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Hunter
I point the gun at his head and try hard not to look him in the eye. It’s the worst part of this job. He knows what’s about to happen.
‘Sorry, mate.’
I pull the trigger, and the rifle kicks back into my shoulder. The young steer emits a short, sharp bellow and falls still.
‘Bloody ticks,’ Pete says behind me.
I look over my shoulder, not realising I had an audience. Despite treatment, some of the younger steers developed tick fever. Thankfully, only one needed to be euthanised.
Pete’s large frame appears next to me. He brushes a finger down his sunburned nose as he looks down at the corpse. ‘Let’s get him buried.’
I place the rifle in the ute and grab some shovels from the back. We dig in silence for thirty minutes, then drag the steer into the grave. I lift my hat and wipe my brow before starting the tedious task of filling it. Despite the arrival of cooler temperatures, I still sweat a lot of the time. It’s going to take me longer than six months to adjust to the climate.
Six months.
Aside from a couple phone calls to Sammy, I haven’t seen or spoken to anyone from home since I left.
Pete had been understandably suspicious of a loner with nothing but a duffel bag showing up at his door asking for work. ‘What brings you north?’ he’d asked.
‘The weather,’ I lied.
My aunt in Perth has always told me I’m welcome there, but I knew if Annie ever worked up the courage to leave the organisation, she’d come looking for her sister in Brisbane. So that’s where I went. I made enquiries at farms closest to the city, then worked my way west, eventually coming across an asparagus farmer in Ripley who told me about a cattle farm five minutes down the road.
‘Their youngest has just left home for the big smoke.’
It amused me hearing Brisbane described as ‘the big smoke’.
The Leroys’ farm had immediate appeal. I remember walking down the long driveway, past lush paddocks with mountain backdrops, and thinking, This’ll do.
‘Can’t pay you much,’ Pete told me, ‘but we have a separate bungalow you can use, and my wife’s the best cook this side of Ipswich.’
I didn’t even ask what the salary was. A roof over my head and guaranteed food after two weeks of sleeping in bus shelters and eating food from packets was all I needed. And ‘not much’ ended up being not too bad.
‘Hungry?’ Pete asks as we toss the shovels into the back of the ute.
‘I could eat.’
‘Good. Sue made pies.’
Sue’s one of the hardest-working women I know. She raised four kids while being a full-time farmhand to her husband, as well as being the beating heart of the local community. If someone’s sick, she’s the one dropping soup at their door.
All their children have left home now, but they return home regularly to be doted on and fed. They were wary of me at first, but once they realised I’m safe company and here to work, they accepted me as part of the furniture.
‘Forgot to tell you. Bridget Wilson called for you earlier,’ Pete says on the drive to the house.
I look at him. ‘She did?’ I’ve been trying to track her down since arriving here, calling various galleries and institutions with no success. Then last week someone suggested I call the Queensland Arts Society. The woman I spoke to on the phone confirmed that not only does she know her, but Bridget works there. So I left my details with her and waited.
‘This the girl you’ve been trying to find?’
Sue and Pete always leave the room to give me privacy on the phone, but it doesn’t stop them listening. ‘Yeah.’
‘She a friend of yours?’
‘Old neighbour. She lives in Brisbane now.’
Pete does me the favour of not asking any more questions.
