她坐在高背椅中连身子都没动，就准确地告诉他应当做什么了，连细微末节都交待得清清楚楚。帕迪习惯的是新西兰的剪毛活儿，有26个工位的巨大的剪毛场当初还真使他吃惊不浅呢；现在，在和他的姐姐谈过话以后一情况和数字便在他的脑子里翻腾开了。要在德罗海达剪毛的不但是德罗海达的羊，布格拉、迪班一迪班和比尔一比尔的羊也要在这里剪毛。这就意味着这里的每一个人，不论男女，都要苦干一场。集体剪毛是这里的习惯，使用德罗海达剪毛设施的各个牧场自然要派人来全力帮忙，可是，干那些零星活计的担子就必不可免地要落在德罗海达人的肩头上。
剪羊工们自己带做饭的人来，从牧场的商店里买食物，但是这一大批食品得有人去搞；摇摇欲坠的、带厨房的临时工棚和附设的简陋的浴室必须冲刷、清理，并且备好褥子和毯子。并不是所有的牧场对剪毛工都是像德罗海达那样慷慨大方的，但是，德罗海达是以它的好客和"棒得累死人的剪毛场"的声誉引以自豪的。由于这是玛丽·卡森参与的一项活动，因此她不吝惜金钱。它不仅是新南威尔士州最大的剪毛场之一，而且它也需要雇佣最能干的人，有杰基·豪那种能力的人，这些剪毛工在把行李包扔上包工头的那辆蓝福特卡车，消失在他们去另一个剪毛场的路上之前，得剪完30多万头绵羊的毛。
弗兰克两个星期不在家了。他和老羊工比尔巴雷尔·皮特带着一群狗、两匹牧羊马和由一匹不愿拉车的小马驾辕的一辆轻型单座两轮马车，载着他们最起码的必需品，到西边远处的围场去了：他们得把羊逐渐地赶到一起，进行挑选和分类。这是一个既缓慢又乏味的活计，与洪水前的那种猛轰猛赶不可同日而语。每个围场都有自己的畜栏，部分分级和打印记的工作在畜栏里就进行了，分好的羊群留在那里，直到被送进剪毛场为止。剪毛场的畜栏一次只能容纳一万头羊，所以，剪毛工们在那里的时候，活儿是不会轻松的，老是得紧张地忙着把没剪毛的羊群和剪过毛的羊群赶进赶出。
she summoned Paddy to the big house some days before the shearers came, and without moving from her wing chair she told him
precisely1 what to do down to the last little detail. Used to New Zealand
shearing2, Paddy had been staggered by the size of the shed, its twenty-six stands; now, after the interview with his sister, facts and figures warred inside his head. Not only would Drogheda sheep be shorn on Drogheda, but Bugela and Dibban-Dibban and Beel-Beel sheep as well. It meant a grueling amount of work for every soul on the place, male and female.
Communal3 shearing was the custom and the stations sharing Drogheda's shearing facilities would naturally pitch in to help, but the brunt of the incidental work
inevitably4 fell on the shoulders of those on Drogheda.
The shearers would bring their own cook with them and buy their food from the station store, but those vast amounts of food had to be found; the ramshackle barracks with kitchen and
primitive5 bathroom attached had to be
scoured6, cleaned and equipped with
mattresses7 and blankets. Not all stations were as generous as Drogheda was to its shearers, but Drogheda prided itself on its hospitality, and its reputation as a "
bloody8 good shed." For this was the one activity in which Mary Carson participated, so she didn't
stint9 her purse. Not only was it one of the biggest sheds in New South Wales, but it required the very best men to be had, men of the Jackie Howe
caliber10; over three hundred thousand sheep would be shorn there before the shearers loaded their swags into the contractor's old
Ford11 truck and disappeared down the track to their next shed.
Frank had not been home for two weeks. With old Beerbarrel Pete the stockman, a team of dogs, two stock horses and a light sulky attached to an
unwilling12 nag13 to hold their modest needs, they had set out for the far western paddocks to bring the sheep in, working them closer and closer,
culling14 and sorting. It was slow, tedious work, not to be compared with that wild
muster15 before the floods. Each paddock had its own stockyards, in which some of the grading and marking would be done and the mobs held until it was their turn to come in. The shearing shed yards accommodated only ten thousand sheep at a time, so life wouldn't be easy while the shearers were there; it would be a constant flurry of exchanging mobs, unshorn for shorn.When Frank stepped into his mother's kitchen she was
standing16 beside the sink at a never-ending job, peeling potatoes.
"Mum, I'm home!" he said, joy in his voice.
As she swung around her
belly17 showed, and his two weeks away lent his eyes added perception.
"Oh, God!" he said.
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