by Peter Corris
I re-joined the gathering with the feeling in my heart that I was in the midst of mine enemies; I had lost a battle perhaps, but there was still the war to be won.
24
Elizabeth could only spare a week away from her burgeoning business (she was forever opening new buildings, new wings, hiring and firing staff and trying to get a better deal on bed linen), so the honeymoon had to be local. We went to a town called Warburton, past those bloody Dandenong hills we'd hiked through in what Elizabeth had begun to call our courting days.
I've still got a photograph of the place we stayed at – a huge Victorian guesthouse, all porches and dormer windows and wide balconies. It was called The Green Gate and I suppose it had one, I don't remember. What I do remember is the vile food, huge amounts of stodge three times a day, and the sheets, cold and hard as iron.
We had the Victoria and Albert suite naturally, a couple of big rooms with a balcony looking out over the hills and a fireplace more suited to a maid's attic. It was impossible to get warm in that room, either by sitting close to the fire, getting into bed or pouring brandy down your throat. I pursued the latter course mostly while Elizabeth spent a lot of time sitting in bed with enormous shawls wrapped around her brawny shoulders making calculations on a notepad.
Outside it was either raining or there was an icy crust on the ground. We went walking (again trying to get warm) but Elizabeth had gained weight fast in recent weeks and was still gaining so that she didn't have the sprightly step of yore, thank Christ. There was a lot of simpering from maids and knowing looks from waiters and others; Elizabeth bloomed (she loved the food) while I must have visibly waned. I overheard remarks like, 'She must be keepin' 'im 'ard at it. Poor chap's wore to a frazzle.' Truly a miserable time; seven days felt like seventy.
Back in town Elizabeth threw herself into her business and left me pretty much alone in the daytime although she watched me like a cat at night. I kept a tight hold on my small gold reserves and didn't have much ready money by this time, Brown Knight Productions being somewhat stalled. I suppose Elizabeth reckoned that without money I couldn't find mischief. God knows I tried; I hung around the clubs drumming up a few bets on billiards (at which game my straight eye made me a flashy performer) and then at the races trying to increase the stake. The results were indifferent. I got to know a few fellows in a like fix – good chaps, knew their wine and horses but always strapped for cash. I recall one of them envying me my well-heeled wife.
'You're on easy street, Browning. God, I'd change places with you!'
'Today?' I said. 'How about tonight!'
'Steady on, old chap.'
'You don't understand, it's a misery being tied to a woman you don't love.'
He laughed at that and ordered another bottle. 'I met a fellow the other day who said it was a misery being with a woman he did love. He felt he wasn't worthy of her, couldn't live up to his good opinion of her. Did you ever hear such claptrap?' He drank deep and rapped the glass on the table. (We were in a wine shop in Fitzroy, low place, but the wine was fair.) 'Remedy's the same in both cases.'
I was getting sick of his prosing and spoke sharply. 'And what's that, pray?'
He rubbed his red nose with a nicotine-stained finger. 'Be off, dear boy. In your case with the family silver or whatever you can lay your hands on.'
I knew he was right but he didn't know about the threat that Elizabeth held over me like the sword of . . . [Browning's voice fades here; he was evidently trying to recall the name 'Damocles' from his interrupted education. Ed.]. I went back to the flat deep in thought. We were living in the flat temporarily while Elizabeth looked for a house. She wanted something near the hospital in East Melbourne, which narrowed the field somewhat. Also, she was too busy to spare much time for the task. At least she hadn't wanted us to live at The Gables.
I threw myself into an armchair, lit a cigarette and opened the paper. There was nothing of interest in the sporting news and I was idly looking at an article about the different states co-operating on a Murray River irrigation scheme (that was news, the states had never been able to agree on anything, even on a standard railway gauge to run between them) when I heard the letter slot open and clatter closed. I heaved myself up, went to the door and retrieved the letter.
The postmark – Newcastle – set alarm bells ringing and the writing was vaguely familiar. I opened it and found a short note in my mother's uncertain hand. I've watched enough television to know that what happens to you in your early years, early days even, affects you for the rest of your life. And from what I can see, there's not a damn thing you can do about it, even if you later come to understand exactly what happened. I know that my fear of my father has affected me. I still jump when I see an old photo of someone who looks like him or hear a voice like his. So even out-living him hasn't helped. Of course it was much worse when I was younger; everything about him scared me – and letters that were written in his house scared me as much as knives or bullets. I can recollect this one, more or less; it read:
Dear Dick,
Father and I have heard of your whereabouts through a friend who showed us a copy of the Melbourne Argus. You are a very cruel boy to stay out of touch for so long and to become married without telling us. However, we want to say that all is forgiven and we would wish to see you soon. Father is not well and you would not want it on your conscience not to see him at this time.
We are still in Newcastle at the same address. Please write to us or better still come to visit with your bride or both.
Your loving,
Mother
Newcastle! The thought of going anywhere near the place terrified me, but present circumstances needed desperate remedies. A plan began to form in my mind.
Elizabeth came home tired and I was attentiveness itself. I'd been out to the shops and had bought some wine, biscuits and cheese and a lemon cake which was her favourite variety. I proposed a supper in the flat and an early retirement – this with the best I could summon in the way of a leer. She ignored that but welcomed the idea of the food being to hand. I helped her off with her boots and slid a stool under her feet.
'I'm so tired, Richard.'
'You work too hard, love.'
'It's a pity you don't work harder.' This was a new line with her – poor Dick's laziness. I found it galling and usually snapped back but this time I was conciliatory.
'The production is on schedule. You can't rush these things.'
'If you say so,' she said wearily. 'Pour the wine.'
We had a glass and some of the food, me keeping up a light line of chatter, her sighing from time to time. I was trying to look serious and concerned, not an easy thing for me to do, being a light-hearted chap. She seemed more than usually preoccupied and so it was that we simultaneously opened our mouths and said: 'What's the matter?'
'You first, dear,' I said. 'More wine?'
She nodded and I poured. 'Pat's back,' she said flatly. 'You remember Pat – from Switzerland. When you were Tony Grace?'
This was said in a malicious imitation of the Afrikaans accent. I wanted to brain her but I smiled and nodded. 'Yes, I remember her.'
'She's a damn nuisance.'
'Oh?'
Elizabeth flushed. 'Well, we were just girls and there were no men around, no whole ones anyway. D'you understand, Richard?'
I sipped my wine and shook my head.
'You must have heard of schoolgirl crushes?'
'Vaguely.'
'It must happen in boys' schools, too. I'm told it happens in prisons. You must know something about it!'
I was beginning to get her drift. Ah,' I said.
'Stop saying "ah" and "oh" and say something useful.'
'She's pestering you to . . . renew your friendship, is that it?'
'Yes, and more. She wants to help me in the business. The trouble is, she's damn good at that sort of thing. She's got ideas that would double . . . Oh, but you're not interested.'
In truth I wasn't and the eveni
ng wasn't turning out at all as I'd planned. I'm not much good at handling other people's troubles, usually because I've got too many of my own to spare the brain power or whatever it is you apply to troubles. I was well and truly stumped by this one and I sat there dumbly looking at her as she scoffed biscuits and swilled wine. My appetite had fled and it looked as if I wasn't going to have to get my strength up for a bedroom tussle.
Why can't you just send her packing.'
'It's not as easy as that, she . . .'
'She's not blackmailing you?'
Elizabeth picked up crumbs with her forefinger. 'To operate private hospitals in the State of Victoria you have to be of impeccable moral character.'
'You mean . . .?'
'Well, married, for one thing, if you're a female.'
'I see.'
'I suppose you do. But that was only one reason; I am fond of you, Richard.'
I acted hurt and poured myself another glass to cover my whirling thoughts. On any other occasion I'd have been delighted – the biter bit and all that. Here's Elizabeth, who's blackmailed me into marrying her so she can make her money and, either as a cover for herself as she runs after the nurses or as a means of averting temptation, having the screws put on her by one who knows all. It was rich. But I couldn't see what good it would do me.
I shrugged. She looked at me angrily. 'You don't care!'
'Not much. I've got my own problems.' I pulled out the letter from my pocket and smoothed it on my knee. 'See here, Elizabeth, I wasn't being quite straight with you when I said my Mama and Papa were dead. I've just had a letter. Looks as if I'll have to go up and see the old chap.'
I passed the letter across. She read it rapidly and then stared off into the distance, as if she wasn't just a few feet away from the hunting scene wallpaper.
'I knew about your Novocastrian origins, of course,' she said, 'and you've never given off the air of an orphan, dear.' She clicked her tongue. 'This is perfect.'
'Eh?'
'I'll leave Pat in charge of things for a while. She can get everything running smoothly but she's bound to be indiscreet with one of the nurses. Then I'll be able to get rid of her.'
'I don't follow you.'
'God, you're slow. I'm coming with you, Richard.'
25
Well, never let a few obstacles interfere with a good plan, as General Custer said, referring to the Indians. I'd made up my mind to go to Newcastle and if I had to take my blushing bride along with me, so be it.
She made her arrangements and I made mine. These mainly consisted of turning everything of value I could lay my hands on into gold coin and collecting together useful items, like my passport and some of Helen Hawes' photographs of myself in the Kelly film. Quite apart from my long-term plans, I was very keen to get out of Melbourne. The winter seemed colder than in England (though not as bad as in France, nothing could have been), and day after day of heavy skies, whipping rain and icy winds will depress the most ebullient spirit.
Departures have always made me happier than arrivals. I was feeling fine when we boarded the train at Spencer Street. Even the length of time it took to get Elizabeth's cases and hatboxes aboard didn't upset me, nor her fussing about rugs and windows in the carriage. I got her settled and went out onto the observation platform for a smoke. I was well rugged up in my British warm, with gloves and a thick woollen scarf I had won in a billiards game. A train pulled out from the adjacent platform and I saw the steam jet out and the wheels turn and I understood why no film director has ever been able to resist that shot of the turning wheels.
Then it was our turn. The steam enveloped the platform workers and all those poor devils unlucky enough to be staying behind. I flicked my cigarette end out onto the track and watched the city lights move past. It was eight o'clock; I remember hearing the sound of the hour striking over the noise of the wheels. The tram tracks ran parallel to the railway and at right angles up the wide streets of Melbourne which are laid out in a square pattern. The wind whipped at me and I ducked back inside the car. I never saw 'Marvellous Melbourne' again.
Elizabeth kept up a steady stream of complaints as we cleared the suburbs. Unlike me, departures upset her – she worried about things left undone, loose ends that might unravel while she was away. There were two or three other people in the compartment – two women and a clergyman I think, or perhaps it was two clergymen and a woman – in any case, little chance of a good conversation or a game of cards. I listened to Elizabeth express her doubts about the Sydney weather until I could bear it no longer.
'Do shut up, Elizabeth!'
'Why, Richard . . .'
'Talk about something else.'
'What?'
'Anything.'
'Tell me about your parents.'
'No.'
'Your mother sounds . . . forgiving.'
Unlike you, I thought, but I said nothing.
'Tell me about your father.'
I said nothing still but must have changed colour and expression.
'Why, Richard,' she crowed. 'I do believe you're afraid of him.'
I went outside for a smoke.
Standing at the end of the corridor, I lit a cigarette and considered the question of my attitude to 'Wild Bill'. Was I afraid of him? Probably. He stood a couple of inches taller than me, had developed extraordinary strength in his mining days and sometimes let me feel the effects of it. I mean in a sidelong sweep, not a full-bodied punch. I don't believe I would be here in full possession of my faculties (well, most of 'em) if he had landed one of those punches on me as a kid. He was reputed to have killed a man in a bare knuckle fight on the diggings. Yes, I was terrified of him.
But it wasn't just a physical matter. I wanted to please him and felt I never could. Could never be brave enough or selfless enough or noble enough. So, of course, I abandoned all three of those qualities. I see it all clearly now with the wisdom of this much hindsight, but then, as a mere twenty-four year old, I only had glimmerings. I think I was beginning to understand that I was the man I was because my father was the man he was – but I simply blamed him for the bad parts of my character and took credit myself for the good.
I lit another cigarette and had a couple of swigs of brandy from my flask as a protective against the night air. The train was rushing through the country now; an occasional firelight showed in the distance but the night was very dark and the interior of the train felt like the whole world. You'll think I'm being fanciful if I say that the wheels of the train were saying 'Hollywood, Hollywood' to me. You'd be right; despite the brandy they were just clacking along. I had my feet on the ground (so to speak) and I knew what I was doing.
Back in the carriage I smiled at Elizabeth who had her head buried in a copy of the Government gazette – probably trying to pick out the most corruptible officials for future reference. Her eyes came up and she saw my expression.
'Why are you looking like that, Richard?'
'I'm looking forward to introducing you to my father. I think you'll be afraid of him, too.'
That gave her something to think about. I tipped my head to one side, cocked my hand up under it, elbow on the window, and let myself drift off to sleep. One of the clergymen (or was it one of the women) was already snoring.
In those days you couldn't travel from Melbourne to Sydney by rail without interruption. The 'statesmen' who'd been in charge in colonial days had never been able to agree on a standard width for the railway. One state had one width and another another. The result was that you had to get down at a place called Albany. [Browning's memory failed him again here; the changeover took place at Albury. Railways were never a major interest of Browning's. Ed.] We reached this place some time after midnight and changed trains. This involved stomping across an icy, windswept platform and waiting while the baggage was transshipped. Elizabeth grumbled, naturally, and in the way of Victorians, accused the colonial New South Wales politicians of being the cause of the gauge dispute, and the present bunch of being responsible
for the slowness of the change.
Half-stewed from my not infrequent nips of brandy I stared out the window and ignored her. The train started and we ran briefly beside the Murray River, that same one they were talking of co-operatively using for irrigation, some hope. The steward came in and pulled down the bunks; we were in a two-berth sleeping compartment now and could hope to get some rest on the seven or eight hours of the journey that remained.
'Good night,' said the steward, although it was morning.
'Good night,' I said and that was all the exchange between us. You won't believe me, but tipping was unheard of in Australia in those days. If you'd tried to tip a fellow like this he would have felt insulted, like as not, and given you a straight right. It's not everything that has changed for the best.
If you've been reasonably lucky in your life, you'll have made love in a narrow bed while a train rattled along the tracks. I have, more than once. It's a very romantic feeling and has practical benefits, too – the motion is convenient and deep and restful sleep afterwards is guaranteed. But there was nothing like that on this occasion. Elizabeth settled herself on the lower bunk, read her gazette for a while and fell asleep. I tossed and turned in the top berth until there was no course open to me but to finish the brandy.
I slept long and deep. When I awoke the sun was up, we were somewhere west of Sydney, not too far out, and Elizabeth was sitting up, brushed and washed and reading the morning paper.
'Breakfast,' I mumbled.
'You were snoring,' Elizabeth said primly. I've had mine. You'd better hurry along to the dining car or you'll miss it.'
'Where did you get the paper?'
'They came on board at a place called Liverpool. Quaint, isn't it, all the English names up here.'