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‘Oooh.’ The others were enjoying the cheerful threats being exchanged.

Granite paused dramatically and then shifted his weight onto one buttock and let rip with the loudest of farts. ‘Ah, you see, Sparra, all that gas was obviously making me grumpy. Now that’s out of my guts, I see the world in a better light and young Tommo is right. We can’t break the rules. Give that comb back to Bill. He’ll straighten it again.’

Sparra obeyed and Granite tipped Tom a wink. It wasn’t an apology and it wasn’t backing down. Tom suspected Granite was simply testing before the main push of the shearing day began.

‘Just educating the lad.’ Granite smirked. ‘Anyway, what’s for our midday meal?’

‘Mutton!’ everyone chorused.

That was the diet. Mutton chops for breakfast, roast mutton for midday, and cold mutton for tea . . . seven days a week. They’d bled a sheep only a couple of days ago and wrapped it up so the flies couldn’t make a complete mess of it.

Tom grinned to show there were no hard feelings. As the chorus died down, he saw a cart arriving. ‘Watch your manners, boys. Ducks on the pond.’

A murmuring went up at the signal that women were in their midst. Right enough, sitting alongside the driver was the lady of the homestead and one of her daughters.

‘Morning, Tom,’ the lady called from her seat, holding onto her hat. She looked beautiful all dressed in white. ‘Morning, lads.’

Tom glanced at the men and they stood as one, pulling off their sweaty hats. ‘Good morning, Miss.’

‘We’re going into town. We’re helping to plan the summer fete.’

‘Are you planning to win the ladies’ running race again, Miss?’

She laughed and it sounded like the tinkling of a piano. ‘No, that was an aberration, Tom.’ He understood the word but many of the others might not. ‘There’s some fresh fruit and green vegetables for you men. I’m having them sent down to the cook.’

It normally wasn’t her role but Tom had always thought the family from Witchelina were particularly good to all their workers. They murmured their thanks.

‘You’re most welcome,’ she said. ‘We have to keep your strength up. I hope the meat is staying fresh?’

‘It is,’ Tom said.

‘And the beer’s cold,’ the Gun piped up.

‘Well, now, I’m sure that’s very important,’ she replied in a wry tone. ‘We won’t keep you, Tom.’

Tom lifted a hand in farewell. Despite the mild morning, Granny’s bare chest was slick with the sweat of his labour, which had begun promptly at seven thirty. While it wasn’t Tom’s fault the man had no shirt on, he was glad the visitors did not linger.

‘Very good of her,’ Granny acknowledged, taking a drag of his rollie.

Tom nodded, noticing Granite’s fingers were stained with nicotine. This morning’s cigarette looked fragile, glowing brightly as Granny took another suck, holding it delicately between thumb and forefinger. Most held their cigarette using the first two fingers, but Tom had worked out that Granny like to smoke his down to the last moment it could be alight without burning him.

On their own again, the huge shearer began a tall tale and all the blokes visibly relaxed as he started in.

‘You know, I once sheared with a bloke called Maggot. He got that name because he smelled so bad, though he didn’t seem to mind. I reckon for the whole month we worked at one shed he didn’t change his clothes. Didn’t even take his trousers off to sleep. One day we all got together, and dumped him in a cold bath – held him down while the cook soaped him up good and proper. We found a pair of underpants actually stuck to him. Maggot didn’t even know they weren’t his skin.’

All the men reeled back, making sounds of disgust.

‘It’s true, I tell yer! I was there. We burned those underpants, probably with a layer of old Maggot’s arse still clinging to them. Anyway, one day he found an old kite, probably blown away from one of the children who’d gone off to boarding school. So Maggot took to learning how to fly this kite. Every afternoon he’d wander off into the bush and catch a breeze. And one evening before dinner, this overseer is riding through and sees Maggot.

‘“Hey, you a shearer?” “Yep,” says old Maggot. The bloke nods. “I’ve got a pen spare from tomorrow. Want some work?” So old Maggot gets behind on the horse and goes with this bloke. His name was Runt, so you can imagine what everyone called him.’

All the blokes sitting around smoking exploded into laughter.

‘He even began introducing himself that way. “Hello, I’m Runt the C—” he would say.’

Again, the gang chortled as one.

‘He was small, you see. Youngest of six sons and I think stunted. But he was bloody tough and had the smarts to match,’ Granny said, tapping his temple. ‘He could outwit anyone. So the bloke takes Maggot and sets him up at this other shed on the neighbouring property and off he goes.