No Job For A Woman

This atmospheric short story by David Kippen is set in Australia in 1932.

Despite what everyone thought, I was capable of running my farm by myself . . .

THE storm had been building all day. I watched the dark clouds gathering and flowing over Victoria’s Great Dividing Range away in the south-west.

Soon those heavy clouds would spill torrents of winter rain over the land.

An icy gust blew along the veranda, making me shiver, and threatening to whisk away the newspaper I’d been reading.

I was trying to relax with a well-earned cuppa while struggling not to think about the storm in my life.

It had been building ever since Gramps died last winter, leaving me to run Wattle Valley Farm alone.

Suddenly, Bluey, who’d been lying comfortably at my feet, stood and growled. It was a low, menacing sound.

Queensland Blue cattle dogs are worth two or three men when working cattle, and they’re also very loyal and protective.

Both are invaluable qualities to a woman living alone on an isolated farm.

“Shush, Bluey.” I reached to run my fingers over his raised hackles. “That storm is a way off yet.”

He quietened. Then I heard it, although the rising wind almost snatched away the faint sounds.

When I stood to investigate, Bluey raced around the end of the house, giving his distinctive high-pitched bark. Then it stopped.

I went through the house and picked up the shotgun that always hung ready by the kitchen door.

I had to be careful with so many men, and a few women, roaming around, carrying their swags.

Most were ordinary, honest people who’d been forced out by the Great Depression that was squeezing the country in 1932, but you had to be prepared.

As I came out of the house, I saw someone sitting on a horse over by the shed.

The big, well-dressed man was talking to Bluey, who kept his eyes fixed on him while the horse shuffled nervously.

“Here, Bluey! Heel!”

Bluey came to stand by me, but continued watching our visitor.

The rider dismounted, looped the reins over a nearby post, and adjusted his expensive riding jacket before removing his hat and walking towards me. “Good afternoon, Lizzie.” “G’day, Clive.”

I knew what he wanted, but we exchanged small talk while I waited for him to get to the point of his visit.

Eventually he paused and cleared his throat.

“I hope you have had time to reconsider my offer, Lizzie?”

When I didn’t respond, he sighed and continued.

“It’s really very generous, Lizzie, considering the depressed state of the whole country.”

Even though it was 10 years since he’d returned from finishing his education at a proper English university, Clive de Courtney still spoke with the accent he’d acquired over there.

His posh accent, the locals called it.

True, in the current economic conditions, Clive’s offer for Wattle Valley Farm was generous, but I also knew that my prime creek flats would be a valuable addition to my neighbour’s much larger property.

In any case, I’d already told him several times that my farm was not for sale.

“I’m sorry, Clive. My answer is still no.”

“But Lizzie, how will you manage? This place is falling down around you. If this storm doesn’t topple your shed, the next one will. And your house is in little better shape.”

“I’ll think of something.” I wished I was as confident as I tried to sound.

“You have no stock left to sell except those old cows and calves. They won’t fetch much. What will you do then?”

He hurried on before I could answer, or properly appreciate the significance of his last remark.

“Please, Lizzie, don’t let your pride drive you to ruin. I’m trying to help. Running a farm is no job for a woman on her own.”

That was the last straw. Any thought, no matter how small, of settling with him vanished.

Hadn’t Farv and Gramps always said I could work the farm as well as any young fellow?

“You de Courtneys!” I

cried. “You’ve been trying to get your hands on

Wattle Valley Farm since my great-grandfather selected it sixty years ago.

“Well, I won’t be the one who gives it to you.”

As Clive rode off across the paddocks to his place, my anger evaporated, leaving me deflated and trying to quell my fears.

After a while I went inside, hung up my shotgun and slumped down at the big old desk in the front room.

I ran my fingers over the smooth timber that had been carefully crafted by Gramps’s father before he’d left his father’s furnituremaking business to seek gold in the young colony of Victoria.

Despite my best efforts, tears dropped on to the desk while my tangled thoughts ran riot.

Was it foolish pride that stopped me accepting Clive’s offer to buy Wattle Valley Farm? Had that same pride made me refuse his marriage proposal last year?

I’d briefly considered accepting, but . . .

As Mrs Clive de Courtney I’d be among the leaders of local society, and even be known down in Melbourne. I’d be set financially.

Clive was quite likeable; in fact, we got on well, except when it came to the future of Wattle Valley Farm.

That had always been the sticking point. I’d be mistress of Clive’s house, but not of my farm.

Then a troubling question popped up.

Why had Clive said I only had those old cows and calves left to sell, when he knew I had a mob of prime young cattle ready for next month’s market?

The proceeds would pay off my pressing debts, plus leave funds to tide the farm through the next few months.

There was just one problem. When I’d ridden out this afternoon to check them, they were missing.

My heart had sunk on seeing the empty paddock and the broken fence that let them wander into the wild bush-covered hills behind my farm.

Bluey had loped alongside as I’d started riding after them, praying they’d simply wandered off and not been stolen.

Then Bonnie had gone lame on the rough ground, forcing me to abandon the chase.

Trudging home, I’d prayed the coming storm wouldn’t scatter my cattle in the ranges and make them almost impossible to find.

Unless I could find them quickly and get them to market, I’d be finished at Wattle Valley Farm.

But how had Clive known they’d gone?

****

“This won’t solve anything,” I chided myself after a while.

Then I imagined hearing Gramps’s raspy voice, as he’d shake his mane of silver hair.

“Ain’t nothin’ ever solved by wishin’, hopin’ or regretin’.”

Encouraged, I squared my shoulders, wiped my eyes and blew my nose.

“Thanks, Gramps. I’ll go back tomorrow on Midnight. Didn’t you reckon he’s the best horse you ever knew for finding lost stock? He sniffs them out, you said.

“Well, he’d better live up to his reputation,” I murmured.

I smiled when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging beside the desk.

My jaw was set, just like Farv and Gramps had set theirs when facing problems. Our family would win through.

Going to collect the things I’d left on the veranda table earlier, I glanced out the window and saw a swagman plodding on through the darkening July afternoon.

The storm was quickly closing on him as he looked back at the looming clouds and drew his ragged jacket closer against the rising wind.

My house stood about 50 yards from the road, beside a large gum tree that was now being buffeted.

While my house was solid, it obviously needed maintenance, and my shed . . . Well, as Clive had said, a decent storm would blow it over.

Maybe he was right. Maybe it was all too much for me on my own.

Before I could get more maudlin, Bluey raced out to challenge the stranger, so I grabbed my shotgun and followed him.

Bluey had stopped a little way from the swagman, who’d frozen.

I whistled. Gramps had taught me that piercing whistle years ago and I was proud of my ability.

“Heel, Bluey!” I called, and Bluey came to stand beside me while the swagman relaxed.

Poor fellow, I thought, noting his threadbare clothes and the near-empty tucker bag drooping from his shoulder.

“You’d better come in before we both get soaked,” I said as the first few drops of rain began to fall.

****

Soon we’d introduced ourselves and were seated at my kitchen table enjoying mugs of tea and slabs of the fruitcake one of the ladies at church had given me last Sunday.

Bluey lay stretched out by the stove, keeping a watchful eye on everything.

After a while I looked across at the man, who was now leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, soaking up warmth from the stove.

At first I’d thought he was older, due to the beard and his half-starved look. Now I saw he was about my age and would probably scrub up well.

Poor bloke; he looked exhausted.

As I continued assessing him, his eyes opened and he smiled, causing the strangest thoughts to flit through my mind.

Don’t be silly, I cautioned myself. You know nothing about him, except his name is Bert.

“Well, Bert,” I said briskly, mentally shaking myself. “We’d better find you somewhere to camp, then I’ll organise some food. I’m afraid it’ll only be cold mutton and veggies.”

“That sounds wonderful, Lizzie.” Bert stood and picked up his swag.

Out in the shed I showed him a sheltered corner where he could roll out his swag.

Bluey raced out to challenge the stranger

“I’m sorry it’s a bit rough.” “It’s fine, Lizzie. You should see some of the places I’ve camped over this last year.”

Returning to the kitchen, I was tempted to let Bert sleep in Gramps’s old room.

The shed was pretty rough and that storm was coming.

But common sense prevailed.

Offering hospitality was normal, but allowing a strange man to sleep in the house with no-one else there wouldn’t be wise, even with Bluey around.

****

Bert quickly finished a large helping of mutton and veggies, followed by a generous serving of boiled treacle pudding and custard.

“That’s the best feed I’ve had in months, Lizzie.”

He sat back and sighed, then went on to tell me he’d been “Waltzing Matilda” for a year.

At first, carrying his swag and travelling to look for work had seemed to be the answer to his problems.

“I thought I’d get away from the past and clear my muddled thoughts. I’d make a new start.

“The trouble is, most farmers have plenty of work available, but no money, so I’m broke.

“I’m about at the end of my tether.”

For a while my problems faded. Bert looked so empty and sad.

I wondered what

We’d kick a can around the streets until quite late at night

And when the snow came, what could beat a friendly snowball fight? We’d build a den where we could take some shelter from the rain, Or whittle bits of wood to make a boat or aeroplane.

We swung on rope above the creek and laughed at getting wet, We played at “tag” and “hide and seek”. Those times I’ll not forget. I’ll say this for the games we played: they were as good as any, Although our things were all home-made and didn’t cost a penny! problems he was getting away from. Could he be running from the law?

****

By morning the storm had blown itself out, leaving only passing showers.

I’d slept surprisingly well and woke late. I lay for a few minutes savouring the warmth of my bed and worrying about my lost cattle.

Why had they broken that fence? Feed and water were abundant in their paddock, while the bush was relatively barren.

Had I failed to keep the fence in good order? I’d checked it last week when

I’d put them in that paddock.

Then I remembered Bert. How had he fared in my wonky shed while the storm raged last night?

I slipped out of bed, dressed and stepped outside.

What on earth was Bert up to? He was walking around the shed, examining it and writing in a notebook.

Was he spying and assessing my property for Clive? Surely not!

“Stop getting paranoid,” I berated myself as Bert smiled.

Dennis W. Turner.

“Morning, Lizzie.”

“G’day Bert. What on earth are you doing?” I blurted out.

“I hope you don’t mind. I’m working out the best way to fix your shed. Before I took to the road I was a builder.”

I was relieved that he wasn’t Clive’s spy. But then another problem hit me.

“It certainly needs fixing, but I’ve no money to pay you.”

“That’s OK, Lizzie. If you let me stay for a few days, we’ll be even.”

Over breakfast Bert told me how his father had fallen in Flanders and how proud his mother was when he’d completed his building apprenticeship.

“Everything looked rosy. I was about to get married; I was set for life.” Bert sighed deeply.

“But then I was put off. The boss was sorry, but with the whole country in the doldrums . . .”

I really felt for him.

“But worse was to come,” Bert continued. “When I couldn’t get another job, my sweetheart, Arabella, broke off our engagement.

“She and her parents saw no future with an unemployed builder.”

What could I say? Bert looked so forlorn.

Impulsively I reached out and put my hand over his and we sat in silence for a while before he continued.

“And then Mum passed away and almost the last of my savings went for her funeral.”

Without his mother’s war widow pension, Bert couldn’t afford to keep the house they’d rented.

Finally, Arabella, whom he’d hoped to win back, announced she’d found someone else.

He was shattered, left alone with no sweetheart, no prospect of work and nowhere to live.

“The only option I could see was to roll my swag and look for work and a new start elsewhere.”

But a year later, he was still on the road. His new start was as far away in the bush as it had been in the city.

He’d only managed to find enough casual work to provide a meagre living, and even that work had now dried up.

My situation was tough, but I had some hope, even if that meant accepting Clive’s offer – maybe both of them.

But Bert had lost all hope. He was ready to give up.

While I thought about all this, Bluey barked, so I grabbed my shotgun and went out to see Clive dismounting over by my shed.

“Good morning, Lizzie.” “G’day, Clive.”

“I won’t beat around the bush, Lizzie. Have you thought any more about my offer?”

I hesitated.

He read the doubt in my face and hurried on.

“Please, Lizzie. I don’t want to see you lose everything.”

He sounded so sincere, that I hesitated again while he came closer.

“You know I still want you, Lizzie. It isn’t just about the farm.”

I was tempted. All my problems would be solved. But would I be happy not being in charge of my farm?

To press his case, Clive stepped close, and as he reached for my hand I noticed a silver button was missing from the cuff of his fancy riding jacket.

Then Bluey growled and the moment passed.

“Shush, Bluey. It’s all right.” I reached down to pat him while I worked to