In the backblocks near the Wanganui River I got talking with a local bloke in a pub, who introduced me to another bloke who sized me up, bought me a beer and asked me if I wanted ten days work.
“Nothing much to it, mate. The missus’ sister is having a baby in Wellington, and she wants to be there with the family. We live on a family-owned sheep farm. Jude and I live in part of the old woolshed and run bees - pretty good manuka honey around here...I just need someone to keep an eye on the hives while we’re away, and feed the dogs....you can stay in our place...there’s a wood stove, a freezer full of goat, venison and pig...and a vege garden...bring your own beer though.
“Jude’s dad lives in the old farmhouse..he’s a decent character, and I mean character! Bruce his name is. Retired now, gun shearer in his day. Lots of good walks - marine fossils in the hills: shells, crays, Bruce reckons he’s found a fossilized croc. He’s always good for a yarn... talk your leg off....quotes the Bible a bit - nothing too serious....”
It turned out to be a pretty good gig. Everything was as he described, and the old boy was great company. Every afternoon he came over with his dogs, sheared a few sheep, and fell asleep for a while in an old armchair. When he awoke we sat in the open door of the shearing shed, cracked a few beers and looked out at the tea-trees, the bee hives, the hills, rolling clouds, the rusting bulldozer, thistles, gorse, and broken fences. In our silences the river rolled past behind the trees, the dogs snapped at flies, the smell of lanolin oozed from the wooden floor, while the tin walls cracked at intervals in the heat.
Here's a video of Bruce doing what Bruce does best: shearing a sheep:
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