The Drover's Wife & Other Stories

by Murray Bail

  A woman pulled a face.

  ‘Is that worth preserving?’

  ‘It’s part of him,’ the guide reminded her.

  Clearly, some of the womenfolk thought it pointless.

  ‘A small example,’ the guide argued, ‘of the growth of his extremities.’

  If only the fingernail was easier to see; I think perhaps that was the trouble. It could then be examined closely and carefully. A raised platform and special lighting would do the trick.

  ‘So much is unknown about great men,’ said the guide, moving towards a showcase opposite, ‘that every scrap of evidence plays its part…piecing together the whole.’

  Here, he showed us a cup and plate, still dirty, mounted on velvet.

  The joker elbowed his girlfriend: ‘The Last Supper.’

  The guide didn’t seem to hear.

  ‘Undoubtedly, the plate is the most important. Traces of his last meal are visible: lamb chops, mashed potatoes, carrot with peas. On the edge there you can see traces of ketchup.’

  Too many people were trying to see. Flashlights began sparking. Those New Zealanders had the best positions again. There was some ill-natured shoving.

  ‘Some of you come around near me,’ the guide demanded, before continuing. The other guides pushed the timid ones inwards.

  ‘You perhaps know about his appetite. It was so healthy it made certain people upset. Somehow they assumed all famous men would have perfect table manners! But he sat down to eat, nothing else, and to get it over with as soon as possible.’

  ‘I had no idea!’ declared a lady; and she spoke for others.

  ‘Surely,’ said the New Zealanders, both turning, ‘it’s a sign of honesty.’

  The joker laughed.

  The guides nodded however.

  ‘If ever a man deserved food it was he. Who was it said: we must eat in order to think?’

  ‘I know!’ shouted the student. Heads turned in his direction. He pulled faces and went on clicking his fingers.

  ‘God, now I’ve forgotten…’

  The cup and plate put us in a subdued, reflective mood. It forced us to see him from an ordinary, unexpected angle: bent, inserting food into his mouth. Quite opposite to the established picture. Yet, instead of reducing our interest it seemed to bring him closer.

  A few yards away a much smaller cabinet.

  ‘I think this one can be passed over quickly,’ the guide said, scratching his neck. ‘We are still in the throes of deciphering it. One of his habits was to slip out unnoticed and mingle with ordinary people. He liked to keep in touch. This is a bus ticket he used one afternoon. One of us found it, still crumpled. You will appreciate that to keep it in its original state—screwed into a ball by one of his hands—means the number cannot be read. His destination on that day remains unknown. But that’s our problem. And we’re working on it. Now, if you could step along here…’

  The woman with aching legs held him by the sleeve. He turned, frowning. ‘Bob, show this lady to the toilets.’

  The rest including her husband went on; but two or three, led by the young man, crawled underneath the cabinet, squinting up at the bus ticket, perhaps hoping for the edge of a number, or something not noticed by the museum staff. They returned dusting themselves, wearing thoughtful expressions.

  By then our group found itself divided by a strange barricade. It jutted out from a wall, V-shaped. Thus it ingeniously prevented each onlooker ‘using’ the exhibit—a mirror fixed fairly high on the wall. Naturally people tried. A woman (with rubbery lips) had one hand poised for automatic hair-adjustment; and unable to stop the process took out a hand mirror.

  Our guide waited for quiet. I noticed he perspired slightly.

  ‘His mirror: its importance must be apparent to everyone. For at least twelve years’—he paused to let it sink in—‘it registered his image several times a day. What is perhaps important: it has been established he was the last person to use it. His face, which was drawing to a close, was the last to be registered. And,’ he added, bowing his head, ‘we intend to keep it that way.’

  Nobody spoke.

  An old member of the group, but wearing a floral shirt, said, ‘He used it for shaving, for instance.’

  The guide nodded.

  ‘Odd thing was, you all know what he looks like—the bushy hair sticking out—[I think he said bushy hair sticking out]—well, he found as he grew older he had to shave more. I say odd, because that’s against the physiological trend.’

  The floral shirt nodded.

  ‘I only use the razor every two days now.’ He turned to us. ‘It’s not a nice feeling, I can tell you.’

  ‘Three score and ten,’ murmured the Englishman again.

  ‘Oh, don’t let’s bring any gloom into this.’

  Feet shuffled. We were strangers, but a vague unpleasantness spread.

  ‘His shaving gear is in that cabinet there. But for some reason it doesn’t attract as much interest as other exhibits.’

  So we missed that one and, after seeing his pillow and a photograph of the sky taken from his window, assembled around what looked like a stamp-dealer’s cabinet. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the guides shepherding back a middle-aged couple; they must have wandered off.

  Ours gave a sudden smile.

  ‘Who here takes an interest in graphology?’

  A man, who hadn’t spoken before, shrugged, ‘We all do. It’s extremely difficult to avoid.’

  The guide laughed. He was one of those men who say ‘touché’.

  Four specimens of handwriting were laid out in rows: character was bound to be revealed. The pushing and shoving increased as everybody tried to see, some using their elbows; but the lucky ones down the front suddenly lifted their heads.

  ‘This is no damned good. It’s nothing.’

  I think many of us felt disappointed then.

  ‘It’s upside down.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ conceded our guide, ‘these sheets were taken from his desk. He had one of those blotters with leather corners.’

  ‘What’s the point then?’

  ‘It’s one stage removed,’ admitted our guide. ‘But! Why should you expect everything to be so clearly revealed? Let us admit it: he was not easy to understand. We were with him! We know! He could be quite nasty sometimes. Vain. Often moody. Some days childish almost. But a genius. A man of his calibre cannot be “read” head-on. As it is, you are privileged to be standing as close as you are now.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Excuse me, the blotter denotes his former presence, the weight of his body. His elbow must have rested on the edges. He used a blotter because he was born in the nineteen tens. His thoughts were “dried” by the blotter. So far as his actual hand is concerned it was small with long descendencies. The signature was rapid though, with appropriate flourishes.’ He smiled again. People were nodding. ‘After signing a letter he’d sit back and say, “There now!” ’

  ‘I wrote to him once,’ said a man sadly. ‘He never answered.’

  ‘Ah, there were many demands on his time. And you could have been a crackpot. All sorts wrote to him with strange requests, heart-rending ones even. You can imagine. He had to be ruthless.’

  And so people looked again; and it wasn’t long before they were pointing and exclaiming, identifying the occasional word. The guide finally had to clap his hands, and quite loudly a second time, although not in an annoyed way, before anyone moved; and then a man and his wife remained, intent on reading the ‘handwriting’.

  We saw a smooth piece of yellow soap (thought to be his), tweezers for removing unwanted hairs, and the old belt that held up his trousers for thirteen years. We saw his shirt size (15), hot-water bottle, the tennis shade he used when reading. Some of us were tired. Naturally. How far had we walked? Then across a room we saw a wall covered in what appeared to be advertisement posters.

  These were tradesmen’s calendars, twenty or thirty years arranged chronologically, the days crossed off with
various pens and pencils, a pretty quilted effect. It illustrated the span of his life, the abruptness of death.

  Words were unnecessary.

  Several made sad, clicking sounds with their tongues.

  ‘He must have had,’ said someone admiringly, ‘a strictly methodical mind to mark his days like that. I’m surprised.’

  This brought a simple answer.

  ‘It’s out of fashion these days,’ a man said, ‘People tend to use mechanical self-advancing calendars.’

  The group nodded. There was wisdom in that.

  Then I think it was the Englishman who spoke.

  ‘One knows he was methodical, even fastidious. There are those stories too about his tightness with money. It’s all connected. But what was he really like? One only knows about him.’

  At this the guide became angry.

  ‘You say he was fastidious. All right. But I would have thought the way to study a man is not by trivia and gossip, but by his influence. This museum—created with some difficulty, I might add—concentrates on showing the force of his existence. He had weaknesses, of course. Great men are invariably selfish, intolerant. He disliked drunks, advertising, talk of the weather, women’s perfumes, cigarette ash, indecision, coat-hangers and fools.’

  He waited as some of us found scraps of paper, the backs of envelopes, to take this down.

  ‘He was uncomfortable with the opposite sex. He disliked oranges, and anyone touching him. Never married. Towards the end of his life he’d smile at the heads of small children. His pyjamas were striped flannel. He was always hungry, although he never exceeded 113 lbs. He was suspicious of photography, but later grew to respect it. Any questions? No. Then we’ll carry on.’

  But there was a general reluctance to move, so absorbed were we in the list he’d given us, adding it to what we already knew. A clearer picture was beginning to emerge, and with it a kind of spreading elation. We felt we were standing close to him, on the very edge of important, intimate knowledge. To move would break the flow. The guides however began clapping and pushing, whistling like drovers, and so we became confused. One of our number shouted, ‘Quit this shoving. We’re moving, we’re moving.’

  So we entered, or were herded into, the adjoining room, probably the last, for we could hear the turnstiles clicking behind a wall. Our bad temper could have also been due to museum-fatigue. It had taken a steady toll. Some stood one-legged like African birds, linoleum tiles on concrete not exactly helping.

  The guide was all smiles. He must have noticed our annoyance. He pointed to the now-typical glass cabinet.

  Almost immediately those in front drew back, the women especially; they could not disguise their disgust. All I could see was a shallow metal tray.

  The guide cleared his throat. ‘Not everyone’s cup of tea, this one. I should explain: we were in two minds whether to include it or not. But to be squeamish would be to miss the point. Bodily functions are at once both fundamental and intensely personal. Remember too the banal fact that nothing succeeds in levelling a man than the sight, or the concept of, his ordure.’

  ‘You mean “shit”,’ said a figure down the front, one of the New Zealanders. Turning to us, he grinned. ‘There’s a turd on the tray here.’

  ‘Dejecta. Coprological data,’ corrected the guide.

  I wondered how they’d got it.

  The joker put his handkerchief up to his nose.

  ‘Please,’ said a woman with a pained expression. ‘You’re not funny.’

  The guide quickly went on, ‘Interesting to realise the obvious: that this was inside him, and rejected by him. Let me say that again. This was part of him, part of—for want of a better word—his life-force. Hence its undoubted importance.’

  Hearing this, people returned to the cabinet, and some began making rapid sketches. This encouraged others. A flashbulb went off. Those towards the back soon found it difficult to glimpse a corner of the tray, let alone appraise the substance inside. The fascination may well have been primordial. That would explain the persistent but blank expressions people assumed as they pushed forward, anxious to improve their positions. Again, noticeably less interested were the womenfolk. One had elbowed her way out, saying, ‘The last thing I want to see is that.’

  She was ignored.

  The guides stood together, hands in their pockets, surveying the scene. Ten or fifteen minutes passed before our man spoke up.

  ‘Please,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘This way, please. Thank you. One final item is here.’ Adding, over his shoulder, ‘A recent, major acquisition.’

  This is the small room by the exit door. A cabinet was lit by a single spotlight. Under glass lay the handpiece (only) of a black telephone. Attached was a foot or so of dusty cord: ripped from a wall.

  ‘And through these wires,’ the guide was saying, ‘through the electrical copper, springs, the black bakelite you see, he spoke, propelled his thoughts.’

  The two guides were looking over our shoulders. They were breathing reverently.

  We could see dandruff caked on the earpiece.

  ‘His breath travelled along these wires, his personality travelled along these wires.’

  The words fell on the discarded telephone. The rest of the room lay in darkness. Someone coughed. ‘Any questions?’ asked the guide.

  Then a woman asked, ‘What was his voice like?’

  I think that was one of the things we all wanted to know.

  The guide, clearing his throat, smiled. ‘Let me attempt an imitation.’

  The Silence

  Joe Tapp, small-eyed, hawk-nosed, squatted like an Aborigine, Arab or Red Indian.

  His trousers were grey bags tucked in his boots. Like an overweight jockey. Only, he wore a fine white singlet, a grey hat tilted back. Between his fingers a cigarette rolled. He licked paper and lit it. He let smoke wander from his nose, through the hairs of his ears and head.

  He was alone. His camp was a spot on a huge landscape. The sun hovered above. Its heat cracking the ground white. Killing plants and grass, making trees black skeletons—good for firewood. Rabbit traps lay tangled, the tent, the tall white freezer, the petrol drums and garbage—all were scattered. Funny place for a camp. But Joe had been getting rabbits there, in the desert, for more than a year. They were burrowed in the sandhills. They came out at night.

  Joe was doing nothing in the middle of the day. Flies rested on the back of his singlet. Briefly he looked at two ants before squashing them. He inspected the mess on the hot ground. He kept squatting in the sun. In the afternoon, far away, he heard the sound.

  It could have been a fly. It was that sort of sound. Far away. Like a tiny aeroplane on a summer’s night. Only this thing was labouring: changing gears. Joe knew it was the truck. He had been listening all day for it.

  Up stood Joe. Boots squeaking above the whine of the truck. He climbed on a petrol drum. To the right the truck was making a dust storm against the sky.

  He squatted down again. Nodding his head. Waiting for the man to arrive. He heard the truck bouncing up to him. Changing down a gear. The mudguards rattled in his ear—when it suddenly swung across his vision. A red truck with worn tyres and a spotted windscreen. The camp, silent a few seconds ago, was now thick with noise. Two boots thudded the ground. A door slammed. Norm Treloar strode across, sunglasses bouncing on his nose. He had a friendly face. Wet sweat all down his back.

  ‘How’d you be?’ he asked Joe.

  ‘Not bad.’

  Joe realised Treloar talked too much. And he was startled by his own voice. It had jumped across the air.

  ‘Got much?’ Treloar asked him.

  ‘About three hundred pair maybe.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Joe shifted his weight on his feet and wondered what else to say.

  Nothing.

  They started throwing the shining rabbit carcasses from the freezer onto the truck. The frozen bodies clunked onto the tray. They filled the truck in half an hour.

 
‘Well, sport! Give us a cuppa and I’ll be off, I’ll have to get to Kelpowie before they melt! Just got time for one cuppa.’

  Treloar drank two cups. He gulped and slurped, and talked about the last race meeting. In the end he climbed back into the truck.

  ‘Well! Must be off, sport. Be seeing you in a fortnight. You got your juice, didn’t you? And your grub? Hey, and get us more than three hundred pair next time, will yuh?’

  Grinned.

  Joe in singlet, boots, nodded. The truck engine roared and vibrated the camp. Throbbing Joe’s ears. It moved away. He listened to the engine moaning away, threading through the saltbush. Till far away the noise died on the air. His hairy ears echoed a while. The sky and the ground waited for Joe to move.

  His day started early. Out of the sleeping bag, the tent, before the light. A crackling, tree-smelling fire. The billy bubbling as the sun came up. That was the life. Orange shadows spread through the camp and coloured the sky.

  He went through the sandhills in a leather coat. Over his shoulder, an old wheatbag. He walked among the sandhills parting jaws of traps, twisting necks of rabbits, dropping them into the bag. The bag grew heavy on his shoulder. He dropped the bag back at camp. Went out with another, filled three. Dropped them all back at camp. Flies buzzed. He trod back to the sandhills and set the traps again. He was hot when he finished. Off came his shirt. He wiped his neck, arms and face. Off came his boots. Black with thick leather laces. He emptied them of sand. On went the billy to the fire. It pleasantly bubbled. Black tea was poured. Drunk down. The sun burned hotter. On went his boots again. He lay back. Relaxed. Picked up the newspaper Norm Treloar had left. He dropped it in the fire. Lit a cigarette.

  Those bags of rabbits sat in the sun. Those flies crawled all over the outside. Joe dragged the bags past his tent. Joe did the three bags of rabbits. He threw good meat into the freezer. He wiped the knife. After that there was nothing to do. He poked round the camp.

  Then night arrived. Joe built up the fire. He was inside his sleeping bag early. His leather coat his pillow. He slept soundly. Usually snoring, sometimes grunting.