by Oriel Gray
RUFUS looks up quickly about to deny this, for it has been pure chance. But seeing BEN’s accusing look he stiffens and remains silent.
I still think that people can see their way into the future better than you believe. But to do so, they would have to know the alternatives. I had hoped that the Argus would support this scheme. It seems I was foolish. But can’t you at least state the details—be absolutely impartial, you prepare the statement from my technical details…
He looks at them all… Their stonewall faces halt him.
[Briefly, directly to RUFUS] Shall I leave these?
Gestures to diagrams.
RUFUS: [looking in his turn at the others. Then, with an understanding of KINGSLEY’s feelings] Take them Kingsley. We’ll send for them—if we want them.
KINGSLEY picks up the diagrams. Looks at BEN for a moment, then turns on his heels and walks out. BEN half rises as though to follow him. Then he swings to RUFUS.
BEN: You could have given him that at least! You could have abbreviated a church notice or cut out a social note and given him one day’s space to speak. Or since we’re [Contemptuously] business men here, let him buy it and have his say!
RUFUS: No. [First to BEN then to the others] No. The price of the Argus is two pence. For that you get the whole paper. But outside of advertising—and Kingsley’s scheme is not that—you can’t buy one line of the Argus—and never will, while I’m editor here.
STUWELL SNR: You wouldn’t call a newspaper a business really—not like a store now. It’s more of an interest—eh?
Looks at CHARLIE who seems far from taking an interest in anything. STUWELL gives in, on a pensive ‘Yes…’
RUFUS: Right, Ben—we’re business men here. But it happens that in our business we deal in peculiar commodities—events after they happen, and plans before they are realised. [Swinging on them] Make no mistake gentlemen—whether you think it right or wrong, the idea of this project must be faced by you sometime. Kingsley is not a single fanatic—whether or not the gold is running out in Koolgalla, it has run out in other places—and men are looking for new ways to live. Some time, I tell you, you will have to make up your minds—for or against. You can’t just sit by and let him state his case—you—we—must either attack it bitterly as a dangerous and useless project, or give it our support as necessary life blood to a dying town!
TWIMPLE: [worried] But would you say a crisis was approaching, Mr Torrent. I must say that I haven’t noticed any falling off in my legal—er—commitments…
STUWELL SNR: Nothing wrong with my store—and my store was built on the diggings trade. [Heartening himself] Oh, imagine the gold running out in Koolgalla!
BEN: Imagine it! Haven’t you seen the empty stores in Cresswell, Mr Stuwell?—shovels and billies and panning dishes still shiny under the dust on the wrappings… the broken office windows in Dalton’s Crossing, Mr Twimple, the courthouse falling down…
STUWELL and TWIMPLE look a little aghast. Could there be anything in it? CHARLIE bites a nail in vague worry. MANSON frowns. MANSON rides in.
MANSON: [strong] And what if it does happen here? We’re not tied hand and foot are we? The gold can run out in the ground, but gold is where you find it. We found it before, didn’t we? Let it go then. We’re not finished if it does.
BEN: There’ll be plenty of people in Koolgalla who will be—if the gold goes, and there’s nothing else.
MANSON: You won’t be one of ’em Ben… your father’s seen to that.
BEN: Do you think that would be the only thing that would count with me?
MANSON: No. But it’s the first thing—it has to be. [This is MANSON’s declaration] You can’t give anything away, Ben, until you’ve got enough for yourself—whether it’s money, land or dreams.
Unawares JENNY’s lip curls in contempt.
Yes Miss Jenny, I understand dreams too! [To BEN] I’m not so old that I’ve forgotten what ideas a young man has. But it’s a hard world Ben. When you’re young, you think you can make it a heaven on earth—all for yourself and enough for everyone else… but you get that knocked out of you! Two hands and a brain, that’s what God gives to everyone, for himself. And you’ve got to take what you can with them!
Suddenly he leans across and takes BEN’s hand, holding it flat, comparing it with his own.
I’ve worked hard for what I’ve got. I froze in Canada, got the yellow fever in Brazil, dysentery in India—and I came to Koolgalla, broke, Ben—hungry—broke. Then I took a parcel out of Simmerton’s Flat… But I’d earned it already! You can’t make life easy—not for yourself or anyone else, Ben. All you do that way is breed a race of weaklings, expecting to be saved. There’s plenty in the world to be taken for the fighting—and any man who doesn’t fight, doesn’t deserve it. [Challenging] You’ve made your way in the world, Torrent—have you anything to add to that?
RUFUS: Nothing, Mr Manson—you’re so eloquent that you might be Irish!
MANSON: I haven’t got a son to advise, Torrent. If I had I’d say this. ‘Australia’s a big country. And it’s yours for the taking!’ When we’re finished here, we’ve only emptied one barrel—so throw it away, Ben. Throw it away and open the next!
His magnetism holds BEN, who feels himself swayed though against his own convictions.
You’re not the kind of boy who’s meant to scratch the earth for cabbages!
BEN: I wish I could be as eloquent as my father. I wish I could put my arguments as well as Mr Manson. Gentlemen I beg of you. Forget that I’m young—overlook that the mechanics of this plan are meaningless to me. Let me urge you to give this thing a chance. Don’t pass up the future for the sake of the present that is nearly past. Don’t pass up the glorious—impossible—realisable chance.
RUFUS: [wanting to save him] Ben…
BEN: [wearily and emptily] I know, Father. I sound like a fool. Excuse me gentlemen.
At the door he turns back, bitterly.
Oh, damn all you old—cautious—safe men. You make the world unsure!
BEN starts out. Forgetting where she is, JENNY stands up, her notebook falling to the floor. BEN looks, goes out. MANSON picks up JENNY’s notebook and restores it to her elaborately. He looks over his shoulder at RUFUS.
MANSON: [baiting RUFUS] Be careful Torrent—or you’ll lose him.
TWIMPLE: He has generous sympathies, Mr Torrent.
MANSON goes on wanting to irritate RUFUS.
MANSON: I wouldn’t let it worry you that he gets crazy ideas about the world. All kids do. You might even’ve had some yourself once—but you’ve learned to knuckle down. Nothing like going short of bread to make a man learn what side it’s buttered on when he gets it!
RUFUS: [exploding] I’ve learned many things myself, Mr Manson—but by thunder, I’ve never learned to lick the butter off my bread—and my son will never learn it either. You’re my directors, your money is in my paper—and I bow to that—a certain way. I’ve listened to you—now you listen to me! I’ve told you that one day you’ll have to make up your minds about this plan. Why not make them up now—and favourably. [Back to MANSON] For it’s true—and you know it—that while the gold supply is continuing, it is running thinner. People who once made a good and easy living are now scraping the earth for their loaves of bread—and the men with gold in their pockets from Simmerton’s Flat get fewer and fewer, Mr Manson. There are no more fortunes to be made except by the people who sell the loaves of bread and the God-given earth the people scrape. [To STUWELL] And not for long—think of that! For who makes money in a dead town?
MANSON: I’ve told you—move on.
RUFUS: [he is concentrating on STUWELL and TWIMPLE knowing that MANSON will not come his way] Somewhere you have to stay. And in that place you have to build as well as take. Shall this be our stopping place, gentlemen? Shall we harness the river, and make the town grow, and show them that the Argus moves ahead of the times?
It is a good effort and TWIMPLE and STUWELL are swaying.
STUWE
LL SNR: It’d take money…
TWIMPLE: You’ve shown logic there, Mr Torrent…
SQUIRES: [as RUFUS looks at him] I would like to hear what Mr Manson thinks about it.
MANSON: [standing at window, looking down on town] What do I think? I think Torrent makes up his mind very suddenly—unless it was made up already. Maybe he’s got other interests he’s not telling us.
SQUIRES: It is a rapid decision, Mr Torrent. I don’t want to pry, but if this scheme of Mr Myers might be accepted by the Lands Department… I suppose it could be—certain property investments might become very valuable. [Shrewdly] Yours, perhaps… ? So why not ours—if you have the information to share…
RUFUS: Mr Squires, there is a rodent not yet registered in the catalogue of Australian animals—the lavatory rat—
He bows formally to JENNY.
—Excuse the term, Miss Milford.
JENNY indicates ‘pardon granted’.
STUWELL SNR: I hope no-one’s calling no-one a rat…
MANSON picks up his hat.
MANSON: Maybe Torrent wants to impress his son [He looks at JENNY.] or someone—that he’s still young and adventurous. Nothing like youth to wake up the last of a man’s middle years. Well, I don’t fancy paying for it with my money…
The finger stabs at them all.
… and don’t forget—that’s what it’ll come to in the end… rates, taxes, levies, loans—money… to pay for Torrent’s public spirit. Your money. Not mine. Coming, Squires?
SQUIRES joins him, bows to JENNY.
SQUIRES: Under the present circumstances, I think further discussion would be quite out of order.
There’s a stir among the STUWELLs, TWIMPLE… they don’t want to be left alone with RUFUS.
TWIMPLE: [edging his way out] I do feel that we might—at a later date, perhaps…
MANSON: Don’t carry your head too high, Torrent… easier to bring it down.
He and SQUIRES go after bowing to JENNY.
STUWELL SNR: Well, everyone’s got a right to their own opinion, haven’t they? [To CHARLIE] That’s right, isn’t it? Speak up, son…
CHARLIE: Yes. My opinion is that you’re all bloody silly not to jump at Myers’ idea. Of course it’ll work. Oh, come on, Dad—I want a drink!
CHARLIE STUWELL gives JENNY an outrageous wink—he gets a big smile. He goes. STUWELL SNR follows, saying feebly…
STUWELL SNR: That’s right, Charlie—speak up, son…
JENNY, RUFUS left alone.
RUFUS: Who could have expected that from Stuwell Junior?
RUFUS sits on the edge of the big table.
God, I’m so tired…
JENNY looks at him. Then she goes into his office, and begins to rummage through desk drawers.
I thought I could sway them. But the moment Manson said ‘money’, they followed him like frightened sheep.
JENNY offers him whisky.
And how did you know that was there?
JENNY: A good secretary knows where every essential is to be found.
RUFUS drinks the stiff whisky she pours him.
You know that Kingsley’s dream can come true…
RUFUS: [savagely] How do I know that? How do I know if a thing is right until I see it before my eyes? It’s precious few of us, young lady, who can see the realities of dreams. No, it was no burning conviction—it was my destiny—my stupid Irish temper and my damned Irish pride.
From this point on he forgets who she is, realising only that he is tired, discouraged, desperately in need of an outlet for all the emotion he bottles up, and she is sympathetic.
I’ve worked for years to conquer them—to be cool and wise and responsible—an English gentleman in fact—and they trap me still! And suddenly there I am risking myself like a gambler on a chance card, fighting a fight that should be no fight of mine.
As though answering an unspoken need, JENNY comes softly to the chair next to RUFUS and sits in it, her chin on her hands, looking at him obliquely across the table.
JENNY: Must your destiny be only pride and anger?
RUFUS: It’s the destiny of any Dubliner—any poverty stricken, broken footed, torn trousered, Dubliner. Be proud and angry enough to cut your way out—or else fumble and go under—fumble with your person, fumble with your girl, fumble with your God—and so be trapped! I was not to be trapped!
JENNY: What did you do?
RUFUS: Denied my world—parents, friends, girls—even my God. So I denied and defied all. And where has it led me… ?
JENNY: Here, to Koolgalla—free of the past and with your soul your own?
RUFUS: Is any Irishman free of his past? You don’t understand. Being Irish isn’t a nationality—it’s a disease!
JENNY gives him another whisky, and she laughs.
[Lightly] I can see you don’t approve of us.
JENNY: Oh, you have charm—and the bright courage on the brink of the grave that makes men love you… Yes, and you’ve made your wit part of this country, so that in all their heroics there will always be a taste of wryness, and the cream of their jest will always be sour! But you hug your hurt pride to your heart and pride yourself on your ability to live alone. I tell you, to live alone is nothing! Anybody can do it! But to live with the world—not to perish, but to work for it—not to weep for it, but to change it—that makes a man—or a woman! And if everything fails—love and religion, faith, hope and charity are proven lies, there is still something left that can make us go on!
She is almost hurling the words at him… suddenly she breaks and her own doubts and bewilderment catch up on her. She falters and in a sudden collapse which is almost childish says…
But I don’t know what it is, or how to find it.
RUFUS: [tenderly] You don’t need to search, Jenny. You have it in your heart. And what do you know of battles?
JENNY: I am as much a soldier as any of your Irish heroes. I fight for the things I believe in… and it’s a desolate thing sometimes to seem to be the one woman alone on such a new battleground.
RUFUS: You chose it, you—NEW—woman!
JENNY: And proud of it! If you have to fight then always choose your battleground! That is only common sense!
RUFUS: And you know what you fight for?
JENNY: Yes.
This is straight in the eye. They are very close. Slowly he puts out a hand and touches her lightly on the shoulder, as though acknowledging her equality.
RUFUS: I believe you do—and will achieve it.
JENNY: [eagerly] That is why I felt so much for Ben today…
RUFUS begins to chill.
That was his battleground… and you mustn’t let him feel he was driven from it in defeat. He will be such a fine man. But he needs encouragement, inspiration…
RUFUS has turned away from her. Very deliberately he moves to the hat rack, takes down hat, puts it on.
RUFUS: I think my son has reached the age when he must learn to make his own decisions, Miss Milford. If he does need—er inspiration, Miss Milford, I am confident that it can be supplied by his fiancée… the proper person, Miss Milford, to give solace and comfort…
It is dawning on JENNY that this is a rebuke administered to her. She is hurt and angry. RUFUS turns at the door.
When you have typed the editorial, Miss Milford, you may go. And please remember that ‘E I’ still follows ‘C’ as a general rule.
He goes out on the angry JENNY. JENNY tosses off the last of his whisky—and chokes on it.
SCENE TWO
An hour later, the same evening. JENNY is sitting at the small table, a block in her hand that she has taken from the box, her thoughts far from pleasant. CHRISTY pops through the centre entrance.
CHRISTY: Editorial ready?
Startled, the block flies out of JENNY’s hand on to the floor.
JENNY: Oh—you startled me, Christy.
CHRISTY: ’Course, I move like a cat—learned it from the blacks, y’know… lived with ’em for years when I…
In?
JENNY: Out.
CHRISTY: [relieved, trots over to her] Oh. Now where was I? Oh, yes, you were asking about me living with the blacks. Well, it was when I was shipwrecked when the Lustre Bell struck off the Cape. Would’ve died but for them blacks… When I caught up with the white men again and I left, they cried—the whole tribe just cried!
JENNY: I believe they would.
CHRISTY: And then there was this other time
JOCK: [bellowing from downstairs] Christy!
CHRISTY: [yelling from the stairs] What?
JOCK: The editorial, you numbskull!
CHRISTY: Coming. [Chuckles, unregenerate] Knew there was something on me mind. Have you got the editorial ready?
JENNY: Mr Torrent’s done it, Christy, but I haven’t quite finished typing it.
She stands up to move to typewriter.
I’ll do it now.
CHRISTY: [gleefully] Don’t worry yourself. You been busy this afternoon with the [Contemptuously] Directors’ Meeting?
JENNY: Rather busy…
CHRISTY: Newspapers never had ‘directors’ when I worked on ’em first. Just a damn nuisance! [Cunningly] Did I hear the Old Man bellowing!
JENNY: [demurely] How could you, Christy—all the way downstairs.
CHRISTY: No need to tell anyone, when his lordship lets his lungs out for an airing. Was it Manson got his goat? He’s got the devil’s own temper when it’s up.
JENNY: [determinedly] Christy, you must go down now and tell Mr MacDonald that I’ll bring this editorial down in a few minutes…
She gives CHRISTY a gentle push in the direction of the door.
CHRISTY: [going slowly, still chuckling] Oh, he’s got a fine temper alright! By God, if he finds out that young Ben is over at the Royal, filling himself up with whisky, there’ll be such a—
He is almost out by this, but JENNY pulls him back with such force and abruptness that CHRISTY is left gasping.