Evie Wyld: All the Birds, Singing

And when it’s my turn, I do sit-ups, which are easier to talk around, and Greg plants his feet on mine to spot me. He never mentions it is strange, he never says, Careful you’ll get too manly. I tell him the in-between bits of my life, the bits that are available. Learning to shear, my friend Karen, and further back, the sharks, the bush.

In the morning, Sid finds out weevils have made it into the flour.

‘I don’t particularly mind,’ he says. ‘I’m just saying in case anyone has an aversion to having the buggers in the bread.’ There is silence while the table takes this in, and it is broken by a shout from Alan by the side of the woolshed.

Something has taken a bite out the side of one of the rams. He’s not dead, just looks like someone tore past him and took a chunk out. Flies swarm the wound. Connor shoots the ram, while we all stand around. The animal twitches.

‘Just nerves firing,’ Denis says to me, like I am a hysterical woman who needs comforting. But I’m thinking how quick it was and what a mercy. One second horribly wounded, feeling flies lay their eggs in your flesh and watching the currawong circle, and the next, in a flash, all is safe. I will learn to fire a gun, I think, they are the answer.

Alan stands next to me. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘we’ll have a drive around, see if we can find a feral dog or something.’ Connor and Clare move the ram’s body out of the pen, the rest of the sheep look on. There is no way of telling what they think.

In the truck I’m alone with Alan. This has not happened before, and he’s got something he wants to say. He keeps coughing into his fist and then looking over at me. There is nothing for miles, nothing but that desert heat-wobble, and now and then a rabbit, which Alan picks off and we scoop up as we drive past. It’s not silent exactly in the truck, but all we say are things like, ‘Over there,’ and ‘Bloody got him,’ and ‘A little bit bloody closer.’

After an hour, when I’m thinking about how much time is wasting and how far ahead of me the rest of the team will be, Alan tips the bullets out of the rifle and sighs.

‘There’s nothing bloody else out here,’ he says and then he turns to me. ‘I don’t normally bloody interfere in anyone’s business,’ he says, and I grip the wheel. ‘But I’ve been meaning to say, I think it’s not a bad thing you and Greg.’ I wait for but … and it doesn’t come. ‘You’re both good bloody blokes, and the thing is that I’ve known Greg a while and he’s a good bloke.’ The truck is heating up and I wonder if I should start to drive home or if starting the engine now would be rude. ‘And you’re a good bloke, and I reckon together, two good blokes is a good thing.’ Alan is red in the face and I wonder why he is putting us through this. ‘Thing is, what I’m bloody getting at, is that you gotta ignore the bloody loonies in life, and listen there are one or two of them in the team. Not bad blokes all in all, but… lonely blokes maybe.’

‘I’m not sure—’

‘Listen, just don’t be bothered by Clare is what I’m bloody getting at. He’s a lunatic, a good bloke, but a lunatic, and he’s messed himself up with the business with the kid…’ Alan shakes his head. ‘Arthur’s mum sent a letter — he’s trying to learn to write with the other hand — lot of good that’ll do him, kid can barely read. Anyhow.’

‘Has he said something?’

‘Look, it’s not even about that.’

‘What did he say?’ I keep my voice steady and my eyes on the heat-wobble in the distance.

‘I’m not interested,’ says Alan. ‘Look, I’m not interested in what my team have done before. Hell, I’ve bloody got a past, we’ve all got pasts — you want to find one of us who chooses to be out here without a past, I’d bloody pay to see that. Denis — he’s been doing this his whole bloody life — fifty years of this. You think there isn’t something he’s getting away from?’

He looks at me and I can tell he wants me to know something, and for a second I think, What did you do, Alan?

‘What I’m saying is,’ he carries on, ‘Clare can be a whinging bitch. He’s a good bloke, but a whinging bitch. And I don’t take any notice of him or of the past. Let’s not forget Clare and Greg are best mates. He’s just acting like a prick because he’s jealous, but he can’t admit to that because, well — he’s a prick. It’s been hard on him being roustabout. But what I’m saying is maybe talk to Greg about it — get him to go out for a night with Clare, just the two of them. Might quieten him down a bit. Clare’ll be off for a week soon — that’ll help too.’

‘I’m not forcing Greg to hang out with me,’ I say. My face is hot and there’s an anger I wasn’t expecting.

‘I’m not saying that — I’m just saying if we’re all living together like we are — might be the… political thing to do.’ He sniffs loudly. This has gone further than he wanted it to.

In the silence he holds the rabbits up by the ears, out the open window of the truck. Each of them is cleanly done behind the shoulder. He holds them high in the air, breathing through an open mouth and watching beads of thick blood drop from them onto the orange dirt.

‘Was thinking to take ’em back for Sid, thinking he might make a bloody casserole or something.’ A fly settles on the wound of one of the rabbits. He leans back and throws the dead rabbits in a high arc away from the truck. ‘He’d only make ’em taste of bloody arseholes anyway,’ he says, and we drive back to the station. I itch to get back to work.

‘Catch a shark?’ Greg asks and I smile at him. I don’t feel like speaking. Clare keeps his back to me.

At smoko, Sid comes in, bright red and snarling. ‘Right, which one of you useless fucktards did it?’ he says, standing at the top of the table. I look down the line of men, trying to work out what has been done and who has done it. Clare is smirking behind his moustache.

‘What’s the bloody drama now?’ asks Alan, who has just come in. Sid drags his glare away from the table.

‘Come and see for yourself,’ he says and when he moves to the back where the kitchen is set up, we all stand up and follow. Everyone crowds around the flour barrel, and when Sid takes the lid off, there’s a bum print there.

‘It’s not fucking funny!’ shouts Sid above everyone’s honking laughter. Greg doubles over like he’s in pain.

‘Well, we can rule one person out,’ says Alan, wiping his eyes. He points to the edge of the bum print, where you can make out another print. ‘Culprit’s got balls at least.’

‘Up to Boonderie next week,’ Alan announces at tea. ‘Hot as a bloody dog’s gut up there.’

It’s as far north as I’ve been since leaving, but the people of Hedland won’t mix with the people of Boonderie. Still, my mouth goes dry and I scull a beer to dampen myself down.

Sid makes bread out of the weevily bum flour, and it sits, turning to rock, in the centre of the table. No one will touch it, not even Stuart, not even with a fork.

The light is out and Greg has his large thumbs in the dips of my pelvis, and the shed is hot and dry. I feel out of myself tonight, like my bones have become too heavy for my flesh. The heat gets itself in under the metal roof during the day and it stays there at night, making the spiders sleepy. I loop my fingers in Greg’s hair, to let him know I’m still paying attention and to try and remind myself to keep focused. A frog is creaking outside, and so maybe soon there’ll be rain hammering the roof. Sometimes when it rains, which is not often, it feels like the drumming will knock the spiders off and onto my bed.

The frog stops, and there is a cool breeze that swims into the shed, like the kind of wind rain makes when it’s on its way down. Greg sighs, I remember where I am, and grasp harder at his hair. Something large and black darts in the doorway, skitters along the far wall and under the workbench, and I bounce up in bed, knocking Greg in the face with my groin and taking a clump of his hair with me. ‘The fuck?’ he says, holding his face with both hands.