Fifty More Bales of Hay

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. The people looked hostile. Like fringe-dwellers.

‘So uncool,’ she muttered to herself.

She really wished her roommate, Sally, had come with her, but Sally was living it up at a rave somewhere out on the eastern side of the city. Sally didn’t like the country. It was too uncouth for her. Even Anne’s boyfriend, Simon, had passed on coming with her on the trip, despite her offering to pay for a motel room. He had said he was busy with his computer networking thesis, but Anne knew he would be going to see Eddie, and his housemates, to spend the weekend drinking beers and playing stupid computer games.

She could picture (and smell) the wobbly-gutted Eddie now, sitting in his tip of a bedroom, while her pale, thin boyfriend, Simon, would be plugged into his laptop in the lounge room, blinking behind his glasses. The other housemates, Skeet and Thommo, would be in on it too, isolated in their own rooms, but linked into the same virtual reality game via wi-fi. They were games involving warriors and bomb making and the boys were obsessed with them.

Early in their relationship, Anne would go with Simon to Eddie’s and sit at Simon’s feet reading her books while he played on the computer. But the male testosterone that lurked in the house, the smell of boy farts and lack of sunlight started to get to her. She discovered early on it was best to leave Simon to it when he was gaming.

As she got out of her car, she felt the heat of the afternoon wrap around her. She tugged down her high-waisted black pencil skirt and kicked a grass seed off the top of her dainty little foot, which was encased by delicate red cloth-covered flats, trimmed with tiny black bows. She grabbed for her natural-fibre woven overseas-aid bag from the front seat, which contained her pad and pen, and picked up her iPhone so as to record this so-called ‘U.S. rodeo star’. As she locked her car, she felt apprehension gather in her. She was about to throw herself into this very male and brutish domain of animal cruelty and machismo.

As Anne walked around a big corrugated shed, she was met with a sight she hadn’t been expecting. The rodeo ground was shaded by large leafy trees and beneath them sat groups of people on beautiful green lawns. Mostly families on picnic blankets. There were cowboy-type dads pushing strollers, young girls lying in the sun in cut-off jeans and kids running about, their faces painted, balloons in hand. Mums sat chatting or passing food to their kids. Up in the stand were more clusters of families, all wearing hats against the brightness and heat of the summer afternoon, watching the dusty space of the arena that lay before them surrounded by high metal railings.

Gingerly Anne sidestepped up the scaffold seating in her rather restrictive skirt and sat. With a sudden burst, gates clanged open below. A calf sprang from nowhere. Two riders pelted out twirling ropes and within seconds, before the dust even had time to rise, they had lassoed a little horned steer the colour of caramel slice. The horses stood stock-still, keeping the ropes taut, the cowboys leaping off and hitching the calf, the crowd thundering applause like rain and the commentator revving the show along with an excited twang.

Anne wasn’t sure what she had just seen, but as the men let the little calf up again, she watched as it shook the dust from its coat. It instantly cast its ears forward to the gate where its friends were waiting. Calmly the calf trotted back from whence it had come. The men ambled back over to their horses, took up the split reins, smoothed grateful gloved hands down the perfectly muscled necks of their well-trained mounts, stepped back into their saddles and, like the calf, calmly walked their horses from the arena. As the announcer introduced the next roping pair, Anne looked about. She wondered which of the cowboys around the ground might be Randy Carter.

‘Hat, love?’ came a voice beside her.

She turned to see a middle-aged woman with two freckled redhead kids sitting beside her. ‘Pardon?’

‘Would you like a hat? I’ve got a spare,’ the woman said, offering up a cap with Darren’s Stock Transport embroidered on it. ‘Wouldn’t want to see that pretty little face of yours get burnt.’

Anne frowned. What was it with these people and the ‘pretty little’ line? She shook her head. ‘No. I’m fine, thank you.’

‘Not in an hour you won’t be. I suggest you sit in the shade, if you’re not gunna wear a hat. This sun will sting that lovely pale skin of yours.’

Anne tugged the skirt down over her white knees and looked at the woman as if she was an irritating insect. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know where I’d find Randy Carter, would you?’

The woman laughed. ‘Randy Carter! Ha! Why sure I know where to find him. Every woman knows where to find Randy.’

‘Yes, but where would I find him?’ Anne asked, hot and irritated.

The woman looked at Anne for a moment, her head tilted quizzically to the side, as if she was reading something about her. Eventually she said, after a subtle lift of her eyebrows, ‘Round the back of the bull chutes, I expect. But he’s on after this. He won’t be done until at least after five. I reckon you’re gunna have to wait.’

Anne sighed and stood up. She had to find some water. As she went to leave, the woman called after her, ‘My pleasure, love. No worries.’

Bull riding was the last event of the day and Anne, who was now lobster pink, stood beneath one of the giant elms, feeling her skin pulling taut painfully from sunburn. The noise from the bar was lifting. She was hoping to witness some rodeo male aggression there, but so far the lads and older men stood chatting in a friendly manner, stopping every now and then to watch the arena events. A buzz seemed to rise when the bulls were let up into the chutes and cowboys in white hats and tight safety vests emerged on the rail.

Anne couldn’t help but notice the fitness of the men. Their fringed leather chaps opened up to denim in the crutch area at the front, and at the back highlighted perfect denim-clad backsides. Every one of the cowboys seemed to have on a colourful shirt with Wrangler written on the sleeve or back. And each had spurs and dusty white hats that curved upwards at the sides. She had to swallow down a feeling that the men looked sexy. Really sexy. But in an aggressive over-the-top masculine way. Not like Simon who wore slip-on shoes, with long shorts and, mostly pilling, polo tops he bought from the op shop. He preferred to spend his money on computer games than clothing.

Over the loudspeaker, country rock music cranked loudly, the strains of a maniac harmonica blared and deep thumping drums kicked out a Garth Brooks tune as the first gate was swung and a bull rocked from the crush. On the giant black beast’s back sat the most athletic man Anne had ever seen. He was flung this way and that, one arm cast back high in the air, the other clutching a rope around the bull’s neck. She wondered for a moment if that was Randy Carter. She hadn’t caught the commentator’s call. She was feeling a little giddy. Then she heard a bell ring and a cheer rise up from the crowd. She watched as a man who had been standing behind a colourful barrel sprinted towards the beast and leaped in front of the big horned bull. He was dressed as a clown and darted this way and that as another clown dived in to help unhook the rider who was clearly stuck fast to the binding on the bull’s rigging and was getting tossed about like a rag doll. It looked rough. It looked dangerous. It looked … and it was at that point, Anne fainted.

When she woke, Anne found herself on a St John Ambulance stretcher bed, with the doors of the cab wide open, revealing the leafy canopy of the shady trees. Above her was a red-faced man and a pimply young woman.

‘Where’s your hat, young lady?’ said the man.

‘What?’

‘Heatstroke.’

‘But…’

‘Don’t worry, love. Someone’s gone to find Randy. They said he was a friend of yours.’

‘Randy?’ Anne said, sitting up and feeling woozy, knowing that it was more than just heatstroke that had caused her to faint. After another fight with Simon she’d partied pretty hard this week. Memories of her drug-fuelled rave came back to haunt her. She was still toxed. She knew it.

At that moment, at the back of the vehicle, the rodeo clown she saw earlier appeared. He wore runners, bright red skins that showed off perfectly formed legs, big oversized denim shorts held up with yellow braces and a pink shirt with large stars of various colours splashed over it. Rags of green, yellow and red hung from his belt and beneath his dusty cowboy hat was a riotous red curling wig. His face was painted, smeared with white, a big red clown mouth turned upwards and he had the signature black smudges above and below the white circles of his clown eyes.

‘Randy, hi!’ said the pimply girl in the tone of an airhead, Anne thought.

‘Why hello, Darlene,’ he said in a slow southern American accent.

‘Thanks for visiting my brother in hospital last week,’ the spotty St John volunteer said, her eyes illuminated with an obvious display of girlie crush.

‘My pleasure. He’s a cute kid. I hope he’s feelin’ better.’ Randy turned to look at Anne. ‘So, they tell me you’re the lass from the uni, come to grill me?’

‘I…?’ Anne began, embarrassed to be found in an ambulance by her interviewee. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, just as the St John man stepped forward with a rehydration drink for her.

‘Sit up slowly, young lady. We don’t want you cracking your scone if you faint again.’

Randy surveyed her from behind his clown make-up and shook his head. ‘No point you interviewing me in your present state. You’d better come back to my camp. Have a bit of a rest. Thank you, Darlene, thank you, Frank. I can take the little lady from here.’

A while later Anne found herself with a thumping headache at Randy’s ‘camp’, which was an extremely long horse trailer he called a Gooseneck. Inside were angled bays for the horses, where a big palomino stood munching on hay. Randy had sat her in a deck chair and showed her where he cooked, ate, slept and showered, which was basically in the back of the truck with the horses.

‘It’s charming,’ she said sarcastically. ‘And why isn’t this poor horse out in the yards with the others? Why is he shut in here?’ Anne turned to look at the strangely dressed man before her. It was hard to tell his age through the face paint. It was hard to tell his body shape. He had protective gear under his shirt and just looked boxy and square.

‘Mostly coz he likes it in here with me. We’re pretty good mates and because he’s a bull.’

‘A bull? But he’s a horse,’ Anne said.

Randy laughed. ‘I mean he’s a bull. He’s a stallion,’ he said. ‘You want to know about male aggression, little lady? He’ll kill another male that gets between him and his girls.’

Anne looked at the placid horse with the golden mane that looked as if it belonged in a Disney video. ‘Really?’

‘Ma’am, with all due respect, you don’t know much about animals and men, do ya?’

Anne felt herself stiffen. She was dux of her year last year at uni and had scored distinctions right the way through this semester. And she had a boyfriend.

She was about to answer when Randy, who was chewing on the end of a bit of hay, said, ‘Why do you think we castrate most of the male animals in our farming systems? It’s to keep order. That many males and all that testosterone would be too hard to handle. If you had seen them bulls out there today, you would’ve realised that running one thousand of those boys in one herd together would create all kinds of hell-raising. That’s kinda what’s happened to humans on planet Earth. There are a lot of males out there should never been bred, causing wars and pollution and a whole world of trouble. In farming, we leave the nuts in the best of them, the calm ones, the handsome ones, the most productive ones. You cut the nuts out of the rest, because that way you have order and a nice line of animals. I reckon there’d be plenty of women like to do the same to humanity. No use it being a “man’s world” when the men ain’t payin’ attention to what the women want.’

Anne tried to take in what he was saying. Her head was still thumping.

‘Way you come across in the world, ma’am, I reckon you’d like to castrate the aggressive, useless males and select the ones you women want and need for breeding.’

‘Excuse me? No! I…’ Anne said, her cheeks flaming red with offence.

‘Of course, I can say that confidently, about the castration, because I know the women would keep me as a bull. Not many women wouldn’t want babies outta me.’

Anne’s mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. The arrogance of the man! ‘Why … you…!’

She was about to stand up, but Randy had already ducked out of the Gooseneck. When he returned, he handed her a packet of painkillers and a pannikin of what smelled like rum.

‘Wash it down with that and it’ll all seem better, darlin’. And you do know, I’m teasin’ ya. You look like you could do with a bellyachin’ laugh.’

‘Don’t you darlin’ me,’ Anne said. ‘It’s patronising.’

‘Patronising? Or flatterising?’ he said with his clownish grin. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to take a shower. I’m stiff, I’m sore, I’m busted and I’m dusted. This make-up is annoying the hollerin’ hell outta me.’ And with that, the rodeo clown began to take off his runners and proceeded to undress right there in front of Anne.

‘I … You … Um, excuse me?’ she stammered.

He stopped unbuttoning his shirt and looked at her. Anne could see vibrant blue pupils ringed with grey.

‘Well, you are in my shower room. You never seen a man’s body before? You can sit outside, but the mozzies’ll eat you this time of evening. I suggest you stay right there with your headache and look away, young lady. Or you’re welcome to jump right in and join me. It’s river water pumped from just outside. Makes your hair nice and soft. Might wash away your headache and your sins.’

‘Sins?’ She rolled her eyes again. This man was frustrating! Arrogant, aggressive and frustrating!

But Anne found she couldn’t help sneaking glances as he dropped the denim clown shorts, pulled off the skins and stood just in his shirt, which he had unbuttoned and was now dropping to the floor. The Velcro of his protective vest made loud ripping noises as he peeled it from his body and then slipped off his singlet. Unashamedly he dropped his underpants, turning to the shower bay that was right there in the back of the Gooseneck alongside the small stove and a pile of horse gear and Anne’s chair.

Anne’s mouth dropped when she saw his male perfection from behind. The broad shoulders were so brown and muscled that as he reached for the taps she could see the mechanics of his divine body beneath his skin. The way his waist tapered into narrow white buttocks that topped muscled thighs, sculpted as perfectly as the statue of David. Across his back and his side were red welts and bruising. Along his knee she saw a deep red scar that ran in an arc down his shin.

‘Why do you do it to your body? Why do rodeo?’

‘Why do people base jump?’ he said, scrubbing soap onto his chest. ‘Why do people race cars? Or surf giant waves?’

‘Males seeking mindless adrenaline, through egotistical risk-taking,’ she answered.

‘Not only males. You take risks.’

‘I do not.’

‘Why do you risk your life taking them dangerous party drugs? Why do you jeopardise that tiny little body of yours that’s no bigger than a widget and your busy brain that’s too noisy to think straight?’

She sat up, surprised at his question, insulted by his comments.

He ducked under the spray of the shower and began to soap his legs, turning his head to her. Waiting for an answer. She saw the colours of his clown face run in rivulets down his tanned body.

‘How do you know I take drugs?’

He began to scrub his face with a flannel, and she watched his shoulder blades move beneath his smooth skin.

‘Your eyes are dulled by something, and it isn’t the hardship of life. You’re as spoiled as Paris Hilton. Nope. You take them drugs. I can read it in your energy. You ain’t balanced.’

‘Oh, great. Judged by a clown. What would you know about my energy?’

‘It’s aggressive for one thing,’ he said in his southern drawl. ‘And your energy is all prickly like.’

‘Are you trying to talk metaphysics with me?’ she said, flabbergasted by this strange conversation she was having with a naked rodeo clown.

‘Would it surprise you if I was? How else does a rodeo protection athlete do his job? We have to know a bit of kinesiology, a bit of quantum physics, a bit of ethology so we can read the bull. How else do we keep ourselves and the bull rider alive unless by knowledge of energetics and our own intuition so we can keep two steps ahead of the bull? And on the ranch, how else does a cowboy gauge the movement of a herd of cattle or the inner ways, the emotions, of his horse? It’s all energetics. With some critters, the softer you are, the more powerful you are.’

‘Then why torment those poor bulls and horses?’