by Peter Kocan
The next day the woman told the youth she wanted to talk to him seriously.
“What do you want to do?” she asked when they had sat down.
“How do you mean?”
“With your life, your future. You appear to have no interest in going back to school, so what do you intend doing?”
“I don’t know,” the youth replied blankly.
“Well you’d better start thinking about it. You can’t go around in a daze forever.”
“I’m not in a daze.”
“Aren’t you? You’re giving a pretty good imitation of it then. Who do you think pays for your room and board here?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. It had never occurred to him that these were being paid for.
“I do, of course,” said the woman. “But I have your brother and myself to keep, as well as you, and this job might not last much longer. You have to start taking responsibility for yourself. That’s all I’m saying.”
“What should I do then?” asked the youth in bewilderment.
“You could look for a job, for one thing.”
The youth felt as though he’d been told to fly to the moon.
“If you had a job you could support yourself. You could rent a room somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere nearby. There are lots of rooms for rent.”
“What’s wrong with here?”
The woman looked at him.
“Mr. Stavros doesn’t want you here anymore.”
The youth stared away.
“Look,” said the woman, “I’ve rung Mrs. Hardcastle and made an appointment for you tomorrow morning.”
The youth said nothing.
“Well,” the woman asked, “what do you think about that?”
“I don’t know,” said the youth.
The woman got up.
“You’ve got your whole life to get through,” she said brusquely. “So you’d better smarten your ideas up!”
MRS. HARDCASTLE was a thin woman seated behind a desk. She wore a fox fur round her shoulders. The fox’s head was still attached and rested against her bosom, the mouth drawn back in a snarl and the beady glass eyes seeming to glare across at the youth. Mrs. Hardcastle was flicking through a card index.
“And your dear mother is well?” she asked without looking up.
“Yes,” murmured the youth.
“I like to think of my clients as one big happy family,” Mrs. Hardcastle said, still not looking up.
The fox glared unblinkingly.
“And now you’re part of our family too.”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Hardcastle stopped flicking the cards and looked closely at one of them. “What about the lure of the land?” she said, toying with the card. “Mr. Coles wants a station lad. Sheep property, near Balinga. Start ASAP.”
“Yes,” murmured the youth, wondering what “ASAP” meant.
“I’ll telegram Mr. Coles then.”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you phone me this time tomorrow and I’ll tell you the arrangements.”
“Yes.”
“And give my best to your dear mother.”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Hardcastle did not look up as he left, but the fox watched him to the door.
2. THE LURE OF THE LAND
The youth was to meet Mr. Coles at the stock and station agents in Balinga at two o’clock on the Wednesday.He got to the main city station early, bought his ticket and then sat in the hall of the interstate and country trains, the same one he and the woman and boy had stepped out into a few months before. He had one small bag and a little money that the woman had given him in addition to his fare.
He kept going to the big board where the arrivals and departures were displayed, to check and recheck the departure time and platform number of his train. He kept feeling in his pocket to make sure the ticket was still there. And he kept touching his bag to make sure it was still beside him. Each time he checked these things he felt in control for a minute or two, but then anxiety would rush over him and he would have to recheck it all again.
The youth looked at the scores of people in the great echoing hall. They seemed to know what they were doing, where they were going, how to look after themselves in the world. He tried to draw courage from them, but it was pointless. He knew he was not like other people. When the time came to board his train he put himself into the Diestl mood. He limped along the platform, imagining the Schmeisser against his shoulder, then got into a compartment by himself and sat staring blankly ahead until the train began to move. Then he let the mood slip off because he knew he would need it later and didn’t want to use it all up.
After about an hour the train left the suburban sprawl and climbed into the mountain range to the west. The tracks ran along the tops of ridges and through deep ravines and there were tremendous views. The grandeur of it all began to excite the youth and he opened the window and leant out to get the wind in his face. He felt like a boy in a storybook, going forth to seek his fortune.
But the exhilaration wore off and the train came down onto great flat plains. Station by station they got closer to Balinga and the youth’s fear grew and whirled inside him until he felt sick. He forced himself to alight at Balinga and found his way to the main street of the town.
The street was very wide and there were utilities and Land Rovers angle-parked along it. He walked down one side until it started to peter out into paddocks, then he walked the whole length back on the other side. He could not find the stock and station agency. The town hall clock was already showing a couple of minutes past two. Mr. Coles would be waiting. Back where the youth had first entered the main street there was a big sign: STOCK STATION AGENT. He realised he had looked at that sign before, and even read the words, but had not comprehended them. The woman was right. He did go around in a daze. He needed to smarten his ideas up. He paused a little way down the street from the stock and station agents, trying to make himself feel like a keen young lad with smart ideas. Then he went into the place and told the man at the counter that he was to meet Mr. Coles there at two.
“Who?” said the man. “Oh, yeah. He might be in sometime today.”
The youth went back outside and looked up and down the street. He tried to keep his shoulders braced and his expression keen. About two-thirty, a burly man in a wide-brimmed hat came across the street towards him. He tried to meet the man’s eyes keenly, but the man walked past. There were several others during the next couple of hours, and the youth had put on his keenest look each time, but none of the men took any notice of him. The last of them to go into the stock and station agency had been an elderly-looking man with a ginger moustache and brown boots with leather leggings. He had pulled up in an old truck and gone inside and was still there. The youth had used up all his keenness by now. Shadows were starting to lengthen along the street and he was trying to think what he’d do if Mr. Coles never came. He did not have enough money for the train fare back to the city.
The gingery man emerged with a coil of wire across his shoulder. He flung the coil onto the tray of the truck and then turned back into the doorway.
“Give a hand, lad!” he said brusquely.
“Pardon?” said the youth.
“Come on, lad. We’re late as it is!”
The youth helped carry half-a-dozen more coils of wire out.
When all the coils were on the truck the man got into the driver’s seat and the youth stepped back on the footpath to watch him go.
“Hop in, lad!” the man called. “Hop in!”
“Pardon?”
“Hop in, lad! Time’s getting on!”
“Um, would you be Mr. Coles?” the youth asked.
“That’s it, lad!” The man leant over and swung the passenger door open and revved the motor
at the same time. The big old truck engine was painfully loud.
The youth got in and they drove along the main street.
“Got any kit, lad?” Mr. Coles asked, shouting over the noise of the engine, and glancing at the youth’s one small bag.
“Pardon?”
“Got boots, hat, overcoat?”
The youth shook his head.
“Better get some,” said Mr. Coles.
They turned a corner and pulled up in front of an army disposals store.
“The lad needs kitting out,” said Mr. Coles abruptly to the man inside. “I’ll be back shortly,” he added, turning and going out before the youth could tell him that he didn’t have enough money to buy anything.
“What do you need?” the store man asked.
The youth mumbled that he didn’t have enough money, but the store man didn’t catch it.
“Boots?”
“Um, I think so.”
The man began pulling piles of elastic-sided boots off a shelf and told the youth to try some on. In a few minutes a pair of boots and a hat and a khaki overcoat were neatly parcelled on the counter. The youth stared at the parcels. What would the store man say when he found out his time had been wasted? And the wrapping paper and string had been wasted too. What would Mr. Coles say?
The store man was out of sight at the back of the shop. The youth began to edge towards the door. He would run for it and get back to the city somehow. Then he saw Mr. Coles crossing the street towards him. He had a sudden idea. As soon as Mr. Coles entered, he would blurt out: “I’ve just remembered my mother is sick and I have to go home,” and then he would dash out the door and along the street and out of sight.
But when Mr. Coles came briskly in, the youth could not bring himself to speak or move.
“All set, lad?”
“All set, Mr. Coles,” said the store man. “Will it be cash or cheque?”
Mr. Coles gave the man a cheque.
The youth sat with the parcels on his knees as the old truck roared and rattled along the dirt road. It had got dark. Mr. Coles did not speak to the youth but kept shouting at the truck. The gears did not seem to work properly and whenever Mr. Coles had trouble changing up or down he’d yell, “Come on, come on, you blasted swine of a thing!” The youth shrank back in his seat and stared at the dirt road in the long shaft of the headlights. A kangaroo leapt across the road in front of them. “Get the blazes out of it, you damned brute of an animal!” Mr. Coles bellowed.
They pulled up at a gate. There was a sign on it: DUNKELD. Mr. Coles told the youth to open the gate. He got out and fumbled blindly with a chain-and-peg attachment. He finally undid it and held the gate open while the truck went through. He refastened the chain-and-peg, stepping into a big blob of something as he did so.
“Gate secure, lad?” asked Mr. Coles as they drove on.
“Um, I think so.”
“Better to know so, lad. Absolutely basic thing. Always secure a gate behind you. Got that?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Coles gave an audible sniff.
“And another thing: avoid the blasted cow dung!”
The homestead was down in a valley. As they descended a long bumpy hill the youth saw the house lights getting closer and heard dogs barking. Because of the bumpy slope there were a lot of gear changes, so the truck needed a great deal of yelling at. Finally they rattled to a stop.
“I’ll show you your quarters, lad. You’ll want an early night.”
Mr. Coles led the way across an expanse of deep sticky mud. The dogs were still barking and he shouted, “Settle down, you blasted brutes of things!”
The dogs went quiet.
They came to a big shed. It was dark and musty-smelling and the youth could just make out the shape of a tractor parked inside. Mr. Coles led the way in past the tractor and fumbled with a doorknob. There was a tiny separate room. It had a small window through which a trace of moonlight came. Mr. Coles reached in and flicked a bare light globe on. The youth saw a camp bed with some folded grey blankets on it.
“Early start tomorrow, lad,” said Mr. Coles. He went back out and the dogs began barking again. The youth heard the blasted brutes of things being told to stop their damned ridiculous nonsense.
The youth sat on the camp bed. It was rickety and wobbled under his weight. He leant forward and put his hands around his knees and looked at the little room. It was empty except for the bed and a battered little wardrobe with its door missing. The walls were lined with some kind of three-ply, but the joins and corners were only roughly done and there were many small gaps. The dim light from the room spilled out through the open door into the larger part of the shed and showed the huge wheel of the tractor caked with mud.
He had deliberately not used the Diestl mood, but now he let himself go into it. After a few moments he made the motion of unslinging the Schmeisser and laying it on the bed beside him. He leant back against the wall and let his limbs go limp and his eyes go into a blank stare—like someone in the last extreme of tiredness, like someone who since early dawn has been trudging alone through a wrecked world. For a long time he stared blankly through the door at the huge muddy wheel. He no longer minded that he felt cold and hungry, or that there were rat-like scuffling noises in the shed, or that his life was a charred ruin. After a while the youth closed the door and unfolded the blankets and lay down under them fully clothed and with the light still on. He wanted to try to go to sleep while in the Diestl mood, for he was afraid of how bad things would seem when it began to wear off.
“HOY! YOU in there!”
The youth seemed to be hearing a voice.
“Hoy! You in the shed!”
There came the sound of something like a stone hitting the side of the shed. The youth scrambled off the bed and opened the door of the room and looked out. In the wintry light he saw a middle-aged woman standing some distance away at the edge of the muddy area. He saw her lob a stone at the shed and heard the tinny sound of it hitting.
“Yes,” the youth called timidly.
“Come on!” the woman called back. “Get cracking! Mr. Coles has jobs for you to do. He’s already been up for hours.”
The youth half-registered that there was something a bit shrill about the way she spoke, and that she held herself away from the mud as though it disgusted her.
“Breakfast is on the table in the kitchen,” the woman said, then turned and began picking her way back towards the house.
The youth straightened his clothes and combed his hair. He wanted to wash his face but didn’t know where there was a tap. He went out of the shed and sank to his ankles in a patch of mud. The mud was very cold and clinging. As he plonked his way through it, trying to keep his balance, he came into sight of the dogs chained near the house. They began to bark at him. He reached the house and followed a concrete path through some flower beds to a back door. He was out of sight of the dogs now, but one of them kept up a steady barking. From somewhere on the other side of the house came Mr. Coles’s voice telling the damned cur of a thing to settle down.
The youth was at the back door trying to scrape some of the mud off his shoes with a twig when Mr. Coles appeared.
“Ah, there you are, lad,” he said. Then he noticed how muddy the youth’s shoes were. “Um, better not tramp any of that mud inside on Mrs. Coles’s floor. Just slip your shoes off before you come in, there’s a good lad.”
Inside the door was an alcove with coats hung neatly on pegs and a row of pairs of gumboots. Beyond the alcove was a kitchen. It was quite poky and dark and there was a big black old-fashioned stove that took up nearly one whole end of the room. A small table stood against the wall and on it was laid breakfast for one—a bowl of cereal, a plate with scrambled eggs on it, and two slices of toast with a little jar of marmalade. And there was a pot of tea. The scrambled eggs and the tea had gone nea
rly cold, but the youth was so hungry he hardly minded. As he ate he looked through the window over the kitchen sink at the hills rising in the distance. Then he noticed a framed photo on the wall above him. It showed a wide, shallow-looking river with gum trees along it, and under it were printed the words: “The Banks of the Burracoola.”
The youth felt cold. It was that clammy coldness you get when you’ve slept in your clothes, then thrown your blankets off, then gone out hurriedly into the morning air—that feeling that your body doesn’t know what temperature it is supposed to be and so can’t adjust itself.
From somewhere in the house came voices. A woman was complaining about something and Mr. Coles was trying to reassure her. The youth could tell that much even before he could make out what was being said.
“And I suppose I’m to go fetching the help out of bed every morning and in all weathers . . .” The voice had the shrill tone.
“Of course not, dear . . .”
“Honestly, you’d let people impose on you till kingdom come!”
“Well, it’s only the lad’s first day . . .”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised we were running a holiday home for total strangers.”
The woman’s voice had begun to get a tremor in it, and Mr. Coles was murmuring to her about not getting over-emotional.
“Don’t start that!” the woman snapped. “Just don’t!” There was the sound of a door slamming.
The youth had finished eating when Mr. Coles came into the kitchen. He seemed a bit distracted.
“Well, lad,” he said. “We’ll go across.”
The youth had no idea what he meant by that.
“Damn it all!” said Mr. Coles, as though forcing his mind onto matters at hand. “We should’ve fitted you out with some gumboots in town. Just didn’t think!” He pointed to the row of gumboots in the alcove. “See if any of those might fit you for now.” He went back into the other part of the house.
