Silver in the Sun Read online

  ‘Do you like what you see, Mr Ian?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Ian said. ‘I was trying to imagine what it would be like with a lot of visitors.’

  ‘We never had any complaints. Your uncle used to fly in all sorts of delicious food – fresh seafood, whole hams. Nobody who was invited liked to miss coming here.’

  ‘Well, it seems I’ll be expected to have some kind of a party to announce my arrival,’ Ian said.

  ‘You sound reluctant.’ Mrs Heatley didn’t miss much.

  ‘I don’t like crowds – I didn’t at boarding school. But, as my late grandfather used to say, “one’s personal likes and dislikes often have to be put to one side”.’

  What he didn’t add was that his grandfather had also said that you can’t really judge the worth of a person until you see them placed under pressure. And Ian knew that there was going to be plenty of pressure in his new position at Kanimbla.

  Chapter Six

  Ian woke to the carolling of magpies. One bold bird was perched on the rail of the verandah outside his window. It was one of Mrs Heatley’s pets and was used to being fed scraps of meat and cheese. This was not what people were supposed to do with wild birds, according to the wildlife people, but Mrs Heatley didn’t know anything about that. She liked to feed the birds and would go on feeding them for as long as she stayed at Kanimbla.

  There were stewed peaches and cereal, and orange juice in a jug waiting for Ian when he walked into the kitchen. This was followed by bacon, eggs and tomatoes on toast. It was a tasty breakfast and Ian ate with a good appetite, knowing his first full day on Kanimbla would probably be long and tiring.

  Ben Fielder was the first of his staff that Ian met that morning. The tall, quietly spoken man had been sitting on a bench at the back of the homestead and was halfway to his feet when Ian waved him back to his seat. It was difficult to estimate Ben’s age. He had a salt-and-pepper beard and moustache, but his blue eyes sparkled beneath his wide-brimmed hat and seemed to belong to a much younger man. He was tidily dressed in corduroy trousers and a dark green shirt, and his laughing-side boots were tolerably clean. A pipe and tobacco pouch bulged from his shirt pocket.

  ‘How long have you been here, Ben?’ Ian asked, taking a seat beside him.

  ‘Just on twelve years now – er – Ian,’ Ben replied.

  ‘And how do you find it?’ Ian asked.

  ‘It’s a good place to be. There’s some that would say it’s too quiet for them, but I’ve had my fair share of excitement in life and I don’t need it any more. Anyway,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘I’ve still got some nice horses to look after.’

  ‘What is there in the way of horses?’ Ian asked.

  ‘There’s a few thoroughbreds, and some that are a mix of thoroughbred and stock horse. The boss and his missus used to ride a lot. They played polo and polocrosse. I was told to keep their horses looked after and I have. They’re not all shod but a few are. Do you ride?’

  Ian nodded. ‘Yes. My grandfather taught me. I’d love to do some riding here.’

  ‘Praise the Lord. It’s a damned waste. Those horses have been jumping out of their skins for work. I can’t exercise them all myself. You can have a dekko at them now, if you like,’ Ben said.

  They wandered down to the stables, about a hundred metres from the homestead. The buildings were scrupulously clean and bales of lucerne hay were stacked at one end. A black-and-white cat of enormous proportions sat licking itself on a bale and regarded the visitors with interest.

  Ian thought the horses were a grand lot. Bays and browns with bright eyes and shiny coats. ‘You’ve done a great job with them,’ he said to Ben.

  ‘Lovely things, horses. Expensive, but lovely. I hate to see a horse neglected. Mr Blake told me I was to keep them in shape just as if Mr Richardson was still here. There’s saddles and gear in the room beside the stables. Some of these might be a bit lively for a while.’

  ‘Do you think I could come back for a ride this evening, Ben?’

  ‘I’ll have Major saddled up and waiting for you,’ Ben said, his face collapsing into a wrinkly smile.

  ‘Thanks. You’ll be at the smoko?’ Ian asked.

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you soon. Oh, by the way, would you mind looking after Gus for me?’ Ian asked.

  ‘Sure. I had Gus here before Mr Blake took him up to his house. Gus is a great dog. I’ll get him and bring him down for you,’ Ben said.

  ‘Thanks a lot, Ben. If you have any problems come and see me any time,’ Ian said.

  He left Ben and drove Leo’s ute up to the manager’s bungalow.

  ‘How’s the ankle this morning?’ he asked Leo.

  ‘Much the same as yesterday,’ Leo said with rueful grin. ‘It’s a pain in the bum, to put it bluntly.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine. Are we going up to the quarters now?’

  ‘Presently. I’ve got a few more things to discuss with you before we go. I’ve drawn up a program of things we do each month. Some things might have to be changed from time to time but there are fixed events such as shows and shearing. You work everything else around those,’ Leo explained.

  Ian perused the list, then folded it and put it in his shirt pocket. ‘Not much slack time,’ he remarked.

  ‘Not much,’ Leo agreed. ‘How did you get on with Ben?’

  ‘Quite well. He seems a decent old chap. The horses are a credit to him. They look wonderful,’ Ian said.

  ‘Ah well, if Ben knows about anything, it would be horses. In fact, I think his problem has been knowing too much about them,’ Leo said.

  ‘You mean he was crooked?’ Ian asked.

  ‘He used to work as a trainer and I suspect he wasn’t absolutely honest where horses were concerned. He boozed a fair bit, too, before he came here. But he’s been right as rain at Kanimbla. He’s got a rent-free cottage and a few horses to look after, so he’s happy. I told him if he drank he was out,’ Leo said. ‘Right, let’s go and meet the gang and have a feed of Jack Greer’s tucker.’

  ‘I had a pretty good breakfast,’ Ian said, then looked at his watch and grinned. ‘But that was a while ago.’

  There was a hum coming from the shearers’ quarters as Ian walked and Leo hobbled towards it. The long building was made of timber with a galvanised roof. With a kitchen at one end, the set-up was similar to the shearers’ quarters at Warren, but larger. The jackaroos’ cottage was a little distance away.

  The dining area was very large and a long table ran nearly the full length of the room. Backless benches lined both sides of the table that was, perhaps in Ian’s honour, covered by white paper. There were numerous plates of scones, biscuits and damper and, at a separate, smaller table, a large stainless-steel urn of boiling water.

  Jim Landers, the overseer and stud master, was in his early thirties, of average size with fair hair and blue eyes. He had learned the stud sheep business at Terrick, one of Queensland’s leading merino studs, and was highly regarded in the merino business.

  Norm Higgins, the ex-butcher, was a tall, lean man with dark hair and grey eyes. It was said of Higgins that he could catch fish where nobody else could.

  The three jackaroos, Peter Cross, Ted Beecham and Gerald Bradshaw, were all sons of graziers and wore faded white moleskins and checked shirts. Ian would immediately christen them the Belted Trio because they each wore a plaited belt from which hung a knife pouch – apparently a mandatory item of bush apparel.

  The last of the men was the station cook, Jack Greer. Greer was rather wild in appearance with longish grey hair, fierce blue eyes and the build of a weight-lifter. His physical presence was softened only marginally by his snowy white apron. Ian remembered what Leo had told him about Greer’s prowess as a fisherman and that there was keen rivalry, fish-wise, between him and Higgins. He learned that it was generally conceded that, as a fisherman, Higgins was Greer’s superior. It was also said that if Higgins could catch ’em, Greer could cook ’em, and his fi
sh meals were to die for. Greer’s past was something of a mystery, though he had apparently been a ship’s cook for some years. This group, together with Mrs Heatley and Leigh Metcalfe, were Ian’s employees. They were, in Leo’s words, ‘not a bad lot’.

  The low mumbling of the men ceased when Ian and Leo walked through the door. Leo nodded. ‘Thanks, fellas. This is Mr Ian Richardson, the new owner of Kanimbla and our new boss. You’ll be calling him Ian at his insistence, but what he says goes.’ Leo, despite his crutches, had an air of strength and authority. He did not have to lay it on with a shovel; the men obviously understood him well. Ian looked at his men’s work-worn faces and knew he’d have a job to prove himself. Not one of them had had much time for his late uncle, and here he was, the scoundrel’s nephew and a young bloke into the bargain. He could imagine them thinking he was just lucky to be born with a silver spoon in his mouth and that there was no way he’d know the drill out here. He’d soon fall in a heap and run back to England with his tail between his legs.

  Yet, over the generous smoko and mugs of hot tea, Ian talked with his people and learned a little about each of them. They, in turn, learned a little about him, although Ian didn’t make a speech or say too much about himself. Before leaving the group, Ian complimented Greer on his cooking and said that he had enjoyed a real Australian smoko. This pleased the old cook no end and later, he agreed with the others that ‘young Richo seems a pretty good bloke’.

  ‘That went off all right,’ Leo said as they drove back to the homestead.

  ‘Like you said, they’re not a bad lot,’ Ian said.

  ‘There’s quite a mix. Four blokes out of private school and three from the school of hard knocks. You never know how long they’ll stay, but Jack, Ben and Norm have been here a fair while. They break out every now and again, but you expect that from blokes that live in the bush for long periods. They’re pretty loyal really. I mean, they don’t mind working extra hours when the need arises. Of course you need to do the right thing by them too. There’s got to be a bit of give and take,’ Leo said.

  ‘It would be nice to meet Jim Landers’s and Jack Higgins’s wives. You might check with them and find out when it’s suitable for me to visit the cottages,’ Ian said.

  ‘I’ll do that.’ Leo tried not to look surprised. Jack Richardson had never been inside any of the cottages.

  After lunch they drove north-west of the homestead, staying roughly parallel to the river. The road was gravel and in reasonable condition. The vegetation, both grasses and trees, was varied. Leo pointed out the different timbers as they drove along. ‘There’re hundreds of types of trees and shrubs out here. It will take you years to recognise them all. Broadly speaking, there’s black-soil country and mulga country. The mulga country is a lot lighter. There’s Mitchell and buffel grass on the black country. Oh, and saltbush. There’s several varieties of mulga including one called bitter mulga. If you clear mulga country it will grow what the old fellows call Prince of Wales feather but some call mulga oats. It has a feathery top and you’ll know if sheep have eaten it because their piss is red. You need to be able to distinguish the useful stuff like mulga and wilga and myrtle from the poisonous stuff.

  ‘The timber is mainly boree gidgee interspersed with dogwood, leopardwood, whitewood and broom. There’s some bloodwood too – it’s the favoured tree for the Major Mitchell cockies to nest in.’

  Leo pointed towards a clump of trees on his side of the road. ‘That’s acacia – there are quite a few species. The easiest way to remember the various trees is from their bark and the colour and shape of the leaves.’ Ian made a mental note that the acacias had narrow, grey-green leaves and smooth grey bark. Such a lot to learn, he thought, and all so different from the verdant pastures of England …

  Absorbed in Leo’s description of the vegetation, Ian had hardly been aware that they had left the flatness of the great black plain and were now on higher, rocky ground above the river, which had disappeared into a gorge.

  ‘How long ago was the phone line put in?’ Ian asked. He’d noticed it when they’d left Kanimbla but had lost sight of it along the way.

  ‘A fair while before there were any mobile phones. Unlike the road, it follows the most direct route,’ Leo explained. ‘Now, turn in there,’ he instructed and stabbed a finger towards a track that diverged from the main road. Ian turned off to the right and almost immediately saw a bungalow on a rise beside the river. The bank below the bungalow had been dug out and carefully stepped with wide planks, with the last step disappearing into the river’s brown water. A small boat equipped with an outboard motor was anchored to a steel ring on one step. It hardly moved on the tranquil river.

  ‘What a beautiful place! Who did all that work?’ Ian exclaimed, pointing to the riverbank.

  ‘Leigh did it. He got a couple of loads of second-grade timber and worked at the bank for maybe six months. Not bad, eh?’ Leo said.

  ‘It’s terrific,’ Ian agreed.

  The timber bungalow was long and narrow, with an iron roof. A verandah facing the river ran the entire length of the building. There was a hammock and a wide table and a few chairs on the verandah. A man and his dog came down the steps and looked up to where Ian had stopped the ute.

  ‘You can drive down a bit further and you’ll find a place where you can turn and park,’ Leo said.

  Having brought the ute to a halt, Ian handed Leo his crutches and turned his attention to the man on the steps. His long hair, once very fair, was now liberally streaked with grey, and his beard was also pied. He was dressed in green gaberdine trousers and a red checked flannelette shirt. He was shoeless and, like his trousers and shirt, his black socks cried out for a darning needle.

  ‘G’day, Leigh,’ Leo called as they approached.

  ‘G’day, Leo. How’s the foot?’ the man responded.

  ‘Not the best, but coming along. This is Ian Richardson.’

  ‘All the way from dear old England,’ Leigh said as he shook hands with Ian.

  ‘Not directly. Via Warren. I’ve been in Australia for a year or more,’ Ian said. He noted that Leigh’s calm, brown eyes seemed at odds with his rather wild appearance.

  ‘And that’s Shelley,’ Leo said, pointing to the German shepherd. ‘He’s not up to Gus as a sheepdog, though Leigh can get him to work sheep. But he’s the smartest dog I’ve ever known, and I’ve seen a lot of dogs in my time.’

  Ian studied the big ash-grey dog. ‘I knew a lady in England who had a German shepherd. She called him Byron because she liked his poetry.’

  ‘Shelley wrote the loveliest verse in the English language,’ Leigh said with a gleam in his expressive eyes, ‘the most gorgeous and the most lyrical. His imagery is unequalled.’

  Ian felt his heart leap. It was as if he was hearing again his English master at Harrow as Leigh recited:

  ‘Higher still and higher

  From the earth thou springest

  Like a cloud of fire;

  The blue deep thou wingest.

  And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.’

  Ian continued, reciting the next stanza:

  ‘In the golden lightning

  Of the sunken sun.

  O’er which clouds are bright’ning,

  Thou dost float and run;

  Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.’

  Leigh nodded as he considered the tall young man standing beside Leo.

  ‘Pygmies. That’s what modern poets are when compared with Shelley. We’ll never again see anyone who can write poetry like Shelley or Keats. But we can only write what’s in us,’ Leigh said.

  Leo, who had been leaning on his crutches during this exchange, nodded and smiled. ‘I’ve talked to Ian about your role here, Leigh. He understands where you fit in. And I’ve explained about the dingoes.’

  ‘How many dingoes would you catch in a year, Leigh?’ Ian asked.

  ‘It varies a fair bit. I killed thirty-odd the first year. Only a few young o
nes this year. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Before they died, my father and mother were studying various species of Canidae – native dogs. They were planning to come to Australia to study the dingo.’

  ‘Imagine that!’ Leigh paused. ‘Pity they’re such a bloody menace here. Sheep are easier to catch and kill than roos,’ Leigh said.

  ‘How do you kill them?’ Ian asked.

  ‘Any way I can. Getter-gun and traps. They’re harder to find in the steeper country, but once they come out onto the plain, I get them sooner or later. Mostly sooner. If there’s one about, Shelley lets me know,’ Leigh said. ‘“Yellow dog, pale and fleeting, beneath the stars I hear your yodelled greeting.” I can’t remember who wrote that, but it’s damned good.’

  They sat down at the table on the verandah and Leigh brought them freshly squeezed orange juice. ‘Got a tree out the back,’ he explained.

  ‘What made you come up here?’ Ian asked, intrigued.

  ‘I suppose I can write better here. Of course, you can write anywhere, but you can write better in some places than in others. No matter where you go, you can’t entirely escape from the fools of this world and what they’re doing to the country. I tried to get as far away as I could from the cities and the cars and the crime and the greed. I wanted to be entirely divorced from politicians and public servants and bureaucracy. I suppose I could have gone farther out but I’d have a job to find a place to beat this one.’

  ‘Seeing this place, I can’t imagine you studying in the city. How did you cope?’ asked Ian.

  ‘Buried myself in my work, I guess. Never had much time for people en masse, but I was stuck with them at uni. I got away from that when I did my masters.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Ian concurred. ‘I never thought I’d get used to Harrow, but I learned to cope, eventually.’

  Leigh was unlike anyone else Ian had met since coming to Australia. There was a kind of magnetism about him. Leigh’s place, Ian sensed, was somewhere he would be able to come to – escape to – if he needed. It was like finding a rare gem in an unexpected locality. It was only later that night that Ian realised why Leigh might be so attractive to some women. It wasn’t that he was wonderfully good-looking, but that he possessed a kind of smouldering intensity or suppressed energy. It was what he promised that was attractive.