by Rodney Hall
Peacefully she paddled herself about in the gentle rain, somebody’s mother, somebody’s granny, enjoying the warm clayey water of a dam, humming and mumbling, propelling herself forward.
BOOK FOUR
Tree-felling
One
The trees of Whitey’s Fall have gold in their sap that rises from the deepest taproot to fountain in leaf-veins sparkling at the wind, tantalizingly out of reach like the laughter of people. But not beyond Mr George Swan who traps as much laughter as he can, burns it in a crucible and collects the precious metal from a long retort. Laughter is not frequent in his house, especially the day he plans to fell the tallow tree until (because felling is the most risky and thrilling vandalism) his own golden laughs escape him and flock freely home to the mountain.
This venerable eucalypt, standing further south than is generally allowed these days, acts as cornerpost for hilltop paddocks not far from a farmhouse at Wit’s End. Blossoming in season, the tiny flowers cast out gold dust with their pollen. On hot days cattle gather under this tree and wait for the intelligence to be bored. Even on a spring afternoon like today, the sunshine throws down an immense shadow on dust milled by patient hooves, with the aplomb of a Brinsmead casting a lace cloth across a round table.
One knee in the dust, the other on the body of a chainsaw, Mr George Swan sweats. For the twentieth time he pulls the starter-cord and the motor stutters dully. A leaf twirling down touches him on the shoulder. Mr Swan squints up at the tree.
Looking towards the south, the township of Whitey’s Fall, tucked in against the mountain, appears two-dimensional. The houses have no depth, their faded grey timbers are silvery layers of gloss applied to a painted mountain; and the mountain road wriggles away in a flicker of the artist’s wrist.
The chainsaw bursts into life, its hideous rasp reeling out across the valley into the verge of forest. As the blade touches the trunk, pale woodchips gush from its edge and two eagles launch themselves from their platform of broken branches in the crown of the tree with an alarm impossible to detect beneath the cry of their menacing dignity. The eagles wheeling in a wide arc watch and they are not alone in this, the sound of the motor has brought to the open doorway of the house someone who stops there, hands in hip pockets, restraining his disgust. He looks up and, following an eagle eye, knows he must face this out.
Mr George Swan completes the sleeve-cut. This is the end of the tallow tree. Little nodules of that oily wood so often worn from steps and thresholds form a heap round the destroyer’s boot. He too knows he is being watched. He wants to smile, surprised at his simple pleasures. He swings the spinning saw away and shouts at the house.
– You better clean yourself up hadn’t you?
The person in the doorway seems not to have heard.
The blade makes a diagonal cut and a wedge of wood falls out. The eagles circle. The motor, a magnified version of the ever-present flies. Then the blade bites into the other side of the trunk, a little higher up. The watcher has to admire the judgment of this cut: already they know where and how the tree will fall. The blade slices deeper into the noise. Mr Swan withdraws it hastily and steps back with an agility which calls attention to itself in a man his age.
The tonnage of this tree is now weighed in air. The familiar shape tips slightly so that you see what it is for the first time: a miraculous solution of balances. The eagles levitate as the nest of their generations sways, wind combing out a few loose twigs and the most intimate places being shown in a strange light. The mandala of shadow slides rippling across the ground to mutate into the outline of a family tree.
The man in the doorway scans the stiff brittle tallow and then tries to read the message the eagles spell out on the sky. His father stands back, happy from his handiwork, hearing the leaves rush, the branches tear helplessly at nothing, crashing bone-like and skeletal, no longer sensitive. The tree lolls on the ground, its severed trunk kicking up once. Under that impressive ruin the eagles’ nest becomes a paltry heap of rubbish fit for burning. The eagles themselves already see things differently, searching the catastrophe for prey. As they float round, each checks that its mate is unharmed, the hooked beaks again tender. The saw is switched off. Silence paints the foreground into the same picture as the mountain. Mr George Swan drags his forearm across his brow, collecting the sweat.
– You better clean yerself up hadn’t you? he repeats.
No reply from the man in the doorway who takes his hands out of his pockets. The tree lies exactly as hoped, but posing an inconvenience all the same. Mr Swan blames himself for a fool. He glares at the man watching him, his bugger of a son, Billy, who won’t be told. The father pulls a tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket, extracts a flimsy cigarette paper from a packet, holds it between pursed lips. For a moment it flutters there, a frail apology. Then he rubs the tobacco, lifts the paper off his lip, rolls them together, licks the gummed edge and seals it. The noise of his match striking can be heard from the house. The first luminous trickle of blue smoke shapes in the air a miniature ghost of the tree.
This is the complete picture as it was.
– What you do, said Mr Swan, is your business I suppose.
He touched his saw blade between finger and thumb, quickly, assessing the metal’s heat.
– It was getting to be a danger, that bastard, he added.
They knew this to be a lie. The tallow had attained only its first maturity. The gap between them seemed too far, but the quiet desultory comments carried clearly. Meanwhile, beyond, the mountain fleshed itself solid, lifted its peaks more remote, the rock an aged blue with blue wrinkles: shedding enough air to drown the two human figures.
– What’s the strength of me getting married? Billy demanded remembering Uncle explaining, You grab a hold of him and say what’s in this marryin shit for you.
The flies drew puzzles of straight lines between them. Mr George Swan, who had not expected a direct challenge, pulled at his cigarette, deeply. When he spoke again, each syllable came as a puff of smoke.
– Looks like her car, coming up the track.
They watched the car shimmering with sunlight followed by a drift of dust almost catching up with it.
– What’s in it for you is what I want to find out, Billy insisted so that his father should know the expression of his eyes, even without bothering to look.
– Always wide of the mark, you are. Like that weird stuff in the pub, it’s not normal; drunk out of your minds, standing round having DTs, and Baggy Brindle leading it. Fair makes my stomach turn. No wonder your mates cleared out.
The cigarette smoke drifted up in a succession of four more tree-ghosts before the visiting car turned at the gate and rattled in across the cattle grid. George Swan mopped his brow again, preparing to receive a young lady on behalf of his son. The car stopped in a haphazard manner, the driver puzzled by a great tree across her track. She switched off the motor and bounced out decisively enough, her hair also bouncing and her nice plump breasts bouncing too, her hazel eyes smiling, her free hand waving, her engaged hand tugging at an unwilling handbag.
– Have you cut the tree down Mr Swan? she asked.
– Yes. Yes I have.
– Hullo Billy.
Billy returned the greeting defensively, having nothing against her except she was stupid and his father wanted him to marry her, no doubt because she’d inherit a farm soon. She wanted the marriage too. Bad luck.
– What a mess, she exclaimed. Sooner you than me clearing it up. She swung her bag over her shoulder in a slangy television version of what it’s all about.
Bill despised her vulnerability. She was one of those people who just miss. Somebody had told her once she was a bright little thing and a ball of fun and Lord help the boys when she grew up; and He had. She was twenty-two and not a serious prospect. All the fault of Yalgoona, dead hole with its four thousand dreary inhabitants at an altitude of two hundred and twenty feet above sea level. Mr Swan picked up the chainsaw, resting its we
ight against his thigh so it stuck out in front of him, an absurd penis wavering as he advanced towards the visitor. Bill stood back against the open door to invite her in, but his gesture was spoilt by his mother making her appearance and coming out. Mrs Swan scurried down so as not to be caught up on the stairs. With seven skips she reached her proper level, where she paused meekly.
– Oh I do like your hair! she said and started forward to reach up to touch it.
– I just had it done, the girl bowed with pleasure.
– She never lets us down does she? Mrs Swan turned meaningfully to her son but he had his back to her and was slouching in along the corridor.
– She never does, the father filled in for him, hoisting the heavy chainsaw and pushing it on to the verandah floor.
Suddenly Mrs Swan clapped her tiny hand over her mouth. She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of the fallen tallow.
– So you did it after all? she whispered.
– You didn’t hear!
– I heard alright. But I never imagined.
– Progress is progress, Suzanne Jessop was inspired to say.
– I never liked that tree, Mrs Swan commented, making her own doubts smaller than anybody else’s.
They all three looked at it as people will stare at something new.
Once indoors, the parents indulged themselves by referring to Billy and Suzanne as that collective phenomenon You Youngsters: you youngsters don’t appreciate how easy life is these days – so you youngsters go and amuse yourselves while me and your father get a bit of work done – why should the youngsters have to put up with our oldfashioned opinions Mother – you youngsters can please yourselves but the scones won’t be ready for another quarter of an hour – you youngsters take too much sugar in your tea for your own good it’s bad for your teeth but what’s the use of telling you – youngsters your age believe everything the television tells you – you young ones ought to take more interest in politics for the sake of the Country Party – you youngsters had schooling laid on like water out of a tap, if it had been like that in our day we’d have shown you a thing or two …
Billy was ashamed for the girl’s sake that his parents allowed their designs on her to be so transparent, and by doing it in this manner seemed to implicate her as a conspirator.
– I nearly forgot, Suzanne exclaimed, digging in her handbag and pulling out a long white envelope. The Post Lady asked me to bring this up to save her the drive, it was the only one for Whitey’s Fall. As she handed it to his father, Billy noticed a government crest stamped in glossy blue print. Even Mrs Swan couldn’t help being surprised when he stuffed it unceremoniously in his pocket with only the briefest mumbled thanks, instead of ripping it open in an economy of self-importance. Not long afterwards, Mr Swan offered excuses and went to clean himself up, as he put it, showering away the last clues of sawdust from his hair. He returned smelling ostentatiously clean, in a fresh shirt with his going-out trousers and a pair of felt slippers. So he was ready for tea and scones, ready to set an example.
– Shall we have a hand of euchre then? asked the mother as a plea when the afternoon tea things had been cleared away and the thick brown cloth smoothed over the table once more. She protected her husband from ever suspecting she was a far better player than he was.
– You youngsters can play us oldies then, George Swan conceded as he assumed his privilege of shuffling and dealing first. I’ll carry you, Rose.
– Hold your cards up Bill dear or I’ll see.
– Pass.
– Pass.
– I’ll order it up, said Bill promptly, looking his father in the eye, seeing his father as his father was: a short healthy man with brilliant blue eyes, boyishly curly hair, definite features, a man of sixty, his face too angrily frustrated to look disappointed, one of those people who live to work tomorrow. He sat there, George Wilkinson Swan, shackled by duty, glancing at the clock on the wall to check that time still cheated him. He was a man of principle, a Presbyterian without religion, who boasted that alcohol had no more passed his lips than day-dreaming crossed his mind. He found his son looking at him from above a fan of cards. The look he received was boldly questioning, the look he gave back was defiant and inquisitorial. He tucked his chin down against his neck.
– You would! he growled, annoyed at anyone stealing the initiative from him. Diamonds it is then, he instructed them in case they hadn’t followed. Cards were played: Mrs Swan’s artful indecision, Suzanne Jessop’s bemusement, Billy’s gambling for higher stakes, and his father’s torment as if each card played were his own hand lopped off. Poor Mrs Swan did what she could to rescue his luck with a succession of fumbling masterstrokes.
– Will we win a march? asked Suzanne excitedly.
– You won’t win anything unless you put down a card, Mr Swan complained. She giggled at the possibility of a joke. She looked over her endless succession of numbers, knowing that it was normal to enjoy cards, yet the hateful jack of diamonds challenged her with those bulging thyroid eyes. She stared at the numbers searching for some obvious move to stand out, and herself as the queen of spades flipping through movie journals for young filmstars she could bite.
– The ace of spades! Billy groaned tolerantly so that she pretended not to hear. Mrs Swan trumped it.
– That’s a trump you know, her husband told her.
– It’s our trick is it? the little lady darted her bright mouse look, sure her astuteness had not been detected. You only made a point then, she remarked quietly as she gathered the pack.