GOING HOME
A land of open spaces,
Gaunt forest, treeless plain;
And if we once have loved it.
We must go back again.
—_Dorothea Mackellar._
“WE haven’t too much time,” said Mr. Linton, looking at his watch.
The motor was standing before the door of the hotel. Norah and Jean were
tucked into the back seat, knitting their brows over a lengthy shopping
list. It was their last day in the city. Already, visions of Billabong
and its welcome were making Norah seethe with an excitement that
promised ill for the success of her purchases.
A clatter of feet upon the steps of the hotel, announced the arrival of
Jim and Wally. They swung themselves on board; the chauffeur did
mysterious things to the car, and in a moment they were gliding down
Bourke Street. They crossed the Yarra over Princes Bridge, where,
looking westward, the river seemed full of ships, and the wharves hummed
like a hive of bees. A big inter-State liner was nosing her way gently
up the centre of the stream, as if looking for an anchorage; they could
see the passengers clustering on her decks, glad of the end of the
journey. Something of the romance that never fails to cling about ships
made the dingy old river beautiful.
“I remember,” said Wally, dreamily, “many a time——”
“In your long-dead youth?” asked Jim.
“In the early Forties, he means,” put in Mr. Linton. “Don’t disturb his
eloquence.”
“My inborn respect for your father prevents my saying what I would like
to both of you,” said the victim. “Anyhow, I remember——”
“Full well,” said Norah, with emotion.
“Oh, get out, you Linton tribe!” ejaculated the harassed one. “I’m
talking to Jean.”
“Why?” queried Jean, unexpectedly. Mirth ensued at the expense of Wally.
“Never mind, Wally, old man,” said his host. “Mention what you
remember.”
“I’ve nearly forgotten it now,” Wally answered, much aggrieved. “I
believe I was pretty close to being poetical—that blessed old river
always sets me thinking. Ever so many times I’ve landed there on a
Monday morning, coming down from Brisbane; and I used to be such a
homesick little shrimp. It was always a struggle to get off the old
_Bombala_. I was great chums with the captain, and he made the old boat
seem like a bit of home. Also, I never was sea-sick in her!”
“No wonder you loved her,” said Jean, fervently. She shuddered, with
painful recollections of the voyage from New Zealand.
“Oh, she’s an old beauty—she can’t roll, I believe,” Wally answered.
“Or if she can, she isn’t let—so it’s all the same. Anyway, I never
liked leaving her and wending my lonely way down to school. There’s the
old shop now!”
They had swung round across St. Kilda Road, and were running up
Alexandra Avenue—on one side the river, and on the other trim gardens
leading towards the trees of the Domain and the massed green of the
Botanical Gardens. Beyond—Wally had spoken more by faith than by
sight—the grey stone of the Grammar School, mantled in ivy, stood
lonely, bereft of its usual cheerful hordes. Nearer, Government House
loomed up, its square tower crowned with a fluttering flag, silhouetted
against the summer sky; and the Queen’s Statue looked calmly towards the
city. All the rocky slopes towards the gardens were clothed with
creeping plants, now a sheet of vivid colour. A boy in a skiff was
lazily pulling up-stream, his pale blue sweater a bright spot on the
brown river; and motor boats were chugging gently down towards
Melbourne, to lie off Princes Bridge. Across the stream a woman had come
down to the water’s edge and raised an imperious hail of “Ferry!” and in
answer, a battered old boat was putting off from a little landing,
sculled by a very ancient mariner. It was all very peaceful and
leisurely—a sharp contrast to the other side of the bridge, where the
crowded wharves and shipping made the river a busy place either by day
or night.
They turned south presently, and were soon slowing down amid the traffic
of Chapel Street—that lesser Melbourne where the shops are always
crowded, and where there are inhabitants who have never found it
necessary to take the four miles’ journey into the city itself.
Apparently it was the happy hunting ground of the baby. There were
perambulators everywhere, propelled by busy suburban mothers, intent on
bargain finding. Very often each perambulator held two babies, and
perhaps a bigger child perched precariously upon a wooden step, and
occasionally fell off. They all seemed well accustomed to shopping—the
mothers had no fears about leaving them near the doorways while they
sought the counters within. This frequently led to a glut of
perambulators and a block in the traffic, and caused great wrath on the
part of childless pedestrians—unavailing wrath, since the mothers were
out of reach and the babies blissfully unconcerned. They ate biscuits
contentedly, and favoured the world with a bland stare, except when
their presence caused a disturbance of traffic, when they appeared to
regard life as a stupendous joke, and laughed greatly. Norah found them
very fascinating, and was with difficulty withdrawn from inspecting a
cheerful pair of twins when the sterner necessities of shopping demanded
her consideration.
To make Christmas purchases in a Christmas crowd is an exercise
demanding patience and tact, coupled with more business acumen than is
ordinarily the lot of the country-bred shopper. The Billabong tribe
found their stock of all these admirable qualities running low long
before their own vague desires were satisfied, together with Brownie’s
long list of commissions for the station. The shop was packed with busy
people, each intent on errands like their own, and, apparently, in as
great a hurry. Norah wondered if up-country express trains were waiting
for them all, so wild and eager did they seem, and if she also looked as
distraught; arriving at the conclusion that if she appeared as harassed
as she felt she would certainly attract attention, even in that hurrying
throng!
They parted company, since it was easier to work through the crowd
singly than “to hunt in packs,” as Wally put it; and after a time Norah
emerged upon the pavement outside, a little breathless, her arms full of
parcels. Behind her could be caught glimpses of the interior—a huge
place, with tables and counters in every direction, behind which stood
hot and tired assistants endeavouring to obtain the wants of twelve
people at once. The shop seemed full of children. Upstairs was a big
display of mechanical toys and other Christmas delights, and it seemed
that half of younger Melbourne had been brought to see the fun by
devoted mothers and aunts. In one corner a gentleman who might have been
four was evidently mislaid by his guardians. He stood, a figure of
bitter woe in a white sailor suit, rending the air with his howls; and a
very tall and gorgeous shop walker, who bent double in an attempt to
soothe him, was routed with great slaughter. Then, from afar, came the
mother, thrusting her way ruthlessly through the crowd in answer to her
son’s voice. She had, presumably, heard those yells before. She gathered
him up hurriedly, and withered the shop walker with a glance, clearly
suspecting him of a wish to kidnap the lost one. The shop walker
retreated, pondering on the ways of the world.
Near a counter devoted to what is vaguely known as haberdashery, Jean
fought vainly for the right to purchase. Norah could catch an occasional
glimpse of her square, blue-clad shoulders and the fair hair under her
sailor hat. It was all too evident that she was not happy. People
jostled her hither and thither, elbowing her away from the counter when
it seemed that success was within her grasp. The assistants had no time
for short people, when so many ladies, dressed like the Queen of Sheba,
demanded their attention. Jean was not a pushing person, and only a
person of push had any hope of catching the eye of the presiding
goddesses. So she fought unavailingly, and Norah watched her, half in
laughter and half in doubt as to whether she should go to her
assistance.
From another part of the shop appeared Wally, shot out of the crowd in
the manner of a stone from a catapult. He was propelled past Norah,
tucked into a corner of the doorway, where she was out of the way of the
throng that met in the entrance, fighting with equal vigour for exit and
admittance. Seeing him thus fleeting from her vision, Norah gave a low
and wholly involuntary whistle—and was forthwith overcome with
confusion at her unmaidenly behaviour. Wally, however, was not given to
criticism. He accepted the signal gratefully, and turned back.
“Thank goodness you whistled!” he uttered, pushing his straw hat off his
forehead. “I’d never have found you if you hadn’t. Great Scot, Nor., did
you ever see anything like it!”
“Never,” said Norah, fervently. “Is it always like this?”
“Pretty well—when it’s near Christmas. There ought to be a law to make
people who can shop early finish by the middle of December—then they’d
leave a little space for poor wretches like us, who don’t get away from
school. Thank goodness, I’m about done—though I don’t in the least know
what I’ve bought. How about you?”
“Finished,” said Norah, with brief thankfulness.
“Well, you ought to be,” said Wally, surveying her load. “Women were
given eight fingers and two thumbs, so that they could hang parcels on
each! I think you’ve done pretty well, young Norah. Where’s Jean?”
“Oh, Jean’s having a horrible time!” Norah answered, much concerned for
the fate of her chum. “I wish you’d go and see if you could help her,
Wally—you see, she’s so short, and she can’t get fixed up. I’ll hold
your parcels.”
“I feel like a knight errant,” said Wally, handing over many bundles.
“It takes no common order of courage to tackle that maëlstrom after
having escaped from it once. However, with a damsel in distress it’s got
to be, I suppose. Sure you can hold ’em all, Nor.? Where is the hapless
wight I’ve to rescue?”
“She’s over there—you can get glimpses of her hat,” Norah said. “At the
haberdashery place.”
“I’ve always wondered what that meant,” Wally said. “It’s got a sporting
sort of sound about it, hasn’t it? Now, I’ll find out, I suppose, and
probably my young illusions will be dashed to the ground—it really
sounds the kind of place to buy polo sticks, but I don’t fancy that’s
Jean’s business. Well, here goes! Oh, by Jove! She’s coming, Norah!”
Jean came, very red and indignant, with a knitted brow.
“I’ve had a perfectly awful time!” she gasped. “There isn’t an unbruised
bit of me! And I can’t get what I want—I’ve been trying for ages to buy
a belt buckle, and all the horrid woman has sold me is curling pins!”
She held out a small parcel tragically. “And I don’t even use them!” she
finished—whereat her hearers shrieked unsympathetically.
“Oh, Wally, go and make them take them back,” Norah begged, recovering
calmness. “Go with him, Jean, and show him the buckle you want—he’ll
manage it.”
“Not for me, thank you,” said her chum decisively. “I wouldn’t plunge in
there for forty-eight buckles! I’ll go to another shop and try. What am
I going to do with those horrible pins? They were sixpence!”
“They mustn’t be wasted,” said Wally, with solemn joy. “I’ll buy ’em
from you, Jean, and put ’em in Jim’s sock for Christmas. He’ll be so
pleased!” He pocketed the pins and repossessed himself of his own
parcels. “I’d never have had the pluck to go and buy those things,” he
said, “but the beautiful instinct of friendship tells me that they’re
the articles for which my soul has longed for Jimmy!”
“Take care—he’s coming!” Norah laughed. They greeted Jim with an air of
innocence that would certainly have failed to deceive any one less
heated and annoyed than that worthy.
“What a place to be out of!” he ejaculated. “And some people go shopping
for fun! Where’s Dad?”
“Coming,” Norah said, watching her father’s tall head in the crowd. “He
likes it about as much as you do, Jimmy, judging by his expression.” She
smiled at Mr. Linton as he fought his way up to them. “Ready, Dad?”
“Yes, thank goodness!” said her father. “Come along—here’s the car.
Now, there’s a poor soul!”
He stopped, looking at a little crippled hunchback in a wheeled chair; a
boy who might have been any age, from child to man, so small was he, and
yet so old and weary his face. He was gazing wistfully at the gay little
group round the big motor. A tray of matches lay across his knees; tied
to the arm of his chair was a cluster of many-coloured balloons—a
pitiful contrast to the dull hopelessness of his face. Jim whistled
softly.
“Poor little wretch,” he said. “Can’t we buy him out, Dad?”
“We’ll do our best—even if the populace thinks we’re the advance agents
of a circus!” replied Mr. Linton. “Go and buy his balloons, Norah.”
“What—all of them, Dad?”
“Yes—all of them.”
He followed her across the footpath. The hunchback looked up at the
grave little face.
“Balloons?” he said, half sullenly. “How many—two?”
“I want them all,” Norah told him, smiling.
“Not—the whole lot!” A dull red came into the boy’s white face.
“Yes, we do. My father says so.”
He stared at her, bewildered.
“There—there ain’t many days I sell more’n five or six all told,” he
said. His voice shook a little. “You ain’t havin’ a loan of me, I
s’pose?”
“No, indeed I’m not—truly,” Norah said, pitifully. “We’re going to buy
you out.”
The boy began to unfasten the string with uncertain fingers.
“Nothin’ like this ain’t happened to me before,” he said. “It’s—it’s a
bit of a slow game sittin’ here all day, hot or cold—an’ people starin’
at you. I wouldn’t mind ’em so much not buyin’—but—but they look at a
cove. You’re sure you want the lot?”
“Yes, I want them,” Norah answered—“if you’re sure you can spare them
all.”
“Spare ’em!” he laughed. “Why, I’ll be nex’ door to a millionaire,
bringin’ off a sale like this!” He gave the string into her hand and
looked at the money Mr. Linton dropped into his match tray.
“No—I say!” he said. “That’s too much, sir. Can’t you get change?”
“No, thanks,” Mr. Linton said, with a smile. “Good-bye, my lad. Come on,
Norah.”
“Good-bye,” Norah said. Near the car she suddenly turned back, fishing
hurriedly in her little purse. The boy looked up at her with a dazed
face of joy.
“Happy Christmas!” she said. She put a shilling into his hand—and fled.
The car glided off into the jumble of traffic.
The hunchback sat in his corner throughout the day, selling a box of
matches now and then. The busy crowds went back and forth past him,
casting curious or pitying glances at his deformity. For once, the
glances did not hurt him. Norah’s smile yet lay warm at his heart.
“Said ‘Happy Chris’mas!’ she did,” he muttered. “I don’t believe she
never even saw me back!”
The balloons proved rather exciting to the crowd until the next block in
the traffic gave Mr. Linton an opportunity to present them gravely to a
gaping urchin with the immediate result that his gape intensified
alarmingly, and threatened to become a permanent fixture. Then they sped
back to the city, with hasty visits here and there, to pick up parcels,
and a hurried attempt at afternoon tea in the crowded lounge of the
hotel. Their luggage was awaiting them, a big pile in the corridor, and
presently it was loaded into a cab, and the motor was following it up
the street towards the train.
At the big station they found themselves in another crowd—a hurrying,
impatient crowd, armed with suit cases and dress baskets, and pursuing
harassed luggage porters with incoherent instructions regarding trunks
that appeared non-existent. Nobody had the slightest regard for anybody
else—to get through the throng was to court death-dealing blows from
the sharp corners of luggage, delivered with vehemence and without
apology. Bells rang continually, with distressing effect upon would-be
passengers, who ran very fast in divers directions at each ring,
imagining it to be the final summons to trains which were very likely
not even backed into the platform! Porters shouted instructions, very
much in earnest, but wholly unintelligible. The shrieks of newsboys
added to the clamour, together with the wails of many babies, protesting
against travelling so early in life. Wild-eyed mothers clutched at
wandering children, endeavouring frantically to keep them under the
maternal wing. Beyond, in the station yard, engines whistled shrilly and
shunting trains banged and rattled.
“It’s a nice Christmassy place!” said Wally, surveying the scene. “Makes
you feel no end festive, doesn’t it? If you two girls hold each other’s
hands tightly, cling to my coat tails, and utter frequent bleats, it is
possible that we shan’t lose you!”
“Just take care that you don’t get lost yourself,” Jim uttered. “A
trifle like you straying about in a crowd ought to have a bell on its
neck. Take Dad’s arm, won’t you?”
“He’d better not,” said Mr. Linton, hurriedly. “I could employ more arms
than I’ve got, as it is.” His eye, roving over the throng, caught sight
of a familiar face. “Ah, there’s my porter!” he said, with relief, as
that functionary hastened up. “That’s right, Saunders—bring another man
with you. Now we needn’t worry—our compartment’s reserved.” He sat down
on an empty luggage truck and mopped his brow. “Give me Billabong!”
Then, somehow, they were all on board, the carriage overflowing with
miscellaneous bundles; and presently the train was slipping out of the
station, and leaving the suburban roofs behind as the wide spaces and
green paddocks came in view. Further and further, until the sun went
down in a red sky and the short Australian twilight faded to dusk and a
star-lit night.
Norah grew a little silent. She leaned back, her shoulder against her
father’s, glad of his nearness: all the dear voices of the country
calling to her, above the roar and rush of the train. The memory of her
long homesickness came over her with a rush. She could scarcely realize
that it was over, and Billabong drawing near. Until a year ago Billabong
had meant all her world—all that counted. Now she had a wider horizon.
But still home and home’s dear ones dwarfed all the rest.
Then it was time to collect parcels hurriedly. The train stopped with a
great grinding of brakes, and they all tumbled out upon the Cunjee
platform. It was only a little place; the train seemed to pause just to
shake itself free of them, and then it puffed away into the darkness;
and Norah was pumping the hand of a big sunburnt man with a wide smile
of welcome.
“Oh, Murty, I’m so glad to be back!”
“It is Billabong that’s glad to have ye,” said Murty O’Toole, head
stockman, and Norah’s friend from her cradle. “Blessed hour! Ye’ve grown
into a young lady, so ye have.”
“Indeed I haven’t,” said Norah indignantly. “I’m just the same. Isn’t it
true, Jim?”
“She’s worse, Murty,” said her brother, laughing. “No signs of
improvement. She’s lost all respect for me. It’s very trying.”
“Ah, g’wan wid y’!” said the Irishman. “I’ll tell y’ about him
to-morrow, Miss Norah—wanderin’ about for the last week like a lost
foal, makin’ believe he was puttin’ on extry polish for ye! There’s the
dog-cart, sir”—to Mr. Linton—“an’ another trap for the luggage.”
“We’ll need it!” said Mr. Linton dryly. “Miss Norah doesn’t travel as
light as she used to, Murty.” He pulled his daughter’s hair. Murty,
however, remained unmoved.
“An’ how could she?” he inquired. “Ye can’t have her growin’ up on y’
an’ expect her to go about wid a collar an’ a toothbrush!”
Mr. Linton sighed.
“I don’t know how much discipline they gave Norah at school, Jean,” he
said—“but she’s sure to want an extra allowance next year, after the
spoiling I foresee she’s to get at home. I appear to be the only person
likely to keep her in order—and what am I among so many? Neither do I
see why the statement should move either of you to such ribald mirth!
Here’s Billy, and I hope he’ll be stern.”
But the black boy who held the horses was a grinning image of delight.
He did not attempt to make any remarks; not, Jim said, that they were in
any way necessary. You could not get beyond Billy’s grin. Even the
stationmaster came up with a word of welcome.
“It’s very exciting—getting home,” Norah said.
Then they were in the high dog-cart; Jean and herself tucked into the
front seat beside her father, while the boys made merry at the back. The
brown cobs were making light of the fourteen-mile spin along the country
roads that were all so dear and so familiar. It was beautiful to be
behind them once more—to see their splendid heads tossing the jingling
bits, and their glossy quarters gleaming in the light of the lamps. Yet
it seemed long until they turned into the homestead paddock—and then
the mile drive, fringed with pine trees, was the longest of all.
Lights flashed out ahead as they turned a corner; Billabong, every
window shining with welcome. And at the gate was a smiling group, and
every one seemed to want to shake hands with her at the same moment. But
behind them was Mrs. Brown, her old face half laughter and half tears,
and speech wholly beyond her. She held out shaking arms to the tall girl
who had been her baby for so long, and Norah went to them, hugging her
tightly—not very sure of speech herself. It was not every day that one
came home to Billabong.
[Illustration: “‘You ain’t havin’ a loan of me, I s’pose?’”]