Oscar and Lucinda

by Peter Carey

  She had been told that these characters represented virtues. She had trouble recognizing them in this light. There was the one with the roof, the one with the two Fs standing huffily back to back, the one with eyes like a cat staring from the grass, the one like a river, Jesus Christ Almighty, dear Lord forgive her, she had eight correct.

  She felt light, high as a kite. The Chinaman gave her money but did not approve of her. She could not imagine him being kind to his wife. She did not give a damn what he thought. She was going for a trot. She was going to hell.

  Don’t think that!

  She clenched all her muscles to resist the idea. Then, almost at once, she did not care. The punters saw the small woman in the big oilskin coat walk towards the door. She walked briskly and bossily towards it—not the door to the street, but the door in the back wall.

  She was going for a trot.

  The second room was where fan-tan was played. It was dark all round its edges, much darker than in the Pak-Ah-Pu room. But the light above the zinc-covered table was brighter and the zinc itself threw back a dull glow into the faces of the noisy players, making them look sickly, tinged with green. No one looked up when she entered. She stayed back for a moment in the cover of dark. She felt, suddenly, quite wonderful. She could not explain why this change should come, that she should move from blotchy-faced hell-fear to this odd electric ecstasy merely in the moving from one room to the next. She felt herself to be beyond salvation and did not care. She would not be loved, not be wife, not be mother.

  She felt the perfect coldness known to climbers.

  The croupier was thin, with gold in his mouth. She could smell the rancid oil from his pigtailed hair. All sorts of smells here. Sailor’s oilskin, someone’s newly polished shoes. The croupier made a small cry—probably English, although it sounded alien, mechanical, as if he were an extraordinary construction from the Paris exhibition. The dark enveloped her, warmed her like brandy. The croupier threw—such a svelte motion—the brass coins. They sounded, as they hit the zinc, both dull and sharp; light, of no substance, but also dead and heavy. It was lovely to watch, just as lovely as a good butcher cutting a carcass, the quick movements of knife, the softness and yielding of fat from around kidneys, the clean separation of flesh from bone. The croupier’s tin cup covered some of the coins while his right hand swept the others away. She was a Christian. Her mind found the parallel—Judgement Day, saved coins, cast-out coins—without her seeking it. Sheep on the right. Goats on the left. She drew the curtains on the picture, turned her back, and concentrated all her attention on the heather as he lifted the cup and set the coins—see how sweetly this is done, the suppleness of long fingers (three of them ringed, one of them with emerald)—and slid the coins into sets of four.

  There was much barracking now. Cries of yes, it is, no, it’s not, groans, and then an odd cheer, squeaky as a schoolboy’s which attracted comments, not all of them good-natured.

  “It’s two.”

  “Toe,” said the Celestial. “Numma toe.”

  He had placed all the coins in sets of four. There were two remaining. Anyone who had placed their stake on the side of the zinc designated “2” had trebled their money.

  The Chinaman gave out the winnings. He slid out six coins across the zinc. Someone expressed a wish to pass water in an eccentric style. Another wind. There was laughter and crudity. Lucinda was not lonely. She pressed forward now, to make her bet, but also to reveal herself. They must know she was there. It was to prevent their embarrassment. She would rather she did not reveal herself, but she must not delay it. She did not look at the faces of the men as she pressed between them to reach the bright square of pitted zinc.

  She said: “Excuse me.”

  It took longer to register than you might expect, partly because of the alcohol, which gave the air in the room its volatility, but also because of the intense focus created by the zinc square which, at the moment she chose, contained nothing of any significance except the numerals (1, 2, 3, 4) which red forms had become almost ghostly with the heavy traffic of coins across their painted surfaces.

  At last they felt her otherness, her womanness. She felt the bodies move aside. Where there had been a hot press, she now experienced a distinct and definite cooling.

  But she was not lonely, and she was not frightened or shy. She looked at the Chinaman—he was lonely, she saw, and very young—but she observed this in a way that did not involve her capacity for compassion or sympathy. What moved her were his ringed hands, the black metal cup, the brass coins, the red scratched numbers, and these things, being merely instruments, provided the anticipation of an intense, but none the less mechanical, pleasure.

  She placed a florin against the four. This was soon joined by the more customary coppers. The “4” won. She felt herself liked. She felt the hot pulse of their approbation. They went from cold to hot. It was done as quickly as the cutting of a cockerel’s throat. She did not acknowledge it, but she welcomed it. She was not lonely. She looked at no one. She played with inspired recklessness. She felt she could control the game with no other tool than her will.

  4, 3, 2, 4, 4, 4, 4, 1, 4, 3, 3, 3, 4, 1.

  She won until she touched the quicksand of the final “1.” Then she could not get the run of it again. She was out of step. There was a hidden beat she could not catch. The men stopped following her then. They no longer announced their bets as “the same as the missus’.” But they did not withdraw from her either. And when, at three o’clock in the morning, she snapped her purse shut, she had no more money than the poorest of them. The purse was empty, freed from all weight, contained nothing but clean, watered silk. She felt as light and clean as rice paper. She allowed herself to notice her companions. She felt limp as a rag doll, and perfectly safe.

  She saw that the boot-polish smell belonged to a would-be gentleman in a suit with too-short sleeves, the rancid smell not to the Chinaman at all, but to an ageing man with fierce ginger flyaway eyebrows and a strong Scottish burr. There was an odd-looking chap dressed in the style of the Regency and two young sailors who could not have been more than sixteen. She also noted the engraving of Queen Victoria in the deep shadow of the wall and, immediately beneath it, a living face in three dimensions which was disconcertingly familiar, although she could not, immediately, place it.

  She opened her purse again. She pretended to look for something in it. There was, as I said already, nothing in it. She opened her purse to cover her confusion. She knew the face well, almost intimately. She managed to conjure, from the hitherto empty purse, a ticket from a London omnibus. She looked up and found the fellow winking at her. She tore up the ticket and dropped it on the floor. She snapped her purse shut. She tucked her purse in her bag. She was already imagining withdrawing her hatpin from its felt scabbard, when she remembered where she had last seen that heart-shaped face and flaming angel’s hair.

  “Oh, dear,” she turned, smiling, holding out her hand, quite forgetting that these manners were unexpected in this part of George Street. “Why,” said the mystery woman, abandoning her stern countenance as easily as a painter’s drop sheet. “Why,” she said, advancing on my suddenly terrified great-grandfather. “Why, Reverend Mr Crab.”

  She swore later that Oscar’s mouth dropped open. She described it for him. He was like a ventriloquist’s doll from which the ruling hand has been rudely withdrawn, leaving the subject slumped, without a spine, unable to lift so much as an arm.

  The silence that now fell on the little room was not complete—the Chinaman began to clear away his brass cup and coins. There can be no doubt what the misunderstanding was—he feared another Royal Commission into gambling. He imagined the slack-jawed, red-headed youth to be one more Reverend commissioner intent on proving his father an opium addict and his wife a prostitute. He slipped the coins into the pocket of his floppy coat, the cup into his back pocket and arranged to have himself dissolved into the shadow of the wall.

  The room did not empty immedia
tely. There were those more curious than fearful who waited a nosy minute or two while they considered the association of clergyman and oilskinned woman. In all likelihood they too came down in favour of a Royal Commission. In any case they soon departed.

  “Oh, dear,” Lucinda said. “I am so sorry.”

  “It is not Crab.”

  “No, no. I am so sorry. I don’t know where the name came from.”

  This was an untruth. She knew exactly where it came from—the image of a crab scuttling from red settee, to cabin, to red settee.

  “It is Hopkins, not Crab,” he persisted.

  She thought his response too hurt and humourless. “It is the reverend,” she said, “that I should first apologize for.”

  He smiled then, and she remembered how much she had liked him.

  “Well,” he said, flipping a coin into the air and catching it (slap) against the back of his wrist, “I suppose I must face up to facts—my disguise is done for. But in London, as I suppose you know, they would not be half as particular. In Drury Lane they expect to see a little cloth.”

  “You could try Ah Moy’s.”

  “That’s true. But it is such an awful trek.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  “Oh,” he said, yawning and stretching—she could see his tonsils, a clean pink cave and quite surprisingly uncorrupted—“I am better off because of it. I should thank you, Miss Leplastrier, for saving me from my weakness.”

  They were walking now, proceeding awkwardly, embarrassed, indecisive, through the Pak-Ah-Pu room. The customers had all departed but two Chinese with a ladder were hanging a large Union Jack on the wall. They bowed politely, although this was not an easy thing to accomplish from the top of an unsteady ladder. One of them lost his balance, or perhaps he jumped intentionally. He was a nimble old man who landed with ony the slightest “oof;” he escorted them to the door on George Street with many polite Good evenings.

  “This is dangerous work you do, Miss Leplastrier,” said Oscar when the door had been bolted behind them and they were left alone in the dark and rain-shiny street. “You know we are not a minute from the Crooked Billet Inn where whatshisname obtained the pistol which he used to trick poor Kinder into shooting himself? Do you have a carriage? For me, alas, it is shanks’s pony.”

  “Then you do not have a living?”

  “I do not wish one. But the Bishop would not hear of mission work. He gave me Randwick (it is far too grand for me) and there was a lovely carriage and a gelding by the name of Prince. But unfortunately I took some bad advice.”

  Lucinda was cold and wanted to be home with her cocoa but she could not leave him to walk four miles in this weather. She must drive him to his vicarage which lay in exactly the opposite direction to the one she wished to go in. She watched him warily, more detached than was her custom, as he stood before her, flapping his long arms around in the damp waterfront air, explaining, in such innocent, educated English, how it was that he had lost his horse and carriage (the one provided by the Randwick vestry) to a common racecourse tout who was also, he discovered the next Sunday, a member of his congregation. She was both enchanted and appalled by his innocence and it was this quality she was confused by, not knowing if it were genuine, or if it were a cloak for a mad or even criminal personality.

  She drove him out to Randwick and on the way they managed to leave alone the tender scar which was their voyage aboard the Leviathan. When he proposed a game of cards she found herself, against her better judgement, asking if he could accept her IOU.

  65

  Bishop Dancer’s Ferret

  Bishop Dancer is a man you would most quickly understand if you saw him on a Saturday in Camden, dressed in his red hunting jacket and high black boots, leaning forward to accept some hot toddy from the stirrup cup. He had a handsome ruddy face which these days extended to his crown. What hair remained clung to the sides and back of his head; it was fine and white, cut very short, as was his beard. With no mitre to assist you, you might be inclined to think him a gentleman farmer. He had big thighs, strong shoulders, and although you could see the man had a belly, it was not one of your feather-down bellies, but a firm one. He sat well on his horse and it was a good specimen, too—sixteen hands and no stockhorse in its breeding.

  Dancer could not, of course he could not, have clergy who were notorious around the track, who lost their horses or their carriages because they heard a horse was “going to try.” Sydney—a venal city—was too puritanical to allow such a thing. But had you informed Dancer of this story after dinner, he would have found it funny. He could find nothing in his heart against the races and he left that sort of raging to the Baptists or Methodists. The true Church of England, he would have felt (but never said) was the Church of gentlemen. Sometimes gentlemen incur debts.

  He had interviewed Oscar closely on his arrival. He put him through his paces, questioning the fidgety fellow as closely as a candidate from Cambridge. He was looking for signs of this Broad Church heresy. He could find none. He accepted Virgin birth, the physical Resurrection, the loaves and fishes. The Bishop allowed him his view on Genesis with a little uneasiness, but it was no longer politic to make a fuss about this matter. He soon sniffed out, however, Oscar’s Low Church background. In normal circumstances he would not have cared for it at all. He loathed Evangelicals with all their foot—thumping “enthusiasm.” He did not like their “bare boards” approach to ritual, and there was plenty of this in Oscar’s attitude. Bishop Dancer was delighted to find it so. “This fellah,” he told himself, “will be my ferret out at Randwick.” And when he thought it, he imagined Oscar quite literally as a ferret, his long white neck disappearing down a hole.

  He asked the untidy applicant about candles on the altar. Oscar throught they should be lit only for illumination. He asked about vestments. Oscar thought a simple surplice quite acceptable, but preferred a plain black cassock. He asked about genuflexion. Oscar confessed himself uncomfortable with the practice.

  Bishop Dancer became quite hearty. He had the young man stay to luncheon. He had him fed beef, although the beef was cold, and was not even mildly disconcerted when the young man refused his claret. There was going to be fun out at Randwick, that bed of Puseyites with all their popish ritual. There would be a first-class row out there, but he would win. He must win. For he had, by one of those anomalies which made the diocese so interesting, the right to appoint the incumbent himself. If the Randwick vestry did not like it, they could go over to the Church of Rome. They would not get their new parson dressing up in white silk and red satin. This one was a nervous little fellow, the Bishop judged, but he would not budge on this issue. He would not be susceptible to Tractarians, only to missionaries. Even at luncheon he persisted with a request that he be sent “up-country” (wherever that might be—when asked he could not say). Bishop Dancer told him bluntly that mission work was a waste of time. The blacks were dying off like flies, and if he doubted this he should look at the streets of Sydney, man, and note the condition of the specimens he saw there. The field was over-supplied with missionaries and Methodists fighting Baptists to see who could give the “poor wretches” the greater number of blankets. Leave the blacks to the Dissenters, Dancer advised. God had work for him to do at Randwick.

  It did not occur to Oscar that a bishop might lie to him. He accepted Dancer’s story and, indeed, relayed it to Theophilus who disseminated it further through the columns of The Times. It was because of this gullibility that Oscar allowed himself to be placed almost next door to the notorious Randwick racecourse. He was Bishop Dancer’s ferret, but it was not Kebble, Pusey and Newman who were to cause him the greatest stress in his new parish, but Volunteer, Rioter, Atlanta, Mnemon, and Kildare.

  66

  St John’s

  Sydney was a blinding place. It made him squint. The stories of the gospel lay across the harsh landscape like sheets of newspaper on a polished floor. They slid, slipped, did not connect to anything beneath them. It was a place
without moss or lichen, and the people scrabbling to make a place like troops caught under fire on hard soil. St John’s at Randwick was built from red brick with very white mortar. The fine clay dust that overlay everything, even the cypress hedge beside the vicarage, could not soften the feeling of the place. It was all harsh edges like facets of convict-broken rock.

  He had been ready to minister to his flock, but found them to be creatures of their landscape. They did not embrace him, but rather stood their distance. He found their conversation as direct as nails. They found his to be tangled, its point as elusive as the end of a mishandled skein.

  They warned him about snakes, spiders and the advisability of locking his windows at night. He thought the fault was with himself. He had his housekeeper bake scones and invited the vestry to tea. They sat stiffly on their chairs and conversation could not be got under way. He felt young, inadequate, inexperienced. He asked them about the parishioners, but it seemed they knew almost nothing. Only when he asked if there were natives in the congregation did they show themselves capable of smiling.

  They knew he was Dancer’s man. They waited and watched. They found his form of service as unappetizing as unbuttered bread.

  He prayed to God to give him the key to their hearts. He had nothing else to do but pray and write his sermons. In the long winter afternoons he listened to the drum of horses’ hooves. He sent his sixteen volumes of track records to Mr Stratton and swore never to gamble again. He had promised God in the midst of that dreadful storm. There was reason enough for Mr Stratton to gamble, but not for him. He was clothed and provided for. He had shelter enough for a family of eight. He had three hundred pounds a year, and a housekeeper to feed him mutton every night. He did not require wealth. He coveted nothing.

  The horses drummed through the afternoon. The track was hard in April but softened with the rains in May. He preached sermons against gambling.