And what followed afterwards? A hummed melody, perhaps from those days when, often and recklessly, words of love were spoken, but possibly new. She’s not sure because she was still slowly and silently and with a touch of wonder pronouncing the word ‘affection’ rather than listening. But it was one of those sentimental numbers, or maybe that was just her mood. And then a gentle rocking — or was it swaying? — and the first steps of a dance. A dance that took them slowly and gently round the room until the humming stopped and the melody faded into some half-remembered past when melodies like that were always playing or never far away. And when the dance stopped they stood still for a moment, and then she released him, he released her, and she fell back into the chair from which he raised her.
It is all of this that she is thinking about right now instead of, for once, the weight that she carries in her belly. And she will remember that previous night long beyond these days. She will remember it all, years from now when the two halves that came together and briefly made a whole return to being two separate halves, and the child who is not yet born has grown and gone independently into this world that awaits them all. But what Rita doesn’t know at the moment is that she will remember the dance with such sad clarity because it will be Vic’s last memorable act of affection. Throughout all the years to come, nothing will have the sad clarity of those three or four minutes that it took them to dance around the kitchen table while Vic hummed a tune as if a band was suddenly in the room.
20.
Trust (I)
She enjoys a good fire. An open fire. The sound of crackling wood, the smell of leaves, the purity of the flame. A fire brings back her early days of travelling round the country, when she was a young woman, setting out for whatever it was that life had waiting for her to claim. That first field, that first fire, that first tea — for Katherine has never drunk anything stronger than strong black tea — brought with it the feeling that life was about to open up. And while she has never been a great admirer of Henry Lawson, with his droopy moustache and sad eyes trying to smile (playing for sympathy — and she knows the type; she’s met them often enough), she knows exactly what he meant when he wrote of the days when the world was wide. For the world felt wide then, wall-less, its possibilities endless, from the first moment she sat watching her fire in some farmer’s paddock, looking round at the last of the afternoon light and contemplating, as the smoke rose, the sheer breadth of it all: the field, the whole country and the life she was about to live and which, more or less, she now has.
There are those, like her sisters, who may see it as an aimless, even a wasteful life, travelling from place to place, picking up work here and there, but for Katherine it was always the only life. And although she may just have a block of land and a tent to show for all the years, at least she can say that she knows her world and all the types that inhabit it; knows her world from one side of the country to the other. She’s travelled it, she’s seen it. And she won’t die, like a grey-haired old drunk she once met in some timber town (and who’d possibly never left the forest where he grew up and where he probably drank himself to death), muttering about strange creatures over the mountains and over the seas. Strange creatures and strange ways. It’s been her life and it’s given her this much. And she was prepared to accept from the start that it would be a single life. Not lonely, although loneliness was never far from her — but singular. For she has always been content enough with her own company and never felt the urgent need of anyone else’s. Company, she has felt for most of her life, would just get in the way. For she always knew that if it ever came to the point when she wanted to go one way and company wanted to go the other, she would simply go her own way. And so she has, all her life.
But all the same, Mr Skinner’s visit that morning prompted the thought that at this stage in Katherine’s life company might be a comfort. And, she concedes, thinking of the unwelcome visits of uninvited strangers one day after the other, comfort might also be a form of security. She cannot travel any more the way she used to. And for some time now she has conceded to her sisters (one of whom is a nun in Adelaide, one a domestic in Surrey Hills, the other Vic’s mother, living in a country town nearby) that these days she needs to live near settlement. And with this concession to her sisters and to the years, she bought, with all her savings, this block of land. This block of land upon which she pitched her tent and which she calls home. And in calling a place home (which she has never really done before), she might also be allowing into her life, after all her wandering years, the idea of company.
She’s noticed Mr Skinner about — and she cannot recall now when he first told her his name, but it must have been when she was fetching water one day. She’s noticed him for some time (since pitching her tent late in the previous year). And while others might find him an odd contraption of a human being (and which might explain why he’s not married, possibly never married — he’s got the look), she doesn’t. The toes pointed in, the lean to one side like the leaning towers on postcards of foreign places, the ready smile — these may create the impression of an odd human contraption to some people, but not to Katherine. She thought long and hard about just what it was that came to mind when she looked upon Mr Skinner, long before he made his visit and prompted in her the impulse to allow company into her life, and to Katherine the ungainly frame of Mr Skinner suggests what she can only call honesty. And with that honesty, a sense of trust. And it is not because he is a farmer: she’s known plenty of sly farmers who’ll steal your time and money if you give them half a chance. No, here is someone who has gone through life without affectation. He is, his demeanour tells the world, what he is. What you see is what you get. A frame and a bearing that can’t be disguised and allows the bearer no choice but to amble through the world honestly. So it is not just the fact that they have shared an Age together, that they are of a time and that their time is rapidly passing, that has prompted Katherine to allow the idea of comfort, in the ungainly form of Mr Skinner, into her life. It is what she can only call the honesty of his ungainly bearing and the feeling that she can trust him.
Were his gifts not an invitation? A gift, of course, may be taken in many different ways — a bribe, a way of compromising someone or simply a gift. And while Katherine has always been wary of gifts and those who bring them, she accepted Mr Skinner’s in the spirit in which they were given. And the gifts themselves — the milk, the butter and the cheese — suggested consideration. In the end, they were appropriate gifts, for, like the ungainly frame of Mr Skinner himself, the milk, the butter and the cheese spoke of honesty and trust. Spoke, and she means this in the best possible way, of a simple heart. For she thinks of herself, too, as a simple heart.
And with this reflection, the bread and cream, which Mr Skinner proposed they share, becomes an attractive thought. One she might even look forward to, if she isn’t looking forward to it already. And it is with this added reflection that she realises that the idea of company — of comfort in the form of Mr Skinner — has indeed entered her life, a life that until now has been a singular one.
With these thoughts in mind, and motivated by the need to create a fire upon which to cook, Katherine pops her head out of the tent and looks upon the bright, mid-winter afternoon.
21.
The Concept of Too Much
Rita, still sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of stringed beans and a small pot of tea, has not forgotten about the previous night, the dance and the spontaneous act of affection. But, and she doesn’t know what prompted this except for the uneasy feeling that Vic has been away longer than it takes to do the afternoon shopping, this is also one of those moments when she’s remembering the bad times: afternoons and nights that saw Vic standing for hours at the public bar of The Railway with Paddy Ryan and the rest of that bunch who call themselves mates. Paddy, the father Vic never had, whom he looks up to just a bit too much for Rita’s liking because apart from being the master of the smooth ride, Paddy has nothing else worth loo
king up to.
As much as she’d rather be dwelling on the memory of Vic the previous night, that three or four minutes that gave her the best of Vic, she’s remembering the worst of him. The Vic who slumps into the chair in front of her after The Railway, closes his glazed eyes and snores half the night away. And, as much as she doesn’t want to dwell on these things, they come back, clear, almost real. Until he is there, in front of her, and she’s looking over the bowl of stringed beans directly at him.
In fact, at this moment, he is just stepping from the butcher’s, pausing on the footpath to shake the sawdust from his shoes. In front of him is The Railway. And the thought of a beer is tempting. But not really. He is driving tonight, and never drinks before driving. None of the drivers do. So he contents himself with the thought of a beer. At first Vic didn’t like beer. But he only drinks beer now. No wine or spirits. And he takes pride in that. Others might hit the serious stuff but not Vic. Just beer. Even if he didn’t like the taste of it at first. Then, one hot day, the memory of that first beer came back to him and this time he liked it, or, at least, the memory of it. Then he liked it too much. Although Vic would never say too much, for Vic has no idea of the Concept of Too Much. Someone need only say ‘One more’ and Vic will agree. And it’s not for the flavour. After hours of drinking, neither Vic nor anybody else could taste the beer any more. Yet, without thinking, he will always agree to one more. For just as the taste of beer did not come naturally to Vic (it was something he had to learn to like), so too Vic has learnt how to drink. More correctly, Vic has learnt a way of drinking. A way of drinking that he has learnt from Paddy Ryan, and from the other drivers, the older drivers, who pass their ways on to the younger drivers. They pass them on so that their ways will not be lost and so that this way of drinking will remain a tradition. For when something becomes a tradition it becomes irresistible. It acquires weight. It acquires History. This, it says, is the way things are done because this is the way they have always been done. Beyond questioning. And, in this manner, Paddy not only passes on the art of engine driving but his world and the traditions that define it, ensuring that a little bit of Paddy goes out there into the future and the tradition that was passed on to him will be passed down the line and beyond. In this way he will not suffer the indignity of being the one who allowed a tradition to be lost. And so long as these ways remain tradition, something greater than the circle of drinkers gathered at the public bar, they will also remain unquestioned.
Vic turns away from The Railway and enters the greengrocer’s, as Rita rises from the chair and rinses the stringed beans. His fingers are drumming, tum-ta-tum, briefly on the counter as he hums a tune and contemplates the mid-winter fruits — and those ways of drinking handed down by Paddy and all the Paddys that went before, until they became a tradition. And central to this tradition — and its rules — is the Concept of Too Much. For the very suggestion of too much is an unwanted intrusion. The Concept of Too Much does not wear the overalls of the engine driver. It wears the clothes of some snooty type who doesn’t belong because he doesn’t understand.
His Gladstone bag filled with shopping (the same bag he uses for work), Vic turns towards the refinery that looms over the houses for the brief walk home, the sun breaking through the clouds, the streets suddenly sparkling, Vic whistling.
But the rules of this tradition of drinking do not come as naturally as his whistle. To some, such as the snooty types who don’t understand, it doesn’t come at all. There will, inevitably, be those who will say at first, no, they have had enough, and, thereby, allow into their circle of drinkers the Concept of Too Much. They have, in saying this, committed a fundamental error — such as braking too quickly at a platform and snapping a train in half, or over-heating a furnace — and it is Paddy’s job to correct these errors, be it on the job or at the bar. The circle must not be broken, and as long as anybody within that circle calls for one more — Vic, or Paddy himself — the circle stays closed. Moreover, it is an insult to the remaining drinkers, for the Concept of Too Much, when it speaks, assumes a degree of sober reflection that, it is implied, the others in the circle don’t possess. The Concept of Too Much is not, it proclaims, a pub drunk, but the rest are. Inevitably there will be those who will continue to say ‘No more’. In such cases one of two things will happen. They will be banished from the circle or they will cease to say no. And they will agree, thereafter, to one more, without thinking.
And so Vic slumps into chairs after closing time, unable to rise, because over the years he has learnt a way of drinking. And one day, just like Paddy, he may become a custodian of that tradition, so that its ways will be passed on. Just as, one day, he may inherit the Spirit of Progress.
So Rita, settling back into the kitchen chair (sipping her tea, the beans draining by the sink), loathes the name of Paddy Ryan and won’t let him into the house. As much as she knows that Paddy learnt these ways from some other distant drunk who passed them on to him, she blames Paddy all the same.
Her eyes are still lingering on the apparition of Vic before her when she hears the front door open. The vision fades, the reality is home. This afternoon it is the best of Vic who is back. The best of Vic who places the shopping on the kitchen table. The best of Vic who fills the room with his whistling (pitch perfect). And as much as she’s read about hearts leaping in books, she’s never felt such a thing until now. She could jump up and tell him that her heart is leaping but she’d have to explain why. Besides, there’s no energy to go leaping about, so she leaves the leaping for her heart to do.
22.
Trust (II)
At first Katherine only notices the blazing glare of a puddle not far from the tent, the pale blue sky and the cold, bright afternoon sun. Then she sees it. At first, because her eyes are still adjusting to the glare of the sun, it is just a form. A figure on the other side of the road. But now she sees clearly. It’s not Mr Skinner or just somebody wandering by. It’s the young painter. Who wanted her to sit still long enough so that he could paint her, and whom she had told in no uncertain terms to go away.
He is now there, in front of her, on the other side of the road, on Mr Skinner’s property. Back again. And it’s not just the fact that he is there that makes it such an intrusion but the fact that he is so obviously drawing her tent — which she told him not to. He barely seems to notice her (a cheek as well as an intrusion), then, to top it all off, as she steps from the tent and starts walking towards him, he drops the sheet of paper he’s working on, picks up another, and as clear as the cold, bright sun lights the day he starts sketching her as she walks towards him, her left arm raised in protest (just as it is in the newspaper photograph, a favourite gesture of hers), and he stays sketching, barely looking up, until she is standing quite near, both of them separated only by the dirt road in between them.
Then, extraordinarily, he smiles. Smiles! As if this sort of thing happens every day, which it might to this young man but it doesn’t to Katherine. And the smile, rather than soothe her (as it is no doubt intended to do) angers her more. Katherine watches that silly smile fade as she glares at him over the divide of the dirt road. Katherine has not so much walked to where she is as stomped. And, without pausing for breath, she calls out to the young intruder, for, easel or no easel, that’s all he is, ‘That’s Mr Skinner’s property you’re on there. It’s private.’
Sam, who stops sketching and lowers his hand holding the charcoal, is about to reply. About to explain himself. But she goes on.
‘Mr Skinner won’t like this. That’s his farm. You’re trespassing.’
And, again, Sam is on the point of replying, when she continues. ‘So you might as well pack up all of this and go, before Mr Skinner sees you.’ He can load everything, she continues, back on that fancy bicycle of his (for Sam does, indeed, own a racer from his racing days) and get back to where he came from. And here she points up towards the end of the street that leads back to the main road that runs alongside the railway line and the flo
ur mill, and into the city.
Her arm is raised (again just like the photograph, her expression just like the photograph — and part of Sam is beginning to wonder if he really needs to be here at all) and her finger is indicating the direction of his leaving, when Sam finally speaks. ‘I’ve got Mr Skinner’s permission.’
Katherine’s arm is still pointing up the road but her eyes lose their glare and take on a deeply puzzled look. She is not simply surprised by this simple statement, she is stunned by it. Stunned into silence. And the deeply puzzled look stays on her face as she eyes the young man, taking in his words, looking from him to Skinner’s farm, to Mr Skinner himself (whom she now notices trudging across his paddock towards them), not believing the young painter, convinced that he is lying and about to be found out, for the very thought of Mr Skinner giving permission to this young painter to intrude upon other people’s lives is contrary to everything she has concluded about him.
‘Well,’ she says, indicating the approaching Skinner, ‘we’ll soon see about that.’
With this Sam turns, sees the angular construction of Skinner approaching, and waves. Katherine watches, inwardly commenting to the young man that that won’t do him much good, when she sees Mr Skinner wave back. Furthermore, the wave is accompanied by a smile. Katherine’s arm, which at this point is still indicating the direction of the young man’s departure, drops to her side and she watches, wide-eyed, as Skinner arrives.
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