The Drover's Wife & Other Stories

by Murray Bail

  Norm Treloar arrived a fortnight later. As usual. Joe heard the truck miles away. He wondered what Treloar would talk about next. Of course he’d say, ‘How’d you be?’ Always did. What could you do about that? Nothing. Treloar came in expecting him to talk. How’d you be? How’d you be? How’d you be? Treloar always talked. Any minute. The truck was very close. Rowdy it was, it was deafening Joe.

  It stopped.

  ‘How’d you be?’ asked Treloar.

  Joe had been waiting for it. But the voice took him by surprise. It seemed to float in the air a second, before tearing into Joe. And the words, strange, didn’t seem to match the moving mouth.

  Joe looked at Treloar. Watched him talk.

  ‘How many you get this time?’ asked Treloar.

  Joe didn’t know what to say. He wanted to test his voice first. Started with some words inside his mouth. He opened his mouth.

  ‘Three hundred?’ Treloar suggested.

  Joe nodded.

  ‘Say,’ said Treloar, ‘did you get that rain last week?’

  Joe shook his head.

  The silence made Treloar look past the truck to the dust. The scenery was dead flat.

  ‘Yeah, it is pretty dry,’ Treloar repeated.

  Now Joe wanted to load the truck. He didn’t want Treloar’s voice coming across at him. He wanted him to get moving. Sitting there, he found himself staring at the ground. That was better than looking at Treloar’s eyes watching him. He became nervous that Treloar might ask another question and force him to use his voice. There was a strain. Joe felt the whole thing, the voices on the air, strange.

  Again Treloar broke the silence. He cleared his throat. Uncrossed his boots, scrape, and stood upwards.

  ‘Let’s load up, OK?’

  Joe helped the man, carefully.

  After that, the voice leapt across to Joe.

  ‘Look after yourself, sport. I’m off. Be seeing you in a fortnight.’

  His engine sent solid waves into the air into Joe. The intruder departed. Joe began to relax. The air was left all for him. Nothing to confuse his ears.

  He moved into another fortnight of trapping. Setting traps, the fire, falling asleep and waking, clearing the traps, skinning, eating. One day he chopped seven dead trees into firewood. Mostly though, after his morning’s work, he did nothing. He could squat in the silence for hours, and like it. Like an Aborigine. He could plan new places for traps. Thought for a while about kangaroo meat. He remembered seeing some dingoes near his traps.

  This was interrupted. He was squatting in the sun when it happened. In his white singlet and hat. Lips slightly cracked, motionless. His hands brown, carelessly dirty with black mottles and cut fingers. That was Joe. He was touching his nose when he heard the truck.

  This time he jumped up. Maybe two miles away the truck was sending up a cloud. He could see it over there. It was Treloar coming. Joe had to think. He was coming for the rabbits. All right. But there was that noisy talk—useless. As the noise came closer Joe decided. He ran through the camp. Opened the door of the freezer. In singlet and hat. The bow-legged trousers. He glanced back and ran into the sandhills. He crouched behind a bush where the camp lay just below.

  The truck was close. No tracks. It was weaving methodically. Its dust funnelled out all the way back. It broke into the camp, and revved up.

  Joe saw the door slam, heard the footsteps floating faintly upwards. Treloar was walking through the camp ready to say, How’d you be? He had to look in the tent. Look in the freezer. Joe could see him scratch his head. Treloar waited a few minutes, still looking. He strode back to the truck and pressed the shrill endless horn that travelled over the dunes and past Joe’s impatient head. Treloar still waited. Sat on the steel bumper-bar and smoked a cigarette. He then moved in and out of camp, looking for something. He waited some more. Then stared intently at the sandhills.

  In the end Treloar started loading the meat into the truck. He finished the job. And drove away.

  The stretched-out land waited for the truck. When it was gone dust remained, suspended. The silence closed in again. Joe clambered down the hill. His camp with its familiar still objects was back to normal. Now the desert-clear air was turning cold. It was time to set the traps in the sandhills. Joe had already decided about the sandhills. He was going to hide whenever he heard what’s-his-name coming. He couldn’t stand being near the talking man. Joe decided.

  Paradise

  Breaking into light, this long silver bus. It comes rumbling from its concrete pen. Grunting away. It reaches North Terrace by stopping and yawning; its full length swings.

  Yawns left, climbs past Rosella, hesitates at Maid ’n Magpie, take the left, roads are empty, petrol stations are empty, car yards are empty, shops are empty, hold her steady, chassis doesn’t pitch then, there are couples behind curtains, there’s a dog, watch him, man on a bike, shift worker in a coat probably. Now the road’s stirring, milkman turns a corner, leaves the road open, driver taps the steering-wheel, enormous view of life in the morning, foot taps contented by it.

  The bus had PARADISE printed on the front, sides and back. It was a long run to the suburb. At the outer reaches it specialised in young married women with prams; and Merv Hector had to smile. From his position in the driving seat he could see the new-generation hairdos, skirts, worried eyebrows. Gentle, slow-eyed Hector waited for them, was happy to be of service. When one of them waved between stops he would open the doors every time. His conductors were quick to see they were riding with a soft heart. Straightforward characters, they were quick to assert themselves. ‘Be an angel, Merv. Stop at the shops there for some smokes.’ They also went to him when sick of things.

  This time his conductor was Ron. His voice, tightly pitched. ‘Getting up at this hour really makes me wonder. We’re not carrying a soul. Look, it really makes me sick.’

  Merv shook his head. Through the pure windscreen the road was alive ahead of him. Below his feet the bus was really travelling. It made you feel alive.

  ‘There’s the people we get on the way back,’ Merv said.

  He made a long sentence of it, as he did when contented, and he heard Ron’s breath come out dissatisfied.

  ‘There’s too bloody many then. We should have two here serving then. All the schoolkids; they never have to pay properly. What time is it?’

  They were entering Paradise. As usual Hector waited to be thrilled by it, he stared and was ready, but a disappointment spread like the morning shadows. Streets were golden but it seemed more like a finishing sunset than the beginning of a day. When he stopped the bus it seemed to be further away—Paradise did. New tiles pointing in the sky spoilt the purity. But Paradise could be close by. It felt close by. The air light, bright; he was at the edge of something. Hector’s stubborn fifty-four-year-old eyesight produced these messages for his heart but he was required to turn the bus, and he turned the bus around.

  ‘Hell, we’re going to really get hot and crowded.’

  It was Ron running his finger around his collar.

  ‘She’ll be right,’ said Hector.

  ‘Hang on a sec. Let us out at the shop. You want some chewy?’

  Stopped. Merv Hector was mild cheese from Norwood. At the MTT he was considered slow and forgetful. But he was dependable enough, and voiced no objections to the long early morning runs. His moon wife was stupefied by his sincerity. He was older. Their garden grew weeds. His watch was inaccurate, and he stumbled near the garden. ‘Dear?’ he sometimes said to Enid and faded out. The distance to Paradise, with the great screen framing all kinds of life, gave him this gentle advice: move, slow down, stop, let them get on, move, see, Paradise. The world was beautiful. It was plainly visible.

  Now Ron said something again.

  ‘Look at all those bloody kids. Just what I need. All right! Move down the back!’

  The bus grew squatter and fatter with the weight of everybody. Ron battled through, and the air was hot and human. They were now channelled by h
ouses near the city, yet it was confusing.

  A green bread van turned while Merv wondered. The shape was smacked by the metal at Merv’s feet and the whole green turned over and over like a dying insect, a round pole came zooming forward, Hector’s world entered it and splintered. Glass splattered. A crying uniform over Hector’s shoulder cracked the windscreen.

  There was the crash, Hector remembered. And the memory of Paradise persisted. If there was a beautiful place he could watch for like that.

  He was wrinkling and gave a twitch.

  He found other work.

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Morning. Six, thanks.’

  ‘Six, and?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Right there.’

  ‘Two for me.’

  ‘Back a bit, sir. Up we go.’

  Inside a driver’s uniform again. They hold their breaths and stare at lights blinking: 4, 5, feel the altitude moving below the toes, 6, blink, blink, 7, 8, turn the lever, doors further up: whrrp! Abrupt stop, men breathe into ears, business-face veins, Windsor knots left-right-centre. Right this little lift will help, reach the top, an essential task in the latest glass architecture.

  I’ll go to heaven.

  Merv Hector settled on his stool in the lift. Shuffling and throat-clearing squashed the space into a noise box. Like the run to Paradise, he was at the entrance with a mild face, helping them: they stepped out at certain vertical intervals, sped down horizontal tunnels for special meetings. These repetitions gave him the most gentle pleasure. He was in the centre of activity and happily assisting. His placid role in giving this regular service, regular service, settled his features.

  In the mornings a lemon-headed man unlocked the building and the lifts.

  ‘How are you today?’

  ‘What are you this early for?’ the caretaker answered.

  ‘Well,’ Hector began.

  The caretaker cut him off. ‘If the others come here late, you’ve got to get here at this hour.’

  ‘It’s a good building you’ve got,’ Hector suggested, in all seriousness.

  ‘What’s good about it? You don’t have to live in it.’

  And Hector had to take some keys to him one morning right up to the eighteenth floor. He was touched by the high silence. Outside, the wind scratched at the glass. Inside, currents of cold air tugged at his sleeve like the mysterious breathing of a giant snowman. It was some height, near the clouds. God. Hector marvelled. His veins, his eyes seemed to be swelling. Was this pleasure? It must be nearer to heaven, or Paradise up there.

  ‘What’s your trouble?’

  The caretaker came up behind.

  ‘Give us the keys, and scoot. They’re buzzing you.’

  Merv ran back to the lift.

  ‘Is it all right if I bring my lunch on the roof?’ he called out.

  ‘Christ Almighty!’ the caretaker said.

  Why, the roof was high. It was peaceful. He could watch noises made by the street people below. And clouds closed in; could almost touch him. And someone had placed pot plants along the edge, and wind trembled their green. Did the lonely caretaker put them there? The slow question gently surrounded him with pleasure, and near the clouds he chewed on Enid’s sandwiches.

  The lift was always crowded. He kept going up down, up down, all day. Now he preferred going up to down. Going down it was back to the street, hot and old. So he kept going up, and late one morning kept going, kept going, and, wondering, crashed into the ceiling. Roof hit roof—or there where springs to stop him. But it was enough to jump him off the stool, and the caretaker arrived.

  ‘No one’s ever done that before, you bloody fool.’

  ‘Strike,’ said Hector.

  He was dazed.

  Merv Hector continued. His hour on the roof was something to look forward to. I’m very near it, he said in the silence. Full of pretty, dazed visions he slept past two, and was immediately fired by the caretaker.

  ‘Even if you come here early,’ said the caretaker, signalling up and down with his arm. ‘Useless, useless.’

  Hair on Hector’s head looked electrocuted. It was fifty-four-year-old stuff flaking and greying: always looked as if he had left a speedboat. He wore brown eyeglasses. Sometimes he touched his lips with his fingers vibrating, exactly as though they played a mouth organ.

  Home with Enid she carried on a bit.

  But she noticed something. He had been weeding the garden. One finger was cut by a buried piece of china—a broken prewar saucer of some description—and self-pity moved him to silence. He seemed to dry up. More or less alone, he shaved vaguely. He didn’t say much.

  He was not his cheery self, she said.

  ‘Why don’t you get another job, dear? We can settle down after.’

  Hector agreed.

  ‘You sit there,’ the young man pointed. ‘The phone goes, write down what they say. Just sit here. The bureau rings about every half hour. Arrange the switches like so. You can make any words they tell you. At the moment it’s RAIN DEVELOPING.

  Hector looked through the tiny window, looked across the wall of the building and there, in enormous lights, were the words RAIN DEVELOPING.

  ‘If we had an automatic system,’ the young man said, ‘you wouldn’t have to mess around with all these switches. But it’s easy enough.’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Hector absently.

  So this is how the weather lights work, he thought.

  This is what I do.

  The room was tiny, concrete: enough to depress anybody. It was high in the dead part of the building, ignored by the air-conditioning. A plastic ashtray sat on the small table.

  The black phone gave a sudden ring. A voice told him to change the message to RAIN. ‘Right, then,’ said Hector. He fiddled with switches, concentrating, then turned them on. Through the window he saw the sudden change in the message and automatically wondered what the people below thought. Would they believe in that? Would they notice his sign? How many would be caught without coats, umbrellas, rudimentary shelter?

  But there was no rain—not a drop. Standing at the window he became concerned. Merv looked at his message. He looked down at the people shapes moving casually. Then, miraculously it seemed, rain began hitting and splashing. His sign shined in triumph; and the thought that his warning had saved people flooded him with a specific pleasure. It was good, and he clenched himself. He looked up then at the clouds. They seemed to be pressing down on his room, around his life, down his mouth, showering his vision with rain. God, he wondered.

  Down on the street depressed figures ran from point to point. The shining traffic remained queued, steam rose, and three silver buses waited bumper to bumper. It recalled certain mornings behind the steering wheel, the giant screen wipers scanned repetitiously like radar, squish-a-squish. Now he stared through the glass window, up at the clouds, up into the heart of the rain. He felt settled, sure, safe, glad to be there; he thought of home, the maroon chair, and his Enid.

  Nothing’s the matter, he said. I’m fine, he wanted everyone to know. On the panel he moved across and switched the message to FINE.

  The huge bright lights said FINE as the rain kept splashing down. Altogether, Merv Hector marvelled at every single thing. He stared at his sign. It was true. He loved the clouds. It was another world, and he was there. The phone began to ring.

  The Dog Show

  There was only one entrance to the old grey building. Inside were rows of cubicles painted grey. Each cubicle had a wooden shelf and it was on these shelves that the dogs sat. Some were asleep but others kept on howling.

  People walked between these cubicles, talked or grinned at some dogs, stared in wonder at the rare dogs, stopped in front of champions which had won the big silver prizes. A steel rail prevented them from patting the dogs.

  The dogs soon tired of the spectators; indeed some of them were obviously sick of the whole show. The large dogs usually preferred to burrow into the sawdust and try to sleep, but many of the sma
ll dogs sat up and yapped continuously. There was quite a racket.

  At first the owners looked after their dogs, carefully groomed them, and even sat with them in the wooden cubicles. Often when a dog fell asleep an owner let its head rest across his knee. Some had made cushions for their dogs, and special embroidered blankets. In general the dogs were very comfortable.

  But the owners were not comfortable. They were cold sitting in the draughty pavilion, in the cramped cubicles. Although the dogs gave them some warmth, they needed their overcoats and rugs, which soon became covered with hairs and sawdust and dogs’ dandruff. For the owners of large dogs it was difficult to squeeze onto the wooden shelves, let alone remain there for any length of time.

  The little dogs were for the most part owned by old ladies. They formed a separate group which scarcely spoke to the other competitors. Early in the morning they would arrive, and all day they sat hunched over their dogs, dozing or looking at nothing in particular, or drinking tea from thermos flasks. Their dogs usually had screwed-up faces and skinny legs.

  There were young men, too, who were proud of their dogs. They seemed to be thin pale men who loved no one but their dogs, and stared with wild eyes at the other owners who were staring at their dogs. And so on.

  Married couples in their forties, fifties, sixties also sat with their dogs. Because the cubicles were built to accommodate only one dog each they took turns at sitting. The person standing would usually stare at the crowd or try to clean the mess on the floor.

  About half a dozen men did not sit with their dogs. They stood in a group drinking beer from pewter mugs which they had won at previous shows. A woman had joined them, and listened with her head cocked to one side. Her hair was short and black, her legs were crossed inside her tweed skirt. She had a wire-haired terrier on display and had already won two prizes.

  A breeder of neurotic poodles and as ugly as one himself said, ‘She would have been beautiful in her day.’ The man next to him nodded. ‘She’d be beautiful right now.’ And she looked at them over the rim of a pewter mug.