Riverslake

by T. A. G. Hungerford

  “Where’s the beer?” he demanded, almost rudely.

  “In the fridge—bring in the glasses, like a dear.”

  “Monday tomorrow—blasted work again. God, could I get rotten!” Fildes’s voice was laden with boredom and despair, almost with hatred. “This bloody place!” He flounced out of the room into the kitchen, and Randolph stared after him, his eyebrows raised.

  “What’s wrong with the bird-man?”

  “Hang-over, most likely,” Hanrahan suggested. “He was out with me and Blackie last night.”

  The talk became desultory. Discussions were started and waged without spirit for a while, then died out in silence. Fildes prowled round the room restlessly, throwing terse comments into the light round the fireplace like stones into a puddle, acting like a spoiled child. When the four bottles of beer that he had brought from the kitchen were emptied he put his glass on the mantel-piece and announced flatly that he was going.

  “I’m off, Linda—thanks for the dinner. Take me home, Silver?”

  “Well, I’m not quite ready to go.”

  “O.K. I’ll wait in the car, with Blackie. Don’t be too long.” Fildes turned at the door as though he had suddenly remembered something. “Oh—good night, Paul. Thanks for the beer and what-have-you.”

  “That’s all right, Roddy. Come again.”

  “Thanks—next beer issue? Good night, Randolph.”

  The dog heaved itself up with a grunt, accompanied him as far as the front door and returned to its place by Spain’s feet.

  Randolph looked first at Spain and then at Hanrahan. “What’s up with him?”

  Spain shrugged and the old politician spread his white hands, minutely inspecting the pink, well-manicured nails.

  “The war, you know———” he said, and pursed his thin lips. It was an irritating gesture, a favourite of his that inadequately did the work of words that he was too lazy, or didn’t know how, to put together. “It upset him. You know.”

  Randolph stared at him for a moment in silence, his brows drawn down in an interrogating frown that Hanrahan ignored.

  “I don’t know about upset,” he said bluntly, “but he’s damned rude. You’re a friend of his, aren’t you?”

  “Well, yes. Why?”

  “Then tell him the war’s over—has been for five years. He’s using it up a bit.”

  Linda Spain laughed softly. “No, not that. Poor Roddy, he’d never recover from the shock!” Hanrahan pursed his lips again, with mild annoyance.

  “He was a bomber pilot for a couple of years. Over Europe,” he elaborated acidly, looking fixedly at Randolph.

  “Oh, I see.” Randolph’s voice was deceptively gentle. “That explains everything. What’s he do now?”

  “Records clerk, or something,” Spain volunteered. “Every time he picks up a pen, he thinks it should be a joy-stick. Can’t settle down at all.”

  “For God’s sake!” Randolph swore fervently.

  “It’s not so uncommon,” Spain said casually, studying his nails. “I know another bloke who used to be a school-teacher—a darned good one, too, from all accounts.”

  Randolph looked at him steadily, a flush mounting in his dark face. “Yes?”

  “Yes. When this bloke came back from the war, he couldn’t settle down either—every time he picked up a piece of chalk he thought it should be a soup ladle!”

  “What a character!” Randolph observed mockingly. Something in his voice made Linda Spain stare at him.

  “Whatever are you two talking about?” she demanded. She turned to Hanrahan. “What is it, Silver—do you know?”

  “Search me,” Hanrahan said innocently, but his sharp, shrewd eyes were searching Randolph’s face. “I lost track of it when they were discussing Roddy.”

  “Yes, poor Roddy,” she said. “You shouldn’t make fun of him.”

  “Good lord,” Randolph said shortly, “what else can you do?”

  “Manners, manners!” she chided him, but while her lips said the words, her eyes were on his thin face, dark now and slightly embittered with his derision. Her knee moved slightly until it pressed against his and on the soft cushion of the couch, her hand rubbed against the hardness of his thigh. She breathed in deeply but softly, tingling with the smell of him, of tobacco and hair-oil and the warmth of his body. Paul Spain watched her through half-closed eyes, and the ghost of a flush crept into his pale cheeks.

  “Sorry, Linda,” Randolph said, “but these bunnies really give me the creeps with their ‘can’t settle down’ routine and their tantrums. What about the blokes who waltzed round in the infantry for years—not once in a while, but for weeks and months on end, without a break? And not going back to a posh mess when they finished their bit of work, but digging a hole and flopping into it—and then staying awake half the night to receive visitors! God almighty—can’t settle down! If he’s as mad for the fight as all that, there’s plenty of little stoushes all over the world where he could get set. But not him—all he wants is the glamour all over again. He misses the officers’ mess!”

  “My, my!” Linda Spain breathed softly. “Aren’t we steamed up!”

  “We are, unnecessarily,” Hanrahan observed dryly, with a sour glance at Randolph. “It’s a distasteful subject, so we’d better change it.” He half bowed in his chair, looking at Linda Spain in a curious travesty of old-world courtesy.

  “Yes, for goodness’ sake!” she said. “Little birds in their nests agree! The dance on Wednesday night, Ran—are you calling for me?”

  Randolph’s eyes darted involuntarily to where Spain sat regarding them inscrutably. The pale face told him nothing.

  “Yes, Linda, if you want me to.”

  “If I want you to! Of course I do. What time?”

  “Well—eight do you?”

  “Taxi?”

  “Unless you’d prefer the yardman’s wheelbarrow. I might borrow it for the occasion.”

  “Dope!” she said fondly.

  “What dance?” Hanrahan demanded. “Where are you going?”

  “To a dance, down at the Causeway,” Spain told him.

  “The Causeway?”

  Hanrahan echoed the word almost incredulously. The Causeway sprawled in a welter of unpainted shacks and unpaved roads beside the railway yards. It was hidden from the highway by a belt of mushroom factories, hardly less an eyesore than the slum they hid, since they were run up to no particular plan amongst muddy lanes and smouldering rubbish tips. It was the inevitable shanty-town that springs up beside any city, however well planned, because there are always people who could not be happy outside a slum.

  “Yes, the Causeway!” Randolph mimicked Hanrahan’s tone of distaste. “We’re going to see how the other half lives—the half that keeps you in your clover-patch, if you like.”

  Hanrahan ignored the sarcasm. “Are you going, Paul?” he grunted. “It’s not the most select sort of place.”

  “Bob won’t take Linda to a rough-house,” Spain said coldly. “She’ll be all right with him.”

  “Oh, yes—yes.” Hanrahan spread his hands again and pursed his lips. “Of course.”

  Randolph, powerless to prevent it, felt a flush rise into his cheeks. He was grateful for the dim light.

  “We’re making up a party,” he explained, “for the football club’s dance. You can be in it if you want to.”

  “At the Causeway?” Hanrahan made a moue of distaste. “Not my dish, thanks.”

  The old bastard, Randolph thought angrily. He seems to have forgotten the long hard road from wherever he started!

  “There are worse places,” he observed. He added pointedly, because he wanted to touch the old shyster, “You must have been in a few, in your time?”

  “A few?” Hanrahan looked at him with well-feigned surprise. He was right on his home ground, and easily hid the
vicious pleasure he took in cutting the ground from beneath Randolph—especially in front of the Spains. “Most of ’em, if it comes to that, and it was interesting while it lasted. But there comes a time when you get tired of that kind of thing. You’ll find out—most likely.”

  Randolph laughed unaffectedly. He was not normally bad-tempered, and the precise, copy-book measures Hanrahan had used to flatten him, and the old man’s smug satisfaction at their success, dissolved his ill-humour.

  “Good on you, Silver!” he said, laughing. “In the best traditions of the House, that was—almost a pity to waste it on a rough-neck like me!” He turned to Spain. “Why don’t you come, Paul? It’ll be a good night.”

  He felt Linda Spain’s hand, that had been rubbing gently against his thigh, still and stiffen slightly.

  “Not me,” Spain said, “I never got round to learning how to dance. And besides, I’ve got a whole lot of work to catch up on. I’ll appreciate a night alone.”

  “You are an old stick-in-the-mud, Paul!” Linda Spain said petulantly, but Randolph felt her hand relax against his leg and resume its gentle rubbing. “You never come anywhere!”

  “Never mind, darling.” Spain shot an amused glance at her, and slid it on to Randolph before it died. “Bob’ll look after you.”

  “H’m!” Hanrahan grunted and stood up. “I’ll have to be going, Linda. What about you, Randolph—drop you anywhere?”

  “No, thanks.” Randolph stood up, too. “Thanks just the same. It’s not far to the camp, and I like the walk. It gets the grease out of my head.”

  “It seems so early,” Linda Spain grumbled, stretching luxuriously. The thin stuff of her frock pulled tight across her breasts. She held out her hand to Randolph, and he took it coolly, helping her to her feet.

  “An early night won’t hurt any of us,” Hanrahan observed pointedly, “especially if you’ve got a big night, Wednesday, with the footballers.”

  His dry chuckle preceded them along the hall. It was pitch dark and cool outside, almost cold. Randolph stood with Paul Spain and his wife as the red lights of Hanrahan’s car disappeared down the road between the dark banks of trees. Linda Spain gave a little gasp of dismay.

  “Paul, darling, Tossle didn’t come out with us. Fetch her, will you—if she makes another mess in the drawing-room I’ll drown her in the sink!”

  Spain stood at the gate and whistled. “Tossle,” he called. “Tossle!”

  “Oh, go and get her, dear! She won’t come to a call unless she’s hungry. Go, there’s a dear!”

  In the dense shadow of the tree by the gateway she was already holding Randolph’s hand, hard, her strong fingers twining restlessly in and out of his, caressing his palm, rubbing gently against the thrilling skin on the inside of his lean wrist. The waft of her perfume enveloped him and made him dizzy. He felt his throat constrict and his lips go suddenly dry. Spain had hardly disappeared along the path when she clasped her hands in the small of his back and pulled him relentlessly against her.

  “Kiss me,” she whispered huskily. “Oh, Bob, kiss me!”

  He grasped her by the arms and felt the silk of her sleeves slip over her skin. The points of her breasts were hard against him; the trees rustled above him and above them the stars swarmed infinitely, a host of luminous bees whose buzzing filled his head. He dropped his mouth to hers and felt it claimed, hungrily. She writhed against him, as though she would immerse herself in his being. A sob escaped her, forcing itself past her lips and past his.

  Suddenly he wrenched his mouth away from hers and broke the grip of her hands behind him.

  “No!” he muttered, his voice strangling in his throat. “No, for God’s sake, Linda! Paul—think of Paul!”

  She seemed dazed, and swayed for a moment in front of him. He saw the gleam of her arm as she raised it, brushing back the heavy hair from her forehead.

  “Paul? He’s gone. He’s inside, Ran—he’s not here!”

  “He’s always here,” Randolph said dully. “If he was in China, he’d still be here.” Desire had gone out of him, like a fire doused with water. He felt tired and mean. “Can’t you see—if you couldn’t get a cigarette paper between us, there’d still be room for him?”

  Spain appeared again in the doorway, silhouetted against the light, with the dog in his arms. She was wriggling ecstatically, straining to lick his face.

  “Ran, Ran!” Linda whispered desperately.

  Randolph breathed in deeply, steadying himself. “Good night, Paul,” he called softly. “Don’t bother to come out—I’m off!”

  Spain’s reply was unintelligible. Randolph caught the word, “Wednesday.”

  “Ran!” Linda whispered again.

  “Good night, Linda.” He turned and strode along the road in the shadow of the crowding trees.

  Linda Spain stood and watched him for a moment. Then she turned away. Her high heels clicked sharply on the path as she walked along it to the house and the man who waited for her in the lighted doorway.

  Novikowsky looked up suddenly from the scattered pile of banknotes on the counterpane of Murdoch’s bed.

  “Kerry,” he said, “this man call me bloody Balt. Why? Always Australians say bloody Balts. Why? Are they opposite us?”

  “Against us,” Murdoch corrected him automatically. All the way home from Ainslie, while they walked along the deserted road between the lucerne paddocks, over the bridge at Scott’s Crossing and up the hill to Riverslake, he had known that something was eating at Novikowsky. And this was what it was.

  “Against us. I am sorry. I forget. Why against us—because I win so much money?” Novikowsky waved a hand above the bed, disdainfully. “This only money. If Australian win money in Poland, we not say, ‘Bloody Australian!’ We are proud, we show our country, we are not crook for other country. But all Australian say ‘bloody Balt’—here in camp, at job, at picture theatre, playing this swy. If tonight I win, I am bloody Balt. If I lose, I am silly bloody Balt. Why?”

  Why? God almighty, I don’t know. Murdoch shifted uncomfortably under the Pole’s sharp, questioning stare.

  “I don’t know, Stefan,” he said, half-irritably. “You’re different—you’re strangers, I suppose. In a while, it’ll be apples—it’ll be O.K. Then you’ll be Old Australians!”

  Novikowsky did not rise to the old joke.

  “In a while?” he echoed with a tight grin. “Already I am here one year and half—how much longer must I? My friend, who I know in Germany, is here nearly t’ree years. Is finish contract. Still people say to him, ‘bloody Balt’. Why?”

  “Australians don’t trust foreigners,” Murdoch said deliberately. He knew it was a statement that would demand qualifying, but did not know how he was going to do it. “Australians think, if hundreds of thousands of new-comers come into this country, they’ll take all the jobs.”

  “Jez’ Chris’!” Novikowsky exploded. “Is silly! Every day paper say, Canberra Times say, many men for work wanted, build dam, build road, build for railway. Still many new-comers come, and still more jobs. One Australian, one job only—he cannot more!”

  But what if there’s a depression? Murdoch thought. Torchy’s always talking about when the depression comes. What’ll happen then with all you blokes looking for jobs, too?

  “Count the dough,” he said. He sat on the side of the bed and began to sort out the red ten-pound notes from the mess before him. “You’ve got a pile here.”

  “Enough for go back to Germany!” Novikowsky said. “In my country, in Poland, is Communist, so to Germany I go, Kerry, when is finish contract. This—what they say?—what paper call this ‘great experiment’, for me is finish. Kaput. I finish my contract, kaput!”

  “Don’t talk bull!” Murdoch said impatiently. “You were never better off in your life!”

  “Talk bull?” Novikowsky echoed his words with bitter sarcasm. It was a t
erm he had heard often enough at Riverslake to know what it meant. “I don’ talk bull, Kerry. If I have nothing to eat, if I have nothing to live for, still I am man in Germany. I am Pole. I am Stefan Novikowsky. I am not bloody Balt in Germany! You ask any other new-comer, see if I talk bull. I speak you, Kerry, ninety-five pre cent———”

  “Per cent,” Murdoch said.

  “Per cent, O.K., per cent. Ninety-five per cent of New Australian not happy. Finish contract, go America, Sout’ America, Canada, back to Germany. There maybe, not so much for eat, not so much job, but I speak you, we are not bloody Balts in Germany.”

  Murdoch shrugged. There was no argument with which he might answer Novikowsky.

  “Count the dough,” he repeated, because there was nothing else to say.

  Novikowsky knelt on the floor beside the bed to sort out the notes. Murdoch watched his big hands, capable hands, strong to work. Hands to work with. Suddenly between his eyes and the hands hovering over the notes on the bed there was superimposed the wide view of the lucerne paddocks below the camp, the fields of deep brown soil that reached forty feet down to the water and produced five crops a year. Rich soil that was always there, always ready to produce and to give and to succour, come rain, hail or snow depressions or bloody Balts. He knew what he must say to this man who had known the goodness of the soil but who had forgotten it—he who had never known until this moment what the soil might mean.

  “Stefan,” he said abruptly, for if he had stopped to consider it he might never have spoken at all, “this’s different, here, to anywhere else. Canberra’s a tough place, even for Australians, if they’re new to it. Everybody’s here for what he can get out of it without working more than he can help. They don’t care for the place, they don’t put anything back for what they take out. Everybody’s scared some other bloke’s going to jump him for his job, or his sheila, or something. You understand?”

  His thoughts ran on inchoately, the things he knew to be true and which he would have translated to Novikowsky if he had known how. If you live in a shop and it gives you your living you’re proud of it and you love it and you look after it, but if you just come into it at night to take what you can and then scram you don’t care what the hell if it catches on fire even. There’s good people in Canberra, mobs of ’em, but they’re too busy tucked away in their homes and loving them and looking after them to worry what goes on and we never get to see them, living in bloody dumps like this, all we see is the hoboes and the blokes on the make. But the good people’re here and everywhere else if you can get to them everybody’s not rotten. Understand?