Joe Wilson and His Mates [30]
Of her homes -- not the huts and camps she lived in with me.
Of our future? -- she used to plan a lot, and talk a good deal of our future
-- but not lately. These things didn't strike me at the time -- I was so deep
in my own brooding. Did she think now -- did she begin to feel now
that she had made a great mistake and thrown away her life,
but must make the best of it? This might have roused me, had I thought of it.
But whenever I thought Mary was getting indifferent towards me,
I'd think, `I'll soon win her back. We'll be sweethearts again --
when things brighten up a bit.'
It's an awful thing to me, now I look back to it, to think how far apart
we had grown, what strangers we were to each other. It seems, now,
as though we had been sweethearts long years before, and had parted,
and had never really met since.
The sun was going down when Mary called out --
`There's our place, Joe!'
She hadn't seen it before, and somehow it came new and with a shock to me,
who had been out here several times. Ahead, through the trees to the right,
was a dark green clump of the oaks standing out of the creek,
darker for the dead grey grass and blue-grey bush on the barren ridge
in the background. Across the creek (it was only a deep, narrow gutter --
a water-course with a chain of water-holes after rain),
across on the other bank, stood the hut, on a narrow flat
between the spur and the creek, and a little higher than this side.
The land was much better than on our old selection, and there was good soil
along the creek on both sides: I expected a rush of selectors out here soon.
A few acres round the hut was cleared and fenced in by a light two-rail fence
of timber split from logs and saplings. The man who took up this selection
left it because his wife died here.
It was a small oblong hut built of split slabs, and he had roofed it
with shingles which he split in spare times. There was no verandah,
but I built one later on. At the end of the house was a big
slab-and-bark shed, bigger than the hut itself, with a kitchen,
a skillion for tools, harness, and horse-feed, and a spare bedroom
partitioned off with sheets of bark and old chaff-bags.
The house itself was floored roughly, with cracks between the boards;
there were cracks between the slabs all round -- though he'd nailed
strips of tin, from old kerosene-tins, over some of them;
the partitioned-off bedroom was lined with old chaff-bags
with newspapers pasted over them for wall-paper. There was no ceiling,
calico or otherwise, and we could see the round pine rafters and battens,
and the under ends of the shingles. But ceilings make a hut hot
and harbour insects and reptiles -- snakes sometimes.
There was one small glass window in the `dining-room'
with three panes and a sheet of greased paper, and the rest
were rough wooden shutters. There was a pretty good cow-yard and calf-pen,
and -- that was about all. There was no dam or tank (I made one later on);
there was a water-cask, with the hoops falling off and the staves gaping,
at the corner of the house, and spouting, made of lengths of bent tin,
ran round under the eaves. Water from a new shingle roof is wine-red
for a year or two, and water from a stringy-bark roof is like tan-water
for years. In dry weather the selector had got his house water from a cask
sunk in the gravel at the bottom of the deepest water-hole in the creek.
And the longer the drought lasted, the farther he had to go down the creek
for his water, with a cask on a cart, and take his cows to drink,
if he had any. Four, five, six, or seven miles -- even ten miles to water
is nothing in some places.
James hadn't found himself called upon to do more than milk old `Spot'
(the grandmother cow of our mob), pen the calf at night,
make a fire in the kitchen, and sweep out the house with a bough.
He helped me unharness and water and feed the horses,
and then started to get the furniture off the waggon and into the house.
James wasn't lazy -- so long as one thing didn't last too long;
Of our future? -- she used to plan a lot, and talk a good deal of our future
-- but not lately. These things didn't strike me at the time -- I was so deep
in my own brooding. Did she think now -- did she begin to feel now
that she had made a great mistake and thrown away her life,
but must make the best of it? This might have roused me, had I thought of it.
But whenever I thought Mary was getting indifferent towards me,
I'd think, `I'll soon win her back. We'll be sweethearts again --
when things brighten up a bit.'
It's an awful thing to me, now I look back to it, to think how far apart
we had grown, what strangers we were to each other. It seems, now,
as though we had been sweethearts long years before, and had parted,
and had never really met since.
The sun was going down when Mary called out --
`There's our place, Joe!'
She hadn't seen it before, and somehow it came new and with a shock to me,
who had been out here several times. Ahead, through the trees to the right,
was a dark green clump of the oaks standing out of the creek,
darker for the dead grey grass and blue-grey bush on the barren ridge
in the background. Across the creek (it was only a deep, narrow gutter --
a water-course with a chain of water-holes after rain),
across on the other bank, stood the hut, on a narrow flat
between the spur and the creek, and a little higher than this side.
The land was much better than on our old selection, and there was good soil
along the creek on both sides: I expected a rush of selectors out here soon.
A few acres round the hut was cleared and fenced in by a light two-rail fence
of timber split from logs and saplings. The man who took up this selection
left it because his wife died here.
It was a small oblong hut built of split slabs, and he had roofed it
with shingles which he split in spare times. There was no verandah,
but I built one later on. At the end of the house was a big
slab-and-bark shed, bigger than the hut itself, with a kitchen,
a skillion for tools, harness, and horse-feed, and a spare bedroom
partitioned off with sheets of bark and old chaff-bags.
The house itself was floored roughly, with cracks between the boards;
there were cracks between the slabs all round -- though he'd nailed
strips of tin, from old kerosene-tins, over some of them;
the partitioned-off bedroom was lined with old chaff-bags
with newspapers pasted over them for wall-paper. There was no ceiling,
calico or otherwise, and we could see the round pine rafters and battens,
and the under ends of the shingles. But ceilings make a hut hot
and harbour insects and reptiles -- snakes sometimes.
There was one small glass window in the `dining-room'
with three panes and a sheet of greased paper, and the rest
were rough wooden shutters. There was a pretty good cow-yard and calf-pen,
and -- that was about all. There was no dam or tank (I made one later on);
there was a water-cask, with the hoops falling off and the staves gaping,
at the corner of the house, and spouting, made of lengths of bent tin,
ran round under the eaves. Water from a new shingle roof is wine-red
for a year or two, and water from a stringy-bark roof is like tan-water
for years. In dry weather the selector had got his house water from a cask
sunk in the gravel at the bottom of the deepest water-hole in the creek.
And the longer the drought lasted, the farther he had to go down the creek
for his water, with a cask on a cart, and take his cows to drink,
if he had any. Four, five, six, or seven miles -- even ten miles to water
is nothing in some places.
James hadn't found himself called upon to do more than milk old `Spot'
(the grandmother cow of our mob), pen the calf at night,
make a fire in the kitchen, and sweep out the house with a bough.
He helped me unharness and water and feed the horses,
and then started to get the furniture off the waggon and into the house.
James wasn't lazy -- so long as one thing didn't last too long;