Tamarisk Row

by Gerald Murnane

  Someone still watches the creatures in the glass

  On the Friday evening before the most important race of his life, Clement finds the front passage filled with a dull yellowish glow. The sun as it sets on the far side of Bassett lies directly opposite the narrow gap in the cypress hedge in front of the Killeatons’ house, so that even the obscurest corners of the panel of green or gold glass in the front door are as brightly lit and as plain to see as the most exposed streets and hillsides of Bassett in the hottest part of the day. Standing inside the passage Clement presses his face against the glass until he sees the country of the creatures from the same direction as when he first discovered it separated from Bassett by a misty plain of uncertain width and texture and lying at such an absurd angle to the sun that he cannot guess what, if anything, the creatures might see if ever they looked in his direction. He is surprised to find no creatures crossing the airy distances between their towns and what seem to be towns farther out. He looks for signs that all the travellers may have crossed at last into the vaguely tinted depths that surround their land on all sides, but there is no trace of any creature there. He looks again at the settled regions where a few creatures used to spend whole lifetimes trying to retrace some journey or to re-enact an old story of some shape or creature, the least-favoured of many, that came from an unexpected quarter and passed before thousands of watchers on its way to a famous place ahead, and discovers this time that the creatures, which were once so distinctively shaped or marked that he could follow the movements of each one across populous valleys and through mazes of streets, are now no more than wavering indefinable outlines each enclosing a drifting unstable mass of the same nameless stuff that forms the landscapes and clouds and roofs in that world. But as the very last of the sunset reaches across Bassett to the places where he once hoped to mark the progress of journeys greater than he would ever be expected to make, it seems to Clement Killeaton that somewhere in all that translucent continent there must be still a few creatures who could recall a time when someone, not the God who was supposed to have given them all their shapes and who would probably inspect their colours again one day, but some other huge watchful figure, looked at them in a certain light as if he yearned for them to begin the most perilous, far-reaching journeys so that he could delight for ages afterwards in all the complex patterns that their lives would represent and the strange intricate creases and lines that their journeys would stamp on them, and still hoped that he still remembered that once on a certain afternoon in his own country he did see them all in their separate shapes and tried to comprehend their thousands of overlapping and interwoven journeys and the stories of their lives and might be still waiting for a time to come when he would hold his head at a certain angle in a certain light and welcome them into a country like his own.

  Augustine relies on Mishna to save him

  On Thursday night Augustine first sees the fields for Saturday’s races at Moonee Valley, but he has to wait until Friday night before he can phone Goodchild and find out the name of their good thing. Long after Clement has gone to bed on Thursday, Augustine sits at the kitchen table trying to work out from the bare lists of names which horse is going to save him. Lying in the dark and reciting the words of the Memorare, the boy hears his father saying to his mother – you know what I reckon it is? there’s a thing called True Orator in the three-year-old race that’s trained by Peter Riley – he’s supposed to be a mate of Goodchild’s – that’s the horse we’ll be backing. Mrs Killeaton says – can’t you just wait and find out when your friends are ready to tell you instead of peering at the paper all night? Augustine says – unless its something called Penshurst Place that I think I remember Lennie went up to see running at Ballarat one day a few months back. Clement is almost asleep when his father comes into the room and whispers – say a little prayer son and ask God to bring home a winner for us soon – you never know – a little boy’s prayers might make all the difference in a tight finish. After his father has gone, Clement says under his breath – please God help Dad to win enough money to pay back Therese Riordan’s father. Then, because he has never found much pleasure in picturing to himself the races that his father goes to watch in Melbourne or even in northern towns where a band of sullen secretive men risk hundreds of pounds without even feeling the crinkle of money in their hands and watch the race that means so much to them without caring what stories of journeys or landscapes might lie behind the colours of their horse or any of its rivals and without noticing any more than a few of the hundreds of changes in patterns of colours that is all the spectators see of the field at the far side of the course and on the turn into the straight but only wanting to see the race over and done with and their own horse home under a flurry of blows three lengths clear of the rest, he falls asleep thinking of a race in which every square and diamond and spot and armband of a different colour brings to mind some detail of an heroic story of a horse and its faithful followers but no colour or shape stands for anything that Len Goodchild or his men have ever done. On the Friday morning Clement goes quietly up to Brother Cosmas before the Religion period. The brother leans down and puts an arm around Clement’s shoulder while the boy whispers to him. When the grade stands up for the prayer before the Religion period, Brother Cosmas says – we’ll all offer up our prayer this morning for Clem Killeaton’s special intention. The other boys stare at Clement, who lowers his eyes and tries to see the finish of a closely fought race. On Friday night Clement forces himself to stay awake until his father arrives back from Riordans’, where he has gone to phone Goodchild. Augustine comes into the kitchen and sits down. Mrs Killeaton says – well? Augustine says – it’s a horse I’d never heard of – it’s got no form at all. But Lennie says it’s galloped well enough in a secret trial to win a Newmarket – the funny thing was he wouldn’t tell me how much he wanted me to put on for him – I’ve got to ring him again at nine in the morning. Augustine spreads the racing pages of the paper in front of him. When Clement falls asleep his father is telling his mother stories of some of the good turns that Len Goodchild has done for him over the years. On Saturday morning Clement hangs around the house waiting for his father to come back from Riordans’ place. It is nearly lunchtime before Augustine returns. He tells his wife that everything is all right except that Lennie only asked to have twenty pounds on the horse after he’d been talking for weeks as if he was going to have at least a couple of hundred on it. Augustine wonders aloud whether Goodchild might have another agent in Bassett and even whether he might not trust him (Killeaton) after all these years. He sits for a few minutes with his head in his hands, then says to his wife – you might as well know my side of the story – my credit’s so bad here in Bassett that I had to ask Stan Riordan to put Lennie’s money on for me – there’s no question of me having any on for myself – I’ve done my dash completely – but I thought and thought and prayed too and I finally decided to tell Stan to have something on for himself to get back some of the money I owe him – you realise what that means don’t you. Mrs Killeaton says – I’ve given up trying to follow you and all the trouble you get yourself into. At lunchtime Clement asks his father the name of the horse that he wants to win that afternoon. Augustine says – I’ll only tell you if you promise to stay inside the backyard all afternoon and play by yourself and don’t go near any other boys – not even the little snotty-noses from next door. Mrs Killeaton says – go on – if you’d stayed home a few Saturdays yourself you’d know the boy never has a soul to play with. Augustine looks over his shoulder towards the kitchen window then up at the clock on the mantelpiece. He says – there’s still nearly an hour till the race – come back in about fifty minutes and I’ll tell you then – we can’t be too safe when there’s thousands of pounds at stake. About half an hour later Clement asks his father again to tell him the horse’s name. Augustine picks up the racing page and guides Clement’s finger towards the name Mishna in a race for two-year-old fillies. Clement says aloud – Mishna – wh
at does that name mean? Augustine presses a hand over the boy’s mouth and says – do you have to blurt it out like that? how do I know what it means? unless it’s something that Mr Goodchild’s friend the Jew had dreamed up. During the last minutes before the race Clement looks out from the back veranda and wonders in what sort of country he might have tried to build the house where the people called Jews could have planned for their great day, but he knows so little about the Jews that he cannot see them anywhere in the landscape that stretches from the great racecourse to the quiet paddocks of Tamarisk Row. Just before the race his father calls him in and switches on the wireless. Augustine sits on a rickety kitchen chair with his legs crossed and no expression on his face. When the racing commentator says – they’re going into line at the Valley, Augustine tells his son to get down on his knees and pray harder than he’s ever prayed in his life and they’ll soon see whether all the boy’s fussing over rosary beads and altars in his bedroom and drawings of saints in his schoolbooks was worth anything or just a sham. Mishna is one of the first horses out of the barrier but the commentator does not mention her name again until the field is approaching the three-furlong post. By this time the filly is about tenth in the field of fourteen. As the field approaches the turn, the commentator (following a long-established custom which Augustine and Clement know well) names only the leading few and tries to predict which of them will eventually fight out the finish, except that if a runner behind the leading bunch happens to make a powerful run towards the leaders, he might suddenly break off his commentary to cry out its name in an ominous tone when its supporters had almost given up hope of hearing it again. Augustine, Clement and Mrs Killeaton hear how four fillies with names that mean nothing to the Killeatons sweep around the sharp Moonee Valley turn almost in line, with a gap of three or four lengths to the rest of the field. While one after another of the four threatens to draw clear in the short straight, Clement still expects to hear the name Mishna shouted once with a resonance that overrules all others’ claims and promises certain victory. Until the last moments of the race he persists in seeing the filly bearing down on the leaders from an impossible position and so wide on the track that the commentator has still not noticed her. He finally hears the name Mishna when the commentator, after losing his breath in the excitement of the finish, recites in a flat, disparaging voice the names of the unplaced horses. Mishna has finished in the middle of the field. Mrs Killeaton laughs with an odd cackling sound and gets up to leave the room. At the door she turns and says to her husband – there’s just one favour I want to ask you – I want you to sit down now with a pencil and paper and work out to the last penny just how much we owe everybody in this town – I’d just like to know before we head off like gypsies into the bush just what we’re running away from. Augustine, still sitting in his chair, says quietly – there’s something very wrong – something went wrong at the last minute and they decided not to try with the filly – I’ve done a terrible thing and it serves me right – I’ve ratted on Lennie Goodchild – the best friend a man ever had – it’s the finish of me with all my friends in Melbourne – they’ll never trust me with a penny of their money again. Mrs Killeaton stands staring at her husband. He says – you needn’t ask what happened – Stan Riordan must have panicked and tried to get his money on hours too soon – he could have even let someone else in on our plans – the Master must have got wind of it and pulled the filly up – I’ll never look him in the face again. Augustine turns to Clement and says – I don’t suppose you’ve been blathering to little Ronnie Fitzgibbon and your mates at school that your father was going to back something at the Valley. Clement says – no of course I haven’t, but remembers how he asked Brother Cosmas to ask the grade to pray for a special intention for Clement Killeaton and wonders whether some boy whose father is a bookmaker’s spy might have worked out what the intention was. Augustine picks up a pencil and works out sums on the margin of the newspaper. After a few minutes he says to his wife – I can’t think straight at the moment – say in round figures four hundred and fifty pounds – not counting the hundred or more that Stan Riordan must have put on Sternie and Mishna to try and get back what I owe him. That night Augustine refuses to eat any tea and goes to bed at eight o’clock. Next morning Mrs Killeaton tells Clement to go to Mass on his own because his father is too sick to get up. As Clement is leaving for Mass she says – if any of your father’s friends see you and ask you where he is tell them he’s gone to Melbourne and you don’t know when he’ll be back.

  Augustine and Clement hear Mishna’s race at Flemington

  On the Sunday after Mishna’s race, Augustine Killeaton stays in bed all day. He keeps the blinds drawn and the bedroom door shut, and warns his wife and son not to come near him and to tell anyone who calls that he has gone to Melbourne or the Western District. He refuses all food apart from a glass of milk at lunchtime. Towards evening he calls out feebly to his wife – for heaven’s sake make sure the chooks get their feed. On Monday he stays in bed again and sends his wife to phone the mental home to say that he is ill. When Clement comes home from school his father is still in bed, but that night Augustine has a small meal of scrambled eggs on toast. After tea he sends for Clement. He tells the boy to bring from his father’s wardrobe the old exercise book that he uses to write up the pedigrees of his best chooks. He tells Clement to sit beside the bed and listen carefully. He opens the book at the first page. When he finds that the page is blank he turns to the second page and then goes on turning blank pages until near the back of the book he finds a page with a few scribbled notes. He says – son – if anything ever happens to your father you’ll find he hasn’t left you much in the way of money – you’ll find a lot of debts all right but I hope you’ll understand that every bet I ever had in my life was only to get a bit of extra money so that you and your mother could live decently which was more than you could have done on the couple of quid a week I get as wages – but there’s one thing I want you to promise me and that is that you’ll do all you can to keep my Rhode Island Reds’ blood-lines going – I’ve had a lot of time to think things over while I’ve been lying here sick and I’ve just about come to realise that the only worthwhile thing I’ve done with my life is breeding some of those beautiful birds out there in the yard – mind you I’m far from satisfied yet – I still haven’t seen the perfect Rhode Island specimen – but if I get these notes in order while there’s still time and if you remember all I’ve ever taught you about breeding you’ll be able to carry on where I’ve left off and one day you can stroll out into your backyard and it’ll be like a little kindgom all spread out in front of you all planted with green shrubs for shade for your birds and a few little paddocks of barley and lucerne in one corner to grow the green feed they need to keep their eyes bright and golden and if you’re old enough and sensible enough to really appreciate the way God does things you can even feel a good keen pleasure watching your best rooster mating with all his perfectly shaped hens. Clement says – won’t you ever write all the names out clearly and make it one long story starting with the first birds you ever had? Augustine says – I’ll see about it – what I really wanted the book for was to work out which birds I’ll have to get rid of if we shift to the Western District. On the Tuesday morning Augustine gets up and goes to work at the usual time. He says nothing about his book of poultry pedigrees. That night he spends a long time at the kitchen table trying to write a letter to his brothers at Kurringbar. He tells his wife that he’s as anxious as she is to get away from Bassett onto a farm where they can start saving money for once in their lives but he’ll be damned if he’s going to let them think he’s running away from Bassett or depending on them to do him a favour. He finally tears up the letter and drafts a telegram to send the next day. When his wife says that a letter would be cheaper, he says – let them puzzle out for themselves how I can still afford to send a telegram. He reads out to her the words of the telegram POSITIVELY NO WISH PARTNERSHIP OR WAGES ON FAMILY FARM
STOP WILL ARRANGE OWN FUTURE AS MANAGER SUITABLE PROPERTY THANKS AUGUSTINE, and tells her to send it first thing next morning. On Wednesday night he sits silently for a long time after tea. At half-past eight, the time when he usually rides his bike to the Bassett Post Office to phone Len Goodchild, he walks over and stands with his back to the stove and says – I wonder if it really was my fault after all that they pulled that filly up – a man’d be a fool to be worrying all this time over nothing – the least I can do is ring Lennie and find out the worst. Mrs Killeaton says nothing. Augustine goes out. His wife and son hear him fiddling with his bike. After a few minutes he comes inside again and sits at the table. His wife still says nothing. Augustine says – I don’t think I’ll ever be game to ring Len Goodchild again and find out the true story. On Thursday night Augustine points out to his wife the name Mishna in a race for two-year-old fillies at Flemington. She says – can’t you get it into your head that I never want to hear another word about racing as long as I live? He says – I’ll have to listen in to the race at least to hear how the filly goes – it’d be lovely wouldn’t it if next Saturday was the day and last week was only to try me out to make sure I was still solid. Mrs Killeaton says – are you trying to say that your friends wouldn’t trust you after all these years when you’ve been running messages for them all over Victoria? and come to think of it when is Mr Goodchild going to send you the money that you had on for him last week – it strikes me he’s got a lot more to be embarrassed about than you if you ring him. Augustine says – you’ll never understand will you? The Master and his men have bigger fish than me to fry – when they plan one of their really big plunges they send messages all over Australia – still it only needs one weak link like me to ruin the greatest scheme that a racing genius could dream up – no wonder they never really took me into their inner circle – a man’d need a lifetime to prove himself with them. On the Saturday afternoon Clement is playing in the backyard when his father comes out to the veranda and beckons him inside. Clement goes into the kitchen and hears from the wireless that the horses are at the barrier for Mishna’s race at Flemington. Augustine sits down and lifts his son onto his knee. Mrs Killeaton pushes furniture around in one of the front rooms to show that she never wants to hear another race broadcast. Far away across more than a hundred miles of grassy paddocks sloping this way and that regardless of the long road and the railway line that crosses them from Bassett to Melbourne and the forested hills and gullies that only the sunlight can take in at one glance, at the Flemington racecourse which Clement has never seen the field jumps away and the race is on. It is the first race that Clement has ever heard in which the very tone of the commentator’s voice tells the listeners clearly, even in the first few furlongs, that one horse is destined to win. From the moment when they hear that Mishna has taken up a position just behind the leaders, Clement and his father are sure of the result. And when, with more than a furlong still to go, Mishna hits the front and starts to draw away, Augustine pushes his son from his knee and says – hurry up outside and pray to God that you never get mixed up in racing. A few minutes later, while Clement is wandering aimlessly around the yard, the boy sees his father go quietly into the shed where he keeps his choicest breeding poultry. When Augustine has still not come out from the shed a long while afterwards, the boy creeps up to the wire-netting at the front and peeps in. His father is sitting on the fowls’ perch with his head between his knees. The rooster named Orange-Eyes, Augustine’s favourite bird, tilts his head and looks up curiously at the man sitting silently in the corner, then struts forward, calling to his hens to follow, and scratches fearlessly with his toes only inches from Augustine Killeaton’s feet.