By the Currawong's Call

by Welton B. Marsland

  ‘That’s very nice of you.’ Matthew smiled. ‘But duty calls, I’m afraid.’ He held his hand out towards Parks. ‘Thank you again for the tour.’

  The sergeant’s handshake was as no-nonsense as before, his hands very warm. ‘I drink in the Vic on Friday nights,’ he suddenly offered. ‘The Victoria Hotel where I took you earlier,’ he further explained. ‘Do ya drink?’

  Matthew smiled widely. ‘I do. Perhaps I shall stop in at the Victoria on Friday, then.’

  ***

  As he had suspected, Matthew found a curious smattering of attendees in All Souls for Evensong. Not a huge gathering, by any stretch, but enough to give the songs some gusto (mainly supplied by an over-enthusiastic man called Trentham who seemed to fancy himself a tenor). Matthew decided to keep the service short and as positive as possible, both as an optimistic start to his and Dinbratten’s new relationship, and as a comfort in light of all the talk of encroaching Depression in the newspapers. Miss Daly and Miss Price stared at him openly all through the singing of the Cantate Domino. Mrs Sutherland made him a cup of tea afterwards.

  ***

  The open fire in the public bar of the Victoria Hotel was probably due to have its chimney swept, lending Friday evening a camp fire atmosphere. The soft stinging of the smoky miasma gave everyone in attendance the look of being perpetually on the verge of tears.

  Matthew was hailed by Sergeant Parks as soon as he stepped through the door. The trooper was seated at a table as far removed from the fireplace as it was possible to be, drinking with a man Matthew hadn’t met but had glimpsed about town once or twice.

  ‘Father Ottenshaw!’ Parks called, grinning. ‘Come over and meet my mate Albie!’

  Matthew smiled as he approached the table. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He extended his hand to the man. ‘How do you do?’

  Albie shoved his large hand into Matthew’s and pumped it soundly. ‘Father,’ he said with a friendly nod. ‘You alright with me?’

  What a strange question. ‘Of course. And please, call me Matthew.’

  Albie beamed at that, and finally let Matthew’s hand drop.

  Parks stood up from the table and motioned towards an empty chair. ‘Ya joining us, Father? Pint of the dark?’

  Parks’ manner was chummy and self-assured. But of course Matthew was going to sit at his table, and of course Matthew was going to let him buy a pint of the pub’s best renowned. Nodding his thanks and sinking into the offered chair, Matthew wondered what would happen if he were to refuse and throw Parks’ script aside. Perhaps it would make no difference. Parks seemed the sort of man who could probably improvise if put on the spot. Matthew scraped his chair closer to the table.

  ‘Why do you ask, Albie?’ he queried of his table-mate. ‘My being alright with you, I mean?’

  Albie glanced down into his empty beer glass and answered into its dregs, ‘Some folk don’t like us blackfellas.’ He cut a look up at Matthew. ‘Wouldn’t wanna be seen drinking with one.’

  Ah. ‘Well.’ Matthew smiled. ‘I’m not “some folk”. Tell me what you do about town.’

  Albie shrugged. ‘Bit of this, bit of that. Help out at King’s orchard most days. Do a coupla deliveries for Mac on Satde.’

  ‘Mac?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘Macrobertson,’ Albie amended. ‘The butcher.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘One pint of the dark,’ Parks announced over their heads. Matthew looked up to see Parks standing over him, holding three pint glasses in a triangular figuration.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ Matthew carefully eased the front-most glass away from the others. Freed of that extra burden, Parks plonked the other two drinks onto the table.

  ‘So,’ Albie drawled, hooking one of the fresh pints closer. ‘You two getting along well, by the looks of things.’

  In mid-drink, Matthew tried to ascertain if Albie’s sentence had been statement or question.

  ‘You know me, Albie,’ retorted Parks. ‘I get along with everybody.’

  ‘True that,’ Albie allowed, nodding. He took a long, satisfying drink and set his glass down again with a small grunt of pleasure. ‘Don’t often see ya making friends so quick, but. Inviting someone out to the pub when they’ve only been in Ratty two minutes.’

  Matthew settled his gaze on Parks, curious to see a reaction to that seemingly personal observation.

  Parks merely smiled and affected a nonchalant air. ‘Maybe there’s just never been anyone worth my time around here before. Have ya considered that?’ He hefted his pint and made to take a drink, muttering an addendum of ‘Ya bastard’ into his beer foam.

  Was this tension, Matthew wondered? Or just teasing banter between folk who clearly liked one another, sitting together and sharing a drink as they were? The answer to his musing came swiftly, in the form of Albie’s table-shaking guffaw.

  ‘Pompous prick,’ Albie accused around his laughter.

  Parks huffed a small laugh, too, and took another drink of his beer, gaze flicking towards Matthew, strangely reassuring.

  ‘Here!’ Albie smacked his glass down and slapped his other hand onto the tabletop as well. ‘Didya know your new mate’s a hero, Father? I mean Matthew?’

  Parks groaned a little and sat further back in his chair, cradling his pint closer to his chest. ‘Not again, Albie.’

  ‘Yeah, again,’ Albie insisted.

  At a complete loss as to what they were talking about, Matthew merely smiled and looked from one to the other. ‘Not what again?’ he asked them both. ‘And what’s this about you being a hero?’ he asked specifically of Parks.

  ‘Bona fide!’ Albie enthused. ‘Aw, ya gotta hear this one.’

  ‘Albie makes it his life’s work to make sure everybody hears this one,’ Parks said, accepting defeat.

  ‘It’s a corker!’ said Albie.

  ‘I was just doing my bloody job,’ parried Parks.

  Albie looked as though Parks’ diffidence with regards to his heroism personally offended him. ‘I take back what I said before about you being a pompous prick,’ he told Parks. ‘You’re a fuckin’ modest prick.’

  Matthew hid a chuckle behind his pint glass. ‘I think you’ll have to tell me now, Albie.’ He glanced at Parks as he spoke, hoping the other man understood his light tone.

  ‘Right,’ said Albie, as if the decision to proceed with this tale was of the highest importance. He shifted in his chair and leaned forward with his elbows on the table, hands cupped around his beer. ‘This was a few years back now. There were these three brothers. The Smiths. What a complete bunch of bastards they was. Terrorised the whole district for—what was it now? Better part of a year? Had everyone jumping at their own horse’s shadows. Evil bunch of so-and-sos, they was. Anyway. The youngest one, Pauly, he gets arrested down near Ararat and there’s a few weeks there where we don’t hear hide nor hair of the other two cunts. Pardon my English, Father.’

  Albie stopped long enough to take a swift mouthful of beer, seemingly oblivious to having reverted to calling Matthew by his title, and then launched straight back into his tale.

  ‘So. Finally, word gets out that they’ve been spotted, Reggie Smith and Jonny Smith, camping rough in the bush about a day’s ride out from Ratty. So Sergeant Parks here and the young Constable Melling—poor bastard, he’d hardly even started shaving regular—they load a small cart with supplies, hook their two horses up to it and set off to find those bastards and bring ‘em in. You sure you don’t want to be telling this, Sarg?’

  Midway through a swallow of beer, Parks waved his hand before responding, ‘No, no, you carry on.’ Then, to Matthew, he added, ‘Albie tells it better. Doesn’t matter that he was never there for any of it.’ He punctuated his words with a wink. Parks had barely finished speaking before Albie was picking up the story again, the courtesy of asking if Parks wanted to tell the tale having clearly been a formality.

  ‘They don’t know,’ Albie continued, ‘how long they’re gonna be out there, how long it�
��s gonna take ‘em to find the Smiths, right? So the cart’s got enough supplies for a few days, even including a chook in a bit of a cage.’

  ‘Why would you take a chicken?’ Matthew asked Parks.

  ‘Melling couldn’t hack mornings without an egg,’ was the reply.

  ‘Oh,’ said Matthew, and Albie barrelled on.

  ‘They’re two days out. It’s almost morning, just at that moment when the sun’s about to get its arse up, and suddenly there’s the Smiths. Bastards come up on Sarg and young Melling while they’re just stirring for the day. Queenie—that’s the cop shop dog, ‘cos they’ve took her along, too—gets a warning bark out and then, well, it’s on, isn’t it? Eldest Smith—was that Jonny or Reggie, Sarg?’

  ‘Jonny,’ Parks said.

  ‘Right. Jonny Smith, he shoots poor Constable Melling right in the brainpan. Poor sod’s probably dead before he drops. Reggie Smith can’t stand the dog barking and gets a shot off at poor old Queenie. Sarg has got behind a bloody big river gum and starts returning fire. Musta been pandemonium out there. Sarg kills Jonny Smith bang-on—’

  ‘It was a fight,’ Parks broke in, clearly at pains to clarify the point. ‘I didn’t just plug him one.’

  Albie spared a moment to contrition. ‘Sorry, mate. Yeah, but I said it were pandemonium, didn’t I? It’s not like you murdered the bastard. We all know that.’ He turned his attention back to Matthew and continued. ‘Jonny’s fallen in the river when the slug got him, and whether he drowned in it or bled out from his wound first, I guess we’ll never know. And now Reggie’s gunning for the Sarg here. Reggie’s bloody livid. His younger brother’s behind bars in Ararat and his older brother’s just bought it in the bush, and all of his rage has nowhere else to go but fall on our Sarg.’

  Matthew glanced briefly across the table to check Parks’ expression. It was neutral, perhaps an echo of the man’s professional demeanour when he was dealing with situations during work. Matthew gave his attention back to Albie as the tale went on.

  ‘Melling’s horse gets shot in the neck and keels over. A bullet grazes the Sarg’s horse too, so there’s both beasts shrieking. Queenie—the dog, remember—Reggie had hit her in the bum, and now the Sarg himself takes a bullet to the shoulder.’

  Matthew felt his eyebrows lift in response to this revelation. Parks had been shot in the line of duty. Perhaps Albie’s declarations of heroism had not been entirely hyperbole.

  ‘Basically,’ Albie went on, ‘every poor sod out there, including all the animals, has been shot except for Reggie. But not for long, eh, Sarg?’

  Parks merely sipped at his beer.

  ‘Sarg stops to reload,’ Albie said, leaning even closer over the table. ‘And Reggie reckons he’s got his chance. Around the big river gum he comes, muzzle first, intent on finishing it all off then and there. But Queenie, bullet in the bum be damned, takes a flying leap at the cunt and clamps her mouth on his arm. He can’t shoot, and he can’t shake the dog off and that gives Sarg just enough time to snap the barrel back into his revolver and point the end of it clear into Reggie’s face. “Drop it” he says, “Or I’ll tell her to have yer nuts next”.’ Albie burst into raucous laughter at that, spluttering all over his own drink and making the table shake once again.

  Matthew chuckled along with the storyteller and noticed Parks doing the same. Though Parks had obviously heard Albie tell the tale numerous times, it was clearly still amusing to see Albie’s enjoyment of his own yarn-spinning.

  ‘So—’ Albie collected himself sufficiently to gulp down the last of his beer and take a breath, ‘—Reggie’s game is up. Sarg takes his weapon, slaps manacles on him and finally calls Queenie off. Now what to do? Sarg has a dead constable, a dead Smith brother, and one dead horse. He’s got a shot dog, a shot horse, even the poor fuckin’ chook looks like it’s seen better days. And of course, he’s got shot himself as well, losing blood outta the hole in his left shoulder.’

  ‘Wasn’t bleeding that bad,’ Parks muttered half-heartedly.

  ‘And I’ll tell you this, Matthew,’ Albie said in theatrical confidence, ‘he’s a friend to the animal kingdom, is our Sarg. He’s not expecting an injured animal, his poor shot horse, to pull a cart. So here’s what he does. He goes to the cart and gets one of those heavy canvas body bags the coppers use and a whole lot of rope. He bags poor young Constable Melling and walks over to his captured crim and ties the bag to Reggie’s waist. Hah! Bloody brilliant, eh? Then he tends well as he can to the injuries Queenie and his horse have, stuffs a hanky inside his tunic for his own bullet wound, drags Jonny’s carcass outta the creek and dumps it on the bank, then gets set to head back into town. Ya should’ve seen it, Matthew. Talk about a sight to see! Into town they stagger—the walking bloody wounded! There sits the Sarg on his horse, with Queenie draped over the horse’s shoulders in front of him and—I’m not bullshitting ya, I swear—the fuckin’ chook’s perched behind him on the horse’s rump! All four of ‘em, man and beasts, bleeding. And trailing behind on a rope like a dog being led on a leash is Reggie Smith, trotting along behind them, pulling the body bag with poor Charlie Melling in it. Never in all my days …’ Albie leaned back in his chair and laughed up at the smoke-darkened ceiling. ‘Never in all my days. Oh, fuck me.’

  The tale was clearly finished, Albie chuckling to himself at the memory and Parks pushing his chair back to stand and collect their empty glasses.

  ‘I told you, Matthew,’ Albie added on belatedly, ‘bona fide hero, our Sarg.’

  ‘Nah, mate,’ Parks said as he moved towards the bar with their empties. ‘You must be thinking of Queenie.’

  The refreshed round of drinks saw Albie throw his back in record time, begging off a late one due to extra delivery rounds the next morning. As he readied to make his exit, he waved for the attention of Mrs Strauss behind the bar. ‘Let us know when ya want that chimney done, Missus Ess! Me and the Yank’ll get a tree up there for ya.’

  Matthew looked to Parks. ‘Does he mean you?’

  ‘There ain’t another one in town, mate.’

  ‘The curtains wash with September’s end,’ Mrs Strauss shouted back across the pub. ‘Do it before then.’

  ‘As if we’d do it with clean curtains on!’ Albie countered, feigning offence.

  After bidding Albie farewell, Matthew and Parks continued with their beers companionably.

  ‘Yer a good sort, Ottenshaw.’

  Matthew blinked at Parks over the rim of his glass. ‘And what prompts such a compliment?’ he asked when he’d lowered his beer again.

  ‘You were good with Albie.’

  ‘And why wouldn’t I be?’

  Parks levelled him a steady look. ‘You know why. Ya know how folk can be.’

  ‘He said something about people not wanting to drink with him …’

  Parks snorted at that. ‘There’s an entire pub won’t drink with him!’

  Matthew was quiet a moment, giving some thought to the societal structure of his new town. ‘Is that why you favour this pub over the Commercial?’

  ‘I take lunch at the Commercial at least one day a week,’ said Parks. ‘Can’t be seen to really have favourites, ya see. Not in my position. It’s not just looking out for the town, this job. It’s being a part of it as well. Gotta be right in the guts of it.’ He took up his pint glass once more. ‘Wouldn’t be able to get the job done otherwise. There’d be … impediments.’

  That was sufficiently cryptic that Matthew found he had nothing to say in response, and a silence settled over them both for a short while. At the bar, Mrs Strauss wafted her apron through a dense fug of wood smoke.

  ‘So,’ Matthew ventured after something else to talk about, ‘the hero of Dinbratten doesn’t usually invite newcomers out for drinks in so short a time?’ He could only guess it was the excellent ale that so emboldened him to such a question.

  Parks scratched at his beard absently. ‘Never really thought about it, frankly. You seemed like a good bloke, so I invited ya
out.’ A nonchalant shrug followed the end of his sentence.

  Matthew shifted in his seat. ‘Perhaps I should forewarn you, Sergeant, before our acquaintance grows any further … back in ‘80 I, er, I signed the petition on the Queen, pleading mercy for Ned Kelly.’

  Parks flicked his gaze about them quickly, a little obviously, then leaned closer over the table, motioning Matthew to do the same. ‘Back in ‘80, Father,’ he said in an exaggerated whisper, ‘I very nearly did as well.’

  ‘You never!’

  Parks’ grin cracked across his face and he leaned back in his seat again. ‘Truth. It was my second year on the Force.’

  ‘And you wished mercy upon an outlaw?’ Matthew had never heard of such a thing.

  ‘I wished to not see a man get hanged. A life behind bars would’ve been punishment aplenty for a wild soul like Kelly.’

  ‘You … don’t believe in hanging?’

  ‘I do not. Our criminals should be dealt earthly justice. It’s not up to us to play God.’

  Matthew canted his head to the side. ‘You speak as one brought up in faith, Sergeant.’

  ‘Nah.’ Parks sniffed. ‘Ma’s family were Quakers is all. Going back a long way. An idea or two might’ve been handed down.’ One corner of his mouth ticked up into a little smile. ‘Might’ve stuck, even.’

  ‘But you shot that man, Jonny Smith?’

  The smile dropped away. ‘Grim necessity.’ Parks took to his beer once more, his gaze somewhere in the middle distance. ‘They weren’t gonna let me just walk outta there.’

  Matthew suddenly felt terrible for pushing the point. The memories of that event must have been horrific. ‘My apologies, Sergeant. I shouldn’t press so on such a topic.’

  Parks’ gaze focused as he looked at Matthew and gave him a small nod, eloquent enough under the circumstances.

  Scrambling for something else to talk about, Matthew latched onto what little else he knew of the man. ‘So. America! That’s quite a distance to come?’

  ‘Felt like forever to a nine-year-old,’ Parks confirmed.

  ‘Did your whole family come?’

  ‘My ma and me. Pa had come earlier. Sent for us when he got settled.’