“Why, what are you frightened of? What harm is there in it?” Then,
softly, “Promise, Lizzie.”
“Promise, Lizzie.”
She was hesitating.
“Promise, Lizzie. I'm going away to-morrow--might never see you again.
You will come, Lizzie? It will be our last talk together. Promise,
Lizzie.... Oh, then, if you don't like to, I won't press you.... Will you
come, or no?”
“Ye-es.”
“One more, and I'll take you home.”
It was nearly dark.
Brook was moved to get up early next morning and give the girl a hand
with the cows. There were two rickety bails in the yard. He had not
forgotten how to milk, but the occupation gave him no pleasure--it
brought the past near again.
Now and then he would turn his face, rest his head against the side
of the cow, and watch Lizzie at her work; and each time she would, as
though in obedience to an influence she could not resist, turn her face
to him--having noted the pause in his milking. There was a wonder in her
expression--as if something had come into her life which she could not
realize--curiosity in his.
When the spare pail was full, he would follow her with it to the little
bark dairy; and she held out the cloth which served as a strainer whilst
he poured the milk in, and, as the last drops went through, their mouths
would come together.
He carried the slop-buckets to the pigsty for her, and helped to poddy
(hand feed) a young calf. He had to grip the calf by the nape of the
neck, insert a forefinger in its mouth, and force its nose down into an
oil-drum full of skim milk. The calf sucked, thinking it had a teat; and
so it was taught to drink. But calves have a habit, born of instinct, of
butting the udders with their noses, by way of reminding their mothers
to let down the milk; and so this calf butted at times, splashing sour
milk over Brook, and barking his wrist against the sharp edge of the
drum. Then he would swear a little, and Lizzie would smile sadly and
gravely.
Brook did not go away that day, nor the next, but he took the coach
on the third day thereafter. He and Lizzie found a quiet corner to say
good-bye in. She showed some emotion for the first time, or, perhaps,
the second--maybe the third time--in that week of her life. They had
been out together in the moonlight every evening. (Brook had been
fifteen years in cities.) They had scarcely looked at each other that
morning--and scarcely spoken.
He looked back as the coach started and saw her sitting inside the big
kitchen window. She waved her hand--hopelessly it seemed. She had rolled
up her sleeve, and to Brook the arm seemed strangely white and fair
above the line of sunburn round the wrist. He hadn't noticed it before.
Her face seemed fairer too, but, perhaps, it was only the effect of
light and shade round that window.
He looked back again, as the coach turned the corner of the fence, and
was just in time to see her bury her face in her hands with a passionate
gesture which did not seem natural to her.
Brook reached the city next evening, and, “after hours,” he staggered in
through a side entrance to the lighted parlour of a private bar.
They say that Lizzie broke her heart that year, but, then, the world
does not believe in such things nowadays.
BOARD AND RESIDENCE
One o'clock on Saturday. The unemployed's one o'clock on Saturday!
Nothing more can be done this week, so you drag yourself wearily and
despairingly “home,” with the cheerful prospect of a penniless Saturday
afternoon and evening and the long horrible Australian-city Sunday
to drag through. One of the landlady's clutch--and she _is_ an old
hen--opens the door, exclaims:
“Oh, Mr Careless!” and grins. You wait an anxious minute, to postpone
the disappointment which you feel by instinct is coming, and then ask
hopelessly whether there are any letters for you.
“No, there's nothing for you, Mr Careless.” Then in answer to the
unspoken question, “The postman's been, but there's nothing for you.”
You hang up your hat in the stuffy little passage, and start upstairs,
when, “Oh, Mr Careless, mother wants to know if you've had yer dinner.”
You haven't, but you say you have. You are empty enough inside, but
the emptiness is filled up, as it were, with the wrong sort of hungry
vacancy--gnawing anxiety. You haven't any stomach for the warm,
tasteless mess which has been “kep' 'ot” for you in a cold stove. You
feel just physically tired enough to go to your room, lie down on the
bed, and snatch twenty minutes' rest from that terrible unemployed
restlessness which, you know, is sure to drag you to your feet to pace
the room or tramp the pavement even before your bodily weariness has
nearly left you. So you start up the narrow, stuffy little flight of
steps call the “stairs.” Three small doors open from the landing--a
square place of about four feet by four. The first door is yours; it is
open, and--
Decided odour of bedroom dust and fluff, damped and kneaded with
cold soap-suds. Rear view of a girl covered with a damp, draggled,
dirt-coloured skirt, which gapes at the waistband from the “body,”
disclosing a good glimpse of soiled stays (ribs burst), and yawns behind
over a decidedly dirty white petticoat, the slit of which last, as she
reaches forward and backs out convulsively, half opens and then comes
together in an unsatisfactory, startling, tantalizing way, and allows a
hint of a red flannel under-something. The frayed ends of the skirt
lie across a hopelessly-burst pair of elastic-sides which rest on their
inner edges--toes out--and jerk about in a seemingly undecided manner.
She is damping and working up the natural layer on the floor with a
piece of old flannel petticoat dipped occasionally in a bucket which
stands by her side, containing about a quart of muddy water. She looks
round and exclaims, “Oh, did you want to come in, Mr Careless?” Then
she says she'll be done in a minute; furthermore she remarks that if you
want to come in you won't be in her road. You don't--you go down to the
dining-room--parlour--sitting-room---nursery--and stretch yourself
on the sofa in the face of the painfully-evident disapproval of the
landlady.
You have been here, say, three months, and are only about two weeks
behind. The landlady still says, “Good morning, Mr Careless,” or “Good
evening, Mr Careless,” but there is an unpleasant accent on the “Mr,”
and a still more unpleasantly pronounced stress on the “morning”
or “evening.” While your money lasted you paid up well and
regularly--sometimes in advance--and dined out most of the time; but
that doesn't count now.
Ten minutes pass, and then the landlady's disapproval becomes
manifest and aggressive. One of the little girls, a sharp-faced little
larrikiness, who always wears a furtive grin of cunning--it seems as
though it were born with her, and is perhaps more a misfortune than a
fault--comes in and says please she wants to tidy up.
So you get up and take your hat and go out again to look for a place to
rest in--to try not to think.
You _wish_ you could get away up-country. You also wish you were dead.
The landlady, Mrs Jones, is a widow, or grass-widow, Welsh, of course,
and clannish; flat face, watery grey eyes, shallow, selfish, ignorant,
and a hypocrite unconsciously--by instinct.
But the worst of it is that Mrs Jones takes advantage of the situation
to corner you in the passage when you want to get out, or when you come
in tired, and talk. It amounts to about this: She has been fourteen
years in this street, taking in boarders; everybody knows her; everybody
knows Mrs Jones; her poor husband died six years ago (God rest his
soul); she finds it hard to get a living these times; work, work,
morning, noon, and night (talk, talk, talk, more likely). “Do you know
Mr Duff of the Labour Bureau?” He has known her family for years; a very
nice gentleman--a very nice gentleman indeed; he often stops at the gate
to have a yarn with her on his way to the office (he must be hard up
for a yarn). She doesn't know hardly nobody in this street; she never
gossips; it takes her all her time to get a living; she can't be
bothered with neighbours; it's always best to keep to yourself and keep
neighbours at a distance. Would you believe it, Mr Careless, she has
been two years in this house and hasn't said above a dozen words to the
woman next door; she'd just know her by sight if she saw her; as for the
other woman she wouldn't know her from a crow. Mr Blank and Mrs Blank
could tell you the same.... She always had gentlemen staying with her;
she never had no cause to complain of one of them except once; they
always treated her fair and honest. Here follows story about the
exception; he, I gathered, was a journalist, and she could never depend
on him. He seemed, from her statements, to have been decidedly erratic
in his movements, mode of life and choice of climes. He evidently caused
her a great deal of trouble and anxiety, and I felt a kind of sneaking
sympathy for his memory. One young fellow stayed with her five years;
he was, etc. She couldn't be hard on any young fellow that gets out of
work; of course if he can't get it he can't pay; she can't get blood out
of a stone; she couldn't turn him out in the street. “I've got sons of
my own, Mr Careless, I've got sons of my own.”... She is sure she
always does her best to make her boarders comfortable, and if they want
anything they've only got to ask for it. The kettle is always on the
stove if you want a cup of tea, and if you come home late at night and
want a bit of supper you've only got to go to the safe (which of us
would dare?). She never locks it, she never did.... And then she begins
about her wonderful kids, and it goes on hour after hour. Lord! it's
enough to drive a man mad.
We were recommended to this place on the day of our arrival by a young
dealer in the furniture line, whose name was Moses--and he looked like
it, but we didn't think of that at the time. He had Mrs Jones's card in
his window, and he left the shop in charge of his missus and came round
with us at once. He assured us that we couldn't do better than stay with
her. He said she was a most respectable lady, and all her boarders were
decent young fellows-gentlemen; she kept everything scrupulously clean,
and kept the best table in town, and she'd do for us (washing included)
for eighteen shillings per week; she generally took the first week in
advance. We asked him to have a beer--for the want of somebody else to
ask--and after that he said that Mrs Jones was a kind, motherly body,
and understood young fellows; and that we'd be even more comfortable
than in our own home; that we'd be allowed to do as we liked--she wasn't
particular; she wouldn't mind it a bit if we came home late once in
a way--she was used to that, in fact; she liked to see young fellows
enjoying themselves. We afterwards found out that he got so much
on every boarder he captured. We also found out--after paying in
advance---that her gentlemen generally sent out their white things to be
done; she only did the coloured things, so we had to pay a couple of bob
extra a week to have our “biled” rags and collars sent out and done; and
after the first week they bore sad evidence of having been done on the
premises by one of the frowsy daughters. But we paid all the same. And,
good Lord! if she keeps the best table in town, we are curious to see
the worst. When you go down to breakfast you find on the table in front
of your chair a cold plate, with a black something--God knows what it
looks like--in the centre of it. It eats like something scraped off the
inside of a hide and burnt; and with this you have a cup of warm grey
slush called a “cup of tea.” Dinner: A slice of alleged roast beef or
boiled mutton, of no particular colour or taste; three new spuds,
of which the largest is about the size of an ordinary hen's egg, the
smallest that of a bantam's, and the middle one in between, and which
eat soggy and have no taste to speak of, save that they are a trifle
bitter; a dab of unhealthy-looking green something, which might be
either cabbage leaves or turnip-tops, and a glass of water. The whole
mess is lukewarm, including the water--it would all be better cold. Tea:
A thin slice of the aforesaid alleged roast or mutton, and the pick
of about six thin slices of stale bread--evidently cut the day before
yesterday. This is the way Mrs Jones “does” for us for eighteen
shillings a week. The bread gave out at tea-time this evening, and a
mild financial boarder tapped his plate with his knife, and sent the
bread plate out to be replenished. It came back with _one_ slice on it.
The mild financial boarder, with desperate courage, is telling the
landlady that he'll have to shift next week--it is too far to go to
work, he cannot always get down in time; he is very sorry he has to go,
he says; he is very comfortable here, but it can't be helped; anyway, as
soon as he can get work nearer, he'll come back at once; also (oh, what
cowards men are when women are concerned), he says he wishes she could
shift and take a house down at the other end of the town. She says
(at least here are some fragments of her gabble which we caught and
shorthanded): “Well, I'm very sorry to lose you, Mr Sampson, very sorry
indeed; but of course if you must go, you must. Of course you can't be
expected to walk that distance every morning, and you mustn't be getting
to work late, and losing your place... Of course we could get breakfast
an hour earlier if... well, as I said before, I'm sorry to lose you and,
indeed... You won't forget to come and see us... glad to see you at any
time... Well, any way, if you ever want to come back, you know, your bed
will be always ready for you, and you'll be treated just the same, and
made just as comfortable--you won't forget that” (he says he won't);
“and you won't forget to come to dinner sometimes” (he says he won't);
“and, of course... You know I always try... Don't forget to drop in
sometimes... Well, anyway, if you ever do happen to hear of a decent
young fellow who wants a good, clean, comfortable home, you'll be sure
to send him to me, will you?” (He says he will.) “Well, of course,
Mr Sampson, etc., etc., etc., and-so-on, and-so-on, and-so-on,
and-so-on,...” It's enough to give a man rats.
He escapes, and we regard his departure very much as a gang of hopeless
convicts might regard the unexpected liberation of one of their number.
This is the sort of life that gives a man a God-Almighty longing to
break away and take to the bush.
HIS COLONIAL OATH
I lately met an old schoolmate of mine up-country. He was much changed.
He was tall and lank, and had the most hideous bristly red beard I
ever saw. He was working on his father's farm. He shook hands, looked
anywhere but in my face--and said nothing. Presently I remarked at a
venture “So poor old Mr B., the schoolmaster, is dead.”
“My oath!” he replied.
“He was a good old sort.”
“My oath!”
“Time goes by pretty quick, doesn't it?”
His oath (colonial).
“Poor old Mr B. died awfully sudden, didn't he?”
He looked up the hill, and said: “My oath!”
Then he added: “My blooming oath!”
I thought, perhaps, my city rig or manner embarrassed him, so I stuck
my hands in my pockets, spat, and said, to set him at his ease: “It's
blanky hot to-day. I don't know how you blanky blanks stand such blank
weather! It's blanky well hot enough to roast a crimson carnal bullock;
ain't it?” Then I took out a cake of tobacco, bit off a quarter, and
pretended to chew. He replied:
“My oath!”
The conversation flagged here. But presently, to my great surprise, he
came to the rescue with:
“He finished me, yer know.”
“Finished? How? Who?”
He looked down towards the river, thought (if he did think) and said:
“Finished me edyercation, yer know.”
“Oh! you mean Mr B.?”
“My oath--he finished me first-rate.”
“He turned out a good many scholars, didn't he?”
“My oath! I'm thinkin' about going down to the trainin' school.”'
“You ought to--I would if I were you.”
“My oath!”
“Those were good old times,” I hazarded, “you remember the old bark
school?”
He looked away across the sidling, and was evidently getting uneasy. He
shifted about, and said:
“Well, I must be goin'.”
“I suppose you're pretty busy now?”
“My oath! So long.”
“Well, good-bye. We must have a yarn some day.”
“My oath!”
He got away as quickly as he could.
I wonder whether he _was_ changed after all--or, was it I? A man does
seem to get out of touch with the bush after living in cities for eight
or ten years.
A VISIT OF CONDOLENCE
“Does Arvie live here, old woman?”
“Why?”
“Strike me dead! carn't yer answer a civil queschin?”
“How dare you talk to me like that, you young larrikin! Be off! or I'll
send for a policeman.”
“Blarst the cops! D'yer think I cares for 'em? Fur two pins I'd fetch a
push an' smash yer ole shanty about yer ears--y'ole cow! _I only arsked
if Arvie lived here_! Holy Mosis! carn't a feller ask a civil queschin?”
“What do you want with Arvie? Do you know him?”
“My oath! Don't he work at Grinder Brothers? I only come out of my way
to do him a good turn; an' now I'm sorry I come--damned if I ain't--to
be barracked like this, an' shoved down my own throat. (_Pause_) I want
to tell Arvie that if he don't come ter work termorrer, another bloke'll
collar his job. I wouldn't like to see a cove collar a cove's job an'
not tell a bloke about it. What's up with Arvie, anyhow? Is he sick?”
“Arvie is dead!”
“Christ! (_Pause_) Garn! What-yer-giv'n-us? Tell Arvie Bill Anderson
wants-ter see him.”
“My God! haven't I got enough trouble without a young wretch like you
coming to torment me? For God's sake go away and leave me alone! I'm
telling you the truth, my my poor boy died of influenza last night.”
“My oath!”
The ragged young rip gave a long, low whistle, glanced up and down
Jones's Alley, spat out some tobacco-juice, and said “Swelp me Gord! I'm
sorry, mum. I didn't know. How was I to know you wasn't havin' me?”
He withdrew one hand from his pocket and scratched the back of his head,
tilting his hat as far forward as it had previously been to the rear,
and just then the dilapidated side of his right boot attracted his
attention. He turned the foot on one side, and squinted at the sole;
then he raised the foot to his left knee, caught the ankle in a
very dirty hand, and regarded the sole-leather critically, as though
calculating how long it would last. After which he spat desperately at
the pavement, and said:
“Kin I see him?”
He followed her up the crooked little staircase with a who's-afraid kind
of swagger, but he took his hat off on entering the room.
He glanced round, and seemed to take stock of the signs of poverty--so
familiar to his class--and then directed his gaze to where the body lay
on the sofa with its pauper coffin already by its side. He looked at the
coffin with the critical eye of a tradesman, then he looked at Arvie,
and then at the coffin again, as if calculating whether the body would
fit.
The mother uncovered the white, pinched face of the dead boy, and Bill
came and stood by the sofa. He carelessly drew his right hand from his
pocket, and laid the palm on Arvie's ice-cold forehead.
“Poor little cove!” Bill muttered, half to himself; and then, as though
ashamed of his weakness, he said:
“There wasn't no post mortem, was there?”
“No,” she answered; “a doctor saw him the day before--there was no post
mortem.”
“I thought there wasn't none,” said Bill, “because a man that's been
post mortemed always looks as if he'd been hurt. My father looked right
enough at first--just as if he was restin'--but after they'd had him
opened he looked as if he'd been hurt. No one else could see it, but I
could. How old was Arvie?”
“Eleven.”'
“I'm twelve--goin' on for thirteen. Arvie's father's dead, ain't he?”
“Yes.”
“So's mine. Died at his work, didn't he?”
“Yes.”
“So'd mine. Arvie told me his father died of something with his heart!”
“Yes.”
“So'd mine; ain't it rum? You scrub offices an' wash, don't yer?”
“Yes.”
“So does my mother. You find it pretty hard to get a livin', don't yer,
these times?”
“My God, yes! God only knows what I'll do now my poor boy's gone. I
generally get up at half-past five to scrub out some offices, and when
that's done I've got to start my day's work, washing. And then I find it
hard to make both ends meet.”
“So does my mother. I suppose you took on bad when yer husband was
brought home?”
“Ah, my God! Yes. I'll never forget it till my dying day. My poor
husband had been out of work for weeks, and he only got the job two days
before he died. I suppose it gave your mother a great shock?”
“My oath! One of the fellows that carried father home said: 'Yer
husband's dead, mum,' he says; 'he dropped off all of a suddint,' and
mother said, 'My God! my God!' just like that, and went off.”
“Poor soul! poor soul! And--now my Arvie's gone. Whatever will me and
the children do? Whatever will I do? Whatever will I do? My God! I wish
I was under the turf.”
“Cheer up, mum!” said Bill. “It's no use frettin' over what's done.”
He wiped some tobacco-juice off his lips with the back of his hand, and
regarded the stains reflectively for a minute or so. Then he looked at
Arvie again.
“You should ha' tried cod liver oil,” said Bill.
“No. He needed rest and plenty of good food.”
“He wasn't very strong.”
“No, he was not, poor boy.”
“I thought he wasn't. They treated him bad at Grinder Brothers: they
didn't give him a show to learn nothing; kept him at the same work all
the time, and he didn't have cheek enough to arsk the boss for a rise,
lest he'd be sacked. He couldn't fight, an' the boys used to tease him;
they'd wait outside the shop to have a lark with Arvie. I'd like to
see 'em do it to me. He couldn't fight; but then, of course, he wasn't
strong. They don't bother me while I'm strong enough to heave a rock;
but then, of course, it wasn't Arvie's fault. I s'pose he had pluck
enough, if he hadn't the strength.” And Bill regarded the corpse with a
fatherly and lenient eye.
“My God!” she cried, “if I'd known this, I'd sooner have starved than
have my poor boy's life tormented out of him in such a place. He never
complained. My poor, brave-hearted child! He never complained! Poor
little Arvie! Poor little Arvie!”
“He never told yer?”
“No--never a word.”
“My oath! You don't say so! P'raps he didn't want to let you know he
couldn't hold his own; but that wasn't his fault, I s'pose. Y'see, he
wasn't strong.”
An old print hanging over the bed attracted his attention, and he
regarded it with critical interest for awhile:
“We've got a pickcher like that at home. We lived in Jones's Alley
wunst--in that house over there. How d'yer like livin' in Jones's
Alley?”
“I don't like it at all. I don't like having to bring my children up
where there are so many bad houses; but I can't afford to go somewhere
else and pay higher rent.”
“Well, there _is_ a good many night-shops round here. But then,” he
added, reflectively, “you'll find them everywheres. An', besides, the
kids git sharp, an' pick up a good deal in an alley like this; 'twon't
do 'em no harm; it's no use kids bein' green if they wanter get on in a
city. You ain't been in Sydney all yer life, have yer?”
“No. We came from the bush, about five years ago. My poor husband
thought he could do better in the city. I was brought up in the bush.”'
“I thought yer was. Well, men are sick fools. I'm thinking about gittin'
a billet up-country, myself, soon. Where's he goin' ter be buried?”
“At Rookwood, to-morrow.”
“I carn't come. I've got ter work. Is the Guvmint goin' to bury him?”
“Yes.”
Bill looked at the body with increased respect. “Kin I do anythin' for
you? Now, don't be frightened to arsk!”
“No. Thank you very much, all the same.”
“Well, I must be goin'; thank yer fur yer trouble, mum.”
“No trouble, my boy--mind the step.”
“It _is_ gone. I'll bring a piece of board round some night and mend it
for you, if you like; I'm learnin' the carpenterin'; I kin nearly make
a door. Tell yer what, I'll send the old woman round to-night to fix up
Arvie and lend yer a hand.”
“No, thank you. I suppose your mother's got work and trouble enough;
I'll manage.”
“I'll send her round, anyway; she's a bit rough, but she's got a soft
gizzard; an' there's nothin' she enjoys better than fixin' up a body.
Good-bye, mum.”
“Good-bye, my child.”
He paused at the door, and said:
“I'm sorry, mum. Swelp me God! I'm sorry. S'long, an' thank yer.”
An awe-stricken child stood on the step, staring at Bill with great
brimming eyes. He patted it on the head and said “Keep yer pecker up,
young 'un!”
IN A WET SEASON