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It was a harsh response but since his mother’s passing, Vern had lost his happy-go-lucky approach to life, becoming brooding, aggressive at times. When Tom turned eleven, six months after they’d lost his mother, his father disappeared for ten weeks. Left Tom to fend for himself, or rather to get on with life among the station hands. He kept cooking their breakfasts, stirring an enormous bowl of porridge or cooking eggs as best he could, or grilling chops and looking after the animals. Soon enough he found himself hanging around the sheds and watching its high activity over summer. He’d taken on a rouseabout role as soon as he was old enough and began to earn for himself, living at and working for Witchelina Station as opposed to joining one of the shearing gangs.

The family at the homestead had known and liked his mother and saw to it that the boy who had been born there now had a permanent role, doing all sorts of jobs around the place when the shearing or crutching seasons had passed.

Most of the rouseabouts took on shearing roles when they were of an age, but Lou had given Tom the chance he craved to learn how to class wool. Once he’d spent a few years as the rouseabout, Tom had become Lou’s roller.

‘Never worked with anyone this young on the table before, boy. Don’t let me down,’ Lou had warned.

He hadn’t. Tom’s ability to concentrate, take instruction and learn fast meant he was rolling and skirting the fleeces efficiently far earlier than most apprentices had in Lou’s estimation. When Lou had finally retired, Tom had stepped up and taken on the role gladly, but he still resisted joining the roving shearing gangs.

His father, due for retirement himself, had asked why only once. ‘What’s wrong with you, lad? Guaranteed work most of the year and top dollar, no less. You shouldn’t be sneezing at that, not in these tough times. Chance to move with the rest of the blokes.’

Tom had shaken his head. ‘I’m happy here. I don’t care much for change.’

Vern had grumbled at him and Tom could believe his father had lost faith with him. No more singing and dancing. Barely any amusement. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made the man smile, probably when his mother had still been alive. It seemed to Tom that his father had begun treating him as a stranger from the moment he was no longer a dependent child, which, in Tom’s estimation was age ten, the day Moira had passed.

Perhaps that was harsh, Tom mused. Maybe more like an unwelcome relative. He was perceptive enough to sense his father felt obligated to acknowledge him, but there was no affection left for his son, or so it seemed to Tom. Tom couldn’t work it out then and was none the wiser now, nearly two decades on, as to what he had done wrong.

In recent years, when Vern was in his cups he’d cry and talk about Moira . . . and the baby. And so it was that Tom had begun to blame himself for his mother’s and sister’s deaths. He hadn’t done enough, hadn’t driven Bonny fast enough, hadn’t sought help urgently enough; they’d died because of his inaction or carelessness.

The notion was terrible but as seductive as it was infectious, colouring his thoughts with deep regret whenever he had time to himself to think. The silence he’d once considered a companion was now his enemy, because it reminded him of loss – all of it, his fault.

Vern had died, not saying it, but conveying blame on his son to his last breath, so Tom believed. How could he not? He’d held his father’s hand as his breathing had become laboured and told him that he loved him, but in a final and shocking gesture, his father had found the strength to pull his hand away with a grimace. There had been such naked aggression to the gesture and to this day Tom wondered what his father’s hostility meant.

‘Ready, Tom? He’s nearly finished,’ Ronnie warned. ‘And the others aren’t far behind.’

Tom snapped out of his memories and gave an almost imperceptible nod; in the same heartbeat the rouseabouts moved in to do their skirting. Suddenly there was no time for anything other than getting that fleece sorted and fluidly over to the wool press, which was already groaning its metallic sounds in readiness. Sheep bleated, not in unison, but layered so the sound was discordant and pitiful. There was fear from the animals and tension around the troupe of shearers as sweat already gleamed on straining muscles. The mechanical shears hummed beneath the higher pitched shriek of the blades being sharpened by the expert. Granite liked to swap his blades every couple of fleeces. It added time but Tom admired his confidence that those extra moments spent changing over made him faster overall.

Tom could remember early autumns when the wool was so flyblown and dirty that he spent far too much time separating out the maggots while the fleeces piled up. But not today. This wool already looked top quality to him.

The two lads rolling either side stepped back and Tom was touching the wool in the next instant. His expert gaze had already told him most of what he needed but now his fingers would confirm what he had sensed. The quality was excellent; he knew from a quick click of his thumb and second finger that the tensile strength was superb, while the value of the wool grease was high. That meant the fleece was in top condition. The colour was bright, with no daggy yellowing, and the neat, bold crimps that were neither too curly nor hairy meant the ‘style’ was tip-top, as Lou used to say.

‘Three AM,’ he murmured, more for Ronnie’s benefit as the apprentice began his new layer of learning. ‘Get on with the other bits.’

The ‘other bits’, which were the bellies, locks and top knots, were now Ronnie’s responsibility. He would rapidly check for stains, vegetation and any other matter that might contaminate the main fleece, which Tom had classed as the best merino available. Meanwhile, the other hands got busy sweeping as Tom insisted on a clean working space.

Ronnie began his task as Tom was striding to the bin, folding the fleece as he moved, then tossing it neatly into the press. By the time he turned, Ronnie was moving to put the other bits in their respective bins and he was back at the table ready to roll the second fleece within seconds.

Tom was not looking at anyone now. It would be fleece after fleece until the session was done. His focus was complete. After half-a-dozen fleeces, he knew he was hitting his best speed and was pleased to note that Ronnie was keeping up and not getting in his way. Once Tom hit his stride, he would give himself only ten seconds to look and feel each fleece, plus another twenty seconds to walk it to the bin and be back in position.

He caught a wink from the number two. ‘Granite reckons he’s going slow, mate.’

‘He can go as fast as he likes,’ Ronnie said, taking up the challenge on Tom’s behalf. ‘We’re yawning back here.’

Tom heard the laughter, the exchange of friendly insults, the growling of Granite as he complained that the ewes coming in had full bellies and were cranky.

‘They need more rest after a full feed!’ he yelled at the station manager who had made the error of coming into his eyeline. ‘That mob can cause accidents when they’re angry.’

The man must have nodded, or moved on, or offered placation; Tom couldn’t hear. He heard only the scream of his mother in the sound of the bleating sheep and the soft smile of a generous stranger, younger than him, who promised to take care of the dead women in his family. Why that little girl haunted him still, he couldn’t say. It had been such a brief moment in his life and yet she had a big effect, giving more comfort in the few minutes they spent together than any adult could, especially his father.

The midday meal bell heralded the arrival of cold mutton and freshly baked bread, which Bingo had been sent to collect. It was still warm from the oven of the underground forge at Farina.

Relieved to take a break after the morning’s work, Tom was helping himself to the food set up on the tables when the expert sidled up.

‘I think we need some maintenance on the shaft, Tom.’

‘Going slow?’

The man nodded. ‘The Gun will complain otherwise – just gives him something else to blame if he doesn’t hit his goal. I can hear it beginning to struggle.’