Free Fresh Fields by Peter Kocan

so did Gladys’s flowery yellow apron. The blades of the steel windmill beside the house whirled with a clean metallic sound. The youth thought how much fresher and nicer it felt here on this bare stony ridge than back at the other place. Clem suggested the youth might prefer to sleep in the shearers’ quarters that night.
    In the fading light they rode back to the homestead to do the feeding.
    Again Clem led old Gypsy by the reins so that the youth could concentrate on staying in the saddle. He went the whole way without falling off, but collapsed in a heap again when dismounting. Still, he felt he was making progress.
    They did the feeding. It was almost dark but the sky had cleared a lot and you could see some stars. The youth went to his room in the tractor shed to get a few things to take back with him—his toothbrush, the old flannelette shirt he used as a pyjama top, his magazine with Sweetheart on the cover. Clem had gone across to check that the main house was secure. The youth stood for a minute or two in the dank room, lost in a thought. Then he turned and saw an enormous rat crouched beside the tractor wheel. The rat looked at him with a beady stare, and the youth stared back. He gathered his nerve and made a sudden move, flinging his arms out, thinking this would make the rat run away. But it stayed put. The youth began to feel scared. He wished he had a big stick to defend himself with.
    â€œWe can get goin’, if ya like,” said Clem, squelching into the shed from the mud.
    The rat had gone.
    They rode back to the ridge and the meal that Gladys was making. As they rode, the youth tried to put everything out of his mind except the high clean windy stars above.
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    THE COLESES stayed away for three weeks. They’d gone back to their own property at Burracoola. The place needed some seeing-to, Mr. Coles told Clem over the phone.
    â€œI s’pose that means she isn’t comin’ out o’ the mad state too easy this time,” Clem remarked.
    â€œIt’s very sad,” said Gladys. “I admit I don’t have much time for the woman, but it must be awful for her.”
    The youth thought how Mrs. Coles had looked when she’d stood in the rain near the dunny, her hair plastered and her mouth twisting so oddly and her hands making helpless gestures. He told the Curreys about it, and that he’d not mentioned it to Mr. Coles.
    â€œYa did right to keep quiet,” Clem replied. “He don’t appreciate anythin’ bein’ said or noticed. We’ve learnt that, ain’t we, Glad?”
    â€œYes,” said Gladys earnestly to the youth. “Best to keep well outa other people’s troubles. Unless they’re your own people and they’re dependin’ on you.”
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    THE YOUTH practised riding every day and was in agony from saddle-soreness. But he had his balance and was learning to use the reins and to urge the old mare forward with his heels. Even then, it wasn’t easy to get her to do what he wanted.
    â€œThat’s because she knows you ain’t wearin’ spurs and can’t give her a good jab,” Clem said.
    The youth would’ve liked a pair of spurs. Clem wore them and they jingled nicely when he walked. With his spurs on, and his worn leather coat, and his hat at an angle, and his economical way of doing things, he was the very model of a Horseman. A true Horseman wasn’t just someone who rode a horse. It was someone who had a Horseman’s attitude to the world. One of the reasons Clem had hated the digging out was that he’d had to take his spurs off. The cramped space meant you had to sit back on your heels a lot, and with spurs on you’d stick yourself in the backside. The youth sympathised with the idea of a Horseman’s dignity. It was disgraceful to expect a man like Clem Currey to grub about in the dirt! How right they’d been to jack up!
    The youth would wake each morning in