Riverslake

by T. A. G. Hungerford

  Condamine lacked the courage to take the first blow.

  “You get ——!” he said viciously.

  Randolph moved in, his intention unmistakable, but Zigfeld, waiting behind him, slid in between him and Condamine. Carmichael was in his customary position, watching with narrowed eyes, waiting to step in if it got out of Zigfeld’s control. The men at the nearer tables craned their necks to see what was going on, and those farther away began to stand up in their places, shouting questions and advice.

  “Get back to what you were doing, Randy,” Zigfeld grated, “and stop acting like a blasted lunatic. And you, Condamine, shut up. You talk too much for your own good!”

  He stood so that his gross body was between Randolph and Condamine, glaring first at one of them and then at the other, defying them to continue their quarrel. Condamine muttered unintelligibly under his breath and jabbed viciously at the sliced meat in the tray before him. He was glad that Zigfeld had jumped in between him and Randolph, but it did not show in the truculent set of his thin face. Rather, he gave the air of being upset at being baulked of his victim. Randolph stood tensed for a moment, his breath coming in deep gusts and his chest heaving as his blind anger subsided. He knew that Carmichael’s glance was on him, but he made no effort to engage it.

  “You’ll keep, Condamine,” he said at length, and went back to where he had been standing before the quarrel began. His thin face was strained and pale, and he seethed inwardly with disgust. Brawling in a dump like this, he thought, and with an animal like Condamine. God!

  The future yawned at his feet like an open grave, peopled with all the dead-beat cooks and yardmen and hangers-on he had met and known in half a dozen camps—good men, some of them, and some of them just the wrecks of good men. Boozers and dopes and rats, ex-this and ex-that, with no chance of ever climbing again. And none of them, Randolph told himself with sudden fear and understanding, had started out to become what he was. It had crept on them gradually, with the drinking and the brawling in camp after camp, with every year passed in the curious, crowded solitude of bars and hostel rooms. Get out, he told himself. For Christ’s sake, get out!

  He shook his head unconsciously, to shake free the tentacles of his frightening vision, and looked up. Carmichael was looking at him with a steady penetrating stare. Randolph felt that the manager had been looking at his thoughts as though they were thrown on a screen. He held his eye for a moment, expressionlessly, and then turned his attention to the men who were once more moving past him.

  Four men at a table directly opposite Randolph were discussing his part in the brawl.

  “What gives with the babbler,” one of them asked, “the dark skinny one on the spuds?”

  “Hang-over, maybe; he went up Condamine and no mistake. Looks as if he might be able to go a bit, too.”

  “Hang-over, nothing. He’s the Balt’s mate, they reckon. They reckon him and the Balt are thick as thieves.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. One of the blokes told me that. They reckon that he said in the kitchen that if they have a go at the Balt over carving up Bellairs, he’ll stick with the Balt.”

  “Bastard’s mad—unless the Balt’s got a grouse sister!”

  “Everybody’s not like you, mug. Anyway, he might be a Com.”

  “By heck, yes—he’s a funny looking bunny at that. Lamp his eyes—he’s like a half-baked Chow, or something.”

  “Ar, bull. But he might be a Com.”

  “For Gawd’s sakes, let’s talk about something we can eat!”

  What they said was being said all over the mess. Before long, Randolph noticed with cynical amusement that the men filing past him threw at him the same glances, questioning, hostile, and sometimes incredulous, that earlier in the evening they had been throwing at Novikowsky.

  The mess closed at six o’clock. The doors were shut, and anyone who came in later was unlucky. Condamine took a childish delight in beating the clock by a couple of minutes—as the late arrivals were usually drunks who had not been able to tear themselves away from the hotel, he had no difficulty in putting it over them. What pleasure he got out of it was hard to fathom, but he never missed a night. For once, Randolph was not sorry when he signalled the Balt by the door to close it.

  Down in the kitchen, when all the cooks had assembled for their cup of tea, the atmosphere was strained. Randolph, at the foot of the ramp leading down from the mess, looked round coldly.

  “Come and have a cuppa, Bob,” Paramor suggested. “It’s just made and it’ll put some lead in your pencil.”

  “No thanks, Para,” Randolph replied. “I’ve got a bottle of steam in my room—I think I’ll have a snort and turn in. I’m tired.”

  Novikowsky and Radinski were standing by the door talking softly. They had finished their work and were preparing to leave. He walked over to them.

  “Come over and have a snort with me, Stefan?” he said loudly. “You too, Felix.”

  He knew the cooks at the other end of the range were watching him closely, and he knew that his invitation to the two Poles, in preference to any of the Australians in the kitchen, would not go unnoticed. And he knew that Condamine would see to it that word of it got round the camp.

  “I not, thank you,” Novikowsky said. “I must visit friend in room—New Australian friend.”

  “Well, how about you, Felix?” Randolph said. “Feel like a glass of wine?”

  “Sure, mister, I feel!”

  “O.K., then, let’s go.” As Randolph walked past Radinski and through the door of the kitchen, he felt every eye nailed on his back.

  “The bloody fool,” Zigfeld rumbled, as the door closed behind them. “He’s askin’ for trouble—somebody’ll knuckle him.”

  “Somebody might get a bit of a surprise if they tried it on, too,” Warner said soberly. “He’s no mug.”

  “He’s got it all here,” Paramor remarked, tapping his heart.

  “And here, too,” Warner insisted, laying his hand on his stomach. “Guts.”

  Zigfeld tapped his head. “But none here,” he volunteered.

  “Brains, but no judgment,” Warner concluded.

  Condamine spat on the concrete floor and ground it into the dirt with the sole of his greasy shoe.

  Randolph and Radinski had not walked far from the mess towards their huts when the Pole coughed nervously and cleared his throat.

  “Mister,” he said hesitantly. “What is spy? Some man say, I am spy. What it is?”

  “What is it, Felix,” Randolph corrected him automatically. He had been wondering how long it would be before the rumour that was circulating reached Radinski.

  “What is it,” Radinski repeated. “I am sorry. What is it, this spy?”

  “You know,” Randolph said uncomfortably, searching for a word to use, “espionage.”

  “Espionage?” There was shocked incredulity in Radinski’s voice. “I am agent?”

  “No, of course not,” Randolph said gruffly. “Some silly cow said it, that’s all.”

  “In mess, tonight, one Australian man say to me ‘Bloody spy’,” Radinski said, with the same tone of outrage. “Bloody Balt I know, but not bloody spy.” They reached Randolph’s hut, and he stood aside as the Australian went up the steps. “I think maybe is drunk, all right. I laugh only. This man say, soon laugh on other side of face, bastard. What is this, laugh on other side of face? Is for joke?”

  “Yes, it’s a joke,” Randolph fumbled for the keyhole in the gloom of the corridor. He flung back the door of his room and the sharply sweet scent of lemons stole out. He breathed it deeply—it was his room, his castle against the jungle of Riverslake and the animals who lived in it and what they did to helpless poor devils like Felix. It was a bolt-hole from the events and decisions that he now felt crowding on him with increasing urgency. Since the flare-up in the mess earlier in the evening, he had been th
inking about what lay ahead of him, of what he might do. Even against his will, the course was already forming in the back of his mind.

  He stood a second or two with his eyes closed, inhaling the familiar scent, until Radinski’s next words recalled him to the present.

  “This man in mess, not speak it for joke!”

  “Oh, forget the bloody mess for a while!” Randolph pulled a chair forward with his foot. “Here, Felix, sit here while I pour you a drink.”

  Radinski shrugged and sat down. While Randolph put two glasses on his table and filled them with port, he played absently with the seam of his trousers where they were stretched over his thin knees. There was a worried pucker between his pale eyes, but he erased it as Randolph handed him a glass.

  “Ah, vino!” he said, with a forced grin. “La, la!”

  “Yes, vino,” Randolph replied moodily. Looking into the Pole’s thin face, he felt an overwhelming sense of tragedy. The man’s whole life had been tragedy, his thin frame and anxious eyes were soaked in it. There was no reason why it should change—in fact, with Murdoch after his girl and half the hoboes in Riverslake certain that he was a spy, it looked like getting worse. And yet, what could anyone do?

  “Drink it down, fella,” he said, forcing a grin to his lips. “It’ll wash away all your worries and cares!”

  Chapter Nine

  Charlesworth did not stay long in Sydney. He left Canberra on Monday afternoon’s train and arrived back at Riverslake after lunch on Wednesday. He walked into the kitchen quietly and stood in the doorway until a number of men looked up and saw him. He gave his short, hard laugh.

  “Well, here I am—congratulate me!”

  “What on?” Paramor demanded. He was standing closest to the door. “You won the lottery?”

  “I’m married!”

  “Married?”

  Those who were already looking at him gagged with amazement and those who had continued their work jerked their heads up suddenly.

  “Good God, you married!” Condamine exclaimed.

  “Well, there’s no law against it, is there?”

  “There should be where you’re concerned,” Randolph remarked, walking across from where he had been cutting up meat on the bench. He held out his hand. “Congratulations, Slim. Betty?”

  “Uh-huh,” Charlesworth said with a grin. “Who else?”

  The others crowded round him, their hands outstretched to congratulate him. They brushed by Randolph, who retired to the bench and resumed his work.

  “Pity you wasn’t here last night,” Zigfeld rumbled, “you’d’a had a chance to be in on a confinement. Might’ve come in handy later on.”

  “What are you talking about—might’ve come in handy,” Paramor demanded. “I bet the keel’s been laid already, eh, Slim?”

  Charlesworth flushed. “What, Millie had her kittens?” he said, ignoring Paramor.

  “Yeah, four, the old harlot. She’s slowing down. Never used to be less than six, once.”

  “Where? On your bed?”

  “No, by hell!”

  “What’s it like, Slim?” Condamine asked, with a lewd grin. “Found out, yet?”

  Charlesworth flushed again. “It’s all right,” he said, uncomfortably.

  “All right, he says!” Paramor let out a bellow. “All right! If God made anything better, he kep’ it for himself!”

  While everybody was laughing, Novikowsky held up a pot, blackened on the inside.

  “Slim, you wife she burn pot like this, you fighting her, eh?”

  The laughter died away. A few of the men glanced coldly in Novikowsky’s direction, and Charlesworth looked round uncertainly. Then he grinned at the Pole.

  “You bet I will, Johnny!”

  “She’ll be going to beat you at it,” Zigfeld remarked sourly, waddling back to the stove. “That’s the one you left on the stove when you went, you careless hooer. Fifteen pounds of meat down the spout, that’s all.”

  “Cripes, did I?” Elaborate concern weighed Charlesworth’s words, but his eyes were dancing. “I must’ve forgot!”

  “No!” Zigfeld replied with ponderous sarcasm. He turned and shouted to the kitchen in general, “All right, get on with the flaming washing! It’s Slim’s honeymoon, not yours!” As the men drifted back to their jobs, he turned again to Charlesworth. “You want to work today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, go an’ give Randy a hand with that meat.”

  “Yeah!”

  Zigfeld looked at him, hard. “Bloody parrot!” he grunted. He turned to the stove. “You fixed all right for dough?” he asked softly, over his shoulder.

  “Yes, Ziggy,” Charlesworth said, hiding his surprise.

  “If you get in a fix for a bit, you know where to come.”

  “Thanks, Ziggy,” Charlesworth said again. He could not trust himself to say anything else, he was so dumbfounded. Only a week before, the day before pay-day, he had tried to nip Zigfeld for five shillings and been very firmly refused.

  He stood beside Randolph and cut meat in silence for a few minutes. When he could no longer stand the strain, he said with a short laugh, “Go on—say it!”

  “Say what?”

  “What a bloody dill I am!”

  “Hell, no!” Randolph looked up with a reassuring grin. “Best thing you could have done.”

  “I haven’t got much dough.”

  “Who has?”

  “And we got no place to live.”

  “Well, that’s taken care of for a while—you can live here and Betty live at home, until you’ve had a look round.”

  “That’s what you think,” Charlesworth corrected him bitterly.

  “The old bitch give Bet the order of the boot.”

  “When?”

  “Today. When we got back from Sydney, we went to see her. I been up there for an hour or so.”

  “When did you tell her—about getting married?”

  “When we got back—stone the crows, I thought she’d shed her blasted skin!”

  “You might’ve told her before.”

  “Like hell! She would’ve just stacked on a turn. She would’ve threw herself under the train to stop it.”

  “Pretty hipped, eh?”

  “The old bag! It’s got nothing to do with her.”

  “She might think differently,” Randolph suggested. “Well, something’ll turn up. When has Bet got to get out?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Looks like a pub, eh?”

  “Charlesworth’s the name, not Rockefeller!”

  “Yeah, I know.” Randolph began to pile the cut meat into a tray. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Well, hell—I don’t know. Pictures, I guess. We can’t go to Bet’s joint, at least I can’t. And I wouldn’t bring her here.”

  “No. Like to come to a dance? It’ll keep you occupied up to bedtime.” Randolph grinned at Charlesworth, who blushed furiously. “It’s over at the Causeway—Kerry and I and Felix, and some girls. Little celebration, eh?”

  “Thanks, Randy,” Charlesworth said, “I guess we’ll be in it. Bet’s a bit upset, you know. It might take her mind off her old woman. The old bitch.”

  “Well, we’ll meet you at the hall about eight o’clock, eh?”

  “Yeah.” Charlesworth put down his knife and looked round. “What’s up, Randy? The place’s like a morgue.”

  Randolph told him briefly what had happened. He whistled, looking at Novikowsky, who was bent over the sink.

  “A shiv, eh—and you’re on the outer for sticking up for him?”

  “My worries.”

  “Mind you, I don’t blame him either. That Bellairs is an animal.”

  “Well, keep it to yourself, or you’ll be on the
outer, too.”

  “Me? They can kiss my Royal Irish!” Charlesworth laughed, short and hard. He walked deliberately over to Novikowsky and patted him on the shoulder. As the Pole looked up, he said, loud and clear, “Pity you didn’t carve that ape in bits, Stefan!”

  He stared belligerently round the kitchen, but nobody took any notice of his outburst. Only Zigfeld looked up. He squinted at Charlesworth sourly and bellowed, “Get back to your blasted work, Slim—save your love talk until you get home!” He laughed evilly, and the other cooks laughed with him.

  Charlesworth flushed red. “Dip your eye!” he muttered, to nobody in particular, and bent once more over the meat.

  Randolph sliced and stacked methodically, his mind tangling with the significance of what had just happened. Charlesworth can champion the Balt and they take it without a murmur. I stand up for him, and they behave as though I were a leper. Because he’s a boy, and I’m a man? Because he’s one of them, and I’m not? Because if anything came of it, they know that he’ll go with the mob and I won’t. By hell, I won’t!

  He hacked savagely at a piece of gristly meat and threw it into the tray.

  “Finish it off, Slim,” he said. “I’m going outside for a drag!”

  Although he had arranged to meet Linda Spain about eight o’clock Randolph went to her home early. The evening was mild, almost warm, and Spain and his wife were sitting on the front veranda, a bottle of gin and a bottle of lime opened on the table between them. The raggedy dog was rolling a ball on the lawn, trying to entice Spain to go out and play with it.

  “Early, Ran?” Linda Spain observed lazily, reaching a hand up to touch his arm. “You’ve caught me in my dishabille.”

  She laughed and flipped her gaily coloured cotton house-coat across her bare legs.

  “Nothing doing at the camp, so I thought I’d walk round. How are you, Paul?”

  “Good, Bob. Sit down.”

  Randolph pulled up a third chair. “I’ve ordered the taxi for a quarter to eight.”