Best Australian Short Stories

by Douglas Stewart

  If he did not manage it this way he used to fall back on putting so much heavy stuff in his trunk that he couldn’t carry it—which meant waiting for a cart to call for it. In this case, of course, the cart never called.

  We always knew when Father’s next squall was approaching; the symptoms were the same. He’d be restless and begin to forage among things—household accounts for preference.

  Of course, Mother gave him any amount of material to feed on. Where money and accounts were concerned she was the greatest messer living. Her affairs were always in a muddle, but maybe the fact that she received money in odd amounts and at odd times helped her to get in a muddle and remain in a muddle. And another thing, too, she never bothered about getting proper receipts, and when she did get them managed to lose them more often than not, which, one way or another, led to trouble.

  But she had been through so many upsets, weathered so many of Father’s violent temperamental scenes that they were to her now like water on a duck’s back; and when a disturbance was raging she used to whistle through it; a quiet, gentle, subtle whistling. Hers was a steady, monotonous whistle without passion or movement; a cool whistle; an indifferent whistle that refused to be routed or stopped.

  This particular tornado blew up in quite a simple manner. Father was mooching about the place and, for something better to do, began to smooth out the ruffles in the heavy red cloth that covered the table; and, rubbing his big flat palm over the cloth, he felt something beneath it—Mother’s store accounts, and in a frightful mess, too. Naturally, he lifted the cloth.

  And so it happened in due course—or in a short while—and according to schedule, or precedent all our own, that our little kipsie breathed a heavy stillness like that leaden hush that hangs over tree and earth before a storm breaks; a pressing stillness; a sense of waiting as the earth lies hushed and expectant before the first rumble of thunder claims the sky. And then there was a rustling as of leaves swirling about; a crinkling and crackling—Father excitedly fingering the accounts and pages of figures he had written down.

  Then the first clap of Father’s thunder claimed us and the storm was on.

  “One hundred and seventy-six pounds fourteen shillings and threepence halfpenny!” he thundered.

  “One hundred and seventy-six fiddlesticks!” Mother flashed. “But here it is in black and white!”

  “Fiddlesticks in black and white!” Mother clapped.

  Father’s voice rumbled. “If you paid these amounts where are the receipts? Here are the figures, and figures do not lie-e-e-e.” And then Mother began her whistling.

  “Yes, you can whistle, my fine lady; but that won’t get you out of it. No! By God, it won’t! We are going to thrash this thing out to a finish this time.”

  He waved the accounts in the air. “What a millstone to hang round a man’s neck! What an incubus! What a load for a man to carry! The injustice of it! The wickedness of it! The deceit of it all! The iniquity of it! The cruelty of it! One hundred and seventy-six pounds fourteen shillings and—”

  “Threepence halfpenny,” said Mother, breaking in on her whistling.

  He threw the accounts on to the table and banged it with his hard fist, and all the accounts and columns of figures flew upoff the table like birds suddenly scared from a cherry orchard; and, as birds do, fluttered back again.

  He gave the table another mighty wallop, and the papers again took flight. “One hundred and seventy-six pounds fourteen shillings and threepence half—”

  “Penny,” said Mother in between notes.

  He now beat a furious fusillade of blows on the jumping table, with Mother accompanying him with her old defensive non-stop rendering of the sweet strains of her favourite, “Annie Laurie”.

  He began to walk round and round the table and his feet beat a shuffling tattoo as he padded, his braces loose and flying behind him, his hair on end, his face red, while Mother’s pursed-up lips still gave out the same sweet refrain of the everlasting “Annie Laurie” as she dusted things on the mantelpiece, moved them unnecessarily, put them back again where they had first been, dusted them a second time and then a third time, and moved them again with slow, quiet movements, her tread light and soft, her face a mask, her marathon whistling performance still unbroken.

  The storekeeper! He’d see to him!

  Yes, he’d see that things were righted, upon his Sam he would; he’d see that justice be done; that his affairs were properly adjusted and a full receipt received for all the money he had given her to pay him—if she had paid the money to him. And if the bills had not been paid, as the accounts showed—well, he’d want to know where the money had gone, where it was hidden.

  Yes, that was so; hidden! Ha! a private, secret hoard! My word, a nice little stocking tucked away, eh? A little fortune stacked away somewhere?

  He began to tip out drawers, dig into jars, ransack shelves and corners, look behind pictures, first one room and then the other, throwing things about the house, and getting redder and madder- looking while the sweet strains of the same perpetual “Annie Laurie” still floated through the stormy air.

  Not finding the hidden hoard he picked up the accounts and lists of figures in handfuls and threw them at the rafters, fed them to space, and they came floating down softly, quietly, soothingly, putting to shame the turbulent atmosphere of our home.

  Having performed this operation, he adjourned to the back yard and informed the sky of the great and lasting wrong that had been done him, his hands held high as if in supplication, calling out his plaint, the echoes speeding far over the ranges, and away, and into the infinite.

  And now the stormy first part of the performance was over, the heavy drama ended, the comedy to come. Father now, according to specifications, was about to “clear out”; his usual well-studied packing-up act was on.

  Mother and I generally watched this part of the show from the kitchen window, and Father knew it, but always pretended not to be aware of it.

  We were now to see a change come over him, and see the fire and tempest gone, the threats gone, the ranting and the anger gone; see a hurt, silent, suffering gentleman, superior, aloof, distant, patronizing, haughty and yet well-mannered, quiet and yet not weak, cross but not vulgar or commonly angry; see him pass us by coldly but courteously, speak to us only when it was absolutely necessary, and then for no longer than he could possibly suffer us; watch him walk with steps now staid and dignified—no shuffling— even strides that denoted breeding and not the quick, mad rush of the commoner; and his braces properly adjusted; eyebrows raised, modulated voice—every syllable attended to; chin high, but not stuck out like an offensive-looking person; poise, aplomb, deportment, blood, breeding, every inch of him, lock, stock, and barrel—Father “clearing out” from his impossible family.

  Entering the house, and oblivious, of course, to our horrid presence, he dragged his old yellow tin trunk out from beneath the bed and carried it past us with a lofty air.

  He now placed the trunk plumb in the centre of our big bare backyard so that it, too, would not come in contact with us any more than was absolutely necessary.

  Having placed it in its solitary position he grudgingly entered our odious house again and collected his two big books on metallurgy and placed them with rare care on the left-hand side of the trunk, on top of each other.

  Then he brought the book on sheep-raising he had bought to become a squatter and placed it, also with consummate care, on top of the metallurgy books. This done, he stared at the three books as if in deep thought, and then took the three books out again, read their title pages and put them back again; but this time on the right side of the trunk with the sheep book not on top, of the metallurgy books but beneath them.

  Next, walking into the house of the enemy as if it hurt him, he collected his old railway timetable (years out of date), and stood pretending to read the time some train he was not going to catch went.

  Then he adjourned to the backyard with it, reading the wind-mill adv
ertisement on the inside back cover as he went. Finished with the windmill, he put the book in his hip pocket for further reference, and Mother, watching him from the kitchen window, said that she was pleased he was going to a place where there would be water.

  Now he collected his chemistry books and, retiring to his aloof position by the old trunk, became suddenly interested in chemistry all over again, and took some time off from his packing to put in a bit of study, and Mother made the remark that it was foolish of him to read them; that he should keep them to break the monotony of the long journey that was ahead of him.

  Returning once more to his former domicile, he took down his favourite Pickwick and, returning to his base, could not resist the temptation to read a couple of pages, chuckling openly but sedately as he did so. This was to show Mother, watching him, that “leaving” her was not putting him out one jot; and she said it was wonderful how he could stop to enjoy Pickwick with a debt like a millstone hanging round his neck and while in the very act of leaving home for ever.

  So that he need never darken our door again, Father collected all the rest of his stuff that was in the house in one lot, not forgetting the photograph of himself that he had signed for Mother “With love from Walter”. These he packed, all except the photo-graph; this he pitched away to prove how much he hated the words that were written on it—but threw it away with a cleverness (born of much practice) that would land it face up with the picture not soiled.

  As Mother said, “Been thrown away dozens of times—and always guaranteed to land face up.”

  After this clever bit of work he brought all his chemicals and valuable inventions together and stacked them in one heap—a man always “called” for these every time he left home. And he put aside the sticks of dynamite as usual—the dynamite I always “threw down a deep shaft” each time he cleared out—for me to throw down a deep shaft.

  Next there was the carpenter’s kitbag with a pocket in it for each tool. He never left until every tool was in its right place; and now a bit was missing, and the big auger, too, and they had to be found—he couldn’t possibly leave without his big auger. Mother said it was a pity the spokeshave and the brace-and-bit were not also missing; he might then be able to hang on until it was too late to leave.

  But although he took an extra-long time to find these things, it was still too light for it to be too dark for him to “depart”, so he packed the heavy stuff into the trunk; he was going to fall back on his old dodge—”I cannot leave until tomorrow, unfortunately; my trunk is too heavy, and I must wait till I can get a cart.” Of course, this meant staying the night with us, and after that—well?

  Having decided on this course, and having much time to fill in until teatime, he gave a superb exhibition of knot-tying. Putting a rope round the trunk, he tied a careful knot, and then, with a most dexterous and scientific jerk, undid it. Then he tied a more complicated one—one of those technically superb knots that once belonged solely to seamen. He also untied this one like a master— it slithered loose with the speed of lightning.

  Next he tied the masterpiece: the great, final, most defiant of all hard knots to undo, and to prove this he tried to surprise it by coming at it from different angles and with sly, crafty pulls, but it stood up to the attack.

  The trunk was now ready for the final act, with Father looking into the far distance, holding his head up as if scenting some distant haven of rest where there would be no wives and certainly no storekeepers. It was the hour when he should make some show of “departing”.

  Of course, being a gentleman, he could not leave us as if we were absolute strangers—had to leave us in a well-bred manner, even though he did feel above us. He strode majestically, yet not too overbearingly, to our back door and knocked firmly but not rudely.

  Mother said that he should have come to the front door and not to the back door—the tradesmen’s entrance.

  In answer to his well-bred knock Mother appeared, and he informed her that he wished to see his eldest son, and so I went with him and joined the trunk too.

  Here I was informed, as man to man, that I would never clap eyes on him again, that he knew I was in league with my mother, but that he did not blame me because the mother always pits the son against the father, and that one day, when I had a wife of my own and a son, I would find that out for myself unfortunately.

  He then wished me well in after life, and hoped that I would prosper. Then he shook my hand and dismissed me.

  Calling for my mother next, he informed her courteously but firmly that, seeing that they had shared the same roof for so many years, he would like to say before going out of her life for ever that he wished her no or harm and, before parting, had to inform her that he would, through his solicitor, make her a quarterly allowance; but as far as he was concerned personally never would she have word of him or see sign of him.

  He then said grandiloquently that if at any time she wished to be free and instituted proceedings against him for divorce he would not contest the suit but give her her freedom.

  “And, in the event of my divorcing you and remarrying,” Mother asked, “would the allowance cease?”

  Father raised his eyebrows in a pained manner, shrugged his shoulders, bowed stiffly but gracefully, and said, “I have no time for such flippant remarks, Madam. Goodbye!” It was the end.

  He went back to headquarters and laid rough hands on his trunk. The climax had come—he couldn’t lift the trunk.

  He struggled manfully, valiantly, desperately; tried sudden, quick, professional hoists, slow, strong lifts, but failed to get it up on to his shoulder—or appeared to fail.

  “We will be having a visitor to tea,” said Mother, “and he will be staying the night.”

  And so, after another mock display—this time showing by morosely and dejectedly pacing the yard how perturbed and disappointed he was at being so detained—he accepted the hospitality of our table and roof.

  This having been arranged amicably and without harm to his prestige, he, while Mother was getting the tea ready, went for a “final” stroll round what was once his happy home.

  At table that evening Father was most polite—like a real stranger—and handed Mother the pepper and salt before she even knew she wanted them, and even passed the bread to me without my asking for it. He accepted two helpings of the same old Irish stew we never failed to have, and ate it as if it were a new item on the menu.

  Conversation was not brisk, but there was a little of the weather, with now and then a faint giggle from one of the children—they were too young to control themselves, unfortunately.

  When the meal was over Father startled us all by asking us to excuse him, then rose and left the table—knife and fork in the correct position—and, as he had a long journey before him, retired early.

  I now did what it was always my job to do in the circumstances —cut the rope that bound the trunk, unpack all the things in it and put them back where they had been before.

  Next morning—it was Sunday, the Lord’s Day—Father, although still aloof with us, ate a hearty breakfast. As for Mother, she was so busy she couldn’t find time to talk to any of us, not even to Father, who was sitting looking at his photograph in the star position on the mantelpiece.

  Then Mother, in a clean, white, freshly-ironed apron and her arms white with flour, said as she bustled past Father, “Oh, Walter, we’re going to have an extra-nice dinner today; roast mutton with red currant jelly, baked pumpkin and potatoes and a suet and golden syrup pudding; and I want some good short wood.”

  “Red currant jelly!” the family echoed.

  “Will you get me some, please, Walter?” Mother asked graciously.

  “Yes, yes, certainly—er—Mother,” said Father suddenly and all of a fluster, as if he had just awakened; and all in a second Father was his old self again. And while Mother rushed about and I peeled the spuds Father was out at the woodheap chopping Mother’s wood for her; chopping willingly and industriously and whistling like a
schoolboy his old set favourite, “Home, Sweet Home”.

  Frank Dalby Davidson

  THE ROAD TO YESTERDAY

  ENGINEERS have built a new road up the Plenty Ranges to Westgate—or Tommy’s Hut, as we used to call it when I was a lad.

  The new road is a modern mountain highway, a black stream of bitumen that loops and sidles along the flank of the range, with pointed bends in the shadowed gullies, and scenic sweeps round the sunny shoulders of the spurs. There are neat white hand-rails to the little bridges and white posts marking the outer edges of the curves. Each cutting and embankment is like a brown cicatrice on the aboriginal body of the mountain, but the road passing between these earthy scars is smoothly purposeful in its upward course. Above and below the road the bush is impressively tall, dense and flourishing, with high undergrowth, bright wheels of tree-ferns; and the trunks of the mountain-gums are like long white stitches in the green. The air is cool, moist, and fragrant with leafage. The ascent of the range is so gradual you’d scarcely notice it.

  The old road was different—unsurfaced earth, a pioneer track, broadened and graded within the limited resources of a rural shire. Its course had been determined by that axiom of simple buslunanship: “To get through the ranges, stick to the tops of the ridges.” The settlers had had no road-building gear—and you can’t take a cart along the side of a mountain gully—so they had taken the foremost spur by frontal assault. It was a long stiff pull, and raised the sweat on a horse. You might have to spell him on the way up by chocking the wheels. You must needs walk beside him to help lighten the load, and you had to give him a spell at the top, where he would stand with quivering chest and dripping belly. If you were heavily loaded someone would have to meet you at the foot of the range with a spare horse to hook on in front.