‘Oh,’ she sneered. ‘It’s you.’
Her head swayed. She turned it away and let it droop. She was sitting at the small kitchen table. There was nothing on it but the few home comforts – a white glass half red with wine, a bottle three-quarters full, an ashtray full of stubbed cigarettes, and one fresh cigarette burning away to a cylinder of grey ash.
‘You’re in a pretty mess,’ he said.
She sniggered, and the sound filled him with contempt. Nothing looked more silly, more degraded, than a woman with too many under the belt. They couldn’t take it. A man looked bad enough stripped of his self-respect, reduced to a pie-eyed clown, but a woman looked ten times worse; a witless hag.
‘Pretty mess,’ she muttered. Her eyes found him. They gleamed like black water. Her lips quivered before the words came. ‘Who did it? Who did it, eh?’
‘You’re a fool,’ he said. ‘You’re a weakling.’
‘Am I?’ She fixed him with an expression of determination and abhorrence. ‘That’s what you say. But I’ll beat you, Macauley, if it’s the last thing I do.’
‘A court’ll never give you that kid.’
‘No?’ she jeered. ‘You know nothing. You ask my lawyer. It’s a cinch, it’s a cert. You haven’t got a look-in.’
She stood up, pointing at him with a look of triumphant disdain.
‘You thought I’d come running, didn’t you? You thought you’d break me down. You thought I’d be on tap with the help and the comfort.’ She grimaced. ‘I wouldn’t move ten yards for you.’
He repressed his exasperation, aware of its uselessness. He said quietly, ‘I just thought you’d like to know, that’s all.’
‘You just thought,’ she said scornfully.
‘Where’s it going to get you, anyway? You know that kid might die. It’s on the cards she will.’
She shrugged.
‘You won’t get her then,’ Macauley added.
‘Neither will you!’ she shot back. And he realised positively then that that was all she was concerned about. He was talking to a stranger to whom he meant nothing, not to a wife, not to a woman he had loved and who had loved him. There was no reason why she should feel any sentiment for him or a child that had long ceased to be a part of her life. No reason at all. Any good that was in her, and there was much, had been seduced by antipathy; and it wasn’t just a kernel of hatred, it was a poison all through her, going the rounds with her blood, feeding her brain, filling her with zeal and despair.
‘You don’t want that kid,’ Macauley said. ‘All you want is revenge.’
‘Ah, you’re getting smart,’ she praised him mockingly.
‘Is that why you feared nothing from me? Why you gave me a chance to appear in court? You reckon I haven’t got Buckley’s?’
‘Mister,’ she said, ‘I wanted you to turn up. I want you to be there. It’s going to give me the greatest pleasure I can think of to hear you babbling your piece, trying to get yourself out of the fix I can put you in; and I can’t wait to see your face when they hand that kid over to me.’
He looked at her steadily. ‘You’ll never get that kid,’ he said. ‘You and your tin-pot court. There’s no court in the world big enough to make me give her to you. The Almighty himself couldn’t make me do it. Go for your life. See where you get.’
There was no more he could say to her, no more he wanted to say. He walked to the door. Then he turned, with a pang of hope. ‘I’ll be at the Met, if you want to talk to me – but make sure you want to talk sense.’
‘Get out!’
He had his hand on the knob. He heard the quick steps on the stairs, and the knob was turned from the other side. He swung back as the door opened and was behind it.
‘Hell, Marge, you still on it.’
The man slammed the door, and then he saw Macauley, who stood against it. His face whitened. His eyes flicked in fear.
‘Don’t get the wind up, Donny,’ Macauley said. ‘Nobody’s going to hurt you.’
Donny relaxed slightly. He looked bewilderedly at Marge, and gestured slightly with his thumb. ‘What’s he doing here?’
The woman was suddenly quiet. There was a look of momentary sobriety on her face. Macauley didn’t miss the way she glanced with cautious trepidation round the room. He was curiously interested by the change in her.
‘Get out!’ she said.
Macauley spoke quietly. ‘Donny wants to know why I’m here. Tell him.’
‘Get out!’ she shouted, rising. ‘Get out!’
‘She doesn’t want to tell you, Donny. Why?’
Donny looked blank. He squirmed like a man who feels he’s being made a fool of. Then his forehead crinkled slowly. He swivelled his eyes round on her. ‘But you said he wouldn’t be here. You — ’
The woman looked uncomfortable as though she had been caught in a guilty act and was trying to shrug it off as being of no consequence.
‘I got word from her to come, Donny. She asked me, in a way.’ Macauley knew the cards to play now.
Donny shot him a glance of disbelief, then transferred it to the woman. ‘Is that true, Marge? What’s going on? Are you crazy or what?’
‘He’s lying, he’s lying,’ she said wildly.
‘Looks like she’s been putting it over you, Donny,’ Macauley said. ‘And I can’t be lying. I’m here. And I’ll be in that courtroom in the morning, fighting her every inch of the way.’
‘You said he wouldn’t be here,’ Donny repeated accusingly. ‘You said it’d be walk-over. Nothing to it.’
‘Like the time she tried to kidnap the child,’ Macauley said. ‘Is that what she told you then? And you sort of didn’t mind as long as there wasn’t going to be any trouble. You wanted to see me get it in the neck too, and that was a nice and easy way to do it.’
Donny held up his hands placatingly, absolvingly.
‘You gutless bastard, don’t try to tell me any different. You’ve got no more time for me than I’ve got for you.’ Macauley walked a few steps away from the door. Donny flinched and moved back. ‘You didn’t intend to keep the kid, either, no more than you intended to keep it this time. What were you going to do with it?’
Donny looked at the woman, trying to get his cue from her, but she only looked at him with the same notion.
‘Tell me,’ Macauley snarled, advancing. ‘Tell me, or I’ll make it willing. What were you going to do with her?’
‘Get her adopted, an orphanage, we didn’t know …’ Donny blurted in fear.
Macauley stood still, staring at them in the rage to destroy that possessed him. Then he shrugged. ‘Well, what are you going to do now, Donny, now that you’ve found out she wants to have her cake and eat it, too, now that you know I’m here ready and bloody willing to give you the trouble you don’t want?’
Donny looked about him, cornered. Then his temper flared. ‘You had no right to do this,’ he snapped at the woman. ‘I came in with you. I give you a fair go. You didn’t have to do this.’
The woman stood up, frightened, flustered heat in her face.
‘Donny, listen — ’ There was a note of panic in her voice.
‘Listen, nothing! I told you how I stood. As long as there was no fuss, I said. I don’t want my name dragged through the scandal sheets. Why should I for a bloody nobody? And now you go and do this on me. Well, that’s the finish.’
The woman ran to him. ‘No, Donny, don’t say that. It’s not finished. I don’t want anybody but you.’ Her voice broke in supplicating sobs. Macauley backed to the door, hating the harsh abject tones.
‘It’s not as if you wanted the kid,’ Donny said in a softer voice, gesturing. Then he braced himself again, the sense of hurt coming strong in him. ‘It’s too late now to be sorry,’ he said. ‘Well, I won’t be here. I’m going. I want nothing more to do with you.’
‘No, no, Donny.’
‘It’s not too late,’ Macauley said ruthlessly, his back to the door.
Donny shot him a glance of incompr
ehension that slowly faded. ‘You mean you can call it off?’
Macauley shook his head. ‘Not me. I’ve got nothing to do with it.’
Donny looked slowly away from him to the woman, with her hands to her face, sobbing, the savagery and desperation of the trapped animal gone. Donny seemed to be waiting for her answer, but his impatience ran out. ‘Well, how about it?’ he rapped out. ‘It’s in your lap. You started it. Make up your mind. It’s that kid or me.’ He stared at her, vehement. ‘Hurry up.’
Macauley took one searching look at the woman, and he knew what her answer would be. It was written in every shudder of her flesh, in every twinge of her grovelling submissiveness. He spared her feelings, he made it easier. He had seen the piteous disintegration; he didn’t want to be in at the kill. He closed the door softly and went down the stairs. But he went like a guilty man leaving his crime behind him. There was compassion in him and a bitter sickness of remorse.
He put through another call, and was told that Buster’s condition was still the same. He could go back now, though. There was no point in staying in the city. It was all over in the city. He rang the railway, found he would be able to catch a train in two hours’ time.
He went back to the hotel, and there he found it wasn’t all over, not for him.
They caught him right off guard. There was just the short swift knock on the door. He opened it, and a fist shot through. It dazed him and sent him back on his heels. Then they were in the room. The tall one grabbed him, twisted his arms back while the nuggety one pummelled him. Macauley freed himself and fought back, and it was boots and all in. They grasped him again. The big one held. The short one pummelled. But they didn’t get him again. He backed, ducked, and a fist crunched on the stone wall behind him. He hit out. He felt the jerk in his shoulders. They swung in together. They fought with the ferocity of panthers. The fight lasted ten minutes. At the end of that time nobody moved.
Macauley stirred first. He crawled along the floor on his hands and knees and pulled on the bed. He dragged himself upright. He sat there. He put his hands to his face and drew them away in stupid puzzlement, for they met his face before they came to it, or so it seemed. He had no side-sight from the left eye. It was as though he wore a blinker. He had to turn his head at right angles to his shoulder before he could see the wardrobe mirror. He staggered towards it. A man, a visage he didn’t recognise, came towards him. He stared at it close up, turning his head this way and that.
When he washed away the blood and combed his hair, it looked no better. It looked worse because it was getting worse. He had a blinker on the right eye now. But the face was his all right. He changed into a clean shirt. He got the blood spots off his clothes as well as he could. He tied up his brown-paper parcel and was ready to leave. Then he saw his two assailants. But they were in no condition to worry him. The tall one with the rugged sloping shoulders lay back down on the floor with his head propped up slightly against the skirting board. The nuggety one lay drawn up near the head of the bed, starey-eyed, agony frozen on his face. He was still clutching his testicles.
Macauley went on down the stairs, and out into the darkened foyer. He caught the sudden flick of movement and instinct spun his head around, and he lurched sideways and thrust out a rigid arm, pinning the squirming man hard against the wall. The surprise at seeing Macauley when he expected to see his hirelings, the surprise of being caught unawares and which forced him to draw himself inconspicuously up against the wall, was still in Donny Carroll’s face, but fear was chasing it now.
‘Now, listen, listen,’ he cringed, licking his lips. ‘It wasn’t my idea — ’
Macauley jerked him forward.
Donny put up his hands. ‘No, don’t! Don’t!’
Macauley peered at him, still grasping the handful of shirt. ‘No,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ll leave you alone. You’re all she’s got. And you’re not much.’
He dragged the craven wretch closer.
‘Take a good look,’ he said. ‘Go back and tell her what you saw. Make it good. She’ll feel better. Maybe it’ll cure her. Maybe she’ll be satisfied then.’
He let the silk go with a flinging motion, and Donny Carroll stepped quickly away and then he ran.
Macauley didn’t miss the train. He got in a dog box and stretched out on one seat with a paper over his face. He rode most of the way without company. The company who entered at Coff’s Harbour was a taciturn pasty-faced man with round hat and a briefcase. He couldn’t help staring. Macauley asked him if he was jealous, because if he was, Macaulay told him, it wouldn’t be much trouble to make his face match. The company went out of its way to avoid staring and found it an unnerving ordeal.
It was noon at the hospital when Macauley arrived. The horrified nurse skittered away after the doctor. Fitzmaurice came, showed his dismay and started to ask questions. Macauley shut him up. ‘I know I look like a bloody clawed-up tomcat; so do you. Leave it at that. What about her?’
‘You want it straight,’ Fitzmaurice said. ‘I don’t know. The crisis is approaching. If she makes it she’ll be a sick little girl, but we’ll get her right.’
‘What’s this crisis?’
‘Think of a thread,’ Fitzmaurice said, bluntly, ‘with death pulling on one end and life on the other. And there you’ve got it. We’ve done all we can. We can do no more. It’s all up to her now.’
All up to her – all up to that bit of a scrap of flesh and blood, with a ticker no bigger than a two-bob piece, a waist you could slip through a bangle, a neck you could circle with your finger and thumb.
The nurse handed Macauley two letters and a small parcel wrapped in a piece of newspaper. She said an old man left it. He went down to the park, away from people, and read the letters. One was from Beauty Kelly with a blue five-pound note enclosed. Beauty said he read all about it in the papers, he hoped they’d catch the low bastard, he wished him the best and thought he might make use of the enclosed spin. He added a P.S.: ‘Don’t laugh, but I’m on the wagon.’ The other letter was from Lily. It was full of warmth and sympathy and generosity. He unwrapped the parcel. It was a packet of fine-cut tobacco. A pencilled scrawl on a tatter of paper told him: ‘I was passing throo when I herd. Sorry to heer. But don’t worry. She’s got yooth on her side. I owe you this. Im no bludja. Sam Bywater.’
Macauley drew warmth into him from these tributes, but they worried him too; as if they were an appeasement for the blow that might yet befall him. He thought he had better go back to the hospital. Then he thought they must be getting tired of him mooching about there. He’d leave it for a while. And he remembered his face and he felt self-conscious about it.
He thought if he slept for a while, to forget, to refresh himself, he would feel better. But he couldn’t sleep. Not even in the cool green grass with the warm air and the sun on his hands stretched back beyond the rim of the shadow.
The pictures tumbled in his mind, and they were morbid and premonitory. He saw himself sitting there, waiting. He was listening for steps. The nurses were drifting quietly about their work. They had homes to go to, friends, parents, sweethearts. They had things to do. This was none of their worry. This was routine: the sick, the dead coming and going.
But he was sitting there, and he saw it clearly: the doctor coming out, coming down the polished corridor, the way his trouser legs flew round with each step, the verdict on his face before he opened his mouth; he heard the clods on the coffin; he saw the open road and himself alone.
It was all so brutally real that it brought out a chill sweat on his face and screwed up his nerves so that he craved some outlet for their relief. His swag was still at the police station. He thought he had better put in an appearance there. He decided he had better not – not yet. His face would be on show; all the questions; there might be some kickback; the tall man and the nuggety man, he didn’t know how they came out of it.
With shaking fingers he took out the piece of pocket mirror from inside his coat and looked at his face.
/>
If it belonged to a man at all, that man lived in the jungle in a time gone by. It was swollen and lopsided. The lips were pumped up and protuberant. The neck just below the jawline was a green-and-blue bruise like a birthmark. The left cheekbone was split in a brown scar. The nose as well as being enlarged was thrown out of line by, and so contributed to, the whole disfigurement of the face.
He waited and he went along in the dark and by that time the tension in him was almost beyond his endurance. Haggard, worn, his shoulders slumped like the shoulders of an old man, he sat down and waited. It was just as he imagined. He saw the doctor come out. He watched him coming down the corridor. He tried to read his face, but he couldn’t. He stood, keyed-up, panting.
The doctor saw him. Instantly he smiled and shook his clenched hands above his head in the gesture of a prizefighter.
The doctor was before him and he couldn’t look at him then. The words seemed far away. He only caught one or two of them. His hands were shaking. He clenched his fists.
‘She keeps asking for something … or somebody by the name of … well … it sounds like Gooby. Does that make sense to you?’
Macauley’s throat strained, tightened like hawsers after the rain; the ache started in his belly.
‘I’ll go and get it,’ he muttered.
He turned away. Fitzmaurice looked after him. He thought he heard him sobbing.
‘Poor bastard,’ he said.
PENGUIN BOOKS
The Shiralee
D’Arcy Niland was born in Glen Innes, New South Wales, and spent much of his boyhood travelling with his Irish father. He began work as a copyboy on the Sydney Sun but soon left to travel the country, where he led an adventurous life, working in a wide variety of jobs – as an opal miner, circus hand, stevedor and woolshed rouseabout.
He married the writer, Ruth Park, in 1942 and they settled in Sydney where Niland worked as a writer, television and film scriptwriter and magazine editor. He died suddenly in 1967, two days after completing his last novel; he was forty-seven. The Shiralee, with its insights into fatherhood, confirms that he understood the human heart as well as he knew the country roads of Australia.
The Shiralee Page 22