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‘The man studies the shorn wool and has to decide on how clean that wool is, does it have a fine crimp, or—’
‘Crimp?’ Fleur interrupted. ‘My mother has crimping shears that have wiggly blades.’
She saw dimples deepen at Tom’s cheeks and his eyes seemed to glisten brighter than the navy she’d initially noted them as being. The smile seemed to cast an inner light.
‘Exactly,’ he said, his tone enthusiastic. ‘The wool fibres have crimps . . . wiggly bits. Some are fine, with many wiggles, and others are broader.’
‘And? What does it mean?’
He looked galvanised by her interest. ‘The finer crimped wool is used for garments while those of a rougher nature . . . we call it coarse . . . might be used for . . .?’ He looked up as though the sky might deliver the answer. ‘Well, for carpets and the like. You know, rougher use.’
‘And that’s it? I could do that.’
They both began to laugh at her cocksure remark.
‘No, there’s more. I’ve made it sound too simple. In moments these men can fling out a fleece – that’s the shorn wool in one piece – and decide on the crimp, the feel – it’s called texture – the colour, cleanliness, strength. And all the while, the classer is keeping an eye on all the shearers and what’s going on in the shearing shed. He’s keeping the work flowing at a steady rate and even teaching the rouseabouts at the same time. He has to run across and get the wool pressed into bales, too – that’s why they used to be called pressers. But he’s got so many skills and he has to – as my father told me – think on his feet all day long. He can speed up and slow down, depending on the Gun’s pace.’
He must have seen her moment of puzzlement because he continued. ‘That’s the top shearer – he’s called the Gun because he’s the best in the shed and the fastest. Everyone shears, as best they can, to his speed but most can’t keep up. But the wool classer makes sure he keeps up, while also doing everything else. I think wool classers are brilliant.’
‘Well, I think you’re brilliant that you have this dream. I’d like to watch you working as a wool classer, Tom Catchlove.’
‘Maybe you can visit. How about you? What do you want to be when you grow up?’
‘Oh, I’m going to be the best mortician in this state – no, the best in the country.’
‘Mortician? I don’t know that word.’
‘I help prepare the dead for their burial.’
At first Tom appeared shocked, and then he frowned. ‘I thought your father is an undertaker.’
‘He is. He takes the dead into his care and prepares them for their final journey. But there’s a lot of work to be done on a body to make that person ready for burial. He’s very good at it. I shall be even better.’
‘Are you going to look after my mother?’
‘I’ll help to take care of her . . . and Amy. You can trust us. My father is the kindest man there ever was. He is very gentle and respectful.’
‘Good. I’m glad you’ll be there to watch over them, because they’re sending me home tomorrow.’
‘You won’t be here for the funeral?’ Fleur was surprised.
He shook his head. ‘I think Mrs Darnell wants to be rid of me.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘Yes, you do.’
He cut her a glance. ‘I don’t think I’m good enough for them.’
‘They don’t know you, you just said, so how can you not be good enough?’
‘Oh, probably because we’re poorer than them and live so far away.’
She nodded. ‘What horrible people. Oh, look up there!’
Fleur had happened to glance to the top storey of the house and saw a pale face pressed against the window. It was the face of a child – a girl – who looked utterly miserable while she stared at them. Her hair was long, with a fat satin ribbon tied high at the back, just peeping over the top of her head.
