The Best Australian Bush Stories

by Jim Haynes

  ‘Pop it down, gents! Pop it down! If you don’t put down a brick you can’t pick up a castle! I’ll bet no one here can pick the knave of hearts out of these three cards. I’ll bet half-a-sovereign no one here can find the knave!’

  Then the crowd parted a little, and through the opening they could see him distinctly, doing a great business and showing wonderful dexterity with the pasteboard.

  There is still enough money in Sydney to make it worthwhile for another detachment to come down from Mulligan’s; but the next lot will hesitate about playing poker with priests in the train.

  TO THE CITY

  STEELE RUDD

  (EXCERPT FROM ON AN AUSTRALIAN FARM)

  A WARM AND GLORIOUS sunshine lit up the land. The fields of waving wheat breaking into shot-blade were pictures good for man to see. The great pine trees towering round the snuggling home were a-song with birds and all the family were up to their eyes with the final preparations for the trip to the city.

  For a week and more Mrs Dashwood and the girls had been overhauling and organising their wardrobes, and packing boxes and bags and portmanteaux, so that no hitch would happen and no time be lost when the hour for starting arrived. Tilly, who had had more experience in travelling than the others, was careful to send Maria, her married sister, instructions to do likewise, and warned her to leave nothing to the last. And Maria sent a message to say that she and the baby were ready to start at any moment.

  Preparations for a church picnic, or for attending a race meeting, are exciting enough events in the country, but this trip to the city excelled all things in the history of ‘Fairfield’. Nothing had ever so disorganised and dislocated the family nerve and general placidity.

  There is no class on earth so easily and speedily demoralised as the country person when under the spell and influence of a ‘trip to the city’. But the demoralisation lasts only until their feet touch the floor of the railway carriage, and they feel the grip of the ticket and the carriage window. Then, with a gulp and a gasp, the temporary disorder passes away like the evil effects of green lucerne leaving a bloated cow when proper remedies are applied.

  Old John, arrayed in a shining black suit with a heavy gold chain stretched across his great stomach, strutted into the dining room and surveyed himself in a self-satisfied sort of way. A big man was old John, and done up and posing as he was now, looked all over a prosperous alderman.

  Granny in a motherly way looked him up and down, then took him in charge and tugged at the sleeves and tails of his coat to coax them into position. Then, taking out her pocket-handkerchief, she proceeded to brush him all over.

  Peter, dressed like a shop window, in a loud check suit, a cunning-looking tweed hat—the only one of its kind in the land—a high-coloured collar, a variegated necktie, and carrying a spanking new leather bag in each hand, skipped breezily into the room.

  For a moment John’s breath threatened to leave him. He stared long and hard at his artistic-looking son. Peter paraded the room as if for inspection. Old John started to smile.

  ‘Well,’ said old John, ‘if I wouldn’t a’thought you was just come back from heaven.’

  ‘By Jove, then, Father,’ Peter rejoined enthusiastically, ‘you don’t look too bad yourself. You’d pass for a king in those clothes.’

  James, carelessly dressed in a common tweed suit, and wearing a soft felt hat, sauntered in search of luggage to convey to the buggies standing in the yard. His eyes rested on Peter and he stopped abruptly, and stared.

  Old John, looking at James, said, ‘Don’t you know him, lad? Did you think he were the Dook o’ York?’

  James burst into merriment and, turning on his heel, retreated down the corridor. The next moment he was heard calling to the girls.

  ‘What is it, James?’ Tilly answered. ‘We’ll be ready now in a moment.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ James said, ‘just go and look in at the dining room!’

  Neither Tilly nor Polly could resist curiosity. Clad in their sombre travelling dresses they hurried to the dining room and looked in curiously and expectantly. For a second or two they experienced only disappointment, for their eyes rested only on the forms of Granny and old John. When, however, the gorgeous and smiling figure of Peter standing rigid and erect took shape to them, they simultaneously shrieked and fled.

  ‘They be a’laughin’ at you, lad,’ old John remarked with a grin at Peter.

  ‘Those who laugh last, Father, laugh longest,’ Peter said. ‘Wait till we get to the city, and see who’ll be laughed at then, not me. Ha, ha, ha!’

  Mrs Dashwood and Maria and the baby assembled in the dining room and dumped a consignment of small luggage on the table.

  ‘Did anyone see Maria’s basket?’ Mrs Dashwood asked.

  But Maria, herself, stifled a reply. ‘Oh Peter!’ she exclaimed on beholding her brother. Then she started to laugh.

  ‘Well, I’m blowed if I know what you all see wrong about me to laugh at,’ Peter protested. And once more he stepped out round the room in a gallant parade.

  ‘Really,’ Maria said advisedly, ‘you don’t show a bit of taste, Peter, not a bit.’

  ‘Don’t show a bit of taste?’ Peter echoed. ‘There’s a good joke in there somewhere, Father, but I’m blessed if I can get it off my tongue.’

  James, who had returned quietly to the room, started to grin. ‘If there’s a better joke there than himself,’ he remarked slyly to Maria, ‘I’ll be very much surprised.’

  William appeared, and announced that everything was ready and advised them to get a move on.

  Polly and Tilly, with their hats in their hands, paid final visits to the mirror. Granny put up a hue and cry about the loss of one of her woollen ‘mitts’ that all the while was in her pocket, and started the others off on a wild goose chase.

  ‘Now then, for the city,’ Peter cried, lifting his hand and adjusting his quaint little hat.

  ‘Oh, wait just a minute!’ Polly exclaimed excitedly. ‘What on earth did I do with my umbrella?’

  They turned the place upside down in search of the umbrella and eventually discovered that Granny was nursing it all the while.

  Out in the sun Polly and Tilly tittered and said, ‘Just look at Peter!’

  Then they clamoured and climbed into the four-wheeler. James opened and closed the big white gate. The whip cracked and away they rolled to the railway station.

  A sharp twenty minutes’ drive past McFlaherty’s farm, around Catherton’s corner, and they reached the station.

  The bulk of the luggage, which had preceded them on Smith’s wagon, occupied a whole end of the platform. The stationmaster and his porter were busy engaged disfiguring it all with labels.

  The stationmaster raised his cap to the ladies, all of whom smiled graciously upon him, and passed pleasant remarks to old John on his appearance and expressed envy at his freedom and prospects of a good time in the city.

  ‘Ahh, I be goin’ to enjoy meself, Johnson,’ old John assured him. ‘It be the first trip we’ve taken and we’re a’goin’ to do it in style.’

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ the stationmaster said. ‘Peter looks like he is going to have a good time, Mr Dashwood.’

  With a ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ Peter spun around three times on one heel.

  ‘Ahh,’ said old John with a smile, ‘Peter thinks he is a’going to take the city by storm.’

  ‘I don’t know about taking the city by storm,’ the cheerful stationmaster answered, ‘but he might take some of the city girls by storm.’

  ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ and Peter made several revolutions on his other heel.

  The stationmaster, glancing towards the ladies to see they were not within hearing, placed his mouth close to old John’s ear and said something confidential.

  ‘Hoh, hoh, hoh! I don’t think he would go thet far!’ old John roared.

  ‘Then he’s a lot different to what his father was at his age, I bet,’ the stationmaster replied.

  Old John br
oke into another loud, ‘Hoh, hoh, hoh! Look here Johnson,’ he laughed, ‘I’ll have you dismissed at headquarters, when I gets to the city.’

  Meanwhile Mrs Dashwood and Maria and the girls were busy swapping and changing and arranging the smaller items of luggage. Polly required a certain bag taken into the carriage and Tilly a particular box, while Mrs Dashwood and Maria expressed grave doubts as to the safety of a trunk in the van.

  ‘All travelling “first”, Mr Dashwood?’ the stationmaster enquired, as he procured the tickets.

  ‘Aye, all first,’ old John answered, taking out his purse.

  ‘What about Peter?’ the official smiled significantly.

  ‘Peter?’ answered old John, turning and eyeing the magnificently dressed one. ‘Ahh, but now you haven’t anythin’ better ’n “first” have you Johnson?’

  ‘Not here,’ the other answered, prodding the tickets into the date stamp. ‘But I dare say we could get the Governor’s carriage if we wired right away.’

  ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ Peter went off. ‘I’d look as well in it as old thing-a-me-bob the Lieutenant Governor.’

  ‘You’d look a jolly sight better, if you ask me,’ the stationmaster broke into a chuckle.

  ‘He’d look better in the dog-box,’ James drawled, gazing out at the railway yard.

  Just then the mail whistled and a scramble set in.

  ‘That’s her!’ the stationmaster cried.

  Old John and James and Peter snapped up articles of luggage. William kissed Maria and the baby and said ‘goodbye’ to the others.

  The train drew up to the platform and one after the other the family crowded noisily into it, much to the annoyance of two ‘commercials’, who lay full stretch on the seats. The stationmaster banged the door noisily after them, then stood on the carriage step and wished them all a good time and a safe return. Old John and James waved to those on the platform. The train whistled and puffed, strained, and off it went.

  * * *

  After passing through mile upon mile of smouldering, smoking wastelands over which a fierce bush fire had obviously been raging for many days, after flying past Mullungangerina and Niccoloconjoorooroo, and Bibleback, and Howe, and many other strange places, large suburban residences with luxuriant gardens and white paling fences about them began to show up.

  A succession of small shops took shape; pedestrians and motors and bikes began to come along in numbers, and the ascending spires of lofty churches elevated on hills, and volumes of black smoke curling into the sky could be seen from the windows.

  Through the last cutting the train rushed, then the great city in all its age, in all its youth, in all its glory, in all its grime, in all its grandeur and in all its dirt and dust burst full before our country friends.

  Excitement! There was excitement! None of them could remain still a minute longer. Not even Granny, who woke up and wished to know where she was, and how long she had been asleep. They were all in a flurry.

  The door flew open and a railway porter bounced in.

  ‘Tickets, please!’ he cried sharply.

  ‘Tickets,’ Polly and Tilly repeated, looking at old John.

  ‘Ahhh,’ and old John started fumbling in his pockets.

  ‘I saw you get them from Mr Johnson, Father,’ Peter remarked.

  The others regarded old John with anxious eyes.

  The porter regarded him as an outrage. ‘Can’t you find them?’ he said, impatiently.

  ‘I put ’em somewhere,’ answered old John, screwing and twisting his body about to fit his big hands into his pockets.

  ‘You surely can’t have lost them, Father?’ Mrs Dashwood murmured with increased anxiety.

  ‘You haven’t got them, Mother?’ Tilly suggested, looking at Mrs Dashwood.

  Mrs Dashwood shook her head and said she hadn’t even seen them.

  The official lost patience. ‘I can’t wait on you all night,’ he snapped. ‘Oh, you’ll have to come to see the SM,’ and opening the door commanded them to follow him to the magnate’s office.

  They seized their luggage and, like Brown’s cows, followed him. Some of them looked solemn; some looked convicted of bigamy; some looked amused.

  Tilly and Polly hid their faces with things they were carrying and tittered.

  ‘Goodness gracious me!’ Tilly said. ‘What on earth will people think of us!’

  The great platform along which they trailed was thronged with people. Some of them were scrambling and jostling for possession of luggage; some running up and down peering into railway carriages; some hugging long-lost brothers and sisters; and a great number staring curiously at the cortege that trooped at the heels of the swaggering railway man.

  Hotel porters and boarding-house touts thrust their advertising cards into old John’s hand, and into the hands of every member of the family, and shouted the virtues of their respective establishments into their ears.

  The crowded shelves of the open book-stalls with their glaring flaring placards inviting people to purchase the ‘newest wonder’ in the literary line arrested the wondering gaze of our mutual friends. But the porter was in a hurry, and they were not permitted to linger and look.

  They were approaching the door of the SM’s office. Old John suddenly stopped.

  ‘Ahh, hold on,’ he said with a smile.

  Old John seemed to have remembered something.

  ‘Have you found them, Father?’ the family cried, with joyful expectation in their eyes.

  Old John took a tobacco pouch from his pocket, out of which he slowly extracted the missing tickets.

  ‘That be ’em,’ he said, handing them to the porter.

  ‘A very stupid place to put tickets!’ the porter remarked disappointedly, as he handed back the return halves.

  ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ laughed Peter. ‘You got ’em, eh, Father?’

  ‘Oh, I knew I had ’em soomwheres,’ said old John.

  And they turned and departed.

  MINER’S HOLIDAY

  GAVIN CASEY

  THEY POURED TOM AND me onto the Sunday train just as it started to move, and we collected our bottles and found our compartment. There were four other chaps in it, one we knew and three we didn’t know. One of the strangers didn’t seem to like us much, but the rest brightened up when they saw how many bottles we had. We settled down and loosened our ties and collar studs, and Tom took his shoes off and kicked them under the seat. We arranged the luggage so it wasn’t in the way, and smoked and watched the dumps and smoke stacks disappearing over the horizon.

  ‘Goodbye and good riddance!’ said Tom. ‘All you chaps goin’ right to the coast?’

  They said they were, and we began to talk about the city and the fields and the great times we were going to have for the next couple of weeks. It was a hot summer, and there was nothing to look at through the windows except mangy inland bush. I thought about the long rows of foamy breakers at North Beach, and we drank a couple of bottles. It was already smoky and stuffy in the carriage, and I liked the beer, but I was looking forward to the coast and thinking of yachting on the river and among the islands a few miles out.

  ‘We’ll have to look after the bottles,’ said Tom. ‘She gets a bit dry down the line in the middle of the night.’

  ‘There’s a pub next stop,’ said one of the chaps. ‘If we make it quick we can nick across and get a few more there.’

  We got some more beer and started knocking them over quicker. A bottle with plenty of head on it sprayed over the stranger who wasn’t drinking, and we thought that was the best joke ever. A bloke from the next compartment came and stood in the doorway and glared at us as if he’d like to say something. We laughed and offered him some beer, and he glared harder than ever and went away. Somebody found a pack of cards, and they started on poker, but I didn’t play. I was full of beer and excitement and didn’t feel like cards.

  I sat there in the smoky carriage drinking more beer and listening to the wheels bump over the rail joints. I wondered how long e
ach section of rail was and how much closer to the coast each clankety-clank took us. It would be great down there in the green, rain-washed country between the rolling coastal ranges and the sea. It would be good to see the rows of streets in which every house had lawns and flowers and the trees were different shapes and colours. Not like the fields, where the broad red roads are flanked by everlasting pepper trees and picket fences.

  Then they put up the sleepers, and, though the mob kept playing cards and making a row, I dozed. The rumble of the train became the roar of surf, and I was back at North Beach, riding the breakers like I used to six years ago, before we went to the fields.

  When the train pulled in next morning we were all dry and a bit sick. Our holiday suits were crumpled and ugly and the luggage was heavy and covered with corners. The buildings weren’t as big and fine-looking as I had remembered them, and they were a dirty smoke colour. It was as hot as hell, hotter than it had been on the fields. We walked out of the station and across the road and had a long, cool pot at the nearest pub. It was what we needed, and we had a couple more.

  ‘Where’re you blokes going to stay?’ asked one of our new cobbers.

  ‘We want to find a place at one of the beaches,’ I said.

  ‘Aw, right in town’s the place to stop,’ said someone. ‘Y’ can always go out to the beaches, but if you live there you might as well die after dark.’

  ‘We want a spell,’ I said. ‘We won’t care if it’s quiet.’

  ‘Funny idea of a spell,’ said someone. ‘Wantin’ to lug all his baggage another twenty miles as soon as he gets here.’

  ‘I’m stoppin’ right where I am,’ said another chap. ‘I’m goin’ to book a room. This pub looks good to me.’

  ‘Why don’t we book in, too, Bill?’ said Tom. ‘We can shift to the beach in a couple of days. We can have a spell here first.’

  ‘We can stick together an’ have a bit of fun for a start,’ said someone.