The Never Boys Read online

  Dirty oil piddled into a metal tin when the redhead came back. But instead of confirming that the long weight was being delivered, he explained it was too early to phone anyone. It was ten o’clock!

  ‘You haven’t called anyone?’

  ‘It’s a waste of time.’

  ‘What’s their address? I’ll go and see them myself.’

  ‘Why? They wouldn’t be there yet.’

  Dean breathed hard and long.

  The mechanic offered a compromise. ‘I tell you what. Come back in two hours and you’ll have what you asked for.’

  ‘Two hours? But that’s too long. The shearers —’

  ‘— should know to check their generator more often.’

  The dirt road back to Truro couldn’t shake the frustration out of him. But there was more stress to come. Hayden met him outside the shed, annoyed that he’d come back only with excuses. ‘That’s not good enough, mate. Go and tell them again it’s an emergency.’

  So off he went. But the answer was still the same.

  ‘Two hours, I said. Not a minute sooner.’

  He lost it on the street. He barged through some kindergarten kids and nearly tripped over a keg trolley. That was it. He’d had enough. He was going to quit. It was better than being fired. But when he’d cooled off after stupidly discovering he’d marched too far, he spotted a clock, then thought things through. If he was going to be sacked, he had less than two hours to land a new job.

  Angaston was wine country — one of the many hamlets that made up the Barossa Valley. It had been settled in the nineteenth century with English boots and German piety. Vineyards combed the brown soil; wheat fields and orchards rolled with tractors; and church spires, gum trees and Federation roofs sheltered a two thousand-strong population. At the top of the main street was a dried fruit factory and in its middle, a real, living blacksmith. Bakers sold continental breads, bienenstich, apple strudel or black forest cake while a smallgoods store offered mettwurst, leberwurst, black pudding and fritz. Plenty of places to work. But first he had to check if he was going to hang round.

  Almost run over by a mob of ultra-cool cyclists, he entered a newsagent, seeking the latest on the buses. “The union last night rejected the commission’s ruling, promising more wildcat strikes —” Great. He snapped the paper shut.

  Ready to walk, he nearly missed the magazine cover in the sports section of a guy, silhouetted against a bronze sky, rocketing upside-down on a short board. No guesses where that was taken. The mighty Margaret River. He lingered over the pictures inside, almost tasting the Indian Ocean and smelling the karris shuttering across his face as he stared from the backseat of the family Holden. There were memories — good memories — of chasing the Three Bears in the north and righthanders at Grunters in the south. He scanned the news and feature pages for names. Nothing. But that was asking too much. Six months had passed.

  A well-directed cough from the newsagent forced him outside.

  After answering a few HELP WANTED signs and — typical — being told he lacked experience, he bored himself at a second-hand store that had once been a Methodist church, followed by a bookshop and finally a park before growing impatient. It was time for the mechanics to deliver.

  ‘I don’t know where they went,’ a female apprentice shrugged. ‘They said they’d be back in fifteen minutes.’

  Except fifteen minutes was closer to two hours. Lunch arrived before the pair did.

  ‘Where have you guys been?!’ he demanded. ‘It’s been four hours!’

  ‘Has it?’ the goatee man laughed, squirting sauce on his Cornish pastie.

  ‘We might have a new record,’ the redhead answered.

  ‘Well? Where is it?’ Dean fumed.

  ‘Where’s what?’

  ‘My long weight.’

  ‘You’ve just had it.’

  He stared at them as they grinned and ate. ‘What?’

  ‘Go back to the shearing shed,’ the redhead said, almost with a serious tone. ‘Think about it on the way home.’

  ‘Well? Where is it?’

  ‘Where’s what?’

  ‘My long weight.’

  ‘You’ve just had it.’

  Long weight —

  Long waite —

  Long wait.

  Even before he switched off the Falcon’s engine, he could hear the clippers buzzing. Merinos skidded down chutes into the counting-out pens as they had done so all morning. As he reluctantly entered the shed, the workers cheered.

  Chapter 5

  Go on. Get lost!

  Dean threw a flat stone at the procession of jalopies heading home, then bent down for another and another. The salvo was useless. He was barely able to see the cars, let alone hit them.

  ‘Did you buy any fireproof matches while you were there?’

  No, but the butcher was selling your brain by the kilo. Ten cents for the lot.

  He pegged the last few stones into the creek bed. How was he supposed to know it was a prank? Only when the last car disappeared did he move towards his quarters to sulk.

  But he wasn’t the only one in a foul mood that afternoon. Zara and her mum were warring too. The back door yanked open, the General yelled a final warning then slam! Hot-faced, Zara marched across to the old coach-house. Everything was quiet for a moment, before, with three stomps, a green dirt bike started up. It headed for him, then launched into the creek. He listened as its buzz grew fainter before circling the water tank and speeding in his direction again. In a tight arc, she skidded a metre away, spraying him with dust.

  ‘Ever ridden one of these?’ she yelled through her helmet.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Time to learn.’

  Riding double, he didn’t have a chance to sit. She just took off!

  Faster and faster they raced, trying to keep their afternoon alive. Stables, horses and feeding bins zipped by as the bike roared across an open field, riding a well-worn track. A heavy line of dog pelts hung like starched clothes on a wire fence. An old Holden HR Premier speared into the creek. ‘My first driving lesson,’ she yelled back.

  Suddenly, she cornered, scattering a flock of spinning swallows. Whamp! Whamp! Whamp! Green and yellow plants slapped their legs as the dirt bike ploughed deep into a huge canola crop. First, she charted a straight line, then a one-footed pivot, a second line, another pivot, then one last stretch. The brakes! He hammered into her back as she stood to smile at her work. Z. Carved perfectly — and expensively — right in the centre of the field. Wouldn’t the General be impressed.

  Stained with yellow petals, the dirt bike exited the far edge of the crop then powered up a hill. He urged her on; his fear swirling away. The thrill of speed motored inside him. Every jolt jammed into his crotch.

  Finally, the dirt bike dipped into a valley clumped with sheep; its engine easing as she steered them towards a ruined sandstone and redbrick cottage held together by little more than grass and cobwebs. Hooking his helmet over the handlebars, he walked the vibrations from his legs, stopping at what was once a hearth to read the graffiti. The site had been used recently. The ashes of a campfire and a case of beer bottles lingered longer than the hangovers.

  ‘Squatters, eh?’ he asked, reeling at the stale alcohol.

  ‘Those? No,’ she said, joining him. ‘A group of us swagged here the other night.’

  ‘Must have been some party.’

  ‘Can’t remember,’ she half-smiled.

  He picked up a bullet’s shell casing, rolled it between his fingers and smelt the burnt gunpowder.

  ‘Don’t worry. We were out hunting wild dogs. Bagged a few, too.’

  ‘That would explain the pelts back there.’

  ‘They kill our lambs — and the ewes if they’re hungry enough. My best friend’s family even had their pup mauled to death. Mum reckons she’s shot about five hundred of them and double that in wild cats.’

  ‘How many rouseabouts?’

  ‘Only the ones late for work.’
/>   Magpies were piping all round as she climbed on a low wall and, arms crossed, stood facing the sunset. Her silence unnerved him. ‘So, why are we here?’

  She twisted back. ‘I needed to get away from the house. And you looked bored. Perfect match, really.’

  ‘The General was giving you a hard time, hey?’

  She snorted. ‘When doesn’t she?’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘Not really.’

  He slid his hands into his shorts and the shadows grew as long as his awkwardness. He wanted to say something witty to lighten the mood. But he was clumsy, especially around girls.

  ‘Is it just you and your mum?’ he eventually asked. ‘Or do you have a dad?’

  She smirked.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘A lot of people say I’ve got two-in-one.’

  ‘The General’s pretty hardcore, isn’t she?’

  ‘Try living with her,’ she said, glancing down at him. ‘But yes, I have a dad. Usual divorced kid story. Why?’

  ‘I haven’t seen any pictures of him at the homestead.’

  ‘That’s because Mum used them all for target practice.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Nope. Just after their split, she placed them all on a tree stump and — pow! pow! pow! — shot them one by one. She’s quite a marksman now.’

  ‘So I should throw away that picture frame I bought her as a thank-you present?’

  She grinned, then jumped off the wall and told him to follow her. She led him to the creek where a gathering of red gums and saplings toed its edge. A globe of the world hung from one of the branches; Greenland now a giant bird dropping.

  ‘I stole it from school,’ she explained. ‘I was too afraid Mum would find it, so I hid it here.’

  ‘But why?’

  She spun it on its axis. ‘Cover my eyes.’ He did. ‘Okay — there.’ She clasped the globe between her hands, pointed to a random country, then checked her pick. ‘What do you know about Thailand?’

  ‘Not much,’ he confessed. ‘Great food. Tropical islands. Beaches. Coral reefs. Tuktuks. Y’know — all the touristy bits. The real stuff, I haven’t got a clue.’

  ‘Tropical islands? That sounds like me. Sunbaking all day and working on my tan.’ She laughed at the absurdity. ‘Now it’s your turn.’

  He could smell spearmint as she covered his eyes and directed him to face the globe. He caught it and jabbed one-quarter down. But he missed and got Mongolia instead.

  ‘I think they’ve got horses,’ she said, one-upping him.

  ‘So what’s with the geography lesson?’

  ‘It helps take me away from this place.’

  ‘From the farm?’

  ‘The farm, Truro, school, the valley — the rest of the world’s so amazing and I’m stuck here, with my mum. And thousands of sheep. How pathetic is that?’

  ‘Have you lived here all your life?’

  ‘Yes, but I won’t be for much longer.’

  ‘You’re moving?’

  ‘Once I’ve finished school.’

  ‘The General’s selling the place?’

  ‘I wish. The land’s been our family’s for five generations — and it’s expected to stay that way. Not if I have a say in it, though. Do you hear me?!’ she yelled in the direction of the homestead. ‘I hate this place. If it’s not drought, it’s floods. If it’s not fire, it’s disease. If it’s not wool prices, then it’s council rates. Who wants to inherit that?’

  ‘Why don’t you go and live with your dad?’

  ‘And play babysitter to my half-brothers? No thanks.’

  He backed off.

  Spinning the globe absently, she took in the emptiness of the station. ‘No, I want to be like you. I want to be free.’

  ‘I don’t know about that —’

  ‘You’re travelling. You’re meeting new people. You’re away from your parents. What’s so bad about that?’

  ‘I pick sheep turds for a living,’ he said.

  Stunned, she stared at him, then they both laughed. ‘You washed your hands, didn’t you?’

  ‘Till they almost bled.’

  They walked back to the ruins.

  ‘Why Sydney, then?’

  ‘Everyone’s got to go once, don’t they?’

  ‘Sure, but there must be a better reason than that.’

  He shrugged. ‘A change of scenery, I guess. Plus I love the water. I always see pictures of Bondi and Manly and Narrabeen, and wonder what it’s like to live by the ocean. Most cities you can’t live right on top of the surf. There’s always some road keeping you back. But Sydney — yeah, I’d find some rundown shack with a veranda bigger than the house that looked out over the Pacific. I’d surf every morning, then fish in the afternoon with a dog and a bucket of whiting beside me.’

  ‘Sounds like my kind of life.’

  ‘It’s only one bus ticket away.’

  She smiled with a don’t-tempt-me look.

  The last of the birdsong faded. Sunset was nearly over and already the sheep were settling in for the evening.

  The homestead’s lights shuttered behind the pepper trees as the bike approached the shearers’ quarters. Braking with her heels, she was surprised when he was reluctant to unstrap his helmet. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  But she caught him peering through the dark kitchen window. ‘Old Clive, eh?’

  ‘Bit spooky living in a dead man’s house, don’t you think,’ he admitted. ‘Every shadow feels like it’s moving.’

  ‘Like that face there?’

  She suckered him into looking and had a laugh at his expense.

  ‘Sorry. Couldn’t resist. But I wouldn’t worry about him. He was a grumpy old man, but nothing sinister.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘An old navy buddy of Grandpa Jack’s. They served on the HMAS Australia together, I think. About ten years ago, while Grandpa was still alive, Clive asked if he could rent out the shearers’ quarters. He didn’t have any family of his own and didn’t want to spend the rest of his retirement in a nursing home. Grandpa let him and he lived there until — y’know.’

  ‘So why’s all his stuff still here?’

  ‘That’s the weird part. His lawyer came to the house the same day you did. He said he was the executor of Clive’s will. He asked that none of Clive’s belongings be removed for four months. If none of his friends came to collect them, then after that time they were to be sold and the money donated to charity. The lawyer even paid four months’ rent for the inconvenience.’

  ‘Bizarre.’

  ‘Yeah, but Clive was pretty bizarre. He kept to himself a lot and we really only saw him if our tractors or utes needed repairing. Speaking of which —’

  Across the creek, a ute pulled up in front of the homestead.

  ‘— I better go. No doubt Mum’s ready for Round Two.’ She strapped on her helmet and waved. ‘See you in Mongolia!’

  Chapter 6

  Flat on his stomach, Dean hunted. Closer, closer, closer — there, rushing towards him. Ready. Steady. Now! He slashed, he cut, he carved. But the monster overpowered and knocked him backwards, swallowing him deep into the sea.

  Breaking into daylight once more, Dean spluttered, shook his hair, then yahooed. What a wave! He straddled his surfboard again as he felt the ocean swell one more time.

  It was Saturday. His day off. Except no one had told him and he’d forgotten to ask. As he crossed the creek that morning, the shed was quiet. Oh no, here we go again, he thought. But it wasn’t a prank. The whole station was deserted.

  ‘The General’s tough, but she’s not heartless,’ the head shearer said, finding him sitting by the front door. He himself had called in to see if the General was home. ‘Everyone gets the weekend off.’

  The shifting of gears sounded lonely across the property as the khaki Land Cruiser left. Dean chased after it and asked the head shearer where he was going. ‘The city.’<
br />
  ‘Can I scab a lift?’

  The yellow and brown paddocks soon gave way to concrete as they got clogged on the main highway to Adelaide. Petrol stations, billboards, warehouses, nurseries, barbecue chicken joints and housing commission suburbia tightened on the traffic. To the right an airfield was shadowed by light planes circling. One descended too close for his liking and left him clawing his seat. New and used car dealerships gave way to a moat of green parklands around the central business district. The steps of St Peter’s Cathedral flashed with panicked pigeons and camera-gunning tourists, while across the road another revered icon, the Adelaide Oval, was seeded with junior cricketers.

  ‘You right to get home?’ the shearer asked, stopping on King William Street.

  Home. What a strange word. ‘Yeah, should be.’

  So this was Adelaide. A city of sandstone buildings and gaudy architecture; café strips and coffee bean bars; fashion boutiques and buskers; churches and strip clubs; corner prophets and spruikers; fountains and insufferable heat. It would take him days to explore. But all his plans soon changed. In the front window of a clothing store, he caught sight of a video showing girls and guys tube-riding the most glorious waves. Cutbacks, snaps, grabs — forgotten thrills churned in his lower abdomen.

  Inside, the counter guy was all teeth, chin and tanning-salon brown. His eyes were focused on the brunette by the shorts rack rather than the customer. He’d never surfed a day in his life, but tried convincing him that every Adelaide beach had wicked breaks that rolled all day long. A girl with gothic hair set him straight. Waitpinga on the south coast was the go. No swimming. No tourists. No horses or four-wheel drives. Just clean sand and waves for every grommet.

  Travelling in a private tourist van, he was offloaded at a coastal town called Victor Harbor. He bought food, sunscreen, toiletries and a seven pack of jocks before crossing the street to hire a board and spring suit. ‘Waits? Yeah. It’s a dozen clicks from here. Jump in.’ His ride stopped near an alpaca farm. Beyond it was the Big Blue of the Southern Ocean. It almost made him cry. Fighting into his black skin, he bolted down the road, past the dunes and plunged straight in.