like that bread of yours, Cookie,â he nodded quietly.
When the minute hand of the clock jumped to half-past nine the next shearer in line, Bertram Junior, dropped his handpiece, slipped out of his shearing harness and buckjumped his last wether down the chute without straightening his back. The rumble of the old diesel shearing engine died away. A fading scrabble of hoofs, then, as Bertram Junior eased himself upright, mopped his face with a scrap of towelling, reached up to a drum Esky, which hung by a nail on the fascia board above his stand, and drew a half-litre of ice-cold lemoncordial from the spigot into his tin cup. Bertram Junior rarely ate during the day. Instead, he sank litres of sweet fluid â lemon, lime, orange, tropical punch, orange-mango, raspberry â ate no lunch, and only piled his plate at the evening meal. He wanted to lose weight but couldnât seem to at present, even in these sauna-like conditions. Sugary cordial was not the only reason. He loved boiled rice with milk, sugar, and cream. Hated sultanas, though. He ate bread and butter pudding with stolid patience, separating the sultanas from the custard, making a neat stack beside his plate.
One day he asked Bertram Junior if he liked figs. Bertram Junior gazed back and said, âWhatâs that?â He knew strawberries, he said, apples, pears, Kiwi fruit, pineapples, oranges, you name it, but had never heard of a fig. âWhatâs a fug ?â He described figs in detail, down to their compressed purple-white inner fibres. But still drew a blank. âI donât know em.â Now, collecting his tally book, Bertram Junior ambled along the board, giving him a serene unsmiling look from his large, round eyes. âNothin to do, Cookie?â he taunted as he disappeared out the back to count each shearerâs tally for the run, and enter it in the book.
While Barbara drove the reluctant rouseabouts on to finish clearing the board, he went round behind the press, where the wool was stored before being collected by the carrier. Each dayâs smoko was taken here in a different spot, depending on spaces being filled up. Workers sat or lay on bales, tempting dogs with sandwich crusts, yarning, snoozing. Fiona Holgate came in unobtrusively, selected an apple, stretched back on a bale, munched, and pulled her hat down over her eyes. Maurie Holgate threw his hat in the corner, borrowed cigarette makings from Davo, and eyed the teacake.
âWhat have we got today? Lemon icing?â
Maurie Holgate was always on the look-out for what the cook produced. His regular smokos never came fresh from the oven, but year long were peeled from Gladwrap in desperate paddock corners. Every day, on BertramJuniorâs instructions, a cake was baked with Maurie in mind. Few others ate it in such heat. âGood PR,â winked Bertram Junior. âKeeps the grower happy.â Except it was noticeable the grower wasnât happy. He and Bertram Junior were having words, heads together, points being made with solemn emphasis.
âI think Iâd better ring Alastair to get a fix on this,â said the grower. âHe thinks a bloke can live on promises.â
âItâs bad, thatâs all I know,â said Bertram Junior, dropping his head, cautiously edging his eyes around, letting his gaze linger on one person after another, not giving any clues. The shed was another planet where another language was spoken, when it came to a cook trying to follow the life there.
Regarding owners, Bertram Junior said one day: âThey all want something different â it donât matter what I think, if they want something done youâve got to do it, itâs their place, itâs their business, itâs their livelihood, it takes them twelve months to grow up the wool we harvest and, you know, you canât screw it up in three weeks for them because thatâs their income and youâve got to respect them
When the minute hand of the clock jumped to half-past nine the next shearer in line, Bertram Junior, dropped his handpiece, slipped out of his shearing harness and buckjumped his last wether down the chute without straightening his back. The rumble of the old diesel shearing engine died away. A fading scrabble of hoofs, then, as Bertram Junior eased himself upright, mopped his face with a scrap of towelling, reached up to a drum Esky, which hung by a nail on the fascia board above his stand, and drew a half-litre of ice-cold lemoncordial from the spigot into his tin cup. Bertram Junior rarely ate during the day. Instead, he sank litres of sweet fluid â lemon, lime, orange, tropical punch, orange-mango, raspberry â ate no lunch, and only piled his plate at the evening meal. He wanted to lose weight but couldnât seem to at present, even in these sauna-like conditions. Sugary cordial was not the only reason. He loved boiled rice with milk, sugar, and cream. Hated sultanas, though. He ate bread and butter pudding with stolid patience, separating the sultanas from the custard, making a neat stack beside his plate.
One day he asked Bertram Junior if he liked figs. Bertram Junior gazed back and said, âWhatâs that?â He knew strawberries, he said, apples, pears, Kiwi fruit, pineapples, oranges, you name it, but had never heard of a fig. âWhatâs a fug ?â He described figs in detail, down to their compressed purple-white inner fibres. But still drew a blank. âI donât know em.â Now, collecting his tally book, Bertram Junior ambled along the board, giving him a serene unsmiling look from his large, round eyes. âNothin to do, Cookie?â he taunted as he disappeared out the back to count each shearerâs tally for the run, and enter it in the book.
While Barbara drove the reluctant rouseabouts on to finish clearing the board, he went round behind the press, where the wool was stored before being collected by the carrier. Each dayâs smoko was taken here in a different spot, depending on spaces being filled up. Workers sat or lay on bales, tempting dogs with sandwich crusts, yarning, snoozing. Fiona Holgate came in unobtrusively, selected an apple, stretched back on a bale, munched, and pulled her hat down over her eyes. Maurie Holgate threw his hat in the corner, borrowed cigarette makings from Davo, and eyed the teacake.
âWhat have we got today? Lemon icing?â
Maurie Holgate was always on the look-out for what the cook produced. His regular smokos never came fresh from the oven, but year long were peeled from Gladwrap in desperate paddock corners. Every day, on BertramJuniorâs instructions, a cake was baked with Maurie in mind. Few others ate it in such heat. âGood PR,â winked Bertram Junior. âKeeps the grower happy.â Except it was noticeable the grower wasnât happy. He and Bertram Junior were having words, heads together, points being made with solemn emphasis.
âI think Iâd better ring Alastair to get a fix on this,â said the grower. âHe thinks a bloke can live on promises.â
âItâs bad, thatâs all I know,â said Bertram Junior, dropping his head, cautiously edging his eyes around, letting his gaze linger on one person after another, not giving any clues. The shed was another planet where another language was spoken, when it came to a cook trying to follow the life there.
Regarding owners, Bertram Junior said one day: âThey all want something different â it donât matter what I think, if they want something done youâve got to do it, itâs their place, itâs their business, itâs their livelihood, it takes them twelve months to grow up the wool we harvest and, you know, you canât screw it up in three weeks for them because thatâs their income and youâve got to respect them
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