Open Writing

‘Christ, it’s hot’, he thought, pushing his worn felt hat to the back of his head.

No hope of rain yet despite the huge banks of cumulus that massed against the horizon every night. In the south, zigzag flashes of lightning showed momentarily, but he knew it would not rain over the farm, although over Bindura way there might be a few light showers.

‘Really hate having to do this. But if we don’t get rain in the next two days, there’s nothing else for it’, ran Bob’s thoughts as he rubbed the grisly stubble on his chin. He tamped the last of the tobacco in his old worn pipe and lit up. He’d promised Millie to give up smoking, but there were times in a man’s life when he needed consolation. This was one of them; so what if he broke his promise just this once. At any rate the decision was already made; the tobacco was finished.
‘Goes on much longer and I’ll have to sell the sheep. Be a pity, but I simply can’t stand to see the poor creatures suffer any longer. They’re still carrying far too much wool. Call the shearers in and get what I can off the poor beasts, although it’ll be poor quality and not worth much, but better that than nothing. Not much to show for all the work I’ve put in. Seven years of building up the flock running alongside seven years of drought have put paid to my hopes of keeping the farm and making a bit of money. Soon as the beasts are sheared, we’ll load them up and I’ll take them to the meat factory.’
Working through the flock of five hundred sheep, inspecting their hoofs and teeth before selecting the ones to keep was no easy job. As he drove the remains of the flock back into the pasture before tomorrow’s dip Bob knew it was going to be a hard two weeks. But when it was all over he could settle down, count his losses and deduct his profit from the sale of the wool-clip and the bulk of his flock.

‘Get the best price I can, but I sure am sorry to sell them,’ Bob thought moodily, latching the pasture gate as the last of the sun’s rays illuminated the clouds scudding across the sky. He chewed on the stem of the empty pipe as he walked back to the house.

‘Come on girl, get a move on! We’ve got 15 men to feed, breakfast, lunch and supper. No good taking it easy! Finish kneading the dough, fill the tins and set it to rise. Then get on salting and spicing the meat for the pickled beef tomorrow.’
Millie was a tough taskmaster, brooking no nonsense with her kitchen helpers, even though Kathy, the most experienced, was the eldest daughter. When the shearers arrived for the clip, it was all hands to the plough and they were expected to pull their weight. If the younger children had been at home, they would also have been given jobs like carrying the buckets of cold tea to the shearing sheds or clearing the table after meals. But now it was up to Kathy and Diane, the two eldest daughters, working with Millie to keep the huge meals coming. Working at top speed the shearers needed plenty of food to give them the strength to get through the clip before they moved on to the next farm. Then Bob would load the animals and drive them 400 miles to Sydney market. Here they would be slaughtered and the meat exported to Saudi Arabia.
A week later the shearers had finished and departed. Bob, helped by the women and three dogs loaded the 400 sheep into the 3-tiered trailer and whistled to Mike. ‘Here boy, up you get,’ he commanded, before slamming the driver’s door and revving the engine.

‘Here’s your tucker, and your sleeping bag,’ said Millie passing Bob the large canvas bag. ‘I’ve put in food, water and plenty of strong hot tea. Mike’s bowl and a box of his favourite biscuits are also there, and you’ve got enough meat sandwiches so you can share. He’ll scoff anything, dear old dog that he is,’ she added, giving the rough-coated Border collie a fond glance as he lay, head on paws watching the activity around him.
Glancing at his watch Bob knew he was making good time. The dawn was breaking and he’d already covered the first hundred miles of rough farm roads and the interstate blacktop lay ahead.

The high-rise towers of Sydney had been a feature on the skyline for over an hour, and Bob was thinking of checking his route when the storm broke over him. He had never seen such a deluge. It brought tears to his eyes that so much life-giving water should be wasted on the city when the farming areas had been so desperate for years.

‘Will ya look at thaaat...’ he exclaimed in amazement as the storm increased in intensity, and hailstones as big as tennis-balls hit the windscreen. The wipers were helpless against the strength of the water falling from the skies with the force of a Niagara and Bob sat forward, and futilely wiped the inside of the glass fogged with the condensation of his and the dog’s breath.

As his attention was momentarily distracted, a huge triple-trailer, one of the famous long-distance road-trains carrying supplies across the vast distances of the Outback, roared past him displacing a huge bow-wave. Blown to one side by the vehicles’ slipstream, blinded by the storm and with his windscreen obscured by condensation, Bob automatically wrenched the wheel hard to the left. Hitting the curb, the unwieldy vehicle slewed, skidded on the hail, and in agonising slow motion, toppled over.

Trapped in the cab, Bob’s vision slowly cleared. Mike, his lower limbs pinned by the tucker basket which had toppled from its perch on the sleeping shelf behind the driver’s seat, was attempting to lick his face. It was that which had brought him round.

‘Can’t feel my legs,’ was his first clear thought. Slowly, the noise of the injured sheep penned in the 3-tier trailer entered his consciousness. The sound of the police sirens and the wail of the approaching ambulance was next.

‘Bring the jaws-of-life’, was the rough command. ‘We’ve got a man trapped in here,’ accompanied by, ‘mind the bloody dog – he might bite’, as Mike’s blood-soaked coat was spied under the remains of the smashed food and drink.

‘Naw, he won’t do any further damage,’ answered a confident fireman. ‘This one’s running in green pastures already, no need to bother about him any longer. But the man’s pretty serious.’
The next day the Sydney Morning Post carried the item, “400 sheep killed as truck overturns near Sydney. Four hundred sheep died in a road accident in Australia. The sheep died when the truck carrying them overturned in wet conditions near Sydney. The driver and his dog were both injured and the animal had to be put down. Animal protection Group Handle with Care said the accident was “a terrible reminder of the risks inherent in transporting animals.” ’

Millie looked out the kitchen window for the umpteenth time since breakfast.

‘Wonder why Dad’s taking so long?’ she muttered to Daisy, lying in her basket by the Aga. Aroused by her voice, Daisy thumped her tail before continuing to lick her newly-born pups. On the porch, the girls scanned the horizon for the dust cloud, the first sign of an approaching vehicle.

‘Wonder what’s keeping him?’ said Millie coming out to join them on the porch.

‘He’ll be here soon,’ Kathy confidently replied. ‘He’s probably yarning with the men at the meat factory or having a drink with the boys. Wonder what news he’ll bring back from the city, and if he got a good price for the flock?’

The sound of the ringing phone echoed across the empty fields, while frozen into immobility the women waited. The police car, blue light flashing, came to a stop in front of them, and official cap in hand the young police officer climbed slowly out. Then, taking a deep breath, he wiped the tears from his eyes and stepped forward with the news.