partly from his being “flash,” but more from his reputation for
flogging his missus. Ned, moreover, had tried to force his example
on the male community by impressing upon them his philosophy, that
it was the proper thing to hit a woman every time you met her, since
she must either be coming from mischief or going to it. As to his
flashness, he considered he had something to be flash about. He had
been twice to Sydney; and not only could he spell by ear, but, given
an uncertain number of favouring circumstances, he could use a pen to
the extent of putting his name to a cheque. Certainly before he would
attempt this, Liz, his missus, had to pen up the goats, shut the hut,
and, with the dogs and the kids, drive the fowls a mile from the
house, and keep them there till Ned fired a gun. Left to himself, Ned
would tear out a cheque, lay it on the table, place a block of wood
on the bottom edge of the paper, to keep his hand from travelling
off it to the table below. Then he had to tie his wrist to the left
side of his belt--he was left-handed--in such a manner that his hand
could not stray to the foreign region above the cheque, ink the pen
with his right hand, and place it in the left. But even then the task
was often unaccomplished. Sometimes he would be so intent on trying
to keep the EDWARD on the line, that it would run to the end of the
paper, excluding the STENNARD, and, despite Ned’s protests anent
insufficient space, the bank did not approve of part of the signature
being placed on the back of the cheque. When he tried to write small
and straight, the result generally seemed satisfactory till a careful
analysis showed a letter or so missing. Or, just as success seemed
probable, his cheque book would give out, or his pen break. It was
bad for Liz and her own boy Joey when either of these accidents
occurred, for he would fire no gun, and, despite all the perspiring
activity of Liz, the kids, and the dogs, some of the fowls would make
their way home to roost on the hut when night came. For allowing him
to be disturbed “jes as I wus gettin’ me ’and in” he would “take it
outer” Liz, or, what was worse to her, “outer” Joey.
But on this occasion Ned, ever resourceful and now hungry, refused to
be led to a log. His reputation for startling discoveries was against
him, but he knew that many of them must have seen him riding past
with a black-coated stranger, and he trusted to that to support the
story his ingenious imagination had ready for them. Authoritatively
he demanded in each case to see the missus. They came ungraciously,
but after his dark, bodeful hints as to the necessity of their
attending service at the grazier’s homestead next day, he was invited
inside and a place was cleared for him at the table. Quite recklessly
they plied him with pints of tea and damper and dip, sprinkled with
salt, and in some extravagant instances with pepper. And Ned took
these favours as his due, though he knew he was no favourite.
Flogging and flashness were lost sight of by these anxious women, as
they listened to all he had to say. They coaxed him to wait while
they searched among the few spare clothes in the gin cases with
hide-hinged lids, for land receipts, marriage lines, letters from
Government Departments, registered cattle brands, sheep ear-marks,
and every other equipment that protects the poor cockey from a
spiteful and revengeful Government, whose sole aim was “ter ketch
’em winkin’” and then forfeit the selection. All of these documents
Ned inspected upside down or otherwise, and pronounced with unlegal
directness that “a squint et them ’ud fix ’im if thet’s wot ’e’s
smellin’ after.” He told them to bring them next day. Those of the
men who had swapped horses with passing drovers, without the exchange
of receipts, were busy all afternoon trumping up witnesses.
II.
Next morning the minister was sitting in the rocking chair on the
verandah of the grazier’s house. He had a prayer book in one hand and
a handkerchief in the other, with which he lazily disputed the right
of the flies to roost on his veil. This gave an undulating motion to
the chair which was very soothing after old Rosey’s bumping. He saw
a pair of brown hands part the awning enclosing the verandah. Then a
black head, held in the position of a butting animal, came in view.
Free of the screen, the head craned upwards. He saw a flat, shrewd
face, with black beady eyes set either side of a bridgeless nose. A
wisp of dried grass hung from the wide mouth.
“Sis wants er ride in thet ther cock ’orse yer in,” said the mouth,
ejecting the grass with considerable force in his direction.
Sis’ had worked her head in by this. She was fair, with nondescript
hair and eyes, and she was “chawrin’”.
“Wer’s ther cock ’orse, Jinny?” she asked, for the chair was not
rocking.
“Ridey it an’ let ’er see it; an’ undo this,” commanded Jinny.
“Come round to the front,” said the minister mildly, and pointing to
the opening opposite the door.
They came in and walked up to him, with hoods hanging by the strings
down their backs.
“Have you come alone?”
“The ether uns er comin’. Me an’ Sis giv’ ’em ther slip; we didn’
wanter ’ump ther dash kid.”
“How far have you walked?”
“Yer parst our place yesserday mornin’. Didn’ yer see me an’ ther
billy? Gosh, we nigh bust oursels at ther way yer legs stuck out.
Fust I thort yer wus ole Keogh. Yer rides jes’ like er Chinymun.” The
dark one did all the talking.
“Our Sis wants er ride in this,” she continued. She gave the chair
a lurch that sent the parson’s feet in the air. To avoid the
threatened repetition he gripped both sides and planted his feet
firmly on the boards.
The younger one poked a stem of dried grass from her mouth through
the mesh of the veil in a line with his left ear. Thoroughly routed,
he sprang up, and the elder child leapt in.
“’Ere they cum, Jinny,” warned Sis.
Jinny peeped through the awning. “So they is. You gammon ter them we
aint cum, w’en they arsts yer,” she said to the parson, “an’ we’ll
sneak roun’ ther back. Eh, Sis?”
Mammy and Daddy--commonly called “Jyne” and “Alick” even by their
offspring--came in with four children, all younger than Jinny and
Sis. Jyne carried the youngest “straddled” across her hip.
The most pronounced feature of Jyne’s face was her mouth, and it
seemed proud of its teeth, especially of the top row. Without any
apparent effort, the last tooth there was always visible. She was a
great power in the bush, being styled by the folk themselves “Rabbit
Ketcher,” which, translated, means mid-wife. And the airs Jyne gave
herself were justifiable, for she was the only “Rabbit Ketcher”
this side of the township. To bring a qualified mid-wife from
civilization would have represented a crippling expenditure to these
cockies. Jyne’s moderate fees were usually four-legged.
“D’y ter yous,” said Alick, blinking his bungy eyes, and smiling
good-naturedly at the parson and at the grazier and his wife. He sat
down without removing his hat. Jyne’s teeth saluted them but without
any good nature. Jinny and Sis sneaked in behind their mother.
“You young tinkers,” cried Jyne, “tyke this chile this minute.” Her
voice, despite the size of her mouth, came through her nose. She put
the baby on the floor, and, taking off her hood, mopped her face with
the inside of her print dress.
“We wus lookin’ fer you an’ Alick,” said Jinny to her mother, and
winking at the parson.
“Yes, you wus,--with ther ’ook,” answered Jyne.
Without further introduction she slewed her head to one side, shut
one eye knowingly, and said to the staring minister, “Ther ain’t a
wink about Jinny.”
The unblinking daughter instantly offered an illustration of her
wakefulness. “Yer orter seen me an’ gran’dad th’ ether mornin’. ’E
wus milkin’ ther nannies, an’ ther billy you seen ’e wus jes close
agen ’im. I sneaks up to ther billy an’ gives ’im er jab. Lawr ter
see ’im rush et ole Alex an’ bunt ’im! ’E’d er killed th’ ole feller
on’y fer me. Wou’dn’ ’e, mum?”
“Yer a bol’ gal,” said mum in a proud voice.
The bewildered minister, to turn the conversation, took a vase of
wild flowers.
“They belong to the lily tribe, I think,” said the hostess. “They are
bulbous.”
“Wile hunyions,” sniffed Jyne, making no attempt to conceal her
contempt for this cur of a woman, who thought so much of herself that
she always brought a nurse from town.
Then came Alick’s brother, “Flash” Ned; they were as unlike as
brothers sometimes are. Ned greeted the parson with bush familiarity.
He had his hat on one side, and was wearing a silk Sydney coat that
reached to his heels. He was followed by Liz with their family of
five. Joey stayed outside, and from time to time dexterously located
his step-father. He was Liz’s child by an early marriage--at least,
she always said she had been married.
Perched on Liz’s head was a draggled hat that a month ago had been
snow white. This also was one of Ned’s Sydney purchases. It was the
first time Liz had worn it, but she and the children had overhauled
it many times and tried it on. This privilege had been extended to
all the women whose curiosity and envy had brought them to Liz’s
place. Jinny had called on her way to church, and the missing end of
the white feather, after being licked of its ticklesomeness, was now
in her safe keeping.
Jyne, catching sight of Joey, invited him inside. But the boy, at a
warning glance from his mother, slunk further back. He had run in
the wrong horse for his step-father that morning, and was evading a
threatened hiding that was to remove both skin and hair. Liz would
gladly have taken the hiding herself in place of Joey, but her
interference, as she knew to her cost, would mean one for herself
without saving the boy.
But for all this Liz thought she was fairly happy. For it was not
every day that Ned tried to sign a cheque or that the sheep got
boxed, or that his horse refused to be caught. Nor did it always rain
when he wanted it fine. Things did not go wrong every day, and he did
not beat her or Joey unless they did. A pound of lollies for her and
the kids from a dealer’s cart when one came round, would make her
think him the best husband in the world.
There was between Jyne and Ned the opposition that is instinctive
between commanding spirits. Liz yielded obedience first to Ned then
to Jyne.
“Ow’s Polly?” enquired Liz, her countenance showing the gravity of
the question.
“Arst ’im,” snarled Jyne, baring her fangs and looking at uneasy
shuffling Alick. “Makin’ ’er dror three casts er worter ten mile, an’
er thet way. Wil’ pigs eatin’ ’er as I cum along.”
“No!” said Liz, though she had known it all yesterday. News of such
catastrophes soon spread in the bush.
“Better corl me a liar at onct,” snapped Jyne.
Next to arrive were Jyne’s mother and Alick’s father, both of whom
lived with Jyne. The old woman rode on a horse astride a man’s
saddle. The old man led it. She had Jyne’s mouth, or rather Jyne
had hers, but the teeth were gone. The old man greeted the parson
reverently, blew with his breath on the seat, and wiped it carefully
with the handkerchief he had taken from his hat. Even then before
sitting he raised the tails of the coat he had been married in
so long ago. Until Ned’s Sydney purchase his had been the only
decorative coat in the district.
Tilly and Jim Lumber, with their ten-days-old baby, followed. Jim was
the champion concertina player and bullock driver in the district. He
came as the representative of the several families across the creek,
whom energetic Ned had rounded up the day before. He had been chosen
by them for his size and strength to do battle on their behalf. Ned’s
effort to frighten those women whose husbands were away shearing
into the necessity of attending service had over-reached itself, and
they had been afraid to come. But they had entrusted their precious
documents to Jim’s powerful keeping. He had his own registered brand
tied up in a spotted handkerchief. This he dropped with a clank
beside him as he sat sheepishly and gingerly on the edge of a chair.
He was over six feet, but he sat with his head almost between his
knees, till he resembled a quadruped. His shirt front bulged like
a wallet with his clients’ papers. He slyly took stock of those
assembled. Spry little Tilly got the credit of having done all the
courting. Even after marriage she had always done his share of the
talking.
“Ow’s ther kiddy maroo?” said Alick to Jim, lisping from the size of
the plug he had just bitten. He had a fatherly interest in all Jyne’s
“rabbit ketchin’.”
Jim, who never used his voice except to drive his bullocks, answered
with a subterranean laugh.
“Noo bit er flesh,” said Ned, nodding at the baby.
“Ow’s Polly this mornin’?” gravely enquired Tilly, as she took a seat
near Jyne.
“Ah, poor Polly,” quavered Jyne’s mother, and sparing Jyne by telling
of Polly’s untimely end.
“Well, I’m blest; what a lorse!” said the sympathetic Tilly. She
repeated a well-known story of the bu’stin’ of a poley cow last year.
Jyne took the baby, and began to rate the mother mildly for “walkin’
seven mile ser soon,” but Jyne’s mother interposed with a recital
of “wot I dun w’en Jun (John) wur two days old.” John was present,
fully six feet of him, grinning with a mouth bigger than Jyne’s, but
mercifully hidden by a straggled moustache.
However, Jyne was not to be outdone even by her own mother, and the
narrative of her last, assisted in many minor details by Jinney, aged
eleven, left little to be desired in the way of hardihood.
Liz kept her teething baby respectfully silent by industriously
rubbing its lower gum with a dirty thumb. She expressed her surprise
at Jyne’s phenomenal endurance by little clicks of the tongue,
shakes of the head, and other signs indicative of admiration and
astonishment. When Jyne finished, she began eagerly on an experience
of her own. “Well, w’en I wus took with Drary (short for Adrarian),
think I could fin’ ther sissers?”
Jyne, who knew that the recital of a daring feat was coming,
enquired, “W’en yer wus took with Joey?”
“No,” said Liz, stopping short with a nervous click in her voice, and
looking at Ned.
The next item was ventriloquising by Jyne per medium of Tilly’s
uneasy baby. “My mammy, she sez, yer dot me all o’a hoo, she sez.
No wunny, she sez, me can’t keep goody, she sez, ’ith me cosey all
o’a hoo, she sez.” She had been examining the baby’s undergear,
and at this stage her tone of baby banter suddenly changed to one
of professional horror. “My Gawd, Tilly!” she cried, the drooping
corners of her mouth nearly covering her upper teeth. “Look w’er
er little belly-bands is--nearly un’er ’er arms,” she explained,
probably to the company, but looking directly at the clergyman. And,
with true professional acumen, she intimated that had she not been on
the spot, an intricate part of the little one’s anatomy in another
minute would “’a bust out a bleedin’ an’ not all ther doctors in ther
worl’ couldn’ astoppt it.”
The minister was very busy, meanwhile, blushing and getting his books
in order, and with this congregation of ten adults and eighteen
children he began, “Dearly beloved brethren----”
Jim Lumber gripped his bullock brand, took a swift look at him and
turned to Tilly. It had been settled between them that she was to do
the talking. Alick, who, despite his father’s efforts to enlighten
him as to the nature of a church service, and encouraged by Jyne’s
remark that “they’d eat nothin’,” had also brought his valuable
documents in his shirt front, thrust in a groping hand.
For a few minutes the adults listened and watched intently, but the
gentle voice of the parson, and his nervous manner, soon convinced
them that they had nothing to fear from him. Ned had been ’pokin’
borak’ at them again; they added it to the long score they owed him.
The children wandered about the room. Jinny and Sis invited their
little sister to “Cum an’ see ther pooty picters in the man’s book,”
and they assisted the minister to turn over the leaves of his Bible.
Alick’s father, who was from the North of Ireland, and, for all his
forty years in the bush, had not lost his reverence for the cloth,
bade his grand-daughters beseechingly to “quet,” whereupon Jinny
showed him quite two inches of inky tongue. Ink was a commodity
unknown in Jinny’s home, and all the unknown is edible to the bush
child.
“Woman!” he said, appealing to Jinny’s mother, “whybut you bid ’er to
quet?”
“You orter be in er glars’ ban’ box w’er ther ain’t no children;
thet’s w’er you orter be,” answered Jyne.
He beckoned to one straggler, a girl of six, with Alick’s face, who
came to him promptly and sat on his knee.
Presently her brown hand stroked his old cheek. “Gran’ dad,” she said.
“Choot, darlin’,” he whispered, reverently.
The child looked at him wonderingly. “I says you’s gran’ dad,” she
repeated, “not ole Alick.”
He laid his white head on hers.
“Gran’ dad, ole Tommy Tolbit’s dead.”
Turning his glistening face to Liz in momentary forgetfulness, he
said solemnly, “The knowledge of this chile!”
“Ole Talbert” had been dead for two years, and the knowledgable child
had been surprising him so, at least twice a week.
“We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep,” murmured
the minister.
The smaller children wandered in and out of the bedrooms, carrying
their spoils with them. But Jinny and Sis had drawn the now disabled
rocking chair up to the window, and were busy poking faces at two of
Liz’s children, who were standing on the couch inside. One of these
made a vicious smack with a hair-brush at Jinny’s tongue, flattened
against the glass. The ensuing crash stopped even the parson for a
moment.
Bravely he began again. He paused occasionally for a sudden
subterranean laugh to cease or to put one book after another on the
shelf behind him out of the children’s reach. Just as he read the
last line of the Te Deum, “Oh Lord in Thee have I trusted, let me
never be confounded,” one of Liz’s children tugged at his trousers,
with a muzzled request that his teeth might be freed from a square of
pink soap. Another offered to the baby Liz was nursing a pincushion
she brought from the bedroom.
“Jyne,” called Jinny from the verandah, “’Ere cums young Tommy Tolbit
by ’isself. You wus right, Jyne; she ain’t cummin’!”
Even Jyne’s gums gleamed; she looked triumphantly at Alick her
husband, at Liz, then at all but Ned.
In shambled Tommy, moist and panting. He had been a drover, and had
recently taken up a selection on the run. He was a bridegroom of a
month’s standing. His missus had been a servant at one of the hotels
in the township.
“Made a start!” he remarked. His voice gave the impression that he
did not mind their not waiting for him.
“Missus ain’t comin’?” enquired Alick, trying to atone to Jyne for
overloading Polly.
“Not ter day,” said the bridegroom, but his voice intimated that in
all probability she would have been able to come to-morrow.
“No!” said Jyne, putting him under fire, and trying to keep the crow
out of her voice.
“Ain’t very well, is she? Didn’ eat a very ’earty breakfuss this
mornin’?” And a further remark suggested that even if the meal had
been hearty, the usual process of assimilation had not taken place.
“Ow’s Polly?” he enquired.
“Cooked,” said Jyne, instantly diverted.
“Go on!” said the bridegroom, with well feigned astonishment. His
breathless and perspiring state had been caused by his “going on” to
capture one of the wild suckers that had been eating Polly.
“Let us pray,” said the minister. His host, hostess, and Alick’s
father knelt, but the rest sat as usual.
The knowledgable child, considering the grandfather’s position an
invitation to mount, climbed on his back. Making a bridle of the
handkerchief round the old fellow’s neck, and digging two heels into
his sides, she talked horse to him. The protesting old man bucked
vigorously, but it was no easy task to throw her.
The clergyman gave out his text, and the sermon began.
Jyne’s children commenced to complain of being “’ungery” and a
fair-sized damper was taken from a pillow-slip. This, together with
two tin tots and a bottle of goat’s milk, was given to Jinny and she
was told to do “ther sharin’.”
The hostess asked Jyne in a whisper to send them to the verandah, and
for a time there was comparative quiet. Such interruptions as “Jinny
won’t gimme nun, Arnie” (Auntie) from Liz’s children being checked by
Jyne with “Go an’ play an’ doan’ ’ave ser much gab, like yer father.”
“Thet greedy wretch uv er Jinny is guzzlin’ all ther milk inter ’er,
Jyne,” from her own children, was appeased by her promise to “break
ther young faggit’s back w’en I get ’ome.”
There was a wail of anguished hunger from Liz’s empty children that
aroused paternal sympathy in Ned. “Sep me Gord,” he said, “some
wimmen is like cows. They’ll give ther own calf a suck, but if anyone
else’s calf cums anigh ’em they lif’ their leg an’ kick it ter
blazes.”
Jyne tossed her head and, with a derisive laugh, expressed the
opinion that “It ’ed fit sum people better if ther munny wasted in
buyin’ flash coats an’ rediclus ’ats wus spent in flour bags.”
For a short space only the voice of the preacher sounded, as, in
studied stoicism, he pursued his thankless task. Occasionally they
looked at him to see “’Oo ’e wus speakin’ ter,” but finding nothing
directly personal, even this attention ceased.
Liz leant across to Tilly Lumber and asked, “Fowl layin’?”
“Ketch ’em er layin’ et Chrissermus.”
Ned told how he had brought home a number of law books from Sydney,
and that he and an old man he had picked up “wus readin’ ’em.” It was
his intention to absorb such an amount of knowledge that all he would
have to do with the lessee of the run--an ex-barrister--would be to
put him in a bail. What would follow was graphically illustrated by
Ned’s dropping his head, gripping an imaginary bucket between his
knees, and opening and shutting his hands in rhythmic up and down
movements. Some of his audience, remembering his threats and warning
against the parson, thought this pantomime must have an ominous
meaning for the preacher.
But sceptical Jyne was not impressed. “Upon me soul,” she said, “sum
people is the biggest lyin’ blowers that ever cockt er lip.”
Alick, always for peace, stepped into the breach. “Comin’ along jes’
now,” he said, shifting his plug of tobacco from one side to the
other, and aiming at the flies in the fireplace with the juice, “we
’as a yarn with Mick Byrnes. ’E ’as ther luck of er lousy calf. ’E
sez ’e got eightpence orl roun’ fer ’ees kangaroo skins. Damned if I
can.”
“Now a good plan ’ed be,” said Ned, “ter get a good lot, sen’ ’em
down ter them Sydney blokes. Slip down yerself, go ter ther sale,
don’ let on ’oo yer are, an’ run ’em up like blazes. Thet’s wot I’ll
do with my wool nex’ year.”
This plan seemed commendable to Alick. “By Goey,” he said, his mild
eyes blinking.
Jyne never, on any occasion, showed the slightest interest or
attention when Ned was speaking, unless to sniff and lay bare her
bottom teeth, but here she remarked, “Sum people ’ud keep runnin’ ter
Sydney till ’e ’asen’ er penny ter fly with.”
“If sum people with ser much jawr, an’ ’er mouth ’es big ’es ’er torn
pocket, belonged ter me,” said Ned, “I’d smash er ugly jawr.”
Jyne slewed hers to an awful angle in his direction, “I’d like ter
see yer try it.”
A look of agony came into the eyes of the grazier’s wife as she heard
the door of the dining-room open. The children were so quiet, that
she knew they were up to mischief.
She heard Jinny’s hoarse whisper. “Orl of yez wait an’ I’ll bring
yer sumsin’.” On the dining-room table was the cold food prepared
for the clergyman’s dinner. She looked across at her husband with
dumb entreaty. He, with eyes devoutly on the carpet, was listening
intently to Ned’s account of how he nearly made the squatter take a
“sugar doodle” (back somersault) when he heard that he had been to
Sydney.
“’Day Keogh,” sez I.
“’Oo ’ave I ther ’oner of speakin’ ter?” sez ’e.
“Mr. Stennard,” I sez.
“Oh indeed,” ’e sez, “very ’appy ter make yer acquaintance, Mr.
Stennard, Esquire,” ’e sez.
“Never mind no blarsted acquaintance,” I sez, “w’en are yer goin’ ter
take yer flamin’ jumbucks orf my lan’?” I sez.
“Your lan’,” ’e sez, “I didn’ know you ’ad any lan’ about ’ere,” ’e
sez.
“Oh, didn’ yer,” I sez, “you ner ther Lan’ Agent won’ frighten me
orf,” I sez, “gammonin’ I’m on er reserve,” sez I, “I’ve paid me
deposit, an’ I’ve been ter Sydney,” I sez, “I put me name ter a
cheque,” sez I, “an’ ----”
Jyne ceased sniffing, to laugh long and loudly. “Gawd, eh!” she said,
with her eyes on the ceiling and apparently appealing to the flies.
“Wot ’erbout sech game cocks plantin’ under ther dray w’en old Keogh
kem bullyin’ w’en we fust kem out ’ere?”
Ned went hastily out at the front door “ter squint at ther jumbucks,”
three miles away. Joey, who had been peering round that door, now
appeared at the back.
“Come in, Joey,” snorted Jyne. “No one ain’t game ter ’it yer w’en
I’m ’ere.”
The minister still preached, but he had only old Alick for a listener.
The hostess’ mental picture of Jinny “sharin’” her dinner for
three among that voracious brood was distracting. Only the fear of
suffering in the clergyman’s mind as one of “them” kept her to her
seat. She could give the sermon no attention, but listened to Sis
licking her fingers, and wondered if it was the vinegar or the wine
that caused Jinny’s cough. Presently Jinny set that doubt at rest by
coming in odorous, and with the front of her dress wine-stained.