The Diggers Rest Hotel

by Geoffrey McGeachin

  ‘Rebecca … Miss Green is nice.’

  Berlin nodded.

  ‘You won’t hurt her, will you, Mr Berlin? I don’t think she’s really as tough as she pretends to be.’

  ‘I never set out to hurt anybody, Lily.’ It just seems to be what happens, he said to himself.

  ‘And you won’t mention any of this to Vern, will you?’

  Berlin smiled. ‘About me chopping those Mallee roots, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, about you chopping the Mallee roots.’

  ‘No one else needs to know, Lily. It’ll be our secret.’

  FIFTY-NINE

  Rebecca had still been asleep when Berlin went out to the yard. He took her a cup of tea from the kitchen after his talk with Lily but the bed was empty. When Berlin looked out the upstairs window her Austin was gone. There were a couple of art magazines out on the bedside table and he thumbed through one, stopping at a colour reproduction of a painting credited to Russell Drysdale.

  The picture was all brownish tones, and it showed a young soldier sitting with his canvas kitbag, waiting somewhere – perhaps a wintry railway station – with ankles crossed and hands thrust deep into his khaki greatcoat pockets. Berlin had never taken much interest in art and was surprised when he felt a knotting in his stomach and a deep sense of recognition and empathy wash over him just from looking at the image.

  Berlin thought about his brother when he looked at the soldier’s face, framed between the brim of the slouch hat and his upturned coat collar. The face expressed loss, loneliness, a fear of the unknown, and just plain aching bone weariness, the eyes locked in a stare off into some other world – a stare that Berlin himself had seen at railway stations in Australia and Canada and England, and on that bitter road leading westward out of Poland.

  When he walked out the hotel’s side door the Dodge was waiting. Roberts, leaning on the rear mudguard, was smoking and idly kicking at the gravel in the car park. He was dressed for football in baggy shorts, a long-sleeved maroon and white jumper, and long socks.

  ‘Morning, Roberts. That’s no way to treat a decent pair of boots.’

  The lad rubbed the toe of his boot on his sock. ‘Sorry, Mr Berlin. I just wanted to see if you needed me for anything. I usually get the morning off if I’m playing.’

  ‘What time’s your match start?’

  ‘Under eighteens generally play at eleven and the reserves come on after that. But we’re stuffed anyway. With Kenny in the lock-up we don’t stand a chance against those bloody Pigeons.’

  So that’s why he was really here, Berlin thought to himself, to see what I’m going to do about Kenny. ‘Pigeons?’

  ‘The Yarrawonga Pigeons. Kenny might have had to play in the first-grade match anyway, since he’s the best in the reserves. Spud’s their full-forward and he came up with a groin strain.’

  ‘At training on Thursday?’

  ‘No, he was okay at training. I only heard about it this morning. We really need Kenny, Mr Berlin.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. You get a big turnout for these games?’

  ‘Depends who we’re playing and what’s on at the Saturday matinee at the flicks. Fair few regulars, plus some of the army blokes. Sergeant Whitmore usually does the timekeeping when we play at home.’

  ‘I might see if I can get there.’

  ‘I can still score you a jumper and a spare pair of boots if you want a run. We usually only just manage to field eighteen men so no one would complain. You’re getting to be sort of a local anyway and …’ Roberts trailed off.

  ‘And I’m the reason you’re down a full-forward?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer but I’ve got more than enough aches and pains to deal with at the moment. What have you got planned for tonight?’

  ‘I’m taking Alice to the Globe in Albury for drinks, and then dancing later at the Ritz ballroom.’

  ‘Sorry, but you may have to put that off. You and I might be spending tonight keeping an eye on an empty shed.’

  ‘We’ll be doing a stakeout?’ The young constable was grinning.

  ‘Keeping it under surveillance, if the sergeant asks. And when you tell your girlfriend I’d try not to sound too excited about it.’

  Berlin looked at his watch. It was a little after nine.

  Roberts dropped his cigarette butt and leaned forward to press it into the ground with his toe. Something glinted where he disturbed the gravel. Bending down, he moved it aside with his finger. ‘Two bob, eh? Looks like it’s my lucky day after all.’

  He straightened up and looked at Berlin, who was staring at the coin. ‘Something wrong, Mr Berlin?’

  ‘Change of plans, Roberts. That blacktracker who was at the loco sheds the other day, you know where we can find him?’

  ‘Sure, he’s got a woodcutting gang down near the river. It’s not far, about five miles out of town. You want to go out there now?’

  Berlin was already opening the passenger door of the Dodge.

  Rain clouds were beginning to gather in the west when Roberts pulled the car over and pointed to a dirt track branching off the main road. ‘About half a mile in, they reckon. Bit of a hike. I can probably run you down there easy enough.’

  ‘I’ll walk. You wait for me here.’

  The track leading in to the woodcutter’s camp was rutted from the wheels of the horse-drawn jinkers used to haul the timber to the mill. Berlin studied the track as it disappeared off into the forest. Gravel, what a bastard. Gravel would chip and cut at the soles of his shoes and if it was half a mile in and half a mile out then that was the same as a couple of months on paved streets.

  It was cool under the canopy of trees but after fifteen minutes Berlin was sweating. On both sides of the track the undergrowth was lush, filled with flowering plants and ferns with rich green leaves, and he could hear the occasional small animal scattering in panic as he trudged past. There was the smell of wood smoke in the air and after another few minutes he found the camp.

  Six men were sitting on logs around a small fire. A circle of stones bordered the fire and a blackened tin billycan rested amongst the flames. The men were smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and some of them were casually working the edges of their axes on whetstones. Several of the men looked up at Berlin’s approach and then quickly lowered their gaze.

  ‘I’m looking for Jacky.’

  Someone grunted in amusement.

  ‘We all Jacky here, Boss,’ one of the men said quietly.

  Another of the men stared at Berlin for a moment, spat on his whetstone and went back to sharpening his axe. Berlin casually put his hand into his overcoat pocket to confirm that the automatic was still there.

  He had never really had much contact with Aboriginals before and he was intrigued by the facial structure and skin colour of the men. A couple were light-skinned, almost white, while the man who had spoken had skin with a rich blue-black hue under a coating of wood ash from the fire. The men’s clothes were tattered and ripped, the shirts collarless and their waistcoats flecked with small tears, from the clutching branches of the trees they worked with. Two of the men wore battered, laceless old boots while the others were barefoot, with feet as calloused as their hands.

  ‘Neville.’ The voice came from somewhere behind him. Berlin turned. The blacktracker from the loco sheds was approaching, doing up his fly buttons.

  ‘Just draining the lizard.’ He held out a hand. ‘The name’s Neville, Neville Morgan.’

  Berlin shook his hand. ‘Sorry, back in town the other morning, at the loco sheds, they called you Jacky.’

  ‘Around here they call all us blackfellas Jacky. You must be a city boy.’

  ‘My name’s Berlin, but you can call me Charlie.’

  ‘I’m sure I can, Mr Berlin, I’m sure I can. You’re the Melbourne copper, right?’

  ‘Right. And you’re the blackfella tree feller.’

  Neville laughed. ‘Yep.’

  Berlin took the pack of State Express fro
m his overcoat and offered Neville a cigarette. The man shook his head.

  ‘No, thanks.’ He pulled a pack of Drum and some Tally-Ho papers from his waistcoat pocket. ‘I’ll just roll myself a durrie while we chat.’

  ‘You don’t talk like you did in town.’

  Neville deftly worked the tobacco in his palm with his thumb before filling and rolling the cigarette paper. ‘I had me a good education, mission school, but I found out smart little black boys sometimes make you white people uncomfortable.’

  ‘Fair enough. I just got the feeling there was something you weren’t saying back at the loco sheds.’

  Neville licked and sealed the paper, tossing the pack of tobacco to one of the men sitting on the logs before pulling a burning twig from the fire. Berlin could smell the sweet odour of eucalyptus as he lit both their cigarettes.

  ‘That Corrigan bloke couldn’t find his arse with both hands. No point in telling him anything.’

  ‘So what did you see?’

  Neville looked at the ground and took a long drag on his cigarette before he spoke. ‘Boots.’

  ‘Boots?’

  Neville nodded and glanced down towards his feet.

  Berlin looked at the man’s leather boots. They were neatly laced and still showed some evidence of polish.

  ‘These are army boots, military surplus. I never even wore shoes till I was eighteen. Had feet like bloody leather. Have to wear boots all the time now. Totally stuffed my feet up in the Guinea, on the track.’

  ‘Kokoda?’

  Neville took another drag on his cigarette and nodded.

  ‘Jesus, what were you doing up there?’

  Neville laughed. ‘I was in the army, a corporal. Fighting to save your white women from the rapacious clutches of the heathen Shintos. That surprise you?’

  ‘I suppose it does.’

  ‘Like I said, I never wore boots before the army, and now I have to wear ’em all the time. Boots ruined my feet, made ’em soft.’

  ‘So tell me about the boots at the loco sheds.’

  ‘They were army boots.’

  ‘There’s a lot of surplus military footwear floating about. And a lot of demobbed blokes still have the ones they wore in the service.’

  Neville unlaced his right boot and pulled it off. He wasn’t wearing any socks. Turning it over, he showed the sole to Berlin. ‘See how that’s worn down?’

  Berlin shrugged. ‘So you need to get them re-soled, so what?’

  ‘You’re looking but you’re not seeing. Doing that got a lot of blokes killed in the jungle.’

  ‘So tell me. What am I not seeing?’

  ‘Look closer. My boots are worn down from walking dirt tracks and crossing riverbeds and clambering all over trees. That wears the leather a certain way, irregular like.’ He slipped the boot back on and tied the laces. ‘The boot tracks in that loco yard, at least the ones those dopey coppers hadn’t trampled all over, were worn down differently.’

  ‘Differently? How?’

  Neville smiled, stood up and suddenly snapped to attention. ‘Corporal Morgan reporting as ordered, sah!’ he shouted, saluting smartly. ‘Corporal Morgan, you black bastard, stand haaat ease.’

  He stamped his left foot wide, clasped his hands behind his back and stuck out his chin, eyes front.

  Berlin remembered his early air-force drills at the camp at Somers, and later at the training schools on Canada’s Prince Edward Island and on the bleak, windswept prairies of Calgary. He’d hated the constant marching backwards and forwards and the saluting practice and the sergeants who screamed abuse at the cadets in their charge.

  ‘Square-bashing on asphalt or concrete wears the leather differently, Mr Berlin. You can see it if you know what to look for. The blokes who did that robbery spend a lot of time marching up and down a parade ground, I reckon.’

  ‘And what about that silver coin you picked up? It wasn’t a two-bob piece, was it?’

  The woodcutter took a final puff of his cigarette before pinching the end out between his thumb and forefinger. He leaned forward, scratched a shallow hole in the dirt, dropped the butt in and covered it. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a silver disk and handed it to Berlin. It was heavy, with a square hole cut out of the centre and Oriental symbols embossed around the edges on both sides.

  ‘Some sort of Shinto coin,’ Neville said, ‘that’s what the funny writing is. I dunno what it means. We used to find ’em in Jap camps and on bodies after – you know. Some blokes kept them for souvenirs. You can have it, if you think it means anything.’

  Berlin slipped the coin into his coat pocket. Behind Neville one of the woodcutters was swinging the billycan around at arm’s length to settle the tea leaves.

  ‘Looks like tea’s up, Mr Berlin. You fancy a cuppa? We’ve only got sugar, no milk.’

  ‘Tea sounds good.’

  The two men sat on a log and drank the tea in silence. Berlin could hear the soft burble of a stream somewhere, the sound of birds and the gentle creaking of timber in the treetops. The sweet tea in Berlin’s enamel mug tasted of smoke and eucalyptus.

  ‘How was coming home?’

  Neville grunted. ‘You fight alongside a bloke and he’s your best fucking friend and then you get back and you can’t have a beer with him, even though you’ve been wearing the same uniform and dodging the same bullets. You get chucked out of a pub and no one stands up for you, not one fucking bloke, not one fucking mate. One day it’s “Good work, Corp, you held the yellow bastards, I’m putting you in for medal,” and then all of a sudden it’s over and they don’t want to know you. You’re back to being just another lazy shiftless darkie.’

  ‘You ever regret enlisting?’

  Neville looked Berlin in the eye. ‘Course not. This was my country a long, long time before you white bastards got here.’ He sipped his tea. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me?’

  The woodcutter nodded. ‘Changes a fella, doesn’t it? You come back and you don’t fit in somehow.’

  ‘That about sums it up.’

  Neville looked down at the black skin on the back of his callused hand. ‘Not that I ever really did.’

  Berlin sipped his tea, watching the smoke from the fire wafting in the slight breeze and listening to the water gurgling in the creek. Somewhere a kookaburra laughed and Berlin smiled. His body still ached from the run-in with the gang and from chopping the firewood but right now it was an ache he could live with.

  Neville tossed the last of his tea onto the hot stones surrounding the fire. The tea sizzled and formed a quick cloud of steam. He stood up and stretched. ‘Time to get back to work, eh, Mr Berlin? No rest for the wicked.’

  Berlin tossed his tea onto the hot stones. ‘You got that bloody right.’

  SIXTY

  Kenny Champion looked up as Berlin entered the cell. His eyes were red and Berlin felt a pang of sympathy. Poor little bugger.

  ‘How’s it going, Kenny?’

  The boy didn’t answer, he just pulled the grey blanket tight around his shoulders.

  ‘They give you some breakfast?’

  ‘What do you care?’

  ‘You’ll probably need to eat something if you’re going to play today.’

  Berlin was holding the boy’s slouch hat, and his belt and laces were in it.

  ‘How can I play if I’m locked up? What’s going on?’

  ‘Just tell me the truth and you walk out of here right now.’

  The boy looked at him with hard eyes. Berlin didn’t feel like waiting the stare out.

  ‘Okay, for starters, Kenny, I know you didn’t hurt the girl.’

  The boy stayed silent.

  ‘Jesus, mate, you don’t bloody make it easy, do you? Okay, here’s what I know, and correct me if I’m wrong. You met the girl at dinner at the Lees with Sergeant Whitmore. Since then you two have been playing slap and tickle at the Diggers Rest, with Lily looking the other way.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that! Me and Jenny, we wer
e in love, you bastard.’

  Berlin realised he had forgotten what it was like to be eighteen and in love. God, how many centuries ago had that been? ‘Sorry mate, bad choice of words. You two were in love and you got yourselves into a bit of bother.’

  ‘We were going to run away to Sydney and get married. I had my mum’s ring and I’d been saving up.’ He had started to cry.

  You poor little shit, Berlin thought. The girl was only sixteen yet she knew there was really only one way out.

  ‘The bastard priest in Albury said he couldn’t marry us. He made me confess we’d been, you know … doing it, and he reckoned we were both sinners and were going to hell. And then someone killed her.’

  ‘And I know it wasn’t you, Kenny. Just tell me where you were the night of Jenny’s … the night Jenny died.’

  Kenny wiped his eyes on his sleeve and sat up straight. ‘I’m not saying and you can leave me locked up forever for all I care.’

  ‘Kenny, I’m sorry about Jenny, really. And I’m going to get the person who did it.’ Berlin tossed the boy’s hat onto the cot. ‘Here, get dressed and bugger off.’

  The boy stared up at him. ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Just get moving before I change my mind.’ Kenny stood up, dropped the blanket on the bed and reached for his hat.

  ‘Don’t know if you feel like playing today, but Bob’s waiting outside and I reckon he and the rest of the team would appreciate it. Might help get your mind off things, too.’

  Berlin sent them off in the Dodge and used the phone at the front desk to call the local exchange. The operator connected him to the Melbourne number he’d called the night before and the information he had asked for was waiting. He listened and made notes as the details were read out to him. It was a short call and thankfully there was no screaming in the background this time. Daylight had always helped to chase away the demons in that place, he remembered.

  SIXTY-ONE

  There was no sign of the doctor’s Snipe at the surgery and no answer to Berlin’s repeated knocking on the front door. A woman working in her garden across the street waved to get his attention.