by Murray Bail
‘It’s not iron,’ Kaddok suddenly corrected. Again, slightly misunderstanding: ‘To be exact, it’s mild steel.’
‘I believe you’re right,’ the guide turned. ‘Even the name has a charming incongruity.’
‘He’s a real smart bastard,’ Garry said. ‘You’ve only got to look at him.’
‘Sshhhh,’ said Violet.
Here were large photographs of familiar buildings. The guide discreetly stepped aside. Spanning a broad spectrum of architectural styles, each building had a corrugated-iron roof. Factories and barns, warehouses with Architects’ Society citation (‘Rarely has the material been used with such…’), tram sheds, tractor garage, the country racetrack grandstand, abattoirs (the original bloodshed), were each represented. Again, the idea was to underline the metal’s outstanding flexibility, how it can ‘get a job done’. God, here a cathedral had a fine belfry, turrets and many ogivals of stained glass—with a corrugated iron roof. A marriage of the old world and the pragmatic new; but the rusting iron somehow didn’t seem properly God-like. Abo humpies flung out to the edges of towns by some centrifugal force had it collaged with flattened kero tins (‘The poor things’—Sasha). Views of more than one State parliament house: first, the stately granite facade, and next to it a bird’s-eye view revealing the iron roof! University libraries and conservatories were the same. The group looked on silently.
But the houses, the gracious old spacious homesteads: the iron blended in. The diminishing straight lines of the corrugations sharpened the roof’s perspective, even falsified it in some cases, flattening a roof, making it shallow, giving it clarity; and hooped it formed long verandahs, the stone walls there pierced with french windows for the westerly. At the sight of those verandahs: their ohhs and ahhs.
‘I tell you what, they make the English places we’ve seen look pretty sick.’
Gerald snorted. ‘I’d better dry up,’ he said to North.
‘Oh,’ said Sheila, so matter-of-fact, ‘they’ve got our place.’
And they all stopped.
She pointed: large low homestead, stone, shaded and stately. It was the grandest of them all.
Garry whistled, ‘Ver-ee nice.’
‘But Sheila, that’s lovely.’
They turned to the guide: they wanted to show him. He should see. But he’d already come over, instinctively.
‘What d’you think of this?’ Garry asked, jutting his jaw.
The young man studied the photograph and nodded. ‘So you’re a grazier’s daughter? It looks a nice little place. You call them homesteads, I believe. That’s a fine piece of roofing.’
‘Jesus!’ Garry groaned.
‘Family property?’ Wayne asked.
‘I have a manager. And I have my uncle living there.’
‘How lovely,’ Sasha sighed.
Garry turned to them showing his familiarity, ‘She’s never there though. Are you Sheila?’
He shouldn’t have said that. She fumbled.
‘I’m fond of it, but it’s quiet.’
‘I’ll have it,’ said Violet, grim; and they laughed. Sheila looked around, characteristically startled.
‘We should continue…’
They moved on, altered somewhat. They relaxed, talked among themselves more. It felt good to have Sheila in their midst. Garry acted familiar, like an old family friend, and others wanted to ask her questions. The guide had to stop several times in mid-sentence to have their attention.
‘Uh-hum. As I say. Now, how did this marvellously dextrous metal handle the vast historical forces of the day, eh?’
‘Dear,’ Mrs Cathcart broke in, never one for fancy ideas, ‘what’s he on about?’
Corrugated iron had given them a peculiar relaxation, superiority even. Young Wayne had to use a firm hand.
‘I mean, of course, the Second World War,’ he said almost shouting, and pointed at a table. ‘How did it help stop the world becoming engulfed in fascism?’
Good question. It took a second for the example before them to make sense.
‘In the defence of Australia, corrugated iron played a vital role. Thousands of square yards—of roofing—were painted thus in these camouflage tones, painted by the leading artists of the day. Many a roof was signed. A sheet like this’—a corner of an enormous olive-green and brown abstract—‘is worth a considerable sum in its own right. They are of course parts of an artificial landscape. Collectors and certain unscrupulous dealers have had sheets ripped off old buildings, mainly from the Darwin area, and gilt-framed. This one is signed “R.D., 1943.” Our curator thinks it is either Drysdale or Roy Dalgarno.’
‘I don’t know Dalgarno,’ said Hofmann interested. ‘Drysdale painted The Drover’s Wife.’
The young man smiled, ‘That’s right…’
Suddenly he bent forward and swore. ‘For Pete’s sake. Who would have done this? A vandal’s been here.’
‘Don’t look at us,’ Garry held up both hands.
‘It has been done today,’ said Wayne, smoothing it with his fingers. ‘I can tell.’
It glittered, now that he had mentioned it. Along the LH corner freshly scratched in caps: BHP’S TOUGH AS NAILS.
Borelli began laughing.
When Gwen read it out for her husband, he said, ‘Ah yes, that’s our steel company, the third biggest in the Southern Hemisphere. They make the corrugated iron.’
‘I bought BHP when they were under $5.00,’ Cathcart told North, hitching up his daks. And he briefly rolled his lips to expose both rows of teeth, satisfied. North said nothing.
‘I’ll say this,’ Garry joined in, ‘it’s a bloody good company. By any standards.’
Talking seriously with Louisa, Hofmann remained in front of the painted sheet, perhaps deciding whether they’d acquire one.
Their guide resumed but kept staring at the few visitors drifting down the end of the museum. A family in identical tan duffle coats climbed in and out of the corrugated-iron caravan; but they were English. Interesting fact (he resumed): sheets were dropped by aeroplanes during the war to foil enemy radar. Lethal unless done over water. Interesting fact (lesser known): estimates suggest the Antipodes has more sheets of corrugated iron than Merino rams. And what other nation—pointing to glass case—has corrugated-iron buildings proudly printed on one of their banknotes? Research showed: no other.
They then saw one horribly twisted and torn sheet, knotted into a ball; it was like a neurotic’s handkerchief: a roofing sheet found outside a northern town after a devastating cyclone. ‘It illustrates again, if illustration is needed, the extraordinary dexterity of the metal.’
The guide went on quickly.
‘Now here is a curious specimen, hum, rather macabre I would have thought.’
Those in front craned towards the sheet lying flat on the table, and some angled their heads horizontally to fathom it out. Except for several dents along the leading edge it could have been unused.
They turned to him.
He pointed. ‘Along the bottom there. The dried blood. And you can see bits of hair. The sheet was loose and it killed a cyclist, a Tasmanian postman.’
Garry gave a slow whistle.
Now they stared again at the sheet.
‘A working man with five children. It decapitated him. A windy day in Hobart,’ he added.
‘The poor devil.’
And a sad clicking sound came from several tongues.
Bending down, the guide read the sentence beneath the caption, KILLER SHEET! ‘An act of God. A Mr Clem Emery, uninsured, was struck while riding his red bike. Out of the blue, from nowhere. Father of five little ones. Uncommitted religious views. March 31st, 1968.’
‘Galvanised iron obviously isn’t perfect,’ North murmured to Gerald.
It was quite a relief then to pause at the unpainted water tank, its cylindrical surface, striated, and cold to touch. It had the usual cone-top and a tight brass tap. You can play tunes down its sides to test its level.
Doug rai
sed the enamel mug.
‘Good old rainwater. You can’t beat it. We’ve got one of these tanks at home.’
‘Do you really?’ the Englishman said, but glanced away.
‘You’re quiet,’ said Louisa to Borelli. Ken had wandered off, hands behind his back.
‘I’m stunned; I don’t know why. It’ll pass.’
‘I remember we used to have a tank at home,’ Violet was telling Sheila. They had scarcely spoken before. ‘It was under a trellis and water spiders used to come out of the tap.’
And Sasha had joined North and Gerald Whitehead, glancing at one then the other. For the first time Gerald was shaking with laughter. It reddened his ears and face. ‘All we need next’ (North had said, rocking on his heels) ‘are some red ants and a few thousand flies.’
No! Abrupt crash behind the tank and then tin clattering like notes on a wild xylophone. They found Kaddok on all fours, the clumsy tourist, his camera swinging on its strap.
‘For Pete’s sake! Why doesn’t someone look after him?’
Leaving Gwen to lift Kaddok to his feet, the guide collected the corrugated-iron knives and forks scattered around the concrete floor, lifted the trestle table up. He stood up, red in the face, and ‘set’ the table.
‘Come on then. I was about to go through this next anyway. Is he all right? Removed from civilisation, it was necessary to make-do. Small comforts require ingenuity. A stubborn, down-to-earth people grew. We saw it reflected in your architecture. A miner, hum, made this cutlery set from corrugated iron as a silver anniversary present for his wife.’
North picked up one of the forks.
‘I think we now know,’ the guide suddenly laughed, ‘what Oscar Wilde meant in The Importance of Being Earnest. Marvellous play. Ha, ha. Cecily says to Algernon: “I don’t think you will require neckties. Uncle Jack is sending you to Australia.”’
‘Fair go,’ said Garry quietly. ‘We’re not the backwoods, you know.’
Shuffling of feet; silence.
‘That’s right,’ pouted Doug.
‘I don’t know,’ said Borelli. ‘What about a corrugated-iron necktie?’
Garry put down a knife and turned. ‘You’re not knocking the place, are you? What’s wrong with Australia?’
Here Sheila suddenly reddened as a tall man came up to the table. Doug called out, ‘Well, look who’s here? Howdy. You came just at the right time.’
‘What’s the trouble?’ And seeing Sheila, Hammersly smacked his forehead with his palm, an exaggerated gesture.
He said something to Doug and came over.
‘Improving the old mind? It’s Sheila, isn’t it? Whoopsie, hold that smile. That’s it. I could sight you a mile off. I’m not so hot on names, that’s all.’
Their young English guide had to clap and clear his throat. The group had fragmented. Factions had developed; some interested, others not. Frowning, he seemed to be wondering if his delivery was at fault. Seizing the initiative, he asked loudly and informally, ‘Anyone musical here?’
No one responded. They watched him.
Muttering to himself he bent down to pick up the next exhibit. It was secured to the table by a chain which he had to unlock. After considerable rattling he held it up, a grey homemade violin.
‘Mr Lang brought this back. It was his first acquisition. Not exactly in the Stradivarius class, you might say, but it has rather a good hum, tone.’
Resting it under his chin he held up his hand:
‘Quiet.’
He played a few notes.
And he sat as he watched
and waited till his
billy boiled
who’ll come a…
‘Very good!’ they clapped.
‘The construction is certainly quite remarkable,’ said North leaning forward.
Sasha laughed—for no reason at all.
Others smiled a bit and nodded, out of respect or embarrassment.
Now it was ‘God Save the Queen’, and Kaddok involuntarily came to attention.
The violin’s stubborn appearance had made some of them want to laugh; perhaps it was nervous admiration of it.
But something worried Doug. Keeping his eyes on the guide he said to Hammersly out of the corner of his mouth, ‘What d’you make of this place?’
‘I think it’s a bloody disgrace. It should be pulled down.’
‘I thought so,’ said Doug looking around the walls.
They were joined by Garry Atlas and Violet. Only two or three tables remained.
‘This way,’ Wayne was calling, stretching his neck: ostrich, emu. Wet patches had spread under his arms, a litmus test. He was rushing it, losing his calm,
‘An outside dunny?’ Garry laughed. ‘I thought it was, from back there.’
Somehow this put him in a better mood. He kept grinning, looking at the others. And they smiled too, recognising it, a kind of fond respect.
But it was Mrs Cathcart who asked, ‘What is this here for?’
The guide frowned. He pointed to the tin roof which appeared to have been loosened by a wind, and the dunny’s dented corrugated sides in a mixture of green and faded brick-red, in places peeling. It had a wooden door held by a piece of fencing wire hooked on a nail.
‘When it arrived, we thought it a guard’s box’—the young Englishman began hiccupping at the thought—‘until we opened the door. We had never, hum, seen one of your dunnies before. Of course, we think it absolutely first-rate.’
God, this bloke spoke through his nose.
‘So we think we know where the term “rude shelter” originated.’
‘Corrugated iron sheet,’ Garry called out.
‘Ha, ha, ha. I say, that’s very good. I must take a note of that.’ And shaking his head, keeping his mouth open as if he had something caught in his eye, he pulled out a notebook: ‘Corrugated iron sheet…’
‘Ah, we’re a rough people,’ North decided. ‘As rough as bags.’
And Kaddok made continuous sorties on the edge of the group or suddenly in the front, and they watched as he suddenly fumbled and found a flashbulb, and aimed inside the dunny.
‘We’re stuck with it,’ Violet shrugged. ‘It has its advantages.’
‘What has?’
‘Our rustic charm,’ Borelli answered. ‘We have the rest of the world often laughing and that isn’t easy.’
‘If the Greek civilisation can be measured by their ionic columns lying around, ours is by the corrugated iron,’ Gerald Whitehead put in.
‘Aye, steady on. What are you getting at?’
And Mrs Cathcart spoke up. ‘At least we don’t have airs. Not like other countries.’
‘That’s right,’ said Hammersly with Garry alongside. ‘Listen, we’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. A lot of this talk is hogwash. It’s time people realised. At least we get things done.’
‘That’s what this museum is saying,’ Gerald put in. ‘We get things done—come what may.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘We’re not fools. We don’t mess around,’ Borelli said to Louisa with a face so serious she began laughing.
Their guide hadn’t been listening. He’d found scratched on the side of the dunny: AUST.—WORLD’S BIGGEST IRON ORE RESERVES.
Yahoos! Bloody larrikins!
He hurried them past the large country Holy Bible fitted with a protective corrugated-iron cover and brass lock; past selected ochre photographs of windswept sheets tangling the foreground of stunning desert landscapes; past a remarkable cut-out policeman painted blue to fool motorists in some one-cop town over the Great Divide.
Standing before the last exhibit he glanced at his watch before talking. They looked up and automatically frowned. Ten large black-and-white photos: close-ups of corrugated iron sheets? Horizontal, trimmed to the same size, they were hard to tell apart.
‘It fits. It makes perfect enough sense,’ said he. ‘One thinks of these as photographs of corrugated iron sheets. In fact’—and here a slig
ht smile appeared as he turned to look at them—‘these are close-ups of Australian foreheads, taken at random. We believe it must be the loneliness and harsh seasons you have, the glare and the flies, the distance from help and the rest of the world that makes a man—and goodness me, ladies too: that one is a Darwin typist, aged twenty-two—perpetually frown. The furrowed forehead. Cecil Lang came back wearing one after only seven years. By now it has probably established in the antipodean genes. Corrugated iron therefore matches the Australian psyche. So there you are.’
He nodded at them, neat. There was no time to discuss the assertion.
Pushing out, frowning, they met an iron sky, the colour of old roofing iron, dripping wet; and some began bellowing and hissing. It was that English weather again. All along it must have been drizzling in that part of England.
‘I think to see the world. That was it.’
‘Christ, there’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘What about yourself?’
‘The old itchy feet: last year it was Bali. I tell you, that’s worth seeing.’
Beautiful fuckun’ beaches.
‘Yes, I felt like a good break.’
‘We’d heard about England and places. I thought: darn it all, we’ll go and have a squiz. Everyone else we knew had. We’ll see what all the fuss is about.’
Long-service leave.
‘The children were off our hands. Glenys, the eldest, was married last June.’
‘And I had a bit of cash up my sleeve…’
Fair enough.
Gerald turned to Borelli, ‘To have the feeling you could never get away when you wanted would be unbearable. I think I’d go mad. I always feel I want to go away. And yet lately I’ve had nightmares about dying and being buried under a stone in a foreign country. I don’t understand it.’
‘What we’ve seen,’ said Doug putting down his glass, ‘makes you realise how ruddy lucky we are.’
‘By now I have been to most countries at some stage, except Tibet. But I find there is always something fresh to see, something I’ve missed.’
Yes, that’s true.
‘Perpetual Motion, eh Sheila?’
The disloyalty of some; of men.
