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He capitulated to the need to swat at some flies and then knew he wouldn’t bother again once the work began.

The lambs were small and easy; once on their backs, they mostly stayed still with fright. The older sheep could kick and struggle, making it a much tougher job. Tom knew that hauling just one sheep, particularly a ram that weighed up to three hundred and thirty pounds, was enough to create an injury, but repeating the action daily while the spine was bent was asking for problems. He’d seen many a shearer crippled by back injuries and pain, having to leave the shed for good; some only lasted a few years. Others tried to keep going because these were not times to be looking for new work; Tom was only too aware of the crowd of impoverished blokes living out of swags by the creek hoping for someone to quit or get injured. For every man in this shed, there were at least another two eager blokes outside who would stick their hand up for the same back-breaking work.

But there were few wool classers, so Tom felt secure. He would always be in demand as long as there were sheep to be shorn and he stayed fit.

‘Tom, I’ve done the count.’ Ronnie, the eldest rouseabout, the one he trusted to be accurate, appeared at his side.

Tom had worked with Ronnie over a couple of seasons now and liked the young man, who had an eye on Tom’s job. Like Peter, Ronnie was a beanstalk of a lad but, nearing twenty-one, was stronger than his build suggested. He was also a quick learner and possessed a passion for the wool classer’s role. Tom pushed him hard only because he could see a bright future for Ronnie and wanted him to be the best he could be when he went out alone.

‘And?’

‘Five hundred in the pen.’

‘You’re sure?’ As boss of the sheep pen, Tom needed to know what he was up against with each shearing session.

Sparra arrived as Ronnie nodded firmly. ‘I counted twice.’ By count, he meant estimated, but there was a skill in that too and Ronnie had proved himself reliable.

‘That will see us through to dinnertime. We’ve got to keep a pace of twelve hundred fleeces a day, lads, so each of these blokes is going to be doing around one hundred and forty, perhaps one-fifty each a day.’

‘Granny reckons he’ll do half that twelve hundred himself,’ Sparra said.

Tom gave a soft snort. ‘He can try, and we’ll be ready, right, lads?’ He looked hard at each of the youths in his care who were now going to assist with the task of classing the wool and baling it. ‘Nobby, you need to roll faster. Until you get all those flyblown and scraggy edges away from the fleece, I can’t class and you’re in my way. Jacko is nipping at your heels.’

Jacko gave a snapping sound with his teeth. ‘I’m twice as fast as you, Nobs.’

‘But not as thorough,’ Nobby replied, with just enough disdain to wipe the grin from Jacko’s grimy face.

Tom smacked Jacko’s arm with the back of his hand. ‘Righto, now listen up. That ringer is going to try and humiliate us, and we’re not going to let that happen. We have to work fast but, as Nobby says, thorough. I am only as fast and as accurate as you lot are neat and swift. You each need to be doing your job as efficiently as possible and that means getting out of my way. Dooley, you hear me?’ He glanced at a tall, physically strong-looking lad called Doolan. ‘I’ll do the throwing this session.’

The boy looked wounded by the statement. ‘But—’

‘No buts, Dools. You’re learning and learning fast, but this joker at number one is testing us. You can go back to throwing this afternoon, but right now I want us waiting for him because we’re that good. He’s not waiting for anyone. So, Dooley, you focus on skirting the moment I throw. All right, lads?’ They all nodded and murmured assent. ‘Keep sweeping, Bingo, and Sparra, keep everything clear. I don’t want to trip, and I want to shave off some extra seconds between this table and the wool press. You do anything that the others ask of you without hesitation. Right?’

Sparra nodded.

Tom glanced over at Granite, who was testing the sharpness of his blade. No matter what he said, Tom knew Granny pulled the fearsome teeth wider on either end of the handpiece to grab a little more fleece off and add to the speed of each shearing. Tom looked away from the unlawful practice; he’d already said his piece and all the men were witness to it. ‘Looks like he’s ready. Are you ready, lads?’

‘Ready,’ they chorused.

‘Here we go. Keep up.’

5

Despite his earlier promise, Tom flicked again at the tiny, annoying flies that plagued their days in the shed. He suspected his back was already covered with the creatures and knew the sensation of legs as thin as hair landing or padding across his skin would have to be ignored. He’d never got used to them targeting the corner of his eyes, after his tears, but bush people learned not to keep brushing at them because it was an action in vain. There were too many to fight and those flies were going to share their lives for as long as the sheep were here, and the men were sweating over them.

Granny strode into the pen and grabbed a lamb by its forelegs and the session began. He had the wool off his first animal within four minutes, and he was only going to get faster. Jacko leapt to the cast-aside fleece and Bingo began sweeping, while the Gun pushed his sheep through the hatch, sending it skittering outside, and was already reaching for the next terrified lamb.

Tom grabbed the small fleece and tossed it easily. It landed perfectly on the long, narrow timber slats of the table as he knew it would; he had known how it would land from the second his fingers let go.

‘It’s an art, Tom,’ his father had said when Tom had first said he was interested in classing.

As young as he had been during this conversation, Tom had been able to make his point eloquently. ‘Wool classing takes concentration. I’ve watched Lou for years, Dad . . . a wool classer only has moments to make his decisions and has to be confident in making them, plus they have to make that throw land every time, hundreds of times a day. I’m not saying shearing isn’t skilled but it’s about brawn . . . doesn’t need any calculation.’

His father had shrugged. ‘It’s your funeral, Tom. Shearing pays well.’

‘Wool classing won’t ruin my back.’

‘If Lou will take you on and teach you, I don’t care what you do, so long as you earn your keep.’