Mateship With Birds - By Carrie Tiffany Page 0,33

even eating. Just watching me down that sandwich was enough to turn the tap. The practical advice for you, Michael, is to keep the lass in question grubbed up. (I add that it doesn’t work in reverse. Edna eating, or drinking, produced no appreciable change in my equipment.)

Is it water? No. It is thicker than water, but thinner than oil. And it doesn’t wash away with soap. Sticks to the skin so the smell (muddy) can be carried for days – especially on the pads of the fingertips and under the nails.

Harry and Michael take a breather from spreading manure in the bottom paddock. Harry takes out his pipe and goes through the rituals of emptying it and cleaning it and filling it. He gets it ready for lighting regularly, he’s often on the verge of lighting it, but he rarely smokes. The herd stares at them intently through the fence. Pauline lifts her hind hoof and wobbles as she doubles around, attempting to scratch her neck.

‘See that cow?’ Harry says, pointing at her.

‘Yep,’ Michael says.

‘She’s a fine example. Well covered. It’s a good sign in a female too. A good question to ask yourself, Michael – is she well covered?

Michael’s eyes widen. He looks around in surprise. Harry continues, his voice in a firmer register now as he warms to the topic.

‘Modern dresses are appalling. I have a mind to write to the magazines or the pattern makers. Women are not fields of flowers, or ghosts, or clouds, or presents tied up with bows, or the low-waisted thing like a ruddy flag that droops across the hips. The dress should give a man some indication of the basic shape of the female it contains. Is she well covered? What of the rump and bosom? The thin frame is to be avoided. It’s alright in a girl because you know she’ll get over it, but never in a woman. The female was made to carry flesh. It’s shorter, closer to the ground, lower centre of gravity. Look at Pauline.’ Harry waves his pipe in her direction. ‘The hips should be capacious. They should spread. Think of how we choose a milker at the sales – lean against her and see that she isn’t going to collapse. Front on your woman needn’t take up too much space, but side on she needs some depth about her.’

Michael stamps his boots and edges off towards the tractor. Harry sucks on his pipe a few times to clear the stem.

‘Back to work is it, then?’

What is the fixative that causes one memory to congeal and set, while others dissolve? As Harry puts the tractor away the afternoon sun on the back of his neck puts him in mind of the heat of his teenage summers; a fierce, roasting heat. He remembers having just turned fifteen and riding the hay … he’s high on top of a full dray, lying on his back with his hat over his face. He’s as tall as a man, but he hasn’t found his strength yet. A day’s loading in the sun leaves him dizzy with exhaustion. Next to him one of the labourers is hitching a lift into town. His name is Vernon, but they call him Ruby. He’s a weedy redhead with a crop of old acne scars across his face like drained volcanoes. The scars get in the way of Ruby’s facial expressions so he seems slow in his reactions. Perhaps generally slow. He’s nineteen, but he looks younger. They don’t talk during the loading – it’s too hot and the work is crushing. Each man just does his job, calling out the briefest of communications and instructions to the others – up, right, left, heave, twine-up, smoko and the number of bales needed to finish a row. Harry keeps himself especially separate because he hates the work. His hands are raw, his arms ache, his eyes smart from the sweat running into them and there’s the constant threat of snakes. He figures that if he starts to talk he’ll probably cry.

Harry is nearly asleep when he feels Ruby’s boot against his leg.

‘Hey, Harry?’

Harry slides his hat off his face and looks across at Ruby.

Ruby is lying on his side, smirking. The smirk and the pressure of the hay on the side of Ruby’s face have pushed some of the scars together, forming sideways cracks between them.

‘Hey, Harry, been spending much time with Mother Palmer and her five daughters?’ Ruby puts one hand up in the