From the sitting room you went straight on to the back verandah, and there were the four trees, and a fenced-in garden, and the yards. The garden had gay flowers, because Mr. Ellis loved them, and a round, stone-walled well. Alongside was the yard, marked off by the four trees into a square: a mulberry one side the kitchen door, a pepper the other, a photosphorum with a seat under it a little way off, and across, a Norfolk pine and half a fir tree.
Tom would talk to Jack about the family: a terrible tangle, they both thought. Why, there was Gran, endless years old! Dad was fifty, and he and Uncle Easu (dead) were her twins and her only sons. However, she had seven daughters and, it seemed to Jack, hundreds of grandchildren, most of them grown up with more children of their own.
“I could never remember all their names,” he declared.
“I don’t try,” said Tom. “Neither does Gran. And I don’t believe she cares a tuppenny for ‘em — for any of ‘em, except Dad and us.”
Gran was a delicate old lady with a lace cap, and white curly hair, and an ivory face. She made a great impression on Jack, as if she were the presiding deity of the family. Over her head as she sat by the sitting room fire an old clock tick-tocked. That impressed Jack, too. There was something weird in her age, her pallor, her white hair and white cap, her remoteness. She was very important in the house, but mostly invisible.
Lennie, Katie, Og and Magog, Harry, Ellie with the floss-hair and the baby: these counted as “the children.” Tom, who had had another mother, not Ma, was different. And now the other twins, Monica and Grace, were coming. These were the lambs. Jack, as he sat mending the sacks, passionately in love with the family and happy doing any sort of work there, thought of himself as a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and laughed.
He wondered why he didn’t like Harry. Harry was six, rather fat and handsome, and strong as a baby bull. But he was always tormenting Baby. Or was it Baby tormenting Harry?
Harry had got a picture book, and was finding out letters. Baby crawled over and fell on the book. Harry snatched it away. Baby began to scream. Ma interfered.
“Let Baby have it, dear.”
“She’ll tear it, Ma.”
“Let her, dear. I’ll get you another.”
“When?”
“Some day, Harry. When I go to Perth.”
“Ya. — Some day! Will ye get it Monday?”
“Oh, Harry, do be quiet, do — — ”
Then Baby and Harry tore the book between them in their shrieking struggles, while Harry battered the cover on the baby’s head. And a hot, dangerous, bullying look would come into his eyes, the look of a bully. Jack knew that look already. He would know it better before he had done with Australia.
And yet Baby adored Harry. He was her one god.
Jack always marvelled over that baby. To him it was a little monster. It had not lived twelve months, yet God alone knew the things it knew. The ecstacy with which it smacked its red lips and showed its toothless gums over sweet, sloppy food. The diabolic screams if it was thwarted. The way it spat out “lumps” from the porridge! How on earth, at that age, had it come to have such a mortal hatred for lumps in porridge? The way its nose had to be held when it was given castor oil! And again, though it protested so violently against lumps in porridge, how it loved such abominations as plaster, earth, or the scrapings of the pig’s bucket.
When you found it cramming dirt into its mouth, and scolded it, it would hold up its hands wistfully to have them cleaned. And it didn’t mind a bit, then, if you swabbed its mouth out with a lump of rag.
It was a girl. It loved having a new clean frock on. Would sit gurgling and patting its stomach, in a new smart frock, so pleased with itself. Astounding!
It loved bulls and stallions and great pigs, running between their legs. And yet it yelled in unholy terror if fowls or dogs came near. Went into convulsions over the friendly old dog, or a quiet hen pecking near its feet.
It was always trying to scuttle into the stable, where the horses stood. And it had an imbecile desire to put its hand in the fire. And it adored that blue-eyed bully of a Harry, and didn’t care a straw for the mother that slaved for it. Harry, who treated it with scorn and hate, pinching it, cuffing it, shoving it out of its favorite positions — off the grass patch, off the hearth-rug, off the sofa-end. But it knew exactly the moment to retaliate, to claw his cap from his head and clutch his fair curls, or to sweep his bread and jam on to the floor, into the dust, if possible . . . .
To Jack it was all just incredible.
II
But it was part of the family, and so he loved it.
He dearly loved the cheeky Len.
“What d’y’ want ter say ‘feece’ for? Why can’t yer say ‘fyce’ like any other bloke? — and why d’y’ wash y’fyce before y’wash y’hands?”
“I like the water clean for my face.”
“What about your dirty hands, smarmin’ them over it?”
“You use a flannel or a sponge.”
“If y’ve got one! Y’don’t find ‘em growin’ in th’ bush. Why can’t y’ learn offa me now, an’ be proper. Ye’ll be such an awful sukey when y’goes out campin’, y’ll shame y’self. Y’should wash y’hands first. Frow away th’ water if y’not short, but y’ will be. Then when y’ve got y’hands all soapy, sop y’ fyce up an’ down, not round an’ round like a cat does. Then pop y’ nut under th’ pump an’ wring it dry. Don’t never waste y’ huckaback on it. Y’ll want that f’ somefin’ else.”
“What else shall I want my towel for?”
“Wroppin’ up things in, meat an’ damper, an’t’lay down for y’meal, against th’ ants, or to put over it against th’ insex.”
Then from Tom.
“Hey, nipper knowall, dry up! I’ve taught you the way you should behave, haven’t I? Well, I can teach Jack Grant, without any help from you. Skedaddle!”
“Hope y’ can! Sorry for y’, havin’ to try,” said Len as he skedaddled.
Tom was the head of the clan, and the others gave him leal obedience and a genuine, if impudent homage.
“What a funny kid!” said Jack. “He’s different from the rest of you, and his lingo’s rotten.”
“He’s not dif!” said Tom. “‘Xactly same. Same’s all of us — same’s all the nips round here. He went t’ same school as Monica and Grace an’ me, to Aunt’s school in th’ settlement, till Dr. Rackett came. If he’s any different, he got it from him: he’s English.”
Jack noticed they always spoke of Dr. Rackett as if he were a species of rattlesnake that they kept tame about the place.
“But Ma got Dad to get the Doc, ‘cos she can’t bear to part with Len even for a day — to give ‘m lessons at home. — I suppose he’s her eldest son. — Doc needn’t, he’s well-to-do. But he likes it, when he’s here. When he’s not, Lennie slopes off and reads what he pleases. But it makes no difference to Len, he’s real clever. And — ” Tom added grinning — ”he wouldn’t speak like you do neither, not for all the tin in a cow’s bucket.”
To Jack, fresh from an English Public school, Len was amazing. If he hurt himself sharply, he sat and cried for a minute or two. Tears came straight out, as if smitten from a rock. If he read a piece of sorrowful poetry, he just sat and cried, wiping his eyes on his arm without heeding anybody. He was greedy, and when he wanted to, he ate enormously, in front of grown-up people. And yet you never minded. He talked poetry, or raggy bits of Latin, with great sententiousness and in the most awful accent, and without a qualm. Everything he did was right in his own eyes. Perfectly right in his own eyes.
His mother was fascinated by him.
Three things he did well: he rode, bare-back, standing up, lying down, anyhow. He rode like a circus rider. Also he boasted-heavens high. And thirdly, he could laugh. There was something so sudden, so blithe, so impish, so daring, and so wistful in his lit-up face when he laughed, that your heart melted in you like a drop of water.
Jack loved him passionately: as one of the family
.
And yet even to Lennie, Tom was the hero. Tom, the slow Tom, the rather stupid Tom. To Lennie Tom’s very stupidity was manly. Tom was so dependable, so manly, such a capable director. He never gave trouble to anyone, he was so complacent and self-reliant. Lennie was the love-child, the elf. But Tom was the good, ordinary Man, and therefore the hero.
Jack also loved Tom. But he did not accept his manliness so absolutely. And it hurt him a little, that the strange sensitive Len should put himself so absolutely in obedience and second place to the good plain fellow. But it was so. Tom was the chief. Even to Jack.
III
When Tom was away, Jack felt as if the pivot of all activity was missing. Mr. Ellis was not the real pivot. It was the plain, red-faced Tom.
Tom had talked a good deal, in snatches, to Jack. It was the family that bothered him, as usual. He always talked the family.
“My grandfather came out here in the early days. He was a merchant and lost all his money in some East India business. He married Gran in Melbourne, then they came out here. They had a bit of a struggle, but they made good. Then Grampa died without leaving a will: which complicated things for Gran. Dad and Easu was twins, but Dad was the oldest. But Dad had wandered: he was gone for years and no one knows what he did all the time.
“But Gran liked him best, and he was the eldest son, so she had this place all fixed up for him when he came back. She’d a deal of trouble getting the Reds out. All the A’nts were on their side — on the Red’s side. We always call Uncle Easu’s family the Reds. And Aunt Emmie says she’s sure Uncle Easu was born first, and not Dad. And that Gran took a fancy to Dad from the first, so she said he was the eldest. Anyhow it’s neither here nor there. — I hope to goodness I never get twins. — It runs in the family, and of all the awful things! Though the Easu’s have got no twins. Seven sons and no girls, and no twins. Uncle Easu’s dead, so young Red runs their place.
“Uncle Easu was a nasty scrub, anyway. He married the servant girl, and a servant girl no better than she should be, they say.
“He didn’t make no will, either. Making no wills runs in the family, as well as twins. Dad won’t. His Dad wouldn’t, and he won’t neither.”
Which meant, Jack knew, that by the law of the colony the property would come to Tom.
“Oh. Gran’s crafty all right! She never got herself talked about, turning the Reds out! She saved up a stocking — Gran always has a stocking. And she saved up an’ bought ‘em out. She persuaded them that the land beyond this was better’n this. She worked in with ‘em while Dad was away, like the fingers on your hand: and bought that old barn of a place over yonder for ‘em, and bounced ‘em into it. Gran’s crafty, when it’s anyone she cares about. Now it’s Len.
“Anyhow there it was when Dad came back, Wandoo all ready for him. He brought me wrapped in a blanket. Old Tim, our half-caste man, was his servant and there was my old nurse. That’s all there is we know about me. I know no more, neither who I am nor where I sprung from. And Dad never lets on.
“He came back with a bit of money, and Gran made him marry Ma to mind me. She said I was such a squalling little grub, and she wanted me brought up decent. So Ma did it. But Gran never quite fancied me.
“It’s a funny thing, seeing how I come, that I should be so steady and ordinary, and Len should be so clever and unsteady. You’d ha’ thought I should be Len and him me.
“Who was my mother? That’s what I want to know. Who was she? And Dad won’t never say.
“Anyhow she wasn’t black, so what does it matter, anyhow?
“But it does matter!” — Tom brought his fist down with a smack in the palm of his other hand. “Nobody is ordinary to their mother, and I’m ordinary to everybody, and I wish I wasn’t.”
Funny of Tom. Everybody depended on him so, he was the hero of the establishment, because he was so steady and ordinary and dependable. And now even he was wishing himself different. You never knew how folks would take themselves.
IV
As for the Reds, Jack had been over to their place once or twice. They were a rough crowd of men and youths, father and mother both dead. A bachelor establishment. When there was any extra work to be done, the Wandoos went over there to help. And the Reds came over to Wandoo the same. In fact they came more often to Wandoo than the Ellises went to them.
Jack felt the Reds didn’t like him. So he didn’t care for them. Red Ellis, the eldest son, was about thirty years old, a tall, sinewy, red-faced man with reddish hair and reddish beard and staring blue eyes. One morning when Tom and Mr. Ellis were out mustering and tallying, Jack was sent over to the Red house. This was during Jack’s first fortnight at Wandoo.
Red the eldest met him in the yard.
“Where’s y’oss?”
“I haven’t one. Mr. Ellis said you’d lend me one.”
“Can y’ ride?”
“More or less.”
“What dye want wearin’ that Hyde Park costume out here for?”
“I’ve nothing else to ride in,” said Jack, who was in his old riding breeches.
“Can’t y’ ride in trousers?”
“Can’t keep ‘em over my knees, yet.”
“Better learn then, smart ‘n’lively. Keep them down, ‘n’ y’socks up. Come on then, blast ye, an’ I’ll see about a horse.”
They went to the stockyard, an immense place. But it was an empty desert now, save for a couple of black-boys holding a wild-looking bay. Red called out to them:
“Caught Stampede, have y’? Well, let ‘im go again afore y’ break y’ necks. Y’r not to ride him, d’y hear? — What’s in the stables, Ned?”
“Your mare, master. Waiting for you.”
“What y’ got besides, ye grinning jackasses? Find something for Mr. Grant here, an’ look slippy.”
“Oh, master, no horse in, no knowin’ stranger come.”
Red turned to Jack. Easu was a coarse, swivel-eyed, loose-jointed tall fellow.
“Y’ hear that. Th’ only thing left in this yard is Stampede. Ye k’n take him or leave him, if y’r frightened of him. I’m goin’ tallyin’ sheep, an’ goin’ now. If ye stop around idlin’ all day, y’needn’t tell Uncle ‘twas my fault.”
Jack hesitated. From a colonial point of view, he couldn’t ride well, and he knew it. Yet he hated Easu’s insulting way. Easu went grinning to the stable to fetch his mare, pleased with himself. He didn’t want the young Jackeroo planted on him, to teach any blankey thing to.
Jack went slowly over to the quivering Stampede, and asked the blacks if they had ever ridden him. One answered:
“Me only fella ride ‘im some time master not tomorrow. Me an’ Ned catch him in mob longa time — Try break him — no good. He come back paddock one day. Ned wantta break him. No good. Master tell ‘im let ‘im go now.”
Red Easu came walking out of the stable, chewing a stalk.
“Put the saddle on him,” said Jack to the blacks: “I’ll try.”
The boys grinned and scuffled round. They rather liked the job. By being very quick and light, Jack got into the saddle, and gripped. The boys stood back, the horse stood up, and then whirled around on his hind legs, and round and down. Then up and away like a squib round the yard. The boys scattered, so did Easu, but Jack, because it was natural for his legs to grip and stick, stuck on. His bones rattled, his hat flew off, his heart beat high. But unless the horse came down backwards on top of him, he could stay on. And he was not really afraid. He thought: “If he doesn’t go down backwards on top of me, I shall be all right.” And to the boys he called: “Open the gate!” Meanwhile he tried to quiet the horse. “Steady now, steady!” he said, in a low, intimate voice. “Steady boy!” And all the time he held on with his thighs and knees, like iron.
He did not believe in the innate viciousness of the horse. He never believed in the innate viciousness of anything, except a man. And he did not want to fight the horse for simple mastery. He wanted just to hold it hard with his legs until if soothed
down a little, and he and it could come to an understanding. But he must never relax the hold of his hard legs, or he was dead.
Stampede was not ready for the gate. He sprang fiercely at it as if it had been guarded by fire. Once in the open, he ran, and bucked, and bucked, and ran, and kicked, and bucked, and ran. Jack stuck on with the lower half of his body like a vise, feeling as if his head would be jerked off his shoulders. It was becoming hard work. But he knew, unless he stuck on, he was a dead man.
Then he was aware that Stampede was bolting, and Easu was coming along on a grey mare.
Now they reached the far gate, and a miracle happened. Stampede stood still while Red came up and opened the gate. Jack was conscious of a body of live muscle and palpitating fire between his legs, of a furious head tossing hair like hot wire, and bits of white foam. Also he was aware of the trembling in his own thighs, and the sensual exertion of gripping that hot wild body in the power of his own legs. Gripping the hot horse in a grip of sensual mastery that made him tremble strangely with a curious quivering. Yet he dared not relax.
“Go!” said Red. And away they went. Stampede bolted like the wind, and Jack held on with his knees and by balance. He was thrilled, really: frightened externally, but internally keyed up. And never for a moment did he relax his mind’s attention, nor the attention of his own tossed body. The worst was the corkscrew bucks, when he nearly went over the brute’s head. And the moments of vindictive hate, when he would kill the beast and be killed a thousand times, rather than be beaten. Up he went, off the saddle, and down he came again, with a shattering jerk, down on the front of the saddle. The balance he kept was a mystery even to himself, his body was so flung about, by the volcano of furious life beneath him. He felt himself shaken to pieces, his bones rattled all out of socket. But they got there, out to the sheep paddock where a group of Reds and black-boys stood staring in silence.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence Page 390