This Is the Grass

by Alan Marshall

  The bar and lounge were crowded that evening. There had been a race-meeting in Melbourne and a number of cars full of men and women had come up for a night’s entertainment. Amongst them were three men who now stood in the bar, a knot of scheming crooks who made no attempt to hide their contempt for those around them.

  An old fossicker clumped into the bar with his heavy, hobnail boots. He pushed past the three men who did not move to give him room.

  ‘Why didn’t you hang your horse up outside?’ one of them snarled at him over his shoulder.

  The old man looked at him, a little bewildered at his tone, not comprehending the insult, but he kept on plodding towards the counter, his face tranquil as before.

  The man’s two companions laughed loudly at his wit. They praised its aptness and the sharpness of the mind that could produce it so spontaneously. They recalled other examples of his skill in retorts, looking at each other and nodding in agreement as if confirming and sharing a similar admiration. They were pleased that they were given an opportunity to flatter this man to whom they obviously toadied and whom they feared.

  He accepted their sycophancy with a straightening of the shoulders and a patronising smile of acknowledgment. I guessed he was a stand-over merchant and that he had brought these two men with him like a hunter who goes out with his dogs.

  Arthur had told me that these stand-over men were all cowards. ‘They’re all yellow,’ he said. ‘They talk big when they’re backed up by hangers-on or if they’ve got a gun, but get them alone and they whimper like curs every time you draw blood from them.’

  The man’s two followers called him ‘Carver’. He was well-dressed in a loud, vulgar fashion. The coat of his chalk-stripe, blue suit was padded to emphasise the width of his shoulders. It fitted him tightly and was drawn in at the waist before flaring out and hanging well below his hips. His snub-toed boots were a bright tan and he wore a blue satin tie with a diamond stickpin. A pale-grey felt hat sat well back on his head. On his fingers were two heavy silver rings with a scroll design that raised them well above the level of his knuckles.

  His face wore a constant, irritable expression that hardened into suspicion when he met the gaze of anyone in the bar. He was about thirty years of age.

  One of his companions was small and foxy with a tight, thin mouth and cigarette-stained fingers. His eyes flickered away from you when you looked at him. The third man had red hair and a dull, freckled face. He had pale-blue eyes and hairless, red lids that gave the impression of an unhealthy skin. His shoulders were broad and he had short, powerful arms. A cauliflower ear recorded the impact of merciless blows in the ring.

  Carver took their two glasses and walked over to the counter to get them filled, unusual for men of his type who always let their underlings wait on them. The bar was lined with men. He selected the spot beside me to push his way in.

  I was sitting on a stool before the bar counter with my glass of ginger ale in front of me. I always drank in this position since it saved me having to stand holding my glass, awkward for a man on crutches. Most men when their glass was filled stepped back to let others in but they accepted my position at the counter, understanding the reason for it.

  Carver pushed me roughly, almost unseating me.

  ‘Move over,’ he ordered in a tone of voice that jerked my head round in fright.

  I looked into his face and saw the merciless, vicious expression of the man. I was reaching for my crutches leaning against the bar when I felt a huge hand come to rest on my shoulder. Tiny Bourke had stepped over to my side. He looked down on Carver from his great height and said quietly: ‘This fellow moves over for no man.’

  Carver flinched and I had a glimpse of the cur in him. He paused, eyeing Tiny uncertainly, then reached over and placed the glasses on the counter. Tiny stood beside me until they were filled and Carver had returned to his companions.

  I could not stay any longer in the bar. The fact that I had been protected humiliated me. I should have stood up to that man, I thought, no matter what the consequences. Every time I was defended I stepped farther back into utter dependence.

  When was I to make a stand? When? When?

  I sat with Arthur in the lounge that night and drank nobblers of ginger ale paid for by a bookmaker celebrating a profitable day at the races. There was a lot of laughter and singing, and a girl did a Spanish dance between the tables.

  Carver and his companions sat at a table drinking and looking on. They spoke to the girls who passed, trying to persuade them to sit at their table. Their lack of success soured them and they became abusive.

  Carver glanced at me several times. He passed the result of his observations on to his companions and they too watched me.

  Arthur had left me to join a group that included Tiny Bourke. He held their attention in an earnest communication that must have made reference to Carver since Tiny gave a long, speculative look at him while Arthur was talking.

  Carver rose to his feet and gathered the three glasses from the table. The direct route from his table to the bar window skirted the place where I was sitting but he veered on his way to get the drinks and made directly towards me. He stopped when he reached my table and confronted me. He seized my empty glass and smelt it, then thrust it contemptuously towards me.

  ‘Soft stuff, eh! So that’s your racket, you bastard; you pocket the difference. A bloke ought to punch you in the guts.’

  He moved on to the bar window. After a stunned moment of incomprehension, realisation came to me like a blow and I was seized with a furious rage. I wanted to strike him, to hurl him to the floor. Then came a sickening feeling of inadequacy to cope with it.

  I looked up. Arthur was bending over me.

  ‘Hop off to bed, Alan.’

  ‘Did you hear . . .’

  ‘Yes. I heard. Hop off to bed.’

  ‘But why? I’ll . . .’

  ‘Look, I want you to. That bastard will swing a punch at you before the night’s out. Give me a break now. Hop off’

  ‘All right,’ I said resignedly. ‘I’m going to spend the rest of my bloody life hopping off to bed, I can see that.’

  He watched me go, leaning with clenched knuckles on the table, his face whiter than usual.

  I read for a while trying to forget, then fell asleep.

  When I woke in the morning Arthur was already dressed. I looked at him sleepily, happy at the thought that I could lie there for another hour. He was standing in front of the chest of drawers looking at his face in the mirror. He frowned and pressed his cheeks with his fingers, felt the side of his neck. He opened his mouth and moved his jaw from side to side. I thought he was preparing to shave. He looked at his watch, then hurried out into the kitchen where I could hear him talking to Gunner while he had his breakfast.

  I suddenly remembered the incident of the night before and twisted violently in my bed to free myself from something horrible. I kept repeating ‘Blast! Blast! Blast!’ with my face in the pillow until I could bear it no longer. I threw aside the blankets and got up.

  Gunner was the only one in the kitchen when I walked out. He always rose early to light the fire and bring cups of tea round to those who stopped the night. He was in a happy mood. I made myself a cup of tea, then sat down to listen to him.

  ‘What do you think of Arthur now?’

  ‘Why? What has he done?’

  ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘Hell, you don’t know about it!’ exclaimed Gunner, pleased that it was left to him to enlighten me. I could see that he was going to make the most of what he had to say.

  ‘Well, go on,’ I said irritably.

  ‘You know that bloke last night—Carver—the one who called you a bastard. He’s a small-time rorter. I know him.’

  Gunner rubbed his hands together with pleasure.

  ‘This is good, this is. You just listen. Arthur goes up to him after you left. Like this . . . You watch now.’

  Gunne
r strode across the kitchen and stopped in front of me. His eyes narrowed, his voice cold and hard.

  ‘You called my mate a bastard just now. Would you like to call me one?’

  Gunner straightened up and smiled, pleased with the effect his tale was having on me, then went on, speaking rapidly: ‘Carver whips round at this. He jumps up and moves back but he feels a lot better when he sees that ginger-headed bastard with him hops up too.

  ‘ “I was just coming round to it,” he says, his eyes moving round to see who’s back-stopping Arthur. “You’re a bastard.” He shifts his feet ready to get in a king hit but Arthur is a wake-up to that.

  ‘ “That suits me,” says Arthur. “Now come out where the bull feeds and I’ll find out what kind of gristle is in that fat nose of yours before you go poking it somewhere else.”

  ‘Arthur’s good like that. He makes ’em lose their temper before they start,’ Gunner added thoughtfully as if it might be wise to remember such tactics for his future benefit.

  ‘Now it’s Ginger’s turn,’ he went on. ‘This is his job. He stops the punches for Carver. He buttons up his coat and says to Arthur: “If you’re looking for fight, Mug, you’re gonner get it right now.’

  ‘Now Tiny steps in.

  ‘ “Not from you, he won’t,” he says, poking Ginger in the chest with that ham hand of his. “Keep out if you know what’s good for you.”

  ‘Ginger swallows twice. He’s as dry as a chip. You can see that. But he goes quiet. He’s not in Tiny’s class.

  ‘We all go out then, the whole bloody lot. I was there, don’t worry. I was watching that little squirt. I’d a been stuck right into him if he’d as much as opened his mouth. We go down to the stable and I bring down the hurricane lantern. It’s better in there than outside. Arthur wanted the stable. I boot the old cow out and we all crowd in.

  ‘Tiny was watching Ginger and I stood behind Squirt. Carver’s getting last-minute instructions from Ginger. Ginger’s telling him to move in close and bring his head up under Arthur’s chin. I can tell by the way he’s moving his head when he’s talking.’

  ‘Did they make Carver take off his rings?’ I asked.

  ‘Hell, yes! I forgot. Tiny does that. Tiny says: “No knuckle-dusters here.” Carver was going to argue about it. But I was there, don’t worry. I move over with Tiny, and Carver takes ’em off and gives them to Squirt. Squirt puts them into his hip-pocket and I tried three times to get them. I got behind him and once when Arthur drove Carver right back amongst us I got my hand in his pocket but couldn’t lift them.’

  ‘Get back to the fight,’ I demanded impatiently, exasperated by this digression.

  ‘Well, Tiny took over. “No boots, Carver,” he said. “If you do, I’m into you.”

  ‘You know how Arthur fights—head back, straight, relies on speed. He carries a wallop in both hands and has a reach like a seasick passenger on the top deck of a liner. Carver crouches with his chin on his chest and barges straight in. He’s got no wind. The bastard’s never worked in his life. Ginger must have told him to make it willing from the start. He charged straight at Arthur. Arthur gave him the good old one, two, three as he came in but couldn’t hold him off.

  ‘They got into a clinch and staggered round with Arthur taking it on the ribs. They broke and Arthur kept out, pasting him with both hands, following him up. Carver was missing with his best punches but he connected with a right and Arthur went down. Hell! he was up before he hit the ground.

  ‘Carver began to blow after they had gone about a quarter of an hour. He was snorting blood and Arthur was bleeding from the mouth. Carver kept trying to clinch to rest his weight on Arthur for a blow but Tiny kept yelling: “Keep out, Arthur. Keep out,” and Arthur fought him off. The light man must always keep out.

  ‘The blood from Carver’s nose was pouring down his chin and Arthur’s shirt was covered in it. That bloody, stupid old O’Grady from Warpoon North started to cry out: “For the love of God, stop them, Tiny. For the love of God, stop them.” What’s wrong with that old bastard!

  ‘You couldn’t stop Arthur. They were trading punches toe to toe for a minute, then Carver falls back and I see his eyes flicker round like a fox’s in a trap when you come up to him.

  ‘Tiny saw it and yelled: “He’s showing his tail, Arthur. He’s yellow. Finish him now. Into him.”

  ‘Everybody was yelling. Blokes you’d think never had a yell in them were pushing and shoving to get to the front and yelling: “Into him, Arthur.”

  ‘Arthur hooked Carver with his right, then dropped low and brought his left up into his guts, rising with it to give it weight. He fairly lifted Carver off his feet. Carver went all soft and loose and crumpled up on the straw.

  ‘Everybody went mad then. Blokes swapped punches. Half of them were boozed and didn’t know who they were hitting. Tiny flattened Ginger and I up-ended Squirt into some cow-shit but I’m damned if I could get my hand on to the rings. ‘It was a great night.’

  7

  I sat on the post-and-rail fence beside the Shire Office. Each night after work I sat there dreaming and drinking in the world. From here I had watched the thin grass bleach and die under the sun, saw the coming of the rain across the hills, smelt the fragrance released from the dry earth by showers that burst the seeds and sent tiny, thrusting leaves upwards in search of light—the burgeoning, the unrestrained leap to fulfilment, the seeding, the death and the rebirth.

  And I looked on and had no part in it. I was neither sun nor rain nor sustaining earth. The seeds in me lay dormant. The beauty of the earth as expressed in what I was seeing from my rail seat did not uplift me; it saddened me since it only emphasised the ugliness and futility of the life I was experiencing in the hotel.

  The knowledge of the necessity to work as a clerk and in such surroundings roused in me an angry frustration. I often moved uncomfortably in my clothing as if to escape unpleasant thoughts. I was often in a state of irritation and found it necessary to exercise control over a tendency to lose my temper when Arthur or Tiny revealed their protective attitude towards me. I was forced to accept their protection but I avoided accepting their help.

  I could not remember my father’s reaching out a hand to help me when I was in difficulties unless it was absolutely necessary. His kindness and compassion saw beyond the immediate need.

  He was always there to protect me but not to do things for me. Even in the days before I was crippled his attitude towards me was of one who realised that I must be trained to triumph in a world that I would some day confront without his protection. What would I do then, when he was gone, if now he sheltered me from life amongst the people, however unjust and cruel the attitude of some might be!

  When I could run as other boys I often fell and grazed my knees on the gravel. Though I cried Father never rushed to pick me up.

  ‘Stand up,’ he would say kindly. ‘What’s a cut knee—nothing! I was never without a cut knee when I was a little boy.’

  He would then talk on other things while I limped beside him.

  He admired a little red-headed boy with whom I often played. His father was dead. His mother, a gentle woman, sometimes came to the door of the farmhouse where she worked as a housekeeper and watched us, a tender smile on her face. He was like his father, she said.

  When he fell and cut his knees he never cried. ‘Boys don’t cry,’ he would say defiantly, his lips trembling. His mother had told him that.

  I admired him too and got into the habit of repeating his words when I fell over. It pleased Father.

  He believed, though he could never quite express it in words, that sheltered children were spoilt children, that the child trained in independence became the man upon whom the weak would lean in their troubles, and strength of this kind was goodness to him.

  ‘As the twig is bent so the tree will grow,’ he quoted once.

  When I was a child a minister asked Father if I could visit his place once a week and play with his children. For some misgu
ided reason he felt I was a suitable companion for his children who were well-dressed, polite and inoffensive. Maybe, as Father suspected, he was sorry for me on my crutches.

  Father told him I could go, adding, in expression of a thought that came to him: ‘He might help them,’ an observation that was received with pained surprise by the good man who swallowed his indignation in observance of the rules laid down by the Bible.

  All that Father said to me before I left on my one and only appearance as a professional playmate was: ‘They’ll have to learn to slip the hobbles he has put on them. Show them what fun it is galloping with the mob.’

  I didn’t know what he meant then; I did now, sitting on the rail in the sunshine. Now I was in hobbles, chafed by the straps I could not break and confined to an arid paddock.

  The day had started badly for me, aggravating the aggressive attitude that was becoming increasingly evident in my feelings towards people.

  Early that morning a wood-dray laden with firewood and pulled by a tandem pair of draughts had come down from the hills on its way to a city wood-yard. The bearded man trudging beside his horses had felled the dry trees and split the wood into a saleable size before loading it on to the dray for the long trip to the buyer. His axe was fastened to the side of his dray, its head protected by a leather casing. Only men who treasured an axe guarded its edge so carefully.

  He wore a ragged waistcoat over his grey flannel and his denim trousers had long patches of unworn material covering the knees and thighs, the work of some patient wife, I surmised. He pulled up in front of the hotel and chocked the wheels, then went into the bar for a drink.

  Flo Bronson, wearing a pink dressing-gown, had hurried to open the bar door when she heard his ‘Whoa there’ to the horses, and she welcomed him with smiles and cheerful remarks on the weather.

  I had just watched Arthur start off with the coach and I returned to the kitchen for breakfast wondering how she would hold the wood-cutter in the bar until other drinkers arrived to engage him in conversation.