Just Relations

by Rodney Hall

  – Mnnh, the temptress moaned. Mnnh. Mnnh. She stopped breathing (and so did he). She started breathing again, deeper, more regularly.

  The criminal sat up slow-motion, knelt, bowed his head, eased his crucified body upright and tiptoed, hobbled to the door with infinitely delicate tread, a nation of righteous matrons howling for his blood if he should make a single slip and be caught. This cushioned step, then that. He was master of the thunderous Niagara. He was Blondin stepping off a wire attached to colonial Canada and placing his crippled feet on Goat Island, USA. He was there. The portal to freedom, the gates of heaven, the exit from Eden. He collided with the whisky bottle which maliciously torpedoed the faithful Ocker who had been lying patiently awaiting the next insult and now leapt into action yelping with pain and rushing away out of the house forever.

  – Who’s there? Vivien shouted from the bed, in one movement throwing off the covers and sitting up rigidly. What is it!

  The bottle lay flat, dribbling and disowned in the passageway.

  – Only me.

  – What? Who? she shrieked.

  – Frank Halloran, Frank Halloran gasped in terror, spinning round so he’d be facing the right way. I tripped over the dog I’m sorry. I’m looking for the bathroom.

  – Oh. She sank back, one hand to her forehead. Oh, I remember. Well it’s not in here. The next door along.

  He stepped back, too hasty with relief, and trod on the bottle which skidding wetly under him whisked him away straight out on to the verandah and down the five front steps to crash in a gravel-rash on the path.

  Her mind picked up threads as he ghosted away at high speed.

  – But if it’s the lavatory you need, she explained in an afternoon voice, you’ll have to go out in the yard.

  – I’m there already, he called feebly, unable to move.

  She sighed – That’s alright then, that’s alright. And she sank back to sleep gratefully.

  Five

  Next morning all the old people of town were still bemused by knowing they’d been right through the years and the mountain under their feet was pure gold. Yet by some perversity of the human spirit this robbed them of purpose. Not one among them could rouse the energy to stake the claim. Meanwhile Billy Swan, who did not recognize what had been laid bare before him up at the cutting any more than the roadworkers did, felt filled with urgency to put his secret plan into effect. He would save Whitey’s Fall single-handed from progress. He presented himself at the general store after watching Mr Ping jack up the foreigner’s car and begin loosening the wheels. He ignored the protesting floorboards, and slouched in among heaps of decaying merchandise, boxes of hats, colonies of biscuits, a parade of inscrutable gum-boots, till he stood by the towers of unopened newspapers (somewhere among which lay yellowing pages of public announcements concerning the Regional Planning Scheme and calling for submissions from interested parties). Miss Brinsmead waited in her usual place, one hand flat on the mint papers, ashamed of the date, her moony face already prepared to arrange itself in a suitable expression. And behind her Rastus the cat half-sleeping among the aromatic lollies.

  – Miserable, miserable, whispered the convolvulus.

  Come along, thought the lady impatiently, speak up Mr Swan, I know it all, the wound in his red face gaping, come along, ask about the gelignite; speak up, wound.

  – Half a dozen sticks of gelignite please Miss Brinsmead if they’ve come in yet. The short ones will do. And about twenty feet of fuse. A dozen detonators too. Or, he added helpfully, dynamite would be okay instead.

  What do you want it for? she seemed to ask. He glanced round, reassured that they could be overheard only by Saint Sebastian up against his wall awaiting fate’s arrows.

  – To blow up a dead bullock, he lied weakly. At this the saint shook with cultured laughter.

  A bullock indeed! To blow up your father you mean, Felicia knew: she had the pleasure of guessing, she didn’t even need to concentrate on finding out properly. It was inevitable Billy would come to this, she had predicted it all along.

  The saint lapsed into chuckles, paying attention but not understanding. Half a century ago people said the town would fester to a sticky end, the wickedness of the world being unparalleled, he could believe it. Before the year was out he expected divine vengeance in the form of human folly, or foreign invasion. Something to cut the thread and finish God’s tapestry. Failing these, why not the Black Death of Whitey’s Fall carried in the fur of fleeing bandicoots, converging on the mountain, displaced from their habitat by a proliferation of cities along the coastal plain to the east and on the plateau to the west.

  Lord Kitchener’s Favourite brand Gentleman’s Relish maintained a stiff upper lip.

  – I’ll have the gelignite for you this afternoon Billy, Miss Brinsmead promised decisively (recalling the day this boy at seven had shyly asked if he could give them a present, handing Mr Brinsmead a photograph of President John F. Kennedy cut from a magazine; it was a large glossy picture which might have been designed for sub-branches of Rotary and though Felicia saw in the face all manner of frightful deceits plus the cruelty that accepts something less than complete knowledge, she recollected her manners and thanked him, polite as Ivan Turgenev receiving from Pauline Viardot a ticket to one of her peerless performances of bad taste) … she perceived, from the orange lights he now threw on the cellophane-wrapped packets around him, that some monumental despair was brewing, such that a person of his stamp would express in anger and go off to the war if there was one luckily, or the South Pole if not. Billy said nothing, merely slapped the counter with his labourer’s hand, a gesture of satisfaction, and walked out leaving the shop trembling.

  There was work to be done on Uncle’s place where Bill had taken up residence, as the late Mrs Ping might have phrased it for the benefit of culture. Yet something more urgent nagged at his attention, something he didn’t want to know about. He concentrated on the comfortable guilt of work not done; he’d promised to repair the fences in the little paddock today so animals could be put there and not get out, the tools were ready in his saddlebag, the motorbike stood as usual against the monument to the unforgotten dead, he anticipated the jaunt across the hillside to where he’d be working, a blood-rousing bone-jolting shortcut. Yet a gnawing undermined his life, eating away, flowing, unsettling, something desperately important. Business at the shop complete, he slung one leg over the greasy machine and kicked the starter. Bloody Pommy heap of scrap, still had a kick-start, never heard of the starter-button. Motorbikes’ll go into museums before those dickheads catch up with the Japanese. He kicked again, savagely. The dumb brute hung between his legs without a shudder of life. Kick. You bastard. Kick. Cunt. The mountain wind blew unceasingly, set his hair dancing. Kick. This time he dismounted and kicked at the machine. Impotent. Found himself already walking. Walking fast and knowing exactly where he was going. Going with the undercurrent, the urgency. Walking up the stony track, almost trotting now, a race to keep his anger hot, yes running, stumbling, swearing, fuming, just in the mood, watch out you smooth Irish prick, this is the end, talking won’t get you anywhere. He was turning his ankles on the ruts, breathing great lumps of black steam, blood zoomed through his system, he threw open the gate with a clatter and left it swinging behind him (ultimate insult of the countryman). They were sitting preening themselves of course on the verandah, the two of them, sipping their little poofter cups of tea, munching the toast and marmalade, digesting the grapefruit and the mishmash of cereals, eggs and bacon, discussing the art market or the winelist or hospitals and their operations (comparing scars), or perhaps haggling politely over the price for selling out Whitey’s Fall. Yes, that, even that. He stamped up the steps. The senator, to give him credit, sat cool and casual with his floral teacup and a last corner of crust. But Vivien was on her feet, crows going mad in her head, a relentless drum booming its torture, accelerando, her fingers working, a dark blot, swift negative, cancelling the sky, her voice already raised, the
words out before you could think them, a damwall of loose dirt flung across the path of a flood in vain hopes.

  – You dare come marching in here Bill Swan after the way you treated me last night and if you can’t be civil in front of strangers, for God’s sake grow up, and shut my gate, come stamping around like lord and master, where’s your whip, do you think I’m going to be dismissed by you as if I don’t know how to behave, should I ask permission to think, is this the …?

  He pushed past her, solid with purpose, she was his after all and such were his rights as he understood them. With the flat of his hand he knocked the cup away from Senator Halloran’s face, vaguely hearing the tinkle of its twenty falling daggers, but an hour away from seeing the heart-shaped puddle of tea soaking into the bare weathered flooring, oh boy you’ve done it now, and a flash of grief for Mrs Ping and her hopeless patience at trying to teach him, her hand in the grass, reaching open, like his own, also the old cow dying of life, that new calf killing its mother to get out in time, and not making it. Billy emitted a bellow you could have heard in the main street (and which Fido, for one, did hear).

  – Your car’s fixed, you mongrel, we did it while you were snoring in… there. Billy couldn’t bring himself to mention bed, considering the circumstances. He went on. A man ought to smack you in the mouth. But he knew already that Frank Halloran had had a frustrating night, this was clear from his tension, his odour, and the way they’d been sitting when he arrived. Billy took a moment to catch up with knowing, but the effect was sweeping. In a volatile shuttle of moods he accepted victory though he had done nothing for it.

  – Your car’s fixed, he repeated and you could have detected a touch of chivalry in his tone as he seethed with energy. His perception sharpened, he saw that the senator’s hair, the colour of rank hay, had been dyed. As a question of pride, no one would hear it from him; he wouldn’t diminish the enemy he’d defeated.

  – A man ought to smack you in the mouth, Bill said again to restore Halloran’s self-respect.

  A vulgar laugh fought up Vivien’s throat. She struggled to suppress it. The ripples of this unpardonable cruelty tested her reserves of self-control. Like a child she concentrated on holding down that awful self who knew already. Now she must meet Bill Swan’s eyes, for he had turned his back contemptuously on the other man and presumed to look straight into her. He was challenging her unpredictability, detecting the laughter battling against her courtesy. The wild girl within could at last be glimpsed. What more had he been hoping for? This was the inner Vivien, once before encountered, letting herself over the cliff edge heedless of danger. On impulse Bill faced Frank Halloran again.

  – Sorry if I spoiled your tea!

  Now the laughter did blurt free from Vivien’s efforts. Just a momentary burst which might pass for a shock-reaction perhaps. But she knew no excuse would convince. She suspected with horror that her motive was a secret lust for blood. Could her devious mind have set this up?

  – Who do I thank for being cleared of suspicion, you or your grandfather? she asked her lover harshly, invitingly, her voice rich with passion.

  – Miss Brinsmead I’d say, he replied as he clattered back down the stairs. I’ll tell them you’re leaving in five minutes, he called, Frank!

  The grin on his face caused her a painful leap of the heart.

  – Please understand I am an outsider myself, she said gently to her visitor. I keep kidding myself I understand, but I never do. Would you like another cup?

  One more cruelty.

  – Don’t bother, he answered miserably, the gravel-rash smarting and an ache felt through all his bones. I must find Ocker. He got loose in the night and seems to have run off. I really have tried my best, he added. I wish you could believe that.

  – I wish I could, she agreed.

  Six

  – Gold! Miss Felicia Brinsmead exclaimed. Why should I speak to anyone about gold? Least of all you Miss Lang. I’ve more than that to kill myself talking about, I do declare. One need only think of the history of the world. It’s in the furthest degree irrelevent how or when the stuff is unearthed. I might say, she added with a switch of expression to something little short of lascivious. I might say the more difficult lesson is the acceptance of home. When I think of the futility of the twenty-three times my brother and I have set off abroad never to return, twenty-four if you count the time our parents took us! You must have felt the same, surely? People of our kind cannot afford to waste energy. To make the most of what we have one really needs to stay as still as possible.

  They were seated on ricketty chairs outside the store, struggling to extract oxygen from its aroma of mice and termites, sweet things and rubber things; so that the wind sweeping tons of dust over them was actually a relief. Vivien had folded her arms, appearing as a woman inclined to be prim. Miss Brinsmead by contrast sat with her knees comfortably apart and her hands planted on them sturdily, her elbows locked straight and hung with dimpled bags, her head thrown back, her fine eye rolling, and her bare toes casually rubbing ants into the concrete. With her skirt up, she’d have made a sight indeed for Mr Ping across the road if he’d bothered to look, not that she cared or gave a thought to him any more than to herself. People of our kind, she wooed her guest, linking them in deep anguished ways.

  – Our young people, she went on, have gone, all but the two who can’t. Billy thinks there’s gold here, whereas what is here is destiny. His cousin the McTaggart boy has an inkling and mustn’t be underrated. She shot her interrogatory look and was satisfied with the impression she had made, so when she spoke further it was to cajole. You know this, don’t you my dear, you’ve been here before, there’s no getting away from that.

  – Are we related, Miss Brinsmead?

  – Of course we are. My mother was, let me see, your Great-aunt Anne’s aunt.

  – That’s pretty remote.

  – All relationships are remote to that way of thinking, or equally close. I am a sister to Ho Chi Minh, for example, and to Adolf Hitler the clever little brat, as well as Stravinsky. You came here to give me Mercy Ping’s papers.

  – So you knew already?

  – No I only knew just now. And young Billy got them for me, did he? Good boy. He turned out well enough despite his grandfather’s ruthless interference. Poor Mercy Ping, she went on. Respectable woman, but needed to live with a failure and would have it that way. She took root, oh in the twenties some time, fresh from the city where her father grew a market garden, mind you her grandfather had been here before, oh yes indeed, one of our brave lads had stuck a knee in his back and cut off his ear to nail on the barn door, no mistake about that; so she had a vocation in a manner of speaking, to civilize us, and when she came she tripped in like a Chinese doll so dainty you could kiss, but you wouldn’t dare touch, too fragile, too wounded, turned out tough enough however, managed Rupert and he was a god bright as the sun, he made me weep, I crawled I can tell you for his tight little body, and everybody’s eyes a mirror for himself, of course he had no business settling, none of his grandparents had their ears cut off, not in this district anyhow, a tragedy for him that he met her and her longing to live with a failure. He was paralysed by thinking there was somewhere he ought to go, something to be done, but unable to discover what was worthy of his great opinion of himself. Tragic for him. Because he was stupid, it must be admitted, that was his besetting fault and still is.

  – It seems to have been tragic for her too, Vivien objected with a shiver of disgust.

  – She managed very well, dear, she was killing him nicely. A case of touch-and-go right to the end. Little intervention of fate, if one cares to believe in fate, which I don’t unless you define the word as too big for definition. Now we’re getting theoretical which I detest as much as anyone.

  A counterfeit cloud intruded above the skyline at Wit’s End with a billowy simplistic shape that invited suspicion from the outset.

  – I wonder if you would explain to me about Remembering Miss Brinsmea
d?

  – That’s what we’re here for. But when you come to the point there’s little to tell, no theory, no theology. Have you read Mercy’s testament? she asked as the younger woman took it from her bag and passed it over.

  – Of course not, it isn’t my business.

  – What a miserable outlook! I’m sorry to hear such sentiments from you of all people. Of course it’s your business. Everything’s your business I hope, if you’re truly alive to the world. Everything’s a threat. Everything’s your enemy. This pad of paper could be the death of you for all you know and you won’t dare open it, simply for the sake of your genteel upbringing. I hope I shan’t hear the like of that again in a month of weekdays.