The Drover's Wife & Other Stories

by Murray Bail

  I dismissed Gordon’s suggestion we continue, using saucers, his idea of a joke: saw him nudge-nudging my sister. She was hanging around us, always there. A glance at her scrawniness could trigger irritation in me, I don’t know why. Anything he said she’d listen, mouth open in that way. I would have said, look, scram, buzz off; words to that effect. I was about to, when Gordon reached for something wrapped in newspaper under the bench, and we squatted, sister too, I could see her pants.

  Lifting it out I untied the string.

  ‘Eek!’ She clutched at him.

  I held up a fox with glass eye.

  ‘O-kay,’ I swung experimentally. ‘This’ll do. What’s the matter?’ I stared at my sister. ‘I can throw it.’

  Before she married, our mother dressed up for special occasions, little hats, veils, dresses consisting of buttons and tiny flowers. One photo in the album has her on a shopping spree with her mother in the city, each with a cheesy smile, like sisters. Shortly after, she met our father, I forget where. Near the back door I was adjusting my feet, getting the balance right. I swung a few times, began again, swung once more, again, suddenly letting go with all the smoothness I could muster, the centrifugal force of the lop-sided fox hop-hopping me forward like a shot-putter.

  Leisurely, the dog-like shape began flying, its tail outstretched. At the chimney it somersaulted in slow motion against the night sky, appeared to set course, and with snarling teeth nosedived straight for Gordon across the street, chatting to my sister. At her cry he tried to swerve. The fox followed, sinking its fangs into his throat, as he rolled on the lawn,

  A fox is pleasant to hold, weighted at one end, a living thing. I never tired of sending it over, enjoying the accelerating moment of release, then running up our drive to follow its twists and turns, flash of orange tail, its Stuka-dive forcing Gordon into the acrobatics of a goalkeeper, exaggerated for my sister, looking on. ‘Improvisation is the mother of invention!’ I heard him call out. My sister swallowed anything. At the same time she had a frivolous side; I could imagine reaching our gate to find her parading in front of him, fox draped over one shoulder, hand on hip for him.

  As mentioned, the houses each had a hedge, except the Gills’, which had the picket fence, leaving the house naked. The Gills didn’t seem to mind, on the contrary. Every other night the lights would be blazing, more like an ocean-liner than a house, the rest of the street as dark as the sea. The rectangle of illuminated lawn appeared as a billiard table, the beds of roses, shutters flung open, car in the drive all added up to a welcoming, optimistic air. After the loss of the fox I sent over a rubbish-bin lid, glittering chassis of a crystal-set, tennis racquet in its press, other objects so poor in the aerodynamics department they barely cleared the roof. They were not adding anything; I was beginning to lose interest.

  The card table had a way of setting its legs in mid-air, to make a perfect four-point landing on the Gills’ lawn; but that only happened, I think, twice.

  Our father would begin picking his teeth with a match, and for the umpteenth time tell us what a time he had, the best years, working with cattle in the outback, before he married, only ten months, but enough to deposit slowness in his speech, a corresponding glaze in our mother’s eyes, and a green trunk full of Aboriginal weapons in the garage. I had forgotten they were there. Gordon was holding the boomerangs in his hand, authentic tribal weapons, not the tourist kind.

  ‘You might as well put them back,’ I said. ‘They’re too dangerous.’ When I turned my sister was already skipping around to the front, Gordon at her heels.

  ‘Listen, will you?’ I crossed the street. I grabbed my sister. ‘You’re not going to watch me, right?’ I felt her squirming. ‘Then you’d better keep your eyes open. In case someone’s coming, that’s why. These things,’ I sounded prim, ‘could kill someone.’

  Gordon was in no doubt as to the serious turn the game had taken. Boomerangs were altogether different from the grimacing masks and decorated shields from New Guinea displayed in the room Mr Gill called his ‘study’. If one caught him in the face it would have been curtains. We knew, Gordon and I, my sister too; Gordon began going through his stretch exercises. Instead of hesitating, let alone calling a halt, I was gripping the boomerang at one end.

  I gave plenty of elbow: let go.

  By the time I reached the street the boomerang was ahead of me. Gordon on their lawn was shielding his eyes. My sister had moved from the gate to be alongside. The mulga blades came swirling out of the fading light in a fury, seeking him out. Keeping his eyes on it, swerving and ducking at the last moment, he avoided being hit, just. He was impressive, I’d have to say. From then on the vicious insistent things kept coming at him, at the strangest angles, finding him in roundabout ways, where least expected, side-on without warning or from behind. While I had never underestimated his confidence, I think I underestimated his abilities in general. He had a certain course of his life marked out, even then. He would always succeed where I would not, I could see. In the end my life became something of a shambles. His would not.

  Gordon wore his father’s yellow driving-gloves and was grabbing at the boomerangs as they flew past, my sister clapping encouragement whenever he managed to pull one down. Keen eyesight, reflexes played their part, fair enough, knowing which ones to leave, sure; but as I watched I began to find his way of crouching and twisting, particularly in the region of his hips, distasteful. He displayed a fleshy alertness I found offputting, just as when he received a given object and turned it over in his hands I saw his arms were precisely the pale arms with black hairs I found unpleasant, repulsive even. I have always had trouble with such hairy arms, my sister didn’t seem to mind. Every night her job was to whistle or cough if a motor cyclist appeared or a pedestrian, such as Mr Limb, a bachelor who lived next door, deciding to stretch his legs, it’s all she had to do; otherwise I was throwing blind. But she was more interested in warning him, Gordon, crouching there on the slippery lawn; more than once letting out a cry, which may well have saved his skin. I had to cross the street and tell her to pipe down, we didn’t want the neighbours coming out. If she didn’t we’d have to stop, it would be the end. As I laid down the law she began to blink, I could see she was about to cry. Gordon nearby examined his elbow saying nothing.

  Gramophone music came from the Gills’ open windows, men and women moved in the brightly lit rooms, now and then a man leaned back laughing his head off. This flat boomerang felt longer on one side, inscribed with dots and whorls. Without thinking too much I flicked it, perhaps that was it, for as I ran with it up the drive the thing hovered like a lost helicopter blade above our chimney, before returning. Slipping on the gravel I ran back just as our father stepped out the door.

  ‘Bloody crow!’ he waved over his head. ‘Did you see that?’

  It clattered into the fig tree, but by then our father had cocked his ear to the Gills’ party noise.

  ‘Benny Goodman,’ he gave a bit of a jig, ‘at the Carnegie Hall. Hello, how’s Gordon tonight?’

  Gordon pulled up panting, sister alongside. As soon as our father went back in our mother began getting stuck into him, listing things missing in him.

  ‘Think.’ Gordon was shaking me. ‘Where did you say it landed?’

  ‘I’ll find it in the morning. Don’t worry about it.’

  His answer startled me. Put it off and never find it again. That’d be right,’

  Already up in the tree my sister dropped it at his feet. Wiping it with his handkerchief Gordon held the flat blade up to the light. Whatever he saw pleased him, for he lunged with both hands at my sister as she passed, ignoring me.

  No matter how hard I tried I never managed to make another one return. And when the trunk was empty, even of fighting boomerangs, which Gordon explained were never meant to be thrown, the problem again was finding something to send over. In this and other matters Gordon revealed a singlemindedness I never had. Gordon knew what he wanted, usually had a fair idea. What I thoug
ht hardly worth the effort he invariably thought the opposite. Already he had a sureness in summing up the other person, then no longer taking them into account.

  Anything I could lay my hands on I was letting go. I found all sorts of things we did not want. Nothing ever meant much to me. Even today I am casual about possessions. With people too I come and go. In this I resemble my casual father, who in the end disappointed people, my mother and others.

  In a single night I sent over a pair of suit trousers, striding across the sky, a row of coat-hangers, textbooks I would never open, wooden lavatory seat. I watched as every copy of Life presented to me by an amateur photographer uncle changed hands, the history of the postwar world turning over like a newsreel. Patterns form without anyone being fully aware, I see now. Our mother wore the same shoes for a week and a half, our father never changed his hat.

  Electric light bulbs lit up the sky, followed by the first fluorescent tube; our pop-up toaster another time trailed its plaited cord. Problems of a technical kind: it took several attempts to hurl the standard-lamp over, a ceremonial spear. The electric radiator made the journey, the single red bar describing quite fantastic arabesques, catching Gordon talking in the shadows to my sister by surprise. When occasionally she skipped over to my side, expressing interest in what I was doing, I could see she was itching to get back to him and whatever he was saying, on the other side. I set the American alarm clock for seven o’clock in mid-flight, and as it began ringing Gordon reached out and silenced it with one hand. I chucked half a dozen eggs, we kept fowls in the backyard, rotten tomato, a navel orange, another joke, Gordon collecting it on the neck. He said he confused it with the moon, but he was talking to my sister, I saw them. And for the first time my sister turned on me, ‘That’s going to leave a bruise,’ as I ran up arranging a country grin, in the manner of our father.

  Eventually we come up against things said by others which cannot be explained, not at the time. The night our mother talked about ‘taking in ironing’ made us laugh our heads off, my father and I; my sister too after a glance, our father laughing the loudest, almost choking, at the same time placing his weakened hand on my mother’s arm, which she pulled away. ‘Your mother sometimes comes out with all kinds of rubbish,’ wiping the tears from his eyes. At the table my sister sat demurely. It made me look twice, our mother too. The few jokes I cracked in her direction, not worth repeating, she ignored. The usual family racket we made she seemed to find irritating, which in turn irritated us, at least our mother.

  From the beginning, I began to see, I was doing all the work. To Gordon I suggested we change positions. Operating in darkness near our back door I could do my bit with my eyes shut, whereas on his side light was absolutely essential, he pointed out. ‘Without proper light I’ve no idea what’s coming my way.’ I’m at the receiving end, let’s not forget, he actually said.

  Besides, he pointed out, we have each attained a degree of efficiency in our respective roles. ‘Isn’t that right?’ he said to her, alongside.

  The pale ironing board in flight reminded me of the loose skin above my mother’s elbow. Difficult to send up and over it was more difficult still for Gordon receiving, a matter of manoeuvring desperately to get side-on to the torpedo-shaped thing. At the same time Mr and Mrs Gill stepped out for a night at the theatre or somewhere. By the gate I watched Mrs Gill, fox over one shoulder, although the night was warm, flash my sister a smile. ‘So this is Glenys?’ I heard her say. After that she made a point of saying hello, Gordon looking bored, as Mr Gill strode around to open her car door.

  To get my sister’s attention Gordon sometimes touched her with his foot. Other times, talking to me, he’d drape an elbow over her shoulder. In turn, my sister remained still, no longer jumping about. He subscribed to American magazines and gave her books to read.

  Birdcage, oval mirror reflecting the clouds, a perfectly good floral armchair.

  The smallest things amused my sister. She had what I would say was a childish delight in small and modest things. It was one of her attractive sides. And yet when I sent over things chosen for her she reacted as if they had dropped from the sky into his lap, as if it had nothing to do with me, on the other side.

  I submitted silver coins when I had some to spare. ‘We’re down to our last shekels,’ I called, the coins shooting across the sky as falling stars.

  It was she who pointed them out to him, I could hear her cries. It would have been their appearance amongst the stars that caught her eye, not their value; I can’t answer for him. As always Gordon hardly said a word; I mean to me: I could hear him murmuring to her. Mostly you never knew what he was thinking; he never gave much away. Vase of flowers, inner-spring mattress, dustpan and brush. By the time I’d reach their gate he’d still be talking to her, my sister taking in whatever rot he came out with. It had been the same with me. So practised had he become he’d merely extend an arm and take whatever I’d sent over or simply move a step, holding her by the waist, a provocative move.

  She was out of my hair, I was no longer tripping over her, a good thing; at the same time, I felt great rushes of irritation at the way she transferred her attention lock, stock and barrel to him, in that trusting way of hers, mouth slightly open. If our mother saw two people with heads together they were ‘as thick as thieves’. And more than once she said, ‘No one likes anyone whispering.’

  A large oil painting from our mother’s side used to hang in the bedroom, a summer landscape, on canvas. It aquaplaned into multiples of parched hills and fat gum trees. Gordon received it with open arms, my sister helped him lower it to the ground, and listened as he launched into a lecture, pointing out the strengths and weaknesses of the composition. After examining it and wiping it with his handkerchief he pronounced it too fragile to travel, my sister nodded in agreement.

  In the way the boomerang came back over the roof it was only a matter of waiting before our father’s expression returned to one of smiling slightly. Mr Limb, next door, used to say, ‘I don’t have a hobby or a pastime,’ and as he reached retirement, ‘Most of my life has passed, and now just when I need it I don’t have a hobby or a pastime.’ The subject of early retirement occupied his mind so much he suffered excruciating headaches; he took days off from the work he no longer enjoyed, on medical advice.

  Even then I felt sympathy for Mr Limb. I don’t know what in the end happened to him. The umbrella jerked open and parachuted down, ironic cheers from Gordon’s side, ashtrays were never used in our house, nest of tables, mother’s, and our father’s tan suitcase opened its mouth and dropped a sock on the telephone wires.

  From my side in darkness I would hear Gordon’s voice, followed by her laugh. Rolling pin tumbled over, dusted with flour. They would have trouble finding the knives and forks. I no longer bothered rushing around to see how the latest thing was received. We were going through the motions, little more. Only later do we realise something of value has slipped away. Whatever had been worth the effort in the beginning was coming to an end; a feeling I would recognise in later years.

  I squatted near the garage, my sister, Gordon at her elbow, rummaging through what little was left.

  Embroidered tablecloth, their idea, didn’t make the distance; I could have told them that. At any given time there is only a limited number of ideas of value, I wanted to say. And before long we exhaust them as well. I remained squatting, watching them. If one of them went somewhere the other followed. I was left alone, to one side.

  That night when my sister came skipping around to my side I thought she was coming around to my way of thinking, whatever that was.

  Instead, she had a suggestion, and as I listened I felt my father’s grin beginning to run amok; but she was looking away strangely and speaking vaguely.

  Thinking the thing she suggested was going to be the last I got to my feet, not at all laboriously, and went inside. I came out with it rolled up.

  So many things passed through my hands; nevertheless, I found it necessary to
use all my skills with this one, and wondering whether it was her idea or his dispatched, after some difficulties, my sister’s favourite party dress. I could follow its progress, walking up our gravel drive. Billowing from the waist it elbowed gently past the chimney. And in its determination, oblivious to me or anybody else, I glimpsed my sister there and in years to come. She would always be determined, always there, her way, while I felt within a heavy casualness, settled and spreading.

  Whatever Gordon was expecting it wasn’t this. Directly above him the translucent dress began descending, flapping gently at the edges. Not sure whether to grab it with both hands, or perhaps deceived by its slowness, the slow hip and narrow waist movements, he was caught wrong-footed. The white cotton dress smothered him.

  I waited for my sister to rush forward and help, as she had all along, but she looked on, not lifting a finger, letting Gordon disentangle himself.

  From the gatepost if I glanced across the street I would see Gordon’s outline, kicking gravel, my sister discussing something. I had almost forgotten what my sister looked like. The dark bulk of the house now came between her features and me, obscuring aspects of her personality even. Out of habit I hung around near our back door. From inside the kitchen I heard the soft thudding of our mother ironing, occasionally the murmur of our father.

  Things at least seemed to be steady there, I remember thinking.

  At the sound of her voice, my sister, I stood up. Gordon was one step behind, both hands in his pockets, pursing his lips.

  My sister whispered again. Why the whisper? I wanted to ask. Facing her, I noticed a rushed, wide-open expression I hadn’t seen before.

  Still I didn’t say anything. After a while my sister went inside, leaving us. He and I stood there. Gordon glanced at his watch. When she came out in her white party dress he stepped forward.