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She nodded as they passed the expanse of the parklands. ‘I am.’

‘Let your thoughts about him go, Fleur. You’re likely never going to see him again.’

4

FARINA

January 1935

Over the last couple of decades, Tom had come to believe the woolshed was like the wild, wild West of American fame. Fierce, single men, sometimes lawless, usually with daily hangovers, and as tough as the quartz of the mountain range that hugged this sheep station, came together under one roof. This motley mob, as varied in character as a bunch of blokes could be and of all ages, were required to live, sleep, eat and play together, not to mention work at speed and in hellishly hot conditions most of the time. With the collective attitude of being ‘guns for hire’, they roamed the stations from state to state, shearing most of the year. It wasn’t just a way to earn money; for most of these hard blokes, it was a way of life. Given the choice, Tom was convinced none would give it up.

Now in the summer months, the gang were at Witchelina Station. Thirty-five thousand sheep would be shorn during January alone. Tom had the numbers in his head for this push: ten thousand ewes, plus their eight thousand lambs. Seven thousand hoggets who were last year’s lambs, and then nine thousand or so wethers this summer, and then the big boys . . . at least three hundred rams.

The woolshed’s cauldron of unpredictable components was no doubt why Tom had followed through on his promise to become a wool classer rather than a shearer. It allowed him to take a more omnipotent view of life in the shed and take a step apart from the unruly mob mentality . . . but it required him to take responsibility for all of them. And he was still considered young in the role.

The shearers were paid by the fleece, so that added an additional element of tension. The competition within the shed was palpable. Skilful shearers soon became rivals and vied for that top spot called the ringer, or the Gun. No one liked being number two, although someone had to be. The Gun was king, and he set the speed for the day, everyone else aiming to keep up with him.

Most here at Witchelina were part of the ‘northern run’, which, Tom had learned over the years, allowed individual shearers to join a team and travel through South Australia, into New South Wales and even up to Queensland.

The Gun this season, Big Jim Farrow, or Granite to most, had also done several stints in Western Australia, way up north, where some of the biggest sheds in the world resided and maybe one hundred thousand sheep awaited shearing. They didn’t come any tougher or more experienced than Granite.

Tom found himself feeling dwarfed by Granite during the nine-thirty smoko after he had sighed, straightened from his final sheep of the first session and yelled that it was ‘Time to boil the billy and get ourselves a rollie’.

This group called their king ‘Granny’; they’d clearly been together a long time for that to occur. Peter, a new rouseabout on the gang, had been nicknamed Sparrow, or ‘Sparra’ as they said it, because he was so small. Tom was looking out for Peter, because he was still very green in his role with lots to learn; Tom hadn’t forgotten what that felt like.

‘Hey, Sparra,’ Granny called out from his seat on a hay bale. ‘I want to check my shearing comb. Get me the left-handed one, eh?’

‘Righto,’ Sparra said good naturedly. He leapt to his feet to go see Bill, the man known as ‘the expert’, who was in charge of keeping the shearing handpieces constantly oiled and in good order through the working day.

Loud laughter accompanied Sparra as he rushed off and Tom grinned. It was always going to be a trial by fire with a mob of men like this. Peter would learn, and in the meantime he’d take the merciless ribbing until someone new and naïve joined the gang. It was an old joke that Tom himself had fallen for years ago: when someone in the gang told him to fetch the left-handed screwdriver, he’d spent ages looking at the range of screwdrivers, trying to work out which that was.

Sparra returned, grinning sheepishly. ‘The expert sent me with this one. Is this right?’

‘Bloody hell, mate. What, no left-handed shearing combs?’ Granny replied, sounding offended.

Sparra shrugged, handing him the universal tool. ‘It’s all he had.’

‘Well, then, Sparra, fetch me some right-handed pliers from that box and pay attention. I’m going to teach you something now.’

The lad was yet to catch on but Tom knew he needed to work his way through the hoops that had to be jumped. He watched the youngster dip into the mobile toolbox nearby and pull out the only pliers, dutifully handing them to Granite. Peter looked like he was holding his breath, fearful of being wrong.

Granite took them and put them against his right palm, the shearing comb still in his left. ‘Now, in New Zealand, those sheep-shagging Kiwis, like Donkey here, are allowed to use a much wider comb than us. Isn’t that right, Donkey?’

The men sniggered at the insult, affectionate in its biting fun.

Donkey didn’t seem offended; Tom was sure he’d heard the insult many times. ‘Yep, sure is,’ he said. ‘Means we’re faster. What takes me five minutes takes you blokes ten.’ Except with his intriguing accent, it sounded as though he’d said ‘teen’.

‘Well, I can’t have you Kiwis bragging. So, watch this, Sparra.’ Granite used the pliers to bend the furthest tines on each side of the shearing comb so that they stuck out at an angle. ‘Now I have a wide comb like the cheatin’ Kiwis.’

Time to step in. ‘You know that’s illegal, Granite.’ Tom kept his voice even. ‘In Australia, anyway,’ he qualified. ‘It’s written into the Federal Pastoral Award that we use combs of two and a half inches only.’

‘Yeah, but who’s going to say anything?’

It was a challenge. Either he stood up to Granny or for the rest of the month he would burn with the knowledge that he had been weak in front of the other blokes. ‘I’d prefer you didn’t, Granite. If an inspector—’

‘But will he?’

‘He might. And it’s my duty to keep the shed in line with all the rules – particularly the union regulations, which includes making sure you’re well fed and watered, mate.’