Best Australian Short Stories

by Douglas Stewart

  When Henry came home, rather late in the evening and somewhat the worse for wine, he thought he had come to the wrong farm until Pietro emerged and carried his parcels for him. He was in an exalted mood and gave Pietro an orange for his services.

  But Pietro spoiled the effect by telling him several things he had forgotten to bring.

  At the table that night Pietro objected to Mrs Holden giving the baby honey to stop it crying.

  “No good ’oni, no good,” he said.

  She continued to exercise the lawful rights of a mother. Suddenly the baby vomited. Pietro made an angry noise, jumped up, and put the honey-pot away in the cupboard.

  “No good, no good,” he said so emphatically that she was startled and impressed.

  Henry found that he couldn’t tell Pietro much about overhauling farm machines. He stood by to explain where tools, parts, and materials were kept, but frequently found it easier to fetch them than to explain; sometimes when Pietro was held up he became so impatient that Henry found himself running just like one of Esmond’s Italians, until he remembered his dignity as a padrone.

  They had an auspicious rain when everything was ready, and Henry’s land was never worked into better condition.

  The tractor ran very well. Pietro assumed a jealous control of it, and appeared to be perfectly happy on it no matter how long he worked. The arrangement suited Henry excellently.

  He felt free for the first time since his prisoner arrived. He had plenty of time to turn over all the vague plans forming in his head.

  When Pietro finished working the land he suggested again that they cut some fence-posts. But Henry was ready with his own plan. Pietro was to paint the house. Pietro agreed heartily; the house certainly needed painting. They went to have a good look at it. Not only had the pint peeled off, but much of the plaster was cracked and loose.

  “No good paint,” said Pietro. “Prima plaster.”

  The thought of all the work and expense involved in plastering horrified Henry.

  He said, authoritatively, “Paint sufficient”, and took a trowel and demonstrated how the rough plaster could be smoothed off.

  He handed the trowel to Pietro, who made what appeared to be a similar movement. But the result was vastly different, at least a wheelbarrow-load of plaster fell off the wall.

  “Plenty similar,” Pietro said, and knocked off another square yard. Henry gave in.

  Henry was kept very busy mixing and carrying plaster to Pietro. It had to be mixed in small lots and applied immediately, Pietro said, otherwise it would fall off just like the previous plaster.

  When the job was finished Henry brought out the paint. Pietro was very interested in the “colore”. When he discovered that it was to be a drab, uniform stone-colour all his eagerness vanished.

  “No good, no good,” he said. “Similar mud.”

  He wouldn’t take the brush when Henry offered it to him. “Brush no good,” he said. “Troppo old.”

  Henry tried the brush and had to admit it was worn out. He decided to go to town and buy a new one. Pietro wanted to go, too, to have his hair cut. Henry left him at the Control Centre and went to do his shopping.

  When he walked into the general store where he did most of his business he had an uneasy feeling that he was being followed. He turned and saw Pietro carrying the two big cans of stone-coloured paint. He had that brown-bear look about him which Henry hadn’t liked the first time he saw him.

  The manager of the hardware store came up to them. He saw by the expression in Henry’s eye that he wasn’t sure of himself, so he turned to Pietro, who appeared to know exactly what he wanted. Pietro held up the tins.

  “Colore no good,” he said.

  The manager remembered having advised Henry against a uniform drab colour, and immediately set out to help Pietro. He quite ignored Henry’s somewhat indistinct, “No, it’s all right. I’ll keep it.”

  He showed Pietro a colour-card, from which he selected a very light cream, bright blue, and a black.

  “One big creama, one little blue, one little little nero,” he said. The manager was, as he would have said, intrigued. He tried to discover what design Pietro had in mind, and Pietro demonstrated as best he could, attracting a lot of attention from other shoppers, who began to gather round.

  Henry became most uncomfortable. “I won’t have it at any price,” he protested. “Everyone who goes past will die laughing.” “Ah, garn!” said a big voice from the back. “Let him have a go. It couldn’t look any worse than it’s looked for the last twenty years.”

  Then a couple of ladies joined in.

  “How interesting!” said one. “The Italians are so artistic, aren’t they?”

  The other one said, “I remember seeing the adorable Italian cottages painted just like that. You must let us come and see it, Mr Holden.” She happened to be the wife of Henry’s long-suffering mortgagee, and her word carried some weight with him. Quite a number of others voiced favourable opinions before Henry and Pietro carried out the cream, blue, and black paint.

  Pietro took endless pains over the painting, and all the time he was at it Henry felt resentful, despite the fact that many people came and admired it. He comforted himself by compiling a long list of heavy jobs Pietro would have to do when he was finished. He had the interpreter prepare a translation and when at length the house was finished he gave Pietro a week’s programme, consisting mainly of firewood-carting and post-hole digging.

  But that day it rained, a splendid soaking rain, and during the night it cleared.

  Henry was awakened early in the morning by the roar of the tractor starting. He was puzzled and rather annoyed; Pietro was up to something. Then he realized that Pietro had made the all-important decision of the year, to start sowing the wheat.

  Henry thought, with some indignation, of the programme he had given Pietro, but he also realized that it was much more important to have the wheat sown while the soil was moist. He lay thinking for a long time of ways in which he could reassert himself, and all the time he heard the noises of Pietro’s preparations. He stayed there because he always hated the worry of working out the proportions of wheat and fertilizer and adjusting the machines accordingly, and all the other important details necessary for a successful sowing season.

  When at last he went out Pietro hurried up to him, his face aglow with enthusiasm.

  “Oh, rain very nice!” he said. “Possible very good weet this year, similar Mr Esmond.”

  He pointed to the tractor hitched to the sowing combine and the farm cart loaded with supplies of seed, fertilizer, and tractor fuel.

  “After brekfus I take tractor and weet machine. You bring carro. Allora we commence before Giuseppe and Leonardo on farm Mr Esmond.”

  “Yes, Pietro,” said Henry

  Brian James

  JACOB’S ESCAPE

  JACOB often sighed and reflected that fifty years is a long time. He often prayed that Elizabeth’s temper might improve. But there was no appreciable improvement in her temper as far as he could see, so he prayed harder still that he might attain to a comfortable resignation to it. Also he made a complete study of the Lives of the Saints, but he was disappointed at finding no case similar to his own. Whatever guidance the big volume could give him in many matters, it certainly showed no workable method of dealing with Elizabeth.

  So he sighed over the fifty long years.

  Today, however, he felt that there were limits to resignation. Elizabeth might take possession, of his farm, and all there was on it! she might appropriate the whole family and exclude him from any management of it—though that didn’t matter so much now since the family was grown up and mostly scattered; she might decide what boots he bought and what clothes he wore on Sundays; she might…But to be humiliated before the pig-buyer was too much!

  Walker, the pig-buyer, had called that afternoon, and Jacob had sold, on his own responsibility, four baconers at three-fifteen. Fair enough price as things went. The deal was complete�
�almost. Certainly, he had been reckless in his daring—but, blast it all!— the pigs were his. In a manner of speaking, that is. Then Elizabeth appeared and called the deal off —unless the buyer was willing to go to four-five.

  The buyer wasn’t willing.

  Jacob protested. “But I just sold them!”

  You might have,” said Elizabeth, but I haven’t.”

  The buyer grinned—rather too amiably. “All right, all right!” He said. “No harm done. I don’t think I really want them pigs so bad as all that.”

  He grinned again. A nasty fellow, that Walker. Jacob had never liked him. If he had only argued or got angry over the thwarted deal it wouldn’t have been so bad. But to grin! There was too much understanding in that grin. Jacob dimly felt that murders, suicides, and other spectacular crimes grow out of grins like that.

  With a pitiful show of strength and dignity, Jacob walked off. Even then Elizabeth rubbed in the defeat still further. She ordered Jacob to wheel the single plough down to the shed. Jacob wheeled the plough.

  Then Jacob went to the house. Elizabeth’s poodle, who had always treated Jacob with the contempt poodles have for underlings, was at the door. He ignored Jacob. A long unused rage came over Jacob; he kicked the poodle right across the room. The poodle yelped and whinged, and had a most satisfactory dint in its side. Exultation was only momentary— Jacob was all repentance, but the poodle didn’t believe it, and whimpered under the sofa.

  Jacob went to his room, a very small room at the end of the veranda, and sat on his bed. The incident of the poodle shook him badly. It made him feel small, and he couldn’t quite blame Elizabeth for it, either. But the rest of the afternoon it burned within him. That grin on the pig-buyer seemed to sum up his hopeless situation. It was too much, and it couldn’t go on. Then the remedy came like a flash—he would run away. He would assert his manhood—the daring of it made him tremble. He would be free!

  After tea—agony of a meal in the fear that Elizabeth might read his purpose—he went to his room to put his resolve into practice. Yes, he was going to clear out just as three of his boys had done. Should have gone with them, he reckoned. But where to go to now? What to do? Those things would have to wait. Only one thing mattered—clear out.

  He started to pack and found there was really very little to pack. His best clothes were in her room, in the big cedar wardrobe, with camphor cakes all over them. He felt in any case that it would be stealing to take those best clothes. Likewise, he could take no money. He wasn’t sure that there was any great amount in the house, nor where it was kept if it were there at all. He and Elizabeth had everything in a joint account in the bank—which meant that Elizabeth controlled the lot.

  He put on his second bests, and even with these he could not smother a feeling of guilt. Then he folded up a few singlets, pairs of socks, shirts, and handkerchiefs, razor, soap, and brush. All fitted very neatly into an old knapsack one of the boys had left behind him. Overcoat he could wear—it was a chilly night. But he couldn’t fit in an extra pair of boots. Anyway, he must travel light—there was less danger of capture.

  All this took hours, for indecisions consumed the time. The house was all darkness now, and a big moon was rising over the Cookabundy Ranges into the clear winter sky. He set out and sneaked blunderingly through the orchard. Sailor, the blue cattle dog, came down to inspect him. Sailor sniffed noncommittally, and then went back to his corn-sack at the kitchen door. At least it could be said of Sailor that he treated Jacob tolerantly—almost as an equal.

  Jacob got to the creek at the bottom of the orchard. Here the creek was shallow, gurgling between big stepping-stones. He crossed, and followed a slanting, deep cattle-track up the high bank on the other side. And now the world stretched before him, as wide and trackless as the night. There was only one spot in the immensity that he really knew—the prison he was leaving. He looked back. Through the she-oaks he could see the house clear in the moonlight. Home! He couldn’t leave without feeling the wrench. But she shouldn’t have spoken like that in front of the pig-buyer. She’d be sorry now—now that it was too late. That was a comforting thought. Still, Jacob wasn’t too sure that she would be sorry.

  He turned towards the thin forest of grey-gum and yellow-box. A mile away was Herman’s place. Herman was his brother-in-law, and owned the big vineyard and cellar. Best of good fellows was Herman. He would go to Herman’s first of all for advice and consolation and money. Herman would give all these and would know what was best to do. In any case, one couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to Herman.

  There was a light in the big kitchen at Herman’s. Jacob was not so confident now. What about Katherine, Herman’s wife? She was Elizabeth’s sister, and almost as much to be feared. He stepped as lightly as he could on to the wide, flagged veranda, and listened. There was not a sound. He knocked on the door, and Herman, after a short interval, opened it. Herman was delighted to see Jacob. “Just thinking of you, Jacob, just thinking of you.” Herman was always just thinking of anyone who called unexpectedly. The late hour, the knapsack, and Jacob’s agitation all told their story. In his simplicity, Herman read the right conclusion. He said questioningly, “Elizabeth?”

  Jacob felt just a little resentful that Herman should understand so readily, but it was a momentary feeling. He looked round in timid inquiry. Herman understood again.

  “Gone!” he said very cheerfully. “Gone for a couple of days to Rocky Crossing—out to Phil’s place.”

  That was good news. Herman was alone. His younger boys were not likely to be about when Katherine was away.

  There was a bright fire of box-logs in the wide fireplace and an air of homely comfort in the big room. The very cheer of it undid Jacob. He broke down rather helplessly. He had not meant to do that. His shoulders shook badly. “Herman, I wanted to tell…I am going to…” Herman was a true philosopher—he could bear the misfortunes of others with commendable fortitude.

  “Things could be much worse,” he declared, and, “certainly, something would have to be done. But—wait!” He hurried out, and returned with a very smudgy-looking bottle of his special sherry — dry and full-bodied. He set two tumblers on the table—this wasn’t a time for thin-stemmed genteel glasses. Then he brought in a box-log, part of a fair-sized tree, and heaved it with a grunt onto the fire. Streams of sparks flew up the chimney in happy helter-skelter.

  Herman nearly filled the tumblers, and they drank. It was great wine. The uncertain flames of the fire danced through it, and the light and cheer of other days, and hazily remembered summers, came to life again in its generous warmth.

  They drank again.

  Jacob commenced his tale. The edge of grievance had dulled somewhat, but he started with the pig-buyer. No doubt that was the wrong end to start, but Herman understood perfectly that a story of this kind could start anywhere. Jacob finished with the declaration that he was not going back.

  Herman prodded the fire with an old auger, and got another smudgy bottle.

  On the natural desire to escape from Elizabeth he said he desired to make no comment. “She is my Katherine’s sister. Yes, she is my Katherine’s sister.” There could be no dispute on this score, but Herman had a trick of deliberating in such repetition. “They are sisters, Jacob.” Herman kicked a glowing log severely to put it in its place.

  But there was the scandal! Herman considered that this would be enormous. Yes, simply enormous. It would be wife-desertion. Herman did not distinguish too clearly between desertion and escape. And then there was the question of where to go.

  “Where can you go, Jacob? Nowhere! And what can you do when you get there? Nothing at all!”

  Herman went over this half a dozen times, and Jacob, confounded by the logic of it, just kept silent.

  “Then, Jacob, there is the money. What money have you?” Jacob shook his head, and his shoulders lifted ever so slightly. Herman saw the gesture and was deeply touched. He filled the glasses.

  He would lend the money—if he
could. But he couldn’t. Katherine was a very careful woman. Very careful. He’d have nothing at all now if it weren’t for her. They had a joint account but it was difficult to operate on it. Very. Katherine was careful all right. Herman prodded the fire with unnecessary vigour. Yes Katherine was careful. A great manager…

  They drank again. But Katherine was a wonderful little woman just the same. True, she had “her ways”, and she had “her mind.” But she was wonderful. By easy stages, all wives were “wonderful little women”. That is, if you knew how to manage them. Herman knew; yes, he knew. By the end of the second bottle Katherine was superlatively wonderful. Herman drifted back—right back to courtship days when Katherine was a maid at McLeod’s big station house. Elizabeth was “in service” there, too. Did Jacob remember his first shy meeting with Elizabeth on the bank of the creek ? Just below the woolshed?

  Jacob remembered. It was yesterday. No, it was today. Now. Herman got a third smudgy bottle.

  Then it was further back still—an adventurous world before “wonderful little women” came to bless it. McNiven’s big cattle run on the Lachlan! Cattle, cattle, cattle! Herman and Jacob were stockmen together again on McNiven’s. Such stockmen! Such horsemen! They mustered every big wild mob over again. They mastered every outlaw. They built every strong stockyard. It was a great life.

  The third bottle was empty. The fire had died down to dull blinkings through the ashes. The night was late, but the world had grown young again. Jacob looked out into the clear, frosty night, and said it was time he was going. The moon was slanting down towards the western ridges. Herman put on his overcoat and said he would see Jacob to the creek. He carried Jacob’s knapsack.

  Not too steadily, and arm in arm, they threaded a way through the big vineyard and on to the forest of grey-gum and yellow-box. They sang, softly though, again and again, the haunting strains of “Strasburg”. Something earlier still than McNiven’s big run. Much earlier than “wonderful little women”.