by Rodney Hall
– Felicia my dear, may I introduce to you the Honourable Frank Halloran, Senator Frank Halloran … my sister, Miss Brinsmead.
– How do you do.
– I’m good for another seventy years of wickedness, thank you.
– This is Miss Vivien who has recently come to join us and reside in our dying township. Also Mr Swan one of our young residents.
The senator shook hands with Vivien only, though he did bestow on Felicia Brinsmead a sweet lingering smile such as men gratify themselves giving out willynilly to ladies old enough not to misunderstand. However, this particular lady adopted an unexpectedly ironic tone.
– Senator Halloran. How could we forget? The gentleman whose committee wants us to find a use for its surplus paint. Stormtroopers in the battle against rot. Next you’ll be trying to save yourself going to sleep at night. Death is coming, Senator, despite the dear committee. She chuckled, careless of his feelings.
– I have already reaffirmed that we wish the matter dropped, Sebastian explained to his sister reprovingly.
The visitor mutely supported this rebuke.
– Well thank you, Felicia crooned. The country is lucky to be so rich.
– I assure you madam … the senator attempted.
– Don’t bother with me, she cut him short. I have the freedom to say what I please, I’m well fed, I have a house to live in. Bother about the rest. Now, she demanded denying him any chance to reply, what of the police? Did you get through to Constable Pope? Is he on his way and what did he say? Are there any clues as to why Mercy did it, poor Mercy?
– He’ll be here in about an hour, the senator addressed Vivien Lang who replied by speaking generally to the whole party:
– If you’d like to walk up to my house while we’re waiting I’ll make a pot of tea. She was pulling herself together, to use her father’s phrase, wonderfully. She avoided the senator’s eyes, not wishing anybody to think she meant him especially, aware of how out of place his carefully casual clothes looked, his clipped much-combed hair, his polished fingernails. She was critical of how his head tilted back, the way he clasped his hands behind him, even of his black dog who strutted about the car inspecting its wheels with the air of one who knows.
Billy glared at her, though by what right of possession you couldn’t be sure. Watching his behaviour it would have been difficult to guess at their relationship, he was so tentative and then so impulsive, distanced yet passionate. At any rate, he appeared to have very little control of his expressions. So Vivien turned to him coldly, forbidding any presumption, explicitly awaiting a reply to her invitation. Which he was now weak enough to give.
– My grandfather’s expecting me back at the pub.
And Vivien caught herself avoiding his furious impotent eyes, to inspect his shoes, judging him by them. She observed how one toe had been dented and dulled, though she didn’t know enough to connect this with the motorcycle. It was the senator who replied to her invitation; of course he would come and delighted.
Having excused herself for a moment and promised she wouldn’t be long, Vivien crossed the road and into the welder’s workshop, determined he wouldn’t get away with it. The masked man engrossed in cutting a sheet of steel, sparks splashing round his feet, put aside the oxy torch and pushed up the mask when he sensed an intruder. He listened, politely serious. Was this what he had expected?
– I just wish you’d seen what I saw, it choked her to say.
– Was there a fall first?
She was swaying on the motorcycle, delirious with submission, breathing petrol fumes as Mrs Ping gave up her spirit, she was kneeling into the knives of the cliff, then her feet sticking in puddles of blood, her eyes a casket still heavy with the sight of a living head of hair plastered to a blob of meat.
– I saw her face when she came out of here, Vivien squawked.
– Who gave you the right, Mr Ping asked. To teach me about my own wife? And the two pieces of steel he’d cut he now clamped in a vice.
– Your wife! You could have tried. You might have saved her.
– From what? Mr Ping struck a match and relit his oxy torch indicating that the simplest questions are those you can seldom answer. He adjusted the flame to a faintly feathering blue tip and tugged the mask over his face. His accuser meant nothing to him. Mr Ping, absorbed into the rituals of the metal heating, red then white, stared through his tinted window as the point of juncture turned liquid. He applied a drop of soft steel creating a brilliant globe. An act of respect. The liquid now dazzled, a tiny sun. He kept it like that, meditating, a disc of no meaning, this symbol beyond human care or blemish was the sun. And in Mr Ping’s head his creation pulsed and shone, imprinted at the back of the eye. Silence surrounded him as he stood absorbed in this mystical event, unaware his visitor had left. The shed was certainly empty by the time the metal cooled and the weld set and something now became possible. He lifted the joined steel carefully and examined it by daylight. Yes, he and Mercy had once been happy.
– Who can say? he said, replying to some question of his own. And when he went to the door to squint at the world, Felicia Brinsmead was alone outside her shop watching him.
Nine
I don’t believe, Felicia thought, I’ve got a soul. So I’m not in hell. When I was born my mother shouted Go away, but I was older than her (and she sensed it) and felt sorry for her too. Nothing could be worse for a parent than the child feeling pity. But she’s had her revenge if ever she wanted it, darling Mamma, kiss kiss, she’d already bred her avenging angel, her painted saint rocking my pram, a nine-year-old wonder in an isolated community where a child of any kind but mine is gold, both in value and heartbreak, the old house at Wit’s End gone, a few stumps among the grass, dead with its cruel memories of the darling and the dear, but the saint hurt them before he hurt me, Sebastian found them out, oh yes, that evening I’ll never forget, no one expected it, he came home late, face caked with dirt, jacket torn, legs shaky I saw them I saw, made his announcement, he had found a new lead, would stake a claim, a skin of gold between the strata, and the darlings went white with fear, the Golden Fleece I’ll call it because I’ve been reading the classics, sigh smirk, him not among the rabble of illiterates. Who have you told, who knows? they whispered, God in their voices. No one, nor shall. Right, and all four of us crept about like criminals, creep, pad, ssh, pulling down blinds and huddling round the kitchen table to divide the spoils, Papa offering the special favour of going down to check it out for him and already heaving his coat on, like dead wings the coat, no, the saint speaking upright, no thank you, so calm and strong, beginning to behave like a man under authority as the Bible has it, and Mamma’s hair starting out round her head, she bristled, she demanded, oh it was worth it, she moaned, she begged, dear Mamma who wanted to push me back inside her when she knew what I knew, the Golden Fleece and she grovelled and pretended to have a fit, eyes rolling white, and Papa sitting numb at the table in his heavy coat grinding his hands till the fact sank in, weighing his dignity against his greed, the poison, dead to all intents, the Golden Fleece killed him though he dragged out his drunken life another month, and Sebastian never did tell, saint’s word as good as his deed, straight and narrow, but he took my hand like a lover, spoke gently, you come, ah, we walked out into the cold night on the crisping grass round the mountain to sleep an hour by someone’s haystack, then riding on a bullock wagon past Whitey’s Fall and down the track, lurching to the edge laughing into space, right down and over the plain to the port, oh saint you gave her her revenge, and I was sixteen already too soon, then sailing up the coast, him being tender yet never touching, stroke of the feather, next day in Sydney, the cliffs like cathedrals in the rain, who never thought of rain in Sydney from the pictures, and the hills suffocated with houses so close you could never know anybody, tramcars, stalls selling deadly-coloured fruits, must be touched up, thousands of office people so I whispered whoever makes all their shoes, and we lodged our claim, joint names, the re
gistrar questioning us, had we this and did we that and sign here here here here here and here, so that we came out side by side glad of the rain and splashing feathers of water round our ankles, like a bride and groom.
When it first happened I kept my eyes down because I couldn’t tell what they might show.
Until I found my powers I thought this was the end, well it was the end, admit the fact Felicia Brinsmead, it was the end and has been ever since for fifty-eight years, when we left the house, left that woman’s hate and that drunken hopeless man remembering his dignities, it was Uncle the young bullock driver took us down to the port and never said a word to anybody about us running away, must be loyal, ask after his health.
She placed the cat in the open box of eucalyptus drops and stood a moment looking at him. She patted her wad of hair allowing her hand to linger on that crusty lump heavy against her neck and shoulders, reaffirming its uniqueness.
– What about me! she cried. She went cold all over. Knowledge bound her icily in its windings. That a Chinese youth with a godlike carriage of the back should come to her from the east, was all she guessed out of the chaos at the time. She despaired of rising even when she suspected that by now she must be rising.
– When shall I breathe again, she pleaded.
The cat purred from its bed of lollies.
Ten
The faithful Tony McTaggart remained in the Mountain bar waiting for Billy to return. And now came Billy, giving out a black mood.
– Another beer? Tony offered by way of asking if there was anything he could do.
– Where’s Uncle?
– Went out a while ago.
Billy thought this over. Just his luck when he wanted the old bloke. But why had he gone? It was unexpected. He watched Jasper for some clue in that clay complexion.
– You met her then? Tony asked with reluctance, thinking but saying nothing of his first meeting with her, the companionship of walking up the hill, himself in her service, almost reverently.
– Yes. Another Lang. Miss Lang, Bill’s tone of voice told everything his friend could not bear to believe, even to the exasperation.
So it’s to be them is it! Tony cried in his mind. His voice took charge:
– One beer Jas, just the one, me mate’s on the wagon.
This slight dig caused Bill to sigh with annoyance. Why must they all demand so much of him, what was he failing to do this time? Jasper, when bringing the beer, dropped a few words like small change on the counter.
– Your grandpa’s been fetched Bill, he wheezed. By Elaine McTaggart. His troublesome head wagged fitfully and let fall a few more dull coins. Gone down that way.
The news had a perplexing ring. Something to do with Mrs McTaggart he’d seen only recently, a corner of his mind where he had tucked some information about her. Were the twins found out? The kids in strife: Fred, Susie? The unease persisted.
– Well, said Bill. I’m staying here with my mate. He’ll know where to find me.
Which caused Tony to smile gratefully. For a flutter of light he was in touch with those moments when he submitted to Billy’s teeth flashing at him, when a waterfall drowned out the blood in his ears, when he felt Billy’s hand creating his shoulder, shaping its draught-horse muscles; and squabbling magpies flickered black and white puzzles on the green paddock.
– Mercy Ping got killed then? the publican asked in a mumble.
– Mrs Ping! Tony shouted, astonished because Mrs Ping was part of his life so she couldn’t die without warning.
– She was the last schoolie of Whitey’s Fall, announced one person in the bar. And this was the cue for everyone to have his say.
– There’ll be no more now.
– A good little worker Mercy was, God rest her.
– She didn’t half give my youngsters a belting once.
– It was me gave her away at her wedding, her father being dead before then. She never had no children of her own, that’s the wonder.
– There’s a warning in it.
– Could’ve sworn I heard her slaughtering her cow a while back.
– Never did take to Chinese myself I’ve got to say in all honesty, but she was another case and one of the best, more like us if you know what I mean.
– I used to say why don’t you get yourself a new vehicle Merce? Or get your bloody husband to patch it up, he’s the expert.
As a child, Billy Swan had been eager to learn. Things came to him with singular clarity when they came at all. So he learnt about the seven-year cycle of the cicada grub, also the difference between solar and lunar months. No trouble at all. He understood immediately that sand or sugar running from a hole in the bottom of a bucket would run at the same speed whether the bucket was full or half-empty, he knew that a cow he’d seen in the bush three days ago had been loose for too long and needed stripping out, that the first notes of a whipbird’s cry are made by the female bird and the whip-sound by the male, that you can find your way anywhere on earth by close enough observation, that there was once a poet called William Shakespeare who wrote the most famous history of England, that if you chew the flowers of a selected gumtree you feel dizzy, that for more reasons than the obvious you can’t breathe underwater, that the whirlpool of hair is on the left side of a boy’s head and the right side of a girl’s, that amo means I love in a dead language, that there are people in the world who would think him rich even if they could see how he lived. These things he knew without effort, but had great difficulty anticipating what he might come to know next. He was modest about his knowledge because he knew it went no further than that: it was just things he knew, and he was glad to know them but they were the kind of things anybody could know. And generally speaking everybody did. For this reason he was slow to offer advice. Except to Tony who didn’t qualify.
More of Billy’s knowledge had been learnt from his grandfather than from Mrs Ping though. It was his grandfather who pointed out the whistling eagle’s nest in August and the death adder’s nest in May; who made him an expert with the bowline, the sheepshank and the blackwall hitch; who brought him home some squid from the coast and demonstrated how to select the vein, slit the fine membrane and peel off the skin at a single flip of the wrist; who else could have taught him to tell the time of year as well as the time of day by observing the mountain’s shadow? Also to forecast the migration of birds? He owed it to his grandfather that each morning he was in the habit of watching ants as well as aircurrents to know the weather. And thanks to the same source of knowledge Billy had learnt to laugh at his first failures with women.
– Benedictus qui venit in nomine Dominus, Jasper intoned in the trembling voice of his childhood.
– She’s part of our religion now, someone said.
– She is too … she’s dead, a surprised voice agreed.
– She could tell a tale or two after today.
– She’ll have us to remember when she learns how.
Jasper held up his glass of illicit whisky and led a general toast to Mercy Ping. Afterwards the silence congealed, but the only person aware of it as such was the one who remained outside it, Tony McTaggart who couldn’t learn how to lose himself. The rest had slipped back where they had been before. He waited, a respectful unbeliever.
– It’s all over then Rupie. Miss Felicia Brinsmead’s words prevented Mr Ping from ducking back inside. Even so he did not reply, knowing better than to make that mistake. Indeed what was there about Felicia he did not know?
– All over for both of you, Miss Brinsmead added significantly. And she advanced on him as he stood theatrically in the dark doorway.
– Yes, yes, she said commenting on his thoughts. I’m quite well aware what a nuisance I am. Times have changed. And it’s no good pretending everything’s alright or that Mercy would have wanted it to happen quickly now she was tired of living. She was tired of you and tired of her loyalty to you. No more than that. And worn out by the long years of work, days as numerous as dogs in Lhasa, howling d
ays, slinking hungry days, hungry for you. Very well Rupie, so you suggest I’d better be mindful of my part in her unhappiness. I am. But I have unhappinesses of my own, we Brinsmeads do have. You’d never understand. What? It’s no use trying to present me with a blank mind. You can’t keep it up, no one can. After all I’d like to help. You were so beautiful once. Goodness what an ugly little possum you’ve turned into since you gave up trying with Mercy. You were like the sun when I fell in love with that hairless skin, those eyes, that shining charm, and your body so small, so strong. You were a surprise to me, something exotic. At last I was surprised. I was surprised once by Julius Caesar. And you surprised me again. I took a long time to forgive Mercy, but one does forgive. Especially when it’s Mercy. There was a strange thing, you’re the only one who ever had difficulty forgiving Mercy. You didn’t forgive her did you? What had she done Rupie, you’re going blank again. And don’t think such things about me. It’s just that I know what I know.
They stood talking in the sunshine, two old friends: he sad and silent, the bereaved husband; she animated but observing the propriety of a respectful demeanour and restrained tone. Mr Ping suffered her examination, a blank lack of expression on his face, but rocking agitatedly from the ball of his foot to the heel.
– It’s to do with your vanity Rupie. Somehow she was killing you and you thought: soon it’ll be a case of her or me. Now aren’t I telling the truth? You don’t mind her dying, because you’re alive. And inside that pair of overalls you think you’re still young and handsome. O my God what a fool the person is. You’re a wrinkled wreck and no more likely to tempt the world into giving you pleasure than I am. So there. Goodness, you must think I’ve lost my mirror. I’m just waiting for the time I can slough off this hideous hulk and start afresh. But things won’t be rushed, they take their own time. You never did join our Rememberings. Were you afraid of me and what I knew? I don’t blame you, I used to be very, very angry with you. Jealous as well, I’ll admit it. That was so long ago though, fifty-five years I suppose. Look at you now, it’s enough to make a cat laugh.
