Only Killers and Thieves(102)

Alf comes back from the trough, accepts the coffee, raises the cup in salute, and takes a tentative sip, blowing on the surface to cool it down.

“Thanks for this, Bobby—much obliged.”

The coachman flops onto the wagon steps and lets out a sigh from his bones. He notices the sandwich and his eyebrows raise hopefully, then when it’s offered he grabs it, unwraps the towel, takes a bite, and closes his eyes as he chews.

“You’re no bloody baker, but by, she must have been a pretty cow.”

“Prettier than you’re used to, that’s for damn sure.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Alf says, laughing. “Ain’t that the bloody truth.”

He stands by the gatepost with his coffee, watching Alf eat.

“I already told you, anyway. It’s the cattle prices I get them for.”

Alf squints up at him. “What that now?”

“The Queenslanders. For the market reports.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it, Bobby. I’m only having you on.”

He nods and sips his coffee and bends to tickle Tess behind her ear. When Alf has finished his sandwich he dabs his mouth with the towel and hands it back.

“First-class that. First-class. So, then, what news from Sleepy Gully here?”

“No news. You know us. Working. Same as always.”

“Stock keeping well?”

“Aye, they’ll be right. Can’t but help it round here.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” Alf says. He takes another drink. “Been out much?”

“Such as?”

“Anywhere, Bobby. You seen anyone else since last I came by?”

“Course I have. Heading to town this very afternoon.”

“Good. It ain’t healthy a man living out here on his own.”

“I ain’t on my own.”

Alf looks at Tess. “A woman, I’m talking about. Hell, beef like that, I’d marry you. Better yet, might trade the missus for one of them pretty cows.”

“That keen to be rid of you, is she?”

“Good-looking fella like you, she’d be keener than the cow!” Alf starts laughing, a phlegmy rattle that catches in his throat. He clears it, spits, drains the coffee, and passes back the cup. “Right then,” he says, standing. “Let’s see about them papers.”

“No rush, Alf.”

“Aye well, some of us have work to do.”

“You mean sitting on your arse, telling them horses to pull?”

Alf feigns outrage. “Thirty miles I’ve done since sunup. Anyway, all I ever see you doing’s waiting on that porch.”

“Lunchtime.”

Alf is smiling at him. “It’s always bloody lunchtime round here.” He opens the coach door, leans inside, rummages through the boxes and bundles of papers, then straightens, holding a small parcel of Queenslander journals, bound in brown string. “There y’are. Bloody northerners. Wouldn’t welcome but one of the bastards down here.”

He takes the journals from Alf and tucks them under his arm. “That’s your own countrymen you’re talking about. We’re all under the same flag now.”

“Well, I never agreed to it. Flag or no bloody flag. It’s all boongs and chinks up there is what I heard. Be giving ’em the bloody vote next. Back in the old days they had the right idea about it, used to shoot the buggers on sight, none of this Protector of Aborigines bull crap. Anyway, these new laws’ll sort ’em out. Send ’em back where they came from, I say—hold up now, what’s bit your arse?”

He is still standing with the journals under his arm, the mugs dangling from his fingers, but all trace of a smile is gone. He attempts one now but fails.

“Nothing. Thanks for these. Anyway, best be getting on.”

“Bloody hell, Bobby. You’ve not taken offense?”

“Course not. Too much coffee, need a piss. You manage with the team?”

“Aye, I’ll manage with the team . . . just, I didn’t mean nothing.”

“I know. I need a piss, that’s all it is. Come on, Tess. Come on, girl.”

He hurries away, Tess running ahead of him, uphill along the path, but forces himself to turn and wave at Alf, now rehitching his horses to the coach. Alf returns the wave slowly, sadly, and he continues on to the house, doesn’t look back again. Not sure he can keep it hidden, the guilt and grief stirred up by Alf’s words and these bloody news journals he cannot bring himself to quit. He closes the front door behind him, tosses the Queenslanders on the coffee table, slumps down into the armchair, and holds his head in both hands. He should have said something, spoken up against Alf, but then Alf’s his only visitor, his only means of news from home. He stares at the topmost journal, that word Queenslander, and hates himself for it, his need to know, his inability to leave the past where it belongs, his fear that he’ll open those pages and find a story about himself, his family’s murder, the massacre that followed; his fear that the lies he has spent a lifetime telling will one day be untold.





39



The ride into town only takes half an hour, less if he pushes Lady any quicker than a walk. Which he rarely does; she can move when she has to, whether in the paddocks or on the road, but both prefer not to hurry, they’re well suited that way. It isn’t always so. Before Lady he had a gelding that reminded him of Beau, but there was none of Beau’s temperament in that horse. Made him realize he hadn’t appreciated how special Beau was. But then Beau was his first, he wasn’t to know. So he’d sold off the gelding and bought Lady instead, hazel-colored coat, a gentle way about her. “A proper lady this one,” the trader had told him. The name stuck. That was four years ago. He doesn’t like to think about a time when she’ll be gone.