by Paul Howarth
Opposite the hotel was the whitewashed courthouse, the only stone building in town. It was set back from the street and fronted by a dried-up lawn and small yard containing wooden stocks, where the Union Flag fluttered on a pole. At the far end of the strip a crude barn announced itself as a church by the cross above its door. A smell of shit tinged the air, from the deposits of horses and cattle and sheep, the slops thrown from windows, the open latrines. Gaunt dogs prowled, sniffing at the ground. In front of the butcher’s stall a boy herded chickens, and the metallic clang of the farrier’s hammer strike tolled throughout the town.
“Tommy! Come on!”
Mother was waiting outside the general store. Tommy ducked under the railing and ran up the stairs, and as she opened the door a little bell tinkled overhead. Tommy followed her inside, closed the door once he was through, and behind the counter the shopkeeper looked up from his newspaper and smiled a narrow smile.
“Mrs. McBride, welcome. It has been many months, I think.”
“Hello, Mr. Spruhl,” she said briskly. “How are you?”
“Fine, fine, dying in this heat.”
Spruhl fanned himself theatrically with a pudgy little hand. He was a squat man, pink-cheeked, with round-rimmed glasses that mirrored the shape of his face, and greasy hair parted precisely to one side. Trussed up in his collared shirt and green suit with red cross-hatching, he resembled a netted ham.
They walked toward the counter, their boots loud on the wooden boards. The store was empty. It smelled of rotten food. Three rows of dusty shelving were stocked sporadically with bagged and canned goods; and grain, flour, and sugar sacks were heaped about the floor, thin lines of ants harvesting the spill. Beside the counter was a glass cabinet containing meat and cheese, the glass sweating with condensation, the meat pooled in watery blood.
“So,” Spruhl said, folding and setting the paper aside, “how can I be of service?”
Mother pulled a crumpled note from her pocket, smoothed it between her fingers, and slid it across the countertop.
“We’re in need of a few supplies, if you’d be so kind.”
“Of course! Of course!” He adjusted his glasses and studied the list, nodding as he read. When he was done he smiled at Mother and put the list down, then reached beneath the counter and slapped a large ledger onto the wooden benchtop.
Mother turned away from the dust.
“My apologies,” Spruhl said, opening the cover and thumbing through the pages, until he settled on one and traced his finger down the column of numbers written there. His lips drew tight, he shook his head. He tapped his finger slowly on the paper, then looked at Mother again.
“I am sorry. Is no good.”
She was holding herself stiffly, elbows bent, one hand cradled in the other, and when she dipped her head and spoke to him, her mouth barely seemed to move.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Spruhl?”
“No, no, no problem. But I must take payment now.”
“Excuse me?”
“Is too much—you see?” He spun the ledger around and pointed at the bottom of the column, all the while looking at her over his spectacle rims.
“Ned hasn’t paid?”
Spruhl only blinked. He closed the ledger and turned it back around.
“A debt must be cleared, Mrs. McBride, or else is charity, you understand?”
She shook herself, a little shiver, stood tall.
“Well, Ned’s in Lawton right now with the stock. It’s been a very good year. Next week he’ll be back and he’ll come into town and clear this whole amount.”
“Excellent. I see you then.”
They stared at each other. Mother said meekly, “But . . . I need these things now.”
“Without money to pay?”
“We’ve always bought on credit.”
“I am afraid no longer. Besides, I hear is a bad time for you, maybe.”
“What’s that now?” Tommy said.
Spruhl frowned like he’d forgotten Tommy was there.
“Is just what I hear.”
“Who from?”
The shopkeeper waved a hand. “Everybody is talking in Bewley, always people talk. I hear of many things out your way, about blacks, about drought, about debts not being paid.”
“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” Tommy said, stepping forward.
Mother shooed him back again, smiled warmly at Spruhl.
“You know what it’s like in this town, Mr. Spruhl. Gossip’s the only entertainment most people have. But you also know us. I bought from your father when he was alive. So let’s forget the list, and I’ll just take some flour and sugar and perhaps a few beans for now. How does that sound to you?”
“I am sorry. Is not possible. I have been told.”
“Told what exactly?”
“Is business, Mrs. McBride. You understand, I am sure.”
“She’s only wanting a bag of flour,” Tommy said.
“And I only ask to be paid.”
Tommy saw Mother’s eyes fall. He saw the fight drain from her and her thin body sag. He searched the sacks by the window, found one marked as flour, hoisted it into his arms, and stared at Spruhl.
“Add it to your list there. You’ll get paid next week.”
“Boy, is theft if you don’t pay now.”
“You miserable bastard. You’d see us bloody starve.”
He took a step toward the door. Mother hadn’t moved. Spruhl sighed wearily, reached beneath the counter, and placed a pistol on top of the ledger. He spread his hands on the counter edge and leaned his weight onto his arms.
“I shoot thief no problem. Mr. MacIntyre tell me, is the law.”
“Tommy,” Mother said gently. “Put it down.”
He hugged the sack against him, glaring at Spruhl, then tossed it hard on the floor. The neck burst open and a cloud of flour came billowing out.
“Now he makes mess,” Spruhl said, throwing up his hands.
Tommy yanked open the door. The little bell tinkled overhead.
“Good day to you, Mr. Spruhl,” Mother told him. “My regards to Julie-Anne.”
The slack on Spruhl’s face tightened and a flush rose into his cheeks. Tommy stood back as Mother left the store. They came down the steps side by side.
“Who’s Julie-Anne?” he asked her.
“His wife. Or used to be, before she ran off with his brother, Gus.”
Tommy looked at her admiringly. She smirked at him in reply. They reached the street and both stared off into the distance, at this town that wasn’t theirs.
“Who’s been running their mouth about us, then?”
“Who d’you think, Tommy?”
“Sullivan? What for?”
“He does whatever he pleases. Or it might have been one of his men. We’ll survive anyway. Your daddy’ll set things right.”
“You reckon so?”
She turned toward him. “Meaning what?”
“You saw the cattle. There was nothing on them.”
She winced, then took a breath and forced a smile.
“Come on. It’s not so bad. There’s more than one store in this town.”
But the others were no different: word had got around. Every trader gave them the same response, and with each new rejection Mother shrank a little more; eventually she gave up altogether and said she was going to church. Didn’t even make Tommy come with her. Said he could please himself. So Tommy sat down at the curbside and watched her walk away, her skirts whipping the dust, her arms folded across her narrow chest, until she was lost among the crowd. He leaned his elbows on his knees and let his head hang, dribbled a long string of saliva into the dirt. The town bustling around him: women with their baskets, moving briskly about; the butcher in his open-air stall chopping the heads off still-live chooks; the drunks on the hotel verandah heckling passersby.
Directly across the street was Song’s Hardware Store. Song was asleep on the porch, arms folded on his belly, his chin slumped to his ch
est. Tommy rose and walked cautiously across the road, watching the Chinaman all the while. He was snoring. Each breath came thick and loud. Tommy went up the steps and prodded him, pressed a finger into his fleshy arm. Song didn’t stir. Tommy checked the street behind him, then slipped into the empty store.
The rubber tubing was hanging in a coil on the wall behind the counter. Tommy crept around the bench and measured an arm’s length from the roll. He found a folding knife in the drawer, cut the tubing, then decided to take the knife as well, sliding it into the breast pocket of his undersized suit. He went back around the counter and was making for the door when a voice called behind him, “Help you with something?” and he jerked to a halt and turned.
She was wearing a dirty gray apron and holding a broom. Fine features, finely boned, slender fingers gripping the wooden shaft. Young, with a long neck and black hair cut bluntly to her jawline, glistening where it caught a bar of sun.
Tommy stood there dumbly. She noticed the length of rubber dangling in his hand.
“You buying that? Or running off with it, were you?”
“No,” he said quickly. “There was no one here, that’s all.”
“I was in the back. You could have called.”
“I didn’t know you were there.”
She rolled her lips thoughtfully. Her free hand went to her hip.
“Who are you?” she said.
“Tommy McBride. Who are you?”
“Mia Song.”
He glanced at Song, still slumped in his chair. “As in . . . ?”
“What d’you think?”
“I don’t know,” Tommy said, frowning, his gaze flicking between the floor and the girl’s pretty face, watching him so intently, her bright hazel eyes.
“McBride,” she repeated. “From out Mr. Sullivan’s way.”
“South of there. Glendale’s our selection.”
She nodded. “I know your father. How come I don’t know you?”
“Same reason I don’t know you.”
“You never been in town before?”
“Course I have. Just . . . not often. And not when you’re around.”
“I’m always around.”
“Good for you, then.”
She relaxed her pose, leaned the broom against the counter. “Why don’t you come to school?”
He shrugged. “I’m too old for school.”
“I’m fourteen and I still go.”
“I’ll be fifteen soon.”
“You’ve never come once, though. Can you read?”
“Ma taught us. All of us. There’s Billy and Mary too. I’m the middle one.”
“I’ve got two brothers, both gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Diggings. Daddy sent them. Thinks they’ll come back rich.”
“Will they?”
“I doubt it. It’s been a year nearly. Nothing yet.”
“What about this school anyway? How many of you go?”
“About twenty. I’m the oldest there.”
“You like it?”
“Mr. Drummond’s a drinker but it’s alright. I’ve learned all the lessons, but if I don’t go, I have to work, which is worse.”
“What you doing here, then?”
“Mornings is all we do.”
“My sister would like it. Mary. She’s eleven and sharper than a skinning knife.”
“She should come, then.”
“It’s three hours’ ride.”
“Some ride farther.”
Tommy shrugged. “We couldn’t spare the horse.”
They stood in silence a moment, Song’s snoring carrying through the door.
“So, what d’you want that rubber for anyway?”
“It’s for my brother. For a shanghai. To fire stones with, you know?”
“Sounds like fun,” she said.
“Only, I’ve got no money to pay for it, so here . . .” He stepped forward, offered her the tubing, but her hands stayed at her sides.
“I’ll write it in the book.”
Tommy hesitated. “Alright.”
“You want it, don’t you?”
“I just didn’t think you’d sell on credit is all.”
“Of course we sell on credit. Unless you’re not a real McBride?”
She was smiling, her eyes narrowed. Shyly Tommy returned the smile.
“There anything else you needed?”
“Thank you, no.”
“Well, then. Maybe I’ll see you next time. Or at school one day.”
Tommy laughed. “I don’t think so.”
“Next time, then.”
“Alright.”
Mia began sweeping, delicate little brushstrokes across the dusty boards. Her hair swung with the movement of the broom. Dust plumed with each stroke. She smiled once at Tommy, then lowered her eyes again; he forced himself out of the door. As he walked up the street he looked back and saw that she’d come out to watch him, her father still sleeping at her side.
Mother wasn’t in the church when he got there. The door was already open and he stepped into the shaded porch, then scanned the rows of bare-wood benches that served as pews. They were all empty. Not even a priest about. Sunlight fell in broad columns through the windows, and hanging above the altar was a carving of Christ on the cross. A crown of thorns, blood trickling, a scrap of cloth to cover his groin. As Tommy stared at the carving, memories of the hanging tree pulsed in his mind, the bodies dark and disfigured, flies feasting, crows hunched in the branches above, and now he saw all three before him, strung up in this church, two bodies burned and blackened, the other lily-white.
Out he came, reeling through the porch and into the dizzying sun, glancing over his shoulder as he hurried along the street, bundling into people and searching for Mother in the windows of each store. She wasn’t in any of them. He walked the length of the street and came back again, then found her hurrying along the courthouse path, head down, arms folded, hair unraveled from its pin. He went to meet her; she only noticed him waiting when they were almost face-to-face.
“Tommy? What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing—where you been?”
“Church, like I told you.”
“I went to the church . . .” Tommy said, his voice trailing off. He looked beyond her to the courthouse, its thick black doors in a clean white wall, the little yard in front, the grooves of the wooden stocks rubbed so smooth they shone. He focused on Mother again. “What were you doing in there?”
“Nothing,” she said, touching her cheek.
“Why’d you go in, then?”
“For goodness’ sake, Tommy. I was just saying hello to an old friend.”
“What friend?”
“It’s none of your business. Come on, we’re going home.”
As they walked past the Bewley Hotel, the men at the railing leered. Filthy and ale-faced, Tommy saw how they stared at Mother. He read their whispers, the little comments they made. A voice called after them, “I’ve got a shilling you can make, love. Won’t take long. Put a smile on that pretty face.”
Thick laughter went up. Mother took hold of Tommy’s arm and pulled him close, dragging him along the street. When they reached Spruhl’s store, Tommy unhitched Jess and walked her clear of the rail, maneuvered the empty dray, and both of them climbed onto the bench. Tommy glanced back at the hotel. A couple of men had drifted down from the verandah and were idling along the road. One began humping the air. “Just ignore them, Tommy,” Mother whispered. He flicked the reins and they moved on. A glass bottle smashed behind them. Again Tommy turned. One of the men was waving, and on the verandah of Song’s Hardware Store, a slender figure withdrew from the railing and went inside through the door.
9
Billy made his shanghai with the rubber tubing, tying it between the fork of a broken blue-gum branch, and every day after chores the three of them practiced firing pebbles against the bunkhouse wall, taking aim at a target chalked with stone and tallying up their
scores. Billy drew two start lines—one for him and Tommy, the other six feet closer to the wall—but theirs was the only mark Mary would use. She’d rather miss from a distance, she told them, than hit a bull’s-eye from close in.
Tommy was taking aim when Mary saw the horses: the rubber stretched full-length in his hand, quivering as he held it, one eye closed and the other sighting the target on the wall. She let out a yelp and started jumping up and down, shouting, “They’re coming, they’re coming, Arthur and Daddy’s home!”
“Quit it. I let you have your shot.”
“It’s them, Tommy,” Billy said. “Look here.”
He relaxed the rubber and turned. Two riders came slowly over the plain. Tommy handed Billy the catapult and they crossed to the far edge of the yard, calling for Mother as they went. She was hanging laundry on the line beside the house, poked her head around the corner to see, then finished hanging the last of it and came to join them only when the horses were nearly in.
“Well,” she said dryly, “let’s see, shall we. See what’s to become of us now.”
Father began waving. He bobbled about on his horse. Arthur followed behind him, and the difference between their riding could not have been more pronounced: Father swayed loose in the saddle, his shirt flapping open, his chest bare, the look of a man being carried, the horse leading the rider, not the other way around.
Mary returned his wave excitedly. Mother sighed and folded her arms.
It took Father two attempts to dismount, heaving himself upward, then an ungainly slide from saddle to ground. Arthur’s face was set tight, his beard barely concealing a scowl. He also dismounted, then stood beside his horse, the reins in his hand, as Father took off his hat and spread his arms.