(She knew her son well enough to be convinced) that one word from her would bring him back, so she must not utter that word, ever. If the days were long and bitter with a sense of failure, she must bear it in silence. Paddy hadn't been the man of her choice, but a better man than Paddy never lived. She was one of those people whose feelings are so intense they become
unbearable1, unlivable, and her lesson had been a harsh one. For almost twenty-five years she had been crushing emotion out of existence, and she was convinced that in the end
persistence2 would succeed.
Life went on in the
rhythmic3, endless cycle of the land; the following summer the rains came, not
monsoonal4 but a
by-product5 of them, filling the
creek6 and the tanks,
succoring7 the thirsting grass roots, sponging away the stealthy dust. Almost weeping in joy, the men went about the business of the patterned seasons, secure in the knowledge they would not have to handfeed the sheep. The grass had lasted just long enough,
eked8 out by scrub-cutting from the more juicy trees; but it was not so on all the Gilly stations. How many stock a station carried depended
entirely9 on the grazier running it. For its great size Drogheda was understocked, which meant the grass lasted just that much longer.
Lambing and the
hectic10 weeks that followed it were busiest of all in the sheep calendar. Every lamb born had to be caught; its tail was ringed, its ear marked, and if it was a male not required for breeding it was also castrated.
Filthy11,
abominable12 work which soaked them to the skin with blood, for there was only one way to
wade13 through thousands upon thousands of male lambs in the short time available. The testicles were popped out between the fingers and bitten off,
spat14 on the ground. Circled by tin bands
incapable15 of expanding, the tails of male and female lambs alike gradually lost their vital
bloody16 supply,
swelled17,
withered18 and dropped off. These were the finest wool sheep in the world, raised on a scale unheard of in any other country, and with a
paucity19 of manpower. Everything was geared to the perfect production of perfect wool. There was
crutching20; around the sheep's rear end the wool grew
foul21 with
excrement22, fly-blown, black and lumped together in what were called dags. This area had to be kept shaven close, or
crutched23. It was a
minor24 shearing25 job but one far less pleasing,
stinking26 and fly-ridden, and it paid better rates. Then there was dipping: thousands upon thousands of
bleating27, leaping creatures were hounded and yanked through a
maze28 of runs, in and out of the phenyl dips which rid them of ticks, pests and vermin.
