Shearing Time

Part 1

by 

The Dawson Boy

I figured out years ago that life on the farm works in cycles. Just like winter follows autumn and summer follows spring, the order of the other seasons on the farm, the calving, the lambing, the shearing, the planting, the harvesting, are all set in equally solid stone, never to be moved.

In some ways it is reassuring to know what follows what, but in other ways it can be frustrating, knowing that in just about every month of every year there is something that simply must be done. As you tick each thing off on the calendar it makes the years fly by so fast, they disappear in the blink of an eye, and pretty soon we're back at the beginning again, ready for the cycle to start once more.

As funny as it seems however, this time around I am more than pleased that the year has flown and shearing time is upon us once again. I have been feeling the anticipation building for a while now, ticking off the days, waiting for the week with the big red circle drawn in texta-pen around it to arrive.

'Why is that?' I hear you ask.

Well, I guess it's all because of what happened this time last year. I know that a lot of water has flowed under the bridge since then, and that things aren't likely to be the same this year, or happen like I see them happening in my mind, but hey, a guy can still dream can't he?

Perhaps I should start at the beginning then?

For starters there are a few things that you will need to know. Things like the fact that I'm a born and bred country boy, if you hadn't already been able to work that out. I'm fresh out of school, in so much as I finished Year 12 at the end of last year, six months ago now, to come home and work on the family farm. It wasn't too difficult a decision to make, it's all I've ever really wanted to do anyhow, and with times being as tough as they are and my folks not really being able to afford to employ too many staff to help run the place it just seemed to me to be the natural thing to do. I might not be making a lot of money, but to me at least, despite what some people keep trying to tell me, money ain't everything. 

As for the school, let's just say that I was a boarder at a private school. It was about two hours drive from home, and even though I was now eighteen, had had my drivers licence for a year and one of the old farm utes to dive, I still didn't get home all that often. It was also an all-boys school. 

Some of you might be asking yourself what that has to do with anything, but if you went to a school like that you will probably know exactly where I'm coming from already. If you didn't go to a school like that, and you still don't get where I'm coming from, well, does the word testosterone help any?

The farm has been in the family for the best part of one hundred years, from the time my great-grandfather took it up. At present it covers almost five thousand acres. There once was a time though when it was more than triple that, with pieces having been sold off from time to time to pay debts, or fund other projects and such.

It was about ten years ago now that my father took the farm over, which followed my grand-father retiring. A month after that, when my grand-parents were off on the round-Australia caravaning holiday that they had been talking about for years, they were both killed when their vehicle collided with a truck, someplace way up in northern Queensland. 

I was nine years old then. And I still miss them terribly.

Some of my father's family - he has two younger brothers and two younger sisters - wanted the place sold up, basically so they could get their hands on their share of the proceeds I reckon, but dad dug his heels in and somehow managed to keep it all together, despite it being pretty tough there for a while. 

I've always admired him for that, and I guess in it's own way that helped shape my decision to come home and work the place, just like my father and his father and grand-father before him. More than anything else though, this is home, so it was all just... errr... natural I suppose.

Which I guess now brings us to today, Thursday. 

Our annual shearing starts on Monday and the contractors and workers will be arriving on the weekend, so everything has to be all spick and span. Everything has to be cleaned and washed out, and naturally enough, being the resident slave, those kind of jobs usually fall to me. I don't mind all that much, after all someone has to do it, and besides, it gives me some thinking time.

Today I'm starting with the shearers bunkhouse and cook the house, sweeeping it out then washing everything down with disinfectant. Then I'll finish with the shearing shed itself on the weekend, giving it the exact same treatment and making sure that it is spotless before the wool buying agents come out first thing Monday to certify the place to say that there is nothing to contaminate the wool.

The shearers bunkhouse itself sits upon a small hill located behind the shearing shed, looking down over yards and sheds and the main road into the property. It is a long, low building, clad in weathered grey currugated iron and comprised of eight separate rooms each about twelve feet square, and all facing out onto a timber verandah that runs along the front of the building. From the time I was a young kid that verandah has always been the favourite place for the shearers to enjoy a late afternoon beer and watch the setting sun, while telling bawdy jokes that were unfit for the ears of children, but I still managed to enjoy anyhow, and stories that become more and more outlandish with each passing year.

Behind the bunkhouse stands two other separate buildings, the cook house, complete with it's own dining room, and a toilet and shower block. They were spartan accomodations and facilities, but they seemed to do the job, and they couldn't have been too bad, as I can't every recall hearing anyone complain about them.

As I started on the bunkhouse I couldn't help but cast my mind back to this time last year, when, as always I came home from school over the holidays to help out.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

The contractors and workmen started arriving on the Saturday, just as they always did. I had cleaned out their bunkhouse a few days ago and was now in the middle of washing out the shearing shed while dad was repairing some panels in the yards when we heard the vehicles approach. We had known they were coming of course, having been able to hear the roar of their engines for a while. 

"That sounds like them," I heard my father call out.

"Yeah, I'd say so," I replied from the shed door, before heading to a window on the far side and looking out to see several big plumes of dust rising along the dirt road between the highway and the sheds and billowing out over the dry landscape.

Silently I cursed them, knowing full well how the fine dust and the water that I had already splashed around inside the shearing shed would mix. I closed all the doors and windows that I could, in an effort to at least minimize the amount of dust that would come into the shed when they pulled up, then waited by a window as they arrived. Once the dust had settled I would have to start washing the shed out all over again.

The first car stopped at the shed and I saw dad climb over the yards to go out and greet the contractor as he got out of the car. The big frame and shining bald head of Harry McRae were familiar to me, as he was the same contractor who had been supplying shearers to us for as long as I could remember. He was a jovial sort of guy, always laughing and joking around. He was easy to like. He had also gone to the same school as me, though many years before of course, and as we both knew what life was like there, and had compared notes a few times, we had something in common.

Harry and my father shook hands, then propped themselves up against a fence to talk as two other cars loaded with workers came past them, gave a wave and a blast on the horn, then headed for the bunkhouse, where the shearers would squabble over who got what room before unpacking their gear.

It was then that I noticed that someone else was sitting in Harry's car and being the kind of guy that I was, I strained to try and get a better look.

All I could really see through the shed window and the car windscreen were basically his shoulders and head, but then I noticed Harry wave to him, beckoning him over, and I saw him get out of the car. At first glance he looked to be about the same age as me, but as I studied him more I figured that he was probably a few years older, but not much more than that. He was tall and had muscles developing that I was envious of, yet he still retained that sinewy look of youth, no longer a kid but not quite the man yet, unlike most of the other older shearers for whom time and work and beer and playing up with loose women had already caught up with. 

The newcomer covered the ground smoothly as he walked over to Harry and my father, his wild black hair blowing across his head in the breeze. He shook hands with dad as Harry introduced them, then stood there listening to the two men talk, arms folded across his chest and looking around from time to time while taking in his surroundings.

What impressed me the most, apart from the fact that he was particularly good looking, was his build. He was wearing a traditional dark blue shearers singlet and denim jeans, which showcased the solid chest, shoulders and biceps that were there for all to see. Also on show was a flat stomach and solid thighs and not unexpectedly it didn't take long before I found myself being confronted by some all too familiar feelings.

Of course, they were feelings that I would have to keep to myself, especially in this kind of environment, where men were men and fags were dead, but I knew I could handle that. After all, I'd already had years of experience at doing just that, in a school environment that wasn't too dissimilar to this one, even allowing for the fact that most people there knew what went on behind closed doors. 

It wasn't so much the fact that guys got off together that was the problem, it was just the getting caught part that created issues. If you got your rocks off in private with another guy no one really worried too much, as most guys did that at some stage, in one form or another, usually just to help a mate out. But if you were actually caught getting your rocks off with another guy, then heaven help you. The bullying and harrasment that would usually follow that was truly something to behold. There was this one guy at school, Dean, who had even topped himself, so I guess it would be fair to say that yes, I kind of do have at least some experience when it comes to talking about that sort of thing. 

I don't know how long I stood there staring at the new shearer. It was long enough, but I wished it were longer. Eventually he and Harry climbed back into their car and headed up the hill to the bunkhouse, which was my signal to get back to washing and scrubbing the dust away.

A few minutes later my father came into the shed, just as I once again started hosing down the shearing board, which was what they called the area where the shearers did their work. Thankfully I had my back to him and he couldn't see the raging hard-on that was tenting out my jeans, so I gave him a nod over my shoulder and kept, hoping all the while that he would stay where he was, leaning against the doorway.

"Harry's got a new shearer this year," I heard him say.

"Yeah, so I noticed."

"Only a young guy. Harry say's he's pretty good though. Keeps up with the older hands real well. Probably won't be long before he's the gun hand."

"Let's hope he's right then," I replied.

"You OK finishing off here then? I think I'll head back up to the house."

"Yeah. I'll be back later on, once I get this finished. It shouldn't take too long."

"Alright. Just make sure you're in time for diner. You know what you mother is like when we're late."

"Yes, sir."

I heard the door close being me and turned my attention back to finishing off the job at hand, giving the place a thorough hosing out, then finishing it off by sweeping out as much of the water out as I could before then leaving it to dry. By Monday morning it would be perfect and we would be ready to go. 

After finishing up I started to roll the hose back onto it's metal stand but was soon interrupted by the sound of one of the steel doors being opened.

"What did you forget?" I asked, without even looking to see who it was, figuring that it was my father coming back in.

"Errr... sorry?" I heard an unfamiliar voice reply.

Turning quickly to see who it was I soon found myself face to face with our new young shearer.

"Sorry," I said as I walked across the shed toward him. "I though it must have been my old man coming back. You must be Harry's new guy then?"

"Yeah," he replied, while holding out a hand in my direction. "Cal Sutton. You must be the bosses son. Harry told me all about you."

"Ben. Ben Richards. It's good to meet you," I said, while wondering just what Harry could have been telling him.

"Harry said it would be OK just to come down and have a look about, get the lay of the land, so to speak. Is that alright?"

"Yes, of course," I answered. "But just don't mess the place up on me, that's all. I've spent all bloody day cleaning things up for you guys."

"No worries," he answered with a grin. "I'll save all that for Monday."

"Great!"

He started looking around the shed, so I turned my attention back to what I was supposed to be doing, or should I say I turned about half of my attention back to the job at hand, which was sweeping some of the excess water out of the shed, while trying to keep the other half on the new guy, looking him up and down while he wandered around looking at the shearing board and the machines and the holding pens and the chute down which the sheep were pushed once they had been shorn.

The more I saw of him the more I liked the look of what I saw and it wasn't long before those feelings that had stirred earlier came bubbling up to the suface again. I could feel something stirring in my jeans and almost absent-mindedly I found myself rubbing at my crotch, immediately feeling something coming alive beneath my hand.

At the same time I noticed movement out of the corner of one eye and glancing across at Cal I noticed that not only was he looking my way, he was also giving himself a bit of a rub.

'What the fuck?' I thought.

Suddenly I felt the bulge in my jeans grow another inch and I soon found myself rubbing at it again.

Cal gave himself another scratch as well. All I could do was stare at him, my eyes locked on the spot where his hand was rubbing. All I could think of was that while this was how it might have always happened in my dreams, it never happens like this in real life. Never.

As these thoughts were scrambling around in my mind Cal started walking toward me. I was frozen to the spot. Even if I'd have wanted to run there was no way I would have been able to. As it was though, running was the last thing on my mind.

As he came closer I let the straw broom that I had hold of fall to the floor. He was standing right in front of me now.

"Just what did Harry tell you about me?" I asked him, almost in a whisper.

"Just enough," he answered quietly, while tentatively reaching out and letting the back of his hand ever so gently brush past that spot just below my belt buckle.

"You... we... shouldn't..." I stammered, but he just smiled back at me with the face of an angel. 

Never in all my life had anything like this ever happened to me. Part of me wanted to run, but I just couldn't move. Hell, I couldn't even think. Right then and there, he could have owned me, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it, even if I HAD wanted to do anything about it.

Thankfully though, before anything else could happen, we were interrupted by the sound of a vehicle pulling up outside the shed and a car door slamming.

Both of us were jolted from our trance and stepped back from each other, looking expectantly toward the door, the moment lost forever.

"Sorry," I heard him say to me. "I shouldn't have..."

I looked back at him, just as he turned to walk away. Quickly I reached out and placed a hand on his arm.

"It's alright," I said. "It wasn't just you. It was me as well."

He nodded, acknowledging the shared blame for whatever it was that had happened, or could have happened, then turned and headed for the door.

Email: thedawsonboy@gmail.com