Free Coming Rain by Stephen Daisley Page B

generator. Make sure the lights
and the machines are working.’
    Painter shrugged. ‘Good idea. You want the lamp?’
    Lew reached out. ‘I need to check the motor. Attach all the belts.’
    Painter walked to his stand. The ringers crib. Traditionally, the first machine in
the shed nearest the door and press, where the best shearer in the gang shore. A
stand of pride and respect, hard won. Fought for with numbers shorn. He handed the
lamp to Lew. ‘There you are.’ He began shaking a small oil can on the box shelf near
the catching-pen door. Checking its level.
    Lew returned to the motor room and stood the kerosene lamp on a table. Used a gauge
to measure and tighten the timing belt, opened, closed and opened again the fuel
lines. Primed the motor. Painter had followed him and stood at the door watching.
The light of the lamp in the corrugated motor room; the solid Bentall engine as certain
as tomorrow or the Bank of England. A wide drip tray beneath it. Wooden cross braces
and a green forty-four-gallon drum of benzene. Sheffield spanners and a line of screwdrivers
on a pegboard wall. Spare drive belts hanging from hooks. Chains, Birmingham made.
    Lew found the crank handle, positioned it and took the weight of the drive shaft,
rocking the handle back and forth. His arms were marked with sweat and his hair was
wet, falling into his face. A streak of black oil on his shoulder. ‘The bloody thing
better start,’ he said and rotated the crank handle with a whipping motion.
    It caught, paused and hesitated. Hissed, almost at a stop. He straightened and lifted
the rocker cover. Pushed his fingers into the top and side of the motor, found the
SU, adjusted a grub screw and the engine caught again and began to run. He waited
for a moment, his head turned to one side. Then he grabbed a spanner and used it
to push a number of long and short belts completely onto their conveyors. The mechanical
connections in the woolshed bumped and began to turn, squeal and then the whistling,
sweet sound of the belts running through the rafters. The greased gears of the shearing
shed. He walked along a line of overhead rollers holding an oilcan above his head.
‘There they are now,’ he said as he walked and squirted the oil can. ‘Listen to that?’
    ‘Young Mr McCleod.’ Painter watched him. ‘No doubt about you.’
    The movement of air through the shed and once again the sheep in the pens stirred.
Painter switched on a bank of lights and the shed began to glow orange, sparkling
as if unsure, and as the generator pulsed the light changing and increasing to a
steady yellow white.
    ‘Good.’
    They returned to the main part of the shed and it was Lew’s turn to sharpen his cutters.
The woolshed now bright and well lit. Painter walked to his stand and connected the
handpiece to the down-rod. He drizzled oil over the comb and cutter, adjusted the
tension and pulled the rope to engage the running gear. The handpiece buzzed and
he studied it for a moment, pulled the rope again to disengage the running gear.
Repeated the process with his spare handpiece. Filled the oil can and stepped to
the catching-pen door, leaned on it and looked at the sheep in the pen. Lit a cigarette,
waiting for Lew.
    Lewis finished his sharpening, turned off the Villiers motor and walked to his stand.
He also went through his preparations for the following day’s work. Testing the gear,
turning the hand-pieces on and off, tightening both of them to suit the pace of the
generator. He placed the Gladstone bag below the wooden shelf on which the oil can,
chalk raddle and tar pot and brush were kept.
    They heard the sheep in the outside holding yards begin to make panicked sounds.
Lew crossed to a window, looked out.

CHAPTER 16
    Two hundred yards away she lay in the coming dusk amid the gleam of insects and settling
dust, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the night. She had not had water for two
days.
    She had been to Winjilla earlier and attempted to dig beneath the