When dinner was served he placed the plate on the bedclothes between his knees and leant over it as if about to be sick. With elbows projecting he commenced eating with incredible rapidity, using his knife and fork indiscriminately to raise food to his mouth.
Sometimes a warning message from his heart—from which he suffered—would stay him a moment, and he would pause in his eating, open-mouthed, with half-chewed food lying visibly on his tongue, and gaze intently at the end of his bed waiting for confirmation of his fear.
When reassured, after a moment’s tense introspection, he renewed his attack.
He thrust food into his mouth without regard to the demands of taste. Whatever morsel was most conveniently placed on his plate was seized voraciously.
He did not waste time in chewing—he never used his false teeth—but swallowed with a convulsive contraction of the throat and a turkey-like thrusting forward of the head. Occasionally, as if seized by an inspiration, he turned quickly and seized his tea cup.
He drank the tea in large gulps, chewing vigorously between mouthfuls and swallowing loudly.
Friends brought him a cooked chicken which he placed in his locker. At breakfast time he took it out with intense satisfaction. He turned it in his hands looking at it from various angles as if seeking a vulnerable spot. He suddenly raised it to his mouth and tore at it like a dog. Each bone was subjected to a most concentrated attention. When tossed to one side it bore no shred of flesh, but was wet and polished with saliva.
He stopped eating as suddenly as he had started, and sat hunched forward, his parted lips shining and moist with grease, his face twisted with discomfort. He breathed heavily. He threw back the blankets and clambered laboriously from his bed, thrust his feet into heavy shoes, and plodded to the lavatory.
When he returned he sat in his bed gasping and saying ‘Christ!’
He sought opportunities to smack the behinds of the nurses. He watched them approach his bed with a still, moist smile of anticipation.
He could only reach an arm’s length each side of his bed. The area in which he could bring his lustful hand upon them was limited. He thus resorted to strategy to lure them closer. He did not lean forward to take the thermometer between his lips but backward. The nurse, brought closer to his bed, came within his reach.
He tried to make the action appear spontaneous and friendly—just play-boy stuff. It became increasingly difficult to do this. The smack became recognised for what it was and was resented accordingly.
But they learned to evade him.
When successful he laughed happily. He always included us in his laugh as if by doing so he favoured us with some share of the stimulus he gained.
He had been to the war.
‘I got a gutful of gas at that bloody war. My heart was as sound as a bell before I went there. Work! I’d work any man to a standstill. And now look at me. I’m settled.’
‘That’s a fact,’ I agreed.
‘Oh! I don’t know. I don’t know,’ he hastened to add.
On the warm days there walked down the ward a man in an old check dressing-gown. His cheeks were hollow. His eyes were bright and feverish. He was a consumptive.
He had been wealthy once but had gambled his money away backing horses.
He passed each bed on his way to the fat man. His smile had its birth and manifested itself only in the flesh of his lower face. It slid into position softly and with precision. His eyes belittled and proclaimed a knowledge of evil in you. One felt one was being labelled with unwarranted sins. He and the fat man were always putting ‘a couple of bob on a moral’.
The fat man’s heart could not stand excitement. He was not supposed to listen in to any broadcast description of a race. It upset him.
‘But this is the Melbourne Cup,’ he remonstrated. ‘’Struth! It’s the Cup!’
So they ceased arguing and said: ‘Well, if you think you can stand it . . .’
There were five of us well enough to leave our beds and walk as far as the veranda shadowing the matron’s room. The consumptive, smiling, led us forth. The fat man followed him. I staggered along on my crutches. Ahead of me walked a man who had had an hydatid cyst taken from his lung. Beside him limped a patient with a diseased leg. At each step breath hissed between his teeth. At the rear came Bloody Old Joe, who was waiting to die. (‘How are you feeling today, Joe?’ ‘My life’s only hangin’ by a t’read, doctor. Any tick o’ te clock, now. Any tick o’ te clock.’)
We passed the tank and turned on to the concrete pavement, hot beneath the sun. There was a drain in the pavement. We had to cross the drain. We were all very weak. We crossed it very carefully and slowly.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the fat man, who was ahead with the consumptive.
Yes, we were ‘all right’, though the man with the diseased leg said ‘Jesus Christ!’ very softly through his teeth and I stopped and breathed deeply.
We sat in a row along the veranda. The matron placed the wireless at her window. The fat man took a position closest to the draught-lifted curtains. The consumptive sat beside him but suddenly stood up and rested his hand against a post so that he could watch the wireless set.
‘The horses are beginning to appear on the track . . . Silver Ring is leading and walking very freely. . . .’
Blood has stopped pumping into my leg through pressure on the veranda. I eased my position.
The fat man took several deep breaths then resumed a normal breathing. He said to the consumptive: ‘That’s two bob each way Talking for me and a dollar straight out for you. That’s right, isn’t it?’
That’s right,’ said the consumptive.
The fat man was satisfied. He looked round at us benignantly. ‘No man would give nineteen thousand for a colt unless he was a good ’un.’
The man who had been operated on for hydatids had raised an arm and was moving it slowly up and down in some secret test. His eyes were unseeing, staring straight ahead.
He suddenly lowered his arm, relaxed and said: ‘No horse is worth nineteen thousand pounds.’ He turned to me and said, ‘What would you do with nineteen thousand pounds? Would you buy a horse with it? Say I gave it to you now. Would you buy a horse with it?’
The blood had flowed back into my leg. I said: ‘No. I would retire.’
He said: ‘There is a bull ant there on your trousers. Brush it off.’
I brushed it off.
The fat man’s eyes were closed. His head was thrown back, resting against the post.
‘Talking is being led on to the track. . . .’
The fat man opened his eyes and sat erect.
‘. . . bay with black points . . . a fine horse . . .when this Magpie colt is four years old he will be a credit to Australia . . . he looks eager . . .’
‘He’s a moral,’ said the consumptive, looking down at the fat man.
The fat man glanced up with a contemptuous and self-satisfied expression at this statement of obvious fact.
‘Talking, with anti-knocks on, is just walking quietly . . .’
‘Nursing him,’ said the fat man superiorly.
‘Yes,’ said I.
A nurse with a white enamel dish full of steel scalpels and tweezers stopped for a moment and, with a slightly amused expression, listened to the announcer’s voice.
‘Marla is restless,’ said the fat man, raising himself and altering his position.
‘Yes,’ said I. I had not heard of Maria. I thought: We have to cross the drain going back. I said to the man who hissed between his teeth: ‘How’s your leg standing it?’
He was white. He said: ‘Can I cock it up on your shoulder? It doesn’t hurt when it is up in the air.’
I leant forward with my elbows on my knees as if I were in a lavatory. I said: ‘Heave it up.’
He raised his leg and rested it on my shoulder.
‘Is that better?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘The horses are walking in . . . Knox is handling the colt ve
ry carefully . . .’
The man’s leg was heavy on my shoulder.
The fat man glanced round the trees in the garden as though seeking aid in some internal conflict. He began laughing and joking with the consumptive, in an artificial way. They were filled with a pleasurable excitement, yet suffered from doubts. They had moments of pregnant silences.
‘They are in line . . .’
The two men thought of their money. Silent, intense, unrecognised prayers were offered to the voice as to that of a God pronouncing judgement.
‘They’re racing.’
We all moved slightly.
‘Steady,’ said the man with his leg on my back.
The fat man stretched his body erect, lifting his chin as though to free his neck from a tight collar. The consumptive no longer smiled. He kept his set, unseeing eyes steadily on the boards of the veranda.
‘Silver Standard is the first to show out. . . Queen of Song, on the inside, is taking control from Silver Standard and Young Crusader. . . .’
Talking hasn’t shown up yet,’ said the man with his leg on my back, looking at the consumptive. The consumptive didn’t hear him.
The fat man turned his head in an unconscious survey of the veranda. His lips were slightly apart. The hand resting on his knee was clamped round a tin of tobacco.
The announcer’s voice became excited:
‘Young Crusader has cleared out and leads eight lengths from Talking. . . .’
Bloody Old Joe laughed and made sucking sounds of relish with his mouth.
‘. . . at the nine furlong post Young Crusader is going ahead and is now fifteen lengths from Talking who is closely pressed by Oro. . . .’
The man with his leg on my back thrust his head closer to me and said: ‘If we go lower down do we miss that drain going back?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘It goes right down.’
He withdrew his head and looked at the wireless.
‘Young Crusader is coming back now . . .’
The consumptive lifted his head from a contemplation of the veranda boards and said: ‘He should be moving up now.’
The fat man heaved his body to a fresh position.
‘He’s all right.’ His voice was hostile.
‘Talking, on whom Knox is getting anxious, is moving strongly . . .’
The voice became loudly excited.
The man who hissed through his teeth took his leg from my back.
‘Talking turned badly. Knox has pulled the stick on Talking.
The fat man clasped his hands beneath his ribs and leaned forward. His face was contorted. The consumptive moved on his feet.
‘Talking’s weakening. . . .’
The fat man, his hands still tightly clasped upon his side, rocked a little. His eyes were closed.
‘Talking has no chance. Talking’s out. . . .’
‘Jesus!’ burst from the fat man. He fell back gasping like a stranded fish.
‘Wotan comes from nowhere,’ screamed the announcer.
The consumptive bent anxiously over the fat man. A nurse hurried out. Another switched off the wireless.
The fat man was heaving on the veranda. He made strange noises.
The nurse wrapped a cloth around a small glass phial. With both hands she held the covered phial beneath his nose. She twisted her fingers. There was a faint sound of breaking glass. The fat man took great, shuddering breaths of laden air. The nurse watched him. We watched him. The nurse’s face was expressionless. The fat man slowly relaxed.
The nurse called a wardsman. Three nurses and the wardsman lifted him in their arms. They carried him slowly towards his ward. One of his arms hung loosely down. The tin of tobacco fell from his loose fingers.
The man with hydatids, the man with the diseased leg and myself, following after, stood round the tin of tobacco. We looked questioningly at each other but none of us could bend.
‘Leave it for a nurse to pick up,’ I said.
‘Someone might shake it,’ said the man with hydatids.
‘No one will shake it,’ I said. ‘It’s nearly empty anyway.’
The nurses had crossed the drain. The fat man’s arm was swinging. His head sagged from among their arms.
We did not look at the faces of each other when we crossed the drain. We did not like to look at our naked faces. We looked at the drain, our heads bent in fear of exposing our expressions.
When we had crossed the drain we stood for a while and I said: ‘This is really funny if we could only see it . . .’
But the man with the diseased leg was busy hissing through his teeth and the man with hydatids was moving his raised arm to and fro.
When we walked into the ward the fat man was lying on his bed. He looked slowly round at us and said, weakly: ‘It’s that bloody war that done it.’
Little Girl
A little girl stood beneath a wattle-tree watching some turkeys. She was almost two years old. Deep creases still encircled her wrists. Each knuckle was capped with a dimple. Her name was Mary.
It was early morning. Frost whitened the flat paddocks. A flock of galahs, flying low, wheeled with whistling cries. The pink cloud of their breasts melted into a clump of gums. Languid crows, cawing sadly, flapped slowly over the grazing sheep. Hungry lambs butted their mothers’ udders. Their loose tails wagged eagerly. The station homestead, like a contented mother watching her children, basked in the spring sunshine.
A man stepped through the doorway. He was holidaying. He stood a moment on the wide veranda gazing across the paddocks. He rubbed tobacco between his palms and drew deep breaths of the fresh air. He stepped to the ground and sauntered beneath the wattle-trees that surrounded the house.
The little girl, though aware of his presence, did not cease her contemplation of the turkeys. Upon her lips there rested a faint smile. It was enigmatical and born of her thoughts. She gave no clue to its origin. She just watched the turkeys.
The man came upon her. He gazed at her incredulously. She was like a little Eskimo. Her skin was a rich olive. She had small, bright-black eyes that slanted upwards. Her bobbed hair was black and clung closely to her head, drooping from around it in straight lines. Each hair had an individuality of its own. The man was conscious of the congregation of a multitude of hairs. Her cheek-bones were high and flung shadows on her cheeks. Her nose was flat.
Mary’s mother worked in the homestead kitchen. She cooked and did the housework. She was twenty-one years old. Her parents were Irish, she said. She was rather pretty. Her husband was a boundary rider on the station. He had dark eyes and an engaging smile. They shared a room at the rear of the main dwelling.
As Mary grew they became frightened at the slant of her eyes and the olive yellow of her skin. At night when the husband returned from the paddocks he sat her on his knee and they looked at her intently, searching her face for some answer to the riddle hidden behind her Oriental features. They wrote to their parents.
Chinese blood! Ridiculous.
So they accepted her and saw only the beauty in her face.
She grew very independent and very determined.
Perhaps the spirit of some remote ancestor, follower of Genghiz Khan, or some unknown Eskimo leader of tribal rebellions stirred within her and guided the little hand that opened forbidden doors or clutched the cakes left unguarded on the kitchen table.
Perhaps she is a Mongol, thought the man watching her.
The little girl, as if aware of his thoughts, emphasised her inscrutable smile. It was always there, faint, elusive, a charming and permanent mask. Though conscious of him standing silently before her she did not look at him. She was interested in the turkeys.
With sudden resolve she walked towards them. She walked with her chubby legs placed well apart as if her napkin were too bulky for comfort. She held her arms curved outward to preserve her balance.
The turkeys moved slowly away from her, jerking their heads and clucking suspiciously. One lingered, doubting the little girl’s obje
ct. But Mary closed her lips and moved purposely towards the bird. It became seized with panic and hurriedly joined its companions, gobbling indignantly. They all moved towards a wire-netting fence. They crowded together for protection. The fence had a hole in it. Each in turn squeezed through the opening. But Mary was close behind them and one left the group and dashed to and fro along the fence in a frantic search for a quicker way of escape.
Mary stood and watched it. It suddenly crouched, then sprang, and with an awkward flurry of wings landed on top of the fence. It poised precariously there a moment then dropped heavily to the other side.
Mary pressed her face against the wire-netting, her hands clutching the strands, and watched them walk away from her.
The man sat down on the stone coping of an underground tank and lit his pipe. After a few puffs he withdrew his pipe and called out to the little girl.
‘Come over here and talk to me.’
At the sound of his voice Mary turned away and commenced walking towards a hut that stood at the end of the yard. She did not look at him. She walked steadily past, the faint smile still curving her lips.
‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed the man.
The ground over which Mary walked on her way to the hut was carpeted with the litter of a farm. Successive layers of straw, the refuse of sheaves tossed to horses, formed a foundation like thick pile. On top the straw was new and yellow. Beneath the clean, criss-crossed stalks was a sodden thickness of older hay. Occasionally one of Mary’s feet would sink deeper than the other and then she staggered. She regained her balance by flinging both hands above her head. She carried them there for the next few steps and kept her gaze resolutely on the ground.
A sheep’s leg lay before her. A dry bone projected from the discoloured muff of wool above the divided hoof. Mary placed her hands on her knees and bent from the hips to look at it. She picked it up. Her little fingers sank into the wool. She took it with her.
A large, square piece of bluestone formed a step before the door of the hut. The wooden step was six inches higher. Mary placed the sheep’s leg on the stone. She proceeded to raise herself to the same position by a series of complicated movements that eventually left her on top of her objective but in a kneeling posture. She got to her feet with her hands still firmly planted on the stone so that for a moment she revealed a pair of fat little thighs disappearing into the folds of a thick napkin. The napkin bore two circular impressions left by the soil of some previous resting place. She raised herself erect and surmounted the remaining step in the same way. But she had forgotten the sheep’s leg. She laboriously returned to the stone to retrieve it.
The Complete Stories of Alan Marshall Page 4