Thinking of Robbie made him weave together all the times they’d ridden to and from town, even made him miss Robbie’s favourite joke, how he called him a mule atop a horse.
Pull yourself together, boy.
The stones told Grant when Tea’s eyes latched onto him, as if she could hear his thoughts. This wasn’t just about survival; it was buried deep in his mule-ness, knowing where and when to be, where people were, what they needed. A blessing and a curse – his equine abilities lent him a strength his body wouldn’t otherwise have.
Tea tugged at her gloves and fiddled with her reins, but Grant could feel her turmoil through the minute vibrations in the stones. Always the ground talking to him. He wished, endlessly, that he could tell the ground to shake something up for the boys over there, but fine control was not in his command; he was a beast of burden. It didn’t stop his joints from aching, his chest tightening up when it was cold, but it was something. It was enough.
Lunchtime proved equally tense. Tea caged herself between Alison and Carmel. Meals weren’t always this quiet, no matter what Tea thought of the stern mask the boss put on. Did she know about the boys the MacGregors had seen off to the front? The Missus hadn’t spoken of them since they left, like she was afraid uttering their names would bring a curse down on them. A rough way to do it, but that was the Missus. Ed and Bert were good, hard-working boys, though they’d had more time for the amiable Robbie than for him.
Down the table, Izzy put on her best face. She’d better be careful. Being quiet could give her away. Mr MacGregor constantly reprimanded her for being a chatterbox, but sometimes they all needed the silence filled. Izzy had the right words. Usually. But not today.
“Right, you lot.” Mr MacGregor’s voice punched through the tension. “Down to the shed with you.”
Carmel stacked the last of the dishes away with a mock groan, and Tea pulled on her boots silently at the back door. The shearing gang trooped from their cottage – they always ate separate – carefully pinching off the ends of their thin tobacco rollies, stomping into their boots. Dogs milled like a black and white storm. The war didn’t stop for Sunday.
Sheep bleating. Izzy bellowing. The stink of male sweat mixed with hair, lanolin, and the sweet-sharp glow of the girls. Grant could separate each of the men by their scent alone. The gap in the scent palate left him fumbling with his pencil and clipboard for a moment.
A warning stitched into the air. Izzy glared at him over a bundle of freshly shorn wool she tossed onto the table for grading. He was exuding too much again. He coughed, the stuffiness of the shed making his chest tighten. Did the Missus have enough of those nice herbs dried for tea?
“You stupid girl!”
Mr MacGregor’s bellow startled the shed into a portrait of frozen wonder, the gang boys leering, Carmel’s face twisted in pain and surprise, a sheep all tits-up.
Then, a burst of action. Carmel’s shears twanged into the floor of her run, and she shrieked. The sheep bolted for freedom. The shearing gang laughed. Alison flailed her arms in a wild attempt to block off the sheep.
The strange hot twinge flared in Grant’s knuckles at the same time Tea made her move. Girl and mammal went down in a roll of legs and hooves. The sheep mah’d its discontent as she wrestled it back into the run. Her face set in stone, Tea snatched up Carmel’s shears, locked right leg and left arm into the correct position and clipped away. The gang boys scoffed harder, then fell silent as Tea clipped smooth and steady.
Only the disgruntled sheep waiting in the gates made a sound.
Grant watched, fascinated, as Tea kept the ewe calm, muttering under her breath, the shears almost an extension of her hand. She’d been taught well, her technique smoother than Izzy’s, who often treated the sheep like the eye dog she barely kept harnessed inside herself.
“Alright, stop gawping,” Mr MacGregor grunted. He narrowed his eyes at the gang boys, and they looked everywhere but at the boss or Tea. “Carmel, gittup to the house and see the Missus about that hand. The rest of you, gitton. These sheep don’t shear themselves.”
Hand wrapped in her handkerchief, Carmel sniffled and hurried away. Grant kept his silence – the gang boys placed him only just above the land girls in respect – and went back to grading the wool, picking out imperfections, notating bale weights, all the while keeping an eye on the smooth job Tea performed upon the now relaxed ewe. She had a way with the animals, that was for sure.
Within nine minutes by the shed clock the fleece fell away from the ewe in one clean piece. Faster than some of the shearing gang.
“Attagirl!” Izzy whooped, punching the air.
Ignoring the praise, Tea pulled another sheep into the run and set to. Izzy threw the fleece on the table, and Grant checked it over. Tidy edges, even clip. Izzy gave him a tiny nod. The girl had style.
After eight more sheep, Tea wasn’t exactly smiling, but there was a straightness to her back that hadn’t been there before. Grant watched her as she went to wash up for dinner. Her stride seemed longer, too. She’d made a decision.
Returning to the solitary of the men’s cottage – Buck up, cheerio, it’s not for long – he checked his kit once more. He wanted to be prepared in any case for what Tea’s decision might be. He had to be.
How could he give this up so easy, especially on the whim of a girl? This was all he had. There was no going back south to Gore. This was home. It was safer here; at least it had been, before the war.
*
Tea had smelled the way Grant looked at her all through Sunday, a far too pleasant mix of dust and hay. The air shivered with it, an aptitude all at once familiar and unfamiliar for its normality. She’d always been able to tell when Mum was opening her mouth to speak, or when Robbie was sneaking through the house, by the shift of the air. Now that she knew it was magic, the pull of it sat ungainly around her face, the air rough with too much possibility.
Questions squeezed her brain and chest as she tried to wash off the sheep muck in time for dinner. Carmel and Alison called back and forth, the slight injury of the earlier afternoon almost forgotten. Strangely enough, Izzy remained quiet, though her presence pressed large against the air, making Tea feel like she was gasping for breath.
“Wolf in sheep’s clothing on one side, mule boy on the other,” she muttered to herself, splashing water on her sweaty face and neck. “And now I think eels can talk to me? Why didn’t you tell me, Robbie?”
Because there’s no way you would have believed me. You have to see everything for yourself, you stubborn goat.
She paused, hands plunged in water that was still painfully cold even after being humped up from the creek. The water tried to whisper a reassurance over her skin, and she flinched. Now she was imagining her brother’s voice as well as the hissing voice of this strange magic Izzy and Grant claimed she possessed.