Bush Studies (12 page)

There was a wail of anguished hunger from Liz's empty children that aroused paternal sympathy in Ned. “Sep me Gord,” he said, “some wimmen is like cows. They'll give ther own calf a suck, but if anyone else's calf cums anigh 'em they lif' their leg an' kick it ter blazes.”

Jyne tossed her head and, with a derisive laugh, expressed the opinion that “It 'ed fit sum people better if ther munny wasted in buyin' flash coats an' rediclus 'ats wus spent in flour bags.”

For a short space only the voice of the preacher sounded, as, in studied stoicism, he pursued his thankless task. Occasionally they looked at him to see “'oo 'e wus speakin' ter”, but finding nothing directly personal, even this attention ceased.

Liz leant across to Tilly Lumber and asked, “Fowl layin'?”

“Ketch 'em er layin' et Chrissermus.”

Ned told how he had brought home a number of law books from Sydney, and that he and an old man he had picked up “wus readin' 'em”. It was his intention to absorb such an amount of knowledge that all he would have to do with the lessee of the run—an ex-barrister—would be to put him in a bail. What would follow was graphically illustrated by Ned's dropping his head, gripping an imaginary bucket between his knees, and opening and shutting his hands in rhythmic up and down movements. Some of his audience, remembering his threats and warnings against the parson, thought this pantomime must have an ominous meaning for the preacher.

But sceptical Jyne was not impressed. “Upon me soul,” she said, “sum people is the biggest lyin' blowers that ever cockt er lip.”

Alick, always for peace, stepped into the breach. “Comin' along jes' now,” he said, shifting his plug of tobacco from one side to the other, and aiming at the flies in the fireplace with the juice, “we 'as a yarn with Mick Byrnes. 'E 'as ther luck of er lousy calf. 'E sez 'e got eightpence orl roun' fer 'ees kangaroo-skins. Damned if I can.”

“Now a good plan 'ed be,” said Ned, “ter get a good lot, sen' 'em down ter them Sydney blocks. Slip down yerself, go ter ther sale, don' let on 'oo yer are, an' run 'em up like blazes. Thet's wot I'll do with my wool nex' year.”

This plan seemed commendable to Alick. “By Goey,” he said, his mild eyes blinking.

Jyne never, on any occasion, showed the slightest interest or attention when Ned was speaking, unless to sniff and lay bare her bottom teeth, but here she remarked, “Sum people 'ud keep runnin' ter Sydney till 'e 'asen' er penny ter fly with.”

“If sum people with ser much jawr, an' er mouth es big es 'er torn pocket, belonged ter me,” said Ned, “I'd smash 'er ugly jawr.”

Jyne slewed hers to an awful angle in his direction. “I'd like ter see yer try it.”

A look of agony came into the eyes of the grazier's wife as she heard the door of the dining-room open. The children were so quiet, that she knew they were up to mischief.

She heard Jinny's hoarse whisper, “Orl of yez wait an' I'll bring yer sumsin'.” On the dining-room table was the cold food prepared for the clergyman's dinner. She looked across at her husband with dumb entreaty. He, with eyes devoutly on the carpet, was listening intently to Ned's account of how he nearly made the squatter take a “sugar doodle” (back somersault) when he heard that he had been to Sydney.

“‘Day Keogh,' sez I.

“‘'Oo 'ave I ther 'oner of speakin' ter?' sez 'e.

“‘Mr Stennard,' I sez.

“‘Oh indeed,' 'e sez, ‘very 'appy ter make yer acquaintance, Mr Stennard, Esquire,' 'e sez.

“‘Never mind no blarsted acquaintance,' I sez, ‘w'en are yer goin' ter take yer flamin' jumbucks orf my lan'?' I sez.

“‘Your lan',' 'e sez, ‘I didn' know you 'ad any lan' about 'ere,' 'e sez.

“‘Oh didn' yer,' I sez, ‘you ner ther Lan' Agent won' frighten me orf,' I sez, ‘gammonin' I'm on er reserve,' sez I, ‘I've paid me deposit, an' I've been ter Sydney,' I sez, ‘I put me name ter a cheque,' sez I, ‘an'—'”

Jyne ceased sniffing, to laugh long and loudly. “Gawd, eh!” she said, with her eyes on the ceiling and apparently appealing to the flies. “Wot 'erbout sech game-cocks bullyin' w'en we fust kem out 'ere?”

Ned went hastily out at the front door “ter squint at ther jumbucks”, three miles away. Joey, who had been peering round that door, now appeared at the back.

“Come in, Joey,” snorted Jyne. “No one ain't game ter 'it yer w'en I'm 'ere.”

The minister still preached, but he had only old Alick for a listener.

The hostess's mental picture of Jinny “sharin'” her dinner for three among that voracious brood was distracting. Only the fear of suffering in the clergyman's mind as one of “them” kept her to her seat. She could give the sermon no attention, but listened to Sis licking her fingers, and wondered if it was the vinegar or the wine that caused Jinny's cough. Presently Jinny set that doubt at rest by coming in odorous, and with the front of her dress wine-stained.

“Little 'un snoozin'!” Jinny remarked, lurching giddily towards her to merrily twirl her fist in the snoozer. The snoozer's mother wondered if they had shut the dining-room door. Soon the noise of the fowls scattering the crockery told her they had not.

“Thum busted fowls is eatin' orl yer dinner,” said Jinny dreamily.

“'Unt 'em out an' shet ther door,” said sympathetic Jyne.

“You go, Sis, I'm tired.” Jinny laid her giddy head on the floor, and went to sleep.

“Liz,” said Jyne, maliciously, for she immediately grudged Sis's efforts to chase the fowls out of the dining-room. “Wot's thet there flower?” pointing to the vase.

“Wile huniyon,” said Liz, promptly.

“Er, is it? Thet's orl yer know. Thet's a bulbers, thet is. Thet's ther noo name fer it.” She looked at the grazier's wife and laughed ironically.

“Bulbers! yer goat,” said Liz, laughing dutifully.

The sermon was over, and the worried minister began the christening.

The naming of the hostess's baby was plain sailing. He then drew towards him a child of about two years, and asked, “What is this child's name?”

“Adrarian,” said Liz. An old shepherd reading to her a love-story had so pronounced the hero's name. It staggered the minister, until his hostess spelt “Adrian”.

“What is its age?”

“About two year.”

This was too vague for him, and he pressed for dates. But for these dwellers in the bush the calendar had no significance. The mother thought it might be in November. “Cos it wus shearin', an' I'd ter keep Teddy at 'ome ter do ther work.” Teddy was “about ten”. From these uncertainties the clergyman had to supply the dates for his official returns to the Government.

“But Lawd,” as Jyne remarked to ease his perplexity, “wot did it matter fer a brat of er boy?” She had a family of six, and all were girls.

There was much the same difficulty with all the others, an exception being Tilly Lumber's baby of under a fortnight. A cowardly look came into the minister's eyes as he turned to this grotesque atom already in the short coat stage. He remembered Jyne's awful discovery of a little while back, and shirked the duty of holding it even for a moment.

The christening was a matter that had some personal interest for the elders, and they grouped round the minister. Bridegroom Tommy, striking the mossy back of Alick's old father, suggested that he and Jyne's mother should get spliced, and he expressed the opinion of the fruitfulness of such union within record time as a set-off dig at Jyne.

She instantly balanced matters between herself and the incautiously smiling Liz and the laughing unfilial Ned. “Stop scratchin' yer 'ed, miss; anyone 'ud think there wus anythink in it,” she said to Liz's eldest girl, who was brushing the christening water from her hair. Ned's stepson she invited to come nearer, and tell her who had blackened his poor eye. She advised the silent lad “ter get a waddy ther nex' time anyone bigger'n yer goes ter 'it yer”. And she gave him directions by twirling an imaginary waddy swiftly, its circuit suddenly diverting in a line with Ned's skull.

It was long past noon when the ceremony was ended. The minister drained his glass of water, mopped his face, and heaved a deep sigh. As the whole congregation still sat on, he gave them a hint that “church” was out, and their presence no longer required. He spoke with a show of concern of how very hot they would find the walk home, and to further emphasize his meaning, he shook hands with all the adults, and walked to the veranda. Without the slightest concern they sat on, listening intently to the sounds the hostess made in trying to scrape together a meal for the clergyman. Apparently they all meant to stay the day.

The grazier's wife appeared for a moment to beckon him to go round the house into the dining-room. He sat down to the remains of the dinner the children had left.

At that moment Jinny, who had been awakened for the christening, looked round the door. “Our Sis wants ter know w'en's 'er supper's goin' ter be!” she said.

This perhaps was an acknowledgement that Sis had already dined.

THE CHOSEN VESSEL

S
HE
laid the stick and her baby on the grass while she untied the rope that tethered the calf. The length of the rope separated them. The cow was near the calf, and both were lying down. Feed along the creek was plentiful, and every day she found a fresh place to tether it, since tether it she must, for if she did not, it would stray with the cow out on the plain. She had plenty of time to go after it, but then there was baby; and if the cow turned on her out on the plain, and she with baby—she had been a town girl and was afraid of the cow, but she did not want the cow to know it. She used to run at first when it bellowed its protest against the penning up of its calf. This satisfied the cow, also the calf, but the woman's husband was angry, and called her—the noun was cur. It was he who forced her to run and meet the advancing cow, brandishing a stick, and uttering threatening words till the enemy turned and ran. “That's the way!” the man said, laughing at her white face. In many things he was worse than the cow, and she wondered if the same rule would apply to the man, but she was not one to provoke skirmishes even with the cow.

It was early for the calf to go “to bed”—nearly an hour earlier than usual; but she had felt so restless all day. Partly because it was Monday, and the end of the week that would bring her and baby the companionship of its father, was so far off. He was a shearer, and had gone to his shed before daylight that morning. Fifteen miles as the crow flies separated them.

There was a track in front of the house, for it had once been a wine shanty, and a few travellers passed along at intervals. She was not afraid of horsemen; but swagmen, going to, or worse, coming from the dismal, drunken little township, a day's journey beyond, terrified her. One had called at the house today, and asked for tucker.

Ah! that was why she had penned up the calf so early! She feared more from the look of his eyes, and the gleam of his teeth, as he watched her newly awakened baby beat its impatient fists upon her covered breasts, than from the knife that was sheathed in the belt at his waist.

She had given him bread and meat. Her husband, she told him, was sick. She always said that when she was alone, and a swagman came, and she had gone in from the kitchen to the bedroom, and asked questions and replied to them in the best man's voice she could assume. Then he had asked to go into the kitchen to boil his billy, but she gave him tea, and he drank it on the wood-heap. He had walked round and round the house, and there were cracks in some places, and after the last time he had asked for tobacco. She had none to give him, and he had grinned, because there was a broken clay pipe near the wood-heap where he stood, and if there were a man inside, there ought to have been tobacco. Then he asked for money, but women in the bush never have money.

At last he had gone, and she, watching through the cracks, saw him when about a quarter of a mile away, turn and look back at the house. He had stood so for some moments with a pretence of fixing his swag, and then, apparently satisfied, moved to the left towards the creek. The creek made a bow round the house, and when he came to it she lost sight of him. Hours after, watching intently for signs of smoke, she saw the man's dog chasing some sheep that had gone to the creek for water, and saw it slink back suddenly, as if the man had called it.

More than once she thought of taking her baby and going to her husband. But in the past, when she had dared to speak of the dangers to which her loneliness exposed her, he had taunted and sneered at her. She need not flatter herself, he had coarsely told her, that anybody would want to run away with her.

Long before nightfall she placed food on the kitchen table, and beside it laid the big brooch that had been her mother's. It was the only thing of value that she had. And she left the kitchen door wide open.

The doors inside she securely fastened. Beside the bolt in the back one she drove in the steel and scissors; against it she piled the table and the stools. Underneath the lock of the front door she forced the handle of the spade, and the blade between the cracks in the flooring boards. Then the prop-stick, cut into lengths, held the top, as the spade held the middle. The windows were little more than portholes; she had nothing to fear through them.

She ate a few mouthfuls of food and drank a cup of milk. But she lighted no fire, and when night came, no candle, but crept with her baby to bed.

What woke her? The wonder was that she had slept—she had not meant to. But she was young, very young. Perhaps the shrinking of the galvanized roof—yet hardly, since that was so usual. Something had set her heart beating wildly; but she lay quite still, only she put her arm over her baby. Then she had both round it, and she prayed, “Little baby, little baby, don't wake!”