by Henry Lawson
I was mad with anxiety and fright: I remember I kept saying, ‘I’ll be kinder to Mary after this! I’ll take more notice of Jim!’ and the rest of it.
I don’t know how the old mare got up the last ‘pinch’. She must have slackened pace, but I never noticed it: I just held Jim up to me and gripped the saddle with my knees – I remember the saddle jerked from the desperate jumps of her till I thought the girth would go. We topped the gap and were going down into a gully they called Dead Man’s Hollow, and there, at the back of a ghostly clearing that opened from the road where there were some black-soil springs, was a long, low, oblong weather-board-and-shingle building, with blind, broken windows in the gable-ends, and a wide steep veranda roof slanting down almost to the level of the window-sills – there was something sinister about it, I thought – like the hat of a jail-bird slouched over his eyes. The place looked both deserted and haunted. I saw no light, but that was because of the moonlight outside. The mare turned in at the corner of the clearing to take a short cut to the shanty, and, as she struggled across some marshy ground, my heart kept jerking out the words, ‘It’s deserted! They’ve gone away! It’s deserted!’ The mare went round to the back and pulled up between the back door and a big bark-and-slab kitchen. Someone shouted from inside:
‘Who’s there?’
‘It’s me. Joe Wilson. I want your sister-in-law – I’ve got the boy – he’s sick and dying!’
Brighten came out, pulling up his moleskins. ‘What boy?’ he asked.
‘Here, take him,’ I shouted, ‘and let me get down.’
‘What’s the matter with him?’ asked Brighten, and he seemed to hang back. And just as I made to get my leg over the saddle, Jim’s head went back over my arm, he stiffened, and I saw his eyeballs turned up and glistening in the moonlight.
I felt cold all over then and sick in the stomach – but clear-headed in a way: strange, wasn’t it? I don’t know why I didn’t get down and rush into the kitchen to get a bath ready. I only felt as if the worst had come, and I wished it were over and gone. I even thought of Mary and the funeral.
Then a woman ran out of the house – a big, hard-looking woman. She had on a wrapper of some sort, and her feet were bare. She laid her hand on Jim, looked at his face, and then snatched him from me and ran into the kitchen – and me down and after her. As great good luck would have it they had some dirty clothes on to boil in a kerosene-tin – dish-cloths or something.
Brighten’s sister-in-law dragged a tub out from under the table, wrenched the bucket off the hook, and dumped in the water, dish-cloths and all, snatched a can of cold water from a corner, dashed that in, and felt the water with her hand – holding Jim up to her hip all the time – and I won’t say how he looked. She stood him in the tub and started dashing water over him, tearing off his clothes between the splashes.
‘Here, that tin of mustard – there on the shelf!’ she shouted to me.
She knocked the lid off the tin on the edge of the tub, and went on splashing and spanking Jim.
It seemed an eternity. And I? Why, I never thought clearer in my life. I felt cold-blooded – I felt as if I’d like an excuse to go outside till it was all over. I thought of Mary and the funeral – and wished that that was past. All this in a flash, as it were. I felt that it would be a great relief, and only wished the funeral was months past. I felt – well, altogether selfish. I only thought of myself.
Brighten’s sister-in-law splashed and spanked him hard – hard enough to break his back I thought, and – after about half an hour it seemed – the end came; Jim’s limbs relaxed, he slipped down into the tub, and the pupils of his eyes came down. They seemed dull and expressionless, like the eyes of a new baby, but he was back for the world again.
I dropped on the stool by the table.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s all over now. I wasn’t going to let him die.’ I was only thinking, ‘Well, it’s over now, but it will come on again. I wish it was over for good. I’m tired of it.’
She called to her sister, Mrs Brighten, a washed-out, helpless little fool of a woman, who’d been running in and out and whimpering all the time:
‘Here, Jessie! bring the new white blanket off my bed. And you, Brighten, take some of that wood off the fire, and stuff something in that hole there to stop the draught.’
Brighten – he was a nuggety little hairy man with no expression to be seen for whiskers – had been running in with sticks and back logs from the wood-heap. He took the wood out, stuffed up the crack, and went inside and brought out a black bottle – got a cup from the shelf, and put both down near my elbow.
Mrs Brighten started to get some supper or breakfast, or whatever it was, ready. She had a clean cloth, and set the table tidily. I noticed that all the tins were polished bright (old coffee and mustard-tins and the like, that they used instead of sugar-basins and tea-caddies and saltcellars), and the kitchen was kept as clean as possible. She was all right at little things. I knew a haggard, worked-out Bushwoman who put her whole soul – or all she’d got left – into polishing old tins till they dazzled your eyes.
I didn’t feel inclined for corned beef and damper, and post-and-rail tea. So I sat and squinted, when I thought she wasn’t looking, at Brighten’s sister-in-law. She was a big woman, her hands and feet were big, but well-shaped and all in proportion – they fitted her. She was a handsome woman – about forty I should think. She had a square chin, and a straight thin-lipped mouth – straight save for a hint of a turn down at the corners, which I fancied (and I have strange fancies) had been a sign of weakness in the days before she grew hard. There was no sign of weakness now. She had hard grey eyes and blue-black hair. She hadn’t spoken yet. She didn’t ask me how the boy took ill or how I got there, or who or what I was – at least not until the next evening at tea-time.
She sat upright with Jim wrapped in the blanket and laid across her knees, with one hand under his neck and the other laid lightly on him, and she just rocked him gently.
She sat looking hard and straight before her, just as I’ve seen a tired needlewoman sit with her work in her lap, and look away back into the past. And Jim might have been the work in her lap, for all she seemed to think of him. Now and then she knitted her forehead and blinked.
Suddenly she glanced round and said – in a tone as if I was her husband and she didn’t think much of me:
‘Why don’t you eat something?’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘Eat something!’
I drank some tea, and sneaked another look at her. I was beginning to feel more natural, and wanted Jim again, now that the colour was coming back into his face, and he didn’t look like an unnaturally stiff and staring corpse. I felt a lump rising, and wanted to thank her. I sneaked another look at her.
She was staring straight before her – I never saw a woman’s face change so suddenly – I never saw a woman’s eyes so haggard and hopeless. Then her great chest heaved twice, I heard her draw a long shuddering breath, like a knocked-out horse, and two great tears dropped from her wide open eyes down her cheeks like rain-drops on a face of stone. And in the firelight they seemed tinged with blood.
I looked away quick, feeling full up myself. And presently (I hadn’t seen her look round) she said:
‘Go to bed.’
‘Beg pardon?’ (Her face was the same as before the tears.)
‘Go to bed. There’s a bed made for you inside on the sofa.’
‘But – the team – I must – ’
‘What?’
‘The team. I left it at the camp. I must look at it.’
‘Oh! Well, Brighten will ride down and bring it up in the morning – or send the half-caste. Now you go to bed, and get a good rest. The boy will be all right. I’ll see to that.’
I went out – it was a relief to get out – and looked to the mare. Brighten had got her some corn and chaff in a candle-box, but she couldn’t eat yet. She just stood or hung resting one hind leg and then the other,
with her nose over the box – and she sobbed. I put my arms round her neck and my face down on her ragged mane, and cried for the second time since I was a boy.
As I started to go in I heard Brighten’s sister-in-law say, suddenly and sharply:
‘Take that away, Jessie.’
And presently I saw Mrs Brighten go into the house with the black bottle.
The moon had gone behind the range. I stood for a minute between the house and the kitchen and peeped in through the kitchen window.
She had moved away from the fire and sat near the table. She bent over Jim and held him up close to her and rocked herself to and fro.
I went to bed and slept till the next afternoon. I woke just in time to hear the tail-end of a conversation between Jim and Brighten’s sister-in-law. He was asking her out to our place, and she promising to come.
‘And now,’ says Jim, ‘I want to go home to “muffer” in “The Same Ol’ Fling.” ’
‘What?’
Jim repeated.
‘Oh! “The Same Old Thing” – the wagon.’
The rest of the afternoon I poked round the gullies with old Brighten, looking at some ‘indications’ (of the existence of gold) he had found. It was no use trying to ‘pump’ him concerning his sister-in-law; Brighten was an ‘old hand’, and had learned in the old bushranging and cattle-stealing days to know nothing about other people’s business. And, by the way, I noticed then that the more you talk and listen to a bad character, the more you lose your dislike for him.
I never saw such a change in a woman as in Brighten’s sister-in-law that evening. She was bright and jolly, and seemed at least ten years younger. She bustled round and helped her sister to get tea ready. She rooted out some old china that Mrs Brighten had stowed away somewhere, and set the table as I seldom saw it set out there. She propped Jim up with pillows, and laughed and played with him like a great girl. She described Sydney and Sydney life as I’d never heard it described before; and she knew as much about the Bush and old digging days as I did. She kept old Brighten and me listening and laughing till nearly midnight. And she seemed quick to understand everything when I talked. If she wanted to explain anything that we hadn’t seen, she wouldn’t say that it was ‘like a – like a’ – and hesitate (you know what I mean); she’d hit the right thing on the head at once. A squatter with a very round, flaming red face and a white cork hat had gone by in the afternoon; she said it was ‘like a mushroom on the rising moon.’ She gave me a lot of good hints about children.
But she was quiet again next morning. I harnessed up, and she dressed Jim and gave him his breakfast, and made a comfortable place for him on the load with a ’possum rug and a spare pillow. She got up on the wheel to do it herself. Then was the awkward time. I’d half start to speak to her, and then turn away and go fixing up round the horses, and then make another false start to say good-bye. At last she took Jim up in her arms and kissed him, and lifted him on the wheel; but he put his arms tight round her neck, and kissed her – a thing Jim seldom did with anybody, except his mother, for he wasn’t what you’d call an affectionate child – he’d never more than offer his cheek to me, in his old-fashioned way. I’d got up the other side of the load to take him from her.
‘Here, take him,’ she said.
I saw his mouth twitching as I lifted him. Jim seldom cried nowadays – no matter how much he was hurt. I gained some time fixing Jim comfortable.
‘You’d better make a start,’ she said. ‘You want to get home early with that boy.’
I got down and went round to where she stood. I held out my hand and tried to speak, but my voice went like an ungreased wagon-wheel, and I gave it up, and only squeezed her hand.
‘That’s all right,’ she said; then tears came into her eyes, and she suddenly put her hand on my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. ‘You be off – you’re only a boy yourself. Take care of that boy; be kind to your wife, and take care of yourself.’
‘Will you come to see us?’
‘Some day,’ she said.
I started the horses, and looked round once more. She was looking up at Jim, who was waving his hand to her from the top of the load. And I saw that haggard, hungry, hopeless look come into her eyes in spite of the tears.
I smoothed over that story and shortened it a lot when I told it to Mary – I didn’t want to upset her. But, some time after I brought Jim home from Gulgong, and while I was at home with the team for a few days, nothing would suit Mary but she must go over to Brighten’s shanty and see Brighten’s sister-in-law. So James drove her over one morning in the spring-cart: it was a long way, and they stayed at Brighten’s overnight and didn’t get back till late the next afternoon. I’d got the place in a pig-muck, as Mary said, ‘doing for’ myself, and I was having a snooze on the sofa when they got back. The first thing I remember was someone stroking my head and kissing me, and I heard Mary saying, ‘My poor boy! My poor old boy!’
I sat up with a jerk. I thought that Jim had gone off again. But it seems that Mary was only referring to me. Then she started to pull grey hairs out of my head and put ’em in an empty match-box – to see how many she’d get. She used to do this when she felt a bit soft. I don’t know what she said to Brighten’s sister-in-law or what Brighten’s sister-in-law said to her, but Mary was extra gentle for the next few days.
A DOUBLE BUGGY AT LAHEY’S CREEK
I
SPUDS, AND A WOMAN’S OBSTINACY
EVER since we were married it had been Mary’s great ambition to have a buggy. The house or furniture didn’t matter so much – out there in the Bush where we were – but, where there were no railways or coaches, and the roads were long, and mostly hot and dusty, a buggy was the great thing. I had a few pounds when we were married, and was going to get one then; but new buggies went high, and another party got hold of a second-hand one that I’d had my eye on, so Mary thought it over and at last she said, ‘Never mind the buggy, Joe; get a sewing-machine and I’ll be satisfied. I’ll want the machine more than the buggy, for a while. Wait till we’re better off.’
After that, whenever I took a contract – to put up a fence or wool-shed, or sink a dam or something – Mary would say, ‘You ought to knock a buggy out of this job, Joe’; but something always turned up – bad weather or sickness. Once I cut my foot with the adze and was laid up; and, another time, a dam I was making was washed away by a flood before I finished it. Then Mary would say, ‘Ah, well – never mind, Joe. Wait till we are better off.’ But she felt it hard the time I built a wool-shed and didn’t get paid for it, for we’d as good as settled about another second-hand buggy then.
I always had a fancy for carpentering, and was handy with tools. I made a spring-cart – body and wheels – in spare time, out of colonial hardwood, and got Little the blacksmith to do the ironwork: I painted the cart myself. It wasn’t much lighter than one of the tip-drays I had, but it was a spring-cart, and Mary pretended to be satisfied with it: anyway, I didn’t hear any more of the buggy for a while.
I sold that cart for fourteen pounds, to a Chinese gardener who wanted a strong cart to carry his vegetables round through the Bush. It was just before our first youngster came: I told Mary that I wanted the money in case of extra expense – and she didn’t fret much at losing the cart. But the fact was that I was going to make another try for a buggy, as a present for Mary when the child was born. I thought of getting the turn-out while she was laid up, keeping it dark from her till she was on her feet again, and then showing her the buggy standing in the shed. But she had a bad time, and I had to have the doctor regularly, and get a proper nurse, and a lot of things extra; so the buggy idea was knocked on the head. I was set on it, too; I’d thought of how, when Mary was up and getting strong, I’d say one morning, ‘Go round and have a look in the shed, Mary; I’ve got a few fowls for you,’ or something like that – and follow her round to watch her eyes when she saw the buggy. I never told Mary about that – it wouldn’t have done any good.
&nb
sp; Later on I got some good timber – mostly scraps that were given to me – and made a light body for a spring-cart. Galletly, the coach-builder at Cudgegong, had got a dozen pairs of American hickory wheels up from Sydney, for light spring-carts, and he let me have a pair for cost price and carriage. I got him to iron the cart, and he put it through the paintshop for nothing. He sent it out, too, at the tail of Tom Tarrant’s big van – to increase the surprise. We were swells then for a while; I heard no more of a buggy until after we’d been settled at Lahey’s Creek for a couple of years.
I told you how I went into the carrying line, and took up a selection at Lahey’s Creek – for a run for the horses and to grow a bit of feed – and shifted Mary and little Jim out there from Gulgong, with Mary’s young scamp of a brother James to keep them company while I was on the road. The first year I did well enough carrying, but I never cared for it – it was too slow; and, besides, I was always anxious when I was away from home. The game was right enough for a single man – or a married one whose wife had got the nagging habit (as many Bushwomen have – God help ’em), and who wanted peace and quietness sometimes. Besides, other small carriers started (seeing me getting on); and Tom Tarrant, the coach-builder at Cudgegong, had another heavy spring-van built, and put it on the road, and he took a lot of the light stuff.