pushing out of a hatch in the wooden floor, his face not good. ‘It's well and truly dead.'

More swearing. ‘There goes our pay.'

Hayden suddenly forced a set of car keys into Dean's hand. ‘You know how to drive don't you, mate?'

‘Yeah, sure.'

‘Take my car. Go to this address. It's a garage in Angaston. Tell them you need a long weight, okay?'

He nodded. ‘A long weight?'

‘You got it. Go!'

He zipped along an unsealed road in the orange Falcon, taking two wrong exits before finding the right turn-off. Truro faded and Angaston loomed.
He'd nearly reached the Barossa town when he panicked. He didn't have a street directory. Then again, he didn't have any cash either.

Two young mechanics were opening for the day when he braked hard in their driveway. ‘Can we help you?' one asked.

‘I need a long weight urgently.'

The pair looked at each other. ‘Who sent you?'

‘Hayden — er —'

‘Ryan?' the redhead offered, grinning. ‘How is old Balesy?'

‘Stressed. We've got five hundred sheep to shear but our generator's blown. He said you guys could help us.'

‘Five hundred, eh?' the second repeated, scratching his goatee. ‘What do you reckon? Can we help him with a long weight?'

‘I don't know,' the redhead answered. ‘We might have to make a few phone calls —'

‘Do you have one or not?'

‘Calm down, mate. No need to panic. Like I was saying: we need to make a few phone calls. It might take a while, that's all. In the meantime, come and take a seat. Make yourself a coffee. Read a magazine.'

But he didn't feel like sitting. Or coffee. Or reading. ‘Look, is there another garage that can help?'

‘Nope. We're it.'

‘The next town, maybe?'

‘Nope.'

‘How about anywhere in the Barossa?'

‘That's what we're trying to find out for you. You just have to be patient. Now come. Relax.'

He couldn't, though. He was desperate not to look bad in front of the shearers again. So he stood at the ready, watching the mechanics power up the garage. First the lights, then the fans and then the radio. The platforms and drills were next, followed by an air pump. C'mon. What were they doing? There weren't any phones under the Volkswagen, Fiat or tyre rack. A loud ring echoed around the garage. A customer was calling in. Excellent. That's right. Walk to the office. Pick up the phone. Say hello. Glance my way, then down. Make a little joke. Ha ha ha. Just order the part, would you!

Dirty oil piddled into a metal tin when the redhead came back. But instead of confirming that the long weight was being delivered, he explained it was too early to phone anyone. It was ten o'clock!

‘You haven't called anyone?'

‘It's a waste of time.'

‘What's their address? I'll go and see them myself.'

‘Why? They wouldn't be there yet.'

Dean breathed hard and long.

The mechanic offered a compromise. ‘I tell you what. Come back in two hours and you'll have what you asked for.'

‘Two hours? But that's too long. The shearers —'

‘— should know to check their generator more often.'

The dirt road back to Truro couldn't shake the frustration out of him. But there was more stress to come. Hayden met him outside the shed, annoyed that he'd come back only with excuses. ‘That's not good enough, mate. Go and tell them again it's an emergency.'

So off he went. But the answer was still the same.

‘Two hours, I said. Not a minute sooner.'

He lost it on the street. He barged through some kindergarten kids and nearly tripped over a keg trolley. That was it. He'd had enough. He was going to quit. It was better than being fired. But when he'd cooled off after stupidly discovering he'd marched too far, he spotted a clock, then thought things through. If he was going to be sacked, he had less than two hours to land a new job.

Angaston was wine country — one of the many hamlets that made up the Barossa Valley. It had been settled in the nineteenth century with English boots
and German piety. Vineyards combed the brown soil; wheat fields and orchards rolled with tractors; and church spires, gum trees and Federation roofs sheltered a two thousand-strong population. At the top of the main street was a dried fruit factory and in its middle, a real, living blacksmith. Bakers sold continental breads, bienenstich, apple strudel or black forest cake while a smallgoods store offered mettwurst, leberwurst, black pudding and fritz. Plenty of places to work. But first he had to check if he was going to hang round.

Almost run over by a mob of ultra-cool cyclists, he entered a newsagent, seeking the latest on the buses.
“The union last night rejected the commission's ruling, promising more wildcat strikes —”
Great. He snapped the paper shut.

Ready to walk, he nearly missed the magazine cover in the sports section of a guy, silhouetted against a bronze sky, rocketing upside-down on a short board. No guesses where that was taken. The mighty Margaret River. He lingered over the pictures inside, almost tasting the Indian Ocean and smelling the karris shuttering across his face as he stared from the backseat of the family Holden. There were memories — good memories — of chasing the Three Bears in the north and righthanders at Grunters in
the south. He scanned the news and feature pages for names. Nothing. But that was asking too much. Six months had passed.

A well-directed cough from the newsagent forced him outside.

After answering a few HELP WANTED signs and — typical — being told he lacked experience, he bored himself at a second-hand store that had once been a Methodist church, followed by a bookshop and finally a park before growing impatient. It was time for the mechanics to deliver.

‘I don't know where they went,' a female apprentice shrugged. ‘They said they'd be back in fifteen minutes.'

Except fifteen minutes was closer to two hours. Lunch arrived before the pair did.

‘Where have you guys been?!' he demanded. ‘It's been four hours!'

‘Has it?' the goatee man laughed, squirting sauce on his Cornish pastie.

‘We might have a new record,' the redhead answered.

‘Well? Where is it?' Dean fumed.

‘Where's what?'

‘My long weight.'

‘You've just had it.'

He stared at them as they grinned and ate. ‘What?'

‘Go back to the shearing shed,' the redhead said, almost with a serious tone. ‘Think about it on the way home.'

‘Well? Where is it?'

‘Where's what?'

‘My long weight.'

‘You've just had it.'

Long weight —

Long waite —

Long wait.

Even before he switched off the Falcon's engine, he could hear the clippers buzzing. Merinos skidded down chutes into the counting-out pens as they had done so all morning. As he reluctantly entered the shed, the workers cheered.