by Rohan Wilson
You look well.
I’m troubled by a bit of looseness, Payne said. Dare not trust my arse with a fart.
He folded his towel and placed it upon his other implements. Jesus, man, he said. Your hair.
Toosey’s mouth tightened. There’s three years in it, he said. Three since Maria marched me out. Three since I cut it.
Sounds a Catholic thing to do, Payne said. Punish yourself and think it will be well.
It won’t be well. I know that.
No it won’t. But you aint come to talk haircuts, have you.
I’m after me boy.
Payne nodded solemnly. Expected you would be.
Toosey reached inside his jacket and removed the crumpled letter he’d carried for weeks. He held it up. William wrote to me, he said.
Yes. I know.
Of all the low acts I’ve done, Toosey said, and you saw most of em.
I saw a lot.
Leavin them alone is the lowest.
Payne huffed air from his nose. What makes us noble, he said, is a system of compensations. Reward each suffering, recover every debt, repay a sacrifice. You have it in you, Thomas. God don’t make us without a notion of rectitude. But the question is, can you act upon what you was bestowed with?
I’ve come back only for that.
Start by quittin the rum, Payne said.
Toosey spat in the dust. He looked down to where the cud lay and smeared it with the toe of his boot. Says the kettle, he said.
I mean it. Rum is what brought you here.
Three years I’ve not had a sip. I’m a mended man.
From his pocket Brother Payne pulled a tavern pipe that was carven with harps and shamrocks. He packed it from a pouch and popped a match on the mighty grindstone that was rigged to a flywheel in the bed of his cart. He sucked the flame down to the bowl.
You know where he is? Payne said as he puffed. Your boy?
No, but I reckon you do.
Payne passed him the pipe. Stewart’s, he said.
Trent Stewart?
The same.
Toosey put the pipe to his mouth. Lad needs to eat, I suppose.
A lot of the young ones visit. Around noon usually. But that aint the whole of it.
What else?
Well, he said. Listen—
What else?
I’m told he has favourites.
Toosey’s look blackened. What’s that mean?
He has a room, does Stewart. Out back. Where he shows himself.
I’m not followin.
Payne crooked his forefinger and waved it. Shows himself, he said. To the ones he can trust.
As the import of this slowly settled upon him a series of expressions crossed his face, at first a frown of concern and then, as he understood, his brow began to lift and his mouth to drop. I’ll be damned, he said. The filthy beggar.
William knows a villain from a saint. He won’t fall into bad ways.
I’ll rip his guts out.
Payne wheezed, or perhaps coughed. Don’t sound to me like you’ve mended your ways one bit.
Has someone told the police?
He took the pipe from Toosey. There was a deep and blackened divot upon the crosspiece of the cart where he’d emptied the pipe bowl year after wearisome year, and he did so again now. You would tell them, would you? he said.
My oath.
Then you are a new man.
Toosey took up his swag. He hauled the rope over his head and settled the load. He opened the gate and stepped into the street.
What are you thinkin? Payne said.
That I’m goin round there.
Not tonight you won’t. Your boy aint there. Stewart only gives them a bit of lunch. You want your boy? Wait till he’s there before you go kickin up a stink.
Toosey smoothed down his moustaches.
A man like Stewart won’t need much in the way of persuasion. Present there on his doorstep. See what he makes of a nine-lived bushman like yourself.
There’s another matter too, Toosey said and he turned his eyes away. I need to find William tonight.
You shan’t find him tonight, old mate. Not a hope in hell.
Some larrikins wandered past who were taking turns from a bottle, wiping their mouths, weaving drunks, their thumbs through the braces rigging up their pants. Toosey watched them pass and when he looked back there was a bitterness to him that showed in the set of his jaw. It must be tonight, he said. From the breast of his jacket he pulled a bank note.
It was crisp and thick and flecked with blood and Payne looked at it and he looked at Toosey. He snatched it away. Oh, he said. I see it. I see it now.
Tonight, Toosey said. You understand.
You’re as thick as bull’s walt, Thomas Toosey. And that is a fact.
Toosey made a little grunt.
Oh Jesus, what have you done?
Never mind what I’ve done. Just help me find him.
Ten years we was in Port Arthur. Workin the land like beasts side by side. You learn about a man after that, don’t you?
Those sentiments caused a silence to pass between them. At length Payne said, And the sum?
Toosey looked askance at him.
It’s a fair lump, or I’m a prancin fairy.
Two hundred quids.
By Christ, Payne said and tipped back his hat. He stared at Toosey like he was seeing him anew. I thought you was turned away from thievin, he said.
You can’t steal from a crook, Toosey said.
Who was it?
Toosey clicked his tongue. A sweat was beading up on his brow and he raised his small round hat and palmed the damp back over his hair. The Dublin man, he said. Fitheal Flynn.
Flynn of the lowbooters?
Flynn of the lowbooters.
Him as pulled his own tooth with farrier’s tongs?
The same.
Well, Payne said. I tell you now, without a skerrick of doubt, this Flynn will hunt you unto the end of days for a sum like that. He will dig you up by moonlight and make soup from your bones.
This caused Toosey some unsettlement. He studied Payne across the coarse and heavy grindstone rigged between the wheels of his cart. Doubt it’s the money as has him nettled, he said.
Why?
Never mind it now. That’s a tale for another time. When I find William we’ll leave off the island and that’ll be the end of it.
Course, you have another problem too, Payne said. Don’t you? He held up the note.
I know, Toosey said.
You need gold.
You’re right.
Then forget it tonight. Forget it. Just have yourself at that bank first thing. Change the notes. Fetch the young one. You’ll be on a steamer by dark. You’ll be off and gone.
Across the town, across the little universe of its lights, Toosey could see the black moonlit flats of Invermay where Trent Stewart kept his place. He put his hands in his pockets. He knew Payne was right but it didn’t pay to come out and say it.
Stay with us tonight, Payne said. Have a feed.
Don’t think Minnie would appreciate that.
She’ll do as she’s told.
Like hell. She’s as wilful as her sister, he said and the thought of Maria then was like cold water down his back. No, he said. I know a place.
Play it smart, Thomas. Keep your head. Get the boy clear.
Payne doubled the bank note through the middle and passed it to him. Toosey looked at the note for a moment before shaking his head. Keep it, he said. For Minnie and the kids.
It’s your burden to carry. I aint about to help you clear your conscience.
Toosey nodded. He took the note. Fair enough, he said.
With that done, he started down Batten Street towards the main road. When he glanced around, Brother Payne was leaning on his handcart watching him, nothing in his eyes but a flagging forbearance, like the world had lost its capacity to surprise. He raised a hand. Toosey touched his hat in return.
Along the footpat
h his boots fell and the billy rang against his leg. He walked listing places in his head where a man might unroll his bundle, the riverbank, Windmill Hill, the basin, but not one of them was better than an open flat prone to all manner of weather. He crossed streets made grey by the weakish gaslights and when he reached Prince’s Square he squatted by the fence pickets and made sure the pocketbook was safe. The remnant heat of day was giving back off the bluestone base. Beyond the pickets, in the fountain square, were flowerbeds in bloom and stands of sapling willow that made a pissing sort of sound as they shifted. He looked along the street either way. Nothing. The windows all dark. The streetlamps hissing. There was one place he knew where he would be sheltered. The bridge by the rail line. He stood. He went on. As he walked his mind worked upon the image of Trent Stewart spitting out his broken teeth.
• • •
The bridge was on the far side of town and he was a while making it. He worked his way beneath the wooden span by sliding down a mossy bend and pitching his swag before him. Under the bridge a fire was burning and three men stood before its scant throw of light. They looked up to see Toosey crouch below the supports and stand and straighten his hat. Men, like ghosts of men, tall and sere and attired as if out of a grave for the common dead in ill-fitting jackets and underclothes stained with sweat. The bridge was known among the town derelicts as a decent place to doss down and they seemed unsurprised to see Toosey. He looked from one to the next, humped up his bundle on a piece of cleared ground, and sat on it. One of them spoke.
Evenin.
And to you, he said.
Holdin any baccy about you?
Toosey looked them over. Wish I was.
How’s about any rum?
I got tea and sugar if you got water.
We got water.
Well then, good.
They had a common billy boiling above a pitiful fire of driftwood and weeds and whatever was at hand. Toosey dosed it with tea leaves and the last of his sugar. They watched it steep in silence and when it was done poured a round from it likewise in silence. One of the men was familiar to Toosey and they studied each other through the smoke. Footsteps beat on the wooden bridge above, passed by, and this man was first to speak. He was called Bryce and he was a piece of work. He wore no hat but had a band of cloth tied about his head and like a Chinese gold digger he’d knotted it at his brow. He pointed at Toosey.
I know you.
Toosey looked away downriver.
I know you, he said again. He turned to the other two men. This is the chap give Gimlet-eyed Chauncey Johnson a floggin, he said.
The other men watched Toosey intently.
Old Gimlet-eyed, one of them said. He was thin from hardly eating so that when he fetched himself another drink from the billy his collarbone hollowed out and the slack skin of his neck pulled taut. That were twenty years ago, he said.
Bryce waved his mug at Toosey. Tied his hand with a rag and a piece of brick, he said. That made a job of it.
They all watched him. Toosey threw his dregs on the fire in a cloud of steam. For a time nothing more was spoken. They each watched the coals throb in the debris of driftwood, mosquitoes coming and going along their bare hands, enormous mosquitoes the size of moths, and all the while Toosey sitting as if deep in study and never removing his eyes from Bryce. Toosey soon cleared his throat and spoke.
I weren’t the one.
You what?
Was the Irish fellow. Irish-Flynn. Was him as hit your mate, not me.
Bryce grinned. He was mostly toothless and his gums and the stubs of his teeth shone luridly in the fireglow. That’s a lie, he said.
Toosey watched him though the heat haze. Was Flynn who give him the name too, as you well know. Given him on account of the gimlet he stole and was flogged for.
That’s some pretty nonsense, Bryce said. He was called Gimlet owin to the oddness of his eyes. And it was you who give him the name, not Flynn. You. That’s why he come for you.
The fire popped and sparked.
I never touched the man, Toosey said.
Bryce stood up sharply. Then I’m a liar, am I?
Toosey also rose.
I won’t be slandered, Bryce said.
And I aint slandered you. So sit down.
Tell them I aint a liar.
Toosey clicked his tongue. History is the art by which we live our lives, he said. You have your history and I have mine.
History, Bryce said and gave a shaky smile. We can talk about that all right. Let’s talk about it. Why don’t you tell us why you was in Port Arthur? Eh?
This caused Toosey to stiffen. Shut your mouth about that, he said.
The lowest act of all.
She was a murderous lying bitch, Toosey said. She done it, not me.
That’s your story? She done it? What a man you are.
Toosey held his eyes a while. The sound of horseclops somewhere in the still, the murmur of the river. Bryce chewed the whiskers on his lower lip and did not look away. At length Toosey stepped into the dark beyond the firelight, and unbuttoned himself and took a piss. He stared over the river at rows of ships moored or made fast to the dock, the hulks of black along the bank. Around the fire the delinquents watched him. Something was spoken among them. He buttoned himself and went to unroll his bedding. He started to shuck off his boots but then thought better of it. He lay back on the canvas, hauled his blanket up, felt for the pocketbook and removed it from his jacket. The other men spoke in quiet tones and shifted about. He stuffed the pocketbook into his pants where it was safer.
A cart crossed onto the bridge. As it passed the commotion filled the hollow underneath and grit fell through the bridge boards, fell on his cheeks, on the water, disturbing the surface of the river with rings upon rings. Toosey lowered his hat over his eyes and waited. He heard the men mutter between themselves and he heard the fire hiss as it was fed. He listened for bootsteps heading his way through the weeds but there was only the whisper of the fire, the squealing billytin. Bryce, in a low voice, called to him through the smoke.
Toosey, he said. You got any more tea, cobber?
• • •
By daylight he was abroad among the early-risen citizenry. He had turned his shirt inside out and braided back his long grey mop, tying it off with cord, but he nevertheless made for a ratty sight lugging his roll of sailor’s canvas. In the first glare of morning he walked up Tamar Street where a fish-barrow trader pushed his load and called his trumpeter and cod and where the factory hands lingered in threes and fours to smoke. They all watched Toosey pass for the angle of his hat, set low and to the side, was something sinister. At the corner he turned for the centre of town along Cimitiere Street. Here, the tall row houses crowded up the road and cast elongated shadows while opposite the upper-storey glass was of a thick gold, like a plate, full of the horizon sun. Soon he was passing shopfronts emblazoned with names in neat type, Jones and Son, Robert’s Drygoods, Chung Gon, and he knew himself close to his destination.
In the inner streets of Launceston he stood below the telegraph lines gazing up and down the carriageway. There were canned-goods emporiums and coffee palaces. Coaches idled by under loads of netted luggage. Toosey walked on until he found the place he wanted. It sat on the corner curiously out of unison with the frugal local style. Horizontal bands were sculpted into the masonry, and fluting into the parapets and columns. The monumental decoration seemed to tell of the spirit of wealth taken hold in the colony. He resettled his swag and crossed among the carts plying the street towards the Launceston Bank.
It was not yet seven. Toosey perched upon the stone steps waiting and eyeing the folk in the street and after a time he pulled the envelope from his pocket. The paper stained brown, seasoned with the ash of campfires. He opened the flap and lifted the letter. The pencil had begun to fade. He watched an ice wagon come along, tilting to and fro with the weight and the horse making a racket on the hard-packed road. He watched the merchantmen at their shops unbolt and o
pen glass-panelled doors for a day of trade. Folk crossing in high collars, scarves, women with little bonnets on. The slow advancing of all things, the slow decay of the letter. They kept their eyes away from Toosey, as he well knew they would.
The doors swung on nine and he was first inside. The ornate ceiling was hung with a clutch of glass gaslights that gave a tolerable warm glow above the rank of tellers. Toosey approached the first stall smoothing down his moustaches and studying the stretch of white cornice as he shrugged off his swag and dropped it at his feet. His billytin clanged. The other patrons looked around at him. He delved inside his trousers for the pocketbook he had borne these last weeks, opened it, smiled, and pulled out the banknotes. As if he had some business being there.
Makes for a sight, don’t it? This whole place.
I suppose it does, the teller said.
Would give a man a convulsion, Toosey said as he looked about.
Behind the barrier glass the teller drummed his fingers on the desk pad. His hair was parted in the middle and pomaded down so it appeared to be made of tar.
Well? What will it be?
Toosey held up the notes and counted them onto the counter. He pushed them forward.
I want these done up in gold.
The teller looked down at the notes. They were stained with blood, the prints of fingers, in a vivid biblical red. He fanned them out. Each more filthy than the previous. Wrinkled up and tacked together where the stains had dried. Relics of a frontier where men swore their debts in flesh. He looked at the notes and he looked at Toosey.
Say again?
Gold. Need them changed for gold.
What is your name?
Atkinson.
Have an account here, do you, Mr Atkinson?
No, I don’t.
The teller looked him over. How did you come by this money?
Come by it? I earned it. Worked like a bastard for it.
The teller tapped the pile of notes together and then counted them onto his desk pad. He gave Toosey a long and steady glare.
Wait here, he said.
He went among the desks in back of house until he came beside another gent in a drab frock coat and bow tie. As the teller spoke into his ear this dour gent turned to squint at Toosey through his glasses. Toosey removed his hat, palmed back his hair, and placed the hat upturned on the counter. He smiled at the gent. Some small discussion was had and shortly the teller returned with the fouled banknotes. He tapped the stack a few times on its edge as he considered Toosey across the counter.
