that, says Wallace. Like this.
He shows them, cupping his hands.
Wallace pours turps onto the boysâ hands.
Rub it in, he says.
The boys rub their hands together.
Thatâll toughen them up, he says. Put some calluses on them.
He shows the boys his hands.
What about the old-fashioned way, says Roy.
Wallace laughs.
I still reckon the old-fashioned wayâs better, says Roy.
They want to do that itâs their business, says Wallace, pushing his glasses against his face. Nothing to do with me.
He watches the boys rubbing the turps into their hands and gives each of them a shovel. They run their hands up and down the shafts, making them shine.
When you got some calluses there, Iâll give you a go with the mattock, says Wallace. Put some muscle on you.
He looks at the boys for a moment.
Righteo, he says and goes into the vines.
Boss comes up to see how the boy is going.
Glutton for punishment, isnât he, Wallace, he says.
Iâll keep an eye on him, says Wallace.
Boss leans over the vines.
Youâre a glutton for punishment, arenât you, he says to the boy.
Iâm all right, says the boy.
Boss folds his arms and rests his chest against the tops of the vines, looking at the boy.
You were pushing yourself too hard, he says. No point in that.
He smiles at the boy and stands up straight, wiping off his jumper.
No point pushing yourself, is there Wallace? he says. Not if youâre going to knock yourself around.
Thatâs right, says Wallace.
He is chopping at a knot. Wood chips fly about and he grunts as he works.
I mean, these vines arenât going anywhere, are they? Boss says to the boy. Itâs not a competition. Not a race.
He picks at his jumper.
You make sure he takes it easy today, he says to Wallace.
Yeah, I got my eye on him, says Wallace.
He brings his shovel down hard and the knot splits off, scudding across the ground.
Best put some tar on that, says Boss.
Righteo, says Wallace.
Boss heads off down the row and then turns and comes back.
You mind if Iris borrows someone for the afternoon? he asks Wallace.
Yeah, no worries, says Wallace.
Boss looks up at the sky.
Just a bit of garden work I think today, he says.
Wallace squats down to look at the vine. He rubs the raw white gash with his fingers.
Iâll send someone up, he says.
Good-o, says Boss.
Boss leaves.
Wallace stands up and points at the boy, the other one.
Thatâs you, Yap-yap, he says.
Roy laughs.
Wallace is grinning. He looks at the boy.
Heâs going to love working for Iris, says Roy.
Whatâd you mean? asks the boy, stopping his work and looking up.
Roy and Wallace look at each other over the rows and then they both look at the boy.
By gee boy, youâre in for it today, says Wallace. Thereâs no fooling Iris. No getting away with things like you do down here. Not with Iris.
The boy says something.
Youâll see, says Wallace.
Heâs going to love Iris, says Roy.
Wallace laughs and goes back to work. Roy spits and pulls up his shovel.
Iâll go, I say. Makes no difference to me.
After lunch I walk to the cellar through paddocks and lanes. The sun is strong and high and the land suffers. Paddocks are littered with the bones of livestock, the grass grazed short, scorched or gone to clay. Solitary eucalypts stand dead, dry and enormous, their fallen branches split and hollowed. Flocks of filthy, daggy sheep press together underneath the scrapes of shade, their fleece gone the colour of the earth. I feel their heat and there is the stench of damp, dirty lanolin. Rams jostle through the mob, dipping their horns at me, giving deepthroated warnings.
Flies find me. They swarm and I walk with one hand waving, slapping my neck. I catch one and look at it dead between my fingers, its body bloated and tinted blue in the sunlight. I flick it away. Rabbits bolt before me. My shadow bobs.
Lanes rough with rock, glutted with long grass, soft and loamy
He shows them, cupping his hands.
Wallace pours turps onto the boysâ hands.
Rub it in, he says.
The boys rub their hands together.
Thatâll toughen them up, he says. Put some calluses on them.
He shows the boys his hands.
What about the old-fashioned way, says Roy.
Wallace laughs.
I still reckon the old-fashioned wayâs better, says Roy.
They want to do that itâs their business, says Wallace, pushing his glasses against his face. Nothing to do with me.
He watches the boys rubbing the turps into their hands and gives each of them a shovel. They run their hands up and down the shafts, making them shine.
When you got some calluses there, Iâll give you a go with the mattock, says Wallace. Put some muscle on you.
He looks at the boys for a moment.
Righteo, he says and goes into the vines.
Boss comes up to see how the boy is going.
Glutton for punishment, isnât he, Wallace, he says.
Iâll keep an eye on him, says Wallace.
Boss leans over the vines.
Youâre a glutton for punishment, arenât you, he says to the boy.
Iâm all right, says the boy.
Boss folds his arms and rests his chest against the tops of the vines, looking at the boy.
You were pushing yourself too hard, he says. No point in that.
He smiles at the boy and stands up straight, wiping off his jumper.
No point pushing yourself, is there Wallace? he says. Not if youâre going to knock yourself around.
Thatâs right, says Wallace.
He is chopping at a knot. Wood chips fly about and he grunts as he works.
I mean, these vines arenât going anywhere, are they? Boss says to the boy. Itâs not a competition. Not a race.
He picks at his jumper.
You make sure he takes it easy today, he says to Wallace.
Yeah, I got my eye on him, says Wallace.
He brings his shovel down hard and the knot splits off, scudding across the ground.
Best put some tar on that, says Boss.
Righteo, says Wallace.
Boss heads off down the row and then turns and comes back.
You mind if Iris borrows someone for the afternoon? he asks Wallace.
Yeah, no worries, says Wallace.
Boss looks up at the sky.
Just a bit of garden work I think today, he says.
Wallace squats down to look at the vine. He rubs the raw white gash with his fingers.
Iâll send someone up, he says.
Good-o, says Boss.
Boss leaves.
Wallace stands up and points at the boy, the other one.
Thatâs you, Yap-yap, he says.
Roy laughs.
Wallace is grinning. He looks at the boy.
Heâs going to love working for Iris, says Roy.
Whatâd you mean? asks the boy, stopping his work and looking up.
Roy and Wallace look at each other over the rows and then they both look at the boy.
By gee boy, youâre in for it today, says Wallace. Thereâs no fooling Iris. No getting away with things like you do down here. Not with Iris.
The boy says something.
Youâll see, says Wallace.
Heâs going to love Iris, says Roy.
Wallace laughs and goes back to work. Roy spits and pulls up his shovel.
Iâll go, I say. Makes no difference to me.
After lunch I walk to the cellar through paddocks and lanes. The sun is strong and high and the land suffers. Paddocks are littered with the bones of livestock, the grass grazed short, scorched or gone to clay. Solitary eucalypts stand dead, dry and enormous, their fallen branches split and hollowed. Flocks of filthy, daggy sheep press together underneath the scrapes of shade, their fleece gone the colour of the earth. I feel their heat and there is the stench of damp, dirty lanolin. Rams jostle through the mob, dipping their horns at me, giving deepthroated warnings.
Flies find me. They swarm and I walk with one hand waving, slapping my neck. I catch one and look at it dead between my fingers, its body bloated and tinted blue in the sunlight. I flick it away. Rabbits bolt before me. My shadow bobs.
Lanes rough with rock, glutted with long grass, soft and loamy
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