The Best Australian Bush Stories
Page 18
Then there was a whistle, a banging of doors, and the train moved out of the station.
‘Hi! Hi! Stop!’
It was Jonas, rushing along the platform waving a parcel in his hand.
‘Good gracious!’ cried Mums, ‘I’ve forgotten my hat. Tell them to stop, Dads! Oh, tell them to stop!’
Dads shouted out the window of the train, the children shouted in the carriage, Bubs howled in sympathy. But the train, regardless of the most frantic appeal, carried off Mums in her old milking bonnet to see the Commonwealth celebrations.
CHAPTER TWO: THE EMU COFFEE PALACE
‘By cripes, Dads, this must be Sydney! We’re going inter a lashing big station, my word! Beats Barjo an’ no mistake!’
It was Jabez who spoke, his body half out of the carriage window.
‘Now, get all yer things ready, children!’
Everybody stood up and grabbed a parcel or bag with a desperate resolve to be first out of the carriage. Other passengers acted on the same impulse, so that when the train pulled up, the platform was, of a sudden, a dense mass of hurrying humanity.
‘Come on, kids! Let’s get out of this!’ cried Dads, as with Bubs under one arm he dragged Mums with the other. As for Mums, she held three parcels and towed little Sid, who held Cris, who held Delia, who hung onto Rube, who had grabbed Euphemia, who clung to Sarah Jane, who was fastened to Tilly, who helped Jabez carry a portmanteau.
‘Now, don’t yous let go, anyone!’ shouted back Mums, as the long line of Waybacks swayed to and fro in the crowd, ‘or you’ll be bushed!’
They rounded up under the clock near the front of the station.
‘Now, just bide a bit here,’ Dads said, ‘till the crowd’s gone.’
They waited and waited, standing like an island in a moving sea of rushing people. Dads’ eyes opened wider and wider as the rush continued unabated.
‘What’s up, Mums? Do yer thinks it’s a bush fire? Hi, mister,’ and he clutched hold of a porter pushing a luggage trolley, ‘what’s up here?’
The porter gave Dads a pitying look, ‘Price of damper’s rose a penny a pound,’ he said sarcastically, and hurried on.
‘You’re mighty smart,’ Dads called after him, ‘I suppose yer thinks I come from the country.’
‘Let’s get on ther bus, Dads,’ said Mums, pointing at the electric tram.
‘I’m waitin’ fer ’em to hitch the team on,’ said Dads. ‘Don’t tell me them there carriages is pulled far with that piece o’ fencin’ wire! Take my tip; there’ll be a bloomin’ accident pretty soon!’
But, as time passed and no damage was reported, the Wayback family gained confidence and finally boarded the car and were whirled away up George Street.
* * *
‘Is this here the Emu Coffee Palace and boarding place?’ It was Dads who spoke.
‘That’s it,’ said the clerk as he struck two dinner tickets on the file and handed key 24 to one of the boarders.
‘I’d like ter know,’ said Dads, ‘if yer serve tea as well as coffee. Yer see, we’s not too strong on coffee up Barjo way.’
‘Buckets o’ tea, anytime you like,’ said the clerk, now busily collecting dinner tickets with both hands.
‘That’s all right, then,’ said Dads, a great anxiety lifted from his mind. ‘Can yer let us have a bit of a shake-down, then, fer the lot of us?’
‘Here you are, 72, 73, 74,’ said the clerk, handing over three keys to the liftboy after he had entered the Waybacks’ name in a big book and tucked away a five pound note as if it was a pipe-lighter.
The boy pulled a door open to show what appeared to be a room five by five.
‘No yer don’t, Sonny,’ said Dads, ‘eleven of us can’t sleep in that, not even if we all stood up!’
After a while the liftboy persuaded them to all enter the lift.
‘Oh crikey, Dads!’ cried Jabez, as all the children howled in a chorus, ‘ther blanky house is fallin’ inter the cellar!’
‘Well, I’ll be hanged!’ said Dads, as the whole party, white and trembling, stepped out of the lift onto the landing, ‘if that don’t beat everything! Take my tip, that catapult will go up through the roof to glory one o’ these here days when the wire breaks off. It’s a bit too sudden, that’s what it is!’
Before the liftboy left them, Dads asked, ‘Say, sonny, is there a waterhole handy? We wants a bit of a wash.’
‘There’s a bathroom, mister, at the end of the passage.’
When Dads and Jabez opened the bathroom door they had grave doubts about entering. It reminded them too much of the lift, and they sounded the floor carefully with each foot to make sure it would not fall down or jump up with them.
* * *
Crash! Crash! Crash!
It was the boarders’ dinner gong going that resounded up the stairs.
‘Hi! Hi! Where are they?’
It was Dads with nothing but his pants on, who rushed out into the corridor, caught up a tray some waitress had left and started banging like a demon as he ran. Jabez followed, hammering a tin lid, and all the little Waybacks swarmed into the passage armed with hairbrushes, water bottles, boots, or anything handy that would make a noise.
It was a fearful row. All the doors flew open and anxious boarders rushed out, certain at the very least that the house was on fire.
‘Throw dust on ’em, mister! Throw dust!’ shouted Dads to a bald-headed man who was rushing for the stairs.
‘Throw dust on what?’ enquired an alarmed chambermaid.
‘On ther bees, of course! Isn’t there a swarm? An’ didn’t you start to ring ’em down?’
Then everybody laughed.
‘You’ve got to be quick an’ lively after bees. No time to ask questions,’ explained Dads. ‘Dust is real good; but water’s better if it’s handy. Rub some honey in ther box if yer want to make ’em stop. Now, at Barjo . . .’
But the fat man had reached his room and banged the door, so Dads was obliged to finish his discourse on bees to the liftboy.
* * *
The Waybacks descended to the dining room.
‘Where’s ther dog?’ enquired Jabez of a waiter.
‘What dog, sir? I’ve not seen one.’
‘Ter throw the bone to! What’ll I do with ther bone if there ain’t no dog?’
‘Now, Cris,’ cried Mums, ‘don’t put yer knife so far inter your mouth. Knives is meant to scoop up the gravy, not to cut yer throat with. Keep yer legs still Sid, an’ don’t put all yer fingers in yer plate at once. Remember you’re in Sydney an’ be a little gentleman. Gentlemen only take taters with one hand at a time. Euphemia, if you want to drink up your soup, ask Sarah Jane to hold the dish fer yer, or you’ll spill it all down yer new frock. Now, Delia, don’t catch flies at mealtimes, it’s not manners; shoo ’em off and eat all those bits on yer plate. There’s many a poor child has come to want through leaving bits. Wipe the gravy off yer mouth Jabez and I wish, Tilly, you would look after Bubs and stop him making post-holes in all the loaves of bread. Perhaps ther folks here won’t like it. Have a little sense, do!’
After dinner was over, the Waybacks drifted down to George Street to see the sights.
‘What I’d like to know,’ said Dads, ‘is why all these here people is allowed ter walk up and down, up and down, doin’ nothin’? Look at ’em, hundreds of ’em, thousands of ’em; not like us, just come ter see ther sights fer once in our lives, but just loafin’ along, lookin’ at nothin’, doin’ nothin’.
‘Surely ter goodness they could find a bit o’ clearing or stumping ter do. I’d give all those gals hoes and set ’em to chippin’. Take my tip; they wouldn’t want ter put on all that paint on ’em.’
The progress of the party was slow. Every shop window had to be surrounded in turn, and calls and counter-calls drew them to and fro.
‘I say, Cris!’
‘Look here, Sarah Jane . . .’
‘Oh, ain’t that spiffin’!’
‘Euphemia, how’d yo
u like ter wear that?’
‘Delia, come an’ see, come an’ see!’
‘By cripes, look at that, now!’
‘Talk about clocks an’ watches, look at that Mums!’
The family pushed on and forward. If they had only been on the Wallaby Ranges, in dense scrub or heavy timber, there is no doubt that their method of exploration would have kept them together and within touch and call; but, in the wilds of George Street south, the precipices of Brickfield Hill, the gorges of Pitt Street and the undergrowth of Sussex Street, bushcraft altogether failed.
Undaunted, Dads kept on, but though moving quickly, he progressed slowly, for he had to zigzag through the crowd and it often happened that when he dodged, the man in front dodged also.
Dads began to falter; he was getting tired. He had already cannoned against one hundred and fifty-seven persons and, while a few bumps more or less don’t count, when you get over seven score in less than thirty minutes, a certain soreness is left on even the toughest.
Dads had been called a blanky fool more times in the last half-hour than in all his life before, and, although he had taken the remarks in a friendly spirit, they began at the last to pall and Dads began to have a vague doubt that a verdict so unanimous must have some justification in fact.
CHAPTER TREE: THE BENEVOLENT STRANGER
‘Say, mate, can you tell me the way to the railway station?’
The man who spoke was evidently a country man; stiff-jointed, round-shouldered, face bronzed and blotched with tan.
‘I’m a stranger myself, hereabouts,’ said Dads, ‘but I just passed the station and now I’m going back.’
‘Now, that’s lucky!’ said the stranger, ‘for I’m no hand at all at this street work. If it was the Myall Ranges, now, it would be a hard job to bush me, and I guarantee I can cross-country with any man. But, the fact is, I have only just come up by train. I started out to find the Emu Coffee Palace, but I’ve got bogged somehow, so I reckon I’ll go back to the railway and make a fresh start.’
‘Goin’ to ther Emu, are yer?’ said Dads, ‘Now there is the most extraordinary thing as I ever heard tell of; I’m staying there myself.’
‘By cripes! You don’t say so?’ replied the stranger. ‘Do you think it’s a safe place for a cove to camp? One who has a few beans, you know. I don’t want to get took down.’
‘You’ve just about sized things up, mate,’ said Dads, ‘but seeing as I only arrove this mornin’, I can’t give yer many points about ther Emu. Keep yer door locked; carry yer beans in yer hip pocket and strap yer belt tight. Don’t talk ter strangers and, if a bloke mentions an uncle in Fiji, call a policeman.
‘But, if yer stops at ther Emu, take my tip about one thing. Don’t get in that there little room that fires yer up the house like a gun with two charges of powder in her. I’ll allow it’s quick, but give me the stairs for safety.’
‘They tell me a bloke can’t be too careful; Sydney’s full of spielers,’ said the countryman, ‘and you’ve got to sleep with both eyes open, or get your eye teeth drawn. Anyhow, come and have a drink; that looks a decent sort of pub.’
Dads had a drink, then he shouted, and the stranger would shout again; and, to be more at their ease, they sat down in a room off the bar and here Dads, taking pity on the stranger, began to post him up in all the villainies by which the Sydney sharpers took down country mugs, the wiles of confidence men and the fatal lures of spielers.
‘I tell you I’m just watchin’ fer ’em, an’ I’ll give ’em Fiji, I promise you, if they start to tackle me. Now, mind you be keerful an’ don’t yer be took down by none o’ those blokes as want yer to show ’em money.’
‘By cripes, mate,’ said the other, ‘if what you say is true, and I could not doubt your words fer a moment, I can always tell an honest man when I see him, I think I had best take the next train home again!’
‘Don’t be afraid, now,’ said Dads. ‘I’ll stand by yer, we’ll be mates up there at ther Emu; you’ll be alright if yer keeps in my tracks. Hold yer money tight, and beware of “Fiji”, and yer as safe as ther Wallaby Ranges.’
While they were talking two strangers entered the room. The taller, who was most elegantly dressed, offered to shout to the crowd, and he was such a nice, genial man, Dads could not refuse.
The man who shouted said he had just come into a lot of money; up till now he had been a poor selector, working on the land. He knew what hard graft and harder fare was, to his sorrow, and till the longest day he lived should always feel sorry for the poor ‘cockie’. So much so that he had decided to help one poor man every day, till he had got through £4000. He had helped one yesterday, and one the day before, and if he did not help one today he would not sleep that night.
Here the stranger pulled out a big bundle of notes, and turned to explain his idea to Dads.
‘I want to help those who help themselves; it’s not a bit of good, I’ve tried it, giving a cheque to a man without bean. He may be a good sort of fellow, but the chances are 1000 to one the cash will do him harm, and all go in the cursed drink. No, let me see that a man is a careful, saving chap, and has got a little stuff, and I’ll double it for him; then he will take care of it, and it will do him good!’
Dads thought the stranger talked most rationally; it was a kind of charity he understood, and his eyes were fascinated by the huge bundle of notes, but his friend, the countryman, seemed more sceptical, and when the two strangers had turned away, he whispered to Dads:
‘We had best be careful now. I’ve got my doubts of those two: but I tell you how we can be on the safe side. I don’t mind showing them twenty-five quid, if you show another twenty-five, and you hold the lot. No letting it out of your hands, mind. If they give us another fifty you can hold that while I make an excuse, and slip out and fetch a policeman. If they are spielers they will clear when they see him; if they are on the square, it won’t matter. Anyhow, we stand to make sure fifty, which won’t be too bad for two bushies their first day in town.’
With this the countryman produced a pocketbook, with twenty-five notes, and handed it to Dads, who felt pleased all over himself, and quickly produced his own share of notes.
‘Hi, mate,’ said the countryman, ‘we are two poor men, the sort you want, and can show you fifty quid.’
‘You can?’ said the amiable stranger. ‘I’m dashed glad to hear it. Two of you, too! That will save me looking for a man tomorrow. Show me, and I’m as good as my word.’
The countryman took the pocketbook, and carefully counted over the fifty notes, and Dads was pleased to see how careful he was not to let go of them. The stranger, quite satisfied, handed over another fifty in five tens, and was so pleased, he called for more drinks for all hands.
The countryman put all the notes in the pocketbook, handed it to Dads, thanked the stranger for his kindness, and saying he had a friend outside he must call in to tell his good luck to, turned to go, and giving a knowing wink to Dads, he was gone.
Dads, sitting firmly in his seat, grabbed the pocketbook securely in both events, and sat chuckling to himself with glee.
‘Now, if that’s not the smartest thing I ever heard tell of. We’ve got ther stuff, all right, whichever way it works out. We’re not all fools at Barjo, take my tip.’
‘Your friend’s a long time away,’ said the genial stranger, after a long pause; ‘I want him to join in another drink. I’ll go and call him in,’ and off he went.
Later the third man said he must look for the second. He said he could not think what was up.
Still Dads smiled. Happen what would, he held the pocketbook, and was safe from all wiles, real or pretended.
Minutes passed, half an hour, an hour. Dads still sat, solid and satisfied.
The barman came in and asked what he was waiting for.
‘That friend o’ mine I came in with,’ said Dads. ‘I ’spect he’s lost his way again; yer see he don’t know Sydney.’
‘Well he ought to,’ said the bar
man. ‘I’ve seen him knocking about here for the past five years.’
Dads began to feel uneasy. Was it possible that after all he had been done?
With shaking hands he opened the pocketbook, only to find there a fat bundle of blank pieces of paper.
‘Well, I’m damned!’ said Dads. ‘But how was I to know? Never a word did they say about Fiji or the rich uncle there!’
‘Lord love me!’ said the barman, reading the whole story in Dads’ amazed face. ‘The likes of you ought to be led about with a string!’
A ZACK TO CENTRAL
FRANK DANIEL
THERE WAS NOTHING GRAND or exciting about my last day at school.
It wasn’t a big deal; it just meant that I didn’t have to come back the next day, or any other day for the rest of my life.
There was no fanfare, just the traditional dunking ritual.
My head was held under a running tap at the water tank, which stood at the western end of the school building. There was a bit of jostling and some friendly wrestling in feigned objection, and then the four-mile ride home on my pushbike with my haversack filled with books and other paraphernalia that I considered to be of no further use, but took home anyway.
In those days kids could leave school at fourteen but, in an endeavour to please my mother and to further my education, I’d stuck it out until I was fifteen.
Working at home on the family farm was the only occupation available to me at the time and, after a few months of that, I’d saved five pounds.
Five pounds! A ‘fiver’! It seemed a lot of money and, considering I wasn’t being paid wages but just ‘pocket money’ for my services, it was a lot of money!
I was still being fed and clothed by my parents and no one seemed to consider a weekly wage necessary. My parents were too cunning to ever mention wages.
Anyway, being a man of means, I thought it was time I visited the ‘big smoke’.
I’d been to Sydney with my family in the past, to visit relatives, but now I felt that a trip to the city on my ‘Pat Malone’ would be in order, without having to visit aunts and uncles.