Evie Wyld - All the Birds, Singing

Clare calls out, ‘Hope you know the tradition, girlie — if there’s fleece on the boards and no sheep in my arms, you owe me a beer.’ I ignore him, because I can already tell he is the one to ignore.

Everyone takes their places, I have a sheep to each man, and I wait to see how quickly they go. There are two, Connor and Stuart, who work side by side and they are the quickest, because they make it into a race. At the start of work they give themselves a countdown, ‘Three, two, one, go!’ and they are off, as fast as they can. There are a few nicks on Connor’s sheep, and they wobble back into the out-run looking a bit scrubby. Greg’s sheep are sleek and clean with no grazes, like they’ve been buttered, and so are Clare’s. They’re fast too, but only Clare is competitive. Greg won’t be drawn into a race, just smiles, but Clare races him anyway.

The day’s work is drawing to a close and Greg asks if I’ve ever tried to shear a sheep before. He smiles in that way that’s started to make my tongue do roll-ups in my closed mouth. ‘Reckon you’d be good at it.’

‘Couple a times,’ I say.

‘Have a go of this one, long as you don’t cut her in half,’ he says, and he catches his sheep under the front legs, and holds it for me with a nod towards the back strap. ‘Put that on, helps take the weight.’ I pause and look at the strap.

‘I’m fine without it.’ I’m worried it will change the weight and feel of the sheep, make it less natural. My back still feels knotted together and strong.

Greg raises his eyebrows. ‘Whatever madam prefers.’ But he clearly doesn’t think I can manage it. ‘I can hold her for you if you like,’ he says, and I let him lock around me with his arms. The contact makes my mouth go dry but I concentrate on hiding that, and it feels different. He smells like sawdust.

His shears are sharper and fancier than the ones Otto had, and it takes me a moment to understand them. I take off the belly wool first, and the new shears are so simple, they hardly stick at all. It’s so easy and I can feel the sheep relaxing under Greg’s arm, and when I start at her neck, I get it all, and I get it well, and quickly with just about the minimum amount of strokes. Once her fleece is lying on the floor, intact and full, and she has wobbled away with no trace of red on her, I wipe the sweat off my upper lip and Greg steps away from me with his hands on his hips. ‘Well, shit, where’d you learn that?’ and behind him, Stuart and Connor who have come to watch start laughing. Clare walks out of the shed.

It’s too hot, but I like the way the heat makes my arms feel like they’re full of warm oil, and sweat runs down them in sheets soaking the sides of my singlet. There’s an ache in the bottom of my spine from bending and lifting, but it beats lying on my bed at Otto’s waiting for the day to be over. I catch myself smiling as I throw another fleece onto the table and Denis nods to me, impressed. I don’t pull the sheep as strongly as Ben did, I wrap part of my arm around their middle, so their legs don’t drag, and in return they don’t buck as much, and it goes smoothly. No one comments on it, so I reckon it’s not a bad thing. At the end of the day, my arms bulge at my shirtsleeves and I’m on the nose, but so is everyone else, and when I go for a proper wash behind my sleeping quarters where there’s a small pallet shower with an open top, my body feels like a new one; I can picture the layers coming away, the dirt and the grot and old terrible skin. I’m pulling a singlet on over my head when I hear someone cough, and I snap around, my heart barrelling about inside me; my eyes dart to the hammer underneath the bed. It’s Connor, looking embarrassed.

‘Sorry, mate,’ he says, ‘forgot you were in here — just come to get some oil for the grinder.’ I smile hard while he locates the oil and nods to me as he leaves. I try not to think about what he might be thinking if he saw my back. It’s dark in the shed, and probably he didn’t see a thing. I breathe and close my eyes for a few moments before setting off to find the others. They’re sat at a long table out in the field; Connor is there and looks normal. I take a place at the end of the table and try to relax. Greg sits himself next to me and hands me a beer. Panic is replaced by a warm feeling.

A skinny boy everyone calls Bean who is younger than me and has a voice that is perfect for copying comes along. Clare says Bean sounds like a donkey getting its dick yanked, and when Bean blushes I stand with everyone else and smile. Bean is there to bloody replace me, Alan says, and for a moment I think I’m being fired, but he’s telling me to get in with the shearers.

Clare is shitful to Bean, who struggles to tow a sheep out of the pen. Bean screams and goes bright red when one of them bites him. Poor sod , I think, and I show him how to grab them so they don’t freak out. Why’d you have to have such a crap name , I think, you could have got away with the rest of it .

I love being in the line and working the day out. I notice Clare watching and I feel him racing me. I try not to be bothered by it, but he cuts a sheep badly, and he shouts, ‘Fuckit!’ and chews Bean out like it’s his fault. ‘Get me the tar, you fucking retard!’ he shouts.

‘Calm down, man,’ says Greg, and Clare shrugs, ignoring him. I catch Bean’s eye and smile, and he turns away. He probably only just got away from his mum, doesn’t want to team up with the only woman.

We’re not that far from a small town with a pub and a bank and a supermarket, and on my half day, I go to the bank so I can see about getting my wages to go straight in. It’s been a long time since I’ve used a bank. The cashier has a small frown when she looks at my statement, but I ignore it, not offering an explanation. She turns the screen so I can see it. Three months ago, my mother deposited $50,000 into my account. I stare at the screen, and mutely hand over my payroll details.

It takes me three goes to ring home. The first time I dial the number and hang up immediately. Then I let it ring once. The next time, Iris is quick and answers on the first ring.

‘Oh,’ she says, ‘it’s you.’

I struggle to get my voice out. ‘Hi, Iris. How are you?’

She snorts. ‘Never mind that. You get the money? I didn’t think Mum should’ve given it to you, but we didn’t know how else to get a response.’

‘What’s the money from?’

‘Dad’s dead. An accident at the marina.’

The last time I saw Dad, his face tight with anger, and then a time before when just the two of us went surfing, when I was ten. He had salt in the sun-creases of his eyes. My mouth struggles to open.

‘When?’

‘Nine months ago. Give or take.’

I am dipped in silence. ‘I can’t believe it,’ is all I can say.

She snorts again. ‘Yeah, well. I can’t believe a lot of things that go on.’

The silence is broken by the pips on the phone and I put in two more dollars. The news has not hit my body yet, or my brain.

‘How’s Mum?’

‘She’s batshit.’

‘Is she there?’

‘No.’ But Iris keeps her voice low and quiet.

‘The triplets?’

‘They’re meatheads. Look, I’ve got stuff to be doing.’

‘Will you tell her I rang?’

‘Sure,’ says Iris, and I know, I remember the tone that means she won’t. ‘Just what she needs is a good long chat with you. You’ve always been so supportive.’

Iris hangs up without asking how to contact me. I don’t even know how Dad died. An accident at the marina? Was he still at the packing yard? Was he drunk?

On the drive back to the station, Dad feels like an orange in my sternum. I repeat the words over and over in my head, Dad’s died, Dad’s died , until they don’t mean anything. None of it means anything if I ignore it; my father was alive until I went to the bank and saw the money there. I won’t tell anyone about the money, or that my father is dead. I won’t touch the money unless I have to.