Hammers Over the Anvil

by Alan Marshall

  ‘Yes’, said Joe. ‘She’s a sixteen hands bay mare. We’ve seen her.’

  This knocked her back a bit and I was wild with Joe for saying it but as Joe explained later, ‘We’re not little kids you know. She should have had more sense than talk to us like as if she was reading a picture book.’

  I tried to bring the conversation her way a bit. I said, ‘We used to watch you ride through Turalla with a good-looking bloke. You were riding side-saddle. It used to be good to see you galloping along the road crossing Baker’s Flat. You know, on your way home. He chased you once. Remember that?’

  It was a picture I couldn’t forget. The bay she rode had a long, swinging stride when she was cantering but at a gallop she flattened out and there was no rise and fall in her seat on the saddle. She wore a divided skirt that hung down the horse’s side.

  The handsome bloke must have tried to put his arm around her, but she slipped out of his grip and cleared off. As she took off she looked back at him and laughed, which was a bloody stupid thing to do because he took it she wanted him to chase her.

  Joe could see this. We were talking about it while we were setting traps in the ferns. ‘You can see she knows nothing about blokes’, Joe said. ‘If she goes laughing back at blokes like that, she’s going to find herself in trouble, I’m tellin’ you!’

  ‘He’s better mounted than she is’, I said. ‘He’s riding one of the Barji stallions. She hasn’t got a chance. He’ll ride her down within a mile.’

  ‘He’s a bit like a stallion himself’, said Joe. ‘Did you see the look on him when he passed us; he was carrying his head like Nero.’

  ‘Look! Quick! He’s caught her now’, I exclaimed. ‘Let’s go up here a bit. Look at him.’

  I clambered on to a rise amongst the ferns where I could look down the road to where it entered a clump of wattle growing amongst high ferns. He had ridden up beside her and lifted her from the saddle while reining in the stallion. He swung to the ground carrying her with him. He looped the reins of both horses over his arm and moved in among the ferns and the trees with his other arm around her.

  ‘What do you know about that’, I exclaimed.

  ‘Well, if he wants to kiss her, that’s the best place he could go’, said Joe. ‘No one will see them in there.’

  They stayed hidden for a while, then came out and rode away.

  When I mentioned that story to her as we sat in the buggy, Joe reckoned it really rocked her. She sat very still for a moment.

  ‘It was shearing time’, she said, as if that explained it.

  ‘He could ride, that bloke’, said Joe.

  ‘Yes. He was a wonderful man’, she said. She became quiet, then said, ‘He was a gentleman.’

  Joe was just going to say something bad about gentlemen, but he swallowed, coughed, then spat over the wheel of the buggy to clear his throat.

  ‘Don’t you like gentlemen?’ she asked Joe. She was a wake-up to Joe all right.

  I wanted to call the dog off Joe. He used to say things, then be sorry afterwards.

  ‘We don’t like gentlemen’, I said, ‘but we liked the bloke you were with.’

  ‘I see what you mean’, she said.

  I felt I was making a mess of it. ‘He’d be a good mate I think, a nice bloke to talk to.’

  ‘I think so too’, she said.

  Splinter came up then and Joe and I got out of the buggy. She gave us thruppence each which was the most money we’ve ever got from anyone; though Mum told me that a bloke gave me a bob once when I first got crippled, but I can’t remember it. Joe doesn’t believe it but I reckon it could’ve happened.

  As soon as Peter McLeod saw the flea-bitten mare he called her ‘Miss McAlister’. When I went over there one day he was looking at her as if she were a pile of rubbish dumped at his gate.

  ‘I tell you’, he said, ‘and I’m not talkin’, there’s not one good thing I can say about that horse. She lashed out at Bluey a minute ago, so she’s alive.’

  ‘He must have heeled her’, I said.

  ‘If he didn’t, she’s the only living thing in Turalla he hasn’t’, said Peter. ‘Now, take this halter and hold “Miss McAlister” beside the post and rail fence till I get Nero.’

  It was a job I liked doing. It was exciting and strange and frightening and left me breathing quickly. I had to hold ‘Miss McAlister’ against the post and rail fence so that Nero could nibble at her neck and, if she liked him doing this, she was horsing and I could lead her round to Nero’s side of the fence to be served.

  Nero knew it was going to be a good morning for him. He came stamping out of the stable behind Peter, his ears pricked forward, his neck arching away from his great shoulders like a balancing weight for his haunches.

  He neighed as he got the smell of ‘Miss McAlister’, lowering his haunches then rearing. Peter led him to the fence where ‘Miss McAlister’ was waiting.

  He came up to her, dancing and whinnying, and began biting her neck. She squealed and kicked backwards, pig-rooting to give height to her kicks.

  ‘She’s a nasty bitch, that mare’, said Peter.

  She lashed backwards again, squealing.

  ‘She’s right’, said Peter. ‘Bring her round and we’ll try her.’

  I led her round to an open space away from the fence and stood her there, holding her head. Peter led Nero round in a circle, then brought him up behind ‘Miss McAlister’. Nero showed no excitement. Peter jerked at the lead and yelled at him, but Nero turned away from her. Peter brought him up again. He bit her contemptuously on the rump, then drew back quickly and swivelled, turning his back on her.

  Peter was losing his temper. He swore at Nero and brought him round a third time, but the same thing happened again. He cursed the stallion while leading him back into the stable.

  In a minute he came out and took the halter from my hand and led ‘Miss McAlister’ through a gate where he let her go in a paddock.

  ‘We’ll try her again tomorrow’, he said, then added, ‘You know, that’s the first time in my bloody life I’ve seen that happen.’

  ‘Father said he’s seen a stallion knock back a mare’, I said.

  ‘It’s not natural’, said Peter.

  I was talking to Peter one morning when I was driving with him in the wagon taking milk to the factory.

  ‘“Miss McAlister” has to come on again’, he said. ‘Come round after school and hold her, will you. I’ll put her to Nero again.’

  ‘I’ll come’, I said. ‘I’ll bring Joe with me. Joe’s good at helping.’

  ‘There’d be some cackling amongst the hens if they knew I was getting kids to help me with Nero’, he said looking up at the sky and scratching his extended neck. ‘It’s all right you coming – your old man’s got sense – but this Joe kid, what’s his old man like?’

  ‘He works for Mrs Carruthers’, I said. ‘He’s a hell of a nice bloke, Joe’s old man.’

  ‘Righto!’ he said. ‘Come along at four.’

  We turned up at four and I was surprised to see that Peter had tied another mare to the post and rail fence. Some farmer had left her to be served by Nero. She was a strong-looking cart-horse, fat, with a glossy coat and powerful shoulders. She was a chestnut and looked good against the old fence. She rubbed the side of her nose up and down against her extended foreleg.

  ‘Now, there’s a horse for you’, said Joe. ‘Take a look at her. She’d be worth a bit I’ll bet.’

  ‘I wonder what has happened to “Miss McAlister” ’, I said, looking around the sheds. ‘Peter’s going to serve her today.’

  Peter came up from the trough leading ‘Miss McAlister’. He yelled out as he approached: ‘Don’t waste any time now. Here, you hold “Miss McAlister”, Alan,’ and he held the halter towards me as he came up.

  ‘Righto! Joe! Untie the chestnut mare and fetch her over beside “Miss McAlister”. They are both horsing. I tried them both out just before you came.’ He gestured with his hands. ‘Here! Hold them
side by side. Don’t hold her there, Joe. Bring your hand up. Hold the halter there’, and he placed Joe’s hand where the lead rope went through a leather-bound loop.

  ‘Don’t let them swing round when I bring Nero up behind. Now you’re right. Stand like that.’

  We stood at the heads of the two horses. I pulled ‘Miss McAlister’ forward a little to bring her head level with that of the chestnut mare.

  Peter had gone into the stable where I could hear him shouting out to Nero: ‘Stand over! Whoa back there!’

  He came out leading the stallion and I’m telling you it was a great sight. Nero was full of oats and for a moment it looked as if he was going to serve Peter. He threw his head up and almost lifted Peter off his feet. He neighed loudly and shortened his steps until he was dancing on his toes.

  Peter swung him round. Now he was behind the mares and he gathered himself and reared, striking with his forelegs. He sat back on his flexing legs and unsheathed his huge black penis. He came forward on his back legs, balancing with power.

  Joe had never seen this before. ‘Jesus!’ he exclaimed in sudden fear, and glanced quickly round as if seeking a way of escape.

  ‘Jesus’ was a bad swear and Joe would never use it unless he was afraid.

  Nero’s forelegs were coming down each side of the chestnut mare Joe was holding, but Peter suddenly heaved on the lead and slewed the stallion away from her so that he came down on the rump of ‘Miss McAlister’. She gasped and braced herself for the weight. I hung on to her with my eyes tight closed. One of Nero’s swinging hooves went past me and I felt the shuddering of ‘Miss McAlister’s’ old body as she answered his command. I saw Nero’s teeth clasp her neck. There was a minute of silent shouts and screams, then Nero suddenly drew back and slid off her rump. Maybe it was only then he realised he had been had. He wheeled in rage, dropped his head and brought both legs up in a vicious, pig-rooting lash backwards. His broad hooves smacked against ‘Miss McAlister’s’ ribs and she staggered sideways with a grunt, jerking me off my feet so that I fell to the ground.

  I quickly grabbed my crutches and got to my feet. Peter had pulled Nero away and was now swearing at the stallion.

  ‘The curse of Kishogue on ya!’ he yelled, then suddenly becoming concerned at my welfare, he stopped and looked at me.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes’, I said. ‘I’m good.’

  He grunted and guided Nero to the stable.

  Joe had led his mare to the fence where he tied her up with the halter, then came running over to me and said breathlessly, ‘By hell that’s bloody dangerous, I’m tellin’ ya. Nobody should be around when he’s doing that. It’s stupid. How do brumbies get on! They don’t have to be led up to a mare. One of us is going to get himself kilt one of these days. It’s a terrible thing to see those hooves coming down and no way of dodging them.’

  ‘I liked watching them’, I said defensively.

  ‘That was the bad coming out in ya’, said Joe. ‘You want to keep holt of yourself. It can get a holt of you. Father Guiness told us looking at carnal things poisons the mind.’

  ‘Struth!’ I exclaimed. ‘What do ya know about that.’ Then asked, ‘What’s “carnal”?’

  ‘It’s what Nero was doing to “Miss McAlister”.’

  I was worried for a few days, then I forgot it.

  A couple of months later I was talking to Splinter outside the church on Sunday morning. Mum had told me to keep the fire going in the stove so that the roast would be ready when church came out, so I had to dash home once or twice to look at it.

  ‘You can’t beat a roast a bit overdone’, said Splinter, then went on to tell me about the mare. It turned out that she wasn’t in foal. Splinter reckoned Nero was no good. He said Maggie McAlister was disappointed but told Splinter that the mare’s time for foal bearing had passed. ‘We’ll leave her in peace now’, she said to Splinter.

  I thought to myself that the mare would have been more at peace if she had had a foal, but I wasn’t so sure so I didn’t say it.

  The next day the most terrible thing I’ve ever heard of happened. I heard about it outside the pub. A lot of blokes were talking about it. They said that Grace McAlister went into the gun room at Barji, took down her Dad’s double-barrel gun, then blew half her head off.

  It was a few weeks before I could hear what happened from Splinter. ‘That wool-classer you saw her galloping with: well, he put her in foal. She couldn’t face the disgrace of it, so she shot herself.’

  ‘You see’, said Splinter, ‘she was young and longed to have a baby, but she couldn’t wait till she was married. Then, when he foaled her and left her, she couldn’t face it alone with all her friends against her. That’s what my Missus reckons and, remember, I’ve got five kids.’

  MISS BARLOW

  When I was about fifteen Mrs Thomas died. She accepted death without protest. To her it was like going to church and not coming out, but it was a blow to Mr Thomas. She would not follow him anymore. Now, when he opened the church gate, he did not have to stand aside; he stepped through alone.

  For the first few weeks the obligations of a bereavement and the necessity of observing a code of behaviour acceptable to the members of the church as suitable for the loss of a wife, guided Mr Thomas in everything he did. He walked to church with measured stride and lowered head. He refrained from smiling at women. Instead he looked into their eyes with a silent appeal for comfort. It inspired in the devout a desire to pray for him; in the not so devout the memory of Nellie Bolster.

  In a few months Mr Thomas was smiling and bowing to the women of the churchyard but his warmest smile, his most gracious greeting, was reserved for Miss Prudence Barlow.

  Miss Barlow was like a slender plant with a frail blossom that grew in poor soil. She needed water to nourish the blossom but there was little water in Miss Barlow’s life.

  She was an old maid. I never liked to hear a woman called an old maid but I didn’t know why. It was just wrong, I thought.

  Circumstances had compressed Miss Barlow until, from a young and pretty girl, she had emerged an angular and severe woman. Yet … I don’t know; there were moments when that young girl looked at you with her eyes.

  Miss Barlow’s father and mother were dead. They were once farmers, but Miss Barlow sold the farm when they died, only retaining the house which sat in a small garden surrounded by a picket fence. This little square of flowering shrubs and wattle trees reposed in a green paddock, ten acres in area, across which wound a dirt track leading from the picket fence to the road gate.

  Miss Barlow drove down this winding track each Sunday on her way to church. She owned a grey horse and an Abbot buggy and she sat upright in the centre of the seat holding a long buggy whip in her right hand. She never struck the grey horse with the whip, but carrying a buggy whip was the right thing to do.

  When she reached the church Mr Thomas would step forward from amongst the women and take the horse out of the buggy and tie it to the fence with a halter. Then he would join the women and walk into church with them.

  The women talked about Mr Thomas and Miss Barlow when they weren’t around but, as I heard Miss McPherson say, ‘One needs much more evidence than that.’

  I had evidence enough. Three evenings a week I rode past Miss Barlow’s on my way to the Mechanics’ Institute where a church club used to meet. It was known as ‘The Guild’. I was a member of the Guild.

  I rode home late at night and always passed Miss Barlow’s house at half past eleven. The Guild closed at eleven.

  I cantered most of the way home but I left it to Hairy Legs to make his own pace. Poised in darkness rising and falling upon a saddle moving to the swing of a horse I could not see, I felt I was being carried forward into a sea of darkness that broke upon my face and glided past in soundless waves of black.

  The track past Miss Barlow’s was littered with stones and pitted with potholes. When Hairy Legs came to this stretch he would slow to a walk and I wo
uld relax. I would sit loosely in the saddle and wonder about people and of how they left their homes at night and went visiting and no one knew anything about their lives at all except in the daylight.

  Hairy Legs stopped when he was opposite Miss Barlow’s house. He did it because I would have stopped him if he hadn’t. It was half past eleven and something beautiful always happened then.

  After a little while the door of the house opened and an upright oblong of light appeared in the darkness. Against this light I could see the silhouette of Mr Thomas. His arm like a long shadow reached out and held the hand of Miss Barlow. They stepped out of the doorway together and Mr Thomas closed the door behind him.

  I couldn’t see them now but I could hear them walking through the little garden to the gate in the picket fence. It creaked when it was opened and then they were in the paddock. It was not far now to where the horse and his jinker were tied to the fence.

  Miss Barlow stopped near the jinker step. I couldn’t hear her footsteps any longer. I heard Mr Thomas walk to his horse’s head and I knew he was untying the halter from the post and knotting it around his horse’s neck. He then stepped back and pulled the looped reins from the ring in the hames and hung it over the dashboard. Now he would be standing quite near Miss Barlow. He struck a match, pulled open the front of the gig lamp and held the match to the candle. The wick took the yellow flame, but it was a while before the wax melted. The pointed flame grew upwards sending out a steady, gentle light that illuminated the two faces each side of it.

  I could see their faces quite clearly. All around them was a thick, impenetrable darkness. They stood there looking at each other, united by the light of a candle.

  I lifted my horse’s reins and rode away.

  MISS McPHERSON

  I was always sure that Miss McPherson was very beautiful underneath her bandage. It was a large white bandage, tied securely round her face so that one saw only that part of her face above her mouth. But her eyes made you want to keep looking at her. They were brown and large and gazed gently at you. But the trouble was, that’s all you could see. I wished I could see the rest of her face.