A River Town Page 18

  Tim leaned for a while against his counter. “Sweet Jesus!” he protested. “What a pernicious way of going about it! What was I to do?”

  “You were to refuse to serve me. You may send the fine by telegraphic money transfer through any post office to the address on this form.”

  The man handed him a penalty form already filled out. The name Timothy Shea was on it already, and the address.

  “You had me as a bloody target!” Tim protested.

  “Someone in the Commercial told me you were a pretty sentimental fellow, so I immediately put you down. It saves me time to fill out the summons first, and then you don’t have the aggravation of my presence in your store for longer than necessary. You can, of course, contest the summons in court, but it will be expensive, and I have the evidence.”

  He lifted the sugar and biscuits and shook them by the necks of the bags which contained them.

  “You could bloody pay me for them then.”

  “No, these are forfeit. You should read the Act. Any sensible storekeeper would have it framed on the premises like butcher shops which have the Health Act on the wall. Then when plausible buggers like me come knocking, the storekeeper can point to the Act and say sorry.”

  “I say bloody sorry all right,” said Tim fervently. He wished Kitty was here to give this fellow her style of treatment. Men were frightened of her contempt.

  Bereft of her, Tim went to the door, opened it, and gestured the inspector out into the night. The man collected himself to leave.

  “Do you ever ask yourself, if this is a fit way for a man to make a living?” asked Tim.

  “You can put that question to a magistrate, old feller. And he’ll tell you that it’s quite fit. Show me a society that does not need regulation.” The man was actually smiling broadly. “Consider this as a living act of affection from the government of New South Wales. People hate it when they are made an example of. But there has to be examples, now wouldn’t you agree?” He saluted by touching the brim of his hat. “I don’t object at all if you relate your experiences to the other storekeepers in town.”

  And he sauntered off to the Commercial, having brought down the hugest and most exemplary debt upon the household of Shea.

  “I bet you consulted the Lodge at the Good Templars on who to hit!” Tim muttered for his own comfort before closing up.

  The teeth marks of authority were on him. How they stung! He was reminded by a familiar spurt of panic of the manner in which Constable Hanney had also shown power’s teeth in Kelty’s pub. You were left by Hanney and the man from the Colonial Secretary’s, both of them clanging on about civilisation and authority, with a fearful awareness of the crust-thinness of the civilised world.

  Fifteen pounds just about cleaned him out. Spiritually as well as otherwise. And now without a spouse to tether him to living flesh and the named world, he knew he faced more visitations.

  From his bedroom he could hear Ellen Burke leaving the sleeping children, creeping out the back to the privy and then back to an aggrieved bed. As long as she wasn’t dreaming of that little hawker. The idea that she might be doing so rankled with him.

  Turn on his side. Turn towards the south-east and its mountains, away from the tricky town, away from the deadly ocean eastwards downriver.

  Yet that didn’t save him. His marriage bed sat in the bright sea, and he trembled to see Kitty and Mrs. Arnold walking the deck staring over the gunwales. There was terrible Missy. In the sea, afloat Ophelia-wise, a bridal veil drifting out widely around her head. She paddled like a calm character. Like a child of Albert Rochester’s playing tranquilly in the Macleay at joining her father in his deep purgatory in West Kempsey cemetery.

  “Can’t you make things go faster?” he cried out to Kitty. Pleading with his callous wife. For he wanted to leave Ophelia and Missy behind. Kitty nudged Mrs. Arnold, one woman nudging another in sisterly wisdom. Men have no patience. Wanting everything at once. If they bore children, they’d want to give birth within two days and God how they’d whinge about the endless wait!

  So Kitty excluded him in front of her cabin-mate, old Mrs. Arnold. So Kitty ignored his fear. Like a judgment, Missy rose up on a rope ladder. When her head struck the over-vivid sky, there would be lightning. He began to yell in protest, and anger and terror woke him.

  Oh Jesus. He got up and walked around trembling for a while. Despite the fifteen pounds, the smiling inspector so proud of the impact of good order on the storekeepers in the Macleay, Tim knew he must now clearly authorise another five-bob Mass. For the unnamed intention.

  Nine

  SO WELL did Ellen Burke give off that air of resentful efficiency that Tim sheltered from it for hours at a time in the store. The Chronicle or Argus spread as if for wrapping goods, but in fact to comfort and illumine the day. Argus carrying a demented report that in Africa the New South Wales and New Zealand contingents bravely participated in a gymkhana on the Modder River in spite of shelling. Then Queen Natalie of Serbia retains her beauty by a diet of buttermilk and by washing her face in it. Exactly what the Macleay storekeeper needs to know. Some plague reported in the French Pacific in January. Cases in Noumea.

  “Mr. John McDonald is leaving Coopernook for the Transvaal.” Coopernook a very quiet place, beside which Kempsey was London, Vienna, New York. So it went on—papers a great chaotic puzzle omniscient as God but not in as orderly a manner. Queen Natalie’s cheeks shoved up against Chinese silkworms and sick Kanakas in Noumea.

  Amongst these drifts of information, Tim remotely heard one forenoon sudden wild laughter and whistles from Smith and Belgrave Streets. From the direction of the river appeared a strange bolt of colour and jolting, interrupted light flickered past the windows of the store. Mad, barefoot Johnny aboard mad pig-rooting, barebacked Pee Dee! Not so quickly did they flash by that Tim couldn’t tell Johnny had a rope halter on Pee Dee, but only that. Not even a saddle cloth. A pretty fragile means of containing all the flight there was in Pee Dee.

  Running from behind the counter, one still hoped, even in a state of alarm, for Johnny’s continued life. His wiriness encouraged that margin of hope which edged the all-but-consuming alarm. Even in mid-rush for the door, with the known chance Pee Dee might make all decisions unnecessary by driving a hoof through the child’s head, Tim resolved at once that this flash beyond the glass meant it was time to send Johnny to Imelda. Yet fear choked a man and made him slow. The boards of the floor on which Johnny had sometimes been at least a placid artist canted up and delayed him.

  Getting into the street, Tim saw almost at once far up Belgrave Street beyond Pee Dee and Johnny that, oh dear Jesus, there was a mob of cattle coming down from the direction of West. Pee Dee could not tolerate cattle. And on the footpaths of Belgrave, callous men and boys whistled and cat-called as the abominable horse went juddering and flicking and bucking down towards the cattle. What a frenzy when their beefy, pissy scent got to Pee Dee!

  His flour-bag apron still wrapped around him, Tim went running after the horse. In a valley of heroes or mounted bushmen or whatever they were to be, there was no one of the criminal pedestrian cowards up Belgrave Street to run out and grap the mad horse’s halter. They whistled, and called, “Wild horses!”

  Pee Dee had not even seen the cattle yet.

  But the drovers had seen him. They sent their dogs out in front of the herd, which were all over the road and footpaths, and rode hard themselves to wheel them, stop them and see what developed with the crazed Pee Dee.

  Pee Dee at last scented the cattle.

  He stood on his hind legs as upright as some flash stallion from Aroni’s Circus. Johnny simply hung free and swung by the halter. Then a sideways contortion and Johnny was hurled against one of the posts of the Commercial Hotel. Shoulder and head. Tim saw Johnny’s brown-red hair flick out with the shock of the thing.

  This impact cut off all the cat-calls and whistles. Men who had a second before been hooting at Johnny’s peril came running up to him. Drinkers app
eared from the Commercial’s front bar. Miss Dynes, the barmaid, appeared while Tim still ran towards the boy. She had towels in her hands, and she began mopping at Johnny’s head and ordering the spectators. Complaining to God and to Johnny, Tim scooped the boy up and began to run, and wizened Miss Dynes kept pace with him, holding the bloody towels in place as Tim ran towards Dr. Erson’s rooms in Forth Street.

  Tim could see some wiry little man soothing Pee Dee and leading him off to tether him.

  Along the footpath, into Dr. Erson the songbird’s garden, up the steps and into the front room where Mrs. Erson, a pale-skinned goddess used to bloody events, opened the door of the doctor’s inner office for Tim and Miss Dynes to carry the sluggrey, bloodied child indoors. Erson, so often mocked by Tim as an over-active tenor, now gloriously present here when needed! Packing his bag to visit Macleay District Hospital, where women patients always found him so knightly and such a darling fellow.

  “Oh doctor!” Tim yelled, so grateful that forever more when he heard Erson start up with, “We are tenting tonight on the old camp ground,” he would greet it as a wonderful, strange, divinely generous sound.

  Erson called, “Here! here!” Patting the leather of his surgical couch like a doctor in a crisis in a play. No more than half a degree away from being a Thespian at most times.

  But now he became all business.

  “Is Johnny dead?” Tim asked repeatedly. Dr. Erson did not say so, and yet did not seem to be ignoring the question for the sake of theatrical suspense either. He was checking pulse and raising Johnny’s eyelids to see the pole-axed eyes beneath, and he and his wife had bowls of water and iodine, and Mrs. Erson went to a cabinet and got needle and thread and catgut.

  “He is not dead, Mr. Shea,” said Dr. Erson. “My God, a good skull. Where are you and your wife from?”

  “Newmarket and Doneraile. Near Mallow. You know it? In North Cork.”

  “Oh, God, yes,” said Erson enthusiastically. “Utterly characteristic. A well-formed Celtic scone, this one of your son’s. Fortified by a little Norman interbreeding. A fortunate shape. If he had a squarer Germanic skull, your concerns might be justified.”

  Mrs. Erson washed around the wound and dribbled iodine and water in it. Erson himself threaded the needle and began sewing together the living flesh of Johnny’s scalp.

  “You must watch him,” the doctor told Tim. “He may swallow his tongue and may fit.”

  Erson went on with brisk sutures, sewing life back into the boy.

  At last he asked Tim what had happened. Tim recounted the sudden accident. Miss Dynes, the ugliest and loveliest barmaid of any valley, stood by the door smoothing the alarm out of her cheeks with both hands.

  “You will kill a horse as mad as that, I suppose,” said Dr. Erson, pulling a stitch.

  Johnny began to murmur to himself. “Hold hard,” pleaded Johnny.

  “He is an old racehorse,” said Tim. “Temperamental by nature.”

  My dear God, he thought, I am pleading for my cart horse!

  “Temperament is not worth putting up with,” said Dr. Erson.

  “My God, what a beautiful skull your boy has. Where my grandparents come from, in Saxony, a skull like this would be a relic from a much earlier age.”

  “I thought you were Scottish,” said Tim, watching carefully. And after all, didn’t they call the English Saxons?

  “My grandparents went to Scotland in the wool trade,” said Dr. Erson, distractedly, tugging on the thread. “But the horse …?”

  “He is all right if you obey certain rules with him,” said Tim. To himself it sounded hollow.

  “I thought we were the rule-makers,” said Dr. Erson. “When it comes to beasts.”

  Tim thought of Bandy Habash in that instant. Wanting the Turf Club to consider the merits of his grey. The question formed beneath his ribs. So, Bandy was suspect for his horse-passion. Yet what excuse can be made for the sort of man who expects his own issue, the bone of his bone, scalp of scalp, to obey the rules of a broken-down thoroughbred like Pee Dee? Who was this bloody horse, after all?

  “I’ll certainly consider selling him,” said Tim.

  The doctor laughed. “So that I can be mending someone else’s head. Well, this boy may, as I said, have convulsions and will need to be sat with all night. Can that be arranged? By the way, a bruising on his shoulder but no fracture. And he’s young, so I’m sure no memory loss. He’ll recall his adventure. Which might not be a bad thing.”

  “I’m going to send him to school after this,” pledged Tim. “But how can I thank you?”

  Dr. Erson began tenderly to wash Johnny’s scalp a last time. The water in the bowl pinkened as he proceeded. He flapped one hand.

  “Oh, this is nothing. This is gross medicine. This is carpentry. I was prepared for far more momentous things in the School of Medicine at Edinburgh.”

  He finished the laving of Johnny’s head suddenly. He said he had to be off to the Macleay District Hospital. He left his wife to wrap Johnny in a blanket and put the boy murmuring into Tim’s arms.

  “I shall post you an account,” she whispered. Tim began to weep, walking out with the boy. Miss Dynes accompanied him.

  “You are going to kill that bloody horse, aren’t you, Tim?” she asked him. “He’s always backing and pig-rooting. The wrong type.”

  You couldn’t argue with her. But my comrade, thought Tim. My fellow campaigner.

  Not all the blame was Pee Dee’s.

  It quietened Ellen Burke down to see Johnny and to keep watch at his bedside. He himself, Tim, returned Pee Dee to his paddock, and took the extreme measure of flicking him on his way with a branch of a gum tree.

  “You’re a bloody scoundrel blackguard,” he told Pee Dee. But the horse had the bearing of a creature who could explain himself adequately to a judge of his own distinction. A noble in bloody exile, a remittance man of the horseworld.

  In the afternoon Tim found himself making notes on paper as to whether Dr. Erson would charge a half-sovereign or a sovereign and putting it against other debts. Dear Christ, the bills were heroic.

  By now, as his son lay under the watchfulness of Ellen Burke, plump-with-child Kitty would be at the wharf, seeing SS Iris heave into the Semi-Circular Quay over Sydney’s bright water. Kitty innocent, and waving to her sister. Putting on a cockney scream as a joke. “Oi to you, Mamie!”

  When she came back, she might bloody persuade me to shoot my brother, the horse!

  And he would meet her at the boat and say, “I think it’s time Johnny began schooling. Can’t be trusted around horses or boats or rivers. Needs the Joyful and Sorrowful Mysteries, including an occasional Sorrowful Mystery across the arse from Mother Imelda.”

  He’d returned from deliveries to find Johnny a little fevered and muttering—this is what Ellen Burke reported—but nothing too severe. Then into the store to wait the normal afternoon tea rush, on whose tail-end the man from the Colonial Secretary’s had craftily tacked himself.

  He saw Ernie Malcolm stride out of Smith Street from the direction of his office. Oh, Jesus, Tim thought. I’m going to be given credit for carrying my own bleeding son to Dr. Erson’s. And yet there was a change in manner here. It made you wonder the way Ernie was walking in his light grey suit. He didn’t look as open to any rumour of brave service, any chance for civil pride, as he usually did.

  There was a child in the store with a note when Ernie stepped in. Ernie offered no background greeting, but concerned himself with the labels of the biscuit cans, the hams, the treacles and the puddings on the further wall near the storeroom. But Ernie’s reading of labels was only a way of banking some urgency he had in him.

  The child left. Ernie looked at Tim. His head had an unusual angle. Not the angle of expecting the best of the best of all possible citizens in the best of all possible Empires. It was some other, more private and dangerous angle.

  “Mr. Malcolm,” said Tim.

  “Mr. Shea, I take it very badly that you impo
se yourself on Mrs. Malcolm in this way.”

  “What way is that?”

  “Certainly I am happy to pay my way, and I don’t think any man’s ever said otherwise. But I find my wife has been in a moment of illness gouged for extra money, more than due. This makes me wonder about my judgment on you. Makes me more disposed, too, to listen to other buggers whose judgment of you isn’t as high as mine. If the terms were Cash On Delivery, and you’d made them clear to me, that would have been acceptable. But Cash Before Delivery … well, they’re terms of trade I haven’t heard of before.”

  Tim shook his head. “Oh, God, Ernie,” he said. “I was uneasy about that extra payment, and I never asked for it.”

  “Well, you would say that. And if you do say it, what am I supposed to believe about my wife?”

  “I think your wife may have been a bit indisposed that afternoon. That was behind the extra money. But I expect you to believe she didn’t pay it at my suggestion.”

  Of course, he should have taken the extra to Ernie’s office, but the man from the Colonial Secretary’s had certainly put that idea fair out of his head.

  “I’m not going to hang around while you do your sums,” said Mr. Ernie Malcolm, flushed. “But I expect a full accounting of where we stand at the moment and a refund. I think you’ll understand if I transfer my account here to some other shop.”

  “Oh God, Mr. Malcolm.”

  The fellow seemed to be pleased to have an excuse for anger though. This was the next step along the road of warnings Ernie began after the loyal meeting. It was more. A punishment for suggesting Ernie write about Missy.

  “I have to caution you, there are those who think you are a pretty subtle feller, a cunning paddy. A joker behind it all. I’ll be more disposed to listen to them now.”

  He tucked the fingers of one hand into the base of his vest, tugged it downwards, and walked for the door, turning at the end of course for the required final word.