‘Japan?’ ventured the accountant.
‘No. Japan’s our friend. Everyone tries to tell you they’re our enemy. They’re the best friend we ever had. No. It’s Russia. If I had my way, I’d put every Russian, man, woman and child, into a lethal chamber.’
‘Some chamber,’ murmured the accountant studying the menu. ‘Fried whiting,’ he said, smiling up at the waitress.
The man leant back and swung his arm as if sweeping every Russian from the earth.
‘I’d wipe the lot out. They’re the cause of all the trouble in the world. They’re no good. Didn’t they kill the Czar? Well, he was one of them. What did they kill him for? You see, they’re all crook. They’re run by low-down men. I’d do away with the lot.’
The accountant stirred and drew a breath. He suddenly relaxed and smiled. What would be the use …
He commenced eating his fish.
‘They’re like animals led by animals. They’ll wake up.’
‘Very interesting, very interesting,’ said the accountant, dryly.
‘We’re waking up too,’ said the man, ‘The Government’s waking up. They stopped a machine from coming in the other day which would have put fifty girls out of work — some sort of knitting machine. A friend of mine was telling me that there is a machine for making butter boxes … Now butter boxes don’t interest you or me.’
‘Not at all,’ said the accountant.
‘But they interest a hell of a lot. This machine is worked by two lads. All they do is place the boards on a flat plate and the machine turns out a butter box at the other end. It used to take seven carpenters to do the job that that machine can do. Now two boys do it. The machine shouldn’t be allowed.’
‘No, by jove, it shouldn’t,’ said the accountant, wondering whether to have sweets.
‘There is one way that this could all be cured.’
‘Good,’ said the accountant.
‘I’ve thought of it myself, but it would have to be done all at once. Every single man working in Australia should be given ten bob rise and at the same time interest on fixed deposits held by banks raised to five per cent.’
‘And encourage people with money to leave it in the bank?’
‘No. They would have the interest to spend. But it would all have to be done at once, mind you. Everybody would have to be given a ten bob rise straight away. Look at the money they’d spend! I’ve thought it out myself. I might be a fool,’ he added, smiling with
Self-satisfaction and leaning back in the chair, ‘but that’s my idea of a cure.’
‘Check, Violet,’ the accountant raised his hand.
‘No sweets tonight?’ she smiled, handling him his crutches which she had taken from against the wall.
‘No thanks.’
He took the slip of paper.
‘So long,’ he said to the man.
‘Don’t forget what I told you,’ said the man.
‘I’ll not forget it,’ said the accountant.
8
The accountant drove along the dark street looking for No. 30. He stopped and, leaning over the side of his car, said to a barefooted boy standing beside an open gate, ‘Which is Tom Seddon’s house?’
‘That one there,’ said the boy, pointing.
The accountant turned the car and pulled up in front of a house with a narrow strip of grass between the verandah and the fence. Geraniums grew against the verandah’s edge.
The accountant reached an arm over the gate and felt for the catch. The pickets dug into his armpit. His crutch fell to the path. He found the catch, but the gate jammed. He pushed, and it opened slowly, scraping and grating on the brick pathway. He picked up his crutch and entered.
When he had closed the gate he bent and tested the damp, uneven pathway with his crutch tip, pushing it hard against the surface at an angle to see if the bricks were slippery.
The pathway led along the side of the house, between a paling fence and the wall. It was very narrow and dark. It led to the back. He stood in doubt considering. I wonder is there a dog? He looked at the verandah. There were three steps — wooden steps — He felt lonely in the darkness — standing still in the darkness against the wall of a strange house, like a thief. And people inside in lighted rooms, talking and moving about.
He looked into the darkness of the narrow path with faint revulsion, conscious of the difficulty of walking in confined places, and thinking of the turn at the end, and the back door, and going through the kitchen, breathing the smell of a dwelling.
He climbed the steps on to the verandah, and knocked at the door.
The life that before had breathed from the house, was suddenly stilled. Then the noise of moving chairs, and the patter of bare feet on linoleum. The door opened. The accountant looked down at a little boy, the whiteness of whose ragged shirt was slashed by the leather bands of old braces. Their hold on his trousers was insecure and depended on the strained necks of three buttons.
‘Is your father in?’ asked the accountant.
Against the lighted doorway of a room at the end of a passage a man appeared, carrying a baby.
‘Is that you, Mr McCormack? Come in. Here ‘ He
handed the baby to a little girl behind him. He strode down the passage and behind him the doorway filled with the black shapes of other children.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Look out for the step. Run inside, Jim. Now do what I tell you. Look out you don’t trip over that mat, Mr McCormack. I’m always telling Mum to shift it.’
The accountant entered, and stood waiting for him to close the door.
‘Go right through. They’re all here. We’re glad you came. Are you there, Mum? Here’s Mr McCormack.’
A stout woman pushed aside the children, and met them at the room’s entrance. She wiped her hands on her apron. The accountant shook her damp hand and smiled at her. She stood aside for him to enter and he saw a blue dress — unbelievably blue and beautiful — a rumpled heap of silk in the middle of a clothless table. An electric sewing machine crouched behind it, and before the machine a thin, tired girl, who looked at him a little self-consciously. Other dresses lay heaped in a basket at her feet.
Beside the girl sat a young man. His thickly-knotted tie formed a half circle from his neck to the V of his striped navy blue vest. His oiled, wavy hair was brushed straight back, and above the delicate tongue that swept along a cigarette paper’s gummed edge his hazel eyes surveyed the accountant with soft friendliness.
An old woman sat before the fire.
‘This is my mother, Mr McCormack — Mrs Rogers.’
The accountant clasped a blue veined hand, and looked into a face broken with crevices like the dried bed of a swamp. Her eyes, like the two last-remaining pools, looked thankfully upon him as if he were blessing her by his presence.
Holding her hand he said, ‘You look young to be the grandmother of so many children.’
‘Dear me. Yes. Dear me,’ she said, looking round at them. ‘They’re all me grandchildren except Mick here, and he goes with Annie.’
‘How are you Mick?’ the accountant nodded. The youth with the tie held out a hand across the table. The accountant took it, then released it, and held his hand towards the girl, who shook it gravely.
‘And that’s Ted, over there,’ said the father.
Sitting in the corner behind the grandmother’s chair, was a tall, well-built youth. He was looking at the accountant with the interest of a child at a circus, his mouth slightly opened. His sad face was dark-ringed beneath his tired eyes. His cheeks were hollow. He rose and came round to the accountant. His people were silent and still.
He took the accountant’s hand and said, ‘I know you, don’t I? No, I don’t know you. You’re a friend of the old man’s. How are you?’
‘Good,’ said the accountant.
‘You’re crippled,’ he said with interest, looking the accountant up and down.
The accountant, anxious to remove the painful silence Ted’s remark had crea
ted, smiled round at them and said, ‘I’ve been crippled for twenty years now. There was an epidemic of infantile paralysis on at the time. There is a lot of it going about now. Anyone round here get it?’
‘The woman three doors up — her little girl’s had it,’ said Mrs Seddon, feeling relieved. ‘It’s terrible. She is worried. You know — the expense and that …’
‘You have to wear crutches, do you?’ asked the old woman.
‘Oh yes. I can’t walk without them. I have become quite fond of them.’
‘Ain’t that terrible! Dear me. It’s sad, it is.’
‘It could be worse, I suppose. I don’t mind in the least.’
‘Yes, yes. That’s right. Dear me. Won’t you ever get better?’
‘Good Lord, no!’ said the accountant cheerfully.
‘Dear me.’ She clucked her tongue. ‘Dear me.’
‘Sit down, Mr McCormack,’ said the father.
‘Thanks, Tom.’
Ted returned to his seat and sat watching the accountant.
Annie continued her sewing. The machine whirred.
‘What did you think of the fight last night?’ asked Mick.
‘Good,’ said Ted.
‘Shut up. You weren’t there,’ said Mick.
‘No. I saw it in a vision,’ Ted said.
The accountant discussed fighting. Mick was a boxer. Occasionally Ted interjected irrelevantly in a loud voice.
The children were sent to bed.
‘Ted’s got photos of all the fighters in his room,’ said Mick.
‘Take Mr McCormack in and show them to him,’ said the father. ‘I’ll get your hot bath ready.’
‘I don’t want no hot bath,’ said Ted, rising. ‘Come with me,’ he said to the accountant.
The accountant followed him into a room opening off the passage.
A single bed was against the wall. Above the bed hung a large, coloured picture of Christ. His heart was exposed, surrounded by thorns. Drops of blood clung to him. He was pointing to holes in his hand, from which blood also flowed.
Ted sat on the bed. The accountant pulled a chair from against the wall and sat opposite him. Ted looked vaguely round the room. He moved his finger through the air, ‘It’s winning. Yes. It’s winning.’
‘Who’s winning?’ asked the accountant.
He looked at the accountant as if he had not seen him before.
He leant towards him and said, pointing to the picture of Christ, ‘See that bloke there? You think he’s a pansy because he’s got curly hair.’
The accountant looked at the picture and said, ‘He’s all right.’
‘He watches me.’
‘That’s nothing. Don’t take any notice of him.’
‘No.’ He spoke truthfully. He raised his head and looked round the room like an animal in a cage.
‘I’ve been up in the bush,’ he said.
‘I like the country,’ said the accountant.
‘They had pigs up there.’
He turned to the accountant and spoke earnestly.
‘They fed them on pollard. Stuffed it into them. Now I had a scheme.’ He tapped the palm of his hand with a finger. ‘Those pigs were getting too much nourishment. I put water with their pollard instead of milk. They got like racers. They were healthy and used to rip round their yard.’
‘I’d like to have seen those pigs,’ said the accountant.
‘I know things. I’ve got knowledge. That’s only one of the things I thought of.’ He suddenly changed his tone. ‘Can you fight?’ He thrust his head towards the accountant.
The accountant smiled. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Look, I’ll go you. What do you think of politics?’
‘Whatever your views are, they are mine,’ said the accountant.
‘You never want to be frightened if anyone goes to hit you,’ Ted went on. ‘A chap came at me up in the bush. I was going to have a swipe at him but he was too big. But you don’t want to show ’em that you’re windy. I knew a little cove up there. When I say “sit down or I’ll crack you” he sits down straight away.’
Ted put his head back and began laughing. His laughter was silent and shook his big body. He rocked and laughed.
The accountant watched him. ‘What are you laughing at?’ he asked at length.
‘You know old Bonner — the chap I worked for?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s a bloody fool.’
Ted continued laughing. The accountant laughed with him. (I’m mad too.)
Ted placed his hand on the accountant’s shoulder. They looked into each other’s eyes and laughed together.
There’s no doubt about it, thought the accountant.
The father walked in. ‘What are you two laughing at?’
‘Sit down, Tom,’ said the accountant. ‘We’ve had a great talk. You’ve no need to worry over Ted. He’s going to get all right.’
‘I’ve mastered it now,’ said Ted defiantly.
‘Of course you have,’ said the accountant.
‘He gets crook at nights, sometimes,’ said the father.
‘I don’t believe in them visions any longer,’ said Ted. ‘It’s only a headache I’ve got. That’s all.’
‘That’s good,’ said the father. ‘He has to have a hot bath every night,’ he said to the accountant. ‘He has to lie in it.’
‘Can I have a medium cold one tonight?’ asked Ted.
‘No,’ said the father decidedly. ‘Don’t make a fuss tonight. Jack has just come home.’
‘Jack can go to hell,’ Ted said rising. ‘I’m not going to have a bath.’
‘It’s always the same,’ the father said to the accountant. ‘We’ve got to tip him in the bloody bath. I’ll have to get Jack. Jack!’ he called. Ted stood against the wall breathing deeply.
A man of about twenty-three walked in. He was thick-set, and resembled his father.
Tom introduced him to the accountant.
‘Jack, you’re a bastard. I like you and I don’t like you,’ cried Ted.
‘That’s all right,’ said Jack. ‘You come and have your bath.’
‘You go to hell.’
‘You get on one side of him, dad.’ The two men moved towards the youth.
He shrank closer to the wall, his face expressing an intense revulsion at the thought of being touched.
He drew a breath, expelled it with sudden despair as they closed with him, then struggled furiously, bracing his legs and lowering his chin upon his chest.
The father and elder son clung determinedly to his arms, the father striving to twist the one he clutched, behind Ted’s back, Jack seeking a wrist-lock.
Ted gasped and swore. He whirled savagely. The father swung outwards and collided with the end of the bed. Ted jerked his arm free and turning sought to tear himself away from his brother, who had flung both arms around his waist.
‘I’ll kill this son of yours,’ Ted gasped to the father. He raised a fist preparatory to bringing it down in a rabbit-killing blow on the back of Jack’s neck. The father sprang forward and wrapped his strong fingers round the youth’s throat, bearing him backwards so that the three crashed to the bed. Ted struggled desperately, but the father clung to his hold and Ted’s struggles grew weaker.
Jack clapped a wrist-lock on his brother’s weakening arm.
‘What about it? Don’t choke him, dad. I’ve got him now. Let up …’
The father drew back. Ted lay gasping on the bed, his eyes closed.
‘Jesus!’
‘Now will you have your bath?’ asked Jack, increasing the pressure on Ted’s wrist.
‘You’re in the best position now,’ panted Ted, ‘but not for always. I’ll have my bath.’
Still gripping his wrist, Jack lifted him to a sitting position. Ted sat with his head dropping forward, making faint sounds of distress. He raised his head at last. ‘I’ll fight you anywhere, Jack. In the ring, in the back yard, down the beach.’
‘Next week,’ said Jack
. ‘Come on now.’
Ted rose. Mick was standing at the door.
‘Look at that dope,’ said Ted. ‘Why didn’t you hop into the old man?’
‘He’d’ve belted me,’ said Mick.
‘You’re only sissyfied, that’s all,’ Ted said.
‘You’ll be a champion boxer some day,’ said the accountant.
‘Yes,’ Ted said vaguely, his mind suddenly swinging away.
‘Come on,’ said Jack.
He followed them quietly, through the kitchen, across the lit-the back yard, through a washhouse smelling of suds and washed clothes. A galvanised iron bath against the wall was half-full of steaming water.
Ted began to undress. Mick, who had accompanied them, began to roll a cigarette. Jack and the accountant sat on a wooden box the father had dragged from the corner. The father stirred the water with Kis hand.
‘It’s got to be as hot as he can stand it,’ he explained to the accountant.
‘Who had me by the throat?’ Ted asked.
‘I dunno. Who did?’ replied Mick.
‘Garn, you dreamt it,’ Jack put in.
‘I dreamt nothin’. I was about that far off unconscious.’ Ted held up his hand with the finger and thumb slightly apart. ‘Whoever it was, was pretty strong. The strongest man who ever held me.’
‘Hurry up,’ said the father. ‘The water’s getting cold.’
‘Like hell it is,’ Ted said.
He lowered himself slowly into the water, his head thrown back, his face twisted. He sat a moment without moving, holding his breath.
‘Let’s go over and have some tea,’ said the father. ‘Come on, Mr McCormack. Ted has to lie there half an hour.’
They all walked back to the house. Ted commenced to sing from his bath.
‘My baby has goo-goo eyes …’
In the kitchen the mother was pouring tea. She looked up at the accountant as he entered. ‘How do you think he is, Mr McCormack?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Much better than I thought,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘He’s only strange part of the time. I think he will be right as rain in a few weeks.’
‘There, what did I tell you, mum,’ said Tom. ‘It’s only an attack.’
‘The doctor says he thinks it would be a good idea if we sent him to Royal Park for a week or two.’
How Beautiful Are Thy Feet Page 12
