Coming Rain by Stephen Daisley Read Free Book Online Page A

drove. An ancient red
harrow rusting at the edge of the paddock. Its metal seat, buttock-shaped and perforated,
high above the metal spines. Rusted trace chains. Large spoke wheels. Abandoned but
kept, grown around like a wound. Long wheat grass through it.
    ‘Yeah mate. An old harrow.’
    They drove up to a shearing shed raised up on wandoo stumps. Pulled the truck to
a stop and waited for the dust to settle. They got out of the truck, closed the doors
and stretched. Hands braced above kidneys.
    A blue heeler cattle dog ran from the yards and began barking. John Drysdale walked
from the woolshed, holding up one hand to block the sun and looking at them. A tall,
lean man, dressed in a faded green shirt and trousers, his head at an awkward angle
to his shoulders, almost as if avoiding recognition. One side of his face had healed
so that it looked like the bark of the bloodwood marri. The lids of his left eye
were coral pink and wept and drooped and often it felt as if that side of his face
was still on fire. It was the memory of the spinifex and blue-bush fire he and his
father had been caught in while mustering out near Daybreak Springs. A brown Akubra
hat on his head. He called to the blue dog. ‘That’ll do Jock, sit down there.’
    Jock sat, mouth open and long pink tongue hanging out, closed his mouth and began
to scratch at something behind his ear. Groaned as he scratched.
    ‘Hello Painter Hayes. Had any rain?’ John Drysdale held out his right hand.
    ‘Boss,’ Painter said. ‘No rain.’ He took John’s hand and they shook hands.
    ‘The bloke upstairs has been trying us,’ John Drysdale did not smile.
    ‘Keep calling him, boss,’ Painter nodded. ‘It’ll come.’
    ‘Better be, let’s hope so.’
    Painter turned his head, coughed and spoke as John looked to Lew.
    ‘This is Lewis McCleod, Mr Drysdale. You may have known his father Mac?’
    ‘Can’t say I remember him. How are you Lewis?’
    ‘Good good Mr Drysdale.’ Lew said and held out his hand. They too shook hands.
    The land was silent, the truck’s motor ticking from the heat of the motor. A pair
of crows called to each other and after a minute, the metal creaking sound of the
Comet windmill began. They watched the D-pattern tail swing away from the wind coming
out of the desert.
    ‘His father shore here,’ Painter said, ‘in the late thirties once or twice I believe.’
    ‘He did?’ Drysdale looked closer at Lew.
    ‘First I knew of it Mr Drysdale.’
    The circle of blades whirred, moving in the air. The wind lifted and the flukes began
turning faster, and the familiar sound of the air and moving metal of the windmill.
    ‘Anyway good to see you both,’ Drysdale said. ‘Mustered yesterday. Shed and yards
full. Just the hoggets. Tally I have is just under twelve hundred head. More or less.’
    Lew and Painter both nodded. ‘Good good.’
    ‘Three days I would say. Four the outside. Perhaps a week or so if it rains.’
    The sky was blue for as far as they could see. No clouds, not one, just the wind
coming out of the eastern desert. The windmill’s pump piston began moving up and
down, dry-hissing in the sleeve of its cylinder. A small dust cloud swirled away
behind the woolshed.
    ‘That is a hopeful condition Mr Drysdale,’ Painter said.
    ‘Never know,’ Drysdale replied. He turned, as they heard horses coming at a steady
run.
    Clara Ruth Drysdale rode towards them. Nineteen and sitting a white gelding as if
she had grown out of it, holding a big-bellied grey mare on a long rope behind her.
The horses slowed, baulked a little to the walk and stopped in front of the men as
red dust caught up and blew around her and over them. A team of lean mustering dogs
loping behind her. They circled Painter and Lew. The head dog lifted his leg against
the wheel of the truck, squirted a line of urine and ran over to Jock to stand and
bristle in defiance. Jock’s top lip lifted and he began to open and close his mouth.
The edges of his tongue