by Morris West
As they rode he found himself turning to look at Billy-Jo and wondering how much the black tracker had seen on the river-bank, and how he had judged this unaccustomed commerce of Boss Adams.
All of a sudden he was sick of his own cynicism. He loved this woman. He had been tempted to murder to hold her. If love meant anything it meant honesty, courage, a high head and a clear eye and a challenge to the world to wreck it if it dared.
Why then was he skulking away – from Mary, away from himself, away from the cat-calls of a back-country bar?
Then at one stride he came up with the truth. It was not the love that was in question, hers or his. It was the cost – his own willingness to surrender the whole or a part of himself to any woman. To be a lover was one thing – all care taken and no responsibility. To be a husband was quite another – all care, all responsibility and the wedding-ring worn like a hobble-chain on a brumby stallion. It was pleasant to finger the price-tag, but to put the money on the counter, wrap up the goods and carry them away for better or for worse – eh ! this was much, much different.
The ponies ambled homeward through the dust and the heat-haze, while Neil Adams lolled in his saddle and thought of Mary Dillon flying back to face, alone, the crisis he had precipitated for her.
CHAPTER TEN
LANCE DILLON was climbing out of a spiral pit of darkness. The climb was slow and painful, full of checks and reverses. Sometimes he fell dizzily into emptiness. Sometimes he groped against a solid hand-hold and felt on his eyeballs the weight of a light he could not see. Sometimes he was cold as death, sometimes burning in a black furnace.
The darkness in which he moved was alive. Bat-wings brushed his face, black hands reached out to hold him, spear-points pricked at him, water dripped in maddening monotony, the palpitant air lay over him like a blanket. There were voices too, talking without words, uttering words without sense. Some of the voices were strange, some vaguely familiar, like faces seen in a fog.
Even in this blind world there was a perspective, a sense of extension and relation. But the perspective was always changing – now rocketing away into infinity, now contracting on him like a concertina. The sounds swelled in wild climaxes then died into haunting cadences, elusive as whispers in a twilit street.
In the galactic darkness he seemed to have undergone a strange metamorphosis. The small core of himself was the same, but the rest of him, the conformation of trunk and limb and feature, seemed to have slipped out of mould and into fluidity. He might have been a snake in a hollow log, a wombat in a tunnel, a chrysalis in a cocoon, for all the certainty that was left.
For a long while the darkness was absolute, but then a light began to show, blurred and transient, always a long way beyond the reach of his groping fingers. Later it solidified, stayed a little longer, haunted him with its suggestion of an outline. By now he was higher in the pit, sensible of some faint progress – though towards what he could not tell. Then, at one moment in the timeless continuum, the light took form and he found himself looking into Mary’s face. He tried to reach for her, but made no contact. He tried to call to her but no sound came, then her face melted into light and the light was snuffed back into blackness.
For a long time afterwards it seemed that he hung suspended near the peak of the spiral, a breath away from some kind of revelation. What it was he could not guess, nor even care greatly, being weary from the long climb out of nowhere. Finally, without knowing how, he drifted out of limbo and into sleep; and when he opened his eyes, he saw a man bending over him, a black-haired fellow with stubbled cheeks and a wide grin and a stethoscope dangling from his ears. Dillon was still fumbling drowsily for his name, when a raw cheerful voice said:
‘So you’re awake, eh? They breed ’em tough on Minardoo.’
It was the voice that jogged the wheels of memory into motion. Dillon tried to grin back but his lips were numb and his own voice issued in a husky squawk.
‘Black Bellamy! the mad doctor! How am I doing, Doc?’
Doctor Robert Bellamy took the stethoscope out of his ears and hung it round his neck. He sat down on the edge of the bed, chuckling:
‘By rights you should be dead. I’ve never seen such a bloody mess.’
Dillon struggled to sit up, but pain broke out over his body and he lay back, sweating, on the pillows. Bellamy cocked a cynical eye at him and grinned again.
‘Let that be a lesson to you; take it slow and easy. You’re burnt raw, back and front. You’re full of formic acid, and there’s still enough sepsis in that shoulder to kill a bullock. You’re going to be with us a long time yet.’
Dillon blinked away the pain and asked thickly:
‘How long have I been here?’
‘This is the third day.’
‘How did I get here?’
‘Neil Adams found you. Your wife brought you in.’
‘Mary…’ Just as he had come to the end of his groping, the darkness was clouding in on him again. ‘Mary…where is she?’
‘Resting. She’s been with you night and day since you came. You’re going to rest yourself now. Then you can talk to her.’
He felt the prick of a hypodermic in his arm, saw the dark stubbled face ballooning into a fog above him, then the blackness swallowed him up once again.
Doctor Robert Bellamy frowned and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a khaki handkerchief. He had had a rough week, two hard deliveries, an outbreak of measles in the aborigine settlement, one punctured lung after a brawl in the bar and a smash on the Darwin road that added up to a crushed arm, a ruptured spleen and some quick, if unbeautiful, plastic surgery. And for the last three days Dillon had been fighting a drawn battle with death while they pumped penicillin into him and had Gilligan screaming up to Darwin for fresh supplies.
Now, it seemed Dillon had won his battle. But it was a partial victory at best. Every auscultation confirmed it. The human heart is the toughest organ in the body, but Lance Dillon’s had taken one round of punishment too many. He would recover. He could lead a normal, temperate life. But his hard-driving days were over. He had ridden to his last muster, thrown his last steer. And Black Bellamy wondered how he would take the news.
He folded his stethoscope, shoved it into the pocket of his bush shirt and walked across the dusty little compound of the hospital to the grey iron-roofed bungalow that was the nurses’ quarters. He pushed open the screen door and walked into the cool dim lounge with its rattan furniture, its piles of old fashion magazines and its pots of struggling cactus and trailing creeper. Mary Dillon swung her legs off the settee and stood up to greet him.
‘Sit down, Doctor. I’ll pour you a drink.’
She walked to the kerosene refrigerator in the corner and brought out a bottle of beer and two glasses. As she stood pouring for him and for herself, Bellamy watched her with hooded speculative eyes. In the last three days, she had grown visibly older – no, older wasn’t the word; maturer, that was it. The skin was still young and unlined, the figure firm, the walk springy and confident. But the lines had hardened, somehow. The skin had tightened over the bones of her face, the mouth had thinned a little; the eyes looked into farther distances: there was an air of deliberation and control about her, as if she were walking a little strangely in a new estate.
She handed him his glass, carried her own to the settee and sat down. They toasted each other ritually and drank. She questioned him calmly.
‘How is Lance?’
Bellamy took another long draught of beer and refilled his glass before he answered:
‘Pretty well, considering what he’s been through. The infection’s under control. The broken rib will mend in time. The burns are clearing up, slowly. We’ll have him up and about in a few weeks.’
‘Is that all?’ She was watching him over the rim of her glass, her eyes, shadowed with weariness and want of sleep, probing him.
He hesitated a moment. Then shrugged and gave it to her bluntly.
‘Not quite all. There’s a ce
rtain amount of damage to the heart.’
‘How much damage?’
‘Well…we’d need more tests than I can make to establish it fully. But in general terms, he’ll have to slow down. No heavy work, no violent exercise. A regular routine, as little anxiety as possible. On a careful regimen, he could outlast both of us.’
‘Can he still run Minardoo?’
Bellamy shook his head.
‘Not the way he’s been doing it. With a good manager and a good foreman, maybe, yes. But I understand you’ve been having a rough time lately?’
‘We’ve been short of money, yes.’
‘And now you’ve lost the bull.’
‘Yes.’
‘That makes it very rough. I wouldn’t like to see Lance going back to that.’
Her eyes were cool as ice.
‘Any other suggestions, Doctor?’
He cocked his head on one side and spread his hands in a comical gesture of deprecation.
‘Cut your losses. Get out. Get Lance a desk job with the pastoral company, handling other people’s mortagages ’
‘That would kill him quicker than anything.’
‘It probably would at that.’
‘Have you told Lance?’
‘Not yet. I’d like to wait till he’s stronger. It’ll give you some time to think things out too.’
‘I’ve already done that. We’re going to carry on Minardoo. I’ll run it myself until Lance is well. Then we’ll share it.’
His bushy eyebrows went up in surprise, and she gave him a little ironic smile.
‘You don’t think I can do it?’
‘I didn’t say that. I’ve confined too many women not to know how tough they are.’ He chuckled and buried his nose in his drink; then he quizzed her shrewdly. ‘One small point – what will you use for money?’
‘I called the pastoral company and asked for a new loan.’
‘What did they say?’
‘They refused – at first. Then I told them they could foreclose any day they wanted, provided they could get someone to work the place. And I’d plaster the story all over the country about how they put a returned serviceman off his land because the blacks had killed his bull and damn near killed him.’
‘And they took it?’
‘They took it and liked it, Doctor. They’ll give us another three years and enough capital to see us through.’
For a moment he stared at her in amazement, then threw back his dark tousled head and laughed:
‘For God’s sake! That’s the best damn story I’ve heard in years. But you…you of all people! The city chick chirping up to the crows and the bush-hawks. Lord love you, girl, I didn’t think you had it in you! I remember the first night Lance brought you to a dance at Ochre Bluffs. I thought it and I said it: “Give her eighteen months and she’ll be scuttling home to mother!” ’
‘A lot’s happened since that night, Doctor.’
The tone of her voice, the chill appraising look in her eyes, choked off his laughter and reduced him to blushing embarrassment. He mumbled an apology, finished his beer with indecent haste and went out, wondering.
Strange things happened to the folk who lived in the naked country. What had happened to Mary Dillon in the three years of her marriage, in the five days of her search and vigil for her husband? And what would happen to the husband when the soft hands of the city girl took over the reins of the power?
Alone in the dim room, Mary Dillon poured the last of the beer into her glass and drank it slowly. She had behaved like a shrew and she knew it – regretted it too, because she had always felt a softness for Robert Bellamy, bush doctor, old Territory hand, and kindest of souls this side of the sunset. Yet she could not help herself. It was as if she had called up every last reserve – of pity, gentleness, courage – to bolster her decision to stay with Lance. Now there was nothing left, just the hard stone of resolve set where her heart had once been and no love or laughter or tenderness left to spend on anyone.
The feeling terrified her. It was as if she had signed her own death warrant – or vowed herself to a closed convent while the sap of youth still ran sweet. The future stretched before her, bleak as the Stone Country under a dry moon. Why had she done it? Not for the moralists with their pointing fingers. Not for guilt and penance. You can live with the guilt and there are twenty rougher substitutes for a hair-shirt. Why then?
She could answer it now, in the wintry calm of decision… Because it takes a tougher woman than Mary Dillon to sit with a man – any man – for three days and two nights and watch him battling for breath, battling for life, to hear him call your name while the microbes are eating at his blood and the poison is clotting in his heart muscles, to hold his hand and feel it grip yours as if it were the life-strand, to watch death take hold of him and see him fight his way free – and then take your own table-knife and cut his throat. There’s a whore in every woman, but there are things even a whore won’t do for love or money. So you sit here, sipping your beer, a brave little woman taking on a man’s job, bargaining with the bankers, bullying the stockmen, bolstering a husband old before his time and wondering what it will feel like when your womb dries up and the callouses grow on your hands and there’s leather in your voice and the sour taste of disillusion on your tongue…
She could answer it now and know that, right or wrong, it was the only answer for her. Lance might have a different one; Neil Adams too. But this was another lesson she had learned; you live with a man for breakfast and dinner and the Sunday roast. For eight hours of bedtime you love him or loathe him. But the only one you live with twenty-four hours of a day is yourself. And for so much of living you need so much of self-respect if you’re not going to hit the bottle or run crazy with a meat-cleaver.
The glass was empty now. She put it down on the table, lay back on the settee, closed her eyes and thought about Neil Adams.
She had seen him once and briefly on his return from Minardoo. He had come to the hospital and found her sitting at Lance’s bedside, screened from the rest of the ward. He had made solicitous inquiries, he had held her hand for a few furtive moments. They had kissed, quickly, without passion. Then he had gone, too quickly, with too little regret. She did not blame him. It was too much to ask of the most devoted lover to enjoy an embrace at the husband’s death-bed. But he had not come to her since, whether from decency or discretion – and there had been moments when heart and body cried out for the comfort of his arms. Had he urged differently she might have decided differently about her future with Lance; but he had not spoken and when the choice was made there was a kind of stale satisfaction in the thought that she wanted him still, but needed him not half so much.
Soon it would be her turn to go to him. But not yet. Not for a little while. Until the words were spoken, he belonged somewhat to her and she to him. She had earned the right to dream a space, hold a mite longer to the last illusion. The weariness of the long vigil crept in on her and she slept, dreaming of Neil Adams with the moon on his face and his arms reaching up to draw her lips to his.
In the fall of the afternoon, while the shadows of the bluffs lengthened across the dusty town, Sergeant Neil Adams sat in his office writing the last pages of his report on Lance Dillon and the kadaitja killing. It was a neat piece of work and he was proud of it. The facts were laid out in order – all facts that headquarters needed to know – dates, times, places, the simple sequences of physical events. It leaned – but not too emphatically – on the action taken by the officer in charge. It lingered – but not too long – on the reasons for the action, the fortunate outcome, the preventive diplomacy which was a guarantee against further trouble with the tribes.
It would read well in Darwin. It would read better still in extract on the Minister’s file in Canberra. And the memorandum scribbled on the margins would read best of all. ‘Action approved. An efficient and farsighted officer, with profound knowledge of the area and its indigenous peoples.’ These things were important to
an ambitious policeman. They would be read and noted and recalled when the names went into the hat for appointments and promotions.
It was equally important to know what to leave out. Many a good servant of the State had died in obscurity because he had a garrulous pen. Many a promising man had written his own epitaph when he lapsed from fact into speculation. Neil Adams had much to ponder in the case of Lance Dillon and his wife, but he was too canny to commit it to paper.
So he wrote on, slowly and thoughtfully, until a shadow fell across his desk and he looked up to see Mary Dillon standing over him, pale but composed, a little smile breaking on her lips. He cast a quick sidelong glance at the window but there was no one to be seen, except Billy-Jo sitting by the veranda-post whittling a stick. He stood up and took Mary in his arms. Their lips brushed, and then, gently but firmly, she disengaged herself.
‘Sit down, Neil.’ Her voice was calm, but remote. ‘I’d like to talk to you.’
He hesitated a moment, but she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back in his chair. Then she sat down opposite him, hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on his face. He said gently:
‘It’s nice to see you, Mary. I’m sorry we couldn’t get together before; but it didn’t seem wise. This is a small town. People talk.’
‘I understand that.’ There was no rancour in the level tone. ‘But we had to talk sooner or later, didn’t we?’
‘Of course. How is your husband?’
‘Doctor Bellamy says he’s out of danger now.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Are you, Neil?’
He had not expected to be cornered so quickly. He flushed and stammered. ‘Well – you know what I mean. It’s…it’s the thing you say…’
‘What did you really mean, darling?’
‘I’m glad for him – and sorry for us.’
‘Why sorry, Neil? If we love each other, we can still arrange things – one way or another.’
‘It’s not as easy as that. Don’t you see…?’