Sheep are as tough as bloody nails.

The ute had pulled up next to a large old house surrounded by a picket fence. A little border of flowers led up to the door. Over to the side of it lay an ample vegetable garden, which teemed with rows of green in differing dimensions and patterns. Next to the veggie garden sat a huge rectangular galvanised iron shed. Directly opposite were two more oversized sheds. One was closed with massive iron doors, the other was open revealing two large tractors with large alien looking machinery alongside. Harry had no idea what they were, and he suddenly felt very naive. The wide dirt driveway extended around behind the sheds and off in the distance surrounding it all. It seemed like miles of dry tufted paddocks fenced in with wire pulled tight between thick wooden posts.

John introduced Harry to Roy, a slightly older station hand. 'Find him a bed, mate, then show him around for me, will you?'

Roy shook Harry's hand hard. 'G'day mate,' he said heartily and then took him to another smaller shed not far from the main house. It had enough beds in it for 20 men, most of which were obviously in use.

'There's a bed next to mine that's empty. The bloody shearing team arrived a couple a days ago so we're pretty bloody full in here,' Roy explained. 'Stow ya stuff and I'll show ya 'round.'

As Harry followed Roy around the station, he was struck by the expanse of red dirt that filled the landscape. As far as he could see, the land was interspersed here and there with a shrub or a lone gum tree and scattered dead, grassy clumps protruding out of the ground. But overwhelmingly, everywhere was copper dust. As if to add testament to its dominance, a thin film of red overlaid everything else. All the buildings, machinery, fences, trucks. Even the windowsills on the main house were a red hue. Two big, round, low tanks filled with water stood away to the side with the narrow pipe leading to them, also coated with a film of red.

Roy headed towards a big corrugated iron shed surrounded by hundreds of penned-in sheep. Most pens were filled with sheep that were thick with wool, grazing quietly on mounds of straw, while a couple held sheep, white, naked and bleating.
'Shearers are different,'Roy announced as fact. 'They start work at seven thirty in the mornin' and have a half hour smoko mornin' and afternoon, an hour for lunch then knock off at five thirty, on the bell. The Boss o'the Board rings the bloody bell to start their day then rings the bell to stop it. They only do eight bloody hours work a day! They get it bloody easy I tell ya!' Roy spoke emphatically. 'And ya know the bloody awful thing?'

Harry had no idea so waited for Roy to enlighten him.

'The bloody awful thing about bloody shearers is this,' he climbed the steps up to the shearing shed. 'They bloody earn ten times more than any of us!' He turned around and stared at Harry, his eyes wide.

Feeling like Roy needed a response Harry exclaimed, 'Shit!'

'Shit's right. They earn around four pence a sheep. So, depending on how many sheep ya do a day, a good shearer can bring home round fifteen or sixteen pound a week.'

Roy stopped at the door to the shed and turned to face Harry. 'We bloody get up and do a couple of hours work before breakfast, work bloody hard all day and then bloody more work after dinner. It's bloody not fair.'

It certainly didn't seem fair.

'Ya can't say nothin' tho'!' Roy continued. 'They're bloody protected by the Boss o' the Board. Ya can't chip em or complain or nothin! Don't ya tell anyone I been complainin' mind. Specially the Boss in there.'

Harry nodded.

Roy went on, 'Not the Boss ya come here with. That's the manager. The Boss of the Board is the guy who's in charge of the shearers. Not a bloody job I'd want.' Roy laughed.

Just then a car horn blasted. 'Shit!' Roy cursed. 'That's John. I gotta go.' He turned to Harry. 'Just go in and introduce ya'self. Then when ya done, come over to the house and ya'll meet the cook.' He beamed at that, as if it was the biggest treat in the world and wandered off.

Harry paused before opening the shearing shed door.

The door creaked heavily on rusted hinges as it swung slowly open. The smell hit Harry, engulfing him as it hung in the air. At first it was the inordinate stench of dung. Sheep dung. In all its stages of maturity; the fresh, the stale and the festering. Harry instinctively held his breath. The lighting dingy in comparison to the bright sunlight, he squinted and tried to see. As he exhaled, refusing to buckle under the pungent air, he noticed another scent hidden behind the first. A heavy, musty odour that commanded attention. He was instantly caught. He had never smelt this before and could not place it.

He gradually became aware of the incessant drone of machinery underneath layers of men's voices. Some called out sharply, some mumbled, low and indecipherable. And in the middle of it all, he could hear sheep bleating. Continuously. His brain slowly worked it out.
Wool. He could smell wool. His eyes finally adjusted to the dim light which revealed a world different to anything he had experienced. He was standing at one end of a shed that was larger than it had appeared from outside. It was about three times as long as it was wide with an open door at the other end. Down each side four dirty, sweaty men in singlets and shorts, and worked bent over with a sheep between their legs. Behind each was a little opening covered by a thin sheet of tatty material, letting in splinters of light. Directly in front of the door where Harry had come in, a man was sitting at a desk with his back to Harry. He intermittently watched the men and wrote in a big book. Down the farthest end were two large slatted table-like, metal racks. A man stood at the foot of one with woollen fleece all jumbled up in his arms. As Harry watched, he hurled the fleece into the air, keeping hold of it at two joining corners. Like a sail unfurling it opened and fell flat onto the rack, perfectly spread. He and another man then walked around it, examining it, picking up pieces here and discarding pieces there. He then grabbed the whole thing again, bundled it together and walked over to three big canvas bags stretched open on frames. Having chosen one, he threw the fleece while the other man jumped up onto it, pushing it down with his feet.

One of the shearers whistled sharply as he shoved the sheep he had been working on out the little opening next to him. He then stood up slowly, stretched, and groaned as he put both hands on the small of his back. A lad, a few years younger than Harry, jumped up from a stool near the back and ran to the shearer, carefully but quickly gathering up the fleece that lay jumbled on the floor. The lad then scampered back to the wool classer and Harry watched again as another fleece was unfurled and expertly classed before being bundled, like the first one, into the big canvas bag.

All the men seemed engrossed in what they were doing, and no one seemed to notice Harry standing there. Fascinated, Harry found his attention drawn to the man directly in front of him. Though he was bent nearly double, his shoulders rose above the other men. He worked hard, his giant arms moving swiftly and decisively. Back and forth the sweat glistened as it dripped freely onto the boards below. He did not falter. Each stroke was straight and clean. No overlapping; no wasted movement. First the belly, then straight up the neck and on to the left shoulder. He then lay the sheep down and with each stroke shore from tail to neck across the sheep's back, moving deeper and deeper into the creamy softness. The crimped ivory wool opened and then fell away with mesmerizing inevitability. Harry could not take his eyes away. He felt an irresistible urge to touch it and impulsively stepped forward. As he did, the door, which had been propped slightly open against Harry's foot, shut heavily behind him. The shearer looked up at the noise then turned back just as quickly to his work. He had just shorn the right shoulder and was making his way down the sheep's right side, before finishing off on the back legs. Just before he reached the legs, the sheep began to kick and move about, obviously sick of the whole affair. As Harry watched, a bright red smear appeared behind the shearer's hand below the ribs and began to creep across the freshly shorn ivory belly.

'Bloody hell!' The shearer blasted. 'Bloody shit sheep!'

He finished off the last piece of fleece and called to the man sitting on the stool.

'Boss! Bring the gut! I've nicked the bloody belly!' At this, he looked over at Harry and stared.

Harry smiled weakly, then looked away, not sure what to do or where to look.

A man walked over. He was unshaven and dressed the same as all the other men but with one difference. Unlike the shearers who were dripping with sweat, the Boss of the Board carried only a mild shimmer of perspiration. He carried a small leather pouch in his hand and a massive grin on his face.

'Here you are, mate,' he said with a smile in his voice. 'This'd be the first in a few years? Do you remember how to do this?' he teased. 'Hey fellas!' his voice booming above the drone of the machines. 'Anyone wanna stitch up a belly? The gun's forgotten how.' He chuckled loudly.

The shearer glared at the Boss. 'Alright! Alright! Just thread the gut and shut up. She's making a bloody mess.'

Just as he'd said, Harry could see the ewe's blood dripping onto the boards where she stood. He glanced at her belly to see how big the cut was and gasped as he saw the glistening of intestine extruding from her skin. No one else seemed bothered. Without a hint of asepsis, the Boss carefully threaded the catgut onto a massive surgical needle.

'Did ya nick the gut, mate?' He asked as he handed the needle and thread.

'Nah, bloody close though. She kicked at just the wrong time, bloody sheep.' The shearer mumbled letting his frustration show.

Together, the Boss and shearer worked swiftly, without fuss, pushing her gut back in and stitched the open wound. The roustabout brought a tub of black tar-like substance over and they slapped that all over her wound. Then they stood the injured sheep up and she bleated as they pushed her out with the others through the little opening.

The Boss turned and looked at Harry, then laughed at the stunned expression on his face. 'She'll be right, mate.
Sheep are as tough as bloody nails.The kerosene and phenol in the tar work a treat. She'll be fine by morning. Won't even know nothing's happened.'

The Boss wiped his hands on an already dirty looking cloth and asked, 'Who are you anyway?'

Harry knew he'd been spoken to but the noise in the shed was loud and he couldn't make out the words. 'Pardon?' he asked.

The Boss stared at him. 'Who the bloody hell are you?' he asked again. 'You deaf or something?'

'My name's Harry. I'm the new station hand.' Harry answered and then added boldly: 'And yeah, I am a bit deaf. Hope that's not a problem.' He stared back the Boss.

'Not at all, mate.' The Boss put out his hand and they shook hands. 'Call me Pete. I'm the Boss of the Board.' He then looked him up and down. 'Reckon you've never been outback before, hey?'

'Yeah. Just got here.'

'Right'o then. You can watch if ya like. Just don't distract the men. Especially this gun here. Seems like he's easily distracted.' The boss walked off and laughed.

By this time, the sweaty shearer had grabbed a new sheep from the stall outside and had pulled it onto its back and begun to shear. Harry watched, caught again by the rhythmical dance of sheep and shearer. This sheep completely submitted to the shearer.

Harry knew he was staring again and tried vainly to look away. He noticed the sweat dripping freely from the man's face completely absorbed with his task. Shearing was bloody hard work. Harry smiled. He didn't mind hard work. Hard work and a sweaty body made him feel good. He smiled to himself in anticipation and realised something else. He felt respected. He'd stood up to the Boss about his deafness and been given due regard in return. It felt good. As he stood there now, the sense of adventure and boldness that he'd felt on the steps of Krämer Furniture surged again.

He looked hard at the shearer in front of him and decided, then and there. He was going to become a shearer.