Watching the Climbers on the Mountain

by Miller, Alex

  He stopped at the edge of the first shallow pool. It was no more than two metres across. It wasn’t the water that would stop him. He could build up enough speed to ease off the pedal and coast through. It was the risk of losing his grip and breaking through the crust on the other side when he accelerated with clogged treads that was the real danger. He contemplated the track for a few seconds, not really making an assessment of its condition but staring at it blindly while the tension built up in him. Then he decided: if they got stuck they could sit and wait for Crofts to snig them out. He walked back to the car.

  He reached across and switched off the radio.

  ‘We can’t just have it down a bit, I suppose?’ Janet asked mildly, not really expecting her father to be reasonable, but proposing reasonableness, more for her own record than anything. She was sitting next to him in the front passenger seat.

  ‘Leave it off!’ he ordered defensively, putting his hand over the switch as if she were still a small child and might battle him for control of the radio.

  She watched him start the car and put it in gear. ‘You’re going to get us bogged,’ she said with a matter-of-factness that she hoped would irritate him. ‘I’m not getting out to help. There’s no reason why you can’t wait for him here.’ Rankin was not listening to her. She knew that. After a second or two she added, ‘You just don’t want to admit that you need him,’ getting to the heart of the matter without considering the remark of any significance beyond the moment—the fate of others was of no interest to her. ‘So we all have to get stuck out here for hours in this filthy black mud with you.’ She was finding reasons for her anger.

  As the car moved off she looked out the side window. She was repelled by the emptiness of the landscape—it was a landscape in which nothing ever changed and in which nothing could ever happen, a landscape that seemed to deny the passage of time and the possibility of change. It was a landscape on which not one sign of the struggles—nor even of the existence—of the whole human race had ever been permanently registered. She was seeing it for the first time. The car bumped something, and she said, ‘Shit, I’ll be glad when I’m gone!’ She wanted to provoke her father, knowing how intensely it irritated him whenever she swore.

  She had begun to feel just a little afraid of the country of her birth; the thought of the return to the station and to her family was making her skin creep. Her father would be left in no doubt about the way she felt. He had refused her request to stay in town with her cousins until it was time for her to go to boarding school in Rockhampton: this had intensified to an unbearable degree her desire to be gone. She could not now begin to imagine how she had ever considered the station a tolerable place to live. The coast and the busy streets of Rockhampton seemed like a haven that she must reach soon or else suffer some irreparable setback in her life.

  The big blue car accelerated uncertainly along the gravelled road, then bounded and swooped as it dived from the made section into the uneven tracks. Janet bumped her head on the window and grabbed the door handle to steady herself. ‘Jesus you’re stupid!’ she shouted.

  Rankin blinked and concentrated. He was hunched forward, his flat-brimmed hat pushed to the back of his head, a long grey wisp of hair trailing over one ear. Dark sunspots stretched tightly on the backs of his hands gripping the wheel—as if his skin had made a pathetically inadequate attempt to turn black in response to the incessant sunlight. He scanned the difficult and confusing ground ahead—the sound of the grass scraping against the underbelly of the car seemed to him to imitate exactly the dry whisperings of his anxieties, and prevented him from concentrating fully on the driving. As it struck the cross-tracks the car lurched and the steering wheel spun violently one way then the other, as if the machine itself had panicked.

  ‘That’s just what I mean!’ Janet exclaimed contemptuously, hanging on with both hands and wondering how it was possible for someone to have lived for as long as her father had without managing to get his behaviour decently organised: it was exactly this crushing incompetence she wished to escape from.

  From a corner of the back seat, seeming to drowse, his eyes almost closed, Alistair intently observed his father. He was willing Rankin to bring the car through the mud safely, detesting the possibility that they would be found helplessly bogged in an hour or two by Robert Crofts. Unconsciously, Alistair’s tense features mimicked his father’s. The car splashed through the water then hesitated as it emerged on the other side and poised on the lip, the rear wheels hissing on the slippery surface. It almost stopped. All three occupants leaned forward.

  ‘Come on! Come on!’ Rankin prayed. The car inched forward, crawling unwillingly out of the mud, as if it would sooner have stayed there for ever. After an interminable struggle it suddenly picked up speed and went sliding and swerving down the tracks.

  ‘For Christ’s sake keep it going!’ Janet ordered him harshly, wishing there were some way for her to force her father into being efficient.

  Alistair’s gaze settled on her for an instant, then moved again to his father. He was not yet able to face the fact that his sister had betrayed him. She had cheerfully discarded—as if it had all really been no more than a passing entertainment for her—everything that they had held sacred and secret between them. During the last few weeks every good thing in his life seemed to have been knocked violently out of his reach—even Gil had no longer been of any use to him. It was a blight and he saw Robert Crofts as the sole malicious cause. Now, without actually realising it, he was beginning to look to his father as a last possible ally against the influence of Crofts, whose purpose was clear to him.

  As Rankin manoeuvred the Ford over the low-lying stretch of country he was nervously considering the implications of Crofts’ smile the previous evening but one, when Janet had brought out the boxing trophy. He knew he should have dealt with Janet’s shouting and swearing at him. But she had changed lately and he no longer knew what to say to her. He lacked the resolve to tackle her head-on. His words might have no effect. So he said nothing.

  He didn’t want to compulsively dwell on that little scene at the dinner table, when Robert had raised his glass to him and, without guile, had offered him his gratitude for the win over Laurie Hill. It was then he had given him that encouraging smile—Rankin had reviewed it so often, however, that he had lost its exact image and was now dealing with guesses and imperfect memories. He couldn’t help it. The minute he managed to dismiss it from his thoughts he was at once reminded of it again because of the questions that continued to hang over it. His head ached with irresolution. Testing things out a bit further would depend on his new plan.

  Suddenly they were through the black soil and approaching the crossing. He breathed a sigh of relief. Ten minutes later they arrived at the homestead. He drove into the shed and pulled up alongside the jeep. Alistair and Janet got out and made straight for the house. Rankin yelled at the dogs to shut up and went round and opened the boot, which was full of cartons and packages. He felt very pleased with himself. Not a sign of Robert. He had stolen a march on the boy at last. Rankin took the mail bag in one hand, hefted a carton of whiskey under his other arm, and headed for the house. The day had begun exceedingly well after all, he considered. He met the stockman hurrying down the back steps.

  ‘There’s a heap more in the boot, Robert. Bring it up will you?’ He continued on up the steps. ‘I’ll send Alistair to give you a hand—the lazy bugger.’ Suddenly he felt sure that everything was going to work out beautifully. He felt firmly in control of the situation. In a matter of seconds he had convinced himself that he had taken the initiative, while everyone else had dithered—though in fact he had done nothing of the kind. He called to Alistair to go and help unload the car and went straight through to his own room in the middle of the house. He deposited the mail bag on his desk and the carton of whiskey next to the cupboard. He stood up, stretched his shoulders, breathed deeply, then lit a cigarette. He had not failed to register the fact that even though the stockm
an was looking tired and fussed, he had—in the brief instant of their meeting on the stairs—seemed relieved to see him and keener than ever to help. Rankin heard Ida and Janet begin shouting at each other at the other end of the house. He went over and closed the door, shutting out the irritating sounds. He had things to do.

  •

  Later, in the afternoon, when the house was quiet once again, the inhabitants each off somewhere about their own business, Ida stood at the draining board preparing dinner. The window in front of her was wide open and she was conscious of the birds, which were chattering noisily and hopping about in the oleanders as usual. Another storm was brewing and the distant reverberations of thunder were continuous. Ida was very glad to be alone. Ward had emerged from his room briefly and eaten a light lunch an hour or two ago. He had given her a couple of letters that had arrived in the mail for her and had returned to his room with scarcely a word of conversation. His preoccupation with his own thoughts had not bothered her, however, for while it had been an extremely close thing that morning, it was plain to Ida that her husband suspected nothing. Robert had taken the truck after lunch and gone up to the old fence as if everything were normal. He was there now. She was thinking about him, picturing him alone in the wattle scrub struggling with the entangled wire. She was deep in her own thoughts when, for some reason, she turned and looked towards the verandah door behind her. Alistair was standing there watching her.

  She realised at once that he knew.

  ‘Heavens! You gave me a fright!’ She felt herself beginning to blush under his scrutiny. How long, she wondered, had he been observing her? Quickly she turned back to the draining board. ‘Do you want an ice-cream or something? You didn’t eat much for lunch.’ She was guiltily conscious of making a special effort to please him. There was no reply, so she looked round. He had gone. She stared at the spot where he had been standing, ‘seeing’ the look in his eyes. A tight little fear established itself in her stomach. Without raising her voice, she called, ‘Alistair?’ But there was no reply.

  She wasn’t sure what to do. She felt shocked. It had not occurred to her—though as she thought about it now it seemed obvious and inevitable—that Alistair would need no real evidence but would simply know, just like that, would reach his conclusion based on the most fleeting and elusive of impressions. This was a legacy of their old bond, the sure and complete knowledge of each other. She washed her hands to get the smell of onion off them and dried them on a tea towel. Should she go and look for him? She already knew, however, that she could never talk to him about it. She had seen in his eyes that his knowledge was hard and cold—he would not, could not, ever, understand her point of view about it. She was certain of this. He would deny knowing it rather than attempt to understand. She experienced a deep anger and dismay as this became apparent to her.

  She was standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, nervously and unnecessarily wiping her hands on the tea towel, feeling a fiercely self-righteous enmity towards her son, when Rankin walked in on her. He was carrying his reading glasses and a pen in one hand, a sheaf of papers in the other. He cleared a space among the vegetables and saucepans on the bench and put down the top sheet of paper. He tapped it twice with the rim of his glasses. Holding his glasses a few inches from his nose and peering at the paper, he said, ‘Here’s you!’ He put the next sheet of paper beside the first and said, ‘Here’s Alistair.’ He put the third sheet of paper beside that, and said. ‘And here’s Janet.’ He looked up at her expectantly.

  Ida stared at him. There was a rapt expression on his face. ‘And where,’ she asked guardedly, ‘are you?’

  He looked slightly puzzled and snatched up the sheet of paper he had designated as hers. ‘There’s everything you’ll need. I’ve worked out one for each of you.’ He offered her the paper. Suspecting something odd, she reluctantly took it from him and looked at it. It was a list of expenses of some kind. She could make very little of it.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked carefully, handing it back. She realised he had been drinking.

  ‘It’s the only thing that makes any sense,’ he said. ‘You take the two of them to Yepoon on your own this year, or you go with your cousin or whatever you like.’ He waved his glasses impatiently, handing to her the responsibility for such details and minor arrangements, indicating that it was only the grand scheme that concerned him. ‘I don’t mind, you do what you like. And you see Janet settled in school before you come back.’

  He paused and cocked his head sideways at the paper, his grey eyes bright with moisture and the glittering vision of his plans. ‘If there’s anything I haven’t thought of, so long as it’s reasonable we can discuss it. Money’s pretty tight again, that’s all.’ This wasn’t true, but he habitually guarded against Ida or anyone else getting the idea that money was plentiful—it was part of keeping control of everything in his own hands.

  Now he went on to explain in detail the basis on which he had spent his day calculating their individual expenses for the annual holiday, expatiating at great length on the absolute fair-mindedness of his arrangements for them. It was a plan, his manner implied, that no reasonable person could possibly object to. He was forgoing his own holiday in order to concentrate on essential maintenance to fences and yards before the autumn mustering. He and Robert, he offered—unintentionally suggesting an image of domestic cosiness—would manage their own cooking and whatever else was needed while she was away. He was, he admitted with a sort of half-reluctant wistfulness, almost looking forward to it. Though he was quick to add that it would mean a lot of hard work, and no break at all for him this year. Maybe, who could say, he and Robert might find the time to take a trip down to the Orange Field Days, or to some other event later in the year, to make up for it.

  It was the physical contrast which struck her as most repulsive. He was wearing shorts and an unbuttoned khaki shirt. There were brown leather sandals on his feet. His movements were nervous and slightly exaggerated. He was largely unconscious of his appearance. With disgusted fascination she looked at the white, flaky skin of his heavily veined legs, noticing with a shudder how the slack muscles of his skinny thighs jiggled.

  She turned away and picked up the vegetable knife. She recognised this mood. He had been shut away in that room sipping whiskey and revving himself up with ideas, rearranging the world to suit himself, and believing in it all—playing Almighty God. He wasn’t going to listen to anything she had to say.

  She sliced a large brown onion in half and ripped off the outer skins. They had persisted with the dreary chore of going to Yepoon at this time each year because there had never been anything else worth doing. The annual holiday had at least used up a few weeks of what would otherwise have been an intolerable period of idleness together during the season of storms and the worst of the heat. Neither of them had ever admitted to the other, however, that the fun had gone out of Yepoon. They had continued to insist that they all looked forward to it, that it was a great treat, a privilege less fortunate families could not afford.

  And maybe, at the beginning, when Janet had been a baby, for a year or two, the annual trip to the coast really had been a pleasant change. Ida found it difficult, however, to recall such innocent family joy with any conviction. But because of the lie he would still expect her to show her gratitude. Nor did she believe for one minute that he seriously intended to do as he said. His plan, she was quite certain, was nothing more than an excuse to avoid his responsibilities so he could just stay at home sipping his whiskey and brooding while he kept Robert hard at work outside on his own as usual.

  She ceased to listen to him while she did the vegetables. Her heart cried out to be alone with Robert. She imagined changing places with her husband, reversing his plan and sending him off to the coast with the kids. She and Robert would be alone together for three weeks! She abandoned herself to the delicious details of such days and nights where, in an untroubled progression of pure happiness, they would be actually living together! Then a th
ought intruded before she had time to check it. It flashed across her mind, and was gone again as if it did not quite belong to her, but was an intruder, not her responsibility at all and had originated with someone else—possibly with Robert. The thought said: if only we could get rid of Ward altogether and be done with it! It said it and was gone, leaving an image of herself and the stockman alone together in the sunlit landscape where they belonged.

  She paused, the large vegetable knife half through the tough black rind of a huge ironbark pumpkin. The thought had not said anything so brutal as kill him! It said, rather, if only we could have it so that he had never existed! It proposed an impossibility. But there was a way that might be pursued. She pressed down on the knife and sliced clean through to the board. The big black-green vegetable fell open, revealing its gaudy orange heart.

  ‘I’m not going to Yepoon this year,’ she said, and held her breath, looking out the window at the oleanders, hearing the mad, cheerful chattering of the kitchen garden birds, appealing to them for acknowledgement of the justice of her case, waiting for his reaction.

  ‘Go to Cairns then,’ he suggested offhandedly, and she heard him gather his papers together. ‘Or down to Brisbane if you want to.’ He paused, ‘Go and stay with Gil! There’s an idea! You could do that?’