Death of an Old Goat

by Robert Barnard

  Royle sat in the dark of his police car boiling with the virtuous indignation of one who has been played a well-deserved dirty trick. The more he thought about it, the less he thought the Australian police force deserved him. He was a damned fine officer, doing a damned fine job of work, and cursed with the idlest bunch of inferiors you could meet in a month of Sundays. But before five minutes had passed he was interrupted in his halo-construction work when he perceived a pencil-thin light from a distant car. It was proceeding off the main road, and coming along the broad gravel track towards Kenilworth. A minute later there was another, taking the same route. Royle got out of his car, only remembering at the last moment not to bang the door shut. The twigs cracked under him, as well they might, but he darted into position under a large gum-tree, and stood with his body against the trunk, waiting and watching. He began in his mind to tot off the cars as they crept by.

  The first to crawl past him along the track was Coogan from Fairlands, and then came Nolan from Murrawidgee, both of them driving cautiously and using only parking lights. At any other time he might have thought that they must be drunk to the point of incapability, this being the only state in which Australians willingly drive so slowly and hesitantly. But clearly this was different: here they were obviously out to hide their presence from the observation of someone at the main Turberville property, and perhaps from the residents of the houses of the younger married Turbervilles — or at any rate from the womenfolk at these places. Both cars, so far as he could see through the Stygian gloom of the night, contained only the driver. This was not business for women, then. But if this business wasn’t drinking, what was it?

  After a few minutes the Lullham car turned on to the Kenilworth track, closely followed by McKay’s new Holden, a puce, green and purple monstrosity much admired in Drummondale. Lullham’s driving was hesitant in the extreme, and Royle heard curses from McKay’s vehicle, so presumably he was incommoded by the erratic stops and starts of the car in front. As that little procession faded into the distance two more cars came into evidence from the main road. Both of these were comparatively well-driven — one belonged to Gordon from Glen Angus, the other to Dutton from Burraloo. Both were reasonably young men, and Gordon was not long out from Scotland, a thin, craggy, sarcastic man with a nasty tongue for what he regarded as incompetence or idleness (that is, for those qualities which Royle regarded as proper evaluation of difficulties and sensible conservation of energies). Royle had once copped the rough side of that tongue, and for the first time in his career came close to hitting a grazier. It was Royle’s opinion that Gordon had never in his life touched anything stronger than whisky marmalade, and if he was invited it didn’t seem likely that drinking was the order of the day. Dutton too, though he could knock it back on occasions, was not one of the beeriest of his breed, and was hardly likely to give up a night’s rest for a mere booze-up when he could have as much as he might need more comfortably at home.

  Lastly, driving not wisely or too well, came Pryce-Jones of Llanuwchllyn, a man so ordinary that nobody could find anything whatsoever to say about him except that he got very sentimental when drunk, and that his property was unpronounceable. That was the lot. Now the difficult bit began.

  As the Pryce-Jones car, a fawn Cortina, disappeared along the dark dusty road towards Kenilworth, Royle emerged from his natural cover and skulked towards his station wagon. Opening up the back, he dragged from it an ancient police bicycle, which he then put on his shoulders and humped to the road. Earlier in the day he had checked and double-checked this antiquated machine, and had only been dissuaded from having a trial spin round the back garden by the thought that one of his daughters might see. Took you back, that bicycle did, he thought. This one hadn’t been used for at least twenty years so far as he could see. Police bicycles had made him the man he was today — more or less — them and Grafton’s lager. Now he stealthily took it through the trees, set it four-square on the road, and heaved his bulk over the bar. This was the way to travel, was the thought that flashed through his mind; this brought back the old days in Newcastle when the blue uniform was still new on him and when he was first realizing that women who didn’t find him attractive did find him in it moderately acceptable. This bicycle was part of his past, he thought, with an unaccustomed access of sentimentality.

  His first conscious thought as he settled himself into the saddle was that, though he was well-padded in the posterior, this did not prevent the seat from feeling exceptionally hard. It just wasn’t like driving the Holden. They built them tough in the seat in those days, he thought. Then, as he put his feet to the pedals and set off in stealthy pursuit of the cars he was suddenly struck with the notion that bicycling was the sort of skill you could forget. So far he had been imagining it was just like swimming, and that once thrown in the deep end all his old proficiency would return. And yet this seemed like an entirely new sensation. It couldn’t just be that a gravel lane on a dark night without lights was not the best situation in which to take up the art again. There was also the question of his weight: it seemed to have been redistributed since he last rode. Or, to put it bluntly, it had increased. And as a consequence it certainly didn’t seem as easy as it was to — oops — keep — oops — steady. He put his feet to the ground momentarily to right himself. If he couldn’t improve on that performance it might have been quieter to stick with the car. He felt he would soon have to turn on his cycle-lamp. He had thought he’d be able to rely on moonlight alone, but the moon was far from full, and it didn’t seem to be putting much effort into its shine. The path stretched ahead like a vague, shimmering river, shifting and changing. If he wasn’t careful he’d be into the — ouch, damn, blast, Christ Almighty — into the ditch.

  He got up stiffly, and switched on the little lamp at the front of his machine. Hesitantly and painfully he clambered back on. He wondered whether walking might not be better than this, but he hadn’t walked more than ten yards at a time for so many years that he was reluctant to put his feet to the test. Slowly, waveringly, like an elderly drunk, he proceeded along the bumpy track. Every jerk told in every muscle of his body, and he infinitely regretted the friendly upholstery of his police Holden which contrived to muffle the worst effects of Australian roads. Certainly he was becoming aware of muscles he had forgotten existed, muscles which he had not used since he was kicking around in his carry-cot, muscles which had slept undisturbed as the Kraken virtually the whole length of his life. Tomorrow was going to be hell. Tomorrow was going to be hell for all those around him too. Tomorrow he was going to sleep stretched rigid on his bed, and woe betide anyone who demanded activity of him — let alone common civility. It was nearly a month since he had had his last sickie; this one would be a genuine one, so he’d spin it out.

  He pushed his way forward, slowly, heavily. It was like being on a treadmill. Now he realized how ghastly that must be he was all the more in favour of bringing it back. At last his flapping trousers — he had, of course, forgotten that there were such things as trouser-clips — caught in the spokes, and after a tense moment of apparent suspension in mid-air, brought him down head first into a bank of loose gravel at the side of the road. For a moment he lay there, thinking his last moments were come, and wishing they would pass quickly and bring him into that policeman’s Elysium he so richly deserved. Getting up, holding his side, and spitting genteelly and tentatively so as not to break the silence, he kicked his cycle to the side of the road, where some days later it was found by one of the Turberville grandchildren, who examined it as if it were a relic of a long-forgotten civilization but, failing to see to what use it could be put, left it to rust where it was.

  From now on, Royle would have to rely on his feet. He found that they did still put themselves one in front of the other in a fairly automatic way, leaving him time to think of the selfless way he was sacrificing his own comfort in the cause of justice. In little more than ten minutes he was in sight of Kenilworth, but even as he became conscious of its lo
oming bulk, he realized that it was not there he should be making for. He strained his eyes to look for parked cars, but he could not make out any. That was what he had expected: if this was a matter which the various wives were to be kept out of, as seemed to be the case, the men would hardly meet in a place where they would certainly be heard by that redoubtable old trout Mrs Turberville. The question flitted across his mind: why were they being excluded, these formidable wives? Usually they were in on everything. Was it because they were too narrow-minded; because they were too sober; because they were too sensible? Even as he started to ponder this one he heard to his right, away in the distance, a light sound.

  It was a sound he was puzzled to identify — was it animal or human? Was it a car or some sort of musical instrument? Just ahead of him was a track, branching off to the right from the main gravel road which would lead him straight to Kenilworth. Bending down he peered at the surface, and noticed it had been recently disturbed: cars had passed along there recently, he felt sure, and had turned off. Where to? This side track didn’t lead to anybody’s property, that was for sure. As far as he knew it ended up in a rather pretty little natural valley, with a few gum-trees and some smooth rocks for sitting on. Nothing spectacular as scenery, but pleasantly regular, and standing out from the prevailing Australian sameness. He believed it had been used for picnics by the local Country Party supporters association, and once the local wives had tried to get up a country dancing club which had met there once or twice but which had collapsed amid a considerable amount of male ridicule. At any rate this lot wouldn’t be doing Scottish reels, unless Mr Gordon had an even more effective tongue than he had realized. But what sort of business could they have there at this time of night? He sighed, and pressed on.

  Another ten minutes’ solid walk and Royle was feeling still more fed up and distinctly unsure of himself. He was not usually a jumpy person, as everyone knew. Though a physical coward, he had too little imagination to think every shadow was a murderer or a poltergeist. He was afraid of real threats, but not of shadows. But this was something that he had never experienced before. From time to time, proceeding it seemed from the darkness ahead, there had come to his ears sounds — sounds that meant nothing to him, sounds which connected themselves with nothing that he knew, but which wrapped themselves round him in the night. They were isolated sounds, sometimes followed by similar ones which sounded like imitations. They said no more to him than would the music of Anton Webern, but they left him similarly irritated and uneasy. Finally, just as his steps were becoming hesitant, and he was in the classic state of indecision as to whether to continue forward or go back — and with all the indications being that he would flee — he became conscious of the dim outline of a car. Going forward towards it, he struck his shin on a fender, and cursed outright — the words luckily being drowned by another of those isolated notes, this time nearer and louder. He looked around, and realized there were vehicles all around him — large, capacious graziers’ cars, most of them parked around a large gum-tree. Suddenly he knew that he could not bear the torment of not knowing exactly what was going on. His mind was made up for him, and his course would have to be forward.

  Stealthily he made his way through the little knot of cars. He realized that this was the end of the track — the road circled round the tree, and then proceeded back the way it came. On Royle’s left the land rose gently, to dip down more steeply on the other side to form the natural valley. It was here, clearly, that the men were congregated. It was from here that the occasional note still emerged — menacing, but somehow preparatory, like a clearing of the throat. Reluctantly Royle turned to his left. There was a path up to the summit he felt sure, but it might be as well to keep off it, just in case the men were looking in that direction, expecting someone else. He would have to go round a bit before putting his head over the top. The going was a bit rough at the spot where he chose to ascend. He carefully measured each step in advance, and thought out where to place his foot. He didn’t want a twig to crack if he could help it: if those men were in anything like his state, they would be quite unusually aware of sounds in their vicinity. He did not even swear when he trod in something soft that felt very like cow dung. He had not known he was capable of such self-control.

  As he pressed on and neared the summit, the occasional, isolated notes ceased, but in their place he heard something else: movements, scuffles, a muttered curse or two. Confident that these noises would cover his own, Royle increased his speed, and had nearly gained the ridge of the slope when he was transfixed by a sound which made his hair bristle on his scalp, and sent goose-pimples down the fatty length of his body, as if he had suddenly had the cold shower turned on him. It was a noise like nothing he had ever heard — menacing still, but at the same time soulful, rhythmical, as if imploring something. It wasn’t drunken singing, it wasn’t rugby-club celebrations. It was . . .

  Suddenly it came to him. For once in his life Royle solved a mystery without having the solution thrust in front of his nose — albeit the mystery was a tiny one, and its solution was never to contribute to the official recognition that he craved. He was no longer inhibited by fear. Speeding up still further he approached the summit and dropped swiftly to his stomach. The sight that met his delighted, incredulous eyes was one to gratify the minds of those who loved to watch the mingling and fruitful interaction of civilizations old and new.

  In the middle of the valley, shouting enthusiastically to the four winds, was a dark naked body. In one hand was some sort of a musical instrument, in the other something long and deadly — a primitive weapon which he was waving. The figure was capering round, as if in ecstasy. Around him was a ring of figures whose abandonment was apparently less complete. They were also waving what looked like broomstick handles, and were shifting from one foot to another with considerable embarrassment, like parents at a teenage party. They were shouting more or less in time to gesticulations from their leader. All of them were stripped to their underpants, and their movements became the more frenzied as the chill night air struck their bare skins and ate into their paunchy bodies. They chanted wildly, and as Royle lay watching, scarcely able to believe his eyes, they became more confident, more abandoned. Their song had all the heartfelt pathos of men who see their bank-balances daily diminishing.

  Down in the valley Mr Guy Turberville, Mr Ben Lullham, Mr Tim McKay, Mr Pete Nolan, Mr Bert Coogan, Mr Alistair Gordon, Mr Geoff Dutton, Mr Gabby Johnson and Mr Andy Pryce-Jones, under the knowledgeable leadership of Mr Johnny Marullah, were beginning to perform the age-old Australian ceremony of rain-making.

  CHAPTER XVI

  PRIVATE LIVES

  ALICE O’BRIEN was walking heavily up and down her study-cum-sitting-room in Daisy Bates College, peering short-sightedly at her bookshelf, her desk, in fact anywhere but at the sofa, where a thin, sandy-haired student of nondescript appearance was wringing her hands, a gesture which her literary studies had taught her was an appropriate sign of repentance. Alice was trying to work up her stern-housemistress face before going any further with the interview. By dint of sucking in her lips and throwing back her shoulders (a gesture she had seen Miss Tambly accomplish to perfection) she finally succeeded, and turned around in her tracks.

  ‘What a bloody silly thing to do,’ she said — it was a convention throughout the various colleges of the university that all acts of a criminal, spiteful, immoral or vicious nature were to be referred to as ‘silly’. The theory seemed to be that if one made the erring students feel childish they would be rendered more amenable to discipline, though in fact it seemed more often to result in an unfortunate marriage of the appetites of an adult with the random destructiveness of a child.

  ‘I do agree, Miss O’Brien,’ said the Dickensian waif on the sofa. ‘I do so agree.’

  ‘Robbing the shops in town is one thing,’ said Alice; ‘they fleece the students right and left all through the year, so you could say they ask for it in a way . . .’

  ‘They
do,’ said the girl, with an air of committing this remarkable piece of moral tutoring to memory.

  ‘. . . but pinching things from a fellow student is another thing altogether . . .’

  ‘I quite see that,’ said the student, having another quick wring.

  ‘. . . especially as you were bound to be caught out as soon as you wore the things.’

  ‘I didn’t intend to wear them till I got home for the vac,’ said the student sharply, apparently stung by the aspersion on her intelligence. ‘But Norm O’Farrell had invited me to the Menzies Ball, and when my long skirt and blouse didn’t come back from the dry cleaners, I hadn’t any choice.’

  ‘That doesn’t alter the moral aspect at all,’ said Alice.

  ‘No, I do see that,’ said the girl, reverting to her chosen role, and looking more like the Marchioness every minute. ‘If you asked me why I did it, in the first place, I just couldn’t tell you.’

  This was exactly what Alice had been going to ask her, and she had quickly to think up another question.

  ‘How did you do it?’ she asked rather wildly.

  ‘Eh?’ said the Marchioness, caught off her pious guard.

  ‘Er, how did you get in to Kathy Fowler’s room? I gather it was locked at the time.’

  ‘Oh, I used a hairpin. You must know how easy it is . . .’

  ‘No, I didn’t actually. What do you do?’

  The Marchioness plunged a much-wrung hand into her hair, and started a demonstration.

  ‘Show me on my door,’ said Alice, peering rather confusedly. ‘If it is as easy as all that, I ought to know how these things are done.’

  ‘Glad to oblige,’ said the Marchioness.

  • • •

  Bill Bascomb came in from Hall, flung his gown on his bed, and went straight to the full sherry-flagon with which he had equipped himself earlier in the day. This was going to be an arduous evening. Waiting for him after his afternoon trudge through the drearier stretches of restoration ‘comedy’ had been a thick envelope of manuscripts and photocopies from his friend Jim Timmins of the Oxford Mail. He would have missed dinner on a normal day, but the fact that a visiting Professor of English from Melbourne was dining there changed his mind: he cherished the hope that other parts of Australia were less of a living death than the part he had happened to land in, and he had adopted the policy of building bridges wherever possible. However, any thoughts of bridges thrown out in the Melbourne direction had been abandoned after some incautious remarks he had made about Dr Leavis had led to a frosting-over which no amount of social chit-chat had been able to remove. So now he intended to console himself for a misspent hour and a half with sherry and gossip.