Read Online Our Sunshine: Popular Penguins by Robert Drewe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Drewe
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bottom since the police have holed it. The fact starts sinking in that this exercise is more than just a search. It’s a full-scale offensive. War has been declared.
‘Forget New South Wales,’ he says. They turn around and ride all night, cod thudding on their saddles, on side roads and stock tracks back into Victoria. They let the horses take their own pace, stopping only at dawn for food and shelter. Since his days on the prison hulk he doesn’t eat fish, and after a close look at their cloudy eyes Joe, too, decides he needs only a warming whisky. So Dan and Steve polish off a half-grilled cod or two and aren’t too sick.
Joe’s old haunts are nearest. After three nights’ hard riding they cross the range to Sebastopol, where his old friend Aaron Sherritt lives. At this stage of his life Aaron is still a bachelor living in a slab hut on his parents’ farm. Joe insists it’s a safe house and that the Sherritts are no lovers of the police.
‘The Sherritts aren’t Catholics – Old Man Sherritt’s a fucking Orangeman!’ Dan says.
‘Relax,’ Joe says. ‘John Sherritt’s always before the courts for some bastardry or other. Anyway, Aaron’s engaged to my sister. Jesus, you know he’s an old mate of all of you boys.’
The Sherritts take them in. Their hut is like a musty cave – no windows, and the only light and air comes through the open doors. Of course Aaron is keen to drink and sing and play his banjo but they’re so bushed they just roll up in their dank blankets under Old Man Sherritt’s prized portrait of Queen Victoria. This is before she’s made proclamations to have them killed, but even now she’s looking down her nose at them, those puffy little cod eyes following them around the tiny room like Jesus’ moist spaniel ones did from the wall above Mother’s bed.
They lie down to rest with the Sherritts’ eyes on them too. It’s only noon after all. Father and son are lunching at the table and well into the bottle they’ve been given. Aaron is singing some flattering made-up song about dead troopers and Stringybark Creek while Old Man Sherritt is munching lamb shanks and water biscuits with his whisky, cleaning his Enfields – a breechloader and an old muzzle-loading musket – and reminiscing about his days as a rip-roaring corporal in the Royal Irish Constabulary. In this ruckus their collie bitch scrapes her way indoors and towards the table. She’s dragging her hind legs along the rectangle of sunshine from the doorway; ticks have paralysed her and made her eyes gluey. She looks up through this slimy film at Sherritt senior, sighs and folds herself into three stiff sections – legs, body, head – at his feet.
Spitting biscuit crumbs, Old Man Sherritt booms, ‘Oh, we used these old boys, didn’t we?’ and pats his musket lovingly. The whisky’s already turned his cheeks all friendly. ‘When the British Army got their new breechloaders they passed over these old gadgets bloody quicksticks to the Royal Irish. Well, we got some Tykes with them anyhow.’
‘Olden days, Pop. Long gone,’ Aaron says, plunking on.
The leader clears his throat and opens an eye. ‘Joe?’ he murmurs.
‘Four tired Tykes right here, Mr Sherritt,’ Joe says. ‘But we’ve all got wide-awake Colts under our blankets.’
Sherritt blinks, and frowns as if something important has just occurred to him. ‘*Course they had their misfiring difficulties and slownesses,’ he goes on, laying the musket on the table with a rosy smile. ‘Otherwise we wouldn’t have taken such a shine to these,’ he says, picking up the other weapon, sighting along the barrel, putting it to the collie’s velvet ear and firing.
Immediately they’re at the table, stumbling in their socks and underwear, slipping in dog blood, unsure where to point their Colts. Aaron’s father is already resting the rifle across his knees and pinching his waxed moustache tips – orange from tobacco and already turned up smartly –
‘Forget New South Wales,’ he says. They turn around and ride all night, cod thudding on their saddles, on side roads and stock tracks back into Victoria. They let the horses take their own pace, stopping only at dawn for food and shelter. Since his days on the prison hulk he doesn’t eat fish, and after a close look at their cloudy eyes Joe, too, decides he needs only a warming whisky. So Dan and Steve polish off a half-grilled cod or two and aren’t too sick.
Joe’s old haunts are nearest. After three nights’ hard riding they cross the range to Sebastopol, where his old friend Aaron Sherritt lives. At this stage of his life Aaron is still a bachelor living in a slab hut on his parents’ farm. Joe insists it’s a safe house and that the Sherritts are no lovers of the police.
‘The Sherritts aren’t Catholics – Old Man Sherritt’s a fucking Orangeman!’ Dan says.
‘Relax,’ Joe says. ‘John Sherritt’s always before the courts for some bastardry or other. Anyway, Aaron’s engaged to my sister. Jesus, you know he’s an old mate of all of you boys.’
The Sherritts take them in. Their hut is like a musty cave – no windows, and the only light and air comes through the open doors. Of course Aaron is keen to drink and sing and play his banjo but they’re so bushed they just roll up in their dank blankets under Old Man Sherritt’s prized portrait of Queen Victoria. This is before she’s made proclamations to have them killed, but even now she’s looking down her nose at them, those puffy little cod eyes following them around the tiny room like Jesus’ moist spaniel ones did from the wall above Mother’s bed.
They lie down to rest with the Sherritts’ eyes on them too. It’s only noon after all. Father and son are lunching at the table and well into the bottle they’ve been given. Aaron is singing some flattering made-up song about dead troopers and Stringybark Creek while Old Man Sherritt is munching lamb shanks and water biscuits with his whisky, cleaning his Enfields – a breechloader and an old muzzle-loading musket – and reminiscing about his days as a rip-roaring corporal in the Royal Irish Constabulary. In this ruckus their collie bitch scrapes her way indoors and towards the table. She’s dragging her hind legs along the rectangle of sunshine from the doorway; ticks have paralysed her and made her eyes gluey. She looks up through this slimy film at Sherritt senior, sighs and folds herself into three stiff sections – legs, body, head – at his feet.
Spitting biscuit crumbs, Old Man Sherritt booms, ‘Oh, we used these old boys, didn’t we?’ and pats his musket lovingly. The whisky’s already turned his cheeks all friendly. ‘When the British Army got their new breechloaders they passed over these old gadgets bloody quicksticks to the Royal Irish. Well, we got some Tykes with them anyhow.’
‘Olden days, Pop. Long gone,’ Aaron says, plunking on.
The leader clears his throat and opens an eye. ‘Joe?’ he murmurs.
‘Four tired Tykes right here, Mr Sherritt,’ Joe says. ‘But we’ve all got wide-awake Colts under our blankets.’
Sherritt blinks, and frowns as if something important has just occurred to him. ‘*Course they had their misfiring difficulties and slownesses,’ he goes on, laying the musket on the table with a rosy smile. ‘Otherwise we wouldn’t have taken such a shine to these,’ he says, picking up the other weapon, sighting along the barrel, putting it to the collie’s velvet ear and firing.
Immediately they’re at the table, stumbling in their socks and underwear, slipping in dog blood, unsure where to point their Colts. Aaron’s father is already resting the rifle across his knees and pinching his waxed moustache tips – orange from tobacco and already turned up smartly –
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