The Complete Stories of Alan Marshall

by Alan Marshall

  It was nine o’clock and I scanned the plain for a sign of the mob. It appeared over the horizon at last—a swift-moving cloud of dust riding the backs of foam-flecked, galloping horses. On they came, tossing heads, long matted tails flying behind them. The dust cloud crackled with the sound of a whip and was pierced by the shouts of Steve Barton as he urged his mount to greater effort.

  In front of the mob, galloping tirelessly, swinging head held as proudly as ever, The Gentleman tossed spurts of sand from his black hooves. He passed me barely twenty yards away, his nostrils flaring redly. He snorted and swerved as I dashed forward to take over from the dust-begrimed Steve who yelled a ‘Keep ’em going’, as I left him in a whirl of smoking earth.

  The mob was smaller now. Exhausted mares had fallen back and been left behind. Across the saltbush, through the mulga, over hard claypans I drove them. One by one they dropped out until there was only ten of the hardest and youngest animals for Jack to drive relentlessly on. These were sons worthy of their sire and he led them dauntlessly.

  But when I again took over from Steve there was no thundering herd to follow but only one defiant, unbroken stallion who rocked a little in his stride but whose spirit refused to accept defeat.

  Jim Carson was riding with Steve. Farther on Jack joined us and we combined to drive The Gentleman into the stockyards. He was exhausted. His sunken flanks heaved to his laboured blowing, but he carried his head just as proudly.

  When the narrowing wings of the yard were visible each side of him and our final yells sent throbs of fear through his tortured nerves he rallied and made a final attempt to break back. We whirled our stockwhips in head-high circles of sound. He propped desperately and turned to the yards once more. A quick dash from our jaded mounts and he was through the gate. He was mine.

  We camped at the yard hut that night. We were done. We boiled the billy and ate the tucker in our saddle-bags then turned in.

  I couldn’t sleep. I got up and went outside. I could have scooped the stars in with my hat. I could hear the thump of kangaroos coming in to the excavated tank to drink.

  I walked down to the yards to look at him. He was restless, walking round and round the yard sniffing at the ground and tossing his head. From the shadow of a tree I watched him. At the gate that was higher than his head he gazed through the rails to where the stars were no more than his own height above the earth. His tired mates were collecting over there. He whinnied in a frightened, uncomprehending way and stamped a slender leg. He turned and resumed his endless walking.

  I was asleep when Jack dashed in next morning.

  ‘He’s gone,’ he yelled. ‘Jumped the gate. Come and see.’

  We followed him at a run.

  It was true. The Gentleman was gone. Beneath a splinter of wood on the top rail was a tuft of white hair.

  ‘That gate’s eight foot high!’ exclaimed Jack unbelievingly.

  ‘He’s not a horse; he’s a bird,’ said Steve.

  ‘That finishes me,’ I said. ‘I’m through with him.’

  I often wonder why I put that tuft of hair on the top rail that night, why I opened the gate and let The Gentleman go, why I smiled when, away in the distance, I heard a welcoming neigh from a group of tired mares.

  Prelude to Foreclosure

  ‘Got a match?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I lit one and held it to her cigarette. Above the flame disappearing into the cigarette’s end she watched with me her dark eyes.

  ‘Got any money?’

  ‘Not much.’

  She continued her regard with a cynical twist to her lips. She took the cigarette from her mouth. Smoke flowed over her lower lip and clouded the air before her face.

  ‘Cross my hand with silver, dearie. I’ve got something to tell you.’

  There were a lot of people about. I knew many of them. I had been born at this place. I had come back for their annual show.

  ‘Luta, the living head . . .’

  ‘Luta, the living head . . .’

  Someone behind me said, ‘Fancy paying a bob to see that. There’s a mug born every day.’

  The girl with him said, ‘Let’s go in.’

  ‘All right,’ he said.

  The gipsy had taken me by the hand. Her hand was long and wrapped itself round my hand. It was a lovely colour. It was like honey from box-trees. Her nails were long, too. But there was no dirt under them. They were painted red. They were like little red flowers on the end of stems.

  I felt silly. It was nice her holding my hand but there were a lot of people about. I said, ‘What the hell . . .’

  She said: ‘Come into the tent. Come on.’

  She was pretty. She had savage black eyes and a swarthy skin. She had a red silk scarf around her head. She was dressed in bright colours. I felt I wanted to go into the tent. But everybody would have known about it. I’d never have heard the end of it.

  I noticed a cove standing near. I knew this cove by sight. He owned all the land about the place. He used to sell blocks to farmers, then when times were tough he’d close on them and sell the land again. He made a hell of a lot of money this way till the law or something stopped him. He charged seven per cent interest. He had a lot of horses entered for the show. He always won because the judges owed him money. Everybody owed him money. A cobber of mine owed him money. He owed him a hell of a lot of money. He owed him two thousand quid. My cobber said to me: ‘When I’m eighty I’ll just about own the hen-house.’

  I said to this gipsy: ‘That fat cove over there is lousy with dough.’

  ‘Is that so,’ she said. She said it like how Greta Garbo would have said it.

  She looked at him. She let go my hand and went over to him. I hung around.

  She rested her hand on the lapel of his coat. She smiled and looked into his eyes and said: ‘I see love for you. . . . Love.’

  Her voice was soft and smooth like the scarf round her head. If one could have seen her voice it would have been a dark colour. It would have been dark red, her voice. It would have been the colour of that sort of rose that always smells the nicest. It make me take breaths. I wished she had spoken to me like that. But everybody owed this cove money. I only had ten bob.

  This fat cove—Mr Foster was his name—smiled down at her as if she were a little kid that had just finished reciting ‘I saw a Brownie yesterday’. He was full of benevolence. He had a cigar in his mouth and he took it out and held it in his hand. He patted her on the shoulder with his hand and said, ‘Excellent, my dear. Excellent.’

  The ash from his cigar fell off and landed where she curved out at the back. Mr Foster was sorry this happened. He said so. He hung his walking stick across his arm and dusted her with his hand. He kept on dusting her. His smile sort of became fixed like. The gipsy smiled, too. She let him keep on dusting her. But her smile was different to his. It knew everything.

  She said: ‘I can tell you something. Something hidden from you. I can see into the future.’

  He laughed so that those around could hear him and know that he was just amused and nothing else. He poked the dirt with his walking stick. He stopped laughing. He said: ‘Go on. I’m interested.’

  He was interested all right.

  ‘Cross my hand with silver,’ she said.

  ‘How much?’ he asked.

  ‘What you have in your pocket,’ she said.

  He took out a handful of coins but held on to them.

  ‘You must let me hold them,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, no!’ he said. He laughed as if the whole thing were a joke. But she kept on looking at him. Right through his laugh she looked softly at him. He stopped laughing and glanced round him. He arranged his mouth.

  ‘Then I can’t tell you,’ she said firmly. ‘There is a bad god hovering over you. Rest the coins in my hand for a moment.’

  ‘A bad god!’ he exclaimed trying to appear amused. ‘Well, well.’ He weighed the coins in his hand. ‘You will give them back?’

  ‘Of course.’r />
  He placed the money in her hand. She held both arms at fall length before her. She closed her eyes.

  ‘I see success for you. Success. Have you a note on you?’ She ended quickly as if she had just discovered something.

  ‘A note?’ he queried, his brow puckered. ‘Why . . . what do you want a note for?’

  ‘Quick,’ she exclaimed. ‘Rest it in my other hand. Quick. I must have contact. I have a vision. The spirit is on me.’ She spoke expressionlessly as if she were in a trance.

  He drew a pound note from his pocket and looked at her uncertainly. He fidgeted.

  ‘Quick,’ she continued. ‘I can see a profitable investment. Quick. . . . The spirit is going.’

  He placed the note hurriedly in her hand.

  She held her arms rigid a moment. . . . ‘You will make a lot of money,’ she said.

  She opened her eyes. She thrust the pound note down the neck of her blouse and dropped the silver into a little bag she carried at her belt. She turned and walked away from him.

  His face slowly reddened. He strode after her. ‘Just a minute,’ he said, his voice hard with anger.

  She turned and looked at him with sudden, concentrated fury. ‘Stop accosting me or I will call the police,’ she said, just loud enough to be overheard.

  Some people turned. Mr Foster kept on striding. He passed her and lost himself in the crowd.

  The gipsy stood near me and watched him go.

  ‘He’s gone,’ I said.

  She looked at me. She looked hard at me as if she wanted to find out something. She smiled and said, ‘Well, you put me on to him. Come into the tent for a minute.’ She said things with her eyes.

  Well, a bloke didn’t get a chance like that every day. I followed her to the tent as if I was going to pass it. I kept looking back. I was born at that place. When I got to the tent I slipped in quick. It looked as if I was going to pass the tent up to where I slipped in.

  She just stood there smiling, facing me. My heart was going. I was shaking a bit. I put my arms around her and she moved till she was against me. When I was kissing her she slipped her hand into my pocket and whipped out my ten bob. She slipped back quick, then, and shoved it down south.

  ‘What are you comin’ at?’ I said. I wasn’t a mug like Foster. She’d started something now. I made a grab at her. I was going to throw her to get that ten bob. ‘Come on,’ I said.

  She said, quickly: ‘Im going to scream. I’ll scream and swear you assaulted me. I’m going to scream now. I’ll scream. . . .’

  She opened her mouth.

  Hell! I didn’t wait to go out the front. I went out under the back of the tent. Did I go out under the back of that tent! Christ! I had the wind up.

  I went round the other side of the ground. I was spitting chips. God, I was dry! I lay down on the grass.

  I got up after and went over to the cows. My cobber was over there. He was sitting down with his back against the wheel of a dray, chewing grass stems. He looked sick.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked.

  ‘I just saw Foster,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get off the farm.’

  ‘What! Has he closed on you?’ I said.

  ‘He’s going to,’ he said.

  ‘And what about all the work you put into it,’ I said. ‘What about the sheds and that?’

  ‘I lose the lot,’ he said.

  ‘What do you know about that,’ I said. I was cut up about it. ‘Cripes!’ I said.

  ‘Foster was wild,’ my cobber said, ‘because I wouldn’t meet that bill last month. He said it was dishonest to fail to meet one’s obligations. He said he needed the money. He’s had some serious losses lately, he reckons.’

  ‘What!’ I cried. ‘Serious! . . . Hell!’

  ‘Let’s forget it,’ said my cobber, rising. ‘You’ve got ten bob you told me a while ago. We’ll go round and have a drink.’

  Clarkey’s Dead

  The departmental store was in Bourke Street. It was arrogant. It was blatant. Its concrete belly, sunk low in the earth, was full of human beings. It sat secure, and like the flowers that feed on flesh, it flaunted colour and perfume to lure its victims. They cluttered round its eyes. They surged in its mouth. Slow movement of massed people like food through a digestive tract. . . .

  Cut glass bottles full of fragrance—powder—lipstick—the silk of stockings—frocks—materials—imitation jewellery. . . .

  A contagious feverishness. . . .

  ‘What can I get for you, sir?’ Red lips smiling; tired eyes . . .

  I clung to the counter. Women flowed behind me. ‘The lifts?’ I asked. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘On your right. Turn here.’

  I left her.

  Round the turn.

  ‘Excuse me, madam.’

  I squeezed into the lift.

  ‘Stand back, please.’ The liftman was a dictator. We rose into the air. Bodies crushed me. I breathed odours.

  ‘Crockery, glassware, ironmongery . . .’

  No.

  ‘Coats, frocks, mantles, ladies’ lounge . . .’

  Not yet.

  ‘Silks, dress materials, manchester . . .’

  Right. I got out. The floor was practically deserted. I looked round. I took from my pocket a piece of paper to which was pinned a scrap of material. Three men were measuring cloth at a long counter. I handed my sample to a fair youth with a freckled, smiling face. He took it and murmured, ‘Check gingham.’

  ‘Four yards,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ he replied.

  The electric light made him appear even fairer than he was. The dark, massed shelves behind him, too. The absence of the sun. . . .

  ‘Nice day out,’ I said.

  ‘Is it?’ he said. He smiled. ‘We don’t see much of it.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  He talked about how hot it was on Sunday. He carried a roll of material from the shelves behind him and placed it on the counter.

  An elderly salesman came through an arched doorway at the end of the department. He took up a position behind the counter a few yards to our left. His hair was going grey. He lifted a roll of material to the counter and began measuring off a length by holding a section taut along his outstretched arms and, by contact, comparing it with the distance between two brass tacks hammered into the counter.

  The salesman attending me looked up and said, ‘If this weather keeps up I’ll go swimming over the weekend.’

  ‘The papers say it will,’ I said.

  ‘The papers . . .,’ He laughed scornfully.

  I laughed, too.

  He searched for his shears. The elder salesman on his left spoke to him in a quiet, unemotional voice. ‘Clarkey’s dead,’ he said. He did not look up from the material he was spreading upon the counter. He stood square upon his feet. His head moved as his hands moved, his eyes following the journeying of his fingers over the cloth.

  The young salesman looked startled. ‘What’s that? What did you say?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘Clarkey’s dead,’ repeated the man.

  The youth smiled unbelievingly, sensing a catch. He lifted the gingham for cutting. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  The older man made a tick on a docket. ‘Yes. He’s dead. He committed suicide—shot himself.’

  The youth was shocked into inaction. He stood holding the shears loosely in his hand. He stared at the speaker. ‘What . . .?’ he said. But the other had moved farther along the counter.

  The youth looked down at the check gingham as if it contained some problem that he must solve. He smoothed it with his hand. He abruptly turned away from it and spoke to a dark, thoughtful man standing on his right waiting for change beside a vacuum tube.

  ‘Clarkey’s dead,’ he said. He spoke in an undertone. There were other customers in the department.

  The dark man gave an exclamation. The container plonked from the tube and fell into the wire basket. He grasped it instinctively, his expression incredulous.

  T
he youth had returned to the gingham. He cut the piece free from the roll. He lifted the roll and placed it back on the shelf. All his actions were mechanical. He was thinking of Clarkey.

  He lifted the piece of gingham then replaced it gently on the counter. He walked towards the left, passing the elderly salesman wrapping methodically, and stopped beside a man writing in a docket book at the far end of the bench. He bent to him and said, ‘Clarkey’s dead.’ His voice was quiet and sad.

  ‘Dead!’ ejaculated the man dropping his pencil. ‘Dead!’

  ‘Yes—dead,’ said the youth. ‘He committed suicide.’

  They both stood in silence looking at the floor and thinking. The man did not ask any questions. He was quiet with understanding. The fair boy turned to go. The man said: ‘He had a great laugh.’ ‘Yes,’ said the boy.

  The youth returned to his position. The dark man, still holding his change, was waiting for him.

  ‘Hey. Is that true—dead?’

  ‘Yes. He committed suicide. He shot himself.’

  The dark man turned his back and walked slowly away.

  The youth wrapped my gingham in brown paper. He slipped string around the parcel. He knotted it abstractedly. With the ends of the string held in his hands he turned once more to the elderly man on his left.

  ‘But I only saw him the other day. He came in to say goodbye. He was going to New South Wales. He was all right. He was smiling.’

  The grey-haired man said: ‘Yes. I know. I saw him myself. He said good-bye to me, too.’

  ‘I can’t understand it.’

  The elderly man moved as if to reply but a faint, bitter smile touched his lips a moment and he did not speak.

  ‘Well,’ said the youth drawing a deep breath. ‘There’s an end of him, anyway.’

  He slid the parcel towards me. ‘Four shillings,’ he said.

  I gave him a ten shilling note. He stood before the vacuum tube staring moodily at the floor while he waited for the change.

  I placed the parcel beneath my arm. I looked up at the shelves and the grey roof and the electric lights.