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  Their success came at a cost. The boys grew into a brutal stupid lot and their parents, ancient and creaking ruled the station from their chairs with iron fists. They sat on the spacious veranda of their large gloomy house until they died, and the boys buried them with great relief. The sons assumed their parents’ places under the broad eave and never married. There were certainly enough dark-skinned by-blows with the Crane nose around Billington, the small town outside of Cranston, that were evidence of their broad appetites. The white women stayed away from them, but the black woman had no choice and submitted to the men under great duress. They were vicious by nature, and their shed had a reputation for being one of the most competitive and violent in the Central West. It was nothing for the shearers to lay down their clippers at the end of a day to challenge the tally board and then turn on each other in fury, drunk on rum since knock off.

  Accusations of miscounts and fiddling flew while the Crane brothers stood and watched, placing bets and egging them on. During these bouts the Aboriginal men stood together quietly under a tree, rolling and smoking cigarettes and waiting for it all to blow over, unwilling to risk their rations and the rare shilling that came their way by joining the fray.

  The mad Chinese cook served boiled mutton rag tails and baked potatoes from the shed kitchen, and the shearers ate the muck on long timber tables that sat in the searing midday sun. The food was part of their contract and included a cup of beer – but only for the whites, not the blacks, who boiled themselves a billy of tea under a tree. The Aboriginal workers had to wait until everyone was served and then brought over their own tin plates to be filled. The cook, whose brains were baked through from standing over a hot stove in a roasting hot timber lean-to, screeched at them while he slapped food onto their plates, and then retired to the riverbank to drink his pint of rum until he fell into unconsciousness. The Aboriginal people were wise enough to sit or lie in the shade during their breaks, drinking water or tea from tin cups and preserving their energy before they headed back out to the hot stinking pens. The shearers, hatless and angry, fought and gambled during their short breaks throughout the day, all the while jeering at the blacks for being lazy idle bastards.

  During Robbie’s first season at Tulloch Grange he had grown to hate the lot of them, especially the Crane brothers. He had no choice but to take the work as there was no other to be had for a teenage Aboriginal boy. The station needed extra hands after the muster to herd, pen and count out the thousands of sheep that were ready to be shorn. And even before that the sheep had to be washed, a dirty job that meant dousing the animals with a foul mix of ammonia and soap before dragging them through the dam and pushing them into the counting pens to dry off. Sometimes a gun shearer would cultivate a relationship with one of the Aboriginal hands, giving them tobacco or a few pennies to send the sheep through the hatches as efficiently as they could, so they could keep their tally up and earn more money. This was a good wicket for some, as the favour gave them the perks they needed to acquire desperately needed boots, shirts or hats; extra food and razors. The Aboriginal hands were paid nothing and received rations only.

  At the same time, the Cranes also employed a white local lad around Robbie’s age as a shed hand. His job was to count sheep, push them through the hatch, sweep up in the shed and pick up the dags. He occasionally did some sorting on the lower grades of wool, tossing the obviously inferior product into specially marked bales, and sat with shearers at the long table at lunchtime, enjoying his cup of beer. Robbie did exactly the same work bar the sorting – no black was allowed at the grading racks, while the lad did the same and received two shillings a week. At the end of the month, Robbie lined up outside the pay shed to receive along with all the other Aboriginal workers, a five-pound sack of flour, four ounces of tobacco and a half-shilling. Robbie bristled at the unfairness and indignity of it, and roiled at the drudgery of putting in a sixteen-hour day only to be remunerated with so little. That was the other problem. Tulloch Grange was a two hour walk from their camp, which meant rising at four in the morning to reach the station by six. The shearers began their shift at five, and when the blacks rolled in at six, it added to the perception that the camp workers were unreliable and uncommitted, oblivious that a four-hour daily walk added to their burden of exhaustion and hopelessness.

  It was the drinking that got to Robbie the most. The shearers usually spent the first two hours of the morning shear vomiting, a legacy of the previous night’s disgusting meal and imbibing that went on well into the early hours. One of Robbie’s jobs was to clean up the vomit so it didn’t taint the fleece that came off the sheep’s back. He had developed a system. When someone yelled, ‘spew’ across the shed floor, Robbie sprinted over with a bucket of sawdust and a spade. He tipped the shavings onto the mess and waited a moment for it to solidify, and then he scooped it up and tossed it out one of the back windows. Then he wiped the spot with a soaking wet rag he kept hanging around the bucket handle, the wet patch drying in a second inside the hot reeking shed. He had to do the whole job quickly to avoid the shearer, the sheep and the flying clippers all at the same time. The cup of beer the shearers were allowed at lunchtime wasn’t enough to stave off the cravings and rage for their usual rum quota, and as the day wore on competition for the highest tally between the men grew, and tempers became irrational and vile.

  By the afternoon insults were flying around the shed, and four o’clock knock off, courtesy of the Shearer’s Union Working Act from the 1870s, meant a violent fight in the yard. Then the drinking would begin in earnest, and by the time Robbie and his mob finished clean-up they were in full flight, and the Aboriginal men were more than glad to leave.

  The Duradjuri simply didn’t have access to alcohol; they didn’t have the money to buy it and it was illegal to sell to a native. The only way to get it was to hang around at the back of a pub waiting for someone to emerge who was drunk enough to bring them a drink. Sometimes rum was given as payment for work and despite a few merry evenings around the campfire, the inequity remained a sore point amongst them all. The fact that they were not entitled to buy grog felt utterly unfair, as it appeared to be an effective way to take away all the worries and sadness of their day-to-day lives. For those who had experienced a taste, this rang particularly true.

  Tick Watson was a case in point. Tick always managed to get his hands on some grog and would do almost anything to get hold of it. He came along to Tulloch Grange with the rest of them, and somehow managed to ingratiate himself with the heaviest of the drinkers, running errands, doing favours, passing messages, all so he could sit down at the end of the day to get a share of the bottles that were passed around amongst the men. His continuous wheedling and convincing gradually wore them down, and eventually someone would give him a half-pint to go away.

  On these occasions Tick, too drunk to walk, stayed back at the station to sleep it off on the riverbank, sometimes next to the Chinese cook who was often in the same way. One afternoon at knock off one of the shearers tossed Tick a bottle that was three-quarter’s full and said “Just fuck off now Tick, I don’t want to listen to ya whingin’.”

  Tick scuttled away without a backward glance and as Robbie watched him head off, a bad feeling settled in his stomach.

  He finished up and went over to Charley Pace and said, “You reckon we should go down and pick up Tick?”

  Charley settled his hat on the back his head. “Dunno mate. What if he’s in a state? Can’t carry him back.”

  Although he knew Charley was right, the unease he felt stayed with him until they arrived back at the station the next day, when they were greeted by the bloated sweating face of the Chinese cook who shrieked at them, “Your mate still down on the liver. He sick aye? Sick rike dead dog. Stink too.”

  So Charley went down to the river to find Tick and when he came back his face was grim and his jaw set hard.

  “What’s up?’ asked Robbie.

  “Ti
ck’s dead,” said Charley and he went off to find one of the Crane brothers.

  Robbie was shocked and unaccountably emotional, this was the last thing he had expected. Although Tick was a good ten years older than him, he was perturbed by the intensity of his reaction. He supposed it was because he was used to Tick being around – he was one of their mob and now he was gone. Then he heard a bellow that stretched across the yard from the big old shady veranda of Tulloch Grange house. It was Eric Crane shouting at Charley who was answering in a steady passive tone. The other men from the camp looked at each other nervously, wondering what was going on and waited instinctively for Charley to return.

  A good while passed and Charley walked back to their group as Eric followed, blustering and swearing into the hot morning sun.

  “You fucken’ listen to me Charley. It’s not my bloody fault one of your mob carked it down at the river. He was a bloody annoying little bastard anyway. You leave him there and get back to work – the lot of you. You can bury him in the back paddock at knock off.”

  Robbie and the others stood staring in wonder as Charley pushed his hat back on his head and stood his ground.

  Squinting at Eric he said, “Nah. Can’t do that boss.”

  Eric nearly choked, “What the… that is what you lot are gunna do!” and he folded his arms, staring Charley down.

  “Nah” said Charley equably, “we gunna go down and get Tick, then take him back to camp.”

  “The fuck you are. You do that, don’t come back here sniffing around for work. Understand?”

  The others kept deathly silent, they had never witnessed an exchange like this between one of their own and a whitefella before.

  Then Charley also folded his arms and said, “Yeah boss, I understand. Right now I need a horse and cart to take Tick back to his Mum see.”

  “Back to his Mum aye?” Eric sneered, “And why would you want to do that?’’

  “Because,” said Charley, “Tick’s Mum is Dell Watson.”

  Eric gave him a long cold look and then said, “Do what you want,” and strode off, hard boots sending yard dust rising in sharp short puffs.

  Charley shook his head and nodded to the others. “Come on,” and they followed him down to the riverbank.

  There they found Tick lying on his back in the dirt, mouth wide open. He had drunk himself into a stupor and choked on his own vomit. When the cook had awoken that morning and found the dead man lying next to him he climbed up the bank in disgust, and alerted Robbie’s mob as they came into the yard. He didn’t want to have anything to do with it in case the Cranes’ got wind of it and tossed him out of his job. Charley got them to pull Tick up onto the trail, and he closed the dead man’s mouth and eyes with a gentle hand. Then he did something that Robbie didn’t expect. After arranging Tick’s arms and legs neatly, he took a handful of dry eucalyptus leaves and set them alight with a match from his tobacco pouch. He held the bundle in his hands and blew until the leaves were properly ignited, and then he walked around the corpse waving the smoke over the body and singing under his breath. When he had finished he laid the ashen remains at Tick’s feet and told the men to wait. He returned twenty minutes later with a horse and cart and blanket, and a few of them helped Charley wrap Tick up and place him on the tray. Charley climbed up onto the seat and gave the horse a giddy- up, and with ten Aboriginal men walking alongside the flimsy cart, they took the body back home.

  When the sad procession reached the grove, Robbie was surprised to see Dell and her sister May standing at the top of the track, and a flock of pink coloured Corella sitting silently in the branches around them. Charlie leapt down from the cart and approached the women, and the Corella flapped away.

  Dell’s gaze followed them as they flung into the plain blue sky and she set her mouth set in a thin hard line. “That ‘im?” she said.

  Charley nodded and Dell stood tall. “Bring ‘im in then,” and she and May turned and walked back into the camp.

  Four of the men lifted Tick’s body up by the blanket corners and took him down the track while the rest of them followed. Robbie was mystified; how had Dell known that her son was dead? Tick’s body was laid under a tree while Dell, May, Charley and Dilly spoke quietly together. Walter, Robbie’s father who had come back to camp from the northern cane fields after the big cut, stood in front of their hut smoking and looking sorrowfully over at the body wrapped in the old horse blanket.

  Robbie approached him and Walter patted him on the shoulder. “Poor Tick.”

  “I don’t understand, how did Dell know? It’s impossible…” Robbie was bewildered.

  Walter gave him a strange look. “Dell saw Tick last night Rob. He came in to say his goodbye, and Dell gave him her blessin’.”

  Robbie was disbelieving. “Dad. Tick didn’t go anywhere – he was already down by the river last night. “

  “His body was,” Walter replied and Robbie shook his head again.

  Over the next few days Walter told Robbie more about Tick and his mother. Years ago Dell Watson had been the main cook up at Tulloch Grange and a good one. Like most of the Duradjuri women she was tall, resilient and very capable. She and Bethany Crane understood one another, and managed the business of running the station kitchen without too much strife. Dell got the job with Bethany when she was twenty, having earned her experience at other stations around the area when she had begun working at sixteen. During the interview Bethany and Dell had stood on the broad back veranda of the airy cool house while Bethany asked Dell a few pointed questions. Her inquiry was aimed at discovering how practical Dell was and the young woman passed with flying colours. Dell was put to work that afternoon.

  Luckily she could read and when Bethany walked into the massive kitchen with an armful of cookbooks, each earmarked with the most suitable recipes for large gatherings and big families, she didn’t blink an eye. Both strong women, Bethany didn’t have time for any nonsense. She had been raised by a poor family in Scotland and like Simeon, was money and status driven. Her goal was to employ a cook whose food would impress Simeon’s business associates in the wool trade as well as the other landholders in the area. Her instinct paid off. Dell arrived every day at five am, left at ten each night and took Sundays off. For this labour she was given one shilling a month, her food rations, a standard cook’s uniform and she was allowed to take all the leftovers from the kitchen back to the camp. Dell took on the brutal work, and made a good job of it. What neither of the women had counted on was Eric Crane who, a few months after Dell’s appointment returned to the station after spending a year in a Sydney wool broker’s office on the harbour.

  Eric was a huge man, six feet five inches and around eighteen stone. Big men are always hungry, and when Eric came home he spent a lot of time in the kitchen with Dell. She baked all day: bread, cakes, scones, biscuits, and the wood fire stove burned constantly. This was on top of breakfast, lunch and dinner for the whole Crane family as well as official visitors, drop-ins and the buyers and graders who came in from Sydney to check and order the wool. Dell barely had time to think. When Eric began pushing her into the pantry and lifting her skirt she stayed very still and when he had finished, quickly pushed him away so she could get on with her work. Making a fuss would only have cost her the job – and deprived her mob of an invaluable source of food. Inevitably she fell pregnant and when she was around eight months gone she went to see Bethany Crane, who was sitting in the station office checking the accounts.

  Dell knocked on the open door. “Missus?” said Dell.

  “What is it,” replied Bethany without looking up.

  Dell glanced around the dingy office that was packed with heavy ledgers. The gruff heavyset Scotswoman wore an ankle-length skirt of blue serge, and a plain white shirt buttoned at the wrists.

  Dell smoothed down her calico dress and unconsciously rubbed the bump that lay beneath, “Need some time off.”
r />   Bethany finally raised her head and said, “Oh, I see. A bairn on the way.”

  She nodded, guessing that was her way of saying that Dell was pregnant.

  Bethany waved her hand. “You can go. Come back when it’s two weeks old. That should be more than enough time for you and your husband to make arrangements.”

  Dell nodded and left the office silently appalled. What husband? Didn’t Bethany know that the child she carried belonged to Eric – and that the small life inside her was Bethany’s own grandchild? She returned to the kitchen to collect her swag and walked across the front veranda where Eric was sitting with his brothers, smoking and drinking beer.

  “Hey,” he called out, “where do ya think you’re goin’ Dell Watson?”

  She wouldn’t have answered him except she felt it was her duty to let him know what he had done.

  “Going home to have a baby,” she said and then she stepped down the stairs and walked the long two hours back to camp.

  Two weeks later Tick was born and in another two weeks Dell was back at work. One day Eric wandered into the kitchen and tried to force Dell back into the pantry, however, this time she held fast to her dignity.

  “I already got one baby Eric. Don’t want no more,” and she returned to her place at the stove. The look on Eric’s face was sour, although he left her alone after that and only came in to get food. After that Dell never spoke to or looked at Eric Crane again.

  As Walter told the story to Robbie in his quiet voice, and it was becoming clear to him now why Tick was a bit different to the rest of them. He was born with a reddish tinge to his hair and freckly dark skin, and he possessed a beaky nose and an irritating way about him that drove people mad. A restless boy in mind and manner he could never keep still or stay focused for very long, and was generally disposed to wandering off and getting into trouble. Someone was always carting him back to the camp after he’d been missing for a few days and curiously, he was drawn to Tulloch Grange like a homing pigeon. He would not stay away from the place. Dell accepted him as he was and tried her best with him; she understood that Tick definitely danced to the beat of his own drum. Even his name was his own – Tick. The toddler couldn’t say his given name, Richard and when asked his name he’d reply, “Me Tick!” so of course it stuck. As poor Tick grew older he became harder and harder to manage, and when he was sixteen he’d already had a couple of stints in gaol, and found grog around the same time. Everyone just put up with Tick and kept an eye out for him because he was Duradjuri – one of the mob, even though he had no staying power or any real ability to take care of himself.