Fifty More Bales of Hay. Rachael Treasure

>

      FIFTY MORE BALES OF HAY

      RACHAEL TREASURE

       Dedication

      For ordinary everyday goddesses like you and me

      Contents

       Title Page

      Dedication

      Letter to Reader

      Rodeo Clown

      The Joining

      Showtime Line-up

      Milking Time

      Branded

       The Ride-on Serviceman

       About the Author

       Other Books by Rachael Treasure

       The Farmer’s Wife

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       Letter to Reader

      Hello dear reader,

      Can I please take a moment to let you know in real life I am a nerd? I am more likely to be found in bed with a thesaurus than with an actual bloke, so I must stress … these stories are fiction. Because of this I haven’t bored the reader with all the safe sex practices needed to get you through life to a healthy age without your private bits falling off. Therefore, I stress, to young and old, in real life practise safe sex and while you are at it, practise love, respect and kindness with the one you’re with!

      Remember, no balloon, no party.

      Rachael

       Rodeo Clown

      Driving her little green bubble car, Anne Boxright turned into the Tunbamboola Twilight Rodeo grounds and stopped at the gate, where one of two rather frumpy-looking women in high-vis vests trundled over from the shade of a canopy tent.

      Anne jabbed off the air-conditioning, turned down her favourite indie rock band, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, who were playing from her iPhone through the car stereo, and wound the window down.

      ‘Fifty dollars for the weekend,’ one of the women said in a broad accent, ‘or fifteen dollars just for this arvo and the band tonight.’

      ‘Fifty bucks!’ answered Anne. ‘That’s a bit steep. I’m here on a uni assignment. I’m a student. Can I get in for free?’ Anne had barely had enough money for fuel for the drive here. She’d blown her last student payment buying some eccy at a nightclub and was still paying for it in other ways. After her all-nighter and the buzz she no longer remembered, the world still seemed a little weird and she felt a whole lot poorer in every way.

      The high-vis woman turned to her mate. ‘Shirl, this here’s a uni student. Can she come in for free?’

      The woman, who Anne now knew as Shirl, waddled over in her sensible navy shoes and lavender tracksuit and top. The woman surveyed Anne’s pale skinny arms and her bobbed black hair and fringe that was cut in a dead-straight line across her pixie-like serious face. Shirl then took time to stare at her cream, see-through, draped-crepe top with black sailor-boy collar and matching black buttons.

      ‘A student, eh? I can see you’re not from round here. What are you studyin’, darl?’

      Anne almost rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to get stuck here talking to two old crones who couldn’t apply lipstick properly, had haircuts like road workers, and clothes that looked as if they were bought from the specials racks at Best & Less. She sighed.

      ‘Sociology, anthropology and environmentalism. You know,’ Anne said with boredom in her tone.

      ‘Is that right?’ said Shirl. ‘In-ter-esting. And what brings you to the Tunbamboola Rodeo?’

      ‘Oh, just the assignment.’

      ‘And what assignment would that be, darl?’

      ‘An anthropological study on male aggression.’

      ‘Male aggression?’ Shirl looked perplexed. ‘Bull males? Or human males?’

      ‘It’s anthropology,’ Anne said as if spelling the word out to a simple person. ‘Human male aggression.’

      ‘You won’t find much human male aggression round here, but anyways suit yourself. If you want in, you can have in.’ Then the woman paused, narrowed her eyes and said slowly, ‘You’re not from one of those animal activity mobs, are you, sweetheart? Coz if you are, the rodeo folk said if any one of youse turn up, they’re happy to give you a cuppa and a tour of the back chutes and a chance to meet the riders and animals. Bulls and all. I’m not that into rodeos meself, just here for the Ladies Guild, but I do love animals. I’m very good to my animals … in fact, my dog—’

      ‘No! I’m not here about animals!’ Anne interrupted. ‘I’m just doing an anthropological assignment, like I told you. I’ve got an interview with…’ Anne looked across to her notes that were sitting on the passenger seat of the car, ‘a … Randy Carter from the Rodeo Association.’

      The older women exchanged knowing glances.

      ‘Ooh! Randy!’ Both of them chuckled and nodded in what looked like appreciation and admiration for the man.

      ‘He’ll be happy to chat to a pretty little thing like you.’ Shirl grinned with her badly capped teeth. Then the other woman piped up.

      ‘Randy’s working flat out, darling, with the rodeo. And he won’t be done till dark. Then he’s got to water and feed his horses and all. You’d best get the weekend ticket, if I was you. Catch up with him first thing in the morning, before the Professional Bareback.’ She shook her head. ‘Tonight’ll be too noisy when the band’s on, to interview anyone. Those Wolfe Brothers really do crank it up for us.’

      Still offended by being called ‘a pretty little thing’, Anne shook her head and sighed. These women truly were simple.

      ‘Fine. So, how much for my entry?’ Anne asked.

      Shirl scratched her jagged short grey hair with thick, chunky fingers.

      ‘Well, dear, the proceeds of the gate fees go to the local respite care … if you’d like to make a contribution, just a donation, we can let you in on student rates.’

      ‘And how much would that be?’ Anne said, getting really hot under her sailor’s collar.

      ‘Whatever you can spare, duck.’

      Anne fished around in the ashtray of her car and passed the lady a couple of two-dollar coins, then looked distastefully at the program that the woman handed her. It had the silhouette of a cowboy riding a bucking horse.

      ‘Thank you for your generosity,’ the woman said, smiling but with a hint of piss-take in her tone. ‘You’ve missed the broncs, darl. But you may be in time for the roping. Enjoy yourself and your studyin’.’

      ‘Right. Thanks,’ Anne said, wondering if all country people were that slow. She accelerated away, driving on to where rows and rows of country cars and utes were parked. Her little car lumped and thumped its way over the rough-mown, clumpy pasture. Anne grimaced with each jolt. Then she grimaced some more when she saw some redneck rodeo patrons passing by in frayed jeans and shorts, boots and checked shirts and cowboy hats. It was all so predictable.