Of course, my application may not be considered. Lambert, who had the Boorandoora last, held it at twenty-one shillings a head, and found medicine. I mean to tender seventeen-and-six, without physic. Graves, I know, won’t look at them under twenty. So I think I ought to stand a very good chance. Don’t take any further steps about the house in the meanwhile.
Since I wrote last I have had a little more to do. I was called out several miles yesterday. And the people I went to told me that if I had not been here, they would have sent for the man at Turramungi. So you see Rummel is not persona grata everywhere. He is still about, and as much in my way as ever; for as long as he is on the spot, people won’t consult any one else. I wish to God I had not been in such a hurry to come. However, one thing makes me more hopeful: the date of his auction is fixed at last, for Monday next.
In haste
Your own
R.T.M.
IV
The Sun Hotel,
Barambogie.
My darling Mary,
So you approve, do you, of my idea of putting in for the Boorandoora? I got the information I wanted from the Secretary of the lodge; and if I resolve to offer my services, shall do so for the sum I named. It is all very well, my dear, to talk about it being beneath my dignity to underbid others, and to ask how I myself should once have characterised such a proceeding. (Personally, I think you might keep remarks of this kind to yourself.) What I do is done for your sake. If I could get this third lodge, it might save you having to turn out and part with your furniture; and to make that possible I am ready to sacrifice my professional pride. There are so many others, younger men than I, who are only too ready to step in. And I look on it as my sole remaining chance to earn a decent livelihood within reach of civilisation.
However, I must confess, I have again become somewhat undecided. The fact is, Rummel has gone at last: and he gave me his word, on leaving, that he would never come back. The auction took place as arranged; house and ground selling for a hundred and ninety pounds. Since he went, I have been genuinely busy. The parson is ill with inflammation of the liver; and I was called out yesterday a distance of five miles. The hire of a buggy costs seven-and-six—less than half what I had to pay in Hawthorn. This afternoon I go by train to Mirrawarra, and shall walk back. It becomes daily more evident to me that there is a very fine practice to be done here. And every one I meet implores me to stay. Some, indeed, grow quite plaintive at the idea of losing me.
I have also had a pleasant surprise about the house. Greatorex now says he is willing to let for three years instead of four, if I pay the first year’s rent in advance. This seems to me an extremely fair offer. You see it would only be like paying a small sum down for the practice. I am going over the house with him again to-morrow, and will then let you know what I decide. The point at issue is, should I not do better to accept this certain opening, with all its drawbacks, than take the uncertain chance of Hawthorn with a third lodge. . . .if I get it!
Your very own
R.T.M.
V
The Sun Hotel,
Barambogie.
My own dear Wife,
Well! the die is cast; I have finally made up my mind to remain in Barambogie. I did not put in for the lodge after all, but resolved to give this place a further ten days’ trial. And well that I did! For the practice has looked up with a vengeance: it is now as plain as a pikestaff that I have capital prospects here, and should be a fool indeed to let them slide. If I had not popped in when I did, there would certainly have been others—and, for that matter, I am still not quite sure there may not be another settling. In the meantime I am seeing fresh patients daily, and have not had my clothes off for the past two nights. The day before yesterday I was called ten miles out to attend a case which Guthrie of Coora has neglected: and I have been bespoken for three future events. This morning I drove seven miles into the bush; for which I shall charge five guineas. In the month I have been here—ten days without Rummel—I have taken fifteen pounds and booked close on fifty. What do you think of that? I feel quite sure I shall easily touch a thousand a year. Of course it will mean hard work, but the mere prospect of such a thing keys me up. It was the doing nothing at Hawthorn that preyed so on my mind. If only I can earn a good income, and provide for you and the darlings in the style to which you are accustomed, I shall be a happy man once more.
The people here are overjoyed at the prospect of keeping me. They continue to declare I cannot fail to succeed. Everybody is most civil, and all invite me to drink with them. I have considerable difficulty in making them understand that I do not go in for that kind of thing. It sometimes needs a good deal of tact to put them off without giving offence: but so far I have managed pretty well. From all I now hear, Rummel must have been a seasoned drinker—a regular toper. I saw the Bank Manager to-day. He was very queer. Had evidently been taking nobblers. He has been in charge of the Bank here for over twenty years, and thinks there is no place like Barambogie. Vows I shall make my fortune.
Greatorex promises to set about the repairs without delay. My private opinion is, he’s in high feather at securing such good and careful tenants. I went over the house with him again yesterday. The rooms are not quite as large as I thought—I will send you the exact measurements in a day or two—but all have French windows and are fitted with venetian blinds. The garden is well stocked with fruit, flowers and vegetables. I shall keep a man to look after it. I think you had better try and induce one of the servants from home to accompany you. Perhaps Eliza would come; as the children are used to her. Here there is little or nothing in that line to be had. Slipshod dollops demand ten shillings a week. The parson keeps none; has no room for any.
Archdeacon Coote of Taralga called yesterday, and made quite a fuss over me. I have also been introduced to the wife of one of the leading squatters. Like every one else, she says it will be a red-letter day for the place if we come, and looks eagerly forward to making your acquaintance.
Now, if only we can let the house! The mere possibility of this, and of our being all together once more makes me wildly happy. Tell the chicks there is a splendid summerhouse in the new garden, and I will see to it that a swing is put up for them. They shall have everything they want here.
Your own old husband,
Richard Townshend Mahony.
VI
The Sun Hotel,
Barambogie.
My dear Mary,
I am sorry you write in such low spirits. I agree with you, it is most unfortunate that we are obliged to break up our home; but it was blackest folly on my part ever to build that house, and now I am punished for it. I cannot say how deeply I regret having to ask you and the little ones to put up with bush life; and you may rest assured I should not do so, if I saw any other way out. But it is this or nothing.
It doesn’t mend matters to have you carping at the class of person we shall need to associate with. For goodness’ sake, don’t go putting ideas of that kind into the children’s heads! We are all God’s creatures; and the sooner we shake off the incubus of a false and snobbish pride, the better it will be for us. There are good and worthy people to be found in every walk of life.
You are utterly wrong in your suspicions that I am letting myself be flattered and bamboozled into staying. But there!. . . .you never do think any one but yourself has a particle of judgment.
No, there’s nothing in the way of a school—except, of course, the State School. You had better find out what a governess would cost. About the house, I am afraid it is really not very much bigger than our first cottage in Webster St—the wooden one—before we made those additions to it. I enclose the measurements of the rooms. You will see that the drawing-room and chief bedroom are the same size—12 by 13—the others somewhat smaller. It will be as well to sell the pierglass and the drawing-room chiffonier. And it’s no good bringing the
dining-room table, or the big sofa. . . .or the tall glass bookcase. Or the three large wardrobes either; they wouldn’t go in at the doors. But do try and not fret too much over sacrificing these things. A few years here, and you will be able to replace them; and then we will pitch our tent somewhere more to your liking.
I reckon the move will cost us about a hundred pounds.
I am still busy. Barambogie is anything but the dead-and-alive place you imagine. No less than six coaches a day draw up at this hotel. The weather continues fine. I have a good appetite: it suits me to be so much in the open air, instead of cooped up in that dull surgery. I wish I slept better though. The noise in the hotel continues unabated. I have the utmost difficulty in getting to sleep, or in remaining asleep when I do. The least sound disturbs me—and then I am instantly wide awake. The other night, though, I had a very different experience. Something very queer happened to me. I dropped off towards three and had been asleep for about an hour—fast asleep—when some noise or other, I don’t know what, wakened me with a terrific start. . . .one of those fearful jerks awake which the nightbell used to give me. Except that in those days, I was all there in an instant. Here, I couldn’t for the life of me come back, and went through a few most awful seconds, absolutely incapable of recollection. There I sat, bolt upright, my heart beating like a sledgehammer, powerless to remember who I was, where I was or what I was doing. My brain seemed like an empty shell. . . .or a watch with all the works gone out of it. Or if you can imagine a kind of mental suffocation, a horrid struggle for breath on the part of the brain. And when, by sheer force of will, I had succeeded in fighting back to a consciousness of my personal identity, I still could not locate myself, but imagined I was at home, and fumbled for the matches on the wrong side of the bed! It was most unpleasant—a real dissociation for the time being—and I did not sleep again, dreading a return. I think it came from worry—I have been much upset. Your letter. . . .and all you said in it. . . .your grief and disappointment. Add to this that I had no proper rest the night before, having been up with a patient till three. I shall be more careful in future.
My love to the darlings,
Your own
R.T.M.
CHAPTER SIX
It was nearing eleven, and a chilly, cloudy night, when the little party, flanked by Eliza, alighted on the platform at Barambogie where for nearly an hour Mahony had paced to and fro. They were the only passengers to leave the train; which straightway puffed off again; and since the man hired by Mahony to transport the baggage was late in arriving, there was nothing for it but to wait till he came. The stationmaster, having lingered for a time, turned out the solitary lamp and departed; and there they stood, a forlorn little group, round a tumulus of luggage. It was pitch dark; not a single homely light shone out, to tell of a human settlement; not the faintest sound broke the silence. To Mary it seemed as if they had been dumped down in the very heart of nowhere.
But now came the man wheeling a truck; and straightway a wordy dispute broke out between him and Richard, in which she had to act as peacemaker. Boxes and portmanteaux were loaded up; carpet-bags, baskets, bundles counted and arranged: all by the light of a lantern. Richard, agog with excitement, had to be kept from waking the twins, who had dropped asleep again on top of the trunks. And all the while an overtired and captious Cuffy plucked at her sleeve. “Is this the bush, Mamma?. . . .is this the bush? Where? I don’t see it!”
The little procession started, headed by the man with truck and lantern, the Dumplings riding one in Richard’s arms, one in Eliza’s, she and Cuffy bringing up the rear. Leaving the station behind them, they walked on till they came to a broad road, flour-soft to the feet, Cuffy kicking and shuffling up the dust to the peevish whine of: “What sort of a bush, Mamma?” and passed in single file down a long narrow right-of-way, between two paling fences.
On emerging, they faced something flat and black and mysterious. Mary started. “Whatever’s that?”
“The Lagoon, my dear, the Lagoon! The house fronts it, you know. Has the best outlook of any in the town.”
(For the children to fall into!. . . .and mosquitoes.)
Long after every one else was asleep Mary lay and listened. . . .and listened. It was years since she had lived anywhere but in a town; and this house seemed so lonely, so open to intruders. The leaves rustling in the garden, each fresh flap of the venetians startled her afresh; and in spite of the long, tiring journey, and the arduous days that had preceded it, she could not compose herself to sleep. And when at last she did fall into an uneasy doze, she was jerked back to consciousness in what seemed the minute after, by a shrill and piercing scream—a kind of prolonged shriek, that rent and tore at the air.
“Richard!. . . .oh, Richard, what in the world is that?”
“Don’t be alarmed, my dear. It’s only the mill whistle.”
“A mill? So close?”
“It’s all right, Mary; you’ll soon get used to it. Myself I hardly notice it now. And it doesn’t last long. There! you see, it has stopped already.”
His attempt to make light of the appalling din had something pathetic about it. Mary bit back her dismay.
And it was the same in the morning, when he led her round house and garden: he skimmed airily over the drawbacks—the distance of the kitchen from the house; the poor water-supply; the wretched little box of a surgery; the great heat of even this late autumn day—to be-laud the house’s privacy, separated as it was from the rest of the township by the width of the Lagoon; the thickness of the brick walls; the shade and coolness ensured by an all-round verandah. And though daylight, and what it shewed up, only served to render Mary more and more dubious, she had not the heart on this first morning to damp him by saying what she really thought. Instead, her tour of inspection over, she buckled to her mammoth job of bringing comfort out of chaos: putting up beds and dressers; unpacking the crockery; cutting down curtains and carpets, and laying oilcloth; working dusty and dishevelled, by the light of a candle, till long past midnight for many a night. While Richard, his professional visits over, undertook to mind and amuse the children, who were sadly in her way, dashing about helter-skelter, pale with the excitement of the new.
For, oh what a lovely house this was!—Long before any one else was astir, Cuffy had pattered out barefoot to explore; and, all his life after, he loved an empty house for its sake. It had nothing but doors, which spelt freedom: even the windows were doors. There were no stairs. A passage went right down the middle, with a door at each end which always stood open, and three room-doors on each side. You could run out of any of the windows and tear round the verandah, to play Hide-and-Seek or Hi-spy-hi. And not even Eliza was there to say: “Don’t!” or “You mustn’t!” She was in the far-away kitchen, scrubbing or washing up. They had breakfast off a packing-case, which was great fun; and Papa was so nice, too. The very first morning he explained what the bush meant; and took them all out walking to find it; and then Cuffy learnt that it was not one bush he had come to see but lots of bushes; with trees so high that, even if you almost broke your neck bending back; you couldn’t see the end of them.
Dancing ahead of Papa, who held hands with the Dumplings, and sometimes walking backwards to hear better, Cuffy fired question after question. How did the bush get there? Why did nobody live in it? What were all the holes full of water? Why were they abandoned? Why did people dig for gold? How did they do it? Why was money?—a fusillade of questions, to which on this day he got full and patient answers. Papa gave them each a threepenny bit, too, to spend as they liked. The twins carried theirs squeezed tight to show Mamma; but he put his in his pocket.
On the way home they went along a street where there were lots of little shops. Men were leaning against the verandah posts, smoking and spitting; and other men came to the doors and stared. Papa was very polite to them, and said “Good morning!” to everybody with a little bow, and whether they
did or not. And sometimes he said as well: “Yes, these are my youngsters! Don’t you think I’ve reason to be proud of them?”. . . .and as often as this happened, Cuffy felt uncomfortable. For these weren’t the sort of men you stopped and talked to: you just said good morning and went home. Besides, they didn’t seem as if they wanted to speak to you. They didn’t take their pipes out; and some of them looked as if they thought Papa was funny. . . .or silly. Two winked at each other when they thought he wasn’t looking—made eyes like Cook and Eliza used to do.
Then at a hotel they met a fat, red-faced man—the landlord, Papa said—who seemed at first to be going to be nicer. When Papa pushed them forward and said: “My young fry arrived at last, you see!” he smiled back and said: “And a very jolly little set of nippers, too! Pleased to know you, missies! How do, sir, how do! Now what will yours be?”
“Cuthbert Hamilton Townshend-Mahony,” replied Cuffy, lightning-quick and politely. He was dumbfounded by the roar of laughter that went up at his words; not only the landlord laughed, but lots of larrikins, who stood round the bar. Even Papa laughed a little, in a funny, tight way.
Mamma didn’t though. Cuffy heard them talking, and she sounded cross. “Surely, Richard, you needn’t drag the children in as well?”
Papa was snappy. “I don’t think, Mary, you quite realise how necessary it is for me to leave no stone unturned.”
“I can’t help it. I’m not going to have my children mixed up in the affair.” When Mamma was cross she always said “my children.”
Cuffy didn’t wait to hear more. He ran down the garden, where he mooned about till dinner-time. He wouldn’t ever—no, he wouldn’t!—go down the street where those horrid men were again. And if he saw them, he’d stamp his feet at them and call them nasty names. And he’d tell Papa not to—he wouldn’t let him; he’d hold on to his coat. For they didn’t like Papa either.
The Fortunes of Richard Mahony Page 86
