Only Killers and Thieves(24)

Billy cursed and kicked the ground. “Meaning what?” Mother asked.

“Meaning just that.”

“So we’re short?”

“Short would be the least of it.”

“Spruhl wouldn’t sell to me. Said we owed too much.”

“I’ll straighten that bastard out.”

“The whole of Bewley was against us,” Tommy said. “Like we’d been marked.”

Father pointed at him, squinting. “Exactly, Tommy. Fucking marked.”

“Call it what you like,” Mother said. “We still have to eat.”

“I already told you, I’ll straighten it out. Anyway, look what I brought ye.”

He gestured toward Arthur, who began untying something from the back of his saddle. A thick woolen bundle, which Tommy first took for a sheepskin blanket or rug, but when Arthur carried it forward and he saw the hooves and dark head hanging, he realized was a whole sheep.

Father directed Arthur to give the sheep to Billy; he took the weight with a grunt and recoiled from the smell. “Thing’s gone,” he said.

“Like hell it’s gone. Get it cleaned up, both of you. We’ll have it tonight.”

“You find that thing or kill it?” Mother asked him. “You’d best not have paid for it, Ned.”

Father didn’t answer her. He winked and tapped his nose, then set off with a stumble in the direction of the house. He leaned in to give Mother a kiss, but she pushed him away on the chest. “You’ll be needing a bath before there’s any of that,” she told him. “Two baths, three!” Which at least raised a trickle of a laugh.

As Arthur gathered Buck’s reins and led him away, Tommy tried to catch the old man’s eye. Arthur looked at him only briefly, smiled and shook his head, then set off for the stables with both horses in tow. Tommy turned to watch him, but Billy was at his side, ordering him to take his share of the sheep’s weight. Together they carried the carcass down to the old slab of red gum that served as a butchering block, and set about gutting it, cleaning it, and removing what was edible of its meat.

*

The following day, Father took the dray to Bewley and settled up with Spruhl, came back long after nightfall with a minimum of rations and a rum crate whose rattling could be heard from inside the house. They all sat listening. Mother looked up from her needlework, the children paused their game of cards, as Father slurred out a ballad, singing his soul to the stars. Mary started giggling, which set Tommy off too, but Mother stared bitterly in the direction of his voice, then drew a long breath and went back to her darning without a word.

It was a strange time between them. Tommy didn’t fully understand. Father stopped working, claimed there was nothing to be done, spent his days drinking on the verandah or loafing about the sheds. He would carry out odd bits of carpentry, fixing things that didn’t need to be fixed; he spent hours whittling Mary the kind of animal figurine he used to make when she was young. He and Mother spoke in snatched exchanges and twice Tommy found her in tears. Once in the scullery, then again in their bedroom: she stood in the corner, facing the wall, a handkerchief clutched in her hand. When he drew back the curtain she flinched and yelled, “Can I not just have a minute on my own!” and Tommy let the curtain fall closed again.

They saw little of Arthur that week. He looked after the horses, the dogs, kept out of everyone’s way. The few times Tommy caught him skulking between the buildings they’d exchange a greeting, then he’d move on again. Avoiding the family, not wanting to be seen. None of the others seemed to notice, or if they did they didn’t care. No one visited him, Mother sent no food parcels, as if he weren’t there.

One morning after breakfast Tommy crossed the yard to the bunkhouse and walked along the outside wall to the back door. Whites weren’t supposed to use that door but he didn’t want Arthur to slip away. He looked in the window as he passed. Arthur lifted his head. He was standing by the bed, an open sack in his hand, and was in that same pose when Tommy came into the room.

“You’re leaving?” Tommy said.

“Nah, just heading off for a spell.”

“Where you going?”

“Dunno. Walkabout, I reckon. See some of the old bush.”

“What for? What’s happened?”

Arthur smiled warmly. “Nothing, mate. It’s just got that it’s time.”

“Are you coming back? Does Daddy know?”

“Yeah, we talked about it. You’ll have seen your old man’s not going so well—best I take off for a bit. We all could use it. Don’t worry, be back soon enough.”

“When?”

“Couple of weeks. I’ve not exactly got it planned.”

Tommy stood there looking at him. Arthur scratched his beard.

“What happened in Lawton?” Tommy said.

“How d’you mean?”

“You’ve been off ever since.”

Arthur waved a hand, dismissed it.

“Did you two fight?” Tommy asked. “Is that how his eye got busted up?”

“That wasn’t me. Could have been, but it wasn’t me.”

“Who was it, then?”

“Some whitefella. Blokes drink then they fight, specially in a drought. Does things to a fella’s mind, the drought. Sends him madder than the cows.” He smiled quickly, went on, “Me and the boss—I’ve known him a long time, we’ll be right, but it’s for the best I leave awhile. This last month . . . look, when I come back the rum’ll be gone and we can get on with the new mob. You never know, Tommy; this smell in the air, it might even bloody rain.”