How much?
“162.”
162! Cows in calf. One sixty two cents a kilo?
“Fraid so.”
It wasn’t much worse in the drought.
“Things’ll pick up.”
Is that right? You know what my Dad used to tell me?
“Erm… ‘You’re not going out in that dress!’?”
No. He told me, ‘No use looking for diamonds at a car crash, girl. All you’ll find are bits of broken windscreen’.
“Words to live by, Allie, but you know what Chuffy Winton used to say?”
I don’t know… “You’re a raving nong, young Wes”?
“Nope. ‘Be a vet, young Wes. Good money. Write your own ticket. You’ll be saving calves, jabbin’ them up with the penisillum jectums and preg testing with your long arms for sure’.”
Alarming.
“Also, ‘Those lecricians can write their own ticket too. You wouldn’t credit it, the money they can make joining wires. Yep. Put that in the bank and smoke it, young Wes Bloody Piddens’!”
Wasn’t he an alcoholic?
“Not exactly. He was a man who drank like an alcoholic.”
As a teenager, Wes would sometimes work for Chuffy mustering, branding, chopping wattles and ploughing. Chuffy rode a succession of small grey mares. They were all called The Grey Mare, which confuddled the bejezus out of Wes.
I like a small horse. Not so far to fall when you’re standing on the saddle, as if that made any more sense than stiletto heels, or Barnalby Joyce. Fortunately he also kept a big bay gelding for visitors, and that suited Wes just fine, on account of he didn’t want to look like Mary on a donkey.
One Thursday they loaded weaners on Tiny Frisco’s truck. Wes figured he’d be back on wattle chopping next day, but as dawn broke on Friday, Chuffy proclaimed, Right, young Wes, we’re off to El Towno for the sale!
Cattle prices were very good (160 cents a kilo!), so they repaired to the Royal Cyril Hotel to celebrate. Chuffy set Wes up with lemon squashes while he downed beers with the cattlemen. Eventually, they left the pub with a carton of provisions: a dozen bottles of beer, two of rum and half a dozen of soft drinks.
The Falcon ute kissed a guide post near Mallanganee.
Damn, a white wallaby! Here, you’d better drive. Y’ got a licence eh?
“I’ve got my Ls, but not with me.”
Well (slurrily), we’ve got bloody number plates. Near enough. Off ya go, ha ha ha!
“OK…”
Back at Chez Chuffy, the Chufster chucked Wes a package of chuck steak.
Here, knock us up a Mulligan stew: spuds, onions, carrots, curry powder.
“OK.”
Chuffy sat on his bed, hooking into the liquid provisions. Soon, Wes could hear songs of a vaguely Irish nature, like:
Oh, the moon shines bright on Mrs Porter
and her big daughter
a real rip snorter
and they both wash their feet in soapy water
and so they oughta
to keep them clean
Chuffy lurched to the kitchen table at tea time.
Good stew, boy. Tender! You wouldn’t credit it. Sign on as a Station Cook and write your own ticket.
“OK.”
Chuffy then retired to his bed, clothes, boots and all, to smoke, drink, sing – and eventually snore.
Wes washed up and hit the hay, relieved that the drunken display was over.
Come on!
Nightmare. Trapped in the Great Fire of London!
Wes opened his eyes. A hurricane lantern, with five centimetres of flaming, smoking wick, held a millimetre from his eyeball.
“W…w…whaaaat?”
Come on, we’ve got to see them on their way!
“Huh?”
Got to see them on their way! Come on!
Fearful of being set on fire, Wes sat up. The lantern dived down the front steps and set off across the paddock. Wes followed and caught up with Chuffy in the old dairy, which was basically half-full of unshelled corn – and a pretty decent fire hazard.
We’ve gotta see them on their way.
“OK, but let me hold that lantern.”
Chuffy released his grip and slumped down onto the corn pile, mumbling.
“Come on, Chuffy. I think they’re gone. Let’s go back to bed.”
Got to…zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Wes left him there, away in a manger, snuffed the lantern and returned to bed.
Dawn.
Right, young Wes. You’re on wattle chopping. I’m gonna shoe the Grey Mare.
Business as usual.
A lesson to us all.
Bullgoose
and then