The Mob - Chapter 4

Fish in a Barrel

They kicked the dew from the dirt shortly after dawn. Ian knew people thought he was a tough old bugger. A bit hard on his kid, sure. He had to be. A farm is no place to stuff around, life here is either very serious or very short. There's a thousand ways for a kid to die on a farm, and if Chooka was growing up too fast, he'd take that over him not growing up at all.

As strict as he was with his son, Ian Mears was even less forgiving of himself. Occasionally he wondered what it would be like to have a town job, where mistakes didn't have any direct consequences, and always decided he didn't care for it.

If you stuffed up out here, one way or another, you paid for it, and sometimes not just you. Of course it made him hard, how could he be anything else?

But that didn't make him soulless. It didn't mean he couldn't appreciate the still beauty of the morning's grey fog slowly lifting, all silent except for the sound of their feet and the distant magpie chorus, revealing the gentle, curious and strangely fearless animals that had made his home their home.

Shirley was right. They were beautiful creatures. I should hate them, hate them for all they've done and all they're still to do, but I can't.

"How are we gonna do it, dad?"

Chooka didn't want to break the silence, but they'd been out here for a while now and the question had to be asked. He was frightened of saying the wrong thing and his father suddenly realising the futility of their plan. That his mother was right, in the cold light of morning his father would see it was nonsense and he was bloody mad, and thus put an end to the most interesting, exciting thing his father had ever suggested.

The sober realist in Chooka's head knew this moment would come, but he didn't want it to be yet. The longer the moment waited, the more it would hurt when it finally arrived, he knew that too. But not yet. Let's keep dreaming for a while.

"They say you can't herd kangaroos," said his father. "Do you reckon anyone's ever tried?" Still all business, nothing in his voice suggested the dream was over, but he wasn't thinking straight. Chooka had already come up with a better idea and he hadn't even given the matter much thought.

Clarrie was a good working dog, the best, but he wasn't fast enough to round up kangaroos. Even if they paid him any attention, and Chooka didn't think they would, the mob didn't have a flock mentality. The dog could move them, but not in the same direction. The two of them would be busting a gut all day for nothing.

He imagined his father chasing the roos 'round the paddock, waving his hat around then slapping it against his thigh, blinding and cursing and getting them no nearer the pen. It was impossible, but it would be fun to try anyway.

The part of Chooka that waited for the dream to end said, 'That's what he wants to happen. At the end of the day he'll say we gave it a go, and that'll be it.'

The pen wasn't right either. It was high enough, a big red might clear the five foot railing without a run-up, but these smaller eastern greys had no chance. The problem was, they didn't have to. They could slip between the rails easily, and that was if they wanted to make things hard for themselves. Most likely they'd just slide under the bottom rail when they got bored, unaware they'd even been caught. Dad must know that.

"Dad, I'm not trying to be smart, but are you sure you're fair dinkum about this?"

His father looked confused by the question.

"Yeah, course. I'm not here for a haircut."

Chooka preferred 'not here to fuck spiders', but laughed anyway.

"Alright. How about we give this a go then?

They wrapped green shadecloth once around the pen. It didn't block the view outside, and it wasn't tight enough at the bottom, but that didn't matter. While the roos could easily have pushed underneath it, they seemed to accept the shadecloth was a wall.

Chooka tore up some bread and scattered it around the pen while they were working. That attracted a few. He drew a lot more of them to the front of the pen by feeding one of the roos by hand. Kangaroos seem to have a sixth sense for a free lunch, and dozens came bounding towards him for a piece of the action.

The sight of Ian either shoving their furry brothers into the pen or picking them up and dropping it over the top didn't concern them in the slightest, and both father and son wondered how such trusting animals could be so plentiful, rather than facing the extinction if not deserved then certainly encouraged by their stupidity.

After lunch the boys strapped a bail of hay to their motorbikes, went out to the backblocks and slowly teased a growing crowd of bounding opportunists back to base.

A full day's work had netted them about two hundred roos. A few weeks ago that would have been enough to clear the property, but riding back to the house in the twilight Ian saw their labours made no difference at all. The buggers were everywhere.

Back in town, the locals at the local whistled in admiration at the shiny new four wheel drive that had just parked out front.

"Someone's just got their wheat cheque," said the barman.

The envy turned to derision, however, as the occupants left their vehicle. The two men, one in his thirties, the other not long out of school by the look of him, wore the clothing equivalent of their vehicle. Akubra hats, R. M. Williams oilskin coats, flannelette shirts (at least the pattern was one typically associated with flannelette. The actual fabric? No.), blue jeans, boots with heels and pointy tips, and large, bright belt buckles. All of it brand new.

The patrons shooshed each other as they came through the door.

"Evening... gentlemen. What can I get you?"

This question seemed to puzzle the men. They turned to each other, muttering discreetly.

"Perhaps you'd like to see the wine list?"

The younger of the pair looked up, oblivious to the chuckles around him. "Oh, do you-"

"No!" yelled the elder, perhaps a little more loudly than he meant to. "Beer. I'll have a beer."

"And a shandy for your...?"

"Friend."

"... friend. Of course."

"He'll have beer too."

The barman did the business.

"I don't reckon I've seen you blokes around. New in town?"

"We're just passing through. But we've been here before, haven't we Davo."

"Yes. Lots of times."

"Really." Said the barman. "You're... travelling together then?"

"That's right. A couple of blokes seeing the country, doing a bit of work here and there, you know how it is."

"Not really, no. You must be good at whatever it is you do though." The barman cleaned a glass and nodded out the window towards their car.

They ignored this.

"We were wondering if you might know a good place to go roo shooting."

The barman gave them an odd look, then called across the bar, "Hey fellas, these blokes wanna know where to go roo shooting. You blokes know anywhere like that?"

The mumbled chorus wasn't encouraging.

"No fear," yelled one of the drinkers. "That's illegal, that is."

"Sorry," the barman said to the strangers.

"We heard there was a place... the Mears property. Do you know where that is?"

"Really? What a strange thing to hear. Look, if that's the sort of thing you're after I've got lots of barrels out the back. I could probably round up some fish for you."

"What?"

"You want to trespass on a farmer's property so you can go slaughtering protected animals?"

"Come on, mate. We all do it."

"Piss off, there's a good lad," said the barman.

The pair laughed along with the joke.

"Leave your drinks," he continued pleasantly, "and don't come back."

The sudden awkward silence was broken by the sound of barstools scraping on the wooden floor as a few of the larger customers stood up.

The pair quickly decided the suggestion had considerable merit, and followed it to the letter.

They provided further entertainment by arguing with each other on the footpath outside the saloon windows, before crossing the road to try their luck at another pub.

"Barry, watch the bar," the barman shouted over the resumed revelry, "I have to make a phone call."

The boys kicked their boots off outside, washed their hands in the laundry with a grey soap so abrasive it seemed to work by removing the top layer of skin, and sat down to two steaming bowls of stew. Chooka waited for his father to finish with the thick bakers bread and the butter left out to soften for their return.

"Thanks mum, it smells great."

"I'm not talking to you. Either of you. Eat up and then start on the dishes. After that your father can read you a book. A nice long one, preferably."

Ian knew a word from him would mean a good dinner ruined, and gave his son a glare he hoped was understood.

Chooka opened his mouth to talk, but his father raised his eyebrows and tilted his head slightly, as if making a non-verbal dare.

Forks clanked against stoneware bowls.

Outside, crickets chirped conspicuously.

The crack from a knot in the firewood carried through the lounge and into the kitchen.

Chooka felt a chuckle bubbling up inside him, took another look at his father and suppressed it. It wasn't worth it.

Shirley gently placed her fork into her half finished bowl.

"I mean I never thought I'd see the day-"

"Oh, here we go. Couldn't bloody help yourself, could you woman?"

Chooka picked up his bowl and made a crouching dash for his room.

"... when my husband and son would spend the day wasting their time-"

"We're not wasting it."

"... their effort,"

"We're not..."

"... our money, not to mention a loaf of perfectly good bread..."

"I'm trying to save our home!"

"... neglecting the real work that needs doing...

"How about a bit of moral support for your husband, eh? Nah, not likely. No bloody fear of that."

"... so they can go off on a tear on some half-cocked scheme!"

Ian took a deep breath. This was stupid. They were fighting over nothing.

"Shirley, please. This will get peoples attention. If we can make them understand our position then maybe the politicians will change their minds."

"Don't you dare pretend you're doing this for us. This is about you getting back at TAN, trying to make them look stupid. It's about stupid, bloody-minded revenge."

"That'll do, Shirley."

"Oh, charming. You're calling me a pig now?"

"What?"

"You know darn well what."

Ian was dumbfounded.

Chooka called out from the safety of his room. "She means like from that movie, dad. You know. The one with the talking pig that rounds up sheep and the singing mice and..."

"Shut up, Chooka!" Both parents yelled back to their son.

With their son grumbling quietly in the background about the unfairness of life in general and his parents specifically, Ian and Shirley broke into laughter and fell into each others arms.

"I'm sorry, love," Shirley said softly into his chest. "It's just so unlike you. We've had trouble before and always pulled through. We tighten out belts a bit, work hard..."

"I know. I know we have, but it's not like that this time. We can work 'til we're bloody footsore, it won't help. If we want to stay here we have to try something else."

"Alright then," she sighed. She knew her husband well enough to know when getting cross would change his mind, and when it wouldn't. He wouldn't be turned, so she might as well get on board. "Just don't get into any trouble."

Ian and Shirley lay in bed, staring at the roof, discussing the future. That sort of thing generally leads to talking about the past, which can lead to all sorts of things, many of them pleasant.

Chooka tossed and turned like the circus was coming. Unlike most kids, he loved the idea of a long road trip. He loved the farm too, but that didn't make Sydney a less attractive destination. If they were to have a holiday from reason then the Emerald City seemed the perfect (last) resort.