The Shiralee

by D'Arcy Niland

  ‘Struth, she would have gone nap on her, Ruby. She couldn’t have any, you know.’

  Macauley said nothing. He settled back in his chair and put the mug to his lips. Kelly rolled another cigarette. Suddenly he threw himself back with a laugh. ‘You’ll never guess who I bumped into the other day.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lucky.’

  ‘You didn’t!’

  ‘Lucky bloody Regan!’ Kelly thumped the table in gleeful delight. ‘The same old Lucky. Full as a boot and happy as Larry. What a pity you didn’t get here sooner, Mac.’

  ‘Well, it’s a small world,’ Macauley said, ‘and smaller still when you’re hoofing it, but I haven’t struck Lucky for … must be eight years now. Where’s he been, did he say?’

  ‘Up in the bloody Hartz Range scratching for mica with a bunch of Italians.’ Kelly gave a laugh. ‘He’s the colour of a sizzled-up steak and tosses the dago language round like it was his own.’

  ‘Is he going back there?’

  ‘No, he’s back in New South Wales for good, so he reckons.’ Kelly pushed his mug aside and leant his elbows on the table. ‘He’s got a shed at Pokataroo. You going that way?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘You might even land a pen there. It’s old Wigley’s place. Eucla. You know.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘And listen.’ Kelly was becoming exuberant again. ‘Half the old gang’ll be there, from what I hear. Mick and Ted Bennett, remember them?’

  ‘Mick and Ted, yeah,’ Macauley said.

  ‘Stepper Mackenzie?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘They’ll all be there. Bluey Green?’

  ‘Bluey, too?’

  ‘The whole bloody lot.’ Kelly grinned excitedly. ‘God, Mac, it’d be like old times again. Why don’t you be in it?’

  Macauley smiled thoughtfully, feeling the warmth of Kelly’s pleasure in wanting him to have the enjoyment of the experience.

  ‘I don’t think I can, Beauty.’ He glanced towards the sleeping child, and Kelly followed his look.

  ‘I don’t want to be quizzy, Mac, but, if it’s a fair question what’s the drum?’

  Macauley told him how he had Buster for six months: he sketched in the whole story quickly and briefly. At the end of it he found Kelly peering at him.

  ‘God, man, you believe in making it tough for yourself, don’t you?’

  ‘It just happened.’

  ‘Why didn’t you put her in a home, or something?’

  ‘I think it’s come to that,’ Macauley said.

  ‘Why’d you take her in the first place, Mac?’

  Macauley reached for the teapot and filled his mug. He held the spout over Kelly’s pint, above the cold scum that was settling on the tea. Kelly shook his head. Instead, he reached behind him into a cupboard made of two kerosene boxes and pulled out the half bottle of gin and a glass with it.

  ‘Like a drop of this now?’

  ‘Not for me.’

  Kelly half filled the glass. He drank it straight and half filled the glass again. ‘You don’t have to tell me, Mac, if you don’t want to.’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ Macauley said, looking squarely at his mate. ‘There’s not much to it. I came home one night and found her in bed with a bloke. I took the kid and left and I never went back.’

  ‘That’s bad, Mac.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, son. I didn’t take that kid for goody-goody reasons. I took it to spite her, to hurt her. But I made a mistake.’

  ‘Mistake?’

  ‘It was me that come the gutser.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because she didn’t want the kid. I did her a favour. I took the kid off her hands. And it was like giving her a present. I take it off her hands and put it on my own back. Laugh that off.’

  ‘You haven’t had a kick from her?’

  ‘Not so much as a kiss-me-foot.’

  ‘But, Mac.’ Kelly was casting round for a way to put it gently. ‘Six months you said. It didn’t take you all that time, did it, to wake up to what you’ve just told me? I mean – it’s crazy, lugging that nipper round the countryside. Not fair on you and not fair on her. Would have been better if you’d settled down somewhere if you were going to keep her with you?’

  ‘Settle down? Me?’

  ‘Well, what did you intend to do with her when you took her?’

  ‘I thought I’d work that all right when the time came.’

  ‘Why didn’t you put her in a home, or give her over to the care of someone? Why didn’t you do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. You get caught up before you’re ready. Things don’t pan out. You drift along, half dragged, half pushed, and the time goes by. Maybe I didn’t want her to get her hands on Buster. Maybe I was still waiting for a crying letter. I don’t know.’

  ‘Yeah, I think I know how you feel,’ Kelly said. And the way he said it made Macauley look at him more discerningly: at the creeping grey on the temples, the scraggy ruckles under the chin, the puffs of flesh under the eyes and the faint puce tinge coming into the skin. He noticed again the quick fidgety movement, the nervous, slightly unfocused shift of the eyes, and suddenly all the vague perceptions he had been feeling since he came into the house crystallised. He knew that what was shadowing that lined face was a sickness of dissipation. He was looking at a drunk. Not a drunk that wobbled and twisted his features and talked with a thick whine. And rolled home and went to bed in his hat. But a controlled, disciplined drunk, a chronic drunk whose system was saturated like a sponge, and who when he felt the sponge drying out even a little bit had to wet it again. And he knew what happened when the sponge was given more than it could absorb, how it spilled over, and carried the man in abandonment to the heights or dropped him to the depths, both of them a madness.

  ‘You’ve got a problem, Mac,’ Kelly was pondering, sincere. ‘I wish I could help. I don’t know what to suggest except a home.’ He turned suddenly. ‘Could she stay here with me? Hell, I’d only be happy — ’

  ‘It’s my pigeon.’ Macauley shook his head. ‘Let me worry about it. Say, what time have you got to be on the job?’

  Kelly looked at his wristwatch. ‘I’ll have to shove off now.’ He gulped down the last of the drink. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I’ll see you tonight.’

  ‘I might duck along and see Miss Towsey for a while,’ Macauley said, standing in the doorway with his hands on the frames.

  ‘She’s not there now,’ Kelly said, straddling his bike. She’s down at the presbytery. Housekeeping. Okay – don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘What do you want me to do, lead a dull life?’ Macauley called with a chuckle. He watched the pedalling figure out of sight, and he watched the way he had gone for minutes afterwards. Then he turned back into the room and moved about it in thoughtful inspection.

  It had an arsy-versy look about it to him as though it had come under the influence or taken on some of the characteristics of its occupant. The floor was dirty, stained with maps of dried liquid and spotted with cigarette butts put out underfoot and trodden flat. The table stood with its legs in four jam-tin boots, all filled with mildewy water. The tabletop needed a scrub. The shelf above the stove was piled to the ceiling with oddments, including old hats, old gumboots, and a woman’s green umbrella. Some of the canisters that belonged there stood on top of the meat safe, which stood on a three-ply tea case beside the window. The stove itself was slightly tilted where the brick alcove had apparently subsided. The hob was dusted with grey ash. The bed was probably made up once or twice a week. Even the alarm clock on the floor beside the bed leant drunkenly on one leg and gave out with a muzzy chick-chock.

  Macauley shook his head. He wandered down the little hall to the back door. He looked in the rooms either side of the hall. There was a double bed in one, with dust on the counterpane, a cheap chest of drawers and a frail cream-painted dressing table. The mirror was furry with dust. The other room was filled w
ith junk.

  He went back into the room where Kelly did all his living, and took off his coat. He built up the fire, unstrapped his swag, and arranged his blankets and garments about the stove to dry. He swept the floor clean, splashing water on it and driving the suds out the door with a millet broom. He changed the water in the jam tins and scrubbed the tabletop. He straightened a calendar on the wall and brought its leaves up to date.

  Then he sat down and rolled a cigarette. There was a furious sadness in his eyes.

  Buster woke up and reared aloft, hot, heavy and mussy-haired. She called her father immediately. Where was he? When he didn’t answer she raised her voice and there was a trace of panic in it.

  ‘I’m here,’ he said, looking at her from the junction of the hallway and the room.

  She looked at him sheepishly; then dangled her legs over the bed, clasping Gooby and rocking herself, humming drearily. She sneezed, hawked, and took up the humming again.

  ‘You better go out there and wash your face,’ Macauley said. ‘It’ll freshen you up.’

  ‘All right.’

  He heard her sneezing outside, spluttering and spitting. When she returned her movements were sprightlier and she went into a spasm of chatter. Both faded away quickly, and she sat listlessly on a chair, nursing Gooby, while Macaulay shaved.

  ‘Gimme a hanky, dad.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I got a runny nose.’

  He tore off part of an old shirt that he kept for nose-rags and told her to look after it as the handkerchief supply was getting pretty low. She was always losing them. He found bread in a box and meat in the safe and made a meal. Buster asked for a sandwich in a spontaneous access of false hunger, and only nibbled away half of it. Macauley told her he was going down the town; if she didn’t feel like coming she could get back into bed and stay in the house until he returned. It would do her cold better, but she was adamant about coming.

  Macauley thought he might run into someone he knew. He wanted to put out some feelers about work, and get some lead on the future. Mainly, he didn’t want to sit round the house. He was seriously turning over the possibilities of trying for a job at Eucla. It had a lot of appeal. What a picnic to meet up with some of the old gang again – Lucky, Stepper, Bluey, the Bennetts: the yarns, the laughs – hell, what a picnic. Another thing, too: it wouldn’t be hard to get through there with the kid. Be easy, in fact. He could coast along. There’d be no bellyaches with that mob. The big point was – money. The chips were fizzling out fast. He’d have to take on a job, and soon, whether it was Eucla or not. And if he didn’t crack it there it would have to be some other shed. And that meant deciding on the big problem once and for all – whether to take his two-legged handicap with him and carry on the battle or lodge her somewhere in safe custody. That decision was already made. The time had come to end the predicament. Wherever he went he knew that soon she would not be going with him.

  He strode into the office of Grazcos and a smiling fat amiable man dressed in a brown suit and with a face like a chunk of soap came up and put his hand across the counter. ‘How are you, Macauley?’

  Macauley’s hand engulfed the other and squeezed it: it was like a small, damp, flabby fish. ‘Not bad, Stan. What’s doing?’

  ‘Nothing at the moment, I’m afraid. How long’ll you be here?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not long.’

  ‘Might be able to place you in a few days if you’re about.’

  ‘What about Eucla?’

  ‘Eucla?’ The little mouth closed and pursed for a moment. ‘That’s Wigley’s place.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Macauley said.

  ‘We’ve got nothing to do with that.’

  ‘Since when? I thought it was a Graziers’ shed.’

  ‘We haven’t had it on the books for a couple of years – that’s last year and this.’

  ‘Who’s got it?’

  ‘Nobody. Wigley got some bee in his bonnet – he’s a fussy old goat, you know – and reckoned he could do a better job than the contractors. He’s doing all the hiring. So if you want a job there you’ll have to see him.’

  ‘Long way to go on spec. When’s he start?’

  ‘Next week sometime, I think. I imagine he’d have all his men by now, but why don’t you give him a call on the phone and find out?’

  ‘Okay. I might do that.’ He half turned to go. ‘If I’m still here in a few days I’ll get in touch with you.’ Suddenly he half raised his hand as the fat man was about to leave the counter. Macauley thought he might get a line on his friend. ‘Beauty Kelly – is he still around?’

  He saw a sharp look come into the fat man’s eyes. The fat man looked to each side of him, then he leant his bulk on the counter and said in a sad confidential voice, ‘You wouldn’t know him, Mac. They reckon he’s psycho.’ He paused. ‘Got a job at Warner’s. He’s a good worker, never misses a day, but works for only one thing – to get the money for grog. He must have a constitution like an animal.’

  ‘Just works to drink, eh?’

  ‘Take a tip, Mac – don’t get in a pub with him, don’t go on a bender. He’s sudden death. And I know you two are great cobbers.’

  Macauley nodded. He understood.

  Suddenly the fat man stood back, and his face creased in a smiling imitation of shrewdness. ‘And who’s chasing you, the tax commissioner?’

  Macauley jerked his head up. ‘What do you mean?’

  The fat man chuckled. ‘Why don’t you pick up your mail these days?’

  ‘Mail?’ Macauley was puzzled. ‘What mail?’

  ‘Don’t you see The Worker?’

  Macauley continued to look puzzled. The fat man pivoted slowly and went back to his desk. He picked up sheaves of papers, and pulled out drawers. He bent over, holding his stomach with one hand and he retrieved a newspaper from the floor. He fumbled for the right page as he walked back to the counter. Then he found it and laid the copy down in front of Macauley, pointing with a finger at a little panel in small type.

  Macauley read, ‘There are letters at this office addressed to the following men.’ He mumbled away the names until he came to J. Macauley. And he kept looking at the nine letters.

  ‘That’s you, isn’t it?’ the fat man said. ‘It’s been lying there for three months to my knowledge. You ought to collect it. Who knows – your rich uncle might have died and left you a lot of money.’

  ‘Do you want the paper?’ Macauley said.

  ‘Take it with you,’ said the fat man. ‘I’m glad I thought to tell you.’

  Outside Macauley stood and read the notice again. Who was the writer of the letter? There were two major sources by which correspondents could contact him – the Worker office which held and forwarded mail and the Graziers’ Co-operative Shearing Company. The Worker, official organ of the Australian Workers’ Union, publicised the advice in its pages which had a wide distribution among workers in the pastoral industry, whether they were employed on farms, stations, or in shearing sheds. With the Graziers’, letters were only forwarded when the addressee’s location was known, usually in one of the company’s run of sheds. It was highly probable that whoever had written the letter was familiar with Macauley’s itinerant life and knew that he did not confine his occupations to the shearing industry. On the other hand it could have been an ignorant shot in the dark. His name could have got among the prospects in an advertising department in the mysterious way that names have of doing such a thing. It was always happening – a circular detailing the merits of So-and-so’s combs and cutters; a pamphlet on rotary hoes; an art union brochure. Once he received a fat packet of oozing sales-talk on sweetmaking at home for profit. The literature kept coming, chasing him all over the country. In the end he wrote to the firm telling them what to do with their paper and wishing them happy boiled lollies.

  He folded the newspaper and shoved it in the back pocket of his trousers. In his calm way he was curious and a little excited. There was no harm in writing afte
r the letter, anyway.

  But he needed an address, and that necessity helped him to resolve his next move. He would push out west. If he pushed out west he could put in an appearance at Eucla and try for a job there. If it didn’t come off nothing was lost since it was on his way. He knew the ropes better than the fat man in the Graziers’ office. A phone call was all right, but not a patch on being on the spot. A voice talking to a voice over a crackling wire was unsatisfactory: often the tones gave a wrong impression of a man and the impression was often enough to make all the difference between success and failure. The idea was to get before a man, let him see all of you, let him size you up.

  But how to get to Pokataroo? He glanced at the smooth overcast sky. It looked unpromising. The road would be bad enough already without any more rain. It would take three or four days at least to walk it in even good weather. He’d had enough of black soil to do him for another twelve months. The chances of a lift? It was most unlikely there’d be anything going through, none of the big stuff, anyway, the trucks and freighters, the best choices for a ride. A light car could make it, but the chances of finding one were pretty remote; and when a man did find one it was odds on he’d be knocked back. The only way was the train, south to Narrabri, west to Burren Junction, change there, then north to Pokataroo – a triangle, a helluva roundabout way.

  Buster was fumbling at his trouser pocket.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Hanky.’

  ‘Where’s the one I gave you?’

  She held it aloft. It was a sodden rag. He told her to put it in her pocket and he gave her his piece of shirt. He took her hand and led her across the street. They went into a chemist’s shop. Macauley asked for a bottle of eucalyptus. The chemist was a lanky man with mild blue eyes and golden hair, fluffed out on either side of a centre parting so that the top of his head was quite flat. He had a sympathetic, affectionate voice and feminine mannerisms. As he delicately reclined the bottle on its mauve wrapping paper Buster gave a volley of sneezes, arresting the chemist’s movement. He looked at her feelingly and then at Macauley.

  ‘This for the little girl?’ he asked.