`Oh,he's somewheres up country,'she'd say in the `groping'voice,or `He's drovin'in Queenslan','or `Shearin'on the Darlin'the last time I heerd from him.'`We ain't had a line from him since --les'see --since Chris'mas 'fore last.'
And she'd turn her haggard eyes in a helpless,hopeless sort of way towards the west --towards `up-country'and `Out-Back'.
The eldest girl at home was nine or ten,with a little old face and lines across her forehead:she had an older expression than her mother.
Tommy went to Queensland,as I told you.The eldest son at home,Bill (older than Tommy),was `a bit wild.'
I've passed the place in smothering hot mornings in December,when the droppings about the cow-yard had crumpled to dust that rose in the warm,sickly,sunrise wind,and seen that woman at work in the cow-yard,`bailing up'and leg-roping cows,milking,or hauling at a rope round the neck of a half-grown calf that was too strong for her (and she was tough as fencing-wire),or humping great buckets of sour milk to the pigs or the `poddies'
(hand-fed calves)in the pen.I'd get off the horse and give her a hand sometimes with a young steer,or a cranky old cow that wouldn't `bail-up'and threatened her with her horns.She'd say --`Thenk yer,Mr Wilson.Do yer think we're ever goin'to have any rain?'
I've ridden past the place on bitter black rainy mornings in June or July,and seen her trudging about the yard --that was ankle-deep in black liquid filth --with an old pair of Blucher boots on,and an old coat of her husband's,or maybe a three-bushel bag over her shoulders.I've seen her climbing on the roof by means of the water-cask at the corner,and trying to stop a leak by shoving a piece of tin in under the bark.And when I'd fixed the leak --`Thenk yer,Mr Wilson.This drop of rain's a blessin'!
Come in and have a dry at the fire and I'll make yer a cup of tea.'
And,if I was in a hurry,`Come in,man alive!Come in!and dry yerself a bit till the rain holds up.Yer can't go home like this!
Yer'll git yer death o'cold.'
I've even seen her,in the terrible drought,climbing she-oaks and apple-trees by a makeshift ladder,and awkwardly lopping off boughs to feed the starving cattle.
`Jist tryin'ter keep the milkers alive till the rain comes.'
They said that when the pleuro-pneumonia was in the district and amongst her cattle she bled and physicked them herself,and fed those that were down with slices of half-ripe pumpkins (from a crop that had failed).
`An',one day,'she told Mary,`there was a big barren heifer (that we called Queen Elizabeth)that was down with the ploorer.
She'd been down for four days and hadn't moved,when one mornin'
I dumped some wheaten chaff --we had a few bags that Spicer brought home --I dumped it in front of her nose,an'--would yer b'lieve me,Mrs Wilson?--she stumbled onter her feet an'chased me all the way to the house!
I had to pick up me skirts an'run!Wasn't it redic'lus?'
They had a sense of the ridiculous,most of those poor sun-dried Bushwomen.
I fancy that that helped save them from madness.
`We lost nearly all our milkers,'she told Mary.`I remember one day Tommy came running to the house and screamed:`Marther![mother]there's another milker down with the ploorer!'Jist as if it was great news.
Well,Mrs Wilson,I was dead-beat,an'I giv'in.I jist sat down to have a good cry,and felt for my han'kerchief --it WASa rag of a han'kerchief,full of holes (all me others was in the wash).
Without seein'what I was doin'I put me finger through one hole in the han'kerchief an'me thumb through the other,and poked me fingers into me eyes,instead of wipin'them.Then I had to laugh.'
There's a story that once,when the Bush,or rather grass,fires were out all along the creek on Spicer's side,Wall's station hands were up above our place,trying to keep the fire back from the boundary,and towards evening one of the men happened to think of the Spicers:they saw smoke down that way.Spicer was away from home,and they had a small crop of wheat,nearly ripe,on the selection.
`My God!that poor devil of a woman will be burnt out,if she ain't already!'shouted young Billy Wall.`Come along,three or four of you chaps'--(it was shearing-time,and there were plenty of men on the station).
They raced down the creek to Spicer's,and were just in time to save the wheat.She had her sleeves tucked up,and was beating out the burning grass with a bough.She'd been at it for an hour,and was as black as a gin,they said.She only said when they'd turned the fire:`Thenk yer!Wait an'I'll make some tea.'
After tea the first Sunday she came to see us,Mary asked --`Don't you feel lonely,Mrs Spicer,when your husband goes away?'
`Well --no,Mrs Wilson,'she said in the groping sort of voice.
`I uster,once.I remember,when we lived on the Cudgeegong river --we lived in a brick house then --the first time Spicer had to go away from home I nearly fretted my eyes out.
And he was only goin'shearin'for a month.I muster bin a fool;but then we were only jist married a little while.He's been away drovin'in Queenslan'as long as eighteen months at a time since then.
But'(her voice seemed to grope in the dark more than ever)`I don't mind,--I somehow seem to have got past carin'.Besides --besides,Spicer was a very different man then to what he is now.
He's got so moody and gloomy at home,he hardly ever speaks.'
Mary sat silent for a minute thinking.Then Mrs Spicer roused herself --`Oh,I don't know what I'm talkin'about!You mustn't take any notice of me,Mrs Wilson,--I don't often go on like this.I do believe I'm gittin'a bit ratty at times.It must be the heat and the dulness.'
But once or twice afterwards she referred to a time `when Spicer was a different man to what he was now.'
I walked home with her a piece along the creek.She said nothing for a long time,and seemed to be thinking in a puzzled way.
Then she said suddenly --
`What-did-you-bring-her-here-for?She's only a girl.'
`I beg pardon,Mrs Spicer.'
`Oh,I don't know what I'm talkin'about!I b'lieve I'm gittin'ratty.
