The Drover's Wife & Other Stories

by Murray Bail

  She works in a drapery store not far away. Finishing early he sometimes goes in to surprise her, not having much else to do. She has a small face. Her eyes, darker than his, are slightly too close together: enough to be noticeable. In the Bogside pubs she is known for her unpredictable temper.

  She is more religious than her brother. At Easter last year she left something in a shopping bag which took away the face of a British soldier poking at it with a pole. Murderer, then. She has stolen in her time and told countless lies. She blasphemes. What else: illicit love with married men, more than once, though not recently. Yet she is incapable of sin. She has yet to commit it.

  In bed she has allowed her brother to study her swelling breasts, she lying back on the bed, her hand stroking his neck. It began recently. The nipples have been abruptly fumbled, licked. Her brother is all trembles, wide-eyed, while she measures her own spreading gentleness. Just as naturally, it seems, his knee pushed open her legs. He has rolled on top of her. There they have stopped.

  Anthropologists are agreed. They know of no culture which does not contain a single forbidden act, the ultimate sin. All other ‘sins’ are perhaps permissible—words attached to a religion. So far, the brother and sister have drawn back, knowingly. But there is, according to the Book of Ecclesiastes, a time for all things. Amen. Hurry to Belfast, Huebler.

  22. At least one person whose unique sexual capacities have no outlet.

  Mrs Cartwright has lived in India for most of her life, and I met her beside the swimming pool at the Breach Candy Club, Bombay. This was in 1968. It was a Sunday morning; very, very humid. I was new to India. The Shiv Sena had rioted during the week. Cars were overturned, shops, buses and taxis burnt. Over a hundred were rumoured dead. The curfew lifted only that morning allowed us, the European community, to get together, and I was naturally eager to hear the Old Hands, including Mrs Cartwright’s husband, arguing in the deckchairs on my right; but no, Mrs Cartwright had her hand on my arm discussing something altogether different, unimportant. When she opened her handbag and took out a photograph I realised the subject had been herself.

  ‘What is this?’ I said, and glanced back. Any chance of joining them was rapidly disappearing.

  ‘I had a figure then,’ she said in a tone without apparent interest, ‘as good as anything you see here.’

  We all know how the tropics accelerate the ageing process. It was brought home to me by Mrs Cartwright’s thumb which held the photograph. Soaked in suntan oil it was a mass of overlapping circles, expansions and contractions. The nail was painted red. Then the photograph. I found myself leaning forward. It was her on a cane couch, unmarried, before the war. ‘I was twenty-three, sweet and innocent.’ Adding, ‘I gave Frank a merry chase.’

  She lay there in a blouse half-undone and wide trousers. She had a wide-apart face like a generous country.

  Perspiration skidded down my back. It must have been the humidity. Feeling her watching I nodded once again at the photograph.

  This released more words.

  ‘Parties, weekends, every night. The life has left India.’

  ‘What happened during the war?’ I asked, bringing the subject more or less back to the Old Hands. All I could see of Frank Cartwright was his broad Englishman’s back.

  ‘We were married before it. I sat around waiting for Frank in Ceylon. Ceylon was full of American boys.’

  Careless, she blew smoke in my face. Suddenly she began laughing at something, her wrinkles shaking.

  ‘Wasn’t I a beauty?’ she said, taking the photograph back. Before I could answer, she went on, ‘Now I’ll show you something else. This is the oddest thing that ever happened to me.’ Laughing still, she dug around in the handbag. Suddenly she stopped. ‘But you don’t go telling anyone. I haven’t shown this to a soul. Not even Frank.’

  Frank holding court had his back to us.

  She inhaled her cigarette and produced another photograph.

  ‘This is me. Don’t blush.’

  I let out a slow whistle.

  It was another prewar pose, this time nude. She lay on cushions. Her hair was down. She had a large smiling mouth.

  Mrs Cartwright gave a hoarse, slightly embarrassed laugh.

  ‘Ver-eee nice,’ I said, studying her body professionally, but gradually reddening. Then, ‘Aye, this is a painting!’

  ‘Now I’ll tell you,’ she said.

  ‘When we married, Frank and I moved into his place in Delhi. Frank was already in the army, playing soldiers. Next door was an artist—I forget his name—a nice Bengali boy. I used to go in during the day. He was always polite. He used to listen to me.’ She lit another cigarette. I held onto the photograph. ‘I think he may have loved me.’ she said, blowing smoke, ‘but even after I was married I had men running after me. I could see he wouldn’t touch me—the Bengali—and one afternoon, it was one of those terrible hot Delhi days, I threw off my clothes. “Paint me!” I said. Everything then was so bloody quiet there.’

  The Bombay crows were crying. I felt India’s heat drying my throat.

  ‘The poor boy was shocked. He lost his tongue. But he began painting. The next day he brought the cushions you see there. And I enjoyed it! Lying back on the cushions.’

  ‘How long did he take?’ I asked, studying the painting.

  ‘Five weeks. It was finished the morning war was declared. I remember thinking that the nations were fighting over the qualities of my body.’

  Again she laughed. She stubbed out her cigarette.

  ‘Anyway, Frank ran off to fight. I spent five years vegetating in Ceylon. Look at me now! In 1946, we went back to Delhi. Frank still had another year in the army. A cheeky young sergeant showed us our married quarters; he kept brushing past me in the doorways. Then—and I nearly died—someone took us into the officer’s mess. Hanging over the fireplace was the oil painting, me with my titties exposed. I stood stock still, waiting for one of them to recognise me. But no one did. Not even Frank!’ Mrs Cartwright paused. ‘But then he’s as blind as a bat.’

  ‘It’s still up there,’ she added, taking the photograph back from me, ‘I saw it only the other day.’

  She put it back in the envelope, closing her ridiculous handbag. She sighed and looked around the pool. ‘All those dirty old men, licking their chops over me.’

  23. At least one person for whom reality is richer than the artist’s fantasies.

  Huebler, are you American? Hue-bler: sounds it. Could be. Your ancestors perhaps were European originally. Are you married? Happy? Any children? Perhaps not married. Or no longer. I understand. To return to your ancestors: mother and father still around? Good health? No problems, economic or otherwise? These are troubled times. Myself, I have lost a parent. No good, Huebler! You’re stubborn, do you know that?

  Nice weather today. Little cold this morning giving way to intermittent sunshine. Outside, figures move forward, some in heavy coats: I’d say they’ve underestimated the temperature. Walking along a path put down for them, a strip set aside, amazing vertical action. Wood grain! I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to study it lately. Wood grain on this desk is infinite, Huebler, eddying flatly under the pad—I’m lifting the pad—like giant thumb prints, harmless isobars even.

  Huebler. Sounds American. What do you look like? I mean, how would you describe yourself? Do you stand out in a crowd? An ambitious visionary tends to. Tell me! Tall? Compelling features in ill-fitting clothes? How long have you been taking photographs? Not tall: bow-legged? Strong calves for certain. You’ll need energy, Huebler. What sort of camera? Kodak film? You have a pimple or two between your shoulder-blades where your hand can’t reach. Troubling you, Huebler? Tiredness is oppressive. Has your watchstrap left a mark on your wrist? Where do you live exactly? Rented accommodation? Tell me the city! Blue eyes? Huebler, are you circumcised? A detail, I know, but interesting to some nevertheless. Why are you doing this? I have been thinking, Huebler. I think we all have been.

  * Galerie Yvon
Lambert.

  ** The Dwan Gallery. It has since closed.

  *** Her initials also stand for Doctor, doctor.