Ben

By Christopher Gimblett

There are many loners in the Outback and this is a story about one of them. His name doesn't matter as he is just a servant – a servant to his property, his livestock and all the associated duties that are required for outback living. His own needs are secondary. His priority is to the never-ending demands made by his property and the welfare of his sheep and his dogs – especially Ben. Ben is his best mate and they both have an unquestioning, devoted rapport which is the only reliable feature of friendship in his deliberately isolated existence.

The closeness he feels with Ben is a powerful embodiment of the attitude that he has carried through his life – defined by a confidence in his own abilities and a determination to overcome the harsh conditions in which he lives.

Ben is written in the simplest possible language, achieving its richness through its vivid imagery of the outback and, in particular, the remote property and everyday tasks that fill the isolated protagonist’s life.

The story of his life – past and present – is the readers reward and is told through his conversations with Ben. His life has been simple, tough and testing. But he will need every inch of his well-honed reserves for the battle before him.

He has coped on his own for so long. At this stage of his life the last thing he needs is trouble. Nevertheless a disturbing presence enters his and Ben’s life; one they both have to fight together. One they have to beat, with so much at stake.

When a lone dingo savages a flock of sheep, the decision to trap the dingo is made, setting in motion a series of events that charges him further into his solitary battle.

Every piece of bush skill and guile is employed in his war with the dingo. But, for the safety if his companion, it is a war without Ben. It is a decision Ben refuses to understand.

The dingo is trapped, but not in the way he had planned. So alone he sets out, guided by his own tracking skills, to follow the maimed animal. But by now Ben has tracked his master and when they meet they close in on the dingo together.

Their relationship, built on everlasting respect and admiration, will be tested. Their strength must endure until the very end if even one of them is to survive.

One reviewer described Ben as a ‘haunting story of man’s quest to be alone in the harshest of all lands; the untrodden places of the Australian bush.....”

Such a compelling book, it will be read from beginning to end in an instant, but its imagery will linger for a lifetime.

This unique tale is based on the real-life experience of the author, as he walks us across new ground to a fresh clearing he has made for us in Australia’s literary landscape.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadOnTime BV
• Release date: Sep 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781742843780

Book preview

Ben

Christopher Gimblett

Smashwords Edition

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Ben

Copyright © Christopher Gimblett 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The information, views, opinions and visuals expressed in this publication are solely those of the author(s) and do not reflect those of the publisher. The publisher disclaims any liabilities or responsibilities whatsoever for any damages, libel or liabilities arising directly or indirectly from the contents of this publication.

A copy of this publication can be found in the National Library of Australia.

ISBN: 978-1-742843-78-0 (pbk.)

Published by Book Pal

www.bookpal.com.au

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

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CHAPTER ONE

Look. See here Ben. When I rub my hand over the paint, see how it comes off? The paint’s like us Ben, old and tired. What do we do? Let it be, or give it a paint?

He walked back a few yards from the side of the house, tilted his hat forward against the early morning sun, looked back at the old homestead, then shook his head.

The roof needs a paint job too. And see those loose sheets of iron up there, where the lead heads have lifted? We’ll have to do something about them. A good wind or a whirly could whip them off and float them up in the air like star grass.

He sighed and put one hand in the crook of his arm then rubbed his chin stubble with the other.

The house is like us, Ben. Old and tired. You should have seen it when it was built. It was all sparkling white! Then Mum made us paint those eaves, guttering and down-pipes green! When the sun hit the roof it was so shiny it hurt your eyes. After the roof aged, we painted it white, too. Dad and me painted it again after Mum died. Dad said it would make Mum rest easy knowing the house was looking good again. I should have painted it after Dad died, Ben. Do you know that? I should’ve done it, but I didn’t.

He dropped his hands to his hips and spat.

Anyway, we’d better get ourselves going, mate. He pushed his hat back and headed for the gate.

Once, the homestead yard had been neat and tidy with green grass, shrubs and flower beds, but now it was bare dirt. After the last good rains, clumps of Mitchell and Buffle grass had grown in the yard and along the homestead fence pushing their seed heads up through the netting. The only grass now remaining was along the fence, straw white, dry and brittle.

He lifted the gate to open it. Over the years the gate post had developed a lean and the gate was getting harder to open. As Ben slipped through he lifted and pushed the gate shut.

He walked down to the shed with Ben following. The other dogs, tied up at their kennels, barked excitedly at the prospect of being let off.

On either side of the shed’s wide doorway were piles of useful bits and pieces; old rolled up fence wire, empty forty-four gallon drums, old windmill parts, rusty red kerosene tins and a variety of parts from old stripped down vehicles, whose bodies now lay in the scrub further down the slope.

As he walked into the shed his boots kicked up dust from the dirt floor. The dust glittered and danced in the sun’s rays.

Gertie, he said. Are you going to behave yourself and start for me this morning?

The old faded green Toyota looked like a travelling workshop. In the back tray behind the seats was an assortment of neatly placed tools and equipment. On the floor below the passenger seat lay snig chains, a blackened billy and fencing pliers. Back in ‘73 when Gertie was new she had sparkled and shone and her canvas roof and sides had fitted nice and neatly. Now, the only canvas was tied to the roof frame and the sides were open. Over the years the harsh outback conditions had taken its toll and Gertie looked her age.

Awhile back he had taken off the doors, after having a slight accident with the driver’s side door, and it had seemed a good idea to take the other one off too, so that it was easier for Ben to get in. Gertie used to have a windscreen, until the other accident.

Mounted to the dashboard behind where the screen used to be were two sponge covered rests which held his rifle.

After checking the tyres to make sure none were flat he stood beside the passenger side door and said, C’mon, Ben, I’ll help you up.

He lifted Ben and put him on the seat. Ben sat upright and sniffed the air.

Then he climbed in and pulled out the choke, turned the key and listened to the starter motor labour then slow. He winced a frown, then relaxed as the motor caught.

You’re my good luck, Ben. Do you know that?

He ran the motor for awhile then pushing his hat back, found his pipe and lit up, eased the choke in and reversed out.

As he drove over to the kennels the dogs started jumping up, standing on their back legs with chains extended, barking with delight in the knowledge they were going to be let off. He adjusted the choke, climbed out then released the dogs from their chains.

Pat and Tim dashed to various spots lifting their legs, grinning happily. Lady was more sedate and wandered up to the homestead netting fence where she squatted.

Right, you mongrels! In behind. Get up here, he called as he stood beside the back tray snapping his fingers. They came running and jumped on the back. Pat and Tim snarled at each other as they jockeyed for positions amongst the equipment. Lady watched them from her position behind the drivers seat with ears pricked and tail wagging. Ben remained in the front seat ignoring the noise.

The old Toyota moved off with the dogs yelping in delight. Ben gave two deep throated, husky barks.

After awhile the dogs in the back stopped barking and were looking alert, watching the passing landscape with their ears erect and tails wagging furiously. Ben had positioned himself comfortably on the seat so that he could see through the door opening.

He shifted up a gear then said, Do you remember how Dad died? Happy. With rain belting down on the roof! He loved that sound. He used to say, ‘Do you hear that? God is blessing us with his tears of sorrow.’ You know Ben, I still miss him. I miss him like he missed Mum. It’s strange. I didn’t miss Mum as much as I miss him. I still had him when Mum was gone. But I couldn’t have missed him that much, otherwise I would have painted the house. He liked things to look nice, just like Mum. It doesn’t seem like five years ago. Five years last month he died, and I forgot the day.

The dogs in the back started barking as some startled sheep ran away.

When Dad died, you were in your prime, Ben. I could put you in a paddock and wouldn’t see you for half an hour. Then back you’d come, driving a mob of sheep!

He leant across and tickled Ben behind his ear.

I suppose I should say sorry to the old bloke for forgetting him like that. What do you reckon, Ben?

He laughed. You know, I reckon he was fitter at ninety than I am now! He was a tough old rooster. By golly! He was tough. He had to be tough to run a place like this, hey, Ben? And you’re tough too aren’t you, mate? And old! What are you now, fourteen years? That must make you well over ninety, Ben. Same as Dad. You’ve got a few years on me, mate. I’m not that tough though. I don’t reckon I’ll make it to ninety.

He slowed the Toyota as he came to a rough patch where the track climbed a red rocky ridge and threaded its way between the Gidyea trees. Gertie swayed and lurched as the wheels clambered over the rocks. The tools and boxes in the back were thrown around. Tim yelped as something slipped and hit him.

He drove slowly to the top, stopped, and got out to check what had happened in the back. Pat jumped off and stood looking up at him grinning.

Get back up here, he snapped, as he straightened out the tools and equipment. Tim and Lady stood with their front feet on the side watching Pat.

I said get up here, you mongrel, he said gruffly. Pat jumped up then licked his hand. Satisfied that everything was as it should be again, he climbed back in, lit his pipe and continued on.

He pulled his hat down firmly as he increased speed and the wind tugged at it. He sighed. It was strange, he thought. You were born to die. You couldn’t remember anything about being born and if you were lucky, you didn’t know much about dying. Dad had been lucky. He’d died in his sleep. It was the bit between being born and dying that was the hard part. Not hard all the time. Good things happened, sometimes.

How many pups do you reckon you sired, Ben? Do you know what? I reckon you’ve sired more pups than your age. I reckon you’ve got over a hundred running around the ridges somewhere. And you know what? I reckon they’d all be good workers.

He slowed as he came to another rough stretch of track.

If there were some that didn’t turn out any good, well, I guess they’d have lead in their heads by now.

He cocked his finger and pointed it at Ben’s head, then leant over and scratched his ear.

But you were good, Ben. No lead in the head for you, hey boy.

He swung the Toyota onto another track that followed the fence line and drove in silence as he thought about the job ahead and what he hoped to accomplish.

He pulled up in the clearing and switched the motor off. The dogs in the back jumped down, running around sniffing and peeing. Ben slipped from the seat into the passenger well. The billy rattled as he knocked it over. He stood peering down, hesitated, then jumped and looked around before making his way slowly over to a sunny spot where he slumped down and put his head on his paws.

It was a natural clearing set on a ridge and divided by the fence. Mulga trees surrounded the area and beyond the Mulga, down the slope, the country changed to the black soil plain where the Mitchell grass grew. A few months ago the lush Mitchell grass had bent and swayed in the wind, laden with heavy seed heads; a glittering sun-golden green expanse that danced all the way to the horizon. Now the grass was dry and coloured ivory gold.

The sheep yards he was building here were almost finished. It had taken a long time but he didn’t mind. As long as he had them finished before the hot weather started.

The hot weather was one of the reason he’d built the yards in this paddock. The site was close to where the four paddocks met at one corner. They were his four lambing paddocks. Each paddock averaged three thousand acres and he had spread his two and half thousand ewes between them, counting as close as he could, six-hundred and twenty-five sheep into each one.

In April, on Anzac Day, he had joined the rams with them, carefully counting sixteen rams into each paddock. If each ram worked well, and became responsible for siring forty lambs, he would achieve a hundred per cent lambing rate. But he would need a good batch of twins to achieve this. The first lambs would start dropping in a hundred and fifty days, on September the twenty-second.

It would be a gamble. But wasn’t it always? If things went right, the lambs would drop when the weather was starting to warm. If the weather pattern followed past years, September would be a dry month, as would the first half of October. And then, perhaps, the storm rains would begin toward the end of October and it might be warm enough for the Mitchell grass to shoot and give the ewes a flush of green feed. But it was a gamble. It was always a gamble.

He eyed the neatly stacked pile of six by one hardwood timber planks sitting next to the unfinished race. When the drafting race was finished the yards would be complete. The race posts were all in and all that was left to do was secure the planks to them.

From the back of Gertie he collected the chainsaw, the old wooden box full of nails, a hammer and hand drill then carried them over to the race. He had lined up the wooden race posts so that the smoothest, straightest sides faced inwards, then trimmed them where necessary with the chain saw. There would be a bit of trial and error before he got the planks in place and positioned right.

He picked up the first plank then positioned and chocked it against the bottom of the posts and stood back and sighted the level. It looked good.

The Gidyea posts were hard, so hard they would buckle a nail after the first few taps. Kneeling, he put his knee against the plank then carefully drilled a small hole through it and into the post, then drove in a nail. He did the same at the other end, then again in the middle.

The nails were there to hold the plank in place. For the job to be done properly he would drill a larger hole through the plank and post, then bolt them in place. The bolts would have their heads inside the race so there would be no protrusions to catch fleeces as the sheep ran through.

Dad had been against the idea of putting a set of yards here, preferring to walk the sheep to the shearing shed and use those yards for marking and mulesing the lambs. It was a walk of five odd miles, and then five miles back. He always reckoned it was too tough on them, after being marked and mulesed but Dad hadn’t agreed. He had said it would be a waste of time and money to build yards here.

Anyway, the yards hadn’t cost that much to build. He’d cut all the posts and bought the sawn timber planks at a clearance sale awhile ago. Mind you, the netting had been expensive. Dad wouldn’t have liked that.

Between other jobs, the yards had taken over three months to build but he didn’t feel it had been a waste of time.

The planks were sitting well as he gradually built them up. The race was starting to look good.

He’d positioned the race so that as the sheep ran through, they would be able to see other sheep in a small catch pen ahead and beyond the pen was the Mulga-covered rise that would make them believe they were running to freedom. It should make them run well.

He stood up, stretched, and pushed his fingers into the small of his back then glanced at the sun.

Smoko, he said, aloud, and walked over to the Toyota where he collected the billy and filled it from the dust-ingrained canvas waterbag strung from the frame that held Gertie’s canvas roof.

It didn’t take long to build the fire on the bed from the remnants of previous smokos. He carefully placed the billy on the flames then walked back to Gertie and collected his smoko box.

He sat in the same place everyday, under the shade of a Mulga close to where Ben lay in the sun. He lowered himself into his usual spot with his back against the trunk and watched the smoke drift upwards. Ben, without changing position, opened his eyes and watched him.

I reckon they will be good yards when they’re finished, Ben. It will save you and the other mongrels a fair bit of work. I might have them finished this afternoon, or tomorrow. That agent bloke who rang up should come and see them. He tried to sell us those portable panels.

He tapped out his pipe, then slowly refilled it.

Those panels might have been all right, but they were expensive. It would have cost a lot of money to use them, Ben. The agent reckoned I could have them all set up in a day! He said, it would save me money if I took my time into consideration. What do you reckon, Ben?

He lit his pipe. Ben stared back with unblinking eyes.

It didn’t make sense to me. If we weren’t doing this, we’d be doing something else wouldn’t we? So how can that save money?

The smoke had gone and the fire showed heat ripples in the air. Soon the billy would start boiling and spit water. He pushed himself up slowly, winced, then went to his smoko box. From a screw-top jar he poured tea leaves into the palm of his hand then went over and threw them into the bubbling water. He lit his pipe again and stood watching the water toss the leaves. He sighed and stretched his back.

A small eruption of water spilt from the billy and the fire hissed. He took the fencing pliers from his back pocket and lifted the billy off then carried it over and put it down beside his smoko box. He tapped the side of the billy with his pliers until all the leaves had sunk to the bottom.

His pannikin was a tin that once upon a time might have held baked beans or spaghetti. He had drilled two holes a small distance apart in its rim, then neatly and tightly wound a length of fencing wire around the bottom of the tin, twice, then twisted and shaped it to form a handle and completed it by pushing the two ends through the holes in the top and tying them off.

He sat down and filled his pannikin, blew on it a couple of times then took a sip and placed it on the dirt beside him and sucked at his pipe.

No, Ben. Those flash panels would have been too expensive. I don’t mind using those steel posts for the new fence though. But that’s because I’m getting old and tired. I don’t have it in me to cut a few hundred posts. I don’t know, perhaps I’m getting lazy, Ben. But the thought of cutting all those posts, then digging and ramming all those post holes, well, it makes me feel tired thinking about it. It’ll be bad enough having to do the strainer posts.

Ben came over and lay down beside him, his head on his paws.

His tea was cooler and he took several sips then put it down again. His pipe had gone out and he relit it. He sucked on his pipe and stared at his boots. He’d need another pair soon. The tread had almost worn away and the soles were cracked. Trying to resole them was a waste of time in this country.

Perhaps I’m a bit stupid, Ben, he said.

He took a mouthful of tea, then another, finishing the brew. He refilled it from the billy.

That young Wayne. He’s got another new four-wheel drive. I was looking at it outside the store awhile back. He reckons it pays him to get a new one every two years. How can that be, Ben? How can it pay him to do that when he loses money on the trade in? He said something about tax and all that sort of thing. But I don’t know. Gertie, over there, well, Dad bought her in the early seventies. The accountant laughs about it every year. I don’t know, Ben. She goes and does the job for us. I can’t see how I would be saving money by buying one of those new tray-backs. I mean, look at the price of them. I don’t know, Ben. I don’t understand it all. And you know what? I don’t really care.

Sitting in silence with his thoughts he finished his tea, then poured the rest into his pannikin and turned the billy upside down so the tea leaves would fall out. His pipe had gone out and he sucked on it unaware it was no longer alight.

Perhaps he was stupid. Probably most of the folk in the district thought he was stupid. Most of the old-timers had left. Wayne and his missus were new to the area. How long had they been here now? He nodded. It was