by Louis Stone
“Look, I’ll tell yer straight, Mr Jones; it’s no use tryin’ to pull yer leg. I can git all the tucker I want for the askin’, but I’m dyin’ for a beer to cheer me up an’ keep out the cold.”
He smiled at Jonah with an air of frankness, hoping to play on Jonah’s vanity by this cynical confession, but his heart sank as Jonah replied “No, not a penny for drink,” and prepared to dive into the rain.
“’Orl right, boss,” muttered Joe; and then, half to himself, he added “’Ard luck, to grudge a man a pint, with ’is own missis inside there gittin’ as full as a tick.”
“What’s that yer say?” cried Jonah, turning pale.
“Nuthin’,” muttered Joe, conscious that he had made a mistake.
But a sudden light flashed on Jonah. Ada had lied to him from the beginning. She had told him that she got the drink at Paddy Boland’s in the Haymarket, a notorious drinking-den for women, where spirits were served to customers, disguised as light refreshments. The fear of a public scandal in a room full of women had alone prevented him from going there to find her. It was Mrs Herring’s craft to throw Jonah on the wrong scent, and sip comfortably in the back parlour of the Angel, safe from detection, a stone’s throw from the Silver Shoe. Jonah turned and walked in at the side door, leaving Joe with the uneasy feeling of the man who killed the goose to get the golden eggs.
Ada had just rung the gong, insisting on another drink with the fatuous obstinacy of drunkards. She lolled in her chair, her hat tilted over one ear, watching the door for the return of Cassidy with the tray and glasses, and wondering dimly why Mrs Herring’s voice sounded far away, as if she were speaking through a telephone. Mrs Herring, the tip of her nose growing a brighter red with drink and vexation, was scolding and coaxing by turns in a rapid whisper. Suddenly she stopped, her eyes fixed in a petrified stare at an apparition in the doorway. It was the devil himself, Ada’s husband, the hunchback. As he stood in the doorway, his eyes travelled from her to his wife. His face turned white, a nasty greyish white, his eyes snapped like an angry cat’s, and then his face hardened in a sneer. But Ada, who was fast losing consciousness of her identity, stared at her husband without fear or surprise. The deadly silence was broken by the arrival of Cassidy, who nearly ran into Jonah with the tray.
“Beg pardon,” said he, briskly, and looking down found himself staring into the face of a grinning corpse.
“Don’t mind me, Cassidy,” said the corpse, speaking. “She can stand another glass, I think.”
Cassidy put the tray down with a jerk that upset the glasses.
“I’m very sorry this should have happened, Mr Jones,” he stammered. ‘I’m sorry—”
“Of course you are,” cried Jonah. “Ye’re sorry fer anythin’ that interferes with yer business of turning men and women into swine.”
“Come now,” said Cassidy, making a last stand on his dignity, “this is a public house, and I am bound to serve drink to anyone that asks for it. As a matter of fact, I didn’t know the lady was in this condition till the barman sent me in to see what could be done.”
“You’re a liar, an’ a fat liar. I hate fat liars—I don’t know why—an’ if yer tell another, I’ll ram yer teeth down yer throat. She’s been comin’ ’ere for months, an’ you’ve been sending her home drunk for the sake of a few shillings, to poison my life and make her name a byword in the neighbourhood. Now, listen to me! You’ll not serve that woman again with drink under any pretext whatever.”
“I should be glad to oblige you; but this is a public house, as I said before—”
He stopped as Jonah took a step forward, his fists clenched, transformed in a moment into Jonah the larrikin, king of the Cardigan Street Push.
“D’ye remember me, Cassidy?” he cried. “I’ve sent better men than you to the ’orspital in a cab. D’ye remember w’en yer were a cop with one stripe, an’ we smashed every window in Flanagan’s pub for laggin’? D’ye remember the time yer used ter turn fer safety down a side street w’en yer saw us comin’?”
Cassidy’s face stiffened for a moment, the old policeman coming to life again at the sight of his natural enemy, the larrikin. But years of ease had buried the guardian of the law under layers of fat. He stepped hastily back from Jonah’s fists.
“No, I won’t hit yer; yer might splash,” cried Jonah bitterly.
And Cassidy, forgetting that the dreaded Push was scattered to the winds, and trembling for the safety of his windows, spoke in a changed voice.
“I’ll do anything to meet your wishes, Mr Jones. There’s no call to rake up old times. We’ve both got on since then, and it won’t pay us to be enemies. I promise you faithfully that your wife shan’t be served with drink here.’
“I’m glad to ’ear it,” said Jonah; “an’ now yer better ’elp me ter git ’er ’ome.”
He looked round the room. There were only himself, Cassidy, and Ada. Mrs Herring, who had been paralysed by the sight of the devil in the shape of a hunchback, had found herself on the footpath, sober as a judge, without very well knowing how she got there.
Ada, stupefied with brandy, and tired over the long conversation, had fallen asleep on the table. Jonah went to the door and called Joe, who was listening dismally to the hum of voices raised in argument and the pleasant clink of glasses in the bar, now filled with workmen carrying their bags of tools, their faces covered with the sweat and grime of the day.
“Fetch me a cab, Smacker,” he said. “My wife’s been taken ill. She fainted in the street, and they brought her here to recover.”
“Right y’are, boss,” cried Joe. “She turned giddy as she was walkin’ past, an’ yer tried to pull ’er round with a drop of brandy.”
He repeated the words like a boy reciting a lesson, feeling anxiously with his thumb as he spoke, wondering if the coin Jonah had pushed into his hand was a florin or a half-dollar.
Cassidy and Joe, one on each side, helped Ada into the cab. Her feet scraped helplessly over the flagged pavement, her head lolled on her shoulder, and the baleful white gleam of the huge electric lamps fell like limelight on her face contracted in an atrocious leer.
The Silver Shoe was closed and in darkness, and Jonah drew a breath of relief. The neighbours were at their tea, and he could get his shameful burden in unseen. Prendergast, the cabman, helped him to drag Ada across the shop to the foot of the stairs, where with an oath he threw her across his shoulder, and ran up the winding staircase as if he were carrying a bag of chaff.
Suddenly the door on the landing opened, throwing a flood of light on their faces, and Jonah was astonished to see Miss Grimes, trim and neat, looking in alarm from him to the cabman and his burden. As Prendergast dropped Ada on the couch, she took a step forward.
“What has happened? Is she hurt?” she asked, bending over Ada; but the next moment she turned away.
This unconscious movement of disgust maddened Jonah. What was she doing there to see his humiliation?
“No, she’s not hurt,” said Jonah dryly. “But wot are you doing ’ere?” he added.
His tone nettled the young woman, and she coloured.
“I’m sorry I’m in the way,” she said stiffly, “but Mr Johnson locked up, and was anxious to get away, and as I was giving Ray his lesson, I offered to stay with him till someone came.”
“I beg yer pardon,” said Jonah. “I’m much obliged to yer fer mindin’ the kid, but I didn’t want yer to see this.”
“I’ve known it all the time,” said Clara, quietly.
“Ah,” said Jonah, understanding many things in a flash.
He caught sight of Ray, staring open-mouthed at his mother lying so strangely huddled on the couch.
“Yer mother’s tired, Ray,” he said. “Go an’ boil the kettle; she’ll want some tea when she wakes up.”
“That’s ’ow I ’ave ter lie to everybody; an’ I suppose they all know the truth, an’ nod an’ wink behind my back,” he cried bitterly. “I’ve tried all I know; but now ’er mother’s
gone, I’m fair beat. People envy me because I’ve got on, but they little know wot a millstone I’ve got round my neck.”
He lifted his head, and look steadily at Ada snoring in a drunken sleep on the couch. And to Clara’s surprise, his face suddenly changed; tears stood in his eyes.
“Poor devil! I don’t know that she’s to blame altogether. It’s in her blood. Her father went the same way. My money’s done ’er no good. She’d ’ave been better off in Cardigan Street on two pounds a week.”
Clara was surprised at the pity in his voice. She thought that he loathed and despised his wife. Suddenly Jonah looked up at her.
“Will yer meet me tomorrow afternoon?” he asked abruptly.
“Why?” said Clara, alarmed and surprised.
“I want yer to ’elp me. Since ’er mother died, she’s gone from bad to worse. I’ve got no one to ’elp me, an’ I feel I’ll burst if I don’t talk it over with somebody.”
“I hardly know,” replied Clara, taken by surprise.
“Say the Mosman boat at half past two, an’ I’ll be there,” said Jonah brusquely.
“Very well,” said Clara.
19
THE PIPES OF PAN
Circular Quay, shaped like a bite in a slice of bread, caught the eye like a moving picture. The narrow strip of roadway, hemmed in between the Customs House and the huge wool stores, was alive with the multitudinous activity of an ant-hill. A string of electric cars slid past the jetties in parallel lines or climbed the sharp curve to Phillip Street; and every minute cars, loaded with passengers from the dusty suburbs, swung round the corners of the main streets and stopped in front of the ferries. And as the cars stopped, the human cargo emptied itself into the roadway and hurried to the turnstiles, harassed by the thought of missing the next boat.
From the waterside, where the great mail steamers lay moored along the Quay, came the sudden rattle of winches, the cries of men unloading cargo, and the shrill hoot of small steamers crossing the bay. Where the green waters licked the piles and gurgled under the jetties, waterside loafers sat on the edge of the wharves intently watching a fishing-line thrown out. Men in greasy clothes and flannel shirts, with the look of the sea in their eyes, smoked and spat as they watched the ships in brooding silence. For of all structures contrived by the hands of man, a ship is the most fascinating. It is so complete, so perfect in its devices and ingenuity, a house and a habitation for men set adrift on the waste of waters, plunging headlong into danger and romance with its long spars and coiled ropes, its tarry sailors roaring a sea-chanty, and the common habits of eating and sleeping accomplished in a spirit of adventure.
Two streams, mainly women, met at the turnstiles—mothers and children from the crowded, dusty suburbs, drawn by the sudden heat of an autumn sun in a cloudless sky to the harbour for a day in the open air, and the leisured ladies of the North Shore, calm and collected, dressed in expensive materials, crossing from the fashionable waterside suburbs to the Quay to saunter idly round the Block, look in the shops, and drink a cup of tea.
Jonah, who had been standing outside the Mosman ferry for the last half-hour, looked at the clock in the Customs House opposite, and swore to himself. It was on the stroke of three, and she would miss the boat, as usual. It was always the same—she was always late; and when he had worked himself into a fury, deciding to wait another minute, and then to go home, she would suddenly appear breathless, with a smile and an apology that took the words out of his mouth.
He watched each tram as it stopped, looking for one face and figure among the moving crowd, for he had learned to know her walk in the distance while her features were a blur. For months past he had endured that supreme tyranny—the domination of the woman—till his whole life seemed to be spent between thinking about her and waiting for her at appointed corners. The hours they spent together fled with incredible speed, and she always shortened the flying minutes by coming late, with one of half a dozen excuses that he knew by heart.
Their first meeting had been at the Quay the day after he had brought Ada home drunk from the Angel, and since then a silent understanding had grown between them that they should always meet there and cross the water, as Jonah’s conspicuous figure made recognition very likely in the streets and parks of the city.
The first passion of his life—love of his child—had for ever stamped on his brain the scenes and atmosphere of Cardigan Street, the struggle for life on the Road, and the march of triumph to the Silver Shoe. And this, the second passion of his life—love of a woman—was set like a stage-play among the wide spaces of sea and sky, the flight of gulls, the encircling hills, and the rough, salt breath of the harbour.
Suddenly he saw her crossing the road, threading her way between the electric cars, and noted with intense satisfaction the distinction of her figure, clothed in light tweed, with an air of scrupulous neatness in which she could hold her own with the rich idlers from the Shore. She smiled at him with her peculiar, intense look, and then frowned slightly. Jonah knew that something was wrong, and remembered that he had forgotten to raise his hat, an accomplishment that she had taught him with much difficulty.
“So sorry to be late, but I couldn’t really help it. I’ll tell you presently,” she said, as they passed the turnstiles.
Jonah knew by her voice that she was in a bad temper, and his heart sank. The afternoon that he had waited for and counted on for nearly a week would be spoiled. Never before in his life had his pleasures depended on the humour or caprice of anyone, but he had learned with dismal surprise that a word or a look from this woman could make or mar the day for him. He gave her a sidelong look, and saw she was angry by a certain hardness in her profile, and, as he stared moodily at the water, he wondered if all women were as mutable and capricious. In his dealings with women—shophands who moved at his bidding like machines—he had never suspected these gusts of emotion that ended as suddenly as they began. Ada had the nerves of a cow.
Over the way the Manly boat was filling slowly with mothers and children and stray couples. A lamentable band on the upper deck mixed popular airs with the rattle of winches. The Quay was alive with ferry-boats, blunt-nosed and squat like a flat-iron, churning the water with invisible screws. A string of lascars from the P. & O. boat caught his eye with a patch of colour, the white calico trousers, the gay embroidered vests, and the red or white turbans bringing a touch of the East to Sydney. Suddenly the piles of the jetty slipped to the rear, and the boat moved out past the huge mail-steamers from London, Marseilles, Bremen, Hongkong, and Yokohama lying at the wharves.
As they rounded the point the warships swung into view, grim and forbidding, with the ugly strength of bulldogs. A light breeze flicked the waters of the harbour into white flakes like the lash of a whip, and Jonah felt the salt breath of the sea on his cheeks. His eye travelled over the broad sheet of water from the South Head, where the long rollers of the Pacific entered and broke with a muscular curve, to the shores broken by innumerable curves into bays where the moving waters, already tamed, lost their beauty like a caged animal, and spent themselves in fretful ripples on the sand. Overhead the sky, arched in a cloudless dome of blue, was reflected in the turquoise depths of the water.
Then Mosman came in sight with its shaggy slopes and terra-cotta roofs, the houses, on the pattern of a Swiss chalet, standing with spaces between, fashionable and reserved. Jonah thought of Cardigan Street, and smiled. They walked in silence along the path to Cremorne Point, the noise of birds and the rustling of leaves bringing a touch of the country to Jonah.
“Had you been waiting long?” asked Clara, suddenly.
“Since twenty past two,” replied Jonah.
“The impudence of some people is incredible,” she said. “I’ve just lost a pupil and a guinea a quarter—it’s the same thing. The mother thought I should buy the music for the child out of the guinea. That means a hat and a pair of gloves or a pair of boots less through no fault of my own…You don’t seem very sympathetic,” she cr
ied, looking sharply at Jonah.
“I ain’t,” said Jonah, calmly.
“Well, I must say you don’t pick your words. A guinea may be nothing to you, but it means a great deal to me.”
“It ain’t that,” said Jonah, “but I hate the thought of yer bein’ at the beck an’ call of people who ain’t fit to clean yer boots. Ye’re like a kid ’oldin’ its finger in the fire an’ yellin’ with pain. There’s no need fer yer to do it. I’ve offered ter make yer cashier in the shop at two pounds a week, if yer’d put yer pride in yer pocket.”
“And throw a poor girl out of work to step into her shoes.”
“Nuthin’ of the sort, as I told yer. She’s been threatenin’ fer months to git married, but it ’urts ’er to give up a good billet an’ live on three pounds a week. Yer’d do the bloke a kindness, if yer made me give ’er the sack.”
“It’s no use. My mother wouldn’t listen to it. For years she’s half starved herself to keep me out of a shop. She can never forget that her people in England are gentry.”
“I don’t know much about gentry, but I could teach them an’ yer mother some common sense,” said Jonah.
“We won’t discuss my mother, if you please,” said Clara, and they both fell silent.
They had reached the end of Cremorne Point, a spur of rock running into the harbour. Clara ran forward with a cry of pleasure, her troubles forgotten as she saw the harbour lying like a map at her feet. The opposite shore curved into miniature bays, with the spires and towers of the city etched on a filmy blue sky. The mass of bricks and mortar in front was Paddington and Woollahra, leafless and dusty where they had trampled the trees and green grass beneath their feet; the streets cut like furrows in a field of brick. As the eye travelled eastward from Double Bay to South Head the red roofs became scarcer, alternating with clumps of sombre foliage. Clara looked at the scene with parted lips as she listened to music. This frank delight in scenery had amused Jonah at first. It was part of a woman’s delight in the pretty and useless. But, as his eyes had become accustomed to the view, he had begun to understand. There was no scenery in Cardigan Street, and he had been too busy in later years to give more than a hasty glance at the harbour. There was no money in it.