A Changing Land(25)
Lauren winked at Mr Stevens, whose permanent brow furrow had mysteriously smoothed with shock. ‘A length for a skirt, if you please, a dozen fresh eggs, a tin of condensed milk and I’ll be having a couple of those,’ Lauren pointed at the boiled lollies. The shopkeeper was staring at her as if she were some criminal straight off the boat from the mother country. ‘How is Mrs Stevens?’ Lauren wet her forefinger, her saliva marking a line across the dusty counter. ‘You’ll be needing a cleaner next, Mr Stevens. You ask Mrs Webb. People what are incapable of looking after themselves always need someone handy. Me, for example, I could give those pipes of yours,’ she pointed at the wooden smoking pipes on the shelf behind him, then glanced at his crotch, ‘a real good blow out.’ Lauren enjoyed herself by standing stock still as her material was cut and wrapped and her purchases bundled into a paper bag. ‘And I believe I would still have credit.’ With her belongings pushed across the width of the counter, Lauren held out her palm. ‘I could check with Mrs Stevens?’ Lauren snavelled up the coin thrown onto the counter.
Mr Stevens cleared his throat. ‘You don’t have credit here no more, Miss.’ He looked at her meaningfully.
Lauren tucked the bag under her arm and winked. ‘Neither do you, Mr Stevens.’
With her business completed, Lauren walked slowly past the three Webb women. The eldest girl, a peaky, skinnier version of her own cat’s-bum-mouthed sister, considered herself above the inhabitants of Wangallon Town. ‘I’ll give Mr Luke Gordon your best, Mr Stevens.’
Lauren didn’t bother to look back, though she felt like one of those blue–green blowflies, sticky with interest. She needed to wash, eat and then position herself at the old box tree on the edge of town as if she were going for a walk. Of course it was possible that Luke wouldn’t return on this very day, but last year he had. Four days before Christmas when the sky was near white with heat and dust and the birds stopped flying for fear of fainting and a person lost their shadow, well, that was the hour Luke Gordon had walked his horses, pack horses and his blackfella mate into town. Lauren itched at the moisture gathering at her waistband and pushed a boiled sweet into her mouth.
For midmorning the main street was decidedly quiet. There were only three horses tethered to the hitching post outside the two-storey hotel and a black sulky. At the sight of the minister’s sulky Lauren decided to take the longer route home by crossing the dusty street diagonally. This direction would take her through Mr Morelli’s vegetable garden and past the Gee’s chook house before sneaking through the backyards of three rather cantankerous women. Lauren was almost in too good a mood for a fight; however, if necessary she could shout just as loudly as the next old hag. Besides, she figured no good would come of crossing the path of a minister, what with her having committed one mortal sin already this fine day. She didn’t think God would mind about the cotton and ribbon, after all it said nothing in the Bible about it being wrong for a woman to look her best. Lifting her skirts, Lauren kicked at a stone with her worn lace-up shoes and walked swiftly across the road. The air was already thickening with heat and swirls of dust spun up from the road like spinning tops.
Hoisting the paper bag beneath her arm, she was about to walk through the shabby remains of Mr Morelli’s sun-withered garden when she heard her name called. She turned slowly, loath to be held up yet intrigued as to the voice that addressed her. Riding up the main street was one of the Wangallon men; the ugly Scottish lad, McKenzie. Lauren lifted her eyes heavenwards. God’s holy trousers, she muttered. Why couldn’t they space themselves out a bit instead of all fronting up like half-pint scallywags bobbing for apples. She waved briefly and then continued on. He was a good paying lad who treated her well enough, however business was over for the day and a girl couldn’t go for bread and dripping when a joint of beef was soon to walk into town.
Matt Schipp walked the ewes along at a leisurely pace. He’d given Jack Dillard the run of things today and so far the young jackeroo was proving capable. Angling his backside into the saddle, Matt fidgeted around in the pocket of his oilskin for his rollies. His free hand found the papers and with a quick lick of his lips a thin oblong sheet was soon dangling from his mouth. He fumbled once again, removing the pouch of tobacco from his pocket, and manoeuvred a wad of the dried plant between his fingers. It had taken months for him to reach this stage of proceedings after the accident. Months of swearing and arguments and useless comments from useless doctors until eventually his woman had walked out, leaving behind a paltry eleven years of fair-to-middling memories. Matt dropped the reins for a moment while he used his four good fingers to roll the tobacco within the paper. Finally the roll-your-own dangled from his lips. He pushed his wide-brimmed hat up off his face and searched his pockets for his lighter.