by Rodney Hall
Whitey’s Fall is also a religious centre. Meetings are held in the public bar of the Mountain Hotel every day except Sunday. It’s a religion of remembering, observed over pots of beer. A stranger coming in during this remembering could be excused for failing to notice anything unusual. Except perhaps the age of the drinkers who are mostly between eighty and one hundred-and-fourteen. The lack of conversation isn’t so very remarkable either. True, the people drink in silence because they need to concentrate, but even here on this remote mountainside in New South Wales among ridges of virgin rainforest and at the end of a screwing dirt road, a television flickers above the publican’s head. The set leaks a humdrum of commentary on the coup d’état in Ethiopia, the Luxemburg hot-air balloon championships, and the exhibits of a now paralysed actress who has provoked more fantasies throughout the Western World (this part of which lies in the Far East) than any other female in its entire history. So the television drones on, leaving the entranced drinkers to live again their memories of other times; thoughts primitive enough for the enemies of Babylon, those nocturnal marauders in their dogskin nightshoes.
Such visitors as there are, in any case, don’t like to stare. After all, death in its grotesque forms awaits us, every one. And they do find themselves among people exhibiting a gallery of the least-desired aspects of age: figures of arthritic gnomes and of huge dislocated ruins, here a mutilated neck, there a cast eye, hands appearing hand-made, fat noses and sticking-out ears, skin grown part vegetable, hair in the wrong places. And they find the women in such respects oddly difficult to distinguish from the men. What’s more, most of these ancient ugly folk resemble each other to a disconcerting degree, even the bloated village idiot with his babyish forehead, his puffy eyelids and thick dry lips bears clear traces of family.
The Mountain Hotel is the obvious place for intellectual pursuits, having the right atmosphere, the patrons the appropriate introspective tone. Here piety can be free from ostentation, it is possible to be committed to an idea. The pub is the last place where people can afford to be collectively serious; and in the case of Whitey’s Fall this is a privilege available to the whole town, the population being forty-nine and the bar-room moderately large.
I speak in the present tense, which is not quite accurate, things have changed lately. The description I’ve given you of Whitey’s Fall would be hotly denied now, especially in official quarters. But in a country where there are no great buildings, where there has never been the will to conceive of great buildings (which is to say, great and permanent functions) history is always in the present. It is ridiculous to postulate the past as something separate. Why, men are still getting drunk here who drove bullock wagons up the range into the backcountry; McAloon and Whitey, discoverers of the McAloon-Whitey nugget, eleventh largest hunk of gold ever unearthed, died only last year and the year before, respectively. We have a woman here who attended the creation of Australia as a nation state, and to the present day holds in her head a living image of the Duke of York performing the ceremony of Federation, the great leap forward or as Miss Felicia Brinsmead commented, that pompous ritualizing of small-minded fears and back-biting compromise … as though she could remember.
Three
Look once more at the street outside Brinsmeads’ general store. Bill Swan, the customer who wanted gelignite, stood in the spring sunshine, not quite decided what to do next but aware he would never grow tall. Whether to go on waiting here or wait elsewhere was the question while he became as passive as the earth underneath his own feet. He felt he could experience himself as a dead-weight on two heels. Also the weight of his trunk on his pelvis, yes bearing down, and his neck carrying the weight of his head full of rebellions. The weight of arms hung from his shoulders. He opened and clenched the hand in his pocket; lumps of muscle rose along his forearm and at the back of his upper arm when he pushed his fist against his thigh, which he now did. The muscles also could be felt by their own weight. This might have puzzled him had he been in a thinking rather than a feeling mood.
What he did think a few moments later was the short, dreadful sentence: I’m nineteen. Yes, with that blank future ahead too. This is what he thought while waiting for Tony McTaggart to come blinking out of the iron shed where he worked, head stuck forward like a snake from a dark cave, expectant and defensive at the same time. Billy Swan rocked on his heels, watching.
I’m nineteen, he told himself against all possibility of being understood, perhaps to forget that he had openly tried to buy gelignite, gambling everything on being casual, and for no result. I won’t grow any taller now, he thought, being in the habit of casting the stone of his shortness at himself till he might one day become numb to the fact and not notice any longer: as he had once practised swallowing tadpoles. An old wound re-opened obligingly. I used to be only an inch shorter than Tony a couple of years back.
If Tony, that timid giant with his fuzz of fair hairs, were to stand beside Billy this moment you’d find it hard to credit. Harder for Bill to acknowledge there had been any change, the recent past of childhood seeming closer to the natural order than the uncertain present. And hard for him to suffer the gently protective behaviour of his friend. He thinks he’s bloody somebody, Billy objected savagely, wishing Tony would hurry, hoping nothing had gone wrong, and thinking contemptuously: if I could be his size I would be somebody. Yet Billy’s shortness was not so immediately noticeable as his face with its bold features; nose large and fine and, from under thick eyebrows, brilliant dark eyes that challenged a world of too few experiences.
Outside in the sun, with his back to the shop, Bill Swan brooded on how Miss Brinsmead had refused to sell him the gelignite he needed. Of course she had some hidden away. The reason she wouldn’t sell it was that she didn’t know what it was for. Her claim to know everything brought her power in the community. Who gives a stuff for her, he thought now his real worry loomed to the surface like a stingray from unplumbed depths: the plan, the risk, the explosion; and he must face the townsfolk afterwards.
He scuffed the dust, waiting. He balled his fist trying hidden tests of strength against himself. Why the hell couldn’t Tony be on time: he had nothing else to do but put down his tools and step out of the shed. Then they could have a pie and a beer at the pub and things mightn’t seem so complicated.
The little township sagged and sighed around him, an ever-present wind prising the trellis from the porch of Whitey’s Fall School of Arts. Bill stood, the sole figure in that pointillist dust, among flaked and peeling walls, buildings insubstantial and camouflaged. Belonging imprinted itself on every aspect of his body’s language; the way he wasn’t looking about him, the bored shoulders, the one hitched-up hip bearing his whole weight. He hated waiting. To express his exasperation he faced up the hill, watching a single chicken emerge from under a fence and make her enquiring way along the middle of the street. Now at his left shoulder stood the monument to the unforgotten Fallen of a forgotten war (a symbolic granite column broken short halfway) beside which he’d propped his motorcycle. Behind it drooped the façade of Brinsmeads’, two tiers of verandahs exhaustedly grappled to the wall, overhung by boulders pointing up to the vast forested slopes of the mountain beyond. Bill Swan was at the lower end of the main street of his hometown Whitey’s Fall. To his right, the ornate drinking fountain awaited hot lips in front of the welder’s shed where Tony McTaggart was still working five minutes late. The bellchimes of a heavy hammer must be Tony, old man Ping no longer had the strength surely?
Underfoot the dust shifted. Before him, that single street of goldrush buildings wound grittily up the mountain. You had only to turn off between any two buildings to be instantly in the countryside, confronted by paddocks tipped crazily on edge and gymnastic cattle walking their tightrope trails or standing still with their eyes shut to recover from vertigo. The forested peaks and ridges beyond the town were, he knew, pocked with abandoned mineshafts. As for the hinterland, it was uninhabited and commonly believed to be dangerous wi
th the forces of Aboriginal spirits: little mountain men, the hairy men, gunjes and the like. This territory stretched a hundred miles to the west, a thousand miles to the south, and three thousand miles north where it was said islands like stepping stones connected it with the secret tribal grounds of New Guinea headhunters.
Jesus a man could hate this place, Bill Swan thought as he began automatically whistling a few notes. Jesus he could too. Once more he swung on his heel, for the sake of change. That one awful looming thought of what he must do, kept down by a succession of trivial occupations. He busied himself with an unseeing examination of Brinsmeads’. After two more minutes he’d leave; wouldn’t wait longer if it was the Governor-bloody-General. Spread away to his left, the plain far below finally merged in a blurred line with the east coast and the sea. Just as the crest of Whitey’s Fall hill butted straight into the foot of the mountain peak, so the bottom of the hill dropped away another thousand feet to the valley floor. The waterfall a short walk from where Billy stood tumbled so far that it ended as a snailslick down the rockface. This was where boys of his father’s generation habitually whipped each other to such daredevilry that D’Arcy Collins had the privilege of throwing himself off for the sake of the mountain, and after bouncing twice into the cliff his body was never seen again on earth.
To fill in time Billy read the painted curlicues on the shop doors, which he’d known all his life without suspecting they actually meant something. HABERDASHERY… what in the hell? PROVISIONS … memories of arithmetic? and the rest. Then old man Brinsmead was there, leaning against the doors to shut them and force the bolts home, his face going pink. After this he straightened, reaching tall, filling the space, began to draw down the holland blinds while Bill stared at him.
Very slow and shaky he is too, must be a couple of hundred years old, and all made of porcelain. Weird bloody place. Imagine being a stranger. What would you see? Little grotty houses too small to stand up in probably. How do people live like this? What do they do? How does time pass; knitting, watching themselves in the mirror, poking at cobwebs, still fiddling with crystal radios and cats’ whiskers? Ought to shout in a loud voice, foreign accent, see what happens: suspicious face in every window, portraits in frames, doors being shut by unseen hands, chains slipped from three-legged dogs. Ought to go up and try the bubbler which failed to work the day it was declared open and ever since. They’d lynch me. Never done. Dirty. Stink I suppose.
So Billy Swan had the idea: to put lips to the drinking fountain and turn the tap on, the putrifying gases of disappointed generations would sigh up into his mouth and poison his brain. He thought of it with his back to it. A voice spoke loudly into his ear, but it was not Tony.
– Look out for me gammy leg, the voice said gaily. Or I’ll dong ya with me walkin stick.
– Goodday Uncle. Billy turned to find Uncle there sure enough and beaming.
– I said to old dog Bertha I said I haven’t seen Bill these three days. Course me dog took no notice a what I said, no more’n me wife did, time I was with her. He chewed on his gums before adding in the lilting telegramese peculiar to the mountain – Dog’s much of a muchness with wife: one word a command from me and she’d do whatever pleased erself. Winning form!
Uncle was no taller than Billy, indeed he was the same build though going to fat with extreme wear. Standing there together smiling at each other for no particular reason, you’d immediately pick the family resemblance, that stubborn squareness, two blocks of seasoned wood, equal pieces in a chess game. Yet their tough brown faces were welcoming, their broad hands describing friendly gestures.
– Was you on yer way to the house a consolation then?
– Only waiting for Tony, Uncle.
– In that case we’ll wait together.
Despite his crusty manner, the old man was too courteous to suggest they cross the road and call for Tony: if Bill hadn’t done so already, there must be a reason. He settled himself to wait, leaning on his two walkingsticks.
– Never get married son, that’s my advice. Speakin as your only survivin grandfather, I’ve got one piece of advice worth givin from a long life of doin. Never get married and never be first with a girl. Uncle thrust out his head, his humorous eyes watchful, seeing if this sagacity had sunk in.
– You’re a fine one to talk of not marrying! his grandson returned tolerantly.
– I shouldn’t wonder if churches was the invention of women in the first place.
– You wouldn’t want to let my father hear you say it to me.
– That no-hoper! Uncle spat. Tell yer what, son, if you turn out like him I shan’t go on lettin you buy me a beer. Him. He’d shear a sheep’s face he’s that greedy. Ay? Speak up. I can’t catch your words.
– Didn’t say a thing, Billy replied ready to laugh.
– More fool you. If you can’t see your father’s worth a pinch a pigshit and not a penny more how’ll you ever learn to judge strangers? How’ll you discriminate? Tell me that now.
They were conspirators, the bond strong. The buildings hunching closer projected sharp shadows on the dazzling dust.
– He’s at me to marry, you know.
Uncle cast his eyes up in despair, opening his pale mouth and slapping the gums shut again. There could have been a tear in his eye.
– What’s in it for him anyway? Did you find that out?
– Fair go! How can I ask a thing like that?
– It’s how you can’t that has me beat. Simple. You grab a hold a him and say look here you bastard what’s in this marriage crap for you? Simple. You got a tongue I suppose? You got brains? An if he hits you, yer hit im back. Pinch a pigshit, though it hurts me to say so. And I should know, I sired him, all said and done. Time you woke up to yourself. Hop in for your cut.
Uncle shifted his weight from his wrists and scratched in the dust with the rubbers of his walkingsticks. Himself the biggest mug kissing a youthful Bertha McAloon and her busy locking him up with her skinny fingers. A new idea struck him.
– Oy, what’re we loafin about here for? There’s good cold beer to be drunk up the road.
– I told you. We’re waitin for young Tony, said Bill slipping into the old man’s rhythm and tone of voice.
– Who? Uncle’s massive head swung on its gristly neck to catch the scoundrel creeping up on him.
– Tony. Young Tony.
– E’s no younger than you I dare say. And twice your size. Solid as a stud bull that bloke. Dare say you wouldn’t mind bein built like him instead of bein a runt like all us Swans?
– Runt yourself, grunted Billy, blood fluttering momentarily across his vision.
– Oh yes, right enough I’m a runt, Uncle agreed cheerfully. And had ninety year to get accustomed. Bein a runt’s better than kickin shit, so long as you can say to yourself I’m a runt so what the hell.
– Well I won’t.
Mr Swan Senior glared, denying that this lad meant the world to him, trampling flowers underfoot, his tough face calculating, judging. He clashed his sticks together in frustration.
– You can’t, more like, he bellowed, his fears confirmed. Runs in the family. That was the beginnin of your father’s trouble. He was going good till the point came when he couldn’t face bein what he was, a runt like you Billy.
– I’m sick of preachers. One of these days I might give you a friendly thump just to shut you up.
– Knock the sticks out from under me, would you? cried the old man excitedly.
– Why not?
Uncle’s gust of anger turned to amusement.
– Can’t say I blame you. Listenin to advice never was my style and I don’t see why it should be yours neether. Winnin form! Talkin of yer grandmother, he went on, I blame Ireland for a lot of her troubles, she’s got it on the brain. Poor Ireland, with Saint Patrick fool enough to rob the country of snakes. Where does that leave the spirit of the soil, I should like to know? Typical religious Johnny, full a business and never knowin what’s what.
The wandering street was a rough rivercourse of sunshine flowing down to envelop them. The wind had eased and shifted a couple of degrees south so that the lowing of a distressed cow reached them distantly, a baritone edging up the scale. Or at least Bill heard it.
– What’re ya lookin at? Don’t keep the world a secret. One thing more botherin than another about the deafness is you miss out on why everybody’s goin where.
– Only a cow. Mrs Ping’s Alice by the sound of her, having trouble calving.
– Not surprisin with the weight she had on her. By Christ she put up a fight last time too. I like the beast with spirit. And Mrs Ping’ll be doin whatever has to be done, you can bet on that. Uncle waved his stick at the School of Arts, a humble structure, its weatherboards brown and grey as a fungus grown on the spot and dying. See that heart painted up by the roof? I haven’t showed you that before have I? Up above the vent thing. God struth, my eyes is better than yours. A heart, see, big as your belly. That brown-lookin paint was red one time.
– Be buggered!
– No one taught you how to look. That’s your story. I knew, a course, seein I was the fella who painted it up there.
Shoulder by shoulder they gazed, with all the time in the world, at the peak of the building, above which two thrusting clouds parted momentarily to reveal a feathered shape of space, blue wings suspended over that memorial to love. Neither man noticed, their concentration being of a purely historical and personal kind.
– Long ladder.
– No way! Regular monkey I was then. Shinned up the verandah posts at the side. Over the back roof and up the gutterin. What should happen but the blasted pipe came loose in me hand. Near cost me somethin I shouldn’t mention. Your age I was, and mad, in love, that is. On to the top roof I went. I didn’t crawl neether. I stood up there and put back me stupid head and bellowed like a dumb animal. Talk of that cow. A bloke could do that sort a thing in them days. You didn’t have to worry what other people thought. Most of all you didn’t have to trouble what you’d think of yourself. You just got up and did it. So I went skippin along the roof ridge till I got to this end. Laid down and leaned over riskin me silly neck to paint that heart, upside down from where I was so’s it’d come out right from the street. Plus the usual initials in it.