“But don’t worry,” said Rob. “We’re too far south here for sea wasps, so if anything on the Reef is going to kill you, it’s most likely to be a stonefish. Never go walking on the coral without your shoes.”
Yes, Meggie was glad she went. But she didn’t yearn to go again, or make friends with the couple Rob brought along. She immersed herself in the sea, and walked, and lay in the sun. Curiously enough, she didn’t even miss having books to read, for there always seemed to be something interesting to watch.
She had taken Rob’s advice and stopped wearing clothes. At first she had tended to behave like a rabbit catching whiffs of dingo on the breeze, bolting for cover if a twig cracked or a coconut fell like a cannonball from a palm. But after several days of patent solitude she really began to feel no one would come near her, that indeed it was as Rob said, a completely private domain. Shyness was wasted. And walking the tracks, lying in the sand, paddling in that warm salty water, she began to feel like an animal born and brought up in a cage, suddenly let loose in a gentle, sunny, spacious and welcoming world.
Away from Fee, her brothers, Luke, the unsparing, unthinking domination of her whole life, Meggie discovered pure leisure; a whole kaleidoscope of thought patterns wove and unwove novel designs in her mind. For the first time in her life she wasn’t keeping her conscious self absorbed in work thoughts of one description or another. Surprised, she realized that keeping physically busy is the most effective blockade against totally mental activity human beings can erect.
Years ago Father Ralph had asked her what she thought about, and she had answered: Daddy and Mum, Bob, Jack, Hughie, Stu, the little boys, Frank, Drogheda, the house, work, the rainfall. She hadn’t said him, but he was at the top of the list, always. Now add to those Justine, Luke, Luddie and Anne, the cane, homesickness, the rainfall. And always, of course, the lifesaving release she found in books. But it had all come and gone in such tangled, unrelated clumps and chains; no opportunity, no training to enable her to sit down quietly and think out who exactly was Meggie Cleary, Meggie O’Neill? What did she want? What did she think she was put on this earth for? She mourned the lack of training, for that was an omission no amount of time on her own could ever rectify. However, here was the time, the peace, the laziness of idle physical well-being; she could lie on the sand and try.
Well, there was Ralph. A wry, despairing laugh. Not a good place to start, but in a sense Ralph was like God; everything began and ended with him. Since the day he had knelt in the sunset dust of the Gilly station yard to take her between his hands, there had been Ralph, and though she never saw him again as long as she lived, it seemed likely that her last thought this side of the grave would be of him. How frightening, that one person could mean so much, so many things.
What had she said to Anne? That her wants and needs were quite ordinary—a husband, children, a home of her own. Someone to love. It didn’t seem much to ask; after all, most women had the lot. But how many of the women who had them were truly content? Meggie thought she would be, because for her they were so hard to come by.
Accept it, Meggie Cleary. Meggie O’Neill. The someone you want is Ralph de Bricassart, and you just can’t have him. Yet as a man he seems to have ruined you for anyone else. All right, then. Assume that a man and the someone to love can’t occur. It will have to be children to love, and the love you receive will have to come from those children. Which in turn means Luke, and Luke’s children.
Oh, dear God, dear God! No, not dear God! What’s God ever done for me, except deprive me of Ralph? We’re not too fond of each other, God and I. And do You know something, God? You don’t frighten me the way You used to. How much I feared You, Your punishment! All my life I’ve trodden the straight and narrow, from fear of You. And what’s it got me? Not one scrap more than if I’d broken every rule in Your book. You’re a fraud, God, a demon of fear. You treat us like children, dangling punishment. But You don’t frighten me anymore. Because it isn’t Ralph I ought to be hating, it’s You. It’s all Your fault, not poor Ralph’s. He’s just living in fear of You, the way I always have. That he could love You is something I can’t understand. I don’t see what there is about You to love.
Yet how can I stop loving a man who loves God? No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to do it. He’s the moon, and I’m crying for it. Well, you’ve just got to stop crying for it, Meggie O’Neill, that’s all there is to it. You’re going to have to content yourself with Luke, and Luke’s children. By hook or by crook you’re going to wean Luke from the wretched sugar, and live with him out where there aren’t even any trees. You’re going to tell the Gilly bank manager that your future income stays in your own name, and you’re going to use it to have the comforts and conveniences in your treeless home that Luke won’t think to provide for you. You’re going to use it to educate Luke’s children properly, and make sure they never want.
And that’s all there is to be said about it, Meggie O’Neill. I’m Meggie O’Neill, not Meggie de Bricassart. It even sounds silly, Meggie de Bricassart. I’d have to be Meghann de Bricassart, and I’ve always hated Meghann. Oh, will I ever stop regretting that they’re not Ralph’s children? That’s the question, isn’t it? Say it to yourself, over and over again: Your life is your own, Meggie O’Neill, and you’re not going to waste it dreaming of a man and children you can never have.
There! That’s telling yourself! No use thinking of what’s past, what must be buried. The future’s the thing, and the future belongs to Luke, to Luke’s children. It doesn’t belong to Ralph de Bricassart. He is the past.
Meggie rolled over in the sand and wept as she hadn’t wept since she was three years old: noisy wails, with only the crabs and the birds to hear her desolation.
Anne Mueller had chosen Matlock Island deliberately, planning to send Luke there as soon as she could. The moment Meggie was on her way she sent Luke a telegram saying Meggie needed him desperately, please to come. By nature she wasn’t given to interfering in other people’s lives, but she loved and pitied Meggie, and adored the difficult, capricious scrap Meggie had borne and Luke fathered. Justine must have a home, and both her parents. It would hurt to see her go away, but better that than the present situation.
Luke arrived two days later. He was on his way to the CSR in Sydney, so it didn’t cost him much time to go out of his way. Time he saw the baby; if it had been a boy he would have come when it was born, but news of a girl had disappointed him badly. If Meggie insisted on having children, let them at least be capable of carrying on the Kynuna station one day. Girls were no flaming use at all; they just ate a man out of house and home and when they were grown up they went and worked for someone else instead of staying put like boys to help their old father in his last years.
“How’s Meg?” he asked as he came up onto the front veranda. “Not sick, I hope?”
“You hope. No, she’s not sick. I’ll tell you in a minute. But first come and see your beautiful daughter.”
He stared down at the baby, amused and interested but not emotionally moved, Anne thought.
“She’s got the queerest eyes I’ve ever seen,” he said, “I wonder whose they are?”
“Meggie says as far as she knows no one in her family.”
“Nor mine. She’s a throwback, the funny little thing, Doesn’t look too happy, does she?”
“How could she look happy?” Anne snapped, hanging on to her temper grimly. “She’s never seen her father, she has no real home and not much likelihood of one before she’s grown up if you go on the way you are!”
“I’m saving, Anne!” he protested.
“Rubbish! I know how much money you’ve got. Friends of mine in Charters Towers send me the local paper from time to time, so I’ve seen the ads for western properties a lot closer in than Kynuna, and a lot more fertile. There’s a Depression on, Luke! You could pick up a beauty of a place for a lot less by far than the amount you have in the bank, and you know it.”
“Now that’s just it! T
here’s a Depression on, and west of the ranges a bloody terrible drought from Junee to the Isa. It’s in its second year and there’s no rain at all, not a drop. Right now I’ll bet Drogheda’s hurting, so what do you think it’s like out around Winton and Blackall? No, I reckon I ought to wait.”
“Wait until the price of land goes up in a good wet season? Come off it, Luke! Now’s the time to buy! With Meggie’s assured two thousand a year, you can wait out a ten-year drought! Just don’t stock the place. Live on Meggie’s two thousand a year until the rains come, then put your stock on.”
“I’m not ready to leave the sugar yet,” he said, stubbornly, still staring at his daughter’s strange light eyes.
“And that’s the truth at last, isn’t it? Why don’t you admit it, Luke? You don’t want to be married, you’d rather live the way you are at the moment, hard, among men, working your innards out, just like one out of every two Australian men I’ve ever known! What is it about this frigging country, that its men prefer being with other men to having a home life with their wives and children? If the bachelor’s life is what they truly want, why on earth do they try marriage at all? Do you know how many deserted wives there are in Dunny alone, scraping an existence and trying to rear their children without fathers? Oh, he’s just off in the sugar, he’ll be back, you know, it’s only for a little while. Hah! And every mail they’re there hanging over the front gate waiting for the postie, hoping the bastard’s sent them a little money. And mostly he hasn’t, sometimes he has—not enough, but something to keep things going!”
She was trembling with rage, her gentle brown eyes sparking. “You know, I read in the Brisbane Mail that Australia has the highest percentage of deserted wives in the civilized world? It’s the only thing we beat every other country at—isn’t that a record to be proud of!”
“Go easy, Anne! I haven’t deserted Meg; she’s safe and she’s not starving. What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m sick of the way you treat your wife, that’s what! For the love of God, Luke, grow up, shoulder your responsibilities for a while! You’ve got a wife and baby! You should be making a home for them—be a husband and a father, not a bloody stranger!”
“I will, I will! But I can’t yet; I’ve got to carry on in the sugar for a couple more years just to make sure. I don’t want to say I’m living off Meg, which is what I’d be doing until things got better.”
Anne lifted her lip contemptuously. “Oh, bullshit! You married her for her money, didn’t you?”
A dark-red flush stained his brown face. He wouldn’t look at her. “I admit the money helped, but I married her because I liked her better than anyone else.”
“You liked her! What about loving her?”
“Love! What’s love? Nothing but a figment of women’s imagination, that’s all.” He turned away from the crib and those unsettling eyes, not sure someone with eyes like that couldn’t understand what was being said. “And if you’ve quite finished telling me off, where’s Meg?”
“She wasn’t well. I sent her away for a while. Oh, don’t panic! Not on your money. I was hoping I could persuade you to join her, but I see that’s impossible.”
“Out of the question. Arne and I are on our way to Sydney tonight.”
“What shall I tell Meggie when she comes back?”
He shrugged, dying to get away. “I don’t care. Oh, tell her to hang on a while longer. Now that she’s gone ahead with the family business, I wouldn’t mind a son.”
Leaning against the wall for support, Anne bent over the wicker basket and lifted the baby up, then managed to shuffle to the bed and sit down. Luke made no move to help her, or take the baby; he looked rather frightened of his daughter.
“Go away, Luke! You don’t deserve what you’ve got. I’m sick of the sight of you. Go back to bloody Arne, and the flaming sugar, and the backbreak!”
At the door he paused. “What did she call it? I’ve forgotten its name.”
“Justine, Justine, Justine!”
“Bloody stupid name,” he said, and went out.
Anne put Justine on the bed and burst into tears. God damn all men but Luddie, God damn them! Was it the soft, sentimental, almost womanish streak in Luddie made him capable of loving? Was Luke right? Was it just a figment of women’s imaginations? Or was it something only women were able to feel, or men with a little woman in them? No woman could ever hold Luke, no woman ever had. What he wanted no woman could ever give him.
But by the next day she had calmed down, no longer feeling she had tried for nothing. A postcard from Meggie had come that morning, waxing enthusiastic about Matlock Island and how well she was. Something good had come out of it. Meggie was feeling better. She would come back as the monsoons diminished and be able to face her life. But Anne resolved not to tell her about Luke.
So Nancy, short for Annunziata, carried Justine out onto the front veranda, while Anne hobbled out with the baby’s wants in a little basket between her teeth; clean diaper, tin of powder and toys. She settled in a cane chair, took the baby from Nancy and began to feed her from the bottle of Lactogen Nancy had warmed. It was very pleasant, life was very pleasant; she had done her best to make Luke see sense, and if she had failed, at least it meant Meggie and Justine would remain at Himmelhoch a while longer. She had no doubt that eventually Meggie would realize there was no hope of salvaging her relationship with Luke, and would then return to Drogheda. But Anne dreaded the day.
A red English sports car roared off the Dunny road and up the long, hilly drive; it was new and expensive, its bonnet strapped down with leather, its silver exhausts and scarlet paintwork glittering. For a while she didn’t recognize the man who vaulted over the low door, for he wore the North Queensland uniform of a pair of shorts and nothing else. My word, what a beautiful bloke! she thought, watching him appreciatively and with a twinge of memory as he took the steps two at a time. I wish Luddie wouldn’t eat so much; he could do with a bit of this chap’s condition. Now, he’s no chicken—look at those marvelous silver temples—but I’ve never seen a cane cutter in better nick.
When the calm, aloof eyes looked into hers, she realized who he was.
“My God!” she said, and dropped the baby’s bottle.
He retrieved it, handed it to her and leaned against the veranda railing, facing her: “It’s all right. The teat didn’t strike the ground; you can feed her with it.”
The baby was just beginning a deprived quiver. Anne stuck the rubber in her mouth and got enough breath back to speak. “Well, Your Grace, this is a surprise!” Her eyes slid over him, amused. “I must say you don’t exactly look like an archbishop. Not that you ever did, even in the proper togs. I always imagine archbishops of any religious denomination to be fat and self-satisfied.”
“At the moment I’m not an archbishop, only a priest on a well-earned holiday, so you can call me Ralph. Is this the little thing caused Meggie so much trouble when I was here last? May I have her? I think I can manage to hold the bottle at the appropriate angle.”
He settled into a chair alongside Anne, took baby and bottle and continued to feed her, his legs crossed casually.
“Did Meggie name her Justine?”
“Yes.”
“I like it. Good Lord, look at the color of her hair! Her grandfather all over.”
“That’s what Meggie says. I hope the poor little mite doesn’t come out in a million freckles later on, but I think she will.”
“Well, Meggie’s sort of a redhead and she isn’t a bit freckled. Though Meggie’s skin is a different color and texture, more opaque.” He put the empty bottle down, sat the baby bolt upright on his knee, facing him, bent her forward in a salaam and began rhythmically rubbing her back hard. “Among my other duties I have to visit Catholic orphanages, so I’m quite deedy with babies. Mother Gonzaga at my favorite infants’ home always says this is the only way to burp a baby. Holding it over one’s shoulder doesn’t flex the body forward enough, the wind can’t escape so easily, and
when it does come up there’s usually lots of milk as well. This way the baby’s bent in the middle, which corks the milk in while it lets the gas escape.” As if to prove his point, Justine gave several huge eructations but held her gorge. He laughed, rubbed again, and when nothing further happened settled her in the crook of his arm comfortably. “What fabulously exotic eyes! Magnificent, aren’t they? Trust Meggie to have an unusual baby.”
“Not to change the subject, but what a father you’d have made, Father.”
“I like babies and children, I always have. It’s much easier for me to enjoy them, since I don’t have any of the unpleasant duties fathers do.”
“No, it’s because you’re like Luddie. You’ve got a bit of woman in you.”
Apparently Justine, normally so isolationist, returned his liking; she had gone to sleep. Ralph settled her more snugly and pulled a packet of Capstans from his shorts pocket.
“Here, give them to me. I’ll light one for you.”
“Where’s Meggie?” he asked, taking a lit cigarette from her. “Thank you. I’m sorry, please take one for yourself.”
“She’s not here. She never really got over the bad time she had when Justine was born, and The Wet seemed to be the last straw. So Luddie and I sent her away for two months. She’ll be back around the first of March; another seven weeks to go.”
The moment Anne spoke she was aware of the change in him; as if the whole of his purpose had suddenly evaporated, and the promise of some very special pleasure.
He drew a long breath. “This is the second time I’ve come to say goodbye and not found her…. Athens, and now again. I was away for a year then and it might have been a lot longer; I didn’t know at the time. I had never visited Drogheda since Paddy and Stu died, yet when it came I found I couldn’t leave Australia without seeing Meggie. And she’d married, gone away. I wanted to come after her, but I knew it wouldn’t have been fair to her or to Luke. This time I came because I knew I couldn’t harm what isn’t there.”
The Thorn Birds Page 39