The Man From the Valley

by Joyce Dingwell

  But then he would never have said that, not Arn Dawson, who was in the custom of only issuing an order once.

  An order that Terese disobeyed.

  She had made no plans to disobey him, the fact that he was away from Backdown was not the reason that she turned at the fork from Chappy’s that afternoon and went down the track to Flack’s.

  The seed had been sown at Jill’s, when, looking over the presents that Jill had received for the baby, she had come across a card, really only a square of coarse paper, and on it a greeting done childishly, awkwardly, but—to Terese, anyway—quite exquisitely, by Gavin.

  Yet not only to her eyes, as it turned out, but to Jill’s, too. “Jill, this is really fine.”

  “I thought that, Terese. I’m no judge, of course, but considering the boy finds his own colorings from barks and crushed stones...”

  “Does he?”

  Jill hunched her shoulders. “Ted says so, he says Ed Flack wouldn’t buy him anything.”

  “What is Gavin’s connection with Flack?”

  “No one knows really, but the boy is evidently under his control. I’m glad you like this, Terese, because I did, too. There’s talent there, don’t you think?”

  Terese had found it hard to answer Jill. Talent she had seen so often, she thought, but this was entirely different, this was an exceptional gift.

  She found she could not stop her thoughts from reaching out to Gavin. Every time she passed a sign that the boy had evidently done gladly just for the joy of holding a brush in his hand, she stared at the flowing line, the rich, if immature, interpretation. She knew she would have to meet Gavin, and if the only way to do that was to take the forbidden track, then she would still do it. Even had Arn been home at Homeward Bound, she would still have turned round the fork that afternoon.

  It was a gray day, not, by any means, a sapphire day. The trees by the side of Flack’s track met overhead, they were not cut back as Arn Dawson kept his tracks clear, and the effect was one of semi-night. It was by no means pleasant running the bookmobile down the rutted, unattended entrance, and the gloom from the tents of trees made it almost a hazard. At one junction, where the track widened, then split up, Terese even considered reversing round and retreating again, but that didn’t settle the matter of Gavin. Determinedly, trying to help the situation by imagining what Gavin would make of the landscape, some ochres, no doubt, much charcoal, touches of somber green, Terese pressed on—then rounded a bend to the camp.

  The impact was almost shattering, she never could have imagined that man could play such havoc with nature. Instead of carving a niche from the bush, this man had butchered it. That Arn Dawson had been speaking of Ed Flack when he had told of trees felled like ninepins was shown by the rotting trunks of one-time warriors piled wretchedly on the ground.

  The canvas town, much smaller than Dawson’s, was gray and dirty, there was no attempt at unification—and certainly no flower beds. Papers and scraps were strewn about, a rubbish heap was only a few yards from the tents.

  There was no one around, and Terese drew a breath of relief. She had made a mistake coming here, she should have taken Arn Dawson’s word for it, if not just his word, then Ginny’s, Jill’s and Ted’s, the rest, that any man who ran a place like this could be no good.

  She put her hand on the gear lever to turn the bookmobile and go back.

  It was then that the flap of the nearest tent opened, and a man sauntered out. He was tall and broad, and he looked very powerful, but there was a suggestion of flabbiness about him, an indulgence, that made her recoil. She had come to meet Gavin, but she knew she could not go through with it however much she wanted to, so she called, “I’m terribly sorry, I took the wrong fork, I was going to Chappy’s, I’ll leave at once.”

  He had reached the van by this time and put his foot on the running-board.

  “No, you didn’t.” He smiled, it was not a pleasant smile. “You’ve been to the Chaps. You never took the wrong track.”

  “I—”

  “What you’ve come for, I can’t savvy. Could be curiosity or could be me.” He took his foot off the running-board and stood up straight. He was really a very powerful man.

  “I’ll go now...” she began.

  “Not so fast.” He had taken hold of the steering-wheel, and she knew it was a hard hold because the dirty knucklebones stood out. “You’re trespassing, you know, and you can’t get away with that. Now, if you’d care to be a visitor instead of a trespasser—well, that’s a different thing.” He smiled that unpleasant smile again.

  “I’m not trespassing, I—I’ve come officially. With books. Do your men wish to borrow any books?”

  He laughed at that, and she saw that he did not believe her.

  “They only read the track guide here, unless you have something very saucy. Have you, sweetheart, have you anything saucy?”

  “I—I have usual selections,” she stammered. Then, to her dismay, she elaborated, “I have books on art.”

  She could have bitten her tongue out at her stupidity, she only hoped he had not listened, or if he had then had not understood.

  But he had listened ... and understood.

  “So it’s not curiosity, it’s not me, it’s that kid.” He put back his head and laughed.

  But quickly he was sobering again. “All right,” he said, “that’ll do me. I take it you want to meet the boy?”

  “I—yes.”

  “Then you can. Here. But only here. Understand?”

  “No, I don’t think I do.”

  “Then I’ll call him and you can talk. If you still want to see Gavin after you’ve finished nattering, you can—but here. Now do you get the idea?”

  “No more than I did before.” She had no difficulty in remaining cool now; she calmly loathed the man. “I do want to meet Gavin, I’ll admit that, his drawings have certainly interested me, but if you think you can do a deal with me through the boy you’re quite wrong, Mr. Flack, for I would certainly not come back here.” She gave the distasteful scene a quick, disgusted look.

  “Not so pretty as His Nibs’, eh? But then some people haven’t His Nibs’ money.”

  “He hasn’t your money,” Terese flared in spite of herself. “I wouldn’t speak out too loud if I were you, because very soon you won’t be here.” Again she could have bitten her tongue.

  “Ah, back in the rent, am I? Thanks for the hint, I’ve no wish to get out of the place just yet, I’ve another section of cedar.” Still fixing his gaze, he yelled, “Gavin!”

  Miserably, Terese waited while a boy emerged from the surrounding bush, though she could not have said whether her wretchedness was because of the situation in which she had placed herself or because of what the man Flack had just replied.

  “Well, here he is, sweetie,” Flack introduced, “for what he’s worth.”

  The boy, still a boy for all his gangling height, stood awkwardly in front of Terese, hands clasped.

  “Hello, Gavin.”

  The boy was silent.

  “Answer, you lout!” The man took a step forward, and Gavin instinctively stepped back.

  “Hello,” he replied.

  “I—I brought along the bookmobile because I thought you might like some books, Gavin,” Terese said with difficulty, aware of Flack’s sneering, derisive look.

  “No, thanks.”

  “I’m sure you want a book, Gavin. Everyone—I mean most people love books. And, Gavin, I have some wonderful books on art. Look.” She ran to the back of the van and picked up some volumes.

  “Van Gogh,” she enticed. “This is a life of Picasso. Or perhaps you would like someone local. Here’s one on Dobell.”

  Gavin shook his head, his eyes, almost like a dog’s eyes, on Flack.

  “Tell the lady why, why don’t you, Gavin? Tell her why you won’t join in.” Now the laughter was loud and mean.

  The boy had turned away, but with a swift, almost brutal swing the older man wheeled him back again.


  “Tell her,” he spat.

  “I can’t take it.” The boy’s voice was wooden. “I can’t because—I can’t read.”

  Terese stood dumbfounded, the man stood enjoying her shock, and the boy, taking advantage of his absorption, slunk away. “It’s true,” said Flack, “he can’t read, can’t write.”

  “But why? How?”

  “I was left with him ... no, he’s not mine ... and he couldn’t read then, whoever he belonged to must have been on the road a lot and not bothered, but as he showed signs of being a big strong guy I kept him.”

  “But you didn’t...”

  “Educate him? Why should I? I didn’t feed him for that.”

  “You—you...”

  “But I have no objection to his learning now.” The eyes roved Terese up and down. “He’s a likely youngster, I’ll tell you that. A few of the men have amused themselves giving him ‘The cat sat on the mat’ and he picked it up like crazy. Funny, isn’t it?” He laughed again.

  “You wouldn’t deny this boy—this bright boy...”

  “Oh, yes, he’s bright all right.”

  “—This boy education,” finished Terese.

  “I could.” He waited. “I have. But, then I had no enticement to do otherwise. For instance, if a nice girl like you...”

  “I wouldn’t be sufficiently interested in Gavin to come here again, Mr. Flack.”

  “Okay then, he stops as he is, no loss to me.” He smiled thinly. “Want help to reverse her round, girlie, or will you do it yourself?”

  “Myself.”

  “Wiser, too, practice’ll make it easier next time.”

  “There will be no other time,” she retorted.

  “We’ll see.”

  “No other time,” Terese repeated, and repeated it too emphatically. She knew that he, Flack, knew what she knew—that a boy’s hungry eyes, word-hungry, learning-hungry, would bring her back.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  She found herself impatient that night for the moment when Ginny yawned, stretched, then said, “Well, tomorrow’s another day, and I want to clean out the tool shed.” Or see to the stables. Or the fowl run. Though, and Terese realized it thoughtfully, lately Ginny hadn’t been making tomorrow’s plans.

  Once in bed they talked desultorily of different things, and then Terese said casually, “I met Gavin today.”

  “Oh, yes, poor Gavin.”

  “Why do you say that?” In the darkness Terese was propped up on one elbow so as not to lose a word.

  “Well, the boy’s not—I mean he’s bright enough, but ... Oh, I suppose it’s that environment, his brother, or uncle, or whoever Flack is.”

  “Flack is nothing to him.”

  “Is that so?” Ginny was maddeningly uninterested.

  There was silence a while. In another minute, Terese fretted, Ginny will go to sleep.

  “Ginny...”

  “Yes?”

  “He—Gavin can’t read or write.”

  If she had expected Ginny to sit up at that, she was disappointed. Ginny just said sleepily, “Yes, that happens, unfortunately.”

  “How can it happen? I mean—in a country like this?”

  “Easy. Father an itinerant worker, for instance, and the kids never settled down long enough in one school to begin to learn. Then there’s sickness ... oh, a dozen things. It’s an immense country; you can’t check everywhere.”

  “But not to read...”

  “Yes. Poor kid.” Ginny sounded almost asleep.

  The pathos, the tragedy of it all, tore at Terese. She had intended to seek Ginny’s advice, ask her if she, Terese, dared to do what was in her mind, what Ed Flack had suggested, but now the urgency of it all put all preliminaries aside.

  “Ginny, I’m going to Flack’s twice a week and teach Gavin. I’m going to get Peter to buy me some books in Glen Ingle and I’m going to start at once. Ginny, I’m going to do just that,” she said boldly into the darkness.

  But Ginny did not hear. She was asleep.

  The next morning Terese drove the bookmobile over to the air-strip. She knew that Pete was expected in around nine, and as she had few library calls listed, and all of them on the plateau, she did not feel that in stealing this little time she would be robbing Backdown.

  However, she robbed them of more than the twenty minutes she had planned. Pete had landed and kept his engine running. As Terese hurried over, he said, “Can’t wait, have to go back for some medicine for your new baby. If you want anything you better jump in and cross over and get it yourself.”

  “But, Pete...”

  “It won’t take any longer than telling me, for I’ll be coming back within the hour. Jump in, or jump clear, Terese, I’m off.” Terese got in.

  She told Pete briefly as they soared over the mountain to Glen Ingle. He was about as interested as Ginny had been, but that, decided Terese practically, was all the better. Lack of interest was to be preferred to a refusal to cooperate.

  “Your best stop would be at a school,” he mentioned casually. “I’ll put you off at Glen Ingle south and pick you up in half an hour. Okay?”

  “Thanks, Pete.”

  The Cessna landed on the smaller strip, and Pete borrowed the car to run into town. At the outskirts he dropped Terese as planned.

  Mr. Stockton, the principal of the small school, proved sympathetic and helpful.

  “Yes.” He practically repeated what Ginny had said about itinerant workers, uncooperative parents. “It can happen. Fathers who follow the crops, for instance, or even the honey flow men, often the youngsters miss out on the basic instruction, so never pick up. Then there are parents who are just plain...” He gave a disgusted shrug. “I’ll help you all I can. Come along and see Miss Jeffs, she’s our kindergarten to third-grade mistress. We’re quite a small school here, you know.”

  Miss Jeffs, as keen as the headmaster, produced charts .and guides. She conferred with Mr. Stockton, then they told Terese what they thought would be best.

  They said goodbye unwillingly, and would have kept Terese there discussing the subject for hours, but Pete had stipulated thirty minutes only, and Terese, clutching her books, went back to the corner where Pete had left her and where he would pick her up.

  There was a little town traffic, not much, for these were the outskirts. When a red car like the airport car came in sight Terese thought it must be Pete, right on time.

  She could not have said what impelled her back from the side of the road but something did. Scarcely had she turned nonchalantly away as though she was not waiting for a car, not waiting for anything in particular, than it flashed by. Thank goodness the car did pick up speed, thought Terese, because if the driver had passed at a more leisurely pace he would have seen her. Jeff would have seen her.

  For some time after he had gone Terese was deeply disturbed. Not only because she had succeeded in putting him right out of her mind since the last time she had seen him but because a moment before he had passed her she had been conscious of him, did that mean, could it mean...

  “Finished, Terese? Good girl!” It was Pete in the airport car now, and Terese climbed in.

  They drove to the strip, within ten minutes the Cessna was landing at Backdown, within another ten minutes Terese was performing her daily library calls.

  And within twenty-four hours Gavin was having his first lessons on how to read.

  Arn’s return to Backdown was delayed for another few days, but they were not to be easy days for Terese.

  It started with Ginny remarking conversationally over the table, “I saw Ed Flack, Joe. Something’s happened to him, he looks different, almost—well...”

  “Bill Holliday said the same thing,” nodded Joe, “and when the train operator went across to Flack’s on Wednesday to tick him off for sending in a badly loaded drag to have its logs hauled up he reckoned the place had been tidied up. Probably the waste was just shifted some place else, but if you didn’t look closely, Dent said, it would pass muster.”


  “He has also,” announced Ginny, “sent in his rent. Miss Fox told me when I was over there yesterday. Because Arn was away she had to issue the receipt. You’d almost think Flack knew.”

  “Knew what?” asked Terese.

  “That Arn’s only waiting for one slip and out he goes.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Flack’s leasing the valley from Arn, and the lease is only good for as long as he complies with certain stipulations. Rent is one. He was behind, and Arn was hoping to get him out on that. But now he’s paid up, almost as if someone jogged his memory.” Terese sat very still.

  “A dirty camp would be another eviction certainty, but he’s spruced that as well,” Joe put in. “It looks like Arn will have his burden for some time yet.”

  “I should think anyone would be pleased with improvements,” Terese said stubbornly.

  “In anyone but Flack. The only pleasure Flack will give us is when he goes.”

  “Why did Mr. Dawson take him on in the first place?”

  “He didn’t want to be a dog in a manger, it’s not Arn’s way of doing things, not the principle he works on. Always Arn has been either wise or lucky in his tenants. This time he was either unwise or unlucky or both.”

  “How long has Flack left on his lease?”

  Ginny said laconically, “Years.”

  They dropped the conversation of Flack and spoke of Miss Fox, the children’s Foxie, who, Ginny reported, just couldn’t stand Backdown any longer.

  “She’s a worthy character,” she shrugged, “but it’s not her cup of tea. She’s told Arn, and no doubt that’s the cause of his stopover in Sydney. He’s finding her hard to replace.”

  When Terese drove over the next day to Homeward Bound to pick up the bookmobile, Arn Dawson strolled out of the house.

  “Hello, Terese.” He saluted in his usual way, his hat characteristically perched on the back of his head.

  “Hello, Arn.” She wondered if her voice sounded as stiff as she felt. Guilt made her rigid. Even her hands did not feel like her own. He gave her a quick, sharp look, he was always perceptive. “Anything on your mind?”