This Is the Grass

by Alan Marshall

  Shep was waiting his cue in the kitchen. His pale lips were dry and he licked them with his tongue while he moved restlessly about the room. Every now and then he went to the door and looked up the passage towards the bar. He clasped and unclasped his hands as he waited.

  ‘I’m dry as a chip,’ he said to Gunner.

  ‘Ar, blame last night for that!’ observed Gunner whose eyes were bloodshot through lack of sleep. ‘I couldn’t raise a spit this morning.’

  I had finished my breakfast and risen to go to work when Flo Bronson slipped into the kitchen and thrust some coins into Shep’s hand.

  ‘Quick!’ she said sharply, then turned and hurried back to the bar, Shep shuffling after her.

  The wood-cutter was about to step off the veranda when Shep reached him. They were still talking together when I entered the Shire Office. Shep was never obvious in his role. The offer of a drink after a friendly talk was harder to refuse and the feeling of having had enough needed a few minutes’ respite to dispel.

  When I returned from the Shire Office for lunch the wood-cutter was standing with a group of men in the bar talking loudly, sometimes stopping suddenly and nodding his head in pleased agreement at the opinions of his companions who shared his grievances and who frequently interrupted him in confirmation of his claims. Shep, his perfidious task completed, was cleaning out the stables with the resentment of a man in chains. He kept casting desperate glances towards the bar in the hope that someone would beckon him over for a drink.

  I was worried over the wood-cutter’s horses. They had been standing all the morning in the hot sun and the leader was restive. I walked over to look at them. The shafter was a heavy Clydesdale mare with a broad rump that suggested reliability on the breeching. The dray had no brakes and it must have been hard work holding it back down the hills.

  The load was heavy-on and she had been taking part of its weight on her back for the entire morning. I decided to let down the support poles attached to the underside of the shafts and held in place by iron rings slipped over their ends. I dropped them both to the ground but was not strong enough to raise the weighted shafts so that the poles would straighten and take the weight off the mare.

  I called a man over from the veranda and he put his shoulder beneath one of the shafts and lifted. The poles both straightened and he lowered the shaft till they took the weight. The mare shifted her stand and took up a more relaxed one.

  I went in to lunch and told Gunner about the horses.

  ‘Get them a drink this afternoon,’ I suggested.

  ‘Listen,’ he said irritably. ‘I’ve got enough bloody trouble to get myself a drink without shouting for a horse.’

  He was helping Rose dish out orders from the dining-room, passed on by Violet on her trips to the kitchen with an empty tray. Her toneless chanting heralded her entrance.

  ‘Roast beef two. . . . Apple pie and cream one.’

  Gunner filled her tray with the dishes she ordered. I sat at the kitchen table debating with myself what I would have for lunch. I always sat at the kitchen table for this meal since it saved Violet having to wait on me in the dining-room and for some reason I felt myself to be one of the staff.

  I was angry with Gunner for his refusal to water the horses and had to restrain myself from telling him off. I rose and helped myself to sausages and potatoes from dishes at the side of the stove. Some day Gunner and I would clash and I shrank from the thought. I wondered whether I was a coward.

  I could never understand Gunner’s reasoning.

  ‘I could never thieve anything I haven’t a use for,’ he had told me, and with this explanation he felt he had offered a justification for his thefts. I argued with him when he said that, but he grew savage and I left him, followed by his abuse. I wouldn’t always leave him, I resolved.

  I sat at the table eating my sausages. Violet swung open the dining-room door and entered with her tray.

  ‘Steak and eggs one looks like a copper,’ she intoned without pausing.

  Plain-clothes policemen occasionally had a meal at the hotel in a search for a wanted man or to check up on the movements of co-operative crooks they held in their power. They were generally recognised. If they weren’t they made sure they revealed their identity to Flo Bronson who never charged them for meals and who paid them well.

  ‘You never have any trouble with coppers if you look after them,’ she said once, pouring out a nobbler of ginger ale for me and extracting the price of a whisky from a city visitor who had included me in a shout for the bar. ‘If you’re honest with them and let them see you’re not going to put one over on them they’re satisfied with a few quid when they do you over.’

  Gunner hated and feared the police. Violet’s announcement made him stiffen. He walked to the safe and took out a steak. He held it in front of him and spat on it with sudden venom before tossing it into the pan.

  ‘That for him,’ he said savagely.

  I felt revolted. I pushed my plate away from me and sat staring at the table feeling dark and horrible things pressing in on me like a trap. Yet I could understand Gunner’s action and hidden deep within me was a sympathy for him. The awareness of this sympathy troubled me since it suggested to my immature mind that I was beginning to see the world as he did.

  I returned to work, glancing in at the bar as I passed to see how the wood-cutter was getting on. Flo Bronson had brought him a plate of meat and vegetables, and he was eating it at the counter, a glass of beer beside his plate.

  When I knocked off work at five o’clock the horses were still there. I hurried over to the bar determined to make him water his horses. He was sitting on the bench that lined the bar wall, his head sunk forward on to his chest. He was muttering to himself and sometimes swaying sideways as if about to fall. When he did this he pulled himself together with a jerk, straightening himself and lifting his head defiantly like one about to face a tribunal. In a moment he sagged again, his heavy lids half closing his eyes.

  ‘My kid’s got brains, I’m tellin’ ya,’ he kept muttering.

  Flo Bronson had lost interest in him; he had spent all his money. I put my hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Your horses need a drink,’ I shouted at him under the impression that a loud voice could penetrate through to some sobriety.

  He straightened himself quickly and looked up at me, his blank eyes changing with comprehension as he strove to focus them on my face.

  ‘What’s ’at? ’oo wants a drink?’ he exclaimed, staggering to his feet.

  ‘Your horses,’ I repeated.

  ‘Horses!’ His horses were part of his life. He stumbled out of the bar and I followed him. Half-way to the dray he paused, staggered a few steps sideways, then stopped and looked around him.

  ‘Over here,’ I said, going ahead of him.

  He moved off again, veering a little from the route he had set himself so that he ended his journey against the side of the dray. He stood there a moment holding on to the wood, then quickly clambered to the top of the load where he seized the reins tied to one of the stanchions and shouted: ‘Gee, Punch! Gee, Betty!’

  I kicked the support poles free, slipped them into their rings and knocked the chocks from beneath the wheels before they moved off. The leader circled and the lumbering dray began to turn, the shafter edging it round with her shoulder.

  The tracks the dray had made coming down in the morning were still there. The horses followed them back, digging in their hooves at the first rise. On top of the rocking load the wood-cutter slumped into a mound of ragged clothing.

  I went over and sat on the rail and took out my note-book.

  8

  On cold nights the kitchen was a comfortable place in which to sit and talk. The dining-room, even when there was a fire burning in its huge fireplace, was an impersonal room sheltering human beings but not reflecting them.

  The worn linoleum tramped by so many feet had not been bought and tended by a woman who would note its disintegration with worried
eyes. It did not represent long toil to acquire. It had no association with husband or children. It merely existed as an unpleasing covering.

  The elaborate vase on the mantelpiece with its embossed flowers and golden handles had been filled with dead gum-leaves for over a year now. The flypaper hanging from the ceiling was covered with the bodies of last season’s flies.

  It was a room that had never known the laughter of children. The laughter it flung back from its gloomy walls did not bind people together; it merely acknowledged the existence of an obligation.

  The kitchen, however, could have been the kitchen of a farmhouse. Rose Buckman polished the stove and Gunner kept it alight on cold nights. The table was scrubbed. There was an old almanac on the wall, and there was a dresser full of plates decorated by cups hanging on brass hooks.

  Since it was in this room that I had listened to most of Arthur’s stories, it contained something of his personality to me.

  The women who visited the hotel never entered it. A kitchen to them sometimes suggested a home they were neglecting. They found release in the dining-room where there were no reminders of a home but where there existed the promise of a life of gaiety, unrestraint and physical transport.

  Arthur, Gunner and I sometimes played poker in the kitchen. Gunner taught me the game and often boasted of large sums he had won or lost in schools he had frequented in the city.

  ‘Don’t worry! I’ve seen the day when fifty quid was chicken-feed to me.’

  Like Shep I began to believe in an easy way to independence. I never valued money for its own sake. Gunner’s stories of big wins gave rise to dreams of escaping the life of a clerk through gambling, of having enough money to devote myself to writing.

  I saw myself, inscrutable and hard, dealing out poker hands on to a table laden with notes. My opponents were wealthy men who bet in hundreds, thousands. . . . At dawn they staggered from the smoke-laden room completely broke while I walked confidently out to hail a taxi with my pockets so jammed with notes I had difficulty in walking.

  I could see myself handing the taxi-driver a tenner.

  ‘Keep the change.’

  How gratified he was. At this stage I was tempted to divert my dream to the taxi-driver’s home where I paid for the education of his children, for a major operation on his wife who was suffering from a complaint only attention from a world-famous surgeon could cure.

  But I always had enough left to devote myself to writing.

  I was getting twenty-five shillings a week wages and paying twenty-two and sixpence a week for board. This left me with two and sixpence a week spending money. To me the surplus two and sixpence represented independence. I bought the Bulletin each week and studied the short stories it contained. The remaining two shillings I carried round in my pocket in small change and often counted it. It was my own. I had earned it.

  We began playing poker for pennies and I was always amazed at Gunner’s luck. Arthur played abstractedly. He didn’t care whether he won or lost. The few pennies involved were unimportant to him and he laughed when he lost.

  They were important to me since they represented all I possessed, all my capital. I knew I should save them since I would soon be out of work. Mr R. J. Crowther had advised me to leave and seek a job that promised advancement.

  But I stayed on, fearing the struggle I knew I would have to face to get another job.

  It was Father who finally suggested I ‘chuck it’ and try for something better.

  ‘No man has ever got anywhere by sitting and waiting,’ he told me, then added, to remove a fear he thought might be troubling me: ‘You’ll always be mates with Arthur, you know.’

  So I had given notice. Now, with three days left before Father would come driving up in the gig for the last time, I sat at the kitchen table with Gunner and Arthur playing poker.

  I had two shillings in my pocket but kept reassuring myself that I would still leave the job with two shillings since a week’s wages would be owing me on the day I left. I was assuming I would lose. I always lost. Each week I bought the Bulletin and lost the remaining two shillings to Gunner who softened the loss by praising my skill.

  ‘You have the makings of a good player, don’t worry.’

  We played for an hour and I had threepence left. Arthur was sleepy and kept yawning between hands. He had lost ninepence.

  I watched Gunner dealing the cards, feeling depressed at the thought of soon being out of work and hoping he would win the hand and rid me of tension. It was better to have nothing than to be left with threepence.

  As the cards flicked from his fingers he made a quick movement and brought up a card from beneath the table which he dealt to himself. I was astounded. I had never associated our games with cheating. I viewed Gunner’s playing as an activity outside the control of the criminal side of his character as if the friendly relationship that marked our games ensured complete honesty from all of us.

  ‘You cheated!’ I exclaimed incredulously. ‘You cheated!’

  The realisation that he must have been cheating in all our games, that he must have been robbing me for months, flashed on me as I saw his reaction to my accusation. He jumped to his feet, placed his hands on the table and, leaning over, thrust a snarling face close to mine.

  ‘You lying bastard!’ he said through his teeth. ‘I’ll break your bloody neck.’

  His furious reaction was proof of his guilt to me. I flung up my hands and grasped him by the throat and my fury was now greater than his. With all the strength that years on crutches had developed in my arms I flung him sideways over the end of the table and, bound to him with my hands, was dragged across the table after him. He crashed to the floor and I fell on top of him.

  The fall had not released my grip. He began punching me hard on the side of the head, using both hands, rolling a little behind each blow to give them power. I dropped my head until my chin was buried in his shoulder.

  He tried to knee me in the groin but I moved to one side and his knee struck my thigh. I felt my ribs give to his blows then hugged him closer as he sought to clutch my throat. He rolled desperately and I was beneath him. He raised himself, lifting me with him, then threw himself down, bashing my head against the floor. Again he rolled and I swung up and was over him once more. He kicked violently, tossed his head blindly, striking it against mine.

  Suddenly his struggles lost their power. I felt Arthur’s hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Let go, Alan.’

  He had been standing over us like a referee.

  I released my grip and rose to my feet. Gunner lay gasping on the floor. I stood with my hands resting on the table, my head down. After a while Gunner got up and sat at the table, his head on his hands, his chest heaving. He began to cough. Arthur brought him a drink of water and he swallowed it thirstily.

  Arthur turned to me: ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I left the table and walked round the room then said to him: ‘I think I’ll hop off.’

  ‘All right. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  I went into our bedroom and closed the door behind me. I stood in the darkness with my back against the door and my eyes closed. The only sound from the kitchen was Gunner’s breathing.

  He began talking: ‘If he hadn’t been crippled I’d have belted hell out of him, don’t worry. I just had to bloody well take it for fear of hurting him. If he ever comes at me again I’ll fix the bastard.’

  I flung open the door and bounded out like a bull into an arena. Gunner, startled, jumped to his feet. I crossed the room and slammed the kitchen door shut—there was no key to lock it—then turned and faced him.

  ‘Crippled, am I! I’ll show you whether I am crippled or not.’

  I moved towards him and I felt an immense strength and an immense confidence.

  Gunner looked afraid. He turned quickly to Arthur. ‘Call him off.’

  ‘You asked for it,’ said Arthur calmly. He didn’t move from his chair.

 
; Gunner backed away from me. I followed him. He suddenly darted round me and made for the door. I flung a crutch at him, striking him on the shoulder before he snatched the door open and fled into the passage.

  Arthur rose and brought the crutch back to me.

  ‘Sit down and cool off.’

  I sat at the table in silence.

  ‘How’re you feeling?’ Arthur was troubled.

  ‘Crook.’

  ‘You don’t look too good. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  We sat at the table drinking the tea in silence. After a while my shaking stopped. I smiled at him and said: ‘Well?’

  ‘I’ll show you how to dislocate a man’s shoulder, tomorrow. You have the strength in the arms to do it. It’s better than grabbing them by the throat when you are in real trouble. It stops them just the same. Don’t grab them by the throat; you don’t know your own strength.’

  ‘No, that’s right,’ I said in agreement.

  ‘But it’s only when it’s that or curtains. Fighting is not your line. You don’t fight a man; you fight the world.’

  ‘What . . . What do you mean—fighting the world? Do you mean . . . Look, I don’t hate Gunner. It . . .’

  ‘That’s what I mean.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know!’ I said, feeling utterly dispirited. ‘That bastard robbed me, yet I know if he comes to me tomorrow to do something for him I’ll go and bloody well do it. I’m weak, that’s what’s wrong with me. I’m bloody weak. I hate rows. Rows make me shake. Put me into a row and I’m no good for two days afterwards.’

  ‘You could have killed him, you know,’ said Arthur, following a different train of thought from mine.

  ‘Good Lord, no!’ I exclaimed. ‘That never entered my head.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter a damn whether it did or not. He was on his last gasp when I told you to let up on him.’

  I became afraid.

  ‘I think I’ll go to bed,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, a good idea. I think I’ll turn in myself.’