All the Green Year

by Don Charlwood

  “Not bloomin’ well interested,” said Squid quietly.

  Windy drew back his arm and flung the dart. It passed over the bull’s back and speared into the hedge just over my head.

  “I’ll get it for yer,” offered Fat.

  “No,” ordered Squid. “Better wait till he’s thrown anothery.”

  Windy was becoming braver every moment. He had faced the bull on foot; he had flung a dart; there was nothing to it.

  “Git ready with y’ lance there, Squid—I’ll stir the old coot up. Watch this now.”

  He went at it like a javelin-thrower. The dart flashed from his hand. All at once the whole scene changed. Instead of a peaceful bull there was a bellowing monster with a dart in its neck charging the first thing it could see. The first thing was Windy. With the greatest ease Windy jumped the five-foot fence, darts still in hand. The bull’s charge took it straight into the rails, which broke off rottenly. For a second I saw four fighters in mid-air, their faces horrified, and the bull head down after the horse. The horse shuddered all over and came to life with a bound, galloping away from underneath Squid. Squid sat in mid-air too, in a kind of horrified immobility. I had the illusion—at least I suppose it was an illusion—that while he sat there the bull passed under him, roaring horribly. The horse was headed for the bush, with the bull about fifty feet behind it.

  Then the whole tableau resumed normal movement: boys landed on the earth, voices yelled, fragments of fence fell.

  I knew I must clear out. Squid had enough friends to look after him. I crawled out and began running, keeping the hedge between me and the bullfighters. I ran towards Charlie Rolls’ place, scrambled through a fence and looked about me.

  The horse and bull were crashing in the bush. Well behind me I could hear banderilleros and the picador shouting faintly.

  I was skirting Rolls’ place when I saw, a long way ahead, the galloping horse. The bull was nowhere in sight. I was beginning to relax when I heard a fearful bellowing and saw Charlie Rolls’ tent lift off the ground and plunge forward with a crashing of bottles and snapping of ropes. It lurched about the yard in a weird dance. Mrs Rolls appeared instantly at her back door, her face savage. One look at the dancing tent sent her scurrying inside. The tent collapsed in the vegetable patch, but picked itself up and went scudding over Charlie’s “lawn” and collided with the front fence. This was too much for it. It rolled over a couple of times with further sounds of breaking bottles, then collapsed again with a baffled roar. The bull was wrapped up like a parcel.

  Half the men and boys in the town were approaching the spot inside three minutes. There were shouts of “What is it?” and “Keep the women back,” but no one went near it.

  Mrs Rolls appeared with a pot-stick in her hand, her expression furious. “Disgusting!” she cried. “Disgusting! How can he do it?” She evidently had the idea that ­Charlie’s DTs had materialized in the backyard.

  Just then Charlie himself emerged from the outdoor lavatory, hatless and white, shaking to the tips of his moustache. Above the din he cried, “Never again! Before Gawd, never again—” His tremolo was drowned by a fresh outburst of bellowing which sent the crowd scattering back.

  “It’s Donnelly’s bull!” shouted someone, sighting the legs. “Where’s Bill Donnelly?”

  “Bill Donnelly!” went the cry.

  But attention switched to Mrs Rolls who had rushed at her husband with the pot-stick. “See what you’ve done now—disgraced me before the whole town!” She hit him across the shoulders, screaming, “Drunkard! Sot! Animal!”

  “Easy, easy!” shouted someone. “It’s not his fault. I saw the bull rush in the tent m’self.”

  On the ground there was another outburst of bellowing, then a ripping sound and the bull’s head appeared through the tent, the whites of its eyes showing and its tongue lolling.

  “Shoot it,” shouted someone.

  But at this juncture Sergeant Gouvane appeared, in his hand a coil of rope which he fastened quickly round the hind-legs, then the front legs.

  He stood up. “Where did this animal come from?”

  “It was in the pound this morning,” said someone.

  The bull was now emitting deep, drawn-out moans, its head resting on the grass. The dart, I saw, was gone from its neck, but a trickle of blood came from the puncture.

  “How did it get out of the pound?”

  “Please, sir—” At the sound of this voice I swung round. There was Squid squeezing through the onlookers. The other bullfighters were hovering on the edge of the crowd. When I looked at Squid’s face I saw every freckle standing out in its whiteness. It struck me that his mind must be wandering. “Please, sir—”

  “Well?”

  “I—we seen it get out—”

  “‘We’? Who?”

  “Me an’ Windy an’—”

  “Hold on a minute.” Gouvane took out his notebook. “All right—from the beginning now.”

  Squid was so shaken that his voice sounded piping and jerky, but he kept his head manfully.

  “We was out for a horse ride near the poun’. I was having my go when we heard a fearful beller.” He hesitated, casting his eyes wildly about the crowd. “We looks round an’ there she is, charging out through the fence.” For a time he couldn’t continue. The crowd was silent. The bull was lying motionless now, still emitting regular moaning sounds.

  “Go on,” said Gouvane.

  “I seen she might rush Windy an’ Fat so I swung round me horse an’ tried t’ head her orf . . . .” He hesitated, looking abashed. “I’m not much of a rider an’ I hadn’t no saddle—I got pitched off.”

  “Then?”

  “The bull chased the horse—an’ that’s about all . . . .”

  His voice trailed away to nothing. He looked close to collapse. There was a murmur of admiration from the crowd.

  “Did you see what frightened the bull in the first place?” demanded Gouvane.

  Squid shook his head. “We couldn’t see that part; we only heard her bellerin’ suddenly.”

  “How is it,” persisted Gouvane, “that for no apparent reason the bull—”

  “Easy on him, sergeant,” exclaimed someone. “The kid’s pretty shocked. He’s done damn’ well if you ask me.”

  “I’m not asking you,” said Gouvane coldly.

  The crowd muttered a protest. At first Gouvane ignored them, but after a further question or two he relented.

  That was all there was to it. On Monday the Kananook Courier came out with:

  LOCAL BOY'S COURAGEOUS ACTION: FACES CHARGING BULL TO DEFEND MATES.

  Australia need not fear that the lofty spirit of Anzac is dead! The tradition of mateship was seen at its best when, on Saturday last, Birdwood Monash Peters, only son of Mrs A. M. Peters and the late Corporal Barney Peters, A.I.F., confronted a maddened bull belonging to Mr Thos Donnelly of Baxter Road and strove to turn it aside from its attack upon the persons of Joseph Gale, Michael Benson, Walter Wray and Ernest Ellison, his mates. The bull, which had been found wandering after breaking through a gate on Mr Donnelly’s property, had been impounded that same morning by the Shire Ranger. The pound, as “The Courier” has repeatedly averred, is far from securely fenced. Indeed it is a matter of some wonder that the fence has not been forced ere this. It appears probable that for reasons unknown the bull took fright and plunged into the fence which thereupon broke. There is evidence that a sizeable sliver penetrated the neck of the beast. Maddened by pain and fear it charged the group of boys who happened to be exercising a horse there. Birdwood—living up to the reputation of his predecessor of glorious Gallipoli memory—interposed his horse between the enemy and his comrades . . . .

  So it went on. At school old Moloney was sickening. After we had saluted the flag and said we loved God and our country, he called Squid up beside him on the school steps and
read the Courier clipping aloud. Squid looked modestly at the ground.

  “Three cheers for Birdie Peters. Hip, hip—”

  The cheers stuck in my throat.

  Afterwards I said to Squid, “How was the bullfight?”

  Without looking at me he said, “We didn’t try it.”

  “That was a good shot of Windy Gale’s,” I said sourly.

  He looked puzzled. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Pity the fence broke,” I persisted.

  His expression didn’t alter. He shrugged in a forgiving way. “If you make somethink up, who’ll believe you?”

  I knew the answer to that—no one.

  But then he took a precaution. “Got an extra ticket for the flicks Sat’d’y,” he said carelessly. “Reckon you might come?”

  “No,” I said. “No—I’ve seen enough bullfighting for a while.”

  “Okay,” he said wearily. “Okay.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Squid’s bullfight led indirectly to a number of happenings.

  My father said, “I hope you congratulated Birdie on his courage.”

  When I didn’t answer he looked over the top of the Courier: “Well, did you?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  My mother said, “For such a nervous lad Birdie is to be admired.”

  “You said nothing?” my father persisted.

  “I asked him how the bullfight went—”

  “That was a grudging remark.”

  My mother said, “You’ll have to be nice to him tonight, even if you do feel ungracious.”

  “Tonight?”

  “We’re invited over to Mrs Peters’.”

  I complained bitterly and tried to begin my version of Saturday’s happenings.

  “That’s quite enough!” exclaimed my father. “I wish you would cultivate young Peters’ friendship instead of fighting larrikins and riding camels.”

  I knew well enough that it was useless to argue. When my father left the room I said, “Why do we have to go to Peters’?”

  “It happens to be our sixteenth wedding anniversary,” said my mother coldly. “This afternoon when I was congratulating Mrs Peters she invited us in for a cup of tea and a few songs round the piano. For my part, I think it very nice of her.”

  It was a dreary evening. My father sang “Oh, Promise Me” to my mother and my mother sang “Because” to my father, and they sang “Until” together, while Mrs Peters trilled away at the piano.

  The only alternative to listening to them was to escape with Squid to the Den. Although the singing sounded better from there, the Den was a dismal place at night and Squid’s company didn’t improve it. I could see he wanted to be pleasant to me. He probably reasoned that if he wasn’t pleasant, I might still convince someone with my version of the bull incident. He kept telling me about coming attractions at the Palais and how he and I could see the next Tom Mix film, but every few sentences I interrupted him, calling him “the mighty picador” and “Big Chief Sitting Bull” and “Moloney’s pet”. This last really troubled him. There was something about Moloney beginning to worry him, but I couldn’t see what it was at that stage.

  When the singing ended we were called up for tea and cakes. My mother and father stood hand in hand as if they were about eighteen. “A night round the piano is really lovely,” my mother was saying. “Young people nowadays only want to sit with the headphones on listening to the wrestling.”

  “Remember the operas when we were young?” my father put in. “Melba, John McCormack.”

  Mrs Peters, pouring the tea, said, “But Mr Reeve, some of the latest graphaphone records are good. Melba and Caruso, now, singing ‘Les Miserables’ from—from—”

  “From Lucia di Lammermoor. That was singing. But gramophones are too expensive—”

  “Funny you should say that, Mr Reeve. Only this morning I heard of a graphaphone likely to go cheap—a His Master’s Voice belonging to Nettie McQueen. Poor soul; their place is getting auctioned.”

  A fateful remark this proved to be.

  This was about all there was to the evening at the Peters’; but the news of the gramophone must have lodged in my mother’s mind, because next morning she said to me, “Do you think you could bid at an auction sale?”

  I supposed I could, though I had only a vague idea of how it was done. Nothing else was said for a day or two, except that I heard my father remark that they might be able to go to a pound for the gramophone if he went without a new hat.

  McQueens’ auction was not of much consequence in itself, but it set off a chain of other happenings involving both Johnno and myself. Johnno came with me to the auction and it was Johnno who was more concerned in the outcome than I was. I suppose we would never even have heard of the gramophone but for Mrs Peters, and certainly we would never have gone to Mrs Peters’ but for my mother calling to congratulate her on Squid’s courage. At the other end of the story, it was Johnno’s composition called “The Auction” that caused his final clash with old Moloney and his father. I suppose if Squid hadn’t gone bullfighting, then Johnno would never have made the final break.

  We walked to the McQueens’. It was four miles by road, but by going through the bush behind the school almost a mile could be cut off. It was a hottish day and very clear, with the bush scents rising about us. As we would have to carry the gramophone if we got it, we were not expected home until fairly late. As a return for his help, Johnno had been invited to our place for tea.

  Miss Beckenstall had made great changes in Johnno. She often passed books on to him, or asked him to write “brief descriptions” which she would discuss with him. He read books and parts of books I had hardly heard of. Although she was equally encouraging to me, she was pushing Johnno ahead because he was older; probably, too, because she wanted to convince his father of his worth.

  We walked south-east, with Lone Pine a mile off to the left, dark there and alone. In my mind it stood for something, but for what, I could scarcely have said.

  “I suppose,” said Johnno, “that after the sale they’ll go away somewhere.”

  “Who?”

  “The McQueens,” he said.

  I hadn’t thought of this; I had only thought of the gramophone. I knew “Shadder” McQueen at school, but he seldom had much to do with me. The reason might have been that my mother sometimes passed my clothes on to him. These clothes were pretty much worn by me and by a city cousin who wore them first.

  Mr McQueen had an orchard, but according to my father it was losing money. McQueen also had a rabbit round, in fact, meals at the McQueens’ were said to be mostly rabbit and fruit. This was in all probability true, as Shadder usually took fruit or rabbit-legs to school for lunch. He would trade these sometimes for a sandwich or a piece of cake, but the offer generally had to come from someone else.

  Mr McQueen had been gassed at the war and two or three times had collapsed in his cart during his rabbit round, leaving the horse to take him home. When my mother heard about this she bought rabbits every week till even Gyp was sick of them.

  As if he were continuing my thoughts Johnno said, “My old man says they owe money to the council and to Harrison’s store and a hell of a lot of money to the bank.”

  “It must be pretty bad,” I said absently.

  We were climbing the last hill, coming out of the heath country into apple orchards which stretched away to Western Port. We could see McQueen’s house on the ridge, a small, single-gabled place. As we came nearer we noticed a red SALE flag by the front window.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The number on the gramophone was 124. By the time it was put up for auction late afternoon had come and I was beginning to feel as unhappy as Johnno. I had noticed Shadder watching from a distance, or helping his mother prepare cups of tea. The sight of him made me f
eel guilty. Inside, the house was practically empty. People tramped through it looking about the walls for damp, examining the bathroom, seeing that the doors opened properly. They left mud on the floors and talked loudly about the worn bath-heater and the worn linoleum and the leak in the back veranda roof. Johnno kept scowling all the time, and when the gramophone was put up he moved away from me.

  “What’s next, Harold?”

  Mr Bolter the auctioneer was a man with an enormous voice. He could begin quietly, almost in a whisper, then gradually build up to a shout. He could close his eyes to slits or open them like searchlights. Standing there on the back of a spring-cart, with his thumb in his waistcoat arm-hole and his face red from shouting, he was watching the crowd shrewdly.

  “Number one two four, one His Master’s Voice graphaphone and assortment of recuds,” answered Harold. He held it over his head. It was a table model, dark red and shining. “Good as noo, Mr Bolter.”

  “You’re right, Harold, you’re right; good as new. Lift it up here and let the ladies and gents hear a record. What’ve we got now?”

  Harold held a record at arm’s length. “Jesu Joy of Man’s Desirin’—”

  “Something bright, Harold, eh? Religion’s all right in its place—”

  “‘When I Was Twenty-One’, sung by Harry Lauder.”

  “That’s the stuff!”

  Harry Lauder’s voice rose thinly over the crowd:

  “Oh, when I was twenty-one,

  When I was twenty-one,

  I never ha’ lots o’ monie,

  But I’d always lots o’ fun—”

  “All right, Harold, shut it off now. What am I offered, ladies and gents? I should ask a tenner for this beautiful talking machine fashioned by the master-craftsmen of HMV; but I’ll make it only a fiver—”